The stanzas of the
conservative Chenier, adapted to a music of warlike solemnity, were
resounding through the streets, at the same time as the Marseillaise:
La Republique nous appelle.
Sachons vaincre ou sachons perir;
Un francais doit vivre pour elle.
Pour elle un francais doit mourir.
The mobilization began at midnight to the minute. At dusk, groups of men
began moving through the streets towards the stations. Their families
were walking beside them, carrying the valise or bundle of clothes.
They were escorted by the friends of their district, the tricolored flag
borne aloft at the head of these platoons. The Reserves were donning
their old uniforms which presented all the difficulties of suits long
ago forgotten. With new leather belts and their revolvers at their
sides, they were betaking themselves to the railway which was to carry
them to the point of concentration. One of their children was carrying
the old sword in its cloth sheath. The wife was hanging on his arm,
sad and proud at the same time, giving her last counsels in a loving
whisper.
Street cars, automobiles and cabs rolled by with crazy velocity. Nobody
had ever seen so many vehicles in the Paris streets, yet if anybody
needed one, he called in vain to the conductors, for none wished to
serve mere civilians. All means of transportation were for military
men, all roads ended at the railroad stations.
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