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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Downfall" (La Débâcle), Émile Zola delivers a poignant exploration of the human condition amidst the chaos of the Franco-Prussian War. As a crucial installment in his Rougon-Macquart series, the novel employs a naturalistic literary style that vividly captures the brutal realities of warfare, the frailty of societal structures, and the psychological turmoil faced by soldiers and civilians alike. Zola's meticulous attention to detail and his profound understanding of the socio-political climate of 19th-century France lend a palpable authenticity to the narrative, making it a powerful commentary on the collapse of the French Empire and the disillusionment that follows. Zola, a prominent figure in the literary movement of naturalism, was profoundly influenced by the societal upheavals of his time, particularly the tensions leading up to the war. His own experiences and observations of the struggles of the working class in industrial France fueled his desire to expose the harsh truths of life. With a fierce commitment to realism, Zola adeptly interweaves historical events with the personal stories of his characters, reflecting his belief in literature as a tool for social change. For readers seeking a profound insight into the complexities of war and its impact on society, "The Downfall" is an essential read. Zola's masterful storytelling invites readers to contemplate the fragility of human existence and the moral dilemmas faced in times of turmoil. By immersing oneself in this compelling narrative, one gains not only an appreciation for Zola's literary genius but also a deeper understanding of the historical forces that shaped modern France. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - An Author Biography reveals milestones in the author's life, illuminating the personal insights behind the text. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Downfall (La Débâcle)
Table of Contents
Introduction
"The army is the great moment of revelation for every man, the awful moment that determines the issue of battle and reveals the depths of his soul." This poignant line from Émile Zola's 'The Downfall' encapsulates the essence of the narrative, capturing the fraught relationships between humans and the tumultuous forces of war. Throughout the novel, Zola explores the depths of human character amidst the chaos of battle, posing profound questions about courage, morality, and the human condition. This thematic anchor allows readers to reflect on the existential struggles faced during times of conflict, lending the story a timeless resonance.
Recognized as a cornerstone of naturalist literature, 'The Downfall' holds a revered place in the canon of classic literary works. Written in the late 19th century, it delves into human emotions, social conditions, and the impact of societal structures with an unflinching gaze. Zola's ability to interweave personal narrative with wider historical contexts has inspired generations of authors who seek to depict the complexity of human life. The richness of this narrative, along with its frank portrayal of the human psyche under stress, continues to engage readers across various cultures and contexts.
Published in 1892, 'The Downfall' is the 19th installment in Zola's famed Rougon-Macquart series. The novel stands as a trenchant critique of the socio-political fabric of its time, particularly focusing on the Franco-Prussian War and its catastrophic aftermath. Through vivid characterizations and meticulous detail, Zola crafts a powerful story depicting the lives of individuals caught in the crossfire of war’s harsh realities. By highlighting the personal consequences of societal upheaval, Zola aims to expose the vulnerabilities of humanity in battleground scenarios, providing a canvas for exploring deeper philosophical questions.
Zola, a key figure in the literary movement known as naturalism, intended to portray life as it truly is, devoid of romantic embellishments. His aim was to illuminate the forces that shape human behavior, including heredity, environment, and social conditions. In 'The Downfall,' he does this by meticulously detailing his characters' responses to the escalating war, reflecting both their physical and moral disintegration. The narrative captures the multifaceted impact of conflict, providing insight into the fragility of human dignity and the harrowing experience of loss and defeat.
One of the central figures in 'The Downfall' is the military man Pierre, whose personal struggles are emblematic of the larger social breakdown that accompanies the war. Zola carefully constructs Pierre's journey through combat and despair, which mirrors the fate of many faced with the horrors of war. The complexity of his character, along with the diverse array of supporting figures, enriches the narrative while driving home the pervasive sense of futility and chaos that war unleashes on the populace. Themes of disillusionment and hopelessness resound throughout, underscoring Zola's critical approach to storytelling.
Zola’s text is not merely a historical account but an exploration of differing societal responses to tragedy. It showcases a wide range of perspectives on courage and cowardice, honor and shame, offering readers a comprehensive view of human behavior under duress. These themes remain pertinent today as they evoke discussions about the nature of conflict, ethics in warfare, and the moral questions arising from human decisions in moments of crisis. Each character's fate ties back to their social context, urging readers to consider the influence of environment and circumstance on individual actions.
The emotional depth in 'The Downfall' is crafted through Zola's immersive prose, which transports readers into the heart of conflict. His attention to sensory details and psychological realism crafts a vivid experience, allowing audiences to feel the triumphs and tragedies faced by his characters. Zola’s rich descriptions of battle scenes and civilian life amidst war provide a compelling contrast, magnifying the personal stakes each character must contend with. This balance of external conflict and internal turmoil speaks to the interwoven complexities of human existence and societal dynamics.
Zola's bold incorporation of naturalism allows him to lay bare the struggles and suffering encountered by individuals, making 'The Downfall' a powerful reflection on the darker aspects of human nature. By employing a realistic lens, he encourages readers to confront uncomfortable truths and understand the pervasive impact of war on society as a whole. This stark portrayal of loss and devastation continues to resonate, reminding contemporary readers that the consequences of conflict transcend time and place, prompting reflection on current global issues.
As a pivotal work within Zola's Rougon-Macquart series, 'The Downfall' is intrinsically linked with the overarching themes that permeate his body of work. The author explores the interplay between individual agency and systemic forces, illustrating how characters’ destinies are often dictated by their circumstances. This exploration invites readers to interrogate their understanding of free will and determinism, as Zola reinforces the idea that we are often products of our environments. Such questions are timeless and continue to hold relevance in discussions across various disciplines.
Zola’s legacy as a literary pioneer extends beyond his own works; his naturalist philosophy has influenced countless writers in both fiction and non-fiction. From the exploration of social class to the emphasis on the harsh realities of life, many authors draw inspiration from Zola’s frank and often unvarnished portrayals of society. The way 'The Downfall' handles personal tragedies amidst communal crises serves as a touchstone for contemporary writers grappling with similar themes. Zola's influence is enduring, as his commitment to truth-telling pushes literary boundaries even today.
