The Paris I saw again was changed. Even on my way from Calais I heard,
to my astonishment, the hitherto strictly forbidden _Marseillaise_
hummed and muttered. In Paris, people went arm in arm about the streets
singing, and the _Marseillaise_ was heard everywhere. The voices were
generally harsh, and it was painful to hear the song that had become
sacred through having been silenced so long, profaned in this wise, in
the bawling and shouting of half-drunken men at night. But the
following days, as well, it was hummed, hooted, whistled and sung
everywhere, and as the French are one of the most unmusical nations on
earth, it sounded for the most part anything but agreeable.
In those days, while no collision between the masses of troops had as
yet taken place, there was a certain cheerfulness over Paris; it could
be detected in every conversation; people were more lively, raised
their voices more, chatted more than at other times; the cabmen growled
more loudly, and cracked their whips more incessantly than usual.
Assurance of coming victory was expressed everywhere, even among the
hotel servants in the Rue Racine and on the lips of the waiters at
every restaurant. Everybody related how many had already volunteered;
the number grew from day to day; first it was ten thousand, then
seventy-five thousand, then a hundred thousand. In the Quartier Latin,
the students sat in their cafés, many of them in uniform, surrounded by
their comrades, who were bidding them good-bye. It was characteristic
that they no longer had their womenfolk with them; they had flung them
aside, now that the matter was serious. Every afternoon a long stream
of carriages, filled with departing young soldiers, could be seen
moving out towards the Gare du Nord. From every carriage large flags
waved. Women, their old mothers, workwomen, who sat in the carriages
with them, held enormous bouquets on long poles. The dense mass of
people through which one drove were grave; but the soldiers for the
most part retained their gaiety, made grimaces, smoked and drank.
Nevertheless, the Emperor's proclamation had made a very poor
impression. It was with the intention of producing an effect of
sincerity that he foretold the war would be long and grievous, (_longue
et pénible_); with a people of the French national character it would
have been better had he been able to write "terrible, but short." Even
now, when people had grown accustomed to the situation, this
proclamation hung like a nightmare over them. I was all the more
astonished when an old copy of the _Daily Paper_ for the 30th of July
fell into my hands, and I read that their correspondent (Topsöe,
recently arrived in Paris) had seen a bloused workman tear off his hat,
after reading the proclamation, and heard him shout, "_Vive la
France_!" So thoughtlessly did people continue to feed the Danish
public with the food to which it was accustomed.
Towards the 8th or 9th of August I met repeatedly the author of the
article. He told me that the Duc de Cadore had appeared in Copenhagen
on a very indefinite errand, but without achieving the slightest
result. Topsöe, for that matter, was extraordinarily ignorant of French
affairs, had only been four weeks in France altogether, and openly
admitted that he had touched up his correspondence as well as he could.
He had never yet been admitted to the _Corps législatif_, nevertheless
he had related how the tears had come into the eyes of the members and
the tribunes the day when the Duc de Grammont "again lifted the flag of
France on high." He said: "I have been as unsophisticated as a child
over this war," and added that Bille had been more so than himself.