The Downfall

She made him no answer this time, as if all her being, all her faculties were concentrated on contemplating the great calamity of their defeat. She was of another age; she was a survivor of that strong old race of frontier burghers who defended their towns so valiantly in the good days gone by. The clean-cut lines of her stern, set face, with its fleshless, uncompromising nose and thin lips, which the brilliant light of the lamp brought out in high relief against the darkness of the room, told the full extent of her stifled rage and grief and the wound sustained by her antique patriotism, the revolt of which refused even to let her sleep.

About that time Delaherche became conscious of a sensation of isolation, accompanied by a most uncomfortable feeling of physical distress. His hunger was asserting itself again, a griping, intolerable hunger, and he persuaded himself that it was debility alone that was thus robbing him of courage and resolution. He tiptoed softly from the room and, with his candle, again made his way down to the kitchen, but the spectacle he witnessed there was even still more cheerless; the range cold and fireless, the closets empty, the floor strewn with a disorderly litter of towels, napkins, dish-clouts and women’s aprons; as if the hurricane of disaster had swept through that place as well, bearing away on its wings all the charm and cheer that appertain naturally to the things we eat and drink. At first he thought he was not going to discover so much as a crust, what was left over of the bread having all found its way to the ambulance in the form of soup. At last, however, in the dark corner of a cupboard he came across the remainder of the beans from yesterday’s dinner, where they had been forgotten, and ate them. He accomplished his luxurious repast without the formality of sitting down, without the accompaniment of salt and butter, for which he did not care to trouble himself to ascend to the floor above, desirous only to get away as speedily as possible from that dismal kitchen, where the blinking, smoking little lamp perfumed the air with fumes of petroleum.

It was not much more than ten o’clock, and Delaherche had no other occupation than to speculate on the various probabilities connected with the signing of the capitulation. A persistent apprehension haunted him; a dread lest the conflict might be renewed, and the horrible thought of what the consequences must be in such an event, of which he could not speak, but which rested on his bosom like an incubus. When he had reascended to his study, where he found Maurice and Jean in exactly the same position he had left them in, it was all in vain that he settled himself comfortably in his favorite easy-chair; sleep would not come to him; just as he was on the point of losing himself the crash of a shell would arouse him with a great start. It was the frightful cannonade of the day, the echoes of which were still ringing in his ears; and he would listen breathlessly for a moment, then sit and shudder at the equally appalling silence by which he was now surrounded. As he could not sleep he preferred to move about; he wandered aimlessly among the rooms, taking care to avoid that in which his mother was sitting by the colonel’s bedside, for the steady gaze with which she watched him as he tramped nervously up and down had finally had the effect of disconcerting him. Twice he returned to see if Henriette had not awakened, and he paused an instant to glance at his wife’s pretty face, so calmly peaceful, on which seemed to be flitting something like the faint shadow of a smile. Then, knowing not what to do, he went downstairs again, came back, moved about from room to room, until it was nearly two in the morning, wearying his ears with trying to decipher some meaning in the sounds that came to him from without.

This condition of affairs could not last. Delaherche resolved to return once more to the Sous-Prefecture, feeling assured that all rest would be quite out of the question for him so long as his ignorance continued. A feeling of despair seized him, however, when he went downstairs and looked out upon the densely crowded street, where the confusion seemed to be worse than ever; never would he have the strength to fight his way to the Place Turenne and back again through obstacles the mere memory of which caused every bone in his body to ache again. And he was mentally discussing matters, when who should come up but Major Bouroche, panting, perspiring, and swearing.

“Tonnerre de Dieu! I wonder if my head’s on my shoulders or not!”

He had been obliged to visit the Hotel de Ville to see the mayor about his supply of chloroform, and urge him to issue a requisition for a quantity, for he had many operations to perform, his stock of the drug was exhausted, and he was afraid, he said, that he should be compelled to carve up the poor devils without putting them to sleep.

“Well?” inquired Delaherche.

