Clerambault was continually being recalled
to the public mind by the violent attacks of Bertin, though he never
failed to conclude each one in which he had discharged his venom, with
a disdainful: "He is not worth speaking of."
Bertin was only too familiar with the weaknesses, defects of mind,
and small absurdities of his former friend; he could not resist the
temptation to touch them with a sure hand, and Clerambault, stung
and not wise enough to hide it, let himself be drawn into the fight,
retaliated, and proved that he too could draw blood from the other.
Thus a fierce enmity arose between the two.
The result might have been foreseen. Up to this time Clerambault
had been inoffensive, confining himself on the whole to moral
dissertations. His polemic did not step outside the circle of ideas.
It might as well have been applied to Germany, England, or ancient
Rome, as to the France of today. To tell the truth, like nine-tenths
of his class and profession, he was ignorant of the political facts
about which he declaimed, so that his trumpetings could hardly disturb
the leaders of the day. In the midst of the tumult of the press,
the noisy passage of arms between Clerambault and Bertin had two
consequences; in the first place it forced Clerambault to play with
more care, and choose a less slippery ground than logomachy, and on
the other it brought him in contact with men better informed as to the
facts who furnished him with the necessary information.
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