If any French reader object to having his susceptibilities offended, one would have to refrain from repeating in his presence what is perhaps the finest reply that a Frenchman ever made. This would enjoin us from consigning something sublime to History.
At our own risk and peril, let us violate this injunction.
Now, then, among those giants there was one Titan,--Cambronne.
To make that reply and then perish, what could be grander? For being willing to die is the same as to die; and it was not this man's fault if he survived after he was shot.
The winner of the battle of Waterloo was not Napoleon, who was put to flight; nor Wellington, giving way at four o'clock, in despair at five; nor Blucher, who took no part in the engagement. The winner of Waterloo was Cambronne.
To thunder forth such a reply at the lightning-flash that kills you is to conquer!
Thus to answer the Catastrophe, thus to speak to Fate, to give this pedestal to the future lion, to hurl such a challenge to the midnight rainstorm, to the treacherous wall of Hougomont, to the sunken road of Ohain, to Grouchy's delay, to Blucher's arrival, to be Irony itself in the tomb, to act so as to stand upright though fallen, to drown in two syllables the European coalition, to offer kings privies which the Caesars once knew, to make the lowest of words the most lofty by entwining with it the glory of France, insolently to end Waterloo with Mardigras, to finish Leonidas with Rabellais, to set the crown on this victory by a word impossible to speak, to lose the field and preserve history, to have the laugh on your side after such a carnage,--this is immense!
It was an insult such as a thunder-cloud might hurl! It reaches the grandeur of AEschylus!
Cambronne's reply produces the effect of a violent break. 'Tis like the breaking of a heart under a weight of scorn. 'Tis the overflow of agony bursting forth. Who conquered? Wellington? No! Had it not been for Blucher, he was lost. Was it Blucher? No! If Wellington had not begun, Blucher could not have finished. This Cambronne, this man spending his last hour, this unknown soldier, this infinitesimal of war, realizes that here is a falsehood, a falsehood in a catastrophe, and so doubly agonizing; and at the moment when his rage is bursting forth because of it, he is offered this mockery,--life! How could he restrain himself? Yonder are all the kings of Europe, the general's flushed with victory, the Jupiter's darting thunderbolts; they have a hundred thousand victorious soldiers, and back of the hundred thousand a million; their cannon stand with yawning mouths, the match is lighted; they grind down under their heels the Imperial guards, and the grand army; they have just crushed Napoleon, and only Cambronne remains,-- only this earthworm is left to protest. He will protest. Then he seeks for the appropriate word as one seeks for a sword. His mouth froths, and the froth is the word. In face of this mean and mighty victory, in face of this victory which counts none victorious, this desperate soldier stands erect. He grants its overwhelming immensity, but he establishes its triviality; and he does more than spit upon it. Borne down by numbers, by superior force, by brute matter, he finds in his soul an expression: "Excrement!" We repeat it,-- to use that word, to do thus, to invent such an expression, is to be the conqueror!
The spirit of mighty days at that portentous moment made its descent on that unknown man. Cambronne invents the word for Waterloo as Rouget invents the "Marseillaise," under the visitation of a breath from on high. An emanation from the divine whirlwind leaps forth and comes sweeping over these men, and they shake, and one of them sings the song supreme, and the other utters the frightful cry.
This challenge of titanic scorn Cambronne hurls not only at Europe in the name of the Empire,--that would be a trifle: he hurls it at the past in the name of the Revolution. It is heard, and Cambronne is recognized as possessed by the ancient spirit of the Titans. Danton seems to be speaking! Kleber seems to be bellowing!
At that word from Cambronne, the English voice responded, "Fire!" The batteries flamed, the hill trembled, from all those brazen mouths belched a last terrible gush of grape-shot; a vast volume of smoke, vaguely white in the light of the rising moon, rolled out, and when the smoke dispersed, there was no longer anything there. That formidable remnant had been annihilated; the Guard was dead. The four walls of the living redoubt lay prone, and hardly was there discernible, here and there, even a quiver in the bodies; it was thus that the French legions, greater than the Roman legions, expired on Mont-Saint-Jean, on the soil watered with rain and blood, amid the gloomy grain, on the spot where nowadays Joseph, who drives the post-wagon from Nivelles, passes whistling, and cheerfully whipping up his horse at four o'clock in the morning.
