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is a most imposing structure on a rock about six hundred and fifty feet above the Meuse. At the base of the rock are the barracks and drill-grounds. New barracks have been built, more than five hundred yards in length. This alone is enough to whisper of the spirit which rules at the War Office in Paris. Vauban himself is responsible for much of the work at Givet; but even Vauban can be improved upon, and the great eighteenth-century engineer had, of course, no idea of the far-reaching guns which in our day have revolutionised the art of fortification. The pedestrian who approaches Givet from the Ardennes and the right bank of the Meuse may wonder at certain little erect stones by the roadside while yet he is a considerable distance from the town. With patience, however, he may decipher their inscriptions sufficiently to learn that the big guns of Givet are ever turned in this particular direction, and that, vast though the intervening space may seem, they are warranted to carry so far.

Its soldiers and citadel apart, Givet is a pretty little town, with a picturesque bridge over the Meuse, and old grey stone houses which offer a cool retreat from the warm sun in summer. One may find the peaches ripe here a week or two earlier than in towns many a mile farther south. It has, however, no particular existence when severed from that huge, frowning rock which broods over it. It is the military who support the town even as they enliven it, whether by their brisk clatter over the painful cobbles, or by their impromptu camping in the public places, with bed and baggage, as if they were already on the eve of a serious campaign.

changes. We are still in the Meuse valley; but the hills have gone far away. The green meadows seem infinite in extent, The herds on them comprise cattle by the hundred per meadow. But the district is not an exclusively pastoral one, either. For fellow-travellers, one has broad-shouldered men, with the stains of coal, and tar, and oil about them. This is, in fact, one of France's iron manufacturing districts.

Thus one comes to Sedan, in which many of the ironworkers have their homes. It may seem rather a bald ending to the romance which belongs to this famous frontier town. But really romance is a word for which there is no exact definition; and one need not be a whit less eager to make acquaintance with the place of the downfall of the third Napoleon, just because it is a town from which a hundred or two puddlers go daily to their work with season tickets.

The river here makes a huge bend to the north, and subsequently as abrupt a return to the south; the neck of this loop being severed by a canal for the purposes of traffic. It was this artificial island which the Prussians turned to such practical use when they wished to isolate the French troops after the surrender of the town. One does not, of course, nowadays easily discover traces of this event in 1870 among the long grass and flowers, and the various oat patches and cabbage-beds of these spacious Meuse meadows. But here and there, and in the village churchyards, are little iron crosses which tell quite sufficiently how wives were widowed, and parents bereaved of their boys, on or near this spot. There never was a town with such admirable battle-fields close to it. For a pitched combat, on equal terms, the great areas on either side of Sedan bordering the Meuse are unrivalled. But in wet weather they lose their attractive

are, of course, quick to suffer inundation.

From Givet to Sedan need not be a long journey, with good luck in the matter of trains. It is at any rate a very interesting one. The Meuse, for miles of the way, runs in a deep glen, with towering wooded hillsness, and in an overflow of the river they upon either hand. Here and there is a bright little red-roofed town, and the bluegowned townsfolk who enter the trains have portly frames and nut-brown faces, which argue that their district must be a very healthy, as well as a beautiful one. Good humour, too, is omnipresent among them. They have much to say in an unrestrained way about the crops and the trivial events of their lives; and while talking they look heartily at their various companions, as if these could not fail to please them, or feel an interest in their domestic vicissitudes.

After Mezières, however, the scene

The first few days of September will for long be an anniversary of humiliation for Sedan. True, it may seem that France has by this time found a species of consolation in the philosophic shoulder-shrug, and the reiteration of the sanguine but not wholly veracious maxim that "all things come (or return) to the man who (or the country which) can afford to wait." Certainly, if any nation in modern times has shown recuperative vigour, it is this land of France. One sees it in all directions; and, most of all, one sees it in the phe

nomenal extension and embellishment of this very town of Sedan, which one-andtwenty years ago was a poor provincial little place, but which now has streets and villas fit for the best suburb of Paris. This, too, in spite of the long occupation by the Germans, and the demolition of the greater part of its fortifications !

The air of Sedan is unmistakeably martial. By rising early, one may generally rely upon seeing a considerable body of troops at exercise in the broad meadow over

against Wadelincourt. It is quite exhilarating, this flashing of swords and gleaming of bayonets in the crisp morning air. The gallant officers of Chasseurs are, too, a somewhat impressive sight as-later than the rest - they urge their fretful steeds through the streets to join the others. One can sympathise, at such a time, with the indictment of over-daintiness and dandyism which has been brought against them. They do not seem to have so much as one hair of their moustaches out of place. "Elegant" is not a word expressive enough to define their general appearance. White kid gloves and cigar add new graces where there seemed room for none. These gentlemen are, in fact, types of the "beau sabreur" of the storybooks.

