Gunshot by the pond

There was the sound of gunshot, very close. It was a quarter past eight on Sunday morning and everyone else was still asleep. I looked out towards the pond where I thought the noise must have come from. My neighbour was also standing just inside his gate, watching something, but not really showing himself, and not waving at me. Then he retreated, with a very long rifle in his hands. Some time later, after the noise of screeching birds had died down, I saw my neighbour's wife standing at the edge of the pond, looking down at something. So I went over and found her with a half baguette and some home grown lettuce thowing it out for the mother duck and her ducklings in a cheery way. I asked her about the gunshot. Since last night, she told me, sadly, there was one duckling less. My neighbours had been by the pond last night and had seen the tenth duckling standing innocently on the lane when a crow had swooped down and munched him up, body first, head afterwards, she explained. The gun was for the crow. "My husband got him" said my neighbour in a relieved, surprised tone. Since when I can't help thinking about the poor, black, mean-looking duckling-gobbling dead crow. Straightforward bird preservation might extend from fluffy brown and yellow ducklings to big black crows and their families, whatever their eating habits. So could this be a French version of a Sandy Whiskered Gentleman? And who (since there are still nine ducklings) might be next?