ink and act together; so that each one of these spiritual
families, or families-in-law, which we call nations, comprises
elements which in fact form part of different groups, past, present,
or future. Since these cannot be destroyed, they are oppressed; they
can escape destruction only by some subterfuge, apparent submission,
inward rebellion, or flight and voluntary exile. They are _Heimatlos_.
To reproach them for lack of patriotism is to blame Irishmen and Poles
for their resistance to English and Prussian absorption. No matter
where they are, men remain loyal to their true country. You who
pretend that the object of this war is to give the right of
self-determination to all peoples, when will you restore this right to
the great Republic of free souls dispersed over the whole world?

However cut off from the world, Clerambault knew that this Republic
existed. Like the Rome of Sertorius, it dwelt in him, and though they
may be unknown each to the other, it dwells in every man to whom it is
the true Country.

The wall of silence which surrounded Clerambault's words fell all at
once. But it was not a friendly voice which answered his. It seemed
rather as if stupidity and blind hatred had made a breach where
sympathy had been too weak to find a way.

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?"

Clerambault was dismayed to find himself stabbed by what he had
believed to be a friendly hand. A well-known writer, a colleague of
Perrotin's, a serious honourable man, and one always on good terms
with him, had denounced him publicly and without hesitation. Though he
had known Clerambault long enough to have no doubt as to the purity
of his intentions, he held him up as a man dishonoured. An historian,
well used to the manipulation of text, he seized upon detached phrases
of Clerambault's pamphlet and brandished them as an act of treason. A
personal letter would not have satisfied his virtuous indignation; he
chose a loud "yellow journal," a laboratory of blackmail despised by a
million Frenchmen, who nevertheless swallowed all its humbug with open
mouths.

"I can't believe it," stammered Clera