The Debacle: (1870-71)

by Emile Zola

  But she was not listening, and walked on faster, entering the rue du Ménil to get to the Balan gate. It was nearly nine, and Sedan had emerged from the dark, shivery morning and desolate, blind awakening in the thick fog. A sultry sun cast hard shadows of the houses, the roadway was filled with an anxious crowd, through which dispatch-riders were continually galloping. Groups formed round the few unarmed soldiers who had already come back into the town, some slightly wounded, others in a state of extraordinary emotional tension, gesticulating and shouting. And yet the town would still have had its everyday look were it not for the shops with shutters closed and dead-looking façades in which not a single blind was open. Moreover there was this continual gunfire making everything tremble, stones, ground, walls and even the slates on the roofs.

  Delaherche was a prey to the most unpleasant inner struggle, torn between his duty as a brave man which bade him not to desert Henriette and his terror of going back along the Bazeilles road under shell-fire. Suddenly, just as they reached the Balan gate they were separated by a number of officers coming in on horseback. People were packed tight near the gate, waiting for news. He ran along looking for the young woman, but in vain, she must be beyond the walls and hurrying along the road. He did not push his zeal any further, but was surprised to catch himself saying aloud:

  ‘Oh, what the hell! It’s too ridiculous!’

  So he wandered about in Sedan, a citizen full of curiosity and not wanting to miss any of the sights, but also full of growing anxiety. What was it all going to lead to? If the army was beaten wouldn’t the town be in for a very bad time? The answers to these questions remained obscure and depended too much on the turn of events. But that did not prevent him from trembling for his mill, his buildings in the rue Maqua, even though he had moved away all his valuables and hidden them in a safe place. He went to the Hôtel de Ville and found the council in permanent session. He hung about there for a long time but learned nothing new unless it was that the battle was going very badly. The army did not know whom to obey, moved backwards by General Ducrot during the two hours of his command and forwards again by General de Wimpffen who had succeeded him, and these incomprehensible comings and goings, positions they had to reconquer after abandoning them, the whole absence of any plan or energetic leadership were precipitating the disaster.

  Next Delaherche moved on to the Sub-Prefecture to find out whether the Emperor had reappeared or not. The only news anyone could give him was about Marshal MacMahon whose wound, not at all dangerous, had been dressed by a surgeon and who was now peacefully in bed. But towards eleven, while he was still tramping the streets, he was held up for a moment in the Grande-Rue in front of the Hôtel de l’Europe by a slow procession of horsemen covered with dust whose weary mounts were going at a walking pace. At their head he recognized the Emperor, returning after spending four hours on the field of battle. Death hadn’t any use for him, obviously. In the anguished sweat of this ride through defeat the make-up had gone from his cheeks and his waxed moustache had got soft and drooping, the ashen face had taken on the agonized stupor of a dying man. An officer who dismounted in front of the hotel began explaining to a group of people the route they had followed, from La Moncelle to Givonne all along the little valley, among the soldiers of the 1st corps whom the Saxons had thrown back on to the right bank of the stream; and they had come along the road in the cutting of Fond de Givonne, in such a jam already that even if the Emperor had wanted to go back to his front line troops he could only have done so with the greatest difficulty. Besides, what was the good?

  As Delaherche was listening to these details a loud report shook the neighbourhood. It was a shell that had demolished a chimney in the rue Sainte-Barbe, near the Keep. There was a panic, and women screamed. He had flattened himself against a wall when another explosion shattered the windows of a house near-by. This was getting terrible if they were bombarding Sedan, and he raced home to the rue Maqua, so possessed with anxiety to know the worst that without stopping he rushed up to the roof where there was a flat terrace with a view over the town and its surroundings.

