also a duty towards
one dear to both of them. In ending his letter he brought forward
other considerations where the word opinion constantly recurred, so as
at last to take the place of reason and conscience.

As Clerambault read he smiled, recalling a scene of Spitteler's. The
king Epimetheus was a man of firm conscience, but when the time came
to put it to the proof, he could not lay his hand upon it, saw it
trying to escape, ran after it, and finally threw himself flat on his
stomach to look for it under the bed. Clerambault reflected that one
might be a hero under the fire of the enemy, but a timid small boy
before the opinion of his fellow-citizens.

He showed the letter to Rosine, and in spite of the partiality of
love, she was hurt that her friend should have wished to do violence
to her father's convictions. Her conclusion was that Daniel did
not love her enough; and she said that her own feeling was not
sufficiently strong to endure such exactions; even if Clerambault
had been willing to yield, she would not have consented to such an
injustice; whereupon she kissed her father, tried to laugh bravely,
and to forget her cruel disappointment.

A glimpse of happiness, however, is not so easily forgotten,
especially if there remains a faint chance of its renewal. She thought
of it constantly, and after a time Clerambault felt that she was
growing away from him. It is difficult not to feel bitterly towards
those for whom we sacrifice ourselves, and in spite of herself Rosine
held her father responsible for her lost happiness.

A strange phenomenon now made itself apparent in Clerambault's mind;
he was cast down but strengthened at the same time. He suffered
because he had spoken, and yet he felt that he should speak again,
for he had ceased to belong to himself. His written word held and
constrained him; he was bound by his thought as soon as it was
published. "That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the
fountain." Born in an hour of mental exaltation, his work prolonged
and reproduced itself in his mind, which would otherwise have fallen
exhausted. An artist's thought is the ray of light from the depths,
the best of himself, the most enduring; it supports his lower nature.
Man, whether he likes it or not, leans on his works and is led by
them. They have an existence outside of his own, and so restore
his lost vigour, recall him to his duty, guide and command him.
Clerambault would have prefe