“Meanwhile the siege went on—not the siege of Berlin, alas! It was the time of intense cold, of the
bombardment, of epidemics and of famine. But, thanks to our care, to our efforts, to the unwearying
affection which multiplied itself about him, the old man’s serenity was not disturbed for an instant. To
the very end I was able to obtain white bread and fresh meat for him. There was none for anybody but
him, to be sure; and you can imagine nothing more touching than those breakfasts of the grandfather, so innocently selfish—the old man seated on his bed, fresh and smiling, with a napkin at his chin, and his granddaughter beside him, a little pale because of privations, guiding his hand, helping him to drink, and to eat all those forbidden good things.
Then, enlivened by the repast, in the comfort of his warm room,
the winter wind whistling outside and the snow eddying about his windows, the ex-cuirassier would
recall his campaigns in the north and would describe to us for the hundredth time that terrible retreat
from Russia, when they had nothing to eat but frozen biscuit and horseflesh.
“‘Do you understand that, my love? We had horseflesh!’
“I rather think that she did understand it. For two months she had had nothing else. From that day,
however, as the period of convalescence drew near, our task about the patient became more difficult.
That numbness of all his senses, of all his members, which had served us so well hitherto, began to
disappear. Two or three times, the terrible volleys from Porte Maillot had made him jump, with his ears pricked up like a hunting-dog; we were obliged to invent a final victory of Bazaine under the walls of Berlin, and guns fired in his honour at the Invalides. Another day when his bed had been moved to the window—it was, I believe, the Thursday of Buzenval—he saw large numbers of National Guards collected on Avenue de la Grande Armée.
“‘What are all those troops?’ asked the good man; and we heard him mutter between his teeth:
“‘Poorly set up! Poorly set up!’
“That was all; but we understood that we must take great precautions thenceforth. Unluckily we did not take enough.
“One evening when I arrived, the girl came to me in great trouble.
“‘They are to march into the city to-morrow,’ she said.
“Was the grandfather’s door open? In truth, on thinking it over afterwards, I remembered that his face
wore an extraordinary expression that night. It is probable that he had overheard us. But we were talking of the Prussians; and the good man was thinking of the French, of that triumphal entry which he had been awaiting so long—MacMahon marching down the avenue amid flowers and flourishes of trumpets, his son beside him, and he, the old colonel, on his balcony, in full uniform as at Lutzen, saluting the torn flags and the eagles blackened by powder.
“Poor Father Jouve! He had imagined doubtless that we intended to prevent him from witnessing that
parade of our troops, in order to avoid too great excitement. So he was very careful not to mention it to any one; but the next day, at the very hour when the Prussian battalions entered hesitatingly upon the long road which leads from Porte Maillot to the Tuileries, the window up there opened softly, and the colonel appeared on the balcony, with his helmet, his long sword, all the glorious old array of one of Milhaud’s cuirassiers. I wonder still what effort of the will, what sudden outburst of life had placed him thus upon his feet and in his harness. This much is sure, that he was there, standing behind the rail, amazed to find the broad avenues so silent, the blinds of the houses closed, Paris as gloomy as a huge lazaretto, flags everywhere, but such strange flags, white with little crosses, and no one to go to meet our soldiers.
“For a moment he might have thought that he was mistaken.
“But no! Yonder, behind the Arc de Triomphe, there was a confused rumbling, a black line approaching in the rising sunlight. Then, little by little, the points of the helmets gleamed, the little drums of Jena began to beat, and beneath the Arc de Triomphe, while the heavy tramp of the regiments and the clashing of the sabres beat time, Schubert’s Triumphal March burst forth!
“Thereupon in the deathlike silence of the square, a cry rang out, a terrible cry: ‘To arms! To arms! The Prussians!’ and the four uhlans of the vanguard saw up yonder, on the balcony, a tall old man wave his arms, stagger, and fall. That time, Colonel Jouve was really dead.”
