"Within us," said Clerambault, "our trials and our hopes all go to form the eternal Christ. It ought to make us happy to think of the privilege that has been bestowed on us, to shelter in our hearts the new G.o.d like the Babe in the manger."

"And what proof have we of His coming?" said the doctor.

"Our existence," said Clerambault.

"Our sufferings," said Froment.

"Our misunderstood faith," said the sculptor.

"The fact alone that we are," went on Clerambault. "We are a living paradox thrown in the face of nature which denies it. A hundred times must the flame be kindled and go out before it burns steadily. Every Christ, every G.o.d is tried in advance through a series of forerunners; they are everywhere, lost in s.p.a.ce, lost in the ages; but though widely-separated, all of these lonely souls see the same luminous point on the horizon--the glance of the Saviour--who is coming."

"He is already come," said Froment.

When they separated, with a deep mutual feeling, but in silence,--for they feared to break the religious charm which held them,--each found himself alone in the dark street, but in each was the memory of a vision which they could hardly understand. The curtain had fallen; but they could never forget that they had seen it rise.

A few days after, Clerambault, who had been again summoned before the magistrate, came home splashed with mud from head to foot. His hat which he held in his hand, was a mere rag, and his hair was soaking.

The woman, who opened the door, exclaimed at the sight of him, but he signed to her to keep still, and went into his room. Rosine was away, so the husband and wife were alone in the flat, where they only met at meals, saying as little to each other as possible. However, hearing the exclamation of the servant, Madame Clerambault feared some new misfortune and went to look for her husband. She too cried out when she saw him:

"Good Lord! what have you been doing now?"

"I slipped and fell," said he, trying to wipe off the traces of the accident.

"You fell?--turn round. What a state you are in!... One can"t have a moment"s peace when you are around.... You never look where you are going. There is mud up to your eyelids ... all over your face!"

"Yes, I must have struck myself there...."

"What unlucky people we are!... you "think" that you struck your cheek?... you tripped and fell?..." And looking him in the face, she cried:

"It isn"t true!...

"I did fall, I a.s.sure you...."

"No, I know it is not true ... tell me,... someone struck you ...?"

He did not answer. "They struck you, the brutes. My poor husband, to think that anyone should strike you!... And you so good, who never did harm to anyone in your life! How can people be so wicked?" and she burst into tears as she threw her arms around him.

"My dear girl," said he, much touched. "It is not worth all these tears. See, you are getting all muddy, you ought not to touch me."

"That does not matter," said she. "I have more spots than that on my conscience. Forgive me!"

"Forgive you for what? Why do you say such things?"

"Because I have been wicked to you myself; I haven"t understood you--(I don"t think I ever shall)--but I do know that whatever you do, you only mean what is right. I ought to have stood up for you and I have not done it. I was angry with your foolishness, but it is really I that was the fool, and it vexed me too, when you got everyone down on you. But now ... it is really too unjust! That a lot of men who are not fit to tie your shoe ... that they should strike you! Let me kiss your poor muddy face!"

It was so sweet to find each other again!--When she had had a good cry on Clerambault"s neck, she helped him to dress, then she bathed his cheek with arnica, and carried off his clothes to brush them. At table her eyes dwelt on him with the old affectionate care, while he tried to calm her fears by talking of familiar things. To be alone together without the children took them back to the old days, the early times of their marriage. And the memory had a sad, quiet sweetness--as the evening angelus spreads through the growing gloom a last softened glory from the angelus of noon.

About ten o"clock the bell rang, and Moreau came in with his friend Gillot. They had read the evening papers which gave an account of the incident--from their point of view; some spoke of the "spontaneous"

indignation of the crowd and approved of the rebuke inflicted by popular contempt. Others, and they were the more serious sheets, deprecated lynch law in the public streets, as a matter of principle, but blamed the weakness of the authorities, who were afraid to throw light on all the facts.

