Before you insult me, poor little author, descend into your own
heart, examine yourself. The gift of speech was given you to guide
your people, and you have used it to deceive yourself and lead them
astray. You have added to their error instead of saving them, even to
the point that you have laid your own son whom you loved on the altar
of your untruth_.
_Now at least dare to show to others the ruin that you are, and say:
"See what I am, and take warning!" ...Go! And may your misfortunes
save those that come after from the same fate! Dare to speak, and cry
out to them: "You are mad, peoples of the earth; instead of defending
your Country, you are killing her_. You _are your Country and the
enemies are your brothers. Millions of God's creatures" love one
another_.
The same silence as before seemed to swallow up this last cry.
Clerambault lived outside of popular circles where he would have found
the warm sympathy of simple, healthy minds. Not the slightest echo of
his thought came to him.
He knew that he was not really alone, though he seemed so. Two
apparently contradictory sentiments--his modesty and his faith--united
to say to him: "What you thought, others have thought also; you are
too small, this truth is too great, to exist only in you.
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