with her. More
surprising still, softened by her new happiness, she had a glimpse
of the tired face and sad heart of the old man. She had a vague
recollection that he had done something foolish, and had trouble in
consequence. And instead of scolding him as he deserved, she forgave
him tacitly, with a magnanimous smile, like a little princess. "Dear
Uncle," she said, with an affectionate if slightly patronising tone:
"you must not worry yourself, it will all come out right.... Give me a
kiss!"

As Clerambault went away he was amused by the consolation he had
received from her whom he had gone to console. He realised how slight
our suffering must appear in the eyes of indifferent Nature. All her
concern is for the bloom of the coming spring. Let the dead leaves
fall now to the ground, the tree will grow all the better and put
forth fresh foliage in due season.... Lovely, beloved Spring!

Those who can never bloom again find you very cruel, gentle Spring!
Those who have lost all that they loved, their hopes, their strength,
their youth--everything that made life worth living to them....

The world was full of mutilated bodies and souls; some bitterly
lamenting their lost happiness, and some, yet more miserable,
sorrowing for what had been denied them, the cup dashed from their
lips, in the full bloom of love, and of their twenty years.

* * * * *

Clerambault came home one evening at the end of January, wet and
chilled through with the fog, after standing at a wood-yard. He had
stood for hours in line waiting his turn in the crowd, and after all
they had been told that there would be no distribution that day. As he
came near the house where he lived he heard his name, and a young man
who was talking to the janitor turned and held out a letter, looking
rather embarrassed as Clerambault came forward. The right sleeve of
his coat was pinned up to the shoulder, and there was a patch over his
right eye; he was pale, and evidently had been laid up for months.
Clerambault spoke pleasantly to him and tried to take the letter, but
the man drew it back quickly, saying that it was of no consequence
now. Clerambault then asked if he would not come up and talk to him
a little while, but the other hesitated, and the poet might have
perceived that he was trying to get away, but not being very quick at
seeing into other people's minds, he said good-naturedly: "My flat is
rather high up...."

T