glimmering perception: the seven army corps dispersed along the
extended frontier line _en echelon_, from Metz to Bitche and from
Bitche to Belfort; the many regiments and squadrons that had been
recruited up to only half-strength or less, so that the four hundred
and thirty thousand men on paper melted away to two hundred and thirty
thousand at the outside; the jealousies among the generals, each of
whom thought only of securing for himself a marshal's baton, and gave
no care to supporting his neighbor; the frightful lack of foresight,
mobilization and concentration being carried on simultaneously in
order to gain time, a process that resulted in confusion worse
confounded; a system, in a word, of dry rot and slow paralysis, which,
commencing with the head, with the Emperor himself, shattered in
health and lacking in promptness of decision, could not fail
ultimately to communicate itself to the whole army, disorganizing it
and annihilating its efficiency, leading it into disaster from which
it had not the means of extricating itself. And yet, over and above
the dull misery of that period of waiting, in the intuitive,
shuddering perception of what must infallibly happen, his certainty
that they must be victors in the end remained unimpaired.

On the 3d of August the cheerful news had been given to the public of
the victory of Sarrebruck, fought and won the day before. It could
scarcely be called a great victory, but the columns of the newspapers
teemed with enthusiastic gush; the invasion of Germany was begun, it
was the first step in their glorious march to triumph, and the little
Prince Imperial, who had coolly stooped and picked up a bullet from
the battlefield, then commenced to be celebrated in legend. Two days
later, however, when intelligence came of the surprise and defeat at
Wissembourg, every mouth was opened to emit a cry of rage and
distress. That five thousand men, caught in a trap, had faced