‘Ainsi Dieu ne sait pas, ainsi le divin maître
Ne sait quel retenir et placer hors du lieu,
Et pour lequel tenir, et s’il faut vraiment mettre
L’amour de la patrie après l’amour de Dieu.’
The saints that Péguy sang were patriot saints: Geneviève, who preserved the city of Paris from the Huns of Attila; Jeanne, who hunted the English out of France. Of all glories, of all honours, that dearest to this poet was military glory and national honour—
‘Il n’y a rien à faire à cela, et il n’y a rien à dire. Le soldat mesure la quantité de terre où on parle une langue, où règnent des mœurs, un esprit, une âme, un culte, une race. Le soldat mesure la quantité de terre où une âme peut respirer. Le soldat mesure la quantité de terre où un peuple ne meurt pas.
This was Péguy’s firm conviction: no duty so important as the military duty! When the war broke out, man of forty as he was and father of a struggling family—man, too, much engrossed and overworked by his triple occupation as poet, prose-writer, and publisher—he changed from the Territorials into a regiment sent on active service to the front. ‘No man hath greater love than this....’
Thanks to the recital of one of his soldiers, Victor Bondon, we can witness the fall—or rather I would say the assumption—of the poet and brother of Joan of Arc. For he too fell in driving the invader out of France! There is an extraordinary breath of heroism in this page of an unknown private soldier relating the end of a great man. I cannot do better than translate it here, with some abridgments and suppressions:—
‘On the 5th September in the morning, the 55th division of the army of Paris was ranged on the left of the forces which had received the general order, “Die where you stand, rather than retreat.” In front of us, on the wooded hills that reach from Dammartin to Meaux, von Klück and his Boches, who had followed us step by step from Roye during our terrible retreat, lay in wait for us, hidden in their trenches, like beasts of prey.
‘The heat was tropical; the battalion halted a moment at the pretty village of Nantouillet. I see again, with the mind’s eye, our dear Lieutenant Péguy, seated on a stone, white with dust (as indeed we all were), covered with sweat, his beard rough and shaggy, his eyes shining behind his pince-nez. Such he was, as we had seen him in Lorraine during the retreat, impervious to fatigue, brave under a storm of shells, going from one to another of his men with a cheering word for each throughout the whole length of our company (the 19th), sharing our rations (and we eat as a rule one day in three), never complaining despite his forty years, as young as the youngest, knowing just the right way to take the Parisians that we were, heartening the discouraged with a word, satirical enough sometimes, but more often a friendly quizzical quip, always brave, always an example; ah, yes! I see again our dear lieutenant, bidding us fight in hope, raising our flagging spirits in an hour when many were near despairing, with the assurance of his own absolute confidence in our final victory.’
‘At last the sun began to slope towards evening; it was five o’clock. After four hours’ incessant fire, our 75’s had silenced the Prussian batteries on the ridge, and the infantry were ordered to attack their entrenchments. The black troops from Morocco, in what had seemed an invincible rush, had tried once, and failed. Now Péguy’s company starts in skirmishing order; the German batteries are quiet, but when our men reach the ridge they are greeted by a storm of bullets. The ground is covered with tangled, down-trodden oats that catch the feet; and in front, just on a level with their heads, that burst of fire. Péguy’s voice, ringing and glad, commands the assault: “Feu! En avant!...”
‘Ah! cette fois c’est fini de rire. Escaladant le talus et rasant le sol, courbés en deux, pour offrir moins de prise aux balles, nous courons à l’assaut.... Le capitaine Guérin, M. de la Cornillière, sont tués raides, “Couchez-vous (hurle Péguy) et feu à volonté!” mais lui-même reste debout, la lorgnette à la main, dirigeant notre tir, héroïque dans l’enfer.
‘Nous tirons comme des enragés, noirs de poudre, le fusil nous brûlant les doigts.... Péguy est toujours debout, malgré nos cris de “Couchez-vous,” glorieux fou dans sa bravoure. Le plupart d’entre nous n’ont plus de sac, perdu lors de la retraite, et le sac, en ce moment, est un précieux abri. Et la voix du lieutenant crie toujours: “Tirez! Tirez! Nom de Dieu!” D’aucuns se plaignent: “Nous n’avons plus de sac, mon lieutenant, nous allons tous y passer!” “Ça ne fait rien! (crie Péguy dans la tempête qui siffle). Moi non plus! Je n’en ai pas, vous voyez. Tirez toujours!” Et il se dresse comme un défi à la mitraille, semblant appeler cette mort qu’il glorifiait dans ses vers. Au même instant, une balle meurtrière fracasse la tête de ce héros, brise ce front généreux et noble. Il est tombé, sans un cri, ayant eu l’ultime vision de la victoire proche; et quand, cent mètres plus loin, bondissant comme un forcené, je jette derrière moi un rapide coup d’œil alarmé, j’aperçois là-bas, comme une tache noire au milieu de tant d’autres, le corps de ce brave, de notre cher lieutenant.’