But
outside the suburbs the real thrills began.
There were the toy-like fortifications of which Paris was proud in the
'fifties; there was the black tangle of barbed wire, and the trace of
trenches (a mere depression on the earth's surface, as if a serpent had
laid its heavy length on a great, green velvet cushion) with which Paris
had hoped to delay the German wave. Only a little way on, we shot
through the sleepy-looking village of Bourget where Napoleon stopped a
few hours after Waterloo, rather than enter Paris by daylight; and Brian
had a story of the place. A French soldier, a friend of his (nearly
everyone he meets is Brian's friend!) who was born there, told him that
on each anniversary the ghost of the "Little Corporal" appears,
travel-stained and worn, on the road leading to Bourget. For many years
his custom was to show himself for a second to some seeing eye, then
vanish like a mirage of the desert. But since 1914 his way is different.
He does not confine his visit to the hamlet of sad memories. He walks
the country side, his hands behind him, his head bent as of old; or he
rides a horse that is slightly lame, inspecting with thoughtful gaze the
frenzied industries of war, war such as he--the war-genius--never saw in
his visions of the future: the immense aerodromes, the bomb sheds, the
wireless stations and observation towers, the giant "_saucisses_"
resting under green canvas, ready to rise at dawn; and all the other
astounding features of the landscape so peaceful in his day.
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