Editing Volume 2/Book 1/Chapter 16

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 2: Cosette, Book First: Waterloo, Chapter 16: Quot Libras in Duce?<br />
(Tome 2: Cosette, Livre premier: Waterloo, Chapitre 16: Quot Libras in Duce?)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
La bataille de Waterloo est une &eacute;nigme. Elle est aussi obscure pour ceux
qui l'ont gagn&eacute;e que pour celui qui l'a perdue. Pour Napol&eacute;on, c'est une
panique. Bl&uuml;cher n'y voit que du feu; Wellington n'y comprend rien.
Voyez les rapports. Les bulletins sont confus, les commentaires sont
embrouill&eacute;s. Ceux-ci balbutient, ceux-l&agrave; b&eacute;gayent. Jomini partage la
bataille de Waterloo en quatre moments; Muffling la coupe en trois
p&eacute;rip&eacute;ties; Charras, quoique sur quelques points nous ayons une autre
appr&eacute;ciation que lui, a seul saisi de son fier coup d'&oelig;il les
lin&eacute;aments caract&eacute;ristiques de cette catastrophe du g&eacute;nie humain aux
prises avec le hasard divin. Tous les autres historiens ont un certain
&eacute;blouissement, et dans cet &eacute;blouissement ils t&acirc;tonnent. Journ&eacute;e
fulgurante, en effet, &eacute;croulement de la monarchie militaire qui, &agrave; la
grande stupeur des rois, a entra&icirc;n&eacute; tous les royaumes, chute de la
force, d&eacute;route de la guerre.

 
Dans cet &eacute;v&eacute;nement, empreint de n&eacute;cessit&eacute; surhumaine, la part des hommes
n'est rien.

 
Retirer Waterloo &agrave; Wellington et &agrave; Bl&uuml;cher, est-ce &ocirc;ter quelque chose &agrave;
l'Angleterre et &agrave; l'Allemagne? Non. Ni cette illustre Angleterre ni
cette auguste Allemagne ne sont en question dans le probl&egrave;me de
Waterloo. Gr&acirc;ce au ciel, les peuples sont grands en dehors des lugubres
aventures de l'&eacute;p&eacute;e. Ni l'Allemagne, ni l'Angleterre, ni la France, ne
tiennent dans un fourreau. Dans cette &eacute;poque o&ugrave; Waterloo n'est qu'un
cliquetis de sabres, au-dessus de Bl&uuml;cher l'Allemagne &agrave; Goethe et
au-dessus de Wellington l'Angleterre &agrave; Byron. Un vaste lever d'id&eacute;es est
propre &agrave; notre si&egrave;cle, et dans cette aurore l'Angleterre et l'Allemagne
ont leur lueur magnifique. Elles sont majestueuses par ce qu'elles
pensent. L'&eacute;l&eacute;vation de niveau qu'elles apportent &agrave; la civilisation leur
est intrins&egrave;que; il vient d'elles-m&ecirc;mes, et non d'un accident. Ce
qu'elles ont d'agrandissement au dix-neuvi&egrave;me si&egrave;cle n'a point Waterloo
pour source. Il n'y a que les peuples barbares qui aient des crues
subites apr&egrave;s une victoire. C'est la vanit&eacute; passag&egrave;re des torrents
enfl&eacute;s d'un orage. Les peuples civilis&eacute;s, surtout au temps o&ugrave; nous
sommes, ne se haussent ni ne s'abaissent par la bonne ou mauvaise
fortune d'un capitaine. Leur poids sp&eacute;cifique dans le genre humain
r&eacute;sulte de quelque chose de plus qu'un combat. Leur honneur, Dieu merci,
leur dignit&eacute;, leur lumi&egrave;re, leur g&eacute;nie, ne sont pas des num&eacute;ros que les
h&eacute;ros et les conqu&eacute;rants, ces joueurs, peuvent mettre &agrave; la loterie des
batailles. Souvent bataille perdue, progr&egrave;s conquis. Moins de gloire,
plus de libert&eacute;. Le tambour se tait, la raison prend la parole. C'est le
jeu &agrave; qui perd gagne. Parlons donc de Waterloo froidement des deux
c&ocirc;t&eacute;s. Rendons au hasard ce qui est au hasard et &agrave; Dieu ce qui est &agrave;
Dieu. Qu'est-ce que Waterloo? Une victoire? Non. Un quine.

