There
now remained very little of the heavy and imposing glitter, of the mute
and vainglorious haughtiness which had made his relatives-in-law weep
with admiration. War, with its realism, had wiped out all that was
theatrical about this formidable organization of death. The soldiers
appeared dirty and tired, out. The respiration of fat and sweaty bodies,
mixed with the strong smell of leather, floated over the regiments. All
the men had hungry faces.
For days and nights they had been following the heels of an enemy
which was always just eluding their grasp. In this forced advance the
provisions of the administration would often arrive so late at the
cantonments that they could depend only on what they happened to have
in their knapsacks. Desnoyers saw them lined up near the road devouring
hunks of black bread and mouldy sausages. Some had scattered through
the fields to dig up beet roots and other tubers, chewing with loud
crunchings the hard pulp to which the grit still adhered. An ensign was
shaking the fruit trees using as a catch-all the flag of his regiment.
That glorious standard, adorned with souvenirs of 1870, was serving as
a receptacle for green plums. Those who were seated on the ground were
improving this rest by drawing their perspiring, swollen feet from high
boots which were sending out an insufferable smell.
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