Front matter (continued 5)

"Yes, I've got a cold already."

He coughed.

"Pooh!" I said rather abruptly. "As long as you've nothing worse than that the matter with you."

I suddenly thought of him as a soft flabby creature, this tall fellow brought up by women. I think he guessed my thoughts.

"If only I had not got such a high temperature!" he said.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"High temperature! Who said you'd got a high temperature?"

I stretched myself on the straw, without much desire to continue conversation. He seemed to be searching in his pocket. I saw a sort of metallic tube between his fingers, which he unscrewed; then holding the thing out to me, said:

"Here you are, just look at this will you?"

He explained:

"It's a mouth thermometer. I always carry it on me."

"What an idea!"

I did not know that the instrument existed in this form. The graduated glass tube only measured a few centimetres. I mechanically turned it round and round until I saw the little column of mercury shining.

"102.2°!" I exclaimed. "Is that your temperature?"

"Yes."

"You ought to take some ... quinine."

He shook his head.

"You see ... it's the same nearly every day."

I did not understand.

"What?"

"I'm ill," he murmured. "It's rotten, oh heavens, how rotten it is!"

I looked at him interrogatively. Turned towards me he unburdened himself of his secret, in a broken voice. It was months, years now since he had been well. Last spring his mother—"Maman" he said (the word moved me and made me dream of mine)—his mother had implored him to consult a doctor.... He had resisted a long time afraid to hear that he was ill.... How alarming it had been when the doctor, after sounding him, had knitted his eyebrows and told him he must be careful. It was not so very long since his father, a few months after a warning of this kind, had been taken from them.

While he talked I seized the opportunity of watching him unobserved. Now that my eyes were opened I immediately became aware of the well-known signs: this narrow, hollow chest, the sallow complexion, the pink patches on the cheek-bones, down to the tapering fingers.

"I realised that I could not take any risks and I wanted to live.... I wanted to. Two days later Mother and I took the train to Switzerland. Do you know Château d'Oex?"

I made a sign of assent.

"I stayed there for four months, April to July, resting on a long chair in the sun."

"Did you get better?"

"Much better, yes. No perspiring at night. I put on weight, and at the same time my temperature, oh! the thermometer, you know, is the surest sign of all! I had seen my father, getting so terribly feverish every afternoon! As for me, when I saw that it already rose quite easily to 101.1°, 101.3° I had not the slightest doubt about it. Well, I repeat, everything was improving. They told me that if I continued to take great care all the winter...."

He paused for a few seconds:

"But on the 2nd of August, you see ... I had to leave."

"What did your mother say to it?"

He avoided that subject, but from a chance word he let slip I guessed the anguish and the resistance of his people—the sustained struggle.

"You ought to have got discharged!"

"How could I at such a moment! And then...."

His voice was muffled:

"Our family have always fought well!"

I silently evoked the De Valpics whose names shine in our annals: the Lord High Constable, the Admiral....

"I hoped it would turn out all right. At F—— I managed fairly well; I kept watch, you see, with my little thermometer!"

"And now?"

"Ah, now! I've caught cold again. I was told: 'Whatever you do, don't get cold.'"

He coughed, and said very softly:

"This morning I spat some blood."

With a touching gesture he sought my hand and squeezed it.

"Dreher, I tell you all that because you've been good to me. Yes, yes, I shall never forget it. The other day you didn't let me thank you. Dreher, will you believe that ... I'm your friend?"

Not wishing to show how much touched I was, I continued in a decided tone:

"In the state you are in, old fellow, you have no alternative but to get discharged."

He shook his head. I insisted. I pleaded the cause of reason. He had been courageous, more than courageous, heroic. That was enough. He would only aggravate the harm, by going on! And what use could he be? I pretended to be convinced—the idea was not at all a startling one at that time—that the war was drawing to a close. A few weeks more, one or two more successes, and there would be nothing astonishing in talking about peace.

I displayed real warmth. I felt a growing sympathy and admiration for him, and his superb moral energy. And he was no superhuman hero. How near to us that sign of weakness brought him—that thermometer consulted each hour on the progress of his illness!

My pleading seemed to have shaken his resolution, but his eyes were lowered.

"Dreher, tell me candidly. You're a good soldier—what would you do in my place?"

I a good soldier! The irony of it! Was I fated to wear this halo? I who, I swear, would not have hesitated to make use of the slightest pretext for adjournment! I had to assure De Valpic that I might have acted like he had.... Yes, at the beginning I should have left in a burst of generosity. But, at this point I should realise the folly of persisting in it.

He was silent, and looked serious, his gaze fixed on the ground, his fingers twisting some pieces of straw.

"You must think that I set great store by my skin," he said.

He dreaded, with the susceptibility of a proud heart, of having gone down in my estimation.

"Oh, rot!" I said. "Who doesn't? And I bet it's chiefly on your people's account, your mother's...."

"Poor mother! She had already bought the thank-offering which we were to take to St. Peter's at Rome next spring."

Oh! so they were devout believers. An old Roman Catholic family of course! It was not surprising.

"And then ..." he continued.

He reddened.

"I was engaged to be married, when I fell ill ... and she would not let me set her free, she was waiting for me...."

That was all he said. Why did this last confidence stir me more than all the rest? Why did I get up and put an end to the conversation?

"Well, my dear chap, that's only an added reason for getting fit again. It would be stupid to make a mess of your whole future. Look here, I shall be on duty to-morrow. I'll put you on the sick report, and you can be off back to your home, with the esteem of every one of us, and ... my friendship."

I went out, and wandered about round the farm for a long time. I was moved by a profound pity. I could not shake off the thought of this poor unfortunate. To have nothing left to learn about his illness, at his age, which was my age, to go in terror of death, to feel oneself being drawn towards it!... Then I was moved to pity for myself, for us all. Were we not all under the shadow of death, faced with tragic ends? Alas! When life was sweet and smiled on us with her store of fresh beauties....

CHAPTER XVIII

DARK HOURS

I had persuaded De Valpic to report sick. Then destiny stepped in. We started again that same night on the stroke of two o'clock. And when I went up to him during the first halt he begged me to strike his name off the list. He felt much better. He so much wanted to see the continuation, to be in at the big victory.

Guillaumin, who appeared just then, asked if we were far from the frontier.

De Valpic enlightened him. Rather not! And judging by the direction we were taking we should soon be in that part of Lorraine which had been annexed.

Good! It would have been maddening to go a long way round.

We reached Étain, where we had a warm welcome, as the Bosches had not returned in spite of their boasting. We only went straight through the town.

It was a long stage, but we did not get over-tired in this mild weather. Milestone succeeded milestone. Metz: 43 km. 41, 40, 38.... Guillaumin was exultant:

"A mere constitutional, what?"

And Judsi:

"We'll be sleepin' in their bloomin' country, to-morrow."

Some of the men may have believed it. I thought it only right to moderate the enthusiasm.

"Oh Metz! We haven't got there yet. The siege is sure to be ghastly!"

The lieutenant who was passing, chaffed me:

"Dreher, as pessimistic as usual? He'll never believe we're getting on, until he's in Berlin."

We went into quarters at Buxy. Shortly after midnight there was an alarm. The artillery which we had not heard for some days was talking again. As old stagers we had missed the noise, it cheered us up.

But we grumbled when, having been called up and paraded in the Church Square, we were kept hanging about and freezing for an hour or more. The men "groused," and wanted to know why they couldn't be left to sleep in peace.

A lot of them wanted to "get down to it" again, and we had hard work to prevent them. A certain number sloped off in the dark. Each platoon lost a few who never turned up again.

Suddenly there was an uproar and crush at the other end of the Square. We had to spread ourselves to keep order. Playoust went to see what was up, leaving his half-section to take care of itself, with the natural consequence that it disbanded. He came back, raising his hands, with awful tales of the whole populace fleeing before the invaders! There was nothing to be done! This time the Bosches were coming in dense masses, ravaging and setting fire to everything!

A group was formed round him. The men listened anxiously. He pulled a face. Was he rotting, or speaking the truth? We never thought of interrupting. However someone did take it upon himself. It was De Valpic, whom no one had counted on.

"That'll do, Playoust! No tomfoolery!"

The other was quite taken aback. Guillaumin and I saw the danger, and went to the rescue, turning his tales to ridicule. He tried to back out of it. The men were reassured, and began to laugh, and our own confidence was strengthened by it too.

Yes, but what were we waiting for here? For orders, always orders! They were delayed for a good while longer, and when they did arrive, dumbfounded us! We were to fall back on Étain.

There was nothing to be done but obey, so we retraced our steps along the road we had followed so gaily the day before. Dissimulation was no longer possible. We caught up and mingled with the sad troops of fugitives. As long as the darkness lasted, we only half-realised what it meant. But what a ghastly vision of distress the daybreak brought us!

A dismal procession of women, children, and old men, many of them on foot, laden with packages and bags, or pulling and pushing wheelbarrows and hand-carts—the others huddled pêle-mêle in conveyances of all ages, shapes, and sizes, drawn by oxen, donkeys, and dogs. The whole populace, as Playoust had said, people hurrying along, elbowing their way, getting hung up, and delayed. Their heads were hanging, and they did not answer the stream of questions which burst from our ranks. Babies' tears, and mothers' sighs. Every other minute a cyclist, or a staff car cleared a way for itself, tooting and cursing.... And I remember an old, a very old peasant, perched on a big tilted cart brandishing his pitch-fork and shouting to us, as he pointed in the opposite direction:

"That's where they be, you slackers!"

