up for not being able to walk
straight; and when it grew dark you said: "What, night already?--What
have we been doing with ourselves, today?" ... "In conclusion," said
this little French cockerel, "the only tiresome thing in war is what
you do in peace-time,--you walk along the high road."

This was the way these young men talked in the first month of the
campaign, all soldiers of the Marne, of war in the open. If this
had gone on, we should have seen once more the race of barefooted
Revolutionaries, who set out to conquer the world and could not stop
themselves.

They were at last forced to stop, and from the moment that they were
put to soak in the trenches, the tone changed. Maxime lost his spirit,
his boyish carelessness. From day to day he grew virile, stoical,
obstinate and nervous. He still vouched for the final victory, but
ceased after a while to talk of it, and wrote only of duty to be done,
then even that stopped, and his letters became dull, grey, tired-out.

Enthusiasm had not diminished behind the lines, and Clerambault
persisted in vibrating like an organ pipe, but Maxime no longer gave
back the echo he sought to evoke.

All at once, without warning, Maxime came home for a week's leave. He
stopped on the stairs, for though he seemed more robust than formerly,
his legs felt heavy, and he was soon tired. He waited a moment to
breathe, for he was moved, and then went up. His mother came to the
door at his ring, screaming at the sight of him. Clerambault who was
pacing up and down the apartment in the weariness of the long waiting,
cried out too as he ran. It was a tremendous row.

After a few minutes there was a truce to embraces and inarticulate
exclamations. Pushed into a chair by the window with his face to the
light, Maxime gave himself up to their delighted eyes. They were in
ecstasies over his complexion, his cheeks more filled out, his healthy
look. His father threw his arms around him calling him "My Hero"--but
Maxime sat with his fingers twitching nervously, and could not get out
a word.

At table they feasted their eyes on him, hung on every word, but he
said very little. The excitement of his family had checked his first
impetus, but luckily they did not notice it, and attributed his
silence to fatigue or to hunger. Clerambault talked enough for two;
telling Maxime about life in the trenches. Good mother Pauline was
transformed into a Cornelia, out of Plutarch, and Maxime looked at