As midday chimed in all the belfries in France a dispatch from the special commissioner at Pagny-sur-Moselle brought it to the attention of his hierarchical superiors that a train packed with German soldiers had just crossed the frontier.
“That imbecile shouldn’t have let it pass!” cried the Minister of the Interior, Charles Miraudel, picking up his hat in order to go to see General Croppeton. The latter was already in conference with Henri Verbuis, who had received an official telegram from the German government informing him of the opening of hostilities and notifying him of the names of the arbiters.
“Which way is the train heading? Is it going in the direction of Verdun or toward Nancy?” demanded General Croppeton, his nose in a map.
“I don’t know,” Miraudel confessed.
“It’s hardly worth the trouble of having special commissioners!” complained Croppeton, shrugging his shoulders.
“The train didn’t even stop for the customs,” Miraudel said, in self-justification.
“As long as it doesn’t get as far as Paris!” the President of the Council of Ministers thought aloud—a reflection interrupted by a strident telephonic appeal.
Further dispatches had been received at the Ministry of the Interior. The Director of the Cabinet informed his chief that train after train was now going through the frontier stations at top speed.
“Catastrophes are going to occur!” cried the Minister of Public Works, entering breathlessly. “These people are mad! They’re going through in spite of the signals on red!”
“What do you expect in a time of war!” said Croppeton, swallowing his beard. “What if we were to blow up the tracks?”
“All the trains would be derailed, colliding with one another. You’d kill thousands of men! Petitpaon warfare doesn’t give you the right!”
“The case hasn’t been anticipated!” put in a new arrival, Admiral Théhyx.
“Telegraph the order to blow up the tracks, bridges and tunnels, then!” said Croppeton, enthusiastically.
“I believe that it would be more prudent to refer the matter to the President of the Republic!” put in Pierre Phosphène, less effervescent than usual. “Reprisals are to be feared!”
“That’s true,” replied the Ministers present, putting on their hats in order to go to the Élysée.
Bernard Petitpaon was alone. He was eating lunch, and as emotion constituted an incomparable aperitif and the morning had been particularly fecund in tragic events, he was eating with a very hearty appetite. He interrupted the play of his jaws to give the order to have the Ministers shown in.
After apologizing for receiving them in the dining room, he asked General Croppeton to what he owed the honor of an unexpected visit.
In a few words, the General brought Petitpaon up to date with the situation and asked his opinion regarding the opportunity to blow up the tracks and the engineering works on the railway.
“What? Accidents, with wounded, perhaps dead? Veritable wounded and dead? Do you want to revive the bloody and barbaric customs of ancient warfare? Are we, yes or no, fully in the Petitpaon Era?”
“We are,” said the ministerial chorus, meekly.
“Well then, be worthy of it, and don’t compromise the vigils of my genius so lightly!” Petitpaon thundered, introducing a large slice of mutton into his mouth, which he chewed up with four thrusts of his jaws. “And if you haven’t had lunch yet, sit down! There’s enough to go round, isn’t there, Maître d’Hotel?”
The domestic bowed in a reverence of solemn affirmation, and brought forward seats for each of the guests.
“You were saying, General?” said Petitpaon, to open the conversation.
“The Germans are heading for Paris at full steam!”
“Bravo! Bravo!” judged Petitpaon, serving himself with wine.
“What?” said Croppeton, astonished.
“Bravo! A hundred times, a thousand times bravo! They’re in the process of committing an irreparable tactical error.”
“Oh! Do you think so?” said Admiral Théhyx, bewildered.
“Certainly! By abandoning their country and venturing into our territory, their putting us on the defensive—which is to say, giving us the choice of the time and place of battles. It’s necessary not to lose sight, General, of the advantages resulting from our positions on the terrain, and the skillful opportunism of our movements is capable of far overcoming the slight superiority that a few soldiers more gives our enemies.”
“You’re sure of victory?” General Croppeton put in.
“Obviously! And if there are people who doubt it, they must be thrown in prison. Confidence is to a soldier what the mainspring is to a watch. Suppress them, and arrest the lot! This is what will happen: the enemy armies penetrate into France; they go forward, and keep going forward. We retreat, retreat incessantly. We’re ungraspable! You understand? Ungraspable! The enemy persists in our pursuit; we draw it after us through France!”
“But we can’t allow Paris to be taken!” objected General Croppeton.
“Why not? The enemy won’t be able to hold it. And it will be immobilized for some time within our walls, which will be an unexpected stroke of luck and a further guarantee of success. Reflect, then, that while they abandon themselves to these new delights of Capua, the Russians will have time to install themselves in Berlin! Then, with all possible precautions, we’ll cut off the retreat of the German armies and slowly, methodically, with an irresistible movement, we’ll drive them back to the ocean, where the English fleet will be waiting for them.”
“It’s a plan that even Hannibal couldn’t have conceived!” said Croppeton, admiringly.
“Nor Napoléon!” put in Pierre Phosphène.
“Nor Caesar!”
“Nor Tamerlane!”
“Nor Alexander!”
