The Debacle - Emile Zola [183]
Prosper had to break off, choked with sorrow and crying himself. He drank another glass of wine, then went on with his story in broken and disconnected sentences. It was getting darker and now there was nothing left but a red streak of light along the horizon over the battlefield, lengthening indefinitely the shadows of dead horses. He must have stayed a long while by his, unable to go away, with his leg gone dead. But then a sudden wave of panic had made him walk in spite of it – a desire not to be alone, to be with friends and not be so frightened. In the same way, from all sides, ditches, thickets and all sorts of odd corners, forgotten wounded men were dragging themselves along, trying to find each other, to get together in groups of four or five, little communities in which it was less terrible to share their last agonies and die. So it was that he had come across two soldiers of the 43rd in the Garenne wood, who had never had a scratch but who had gone to earth there like hares, waiting for nightfall. When they realized that he knew the lie of the land they told him their plan: to clear off into Belgium, reaching the frontier through the woods before daylight. At first he refused to take them, for he would have preferred to head for Remilly at once, knowing he could find refuge there, but where could he get a smock and some trousers from? And besides, from the Garenne wood to Remilly, from one side of the valley to the other, there was no hope of getting through the many Prussian lines. So he did agree to act as a guide to the two comrades. His leg had got some life back into it, and they were fortunate enough to get somebody at a farm to let them have some bread. They heard a distant clock strike nine as they set off again. The only place where
they got into danger was at La Chapelle, where they ran right into an enemy post which rushed to arms and fired into the darkness, while they for their part tore along on all fours into some bushes amid the whistling of bullets. After that they stayed in the woods, straining their ears and groping their way. As they came round a bend in a path they crept along and then jumped on the shoulders of a lone sentry and slit his throat with a knife. After that the roads were clear and they went on their way laughing and whistling. At about three in the morning they reached a little Belgian village, woke up a kind-hearted farmer who at once let them into his barn where they slept soundly on some bundles of hay.
The sun was already high in the sky when Prosper woke. Opening his eyes while his mates were still snoring, he saw their host harnessing a horse to a big farm cart loaded with loaves of bread, rice, coffee, sugar and all