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Each nation desires the end of wars through its own triumph, and from one such victory to another humanity will go down to its defeat. As Daniel stood up to go he pressed Clerambault's hands and reminded him with much feeling of his poem where, in the heroic words of Beethoven, he exalted the suffering out of which joy is born...." Durch Leiden Freude." He sighed.
He spoke of the ties of admiration, respect and friendship which united him to Clerambault, and alluded discreetly to the hope that he had formed of one day becoming closer yet; but he added that Clerambault had disturbed these dreams of the future by the regrettable position that he had seen fit to adopt in the life and death crisis through which the country was now passing, a position rendered worse by the wide publicity given to Clerambault's words.
His poems appeared in the bourgeois papers, and proved the most striking success of Clerambault's career, for no other work of his had raised such unanimous admiration. A poet is always pleased to have it said that his last work is his best, all the more when he knows that it is inferior to the others.
Alexandre Mignon was a before-the-war pacifist and an old friend of Clerambault's. He was a bourgeois of about his own age, intellectual, a member of the University, and justly respected for the dignity of his life.
Do you remember that Bodhisattva, the Master of Pity, who swore not to become Buddha, never to find freedom in Nirvana, until he had cured all pain, redeemed all crimes, consoled all sorrows?" Perrotin smiled and patted Clerambault's hand affectionately as he looked at his troubled face. "Dear old Bodhisattva," he said, "what do you want to do? And whom would you save?"
On the first page of his paper appeared an article of the utmost virulence; he attacked, not only his ideas, but his character, speaking of Clerambault's tragic struggle with his conscience as an attack of literary megalomania, brought on by undeserved success.
He was accused of pacifist propaganda among the working classes, where it was said that Thouron had distributed Clerambault's writings with the consent of the author; but there was no foundation for this, as Thouron was in a position to testify that Clerambault had no knowledge of such propaganda, and had certainly not authorised it.
Moreau, much excited, spoke threateningly to Vaucoux; who, like an impassive image of hatred, only answered briefly: "I have killed the Adversary, the Enemy." A faint smile hovered on Clerambault's lips as he looked at Vaucoux.
Very few knew Clerambault's works, they scarcely knew his name or the titles of his books, but that no more kept them from disparaging him now than it had hindered them from praising him when he was the fashion. Now, in their eyes, everything that he had written was tainted with "bochism," though all their quotations were inexact.
None of this had escaped the sharp malicious eye of young Bertin; neither Clerambault's absurdities nor the treasures of his mind, and after thinking him over he had decided to make a friend of him. Clerambault's unfeigned admiration had something to do with this decision. For several years they shared the superabundance of their youthful ideas.
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