Moreover, 'The Downfall' serves as a critical reminder of the human cost of war, a theme that remains relevant in modern discourse. As geopolitical tensions persist worldwide, Zola’s exploration of the psychological and emotional ramifications of conflict can provide valuable insights for today’s audiences. By examining the characters’ struggles and failures, readers are prompted to reflect on contemporary society’s responses to crisis and how history inevitably shapes human experiences. This reflective quality ensures that Zola’s work continues to captivate and challenge readers across generations.
The characters within 'The Downfall' are not mere observers of the war; they are deeply affected victims of its dire consequences. Their journeys reflect a profound sense of loss, not only of life but also of ideals and identities. Zola vividly illustrates the collapse of familial ties, social aspirations, and individual integrity under the weight of despair. The parallel between personal breakdown and national catastrophe underscores the far-reaching effects of war, thus enhancing the emotional weight of the story and ensuring its gripping nature for contemporary readers.
In essence, Zola's narrative strategy contrasts individual narratives with broader historical forces, allowing readers to understand the interplay between personal and collective experiences. As the plot unfolds, the tension between hope and despondency sharpens, revealing the precariousness of human existence amid tumult. Each character's downfall becomes a mirror reflecting society’s moral and ethical dilemmas, prompting thoughtful contemplation on themes of responsibility and the human capacity for survival against insurmountable odds. It challenges readers to confront their understanding of resilience and fortitude.
The multifaceted storytelling in 'The Downfall' establishes it not only as a narrative about war but also as a philosophical inquiry into the essence of humanity. Its exploration of grief, guilt, betrayal, and sacrifice remains relevant to modern audiences, who grapple with similar existential dilemmas amidst crises. Zola's commitment to portraying the darker sides of existence paves the way for critical engagement with the nuances of life, ultimately enriching the reader's capacity to empathize and understand the complex struggles of others. The book remains a crucial discourse on what it means to be human in turbulent times.
The lasting impact of 'The Downfall' lies in its ability to resonate across different eras, making it a pertinent read for multiple audiences. As contemporary readers encounter conflicts that echo the same themes Zola explored in his narrative, they are compelled to witness both the external chaos of war and the internal battles faced by individuals. The experience of reading this novel instills a heightened awareness of the cycles of conflict and the enduring question of Humanism versus the brutality of reality, making it a critical text for understanding past and present societal challenges.
Zola’s deliberate choice to focus on the inner workings of human psychology during warfare further deepens the work’s relevance. It is a pointed examination of not only the historical context but also the timeless nature of human reactions to adversity. The intricacies of fear, hope, and survival are laid bare, urging readers to confront their own responses to challenges and uncertainties. In an era marked by robust discussions on mental health and the impacts of trauma, Zola's exploration serves as both a cautionary tale and a source of resilience within the human experience.
In conclusion, 'The Downfall' endures as a tour de force in literature, invoking timeless themes and insightful reflections on the human condition. Its vivid portrayal of war's moral dilemmas, the fragility of societal structures, and the resilience of the human spirit ensure that it remains a significant literary work for contemporary audiences. Zola’s willingness to delve into the harsh realities of life prompts readers to face uncomfortable truths while highlighting the innate strength that can emerge from despair. In grasping these nuances, audiences are encouraged to critically engage with the world around them, shedding light on the continued relevance of Zola's powerful narrative.
Synopsis
The Downfall (La Débâcle) by Émile Zola is the tenth novel in his renowned Les Rougon-Macquart series, which chronicles the effects of the Franco-Prussian War on French society. Published in 1892, the novel is set against the backdrop of the war, focusing on the catastrophic events of 1870 and the subsequent military defeat of France. It delves into themes of fate, the fragility of human endeavors, and the impact of war on individuals and families, capturing the chaos and despair that ensues as France spirals into crisis.
The story centers around the lives of several characters in the small village of Plassans, particularly focusing on the experiences of the main protagonist, Pierre Rougon, who is a soldier. As the war intensifies, Pierre faces immense challenges, both on the battlefield and within his family. The narrative unfolds with the buildup to the war, highlighting the community's misguided optimism as tensions with Prussia escalate, allowing readers to witness the interplay between individual hopes and broader political turmoil.
As the war begins, Zola presents a vivid portrayal of the military's tragic failures. Pierre, along with his fellow soldiers, grapples with the harsh realities of warfare, marked by confusion, poor leadership, and a lack of clear direction. The men are thrust into harrowing situations that test their courage and resolve. Zola meticulously depicts the chaos of battle, showing how the soldiers respond to the terror and despair surrounding them, which serves as a commentary on the fragility of human life amidst systemic collapse.
A turning point in the narrative occurs during the siege of Metz, where the French army finds itself trapped and unable to escape. The depiction of the siege highlights the psychological and physical toll on both soldiers and civilians. As hope dwindles and resources deplete, characters like Pierre and his comrades evolve, revealing their vulnerabilities and the strain of war. This brings forth Zola's critique of military strategies, illustrating the futility of the war while exploring the overarching themes of defeat and disillusionment.
Simultaneously, the rear lives of the families at home are explored, revealing the impact of the war on domestic life. Pierre's interactions with his family highlight the disconnect between the front lines and the home front, reflecting the emotional turmoil and suffering experienced by loved ones. The characters face their own internal conflicts, exacerbated by rising tensions, hunger, and desperation, giving the reader insight into the broader societal collapse that the war brings about.
As the narrative progresses, the breakdown of social and moral values becomes increasingly evident. The stench of defeat looms over every aspect of life, and Zola exposes how people resort to desperation and betrayal as the war ravages their lives. This moral decay is illustrated through various characters whose lives are unmade by the relentless pressures of the conflict, reinforcing the destructive legacy of war on human integrity and societal structure.
An important aspect of The Downfall is Zola's use of detailed realism to convey his message. He does not shy away from the horrors of war and its dehumanizing effects, employing vivid imagery and multiple perspectives to paint a comprehensive picture of the collapse both physically and psychologically. This naturalistic approach allows readers to confront the raw reality of war, evoking a strong emotional response while remaining unflinching in its critique of human folly.
In the latter sections, the resolution of individual stories becomes intertwined with the broader disintegration of national identity, as characters navigate the wreckage left in the wake of defeat. Pierre's personal journey reflects the universal struggle of individuals seeking meaning amidst chaos. Through his experiences, Zola portrays a poignant reflection on loss and the quest for redemption, ultimately leaving readers to ponder the implications of war on humanity.
