“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 kindled and go out before it burns steadily.  Every Christ, every God is tried in advance through a series of forerunners; they are everywhere, lost in space, lost in the ages; but though widely-separated, all of these lonely souls see the same luminous point on the horizon—­the glance of the Saviour—­who is coming.”

“He is already come,” said Froment.

When they separated, with a deep mutual feeling, but in silence,—­for they feared to break the religious charm which held them,—­each found himself alone in the dark street, but in each was the memory of a vision which they could hardly understand.  The curtain had fallen; but they could never forget that they had seen it rise.

A few days after, Clerambault, who had been again summoned before the magistrate, came home splashed with mud from head to foot.  His hat which he held in his hand, was a mere rag, and his hair was soaking.  The woman, who opened the door, exclaimed at the sight of him, but he signed to her to keep still, and went into his room.  Rosine was away, so the husband and wife were alone in the flat, where they only met at meals, saying as little to each other as possible.  However, hearing the exclamation of the servant, Madame Clerambault feared some new misfortune and went to look for her husband.  She too cried out when she saw him: 

“Good Lord! what have you been doing now?”

“I slipped and fell,” said he, trying to wipe off the traces of the accident.

“You fell?—­turn round.  What a state you are in!...  One can’t have a moment’s peace when you are around....  You never look where you are going.  There is mud up to your eyelids ... all over your face!”

“Yes, I must have struck myself there....”

“What unlucky people we are!... you ‘think’ that you struck your cheek?... you tripped and fell?...”  And looking him in the face, she cried: 

“It isn’t true!...

“I did fall, I assure you....”

“No, I know it is not true ... tell me,... someone struck you ...?” He did not answer.  “They struck you, the brutes.  My poor husband, to think that anyone should strike you!...  And you so good, who never did harm to anyone in your life!  How can people be so wicked?” and she burst into tears as she threw her arms around him.

“My dear girl,” said he, much touched.  “It is not worth all these tears.  See, you are getting all muddy, you ought not to touch me.”