The notice had reached us at seven o'clock in the morning. At five o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at St. Menehould, of which we saw nothing but the station. At six we were in the train. Just as it was getting under way—I was looking through the ventilator—there was a sudden panic on the platform. Employees and foremen began to run, flinging their arms up. What was it? There was a noise, I understood. A Taube was flying over the station. The men crowded to the doors. We had no time to distinguish anything. A tremendous explosion flung us on top of each other, and a certain number fell on to the floor of the waggon.
A bomb had just fallen thirty yards from us. There were instant yells and a torrent of smoke. A waggon was pulverised on one of the adjacent lines. Three men killed, and six wounded we heard. And two hours' delay for us.
So we did not get away till night. The beginning of our misfortunes! We had not been going twenty minutes, when we pulled up with a violent jerk. An avalanche of rifles and packs—contusions and confusion.
The lantern was shivered, and went out. A chorus of imprecations exploded in the darkness. We struck[Pg 387] some matches. No serious damage done. Prunelle's face was bleeding, and his glasses were broken. He had a splinter of glass at the edge of his eyelashes. He was lucky. He might have lost an eye.
And outside? We leant out. Shadows were swarming on the ballast, some limping, others frightened. Bouchut had been sent for and came up in a fury shouting at the top of his voice. An orderly was standing in front of each waggon inquiring in a surly voice:
"Any casualties here?"
A commonplace stoppage. The tail carriages had turned over, and the last one which contained among other things the officers' equipments was reduced to atoms, to the great glee of the men.
"We'll lend 'em our tooth-brushes!" said Judsi.
They were not so delighted about it, when they heard that some more men had been killed there, four or five apparently, including Sépot, the chief laboratory man, a good sort, whom everybody loved.
"If this sorter thing goes on," Lamalou said, "there won't be many of us by the time we gets to Paris!"
The stoppage was prolonged. I got out and walked up and down for a little while. The sky was overcast, and there was no moon. I got back. Our train hooted dismally in the darkness, like a ship in distress.
I fell asleep, and we started off again, and went bumping drowsily on our way.
We woke up at dawn to find we had halted again, and were not to go on for an hour at least. The cooks were getting coffee ready. There was an autumnal feeling in the air. It was bitterly cold, and we stamped our feet. It was a characteristic landscape, with its billows of bald hillocks studded with little woods[Pg 388] of conventional shapes.... The surroundings of the Camp de Chalons.
De Valpic was shivering and stayed in his waggon. Guillaumin said to me below his breath:
"I wonder—if I'm dreaming?"
"Why?"
"I thought I heard...."
"Well?"
"Firing!"
I listened attentively. No, there was nothing. I chaffed him on his hallucinations! Was he profiting by Ravelli's teaching? Firing indeed! An excellent joke! We had left the enemy more than a hundred and thirty miles behind.
Guillaumin did not persist. The time which had been fixed passed by. Then we were told that we should be there for another two hours.
I left the railway lines and went off into the open fields.
I noticed that our convoy was not the only one which had been stopped there. The black line stretched away as far as eye could see, bordered with a swarm of uniforms, and smoking bonfires. The line was badly blocked.
As I had plenty of time before me, the idea occurred to me of climbing the nearest hill. I followed a chalky path.
I had imagined that this crest was quite near by, and that I should reach it without any difficulty. I only breasted it after twenty minutes of breathless climbing.
A violent north wind lashed me, up there, and dried my perspiration. A vast panorama lay before me: a[Pg 389] series of desolate-looking humps covered the ground, some of them bristling with vine poles, supporting the good Champagne grapes. I took my bearings. Just to the south, I made out the blue ridge of the more important hills, a sort of promontory where I thought an army might have got a good hold. I turned towards the west, a lifeless, colourless stretch of country. The railway line with its telegraph posts disappeared between two low hillocks on that side.
But I thought I could make out the haze and dust rising from a big town. Yes—when I looked harder—there was a purple phantom, the silhouette of a building, hardly discernible in the mist, which little by little grew more distinct—those towers superb in their grace and strength. In my wonder, I named it aloud—Rheims Cathedral.
By some strange chance I had forgotten that this Presence was so near at hand, though on getting into the train that day before, I had vaguely hoped that fate might lead us to it.
My veneration for this most sacred of all shrines dated from my earliest childhood when I had admired a picture of it reproduced in my prayer-book. Abbé Ygonel, my first teacher, had sung the praises of its magnificent harmony in striking terms. I had made of this erection the centre round which gravitated the whole of our history, enchanting as a legend.
I h............