The Downfall culminates in a powerful exploration of the themes of despair, mortality, and the innate human struggle against fate. Zola's vivid storytelling offers a critical examination of the socio-political climate of the time, suggesting that the failures of war are not merely military disasters but deeply rooted societal issues. Ultimately, the book serves as a cautionary tale about the costs of pride, ambition, and the hubris of nations, resonating with the enduring message that the repercussions of conflict echo throughout generations.
Historical Context
The novel is set against the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–1871, a conflict that shattered the Second French Empire and reshaped Europe’s balance of power. Its action moves through the northern provinces of France, where pitched encounters and retreating columns bring devastation to villages and towns. Zola uses these episodes to dramatize both the physical hardships of battle and the breakdown of civic life, as soldiers and civilians alike confront hunger, disease and the collapse of long-standing institutions.
The wider war grew out of Prussia’s drive to unite the German states under its crown and France’s determination to check its rival’s ascendancy. A diplomatic crisis over the succession to the Spanish throne, inflamed by Bismarck’s publication of the edited Ems Dispatch, prompted a French declaration of war in July 1870. In the novel, the surge of patriotic fervor that greets mobilization gives way swiftly to disillusionment as French forces suffer a series of reverses.
The defeat at Sedan on September 1, 1870—where Napoleon III surrendered with his army—provides a dramatic turning point. Zola depicts the panic among conscripts and the collapse of command, capturing the panic and confusion that turned what had been touted as a quick, glorious war into a catastrophe. Sedan becomes, in his pages, a symbol of imperial authority undone and a harbinger of France’s humiliation.
Meanwhile, the Siege of Paris from September 1870 to January 1871 exacts a savage toll on the capital’s civilian population. Food shortages, makeshift hospitals and constant bombardment reduce once-busy streets to misery and resignation. Zola treats the capital as a microcosm of a nation under strain: the city’s endurance and eventual capitulation signal not only a military defeat but also the end of an era, marked by the proclamation of the German Empire in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.
In the aftermath of defeat, France moves from empire to republic amid political confusion. The novel’s characters encounter upheaval in local administration and witness the uncertain birth of the Third Republic, whose leaders struggle to negotiate peace, manage war debts and restore public order. Zola highlights the limits of official authority and the growing distrust between classes.
Economic crisis follows hard on the heels of military collapse. Indemnity payments to Berlin, combined with abandoned fields and ruined workshops, deepen poverty across the countryside and in provincial towns. Against this backdrop, tensions between landowners, small proprietors and wage-earners come to the fore. The author’s portrayal of tradesmen, farmhands and factory workers underscores the social fissures widened by defeat and indebtedness.
Women, deprived of male protectors and breadwinners, assume new responsibilities in families and communities. Zola sketches their resilience—organizing soup kitchens, tending the wounded—but also their frustration at remaining subject to social constraints. This attention to gender roles reflects shifting realities in a society under extreme duress.
Throughout the narrative, notions of military honor and patriotic sacrifice collide with the grim facts of slaughter and flight. Young conscripts who once dreamed of glory are shown choking on mud, racked by cold or crushed beneath artillery fire. By exposing the gap between martial ideology and battlefield horror, Zola delivers a powerful critique of the romantic myths that sustain war.
Drawing on his naturalist principles, the author treats historical events as the product of larger forces—institutional failures, economic pressures and collective psychology—over which individuals have limited control. His characters move through a world governed by chance and circumstance, their personal hopes subsumed by the momentum of armies and states.
Anti-German feeling, inflamed by occupation and newspaper caricatures, reverberates in civilian conversations and private thoughts. Fear and resentment against the invader infiltrate domestic life, complicating relationships and deepening communal schisms. Zola shows how the hatred born of conflict can outlast military campaigns and poison future generations.
In exposing the incompetence of senior officers, the muddled orders of rival ministries and the chronic underinvestment in training and equipment, the novel indicts the entire political and military establishment. Generals appear complacent or parochial; soldiers arrive at the front ill-prepared and ill-led. These scenes lay bare the tragic costs of arrogance and mismanagement.
Finally, the narrative emphasizes the fragmentation of social bonds that war brings in its wake. Families are scattered, friendships sundered, communities divided between those who fled and those who remained. By tracing individual fates—soldiers who desert, townsfolk who struggle to rebuild, widows forced into new livelihoods—Zola offers a poignant meditation on the collapse and tentative rebirth of civic life.
More than a chronicle of battles, this powerful work stands as a social critique of 19th-century France. It dissects class conflict, unmasks the failings of leadership and reveals how conflict uproots the deepest human connections. In doing so, it ensures that the lessons of those dark months continue to resonate.
Author Biography
Introduction
Émile Zola (1840–1902) was a French novelist, critic, and the leading theorist of literary naturalism. Best known for Les Rougon-Macquart, a twenty-novel cycle charting French society under the Second Empire, he combined meticulous research with dramatic storytelling. Major novels such as L'Assommoir, Nana, Germinal, Au Bonheur des Dames, and La Bête humaine made him both a celebrated and controversial public figure. As a journalist, he intervened decisively in the Dreyfus Affair with his open letter J'accuse..., turning literature into a moral force in public life. Zola's work transformed the novel into an instrument for social inquiry and remains central to modern debates about art and responsibility.
Education and Literary Influences
Zola spent part of his youth in Aix-en-Provence before settling in Paris in the late 1850s. His formal schooling was uneven; after difficulties completing the baccalauréat, he entered the book trade and, in the early 1860s, joined the publisher Hachette, where he learned the mechanics of authorship, publicity, and journalism. The job exposed him to the Parisian press and to systematic reading across history, science, and contemporary fiction. By the mid-1860s he had left salaried work to pursue writing full time, supporting himself with reviews, short fiction, and polemical essays that honed the factual, argumentative prose he later brought into the novel.
Intellectually, Zola drew on Honoré de Balzac's panoramic social vision and Gustave Flaubert's stylistic rigor, while adapting the positivist ideas of Hippolyte Taine and the experimental method of physiologist Claude Bernard. He believed heredity and environment shaped behavior and that the novelist should observe, collect data, and test hypotheses in narrative form. His friendship with the painter Paul Cézanne deepened his interest in contemporary art; early Salon criticism championed Édouard Manet and the emerging Impressionists. These influences converged in a program he later articulated in essays like Le Roman expérimental, proposing a science-informed, documentary approach to fiction without sacrificing dramatic intensity.
