Prudent folks join in the hue and cry from a safe distance.

The editor of the magazine which had been proud to publish Clerambault"s poems for years whispered to him that all this row was absurd--that there was really nothing in his "case," but that on account of his subscribers he should have to scuttle him. He was awfully sorry ... hoped there was no hard feeling?... In short, without being rude, he made the whole thing look ridiculous.

Alas for human nature! Even Perrotin laughed at Clerambault in a brilliantly sarcastic interview, and considered himself to be still his friend at bottom.

In his own house Clerambault now found himself without support. His old helpmate, who for thirty years had seen only through his eyes, repeating his words without even understanding them, was now afraid, indignant at what he had written, reproaching him bitterly for the scandal, the harm done to the name of the family, to the memory of his dead son, to the sacred cause of vengeance, to his Country.

Rosine was always loving, but she had ceased to understand him. A woman"s mind makes but few demands, if her heart is satisfied; so it was enough for her that her father was no longer one of the haters, that he remained compa.s.sionate and kind. She did not want him to translate his sentiments into theories, nor above all, to proclaim them. She had much affectionate common-sense, and as long as matters of feeling were safe, she did not care for the rest, not understanding the inflexible exigence of logic which pushes a man to the utmost consequences of his faith.

She had ceased to understand, and her hour had pa.s.sed--the time when, without knowing it, she had accepted and fulfilled a maternal mission towards her father. When he was weak, broken, and uncertain, she had sheltered him under her wing, rescued his conscience, and given back to him the torch which he had let fall from his hand. Now her part was accomplished, she was once more the loving "little daughter" somewhat in the shade, who looks on at the great events of life with eyes that are almost indifferent, and in the depths of her soul treasured devoutly the afterglow of the wonderful hour through which she had lived--all uncomprehending.

It was about this time that a young man home on leave came to see Clerambault. Daniel Favre was a friend of the family, an engineer like his father before him. He had long been an admirer of Clerambault, for his keen intelligence was not limited to his profession; indeed the extended flights of modern science have brought his domain close to that of poetry, it is itself the greatest of poems. Daniel was an enthusiastic reader of Clerambault"s writings. They corresponded affectionately, knew each other"s families, and the young man was a frequent visitor, perhaps not solely for the pleasure of conversing with the poet. He was a nice fellow, about thirty years old, tall, well set-up, with good features, a timid smile, and eyes which looked startlingly light in his sunburnt face. They were all glad to see him, and Clerambault was not the only member of the family who enjoyed his visits. David might easily have been a.s.signed to duty in a munitions factory, but he had applied for a dangerous post at the Front, where he had quickly been promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. Having a few days in town, he went to see Clerambault.

Madame Clerambault and Rosine were out, so the poet was alone, and welcomed his young friend with delight, but Daniel responded awkwardly, answering questions somewhat at random, and at last abruptly brought up the subject which he had at heart. He said that he had heard talk at the front of Clerambault"s articles, and he felt very badly. People said--they made out that--well, he had heard severe things about them; he knew people were often unjust, but he had come--here he pressed Clerambault"s hand in a timid friendly way--he had come to entreat him not to desert all those who loved him. He reminded him of the devotion that had inspired the poet who had celebrated the traditions of French soil and the glories of the race.... "In this hour of trial," he implored, "stand by us."

"I have never been closer to you than now," answered Clerambault, and he added:

"You say that people blame what I have written. Dear boy, what do you think of it yourself?"

"I confess I have not read it," said Daniel. "I did not want to, for fear that it might disturb my affection for you, or hinder me in my duty."

"Your faith cannot be very strong, if a few lines of print can shake it."

"My convictions are firm enough," said Daniel, a little miffed, "but there are certain things which it is wisest not to discuss."

"That is something that I should not have expected to hear from a scientific man," said Clerambault. "The truth can lose nothing by discussion."

"Truth, no, but love--love of country."

"My dear Daniel, you go farther than I. I do not place truth in opposition to love of country, on the contrary I endeavour to reconcile them."

Daniel tried to cut the matter short.

"The country is not a subject for discussion."

"Is it an article of faith?"

