by Emile Zola
Thinking over these things, shivering in despair, Maurice still followed that shadow on Madame Desroches’s thin muslin – that feverish, pacing shadow driven on by the relentless voice from Paris. Had not the Empress, that very night, wished for the Emperor’s death so that her son might reign? March on! March on! Never look back, in rain, through mud, to extermination, so that this crucial game of the dying Empire be played out to the last card. March on! March on! Die like a hero on the heaped corpses of your people, fill the whole world with wonder and awe if you want it to forgive your successors! And without doubt the Emperor was marching on to death. Downstairs the kitchen was no longer ablaze, the equerries, aides-de-camp and officials were fast asleep and the whole building was in blackness; but alone the shadow paced ceaselessly up and down, resigned to the inevitability of the sacrifice amidst the deafening din of the 12th corps still going by in the dark.
It suddenly occurred to Maurice that if the advance were to be resumed the 7th would not come up through Le Chêne at all, and he saw himself left behind, cut off from his regiment, a deserter. The pain in his foot had gone; skilful dressing and some hours of absolute rest had brought down the inflammation. When Combette had given him a pair of his own boots, wide ones in which he felt comfortable, he wanted to be on his way, and at once, hoping he might still find the 106th on the road from Le Chêne to Vouziers. The chemist tried in vain to keep him, and was on the point of deciding to take him back himself in his own trap and just drive about in the hope of finding them, when the apprentice Fernand reappeared, explaining that he had been to see his girl cousin. He was a tall, weedy youth, looked a bit of a ninny, and he harnessed the horse and took Maurice. It was not quite four, a deluge of rain was falling from an inky sky, and the lanterns of the vehicle shone palely, hardly lighting the road in the great, sodden countryside, full of gigantic noises which brought them to a halt at every kilometre, thinking an army must be on the move.
And just outside Vouziers Jean had not slept either. Since Maurice had explained how the retreat was going to save the whole situation, he had kept awake, preventing his men from straying too far away, waiting for the order to leave which the officers might give at any moment. At about two, in the pitch darkness starred with red fires, a great noise of horses went through the camp: it was the cavalry setting off as advance guard for Ballay and Quatre-Champs so as to keep an eye on the roads from Boult-aux-Bois and La Croix-aux-Bois. One hour later the infantry and artillery began to move in their turn, finally giving up their positions at Falaise and Chestres, which they had obstinately defended for two whole days against an enemy who never appeared. The sky was overcast and it was still dark night as each regiment went off with the utmost silence, a procession of men disappearing into the blackness. But all hearts were beating with joy, as though they had escaped from an ambush. They already saw themselves at the walls of Paris and on the eve of taking their revenge.
Jean peered into the thick darkness. The road was lined with trees and it looked to him as though it went across open meadows. Then there were some ups and downs. They were entering a village which must be Ballay when the heavy clouds which darkened the sky burst into a deluge of rain. The men had already had so much wet that they had even given up grousing about it and just hunched their shoulders. But after Ballay, as they were approaching Quatre-Champs, the wind began to blow in furious squalls. Beyond there, when they had climbed up on to the great plateau stretching with its bare fields all the way to Noirval, the hurricane raged and they were lashed by a frightful cloudburst. And there, in the middle of this endless plain, came an order to halt which stopped all the regiments one by one. The whole 7th corps, thirty-odd thousand men, was standing there in a mass when day dawned – a muddy day in streams of grey water. What was up now? Why this halt? Already the ranks were getting restive, and some were suggesting that the order to march had been reversed. They had been made to stand easy but forbidden to break ranks and sit down. Sometimes the gale swept over the high plain with such force that they had to move close to each other so as not to be blown along. The rain blinded them and stung their skin, a freezing rain which got under their clothes. Two hours went by, an interminable wait, nobody knew why, and once again anxiety gripped every heart.
As it grew lighter Jean tried to get his bearings. He had been shown the Le Chêne road going off north-west up a hill the other side of Quatre-Champs. Well, why had they turned right instead of left? What interested him was the headquarters set up in La Converserie, a farmhouse perched on the edge of the plateau. They seemed to be very perturbed there, with officers running about and arguing and gesticulating. But nothing was coming, what could they be waiting for? The plateau formed a sort of circus – bare stubble stretching on and on, dominated on the north and east by wooded uplands; southwards there were extensive thick woods while to the west could be seen a glimpse of the Aisne valley with the little white houses of Vouziers. Below La Converserie the slate steeple of Quatre-Champs stood out, drowned in sheets of rain which seemed to be melting away the few miserable mossy roofs of the village. As Jean ran his eye up the hilly road he saw quite clearly a trap bowling quite fast along the stony track which was now a torrent.
It was Maurice, who from the hill opposite as he came round a bend had spotted the 7th. He had been casting round for two hours, misled by peasants’ instructions, taken the wrong way by the artful bloody-mindedness of his driver, who was scared to death of the Prussians. As soon as he reached the farmhouse Maurice leaped down and at once found his regiment.