Literary Career
Zola's first notable success came with Thérèse Raquin, a bleak tale of passion and guilt that provoked accusations of immorality but announced his commitment to probing psychological and social determinism. Around the early 1870s he conceived Les Rougon-Macquart, subtitled Histoire naturelle et sociale d'une famille sous le Second Empire. The twenty-novel project follows interrelated branches of a family across classes and regions, using recurring characters to examine alcoholism, ambition, commerce, and criminality. Its architecture allowed him to test how inherited traits behaved in different milieus, while the serial publication of individual volumes kept him in the public eye for over two decades.
Early volumes such as La Fortune des Rougon, La Curée, and Le Ventre de Paris mapped the birth of the regime, the speculative frenzy of Haussmann's rebuilt capital, and the bustling markets of Les Halles. Zola complemented imaginative scenes with on-site observation, archival research, and interviews, practices that lent his descriptions a journalistic vividness. The combination of topical subjects and uncompromising detail divided critics: some praised the breadth and energy of his realism; others condemned his focus on vice and squalor. The controversies, however, amplified his readership and solidified his reputation as the most ambitious novelist of his generation.
L'Assommoir, centered on working-class Paris and the corrosive effects of cheap alcohol, became a sensation, selling in large numbers and drawing fervent debate about literature's social responsibilities. Nana, portraying a courtesan whose allure exposes hypocrisy among the elite, extended his critique of the Second Empire's moral economy. Zola's style—dense with sensory detail, specialized vocabulary, and carefully orchestrated motifs—aimed to immerse readers in material conditions while tracing the pressure of social forces. He paired this method with a keen sense of narrative rhythm, producing novels that were both researched and dramatically propulsive, traits that helped them succeed onstage and in translation.
In the mid-to-late 1880s Zola reached a sustained peak. Germinal offered a harrowing portrait of miner solidarity and strike, quickly becoming one of his most admired works. La Terre examined the violence and endurance of rural life, while Au Bonheur des Dames explored consumer modernity through the rise of the department store. La Bête humaine probed desire, technology, and crime along the railway. These novels showed the range of the Rougon-Macquart design, from industrial conflict to retail capitalism, and cemented Zola's international stature. They also elicited censorship attempts and moral campaigns, underscoring how closely his fiction tracked contentious social realities.
Beyond the Rougon-Macquart, Zola published critical manifestos and organized younger writers around the Médan circle, whose collective volume Les Soirées de Médan signaled a new naturalist short story. He also turned to other large structures: the Trois Villes—Lourdes, Rome, and Paris—used pilgrimage, ecclesiastical power, and metropolitan secularism to revisit questions of belief, politics, and modernity. Throughout, he defended art's right to scrutinize institutions and insisted that narrative inquiry could clarify the mechanisms of injustice. While not every volume convinced contemporaries, the scale of his projects and the persistence of his method kept him central to literary and public debate.
Beliefs and Advocacy
Zola's core belief was that literature should be an experimental inquiry into society, guided by observation and open to the findings of modern science. He saw individuals as shaped by environment, work, and family history, and he treated the novel as a laboratory for testing how those forces operate. His public criticism encouraged secular education, republican legality, and freedom of expression. He rejected idealizing tendencies and argued that confronting poverty, exploitation, and desire was a prerequisite for reform. This ethical program appears in both his theoretical writings and his meticulous preparations for each novel, which often involved fieldwork and technical study.
His most consequential intervention was during the Dreyfus Affair. In the late 1890s Zola published the open letter J'accuse... in the newspaper L'Aurore, denouncing judicial errors and calling for a retrial. The act made him a target of political and legal retaliation; he was tried and convicted of libel and, facing imprisonment, left for England for roughly a year before returning to France. The campaign helped shift opinion, and Alfred Dreyfus was eventually exonerated by the courts in the early 1900s. Zola's stance crystallized the role of the engaged writer in modern democracies and linked his name permanently to the defense of justice.
Final Years & Legacy
In his final years Zola launched the Quatre Évangiles series, beginning with Fécondité and Travail, works that pressed for social renewal, labor solidarity, and humane institutions. He continued to write journalism and to advocate for secular republican values. He died in 1902 from carbon monoxide poisoning attributed to a blocked chimney at his Paris home, a death that shocked the nation and provoked public mourning. He was first interred in a Paris cemetery and, in 1908, his remains were transferred to the Panthéon, a sign of official recognition. Posthumous volumes, including Vérité, extended his late concern with education and truth.
Zola's legacy is double: as the architect of a comprehensive social novel and as a model of civic courage. His techniques—documentary research, ensembles of recurring characters, and attention to networks of work, money, and power—reshaped fiction across Europe and beyond. Writers associated with the naturalist current, including authors of the Médan circle such as Guy de Maupassant and J.-K. Huysmans, developed aspects of his program, even when they later diverged. His novels continue to inspire adaptations and scholarship, while J'accuse... remains emblematic of intellectual responsibility. In contemporary literary culture, Zola stands as a foundational figure of modern realist inquiry.
The Downfall (La Débâcle)
PREFACE
Before the present translation of M. Zola's novel, 'La Débâcle,' appeared in 'The Weekly Times and Echo,' in which it was originally issued, the author was interviewed for that journal by Mr. Robert H. Sherard, whom he favoured with some interesting particulars concerning the scope and purport of his narrative. By the courtesy both of Mr. Sherard and of the proprietor of 'The Weekly Times,' the translator is here able to republish the remarks made by M. Zola on the occasion referred to. They will be found to supply an appropriate preface to the story:—
'"La Débâcle" has given me infinitely more trouble than any of my previous works. When I began writing it, I had no conception of the immensity of the task which I had imposed on myself. The labour of reading up all that has been written on my subject in general, and on the battle of Sedan[1] in particular, has been enormous, and the work of condensation of all that I have had to read has been all the more laborious that on no subject has more divergence of opinion been expressed ... I have read all that has been written about the battle of Sedan, as well as about the unhappy adventures of the luckless Seventh Army Corps[3], in which is placed the fictitious regiment which plays the leading rôle in my novel. And the digestion has not been an easy task. Each general, for instance, has a different version to give of the why and the wherefore of the defeat. Each claims to have had a plan, which, if it had been followed, would have averted the disaster. Another difficulty has been that I took no part in that campaign, not having been a soldier, and that for my information on the life and experience of those who went through the campaign in general, and the battle of Sedan in particular, I have had to depend on outside testimony, often of a conflicting nature. I may say, however, that in this matter I have been greatly helped by the kindness of persons who are good enough to be interested in my work, and as soon as it became known that I was writing a book about the war and about Sedan, I received from all parts of France manuscript relations written by people of all classes who had been present at the battle, and who sent me their recollections. That was most excellent material—indeed, the best, because not to be found anywhere else. An "Anecdotal Account of the Battle of Sedan" was sent me by a gentleman who is now professor at one of the Universities in the South. A long, ill-spelt letter came to me from a gamekeeper in the North, in which he gave me a full account of the battle as it impressed him, who was a private soldier in the Seventh Army Corps at the time. I have masses of such documents, and it was my duty to go through everything that could throw any light on my subject.
