Another fact that kept the reality of war from Paris was the curious absence of troops in the streets.  After the first rush of conscripts hurrying to their military bases it might have been imagined that the reign of peace had set in.  While smaller cities were swarming with soldiers no glitter of arms was reflected in the empty avenues of the capital, no military music sounded through them.  Paris scorned all show of war, and fed the patriotism of her children on the mere sight of her beauty.  It was enough.

Even when the news of the first ephemeral successes in Alsace began to come in, the Parisians did not swerve from their even gait.  The newsboys did all the shouting—­and even theirs was presently silenced by decree.  It seemed as though it had been unanimously, instinctively decided that the Paris of 1914 should in no respect resemble the Paris of 1870, and as though this resolution had passed at birth into the blood of millions born since that fatal date, and ignorant of its bitter lesson.  The unanimity of self-restraint was the notable characteristic of this people suddenly plunged into an unsought and unexpected war.  At first their steadiness of spirit might have passed for the bewilderment of a generation born and bred in peace, which did not yet understand what war implied.  But it is precisely on such a mood that easy triumphs might have been supposed to have the most disturbing effect.  It was the crowd in the street that shouted “A Berlin!” in 1870; now the crowd in the street continued to mind its own business, in spite of showers of extras and too-sanguine bulletins.

I remember the morning when our butcher’s boy brought the news that the first German flag had been hung out on the balcony of the Ministry of War.  Now I thought, the Latin will boil over!  And I wanted to be there to see.  I hurried down the quiet rue de Martignac, turned the corner of the Place Sainte Clotilde, and came on an orderly crowd filling the street before the Ministry of War.  The crowd was so orderly that the few pacific gestures of the police easily cleared a way for passing cabs, and for the military motors perpetually dashing up.  It was composed of all classes, and there were many family groups, with little boys straddling their mothers’ shoulders, or lifted up by the policemen when they were too heavy for their mothers.  It is safe to say that there was hardly a man or woman of that crowd who had not a soldier at the front; and there before them hung the enemy’s first flag—­a splendid silk flag, white and black and crimson, and embroidered in gold.  It was the flag of an Alsatian regiment—­a regiment of Prussianized Alsace.  It symbolized all they most abhorred in the whole abhorrent job that lay ahead of them; it symbolized also their finest ardour and their noblest hate, and the reason why, if every other reason failed, France could never lay down arms till the last of such flags was low.  And there they stood and looked at it,