Editing Volume 2/Book 1/Chapter 19

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 2: Cosette, Book First: Waterloo, Chapter 19: The Battle-Field at Night<br />
(Tome 2: Cosette, Livre premier: Waterloo, Chapitre 19: Le champ de bataille la nuit)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
Revenons, c'est une n&eacute;cessit&eacute; de ce livre, sur ce fatal champ de
bataille.

 
Le 18 juin 1815, c'&eacute;tait pleine lune. Cette clart&eacute; favorisa la poursuite
f&eacute;roce de Bl&uuml;cher, d&eacute;non&ccedil;a les traces des fuyards, livra cette masse
d&eacute;sastreuse &agrave; la cavalerie prussienne acharn&eacute;e, et aida au massacre. Il
y a parfois dans les catastrophes de ces tragiques complaisances de la
nuit.

 
Apr&egrave;s le dernier coup de canon tir&eacute;, la plaine de Mont-Saint-Jean resta
d&eacute;serte.

 
Les Anglais occup&egrave;rent le campement des Fran&ccedil;ais, c'est la constatation
habituelle de la victoire; coucher dans le lit du vaincu. Ils &eacute;tablirent
leur bivouac au del&agrave; de Rossomme. Les Prussiens, l&acirc;ch&eacute;s sur la d&eacute;route,
pouss&egrave;rent en avant. Wellington alla au village de Waterloo r&eacute;diger son
rapport &agrave; lord Bathurst.

 
Si jamais le ''sic vos non vobis'' a &eacute;t&eacute; applicable, c'est &agrave; coup s&ucirc;r &agrave; ce
village de Waterloo. Waterloo n'a rien fait, et est rest&eacute; &agrave; une
demi-lieue de l'action. Mont-Saint-Jean a &eacute;t&eacute; canonn&eacute;, Hougomont a &eacute;t&eacute;
br&ucirc;l&eacute;, Papelotte a &eacute;t&eacute; br&ucirc;l&eacute;, Plancenoit a &eacute;t&eacute; br&ucirc;l&eacute;, la Haie-Sainte a
&eacute;t&eacute; prise d'assaut, la Belle-Alliance a vu l'embrasement des deux
vainqueurs; on sait &agrave; peine ces noms, et Waterloo qui n'a point
travaill&eacute; dans la bataille en a tout l'honneur.

 
Nous ne sommes pas de ceux qui flattent la guerre; quand l'occasion s'en
pr&eacute;sente, nous lui disons ses v&eacute;rit&eacute;s. La guerre a d'affreuses beaut&eacute;s
que nous n'avons point cach&eacute;es; elle a aussi, convenons-en, quelques
laideurs. Une des plus surprenantes, c'est le prompt d&eacute;pouillement des
morts apr&egrave;s la victoire. L'aube qui suit une bataille se l&egrave;ve toujours
sur des cadavres nus.

 
Qui fait cela? Qui souille ainsi le triomphe? Quelle est cette hideuse
main furtive qui se glisse dans la poche de la victoire? Quels sont ces
filous faisant leur coup derri&egrave;re la gloire? Quelques philosophes,
Voltaire entre autres, affirment que ce sont pr&eacute;cis&eacute;ment ceux-l&agrave; qui ont
fait la gloire. ''Ce sont les m&ecirc;mes'', disent-ils, ''il n'y a pas de
rechange, ceux qui sont debout pillent ceux qui sont &agrave; terre''. ''Le h&eacute;ros
du jour est le vampire de la nuit.'' On a bien le droit, apr&egrave;s tout, de
d&eacute;trousser un peu un cadavre dont on est l'auteur. Quant &agrave; nous, nous ne
le croyons pas. Cueillir des lauriers et voler les souliers d'un mort,
cela nous semble impossible &agrave; la m&ecirc;me main.

 
Ce qui est certain, c'est que, d'ordinaire, apr&egrave;s les vainqueurs
viennent les voleurs. Mais mettons le soldat, surtout le soldat
contemporain, hors de cause.

