THE RETREAT
War had extended one of its antennae even to the avenue Victor Hugo. It
was a silent war in which the enemy, bland, shapeless and gelatinous,
seemed constantly to be escaping from the hands only to renew
hostilities a little later on.
“I have Germany in my own house,” growled Marcelo Desnoyers.
“Germany” was Dona Elena, the wife of von Hartrott. Why had not her
son--that professor of inexhaustible sufficiency whom he now believed to
have been a spy--taken her home with him? For what sentimental caprice
had she wished to stay with her sister, losing the opportunity of
returning to Berlin before the frontiers were closed?
The presence of this woman in his home was the cause of many
compunctions and alarms. Fortunately, the chauffeur and all the
men-servants were in the army. The two chinas received an order in a
threatening tone. They must be very careful when talking to the French
maids--not the slightest allusion to the nationality of Dona Elena’s
husband nor to the residence of her family. Dona Elena was an
Argentinian. But in spite of the silence of the maids, Don Marcelo was
always in fear of some outburst of exalted patriotism, and that his
wife’s sister might suddenly find herself confined in a concentration
camp under suspicion of having dealings with the enemy.
Frau von Hartrott made his uneasiness worse. Instead of keeping a
discreet silence, she was constantly introducing discord into the home
with her opinions.
During the first days of the war, she kept herself locked in her room,
joining the family only when summoned to the dining room. With tightly
puckered mouth and an absent-minded air, she would then seat herself at
the table, pretending not to hear Don Marcelo’s verbal outpourings
of enthusiasm. He enjoyed describing the departure of the troops, the
moving scenes in the streets and at the stations, commenting on events
with an optimism sure of the first news of the war. Two things were
beyond all discussion. The bayonet was the secret of the French, and the
Germans were shuddering with terror before its fatal, glistening point.
. . . The ‘75 cannon had proved itself a unique jewel, its shots being
absolutely sure. He was really feeling sorry for the enemy’s artillery
since its projectiles so seldom exploded even when well aimed. . . .
Furthermore, the French troops had entered victoriously into Alsace;
many little towns were already theirs.
“Now it is as it was in the ‘70’s,” he would exult, brandishing his fork
and waving his napkin. “We are going to kick them back to the other side
of the Rhine--kick them! . . . That’s the word.”
Chichi always agreed gleefully while Dona Elena was raising her eyes to
heaven, as though silently calling upon somebody hidden in the ceiling
to bear witness to such errors and blasphemies.
The kind Dona Luisa always sought her out afterwards in the retirement
of her room, believing it necessary to give sisterly counsel to one
living so far from home. The Romantica did not maintain her austere
silence before the sister who had always venerated her superior
instruction; so now the poor lady was overwhelmed with accounts of the
stupendous forces of Germany, enunciated with all the authority of a
wife of a great Teutonic patriot, and a mother of an almost celebrated
professor. According to her graphic picture, millions of men were now
surging forth in enormous streams, thousands of cannons were filing by,
and tremendous mortars like monstrous turrets. And towering above all
this vast machinery of destruction was a man who alone was worth an
army, a being who knew everything and could do everything, handsome,
intelligent, and infallible as a god--the Emperor.
“The French just don’t know what’s ahead of them,” declared Dona Elena.
“We are going to annihilate them. It is merely a matter of two weeks.
Before August is ended, the Emperor will have entered Paris.”
Senora Desnoyers was so greatly impressed by these dire prophecies that
she could not hide them from her family. Chichi waxed indignant at her
mother’s credulity and her aunt’s Germanism. Martial fervor was flaming
up in the former Peoncito. Ay, if the women could only go to war! . . .
She enjoyed picturing herself on horseback in command of a regiment of
dragoons, charging the enemy with other Amazons as dashing and buxom as
she. Then her fondness for skating would predominate over her tastes for
the cavalry, and she would long to be an Alpine hunter, a diable bleu
among those who slid on long runners, with musket slung across the back
and alpenstock in hand, over the snowy slopes of the Vosges.
But the government did not appreciate the valorous women, and she
could obtain no other part in the war but to admire the uniform of her
true-love, Rene Lacour, converted into a soldier. The senator’s son
certainly looked beautiful. He was tall and fair, of a rather feminine
type recalling his dead mother. In his fiancee’s opinion, Rene was just
“a little sugar soldier.” At first she had been very proud to walk the
streets by the side of this warrior, believing that his uniform had
greatly augmented his personal charm, but little by little a revulsion
of feeling was clouding her joy. The senatorial prince was nothing but
a common soldier. His illustrious father, fearful that the war might cut
off forever the dynasty of the Lacours, indispensable to the welfare of
the State, had had his son mustered into the auxiliary service of the
army. By this arrangement, his heir need not leave Paris, ranking about
as high as those who were kneading the bread or mending the soldiers’
cloaks. Only by going to the front could he claim--as a student of the
Ecole Centrale--his title of sub-lieutenant in the Artillery Reserves.
“What happiness for me that you have to stay in Paris! How delighted I
am that you are just a private! . . .”
And yet, at the same time, Chichi was thinking enviously of her friends
whose lovers and brothers were officers. They could parade the streets,
escorted by a gold-trimmed kepis that attracted the notice of the
passers-by and the respectful salute of the lower ranks.
Each time that Dona Luisa, terrified by the forecasts of her sister,
undertook to communicate her dismay to her daughter, the girl would rage
up and down, exclaiming:--
“What lies my aunt tells you! . . . Since her husband is a German, she
sees everything as he wishes it to be. Papa knows more; Rene’s father is
better informed about these things. We are going to give them a thorough
hiding! What fun it will be when they hit my uncle and all my snippy
cousins in Berlin! . . .”
“Hush,” groaned her mother. “Do not talk such nonsense. The war has
turned you as crazy as your father.”
The good lady was scandalized at hearing the outburst of savage desires
that the mere mention of the Kaiser always aroused in her daughter. In
times of peace, Chichi had rather admired this personage. “He’s not so
bad-looking,” she had commented, “but with a very ordinary smile.” Now
all her wrath was concentrated upon him. The thousands of women that
were weeping through his fault! The mothers without sons, the wives
without husbands, the poor children left in the burning towns! . . .
Ah, the vile wretch! . . . And she would brandish her knife of the old
Peoncito days--a dagger with silver handle and sheath richly chased, a
gift that her grandfather had exhumed from some forgotten souvenirs
of his childhood in an old valise. The very first German that she
came across was doomed to death. Dona Luisa was terrified to find her
flourishing this weapon before her dressing mirror. She was no longer
yearning to be a cavalryman nor a diable bleu. She would be entirely
content if they would leave her, alone in some closed space with the
detested monster. In just five minutes she would settle the universal
conflict.
“Defend yourself, Boche,” she would shriek, standing at guard as in her
childhood she had seen the peons doing on the ranch.
And with a knife-thrust above and below, she would pierce his imperial
vitals. Immediately there resounded in her imagination, shouts of joy,
the gigantic sigh of millions of women freed at last from the bloody
nightmare--thanks to her playing the role of Judith or Charlotte Corday,
or a blend of all the heroic women who had killed for the common weal.
Her savage fury made her continue her imaginary slaughter, dagger in
hand. Second stroke!--the Crown Prince rolling to one side and his head
to the other. A rain of dagger thrusts!--all the invincible generals
of whom her aunt had been boasting fleeing with their insides in their
hands--and bringing up the rear, that fawning lackey who wished to
receive the same things as those of highest rank--the uncle from Berlin.
