And at the end came those who could neither walk nor sit on horseback: unfortunate creatures, who had lost their arms, or whose legs were broken, wretches with great wounds through their bodies, lying in waggons, either badly bandaged or else not bandaged at all, unhappy beings who lifted themselves up now and then, and, waving their blood-stained rags, cried, "Vive l'empereur!"
Many fell back dead: it was their last cry.
This funereal procession lasted for two or three days.
Where were all these men being taken? Why was their anguish prolonged by such an exposure to the burning June sun, by the jolting of waggons, and by the absence of proper medical attention?
Were there so many that all the towns between Waterloo and Villers-Cotterets were filled to overflowing?
Oh! what a hideous, mad, stupid thing war is, seen divorced from the blaring of trumpets and rolling of drums, the smoke of cannon and the fusillade of guns.
We could recognise among this débris the remains of those splendid regiments we had seen pass by so proud, so determined, whose bands had borne witness to their enthusiasm as they marched by playing "Veillons au salut de l'empire!"
Alas! the army was destroyed, and the Empire crushed.
Finally, fewer waggons went by, and soon there were no more.
Then the troops Jérôme had rallied under the walls of Laon began to file past; each regiment reduced by two-thirds.