Clerambault knew certainly that Maxime was dead.  He had not told his wife, but had concealed some information that destroyed all hope.  She was one of those people who absolutely must keep a gleam of falsehood to lure them on, against all reason, until the first flood of grief is over.  Perhaps Clerambault himself had been one of them, but he was not so now; for he saw where this lure had led him.  He did not judge, he was not yet able to form a judgment, lying in the darkness.  Too weak to rise, and feel about him, he was like someone who moves his crushed limbs after a fall, and with each stab of pain recovers consciousness of life, and tries to understand what has happened to him.  The stupid gulf of this death overcame him.  That this beautiful child, who had given them so much joy, cost them so much care, all this marvel of hope in flower, the priceless little world that is a young man, a tree of Jesse, future years ... all vanished in an hour!—­and why?—­why?—­

He was forced to try to persuade himself at least that it was for something great and necessary.  Clerambault clung despairingly to this buoy during the succeeding nights, feeling that if his hold gave way he should go under.  More than ever he insisted on the holiness of the cause; he would not even discuss it; but little by little his fingers slipped, he settled lower with every movement, for each new statement of the justice of his cause roused a voice in his conscience which said: 

“Even if you were twenty thousand times more right in this struggle, is your justification worth the disasters it costs?  Does justice demand that millions of innocents should fall, a ransom for the sins and the errors of others?  Is crime to be washed out by crime? or murder by murder?  And must your sons be not only victims but accomplices, assassinated and assassins?...”

He looked back at the last visit of his son, and reflected on their last talks together.  How many things were clear to him now, which he had not understood at the time!  Maxime’s silence, the reproach in his eyes.  The worst of all was when he recognised that he had understood, at the time, when his son was there, but that he would not admit it.

This discovery, which had hung over him like a dark cloud for weeks,—­this realisation of inward falsehood,—­crushed him to the earth.

Until the actual crisis was upon them, Rosine Clerambault seemed thrown into the shade.  Her inward life was unknown to the others, and almost to herself; even her father had scarcely a glimpse of it.  She had lived under the wing of the warm, selfish, stifling family life, and had few friends or companions of her own age, for her parents stood between her and the world outside, and she had grown up in their shadow.

As she grew older if she had wished to escape she would not have dared, would not have known how; for she was shy outside the family circle, and could hardly move or talk; people thought her insignificant.  This she knew; it wounded her self-respect, and therefore she went out as little as possible, preferring to stay at home, where she was simple, natural and taciturn.  This silence did not arise from slowness of thought, but from the chatter of the others.  As her father, mother, and brother were all exuberant talkers, this little person by a sort of reaction, withdrew into herself, where she could talk freely.