The Debacle: (1870-71)

by Emile Zola

  ‘Oh to give that one a clout!’ Maurice muttered furiously. ‘A good back-hander and ram his teeth in!’

  After that he couldn’t bear the sight of this captain, with his supercilious face that cried out to be hit. Now that they were entering Sedan proper over the Meuse bridge, the scenes of brutality recurred, and there were more of them. A woman, probably a mother, wanted to kiss a young sergeant and was pushed away so violently with a rifle-butt that she fell on the ground. On the Place Turenne the townspeople were rough-handled because they threw food to the prisoners. In the Grande-Rue one of the prisoners slipped down as he was taking a bottle a lady gave him, and was kicked to his feet again. For a whole week now Sedan had been witnessing this human livestock from the defeat being driven along with sticks, but could not get used to it, and with each new lot was moved by a sullen fever of pity and revolt.

  Jean was thinking of Henriette too, and then he suddenly thought of Delaherche. He nudged his friend.

  ‘I say, keep your eyes open in a minute if we go along that street!’

  And indeed, as soon as they entered rue Maqua, they caught sight of several heads hanging out of one of the enormous windows of the mill. Then they recognized Delaherche and his wife Gilberte leaning out, with the tall, austere figure of Madame Delaherche standing behind them. They had some loaves of bread and he was throwing them down to the hungry men holding out shaky, imploring hands.

  Maurice at once saw that his sister was not there, but Jean was worried at the speed with which the loaves were flying, and afraid there would be none left for them. He waved his arms and yelled:

  ‘Save some for us! Save some for us!’

  It was almost a happy surprise for the Delaherches. Their sombre, compassionate faces lit up and they could not restrain gestures of joy at the meeting. Gilberte insisted on throwing the last loaf into Jean’s arms, which she did with such charming clumsiness that she burst into a peal of pretty laughter.

  Not being able to stop, Maurice turned round backwards and as he went along shouted an anxious question:

  ‘What about Henriette? Henriette?’

  Delaherche answered with a long sentence, but his voice was lost in the tramp of feet. He must have realized that the young man had not caught what he said, for he made many signs, and repeated one especially, southwards. But already the column was entering rue du Ménil, and the façade of the factory, with the three heads leaning out, disappeared, but a hand still waved a handkerchief.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Jean.

  Maurice was very upset and still vainly looking back.

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t understand… Now I shall be worried so long as I don’t get any news.’

  The tramp went on, with the Prussians hurrying them up with the arrogance of conquerors, and the herd left Sedan by the Ménil gate, in a thin line, scampering along as though it was being worried by the hounds.

  When they went through Bazeilles Jean and Maurice thought of Weiss and looked for the ashes of the little house that had been so valiantly defended. At the Camp of Hell they had been told about the devastation of the village, the fires and the massacres, but what they saw was worse than their most horrible dreams. After twelve days the heaps of ruins were still smoking. Tottering walls had fallen and not ten houses were left intact. They did find some consolation in the numbers of barrows and carts they saw full of Bavarian helmets and rifles picked up after the battle. This proof that they had killed a lot of these murderers and fire-raisers was some comfort.

  The halt for lunch was to be at Douzy. They did not reach there without considerable suffering because the prisoners tired very quickly in their half-starved condition. Even the ones who had blown themselves out with food the day before were giddy, liverish and tired; for, far from restoring their lost strength, this gluttony had weakened them still more. And so when they stopped in a meadow to the left of the village the poor devils dropped on the grass, too dispirited to eat. There was no wine, and kind women who had tried to come with bottles were chased away by the guards. One of them fell and twisted her ankle, and there were cries and tears and a harrowing scene while the Prussians, who had confiscated the bottles, drank them. This pity and kindness of the countryfolk towards the wretched soldiers who were being taken away into captivity was manifest at every step, but it was said that they treated the generals with surly rudeness. Here in Douzy only a day or two earlier the inhabitants had booed a party of generals going on parole to Pont-à-Mousson. The highways were not safe for officers – men in overalls, escaped soldiers, possibly deserters, went for them with pitchforks and tried to kill them as if they were cowards and traitors, and this legend of the betrayal was still, twenty years later, to condemn all officers who had worn epaulettes to the execration of this part of the country.

  Maurice and Jean ate half their loaf, which they were lucky enough to wash down with a sip or two of the brandy with which a friendly farmer had managed to fill their bottle. But the terrible thing was to set off again. They were to sleep at Mouzon, and although it was a short lap the effort involved seemed too dreadful. Men couldn’t get up without crying out because the shortest rest made their weary limbs go so stiff. Many had bleeding feet and took off their boots so as to go on walking. They were still ravaged by dysentery, and one fell out after the first kilometre and had to be left propped against a bank. Two others collapsed by a hedge a little further on, and were only picked up that evening by an old woman. Everybody was staggering and using sticks which the Prussians had let them cut at the edge of a wood – in derision, no doubt. They were now a mere rabble of tramps, covered with sores, emaciated and gasping for breath. And the brutalities went on, men who fell out, even for a call of nature, being chased back with blows. The escort platoon bringing up the rear had orders to hurry along any laggards by sticking a bayonet up their behinds. A sergeant refused to go any further, and the captain made two men seize him under the arms and drag him along until he decided to walk again. That was the worst torment of all, the face you wanted to hit, the little bald-headed officer who took advantage of his good French to insult the prisoners in their own language in biting, lashing phrases like strokes with a whip.

