nce more I.
From this time onward Clerambault began to see men, not with the eyes
in his head, but with his heart;--no longer with ideas of pacifism,
or Tolstoïsm _(another folly)_, but by seizing the thoughts of his
fellows and putting himself in their place. He began to discover
afresh the people around him, even those who had been most hostile to
him, the intellectuals, and the politicians; and he saw plainly their
wrinkles, their white hair, the bitter lines about their mouths, their
bent backs, their shaky legs.... Overwrought, nervous, ready to break
down,... how much they had aged in six months! The excitement of the
fight had kept them up at first; but as it went on and, no matter what
the issue, the ruin became plain; each one had his griefs, and
each feared to lose the little--but that little, infinitely
precious--remained to him. They tried to hide their agony, and
clenched their teeth, but all suffered. Doubt had begun to undermine
the most confident, "Hush, not a word! it will kill me if you speak of
it." ...Clerambault, full of pity, thought of Madame Mairet; he must
hold his tongue in future;--but it was too late, they all knew now
what he thought, and he was a living negation and remorse to them.
Many hated him, but Clerambault no longer resented it; he was almost
ready to help them to restore their lost illusions.
These souls were full of a passionate faith which they felt to be threatened; and this lent them a quality of tragic, pitiable greatness. With the politicians this was complicated by the absurd trappings of theatrical declamation; with the intellectuals by the obstinacy of mania; but in spite of all, the wounds were visible, you could hear the cry
