Rumor had it that the King, the Chancellor, Roon, the Royal Staff,
and the Tinsel Rabble, with the escort of red, blue, and green
Hussars, Guard-Dragoons and Uhlans, had ridden toward Flavigny.
The Warlock placidly followed, traversing the battlefield near
Rezonville. Here bearer-parties of the German Ambulance Service,
with Red Cross helpers, Knights of St. John, volunteers and French
and German surgeons wearing the Geneva badge, were now arriving; and
some progress had already been made in the gigantic task of
separating the wounded from the dead.
The Iron Chancellor was found here, attended by his shadow,
Bismarck-Böhlen, sometimes dubbed "The Little Cousin," other whiles
"The Twopenny Roué," according to the humor of his powerful relative.
The Minister was glancing through the morning's letters, his cousin
was reading him extracts from the _Daily Telegraph_, a parcel of
English papers having arrived. Hard by, squads of fatigue-men, aided
by bloused peasants, were working to finish the second of two
parallel trenches, in length some three hundred feet, near which had
been collected a huge mass of French and German corpses, many
half-naked, the majority of them still in uniform. Carts lumbering
up with fresh loads to discharge continually, augmented the terrible
mound of bodies, a huge percentage hideously displaying the effects
of shell-fire, many in the initial stages of decomposition, hastened
by the sweltering and oppressive heat.
Soldiers went about with huge canvas sacks, filling these with zinc
identification-tags taken from the necks of their dead comrades,
gathering a harvest of watches and purses, the former sometimes of
such value, and the latter occasionally so well-filled with French
money as to suggest that they had previously been taken from the dead.
"_Ach Gott!_" the perplexed officer of Pioneers in superintendence of
the trenching-party kept saying: "More, more, and still more....
What is one to do with so many dead men?"
Some utterance of this kind reaching the ears of the Chancellor, he
turned in his saddle and called to the officer:
"Your trench is too deep, sir, and not half wide enough. Three feet
is sufficient. Lay them in as cooks dispose herrings in oil-pickle,
across in layers and not singly and lengthways--labor and space will
be economized thus."
"Alas, Excellency!" protested the officer, "will not such a method be
very unwholesome? The churchyard at Flauville is already raised four
feet above the pavement of the church."
"Let them lay on fresh dead," said the Chancellor, smiling grimly,
"and stop when they reach to the level of the window-sills. Thus our
good fellows will be able to listen to the Curé's Sunday address.
Meanwhile, bury thick." He added, as Moltke rode up, pointing to the
ground now trodden into mud and littered with French schakos and
_képis_, Prussian helmets and schapkas, knapsacks, arms,
under-clothing, accouterments, brushes, razors, and shoes: "Would not
one call this 'Death's Rag Fair'?" He added as the wind, blowing
over a battery of dead horses, brought with it an odor that made the
senses reel: "Or 'Death's Perfumery Shop' would be as appropriate a
title.... I must advise the King not to breathe this atmosphere
longer, fasting. It might result in dysentery."
Moltke agreed, expanding his thin nostrils: "Truly, the effluvium is
exceedingly bad!"
"Hypocrite!" said the Chancellor, openly laughing. "Do we not all
know that the bouquet of a battle-field covered with slain enemies is
sweeter to you than November violet-blooms."
"Both may be agreeable," said the old war-eagle, "in different
fashion; as the partition of a conquered province, and the
dismemberment of a truffled capon might afford pleasure of two kinds
to Your Excellency."
Said Bismarck, as his cousin reined back and joined the modest
personal staff of Moltke, following at some distance in the rear of
the Commander-in-Chief:
"I prefer the first, if the second appeals to my empty stomach.
Though we must not sell the bear's skin before we have killed the
bear!"
He went on, patting the sweating neck of the brown mare, who had
winced and started as yet another dead-cart shot out its dreadful
load to windward....
"The King has been in favor of keeping the country up to the Marne.
I have yet another idea, which may be too Utopian to realize. A kind
of German colony--a neutral State of eight or ten million
inhabitants, free from the conscription, and whose taxes should flow
to Berlin. France would thus lose a district from whence she draws
her best soldiers--one would cut her claws thus!"
Said Moltke, his clear eyes narrowing in merry wrinkles:
"And draw her teeth as well!"
The Chancellor went on:
"That the annexation of the piece of territory will give jaundice to
the French is a matter of no consequence. Revenge should be made
impossible. Even without annexation we must render them permanently
harmless before we risk their bite. The surrender of the eastern
fortresses of France can alone serve our purpose. We have bought
them with the best of our German blood!"
