ne, where shall I look, or find shelter?... They have taken
everything from me! There is not a free spot on earth or in the mind;
all the sanctuaries of the soul, of art, of science, religion, they
are all violated, all enslaved! I am alone, lost, nothing remains to
me but death!...

* * * * *

When he had torn everything away, there remained nothing but his naked
soul. And for the rest of the night, it could only stand chilled and
shivering. But a spark lived in this spirit that shivered, in this
tiny being lost in the universe like those shapes which the primitive
painters represented coming out of the mouth of the dying. With the
dawn the feeble flame, stifled under so many falsehoods, began to
revive, and was relighted by the first breath of free air; nothing
could again extinguish it.

* * * * *

Upon this agony or parturition of the soul there followed a long sad
day, the repose of a broken spirit, in a great silence with the aching
relief of duty performed.... Clerambault sat with his head against the
back of his armchair, and thought; his body was feverish, his heart
heavy with recollections. The tears fell unnoticed from his eyes,
while out of doors nature awoke sadly to the last days of winter, like
him stripped and bare. But still there trembled a warmth beneath the
icy air, which was to kindle a new fire everywhere.

PART TWO

It was a week before Clerambault could go out again. The terrible
crisis through which he had passed had left him weak but resolved,
and though the exaltation of his despair had quieted down, he was
stoically determined to follow the truth even to the end. The
remembrance of the errors in which his mind had delighted, and the
half-truths on which it had fed made him humble; he doubted his own
strength, and wished to advance step by step. He was ready to welcome
the advice of those wiser than himself. He remembered how Perrotin
listened to his former confidences with a sarcastic reserve that
irritated him at the time, but which now attracted him. His first
visit of convalescence was to this wise old friend.

Perrotin was rather short-sighted and selfish, and did not take the
trouble to look carefully at things that were not necessary to him,
being a closer observer of books than of faces, but he was none the
less struck by the alteration in Clerambault's expression.

"My dear friend," said he, "have you