 
Quine gagn&eacute; par l'Europe, pay&eacute; par la France.

 
Ce n'&eacute;tait pas beaucoup la peine de mettre l&agrave; un lion.

 
Waterloo du reste est la plus &eacute;trange rencontre qui soit dans
l'histoire. Napol&eacute;on et Wellington. Ce ne sont pas des ennemis, ce sont
des contraires. Jamais Dieu, qui se pla&icirc;t aux antith&egrave;ses, n'a fait un
plus saisissant contraste et une confrontation plus extraordinaire. D'un
c&ocirc;t&eacute;, la pr&eacute;cision, la pr&eacute;vision, la g&eacute;om&eacute;trie, la prudence, la retraite
assur&eacute;e, les r&eacute;serves m&eacute;nag&eacute;es, un sang-froid opini&acirc;tre, une m&eacute;thode
imperturbable, la strat&eacute;gie qui profite du terrain, la tactique qui
&eacute;quilibre les bataillons, le carnage tir&eacute; au cordeau, la guerre r&eacute;gl&eacute;e
montre en main, rien laiss&eacute; volontairement au hasard, le vieux courage
classique, la correction absolue; de l'autre l'intuition, la divination,
l'&eacute;tranget&eacute; militaire, l'instinct surhumain, le coup d'&oelig;il flamboyant,
on ne sait quoi qui regarde comme l'aigle et qui frappe comme la foudre,
un art prodigieux dans une imp&eacute;tuosit&eacute; d&eacute;daigneuse, tous les myst&egrave;res
d'une &acirc;me profonde, l'association avec le destin, le fleuve, la plaine,
la for&ecirc;t, la colline, somm&eacute;s et en quelque sorte forc&eacute;s d'ob&eacute;ir, le
despote allant jusqu'&agrave; tyranniser le champ de bataille, la foi &agrave;
l'&eacute;toile m&ecirc;l&eacute;e &agrave; la science strat&eacute;gique, la grandissant, mais la
troublant. Wellington &eacute;tait le ''Bar&egrave;me'' de la guerre, Napol&eacute;on en &eacute;tait
le ''Michel-Ange''; et cette fois le g&eacute;nie fut vaincu par le calcul.

 
Des deux c&ocirc;t&eacute;s on attendait quelqu'un. Ce fut le calculateur exact qui
r&eacute;ussit. Napol&eacute;on attendait Grouchy; il ne vint pas. Wellington
attendait Bl&uuml;cher; il vint.

 
Wellington, c'est la guerre classique qui prend sa revanche. Bonaparte,
&agrave; son aurore, l'avait rencontr&eacute;e en Italie, et superbement battue. La
vieille chouette avait fui devant le jeune vautour. L'ancienne tactique
avait &eacute;t&eacute; non seulement foudroy&eacute;e, mais scandalis&eacute;e. Qu'&eacute;tait-ce que ce
Corse de vingt-six ans, que signifiait cet ignorant splendide qui, ayant
tout contre lui, rien pour lui, sans vivres, sans munitions, sans
canons, sans souliers, presque sans arm&eacute;e, avec une poign&eacute;e d'hommes
contre des masses, se ruait sur l'Europe coalis&eacute;e, et gagnait
absurdement des victoires dans l'impossible? D'o&ugrave; sortait ce forcen&eacute;
foudroyant qui, presque sans reprendre haleine, et avec le m&ecirc;me jeu de
combattants dans la main, pulv&eacute;risait l'une apr&egrave;s l'autre les cinq
arm&eacute;es de l'empereur d'Allemagne, culbutant Beaulieu sur Alvinzi,
Wurmser sur Beaulieu, M&eacute;las sur Wurmser, Mack sur M&eacute;las? Qu'&eacute;tait-ce que
ce nouveau venu de la guerre ayant l'effronterie d'un astre? L'&eacute;cole
acad&eacute;mique militaire l'excommuniait en l&acirc;chant pied. De l&agrave; une
implacable rancune du vieux c&eacute;sarisme contre le nouveau, du sabre
correct contre l'&eacute;p&eacute;e flamboyante, et de l'&eacute;chiquier contre le g&eacute;nie. Le
18 juin 1815, cette rancune eut le dernier mot, et au-dessous de Lodi,
de Montebello, de Montenotte, de Mantoue, de Marengo, d'Arcole, elle
&eacute;crivit: Waterloo. Triomphe des m&eacute;diocres, doux aux majorit&eacute;s. Le destin
consentit &agrave; cette ironie. &Agrave; son d&eacute;clin, Napol&eacute;on retrouva devant lui
Wurmser jeune.

