This proud individualism, stated by Froment with burning eloquence, was a support to Clerambault’s mind, prone to waver, and undecided from good-nature, self-distrust, and the wish to understand others.

Froment rendered Clerambault another important service.  More in the current of world-thought, and through his family coming in closer contact with foreign thinkers, an accomplished linguist besides, Froment could bring to mind those other men in all nations who, great in their isolation, fought for the right to a free conscience.  It was a consoling spectacle; all the work under the surface of thought suppressed, but struggling towards truth, and the knowledge that the worst tyranny that has crushed the soul of humanity since the Inquisition has failed to stifle the indomitable will to remain free and true.

No doubt these lofty individualities were rare, but their power was all the greater; the fine outline was more striking, seen against the dark horizon.  In the fall of the nations to the foot of the precipice where millions lie in a shapeless mass, their voices seemed to rise with the only human note, and their action gained emphasis from the anger with which it was met.  A century ago Chateaubriand wrote: 

“It is vain to struggle longer; henceforward the only important thing is to be.”

He did not know that “to be” in our time, be oneself, be free, implies the greatest of combats.  Those who are true to themselves dominate through the levelling down of the rest.

Clerambault was not the only one to feel the benefit of of Froment’s energy, for at his bedside he was sure to find some friend who came, perhaps without admitting it, more to get comfort than to bring it.  Two or three of these were young, about Edme’s age, the others, men over fifty, old friends of the family, or those who had known Froment before the war.

One of these had been his professor, an old Hellenist, with a sweet absent smile.  Then there was a grey-haired sculptor, his face ploughed by deep tragic lines; a country gentleman, clean-shaved, red-cheeked, with the massive head of an old peasant; and finally a doctor.  He had a white beard, his face was worn and kind, and you were struck by the strange expression of his eyes; one seemed to look sharply at you, and the other was sad and dreamy.

There was little resemblance between these men who sometimes met at the invalid’s house.  All shades of thought could be found in the group, from the Catholic to the freethinker and the bolshevist—­one of Froment’s young friends professed to be of this opinion.  In them you could find the traces of the most various intellectual ancestry; the ironic Lucian appeared in the old professor; the Count de Coulanges was wont to solace himself in the evenings on his estate with cattle and fertiliser, but also revelled in the gorgeous texture of Froissart’s style, like cloth of gold, and the countrified, juicy talk of that rascal Gondi—­the count certainly