“Aye, that we will,” declared a pastry-cook from the other end of the trottoir; “and we’ll treat them well; we’ll serve them up aspic à la bayonette et petits-pois à la mitrailleuse.”
This keen joke was received with hilarity and immense applause, and the pastry-cook, with his bonnet de coton perched on one side, strode off with an air of commanding insolence, like a man who has done his duty and knows it.
The remarks of the crowd, if not very lucid, were sufficiently conclusive as to the character of the placard that held them gaping before the mairie. The news was clearly good news: so, satisfied with this broad fact, Berthe and I jumped into the brougham and continued our way to St. Roch.
But it seemed as if there was a conspiracy against our getting there. Before we came to the Rue Royale, we were blocked in front by a troop of recruits, marching down from the boulevards to the Rue de Rivoli. Flags, and banners, and bunches of tricolored ribbons hoisted on sticks floated at intervals above the moving mass, and the stirring chant of the “Marseillaise” kept time to the roll of drums and the broken tramp of undrilled feet. The shops emptied themselves into the street; buyers and sellers rushed out to see the recruits and greet them with cheers and embraces, while many joined in the chorus, and shouted enthusiastically, “Marchons, marchons, pour la patrie!” the recruits every now and then, with an utter neglect of all choral harmony, relieving their pent-up patriotism by hurrahing and Vive-la-France-ing with frantic energy.
“Poor devils!” exclaimed a tradesman, who stood near us watching the stream flow past. “How many among them will ever set eyes on Paris again, I wonder!”
“Ah, indeed,” said his wife; “but, all the same, it’s a proud day for them this, whatever may come of it. If our gamin were but a few years older, he would be stepping out with the best of them, and, who knows? he might come home with a pair of gold epaulets to his coat.”
“Tut, woman,” retorted the man sharply; “there is plenty of food for powder without him.” And he went back to his shop.
“What a horrible thing war is when one comes to think of it!” said Berthe, turning suddenly round with a flushed face. “Every man going by there is the centre of another life—some, perhaps, of many lives—that will never know happiness again if he is killed. It is a dreadful scourge. Thank God, I have no brothers!”
The way was cleared at last, and the carriages were able to move on. The noise and clamor that rose on all sides of us grew louder and wilder as we proceeded. One would have fancied the entire population had been seized with delirium tremens. The news of a victory coming unexpectedly after the first disasters of the campaign had elated the popular depression to frenzy, and, as usual with Paris, there was but one bound from the depths of despair to the wildest heights of exultation. Flags were thrust out of windows and chimney-pots, an eruption of tricolor broke out on the fronts of the houses, and the blank walls were variegated with red, white, and blue, as if by magic. Innumerable gamins cropped up from those mysterious regions where gamins dwell, and whence they are ready to emerge and improve the opportunity at a moment’s notice; the bright-faced ragged young vagabonds mustered in force on the pavement, formed themselves into an impromptu procession, and marched along the middle of the street, bawling out the “Marseillaise” at the top of their voice; older gamins caught the infection, and bawled in response, and turned and marched with them. At the corner of the Place Vendôme, a citizen, unable to restrain the ardor of his patriotism, stopped a fiacre, and jumped up beside the driver, and bade him stand while he poured out his soul to the patrie. The cabman reined in his steed, and stood while the patriot spouted his improvisation, stretching out his arms to the column—the “immortal column”—and pointing his periods with the talismanic words, “Invincible! Enfans de la France! Terreur de l’ennemi!” and so forth. No speaker in the forum of old Rome ever elicited more inspiriting response from his hearers than the citizen patriot from the motley audience round his cab. Again and again his voice was drowned in vociferous cheers and bravos, and when he was done and about to descend from the rostrum, the cabman, altogether carried away by the emotions of the hour, flung his arms round the orator, and pressed him to his heart, and then, addressing himself to the assembled citizens, defiantly demanded if their fellow-citizen had not deserved well of them; if there was any danger for the patrie while she could boast such sons as that! The appeal was rapturously responded to by all, but most notably by a native of the Vosges, who tossed his cap into the air, and caught it again, and cried vehemently: “Prafo! prafo! Fife le pourgeois! fife la padrie!”
If the words had been a shell scattering death among the listeners, their effect could not have been more startling. Like lightning the spirit of the crowd was changed; its joy went out like the snuff of a candle; for one second it swayed to and fro, hesitating, then a yell, a hiss, and a scream shot up in quick succession.