Эмиль Золя
The Downfall
It was in that triangular space that the hundred thousand men and five hundred guns of the French army had now been crowded and brought to bay, and when His Prussian Majesty condescended to turn his gaze still further to the westward he might perceive another plain, the plain of Donchery, a succession of bare fields stretching away toward Briancourt, Marancourt, and Vrigne-aux-Bois, a desolate expanse of gray waste beneath the clear blue sky; and did he turn him to the east, he again had before his eyes, facing the lines in which the French were so closely hemmed, a vast level stretch of country in which were numerous villages, first Douzy and Carignan, then more to the north Rubecourt, Pourru-aux-Bois, Francheval, Villers-Cernay, and last of all, near the frontier, Chapelle. All about him, far as he could see, the land was his; he could direct the movements of the quarter of a million of men and the eight hundred guns that constituted his army, could master at a glance every detail of the operations of his invading host. Even then the XIth corps was pressing forward toward Saint-Menges, while the Vth was at Vrigne-aux-Bois, and the Wurtemburg division was near Donchery, awaiting orders. This was what he beheld to the west, and if, turning to the east, he found his view obstructed in that quarter by tree-clad hills, he could picture to himself what was passing, for he had seen the XIIth corps entering the wood of Chevalier, he knew that by that time the Guards were at Villers-Cernay. There were the two arms of the gigantic vise, the army of the Crown Prince of Prussia on the left, the Saxon Prince’s army on the right, slowly, irresistibly closing on each other, while the two Bavarian corps were hammering away at Bazeilles.
Underneath the King’s position the long line of batteries, stretching with hardly an interval from Remilly to Frenois, kept up an unintermittent fire, pouring their shells into Daigny and la Moncelle, sending them hurtling over Sedan city to sweep the northern plateaus. It was barely eight o’clock, and with eyes fixed on the gigantic board he directed the movements of the game, awaiting the inevitable end, calmly controlling the black cloud of men that beneath him swept, an array of pigmies, athwart the smiling landscape.
II
In the dense fog up on the plateau of Floing Gaude, the bugler, sounded reveille at peep of day with all the lung-power he was possessed of, but the inspiring strain died away and was lost in the damp, heavy air, and the men, who had not had courage even to erect their tents and had thrown themselves, wrapped in their blankets, upon the muddy ground, did not awake or stir, but lay like corpses, their ashen features set and rigid in the slumber of utter exhaustion. To arouse them from their trance-like sleep they had to be shaken, one by one, and, with ghastly faces and haggard eyes, they rose to their feet, like beings summoned, against their will, back from another world. It was Jean who awoke Maurice.
“What is it? Where are we!” asked the younger man. He looked affrightedly around him, and beheld only that gray waste, in which were floating the unsubstantial forms of his comrades. Objects twenty yards away were undistinguishable; his knowledge of the country availed him not; he could not even have indicated in which direction lay Sedan. Just then, however, the boom of cannon, somewhere in the distance, fell upon his ear. “Ah! I remember; the battle is for to-day; they are fighting. So much the better; there will be an end to our suspense!”
He heard other voices around him expressing the same idea. There was a feeling of stern satisfaction that at last their long nightmare was to be dispelled, that at last they were to have a sight of those Prussians whom they had come out to look for, and before whom they had been retreating so many weary days; that they were to be given a chance to try a shot at them, and lighten the load of cartridges that had been tugging at their belts so long, with never an opportunity to burn a single one of them. Everyone felt that, this time, the battle would not, could not be avoided.
But the guns began to thunder more loudly down at Bazeilles, and Jean bent his ear to listen.
“Where is the firing?”
“Faith,” replied Maurice, “it seems to me to be over toward the Meuse; but I’ll be hanged if I know where we are.”
“Look here, youngster,” said the corporal, “you are going to stick close by me to-day, for unless a man has his wits about him, don’t you see, he is likely to get in trouble. Now, I have been there before, and can keep an eye out for both of us.”
The others of the squad, meantime, were growling angrily because they had nothing with which to warm their stomachs. There was no possibility of kindling fires without dry wood in such weather as prevailed then, and so, at the very moment when they were about to go into battle, the inner man put in his claim for recognition, and would not be denied. Hunger is not conducive to heroism; to those poor fellows eating was the great, the momentous question of life; how lovingly they watched the boiling pot on those red-letter days when the soup was rich and thick; how like children or savages they were in their wrath when rations were not forthcoming!
