"Why do you say that?" asked the Count de Coulanges.
"Because I see _Him_ plainly."
"I can see _Him_ too," said Clerambault.
"Him? Whom do you mean?" asked Doctor Verrier. But before the answer could come, they all knew the word that would be said:
"He who bears the light, the God who will conquer...."
"Are you waiting for a God?" said the old professor. "Do you believe in miracles?"
"We are the miracle, for is it not one that in this world of perpetual violence we have kept a constant faith in the love and the union of men?"
"Christ is expected for centuries," said Coulanges bitterly, "and when He comes, He is neglected, crucified, and then forgotten except by a handful of poor ignorant wretches, good if you like, but narrow. The handful grows larger, and for the space of a man's life, faith is in flower, but afterwards it is spoiled and betrayed by success, by ambitious disciples, by the Church; and so on for centuries ... _Adveniat regnum tuum_ ... Where is the kingdom of God?"
"Within us," said Clerambault, "our trials and our hopes all go to form the eternal Christ. It ought to make us happy to think of the privilege that has been bestowed on us, to shelter in our hearts the new God like the Babe in the manger."
"And what proof have we of His coming?" said the doctor.
"Our existence," said Clerambault.
"Our sufferings," said Froment.
"Our misunderstood faith," said the sculptor.
"The fact alone that we are," went on Clerambault. "We are a living paradox thrown in the face of nature which denies it. A hundred times must the flame be k
