Just then, as a slim, tall, shadowy figure walked past them rapidly, both Jean and Maurice recognised Colonel de Vineuil. He was with Surgeon-Major Bouroche, a stout man with the head of a lion. They were exchanging disconnected words in an undertone, words but imperfectly articulated, like those one sometimes hears in dreams: 'It came from Basle--our first division is destroyed--twelve hours' fighting, the entire army in retreat.' The colonel stopped short, and called to another shadowy figure, slight, nimble, and dapper, that was hastily approaching, 'Is that you, Beaudoin?' 'Yes, colonel.' 'Ah! my poor friend. MacMahon has been beaten at Frœschweiler, Frossard is beaten at Speichern, De Failly hemmed in between them, gave neither any support. At Frœschweiler we had but a single corps engaged against an entire army. Prodigies of valour, but everything was swept away--rout and panic, and France open to the invader.' His sobs were choking him, and the words he added died away as he and his shadowy companions disappeared, melting as it were in the surrounding darkness. Maurice had sprung from the ground, shuddering from head to foot. 'My God!' he stammered. And he found nothing else to say, whilst Jean, with an icy chill at his heart, muttered: 'Ah! What cursed luck! That gentleman, your relative, was right, after all, when he said they were stronger than we are.' Maurice, quite beside himself, felt inclined to strangle Jean. The Prussians stronger than the French! The thought made his pride revolt. But the sober-minded, stubborn peasant was already adding--'Still it doesn't much matter. A man doesn't give in just for one blow. We shall have to hit them back.' A tall figure had just sprung up in front of them, and they recognised Rochas, still draped in his cloak. The fugitive noises, perhaps even the passing breath of defeat, had roused him from his heavy slumber. He questioned them, determined to know the truth, and when, with great difficulty, he understood what had happened, an expression of profound stupefaction appeared in his empty child-like eyes. Again and again he repeated: 'Beaten! beaten! How's that? Beaten--_why_?' The night had been pregnant with the anguish of this disaster. And now in the east appeared the dawn, an ambiguous dawn, infinitely sad, that whitened the tents full of sleepers, among whom one could now dimly descry the cadaverous-looking faces of Loubet and Lapoulle, Chouteau and Pache, who were still snoring with their mouths wide open. The aurora of a day of mourning was rising amid the soot-tinted mists that had ascended from the distant river. CHAPTER II THE PANIC--FROM BELFORT TO RHEIMS