But he pitied them, and spoke humanely of the unfortunates
in all camps. He dared to speak of the injustices, common to all
nations, which had led to the general suffering. He could not take
away their trouble, but he did raise it into an atmosphere where it
could be borne.
"If you only knew how we crave a word of real sympathy; it is all very
well to be hardened, or old,--there are grey-haired, bent men among
us--but after what we have seen, suffered, and done to others, there
are times when we are like lost children, looking for their mother to
console them. Even our mothers seem far away. At times we get strange
letters from home, as if we were deserted by our own flesh and blood."
Clerambault hid his face in his hands with a groan.
"What is the matter?" said Moreau, "are you ill?"
"You remind me of all the harm that I did."
"You? No, it was other people that did the harm."
"Yes, I, as much as the others. You must try to forgive us all."
"You are the last who ought to say so."
"If the truth were known, I should be among the first. For I am one of
the few who see clearly how wicked I was." He began to inveigh against
his generation, but broke off with a discouraged gesture:
"None of that does any good.... Tell me about yourself."
His voice was so humble that Moreau was really touched to see the
older man blame himself so severely.
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