The excitement ran so high that Clerambault, an affectionate,
tender father, generally most anxious for those he loved, was actually
afraid that his son had not got back in time for "The Dance." He
wanted him to be there, his eager wishes pushed, thrust him into the
abyss, making this sacrifice, disposing of his son and of his life,
without asking if he himself agreed. He and his had ceased to belong
to themselves. He could not conceive that it should be otherwise with
any of them. The obscure will of the ant-heap had eaten him up.
Sometimes taken unawares, the remains of his self-analytical habit of
mind would appear; like a sensitive nerve that is touched,--a dull
blow, a quiver of pain, it is gone, and we forget it.
At the end of three weeks the exhausted offensive was still pawing the
ground of the same blood-soaked kilometres, and the newspapers began
to distract public attention, putting it on a fresh scent. Nothing had
been heard from Maxime since he left. They sought for the ordinary
reasons for delay which the mind furnishes readily but the heart
cannot accept. Another week went by. Among themselves each of the
three pretended to be confident, but at night, each one alone in his
room, the heart cried out in agony, and the whole day long the ear was
strained to catch every step on the stair, the nerves stretched to the
breaking point at a ring of the bell, or the touch of a hand passing
the door.
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