“No eat, no fight!” declared Chouteau. “I’ll be blowed if I am going to risk my skin to-day!”
The radical was cropping out again in the great hulking house-painter, the orator of Belleville, the pothouse politician, who drowned what few correct ideas he picked up here and there in a nauseous mixture of ineffable folly and falsehood.
“Besides,” he went on, “what good was there in making fools of us as they have been doing all along, telling us that the Prussians were dying of hunger and disease, that they had not so much as a shirt to their back, and were tramping along the highways like ragged, filthy paupers!”
Loubet laughed the laugh of the Parisian gamin, who has experienced the various vicissitudes of life in the Halles.
“Oh, that’s all in my eye! it is we fellows who have been catching it right along; we are the poor devils whose leaky brogans and tattered toggery would make folks throw us a copper. And then those great victories about which they made such a fuss! What precious liars they must be, to tell us that old Bismarck had been made prisoner and that a German army had been driven over a quarry and dashed to pieces! Oh yes, they fooled us in great shape.”
Pache and Lapoulle, who were standing near, shook their heads and clenched their fists ominously. There were others, also, who made no attempt to conceal their anger, for the course of the newspapers in constantly printing bogus news had had most disastrous results; all confidence was destroyed, men had ceased to believe anything or anybody. And so it was that in the soldiers, children of a larger growth, their bright dreams of other days had now been supplanted by exaggerated anticipations of misfortune.
“Pardi!” continued Chouteau, “the thing is accounted for easily enough, since our rulers have been selling us to the enemy right from the beginning. You all know that it is so.”
Lapoulle’s rustic simplicity revolted at the idea.
“For shame! what wicked people they must be!”
“Yes, sold, as Judas sold his master,” murmured Pache, mindful of his studies in sacred history.
It was Chouteau’s hour of triumph. “Mon Dieu! it is as plain as the nose on your face. MacMahon got three millions and each of the other generals got a million, as the price of bringing us up here. The bargain was made at Paris last spring, and last night they sent up a rocket as a signal to let Bismarck know that everything was fixed and he might come and take us.”
The story was so inanely stupid that Maurice was disgusted. There had been a time when Chouteau, thanks to his facundity of the faubourg, had interested and almost convinced him, but now he had come to detest that apostle of falsehood, that snake in the grass, who calumniated honest effort of every kind in order to sicken others of it.
“Why do you talk such nonsense?” he exclaimed. “You know very well there is no truth in it.”
“What, not true? Do you mean to say it is not true that we are betrayed? Ah, come, my aristocratic friend, perhaps you are one of them, perhaps you belong to the d – d band of dirty traitors?” He came forward threateningly. “If you are you have only to say so, my fine gentleman, for we will attend to your case right here, and won’t wait for your friend Bismarck, either.”
The others were also beginning to growl and show their teeth, and Jean thought it time that he should interfere.
“Silence there! I will report the first man who says another word!”
But Chouteau sneered and jeered at him; what did he care whether he reported him or not! He was not going to fight unless he chose, and they need not try to ride him rough-shod, because he had cartridges in his box for other people beside the Prussians. They were going into action now, and what discipline had been maintained by fear would be at an end: what could they do to him, anyway? he would just skip as soon as he thought he had enough of it. And he was profane and obscene, egging the men on against the corporal, who had been allowing them to starve. Yes, it was his fault that the squad had had nothing to eat in the last three days, while their neighbors had soup and fresh meat in plenty, but “monsieur” had to go off to town with the “aristo” and enjoy himself with the girls. People had spotted ‘em, over in Sedan.
“You stole the money belonging to the squad; deny it if you dare, you bougre of a belly-god!”
Things were beginning to assume an ugly complexion; Lapoulle was doubling his big fists in a way that looked like business, and Pache, with the pangs of hunger gnawing at his vitals, laid aside his natural douceness and insisted on an explanation. The only reasonable one among them was Loubet, who gave one of his pawky laughs and suggested that, being Frenchmen, they might as well dine off the Prussians as eat one another. For his part, he took no stock in fighting, either with fists or firearms, and alluding to the few hundred francs that he had earned as substitute, added:
“And so, that was all they thought my hide was worth! Well, I am not going to give them more than their money’s worth.”
