The Debacle - Emile Zola [270]
‘Can you walk?’
‘I think so.’
But he dared not take him away like that, in his shirtsleeves. On a sudden inspiration he ran round the corner, where he had seen a dead soldier, and he came back with a greatcoat and a képi. He threw the coat over his shoulders and helped him to put his good arm into the left sleeve. Then, having stuck the képi on his head:
‘There, now you’re one of us… Where are we to go?’
That was the great problem. His anguish of mind suddenly came back amidst his renewed hope and courage. Where could they find a safe enough place to hide? Houses were being searched, and all Communards found with weapons were shot. What was more, neither of them knew anyone in that part of Paris; there was not a soul they could ask for shelter, no hiding-place where they could disappear.
‘The best thing really would be my place,’ said Maurice. ‘The house is isolated and nobody on earth will come there… But it’s the other side of the river, in the rue des Orties.’
Jean was in hopeless despair, distraught and swearing to himself.
‘Bloody hell! What can we do?’
It was unthinkable to cross the Pont Royal which owing to the fires was as brightly lit as on a sunny day. The firing on both sides of the river was continuous. And besides, they would have come up against the Tuileries in flames, the Louvre barricaded and guarded, in fact an impassable barrier.
‘So it’s no fucking good that way!’ declared Jean, who had lived for six months in Paris after the Italian campaign.
He had a sudden inspiration. If there were any boats under the bridge, as there used to be, they might try and bring it off. It would be very long, dangerous and awkward, but there was no choice and they must make up their minds at once.
‘Look, kid, let’s get out of here in any case, it isn’t healthy… I can tell my lieutenant that the Communards captured me and I escaped.’
He took him by the good arm, supported him and helped him along the end bit of the rue du Bac, between houses in flames from top to bottom like huge torches. Bits of blazing wood rained down on them and the heat was so intense that it singed all the hair on their faces. When they came out on to the embankment they were momentarily blinded by the dreadful light from fires burning in huge sheaves of flame on both sides of the Seine.
‘No lack of candles,’ growled Jean, vexed at this strong light.
He didn’t feel the slightest bit safer until he had got Maurice down the steps to the towpath to the left of the Pont Royal, downstream. They remained hidden there under the big trees by the water. For a quarter of an hour they were worried about some black figures moving about on the opposite bank. Some shots were fired, there was a shriek and something plopped into the water throwing up a big splash. Obviously the bridge was guarded.
‘Suppose we stayed for the night in that hut?’ Maurice suggested, pointing to a wooden office of the river transport authority.
‘Not on your life! And get nabbed in the morning?’
Jean still stuck to his idea. He had found a whole flotilla of small boats. But they were chained up, and how could he free one and get the oars out? But in the end he did manage to find an old pair of oars and was able to force a padlock – not properly locked, no doubt – and having laid Maurice in the bows he at once cautiously let himself drift with the current, hugging the bank in the shadow of the bathing establishment and barges. Neither said a word, for they were appalled by the dreadful spectacle unfolding itself. As they went downstream the horror seemed to get worse and the horizon receded. When they reached the Solferino bridge they could take in at a glance both banks in flames.
On the left