French Literature – Children Books – Émile Zola – The Downfall (La Débâcle) – Contents
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PART I
Chapter VII
IN VIEW OF SEDAN—SILVINE’S STORY
A frightful medley of men, horses, and vehicles encumbered the sloping street of Remilly, descending in zigzags to the Meuse. Halfway down the hill, in front of the church, were some guns, the wheels of which were locked together, and the men seemed unable to get them any farther, however much they might swear and push. Near the spinning-mill below, where a fall of the Emmane roars, a train of baggage waggons was stranded, completely blocking the road; whilst an ever-swelling mob of exasperated soldiers was fighting at the Cross of Malta inn, without any of the men being able to obtain even a glass of wine.
The furious rush came to an end on the southern side of the village, which a copse here separates from the Meuse. The Engineers had thrown a pontoon bridge across the river during the morning. On the right there was a ferry with the waterman’s solitary house standing out whitely among the tall rushes. Large fires had been lighted on both banks, and every now and then the flames, deftly encouraged, set the night all aglow, lighting up both the water and the shore, as though it had been midday. One could then perceive the enormous accumulation of troops waiting here; for only two men could cross the foot-bridge at a time, whilst the pontoon bridge, which was certainly not more than ten feet wide, was encumbered with artillery, cavalry and baggage waggons, defiling over it at a distressingly slow pace. It was reported that a brigade of the First Corps and an ammunition convoy were still on the spot, besides four regiments of Cuirassiers belonging to Bonnemain’s division; and now, in the rear, came the entire Seventh Army Corps, thirty and odd thousand men, who believing that they had the enemy at their heels were feverishly eager to reach a place of safety by getting across the stream.
For a moment perfect despair prevailed when the men of the Seventh Corps arrived on the scene. What! they had been marching ever since morning without anything to eat, and had managed, by dint of superhuman exertion, to escape out of that terrible defile of Haraucourt, simply to plunge into all this confusion and bewilderment, to run their heads, as it were, against an impassable wall! Many hours would probably elapse before the last arrivals were able to cross; and, even supposing the Prussians should not dare to continue the pursuit during the night, it was certain they would be on the spot at daybreak. Nevertheless, orders were given to pile arms, and the men encamped on some extensive bare hills, whose slopes, skirted by the road to Mouzon, descend to the meadows of the Meuse. On a plateau, in the rear, the reserve artillery took up position, with the guns pointed towards the defile so that, if necessary, they might shell its outlet.
Meantime, the 106th was installed, above the road, in some stubble overlooking the far-spreading plain. The men parted with their chassepots regretfully, glancing behind them with disquietude, haunted as they were with the apprehension of an attack. With their teeth set and a harsh expression on their faces, they abstained from chatting together, merely growling angry words, every now and then. Nine o’clock was on the point of striking; they had been there for a couple of hours; and many of them, though atrociously weary, were unable to sleep, and lay upon the ground listening and starting at the faintest sounds that were wafted from afar off. They no longer struggled against the hunger that consumed them. They would eat when they got across the river, and then, if there were nothing else, they would eat the grass. Down below, however, the obstruction was increasing, and the officers, whom General Douay had posted near the bridge, came every twenty minutes or so with the same irritating tidings that many hours must elapse before all the troops could be got across. At last the general decided to make his way to the bridge in person, and he could be seen struggling in the midst of this human sea and urging on the march.
Seated against a bank by the side of Jean, Maurice pointed to the north as he had done before. ‘Sedan lies there below,’ said he. ‘And, look, Bazeilles is yonder! And then there’s Douzy and Carignan on the right—it’s at Carignan, no doubt, that we shall be concentrated. Ah! there’s plenty of room there, as you would soon see, if it were only daylight!’
His gesture embraced the whole of the immense shadowy valley. The sky was not so dark as to prevent one from discerning the pale river, coursing through the expanse of black, rolling meadows. Here and there the tufts of trees formed denser patches and a row of poplars barred the horizon on the left, as with a fantastic-looking dyke. Then, in the depths far away, behind Sedan, dotted with bright little lights, there was an accumulation of darkness, as though all the forests of the Ardennes had there stretched a curtain of their centenarian oaks.
Jean was again gazing at the pontoon bridge below them. ‘Look!’ said he, ‘it will all give way. We shall never get across.’
The fires were now burning higher on both banks, and their glow had become so bright that the frightful scene was clearly visible. The pontoons, supporting the timbers, had ended by sinking beneath the weight of all the artillery and cavalry that had passed over them since the morning, and the brow or platform of the bridge was a few inches under water. Two by two, in endless files went the Cuirassiers, who were now crossing the stream, slowly emerging from the darkness on one bank, and passing at last into that on the other. As the bridge could no longer be seen, it seemed as though they were marching on the water, on the brightly illumined river, in which a lurid conflagration was dancing. The neighing horses, with their manes raised and their legs stiffened by fright, advanced but slowly over the swaying bridge, which seemed to be gliding away beneath them. Erect in their stirrups, and with tightened reins, still did the Cuirassiers pass and pass, all uniformly draped in long white cloaks, and their helmets blazing with fiery reflections. They looked like phantom horsemen, with flaming hair, marching away to some tenebrous warfare.
