rom a cancer of the intestines, and during the
whole course of the slow and painful disease he had followed his
ordinary occupations up to the last minute, sustaining the courage of
his loved ones by this serene fortitude.

This noble picture which dwelt in Madame Froment's heart, and which
she worshipped in secret, was to her what religion is to other women.
To this, though she had no clear belief in the future life, she
prayed, especially in difficult moments, as if to an ever-present
helpful friend. And by a singular phenomenon sometimes observed after
death, the essence of her husband's soul seemed to have passed into
hers. For this reason her son had grown up in an atmosphere of placid
thought, while most of the young generation before 1914 were feverish,
restless, aggressive, irritated by delay. When the war broke out,
there was no need for Madame Froment to protect herself or her son
against the national excesses; they were both strangers to such ideas;
but they made no attempt to resist the inevitable; they had watched
the coming of this misfortune for so long! All that they could do now
was to bear it bravely, while trying to preserve what was the most
precious thing to them; their souls' faith. Madame Froment did not
consider it necessary to be "_Au-dessus de la melee_" in order to
lead it; and she accomplished in her limited sphere simply, but
more efficaciously, what was attempted by writers in Germany and
England,--a form of international reconciliation. She had kept in
touch with many old friends, and without being troubled in circles
infected by the war-spirit, or ever undertaking useless demonstrations
against the war, she was a check on insane manifestations of hatred,
by her simple presence, her quiet words and manner, her good judgment,
and the respect inspired by her kindness. In families that were
sympathetic she distributed messages from liberal Europeans, among
others, Clerambault's articles, though without his knowledge. It was a
source of satisfaction when she saw that their hearts were touched. A
greater joy still was to see that her son himself was transformed.

Edme Froment was not in the least a Tolstoyan pacifist. At first he
thought the war more a folly than a crime, and if he had been free, he
would have withdrawn, like Perrotin, into high dilettantism of art
and thought, without attempting the hopeless task of fighting the
prevailing opinion, for which he then felt more contempt than pi