The guns, some drawn by horses and others by motors, were moving forward
with them. When the horses were swept away by a shell, men seized the
guns and dragged them. Then they stopped again, took new positions and
renewed the rain of death on the German army.
They began to hear a whistle and hiss that they knew. It was that of the
bullets, and along the vast front they were coming in millions. But the
French were using their rifles, too, and at intervals the deep
thundering chant of the Marseillaise swept through their ranks. In spite
of shell, shrapnel and bullets, in spite of everything, the French army
in the center was advancing and John believed that the armies on the
other parts of the line were advancing, too.
The bullets struck around them, and then among them. One aide fell from
his cycle, and lay dead in the road, two more were wounded, but two
hundred thousand men, their artillery blazing death over their heads,
went on straight at the mouths of a thousand cannon.
Companies and regiments were swept away, but there was no check. Nor did
the other French armies, the huge links in the chain, stop. A feeling of
victory had swept along the whole gigantic battle front. They were
fighting for Paris, for their country, for the soil which they tended,
alive, and in which they slept, dead, and just at the moment when
everything seemed to have been lost they were saving all. The heroic age
of France had come again, and the Third Republic was justifying the
First.
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