Henceforward there was no longer fraternity in arms, there was an end to all society, to all ties; the excess of evils had brutified them.  Hunger, devouring hunger, had reduced these unfortunate men to the brutal instinct of self-preservation, all which constitutes the understanding of the most ferocious animals, and which is ready to sacrifice every thing to itself; a rough and barbarous nature seemed to have communicated to them all its fury.  Like savages, the strongest despoiled the weakest; they rushed round the dying, and frequently waited not for their last breath.  When a horse fell, you might have fancied you saw a famished pack of hounds; they surrounded him, they tore him to pieces, for which they quarrelled among themselves like ravenous dogs.

The greater number, however, preserved sufficient moral strength to consult their own safety without injuring others; but this was the last effort of their virtue.  If either leader or comrade fell by their side, or under the wheels of the cannon, in vain did they call for assistance, in vain did they invoke the names of a common country, religion, and cause; they could not even obtain a passing look.  The cold inflexibility of the climate had completely passed into their hearts; its rigour had contracted their feelings equally with their countenances.  With the exception of a few of the commanders, all were absorbed by their sufferings, and terror left no room for compassion.

Thus it was that the same egotism with which excessive prosperity has been reproached, was produced by the excess of misfortune, but much more excusable in the latter; the first being voluntary, and the last compulsive; the first a crime of the heart, and the other an impulse of instinct entirely physical; and certainly it was hazarding one’s life to stop for an instant.  In this universal shipwreck, the stretching forth one’s hand to a dying leader or comrade was a wonderful act of generosity.  The least movement of humanity became a sublime action.

There were a few, however, who stood firm against both heaven and earth; these protected and assisted the weakest; but these were indeed rare.

CHAP.  II.

On the 6th of December, the very day after Napoleon’s departure, the sky exhibited a still more dreadful appearance.  You might see icy particles floating in the air; the birds fell from it quite stiff and frozen.  The atmosphere was motionless and silent; it seemed as if every thing which possessed life and movement in nature, the wind itself, had been seized, chained, and as it were frozen by an universal death.  Not the least word or murmur was then heard:  nothing but the gloomy silence of despair and the tears which proclaimed it.

We flitted along in this empire of death like unhappy spirits.  The dull and monotonous sound of our steps, the cracking of the snow, and the feeble groans of the dying, were the only interruptions to this vast and doleful silence.  Anger and imprecations there were none, nor any thing which indicated a remnant of heat; scarcely did strength enough remain to utter a prayer; most of them even fell without complaining, either from weakness or resignation, or because people only complain when they look for kindness, and fancy they are pitied.