A DIPLOMAT’S MEMOIR OF 1870

A DIPLOMAT’S
MEMOIR OF 1870

Being the Account of a Balloon Escape from
the Siege of Paris and a Political Mission to
London and Vienna by

FREDERIC REITLINGER

Private Secretary to M. Jules Favre, Vice-President of the
Provisional Government of 1870; Avocat of the Cour
d’Appel, Paris

Translated from the French, by his Nephew,
HENRY REITLINGER
M.A. King’s Coll. Camb.

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1915

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

At a time when Englishmen and Frenchmen are brothers-in-arms, a translation of this curious and little known narrative may be of interest.

It is a record of a somewhat remarkable episode in a stormy and remarkable year. It describes, possibly not without the inevitable bias of one sent on a forlorn hope, the necessary refusals of Gladstone and Lord Granville to intervene in favour of France. But, as the writer quite prophetically declares, the surrender of Alsace-Lorraine and the aggrandisement of Prussia were fated to be the inevitable stumbling-block to peace in Europe, and so “not without moment” to England. This we now know only too well. 1870 was to be the prelude of 1914.

* * * * *

Frederic Reitlinger was not by profession a diplomatist, though circumstances gave him this rôle for a brief and not inglorious moment. He achieved some distinction at the Bar in Paris under the Second Empire, and at the request of Napoleon III., made an exhaustive study of the co-operative movements in England, France and Germany. When the Empire fell, after Sedan, he accepted the position of private secretary to the head of the provisional government, M. Jules Favre. It may well have been his striking and remarkable gift of eloquence—attested to by all who heard him plead in the courts—that prompted Favre and the Government in beleaguered Paris to choose him for the desperate task of attempting to win over the rulers of England and Austria. The effort failed, as it was bound to fail, but not discreditably.

After the Peace of Frankfort, Frederic Reitlinger devoted himself to his practice at the Cour d’Appel. He died in 1907.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
PARIS BESIEGED
The Political Situation

It was the last week in the month of October, 1870. M. Jules Favre, at that time Vice-President and Minister for Foreign Affairs in the National Defence Government, summoned me to his office in the Quai d’Orsay and said:

“You will find it very strange, but since yesterday I have changed my mind. I now wish to entrust you with another mission. I want you to go to Vienna and London. The last news which has reached us makes me hope for a change of public opinion in Europe. There is beginning to be anxiety for our fate; public sympathy seems to be turning in our favour and coming back to us. Europe admires the resistance we are making and is perhaps not far from wishing us successful.”

In his grave and wonderfully modulated voice he described the situation as it appeared to him. Paris was splendid in its courage and enthusiasm; the whole of France was up and decided for resistance; South Germany was discontented with the iron hand weighing upon her, and anxious to finish a war into which she had been dragged against her will, and which was devouring her strength and ruining her country. Finally, Europe returned from her apathy, was deeply impressed by France’s efforts, and looked forward to the end of what threatened to degenerate into a war of destruction which would seriously shatter the equilibrium and general interests of Europe.

I am well aware that this picture was not true at all points; I know that there was much illusion in the hope which animated the Minister’s patriotic heart, of seeing Europe cast aside her inertia and raise her voice on behalf of conquered France against the conqueror ... in favour of a great and generous people which had fought so much for others, and which was now defending its own hearths and the integrity of its national soil against a formidable invasion.

To-day we know all the springs of that steel ring which encircled France and checkmated the whole of Europe by robbing her of all initiative and liberty of movement. To-day it is certainly easy to laugh at these generous hopes, but at that moment they were shared by all. And it would have been difficult in the great, brave town of Paris, where so much devotion, energy and patriotism had united for a supreme struggle for existence, to find spirits sober enough to consider the enterprise a vain one, or sufficiently far-sighted or discouraged to regard such generous promptings as illusions.

You who have lived through the siege of Paris, try and recollect the tremendous change which the situation had undergone since the 4th of September, and admit I am not exaggerating.

After the disaster of Sedan, when the enemy’s columns were marching without obstacle against a Paris shorn of troops, materials and munitions of war,—lacking everything that might allow of further resistance—everyone thought that the war was finished, that the defeat of France was consummated, and that resistance, even for a day, would be absolutely impossible.

We were told at that time to “hold out” a little longer, to resist for only a few weeks, in order to allow public opinion in Europe to awaken. If Paris could defend herself, if she could only maintain herself a few weeks, we were told, the impression in Europe would be immense, and sympathy for us would revive. The provinces would have time to form an army and to come to our rescue, and Europe would be able to raise her voice in favour of an honourable peace.

Such was the language which official visitors to the Quai d’Orsay daily uttered to our Minister for Foreign Affairs; and even if the spirited population of Paris had not peremptorily demanded resistance, communications from the Diplomatic Body, (I am not speaking of their advice, for that they could not give), would have imposed on the National Defence Government the imperious duty of attempting a final effort. And the effort was attempted, and admirably maintained by the heroic town. We were asked to “hold on,” and we did “hold on.”

The great city held out, and not only for some weeks. Nearly two months had passed since the catastrophe of Sedan, two months employed in organising resistance.

At the moment of which I am speaking, Paris had already undergone more than fifty days of siege without weakening. Do I say without weakening? On the contrary, the greater her privations, the greater became her courage; the greater the wastage of her resources, the greater the strength of her resistance. A whole arsenal had been improvised, a redoubtable fortress had been created out of nothing. The ramparts, which at the approach of the Prussians were bare of everything, had been swiftly furnished with cannon, ammunition, and defenders; the peaceable citizens had changed into soldiers, the workshops had become factories for arms—in a word, this charming and beautiful town, the city of wit and pleasure, was transformed into a vast armed camp forming the centre of radiating sectors which united her closely with the ramparts.

The spirit of war had breathed into men’s souls, and manly enthusiasm reigned supreme; unshakable confidence inflamed the most timid minds and filled them with courage. And with courage hope had entered into all hearts, and faith had revived—the faith of soldiers, the conviction of success. All men sincerely believed in it.

How could one admit that all these great endeavours, these generous aspirations, all this sublime devotion should remain sterile, that the intelligence and energy, in a word all the great and wonderful spirit of a nation fighting for its life, should result in deception and vanity!

And would Europe, who was watching us and observing our efforts, remain dumb? Would she shut herself up in selfish indifference, cross her arms and assist as a careless spectator in the mutilation of France, in the humiliation of a great people which had fought so much for others and which was now struggling for existence? Would Europe allow the dismemberment of a great-spirited country, so necessary to the equilibrium and the very existence of Europe? Such a thing was not to be thought of.

So it came about that, when we heard of considerable changes in the public opinion of Europe, and when it was reported that the Powers, astonished at our prodigious efforts, were not disinclined from joining their activities to ours in order to arrive at the conclusion of an honourable peace, we thought the news very plausible, and it found ready credence.

And when M. Jules Favre, changing the purpose of the mission that he wanted to entrust to me before, and which it is unnecessary I should speak of here, asked me to undertake a journey to the Courts of Vienna and London in order to try and interest these Powers more directly in the struggle and to lead them into effective intervention on our behalf, it was well worth the attempt, and I was proud to be its bearer.

Let me explain further.

When the unfortunate declaration of war was hurled into the midst of a peaceable Europe sleeping in profound security, it provoked universal stupefaction and disgust. Every state had reduced its contingents, every parliament had terminated its labours, after casting a smiling and satisfied glance at the complete tranquillity of the universe. Every sovereign was making holiday, or reposing with gently closed eyes in the most retired part of his princely residence. Every people was intent on its affairs and preparing, in absolute security, for the peaceful labours of the harvest. The entire universe was tasting the sweets of a general peace and resting in a quietude threatened by no discord.

The explosion of the “année terrible” crashed through all these countries, awoke every parliament, stupified every sovereign, and irritated every people. The world was disgusted by the nation which had fired off the sacrilegious cannon and let loose the scourge of war into the midst of a situation which was regarded as the Golden Age of universal peace. It was France that had troubled this beneficent peace. It was France that, without appreciable cause, had provoked the frightful struggle. So much the worse for her if she succumbed to what she had herself unchained without a thought for the general interests of Europe.

