Clerambault hid his face in his hands with a groan.

"What is the matter?" said Moreau, "are you ill?"

"You remind me of all the harm that I did."

"You? No, it was other people that did the harm."

"Yes, I, as much as the others. You must try to forgive us all."

"You are the last who ought to say so."

"If the truth were known, I should be among the first. For I am one of
the few who see clearly how wicked I was." He began to inveigh against
his generation, but broke off with a discouraged gesture:

"None of that does any good.... Tell me about yourself."

His voice was so humble that Moreau was really touched to see the
older man blame himself so severely. All his distrust melted away, and
he threw wide the door of his bitter, wounded spirit, confessing that
he had come several times as far as the house, but could not make up
his mind to leave his letter. He never did consent to show it. Since
he came out of the hospital he had not been able to talk to anyone;
these people back here sickened him with their little preoccupations,
their business, their pleasures, the restrictions to their pleasures,
their selfishness, their ignorance and lack of comprehension. He felt
like a stranger among them, more than if he were with African
savages. Besides,--he stopped, the angry words seemed to stick in his
throat--it was not only these people--he felt a stranger to all the
world, cut off from normal life, from the pleasures and work of other
men by his infirmities. He was a mere wreck, blind and maimed. The
poor fellow was absurdly ashamed of it; he blushed at the pitying
glances that people threw at him in passing--like a penny that you
give, turning away your head at the same time from the unpleasant
sight. For in his sensitiveness he exaggerated his ugliness and was
disgusted by his deformity. He dwelt on his lost joys and ruined
youth; when he saw couples in the street, he could not help feeling
jealous; the tears would come into his eyes.

Even this was not all, and when he had poured out the bitterness
of his heart--and Clerambault's compassion encouraged him to speak
further--he got down to the worst of the trouble, which he and his
comrades felt like a cancer that one does not dare to look at. Through
his obscure, violent, and miserable talk, Clerambault at last made out
what it was that tore the hearts of these young men. It is easy enough
for dried-up egotists, withered intellectuals, to sneer at this love