The appeal was not challenged.  By a strange irony of fate the death of Jaures strengthened the Government which he bad attacked throughout his life, and the dead body of the man of strife became, on its way to the grave, the symbol of a united France, of obedience to its laws, and of a martial fervour which in the old days of rebellion he had ridiculed and denounced.  On a gusty day I saw the Red Flag of revolutionary socialism fluttering across the Place de la Concorde in front of the coffin containing the corpse of its leader.  Blood red, flag after flag streamed past, all aglow in the brilliant sunshine, and behind walked the representatives of every party in the State, including all those who had denounced Jaures in life as a traitor, a revolutionist, and the most evil influence in France.  For the first time in history the aristocrats and the monarchists, the Conservative Republicans and the Clericals walked in procession behind the blood-red rag.

9

Part of the active army of France was already on the frontiers.  Before the first whisper of war had reached the ears of the people, large bodies of troops had been sent to the frontier towns to strengthen the already existing garrisons.  But the main army of the nation was pursuing the ordinary pursuits of civil life.  To resist the might of Germany, the greatest military Power in Europe, already approaching the frontiers in vast masses of men and machines, France would have to call out all her manhood which had been trained in military service.

Aux armes, citoyens! 
Formez vos bataillons!

The call to arms came without any loud clamour of bugles or orations.  Unlike the scenes in the early days of 1870, there were no street processions of civil enthusiasts.  No painted beauty of the stage waved the tricolour to the shout of “A Berlin!” No mob orators jumped upon the cafe tables to wave their arms in defiance of the foe and to prophesy swift victories.

The quietness of Paris was astounding, and the first mobilization orders were issued with no more publicity than attends the delivery of a trade circular through the halfpenny post.  Yet in hundreds of thousands of houses through France and in all the blocks and tenements of Paris there was a drama of tragic quietude when the cards were delivered to young men in civilian clothes, men who sat at table with old mothers or young wives, or in lowly rooms with some dream to keep them company, or with little women who had spoilt the dream, or fostered it, or with comrades who had gone on great adventures with them between the Quartier Latin and the Mountain of Montmartre.  “It has come!”

10

Fate had come with that little card summoning each man to join his depot, and tapped him on the shoulder with just a finger touch.  It was no more than that—­a touch on the shoulder.  Yet I know that for many of those young men it seemed a blow between the eyes, and, to some of them, a strangle-grip as icy cold as though Death’s fingers were already closing round their throats.