Such was the opinion, the “state of soul,” as they say nowadays, of Europe at the beginning of the war.

France was completely isolated, in the most distressing sense of the word; that is to say, she not only had not a single ally, but not a single sympathiser. All her neighbours, States, sovereigns, and people, even her oldest friends, had turned from her as from a criminal who had destroyed public happiness.

But when, after disasters without name and precedent in the glorious history of France, the brave population sprang up again under defeat like a steel blade, when after the war of regular armies there commenced a new war of a people which would not surrender, but insisted on remaining erect and fighting with the broken sword picked up on the battlefield of its conquered armies, which insisted on battling for the honour of life and the integrity of its sacred soil, then her most obstinate enemies admired and saluted a resistance unexampled in history, and contemplated with ever-growing interest the struggle of a scarcely-armed people against the best trained, best led, and most formidable armies which had ever invaded an enemy’s country. France, which had yesterday been found guilty of commencing the war, became in defeat the object of admiration and a living image of the civic virtues; Europe recovered from her irritation and began with an anxious eye to follow and to desire the end of an unequal duel.

We therefore had reason to hope that we might find in the great Powers, not only the sympathy with which everyone had been inspired by our resistance, but the firm desire to help us in our efforts at arriving at the conclusion of an honourable peace.

Certainly I could not, and did not, hope to succeed in drawing either England or Austria into a war against Prussia. I knew both countries too well to abandon myself to such an illusion. But what we hoped for with conviction, and what we had reason to hope for, was that the European Powers, in the general interests of the future, would arrive at an entente, and would associate themselves in an effort to obtain from Prussia terms of peace less harsh than those which the latter had proudly been announcing ever since the first days of her victories.

If Austria and England seriously desired this result, then Italy, that beautiful kingdom for whose unity France had poured out the best of her blood, could not withdraw from the union, and Russia, herself a powerful and precious friend of the old King of Prussia, would be happy to serve as mediator between the Powers thus united and Germany.

There was, in fact, reason to hope that the Powers would come to an understanding with the object of speaking the language of reason to Prussia and making her understand, with firmness and resolution, that all Europe was interested in seeing this war terminated by a lasting peace, whose conditions could be accepted without humiliation and without the arrière pensée that a contract, accepted by France against her will and under the force of necessity, might be torn up in time to come. Such were my sincere hopes.

What really happened disappointed these hopes. But that does not prove that we were wrong in conceiving and attempting the enterprise, and there will certainly come a day[A]—perhaps not far distant—when history will judge that European diplomacy then lost one of the most propitious occasions for laying the foundations of a pacifist policy and preparing the era of general disarmament. Already to-day this dream might be realised, to the profit and happiness of all humanity. For if France had not been mutilated, what obstacle would there now be to the general disarmament of Europe?

[A] Note:—M. Reitlinger’s volume was published in Paris in 1899.

* * * * *

We had also received divers reports concerning Prussia’s allies.

Certain individuals, who claimed and believed themselves to be well informed, carried rumours which were really very extraordinary to the Hôtel de Ville. Bavaria and Wurtemburg, it was said, were tired of the war, tired in particular of always seeing their soldiers in the front rank, and ardently desirous of peace. One even went so far as to say that South Germany was animated by great discontent against Prussia, and that a breach was not far distant.

It really needed absolute ignorance of the true situation in Germany to believe even for an instant such chimeras as these. It was certainly true that in the month of July, 1870, neither Bavaria nor Wurtemburg were enthusiastic for a war which the parliaments of these two countries had only voted with difficulty. It is equally true that at the beginning of the campaign, a single small advantage won over the Prussians, even a swift march of the French army beyond the Rhine, would have been sufficient to expose Prussia to the risk of being isolated and left alone in her struggle with France. But the situation had been completely changed since the prodigious and terrible successes of the armies of M. de Moltke.

At the beginning France was feared, and there was no desire to embark on a war whose issue was in doubt. So great was the anxiety, that the Rhine provinces made hasty preparations for receiving the “pantalons rouges.” It was already believed that France was on the threshold, and it was feared that she would cross it from one day to the other. But when it was seen that the French did not arrive, when the Prussians crossed the Rhine and won victory after victory, then immense enthusiasm, an unparalleled delirium, seized the whole of Germany, and the people would have dethroned their kings and driven out their ministers had there been a single one willing to separate himself from the common cause of the German Fatherland’s sacred war against the hereditary enemy.

It was indeed all Germany that was against us. And it required absolute ignorance of her inclinations, of her tendencies, and of her aspirations, to seriously believe that discord could still exist in Germany after the unhoped-for successes of her armies.

* * * * *

It was arranged that I was to leave at once.

In order to receive M. Jules Favre’s last instructions, the day before my departure I went back to see him at the Hôtel de Ville, where the National Defence Government sat every evening until a very late hour of the night. That evening the Council sat till one in the morning. At nine o’clock on the 28th of October my balloon was to leave the Gare d’Orléans.

* * * * *

In the next chapter the reader will find a description of my journey; it was adventurous enough in all conscience, but I have not allowed the story of it to come before the necessary resumé of the political situation and of the sentiments of Europe towards ourselves.

I cannot, however, resist a desire to describe a scene which I witnessed en route, and which moved me to tears. The reader will excuse me if I tell it here. He will not read it without emotion.

Early one morning, in the beautiful Norman countryside between Eu and Dieppe, if I am not mistaken, we met a hundred or so young recruits on the road, freshly enrolled for the terrible war. They were very lightly clad, as if for a summer excursion to the country.

The biting morning wind whistled cruelly through their cotton trousers, and I felt my teeth chatter with cold, but these brave Norman boys did not feel the cold. They marched on gaily, singing the Marseillaise, and when they passed our carriage they waved their felt hats in token of gaiety, as if they were going to a fête, and, carried away by enthusiasm, they cried, “Vive la République! Vive la France!”

A tear fell from my eye—one of those bitter tears that run silently along one’s cheek, like the overflow of a great grief. I wiped my eyes and whispered, “E pur si muove.”

Such gaiety in the face of danger, such conviction, such sublime faith in the midst of so many ruins! Is not this the fundamental strength of the French character and its great superiority, in spite of the proverbial fickleness with which it has been reproached since the time of Cæsar? Is not this the secret of the immense resilience and strength of our country?

“E pur si muove!” Yes, the cause of such a people could not be lost. It must force fortune to smile and victory to return to its banners.

Everywhere I met the same enthusiasm and the same confidence in our final success, and certainly, had it been within the bounds of human possibility to repair the disasters of the terrible campaign, France would have accomplished the miracle and would not have succumbed.

“Si Pergama dextra
Defendi possent: etiam hac defense fuissent.”

But against physical impossibilities no struggle can succeed; all strength exhausts itself, the strong will weakens, and patriotism, courage and resistance to the last, every prodigy of flaming love for one’s country, is impotent to effect the impossible—impotent to do what is beyond human strength.

Many have criticised the desperate efforts of a people who refuse to recognise that they are beaten, and do not acknowledge the evidence of defeat; but these are precisely the efforts which, in spite of final defeat, will be written in its history in letters of gold.

All the victories and glories, all the past grandeurs of the nation, pale in the presence of the greatness, unique in history, of a vanquished people which would not despair and would not surrender, a people which, when its Government, its army, its generals, all had foundered around it, alone remained upright to save its honour, grasping in one hand its flag and in the other the hilt of its broken sword.

* * * * *

I was convinced, in the course of my journey across Europe, and particularly by my welcome in Austria and England, that France, who was detested at the beginning of the war for having suddenly lit such a formidable fire, had reconquered general esteem by the energy she showed in the midst of her disasters.

M. de Chaudordy, whom I saw at Tours, gave me much encouragement in the interviews I had with him before leaving for Vienna. This gentleman was in daily communication with the representatives of the Powers at Tours and so was better able than we, who had been shut up in Paris, to give an exact estimate of the opinion of Europe and the changes it had undergone. He assured me that M. Jules Favre was right in telling me that there was a considerable move in our favour in the sympathies of Europe.

