The Delaherches evinced an almost joyous surprise. Their faces, pale with pity, immediately brightened, and gestures expressive of their pleasure at the meeting escaped them. Gilberte herself wished to throw the last loaf into Jean's arms, and did so in such a charmingly awkward way that she could not restrain a pretty laugh at her own expense.
Unable to halt, Maurice turned his head, and with the greatest rapidity called in an anxious, questioning tone: 'And Henriette? Henriette?'
Delaherche answered in a long phrase which was drowned by the tramping of the men. He must have realised that the young fellow had not heard him, for immediately afterwards he began making a variety of signs, pointing especially towards the South. However, the column was already entering the Rue du Ménil, and the factory façade was lost to sight, together with the three heads protruding from the window, and a hand which was waving a handkerchief.
'What did he say to you?' asked Jean.
Maurice, sorely worried, was still vainly looking behind him. 'I don't know, I didn't understand—I shall be anxious now, as long as I don't get some news.'
And meantime the tramping continued, the Prussians hastened the march with the brutality of conquerors, and the wretched flock, stretched into a narrow file, passed out of Sedan by the Ménil Gate, scampering along like sheep in fear of the dogs.
As they passed through Bazeilles, Jean and Maurice bethought themselves of Weiss, and looked for the ashes of the little house which had been so valiantly defended. During their sojourn at the Camp of Misery some comrades had told them of the devastation of the village, the fires and the massacres, but the sight they beheld surpassed all the abomination they had pictured. Although twelve days had now elapsed since the disaster, the piles of ruins were still smoking. Many damaged walls had fallen in, and in all this village of two thousand souls there were now not ten houses standing. The captive soldiers were consoled somewhat, however, on meeting numerous barrows and carts full of Bavarian helmets and rifles, which had been picked up since the struggle. This proof that a large number of these cut-throats and incendiaries had been slain, in some measure relieved the prisoners' feelings.
They were to halt at Douzy, nominally for the purpose of breakfasting, and did not get there without having suffered. Exhausted, indeed, by their long fast, the captives were speedily fatigued. Those who had gorged themselves with food on the previous day, became giddy and heavy, and felt their legs sink beneath them; their gluttony, far from restoring their lost strength, had, in fact, only weakened them the more. And so, when the column halted in a meadow on the left of the village of Douzy, the unfortunate fellows flung themselves on the grass, lacking even the energy to eat. There was no wine, and some charitable women who endeavoured to approach, bringing a few bottles, were driven away by the sentries. One of them, badly frightened, fell and sprained her ankle, and then there were cries and tears, quite a revolting scene, whilst the Prussians, who had confiscated the bottles of wine, proceeded to drink their contents. This tender compassion of the peasants for the poor soldiers who were being led away into captivity, was constantly manifested along the route; but on the other hand they were said to display great harshness towards the general officers. A few days previously the inhabitants of that very village of Douzy had hissed a convoy of generals who were proceeding on parole to Pont-à-Mousson. The roads were not safe for officers; men in blouses, soldiers who had escaped the foe, or who had possibly deserted before the fight, sprang upon them with pitchforks to massacre them, shouting that they were cowards and had sold themselves; thus helping to ingraft that legend of treachery which twenty years later still caused the folks of these districts to speak with execration of all who were in command during that disastrous campaign.
Seated on the grass, Maurice and Jean ate half of their loaf, and were luckily able to wash it down with a drop of brandy, with which a worthy farmer managed to fill a flask they had. Then the starting off again proved a terrible business. They were to sleep at Mouzon, but although the march was a short one, the effort they must needs make appeared more than they could accomplish. They were unable to rise without groaning, to such a point were their weary limbs stiffened by the slightest rest. Several men whose feet were bleeding took off their boots to be able to resume the march. Dysentery was still wreaking havoc among them; they had gone but a thousand yards or so when a first man fell and was pushed against the wayside bank. Farther on two others sank down beside a hedge, and it was night before an old woman came along and succoured them. Those who kept up were tottering, leaning on sticks which the Prussians, possibly in a spirit of derision, had allowed them to cut on the verge of a little wood. They had become a mere band of beggars covered with sores, emaciated, and scarce able to breathe. Yet their custodians continued treating them with great brutality; those who stepped aside even to satisfy a want of nature were whacked into the ranks again. The escort-platoon in the rear had orders to drive on the laggards at the bayonet's point. A sergeant having refused to go any farther, the captain commanded two of his men to catch hold of him under the arms, and drag him along till he consented to walk afresh. Especially were the captives tortured by that bald-headed little officer, whose face they longed to slap, and who abused his knowledge of French to insult them in their own language, in curt galling phrases, as cutting as the lashes of a whip.
'Oh! how I should like to hold him,' Maurice passionately repeated, 'hold him, and drain him of all his blood, drop by drop.'