A deep plaint escaped from Jean’s contracted throat: ‘Oh! how hungry I am!’
The men around him, despite the complaining groans of their empty stomachs, had now fallen asleep. Their weariness was so intense that it had finally mastered their fears, and had stretched them on their backs with open mouths, overwhelmed beneath the dark sky which no moon illumined. From one to the other end of those bare hills, waiting and expectancy had now given place to a death-like silence.
‘Oh! how hungry I am, so hungry I could eat the very earth.’ Such was the cry which Jean, so inured to hardship and usually so silent, was no longer able to restrain; a cry which he raised despite himself, in the delirium caused by privation; for six-and-thirty hours had now elapsed since he had partaken of any food. Then Maurice, who realised that their regiment would not cross the Meuse at least for another two or three hours, made up his mind to speak: ‘Listen,’ said he, ‘I have an uncle living near here; uncle Fouchard, whom I told you about. His place is over there, some five or six hundred yards away. I hesitated about going, but since you are so hungry we had better try him. He will give us some bread at all events.’ Thereupon he led his unresisting comrade away.
Old Fouchard’s little farm was situated on the outskirts of the defile of Haraucourt, near the plateau where the reserve artillery was encamped. There was a low house, with outbuildings of considerable extent, a barn, a cowshed, and a stable: and, in a kind of coach-house on the other side of the road, the old peasant had installed his butcher’s business. It was there that he slaughtered the animals which he subsequently hawked through the surrounding villages in his cart. As the two men drew near to the place Maurice was surprised not to see any light in the house. ‘The old miser!’ he muttered; ‘he must have barricaded himself indoors—he won’t open.’
On reaching the road, the young fellow stopped short at sight of a dozen marauding soldiers—hungry rascals, no doubt, on the prowl for something to fill their maws with—who were moving hither and thither in front of the farmhouse. They had begun by calling; then they had knocked; and now, as the house remained quite black and silent, they were battering the door with the butt-ends of their guns with the object of breaking the lock open. Gruff voices could be heard roaring: ‘Thunder! Hit harder! Break the cursed door down, since there’s no one inside.’
Suddenly, however, the shutter of a garret window was flung back, and a tall old man, wearing a blouse and with his head bare, appeared carrying a tallow candle in one hand and a gun in the other. He had coarse white hair and a square, broadly wrinkled face, with a prominent nose, large light-coloured eyes and a chin expressive of obstinate self-will.
‘Are you fellows thieves, that you are smashing everything like that?’ he shouted in a harsh voice. ‘What on earth do you want?’
The soldiers drew back, somewhat abashed: ‘We are dying of hunger. We want something to eat,’ they answered.
‘I’ve got nothing, not even a crust! Do you fellows think we can feed hundreds of thousands of men? Other troops passed by here this morning—General Ducrot’s men—and they took everything I had.’
One by one the soldiers were again drawing nearer: ‘All the same, just open your door. We’ll have a rest. You’ll be able to find us a morsel, sure enough.’
They were again hammering on the door, when the old man, after placing the candle on the window-sill, raised his gun to his shoulder: ‘As true as that’s a candle,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll send a bullet into the head of the first man who touches my door!’
A combat appeared imminent. Curses resounded, and some one shouted that they ought to settle the hash of that swinish peasant, who, like the rest of the litter, would have flung his bread into the water rather than give a bite to a soldier. The chassepots were already levelled, and it seemed certain that he would be shot down, for, in his obstinate rage, he remained standing there, clearly visible in the flaring candle-light.
‘Nothing at all,’ he resumed, ‘not a crust! Everything has been taken from me.’
At this moment Maurice, in dire alarm, sprang forward followed by Jean.
‘Comrades, comrades!’ he shouted as with a blow of his arm he lowered the guns of the marauders; and then, raising his head, he called to Fouchard in a supplicating tone: ‘Come, be reasonable. Don’t you know me?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Your nephew, Maurice Levasseur.’
Fouchard had taken up the candle again, and, doubtless, he recognised Maurice; but he remained obstinate, determined not to give the men even so much as a glass of water. ‘Nephew, indeed!’ he growled; ‘who can tell in that cursed darkness? Begone all of you, or I’ll fire!’ And amid the shouts that were then raised, the threats that they would pick him off and fire his shanty, he continued bawling the same phrase, repeating it a score of times: ‘Begone all of you, or I’ll fire!’
‘Even on me, father?’ suddenly called a loud voice which resounded above all the tumult.
