Moreau, however, had not forgotten it; he was all the more bitter in repudiating this class, whose shirt of Nessus still clung to his skin, and it made him extremely violent.

He now began to display singularly aggressive sentiments towards Clerambault; during a discussion he would interrupt him rudely, with a kind of sarcastic and bitter irritation.  It almost seemed as if he meant to wound him.

Clerambault did not take offence; he rather felt great pity for Moreau; he knew what he suffered, and he could imagine the bitterness of a young life spoiled like his.  Patience and resignation, the moral nourishment on which stomachs fifty years old subsist, were not suited to his youth.

One evening Moreau had shown himself particularly disagreeable, and yet he persisted in walking home with Clerambault, as if he could not make up his mind to leave him.  He walked along by his side, silent and frowning.  All at once Clerambault stopped, and putting his hand through Moreau’s arm with a friendly gesture said with a smile: 

“It’s all wrong, isn’t it, old fellow?”

Moreau was somewhat taken aback, but he pulled himself together and asked drily what made anyone think that things were “all wrong.”

“I thought so because you were so cross tonight,” said Clerambault good naturally, and in answer to a protesting murmur.  “Yes, you certainly were trying to hurt me,—­just a little ...  I know of course that you would not really,—­but when a man like you tries to inflict pain on others it is because he is suffering himself ... isn’t that true?”

“Yes, it is true,” said Moreau, “you must forgive me, but it hurts me when I see that you are not in sympathy with our action.”

“And are you?” demanded Clerambault.  Moreau did not seem to understand.  “You yourself,” repeated Clerambault, “do you believe in it?”

“Of course I do!  What a question!” said Moreau indignantly.

“I doubt it,” said Clerambault gently.  Moreau seemed to be on the point of losing his temper, but in a moment he said more quietly:  “You are mistaken.”  Clerambault turned to walk on.  “All right,” said he, “you know your own thoughts better than I do.”

For some minutes they continued in silence; then Moreau seized his old friend’s arm, and said excitedly: 

“How did you know it?”—­and his resistance having broken down, he confessed the despair hidden under his aggressive determination to believe and act.  He was eaten up with pessimism, a natural consequence of his excessive idealism which had been so cruelly disappointed.  The religious souls of former times were tranquil enough; they placed the kingdom of God so far away that no event could touch it; but those of today have established it on earth, by the work of human love and reason, so that when life deals a blow at their dream all life seems horrible to them.  There were days when Moreau was tempted to cut his throat!  Humanity seemed