"Answer? But what can I say?"
"The first thing, of course, is to deny it as a base invention."
"But it is not an invention," said Clerambault, looking Camus in the face. It was the turn of the latter to look as if he had been struck by lightning.
"You say it is not,--not?" he stammered.
"I wrote the pamphlet," said Clerambault, "but the meaning has been distorted by this article."
Camus could not wait for the end of the sentence, but began to howl: "You wrote a thing like that!... You, a man like you!"
Clerambault tried to calm his brother-in-law, begging him not to judge until he knew all; but Camus would do nothing but shout, calling him crazy, and screaming: "I don't know anything about all that. Have you written against the war, or the country. Yes, or no?"
"I wrote that war is a crime, and that all countries are stained by it...."
Without allowing Clerambault to explain himself farther, Camus sprang at him, as if he meant to shake him by the collar; but restraining himself, he hissed in his face that he was the criminal, and deserved to be tried by court-martial at once.
The raised voices brought the servant to listen at the door, and Madame Clerambault ran in, trying to appease her brother, in a high key. Clerambault volunteered to read the obnoxious pamphlet to Camus, but in vain, as he refused furiously, declaring that the papers had told him all he wanted to know about such filth. (He said all papers were liars, but acted on their falsehoods, none the less.) Then, in a magisterial tone, he called on Clerambault to sit down and write on the spot a public recantation. Clerambault shrugged his shoulders, saying that he was accountable to nothing but his own conscience--that he was free.
