They agreed together at once, whilst chatting about Maurice. If she thus devoted herself to Jean it was indeed because she looked upon him as Maurice's brother and friend, as the worthy protector who had helped and succoured him, and to whom she in her turn was paying a debt of gratitude. She was indeed full of gratitude, of affection which grew and grew as she learnt to know him better, simple and sensible as he was, with a sound, sober head; and he, whom she nursed as though he were a child, was on his side contracting a debt of infinite gratitude towards her and would have kissed her hands for each cup of broth that she brought to him. The bond of affectionate sympathy uniting them grew closer every day in the profound solitude in which they lived, with the same anxieties to trouble them. When they had exhausted Jean's reminiscences, the particulars which she was never weary of asking for respecting that woeful march from Rheims to Sedan, the same question invariably came back again: What was Maurice doing? Why did he not write? Was Paris completely invested, since no more news had reached them? They had so far received but one letter from the young fellow, written from Rouen three days after he had left them, and in this he had explained how, after a most circuitous journey, he had just reached that town, in view of making his way to Paris. And there had been nothing further for an entire week—he was now altogether silent.
When Dr. Dalichamp had dressed Jean's leg in the morning he liked to linger there for a few minutes. And he even dropped in occasionally of an evening, when he would stay for a longer time. He was their only link with the world, that vast outside world, now all topsy-turvy with catastrophes. The only news they obtained came through him. He had an ardent, patriotic heart, which overflowed with anger and grief at the news of each defeat; and he spoke of little else but the invading march of the Prussians, who since the battle of Sedan had been gradually spreading over France like the waves of some black, rising sea. Each day brought its grief, and the doctor, quite overwhelmed, would often linger on one of the two chairs beside the bed, relating with trembling gestures how the situation was becoming more and more serious. He often had his pockets full of Belgian newspapers, which he left behind him. And thus after the lapse of weeks the echoes of each successive disaster penetrated to that lonely room, drawing the two poor suffering creatures shut up there yet closer together, in the bonds of a common anguish.
And it was in this wise that Henriette read to Jean, from sundry old newspapers, an account of the events which had taken place around Metz—the great, heroic battles, which at an interval of one day on each occasion had been thrice renewed. These battles were already five weeks old, but Jean was still ignorant of them, and listened to the accounts in the newspapers with his heart oppressed at finding that the same misery and defeat, that had caused him so much suffering, had befallen his comrades over yonder. Whilst Henriette clearly articulated each sentence in the somewhat singsong voice of an attentive school-girl, the melancholy story slowly unfolded itself amid the quivering silence of the room. After Frœschweiler, after Spichern, at the moment when the vanquished First Corps was carrying off the Fifth in its rout, such consternation prevailed that the other corps, écheloned from Metz to Bitche, wavered and fell back, eventually concentrating in advance of the intrenched camp of Metz, on the right bank of the Moselle. But how much precious time had been lost in accomplishing this junction of forces when the retreat on Paris, now bound to prove a difficult operation, ought to have been hastened with all despatch! The Emperor had been obliged to surrender the supreme command to Marshal Bazaine, to whom every one looked for victory, and then on August 14 came the battle of Borny,[40] when the army was attacked just as it was at last making up its mind to cross over to the left bank of the stream. It had two German armies against it—that of Steinmetz, motionless in front of the intrenched camp which it was threatening, and that of Frederick Charles, which, after crossing the river higher up, was approaching along the left bank to cut Bazaine off from the rest of France. The first shots were only fired at three in the afternoon and the victory proved a barren one, for although the French corps remained in possession of their positions, they found themselves immobilised on the two banks of the Moselle, whilst the turning movement of the second German army was completed. Then on the 16th came Rézonville: all the corps at last landed on the left bank of the river, the third and fourth alone lagging behind, belated by the frightful block at the intersection of the roads of Etain and Mars-la-Tour which had