The disaster

Introduction

On August 30, 1870, General Margueritte, who, since the opening of the Franco-German War, had shown almost unexampled activity and bravery, proceeded to the Monzon plateau, rejoining the routed army of Marshal de MacMahon. A juncture with Bazaine being out of the question, the army proceeded towards Sedan. After camping at Sally, and holding a consultation with General Ducrot, Margueritte reached Illy, near the Illy qalvary, sleeping his troubled sleep on the plateau there, rolled in the same mantle as his comrade in arms. General de Galliffet. When day broke Marshal de MacMahon opened the battle.

On the night of August 31st, the Margueritte division camped near the small village of Vaux, about three miles north of Sedan. The soldiers who slept that night must have been sound sleepers, for there was a ceaseless crackle of rifles in the darkness, a warning that at dawn the battle would recommence with renewed vigour. Indeed, hardly had the light appeared than the fusillade became brisker, and the booming of cannon could be heard on the opposite side of the Meuse, on the left bank.

Projectiles were commencing to deal destruction among Margueritte’s troops. Drawing his men up in echelons, the General was preparing to charge in the direction of Givonne, when suddenly a whole Prussian army corps appeared from the woods between him and the Belgian frontier, and, after establishing its batteries, opened up a hot fire. General Margueritte charged at the head of the 1st and 2nd regiments of Chasseurs d’Afrique. The fight, which had opened at ten o’clock, dragged on for hours. About two o’clock in the afternoon Margueritte was seen to fall suddenly from his horse, with his face to the ground. M. Keverony, his orderly

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officer, at once dismounted, and, taking the general in his arms, saw that his face was covered with blood, that he was unable to speak, but that he had not lost consciousness. Margueritte remounted his horse, and, supported on each side by Reverony and another officer, proceeded under the enemy’s fire towards his soldiers.

“ I shall never forget the spectacle of which I was then a witness,” wrote M. Reverony, in a letter to Mme. Margueritte, which is one of the most stirring military narratives ever penned. ^‘As soon as they had recognised the General consternation was depicted on every face, each feeling what he had lost in losing his well-beloved chief. Every head was bent, swords were respectfully lowered, and one cry issued from every throat : ‘ Long live the General ! Let us avenge him! . . .’ The General thanked them with a movement of his head, and still had sufficient strength to point out the direction of the enemy, striving to cry ‘Forward!’ The regiments made a fresh and murderous charge, and those words, ‘ Long live the General ! Let us avenge him ! ’ were the last which many of those intrepid officers and brave soldiers spoke.” A few days afterwards, namely, on September 6th, General Margueritte died at the house of the Duke of Ossuna, at Beauraing, in Belgium. The bullet which killed him entered the left cheek and came out at the right, doing serious injury to the palate and the tongue.

I do not propose to give a detailed account of the career of this remarkable soldier, the hero who was the father of Paul and Victor Margueritte, whose story of the war of 1870-’7l is here presented to English readers in a translation. Such an account would need a bulky volume, and the few pages at my disposal will only permit of touching lightly on the subject of his eventful life.

Auguste Margueritte was the son of Antoine Margueritte, a quartermaster of gendarmes, and he was born on January 17, 1823, at Manheulle, in the department of the Meuse, in the country .of Joan of Arc, of Franqois de Guise, and of Chevert. His early years were passed in Algeria, in the midst of the wildest adventures. Before he had reached the age of twenty he had served with distinction in a squadron of Moorish gendarmes, notably during the Holy War declared by Abd-al-Kader. When his regiment was disbanded in 1842, D’Allonville, his chief, offered to pay all his

INTRODUCTION.

Vll expenses if he would come to Paris to study for Saint-Cyr. He preferred, however, to enlist as a private in the 4th regiment of Chasseurs d’Afrique, at Toulon, his bravery and his genius for organization soon winning for him rank after rank and post after post in Algeria. When he returned to France from that country in 1861, Margueritte held the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, and at the age of forty-seven he was made a General, at the time the youngest officer of that rank in the French army.

