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The Downfall (La Debacle) Part 2
by
“And so, that was all they thought my hide was worth! Well, I am not going to give them more than their money’s worth.”
Maurice and Jean were in a towering rage at the idotic onslaught, talking loudly and repelling Chouteau’s insinuations, when out from the fog came a stentorian voice, bellowing:
“What’s this? what’s this? Show me the rascals who dare quarrel in the company street!”
And Lieutenant Rochas appeared upon the scene, in his old kepi, whence the rain had washed all the color, and his great coat, minus many of its buttons, evincing in all his lean, shambling person the extreme of poverty and distress. Notwithstanding his forlorn aspect, however, his sparkling eye and bristling mustache showed that his old time confidence had suffered no impairment.
Jean spoke up, scarce able to restrain himself. “Lieutenant, it is these men, who persist in saying that we are betrayed. Yes, they dare to assert that our generals have sold us–”
The idea of treason did not appear so extremely unnatural to Rochas’s thick understanding, for it served to explain those reverses that he could not account for otherwise.
“Well, suppose they are sold, is it any of their business? What concern is it of theirs? The Prussians are there all the same, aren’t they? and we are going to give them one of the old-fashioned hidings, such as they won’t forget in one while.” Down below them in the thick sea of fog the guns at Bazeilles were still pounding away, and he extended his arms with a broad, sweeping gesture: “Hein! this is the time that we’ve got them! We’ll see them back home, and kick them every step of the way!”
All the trials and troubles of the past were to him as if they had not been, now that his ears were gladdened by the roar of the guns: the delays and conflicting orders of the chiefs, the demoralization of the troops, the stampede at Beaumont, the distress of the recent forced retreat on Sedan–all were forgotten. Now that they were about to fight at last, was not victory certain? He had learned nothing and forgotten nothing; his blustering, boastful contempt of the enemy, his entire ignorance of the new arts and appliances of war, his rooted conviction that an old soldier of Africa, Italy, and the Crimea could by no possibility be beaten, had suffered no change. It was really a little too comical that a man at his age should take the back track and begin at the beginning again!
All at once his lantern jaws parted and gave utterance to a loud laugh. He was visited by one of those impulses of good-fellowship that made his men swear by him, despite the roughness of the jobations that he frequently bestowed on them.
“Look here, my children, in place of quarreling it will be a great deal better to take a good nip all around. Come, I’m going to treat, and you shall drink my health.”
From the capacious pocket of his capote he extracted a bottle of brandy, adding, with his all-conquering air, that it was the gift of a lady. (He had been seen the day before, seated at the table of a tavern in Floing and holding the waitress on his lap, evidently on the best of terms with her.) The soldiers laughed and winked at one another, holding out their porringers, into which he gayly poured the golden liquor.
“Drink to your sweethearts, my children, if you have any and don’t forget to drink to the glory of France. Them’s my sentiments, so vive la joie!”
“That’s right, Lieutenant. Here’s to your health, and everybody else’s!”
They all drank, and their hearts were warmed and peace reigned once more. The “nip” had much of comfort in it, in the chill morning, just as they were going into action, and Maurice felt it tingling in his veins, giving him cheer and a sort of what is known colloquially as “Dutch courage.” Why should they not whip the Prussians? Have not battles their surprises? has not history embalmed many an instance of the fickleness of fortune? That mighty man of war, the lieutenant, added that Bazaine was on the way to join them, would be with them before the day was over: oh, the information was positive; he had it from an aid to one of the generals; and although, in speaking of the route the marshal was to come by, he pointed to the frontier of Belgium, Maurice yielded to one of those spasmodic attacks of hopefulness of his, without which life to him would not have been worth living. Might it not be that the day of reckoning was at hand?