to spare."

"If that were only literally true," said the other, and the two
friends exchanged an affectionate glance. Chastenay continued:

"I should in that case only be giving back a part of what I owe you."
Then turning to Clerambault, he added: "He is the one who keeps us all
up, is it not so, Madame Fanny?"

"Indeed yes, I could not do without my strong son," said the mother
tenderly.

"They take advantage of the fact that I cannot defend myself," said
Edme to Clerambault. "You see I cannot stir an inch."

"Was it a wound?"

"Paralysis."--Clerambault did not dare to ask for details, but after a
pause: "Do you suffer much?" he inquired.

"I ought to wish that it were so perhaps; for pain is a tie between us
and the shore. However, I confess that I prefer the silence of this
body in which I am encased ... let us say no more about it.... My mind
at least is free. And if it is not true that it '_agitat molem_,' does
often escape."

"I know," said Clerambault, "it came to see me the other day."

"Not for the first time; it has been there before."

"And I who thought myself deserted!"

"Do you recall," said Edme, "the words of Randolph to Cecil?--'_The
voice of a man alone can in one hour put more life into us than the
clang of five hundred trumpets sounded continuously_.'"

"That always reminds me of you," said Chastenay, but Edme went on as
if he had not heard him: ... "You have waked us all up."

Clerambault looked at the brave calm eyes of the paralytic, and said:

"Your eyes do not look as if they needed to be waked."

"They do not need it now," said Edme, "the farther off one is, the
better one sees; but when I was close to everything I saw very
little."

"Tell me what you see now."

"It is getting late," said Edme, "and I am rather tired. Will you come
another time?"

"Tomorrow, if you will let me."

As Clerambault went out Chastenay joined him. He felt the need of
confiding to a heart that could feel the pain and grandeur of the
tragedy of which his friend had been at once the hero and the victim.
Edme Froment had been struck on the spinal column by an exploding
shell. Young as he was, he was one of the intellectual leaders of his
generation, handsome, ardent, eloquent, overflowing with life and
visions, loving and beloved, nobly ambitious, and all at once, at a
blow,--a living death! His mother who had centred all her pride and
love on him now saw him condemned for the rest of his days