All that Clerambault could
get out of the man were short stiff answers, not very clear, and given
in rather an irritated tone. He learned that his name was Julian
Moreau, that he had been a student at the Faculty of Letters, and
had just passed three months at Val-de-Grace. He was living alone in
Paris, in a room over in the Latin Quarter, though he had a widowed
mother and some other relations in Orleans; he did not explain at
first why he was not with them.
All at once after a short silence he decided to speak, and in a
low voice, hoarse at first, but softening as he went on, he told
Clerambault that his articles had been brought into his trench by a
man just back from leave, and handed about from one to the other; to
him they had been a real blessing. They answered to the cry of his
inmost soul: "Thou shalt not lie." The papers and reviews made him
furious; they had the impudence to show the soldier a false picture of
the armies, trumped-up letters from the front, a cheap comedy style of
courage, and inappropriate joking; all the abject boasting of actors
safe at home, speechifying over the death of others. It was an insult
to be slobbered over with the disgusting kisses of these prostitutes
of the press. As if their sufferings were a mockery!
Clerambault's writings found an echo in their hearts; not that he
understood them, no one could understand who had not shared their
hardships.
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