That evening, in a restaurant of the rue Royale, we sat at a table in one of the open windows, abreast with the street, and saw the strange new crowds stream by.  In an instant we were being shown what mobilization was—­a huge break in the normal flow of traffic, like the sudden rupture of a dyke.  The street was flooded by the torrent of people sweeping past us to the various railway stations.  All were on foot, and carrying their luggage; for since dawn every cab and taxi and motor—­omnibus had disappeared.  The War Office had thrown out its drag-net and caught them all in.  The crowd that passed our window was chiefly composed of conscripts, the mobilisables of the first day, who were on the way to the station accompanied by their families and friends; but among them were little clusters of bewildered tourists, labouring along with bags and bundles, and watching their luggage pushed before them on hand-carts—­puzzled inarticulate waifs caught in the cross-tides racing to a maelstrom.

In the restaurant, the befrogged and red-coated band poured out patriotic music, and the intervals between the courses that so few waiters were left to serve were broken by the ever-recurring obligation to stand up for the Marseillaise, to stand up for God Save the King, to stand up for the Russian National Anthem, to stand up again for the Marseillaise. “Et dire que ce sont des Hongrois qui jouent tout cela!" a humourist remarked from the pavement.

As the evening wore on and the crowd about our window thickened, the loiterers outside began to join in the war-songs. “Allons, debout! “—­and the loyal round begins again.  “La chanson du depart” is a frequent demand; and the chorus of spectators chimes in roundly.  A sort of quiet humour was the note of the street.  Down the rue Royale, toward the Madeleine, the bands of other restaurants were attracting other throngs, and martial refrains were strung along the Boulevard like its garlands of arc-lights.  It was a night of singing and acclamations, not boisterous, but gallant and determined.  It was Paris badauderie at its best.

Meanwhile, beyond the fringe of idlers the steady stream of conscripts still poured along.  Wives and families trudged beside them, carrying all kinds of odd improvised bags and bundles.  The impression disengaging itself from all this superficial confusion was that of a cheerful steadiness of spirit.  The faces ceaselessly streaming by were serious but not sad; nor was there any air of bewilderment—­the stare of driven cattle.  All these lads and young men seemed to know what they were about and why they were about it.  The youngest of them looked suddenly grown up and responsible; they understood their stake in the job, and accepted it.