A mind of this sort, peevish, bitter, misanthropical, it seems would have been driven crazy by the war, but on the contrary it served to tranquilise it.  When the herd draws itself together in arms against the stranger it is a fall for those rare free spirits who love the whole world, but it raises the many who weakly vegetate in anarchistic egotism, and lifts them to that higher stage of organised selfishness.  Camus woke up all at once, with the feeling that for the first time he was not alone in the world.

Patriotism is perhaps the only instinct under present conditions which escapes the withering touch of every-day life.  All other instincts and natural aspirations, the legitimate need to love and act in social life, are stifled, mutilated and forced to pass under the yoke of denial and compromise.  When a man reaches middle life and turns to look back, he sees these desires marked with his failures and his cowardice; the taste is bitter on his tongue, he is ashamed of them and of himself.  Patriotism alone has remained outside, unemployed but not tarnished, and when it re-awakes it is inviolate.  The soul embraces and lavishes on it the ardour of all the ambitions, the loves, and the longings, that life has disappointed.  A half century of suppressed fire bursts forth, millions of little cages in the social prison open their doors.  At last!  Long enchained instincts stretch their stiffened limbs, cry out and leap into the open air, as of right—­right, do I say? it is now their duty to press forward all together like a falling mass.  The isolated snow-flakes turned avalanche.

Camus was carried away, the little bureaucrat found himself part of it all and without fury or futile violence he felt only a calm strength.  All was “well” with him, well in mind, well in body.  He had no more insomnia, and for the first time in years his stomach gave him no trouble—­because he had forgotten all about it.  He even got through the winter without taking cold—­something that had never been heard of before.  He ceased to find fault with everything and everybody, he no longer railed at all that was done or undone, for now he was filled with a sacred pity for the entire social body—­that body, now his, but stronger, better, and more beautiful.  He felt a fraternal bond with all those who formed part of it by their close union, like a swarm of bees hanging from a branch, and envied the younger men who went to defend it.  When Maxime gaily prepared to go, his uncle gazed at him tenderly, and when the train left carrying away the young men, he turned and threw his arms round Clerambault, then shook hands with unknown parents who had come to see their sons off, with tears of emotion and joy in his eyes.  In that moment Camus was ready to give up everything he possessed.  It was his honey-moon with Life—­this solitary starved soul saw her as she passed and seized her in his arms....  Yes, Life passes, the euphoria of a Camus cannot last forever, but he who has known it lives only in the memory of it, and in the hope that it may return.  War brought this gift, therefore Peace is an enemy, and enemies are all those who desire it.