 
Toute arm&eacute;e a une queue, et c'est l&agrave; ce qu'il faut accuser. Des &ecirc;tres
chauves-souris, mi-partis brigands et valets, toutes les esp&egrave;ces de
''vespertilio'' qu'engendre ce cr&eacute;puscule qu'on appelle la guerre, des
porteurs d'uniformes qui ne combattent pas, de faux malades, des &eacute;clop&eacute;s
redoutables, des cantiniers interlopes trottant, quelquefois avec leurs
femmes, sur de petites charrettes et volant ce qu'ils revendent, des
mendiants s'offrant pour guides aux officiers, des goujats, des
maraudeurs, les arm&eacute;es en marche autrefois,&mdash;nous ne parlons pas du
temps pr&eacute;sent,&mdash;tra&icirc;naient tout cela, si bien que, dans la langue
sp&eacute;ciale, cela s'appelait &laquo;les tra&icirc;nards&raquo;. Aucune arm&eacute;e ni aucune nation
n'&eacute;taient responsables de ces &ecirc;tres; ils parlaient italien et suivaient
les Allemands; ils parlaient fran&ccedil;ais et suivaient les Anglais. C'est
par un de ces mis&eacute;rables, tra&icirc;nard espagnol qui parlait fran&ccedil;ais, que le
marquis de Fervacques, tromp&eacute; par son baragouin picard, et le prenant
pour un des n&ocirc;tres, fut tu&eacute; en tra&icirc;tre et vol&eacute; sur le champ de bataille
m&ecirc;me, dans la nuit qui suivit la victoire de Cerisoles. De la maraude
naissait le maraud. La d&eacute;testable maxime: ''vivre sur l'ennemi'',
produisait cette l&egrave;pre, qu'une forte discipline pouvait seule gu&eacute;rir. Il
y a des renomm&eacute;es qui trompent; on ne sait pas toujours pourquoi de
certains g&eacute;n&eacute;raux, grands d'ailleurs, ont &eacute;t&eacute; si populaires. Turenne
&eacute;tait ador&eacute; de ses soldats parce qu'il tol&eacute;rait le pillage; le mal
permis fait partie de la bont&eacute;; Turenne &eacute;tait si bon qu'il a laiss&eacute;
mettre &agrave; feu et &agrave; sang le Palatinat. On voyait &agrave; la suite des arm&eacute;es
moins ou plus de maraudeurs selon que le chef &eacute;tait plus ou moins
s&eacute;v&egrave;re. Hoche et Marceau n'avaient point de tra&icirc;nards; Wellington, nous
lui rendons volontiers cette justice, en avait peu.

 
Pourtant, dans la nuit du 18 au 19 juin, on d&eacute;pouilla les morts.
Wellington fut rigide; ordre de passer par les armes quiconque serait
pris en flagrant d&eacute;lit; mais la rapine est tenace. Les maraudeurs
volaient dans un coin du champ de bataille pendant qu'on les fusillait
dans l'autre.

 
La lune &eacute;tait sinistre sur cette plaine.

 
Vers minuit, un homme r&ocirc;dait, ou plut&ocirc;t rampait, du c&ocirc;t&eacute; du chemin creux
d'Ohain. C'&eacute;tait, selon toute apparence, un de ceux que nous venons de
caract&eacute;riser, ni Anglais, ni Fran&ccedil;ais, ni paysan, ni soldat, moins homme
que goule, attir&eacute; par le flair des morts, ayant pour victoire le vol,
venant d&eacute;valiser Waterloo. Il &eacute;tait v&ecirc;tu d'une blouse qui &eacute;tait un peu
une capote, il &eacute;tait inquiet et audacieux, il allait devant lui et
regardait derri&egrave;re lui. Qu'&eacute;tait-ce que cet homme? La nuit probablement
en savait plus sur son compte que le jour. Il n'avait point de sac, mais
&eacute;videmment de larges poches sous sa capote. De temps en temps, il
s'arr&ecirc;tait, examinait la plaine autour de lui comme pour voir s'il
n'&eacute;tait pas observ&eacute;, se penchait brusquement, d&eacute;rangeait &agrave; terre quelque
chose de silencieux et d'immobile, puis se redressait et s'esquivait.
Son glissement, ses attitudes, son geste rapide et myst&eacute;rieux le
faisaient ressembler &agrave; ces larves cr&eacute;pusculaires qui hantent les ruines
et que les anciennes l&eacute;gendes normandes appellent les Alleurs.