At Sedan there are not the numerous appalling testimonies to the murderous nature of the war of 1870-1, that the villages round Metz still offer to the eye. Here, in the watershed of the Moselle, the fields are still sown with graves. The little white crosses with simple inscriptions meet one everywhere on the uplands to the west and south-west, and are common objects elsewhere within six and seven miles of the city. Bones may occasionally be seen on the newly ploughed land, and it does not need the somewhat callously proffered information of the blue-smocked peasant to teach one that the bones are those of Germans who died in forcing French positions. These French positions by Metz ought, in reality, never to have been lost. It is wonderful how little foresight and strategic ability the French generals seem to have exercised. Whether Bazaine was or was not a traitor is not a question for us to determine off-hand; but certainly Metz had good reason to be dissatisfied with him and suspicious of his plans. It is inexplicable, too, that at Sedan, on the thirty-first of August and the first of September, the Prussians should have been able to use the same tactics

which proved so fatal to France by Metz, on the eighteenth of August by St. Privat and Ste. Marie aux Chênes.

Many Frenchmen make sad pilgrimage to Sedan during the early days of September, even as at Gravelotte, by Metz, on the sixteenth and eighteenth of August German officers may be seen laying memorial wreaths upon the graves of their brother officers or their relatives who lie buried among the oats and wheat of this extensive battle-field.

Of the various sepulchres of Sedan that date from 1870, none is more grim than that of Bazeilles. The peasants of this pretty little village, some two miles from the town, still have a lively recollection of the horrors of that fatal first of September. It was on the thirtieth of August that the Bavarians began to burn their homes; but the final overmastering assault was two days later. The French Marines, who held the village, long resisted their assailants; but gradually the weight of numbers began to tell. They were driven from house to house until the scene of Alphonse de Neuville's picture, "Les Dernières Cartouches," was enacted in the last building towards Sedan. This house has suffered the fate of the Château of Hougoumont, by Waterloo, and other places of the kind. It is now a resort of tourists from all parts of the world, and an exceedingly valuable little property. In the lower room you may drink cognac or coffee, as in a tavern; thence, when recruited, you may enter a larger chamber, decorated with muskets and swords, battered helmets, buttons, bullets, cartridge-cases, and charred heaps of things; and afterwards ascend to the room upon which De Neuville's picture and the valour of the Marines have conferred a certain measure of immortality. The bullet-holes are still in the walls; the long-bodied clock which stood here in 1870 still stands here, also the worse for Bavarian rifle practice; the wardrobe in the picture was in the room then and is here still. The imagination readily conjures up the scene. The central figure in the picture is the wounded officer in command of the detachment of Marines. It was with this man that De Neuville afterwards visited Bazeilles, and made the preliminary studies for his "Salon" success.

One signs one's name in a visitors' book at Bazeilles as at Oban or Chamounix. The other day the signature which preceded the writer's was that of a Frenchman, who appended the wish that, should the world

ever be gradually bereft of its human inhabitants, the last man living might cry: "Vive la France!" A sufficiently harmless and futile freak of patriotism! The reverse of 1870 has taught France much, and it will be odd if such an intelligent nation does not profit by the lesson. Modern Frenchmen are, as a rule, less self-confident than were their fathers. It is so much the better for them. They will, in future, rely less upon their traditional valour, and leave less to chance.

honour from many a town in France and from Germany also. Some three thousand dead lie here.

There is much of interest in Sedan and the neighbourhood, even without the melancholy associations of 1870. The new buildings of the town argue that it means to have an eventful future. One marvels where the inhabitants to people these fine houses will be brought from. So, too, with the stately Collegio Turenne, for cadets in war. This bears date 1883. The effigy of a youth, reclining at the foot of a cannon, with shot and shell round about him, fitly adorns the pediment of this edifice. It ought to have a certain patriotic influence upon the young collegians, even as the statue of Turenne himself (a native of Sedan) ought yet further to stimulate them along the paths of martial success.

To most people the Château of Bellevue, some ten miles from Sedan, will be suggestive of strong, even pathetic memories. It stands on a gentle eminence, with the meadows by the Meuse at its base, and Sedan well in view beyond. Hence the Prussian leaders watched the progress of part of the battle of the first of September, and directed the movement of their troops. They could not see all the conflict, however, for the hills to the north break into snug, wide dells, in which lie the villages of Daigay, Givonne, and others, and it was just here that the strategy of the Teutons made greatest havoc with the plans of MacMahon and his officers. In popular language the Prussians "made rings round the French"; and, as they tightened the circumference, they gradually forced the French upon the devoted town precisely as they did also at Metz.

