on and not be
taken ready-made."

Marie listens to me. She ponders, and then says, "We shouldn't work if
we hadn't to leave what we have to our relations."

But immediately she answers herself, "No."

She produces some illustrations, just among our own surroundings.
So-and-so, and So-and-so. The bait of gain or influence, or even the
excitement of work and production suffice for people to do themselves
harm. And then, too, this great change would paralyze the workers less
than the old way paralyzes the prematurely enriched who pick up their
fortunes on the ground--such as he, for instance, whom we used to see
go by, who was drained and dead at twenty, and so many other ignoble
and irrefutable examples; and the comedies around bequests and heirs
and heiresses, and their great gamble with affection and love--all
these basenesses, in which custom too old has made hearts go moldy.

She is a little excited, as if the truth, in the confusion of these
critical times, were beautiful to see--and even pleasant to detain with
words.

All the same, she interrupts herself, and says, "They'll always find
some way of deceiving." At last she says, "Yes, it would be just,
perhaps; but it won't come."

* * * * * *

The valley has suddenly filled with tumult. On the road which goes
along the opposite slope a regiment is passing on its way to the
barracks, a new regiment, with its colors. The flag goes on its way in
the middle of a long-drawn hurly-burly, in vague shouting, in plumes of
dust and a sparkling mist of battle.

We have both mechanically risen on the edge of the road. At the moment
when the flag passes before us, the habit of saluting it trembles in my
arms. But, just as when a while ago the bishop's lifted hand did not
humble me, I stay motionless, and I do not salute.

No, I do not bow in presence of the flag. It frightens me, I hate it
and I accuse it. No, there is no beauty in it; it is not the emblem of
this corner of my native land, whose fair picture it disturbs with its
savage stripes. It is the screaming signboard of the glory of blows,
of militarism and war. It unfurls over the living surges of humanity a
sign of supremacy and command; it is a weapon. It is not the love of
our countries, it is their sharp-edged difference, proud and
aggressive, which we placard in the face of the others. It is the
gaudy eagle which conquerors and their devotees see flying in