on open their doors. At last! Long enchained instincts stretch
their stiffened limbs, cry out and leap into the open air, as of
right--right, do I say? it is now their duty to press forward all
together like a falling mass. The isolated snow-flakes turned
avalanche.

Camus was carried away, the little bureaucrat found himself part of it
all and without fury or futile violence he felt only a calm strength.
All was "well" with him, well in mind, well in body. He had no more
insomnia, and for the first time in years his stomach gave him no
trouble--because he had forgotten all about it. He even got through
the winter without taking cold--something that had never been heard of
before. He ceased to find fault with everything and everybody, he no
longer railed at all that was done or undone, for now he was filled
with a sacred pity for the entire social body--that body, now his, but
stronger, better, and more beautiful. He felt a fraternal bond with
all those who formed part of it by their close union, like a swarm of
bees hanging from a branch, and envied the younger men who went to
defend it. When Maxime gaily prepared to go, his uncle gazed at him
tenderly, and when the train left carrying away the young men, he
turned and threw his arms round Clerambault, then shook hands with
unknown parents who had come to see their sons off, with tears of
emotion and joy in his eyes. In that moment Camus was ready to give
up everything he possessed. It was his honey-moon with Life--this
solitary starved soul saw her as she passed and seized her in his
arms.... Yes, Life passes, the euphoria of a Camus cannot last
forever, but he who has known it lives only in the memory of it, and
in the hope that it may return. War brought this gift, therefore Peace
is an enemy, and enemies are all those who desire it.

Clerambault and Camus exchanged ideas, and to such an extent that
finally Clerambault could not tell which were his own, and as he lost
footing he felt more strongly the need to act; for action was a kind
of justification to himself.... Whom did he wish to justify? Alas, it
was Camus! In spite of his habitual ardour and convictions he was a
mere echo--and of what unhappy voices.

He began to write Hymns to Battle. There was great competition in this
line among poets who did not fight themselves. But there was little
danger that their productions would clog men's memories in future
ages, for nothing in their previous career had