CHAPTER XXIX.
A BALANCED ACCOUNT.
“Let the end try the man.”
Bad news, it is said, travels fast. But in France good news travelsfaster, and it is the evil tidings that lag behind. It is part of aFrenchman’s happy nature to believe that which he wishes to be true. Andalthough the news travelled rapidly, that Gambetta--that spirit of anunquenchable hope--had escaped from Paris with full power to conduct thewar from Tours, the notification that the army of de la Motterouge hadmelted away before the advance of von der Tann, did not reach Lory deVasselot until he passed to the north of Marseilles with his handful ofmen.
That a general, so stricken in years as de la Motterouge, should havebeen chosen for the command of the first army of the Loire, spokeeloquently enough of the straits in which France found herself at thistime. For this was the only army of the Government of National Defence,the _debris_ of Sedan, the hope of France. General de la Motterouge hadfought in the Crimea: “Peu de feu et beaucoup de bayonette” had been hismaxim then. But the Crimea was fifteen years earlier, and de laMotterouge was now an old man. Before the superior numbers and theperfectly drilled and equipped army of von der Tann, what could he do butretreat?
Thus, on their arrival in France, Colonel Gilbert and Lory de Vasselotwere greeted with the news that Orleans had fallen into the hands of theenemy. It was the same story of incompetence pitted against perfectorganization--order and discipline meeting and vanquishing ill-consideredbravery. All the world knows now that France should have capitulatedafter Sedan. But the world knows also that Paris need never have fallen,could France only have produced one mediocre military genius in this hermoment of need. The capital was indeed surrounded, cut off from all theworld; but the surrounding line was so thin that good generalship fromwithin could have pierced it, and there was an eager army of brave menwaiting to join issue from the Loire.
It was to this army of the Loire that Colonel Gilbert and de Vasselotwere accredited. And it was an amateur army. It came from every part ofFrance, and in its dress it ran to the picturesque. Franctireurs deCannes rubbed shoulders with Mobiles from the far northern departments.Spahis and Zouaves from Africa bivouacked with fair-haired men whosenative tongue was German. There were soldiers who had followed the drumall their lives, and there were soldiers who did not know how to loadtheir chassepots. There were veteran non-commissioned officers hurriedlydrilling embryo priests; and young gentlemen from St. Cyr trying to formin line grey-headed peasants who wore sabots. There were fancy soldiersand picturesque fighters, who joined a regiment because its costumeappealed to their conception of patriotism. And if a man prefers to fightfor his country in the sombrero and cloak of a comic-opera brigand, whatboots it so long as he fights well? It must be remembered, moreover, thatit is quite as painful to die under a sombrero as under a plainercovering. A man who wears such clothes sees the picturesque side of life,and may therefore hold existence as dear as more practical persons whotake little heed of their appearance. For when the time came thesegentlemen fought well enough, and ruined their picturesque get-up withtheir 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 themfrom North Africa--that Punjaub of this stricken India from whence thestrong men came when they were wanted--when Chanzy came to lead them,they commanded the respect of all the world. For these were men fightinga losing fight, without hope of victory, for the honour of France. Theyfought with a deadly valour against superior numbers behindentrenchments; they endeavoured to turn the Germans out of insignificantvillages after allowing them time to fortify the position. They fought inthe open against an invisible enemy superior in numbers, superior inartillery, and here and there they gained a pitiful little hard-earnedadvantage.
De Vasselot, still unable to go to the front, was put to train these menin 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 workedbefore. It was his business to gather together such men as could sit ahorse, and teach them to be cavalry soldiers. But first of all he taughtthem that the horse was an animal possessing possibilities far beyondtheir most optimistic conception of that sagacious but foolish quadruped.He taught them a hundred tricks of heel and wrist, by which a man mayconvey to a horse that which he wishes him to do. He made the horse andthe man understand each other, and when they did this he sent them to thefront.
