"It is twelve years since I was here before, Jules," he said, and
there was a noticeable air of condescension in his tone; it was as
though he did the sergeant a mighty favor in speaking at all.
"Yes, monsieur," said the sergeant, as if humbly inviting him to
continue.
"Yes, twelve years ago," the officer repeated. "I have reason,
truly, to know it again. Those were the days of the Conversions,
Jules. You don't know what the Conversions were? I will tell you.
There were cursed Huguenots in the country then, Jules, bad
citizens, unruly rascals every one of them, and our good king
commanded that they should instantly return to the true faith. Some
of them were obstinate, and they, see you, had to be converted. We
called it conversion by lodgings, and, my faith, it was excellent
sport. They quartered some of us on any household that was
unwilling to obey the king, and there we remained until they saw
the error of their ways.
"My faith! some were hard to convert. The owner of this place, for
instance. We were here for a month, and never lived better in our
lives. The fool! He had a pretty daughter, too, and I fell in love
with her. The farmer objected, and one day had the insolence to
strike me. That was treason, of course, and the least we could do,
especially as he was so obstinate in the matter of his conversion,
was to burn his farm. He shot one of my men while we were at the
work, and--well, we hanged him. That was twelve years ago.
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