machines. The man who stood at the horse's
head was, however, anything but mechanical, for he ran up to us as
soon as we emerged from the crowded exit.

[Illustration: "A BERLIN--A BERLIN."]

"Monseiur le Baron!" he cried excitedly, with a dull light in his eyes
that made a man of him, and no servant. "Has Monsieur le Baron
heard the news--the great tidings?"

"No--we have heard nothing. What is your news?"

"The King of Prussia has insulted the French Ambassador at Ems. He
struck him on the face, as it is said. And war has been declared by
the Emperor. They are going to march to Berlin, Monsieur!"

As he spoke two groups of men swaggered arm in arm along the street.
They were singing "Partant pour la Syrie," very much out of tune.
Others were crying "A Berlin--a Berlin!"

Alphonse Giraud turned and looked at me with a sudden rush of colour
in his cheeks.

"And I, who thought life a matter of coats and neckties," he said,
with that quick recognition of his own error that first endeared him
to me and made him the better man of the two.

We stood for a few minutes watching the excited groups of men on the
Boulevard. At the cafes the street boys were selling newspapers at a
prodigious rate, and wherever a soldier could be seen there were many
pressing him to drink.

"In Berlin," they shouted, "you will get sour beer, so you must drink
good red wine when it is to be had." And the diminutive bulwarks of
France were ready enough, we may be sure, to swallow Dutch courage.

"In Berlin!" echoed Giraud, at my side. "Will it end there?"

"There or in Paris," answered I, and lay no claim to astuteness, for
the words were carelessly uttered.

We drove through the noisy streets, and Frenchmen never before or
since showed themselves to such small advantage--so puerile, so petty,
so vain. It was "Berlin" here and "Berlin" there, and "Down with
Prussia" on every side. A hundred catchwords, a thousand raised
voices, and not one cool head to realize that war is not a game. The
very sellers of toys in the gutter had already nicknamed their wares,
and offered the passer a black doll under the name of Bismarck, or a
monkey on a stick called the King of Prussia.

It was with difficulty that I brought Alphonse Giraud to a grave
discussion of the pressing matter we had in hand, for his superficial
nature was open to every wind that blew, and now swayed to the tempest
of martial ardour that swept across the streets of Paris.

"