But the majority glanced at them stupidly without comment, or with
only a shrug of their bowed shoulders. They were going the wrong
way. They must be mad. Between Dantzig and Konigsberg they had
indeed found a few travellers going eastward--despatch-bearers
seeking Murat--spies going northwards to Tilsit, and General Yorck
still in treaty with his own conscience--a prominent member of the
Tugendbund, wondering, like many others, if there were any virtue
left in the world. Others, again, told them that they were officers
ordered to take up some new command in the retreating army.
Beyond Konigsberg, however, D'Arragon and Barlasch found themselves
alone on their eastward route. Every man's face was set towards the
west. This was not an army at all, but an endless procession of
tramps. Without food or shelter, with no baggage but what they
could carry on their backs, they journeyed as each of us must
journey out of this world into that which lies beyond--alone, with
no comrade to help them over the rough places or lift them when they
fell. For there was only one man of all this rabble who rose to the
height of self-sacrifice, and a persistent devotion to duty. And he
was coming last of all.
Many had started off in couples--with a faithful friend--only to
quarrel at last. For it is a peculiarity of the French that they
can only have one friend at a time. Long ago--back beyond the
Niemen--all friendships had been dissolved, and discipline had
vanished before that.
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