We were almost dressed, and I was hoping to escape in the darkness
without being recognized, when suddenly there was a knock at the door
and a shout, "Open."
We were obliged to open it.
An infantry officer, wet through by the rain, with his great blue cloak
thrown over his epaulettes, followed by an old sergeant with a lantern,
came in.
We recognized them as Frenchmen, and the officer asked brusquely,
"Where do you come from?"
"From Mont-St.-Jean, lieutenant," I replied.
"From what regiment are you?"
"From the Sixth light infantry," I answered.
He looked at the number on my shako, which was lying on the table, and
at the same time I saw that his number was also the Sixth.
"From which battalion are you?" said he, knitting his brows.
"The third."
Buche, pale as ashes, did not say a word. The officer looked at our
guns and knapsacks and cartridge-boxes behind the bed in the corner.
"You have deserted," said he.
"No, lieutenant, we left, the last ones, at eight o'clock, from
Mont-St.-Jean."
"Go downstairs, we will see if that is true."
We went downstairs. The officer followed us, and the sergeant went
before with his lantern.
The great hall below was full of officers of the 12th mounted
chasseurs, and of the 6th light infantry. The commandant of the 4th
battalion of the 6th was promenading up and down, smoking a little
wooden pipe. They were all of them wet through and covered with mud.
The officers said a few words to the commandant, who stopped, and fixed
his black eyes upon us, while his crooked nose turned down into his
gray mustache.
His manner was not very gentle as he asked us half a dozen questions
about our departure from Ligny, the road to Quatre-Bras, and the
battle. He winked and compressed his lips. The others walked up and
down dragging their sabres without listening to us. At last the
commandant said, "Sergeant, these men will join the second company; go!"
He took his pipe again from the edge of the mantel, and we went out
with the sergeant, happy enough to get off so easily, for they might
have shot us as deserters before the enemy.
We followed the sergeant for two hundred paces to the other end of the
village to a shed. Fires had been lighted farther on in the fields;
men were sleeping under the shed, leaning against the doors of the
stables, and the posts.
A fine rain was falling and the puddles quivered in the gray uncertain
moonlight. We stood up under a part of the roof at the corner of the
old house thinking of our troubles.
At the end of an hour, the drums began to beat with a dull sound; the
men shook the straw from their clothes and we resumed our march. It
was still dark--but we could hear the chasseurs sounding their signal
to mount, behind us.
Between three and four in the morning, at dawn, we saw a great many
other regiments, cavalry, infantry, and artillery, on the march like
ourselves by different roads, all the corps of Marshal Grouchy in
retreat! The wet weather, the leaden sky, the long files of weary men,
the disappointment of being retaken, and the thought that so many
efforts and so much bloodshed had only terminated a second time in an
invasion, all this made us hang down our heads. Nothing was heard but
the sound of our own footsteps in the mud.
I could not shake off my sadness for a long time, when a voice near me
said:
"Good-morning, Joseph."
I was awakened, and looking at the man who spoke to me, I recognized
the son of Martin the tanner, our neighbor at Pfalzbourg; he was
corporal of the Sixth, and the file-closer, marching with arms at will.
We shook hands. It was a real consolation for me to see some one from
our own place.
In spite of the rain which continued to fall and our great fatigue, we
could talk of nothing but this terrible campaign.
I related the story of the battle of Waterloo, and he told me that the
4th battalion on leaving Fleurus had taken the route toward Wavre with
the whole of Grouchy's corps, and that in the afternoon of the next
day, the 18th, they heard the cannon on their left and that they all
wanted to go in that direction, even the generals, but the marshal
having received positive orders, had continued on the route to Wavre.
It was between six and seven o'clock, before they were convinced that
the Prussians had escaped; then they changed their course to the left
in order to rejoin the Emperor, but unfortunately, it was too late, and
toward midnight they were obliged to take a position in the fields.