"You know I do not believe in religions," protested Daniel. "I have no faith in any of them. But that is the very reason. What should we have left on earth if it were not for our country?"

"I think that there are many great and beautiful things in the world, and Country is only one of them; but I am not discussing the love, but the way of loving."

"There is only one," said Daniel.

"And what is that?"

"We must obey."

"The ancient symbol, Love with bandaged eyes; I only want to open them."

"No, no, let us alone. It is hard enough already. Don"t make it any worse for us." In a few phrases, temperate, yet broken by emotion, Daniel brought up the terrible picture of the weeks that he had spent in the trenches; the disgust and the horror of what he had borne himself, the suffering he had seen in others, had inflicted on them.

"But, my dear fellow, if you see this shameful thing, why not try to prevent it?"

"Because it is impossible."

"To be sure of that, you might at least make the attempt."

"The conflict between men is the law of Nature. Kill or be killed. So be it."

"And can it never be changed?"

"No, never," said Daniel, in a tone of sad obstinacy, "it is the law."

There are some scientific men from whom science seems to hide the truth it contains, so that they cannot see reality at the bottom of the net. They embrace the whole field that has been discovered, but would think it impossible and even ridiculous to enlarge it beyond the limits already traced by reason. They only believe in a progress that is chained to the inside of the enclosure. Clerambault knew only too well the supercilious smile with which the ideas of inventors are put aside by learned men from the official schools. There are certain forms of science which accord perfectly with docility. David"s manner showed no irony; it expressed rather a stoical, baffled kind of melancholy. In abstract questions he did not lack courage of thought, but when faced with the facts of life he was a mixture, or rather a succession, of timidity and stiffness, diffident modesty, and firmness of conviction. In short he was a man, like other men, complex and contradictory, not all in one piece. The trouble is that, in an intellectual and a man of science, the pieces lap over one another and the joinings show.

Clerambault sat silent for a few moments, and then began to utter the thoughts that had pa.s.sed through his mind. "Nevertheless," said he, "the results of science itself are changeful. For the last twenty years all our conceptions of chemistry and physiology have been going through a crisis which has altered and made them much more fruitful.

Why should not the so-called laws which regulate human society--or rather the state of chronic brigandage among nations--why should not they also be changed? Is there no place in your mind for the hope of a higher future?"

"We could not go on at all," said Daniel, "if we had not the hope of establishing a new order more just and humane. Many of my comrades hope through this war to put an end to all wars. I have not that confidence, and do not go so far as that; but I do know certainly that our France is in danger, and that if she is conquered, humanity will fall with her."

"The defeat of any people is that of humanity, for we are all necessary, and the union of all nations would be the only true victory. Any other ruins the victors as well as the vanquished. Every day that this war lasts the precious blood of France is shed, and she runs great risk of permanent exhaustion."

Daniel stopped him with a gesture of irritation and pain. Oh, he knew too well ... no one better than he, that France was dying each day from her heroic effort. That the pick of her youth, her strength, her intelligence, the vital sap of the race, was pouring out in torrents, and with it the wealth, the labour, the credit of the people of France. France, bleeding at every vein, would follow the path that Spain had trod four centuries ago, the path that led to the deserts of the Escurial. Yes, but let no one speak to him of a peace that would put an end to this agony until the adversary was totally crushed; no one ought to respond to the advances that Germany was then making--they ought not to be considered, or even mentioned. And then, like the politicians, the generals, the journalists, and millions of poor creatures who repeat at the top of their voices the lesson taught them, David cried: "To the last man!"

Clerambault looked at him with affectionate pity. Poor boy! brave, yet so timid that he shrank from the thought of discussing the dogmas of which he was the victim. His scientific mind dared not revolt against the stupidity of this b.l.o.o.d.y game, where death for France as well as for Germany--perhaps more than for Germany, was the stake.

Yes, he did revolt, but would not admit it to himself. He tried again to influence Clerambault: "Your ideas perhaps are right and true, but this is not the time ... not now. In twenty, or even fifty years. We must first conquer, finish our task, found the freedom of the world, the brotherhood of men, on the enduring victory of France."