I was glad when, by eight o'clock, we had out-distanced the gloomy horde, by our regular pace. But a long halt on the outskirts of Étain condemned us to being caught up again by the mournful stream which flowed all day.

In the evening we set off again, and once more went through the little town. How it had changed since the day before!

Consternation reigned.

We asked:

"What's happening?"

"They are there!" was the reply.

"There!" One would have thought they meant a hundred yards away! The inhabitants were turning out. I can see a well-dressed old woman, in mourning, on the pavement in front of her house, loading a waggon—her maid was helping her—with a confused medley of furniture, ornaments, clothes.

"You needn't be in such a bloomin' hurry, Mother," shouted Judsi; "can't you see we're here!"

"You won't stop them," she retorted.

"Oh, steady on!"

She raised her voice till it became a shriek:

"You won't stop them, I tell you! It's just like it was in 1870!"

She raised her gaunt arm, her piercing voice carried well.

"Old witch!" growled Guillaumin.

We passed on, but could hear her apostrophising the platoons and companies behind us:

"You won't stop them!"

Her monotonous imprecation possessed our minds for a long time.

The night fell, but we marched on and on. What a day's march this was, too. Having had a meal we managed to hold out. We advanced without thinking and yet what extraordinary sights we came across. The enormous column of fugitives was trailing along this roadway too. This time we were going up-stream, pushing northwards from Étain.

But what were these soldiers scattered among the heart-breaking band. The moon was beginning to shine. We caught sight of uniforms, at first isolated, then in groups—all the troops mixed, and the ranks, too, apparently.... The strange thing was that it never occurred to us to ask what they were all doing or where they were going.... A few details only struck us. Why so many foot-sloggers on horseback? This problem worried Guillaumin. He sounded me several times.

"Mounted scouts, do you think?"

I answered drowsily:

"Of course!"

We advanced in silence, mechanically keeping our intervals, our columns of four. No more peasants, and only an infinitesimal number of civilians drifted down-stream now. The crowd was swelling though. Transports and teams followed each other, rolling along, slipping and sliding. They were all military-limbered waggons, forage waggons, ambulance waggons, munition waggons, a sutler's van. Battery after battery—an extraordinary state of confusion. Here were mud-crushers whipping horses, some of which fell, there hussars on foot, dragging their worn-out beasts along.

We passed companies lying in the shade of the ditch, and envied them. There had been no halt for us for two hours at least. We had just climbed a hill; I was marching with half-closed eyes. Guillaumin nudged me:

"Heavens above!"

I opened my eyes. A large stretch of country lay before us, a dark undulating plain enamelled with monstrous glares.

I turned towards my companion.

"Villages!" he murmured.

Burning! That woke us up. We slowed down bewildered.

Bouillon said:

"Pore wretches, that's w'y they was doin' a bolt!"

I counted the fires. Two to the right of the road, one of which seemed quite near, and had high flames shooting up, which cast a glow all round. Three to the left, and right in front of us at the axis of our march, a huge conflagration.

Spincourt? I had heard that name.

The guns were growling sullenly. I tried to work, myself up to a generous pitch of fury. These hamlets in flame, this blood-stained earth, was my France, my Lorraine!

But I was like a disconnected electric current.

We were told to lie down in the ditch where we slept. But not for long. We were made to get up and retire a little, and lie down again—we slept once more—then we returned to our first site. We obeyed without grousing, and this time the rest was more worth having. We dozed until daybreak.

The defilade along the white road continued. How many officers and men, with horror and despair at their hearts, did we meet that August dawn? Henriot came to find us. He was tortured with suspense at last. What were all these people doing? We shook our heads, hesitating to pronounce an opinion. It all passed as in a dream. Silent, preoccupied phantoms who seemed to be hastening towards some goal....

Now, however, some were to be seen whose pace was less rapid, and who did not detest being looked at—men who had been wounded, only slightly for the most part—who seemed to be saying, "We have done our bit!"

A few of us ventured to question them. Oh, what replies we got. A snare! A shambles! There were too many Huns! Each man claimed to be the only one left of his battalion or regiment.

A battalion sergeant-major, hit in the foot, gave us a graphic account. "The Bosches were coming out of a wood, our 75's loosed off a belt at them, and made pretty good shooting too. You ought to have seen the blighters dance! We were under shelter, not far off, enjoying ourselves enormously. They were blown up and fell in little pieces. Platoon after platoon cut up. Others followed them, to be met with the same fate. More still—until at the end of an hour, there was a thick rampart of dead bodies all along the edge of the wood. But new lots kept on coming up and crossing the obstacle, others shoving them on from behind. Our guns were beginning to stop talking—not enough shells. And the grey swarm slipped through into the plain. Suddenly we were threatened and attacked and overwhelmed. What could we do? Retire! We ran for our lives."

Henriot ground his teeth, and muttered:

"No, no, not that."

"You'll soon see!" said the other.

He saluted, and went on his way limping.

Other accounts were in a different key. There was often a question of a defensive taken by us. We advanced, and lay down and fired. Everything was going well, but then suddenly the hostile machine guns were unmasked. Ran, ran, ran, ran. The famous crackle went on and on, mowing our lines down like corn. No use being plucky! What could we do? (That was the everlasting refrain.) Escape! Never to return again.

Some badly wounded men appeared supported by three or four comrades who made use of the excuse to escape. There were very few orderlies and stretcher-bearers. One heard nothing but complaints, for the most part unjust, of the army medical corps. Guillaumin undertook to see a Zouave, who had just come a cropper, to the neighbouring dressing station. He came back disgusted. A major had grossly insulted him:

"Oh, go to the devil! Your pal's done for!"

A certain number, who were dragging themselves along in a sorry state, found the strength to exhort us, with a melodramatic gesture, to avenge them.

Others pitied us:

"Poor lads. You don't know what it is!"

"You think not!" retorted Bouguet. "We had a taste of it at Mangiennes!"

"Pooh!" The others snorted with contempt. "Mangiennes!" Did we think that counted!

Some gunners, black with powder, who were squatting in a cart, shook their fists at the foot-sloggers. The latter, absolutely broken down, and drunk with rage, returned their invectives. They were just on the point of pulling out their bayonets. Our company commander, who had witnessed the scene, seized the most rabid by the collar. His tone and rank over-awed them.

An old sergeant, with touches of grey on his temples, followed, holding his cap in his hand, and repeating in a singsong voice:

"Stick to your packs, lads!"

It was broad daylight now. All our poilus were up, taking in every detail of the show.

Will you believe that in the end not one of us was seriously demoralised. Warnings and narratives left us rather sceptical. We even felt an uncharitable tendency to rag survivors of the furnace. Their hasty gait, their burlesque accoutrements! Above all each tragic assurance: "I'm the only one left of the X——," raised storms of laughter. We had seen dozens and hundreds of bearers of that device march past! Judsi exclaimed:

"Don't cry about it, old chap! Your chums are waiting for you in Paris!"

I believe that at the bottom of our hearts each one of us felt naïvely convinced that our arrival would put everything right....

The realisation that we were witnessing a rout did however penetrate my consciousness at last, though still only in a vague way. Vaguely too I dreaded lest our energy should suffer by it.

I was delighted when we got orders, about six o'clock, to leave the high road. We went across country for not more than four or five hundred yards.

Some trenches dug there appeared before us, as if by chance.

A French dirigible, the Fleurus, passed high above our heads, and seemed, I do not quite know why, a happy omen.

CHAPTER XIX

SPINCOURT

Heaven knows whether we expected to have to charge from the beginning to the end of that interminable day. The captain and the subaltern had warned us. The cannonade raged in front of us and all round us. The German fire was concentrated against a village below us, on our right. If we were occupying it, what losses it would mean to us! To begin with we could see each explosion and the resultant crumbling of the buildings. Towards midday a thick pall of smoke rose and shrouded everything.

The fusillade and the machine-guns joined in the concert. Who would guess what they reminded me of? The mock symphony with which Miquel had amused at the Globe Café.

It will be seen that I was far from feeling the same enervation as I had the other week. I had become a fatalist.... We knew all about being under fire. We had already been through it.

I should certainly have been badly bored without Guillaumin's precious and almost continual society. We began by discussing the situation at length. He maintained that it was not serious.

He passed on some of his serenity to me. His eyes shone when he said:

"And our poilus, what!"

"Admirable!"

He added:

"What a fine race they are!"

I wondered whether he was speaking of the French or the Beaucerons.

What should he do a little later on, but set about extolling the treasures lying dormant at the heart of these soldiers.

"Most of them are married! They nearly all have kids! They never stop thinking of those who have stayed behind—of their family. That supports them. It's a case of morale!"

"Steady on! Don't exaggerate!"

They were good fellows, the majority, I admitted, and fond of their families, but the chief point about them was their resignation and passivity. A worthy herd!

He insisted.

"I assure you that they have their own personality and feelings, and often a very generous share of them. They are certainly no phrase-makers; it is even very difficult to get them to talk. They mistrust you and themselves. You would think that they realised that they would spoil their feelings by trying to express them in their peasant jargon."

