rst
evening after their arrival Clerambault carried Rosine off to the
Boulevards. The solemn fervour of the first days had passed. War had
begun, and truth was imprisoned. The press, the arch-liar, poured into
the open mouth of the world the poisonous liquor of its stories of
victories without retribution; Paris was decked as for a holiday; the
houses streamed with the tricolour from top to bottom, and in the
poorer quarters each garret window had its little penny flag, like a
flower in the hair.

On the corner of the Faubourg Montmartre they met a strange
procession. At the head marched a tall old man carrying a flag. He
walked with long strides, free and supple as if he were going to leap
or dance, and the skirts of his overcoat flapped in the wind. Behind
came an indistinct, compact, howling mass, gentle and simple, arm in
arm,--a child carried on a shoulder, a girl's red mop of hair between
a chauffeur's cap and the helmet of a soldier. Chests out, chins
raised, mouths open like black holes, shouting the Marseillaise. To
right and left of the ranks, a double line of jail-bird faces, along
the curbstone, ready to insult any absent-minded passer-by who failed
to salute the colours. Rosine was startled to see her father fall into
step at the end of the line, bare-headed, singing and talking aloud.
He drew his daughter along by the arm, without noticing the nervous
fingers that tried to hold him back.

When they came in Clerambault was still talkative and excited. He kept
on for hours, while the two women listened to him patiently. Madame
Clerambault heard little as usual, and played chorus. Rosine did not
say a word, but she stealthily threw a glance at her father, and her
look was like freezing water.

Clerambault was exciting himself; he was not yet at the bottom, but he
was conscientiously trying to reach it. Nevertheless there remained to
him enough lucidity to alarm him at his own progress. An artist yields
more through his sensibility to waves of emotion which reach him from
without, but to resist them he has also weapons which others have
not. For the least reflective, he who abandons himself to his lyrical
impulses, has in some degree the faculty of introspection which it
rests with him to utilise. If he does not do this, he lacks good-will
more than power; he is afraid to look too clearly at himself for
fear of seeing an unflattering picture. Those however who, like
Clerambault, have the virtue of sincerit