The Downfall (La Débâcle): A Story of the Horrors of WarZola, Émile
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The Downfall (La Débâcle): A Story of the Horrors of War
Zola, Émile
Franco-Prussian War, 1870-1871 -- Fiction
Weiss rushed up furiously. He was stammering, and oaths alone could
give expression to his feelings: 'Curse them! Curse them!' he shouted.
Yes, she was indeed dead. He had stooped down and felt her hands. As
he was rising again his eyes encountered the blotched face of little
Auguste, who had raised his head to look at his mother. The lad said
nothing, he did not shriek or cry, but his large eyes, full of fever,
were quite dilated as they gazed upon that frightfully mangled body,
which he could no longer recognise. 'Curse them!' shouted Weiss at
last, 'so now they are killing women!'
He had again drawn himself erect, and he shook his fist at the
Bavarians, whose helmets were once more appearing to view in the
direction of the church. Then the sight of the roof of his house, half
broken in by the fallen chimney, put the finishing touch to his mad
exasperation. 'You dirty blackguards!' he shouted, 'you kill women and
you knock my house to pieces! No, no, it is impossible, I can't go off
like that; I shall stay!'
He darted into the courtyard of the dyeworks, and bounded back again,
carrying the chassepot and cartridge pouch of the dead soldier. For
use on important occasions, when he was desirous of seeing anything
very distinctly, he always carried a pair of spectacles in his pocket,
though he seldom wore them through a coquettish regard for the feelings
of his young wife. Now, however, he promptly took off his folding
glasses and put on his spectacles; and then this stout civilian, whose
good-natured, full face was quite transfigured by anger, who looked
almost comical yet superb in his heroism, began to fire, aiming at the
detachment of Bavarians massed at the end of the street. It was in his
blood, as he was wont to say; he had longed to stretch some of them on
the ground ever since hearing the stories of 1814, related to him in
his childish days, in his Alsatian home.
'Ah! the dirty blackguards, the dirty blackguards!'
And still he kept on firing--so rapidly in fact that the barrel of his
chassepot began to burn his fingers.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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