"Well?"

"Look how they find a way of writing every or almost every day! Some of the men in the platoon have asked me to write the addresses, so that they should be readable. Others, even, to wield the pen while they dictated the text. Oh, just dull commonplace formulas, but what a tender longing in them to reassure and cheer. That all declare, whatever happens, that they are resting, far away from the Bosches, that everything is going excellently. 'Don't you worry!' is what they say. What philosophy!"

"And I'll quote some examples of delicacy; for instance, your Corporal, Donnadieu, who was hit...."

I opened my mouth to tell him of the man's trick, a villainy which had remained unknown.

"Well," he continued, "I've got a man from his part of the world, from Neuville. He wrote a letter to the wife, who is just starting a new baby, to tell her that her husband had been pinked—in case he had not been able to let her know—but that it was nothing serious, and that he would keep her informed!"

Guillaumin now described the arrival of the baggage-master, in the farmyard the other day (I had missed this scene), and the distribution of the letters and cards. Some of them had wept. Others hid themselves to kiss the humble note-paper.

What a singular state of mind! I considered these men around me lying about like a lot of animals, their filthy faces, and obtuse foreheads and dull looks. Bouillon, Gaudéreaux, Judsi, did they dream? Yes.... Perhaps there were visions of children and wives wandering behind the brute-like masks! For the first time I was drawn to them by a brotherly instinct.

I hazarded: "And yet it must be sad to leave some one behind...."

That started Guillaumin off; he was in an eloquent mood. He recognised the agonising character of these wars, which involved in the struggle, not mercenaries, as in olden days, nor even soldiers by profession, volunteers free of all ties, but the living substance of the nations, this youth incapable of breaking the chains of blood and of love at parting. For each man in danger here, how many alarms there would be yonder in the hearts of wives and mothers! What reverberation of despair involved in each agony!

But also what consolation to feel that one was not fighting uniquely for pay or for glory, but for the safety of one's country! For what was one's country but places and people, all that one held dear? Woman above everything! Woman! All that was contained in that word! The sublime exchange of encouragement. Betrothed and wives, they all understood their rôle equally well. This cause was theirs. They had sobbed at the departure of their loved ones, but most of them had made no effort to keep them, but had only prayed Heaven to bring them back victorious.

He warmed to his subject. I listened, and approved. What a noble character he was, and what an hour in which to work upon these thoughts! The din of the battle redoubled. We caught sight of some wounded not very far away dragging themselves to the high road. Henriot signed to us. Shells were falling on a little wood less than a kilometre away from us. We were going to be engaged. I paid homage to a dear vision within me....

Guillaumin cited some examples: Poor little Frémont. He had talked to him a long time, the day before Mangiennes, about Françoise, his sweet Françoise. It was to her that he offered all the privation and weariness, for her sake that he gave proof of such a confident, charming spirit. And De Valpic! Guillaumin suspected him of holding out even when ill, in the touching and feverish longing to prove his valiance to someone....

He suddenly lowered his voice:

"And you, Michel ... whom are you fighting for?"

My heart melted. How tactfully and ingeniously my friend had led round to the subject. I burned to reply to this chaste invitation by an avowal, to confess to him that for me too, toil and suffering were alleviated ... to tell him a tale of some romance or other with this girl as heroine. Alas! I restrained myself in time. It would have been a tale indeed—to lie just at the moment when the need of candour was devouring me. Could I tell him what there was to tell? Unhappy wretch! There was nothing! What was there between her and me? Nothing. Good God, nothing! The pity of it! A holiday friendship, an exchange of post-cards, that was all.... It was true that for the last few days my imagination had been indulging in dangerous flights of fancy.... What an awakening I was preparing for myself. By what right did I think ... that someone else was being inebriated at the same time by a twin exaltation. It would have needed a miracle and there was nothing to suggest that! Had my letter arrived? If so would she not have been astonished, and indeed shocked—not to mention the people with her—at my having written in a closed envelope? Should I ever receive a reply?

So I could do nothing but murmur in an offhand tone:

"Bah! A flirt here and there!"

I suddenly wondered whether Guillaumin had not asked me, as it often happens, solely in order to be asked himself. Did he want to open his heart to me about some secret fondness? At the sight of his ugliness I thought: "Could any one possibly love him?" But I was annoyed with myself for this reflection....

"And what about you?" I said.

He smiled, without a trace of sadness or forced merriment.

"Oh, with a mug like mine! No, there's only one woman with whom I count for anything, and that's my sister. But for her sake, it would annoy me to go under!"

It was the second time that I had heard him allude to his sister. I questioned him, and he told me she was called Louise, and was twenty-five years old. They had lived together since their mother's death. She gave piano lessons.

"You'll have to get her married," I said.

He shook his head gently:

"She is as ugly ... as I am!"

Hour after hour went by, without bringing anything worse than our inaction. We were inclined to become pessimistic. A sinister rumour spread, at one point—Ought we to believe it?—Yes, Laraque the connecting file, who had taken refuge with us for a minute, confirmed the frightful mistake. Our divisional cavalry had ventured outside our lines, and got into the line of fire from our batteries. A captain in the observation post had tried distractedly to telephone but just then the line had been cut and communications interrupted. Pandemonium. Our batteries had the troopers marked, found their range, and soon decimated them. They had been seen galloping madly in every direction, forming into bunches, and ending by flying towards the enemy's trenches, where they were met by grape-shot. The captain had gone off his head, the signaller who was responsible had been executed—not that it undid the damage!

Laraque left us. We were crushed by his recital. That was a most gloomy part of the proceedings. The big "coal-boxes" (quite recently christened) were beginning to pour down on all sides of our line raising heavy black clouds. A fusillade crackled, a little way off. Some of our companies were engaged, so they said. Our turn seemed to have come—we should bring only deadened wills to the impact....

And then suddenly, just as at Mangiennes, the falling dusk took us by surprise. The call to "Cease fire" went. The extraordinary thing was that both sides appeared to obey it. The uproar suddenly decreased.

Laraque passed again bearing better news. First of all—he laughed—the horrible tale of our cavalry having been annihilated by our 75's ... well, it had been entirely contradicted! Our guns had fired on the Uhlans all right, the plain was strewn with their bodies! Then that village, Houdclancourt, which I have described as having been battered by the German artillery ever since the morning—an officer who had come from there had given the exact total of casualties: six wounded, not one more than that! Pure waste of powder!

We hastened to pass on the good news to the men. The day ended, on the whole, on a more favourable note. Our comrades had held out, and we had not been needed. Nothing to eat? We were accustomed to that ... the usual thing on evenings after a battle. Lamalou tasted some raw beetroot, pulled up in a neighbouring field. Everyone was convinced that we should sleep where we were. But we were to have a surprise. When it got dark, the order came to abandon the trench, and fall back on the high road.

That was a gloomy crossing. All the wounded were gathering on this side in the hope of getting first-aid. Many of them fell on the way, some dead, others exhausted, begging for a drink. There were sobs, and calls of "Mother!" We brushed past these unfortunates, strongly tempted to stop and help them, but we were forbidden to break ranks! There was growing indignation, for after all, where in thunder had our stretcher-bearers got to?

From the high road, we could see endless dots of light moving about and crossing each other in the dusk of the plain. The Bosches collecting their wounded, De Valpic informed me.

"There's organisation for you!" I said, not without bitterness.

"Their qualities against our qualities!"

CHAPTER XX

THE WAR BEGINS

What was to be done with us? We were not left long in doubt.... With our packs on our backs, we set off.

Henriot was very much depressed. A cavalry sergeant whom he had just met had spoken to him of a general falling-back of the troops supporting us on our right. We immediately formed a salient, likely to be cut off.

But Guillaumin joined us.

"Tommyrot! Why we're just about to surround them on the left."

He had got the tip from our friend Dagomert, the motor-cyclist.

The column moved off. We marched all night.

Nobody was very clear as to what direction we were taking. We were not moving towards Étain. There was no question of a defeat. We were going of our own free will. There were regular halts, and comparatively good order was kept. Everyone was fully convinced that we were carrying out a wily manœuvre. We were tickled, in advance, by the idea of the Bosches' surprise when they saw us appear just where they least expected us!

The long halt took place at daybreak, when coffee was distributed. According to the lieutenant we were in the neighbourhood of Pillon and Billy, where we had fought the other week. A considerable recoil, no doubt, but we had left the enemy a long way behind.

The fact that the division was assembled on this tableland was once more the signal for troublesome attention from a Taube, which dropped some bombs, and two star shells without doing any damage.

De Valpic told me that he feared we might be obliged to fall back on the Meuse.

"What makes you think that?"

"Various things."

He added:

"Our object is simply to delay them, I think. The north is where the game will be lost or won!"

He had a fit of coughing. Henriot appeared.

"Would you believe it! The general turned up, and hauled the colonel over the coals. He declares that we ought not to have left the trenches we were holding last night!"

"Oh, rot!"

"And that we've got to go back!"

"Nonsense!"

Yes. When the news got about it called forth anger, cold at first—If they didn't know what they wanted.... Then the men grew heated. A wave of rage, and indeed opposition, surged through them. We ourselves did not quite escape it.

