Complete Works of Emile Zola (1177 page)

“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.”