Chapter 7

One squad climbed nimbly up the ridge to the left. The horses scrambled up the steep ground, dislodging stones and clods of earth. They struggled with straining hocks hard to get up, and seemed to challenge each other for a race to the top. Their riders, in extended order, showed as patches of red and blue against the grey stubble. Up they went, further and further, and then disappeared over the crest. Only one was still visible, but this one was my guarantee that I had good eyes, keen and alert, on my left. Should any danger threaten from that quarter I knew well that he would pass on to me the signal received from his corporal, and I should only have to gallop to the top to judge of the situation myself. I could see the man against the blue sky, the whole outline of his body and that of his horse; the equipment and harness, the curved sword, the graceful neck, the sinewy legs, the heavy pack. I recognised the rider and knew the name of his horse. They were both of the right sort. Yes, I felt quite easy about my left.

On the right the ground dropped sheer to a narrow valley, at the bottom of which flowed a stream of clear water. Among the green trees were glittering patches here and there, on which the sun threw metallic reflections. And on the other side rose heights covered by the forest of Riz. On the edge of this forest I could see the stately ruins of a splendid country mansion. I questioned a boy who was standing on the side of the road, looking at us half timidly, half gladly.

"Tell me, child, who burnt that château over there?"

"_M'sieur_, _they_ did; and they took everything away--all the beautiful things. They even carried everything off on big carts, and then they set fire to the house. But everything isn't burnt, and a lot of them came back again this morning with some horses, and they went on looking for things."

I sent off another squad towards the château, telling them first to follow the edge of the wood and to be careful how they approached it. The men got into the wood by the spaces in the bank along the road and scattered in the thickets that dotted the side of the spur we were turning. I was thus protected on my right.

I went up at a trot to the place where the road reached the plateau, and just as I was on the point of reaching it we were met by a crowd of village folk--men, women, and children--coming along, looking radiant. I saw some of them questioning my advance scouts and pointing in the direction of the north-east. It was the whole population of Le Charmel that had come out to meet us.

Le Charmel is a small village that stands at the meeting of two roads, one leading towards Fismes, the other towards Fère-en-Tardenois. It has the appearance of hanging on to the hillside, for whilst the road to Fère-en-Tardenois continues to follow the plateau, that to Fismes dips abruptly at this place and disappears in the valley. The houses of Le Charmel are perched between these two roads. Thus the people of the village had a good view of the enemy's retreat, and everybody wanted to have his say about it. I turned to a tall man, lean and tanned, with a grizzled moustache, who had something still of a military air, and seemed to be calmer than the others around him. From him I was able to get some fairly clear information.

"_Mon Lieutenant_, it was like this.... They went off this morning early, with a great number of cannons and horses. The artillery went straight on towards Fismes by the road. The cavalry cut across the fields, and disappeared over the ridge you see over there on the other side of the valley. Then towards eight o'clock some of them came back. How many? Well, two or three regiments perhaps, and some guns; and they went down again towards Jaulgonne. I believe they wanted to destroy the bridge. But just as they got to the turn of the hill, pan! pan!--they were fired at. Then, of course, we got back to our houses and shut them up, as the guns began to fire. But when we heard no more reports we came out again, and saw them making off across the fields like the others and in the same direction. But it is quite possible that some of them stayed in the woods, or in the farms, on the other side of the forest of Riz...."

He was interrupted by my non-commissioned officer:

"_Mon Lieutenant_, the scouts ... they are signalling to you...."

I galloped up to them, when they pointed out to me, at about 1,500 yards distance, on the opposite ridge, a small group of cavalrymen near a stack, and, on the side of the slope, a patrol of German dragoons, pacing slowly with lances lowered and stopping every now and then facing in our direction.

I took my glasses and looked carefully at the stack. And then I saw a sight which sent a shiver of joy through me. The horsemen had dismounted and put their horses behind the stack. Three of the men then separated themselves from the rest and formed a little group. I could not distinguish their uniforms, but saw very clearly that they were looking through their glasses at us. Now and again they put their heads together, and consulted the map, as it seemed. A man then came out from behind the stack on foot, and could be distinctly seen, against the sky, sticking into the ground by his side a square pennon which flapped gently in the breeze. As far as I could see it was half black and half white. There could be no doubt that we were confronting a Staff. So the division was not far off; it had halted, and perhaps intended this time to fight at close quarters. I told my men what I thought, and they were overjoyed at the idea that, after all, there was a hope of realising our dream. There was not one of them who doubted that the Division of the Guards had been kind enough to stop its flight, and that our brave light brigade would attack it without any hesitation and cut it to pieces. I dismounted quickly, and lost not a moment in drawing up my report. I wrote down what I had seen and what I had learnt from the inhabitants and then called one of my Chasseurs:

"To the Colonel, full gallop!"

