le about me murmur, timidly; they
also blinking as though tardily enlightened by the spectacle of the
poor benefactor.

But they are not heard--they hardly even hear themselves--in the flood
of uproar from a brass band. A triumphal march goes by with the strong
and sensual driving force of its, "Forward! You shall _not_ know!"
The audience fill themselves with brazen music, and overflow in cheers.

The ceremony is drawing to a close. They who were seated on the
rostrum get up. Fontan, bewildered with sleepiness, struggles to put
on a tall hat which is too narrow, and while he screws it round he
grimaces. Then he smiles with his boneless mouth. All congratulate
themselves through each other; they shake their own hands; they cling
to themselves. After their fellowship in patriotism they are going
back to their calculations and gratifications, glorified in their
egotism, sanctified, beatified; more than ever will they blend their
own with the common cause and say, "_We_ are the people!"

Brisbille, seeing one of the orators passing near him, throws him a
ferocious look, and shouts, "Land-shark!" and other virulent insults.

But because of the brass instruments let loose, people only see him
open his mouth, and Monsieur Mielvaque dances with delight. Monsieur
Mielvaque, declared unfit for service, has been called up again. More
miserable than ever, worn and pared and patched up, more and more
parched and shriveled by hopelessly long labor--he blots out the shiny
places on his overcoat with his pen--Mielvaque points to Brisbille
gagged by the band, he writhes with laughter and shouts in my ear, "He
might be trying to sing!"

Madame Marcassin's paralyzed face appears, the disappearance of which
she unceasingly thinks has lacerated her features. She also applauds
the noise and across her face--which has gone out like a lamp--there
shot a flash. Can it be only because, to-day, attention is fixed on
her?

A mother, mutilated in her slain son, is giving her mite to the
offertory for the Lest-we-Forget League. She is bringing her poverty's
humble assistance to those who say, "Remember evil; not that it may be
avoided, but that it may be revived, by exciting at random all causes
of hatred. Memory must be made an infectious disease." Bleeding and
bloody, inflamed by the stupid selfishness of vengeance, she holds out
her hand to the collector, and drags behind her a little girl who,
nevertheless, will one day, pe