 
Pour avoir Wurmser en effet, il suff&icirc;t de blanchir les cheveux de
Wellington.

 
Waterloo est une bataille du premier ordre gagn&eacute;e par un capitaine du
second.

 
Ce qu'il faut admirer dans la bataille de Waterloo, c'est l'Angleterre,
c'est la fermet&eacute; anglaise, c'est la r&eacute;solution anglaise, c'est le sang
anglais; ce que l'Angleterre a eu l&agrave; de superbe, ne lui en d&eacute;plaise,
c'est elle-m&ecirc;me. Ce n'est pas son capitaine, c'est son arm&eacute;e.

 
Wellington, bizarrement ingrat, d&eacute;clare dans une lettre &agrave; lord Bathurst
que son arm&eacute;e, l'arm&eacute;e qui a combattu le 18 juin 1815, &eacute;tait une
&laquo;d&eacute;testable arm&eacute;e&raquo;. Qu'en pense cette sombre m&ecirc;l&eacute;e d'ossements enfouis
sous les sillons de Waterloo?

 
L'Angleterre a &eacute;t&eacute; trop modeste vis-&agrave;-vis de Wellington. Faire
Wellington si grand, c'est faire l'Angleterre petite. Wellington n'est
qu'un h&eacute;ros comme un autre. Ces &Eacute;cossais gris, ces horse-guards, ces
r&eacute;giments de Maitland et de Mitchell, cette infanterie de Pack et de
Kempt, cette cavalerie de Ponsonby et de Somerset, ces highlanders
jouant du ''pibroch'' sous la mitraille, ces bataillons de Rylandt, ces
recrues toutes fra&icirc;ches qui savaient &agrave; peine manier le mousquet tenant
t&ecirc;te aux vieilles bandes d'Essling et de Rivoli, voil&agrave; ce qui est grand.
Wellington a &eacute;t&eacute; tenace, ce fut l&agrave; son m&eacute;rite, et nous ne le lui
marchandons pas, mais le moindre de ses fantassins et de ses cavaliers a
&eacute;t&eacute; tout aussi solide que lui. ''L'iron-soldier'' vaut ''l'iron-duke''.
Quant &agrave; nous, toute notre glorification va au soldat anglais, &agrave; l'arm&eacute;e
anglaise, au peuple anglais. Si troph&eacute;e il y a, c'est &agrave; l'Angleterre que
le troph&eacute;e est d&ucirc;. La colonne de Waterloo serait plus juste si au lieu
de la figure d'un homme, elle &eacute;levait dans la nue la statue d'un peuple.
Mais cette grande Angleterre s'irritera de ce que nous disons ici. Elle
a encore, apr&egrave;s son 1688 et notre 1789, l'illusion f&eacute;odale. Elle croit &agrave;
l'h&eacute;r&eacute;dit&eacute; et &agrave; la hi&eacute;rarchie. Ce peuple, qu'aucun ne d&eacute;passe en
puissance et en gloire, s'estime comme nation, non comme peuple. En tant
que peuple, il se subordonne volontiers et prend un lord pour une t&ecirc;te.
Workman, il se laisse d&eacute;daigner; soldat, il se laisse b&acirc;tonner. On se
souvient qu'&agrave; la bataille d'Inkermann un sergent qui, &agrave; ce qu'il para&icirc;t,
avait sauv&eacute; l'arm&eacute;e, ne put &ecirc;tre mentionn&eacute; par lord Raglan, la
hi&eacute;rarchie militaire anglaise ne permettant de citer dans un rapport
aucun h&eacute;ros au-dessous du grade d'officier.

 
Ce que nous admirons par-dessus tout, dans une rencontre du genre de
celle de Waterloo, c'est la prodigieuse habilet&eacute; du hasard. Pluie
nocturne, mur de Hougomont, chemin creux d'Ohain, Grouchy sourd au
canon, guide de Napol&eacute;on qui le trompe, guide de B&uuml;low qui l'&eacute;claire;
tout ce cataclysme est merveilleusement conduit.

