Clerambault came back from the hospital, shut himself into his room, and began to write.  His wife tried to come in, to discover what he was doing; it seemed as if the good woman had a suspicion, an intuition, rare with her, which gave her a sort of obscure fear of what her husband might be about to do, but he succeeded in keeping her away until he had finished.  Ordinarily not a line of his was spared to his family; it was a pleasure to his simple-hearted, affectionate vanity, and a duty towards their love also, which none of them would have neglected.  This time, however, he did neglect it, for reasons which he would not admit to himself, for though he was far from imagining the consequences of his act, he was afraid of their objections, he did not feel sure enough to expose himself to them, and so preferred to confront them with the accomplished fact.

His first word was a cry of self-accusation: 

  “FORGIVE US, YE DEAD!”

This public confession began with an inscription; a musical phrase of David’s lament over the body of his son Absalom: 

“Oh!  Absalom my son, my son!”

I had a son whom I loved, and sent to his death.  You Fathers of mourning Europe, millions of fathers, widowed of your sons, enemies or friends, I do not speak for myself only, but for you who are stained with their blood even as I am.  You all speak by the voice of one of you,—­my unhappy voice full of sorrow and repentance.

My son died, for yours, by yours.—­How can I tell?—­like yours.  I laid the blame on the enemy, and on the war, as you must also have done, but I see now that the chief criminal, the one whom I accuse, is myself.  Yes, I am guilty; and that means you, and all of us.  You must listen while I tell you what you know well enough, but do not want to hear.

My son was twenty years old when he fell in this war.  Twenty years I had loved him, protected him from hunger, cold, and sickness; saved him from darkness of mind, ignorance, error, and all the pitfalls that lie in the shadows of life.  But what did I do to defend him against this scourge which was coming upon us?

I was never one of those who compounded with the passions of jealous nationalities.  I loved men, and their future brotherhood was a joy to me.  Why then did I do nothing against the impending danger, against the fever that brooded within us, against the false peace which made ready to kill with a smile on its lips?

I was perhaps afraid to displease others, afraid of enmities; it is true I cared too much to love, above all to be loved.  I feared to lose the good-will of those around me, however feeble and insipid such a feeling may be.  It is a sort of play acted by ourselves and others.  No one is deceived by it, since both sides shrink from the word which might crack the plaster and bring the house about our ears.  There is an inward equivocation which fears to see