The Debacle - Emile Zola [134]
But the end was in sight. They searched the dead in vain, there was not a single round of ammunition left. Exhausted and haggard, the six men felt about for something to hurl out of the windows and crush the enemy. One of them showed himself, vociferating and brandishing his fists; he was immediately riddled with lead, and they were only five. What could they do next? Go downstairs and try to escape through the garden and over the fields? But just then there was a tumult down below and a furious mob surged up the stairs: it was the Bavarians who had at last surrounded the house, smashed the back door and come in. There was a free fight in the little room among the corpses and bits of broken furniture. One of the soldiers had a bayonet through his chest and the two others were taken prisoner, while the captain, who had just breathed his last, remained there with his mouth open and arm raised as if giving an order.
Meanwhile an officer, a heavy, fair man with a revolver and bloodshot eyes popping out of their sockets, had caught sight of Weiss and Laurent, one in his overcoat and the other in his blue cotton shirt, and he addressed them furiously in French:
‘Who are you? What are you two doing here?’
Then seeing them blackened with powder he understood and heaped curses on them in German, his voice choking with rage. He was by way of raising his pistol to blow their brains out when the soldiers under his command rushed and seized Weiss and Laurent and bundled them down the stairs. The two men were carried along on this human tide, out into the road and across to the wall opposite with such vociferations that the officers’ voices could no longer be heard. So that for another two or three minutes, while the big fair officer was trying to detach them in order to proceed with their execution, they could stand up and see everything.
Other houses were on fire and Bazeilles would soon be nothing but a furnace. Tongues of flame were beginning to come from the lofty windows of the church. Soldiers chasing an old lady out of her house had forced her to give them some matches so as to set fire to her bed and curtains. By degrees the fires were spreading as straw firebrands were thrown and quantities of oil poured about, It was now nothing but a war of savages frenzied by the length of the struggle, avenging their dead, the heaps of their dead on which they had to tread. Bands of men were bawling amid the smoke and sparks, in a frightful din made up of all kinds of noises, the moans of the dying, shots, crashed buildings. People could scarcely see each other for great livid clouds of swirling dust, which stank intolerably of soot and blood as though filled with the abominations of massacre, and which hid the light of the sun. The killing was still going on, with destruction in every corner: the wild beast let loose, the raving madness of men in the act of destroying their fellow men.
And then Weiss saw his own house burning there in front of him. Soldiers had run up with torches, others were feeding the flames by throwing in bits of furniture. In no time the ground floor was ablaze and the smoke was issuing from all the holes in the walls and roof. Already the dyeworks next door was catching fire as well and, most horrible thing, you could still hear the voice of the child Auguste lying in bed calling for his mother in his feverish delirium, while the poor creature’s skirt, as she lay there across the doorstep with her head bashed in, was beginning to burn.
‘Mummy, I’m thirsty… Mummy, give me a drink of water…’
The flames roared up, the voice stopped, and all that could be heard was the deafening cheering of the victors.
Above the noises and shouting rose a terrible shriek. Henriette appeared at that moment and saw her husband against the wall facing a firing squad that was getting ready.
She rushed to embrace him.
‘Oh God, what is