I have retained the memory of this impression very clearly. I had just confided to Julien the strange sensation which I felt, by saying to him that Paris “looked queer,” when, as we came to the Quai Voltaire, we saw, afar off, in front of the printing-office of the _Moniteur_, a little knot of people, standing to read a notice. There were not more than seven or eight persons. From the pavement where we stood, we could see them gesticulating, laughing, calling out. We crossed the road quickly. The notice was a telegram, written, not printed; it announced the victory of Magenta, in four lines. The wafers which fixed it to the wall were not yet dry. Evidently we were the first to know in all this great Paris, that Sunday. People came running, and their enthusiasm was a sight to see. They fraternised at once, strangers shook hands with each other. A gentleman, with a ribbon at his button-hole, explained to a workman how the battle must have occurred; women were laughing with a pretty laughter and looking as if they were inclined to throw themselves into the arms of the bystanders. Little by little the crowd grew; passers-by were beckoned; coachmen stopped their vehicles and came down from their seats. When we came away there were more than a thousand people there. After that it was a glorious day. In a few minutes the news had spread to the whole town. We thought to bear it with us, but it out-stripped us, for we could not turn a corner or pass along a street without at once understanding by the joy on every face that the thing was known. It floated in the sunshine; it came on the wind. In half-an-hour the aspect of Paris was changed; solemn expectancy had given place to an outburst of triumph. We sauntered for a couple of hours in the Champs Elysées among crowds who laughed for joy. The eyes of the women had a special tenderness. And the word “Magenta” was in every mouth. But Julien was still very pale; he was much disturbed and I knew what was his secret terror, when he murmured:-- “They laugh to-day, but how many will be crying to-morrow?” He was thinking of his brother. I made jokes to try and reassure him, and told him that Louis was sure to come back a captain. “If only he does come back,” he answered, shaking his head. As soon as night fell, Paris was illuminated. Venetian lanterns swung at all the windows. The poorest persons had lighted candles; I even saw some rooms whose tenants had merely pushed a table to the window and set their lamp on it. The night was exquisite, and all Paris was in the streets. There were people sitting all along upon the doorsteps as if they were waiting for a procession. Crowds were standing in the squares, the cafés and the wine-shops were thronged, and the urchins were letting off crackers which scented the air with a fine smell of powder.