Jean gaped in amazement.
‘What, you! Why? We were going to pick you up!’
Maurice put all his anger and distress into one gesture.
‘Oh yes? Well, we’re not going up that way now, we’re going over there, to be killed, the whole lot of us!’
After a pause Jean, grim-faced, said: ‘All right, anyhow you and I will be knocked out together.’
And as they had parted so the two met again, with an embrace. In the still driving rain the private soldier rejoined the ranks while the corporal set the example, streaming wet but making no complaint.
By now the news was going round, and it was official. The retreat to Paris was off, and once again they were marching towards the Meuse. An aide-de-camp from the marshal had just brought orders for the 7th corps to go and camp at Nouart, whilst the 5th, heading for Beauclair, would take the right flank and the 1st would replace at Le Chêne the 12th, which was marching on La Besace, on the left wing. The reason why thirty-odd thousand men had been standing about there waiting in the furious gales for three hours was that General Douay, in all the deplorable muddle of this fresh change of plan, was terribly worried about the whereabouts of the baggage train sent on ahead the day before towards Chagny. They had to wait until it had rejoined the main body. It was being said that this convoy had been cut in half by that of the 12th at Le Chêne. On top of that, part of the equipment – all the smithies for the artillery – having taken the wrong road was now on its way back from Terron via the Vouziers road, where it was certain to fall into German hands. Never had there been a greater muddle, nor more anxiety.
Then a mood of out and out despair came over the soldiers. Many of them were for sitting down on their packs in the mud on that soaking plain and just waiting for death in the rain. They sneered at their commanding officers and insulted them: a nice lot they were, hadn’t the brains of a louse, undid in the evening what they had done in the morning, did damn all when the enemy wasn’t there and did a bunk as soon as he showed himself! Utter demoralization finished off the job of turning this army into a rabble with no faith in anything, no discipline, being led to the slaughter by sheer chance. Over towards Vouziers some rifle fire had broken out – shots between the rearguard of the 7th corps and the advance guard of the German troops – and all eyes had been turned towards the valley of the Aisne in which swirling clouds of thick black smoke were rising into a clear patch of sky. They realized it was the village of
Falaise, set on fire by the Uhlans. The men were filled with rage. What! The Prussians were there now! They had waited for them for two days, to give them time to get there, and then decamped! In a dim sort of way, even in the dullest heads, there developed a fury at the irreparable error that had been committed, this idiotic delay, this trap into which they had fallen: the scouts of the IVth German army keeping the Bordas brigade busy and so halting and paralysing one by one all the corps of the army of Châlons in order to give the Crown Prince of Prussia time to hurry along with the IIIrd army. And now, thanks to the marshal’s ignorance, for he still didn’t know what troops he had confronting him, the junction was being effected, and the 7th and 5th corps were going to be harried with a continual threat of disaster.
Maurice watched Falaise blazing on the horizon. But there was one bit of comfort: the baggage train they thought was lost made its appearance from the Le Chêne road. At once, while the first division remained at Quatre-Champs to wait for the interminable baggage train and protect it, the second set off again and made for Boult-aux-Bois through the forest, while the third took up a position to the left, on the heights of Belleville, to safeguard communications. As the 106th at last left the plain just when the rain redoubled its fury and continued the iniquitous march to the Meuse and the unknown, Maurice had another vision of the shadow of the Emperor pacing up and down wearily behind old Madame Desroches’s little curtains. Oh, this army of hopelessness, this doomed army being sent to certain annihilation to save a dynasty! March on! March on, never looking behind, in rain, through mud, to extermination!
6
‘GOD’S truth!’ said Chouteau, waking up next morning aching and frozen in the tent, ‘I could do with some broth with lots of meat all round!’
At Boult-aux-Bois, where they had camped, all they had had issued to them the night before had been a meagre ration of potatoes, for the commissariat was more and more crazy and disorganized by continual marches and counter-marches, and never met the troops at the prearranged times and places. With the roads all out of action they never knew where to take the travelling herds of cattle, which meant that there would soon be famine.
‘Yes, bugger it, roast geese are all over and done with,’ groaned Loubet as he stretched himself.
The squad was sulky and sullen. When you didn’t eat it wasn’t so good. And besides, there was this incessant rain and this mud they had been sleeping in.
Having spotted Pache making the sign of the cross after silently saying his morning prayer, Chouteau exploded again:
‘Why don’t you ask that God of yours to send us each a couple of bangers and half a pint?’
‘Oh, if only I had a loaf and as much bread as I wanted,’ sighed Lapoulle, who suffered more from hunger than the others, and was tortured by his enormous appetite.
But Lieutenant Rochas made them shut up. They should be ashamed of themselves, always thinking about their bellies! He quite simply tightened his trouser-belt. Since things had gone decidedly to the bad and they could now hear distant gunfire he had regained all his obstinate confidence. Since those Prussians were now here, well, it was simple, they were going to fight them! He shrugged his shoulders behind Captain Beaudoin, this youngster as he called him, who was terribly put out by the definite loss of his baggage, tight-lipped, pale-faced, always in a temper. Going without food, well, that could be managed, but what outraged him was not being able to change his shirt.