He also, without abandoning himself to over-sanguine ideas, hoped much from this change of opinion. He thought that the efforts which I was about to make in the Cabinets of Vienna and London ought to be attempted, and that they might very well produce satisfactory results.

Under these circumstances I was all impatience to leave and arrive at Vienna, since, according to my instructions, the Austrian Government was the first that I was to address. But before going to Vienna I wanted to inform myself as to the situation in Germany, in order to be able to speak with full connaissance de cause.

I left Tours in the first days of November, and directed my course towards Germany.

CHAPTER II
THE DEPARTURE

Our departure from Paris was fixed for the 28th of October, at nine in the morning.

It was a beautifully fresh and clear day. The sky was cloudless and the sun sent its fairest rays over the earth, while an icy wind swept the calm and deserted streets of the capital. In spite of the early hour there were already many people standing round the balloon, which was being inflated. Two or three hundred of the curious had come to watch our departure.

When I arrived the balloon was filling slowly and pompously. It was already beginning to leave the ground, little by little and majestically, like a giant rising out of the earth.

Its formidable mass was soon entirely upright, and balanced and shifted as if impatient to take flight.

Now it has mounted and floats in the wind over its little “nacelle” or car, the latter still firmly attached to the ground to allow its cargo to be loaded.

The car was packed with five or six mail-bags full of correspondence and depêches—thousands of little letters, on the fine paper invented during the Siege of Paris for the needs of a new correspondence service through the clouds—rare and impatiently expected messages which distributed to France outside the solace of a written line and a living signal from the beloved ones shut up within the ramparts.

When all was loaded, it was the passengers’ turn. Before going up it was necessary to know the direction of the wind. As all the east of France was already invested, balloons could only leave with some chance of safety if the wind blew towards the west.

This was the only precaution taken in despatching balloons, which were left literally to the mercy of the winds. Our party had not even a compass to indicate the direction we were taking, as if the winds always remained the same and never changed, and as if it were sufficient to know its direction at departure in order also to know where we should arrive.

Our departure was accordingly preceded by a “ballon d’essai,” which was let up in order to explore the air and show the direction of the wind. The direction was a good one, and the wind propitious—obstrictis aliis, praeter Iapiga.—The wind showed itself from the east, and the little pioneer balloon went off gaily, promptly to disappear over the western horizon. Then came a solemn voice: “Messieurs les voyageurs en ballon!” I shall never forget that voice; I can hear it in my ears to-day.

Messieurs les voyageurs, en ballon! A quick, last goodbye to one’s friends, then up the little rope ladder which leads to the basket and a last look back. A last handshake, and here we are, seated in our aerial craft, bound for an unknown destination.

The unknown always contains an element of the fearsome, and without being exactly anxious as regards the physical dangers of our journey, we had a certain feeling of solemnity when the basket left the earth. There were three passengers—M. Cassier, the Director of the French pigeon-post—who had brought a number of his faithful messengers with him; a sailor, who acted as an improvised aeronaut; and myself.

We all made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the little wicker seats which were fitted inside the basket. There were two of these, facing each other, and on each there was room for two persons. Piled up at our feet at the bottom of the basket were the sacks of depêches and letters, and the ballast. The anchor was firmly fastened to the side of the basket, fastened even too firmly, and altogether too heavy to be of use in case of accidents.

The whole thing might have weighed about a ton. As soon as we were seated, the balloon began to tack about. Our departure was not effected without difficulty. The balloon had to be guided so as to leave it a free passage, in order that in its ascent it should not encounter and demolish the roofs of the houses surrounding the open space of the Gare d’Orleans. This was not an easy operation; it required time and a certain amount of skill on the part of those who were holding on to the balloon and watching its ascent, and who were only supposed to let it entirely free when the basket had passed the tops of the houses. These complicated manœuvres were long and gave us time to look around us and think....

Suddenly we heard the sacramental words, “Let go.” The moment had arrived.

All hands simultaneously let go of the ropes and quickly cut the moorings. The balloon was free, and mounted swiftly, turning round its axis, great and majestic as an eagle in flight. “Bon voyage, bold travellers, bon voyage!” shouted the crowd, and everybody waved their hands, handkerchiefs, and hats. There were even flags floating gaily in the breeze. It was a touching thing to see all these arms held out to us, and sending us a last goodbye from the beloved earth which we were leaving.

It was a very short moment and passed like a flash. The balloon turned on itself with dizzy swiftness. It went up, and up, and up, always turning.

The Gare d’Orleans, the streets of Paris with their houses, the monuments, the last lines of the city, the circle of fortifications, the countryside with its fortresses, all appeared and disappeared with maddening rapidity. The eye no longer saw and the intelligence ceased in stupefaction, paralysed by this mad, gigantic dance, without purpose and without end.

Where were we and where were we going? What was the meaning of this continual turning? When would we stop and what would be the end of this phenomenal journey?

The sun was radiant and the shadows were deep and clearly defined. The wind whipped and hastened the spinning of our balloon. Contrasts followed each other with such prodigious swiftness that it became impossible to follow them. Sight and mind slid over this marvellous ocean as if in a dream, no longer distinguishing shape or time or space. Where were we? We did not know; one half-minute of the balloon’s free course was enough to make us feel completely lost. If the balloon had only proceeded in a straight line in the same way as any other known craft, we should not have lost the bearing of our starting-point, in spite of the swiftness of our progress; but the balloon twisted ceaselessly and with terrible rapidity about its own axis. After a few revolutions that were quicker than lightning, it was impossible to recognise the direction in which we were going or to know our position.

Whither were we going? Left, right, south or north—it was impossible to say.

A compass might have told us. But, as I have already said, our balloon had no compass, a thing so necessary to every navigator. Our only instrument was a little barometric scale which registered the height at which the balloon was travelling. In addition the unfortunate sailor, who was our improvised aeronaut and who was to direct our expedition, had as much knowledge of the art of aerial navigation as an inhabitant of the moon has of the mysteries of the Indian Brahmans. This will give you an exact idea of the manner in which our journey was undertaken. Our expedition went off, in a doubly true sense, at the mercy of chance and the wind.

CHAPTER III
WONDERS AND EVENTS OF AN AERIAL VOYAGE

We were, however, all three very glad and proud of our journey. We were in excellent spirits, and our hearts beat more rapidly at the thought of doing something for the wonderful defence of the great besieged city and of taking our share in the common effort.

We did not even think of danger, and not one of us would have stopped to consider for a moment the defective equipment and slightly precarious nature of our conveyance. We were entirely given up to our enterprise and to the magnificent spectacle which rolled, renewing itself every moment, before our astonished eyes. It mattered little to us where we were or where we were going; we were at least sure of not stopping on the way.

Suddenly our attention was awakened by a singular and characteristic sound which struck our ears and informed us, in no uncertain manner, of our whereabouts. We were crossing the lines of the besieging army, and the latter were presenting their compliments by shooting at us with rifles. But their bullets were unable to hit us. Though we heard them whistling, that did not prevent the balloon from continuing its swift course towards unassailable altitudes.

We soon rose out of the range of their marksmen, and the rifle fire ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Our attention was then again drawn to the wonders and surprises of our aerial voyage.

This is a thing I cannot describe, and even to-day, after the lapse of twenty-eight years, I cannot find words to give any idea of the prodigious spectacle ceaselessly rolling at our feet, or of the deep and ineffacable impression which it produced on us. Only those who have made the ascent of high mountains can realise feebly what is a journey in the air at a height of two or three thousands yards.

Who is there who has not once in his life enjoyed that experience, who does not know the imposing calm and the absolute silence that reign over the eternal glaciers, the effect of which, in conjunction with the immense panorama which these almost inaccessible heights unfold, is to fill the spirit of the traveller with sublime admiration and a species of poetic delirium? Well, the impression left on me by this aerial journey far outstrips the fairy memories of mountain glaciers.

