* * * * At 4.o a.m. the first bombardment
begins. The Emperor is entranced. He stands there hour after hour until dawn creeps over Champagne and the sun rises behind him. The first messages begin to come in. The enemy have not been taken by surprise. The attack has been checked. The German troops are losing heavily. His staff stand around him watching the increasing anxiety upon his tired features. At one moment the Crown Prince arrives and there is much forced gaiety. But the messages continue to pour in, and they are not encouraging. Finally the Allied counter- offensive is launched. It is no longer a denial of victory ; it is defeat. The Emperor climbs down from his platform and returns to his train. There, in his familiar quarters, are the old photographs of Windsor and Ischl, of Franz Josef and Edward VII. He feels himself abandoned and betrayed. He realises for the first time that he has always been a figurehead. The levers of the machine have passed into other hands. Slowly the great train lumbers through the night back to Spa and exile. It is a dramatic story. * * *
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