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Victor Hugo - Souvenir De La Nuit Du 4 (Memory Of The Night Of The 4th)
Work rating: Medium

L`enfant avait reçu deux balles dans la tête.
Le logis était propre, humble, paisible, honnête ;
On voyait un rameau bénit sur un portrait.
Une vieille grand-mère était là qui pleurait.
Nous le déshabillions en silence. Sa bouche,
Pâle, s`ouvrait ; la mort noyait son oeil farouche ;
Ses bras pendants semblaient demander des appuis.
Il avait dans sa poche une toupie en buis.
On pouvait mettre un doigt dans les trous de ses plaies.
Avez-vous vu saigner la mûre dans les haies ?
Son crâne était ouvert comme un bois qui se fend.
L`aïeule regarda déshabiller l`enfant,
Disant : - comme il est blanc ! approchez donc la lampe.
Dieu ! ses pauvres cheveux sont collés sur sa tempe ! -
Et quand ce fut fini, le prit sur ses genoux.
La nuit était lugubre ; on entendait des coups
De fusil dans la rue où l`on en tuait d`autres.
- Il faut ensevelir l`enfant, dirent les nôtres.
Et l`on prit un drap blanc dans l`armoire en noyer.
L`aïeule cependant l`approchait du foyer
Comme pour réchauffer ses membres déjà roides.
Hélas ! ce que la mort touche de ses mains froides
Ne se réchauffe plus aux foyers d`ici-bas !
Elle pencha la tête et lui tira ses bas,
Et dans ses vieilles mains prit les pieds du cadavre.
- Est-ce que ce n`est pas une chose qui navre !
Cria-t-elle ; monsieur, il n`avait pas huit ans !
Ses maîtres, il allait en classe, étaient contents.
Monsieur, quand il fallait que je fisse une lettre,
C`est lui qui l`écrivait. Est-ce qu`on va se mettre
A tuer les enfants maintenant ? Ah ! mon Dieu !
On est donc des brigands ! Je vous demande un peu,
Il jouait ce matin, là, devant la fenêtre !
Dire qu`ils m`ont tué ce pauvre petit être !
Il passait dans la rue, ils ont tiré dessus.
Monsieur, il était bon et doux comme un Jésus.
Moi je suis vieille, il est tout simple que je parte ;
Cela n`aurait rien fait à monsieur Bonaparte
De me tuer au lieu de tuer mon enfant ! -
Elle s`interrompit, les sanglots l`étouffant,
Puis elle dit, et tous pleuraient près de l`aïeule :
- Que vais-je devenir à présent toute seule ?
Expliquez-moi cela, vous autres, aujourd`hui.
Hélas ! je n`avais plus de sa mère que lui.
Pourquoi l`a-t-on tué ? Je veux qu`on me l`explique.
L`enfant n`a pas crié vive la République. -

Nous nous taisions, debout et graves, chapeau bas,
Tremblant devant ce deuil qu`on ne console pas.

Vous ne compreniez point, mère, la politique.
Monsieur Napoléon, c`est son nom authentique,
Est pauvre, et même prince ; il aime les palais ;
Il lui convient d`avoir des chevaux, des valets,
De l`argent pour son jeu, sa table, son alcôve,
Ses chasses ; par la même occasion, il sauve
La famille, l`église et la société ;
Il veut avoir Saint-Cloud, plein de roses l`été,
Où viendront l`adorer les préfets et les maires ;
C`est pour cela qu`il faut que les vieilles grand-mères,
De leurs pauvres doigts gris que fait trembler le temps,
Cousent dans le linceul des enfants de sept ans.




Memory of the Night of the 4th

The child had received two bullets to the head.
The home was tidy, humble, peaceable, respectable;
There was a blessed branch above a portrait.
The grandmother was there, weeping.
We undressed him in silence. His mouth,
Pale, opened; death filled his shy eyes;
His arms hung limp, in need of support.
In his pocket he had a wooden top.
You could put a whole finger in the holes left by the bullets.
Have you seen the blackberries bleeding on the bush?
His skull was cracked open like a tree split by lightning
The grandmother watched us undress the boy,
Saying: "How pale he is! Bring the lamp closer.
God! His hair is glued to his temple."
After this, she then took him on her knees.
The night was dismal; you could still hear the shots
Fired in the streets where still more were being killed.
"We must enshroud him," one of us said.
A white sheet was taken from the linen closet.
But the old lady now approached us, coming from the hearth,
As though she might warm his already stiffened limbs.
Alas! What death`s cold hand has touched
Can never again be warmed at the hearths found here below.
She leaned forward and drew off his stockings,
And took the feet of the cadavre in her small hands.
"Could things be more horrible?"
She cried, "Good sir, he wasn`t yet eight!
"He went to school; his teachers were happy with him.
"When I had a letter to write
"He was the one who wrote it. So they`re
"Killing children now? My God!
"So they`re all brigands now. I ask you, sir -
"He was playing just outside the window this morning -
"Tell me why they killed this poor little guy of mine!
"He was walking down the street and they shot him.
"Sir, he was as good and sweet as Jesus himself.
"I`m old; I`ll soon be gone anyway
"What would it have been to Bonaparte
"If they`d killed me instead of him?"
She stopped, unable to keep from sobbing,
Then said - and at this we all burst into tears -
"What`s to become of me, now all alone?
"Tell me that, you who are here today.
"Alas, he was all I had left of his mother.
"Why`d they kill him, someone tell me.
"He didn`t shout, `Long live the Republic!`"
We all held silent, standing grave, hats lowered,
Trembling before inconsolable grief.

You wouldn`t understand politics, ma`am.
Mr. Napoleon - that is his true name,
Is poor though a prince; he likes his palaces;
He needs his horses, his valets,
Money for his gaming, his household,
His hunts; but you see, he`s saving
Family, the Church, Society;
He needs St. Cloud, so full of roses in the summer,
Where prefects and mayors can come admire him;
And that, madame, is why old grandmothers,
Their poor withered hands trembling with cold,
Must stitch shut the shrouds of seven year olds.
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