Desnoyers saw approaching along the highroad the last stragglers from the infantry.  They were not walking, they rather appeared to be dragging themselves forward, with the firm intention of advancing, but were betrayed by emaciated legs and bleeding feet.  Some had sunk down for a moment by the roadside, agonized with weariness, in order to breathe without the weight of their knapsacks, and draw their swollen feet from their leather prisons, and wipe off the sweat; but upon trying to renew their march, they found it impossible to rise.  Their bodies seemed made of stone.  Fatigue had brought them to a condition bordering on catalepsy so, unable to move, they were seeing dimly the rest of the army passing on as a fantastic file—­battalions, more battalions, batteries, troops of horses.  Then the silence, the night, the sleep on the stones and dust, shaken by most terrible nightmare.  At daybreak they were awakened by bodies of horsemen exploring the ground, rounding up the remnants of the retreat.  Ay, it was impossible to move!  The dragoons, revolver in hand, had to resort to threats in order to rouse them!  Only the certainty that the pursuer was near and might make them prisoners gave them a momentary vigor.  So they were forcing themselves up by superhuman effort, staggering, dragging their legs, and supporting themselves on their guns as though they were canes.

Many of these were young men who had aged in an hour and changed into confirmed invalids.  Poor fellows!  They would not go very far!  Their intention was to follow on, to join the column, but on entering the village they looked at the houses with supplicating eyes, desiring to enter them, feeling such a craving for immediate relief that they forgot even the nearness of the enemy.

Villeblanche was now more military than before the arrival of the troops.  The night before a great part of the inhabitants had fled, having become infected with the same fear that was driving on the crowds following the army.  The mayor and the priest remained.  Reconciled with the owner of the castle through his unexpected presence in their midst, and admiring his liberality, the municipal official approached to give him some news.  The engineers were mining the bridge over the Marne.  They were only waiting for the dragoons to cross before blowing it up.  If he wished to go, there was still time.

Again Desnoyers hesitated.  Certainly it was foolhardy to remain there.  But a glance at the woods over whose branches rose the towers of his castle, settled his doubts.  No, no. . . .  “We must finish what we have begun!”

The very last band of troopers now made their appearance, coming out of the woods by different paths.  They were riding their horses slowly, as though they deplored this retreat.  They kept looking behind, carbine in hand, ready to halt and shoot.  The others who had been occupying the barricade were already on their mounts.  The division reformed, the commands of the officers were heard and a quick trot, accompanied by the clanking of metal, told Don Marcelo that the last of the army had left.