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Adieu-Part3_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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make for Zembin. You'll have barely enough time to get through that

crowd of men below. I am going presently to set fire to their camp and



force them to march."

"You warm me up--almost! That news makes me perspire. I have two



friends I MUST save. Ah! without those two to cling to me, I should be

dead already. It is for them that I feed my horse and don't eat



myself. Have you any food,--a mere crust? It is thirty hours since

anything has gone into my stomach, and yet I have fought like a madman



--just to keep a little warmth and courage in me."

"Poor Philippe, I have nothing--nothing! But where's your general,--in



this house?"

"No, don't go there; the place is full of wounded. Go up the street;



you'll find on your left a sort of pig-pen; the general is there.

Good-bye, old fellow. If we ever dance a trenis on a Paris floor--"



He did not end his sentence; the north wind blew at that moment with

such ferocity that the aide-de-camp hurried on to escape being frozen,



and the lips of Major de Sucy stiffened. Silence reigned, broken only

by the moans which came from the house, and the dull sound made by the



major's horse as it chewed in a fury of hunger the icy bark of the

trees with which the house was built. Monsieur de Sucy replaced his



sabre in its scabbard, took the bridle of the precious horse he had

hitherto been able to preserve, and led it, in spite of the animal's



resistance, from the wretchedfodder it appeared to think excellent.

"We'll start, Bichette, we'll start! There's none but you, my beauty,



who can save Stephanie. Ha! by and bye you and I may be able to rest--

and die," he added.



Philippe, wrapped in a fur pelisse, to which he owed his preservation

and his energy, began to run, striking his feet hard upon the frozen



snow to keep them warm. Scarcely had he gone a few hundred yards from

the village than he saw a blaze in the direction of the place where,



since morning, he had left his carriage in charge of his former

orderly, an old soldier. Horrible anxiety laid hold of him. Like all



others who were controlled during this fatal retreat by some powerful

sentiment, he found a strength to save his friends which he could not



have put forth to save himself.

Presently he reached a slight declivity at the foot of which, in a



spot sheltered from the enemy's balls, he had stationed the carriage,

containing a young woman, the companion of his childhood, the being



most dear to him on earth. At a few steps distant from the vehicle he

now found a company of some thirty stragglers collected around an



immense fire, which they were feeding with planks, caisson covers,

wheels, and broken carriages. These soldiers were, no doubt, the last



comers of that crowd who, from the base of the hill of Studzianka to

the fatal river, formed an ocean of heads intermingled with fires and



huts,--a living sea, swayed by motions that were almost imperceptible,

and giving forth a murmuring sound that rose at times to frightful



outbursts. Driven by famine and despair, these poor wretches must have

rifled the carriage before de Sucy reached it. The old general and his



young wife, whom he had left lying in piles of clothes and wrapped in

mantles and pelisses, were now on the snow, crouching before the fire.



One door of the carriage was already torn off.

No sooner did the men about the fire hear the tread of the major's



horse than a hoarse cry, the cry of famine, arose,--

"A horse! a horse!"



Those voices formed but one voice.

"Back! back! look out for yourself!" cried two or three soldiers,



aiming at the mare. Philippe threw himself before his animal, crying

out,--



"You villains! I'll throw you into your own fire. There are plenty of

dead horses up there. Go and fetch them."



"Isn't he a joker, that officer! One, two--get out of the way," cried

a colossalgrenadier. "No, you won't, hey! Well, as you please, then."



A woman's cry rose higher than the report of the musket. Philippe

fortunately was not touched, but Bichette, mortally wounded, was



struggling in the throes of death. Three men darted forward and

dispatched her with their bayonets.



"Cannibals!" cried Philippe, "let me at any rate take the horse-cloth

and my pistols."






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