The wall of silence which surrounded Clerambault's words fell all at
once. But it was not a friendly voice which answered his. It seemed
rather as if stupidity and blind hatred had made a breach where
sympathy had been too weak to find a way.
Several weeks had passed and Clerambault was thinking of a new publication, when, one morning, Leo Camus burst noisily into his room. He was blue with rage, as with the most tragic expression he held up a newspaper before Clerambault's eyes:
"Read that!" he commanded, and standing behind his brother-in-law as he read, he went on:
"What does the beastly thing mean?"
Clerambault was dismayed to find himself stabbed by what he had believed to be a friendly hand. A well-known writer, a colleague of Perrotin's, a serious honourable man, and one always on good terms with him, had denounced him publicly and without hesitation. Though he had known Clerambault long enough to have no doubt as to the purity of his intentions, he held him up as a man dishonoured. An historian, well used to the manipulation of text, he seized upon detached phrases of Clerambault's pamphlet and brandished them as an act of treason. A personal letter would not have satisfied his virtuous indignation; he chose a loud "yellow journal," a laboratory of blackmail despised by a million Frenchmen, who nevertheless swallowed all its humbug with open mouths.
"I can't believe it," stammered Clerambault, who felt helpless before this unexpected hostility.
"There is no time to be lost," declared Camus, "you must answer."