Though General Margueritte was a soldier by profession, he did not love war for itself, rather did he regard it as a necessary evil. As a proof of this may be quoted an extract from one of his letters, written on the eve of an African or Mexican expedition. “ Allons,” he writes, “ il faut encore mettre ces gens-la a la raison et les rosser un peu. Quel ennui ! ” Margueritte’s true role was that of an administrator. His knowledge of the language, manners, topography, and religion of Algeria made him respected among the inhabitants, and successful in work in the carrying out of which others would have failed. And, as has been truly said, “ his name, his works, his prowess are celebrated there — everybody knows of them. They are handed down from father to son ; in the interior of the country, where the black coats of bureaucrats do not appear, he is becoming, is already, a heroic and legendary figure.”

In addition to possessing remarkable qualities as soldier and administrator. General Margueritte had the faculty of literary expression in a marked degree — a faculty which his sons, Paul and Victor, have inherited. His early reading of the Bible and Plutarch undoubtedly served to form that simple, pure, and clear style which is so noticeable in his “ Chasses de I’Algerie ” ; the directness of those letters, “written under tents at random on days when out hunting, or upon the eve of battles, upon improvised tables ” — letters which his sons have done well to collect.

Paul Margueritte, who was born at Laghouat, in Algeria, in 1860, was a pupil at the Prytanee Militaire de la Fleche, and has devoted himself to literature from his youth. He made his debut by a short history of General Margueritte, entitled “ Mon Pere,” and from 1883 to 1896 he has published twenty-three volumes, the most noteworthy of which are “ Jours d’Epreuve,” “ La Force des Choses,” “ Ma Grande,”

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and “La Tburmente”; several volumes of short stories, among which may be mentioned “ Le Cuirassier blanc ” ; and a volume of delicate impressions, “ Le J ardin du Passe.”

Victor Margueritte was born in 1866 at Blidah, in Algeria. His first published work was a small but charming volume of verse, “ La Chanson de la Mer,” which appeared in 1889. He enlisted in the Spahis in 1886, entered the cavalry school at Saumur in 1891, and after four years, during which time he served as an ofiicer in the Dragoons in Paris and at Versailles, he gave in his resignation in order to devote his whole time and thought to literature.

The collaboration of the two brothers dates nearly three years back, when they started work upon “ Le Desastre,” the most important, up to the present, of their joint productions. Several of their short stories, including “ La Parietaire,” are already well known to readers of Cosmopolis. I believe that their first published work appeared in September, 1896.

In the production of such a work as “ The Disaster,” which is the daily narrative of the first part of the Franco- Prussian War, the two authors have been in an exceptionally favorable position. Their sympathy with the subject of war, and the intimate knowledge of the army which the younger brother possesses, has stood them in good stead. Upon the publication of such a work as “ The Disaster,” it is not unnatural that some comparison should be made with M. Emile Zola’s work, “ La Debacle,” though in many ways the two works differ to a considerable extent. It may be as well to point out in what respect. M. Zola has depicted the disorganization of the Chalons army and the Sedan catastrophe. The Marguerittes narrate the heroic struggle of the army of the Rhine at Borny, Rezonville, Saint-Privat, and Noisseville; the long agony of the finest troops in the French army, day after day duped until the fatal hour of the capitulation of Metz by Bazaine. In “ La Debacle ” we have a vivid picture of war from the common soldier’s point of view; in “ The Disaster ” we have a description of war as seen by the officers. Pierre du Breuil, the hero of the story, is an officer of the general staff, and an orderly officer of the Minister of War. He is, consequently, at the very centre of the military movement. At the time of the declaration of war against Germany, he has, like nearly everybody else, illusions which by degrees are destroyed as the war continues

INTRODUCTION.

IX and the country is invaded. The Marguerittes have described the struggle between the conscience and the sense of duty of this officer, between discipline and revolt; the brilliant soiree at the palace of Saint-Cloud, the departure of the imperial train for Metz, Paris at the opening of the war, the disorganization of the army during the first few days of the campaign, the battlefields, the ambulances, the feverish excitement of Metz, the stagnation of the army in the rain and the mud, the horses disappearing by hundreds to provide food for the soldiers, the inhabitants of the Lorrain town encircled by Prussian troops, and, in conclusion, the heart-rending scenes of the capitulation.

