Editing Volume 2/Book 1/Chapter 13

Les Mis&eacute;rables,  Volume 2: Cosette, Book First: Waterloo, Chapter 13: The Catastrophe<br />
(Tome 2: Cosette, Livre premier: Waterloo, Chapitre 13: La catastrophe)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
La d&eacute;route derri&egrave;re la garde fut lugubre.

 
L'arm&eacute;e plia brusquement de tous les c&ocirc;t&eacute;s &agrave; la fois, de Hougomont, de
la Haie-Sainte, de Papelotte, de Plancenoit. Le cri ''Trahison''! fut
suivi du cri ''Sauve-qui-peut''! Une arm&eacute;e qui se d&eacute;bande, c'est un d&eacute;gel.
Tout fl&eacute;chit, se f&ecirc;le, craque, flotte, roule, tombe, se heurte, se h&acirc;te,
se pr&eacute;cipite. D&eacute;sagr&eacute;gation inou&iuml;e. Ney emprunte un cheval, saute
dessus, et, sans chapeau, sans cravate, sans &eacute;p&eacute;e, se met en travers de
la chauss&eacute;e de Bruxelles, arr&ecirc;tant &agrave; la fois les Anglais et les
Fran&ccedil;ais. Il t&acirc;che de retenir l'arm&eacute;e, il la rappelle, il l'insulte, il
se cramponne &agrave; la d&eacute;route. Il est d&eacute;bord&eacute;. Les soldats le fuient, en
criant: ''Vive le mar&eacute;chal Ney!'' Deux r&eacute;giments de Durutte vont et
viennent effar&eacute;s et comme ballott&eacute;s entre le sabre des uhlans et la
fusillade des brigades de Kempt, de Best, de Pack et de Rylandt; la pire
des m&ecirc;l&eacute;es, c'est la d&eacute;route, les amis s'entre-tuent pour fuir; les
escadrons et les bataillons se brisent et se dispersent les uns contre
les autres, &eacute;norme &eacute;cume de la bataille. Lobau &agrave; une extr&eacute;mit&eacute; comme
Reille &agrave; l'autre sont roul&eacute;s dans le flot. En vain Napol&eacute;on fait des
murailles avec ce qui lui reste de la garde; en vain il d&eacute;pense &agrave; un
dernier effort ses escadrons de service. Quiot recule devant Vivian,
Kellermann devant Vandeleur, Lobau devant B&uuml;low, Morand devant Pirch,
Domon et Subervic devant le prince Guillaume de Prusse. Guyot, qui a
men&eacute; &agrave; la charge les escadrons de l'empereur, tombe sous les pieds des
dragons anglais. Napol&eacute;on court au galop le long des fuyards, les
harangue, presse, menace, supplie. Toutes ces bouches qui criaient le
matin ''vive l'empereur'', restent b&eacute;antes; c'est &agrave; peine si on le
conna&icirc;t. La cavalerie prussienne, fra&icirc;che venue, s'&eacute;lance, vole, sabre,
taille, hache, tue, extermine. Les attelages se ruent, les canons se
sauvent; les soldats du train d&eacute;tellent les caissons et en prennent les
chevaux pour s'&eacute;chapper; des fourgons culbut&eacute;s les quatre roues en l'air
entravent la route et sont des occasions de massacre. On s'&eacute;crase, on se
foule, on marche sur les morts et sur les vivants. Les bras sont
&eacute;perdus. Une multitude vertigineuse emplit les routes, les sentiers, les
ponts, les plaines, les collines, les vall&eacute;es, les bois, encombr&eacute;s par
cette &eacute;vasion de quarante mille hommes. Cris, d&eacute;sespoir, sacs et fusils
jet&eacute;s dans les seigles, passages fray&eacute;s &agrave; coups d'&eacute;p&eacute;e, plus de
camarades, plus d'officiers, plus de g&eacute;n&eacute;raux, une inexprimable
&eacute;pouvante. Zieten sabrant la France &agrave; son aise. Les lions devenus
chevreuils. Telle fut cette fuite.

