The Empress rushed away from a Cabinet meeting to dictate some telegrams to the Emperor and to write others herself. She was still the moving spirit—restless, never giving way to fatigue, indefatigable. All her combative spirit, inherited from an illustrious ancestry, manifested itself. She was in her element. Her consort was reigning, but she was governing, and those around her—not all friends—could not withhold their admiration. Ministers thought the young Prince should be brought back to Paris. They were perturbed by the Emperor’s bad health, and asked themselves if he was in a fit state to hold the supreme command of the army.

M. Ollivier to the Emperor.

The Empress added the words: “I do not think it my duty to oppose this.” Then she sent the following telegram, in her special cipher:

The Empress to the Emperor.

The Government knew nothing of this subterfuge. The Empress’s next step was to summon from Cherbourg Charles Duperré (then commanding the frigate Taureau), in whom she had full confidence. He was to go to Metz and tell the Emperor what she could not telegraph to him.

Trochu bluntly told Ollivier he would not accept the headship of the War Office.

Hearing from the Emperor that the enemy was at no point pursuing the French, and that Frossard’s army corps was concentrated at Puttelange, the Empress telegraphed:

The Empress to the Emperor.

The Empress’s Second Telegram to her Consort.

The Empress had not previously mentioned Bazaine’s name. The Emperor telegraphed to her that at the moment only “very vague details” about the fighting had reached Metz. “It was said that there had been several cavalry charges.” Such was the state of the French “intelligence” department—if it ever had more than a shadowy existence.

Paris was naturally indignant. “The Ministers ought to be arrested! They are to blame for all that has happened.”

“Those who remember those days,” says M. Germain Bapst, “can recall the terrible anguish which tortured all hearts.” And, with admirable fairness to the Empress and the Emperor, he adds these significant words:

The Emperor to the Empress.

While, that afternoon (August 7), the Empress was presiding at the Council, the Opposition Deputies demanded the immediate convocation of the Chambers. Jules Favre was at their head.

One of the best-informed Ambassadors perceived what was coming—what, in fact, did come less than a month later. He telegraphed to his Government these inspired words:

The Emperor, on August 8, ordered the junction of the Lorraine army corps at Metz and the creation of a new army in Paris.

The Emperor to the Empress.

The Empress replied by trying to persuade the Emperor that Paris was quiet, and that there was “no fear of a revolution.” She was preoccupied with the hope of concentrating, to face the enemy, the largest possible number of troops.

The Empress to the Emperor.

On August 7 and 8 M. Maurice Richard saw the Emperor at Metz. His Majesty was much cast down, absorbed in studying a map, and made no answer when spoken to. Sighing, and pressing his hand upon his left side, he said every now and then, “What a misfortune!” But no words of recrimination escaped him. His bent figure and slow movements gave M. Richard the impression of a man who was at his last gasp—whose illness made him unfit to command. General Lebrun, M. Davilliers, and M. Franceschini Pietri advised the Emperor to return to Paris and hand over the command to Marshal Bazaine. The Government shared that opinion. The Empress also advised the transfer of the command to Bazaine. Pietri telegraphed to her proposing the Emperor’s return to Paris. Her Majesty’s reply was telegraphed direct to the Emperor, and ran: “Have you thought of all the consequences of your return to Paris after two defeats?”

Faced by this pregnant question, the suffering Emperor gave way, as always, for he dreaded above all his wife’s anger. One week of warfare had brought Napoleon III. to this piteous state. Bowed down by bodily pain, tortured by defeat following defeat, unable to “see daylight” in any direction, forbidden from returning to Paris, motiveless, powerless, the nominal head of disorganized forces, perhaps (fatalist that he was) even foreseeing what would happen three weeks hence—how vividly these despatches bring before us the picture of Hugo’s “Napoleon the Little”!

By comparison with her stricken, nerveless—shall we say deluded and betrayed?—husband, the Wife’s figure becomes almost colossal. Her hopefulness, her tenacity, her inflexible will had their effect upon some at least of those with whom she was in feverish consultation day and night. From the Emperor, even at this early stage, there was nothing to hope for. What could he have done in Paris, save precipitate the Revolution, which was already in gestation?

The man to whom the Empress turned for advice was the chief of the Bonapartist Parliamentary party—Jérôme David. “In 1867,” says M. Bapst, “during the debates on the Press laws and the right of public meeting, acting by the Empress’s request, he had endeavoured to procure the withdrawal of the projected laws, which had originated with the Emperor himself. David’s appeal for assistance in his task prompted a member of the Senate to reply, with not unkindly humour, that it seemed to him to be a question of a little Ministerial intrigue springing into existence from under the folds of a petticoat!”

After a meeting of Ministers, a deputation from the Chamber had an audience of the Empress, and asked her to sanction the immediate dismissal of Ollivier and his Ministers. To this mild request she answered that it was a question for the Chamber, not for her, to decide. “It would be regrettable to cause a Ministerial crisis at a moment of such gravity.”

