The Erckmann-Chatrian Megapack: 20 Classic Novels and Short Stories (97 page)

In spite of our fury the sight of the poor old woman made us ashamed of ourselves, and I said to her:

“Do not be afraid, we are not monsters, only give us some bread, we are starving.”

She was sitting on an old chair with her withered hands crossed over her knee, and she said:

“I no longer have any, they have taken all. My God! all! all!”

Her gray hair was hanging down over her face, and I felt like weeping for her and for ourselves. “Well!” I said, “we must look for ourselves, Buche.” We went into all the rooms and the stables, there was nothing to be seen, everything had been stolen and broken.

I was going out, when in the shadow behind the old door, I saw something whitish against the wall. I stopped, and stretched out my hand. It was a linen bag with a strap, I took it down, trembling in my hurry. Buche looked at me—the bag was heavy—I opened it, there were two great black radishes, half of a small loaf of bread, dry and hard as stone, a large pair of shears for trimming hedges, and quite in the bottom some onions and some gray salt in a paper.

On seeing these we made an exclamation of joy, but the fear of seeing the others come in, made us run out in the rear, far into the rye-field, skulking and hiding like thieves.

We had regained all our strength, and we went and sat down on the edge of a little brook. Buche said:

“Look here! I must have my part.”

“Yes,—half of all,” I replied. “You let me drink from your bottle, I will divide with you.”

Then he was calm again. I cut the bread in two with my sabre and said: “Choose, Jean; that is your radish, and there are half the onions, and we will share the salt between us.” We ate the bread without soaking it in the water, we ate our radishes, our onions and the salt. We should have kept on eating still, if we had had more to eat, but yet we were satisfied.

We knelt down with our hands in the water and we drank.

“Now let us go,” said Buche, “and leave the bag.”

In spite of our weary legs, which were ready to give out, we went on again toward the left; while on the right behind us, toward Charleroi, the shouts and shots redoubled, and all along the road we could see nothing but the men fighting, but they were already far away.

We looked back from time to time, and Buche said:

“Joseph, you did well to bring me away, had it not been for you, I might have been stretched out over there by the road-side, killed by a Frenchman. I was too hungry. But where shall we go now?”

I answered, “Follow me!”

We passed through a large and beautiful village, pillaged and abandoned also.

Farther on we met some peasants, who scowled at us from the road-side. We must have had ill-looking faces, especially Buche with his head bound up, and his beard eight days old, thick and hard as the bristles of a boar.

About one o’clock in the afternoon we re-crossed the Sambre, by the bridge of Chatelet, but as the Prussians were still in pursuit we did not halt there. I was quite at ease, thinking:

“If they are still pursuing us, they will follow the bulk of the army, in order to take more prisoners and pick up the cannon, caissons, and baggage.”

This was the manner in which we were compelled to reason, we, who three days before had made the world tremble.

I recollect that when we reached a small village about three o’clock in the afternoon, we stopped at a blacksmith’s shop to ask for water. The country people immediately began to gather round, and the smith, a large, dark man, asked us to go to the little inn, opposite, saying he would join us and take a glass of beer with us.

Naturally enough this pleased us, for we were afraid of being arrested, and we saw that these people were on our side.

I remembered that I had some money in my knapsack, and that now it would be useful.

We went into the inn, which was only a little shop, with two small windows on the street, and a round door opening in the middle, as is common in our country villages.

When we were seated the room was so full of men and women, who had come to hear the news, that we could hardly breathe.

The smith came. He had taken off his leather apron and put on a little blue blouse, and we saw at once that he had five or six men with him. They were the mayor and his assistant, and the municipal councillors of the place.

They sat down on the benches opposite, and ordered the favorite sour beer of the country for us to drink. Buche asked for some bread; the innkeeper’s wife brought us a whole loaf and a large piece of beef in a porringer.

All urged us to “Eat, eat!” When one or another would ask us a question about the battle, the smith or the mayor would say:

“Let the men finish, you can see plainly that they have come a long way.”

And it was only when we had finished eating, that they questioned us, asking if it was true that the French had lost a great battle. The first report was that we were the victors, but afterward they heard a rumor that we were defeated.

We understood that they were speaking of Ligny, and that their ideas were confused. I was ashamed to tell that we were overthrown; I looked at Buche, and he said:

“We have been betrayed. The traitors revealed our plans. The army was full of traitors, who cried, ‘Sauve qui peut!’ How was it possible for us not to lose, under such circumstances?”

It was the first time I had heard treason spoken of; some of the wounded, it is true, had said, “We are betrayed,” but I had paid no attention to their words, and when Buche relieved us from our embarrassment by this means, I was glad of it, though I was astonished.

The people sympathized with us in our indignation against the traitors.

Then we were obliged to explain the battle and the treason. Buche said the Prussians had fallen upon us through the treason of Marshal Grouchy.

This seemed to me to be going too far, but the peasants in their pity for us had made us drink again and again, and had given us pipes and tobacco, and at last I said the same as Buche. It was not till after we had left the place that the recollection of our shameful falsehoods made me ashamed of myself, and I said to Buche:

“Do you know, Jean, that our lies about the traitors were not right? If every one tells as many, we shall all be traitors, and the Emperor will be the only true man amongst us. It is a disgrace to the country to say that we have so many traitors; it is not true.”

“Bah! bah!” said he. “We have been betrayed; if we had not, the English and Prussians could never have forced us to retreat.”

We did nothing but dispute this point till eight o’clock in the evening. By this time we had reached a village called Bouvigny.

