The most thoroughly-soaked, on arrival at the threshold of Père-Lachaise, were the officers and others whose wearing of a uniform forbade the usage of the bourgeois defense made illustrious by Louis-Philippe, but which did not save him from revolution—which is a sign of the wrath of the people, as rain is a sign of the wrath of God.
XVI
At the exit from the ceremony that marked, for the Marquise de Foiraubilles, the first step toward the paradise reserved for her by her piety, Monsieur Coffre offered to take General Croppeton back to his house in the Rue Saint-Dominique in his carriage.
Endowed with the flair of an exceedingly subtle artilleryman, the General understood that that proposition on the banker’s part was a polite way of expressing his desire to have a chat with him.
A soldier never runs away; Croppeton, therefore, climbed without hesitation into the silver and gold coupé of which the financier was doing him the honors, and in which Abbé Mortol was already seated.
The door had hardly been closed by the footman than Monsieur Coffre, after having devoted a few remarks to his patriotic apprehensions, started on the much longer chapter of the fears of the disorder and pillage that individual property might have to suffer at the hands of scoundrels and revolutionaries of all kinds, untiringly on the lookout for circumstances propitious to their evil exploits.
General Croppeton raised the stakes of the banker’s terrors. He recalled, one by one, the darkest days of our history, in which the populace had been excited by sinister troublemakers.
“Like that Louis Méripal!” spat Abbé Mortol, disgustedly. “Don’t you think that we have the right to have men like that assassinated?”
“To whom are you talking, my dear Abbé,” the Minister approved. “Believe me, a country has to sink very low to permit a Méripal to measure himself against a Foiraubilles!”
“And to kill him,” added Monsieur Coffre.
“Yes, to kill him, along with his wife, the poor Marquise—and who can tell whether her daughter, the unfortunate Hermine, might not also die of grief?” commiserated Abbé Mortol.
“The General was wrong to fight a duel with his murderer,” opined the banker.
“Obviously! He should have blown his brains out like a dog. That Méripal isn’t even a dog. As you said only yesterday, my dear Abbé, dogs sometimes go to mass when they accompany their masters, while Méripal has never been into a church.”
Abbé Mortol approved discreetly, and said: “It requires dictatorship, a state of permanent siege, the saber always raised, to reduce to silence the atheism that is the cause of all crimes!”
“It’s sure that with a few firing-squads,” growled Croppeton, “we’d finish with it quickly and for good.”
“In sum, what measures are you counting on taking to safeguard our property and persons during the disarray that every war brings?” enquired Monsieur Coffre, anxiously.
General Croppeton made a vague gesture, which might have signified that he was leaving it to the grace of God.
Monsieur Coffre probably did not think celestial power capable of replacing a well-organized police force, for he launched into bitter recriminations against what he called the ingratitude toward him, who had so often put considerable capital at the disposal of works of social conservation and who was still ready to make all the sacrifices necessary to assure order in Paris.
As the carriage had traversed the Champs-Élysées and was passing in front of the Grand Palais, General Croppeton interrupted the banker’s complaints. “Stop the carriage, I beg you. A few minutes should suffice for you to render account that the Government has done its duty—all of its duty.”
Slightly nonplussed, Monsieur Coffre pressed a button hidden in the quilting. The coupé immediately stopped. The General got down, and invited Monsieur Coffre and Abbé Mortol to follow his example. Guiding his companions, he went into the Grand Palais, waving away with an imperious gesture a guard who rushed to block the entrance.
Soldiers of the engineering and logistics corps were unloading ammunition-wagons in which beds and camping equipment of all sorts were heaped up. General Croppeton exchanged a few brief remarks with an officer who appeared to be commanding the operation; then, drawing his two companions to one side, he unveiled the plan that had been elaborated the day before in the Council of Ministers.
Gradually, Monsieur Coffre’s face cleared. He listened with a kind of approving delight to the voice explaining the precautions taken in case of rioting.
“Tonight, thirty-four thousand men will enter here,” General Croppeton explained. “They install themselves with their arms and baggage, the artillery with its equipments and the cavalry with its horses on the ground floor, while the infantry will occupy the first-floor galleries. The army consists of proven soldiers; it’s the one that defeated Haricot VII. To deflect the attention of the population, because it’s important that all this remain somewhat mysterious...”
“Very good! Very good!” approved Abbé Mortol. “Mystery is an invincible force. All durable things rest thereon...”
“Like Eternity,” said Monsieur Coffre, smiling.
“…Troop movement will commence at nightfall,” General Croppeton continued. “In the midst of the multiple comings and goings, the regiments of the African army, all in barracks in Paris or the suburbs, will set out to march to this destination, which only their colonels know. When the last man is inside, the doors will be carefully closed and bolted—for it’s important that not the slightest contact is established between the inside and the outside. It only remains to ensure the provisioning of the troops...”
“I’ll put twenty million francs at your disposal,” Monsieur Coffre offered. “That’s my contribution to the defense of the fatherland.”
“Thank you. That money will be transformed into provisions—but it’s necessary that the provisions reach the soldiers without any breach of the rules of the strictest discretion.”