One of the deputation, M. Durangel, remained after his colleagues had withdrawn. The Empress took him aside, and, bursting into tears, said: “What do you think of the Emperor’s proposed return to Paris?” Then, without giving him time to answer, she exclaimed, “It is impossible! A Napoleon cannot return to Paris unless he is victorious.” The Empress kept him in conversation until half-past one in the morning! She was now taking large doses of chloral every night, but the drug did not bring her any but the most fitful sleep.

By August 8 Captain Duperré had arrived from Cherbourg. The Empress told him he must go to Metz (as he did) and prevent the Emperor, and even the Prince, from returning to Paris. “I would rather see my son killed by the enemy than become another Louis XVII.!” she exclaimed, and seemed to gain some consolation by repeating it. It was reported that the Times had made the Empress say, “If the Prince returns to Paris, I will immediately take him back to the army.” To force her hand, the Government published an announcement that the Prince had returned to Paris!

Some troops had been ordered to station themselves in the courtyard of the Carrousel. The Empress suggested to Marshal Baraguay d’Hilliers (commanding the forces in Paris) that they should be supplied with rations from the Tuileries kitchens. “No,” said the old warrior; “people would say that it was the repast of the gardes du corps”—the allusion (says M. Bapst) being to the banquet in the Orangerie in 1789, when the appearance of Marie Antoinette had aroused the troops to enthusiasm, and caused them to reject the tricoloured cocardes. Previously the Empress had told the Marshal to prevent the mob from invading the Palais Bourbon, should an attempt be made to “rush” it. “Rioters! brawlers!” he exclaimed; “I would sweep them all out, and if it was necessary to fire upon them I would do so!” Her Majesty cut him short with the question, “But not without orders, would you?” This was too much for the fiery Marshal, and he retorted that he “did not wish to retain his command.” He remained intractable. Princesse Mathilde, who had been asked by the Empress to see if she could make him change his mind, told him he was a coward to desert his post, and there was nothing for it but to replace him by conferring the Paris command upon General Soumain. By August 9 Ministers had lost their authority, and at the opening of the Chambers they were overthrown.

On the morning of August 9, at the Tuileries, General Palikao was announced. The Empress was at a Council, and upon Palikao entering the room, she rose, shook hands with the old soldier, who had done good service in China, and appeared to be overjoyed at the arrival of “a Messiah, whose coming had been anxiously awaited.” The Empress poured forth her soul; it was difficult for anyone else to edge in a word, so excited was the Regent—anxious, perhaps, to let the warrior see how well acquainted she was with what was happening in Lorraine. So steeped was she in military lore that, hearing her expound theories and ideas, even experts might have been betrayed into accepting her speculations as facts. Would Palikao take command of the Paris forces? Or would he prefer to replace Marshal Lebœuf as Major-General of the army of the Rhine at Metz? He could have either post. Seeing how the land lay, Palikao asked abruptly, “Will you make me a Marshal?” The Empress hinted at something of the kind; but Palikao “opted” for the army of the Rhine, and everybody was satisfied. The Regent, bubbling over with delight, could not keep the good news from “Louis” for a moment.

The Empress to the Emperor.

A cold douche soon arrived at the Tuileries. The proposed sending of Palikao to Metz surprised the Emperor.

The Emperor to the Empress.

All the clever combinations of the poor Regent were thus upset.

The Empress to the Emperor.

The Empress to Marshal Lebœuf.

The Regent does not let much, or many, stand in her way when beset by difficulties. She causes a communiqué to be sent to the Journal Officiel (in which it appeared next day) to the effect that Marshal Lebœuf and General Lebrun had resigned! This was untrue. But “À la guerre comme à la guerre.” This reflection may have quieted her moral sense, at some times not as strong as at others.

While all this frantic telegraphing to and from Metz was going on, events in Paris were taking an ugly shape. While the Empress was scribbling, or dictating, her despatches, the mob took possession of the Place de la Concorde and the approaches to the Palais Bourbon (the seat of the Chamber). But, bitterly disappointed with his treatment as he had reason to be, Baraguay d’Hilliers was still military commandant at Paris. He put his foot down with a “thus far shall you go, but no farther.” The mob was cowed, and did not rush into the Chamber, but contented itself with yelling in chorus (the troops joining): “À la frontière! À la frontière!” These fervent patriots did not, however, make any move towards “the frontier”; they were not “out” for that. They heard with satisfaction that the Deputies belonging to the Left had demanded that an Executive Commission should be substituted for the Ollivier Government.

