Six days later ... Clerambault had spent the afternoon in the woods,
and like the monk in the legend, lying under an oak tree, drinking in
the song of a lark, a hundred years might have gone by him like a day.
He could not tear himself away till night-fall. Maxime met him in the
vestibule; he came forward smiling but rather pale, and said: "Well,
Papa, we are in for it this time!" and he told him the news. The
Russian mobilisation, the state of war in Germany;--Clerambault stared
at him unable to comprehend, his thoughts were so far removed from
these dark follies. He tried to dispute the facts, but the news was
explicit, and so they went to the table, where Clerambault could eat
but little.
He sought for reasons why these two crimes should lead to nothing. Common-sense, public opinion, the prudence of governments, the repeated assurances of the socialists, Jaurès' firm stand;--Maxime let him talk, he was thinking of other things,--like his dog with his ears pricked up for the sounds of the night ...Such a pure lovely night! Those who recall the last evenings of July, 1914, and the even more beautiful evening of the first day of August, must keep in their minds the wonderful splendour of Nature, as with a smile of pity she stretched out her arms to the degraded, self-devouring human race.
It was nearly ten o'clock when Clerambault ceased to talk, for no one had answered him. They sat then in silence with heavy hearts, listlessly occupied or seeming to be, the women with their work, Clerambault with his eyes, but not his mind, on a book. Maxime went out on the porch and smoked, leaning on the railing and looking down