 
De certains &eacute;chassiers nocturnes font de ces silhouettes dans les
mar&eacute;cages.

 
Un regard qui e&ucirc;t sond&eacute; attentivement toute cette brume e&ucirc;t pu
remarquer, &agrave; quelque distance, arr&ecirc;t&eacute; et comme cach&eacute; derri&egrave;re la masure
qui borde sur la chauss&eacute;e de Nivelles l'angle de la route de
Mont-Saint-Jean &agrave; Braine-l'Alleud, une fa&ccedil;on de petit fourgon de
vivandier &agrave; coiffe d'osier goudronn&eacute;e, attel&eacute; d'une haridelle affam&eacute;e
broutant l'ortie &agrave; travers son mors, et dans ce fourgon une esp&egrave;ce de
femme assise sur des coffres et des paquets. Peut-&ecirc;tre y avait-il un
lien entre ce fourgon et ce r&ocirc;deur.

 
L'obscurit&eacute; &eacute;tait sereine. Pas un nuage au z&eacute;nith. Qu'importe que la
terre soit rouge, la lune reste blanche. Ce sont l&agrave; les indiff&eacute;rences du
ciel. Dans les prairies, des branches d'arbre cass&eacute;es par la mitraille
mais non tomb&eacute;es et retenues par l'&eacute;corce se balan&ccedil;aient doucement au
vent de la nuit. Une haleine, presque une respiration, remuait les
broussailles. Il y avait dans l'herbe des frissons qui ressemblaient &agrave;
des d&eacute;parts d'&acirc;mes.

 
On entendait vaguement au loin aller et venir les patrouilles et les
rondes-major du campement anglais.

 
Hougomont et la Haie-Sainte continuaient de br&ucirc;ler, faisant, l'un &agrave;
l'ouest, l'autre &agrave; l'est, deux grosses flammes auxquelles venait se
rattacher, comme un collier de rubis d&eacute;nou&eacute; ayant &agrave; ses extr&eacute;mit&eacute;s deux
escarboucles, le cordon de feux du bivouac anglais &eacute;tal&eacute; en demi-cercle
immense sur les collines de l'horizon.

 
Nous avons dit la catastrophe du chemin d'Ohain. Ce qu'avait &eacute;t&eacute; cette
mort pour tant de braves, le c&oelig;ur s'&eacute;pouvante d'y songer.

 
Si quelque chose est effroyable, s'il existe une r&eacute;alit&eacute; qui d&eacute;passe le
r&ecirc;ve, c'est ceci: vivre, voir le soleil, &ecirc;tre en pleine possession de la
force virile, avoir la sant&eacute; et la joie, rire vaillamment, courir vers
une gloire qu'on a devant soi, &eacute;blouissante, se sentir dans la poitrine
un poumon qui respire, un c&oelig;ur qui bat, une volont&eacute; qui raisonne,
parler, penser, esp&eacute;rer, aimer, avoir une m&egrave;re, avoir une femme, avoir
des enfants, avoir la lumi&egrave;re, et tout &agrave; coup, le temps d'un cri, en
moins d'une minute, s'effondrer dans un ab&icirc;me, tomber, rouler, &eacute;craser,
&ecirc;tre &eacute;cras&eacute;, voir des &eacute;pis de bl&eacute;, des fleurs, des feuilles, des
branches, ne pouvoir se retenir &agrave; rien, sentir son sabre inutile, des
hommes sous soi, des chevaux sur soi, se d&eacute;battre en vain, les os bris&eacute;s
par quelque ruade dans les t&eacute;n&egrave;bres, sentir un talon qui vous fait
jaillir les yeux, mordre avec rage des fers de chevaux, &eacute;touffer,
hurler, se tordre, &ecirc;tre l&agrave;-dessous, et se dire: ''tout &agrave; l'heure j'&eacute;tais
un vivant!''

