The sub-lieutenant had kept his word, and the progress of his career
deserves detailed mention.
He was a lieutenant at the taking of Puebla, where he was first to
mount in the assault of the Convent of Guadalupita. Captain of the Third
Zouaves after the siege of Oajaca, he had exercised, during the rest
of the expedition, command over a mounted company, whose duty was to
maintain communications between the various columns, continuing, at the
same time, their operations in the Michoacan.
This confidential mission, requiring as much power to take the
initiative as it demanded a cool head, gave the Marquis opportunity to
execute, with rapidity and decision, several master-strokes, which,
in the following circumstances, won for him the cross of the Legion of
Honor.
The most audacious of the guerrillas who had devastated this fertile
country was a chief called Regulas. He pillaged the farms, stopped
railway trains, boldly demanding ransom from captives from the municipal
governments of large towns. He was continually, active, and always
inaccessible.
Warned by his scouts that the followers of this villain menaced the town
of Pazcuaro, Captain de Prerolles prepared himself eagerly to meet them.
He overtook them in a night march, and fell upon them unexpectedly, just
as they were holding up the diligence from Morelia to Guadalajara.
His plans had been so well laid that not a man escaped. What was the
surprise of the French officer to find, among the travellers, delivered
by himself from certain death, Paul Landry, the principal cause of his
ruin, who the chances of war now laid under obligations to him!
“This is my revenge,” said the Captain, simply, to Landry, attempting to
avoid his thanks, and returning to him intact his luggage, of which the
chinacos had not had time to divide the contents.
Reconciled in Algiers with his regiment, Henri de Prerolles did not
again quit the province of Constantine except to serve in the army of
the Rhine, as chief of battalion in the line, until the promotions which
followed the declaration of war in 1870. Officer of the Legion of Honor
for his gallantry at Gravelotte and at St. Privat, and assigned for his
ability to the employ of the chief of corps, he had just been called
upon to assume command of his former battalion of chasseurs, when the
disastrous surrender of Metz left him a prisoner of war in the hands of
the Germans.
Profoundly affected by this disaster, but learning that the conflict
still continued, he refused to avail himself of the offer of comparative
freedom in the city, provided he would give his parole not to attempt
to escape. He was therefore conducted to a distant fortress near the
Russian frontier, and handed over to the captain of the landwehr, who
received instructions to keep a strict guard over him.
This officer belonged to the engineering corps, and directed, at the
same time, the work of repairs within the citadel, in charge of a
civilian contractor.
Taking into consideration the rank of his prisoner, the captain
permitted the Marquis to have with him his orderly, an Alsatian, who
twice a day brought from the inn his chief’s repasts. This functionary
had permission also, from ten o’clock in the morning until sunset, to
promenade in the court under the eye of the sentinel on guard at the
entrance. At five o’clock in the evening, the officer of the landwehr
politely shut up his guest in his prison, double-locked the door, put
the key in his pocket, and appeared no more until the next morning.
The middle of November had arrived; heavy snows had already fallen, and
the prisoner amused himself by constructing fortifications of snow--a
work which his amiable jailer followed with a professional interest,
giving him advice regarding modifications proper to introduce in the
defense of certain places, himself putting a finger in the pie in
support of his demonstration.
This sort of amusement was followed so industriously that in a few days
a kind of rampart was erected in front of the casemate of the fortress,
behind which, by stooping a little, a man of ordinary height could
easily creep along unseen by the sentinel.
While pursuing his work of modelling in snow, the Marquis de Prerolles
had taken care to observe the goings and comings of the civilian
contractor, who, wearing a tall hat and attired in a black redingote,
departed regularly every day at half-past four, carrying a large
portfolio under his arm. To procure such a costume and similar
accessories for himself was easy, since the Marquis’s orderly spoke the
language of the country; and to introduce them into the prison, hidden
in a basket of provisions, was not difficult to accomplish.
To execute all this required only four trips to and fro. At the end
of forty-eight hours, the necessary aids to escape were in the proper
place, hidden under the snow behind the bastion. More than this, the
clever Alsatian had slipped a topographical map of the surrounding
country between two of the plates in the basket. According to the scale,
the frontier was distant only about five leagues, across open
country, sparsely settled with occasional farms which would serve as
resting-places.
By that time, the plan of escape was drawn up. Upon the day fixed for
his flight, the Marquis assumed his disguise, rolled up his own uniform
to look like a man asleep in his bed, lying after the fashion of a
sleeping soldier; and pleading a slight illness as an excuse for not
dining that evening, and, not without emotion, curled himself up behind
the snowy intrenchment which his jailer himself had helped to fashion.
That worthy man, only too glad to be able to rejoin his ‘liebe frau’
a little earlier than usual, peeped through the half-open door of the
prisoner’s room and threw a glance at the little cot-bed.
“Good-night, Commander!” said the honest fellow, in a gentle voice.
Then he double-locked the door, according to custom, and disappeared
whistling a national air. A quarter of an hour later the contractor left
the place, and as soon as the functionary who had seen him depart was
relieved by another, the prisoner left his hiding-place, crossed the
drawbridge in his turn, simulating the gait of his twin, and, without
any hindrance, rejoined his orderly at the place agreed upon. The trick
was played!
A matter of twenty kilometres was a mere trifle for infantry troopers.
They walked as lightly as gymnasts, under a clear sky, through the
fields, guided by the lights in the farmhouses, and at nine o’clock,
having passed the frontier, they stumbled upon a post of Cossacks
ambuscaded behind a hedge!
