All the rigid military dignity of the scene disappeared, and the drill was turned into such a farce as the old Louvre had never seen before. The officers, furious at first, could not resist the spirit of pure fun that filled the mob, and took their revenge by kissing the models and making them dance. The girls had already done their share of the conquering by pinning flowers to military coats and coyly putting pretty lips where they were in danger. Even the tall electric-light masts in the court were scaled by adventurous students, who attached brilliant flags, banners, and crests to the mast-heads far above the crowd.
To the unspeakable relief of the officers, the march was then resumed. The Pont du Carrousel was the next object of assault; here was performed the solemn ceremony of the annual sacrifice of the Quat'z' Arts to the river Seine. The mighty Bellona was the sacrifice. She was trundled to the centre of the bridge and drawn close to the parapet, while the disciples of the four arts gathered about with uncovered heads. The first bright flashes of the morning sun, sweeping over the towers of Notre-Dame, tipped Bellona's upraised sword with flame. The band played a funeral march. Prayers were said, and the national hymn was sung; then Bellona was sent tottering and crashing over the parapet, and with a mighty plunge she sank beneath the waters of the Seine. A vast shout rang through the crisp morning air. Far below, poor Bellona rose in stately despair, and then slowly sank forever.
The parade formed again and proceeded to the Beaux-Arts, the last point of attack. Up the narrow Rue Bonaparte went singing the tired procession; the gates of the Ecole opened to admit it, cabs and all, and the doors were shut again. Then in the historic court-yard of the government school, surrounded by remnants of the beautiful architecture of once stately chateaux and palaces, and encircled by graceful Corinthian columns, the students gave a repetition of the grand ball at the Moulin Rouge. A strange and incongruous sight it was in the brilliant sunshine, and the neighboring windows and balconies were packed with onlookers. But by halfpast seven every trace of the Bal des Quat'z' Arts had disappeared,—the great procession had melted away to the haunts of Bohemia.