It will be found that considerable space is devoted to the suspicious conduct of that remarkable man. Marshal Bazaine. “ The Disaster ” is, indeed, in many respects a character study of the man whose ambition led to his trial for treason, his sentence to death, and, after his escape from Fort Sainte-Marguerite on August 10, 1874, his death in Spain in obscurity.

Unlike M. Zola’s novel, “ The Disaster ” contains its lesson; it is calculated, despite its sadness, to sustain, not to cast down. The author of “ La Debacle ” gives a picture of war upon a majestic scale after the fashion of a Tolstoi; Paul and Victor Margueritte belong to a younger school of writers, their descriptions of battle scenes being more episodic than the novelists already mentioned, so that at times the reader is almost reminded of the work of Stephen Crane in the “ Red Badge of Courage.”

But the Marguerittes have not given us a book wholly devoted to military matters. The affection of Du Breuil’s friend Lacoste for his dog Titan and his horses Musette and Conquerant; the hero’s love for Anine, besides many other incidents and characters too numerous to mention, serve to add brightness to a picture which might otherwise have been gloomy and monotonous. Sometimes we come across a description almost Stevensonian in its charm, as, for instance, that which puts before the reader the little cavalry soldier Jubault playing on his flute in a stable at dead of night the air of Marlbrough s’en va t’en guerre,” the melody striking upon Du Breuil’s ears above the silence of the Ban Saint- Martin “ like an ironical and sad streamlet of water.”

Paris, 1898. FREDERIC LeES.

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PART L

Chapter I

Coffee and liqueurs had just been served by the butlers and servants. The majestic footmen, in green liveries, closed the dining-room doors. In the four large rooms from the Salon des Vernet, where their Majesties were, to the Salon Rouge, the guests were scattered in little groups.

Through the windows opening on to the Emperor’s garden came the gentle night breeze mingled with the scent of flower-beds. The flames of the candles in the chandeliers and branched candlesticks were steady, unwavering, and were reflected to infinity in the tall mirrors. The floors glistened. Tinder the gilded ceiling, upon which were painted mythological triumphs, between the walls sparkling with light, was a movement of decorated uniforms — blue, red, and green; black coats covered with decorations; light dresses and bare shoulders.

Pierre du Breuil was dazed with this state of agitation, and fete. He smiled politely at the last words of Mme. de Vernelay, and bowed without offering a reply. At that moment a stout man came up — a man with a ruddy complexion, white whiskers, and honeyed manner, which was belied, however, by his hawk-like eyes. He was one of the honorary Chamberlains of the Emperor. Formerly the creature of Charles X., and the zealous adherent of Louis Philippe, he had succeeded as the crowning-point in his career in becoming attached, in partibus, to the civil household since its organization. He was disconsolate at now being useless and forgotten, a man eaten up with regret and the necessity of being subordinate. With bitter amiability he asked the

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Major, who was an orderly officer of the Minister of War, for news of his uncle, the Marquis de Champreux, the Chamberlain on duty.

“ You are on your way to him. He is with their Majesties.”

“ And where are they ? ” asked the stout man precipitately.

“ In the Salon des Vernet.”

He had already gone some distance. Du Breuil smiled.

The Salon Rouge was filling. After the grave events of the day, it was easy to see that all who had the entry to Court would be at Saint-Cloud this evening. One by one, in fact, showed their faces — those faces upon which could be read dissimulation, anguish, curiosity, or joy.

The library doors being open, Du Breuil crossed the Salon de la Verite. On the right, and to the left, the Salon de Mercure and the Salon de Venus were peopled by new-comers. There was a constant stream of official personages, members of the diplomatic corps, an ever-increasing crowd of embroidered coats and fresh toilettes from the vestibule of the large apartments.

“ Is that you, Du Breuil ? What are you doing here ? ”

The Major recognised the shrill voice of General Jaillant, one of the directors at the Ministry of War.

“Nothing, General. I have been dining at the palace.”

“ My congratulations.”

There was a suspicion (5f patronizing good-will in the General’s tone of secret envy.

