The Downfall (La Débâcle). Emile Zola

better, we could take you up on our way. Eh? Does that suit you?'

      It so happened that Maurice had found an old friend of his father's at Falaise, the village near which they were encamped; and this man, a petty farmer, was about to take his daughter to Le Chêne, to confide her to the care of an aunt there, and had a horse, harnessed to a light cart, already waiting to start.

      Matters nearly turned out badly, however, at the very first words that Maurice addressed to Major Bouroche: 'I have injured my foot, Monsieur le docteur,' he began.

      On hearing this, Bouroche, shaking his large lion-like head, roared out: 'I'm not Monsieur le docteur! Who on earth has sent me such a soldier as you?' And as Maurice, quite scared, began to stammer an apology, he resumed: 'I'm the major; do you hear me, you idiot?' Then realising the kind of man he had to deal with, he, doubtless, felt somewhat ashamed of himself, for he flew into a yet more violent tantrum: 'Your foot! a fine affair! Yes, yes, I allow you. Get into a cart, get into a balloon if you like. We've got quite enough dawdlers and pillagers already!'

      When Jean helped Maurice to hoist himself into the cart, the latter turned round to thank him; and the two men fell into each other's arms as if they were not likely ever to see one another again. Indeed, who could tell—what with the commotion of the retreat and those Prussians who were near by? Maurice was surprised to feel how great was the affection that already attached him to Jean. He turned round twice to wave his hand to him; and then he set out from the camp, where preparations were now being made to light some large fires, for the purpose of deceiving the enemy as to the army's presence, whilst in reality the troops marched off, in the strictest silence, before the dawn of day.

      Once on the road, the petty farmer who was driving Maurice did not cease to bewail the evil times. He had lacked the necessary courage to remain at Falaise, and yet he already regretted having left it, repeating that he would be utterly ruined if the enemy should burn his house. His daughter—a tall, pale creature—was crying. Maurice, however—drunk, as it were, with weariness—did not hear either of them, but slept on in a sitting posture, rocked by the rapid trot of the little horse, which in less than an hour and a half covered the four leagues lying between Vouziers and Le Chêne. It was not yet seven o'clock, and the twilight had scarcely fallen, when the young fellow, shivering and perplexed, alighted on the Place, near the bridge spanning the canal, and in front of the narrow yellow house where he had been born and had spent the first twenty years of his life. He was going there in a mechanical sort of way, oblivious of the fact that the house had been sold to a veterinary surgeon some eighteen months previously. When the farmer questioned him on the subject, he answered that he knew very well whither he was bound; and then thanked him repeatedly for his kindness in giving him a lift.

      However, whilst approaching the well in the centre of the little triangular Place, he stopped short, dazed, and with his head quite empty. Where did he really intend to go? Suddenly he remembered that he had previously decided to call at the notary's house, which adjoined his former home, to ask hospitality of the notary's mother, that venerable, good-hearted old lady, Madame Desroches, who in a neighbourly way had spoilt him when he was a child. But he could scarcely recognise Le Chêne, usually such a dead-alive little place, amid the extraordinary agitation that now prevailed in it, owing to the presence of the army corps which was camping in its outskirts and filling its streets with officers, army followers, prowlers, and laggards of all descriptions. He certainly recognised the canal, crossing the town from end to end and cutting athwart the central Place, the two triangular sections of which were united by a narrow stone bridge. Over there, too, on the other bank, the mossy-roofed market could readily be identified, together with the Rue Berond plunging down on the left, and the road to Sedan stretching away on the right. Only, from the spot where he stood, it was necessary that he should raise his eyes and search for the slated belfry crowning the notary's house, to make sure that this was the once deserted corner where he had played at hopscotch; to such a degree, indeed, did the Rue de Vouziers in front of him now swarm with people, flowing along in a compact crowd as far as the town-hall. It seemed to him that an open space was being kept on the Place, and that some men were making the inquisitive townsfolk retire; and, in fact, behind the well he beheld to his astonishment quite an assemblage of vehicles, vans and waggons, a perfect baggage camp, which he had certainly seen somewhere before.

      It was still light, the sun had scarcely sunk in the unrippled water of the canal, tinging it as with blood, and Maurice had just decided what course he would adopt, when a woman, standing near by, who had been looking at him for a few moments, exclaimed: 'Good heavens! but I'm surely not mistaken; you are young Levasseur?'

      In his turn, he then recognised Madame Combette, wife of a chemist whose shop was on the Place, and he began to explain to her that he was going to ask worthy Madame Desroches for a bed; but at this she became strangely agitated and dragged him away, saying: 'No, no, just come indoors with me. I will explain matters to you.' Then, when they were in the shop and she had carefully closed the door, she added: 'What, don't you know, my dear boy, that the Emperor is stopping at the Desroches' house? It was requisitioned for him, and the Desroches are by no means pleased with the honour, I can tell you! To think that the poor old lady, a woman of over seventy, has been obliged to give up her room to go and sleep under the eaves in a servant's bed! Everything you see on the Place there belongs to the Emperor; it's his luggage, you understand.'

      Yes, indeed, Maurice now well remembered that he had seen those vans and carts—all the superb train, in fact, of the imperial household—while he was at Rheims.

      'Ah! my dear boy, if you only knew what a number of things have been taken out of those vans—silver plate, and bottles of wine, and baskets of provisions, and beautiful linen, and all manner of other things besides! It went on without stopping for a couple of hours. I wonder where they can have put so many things, for the house isn't a large one. Just look! See what a fire they've lighted in the kitchen!'

      Maurice then turned to glance at the little two-storeyed white house, which stood at the corner of the Place and the Rue de Vouziers, a house of quiet bourgeoise aspect, the disposition of which he pictured to himself as readily as though he had been inside it only the day before. Downstairs there was the central passage running right through the house, and then on each floor there were four rooms. The corner first-floor window, overlooking the Place, was already lighted up, and the chemist's wife explained that this was the window of the Emperor's room. However, as she had already indicated, by far the greater blaze was in the kitchen, which was on the ground floor, with a window facing the Rue de Vouziers. The inhabitants of Le Chêne had never previously seen such a sight as this kitchen now presented, and the street was blocked with an incessantly renewed stream of inquisitive people all agape in front of that fiery furnace, where an emperor's dinner was roasting and boiling. So that they might have a little fresh air the cooks had set the window wide open. There were three of them, attired in dazzling white jackets, now fluttering about in front of the fowls impaled on a tremendously long spit, and now stirring the sauces which were simmering in huge copper pans that shone like gold. And the oldest inhabitants could not remember having ever seen so much fire burning, and so much food cooking at the same time, even on the occasion of the grandest wedding feasts given at the White Lion Inn.

      Combette, the chemist, a restless, weazen, little man, returned home greatly excited by all he had seen and heard. He appeared to be in the secret of what was passing, owing to his position as assessor to the mayor. It was at about half-past three that MacMahon had telegraphed to Bazaine that the arrival of the Crown Prince of Prussia at Châlons compelled him to fall back upon the northern fortresses; and another despatch was about to be sent to the Minister of War, warning him of the retreat, and explaining to him that the army was in imminent peril of being cut in twain and annihilated. As for the despatch addressed to Bazaine, that might go and welcome, but it was doubtful whether it would ever get to him, for all communications with Metz appeared to have been intercepted for some days past. The other telegram, however, was a much more serious affair; and the chemist, lowering his voice, related that he had heard an officer of high rank remark: 'If they should be warned in Paris we are dished!' This was easily understood, for everyone was aware of the bitter fierceness with which the Empress-Regent and the Ministerial Council incited the army to a forward march. However, the confusion was increasing every hour, and