They all gave contradictory information; one said he was a
prisoner, another had seen him dead, and both the next day admitted
that they had been mistaken.... Oh! tortures! God of vengeance!...
He came back after a fortnight from this Way of the Cross, aged,
broken-down, exhausted.
He found his wife in a paroxysm of frantic grief, which in this
good-natured creature had turned to a furious hatred of the enemy;
she cried out for revenge, and for the first time Clerambault did not
answer. He had not strength enough to hate, he could only suffer.
He shut himself into his room. During that frightful ten days'
pilgrimage he had scarcely looked his thoughts in the face, hypnotised
as he was, day and night by one idea, like a dog on a scent,--faster!
go faster! The slowness of carriages and trains consumed him, and
once, when he had taken a room for the night, he rushed away the same
evening, without stopping to rest. This fever of haste and expectation
devoured everything, and made consecutive thought impossible,--which
was his salvation. Now that the chase was ended, his mind, exhausted
and dying, recovered its powers.
Clerambault knew certainly that Maxime was dead. He had not told his
wife, but had concealed some information that destroyed all hope.
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