He had
stood for hours in line waiting his turn in the crowd, and after all
they had been told that there would be no distribution that day. As he
came near the house where he lived he heard his name, and a young man
who was talking to the janitor turned and held out a letter, looking
rather embarrassed as Clerambault came forward. The right sleeve of
his coat was pinned up to the shoulder, and there was a patch over his
right eye; he was pale, and evidently had been laid up for months.
Clerambault spoke pleasantly to him and tried to take the letter, but
the man drew it back quickly, saying that it was of no consequence
now. Clerambault then asked if he would not come up and talk to him
a little while, but the other hesitated, and the poet might have
perceived that he was trying to get away, but not being very quick at
seeing into other people's minds, he said good-naturedly: "My flat is
rather high up...."
This seemed to touch the visitor on a tender point, and he answered:
"I can get up well enough," and turned towards the staircase.
Clerambault now understood that besides his other wounds, the heart
within him had been wounded to the quick.
They sat down in the fireless study, and like the room, it was some
time before the conversation thawed out.
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