Some weeks later, Clerambault wrote again, but without success.
Such was his longing for a friend with whom to share his troubles and
his hopes that he took the train to Grenoble, and from there made his
way on foot to the village of which he had the address; but when,
joyful with the surprise he brought, he knocked at the door of the
schoolhouse, the man who opened it evidently understood nothing of his
errand. After some explanation it appeared that this was a newcomer
in the village; that his predecessor had been dismissed in disgrace a
month before and ordered to a distance, but that the trouble of the
journey had been spared him, for he had died of pneumonia the day
before he was to have left the place where he had lived for thirty
years. He was there still, but under the ground. Clerambault saw the
cross over the newly-made mound, but he never knew if his lost friend
had at least received his words of sympathy. It was better for him to
remain in doubt, for the letters had never reached their destination;
even this gleam of light had been denied to the poor old schoolmaster.
The end of this summer in Berry was one of the most arid periods in
Clerambault's life. He talked with no one, he wrote nothing and he
had no way of communicating directly with the working people.
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