About six o'clock, a staff-officer brought orders to Colonel Lorain, and immediately after a retreat was sounded. The battalion had lost sixty men.
It was night when we left the forest, and on the banks of the Partha among caissons, wagons, retreating divisions, ambulances filled with wounded, all defiling over the two bridges—we had to wait more than two hours for our turn to cross. The heavens were black; the artillery still growled afar off, but the three battles were ended. We heard that we had beaten the Austrians and the Russians at Wachau, on the other side of Leipsic; but our men returning from Mockern were downcast and gloomy; not a voice cried Vive l'Empereur! as after a victory.
Once on the other side of the river, we marched on amid the din of the retreat from Mockern, and at length reached a burial-ground, where we were ordered to stack arms and break ranks.
By this time the sky had cleared, and I recognized Schoenfeld in the moonlight. How often had I eaten bread and drank white wine with Zunnier there at the Golden Sheaf when the sun shone brightly and the leaves were green around? But those times had passed! I sat against the cemetery wall, and at length fell asleep. About three o'clock in the morning, I was awakened.
It was Zébédé. "Joseph," said he, "come to the fire. If you remain here, you run the risk of catching the fever."
I arose, sick with fatigue and suffering. A fine rain filled the air. My comrade drew me toward the fire which smoked in the drizzling atmosphere; it seemed to give out no heat; but Zébédé having made me drink a draught of brandy, I felt at least less cold, and gazed at the bivouac fires on the other side of the Partha.
"The Prussians are warming themselves in our wood," said Zébédé.
"Yes," I replied; "and poor Klipfel is there too, but he no longer feels the cold."
My teeth chattered. These words saddened us both. A few moments after, Zébédé resumed: