But this impulse was perfectly controlled. The
songs the men sang were serious and almost sacred. The nation was living
through one of her greatest hours, and knew it. With one motion she
regained her national unity, and renewed once more her youth.
Meanwhile the news that sifted in, little by little, caused intense
anguish--anguish, not doubt. The government had left Paris to establish
itself at Bordeaux. The capital was menaced. The enemy had entered
Compiegne. Compiegne was no longer ours. The Joan of Arc on the _place_
of the Hotel de Ville had _pickelhauben_ on her men-at-arms. And then
the victory of the Marne lifted the weight that oppressed every heart.
At the Villa Delphine news came that Compiegne was saved. Meanwhile
trains left carrying troops to reinforce the combatants. And Georges
Guynemer had to live through all these departures, suffering and
rebelling until he had a horror of himself. His comrades and friends
were gone, or had asked permission to go. His two first cousins, his
mother's nephews, Guy and Rene de Saint Quentin, had gone; one, a
sergeant, was killed at the Battle of the Marne, the other, councilor to
the Embassy at Constantinople, returning in haste when war was declared,
had taken his place as lieutenant of reserves, and had been twice
wounded at the Marne, by a ball in the shoulder and a shrapnel bullet in
the thigh.
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