for the attitude of the young girl was singular. When her brother came
in she threw her arms round his neck, but since she had kept in the
background, one might have said aloof. She had taken no part in her
parents' questions, and far from inviting confidence from Maxime she
seemed to shrink from it. He felt the same awkwardness, and avoided
being alone with her. But still they had never felt closer to each
other in spirit, they could not have borne to say why.

Maxime had to be shown to all the neighbours, and by way of amusement
he was taken out for a walk. In spite of her mourning, Paris again
wore a smiling face; poverty and pain were hidden at home, or at the
bottom of her proud heart; but the perpetual Fair in the streets and
in the press showed its mask of contentment.

The people in the cafés and the tea-rooms were ready to hold out for
twenty years, if necessary. Maxime and his family sat in a tea-shop at
a little table, gay chatter and the perfume of women all about
him. Through it he saw the trench where he had been bombarded for
twenty-six days on end, unable to stir from the sticky ditch full of
corpses which rose around him like a wall.... His mother laid her
hand on his, he woke, saw the affectionate questioning glances of his
people, and self-reproached for making them uneasy, he smiled and
began to look about and talk gaily. His boyish high spirits came back,
and the shadow cleared away from Clerambault's face; he glanced simply
and gratefully at Maxime.

His alarms were not at an end, however. As they left the tea-shop--he
leaning on the arm of his son--they met a military funeral. There were
wreaths and uniforms, a member of the Institute with his sword between
his legs, and brass instruments braying out an heroic lamentation.