For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere¹ disorganized bands, not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered² uniforms; they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed exhausted³, worn out, incapable⁴ of thought or resolve, marching onward⁵ merely by force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue⁶ the moment they halted. One saw, in particular, many enlisted⁷ men, peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income, bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle; somber⁸ artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of irregulars with high-sounding names “Avengers of Defeat,” “Citizens of the Tomb,” “Brethren in Death”—passed in their turn, looking like banditti. Their leaders, former drapers or grain merchants, or tallow or soap chandlers—warriors by force of circumstances, officers by reason of their mustachios or their money—covered with weapons, flannel⁹ and gold lace, spoke¹⁰ in an impressive manner, discussed plans of campaign, and behaved as though they alone bore the fortunes of dying France on their