  He was at once reassured, for they were firing right over the town and the German batteries on La Marfée and Frénois were aiming beyond the built-up area so as to rake the plateau of Algérie. He even found the flight of the shells interesting – the immense curve of light smoke they left above Sedan, like invisible birds leaving trails of grey feathers. To begin with it seemed clear that the few shells that had smashed roofs round him had been strays. They were not yet bombarding the town. But on a more careful examination he felt that they must be in reply to the odd shots fired from the fort. So he turned round and studied the citadel to the north, a complicated and formidable system of fortifications, blackened walls, green panels of glacis, innumerable geometrical bastions and topping all the three gigantic hornworks, that of the Ecossais and the Grand Jardin and La Rochette, with menacing angles; and further west, like a Cyclopean projection, the Nassau fort, followed by the Palatinate fort, towering above the Ménil district. The impression they made on him was a melancholy one of enormity and childishness. What was the point of it now, with these guns whose projectiles flew so easily from one end of the sky to the other? In any case the fortress was unarmed, with neither the necessary pieces of artillery nor the ammunition nor the men. For the past three weeks, or barely as long as that, the governor had been organizing a National Guard of citizens willing to man the few guns in working order. That was why three cannon were firing from the Palatinate while a good half dozen were at the Paris gate. But there were only seven or eight rounds available per gun, and so they spaced out the shots, letting one off every half hour and only for honour’s sake at that, for the shells went no distance, but fell in the fields opposite. So the enemy batteries contemptuously sent an occasional answer back, out of charity.

  What interested Delaherche was these batteries. He was casting a keen eye on the slopes of La Marfée when he thought of the field glasses with which he used to amuse himself looking at the surrounding country from up there. He went down to find them, came back and took up his position, and as he was getting his bearings by moving them along in little jerks, making fields, trees and houses go by, he spotted, above the big Frénois battery, the group of uniforms that Weiss had thought he could make out from Bazeilles at the corner of a pinewood. But thanks to the magnification he could easily have counted these staff officers, so clearly could he see them. Some of them were half lying in the grass, others were standing in groups, and in front there was one man standing alone, a shrivelled, thin-looking man in a plain uniform, but he felt that this man was the master. It was indeed the King of Prussia, scarcely half a finger high, like one of those tiny tin soldiers children play with. Of course he did not know this for certain until later, but he kept his eye on him, always coming back to this tiny figure, whose face, no bigger than a dot, was just a pale speck beneath the wide blue sky.

  It was not yet noon, and the King had been following the mathematical, inexorable march of his armies since nine. They went on and on according to their prearranged routes, completing the circle, closing step by step the wall of men and guns round Sedan. The army from the left, coming from the flat plain of Donchery, was still debouching from the Saint-Albert gap, it was past Saint-Menges and was beginning to reach Fleigneux. And he could distinctly see, behind the XIth corps which was violently engaged with the troops of General Douay, the Vth corps filtering along under cover of the woods and making for the Calvary of Illy, while batteries joined with batteries in an ever longer line of thundering guns until the whole horizon was on fire. The army on the right was now occupying the whole of the Givonne valley, the XIIth corps had taken La Moncelle, the Prussian Guards had gone through Daigny and were already following the little stream up its valley, also making for the Calvary, having forced General Ducrot to fall back behind the Garenne wood. Just one more thrust and the Crown Prince of Prussia would link up with the Crown Prince of Saxony in the open fiel
ds on the very verge of the Ardennes forest. South of the town Bazeilles could no longer be seen, for it was hidden in the smoke of fires and in the wild dust of a fight to the death.

  The King had been calmly looking on and waiting since first thing. One or two hours more, perhaps three, it was only a matter of time, one cog moved the next and the crushing machine was in action and would finish its job. Under the wide, sunny sky the battlefield was shrinking, and this furious mêlée of black dots was piling itself thicker and thicker round Sedan. A few windows were gleaming in the town, one house seemed to be on fire to the left towards La Cassine. But further off, in the now deserted fields towards Donchery and Carignan, all was peaceful and bathed in light, the silvery waters of the Meuse, the trees looking happy to be alive, the great fertile plains, the broad green meadows beneath the blazing noonday sun.

