France was watching this avalanche of events, temperate in its words and enthusiasm.  A cool and grave resolution was noticeable everywhere.  Two generations had come into the world, informed as soon as they reached a reasonable age, that some day there would undoubtedly be war.  Nobody wanted it; the adversary imposed it. . . .  But all were accepting it with the firm intention of fulfilling their duty.

During the daytime Paris was very quiet, concentrating the mind on the work in hand.  Only a few groups of exalted patriots, following the tricolored flag, were passing through the place de la Concorde, in order to salute the statue of Strasbourg.  The people were accosting each other in a friendly way in the streets.  Everybody seemed to know everybody else, although they might not have met before.  Eye attracted eye, and smiles appeared to broaden mutually with the sympathy of a common interest.  The women were sad but speaking cheerily in order to hide their emotions.  In the long summer twilight, the boulevards were filling with crowds.  Those from the outlying districts were converging toward the centre of the city, as in the remote revolutionary days, banding together in groups, forming an endless multitude from which came shouts and songs.  These manifestations were passing through the centre under the electric lights that were just being turned on, the processions generally lasting until midnight, with the national banner floating above the walking crowds, escorted by the flags of other nations.

It was on one of these nights of sincere enthusiasm that the two friends heard an unexpected, astonishing piece of news.  “They have killed Jaures!” The groups were repeating it from one to another with an amazement which seemed to overpower their grief.  “Jaures assassinated!  And what for?” The best popular element, which instinctively seeks an explanation of every proceeding, remained in suspense, not knowing which way to turn.  The tribune dead, at the very moment that his word as welder of the people was most needed! . . .

Argensola thought immediately of Tchernoff.  “What will our neighbors say?” . . .  The quiet, orderly people of Paris were fearing a revolution, and for a few moments Desnoyers believed that his cousin’s auguries were about to be fulfilled.  This assassination, with its retaliations, might be the signal for civil war.  But the masses of the people, worn out with grief at the death of their hero, were waiting in tragic silence.  All were seeing, beyond his dead body, the image of the country.

By the following morning, the danger had vanished.  The laboring classes were talking of generals and war, showing each other their little military memorandums, announcing the date of their departure as soon as the order of mobilization should be published.  “I go the second day.”  “I the first.”  Those of the standing army who were on leave were recalled individually to the barracks.  All these events were tending in the same direction—­war.