Sometimes, at windows or street-corners, there were apparitions—­people covered with new uniforms.  We had known them in vain, and did not know them at first.  Count d’Orchamp, lieutenant in the Active Reserves, and Dr. Bardoux, town-major, displaying the cross of the Legion of Honor, found themselves surrounded by respectful astonishment.  Adjutant Marcassin rose suddenly to the eyes as though he had come out of the earth; Marcassin, brand-new, rigid, in blue and red, with his gold stripe.  One saw him afar, fascinating the groups of urchins who a week ago threw stones at him.

“The old lot—­the little ones, and the middling ones and the big ones—­all getting new clothes!” says a triumphant woman of the people.

Another said it was the coming of a new reign.

* * * * * *

From the Friday onwards I was engrossed by my own departure.  It was that day that we went to buy boots.  We admired the beautiful arrangement of the Cinema Hall as a Red Cross hospital.

“They’ve thought of everything!” said Marie, examining the collection of beds, furniture, and costly chests, rich and perfected material, all arranged with delighted and very French animation by a team of attendants who were under the orders of young Varennes, a pretty hospital sergeant, and Monsieur Lucien Gozlan, superintendent officer.

A center of life had created itself around the hospital.  An open air buffet had been set up in a twinkling.  Apolline came there—­since the confusion of the mobilization all days were Sundays for her—­to provide herself with nips.  We saw her hobbling along broadwise, hugging her half-pint measure in her short turtle-like arms, the carrot slices of her cheek-bones reddening as she already staggered with hope.

On our way back, as we passed in front of Fontan’s cafe, we caught a glimpse of Fontan himself, assiduous, and his face lubricated with a smile.  Around him they were singing the Marseillaise in the smoke.  He had increased his staff, and he himself was making himself two, serving and serving.  His business was growing by the fatality of things.

When we got back to our street, it was deserted, as of yore.  The faraway flutterings of the Marseillaise were dying.  We heard Brisbille, drunk, hammering with all his might on his anvil.  The same old shadows and the same lights were taking their places in the houses.  It seemed that ordinary life was coming back as it had been into our corner after six days of supernatural disturbance, and that the past was already stronger than the present.

Before mounting our steps we saw, crouching in front of his shop door by the light of a lamp that was hooded by whirling mosquitoes, the mass of Crillon, who was striving to attach to a cudgel a flap for the crushing of flies.  Bent upon his work, his gaping mouth let hang the half of a globular and shining tongue.  Seeing us with our parcels, he threw down his tackle, roared a sigh, and said, “That wood!  It’s touchwood, yes.  A butter-wire’s the only thing for cutting that!”