“What had they to say for themselves?”
“Oh, that the battle is arranging itself. They’re helping, too. Goin’ to declare Paris an open city and surrender Verdun.”
The General swung round. “You can’t mean that?”
“If you don’t believe me, ask De Richleau. When he heard it, I’d have given anybody ten to one that he’d either have an apoplectic fit or kill that feller Grandmaison on the spot.”
“Archie Murray was right then, in his decision this afternoon.”
“If it was to get you fellers down to Le Havre and back to England, home and beauty in the Brighton Belle, he probably was.”
“No. We had Galliéni here. Just before Messimy was sacked, he made the old boy Governor of Paris. It was a thundering good appointment, as he has both brains and guts. The trouble is that, although he was Joffre’s boss when they were in Madagascar together, he is now in quite a subordinate position to the C. in C., and has only a very limited sphere of action. His reconnaissances report that there are no Huns at all west of Paris, and yesterday our aviators confirmed that.”
Sir Pellinore nodded vigorously. “So they told us at G.Q.G. Von Kluck is wide open. It needs only a kick in the ribs from Maunoury’s lot to fold up the German flank and land the whole German right in the devil of a mess.”
“That’s Galliéni’s view. But ‘papa’ Joffre will give him permission to attack only south of the Marne, not north of it. So I’m afraid it won’t do much good. He came here to ask us to join in, and attack von Kluck from the south; but we turned him down.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, because he hasn’t a shadow of authority to launch a counter-offensive on his own. For another, because, now that we are in better shape, Sir John wrote to Joffre the day before yesterday offering to stand and fight again. But G.Q.G. replied that they thought it better not to for the time being. We can’t afford to be left with our right wing in the air; so we must continue to conform to the general retirement.”
“Do you realize, though,” put in the Duke, “that, not only is von Kluck’s flank open, but he has nothing behind him? The two German Corps allocated to invest Namur, which should now be following him up, have been sent to the East Prussian front. And four others with them.”
Sir Henry gave him a sharp glance. “Are you certain of that? What leads you to suppose so?”
De Richleau told his story as briefly as possible. The General showed a sudden excitement and, when he had done, asked:
“Does Galliéni know this?”
“Not as far as I know. We told de Grandmaison at G.Q.G., but he didn’t seem to think it could make much difference now.”
Sir Henry gulped down the rest of his drink. “Come on,” he said. “We must go to Paris. This may be just the lever Galliéni needs to force Joffre’s hand.”
Two minutes later the three of them were in the car. Again long columns of troops and streams of refugees held them up infuriatingly; so it took them the best part of two hours to cover the twenty-five miles to the capital. But by seven o’clock they arrived at the Invalides, and at a quarter past were with Galliéni.
The Governor was a tall, thin, grey-haired man, with a heavy moustache, very big ears, and slender, nervous hands. A pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez waggled insecurely on his rather fleshy nose. He heard what they had to say, asked De Richleau a few shrewd questions, then stood up and began to pace the room agitatedly, muttering to himself: “So von Kluck has nothing behind him. Von Kluck has nothing behind him. Nothing behind him. Nothing behind him.”
After a few moments he suddenly turned, snatched up the telephone on his desk, and asked to be put through to G.Q.G.
While a line was being cleared for him, Sir Pellinore coughed and said in his appalling French: “We were at G.Q.G. yesterday, mon Général. They told us there that Paris is to be declared an open city, and that Verdun is to be surrendered. Can nothing be done to reverse these terrible decisions?”
Galliéni took off his pince-nez, and they waggled between his fingers with the strength of his emotion. “It shall not be!” he cried. “As long as I am Governor of Paris we shall hold it to the last man. And Verdun will not surrender! I have spoken on the telephone with General Sarrail, who commands there. He declared to me that his honour would never permit him to obey such an order.”
“Bon pour vous!” exclaimed Sir Pellinore. “Et bon pour Général Sarrail. Le vieux esprit de France, eh! Jeanne d’Arc encore!”