The other men had drawn on one side, and now, in the flickering candle-light, a quartermaster suddenly appeared. It was Honoré, whose battery was stationed less than two hundred yards away, and who, for a couple of hours, had been struggling with a desire he felt to go and knock at his father’s door. Yet he had sworn that he would never again cross the threshold, and, during the four years that he had been in the army, he had not once written to the old man whom he now addressed so curtly. The marauders were already talking together with animation, and concerting other measures. So that was the old fellow’s son—a quartermaster, eh! Such being the case there was evidently nothing to be done; matters might turn out badly, and they had far better try their luck elsewhere. Thereupon they slunk away, speedily vanishing amid the pitchy darkness.
When Fouchard realised that he was saved from being pillaged, he exclaimed, without evincing the slightest emotion, and, in fact, as though he had seen his son only the day before: ‘It’s you—all right, I’m coming down.’
It was a long business. He could be heard unlocking and re-locking doors which, like a careful man, he kept secured. Then, at last, the front door was just set ajar and held vigorously to prevent it from being flung wide open. ‘You can come in—but no one else, mind,’ said Fouchard to his son. Evident as was his repugnance, however, he could not refuse shelter to his nephew: ‘Well, you too,’ he added.
Then he pitilessly pushed the door back on Jean, and Maurice again had to supplicate. But the old man was obstinate; no, no, he didn’t want any strangers, any thieves to smash the furniture. Honoré, however, at last forced the door open with his shoulder and made the corporal enter; the old fellow being compelled to yield, though he continued muttering covert threats. He had not parted with his gun, but when he had led them into the living-room he rested it against the sideboard, and placing the candle on the table, sank into stubborn silence.
‘I say, father, we are dying of hunger. You’ll surely give us some bread and cheese?’
Fouchard made no answer; he did not seem to hear his son, but repeatedly stepped up to the window to listen whether some fresh band were not on the point of besieging his house. ‘Come, uncle,’ said Maurice, ‘Jean’s a brother. He went without food to save me. We have suffered so dreadfully together.’
The old man, however, continued his perambulations, satisfying himself that everything was in its place, and without even casting a glance at his son and nephew. Still without saying a word, he at last made up his mind to grant their request, and then, taking the candle, he went off, leaving them in the darkness and carefully locking the door behind him so that he might not be followed. He could be heard going down the cellar stairs, and then another long interval ensued. When he came back he again made the door fast and placed a large loaf and a cheese upon the table, still maintaining his obstinate silence, not, however, that he was sullen, for his anger had passed away, but from motives of policy, since one can never tell how far talking may lead one. Moreover, the three men were in no mood to waste words, but fell on the food and began to devour it. No sound could now be heard save the savage crunching of their jaws.
Honoré at last rose to fetch a pitcher of water standing near the sideboard. ‘You might have given us some wine, father,’ said he.
Fouchard, who was recovering his calmness and self-control, at the same time found his tongue again: ‘Wine? Why, I haven’t a drop left. Ducrot’s men ate and drank and pillaged everything I had.’
He was lying, and all his efforts to conceal it were unavailing; it could be clearly detected by the blinking of his big pale eyes. A couple of days previously he had concealed his cattle, the few cows he kept and the oxen and sheep reserved for his business, driving them away in the night and hiding them no one knew where, but possibly in the depths of some wood or some abandoned quarry. And since then he had spent long hours at home in burying his wine, his bread, in fact all his provisions, even to the flour and salt, so that one would have ransacked every cupboard in vain. The house was cleared. He had even refused to sell anything to the first soldiers who had presented themselves. There was no telling, perhaps he might have better opportunities, and vague ideas of making a pile of money germinated in this shrewd, patient miser’s brain.
Maurice, promptly satisfying his hunger, was the first to speak. ‘And is it long since you saw my sister, Henriette?’ he asked.
The old fellow was still walking about, glancing every now and then at Jean, who was precipitately swallowing huge mouthfuls of bread; and slowly, as though weighing every word he answered: ‘Henriette? Yes, I saw her last month at Sedan. But I caught sight of her husband, Weiss, this morning. He was in a trap with his employer, Monsieur Delaherche—they were going to Mouzon to see the army pass, just by way of amusing themselves.’ An expression of profound irony passed over the old peasant’s stolid face. ‘Perhaps,’ added he, ‘they may have seen too much of the army, and not have had much amusement—for after three o’clock, it was impossible to pass along the roads. They were crowded with runaways.’
Then, in the same quiet voice and with an air of seeming indifference, he gave some particulars respecting the defeat of the Fifth Corps, which, whilst the men were preparing their soupe, had been surprised at Beaumont by the Bavarians, and thrown back as far as Mouzon.[24] Some panic-stricken, disbanded soldiers, on their way through Remilly, had shouted to him that De Failly had once more sold them to Bismarck. On hearing all this Maurice could not help thinking of the precipitate marching of the last two days, of the orders to hasten the retreat given by MacMahon, now all eagerness to cross the Meuse at any cost after so many precious days had been lost in incomprehensible hesitation. But the decision had come too late. Doubtless the marshal, so angered on finding the Seventh Corps still at Oches when it ought to have reached La Besace, had imagined that the Fifth Corps was already encamped at Mouzon, when, in reality, it was being crushed at Beaumont, through its folly in tarrying there. What, however, could be required, expected of troops who were so badly commanded, so demoralised by waiting and persistent retreating, exhausted alike by hunger and weariness?