“Nor Togo!”14
“Nor Carnot!” the Ministers proclaimed, simultaneously, each of them launching the name that seemed to him to established the most flattering comparison.15
Petitpaon thanked his admirers by drinking to their health. “I had another idea, but I admit that it’s inferior to the one I’ve just voiced: we drive the Germans all the way to the Pyrenees and, with a supreme effort, we throw them into the arms of the Spaniards, who don’t have any reason not to side with us.”
“It’s marvelous in its audacity!” Croppeton ecstasized.
“But it’s less reliable. Let’s stick to the ocean and the English. My dear Verbuis, it’s necessary to send an absolutely reliable man to London in order that our plan doesn’t go awry.”
“I’ll go myself!” declared the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
“Good!” Petitpaon approved. “Now, General, you need to take the necessary measures immediately to ensure that no French corps comes into contact with the enemy. As it’s necessary to think of everything, I believe it’s wise to assume Paris in its possession. Needless to say, in that case, we’ll transport the seat of government elsewhere. It’s therefore necessary to evacuate all our troops from the city...”
“In troubled times, it’s difficult to ensure order with police forces alone,” observed Charles Miraudel. “I think it would be prudent to keep thirty or thirty-five thousand men in reserve to be prepared for all eventualities.”
“The African army, composed of battle-hardened soldiers on whom we can rely, merit being designated for that post of honor,” said Croppeton. “It will be complete once it has a new commander.”
“That Méripal had to go and kill the Marquis de Foiraubilles!” groaned Admiral Théhyx.
“Is he dead yet?” Petitpaon asked, for the sake of politeness.
“I don’t know,” Croppeton replied. “An hour ago he was still breathing, but so feebly that the physicians thought that the end was nigh. Since he can’t pull through, it’s to be hoped that he dies today. He can be buried tomorrow with the Marquise. That will save time and money, for a start; then too, I’m sure my old comrade would be glad to make the journey to Père-
Lachaise side by side with the dear companion of his life.”
“Let our good wishes open the gates of Père-Lachaise to him, then!” Petitpaon granted, with a gesture of benediction. “Croppeton, you can nominate his successor; I’ll ratify your choice in advance.”
“Thank you—but out of deference to my old companion in arms, will you permit me to wait, before making that nomination official, until we’ve accompanied him to his final dwelling?” Croppeton interceded.
“As you please!” Petitpaon approved. “But to get back to the African army, it would be useful, I think, to concentrate it in a single barracks.”
“I don’t know of any in Paris large enough,” Croppeton objected.
“There’s the Grand Palais des Champs-Élysées,” suggested Pierre Phosphène.16
“Yes, it would be easy to adapt it,” agreed Croppeton.
“Perfect, perfect!” Petitpaon applauded. “It’s very central, and if the Germans enter Paris, they’ll never think of going to look for soldiers in the temple of the Liberal Arts! Do what’s necessary to install the little army in that ideal location as soon as possible.”
“It’ll be done within three days,” promised General Croppeton.
In spite of the gravity of the questions that had just been discussed, the Ministers, following Petitpaon’s example, had lunched comfortably. As a satisfied conscience ensures a good digestion, they congratulated one another for having done merit to the fatherland.
After having lit a cigar and taken their leave of the President of the Republic, they went their separate ways, each hastening to wherever his duty or his function summoned him.
XV
After having created, in war, the surest and most terrible source of anguish, human beings were quite naturally seized by the desire for a diversion, temporary at least, so they invented palaver.
Indeed, the best means of escaping the reality of something is to talk about it, for speech is a magical garment that disguises forms, modifies colors, makes what which one desires seem closer at hand, and blurs with a fog sounds that one wants to flee. Anyone who proffers plaints and screams in pain only hears his plaints and screams; he escapes the brutal consciousness of his distress and his agony.
It is thus that every man belonging to a nation, susceptible of taking part in a war that has just broken out, experiences a need to make speeches of varying grandiosity about the prospect of eventualities.
The French all possess, in various doses, parcels of oratory genius, and a large number of southerners, justly claiming a very legitimate affiliation with Cicero, Demosthenes or one of their principal rivals, are past masters of the art of talking well and at great length.
That day, so well-supplied with important and tragic events, could not leave eloquences ever-ready to manifest themselves indifferent. In all parts of France they held forth with an incomparable generosity. Accents of terror were manifest in inflections of a natural kind, which the impetuosity of improvisation deprived of all restraint.
In cafés, on street corners, in public squares and on their doorsteps, citizens proclaimed loudly what were, in the circumstances, the elementary duties of Government.
Old men, with a fleeting gleam traversing their dull eyes, told the young about the memorable battles that they had witnessed, and, as the “conscripts” never testify sufficient enthusiasm for their pompous narrations, the “veterans” bemoaned the disappearance of noble and generous ideas.
“Once, not only did people get themselves killed for their fatherland, but their hearts beast faster when they talked about it. Young people nowadays, when they hear the name of France pronounced, blush as if it were that of their mistress.”
