The Siege of Berlin
By Alphonse Daudet
sidewalks torn up by grape-shot, for the story of the siege of Paris, when, just before we reached the
Rond-point de l’Etoile, the doctor stopped and, pointing to one of the great corner houses so proudly
grouped about the Arc de Triomphe, said to me:
“Do you see those four closed windows up there on that balcony? In the early days of August, that
terrible August of last year, so heavily laden with storms and disasters, I was called there to see a case of
apoplexy. It was the apartment of Colonel Jouve, a cuirassier of the First Empire, an old enthusiast on the
subject of glory and patriotism, who had come to live on the Champs-Élysées, in an apartment with a
balcony, at the outbreak of the war. Guess why? In order to witness the triumphant return of our troops.
Poor old fellow! The news of Wissembourg reached him just as he was leaving the table. When he read
the name of Napoleon at the foot of that bulletin of defeat, he fell like a log.
“I found the former cuirassier stretched out at full length on the carpet, his face covered with blood, and
as lifeless as if he had received a blow on the head from a poleaxe. He must have been very tall when he
was standing; lying there, he looked enormous. Handsome features, magnificent teeth, a fleece of curly
white hair, eighty years with the appearance of sixty. Beside him was his granddaughter, on her knees
and bathed in tears. She looked like him. One who saw them side by side might have taken them for two
beautiful Greek medallions, struck from the same die, one of which was old and earth-coloured, a little
roughened on the edges, the other resplendent and clean-cut, in all the brilliancy and smoothness of a
fresh impression.
“The child’s grief touched me. Daughter and granddaughter of soldiers, her father was on MacMahon’s
staff, and the image of that tall old man stretched out before her evoked in her mind another image no less terrible. I comforted her as best I could, but in reality I had little hope. We had to do with a case of
complete paralysis on one side, and at eighty years of age few people recover from it. For three days the
patient lay in the same state of inanition and stupor. Then the news of Reichshofen reached Paris. You
remember in what a strange way it came. Up to the evening, we all believed in a great victory, twenty
thousand Prussians killed and the Prince Royal a prisoner. I know not by what miracle, what magnetic
current, an echo of that national rejoicing sought out our poor deaf-mute in the depths of his paralysis;
but the fact is that on that evening, when I approached his bed, I did not find the same man there. His eye
was almost clear, his tongue less heavy. He had the strength to smile at me, and he stammered twice:
“‘Vic-to-ry!’
“And as I gave him details of the grand exploit of MacMahon, I saw that his features relaxed and his
face lighted up.
“When I left the room, the girl was waiting for me at the door, pale as death. She was sobbing.
“‘But he is saved!’ I said, taking her hands.
“The unhappy child hardly had the courage to reply. The true report of Reichshofen had been placarded;
MacMahon in retreat, the whole army crushed. We gazed at each other in consternation. She was in
despair, thinking of her father. I trembled, thinking of the old man. He certainly could not stand this fresh
shock. And yet what were we to do? Leave him his joy, and the illusions which had revived him? But in
that case we must lie.
“‘Very well, I will lie!’ said the heroic girl, quickly wiping away her tears; and with radiant face she
entered her grandfather’s chamber.
“It was a hard task that she had undertaken. The first few days she had no great difficulty. The good
man’s brain was feeble, and he allowed himself to be deceived like a child. But with returning health his
ideas became clearer. We had to keep him posted concerning the movement of the armies, to draw up
military bulletins for him. Really, it was pitiful to see that lovely child leaning night and day over her
map of Germany, pinning little flags upon it, and struggling to lay out a glorious campaign: Bazaine
besieging Berlin, Froissart in Bavaria, MacMahon on the Baltic. For all this she asked my advice, and I
assisted her as well as I could; but it was the grandfather who was especially useful to us in that
imaginary invasion. He had conquered Germany so many times under the First Empire! He knew all the
strokes beforehand: ‘Now this is where they will go. Now this is what they will do’; and his anticipations
were always realised, which did not fail to make him very proud.
“Unlucky it was of no avail for us to take cities and win battles; we never went quickly enough for him.
That old man was insatiable! Every day, when I arrived, I learned of some new military exploit.
“‘Doctor, we have taken Mayence,’ the girl would say to me, coming to meet me with a heart-broken
smile, and I would hear through the door a joyous voice shouting to me:
“‘They are getting on! They are getting on! In a week we shall be in Berlin!’
