A French officer pointed to a tablet on the wall of the chateau commemorating that victory, and said:  “Perhaps history will be repeated here by the general whom you will see later on.”  He stooped down and rubbed some dust off a stone, revealing a tracing of the footprint of Henri IV, who once crossed this threshold, and on the way upstairs pointed to other memorial tablets of kings and princes, statesmen and soldiers, who had received the hospitality of this old house.

There are many chateaux of this kind in Champagne, and in one of them we entered a long, bare room, where a French general stood with some of his officers, and I knew that the old spirit of France and its traditions of chivalry have not died.  This general, with a silver star on his breast, seemed to me like one of those nobles who fought in the wars of the sixteenth century under the Duc de Guise.

He is a man of less than fifty years of age, with a black beard and steel-blue eyes, extraordinarily keen and piercing, and a fine poise of the head, which gives him an air of dignity and pride, in spite of the simplicity and charm of his manners.  I sat opposite to him at table, and in this old room, with stone walls, he seemed to me like the central figure of some mediaeval painting.  Yet there was nothing mediaeval except the touch of chivalry and the faith of France in the character of this general and his officers.  Men of modern science and trained in a modern school of thought, their conversation ranged over many subjects both grave and gay, and, listening to them, I saw the secret of Germany’s failure to strike France to her knees.

With such men as these in command, with that steel-eyed general on the watch—­energy and intellectual force personified in his keen, vivacious face—­the old faults of 1870 could not happen so easily again, and Germany counted without this renaissance of France.  These men do not minimize the strength of the German defensive, but there is no fear in their hearts about the final issue of the war, and they are sure of their own position along this front in Champagne.

It was to the first lines of defence along that front that I went in the afternoon with other officers.  Our way was through a wood famous in this war because it has been the scene of heavy fighting, ending in its brilliant capture by the French.  It has another interest, because it is one of the few places along the front—­as far as I know the only place-where troops have not entrenched themselves.

This was an impossibility, because the ground is so moist that water is reached a few feet down.  It was necessary to build shell-proof shelters above-ground, and this was done by turning the troops into an army of wood-cutters.

This sylvan life of the French troops here is not without its charm, apart from the marmites which come crashing through the trees, and shrapnel bullets which whip through the branches.  The ground has dried up during recent days, so that the long boarded paths leading to the first lines are no longer the only way of escape from bogs and swamps.