Unfortunately, at that time the Franco-Russian alliance was still in
embryo, and an agreement between the two neighboring States interdicted
all passage to Frenchmen escaping from the hands of their conquerors.
The two deserters were therefore conducted to the major of the nearest
garrison, who alone had the right to question them.
As soon as they were in his presence, Henri could not restrain a
start of surprise, for he recognized Constantin Lenaieff, one of his
adversaries on the fatal night of the Freres-Provencaux.
“Who are you?” demanded the Major, brusquely.
“A dealer in Belgian cattle, purveyor to the German intendant,” hazarded
the prisoner, who had his reply all prepared.
“You--nonsense! You are a French officer; that is plain enough to be
seen, in spite of your disguise.”
The Major advanced a step in order to examine the prisoner more closely.
“Good heavens!” he muttered, “I can not be mistaken--”
He made a sign to his soldiers to retire, then, turning to Henri, he
said:
“You are the Marquis de Prerolles!” and he extended his hand cordially
to the former companion of his pleasures.
In a few words Henri explained to him the situation.
“My fate is in your hands,” he concluded. “Decide it!”
“You are too good a player at this game not to win it,” Lenaieff
replied, “and I am not a Paul Landry, to dispute it with you. Here is a
letter of safe-conduct made out in due form; write upon it any name you
choose. As for myself, I regard you absolutely as a Belgian citizen, and
I shall make no report of this occurrence. Only, let me warn you, as a
matter of prudence, you would do well not to linger in this territory,
and if you need money--”
“I thank you!” replied the nobleman, quickly, declining with his
customary proud courtesy. “But I never shall forget the service you have
rendered me!”
A few moments later, the two travellers drove away in a carriage toward
the nearest railway, in order to reenter France by way of Vienna and
Turin.
They passed the Austrian and Italian frontiers without difficulty; but
at the station at Modena a too-zealous detective of the French police,
struck with the Alsatian accent of the orderly, immediately decided
that they were two Prussian spies, and refused to allow them to proceed,
since they could show him no passports.
“Passports!” cried Henri de Prerolles, accompanying his exclamation with
the most Parisian oath that ever had reverberated from the Rue Laffitte
to the Madeleine.
“Here is my passport!” he added, drawing from his pocket his officer’s
cross, which he had taken good care not to allow to become a souvenir
in the hands of his jailer. “And if that does not satisfy you, give me a
pen.”
Suiting the action to the word, he seized a pen and wrote out the
following telegram:
“DEPUTY OF WAR, TOURS:
“Escaped from prisons of the enemy, I demand admittance to France,
and official duties suitable to my rank, that I may cooperate in the
national defence.
“DE PREROLLES, Commandant.”
He handed the paper to the police agent, saying: “Do me the favor to
forward this despatch with the utmost expedition.”
As soon as the agent had glanced at the message, he swept a profound
salute. “Pass on, Commandant,” said he, in a tone of great respect.
Promoted to a higher rank, and appointed commander of a regiment of
foot, the Lieutenant-Colonel de Prerolles rejoined the army of Chanzy,
which, having known him a long time, assigned to him the duties of a
brigadier-general, and instructed him to cover his retreat from the
Loire on the Sarthe.
In the ensuing series of daily combats, the auxiliary General performed
all that his chief expected of him, from Orleans to the battle of Maus,
where, in the thick of the fight, a shell struck him in the breast. It
is necessary to say that on the evening before he had noticed that the
little medallion which had been given to him by Fanny Dorville, worn
from its chain by friction, had disappeared from his neck. Scoffing
comrades smiled at the coincidence; the more credulous looked grave.
The wound was serious, for, transported to the Chateau de Montgeron,
a few leagues distant, the Marquis was compelled to remain there six
months before he was in fit condition to rejoin his command. Toward the
end of his convalescence, in June, 1871, the brother and sister resolved
to make a pious pilgrimage to the cradle of their ancestors.
Exactly nine years had elapsed since the castle and lands had been sold
at auction and fallen into the possession of a company of speculators,
who had divided it and resold it to various purchasers. Only the farm of
Valpendant, with a house of ancient and vast construction, built in
the time of Philippe-Auguste, remained to an old tenant, with his
dependencies and his primitive methods of agriculture.
Leaving the train at the Beaumont tunnel, the two travellers made their
way along a road which crosses the high plateau that separates the
forest of Carnelle from the forest of the Ile-d’Adam, whence one can
discern the steeple of Prerolles rising above the banks of the Oise.
From this culminating point they beheld the chateau transformed into
a factory, the park cut up into countryseats, the fields turned into
market-gardens! With profound sadness the brother and the sister met
each other’s glance, and their eyes filled with tears, as if they stood
before a tomb on All Souls’ Day.
“No expiation is possible,” said Henri to Jeanne, pressing her hand
convulsively. “I must go--I must move on forever and ever, like the
Wandering Jew.”
Thanks to the influence of the Duke of Montgeron, whose faithful
constituents had sent him to the National Assembly, his brother-in-law
had been transferred to a regiment of zouaves, of which he became
colonel in 1875, whereupon he decided to remain in Africa during the
rest of his life.
But Tunis and Tonquin opened new horizons to him. Landing as a
brigadier-general at Haiphong, he was about to assume, at Bac-Ninh, his
third star, when the Minister of War, examining the brilliant record
of this officer who, since 1862, never had ceased his service to his
country, called him to take command of one of the infantry divisions
of the army of Paris, a place which he had occupied only a few months
before the events related in the preceding chapter.