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But she is forced to sing in time with "Mein lieber Augustin." Her melody passes in a sort of foolish way into Augustin; she yields and dies away. And only by snatches there is heard again: "Qu'un sang impur..." But at once it passes very offensively into the vulgar waltz. She submits altogether.
"'Aux armes, citoyens!" Her hands swept the audience. "'Marchons! Marchons!" She pointed at the crowd. Each man felt her fiery glance pierce to him France called she was holding out her arms to her sons to die for her "'Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!" The singer gathered the great flag to her heart. The tears rolled down her cheeks; she kissed it with the passion of a mistress.
She taught the words and tune to Prince and Jimmie so that they could fall into line behind the old soldier and his son: "Aux armes, citoyens! formez vos bataillons! Marchons! Marchons! Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons."
It began with the menacing strains of the "Marseillaise ": "Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons." There is heard the pompous challenge, the intoxication of future victories. But suddenly mingling with the masterly variations on the national hymn, somewhere from some corner quite close, on one side come the vulgar strains of "Mein lieber Augustin." The "Marseillaise" goes on unconscious of them.
Then Robespierre jumped nimbly into the berline. The door closed, the postillion's whip cracked briskly, and they set out upon a journey which to La Boulaye was to be as the passing from one life to another. Allons! Marchons! Qu'un sang impur Abreuve nos sillons! La Marseillaise.
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