The Downfall (La Débâcle): A Story of the Horrors of War

by Émile Zola

The cannonade did not cease, but seemed to be advancing from west to east like a continuous roll of thunder. 'The devil! it's getting hotter,' added Sambuc. 'I expected it. I warned you this morning, general. Those are certainly the batteries we saw in the Dieulet woods. At the present time the Fifth Corps must have to contend against all that army which was coming up by Buzancy and Beauclair.'

There was a pause, whilst the battle roared louder and louder afar off. Maurice had to set his teeth to restrain his furious desire to cry out. Why did they lose time in talk, why did they not at once march towards those guns? Never before had he experienced such excitement. Each report re-echoed in his breast, raised him from the ground, inspired him with a longing to rush to the battlefield, join in the fray, and at once bring matters to an issue. Were they going to skirt that battle like the others; elbow it, as it were, without firing even a shot? Was there a wager on, that ever since the declaration of war they had been dragged about like this, invariably fleeing from the foe? At Vouziers they had only heard the shots fired by the rear-guard. At Oches the enemy had merely cannonaded them in the rear for a few minutes. And now were they going to scamper away, instead of hurrying to support their comrades at the double quick? Maurice looked at Jean, who, like himself, was very pale, with his eyes glittering feverishly. Every heart bounded in response to the vehement call of the cannon.

However, there was another spell of waiting. A number of staff officers were climbing the narrow pathway up the hill. It was General Douay hastening to the spot with an anxious face, and when he, himself, had questioned the Francs-tireurs, a cry of despair escaped him. But even if he had been warned in the morning, what could he have done? The marshal's orders were peremptory; they were to cross the Meuse before evening, no matter at what cost. And now, how could he collect together his columns écheloned along the road to Raucourt so as to throw them rapidly upon Beaumont? Would they not certainly arrive too late? The Fifth Corps must already be retreating in the direction of Mouzon; as, indeed the cannonade clearly indicated, for it was travelling farther and farther towards the east, like a hurricane of hail and disaster passing along into the distance. With a gesture of fury at the thought that he was so powerless, General Douay raised both his arms above the vast horizon of hills and vales, fields and forests; and then angrily gave orders to continue marching upon Raucourt.

Oh! that march in the depths of the defile of Stonne, between the high crests, whilst the guns continued thundering behind the woods on the right! At the head of the 106th rode Colonel de Vineuil, stiffly bestriding his horse, with his pale head erect and his eyelids beating as if to restrain his tears. Captain Beaudoin was biting his moustache in silence, whilst Lieutenant Rochas could not refrain from muttering blasphemous words, insulting everybody, himself included. And even among the soldiers who were not desirous of fighting, among those who were the least brave, there ascended a desire to shout and strike, the anger born of the perpetual defeat, the rage they felt that they should still have to fall back with heavy uncertain steps, whilst those accursed Prussians were slaughtering their comrades yonder!

Below Stonne, whence a narrow road winds down through the hills, the highway became broader, and the troops passed beside large fields, intersected by little woods. Since leaving Oches the 106th, which now found itself in the rear-guard, had, at every moment, been in expectation of an attack; for the enemy was now following the column step by step, observing its movements, and doubtless watching for a favourable moment to fall upon its rear. Hostile cavalry, profiting by the undulatory character of the country, was already trying to gain upon the army's flanks. Several squadrons of the Prussian Guard were at last seen debouching from behind a wood, but halted at sight of a regiment of Hussars, which advanced, sweeping the road. And, thanks to this respite, the retreat continued in fairly good order, and the men were approaching Raucourt, when they beheld a sight which increased their anguish and completed their demoralisation. All at once, by a cross road, they caught sight of a precipitate rout coming towards them—wounded officers, disbanded and unarmed soldiers, galloping train-waggons, men and horses all fleeing, distracted, beneath a hurricane of disaster! These were the remnants of a brigade of the First Division which had escorted the convoy sent off in the morning to Mouzon by way of La Besace. A mistake in the road, a frightful mischance, had brought this brigade and a part of the convoy to Varniforêt, near Beaumont, at the moment of the complete rout of the Fifth Corps. Surprised, suddenly subjected to a flank attack, succumbing beneath superior numbers, the men had fled, and panic was bringing them back, bleeding, haggard, and half mad, distracting their comrades with their terror. The stories they told spread fear around them; they seemed to have come on the wings of that thunderous cannonade which since noon had been heard without cessation.

Then, in passing through Raucourt there was desperate hustling and anxiety. Ought they to turn to the right, towards Autrecourt, in view of crossing the Meuse at Villers, as had been decided? Perplexed and hesitating, General Douay feared that he might find the bridge there blocked with retreating troops, perhaps even already in the power of the Prussians. He preferred, therefore, to continue straight on through the defile of Haraucourt, so as to reach Remilly before night. Again had their destination been changed; after Mouzon, Villers, and after Villers, Remilly. They were still marching due north, with the Uhlans galloping behind them. They had now less than four miles to go, but it was already five o'clock, and they were overwhelmingly fatigued. They had been on foot since daybreak, and had taken twelve hours to cover scarcely three leagues, tramping along, wearing themselves out with endless halts, amid the liveliest emotions and fears. Moreover, during the last two nights they had barely slept, and since leaving Vouziers they had not been able to satisfy their hunger. They were sinking with inanition. At Raucourt the scene was pitiable.

Raucourt is a well-to-do little town, with its numerous factories, its well-built high street which the road follows, its coquettish-looking church and town-hall. Only, all its resources had been exhausted; the bakers' and grocers' shops had been emptied, even the crumbs in the private houses had been swept away—first during the night that the Emperor and Marshal MacMahon had spent there, when the town was burdened with the staff and the imperial household, and then when the whole of the First Corps passed through it on the following morning, streaming along the highway like a river. Now there was no bread left there, no more wine, no more sugar, nothing that can be eaten, nothing that can be drunk—excepting water. Ladies had been seen standing at their doors, distributing glasses of wine and cups of broth, draining alike their casks and their saucepans to the dregs. And thus everything had gone, and great was the despair when, at about three o'clock, the first regiments of the Seventh Corps began defiling along the high street. What! So it was beginning again! There were still more soldiers! Once more, indeed, the high street became a river of exhausted men—men covered with dust and dying of hunger, without anybody having a morsel of anything to give to them. Many of the soldiers halted, knocked at the doors, held out their hands towards the windows, begging that a crust of bread might be thrown to them. And there were women who sobbed, and who signed to the soldiers that they could give them nothing, since they had nothing whatever left.

At the corner of a street called the Rue des Dix-Potiers Maurice's eyes began to swim, and he staggered. Jean hastened to assist him, but, sinking on a corner-stone, he murmured: 'No, leave me; this is the end—I prefer to die here!'

'Thunder!' exclaimed the corporal, affecting the stern mien of a discontented superior, 'who's given me such a soldier as you? Do you want to be picked up by the Prussians? Make haste—up, and march!'

The young fellow did not reply; his face was livid, his eyes were closed, and he had half fainted away. On seeing this, Jean swore again, but in a tone of infinite pity: 'My God! My God!' And hastening to a fountain near by, he filled his tin bowl with water, with which he began to bathe his comrade's face. Then, this time without any concealment, he drew from his knapsack that last biscuit which he had so carefully preserved, and broke it into little morsels which he placed between Maurice's teeth. The famished man opened his eyes and began to devour.