red when I was a child, one night near La
Samaritaine. There were fireworks on the river. That child seemed to
be someone else, who made me laugh, and yet I was sorry for him; and
then I thought that it was a good thing to be alive, and grow up, and
have something, somebody, no matter who to love ... even that rocket;
and then the pain came on, and I began to howl, and didn't know any
more till I found myself in the ambulance. There wasn't much fun in
living then; it felt as if a dog was gnawing my bones ... might as
well have stayed at the bottom of the hole ... but even then how fine
it seemed to live the way I used to, just live on every day without
pain ... think of that! and we never notice it,--without any pain at
all ... none!... it seemed like a dream, and when it did let up for a
second, just to taste the air on your tongue, and feel light all over
your body--God Almighty! to think that it was like that all the time
before, and I thought nothing of it.... What fools we are to wait till
we lose a thing before we understand it! And when we do want it, and
ask pardon because we did not appreciate it before, all we hear is:
'Too late!'"

"It is never too late," said Clerambault.

Gillot was only too ready to believe this; as an educated workman he
was better armed for the fray than Moreau or Clerambault himself.
Nothing depressed him for long; "fall down, pick yourself up again,
and try once more," he would say, and he always believed he could
surmount any obstacle that barred his way. He was ready to march
against them on his one leg, the quicker the better. Like the others,
he was devoted to the idea of revolution and found means to reconcile
it with his optimism; everything was to pass off quietly according to
him, for he was a man without rancour.

It would not have been safe, however, to trust him too much in this
respect; there are many surprises in these plebeian characters, for
they are very easily moved and apt to change. Clerambault heard him
one day talking with a friend named Lagneau on leave from the front;
they said the poilus meant to knock everything to pieces when the war
was over, maybe before. A man of the lower classes in France is often
charming, quick to seize on your idea before you have had a chance to
explain it thoroughly; but good Lord! how soon he forgets. He forgets
what was said, what he answered, what he saw, what he believed, what
he wanted; but he is always sure of what he says,