The God to whom she prayed did not give ear; for it was on the head of
this young girl that he poured the sweet sleep of forgetfulness; but
Clerambault had to climb his Calvary to the end.
Alone in his room, the lamp put out, in darkness, Clerambault looked
within himself. He was determined to pierce to the bottom of his
timid, lying soul which tried to hide itself. On his head he could
still feel the coolness of his daughter's hand, which had effaced all
his hesitation.
He would face this monster Truth, though he were torn by its claws
which never relax, once they have taken hold.
With a firm hand, in spite of his anguish, he began to tear off in
bleeding fragments the covering of mortal prejudices, passions, and
ideas foreign to his real nature, which clung to him.
First came the thick fleece of the thousand-headed beast, the
collective soul of the herd. He had hidden under it from fear and
weariness. It is hot and stifling, a dirty feather-bed; but once
wrapped in it, one cannot move to throw it off, or even wish to do so;
there is no need to will, or to think; one is sheltered from cold,
from responsibilities. Laziness, cowardice!... Come, away with it!...
Let the chilly wind blow through the rents. You shrink at first, but
already this breath has shaken the torpor; the enfeebled energy begins
to stagger to its feet.
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