R.R.

SIERRE, March, 1917.

PART ONE

Agenor Clerambault sat under an arbour in his garden at St. Prix, reading to his wife and children an ode that he had just written, dedicated to Peace, ruler of men and things, “Ara Pacis Augustae.”  In it he wished to celebrate the near approach of universal brotherhood.  It was a July evening; a last rosy light lay on the tree-tops, and through the luminous haze, like a veil over the slopes of the hillside and the grey plain of the distant city, the windows on Montmartre burned like sparks of gold.  Dinner was just over.  Clerambault leaned across the table where the dishes yet stood, and as he spoke his glance full of simple pleasure passed from one to the other of his three auditors, sure of meeting the reflection of his own happiness.

His wife Pauline followed the flight of his thought with difficulty.  After the third phrase anything read aloud made her feel drowsy, and the affairs of her household took on an absurd importance; one might say that the voice of the reader made them chirp like birds in a cage.  It was in vain that she tried to follow on Clerambault’s lips, and even to imitate with her own, the words whose meaning she no longer understood; her eye mechanically noted a hole in the cloth, her fingers picked at the crumbs on the table, her mind flew back to a troublesome bill, till as her husband’s eye seemed to catch her in the act, hastily snatching at the last words she had heard, she went into raptures over a fragment of verse,—­for she could never quote poetry accurately.  “What was that, Agenor?  Do repeat that last line.  How beautiful it is.”  Little Rose, her daughter, frowned, and Maxime, the grown son, was annoyed and said impatiently:  “You are always interrupting, Mamma!”

Clerambault smiled and patted his wife’s hand affectionately.  He had married her for love when he was young, poor, and unknown, and together they had gone through years of hardship.  She was not quite on his intellectual level and the difference did not diminish with advancing years, but Clerambault loved and respected his helpmate, and she strove, without much success, to keep step with her great man of whom she was so proud.  He was extraordinarily indulgent to her.  His was not a critical nature—­which was a great help to him in life in spite of innumerable errors of judgment; but as these were always to the advantage of others, whom he saw at their best, people laughed but liked him.  He did not interfere with their money hunt and his countrified simplicity was refreshing to the world-weary, like a wild-growing thicket in a city square.

Maxime was amused by all this, knowing what it was worth.  He was a good-looking boy of nineteen with bright laughing eyes, and in the Parisian surroundings he had been quick to acquire the gift of rapid, humorous observation, dwelling on the outside view of men and things more than on ideas.  Even in those he loved, nothing ridiculous escaped him, but it was without ill-nature.  Clerambault smiled at the youthful impertinence which did not diminish Maxime’s admiration for his father but rather added to its flavour.  A boy in Paris would tweak the Good Lord by the beard, by way of showing affection!