“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.