There was the same calm, the same absolute and grandiose silence, the same majestic response, as if at the approach of the Divinity, but the horizon was wider and the view more varied. The balloon floated on, and the horizon changed every minute with the rapidity of its course. The subdued tints of the far distance served as a sort of border to the fresher and more accentuated colours of those tracts of country that were nearer and bathed in light. Valleys and mountains followed each other and mingled like the ever-renewed waves of the sea.

The waves of the sea are an exact comparison, for there was always an immense ocean under our eyes, an ocean such as no mariner has ever beheld. It comprised and blended together all things—plain and mountain, earth and river, cities and countryside, meadows and forests. Every possible contrast was linked together, every colour and every tone stood out and was reflected, and on this great, glistening ocean under a cloudless sky the gigantic shadow of the balloon travelled like the image of some unknown spectre, striding across the universe.

I can find no further words, and think that no human speech is able to describe the fascination of the amazing scene that sprang as it were from an unknown world before our dazzled eyes.

As the balloon continued its course, sometimes slowly, as if cradled by the zephyrs, and sometimes violently agitated by the breath of the storm which was already threatening, we became accustomed to the grandeur of the ceaselessly changing spectacle.

Once recovered from our amazement, it seemed to us natural to be thus transported in an aerial vessel two thousand yards above our ordinary habitations, and we tried to make ourselves as comfortable as we could in the car. The air was fresh, and although the sun was veiled by no trace of clouds, the temperature at these altitudes was very chilly. Our first need, therefore, was to protect ourselves against the cold and to cover ourselves from the icy atmosphere with everything we could find. Our second preoccupation was hunger.

We had left Paris before nine in the morning. The fresh air had set our blood in motion and awakened our appetites. At half-past ten the crew of the “Vauban”—that was the name of the balloon—simultaneously remarked, “Luncheon.”

No sooner said than done. We had not far to go to find the restaurant, nor did our meal require great preparations.

We each drew out of our pockets the provisions we had brought, and these provisions were by no means extravagant. At this period Paris was already under rations as far as meat was concerned, and if my memory serves me aright, I think that everyone in Paris had at that time the right to four ounces of beef, whose only connection with that succulent comestible was its name, given it under false pretences and in order to deceive the palates of the Parisians.

But if our repast was modest and meagre, the wine which washed it down was excellent and our appetites were first-rate.... Moreover, the view from the balcony of our dining-room was enough to make us forget the frugality of our repast and transform the simplest menu into a feast. When we had finished eating and drinking we sent a telegram to M. Jules Favre.

A telegram from a balloon? Yes, a real telegram.

You have not forgotten that M. Cassier, Director of the French Pigeon Post, was with me, and that he had brought a score of pigeons with him. One of these graceful birds was charged with a message for M. Jules Favre. I had promised to inform him as well as I could of the events of our journey. The most hazardous part seemed to me to be already accomplished.

This was far from being the case, as will be seen later, but that is what I thought at the moment. We had been crossing the enemy’s lines for a considerable time and our balloon had not ceased moving with very great and noticeable rapidity and without changing its direction. We therefore had reason to suppose that we were not far from those western latitudes where we were to descend. This was the sense of my message. I added a few notes on the regions we had traversed and the different altitudes to which we had attained—for it is interesting to remark that our balloon, without apparent reason, often rose to a height of two thousand yards or more, and afterwards, again without reason, fell to one hundred and fifty yards and less.

When I had finished my note, I rolled up tightly the square of paper on which it had been written and tied it up. M. Cassier concealed the little roll under the pigeon’s wings by skilfully attaching it to the upper part of one of the bird’s legs. And then “Bon voyage for Paris!”

It was curious to see the departure of our messenger. The little bird seemed to share our own uncertainty as to the direction we were taking and did not appear to know its bearings. But its embarrassment did not last as long as ours: once it had left the balloon it flew two or three times round it, always coming back on its traces as if to find out where it was and seeking its route, and sheltering itself near us as long as it felt uncertain. But suddenly it lifted its delicate little head, gave a cry of joy, and flew off like an arrow in a straight line, without deviating or looking to the left or right. It had found its way and was going straight back to its nest in Paris.

CHAPTER IV
A CHANGE

This was the end of the peaceful part of our voyage and the prelude of a new and more exciting phase.

The wind, whistling ceaselessly, finished by somewhere picking up a few clouds which had been almost imperceptible in the four corners of the horizon. The balloon’s course began to be less regular; sometimes it jumped in a disquieting manner, and our barometer then showed variations of one thousand yards in a few minutes. Once we were even so near the earth that we were able to speak to peasants who were working in the fields. We asked them to tell us where we were, and they seemed to have understood our question, for they answered us, but we could not catch their reply.

The excessive swiftness with which the balloon had passed prevented us from understanding what they said. The sound of their voices only reached us as the distant echo of human speech. Our ears only heard inarticulate sounds whose meaning escaped us, so swiftly was the distance increased which separated our question from their answer.

At another time the car floated majestically over an immense plain which filled the horizon and stretched as far as the eye could see. Then it was I wanted to effect our descent. I said so to our aeronaut, and asked him to open the valve and let the gas escape slowly, so as to allow our balloon to sink gently to the ground.

The plain which was unfolded before our eyes seemed to me created expressly for a successful landing. Here we could descend without fearing any of those terrible accidents which threatened every descent on less propitious ground. For a balloon does not always stop when it reaches the earth; it often drags its car and knocks it with terrible rage against obstacles, as we ourselves were destined to see.

Nothing of the kind was to be feared here. The balloon might graze the earth and drag the car along the ground as much as it liked without any great danger to ourselves. It was bound to end at any moment by literally expiring, without crushing its passengers in its agony. But it was fated that we were to continue our journey and descend later on in a less peaceable manner.

The sailor certainly made an excellent soldier, as did all the brave seamen who had pluckily done their duty in the Siege of Paris; but as an aeronaut he was mediocre. He took no account of anything, neither the direction we had followed, nor the swift speed of our passage, nor the distance we must have traversed since our start from Paris. He said: “If you give orders to come down, I will open the valve. I will do so to obey orders, but may I take the liberty of saying that we have not yet gone very far. We shall fall into the enemy’s lines, and once the valve is open we shall not be able to go up again.” I was not of this opinion; I considered that we must be very far from Paris and that this plain must be one of the fertile plains of Normandy, which extend from the banks of the Seine to the sea. We had been travelling for more than two hours with a powerful east wind and had moved with almost painful speed the whole time. Unless one supposed that the balloon had changed its direction on the way, which was by no means probable as the wind had not changed at all, it was easy to estimate the distance which we must have traversed.

It was sufficient to watch the shadow of the balloon gliding at express speed over the distant earth.

If the course of this immense phantom appeared very rapid to us at a height of one thousand or one thousand five hundred yards, what must have been the real speed of the balloon itself, which projected such a rapid shadow into the distance!

I imparted this reflection to our pilot, but he was insensible to my arguments and would not listen. He shook his head in doubt, and without consenting to discuss my reasons, repeated: “If you give the order, I will obey; but I think it will be better to wait.”

I finally gave way and consented to wait. After all, I said to myself, we were not badly off in the air, and it was always better to be a little longer up there than to come down too quickly and fall into the hands of the enemy.

So we continued our journey.

It was a mistake, an irreparable mistake, one which came near costing us dear.

From that moment the weather suddenly changed, and a quarter of an hour later all hope of ending our journey peaceably by a regular descent was completely lost.

The horizon, which up till now had been clear and radiant, began to take on a disquietingly sombre tint. Mists arose. We could not see where they came from, but they came, interminably rolling and surging and thickening more and more; a tempest was forming around us. It was a strange scene, at once beautiful and terrible, and its very horror so contributed to its beauty that I forgot for the moment that we were ourselves about to play a part in the drama.

CHAPTER V
THE STORM

I will try and set down what I saw. The balloon was above the tempest that was forming; the storm was in preparation, so to speak, under our eyes. The sky above our heads did not change in aspect, but remained placid and transparently blue.

We were therefore floating over the clouds, with a full view of the storm beneath us and the unclouded sun above us.