The Empress now set about the formation of a new Ministry, with Jérôme David at its head and Palikao as War Minister. Schneider objected, and tried to persuade the Regent to include in the Ministry some Deputies of the Left. Her Majesty ordered Palikao to form a Government, and preside over it as well as over the War Office. Jérôme David was again ruled out of any post, Schneider (of the Creusot factories) hinting that David was too much “the Empress’s man.” All night Palikao was hunting about for a Minister of the Interior—anyone but David.

The Empress to the Emperor.

Serious news from the Chargé d’Affaires (M. de la Boulaye) at Brussels; General Chazal, Belgian Commander-in-Chief,[92] had removed his headquarters to Namur, and had stated that the French army of Metz would probably be attacked by the massed German armies. The Regent rightly insisted upon the Metz forces being reinforced.

The Empress to the Emperor.

Not a solitary blade of grass does the Regent allow to grow under her feet. Having sent that telegram, she immediately occupies herself with the Paris Mobiles, the objects of much disquietude.

The Empress to the Emperor.

All this time the Empress was reporting to the Emperor what was taking place at the Corps Législatif. Through her he learns that Marshal Baraguay d’Hilliers does not wish to retain his command [of the Paris forces]; she would like him replaced by Marshal Canrobert. She insisted upon Lebœuf resigning the position of Major-General, but the Emperor would not let the Marshal go.

On August 9 Charles Duperré reached Metz at 8 p.m., and had an immediate interview with the Emperor, with this result:

The Emperor to the Empress.

Commander Duperré to the Empress.

Much annoyed by the Emperor’s refusal to adopt her views, Her Majesty sent a strongly-worded despatch to Metz the same night.

The Empress to the Emperor.

The Empress, as her despatch proves, was bent upon (1) getting Trochu out of Paris; (2) having Canrobert as Commander of the Paris force; (3) making Bazaine Commander-in-Chief; and (4) preventing the Emperor and the Prince from returning from the front to Paris.

She instructed Duperré to speak “discreetly” to M. Franceschini Pietri in order that he might telegraph directly to her, without the Emperor’s knowledge, all that would be likely to interest her.

By August 10 Palikao had practically completed his new Ministry, making the Prince de La Tour d’Auvergne (Ambassador at Vienna) Foreign Minister without his knowledge! The Empress wanted a special post created for Baron Haussmann, but to this Ministers objected, and Her Majesty had to abandon her idea, excellent as it was. Haussmann as administrator of everything relating to war supplies and to the provisioning of Paris would have been worth his weight in gold.

At 3 am. on the 9th the Empress, unable to sleep, telegraphed to the Emperor that Canrobert must come to Paris and replace Trochu; and her consort gave way!

The Empress had always admired Trochu, and it was only when, after the defeats at Reichshoffen and Forbach, he blamed everybody, and boasted that he alone had foreseen all the disasters, that her eyes were opened.

The Prince Imperial to his Mother.

The Empress to the Emperor.

The Emperor to the Empress.

The Empress complained to her consort of telegrams from Lebœuf and the Emperor being so contradictory that they produced “the most deplorable effect” when they became known to the public (as she asserted was the case). The Emperor explained all this in a telegram on the 10th, concluding: “It rained in torrents last night. No fighting. We embrace thee tenderly.”

Acting upon the advice given to her by Duperré in his telegram of the 9th, the Empress telegraphed to the Emperor begging him to suppress the functions of Major-General.

The Emperor to the Empress.

The Emperor to Marshal Canrobert.

Canrobert was handed the above while he was waiting at the Tuileries, at 11 p.m., to see the Empress. In the face of that order how could he abandon his corps on the eve of a battle? He could not, therefore, comply with the Empress’s natural, yet somewhat flighty, desire that he should remain in Paris at the head of its troops.

The Empress was now in a state of exhaustion, “living on her nerves and strength of will.” All agreed that her conduct was “admirable.” She could not eat, and, despite the large quantities of chloral which she continued to take, she was unable to sleep. But she slaved on. Acting on the advice of M. Magne (the financial expert) an inventory of the Crown jewels was made, and the various objects were sent to the Bank of France. Pepa, the Empress’s femme de chambre, was trembling with fear, so she was sent away. The Prince de Metternich, who was honoured by the Sovereign with her complete confidence, was constantly with her. He told her of the increasing probability of a revolution, and depicted its horrors in terms which made her consent to hand him her diamonds and her other jewels.[94] These the Austrian Ambassador took away in his carriage and sent them to England. Metternich’s gloomy forebodings greatly excited the Empress. She thought once more of Marie Antoinette, and felt that she might share that Queen’s fate on the scaffold.

