What was there for him to do now in the destroyed castle?
. . . The presence of so many dead was racking his nerves. There were
hundreds, there were thousands. The soldiers and the farmers were
interring great heaps of them wherever he went, digging burial trenches
close to the castle, in all the avenues of the park, in the garden
paths, around the outbuildings. Even the depths of the circular lagoon
were filled with corpses. How could he ever live again in that tragic
community composed mostly of his enemies? . . . Farewell forever, castle
of Villeblanche!
He turned his steps toward Paris, planning to get there the best way
he could. He came upon corpses everywhere, but they were not all the
gray-green uniform. Many of his countrymen had fallen in the gallant
offensive. Many would still fall in the last throes of the battle that
was going on behind them, agitating the horizon with its incessant
uproar. Everywhere red pantaloons were sticking up out of the stubble,
hobnailed boots glistening in upright position near the roadside,
livid heads, amputated bodies, stray limbs--and, scattered through this
funereal medley, red kepis and Oriental caps, helmets with tufts of
horse hair, twisted swords, broken bayonets, guns and great mounds
of cannon cartridges. Dead horses were strewing the plain with their
swollen carcasses.
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