The Debacle - Emile Zola [82]
Once again she was choked with sobs. Some obsession kept bringing her back to these things, and she repeated what the woman from Beaumont had told her. This woman, who lived in the main street of the village, had seen the German artillery going through since nightfall. Along both sides was a hedge of soldiers holding resin torches, lighting the roadway fiery red. And in the middle the stream of horses, cannon and ammunition waggons tore through at a furious gallop. It was a hell-for-leather ride to victory, a devilish hunt for French troops to finish off and do to death in some black hole. Nothing was respected, they smashed everything and simply went on. Horses that stumbled had their harness cut off at once and were rolled over, trampled on and thrown out as bits of bleeding wreckage. Some men trying to cross the road were similarly knocked down and cut to pieces by the wheels. In this hurricane the drivers, who were dying of hunger, did not stop but caught loaves of bread thrown to them while the torch-bearers held out joints of meat for them on the points of their bayonets. Then with the same points they gave the horses a dig so they reared up in terror and galloped faster still. The night went on and on and still the artillery passed through with the increasing violence of a tempest, amid frantic cheering.
In spite of listening attentively to this story Maurice, overcome with fatigue after the voracious eating, had dropped his head between his arms on the table. Jean struggled on a little longer and then he too gave in and went off to sleep at the other end. Old Fouchard had gone down the road again, and so Honoré found himself alone with Silvine who was sitting quite still now, facing the wide open window.
Then he stood up and went over to the window. The night was still immense and black, swollen as it were with the laboured breathing of the troops. But louder noises, knockings and crackings, were coming up now because the artillery was crossing down there over the half-submerged bridge. Horses were rearing, scared by the running water. Ammunition waggons slipped over to one side and had to be pushed completely into the river. As he saw this painful, slow retreat to the opposite bank which had been going on since the day before and would certainly not be completed by dawn, the young man thought of the other artillery tearing through Beaumont like a rushing torrent, overwhelming everything, pounding man and beast so as to go faster.
Honoré went up to Silvine and said softly, in the frightening darkness:
‘Are you unhappy?’
‘Oh yes, I am unhappy.’
She sensed that he was going to refer to the thing, the abominable thing, and lowered her eyes.
‘Tell me, how did it happen? I’d like to know.’
She could not answer.
‘Did he force you?… Did you