"Compiègne! Compiègne! Why, that's less than sixty miles from Paris! Oh, my God!"
We looked at each other.
"Who let them get through?"
"Those in the north, I suppose."
"Then it's worse than in '70!"
"At Compiègne!" repeated Hutin distractedly.
Dreadful thoughts of downfall, of treason, of all the bitterness of defeat and of suffering endured to no purpose rose up like spectres in each man's mind.
"I told you so; we've been sold!" declared the trumpeter.
In spite of everything, I still could not believe in treachery.