Читать книгу The Downfall (La Débâcle) - Emile Zola - Страница 12

Then came to pass that frightful thing that wrecked poor Silvine's life. She had sworn to wait for Honoré, but a fortnight after his departure she became the prey of Goliath Steinberg—the Prussian, as he was called—a tall, genial-looking chap, with short, fair hair, and a pink, smiling face, who had been in Fouchard's employ as farm-hand for some months already, and had become Honoré's comrade and confidant. Had old Fouchard stealthily brought this to pass? Had there been seduction or violence? Silvine herself no longer knew; she was overwhelmed. Becoming enceinte, however, she accepted the necessity of marrying Goliath, and he, with a smiling face, agreed to it; but he repeatedly postponed the date of the ceremony, until at last, on the very eve of Silvine's accouchement, he suddenly disappeared. It was reported later on that he had found a situation at another farm in the direction of Beaumont. Since then three years had elapsed, and nobody at Remilly imagined that this worthy fellow, Goliath, so attentive to the girls, was simply one of the spies with whom Germany had peopled the Eastern provinces of France. When Honoré in Algeria heard of what had happened, it was as if the fierce tropical sun had stretched him prostrate by dealing him a burning blow on the nape of the neck. He remained for three months in the hospital, but would never apply for a furlough to go home, through fear lest he should again meet Silvine and see her child.

The artilleryman's hands trembled whilst Maurice was reading the letter. It was a letter from Silvine, the first and only one she had ever written to him. What feeling had prompted her to write it—she, so submissive and silent, but whose beautiful black eyes acquired at times an expression of wondrous resolution, despite her perpetual servitude? She simply said that she knew he had gone to the war, and that as she might never see him again she felt too much sorrow at the thought that he might die fancying she no longer loved him; but she did love him, and had never loved anyone but him; and she repeated this, over and over again, throughout four long pages, constantly making use of the same words, but not seeking to excuse herself or even to explain what had happened. And not a word did she say of the child; her letter was but a farewell, full of infinite tenderness.

Maurice, in whom his cousin had formerly confided, felt deeply touched on reading what Silvine had written. On raising his eyes, he saw that Honoré was in tears, and he embraced him like a brother. 'My poor Honoré,' he said.

The quartermaster was already gulping down his emotion, however, and he carefully replaced the letter on his chest, and then again buttoned up his uniform. 'Yes,' he said, 'it upsets one. Ah! if I could only have strangled that bandit! Well, we shall see.'

The bugles were now sounding the signal for raising the camp, and they both had to run to their tents. The preparations for departure dragged on, however, and the men had to wait till nearly nine o'clock before receiving orders to start. Hesitation seemed to have again seized hold of the commanders: there was no more of that fine resolution shown during the first two days, when the Seventh Corps had covered eight-and-thirty miles in a couple of marches. Singular and disquieting information had been circulating since daybreak; the other three army corps, it appeared, had been marching northward, the First to Juniville, and the Fifth and the Twelfth to Rethel, an illogical march which could only be explained by a need of obtaining supplies. Were they not to continue their advance upon Verdun? Why was a day lost? The worst was that the Prussians could not be far off, now, for the officers had warned their men not to straggle, as any laggards might be carried off by the reconnoitring parties of the enemy's cavalry.

It was now the 25th of August, and subsequently, on recollecting Goliath's disappearance, Maurice felt convinced that this scamp was one of the men who supplied the enemy's staff with the precise information respecting the march of the army of Châlons, which determined the sudden change of front carried out by the third German army. The Crown Prince left Revigny on the very next day, and the necessary evolutions at once began for that flank attack, that gigantic scheme of encircling the French troops by dint of forced marches, effected in admirable order through Champagne and the Ardennes. Whilst the French were hesitating and oscillating on the spot where they found themselves, as though suddenly struck with paralysis, the Germans, surrounded by an immense circle of light cavalry beating the country, marched as many as twenty-five miles a day, driving the flock of men whom they were hunting towards the forests on the frontier.[21]

However, the Seventh Corps set out at last, on that morning of the 25th of August, and, wheeling to the left, simply covered the two short leagues separating Contreuve from Vouziers; whilst the Fifth and Twelfth Corps remained at Rethel, and the First halted at Attigny. Between Contreuve and the valley of the Aisne there were some more plains as barren as ever. As the men approached Vouziers, the road wound between stretches of grey soil and desolate hillocks, without a house or even a tree in sight, nothing but mournful desert-like scenery; and the march, short as it was, was accomplished in a weary, dispirited fashion, which lengthened it terribly. At noon the 106th halted on the left bank of the Aisne, the men forming their bivouacs on high barren ground, the last spurs of which overlooked the valley. Thence they kept watch over the Monthois road, which skirts the river, and by which they expected to see the enemy appear.

Maurice was altogether stupefied when he suddenly noticed General Margueritte's division—all the reserve cavalry, charged to support the Seventh Corps and to reconnoitre on the army's left flank—approaching by way of this Monthois road. It was rumoured that it was proceeding up-country towards Le Chêne Populeux. But what could be the object in thus weakening the Seventh Corps, the only wing of the army that was threatened? Why were these two thousand horsemen, who should have been sent to reconnoitre the country for leagues around, suddenly ordered to the very centre of the French forces, where they could be of no use whatever? The worst was that they came up in the midst of the manœuvres which the Seventh Corps was executing, and almost cut its columns in twain—men, guns, and horses being mingled in inextricable confusion. Some of the Chasseurs d'Afrique had to wait a couple of hours just outside Vouziers.

Whilst they were there, Maurice chanced to recognise Prosper, who had halted his horse beside a pool, and they were able to have a short chat together. The Chasseur seemed dazed and stupefied; he had understood nothing and seen nothing since leaving Rheims—yes, though, he had, he had seen another couple of Uhlans, beggars who appeared and disappeared without anyone knowing where they came from or whither they went. All manner of stories were already being told of them; four Uhlans galloped into a town with revolvers in their hands, rode through it, and conquered it, twelve miles ahead of their army corps. They were everywhere, preceding the columns like buzzing bees, forming, so to say, shifting curtains, behind which the infantry dissembled its movements and marched along in perfect security as in time of peace. And Maurice felt a pang at his heart as he glanced at the road covered with Chasseurs and Hussars, whose services were so indifferently utilised.

'Well, till we meet again,' said he, shaking hands with Prosper; 'perhaps they need you up there all the same.'

But the Chasseur seemed disgusted with the sorry work he was ordered to do, and as he stroked Zephyr with a mournful air, he answered: 'Oh, humbug! they kill the horses and do nothing with the men. It's disgusting.'

That evening, when Maurice took off his shoe to look at his heel, which was throbbing quite feverishly, he tore away a piece of skin. Some blood spurted from the wound, and he gave a cry of pain. Jean, who was there, was affected with anxious compassion: 'I say, it's getting serious,' he exclaimed; 'you'll be laid up. It must be attended to. Let me see to it.'

Kneeling down, he then washed the sore, and dressed it with a strip of clean linen, which he took out of his knapsack. There was something motherly in his gestures; he displayed all the gentleness of an experienced man whose big fingers can acquire a delicate touch whenever occasion requires. An invincible feeling of affection stole over Maurice, and his eyes became dim. It was as if he had found a brother in this peasant, whom he had formerly execrated, and whom he had still despised only the day before. 'You're a good fellow,' he said. 'Thanks, old man.'

Then Jean, looking very happy, responded with his quiet smile: 'Now, youngster, I've still some tobacco left. Will you have a cigarette?'