Luckily, there was a diversion, in the shape of a cart which drove up. Everyone crowded round. The baggage-master! His horse was foundered. He had got mail-bags of letters and parcels which he had collected at Charny, and shouted to us:

"I've been chasing you for the last three days!"

Guillaumin took possession of our bundle, and, mounted on a heap of flints, began the distribution.

A sea of humans surrounded him, faces stretched forward feverishly, arms raised tirelessly—De Valpic in the front row between Bouillon and Humel.

I had been pushed forward. What did I expect? A line from my father when he heard the terrible news? Hm! He would hardly have got mine. No. I expected nothing. One by one the names escaped: Gaudéreaux, Descroix, Lieutenant Henriot. Comrades answered to a certain number of them.

"Missing! Killed!"

Brief words which froze.

I suddenly felt as if I'd had a blow on the head.

"Dreher!" shouted Guillaumin, looking round for me.

Lamalou handed me a letter. My eyes dimmed, my head swam. That writing.... I freed myself from the crush round me. I fled, half demented. I pinched, and weighed the envelope. How light and yet how heavy it was! I just missed charging into the captain who was also hanging about waiting.... I went twenty, fifty, yards, then threw myself down in a field, at the foot of an apple-tree.

My heart was still beating a mad measure, and I could hardly get my breath. I hesitated for a long time before tearing the thin envelope, then slowly and cautiously pulled out the double sheet which I fingered and turned over.... That stamp too.... Yes, yes, I knew it! But I was impatient to revel in the happy certainty: I flew to the signature.

Jeannine! Jeannine! I shouted the name aloud in a transport of delight. Then I hurriedly glanced through the first page.... And instantly I understood that Happiness was descending upon me....

As if afraid of so much joy, I hid myself, so to speak, from my ecstasy for a few seconds behind such reflections as: "The post hasn't lost much time!" or "That's what you might call a real letter!" As lovers at their meetings cloak the emotion of the first moments with trivial remarks.

Eight pages! She had written eight pages! I began to read them with tender deliberation. One long, dear harmonious poem! Each line held a joy in store for me; at each page I turned I was torn betwixt my regret at seeing it finished and my rapture that the next was beginning. I could repeat those sentences to-day without hesitating over a single syllable.

She was writing, she said, on the evening of August 16th. She had just received my letter, and was answering it immediately. She wanted to be the first to send me a word of consolation in my sorrow. My sorrow? I did not quite understand. It seemed to me that there was no reason now for anything but envy. Then I reddened. Had I not told her of my brother's death, on that card? Ah yes, whether consciously or unconsciously, I had calculated on arousing her pity, her tenderness, and I had succeeded. She professed herself overcome with emotion. My only brother! Why—she reproached me gently—had I spoken of him so rarely? She could see from the tone of my letter how much I loved him. It was natural—the only being in the world fashioned after my likeness, hardly any older than myself, the playmate of my childhood, the confidant of my adolescence. The same profound and simple reasons which my rejuvenated heart had suggested to me. I held Victor more dear, I regretted him more poignantly. I blessed Jeannine for having guessed my brotherly affection. In my card, I had made some passing allusion to the two little orphans. Here again her thoughts ran hand-in-hand with mine; she tactfully confirmed me in the idea of my duties.

Oh! with what sublime trust, with what exquisite and ingenuous sympathy these lines overflowed. This language, so new between us, seemed to me usual and necessary. Jeannine made some reference to the footing we had been on at Ballaigues, when the tone of our trifling had merely been one of playful courtesy. She appeared to apologise for the disguise adopted then. Now we might see each other face to face. She professed her friendship for me. She did not hesitate to make use of that word, so delicious and pure, in which I read another, essentially the same, but more magnificent illuminating the entire universe!

I had not a shadow of doubt; she cannot have had either. It was the letter of a fiancée. What surprised me was that we had delayed so long, before seeing into our hearts. Ever since my departure, and every day more surely, was not the vision of this child the only one which at the approach of danger consoled me with a hope, towards whom, in the hour of safety, my mirth rose up like incense. This hearth had ceased long since to smoulder under cinders; powerful and generous, it flung its ardent flames towards the sky. And had I doubted, Jeannine, lest my passion should not be reciprocated. Could I not summon up a certain look of yours, or an inflection of your voice which already bore witness to the chaste avowal. How fervently your fingers had lingered in mine at parting. We had been consecrated to each other ever since that time. The present was less surprising—child of the wondrous past! I seemed already to have spelt out these pages, upon which I was feasting, in the course of some dream. Their enchantment, as adored memories, was doubled for me!...

The end of the missive breathed a tenderness no less proud or strong. Jeannine knew through the communiqués, of the brilliant affair at Mangiennes. She guessed that I had taken part in it, that I was not wounded—(No! My good fortune lent me too great a halo!)

By some mysterious intuition she ended up by counselling me to bear the ill-fortune, which might be near at hand, courageously. What did she know of it? What presentiment had she? I caught a glimpse of the fate of returning troops, the ruin of our first hopes. Still distant hypotheses! And then it would have needed greater misfortunes than that to damp me. I was filled with enthusiasm. Guillaumin had not lied. What rapture to consecrate myself to thee, to thy defence, my noble France, incarnate in a young face!...

I turned my steps towards my section; I was coming down to earth, returning to grim reality....

What a sight met my eyes!

The piles of arms had been broken everywhere; yonder, the neighbouring battalion was dispersing in the greatest disorder; our lot, disbanded too, were jostling each other on the road. A regular panic! Guillaumin, bareheaded, and haggard....

"I was looking for you!" he shouted. "What do you say to this?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"They're firing on us!"

"Who?"

Dragging me along, he gasped:

"I've got your rifle and your things. Come along. Come along!"

We rushed down.

"Do you hear?"

The echoes of explosions.

"The 'Taube'?"

"That was the beggar that marked us! But ... they talked of our going back.... I don't think! They're close on our heels...! Their artillery, the 'coal boxes'!"

He pinched my arm till it bled:

"And we've been flying all night!"

I buckled on my pack, in a dazed way as we ran along, and took my rifle from his. Henriot caught us up:

"They're coming up from the south too. We're surrounded!"

He was choking.

Playoust stopped in front of us and chucked down his pack exclaiming:

"Wot's the use o' goin' on? We're goners!"

Some of the men followed his example.

"You thundering lunatic!" I shouted to him.

Guillaumin shook his fist at him. I shouted:

"Keep your rifles, lads! The war's beginning in earnest now, when you've got to fight for your crops and homes, for everything that's dear to you!"

Two or three men who had dropped their arms picked them up. We reached a cross-road.

Our poilus were grouped round us.

"Fall in, No. 3 section."

"Nicely in the soup, we are!" someone exclaimed.

"Possibly! But we'll get out of it somehow. Where there's a will, there's a way!"

They looked at each other blankly. Then Judsi smacked the barrel of his rifle with a swagger.

"So the blighters think they're going to give us a doin'? We'll show 'em wot's wot!"

I could have hugged him!

PART III

BOOK VII

August 25th-September 2nd

CHAPTER I

IN RETREAT

What memories I have of those days of retreat and disaster. Days when not only Victory, but Hope, also, hid her face! Chance and destiny and logic were so many forces crushing us. Everything was giving way. We suffered in every kind of way, from hunger, cold, heat, exhaustion, moral anguish, lack of news. Virile busy days, when the plan of salvation germinated in the brain of our leaders, when the work of redemption was accomplished in silence in the heart of each man and the nation at large. Days, I should weep not to have spent where I ought, as I ought!...

That afternoon, first of all, which we spent wandering in a forest. Surrounded? We were not far from it. The men were well aware of the sentries posted everywhere, and the patrol parties sent out to investigate in every direction.

One scene stands out particularly clearly in my memory. Those staff-officers we passed as I was going with my section to inspect a certain issue. The general seated on the edge of a slope with his head between his hands, his subordinates standing motionless a few steps away, respecting his meditation. A little farther on were the orderlies, holding their horses by their halters. An hour later as we were returning, we found them at the same place, and in the same attitudes, the general with his head still sunk in his hands, his aides-de-camp silently fixing their eyes on him.

A petrified tableau. So all these people expected nothing better than to have to give up their swords. I thought we were done for, but forced myself to distract the attention of my companions.

We afterwards learnt that during the twenty-four hours there, we had, in high places, been looked upon as taken, and coldly struck off the lists. We owed our escape solely to a company sergeant-major, a native of that part of the country, who, having made careful inquiries about the limits of the hostile advance, went, that evening, to find the general in charge of the division, and offered himself as guide.

It was our last chance. We followed him. The march lasted for three hours. Only a small number of us discerned the tragic element floating about us. The men complained of the absence of halts. The strictest silence had been imposed upon us, we even had to hold the sheaths of our bayonets in our hands. At the most dangerous point some palavering in undertones, and obstreperous horse-play went on, a practical joke. The Bosches no doubt were tired out; their sentries dead tired! A few shots cracked on our flanks. We reached Cremilly. That apparently meant that we were saved.

For one day!

That was only the mild beginning of our trials. After a morning's rest we started again, with a charitable warning that we should have to keep at it until nightfall. We had to keep at it all night too, and the next day.... A forced march of thirty hours, the stiffest in the campaign! I may mention further that we had not slept or had a bite of food since two days before.... A miracle of human endurance.

