evening, without stopping to rest. This fever of haste and expectation
devoured everything, and made consecutive thought impossible,--which
was his salvation. Now that the chase was ended, his mind, exhausted
and dying, recovered its powers.

Clerambault knew certainly that Maxime was dead. He had not told his
wife, but had concealed some information that destroyed all hope. She
was one of those people who absolutely must keep a gleam of falsehood
to lure them on, against all reason, until the first flood of grief is
over. Perhaps Clerambault himself had been one of them, but he was not
so now; for he saw where this lure had led him. He did not judge, he
was not yet able to form a judgment, lying in the darkness. Too weak
to rise, and feel about him, he was like someone who moves his crushed
limbs after a fall, and with each stab of pain recovers consciousness
of life, and tries to understand what has happened to him. The stupid
gulf of this death overcame him. That this beautiful child, who had
given them so much joy, cost them so much care, all this marvel of
hope in flower, the priceless little world that is a young man, a tree
of Jesse, future years ... all vanished in an hour!--and why?--why?--

He was forced to try to persuade himself at least that it was for
something great and necessary. Clerambault clung despairingly to this
buoy during the succeeding nights, feeling that if his hold gave way
he should go under. More than ever he insisted on the holiness of the
cause; he would not even discuss it; but little by little his fingers
slipped, he settled lower with every movement, for each new statement
of the justice of his cause roused a voice in his conscience which
said:

"Even if you were twenty thousand times more right in this struggle,