“That seems to me to be complicated, not to say impossible,” said Abbé Mortol sententiously.
“Complicated perhaps, but the world impossible was long ago struck out of the dictionary that the Ministry of War uses when France is at stake. Our information service has had the good fortune, in fact, to discover a kind of subterranean tunnel linking the Seine to the basements of the Palais. The competent services immediately undertook the necessary explorations and, at present, it has recognized that the route in question, which is about four hundred meters long, is practicable in all its parts.
“Without losing a moment we’ve requisitioned the Naval Construction Yards at the Point-du-Jour in order to put into action the plan that we’ve submitted to a most distinguished engineer. The plan consists of fitting the boats that I intend to use for the subsistence service of the Grand Palais with four wheels. Those boats, manned by naval officers and sailors to whom France can confide its most cherished interests in complete security, will be loaded with foodstuffs at some point on the two banks, inside or outside Paris; under cover of darkness, in silence and secrecy, they’ll be brought to the mouth of the tunnel; there they’ll be moored to a steel cable moved by electricity, which will pull them out of the water, and they’ll roll as far as the location beneath our feet on rails that soldiers of the engineering corps are busy laying now...”
Abbé Mortol and Monsieur Coffre were so literally mute with admiration that they did not pronounce a single word, allowing General Croppeton to continue his explanation.
“We’ve anticipated everything—absolutely everything—to make sure of the blindest devotion of this army, which will, if need be, safeguard public order. The rations will be doubled; all silent, or, at least, not very noisy games will be permitted, and as it’s necessary to envisage the possibility of a long sequestration and young soldiers, even when well-nourished, don’t adapt well to the privation of certain pleasures—which are no longer those of our age, my dear Coffre—the catering corps will recruit an entire battalion of special canteen-girls.
“Exactly. It’s the Devil’s part, my dear Abbé; God’s will be all the more beautiful for it, for I’ve instructed the military chaplains to multiply religious exercises to the maximum.”
“You have a thousand good reasons, General,” Abbé Mortol approved. “Prayer will temper their souls. A soldier who does not have piety is unworthy of the uniform.”
“Permit me to ask,” advanced Monsieur Coffre, “whether munitions of war have been distributed to this army?”
“This very morning,” the Minister affirmed.
“My dear Abbé, I hope you’ll share my opinion: don’t you think that it would be as well to provide these soldiers with normally loaded cartridges and to make sure that the artillery, on whom we’re relying for the salvations of our persons and property, are equipped with murderous shells?
“But of course! It’s entirely necessary to be able to exterminate, if the occasion arises, all fomenters of disorder and rebellion. An army that is not intended to fight the enemy, but to chastise guilty nationals, cannot be content with the theoretical effects of Petitpaon warfare. Its bullets must be veritably capable of puncturing torsos. It’s necessary that its machine-guns can reduce all those who raise their voices to silence.”
“If you think it would be useful,” said Croppeton, already convinced.
“But it’s indispensable!” proclaimed the banker and the priest, in unison.
“Very well—I’ll give orders in consequence,” approved General Croppeton, drawing his two companions toward the exit door.
XVII
Although responsibilities in governmental matters are very often taken on with a light heart by those on whom they fall, General Croppeton was in a state of very painful perplexity. His sleep, haunted by atrocious nightmares, showed him the soil of the fatherland bruised by German boots; one night, he uttered a terrible cry that woke up his aides de camp and brought them running. They found their chief sitting on his bed, angrily lashing out with his fists into empty space while uttering frightful oaths punctuated with fragmentary sentences; “Jeanne d’Arc expelled the English! I’ll expel the Germans!”
He was still lashing out, and the tassel of his night-cap, disturbed by the violence of his movements, struck him in the face—which made him think that his enemies were returning the blows that he was striking.
His orderly officers had enormous difficulty bringing him round and dissipating his patriotic hallucination.
Returned to reality, the Minister of War started weeping like a baby and ordered that he was not to be left alone for the briefest interval,
Meanwhile, Petitpaon did not want to let go of the plan he had conceived, and as he had the entire Council of Ministers with him, General Croppeton was only able to march against the German in his dreams, and in words.
In vain, dispatches arrived in heaps from all points in the east. The populations were alarmed by the sight of the Germans circulating freely without encountering a single obstacle, as if they were at home in a conquered country.
Now the trains were stopping in mid-country; the soldiers were getting off, pillaging the farms and villages and returning to their trains laden with booty, to recommence the same operation further along the line.
“Are they respecting the women?” Petitpaon enquired, in the course of the daily meeting of the Council of Ministers.
“I don’t know! They’re not complaining, at any rate,” replied Charles Miraudel.
“Good!” said Petitpaon. “In spite of everything, the Germans are wrong to attack private property. The laws of war oppose it.”
“But force permits it!” Croppeton concluded. “Since you think it best to adopt a plan that consists of not engaging with the enemy, I believe we can use the same strategy and send our soldiers into Germany. The reciprocity of pillage will enable the populations to be patient.”
