A bullet connected with Bossuet's shoulder and with a sharp gasp, he fell back onto the barricade. He barely had any time to comprehend what had happened to him before a soldier was on top of him, his bayonet raised and the metal glinting in a sort of bloodthirsty glory.
The last thing that Bossuet thought was that perhaps death wouldn't be that bad. Perhaps in death he would be luckier than he had been in life. This thought gave him hope, and had the pain of the bullet not been so great he might have smiled.
And then the soldier brought the bayonet down.
Bossuet didn't watch as it tore into his chest, puncturing what must have been a lung. Instead he stared at the man's face the entire time, the national guard soldier who was a man just like him, who could, had the circumstances been any different, have been him. And Bossuet forgave. He died with blood gurgling out of his mouth and forgiveness in his heart.
He had, after all, never been one to hold a grudge.