. . . Ay, if she could only get the chance to make these longings a
reality!
“You are mad,” protested her mother. “Completely mad! How can a ladylike
girl talk in such a way?” . . .
Surprising her niece in the ecstasy of these delirious ravings, Dona
Elena would raise her eyes to heaven, abstaining thenceforth from
communicating her opinions, reserving them wholly for the mother.
Don Marcelo’s indignation took another bound when his wife repeated to
him the news from her sister. All a lie! . . . The war was progressing
finely. On the Eastern frontier the French troops had advanced through
the interior of Alsace and Lorraine.
“But--Belgium is invaded, isn’t it?” asked Dona Luisa. “And those poor
Belgians?”
Desnoyers retorted indignantly.
“That invasion of Belgium is treason. . . . And a treason never amounts
to anything among decent people.”
He said it in all good faith as though war were a duel in which the
traitor was henceforth ruled out and unable to continue his outrages.
Besides, the heroic resistance of Belgium was nourishing the most absurd
illusions in his heart. The Belgians were certainly supernatural men
destined to the most stupendous achievements. . . . And to think that
heretofore he had never taken this plucky little nation into account!
. . . For several days, he considered Liege a holy city before whose
walls the Teutonic power would be completely confounded. Upon the fall
of Liege, his unquenchable faith sought another handle. There were still
remaining many other Lieges in the interior. The Germans might force
their way further in; then we would see how many of them ever succeeded
in getting out. The entry into Brussels did not disquiet him. An
unprotected city! . . . Its surrender was a foregone conclusion. Now the
Belgians would be better able to defend Antwerp. Neither did the advance
of the Germans toward the French frontier alarm him at all. In vain his
sister-in-law, with malicious brevity, mentioned in the dining-room the
progress of the invasion, so confusedly outlined in the daily papers.
The Germans were already at the frontier.
“And what of that?” yelled Don Marcelo. “Soon they will meet someone to
talk to! Joffre is going to meet them. Our armies are in the East, in
the very place where they ought to be, on the true frontier, at the door
of their home. But they have to deal with a treacherous and cowardly
opponent that instead of marching face to face, leaps the walls of the
corral like sheep-stealers. . . . Their underhand tricks won’t do them
any good, though! The French are already in Belgium and adjusting the
accounts of the Germans. We shall smash them so effectually that never
again will they be able to disturb the peace of the world. And that
accursed individual with the rampant moustache we are going to put in a
cage, and exhibit in the place de la Concorde!”
Inspired by the paternal braggadocio, Chichi also launched forth
exultingly an imaginary series of avenging torments and insults as a
complement to this Imperial Exhibition.
These allusions to the Emperor aggravated Frau von Hartrott more than
anything else. In the first days of the war, her sister had surprised
her weeping before the newspaper caricatures and leaflets sold in the
streets.
“Such an excellent man . . . so knightly . . . such a good father to his
family! He wasn’t to blame for anything. It was his enemies who forced
him to assume the offensive.”
Her veneration for exalted personages was making her take the attacks
upon this admired grandee as though they were directed against her own
family.
One night in the dining room, she abandoned her tragic silence. Certain
sarcasms, shot by Desnoyers at her hero, brought the tears to her eyes,
and this sentimental indulgence turned her thoughts upon her sons who
were undoubtedly taking part in the invasion.
Her brother-in-law was longing for the extermination of all the enemy.
“May every barbarian be exterminated! . . . every one of the bandits in
pointed helmets who have just burned Louvain and other towns, shooting
defenceless peasants, old men, women and children!”
“You forget that I am a mother,” sobbed Frau von Hartrott. “You forget
that among those whose extermination you are imploring, are my sons.”
Her violent weeping made Desnoyers realize more than ever the abyss
yawning between him and this woman lodged in his own house. His
resentment, however, overleapt family considerations. . . . She might
weep for her sons all she wanted to; that was her right. But these sons
were aggressors and wantonly doing evil. It was the other mothers who
were inspiring his pity--those who were living tranquilly in their
smiling little Belgian towns when their sons were suddenly shot down,
their daughters violated and their houses burned to the ground.
As though this description of the horrors of war were a fresh insult to
her, Dona Elena wept harder than ever. What falsehoods! The Kaiser was
an excellent man. His soldiers were gentlemen, the German army was a
model of civilization and goodness. Her husband had belonged to
this army, her sons were marching in its ranks. And she knew her
sons--well-bred and incapable of wrong-doing. These Belgian calumnies
she could no longer listen to . . . and, with dramatic abandon, she
flung herself into the arms of her sister.
Senor Desnoyers raged against the fate that condemned him to live under
the same roof with this woman. What an unfortunate complication for the
family! . . . and the frontiers were closed, making it impossible to get
rid of her!
“Very well, then,” he thundered. “Let us talk no more about it. We shall
never reach an understanding, for we belong to two different worlds.
It’s a great pity that you can’t go back to your own people.”
After that, he refrained from mentioning the war in his sister-in-law’s
presence. Chichi was the only one keeping up her aggressive and noisy
enthusiasm. Upon reading in the papers the news of the shootings,
sackings, burning of cities, and the dolorous flight of those who
had seen their all reduced to ashes, she again felt the necessity of
assuming the role of lady-assassin. Ay, if she could only once get her
hands on one of those bandits! . . . What did the men amount to anyway
if they couldn’t exterminate the whole lot? . . .
Then she would look at Rene in his exquisitely fresh uniform,
sweet-mannered and smiling as though all war meant to him was a mere
change of attire, and she would exclaim enigmatically:
“What luck that you will never have to go to the front! . . . How fine
that you don’t run any risks!”
And her lover would accept these words as but another proof of her
affectionate interest.
One day Don Marcelo was able to appreciate the horrors of the war
without leaving Paris. Three thousand Belgian refugees were quartered
provisionally in the circus before being distributed among the
provinces. When Desnoyers entered this place, he saw in the vestibule
the same posters which had been flaunting their spectacular gayeties
when he had visited it a few months before with his family.
Now he noticed the odor from a sick and miserable multitude crowded
together--like the exhalation from a prison or poorhouse infirmary. He
saw a throng that seemed crazy or stupefied with grief. They did not
know exactly where they were; they had come thither, they didn’t know
how. The terrible spectacle of the invasion was still so persistent in
their minds that it left room for no other impression. They were still
seeing the helmeted men in their peaceful hamlets, their homes in
flames, the soldiery firing upon those who were fleeing, the mutilated
women done to death by incessant adulterous assault, the old men burned
alive, the children stabbed in their cradles by human beasts inflamed
by alcohol and license. . . . Some of the octogenarians were weeping as
they told how the soldiers of a civilized nation were cutting off the
breasts from the women in order to nail them to the doors, how they had
passed around as a trophy a new-born babe spiked on a bayonet, how they
had shot aged men in the very armchair in which they were huddled in
their sorrowful weakness, torturing them first with their jests and
taunts.
They had fled blindly, pursued by fire and shot, as crazed with terror
as the people of the middle ages trying not to be ridden down by the
hordes of galloping Huns and Mongols. And this flight had been across
the country in its loveliest festal array, in the most productive of
months, when the earth was bristling with ears of grain, when the August
sky was most brilliant, and when the birds were greeting the opulent
harvest with their glad songs!