It was a dazzling contrast; over our heads was the golden and intense brilliance of an unclouded blue sky, the transparent azure of pure air inundated with light, and under our feet lay deep and changeable night—a black, weltering mass of uneasy chaos, that seemed as if set in motion by the hands of giants; a nameless thing without a form or colour that rolled and eddied and swarmed—the Tohu-bohu of Genesis.

It might have been an army of Titans whipping and tormenting the clouds, that were piled up and shattered on one another, and again piled up and shattered endlessly.

And over this feverish chaos we heard the rumble of thunder, while the violent and icy wind drove the clouds as a wolf does the sheep when it falls upon a flock. Our poor balloon, though it was great and heavy, carrying, as I have said, not less than a ton, was as light as a feather on the wings of the hurricane. It danced madly up and down, shaken and tossed about like a fragile skiff. So we rolled over this stormy sea without compass or rudder, fascinated by the grandeur and the strangeness of the sight.

How long were we in the storm?

I cannot say; but suddenly the aeronaut cried, “Monsieur, we are sinking!” And the balloon, without showing any breakage to explain such an accident, sank rapidly, or rather dropped perpendicularly, like a mass.

We were then still above the clouds, which were shedding torrents of rain on to the earth, and it was impossible for us to see through the thick night which lay cold and damp under our feet. We tried in vain to find our bearings and to guess how or where the balloon would strand us. Would we be cast on terra firma or into the sea; on mountains or on to the trees of a forest?

It was a critical moment.

Lighten the balloon, quickly! And in a moment we were all occupied in lifting our ballast—big sacks of sand—out of the hold, and the inhabitants of the country over which we were passing must have been astonished at seeing a sudden rain of gravel mixed with the showers of water which were drowning the countryside.

But we could not deal quickly enough with the ballast, and the balloon continued to sink. It descended with a rapidity that made us shudder and drove us to work with feverish activity. We heaved over the sacks of ballast as briskly as real sailors who have done nothing else all their lives. Each of us laboured at our task, and the sand fell like hail.

Suddenly the daylight disappeared and darkness enveloped us. We were inundated by a cold, intense fog and pierced to the skin by icy dampness. We were running through a veritable aerial tunnel, to use a permissible metaphor. The clouds which the storm had just before been rolling at our feet were now all round our balloon and us. When the balloon had passed through them, dripping with rain and frost, I saw with amazement that we were just above an immense wood which pointed its spikes at us like so many threatening spears. We were inevitably about to land in the middle of this wood and in the branches of its trees.

I remained standing in order to see better, but what I saw was terrifying. A thick and endless forest extended under our eyes, showing thousands of branches like so many terrible defences ready to tear us. Nowhere was there a clearing which might give us hope.

The balloon continued falling, in spite of its being lightened, with all the speed of its enormous weight. I could not help looking, like a man who cannot help himself and who sees himself being hurled into an inevitable abyss.

“If we could only pass the wood!” I had scarcely uttered these words when a terrible noise was heard. We were shaken by a frightful shock, which seemed as if it would dislocate all our limbs. The car was thrown among the trees and bounded against them, breaking them into small fragments. It was a terrible fall, but when it came to the point and I felt the first signs of the end I gave a sigh of relief. “This is it, at last—this is the end!” The unknown, which one fears and trembles at and cannot avoid, is always more terrible than the reality, once one has seen the latter face to face.

But all, unfortunately, was not yet over, and still greater and more violent turns of fortune were to await us. The car alone had crashed against the trees, breaking them with the violence of the shock, but the balloon still floated intact over the basket, presenting its whole volume to the wind. It dragged us with terrific force over the trees, which broke under the shock and at the same time held back the car entangled in the broken and twisted branches.

It was a terrible conflict! The balloon tried to rise, but the trees held us back and the car was dragged over the trees, bounding, smashing, and annihilating everything it met in its frantic course.

CHAPTER VI
THE FALL

The danger was here, and our position seemed absolutely desperate. Death is not the most fearful thing in the destinies of man. It was when we first embarked on the “Vauban” that we offered the sacrifice of our lives, knowing perfectly well that we were exposing ourselves to the danger of falling on the road. We had, therefore, foreseen the possibility of death; but to die torn by a blind force, to be dragged over trees and not to know if the branches will first wrench off your head or your arms, is a thing more painful than death. And there was no physical power nor intelligence—no means whatever which might save us. We had nothing to fall back on, absolutely nothing but hazard, as blind as the force which was playing with our existence. The situation caused a strange thing to happen in my imagination, which I have never been able to explain and which I should like at this point to describe.

For a few moments I had a sort of vision. There is nothing extraordinary in this. It can be easily explained. But what I at least find more difficult to explain and what up till now I have never been able to understand is that I was at the same time absolutely and entirely master of myself, in full control of my intelligence, my will, and my self-command. I felt the vision, knowing that it was a vision, as an interested observer of an extraordinary phenomenon.

This is what I saw:—

I was back in my birthplace, in my father’s house. The big parlour was lit up as if for some festival. The room was full of people; all my family, as well as my boyhood’s friends and companions, were around me.

My mother was among them, beautiful but pale, and she kissed me and cried. My dear father, who has since left us and now rests in eternity, my little sister, my brothers, and everyone, thronged round me and I said good-bye to them.

It was dark outside, but the big chandelier shed its light on this numerous concourse. They were all in holiday attire, but it was a silent festival and the only voice was the caressing one of my mother, who said to me: “Don’t leave me yet.”... “No, Mother.” And then the vision vanished.

If I had not the most indisputable proof that at the moment when I had this vision I was absolutely cool and in control of my faculties, there would be nothing extraordinary in this and it might be easily explained by my nervous state and by the fatigue and over-excitement of the journey.

But I looked at the vision simply as a vision, taking my part in it, but knowing at the same time that it was a chimera and that I was perfectly calm and self-controlled. My intelligence and my powers of comprehension were absolutely lucid, and here is the proof:—

From the moment that I saw the first impact of the car against the trees threatening, I thought of a plan for protecting myself, which both argued that my wits were at work and required presence of mind.

Anyone who has seen a balloon will know that between the gas-bag and the car there is a solid ring of wood to one side of which the gas-bag is attached, the other side supporting the car. This wooden ring is called the “crown” and is between the balloon and the basket, which are both strongly roped to it.

Now the crown, by reason of its being between the two rope attachments, is the best place of refuge from a crash which must necessarily be considerably broken after being transmitted over the ropes to the crown, particularly as the latter is a considerable distance from the car. In order to reach it one has to get up on the seat and hoist oneself along the ropes from the edge of the basket to the crown, which is several metres distant.

As soon as I saw that there was no more hope of maintaining ourselves in the air and that our car was inevitably bound to crash against the summits of the trees, I jumped on the seat and climbed up to the crown.

The formation of this plan and its rapid execution in the exact moment of danger was sufficient proof of my presence of mind at the moment of our fall and of the vision which accompanied it. I even remember that I laughed at a remark, which really was laughable, of my companions in distress.

When they saw me climb on to the seat, and from there to the side of the basket, in order to swarm up the ropes to the crown, they asked me in all seriousness if I was going to get out. The question made me laugh. There was really something comical in the contrast between our situation and my friend’s question. To get out of a balloon in motion which is about to fall upon the spiked branches of a forest! They had asked me seriously, and with a certain amount of anxiety: “Are you going to get out?...” “No,” said I, and laughed. “Where do you want me to go?” It was at that moment that I saw my vision.

But to go back to our descent. The balloon, which thus dragged us over the trees, had kept all its power, for it was still filled with gas, and might drag us a long time yet.

What could we do? Opening the valve would by no means have stopped it, as it would have taken too much time and the gas would not have escaped quickly enough. We therefore decided to cut the ropes which bound the car to the crown in order to separate it from the infuriated balloon.

The good sailor took out his trusty axe, but scarcely had he given the first cut when the balloon succeeded in disengaging the basket from the branches which held it back and impeded its course. It then recommenced its flight, rising like an eagle towards higher regions.