“Well, what fresh in your department? If the Due de Grammont’s speech results in what it forebodes, we shall have some work to do. Everything isn’t very roseate for us. The very idea of saying there are people who envy us.”

“ They are in the wrong. General. The only duty of comrades is to fight. . . .”

“ Bah ! When one has gone through the Italian campaign like you and I, nothing astonishes one. By-the-by, as you are one of the intimates at Court, can you tell me at what hour their Majesties will cross the saloons? Ah, Chenot ! how are you, my old friend ? ”

“Not so bad. Have you heard the news? Good-evening, Du Breuil.”

The Major saluted. The two Generals walked away armin-arm, talking in a low tone.

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Du Breuil looked at Chenot’s arched back and the red swollen neck which pressed against his gold-embroidered collar. The General walked with an unequal and halting step, the stride which he took with his right leg being longer than that which he took with his left. This action, stamping him as worse than a courtesan, was in imitation of the Emperor. Chenot — the stout, insensible Chenot, but a man possessed of great acuteness under his outward appearance of a Danube peasant — seemed to be on the best of terms at the present time with Jaillant. In reality he execrated him.

A new arrival had caused some sensation. The publicist Favergues, a tall pallid man of an ugliness at once spirituelle and malicious, who had been at the palace every day of late, jolted up against a fat, bandy-legged senator.

“Well?” inquired the latter.

“ The people in the streets are restless. Paris is in a state of fever. The Minister’s declaration has resounded like a blow upon a gong. ‘ Vive la Guerre! ’ is being cried on the boulevard.”

“ Yes,” said a deputy of the Opposition, subventioned by the Government, but who nevertheless betrayed both the Right and the Left ; “ but stocks have gone down more than a franc.”

Du Breuil listened with anxiety. He had left the Ministry of War without knowing a thing. Arriving at the palace late, at the very hour of the invitation to dinner which had been transmitted to him by his uncle, the Chamberlain, he had hardly had time to salute the Marquis de Champreux, much less to inform himself of events. However, like a true soldier, he was a fatalist, and allowed himself to drift. War was in the air. Very well, let the storm break!

He approached a group where he recognised the grimacing smile of Mme. de Vernelay, a lady of the palace, who was afflicted with an envy which was kindled by everything, no matter how insignificant. To be envious was to her as natural as the act of breathing to others. Mme. de Vernelay glanced at Du Breuil bitterly. The stout banker, Manhers, rolling his white eyes, was holding forth in a low voice :

“ This teclaration is a crave imprutence. Enrobe vill be tismayed. I haf heard from the Ampassador of a creat power that it would haf been breverable to take diplomatic steps. Nothing is cained by hurrying madders.”

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The Comtesse de Limal interrupted him with an impertinent imitation of his nasal pronunciation. She was a lady of high colour, and her manners were distinctly masculine. Her beautiful bare shoulders were like those church steps which have become polished by the lips of the faithful. She was a charitable woman; long prayers on the part of those who desired were never necessary.

“ Hurrying ? What do you mean ? Oh, war disquiets you, Baron? These Germans deserve a thrashing. And we shall give it them, shall we not, Admiral ? ”

M. La Veronnech, a little old man with a smooth Breton face, and eyes the colour of sandstone, very sad because of the death one after another of his wife and daughter, replied without a sign of enthusiasm :

“ Certainly, madame.”

“ The Duke spoke admirably ! ” exclaimed Comte Duclos, one of the Empress’s friends, in a decided tone. “ Besides, he only acted in conformity with the programme which was decided upon this very morning by the Cabinet.”

There was a tone of arrogance in everything Comte Duclos said, an arrogance which had something to do with the provocative expression in his face, the hard look in his eyes, and his waxed moustache, or perhaps with the annoyance which his wife’s conduct caused him. He adored this superb creature with large, soft eyes, and, it was said, beat her. She deceived him with imperturbable serenity.

“ All the same,” repeated Manhers, “ the pisness has been started too soon.”

