me, so why are you angry? Are you afraid lest I
should prove to be in the right?"

The impression left on Clerambault's mind by his last interview with
Perrotin, was one of sadness and pity; but on the whole he decided to
go again to see him, having by now arrived at a better understanding
of his ironical and prudent attitude towards the world. If he had
retained but small esteem for Perrotin's character, on the other hand
the great intelligence of the old scholar continued to command his
highest admiration; he still saw in him a guide towards the light.

Perrotin was not exactly delighted to see Clerambault again. The other
day he had been obliged to commit a little cowardly act; he did not
mind that, for he was used to it, but it was under the eyes of an
incorruptible witness, and he was too clever not to have retained a
disagreeable memory of the incident. He foresaw a discussion, and he
hated to discuss with people who had convictions--there is no fun in
it, they take everything so seriously--however, he was courteous,
weak, good-natured, and unable to refuse when anyone attacked him
vigorously. He tried at first to avoid serious questions; but when he
saw that Clerambault really needed him, and that perhaps he might save
him from some imprudence, he consented, with a sigh, to give up his
morning.

Clerambault related to him all that he had done, and the result. He
realised that the world around served other gods than his; for he had
shared the same faith, and even now was impartial enough to see a
certain grandeur and beauty in it. Since these last trials, however,
he had also seen its horror and absurdity; he had abandoned it for a
new ideal, which would certainly bring him into conflict with the old.
With brief and passionate touches, Clerambault explained this new
ideal, and called on Perrotin to say if to him it seemed true or
false; entreating his friend to lay aside considerations of tact or
politeness, to speak clearly and frankly. Struck by Clerambault's
tragic earnestness, Perrotin changed his tone, and answered in the
same key.

"It amounts to this, that you think I am wrong?" asked Clerambault,
distressed. "I see that I am alone in this, but I cannot help it. Do
not try to spare me now, but tell me, am I wrong to think as I do?"

"No, my friend," replied Perrotin gravely, "you are right."

"Then you agree that I ought to fight against these murderous
mistakes?"

"Ah, that is another matte