It was not impossible that this mild criticism of the government was inspired by the government itself; for politicians know how to manage so that their hand may be forced, when they have an end in view of which they are not exactly proud. The arrest of Clerambault seemed imminent, and Moreau and his comrade were very uneasy; but Clerambault signed to them to say nothing before his wife, and after a few words on the event of the day, which they treated rather lightly, he took them both into his study and asked them to tell him plainly what was the matter.

They showed him a vicious article in the nationalist paper which had been active against Clerambault for weeks, and which was so encouraged by the manifestation of the day that it called on all its friends to renew the attack the next morning. Moreau and Gillot foresaw that there would be trouble when Clerambault went to the Palais, and they had come to beg him to stay in the house. Knowing his timidity, they thought that there would be no difficulty in persuading him to this, but just as it had been the day Moreau had found him disputing in the street, he did not now seem to grasp the situation.

"Stay at home, why? I am perfectly well."

"We think it would be more prudent."

"On the contrary, it would do me good to go out for a little while."

"You don"t know what might happen."

"As to that one never knows; it will be time enough to worry when it comes."

"To be perfectly frank then, you are in danger; the feeling has been worked up against you for a long time, till now you are so hated that people"s eyes almost start out of their heads at the sound of your name;--idiots! they know nothing about you but what they see in the papers; but their leaders want a row, they have been so stupid that your articles have had much more publicity than they intended; they are afraid that your ideas will spread, and they want to make an example of you that will discourage anyone who might be disposed to follow you."

"If that is true," said Clerambault, "and I really have followers,--something I did not know before,--this is not the moment to keep out of the way; if they want to make an example of me, I cannot balk them." This was said in so pleasant a way, that they asked themselves if he really understood.

"You are taking a terrible risk," persisted Gillot.

"Well, my friend, everyone has to take risks nowadays."

"It ought, at least, to be of some use,--why play into their hands?

There is no need to throw yourself into the jaws of the wolves."

"It seems to me on the contrary, that it might be very useful," said Clerambault, "and that the wolf would find himself in the wrong box after all; let me explain to you. This will spread our ideas, for violence always consecrates the persecuted cause. They want to intimidate, and so they will. Everyone will be frightened--their own side, all the hesitaters, and timorous folk. Let them be unjust, it will rebound on their own heads." He seemed to forget that it might also fall on his.

They saw that he had made up his mind, and felt an increased respect for him, but they also felt much more anxious, and this led them to say:

"If that is the case, we will get all our friends together, and go with you."

"No, no, what a ridiculous idea!... nothing will happen after all."

Seeing that their remonstrances were useless, Moreau made a last attempt: "You can"t keep me from coming with you," said he. "I am an obstinate man myself, you can"t get rid of me; I will wait for you, if I have to sit on that bench outside your door all night!"

"Go and spend the night in your bed, my dear fellow," said Clerambault, "and sleep soundly. Come with me in the morning if you like, but it will be time lost; nothing is going to happen;--but kiss me, all the same!" After an affectionate hug, they went towards the door, when Gillot paused a moment: "We must look after you a little, you know," said he, "we feel as if you were a sort of father to us."

"So I am," said Clerambault with his beaming smile; his own boy was in his mind. He closed the door, and stood for some minutes with the lamp in his hand in the vestibule before he realised where he was. It was nearly midnight and he was very tired, but, instead of going into the bedroom, he mechanically turned again towards his study;--the apartment, the house, the street were all asleep. Almost without seeing it, he stared vaguely at the light shining on the frame of an engraving of Rembrandt"s, The Resurrection of Lazarus, which hung on the opposite wall.... A dear figure seemed to enter the room; ... it came in silently, and stood beside him.

"Are you satisfied now?" he thought. "Is this what you wished?" And Maxime answered: "Yes," then added with meaning:

"I have found it very hard to teach you, Papa."

"Yes," said Clerambault, "there is much that we can learn from our sons." And they smiled at each other in the silence.