“You are in luck,” he says. “All the officers who arrive at the port ask for the Waldeck-Rousseau.”
He guesses the question I dare not utter.
“The engineers are counting on six weeks.... Let us hope nothing decisive happens at sea ... in case events are so precipitate....”
Thinking over these words, I return to the gate of the arsenal. It is getting on towards five o’clock. The flame and shimmer of the afternoon light are marvelous. The Pharon, a mirror of stone, reflects the dazzling violet rays. It is the hottest part of the day. After this will follow cooling breezes. In front of the Missiessy gate mothers and wives crouch on the sidewalk, awaiting their sailors, who come out of the arsenal raising clouds of dust. A beverage-vender calls his wares in a nasal voice; several barkers offer for ten centimes a hundred attractions in the way of café-concerts; the tramcars, caparisoned in dust, go by in a torrid blast. It is so warm, the boulevard is so torpid, that I cannot think, and have but one swift desire—to change my stifling uniform for a more comfortable suit, and on a terrace to sip some cooling drink.
Suddenly, smothered by the distance and the heavy air, a dull cannon shot strikes into the fringe of my reverie. I fear I have heard amiss. I wait motionless, my whole body concentrated in my hearing. The boulevard seems petrified. With a brusque jamming on of brakes, the tramcars grind along the track; the windows bristle with anxious faces. The women squatting on the sidewalk silently rise; barkers and passers-by forget to live; everyone, in the posture in which the vague shot has surprised him, listens to the dramatic silence. All the noises of the city, the deepest as well as the shrillest, vanish into nothingness to leave room for the one sound that has significance. In a sort of religious atmosphere the second shot booms and rolls, sonorous, the master of Space.... At length the third dies away, the third voice of a France who is placing herself on guard.
At the same time, over the deserted roadway, the trumpets sound from the barracks. Listen to those majestic singing tones, which bring tears to the driest eyelids! It is the call of France! Drawn up under the great trees a whole wan city salutes two little soldiers who swell their cheeks upon the shining trumpets. They are much affected, these two little soldiers in fatigue uniform; their step is hesitant, and their breath breaks. But their eyes are sparkling, each measure brings new vigor to their step, they find the theme again, and without taking breath they sound the “générale” out to the suburbs, to the slopes of the Pharon, to the roads of the countryside roundabout. They are the heralds of their country.
At this instant all over this land the same trumpet is being blown. It has found me in a warm and fragrant province, but everywhere millions of reapers, with suspended sickles, are listening to the same notes flung out over oceans of grain. Mountains and valleys give back its echo to the huts of cattlemen and shepherds, and the silent waters of the rivers quiver as they receive its melody. For the first time in the course of the centuries the race of France is listening at the same instant to a voice which orders her to face towards a common point. Stirred by a great hope, her hearts are celebrating together this first communion of heroism.
Fortune compels me to wait six weeks before playing my rôle. My weapon of war is not yet ready. I can only admire, as a spectator, deeds in which I have no share.
In the streets leading to the harbor, the heart of Toulon, swarm crowds of people. I am not acquainted with these figures that slip along beside me, but I recognize them all. Marines from Brittany, blue-eyed, with swinging step, white-coiffed wives on their arms; sailors of Provence, brown and eloquent; thick-set Basques and fair Flemings—all these men whom I have commanded, managed, loved, hasten along their way. A kind of enchantment dilates their eyes, a sort of innocent ecstasy. They go gaily towards the sea and the combat, towards their constant mistress and their unknown bride. Already the squadrons have steam up; a forest of stacks vomit streamers of smoke which portend adventurous cruises. They get under weigh to-night; perhaps to-morrow the great adventure will occur. The sides of the ironclads and cruisers in the roadstead let loose a flock of boats and launches to seek on the quay their loads of brave marines.