“Well, they can’t even tell whether the apothecaries have any or not!”

But the manufacturer was thinking of other things than chloroform. “No, no,” he continued. “Have they brought matters to a conclusion yet? Have they signed the agreement with the Prussians?”

The major made a gesture of impatience. “There is nothing concluded,” he cried. “It appears that those scoundrels are making demands out of all reason. Ah, well; let ‘em commence afresh, then, and we’ll all leave our bones here. That will be best!”

Delaherche’s face grew very pale as he listened. “But are you quite sure these things are so?”

“I was told them by those fellows of the municipal council, who are in permanent session at the city hall. An officer had been dispatched from the Sous-Prefecture to lay the whole affair before them.”

And he went on to furnish additional details. The interview had taken place at the Chateau de Bellevue, near Donchery, and the participants were General de Wimpffen, General von Moltke, and Bismarck. A stern and inflexible man was that von Moltke, a terrible man to deal with! He began by demonstrating that he was perfectly acquainted with the hopeless situation of the French army; it was destitute of ammunition and subsistence, demoralization and disorder pervaded its ranks, it was utterly powerless to break the iron circle by which it was girt about; while on the other hand the German armies occupied commanding positions from which they could lay the city in ashes in two hours. Coldly, unimpassionedly, he stated his terms: the entire French army to surrender arms and baggage and be treated as prisoners of war. Bismarck took no part in the discussion beyond giving the general his support, occasionally showing his teeth, like a big mastiff, inclined to be pacific on the whole, but quite ready to rend and tear should there be occasion for it. General de Wimpffen in reply protested with all the force he had at his command against these conditions, the most severe that ever were imposed on a vanquished army. He spoke of his personal grief and ill-fortune, the bravery of the troops, the danger there was in driving a proud nation to extremity; for three hours he spoke with all the energy and eloquence of despair, alternately threatening and entreating, demanding that they should content themselves with interning their prisoners in France, or even in Algeria; and in the end the only concession granted was, that the officers might retain their swords, and those among them who should enter into a solemn arrangement, attested by a written parole, to serve no more during the war, might return to their homes. Finally, the armistice to be prolonged until the next morning at ten o’clock; if at that time the terms had not been accepted, the Prussian batteries would reopen fire and the city would be burned.

“That’s stupid!” exclaimed Delaherche; “they have no right to burn a city that has done nothing to deserve it!”

The major gave him still further food for anxiety by adding that some officers whom he had met at the Hotel de l’Europe were talking of making a sortie en masse just before daylight. An extremely excited state of feeling had prevailed since the tenor of the German demands had become known, and measures the most extravagant were proposed and discussed. No one seemed to be deterred by the consideration that it would be dishonorable to break the truce, taking advantage of the darkness and giving the enemy no notification, and the wildest, most visionary schemes were offered; they would resume the march on Carignan, hewing their way through the Bavarians, which they could do in the black night; they would recapture the plateau of Illy by a surprise; they would raise the blockade of the Mezieres road, or, by a determined, simultaneous rush, would force the German lines and throw themselves into Belgium. Others there were, indeed, who, feeling the hopelessness of their position, said nothing; they would have accepted any terms, signed any paper, with a glad cry of relief, simply to have the affair ended and done with.

“Good-night!” Bouroche said in conclusion. “I am going to try to sleep a couple of hours; I need it badly.”

