prepared these
unfortunates for such a task. In vain they raised their voices and
exhausted all the resources of French rhetoric, the "poilus" only
shrugged their shoulders.

However people in the rear liked them much better than the stories
written in the dark and covered with mud, that came out of the
trenches. The visions of a Barbusse had not yet dawned to show
the truth to these talkative shadows. There was no difficulty for
Clerambault, he shone in these eloquent contests. For he had the fatal
gift of verbal and rhythmical facility which separates poets from
reality, wrapping them as if in a spider's web. In times of peace this
harmless web hung on the bushes, the wind blowing through it, and the
good-natured Arachne caught nothing but light in her meshes. Nowadays,
however, the poets cultivated their carniverous instincts--fortunately
rather out of date--and hidden at the bottom of their web one could
catch sight of a nasty little beast with an eye fixed on the prey.
They sang of hatred and holy butchery, and Clerambault did as they
did, even better, for he had more voice. And, by dint of screaming,
this worthy man ended by feeling passions that he knew nothing of. He
learned to "know" hatred at last, know in the Biblical sense, and it
only roused in him that base pride that an undergraduate feels when
for the first time he finds himself coming out of a brothel.

Now he was a man, and in fact he needed nothing more, he had fallen as
low as the others.

Camus well deserved and enjoyed the first taste of each one of these
poems and they made him neigh with enthusiasm, for he recognised
himself in them. Clerambault was flattered, thinking he had touched
the popular string. The brothers-in-law spent their evenings alone
together. Clerambault read, Camus drank in his verses; he knew them by
heart, and told everyone who would listen to him that Hugo had come
to life again, and that each of these poems was worth a victory. His
noisy admiration made it unnecessary for the other members of the
family to express their opinion. Under some excuse, Rosine regularly
made a practice of leaving the room when the reading was over.
Clerambault felt it, and would have liked to ask his daughter's
opinion, but found it more prudent not to put the question. He
preferred to persuade himself that Rosine's emotion and timidity put
her to flight. He was vexed all the same, but the approval of the
outside world healed this slight woun