  ‘Oh!’ Maurice raged again. ‘Oh to get hold of that man and let out all his blood, drop by drop!’

  He was at the end of his tether and more sick with anger than with fatigue. Everything was getting him down, even the harsh blarings of the Prussian trumpets, which so upset him physically that he could have howled like a wild beast. He would never reach the end of this cruel journey without getting himself murdered. Already as they went through the tiniest hamlets he suffered agonies as he saw women looking at him with pity. What would it be like when they got into Germany and the people in the towns would jostle each other in their desire to greet him with jeering laughter? He conjured up visions of the cattle-trucks into which they would be herded, the disgusting conditions and tortures of the journey and the miserable existence in fortresses under a wintry, snow-laden sky. No, no, rather death straight away, better to risk leaving one’s body there at the corner of some road on French soil than rot over there in some black hole in a fortress, perhaps for months!

  ‘Look here,’ he whispered to Jean who was walking at his side, ‘we’ll wait until we’re going past some wood and then jump into the trees. The Belgian frontier isn’t far away, and we are sure to find someone to take us there.’

  Jean, whose mind was cooler and clearer, recoiled at the idea in spite of the feeling of revolt that was making him, too, think about escape.

  ‘Are you crazy? They’ll shoot us, and there we’ll both stay.’

  But Maurice pointed out that there was a chance of the bullets going wide, and after all, if they were shot, well, that would be that!

  ‘All right,’ Jean went on, ‘but what would happen to us then, in our uniforms? You can see perfectly well that the whole place is full of Prussian outposts. At any rate we should have to have different clothes… It’s to
o dangerous, lad, and I’ll never let you do anything so barmy.’

  He had to hold him back, take a grip of his arm and keep it close to him as though they were holding each other up, while he went on calming him down in his rough and ready but affectionate way.

  Some whispering behind their backs just then made them look round. It was Chouteau and Loubet, who had got away from Iges that morning at the same time as themselves, and whom so far they had avoided. Now these two gentry were treading on their heels. Chouteau must have overheard Maurice’s words, with his plan to escape through a wood, for he took it up himself and murmured into their ears:

  ‘Look here, we’re in on this. It’s a grand idea to fuck off. Some of the blokes have got away already, and we’re certainly not going to let ourselves be dragged like a lot of dogs to the country of those bastards… So what about it for the four of us – O.K. to go for a stroll and take the air?’

  Maurice was getting excited again, and Jean had to turn round and say to the tempter:

  ‘If you’re in a hurry, run along… What hopes do you think you’ve got?’

  Chouteau was a bit put out by the straight look Jean gave him. He let out the real reason for his insistence.

  ‘Well, if there were four of us it would be easier… Then one or two would be sure to get away.’

  So with a firm shake of the head Jean turned it down altogether. He didn’t trust that gentleman, as he always said, and was afraid of some dirty trick. He had to use all his authority over Maurice to stop him from giving in because there was an obvious chance just then as they were passing a very dense wood, with only one field full of gorse between it and the road. Did not salvation consist in running across that field and disappearing in the thicket?

  So far Loubet had said nothing. His twitching nose was testing the wind, his keen, artful eyes were watching out for the right moment, in his clear determination not to go and moulder in Germany. He would have to trust to his legs and his cunning, which had always got him out of scrapes. He suddenly made up his mind.

  ‘Fuck it, I’ve had enough! I’m off!’

  He leaped with one bound into the field and Chouteau imitated him, running at his side. Two of the escorting Prussians at once gave chase, but neither thought of stopping them with a bullet. The scene was so brief that they hardly took it in. Loubet, zigzagging through the gorse, was certainly going to get away, but Chouteau, who was not so agile, was already on the point of being recaptured when, with a supreme effort, he dived between his companion’s legs and brought him down; and while the two Prussians rushed to hold that man on the ground Chouteau darted into the wood and disappeared. A few shots went off when they remembered their rifles. There was even a half-hearted beat through the trees, though to no purpose.

  But the two soldiers went for Loubet on the ground. The captain rushed over in a furious temper, talking of making an example, and with this encouragement kicks and blows with rifle-butts continued to rain down until, by the time the poor creature was picked up, he had one arm broken and his head split open. Before they reached Mouzon he died in a little cart in which some peasant had agreed to take him.

  ‘You see what I mean,’ was all Jean murmured in Maurice’s ear.

  The look they both cast at the impenetrable wood expressed their loathing of the criminal now running away in freedom, while in the end they felt full of pity for his victim, poor devil, who was a slippery customer and not much cop to be sure, but all the same a lively chap, resourceful and no fool. So however clever you were you got your packet sometime!

