R.R.

SIERRE, March, 1917.




PART ONE




Agénor Clerambault sat under an arbour in his garden at St. Prix,
reading to his wife and children an ode that he had just written,
dedicated to Peace, ruler of men and things, "Ara Pacis Augustae." In
it he wished to celebrate the near approach of universal brotherhood.
It was a July evening; a last rosy light lay on the tree-tops, and
through the luminous haze, like a veil over the slopes of the hillside
and the grey plain of the distant city, the windows on Montmartre
burned like sparks of gold. Dinner was just over. Clerambault leaned
across the table where the dishes yet stood, and as he spoke his
glance full of simple pleasure passed from one to the other of his
three auditors, sure of meeting the reflection of his own happiness.

His wife Pauline followed the flight of his thought with difficulty.
After the third phrase anything read aloud made her feel drowsy, and
the affairs of her household took on an absurd importance; one might
say that the voice of the reader made them chirp like birds in a cage.
It was in vain that she tried to follow on Clerambault's lips, and
even to imitate with her own, the words whose meaning she no longer