The Council of August 10 finished at midnight, and the Empress warmly thanked Canrobert for his presence. The Marshal was grieved at her changed appearance. In a few days she appeared to have aged by ten years. Her features were drawn, the wrinkles showed, her face was puffed, fever burnt in her eyes, she was shaking with cold. As Canrobert was there, she thought he had come to tell her he would not leave the capital—would remain to protect her and to keep order in the town. Taking him apart, she said: “Marshal, I wanted to see you to give you the command of Paris. I reckon upon your devotion. You have influence with the troops, and I am certain you will hold the command successfully.” He showed her the Emperor’s imperative telegram, and said: “Madame, I cannot accept. My corps is at this moment on the march to Metz. There may be a battle to-morrow. If I remained here while my men are fighting, your Majesty would have but a worm-eaten bâton which would give you no support. Let me go and do my duty as a soldier.”

She understood, and was silent. Later, she regretted that she had not compelled the Marshal to remain by her side, had a grudge against him for ever, and reproached this faithful servant of the Empire for leaving her at the moment of danger—leaving her by command of the Emperor.

Events proved that, as regards Canrobert, she was right, while it cannot be said that the Emperor was wrong. Canrobert’s refusal gave Prince Napoleon, a week later, the opportunity of making Trochu Governor of Paris, with fatal results to the dynasty.

Canrobert to the Emperor.

At 8 a.m. Canrobert started for Metz. All along the railway he saw indescribable disorder. The employés had lost their heads. The line was blocked. There were trains full of Failly’s stragglers. One man put his head out of the window and shouted to Canrobert: “Now it is your turn to go and get a drubbing!” The Marshal dragged the ruffian from the carriage, shook the life out of him, and made him crave for pardon. At last (August 12) the Marshal, famishing, got to the Metz station, where one of his staff discovered a loaf, which they devoured. The Emperor was at the Préfecture, and at seven o’clock he gave Canrobert an audience. A conference was proceeding with Marshal Lebœuf and General Lebrun, and Canrobert was an eager listener to the talk. The Emperor, well aware of the scarcity of biscuits and also of cartridges, was endeavouring to get supplies of both. He wanted to collect 200,000 men at Metz, but Canrobert could not understand why. The Sovereign seemed to be dreaming.

While Canrobert was with the Emperor, Commandant Lanclos (one of the Marshal’s aides-de-camp) witnessed a strange scene at the Hôtel de l’Europe. The house was full of officers, all much excited, and deeming the game lost. “See what fifteen years of favouritism have done for us,” said a Colonel of the Staff. “The Emperor ought not to give any more orders. He should make Bazaine Commander-in-Chief, with full powers.” This was openly said by a General, one of His Majesty’s aides. Another General spoke strongly in favour of Bazaine, in whom all appeared to have confidence. He was “the saviour hailed by everybody.” Even the most devoted friends of the Emperor had lost their faith in him. When he was at the Tuileries, Canrobert had observed the same feeling. Those surrounding the Empress no longer troubled about the Emperor—what he did, what he said, what he thought. He had become an embarrassment.

In 1867 all the “strong places” had been well supplied with biscuits by Marshal Niel; but by June, 1870, not one was left, and the Chamber (previous to the declaration of war) had refused to vote money for further supplies. Thus Metz and the frontier places were now without resources. A hurried contract had been made with the house of Rothschild for 2,500 tons of biscuits, which were on board ship at various ports, until they could be taken to Metz. The railway at Nancy and other places was blocked, so that no food, or anything else, could get to Metz. Plans were changed hourly. Orders followed by counter-orders—this was the rule.

Marshal Canrobert left the Emperor firmly convinced that the only plan in existence at the moment was to concentrate 200,000 men at Metz; what they were to do when, if ever, they arrived there was a mystery!

After forcing his way through the streets, which were in a state of turmoil, Canrobert reached his hotel, the Europe, and ordered lunch—an omelette and a cutlet. These he could have, but only in the room common to all comers.

Nothing had been seen of the enemy for many days. Canrobert was furious, but he said nothing, and ordered his officers to remain silent. He rode to Woippy, saw his troops, and returned to the Emperor. His Majesty, bombarded by telegrams from the Empress and Palikao, gave way. By half-past two o’clock that day Lebœuf had ceased to be Major-General, and Bazaine was Commander-in-Chief of the French army, vice Napoleon III., resigned!

Canrobert saw at the Metz Préfecture the ghost of an Emperor. Overwhelmed, pale as death, seated at a large table, Napoleon held in one hand a pocket-handkerchief, with which he continually wiped his mouth. Either he had had a nephritic attack or had taken an over-dose of extrait thébaïgne; for he was inert.

Canrobert left Lebœuf, Bazaine, and the Emperor together at the Préfecture. The Emperor never told anyone what Bazaine and he had discussed. General Lebrun has put it on record that the Emperor told Bazaine he wished the army to retreat, and that Bazaine made no reply. In the evening Napoleon wrote to Bazaine: “See what can be done, and if we are not attacked to-morrow we will come to a decision.”