Each battalion formed in a square. At three o'clock in the morning the
cannon of the Prussians had awakened the bivouacs, and they had
skirmished until two o'clock in the afternoon, when the order to
retreat reached them.
Again, Martin said they were too late, for a part of the enemy's force
which had been engaged with that of the Emperor, was in their rear, and
they were obliged to march all the rest of that day and the night
following in order to escape from their pursuers.
At six o'clock the battalion had taken a position near the village of
Temploux, and at ten the Prussians came up in superior force. They
opposed them in the most vigorous manner in order to give the baggage
and artillery time to get over the bridge at Namur.
Fortunately the whole army corps had escaped from the village except
the 4th battalion which, through a mistake of the commandant, had
turned off the road at the left, and was obliged to throw itself into
the Sambre in order to escape being cut off. Some of the men were
taken prisoners and some were drowned in trying to swim across the
river.
This was all that Martin told me; he had no news from home.
That same day we passed through Givet; the battalion bivouacked near
the village of Hierches half a league farther on. The next day we
passed through Fumay and Rocroy, and slept at Bourg-Fideles, the 23d of
June at Blombay, the 24th at Saulsse-Lenoy--where we heard of the
abdication of the Emperor--and the days following at Vitry, near
Rheims, at Jonchery, and at Soissons. From there the battalion took
the route toward Ville-Cotterets, but the enemy was already before us,
and we changed our course to Ferte-Milon, and bivouacked at Neuchelles,
a village destroyed by the invasion of 1814, and which had not yet been
rebuilt. We left that place on the 29th, about one o'clock in the
morning, passing through Meaux.
Here we were obliged to take the road to Laguy, because the Prussians
occupied that which led to Claye. We marched all that day and the
night following.
On the 30th, at five in the morning, we were at the bridge of
Saint-Maur.
The same day we passed outside of Paris and bivouacked in a place rich
in everything, called Vaugirard.
The 1st of July we reached Meudon, a superb place. We could see by the
walled gardens and orchards, and by the size and good condition of the
houses, that we were in the suburbs of the most beautiful city in the
world, and yet we were in the midst of the greatest danger and
suffering, and our hearts bled in consequence.
The people were kind and friendly to the soldiers, and called us the
defenders of the country, and even the poorest were willing to go to
battle with us.
We left our position at eleven o'clock in the evening of the 1st of
July, and went to St. Cloud, which is nothing but palace upon palace,
and garden upon garden, with great trees, and magnificent alleys, and
everything that is beautiful. At six o'clock we quitted St. Cloud to
go back to our position at Vaugirard.
The most startling rumors filled the city. The Emperor had gone to
Rochefort--they said; the King was coming back--Louis the XVIII. was
_en route_--and so forth.
They knew nothing certain in the city, where they should soonest know
everything.
The enemy attacked us in the suburbs of Issy about one o'clock in the
afternoon, and we fought till midnight for our capital.
The people aided as much as possible; they carried off the wounded from
under the enemy's fire; even the women took pity on us.
What we suffered from being driven to this, I cannot describe. I have
seen Buche himself cry because we were in one sense dishonored. I
wished I had never seen that time. Twelve days before I did not know
that France was so beautiful. But on seeing Paris with its towers and
its innumerable palaces extending as far as the horizon, I thought,
"This is France, these are the treasures that our fathers have amassed
during century after century. What a misfortune that the English and
Prussians should ever come here."
At four in the morning we attacked the Prussians with new fury, and
retook the positions we had lost the day before. Then it was that some
generals came and announced a suspension of hostilities. This took
place on the 3d of July, 1815.
We thought that this suspension was to give notice to the enemy, that
if he did not quit our country, France would rise as one man, and crush
them all as she did in '92. These were our opinions, and seeing that
the people were on our side, I remembered the general levies which Mr.
Goulden was always talking about.
