“Why did you shout, madame?” inquired the Austrian.
“Because, I tell you, I was carried away, I could not help myself. The excitement was catching.”
“Of course it was. Most fevers are, especially malignant ones; and if you asked nine-tenths of the crowd why they shouted, the answer, if they spoke the truth, would be precisely the same; they could not help themselves, the excitement was catching. If an arsenal blows up, who is to blame, the powder, the matches, or yourself who fired the train? You might just as logically blame the powder for blowing up, as the French people for marching and bugling and Vive-la-guerring when they hear the sound of the trumpet.”
“Do you agree with monsieur?” asked Berthe addressing a quiet-looking military man who had been listening in silence to the conversation. “Are the people not really glad of the war?”
“It is difficult to say yet,” replied the soldier. “With the people, all depends on how it turns out; success alone is in the right.”
“But you do not contemplate such an absurd alternative as the non-victoriousness of the French arms?”
There was a prompt general protest from the company. The military man alone stroked his moustache with a meditative air, and was silent.
“Answer me, I pray you, commandant,” pursued Berthe. “You are not afraid of our troops being beaten?”
“Our troops are matches, if not masters, of the best troops in Europe,” replied the commandant proudly.
“And our generals? We have no lack of good ones surely?”