Marshal Bazaine, tried by a court-martial—presided over by H.R.H. the Duc d’Aumale—for dereliction of duty, was found guilty, deprived of his military rank, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. I doubt very much whether the guilt or innocence of Bazaine will ever be satisfactorily established. The temper of the French people at the time of his trial required a victim, and he was freely offered up by his companions-in-arms on the altar of National Vanity. Nothing throughout the war was more remarkable than the discussions, the rivalries, the petty jealousies, which characterized the relations of Napoleon’s Marshals and Generals. A friend of mine who was at Metz in the early period of the war assured me that he had never seen anything more pitiable than the look of sheer despondency which he saw on the Emperor’s face as he sat presiding at a council of war, and listening to the noisy and even brutal recriminations of one General after another as he rose to defend his own movements, or attack the tactics of a brother officer. Naturally, Bazaine had few friends among the Commanders of Corps. They were only too glad to be able to point to his retirement on Metz, and his subsequent surrender, as the proximate causes of the overthrow of the French army. Each one felt his military honour less seriously impeached when the court-martial ordered Bazaine’s name to be struck off the roll of the Legion of Honour.

I do not presume to offer an opinion on the subject of Bazaine’s crime; but, from all that I have been able to gather from French military experts, the conviction is now prevalent that Bazaine was no traitor. I know that the Empress Eugénie, who suffered as much as anybody through his falling back on Metz, had nothing worse to say of him than that he was “ramolli,” that all the thoughts of the old soldier were centred in his young and pretty wife and her children, and that France was secondary. At any rate, it is pretty certain that when the German armies got between him and Paris all the energy and skill and bravery of the best General France had would have been overtaxed by the effort to pierce the barrier of fire and steel built across the roads by the Germans. Happily, there was one exception. Bazaine’s Chief of Staff, his devoted friend during the siege, and subsequently his support during the trial, his comrade in imprisonment, ultimately his saviour, deserves honourable mention. He it was who planned and carried out Bazaine’s escape from the Isle St. Marguerite in a little rowing-boat, and enabled his old commander to spend the rest of his days in exile instead of in prison.[95]

CHAPTER XIII

WHAT OUR EYES HAVE SEEN

In the dead of the night the springless waggon containing two doctors of a Sanitäts-Corps and myself rumbled through the streets of hilly Clermont, at that moment[96] the headquarters of King William, first German Emperor. I had made my way from Saarbrücken (escaping in a soldiers’ train) to Pont-à-Mousson, had seen something of the Bavarian bombardment of Toul, and had visited Commercy and Bar-le-Duc. These eastern districts were occupied by the German troops, and side by side on the walls of the Hôtel de Ville at Commercy were the Emperor’s placards, headed “Souscription en faveur de l’armée,” and King William’s announcement, “La conscription est abolie dans toute l’étendue du territoire Français occupé par les troupes Allemandes.”

I found the Prussians in high feather. “We shall be in Paris in a fortnight from now,” said some of their officers to me at table d’hôte; and I thought of the prediction when, three weeks later, I was “before,” but not yet “in,” Paris with them. My greatest anxiety had been to catch up the royal headquarters, so that I might apply for a “legitimation,” which would enable me to move about free of interference; and, thanks to Count von Podbielski, the King’s Adjutant, I obtained this precious document at Clermont. It was here that I met the King—here that, for the first time, I saw Moltke and other giants of the sword, and Bismarck.

The one long, steep street of Clermont was ankle-deep in white mud. Each side of it was lined by baggage-waggons and carriages—such carriages! In every house soldiers were billeted. At No. 21 in the main thoroughfare King William was lodged. This was the royal “haupt-quartier”—a plain, white building, nothing like the grand residence which the King had had at Saarbrücken. There was no flag flying. Two soldiers were doing “sentry go”—that was all. As the church clock chimed eight our hearts were stirred by the clash of music, and a Bavarian battalion marched through the town, their band, forty-three strong, playing the march from “Sardanapalus,” to which, four days later (September 1), I stepped at Bazeilles, while shells were flying and bullets whistling, and the mitrailleuses furnishing a growling, snarling accompaniment.

As the Bavarians—the ill-fated King Ludwig’s lissome Bavarians—passed No. 21 the King (he was seventy-four then!) came to the open window and gravely saluted the Captain of each company with a nod of his silvery head. “Hoch!” shouted the men—“hoch! hoch!” Presently came another battalion, and then the King came downstairs and stood in the street, chatting to his Staff as if it had been a review day in the Tempelhof, and not a pouring wet morning in war-time. King William was in the uniform of a general officer—tunic and trousers of blue, pickelhaube, low boots, cloak, and the blue-and-gold star common to all his Generals. All the officers of the battalion were called to the front, and forty or fifty were presented to His Majesty, who made this little speech: “Gentlemen, I am very much pleased to see the troops of Bavaria with those of Prussia. It has also given me a great deal of pleasure to observe the bravery which you have displayed and the zeal you possess. I hope that this unity of all the German armies will long endure, and that you will gain yet more glory.”