As long as it was light I vaguely noticed the road we covered. The noise of the firing was growing weaker. We were falling back on the Meuse, as De Valpic had predicted.

Back there already! I lamented so much lost territory. This thought pained me. I looked with the aching heart with which one salutes abandoned patrimony, at these fields and valleys, these woods, which I examined with such a cold and detached gaze a few weeks ago. Lorraine was actually becoming dear to me! I began to realise that each part of the world has its own particular character.... The tender green of these pastures which not even the ardour of a torrid summer had been able to alter! The calm and haughty harmony of this billowing ground.... I was seized with affection for this pensive and laborious race by whose property the whole of the French lineage is enriched. The names recurred to me of authors born in these parts, who wove their noble blossoms for our literary crown, of painters who had grown up and erected their easels here, attracted by the enchantment of the mist. And all that belonged there of our history: Varennes, the flight of Louis XVI., the romantic episode on the threshold of a troubled and magnificent epopee!... Valmy, Sedan close at hand! We were, as I have said, drawing near to the Meuse. Fifteen or twenty miles up-stream lay Domrémy and Vaucouleurs. Were these hamlets full of sacred memories destined to crumble within a few days beneath the Teuton howitzers?

And if we had to retreat still farther! My gaze took in the hills, and the expanse of pale sky. Fortin's brutal warning recurred to my mind. "What they needed first was what remained to us of Lorraine, Champagne, and the Franche-Comté...."

My heart contracted. I murmured, "No, no!"

Hours and hours passed by. The evening fell. There were no halts, or almost none. The night came down. We went on mechanically, hour after hour, bowed beneath our packs. No one stayed behind. Guillaumin had spread the report that the Uhlans, pushing on behind us, butchered all the stragglers—a superfluous intimidation. After three weeks of active service, those who had already fallen out eliminated, these classes of reserves contained nothing but unusually good soldiers ... no more sentiment or thought ... admirable beasts of burden. Shall I say that we slept standing up? But I mean it quite literally. Many of them I swear were snoring. Every other minute one got one's neighbour's rifle in the shoulder or in the face: not that it woke one up for very long. It was astonishing that there were no serious accidents. Had we crossed the Meuse? Were we continuing to skirt it? Guillaumin was talking in his sleep. At one point he said to me:

"We're going through Verdun, you see?"

I raised my heavy eyes and said:

"Are you sure?"

He made a movement with his head:

"Look at these two-storied houses."

They were the trees bordering the road. I had not even the strength to smile. At dawn an artillery officer galloped along the column. He slowed down on a level with us and asked:

"Have you seen him? My orderly! He must have fallen off his horse on to the road."

The men nudged and questioned each other. Nobody, no. Nobody had seen anything. We learnt, ten minutes later, that the man had just been picked up gasping and on the point of death, a kilometre behind us. The whole regiment had gone over his body without noticing it.

Farther on—the longing to sleep had left me since it had grown light again—I witnessed a touching scene.

Henriot looked me up and whispered:

"I say, we shall pass my home!"

I was interested.

"At Génicourt?"

"Yes, the village after this one."

We had just entered Dieu. The lieutenant stayed beside me. When, on leaving the village, he saw that we were turning to the right, his face clouded over:

"What in the world are we going to do over there!"

We were crossing the river; we should leave Génicourt on the left!

"Do you think, do you think," he said, "that I might ask the captain...?"

Ask what? For permission to go and kiss his mother.

"Of course!" I said.

I never dreamt that it would be refused.

He left me, but soon came back:

"The captain didn't want me to. He's quite right. Quite right!"

But the most terrible misery was depicted on his face. He continued:

"And do you know. He assures me that it would have been no good, that the village must be evacuated because ... because it's on ... the right bank!"

He stopped at the side of the road.

"Oh! Dreher! I should never have thought that they would have left it, that they would...."

Génicourt, his birthplace, devoted to ruin, to the worst ravages, to the fate of those wretched villages whose funeral pyres had blazed like beacons on the horizon, yesterday.

"Come along, sir."

He followed me like a child, adding:

"You, you understand, don't you? You who are a Lorrain too. The captain told me that over there in your direction, towards Lunéville, we have had to retire too, and let them penetrate into our territory...."

It was a striking coincidence—that fact that he told me. I had had a presentiment of it. All night I had confusedly turned this apprehension over in my mind. Eberménil. Eberménil.

How often had I not repeated to myself that I felt no particular attachment to this hamlet where chance, and chance alone, had decreed that I was to be born! I had not set foot in it since I was ten years old. We only kept the estate out of affection for the past. Why did I suddenly have a strikingly clear vision of the white house with green shutters, the big fir beneath whose shade the table was often laid? I called to mind other scenes. The little pond where we always tried to catch the gold fish—I had fallen in twice—the nursery where we fought with Euréka pistols, the croquet lawn, where mother used to play with me against father and Victor—Victor! Mother! O dear shades! Yonder lay my childhood dead, with the vanished beings. This part of the world was for me a unique centre of emotions. I made a vow to go back there and soak myself with its melancholy and charm. But a cloud intervened. What if the old place had been sacked? Perhaps the old fir-tree had fallen! Revolted at the thought, I felt the shock of an individual rancour. My heart contracted. We should see!

CHAPTER II

DARK DAYS

That march without halt or respite had led us to the neighbourhood of St. Mihiel. There was some talk of our being told off for the active defence of Toul. But the next day found us reascending toward the north-east. All the same ground to cover again. We made the best of a bad job.

We passed close to Génicourt for the second time. Henriot made no more requests, but his gaze lingered sadly on those roofs separated from us by the river; and from that day a secret spring seemed to have snapped in him.

After another hard day's march we again reached the Meuse which we had left behind the day before, in order to cut south of Verdun.

The river was not very broad at this point, only twenty yards or so, nor very deep, and there were numerous fords. The night was falling. The liquid sheet seemed heavier and darker than usual. Guillaumin who was the first to go down to the bank shouted to me:

"I say, the water's red!"

I was loath to believe it; and yet ... I joined him and plunged my hand into it, and then drew it out. These dark stains—must be a bloody deposit! How horrible! I hurriedly wiped my hand on the grass. The rushes washed by the current were soiled in a like manner. Those shapeless masses floating below the surface, if one looked hard, turned out to be corpses!

Had there been fighting on these banks? No, up-stream, we learnt. Furious attempts on the part of the Germans to force this important piece of line. They had sustained terrible losses. Their bodies, we were told, obstructed the course of the river; it could be crossed dry-shod.

We stayed there that night and the next morning—a repulsive halting place. An acrid odour rose from this charnel stream.

We luckily had a tale of victory to lull us to sleep: the enemy shattering themselves against the obstacle; artillerymen filing off mad with joy caressing their guns. One of their captains boasted that he had demolished more than six thousand Bosches with his four batteries. How could we question such feats of prowess while a never-ending stream of human relics floated past on the stream at our feet? The best proof of our success arrived in the shape of an order to recross the Meuse and advance again.

A few miles recovered! I greeted with a friendly glance the lovely hills and valleys that saw us again so soon, as victors.

We entered a village named Hazaumont, which the Teuton flood had submerged barely for an instant; and stayed there all day. We had to be on the alert as the guns were thundering in the neighbourhood, but it was a rest for mind and body nevertheless.

The few inhabitants who had stayed behind exploited the situation. I still laugh when I think of the old woman who was selling her bad wine at four francs a bottle.

Judsi, when he learnt the price, gaped with astonishment, opened his hands, and dropped two bottles which he had seized. There was a resounding crash! And he retired, politely saying:

"Too dear, madam!"

The old woman uttered piercing shrieks and lodged a complaint. A lot of good it did her. The captain requisitioned the entire contents of her cellar, at tenpence a bottle, indiscriminately!

We might once more have been at manœuvres. We ate and drank, and got a good afternoon's nap; what could we wish for more! One of Guillaumin's corporals found a way of hiring himself out to give a hand to the publican in the village. He had his work cut out for him, dashing out from the tap-room to the tables in the garden, but he was richly rewarded for his pains, in the evening, by the great pailful of wine which he brought back in triumph.

He was hailed with delight. There were some abuses, of course. Lamalou was heard to ask:

"Any one got an empty haversack?"

He disappeared and came back with a rabbit, and a chicken.

The Bosches had not pillaged much, only a few houses. I won't swear to it that certain others did not suffer by our doing. There were complaints by the mayor, and an inquiry; they spoke of a thief caught in the act.

The officers in command, on the contrary, closed their eyes to the orgies and drinking parties. Discipline was relaxed, in fact. I was a little disquieted about it, in spite of the fact that, in our lot at all events, the men kept within certain limits. It is certain that they were feverishly anxious and eager to make the most of all the material benefits, which they might not enjoy for very much longer. And surely the thought that a lot of these fine lads would be under the ground to-morrow was a good enough excuse.

The place stank of spies. During our short stay, several were discovered, and had summary justice dealt out to them, which gave rise to a tendency to see them everywhere. Every civilian fell under suspicion; there were repeated disputes between soldiers and villagers—ill usage and reprisals. We will draw a veil over it! It was sickening!