When left by himself Delaherche could hardly breathe. What, could it be true that they were going to fight again, were going to burn and raze Sedan! It was certainly to be, soon as the morrow’s sun should be high enough upon the hills to light the horror of the sacrifice. And once again he almost unconsciously climbed the steep ladder that led to the roofs and found himself standing among the chimneys, at the edge of the narrow terrace that overlooked the city; but at that hour of the night the darkness was intense and he could distinguish absolutely nothing amid the swirling waves of the Cimmerian sea that lay beneath him. Then the buildings of the factory below were the first objects which, one by one, disentangled themselves from the shadows and stood out before his vision in indistinct masses, which he had no difficulty in recognizing: the engine-house, the shops, the drying rooms, the storehouses, and when he reflected that within twenty-four hours there would remain of that imposing block of buildings, his fortune and his pride, naught save charred timbers and crumbling walls, he overflowed with pity for himself. He raised his glance thence once more to the horizon, and sent it traveling in a circuit around that profound, mysterious veil of blackness behind which lay slumbering the menace of the morrow. To the south, in the direction of Bazeilles, a few quivering little flames that rose fitfully on the air told where had been the site of the unhappy village, while toward the north the farmhouse in the wood of la Garenne, that had been fired late in the afternoon, was burning still, and the trees about were dyed of a deep red with the ruddy blaze. Beyond the intermittent flashing of those two baleful fires no light to be seen; the brooding silence unbroken by any sound save those half-heard mutterings that pass through the air like harbingers of evil; about them, everywhere, the unfathomable abyss, dead and lifeless. Off there in the distance, very far away, perhaps, perhaps upon the ramparts, was a sound of someone weeping. It was all in vain that he strained his eyes to pierce the veil, to see something of Liry, la Marfee, the batteries of Frenois, and Wadelincourt, that encircling belt of bronze monsters of which he could instinctively feel the presence there, with their outstretched necks and yawning, ravenous muzzles. And as he recalled his glance and let it fall upon the city that lay around and beneath him, he heard its frightened breathing. It was not alone the unquiet slumbers of the soldiers who had fallen in the streets, the blending of inarticulate sounds produced by that gathering of guns, men, and horses; what he fancied he could distinguish was the insomnia, the alarmed watchfulness of his bourgeois neighbors, who, no more than he, could sleep, quivering with feverish terrors, awaiting anxiously the coming of the day. They all must be aware that the capitulation had not been signed, and were all counting the hours, quaking at the thought that should it not be signed the sole resource left them would be to go down into their cellars and wait for their own walls to tumble in on them and crush the life from their bodies. The voice of one in sore straits came up, it seemed to him, from the Rue des Voyards, shouting: “Help! murder!” amid the clash of arms. He bent over the terrace to look, then remained aloft there in the murky thickness of the night where there was not a star to cheer him, wrapped in such an ecstasy of terror that the hairs of his body stood erect.

Below-stairs, at early daybreak, Maurice awoke upon his sofa. He was sore and stiff as if he had been racked; he did not stir, but lay looking listlessly at the windows, which gradually grew white under the light of a cloudy dawn. The hateful memories of the day before all came back to him with that distinctness that characterizes the impressions of our first waking, how they had fought, fled, surrendered. It all rose before his vision, down to the very least detail, and he brooded with horrible anguish on the defeat, whose reproachful echoes seemed to penetrate to the inmost fibers of his being, as if he felt that all the responsibility of it was his. And he went on to reason on the cause of the evil, analyzing himself, reverting to his old habit of bitter and unavailing self-reproach. He would have felt so brave, so glorious had victory remained with them! And now, in defeat, weak and nervous as a woman, he once again gave way to one of those overwhelming fits of despair in which the entire world, seemed to him to be foundering. Nothing was left them; the end of France was come. His frame was shaken by a storm of sobs, he wept hot tears, and joining his hands, the prayers of his childhood rose to his lips in stammering accents.

“O God! take me unto Thee! O God! take unto Thyself all those who are weary and heavy-laden!”

Jean, lying on the floor wrapped in his bed-quilt, began to show some signs of life. Finally, astonished at what he heard, he arose to a sitting posture.

“What is the matter, youngster? Are you ill?” Then, with a glimmering perception of how matters stood, he adopted a more paternal tone. “Come, tell me what the matter is. You must not let yourself be worried by such a little thing as this, you know.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Maurice, “it is all up with us, va! we are Prussians now, and we may as well make up our mind to it.”