“At that moment the Prussians were only a week’s march from Paris. We asked ourselves at first if it
would be better to take him into the provinces; but as soon as we were outside the city, the state of the
country would have told him everything, and I considered him still too weak, too much benumbed by his
great shock, to let him know the truth. So we decided to remain.
“The first day of the investment of Paris, I went up to their rooms, I remember, deeply moved, with that
agony at the heart which the closed gates, the fighting under the walls, and our suburbs turned into
frontiers, gave us all. I found the good man seated on his bed, proud and jubilant.
“‘Well,’ he said, ‘so the siege has begun!’
“I gazed at him in blank amazement.
“‘What, colonel! you know?’
“His granddaughter turned towards me:
“‘Why, yes, doctor, that’s the great news. The siege of Berlin has begun.’
“As she said this, she plied her needle with such a sedate and placid air! How could he have suspected
anything? He could not hear the guns of the forts. He could not see our unfortunate Paris, all in confusion
and dreadful to behold. What he saw from his bed was a section of the Arc de Triomphe, and in his room,
about him, a collection of bric-a-brac of the First Empire, well adapted to maintain his illusion. Portraits
of marshals, engravings of battles, the King of Rome in a baby’s dress, tall consoles adorned with copper
trophies, laden with imperial relics, medals, bronzes, a miniature of St. Helena, under a globe, pictures
representing the same lady all becurled, in a ball-dress of yellow, with leg-of-mutton sleeves and bright
eyes;—and all these things: consoles, King of Rome, marshals, yellow ladies, with the high-necked,
short-waisted dresses, the bestarched stiffness, which was the charm of 1806. Gallant colonel! It was that
atmosphere of victories and conquests, even more than anything we could say to him, that made him
believe so innocently in the siege of Berlin.
“From that day our military operations were much simplified. To take Berlin was only a matter of
patience. From time to time, when the old man was too much bored, we would read him a letter from his
son—an imaginary letter, of course, for nothing was allowed to enter Paris, and since Sedan,
MacMahon’s aide-de-camp had been sent to a German fortress. You can imagine the despair of that poor
child, without news from her father, knowing that he was a prisoner, in need of everything, perhaps sick,
and she obliged to represent him as writing joyful letters, a little short, perhaps, but such as a soldier on
the field might be expected to write, always marching forward through a conquered country. Sometimes
her strength gave way; then they were without news for weeks. But the old man became anxious, could
not sleep. Thereupon a letter from Germany would speedily arrive, which she would bring to his bedside
and read joyously, forcing back her tears. The colonel would listen religiously, smile with a knowing air,
approve, criticise, and explain to us the passages that seemed a little confused. But where he was
especially grand was in the replies that he sent to his son. ‘Never forget that you are a Frenchman,’ he
would say to him. ‘Be generous to those poor people. Don’t make the invasion too hard for them.’ And
there were recommendations without end, admirable preachments upon respect for the proprieties, the
courtesy which should be shown to the ladies, a complete code of military honour for the use of
conquerors. He interspersed also some general considerations upon politics, the conditions of peace to be
imposed upon the vanquished. Thereupon I must say that he was not exacting.
“‘A war indemnity, and nothing more. What is the use of taking their provinces? Is it possible to turn
Germany into France?’
“He dictated this in a firm voice; and one was conscious of such candour in his words, of such a noble,
patriotic faith, that it was impossible not to be moved while listening to him.
lazaretto, flags everywhere, but such strange flags, white with little crosses, and no one to go to meet our
soldiers.
“For a moment he might have thought that he was mistaken.
“But no! Yonder, behind the Arc de Triomphe, there was a confused rumbling, a black line approaching
in the rising sunlight. Then, little by little, the points of the helmets gleamed, the little drums of Jena
began to beat, and beneath the Arc de Triomphe, while the heavy tramp of the regiments and the clashing
of the sabres beat time, Schubert’s Triumphal March burst forth!
“Thereupon in the deathlike silence of the square, a cry rang out, a terrible cry: ‘To arms! To arms! The
Prussians!’ and the four uhlans of the vanguard saw up yonder, on the balcony, a tall old man wave his
arms, stagger, and fall. That time, Colonel Jouve was really dead.”
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