We were stupified. So we were to have a new journey and fresh adventures!

Fortunately it was not one of long duration. The wind and the rain whipped the balloon from all sides and prevented it from regaining its original vigour and mounting higher. Then a last struggle engaged between the balloon and the storm, which had continued raging. The balloon, once free, tried to rise, but was held back by the extreme violence of the tempest. In its struggles it leapt and bounded, making us fear at any moment that the basket would upset and precipitate its contents pell-mell into space. Twice a squall threw us to the ground—that is to say, into the trees—and twice the unexhausted strength of the balloon snatched us from their branches. A third, more violent, gust enveloped the balloon entirely, bent it to the ground in front of the car, and hurled it against a large and magnificent oak—which I can see to-day before my eyes. We were in safety—the balloon gave the expiring yell of a strong fabric torn by violent explosion. It burst, rent along its side, and hung in a thousand enormous rags against the ancient branches of the great oak which had destroyed it.

We were at once enveloped by clouds of gas escaping from the disembowelled balloon. In a moment all was over. The car had stopped and we were safe. My watch pointed to one o’clock when I jumped down from the tree.

But in what part of the country were we? Whose was the wood which protected us? Should we meet Frenchmen or had we fallen into the enemy’s country? That old navigator Ulysses, when he walked on the beach of Ithaca, was not more ignorant of his fate than we when we left our car in the branches of the trees in which it remained captive.

CHAPTER VII
AN ENCOUNTER

As a rule I am bad at topography, and do not easily find my way in places that I see for the first time. But my faculties had been made keen by danger during our aerial voyage and my sustained attention remembered everything that my eyes had seen.

The second time the balloon rose above the forest I had, from my elevated perch, observed a fairly broad path across the wood, which looked as if it might lead to some neighbouring village. I kept this path in my memory and, while our balloon was engaged in its last struggle, I tried to take note of our movements in order not to lose the direction of this path. So much so that, when at last we touched the ground, I was able to find it.

I left my companions to watch near the wrecked balloon and bent my steps to the left in order to find the way.

I had not been mistaken. After walking for scarcely ten minutes, I found the path I was looking for. Happy at my discovery, I was about to return through the wood to tell my companions, when I saw a man leave the thicket on the other side of the road and come towards me.

What manner of man was this, and what did he want with me? What singular chance had driven him to this wood in such weather?

It was still raining in torrents. Instead of returning through the undergrowth, as I had intended, to find my fellow-travellers, I made as if I were looking for shelter from the rain, and stood with my back against a tree.

In this position I could wait for the unknown to come up, and could examine him while he crossed the road to reach me.

He at once came forward. He was well dressed and had the appearance of a man of means. He looked neither like a peasant nor like a dweller in large towns, and it was difficult to guess exactly what kind of individual I had to deal with. He seemed, however, to be looking for me, for he walked directly towards me and crossed the path, bearing towards the point where I was standing.

What was this man, friend or enemy? What could I say to him, and how should I speak to him, in French or in German?

I thought it would be best not to say anything and to wait till he addressed me. “Bon jour, Monsieur,” said he, on coming up. I returned his greeting.

“Have you been here long?” he asked me.

“No.”

“Where have you come from?” he continued.

I began to be reassured and noticed that my unknown spoke with the Alsatian accent. But the Alsatian accent is very similar to the German, and was not Alsace entirely occupied by the enemy?

Such were my thoughts on hearing him, and instead of answering his question, I asked him point-blank, “Are you French, Monsieur?” And as I asked I looked him well in the face and did not take my eyes from his, trying to read into his soul. “Oui, Monsieur,” was his answer, and the “Oui, Monsieur” was pronounced simply and with a frankness that concealed nothing and invited confidence.

I felt he had spoken the truth. I held out my hand and said: “Well, Monsieur, I am also a Frenchman. We have come from Paris and our balloon has just come down in this forest....”

“Oh, is that you! Good God, what sufferings you must have undergone! I have watched you battling with the storm for at least half an hour. My friends and I came out to beat the forest in order to find you and help you, for we foresaw a catastrophe.”

I was profoundly touched, and heartily wrung his hand....

“But where are we?”

“At Vigneulles in the Meuse; this is the wood of Vigneulles, the village is three kilometres away, and behind the wood, a league from here, are the Prussians. They came into the village yesterday morning.” After saying this he gave a signal by whistling in a particular manner, and I at once saw ten or twelve peasants running up from different part of the wood. He explained our situation to them and gave them orders. While they went off to find my companions and the débris of the balloon, I followed my new guide towards the village in order to lose no time in preparing a way to leave the district as quickly as possible.

My mentor took me to the Mairie, a little house in the village, comprising the offices and the personal residence of the Mayor, the latter on the first-floor.

The behaviour of this village worthy was in singular contrast with that of the brave man who had brought me to him. He trembled when he heard that Frenchmen, coming from Paris, and recently descended from a balloon, were there, and he asked himself whether he could and ought for a single moment to shelter them. “If the Prussians hear that I have received them I am lost....”

I will pass quickly over the painful scene which followed. The poor man is since dead, and I only speak of the incident in order to show that the devoted efforts of our guide to carry us to the Belgian frontier were not without risk to himself. His name is Julien Thiébeaux; he was at that time employed in the Excise Department and has since been promoted to a Collectorship. He was a brave man and a good citizen.

When he saw the Mayor’s disposition towards ourselves, he said to me: “You can’t remain here, Monsieur, as the Prussians are encamped close at hand. They were here yesterday and may be here again to-morrow. They may come at any moment, even while we are speaking. I wanted to let the Mayor have the honour of saving you, and for that reason have said nothing; but the time has now come to act. Will you trust yourselves to me?”

I looked at the speaker and fixed my eyes on him a second time, trying to penetrate and read his secret thoughts from his countenance. He will pardon me for this last trace of suspicion, as will those who read these lines; it was not unnatural.

We were in the midst of a Prussian encampment, and the Mayor of the village had shown his sentiments in most unambiguous fashion; he had not the slightest desire to risk his neck in order to save some unknown men, who had been wrong-headed enough, according to him, to cross the Prussian lines in a balloon, and to drop exactly into his unfortunate village, which had all the best reasons in the world to live on good terms with the enemy’s army.... And then appears a simple villager, the first-comer as it were, and one who has no reason to interfere in a nasty business which does not concern him, and offers his services spontaneously and light-heartedly without being asked by anyone, in order to save three unknown men from under the Prussians’ noses! By doing so he was exposing himself, when he returned from his expedition on the morrow, to a reward at the hands of the enemy whose nature could not be doubted.

Such were the thoughts in my mind while M. Thiébeaux explained how urgent it was that we should leave, and offered to conduct us to the frontier through the Prussian army.

So I again inspected M. Thiébeaux, and not without suspicion.

But the more I looked at him the further did suspicion fly from my mind. He had a frank and honest eye and a simple and natural attitude. Such clear signs of sincerity and loyalty emanated from his whole person that my doubts ceased, and I felt remorse at having for a single moment suspected the sincerity of his devotion.

He had finished his little speech by asking the simple question, “Will you trust yourselves to me?” I held out my hand, and said, “Shake, M. Thiébeaux, and let us start.”

“But I do not want to start alone,” he said. “I have a friend who knows the way better than I, and we shall have need of him. I will answer for him. May I bring him with me?”

A little later my companions and I were seated with our brave guides in a little country carriage and making for the Belgian frontier.

Vigneulles is in the Meuse, at the entrance to the great plain which is known as the “Grande Woëvre.” This was the scene of the memorable battles of the 16th and 18th of August, 1870, the battles which are called Mars-la-Tour, Rezonville, Gravelotte and Saint-Privat.[B] The little village lies between Verdun and Metz, and is about forty kilometres distant from the latter.

[B] Note:—It is also the scene of very serious fighting at the present moment (Feb., 1915). Vigneulles is a few miles from the German position at St. Mihiel.

This enabled us to calculate the path we must have taken in our balloon.

