By Guy de Maupassant
For several days in succession fragments of a
defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere disorganized bands,
not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms;
they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed
exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching onward merely by
force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue the moment they halted.
One saw, in particular, many enlisted men, peaceful citizens, men who lived
quietly on their income, bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little
active volunteers, easily frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack
as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of
red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle;
somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and
there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in
keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of
irregulars with high-sounding names “Avengers of Defeat,” “Citizens of the
Tomb,” “Brethren in Death”— passed in their turn, looking like banditti. Their
leaders, former drapers or grain merchants, or tallow or soap chandlers —
warriors by force of circumstances, officers by reason of their mustachios or
their money — covered with weapons, flannel and gold lace, spoke in an
impressive manner, discussed plans of campaign, and behaved as though they
alone bore the fortunes of dying France on their braggart shoulders; though, in
truth, they frequently were afraid of their own men — scoundrels often brave
beyond measure, but pillagers and debauchees.
