The shadow of the war, however, did pass before his eyes for a moment, the thought of the brutal, useless carnage, the dead son, the missing husband; and as he bent over the child he could not help thinking with a sad smile:
“Why bring children into the world, if it is to butcher them like this? I wonder what will happen to this poor little chap twenty years hence?”
Thoughts like these did not trouble the mother. They could not dim her sunshine. All cares seemed far away. She could see nothing but the “joy that a man was born into the world.”
This man-child is to each mother in turn the incarnation of all the hope of humanity. The sadness and folly of the present day, what do they matter? It is he perhaps who will put an end to them. He is for every mother the miracle, the promised Messiah! …
Just as he was going, Clerambault ventured a word of sympathy as to her husband. She sighed deeply:
“Poor Armand! I’m sure that he was taken prisoner.”
“Have you had any news?” asked Clerambault.
“No, no, but it is more than probable. … I am almost certain. If not, you know, I should have heard. …”
She seemed to brush away the disagreeable thought, as if it were a fly. (Go away! How did it get in here?)
Then she added, the smile coming back into her eyes:
“It will be much better for him, he can rest. I am easier about him there, than when he was in the trenches. …” And then, her mind springing back to her world’s wonder:
“Won’t he be glad when he sees the treasure the good God has sent me?” …
It was when Clerambault stood up to go that she condescended to remember that there were sorrows still in the world. She thought of Maxime’s death, and did drop a word of pretty sympathy. But how clear it was that at bottom she was completely indifferent! Absolutely so … though full of goodwill, which was something 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. …”
This seemed to touch the visitor on a tender point, and he answered: “I can get up well enough,” and turned towards the staircase. Clerambault now understood that besides his other wounds, the heart within him had been wounded to the quick.
They sat down in the fireless study, and like the room, it was some time before the conversation thawed out. All that Clerambault could get out of the man were short stiff answers, not very clear, and given in rather an irritated tone. He learned that his name was Julian Moreau, that he had been a student at the Faculty of Letters, and had just passed three months at Val-de-Grace. He was living alone in Paris, in a room over in the Latin Quarter, though he had a widowed mother and some other relations in Orleans; he did not explain at first why he was not with them.
All at once after a short silence he decided to speak, and in a low voice, hoarse at first, but softening as he went on, he told Clerambault that his articles had been brought into his trench by a man just back from leave, and handed about from one to the other; to him they had been a real blessing. They answered to the cry of his inmost soul: “Thou shalt not lie.” The papers and reviews made him furious; they had the impudence to show the soldier a false picture
