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Updated: June 7, 2025
This proud individualism, stated by Froment with burning eloquence, was a support to Clerambault's mind, prone to waver, and undecided from good-nature, self-distrust, and the wish to understand others. Froment rendered Clerambault another important service.
As if their sufferings were a mockery! Clerambault's writings found an echo in their hearts; not that he understood them, no one could understand who had not shared their hardships. But he pitied them, and spoke humanely of the unfortunates in all camps. He dared to speak of the injustices, common to all nations, which had led to the general suffering.
His son was killed, like Clerambault's son, and the sons of millions of other fathers, for the faith and the ideals of those fathers in which they did not believe. Vaucoux had none of Clerambault's doubts; he did not know the meaning of the word, and if he could have permitted himself such a feeling he would have despised the idea.
Several weeks had passed and Clerambault was thinking of a new publication, when, one morning, Leo Camus burst noisily into his room. He was blue with rage, as with the most tragic expression he held up a newspaper before Clerambault's eyes: "Read that!" he commanded, and standing behind his brother-in-law as he read, he went on: "What does the beastly thing mean?"
Suppose a child carelessly pulls off the wing of an insect; it is only a piece of nervous awkwardness, but the insect is done for, and the child ashamed and irritated, tears the poor creature to pieces to relieve his own feelings. The pleasure with which he listened to Clerambault's mea culpa may be imagined; but the effect was surprising.
People said they made out that well, he had heard severe things about them; he knew people were often unjust, but he had come here he pressed Clerambault's hand in a timid friendly way he had come to entreat him not to desert all those who loved him.
This abdication, this passion, represented the true enemy in Clerambault's eyes. And it was his task, he thought, to break down its great suggestive power by awakening doubt, the spirit that eats away all chains. The chief seat of the disease was the idea of Nation; this inflamed point could not be touched without howls from the beast. Clerambault attacked it at once, without gloves.
This lack of response stifled Clerambault's words; impressionable as he was, he could no longer hear himself. All was silence; he had friends unknown, and at a distance, who tried to communicate with him, but their voices were intercepted by postal spies one of the disgraces of our time.
The war had broken through the thin disguise, and Clerambault saw the cruel beast without the mantle of feline courtesy in which civilisation drapes itself. Among Clerambault's former friends, the most tolerant were those belonging to the political world. Deputies, Ministers, past or future; accustomed to drive the human flock, they know just what it is worth.
The reconciliation of the nations and the triumph of Clerambault's ideas would follow shortly. He advised them not to deceive themselves too much, and amused himself by describing what would happen when peace was signed; for peace would have to come some day. "I am going to pretend," said he, "that I am hovering over the town like the devil on two sticks the first night after the armistice.
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