The Debacle - Emile Zola [161]
Then suddenly Delaherche saw, climbing the slopes of La Marfée, a French general in a blue tunic on a black horse, preceded by a hussar with a white flag. It was General Reille, detailed by the Emperor to bear this letter to the King of Prussia:
Sir, my Brother,
Not having been able to die among my troops, it only remains for me to put my sword in Your Majesty’s hands.
Truly Your Majesty’s brother, Napoleon.’
In his anxiety to stop the killing, since he was no longer master, the Emperor was giving himself up, hoping to touch the conqueror’s heart. Delaherche saw General Reille halt ten paces from the King, dismount and go forward to hand over the letter, unarmed and with only a riding-whip. The sun was going down in a great pink radiance, the King sat down on a chair, leaned against the back of another chair which was held by a secretary, and answered that he accepted the sword and would be waiting for an officer to be sent to negotiate the terms of the capitulation.
7
Now all round Sedan, from all the lost positions – Floing, the plateau of Illy, the Garenne woods and the valley of the Givonne, the Bazeilles road – a panic-stricken flood of men, horses and cannon was pouring towards the town. This fortress, on which they had had the disastrous idea of depending, was proving to be a terrible snare, a shelter for fugitives, a sanctuary into which even the bravest men let themselves be lured in the general demoralization and panic. Behind those ramparts they imagined they would at last escape from the terrible artillery which had been thundering for nearly twelve hours; all conscience and reason had fled, the animal had run away with the human and there was nothing left but the mad rush of instinct stampeding for the hole in which to go to earth and sleep.
At the foot of the little wall, when Maurice bathed Jean’s face with the cold water and saw him open his eyes, he cried out with joy:
‘Oh, dear old sod, I thought you were done for… And no offence meant, but you weigh a ton!’
Still dazed, Jean seemed to be waking out of a dream. Then he must have realized and remembered, for two big tears ran down his cheeks. So this Maurice, this puny boy he loved and looked after like a child, had in this surge of affection found enough strength in his arms to carry him as far as here!
‘Half a mo, let me have a look at that cranium of yours.’
The wound was nothing much, just a grazing of the scalp, which had bled a lot. The hair, now matted with blood, had acted as a pad. So he took care not to wet it, so as not to reopen the place.
‘There, now you’ve been cleaned up you’ve got a human face again. Just a second and I’ll fix you up with a hat.’
So he picked up the képi of a dead soldier and carefully put it on Jean’s head.
‘Just the right size… Now if you can walk we’re both smart boys.’
Jean stood up and shook his head to see if it felt all right. All he felt now was a bit of a headache. He’d be fine. He was overcome with a simple man’s emotion and threw his arms round Maurice and clasped him tight to his heart. The only words he could find were:
‘Oh my dear boy, my dear boy!’
But the Prussians were coming, and the vital thing was not to dally behind that wall. Lieutenant Rochas was already retreating with his small band of men protecting the flag, still being carried under the second lieutenant’s arm, rolled round its staff. Lapoulle, being very tall, could raise himself and still fire a few more rounds over the coping, but Pache had slung his rifle over his shoulder, presumably deeming that enough was enough and that now some food and sleep would be desirable. Jean and Maurice, bent double, hurried after them. There was no lack of ammunition or rifles, you only had to stoop down. They rearmed themselves, having left everything over there, kit and all, when one had had to carry the other on his shoulders.