At the touch of the spur the little chestnut turned sharp round and flew down the dusty road like a whirlwind. Meanwhile I carefully posted my men, threw out scouts over the plateau and up to the forest of Fère, and formed patrols under my non-commissioned officers. I then took up my observation post under a large tree which, to judge by its venerable look, must have seen many generations pass and many other wars. The village folk collected around me in such numbers that I was obliged to have them thrust back by my men to Le Charmel. To console them I said: "You must go away. The enemy will take you for armed troops and fire guns at you."

I kept my eye upon my "Staff," and wished my glasses could help me to distinguish more clearly what men I had to deal with. I longed to see what they were like--to examine the faces of these haughty _Reiters_ who for the last four days had been fleeing before us and always refusing a real encounter. I fancied that among them might be found that _Rittmeister_ with the bulging neck and pink cheeks, who, after the orgy of that night at the Château de Condé, had left behind him the cap that I had found hanging from the chandelier in the dining-room. How I longed to see the brigade debouch, and to receive instructions from the Colonel!

I had not long to wait. My messenger soon came back, trotting up the road from Jaulgonne. But the instructions were not what I had expected. I was to stay where I was until further orders, to continue to observe the enemy, and keep a look-out in his direction.

I learnt some details from the man. The greater part of the infantry had already crossed the bridge, and there was also some artillery on this side of the river. As he said this a clatter of wheels and chains caused me to turn my head, and I saw behind us, in the stubble-fields of the plateau, two batteries of 75's taking up positions. Ah! ah! we were going to send them our greetings then, a salute to the pompous General over there, and to his aide-de-camp, the stiff and obsequious _Rittmeister_, whom I imagined to be at his side. I looked on gaily with my Chasseurs at the laying of the guns. How we all loved that good little gun, which had so often come up to lend us the support of its terrible projectiles at critical moments! And those good fellows the gunners loved it too; the men we saw jumping nimbly down from their limber, quickly unhitching their piece, and pointing it with tender care towards the enemy.

Standing on a bank, with his glasses to his eyes, the officer in command gave his orders which were passed from man to man by the markers. And then suddenly we heard four loud, sharp reports behind us. The whistling of the shells, which almost grazed our heads, was impressive, and, though we knew there was no danger, we instinctively ducked. But we recovered ourselves at once to see what effect they had produced.

What a pity! They had fallen a bit short. We distinctly saw four small white puffs on the side of the hill just below the group of German officers. Ah! They didn't wait for another! I saw them make off in hot haste whilst the troopers, stationed behind the stack, galloped off the horses. The man with the flag was the last to go, closing the procession with rather more dignity. But in ten seconds the whole lot had decamped, and the only men we could see were the dragoons of the patrol, who rode back to the ridge at full speed.

But just as they reached it the second battery opened fire, and this time the sighting was just right. The four white puffs appeared exactly over the spot where the Staff had stood a minute before--two to the right and two to the left of the stack. And all we now saw of the patrol was two riderless horses galloping madly towards the woods. Then the two batteries pounded away with a will.

When I had received orders to resume the forward movement and my good Chasseurs had taken up the pursuit again, the gunners had lengthened their range with mathematical precision, and the shells burst on the farther side of the ridge. I took a grim pleasure in imagining what must have been happening there, where, no doubt, the division was drawn up, and whilst I continued to direct my vigilant and expert scouts I amused myself by picturing the brilliant troopers of the Prussian Guard in headlong flight.

V. LOW MASS AND BENEDICTION

One morning in the middle of September, 1914, as we raised our heads at about six o'clock from the straw on which we had slept, I and my friend F. had a very disagreeable surprise: we heard in the darkness the gentle, monotonous noise of water falling drop by drop from the pent-house roof on to the road.

Arriving at Pévy the evening before, just before midnight, we had found refuge in a house belonging to a peasant. The hostess, a good old soul of eighty, had placed at our disposal a small bare room paved with tiles, in which our orderlies had prepared a sumptuous bed of trusses of straw. The night had been delightful, and we should have awaked in good spirits had it not been for the distressing fact noticed by my friend.

"It is raining," said F.

I could not but agree with him. Those who have been soldiers, and especially cavalrymen, know to the full how dispiriting is the sound of those few words: "It is raining."

"It is raining" means your clothes will be saturated; your cloak will be drenched, and weigh at least forty pounds; the water will drip from your shako along your neck and down your back; above all, your high boots will be transformed into two little pools in which your feet paddle woefully. It means broken roads, mud splashing you up to the eyes, horses slipping, reins stiffened, your saddle transformed into a hip-bath. It means that the little clean linen you have brought with you--that precious treasure--in your saddlebags, will be changed into a wet bundle on which large and indelible yellow stains have been made by the soaked leather.

