She had gone knowing that; this meant that it pleased her that Marius should die.
And then, it was clear that she no longer loved him, since she had departed thus without warning, without a word, without a letter, although she knew his address!
What was the good of living, and why should he live now?
And then, what! should he retreat after going so far? should he flee from danger after having approached it? should he slip away after having come and peeped into the barricade? slip away, all in a tremble, saying:
“After all, I have had enough of it as it is. I have seen it, that suffices, this is civil war, and I shall take my leave!”
Should he abandon his friends who were expecting him?
Who were in need of him possibly! who were a mere handful against an army!
Should he be untrue at once to his love, to country, to his word?
Should he give to his cowardice the pretext of patriotism?
But this was impossible, and if the phantom of his father was there in the gloom, and beheld him retreating, he would beat him on the loins with the flat of his sword, and shout to him:
“March on, you poltroon!”
Thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts, he dropped his head.
All at once he raised it.
A sort of splendid rectification had just been effected in his mind.
There is a widening of the sphere of thought which is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave; it makes one see clearly to be near death.
The vision of the action into which he felt that he was, perhaps, on the point of entering, appeared to him no more as lamentable, but as superb.
The war of the street was suddenly transfigured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul, before the eye of his thought.
All the tumultuous interrogation points of reverie recurred to him in throngs, but without troubling him.
He left none of them unanswered.
Let us see, why should his father be indignant?
Are there not cases where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty?
What was there that was degrading for the son of Colonel Pontmercy in the combat which was about to begin?
It is no longer Montmirail nor Champaubert; it is something quite different.
The question is no longer one of sacred territory,—but of a holy idea.
The country wails, that may be, but humanity applauds.
But is it true that the country does wail?
France bleeds, but liberty smiles; and in the presence of liberty’s smile, France forgets her wound.
And then if we look at things from a still more lofty point of view, why do we speak of civil war?
Civil war—what does that mean?
Is there a foreign war?
Is not all war between men, war between brothers?
War is qualified only by its object.
There is no such thing as foreign or civil war; there is only just and unjust war.
Until that day when the grand human agreement is concluded, war, that at least which is the effort of the future, which is hastening on against the past, which is lagging in the rear, may be necessary.
What have we to reproach that war with?
War does not become a disgrace, the sword does not become a disgrace, except when it is used for assassinating the right, progress, reason, civilization, truth.
Then war, whether foreign or civil, is iniquitous; it is called crime.
Outside the pale of that holy thing, justice, by what right does one form of man despise another?
By what right should the sword of Washington disown the pike of Camille Desmoulins?
Leonidas against the stranger, Timoleon against the tyrant, which is the greater? the one is the defender, the other the liberator.
Shall we brand every appeal to arms within a city’s limits without taking the object into a consideration?
Then note the infamy of Brutus, Marcel, Arnould von Blankenheim, Coligny, Hedgerow war?
War of the streets?
Why not?
That was the war of Ambiorix, of Artevelde, of Marnix, of Pelagius.
But Ambiorix fought against Rome, Artevelde against France, Marnix against Spain, Pelagius against the Moors; all against the foreigner.
Well, the monarchy is a foreigner; oppression is a stranger; the right divine is a stranger.
Despotism violates the moral frontier, an invasion violates the geographical frontier.
Driving out the tyrant or driving out the English, in both cases, regaining possession of one’s own territory.
There comes an hour when protestation no longer suffices; after philosophy, action is required; live force finishes what the idea has sketched out; Prometheus chained begins, Arostogeiton ends; the encyclopedia enlightens souls, the 10th of August electrifies them.