On top of the ramparts. Bivouac huts and stacked rifles guarded
by a sentinel. National Guards are playing shove ha'-penny. The
autumn sunshine lies clear and soft and splendid on the roofs
of the beleaguered city. Outside the fortifications, the bare,
grey fields; in the distance the barracks of the outlying forts,
over which fleecy puffs of smoke sail upwards; on the horizon
the hills whence the Prussian batteries are firing on Paris,
leaving long trails of white smoke. The guns thunder. They have
been thundering for a month, and no one so much as hears them
now. Servien and Garneret, wearing the red-piped _képi_ and the
tunic with brass buttons, are seated side by side on sand-bags,
bending over the same book.
It was a Virgil, and Jean was reading out loud the delicious
episode of Silenus. Two youths have discovered the old god lying
in a drunken sleep--he is always drunk and it makes men mock at
him, albeit they still revere him--and have bound him in chains
of flowers to force him to sing. Æglé, the fairest of the Naïads,
has stained his cheeks scarlet with juice of the mulberry, and
lo! he sings.
"He sings how from out the mighty void were drawn together the
germs of earth and air and sea and of the subtle fire likewise;
how of these beginnings came all the elements, and the fluid
globe of the firmament grew into solid being; how presently the
ground began to harden and to imprison Nereus in the ocean, and
little by little to take on the shapes of things. He sings how
anon continents marvelled to behold a new-emerging sun; how the
clouds broke up in the welkin and the rains descended, what time
the woods put forth their first green and beasts first prowled
by ones and twos over the unnamed mountain-tops."
Jean broke off to observe:
"How admirably it all brings out Virgil's spirit, so serious
and tender! The poet has put a cosmogony in an idyll. Antiquity
called him the Virgin. The name well befits his Muse, and we
should picture her as a Mnemosyne pondering over the works of
men and the causes of things!"
Meanwhile Garneret, with a more concentrated attention and his
finger on the lines, was marshalling his ideas. The players were
still at their game, and the little copper discs they used for
throwing kept rolling close to his feet, and the canteen-woman
passed backwards and forwards with her little barrel.
"See this, Servien," he said presently; "in these lines Virgil,
or rather the poet of the Alexandrine age who was his model,
has anticipated Laplace's great hypothesis and Charles Lyell's
theories. He shows cosmic matter, that negative something from
which everything must come, condensing to make worlds, the plastic
rind of the globe consolidating; then the formation of islands
and continents; then the rains ceasing and first appearance of
the sun, heretofore veiled by opaque clouds; then vegetable life
manifesting itself before animal, because the latter cannot maintain
itself and endure save by absorbing the elements of the former----"
At that moment a stir was apparent along the ramparts. The players
broke off their game and the two friends lifted their heads.
It was a train of wounded going by. Under the curtains of the
lumbering ambulance-waggons marked with the Geneva red cross could
be seen livid faces tied up in bloodstained bandages. Linesmen
and _mobiles_ tramped behind, their arms hanging in slings. The
Nationals proffered them handfuls of tobacco and asked for news.
But the wounded men only shook their heads and trudged stolidly
on their way.
"Aren't _we_ to have some fighting soon as well as other fellows?"
cried Garneret.
To which Servien growled back:
"We must first put down the traitors and incapables who govern
us, proclaim the Commune and march all together against the
Prussians."