Free The Flood by Émile Zola

outpouring. For two hours we ambled among the Champs-Elysées crowds laughing with joy. Women had a glint in their eye.
Magenta
was on everyone’s lips.
    However, Julien was shattered, looking as pale as ever.
    ‘They’re laughing now,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe tomorrow they’ll be crying.’
    I sympathised with his private torment. He was thinking about his brother. I joked around to try and put him at ease; Louis was sure to come home a captain, I said.
    Julien shook his head. ‘If he comes back at all!’
    Paris lit up as night fell. Lanterns hung in every window. In the poorest homes, they had lighted candles; I even saw some rooms with just a lamp on a table, pushed against the window. It was a warm night, and all Paris came out into the streets. People sat on doorsteps as if ready for a parade. Crowds gathered at junctions; the bars and cafés were rammed. There was a smell of gunpowder in the air; kids were setting off fireworks.
    I’ll say it again, I’ve never seen Paris more beautiful. All the great things came together that day: the sunshine, a Sunday, and a victory. There wasn’t the same sense of euphoria after the news came out about the crucial battle at Solferino, 7 even though that brought an end to the fighting; the homecoming was a stately affair, not spontaneous like these popular celebrations.
    We got two days off out of Magenta. We got even more excited about the fighting, and were among those who thought peace had come too quickly. The school year was coming to an end. Holidays were on the way. Restless, we looked forward to our freedom; Italy, the army, and our victories all evaporated in the upheaval that followed the end-of-year prizegiving. That year, I remember, I was supposed to go down south for the summer. I was about to set off – it was early in August – when Julien begged me to stay until the 14th, the day of the homecoming parade. He was ecstatic: Louis was coming back a sergeant, and he wanted me to witness his brother’s moment of glory. I said I’d stay.
    The soldiers camped just outside Paris for several days; lavish arrangements were made to welcome them back. The parade would come in through the Place de la Bastille, follow the Boulevards, go down the Rue de la Paix and cross the Place Vendôme. The boulevards were lined with flags. On the Place Vendôme, large platforms were erected for Governmentministers and their guests. The weather was splendid. Applause erupted along the length of the Boulevards at the first glimpse of the troops. The crowds packed in on both sides of the road. Heads piled up at windows. Women waved handkerchiefs, tearing flowers from their dresses to throw down to the soldiers. Throughout all of this the regiments kept marching past at a steady pace, to wild cries of
bravo
. The bands played; tricolours fluttered in the sunshine. Many of them were riddled with bullet holes; the crowd applauded, showing special appreciation for one flag that was shredded and draped with spoils. An old woman standing at the corner of the Rue du Temple dived into the marching ranks to hug a corporal; her son, I suppose. The good lady was almost carried away on the tide of joy. There were soldiers in tears.
    Place Vendôme was the venue for the official ceremony. Ladies in their frocks, magistrates in their gowns and civil servants in uniform all clapped respectfully. There were speeches and presentations. In the evening, the Emperor hosted a banquet of three hundred at the Louvre, in the Salle des États. He made his celebrated speech over dessert: ‘If France has done so much for a friendly people, what would she not do for her own independence?’ Unwise words, which he must have regretted later.
    Julien and I had watched the parade from a window on the Boulevard Poissonnière. The day before, he had visited the army camp and told Louis where we’d be. As his regiment came by, Louis gave us a nod. He had aged tremendously, his face bony and weathered. At first I