“Good news!” a man shouted over by the Boulevard St. Germain. As if by magic the streets were filled with people⁠—shivering, chattering people with shrunken eyes.

“Jacques!” cried one. “The Army of the Loire!”

“Eh! mon vieux , it has come then at last! I told thee! I told thee! Tomorrow⁠—tonight⁠—who knows?”

“Is it true? Is it a sortie?”

Someone said: “Oh, God⁠—a sortie⁠—and my son?” Another cried: “To the Seine? They say one can see the signals of the Army of the Loire from the Pont Neuf.”

There was a child standing near Trent who kept repeating: “Mamma, Mamma, then tomorrow we may eat white bread?” and beside him, an old man swaying, stumbling, his shrivelled hands crushed to his breast, muttering as if insane.