In the meantime France fed herself upon false news and magnified smallsuccesses into great victories. Gambetta made many eloquent speeches, andissued fiery manifestoes to the soldiers; but speeches and manifestoes donot win battles. Paris hoped all things of the army of the Loire, and thearmy of the Loire expected a successful sortie from Paris. And those menof 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 lengthfound himself fit for active service, and got permission to join thearmy. Gilbert was no longer a colonel. He was a general now, andcommanded a division which had already made its mark upon that man ofmisfortune--von der Tann, a great soldier with no luck.
One frosty morning de Vasselot rode out of the little town upon the Loireat the head of a handful of his newly trained men. He was going to takeup his appointment: for he held the command of the whole of the cavalryof General Gilbert’s division. These were days of quick promotion, ofcomet-like reputations and of great careers cut short. De Vasselot hadwritten to Jane de Mélide the previous night, telling her of hismovements in the immediate future, of his promotion, of his hopes. Onehope which he did not mention was that Denise might be at Fréjus, andwould see the letter. Indeed, it was written to Denise, though it wasaddressed to the Baronne de Mélide.
Then he went blithely enough out to fight. For he was quite a simpleperson, as many soldiers and many horse-lovers are. He was also thatwhich is vaguely called a sportsman, and was ready to take a legitimaterisk not only cheerfully, but with joy.
“It is my only chance of making her care for me,” he said to himself. Hemay have been right or wrong. There is a wisdom which is the exclusivepossession of the simple. And Lory may have known that it is wiser tostore up in a woman’s mind memories that will bear honour and respect inthe future, than to make appeal to her vanity in the present. For thelove that is won by vanity is itself vanity.
He said he was fighting for France, but it was also for Denise that hefought. France and Denise had got inextricably mixed in his mind, andboth spelt honour. His only method of making Denise love him was to makehimself worthy of her--an odd, old-fashioned theory of action, and theonly 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 hadhealed. He did not know that Denise loved him already, that she had witha woman’s instinct divined in him the spirit, quite apart from theopportunity, to do great things. And most men have to content themselveswith 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 waseven for the happiness of Denise in case Lory never came back to her. Forthe majority of people get what they want before they have learnt todesire. It is only the lives of the few which are taken in hand and sofashioned that there is a waiting and an attainment at last.
Lory and Denise were exploring roads which few are called upon totread--dark roads with mud and stones and many turnings, and each has aseparate road to tread and must find the way alone. But if Fate is kindthey 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 ruboff and never be forgotten. Which is a hard saying, but a true one.
Lory had left Denise without any explanation of these things. He hadnever thought
of sparing her by the simple method of neglecting hisobvious duty. In his mind she was the best of God’s creations--a womanstrong to endure. That was sufficient for him; and he turned hisattention to his horses and his men. He never saw the background to hisown life. It is usually the onlooker who sees that, just as a critic seesmore in a picture than the painter ever put there.
Lory hardly knew of these questions himself. He only half thought ofthem, and Denise, far away in Provence, thought the other half. Which islove.
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, hewas 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 hiscommanding officer since quitting the little sunny town on the Loirewhere he had recovered from his wounds. It was only after Chateaudun andafter the Coulmiers that they met, and it was only in a small affairafter all, the attempted recapture of a village taken and hurriedlyfortified by the Germans. It was a night-attack. The army of the Loirewas rather fond of night-fighting; for the night equalizes mattersbetween discipline and mere bravery. Also, if your troops are bad, theymay as well be beaten in the dark as in the daylight. The survivors comeaway with a better heart. Also, discipline is robbed of half its strengthby the absence of daylight.
Cavalry, it is known, are no good at night; for horses are nervous andwill whinny to friend or foe when silence is imperative. And yet Loryreceived orders to take part in this night-attack. Stranger things thanthat were ordered and carried out in the campaign on the Loire. All therules of warfare were outraged, and those warriors who win and losebattles on paper cannot explain many battles that were lost and wonduring that winter.
There was a moon, and the ground was thinly covered with snow. It washorribly cold when the men turned out and silently rode to the spotindicated in the orders. These were quite clear, and they meant death. DeVasselot had practically to lead a forlorn hope. A fellow-officer laughedwhen the instructions were read to him.
