A BALANCED ACCOUNT.
“Let the end try the man.”
Bad news, it is said, travels fast. But in France good news travels
faster, and it is the evil tidings that lag behind. It is part of a
Frenchman's happy nature to believe that which he wishes to be true. And
although the news travelled rapidly, that Gambetta--that spirit of an
unquenchable hope--had escaped from Paris with full power to conduct the
war from Tours, the notification that the army of de la Motterouge had
melted away before the advance of von der Tann, did not reach Lory de
Vasselot until he passed to the north of Marseilles with his handful of
men.
That a general, so stricken in years as de la Motterouge, should have
been chosen for the command of the first army of the Loire, spoke
eloquently enough of the straits in which France found herself at this
time. For this was the only army of the Government of National Defence,
the _debris_ of Sedan, the hope of France. General de la Motterouge had
fought in the Crimea: “Peu de feu et beaucoup de bayonette” had been his
maxim then. But the Crimea was fifteen years earlier, and de la
Motterouge was now an old man. Before the superior numbers and the
perfectly drilled and equipped army of von der Tann, what could he do but
retreat?
Thus, on their arrival in France, Colonel Gilbert and Lory de Vasselot
were greeted with the news that Orleans had fallen into the hands of the
enemy. It was the same story of incompetence pitted against perfect
organization--order and discipline meeting and vanquishing ill-considered
bravery. All the world knows now that France should have capitulated
after Sedan. But the world knows also that Paris need never have fallen,
could France only have produced one mediocre military genius in this her
moment of need. The capital was indeed surrounded, cut off from all the
world; but the surrounding line was so thin that good generalship from
within could have pierced it, and there was an eager army of brave men
waiting to join issue from the Loire.
It was to this army of the Loire that Colonel Gilbert and de Vasselot
were accredited. And it was an amateur army. It came from every part of
France, and in its dress it ran to the picturesque. Franctireurs de
Cannes rubbed shoulders with Mobiles from the far northern departments.
Spahis and Zouaves from Africa bivouacked with fair-haired men whose
native tongue was German. There were soldiers who had followed the drum
all their lives, and there were soldiers who did not know how to load
their chassepots. There were veteran non-commissioned officers hurriedly
drilling embryo priests; and young gentlemen from St. Cyr trying to form
in line grey-headed peasants who wore sabots. There were fancy soldiers
and picturesque fighters, who joined a regiment because its costume
appealed to their conception of patriotism. And if a man prefers to fight
for his country in the sombrero and cloak of a comic-opera brigand, what
boots it so long as he fights well? It must be remembered, moreover, that
it is quite as painful to die under a sombrero as under a plainer
covering. A man who wears such clothes sees the picturesque side of life,
and may therefore hold existence as dear as more practical persons who
take little heed of their appearance. For when the time came these
gentlemen fought well enough, and ruined their picturesque get-up with
their own blood. And if they shouted very loud in the café, they shouted,
Heaven knows, as loud on the battle-field, when they faced those hated,
deadly, steady Bavarians, and died shouting.
Of such material was the army of the Loire; and when Chanzy came to them
from North Africa--that Punjaub of this stricken India from whence the
strong men came when they were wanted--when Chanzy came to lead them,
they commanded the respect of all the world. For these were men fighting
a losing fight, without hope of victory, for the honour of France. They
fought with a deadly valour against superior numbers behind
entrenchments; they endeavoured to turn the Germans out of insignificant
villages after allowing them time to fortify the position. They fought in
the open against an invisible enemy superior in numbers, superior in
artillery, and here and there they gained a pitiful little hard-earned
advantage.
De Vasselot, still unable to go to the front, was put to train these men
in a little quiet town on the Loire, where he lodged with a shoemaker,
and worked harder than any man in that sunny place had ever worked
before. It was his business to gather together such men as could sit a
horse, and teach them to be cavalry soldiers. But first of all he taught
them that the horse was an animal possessing possibilities far beyond
their most optimistic conception of that sagacious but foolish quadruped.
He taught them a hundred tricks of heel and wrist, by which a man may
convey to a horse that which he wishes him to do. He made the horse and
the man understand each other, and when they did this he sent them to the
front.
In the meantime France fed herself upon false news and magnified small
successes into great victories. Gambetta made many eloquent speeches, and
issued fiery manifestoes to the soldiers; but speeches and manifestoes do
not win battles. Paris hoped all things of the army of the Loire, and the
army of the Loire expected a successful sortie from Paris. And those men
of iron, Bismarck, Moltke, and the emperor, sat at Versailles and waited.
While they waited the winter came.
De Vasselot, who had daily attempted to use his wounded limbs, at length
found himself fit for active service, and got permission to join the
army. Gilbert was no longer a colonel. He was a general now, and
commanded a division which had already made its mark upon that man of
misfortune--von der Tann, a great soldier with no luck.
One frosty morning de Vasselot rode out of the little town upon the Loire
at the head of a handful of his newly trained men. He was going to take
up his appointment: for he held the command of the whole of the cavalry
of General Gilbert's division. These were days of quick promotion, of
comet-like reputations and of great careers cut short. De Vasselot had
written to Jane de Mélide the previous night, telling her of his
movements in the immediate future, of his promotion, of his hopes. One
hope which he did not mention was that Denise might be at Fréjus, and
would see the letter. Indeed, it was written to Denise, though it was
addressed to the Baronne de Mélide.
Then he went blithely enough out to fight. For he was quite a simple
person, as many soldiers and many horse-lovers are. He was also that
which is vaguely called a sportsman, and was ready to take a legitimate
risk not only cheerfully, but with joy.
