THE ORACLE.  If you think so, go on making them drunk with glory.  Why trouble me with their folly and your vectors?

NAPOLEON.  Unluckily, madam, men are not only heroes:  they are also cowards.  They desire glory; but they dread death.

THE ORACLE.  Why should they?  Their lives are too short to be worth living.  That is why they think your game of war worth playing.

NAPOLEON.  They do not look at it quite in that way.  The most worthless soldier wants to live for ever.  To make him risk being killed by the enemy I have to convince him that if he hesitates he will inevitably be shot at dawn by his own comrades for cowardice.

THE ORACLE.  And if his comrades refuse to shoot him?

NAPOLEON.  They will be shot too, of course.

THE ORACLE.  By whom?

NAPOLEON.  By their comrades.

THE ORACLE.  And if they refuse?

NAPOLEON.  Up to a certain point they do not refuse.

THE ORACLE.  But when that point is reached, you have to do the shooting yourself, eh?

NAPOLEON.  Unfortunately, madam, when that point is reached, they shoot me.

THE ORACLE.  Mf!  It seems to me they might as well shoot you first as last.  Why don’t they?

NAPOLEON.  Because their love of fighting, their desire for glory, their shame of being branded as dastards, their instinct to test themselves in terrible trials, their fear of being killed or enslaved by the enemy, their belief that they are defending their hearths and homes, overcome their natural cowardice, and make them willing not only to risk their own lives but to kill everyone who refuses to take that risk.  But if war continues too long, there comes a time when the soldiers, and also the taxpayers who are supporting and munitioning them, reach a condition which they describe as being fed up.  The troops have proved their courage, and want to go home and enjoy in peace the glory it has earned them.  Besides, the risk of death for each soldier becomes a certainty if the fighting goes on for ever:  he hopes to escape for six months, but knows he cannot escape for six years.  The risk of bankruptcy for the citizen becomes a certainty in the same way.  Now what does this mean for me?

THE ORACLE.  Does that matter in the midst of such calamity?

NAPOLEON.  Psha! madam:  it is the only thing that matters:  the value of human life is the value of the greatest living man.  Cut off that infinitesimal layer of grey matter which distinguishes my brain from that of the common man, and you cut down the stature of humanity from that of a giant to that of a nobody.  I matter supremely:  my soldiers do not matter at all:  there are plenty more where they came from.  If you kill me, or put a stop to my activity (it is the same thing), the nobler part of human life perishes.  You must save the world from that catastrophe, madam.  War has made me popular, powerful, famous, historically immortal.