Both the Clerambaults felt painfully the loss to their empty fireside.
But the man was not the more lonely of the two. He knew this and was
sincerely sorry for his wife, who had not either the strength of mind
to follow his path, nor to leave him. As for him he felt that now,
no matter what happened, he would never be bereft of sympathy;
persecution would arouse it, and lead the most reserved people to
express their feeling. A very precious evidence of this came to him at
this time.
One day, when he was alone in the apartment, the bell rang and he went
to open the door. A lady was there whom he did not know; she held out
a letter, mentioning her name as she did so; in the dim light of the
vestibule, she had taken him for the servant, but at once saw her
mistake, as he tried to persuade her to come in. "No," said she, "I am
only a messenger," and she went away; but when she had gone he found
a little bunch of violets that she had laid on a table near the door.
The letter was as follows:
"_Tu ne cede malis,
sed contra audentior ito_....
"You fight for us, and our hearts are with you. Pour
out your troubles to us, and I will give you my hope, my
strength, and my love. I am one who can act only through
you."
The youthful ardour of these last mysterious words, touched and
puzzled Clerambault.
Pages:
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299