 
L&agrave; o&ugrave; avait r&acirc;l&eacute; ce lamentable d&eacute;sastre, tout faisait silence
maintenant. L'encaissement du chemin creux &eacute;tait comble de chevaux et de
cavaliers inextricablement amoncel&eacute;s. Enchev&ecirc;trement terrible. Il n'y
avait plus de talus. Les cadavres nivelaient la route avec la plaine et
venaient au ras du bord comme un boisseau d'orge bien mesur&eacute;. Un tas de
morts dans la partie haute, une rivi&egrave;re de sang dans la partie basse;
telle &eacute;tait cette route le soir du 18 juin 1815. Le sang coulait jusque
sur la chauss&eacute;e de Nivelles et s'y extravasait en une large mare devant
l'abatis d'arbres qui barrait la chauss&eacute;e, &agrave; un endroit qu'on montre
encore. C'est, on s'en souvient, au point oppos&eacute;, vers la chauss&eacute;e de
Genappe, qu'avait eu lieu l'effondrement des cuirassiers. L'&eacute;paisseur
des cadavres se proportionnait &agrave; la profondeur du chemin creux. Vers le
milieu, &agrave; l'endroit o&ugrave; il devenait plein, l&agrave; o&ugrave; avait pass&eacute; la division
Delord, la couche des morts s'amincissait.

 
Le r&ocirc;deur nocturne, que nous venons de faire entrevoir au lecteur,
allait de ce c&ocirc;t&eacute;. Il furetait cette immense tombe. Il regardait. Il
passait on ne sait quelle hideuse revue des morts. Il marchait les pieds
dans le sang.

 
Tout &agrave; coup il s'arr&ecirc;ta. &Agrave; quelques pas devant lui, dans le chemin
creux, au point o&ugrave; finissait le monceau des morts, de dessous cet amas
d'hommes et de chevaux, sortait une main ouverte, &eacute;clair&eacute;e par la lune.

 
Cette main avait au doigt quelque chose qui brillait, et qui &eacute;tait un
anneau d'or.

 
L'homme se courba, demeura un moment accroupi, et quand il se releva, il
n'y avait plus d'anneau &agrave; cette main.

 
Il ne se releva pas pr&eacute;cis&eacute;ment; il resta dans une attitude fauve et
effarouch&eacute;e, tournant le dos au tas de morts, scrutant l'horizon, &agrave;
genoux, tout l'avant du corps portant sur ses deux index appuy&eacute;s &agrave;
terre, la t&ecirc;te guettant par-dessus le bord du chemin creux. Les quatre
pattes du chacal conviennent &agrave; de certaines actions.

 
Puis, prenant son parti, il se dressa.

 
En ce moment il eut un soubresaut. Il sentit que par derri&egrave;re on le
tenait.

 
Il se retourna; c'&eacute;tait la main ouverte qui s'&eacute;tait referm&eacute;e et qui
avait saisi le pan de sa capote.

 
Un honn&ecirc;te homme e&ucirc;t eu peur. Celui-ci se mit &agrave; rire.

 
&mdash;Tiens, dit-il, ce n'est que le mort. J'aime mieux un revenant qu'un
gendarme.

 
Cependant la main d&eacute;faillit et le l&acirc;cha. L'effort s'&eacute;puise vite dans la
tombe.

