They showed him a vicious article in the nationalist paper which had been active against Clerambault for weeks, and which was so encouraged by the manifestation of the day that it called on all its friends to renew the attack the next morning. Moreau and Gillot foresaw that there would be trouble when Clerambault went to the Palais, and they had come to beg him to stay in the house. Knowing his timidity, they thought that there would be no difficulty in persuading him to this, but just as it had been the day Moreau had found him disputing in the street, he did not now seem to grasp the situation.
“Stay at home, why? I am perfectly well.”
“We think it would be more prudent.”
“On the contrary, it would do me good to go out for a little while.”
“You don’t know what might happen.”
“As to that one never knows; it will be time enough to worry when it comes.”
“To be perfectly frank then, you are in danger; the feeling has been worked up against you for a long time, till now you are so hated that people’s eyes almost start out of their heads at the sound of your name;—idiots! they know nothing about you but what they see in the papers; but their leaders want a row, they have been so stupid that your articles have had much more publicity than they intended; they are afraid that your ideas will spread, and they want to make an example of you that will discourage anyone who might be disposed to follow you.”
“If that is true,” said Clerambault, “and I really have followers—something I did not know before—this is not the moment to keep out of the way; if they want to make an example of me, I cannot balk them.” This was said in so pleasant a way, that they asked themselves if he really understood.
“You are taking a terrible risk,” persisted Gillot.
“Well, my friend, everyone has to take risks nowadays.”
“It ought, at least, to be of some use—why play into their hands? There is no need to throw yourself into the jaws of the wolves.”
“It seems to me on the contrary, that it might be very useful,” said Clerambault, “and that the wolf would find himself in the wrong box after all; let me explain to you. This will spread our ideas, for violence always consecrates the persecuted cause. They want to intimidate, and so they will. Everyone will be frightened—their own side, all the hesitaters, and timorous folk. Let them be unjust, it will rebound on their own heads.” He seemed to forget that it might also fall on his.
They saw that he had made up his mind, and felt an increased respect for him, but they also felt much more anxious, and this led them to say:
“If that is the case, we will get all our friends together, and go with you.”
“No, no, what a ridiculous idea! … nothing will happen after all.” Seeing that their remonstrances were useless, Moreau made a last attempt: “You can’t keep me from coming with you,” said he. “I am an obstinate man myself, you can’t get rid of me; I will wait for you, if I have to sit on that bench outside your door all night!”
“Go and spend the night in your bed, my dear fellow,” said Clerambault, “and sleep soundly. Come with me in the morning if you like, but it will be time lost; nothing is going to happen;—but kiss me, all the same!” After an affectionate hug, they went towards the door, when Gillot paused a moment: “We must look after you a little, you know,” said he, “we feel as if you were a sort of father to us.”
“So I am,” said Clerambault with his beaming smile; his own boy was in his mind. He closed the door, and stood for some minutes with the lamp in his hand in the vestibule before he realised where he was. It was nearly midnight and he was very tired, but, instead of going into the bedroom, he mechanically turned again towards his study;—the apartment, the house, the street were all asleep. Almost without seeing it, he stared vaguely at the light shining on the frame of an engraving of Rembrandt’s, The Resurrection of Lazarus, which hung on the opposite wall. … A dear figure seemed to enter the room; … it came in silently, and stood beside him.
“Are you satisfied now?” he thought. “Is this what you wished?” And Maxime answered: “Yes,” then added with meaning:
“I have found it very hard to teach you, Papa.”
“Yes,” said Clerambault, “there is much that we can learn from our sons.” And they smiled at each other in the silence.
When Clerambault at last went to bed, his wife was sound asleep. She was one of those people whom nothing can keep awake, who sink into profound slumber as soon as their heads touch the pillow. But Clerambault could not follow her example; he lay on his back with his eyes open, staring into the darkness, all through the rest of the night.
There were pale glimmers from the street in the half-shadow; and a quiet star or two high up in a dark sky; one seemed to be falling in a great half-circle—it was only an airplane keeping watch over the sleeping city. Clerambault followed its sweep with his eyes, and seemed, to fly with it, the distant hum of the human planet coming faintly to his ear, like a strange music of the spheres not foreseen by Ionian sages.
He felt happy,