Agreed the Warlock: "Many noble Prussian families will be plunged in
mourning. Wesdehlen and Reuss, Wedell and Finkenstein have been
killed--Rahden is most grievously wounded, and a whole crowd of
officers commanding regiments or battalions are either badly hurt or
dead. I can but thank Divine Providence that I have suffered no
personal bereavement."
"I echo your thanksgiving," responded the Minister, "though some
pints of my own blood have vicariously been shed."
"I had heard--I had heard somewhat, but feared to touch upon the
matter," said the Warlock. "With the younger olive-branch they tell
me all is well!"
The Chancellor answered, stammering slightly and looking straight in
the other's eyes:
"Bill rode off the field in safety, carrying two unhorsed comrades
out of the leaden hailstorm, one in each stirrup, Cossack-fashion,
and accommodating a th--a third on the crupper of his horse!"
"_Ei--ei_! I had not heard these interesting particulars," exclaimed
Moltke, raising his hairless brows in apparent astonishment. "I did
not know the brave young man had distinguished himself so much! The
Countess will overflow with pride and gratitude.... She writes
regularly, I think Your Excellency told me? Naturally she would be
solicitous for your health."
"I had a letter from her yesterday," returned Bismarck, "in which she
mingles, in equal doses, stern admonition and affectionate advice.
Thus, I am to avoid the French wines, which are known to be
gout-provoking, and be sure to return in time for the celebration of
our wedding-day.... While, remembering, however strongly Paris may
be fortified, that the walls of Jericho fell down when the trumpets
of Joshua were sounded--I am to give Your Excellency no peace, 'until
the modern Babylon is utterly destroyed.'"
"Ha, ha, ha!" The Warlock laughed with boyish merriment, until the
water stood in his clear, keen eyes. "Her Excellency, as I have
often told thee, Otto, possesses a personality of the antique order.
She is of the breed of Judith and Zenobia.... I would also say
Boadicea, but for the Countess's known antipathy to the British race.
So we are to destroy Paris, and what of the Bonapartes and Bourbons
and Orleans?... Have we, then, no cut-and-dried instructions as to
what is to be done with these?"
The Chancellor returned, with immovable gravity of tone and feature,
belied by the amusement dancing in his eyes:
"We are to purge France of the whole lot of them. Though--supposing
the Prince Imperial were to complete his education at a German
University, and thus attain to manhood surrounded by German
influences--Monseigneur Lulu might one day become a subaltern in our
Prussian Army--subsequently to completion of the customary period of
service in the ranks!"
"Capital. Her Excellency is indeed a woman in a thousand." And
Moltke fairly rocked in his saddle with laughter, finally having
recourse to the frayed cuff of his old uniform field-frock for the
mopping of his overflowing eyes. "Thou must paint for the King," he
gasped, "that picture of Lulu as a Prussian private soldier. Do not
fail to tell him--it will be sure to make him laugh."
Said the Chancellor, shrugging his great shoulders:
"He has ridden with Von Roon and the Tinsel Rabble in the direction
of Flavigny, where the French bombardment so greatly endangered him
yesterday. Von Roon will be pouring into the royal ear dismal
details of our losses, which are to be estimated for the Berlin
newspapers at something under twenty thousand, including officers."
"Seventy thousand would be nearer the mark," said the Warlock
placidly. "Nor do I regard it as a heavy price for such a victory as
we have won. Roon, however, is not to be envied an unpleasant duty,
which, for my own part, I prefer, when possible, to leave to other
mouths than mine."
And leaving the battle-field they struck into a road in a cutting
leading east toward Flavigny, and bordered with cottages shattered
and scorched by shell-fire, most of them standing in gardens gay with
dahlias, sunflowers, snapdragons, marigolds, lavender, and phlox.
Every house that boasted a roof was full of wounded French and German
soldiers, most of them lying on bare boards or earthen floors. Oaths
and cries of anguish came from kitchens that in virtue of their solid
tables had been converted into operating theaters;
ambulance-assistants emptied buckets of ensanguined water over the
gaily-colored flower-beds, while bare-armed surgeons, in
blood-stained aprons, came to the doors every other moment to cool
themselves, or fill their lungs with draughts of cleaner air.
"It is sad to see all this suffering," remarked the Chancellor, "or
would be, did one not know it unavoidable!"
