The
remembrance of the errors in which his mind had delighted, and the
half-truths on which it had fed made him humble; he doubted his own
strength, and wished to advance step by step. He was ready to welcome
the advice of those wiser than himself. He remembered how Perrotin
listened to his former confidences with a sarcastic reserve that
irritated him at the time, but which now attracted him. His first
visit of convalescence was to this wise old friend.
Perrotin was rather short-sighted and selfish, and did not take the
trouble to look carefully at things that were not necessary to him,
being a closer observer of books than of faces, but he was none the
less struck by the alteration in Clerambault's expression.
"My dear friend," said he, "have you been ill?"
"Yes, ill enough," answered Clerambault, "but I have pulled myself
together again, and am better now."
"It is the cruelest blow of all," said Perrotin, "to lose at our age,
such a friend as your poor boy was to you ..."
"The most cruel is not his loss," said the father, "it is that I
contributed to his death."
"What do you mean, my good friend?" said Perrotin in surprise. "How
can you imagine such things to add to your trouble?"
"It was I who shut his eyes," said Clerambault bitterly, "and he has
opened mine.
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