Franco-Prussian War, 1870-1871 -- Fiction; War stories
Resolving to have done with it he pushed on to
the end of the Grande Rue, now gaining a few feet by balancing himself,
rope-walker fashion, along the pole of some vehicle, now climbing over
an army wagon that barred his way. At the Place du Collège he was
carried along—bodily on the shoulders of the throng for a space of
thirty paces; he fell to the ground, narrowly escaped a set of
fractured ribs, and saved himself only by the proximity of a friendly
iron railing, by the bars of which he pulled himself to his feet. And
when at last he reached the Rue Maqua, inundated with perspiration, his
clothing almost torn from his back, he found that he had been more than
an hour in coming from the Sous-Prefecture, a distance which in
ordinary times he was accustomed to accomplish in less than five
minutes.
Major Bouroche, with the intention of keeping the ambulance and garden
from being overrun with intruders, had caused two sentries to be
mounted at the door. This measure was a source of great comfort to
Delaherche, who had begun to contemplate the possibilities of his house
being subjected to pillage. The sight of the ambulance in the garden,
dimly lighted by a few candles and exhaling its fetid, feverish
emanations, caused him a fresh constriction of the heart; then,
stumbling over the body of a soldier who was stretched in slumber on
the stone pavement of the walk, he supposed him to be one of the
fugitives who had managed to find his way in there from outside, until,
calling to mind the 7th corps treasure that had been deposited there
and the sentry who had been set over it, he saw how matters stood: the
poor fellow, stationed there since early morning, had been overlooked
by his superiors and had succumbed to his fatigue. Besides, the house
seemed quite deserted; the ground floor was black as Egypt, and the
doors stood wide open. The servants were doubtless all at the
ambulance, for there was no one in the kitchen, which was faintly
illuminated by the light of a wretched little smoky lamp. He lit a
candle and ascended the main staircase very softly, in order not to
awaken his wife and mother, whom he had begged to go to bed early after
a day where the stress, both mental and physical, had been so intense.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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