In that circus, filled with the wandering crowds, the immense crime was
living again. The children were crying with a sound like the bleating
of lambs; the men were looking wildly around with terrified eyes;
the frenzied women were howling like the insane. Families had become
separated in the terror of flight. A mother of five little ones now had
but one. The parents, as they realized the number missing, were thinking
with anguish of those who had disappeared. Would they ever find them
again? . . . Or were they already dead? . . .
Don Marcelo returned home, grinding his teeth and waving his cane in an
alarming manner. Ah, the bandits! . . . If only his sister-in-law could
change her sex! Why wasn’t she a man? . . . It would be better still if
she could suddenly assume the form of her husband, von Hartrott. What an
interesting interview the two brothers-in-law would have! . . .
The war was awakening religious sentiment in the men and increasing
the devotion of the women. The churches were filled. Dona Luisa was no
longer confining herself to those of her neighborhood. With the courage
induced by extraordinary events, she was traversing Paris afoot and
going from the Madeleine to Notre Dame, or to the Sacre Coeur on the
heights of Montmartre. Religious festivals were now thronged like
popular assemblies. The preachers were tribunes. Patriotic enthusiasm
interrupted many sermon with applause.
Each morning on opening the papers, before reading the war news, Senora
Desnoyers would hunt other notices. “Where was Father Amette going to
be to-day?” Then, under the arched vaultings of that temple, would
she unite her voice with the devout chorus imploring supernatural
intervention. “Lord, save France!” Patriotic religiosity was putting
Sainte Genevieve at the head of the favored ones, so from all these
fiestas, Dona Luisa, tremulous with faith, would return in expectation
of a miracle similar to that which the patron saint of Paris had worked
before the invading hordes of Attila.
Dona Elena was also visiting the churches, but those nearest the house.
Her brother-in-law saw her one afternoon entering Saint-Honoree d’Eylau.
The building was filled with the faithful, and on the altar was a sheaf
of flags--France and the allied nations. The imploring crowd was not
composed entirely of women. Desnoyers saw men of his age, pompous and
grave, moving their lips and fixing steadfast eyes on the altar on which
were reflected like lost stars, the flames of the candles. And again he
felt envy. They were fathers who were recalling their childhood prayers,
thinking of their sons in battle. Don Marcelo, who had always considered
religion with indifference, suddenly recognized the necessity of
faith. He wanted to pray like the others, with a vague, indefinite
supplication, including all beings who were struggling and dying for a
land that he had not tried to defend.
He was scandalized to see von Hartrott’s wife kneeling among these
people raising her eyes to the cross in a look of anguished entreaty.
She was begging heaven to protect her husband, the German who perhaps
at this moment was concentrating all his devilish faculties on the
best organization for crushing the weak; she was praying for her sons,
officers of the King of Prussia, who revolver in hand were entering
villages and farmlands, driving before them a horror-stricken crowd,
leaving behind them fire and death. And these orisons were going to
mingle with those of the mothers who were praying for the youth trying
to check the onslaught of the barbarians--with the petitions of these
earnest men, rigid in their tragic grief! . . .
He had to make a great effort not to protest aloud, and he left the
church. His sister-in-law had no right to kneel there among those
people.
“They ought to put her out!” he growled indignantly. “She is
compromising God with her absurd entreaties.”
But in spite of his annoyance, he had to endure her living in his
household, and at the same time had taken great pains to prevent her
nationality being known outside.
It was a severe trial for Don Marcelo to be obliged to keep silent
when at table with his family. He had to avoid the hysterics of his
sister-in-law who promptly burst into sighs and sobs at the slightest
allusion to her hero; and he feared equally the complaints of his wife,
always ready to defend her sister, as though she were the victim. . . .
That a man in his own home should have to curb his tongue and speak
tactfully! . . .
The only satisfaction permitted him was to announce the military moves.
The French had entered Belgium. “It appears that the Boches have had a
good set-back.” The slightest clash of cavalry, a simple encounter
with the advance troops, he would glorify as a decisive victory. “In
Lorraine, too, we are making great headway!” . . . But suddenly the
fountain of his bubbling optimism seemed to become choked up. To
judge from the periodicals, nothing extraordinary was occurring. They
continued publishing war-stories so as to keep enthusiasm at fever-heat,
but nothing definite. The Government, too, was issuing communications of
vague and rhetorical verbosity. Desnoyers became alarmed, his instinct
warning him of danger. “There is something wrong,” he thought. “There’s
a spring broken somewhere!”
This lack of encouraging news coincided exactly with the sudden rise in
Dona Elena’s spirits. With whom had that woman been talking? Whom did
she meet when she was on the street? . . . Without dropping her pose
as a martyr, with the same woebegone look and drooping mouth, she was
talking, and talking treacherously. The torment of Don Marcelo in being
obliged to listen to the enemy harbored within his gates! . . . The
French had been vanquished in Lorraine and in Belgium at the same time.
A body of the army had deserted the colors; many prisoners, many cannon
were captured. “Lies! German exaggerations!” howled Desnoyers. And
Chichi with the derisive ha-ha’s of an insolent girl, drowned out the
triumphant communications of the aunt from Berlin. “I don’t know, of
course,” said the unwelcome lodger with mock humility. “Perhaps it is
not authentic. I have heard it said.” Her host was furious. Where had
she heard it said? Who was giving her such news? . . .
And in order to ventilate his wrath, he broke forth into tirades against
the enemy’s espionage, against the carelessness of the police force in
permitting so many Germans to remain hidden in Paris. Then he suddenly
became quiet, thinking of his own behavior in this line. He, too, was
involuntarily contributing toward the maintenance and support of the
foe.
The fall of the ministry and the constitution of a government of
national defense made it apparent that something very important must
have taken place. The alarms and tears of Dona Luisa increased his
nervousness. The good lady was no longer returning from the churches,
cheered and strengthened. Her confidential talks with her sister were
filling her with a terror that she tried in vain to communicate to
her husband. “All is lost. . . . Elena is the only one that knows the
truth.”
Desnoyers went in search of Senator Lacour. He would know all the
ministers; no one could be better informed. “Yes, my friend,” said the
important man sadly. “Two great losses at Morhange and Charleroi, at the
East and the North. The enemy is going to invade French soil! . . . But
our army is intact, and will retreat in good order. Good fortune may
still be ours. A great calamity, but all is not lost.”
Preparations for the defense of Paris were being pushed forward . . .
rather late. The forts were supplying themselves with new cannon.
Houses, built in the danger zone in the piping times of peace, were now
disappearing under the blows of the official demolition. The trees on
the outer avenues were being felled in order to enlarge the horizon.
Barricades of sacks of earth and tree trunks were heaped at the doors of
the old walls. The curious were skirting the suburbs in order to gaze
at the recently dug trenches and the barbed wire fences. The Bois de
Boulogne was filled with herds of cattle. Near heaps of dry alfalfa
steers and sheep were grouped in the green meadows. Protection against
famine was uppermost in the minds of a people still remembering the
suffering of 1870. Every night, the street lighting was less and less.
The sky, on the other hand, was streaked incessantly by the shafts from
the searchlights. Fear of aerial invasion was increasing the public
uneasiness. Timid people were speaking of Zeppelins, attributing to
them irresistible powers, with all the exaggeration that accompanies
mysterious dangers.