Maurice had woken up feeling depressed and nervous, though his foot was no longer inflamed thanks to the wide fitting boots. But after yesterday’s deluge his cape was still heavy with wet, and that had left him aching in every limb. On water fatigue for the coffee, he glanced over the plain on one edge of which Boult-aux-Bois is situated: forests rise up west and north and a ridge climbs up to the village of Belleville, whilst eastwards towards Buzancy are wide flat stretches of land with slight undulations in which hamlets nestle. Was that the direction from which the enemy was expected? On his way back from the stream with his canful of water he was hailed by a distressed family of peasants at their cottage door who asked him whether the soldiers were really going to stay this time and defend them. Three times already, acting on contradictory orders, the 5th corps had crossed and re-crossed their district. The day before they had heard gunfire in the direction of Bar. Certainly the Prussians were not more than two leagues away. When Maurice told these poor folk that the 7th corps was probably setting off too, they took it very badly. So they were being let down, so the soldiers didn’t come to fight, then, for they saw them appearing and disappearing, but always running away.
‘Anybody what wants sugar,’ said Loubet as he served the coffee, ‘has only got to stick his thumb in and wait till it melts.’
But nobody was amused. Coffee without sugar was pretty awful anyway, but if only they had some biscuit! On the plain at Quatre-Champs the day before, almost everybody, for the sake of something to do while hanging about, had finished off the provisions in his pack and swallowed the last crumbs. But fortunately the squad discovered a dozen potatoes, which were shared out.
Maurice, whose stomach was in a bad way, moaned:
‘If I had known at Le Chêne I’d have bought some bread!’
Jean listened but said nothing. He had had a row first thing with Chouteau, whom he wanted to send on wood fatigue and who had insolently refused, saying it wasn’t his turn. Since everything had been going from bad to worse, indiscipline was on the increase, and the officers were reaching the stage of not daring to reprimand anyone. Jean with his sweet reasonableness had realized that he must play down his authority as a corporal for fear of provoking overt rebellion. So he had turned into a good fellow, appearing to be just a comrade to his men, to whom his experience was still of great value. If his squad wasn’t as well fed as it had been, anyway it was not dying of hunger as so many others were. But Maurice’s distress upset him in particular, for he felt that he was weakening, and he watched him with an anxious eye, wondering how this delicate young man would ever manage to go through with it.
When Jean heard Maurice complain about having no bread he got up and disappeared for a moment and then came back after rummaging in his pack. Slipping a biscuit into Maurice’s hand, he said:
‘Here you are, hide it, I haven’t enough for everybody!’
‘But what about you?’ asked the young man, very touched.
‘Me? Oh, never you fear… I’ve still got two left.’
It was true, he had treasured three biscuits in case there was any fighting, knowing you can get terribly hungry on a battlefield. Anyhow he had just had a potato. That’d do for him. See later on.
At about ten the 7th moved off again. The marshal’s original intention must have been to sent it via Buzancy to Stenay, where it would have crossed the Meuse. But the Prussians, outstripping the army of Châlons, must be at Stenay already, and were even said to be at Buzancy. So, turned back northwards, the 7th had had orders to make for La Besace, twenty-odd kilometres from Boult-aux-Bois, in order to go on from there the day after and cross the Meuse at Mouzon. It was a surly departure, the men were grumbling, with their stomachs unsatisfied and their limbs unrested, worn out by the fatigues and delays of the previous days, and the officers, sullen and yielding to the general apprehension about the catastrophe they were heading for, complained about the inaction and were annoyed because they had not gone to Buzancy to reinforce the 5th corps, whose gunfire had been heard there. That corps must also be in retreat and going up towards Nouart, while the 12th was leaving La Besace for Mouzon and the 1st heading for Raucourt. It was like the stampede of a herd hurried and harried by the dogs, all jostling each other on the way to the longed-for Meuse, after endless delays and dodderings.
When the 106th followed its cavalry and artillery from Boult-aux-Bois in the great stream of three divisions streaking the plain with marching men, the sky clouded over again with slow-moving, angry clouds that put the finishing touch to the men’s gloom. The 106th itself
kept to the main Buzancy road, with its magnificent lines of poplars. At Germont, a village with dunghills steaming outside the doors in a row on each side of the road, women were sobbing and picking up their children in their arms and holding them out to the passing troops as if they wanted them to be taken away. There was nothing left in the village – not a mouthful of bread or even a potato. Then instead of going on towards Buzancy the 106th turned to the left, going up in the direction of Authe, and the men, seeing Belleville once again on the rise at the other side of the plain, which they had been through the day before, knew for a certainty that they were retracing their steps.
‘Christ!’ muttered Chouteau, ‘do they take us for teetotums?’
Loubet added: