And yet, strangely, there was more gladness than sadness in Paris now that spring had come, in spite of the women in black, and the cripples in the gardens.  Once again it brought the promise of life.  “Now that the spring is here,” said the old cab-driver in the white hat, “France will soon be free and the war will soon be over.”

This hopefulness that the fine weather would end the war quickly was a splendid superstition which buoyed up many hearts in France.  Through the long, wet months of winter the women and the old people had agonized over the misery of their soldiers in the trenches.  Now that the earth was drying again, and the rain clouds were vanishing behind a blue sky, there was new hope, and a wonderful optimism in the spirit of the people.  “The spring will bring victory to France” was an article of faith which comforted the soul of the little midinette who sang on her way to the Rue Lafayette, and the French soldier who found a wild flower growing in his trench.

16

I have written many words about the spirit of Paris in war.  Yet all these little glimpses I have given reveal only the trivial characteristics of the city.  Through all these episodes and outward facts, rising above them to a great height of spirituality, the soul of Paris was a white fire burning with a steady flame.  I cannot describe the effect of it upon one’s senses and imagination.  I was only conscious of it, so that again and again, in the midst of the crowded boulevards, or in the dim aisles of Notre Dame, or wandering along the left bank of the Seine, I used to say to myself, silently or aloud:  “These people are wonderful!  They hold the spirit of an unconquerable race...  Nothing can smash this city of intellect, so gay, and yet so patient in suffering, so emotional and yet so stoical in pride and courage!”

There was weakness, and vanity, in Paris.  The war had not cleansed it of all its vice or of all its corruption, but this burning wind of love for La Patrie touched the heart of every man and woman, and inflamed them so that self-interest was almost consumed, and sacrifice for the sake of France became a natural instinct.  The ugliest old hag in the markets shared this love with the most beautiful woman of the salons; the demi-mondaine with her rouged lips, knelt in spirit, like Mary Magdalene before the cross, and was glad to suffer for the sake of a pure and uncarnal love, symbolized to her by the folds of the Tricolour or by the magic of that word, “La France!” which thrilled her soul, smirched by the traffic of the streets.  The most money-loving bourgeois, who had counted every sou and cheated every other one, was lifted out of his meanness and materialism and did astounding things, without a murmur, abandoning his business to go back to the colours as a soldier of France, and regarding the ruin of a life’s ambitions without a heartache so that France might be free.