The eyes of Julian Moreau sought in Clerambault's eyes for this
security of soul, this inward harmony; and poor anxious Clerambault
had it not. But was he sure that it was not there?... Looking at
Julian humbly, he saw,... he saw that Julian had found it in him.
And as a man climbing up through a fog suddenly finds himself in the
light, he saw that the light was in him, and that it had come to him
because he needed it to shine upon another.
After the wounded man had gone away, somewhat comforted, Clerambault
felt slightly dazed, and sat drinking in the strange happiness that
the heart feels when, however unfortunate itself, it has been able to
help another now or in the future. How profound is the instinct for
happiness, the plenitude of being! All aspire to it, but it is not the
same for all. There are some that wish only to possess; to others,
sight is possession, and to others yet, faith is sight. We are links
of a chain and this instinct unites us; from those who only seek their
own good, or that of their family, or their country, up to the being
which embraces millions of beings and desires the good of all. There
are those who, having no joy of their own, can almost unconsciously
bestow it on others, as Clerambault had done; for they can see the
light on his face while his own eyes are in shadow.
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