e great wheel of existence, he has quitted the world of the
living. When illusion vanishes, nothingness resumes its eternal reign,
the bright bubble has burst in infinite space, and our poor thought is
dissolved in the immutable repose of the limitless void_."

* * * * *

Unluckily this repose in the void is the worst torture for a man of
the white race. He would rather endure any torment that life may
bring. "Do not tear them from me," he cries, "you kill me when you
destroy the cruel falsehoods by which I live."

Clerambault bitterly adopted the name that a nationalist paper had
given him in derision: "The one against all." Yes, he was the common
enemy, the destroyer of our life-giving illusions.

He could not bear this; the thought of making others suffer was
too painful to him. How then was he to get out of this tragic
no-thoroughfare? Wherever he turned, he found the same insolvable
dilemma; either a fatal illusion, or death without it.

"I will accept neither the one nor the other."

"Whether you accept it or no, you must yield--for the way is barred."

"Nevertheless, I shall pass through...."

PART FOUR

Clerambault was passing through a new danger-zone. His solitary
journey was like a mountain ascension, where a man finds himself
suddenly enveloped in fog, clinging to a rock, unable to advance a
step. He could see nothing in front of him, and, no matter to which
side he turned, he could hear beneath him the roar of the torrent of
suffering. Even so, he could not stand still; though he hung over the
abyss and his hold threatened to give way.

He had reached one of these dark turnings, and to make it worse, the
news that day, as barked out by the press, made the heart ache by its
insanity. Useless hecatombs, which the induced egotism of the world
behind the lines thought natural; cruelties on all sides, criminal
reprisals for crimes--for which these good people clamoured, and
loudly applauded. The horizon that surrounded the poor human creatures
in their burrow had never seemed so dark and pitiless.

Clerambault asked himself if the law of love that he felt within
himself had not been designed for other worlds, and different
humanities. The mail had brought him letters full of fresh threats;
and knowing that, in the tragic absurdity of the time, his life was
at the mercy of the first madman who happened to turn up, he hoped
secretly that he might not have lon