the Vosges.  On the 7th the remnant of the 1st corps passed through Saverne, like a swollen stream that carries away upon its muddy bosom all with which it comes in contact.  On the 8th, at Sarrebourg, the 5th corps came tumbling in upon the 1st, like one mad mountain torrent pouring its waters into another.  The 5th was also flying, defeated without having fought a battle, sweeping away with it its commander, poor General de Failly, almost crazy with the thought that to his inactivity was imputed the responsibility of the defeat, when the fault all rested in the Marshal’s having failed to send him orders.  The mad flight continued on the 9th and 10th, a stampede in which no one turned to look behind him.  On the 11th, in order to turn Nancy, which a mistaken rumor had reported to be occupied by the enemy, they made their way in a pouring rainstorm to Bayon; the 12th they camped at Haroue, the 13th at Vicherey, and on the 14th were at Neufchateau, where at last they struck the railroad, and for three days the work went on of loading the weary men into the cars that were to take them to Chalons.  Twenty-four hours after the last train rolled out of the station the Prussians entered the town.  “Ah, the cursed luck!” said Picot in conclusion; “how we had to ply our legs!  And we who should by rights have been in hospital!”

Coutard emptied what was left in the bottle into his own and his comrade’s glass.  “Yes, we got on our pins, somehow, and are running yet.  Bah! it is the best thing for us, after all, since it gives us a chance to drink the health of those who were not knocked over.”

Maurice saw through it all.  The sledge hammer blow of Froeschwiller, following so close on the heels of the idiotic surprise at Wissembourg, was the lightning flash whose baleful light disclosed to him the entire naked, terrible truth.  We were taken unprepared; we had neither guns, nor men, nor generals, while our despised foe was an innumerable host, provided with all modern appliances and faultless in discipline and leadership.  The three German armies had burst apart the weak line of our seven corps, scattered between Metz and Strasbourg, like three powerful wedges.  We were doomed to fight our battle out unaided; nothing could be hoped for now from Austria and Italy, for all the Emperor’s plans were disconcerted by the tardiness of our operations and the incapacity of the commanders.  Fate, even, seemed to be working against us, heaping all sorts of obstacles and ill-timed accidents in our path and favoring the secret plan of the Prussians, which was to divide our armies, throwing one portion back on Metz, where it would be cut off from France, while they, having first destroyed the other fragment, should be marching on Paris.  It was as plain now as a problem in mathematics that our defeat would be owing to causes that were patent to everyone; it was bravery without intelligent guidance pitted against numbers and cold science.  Men might discuss the question as they would in after days; happen what might, defeat was certain in spite of everything, as certain and inexorable as the laws of nature that rule our planet.