THE SOUL OF FRANCE.

At twelve minutes past eleven the first gun was fired in celebration of the signing of the armistice. It was probably premature, for it was not till later in the day that the official announcement was made, but it was those guns that brought the news home to Paris, and those who have spent this day in the streets have had such an experience as not the whole lapse of time can rival. At first there was apparently but little excitement. The taxis in half a hundred cases set out a French flag blowing bravely in the wind. Here and there groups of men or of women gathered in the streets and cheered all passers-by, whether in blue or in khâki. In every street the owners of half a dozen shops were bringing out the flags which have been bought, all over Paris for the day of the great triumph. But it was still possible to drive easily along the greater thoroughfares, and there was no sound of never-ending joy along every street such as there is as I write some hours later in the day. But there was no holding back the immense torrent of enthusiasm. It is. reported that the Government have appointed to-morrow to be a day of national holiday-making. Whether this be true or not, the people of Paris have taken upon themselves to appoint to-day also for that purpose. About midday the greater thoroughfares had become passable only at foot’s pace. Mile after mile of flags blazed out along the street fronts of all Paris. Especially in the Place de l’opéra and in the Champs Elysees and in the Tuileries, where the long, grim, and muddy road of captured German guns seems more than anything else to give the measure of the great victory. The crowds soon became a but slightly moving mass, added to in thousands at every five minutes. Flags of all nations were carried into this maelstrom, and there remained immobilised for hours. All traffic had soon to be suspended in the main streets, and still the tumult of rejoicing went on from hour to hour.

At this moment Paris is roaring out her soul along her boulevards and her mighty squares. The spirit of the moment is in the air too strong for anyone to resist. No man to-day could call his soul his own. It is swept into the vortex with two million others, and whether he wears the famous field blue of the French or the famous mud colour of the English-speaking races, or again the civilian clothes that have assumed importance of their own during the war; whether it be woman, old or young, or even a very child – all are swept helplessly in a raging torrent.