'The subject was to be War. I had to consider War in its relation to various classes of society[1q]—War vis-à-vis the bourgeois[5], War vis-à-vis the peasant, War vis-à-vis the workman. How the war was brought about—that is to say, the state of mind of men in France at the time—was a consideration which also supplied me with a number of characters. I had to show, in a series of types, France who had lost the use of liberty, France drunk with pleasure, France fated irrevocably to disaster. I had to have types to show France so prompt to enthusiasm, so prompt to despair. And then there were to be shown the immense faults committed, and to show by character how the commission of such faults was possible, a natural sequence of a certain psychological state of mind of a certain preponderating class, which existed in the last days of the Empire. Then each phase of action had to be typified. The question of the Emperor and his surroundings—I had to have characters to explain "the sick man" and his state at the time. I had to show how it was with the peasants of the period, and hence to equip a character or two for that purpose. The Francs-tireurs[4] played an important part in the epoch; it therefore became necessary for me to incarnate these, to create a typical Franc-tireur. The spies and spying had their influence on the whole; I had to have a spy. By the way, the spy in my book is one of the few German characters that I have created—four or five—this spy and an officer or two. Then, having thus, with a stroke of the rake, dragged together all that I could find as likely to illustrate my period, both historically and psychologically considered, I wrote out rapidly—the work of one feverish morning—a maquette, or rough draft of all I wanted to do, some fifteen or twenty pages.
'It then became necessary to see the places, to study the geography of my book, for at that period I did not know where my scenes were to be laid, whether on the banks of the Rhine, or elsewhere. So, with my rough draft in my pocket, and my head teeming with the shadows of my marionettes, and of the things that they were to do and to explain, I set off for Rheims and went carefully over the whole ground, driving from Rheims to Sedan, and following foot by foot the road by which the Seventh Corps—already then decided upon as the milieu in which my novel was to develop—marched to their disaster. During that drive I picked up an immense quantity of material, halting in farmhouses and peasants' cottages, and taking copious notes. Then came Sedan, and after a careful study of the place and the people, I saw that my novel must deal largely, for the full comprehension of my story, not only with the locality, but with the people of the town. This gave me the bourgeois of Sedan, who play an important part in my tale. Little by little, the geography gave me also the physiology of my book. Each new place that it became necessary to describe supplied its type, its characters.
'So, on my return to Paris, I was in an immense workshop or yard surrounded with huge mountains of hewn stones, mortar and bricks, and all that remained then to do was to build the best structure that I could build of these materials. But before that, the architect's plan was necessary, and that I next carefully evolved. My plan of work is most rigorous. Each chapter is marked out in advance, but it is only as I am writing that the various incidents which I have collected fall into place.... My labour has been one of reconciliation of divergent statements in the first place, and of condensation in the second. I had to reduce to one page what I could easily, and without prolixity, have treated in a dozen pages; so that with each page, nay with each sentence, I have been confronted with the question what to leave out and what to say. Then, when each page was written, I began to torture myself with the doubt whether I had left unsaid things I ought to have said, whether I had sacrificed good to inferior material.
'"La Débâcle" is divided into three parts. The first part treats of the action of the luckless Seventh Army Corps, in which is the fictitious regiment in which my hero or heroes are placed. I say heroes, because I have really two heroes in this story. One is Jean, of my novel 'La Terre,' who is a corporal in this regiment; the other is a new character named Maurice, who goes through Sedan as a private soldier. Between these two men a great friendship exists, and, indeed, it is from this friendship in the face of death and danger, this comradeship of arms malgré tout, that I draw the chief effects of sentiment with which my novel is seasoned. For "La Débâcle" is not a love story. The female characters in it play only secondary rôles; there is no love-making worth speaking about, at the most, only the "intention" of love, the indication of courtship. Jean and Maurice, my two heroes, moreover, present types of the France of the day. Maurice, who is represented as a young man who has recently been admitted to the bar, is the man of the world—light, cynical, sceptical, the type of the France of the Empire, embodying her grace and her faults. He is the type of the France that, sated with pleasure, rushed to disaster. Jean represents the new social couche, a new stratum, and is in some way emblematic of the France of the future. Now, I will confess that when I began writing my book, and had this idea of this friendship, I expected to be able to produce by its means a much greater effect than I think I have done. This friendship has not yielded all that I had hoped for from it.
'The first section of eight chapters opens with allusion to the trifling defeats on the frontier, it shows the Seventh Corps crowded back on to Rheims; but the principal subject of these chapters is the terrible march from Rheims to Sedan. It is an epic event, pregnant with the irony of fate, and, to my thinking, one of the most tragic military episodes that history records. There is no fighting described in this part; indeed, the only battle that I describe is Sedan. The tragedy lies in the exposition of the faults that gradually led up to the terrible disaster. The reader follows the movements of this ill-fated corps, knowing what a terrible shadow of defeat, disaster, and death overhangs it. It was a wonderful corps, and the way it was managed was wonderful in its crass stupidity.
'My second part is entirely devoted to a description of the battle of Sedan in all its phases, seen from all sides. I have omitted nothing which can help to a comprehension of that enormous episode in the histories of France and of the world. Now we are with Napoleon, now with the Emperor of Germany, now with the bourgeois of Sedan, now with the Francs-tireurs in the woods. Each movement of troops that contributed to the final dénouement is exposed. I have endeavoured to be complete, but as I have said, I had too little space for the immense amount of material in my hands. I have also endeavoured to speak the plain truth without either fear or favour. The reader will be aroused to compassion with the sufferings, bodily and mental, of the heroic and martyred army, just as he will be aroused to indignation at the conduct of its chiefs, which fell little short of downright dementia. It has been my duty to be severely critical, and I have not shrunk from the responsibility of wounding, where it was right and just to do so, susceptibilities which I see no reason for respecting. I dare say there will be some outcry at my blame, but I am indifferent, having spoken the truth.
