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.