Maurice and Jean were in a towering rage at the idotic onslaught, talking loudly and repelling Chouteau’s insinuations, when out from the fog came a stentorian voice, bellowing:
“What’s this? what’s this? Show me the rascals who dare quarrel in the company street!”
And Lieutenant Rochas appeared upon the scene, in his old kepi, whence the rain had washed all the color, and his great coat, minus many of its buttons, evincing in all his lean, shambling person the extreme of poverty and distress. Notwithstanding his forlorn aspect, however, his sparkling eye and bristling mustache showed that his old time confidence had suffered no impairment.
Jean spoke up, scarce able to restrain himself. “Lieutenant, it is these men, who persist in saying that we are betrayed. Yes, they dare to assert that our generals have sold us – ”
The idea of treason did not appear so extremely unnatural to Rochas’s thick understanding, for it served to explain those reverses that he could not account for otherwise.
“Well, suppose they are sold, is it any of their business? What concern is it of theirs? The Prussians are there all the same, aren’t they? and we are going to give them one of the old-fashioned hidings, such as they won’t forget in one while.” Down below them in the thick sea of fog the guns at Bazeilles were still pounding away, and he extended his arms with a broad, sweeping gesture: “Hein! this is the time that we’ve got them! We’ll see them back home, and kick them every step of the way!”
All the trials and troubles of the past were to him as if they had not been, now that his ears were gladdened by the roar of the guns: the delays and conflicting orders of the chiefs, the demoralization of the troops, the stampede at Beaumont, the distress of the recent forced retreat on Sedan – all were forgotten. Now that they were about to fight at last, was not victory certain? He had learned nothing and forgotten nothing; his blustering, boastful contempt of the enemy, his entire ignorance of the new arts and appliances of war, his rooted conviction that an old soldier of Africa, Italy, and the Crimea could by no possibility be beaten, had suffered no change. It was really a little too comical that a man at his age should take the back track and begin at the beginning again!
All at once his lantern jaws parted and gave utterance to a loud laugh. He was visited by one of those impulses of good-fellowship that made his men swear by him, despite the roughness of the jobations that he frequently bestowed on them.
“Look here, my children, in place of quarreling it will be a great deal better to take a good nip all around. Come, I’m going to treat, and you shall drink my health.”
From the capacious pocket of his capote he extracted a bottle of brandy, adding, with his all-conquering air, that it was the gift of a lady. (He had been seen the day before, seated at the table of a tavern in Floing and holding the waitress on his lap, evidently on the best of terms with her.) The soldiers laughed and winked at one another, holding out their porringers, into which he gayly poured the golden liquor.
“Drink to your sweethearts, my children, if you have any and don’t forget to drink to the glory of France. Them’s my sentiments, so vive la joie!”
“That’s right, Lieutenant. Here’s to your health, and everybody else’s!”
They all drank, and their hearts were warmed and peace reigned once more. The “nip” had much of comfort in it, in the chill morning, just as they were going into action, and Maurice felt it tingling in his veins, giving him cheer and a sort of what is known colloquially as “Dutch courage.” Why should they not whip the Prussians? Have not battles their surprises? has not history embalmed many an instance of the fickleness of fortune? That mighty man of war, the lieutenant, added that Bazaine was on the way to join them, would be with them before the day was over: oh, the information was positive; he had it from an aid to one of the generals; and although, in speaking of the route the marshal was to come by, he pointed to the frontier of Belgium, Maurice yielded to one of those spasmodic attacks of hopefulness of his, without which life to him would not have been worth living. Might it not be that the day of reckoning was at hand?
“Why don’t we move, Lieutenant?” he made bold to ask. “What are we waiting for?”
Rochas made a gesture, which the other interpreted to mean that no orders had been received. Presently he asked:
“Has anybody seen the captain?”