In her panic, Dona Luisa greatly distressed her husband, who was passing
the days in continual alarm, yet trying to put heart into his trembling
and anxious wife. “They are going to come, Marcelo; my heart tells
me so. The girl! . . . the girl!” She was accepting blindly all the
statements made by her sister, the only thing that comforted her
being the chivalry and discipline of those troops to which her nephews
belonged. The news of the atrocities committed against the women of
Belgium were received with the same credulity as the enemy’s advances
announced by Elena. “Our girl, Marcelo. . . . Our girl!” And the girl,
object of so much solicitude, would laugh with the assurance of vigorous
youth on hearing of her mother’s anxiety. “Just let the shameless
fellows come! I shall take great pleasure in seeing them face to face!”
And she clenched her right hand as though it already clutched the
avenging knife.
The father became tired of this situation. He still had one of his
monumental automobiles that an outside chauffeur could manage. Senator
Lacour obtained the necessary passports and Desnoyers gave his wife
her orders in a tone that admitted of no remonstrance. They must go to
Biarritz or to some of the summer resorts in the north of Spain. Almost
all the South American families had already gone in the same direction.
Dona Luisa tried to object. It was impossible for her to separate
herself from her husband. Never before, in their many years of married
life, had they once been separated. But a harsh negative from Don
Marcelo cut her pleadings short. He would remain. Then the poor senora
ran to the rue de la Pompe. Her son! . . . Julio scarcely listened to
his mother. Ay! he, too, would stay. So finally the imposing automobile
lumbered toward the South carrying Dona Luisa, her sister who hailed
with delight this withdrawal before the admired troops of the Emperor,
and Chichi, pleased that the war was necessitating an excursion to the
fashionable beaches frequented by her friends.
Don Marcelo was at last alone. The two coppery maids had followed by
rail the flight of their mistresses. At first the old man felt a little
bewildered by this solitude, which obliged him to eat uncomfortable
meals in a restaurant and pass the nights in enormous and deserted rooms
still bearing traces of their former occupants. The other apartments in
the building had also been vacated. All the tenants were foreigners, who
had discreetly decamped, or French families surprised by the war when
summering at their country seats.
Instinctively he turned his steps toward the rue de la Pompe gazing from
afar at the studio windows. What was his son doing? . . . Undoubtedly
continuing his gay and useless life. Such men only existed for their own
selfish folly.
Desnoyers felt satisfied with the stand he had taken. To follow the
family would be sheer cowardice. The memory of his youthful flight to
South America was sufficient martyrdom; he would finish his life with
all the compensating bravery that he could muster. “No, they will not
come,” he said repeatedly, with the optimism of enthusiasm. “I have
a presentiment that they will never reach Paris. And even if they DO
come!” . . . The absence of his family brought him a joyous valor and a
sense of bold youthfulness. Although his age might prevent his going to
war in the open air, he could still fire a gun, immovable in a trench,
without fear of death. Let them come! . . . He was longing for the
struggle with the anxiety of a punctilious business man wishing to
cancel a former debt as soon as possible.
In the streets of Paris he met many groups of fugitives. They were from
the North and East of France, and had escaped before the German advance.
Of all the tales told by this despondent crowd--not knowing where to go
and dependent upon the charity of the people--he was most impressed
with those dealing with the disregard of property. Shootings and
assassinations made him clench his fists, with threats of vengeance;
but the robberies authorized by the heads, the wholesale sackings by
superior order, followed by fire, appeared to him so unheard-of that
he was silent with stupefaction, his speech seeming to be temporarily
paralyzed. And a people with laws could wage war in this fashion, like a
tribe of Indians going to combat in order to rob! . . . His adoration of
property rights made him beside himself with wrath at these sacrileges.
He began to worry about his castle at Villeblanche. All that he owned in
Paris suddenly seemed to him of slight importance to what he had in his
historic mansion. His best paintings were there, adorning the gloomy
salons; there, too, the furnishings captured from the antiquarians after
an auctioneering battle, and the crystal cabinets, the tapestries, the
silver services.
He mentally reviewed all of these objects, not letting a single one
escape his inventory. Things that he had forgotten came surging up in
his memory, and the fear of losing them seemed to give them greater
lustre, increasing their size, and intensifying their value. All the
riches of Villeblanche were concentrated in one certain acquisition
which Desnoyers admired most of all; for, to his mind, it stood for
all the glory of his immense fortune--in fact, the most luxurious
appointment that even a millionaire could possess.
“My golden bath,” he thought. “I have there my tub of gold.”
This bath of priceless metal he had procured, after much financial
wrestling, from an auction, and he considered the purchase the
culminating achievement of his wealth. No one knew exactly its origin;
perhaps it had been the property of luxurious princes; perhaps it owed
its existence to the caprice of a demi-mondaine fond of display. He and
his had woven a legend around this golden cavity adorned with lions’
claws, dolphins and busts of naiads. Undoubtedly it was once a king’s!
Chichi gravely affirmed that it had been Marie Antoinette’s, and the
entire family thought that the home on the avenue Victor Hugo was
altogether too modest and plebeian to enshrine such a jewel. They
therefore agreed to put it in the castle, where it was greatly
venerated, although it was useless and solemn as a museum piece. . . .
And was he to permit the enemy in their advance toward the Marne to
carry off this priceless treasure, as well as the other gorgeous things
which he had accumulated with such patience Ah, no! His soul of a
collector would be capable of the greatest heroism before he would let
that go.
Each day was bringing a fresh sheaf of bad news. The papers were saying
little, and the Government was so veiling its communications that
the mind was left in great perplexity. Nevertheless, the truth
was mysteriously forcing its way, impelled by the pessimism of the
alarmists, and the manipulation of the enemy’s spies who were remaining
hidden in Paris. The fatal news was being passed along in whispers.
“They have already crossed the frontier. . . .” “They are already in
Lille.” . . . They were advancing at the rate of thirty-five miles
a day. The name of von Kluck was beginning to have a familiar ring.
English and French were retreating before the enveloping progression of
the invaders. Some were expecting another Sedan. Desnoyers was following
the advance of the Germans, going daily to the Gare du Nord. Every
twenty-four hours was lessening the radius of travel. Bulletins
announcing that tickets would not be sold for the Northern districts
served to indicate how these places were falling, one after the other,
into the power of the invader. The shrinkage of national territory was
going on with such methodical regularity that, with watch in hand, and
allowing an advance of thirty-five miles daily, one might gauge the hour
when the lances of the first Uhlans would salute the Eiffel tower. The
trains were running full, great bunches of people overflowing from their
coaches.
In this time of greatest anxiety, Desnoyers again visited his friend,
Senator Lacour, in order to astound him with the most unheard-of
petitions. He wished to go immediately to his castle. While everybody
else was fleeing toward Paris he earnestly desired to go in the opposite
direction. The senator couldn’t believe his ears.
“You are beside yourself!” he exclaimed. “It is necessary to leave
Paris, but toward the South. I will tell you confidentially, and you
must not tell because it is a secret--we are leaving at any minute; we
are all going, the President, the Government, the Chambers. We are
going to establish ourselves at Bordeaux as in 1870. The enemy is surely
approaching; it is only a matter of days . . . of hours. We know little
of just what is happening, but all the news is bad. The army still
holds firm, is yet intact, but retreating . . . retreating, all the time
yielding ground. . . . Believe me, it will be better for you to leave
Paris. Gallieni will defend it, but the defense is going to be hard
and horrible. . . . Although Paris may surrender, France will not
necessarily surrender. The war will go on if necessary even to the
frontiers of Spain . . . but it is sad . . . very sad!”