Nobody agreed with him. The Comtesse de Limal shrugged her shoulders and, as General Jaillant was passing, took his arm. As he leaned towards the lady, the General — who in his uniform had a dry and puny appearance — fingered his moustache. According to scandalmongers, he had once ardently loved her. Du Breuil then saw advancing towards him the most redoubtable, the most captious of chatterers, M. Jousset-Gournal, a counsellor at the imperial Court, but he could not avoid meeting him — the man stuck like glue.

“Well, my boy,” said M. Jousset-Gournal, whose family relation to Du Breuil allowed of this familiarity of speech, “ what am I to say to you ? ”

He lingered with delight upon his words; his gray eyes sparkled; one would have thought that he was experiencing

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a similar pleasure to that taken by an executioner who is about to torture his victim.

“It was inevitable! Unless one was blind, it was impossible to overlook the fact. The equilibrium of Europe has been destroyed since Sadowa, and sooner or later it was bound to re-establish itself. The occasion is a good one. Southern Germany, where Prussia is by no means honoured, will eagerly seize this opportunity to obtain her independence. What is more, the Northern Confederation will declare itself on our side. Hanover will take up arms. Saxony, it is very evident, will support Austria, which is with us.”

Du Breuil cast a look of despair to right and left, but nobody came to his aid. M. Jousset-Gournal seized him by one of the olive-shaped buttons of his uniform.

“ F ollow me closely,” he said, pulling the button as though Du BreuiFs whole attention was concentrated upon it. “ You must understand I am not bothering myself with what will happen should war be declared; I have nothing to do with that side of the question. That is the business of you specialists. What really interests me is to see my previsions on the point of being realized. To-day is July 6. Well, four years ago to the very day, when I heard of the success of Prussian arms in the provinces, I said to myself : ‘ There is our future enemy.’ And, as a matter of fact, on the following day the question of the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg nearly showed I was right.”

The Marquise d’Avilar, a dowager with bold features and the piercing eyes of an intriguer, passed them. Du Breuil saluted her. M. Jousset-Gournal stuck to him like a leech.

“ Unless I am very much mistaken, we shall very soon splendidly regild the imperial eagles. A Prussian prince reigns at our very doors. How can we think of such a state of things without indignation ? ”

And in a convinced tone of voice he recited, with due hesitation at each comma, so as to taste the sweets of the phrase, a portion of the speech delivered that day by the Minister from the tribune of the Chamber of Deputies :

“ Respect of the rights of a neighbouring people is not a reason why we should suffer a foreign power, by placing one of its princes upon the throne of Charles V., to de-

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stroy the present equilibrium of forces in Europe to our detriment, and jeopardize the interests and honour of France.”

He recommenced with vehemence:

“ The Empire is strengthened by the imposing majority of the plebiscite. The will of France has made itself known. By the mouth of seven million five hundred thousand afiirmations it says to the Sovereign : ‘ Persevere in the way so gloriously opened up by the cannon of Sebastopol and Solferino.’ Dare people pretend that public opinion is disquieted, and that our credit is falling? Let us dictate our reply from Berlin.”

A bilious-looking little man came up and cut short the tedious speech which was upon the tip of M. Jousset-Gournal’s tongue.

What a state of enthusiasm, counsellor ! Considering you are one of the supporters of the Liberal Empire, you are extremely bellicose.”

“ But after the declaration read by the Minister at the Chamber ”

“ The Duke was energetic, but, after all . . . he is a man who prides himself upon making Hapoleons yield simply by squeezing them between his fingers. . . . How, just think: without alliances in case of war we are lost. Austria? A country disorganized and without resources. Italy? That is worse still. Therefore we are alone, going to face united Germany, a country which will rise like a single man. You will then have on the one hand, my dear M. Jousset-Gournal, a strong nation, passionately devoted to its princes, served by numerous troops superlatively well drilled and armed. On the other hand ”

Clement Bris, the playwright, looked fixedly at Du Breuil, who recollected having seen him at the house of the Princess Mathilde. The two men shook hands. Bris’s hand was limp ; contact with it was displeasing. Du Breuil remembered that in the Princess’s saloon, open to the elite in literature and art, Bris had charmed him with a number of others by the sobriety, the clearness, the wit, of his conversation, which was as bitter as truth. On this occasion also he submitted to the irritating charm.

