of science which accord perfectly with docility.  David’s manner showed no irony; it expressed rather a stoical, baffled kind of melancholy.  In abstract questions he did not lack courage of thought, but when faced with the facts of life he was a mixture, or rather a succession, of timidity and stiffness, diffident modesty, and firmness of conviction.  In short he was a man, like other men, complex and contradictory, not all in one piece.  The trouble is that, in an intellectual and a man of science, the pieces lap over one another and the joinings show.

Clerambault sat silent for a few moments, and then began to utter the thoughts that had passed through his mind.  “Nevertheless,” said he, “the results of science itself are changeful.  For the last twenty years all our conceptions of chemistry and physiology have been going through a crisis which has altered and made them much more fruitful.  Why should not the so-called laws which regulate human society—­or rather the state of chronic brigandage among nations—­why should not they also be changed?  Is there no place in your mind for the hope of a higher future?”

“We could not go on at all,” said Daniel, “if we had not the hope of establishing a new order more just and humane.  Many of my comrades hope through this war to put an end to all wars.  I have not that confidence, and do not go so far as that; but I do know certainly that our France is in danger, and that if she is conquered, humanity will fall with her.”

“The defeat of any people is that of humanity, for we are all necessary, and the union of all nations would be the only true victory.  Any other ruins the victors as well as the vanquished.  Every day that this war lasts the precious blood of France is shed, and she runs great risk of permanent exhaustion.”

Daniel stopped him with a gesture of irritation and pain.  Oh, he knew too well ... no one better than he, that France was dying each day from her heroic effort.  That the pick of her youth, her strength, her intelligence, the vital sap of the race, was pouring out in torrents, and with it the wealth, the labour, the credit of the people of France.  France, bleeding at every vein, would follow the path that Spain had trod four centuries ago, the path that led to the deserts of the Escurial.  Yes, but let no one speak to him of a peace that would put an end to this agony until the adversary was totally crushed; no one ought to respond to the advances that Germany was then making—­they ought not to be considered, or even mentioned.  And then, like the politicians, the generals, the journalists, and millions of poor creatures who repeat at the top of their voices the lesson taught them, David cried:  “To the last man!”

Clerambault looked at him with affectionate pity.  Poor boy! brave, yet so timid that he shrank from the thought of discussing the dogmas of which he was the victim.  His scientific mind dared not revolt against the stupidity of this bloody game, where death for France as well as for Germany—­perhaps more than for Germany, was the stake.