r came that had somehow slipped through the meshes of the net. An old man like himself, a village schoolmaster in a remote valley of Dauphiny wrote thus:
"The war has taken everything from me; of those whom I used to know, some have been killed, and the rest are so altered that I hardly recognise them. They have trampled on all that made life worth having to me; my hope of progress, my faith in a future of brotherly reason.
"I was ready to die in my despair, when a paper in which you were spoken of insultingly, drew my attention to your articles: _To the Dead_ and _To Her Whom We Loved_. I wept with joy as I read them; I am not then left alone to suffer? I am not solitary?--You do believe; then, my dear Sir, tell me that you still have faith in these things. They really exist, and cannot be destroyed? I must tell you how much good it does me to know that; for I had begun to doubt. You must forgive me, but I am old and alone and very weary.... God bless you, Sir! I can die in peace, now that, thanks to you, I know that I have not been deceived."
Instantly it was as if a window had been opened to the air; Clerambault's lungs were filled, his heart beat strongly again, life seemed to be renewed, and to flow once more in a full channel. How deep is the need we have of love from one another!... A hand stretched out in the hour of my agony makes me feel that I am not a branch torn from the tree, but a living part of it; we save each other. I give my strength, which would be nothing if it were not taken. Truth alone is like a spark struck from a stone; dry, harsh, ephemeral. Will it die out? No, for it has kindled another soul, and a new star has risen on the horizon.
