only a few of us, and the others are good fellows for the most part but weak as water!  They can see how things are, clearly enough, but sooner than run their heads against a wall they would rather not think about it, or pass it off with a joke.  We French are always ready to laugh, it is our treasure and our ruin.  It is a fine thing, but what a hold it gives to our oppressors.  ’Let them sing as long as they are willing to pay,’ as the Italian said.  ’Let us laugh, so long as we are ready to die.’ ... we might say.  And then this terrible force of habit, that Gillot was talking about.  A man will get used to no matter what ridiculous or painful conditions, provided they last long enough, and that he has company.  He becomes habituated to cold, to heat, to death, and to crime.  His whole force for resistance is used in adapting himself; and then he curls up in his corner and does not dare to stir, for fear that any change will bring back the pain.  We are all so terribly tired!  When the soldiers come back, they will have only one thought—­to sleep and forget.”

“How about the excitable Lagneau, who talks about blowing everything to pieces?”

“I have known Lagneau since the beginning of the war, and he has been in succession, royalist, “revanchard,” annexationist, internationalist, socialist, anarchist, bolshevist, and I-don’t-give-a damnist.  He will finish as a reactionary, and will be sent to make food for cannon against the enemy that our government will pick out among our adversaries or our friends of today.  Do you suppose that the people are of our way of thinking?  Perhaps, or they may agree with the others.  They will take up all opinions one after the other.”

“You are a revolutionary then because you are discouraged?” said Clerambault, laughing.

“There are plenty like that among us.”

“Gillot came out of the war more optimistic than he went in.”

“Gillot is the forgetful sort, but I don’t envy him that,” said Moreau bitterly.

“But you ought not to upset him,” said Clerambault.

“Gillot needs all the help you can give him.”

“Help from me?” said Moreau incredulously.

“He is not naturally strong, and if you would make him so, you must let him see that you believe in him.”

“Do you think belief comes by willing to have it?”

“You know whether that is true!  No, I think, is the answer.  Belief comes through love.”

“By love of those who believe?”

“Is it not always through love, and only in that way, that we learn to trust?”