Lieutenant Laré’s Marriage
At the very beginning of the campaign Lieutenant Laré took two guns from the Prussians. The general said tersely: “Thanks, Lieutenant,” and gave him the cross of the Legion of Honour. Being as prudent as he was brave, subtle, inventive, and very resourceful, he was placed in charge of some hundred men, and he organised a service of scouts which saved the army several times during retreats.
Like a tidal wave the invaders poured over the entire frontier, wave after wave of men, leaving behind them the scum of pillage. General Carrel’s brigade was separated from its division, and had to retreat continuously, taking part in daily engagements, but preserving its ranks almost intact, thanks to the vigilance and speed of Lieutenant Laré, who seemed to be everywhere at once, outwitting the enemy, disappointing their calculations, leading the Uhlans astray, and killing their outposts.
One morning the general sent for him.
“Lieutenant,” he said, “here is a telegram from General de Lacère, who will be lost if we do not come to his help by tomorrow at dawn. You will start at dusk with three hundred men, whom you will station all along the road. I shall follow two hours later. Reconnoitre the route carefully. I do not want to run into an enemy division.”
It had been freezing hard for a week. At two o’clock it began to snow, by the evening the ground was covered, and heavy snowflakes obscured the closest objects. At six o’clock the detachment set out. Two men by themselves marched ahead to act as scouts. Then came a platoon of ten men commanded by the lieutenant himself. The remainder advanced in two long columns. A couple of hundred yards away on the left and right flanks a few soldiers marched in couples. The snow, which was still falling, powdered them white in the darkening shadows, and, as it did not melt on their uniforms, they were barely distinguishable in the dark from the general pallor of the landscape.
From time to time they halted, and then not a sound could be heard but that imperceptible rustle of falling snow, a vague and sinister sound, which is felt rather than heard. An order was given in whispers, and when the march was resumed they had left behind them a sort of white phantom standing in the snow, growing more and more indistinct until finally it disappeared. These were the living signposts which were to guide the army.
The scouts slowed their pace. Something was looming up in front of them.
“Swing to the right,” said the lieutenant, “that’s the woods of Ronfi; the château is more to the left.”
Soon the command to halt was heard. The detachment stopped and waited for the lieutenant, who, escorted by only ten men, had gone to reconnoitre the chateâu. They advanced, creeping under the trees. Suddenly they stopped dead. A frightful silence hovered about them, then, right beside them a clear, musical little voice broke the silence of the woods, saying:
“Father, we shall lose our way in the snow. We shall never reach Blainville.”
A deeper voice replied:
“Don’t be afraid, my child. I know the country as well as the back of my hand.”
The lieutenant said something, and four men moved off noiselessly, like phantoms.
All at once the piercing cry of a woman rang out in the night. Two prisoners were brought to him, an old man and a little girl, and the lieutenant, still speaking in whispers, cross-examined them.
“Your name?”
“Pierre Bernard.”
“Occupation?”
“Comte de Ronfi’s butler.”
“Is this your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“What does she do?”
“She is a sewing-maid at the chateâu.”
“Where are you going to?”
“We are running away.”
“Why?”
“Twelve Uhlans passed this evening. They shot three guards and hanged the gardener. I got frightened about the child.”
“Where are you going to?”
“Blainville.”
“Why?”
“Because there is a French army there.”
“Do you know the way?”
“Perfectly.”
“All right. Follow us.”
They rejoined the column, and the march across the fields was resumed. The old man walked in silence beside the lieutenant. His daughter marched beside him. Suddenly she stopped.
“Father,” she said, “I am so tired I cannot go any farther.”
She sat down, shaking with the cold, and seemed ready to die. Her father tried to carry her, but he was too old and feeble.
“Lieutenant,” he said, with a sob, “we shall be in your way. France comes first. Leave us.”
The officer had given an order, and several men had gone off, returning with some cut branches. In a moment a stretcher was made, and the whole detachment had come up.
“There is a woman here dying of cold,” said the lieutenant, “who will give a coat to cover her?”
Two hundred coats were taken off.
“Now, who will carry her?”
Every arm was placed at her disposal. The girl was wrapped in the warm military coats, laid gently upon the stretcher, and then lifted on to four robust shoulders. Like an Oriental queen carried by her slaves she was placed in the middle of the detachment, which continued its march, more vigorously, more courageously and more joyfully, warmed by the presence of a woman, the sovereign inspiration to which the ancient blood of France owes so much progress.
After an hour there was another halt, and they all lay down in the snow. Away off in the middle of the plain a huge black shadow was running. It was like a fantastic monster, which stretched out like a snake, then suddenly rolled itself up in a ball, bounded forward wildly, stopped and went on again. Whispered orders circulated amongst the men, and from time to time a little, sharp, metallic noise resounded. The wandering object suddenly came nearer, and twelve Uhlans were seen trotting at full speed, one after the other, having lost their way in the night. A terrible flash suddenly