And he offered to take his friend with him in that flight to Bordeaux of
which so few yet knew. Desnoyers shook his head. No; he wanted to go the
castle of Villeblanche. His furniture . . . his riches . . . his parks.
“But you will be taken prisoner!” protested the senator. “Perhaps they
will kill you!”
A shrug of indifference was the only response. He considered himself
energetic enough to struggle against the entire German army in the
defense of his property. The important thing was to get there, and
then--just let anybody dare to touch his things! . . . The senator
looked with astonishment at this civilian infuriated by the lust of
possession. It reminded him of some Arab merchants that he had once
known, ordinarily mild and pacific, who quarrelled and killed like wild
beasts when Bedouin thieves seized their wares. This was not the moment
for discussion, and each must map out his own course. So the influential
senator finally yielded to the desire of his friend. If such was
his pleasure, let him carry it through! So he arranged that his mad
petitioner should depart that very night on a military train that was
going to meet the army.
That journey put Don Marcelo in touch with the extraordinary movement
which the war had developed on the railroads. His train took fourteen
hours to cover the distance normally made in two. It was made up of
freight cars filled with provisions and cartridges, with the doors
stamped and sealed. A third-class car was occupied by the train escort,
a detachment of provincial guards. He was installed in a second-class
compartment with the lieutenant in command of this guard and certain
officials on their way to join their regiments after having completed
the business of mobilization in the small towns in which they were
stationed before the war. The crowd, habituated to long detentions,
was accustomed to getting out and settling down before the motionless
locomotive, or scattering through the nearby fields.
In the stations of any importance all the tracks were occupied by rows
of cars. High-pressure engines were whistling, impatient to be off.
Groups of soldiers were hesitating before the different trains, making
mistakes, getting out of one coach to enter others. The employees, calm
but weary-looking, were going from side to side, giving explanations
about mountains of all sorts of freight and arranging them for
transport. In the convoy in which Desnoyers was placed the Territorials
were sleeping, accustomed to the monotony of acting as guard. Those in
charge of the horses had opened the sliding doors, seating themselves
on the floor with their legs hanging over the edge. The train went very
slowly during the night, across shadowy fields, stopping here and there
before red lanterns and announcing its presence by prolonged whistling.
In some stations appeared young girls clad in white with cockades and
pennants on their breasts. Day and night they were there, in relays,
so that no train should pass through without a visit. They offered, in
baskets and trays, their gifts to the soldiers--bread, chocolate, fruit.
Many, already surfeited, tried to resist, but had to yield eventually
before the pleading countenance of the maidens. Even Desnoyers was laden
down with these gifts of patriotic enthusiasm.
He passed a great part of the night talking with his travelling
companions. Only the officers had vague directions as to where they were
to meet their regiments, for the operations of war were daily changing
the situation. Faithful to duty, they were passing on, hoping to arrive
in time for the decisive combat. The Chief of the Guard had been
over the ground, and was the only one able to give any account of
the retreat. After each stop the train made less progress. Everybody
appeared confused. Why the retreat? . . . The army had undoubtedly
suffered reverses, but it was still united and, in his opinion, ought to
seek an engagement where it was. The retreat was leaving the advance
of the enemy unopposed. To what point were they going to retreat? . . .
They who two weeks before were discussing in their garrisons the place
in Belgium where their adversaries were going to receive their death
blow and through what places their victorious troops would invade
Germany! . . .
Their admission of the change of tactics did not reveal the slightest
discouragement. An indefinite but firm hope was hovering triumphantly
above their vacillations. The Generalissimo was the only one who
possessed the secret of events. And Desnoyers approved with the blind
enthusiasm inspired by those in whom we have confidence. Joffre! . . .
That serious and calm leader would finally bring things out all right.
Nobody ought to doubt his ability; he was the kind of man who always
says the decisive word.
At daybreak Don Marcelo left the train. “Good luck to you!” And he
clasped the hands of the brave young fellows who were going to die,
perhaps in a very short time. Finding the road unexpectedly open, the
train started immediately and Desnoyers found himself alone in the
station. In normal times a branch road would have taken him on to
Villeblanche, but the service was now suspended for lack of a train
crew. The employees had been transferred to the lines crowded with the
war transportation.
In vain he sought, with most generous offers, a horse, a simple cart
drawn by any kind of old beast, in order to continue his trip.
The mobilization had appropriated the best, and all other means of
transportation had disappeared with the flight of the terrified. He
would have to walk the eight miles. The old man did not hesitate.
Forward March! And he began his course along the dusty, straight, white
highway running between an endless succession of plains. Some groups
of trees, some green hedges and the roofs of various farms broke the
monotony of the countryside. The fields were covered with stubble from
the recent harvest. The haycocks dotted the ground with their yellowish
cones, now beginning to darken and take on a tone of oxidized gold. In
the valleys the birds were flitting about, shaking off the dew of dawn.
The first rays of the sun announced a very hot day. Around the hay
stacks Desnoyers saw knots of people who were getting up, shaking out
their clothes, and awaking those who were still sleeping. They were
fugitives camping near the station in the hope that some train would
carry them further on, they knew not where. Some had come from far-away
districts; they had heard the cannon, had seen war approaching, and
for several days had been going forward, directed by chance. Others,
infected with the contagion of panic, had fled, fearing to know the same
horrors. . . . Among them he saw mothers with their little ones in their
arms, and old men who could only walk with a cane in one hand and the
other arm in that of some member of the family, and a few old women,
withered and motionless as mummies, who were sleeping as they were
trundled along in wheelbarrows. When the sun awoke this miserable band
they gathered themselves together with heavy step, still stiffened by
the night. Many were going toward the station in the hope of a train
which never came, thinking that, perhaps, they might have better luck
during the day that was just dawning. Some were continuing their way
down the track, hoping that fate might be more propitious in some other
place.
Don Marcelo walked all the morning long. The white, rectilinear ribbon
of roadway was spotted with approaching groups that on the horizon line
looked like a file of ants. He did not see a single person going in his
direction. All were fleeing toward the South, and on meeting this city
gentleman, well-shod, with walking stick and straw hat, going on alone
toward the country which they were abandoning in terror, they showed the
greatest astonishment. They concluded that he must be some functionary,
some celebrity from the Government.
At midday he was able to get a bit of bread, a little cheese and a
bottle of white wine from a tavern near the road. The proprietor was at
the front, his wife sick and moaning in her bed. The mother, a rather
deaf old woman surrounded by her grandchildren, was watching from the
doorway the procession of fugitives which had been filing by for the
last three days. “Monsieur, why do they flee?” she said to Desnoyers.
“War only concerns the soldiers. We countryfolk have done no wrong to
anybody, and we ought not to be afraid.”
Four hours later, on descending one of the hills that bounded the valley
of the Marne, he saw afar the roofs of Villeblanche clustered around the
church, and further on, beyond a little grove, the slatey points of the
round towers of his castle.
The streets of the village were deserted. Only on the outer edges of the
square did he see some old women sitting as in the placid evenings
of bygone summers. Half of the neighborhood had fled; the others were
staying by their firesides through sedentary routine, or deceiving
themselves with a blind optimism. If the Prussians should approach,
what could they do to them? . . . They would obey their orders without
attempting any resistance, and it is impossible to punish people who
obey. . . . Anything would be preferable to losing the homes built by
their forefathers which they had never left.