“It is my only chance of making her care for me,” he said to himself. He
may have been right or wrong. There is a wisdom which is the exclusive
possession of the simple. And Lory may have known that it is wiser to
store up in a woman's mind memories that will bear honour and respect in
the future, than to make appeal to her vanity in the present. For the
love that is won by vanity is itself vanity.
He said he was fighting for France, but it was also for Denise that he
fought. France and Denise had got inextricably mixed in his mind, and
both spelt honour. His only method of making Denise love him was to make
himself worthy of her--an odd, old-fashioned theory of action, and the
only one that enables two people to love each other all their lives.
In this spirit he joined the army of the Loire before his wounds had
healed. He did not know that Denise loved him already, that she had with
a woman's instinct divined in him the spirit, quite apart from the
opportunity, to do great things. And most men have to content themselves
with being loved for this spirit and not for the performance which,
somehow, is so seldom accomplished.
And that which kept them apart was for their further happiness; it was
even for the happiness of Denise in case Lory never came back to her. For
the majority of people get what they want before they have learnt to
desire. It is only the lives of the few which are taken in hand and so
fashioned that there is a waiting and an attainment at last.
Lory and Denise were exploring roads which few are called upon to
tread--dark roads with mud and stones and many turnings, and each has a
separate road to tread and must find the way alone. But if Fate is kind
they may meet at the end without having gone astray, or, which is rarer,
without being spattered by the mud. For those mud-stains will never rub
off and never be forgotten. Which is a hard saying, but a true one.
Lory had left Denise without any explanation of these things. He had
never thought of sparing her by the simple method of neglecting his
obvious duty. In his mind she was the best of God's creations--a woman
strong to endure. That was sufficient for him; and he turned his
attention to his horses and his men. He never saw the background to his
own life. It is usually the onlooker who sees that, just as a critic sees
more in a picture than the painter ever put there.
Lory hardly knew of these questions himself. He only half thought of
them, and Denise, far away in Provence, thought the other half. Which is
love.
Lory took part in the fighting after Orleans and risked his life freely,
as he ever did when opportunity offered. He was more than an officer, he
was a leader. And it is better to show the way than to point it out.
Although his orders came from General Gilbert, he had never met his
commanding officer since quitting the little sunny town on the Loire
where he had recovered from his wounds. It was only after Chateaudun and
after the Coulmiers that they met, and it was only in a small affair
after all, the attempted recapture of a village taken and hurriedly
fortified by the Germans. It was a night-attack. The army of the Loire
was rather fond of night-fighting; for the night equalizes matters
between discipline and mere bravery. Also, if your troops are bad, they
may as well be beaten in the dark as in the daylight. The survivors come
away with a better heart. Also, discipline is robbed of half its strength
by the absence of daylight.
Cavalry, it is known, are no good at night; for horses are nervous and
will whinny to friend or foe when silence is imperative. And yet Lory
received orders to take part in this night-attack. Stranger things than
that were ordered and carried out in the campaign on the Loire. All the
rules of warfare were outraged, and those warriors who win and lose
battles on paper cannot explain many battles that were lost and won
during that winter.
There was a moon, and the ground was thinly covered with snow. It was
horribly cold when the men turned out and silently rode to the spot
indicated in the orders. These were quite clear, and they meant death. De
Vasselot had practically to lead a forlorn hope. A fellow-officer laughed
when the instructions were read to him.
“The general must be an enemy of yours,” he said. And the thought had not
occurred to Lory before.
“No,” he replied, “he is a sportsman.”
“It is poor sport for us,” muttered the officer, riding away.
But Lory was right. For when the moment came and he was waiting with his
troopers behind a farm building, a scout rode in to say that
reinforcements were coming. As these rode across the open in the
moonlight, it was apparent that they were not numerous; for cavalry was
scarce since Eeichshofen. They were led by a man on a big horse, who was
comfortably muffled up in a great fur-coat.
“De Vasselot,” he said in a pleasant voice, as Lory went forward to meet
him. “De Vasselot, I have brought a few more to help you. We must make a
great splash on this side, while the real attack is on the other. We must
show them the way--you and I.” And Gilbert laughed quietly.
It was not the moment for greetings. Lory gave a few hurried orders in a
low voice, and the new-comers fell into line. They were scarcely in place
when the signal was given. A moment later they were galloping across the
open towards the village--a sight to lift any heart above the thought of
death.
Then the fire opened--a flash of flame like fork-lightning running along
the ground--a crashing volley which mowed the assailants like a scythe.
Lory and Gilbert were both down, side by side. Lory, active as a cat, was
on his legs in a moment and leapt away from the flying heels of his
wounded horse. A second volley blazed into the night, and Lory dropped a
second time. He moved a little, and cursed his luck. With difficulty he
raised himself on his elbow.
“Gilbert,” he said, “Gilbert.”
He dragged himself towards the general, who was lying on his back.
“Gilbert,” he said, with his mouth close to the other's ear, “we should
have been friends, you know, all the same, but the luck was against us.
It is not for one to judge the other. Do you hear? Do you hear?”
Gilbert lay quite still, staring at the moon with his easy, contemplative
smile. His right arm was raised and his great sabre held aloft to show
the way, as he had promised, now pointed silently to heaven.
Lory raised himself again, the blood running down his sleeve over his
right hand.
“Gilbert,” he repeated, “do you understand?” Then he fell unconscious
across the general's breast.