If New York were in danger of falling to an enemy, the splendid length of Fifth Avenue and the majesty of the skyscrapers of lower Broadway and the bay and the rivers would become vivid to you in a way they never had before; or Washington, or San Francisco, or Boston—­or your own town.  The thing that is a commonplace, when you are about to lose it takes on a cherished value.

To-morrow the German guns might be thundering in front of the fortifications.  The communiques from Joffre became less frequent and more laconic.  Their wording was like some trembling, fateful needle of a barometer, pausing, reacting a little, but going down, down, down, indicator of the heart-pressure of Paris, shrivelling the flesh, tightening the nerves.  Already Paris was in a state of siege, in one sense.  Her exits were guarded against all who were not in uniform and going to fight; to all who had no purpose except to see what was passing where two hundred miles resounded with strife.  It was enough to see Paris itself awaiting the siege; fighting one was yet to see to repletion.

The situation must be very bad or the Government would not have gone to Bordeaux.  Alors, one must trust the army and the army must trust Joffre.  There is no trust like that of a democracy when it gives its heart to a cause; the trust of the mass in the strength of the mass which sweeps away the middlemen of intrigue.

And silence, only silence in Paris; the silence of the old men and the women, and of children who had ceased to play and could not understand.  No one might see what was going on unless he carried a rifle.  No one might see even the wounded.  Paris was spared this, isolated in the midst of war.  The wounded were sent out of reach of the Germans in case they should come.

Then the indicator stopped falling.  It throbbed upward.  The communiques became more definite; they told of positions regained, and borne in the ether by the wireless of telepathy was something which confirmed the communiques.  At first Paris was uneasy with the news, so set had history been on repeating itself, so remorselessly certain had seemed the German advance.  But it was true, true—­the Germans were going, with the French in pursuit, now twenty, now thirty, now forty, now fifty, sixty, seventy miles away from Paris.  Yes, monsieur, seventy!

With the needle rising, did Paris gather in crowds and surge through the streets, singing and shouting itself hoarse, as it ought to have done according to the popular international idea?  No, monsieur, Paris will not riot in joy in the presence of the dead on the battlefields and while German troops are still within the boundaries of France.  Paris, which had been with heart standing still and breathing hard, began to breathe regularly again and the glow of life to run through her veins.  In the markets, whither madame brought succulent melons, pears, and grapes with commonplace vegetables, the talk of bargaining housewives with their baskets had something of its old vivacity and madame stiffened prices a little, for there will be heavy taxes to pay for the war.  Children, so susceptible to surroundings, broke out of the quiet alleys and doorways in play again.