The Debacle - Emile Zola [110]
‘Oh well,’ Sergeant Sapin said in his matter-of-fact way to Jean and Maurice, ‘I shall be killed today.’
He hadn’t opened his mouth since reveille, but was lost in a dream, with his delicate face, large beautiful eyes and prim little nose.
‘Well, that’s a nice idea!’ protested Jean. ‘Can anyone say what he’ll get? You know there’s none for nobody and some for everybody.’
‘Oh, as far as I’m concerned it’s as though it was done already… I shall be killed today!’
Heads turned round and asked if he had seen that in a dream. No, he hadn’t dreamed anything, just felt it, and there it was.
‘Still, it’s annoying, because I was going to get married when I got home.’
His eyes wandered off again and he saw his own life. Son of a small grocer in Lyons, spoilt by his mother who had died, and unable to get on with his father, he had stayed with the regiment, fed up with everything and refusing to be bought out. Then on one of his leaves he had come to an understanding with a girl cousin, come to terms with life, and together they had worked out an attractive project for opening a business, thanks to the small sum she would bring with her. He had had some schooling – reading, writing and arithmetic. For the past year he had lived only for the joy of this future life.
He shivered and shook himself free of this dream, then calmly repreated:
‘Yes, it’s annoying, I shall be killed today.’
The talking stopped and the wait went on. There was no knowing even whether they had their backs or their fronts to the enemy. Vague sounds came now and again out of the foggy unknown: rumbling of wheels, tramping of feet, distant trotting of horses. These were troop movements hidden by the mist, all the manoeuvres of the 7th corps taking up its battle positions. But in the last few minutes the mist seemed to be thinning out. Shreds blew up like wisps of gauze and odd corners of the horizon came into sight, still indistinct, like the murky blue of deep water. It was in one of these breaks that the regiments of Chasseurs d’Afrique that formed part of the Margueritte division could be seen moving along like a procession of phantom riders. Bolt upright in their saddles, in their full regimentals with broad red belts, they were spurring on their mounts, slender creatures half hidden by their complicated kit. Squadron after squadron, they all emerged from the murk and went back into it as though they were melting in the fine drizzle. No doubt they were a nuisance and were being moved further off because nobody knew what to do with them, as had been the case since the outset of the campaign. They had been used just occasionally as scouts, and as soon as battle was joined they were moved from valley to valley as an expensive luxury.
Maurice watched them and thought of Prosper.
‘Look,’ he murmured, ‘perhaps that’s him over there.’
‘Who?’ asked Jean.
‘That chap from Remilly, you remember, whose brother we met at Oches.’
But by now they had gone, and there was a sound of rapid galloping and a staff officer appeared down the hill. This time it was Jean who recognized General Bourgain-Desfeuilles, waving his arms wildly. So he had at last deigned to leave the Hôtel de la Croix d’Or, and from his bad temper it was clear enough that he was annoyed at having been up so early, to say nothing of deplorable conditions of lodging and food.
His stentorian voice carried as far as them.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, as though I knew! Moselle or Meuse, there’s some water down there anyway!’
However the fog was really lifting. It was quite sudden, as at Bazeilles, like a stage set discovered behind the floating curtain as it slowly goes up into the flies.