André and St. Benôit in the third line wept with wrath and despair. The English volleys are devilish, murderous, horrible, and delivered as calmly, silently, majestically, as they had marched. The red lines are girt about with a halo of impenetrable flame, pitiless, ceaseless, triumphant. The Swiss Guards are decimated, the Courtinois are piled in dying heaps, the French Guards shattered. Hotter and hotter it grows as the smoke becomes thicker. Step by step the red lines advance.
André straining forward can see the stony faces, the loading and reloading as at a battue, the officers walking serenely up and down, marking each volley, now jesting, now reprimanding, now encouraging, now smartly tapping the muskets with their canes to force them down and make the men fire low, and fire low they do. Can nothing be done? The Royal Brigade, the Soissonois are brought up. Forward now in God’s name and for the honour of France! Useless, utterly useless. Volley upon volley shivers the advancing files; they tumble in bloody swathes; they stop, recoil, reel. Disorder is spreading, shouts and cries and the pile of dead grow bigger, and yard by yard to those infernal drums roll on the red lines. They are past the earthworks. On they come—a volley—on—on—steady, slow, irresistible. Ten minutes more and we are lost!
Fierce trumpets through the smoke, the thunder of cavalry charging. The Maréchal has launched them, and not a moment too soon. The English halt—wait—fire. Horses and men crumble up—dissolve. No matter. Bring up the second line and now ride home, ride home. Shame on you that twelve battalions of infantry backed by artillery can defy the flower of our French army. The English line shivers into a bristling wall. Keep quiet there and reserve your fire—muttered whispers and curses, and then the flame leaps out. That is the way, sirs; stand up to them and for heaven’s name let the drums keep beating, the drums that beat at Dettingen and are beating now at Fontenoy. Rank after rank totters, breaks, parts, scatters. A cheer rolls up, the cheers of the victors, for dying men and riderless horses are all that remain of our second line of cavalry.
The English have won! No, by God and the Virgin, the patron of France, not yet! We still remain, we the Maison du Roi and we the Chevau-légers de la Garde. The silver trumpets blare out their warning challenge. One solemn minute—clear your sword arms and charge! Charge!
Boot to boot, saddle to saddle, through the smoke we cut our way with set teeth and sobbing breath. We are no bourgeoisie, we; no canaille or roturiers drawn from the plough; we are nobles all, and this will be the cold steel of the white arm at close grips. The ground is thick with dead—our horses nostrils gleam red—God! we are on them and the blast of the tornado smites us and we—we reel! As hail from a north-easter smites a standing crop so do their bullets smite us and we stagger like drunken men, stagger and blench and fail. Red are their coats, but red and hot as the flames of hell is their fire, and in five awful minutes we too are left sobbing in the saddle, beaten—beaten! The chivalry of France has gone down before that pitiless furnace.
André found himself swept to the rear in the hideous backwash of that miserable recoil, spattered with blood, choked with smoke. Gasping he galloped to the Maréchal.
“The day is lost,” he shouted, “lost!”
The Maréchal nodded as he calmly sucked his leaden bullet.
“Go,” he replied, “do you go and warn the King to retire. At least save His Majesty.”
And then he turned to summon his last reserves for one final effort to retrieve the day while André delivered his message. But Louis would not retire. Impenetrable as ever, inspired by a gleam of kingly pride, he doggedly refused to obey, and André in despair left him to rally and lead the infantry and horse that still remained. Better now death than dishonour, for a prisoner he would not be a second time. Back to the fray and fall before defeat comes!