As the peasant, with the hard-headedness of the uneducated, expressed surprise to hear him talk thus, he endeavored to make it clear to him that, the race being degenerate and exhausted, it must disappear and make room for a newer and more vigorous strain. But the other, with an obstinate shake of the head, would not listen to the explanation.

“What! would you try to make me believe that my bit of land is no longer mine? that I would permit the Prussians to take it from me while I am alive and my two arms are left to me? Come, come!”

Then painfully, in such terms as he could command, he went on to tell how affairs looked to him. They had received an all-fired good basting, that was sure as sure could be! but they were not all dead yet, he didn’t believe; there were some left, and those would suffice to rebuild the house if they only behaved themselves, working hard and not drinking up what they earned. When a family has trouble, if its members work and put by a little something, they will pull through, in spite of all the bad luck in the world. And further, it is not such a bad thing to get a good cuffing once in a way; it sets one thinking. And, great heavens! if a man has something rotten about him, if he has gangrene in his arms or legs that is spreading all the time, isn’t it better to take a hatchet and lop them off rather than die as he would from cholera?

“All up, all up! Ah, no, no! no, no!” he repeated several times. “It is not all up with me, I know very well it is not.”

And notwithstanding his seedy condition and demoralized appearance, his hair all matted and pasted to his head by the blood that had flowed from his wound, he drew himself up defiantly, animated by a keen desire to live, to take up the tools of his trade or put his hand to the plow, in order, to use his own expression, to “rebuild the house.” He was of the old soil where reason and obstinacy grow side by side, of the land of toil and thrift.

“All the same, though,” he continued, “I am sorry for the Emperor. Affairs seemed to be going on well; the farmers were getting a good price for their grain. But surely it was bad judgment on his part to allow himself to become involved in this business!”

Maurice, who was still in “the blues,” spoke regretfully: “Ah, the Emperor! I always liked him in my heart, in spite of my republican ideas. Yes, I had it in the blood, on account of my grandfather, I suppose. And now that that limb is rotten and we shall have to lop it off, what is going to become of us?”

His eyes began to wander, and his voice and manner evinced such distress that Jean became alarmed and was about to rise and go to him, when Henriette came into the room. She had just awakened on hearing the sound of voices in the room adjoining hers. The pale light of a cloudy morning now illuminated the apartment.

“You come just in time to give him a scolding,” he said, with an affectation of liveliness. “He is not a good boy this morning.”

But the sight of his sister’s pale, sad face and the recollection of her affliction had had a salutary effect on Maurice by determining a sudden crisis of tenderness. He opened his arms and took her to his bosom, and when she rested her head upon his shoulder, when he held her locked in a close embrace, a feeling of great gentleness pervaded him and they mingled their tears.

“Ah, my poor, poor darling, why have I not more strength and courage to console you! for my sorrows are as nothing compared with yours. That good, faithful Weiss, the husband who loved you so fondly! What will become of you? You have always been the victim; always, and never a murmur from your lips. Think of the sorrow I have already caused you, and who can say that I shall not cause you still more in the future!”

She was silencing him, placing her hand upon his mouth, when Delaherche came into the room, beside himself with indignation. While still on the terrace he had been seized by one of those uncontrollable nervous fits of hunger that are aggravated by fatigue, and had descended to the kitchen in quest of something warm to drink, where he had found, keeping company with his cook, a relative of hers, a carpenter of Bazeilles, whom she was in the act of treating to a bowl of hot wine. This person, who had been one of the last to leave the place while the conflagrations were at their height, had told him that his dyehouse was utterly destroyed, nothing left of it but a heap of ruins.

“The robbers, the thieves! Would you have believed it, hein?” he stammered, addressing Jean and Maurice. “There is no hope left; they mean to burn Sedan this morning as they burned Bazeilles yesterday. I’m ruined, I’m ruined!” The scar that Henriette bore on her forehead attracted his attention, and he remembered that he had not spoken to her yet. “It is true, you went there, after all; you got that wound – Ah! poor Weiss!”

