"Who are they all?" asked Joan, beating time with a finger to the lilting tune which the little band had just begun, with obvious enjoyment."Adventurers, mostly, I imagine," replied Palgrave, not unpleased to play Baedeker to a girl who was becoming more and more attractive to him."I mean people who live by their wits--writers, illustrators, actors, newspaper men, with a smattering of Wall Street brokers seeking a little mild diversion as we are, and foreigners to whom this place has a sentimental interest because it reminds them of home.Sophisticated children, most of them, optimists with moments of hideous pessimism, enthusiasts at various stages of Parnassus, the peak of which is lighted with a huge dollar sign.A friendly, kindly lot, hard-working and temperamental, with some brilliance and a rather high level of cleverness--slaves of the magazine, probably, and therefore not able to throw stones farther into the future than the end of the month.This is not a country in which literature and art can ever grow big; the cost of living is too high.The modern Chatterton detests garrets and must drive something with an engine in it, whatever the name it goes by."There was one electrical moment during the next hour which shook the complacency of every one in the larger room and forced the thoughts, even of those who deliberately turned their backs to the drama of Europe, out across the waters which they fondly and fatuously hoped cut off the United States from ever being singed by the blaze.The little band was playing one of those rather feeble descriptive pieces which begin with soft, peaceful music with the suggestion of the life of a farmyard, and the sound of church bells, swing into the approach of armed men with shrill bugle calls, become chaotic with the rush of fearful women and children, and the commencement of heavy artillery, and wind up with the broad triumphant strains of a national anthem.It happened, naturally enough, that the particular national anthem chosen by the energetic and patriotic man who led the band at the piano was "The Marseillaise."The incessant chatter and laughter went on as usual.The music had no more effect upon the closely filled room than a hackneyed ragtime.Suddenly, as the first few notes of that immortal air rang out, a little old white-haired man, dining in a corner with a much-bosomed, elderly woman, sprang to his feet and in a voice vibrating with the fervor of emotion screamed "Vive la France--vive la patrie!" again and again.
Instantly, from here and there, other men, stout and middle-aged, lifted out of their chairs by this intense and beautiful burst of feeling, joined in that old heart-cry, and for two or three shattering minutes the air was rent with hoarse shouts of "Vive Joffre," "Vive la France," "Vive la patrie," to the louder and louder undercurrent of music.Indifference, complacency, neutrality, gave way.There was a general uprising and uproar; and America, as represented by that olla podrida of the professions, including the one which is the oldest in the world, paid homage and tribute and yelled sympathy to those few Frenchmen among them whose passionate love of country found almost hysterical vent at the sound of the hymn which had stirred all France to a height of bravery and sacrifice never before reached in the history of nations.
There were one or two hisses and several scoffing laughs, but these were instantly drowned by vigorous hand-clapping.The next moment the room resumed its normal appearance.
When Palgrave, who had been surprised to find himself on his feet, sat down again, he saw that Joan's lips were trembling and that there were tears in her eyes.He gave a little laugh, but before he could say any thing, her hand was on his arm."No, don't," she said.
"Let it go without a single word.It was too good for sarca**.""Oddly enough, I had no sarca** ready," replied Palgrave."When our time comes, I wonder whether we shall have an eightieth part of that enthusiasm for our little old tune.What do you think?""Our time? What time?"