Fouchard had ended by stationing himself behind Jean, astonished to see what a prodigious quantity of bread and cheese the corporal managed to put away. ‘You feel better now, eh?’ he remarked, in a bantering fashion.
Jean raised his head, and with the same peasant-like air replied: ‘A little, thanks.’
Meanwhile, despite his intense hunger, Honoré every now and then ceased eating, and turned his head to listen as if he fancied he could hear some sound or other. If, after a fight with himself, he had broken his oath that he would never again set foot in that house, it was solely on account of the irresistible desire he experienced to see Silvine once more. Under his shirt, against his very skin, he preserved the letter he had received from her at Rheims, that tender letter in which she told him that she still loved him, and that she would never love anyone else, despite all the cruel past, despite Goliath, despite even little Charlot,[25] the Prussian’s son and her own. And now Honoré had thoughts only for her, and felt anxious at not having yet seen her, though he strove to hide his anxiety from his father. Passion, however, won the day, and at last, endeavouring to speak in a natural voice, he inquired: ‘And Silvine—is she still with you?’
Fouchard glanced askance at his son, his eyes glittering with inward merriment: ‘Yes, yes,’ he answered.
Then he relapsed into silence and began spitting; and the artilleryman, after a pause, was forced to resume: ‘She’s in bed, then?’
‘No, no.’
At last, however, the old man condescended to explain that, in spite of what was happening, he had driven to Raucourt market that morning in his cart, taking the girl with him. Soldiers might be passing along the roads, but surely that was no reason why people should cease eating meat, or why he should neglect his business. So, as was his habit every Tuesday, he had driven to Raucourt with a sheep and some beef, and was just finishing his sales when the Seventh Corps made its appearance, and he speedily found himself in the midst of a frightful hubbub. Soldiers were running about hustling everybody, and fearing that some of them might steal his horse and cart, he had taken himself off, leaving Silvine behind; she, it appeared, was away at the time, carrying meat to some customers in the town. ‘Oh! she’ll find her way back sure enough,’ he added: ‘she must have taken refuge at Dr. Dalichamp, her godfather’s—she’s a brave girl, although she only seems to know how to obey—she has her qualities, certainly she has.’
Was he jeering? Was he desirous of explaining why he still retained the services of that girl, the cause of his quarrel with his son, and this, despite the child, from whom she refused to be parted? Again did Fouchard give Honoré a sidelong glance, and laugh inwardly as he added, ‘Charlot’s in there, asleep in her room; so it’s certain she won’t be very long coming.’
Honoré, whose lips were quivering, gazed so fixedly at his father that the latter again began walking up and down. Then the silence fell once more, whilst the artilleryman, in a mechanical way, cut himself another piece of bread, and went on eating. Jean also continued devouring the bread and cheese without feeling the slightest desire to talk. Maurice, whose hunger was appeased, sat there with his elbows on the table, examining the furniture of the room, the old sideboard and the old clock, and dreaming of the holidays that he and his sister had spent at Remilly in times long past. Thus the minutes went by, and at last the clock struck eleven.
‘The devil!’ muttered Maurice. ‘We mustn’t let the others go off.’
Without any opposition on Fouchard’s part, he then opened the window. The whole black valley was hollowed out there below, looking, at the first glance, like a sombre rolling sea; but when the eyes had become accustomed to the scene, one could clearly distinguish the bridge, illumined by the fires on both banks. The Cuirassiers were still crossing the river, draped in their long white cloaks, and looking like phantoms whose horses, lashed onward by a blast of terror, seemed to be walking on the water. And the endless, interminable procession continued crawling along, like some vision passing slowly before the eyes. Meantime, on the bare hills on the right, where the troops were slumbering, all was as still and silent as death itself.
‘Ah, well!’ said Maurice, with a gesture of despair, ‘it will be for to-morrow morning.’
He had left the window wide open, and old Fouchard, catching up his gun, sprang over the sill and jumped out with the nimbleness of a young man. For a moment he could be heard marching along with the regular step of a sentinel, and then the only audible sound was that of the commotion on the encumbered bridge far away; doubtless the old peasant had seated himself by the roadside, where he felt more at his ease, since he could there watch for any threatening danger, prepared, if need were, to jump indoors again and defend his house.
And now not a minute elapsed but Honoré glanced at the clock. His disquietude was increasing. Less than four miles separate Raucourt from Remilly, a matter of an hour’s walk for a sturdy young girl like Silvine. Why had she not arrived, for many and many hours had now elapsed since the old man had left her amid the confusion created by the army corps flooding the district and blocking up the roads? Some catastrophe must certainly have befallen her; and he pictured her in dire distress—wandering distracted through the fields, or knocked down and trampled upon by the horses on the high road.
