thirty
years. He was there still, but under the ground. Clerambault saw the
cross over the newly-made mound, but he never knew if his lost friend
had at least received his words of sympathy. It was better for him to
remain in doubt, for the letters had never reached their destination;
even this gleam of light had been denied to the poor old schoolmaster.

The end of this summer in Berry was one of the most arid periods in
Clerambault's life. He talked with no one, he wrote nothing and he
had no way of communicating directly with the working people. He had
always made himself liked on the rare occasions on which he had
come into contact with them--in a crowd, on holidays, or in the
workingmen's schools; but shyness on both sides held him back. Each
felt his inferiority; with pride on the one hand, and awkwardness on
the other, for Clerambault knew that in many essential respects he
was inferior to the intelligent workman. He was right; for from their
ranks will be recruited the leaders of the future. The best class of
these men contained many honest and virile minds able to understand
Clerambault. With an untouched idealism they still kept a firm hold on
reality, and though their daily life had accustomed them to struggles,
disappointments, and treachery, they were trained to patience; young
as some of them were, they were veterans of the social war, and there
was much that they could have taught Clerambault. They knew that
everything is for sale, that nothing is to be had for nothing, that
those who desire the future happiness of men must pay the price now,
in their own sufferings; that the smallest progress is gained step by
step and is lost often twenty times before it is finally conquered.
There is nothing final in this world. These men, solid and patient as
the earth, would have been of great use to Clerambault, and his vivid
intelligence would have been like a ray of sunshine to them.

Unfortunately both he and they had to bear the results of the archaic
caste system; injurious as it is and fatal to the community not less
than to the individual, raising between the pretended equals of
our so-called "democracies" the excessive inequality of fortune,
education, and life. Journalists supply the only means of
communication between caste and caste, and they form a caste by
themselves, representing neither the one side nor the other. The
voice of the newspapers alone now broke the silence that surrounded
Clerambault, a