Von Moltke and two or three other officers stood close by, and in attendance on the King was Count von Alten, brother of the Duchess of Manchester. (The Duke of Manchester of those days was with the Prussians for some time in the early days of the campaign.) Spectators of the incident were General Sheridan, of the United States Army, and a couple of other Americans. As I stood in the muddy streets of Clermont that morning, my attention riveted on the King, I little thought that ere the week was over I should witness two of the most sanguinary battles of the war, and see Napoleon III. and his army surrender to the white-haired old gentleman who had greeted his Bavarians so pleasantly opposite No. 21.

The hotel at Raucourt—a small town some two or three miles from the battlefield of Sedan—was full of German officers on August 31, but no hint was dropped to the three civilians (two English and one Austrian[97]) in the house that the next day would be an eventful one. The word “Sedan” was not even mentioned. But the constant passage of troops, all moving in the same direction, warned us to be on the alert. At half-past seven on September 1 two of us joined the procession, stimulated to hasten forward by the continuous roar of the guns from afar.

Pontoon bridges had been built over the Meuse, and on these we crossed with artillery and infantry—thousands of both. Here was the battlefield, extending over miles of ground, hill and valley, with sheltering woods here and there. It was a sweltering day—blue sky and fierce sunshine. The French gunners were very active, and, as we skirted the welcome coppice, their shells flew over our heads and burst at a few yards’ distance. Parched with thirst, I parted company with my friend, whom I thought rashly venturesome, and retraced my steps in the direction of a large château, in the hope of getting a glass of water. On guard at the entrance-gate was a helmeted soldier, who barred my way. I produced my “permit,” signed only two or three days before by the King’s Adjutant, General von Podbielski; but this had no effect upon him, and, but for a happy accident—or, rather, two accidents—I should never have seen any more of the fighting. I ran up to a mounted officer, showed him my “legitimation,” and had the satisfaction of hearing him shout to the man at the gate to “let me in,” as I was a privileged person, entitled to go whither I listed.

Much relieved at this recognition of my status, I was tramping on towards the coppice, in the hope of picking up my companion, when a sergeant in charge of some ammunition waggons passed. To my surprise he stopped, inquiring, in my own tongue, “Are you an Englishman, sir?” I assured him that I was, and, moreover, a newspaper correspondent.

“Well, then,” said this friend in need, “if you will come with me, I will take you to our battery, which is in action on the top of the hill, and introduce you to the Captain, Von Richter, who I dare say will allow you to be attached to us upon seeing your ‘legitimation.’ Otherwise you may find yourself in trouble.”

It was soon done, and I was made free of the battery, and permitted to share its fate.

I found that this battery was part of the Fourth Army Corps, commanded by the then Crown Prince of Saxony, who became King Albert some years later. The battery was pounding away all day, and I never left it. I had smelt powder previously—at Saarbrücken, when the little Prince Imperial received his “baptism of fire,” and at the battle of Beaumont, at the end of August. Then, however, I was constantly moving about, and at Saarbrücken, when Von Pestel’s 1,000 fusiliers and three squadrons of Uhlans retreated, leaving the Emperor and Frossard’s force of 30,000 (!) masters of the field, I had an hour’s run at top speed with the defeated troops until we were out of reach of the French fire.

It was different on September 1. I was in the best position to see the fighting, throughout the day, until it was all over, and I was cautioned against roving about. On rising ground, near Richter’s battery, were the King, Moltke, Bismarck, Von Podbielski, Von Alvensleben, and others—General Sheridan amongst them. I should have preferred the position of a “galloper” to that of a mere spectator, standing up, hour after hour, as it seemed to me, to be shot at. The firing from this one battery alone deafened me at first, but I soon got used to it. The time dragged on very slowly. I cannot conscientiously say that this period of looking on was particularly exciting. Our battery was engaged in a duel with a French battery on a distant hill. To these Saxon gunners it seemed not to matter what happened elsewhere. They were only an atom of a vast mosaic. What our battery was doing was being done by other batteries all over an illimitable area.

Down in the valley we watched the lines of blue-tuniced Germans always advancing. Havoc in their ranks was made by the mitrailleuses, whose diabolical grinding rattle was terrifying; but the wearers of the spiked helmets seemed to be traversing a field of poppies, so thickly was the ground strewn by the red-trousered killed and wounded. Every now and again our battery took up a fresh position, and as we advanced the closer we got to Bazeilles, Willers-Cernay, and Waldincourt, all in flames.