那个最美妙的字，虽然是法国人经常说的，可是把它说给愿受人尊敬的法国读者听，也许是不应该的，历史不容妙语。
我们甘冒不韪，破此禁例。
因此，在那些巨人中有个怪杰，叫康布罗纳①。
①康布罗纳（Cambronne），法国将军。
说了那个字，然后从容就义，还有什么比这更伟大的！他为求死而出此一举，要是他能在枪林弹雨中幸存，那不是他的过失。
滑铁卢战争的胜利者不是在溃败中的拿破仑，也不是曾在四点钟退却，五点钟绝望的威灵顿，也不是不费吹灰之力的布吕歇尔，滑铁卢战争的胜利者是康布罗纳。
霹雳一声，用那样一个字去回击向你劈来的雷霆，那才是胜利。以此回答惨祸，回答命运，为未来的狮子①奠基，以此反抗那一夜的大雨，乌古蒙的贼墙，奥安的凹路，格鲁希的迟到，布吕歇尔的应援，作墓中的戏谑，留死后的余威，把欧洲联盟淹没在那个字的音节里，把恺撒们领教过的秽物献给各国君主，把最鄙俗的字和法兰西的光辉糅合起来，造了一个最堂皇的字，以嬉笑怒骂收拾滑铁卢，以拉伯雷②补莱翁尼达斯③的不足，用句不能出口的隽语总结那次胜利，丧失疆土而保全历史，流血之后还能使人四处听见笑声，这是多么宏伟。
①指滑铁卢纪念墩上的那只铁狮子，见本卷第二节注。
②拉伯雷（Rabelais），十六世纪法国文学家，善讽刺。
③莱翁尼达斯（Léonidas），公元前五世纪斯巴达王，与波斯作战时战死。
这是对雷霆的辱骂。埃斯库罗斯的伟大也不过如是。
康布罗纳的这个字有一种崩裂的声音，是满腔轻蔑心情突破胸膛时的崩裂，是痛心太甚所引起的爆炸。谁是胜利者？是威灵顿吗？不是。如果没有布吕歇尔，他早已败了。是布吕歇尔吗？不是。如果没有威灵顿打头阵，布吕歇尔也收拾不了残局。康布罗纳，那最后一刻的过客，一个默默无闻的小将，大战中的一个无限渺小的角色，他深深感到那次溃败确是荒谬，使他倍加痛心，正当他满腹怨恨不得发泄时，别人却来开他玩笑，要他逃生！他又怎能不顿足大骂呢？
他们全在那里，欧洲的君王们，洋洋得意的将军们，暴跳如雷的天罡地煞，他们有十万得胜军，十万之后，再有百万，他们的炮，燃着火绳，张着大口，他们的脚踏着羽林将士和大军，他们刚才已经压倒了拿破仑，剩下的只是康布罗纳了，只剩下这么一条蚯蚓在反抗。他当然要反抗。于是他要找一个字，如同找一柄剑。他正满嘴唾沫，那唾沫便是那个字了。在那种非凡而又平凡的胜利面前，在那种没有胜利者的胜利面前，那个悲愤绝望的人攘臂挺身而起，他感到那种胜利的重大，却又了解它的空虚，因此他认为唾以口沫还不足，在数字、力量、物质各方面他既然都被压倒了，于是就找出一个字，秽物。我们又把那个字记了下来。那样说，那样做，找到那样一个字，那才真是风流人物。
那些伟大岁月的精神，在那出生入死的刹那间启发了这位无名小卒的心灵。康布罗纳找到的滑铁卢的那个字，正如鲁日·德·李勒①构思的《马赛曲》，都是出自上天的启示。有阵神风来自上天，感动了这两个人，他们都瞿然憬悟，因而一个唱出了那样卓越的歌曲，一个发出了那种骇人的怒吼。康布罗纳不仅代表帝国把那巨魔式的咒语唾向欧洲，那样似嫌不足；他还代表革命唾向那已往的日子。我们听到他的声音，并且在康布罗纳的声音里感到各先烈的遗风。那仿佛是丹东的谈吐，又仿佛是克莱贝尔②的狮吼。
①鲁日·德·李勒（RougetdelAIsle），法国十八世纪资产阶级革命时期的革命军官，所作《马赛曲》，现为法国国歌。
②克莱贝尔（kléber），革命时期的将军，一八○○年被刺死。
英国人听了康布罗纳的那个字，报以“放！”各炮火光大作，山冈震撼，从所有那些炮口中喷出了最后一批开花弹，声如奔雷，浓烟遍野，被初生的月光隐隐映成白色，萦绕空中，等到烟散以后，什么全没有了。那点锐不可当的残余也被歼灭了，羽林军覆没了。那座活炮垒的四堵墙全倒在地上，在尸体堆中，这儿那儿，还偶然有些抽搐的动作；比罗马大军更伟大的法兰西大军便那样死在圣约翰山的那片浸满了雨水和血液的土壤上，阴惨的麦田里，也就是现在驾着尼维尔邮车的约瑟夫①自得其乐地鞭着马，吹着口哨而过的那一带地方。
①约瑟夫，犹如说张三李四。