The Downfall
Zola, Émile, 1840-1902
English
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Below is a summary of The Downfall
THE DOWNFALL
(LA DEBACLE)
(The Smash-up)
BY
EMILE ZOLA
Translated By
E. P. Robins
THE DOWNFALL
PART FIRST
I.
In the middle of the broad, fertile plain that stretches away in the
direction of the Rhine, a mile and a quarter from Mulhausen, the camp
was pitched. In the fitful light of the overcast August day, beneath
the lowering sky that was filled with heavy drifting clouds, the long
lines of squat white shelter-tents seemed to cower closer to the
ground, and the muskets, stacked at regular intervals along the
regimental fronts, made little spots of brightness, while over all the
sentries with loaded pieces kept watch and ward, motionless as
statues, straining their eyes to pierce the purplish mists that lay on
the horizon and showed where the mighty river ran.
It was about five o'clock when they had come in from Belfort; it was
now eight, and the men had only just received their rations. There
could be no distribution of wood, however, the wagons having gone
astray, and it had therefore been impossible for them to make fires
and warm their soup. They had consequently been obliged to content
themselves as best they might, washing down their dry hard-tack with
copious draughts of brandy, a proceeding that was not calculated
greatly to help their tired legs after their long march. Near the
canteen, however, behind the stacks of muskets, there were two
soldiers pertinaciously endeavoring to elicit a blaze from a small
pile of green wood, the trunks of some small trees that they had
chopped down with their sword-bayonets, and that were obstinately
determined not to burn. The cloud of thick, black smoke, rising slowly
in the evening air, added to the general cheerlessness of the scene.
There were but twelve thousand men there, all of the 7th corps that
the general, Felix Douay, had with him at the time. The 1st division
had been ordered to Froeschwiller the day before; the 3d was still at
Lyons, and it had been decided to leave Belfort and hurry to the front
with the 2d division, the reserve artillery, and an incomplete
division of cavalry. Fires had been seen at Lorrach. The _sous-prefet_
at Schelestadt had sent a telegram announcing that the Prussians were
preparing to pass the Rhine at Markolsheim. The general did not like
his unsupported position on the extreme right, where he was cut off
from communication with the other corps, and his movement in the
direction of the frontier had been accelerated by the intelligence he
had received the day before of the disastrous surprise at Wissembourg.
Even if he should not be called on to face the enemy on his own front,
he felt that he was likely at any moment to be ordered to march to the
relief of the 1st corps. There must be fighting going on, away down
the river near Froeschwiller, on that dark and threatening Saturday,
that ominous 6th of August; there was premonition of it in the sultry
air, and the stray puffs of wind passed shudderingly over the camp as
if fraught with tidings of impending evil. And for two days the
division had believed that it was marching forth to battle; the men
had expected to find the Prussians in their front, at the termination
of their forced march from Belfort to Mulhausen.
The day was drawing to an end, and from a remote corner of the camp
the rattling drums and the shrill bugles sounded retreat, the sound
dying away faintly in the distance on the still air of evening. Jean
Macquart, who had been securing the tent and driving the pegs home,
rose to his feet. When it began to be rumored that there was to be war
he had left Rognes, the scene of the bloody drama in which he had lost
his wife, Francoise and the acres that she brought him; he had
re-enlisted at the age of thirty-nine, and been assigned to the 106th
of the line, of which they were at that time filling up the _cadres_,
with his old rank of corporal, and there were moments when he could
not help wondering how it ever came about that he, who after Solferino
had been so glad to quit the service and cease endangering his own and
other people's lives, was again wearing the _capote_ of the infantry
man. But what is a man to do, when he has neither trade nor calling,
neither wife, house, nor home, and his heart is heavy with mingled
rage and sorrow? As well go and have a shot at the enemy, if they come
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