 
Au total, disons-le, il y eut &agrave; Waterloo plus de massacre que de
bataille.

 
Waterloo est de toutes les batailles rang&eacute;es celle qui a le plus petit
front sur un tel nombre de combattants. Napol&eacute;on, trois quarts de lieue,
Wellington, une demi-lieue; soixante-douze mille combattants de chaque
c&ocirc;t&eacute;. De cette &eacute;paisseur vint le carnage.

 
On a fait ce calcul et &eacute;tabli cette proportion: Perte d'hommes: &agrave;
Austerlitz, Fran&ccedil;ais, quatorze pour cent; Russes, trente pour cent,
Autrichiens, quarante-quatre pour cent. &Agrave; Wagram, Fran&ccedil;ais, treize pour
cent; Autrichiens, quatorze. &Agrave; la Moskowa, Fran&ccedil;ais, trente-sept pour
cent; Russes, quarante-quatre. &Agrave; Bautzen, Fran&ccedil;ais, treize pour cent;
Russes et Prussiens, quatorze. &Agrave; Waterloo, Fran&ccedil;ais, cinquante-six pour
cent; Alli&eacute;s, trente et un. Total pour Waterloo, quarante et un pour
cent. Cent quarante-quatre mille combattants; soixante mille morts. Le
champ de Waterloo aujourd'hui a le calme qui appartient &agrave; la terre,
support impassible de l'homme, et il ressemble &agrave; toutes les plaines.

 
La nuit pourtant une esp&egrave;ce de brume visionnaire s'en d&eacute;gage, et si
quelque voyageur s'y prom&egrave;ne, s'il regarde, s'il &eacute;coute, s'il r&ecirc;ve comme
Virgile devant les funestes plaines de Philippes, l'hallucination de la
catastrophe le saisit. L'effrayant 18 juin revit; la fausse colline
monument s'efface, ce lion quelconque se dissipe, le champ de bataille
reprend sa r&eacute;alit&eacute;; des lignes d'infanterie ondulent dans la plaine, des
galops furieux traversent l'horizon! le songeur effar&eacute; voit l'&eacute;clair des
sabres, l'&eacute;tincelle des bayonnettes, le flamboiement des bombes,
l'entre-croisement monstrueux des tonnerres; il entend, comme un r&acirc;le au
fond d'une tombe, la clameur vague de la bataille fant&ocirc;me; ces ombres,
ce sont les grenadiers; ces lueurs, ce sont les cuirassiers; ce
squelette, c'est Napol&eacute;on; ce squelette, c'est Wellington; tout cela
n'est plus et se heurte et combat encore; et les ravins s'empourprent,
et les arbres frissonnent, et il y a de la furie jusque dans les nu&eacute;es,
et, dans les t&eacute;n&egrave;bres, toutes ces hauteurs farouches, Mont-Saint-Jean,
Hougomont, Frischemont, Pape-lotte, Plancenoit, apparaissent confus&eacute;ment
couronn&eacute;es de tourbillons de spectres s'exterminant.

 
==English text==

 
The battle of Waterloo is an enigma. It is as obscure to those who won it
as to those who lost it. For Napoleon it was a panic;[[10]] Blucher sees nothing in it
but fire; Wellington understands nothing in regard to it. Look at the
reports. The bulletins are confused, the commentaries involved. Some
stammer, others lisp. Jomini divides the battle of Waterloo into four
moments; Muffling cuts it up into three changes; Charras alone, though we
hold another judgment than his on some points, seized with his haughty
glance the characteristic outlines of that catastrophe of human genius in
conflict with divine chance. All the other historians suffer from being
somewhat dazzled, and in this dazzled state they fumble about. It was a
day of lightning brilliancy; in fact, a crumbling of the military monarchy
which, to the vast stupefaction of kings, drew all the kingdoms after it&mdash;the
fall of force, the defeat of war.

 
In this event, stamped with superhuman necessity, the part played by men
amounts to nothing.

