The Debacle - Emile Zola [207]
When dawn came one of the soldiers was dead and the other still gasping.
‘Come on, boy, let’s clear out of here,’ said Jean gently. ‘We’ll get some fresh air, it’ll be better.’
But when they got outside, on this beautiful and already warm morning, and had gone along the river until they were near the village of Iges, Maurice became even more worked up, and shook his fist at the great sunny horizon of the battlefield, the Illy plateau straight opposite, Saint-Menges to the left and the Garenne wood to the right.
‘No, no, I can’t, I simply can’t look at that any more. It’s having that in front of me that turns me over inside and splits my head open. Take me away! Take me away, now!’
It was another Sunday, and peals of bells came from Sedan, and already a German band could be heard in the distance. But still there were no orders for the 106th and Jean, alarmed at Maurice’s increasingly hysterical condition, made up his mind to try a trick he had been meditating since the day before. In the road, in front of the Prussian post, a party was being assembled for leaving, that of another regiment, the 5th infantry. There was considerable confusion in the ranks, and an officer whose French was not much good was having trouble with checking. So both of them, having first pulled the collar band and buttons off their tunics so as not to be given away by the number, slipped into the middle of the crowd, crossed the bridge and found themselves outside. Evidently the same idea had occurred to Chouteau and Loubet, for they saw them behind, with their furtive, murderers’ eyes.
Oh what a relief that first happy minute was! In the outer world it seemed like a resurrection, with dancing light, unlimited air, all their hopes flowering anew. Whatever troubles they might have to face now, their fears had gone and they even laughed at them as they made their way out of the nightmare of the Camp of Hell.
3
THAT morning Jean and Maurice heard the gay sound of French bugles for the last time, and now they were marching along the road to Germany in the herd of prisoners, preceded and followed by detachments of Prussian soldiers while others guarded them on either side with fixed bayonets. Now all they heard at each post was German trumpets with their brassy, dreary sound.
Maurice was glad to see that the column was turning left and going through Sedan. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to catch one more glimpse of his sister Henriette. But the five kilometres between the Iges peninsula and the town were enough to take the edge off his joy at feeling himself out of the sink of filth in which he had suffered nine days of torment. But this pathetic convoy of prisoners was a new kind of torture, with these weaponless men dangling their useless hands, being driven like sheep with hurried and frightened steps. Dressed in rags, filthy from having been left in their own excrement, emaciated after fasting for over a week, they looked like nothing but a lot of vagrants and suspicious characters that the police had roped in from the streets. From Torcy onwards, as men stood still and women came to the doors to stare at them with sullen sympathy, Maurice was overcome with shame and looked down at the ground,