But it was no use to think of all this. The orders ran: "Horses to be saddled, and squadron ready to mount, at 6.30." And they had to be carried out.

It was still dark. I went out into the yard, after pulling down my campaigning cap over my ears. Well, after all, the evil was less than I had feared. It was not raining, but drizzling. The air was mild, and there was not a breath of wind. When once our cloaks were on it would take some hours for the wet to reach our shirts. At the farther end of the yard some men were moving about round a small fire. Their shadows passed to and fro in front of the ruddy light. They were making coffee--_jus_, as they call it--that indispensable ration in which they soak bread and make a feast without which they think a man cannot be a good soldier.

I ran to my troop through muddy alleys, skipping from side to side to avoid the puddles. Daylight appeared, pale and dismal. A faint smell rose from the sodden ground.

"Nothing new, _mon Lieutenant_," were the words that greeted me from the sergeant, who then made his report. I had every confidence in him; he had been some years in the service, and knew his business. Small and lean, and tightly buttoned into his tunic, in spite of all our trials he was still the typical smart light cavalry non-commissioned officer. I knew he had already gone round the stables, which he did with a candle in his hand, patting the horses' haunches and looking with a watchful eye to see whether some limb had not been hurt by a kick or entangled in its tether.

In the large yard of the abandoned and pillaged farm, where the men had been billeted they were hurrying to fasten the last buckles and take their places in the ranks. I quickly swallowed my portion of insipid lukewarm coffee, brought me by my orderly; then I went to get my orders from the Captain, who was lodged in the market-square. No word had yet been received from the Colonel, who was quartered at the farm of Vadiville, two kilometres off. Patience! We had been used to these long waits since the army had been pulled up before the formidable line of trenches which the Germans had dug north of Reims. They were certainly most disheartening; but it could not be helped, and it was of no use to complain. I turned and went slowly up the steep footpath that led to my billet.

Pévy is a poor little village, clinging to the last slopes of a line of heights that runs parallel to the road from Reims to Paris. Its houses are huddled together, and seem to be grouped at the foot of the ridges for protection from the north wind. The few alleys which intersect the village climb steeply up the side of the hill. We were obliged to tramp about in the sticky mud of the main road waiting for our orders.

Passing the church, it occurred to me to go and look inside. Since the war had begun we had hardly had any opportunity of going into the village churches we had passed. Some of them were closed because the parish priests had left for the army, or because the village had been abandoned to the enemy. Others had served as marks for the artillery, and now stood in the middle of the villages, ruins loftier and more pitiable than the rest.

The church of Pévy seemed to be clinging to the side of the hill, and was approached by a narrow stairway of greyish stone, climbing up between moss-grown walls. I first passed through the modest little churchyard, with its humble tombs half hidden in the grass, and read some of the simple inscriptions:

"Here lies ... Here lies ... Pray for him...."

The narrow pathway leading to the porch was almost hidden in the turf, and as I walked up it my boots brushed the drops from the grass. The damp seemed to be getting into my bones, for it was still drizzling--a fine persistent drizzle. Behind me the village was in mist; the roofs and the maze of chimney tops were hardly distinguishable.

Passing through a low, dark porch, I opened the heavy door studded with iron nails, and entered the church, and at once experienced a feeling of relaxation, of comfort and repose. How touching the little sanctuary of Pévy seemed to me in its humble simplicity!

Imagine a kind of hall with bare walls, the vault supported by two rows of thick pillars. The narrow Gothic windows hardly allowed the grey light to enter. There were no horrible cheap modern stained windows, but a multitude of small white rectangular leaded panes. All this was simple and worn; but to me it seemed to breathe a noble and touching poetry. And what charmed me above all was that the pale light did not reveal walls covered with the horrible colour-wash we are accustomed to see in most of our village churches.

This church was an old one, a very old one. Its style was not very well defined, for it had no doubt been built, damaged, destroyed, rebuilt and repaired by many different generations. But those who preserved it to the present day had avoided the lamentable plastering which disfigures so many others. The walls were built with fine large stones, on which time had left its melancholy impress. There was no grotesque painting on them to mar their quiet beauty, and the dim light that filtered through at that early hour gave them a vague soft glow.

No pictures or ornaments disfigured the walls. The "Stations of the Cross" were the only adornment, and they were so simple and childish in their execution that they were no doubt the work of some rustic artist. And even this added a touching note to a harmonious whole.

But my attention was attracted by a slight noise, a kind of soft and monotonous murmur, coming from the altar. The choir was almost in darkness, but I could distinguish the six stars of the lighted candles. In front of the tabernacle was standing a large white shadowy form, almost motionless and like a phantom. At the bottom of the steps another form was kneeling, bowed down towards the floor; it did not stir as I approached. I went towards the choir on tip-toe, very cautiously. I felt that I, a profane person, was committing a sacrilege by coming to disturb those two men praying there all alone in the gloom of that sad morning. A deep feeling of emotion passed through me, and I felt so insignificant in their presence and in the mysterious atmosphere of the place that I knelt down humbly, almost timidly, in the shadow of one of the great pillars near the altar.