Bernard Petitpaon put his head in his hands to appeal to his genius. The latter hastened to come to his aid, and replied: “The idea is acceptable in principle, but it’s necessary to be careful that our soldiers don’t come into contact with the enemy.”
“Orders will be given to ensure an irreproachable reconnaissance service,” promised General Croppeton.
“It’s easy for scouts to cast light on all the movements of an adversary,” said Admiral Théhyx, supportively, who was very enthusiastic about Petitpaon’s plan. “What a day it will be, Messieurs, that sees the enemy caught between the iron barrier of our army and the oceanic wall of fire. Our fleet and the allied fleet will be there, hand in hand! In their turn, our mariners will cry: ‘Fire first, Messieurs les Anglais!’18 Be certain that it will be in the state of cadavers that we see the Germans return to the frontier.”
“On reflection, I wonder whether it might not be wise to enter into Germany by passing through Belgium,” suggested Bernard Petitpaon.
“We’d be violating a neutral territory!” protested Henri Verbuis.
“Oh, that territory has been violated so many times!” said Petitpaon, with a slightly scornful grimace. “Belgium reminds me of a woman I had in the Grand-Mondial company. Several times in the space of a few years she claimed to have been raped. Every time she changed her name in order to reclaim a virginity that didn’t take long to fall prey to a further accident. Thus, the present kingdom of Belgium is a land predestined to the role of battlefield, and it isn’t the badge of neutrality she wears in her hat that will prevent European armies from meeting at the inevitable crossroads of their plains. The Belgians don’t like war, in the same way that the lady I just mentioned didn’t like love. The lady had to be taken by force; Belgium has to resign herself to people fighting on her soil. Nevertheless, I don’t have any pretension to impose my opinion upon you. It’s up to you, General, to direct operations as you see fit. Everyone to his own trade! How many men and France put on foot?”
“About four million, all good soldiers, well-armed and well-equipped,” replied the Minister of War.
“In theory, Russia can mobilize nearly three million,” Henri Berbuis added. “Her Government has given me that assurance. In that country, though, it isn’t just the calendar that’s in retard. I fear that the Russian army won’t be able to enter the campaign for two or three months, and even then, it’s necessary not to rely on it too much.”
“All the more reason for not encountering the Germans right away,” affirmed Petitpaon. How many are they?”
“Our spies have unanimously fixed their number at four million five hundred thousand,” Croppeton replied. “We’ll have England with us; on land, she can put more than five hundred thousand combatants at our disposal.”
“I hope so! We’re the ones who need to set the enemy up for the ocean thrust!” exclaimed Petitpaon. “Will Austria-Hungary and Italy march against us in considerable proportions?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Verbuis. “The Hungarians are perfectly indifferent, not to say hostile, to the plans of the Emperor of Austria. As for the latter, he’s afraid of ending up as the turkey of the farce and he’ll tell himself that if he augments the power of his brutal ally any further, he’ll reserve a terrible insecurity for the future. Nevertheless, I think that Austria won’t dare separate itself from Germany—but the aid she’ll lend won’t exceed half a million men. The Italian nation nurtures sentiments of genuine affection with regard to her Latin sister. Her governments have been able to distract the people temporarily, but gallophobia has been a political trampoline whose springs are as broken today as the puppets quivering on top of it. Italy will remain neutral, and I think many of its children will hold out their hands to us individually...”
“Vive Garibaldi!” put in Pierre Phosphène, who had not yet manifested his presence.
“Adding up the totals,” put in the Minister of Finance, Thunasol, a great lover of figures, “I find in land troops, seven and a half million combatants on the French side and five on the German...”
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�We’ll have the victory without the fleets!” proclaimed Bernard Petitpaon.
“We’ll have numerical superiority, even if the Russians only contribute a quarter or a fifth of what they’ve promised,” Thunasol continued. “In view of the figures of the various coefficients, and allowing for a generous margin of errors...”
“We won’t make any,” Croppeton affirmed.
“Our laurels will be all the greener!” Thunasol continued. “I simply want to establish that even by attributing to us all the factors of inferiority, we’re still sure of victory...”
“On condition that the other countries don’t get involved!” observed Miraudel.
“None of them can have any interest in taking sides for or against us,” said Henri Verbuis. The United States are busy forming Trusts of their own products. It’s too young a country to think about conquests that could only impoverish Europe, and Europe isn’t yet old enough to be transformed into colonies of the New World. The Japanese are busy meditating on the costs of victory. Their country has been exsanguinated by the losses suffered in the last war, which wasn’t a Petitpaon war...”
“Certainly not!” put in the President.
“All the other countries, like Spain, Greece, Sweden, Denmark and Portugal are too fearful of a shock that would compromise their already-unstable equilibrium to get mixed up in a business that the great nations will settle by themselves.”
Abbé Mortol had asked for Captain Sylphe to be released provisionally, but Louis Méripal had protested so violently against such a measure that General Croppeton had not dared to put it into execution.
According to the expectations of the most competent specialists, the great battles would not take place before the end of December.
“Victory will be the New Year’s gift that we’ll offer to France!” Petitpaon declared.
The Petitpaon Era Page 17