A well-known writer, a colleague of
Perrotin's, a serious honourable man, and one always on good terms
with him, had denounced him publicly and without hesitation. Though he
had known Clerambault long enough to have no doubt as to the purity
of his intentions, he held him up as a man dishonoured. An historian,
well used to the manipulation of text, he seized upon detached phrases
of Clerambault's pamphlet and brandished them as an act of treason. A
personal letter would not have satisfied his virtuous indignation; he
chose a loud "yellow journal," a laboratory of blackmail despised by a
million Frenchmen, who nevertheless swallowed all its humbug with open
mouths.
"I can't believe it," stammered Clerambault, who felt helpless before
this unexpected hostility.
"There is no time to be lost," declared Camus, "you must answer."
"Answer? But what can I say?"
"The first thing, of course, is to deny it as a base invention."
"But it is not an invention," said Clerambault, looking Camus in the
face. It was the turn of the latter to look as if he had been struck
by lightning.
"You say it is not,--not?" he stammered.
"I wrote the pamphlet," said Clerambault, "but the meaning has been
distorted by this article."
Camus could not wait for the end of the sentence, but began to howl:
"You wrote a thing like that!.
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