rred to remain silent, but he wrote once
more.

This time he did not go very far. "Tremble, poor carcass, you know
where I am going to drag you," said Turenne to his body before the
battle. The carcass of Clerambault was not more courageous, though the
conflict to which it was driven was of a humbler sort. It was none the
less hard, for he was alone with no army at his back. As he watched by
his arms, he was a pitiable spectacle in his own eyes. He saw himself,
an ordinary man, of a timid, rather cowardly, disposition, depending
greatly on the affection and approval of others. It was terribly
painful to break these ties, to meet the hatred of others halfway....
Was he strong enough to resist?... All his doubts came back upon
him.... What forced him to speak? Who would listen to him, and what
good would it do? Did not the wisest people set him the example of
silence?

Nevertheless his brain was firm, and continued to dictate to him what
he should write; his hand also wrote it down without the alteration of
a word. There seemed to be two men in him; one who threw himself on
the ground in terror, and cried: "I will not fight," and the other
who dragged him along by the collar, without trying to persuade him,
saying simply: "Yes, you will."

It would be praising him too highly to say that he acted in this
manner through bravery; he felt that he could not act otherwise, even
if he had wished to stop; something forced him to go on, to speak....
It was his "mission." He did not understand it, did not know why he
was chosen, he, the poet of tenderness, made for a calm, peaceful
life, free from sacrifices; while other men--strong, war-like, good
fighters with the souls of athletes--remained unemployed. But it
was of no use to dispute it; the word had gone forth, and there was
nothing for it but to obey.

When the stronger of his two souls had once asserted itself, the
duality of his nature led him to yield to it entirely. A more normal
man would have tried to unite them, or combine them, or find some kind
of compromise to satisfy the demands of the one and the prudence of
the other; but with Clerambault it was everything or nothing. Whether
he liked it or not, once he had chosen his road, he followed it
straight before him; and the same causes that had made him accept
absolutely the views of those around him, drove him to cast off every
consideration now that he had begun to see the falsehoods which had
deceived him. If he