As to the general situation, the large majority never gave it a thought, and we others still knew nothing.

General Pau was supposed to be striking a knock-down blow in Belgium while Castelnau on the other wing was pushing on the invasion of Alsace. A superb enveloping movement! All that our army group in the centre, which served as a pivot, had to do, was to hold out, to avoid being broken through. This slight retirement, on our part, had been of small importance.

But matters were to be precipitated.

The same evening we leave Béthain to march northwards towards the firing. We do not get very far. The moment our advance companies enter a village, a hail of "Black Marias" begins—there are heavy losses—we retire in disorder—an accomplice in the steeple is signalling to the enemy. We have orders to shoot him; he escapes. A deadly halt in a field.

And suddenly on the road close by a hullabaloo, a rout. That stream of fugitives, runaways, and wounded. We know all about that! Spincourt over again! An infallible sign of defeat! Surprise and bitterness—once more!

Some battalions marched past in comparatively good order, troops from the south, who had fought as well as any of the others, but their accents and black beards tickled our sense of humour, and a stupid tale got about that they gave way without fighting.

Terrible tidings were passed along, spread by the captain, a native of Tarascon, I imagine, who ran up to one of our officers:

"Where are you going?"

"To occupy that village."

"Impossible, my dear fellow!"

"How's that?"

"We've just come from there! It's raining bommmbs!"

Our halt lasts an eternity. The firing is drawing nearer. A moonless night. We hate the feeling of passing on to the front, without having heard ourselves shout to any one, to get out of the way—one of the rare occasions when one wishes instinctively to retire. Not far behind us, we felt, was the Meuse. Yes, there we could make a stand!

The village we entered a few hours ago is on fire. The stream on the road is becoming less dense. The report once more spreads that we are cut off, or at all events forgotten, it appears.

Or sacrificed? The colonel warns us that our division has orders to protect the retreat, to hold out to the last extremity. That revives our courage! But I consider. A division to form a rear-guard? How many corps were there crowded there!

They at last decided to take us back. The wan dawn—the "coal-boxes" beginning again. At one point their crash passes so low above our heads that we should like to bend right down to the ground. We are surrounded on all sides by the terrible detonations. A hundred yards from us a platoon of the 23rd battalion is pounded to pieces—an abominable sight!

We have the strength to make our way.... But the lowlands and ditches and woods are running over with wounded; and men who have come to the end of their strength succumbing to over-work and hunger. Mounted police scour the roads, in increasing numbers, and beat the bushes, shaking men by the collars who seem to be asleep, but sometimes turn out to be dead.

Our instructions were explicit. By midday not one of our men was to be on the right bank of the Meuse.

At this point my recollections of places and dates become rather involved. Three, four days.... What happened? We march and march, and we fight. But there are no long engagements.

We expect to hold each prepared and organised position. No! we are turned and overwhelmed. We have to break up, pursued by hostile projectiles. And what a nightmare the Taubes are. They harry you hour after hour, dropping grenades and bombs, and also messages which we have neither the time nor the inclination to read. Incredibly daring pilots descend to within fifty yards! We fire on them in a fury, with "Archibalds" and rifles and revolvers. All in vain! Nothing touches them. The bird flies off.... I've seen some of the lads exasperated to such a pitch that they began to throw stones.

The line of the Meuse? Far from it! We could not hold it for an hour. The Germans had just crossed it at Consenvoye and elsewhere.

An insane circuit began. Souilly, Montfaucon, Exermont, Tailly—I won't be answerable for the order in which they came.

The most striking episode occurred at Beauclair.

Some Uhlans were said to be resting in the village. We were ordered to chase them out of it. For once in a way our artillery prepared the way for us, by peppering it for a good hour. Then a whistle was blown—we were hanging about on the outskirts—"Fix bayonets! Charge!"

We rushed the village, marvelling, in spite of the preparation, at such an easy success. Then we saw that the enemy had been warned and had evacuated it just before the bombardment had begun. The horrible part was that we had destroyed this village for nothing, nothing at all. Not a house was left standing, not a strip of wall spared. Some of the inhabitants, some women, came out of the smoking remains. They had taken refuge in the cellars during the devastating cyclone,—many of them had been killed there. Mad with rancour, among the ruins, they hurled taunts at us:

"Ah. It's you! It's your work, is it! Even the Bosches are better than you!"

That evening, we retired again after severe fighting. A night march, in zigzag formation, and in the morning bewilderment. We had retired too quickly, it seemed, leaving all our artillery unsupported, and in the greatest danger.

We ourselves were surrounded, so it was said. This time it was really serious! We were assured that the situation was as desperate as it could be.

Our colonel, the one like Dumény, had got a splinter in his thigh. The new one collected his officers and pointed out that no choice was left but to surrender or perish. His had been made he added, tapping his revolver. (Henriot was my authority for these details.) Someone or other, he said, had gone as far as to suggest cutting up the colours to prevent them being left in the hands of the enemy. Each N.C.O. and each private should carry away a shred.

They had got as far as that! And then a young staff-captain dropped into the middle of them shouting;

"For Heaven's sake, sir, send someone to relieve the guns!"

He energetically took the direction of the operations into his own hands. A certain battalion was to play a certain part! Such-and-such a company as flankers. And there was not a minute to be lost!

He was a born leader! We would have followed him wherever he chose.

Our counter-attack was successful, and enabled the gunners to bring their batteries and ammunition waggons back.

There was talk, the same day, of an extensive advantage obtained in our neighbourhood. We triumphantly thought we had done with these retrograde marches.

No such luck! At night, orders came as usual to beat a retreat. We were entering on another stage of our fantastic itinerary. A flight—as we were being pursued. The hamlets of Argonne again burst into flame behind us. One evening twelve torches could be counted blazing beneath the lowering sky....

Astounding rumours began to spread. The most persistent, but also the one which found the least credence, was this:

"Laon and La Fère invested!"

CHAPTER III

STRENGTH OF MIND

Would it be a surprise to hear that not for one instant during that time did I experience the faintest shadow of discouragement? And yet I did not shut my eyes to the truth. I did not in the least disregard the desperately critical element in our position. My steadfastness arose, I believe, from the deep-rooted conviction that if, in such circumstances, the nation abandoned the least iota of her self-confidence, all would be up with her and with us. I was conscious of being a molecule participating in the whole. The slightest faltering on my part would have diminished the strength of my platoon, of my company, of the whole regiment. In the same way, I thought, my energy must raise it and reinforce it. And besides, my will did not need stiffening, I was steeped in serene faith, infinitely more convinced of our final success, all through this retreat, which resembled a disaster, than I had been a few days before, when I kept watch at the outposts of a victorious army. "Just wait a little," I repeated to myself obstinately. Our adversary was gaining an advantage, driving us in front of him. Very well! We were suffering, and we should suffer endless ills,—especially when autumn came on,—desertions, partial mutinies might occur. Everyone counted on some terrible epidemic. There would be nothing surprising in new and still more serious defeats. Yes, but afterwards, afterwards? Afterwards, I conceived a limit to our misfortunes, but not to our resources. I discerned in myself, in us, a capacity for resistance against which the effort of the enemy would spend itself in vain however tenacious it might be.

To what must I attribute the expansion of my strength of mind? I asked myself then, and have considered it since.

To the boon, first of all, of being descended from that sturdy stock. I remembered the vitality my mother had always shown. Had she not nursed me at night during my long illnesses for three weeks at a time, without neglecting one of her duties during the day? And my father, and his behaviour from one end to the other of the preceding war! Taken prisoner once, wounded twice, he considered the armistice shamefully premature after six months of incessant fighting.

On searching my memory, I did not fail to find indication of the force latent in me, which had had no opportunity of increasing owing to the paltry conditions of my life as a young well-to-do bourgeois. That Rugby semi-final for the inter-school championship, played between my college and the "Lilies of the Valley" from Bourdeaux. Our opponents, favoured by the wind and sun, had kept the game in our "twenty-five" nearly all the first half, and had scored four tries and two goals. That meant a beating for us; despair in our team. I can see myself at half-time, ceasing to suck my lemon in order to make a manly speech to my fourteen comrades. In the second half, we kicked off, got the play into their "twenty-five," and in our turn, scored two tries, the second of which was converted. We could not have gained more satisfaction by beating them, than we did by avoiding a humiliating defeat.

Does the comparison make you smile?

But I belonged to a generation which had already profited by the proud lesson of sport. I had pursued all the most violent athletics, less on rational than on passionate grounds, and for the delights of self-love which bear such a wonderful attraction for youthful hearts. I had run, boxed, and swum. I had been broken into the games where the individual learns to collaborate unselfishly with his partners. I bear witness to the nobility of that school. Without suspecting it I had gained a moral education there. One comes out tempered for any struggle, after having tried conclusions with rival energies over and over again in friendly meetings.

And even if I had gained nothing but the bodily benefit!

The play of my muscles and organs was free and healthy and unhampered. Well fed as we were, except on one or two occasions, I could have gone to the world's end. As I became hardened, I no longer got as tired as I had on the first days. I lay down to sleep, never mind where, and I slept. On waking up all I felt was a suspicion of stiffness, nothing more. The first advance! How often I was lucky enough to be able to give a helping hand to some man, by carrying his rifle or his load for him for an hour or two. My own pack sat lightly on me, seemed to have become part of me. I remember how distracted I was one day—I must have left it on the bank just now, I exclaimed, during the long halt...!

