The Debacle - Emile Zola [213]
‘Our luck’s out!’ muttered Maurice. ‘This wood’s bewitched!’
This time they had been heard. Branches had been snapped and stones dislodged. As, challenged by the sentry, they began to run without answering, the whole post took up arms and shots were fired which whistled through the thicket.
‘Oh Christ!’ Jean swore under his breath, stifling a cry of pain.
He had felt a whiplash on his left calf, and it was so violent that it made him fall against a tree.
‘Got you?’ Maurice anxiously asked.
‘Yes, in the leg. I’m done for!’
They were still listening, panting with fear of hearing the Prussians in full chase behind them. But the shooting had stopped and nothing was stirring again in the great eerie silence. Clearly the post was not anxious to get involved among the trees.
Jean tried to stand up and stifled a groan. Maurice held him up.
‘Can’t you walk any more?’
‘Afraid not.’
Normally so placid he began to fly into a rage. He clenched his fists and could have hit himself.
‘Oh Lor, oh Lor! Of all the bloody bad luck! To go and get your leg mucked up just when you’ve got to run!… Really it’s enough to make you go and chuck yourself in the shit! You go on alone.’
Maurice laughed gaily and just said:
‘Bloody fool!’
He took his arm and helped him along, for they both were anxious to get away from there. After a few painful steps done with a heroic effort, they stopped and were again disturbed as they saw a house in front of them, a kind of little farmhouse on the edge of the wood. There was no light in the windows but the gate into the yard was wide open, showing the building black and empty. When they plucked up enough courage to venture into this farmyard they were astonished to find a horse, all saddled ready, with nothing to show the why and the wherefore of its being there. Perhaps the owner was coming back, perhaps he was lying behind some bush with a bullet through his head. They never knew.
Maurice had a sudden idea which seemed to make him quite jolly.
‘Look here, the frontier is too far away, and besides, we should certainly have to have a guide. But suppose we were to make for Uncle Fouchard’s at Remilly. I could really take you there with my eyes shut, for I know even the little by-roads inside out… Isn’t that an idea? I’m going to lift you up on to this horse, and Uncle Fouchard is sure to take us in.’
First he wanted to have a look at the leg. There were two holes, the bullet must have come out again after breaking the tibia. There was very little bleeding, and he simply bandaged the calf tightly with a handkerchief.
‘You go on your own,’ Jean said again. ‘Shut up, don’t be a fool!’
When Jean had been comfortably settled in the saddle Maurice took the horse’s reins and they set off. It must have been about eleven, and he reckoned he could do the journey easily in three hours, even if they only went at a walking pace. But for a moment he was dashed when he thought of an unforeseen difficulty: how were they going to cross the Meuse and get over to the left bank? The bridge at Mouzon was guarded for certain. But then he remembered that there was a ferry downstream at Villers, and