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Clerambault could not help smiling. "It is not very heroic," continued Chastenay, "and yet I care more for Froment than for anyone on earth, and his fate makes me wretchedly unhappy. But all the same, when I think of my luck to be here at this moment when so many are gone, and to be well and sound, I can hardly keep from showing how glad I am. It is so good to live and be whole.
Between 1576 and 1580, four treaties of peace were concluded; in 1576, the peace called Monsieur's, signed at Chastenay in Orleanness; in 1577, the peace of Bergerac or of Poitiers; in 1579, the peace of Nerac; in 1580, the peace of Fleix in Perigord.
Chastenay continued: "I should in that case only be giving back a part of what I owe you." Then turning to Clerambault, he added: "He is the one who keeps us all up, is it not so, Madame Fanny?" "Indeed yes, I could not do without my strong son," said the mother tenderly. "They take advantage of the fact that I cannot defend myself," said Edmé to Clerambault. "You see I cannot stir an inch."
He had had great hopes and robust ambitions, fully justified by his talents and vigorous youth, but unlike his friend Chastenay, he had never for a moment cherished any illusions as to the war.
"They do not need it now," said Edmé, "the farther off one is, the better one sees; but when I was close to everything I saw very little." "Tell me what you see now." "It is getting late," said Edmé, "and I am rather tired. Will you come another time?" "Tomorrow, if you will let me." As Clerambault went out Chastenay joined him.
The great Corneille was a hero behind the lines; those whom I have known at the front were almost heroes in spite of themselves." "That is the true heroism," said Clerambault. "That is Froment's kind," said Chastenay. "He is a hero because there is nothing else that he can be, not even a man; but the dearest thing about him is, that in spite of everything, he is a real man."
'The voice of a man alone can in one hour put more life into us than the clang of five hundred trumpets sounded continuously." "That always reminds me of you," said Chastenay, but Edmé went on as if he had not heard him: ... "You have waked us all up." Clerambault looked at the brave calm eyes of the paralytic, and said: "Your eyes do not look as if they needed to be waked."
Clerambault looked up and saw on the other side of the couch a tall young man full of health and strength, who seemed to be about the same age as Edmé, who smiled and said to Clerambault: "My friend Chastenay has enough vitality to lend me some and to spare." "If that were only literally true," said the other, and the two friends exchanged an affectionate glance.
"Ah," said Chastenay, "it makes one feel ashamed when I think that I am alive and well, that I can reach out my arms to life, that I can run and leap, and draw this blessed air into my lungs...." As he spoke he stretched out his arms, raised his head, and breathed deeply. "I ought to feel remorseful," he added, lowering his voice, "and the worst is that I do not."
"I have been through them and I am going back," said Chastenay, "but there is no merit in that; there is nothing else that I can do. I am not trying to deceive you and pretend that I love to smell powder; you cannot go through three years of war, and still want to run risks and be indifferent to danger, even if you did feel like that in the beginning.
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