The Downfall (La Débâcle). Emile Zola

so like that of a savage that Loubet fell flop on the ground, so amazingly funny did he consider the incident. Pache, who had finished his sewing, replied to his name in a scarcely audible voice as though he were mumbling a prayer. Chouteau, without even rising, let his answer drop disdainfully from his lips, and then stretched himself out more comfortably. Meanwhile, Rochas, the lieutenant on duty, stood waiting, motionless, a few yards off. When the roll had been called, and Sergeant Sapin came to tell him that there was no one missing, he protruded his chin in the direction of Weiss, who was still chatting with Maurice, and growled from under his moustache, 'There's even one man too many. Why on earth is that fellow here?'

      'He has the colonel's permission, sir,' explained Jean, who had overheard the question.

      Rochas shrugged his shoulders, and, without replying, began walking up and down in front of the tents pending the time to turn in, whilst Jean, worn out by the day's march, sat down not far from Maurice, whose words reached him without any intentional listening on his part, occupied as he was with vague dim reflections that were germinating in the depths of his slow, dull brain.

      Maurice was a believer in war, which he considered to be inevitable—necessary, even, to the existence of nations. This doctrine had imposed itself upon him since he had adopted the theory of evolution, which already at that time impassionated young men of culture. Is not life itself an incessant battle, which does not flag, even for a second? Continuous fighting, the victory of the fittest, the maintenance and renewal of strength by action, and the resuscitation of juvenescent life from death itself—are not these the very essence of the natural law? Maurice remembered the great transport that had buoyed him up when, with the view of atoning for his errors, he had thought of becoming a soldier and hurrying to the frontier. Possibly the voters of the Plebiscitum, though surrendering themselves to the Emperor, had not really desired war. Maurice himself, but a week previously, had declared that such a war as was being spoken of would be both culpable and idiotic. People were then discussing the candidature of a German prince to the Spanish throne, and in the confusion which gradually arose it seemed as if everybody were in the wrong. No one could say precisely from which side the provocation had come, and only the inevitable remained, the fatal law which at a given hour impels one people against another. Then a great thrill swept through Paris, and Maurice in his mind's eye still beheld the scenes of that torrid night, the boulevards a human sea, the bands of men who waved their torches and shouted: 'To Berlin! To Berlin! To Berlin!' And he again saw a tall woman[4] with a sculptural figure and a queenly profile mount on a carriage-box in front of the Hôtel de Ville, and, swathed in the folds of a tricolour flag, chant the 'Marseillaise.' Was all that a lie? Had not the heart of Paris really beaten that night?

      As was always the case with Maurice, however, after this nervous excitement there had come long hours of fearful wavering and disgust. His arrival at the barracks, the adjutant to whom he had reported himself, the sergeant who had provided him with his uniform, the stinking and repulsively filthy dormitory, the rough familiarity of his new companions, the mechanical exercises which had exhausted his limbs and rendered his brain so heavy—all these had been unpleasant experiences. In less than a week, however, he had become accustomed to his new life, and displayed no further repugnance for it. And, indeed, when the regiment at last set out for Belfort, enthusiasm again seized hold of him.

