“We have not the time to wait for all this,” said Moreau.  “Every day brings us frightful problems which must be decided on the spot.  If we are not to be the masters, then we shall be victims; ... we, do I say?  Not ourselves alone, we are already victimised, but all that is dear to us, all that holds us to life, hope in the future, the salvation of humanity.  See the things that press upon us, the agonising questions as to those who will come after us, and those who have children.  This war is not yet over, and it is only too evident that its crimes and falsehoods have sown the seeds of new wars, near at hand.  Why do we have children?  For what do they grow up?  To be butchered like this?  Look where you will, there is no answer.  Are we to leave these crazy countries, this old continent, and emigrate?  But where?  Are their fifty acres of ground on the globe where independent honest people can take refuge?  We must be on one side or the other; you see well enough that we have to choose between patriotism and revolution.  If not, what remains?  Non-resistance?  Is that what you would have?  But there is nothing in that unless you have religious faith; otherwise it is only the resignation of the lamb led to the slaughter.  Unfortunately, the greater number decide on nothing, prefer not to think, turn their eyes away from the future, blinded by the hope that what they have seen and suffered will not recur.  That is why we must decide for them, whether they want it or not, make them quicken their step, save them in spite of themselves.  Revolution means a few men who will for all humanity.”

“I do not think that I should like it,” said Clerambault, “if another decided for me.  And on the other hand, I should not want to usurp another man’s will; I should prefer to leave each one free, and not interfere with the liberty of others.  But I know that I am asking too much.”

“Only what is impossible,” said Moreau.  “When you begin to will, you cannot stop halfway.  There are just two sorts of men, those who have too great will-power—­like Lenine, and a couple of dozen men in the whole course of history—­and those who have too little, who can decide nothing, like us, me, if you like.  It is clear enough, despair is all that drives me to will anything....”

“Why despair?” said Clerambault.  “A man’s fate is made every day by himself, and none knows what it will be; it is what we are.  If you are cast down, so also is your fate.”

“We shall never have strength enough,” answered Moreau sadly.  “Don’t you believe that I see what infinitely small chances of success a revolution would have now in our country, under present conditions?  Think of all the destruction, the economic losses, the demoralisation, the fatal lassitude caused by the war.”  And he added:  “It was not true what I told you the first time we met, about all my comrades feeling as I did, rebelling against the suffering.  Gillot told you there are