The distance from Paris to Metz is about four hundred kilometres, but our balloon did not take a direct course. During the first part of our journey we went persistently in an opposite direction—that is to say, towards the west of France—and it was only when the storm commenced, which was about 11 o’clock in the morning, that the wind must have shifted and carried us towards the east.

It was not yet 11 o’clock when I had expressed a desire to come down on the great plain which offered us such an immense and propitious terrain for coming to earth. The wind had at that time not yet changed, and we could hope to come down in the fertile plains of Normandy or possibly in the direction of Brittany. Our aeronaut did not share my point of view, and we continued our journey. It was only then, after two hours navigation, that the weather changed. So it is evident that the balloon must have traversed at least twice the distance between Paris and Metz, since it had travelled for two hours at full speed in an opposite direction. The whole journey had been carried out in the space of four hours—from nine in the morning till one in the afternoon. That represented an amazing speed: two or three hundred kilometres an hour.

And now for the Belgian frontier!

CHAPTER VIII
EN ROUTE FOR THE FRONTIER

The distance we now had to go was very much shorter, but it was also more difficult, and we only arrived at the frontier the next morning, between ten and eleven. Had it not been for the intelligence and devotion of M. Thiébeaux and his friend M. Charles Jeannot, we should not have arrived at all.

It was a long, slow and painful journey, a regular Odyssey, across country entirely occupied by the enemy.

It is not my purpose in this short narrative to tell of its events and adventures ... that would take us too far and would only serve to revive sad memories. I only refer to it in token of gratitude to our courageous guides who carried us by night under a drenching rain through the lines of the army of occupation with no less intelligence than courage and presence of mind. It is clear that the Germans saw our balloon as well as M. Thiébeaux and his friends, and they at once set out to capture it. Fortunately for ourselves the forest and the rain prevented their following our movements and taking exact note of the place where we had come down.

At midnight we met some of M. Thiébeaux’ friends on the road, returning from a neighbouring fair. “Anything new?” asked our guide.

“Yes, a balloon has come from Paris. There were three or four persons in it, and the Uhlans are after them.”

“In which direction have they gone?”

“I believe they are pursuing them in the direction of Verdun.”

“Are there any Prussians in the neighbourhood of...?”

“No, they are at ... to-day.”

“Good-night.”

Our carriage again moved off, while M. Thiébeaux’ friends began to interrogate us as to whether there was anything new on our side. The place where the Uhlans were hoping to catch us was in exactly the opposite direction to the way we were now going, and M. Thiébeaux rubbed his hands with pleasure at the knowledge that they were on a false scent.

At eight in the morning we arrived at Montmédy.

There we learnt the sad news of the surrender of Metz.

We were not far from the frontier, and crossed it an hour later, subsequently arriving at Virton, a little Belgian town which was swarming with French. Here we said good-bye to M. Thiébeaux and his friend M. Jeannot and took the first diligence for the nearest station on the Luxemburg railway, by which we arrived at ten or eleven at night at Brussels.

If I were to let myself be carried away by my memories, I would here throw a sidelight on the remarkable but saddening aspect of the Belgian capital, which was the temporary home of so many Frenchmen and the seat of so many diverse and conflicting passions, hopes, and fears. But what would be the use? I will say no more than that the city of Brussels was crowded with people. It was full of Frenchmen and particularly Parisians. The faces of the stout Flemish burghers were bright and radiant and broader than usual; they were delighted with the golden flow of business, but, none the less, had no love for the French who brought them all this gold.

The Belgian capital, which I had often before visited and which had always charmed me by its beauty and elegance, then seemed to me ugly and hateful, and I only stayed there for as long as was absolutely necessary to get things in order for my departure.

CHAPTER IX
A SPY AT DIEPPE

Before leaving for Austria, I had to go to Tours, where the Delegates of the National Defence Government were at this time sitting.

I had therefore to go back to France, and could only do so by going a long way round. Part of the north was already occupied. The trains no longer went regularly, and in order to get from Brussels to Tours I had to slip through a great many obstacles and often leave the railway and have recourse to carriages. There was no lack of episodes on the road, but they were not gay ones and I prefer not to speak about them. The country was in a fever and disorganised, and to a large extent occupied and ruined. Where the enemy had not yet come they were expected, and the days were anxiously counted which were to bring the first Uhlans.

“Spies” were suspected everywhere, just as in Paris, where I saw a crowd gather one night before a house in the Boulevard Montmartre, and where a cruel injustice would that night have been committed if the police had not intervened in time to clear up the mistake.

There was a light in an attic on the sixth floor. It was only a poor woman at work, but she was accused of signalling with her little lamp from the height of her attic to the Prussians who were besieging Paris. The latter were at least fifteen or twenty miles from the boulevard, even where their siege-works had approached our ramparts. So it was simply ridiculous to suppose that signals could have been given to the Prussians from a window in the boulevard. The feeble little light on the sixth floor, however, was quite enough to make the passer-by believe that there was a spy up there communicating with the enemy and signalling messages to him. That is the kind of spy mania which was responsible for yielding me an amusing quarter of an hour when I least expected it.

The event took place at Dieppe. This peaceable and innocent little seaside town, well known to all Parisians, certainly had no reason to attract the attention of M. de Moltke and his generals, but it was there that I was nearly arrested as a vile spy, by order of the sous-préfet, who no doubt smelt out an ingenious plan on the part of the Prussian Field-Marshal for taking this important fortress without a blow.

I had just arrived in a carriage from Eu, and had come to Dieppe to take the train there.

I was waiting for the time when the train was to start, and had gone to the hotel for lunch in company with the persons who had come with me, or rather, who had brought me in their carriage, very kindly putting it at my disposal because for the moment there was no other means of communication between Eu and Dieppe.

I had scarcely sat down to table when the proprietor came up with a thousand bows and stammered excuses and told me that there was someone there ... someone who ... a gentleman who ... in a word that there was someone who wanted to speak to me.

Someone to speak to me at nine in the morning; me, an unknown, a stranger from a distance, who had passed the night on the road and had only just arrived in the place! It seemed a curious demand and I foresaw mystery. “Let him come in,” I said to the proprietor, smiling, for I could not help being amused at his grave and embarrassed manner.

The dining-room opened on to a large, dark corridor which had not been lit up and in which it was difficult to distinguish what was happening. My host rushed into the corridor and disappeared in the darkness.

There was a moment of deep silence, then hasty footsteps and a confused noise; I vaguely saw an ill-defined movement, the gleam of weapons, arms waving in the thick of the darkness, advancing footsteps! At last a figure appeared out of the background and drew near; then a mad burst of laughter and these words: “Is that you, Reitlinger? What a joke!” And when the speaker came out waving his long arms, from the dark corridor where he was standing with his armed men, I recognised an old friend: it was one of the most charming sub-prefects in the provinces, one who was the ornament of the “parquet” at Dieppe and whom I had known when he was studying in Paris. He sat down at my table and told me that he had come purely and simply in order to lock up my dangerous person and prevent me from doing a hurt to the National Defence!

The supreme authorities of Dieppe had been informed that the Secretary of the Government was at the hotel. The sous-préfet had pricked up his ears at this report, shrugged his shoulders, shaken his head and considered, incredulity in his soul! The Secretary of the Government? ... an invention, a clumsy imposture! Was the Government not at Paris? Was not Paris besieged by the Prussians? Would not the Prussians have intercepted this Secretary?

That is not the way to humbug authorities who watch over the town and district with a vigilant and circumspect eye!

This Secretary is simply a spy and he covers himself with the name of the Government the better to hide his schemes, the better to betray the poor town of Dieppe, and carry away the plans of its fortifications with greater security. Let us put him under lock and key.

The “parquet” had been hastily assembled, and the “parquet,” full of admiration for the perspicacity of the sous-préfet, had ordered out its posse, while the latter promptly headed the expedition to assure himself of my person. My sous-préfet was the first to laugh at this deployment of armed force and his own haste in taking part in such an adventure.

“Now that the security of our country permits it,” said he, “I will send back my braves and we will drink to the success of your mission.”

