And then, like one distracted, she caught him in her arms and pressed him to her neck, whilst Honoré, turning livid, noted Charlot's remarkable likeness to Goliath. The child had the same fair, square-shaped head as his father; his healthy, infantile form, fresh cheeks, and smiling lips seemed typical of the German race. So this was the Prussian's son, 'the little Prussian,' as the jokers of Remilly called him! And there was his mother, pressing him to her bosom—his mother, this Frenchwoman, still overwhelmed, and with her heart lacerated by all that she had seen of the invasion!
'My poor little one, be good: go to bed again; go to by-by, my poor little fellow.''
Then she carried him away, and when she again returned she was no longer crying; she had once more recovered her calm, docile, courageous expression of countenance. It was Honoré who, in a trembling voice, resumed the conversation: 'And the Prussians?'
'Ah! yes, the Prussians,' said Silvine. 'Well, they had broken everything, pillaged everything, eaten everything, drunk everything. They also stole the house linen, the napkins, the towels, the sheets, even the muslin curtains, which they tore into long strips to dress their feet with. I saw some of them whose feet were so many big sores, so fearfully had they been punished by their terrible march. In the road, in front of the doctor's, a number of them took off their boots and bound strips of lace-edged chemises round their heels—chemises which they had stolen, no doubt, from pretty Madame Lefèvre, the manufacturer's wife. The pillage lasted till nightfall. The houses had no doors and scarcely a pane of glass left, but were quite open to the street, and you could see the remnants of furniture inside—everything smashed—a sight to make the calmest people furious. I was almost out of my senses, and I could not stay there any longer. At the doctor's they tried to detain me, telling me that the roads were blocked, that they were not safe, that I should certainly be killed; but, all the same, I went off, and took to the fields on the right hand as soon as I got out of Raucourt. Carts full of French and Prussian wounded, all heaped up together, were arriving from Beaumont. Two passed quite close to me in the darkness, and I heard such groans, such shrieks of pain that I ran—oh! I ran right across the fields and through the woods without knowing where I was—going a long distance out of my way over towards Villers. I hid myself three times, fancying I could hear some soldiers, but the only person I met was another woman, who was running, like myself—running away from Beaumont—and who told me things that made my hair stand on end. Well, at last I got here, and I feel so wretched—oh, so wretched!'
Her sobs were again suffocating her, but the haunting memory of her adventure soon brought her back to her narrative, and she related what the woman of Beaumont had told her. This woman, who lived in the main street of the village, had seen the German artillery pass after nightfall. On either side of the way stood a line of soldiers carrying torches of resin, which illumined the road with the ruddy glare of a conflagration. And in the middle a stream of horses, guns, and caissons swept past, urged on at a furious, hellish gallop. Frenzied and diabolical were the haste and eagerness to achieve victory, to pursue, overtake, finish off, and crush the French troops in the depths of some pit near by. Nothing was spared, every obstacle was annihilated, and still and ever the artillery swept past. If horses fell, their traces were immediately cut, and they were crushed, rolled on, thrust aside like bloody wreckage. The men who tried to cross were in their turn knocked down and hashed to mincemeat by the cannon wheels. And, as the hurricane swept along, the famished drivers did not for a moment think of halting, but deftly caught the loaves of bread that were flung to them, and seized hold of the hunks of meat which some of the torchbearers had stuck upon the tips of their bayonets. And then with these same bayonets the torchbearers prodded the horses, which reared and plunged, and, maddened by pain, galloped faster and faster away. And thus, as the night went by, still and ever the artillery rushed along with tempestuous violence, in the midst of frantic hurrahs.
Despite the attention he had been giving to Silvine's narrative, Maurice, overcome with fatigue after his gluttonous repast, had just let his head fall upon the table, on which he was resting both arms. For another minute Jean continued struggling, then he, in his turn, was vanquished and fell asleep at the other end of the table. Meantime, old Fouchard had gone down the road again, and thus Honoré found himself alone with Silvine, who was now sitting, quite still, in front of the open window.
The quartermaster rose up and approached the window in his turn. The night was still dense and black, laden with the hard breathing of thousands of troops. Louder, more sonorous sounds, were now rising, however—now a cracking noise, then the thud of a collision. At present some artillery was crossing the half-submerged bridge down below. Horses reared, frightened by the dancing, flowing water. Caissons slipped, and as they could not be righted, had to be thrown into the stream. And at sight of the retreat which was being so painfully, so slowly effected across the river—this retreat, which had begun the previous day, and would certainly not be accomplished by dawn—the young man instinctively thought of that other artillery—the artillery of the foe—rushing like a wild torrent through Beaumont, overthrowing all before it, and crushing both man and beast so that it might travel the faster.
At last, Honoré drew near to Silvine, and in full view of all that darkness through which fierce quiverings sped, he gently said to her, 'So you are unhappy?'
'Yes, very unhappy.' She divined that he was going to speak of the abomination, and she lowered her head.
'Tell me,' he resumed; 'how did it happen?'