The call came through. An incredible conversation ensued. By every means known to the voluble and emotional French, the Governor strove to stir the sluggish brain of his phlegmatic C. in C. at the other end of the line. For twenty minutes he shouted, and at times almost wept, into the telephone. He spoke of the honour of France, of the glory of her Generals, of the bravery of her soldiers. He pleaded, threatened, argued. He said that the blood of the dead on the fields of Lorraine cried aloud for vengeance. Those who had sent them to die must not betray them. He talked of the old days in Madagascar when Joffre had served under him; of comradeship and loyalty; of death rather than dishonour.
At last his spate of words began to cease for brief intervals and, instead, between pauses, he uttered staccato exclamations. Then he put down the receiver. His face was pale but triumphant as he turned to his visitors and cried:
“It is decided! I am permitted to attack north of the Marne. The retreat is halted. Voila! The whole army of France turns about and faces her enemies. Maunoury flings himself on von Kluck to-morrow, the 5th. General battle is to be given at dawn on the 6th.”
Sir Henry Wilson jumped to his feet, seized the astonished Frenchman in his arms, kissed him on both cheeks, then swung him round in a dance—just as he was to do four years later, when a Field Marshal, with Premier Clemenceau at Versailles in the hour of final victory. Sir Pellinore shouted, “Bravo!” clapped his hands and gave De Richleau a slap on the back that nearly knocked him over.
When their excitement had subsided a little, the Governor said: “This chance will never come again. If our blow against von Kluck’s flank fails, we shall have lost the war. Maunoury needs every ounce of support we can give him. I shall strip Paris of her garrison and send it to the front. And it must go to-night. I will commandeer all the ’buses and taxi-cabs in Paris to transport it. The men must be in the line by dawn to-morrow. Every man capable of bearing a rifle will be needed. Every man! Messieurs, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But not a moment must be lost, and I have much to do. You will excuse me now.”
As they left his quiet room Joseph Simon Galliéni was already giving his first orders for the opening move of the battle that was to have more far-reaching consequences than any since Waterloo—a battle that would never have been fought but for his tenacity, courage and indomitable spirit.
When they got outside, the Duke said to Sir Henry: “You heard what he said. Can you sign me on as a Tommy and get me a rifle?”
The General laughed. “No; but I can make a better use of you than that. You talk French like a native, and you’re one of the comparatively few people who know what is really happening. You’ll be invaluable to us as a liaison officer between B. E. F. and old Galliéni. For that sort of work it’s just as well that you should continue dressed as a Brigadier. I’ll put that right with General French when we get back.”
“And what about me?” boomed Sir Pellinore. “Don’t think you’re goin’ to leave me out of this. I may not speak this French lingo over well; hut I’m a darn’ good shot, and it’s not all that long ago they gave me a V.C.”
After considering for a moment, Sir Henry said: “All right. Come back with us to G.H.Q. We’re quite well off for riflemen; but we could use you in our Intelligence room. There are plenty of younger men there who are worrying themselves sick to have a cut at the Hun; and they are trained in modern tactics. We need them with the troops, so it would be a real help if you relieved one of them.”
So they had a quick dinner i
n Paris, then returned to Melun. The British Expeditionary Force was still retreating, and it could not be stopped simply on a conversation between Sir Henry Wilson and General Galliéni. But the retreat was slowed up, and in the early hours of the morning a dispatch rider arrived with a request from General Joffre that the B. E. F. should halt, turn about, and prepare to advance in a north-easterly direction on the 6th.
For those who knew the inner picture, the days that followed were stupendously exciting. Maunoury’s attack caught von Kluck by surprise, and on the following day his spearheads were brought to a halt by the strong resistance of the B. E. F. One of his five Army Corps had been shattered by Maunoury’s first onrush, so he was compelled to turn sideways, then right round, which placed him facing north-west instead of south-east. But in the meantime von Below’s Army, on his left, continued to push south-eastwards, so a great gap thirty miles wide opened between them. Into the gap poured the British and Franchet D’Esperey’s 5th Army, while Foch’s 9th Army took the weight of von Below’s continued attempts to advance. Meanwhile, the four French Armies on the right of the line prevented all attempts of the other five German Armies to break through, and gradually forced them backwards.