We did not know the “motive” of the battle, which, as General Pajol afterwards put it, was to drive the French into the “mousetrap” of Sedan. What we did know, towards the late afternoon, was that we had assisted at a great German victory, and that the white flag (which, from our position, we could not see) had been hoisted within Sedan. What we saw, about four o’clock, was the German cavalry scouring the valley and cutting down the retreating enemy. Then our battery ceased firing, but we heard the occasional growling of other guns until sunset. Next morning early, when the bands were playing “Nun danket alle Gott,” General von Schöler told me many astounding things—how the Emperor Napoleon had personally surrendered, and how the whole French army had capitulated. Von Schöler, like so many others, thought the war was over, but on the 3rd the victorious armies began the famous march to Paris. And that march is a thing to remember, for by the 19th the invaders had encircled the capital.

At 8.30 p.m. on Thursday, the never-to-be-forgotten First of September, 1870, when Napoleon, although he had formally surrendered, was not yet an actual captive, General de Wimpffen said to him: “Sire, if I have lost the battle, it is because your Generals refused to obey my orders.”

Towards the end of August the Emperor had confided the supreme command to Marshal Bazaine, and left Metz for Châlons, where he found the débris of the 1st Corps (MacMahon), the 5th (Failly), the 7th (Douay), and the newly-formed 12th Corps (Trochu). Napoleon followed MacMahon’s corps, which was in very indifferent case.

On August 30 the whole of the French corps were at a point between Mouzon and Carignan. Failly, who had just been badly beaten, found that he was in close proximity to the greater portion of the German forces, and felt unable to march to Metz; as a consequence, MacMahon ordered him to retreat to Sedan, and told the Emperor (then at Carignan) also to proceed to that place, now the rallying centre of the army. When, at 11 p.m., Napoleon reached Sedan, he was urged to continue his journey to Mézières, where he would have been safe, and could have gained Paris. He refused, however, to leave the army, declaring that he would share its fate.

The four French corps were so placed as to surround Sedan, the left bank of the Meuse remaining open. This was an unfortunate disposition, as it made it possible for the Germans to pass round the town by that bank of the river. A Bavarian and a Prussian corps soon occupied that position, thus preventing a French retreat in that direction.

The battle of Sedan began at 5 a.m. on September 1, the Germans first attacking from the Bazeilles side, vigorously defended by the 12th Corps. MacMahon immediately roused the Emperor, who rode towards Bazeilles, followed by his Staff. On the road he met MacMahon, already wounded and hors de combat. The Emperor rode on until he came to Vassoigne’s division of marine infantry, a splendid force. The Sovereign, finding that shells and bullets were coming from all sides at once, ordered the officers accompanying him to join a battalion of foot-chasseurs, who were sheltered by a wall, until the time came for them to advance in line. The Emperor, anxious to see the disposition of his troops, rode onward, accompanied only by his aide-de-camp of the day (General Pajol), his orderly officer (Captain d’Hendecourt, who was killed), his principal écuyer (Comte Davilliers), and his doctor (Baron Corvisart). Napoleon proceeded to an exposed point, where Commandant St. Aulaire’s battery was in position, remaining there for an hour under a withering cannon and rifle fire.

At 6 a.m. MacMahon, wounded, had placed the command in the hands of Ducrot, who, in order to prevent the turning movement, which had been fatal to the French in previous battles, and also to preserve the one line of retreat remaining open—viz., the Mézières road—had placed on the heights of Floing two divisions of the 7th Corps, whose artillery faced Mézières; and at the same time he ordered the commander of the 12th Corps to execute his retreat in échelons by brigades. That movement was ably performed by General Lebrun (vice Trochu), whose force never ceased fighting during the operation.

General de Wimpffen now appeared. He had visited the outposts, had observed the admirable attitude of the 12th Corps (Lebrun’s) and its energetic resistance on the Bazeilles side, and predicted a successful issue of the battle. It was still only nine o’clock. For three hours Ducrot had been in supreme command. De Wimpffen now handed him a letter, signed by the War Minister, in virtue of which he claimed to succeed the wounded Marshal. Ducrot at once complied, and explained to De Wimpffen all that had been done. The new commander treated Ducrot’s explanation very lightly, and expressed the opinion that the enemy’s movements were nothing but cavalry manœuvres!

As the Emperor now wished to proceed to the distant heights, which were apparently the key to the position, he led his Staff down to Givonne, where they met General Goze and his division. Here an officer of chasseurs-à-pied approached the Emperor, saying: “Sire, I am a native of these parts, and know the country perfectly. If we allow the Garenne wood to be turned the army will be surrounded, and will be in a most critical position.”

Napoleon at once sent one of his Staff to find De Wimpffen and give him this information, which bore out what Ducrot had previously said. De Wimpffen rode up to the Emperor, remarking: “Your Majesty need not be alarmed. In two hours I shall have thrown them into the Meuse!”

General Castelnau grasped General Pajol’s hand, exclaiming: “I hope to God we shall not be thrown into the river!”