'The last part of my novel is played out in Sedan, after the battle. From thence the reader follows the rest of the history of the war as it develops itself in other parts of France, until it culminates in the outbreak of the Commune and the final collapse of Paris in a sea of fire and an ocean of blood. The last chapter of the book is an account of Paris in flames, of Paris with its gutters running with blood. I hope by this means to produce a gradation of effect—the catastrophe of Sedan, which ends the second part, followed up by the still greater catastrophe of the last chapter. To resume: The first part of my novel is the march from Rheims to Sedan; the second is the catastrophe of Sedan, from inception to dénouement; and the third the collapse not of Paris alone, but of the whole of old-time France, with the dénouement of the burning of Paris, the flames of which clear away not only an old régime, but a whole psychological state, and prepare a fresh field for a new and regenerated people. For observe, that my book, as far as outward construction goes, divided into three parts, may also be divided into a novel of historical and a novel of psychological interest. It tells a tale of many adventures, but it also aims to give a full list of psychological studies of French society as it was at the outbreak of the war.
'My novels have always been written with a higher aim than merely to amuse. I have so high an opinion of the novel as a means of expression—I consider it parallel with lyrical poetry, as the highest form of literary expression, just as in the last century the drama was the highest form of expression—that it is on this account that I have chosen it as the form in which to present to the world what I wish to say on the social, scientific, and psychological problems that occupy the minds of thinking men. But for this I might have said what I wanted to say to the world in another form. But the novel has to-day risen from the place which it held in the last century at the table of the banquet of letters. It was then the idle pastime of the hour, and sat low down between the fable and the idyll. To-day it contains, or may be made to contain, everything; and it is because that is my creed that I am a novelist. I have, to my thinking, certain contributions to make to the thought of the world on certain subjects, and I have chosen the novel as the best way of communicating these contributions to the world. Thus "La Débâcle," in the form of a very precise and accurate relation of a series of historical facts—in other words, in the form of a realistic historical novel—is a document on the psychology of France in 1870. This will explain the enormous number of characters which figure in the book. Each character represents one état d'âme psychologique of the France of the day. If my work be well done, the reader will be able to understand what was in men's minds and what was the bent of men's minds—what they thought, and how they thought, at that period.'
As might have been expected with a work dealing with such a question as the last Franco-German War, 'La Débâcle' has given rise to considerable controversy in France. Some ultra-bellicose Frenchmen, and among them M. de Vogue of the Academy, have taunted the author with a lack of patriotism, their notion being apparently that they ought never to be told the truth concerning themselves. Other persons have impeached M. Zola's accuracy with regard to various matters of detail, and a few have gone so far as to accuse him of having written that which he must have known to be untrue. It may be as well to notice some of the charges here.
It is said that there are no hop-gardens on the road from Mulhausen to Altkirch, as will be found stated in Chapter II. (Part I.), and in this instance it would really appear that M. Zola has fallen into error. Viewing the road from a distance, and being very short-sighted, he doubtless mistook vineyards for hop-grounds. The error is in some degree excusable, however, when it is remembered that in this part of Alsace the vines are trained to poles ten and eleven feet high. It is also denied that vast sums of money were distributed among the men of the Seventh Army Corps without any written acknowledgment at the close of the battle of Sedan, as will be found stated in Chapter VII. (Part II.). I have reason to believe that it was the money of another army corps which was thus distributed, and that M. Zola transposed the incident for the purposes of his story. A little license of this kind is surely allowable in a work of fiction. M. Paul de Cassagnac, the well-known Bonapartist politician and journalist, denies that Napoleon III. had his face rouged and powdered on the morning of the battle of Sedan (Sept. 1), in proof of which he mentions that he was with Napoleon during the whole of the battle of Mouzon (Aug. 30), and also frequently ate at the Imperial table during the campaign. M. Zola does not state that Napoleon habitually painted his face. He says (Chapters I. and III., Part II.) that he did so on one occasion only, early on the morning of Sept. 1, and that the rouge, &c., was entirely washed away by perspiration at 11 a.m., when he returned into the town from the front. The battle of Mouzon and what occurred at other times during the campaign have nothing to do with the matter, and M. de Cassagnac's so-called denial is beside the question. The same may be said of the denials of M. Robert Mitchell, another Bonapartist politician and journalist, and of the Princess Mathilde Bonaparte, daughter of King Jerôme. The princess was not even at Sedan, and can know nothing of the matter. Moreover, is it likely that she would admit the accuracy of any statement at all disparaging to the memory of Napoleon III.? Is it likely that M. de Cassagnac would do so? Or M. Robert Mitchell either? These gentlemen upheld the Imperial régime through thick and thin, and the former, at any rate, was most liberally rewarded for his services. He has, therefore, good reason to be prejudiced. M. Zola declares that he had the information in dispute in part from 'a certain lady,' and in part from various people of Sedan, and so far there is nothing to prove that it is inaccurate.
I may, perhaps, be allowed to add that I have given considerable time and care to the translation of 'La Débâcle.' I have always tried to give the sense and substance of M. Zola's narrative, though at times I have found myself unable to use his actual words. In matters of translation, however, I am of the opinion of Thackeray, which was also that expressed by James Howell in one of his often-quoted 'Familiar Letters.' Here and there I have appended to the text some notes which may assist the reader, for whose benefit the publishers have provided two sketch-maps of the battle of Sedan.
E. A. V.
November 1892.
(See Note on p. 535.)
THE DOWNFALL
PART I
FROM THE RHINE TO THE MEUSE
CHAPTER I
IN CAMP—A GREAT DISASTER
The camp was pitched in the centre of a fertile plain at a mile or so from Mulhausen, in the direction of the Rhine. In the twilight of a sultry day in August, under the dull sky, across which heavy clouds were drifting, the rows of shelter-tents could be seen stretching out amid a broad expanse of ploughed land. At regular intervals along the front gleamed the piles of arms, guarded by sentinels with loaded rifles, who stood there stock-still, their eyes fixed dreamily on the violet-tinted mist which was rising from the great river on the far horizon.