“Nowadays, one doesn’t blush at either one of them,” replied some disrespectful adolescent. “Go home and don’t let the fires that your rheumatism needs go out! Don’t worry; we’ll do our duty as you did yours, and later, when we’re your age, we’ll also say to those who will be the young that the past was much better than the present. The links that form the chain of the generation are all the same size and made of the same metal. Everyone prizes the link that his own fingers have molded, just as everyone thinks himself superior to his neighbor. We love the fatherland, we’ll continue to love it, and we’ll defend it until it no longer has an essential reason for being, in the same way that on the day when bread is no longer indispensable we’ll sow roses and lilies instead of wheat.”
The young men meant what they said, and that evening, from the north, the south, the east and the west of the territory, before having received the order to mobilize, they set forth to join up at the various points assigned to them.
Thus, on the morning of the fourth of November, France was not only in a state to defend herself, but also to attack her adversaries.
Russia, which is a country with a very large surface area and lacks rapid means of communication, required a further fortnight to prepare herself.
As for England, her steamships were under pressure, only waiting for the signal to set forth to sail useful waters.
In any case, there was no urgency. The German military trains were still crossing the frontier at hectic speeds, and there was scarcely time, as they approached, to move French trains transporting passengers terrified by the mere idea of a possible crash into the sidings.
No one knew as yet the destination of those carriages packed with enemies, who were insolently smoking their long pipes at the windows, and did not even make the token gesture of tipping their pointed helmets at the guards energetically brandishing signals to stop. They went passed like phantoms, heading northwards, coming southwards again, wandering incessantly all along and through the départements of the east.
Before going to the funeral of the Marquis de Foiraubilles, General Croppeton had convened a Council of War in order that some enlightenment might pierce the thick obscurity of those mysterious maneuvers.
The unanimous opinion was that nothing should be done until further information arrived.
It was, therefore, relieved of any immediate care that General Croppeton, followed by one of his orderly officers, disembarked from his coupé in front of the building inhabited by the spouses Foiraubilles while alive.
An enormous crowd, attracted by the funeral preparations, was cluttering the sidewalks and the roadway, in spite of the energetic invitations to move on issued by the police on duty.
During the night, certain symptoms had given the physicians hope that it was all over for the General, and that by delaying the Marquise’s funeral by twenty-four hours it would be possible to load a double coffin into a single hearse. Dawn had arrived; the general persisted in his condition, which was no longer life but was not yet death.
The most resolute physicians hesitated to have him put in a coffin, impressed as they were by the long list of false cadavers woken up by the jolts of the funereal carriage or the impact of the earth thrown to cover their grave. Furthermore, a corresponding member of the English Society for the Prevention of Premature Burial had got involved and had taken active steps to prevent any imprudence.17
It had therefore been decided to transport the body of the Marquise to Père-Lachaise in a provisional coffin, which would wait there for her husband to come to join her in order to have the simultaneous honor of a definitive sepulcher.
The master of ceremonies asked whether the flowers and wreaths should be placed on the carriage. A grave discussion as held on that subject by the relatives and friends. Many of those supreme testimonies of admiration and sympathy had, in fact, been addressed to the general and not to his spouse, but the Marquise’s family argued forcefully that the poor woman had perished a victim of her conjugal love, and that, on the other hand, the funeral of Narcisse de Foiraubilles had been put off to a date that might be sufficiently distant for the flowers to have faded completely when the moment came to utilize them. It was better, therefore, from all points of view, for the present cortege to take advantage of them.
This reasoning
triumphed, and it was under a multicolored mountain of bouquets and beribboned sprays that the Marquise drew away forever from the house in which she left a husband asleep beneath the wing of Death and a daughter of twenty years who was weeping all the tears in her body.
The pall had confided its cordons to military and political personalities of the highest rank.
With the family marched General Croppeton, in full dress uniform, his breast constellated by civilian and military medals.
In groups, the crowd arranged itself in their wake, and under a gray sky that threatened rain, descended slowly toward Notre-Dame, between a double hedge of curiosity-seekers, which included the two dead men of the African war, buried in their ample white vestments.
Cardinal-Archbishop Pecari had decided to officiate. Clad in his sacerdotal vestments, assisted by a curate who was holding a fully-loaded aspergillum, he was waiting under the porch of his church, his whole body agitated by a senile tremor.
When the mortal remains appeared of the great believer, snatched away, if not in her prime, at least very brutally and without preliminary warning, Monseigneur Pecari rectified his stance. His chin, which, in his youth, had been a “nutcracker” but which now merely drooped, sought the angle most expressive of the divine authority his rank and titles conferred upon him. With gestures of haughty unction he blessed the coffin and delivered himself, without haste but also without slowness, to the accomplishment of the rites.
When the ceremony was over, the body was replaced on the flower-decked hearse, the cordons of the pall were taken up again by the important individuals, and the crowed reformed in procession.
A final blessing from the Cardinal-Archbishop seemed to liquefy the large black clouds in a diluvian torrent. Although the objective of all that water, following the ineluctable law of gravity, was to rejoin the earth, it first saturated the garments and the bodies that barred its route, aided by the umbrellas hoisted by some over others, which channeled in, without wasting a drop, over the heads and shoulders of the followers.
The Petitpaon Era Page 16