His own men immediately understand the triumphant gesture. All at once what are left of his troops rise and fling themselves on the enemy, now in disarray. At the same time the Prussian cavalry charge the exhausted and shattered French army. The mortal cry goes up, “Sauve qui peut!” Within a few minutes the Grande Armée is nothing but a torrential stream of terrified men in flight, carrying everything along with it, even Napoleon himself. The cavalry, spurring their horses on, make their way into this swiftly retreating stream, easily fishing Napoleon’s carriage, the army treasury and all the artillery pieces out of that screaming foam of fear and horror, and only nightfall saves the emperor’s life and liberty. But the man who, at midnight, soiled and numb, drops into a chair in a low-built village inn is no emperor now. His empire, his dynasty, his destiny are all over: a small and insignificant man’s lack of courage has destroyed what the boldest and most far-sighted of adventurers built up in twenty heroic years.

Retur n to Daily Life

As soon as the British attack has struck Napoleon down, a man then almost unknown is speeding in a fast barouche along the road to Brussels and from Brussels to the sea, where a ship is waiting. He sails to London, arriving there before the government’s couriers; and, thanks to the news that has not yet broken, he manages to make a fortune on the Stock Exchange. His name is Rothschild, and with this stroke of genius he founds another empire, a family dynasty. Next day England knows about the victory, and in Paris Fouché, always the traitor, knows about the defeat. The bells of victory are pealing in Brussels and Germany.

Next morning only one man still knows nothing about Waterloo, although he was only four hours’ march away from that fateful battlefield: the unfortunate Grouchy. Persistently and according to his orders, he has been following the Prussians—but, strange to say, has found them nowhere, which makes him feel uncertain. Meanwhile the cannon sound louder and louder, as if crying out for help. They feel the ground shake, they feel every shot in their hearts. Everyone knows now that this is not skirmishing, that a gigantic battle is in progress, the deciding battle.

Grouchy rides nervously between his officers. They avoid discussing the situation with him; he rejected their advice.

So it is a blessed release when they reach Wavre and finally come upon a single Prussian corps, part of Blücher’s rearguard. Grouchy’s men storm the Prussians barring their way. Gérard is ahead of them, as if he were searching for death, driven on by dark forebodings. A bullet cuts him down, and the loudest of those who admonished Grouchy is silent now. At nightfall they storm the village, but they sense that this small victory over the rearguard means nothing now, for suddenly all is silent from over on the battlefield. Alarmingly silent, dreadfully peaceful, a dead and ghastly quiet. And they all feel that the gunfire was better than this nerve-racking uncertainty. The battle must be over, the battle of Waterloo from where Grouchy—too late!—has received Napoleon’s note urging him to come to the emperor’s aid. It must be over, but who has won? They wait all night, in vain. No message comes from the battlefield. It is as if the Grande Armée had forgotten them and they were empty, pointless figures in impenetrable space. In the morning they strike camp and begin marching again, tired to death and long ago aware that all their marching and manoeuvring has been for nothing.

Then at last, at ten in the morning, an officer from the General Staff comes thundering towards them. They help him down from his horse and fire questions at him. But the officer, his face ravaged by horror, his hair wet at the temples, and trembling with the superhuman effort he has made, only stammers incomprehensible words—words that they do not, cannot, will not understand. They think he must be drunk or deranged when he says there is no emperor any more, no imperial army, France is lost.