Finally, against his will, Desnoyers was drawn into the whirlpool of enthusiasm and emotion.  Like everyone around him, he lived minutes that were hours, and hours that were years.  Events kept on overlapping each other; within a week the world seemed to have made up for its long period of peace.

The old man fairly lived in the street, attracted by the spectacle of the multitude of civilians saluting the multitude of uniformed men departing for the seat of war.

At night he saw the processions passing through the boulevards.  The tricolored flag was fluttering its colors under the electric lights.  The cafes were overflowing with people, sending forth from doors and windows the excited, musical notes of patriotic songs.  Suddenly, amidst applause and cheers, the crowd would make an opening in the street.  All Europe was passing here; all Europe—­less the arrogant enemy—­and was saluting France in her hour of danger with hearty spontaneity.  Flags of different nations were filing by, of all tints of the rainbow, and behind them were the Russians with bright and mystical eyes; the English, with heads uncovered, intoning songs of religious gravity; the Greeks and Roumanians of aquiline profile; the Scandinavians, white and red; the North Americans, with the noisiness of a somewhat puerile enthusiasm; the Hebrews without a country, friends of the nation of socialistic revolutions; the Italians, as spirited as a choir of heroic tenors; the Spanish and South Americans, tireless in their huzzas.  They were students and apprentices who were completing their courses in the schools and workshops, and refugees who, like shipwrecked mariners, had sought shelter on the hospitable strand of Paris.  Their cheers had no special significance, but they were all moved by their desire to show their love for the Republic.  And Desnoyers, touched by the sight, felt that France was still of some account in the world, that she yet exercised a moral force among the nations, and that her joys and sorrows were still of interest to humanity.

“In Berlin and Vienna, too,” he said to himself, “they must also be cheering enthusiastically at this moment . . . but Germans only, no others.  Assuredly no foreigner is joining in their demonstrations.”

The nation of the Revolution, legislator of the rights of mankind, was harvesting the gratitude of the throngs, but was beginning to feel a certain remorse before the enthusiasm of the foreigners who were offering their blood for France.  Many were lamenting that the government should delay twenty days, until after they had finished the operations of mobilization, in admitting the volunteers.  And he, a Frenchman born, a few hours before, had been mistrusting his country! . . .

In the daytime the popular current was running toward the Gare de l’Est.  Crowded against the gratings was a surging mass of humanity stretching its tentacles through the nearby streets.  The station that was acquiring the importance of a historic spot appeared like a narrow tunnel through which a great human river was trying to flow with many rippling encounters and much heavy pressure against its banks.  A large part of France in arms was coursing through this exit from Paris toward the battlefields at the frontier.