His swollen
vanity was deeply wounded, and nothing would have satisfied him but
the total annihilation of his adversary. To him Clerambault was not
only a personal enemy, but a foe to the public; and in the endeavour
to prove this, he made him the centre of a great pacifist plot. At any
other time, this would have seemed absurd in everyone's eyes, but now
no one had eyes to see with. During the last weeks Bertin's fury and
violence had gone beyond anything that he had written before; they
were a threat against anyone who was convicted or suspected of the
dangerous heresy of Peace.
In this little reunion the news of his death was received with noisy
satisfaction; and his funeral oration was preached with an energy
that yielded nothing in this line to the efforts of the most famous
masters. But Clerambault, absorbed in the newspaper account, scarcely
seemed to hear. One of the men standing near, tapped him on the
shoulder, and said:
"This ought to be a pleasure to you."
Clerambault started: "Pleasure," he said, "pleasure?"--he took his hat
and went out. It was pitch dark in the street outside, all the lights
having been out on account of an air-raid. Before his mind there
flowered the fine clear-cut face of a boy of sixteen, with its warm
pale skin and dark soft eyes, the curling hair, the mobile, smiling
mouth, the tone of the sweet voice--Bertin, as he was when they first
met at about the same age.
Pages:
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279