“You are wrong, I saw him carried off the field. His wound was not severe; a splinter struck him on the hip.”
“What time was it?”
“Why, about an hour ago—say half-past six. It was up there around la Moncelle, in a sunken road.”
“I know he is dead.”
“But I tell you he is not! He even sat his horse for a moment after he was hit, then he fainted and they carried him into a cottage to attend to his wound.”
“And then returned to Sedan?”
“Certainly; he is in Sedan now.”
Of whom could they be speaking? Delaherche quickly learned that it was of Marshal MacMahon, who had been wounded while paying a visit of inspection to his advanced posts. The marshal wounded! it was “just our luck,” as the lieutenant of marines had put it. He was reflecting on what the consequences of the mishap were likely to be when an estafette dashed by at top speed, shouting to a comrade, whom he recognized:
“General Ducrot is made commander-in-chief! The army is ordered to concentrate at Illy in order to retreat on Mézières!”
The courier was already far away, galloping into Bazeilles under the constantly increasing fire, when Delaherche, startled by the strange tidings that came to him in such quick succession and not relishing the prospect of being involved in the confusion of the retreating troops, plucked up courage and started on a run for Balan, whence he regained Sedan without much difficulty.