Poor Daniel! Can he not see that, even at the best, the victory is doomed to be tarnished by excesses, and that then it will be the turn of the vanquished to set their minds on a frantic revenge and a just victory? Each nation desires the end of wars through its own triumph, and from one such victory to another humanity will go down to its defeat.

As Daniel stood up to go he pressed Clerambault"s hands and reminded him with much feeling of his poem where, in the heroic words of Beethoven, he exalted the suffering out of which joy is born...."

_Durch Leiden Freude_." He sighed.

"Ah! how well they understand.... We sing of suffering and our deliverance, but they are enamoured of it. And now our hymn of deliverance will become a song of oppression for other men...."

Clerambault could not answer, he had a real love for this young man, one of those who sacrificed themselves for the war, knowing well that they had nothing to gain; and the greater their sacrifices, the stronger their faith. Blessings on them! But if only they would consent not to immolate all mankind on the same altar....

Rosine came in just as Clerambault and Daniel reached the door of the apartment; she started with pleasure at the sight of the visitor, and Daniel"s face lighted up also. Clerambault could not help noticing the sudden gaiety of the two young people. Rosine urged Daniel to come in again for a few moments and talk to her a little; Daniel hesitated, did come back, but refused to sit down, and in a constrained way made a vague excuse for going away. Clerambault, who guessed what was pa.s.sing in his daughter"s heart, begged him to promise that he would come at least once more before the end of his leave. Daniel, much embarra.s.sed, said no, at first, then yes, without fixing a time, and at last, on being urged by Clerambault, he did say when they might expect him, and took leave, but his manner was still rather cool.

Rosine stood there, absorbed. She looked troubled, but when her father smiled at her, she came quickly and kissed him.

The day he had fixed came and went, but no Daniel appeared; they waited for him the next day and the one after that. He had gone back to the Front. A few days later, Clerambault persuaded his wife to go with Rosine to see Daniel"s parents. The icy coldness with which they were received just stopped short of offence. Madame Clerambault came home, vowing that as long as she lived she would never set foot again in that house; it was all Rosine could do to restrain her tears.

The following week a letter arrived from Daniel to Clerambault. Though he seemed a little shamefaced about his att.i.tude and that of his parents, he tried rather to explain, than to apologise for it. He spoke of the ties of admiration, respect and friendship which united him to Clerambault, and alluded discreetly to the hope that he had formed of one day becoming closer yet; but he added that Clerambault had disturbed these dreams of the future by the regrettable position that he had seen fit to adopt in the life and death crisis through which the country was now pa.s.sing, a position rendered worse by the wide publicity given to Clerambault"s words. These words, little understood perhaps, but certainly imprudent, had raised a storm of opposition on account of their almost sacrilegious character; the feeling of indignation was unanimous among the men at the front, as well as in the circle of friends at home. His parents knew what his hope had been, but they now absolutely refused to allow it, and in spite of the pain this caused him, he did not feel it right to disregard these scruples, springing as they did from a profound devotion to the wounded country. An officer who had the honour to offer his life for France could not think of a union which would be regarded as his adhesion to these unfortunate theories; public opinion would condemn it. Such a view would be unjust, undoubtedly, but it is a thing that must always be reckoned with; the opinion of a whole people is respectable, no matter how extreme and unfair it may appear, and Clerambault had made a grave mistake in trying to brave it. Daniel entreated him to acknowledge this mistake, and try to rectify, if possible efface, the deplorable effect produced by articles written in a different key. He urged this upon him as a duty--towards his country and himself--letting it be understood that it was also a duty towards one dear to both of them. In ending his letter he brought forward other considerations where the word opinion constantly recurred, so as at last to take the place of reason and conscience.

As Clerambault read he smiled, recalling a scene of Spitteler"s. The king Epimetheus was a man of firm conscience, but when the time came to put it to the proof, he could not lay his hand upon it, saw it trying to escape, ran after it, and finally threw himself flat on his stomach to look for it under the bed. Clerambault reflected that one might be a hero under the fire of the enemy, but a timid small boy before the opinion of his fellow-citizens.