We were seized with furious rage.  When the cry of “Halt!” resounded, we experienced difficulty in coming to a standstill.  As soon as one is motionless, fear returns and one feels a wish to run away.  Firing commenced.  We shot in front of us, without aiming, finding some relief in discharging bullets into the smoke.  I remember I pulled my trigger mechanically, with lips firmly set together and eyes wide open; I was no longer afraid, for, to tell the truth, I no longer knew if I existed.  The only idea I had in my head, was that I would continue firing until all was over.  My companion on the left received a bullet full in the face and fell on me; I brutally pushed him away, wiping my cheek which he had drenched with blood.  And I resumed firing.

I still remember having seen our colonel, M. de Montrevert, firm and erect upon his horse, gazing quietly towards the enemy.  That man appeared to me immense.  He had no rifle to amuse himself with, and his breast was expanded to its full breadth above us.  From time to time, he looked down, and exclaimed in a dry voice: 

“Close the ranks, close the ranks!”

We closed our ranks like sheep, treading on the dead, stupefied, and continuing firing.  Until then, the enemy had only sent us bullets; a dull explosion was heard and a shell carried off five of our men.  A battery which must have been opposite us and which we could not see, had just opened fire.  The shells struck into the middle of us, almost at one spot, making a sanguinary gap which we closed unceasingly with the obstinacy of ferocious brutes.

“Close the ranks, close the ranks!” the colonel coldly repeated.

We were giving the cannon human flesh.  Each time a soldier was struck down, I was taking a step nearer death, I was approaching the spot where the shells were falling heavily, crushing the men whose turn had come to die.  The corpses were forming heaps in that place, and soon the shells would strike into nothing more than a mound of mangled flesh; shreds of limbs flew about at each fresh discharge.  We could no longer close the ranks.

The soldiers yelled, the chiefs themselves were moved.

“With the bayonet, with the bayonet!”

And amidst a shower of bullets the battalion rushed in fury towards the shells.  The veil of smoke was torn asunder; we perceived the enemy’s battery flaming red, which was firing at us from the mouths of all its pieces, on the summit of a hillock.  But the dash forward had commenced, the shells stopped the dead only.

I ran beside Colonel Montrevert, whose horse had just been killed, and who was fighting like a simple soldier.  Suddenly I was struck down; it seemed to me as if my breast opened and my shoulder was taken away.  A frightful wind passed over my face.

And I fell.  The colonel fell beside me.  I felt myself dying.  I thought of those I loved, and fainted whilst searching with a withering hand for my uncle Lazare’s letter.