Clerambault related to him all that he had done, and the result. He
realised that the world around served other gods than his; for he had
shared the same faith, and even now was impartial enough to see a
certain grandeur and beauty in it. Since these last trials, however,
he had also seen its horror and absurdity; he had abandoned it for a
new ideal, which would certainly bring him into conflict with the old.
With brief and passionate touches, Clerambault explained this new
ideal, and called on Perrotin to say if to him it seemed true or
false; entreating his friend to lay aside considerations of tact or
politeness, to speak clearly and frankly. Struck by Clerambault's
tragic earnestness, Perrotin changed his tone, and answered in the
same key.
"It amounts to this, that you think I am wrong?" asked Clerambault,
distressed. "I see that I am alone in this, but I cannot help it. Do
not try to spare me now, but tell me, am I wrong to think as I do?"
"No, my friend," replied Perrotin gravely, "you are right."
"Then you agree that I ought to fight against these murderous
mistakes?"
"Ah, that is another matter."
"Ought I to betray the truth, when it is clear to me?"
"Truth, my poor friend! No, don't look at me like that, I shall not
follow Pilate's example, and ask: What is Truth? Like you, and longer
than you perhaps, I have loved her.
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