There is a primitive exhilaration in the idea of marching men that will last while the nations live.

Stung by the same impulse that affected every man and woman in the Place de la Concorde, the boy paused--his head up, his pulses quickened, his eyes and ears strained toward the sound.
It was a regiment of infantry marching down the Cours la Reine and defiling out upon the Place de la Concorde toward the rue de Rivoli.

By a common impulse he paused, and by an equally common desire to be close to the object of interest, he ran forward to where a little crowd had gathered in the soldiers' route.
The French soldier is not individually interesting, and this body of men looked insignificant enough upon close inspection.

Yet it was a regiment; it stirred the fancy; and the boy gazed with keen interest at the small figures in the ill-fitting uniforms and at the faces, many as young as his own, that denied past him in confusing numbers.

On and on the regiment wound, a coiling line of dull red and bluish-gray against the frosty background, the feet tramping steadily, the fifes and drums beating out with an incessant clamor.
Then, without warning, a new interest touched the knot of watchers, a thrill passed from one member of the crowd to another, and hats were raised.