“If they could see,” said Maxime to himself, “if they could only see!... their whole society would go to pieces,... but they will always be blind, they do not want to see ...”

His eyes, cruelly sharpened now, saw the adversary all around him,—­in the carelessness of the world, its stupidity, its egotism, its luxury, in the “I don’t give a damn!”, the indecent profits of the war, the enjoyment of it, the falseness down to the roots....  All these sheltered people, shirkers, police, with their insolent autos that looked like cannon, their women booted to the knee, with scarlet mouths, and cruel little candy faces ... they are all satisfied ... all is for the best!...  “It will go on forever as it is!” Half the world devouring the other half....

They went home.  In the evening after dinner Clerambault was dying to read his latest poem to Maxime.  The idea of it was touching, if a little absurd.—­In his love for his son, he sought to be in spirit, at least, the comrade of his glory and his sufferings, and he had described them,—­at a distance—­in “Dawn in the Trenches.”  Twice he got up to look for the Ms., but with the sheets in his hand a sort of shyness paralysed him, and he went back without them.

As the days went by they felt themselves closely knit together by ties of the flesh, but their souls were out of touch.  Neither would admit it though each knew it well.

A sadness was between them, but they refused to see the real cause, and preferred to ascribe it to the approaching reparation.  From time to time the father or the mother made a fresh attempt to re-open the sources of intimacy, but each time came the same disappointment.  Maxime saw that he had no longer any way of communicating with them, with anyone in the rear.  They lived in different worlds ... could they ever understand each other again?...  Yet still he understood them, for once he had himself undergone the influence which weighed on them, and had only come to his senses “out there,” in contact with real suffering and death.  But just because he had been touched himself, he knew the impossibility of curing the others by process of reasoning; so he let them talk, silent himself, smiling vaguely, assenting to be knew not what.  The preoccupations here behind the lines filled him with disgust, weariness, and a profound pity for these people in the rear—­a strange race to him, with the outcries of the papers, questions from such persons—­old buffoons, worn-out, damaged politicians!—­patriotic braggings, written-up strategies, anxieties about black bread, sugar cards, or the days when the confectioners were shut.  He took refuge in a mysterious silence, smiling and sad; and only went out occasionally, when he thought of the short time he had to be with these dear people who loved him.  Then he would begin to talk with the utmost animation about anything.  The important thing was to make a noise, since one could no longer speak one’s real thoughts, and