Said the Warlock, smiling cheerfully:
"Blood and wounds, dying men and dead men, are the inseparable
concomitants of War. One takes them then as natural, and pays no
heed to them. Did armies fight with truncheons of sausages, and
dumplings stuffed with plums instead of iron shells full of shrapnel,
there would still be deaths in plenty."
The Chancellor said, laughing heartily:
"And the Field equipment of our Army surgeons would consist of
calomel and rhubarb-pills. Here now are a collection of soaked
macaws and paroquets. The fine feathers of the Napoleon's Guard
Imperial have suffered badly from last night's rain."
In two fields right and left of the road they followed were crowded
nearly four thousand French prisoners, under a heavy guard of
Mecklenburg infantry. The Mecklenburgers were drinking their morning
coffee and munching Army bread and raw ham rations. The emerald,
pale blue, and scarlet Imperial Dragoons and Cuirassiers, the
white-mantled, red-fezzed Chasseurs d'Afrique, the green-coated
Chasseurs à cheval, the gorgeous Guides and Lancers, the Voltigeurs,
and the red-breeched, blue-coated grenadiers belonging to individual
regiments, standing as if in the ranks, or lying down in groups upon
the muddy ground where they had spent the last night, looked with
hollow eyes of famine, upon their munching jailers, but disdained to
ask for food.
"They are wet," said Moltke, "for few of them have got their
greatcoats. It is the love of display that leads the French soldier
to throw away what extra weight of covering he carries when he is in
the thick of a _mêlée_, or suddenly called upon to charge. While our
stout fellows will come out of an assault with what they carried into
it."
"Or perhaps a little more!" hinted the Chancellor.
"It may be--it may be!" admitted the Field Marshal. "The French love
for gold-carrying is the cause of that enrichment. Hence most of
their Guard Cavalry officers carry beneath their tunics or in the
pockets of their tight pantaloons netted purses given them by their
women, that stick out in a tempting style. A prod of our German
lance, or a rip from the bayonet, and out pops the purse into the
soldier's fist. You would not call him a thief for taking what he
finds in this manner?"
"I cannot answer for myself," said the Chancellor, turning a laughing
look upon the speaker, "but I can safely predict that my wife would
exonerate him upon Scriptural authority. By the way, I see that your
brigadiers have not thought it worth while to place the French
wounded under surveillance." He pointed to a halting procession of
roughly bandaged casualties in torn and muddy uniforms. "I have
already passed at least a thousand of these limping fellows in red
breeches, and of course there must be thousands more."
"How could they escape?" asked the Warlock, turning his ascetic,
hairless face upon the speaker. "And did they succeed in doing so,
of what use would they be as combatants? All these you see, have
they not been wounded by shell-splinters in the head or arms, or hit
in the legs and feet by our rifle bullets? Why should we burden
ourselves with the maintenance of men who cannot fight against us?
and must be helpless burdens upon their country even were they within
the French lines?"
"I admit the clearness of your Excellency's judgment," said the
Minister, "even while I doubt whether, if some of these red-breeched
rascals happen to be in possession of concealed weapons--there would
not be an excellent opportunity, at this moment, for ridding France
of Bismarck or Moltke."
"Or both," the Warlock amended, "with the aid of a double-barreled
pistol. Look here! Was ever a more startling likeness between a
dead man and a living, than is presented at this moment before Your
Excellency and myself?"
And returning the salute of a young soldier in the white-faced blue
uniform of the Guards Infantry, who in the act of galloping past upon
a powerful if wearied beast, had checked his stride so as not to
splash mud upon the Chancellor and the great Field-Marshal, Moltke
signed to him to halt.
"That he is a relative of Max Valverden's," said Bismarck, "I would
have wagered you a dozen of Moselle, of Comet vintage, if Your
Excellency were not already inclined to bet on the relationship."
"I never bet," chirped Moltke, "except in boxes of chocolate and
gloves with my nieces, and then it is a matter of certainty
beforehand that the little girls are going to win!" And he turned
his narrow, glittering gaze upon the object of his curiosity, who was
now fixed in the front attitude of attention, immovable as an
equestrian statue of painted stone.
"I will not detain you upon what is no doubt a pressing errand," said
the Chief of the Great Staff, smiling amiably in the Guardsman's
rigid countenance. "I merely wished to ask your name, and why it is
that a private soldier of Guard Infantry happens to be riding an
officer's horse?"