Then I could distinguish my fellow-worshippers better. A priest was saying mass. He was young and tall, and his gestures as he officiated were slow and dignified. He did not know that some one was present watching him closely; so it could not be supposed that he was speaking and acting to impress a congregation, and yet he had a way of kneeling, of stretching out his arms and of looking up to the humble gilded cross in front of him, that revealed all the ardour of fervent prayers. Occasionally he turned towards the back of the church to pronounce the ritual words. His face was serious and kindly, framed in a youthful beard--the face of an apostle, with the glow of faith in his eyes. And I was surprised to see underneath his priest's vestments the hems of a pair of red trousers, and feet shod in large muddy military boots.

The kneeling figure at the bottom of the steps now stood out more distinctly. The man was wearing on his shabby infantry coat the white armlet with the red cross. He must have been a priest, for I could distinguish some traces of a neglected tonsure among his brown hair.

The two repeated, in a low tone by turns, words of prayer, comfort, repentance, or supplication, harmonious Latin phrases, which sounded to me like exquisite music. And as an accompaniment in the distance, in the direction of Saint Thierry and Berry-au-Bac, the deep voice of the guns muttered ceaselessly.

For the first time in the campaign I felt a kind of poignant melancholy. For the first time I felt small and miserable, almost a useless thing, compared with those two fine priestly figures who were praying in the solitude of this country church for those who had fallen and were falling yonder under shot and shell.

How I despised and upbraided myself at such moments! What a profound disgust I felt for the follies of my garrison life, its gross pleasures and silly excesses! I was ashamed of myself when I reflected that death brushed by me every day, and that I might disappear to-day or to-morrow, after so many ill-spent and unprofitable days.

Without any effort, and almost in spite of myself, pious words came back to my lips--those words that my dear mother used to teach me on her knee years and years ago. And I felt a quiet delight in the almost forgotten words that came back to me:

"Forgive us our trespasses.... Pray for us, poor sinners...."

It seemed to me that I should presently go away a better man and a more valiant soldier. And, as though to encourage and bless me, a faint ray of sunshine came through the window.

_"Ite, missa est...."_ The priest turned round; and this time I thought his eyes rested upon me, and that the look was a benediction and an absolution.

But suddenly I heard in the alley close by a great noise of people running and horses stamping, and a voice crying:

"Mount horses!... Mount horses!"

I was sorry to leave the little church of Pévy; I should so much have liked to wait until those two priests came out, to speak to them, and talk about other things than war, massacres and pillage. But duty called me to my men, my horses, and to battle.

Shortly afterwards, as I passed at the head of my troop in front of the large farm where the ambulance of the division was quartered, I saw my abbé coming out of a barn, with his sleeves tucked up and his _képi_ on the side of his head. He was carrying a large pail of milk. I recognised his clear look, and had no doubt that he recognised me too, for as our eyes met he gave me a kindly smile.

My heart was lighter as I went forward, and my soul was calmer.

* * * * *

For the last six days we had been quartered at Montigny-sur-Vesle, a pretty little village half-way up a hillside on the heights, 20 kilometres to the west of Reims. There we enjoyed a little rest for the first time in the campaign. On our front the struggle was going on between the French and German trenches, and the employment of cavalry was impossible. All the regiment had to do was to supply daily two troops required to ensure the connection between the two divisions of the army corps.

What a happiness it was to be able at last to enjoy almost perfect rest! What a delight to lie down every evening in a good bed; not to get up before seven o'clock; to find our poor horses stabled at last on good litter in the barns, and to see them filling out daily and getting sleeker!

For our mess we had the good luck to find a most charming and simple welcome at the house of good Monsieur Cheveret. That kind old gentleman did everything in his power to supply us with all the comforts he could dispose of. And he did it all with such good grace and such a pleasant smile that we felt at ease and at home at once. Madame Cheveret, whom we at once called "Maman Cheveret," was an alert little old lady who trotted about all day long in quest of things to do for us. She put us up in the dining-room, and helped our cook to clean the vegetables and to superintend the joints and sweets. For Gosset, the bold Chasseur appointed to preside over our mess arrangements, was a professional in the culinary art, and excelled in making everything out of nothing; so, with the help of Maman Cheveret, he accomplished wonders, and the result of it all was that we began to be enervated by the delights of this new Capua. And how thoroughly we enjoyed it!

We shared our Eden with two other squadrons of our regiment, a section of an artillery park, and a divisional ambulance. We prayed Heaven to grant us a long stay in such a haven of repose.