 
&mdash;Ah &ccedil;&agrave;! reprit le r&ocirc;deur, est-il vivant ce mort? Voyons donc. Il se
pencha de nouveau, fouilla le tas, &eacute;carta ce qui faisait obstacle,
saisit la main, empoigna le bras, d&eacute;gagea la t&ecirc;te, tira le corps, et
quelques instants apr&egrave;s il tra&icirc;nait dans l'ombre du chemin creux un
homme inanim&eacute;, au moins &eacute;vanoui. C'&eacute;tait un cuirassier, un officier, un
officier m&ecirc;me d'un certain rang; une grosse &eacute;paulette d'or sortait de
dessous la cuirasse; cet officier n'avait plus de casque. Un furieux
coup de sabre balafrait son visage o&ugrave; l'on ne voyait que du sang. Du
reste, il ne semblait pas qu'il e&ucirc;t de membre cass&eacute;, et par quelque
hasard heureux, si ce mot est possible ici, les morts s'&eacute;taient
arc-bout&eacute;s au-dessus de lui de fa&ccedil;on &agrave; le garantir de l'&eacute;crasement. Ses
yeux &eacute;taient ferm&eacute;s.

 
Il avait sur sa cuirasse la croix d'argent de la L&eacute;gion d'honneur.

 
Le r&ocirc;deur arracha cette croix qui disparut dans un des gouffres qu'il
avait sous sa capote.

 
Apr&egrave;s quoi, il t&acirc;ta le gousset de l'officier, y sentit une montre et la
prit. Puis il fouilla le gilet, y trouva une bourse et l'empocha.

 
Comme il en &eacute;tait &agrave; cette phase des secours qu'il portait &agrave; ce mourant,
l'officier ouvrit les yeux.

 
&mdash;Merci, dit-il faiblement.

 
La brusquerie des mouvements de l'homme qui le maniait, la fra&icirc;cheur de
la nuit, l'air respir&eacute; librement, l'avaient tir&eacute; de sa l&eacute;thargie.

 
Le r&ocirc;deur ne r&eacute;pondit point. Il leva la t&ecirc;te. On entendait un bruit de
pas dans la plaine; probablement quelque patrouille qui approchait.

 
L'officier murmura, car il y avait encore de l'agonie dans sa voix:

 
&mdash;Qui a gagn&eacute; la bataille?

 
&mdash;Les Anglais, r&eacute;pondit le r&ocirc;deur.

 
L'officier reprit:

 
&mdash;Cherchez dans mes poches. Vous y trouverez une bourse et une montre.
Prenez-les.

 
C'&eacute;tait d&eacute;j&agrave; fait.

 
Le r&ocirc;deur ex&eacute;cuta le semblant demand&eacute;, et dit:

 
&mdash;Il n'y a rien.

 
&mdash;On m'a vol&eacute;, reprit l'officier; j'en suis f&acirc;ch&eacute;. C'e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; pour vous.

 
Les pas de la patrouille devenaient de plus en plus distincts.

 
&mdash;Voici qu'on vient, dit le r&ocirc;deur, faisant le mouvement d'un homme qui
s'en va.

 
L'officier, soulevant p&eacute;niblement le bras, le retint:

 
&mdash;Vous m'avez sauv&eacute; la vie. Qui &ecirc;tes-vous?

 
Le r&ocirc;deur r&eacute;pondit vite et bas:

 
&mdash;J'&eacute;tais comme vous de l'arm&eacute;e fran&ccedil;aise. Il faut que je vous quitte.
Si l'on me prenait, on me fusillerait. Je vous ai sauv&eacute; la vie.
Tirez-vous d'affaire maintenant.

 
&mdash;Quel est votre grade?

 
&mdash;Sergent.

 
&mdash;Comment vous appelez-vous?

 
&mdash;Th&eacute;nardier.

 
&mdash;Je n'oublierai pas ce nom, dit l'officier. Et vous, retenez le mien.
Je me nomme Pontmercy.

 
==English text==

 
Let us return&mdash;it is a necessity in this book&mdash;to that fatal
battle-field.