The greatest local hecatomb of the dead lies in the cemetery of Bazeilles, where the fighting was concentrated and deadly. It consists of a series of cellars built in the ground, and dimly lighted by gratings. One passes through the middle of the vaults with the railed chambers upon either side; to the right lie the assembled bones and débris of the French; to the left are German relics. The laconic device "Français," "Allemands," is quite sufficient. There is not much order in the arrangement of these sombre treasures. In some cases the bodies lie whole, a gruesome mass of dried flesh, bones, and clothing! For the most part, however, the skulls have become detached in disinterment, and they are now used as borders to the ground allotted for the other remains. One marks, with curious sensations, how lifelike in a way are the expressions of which a mere skull may be capable. Some of the mouths are wide open. It needs no professional wisdom to know that these poor fellows died in a pang of pain. Here, too, is a withered arm, the flesh still adherent from the elbow downwards; and the fingers are curved inwards with a convulsive clutch. Legs, still booted and spurred, may also be seen, and many a long, vague shape that can be nothing but the trunk of the warrior still clad as when he died, but with an added thick outer vestment of mire, the result of several years' burial. Among the bones are occasional tall crosses of wood, set with no great precision, some leaning against the whitewashed walls, and others half recumbent. The crosses with the French remains do not appear to carry any inscription. Those on the German side, on the other hand, bear words emblematic of German piety. One would not willingly from this infer aught derogatory to the national mind of France. It is merely the fact. But the first few days of September add a certain grace to these dull walls of In this château, too, the Emperor and the dead in the presence of wreaths of the King of Prussia held their brief

The glass vestibules on either side of the turreted façade of Bellevue had notable occupants on this first of September, 1870. Here, too, Napoleon the Third slept on the eve of the battle, and, during the last night when he could even only in name call himself Emperor, read "The Last of the Barons " in bed. The book was found by the bedside the next morning, turned on its face. The following day the Emperor made that blameable statement which, of itself, was enough to revolt France against him for ever, namely, that it was not he who had desired the war, but that France herself had forced it upon him.

man's words he had dragged himself out of the arm-chair he was sitting in, gone straight to the dining-room without chang. ing his morning dress, made the merest pretence at dining, and come straight back to the smoking-room. Twice during the evening Fenton had come to the door with lights, and each time his master had sent him away again. And now, at nine o'clock, he entered rather tentatively to announce Frank Maidment's presence.

memorable interview; and Bismarck, in to him that dinner was waiting. At the impatience, trod up and down the gravel walk in front of the house. Nowadays the château, though thoroughly habitable, is more often than not kept locked and tenantless. The owner does not make the public free of it. If you ring the gate bell the loquacious old gardener, with a broom in his hand, will come to say "Bon jour" to you, and to tell you such history as he knows about it. But he cannot contravene his orders. Yet it does not matter very much. One can appreciate Bellevue perfectly, without setting foot inside it. That night of the first of September, with thousands of bivouac fires in the meadow beneath it, and rumours of great events in the air, must have been worth passing in the castle.

"Ask him if he will come here," Mr Stewart-Carr went on. "And, Fenton, you might light up now," he said, with a short, heavy sigh. "Maidment-at this time of night! What in the world can he want?" he muttered to himself as the man left the room. A moment later Fenton reappeared and announced formally: "Mr. Maidment." Mr. Stewart-Carr got up quickly.

"Good evening, Maidment," he said, shaking hands. "Sit down, will you? Fenton will bring a lamp directly."

Frank Maidment answered the greeting briefly and sat down. Fenton re-entered with a large shaded lamp, which he set down on the table, and was proceeding to close the windows, when his master dismissed him hastily.

Givet and Sedan are but typical examples of the other border towns of France since the great defeat of 1870. All down the line the same activity, intensity, and determination prevail. Some of the soldiers here on guard confess their impatience with their political rulers. They have waited in readiness for a score of years and still they stand waiting. But others, safer and less rash, know that something yet remains to be done ere the fateful declaration of war (no matter upon what As Fenton set down the lamp its light pretext) is made. If a visit to this part of had suddenly fallen for a moment full on France teaches the stranger nothing else, it Frank Maidment's face, and Mr. Stewartmakes plain to him that it is not without Carr had seen it. It was white, haggard, good cause that periodically a nervous and drawn; but the startling effect it had thrill pervades the Continent in connection on Mr. Stewart-Carr was not due so much with these two potent neighbours and to the physical aspect of it as to the exopen enemies. It seems as certain as any-pression. On every line of it was stamped thing human can be that sooner or later the time of new trouble will arise on the frontier. One can only hope that it will be late rather than soon.