Guillaumin saw that I was not laughing, it was he who exploded: My pack? It had been plastered on to my shoulders the whole blessed time!

Another motive for my strength of mind, the chief one, was my correspondence.

There were many complaints during those weeks, about the delay in the postal service. With us—I can only state the fact—it worked adequately, no, admirably. I have described how the baggage-master caught us up, the day after "Spincourt." By some knack, or lucky chance, we saw him arrive twice more during the week, trotting cheerily along behind his lean mare. He was a good sort, and related his adventures, which others might have called feats of prowess. How many times had he just missed being killed, wounded, or taken prisoner! These were reliable accounts: his cart had been riddled, and the splinter of a shell had pulverised one of his post-bags one day. Neither he nor his beast had ever been touched.

The second mail brought me a letter from my father. He knew at last; he had had official information. It was a grave and sorrowful missive. His affection and hope were centred entirely upon me, he assured me. In his manlike way of expressing himself, where there was not one unnecessary word, I discovered traces of an attachment which I had formerly refused to recognise.

And this added page—was from the poor little widow. After leaving St. Mihiel, which was threatened, she reached Paris just in time to be greeted by the abominable news. She was bearing up in the face of the terrible shock. I had dreaded collapse and prostration for her. And now no one could help admiring her, shining with resolute determination in her affliction—two little children to bring up—the sense of her duties! How I should have liked to go to her and take her hands and say: "I mourn with you, my sister. If I live, dispose of me as you will!"

What a transport of delight I was thrown into by these appearances of the baggage-master. Jeannine, with divine consideration, had written to me again without waiting for my reply, which might be delayed, she said, by so many chances. In future she intended to write me a line almost every day. A line! That meant long, affectionate epistles. Two reached me at once, then three together, the second time.

With a modesty to which I mutely paid homage, Jeannine avoided all allusions to the new state of affairs which had actually risen between us. But I read her passionate infatuation between the lines, in the burning contents of these letters. Scraps of them still float in my memory. She spoke of herself and of me, of my people and her people—our people. She touched lightly upon every subject, which at that time affected us like so many millions of our brothers. Did she not recall as if by chance various of those high problems which had formed the subject of our smiling discussions at Ballaigues—self-sacrifice, abnegation, disinterested attachment to such and such an idea or being? Did I deign now to bow before this sublime foolishness, she wondered? She did not insist upon it. She knew that she had easily carried her point. I developed our motives of inspiration, and returned them to her. They were all secretly contained—and she felt it, the sweet creature—in this one, we loved each other.

Love! I dared to look this prodigious word in the face. The vision of promised joy kept me up. When once the war was over, the country saved,—in her eyes and in mine, everything else must give way to that—I pictured our reunion, our brief betrothal, and the day, oh God, the day when we should kneel side by side—What could it matter whatever separated me from that time? Toil and suffering, the spilling of my blood, what was it all? A moderate advance when such wondrous radiance filled the horizon.

I had not given up my habit of analysis. An attitude of mind which stays with one, I believe, till death, when once adopted. I sometimes wondered at my youthful enthusiasm. Was I a captive? Caught up in the whirlwind? I who had thought myself safely in shelter. I asked myself whether this ardour were not partially fictitious or at all events ephemeral? How unlike me it was—I, who was so much imbued with the idea of my cold-bloodedness and stoicism—to become infatuated about this child, and that too when I was no longer in her presence, when I had been able to live beside her for weeks without being in the least perturbed or inflamed. Such reflections drew me as the bushes on the river-bank draw an abandoned boat drifting with the current. It was only a brief fluctuation. I gave one or two powerful strokes with the oars, and regained the open river, where the rapid stream carried me away.

It was true, I admitted, that a month or two ago, when I had been face to face with her, I was incapable of love, or of any exalted feelings. But was I alive at that time? No. No. A secret affliction robbed my destiny of all true zest. Let me revel to-day in the supreme instinct which was reviving in me! Was this instinct folly? It was quite possible. Especially this passion which had suddenly blossomed in such abnormal circumstances? But what was there more beautiful than a beautiful folly? If, after having been hurled, by the brutality of circumstances, from my quietude into the sphere where the fate of primitive beings was under discussion—what more natural than that I should be born anew to their fire and rapture. What delight there was in recurring to an artless frame of mind, what pride at the same time in retaining a certain elevation of thought. Love could no longer mean for me mere desire. I magnificently mingled metaphysical reveries with it. I flattered myself on having attained perfect poise—on being philosopher enough to give my fever an august flavour—man enough to quiver at it.

In my replies to Jeannine I was as reserved as she was as regarded our deepest feelings. Like her I poured myself out in passionate meditations on the present circumstances. Any treatment seemed to suit them, from arch frivolity to lyricism. I, who formerly used to be so particular about each letter being written in an accurate, and indeed elegant style, now scribbled away at page after page, just as they occurred to me. I did not even read them over! A soldier to his fiancée! The slips must take care of themselves. And I took a kind of pride in baring my soul, which no longer hid any evil recesses....

CHAPTER IV

OH, MY FRIENDS!

In whom should I confide the secret which made my heart leap?

Could I hesitate when Guillaumin was beside me!

Lively, hearty, and full of go, he was an incomparable companion. He fought as if he had been born to it.... He was in for it, and would stick to it. He had thought it would only be a short business. He realised that it would be a long one. Couldn't be helped! Why grouse about it? He preferred to save his breath. Not for an instant did he dream that we could negotiate for peace as losers. One felt that he would march on patiently counting always on revenge, sooner or later, as long as he had the legs to march on; that he would fight as long as he had the arms to fight with.

How fond I was of him! How worthy he was of my confidence!

I hesitated, all the same, for a long time. It was the effect of my rooted suspicion of my fellow-beings—I swear that I lacked the courage. One day, however, when we were marching—he was talking to me about his sister who was a musician—I made some allusion to Jeannine, also a musician. He looked at me, and I made up my mind to it, I so much wanted him to know. But my tone played me false in the most bizarre manner, cloaking itself in false irony. I seemed to be giving an account of a casual flirtation. What would this unimportant intrigue end in? I pretended to have no idea of it. And the word, the delicious word, which was ready to blossom on my lips, was never pronounced.

Hypocritical trifling! How I cursed it, on looking back at it. How thankful I was to Claude for not adopting the same frivolous tone in his turn. If he had done so, that would have been the end of it. I should have retired within myself, embittered by the idea that I had been misunderstood or, worse still, we should have continued to make meaningless remarks on the subject, which would have done violence to my love. Instead of which Guillaumin guessed that I was, in spite of myself, the victim of an absurd timidity; it was he who, by insensible degrees directed our conversation into a more cordial and sincere channel. He made his interest clear to me. My confidence touched him, he refused to treat it as an insignificant sentiment. Then I took the final step, and knew the sweetness of self-abandonment.

Without a blush, since I was sure that no chaffing threatened me, I was able to describe to him in detail the progress of the sweet seduction right up to the glorious ecstasy. He listened to me unwearyingly, encouraging me by a strange word or nod. The next day he gave me an opening, which I had vaguely desired, to return to my subject. He smiled at me, when my next letters came, and his eyes shone. His friendship performed the miracle of making him happy because I was.

De Valpic had stayed with us. I had pressed him in vain to report sick. Guillaumin, and the captain too had urged him to. Circumstances robbed our exhortation of all efficacy. He said repeatedly that it was a time when the country claimed the determined effort of all her sons. If I insisted, he cut me short with:

"Dreher, you wouldn't desert us!..."

So he went on, and refused to give in. He valiantly accomplished the terrible marches, and bore the sleepless nights, and the days without rest. We sometimes found him sitting down panting, during the halts, without even the strength to wipe his forehead. His appearance then would terrify us, his hollow eyes, and flaming cheek-bones. In a few days his features had become peaked, his face emaciated; his poor shoulders were bowed. One would never have expected him to go down hill so rapidly. His cough was growing more rasping. He expectorated freely, but always—with touching consideration—into a little spittoon, concealed until then in his pack. We hardly dared to ask him how he was. He had asked me lightly not to refer to the subject again.

"I am better, I assure you, since I've given up thinking about it!"

"But what about your temperature?"

"I'm not feverish now. I've thrown away my thermometer. I ought to have begun by doing that!"

He did not let a day go by without writing, any more than I did. He was always on the lookout for ways of despatching his letters, and was usually obliging enough to allow me to profit by them.

I was totally ignorant of anything concerning the object of his love, her name and age and everything. The one question he had pronounced had been enough to make me understand his devotion for her. She too, I guessed, must love him, if she was willing to wait till he recovered.

I used to wonder about this girl—a stranger to me. I imagined her as the bearer of a great name, endowed with beauty and every fascination. What a couple they would make! Alas, and that would never be! Would she recognise her fiancé, when the war gave him back to her, battered, and at the end of his strength, destined to fade away? I pictured him on a long chair shivering and pulling his rug over his knees. The idea obsessed me. Like imaginations must harry him ceaselessly. With a vague eye, and a far-away look he must often be thinking of her, whom he would see again—if things were looked at in their best light—only for a moment.

