Clerambault | Page 2

the press and
the implacable machinery of a centralised government. He who would
be useful to others must first be free himself; for love itself has no
value coming from a slave.
Independent minds and firm characters are what the world needs most
today. The death-like submission of the churches, the stifling
intolerance of nations, the stupid unitarianism of socialists,--by all
these different roads we are returning to the gregarious life. Man has
slowly dragged himself out of the warm slime, but it seems as if the
long effort has exhausted him; he is letting himself slip backward into
the collective mind, and the choking breath of the pit already rises
about him. You who do not believe that the cycle of man is
accomplished, you must rouse yourselves and dare to separate
yourselves from the herd in which you are dragged along. Every man
worthy of the name should learn to stand alone, and do his own
thinking, even in conflict with the whole world. Sincere thought, even
if it does run counter to that of others, is still a service to mankind; for
humanity demands that those who love her should oppose, or if
necessary rebel against her. You will not serve her by flattery, by
debasing your conscience and intelligence, but rather by defending
their integrity from the abuse of power. For these are some of her
voices, and if you betray yourself you betray her also.
R.R.
SIERRE, March, 1917.

PART ONE

Agénor Clerambault sat under an arbour in his garden at St. Prix,
reading to his wife and children an ode that he had just written,
dedicated to Peace, ruler of men and things, "Ara Pacis Augustae." In it
he wished to celebrate the near approach of universal brotherhood. It
was a July evening; a last rosy light lay on the tree-tops, and through
the luminous haze, like a veil over the slopes of the hillside and the
grey plain of the distant city, the windows on Montmartre burned like
sparks of gold. Dinner was just over. Clerambault leaned across the
table where the dishes yet stood, and as he spoke his glance full of
simple pleasure passed from one to the other of his three auditors, sure
of meeting the reflection of his own happiness.
His wife Pauline followed the flight of his thought with difficulty. After
the third phrase anything read aloud made her feel drowsy, and the
affairs of her household took on an absurd importance; one might say
that the voice of the reader made them chirp like birds in a cage. It was
in vain that she tried to follow on Clerambault's lips, and even to
imitate with her own, the words whose meaning she no longer
understood; her eye mechanically noted a hole in the cloth, her fingers
picked at the crumbs on the table, her mind flew back to a troublesome
bill, till as her husband's eye seemed to catch her in the act, hastily
snatching at the last words she had heard, she went into raptures over a
fragment of verse,--for she could never quote poetry accurately. "What
was that, Agénor? Do repeat that last line. How beautiful it is." Little
Rose, her daughter, frowned, and Maxime, the grown son, was annoyed
and said impatiently: "You are always interrupting, Mamma!"
Clerambault smiled and patted his wife's hand affectionately. He had
married her for love when he was young, poor, and unknown, and
together they had gone through years of hardship. She was not quite on
his intellectual level and the difference did not diminish with advancing
years, but Clerambault loved and respected his helpmate, and she
strove, without much success, to keep step with her great man of whom
she was so proud. He was extraordinarily indulgent to her. His was not
a critical nature--which was a great help to him in life in spite of
innumerable errors of judgment; but as these were always to the
advantage of others, whom he saw at their best, people laughed but

liked him. He did not interfere with their money hunt and his
countrified simplicity was refreshing to the world-weary, like a
wild-growing thicket in a city square.
Maxime was amused by all this, knowing what it was worth. He was a
good-looking boy of nineteen with bright laughing eyes, and in the
Parisian surroundings he had been quick to acquire the gift of rapid,
humorous observation, dwelling on the outside view of men and things
more than on ideas. Even in those he loved, nothing ridiculous escaped
him, but it was without ill-nature. Clerambault smiled at the youthful
impertinence which did not diminish Maxime's admiration for his
father but rather added to its flavour. A boy in Paris would tweak the
Good Lord by the beard, by way of