Part 73

Over the river bank they galloped, straight into the water, their big, powerful horses wading, thrashing, swimming across; then they were up the opposite bank and over and away, racing after the ascending aeroplane.

From it was coming a redoubled rattle now; machine and machine gun were both spitting fiercely as the winged thing fought upward toward the blue zone of safety.

The gendarmes drew bridle now and began to shoot upward from their saddles, then spurred on across the fields, taking ditches and hedges as they came, until the strange chase was hidden by a distant rise of ground and the quarry alone remained visible, high winging, still rising, still pointed eastward toward the Rhine.

Then, far away across the hills, a heavier shot set the August air vibrating--another, another, others following.

Faster and faster cracked the high-angle guns on the Barrier Forts, strewing the sky with shrapnel; the aeroplane soared and soared, leaving behind it a wake dotted with clots of fleece which hung for a while quite motionless against the intense blue, then slowly dissolved and vanished in mid-air.

From the Ausone Fort the gunners could hear, far to the southeast, the sky-cannon banging away on the Barrier Forts; and the telescopes on their signal towers swung toward the sky line above the foothills of the Vosges.

But in the town below the fortressed hill no echo of the cannonade penetrated. Ausone, except in the neighborhood of the railroad and the office of the Petit Journal d'Ausone, lay still and almost deserted in the August sunshine: a few children played under the trees by the bridge; a few women sat knitting along the river quay; one or two old men nodded, half asleep, fishing the deeper pools below the bridge; the market square remained empty except for a stray dog, tongue lolling, padding stolidly up the street about his business.

But before the office of the Petit Journal d'Ausone a crowd stood, covering the sidewalks and overflowing beyond the middle of the street. Young men and old, women and young girls, were clustered there quietly watching the bulletin boards.

There was no excitement apparent, no loud talking, no gesticulation: voices were calm, tones were low; there was almost no movement in the crowd except when people joined the throng or silently departed.

On one of these bulletin boards was nailed the order for general mobilization; on the other a terse paragraph announced that on Sunday, August 2, German soldiers had entered the city of Luxembourg, crossed the Grand Duchy, and were already skirmishing with Belgian cavalry around Liege and with French troops before Longwy. In other terms, the Teutonic invasion had begun; German troops were already on French soil; for Longwy is the most northern of the Republic's fortifications.

Another paragraph reported that King Albert of Belgium had appealed to England, and that Sir Edward Grey, in the House of Commons, had prepared his country for an immediate ultimatum to Germany.

Still a third paragraph informed the populace of Ausone that the British battle fleet had mobilized and sailed, and that the Empire's land forces were already preparing to cross the Channel.

And Germany had not yet declared war on either France or Belgium, nor had England declared war on Germany, nor had Austria, as yet, formally declared war on Russia, although Germany had.

But there seemed to be no doubt, no confusion in the minds of the inhabitants of Ausone, concerning what was happening, what had already happened, and what Fate still concealed behind a veil already growing transparent enough to see through--already lighted by the infernal flashes of German rifle fire before Longwy.

Everybody in Ausone knew; everybody in France understood. A great stillness settled over the Republic, as though the entire land had paused to kneel a moment before the long day of work began.

There was no effervescence, no voice raised, no raucous shout from boulevard orators of the psychological moment, no attitudes, no complaints.

Only, amid the vast silence, as the nation rose serenely from its knees, millions of flashing eyes were turned toward Alsace and Lorraine--eyes dimmed for an instant, then instantly clear again--clear and steady as the sound and logical minds controlling them.

There was no sonnerie from the portcullis, no salvo from parapet or bastion, no fanfare blared at midday in square or stony street. No bands of voyous went yelling through boulevards, no seething crowds choked the cafes or formed a sinister maelstrom around embassies or government offices.

Down at the Gare de Chalons another crowd had gathered to watch the young men of Ausone depart. They came alone, or two by two, or in groups--sticks, bundles, suitcases, valises swinging--with serious, unruffled features intent upon the business of the long, long business day that was beginning for them at last.

Some were accompanied by parents, some by wives and children, some by sweethearts: many had said good-by at home and were walking to the station with brother or friend, saluting acquaintances en route.

But the mobilizing youths were undemonstrative, chary of gesture--shy, serious young fellows preoccupied with the business on hand, conscious that their term of service had equipped them for it--and in their bearing was that modesty and self-respect which discounts self-consciousness and self-assertion.

For there was no longer any excuse for France to be either noisy or dramatic when she went about her business--no reason for posturing, for epigrams, for attitudes, or for the loud laugh and the louder boast to bolster faith with mutual and riotous reassurance in the face of an unknown business venture concerning the conduct of which the entire nation was excited, ignorant, and unprepared.

The Republic had been both instructed and prepared for the matter of the business on hand. And was going quietly about it.

In Ausone itself there were few signs of war visible; the exodus of the young men, the crowd before the bulletins, and the throng at the station, and perhaps more mounted officers and gendarmes than usual riding faster than is customary in the peaceful streets of a provincial town.

But on the roads around the fortified hill dominating the rolling green landscape in the heart of which Ausone nestled, cavalry patrols were riding, infantry details tramped through the white dust, military wagons and motor vans passed under dragoon escort; bridges over the Recollette were guarded by line soldiers and gendarmes, while sappers and miners and engineers were busy at every bridge, culvert, and railway cut.

Above the fort slim tentacles of wireless apparatus spread a tracery against the sky, and a signal tower swam high against the blue. From it sparkled blinding flashes in code. Officers up there were talking business to the Barrier Forts, and the heliographs along the Vosges brilliantly discussed the new business deal with other forts far to the south and east, relaying reports, rumors, and quotations as far as Paris, where the directors' meeting was being held; and even as far as London, where stockholders and directors were gathered to add up profit and loss, and balance policy against ethics, and reconcile both with necessity.

In London a King, a Prime Minister, and a First Lord of the Admiralty were listening to a Sirdar who was laying down the law by wireless to a President and his Premier.

In St. Petersburg an Emperor was whispering to a priest while the priest consulted the stars. Signs being favorable, they changed the city's name to Petrograd, which imperial inspiration dealt a violent slap on the Kaiser's wrist.