      From the very outset he had felt confident of victory. The Emperor's plan was quite clear to him. Four hundred thousand men were to cross the Rhine before the Prussians were ready, and by a bold, vigorous dash to separate Northern from Southern Germany; whilst, at the same time, thanks to some brilliant success, Austria and Italy would speedily be compelled to ally themselves with France. Had it not been rumoured, too, at one moment, that the Seventh Army Corps, to which Maurice's regiment belonged, was to put to sea at Brest in view of landing in Denmark and creating a diversion which would compel Prussia to immobilise one of her armies? She was to be surprised, overwhelmed on every side, crushed in a few weeks' time. There was to be a mere military promenade—from Strasburg to Berlin. Since that period of waiting at Belfort, however, Maurice had been distracted by anxiety. The Seventh Corps, whose allotted task was to watch the outlets of the Black Forest, had reached Belfort in fearful confusion, deficient in men, and lacking everything. It was necessary to wait for the third division to arrive from Italy.[5] The second cavalry brigade had to remain at Lyons, as some rioting was feared there; and three batteries of artillery had actually gone astray, no one knew where. Moreover, the corps was in an extraordinary state of destitution. The magazines of Belfort, which were to have supplied all requisites, proved to be empty; there were no tents, no pots or pans, no flannel waistbands, no pharmaceutical supplies, no field smithies, no horse-locks, not an ambulance attendant, nor an artificer. At the last moment, too, it was discovered that the indispensable spare mechanism for thirty thousand chassepots was wanting, and it became necessary to send an officer to Paris, whence he returned with barely sufficient for five thousand weapons, and he had had the utmost difficulty in obtaining even these.

      On the other hand, Maurice was particularly worried by the inaction of the army. What! they had been there a fortnight—why did they not march forward? He fully realised that each day's delay was an irreparable blunder, an opportunity of victory irretrievably lost. And, confronting the plan he had dreamt of, there rose up the reality, the blundering fashion in which this plan had been executed. Of this he was as yet but anxiously and dimly conscious; it was only at a later period that he knew the truth—the Seventh Army Corps écheloned or rather disseminated along the frontier from Metz to Bitche and from Bitche to Belfort—the regiments invariably below their assumed strength, there being at best but 230,000 men, when it was supposed that there were 430,000; the generals jealous of one another, each bent on gaining his own marshal's bâton without helping his neighbour; the most fearful lack of foresight, mobilisation and concentration being carried out simultaneously to gain time, but resulting in inextricable confusion; and above all else that creeping paralysis, originating in high quarters, with the ailing Emperor, who was incapable of prompt decision, and which was to spread over the entire army, disorganise and annihilate it, and toss it to the most fearful disasters, without any possibility of its defending itself. And yet, above the secret disquietude of those days of waiting, there still lingered an instinctive confidence in victory.

      Suddenly, on August 3, the news of the victory of Saarbrucken, gained the day before, burst upon one. Nobody knew whether it was a great victory or not, but the newspapers were brimful of enthusiasm. So Germany was invaded at last. This was the first step in the glorious march; and then began the legend of the Prince Imperial, who had calmly picked up a bullet on the battle field. Two days later, when the surprise and crushing reverse of Weissenburg became known, a cry of rage arose from every breast. Five thousand Frenchmen, caught in an ambuscade, had for ten long hours gallantly resisted five-and-thirty thousand Prussians—this evidently demanded vengeance! The commanders had no doubt been guilty in not keeping a better look-out, and in not foreseeing what had happened; but everything was about to be remedied. MacMahon had summoned the first division of the Seventh Army Corps; the First Corps was to be supported by the Fifth;[6] and at the present time, no doubt, the Prussians had recrossed the Rhine with the bayonets of the French linesmen in their loins. And the thought that there must have been some furious fighting that very day, the increasing, feverish longing for news, all the prevailing anxiety grew and spread under the broad pale heavens.

      Thus it was that Maurice discoursed to Weiss.

      'Ah!' he added, 'they must certainly have received a good licking to-day.'

      Instead of replying, Weiss nodded his head with a thoughtful air. He also was looking towards the Rhine—towards the east, where night had now completely fallen, and where the sky, darkened as with mystery, had the aspect of a great black wall. Since the last bugle calls of the mustering, a profound silence had been falling over the drowsy camp, disturbed only by the footsteps and converse of a few belated soldiers. A light, looking like a twinkling star, had just been placed in the room of the farmhouse where the staff officers sat keeping their vigil, waiting for the telegrams which arrived at intervals, bringing as yet only ambiguous tidings. The fire of green wood had been abandoned at last, but some dense, funereal smoke still ascended from it, and was driven away by the breeze over the restless farm and towards the sky, where it dimmed the early stars.

      'A licking!' repeated