It was a battle of giants, but of tired giants. Both armies were near exhaustion even before it started: the Germans from their month-long advance, the French from many casualties and the depression that is inseparable from a prolonged retreat. Just a little more weight on either side would have given the victory to whichever had it. As things were, neither was any longer capable of rushing to the assault, but both held their ground firmly, pressing on the other. For a time everything hung in the balance, and all depended on through which of the closely locked armies a sudden conviction would first run that it must give way because it could stand the strain no longer.
De Richleau’s work took him frequently to Paris, and it was on Monday the 8th—the critical day of the battle—that at about six o’clock in the evening he went into the Ritz for a drink before returning to Melun. As he walked through the lounge, and past a table at which three smartly dressed women were sitting, he heard one of them suddenly exclaim:
“Armand! Mon Dieu! Can it possibly be you?”
Pausing he found himself facing a beautifully corseted lady with fine brown eyes, whose flawless complexion belied her forty years.
“Why! Madeleine!” He smiled as he bent to kiss the plump, heavily ringed hand she extended. “How truly delightful to see you again.”
“But you! Back in Paris after all these years!” With a fingertip she touched one of the scarlet tabs on his khaki tunic. “And as a British General, too! This is a story that I cannot wait one moment to hear. You must tell it to me over an apéritif.”
Turning, she gave the two women who were with her a charming smile and said: “Mesdames, it is not every day that one meets again a friend of one’s youth. I feel sure you will forgive me.” Then she stood up and the Duke, after bowing to her friends, took her through to the ladies’ side of the bar.
She was several years older than himself, and had already been married to the Marquis de Frontignac when he had first known her. But that had not prevented her from teaching him many pleasant things that a young man should know; and their love affair had lasted considerably longer than most of his youthful peccadilloes. They had parted as friends and, although they had not met for many years, still retained a deep affection for one another.
Over their drinks he gave her a suitable account of himself, and for half an hour or so they revived happy memories of the good times they had had together. Then, on a sudden inspiration, she said:
“Armand! I have an idea. You can do me a great kindness, and I am sure you will not refuse. I have never been blessed with children, so, now that I am no longer young, I devote myself to charity. You must lunch with me one day soon, and that will enable me to raise a lot of money.”
In his anomalous position, to re-enter French society was the very last thing he wanted, but she swiftly overruled his protests.
“Be silent please. I will take no denial. You have already told me that as a liaison officer you have to come to Paris every day; so you cannot plead the war to get out of it. Listen now! You are a most romantic figure. Everyone who matters knows how you barely escaped from France with your life. And now you come back to us as a gallant soldier of our Allies. I know a score of wealthy women who would give their eyes to meet you. I shall give a big luncheon party, and afterwards they will give generous cheques to my charity for the privilege of having done so.”
Loath as he was to agree, he felt that he could not possibly refuse such a request from so old and intimate a friend; so they arranged that he should lunch at her house in the Pare Morceau on the coining Friday.
Next day, the 9th of September, and the fortieth day from the German order for mobilization, there came the first indications of the turning of the tide. The Germans, now fully extended, fighting at a great distance from their bases, without reinforcements to call upon, and in desperate fear that their right wing would be completely rolled up, had had enough. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, they began to retire across the Marne and fall back on the Aisne. By the 10th, along the whole front dog-tired French and British troops were staggering forward.
If only von Moltke had retained the two Corps allocated to the investment of Namur, they could have filled the fatal gap between the Armies of von Kluck and von Below. And four other German Corps had been withdrawn for the Russian front. Had those 350,000 men still been in the west, the French could not conceivably have borne their weight. Inevitably the French army would have been borne back, collapsed, and forced to surrender. Had Joffre not thrown away 300,000 men in his senseless assault on the great German fortress line in Lorraine, things would have gone the other way. The exhausted Germans would not merely have been halted and compelled to retire, but routed, and suffered so severe a defeat that the war might have ended by Germany asking in September, 1914, for an armistice.