The closest intimacy had sprung up between him and Guillaumin and me.

De Valpic was in the first platoon with Humel, Descroix and Playoust, and suffered more than we did from contact with that "lot." They disliked him, and reproached him with being stuck up, and sly,—he who was so simple, and straightforward! They did him bad turns, and arranged once or twice—we messed in platoons now—to defraud him of his share, on the pretext that he was late. Playoust who had wormed his way into the sergeant-major's good graces got the "viscount" warned for several tiring fatigues. At Béthaincourt, for instance, the unfortunate creature was left behind to wait for the certificate of good conduct. The Mayor, having finally refused, after long disputes, he caught us up in the middle of the night, after a forced march. We did not get wind of this bullying at once. We did not see much of the Humel-Playoust set, and De Valpic hated making complaints; he would have preferred to see peace established, even if it were to his own detriment.

Everyday, however, we monopolised him more and more. He joined our mess which Gaufrèteau had agreed to manage, ever since Spincourt, and which aroused everyone's envy, so savory were the fumes which rose from it, even in the most tragic hours, and amid the dearth of all resources.

We three lost no time in finding each other during long halts, and at the end of the day's marching. When we were not too much worn out we had long confabs. The strange thing was that at those times De Valpic was the one of us who was always the most animated. He no longer slipped away! We wanted him to spare himself, but he, apologising for his fits of coughing, led us on in spite of ourselves, lavishly displaying the riches of his unusual mind. Was it with a view to diverting his thoughts, or did he realise that his enthusiasm was a source of inspiration to us? What a marvellous conversationalist he was! I was dumbfounded by the extent of his knowledge, the region of his curiosity. Our discussions often turned upon the issue of the present campaign. How great was his optimism based on facts, not on illusions! There was no pretension about it, by the way; it was all said in a playful friendly tone, which did not recoil on occasion before a crude or, shall we say, military expression emphasised by his rare smile.

We expressed our opinions, flattering, or the reverse, on everyone about us: poilus, N.C.O.'s, and our leaders. What intuition and penetration De Valpic showed. How shrewdly he judged poor Henriot, for instance, who was completely demoralised, and, because he was ashamed of it, retired into his shell, and shunned all society.

"A Lorrain, and an elementary school-master!"

He developed his idea, showing us that these frontier people were more chauvinistic than us, apparently, more warlike, and more nervous. It was they who had suffered most from the invasion in 1870, so that there was nothing more natural than that they should flag quickly at the arrival of a second disaster. They were always the first to suffer. And how easy it was to get into the habit of thinking of the enemy as insatiable and invincible, everlastingly stretching out its claws over their territory. And again he made game of our classic education which assuredly must temper the character by the obscure recollection it propagates of so many traits of heroism, of so many noble passions! But he interrupted himself, fearing to be too sweeping:

"For that matter, there are heaps of first-rate fellows among these schoolmasters!"

We knew some, but not as many as he did! He quoted various names. Hermeline in the 18th had died heroically the other day, defending the bridge at Cléry.

One evening our intercourse assumed a philosophic complexion. I amused myself by inveigling Guillaumin into insidious discussions. He fought hard, and appealed several times to De Valpic whose courteous decisions struck me by their perspicuity; and also to the highmindedness they seemed to bear witness to. And yet they must necessarily be inspired by some moral philosophy—Which? It will be remembered that the very sound of the word used to importunate me. Once started, I sketched the outline of my late doctrines. I was curious to see with what dialectics my companions would oppose those I had so often proved irrefutable. I pressed them. I showed the logic of integral egoism, the impossibility for man to create any duty other than his happiness.

"What do you think about it, De Valpic?"

He quietly remarked that moral philosophy in his eyes was one with religion.

"Which religion?"

"I only know of one!"

This steadfastness did not displease me. I was not ignorant of his principles. I had seen him, the very day before, during our stay at Hazaumont, leave us to go and see a priest and communicate. Was his belief irrational—foolish? But at these fateful junctures, were not certain sublime follies our only stays?

CHAPTER V

A SHADOW ON THE PICTURE

It was fortunate that we were three friends, three brothers, each less devoted to himself than to the others. How lonely it would have been otherwise! In billets we sometimes happened to come across friends from other companies: Laraque, Ladmirault, or Holveck. There would be a handshake, and a few words, no more, and then we separated. They on their side lived for themselves. The breach between us and the other N.C.O.'s was widening.

I except Breton, the quartermaster-sergeant, who, on the contrary, sided with us. We must needs do him justice for the care and cleverness with which he accomplished his task of commanding No. 4 platoon where Hourcade seconded him badly, and keeping the books of the whole company under the captain's supervision. Sturdy and square-shouldered, it was good to see him going off with the camp material towards the end of a long halt. He nearly always succeeded in hunting out suitable sites. His responsibility and the country life suited him. He no doubt looked forward to the military medal, and the sergeant-major's stripe, at the end of this venture. Plucky under fire, and as much on the spot there as elsewhere, he always had his men well in hand. He had been won over by our conduct under fire. During his rare leisure moments, he would willingly come and joke in our little group, which he dubbed "The Bachelors' Club." The only trouble was that with him you had to drink, drink, drink, the whole time. No drunkenness, but good hard drinking! We refused to join him for the first few days, but he called us molly-coddles, and almost took offence. De Valpic advised us to accept. We took turns to treat each other, here a pint, there a glass. After that it was a case of friendship till death, between him and us.

But the Humel-Playoust "lot"! Ravelli might rightly be classed with them now. I have spoken of the complete transformation which had been effected in him. It was doubtful whether the poilus ever heard the sound of his voice. Playoust had taken possession of him, getting hold of him through his weaknesses, flattering his Corsican vanity, but making a laughing-stock of him, though he was too stupid to see it. They never left each other, and were on the most familiar terms. These days, so fertile in surprises, had completely deranged the sergeant-major who had always been rather shaky in the upper storey. He saw spies everywhere—in all the old women, and priests, disguises which had as a matter of fact been made use of. Playoust spurred him on, for the amusement of the onlookers. The game was assuming alarming proportions. Ravelli, at Hazaumont, went to find the commanding officer, and handed over a list of suspects to him, which had been drawn slyly, by the other—all the parish priests in the neighbourhood! The captain was good-natured; he merely shook the poor sergeant-major:

"I shall keep my eye on you, my lad!"

Later on, on the evening of "Beauclair," Ravelli only just missed throwing the whole division into a panic by yelling "The Uhlans!"

Trouble might have come of it. There was some question of reducing him to the ranks. His last chance of obtaining officer's rank was lost then.

But in spite of it he still continued to pin all his faith to Playoust. His ears buzzed, and he was continually asking:

"Is that firing, that we hear?"

"Exactly."

And the wretch pointed out some fleecy clouds in the sky.

"Look there. Shells bursting!"

"Good heavens! Marked again!"

But one thing that was not so funny was that since the sergeant-major continued to arrange the rounds of duty, Playoust made use of his power over him to get him to bully or favour certain men. De Valpic as has been seen was their principal victim. But directly we got wind of the matter, Breton warned Ravelli that we had decided to report it to the captain. The threat was sufficient, the normal time-table was immediately reverted to. All he gained by it was that Guillaumin, who was sickened by it, called him and his set, Brutus! and Blackguards! and refused point-blank to have anything to do with them in future.

Yes, that's what it came to in the end.

The N.C.O.'s of each company stuck together and had nothing to do with the others. In the sinister hours of that retreat! I blush to have to report it!

Hourcade was simply an unpleasant nincompoop. His only outstanding feature was his greed. If he had thrown in his lot with the Humel-Playoust set, it was because he considered that he was more likely to pick up titbits there than anywhere else—a folly which prevented him from tasting Gaufrèteau's cooking! He stuffed into his haversack miscellaneous provisions, most of which he had shamefully gleaned from his men's rations. His mouth was always full. In billets, replete, not to say crammed, he quickly fell asleep and snored.

As for the two elementary schoolmasters, that was a simple matter: they hated us. Not starting from to-day or yesterday, but from several years ago, and before that—from birth. They were envious, embittered fellows, suffering, so De Valpic considered, from their semi-educated state. An ambiguous caste, despising the peasant and detesting the bourgeois, though we had nevertheless met and appreciated some lads belonging to the same class at the "Peloton," who were hard-working, intelligent, and ambitious, and had taken top places at the end of the year. But these were vulgar and envious on a level with most of them. Their physique was poor too. Even Descroix's strength, heavy and squat though he was, did not come near to ours; one felt that his blood had been impoverished and his muscles weakened by a studious youth, infrequent exercise, and poor nourishment. I considered him really repulsive with his flattened head, his stuck-out ears, his gaping mouth. I disliked him for all these signs of degeneration, and above all because of his deliberate cruelty towards the "viscount," and the brutal laugh with which he greeted Playoust's spiteful tricks. Humel, who was small and weakly, with a thin neck and bowed shoulders, and was always exhausted at the end of a day's march, inspired me with more indulgence. Was he not the youngest of us since Frémont had disappeared? Once or twice I thought I saw a look of gentleness flit across his face, an expression which always attracts me. I had occasionally made certain advances. In vain. A fanatical disciple of his companions, he was not the least quick of them in administering offensive rebuffs.