BOULE DE SUIF

For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed
through the town. They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined
forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms; they
advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All
seemed exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching
onward merely by force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue
the moment they halted. One saw, in particular, many enlisted men,
peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income, bending beneath
the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily
frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready
to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of red-breeched soldiers,
the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle; somber
artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and
there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty
in keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions
of irregulars with high-sounding names "Avengers of Defeat," "Citizens of
the Tomb," "Brethren in Death"--passed in their turn, looking like
banditti. Their leaders, former drapers or grain merchants, or tallow or
soap chandlers--warriors by force of circumstances, officers by
reason of their mustachios or their money--covered with weapons,
flannel and gold lace, spoke in an impressive manner, discussed plans of
campaign, and behaved as though they alone bore the fortunes of dying
France on their braggart shoulders; though, in truth, they frequently
were afraid of their own men--scoundrels often brave beyond measure,
but pillagers and debauchees.