“A-a-a-ah!” Here was a new thought. “We have won—won! We have beaten him—beaten the Boche! Enfin!” Men and women began to grip one another’s hands. The confused, uncertain buzzing rose higher, and the third slip went up:—
VIVE LA FRANCE!
That settled it. Next moment every hat was in the air. This was what everybody had been waiting for. Every French man, woman, and child was shouting, or crying, or embracing his neighbour. France! France! France—safe, free, victorious! France!
The last strip was unrolled:—
VIVENT LES ALLIÉS!
This time it was a different demonstration. Mingled with it were the enthusiastic cheers of the Parisian—the glowing, grateful tribute of the principal sufferer to the friends from all over the globe who had stood by her so stoutly. But in the main it was a deep, full-throated, Anglo-Saxon roar. In that crowd stood scores of British and hundreds of American soldiers. Higher and higher rose the cheering. They were not blind cheers. They were cheers of realization. A job of work well and truly completed! No more trenches! No more mud! No more Hell! No more death! Victory! Peace! Home! Sweethearts and Wives!
It was at this point, for the first time, that Boone Cruttenden kissed Frances Lane.
Thereafter, a brief period of uncertainty; then Paris settled down to rejoice in earnest.
It is not easy to rejoice suddenly—after four and a half years of stoical endurance. Still, by noon, Paris had settled down into her stride. The midinettes and ouvrières had come out for their dinner-hour, and none manifested any intention of returning to their labours. In the balconies outside the great millinery shops of the Rue de la Paix lovely creatures in kimonos, of the mannequin tribe, forgetful of the whole duty of a mannequin, which is to languish and glide, were hanging far out over the seething street, waving, weeping, and screaming like common persons.