Many trains had carried off the first recruits, trains decorated with flowers and filled with songs.  The sons of France had come running from her farthest provinces, and a unanimous impulse precipitated them upon the assaulted frontier.  But this impulse was perfectly controlled.  The songs the men sang were serious and almost sacred.  The nation was living through one of her greatest hours, and knew it.  With one motion she regained her national unity, and renewed once more her youth.

Meanwhile the news that sifted in, little by little, caused intense anguish—­anguish, not doubt.  The government had left Paris to establish itself at Bordeaux.  The capital was menaced.  The enemy had entered Compiegne.  Compiegne was no longer ours.  The Joan of Arc on the place of the Hotel de Ville had pickelhauben on her men-at-arms.  And then the victory of the Marne lifted the weight that oppressed every heart.  At the Villa Delphine news came that Compiegne was saved.  Meanwhile trains left carrying troops to reinforce the combatants.  And Georges Guynemer had to live through all these departures, suffering and rebelling until he had a horror of himself.  His comrades and friends were gone, or had asked permission to go.  His two first cousins, his mother’s nephews, Guy and Rene de Saint Quentin, had gone; one, a sergeant, was killed at the Battle of the Marne, the other, councilor to the Embassy at Constantinople, returning in haste when war was declared, had taken his place as lieutenant of reserves, and had been twice wounded at the Marne, by a ball in the shoulder and a shrapnel bullet in the thigh.  Was it possible for him to stay there alone when the whole of France had risen?

In the Chanson d’Aspremont, which is one of our most captivating chansons de geste, Charlemagne is leaving for Italy with his army, and passes by Laon.  In the donjon five children, one of whom is his nephew Roland, are imprisoned under the care of Turpin.  The Emperor, who knows them well, has had them locked up for fear they would join his troops.  But when they hear the ivory horns sounding and the horses neighing, they are determined to escape.  They try to cajole the porter, but he is adamant and incorruptible.  This faithful servitor is immediately well beaten.  They take away his keys, pass over his body, and are soon out of the prison.  But their adventures are only beginning.  To procure themselves horses they attack and unhorse five Bretons, and to get arms they repeat the same process.  They are so successful that they manage to join the Emperor’s army before it has crossed the Alps.  Will our new Roland allow himself to be outdistanced by these terrible children of former ages?  It is not the army with its ivory horns that he has heard departing, but the whole marching nation, fighting to live and endure, and to enable honor and justice and right to live and endure with her.

So we find Guynemer once more on the Anglet beach, sad and discomfited.  An airplane capsizes on the sand.  What does he care about an airplane—­don’t they know that his old passion and dream are dead?  Since August 2 he has not given them a thought.  However, he begins a conversation with the pilot, who is a sergeant.  And all at once a new idea takes possession of him; the old passion revives again under another form; the dream rises once more.