to this
terrible fate. They had both suffered terribly, but each hid it from
the other, and this effort kept them up. They took great pride in each
other. She had all the care of him, washed and fed him like a little
child, and he kept calm for her sake, and sustained her on the wings
of his spirit.

"Ah," said Chastenay, "it makes one feel ashamed--when I think that I
am alive and well, that I can reach out my arms to life, that I can
run and leap, and draw this blessed air into my lungs...." As he spoke
he stretched out his arms, raised his head, and breathed deeply.

"I ought to feel remorseful," he added, lowering his voice, "and the
worst is that I do not." Clerambault could not help smiling.

"It is not very heroic," continued Chastenay, "and yet I care more for
Froment than for anyone on earth, and his fate makes me wretchedly
unhappy. But all the same, when I think of my luck to be here at this
moment when so many are gone, and to be well and sound, I can hardly
keep from showing how glad I am. It is so good to live and be whole.
Poor Edme!... You must think me terribly selfish?"

"No, what you say is perfectly natural and healthy. If we were all as
sincere as you, humanity would not be the victim of the wicked notion
of glory in suffering. You have every right to enjoy life after the
trials you have passed through," and as he spoke he touched the Croix
de Guerre which the young man wore on his breast.

"I have been through them and I am going back," said Chastenay, "but
there is no merit in that; there is nothing else that I can do. I am
not trying to deceive you and pretend that I love to smell powder; you
cannot go through three years of war, and still want to run risks
and be indifferent to danger, even if you did feel like that in the
beginning. I was so--I may frankly say I did go in for heroism; but I
have lost all that, it was really part ignorance and part rhetoric,
and when one is rid of these, the nonsense of the war, the idiotic
slaughter, the ugliness, the horrible useless sacrifice must be clear
to the narrowest mind. If it is not manly to fly from the inevitable,
it is not necessary either to go in search of what can be avoided. The
great Corneille was a hero behind the lines; those whom I have known
at the front were almost heroes in spite of themselves."

"That is the true heroism," said Clerambault.

"That is Froment's kind," said Chastenay. "He is a hero because there
is nothing else t