wind and by the fire's heat, fell softly on him, one by one, like tears.
I did not stir; I stood there looking down at him. My hate of him had died away with his young life: I only pitied him with an intense passion of pity.
We both perished for a thing so vile.
His comrades and men heeded nothing of his words; they arrested me as they would have done a common felon. I did not attempt to resist them. I had broken my sword and cast it down by his body: its end was accomplished, its fate was fulfilled: I had no further use for it.
They have brought me hither; they have given me a full trial, so they say, and to-morrow they will kill me.
What is the charge against me? That I, a soldier of the Commune, slew a soldier of Versailles. It is enough, more than enough, in these days. I say nothing. I am glad there should be an end.
If you ask any grace for me, ask only this—that the men who fire on me shall not be the same men by whose side I fought so long for France.
And when they throw my body in the ditch—see here!—let them bury this branch of lilac with me.
It is of no value—it is dead.
