A strange phenomenon now made itself apparent in Clerambault's mind;
he was cast down but strengthened at the same time. He suffered
because he had spoken, and yet he felt that he should speak again,
for he had ceased to belong to himself. His written word held and
constrained him; he was bound by his thought as soon as it was
published. "That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the
fountain." Born in an hour of mental exaltation, his work prolonged
and reproduced itself in his mind, which would otherwise have fallen
exhausted. An artist's thought is the ray of light from the depths,
the best of himself, the most enduring; it supports his lower nature.
Man, whether he likes it or not, leans on his works and is led by
them. They have an existence outside of his own, and so restore
his lost vigour, recall him to his duty, guide and command him.
Clerambault would have preferred to remain silent, but he wrote once
more.
This time he did not go very far. "Tremble, poor carcass, you know where I am going to drag you," said Turenne to his body before the battle. The carcass of Clerambault was not more courageous, though the conflict to which it was driven was of a humbler sort. It was none the less hard, for he was alone with no army at his back. As he watched by his arms, he was a pitiable spectacle in his own eyes. He saw himself, an ordinary man, of a timid, rather cowardly, disposition, depending greatly on the affection and approval of others. It was terribly painful to break these ties, to meet the hatred of others halfway.... Was he strong enough to resist?... All his doubts came back upon him.... What forced him to spea