“The general must be an enemy of yours,” he said. And the thought had notoccurred 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 histroopers behind a farm building, a scout rode in to say thatreinforcements were coming. As these rode across the open in themoonlight, it was apparent that they were not numerous; for cavalry wasscarce since Eeichshofen. They were led by a man on a big horse, who wascomfortably muffled up in a great fur-coat.
“De Vasselot,” he said in a pleasant voice, as Lory went forward to meethim. “De Vasselot, I have brought a few more to help you. We must make agreat splash on this side, while the real attack is on the other. We mustshow them the way--you and I.” And Gilbert laughed quietly.
It was not the moment for greetings. Lory gave a few hurried orders in alow voice, and the new-comers fell into line. They were scarcely in placewhen the signal was given. A moment later they were galloping across theopen towards the village--a sight to lift any heart above the thought ofdeath.
Then the fire opened--a flash of flame like fork-lightning running alongthe 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, wason his legs in a moment and leapt away from the flying heels of hiswounded horse. A second volley blazed into the night, and Lory dropped asecond time. He moved a little, and cursed his luck. With difficulty heraised 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 shouldhave 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, contemplativesmile. His right arm was raised and his great sabre held aloft to showthe way, as he had promised, now pointed silently to heaven.
Lory raised himself again, the blood running down his sleeve over hisright hand.
“Gilbert,” he repeated, “do you understand?” Then he fell unconsciousacross the general’s breast.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE BEGINNING AND THE END.
“I gave--no matter what I gave--I win.”
The careful student will find in the back numbers of the _DeutscheRundschau_, that excellent family magazine, the experiences of a Germanmilitary doctor with the army of General von der Tann. The story is onetouched by that deep and occasionally maudlin spirit of sentimentalitywhich finds a home in hearts that beat for the Fatherland. Its mostthrilling page is the description of the finding, by the narrator, of thebody of a general officer during a sharp night engagement, across whichbody was lying a wounded cavalry colonel, who had evidently devotedhimself to the defence of his comrade in arms.
The reminiscent doctor makes good use of such compound words as“brother-love” and “though-superior-in-rank-yet-comrade-in-arms-and-companions-in-death-affectionate,” which linguistic facility enablesthe German writer to build up as he progresses in his narration words ofa phenomenal calibre, and bowl the reader over, so to speak, at a longrange. He finishes by mentioning that the general was named Gilbert, aman of colossal engineering skill, while the wounded officer was theCount Lory de Vasselot, grandson of one of Napoleon’s most dashingcavalry leaders. The doctor finishes right there, as the Americans say,and quite forgets to note the fact that he himself picked up de Vasselotunder a spitting cross-fire, carried him into his own field hospital andthere tended him. Which omission proves that to find a brave and kindheart it is not necessary to consider what outer uniform may cover, orguttural tongue distinguish, the inner man.
Lory was shot in two places again, and the doctors who attended himlaughed when they saw the old wounds hardly yet healed. He would be lamefor years, they said, perhaps for life. He had a bullet in his rightshoulder and another had shattered his ankle. Neither was dangerous, buthis fighting days were done, at all events for this campaign.
“You will not fight against us again,” said the doctor, with a smile onhis broad Saxon features, and in execrable French, which was not improvedby the scissors that he held between his lips.
“Not in this war, perhaps,” answered the patient, hopefully.
Again the tide of war moved on; and, daily, the cold increased. But itschill was nothing to that cold, slow death of hope that numbed allFrance. For it became momentarily more apparent that those at the head ofaffairs were incompetent--that the man upon whom hope had been placed wasnothing but a talker, a man of words, an orator, a wind-bag. France, whohas usually led the way in the world’s progress, had entered upon thatperiod of words--that Age of Talk--in which she still labours, and whichmust inevitably be the ruin of all her greatness.
For two weeks Lory lay in the improvised German field hospital in thatremote village, and made the astounding progress towards recovery whichis the happy privilege of the light-hearted. It is said among soldiersthat a foe is no longer a foe when he is down, and de Vasselot foundhimself among friends.
