him, even though they are his dearest, for they are pressed too close against him.  There is no time; no perspective.  We feel only that our bodies are crushed together, closely entwined by our common destiny, and tossed on the muddy torrent of multitudinous existence.  Clerambault felt that he had not seen his son in any real sense until after his death; and the brief hour in which he and Rosine had recognised each other was one in which the bonds of a baleful delusion had been broken by the force of suffering.

Now that by means of successive eliminations, he had arrived at solitude, he felt withdrawn from the passions of the living, but they stood out all the more to him in a kind of lucid intimacy.  All, not only his wife and children, but the millions of beings whom he had thought to embrace in an oratorical affection; they all painted themselves on the dark background.  On the sombre river of destiny which sweeps humanity away, and which he had confounded with it, appeared millions of struggling living fragments—­men; and each had his own personality, each was a whole world of joy and sorrow, dreams and efforts and each was I. I bend over him and it is myself I see; “I,” say the eyes, and the heart repeats “I.”  My brothers, at last I understand you, for your faults are also mine, even to the fury with which you pursue me; I recognise that also, for it is once more I.

From this time onward Clerambault began to see men, not with the eyes in his head, but with his heart;—­no longer with ideas of pacifism, or Tolstoism (another folly), but by seizing the thoughts of his fellows and putting himself in their place.  He began to discover afresh the people around him, even those who had been most hostile to him, the intellectuals, and the politicians; and he saw plainly their wrinkles, their white hair, the bitter lines about their mouths, their bent backs, their shaky legs....  Overwrought, nervous, ready to break down,... how much they had aged in six months!  The excitement of the fight had kept them up at first; but as it went on and, no matter what the issue, the ruin became plain; each one had his griefs, and each feared to lose the little—­but that little, infinitely precious—­remained to him.  They tried to hide their agony, and clenched their teeth, but all suffered.  Doubt had begun to undermine the most confident, “Hush, not a word! it will kill me if you speak of it.” ...Clerambault, full of pity, thought of Madame Mairet; he must hold his tongue in future;—­but it was too late, they all knew now what he thought, and he was a living negation and remorse to them.  Many hated him, but Clerambault no longer resented it; he was almost ready to help them to restore their lost illusions.

These souls were full of a passionate faith which they felt to be threatened; and this lent them a quality of tragic, pitiable greatness.  With the politicians this was complicated by the absurd trappings of theatrical declamation; with the intellectuals by the obstinacy of mania; but in spite of all, the wounds were visible, you could hear the cry of the heart that clings to belief, that calls for an heroic delusion.