The German officers wanted to die.  With upraised swords, after having exhausted the shots in their revolvers, they advanced upon their assailants followed by the soldiers who still obeyed them.  There was a scuffle, a wild melee.  To the trembling spectator, it seemed as though the world had fallen into profound silence.  The yells of the combatants, the thud of colliding bodies, the clang of arms seemed as nothing after the cannon had quieted down.  He saw men pierced through the middle by gun points whose reddened ends came out through their kidneys; muskets raining hammer-like blows, adversaries that grappled in hand-to-hand tussles, rolling over and over on the ground, trying to gain the advantage by kicks and bites.

The mustard-colored fronts had entirely disappeared, and he now saw only backs of that color fleeing toward the exit, filtering among the trees, falling midway in their flight when hit by the pursuing balls.  Many of the invaders were unable to chase the fugitives because they were occupied in repelling with rude thrusts of their bayonets the bodies falling upon them in agonizing convulsions.

Don Marcelo suddenly found himself in the very thick of these mortal combats, jumping up and down like a child, waving his hands and shouting with all his might.  When he came to himself again, he was hugging the grimy head of a young French officer who was looking at him in astonishment.  He probably thought him crazy on receiving his kisses, on hearing his incoherent torrent of words.  Emotionally exhausted, the worn old man continued to weep after the officer had freed himself with a jerk. . . .  He needed to give vent to his feelings after so many days of anguished self-control.  Vive la France! . . .

His beloved French were already within the park gates.  They were running, bayonets in hand, in pursuit of the last remnants of the German battalion trying to escape toward the village.  A group of horsemen passed along the road.  They were dragoons coming to complete the rout.  But their horses were fagged out; nothing but the fever of victory transmitted from man to beast had sustained their painful pace.  One of the equestrians came to a stop near the entrance of the park, the famished horse eagerly devouring the herbage while his rider settled down in the saddle as though asleep.  Desnoyers touched him on the hip in order to waken him, but he immediately rolled off on the opposite side.  He was dead, with his entrails protruding from his body, but swept on with the others, he had been brought thus far on his steady steed.

Enormous tops of iron and smoke now began falling in the neighborhood.  The German artillery was opening a retaliatory fire against its lost positions.  The advance continued.  There passed toward the North battalions, squadrons and batteries, worn, weary and grimy, covered with dust and mud, but kindled with an ardor that galvanized their flagging energy.