thought he could see their chests swell with pride to be so near their President. Above the road, over the troops and the shouting Bretons and cheering children waving American flags, hung printed signs: HAIL THECHAMPION OF THE RIGHTS OF MAN. HONOR TO THE APOSTLE OF INTERNATIONAL JUSTICE. HONOR AND WELCOME TO THE FOUNDER OF THE SOCIETY OF NATIONS . The President held his hat in his hand and smiled even though he took note that the sign about the founder of the society of nations was a little premature. At the railroad station there was a pavilion decorated in red silk and the Mayor made a speech, saying destiny brought the American leader to release the people of Europe from their tortures. The train had huge armchairs and picture windows, and at four oâclock they pulled out of the station. Just before they left, the Mayorâs little girl came in again with a bouquet which she shyly pushed forward. The President made as if to take the flowers and hand them to the First Lady, but the child hung on and finally got out, âPour Mademoiselle Veelson,â and Margaret bent laughing to kiss her.
All along the line to Paris people stood waiting to shout greetings. And in the capital itself the next day there waited the largest throng in the history of France. The weather ever since Armistice Day had been rainy and muddy, but on the day they arrived there was a soft and clear autumn-like sky and a brisk west wind. It seemed the whole of France stood in the streets. From the Madeleine to the Bois de Boulogne not a square foot of space was clear. Stools and tables were put out by the concierges of houses along the parade route, with places on them selling for ten, twenty or fifty francs, depending upon the affluence of the customer. Carpenter horses and boards were arranged into improvised grandstands, and men and boys clung to the very tops of the chestnut trees. The housetops were covered with people. Captured German cannons were ranged along the line of march and the cannons were covered. Lines formed of thirty-six thousand French soldiers, the cream of the Army, stood fast to hold back the crowds; they parted only to allow wounded comrades in wheel chairs to gain places inside the lines so as to see the visitor. The people had gathered hours before the train was due in Paris and stood waiting and looking down toward the station, a tiny bandbox on the edge of the Bois reserved for official arrivals of visiting royalty.
Past them went the chasseurs in blue berets and the spahis in their scarlet and white robes, President Poincaré and Premier Clemenceau. The military bands along the route formed in compact groups and stood silent, and in fact a great silence fell all over Paris and the hundreds of thousands of people, a silence that grew ever more deep, so that when the time came for the trainâs arrival only the chomping of the cavalry horses could be heard in the completely jammed streets. Then at ten oâclock the first booming of the batteries on Mont Valérien was heard off in the distance: the train was in Paris. Moments later the sound of The Star-Spangled Banner came floating up the boulevards from the station and a stir went through the waiting multitudes. After the guns and the music came a new sound, like the distant rumblings of thunder, and it grew louder in turn to the ears of those who stood waiting at the Porte Dauphine and on the Champs Elysées and Pont Alexander III, in front of the Chamber of Deputies and in the Place de la Concorde: âWil-son. Wil-son.â And then he was in the streets of Paris in a two-horse victoria, sitting by the President of France, with the Garde Républicaine, swords on shoulder and plumes dancing, going on ahead, the cheers coming like waves as he moved. âVive Wil-son! Vive Wil-son! Vive Wil-son!â
Never, even on Armistice Day, had such cheers been heard. From the windows poured roses, violets, forget-me-nots, holly, greens. The people
All along the line to Paris people stood waiting to shout greetings. And in the capital itself the next day there waited the largest throng in the history of France. The weather ever since Armistice Day had been rainy and muddy, but on the day they arrived there was a soft and clear autumn-like sky and a brisk west wind. It seemed the whole of France stood in the streets. From the Madeleine to the Bois de Boulogne not a square foot of space was clear. Stools and tables were put out by the concierges of houses along the parade route, with places on them selling for ten, twenty or fifty francs, depending upon the affluence of the customer. Carpenter horses and boards were arranged into improvised grandstands, and men and boys clung to the very tops of the chestnut trees. The housetops were covered with people. Captured German cannons were ranged along the line of march and the cannons were covered. Lines formed of thirty-six thousand French soldiers, the cream of the Army, stood fast to hold back the crowds; they parted only to allow wounded comrades in wheel chairs to gain places inside the lines so as to see the visitor. The people had gathered hours before the train was due in Paris and stood waiting and looking down toward the station, a tiny bandbox on the edge of the Bois reserved for official arrivals of visiting royalty.
Past them went the chasseurs in blue berets and the spahis in their scarlet and white robes, President Poincaré and Premier Clemenceau. The military bands along the route formed in compact groups and stood silent, and in fact a great silence fell all over Paris and the hundreds of thousands of people, a silence that grew ever more deep, so that when the time came for the trainâs arrival only the chomping of the cavalry horses could be heard in the completely jammed streets. Then at ten oâclock the first booming of the batteries on Mont Valérien was heard off in the distance: the train was in Paris. Moments later the sound of The Star-Spangled Banner came floating up the boulevards from the station and a stir went through the waiting multitudes. After the guns and the music came a new sound, like the distant rumblings of thunder, and it grew louder in turn to the ears of those who stood waiting at the Porte Dauphine and on the Champs Elysées and Pont Alexander III, in front of the Chamber of Deputies and in the Place de la Concorde: âWil-son. Wil-son.â And then he was in the streets of Paris in a two-horse victoria, sitting by the President of France, with the Garde Républicaine, swords on shoulder and plumes dancing, going on ahead, the cheers coming like waves as he moved. âVive Wil-son! Vive Wil-son! Vive Wil-son!â
Never, even on Armistice Day, had such cheers been heard. From the windows poured roses, violets, forget-me-nots, holly, greens. The people
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