"Pardon, General Field-Marshal!" The statue blushed becomingly. "My
name is Carl Bernhard von Schön Valverden, at the service of Your
Excellency. Of my rank in the Army I am hardly at this moment
certain, as I was promoted Corporal and Sergeant yesterday, during
the action of the Guard at St. Privat and Amanvilliers, and am now
acting temporarily as junior Captain of my company, nearly all our
officers having been killed."
"I congratulate you, Sergeant!" rejoined the Field-Marshal cordially,
"and am glad that you, as successor to the family honors of an
officer who served the Prussian Army with distinction, seem likely to
follow in the steps of your relative. Prut!--that was a close thing!"
"Hellishly so!" agreed Bismarck.
For the flushed and laughing face of Valverden had suddenly hardened
and sharpened. With lightning quickness he had drawn a revolver from
a pouch strapped to his belt and fired across the withers of the big
brown mare bestridden by the Iron Chancellor. As the single shot
rang out, another followed almost instantly, and the midmost of a
knot of three dismounted Lancers, their heads, legs, and arms swathed
in clumsy, blood-stained bandages, who had halted to rest by the side
of the muddy road, yelled shrilly and pitched heavily backward,
dropping, with the broken pair of clothes-props that had served him
as crutches, a cavalry holster-pistol that had exploded as it fell.
Said Valverden, stiffening his features in the endeavor to disguise
his almost passionate elation: "Your Excellencies will pardon me, but
I saw the fellow was dangerous...."
"He might with reason," the Chancellor answered, "have entertained a
similar idea of you!" He turned to Moltke, saying:
"Will not Your Excellency give orders that the companions of these
would-be assassins--all upon the road who have witnessed the
attempted outrage--shall be shot without delay? It strikes me also
that more stringent precautions must be taken with regard to
disarming wounded prisoners. The man had a pistol--that goes for
much!"
"Certainly--certainly!" agreed Moltke, beckoning to an aide of his
small Staff, who followed at some distance. He issued some brief
directions, speaking in an undertone, then said, smiling and turning
to Valverden:
"The late Count Max was an excellent marksman with the pistol. You
seem to have inherited this talent of his!"
The Chancellor added, looking at the still smoking revolver: "You
have there a pretty little weapon, apparently of American make!"
"It is one of Colt's six-shooters," said Valverden, smiling. "I
bought it from a non-commissioned officer quite recently, and have
practised with it in the trenches at the animate mark. But of the
ammunition I got with it all has been expended save six cartridges,
one of which I have had the honor to dedicate to the service of Your
Excellencies."
Both the Excellencies laughed, Moltke saying:
"It would be a pity to spoil your shooting, Sergeant Count von Schön
Valverden, for want of a few cartridges. Give me the caliber of your
weapon and I will engage to supply you with a few hundred. And, as
to your promptitude may be owed the priceless life of Count Bismarck,
the silver-sword-knot must be the reward."
"Thanks, thanks! Your Excellency!" stammered Valverden, grasping the
offered hand of the old warrior.
"And the King shall hear how important a service his newly promoted
officer has rendered him," appended the Chancellor, "in preserving to
the Throne and nation of Prussia the greatest of living strategists!"
"Under Divine Providence," said Moltke, devoutly raising his
forage-cap.
"Under Divine Providence," repeated the Chancellor, touching the peak
of his own.
He added, as Valverden, dismissed by a wave of the Chief's finger,
his blue eyes blazing, his blond face aglow with triumph, set his
borrowed spurs to the flanks of his late Captain's charger, and with
a showy bound and demi-volte, galloped furiously away:
"He is as vain as Count Max, but seems to possess more character. I
prophesy he will go far!"
Moltke agreed, slightly glancing after the flying horseman:
"Far--if Heaven preserve him from the clutches of such women as
Adelaide de Bayard. Wouldst thou believe, Otto, the she-fiend spread
her nets to catch that youngster, who out of dare-devilry prevailed
on an officer of her acquaintance to take him to her house?"
"So!" Bismarck turned his large eyes on the withered eagle-face.
"Did the meeting ripen into intimacy?"
Moltke replied:
"Sufficiently so to cause Valverden's family acute apprehension. One
would suppose that she first revolted, then attracted, then
charmed.... The Countess in the anguish of maternal solicitude wrote
a letter to the Colonel of Valverden's regiment.... Fortunately the
call to Active Service diverted the young man's thoughts elsewhere."
Bismarck said, smiling and smoothing his heavy gray mustache with his
ungloved right hand:
"And, happily for her intended victim, an accident befell the
sorceress, which blunted some of the arrows in her quiver of
irresistible charms!"