“Aristide de Méricourt. You know his name and work? If there is any hope for our poor old Europe, which is in extremis mortuis, it lies in the success of this young man and his band of brothers. They are working for international peace and universal brotherhood. What audacity! What sublime hope in a world that is digging new entrenchments of hate!”
“We make a little progress,” said the young man with the blind eye. “From all parts of France youth which saw life in the trenches is joining our League against Militarism. The Old Men are becoming afraid of us.”
“As one of the Old Men, I am not afraid of you,” said Lajeunesse, smiling at his young friend. “I recognise your right to declare a spiritual warfare against all old imbeciles who are preparing for another massacre—the last before cilivisation dies—in the fields of Europe. Gladly would I die to-night to see youth gain its victory over old age, old ideas, old villainies, old hatreds.”
“You are not among the Old Men, cher maître,” said Aristide de Méricourt; “You are Lajeunesse—Youth itself.”
The old man laughed, and shook his head.
“I pose as the champion of youth. It is my vanity—to keep young in mind and soul. Alas, I am convicted of senility because of my cynical doubts of youth’s adventure. Civilisation is too sick to be saved, and Poincaré, and all the Poincarés and reactionaries of Europe, are determined on its doom. How many men and boys have you in your League against Militarism?”
“Three thousand,” said Aristide de Méricourt, with an air of pride. “Our membership is spreading in England, Germany, Italy, even in Austria. We are truly international.”
“Three thousand young men pledged to international peace! That is a beginning. It is excellent. But you have three hundred million souls to convert. The odds are heavy, dear child.”
“We shall win,” said the young man with the blind eye. “Democracy is solid against the spirit of war.”
Eugène Lajeunesse laughed quietly, as at a child who talks of killing dragons.