tward facts, rising
above them to a great height of spirituality, the soul of Paris was a
white fire burning with a steady flame. I cannot describe the effect of it
upon one's senses and imagination. I was only conscious of it, so that
again and again, in the midst of the crowded boulevards, or in the dim
aisles of Notre Dame, or wandering along the left bank of the Seine, I
used to say to myself, silently or aloud: "These people are wonderful!
They hold the spirit of an unconquerable race... Nothing can smash
this city of intellect, so gay, and yet so patient in suffering, so
emotional and yet so stoical in pride and courage!"

There was weakness, and vanity, in Paris. The war had not cleansed
it of all its vice or of all its corruption, but this burning wind of love
for La Patrie touched the heart of every man and woman, and
inflamed them so that self-interest was almost consumed, and
sacrifice for the sake of France became a natural instinct. The
ugliest old hag in the markets shared this love with the most
beautiful woman of the salons; the demi-mondaine with her rouged
lips, knelt in spirit, like Mary Magdalene before the cross, and was
glad to suffer for the sake of a pure and uncarnal love, symbolized
to her by the folds of the Tricolour or by the magic of that word,
"La France!" which thrilled her soul, smirched by the traffic of the
streets. The most money-loving bourgeois, who had counted every
sou and cheated every other one, was lifted out of his meanness
and materialism and did astounding things, without a murmur,
abandoning his business to go back to the colours as a soldier of
France, and regarding the ruin of a life's ambitions without a
heartache so that France might be free.

There were embusques in Paris-perhaps hundreds, or even
thousands of young men who searched for soft jobs which would
never take them to the firing-line, or who pleaded ill-health with the
successful influence of a family or political "pull." Let that be put down
honestly, because nothing matters save the truth. But the manhood
of Paris as a whole, after the first shudder of dismay, the first agonies
of this wrench from the safe, familiar ways of life, rose superbly to the
call of la Patrie en danger! The middle-aged fathers of families and
the younger sons marched away singing and hiding their sadness
under a mask of careless mirth. The boys of eighteen followed them
in the month of April, after nine months of war, and not a vo