 
If we take Waterloo from Wellington and Blucher, do we thereby deprive
England and Germany of anything? No. Neither that illustrious England nor
that august Germany enter into the problem of Waterloo. Thank Heaven,
nations are great, independently of the lugubrious feats of the sword.
Neither England, nor Germany, nor France is contained in a scabbard. At
this epoch when Waterloo is only a clashing of swords, above Blucher,
Germany has Schiller; above Wellington, England has Byron. A vast dawn of
ideas is the peculiarity of our century, and in that aurora England and
Germany have a magnificent radiance. They are majestic because they think.
The elevation of level which they contribute to civilization is intrinsic
with them; it proceeds from themselves and not from an accident. The
aggrandizement which they have brought to the nineteenth century has not
Waterloo as its source. It is only barbarous peoples who undergo rapid
growth after a victory. That is the temporary vanity of torrents swelled
by a storm. Civilized people, especially in our day, are neither elevated
nor abased by the good or bad fortune of a captain. Their specific gravity
in the human species results from something more than a combat. Their
honor, thank God! their dignity, their intelligence, their genius, are not
numbers which those gamblers, heroes and conquerors, can put in the
lottery of battles. Often a battle is lost and progress is conquered.
There is less glory and more liberty. The drum holds its peace; reason
takes the word. It is a game in which he who loses wins. Let us,
therefore, speak of Waterloo coldly from both sides. Let us render to
chance that which is due to chance, and to God that which is due to God.
What is Waterloo? A victory? No. The winning number in the lottery.

 
The quine [[11]]
won by Europe, paid by France.

 
It was not worth while to place a lion there.

 
Waterloo, moreover, is the strangest encounter in history. Napoleon and
Wellington. They are not enemies; they are opposites. Never did God, who
is fond of antitheses, make a more striking contrast, a more extraordinary
comparison. On one side, precision, foresight, geometry, prudence, an
assured retreat, reserves spared, with an obstinate coolness, an
imperturbable method, strategy, which takes advantage of the ground,
tactics, which preserve the equilibrium of battalions, carnage, executed
according to rule, war regulated, watch in hand, nothing voluntarily left
to chance, the ancient classic courage, absolute regularity; on the other,
intuition, divination, military oddity, superhuman instinct, a flaming
glance, an indescribable something which gazes like an eagle, and which
strikes like the lightning, a prodigious art in disdainful impetuosity,
all the mysteries of a profound soul, associated with destiny; the stream,
the plain, the forest, the hill, summoned, and in a manner, forced to
obey, the despot going even so far as to tyrannize over the field of
battle; faith in a star mingled with strategic science, elevating but
perturbing it. Wellington was the Bareme of war; Napoleon was its Michael
Angelo; and on this occasion, genius was vanquished by calculation. On
both sides some one was awaited. It was the exact calculator who
succeeded. Napoleon was waiting for Grouchy; he did not come. Wellington
expected Blucher; he came.

 
Wellington is classic war taking its revenge. Bonaparte, at his dawning,
had encountered him in Italy, and beaten him superbly. The old owl had
fled before the young vulture. The old tactics had been not only struck as
by lightning, but disgraced. Who was that Corsican of six and twenty? What
signified that splendid ignoramus, who, with everything against him,
nothing in his favor, without provisions, without ammunition, without
cannon, without shoes, almost without an army, with a mere handful of men
against masses, hurled himself on Europe combined, and absurdly won
victories in the impossible? Whence had issued that fulminating convict,
who almost without taking breath, and with the same set of combatants in
hand, pulverized, one after the other, the five armies of the emperor of
Germany, upsetting Beaulieu on Alvinzi, Wurmser on Beaulieu, Melas on
Wurmser, Mack on Melas? Who was this novice in war with the effrontery of
a luminary? The academical military school excommunicated him, and as it
lost its footing; hence, the implacable rancor of the old Caesarism
against the new; of the regular sword against the flaming sword; and of
the exchequer against genius. On the 18th of June, 1815, that rancor had
the last word. and beneath Lodi, Montebello, Montenotte, Mantua, Arcola,
it wrote: Waterloo. A triumph of the mediocres which is sweet to the
majority. Destiny consented to this irony. In his decline, Napoleon found
Wurmser, the younger, again in front of him.

 
In fact, to get Wurmser, it sufficed to blanch the hair of Wellington.

 
Waterloo is a battle of the first order, won by a captain of the second.

 
That which must be admired in the battle of Waterloo, is England; the
English firmness, the English resolution, the English blood; the superb
thing about England there, no offence to her, was herself. It was not her
captain; it was her army.