And seeing by the young woman’s tears that she was acquainted with her husband’s fate, he abruptly blurted out the horrible bit of news that the carpenter had communicated to him among the rest.

“Poor Weiss! it seems they burned him. Yes, after shooting all the civilians who were caught with arms in their hands, they threw their bodies into the flames of a burning house and poured petroleum over them.”

Henriette was horror-stricken as she listened. Her tears burst forth, her frame was shaken by her sobs. My God, my God, not even the poor comfort of going to claim her dear dead and give him decent sepulture; his ashes were to be scattered by the winds of heaven! Maurice had again clasped her in his arms and spoke to her endearingly, calling her his poor Cinderella, beseeching her not to take the matter so to heart, a brave woman as she was.

After a time, during which no word was spoken, Delaherche, who had been standing at the window watching the growing day, suddenly turned and addressed the two soldiers:

“By the way, I was near forgetting. What I came up here to tell you is this: down in the courtyard, in the shed where the treasure chests were deposited, there is an officer who is about to distribute the money among the men, so as to keep the Prussians from getting it. You had better go down, for a little money may be useful to you, that is, provided we are all alive a few hours hence.”

The advice was good, and Maurice and Jean acted on it, having first prevailed on Henriette to take her brother’s place on the sofa. If she could not go to sleep again, she would at least be securing some repose. As for Delaherche, he passed through the adjoining chamber, where Gilberte with her tranquil, pretty face was slumbering still as soundly as a child, neither the sound of conversation nor even Henriette’s sobs having availed to make her change her position. From there he went to the apartment where his mother was watching at Colonel de Vineuil’s bedside, and thrust his head through the door; the old lady was asleep in her fauteuil, while the colonel, his eyes closed, was like a corpse. He opened them to their full extent and asked:

“Well, it’s all over, isn’t it?”

Irritated by the question, which detained him at the very moment when he thought he should be able to slip away unobserved, Delaherche gave a wrathful look and murmured, sinking his voice:

“Oh, yes, all over! until it begins again! There is nothing signed.”

The colonel went on in a voice scarcely higher than a whisper; delirium was setting in.

“Merciful God, let me die before the end! I do not hear the guns. Why have they ceased firing? Up there at Saint-Menges, at Fleigneux, we have command of all the roads; should the Prussians dare turn Sedan and attack us, we will drive them into the Meuse. The city is there, an insurmountable obstacle between us and them; our positions, too, are the stronger. Forward! the 7th corps will lead, the 12th will protect the retreat – ”

And his fingers kept drumming on the counterpane with a measured movement, as if keeping time with the trot of the charger he was riding in his vision. Gradually the motion became slower and slower as his words became more indistinct and he sank off into slumber. It ceased, and he lay motionless and still, as if the breath had left his body.

“Lie still and rest,” Delaherche whispered; “when I have news I will return.”

Then, having first assured himself that he had not disturbed his mother’s slumber, he slipped away and disappeared.

Jean and Maurice, on descending to the shed in the courtyard, had found there an officer of the pay department, seated on a common kitchen chair behind a little unpainted pine table, who, without pen, ink, or paper, without taking receipts or indulging in formalities of any kind, was dispensing fortunes. He simply stuck his hand into the open mouth of the bags filled with bright gold pieces, and as the sergeants of the 7th corps passed in line before him he filled their kepis, never counting what he bestowed with such rapid liberality. The understanding was that the sergeants were subsequently to divide what they received with the surviving men of their half-sections. Each of them received his portion awkwardly, as if it had been a ration of meat or coffee, then stalked off in an embarrassed, self-conscious sort of way, transferring the contents of the kepi to his trousers’ pockets so as not to display his wealth to the world at large. And not a word was spoken; there was not a sound to be heard but the crystalline chink and rattle of the coin as it was received by those poor devils, dumfounded to see the responsibility of such riches thrust on them when there was not a place in the city where they could purchase a loaf of bread or a quart of wine.