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a concentrated, almost agonised look of resolution and intensity of purpose, which had never been on Frank Maidment's face before. The set, resolute look gave him a sort of unapproachable dignity of manner, which was very strange; and about even his movements hung something unwonted and unfamiliar.

"Is anything wrong, Maidment?" Mr. Stewart-Carr said, looking at him intently, as the door closed. "Man alive!" he added, as Frank leant his elbow on the table and rested his head on it, 66 are you ill?"

"No," he said; and his voice was determined, too, though it was hoarse. “No, I am not ill."

"What is it, then?" Mr. Stewart-Carr said, quickly.

"It is this," he answered; "this: I can't set anything right; but I can tell you what is wrong."

He spoke as if he forced every word from himself with difficulty; and he stopped short when they were spoken. Mr. Stewart-Carr gazed at him in speechless amaze.

"Maidment," he said at length, "you aren't yourself. You are ill. Let me get you some brandy." "No!" Frank Maidment said, in a voice that was a startling contrast to his low, hoarse tones. It re-echoed loudly through the quiet room. "Speak, then, man, for Heaven's sake! What is it?" Mr. Stewart-Carr said, hurriedly.

Frank Maidment took his elbow down from the table and clasped his hand round the arm of his chair.

"I heard what you said this afternoon," he said, very low, but very distinctly. "What I said this afternoon?" Mr. Stewart-Carr repeated.

He did not in the least understand Frank Maidment's words; but something in the other man's manner was making him feel that what he was going to learn was terrible to hear.

on.

"To Catherine," Frank Maidment went "I was in the passage, and I came down to find her. I had been asleep, and I didn't know you were there. The door was open, and I heard you ask her to marry you. I heard her refuse you." He paused one moment; but Mr. Stewart-Carr did not speak. He could not; he could not analyse what he had heard. His mind was filled by the same indefinite sense of something to come. "I came to tell you the truth; to tell you why she won't marry you. She cannot marry you because she has a drunken brute of a brother to look after." Mr. Stewart-Carr started forward in his chair.

"Maidment!" he exclaimed; "Maidment! What in Heaven's name do you

mean?"

Frank Maidment faced him deliberately. His grey eyes were steady-steadier than they had been for weeks-and there was a sudden flash in them as he gazed at the other man without speaking. At length he said-and his voice was hoarse no longer, but very clear and penetrating:

"I mean this. Catherine has me to look after. I am a drunken brute. If you did not know this before, I tell you it on my- I tell it you with my own lips." Mr. Stewart-Carr did not speak; did not move his eyes from Frank Maidment's face. It was as if he could not.

"Good heavens, Maidment!" he said at length, in a choked voice, "good heavens!" Then suddenly he gave himself a kind of jerk-a gesture that expressed indigna tion with himself, and, rising hastily, he went across to where Frank Maidment sat and laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Maidment," he said, in the tone one would use to soothe and calm a man who is not quite master of his senses at the moment-"Maidment, all this is some dreadful mistake of yours. You are ill; you are indeed, in spite of all you say. Let me take you home. It's the heat that has knocked you over, you know; and you'll be all right in a day or two."

Frank Maidment shook off Mr. StewartCarr's detaining hand and rose too.

"Mistake! he said, very bitterly, "there's no mistake. I wish to Heaven there were. I am not ill. I have not got sunstroke. I am as well as I ever was, or shall be. Every word I say to you is true; and the mistake is yours. You have believed in me and thought me worthy of trust when there was nothing to believe in, and I am worthy of nothing. I am a drunkard."

Mr. Stewart-Carr gave an involuntary start. Not so much at the words themselves as at the tone in which they were said. It was so terrible in its ring of utter, hopeless despair. Frank Maidment's face grew, if possible, whiter as he saw the start. But he did not pause, he went on steadily, still standing and still facing Mr. Stewart-Carr.

"It is true it has been true for three years. It is for me Catherine spends and sacrifices her life. Because I am utterly incompetent she does my work, and because she thinks she can take care of me she sends you away when she loves you—yes, I know; I heard it, I know everything. She thinks she can keep me going somehow; by giving her life for me. But though I'm despicable and brutal beyond words, I'm not quite so low as that. And when I heard her speak I made up my mind to come to you and tell you the truth."

His voice grew very hoarse again, and he turned his face away. "Marry her! Marry her! Marry her!" he cried. "I have dragged her down with me. I know it. Oh! I know it! I have told you the truth now. Marry her and take her away, and make up to her for all that I have done to spoil her life."

He sat down again suddenly, and let his head fall on his arms on the table.

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