most
today. The death-like submission of the churches, the stifling
intolerance of nations, the stupid unitarianism of socialists,--by all
these different roads we are returning to the gregarious life. Man has
slowly dragged himself out of the warm slime, but it seems as if the
long effort has exhausted him; he is letting himself slip backward
into the collective mind, and the choking breath of the pit already
rises about him. You who do not believe that the cycle of man
is accomplished, you must rouse yourselves and dare to separate
yourselves from the herd in which you are dragged along. Every man
worthy of the name should learn to stand alone, and do his own
thinking, even in conflict with the whole world. Sincere thought,
even if it does run counter to that of others, is still a service to
mankind; for humanity demands that those who love her should oppose,
or if necessary rebel against her. You will not serve her by flattery,
by debasing your conscience and intelligence, but rather by defending
their integrity from the abuse of power. For these are some of her
voices, and if you betray yourself you betray her also.

R.R.

SIERRE, March, 1917.

PART ONE

Agenor Clerambault sat under an arbour in his garden at St. Prix,
reading to his wife and children an ode that he had just written,
dedicated to Peace, ruler of men and things, "Ara Pacis Augustae." In
it he wished to celebrate the near approach of universal brotherhood.
It was a July evening; a last rosy light lay on the tree-tops, and
through the luminous haze, like a veil over the slopes of the hillside
and the grey plain of the distant city, the windows on Montmartre
burned like sparks of gold. Dinner was just over. Clerambault leaned
across the table where the dishes yet stood, and as he spoke his
glance full of simple pleasure passed from one to the other of his
three auditors, sure of meeting the reflection of his own happiness.

His wife Pauline followed the flight of his thought with difficulty.
After the third phrase anything read aloud made her feel drowsy, and
the affairs of her household took on an absurd importance; one might
say that the voice of the reader made them chirp like birds in a cage.
It was in vain that she tried to follow on Clerambault's lips, and
even to imitate with her own, the words whose meaning she no longer
understood; her eye mechanically noted a hole in the cloth, her
fingers picked at the crumbs on the table,