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 passed 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
