The First Day

Also there were no omnibuses to be seen, no private automobiles, no
electric vehicles of any sort except great grey army trucks trundling
by with a sapper at the wheel.

And, except for the whiz and rush of the motors and the melancholy
siren blasts from their horns, an immense silence reigned in the
streets.

There was no laughter to be heard, no loud calling, no gay and
animated badinage. People who met and stopped conversed in undertones;
gestures were sober and rare.

And everywhere, in the intense stillness, Red Cross flags hung
motionless in the late afternoon sunshine; everywhere were posted
notices warning the Republic of general mobilisation--on dead walls,
on tree-boxes, on kiosques, on bulletin boards, on the façades of
public and ecclesiastical buildings.

Another ordinance which Neeland could read from where he stood at the
window warned all citizens from the streets after eight o'clock in the
evening; and on the closed iron shutters of every shop in sight of his
window were pasted white strips of paper bearing, in black letters,
the same explanation: "Fermé à cause de la mobilisation."

Nowhere could he see the word "war" printed or otherwise displayed.
The conspiracy of silence concerning it seemed the more ominous.

Nor, listening, could he hear the sinister voices of men and boys
calling extra editions of the papers. There seemed to be no need for
the raising of hoarse and threatening voices in the soundless capital.
Men and youths of all ages traversed the avenues and streets with
sheafs of fresh, damp newspapers over their ragged arms, but it was
the populace who crowded after and importuned them, not they the
people; and no sooner did a paper-seller appear than he was stripped
of his wares and was counting his coppers under the trees before
hurrying away for a fresh supply.