 
&Agrave; Genappe, on essaya de se retourner, de faire front, d'enrayer. Lobau
rallia trois cents hommes. On barricada l'entr&eacute;e du village; mais &agrave; la
premi&egrave;re vol&eacute;e de la mitraille prussienne, tout se remit &agrave; fuir, et
Lobau fut pris. On voit encore aujourd'hui cette vol&eacute;e de mitraille
empreinte sur le vieux pignon d'une masure en brique &agrave; droite de la
route, quelques minutes avant d'entrer &agrave; Genappe. Les Prussiens
s'&eacute;lanc&egrave;rent dans Genappe, furieux sans doute d'&ecirc;tre si peu vainqueurs.
La poursuite fut monstrueuse. Bl&uuml;cher ordonna l'extermination. Roguet
avait donn&eacute; ce lugubre exemple de menacer de mort tout grenadier
fran&ccedil;ais qui lui am&egrave;nerait un prisonnier prussien. Bl&uuml;cher d&eacute;passa
Roguet. Le g&eacute;n&eacute;ral de la jeune garde, Ducesme, accul&eacute; sur la porte d'une
auberge de Genappe, rendit son &eacute;p&eacute;e &agrave; un hussard de la mort qui prit
l'&eacute;p&eacute;e et tua le prisonnier. La victoire s'acheva par l'assassinat des
vaincus. Punissons, puisque nous sommes l'histoire: le vieux Bl&uuml;cher se
d&eacute;shonora. Cette f&eacute;rocit&eacute; mit le comble au d&eacute;sastre. La d&eacute;route
d&eacute;sesp&eacute;r&eacute;e traversa Genappe, traversa les Quatre-Bras, traversa
Gosselies, traversa Frasnes, traversa Charleroi, traversa Thuin, et ne
s'arr&ecirc;ta qu'&agrave; la fronti&egrave;re. H&eacute;las! et qui donc fuyait de la sorte? la
grande arm&eacute;e.

 
Ce vertige, cette terreur, cette chute en ruine de la plus haute
bravoure qui ait jamais &eacute;tonn&eacute; l'histoire, est-ce que cela est sans
cause? Non. L'ombre d'une droite &eacute;norme se projette sur Waterloo. C'est
la journ&eacute;e du destin. La force au-dessus de l'homme a donn&eacute; ce jour-l&agrave;.
De l&agrave; le pli &eacute;pouvant&eacute; des t&ecirc;tes; de l&agrave; toutes ces grandes &acirc;mes rendant
leur &eacute;p&eacute;e. Ceux qui avaient vaincu l'Europe sont tomb&eacute;s terrass&eacute;s,
n'ayant plus rien &agrave; dire ni &agrave; faire, sentant dans l'ombre une pr&eacute;sence
terrible. ''Hoc erat in fatis''. Ce jour-l&agrave;, la perspective du genre
humain a chang&eacute;. Waterloo, c'est le gond du dix-neuvi&egrave;me si&egrave;cle. La
disparition du grand homme &eacute;tait n&eacute;cessaire &agrave; l'av&egrave;nement du grand
si&egrave;cle. Quelqu'un &agrave; qui on ne r&eacute;plique pas s'en est charg&eacute;. La panique
des h&eacute;ros s'explique. Dans la bataille de Waterloo, il y a plus du
nuage, il y a du m&eacute;t&eacute;ore. Dieu a pass&eacute;.

 
&Agrave; la nuit tombante, dans un champ pr&egrave;s de Genappe, Bernard et Bertrand
saisirent par un pan de sa redingote et arr&ecirc;t&egrave;rent un homme hagard,
pensif, sinistre, qui, entra&icirc;n&eacute; jusque-l&agrave; par le courant de la d&eacute;route,
venait de mettre pied &agrave; terre, avait pass&eacute; sous son bras la bride de son
cheval, et, l'&oelig;il &eacute;gar&eacute;, s'en retournait seul vers Waterloo. C'&eacute;tait
Napol&eacute;on essayant encore d'aller en avant, immense somnambule de ce r&ecirc;ve
&eacute;croul&eacute;.

 
==English text==

The rout behind the Guard was melancholy.
     
