. . . He needed to give vent to his feelings after so many days of
anguished self-control. Vive la France! . . .
His beloved French were already within the park gates. They were
running, bayonets in hand, in pursuit of the last remnants of the German
battalion trying to escape toward the village. A group of horsemen
passed along the road. They were dragoons coming to complete the rout.
But their horses were fagged out; nothing but the fever of victory
transmitted from man to beast had sustained their painful pace. One
of the equestrians came to a stop near the entrance of the park, the
famished horse eagerly devouring the herbage while his rider settled
down in the saddle as though asleep. Desnoyers touched him on the hip in
order to waken him, but he immediately rolled off on the opposite side.
He was dead, with his entrails protruding from his body, but swept on
with the others, he had been brought thus far on his steady steed.
Enormous tops of iron and smoke now began falling in the neighborhood.
The German artillery was opening a retaliatory fire against its
lost positions. The advance continued. There passed toward the North
battalions, squadrons and batteries, worn, weary and grimy, covered with
dust and mud, but kindled with an ardor that galvanized their flagging
energy.
The French cannon began thundering on the village side.
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