door at his ring, screaming at the sight of him. Clerambault who was
pacing up and down the apartment in the weariness of the long waiting,
cried out too as he ran. It was a tremendous row.

After a few minutes there was a truce to embraces and inarticulate
exclamations. Pushed into a chair by the window with his face to the
light, Maxime gave himself up to their delighted eyes. They were in
ecstasies over his complexion, his cheeks more filled out, his healthy
look. His father threw his arms around him calling him "My Hero"--but
Maxime sat with his fingers twitching nervously, and could not get out
a word.

At table they feasted their eyes on him, hung on every word, but he
said very little. The excitement of his family had checked his first
impetus, but luckily they did not notice it, and attributed his
silence to fatigue or to hunger. Clerambault talked enough for two;
telling Maxime about life in the trenches. Good mother Pauline was
transformed into a Cornelia, out of Plutarch, and Maxime looked at
them, ate, looked again.... A gulf had opened between them.

When after dinner they all went back to his father's study, and they
saw him comfortably established with a cigar, he had to try and
satisfy these poor waiting people. So he quietly began to tell them
how his time was passed, with a certain proud reserve and leaving out
tragical pictures. They listened in trembling expectation, and when
he had finished they were still expectant. Then on their side came a
shower of questions, to which Maxime's replies were short--soon he
fell silent. Clerambault to wake up the "young rascal" tried several
jovial thrusts.