Though the hearing was set for one o'clock, and it was now barely
twelve, Clerambault wanted to start at once, he was so afraid of being
late.
They had not far to go, and indeed his friends had no need to protect him against the rabble which hung about the Palais de Justice, a crowd which in any case was considerably thinned out by the morning's news. There were only a few curs, more noisy than dangerous, who might have snapped at their heels.
They had reached the corner of the Rue Vaugirard and the Rue d'Assas, when Clerambault, finding that he had forgotten an important paper, went back to look for it in his apartment; the others stood there waiting for him. They saw him come out and cross the street. On the opposite sidewalk, near a cab-stand, was a well-dressed man of about his own age, grey-haired, not very tall, and rather stout. They saw this person go up to Clerambault--it all passed so quickly that they had no time even to cry out. There was a brief exchange of words, an arm raised, a shot!--they saw him totter, and ran up. Too late.
They laid him down on a bench; a little crowd gathered, more curious than shocked (people had seen so many things of this kind), looking over each ether's shoulders:
"Who is it?"
"A defeatist."
"Serve him right, then I The dirty beasts have done us harm enough!"
"I don't know, there are worse things than to want the war to be over."
"There is only one way to finish it; we must f
