“I am not humiliated, monsieur, but my heart is sore. You will tell me that life is ironical?”
Clemenceau laid a hand on Durand’s shoulder.
“My friend, I have always set my teeth. What hurts you hurts me. What has happened?”
In a few jerky sentences Durand gave Georges Clemenceau the pith and soul of this village romance.
“The man who raised the flag here, and was the first to attack the ruins, but then, he had the soul of a peasant, of a worker, a creator; the city eats and destroys; the countryman grows and harvests. Once again it is the peasant spirit that will save France.”
He leant his arms on the door of the car.
“Yet is it not strange, monsieur, that I—a foolish old man—should have chosen this very day to show you the pride of my heart? Perhaps we had grown a little vain here, and Providence sent a few drunken blackguards to chasten us.”
Clemenceau was frowning, and his bushy white eyebrows bristled.
“No. The work stands. The quiet men will always thrash the talkers. Is that the house—there?”
He looked intently at the Café de la Victoire.