In a man of thought there is a wide interval between the word and the
deed. Even when a thing is decided upon, he finds pretexts for putting
it off to another day, for he sees only too clearly what will follow;
what pains and troubles. And to what end? In order to calm his
restless soul he pours out a flood of energetic language on his
intimate friends, or to himself alone, and in this way gains the
illusion of action cheaply enough. In the bottom of his heart he does
not believe in it, but like Hamlet, he waits till circumstances shall
force his hand.
Clerambault was brave enough when he was talking to the indulgent Perrotin, but he had scarcely got home when he was seized again by his hesitations. Sharpened by his sorrow, his sensitiveness anticipated the emotions of those around him; he imagined the discord that his words would cause between himself and his wife, and worse, without exactly knowing why, he was not sure of his daughter's sympathy, and shrank from the trial. The risk was too great for an affectionate heart like his.
Matters stood thus, when a doctor of his acquaintance wrote that he had a man dangerously wounded in his hospital who had been in the great Champagne offensive, and had known Maxime. Clerambault went at once to see him.
On the bed he saw a man who might have been of any age. He lay still on his back, swathed like a mummy, his thin peasant-face all wrinkled and brown, with the big nose and grey beard emerging from the white bandages. Outside the sheet you could see his right hand, rough and work-worn; a joint of the middle-finger was missing--but that did not matter, it was a peace injury. His eyes looked