  The King had asked briefly for some bit of information. On the colossal chessboard he wanted to know everything and keep a hand on this multitude of men under his command. To his right a flight of swallows, scared by the gunfire, wheeled upwards very high and was lost to sight in the south.

  4

  AT first Henriette could make good speed along the Balan road. It was not much after nine, and the wide street between houses and gardens was still passable, though as she approached the village it became increasingly blocked by fugitives and troops on the move. As each fresh wave of people came along she hugged the wall and managed to slip past all the same. Being very small and inconspicuous in her dark dress, with her lovely fair hair and little pale face half hidden by the black lace scarf, she passed unnoticed and nothing slowed her lithe, quiet step.

  But in Balan itself there was a regiment of marines blocking the road, a solid mass of men waiting for orders in the shade of the big trees which concealed them. She stood on tiptoe but could not see the end of them. Yet she tried to make herself smaller still and wriggle through. Elbows shoved her away and she felt rifle-butts sticking into her. She had done some twenty steps when there were shouts and protests. A captain turned round and let fly at her:

  ‘Here, woman, are you mad? Where are you off to?’

  ‘I’m going to Bazeilles.’

  ‘Bazeilles? What are you talking about?’

  There was a general burst of laughter, and they pointed her out to each other and joked. The captain joined in the mirth and went on:

  ‘Bazeilles, my dear, I wish you could take us with you!… We were there just now and I hope we’re going back, but I warn you that you won’t feel cold there.’

  ‘I’m going to Bazeilles to join my husband,’ Henriette declared in her gentle voice, and her light blue eyes kept their quiet determination.

  The laughter stopped, and an old sergeant got her away from them and forced her to turn back.

  ‘Poor child, you can see it’s impossible for you to get through… It’s no woman’s job to go to Bazeilles just now… You’ll find that husband of yours later. Now come along, do be sensible!’

  She had to give in and stood still, jumping up every minute to see as far as she could, obstinately determined to go on her way. She gathered a little information from what she heard round her. Officers were bitterly complaining about the order to retreat which had made them abandon Bazeilles at quarter past eight when General Ducrot, taking over from the marshal, had got it into his head to try to concentrate all the troops on the plateau of Illy. The worst of it was that the 1st corps having fallen back too soon and thus handed over the Givonne valley to the Germans, the 12th, already under strong attack from the front, had been outflanked on its left. And now General de Wimpffen had succeeded General Ducrot and the original plan was in favour again, so that orders were coming in to reoccupy Bazeilles at all costs and throw the Bavarians into the Meuse. Wasn’t it crazy to have made them give up a position that they had now got to retake? They were prepared to face death, but really – not for fun!

  There was a great surge of men and horses and General de Wimpffen appeared, standing in his stirrups, his face radiant and his voice inspired, shouting:

  ‘My friends, we can’t fall back, it would be the end of everything… If we have to beat a retreat it will be on Carignan and not on Mézières… But we shall win, you beat them this morning, and you will beat them again!’

  Off he galloped and disappeared along a road going up to La Moncelle. It was rumoured that he had had a violent altercation with General Ducrot, each of them defending his own plan and attacking the opposite one, one declaring that their retreat via Mézières had not been feasible since first thing in the morning, the other prophesying that before nightfall the army would be surrounded unless they withdrew on to the plateau of Illy. Each accused the other of not knowing the terrain nor the true situation of the troops. The worst of it was that they were both right.

  But for a moment Henriette had had her mind taken off her hurry to get on. She had recognized a Bazeilles family stranded there at the roadside, a family of poor weavers, the man and wife and three girls, the eldest of whom was only nine. They were so shattered and dazed with exhaustion and despair that they could go no further and had collapsed by a wall.

  ‘Oh, dear lady,’ the woman said to Henriette, ‘we’ve got nothing left… You know our home was on the Place de l’Eglise. Well, a shell set fire to it. I don’t know how the children and ourselves got out alive.’

  The three little girls began crying and screaming again at the thought of it, while the mother went into details about their disaster, with wild gestures.

