The Debacle - Emile Zola [129]
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.
But there the shells were falling. Henriette stood rooted to the spot, very pale in the deafening noise of a frightful explosion, and hit by the blast. A shell had exploded only a few metres away from her. She looked back at the heights on the opposite side of the river, from which puffs of smoke from the German batteries were rising, and she understood, but went on again, with eyes fixed on the horizon, looking for shells so that she could dodge them. The rash temerity of her journey was not devoid of cool-headedness, indeed it had all the brave calm that a good little housewife can muster. She simply wanted not to be killed, to find her husband and take him home so that they could live happily again. The bombardment was incessant, and she glided along by the walls, taking cover behind stone bollards or any sort of shelter. But then came an open space, a piece of street that had been demolished and was already covered with rubble, and she was pausing at the corner of a barn when, down at ground level sticking out of a sort of hole, she caught sight of a child’s inquisitive face, watching intently. It was a little boy of ten, barefoot and with torn shirt and trousers, some kid on the prowl who was thoroughly enjoying the battle. His little black eyes were sparkling and he uttered exclamations of delight at each explosion.
‘Oh aren’t they fun! Stay there, here comes another. Bang! That one didn’t half go! Don’t move, don’t move!’
With each shell, he did a dive into the hole, and reappeared, popping up his head like a bird whistling, then dived down again.
Henriette noticed that the shells were coming from Le Liry,