him. They tried to hide their agony, and
clenched their teeth, but all suffered. Doubt had begun to undermine
the most confident, "Hush, not a word! it will kill me if you speak of
it." ...Clerambault, full of pity, thought of Madame Mairet; he must
hold his tongue in future;--but it was too late, they all knew now
what he thought, and he was a living negation and remorse to them.
Many hated him, but Clerambault no longer resented it; he was almost
ready to help them to restore their lost illusions.

These souls were full of a passionate faith which they felt to
be threatened; and this lent them a quality of tragic, pitiable
greatness. With the politicians this was complicated by the absurd
trappings of theatrical declamation; with the intellectuals by the
obstinacy of mania; but in spite of all, the wounds were visible, you
could hear the cry of the heart that clings to belief, that calls for
an heroic delusion.

This faith was very touching in some young and simple people; no
declamations, no pretensions to knowledge; only the desperate clinging
of a devotion which has given all, and in return asks for one word
only: "It is true ... Thou, my beloved, my Country, power divine,
still livest, to whom I have offered up my life, and all that I
loved!"--One could kneel before those poor little black gowns, before
those mothers, wives and sisters; one longed to kiss the thin hands
that trembled with the hope and fear of the hereafter, and say: "Mourn
not,--for ye shall be comforted."

What consolation can one offer, when one does not believe in the ideal
for which they lived, and which is killing them?--The long-sought
answer finally came to Clerambault, almost unconsciously: "You must
care for men more than for illusion, or even for truth."

Clerambault's warm feelings were not reciprocated; and he was more
attacked than ever, though for some months he had published nothing.
In the autumn of 1917 the anger against him had risen to an unheard-of
height. The disproportion was really laughable between this rage and
the feeble words of one man, but it was so all over the world. A dozen
or so weak pacifists, alone, surrounded, without means of being heard
through any paper of standing, spoke honestly but not loudly, and this
let loose a perfect frenzy of insults and threats. At the slightest
contradiction the monster Opinion fell into an epileptic fit.

The prudent Perrotin who, as a rule, was surprised at nothing, kept
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