Suddenly, however, he, Maurice and Jean, rose to their feet. Some one was running down the road, and they had distinctly heard the old man cock his gun. ‘Who goes there?’ called Fouchard, in a harsh voice. ‘Is it you, Silvine?’
There was no answer, and he repeated his question, threatening to fire. Then an oppressed, panting voice managed to articulate: ‘Yes, yes, it’s I, father Fouchard.’ And immediately afterwards the girl inquired: ‘And Charlot?’
‘He’s in bed and asleep.’
‘Oh! all right then—thanks!’ Thereupon she no longer hastened, but heaved a deep sigh, in which she exhaled all her weariness and anguish.
‘Get in by the window,’ resumed Fouchard. ‘There’s some one inside.’
Springing into the room, she stopped short in surprise at sight of the three men. In the flickering candle-light she appeared before them, very dark-complexioned, with thick black hair, and with large, lovely eyes, that sufficed to render her beautiful, lighting up her oval face, which usually wore an expression of submissive tranquillity. But the sudden sight of Honoré had now brought all the blood in her heart to her cheeks, albeit she was not astonished to find him there, for she had been thinking of him whilst running back from Raucourt.
He was choking, and felt extremely faint, but he affected great calmness.
‘Good evening, Silvine.’
‘Good evening, Honoré.’
Then, that she might not burst into sobs, she averted her head and smiled at Maurice, whom she had just recognised. Jean’s presence inconvenienced her. She felt as though she were stifling, and took off the kerchief she wore about her neck.
‘We were anxious about you, Silvine,’ resumed Honoré, ‘on account of all those Prussians who are coming up.’
She suddenly became very pale again, and an expression of agitation swept over her face. Glancing involuntarily in the direction of the room where Charlot was asleep, and waving her hand as if to drive away some frightful vision, she muttered: ‘The Prussians, yes—yes, I have seen them.’
Then, worn out with fatigue, she sank upon a chair, and related that on the invasion of Raucourt by the Seventh Corps she had sought refuge at the house of Dr. Dalichamp, her godfather, hoping that Fouchard would think of fetching her before he started home. Such was the hustling and confusion in the high street that a dog would not have ventured there. She had waited patiently, and without feeling much uneasiness, till four o’clock, employing her time meanwhile in helping several ladies to prepare some lint; for, in the idea that some of the wounded from Metz and Verdun, supposing there were any fighting over there, would be sent on to Raucourt, the doctor had been busily engaged for a fortnight past in installing an ambulance at the town-hall. Some people came who asserted that this ambulance might be required at once; and in point of fact a cannonade had been heard since noon in the direction of Beaumont. Still, that was some distance away, and nobody felt alarmed. Suddenly, however, just as the last French soldiers were on the point of leaving Raucourt a shell plunged, with a fearful crash, through the roof of a neighbouring house. Two others followed—a German battery was cannonading the rear guard of the Seventh Army Corps. Some wounded men from Beaumont having already been brought to the town-hall, it was feared that a shell might fall upon them, and finish them off on the straw mattresses on which they were lying waiting for the doctor to attend to them. Maddened by terror these unfortunate men rose up, and despite their broken limbs, which drew from them loud cries of agony, insisted on crawling into the cellar, which they considered to be the only safe place.
‘And then,’ continued Silvine. ‘I don’t know how it happened, but all at once everything became silent—I had gone upstairs to a window overlooking the street and the country, and I could no longer see anyone, not a single French soldier. But suddenly I heard a heavy tramp. Somebody called out something I did not understand, and then the butt-ends of a number of muskets fell with a thud on the ground. In the street down below there were a lot of dark-looking men, short and grimed with dirt, with huge, hideous heads and wearing helmets like those that our firemen wear. I was told they were Bavarians. Then, as I raised my eyes, I saw—oh! I saw thousands and thousands of them, coming along by the roads and the fields and the woods, in close columns which never seemed to end. The whole country-side at once became quite black with them. It was like a swarm of black locusts coming and coming in such numbers that in less than no time I could no longer see the ground.’
She shuddered, and again made that gesture with her hand to drive away a frightful remembrance.
‘And then—ah! you can’t imagine what happened. It seems that these men had been three days on the march and had just been fighting like furies at Beaumont. And they were dying of hunger, half out of their senses, with their eyes starting from their heads. Their officers made no attempt to restrain them, and they all rushed into the houses and the shops, bursting open the doors, breaking the windows, smashing the furniture, searching everywhere for something to eat and drink, and swallowing no matter what came into their hands. I saw one at Monsieur Simonnet’s—the grocer’s—who was scooping molasses out of a tub with his helmet. Others were munching pieces of raw bacon. Others, too, were swallowing flour. It had already been said that there was nothing left, as our soldiers had been passing through the town for forty-eight hours or more, but these men managed to find something—provisions that had been hidden, no doubt, and this made them think that people purposely refused them food, and they set to work like madmen, smashing everything. In less than an hour the grocers’ shops, and the bakers’ and the butchers’ and even the private houses had all their windows broken, their cupboards ransacked, and their cellars invaded and emptied. At the doctor’s, you may believe me or not, but I actually caught sight of one fat fellow, who was eating the soap! It was, however, especially the cellar which they ravaged. We could hear them from upstairs, roaring down there like wild beasts, smashing the bottles and turning on the taps of all the casks, so that the wine rushed out with the noise of a waterfall. When they came up again their hands had been quite reddened by all the wine they had been messing with. And—see how it is when men become savages—Monsieur Dalichamp vainly did his utmost to prevent one soldier from drinking some syrup of opium which he had found in a wine bottle. The wretched fellow must certainly be dead by now; he was suffering dreadfully when I came away.’
