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Clerambault came home one evening at the end of January, wet and chilled through with the fog, after standing at a wood-yard.  He had stood for hours in line waiting his turn in the crowd, and after all they had been told that there would be no distribution that day.  As he came near the house where he lived he heard his name, and a young man who was talking to the janitor turned and held out a letter, looking rather embarrassed as Clerambault came forward.  The right sleeve of his coat was pinned up to the shoulder, and there was a patch over his right eye; he was pale, and evidently had been laid up for months.  Clerambault spoke pleasantly to him and tried to take the letter, but the man drew it back quickly, saying that it was of no consequence now.  Clerambault then asked if he would not come up and talk to him a little while, but the other hesitated, and the poet might have perceived that he was trying to get away, but not being very quick at seeing into other people’s minds, he said good-naturedly:  “My flat is rather high up....”

This seemed to touch the visitor on a tender point, and he answered:  “I can get up well enough,” and turned towards the staircase.  Clerambault now understood that besides his other wounds, the heart within him had been wounded to the quick.

They sat down in the fireless study, and like the room, it was some time before the conversation thawed out.  All that Clerambault could get out of the man were short stiff answers, not very clear, and given in rather an irritated tone.  He learned that his name was Julian Moreau, that he had been a student at the Faculty of Letters, and had just passed three months at Val-de-Grace.  He was living alone in Paris, in a room over in the Latin Quarter, though he had a widowed mother and some other relations in Orleans; he did not explain at first why he was not with them.

All at once after a short silence he decided to speak, and in a low voice, hoarse at first, but softening as he went on, he told Clerambault that his articles had been brought into his trench by a man just back from leave, and handed about from one to the other; to him they had been a real blessing.  They answered to the cry of his inmost soul:  “Thou shalt not lie.”  The papers and reviews made him furious; they had the impudence to show the soldier a false picture of the armies, trumped-up letters from the front, a cheap comedy style of courage, and inappropriate joking; all the abject boasting of actors safe at home, speechifying over the death of others.  It was an insult to be slobbered over with the disgusting kisses of these prostitutes of the press.  As if their sufferings were a mockery!

Clerambault’s writings found an echo in their hearts; not that he understood them, no one could understand who had not shared their hardships.  But he pitied them, and spoke humanely of the unfortunates in all camps.  He dared to speak of the injustices, common to all nations, which had led to the general suffering.  He could not take away their trouble, but he did raise it into an atmosphere where it could be borne.