But unhappily a great many were so tired of Napoleon and his soldiers,
that they sacrificed the country itself, in order to be rid of him.
They laid all the blame on the Emperor, and said, if it had not been
for him, our enemies would never have had the force or the courage to
attack us, that he had exhausted our resources, and that the Prussians
themselves would give us more liberty than he had done.
The people talked like Mr. Goulden, but they had neither guns nor
cartridges, their only weapons were pikes.
On the 4th, while we were thinking of these things, they announced to
us the armistice, by which the Prussians and English were to occupy the
barriers of Paris, and the French army was to retire beyond the Loire.
When we heard this, our indignation was so great that we were furious.
Some of the soldiers broke their guns, and others tore off their
uniforms, and everybody exclaimed, "We are betrayed, we are given up."
The old officers were quiet, but they were pale as death, and the tears
ran down their cheeks.
Nobody could pacify us, we had fallen below contempt, we were a
conquered people.
For thousands of years it would be said, that Paris had been taken by
the Prussians and the English. It was an everlasting disgrace, but the
shame did not rest on us.
The battalion left Vaugirard at five o'clock in the afternoon to go to
Montrouge. When we saw that the movement toward the Loire had
commenced, each one said, "What are we then? Are we subjects to the
Prussians? because they want to see us on the other side of the Loire,
are we forced to gratify them? No, no! that cannot be. Since they
have betrayed us, let us go! All this is none of our concern any
longer. We have done our duty, but we will not obey Bluecher!"
The desertion commenced that very night; all the soldiers went, some to
the right and some to the left; men in blouses and poor old women tried
to take us with them through the wilderness of streets, and endeavored
to console us, but we did not need consolation. I said to Buche: "Let
us leave the whole thing, and return to Pfalzbourg and Harberg, let us
go back to our trades and live like honest people. If the Austrians
and Russians come there, the mountaineers and villagers will know how
to defend themselves. We shall need no great battles to destroy
thousands of them, let us go!"
There were fifteen of us from Lorraine in the battalion, and we all
left Montrouge, where the headquarters were, together; we passed
through Ivry and Bercy, both places of great beauty, but our trouble
prevented us from seeing a quarter of what we should have done. Some
kept their uniforms, while others had only their cloaks, and the rest
had bought blouses.
We found the road to Strasbourg at last, in the rear of St. Mande, near
a wood to the left of which we could see some high towers, which they
told us was the fortress of Vincennes.
From this place, we regularly made our twelve leagues a day.
On the 8th of July we learned that Louis XVIII. was to be restored, and
that Monseigneur le Comte d'Artois would secure his salvation. All the
wagons and boats and diligences already carried the white flag, and
they were singing "Te Deums" in all the villages through which we
passed; the mayors and their assistants and the councillors all praised
and glorified God for the return of "Louis the well-beloved."
The scoundrels called us "Bonapartists," as they saw us pass, and even
set their dogs on us.
But I do not like to speak of them; such people are the disgrace of the
human race.
We replied only by contemptuous glances, which made them still more
insolent and furious.
Some of them flourished their sticks, as much as to say,--"If we had
you in a corner, you would be as meek as lambs."
The gendarmes upheld these _Pinacles_ and we were arrested in three or
four places. They demanded our papers and took us before the mayor,
and the rascals forced us to shout "_Vive le Roi!_"
It was shameful, and the old soldiers rather than do it allowed
themselves to be taken to prison. Buche wanted to follow their
example, but I said to him, "What harm will it do us to shout Vive Jean
Claude, or Vive Jean Nicholas? All these kings and emperors, old and
new, would not give a hair of their heads to save our lives, and shall
we go and break our necks in order to shout one thing rather than
another? No, it does not concern us, and if people will be so stupid,
as long as we are not the strongest, we must satisfy them. By and by,
they will shout something else, and afterward still something else.
Everything changes--nothing but good sense and good will remain."
Buche did not want to understand this reasoning, but when the gendarmes
came, he submitted notwithstanding.
As we went along, one after another of our little party would drop off
in his own village, till at last no one was left but Toul, Buche, and I.
We saw the saddest sight of all, and this was the crowds of Germans and
Russians in Lorraine and Alsace. They were drilling at Luneville, at
Blamont, and at Sarrebourg, with oak branches in their wretched shakos.
What vexation to see such savages living in luxury at the expense of
our peasants.
Father Goulden was right when he said that military glory costs very
dear. I only hope the Lord will save us from it for ages to come!
At last, on the 16th July, 1815, about eleven o'clock in the morning,
we reached Mittelbronn, the last village on that side, before reaching
Pfalzbourg. The siege was raised after the armistice, and the whole
country was full of Cossacks, Landwehr,[1] and Kaiserlichs.[2] Their
batteries were still in position around the town, though they no longer
discharged them; the gates were open, and the people went out and in to
secure their crops.
[1] German militiamen.
[2] German imperial troops.
There was great need of the wheat and rye, and you can imagine the
suffering it caused us, to feed so many thousands of useless beings,
who denied themselves nothing, and who wanted bacon and schnapps every
day.
Before every door and at every window there was nothing to be seen but
their flat noses, their long filthy yellow beards, their white coats
filled with vermin, and their low shakos, looking out at you, as they
smoked their pipes in idleness and drunkenness. We were obliged to
work for them, and at last honest people were compelled to give them
two thousand millions of francs more to induce them to go away.
How many things I might say against these lazybones from Russia and
Germany, if we had not done ten times worse in their country. You can
each one make reflections for yourself, and imagine the rest.
At Heitz's inn I said to Buche, "Let's stop here. My legs are giving
out."
Mother Heitz, who was then still a young woman, threw up her hands and
exclaimed, "My God! there is Joseph Bertha! God in heaven! what a
surprise for the town!"
I went in, sat down and leaned my head on a table and wept without
restraint.
Mother Heitz ran down to the cellar to bring a bottle of wine, and I
heard Buche sobbing in the corner. Neither of us could speak for
thinking of the joy of our friends. The sight of our own country had
upset us, and we rejoiced to think that our bones would one day rest
peacefully in the village cemetery. Meanwhile we were going to embrace
those we loved best in the world.
When we had recovered a little, I said to Buche:
"Jean, you must go on before me, so that my wife and Mr. Goulden may
not be too much surprised. You will tell them that you saw me the day
after the battle, and that I was not wounded, and then you must say,
you met me again in the suburbs of Paris, and even on the way home, and
at last, that you think I am not far behind, that I am coming--you
understand."
"Yes, I understand," said he, getting up after having emptied his
glass, "and I will do the same thing for grandmother, who loves me more
than she does the other boys; I will send some one on before me."
He went out at once, and I waited a few minutes; Mother Heitz talked to
me but I did not listen; I was thinking how far Buche had gone; I saw
him near the ford, at the outworks, and at the gate. Suddenly I went
out, saying to Mother Heitz, "I will pay you another time."
I began to run; I partly remember having met three or four persons, who
said, "Ah! that is Joseph Bertha!" But I am not sure of that.
All at once, without knowing how, I sprang up the stairs, and then I
heard a great cry--Catherine was in my arms.
My head swam--in a minute after I seemed to come out of a dream; I saw
the room, Mr. Goulden, Jean Buche, and Catherine; and I began to sob so
violently, that you would have thought some great misfortune had
happened. I held Catherine on my knee and kissed her, and she cried
too. After a long while I exclaimed:
"Ah! Mr. Goulden, pardon me! I ought to have embraced you, my father!
whom I love as I do myself!"
"I know it, Joseph," said he with emotion, "I know it, I am not
jealous." And he wiped his eyes. "Yes--yes--love--and family and then
friends. It is quite natural, my child, do not trouble yourself about
that."