No one answered. Jean remembered perfectly having seen him making for Sedan the night before, but to the soldier who knows what is good for himself, his officers are always invisible when they are not on duty. He held his tongue, therefore, until happening to turn his head, he caught sight of a shadowy form flitting along the hedge.
“Here he is,” said he.
It was Captain Beaudoin in the flesh. They were all surprised by the nattiness of his appearance, his resplendent shoes, his well-brushed uniform, affording such a striking contrast to the lieutenant’s pitiful state. And there was a finicking completeness, moreover, about his toilet, greater than the male being is accustomed to bestow upon himself, in his scrupulously white hands and his carefully curled mustache, and a faint perfume of Persian lilac, which had the effect of reminding one in some mysterious way of the dressing room of a young and pretty woman.
“Hallo!” said Loubet, with a sneer, “the captain has recovered his baggage!”
But no one laughed, for they all knew him to be a man with whom it was not well to joke. He was stiff and consequential with his men, and was detested accordingly; a pete sec, to use Rochas’s expression. He had seemed to regard the early reverses of the campaign as personal affronts, and the disaster that all had prognosticated was to him an unpardonable crime. He was a strong Bonapartist by conviction; his prospects for promotion were of the brightest; he had several important salons looking after his interests; naturally, he did not take kindly to the changed condition of affairs that promised to make his cake dough. He was said to have a remarkably fine tenor voice, which had helped him no little in his advancement. He was not devoid of intelligence, though perfectly ignorant as regarded everything connected with his profession; eager to please, and very brave, when there was occasion for being so, without superfluous rashness.
“What a nasty fog!” was all he said, pleased to have found his company at last, for which he had been searching for more than half an hour.
At the same time their orders came, and the battalion moved forward. They had to proceed with caution, feeling their way, for the exhalations continued to rise from the stream and were now so dense that they were precipitated in a fine, drizzling rain. A vision rose before Maurice’s eyes that impressed him deeply; it was Colonel de Vineuil, who loomed suddenly from out the mist, sitting his horse, erect and motionless, at the intersection of two roads – the man appearing of preternatural size, and so pale and rigid that he might have served a sculptor as a study for a statue of despair; the steed shivering in the raw, chill air of morning, his dilated nostrils turned in the direction of the distant firing. Some ten paces to their rear were the regimental colors, which the sous-lieutenant whose duty it was to bear them had thus early taken from their case and proudly raised aloft, and as the driving, vaporous rack eddied and swirled about them, they shone like a radiant vision of glory emblazoned on the heavens, soon to fade and vanish from the sight. Water was dripping from the gilded eagle, and the tattered, shot-riddled tri-color, on which were embroidered the names of former victories, was stained and its bright hues dimmed by the smoke of many a battlefield; the sole bit of brilliant color in all the faded splendor was the enameled cross of honor that was attached to the cravate.
Another billow of vapor came scurrying up from the river, enshrouding in its fleecy depths colonel, standard, and all, and the battalion passed on, whitherward no one could tell. First their route had conducted them over descending ground, now they were climbing a hill. On reaching the summit the command, halt! started at the front and ran down the column; the men were cautioned not to leave the ranks, arms were ordered, and there they remained, the heavy knapsacks forming a grievous burden to weary shoulders. It was evident that they were on a plateau, but to discern localities was out of the question; twenty paces was the extreme range of vision. It was now seven o’clock; the sound of firing reached them more distinctly, other batteries were apparently opening on Sedan from the opposite bank.
“Oh! I,” said Sergeant Sapin with a start, addressing Jean and Maurice, “I shall be killed to-day.”
It was the first time he had opened his lips that morning; an expression of dreamy melancholy had rested on his thin face, with its big, handsome eyes and thin, pinched nose.
“What an idea!” Jean exclaimed; “who can tell what is going to happen him? Every bullet has its billet, they say, but you stand no worse chance than the rest of us.”
“Oh, but me – I am as good as dead now. I tell you I shall be killed to-day.”
The near files turned and looked at him curiously, asking him if he had had a dream. No, he had dreamed nothing, but he felt it; it was there.
“And it is a pity, all the same, because I was to be married when I got my discharge.”
