We have both mechanically risen on the edge of the road.  At the moment when the flag passes before us, the habit of saluting it trembles in my arms.  But, just as when a while ago the bishop’s lifted hand did not humble me, I stay motionless, and I do not salute.

No, I do not bow in presence of the flag.  It frightens me, I hate it and I accuse it.  No, there is no beauty in it; it is not the emblem of this corner of my native land, whose fair picture it disturbs with its savage stripes.  It is the screaming signboard of the glory of blows, of militarism and war.  It unfurls over the living surges of humanity a sign of supremacy and command; it is a weapon.  It is not the love of our countries, it is their sharp-edged difference, proud and aggressive, which we placard in the face of the others.  It is the gaudy eagle which conquerors and their devotees see flying in their dreams from steeple to steeple in foreign lands.  The sacred defense of the homeland—­well and good.  But if there was no offensive war there would be defensive war.  Defensive war has the same infamous cause as the offensive war which provoked it; why do we not confess it?  We persist, through blindness or duplicity, in cutting the question in two, as if it were too great.  All fallacies are possible when one speculates on morsels of truth.  But Earth only bears one single sort of inhabitant.

It is not enough to put something on the end of a stick in public places, to shake it on the tops of buildings and in the faces of public assemblies, and say, “It is decided that this is the loftiest of all symbols; it is decided that he who will not bend the knee before it shall be accursed.”  It is the duty of human intelligence to examine if that symbolism is not fetish-worship.

As for me, I remember it was said that logic has terrible chains and that all hold together—­the throne, the altar, the sword and the flag.  And I have read, in the unchaining and the chaining-up of war, that these are the instruments of the cult of human sacrifices.

Marie has sat down again, and I strolled away a little, musing.

I recall the silhouette of Adjutant Marcassin, and him whom I quoted a moment ago—­the sincere hero, barren and dogmatic, with his furious faith.  I seem to be asking him, “Do you believe in beauty, in progress?” He does not know, so he replies, “No!  I only believe in the glory of the French name!” “Do you believe in respect for life, in the dignity of labor, in the holiness of happiness?” “No.”  “Do you believe in truth, in justice?” “No, I only believe in the glory of the French name.”

The idea of motherland—­I have never dared to look it in the face.  I stand still in my walk and in my meditation.  What, that also?  But my reason is as honest as my heart, and keeps me going forward.  Yes, that also.

In the friendly solitude of these familiar spots on the top of this hill, at these cross-roads where the lane has led me like an unending companion, not far from the place where the gentle slope waits for you to entice you, I quake to hear myself think and blaspheme.  What, that notion of Motherland also, which has so often thrilled me with gladness and enthusiasm, as but lately that of God did?