This was excellent, but I asked myself what would have happened if the task of arresting me had been entrusted to one who did not happen to know me personally. Would M. le Sous-Préfet have kept me under lock and key, or would I have been obliged to show him the Minister’s confidential letters accrediting me for my mission?

CHAPTER X
ACROSS GERMANY

My first stopping-place was the Grand Duchy of Baden, then Wurtemburg and, finally, Bavaria. I was everywhere able to confirm that our Government had received untrue reports and even untruer interpretations with regard to these countries.

It was true that everyone was weary of the war and the sacrifices of men and money which the country was making; everyone deplored the complete stoppage of industry and commerce, and the misery which was its consequence, and everyone ardently desired the end of these sufferings and the rapid, the immediate conclusion of peace.

But on what conditions?

Did it mean that this ardently desired peace would be accepted on any conditions and at any price?

On this capital point people in France had the fondest illusions, and found themselves most completely mistaken.

Yes, they wanted peace, but they wanted it at the price of a good ransom which would permit the German Government to indemnify all those who had suffered damage either directly or indirectly from the war. Nor was that all. Besides a money indemnity, all were unanimous in demanding as “guarantees for the future” the cession of Alsace and Lorraine.

That is the manner of peace they wanted, and if all Germany was tired of the war and desired its ending, all Germany considered it a crime on the part of France not to consent and not to understand that the hour had struck for her to surrender at discretion.

People were exasperated with France for prolonging a hopeless struggle and by her obstinacy preventing a conclusion of peace for which the world had an immense need. In such a sense as this Germany was tired of the war, and had it been necessary to send even more soldiers to augment the million combatants already on French soil, had it been necessary to raise and again raise new levies in order to arrive at the goal, all Germany without exception—north, south, east, and west—would have given its last man capable of bearing arms.

I will even go further. Supposing for a moment—such a supposition has no kind of foundation, but suppose for a single moment—that if Prussia or one or other of her allies had desired the end of the war under conditions that were easier for France, and supposing they had attempted to establish this view in the United Council of Ministers, public opinion would have swiftly reduced such a proposition to silence. The first Government to have attempted an enterprise of such a nature would have immediately been overturned by the general indignation of the whole people, who would have risen against it as a single man.

A king or prince liberal enough to have proposed such a peace would have been driven out as a traitor to his country, and as unworthy to sit henceforward on the throne of his august ancestors.

M. de Bismarck knew his people well, and expressed an indisputable truth when he told M. Jules Favre, at the interview of Ferrières, that the King himself could not conclude peace without the cession of Alsace and Lorraine.

This feeling, far from being weakened since that time, had only been increased and strengthened. The longer the war lasted, and the greater the sacrifices that it imposed, the greater and the stronger also grew the general opinion of Germany that peace must be concluded solely in return for, over and above a large ransom, the cession of these two provinces, Alsace and Lorraine, which were regarded as German, and, above all, as a necessary rampart against France.

Here and there, of course, scattered and lost among the crowd, there were a few philosophers whose dreams were in more elevated spheres and who did not wish to admit the right to annex a country by the brutal path of arms and conquest, at any rate without consulting its population.... But who would listen to them? Who took them seriously? They were regarded as Idealists, only to be laughed at; they were accused of madness, and if they had really been thought to be of sound mind, they could not have failed to be treated as traitors to their country.

I spoke with many individuals between the Rhine and the Danube, but I never met anyone who would have consented to a peace without territorial gains. Even those whom I had formerly known as “Liberalists” and belonging to the “Republican Party” were no exception, and energetically insisted on annexation. The fact is that the situation had changed since the month of July of the “année terrible.” At the beginning of the war—as I have already remarked—a good part of Prussia’s allies were lukewarm enough, but later on enthusiasm had become general.

I was told an incident which seems characteristic. I will cite it as I heard it, without comment and without guaranteeing its authenticity. The King of X., who did not love the new régime, who suffered cruelly from it in his own capital and who did not wish to let his authority over his own army be taken away from him, was ready to cry with vexation when he was asked for the last reinforcements to be despatched to the theatre of war. He would like to have refused them, but dared not do so. Shutting himself up in his palace, he refused to see his troops at their departure defiling with music across the public square in front of his palace.

* * * * *

But the whole of Germany had become drunk with the unheard-of, unhoped-for success of its arms, and this success exalted the different populations all the more that it had been greater than they had dared to hope for when the war began.

Up to that time France had been a formidable and much-feared power. The “Rothosen,” or “Red Breeches,” were regarded beyond the Rhine as invincible soldiers. At the news of the declaration of war, the various peoples were at first in great anxiety; everyone expected to see the French arrive from one day to the other.

If at that moment, I repeat, we had pushed vigorously forward instead of groping about and letting the enemy have time to concentrate his troops, take the initiative, and throw his soldiers in his turn on to our soil, the war would perhaps have taken another complexion, in spite of the wonderfully prepared plans of M. de Moltke.

A swift march to the Rhine, a vigorous advance beyond the frontier, carrying our arms beyond the river into the midst of German soil, would have produced an immense impression, and would have thrown doubt and hesitation among the allies of Prussia. Perhaps the whole campaign might have turned in favour of France.

I have no intention of here trespassing on military ground, where even those more competent than I are not always in agreement. But I can certainly bear witness, for it is the exact truth, that the anxiety of all sections of the German population was great, and that, when the news of the first victories arrived, one could not believe them, but rather considered them as miracles and attributed them to the Divine Justice which wished to punish “impious” France, the hereditary enemy of Germany, for having forced a quarrel on her and having without serious reason begun this terrible war. Once the first victories were won, there was no limit to the rejoicings, and as success increased and was accentuated, when one battle after the other was won and the German armies advanced in numbers and irresistibly on to French territory, this immense, matchless, and unprecedented victory produced an equally immense change in public opinion. What, was France letting herself thus be beaten? France, who had set the ball rolling, France, who had menaced the security of Germany for a century and who would always menace it, if Germany did not profit by the opportunity and take her precautions!

And so, from the depths of the German mind, the idea had arisen which M. de Bismarck expressed so vigorously and insistently to M. Jules Favre in the interview at Ferrières, the idea which had stiffened the king’s back and resulted in the interview being fruitless. “We must have guarantees for the future,” and the more they saw the rapidity and persistence of their success, the more did they become attached to this idea: “We must have guarantees.”

Guarantees!

And they insisted on having for “guarantees” what was directly contrary to all guarantee, for who can deny to-day that Alsace-Lorraine is the only obstacle, and a permanent obstacle, to a durable peace between the two nations? But at that moment the most far-seeing could not see this; their eyes were blinded by success, their spirit was drunken with military glory and the desire to use their strength up to the hilt and without consideration for the future.

After the surrender of Metz, where the last soldiers of France had given up their arms and gone as prisoners of war into German fortresses, one hoped that the war would be finished and the signing of peace would only be the work of a few days or weeks. But as the days and weeks passed, and as Paris was “obstinate” in its resistance and the provinces continued arming and defending themselves, in a word as one arrived at the certainty that France would not surrender and that after the defeat of her armies it was still necessary to conquer the “nation” and invade the entire country, then passion and impatience were born. An immense anger seized all Germany; her rulers, her thinkers, her writers, the whole people, all those who wielded the pen or the sword, all who lived and breathed, united in a single thought, and proclaimed and repeated this formula of M. de Bismarck: “We must have guarantees for the future.”

So much so that when history in the last instance judges and declares this annexation as one of the greatest mistakes of our century, history will be obliged to state that the entire German nation forced the hands of their Government to commit it.

Since France had commenced this “impious” war, and “Divine Justice” had granted victory, and an immense, a prodigious victory, one had to have guarantees for the future against the chances of a future attack. The sacrifices that had been made must not be lost to “the children.” Future generations must be sheltered from the chances of new provocations on the part of France, in case the latter should ever again wish to declare war.

Such was the exact public opinion of Germany, and that is why it was impossible to arrive at peace without the surrender of Alsace and Lorraine, if France and Germany were to remain alone on the bloody field to conclude it, and if the Powers were to refuse to intervene against German demands and to force her to modify them.