One evening Moreau had shown himself particularly disagreeable, and
yet he persisted in walking home with Clerambault, as if he could not
make up his mind to leave him. He walked along by his side, silent
and frowning. All at once Clerambault stopped, and putting his hand
through Moreau's arm with a friendly gesture said with a smile:
"It's all wrong, isn't it, old fellow?"
Moreau was somewhat taken aback, but he pulled himself together and
asked drily what made anyone think that things were "all wrong."
"I thought so because you were so cross tonight," said Clerambault
good naturally, and in answer to a protesting murmur. "Yes, you
certainly were trying to hurt me,--just a little ... I know of course
that you would not really,--but when a man like you tries to inflict
pain on others it is because he is suffering himself ... isn't that
true?"
"Yes, it is true," said Moreau, "you must forgive me, but it hurts me
when I see that you are not in sympathy with our action."
"And are you?" demanded Clerambault. Moreau did not seem to
understand. "You yourself," repeated Clerambault, "do you believe in
it?"
"Of course I do! What a question!" said Moreau indignantly.
"I doubt it," said Clerambault gently. Moreau seemed to be on the
point of losing his temper, but in a moment he said more quietly: "You
are mistaken.
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