That the pick of her youth, her strength, her
intelligence, the vital sap of the race, was pouring out in torrents,
and with it the wealth, the labour, the credit of the people of
France. France, bleeding at every vein, would follow the path that
Spain had trod four centuries ago, the path that led to the deserts of
the Escurial. Yes, but let no one speak to him of a peace that would
put an end to this agony until the adversary was totally crushed;
no one ought to respond to the advances that Germany was then
making--they ought not to be considered, or even mentioned. And then,
like the politicians, the generals, the journalists, and millions of
poor creatures who repeat at the top of their voices the lesson taught
them, David cried: "To the last man!"
Clerambault looked at him with affectionate pity. Poor boy! brave, yet
so timid that he shrank from the thought of discussing the dogmas of
which he was the victim. His scientific mind dared not revolt against
the stupidity of this bloody game, where death for France as well as
for Germany--perhaps more than for Germany, was the stake.
Yes, he did revolt, but would not admit it to himself. He tried again
to influence Clerambault: "Your ideas perhaps are right and true, but
this is not the time ... not now.
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