It ought to make us happy to think of the
privilege that has been bestowed on us, to shelter in our hearts the
new God like the Babe in the manger."
"And what proof have we of His coming?" said the doctor.
"Our existence," said Clerambault.
"Our sufferings," said Froment.
"Our misunderstood faith," said the sculptor.
"The fact alone that we are," went on Clerambault. "We are a living
paradox thrown in the face of nature which denies it. A hundred times
must the flame be kindled and go out before it burns steadily. Every
Christ, every God is tried in advance through a series of forerunners;
they are everywhere, lost in space, lost in the ages; but though
widely-separated, all of these lonely souls see the same luminous
point on the horizon--the glance of the Saviour--who is coming."
"He is already come," said Froment.
When they separated, with a deep mutual feeling, but in silence,--for
they feared to break the religious charm which held them,--each found
himself alone in the dark street, but in each was the memory of a
vision which they could hardly understand. The curtain had fallen; but
they could never forget that they had seen it rise.
A few days after, Clerambault, who had been again summoned before the
magistrate, came home splashed with mud from head to foot.
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