about black bread, sugar cards, or the days when the confectioners
were shut. He took refuge in a mysterious silence, smiling and sad;
and only went out occasionally, when he thought of the short time he
had to be with these dear people who loved him. Then he would begin to
talk with the utmost animation about anything. The important thing was
to make a noise, since one could no longer speak one's real thoughts,
and naturally he fell back on everyday matters. Questions of general
interest and political news came first, but they might as well have
read the morning paper aloud. "The Crushing of the Huns," "The Triumph
of the Right," filled Clerambault's thoughts and speeches, while he
served as acolyte, and filled in the pauses with _cum spiritu tuo_.
All the time each was waiting for the other to begin to talk.

They waited so long that the end of his leave came. A little while
before he went, Maxime came into his father's study resolved to
explain himself:

"Papa, are you quite sure?" ...

The trouble painted on Clerambault's face checked the words on his
lips. He had pity on him and asked if his father was quite sure at
what time the train was to leave and Clerambault heard the end of the
question with an only too visible relief. When he had supplied all the
information--that Maxime did not listen to--he mounted his oratorical
hobby-horse again and started out with one of his habitual idealistic
declamations. Maxime held his peace, discouraged, and for the last
hour they spoke only of trifles. All but the mother felt that the
essential had not been uttered; only light and confident words, an
apparent excitement, but a deep sigh in the heart--"My God! my God!
why hast thou forsaken us?"