 
On the 18th of June the moon was full. Its light favored Blucher's
ferocious pursuit, betrayed the traces of the fugitives, delivered up that
disastrous mass to the eager Prussian cavalry, and aided the massacre.
Such tragic favors of the night do occur sometimes during catastrophes.

 
After the last cannon-shot had been fired, the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean
remained deserted.

 
The English occupied the encampment of the French; it is the usual sign of
victory to sleep in the bed of the vanquished. They established their
bivouac beyond Rossomme. The Prussians, let loose on the retreating rout,
pushed forward. Wellington went to the village of Waterloo to draw up his
report to Lord Bathurst.

 
If ever the sic vos non vobis was applicable, it certainly is to that
village of Waterloo. Waterloo took no part, and lay half a league from the
scene of action. Mont-Saint-Jean was cannonaded, Hougomont was burned, La
Haie-Sainte was taken by assault, Papelotte was burned, Plancenoit was
burned, La Belle-Alliance beheld the embrace of the two conquerors; these
names are hardly known, and Waterloo, which worked not in the battle,
bears off all the honor.

 
We are not of the number of those who flatter war; when the occasion
presents itself, we tell the truth about it. War has frightful beauties
which we have not concealed; it has also, we acknowledge, some hideous
features. One of the most surprising is the prompt stripping of the bodies
of the dead after the victory. The dawn which follows a battle always
rises on naked corpses.

 
Who does this? Who thus soils the triumph? What hideous, furtive hand is
that which is slipped into the pocket of victory? What pickpockets are
they who ply their trade in the rear of glory? Some philosophers&mdash;Voltaire
among the number&mdash;affirm that it is precisely those persons have made
the glory. It is the same men, they say; there is no relief corps; those
who are erect pillage those who are prone on the earth. The hero of the
day is the vampire of the night. One has assuredly the right, after all,
to strip a corpse a bit when one is the author of that corpse. For our own
part, we do not think so; it seems to us impossible that the same hand
should pluck laurels and purloin the shoes from a dead man.

 
One thing is certain, which is, that generally after conquerors follow
thieves. But let us leave the soldier, especially the contemporary
soldier, out of the question.

 
Every army has a rear-guard, and it is that which must be blamed. Bat-like
creatures, half brigands and lackeys; all the sorts of vespertillos that
that twilight called war engenders; wearers of uniforms, who take no part
in the fighting; pretended invalids; formidable limpers; interloping
sutlers, trotting along in little carts, sometimes accompanied by their
wives, and stealing things which they sell again; beggars offering
themselves as guides to officers; soldiers' servants; marauders; armies on
the march in days gone by,&mdash;we are not speaking of the present,&mdash;dragged
all this behind them, so that in the special language they are called
"stragglers." No army, no nation, was responsible for those beings; they
spoke Italian and followed the Germans, then spoke French and followed the
English. It was by one of these wretches, a Spanish straggler who spoke
French, that the Marquis of Fervacques, deceived by his Picard jargon, and
taking him for one of our own men, was traitorously slain and robbed on
the battle-field itself, in the course of the night which followed the
victory of Cerisoles. The rascal sprang from this marauding. The
detestable maxim, Live on the enemy! produced this leprosy, which a strict
discipline alone could heal. There are reputations which are deceptive;
one does not always know why certain generals, great in other directions,
have been so popular. Turenne was adored by his soldiers because he
tolerated pillage; evil permitted constitutes part of goodness. Turenne
was so good that he allowed the Palatinate to be delivered over to fire
and blood. The marauders in the train of an army were more or less in
number, according as the chief was more or less severe. Hoche and Marceau
had no stragglers; Wellington had few, and we do him the justice to
mention it.

 
Nevertheless, on the night from the 18th to the 19th of June, the dead
were robbed. Wellington was rigid; he gave orders that any one caught in
the act should be shot; but rapine is tenacious. The marauders stole in
one corner of the battlefield while others were being shot in another.

 
The moon was sinister over this plain.

