ffence; he rather felt great pity for
Moreau; he knew what he suffered, and he could imagine the bitterness
of a young life spoiled like his. Patience and resignation, the moral
nourishment on which stomachs fifty years old subsist, were not suited
to his youth.

One evening Moreau had shown himself particularly disagreeable, and
yet he persisted in walking home with Clerambault, as if he could not
make up his mind to leave him. He walked along by his side, silent
and frowning. All at once Clerambault stopped, and putting his hand
through Moreau's arm with a friendly gesture said with a smile:

"It's all wrong, isn't it, old fellow?"

Moreau was somewhat taken aback, but he pulled himself together and
asked drily what made anyone think that things were "all wrong."

"I thought so because you were so cross tonight," said Clerambault
good naturally, and in answer to a protesting murmur. "Yes, you
certainly were trying to hurt me,--just a little ... I know of course
that you would not really,--but when a man like you tries to inflict
pain on others it is because he is suffering himself ... isn't that
true?"

"Yes, it is true," said Moreau, "you must forgive me, but it hurts me
when I see that you are not in sympathy with our action."

"And are you?" demanded Clerambault. Moreau did not seem to
understand. "You yourself," repeated Clerambault, "do you believe in
it?"

"Of course I do! What a question!" said Moreau indignantly.

"I doubt it," said Clerambault gently. Moreau seemed to be on the
point of losing his temper, but in a moment he said more quietly: "You
are mistaken." Clerambault turned to walk on. "All right," said he,
"you know your own thoughts better than I do."

For some minutes they continued in silence; then Moreau seized his old
friend's arm, and said excitedly:

"How did you know it?"--and his resistance having broken down, he
confessed the despair hidden under his aggressive determination to
believe and act. He was eaten up with pessimism, a natural consequence
of his excessive idealism which had been so cruelly disappointed. The
religious souls of former times were tranquil enough; they placed the
kingdom of God so far away that no event could touch it; but those
of today have established it on earth, by the work of human love and
reason, so that when life deals a blow at their dream all life seems
horrible to them. There were days when Moreau was tempted to cut his
throat! Humanity seemed m