The order for general mobilisation had just been affixed to the doors
of the _Mairies_. People read and re-read them in silence, then went
away without a word. After the anxious waiting of the preceding
days, with crowds around the newspaper booths, people sitting on
the sidewalk, watching for the news, and when the paper was issued
gathering in groups to read it, this was certainty. It was also a
relief. An obscure danger, that one feels approaching without knowing
when or from where, makes you feverish, but when it is there you can
take breath, look it in the face, and roll up your sleeves. There had
been some hours of deep thought while Paris made ready and doubled up
her fists. Then that which swelled in all hearts spread itself abroad,
the houses were emptied and there rolled through the streets a human
flood of which every drop sought to melt into another.
Clerambault fell into the midst and was swallowed up. All at once. He had scarcely left the station, or set his foot on the pavement. Nothing happened; there were no words or gestures, but the serene exaltation of the flood flowed into him. The people were as yet pure from violence; they knew and believed themselves innocent, and in these first hours when the war was virgin, millions of hearts burned with a solemn and sacred enthusiasm. Into this proud, calm intoxication there entered a feeling of the injustice done to them, a legitimate pride in their strength, in the sacrifices that they were ready to make, and pity for others, now parts of themselves, their brothers, their children, their loved ones. All were flesh of their flesh, closely drawn together in a superhuman embrace, conscious of the gigantic body formed by their union, and of the apparition above their heads of
