Like that of Rude, French liberty opens her mouth and bawls. Anyone
who differs from her opinion of the moment is declared a traitor
forthwith; there are always some yellow journals to tell at what price
the independent voice was bought, and twenty fanatics to stir up the
crowd against it. Once started, there is nothing to do but wait until
the fit has passed off; but in the meantime, look out for yourself!
Prudent folks join in the hue and cry from a safe distance.
The editor of the magazine which had been proud to publish
Clerambault's poems for years whispered to him that all this row was
absurd--that there was really nothing in his "case," but that on
account of his subscribers he should have to scuttle him. He was
awfully sorry ... hoped there was no hard feeling?... In short,
without being rude, he made the whole thing look ridiculous.
Alas for human nature! Even Perrotin laughed at Clerambault in a
brilliantly sarcastic interview, and considered himself to be still
his friend at bottom.
In his own house Clerambault now found himself without support. His
old helpmate, who for thirty years had seen only through his eyes,
repeating his words without even understanding them, was now afraid,
indignant at what he had written, reproaching him bitterly for the
scandal, the harm done to the name of the family, to the memory of his
dead son, to the sacred cause of vengeance, to his Country.
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