The Debacle - Emile Zola [56]
‘We’re finished,’ he said to Jean, seized with despair in a sudden brief moment of lucidity.
Then as the other opened his eyes wide, not following, he lowered his voice and went on for him alone, referring to the commanders:
‘More stupid than wicked, that’s certain, and always out of luck! They don’t know anything, never foresee anything, they’ve got no plan, no ideas, no lucky breaks… Can’t you see, everything is against us, we’re done for!’
This discouragement that Maurice reasoned out, being an intelligent and educated fellow, gradually grew and weighed on all the troops who were immobilized for no reason and worn out with waiting. In an obscure way doubt and suspicion about the true situation were doing their work in their thick heads, and there was not a man left, however dim-witted, who didn’t feel uneasy about being badly led, held up for no reason, shoved somehow or other into the most disastrous adventure. What the hell were they buggering about there for, with no Prussians coming? Either let them fight at once or go somewhere and get a good night’s sleep. They’d had enough. Since the last aide-de-camp had gone off to bring back orders anxiety was growing every minute, groups had formed and were arguing at the tops of their voices. The officers, who were in sympathy with this agitation, did not know what answers to give to soldiers who ventured to ask questions. So at three, when word went round that the aide-de-camp was back and that they were going to fall back, there was relief in every heart and a sigh of real joy.
So wise counsels were to prevail at last! The Emperor and the marshal, who had never been in favour of this march on Verdun and were now alarmed to know that once again they had been out-manoeuvred and were going to be confronted by the army of the Crown Prince of Saxony as well as that of the Crown Prince of Prussia, were giving up the improbable link-up with Bazaine in order to retreat via the northern strongholds and swing round on Paris. The 7th corps received orders to make for Chagny via Le Chêne, while the 5th was to march on Poix and the 1st and 12th on Vendresse. Very well, then, as they were falling back, why had they advanced to the Aisne, why so many days lost and so much fatigue when it was so easy and logical to go straight from Rheims and take up strong positions in the valley of the Marne? Was there no master plan, no military skill, nor even plain common sense, then? But now the wondering stopped and all was overlooked in delight at this most reasonable decision, the only right one to get them out of the hornets’ nest they had run into. From the generals down to the ranks they all had the feeling that they would recover their strength and be invincible before Paris, and that it was there of necessity that they would defeat the Prussians. But they had to evacuate Vouziers before dawn so as to be on the march towards Le Chêne before an attack came, and at once the camp was filled with extraordinary animation, with bugles sounding, orders being given in all directions, and already baggage trains and administration were going on ahead so as not to impede the rearguard.
Maurice was overjoyed. Then, while he was trying to explain to Jean the manoeuvre of withdrawal they were going to execute, he let out a cry of pain. His state of elation had gone, and he became conscious of his foot again, like a lump of lead on the end of his leg.
‘What, is that starting up again?’ The corporal was very concerned, but with his practical mind he had an idea.
‘Listen, kid, you told me yesterday that you knew people in that town. You ought to get the major’s permission to get a lift to Le Chêne, where you could get a good night’s sleep in a good bed. Tomorrow, if you are walking all right, we can pick you up as we go through. How does that strike you?’
In Falaise itself, the village near which they were camping, Maurice had run into an old friend of his father’s, a small farmer who in any case was going to take