A vague expression came into his eyes again; his past life rose before him. He was the son of a small retail grocer at Lyons, and had been petted and spoiled by his mother up to the time of her death; then rejecting the proffer of his father, with whom he did not hit it off well, to assist in purchasing his discharge, he had remained with the army, weary and disgusted with life and with his surroundings. Coming home on furlough, however, he fell in love with a cousin and they became engaged; their intention was to open a little shop on the small capital which she would bring him, and then existence once more became desirable. He had received an elementary education; could read, write, and cipher. For the past year he had lived only in anticipation of this happy future.
He shivered, and gave himself a shake to dispel his revery, repeating with his tranquil air:
“Yes, it is too bad; I shall be killed to-day.”
No one spoke; the uncertainty and suspense continued. They knew not whether the enemy was on their front or in their rear. Strange sounds came to their ears from time to time from out the depths of the mysterious fog: the rumble of wheels, the deadened tramp of moving masses, the distant clatter of horses’ hoofs; it was the evolutions of troops, hidden from view behind the misty curtain, the batteries, battalions, and squadrons of the 7th corps taking up their positions in line of battle. Now, however, it began to look as if the fog was about to lift; it parted here and there and fragments floated lightly off, like strips of gauze torn from a veil, and bits of sky appeared, not transparently blue, as on a bright summer’s day, but opaque and of the hue of burnished steel, like the cheerless bosom of some deep, sullen mountain tarn. It was in one of those brighter moments when the sun was endeavoring to struggle forth that the regiments of chasseurs d’Afrique, constituting part of Margueritte’s division, came riding by, giving the impression of a band of spectral horsemen. They sat very stiff and erect in the saddle, with their short cavalry jackets, broad red sashes and smart little kepis, accurate in distance and alignment and managing admirably their lean, wiry mounts, which were almost invisible under the heterogeneous collection of tools and camp equipage that they had to carry. Squadron after squadron they swept by in long array, to be swallowed in the gloom from which they had just emerged, vanishing as if dissolved by the fine rain. The truth was, probably, that they were in the way, and their leaders, not knowing what use to put them to, had packed them off the field, as had often been the case since the opening of the campaign. They had scarcely ever been employed on scouting or reconnoitering duty, and as soon as there was prospect of a fight were trotted about for shelter from valley to valley, useless objects, but too costly to be endangered.
Maurice thought of Prosper as he watched them. “That fellow, yonder, looks like him,” he said, under his breath. “I wonder if it is he?”
“Of whom are you speaking?” asked Jean.
“Of that young man of Remilly, whose brother we met at Osches, you remember.”
Behind the chasseurs, when they had all passed, came a general officer and his staff dashing down the descending road, and Maurice recognized the general of their brigade, Bourgain-Desfeuilles, shouting and gesticulating wildly. He had torn himself reluctantly from his comfortable quarters at the Hotel of the Golden Cross, and it was evident from the horrible temper he was in that the condition of affairs that morning was not satisfactory to him. In a tone of voice so loud that everyone could hear he roared:
“In the devil’s name, what stream is that off yonder, the Meuse or the Moselle?”
The fog dispersed at last, this time in earnest. As at Bazeilles the effect was theatrical; the curtain rolled slowly upward to the flies, disclosing the setting of the stage. From a sky of transparent blue the sun poured down a flood of bright, golden light, and Maurice was no longer at a loss to recognize their position.
“Ah!” he said to Jean, “we are on the plateau de l’Algerie. That village that you see across the valley, directly in our front, is Floing, and that more distant one is Saint-Menges, and that one, more distant still, a little to the right, is Fleigneux. Then those scrubby trees on the horizon, away in the background, are the forest of the Ardennes, and there lies the frontier – ”
He went on to explain their position, naming each locality and pointing to it with outstretched hand. The plateau de l’Algerie was a belt of reddish ground, something less than two miles in length, sloping gently downward from the wood of la Garenne toward the Meuse, from which it was separated by the meadows. On it the line of the 7th corps had been established by General Douay, who felt that his numbers were not sufficient to defend so extended a position and properly maintain his touch with the 1st corps, which was posted at right angles with his line, occupying the valley of la Givonne, from the wood of la Garenne to Daigny.
“Oh, isn’t it grand, isn’t it magnificent!”