  ‘I saw the loom burning like dry firewood. The bed and the furniture blazed up quicker than handfuls of straw… And even the clock, I didn’t have time to bring that away.’

  ‘God Almighty!’ swore the man, with big tears in his eyes. ‘What’s going to become of us?’

  In order to calm them Henriette just said, in a slightly unsteady voice:

  ‘You are together, both safe and sound, you have your little girls, what are you complaining about?’

  Then she questioned them about what was happening in Bazeilles, whether they had seen her husband, what her house looked like when they left. But in their trembling, frightened state their answers were contradictory. No, they hadn’t seen Weiss. Yet one of the little girls said she had seen him on the pavement, with a big hole in the middle of his head, and her father boxed her ears to make her shut up because, he said, she was lying for certain. As for the house, it must have been all right when they left, and they even remembered noticing that the door and windows were carefully shut as though there wasn’t a soul there. At that time, in any case, the Bavarians were still only occupying the Place de l’Eglise, and had to take the village street by street, house by house. But of course they had had quite a way to come and perhaps by now the whole of Bazeilles was on fire. And the poor wretches went on talking about these things with vague, panic-stricken gestures as they called to mind the awful sight of the blazing roofs, blood flowing and the dead covering the ground.

  ‘And what about my husband, then?’ she asked.

  They made no further answer, but sobbed into their clasped hands. She stood there in atrocious anguish, firm, but her lips were quivering slightly. What was she to believe? However much she told herself that the child was mistaken, she could see her husband lying there in the street with a bullet-hole in his head. And then she was worried about this hermetically sealed house. Why? Wasn’t he still there, then? Suddenly the certainty that he had been killed struck a cold fear into her heart. But perhaps he was only wounded; and her need to go there and be there returned so inexorably that she would have tried once again to force a way through, there and then, if the bugles had not sounded the advance.

  Many of these young soldiers had just come from Toulon, Rochefort or Brest, they were almost completely untrained and had never been under fire, yet since first thing they had been fighting as bravely and reliably as veterans. These men who had marched so badly from Rheims to Mouzon, worn out by the unaccustomed strain, were
now revealing themselves in the face of the enemy to be the best disciplined and the most fraternally united by a bond of duty and self-sacrifice. The bugles had only to sound and back they went into the firing-line, and they resumed the attack even if their hearts were full of resentment. Three times they had been promised the support of a division which never came. They felt let down, written off as expendable. By sending them back against Bazeilles after making them evacuate it somebody was asking all of them to give up their lives. They were perfectly aware of this, and yet they would give their lives without question, closing their ranks, leaving the protection of the trees, and go back into the shells and bullets.

  Henriette heaved an immense sigh of relief. At last they were marching! She followed on in the hope of getting there with them, and was prepared to run if they ran. But already once again they came to a halt. By now projectiles were raining down, and to occupy Bazeilles would mean reconquering every metre of the way and seizing alleyways, houses, gardens to right and left. The front ranks had opened fire and now they were only advancing in fits and starts, and the smallest obstacles caused many minutes’ delay. She would never get there if she stayed like this at their tail waiting for victory. So she made up her mind and threw herself to the right along a path between two hedges that went down towards the meadows.

  Henriette’s plan was to reach Bazeilles through these stretches of meadow that bordered the Meuse. Not that she was very clear about it herself. Suddenly she stopped, stuck on the edge of a little pool that prevented her from going on in that direction. It was the flooding, this low-lying ground turned into a defensive lake, and she had not thought of that. For a moment she thought of going back, but then, at the risk of leaving her shoes in it, she went on, working along the edge, sinking ankle-deep in the muddy grass. For a hundred metres it was possible, but then she ran up against a garden wall and the land sloped downwards, so that the waters lapped the wall and were two metres deep. Impossible to get through. She clenched her small fists and had to take the firmest grip on herself so as not to burst into tears. When the first shock was over she skirted the wall the other way and found a narrow lane between a few houses. This time she thought she was saved, for she knew this maze of odd, twisting alleys, a tangle that did in the end lead to the village.