look back, he sees these desires marked with his failures and his
cowardice; the taste is bitter on his tongue, he is ashamed of them
and of himself. Patriotism alone has remained outside, unemployed
but not tarnished, and when it re-awakes it is inviolate. The soul
embraces and lavishes on it the ardour of all the ambitions, the
loves, and the longings, that life has disappointed. A half century of
suppressed fire bursts forth, millions of little cages in the social
prison open their doors. At last! Long enchained instincts stretch
their stiffened limbs, cry out and leap into the open air, as of
right--right, do I say? it is now their duty to press forward all
together like a falling mass. The isolated snow-flakes turned
avalanche.

Camus was carried away, the little bureaucrat found himself part of it
all and without fury or futile violence he felt only a calm strength.
All was "well" with him, well in mind, well in body. He had no more
insomnia, and for the first time in years his stomach gave him no
trouble--because he had forgotten all about it. He even got through
the winter without taking cold--something that had never been heard of
before. He ceased to find fault with everything and everybody, he no
longer railed at all that was done or undone, for now he was filled
with a sacred pity for the entire social body--that body, now his, but
stronger, better, and more beautiful. He felt a fraternal bond with
all those who formed part of it by their close union, like a swarm of
bees hanging from a branch, and envied the younger men who went to
defend it. When Maxime gaily prepared to go, his uncle gazed at him
tenderly, and when the train left carrying away the young men, he
turned and threw his arms round Clerambault, then shook hands with
unknown parents who had come to see their sons off, with tears of
emotion and joy in his eyes. In that moment Camus was ready to give