The men had arrived from Belfort at about five o' clock. It was now eight, and they had only just received their rations. The firewood, however, had apparently gone astray, for none had been distributed, so that there was neither fire nor soupe. The men had been obliged to munch their hard, dry biscuit, washing it down with copious draughts of brandy, which had dealt the last blow, as it were, to their failing legs, already nerveless through fatigue. Near the canteen, however, beyond the stacks of arms, two men were stubbornly endeavouring to light some green wood—a pile of young tree trunks, which they had cut down with their sword-bayonets, and which obstinately refused to blaze. Merely a coil of thick black smoke of lugubrious aspect ascended from the heap into the evening air.
There were here only 12,000 men, all that General Félix Douay had with him of the Seventh Army Corps. The first division, summoned by MacMahon the day before, had started for Frœschweiler; the third was still at Lyons; and the general had resolved to leave Belfort and advance to the front with merely the second division, supported by the reserve artillery and an incomplete division of horse. Camp fires had been signalled at Lorrach, and the Sub-Prefect of Schelestadt had telegraphed that the Prussians were about to cross the Rhine at Margolsheim. The general, who realised how dangerous was his isolated position at the extreme right of the other army corps, with none of which he was in communication, had hastened his advance to the frontier the more rapidly, as news had reached him, the day before, of the disastrous surprise of Weissenburg. Even supposing he did not have to resist an attack on his own lines, it was now to be feared that he might at any moment be called upon to support the First Army Corps.[1] That very day—that disquieting, stormy Saturday, August 6—there must have been fighting somewhere, most probably near Frœschweiler. There were signs of it in the air, in the heavy, restless sky across which there now and again swept a chilly shudder—a sudden gust of wind which passed by moaning, as if with anguish. For the past two days the troops had been convinced that they were advancing to battle. They one and all expected to find the Prussians in front of them at the end of their forced march from Belfort to Mulhausen.
The daylight was waning, when, from a distant corner of the camp, the tattoo sounded—a roll of the drums followed by a bugle call, faint as yet, wafted away, as it was, through the open air. It was heard, however, by Jean Macquart[2],[2] who had been endeavouring to strengthen his tent by driving the pickets deeper into the ground, and who now rapidly rose to his feet. Still bleeding from the grievous tragedy in which he had lost Françoise, his wife, and the land she had brought him in marriage, he had left Rognes, and, although nine-and-thirty years of age, had re-enlisted at the first rumour of war. Immediately enrolled, with his old rank of corporal, in the 106th Regiment of the Infantry of the Line, then being brought up to its full strength, Jean sometimes felt astonished to find himself again in uniform—he who had been so delighted to leave the service after the battle of Solferino, so pleased to cease playing the swashbuckler, the part of the man who kills. But what is a fellow to do when he has no trade or profession left him, neither wife nor even a scrap of property that he can call his own in all the wide world, and when grief and rage bring his heart with a leap into his very throat? Surely he has a right to trounce his country's enemies, especially if they plague him. Besides, Jean remembered the cry he had raised: 'Ah! dash it all, he would defend the old soil of France, since he no longer had courage enough to till it!'
On rising up he glanced at the camp, where a final stir was being occasioned by the passage of the tattoo party. Some men were running to their quarters; others, already drowsy, sat up or stretched themselves out with an air of irritated weariness; whilst Jean, the patient fellow, awaited the roll-call with that well-balanced tranquillity of mind which made him such a capital soldier. His comrades said he would probably have risen rapidly in rank had he been more of a scholar, but it happened that he only just knew how to read and write, and he did not even covet a sergeant's stripes. He who has been a peasant always remains one.
Jean was concerned at the sight of the green logs which were still smoking, and called to the two men—Loubet and Lapoulle, both belonging to his squad—who were desperately endeavouring to kindle the fire: 'Just let that be. You're poisoning us with that smoke.'
Loubet, who was lithe and active, with the look of a wag, sneeringly replied, 'It's catching alight, corporal; I assure you it is.' And giving his comrade Lapoulle a push, he added, 'Here, you, why don't you blow?'
In point of fact, Lapoulle, a perfect colossus, was exhausting himself in his efforts to raise a tempest, with his cheeks puffed out like goat-skins full of liquor, his whole face suffused by a rush of blood, and his eyes red and full of tears. Two other men of the squad, Chouteau and Pache—the former of whom lay on his back like a lazybones fond of his ease, whilst the other had assumed a crouching posture that he might carefully repair a rent in his trousers—were greatly amused by the fearful grimace which that brute Lapoulle was making, and burst at last into a roar of laughter.
Jean let them laugh. There would, perhaps, not be many more opportunities for gaiety; and despite the serious expression which sat on his full, round, regular-featured face, he was by no means a partisan of melancholy. Indeed, he closed his eyes readily enough whenever his men wished to amuse themselves. However, another group now attracted his attention. For nearly an hour one of the privates of his squad, Maurice Levasseur, had been chatting with a civilian, a red-haired individual, looking some six-and-thirty years of age, with a good-dog-Tray sort of face, and large blue goggle eyes—short-sighted eyes, which had led to his being exempted from military service. A quartermaster of the reserve artillery, who with his dark moustache and imperial had a bold confident air, had joined the couple; and the three of them tarried there, making themselves at home.
To spare them a reprimand, Jean, in his obliging way, thought it his duty to intervene. 'You would do well to leave, sir,' he said to the civilian. 'Here comes the tattoo, and if the lieutenant saw you——'
Maurice did not let him finish. 'Don't go, Weiss,' said he; and, addressing the corporal, he dryly added, 'This gentleman is my brother-in-law. The colonel knows him, and has given him permission to remain in camp.'
Why did this peasant, Jean Macquart, whose hands still smelt of the dungheap, interfere in a matter that did not concern him? thought Maurice. He, who had been called to the bar during the previous autumn, and who, on joining the army as a volunteer, had been forthwith enrolled in the 106th of the Line, thanks to the colonel's protection, and without having to undergo the usual probation at the depôt—carried his knapsack willingly enough; but, at the very outset, a feeling of repugnance, of covert revolt, had turned him against this illiterate corporal, the clodhopper who commanded him.
