Circumstances, however, came to Madame Clerambault's assistance; an
old relation who had brought her up died, leaving her little property
in Berry to the Clerambaults. The mourning was a good excuse for
quitting Paris, which had now become detestable, and for tearing the
poet from his dangerous surroundings. There was also the question
of money and of Rosine, who would be better for change of air.
Clerambault gave in, and they all three went to take possession of
their small inheritance, and remained in Berry during the rest of the
summer and autumn. It was in the country, a respectable old house just
outside a village. From the agitation of Paris Clerambault passed at
once to a stagnant calm, and in the long silent days all that broke
the monotony was a cock crowing in a farm-yard or a cow lowing in the
meadow. Clerambault was too much wrought up to adapt himself to the
slow and placid rhythm of nature; formerly he had adored it and was in
harmony with the country people from whom his family had come. Now,
however, the peasants with whom he tried to talk seemed to him
creatures from another planet. Certainly, they were not infected by
the virus of war; they showed no emotion, and no hatred for the enemy;
but then they had no animosity either against war, which they accepted
as a fact.
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