Opposite the little farm of Rossomme, we were obliged to turn off the road to the right, into the field; it was here that the last square of the Guard still held out against the attack of the Prussians; they soon gave way, for twenty minutes afterward the enemy poured over the road, and the Prussian chasseurs separated into bands to arrest all those who straggled or remained behind. This road was like a bridge; all who did not keep on it fell into the abyss.
At the slope of the ravine in the rear of the inn "Passe-Avant," some Prussian hussars rushed upon us: there were not more than five or six of them, and they called out to us to surrender; but if we had raised the butts of our muskets, they would have sabred us. We aimed at them, and seeing that we were not wounded, they passed on.
This forced us to return to the road, where the uproar could be heard for at least two leagues; cavalry, infantry, artillery, ambulances, and baggage-wagons, were creeping along the road pell-mell, howling, beating, neighing, and weeping. The retreat at Leipzig furnished no such spectacle as this.
The moon rose above the wood behind Planchenois, and lighted up this crowd of shapskas,[[1]] bear-skin caps, helmets, sabres, bayonets, broken caissons, and abandoned cannon; the crowd and confusion increased every moment, plaintive howls were heard from one end of the line to the other, rolling up and down the hill-side and dying away in the distance like a sigh.
[[1]] Polish military cap.
But the saddest of all, were the cries of the women, those unhappy creatures who follow armies. When they were knocked down or crowded out on to the slope with their carts, their screams could be heard above all the uproar, but no one turned his head, not a man stretched out a hand to help them: "Every one for himself!—I shall crush you,—so much the worse for you,—I am the stronger—you scream, but it is all the same to me!—take care,—take care—I am on horseback—I shall hit you!—room—let me get away—the others do just the same—room for the Emperor! room for the marshal!" The strong crush the weak—the only thing in the world is strength! On! on! Let the cannons crush everything, if we can only save them!
But the cannon can move no farther,—unhitch them, cut the traces, and the horses will carry us off. Make them go as fast as possible, and if they break down—then let them go? If we were not the stronger our turn would come to be crushed—we should cry out and everybody would mock at our complaints. Save himself who can—and "Vive l'Empereur!"
"But the Emperor is dead!"
Everybody thought the Emperor had died with, the Old Guard; that seemed perfectly natural.