War was going to let
loose that terrible thing which we believed to be subliminal in the
French nature.
Women had to be off the streets before nine o'clock. By day we went up
the block to the Boulevard, and there were the troops--a band, the
tricolor, the officers, the men in sky blue. Their sweethearts, their
wives and children went marching hand in hand with them, all singing the
"Marseillaise." In a time like that, where there is song, there is
weeping. The marching, singing women were sometimes sobbing without
knowing it, and we that were watching them in the street crowd were
moved like them.
When I crossed to England, I found that I wanted to go back and have
more of the wonder of war, which I had tasted in Paris. The wonder was
the sparkle of equipment. It was plain curiosity to see troops line up,
to watch the military pageant. There I had been seeing great handsome
horses, men in shining helmets with the horsehair tail of the casque
flowing from crest to shoulder, the scarlet breeches, the glistening
boots with spurs. It was pictures of childhood coming true. I had hardly
ever seen a man in military uniform, and nothing so startling as those
French cuirassiers. And I knew that gay vivid thing was not a passing
street parade, but an array that was going into action. What would the
action be? It is what makes me fond of moving pictures--variety, color,
motion, and mystery.
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