... But when he looked
at the fragment of a man before him, his heart was pierced with an
infinite pity. What could this wretched man do, symbol as he was, of
the mutilated, sacrificed people? For so many centuries he has bled
and suffered under our eyes, while we, his more fortunate brothers,
have only encouraged him to persevere, throwing him some careless word
of praise from a distance, which cost us nothing. What help have we
ever given him? Nothing at all in action, and little enough in words.
We owe to his sacrifices the leisure to think; but all the fruit of
our thought we have kept for ourselves; we have not given him a taste
of it. We are afraid of the light, of impudent opinion and the rulers
of the hour who call to us saying: "Put it out! You who have the
Light, hide it, if you wish to be pardoned...." Oh, let us be cowards
no more. For who will speak, if we do not? The others are gagged and
must die without a word.
A wave of pain passed over the features of the wounded man. With eyes
fixed on the ceiling, his big mouth twisted, his teeth obstinately
clenched, he could say no more.--Clerambault went away, his mind was
made up. The silence of this soldier on his bed of agony had brought
him to a decision. He would speak.
PART THREE
Clerambault came back from the hospital, shut himself into his room,
and began to write.
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