but in the meantime, look out for yourself!
Prudent folks join in the hue and cry from a safe distance.

The editor of the magazine which had been proud to publish
Clerambault's poems for years whispered to him that all this row was
absurd--that there was really nothing in his "case," but that on
account of his subscribers he should have to scuttle him. He was
awfully sorry ... hoped there was no hard feeling?... In short,
without being rude, he made the whole thing look ridiculous.

Alas for human nature! Even Perrotin laughed at Clerambault in a
brilliantly sarcastic interview, and considered himself to be still
his friend at bottom.

In his own house Clerambault now found himself without support. His
old helpmate, who for thirty years had seen only through his eyes,
repeating his words without even understanding them, was now afraid,
indignant at what he had written, reproaching him bitterly for the
scandal, the harm done to the name of the family, to the memory of his
dead son, to the sacred cause of vengeance, to his Country.

Rosine was always loving, but she had ceased to understand him. A
woman's mind makes but few demands, if her heart is satisfied; so it
was enough for her that her father was no longer one of the haters,
that he remained compassionate and kind. She did not want him to
translate his sentiments into theories, nor above all, to proclaim
them. She had much affectionate common-sense, and as long as matters
of feeling were safe, she did not care for the rest, not understanding
the inflexible exigence of logic which pushes a man to the utmost
consequences of his faith.

She had ceased to understand, and her hour had passed--the time when,
without knowing it, she had accepted and fulfilled a maternal mission
towards her father. When he was weak, broken, and uncertain, she had
sheltered him under her wing, rescued his conscience, and given back
to him the torch which he had let fall from his hand. Now her part was
accomplished, she was once more the loving "little daughter" somewhat
in the shade, who looks on at the great events of life with eyes
that are almost indifferent, and in the depths of her soul treasured
devoutly the afterglow of the wonderful hour through which she had
lived--all uncomprehending.

It was about this time that a young man home on leave came to see
Clerambault. Daniel Favre was a friend of the family, an engineer like
his father before him. He had long been an admirer of