Franco-Prussian War, 1870-1871 -- Fiction; War stories
Jean was asleep, and Maurice was alone. He could not endure the thought
of going to the tent where Lapoulle and the rest of them were
slumbering; he heard their snoring, responsive to Rochas’ strains, and
envied them. If our great captains sleep soundly the night before a
battle, it is like enough for the reason that their fatigue will not
let them do otherwise. He was conscious of no sound save the equal,
deep-drawn breathing of that slumbering multitude, rising from the
darkening camp like the gentle respiration of some huge monster; beyond
that all was void. He only knew that the 5th corps was close at hand,
encamped beneath the rampart, that the 1st’s line extended from the
wood of la Garenne to la Moncelle, while the 12th was posted on the
other side of the city, at Bazeilles; and all were sleeping; the whole
length of that long line, from the nearest tent to the most remote, for
miles and miles, that low, faint murmur ascended in rhythmic unison
from the dark, mysterious bosom of the night. Then outside this circle
lay another region, the realm of the unknown, whence also sounds came
intermittently to his ears, so vague, so distant, that he scarcely knew
whether they were not the throbbings of his own excited pulses; the
indistinct trot of cavalry plashing over the low ground, the dull
rumble of gun and caisson along the roads, and, still more marked, the
heavy tramp of marching men; the gathering on the heights above of that
black swarm, engaged in strengthening the meshes of their net, from
which night itself had not served to divert them. And below, there by
the river’s side, was there not the flash of lights suddenly
extinguished, was not that the sound of hoarse voices shouting orders,
adding to the dread suspense of that long night of terror while waiting
for the coming of the dawn?
Maurice put forth his hand and felt for Jean’s; at last he slumbered,
comforted by the sense of human companionship. From a steeple in Sedan
came the deep tones of a bell, slowly, mournfully, tolling the hour;
then all was blank and void.
PART SECOND
I.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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