It is now time to turn to the French headquarters.  These two crushing defeats on a single day utterly dashed Napoleon’s plan of a spirited defence of the north-east frontier, until such time as the levies of 1869 should be ready, or Austria and Italy should draw the sword.  On July 26 the Austrian ambassador assured the French Ministry that Austria was pushing on her preparations.  Victor Emmanuel was with difficulty restrained by his Ministers from openly taking the side of France.  On the night of August 6 he received telegraphic news of the Battles of Woerth and Forbach, whereupon he exclaimed, “Poor Emperor!  I pity him, but I have had a lucky escape.”  Austria also drew back, and thus left France face to face with the naked truth that she stood alone and unready before a united and triumphant Germany, able to pour treble her own forces through the open portals of Lorraine and northern Alsace.

Napoleon III., to do him justice, had never cherished the wild dreams that haunted the minds of his consort and of the frothy “Mamelukes” lately in favour at Court; still less did the “silent man of destiny” indulge in the idle boasts that had helped to alienate the sympathy of Europe and to weld together Germany to withstand the blows of a second Napoleonic invasion.  The nephew knew full well that he was not the Great Napoleon—­he knew it before Victor Hugo in spiteful verse vainly sought to dub him the Little.  True, his statesmanship proved to be mere dreamy philosophising about nationalities; his administrative powers, small at the best, were ever clogged by his too generous desire to reward his fellow-conspirators of the coup d’etat of 1851; and his gifts for war were scarcely greater than those of the other Napoleonides, Joseph and Jerome.  Nevertheless the reverses of his early life had strengthened that fund of quiet stoicism, that energy to resist if not to dare, which formed the backbone of an otherwise somewhat weak, shadowy, and uninspiring character.  And now, in the rapid fall of his fortunes, the greatest adventurer of the nineteenth century showed to the full those qualities of toughness and dignified reserve which for twenty years had puzzled and imposed on that lively emotional people.  By the side of the downcast braggarts of the Court and the unstrung screamers of the Parisian Press, his mien had something of the heroic. Tout peut se retablir—­“All may yet be set right”—­such was the vague but dignified phrase in which he summarised the results of August 6 to his people.

The military situation now required a prompt retirement beyond the Moselle.  The southerly line of retreat, which MacMahon and de Failly had been driven to take, forbade the hope of their junction with the main army at Metz in time to oppose a united front to the enemy.  And it was soon known that their flight could not be stayed at Nancy or even at Toul.  During the agony of suspense as to their movements and those of their German pursuers, the Emperor daily changed his plans.  First, he and Leboeuf planned a retreat beyond the Moselle and Meuse; next, political considerations bade them stand firm on the banks of the Nied, some twelve miles east of Metz; and when this position seemed unsafe, they ended the marchings and counter-marchings of their troops by taking up a position at Colombey, nearer to Metz.