  At Mouzon, in spite of this terrible object-lesson, Maurice was once again plagued by his obsession to escape. They were now in such a state of weariness that the Prussians had to help their prisoners to put up the few tents available. The camp site was in a low-lying and marshy position near the town, and the worst of it was that as another party had camped there the day before the ground was almost covered with excrement – it was a real cesspool, disgustingly filthy. They had to keep themselves out of it by putting on the ground some big flat stones which fortunately they discovered not far away. But the evening was not so bad, as the Prussians relaxed their discipline a little now that the captain had disappeared, presumably to some inn. First of all the sentries did not object when some children threw the prisoners some fruit, apples and pears, over their heads. Then they allowed people from round about to come into the camp, and soon there was a crowd of impromptu dealers, men and women, selling bread, wine and even cigars. Everyone who had any money was eating, drinking and smoking. In the fading evening light it looked like the corner of a fair, busy and noisy.

  But behind their tent Maurice was getting worked up again, and saying over and over again to Jean:

  ‘I can’t stand any more, I’m off as soon as it’s dark… Tomorrow we shall get further away from the frontier and it will be too late.’

  ‘All right, let’s go,’ Jean said, for his own resistance was wearing down and he, too, was giving in to this mania for escape. ‘We shall soon know if it costs us our lives.’

  But he did begin to examine the people selling their wares round about. Some of the men had got hold of working smocks and trousers, and it was rumoured that kindly disposed people had set up real depots of clothing to help prisoners to escape. And then almost at once his attention was caught by a pretty girl, tall and fair, with lovely eyes, who looked about sixteen, and who was holding a basket with three loaves in it. She was not crying her wares like the others, and had an attractive but self-conscious smile and was walking nervously. He looked hard at her and their eyes met and held each other’s for a moment. Then she came over with the diffident smile of a pretty girl asking if she could help.

  ‘Do you want some bread?’

  He did not answer, but made a little questioning sign. When she nodded he ventured to whisper very softly:

  ‘Got any clothes?’

  ‘Yes, under the bread.’

  Then she made up her mind to cry her wares very loud: ‘Bread! Bread! Who wants to buy bread?’ But when Maurice tried to slip her twenty francs she quickly drew back her hand and ran off, leaving the basket behind. But they saw her look back and give them an affectionate and deeply concerned smile with her beautiful eyes.

  Now that the basket was theirs Jean and Maurice found themselves in a terrible fix, for they had wandered a long way from their tent and simply could not find it, so flustered were they. Where could they go and how could they change clothes? They felt that everybody’s eyes could peer into this basket that Jean was carrying so awkwardly, and see what was inside it. So they made up their minds and went into the first empty tent they could find, and there each frantically slipped on a pair of trousers and a smock, and hid their uniform things under the bread. They abandoned the lot. But they had only found one woollen cap, which Jean forced Maurice to put on. He thought being bareheaded far more dangerous than it really was, and gave himself up for lost. While he was hanging about looking for something to put on his head it occured to him to buy the hat of a scruffy old man selling cigars.

  ‘Three sous each, two for five, Brussels cigars!’

  Since the battle of Sedan the customs regulations had broken down, and all the Belgian riff-raff came in freely. The old man in rags had been making a very handsome profit, but that did not prevent his haggling for large sums when he understood why they wanted to buy his hat, a greasy felt one with a hole right through. He only parted with it for two five-franc pieces, moaning that he was sure he would catch a cold.

  Jean, moreover, had thought up something else, which was to buy his stock from him as well, the three dozen cigars he was still hawking round. And so, with no more ado, he pulled the hat down over his eyes and called out in a sing-song voice:

  ‘Three sous for two, three sous for two, Brussels cigars!’

  This time it was deliverance. He made signs for Maurice to go on ahead. Maurice had had the good fortune to pick up an umbrella, and as it was spitting with rain he cal
mly put it up to go through the line of pickets.

  ‘Three sous for two, three sous for two, Brussels cigars!’

  In a few minutes Jean got rid of his wares. They hurried on, laughing: at any rate there was somebody who sold things cheap and didn’t swindle poor people! Interested by the cheapness, some Prussians came up as well, and he had to have dealings with them. He had manoeuvred so as to pass through the enemy lines, and sold his last two cigars to a big bearded sergeant who couldn’t speak a word of French.

  ‘Not so fast, for God’s sake!’ Jean kept saying behind Maurice’s back. ‘You’ll give us away!’

  Yet despite themselves they quickened their pace. They had to make an immense effort to stop for a moment at the corner of two roads among groups of people standing about in front of a pub. Townsfolk were chatting away with German soldiers, looking quite unconcerned. They pretended to listen, and even risked throwing in a word or two about the rain which might start again and go on all night. One man, a stoutish party, kept his eye on them all the time and made them tremble. But as he smiled very kindly they risked it, and whispered: