The mobilization had appropriated the best, and all other means of
transportation had disappeared with the flight of the terrified. He
would have to walk the eight miles. The old man did not hesitate.
Forward March! And he began his course along the dusty, straight, white
highway running between an endless succession of plains. Some groups
of trees, some green hedges and the roofs of various farms broke the
monotony of the countryside. The fields were covered with stubble from
the recent harvest. The haycocks dotted the ground with their yellowish
cones, now beginning to darken and take on a tone of oxidized gold. In
the valleys the birds were flitting about, shaking off the dew of dawn.
The first rays of the sun announced a very hot day. Around the hay
stacks Desnoyers saw knots of people who were getting up, shaking out
their clothes, and awaking those who were still sleeping. They were
fugitives camping near the station in the hope that some train would
carry them further on, they knew not where. Some had come from far-away
districts; they had heard the cannon, had seen war approaching, and
for several days had been going forward, directed by chance. Others,
infected with the contagion of panic, had fled, fearing to know the same
horrors. . . . Among them he saw mothers with their little ones in their
arms, and old men who could only walk with a cane in one hand and the
other arm in that of some member of the family, and a few old women,
withered and motionless as mummies, who were sleeping as they were
trundled along in wheelbarrows.
Pages:
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312