and this continual advance forms the genuine interest of the world to the liberal mind; but if the mind can constantly rise without rest or interruption, in the world of fact progress is made step by step, and a scant few inches are gained in the whole of a lifetime.  Humanity limps along, and your mistake, the only one, is that you are two or three days’ journey ahead of it, but—­perhaps with good reason—­that is one of the mistakes most difficult to forgive.  When an ideal, like that of Country, begins to age with the form of society to which it is strongly bound, the slightest attack makes it ferocious, and it will blaze out furiously in its exasperation.  The reason is that it has already begun to doubt itself.  Do not deceive yourself; these millions of men who are slaughtering each other now in the name of patriotism, have no longer the early enthusiasm of 1792, or 1813, even though there is more noise and ruin today.  Many of those who die, and those who send them to their death, feel in their hearts the horrible touch of doubt; but entangled as they are, too weak to escape, or even to imagine a way of salvation, they proclaim their injured faith with a kind of despair, and throw themselves blindly into the abyss.  They would like to throw in also those who first raised doubts in them by words or actions.  To wish to destroy the dream of those who are dying for its sake, is to wish to kill twice over.”

Clerambault held out his hand to stop him:—­“Ah! you have no need to tell me that, and it tortures me.  Do you think I am insensible to the pain of these poor souls whose faith I undermine?  Respect the beliefs of others; offend not one of these little ones....  My God! what can I do?  Help me to get out of this dilemma; shall I see wrong done, let men go to ruin,—­or risk injuring them, wound their faith, draw hatred upon myself when I try to save them?...  Show me the law!”

“Save yourself.”

“But that would be to lose myself, if the price is the life of others, if we do nothing.  You and I, no effort would be too great,—­the ruin of Europe, of the whole world, is imminent.”

Perrotin sat quietly, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his hands folded over his Buddha-like belly.  He twirled his thumbs, looking kindly at Clerambault, shook his head, and replied:  “Your generous heart, and your artistic sensibilities urge you too far, my friend, but fortunately the world is not near its end.  This is not the first time.  And there will be many others.  What is happening today is painful, certainly, but not in the least abnormal.  War has never kept the earth from turning on its axis, nor prevented the evolution of life; it is even one of the forms of its evolution.  Let an old scholar and philosopher oppose his calm inhumanity to your holy Man of Sorrows.  In spite of all it may bring you some benefit.  This struggle, this crisis which alarms you so much, is no more than a simple case of systole, a cosmic contraction, tumultuous,