As it was, another four years’ dogged, unending slaughter, had to be endured before the Kaiser’s mailed fist was finally shattered. But the Germans never again reached the Marne. Paris was saved, and new heart for future ordeals put into the French army. Hour by hour tidings came in that one enemy division after another was giving way; and as De Richleau received the news he felt more than ever that, however hideous the deed he had done upon the train, he was absolved from blame.
On the 11th he gracefully fulfilled the role of guest of honour at the Marquise de Frontignac’s lunch. About thirty people were present, the great majority being middle-aged, heavily bejewelled women. As he was introduced to them, few of their names meant anything to him, but he realized that they were the wives of wealthy men and had social ambitions. In every great capital there were many of. their kind who, for the privilege of lunching with a Marquise and meeting a Duke with an ancient name and romantic background, would willingly give big sums to charity. He was pleased that he had come, as he felt certain that the draw of his presence would enable his chère
Madeleine to make a good haul.
After the meal they adjourned to the Marquise’s salon. An elderly tabby-cat man, of the type who always seems to stage manage such affairs, called for silence. The Marquise produced some notes and studied them for a moment through her lorgnette. Then she addressed the company:
“My dear friends, I have a confession to make. I feel I have got you here to-day under false pretences. Perhaps that was very naughty of me; but I wanted to speak to you about the charity that means so much to me. Now, please don’t be angry. I know how generously you are all giving to the new war charities for our poor, brave wounded. But we should not forget our other obligations. Both in peace and war more people are killed by disease than by bullets. Alas, we cannot stop the bullets of our wicked enemy; but we can help to save lives threatened by disease. Most of you know of the great work in which I am so deeply interested. It is the checking of that great
est of all scourges—Tuberculosis. I want your help—your generous help—to stamp this awful plague out once and for all from our dear France. And I wish to remind you of one thing. I do not appeal to you now only to help to protect the poor. This terrible disease is so contagious that every day it menaces your own dear ones. A consumptive nursemaid may easily give it to your children. No one of us is too rich, too far removed from the slums, of too high station, for our homes not to be threatened by it.
“Let me give you an example. Many of you will recall the beautiful young Archduchess, Ilona Theresa of Austria, who stayed in Paris for a short time this spring, on her way to England. She was then a lovely, healthy girl, full of the joy of life. In the summer she contracted tuberculosis. She became subject to a galloping consumption. Only yesterday I saw the great Swiss specialist, Dr. Bruckner, who has been attending her. He tells me that now he cannot give her more than three weeks to live—”
CHAPTER XXVIII - ACROSS THE RHINE
Two afternoons later, De Richleau was standing in the fringe of a pine wood on the west bank of the Upper Rhine. With the same pair of powerful Zeiss glasses that, eighteen afternoons earlier, he had used to study the German-Dutch frontier, he now scrutinized that between Switzerland and Austria. He had felt then that his life depended on his getting out of the territories controlled by the Central Empires: he felt now that something worth more than his life depended on getting into them again.
Madeleine de Frontignac’s innocent disclosure about Ilona had struck him like a thunderbolt. He had known for a long time that her illness was more serious than she admitted, and latterly that it was a matter for considerable anxiety: but he had not thought for one moment that she was in any danger of death. Yet the Marquise’s report had not been based on idle gossip. She had received it from Dr. Bruckner.
Her terrible words had temporarily paralysed De Richleau’s brain. He felt sure that his social instincts had carried him through the last half hour of the party, and that he had said the appropriate things to her and her guests before leaving; but he could remember practically nothing about that. His mind had become obsessed with the thought that, if Ilona had only a few weeks to live, he must get to her at the earliest possible moment.
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