The German doctor wrote a letter for him.
“It will be good practice for my French,” said the artless Teuton, quitefrankly. And the letter was sent, but never reached its destination. Lorycould learn no news, however. In war there are, not two, but three sidesto a question. Each combatant has one, and Truth has the third, which sheoften locks up for ever in her quiet breast.
At last, one morning quite early, a horseman dismounted at the door ofthe house in the village street, where the hospital flag hung lazily inthe still, frosty air “It is a civilian,” said an attendant, inastonishment, so rare was the sight of a plain coat at this time. Therefollowed a conversation in muffled voices in the entrance hall; not aFrench conversation in many tone
s of voice--but a quiet Teutonic talk asbetween Germans and Englishmen. Then the door opened, and a man came intothe room, removing a fur coat as he came. He was a tall, impassive man,well dressed, wearing a tweed suit and a single eye-glass. He might havebeen an Englishman. He was, however, the Baron de Mélide, and his mannerhad that repose which belongs to the new aristocracy of France and to theshreds that remain, here and there, of the old.
“Left my ambulance to subordinates,” he explained as he shook Lory’shand. “Humanity is an excellent quality, but one’s friends come first. Ithas taken me some time to find you. Have procured your parole for you.You are quite useless, they say,”--the baron eyed Lory with a calm andexperienced glance as he spoke--“so they release you on parole. They arenot generous, but they have an enormous common sense.”
The doctor, who understood French, laughed good-naturedly, and the barontwisted his waxed moustache and looked slightly uncomfortable. He wasconscious of having said the wrong thing as usual.
And all the while de Vasselot was talking and laughing, and commenting onhis friend’s appearance and clothes, and goodness of heart--all in abreath, as was his manner. Also he found time to ask a hundred questionswhich the stupid would take at least a week to answer, but his answer toeach would be the right one.
It was during the great cold of the early days of January, that thebaron and Lory turned their backs on that bitter valley of the Loire.They had a cross-journey to Lyons, and there joined a main line train, inwhich they fell asleep to awake in the brilliant sunshine, amid the coolgrey-greens, the bare rocks and dark cypresses of the south. AfterMarseilles the journey became tedious again.
“Heavens!” cried Lory, impatiently, “what a delay! Why need they stop atthis little station at all?”
The baron made no reply just then. The train travelled five miles whilehe stared thoughtfully at the grey hills. It was six months since he hadseen the vivacious lady who was supposed by this one-eyed world to rulehim.
“After all,” he said at length, “Fréjus is a little station.”
For the baron was a philosopher.
When at last they reached the quiet tree-grown station, where even tothis day so few trains stop, and so insignificant a business istransacted, they found the Baroness de Mélide on the platform awaitingthem. She was in black, as were all Frenchwomen at this time. She gave anodd little laugh at the sight of her husband, and immediately held herlip between her teeth, as if she were afraid that her laugh might changeto something else.
“Ah!” she said, “how hungry you both look--and yet you must have lunchedat Toulon.”
She looked curiously from one drawn face to the other as the baron helpedLory to descend.
“Hungry,” she repeated with a reflective nod. “Perhaps your preciousFrance does not satisfy.”
And as she led the way to the carriage there was a gleam, almost fierce,of triumph in her eyes.
The arrival at the château was uneventful. Mademoiselle Brun said no wordat all; but stood a little aside with folded hands and watched. Denise,young and slim in her black dress, shook hands and said that she wasafraid the travellers must be tired after their long journey.
“Why should Denise think that I was tired?” the baron inquired later, ashe was opening his letters in the study.
“Mon ami,” replied the baroness, “she did not think you were tired, anddid not care whether you were or not.”
Lory had the same room assigned to him that opened on to the verandahwhere heliotrope and roses and Bougainvilliers contended for the mastery.Outside his windows were placed the same table and long chair, and besidethe last the other chair where Denise had sat--which had been placedthere by Fate. The butler was, it appeared, a man of few ideas. He hadarranged everything as before.
