no use in getting in a sweat about it," of the
trenches. Then there is also that false pride of the French, who fear
nothing so much as ridicule, and would risk death twenty times over
for something they know to be absurd, rather than be laughed at for
an act of unusual common-sense. "You might as well try to stop the
lightning as talk against war." When it hails there is nothing to do
but to cover over your cold-frames if you can, and when it's over go
round and see how much is left of your crop. And they will keep on
doing this until the next hailstorm, the next war, to the end of time.
"No use getting in a sweat." ... It would never occur to them that Man
can change Man.

This stupid heroic resignation irritated Clerambault profoundly.
The upper classes are charmed with it, no doubt, for they owe their
existence to it,--but it makes a Danaid's sieve of the human race,
and its age-long effort, since all its courage, its virtues, and its
labours, are spent in learning how to die.... But when he looked
at the fragment of a man before him, his heart was pierced with an
infinite pity. What could this wretched man do, symbol as he was, of
the mutilated, sacrificed people? For so many centuries he has bled
and suffered under our eyes, while we, his more fortunate brothers,
have only encouraged him to persevere, throwing him some careless word
of praise from a distance, which cost us nothing. What help have we
ever given him? Nothing at all in action, and little enough in words.
We owe to his sacrifices the leisure to think; but all the fruit of
our thought we have kept for ourselves; we have not given him a taste
of it. We are afraid of the light, of impudent opinion and the rulers
of the hour who call to us saying: "Put it out! You who have the
Light, hide it, if you wish to be pardoned...." Oh, let us be cowards
no more. For who will speak, if we do not? The others are gagged and
must die without a word.

A wave of pain passed over the features of the wounded man. With eyes
fixed on the ceiling, his big mouth twisted, his teeth obstinately
clenched, he could say no more.--Clerambault went away, his mind was
made up. The silence of this soldier on his bed of agony had brought
him to a decision. He would speak.

PART THREE

Clerambault came back from the hospital, shut himself into his room,
and began to write. His wife tried to come in, to discover what he was
doing; it seemed as if the good woman had a su