In the square he saw the mayor and the principal inhabitants grouped
together. Like the women, they all stared in astonishment at the owner
of the castle. He was the most unexpected of apparitions. While so many
were fleeing toward Paris, this Parisian had come to join them and share
in their fate. A smile of affection, a look of sympathy began to appear
on the rough, bark-like countenances of the suspicious rustics. For a
long time Desnoyers had been on bad terms with the entire village. He
had harshly insisted on his rights, showing no tolerance in matters
touching his property. He had spoken many times of bringing suit against
the mayor and sending half of the neighborhood to prison, so his enemies
had retaliated by treacherously invading his lands, poaching in his
hunting preserves, and causing him great trouble with counter-suits and
involved claims. His hatred of the community had even united him with
the priest because he was on terms of permanent hostility with the
mayor. But his relations with the Church turned out as fruitless as his
struggles with the State. The priest was a kindly old soul who bore a
certain resemblance to Renan, and seemed interested only in getting alms
for his poor out of Don Marcelo, even carrying his good-natured boldness
so far as to try to excuse the marauders on his property.
How remote these struggles of a few months ago now seemed to him! . . .
The millionaire was greatly surprised to see the priest, on leaving his
house to enter the church, greet the mayor as he passed, with a friendly
smile.
After long years of hostile silence they had met on the evening of
August first at the foot of the church tower. The bell was ringing the
alarm, announcing the mobilization to the men who were in the field--and
the two enemies had instinctively clasped hands. All French! This
affectionate unanimity also came to meet the detested owner of the
castle. He had to exchange greetings first on one side, then on the
other, grasping many a horny hand. Behind his back the people broke
out into kindly excuses--“A good man, with no fault except a little bad
temper. . . .” And in a few minutes Monsieur Desnoyers was basking in
the delightful atmosphere of popularity.
As the iron-willed old gentleman approached his castle he concluded
that, although the fatigue of the long walk was making his knees
tremble, the trip had been well worth while. Never had his park appeared
to him so extensive and so majestic as in that summer twilight, never
so glistening white the swans that were gliding double over the quiet
waters, never so imposing the great group of towers whose inverted
images were repeated in the glassy green of the moats. He felt eager to
see at once the stables with their herds of animals; then a brief glance
showed him that the stalls were comparatively empty. Mobilization had
carried off his best work horses; the driving and riding horses also had
disappeared. Those in charge of the grounds and the various stable
boys were also in the army. The Warden, a man upwards of fifty and
consumptive, was the only one of the personnel left at the castle. With
his wife and daughter he was keeping the mangers filled, and from time
to time was milking the neglected cows.
Within the noble edifice he again congratulated himself on the
adamantine will which had brought him thither. How could he ever give
up such riches! . . . He gloated over the paintings, the crystals, the
draperies, all bathed in gold by the splendor of the dying day, and he
felt more than proud to be their possessor. This pride awakened in him
an absurd, impossible courage, as though he were a gigantic being from
another planet, and all humanity merely an ant hill that he could grind
under foot. Just let the enemy come! He could hold his own against the
whole lot! . . . Then, when his common sense brought him out of his
heroic delirium, he tried to calm himself with an equally illogical
optimism. They would not come. He did not know why it was, but his heart
told him that they would not get that far.
He passed the following morning reconnoitering the artificial meadows
that he had made behind the park, lamenting their neglected condition
due to the departure of the men, trying himself to open the sluice gates
so as to give some water to the pasture lands which were beginning to
dry up. The grape vines were extending their branches the length of
their supports, and the full bunches, nearly ripe, were beginning to
show their triangular lusciousness among the leaves. Ay, who would
gather this abundant fruit! . . .
By afternoon he noted an extraordinary amount of movement in the
village. Georgette, the Warden’s daughter, brought the news that many
enormous automobiles and soldiers, French soldiers, were beginning
to pass through the main street. In a little while a procession began
filing past on the high road near the castle, leading to the bridge
over the Marne. This was composed of motor trucks, open and closed, that
still had their old commercial signs under their covering of dust and
spots of mud. Many of them displayed the names of business firms
in Paris, others the names of provincial establishments. With these
industrial vehicles requisitioned by mobilization were others from the
public service which produced in Desnoyers the same effect as a familiar
face in a throng of strangers. On their upper parts were the names of
their old routes:--“Madeleine-Bastille, Passy-Bourne,” etc. Probably he
had travelled many times in these very vehicles, now shabby and aged by
twenty days of intense activity, with dented planks and twisted metal,
perforated like sieves, but rattling crazily on.
Some of the conveyances displayed white discs with a red cross in the
center; others had certain letters and figures comprehensible only to
those initiates in the secrets of military administration. Within
these vehicles--the only new and strong motors--he saw soldiers, many
soldiers, but all wounded, with head and legs bandaged, ashy faces made
still more tragic by their growing beards, feverish eyes looking fixedly
ahead, mouths so sadly immobile that they seemed carven by agonizing
groans. Doctors and nurses were occupying various carriages in this
convoy escorted by several platoons of horsemen. And mingled with
the slowly moving horses and automobiles were marching groups of
foot-soldiers, with cloaks unbuttoned or hanging from their shoulders
like capes--wounded men who were able to walk and joke and sing, some
with arms in splints across their breasts, others with bandaged heads
with clotted blood showing through the thin white strips.
The millionaire longed to do something for these brave fellows, but he
had hardly begun to distribute some bottles of wine and loaves of bread
before a doctor interposed, upbraiding him as though he had committed
a crime. His gifts might result fatally. So he had to stand beside the
road, sad and helpless, looking after the sorrowful convoy. . . . By
nightfall the vehicles filled with the sick were no longer filing by.
He now saw hundreds of drays, some hermetically sealed with the prudence
that explosive material requires, others with bundles and boxes that
were sending out a stale odor of provisions. Then came great herds of
cattle raising thick, whirling clouds of dust in the narrow parts of the
road, prodded on by the sticks and yells of the shepherds in kepis.
His thoughts kept him wakeful all night. This, then, was the retreat of
which the people of Paris were talking, but in which many wished not to
believe--the retreat reaching even there and continuing its indefinite
retirement, since nobody knew what its end might be. . . . His optimism
aroused a ridiculous hope. Perhaps this was only the retreat of the
hospitals and stores which always follows an army. The troops, wishing
to be rid of impedimenta, were sending them forward by railway and
highway. That must be it. So all through the night, he interpreted the
incessant bustle as the passing of vehicles filled with the wounded,
with munitions and eatables, like those which had filed by in the
afternoon.
Toward morning he fell asleep through sheer weariness, and when he awoke
late in the day his first glance was toward the road. He saw it filled
with men and horses dragging some rolling objects. But these men were
carrying guns and were formed in battalions and regiments. The animals
were pulling the pieces of artillery. It was an army. . . . It was the
retreat!
Desnoyers ran to the edge of the road to be more convinced of the truth.
Alas, they were regiments such as he had seen leaving the stations of
Paris. . . . But with what a very different aspect! The blue cloaks were
now ragged and yellowing garments, the trousers faded to the color of
a half-baked brick, the shoes great cakes of mud. The faces had a
desperate expression, with layers of dust and sweat in all their grooves
and openings, with beards of recent growth, sharp as spikes, with an air
of great weariness showing the longing to drop down somewhere forever,
killing or dying, but without going a step further. They were tramping
. . . tramping . . . tramping! Some marches had lasted thirty hours at
a stretch. The enemy was on their tracks, and the order was to go on
and not to fight, freeing themselves by their fleet-footedness from the
involved movements of the invader.
