“Aux armes! Aux armes!”
One voice arose—the voices of tens of thousands, united in one vast ringing call to victory, one great demand for the rights of man, one last appeal to the God of Battles. The mighty echo rose from earth to heaven; it seemed for a time to fill the universe, and then to leave the universe listening for it.
The chorus ceased—a chorus greater than ever mortal ear had heard since first the men of Marseilles marched to the thunder of their battle hymn—and Jean Leroux stood up and sang the second verse. His was the voice of a man ready to march and to fight. The artist’s soul within Diane quivered as she heard Jean’s splendid basso like the tones of the organ of Notre Dame pealing out. Again the refrain was thundered from the multitudes that filled miles of streets, and the sound seemed to shake the towers of the Tuilleries palace. Then it was Diane’s turn to sing the third verse. The nation that produced Jeanne d’Arc respects the patriotism of its women; they are as ready to die for their country as are the men. At the lines,
“Great God! By these our fettered hands,
Our brows beneath the open yoke,”
Diane lifted her eyes to Heaven, and raised her clasped hands above her head. It was like Charlotte Corday demanding God’s blessing, while she armed to do Him service by killing the enemy of His children. Again did the voice of the people make the splendid refrain sound like a great Amen. Men were weeping and clasping each other in their arms. Women with upraised hands prayed for France. The meanest and lowest among them were made respectable by love of country. Never again were any of those who heard the song of the nation sung on that July afternoon, to hear it so sung. They knew it not, but it was for them the last triumphant singing of the hymn of triumph.
Diane and Jean sang the hymn through to the end. Then Jean, looking at Diane, saw that she was as pale as death, and she was trembling like an aspen leaf, while floods of tears ran down her cheeks. He spoke to a policeman at the carriage wheel.
“Get us out of here as quickly as you can. This has been too much for Mademoiselle Dorian.”
A couple of brawny policemen, recovering their senses a little, got the horses out of the line, forced back the crowd, and the carriage rattled down one of the small streets leading toward the Champs-Elysées.
“Home,” said Jean to the coachman.