Now in their ignorant breasts there waked the spirit of France, and from their throats there burst out, with a half-delirious ecstasy: "Allons, enfants de la patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrive." As they neared the Louis Quinze, a dozen men, just arrived in the village, returned from river-driving, carried away by the chant, tumultuously joined in the procession, and so came on in a fever of vague patriotism.

A false note in the proceedings, a mismove on the part of Valmond, would easily have made the thing ridiculous; but even to Madame Chalice, with her keen artistic sense, it had a pathetic sort of dignity, by virtue of its rude earnestness, its raw sincerity.

She involuntarily thought of the great Napoleon and his toy kingdom of Elba, of Garibaldi and his handful of patriots.

There were depths here, and she knew it.
"Even the pantaloon may have a soul," she said; "or a king may have a heart." In front of the Louis Quinze, Valmond waved his hand for a halt, and the ancient drummer wheeled and faced him, fronting the crowd.

Valmond was pale, and his eyes burned like restless ghosts.