"You had a good sleep," said she. "I don't think you stirred all night long." He did not contradict her, but thought of the vast distances he had traversed in the spirit, that fiery bird that flies through the night…. But feeling that he had come back to earth, he got up.
At the same hour another man rose, who had also passed a sleepless night, who had also evoked his dead son, and thought of Clerambault. whom he did not know, with fierce hatred.
A letter came from Rosine by the first mail, containing a secret that Clerambault had guessed long ago. Daniel had spoken to his parents, and the marriage would take place the next time he came home from the front. She went through the form of asking the consent of her father and mother, but she knew that her wishes were theirs. Her letter radiated happiness and a triumphant security that nothing could shake. The sad riddle of the agonised world had found an answer, and in the absorption of her young love the universal suffering; did not seem too high a price for the flower that bloomed for her on this bloody stem. In the midst of it all, she was tender and compassionate as usual, remembering the troubles of others, her father and his worries. But she seemed to put her happy arms about them, with a simple affectionate conceit, as if she said: "Please don't worry any more over all these ideas, darlings! It is foolish of you to be sad, when you see that happiness is coming."
Clerambault smiled tenderly as he read the letter. No doubt happiness was on the way, but some of us cannot wait for it. "Greet it from me, my little Rose, and do not let it fly away."
About eleven o'clock the Count de Coulanges came to ask after him; he had seen Moreau and Gillot mounting guard before the door. They had come to escort Clerambault according to their promise, but they had not dared to come up because they were an hour too early. Clerambault sent for them, laughing at their excess of zeal, and they admitted that they had thought him perfectly capable of sneaking out of the house without waiting for them; an idea which he confessed had crossed his mind.
The news from the front was good; during the last few days the German offensive had wavered; strange signs of weakness began to appear; and well-founded rumours made it evident that there was a secret disorganisation in the formidable mass. People said that the limit of his strength had been passed and that the athlete was exhausted. There was talk also of contagion from the Russian revolutionary spirit brought by the German troops that had been on the Eastern Front.
With the usual mobility of the French mind, the pessimists of yesterday began to shout for the approaching victory. Already Moreau discounted the calming down of passions and the return to common sense. The reconciliation of the nations and the triumph of Clerambault's ideas would follow shortly. He advised them not to deceive themselves too much, and amused himself by describing what would happen when peace was signed; for peace would have to come some day.
"I am going to pretend," said he, "that I am hovering over the town—like the devil on two sticks—the first night after the armistice. I see innumerable sorrowing hearts behind shutters closed against the shouts in the streets. Hearts straining all through these years towards a victory that would lend meaning to their grief; and now they can let go—or break down, sleep, die, perhaps. The politicians will reflect on the quickest and most lucrative way to exploit the success, or turn a somersault if they have guessed wrong. The professional soldiers will keep the war going as long as they can, and when that is stopped, they will plan for another in the shortest possible time. Before-the-war pacifists will all come out of their holes, and be found at their posts, with touching demonstrations of joy, while their old leaders who have been beating the drum in the rear for over five years will reappear with olive branches in their hands, smiling and talking of brotherly love. The men who swore never to forget when they were in the trenches will accept all the explanations and congratulations that are offered them. It is such a bore not to forget! Five years of exhausting fatigue make you accept anything through sheer weariness or boredom, or the wish to finish it all, so the flourishes of triumph will drown the cries of the vanquished. The one thought of most people will be to go back to their sleepy before-the-war habits; first they will dance on the graves, and then lie down and go to sleep on them, till after a while the war will be only something to boast about in the evening. Perhaps they will succeed in forgetting it so entirely, that the Dance of Death can be resumed;—not all at once, of course, but later when we have had a good rest. So there will be peace everywhere, till the time when it will be war everywhere again. In the meaning that is now given to the words, my friends, peace and war are just different labels for the same bottle. It reminds me of what King Bomba said of his valiant soldiers; dress them in red or in green as you choose, they will take to their heels just the same. One says peace and the other war, but neither means anything, there is only universal servitude, multitudes swept along like the ebb and flow of tides; and this will continue as long as no strong souls raise themselves above the human ocean, as long as no one dares to fight against the fate that sways these great masses."
"Fight against nature," said Coulanges. "Would you resist her laws?"
"There are no immutable laws," said Clerambault, laws like beings, live, change, and die. It is the duty of the spirit, not to accept these as the Stoics taught us, but rather to modify and shape them to our needs. Laws are the outside form of the soul, and if it grows they must grow also. The only just laws are those that suit me. Am I wrong in thinking that the shoe should be made to fit the foot, not the foot for the shoe?"