The chiefs suspected the discouraged exhaustion of their men. They might
exact of them complete sacrifice of life--but to order them to march day
and night, forever fleeing before the enemy when they did not consider
themselves vanquished, when they were animated by that ferocious wrath
which is the mother of heroism! . . . Their despairing expressions
mutely sought the nearest officers, the leaders, even the colonel. They
simply could go no further! Such a long, devastating march in such a few
days, and what for? . . . The superior officers, who knew no more
than their men, seemed to be replying with their eyes, as though they
possessed a secret--“Courage! One more effort! . . . This is going to
come to an end very soon.”
The vigorous beasts, having no imagination, were resisting less than the
men, but their aspect was deplorable. How could these be the same strong
horses with glossy coats that he had seen in the Paris processions at
the beginning of the previous month? A campaign of twenty days had aged
and exhausted them; their dull gaze seemed to be imploring pity. They
were weak and emaciated, the outline of their skeletons so plainly
apparent that it made their eyes look larger. Their harness, as they
moved, showed the skin raw and bleeding. Yet they were pushing on with a
mighty effort, concentrating their last powers, as though human demands
were beyond their obscure instincts. Some could go no further and
suddenly collapsed from sheer fatigue. Desnoyers noticed that the
artillerymen rapidly unharnessed them, pushing them out of the road
so as to leave the way open for the rest. There lay the skeleton-like
frames with stiffened legs and glassy eyes staring fixedly at the first
flies already attracted by their miserable carrion.
The cannons painted gray, the gun-carriages, the artillery equipment,
all that Don Marcelo had seen clean and shining with the enthusiastic
friction that man has given to arms from remote epochs--even more
persistent than that which woman gives to household utensils--were now
dirty, overlaid with the marks of endless use, with the wreckage of
unavoidable neglect. The wheels were deformed with mud, the metal
darkened by the smoke of explosion, the gray paint spotted with mossy
dampness.
In the free spaces in this file, in the parentheses opened between
battery and regiment, were sandwiched crowds of civilians--miserable
groups driven on by the invasion, populations of entire towns that had
disintegrated, following the army in its retreat. The approach of a new
division would make them leave the road temporarily, continuing their
march in the adjoining fields. Then at the slightest opening in the
troops they would again slip along the white and even surface of the
highway. They were mothers who were pushing hand-carts heaped high with
pyramids of furniture and tiny babies, the sick who could hardly drag
themselves along, old men carried on the shoulders of their grandsons,
old women with little children clinging to their skirts--a pitiful,
silent brood.
Nobody now opposed the liberality of the owner of the castle. His entire
vintage seemed to be overflowing on the highway. Casks from the last
grape-gathering were rolled out to the roadside, and the soldiers filled
the metal ladles hanging from their belts with the red stream. Then
the bottled wine began making its appearance by order of date, and was
instantly lost in the river of men continually flowing by. Desnoyers
observed with much satisfaction the effects of his munificence. The
smiles were reappearing on the despairing faces, the French jest was
leaping from row to row, and on resuming their march the groups began to
sing.
Then he went to see the officers who in the village square were giving
their horses a brief rest before rejoining their columns. With perplexed
countenances and heavy eyes they were talking among themselves about
this retreat, so incomprehensible to them all. Days before in Guise they
had routed their pursuers, and yet now they were continually withdrawing
in obedience to a severe and endless order. “We do not understand it,”
they were saying. “We do not understand.” An ordered and methodical tide
was dragging back these men who wanted to fight, yet had to retreat. All
were suffering the same cruel doubt. “We do not understand.”
And doubt was making still more distressing this day-and-night march
with only the briefest rests--because the heads of the divisions were
in hourly fear of being cut off from the rest of the army. “One
effort more, boys! Courage! Soon we shall rest!” The columns in their
retirement were extending hundreds of miles. Desnoyers was seeing only
one division. Others and still others were doing exactly this same thing
at that very hour, their recessional extending across half of France.
All, with the same disheartened obedience, were falling back, the men
exclaiming the same as the officials, “We don’t understand. We don’t
understand!”
Don Marcelo soon felt the same sadness and bewilderment as these
soldiers. He didn’t understand, either. He saw the obvious thing,
what all were able to see--the territory invaded without the Germans
encountering any stubborn resistance;--entire counties, cities,
villages, hamlets remaining in the power of the enemy, at the back of an
army that was constantly withdrawing. His enthusiasm suddenly collapsed
like a pricked balloon, and all his former pessimism returned. The
troops were displaying energy and discipline; but what did that amount
to if they had to keep retreating all the time, unable on account
of strict orders to fight or defend the land? “Just as it was in the
‘70’s,” he sighed. “Outwardly there is more order, but the result is
going to be the same.”
As though a negative reply to his faint-heartedness, he overheard the
voice of a soldier reassuring a farmer: “We are retreating, yes--only
that we may pounce upon the Boches with more strength. Grandpa Joffre is
going to put them in his pocket when and where he will.”
The mere sound of the Marshal’s name revived Don Marcelo’s hope.
Perhaps this soldier, who was keeping his faith intact in spite of the
interminable and demoralizing marches, was nearer the truth than the
reasoning and studious officers.
He passed the rest of the day making presents to the last detachments of
the column. His wine cellars were gradually emptying. By order of
dates, he continued distributing thousands of bottles stored in the
subterranean parts of the castle. By evening he was giving to those who
appeared weakest bottles covered with the dust of many years. As the
lines filed by the men seemed weaker and more exhausted. Stragglers were
now passing, painfully drawing their raw and bleeding feet from their
shoes. Some had already freed themselves from these torture cases
and were marching barefoot, with their heavy boots hanging from their
shoulders, and staining the highway with drops of blood. Although
staggering with deadly fatigue, they kept their arms and outfits,
believing that the enemy was near.
Desnoyers’ liberality stupefied many of them. They were accustomed to
crossing their native soil, having to struggle with the selfishness of
the producer. Nobody had been offering anything. Fear of danger had made
the country folk hide their eatables and refuse to lend the slightest
aid to their compatriots who were fighting for them.
The millionaire slept badly this second night in his pompous bed with
columns and plushes that had belonged to Henry IV--according to the
declarations of the salesmen. The troops no longer were marching past.
From time to time there straggled by a single battalion, a battery,
a group of horsemen--the last forces of the rear guard that had taken
their position on the outskirts of the village in order to cover
the retreat. The profound silence that followed the turmoil of
transportation awoke in his mind a sense of doubt and disquietude.
What was he doing there when the soldiers had gone? Was he not crazy to
remain there? . . . But immediately there came galloping into his mind
the great riches which the castle contained. If he could only take it
all away! . . . That was impossible now through want of means and
time. Besides, his stubborn will looked upon such flight as a shameful
concession. “We must finish what we have begun!” he said to himself. He
had made the trip on purpose to guard his own, and he must not flee at
the approach of danger. . . .
The following morning, when he went down into the village, he saw hardly
any soldiers. Only a single detachment of dragoons was still in the
neighborhood; the horsemen were scouring the woods and pushing forward
the stragglers at the same time that they were opposing the advance of
the enemy. The troopers had obstructed the street with a barricade
of carts and furniture. Standing behind this crude barrier, they were
watching the white strip of roadway which ran between the two hills
covered with trees. Occasionally there sounded stray shots like the
snapping of cords. “Ours,” said the troopers. These were the last
detachments of sharpshooters firing at the advancing Uhlans. The cavalry
of the rear guard had the task of opposing a continual resistance to the
enemy, repelling the squads of Germans who were trying to work their way
along to the retreating columns.