The army yielded suddenly on all sides at once,&mdash;Hougomont, La
Haie-Sainte, Papelotte, Plancenoit. The cry "Treachery!" was followed by a
cry of "Save yourselves who can!" An army which is disbanding is like a
thaw. All yields, splits, cracks, floats, rolls, falls, jostles, hastens,
is precipitated. The disintegration is unprecedented. Ney borrows a horse,
leaps upon it, and without hat, cravat, or sword, places himself across
the Brussels road, stopping both English and French. He strives to detain
the army, he recalls it to its duty, he insults it, he clings to the rout.
He is overwhelmed. The soldiers fly from him, shouting, "Long live Marshal
Ney!" Two of Durutte's regiments go and come in affright as though tossed
back and forth between the swords of the Uhlans and the fusillade of the
brigades of Kempt, Best, Pack, and Rylandt; the worst of hand-to-hand
conflicts is the defeat; friends kill each other in order to escape;
squadrons and battalions break and disperse against each other, like the
tremendous foam of battle. Lobau at one extremity, and Reille at the
other, are drawn into the tide. In vain does Napoleon erect walls from
what is left to him of his Guard; in vain does he expend in a last effort
his last serviceable squadrons. Quiot retreats before Vivian, Kellermann
before Vandeleur, Lobau before Bulow, Morand before Pirch, Domon and
Subervic before Prince William of Prussia; Guyot, who led the Emperor's
squadrons to the charge, falls beneath the feet of the English dragoons.
Napoleon gallops past the line of fugitives, harangues, urges, threatens,
entreats them. All the mouths which in the morning had shouted, "Long live
the Emperor!" remain gaping; they hardly recognize him. The Prussian
cavalry, newly arrived, dashes forwards, flies, hews, slashes, kills,
exterminates. Horses lash out, the cannons flee; the soldiers of the
artillery-train unharness the caissons and use the horses to make their
escape; transports overturned, with all four wheels in the air, clog the
road and occasion massacres. Men are crushed, trampled down, others walk
over the dead and the living. Arms are lost. A dizzy multitude fills the
roads, the paths, the bridges, the plains, the hills, the valleys, the
woods, encumbered by this invasion of forty thousand men. Shouts despair,
knapsacks and guns flung among the rye, passages forced at the point of
the sword, no more comrades, no more officers, no more generals, an
inexpressible terror. Zieten putting France to the sword at its leisure.
Lions converted into goats. Such was the flight.

 
At Genappe, an effort was made to wheel about, to present a battle front,
to draw up in line. Lobau rallied three hundred men. The entrance to the
village was barricaded, but at the first volley of Prussian canister, all
took to flight again, and Lobau was taken. That volley of grape-shot can
be seen to-day imprinted on the ancient gable of a brick building on the
right of the road at a few minutes' distance before you enter Genappe. The
Prussians threw themselves into Genappe, furious, no doubt, that they were
not more entirely the conquerors. The pursuit was stupendous. Blucher
ordered extermination. Roguet had set the lugubrious example of
threatening with death any French grenadier who should bring him a
Prussian prisoner. Blucher outdid Roguet. Duhesme, the general of the
Young Guard, hemmed in at the doorway of an inn at Genappe, surrendered
his sword to a huzzar of death, who took the sword and slew the prisoner.
The victory was completed by the assassination of the vanquished. Let us
inflict punishment, since we are history: old Blucher disgraced himself.
This ferocity put the finishing touch to the disaster. The desperate route
traversed Genappe, traversed Quatre-Bras, traversed Gosselies, traversed
Frasnes, traversed Charleroi, traversed Thuin, and only halted at the
frontier. Alas! and who, then, was fleeing in that manner? The Grand Army.

 
This vertigo, this terror, this downfall into ruin of the loftiest bravery
which ever astounded history,&mdash;is that causeless? No. The shadow of
an enormous right is projected athwart Waterloo. It is the day of destiny.
The force which is mightier than man produced that day. Hence the
terrified wrinkle of those brows; hence all those great souls surrendering
their swords. Those who had conquered Europe have fallen prone on the
earth, with nothing left to say nor to do, feeling the present shadow of a
terrible presence. Hoc erat in fatis. That day the perspective of the
human race underwent a change. Waterloo is the hinge of the nineteenth
century. The disappearance of the great man was necessary to the advent of
the great century. Some one, a person to whom one replies not, took the
responsibility on himself. The panic of heroes can be explained. In the
battle of Waterloo there is something more than a cloud, there is
something of the meteor. God has passed by.

 
At nightfall, in a meadow near Genappe, Bernard and Bertrand seized by the
skirt of his coat and detained a man, haggard, pensive, sinister, gloomy,
who, dragged to that point by the current of the rout, had just
dismounted, had passed the bridle of his horse over his arm, and with wild
eye was returning alone to Waterloo. It was Napoleon, the immense
somnambulist of this dream which had crumbled, essaying once more to
advance.



==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
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