Part 21 (2/2)

Vaucoux had none of Clerambault's doubts; he did not know the meaning of the word, and if he could have permitted himself such a feeling he would have despised the idea. Hard man as he was, he had loved his son pa.s.sionately, though he had never shown it; and he could think of no better way to prove it now than by a ferocious hatred for those who had killed him; not, of course, reckoning himself among the number.

There were not many methods of revenge open to a man of his age, rheumatic and stiff in one arm; but he tried to enlist and was rejected. He felt that something must be done, and all that he had left was his brain. Alone in his deserted house with the memory of his dead wife and child, he sat for hours brooding on these vindictive thoughts; and like a beast shaking the bars of its cage, waiting for the chance to spring, his mind raged furiously against the inhibitions the war put upon him with its iron circle of the trenches.

The clamours of the press drew his attention to Clerambault's articles which were intensely distasteful to him. The idea of s.n.a.t.c.hing his precious hatred away from between his teeth! From the slight acquaintance that he had with Clerambault before the war, he felt an antipathy for him; as a writer, on account of the new form of his art, and as a man for numerous reasons: his love of life, and other men, his democratic ideals, his rather silly optimism, and his European aspirations. At the very first glance, with the instinct of a rheumatic in mind and body, Vaucoux had cla.s.sed Clerambault as one of those pestilent persons who open doors and windows and make a draught in that closed house, his Country. That is, as he understood the term, in his mind there could be no other. After this there was no need for the vociferations of the papers; in the author of ”The Appeal to the Living,” and the ”Pardon from the Dead,” he saw at once an agent of the enemy, and with his thirst for revenge, he knew the opportunity had come.

Nothing can be more convenient than to detest those who differ from you, especially when you do not understand them; but poor Clerambault had not this resource, for he did understand perfectly. These good people had had to bear injuries from the enemy; of course because they were struck by them, but also frankly, because of Injustice with a capital I; for in their short-sightedness it filled the field of vision. The capacity to feel and judge is very limited in an ordinary man; submerged as he is in the species, he clings to any driftwood; and just as he reduces the infinite number of shades in the river of light to a few colours, the good and evil that flow in the veins of the world are only perceptible to him when he has bottled a few samples, chosen among those around him. All good and bad then he has in his flask, and on these he can expend his whole power of liking or repulsion; witness the fact that to millions of excellent people the condemnation of Dreyfus, or the sinking of the ”Lusitania,” remains the crime of the century. They cannot see that the path of social life is paved with crime, and that they walk over it in perfect unconsciousness, profiting by injustices that they make no effort to prevent. Of all these, which are the worst? Those which rouse long echoes in the conscience of mankind, or those which are known alone to the stifled victim? Naturally, our worthy friends have not arms long enough to embrace all the misery of the world; they can only reach one perhaps, but that they press close to their heart; and when they have chosen a crime, they pour out upon it all the pent-up hatred within them;--when a dog has a bone to gnaw, it is wiser not to touch him.

Clerambault had tried to take his bone away from the dog, and if he was bitten he had no right to complain; in point of fact he did not do so. Men are in the right to fight injustice wherever they see it; perhaps it is not their fault if they often see no more than its big toe, like Gulliver's at Brobdignag. Well, we must each do what we can; and these people could bite.

It was Good Friday, and the rising tide of invasion swept up towards the Ile de France. Even this day of sacred sorrow had not stopped the ma.s.sacre, for the lay war knows nothing of the Truce of G.o.d. Christ had been bombarded in one of His churches, and the news of the murderous explosion at St. Gervais that afternoon spread at nightfall through the darkened city, wrapped in its grief, its rage, and its fear.

The sad little group of friends had gathered at Froment's house; each one had come hoping to meet the others, without previous appointment.

They could see nothing but violence all about them; in the present as well as in the future, in the enemy's camp, in their own, on the side of revolutionists, and reactionaries as well. Their agony and their doubts met in one thought. The sculptor was saying:

”Our holiest convictions, our faith in peace and human brotherhood rest in vain on reason and love; is there any hope then that they can conquer men? We are too weak.”

Clerambault, half-unconsciously, as the words of Isaiah came to his mind, uttered them aloud:

”Darkness covers the earth, And the cloud envelops the people....”

He stopped, but from the faintly-lighted bed came Froment's voice, continuing:

”Rise, for on the tops of the mountains The light s.h.i.+neth forth....”

”Yes, the light will dawn,” said Madame Froment; she was sitting on the foot of the bed in the dark near Clerambault; he leaned forward and took her hand. It was as if a thrill widened through the room, like a ripple over water.

”Why do you say that?” asked the Count de Coulanges.

”Because I see _Him_ plainly.”

”I can see _Him_ too,” said Clerambault.

”Him? Whom do you mean?” asked Doctor Verrier. But before the answer could come, they all knew the word that would be said:

”He who bears the light, the G.o.d who will conquer....”

”Are you waiting for a G.o.d?” said the old professor. ”Do you believe in miracles?”

”We are the miracle, for is it not one that in this world of perpetual violence we have kept a constant faith in the love and the union of men?”

”Christ is expected for centuries,” said Coulanges bitterly, ”and when He comes, He is neglected, crucified, and then forgotten except by a handful of poor ignorant wretches, good if you like, but narrow. The handful grows larger, and for the s.p.a.ce of a man's life, faith is in flower, but afterwards it is spoiled and betrayed by success, by ambitious disciples, by the Church; and so on for centuries ...

_Adveniat regnum tuum_ ... Where is the kingdom of G.o.d?”

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