We were so tired that our legs were as stiff as stakes, and for a long while we had needed a great deal of courage to take a single step.

We were certain that the Prussians were no longer near, and as I had money we went into an inn and asked for a bed.

I took out a six-franc piece in order to let them see that we could pay. I had resolved to change my uniform the next day, to leave my gun and knapsack and cartridge-box here and to go home, for I believed that the war was over, and I rejoiced in the midst of my misfortunes that I had escaped with my arms and legs.

Buche and I slept that night in a little room, with a Holy Virgin and infant Jesus in a niche between the curtains over our heads, and we rested like the blessed in heaven.

The next morning, instead of keeping on our way, we were so glad to sit on a comfortable chair in the kitchen, to stretch our legs and smoke our pipes as we watched the kettles boiling, that we said, “Let us stay quietly here. To-morrow we shall be well rested, and we will buy two pairs of linen pantaloons, and two blouses, we will cut two good sticks from a hedge, and go home by easy stages.”

The thought of these pleasant plans touched us. And it was from this inn that I wrote to Catherine and Aunt Grédel and Mr. Goulden. I wrote only a word:

“I have escaped, let us thank God, I am coming, I embrace you a thousand times with all my heart.

“JOSEPH BERTHA.”

I thanked God as I wrote, but a great many things were to happen before I should mount our staircase at the corner of the rue Fouquet opposite the “Red Ox.” When one has been taken by conscription he must not be in a hurry to write that he is released. That happiness does not depend upon us, and the best will in the world helps nothing.

I sent off my letter by the post, and we stayed all that day at the inn of the “Golden Sheep.”

After we had eaten a good supper, we went up to our beds, and I said to Buche, “Ha! Jean, to do what you please is quite a different thing from being forced to respond to the roll-call.”

We both laughed in spite of the misfortunes of the country, of course without thinking, otherwise we should have been veritable rascals.

For the second time we went to sleep in our good bed, when about one o’clock in the morning we were wakened in a most extraordinary manner: the drums were beating and we heard men marching all over the village.

I pushed Jean, and he said, “I hear it, the Prussians are outside.”

You cannot imagine our terror, but it was much worse a moment after; some one knocked at the door of the inn, and it opened; in a moment the great hall was full of people. Some one came up the stairs. We had both got up, and Buche said, “I shall defend myself if they try to take me.”

I dared not think what I was going to do.

We were almost dressed, and I was hoping to escape in the darkness without being recognized, when suddenly there was a knock at the door and a shout, “Open.”

We were obliged to open it.

An infantry officer, wet through by the rain, with his great blue cloak thrown over his epaulettes, followed by an old sergeant with a lantern, came in.

We recognized them as Frenchmen, and the officer asked brusquely, “Where do you come from?”

“From Mont-St.-Jean, lieutenant,” I replied.

“From what regiment are you?”

“From the Sixth light infantry,” I answered.

He looked at the number on my shako, which was lying on the table, and at the same time I saw that his number was also the Sixth.

“From which battalion are you?” said he, knitting his brows.

“The third.”

Buche, pale as ashes, did not say a word. The officer looked at our guns and knapsacks and cartridge-boxes behind the bed in the corner.

“You have deserted,” said he.

“No, lieutenant, we left, the last ones, at eight o’clock, from Mont-St.-Jean.”

“Go downstairs, we will see if that is true.”

We went downstairs. The officer followed us, and the sergeant went before with his lantern.

The great hall below was full of officers of the 12th mounted chasseurs, and of the 6th light infantry. The commandant of the 4th battalion of the 6th was promenading up and down, smoking a little wooden pipe. They were all of them wet through and covered with mud.

The officers said a few words to the commandant, who stopped, and fixed his black eyes upon us, while his crooked nose turned down into his gray mustache.

His manner was not very gentle as he asked us half a dozen questions about our departure from Ligny, the road to Quatre-Bras, and the battle. He winked and compressed his lips. The others walked up and down dragging their sabres without listening to us. At last the commandant said, “Sergeant, these men will join the second company; go!”

He took his pipe again from the edge of the mantel, and we went out with the sergeant, happy enough to get off so easily, for they might have shot us as deserters before the enemy.

We followed the sergeant for two hundred paces to the other end of the village to a shed. Fires had been lighted farther on in the fields; men were sleeping under the shed, leaning against the doors of the stables, and the posts.

A fine rain was falling and the puddles quivered in the gray uncertain moonlight. We stood up under a part of the roof at the corner of the old house thinking of our troubles.

At the end of an hour, the drums began to beat with a dull sound; the men shook the straw from their clothes and we resumed our march. It was still dark—but we could hear the chasseurs sounding their signal to mount, behind us.

Between three and four in the morning, at dawn, we saw a great many other regiments, cavalry, infantry, and artillery, on the march like ourselves by different roads, all the corps of Marshal Grouchy in retreat! The wet weather, the leaden sky, the long files of weary men, the disappointment of being retaken, and the thought that so many efforts and so much bloodshed had only terminated a second time in an invasion, all this made us hang down our heads. Nothing was heard but the sound of our own footsteps in the mud.

I could not shake off my sadness for a long time, when a voice near me said:

“Good-morning, Joseph.”

I was awakened, and looking at the man who spoke to me, I recognized the son of Martin the tanner, our neighbor at Pfalzbourg; he was corporal of the Sixth, and the file-closer, marching with arms at will. We shook hands. It was a real consolation for me to see some one from our own place.