And Maurice, revolving on his heel, made with his hand a sweeping gesture that embraced the entire horizon. From their position on the plateau the whole wide field of battle lay stretched before them to the south and west: Sedan, almost at their feet, whose citadel they could see overtopping the roofs, then Balan and Bazeilles, dimly seen through the dun smoke-clouds that hung heavily in the motionless air, and further in the distance the hills of the left bank, Liry, la Marfee, la Croix-Piau. It was away toward the west, however, in the direction of Donchery, that the prospect was most extensive. There the Meuse curved horseshoe-wise, encircling the peninsula of Iges with a ribbon of pale silver, and at the northern extremity of the loop was distinctly visible the narrow road of the Saint-Albert pass, winding between the river bank and a beetling, overhanging hill that was crowned with the little wood of Seugnon, an offshoot of the forest of la Falizette. At the summit of the hill, at the carrefour of la Maison-Rouge, the road from Donchery to Vrigne-aux-Bois debouched into the Mezieres pike.
“See, that is the road by which we might retreat on Mezieres.”
Even as he spoke the first gun was fired from Saint-Menges. The fog still hung over the bottom-lands in shreds and patches, and through it they dimly descried a shadowy body of men moving through the Saint-Albert defile.
“Ah, they are there,” continued Maurice, instinctively lowering his voice. “Too late, too late; they have intercepted us!”
It was not eight o’clock. The guns, which were thundering more fiercely than ever in the direction of Bazeilles, now also began to make themselves heard at the eastward, in the valley of la Givonne, which was hid from view; it was the army of the Crown Prince of Saxony, debouching from the Chevalier wood and attacking the 1st corps, in front of Daigny village; and now that the XIth Prussian corps, moving on Floing, had opened fire on General Douay’s troops, the investment was complete at every point of the great periphery of several leagues’ extent, and the action was general all along the line.
Maurice suddenly perceived the enormity of their blunder in not retreating on Mezieres during the night; but as yet the consequences were not clear to him; he could not foresee all the disaster that was to result from that fatal error of judgment. Moved by some indefinable instinct of danger, he looked with apprehension on the adjacent heights that commanded the plateau de l’Algerie. If time had not been allowed them to make good their retreat, why had they not backed up against the frontier and occupied those heights of Illy and Saint-Menges, whence, if they could not maintain their position, they would at least have been free to cross over into Belgium? There were two points that appeared to him especially threatening, the mamelon of Hattoy, to the north of Floing on the left, and the Calvary of Illy, a stone cross with a linden tree on either side, the highest bit of ground in the surrounding country, to the right. General Douay was keenly alive to the importance of these eminences, and the day before had sent two battalions to occupy Hattoy; but the men, feeling that they were “in the air” and too remote from support, had fallen back early that morning. It was understood that the left wing of the 1st corps was to take care of the Calvary of Illy. The wide expanse of naked country between Sedan and the Ardennes forest was intersected by deep ravines, and the key of the position was manifestly there, in the shadow of that cross and the two lindens, whence their guns might sweep the fields in every direction for a long distance.
Two more cannon shots rang out, quickly succeeded by a salvo; they detected the bluish smoke rising from the underbrush of a low hill to the left of Saint-Menges.
“Our turn is coming now,” said Jean.
Nothing more startling occurred just then, however. The men, still preserving their formation and standing at ordered arms, found something to occupy their attention in the fine appearance made by the 2d division, posted in front of Floing, with their left refused and facing the Meuse, so as to guard against a possible attack from that quarter. The ground to the east, as far as the wood of la Garenne, beneath Illy village, was held by the 3d division, while the 1st, which had lost heavily at Beaumont, formed a second line. All night long the engineers had been busy with pick and shovel, and even after the Prussians had opened fire they were still digging away at their shelter trenches and throwing up epaulments.
Then a sharp rattle of musketry, quickly silenced, however, was heard proceeding from a point beneath Floing, and Captain Beaudoin received orders to move his company three hundred yards to the rear. Their new position was in a great field of cabbages, upon reaching which the captain made his men lie down. The sun had not yet drunk up the moisture that had descended on the vegetables in the darkness, and every fold and crease of the thick, golden-green leaves was filled with trembling drops, as pellucid and luminous as brilliants of the fairest water.
