Franco-Prussian War, 1870-1871 -- Fiction; War stories
lying there silent and ineffective, sleeping its neglected sleep in the
concealment of those deserted alleys. She was compelled to retrace her
steps, therefore, which she did by passing through the Place du Collège
to the Grande-Rue, where in front of the Hotel de l’Europe she saw a
group of orderlies holding the chargers of some general officers, whose
high-pitched voices were audible from the brilliantly lighted dining
room. On the Place du Rivage and the Place Turenne the crowd was even
greater still, composed of anxious groups of citizens, with women and
children interspersed among the struggling, terror-stricken throng,
hurrying in every direction; and there she saw a general emerge from
the Hotel of the Golden Cross, swearing like a pirate, and spur his
horse off up the street at a mad gallop, careless whom he might
overturn. For a moment she seemed about to enter the Hôtel de Ville,
then changed her mind, and taking the Rue du Pont-de-Meuse, pushed on
to the Sous-Prefecture.
Never had Sedan appeared to her in a light so tragically sinister as
now, when she beheld it in the livid, forbidding light of early dawn,
enveloped in its shroud of fog. The houses were lifeless and silent as
tombs; many of them had been empty and abandoned for the last two days,
others the terrified owners had closely locked and barred. Shuddering,
the city awoke to the cares and occupations of the new day; the morning
was fraught with chill misery in those streets, still half deserted,
peopled only by a few frightened pedestrians and those hurrying
fugitives, the remnant of the exodus of previous days. Soon the sun
would rise and send down its cheerful light upon the scene; soon the
city, overwhelmed in the swift-rising tide of disaster, would be
crowded as it had never been before. It was half-past five o’clock; the
roar of the cannon, caught and deadened among the tall dingy houses,
sounded more faintly in her ears.
At the Sous-Prefecture Henriette had some acquaintance with the
concierge’s daughter, Rose by name, a pretty little blonde of refined
appearance who was employed in Delaherche’s factory. She made her way
at once to the lodge; the mother was not there, but Rose received her
with her usual amiability.
“Oh! dear lady, we are so tired we can scarcely stand; mamma has gone
to lie down and rest a while. Just think! all night long people have
been coming and going, and we have not been able to get a wink of
sleep.”
And burning to tell all the wonderful sights that she had been witness
to since the preceding day, she did not wait to be questioned, but ran
on volubly with her narrative.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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