All were now alive to the supreme danger of the French forces. The ground on which the Emperor and his Staff were standing was torn up by shells coming from all sides. The troops had already concentrated in the ravines which surrounded Sedan; the roads leading to those places were blocked by commissariat and artillery waggons and by regiments of cavalry; all these thousands were trying to escape from the storm of shells and bullets, but the majority succumbed to the terrible fire.

The result of De Wimpffen’s change of plan was now evident. At one o’clock the 1st and 5th Corps got into confusion. The Generals endeavoured to re-establish order by going to the front; but all was of no avail, and the troops retreated to Sedan in such disorder that General Lebrun had the gates of the town closed. Even this was useless, for the defeated troops scaled the ramparts with the aid of ropes and ladders let down by the men within the citadel.

The Emperor had fully realized the situation since eleven o’clock. For five hours he had been in the thick of the fighting, under a cross-fire. Shells burst around him and his Staff. General de Courson and Captain de Trécesson had fallen gravely wounded close to the Emperor. In retiring the troops had compelled His Majesty to fall back, and he was jammed against the walls of the town. When, at half-past eleven, he freed himself, more than 30,000 men were heaped together in the streets of Sedan, pell-mell. The enemy’s shells fell in their midst, as they were still falling on the battlefield itself, and dealt out the same destruction. On the bridge a shell burst two yards from the Emperor, killing two horses by his side. The marvel was that he escaped with his life and uninjured.

After visiting Marshal MacMahon, the Emperor tried to remount his charger. As the confusion rendered this impossible, His Majesty went to the Sous-Préfecture, and there awaited the dénouement. The commanders of the various corps soon joined him, declaring that the troops were all in such disorder in the streets that further resistance was impossible. General Pellé, who, next day, voted against the capitulation, said to the Emperor: “Sire, I am only a soldier. I want to save your Majesty, but at this moment you cannot leave the ramparts. To attempt to do so would be useless.”

The Emperor replied that he would not sacrifice the life of a single soldier to save his own, and that he had made up his mind to share the fate of the army.

Having minutely questioned the Generals as to the state of affairs, the Emperor sent General Lebrun to find General de Wimpffen, and tell him, since it was useless to continue the struggle, to ask for an armistice. A full hour having elapsed without any answer from De Wimpffen, and the murderous fire of the Germans continuing, while the French guns remained silent, the Emperor himself ordered the white flag to be hoisted on the citadel. The King immediately sent an aide-de-camp to demand the surrender of the town. The Emperor, believing that in delivering himself up to the victors he would obtain better terms for the army and for France, despatched one of his own aides-de-camp to the King with the message that the Emperor placed his sword in the Prussian Sovereign’s hands. On the following day (Friday, September 2), at a Council of War, composed of thirty Generals, presided over by General de Wimpffen, it was recognized that capitulation was inevitable, only two Generals voting against it.

The Emperor (General Pajol asserts it most positively) was entirely ignorant of the strategical movements which led the army from Châlons to Mouzon, and from thence to Sedan. To charge Napoleon III. with being militarily responsible for the capitulation of Sedan is an injustice, as Marshal MacMahon was perfectly free in all his movements. The Emperor has been personally charged with wrecking the army. He could but try to save the crew of the ship, of which he was no longer the captain. This is what he endeavoured to do when, at three o’clock in the afternoon, he ordered the white flag to be hoisted. Half an hour later one or other of the Generals would have given the order, but in the meantime thousands more lives would have been sacrificed.

The politicians tried to throw the whole of the responsibility of Sedan upon the Emperor, whom they would certainly not have credited with a victory, had there been one. But Marshal MacMahon, whose noble simplicity and loyal character are known to all, wrote, in October, 1870, a letter to the Emperor, dated from Pouru-aux-Bois, in which he said: “The Emperor may be assured that I should never think, for the purpose of defending myself personally, of misrepresenting the events which I witnessed in the last campaign.”

These words do the Duc de Magenta honour, and cast upon each individual the responsibility of his acts.

“Such is the true story of this deplorable day. I have given the details in sober language. Desiring only to tell the truth, I have related only what I myself saw.”[98]

Were the Emperor’s cheeks rouged on the day of Sedan? Zola has asserted that they were so coloured “to make him appear juvenile, and even jovial.”[99] Personally I can neither confirm nor deny the allegation, for, although I was with the Saxons during the battle, and remained on the field the two following days, I failed to get a glimpse of the Emperor, who had been within an ace of being captured on August 29 and 30 by the troops I was then accompanying. His Majesty (so they assured me) was bundled into a third-class carriage of the last train used by his forces, and so escaped capture by the skin of his teeth.

It is quite possible that some of those numerous informants of Zola, from whose stories he mainly compiled his marvellous narrative, may have inadvertently led him astray in this particular matter, if not on some other points. I have conversed with a French gentleman who was close to the Emperor an hour or