“Without him I could never have got my walls straight.”
“He has given us his hands and his head.”
Clemenceau nodded. Then he sat up very straight in his chair, and made a sign for them to be silent. His eyes seemed to light up; the colour of them to deepen. His voice had a more ringing and passionate note, the voice of the man who had inspired France.
“My children, it seems to me very simple. Let us look at these two men, and at their lives. On the one hand you have this Englishman who works with his hands, who is ready to help other people, who creates, who restores. Behind me is the house which all of you know so well, a house that was in ruins, but has become alive once more, a home. On the other hand you have this Louis Blanc, a man who destroys, a man who is ready to burn and to kill. What has he done for Beaucourt? Brought envy and anger and drunkenness into it, turned Frenchmen against Frenchmen, taught the religion of violence and of hate. My children, I am no bigot, no Calvinist; sometimes I have hated the so-called good men, and loved the sinners; but in this case my heart and head do not quarrel.”
He looked at Bibi, Ledoux and Crapaud.
“Louis Blanc, and you others, have you anything to say to me?”
Bibi folded his arms; he was defiant.
“Nothing.”
“And you?”
Lazare Ledoux’s eyes could not meet Clemenceau’s; he was capable of nothing but mutterings.