After his early coffee Lory went to the verandah and lay down by thatempty chair. It was a brilliant morning, with a light keen air which hasnot its equal all the world over. The sun was powerful enough to draw thescent from the pinewoods, and the sea-breeze swept it up towards themountains. Lory waited alone in the verandah all the morning. Afterluncheon the baron assisted him back to his long chair, and all the partycame there and drank coffee. Coffee was one of Mademoiselle Brun’ssolaces in life. “It makes existence bearable,” she said--“if it is hotenough.” But she finished her cup quickly and went away. The baron wasfull of business. He received a score of letters during the day. At anymoment the preliminaries of peace might now be signed. He had not eventime for a cigarette. The baroness sat for some minutes looking at Lory,endeavouring to make him meet her shrewd eyes; but he was looking outover the plain of Les Arcs. Denise had not sat down, but was standingrather restlessly at the edge of the verandah near the heliotrope whichclambered up the supports. She had picked a piece of the delicate flowerand was idly smelling it.
At last the baroness rose and walked away without any explanation at all.After a few minutes, which passed slowly in silence, Denise turned andcame slowly towards Lory. The chair had never been occupied. She sat downand looked away from him. Her face, still delicately sunburnt, wasflushed. Then she turned, and her eyes as they met his were stricken withfear.
“I did not understand,” she said. And she must have been referring totheir conversation in that same spot months before. She was eitherprofoundly ignorant of the world or profoundly indifferent to it. Sheought, of course, to have made some safe remark about the weather. Sheought to have distrusted Lory. But he seemed to know her meaning withoutany difficulty.
“I think a great many people never understand, mademoiselle.”
“It has taken me a long time--nearly four months,” said Denise,reflectively. “But I understood quite suddenly at Bastia--when thesoldiers passed the notary’s office. I understood then what life is andwhat it is meant to be.”
Lory looked up at her for a moment,
“That is because you are nearer heaven than I am,” he said.
“But it was you who taught me, not heaven,” said Denise. “You said--well,you remember what you said, perhaps--and then immediately after youdenied me the first thing I asked you. You knew what was right, and I didnot. You have always known what was right, and have always done it. I seethat now as I look back. So I have learnt my lesson, you see.” Sheconcluded with a grave smile. Life is full of gravity, but love is thegravest part of it.
“Not from me,” persisted Lory.
“Yes, from you. Suppose you had done what I asked you. Suppose you hadnot gone to the war again, what would have become of our lives?”
“Perhaps,” suggested Lory, “we have both to learn from each other.Perhaps it is a long lesson and will take all our lives. I think we areonly beginning it. And perhaps I opened the book when I told you that Iloved you, here in the verandah!”
Denise turned and looked at him with a smile full of pity, and touchedwith that contempt which women sometimes bestow upon men forunderstanding so little of life.
“Mon Dieu!” she said, “I loved you long before that.”
The sun was setting behind the distant Esterelles--those low and lonesomemountains clad from foot to summit in pine--when Mademoiselle Brun cameout into the garden. She had to pass across the verandah, andinstinctively turned to look towards that end of it where de Vasselot hadcome a second time to lie in the sun and heal his wounds--a man who hadfought a good fight.
Denise was holding out a spray of heliotrope towards Lory and he hadtaken, not the flower, but her hand: and thus without a word andunconsciously they told their whole story to mademoiselle.
The little old woman walked on without showing that she had seen andunderstood. She was not an expansive person.
She sat down at the corner of the lowest terrace and with blinking eyesstared across the great plain of Les Arcs, where north and south meet,where the palm tree and the pine grow side by side, towards theEsterelles and the setting sun. The sky was clear, but for a few littlepuffs of cloud low down towards the west, like a flock of sheep ready togo home, waiting for the gate
to open.
Mademoiselle’s thin lips were moving as if she were whispering to the Godwhom she served with such a remarkable paucity of words. It may have beenthat she was muttering a sort of grim _Nunc Dimittis_--she who had seenso many wars. “Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.”
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