and not being sure yet what they thought, everyone felt that they thought alike.  The same questions, the same trials menaced them, but each man was no longer alone to stand or fall, and the warmth of this contact was reassuring.  Class distinctions were gone; no more workmen or gentlemen, no one looked at your clothes or your hands; they only looked at your eyes where they saw the same flame of life, wavering before the same impending death.  All these people were so visibly strangers to the causes of the fatality, of this catastrophe, that their innocence led them like children to look elsewhere for the guilty.  It comforted and quieted their conscience.  Clerambault breathed more easily when he got to Paris.  A stoical and virile melancholy had succeeded to the agony of the night.  He was however only at the first stage.

The order for general mobilisation had just been affixed to the doors of the Mairies.  People read and re-read them in silence, then went away without a word.  After the anxious waiting of the preceding days, with crowds around the newspaper booths, people sitting on the sidewalk, watching for the news, and when the paper was issued gathering in groups to read it, this was certainty.  It was also a relief.  An obscure danger, that one feels approaching without knowing when or from where, makes you feverish, but when it is there you can take breath, look it in the face, and roll up your sleeves.  There had been some hours of deep thought while Paris made ready and doubled up her fists.  Then that which swelled in all hearts spread itself abroad, the houses were emptied and there rolled through the streets a human flood of which every drop sought to melt into another.

Clerambault fell into the midst and was swallowed up.  All at once.  He had scarcely left the station, or set his foot on the pavement.  Nothing happened; there were no words or gestures, but the serene exaltation of the flood flowed into him.  The people were as yet pure from violence; they knew and believed themselves innocent, and in these first hours when the war was virgin, millions of hearts burned with a solemn and sacred enthusiasm.  Into this proud, calm intoxication there entered a feeling of the injustice done to them, a legitimate pride in their strength, in the sacrifices that they were ready to make, and pity for others, now parts of themselves, their brothers, their children, their loved ones.  All were flesh of their flesh, closely drawn together in a superhuman embrace, conscious of the gigantic body formed by their union, and of the apparition above their heads of the phantom which incarnated this union, the Country.  Half-beast, half-god, like the Egyptian Sphinx, or the Assyrian Bull; but then men saw only the shining eyes, the feet were hid.  She was the divine monster in whom each of the living found himself multiplied, the devouring Immortality where those about to die wished to believe they would find life, super-life, crowned with glory.  Her invisible presence flowed through the air like wine; each man brought something to the vintage, his basket, his bunch of grapes;—­his ideas, passions, devotions, interests.  There was many a nasty worm among the grapes, much filth under the trampling feet, but the wine was of rubies and set the heart aflame;—­Clerambault gulped it down greedily.