Daniel Favre was a friend of the family, an engineer like
his father before him. He had long been an admirer of Clerambault, for
his keen intelligence was not limited to his profession; indeed the
extended flights of modern science have brought his domain close to
that of poetry, it is itself the greatest of poems. Daniel was an
enthusiastic reader of Clerambault's writings. They corresponded
affectionately, knew each other's families, and the young man was a
frequent visitor, perhaps not solely for the pleasure of conversing
with the poet. He was a nice fellow, about thirty years old, tall,
well set-up, with good features, a timid smile, and eyes which looked
startlingly light in his sunburnt face. They were all glad to see him,
and Clerambault was not the only member of the family who enjoyed his
visits. David might easily have been assigned to duty in a munitions
factory, but he had applied for a dangerous post at the Front, where
he had quickly been promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. Having a few
days in town, he went to see Clerambault.
Madame Clerambault and Rosine were out, so the poet was alone,
and welcomed his young friend with delight, but Daniel responded
awkwardly, answering questions somewhat at random, and at last
abruptly brought up the subject which he had at heart.
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