is
time, because they obscurely saw in him the point where they could
meet, the clearing from which every path in the forest is visible.
Froment had not always tried to bring others together; as long as
he was well and strong, he too had taken his own way, but since his
course had been cut short, after a time of bitter despondency of which
he said nothing, he had placed himself at the cross-roads. As he could
not possibly act himself, he was better able to view the whole field
and take part in spirit. He saw the different currents: country,
revolution, contests between states and classes, science and
faith--like a stream's conflicting forces, with its rapids,
whirlpools, and reefs; it may sometimes slacken, or turn its course,
but it always flows on irresistibly (even reaction is carried
forward). And he, the poor youth staked at his cross-roads, took all
these currents unto him, the entire stream.

Edme reminded Clerambault sometimes of Perrotin, but he and Froment
were worlds apart. The latter also denied nothing of what is, and
wished to understand everything; but his was a fiery spirit, his whole
soul was filled with ordered movement and feeling; with him all life
and death went forward and upward. And his body lay there motionless.

It was a dark hour; the turn of the year 1917-18. In the foggy winter
nights men waited for the supreme onslaught of the German armies,
which rumour had foretold for months past; the Gotha raids on Paris
had already begun. Those who wanted to fight to the end pretended
confidence, the papers kept on boasting, and Clemenceau had never
slept better in his life. But the tension showed in the increasing
bitterness of feeling among civilians. The agonised public turned on
the suspects among them, the defeatists and the pacifists, and
for days at a time the baying of an accusing public pursued these
miserable creatures and hunted them down. And spies swarmed of all
sorts, patriotic denouncers, half-crazed witnesses. When towards the
end of March the long-threatened great offensive against Paris began,
the "sacred" fury between fellow-citizens reached its height, and
there is no doubt that if the invasion had succeeded, before the
Germans had arrived at the gates of the city, the gallows at
Vincennes, that altar of the country's vengeance, would have known
many victims, innocent or guilty, accused or condemned.

Clerambault was often shouted at in the streets, but he was not
alarmed;