In those days late in July, France, less than almost any country in Europe, certainly far less than either England or America, was able to realize the possibilities of trouble. As a matter of fact, not for years had the peace of Europe been so assured, apparently. President Poincare of France had gone to visit the Czar of Russia, and the two rulers had exchanged compliments. The alliance of France and Russia, they told one another, made war impossible, or nearly so. The Emperor of Germany was on a yachting cruise; even the old Austrian Kaiser, though required to watch affairs because of the death of his heir, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, murdered by a Serb fanatic at Sarajeve, had left Vienna.
Even when the storm cloud began to gather the French government did all it could to suppress the news. The readiness of France was not in question. France was always ready, as Henri Martin had said. Since the grim and terrible lesson of 1870 she had made up her mind never again to give the traditional enemy beyond the Rhine—and, alas, now on this side of the Rhine as well!—a chance to catch her unprepared.
What the government wanted was to prevent the possibility that an excited populace, especially in Paris, might force its hand. If war came it meant that Germany should provoke it—if possible, begin it. It was willing to sacrifice some things for that. And this was because, in the years of peace, France had won a great diplomatic victory, the fruits of which the country must preserve. In 1870 France had had to face Germany alone. She had counted upon help from Austria, now Germany's firm friend and ally, but then still smarting under the blow of the defeat four years before. She had hoped for help, perhaps, from Roumania and from Russia.
But all that Germany, by skillful trickery, had rendered vain. She had made France seem to be the aggressor, and France had forfeited the sympathy of England and of Austria as a result. Alone she had been no match for Germany. And alone she would be as little a match for Germany in 1914 as in 1870. But she had prepared herself. Now Russia, no matter what the reason for war, would be with her. And, if France was attacked, England was almost sure to join her. Everything would depend on that. With the great English navy to bottle up the German fleet, to blockade the German coasts, France felt that she was secure. And so the government was resolved that nothing should happen to make possible the loss of England's friendship; nothing that should give England even the shadow of an excuse for remaining neutral.
So what the newspapers printed of the threats that Austria was making against Servia was carefully censored. There was nothing to show that Austria was assuming a warlike attitude, and that Russia, the friend of the little Slav countries in the Balkans, was getting ready to take the part of Servia. There was nothing to show what the French government and every newspaper editor in Paris knew must be a fact—that Austria must have had assurance of German support, since she could not hope to make a winning fight, unaided, against the huge might of Russia.
That was why all over France life proceeded in the regular way, calm, peaceful, without event. Some there were who knew that Europe was closer to a general war than since the end of Napoleon's dream of conquest. But the masses of the people did not know it. All over France the soldiers were active; the new recruits, reporting for the beginning of their three years of military service, were pouring into the depots, the headquarters of the army corps, to be assigned to their regiments. But that was something that happened every year. In a country where every man, if he is not a cripple or diseased, has to be a soldier for three years, the sight of a uniform, even of a long column of marching troops, means nothing.
And then, with the most startling abruptness, there came a change. Nothing official, as yet. But suddenly the government allowed the real news, or most of it, to be printed. Austria had made demands of Servia that no country could meet! Russia had protested! Russia and Austria were mobilizing! Germany had sent an ultimatum to Russia, demanding that she stop massing her troops in Poland and on the borders of East Prussia.
"It means war," said Henri Martin to Frank. Gone was the exultation of his voice. Frank had noticed that, since the first appearance of the really ominous news, the excitability of his French schoolmates had disappeared. They were quiet; far quieter than American boys would have been in the same case, he thought.
"But this is not France's quarrel," said Frank. "She cares nothing for Servia."
"Servia? Bah! No one cares for Servia—except Austria and Russia! Servia is only an excuse. Austria wants to get some ports and Russia wants them, too, or wants a friendly country to have them. But I will tell you why it means war, Frank, my friend. It is because Guillaume, their Kaiser, thinks it is the chance to crush France!"
"Why now more than at any other time, Harry?"
"Lieutenant Marcel told me what he thinks. It is that England is having much trouble. In Ireland there is rebellion, almost, over the home rule. The Germans think England will be afraid to fight, that she will have to think of her own troubles. He does not know those English, that Kaiser! They have their quarrels among themselves. But if anyone else interferes—pouf! The quarrel is over—until the one who interferes is beaten."
"Yes, I believe that. We're like that in America, too. Why, right after the Civil War, we nearly had to fight about Mexico. And the men in the South, who had just been fighting the northern army, were all ready to volunteer and fight for the country."
"Well, that is one reason, then. And, for another, France is getting stronger, and Russia too. For a few years after the war with the Japanese, Russia was weak. But now she is getting strong again, and Austria is getting weaker. If Germany and Austria can ever win it is now—that is what the Kaiser believes. And why must France fight? Even if she is not attacked she must help Russia because of the treaty."
"But she didn't fight with Russia against Japan."
"Because only one country was at war against her. If England had joined Japan, we should have had to fight with Russia against her," Henri explained.
It was during the morning recess that they held this conversation. Now the bell called them back to school. The class to which they went was one that was being taught by M. Donnet himself, the head master. He was at his place by his desk, and the boys had taken their seats. Suddenly, just as the master was about to speak, a servant appeared with a telegram in his hand. He took it to the master. M. Donnet tore it open and read it, while a serious, grave look came into his eyes. Then he stood up.
"Mes enfants," he said, his whole manner somehow changed from the one they knew, "I am called away from you." He stood very straight now; Frank had no difficulty, as he had had before, in imagining the schoolmaster as a soldier. "France needs me—our France. I go to Luneville, to be prepared to receive the brave men who will fight under my command if—"
He stopped.
"If war shall come!" he finished the interrupted sentence. "I leave you. No man knows what the next few hours may bring forth. The order of 'mobilisation generale' has not yet been issued. Only superior officers are called for as yet. Perhaps I may return. If not, I shall exhort all of you who are sons of La Patrie to do your duty. You are too young to fight, but you are none of you too young to be brave and loyal, to help your parents, and your mothers if your fathers are needed by the fatherland for active service.
"You are not too young to show courage, no matter what may come. You are not too young to keep alive the spirit of the sons of France—the spirit that won at Austerlitz and Jena, that rose, like the phoenix from its ashes, after Gravelotte and Sedan, when the foe believed that France lay crushed for evermore! Perhaps you, like all who are French, may be called upon to make sacrifices, sometimes to go hungry. But remember always that it is not only those who face the foe on the battle line who can serve the fatherland!"
He drew himself up again.
"Farewell, then, mes enfants!" he said. "I go to meet again those other children I am to lead! Vive la France!"
For a moment, as he moved to the door, there was silence.
And it was Frank Barnes, only half French, who jumped to the top of a desk and raised his voice in the most stirring of all patriotic airs—the Marseillaise.
With a will they joined him, English, American and French, for all were there. Slowly, still singing, they followed the master from the class-room, and gathered outside in the open air of the school yard. And from other rooms, from all over the school, masters and boys poured out to join them and to swell the chorus. Outside, in the street, a passing battalion of the infantry of the line, made up of smiling young soldiers, heard and took up the chorus, singing as they marched.
There was no need of questions from those who heard the singing. In a moment the discipline of the school went by the board. And, when the song was done, they still remained together, waiting. In ten minutes, M. Donnet appeared from the door of his own house. But now he was transformed. He was in the uniform of his rank, his sword was by his side; a servant carried his bags. He strode through the ranks of cheering boys to the gate, saluting right and left as he did so.