The Debacle - Emile Zola [59]
‘Oh my child, what a dreadful time to meet again! I would gladly have given up my house to the Emperor, but some of the people with him really are too uncouth! If you knew how they have taken everything, and they’ll burn everything too, with the huge fire they’re making… He, poor man, looks like death, and so sad…’
When the young man took his leave, trying to cheer her up, she came with him and leaned over the banister.
‘Look,’ she whispered, ‘you can see him from here… Oh, it’s all up with us, that’s certain. Good-bye, my boy.’
Maurice stayed rooted to a step on the dark staircase. By craning his neck he could see through a fanlight a sight that remained stamped on his mind for ever.
The Emperor was there in this simply furnished, cold room, sitting at a little table on which his dinner was served and which was lit by a candle at each end. Behind, two aides-de-camp were standing in silence. A major-domo was standing by the table, in attendance. And the glass had not been used, the bread had not been touched, a chicken breast was going cold in the middle of the plate. The Emperor, motionless, was gazing at the cloth with the same vacillating, lack-lustre, watery eyes he already had at Rheims. But he looked more tired, and when he had made up his mind, as though it were an immense effort, and taken two mouthfuls, he pushed all the rest away with his hand. He had dined. An expression of secretly borne pain made his pale face look even more ashen.
Downstairs, as Maurice was passing the dining-room, the door was suddenly thrown open and he saw in the flickering candlelight and in the steam rising from dishes, a whole table of equerries, aides-de-camp, court officials busy emptying the bottles unloaded from the vans, swallowing down chickens and mopping up sauces, all with loud conversation. Now that the telegram to the marshal had gone off all these people were delighted at the certainty of retreat. In a week’s time they would have clean beds at last, in Paris.
This made Maurice suddenly conscious of the terrible fatigue weighing him down: now it was certain that the army was falling back all he had to do was sleep until the 7th corps came through. He crossed the open space again, found himself back in Combette’s shop, where he ate as in a dream. Then it seemed that somebody was dressing his foot and taking him up to a room, and after that, black night and nothingness. He slept, knocked right out, scarcely breathing. After an indeterminate time, hours or centuries, his sleep was interrupted by a shudder of panic, and he sat up in the darkness. Where was he? What was this continuous rumbling of thunder that had woken him up? He sudddenly remembered and ran to the window to look. Down in the dark square where the nights were usually so quiet the artillery was on the move in a ceaseless trot of men, horses and cannon, shaking the little dead houses. This sudden departure filled him with unreasoning anxiety. Whatever was the time? It struck four at the Hôtel de Ville. He was endeavouring to be sensible, telling himself that it was simply the beginning of the execution of the order for retreat given the day before, when what he saw as he turned his head upset him more than ever. There was still a light in the corner window of the notary’s house, and at regular intervals the shadow of the Emperor could clearly be seen in dark silhouette.
Maurice