They had reached the corner of the Rue Vaugirard and the Rue d'Assas,
when Clerambault, finding that he had forgotten an important paper,
went back to look for it in his apartment; the others stood there
waiting for him. They saw him come out and cross the street. On the
opposite sidewalk, near a cab-stand, was a well-dressed man of about
his own age, grey-haired, not very tall, and rather stout. They saw
this person go up to Clerambault--it all passed so quickly that they
had no time even to cry out. There was a brief exchange of words, an
arm raised, a shot!--they saw him totter, and ran up. Too late.
They laid him down on a bench; a little crowd gathered, more curious
than shocked (people had seen so many things of this kind), looking
over each ether's shoulders:
"Who is it?"
"A defeatist."
"Serve him right, then I The dirty beasts have done us harm enough!"
"I don't know, there are worse things than to want the war to be
over."
"There is only one way to finish it; we must fight it out. It is the
pacifists' fault that it has dragged on so long."
"You might almost say that they were the cause of it; the boches
counted on them. Without those fools there wouldn't have been any
war." Clerambault lying there half-unconscious, thought of the old
woman who threw her fagot on the wood stacked around John Huss .
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