When the Apostle saw his Lord in chains, he was afraid and denied Him; but he was not brought so low as to offer his services as executioner.  He, Clerambault, had not only deserted the cause of human brotherhood, he had debased it; he had continued to talk of fraternity, while he was stirring up hatred.  Like those lying priests who distort the Scriptures to serve their wicked purposes, he had knowingly altered the most generous ideas to disguise murderous passions.

He extolled war, while calling himself a pacifist; professed to be humanitarian, previously putting the enemy outside humanity....  Oh, how much franker it would have been to yield to force than to lend himself to its dishonouring compromises!  It was thanks to such sophistries as his that the idealism of young men was thrown into the arena.  Those old poisoners, the artists and thinkers, had sweetened the death-brew with their honeyed rhetoric, which would have been found out and rejected by every conscience with disgust, if it had not been for their falsehoods....

“The blood of my son is on my head,” said Clerambault sadly.  “The death of the youth of Europe, in all countries, lies at the door of European thought.  It has been everywhere a servant to the hangman.”

Perrotin leaned over and took Clerambault’s hand.  “My poor friend,” said he, “you make too much of this.  No doubt you are right to acknowledge the errors of judgment into which you have been drawn by public opinion, and I may confess to you now that I was sorry to see it; but you are wrong to ascribe to yourself and other thinkers so much responsibility for the events of today.  One man speaks, another acts; but the speakers do not move the others to action; they are all drifting with the tide.  This unfortunate European thought is a bit of drift-wood like the rest, it does not make the current, it is carried along by it.”

“It persuades people to yield to it,” said Clerambault, “instead of helping the swimmers, and bidding them struggle against it; it says:  Let yourself go....  No, my friend, do not try to diminish its responsibility, it is the greatest of all.  Our thought had the best place from which to see; its business was to keep watch, and if it saw nothing, it was through lack of good-will, for it cannot lay the blame on its eyes, which are clear enough.  You know it and so do I, now that I have come to my senses.  The same intelligence which darkened my eyes, has now torn away the bandage; how can it be, at the same time, a power for truth and for falsehood?”

Perrotin shook his head.

“Yes, intelligence is so great and so high that she cannot put herself at the service of any other forces without derogation; for if she is no longer mistress and free, she is degraded.  It is a case of Roman master debasing the Greek, his superior, and making him his purveyor—­Graeculus, sophist, Laeno....  To the vulgar the intelligence is a sort of maid-of-all-work, and in this position