Perrotin was not exactly delighted to see Clerambault again.  The other day he had been obliged to commit a little cowardly act; he did not mind that, for he was used to it, but it was under the eyes of an incorruptible witness, and he was too clever not to have retained a disagreeable memory of the incident.  He foresaw a discussion, and he hated to discuss with people who had convictions—­there is no fun in it, they take everything so seriously—­however, he was courteous, weak, good-natured, and unable to refuse when anyone attacked him vigorously.  He tried at first to avoid serious questions; but when he saw that Clerambault really needed him, and that perhaps he might save him from some imprudence, he consented, with a sigh, to give up his morning.

Clerambault related to him all that he had done, and the result.  He realised that the world around served other gods than his; for he had shared the same faith, and even now was impartial enough to see a certain grandeur and beauty in it.  Since these last trials, however, he had also seen its horror and absurdity; he had abandoned it for a new ideal, which would certainly bring him into conflict with the old.  With brief and passionate touches, Clerambault explained this new ideal, and called on Perrotin to say if to him it seemed true or false; entreating his friend to lay aside considerations of tact or politeness, to speak clearly and frankly.  Struck by Clerambault’s tragic earnestness, Perrotin changed his tone, and answered in the same key.

“It amounts to this, that you think I am wrong?” asked Clerambault, distressed.  “I see that I am alone in this, but I cannot help it.  Do not try to spare me now, but tell me, am I wrong to think as I do?”

“No, my friend,” replied Perrotin gravely, “you are right.”

“Then you agree that I ought to fight against these murderous mistakes?”

“Ah, that is another matter.”

“Ought I to betray the truth, when it is clear to me?”

“Truth, my poor friend!  No, don’t look at me like that, I shall not follow Pilate’s example, and ask:  What is Truth?  Like you, and longer than you perhaps, I have loved her.  But Truth, my dear Sir, is higher than you, than I, than all those that ever have, or ever will inhabit the earth.  We may believe that we obey the Great Goddess, but in fact we serve only the Di minores, the saints in the side chapels, alternately adored and neglected by the crowd.  The one in honour of whom men are now killing and mutilating themselves in a Corybantic frenzy, can evidently be no longer yours nor mine.  The ideal of the Country is a god, great and cruel, who will leave to the future the image of a sort of bugaboo Cronos, or of his Olympian son whom Christ superseded.  Your ideal of humanity is the highest rung of the ladder, the announcement of the new god—­who will be dethroned later on by one higher still, who will embrace more of the universe.  The ideal and life never cease to evolve,