 
Wellington, oddly ungrateful, declares in a letter to Lord Bathurst, that
his army, the army which fought on the 18th of June, 1815, was a
"detestable army." What does that sombre intermingling of bones buried
beneath the furrows of Waterloo think of that?

 
England has been too modest in the matter of Wellington. To make
Wellington so great is to belittle England. Wellington is nothing but a
hero like many another. Those Scotch Grays, those Horse Guards, those
regiments of Maitland and of Mitchell, that infantry of Pack and Kempt,
that cavalry of Ponsonby and Somerset, those Highlanders playing the
pibroch under the shower of grape-shot, those battalions of Rylandt, those
utterly raw recruits, who hardly knew how to handle a musket holding their
own against Essling's and Rivoli's old troops,&mdash;that is what was
grand. Wellington was tenacious; in that lay his merit, and we are not
seeking to lessen it: but the least of his foot-soldiers and of his
cavalry would have been as solid as he. The iron soldier is worth as much
as the Iron Duke. As for us, all our glorification goes to the English
soldier, to the English army, to the English people. If trophy there be,
it is to England that the trophy is due. The column of Waterloo would be
more just, if, instead of the figure of a man, it bore on high the statue
of a people.

 
But this great England will be angry at what we are saying here. She still
cherishes, after her own 1688 and our 1789, the feudal illusion. She
believes in heredity and hierarchy. This people, surpassed by none in
power and glory, regards itself as a nation, and not as a people. And as a
people, it willingly subordinates itself and takes a lord for its head. As
a workman, it allows itself to be disdained; as a soldier, it allows
itself to be flogged.

 
It will be remembered, that at the battle of Inkermann a sergeant who had,
it appears, saved the army, could not be mentioned by Lord Paglan, as the
English military hierarchy does not permit any hero below the grade of an
officer to be mentioned in the reports.

 
That which we admire above all, in an encounter of the nature of Waterloo,
is the marvellous cleverness of chance. A nocturnal rain, the wall of
Hougomont, the hollow road of Ohain, Grouchy deaf to the cannon,
Napoleon's guide deceiving him, Bulow's guide enlightening him,&mdash;the
whole of this cataclysm is wonderfully conducted.

 
On the whole, let us say it plainly, it was more of a massacre than of a
battle at Waterloo.

 
Of all pitched battles, Waterloo is the one which has the smallest front
for such a number of combatants. Napoleon three-quarters of a league;
Wellington, half a league; seventy-two thousand combatants on each side.
From this denseness the carnage arose.

 
The following calculation has been made, and the following proportion
established: Loss of men: at Austerlitz, French, fourteen per cent;
Russians, thirty per cent; Austrians, forty-four per cent. At Wagram,
French, thirteen per cent; Austrians, fourteen. At the Moskowa, French,
thirty-seven per cent; Russians, forty-four. At Bautzen, French, thirteen
per cent; Russians and Prussians, fourteen. At Waterloo, French, fifty-six
per cent; the Allies, thirty-one. Total for Waterloo, forty-one per cent;
one hundred and forty-four thousand combatants; sixty thousand dead.

 
To-day the field of Waterloo has the calm which belongs to the earth, the
impassive support of man, and it resembles all plains.

 
At night, moreover, a sort of visionary mist arises from it; and if a
traveller strolls there, if he listens, if he watches, if he dreams like
Virgil in the fatal plains of Philippi, the hallucination of the
catastrophe takes possession of him. The frightful 18th of June lives
again; the false monumental hillock disappears, the lion vanishes in air,
the battle-field resumes its reality, lines of infantry undulate over the
plain, furious gallops traverse the horizon; the frightened dreamer
beholds the flash of sabres, the gleam of bayonets, the flare of bombs,
the tremendous interchange of thunders; he hears, as it were, the death
rattle in the depths of a tomb, the vague clamor of the battle phantom;
those shadows are grenadiers, those lights are cuirassiers; that skeleton
Napoleon, that other skeleton is Wellington; all this no longer exists,
and yet it clashes together and combats still; and the ravines are
empurpled, and the trees quiver, and there is fury even in the clouds and
in the shadows; all those terrible heights, Hougomont, Mont-Saint-Jean,
Frischemont, Papelotte, Plancenoit, appear confusedly crowned with
whirlwinds of spectres engaged in exterminating each other.


==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
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