The Debacle - Emile Zola [39]
‘The old bugger! He’s one of the best! But what’s the good? All they could think about was making us paddle about in the mud.’
There was a silence. Then Maurice talked for a minute or two about Remilly and Uncle Fouchard, and Prosper was sorry he couldn’t go and have a look at Honoré, the sergeant, whose battery must be in camp more than a league away, on the further side of the Laon road. But then the snorting of a horse made him prick up his ears and he got up and went off to make sure Zephir was all right. Gradually soldiers of all arms and ranks were filling the inn, this being the time for coffee and drinks. There wasn’t a single table left free and the uniforms made gay splashes of colour against the greenery of creepers flecked with sunshine. Major Bouroche had just sat down next to Rochas when Jean appeared with an order.
‘Sir, the captain will expect you at three about duty rosters.’
Rochas nodded to indicate that he would be punctual, and Jean did not go off at once, but grinned at Maurice, who was lighting a cigarette. Since the scene in the train there had been a tacit truce between the two men, as though they were studying each other, but in an increasingly friendly way.
Prosper had come back and was impatient.
‘I’m going to have something to eat if my officer won’t come out of that dump… It’s no use, the Emperor is just as likely not to come back tonight at all.’
‘I say,’ asked Maurice, whose curiosity was aroused, ‘perhaps it’s news of Bazaine you’ve brought?’
‘Could be, they were talking about it at Monthois.’
But at that moment there was a sudden commotion and Jean, who had stopped at one of the entrances to the arbour, turned round and said:
‘The Emperor!’
In a moment they were all on their feet. Between the rows of poplars on the white road, a detachment of bodyguards appeared in their uniforms still wonderfully smart and resplendent, with the blazing gold of their cuirasses. Then suddenly came the Emperor followed by another detachment of bodyguard.
Heads were uncovered and a few cheers rang out. As he went by the Emperor looked up; he was very pale and his face was already drawn, his eyes blinking, vague and watery. He seemed to wake up out of a dream, smiled wanly when he saw this sunlit inn and saluted.
At that moment Jean and Maurice distinctly heard Bouroche behind them, muttering after thoroughly examining the Emperor with his practised eye:
‘He’s a goner!’
Jean, with his limited common sense, had shaken his head: damn bad luck for an army to have a chief like that! Ten minutes later when Maurice, after saying good-bye to Prosper, went off for a stroll and another cigarette or two, feeling contented after his good lunch, he carried with him this picture of the Emperor, so pallid and ineffectual, trotting past on his horse. This was the conspirator, the dreamer lacking the energy when the moment comes for action. He was said to be a very good man, quite capable of a great and generous thought and very tenacious in his silent determination; he was very brave too, a fatalist scorning danger, always prepared to face his destiny. But at times of crisis he seemed all in a daze, as though paralysed when faced with having to do anything and powerless to react against fortune if she turned against him. It made Maurice wonder whether there was not some special physiological condition underlying this, aggravated by pain, whether the illness from which the Emperor was obviously suffering was not the cause of the increasing indecision and impotence he had been showing since the outset of the campaign. It might have been the explanation of it all. A stone in a man’s flesh, and empires collapse.
That evening after roll-call there was a sudden activity in the camp, with officers running to and fro giving orders, fixing the departure for the following morning at five. It was for Maurice a shock of surprise and disquiet to realize