I
It was after Bourbaki's defeat in the east of France. The army,
broken up, decimated, and worn out, had been obliged to retreat into
Switzerland after that terrible campaign, and it was only its short
duration that saved a hundred and fifty thousand men from certain death.
Hunger, the terrible cold, forced marches in the snow without boots,
over bad mountain roads, had caused us 'francs-tireurs', especially, the
greatest suffering, for we were without tents, and almost without food,
always in the van when we were marching toward Belfort, and in the rear
when returning by the Jura. Of our little band that had numbered twelve
hundred men on the first of January, there remained only twenty-two
pale, thin, ragged wretches, when we at length succeeded in reaching
Swiss territory.
There we were safe, and could rest. Everybody knows what sympathy was
shown to the unfortunate French army, and how well it was cared for. We
all gained fresh life, and those who had been rich and happy before
the war declared that they had never experienced a greater feeling of
comfort than they did then. Just think. We actually had something to eat
every day, and could sleep every night.
Meanwhile, the war continued in the east of France, which had been
excluded from the armistice. Besancon still kept the enemy in check,
and the latter had their revenge by ravaging Franche Comte. Sometimes we
heard that they had approached quite close to the frontier, and we saw
Swiss troops, who were to form a line of observation between us and
them, set out on their march.
That pained us in the end, and, as we regained health and strength,
the longing to fight took possession of us. It was disgraceful and
irritating to know that within two or three leagues of us the Germans
were victorious and insolent, to feel that we were protected by our
captivity, and to feel that on that account we were powerless against
them.
One day our captain took five or six of us aside, and spoke to us about
it, long and furiously. He was a fine fellow, that captain. He had been
a sublieutenant in the Zouaves, was tall and thin and as hard as steel,
and during the whole campaign he had cut out their work for the Germans.
He fretted in inactivity, and could not accustom himself to the idea of
being a prisoner and of doing nothing.
“Confound it!” he said to us, “does it not pain you to know that there
is a number of uhlans within two hours of us? Does it not almost drive
you mad to know that those beggarly wretches are walking about as
masters in our mountains, when six determined men might kill a whole
spitful any day? I cannot endure it any longer, and I must go there.”
“But how can you manage it, captain?”
“How? It is not very difficult! Just as if we had not done a thing or
two within the last six months, and got out of woods that were guarded
by very different men from the Swiss. The day that you wish to cross
over into France, I will undertake to get you there.”
“That may be; but what shall we do in France without any arms?”
“Without arms? We will get them over yonder, by Jove!”
“You are forgetting the treaty,” another soldier said; “we shall run the
risk of doing the Swiss an injury, if Manteuffel learns that they have
allowed prisoners to return to France.”
“Come,” said the captain, “those are all bad reasons. I mean to go and
kill some Prussians; that is all I care about. If you do not wish to
do as I do, well and good; only say so at once. I can quite well go by
myself; I do not require anybody's company.”
Naturally we all protested, and, as it was quite impossible to make the
captain alter his mind, we felt obliged to promise to go with him. We
liked him too much to leave him in the lurch, as he never failed us in
any extremity; and so the expedition was decided on.