They had reached the corner of the Rue Vaugirard and the Rue d’Assas, when Clerambault, finding that he had forgotten an important paper, went back to look for it in his apartment; the others stood there waiting for him.  They saw him come out and cross the street.  On the opposite sidewalk, near a cab-stand, was a well-dressed man of about his own age, grey-haired, not very tall, and rather stout.  They saw this person go up to Clerambault—­it all passed so quickly that they had no time even to cry out.  There was a brief exchange of words, an arm raised, a shot!—­they saw him totter, and ran up.  Too late.

They laid him down on a bench; a little crowd gathered, more curious than shocked (people had seen so many things of this kind), looking over each ether’s shoulders: 

“Who is it?”

“A defeatist.”

“Serve him right, then I The dirty beasts have done us harm enough!”

“I don’t know, there are worse things than to want the war to be over.”

“There is only one way to finish it; we must fight it out.  It is the pacifists’ fault that it has dragged on so long.”

“You might almost say that they were the cause of it; the boches counted on them.  Without those fools there wouldn’t have been any war.”  Clerambault lying there half-unconscious, thought of the old woman who threw her fagot on the wood stacked around John Huss ... Sancta simplicitas.

Vaucoux had not attempted to get away, but let them take the revolver out of his hand without resistance.  They held his arms fast, and he stood looking at his victim, whose eyes met his; each thought of his son.

Moreau, much excited, spoke threateningly to Vaucoux; who, like an impassive image of hatred, only answered briefly:  “I have killed the Adversary, the Enemy.”

A faint smile hovered on Clerambault’s lips as he looked at Vaucoux.  “My poor friend,” he thought, “It is within you yourself that the Enemy lies,”—­his eyes closed ... centuries seemed to pass....  “There are no enemies....” and Clerambault entered into the peace of the worlds to come.

Seeing that he had lost consciousness, his friends carried him into Froment’s house which was close by; but he was dead before they reached it.

They laid him on a bed, in a room beside that in which the young paralytic lay with his friends now gathered round him.  The door remained open.  The spirit of the dead man seemed near them.

Moreau spoke bitterly of the absurdity of this murder; why not strike one of the great pirates of the triumphant reaction, or a recognised head of the revolutionary group?  Why choose this inoffensive, unbiassed man, who was kind to everyone, and almost too comprehending to all sides?