The sight of this world in a fever-fit would have filled a sage with
the desire to withdraw until the attack was over; but Clerambault was
not a sage. He knew this, and he also knew that it was vain to
speak; but none the less he felt that he must, that he should end by
speaking. He wished to delay the dangerous moment, and his timidity,
which shrank from single combat with the world, sought about him for a
companion in thought. The fight would not be so hard if there were two
or three together.
The first whose feeling he cautiously sounded were some unfortunate people who, like him, had lost a son. The father, a well-known painter, had a studio in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs. His name was Omer Calville and the Clerambaults were neighbourly with him and his wife, a nice old couple of the middle class, devoted to each other. They had that gentleness, common to many artists of their day, who had known Carrière, and caught remote reflections of Tolstoïsm, which, like their simplicity, appeared a little artificial, for though it harmonised with their real goodness of heart, the fashion of the time had added a touch of exaggeration.
Those artists who sincerely profess their religious respect for all that lives, are less capable than anyone else of understanding the passions of war. The Calvilles had held themselves outside the struggle; they did not protest, they accepted it, without acquiescing, as one accepts sickness, death, or the wickedness of men, with a dignified sadness.
When Clerambault read them his burning poems they listened politely and made little response--but strangely enough, at the very time that Clerambault, cured of his
