Other thoughts obsessed me. Rheims, the heart of the country. This city, which held such an illustrious place in our annals, to-day was threatened, almost lost. How many of our ancient possessions had lately fallen into the hands of the enemy? In 1871, Strassburg and Metz. This time the downfall was more rapid—Flanders and Artois, Picardy, so many treasures and marvels, our patrimony of art and land. The impious tide was advancing. And what fate awaited these august arches, under which our princes had prostrated themselves, the nave which had echoed to the sublime chants of our religion? Would they become a Lutheran church which we should be allowed to look over for the consideration of a few pfennigs? Or was there a worse fate in store for them? I dared not put it into words ... the crushing presentiment of ravage and crime, fire and sword, devastating this miracle of human hands. I only know that filling my consciousness with the gorgeous picture I secretly bid it farewell.
What was to be done? Resist? No doubt. But so many legions had burst from the Germanic reservoirs. What if it was the barbarians' turn to spread across this corner of the world? An unwavering law—why not? France would perhaps die away—the most civilised nation, ruined by her intelligence, by her scepticism revolting against that which had formed her grandeur. I glanced at the string of stationary trains below. Should we ever get any farther? Were we not more likely to fight where we were? An ironical fate to perish in sight of these towers, symbols of our whilom virtue, of our repudiated creed!
It must be noticed that I was still convinced that we should all do our utmost duty. We should merit the respect of those who would build on our ruins. I closed my eyes. I almost wished that the hour of our noble passing would strike as soon as possible. It seemed to me that, wounded to the death, I might have closed my eyes, unregretfully, on my race and on myself since we had achieved our destiny.
And yet compunction pursued me among these gloomy speculations. Where was my dauntlessness of yesterday? Why did I suddenly flinch? I sought for the torches which lit up my path. A dazzling beacon stood forth: My love! Jeannine—Jeannine! I still adored her, but what fears interposed themselves, chilling my hope. I counted the days, how many was it, five or six, since I had heard from her. Our one chance of happiness was exposed to so many risks.
What was happening over there? If there were strikes and riots, and the attendant train of outrages? A fair-haired victim...! Would not our future fall to pieces with the future of our nation? Or again—other thoughts assailed me. The turgid surge of uncertainty. Had I deceived myself? Had I not relied too much on a few friendly letters? Had the exalted tone of my missives suddenly alarmed her?
And then I took pity on myself. So that was the only cause of my depression. The delay in our correspondence. But was there any one round me, never mind who it was, more favoured than I? I tried in vain to bring about a reaction.
I went back into the valley. Guillaumin was watching for me and greeted me by asking:
"Well, are you convinced now?"
Yes, it certainly was firing. It could be heard quite distinctly. The men had recognised it, and seemed exhilarated by it.