 
Towards midnight, a man was prowling about, or rather, climbing in the
direction of the hollow road of Ohain. To all appearance he was one of
those whom we have just described,&mdash;neither English nor French,
neither peasant nor soldier, less a man than a ghoul attracted by the
scent of the dead bodies having theft for his victory, and come to rifle
Waterloo. He was clad in a blouse that was something like a great coat; he
was uneasy and audacious; he walked forwards and gazed behind him. Who was
this man? The night probably knew more of him than the day. He had no
sack, but evidently he had large pockets under his coat. From time to time
he halted, scrutinized the plain around him as though to see whether he
were observed, bent over abruptly, disturbed something silent and
motionless on the ground, then rose and fled. His sliding motion, his
attitudes, his mysterious and rapid gestures, caused him to resemble those
twilight larvae which haunt ruins, and which ancient Norman legends call
the Alleurs.

 
Certain nocturnal wading birds produce these silhouettes among the
marshes.

 
A glance capable of piercing all that mist deeply would have perceived at
some distance a sort of little sutler's wagon with a fluted wicker hood,
harnessed to a famished nag which was cropping the grass across its bit as
it halted, hidden, as it were, behind the hovel which adjoins the highway
to Nivelles, at the angle of the road from Mont-Saint-Jean to Braine
l'Alleud; and in the wagon, a sort of woman seated on coffers and
packages. Perhaps there was some connection between that wagon and that
prowler.

 
The darkness was serene. Not a cloud in the zenith. What matters it if the
earth be red! the moon remains white; these are the indifferences of the
sky. In the fields, branches of trees broken by grape-shot, but not
fallen, upheld by their bark, swayed gently in the breeze of night. A
breath, almost a respiration, moved the shrubbery. Quivers which resembled
the departure of souls ran through the grass.

 
In the distance the coming and going of patrols and the general rounds of
the English camp were audible.

 
Hougomont and La Haie-Sainte continued to burn, forming, one in the west,
the other in the east, two great flames which were joined by the cordon of
bivouac fires of the English, like a necklace of rubies with two
carbuncles at the extremities, as they extended in an immense semicircle
over the hills along the horizon.

 
We have described the catastrophe of the road of Ohain. The heart is
terrified at the thought of what that death must have been to so many
brave men.

 
If there is anything terrible, if there exists a reality which surpasses
dreams, it is this: to live, to see the sun; to be in full possession of
virile force; to possess health and joy; to laugh valiantly; to rush
towards a glory which one sees dazzling in front of one; to feel in one's
breast lungs which breathe, a heart which beats, a will which reasons; to
speak, think, hope, love; to have a mother, to have a wife, to have
children; to have the light&mdash;and all at once, in the space of a
shout, in less than a minute, to sink into an abyss; to fall, to roll, to
crush, to be crushed; to see ears of wheat, flowers, leaves, branches; not
to be able to catch hold of anything; to feel one's sword useless, men
beneath one, horses on top of one; to struggle in vain, since one's bones
have been broken by some kick in the darkness; to feel a heel which makes
one's eyes start from their sockets; to bite horses' shoes in one's rage;
to stifle, to yell, to writhe; to be beneath, and to say to one's self,
"But just a little while ago I was a living man!"

 
There, where that lamentable disaster had uttered its death-rattle, all
was silence now. The edges of the hollow road were encumbered with horses
and riders, inextricably heaped up. Terrible entanglement! There was no
longer any slope, for the corpses had levelled the road with the plain,
and reached the brim like a well-filled bushel of barley. A heap of dead
bodies in the upper part, a river of blood in the lower part&mdash;such
was that road on the evening of the 18th of June, 1815. The blood ran even
to the Nivelles highway, and there overflowed in a large pool in front of
the abatis of trees which barred the way, at a spot which is still pointed
out.

 
It will be remembered that it was at the opposite point, in the direction
of the Genappe road, that the destruction of the cuirassiers had taken
place. The thickness of the layer of bodies was proportioned to the depth
of the hollow road. Towards the middle, at the point where it became
level, where Delort's division had passed, the layer of corpses was
thinner.