been intercepted early in the morning by an audacious attack of the Prussian cavalry and artillery. A slowly fought, confused battle was this engagement of Rézonville, which up to two o'clock in the afternoon Bazaine might yet have won, since he had but a handful of men to overthrow, but which he ended by losing through his inexplicable dread of being cut off from Metz. And it was also a battle of immense extent, spread over leagues of hills and plains, where the French, attacked in front and in flank, performed prodigies of valour to avoid marching forward, giving the enemy the requisite time to concentrate, and themselves helping on the Prussian plan, which was to force them back upon the other bank of the river. At last, on the 18th, after the French had returned to positions in advance of the intrenched camp, there came St. Privât, the supreme struggle, a line of attack over eight miles long, two hundred thousand Germans, with seven hundred guns against one hundred and twenty thousand Frenchmen with only five hundred guns, the Germans facing Germany, the French facing France, as though the invaders had become the invaded, in the singular displacement of forces that had taken place. And after two o'clock the fight became a most terrible mêlée, the Prussian Guard repulsed, cut to pieces, Bazaine long victorious, strong in the unshakeable firmness of his left wing, until towards evening his weaker right wing was obliged to abandon St. Privât, amidst horrible carnage, carrying away with it the entire army, beaten, thrown back under Metz, enclosed henceforth in a circle of iron.
At each moment, whilst Henriette was reading, Jean interrupted her to say: 'And to think we others had been expecting Bazaine ever since leaving Rheims!'
The marshal's despatch of the 19th, the morrow of the battle of St. Privât, in which he spoke of resuming his movement of retreat by way of Montmédy—that despatch which had determined the forward march of the army of Châlons—appeared to be simply the commonplace report of a beaten general, desirous of attenuating his defeat. Later on, but only on the 29th, when the news of the approach of an army of succour had reached him through the Prussian lines, he certainly did attempt a last effort, at Noiseville, on the right bank of the Moselle, but so feebly that on September 1, the very day when the army of Châlons was crushed at Sedan, that of Metz fell back, definitely paralysed, dead so to say for France. And the marshal, who, so far, had proved himself merely an indifferent captain, neglecting to march on when the roads were open, but afterwards really hemmed in by superior forces, was now, under the sway of political preoccupations, on the point of becoming a conspirator and a traitor.
In the newspapers, however, that Dr. Dalichamp brought with him, Bazaine still figured as the great man, the brave soldier from whom France yet awaited salvation. Jean asked Henriette to read him certain passages over again, so that he might clearly understand how it was that the third German army, commanded by the Crown Prince of Prussia, had been able to pursue them, whilst the first and the second were blockading Metz, both of them so strong in men and guns that it had been possible to draw and detach from them that fourth army,[41] which, under the orders of the Crown Prince of Saxony, had given the finishing stroke to the disaster of Sedan. Then, having at last grasped these facts, on the bed of pain to which his wound confined him, he forced himself despite everything to be hopeful: 'So that's why we weren't the stronger,' said he. 'But no matter, there are figures given there: Bazaine has a hundred thousand men, three hundred thousand rifles, and more than five hundred guns; of course he means to deal them some crushing blow of his invention.'
Henriette nodded, falling in with his opinion so as not to sadden him. She could not follow all these complicated movements of troops, but she felt that misfortune was inevitable. As a rule her voice remained quite clear; she could have gone on reading for hours, simply happy at the thought that she was interesting him. But at times, whilst perusing some narrative of slaughter, she all at once began to stammer and her eyes filled with a sudden flow of tears. Doubtless she had just thought of her husband shot down over yonder, and kicked against the wall by the Bavarian officer.
'If it grieves you too much, you mustn't read any more battles to me,' said Jean in surprise.
But, gentle and complaisant, she at once recovered her self-possession: 'No, no; excuse me, I assure you that it interests me too.'
One evening, during the early days of October, whilst a violent wind was blowing out of doors, she came back from the ambulance and entered the room in a state of great emotion: 'Here's a letter from Maurice!' she exclaimed. 'The doctor received it to-day and has just given it to me!'