Seized with a great shudder she covered her eyes with her hands as though to shut out the sight of all she had seen. ‘No, no,’ she gasped, ‘it was too frightful; it stifles me.’
Old Fouchard, still outside, had drawn near and stood by the window, listening. This story of pillage had made him thoughtful. He had been told that the Prussians paid for everything; were they now turning thieves, then? Maurice and Jean also evinced the keenest interest in these particulars concerning the enemy, whom this girl had just seen, but whom they themselves had not yet met, though the fighting had been going on for a month past. Honoré, however, with a pensive air and twitching mouth, took interest in her alone, being absorbed in thoughts of the calamity that had long since parted them.
Just then the door of the next room opened, and little Charlot ran in. He must have heard his mother’s voice; and now, simply clad in his shirt, he was coming to kiss her. Pink and fair, and very big for his age, he had a light curly crop of hair and large blue eyes. Silvine shuddered on seeing him appear so suddenly, as though startled by his resemblance to his father. Did she no longer know her own fondly loved child, that she thus gazed at him with an air of fright, as if face to face with some horrible vision? At last she burst into sobs. ‘My poor little one!’ she murmured.
And then, like one distracted, she caught him in her arms and pressed him to her neck, whilst Honoré, turning livid, noted Charlot’s remarkable likeness to Goliath. The child had the same fair, square-shaped head as his father; his healthy, infantile form, fresh cheeks, and smiling lips seemed typical of the German race. So this was the Prussian’s son, ‘the little Prussian,’ as the jokers of Remilly called him! And there was his mother, pressing him to her bosom—his mother, this Frenchwoman, still overwhelmed, and with her heart lacerated by all that she had seen of the invasion!
‘My poor little one, be good: go to bed again; go to by-by, my poor little fellow.”
Then she carried him away, and when she again returned she was no longer crying; she had once more recovered her calm, docile, courageous expression of countenance. It was Honoré who, in a trembling voice, resumed the conversation: ‘And the Prussians?’
‘Ah! yes, the Prussians,’ said Silvine. ‘Well, they had broken everything, pillaged everything, eaten everything, drunk everything. They also stole the house linen, the napkins, the towels, the sheets, even the muslin curtains, which they tore into long strips to dress their feet with. I saw some of them whose feet were so many big sores, so fearfully had they been punished by their terrible march. In the road, in front of the doctor’s, a number of them took off their boots and bound strips of lace-edged chemises round their heels—chemises which they had stolen, no doubt, from pretty Madame Lefèvre, the manufacturer’s wife. The pillage lasted till nightfall. The houses had no doors and scarcely a pane of glass left, but were quite open to the street, and you could see the remnants of furniture inside—everything smashed—a sight to make the calmest people furious. I was almost out of my senses, and I could not stay there any longer. At the doctor’s they tried to detain me, telling me that the roads were blocked, that they were not safe, that I should certainly be killed; but, all the same, I went off, and took to the fields on the right hand as soon as I got out of Raucourt. Carts full of French and Prussian wounded, all heaped up together, were arriving from Beaumont. Two passed quite close to me in the darkness, and I heard such groans, such shrieks of pain that I ran—oh! I ran right across the fields and through the woods without knowing where I was—going a long distance out of my way over towards Villers. I hid myself three times, fancying I could hear some soldiers, but the only person I met was another woman, who was running, like myself—running away from Beaumont—and who told me things that made my hair stand on end. Well, at last I got here, and I feel so wretched—oh, so wretched!’
Her sobs were again suffocating her, but the haunting memory of her adventure soon brought her back to her narrative, and she related what the woman of Beaumont had told her. This woman, who lived in the main street of the village, had seen the German artillery pass after nightfall. On either side of the way stood a line of soldiers carrying torches of resin, which illumined the road with the ruddy glare of a conflagration. And in the middle a stream of horses, guns, and caissons swept past, urged on at a furious, hellish gallop. Frenzied and diabolical were the haste and eagerness to achieve victory, to pursue, overtake, finish off, and crush the French troops in the depths of some pit near by. Nothing was spared, every obstacle was annihilated, and still and ever the artillery swept past. If horses fell, their traces were immediately cut, and they were crushed, rolled on, thrust aside like bloody wreckage. The men who tried to cross were in their turn knocked down and hashed to mincemeat by the cannon wheels. And, as the hurricane swept along, the famished drivers did not for a moment think of halting, but deftly caught the loaves of bread that were flung to them, and seized hold of the hunks of meat which some of the torchbearers had stuck upon the tips of their bayonets. And then with these same bayonets the torchbearers prodded the horses, which reared and plunged, and, maddened by pain, galloped faster and faster away. And thus, as the night went by, still and ever the artillery rushed along with tempestuous violence, in the midst of frantic hurrahs.
