Clerambault and Camus exchanged ideas, and to such an extent that finally Clerambault could not tell which were his own, and as he lost footing he felt more strongly the need to act; for action was a kind of justification to himself....  Whom did he wish to justify?  Alas, it was Camus!  In spite of his habitual ardour and convictions he was a mere echo—­and of what unhappy voices.

He began to write Hymns to Battle.  There was great competition in this line among poets who did not fight themselves.  But there was little danger that their productions would clog men’s memories in future ages, for nothing in their previous career had 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  Nowadays, however, the poets cultivated their carniverous instincts—­fortunately rather out of date—­and hidden at the bottom of their web one could catch sight of a nasty little beast with an eye fixed on the prey.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