Maxime went
out on the porch and smoked, leaning on the railing and looking down
on the sleeping garden and the fairy-like play of the light and
shadows on the path.
The telephone bell made them start. Someone was calling Clerambault,
who went slowly to answer, half-asleep and absent so that at first he
did not understand; "Hullo! is that you, old man?" as he recognised
the voice of a brother-author in Paris, telephoning him from a
newspaper office. Still he could not seem to understand; "I don't
hear,--Jaures? What about Jaures?...Oh, my God!" Maxime full of a
secret apprehension had listened from a distance; he ran and caught
the receiver from his father's hand, as Clerambault let it drop with
a despairing gesture. "Hullo, Hullo! What do you say? Jaures
assassinated!..." As exclamations of pain and anger crossed each other
on the wire, Maxime made out the details, which he repeated to his
family in a trembling voice. Rosine had led Clerambault back to the
table, where he sat down completely crushed. Like the classic Fate,
the shadow of a terrible misfortune settled over the house. It was
not only the loss of his friend that chilled his heart,--the kind gay
face, the cordial hand, the voice which drove away the clouds,--but
the loss of the last hope of the threatened people.
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