Franco-Prussian War, 1870-1871 -- Fiction; War stories
These were the considerations that had prevailed at the council among
those more reasonable officers who, in the midst of their grief and
sorrow for their country and the army, had retained a clear and
undistorted view of the situation as it was; and the more hot-headed
among them, those who cried with emotion that it was impossible for an
army to surrender thus, had been compelled to bow their head upon their
breast in silence and admit that they had no practicable scheme to
offer whereby the conflict might be recommenced on the morrow.
In the Place Turenne and Place du Rivage, Delaherche succeeded with the
greatest difficulty in working his way through the press. As he passed
the Hotel of the Golden Cross a sorrowful vision greeted his eyes, that
of the generals seated in the dining room, gloomily silent, around the
empty board; there was nothing left to eat in the house, not even
bread. General Bourgain-Desfeuilles, however, who had been storming and
vociferating in the kitchen, appeared to have found something, for he
suddenly held his peace and ran away swiftly up the stairs, holding in
his hands a large paper parcel of a greasy aspect. Such was the crowd
assembled there, to stare through the lighted windows upon the guests
assembled around that famine-stricken _table d’hote_, that the
manufacturer was obliged to make vigorous play with his elbows, and was
frequently driven back by some wild rush of the mob and lost all the
distance, and more, that he had just gained. In the Grande Rue,
however, the obstacles became actually impassable, and there was a
moment when he was inclined to give up in despair; a complete battery
seemed to have been driven in there and the guns and _matériel_ piled,
pell-mell, on top of one another. Deciding finally to take the bull by
the horns, he leaped to the axle of a piece and so pursued his way,
jumping from wheel to wheel, straddling the guns, at the imminent risk
of breaking his legs, if not his neck. Afterward it was some horses
that blocked his way, and he made himself lowly and stooped, creeping
among the feet and underneath the bellies of the sorry jades, who were
ready to die of inanition, like their masters. Then, when after a
quarter of an hour’s laborious effort he reached the junction of the
Rue Saint-Michel, he was terrified at the prospect of the dangers and
obstacles that he had still to face, and which, instead of diminishing,
seemed to be increasing, and made up his mind to turn down the street
above mentioned, which would take him into the Rue des Laboureurs; he
hoped that by taking these usually quiet and deserted passages he
should escape the crowd and reach his home in safety. As luck would
have it he almost directly came upon a house of ill-fame to which a
band of drunken soldiers were in process of laying siege, and
considering that a stray shot, should one reach him in the fracas,
would be equally as unpleasant as one intended for him, he made haste
to retrace his steps.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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