'All right,' retorted Jean, in his quiet way. 'Get yourselves caught. I don't care a rap.'
Then he abruptly faced about on finding that Maurice had not told him a fib; for at that very moment the colonel, M. de Vineuil, whose long yellow face was intersected by bushy white moustaches, passed by with that grand aristocratic air of his, and acknowledged the salute of Weiss and Maurice with a smile. The colonel was walking rapidly towards a farmhouse which peeped out from among some plum trees on the right hand, a few hundred paces away. The staff was installed there for the night, but no one knew whether the commander of the Army Corps—struck down by the grievous tidings that his brother had been killed at Weissenburg[3]—was there or not. Major-General Bourgain-Desfeuilles, to whose brigade the 106th Regiment belonged, was, however, assuredly at the farm, brawling no doubt according to his wont, with his huge belly swaying to and fro atop of his diminutive legs, and with his face highly coloured, like the face of one fond of the table, who is not troubled with any excess of brains. There was an increasing stir around the farmhouse; every minute or so estafettes were galloping off and returning; and feverish, indeed, were the long hours of waiting for the belated telegrams that were expected to bring news of the great battle, which since daybreak everyone had deemed inevitable and proximate. Where had it been fought, and how had it resulted? By degrees, as the night fell, it seemed as though the spirit of anxiety were brooding over the orchards, over the scattered stacks, and around the cow-sheds, spreading itself out on all sides like a shadowy sea. The men told one another that a Prussian spy had been caught prowling about the camp, and had been conducted to the farm to be questioned by the general. If Colonel de Vineuil ran there so fast it was, perhaps, because he had received a telegram.
Meanwhile, Maurice Levasseur had begun to chat again with his brother-in-law Weiss, and his cousin Honoré Fouchard, the quartermaster. The tattoo party, coming from afar off with its numbers gradually strengthened, passed near them, drumming and trumpeting in the melancholy twilight peacefulness; and yet they did not seem to hear it even. Grandson of a hero of the First Napoleon's armies, Maurice was born at Le Chêne Populeux, in the Argonne. His father, being turned away from the paths of glory, had sunk down to a meagre tax-collectorship; and his mother, a peasant woman, had expired in bringing him and his twin sister, Henriette, into the world. If Maurice had enlisted in the army, it was because of grave offences, the outcome of a course of dissipation in which his weak, excitable nature had embarked at the time when he had repaired to Paris to read for the bar, and when his relatives had pinched and stinted themselves to make a gentleman of him. But he had squandered their money in gaming, on women, and on the thousand and one follies of the all-devouring city, and his conduct had hastened his father's death. His sister, after parting with her all to pay his debts, had been lucky enough to secure a husband, that honest fellow Weiss, an Alsatian of Mulhausen, who had long been an accountant at the refinery of Le Chêne Populeux, and was now an overseer in the employ of M. Delaherche, owner of one of the principal cloth-weaving establishments of Sedan. Maurice, who with his nervous nature was seized as promptly with hope as with despair, who was both generous and enthusiastic, but utterly devoid of stability—the slave indeed of each shifting, passing breeze—imagined that he was now quite cured of his follies. Fair and short, with an unusually large forehead, a small nose and chin, and generally refined features, he had grey, caressing eyes, in which there gleamed at times a spark of madness.
Weiss had hastened to Mulhausen on the eve of hostilities, having suddenly become desirous of settling some family affair; and if he had availed himself of Colonel de Vineuil's kindness, in order to shake hands with his brother-in-law, Maurice, it was because the colonel happened to be the uncle of young Madame Delaherche, a pretty widow, whom the cloth merchant of Sedan had married the year before, and whom both Maurice and Henriette had known when she was a child, her parents then being neighbours of their own. Besides the colonel, Maurice had come across another of Madame Delaherche's connections in the person of Captain Beaudoin, who commanded his company, and who had been this lady's most intimate friend, it was insinuated, at the time when she was Madame Maginot of Mézières, wife of M. Maginot, inspector of the State forest.
'Mind you kiss Henriette for me,' said Maurice, again and again—he was, indeed, passionately fond of his sister—'tell her she will have every reason to be pleased, and that I want to make her proud of me.'
Tears filled his eyes as he thought of his foolish conduct in Paris; but his brother-in-law, touched in his turn, changed the conversation by saying to Honoré Fouchard, the artilleryman: 'The first time I pass by Remilly I shall run up and tell uncle Fouchard that I saw you and found you well.'
Uncle Fouchard, a peasant with a little land of his own, who plied the calling of itinerant village butcher, was a brother of Maurice's mother. He lived at Remilly, right at the top of the hill, at four miles or so from Sedan.
'All right,' said Honoré, quietly; 'the old man doesn't care a rap about me, but, if it pleases you, you can go to see him.'
Just at that moment there was a stir in front of the farmhouse, and they saw the prowler—the man accused of being a Prussian spy—come out, accompanied by an officer. He had no doubt produced some papers, related some plausible tale or other, for he was no longer under arrest—the officer was simply turning him out of the camp. At that distance, in the impending darkness, one could only vaguely distinguish his huge, square-built figure and tawny head. Maurice, however, impetuously exclaimed: 'Look there, Honoré. Isn't that fellow like the Prussian—you know the man I mean—Goliath?'
The quartermaster started on hearing this name, and fixed his ardent eyes upon the supposed spy. This mention of Goliath Steinberg, the slaughterman, the rascal who had made bad blood between himself and his father, who had robbed him of his sweetheart Silvine, had revived all the horrible story—the filthy abomination that still caused him so much suffering—and he felt a sudden impulse to run after the man and strangle him. But the spy, if such he was, had already passed beyond the camp lines, and, walking rapidly away, soon vanished in the darkness of the night.
'Oh! Goliath,' muttered Honoré; 'it isn't possible. He must be over there with the others. Ah! if ever I meet him——'
And with a threatening gesture he pointed to the darkening horizon, the violet-tinted eastern sky which to him meant Prussia.
They all relapsed into silence, and the tattoo was again heard afar off, at the other end of the camp. 'Blazes!' resumed Honoré, 'I shall get into trouble if I'm not back for the roll call. Good night. Good-bye to all!' Then having once more pressed Weiss's hands he hastily strode away towards the hillock where the reserve artillery was massed; he had not again mentioned his father, nor had he even sent any message to Silvine, whose name burnt his lips.
