her to flight. He was vexed all the same, but the approval of the
outside world healed this slight wound. His poems appeared in
the _bourgeois_ papers, and proved the most striking success of
Clerambault's career, for no other work of his had raised such
unanimous admiration. A poet is always pleased to have it said that
his last work is his best, all the more when he knows that it is
inferior to the others.

Clerambault knew it perfectly well, but he swallowed all the fawning
reviews of the press with infantile vanity. In the evening he made
Camus read them aloud in the family circle, beaming with joy as he
listened. When it was over he nearly shouted:

"Encore!"

In this concert of praise one slightly flat note came from Perrotin.
(Undoubtedly he had been much deceived in him, he was not a true
friend.) The old scholar to whom Clerambault had sent a copy of his
poems did not fail to congratulate him politely, praising his great
talent, but he did not say that this was his finest work; he even
urged him, "after having offered his tribute to the warlike Muse, to
produce now a work of pure imagination detached from the present."
What could he mean? When an artist submits his work for your approval,
is it proper to say to him: "I should prefer to read another one quite
different from this?" This was a fresh sign to Clerambault of the
sadly lukewarm patriotism that he had already noticed in Perrotin.
This lack of comprehension chilled his feeling towards his old friend.
The war, he thought, was the great test of characters, it revised all
values, and tried out friendships. And he thought that the loss of
Perrotin was balanced by the gain of Camus, and many new friends,