Despite the attention he had been giving to Silvine’s narrative, Maurice, overcome with fatigue after his gluttonous repast, had just let his head fall upon the table, on which he was resting both arms. For another minute Jean continued struggling, then he, in his turn, was vanquished and fell asleep at the other end of the table. Meantime, old Fouchard had gone down the road again, and thus Honoré found himself alone with Silvine, who was now sitting, quite still, in front of the open window.
The quartermaster rose up and approached the window in his turn. The night was still dense and black, laden with the hard breathing of thousands of troops. Louder, more sonorous sounds, were now rising, however—now a cracking noise, then the thud of a collision. At present some artillery was crossing the half-submerged bridge down below. Horses reared, frightened by the dancing, flowing water. Caissons slipped, and as they could not be righted, had to be thrown into the stream. And at sight of the retreat which was being so painfully, so slowly effected across the river—this retreat, which had begun the previous day, and would certainly not be accomplished by dawn—the young man instinctively thought of that other artillery—the artillery of the foe—rushing like a wild torrent through Beaumont, overthrowing all before it, and crushing both man and beast so that it might travel the faster.
At last, Honoré drew near to Silvine, and in full view of all that darkness through which fierce quiverings sped, he gently said to her, ‘So you are unhappy?’
‘Yes, very unhappy.’ She divined that he was going to speak of the abomination, and she lowered her head.
‘Tell me,’ he resumed; ‘how did it happen?’
At first she could not answer him, but he plied her with questions, and at last, in a choking voice, she stammered: ‘My God! I do not know; I swear to you I do not even know. But it would be wrong to tell a lie, and I cannot excuse myself. I cannot say that he struck me—but you were gone, and I was mad, and it came to pass I know not, I know not how.’
Her sobs were stifling her, and for a moment Honoré paused. His face was ashy pale, and his throat contracted. However, the idea that she refused to tell a lie rendered him somewhat calmer. At last he began questioning her afresh, his mind still busy with all that he did not as yet understand.
‘All the same, my father kept you here?’ said he.
Growing calmer once more, again recovering her expression of courageous resignation, she answered, without raising her eyes: ‘I do his work; I don’t cost much to keep; and now, as there is another mouth besides my own to feed, he has lowered my wages. He knows well enough that, whatever he may order me to do, I am now obliged to do it.’
‘But you, why did you stay?’
At this she was so surprised that she raised her eyes and looked at him: ‘I? Where would you have me go? Here, at least my little one and I have something to eat, and live in peace.’
The silence fell once more. They were now looking into one another’s eyes. The panting of the throng was ascending in increased volume from the dark valley below, and the rumbling of the guns as they rolled over the pontoon bridge seemed interminable. Suddenly a loud cry, the forlorn cry of some man or beast, infinitely piteous, sped through the dark expanse.
‘Listen to me, Silvine,’ slowly resumed Honoré; ‘you sent me a letter which gave me great joy. But for that I should never have come back here. I read it again this evening, and in it you say things that could not be better said.’
She had at first turned pale on hearing him mention her letter. Perhaps he was angry with her for having dared to write to him like some bold, vulgar wench. But as he proceeded, she became quite red.
‘I know you don’t like lying,’ continued Honoré, ‘and for that reason I believe what you wrote to me. Yes, I now thoroughly believe it. You were right in thinking that if I had been killed during the war, without seeing you again, I should have been very unhappy at the thought that you did not love me. But since you still love me, since you have never loved anybody else——’
Then his speech faltered; he could no longer find words to express himself; he was shaking with intense emotion. ‘Listen, Silvine,’ he said at last, ‘if those swinish Prussians don’t kill me I’ll take you all the same; yes, we’ll be married as soon as I get my discharge.’
She sprang to her feet, gave a loud cry and fell in the young man’s arms. She was quite unable to speak; all the blood in her veins had rushed to her face. Honoré seated himself on the chair and took her on his knees.
‘I have thought it over,’ said he, ‘and in coming here to-night that was what I wanted to say to you. If my father refuses his consent, well, we’ll go away together. The world is wide. And as for your little one, well, we can’t strangle him. There’ll be others coming by-and-by; among the brood I sha’n’t be able to distinguish him.’
So she was forgiven. Yet she struggled against this immense happiness, and at last she murmured, ‘No, it isn’t possible, it is too much. Some day, perhaps, you will regret it. But how good you are, Honoré; and how I love you!’
