The war was over. The Germans occupied France. The whole country was
pulsating like a conquered wrestler beneath the knee of his victorious
opponent.
The first trains from Paris, distracted, starving, despairing Paris,
were making their way to the new frontiers, slowly passing through the
country districts and the villages. The passengers gazed through the
windows at the ravaged fields and burned hamlets. Prussian soldiers, in
their black helmets with brass spikes, were smoking their pipes astride
their chairs in front of the houses which were still left standing.
Others were working or talking just as if they were members of the
families. As you passed through the different towns you saw entire
regiments drilling in the squares, and, in spite of the rumble of
the carriage-wheels, you could every moment hear the hoarse words of
command.
M. Dubuis, who during the entire siege had served as one of the National
Guard in Paris, was going to join his wife and daughter, whom he had
prudently sent away to Switzerland before the invasion.
Famine and hardship had not diminished his big paunch so characteristic
of the rich, peace-loving merchant. He had gone through the terrible
events of the past year with sorrowful resignation and bitter complaints
at the savagery of men. Now that he was journeying to the frontier at
the close of the war, he saw the Prussians for the first time, although
he had done his duty on the ramparts and mounted guard on many a cold
night.
He stared with mingled fear and anger at those bearded armed men,
installed all over French soil as if they were at home, and he felt in
his soul a kind of fever of impotent patriotism, at the same time also
the great need of that new instinct of prudence which since then has,
never left us. In the same railway carriage were two Englishmen, who had
come to the country as sightseers and were gazing about them with looks
of quiet curiosity. They were both also stout, and kept chatting in
their own language, sometimes referring to their guidebook, and reading
aloud the names of the places indicated.
Suddenly the train stopped at a little village station, and a Prussian
officer jumped up with a great clatter of his sabre on the double
footboard of the railway carriage. He was tall, wore a tight-fitting
uniform, and had whiskers up to his eyes. His red hair seemed to be on
fire, and his long mustache, of a paler hue, stuck out on both sides of
his face, which it seemed to cut in two.
The Englishmen at once began staring, at him with smiles of newly
awakened interest, while M. Dubuis made a show of reading a newspaper.
He sat concealed in his corner like a thief in presence of a gendarme.
The train started again. The Englishmen went on chatting and looking out
for the exact scene of different battles; and all of a sudden, as one
of them stretched out his arm toward the horizon as he pointed out a
village, the Prussian officer remarked in French, extending his long
legs and lolling backward:
“I killed a dozen Frenchmen in that village and took more than a hundred
prisoners.”
The Englishmen, quite interested, immediately asked:
“Ha! and what is the name of this village?”
The Prussian replied:
“Pharsbourg.” He added: “We caught those French scoundrels by the ears.”
And he glanced toward M. Dubuis, laughing conceitedly into his mustache.
The train rolled on, still passing through hamlets occupied by the
victorious army. German soldiers could be seen along the roads, on the
edges of fields, standing in front of gates or chatting outside cafes.
They covered the soil like African locusts.
The officer said, with a wave of his hand:
“If I had been in command, I'd have taken Paris, burned everything,
killed everybody. No more France!”
The Englishman, through politeness, replied simply:
“Ah! yes.”
He went on:
“In twenty years all Europe, all of it, will belong to us. Prussia is
more than a match for all of them.”
The Englishmen, getting uneasy, no longer replied. Their faces, which
had become impassive, seemed made of wax behind their long whiskers.
Then the Prussian officer began to laugh. And still, lolling back,
he began to sneer. He sneered at the downfall of France, insulted
the prostrate enemy; he sneered at Austria, which had been recently
conquered; he sneered at the valiant but fruitless defence of the
departments; he sneered at the Garde Mobile and at the useless
artillery. He announced that Bismarck was going to build a city of iron
with the captured cannon. And suddenly he placed his boots against the
thigh of M. Dubuis, who turned away his eyes, reddening to the roots of
his hair.
The Englishmen seemed to have become indifferent to all that was going
on, as if they were suddenly shut up in their own island, far from the
din of the world.
The officer took out his pipe, and looking fixedly at the Frenchman,
said:
“You haven't any tobacco--have you?”