is little dog, while through the open
windows floated out an air of Schumann's, which Rosine, full of timid
emotion, was playing on the piano. Clerambault left alone, threw
himself back in his wicker chair, glad to be a man, to be alive,
breathing in the balm of this summer night with a thankful heart.

Six days later ... Clerambault had spent the afternoon in the woods,
and like the monk in the legend, lying under an oak tree, drinking in
the song of a lark, a hundred years might have gone by him like a day.
He could not tear himself away till night-fall. Maxime met him in the
vestibule; he came forward smiling but rather pale, and said: "Well,
Papa, we are in for it this time!" and he told him the news. The
Russian mobilisation, the state of war in Germany;--Clerambault stared
at him unable to comprehend, his thoughts were so far removed from
these dark follies. He tried to dispute the facts, but the news was
explicit, and so they went to the table, where Clerambault could eat
but little.

He sought for reasons why these two crimes should lead to nothing.
Common-sense, public opinion, the prudence of governments, the
repeated assurances of the socialists, Jaures' firm stand;--Maxime let
him talk, he was thinking of other things,--like his dog with his ears
pricked up for the sounds of the night ...Such a pure lovely night!
Those who recall the last evenings of July, 1914, and the even more
beautiful evening of the first day of August, must keep in their
minds the wonderful splendour of Nature, as with a smile of pity she
stretched out her arms to the degraded, self-devouring human race.

It was nearly ten o'clock when Clerambault ceased to talk, for no
one had answered him. They sat then in silence with heavy hearts,
listlessly occupied or seeming to be, the women with their work,
Clerambault with his eyes, but not his mind, on a book. Maxime went
out on the porch and smoked, leaning on the railing and looking down
on the sleeping garden and the fairy-like play of the light and
shadows on the path.

The telephone bell made them start. Someone was calling Clerambault,
who went slowly to answer, half-asleep and absent so that at first he
did not understand; "Hullo! is that you, old man?" as he recognised
the voice of a brother-author in Paris, telephoning him from a
newspaper office. Still he could not seem to understand; "I don't
hear,--Jaures? What about Jaures?...Oh, my God!" Maxime full of a
secret appreh