He silenced her with a kiss on the lips. And she no longer had the strength to refuse the promised felicity, the happy life which she had thought for ever dead. With an involuntary irresistible impulse, she caught him in her arms, and in her turn kissed him, pressing him to her bosom with all her woman’s strength, like a treasure regained that belonged to her alone, and which none should ever take from her. He was hers once more, he whom she had lost, and she would die rather than lose him again.
At that moment a sound of commotion arose; the dense night was filled with the loud tumult of the reveille. Orders were being shouted, bugles rang out, and from the bare hills rose up a mass of shadowy forms that moved hither and thither, an indistinct, rolling sea flowing already towards the road. The fires on both banks were now going out, and one could merely discern confused, tramping masses of men, it being impossible to tell whether they were still crossing the river or not. Never, however, had the darkness been fraught with such anguish, such desperate fear.
Old Fouchard now drew near to the window and called that the others were starting. His voice roused Jean and Maurice, who rose to their feet numbed and shivering. Honoré, meantime, had quickly pressed Silvine’s hand in his own. ‘It is sworn,’ said he; ‘wait for me.’
She could not think of a word to answer, but she gave him a look into which she cast her whole soul, a last, long look as he sprang out of the window to join his battery at the double-quick.
‘Good-bye, father.’
‘Good-bye, my lad.’
And that was all; the peasant and the soldier parted as they had met, without an embrace—like a father and son who do not need to see one another in order to live.
When in their turn Maurice and Jean had left the farm, they descended the steep slope at a gallop. But they no longer found the 106th down below; all the regiments were already on the march, and they had to run on, now directed to the right and now to the left, until at last, when they had quite lost their heads amid the fearful confusion, they fell in with their company, which Lieutenant Rochas was commanding. As for Captain Beaudoin and the rest of the regiment, they were doubtless elsewhere. And now Maurice was stupefied on realising that this mob of men, horses, and guns was quitting Remilly in the direction of Sedan, proceeding along the left bank of the Meuse. What had happened, then? Why did they not cross the river? Why did they retreat towards the north?
An officer of Chasseurs who happened to be there, no one knew how, exclaimed aloud: ‘Thunder! We ought to have taken to our heels on the 28th, when we were at Le Chêne!’
Meanwhile, others explained the movements that were being accomplished, and scraps of intelligence circulated. It appeared that at about two o’clock in the morning one of Marshal MacMahon’s aides-de-camp had come to inform General Douay that the entire army was to fall back on Sedan without loss of time. The Fifth Corps crushed at Beaumont was overwhelming the other corps in its own disaster. When the aide-de-camp arrived, General Douay was still watching near the pontoon-bridge, in despair that only his Third Division had as yet managed to cross the stream. Dawn was now at hand, and they might be attacked at any moment. Accordingly he instructed the general officers, placed under his orders, to gain Sedan by the most direct routes, each acting for himself. For his own part, quitting the bridge, which he ordered to be destroyed, he went off along the left bank with his First Division and the reserve artillery, whilst the Third Division proceeded along the right bank, and the first, which had suffered at Beaumont and was disbanded, fled no one knew whither. Of the Seventh Army Corps, which had not yet fought a battle, there were now only so many scattered fragments, straying along the roads and rushing onward in the darkness.
It was not yet three o’clock, and the night was still black. Maurice, though he was acquainted with the district, no longer knew where he was roaming, unable to take his bearings amid the overflowing torrent, the maddened mob that was streaming tempestuously along the road. Many men who had escaped from the crushing blow of Beaumont, soldiers of all arms, in tatters, and grimed with blood and dust, had become mingled with the regiments and spread terror through the ranks. From all the broad valley across the stream ascended a sound of commotion, the tramping of other flocks, of other flights, for the First Corps had left Carignan and Douzy, and the Twelfth Corps had started from Mouzon with the remnants of the Fifth, all being set in motion, carried along by the same logical, irresistible force, which since the 28th had been impelling the army northwards, driving it into the depths whence no egress was possible, and where it was fated to perish.
However, whilst Captain Beaudoin’s company was passing through Pont-Maugis the morning twilight appeared, and Maurice was then able to identify his surroundings. On the left were the slopes of the Liry hill, on the right the road was skirted by the Meuse. Infinitely sad in the grey dawn, Bazeilles and Balan loomed indistinctly beyond the meadows; whilst on the horizon Sedan, livid and woeful, with the aspect of some vision seen in a nightmare, stood out against the vast dark curtain of forest trees. When, after passing through Wadelincourt, the men at last reached the Torcy gate, it became necessary to parley, to supplicate, threaten, and, in fact, almost besiege the fortress before the governor would lower the drawbridge. It was now five o’clock. Intoxicated with weariness, hunger and cold, the Seventh Army Corps entered Sedan.
< < < Chapter VI
Chapter VIII > > >
French Literature – Children Books – Émile Zola – The Downfall (La Débâcle) – Contents
Copyright holders – Public Domain Book
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