“ On the other hand,” continued Bris, and the Com-

mander could not deny it, “ we have a brave but, nevertheless,

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an inferior army. Our effective forces are feeble and scattered. No army can enter upon a campaign without a special preparation. What is more, the law of 1868, which created the Garde Mobile, has remained a dead letter. Yes, I know very well that we have the chassepot, the mitrailleuse, and that our arsenals are full. ... I am apparently blaspheming.”

Du Breuil, who was hurt at the manner in which this admirably-informed literary man encroached upon his profession, looked at him and envied the intelligence of his bright eyes. Such truths as he had spoken seemed to him to be a little unpatriotic, and dangerous things to say. As a compensation, M. Jousset-Gournal made him feel inclined to laugh. His eyes were so much those of the chatterer, and his lips must ever be on the move. The effect which this stout man produced was one of solemn imbecility. However, his knowledge as a juriscousult was to be admired.

Very well. Why not speak?” he malignantly insinuated. “ The Emperor does not despise any advice, and you are in a position ”

Bris shrugged his shoulders, and said:

The Emperor knows much more than we do. He doesn’t cherish any illusion. Should war become inevitable, he will suffer it, but he does not desire it.”

“ People around him desire it,” said M. J ousset-Gournal, lowering his voice.

And forthwith he entered upon some interminable anecdotes.

“ Good-evening,. Pierre,” uttered a young and cheerful voice. And a white hand was laid on Du Breuil’s shoulder.

“ Is that you, Maxime ? ”

He recognised a club companion, Vicomte Judin, an Embassy attache. They strolled into another saloon.

“Will you take supper with us?” asked Judin. “My trotters will take us in an hour to Tortoni’s. All our set will be there — big Peyrode, little Bloomfield, and Baron Lapoigne.”

All of them came up in Du Breuil’s mind — Peyrode, with his big red nose; Bloomfield, with his turnspit legs; .Baron Lapoigne, an old night-bird, decorated with all manner of orders, who was recognised as an arbitrator in duelling 2

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affairs, and who was without a rival at cards, which he could shuffle like a conjurer. Judin added:

“ Nini Deglaure and Rose Noel will be there. Do come. Rose is free, and you know she isn’t a girl to be frightened at nothing. You know her motto : ‘ Short and good.’ ”

“ No, this evening it is impossible.”

“ Ah, I see you don’t want to be unfaithful to a beautiful lady whose name I won’t mention, but who, at the Opera- Comique yesterday, was looking for you all the evening from behind her fan.”

“ Who do you mean ? ”

That’s all right ! Come, now, don’t blush. I envy you. The Countess was magnificent. She was the admiration of the whole house, and Mme. Herbeau was wild with jealousy.”

“ Because ”

“ Her faithful one, Zurli, left her to go to the Countess, and the fine gentleman remained standing an entire act in her box, leaning over those admirable shoulders of hers. He admired them with that meditative air of the gourmand which he wears, you know, when he eats macaroni.”

“ The comparison is somewhat ”

De Breuil smiled and knit his brows, an action which gave a curious expression to his face. He did not like to hear Mme. de Gui’onic spoken of. He even avoided thinking too much about her. His affection for her had remained in his clear soul like a pool of water after a storm has passed: delicious glimpses of sky, clouds and trees were reflected in it, but the foundation of it all had been trouble. He admitted the fact with ennui. Frank, upright, thoughtless, at times a child, a man contented to live on from day to day, he looked upon love as either a very frivolous or a very serious thing. Women like Rose Noel had an evanescent, a charming effect upon him. But he saw well enough that deep love, allied as it is to fate, had nothing in common with those pleasant meetings at which that bird of passage, woman, when the billing and cooing were finished, plumed its feathers and flew away. In his liaison with Mme. de Gui’onic the thing which he regretted was that he had too long loved her as a friend, not daring to confess the full extent of his desire. The generous gift which she had made of herself had come too late, and was followed with regret, if not with remorse. His sense of loyalty was wounded when he shook the Count

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by the hand, though he well knew he was Isaure’s husband only in name. Such scruples as these he still retained at thirty-three years of age, notwithstanding the fact that he had seen something of life, and that women had always spoiled him.