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If Clerambault was not tempted to convert these hardened intellectuals with their stiff helmet of truth, he knew others who had not the same proud certainty; far from it.  Those who sinned rather through softness and pure dilettantism—­Arsene Asselin was one of these, an amiable Parisian, unmarried, a man of the world, clever and sceptical; and as much shocked by a defect in sentiment as in expression.  How could he like extremes of thought, which are the cultures in which the germs of war develop?  His critical and sarcastic spirit inclined him towards doubt; so there was no reason why he should not have understood Clerambault’s point of view, and he came within an ace of doing so.  His choice depended on some fortuitous circumstances, but from the moment that he turned his face in the other direction, it was impossible for him to go back; and the more he stuck in the mud, the more obstinate he grew.  French self-respect cannot bear to admit its mistakes; it would rather die in defence of them....  But French or not, how many are there in the world who would have the strength of mind to say:  “I have made a mistake, we must begin all over again.”  Better deny the evidence ...  “To the bitter end” ...  And then break down.

Alexandre Mignon was a before-the-war pacifist and an old friend of Clerambault’s.  He was a bourgeois of about his own age, intellectual, a member of the University, and justly respected for the dignity of his life.  He should not be confounded with those parlour pacifists covered with official decorations and grand cordons of international orders, for whom peace is a gilt-edged investment in quiet times.  For thirty years he had sincerely denounced the dangerous intrigues of the dishonest politicians and speculators of his country; he was a member of the League for the Rights of Man, and loved to make speeches for either cause, as it might happen.  It was enough if his client purported to be oppressed; it did not matter if the victim had been a would-be oppressor himself.  His blundering generosity sometimes made him ridiculous, but he was always liked.  He did not object to the ridicule, nor did he dread a little unpopularity, as long as he was surrounded by his own group, whose approbation was necessary to him.  As a member of a group which was independent when they all held together, he thought that he was an independent person, but this was not the case.  Union is strength they say, but it accustoms us to lean upon it, as Alexandre Mignon found to his cost.

The death of Jaures had broken up the group; and lacking one voice—­the first to speak—­all the others failed.  They waited for the password that no one dared to give.  When the torrent broke over them these generous but weak men were uncertain, and were carried away by the first rush.  They did not understand nor approve of it, but they could make no resistance.  From the beginning desertions