to us of the League of Nations?—­By all means.  Readjustments in the Balkans and the East?—­As much as you please.  But here stands the Chief Victim of the war—­and to the Chief Victim belongs of right the chief and first place in men’s thoughts, and in the settlement.  Do not allow us even to begin to ask ourselves whether, after all, we have not paid too much for the alliance we gloried in?”

Some such temper as this has been showing itself since the New Year, in the discontent of the French Press, in the irritation of French talk and correspondence.  And, of course, behind the bewildered and almost helpless consciousness of such a loss in accumulated wealth as no other European country has ever known before, there is the ever-burning sense of the human loss which so heavily deepens and complicates the material loss.  One of the French Ministers has lately said that France has lost three millions of population, men, women, and children, through the war.  The fighting operations alone have cost her over a million and a half, at least, of the best manhood of France and her Colonies. One million and a half! That figure had become a familiar bit of statistics to me; but it was not till I stood the other day in that vast military cemetery of Chalons, to which General Gouraud had sent me, that, to use a phrase of Keats, it was “proved” upon “one’s own pulses.”  Seven thousand men lie buried there, their wreathed crosses standing shoulder to shoulder, all fronting one way, like a division on parade, while the simple monument that faces them utters its perpetual order of the day:  “Death is nothing, so long as the Country lives. En Avant!”

And with that recollection goes also another, which I owe to the same General—­one of the idols of the French Army!—­of a little graveyard far up in the wilds of the Champagne battle-field—­the “Cimetiere de Mont Muret,” whence the eye takes in for miles and miles nothing but the trench-seamed hillsides and the bristling fields of wire.  Here on every grave, most of them of nameless dead, collected after many months from the vast battle-field, lie heaped the last possessions of the soldier who sleeps beneath—­his helmet, his haversack, his water-bottle, his spade.  These rusty spades were to me a tragic symbol, not only of the endless, heart-wearing labour which had produced those trenched hillsides, but also of that irony of things, by which that very labour which protected the mysterious and spiritual thing which the Frenchman calls patrie, was at the same time ruining and sterilising the material base from which it springs—­the soil, which the Frenchman loves with an understanding tenacity, such as perhaps inspires no other countryman in the world.  In Artois and Picardy our own British graves lie thickly scattered over the murdered earth; and those of America’s young and heroic dead, in the battle-fields of Soissons, the Marne, and the Argonne, have given it, this last year, a new consecration.