January 9th, 1800

It was midafternoon when Noelle Laupin knocked on the Forestiers' home like she wanted to burst a hole through it. She also was screaming Francis' name, which wasn't a very good sign.

—Ma'am, what's wrong? —he asked immediately, as he opened the door.

—It's Camille. Please come.

She had no time to explain. Francis followed her anyway, and Laura came close behind, still confused as to what was going on.

As they arrived at the neighboring house, Noelle finally was able to say a few words, between her heavy breaths:

—He snapped at the park today. He saw a few dogs barking at a child and he tried to kill the poor animals, thinking the baby would get hurt. He managed to punch one of them in the head before the owner pushed him away, and I got in-between the two. Then he ran home and locked himself up in his study, and he just won't open...

—What type of dogs were they?

—What?

—Their breed?

—I don't know...

—Were they big?

—Yes, but why is it important?...

—Monsieur Obermann was the owner of a few Lesser Newfoundlands, and they would hang around him when we weren't in battle. He trained them to be vicious. And when interrogating enemy soldiers, he'd bring them along —Francis replied, as they walked inside.

He ran upstairs, and knocked on the door to the study.

—I know you are in there, Camille. Open up.

—Go away.

—If you don't, I'll throw this door down myself; open up.

The threat worked faster than he believed it would. The door to the room was unlocked, and Francis was allowed inside.

Only Francis.

—What happened? —he asked his friend, and the superior officer broke down crying—. Camille?...

—I remembered Paul Antrain... —Laupin whispered, leaning his body weight against the door, too weak to stand up on his own—. I r-remembered him...

Antrain was a royalist leader. A nephew of their old King. Camille had been in charge of interrogating him after his capture, and given the fact that the republican army desperately needed information about the activities of their enemy, he also had been his torturer.

—That man... w-which crime did he c-commit? O-Other than f-fighting for the wrong s-side of the w-war?...  —Camille asked, while he sobbed.

Francis asked that question to himself daily. Which crime did his foes commit, other than having different beliefs to himself? Other than choosing to fight for them?

He did not regret most of his actions, as he knew they were important. The future of the republic depended on them. But despite his patriotism, the doubt remained. ¿What was the difference between them, and the enemy? ¿Didn't they bleed? ¿Didn't they think? ¿Didn't they feel? ¿Wasn't his skin equally as warm and tender as theirs? ¿Wasn't his hair also turning grey? ¿Weren't the lines on his face the same that sculpted theirs?

Their ideology drove them forward to fight. Their faith in their God, and in their King, fueled their passion and their fervor. They were energized by the opposing thoughts that energized men like Francis.

And yet... They still were human.

Humans that died like pigs under the knife of a butcher.

For a cause, yes... but was that cause worth it?

—I am sorry —was all that the general could say, before pulling Camille forward and hugging him.

Sometimes, words aren't enough. And in this case, not even that gesture would be.

—I n-need to go b-back there... —the major general whispered—. I c-can't live a-as a civilian anymore... I h-have to go b-back to the army... to the f-field...

—I understand you, Camille. I do... But your daughter needs you. Your wife needs you... And if you can't keep moving for yourself, then do it for them.

—I'm trying, but...

—Then keep trying. And let's both hope that doing so is enough.