He
was small and dark, with bright eyes full of gaiety, in spite of all
that he had gone through. Though he agreed with Moreau in general as
to the war and the crimes of the social order, he viewed the same
events and the same men with different eyes; from which arose many
discussions between the two young men.
One day Moreau had just been telling Clerambault of some gloomy
experience of the trenches: "Yes," said Gillot, "it did happen like
that and the worst of it was, that it had no effect on us, not the
least little bit." And when Moreau protested indignantly: "Well,
perhaps you, and one or two more may have minded a little,--but
most of them did not even notice it." He kept on to stop further
remonstrances from his friend: "I am not trying to make out that you
were better than the rest, old man, there is no need for that; I only
say it because it is so. Look here," he added, turning to Clerambault,
"those who have come back and written about all this, they tell us,
of course, what they felt. But they felt more than ordinary mortals
because they were artists, and naturally everything got on their
nerves, while the rest of us were tougher. Now that I think of it,
that makes it more terrible; when you read these stories that sicken
you, and make the hair stand up on your head, you don't get the full
effect.
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