ate as usual,
remembering the troubles of others, her father and his worries.
But she seemed to put her happy arms about them, with a simple
affectionate conceit, as if she said: "Please don't worry any more
over all these ideas, darlings! It is foolish of you to be sad, when
you see that happiness is coming."

Clerambault smiled tenderly as he read the letter. No doubt happiness
was on the way, but some of us cannot wait for it. "Greet it from me,
my little Rose, and do not let it fly away."

About eleven o'clock the Count de Coulanges came to ask after him; he
had seen Moreau and Gillot mounting guard before the door. They had
come to escort Clerambault according to their promise, but they had
not dared to come up because they were an hour too early. Clerambault
sent for them, laughing at their excess of zeal, and they admitted
that they had thought him perfectly capable of sneaking out of the
house without waiting for them; an idea which he confessed had crossed
his mind.

The news from the front was good; during the last few days the German
offensive had wavered; strange signs of weakness began to appear;
and well-founded rumours made it evident that there was a secret
disorganisation in the formidable mass. People said that the limit of
his strength had been passed and that the athlete was exhausted. There
was talk also of contagion from the Russian revolutionary spirit
brought by the German troops that had been on the Eastern Front.

With the usual mobility of the French mind, the pessimists of
yesterday began to shout for the approaching victory. Already Moreau
discounted the calming down of passions and the return to common
sense. The reconciliation of the nations and the triumph of
Clerambault's ideas would follow shortly. He advised them not to
deceive themselves too much, and amused himself by describing what
would happen when peace was signed; for peace would have to come some
day.

"I am going to pretend," said he, "that I am hovering over the
town--like the devil on two sticks--the first night after the
armistice. I see innumerable sorrowing hearts behind shutters closed
against the shouts in the streets. Hearts straining all through these
years towards a victory that would lend meaning to their grief;
and now they can let go--or break down, sleep, die, perhaps. The
politicians will reflect on the quickest and most lucrative way to
exploit the success, or turn a somersault if they have guessed wrong