Desnoyers saw approaching along the highroad the last stragglers from
the infantry. They were not walking, they rather appeared to be dragging
themselves forward, with the firm intention of advancing, but were
betrayed by emaciated legs and bleeding feet. Some had sunk down for
a moment by the roadside, agonized with weariness, in order to breathe
without the weight of their knapsacks, and draw their swollen feet from
their leather prisons, and wipe off the sweat; but upon trying to renew
their march, they found it impossible to rise. Their bodies seemed made
of stone. Fatigue had brought them to a condition bordering on catalepsy
so, unable to move, they were seeing dimly the rest of the army passing
on as a fantastic file--battalions, more battalions, batteries, troops
of horses. Then the silence, the night, the sleep on the stones and
dust, shaken by most terrible nightmare. At daybreak they were awakened
by bodies of horsemen exploring the ground, rounding up the remnants of
the retreat. Ay, it was impossible to move! The dragoons, revolver
in hand, had to resort to threats in order to rouse them! Only the
certainty that the pursuer was near and might make them prisoners gave
them a momentary vigor. So they were forcing themselves up by superhuman
effort, staggering, dragging their legs, and supporting themselves on
their guns as though they were canes.
Many of these were young men who had aged in an hour and changed into
confirmed invalids. Poor fellows! They would not go very far! Their
intention was to follow on, to join the column, but on entering the
village they looked at the houses with supplicating eyes, desiring to
enter them, feeling such a craving for immediate relief that they forgot
even the nearness of the enemy.
Villeblanche was now more military than before the arrival of the
troops. The night before a great part of the inhabitants had fled,
having become infected with the same fear that was driving on the crowds
following the army. The mayor and the priest remained. Reconciled with
the owner of the castle through his unexpected presence in their midst,
and admiring his liberality, the municipal official approached to give
him some news. The engineers were mining the bridge over the Marne. They
were only waiting for the dragoons to cross before blowing it up. If he
wished to go, there was still time.
Again Desnoyers hesitated. Certainly it was foolhardy to remain there.
But a glance at the woods over whose branches rose the towers of his
castle, settled his doubts. No, no. . . . “We must finish what we have
begun!”
The very last band of troopers now made their appearance, coming out of
the woods by different paths. They were riding their horses slowly, as
though they deplored this retreat. They kept looking behind, carbine
in hand, ready to halt and shoot. The others who had been occupying
the barricade were already on their mounts. The division reformed, the
commands of the officers were heard and a quick trot, accompanied by the
clanking of metal, told Don Marcelo that the last of the army had left.
He remained near the barricade in a solitude of intense silence, as
though the world were suddenly depopulated. Two dogs, abandoned by the
flight of their masters, leaped and sniffed around him, coaxing him
for protection. They were unable to get the desired scent in that land
trodden down and disfigured by the transit of thousands of men. A
family cat was watching the birds that were beginning to return to their
haunts. With timid flutterings they were picking at what the horses had
left, and an ownerless hen was disputing the banquet with the winged
band, until then hidden in the trees and roofs. The silence intensified
the rustling of the leaves, the hum of the insects, the summer
respiration of the sunburnt soil which appeared to have contracted
timorously under the weight of the men in arms.
Desnoyers was losing exact track of the passing of time. He was
beginning to believe that all which had gone before must have been a bad
dream. The calm surrounding him made what had been happening here seem
most improbable.
Suddenly he saw something moving at the far end of the road, at the very
highest point where the white ribbon of the highway touched the blue of
the horizon. There were two men on horseback, two little tin soldiers
who appeared to have escaped from a box of toys. He had brought with
him a pair of field glasses that had often surprised marauders on his
property, and by their aid he saw more clearly the two riders clad in
greenish gray! They were carrying lances and wearing helmets ending in a
horizontal plate . . . They! He could not doubt it: before his eyes were
the first Uhlans!
For some time they remained motionless, as though exploring the horizon.
Then, from the obscure masses of vegetation that bordered the roadside,
others and still others came sallying forth in groups. The little tin
soldiers no longer were showing their silhouettes against the horizon’s
blue; the whiteness of the highway was now making their background,
ascending behind their heads. They came slowly down, like a band that
fears ambush, examining carefully everything around.
The advisability of prompt retirement made Don Marcelo bring his
investigations to a close. It would be most disastrous for him if they
surprised him here. But on lowering his glasses something extraordinary
passed across his field of vision. A short distance away, so that he
could almost touch them with his hand, he saw many men skulking along
in the shadow of the trees on both sides of the road. His surprise
increased as he became convinced that they were Frenchmen, wearing
kepis. Where were they coming from? . . . He examined more closely with
his spy glass. They were stragglers in a lamentable state of body and
a picturesque variety of uniforms--infantry, Zouaves, dragoons without
their horses. And with them were forest guards and officers from the
villages that had received too late the news of the retreat--altogether
about fifty. A few were fresh and vigorous, others were keeping
themselves up by supernatural effort. All were carrying arms.
They finally made the barricade, looking continually behind them, in
order to watch, in the shelter of the trees, the slow advance of the
Uhlans. At the head of this heterogeneous troop was an official of the
police, old and fat, with a revolver in his right hand, his moustache
bristling with excitement, and a murderous glitter in his heavy-lidded
blue eyes. The band was continuing its advance through the village,
slipping over to the other side of the barricade of carts without paying
much attention to their curious countryman, when suddenly sounded a loud
detonation, making the horizon vibrate and the houses tremble.
“What is that?” asked the officer, looking at Desnoyers for the first
time. He explained that it was the bridge which had just been blown up.
The leader received the news with an oath, but his confused followers,
brought together by chance, remained as indifferent as though they had
lost all contact with reality.
“Might as well die here as anywhere,” continued the official. Many of
the fugitives acknowledged this decision with prompt obedience, since
it saved them the torture of continuing their march. They were
almost rejoicing at the explosion which had cut off their progress.
Instinctively they were gathering in the places most sheltered by the
barricade. Some entered the abandoned houses whose doors the dragoons
had forced in order to utilize the upper floors. All seemed satisfied to
be able to rest, even though they might soon have to fight. The officer
went from group to group giving his orders. They must not fire till he
gave the word.
Don Marcelo watched these preparations with the immovability of
surprise. So rapid and noiseless had been the apparition of the
stragglers that he imagined he must still be dreaming. There could be
no danger in this unreal situation; it was all a lie. And he remained
in his place without understanding the deputy who was ordering his
departure with roughest words. Obstinate civilian! . . .
The reverberation of the explosion had filled the highway with horsemen.
They were coming from all directions, forming themselves into the
advance group. The Uhlans were galloping around under the impression
that the village was abandoned.
“Fire!”
Desnoyers was enveloped in a rain of crackling noises, as though the
trunks of all the trees had split before his eyes.
The impetuous band halted suddenly. Some of their men were rolling on
the ground. Some were bending themselves double, trying to get across
the road without being seen. Others remained stretched out on their
backs or face downward with their arms in front. The riderless horses
were racing wildly across the fields with reins dragging, urged on by
the loose stirrups.
And after this rude shock which had brought them surprise and death, the
band disappeared, instantly swallowed up by the trees.