Perhaps these mystical revolutionaries are forerunners of mutations that are brooding in the race—­which may brood for centuries and perhaps never burst forth.  For there are millions of latent possibilities in nature, for one realised in the time allotted to our humanity.  And it is perhaps this obscure sentiment of what might be, but will not come to pass, which sometimes gives to this sort of mysticism another form, rarer, more tragical—­an exalted pessimism, the dangerous attraction of sacrifice.  How many of these revolutionists have we seen secretly convinced of the overwhelming force of evil, and the certain defeat of their cause, and yet transported with love for a lost cause “... sed victa Catoni” ... and filled with the hope of dying for her, destroying or being destroyed.  The crushed Commune gave rise to many aspirations, not for its victory, but for a similar annihilation!—­In the hearts of the most materialistic there burns forever a spark of that eternal fire, that hope so often buffeted and denied, but still maintained, of an imperishable refuge for all the oppressed in some better Hereafter.

These young people welcomed Clerambault with great affection and esteem, hoping to make him one of themselves.  Some of them read in his ideas a reflection of their own, while others saw in him just a sincere old bourgeois whose heart had been hitherto his only guide—­a rather insufficient, though generous one.  They hoped that he would let himself be taught by their science, and like them, would follow to their extreme limits the logical consequences of the principles laid down.  Clerambault resisted feebly, for he knew that nothing can be done to convince a young man who has made himself part of a system.  Discussion is hopeless at that age.  Earlier there is some chance to act on him, when, as it were, the hermit-crab is looking for his shell; and later something may be done when the shell begins to wear and be uncomfortable; but when the coat is new, the only thing is to let him wear it while it fits him.  If he grows, or shrinks, he will get another.  We will force no one, but let no one try to put force on us!

No one in this circle, at least in the early days, thought of constraining Clerambault, but sometimes it seemed to him that his ideas were strangely habited in the fashion of his hosts.  What unexpected echoes he heard on their lips!  He let his friends talk, while he himself said but little, but when he had left them, he would feel troubled and rather ironical.  “Are those my thoughts?” he would say to himself.  It is terribly difficult for one soul to communicate with another, impossible perhaps, and who knows?...  Nature is wiser than we ... it may be that this is for our good.