 
The nocturnal prowler whom we have just shown to the reader was going in
that direction. He was searching that vast tomb. He gazed about. He passed
the dead in some sort of hideous review. He walked with his feet in the
blood.

 
All at once he paused.

 
A few paces in front of him, in the hollow road, at the point where the
pile of dead came to an end, an open hand, illumined by the moon,
projected from beneath that heap of men. That hand had on its finger
something sparkling, which was a ring of gold.

 
The man bent over, remained in a crouching attitude for a moment, and when
he rose there was no longer a ring on the hand.

 
He did not precisely rise; he remained in a stooping and frightened
attitude, with his back turned to the heap of dead, scanning the horizon
on his knees, with the whole upper portion of his body supported on his
two forefingers, which rested on the earth, and his head peering above the
edge of the hollow road. The jackal's four paws suit some actions.

 
Then coming to a decision, he rose to his feet.

 
At that moment, he gave a terrible start. He felt some one clutch him from
behind.

 
He wheeled round; it was the open hand, which had closed, and had seized
the skirt of his coat.

 
An honest man would have been terrified; this man burst into a laugh.

 
"Come," said he, "it's only a dead body. I prefer a spook to a gendarme."

 
But the hand weakened and released him. Effort is quickly exhausted in the
grave.

 
"Well now," said the prowler, "is that dead fellow alive? Let's see."

 
He bent down again, fumbled among the heap, pushed aside everything that
was in his way, seized the hand, grasped the arm, freed the head, pulled
out the body, and a few moments later he was dragging the lifeless, or at
least the unconscious, man, through the shadows of hollow road. He was a
cuirassier, an officer, and even an officer of considerable rank; a large
gold epaulette peeped from beneath the cuirass; this officer no longer
possessed a helmet. A furious sword-cut had scarred his face, where
nothing was discernible but blood.

 
However, he did not appear to have any broken limbs, and, by some happy
chance, if that word is permissible here, the dead had been vaulted above
him in such a manner as to preserve him from being crushed. His eyes were
still closed.

 
On his cuirass he wore the silver cross of the Legion of Honor.

 
The prowler tore off this cross, which disappeared into one of the gulfs
which he had beneath his great coat.

 
Then he felt of the officer's fob, discovered a watch there, and took
possession of it. Next he searched his waistcoat, found a purse and
pocketed it.

 
When he had arrived at this stage of succor which he was administering to
this dying man, the officer opened his eyes.

 
"Thanks," he said feebly.

 
The abruptness of the movements of the man who was manipulating him, the
freshness of the night, the air which he could inhale freely, had roused
him from his lethargy.

 
The prowler made no reply. He raised his head. A sound of footsteps was
audible in the plain; some patrol was probably approaching.

 
The officer murmured, for the death agony was still in his voice:&mdash;

 
"Who won the battle?"

 
"The English," answered the prowler.

 
The officer went on:&mdash;

 
"Look in my pockets; you will find a watch and a purse. Take them."

 
It was already done.

 
The prowler executed the required feint, and said:&mdash;

 
"There is nothing there."

 
"I have been robbed," said the officer; "I am sorry for that. You should
have had them."

 
The steps of the patrol became more and more distinct.

 
"Some one is coming," said the prowler, with the movement of a man who is
taking his departure.

 
The officer raised his arm feebly, and detained him.

 
"You have saved my life. Who are you?"

 
The prowler answered rapidly, and in a low voice:&mdash;

 
"Like yourself, I belonged to the French army. I must leave you. If they
were to catch me, they would shoot me. I have saved your life. Now get out
of the scrape yourself."

 
"What is your rank?"

 
"Sergeant."

 
"What is your name?"

 
"Thenardier."

 
"I shall not forget that name," said the officer; "and do you remember
mine. My name is Pontmercy."


==Translation notes==

===sic vos non vobis===

Thus you work but not for yourselves.

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
<references />