As became a good idealist, Clerambault rarely looked where he was going, but that did not prevent him from meddling in politics in a fumbling sort of way, as was the mania of men of letters in his day.  He had his word to say, right or wrong, and was often entreated to speak by journalists in need of copy, and fell into their trap, taking himself seriously in his innocent way.  On the whole he was a fair poet and a good man, intelligent, if rather a greenhorn, pure of heart and weak in character, sensitive to praise and blame, and to all the suggestions round him.  He was incapable of a mean sentiment of envy or hatred, and unable also to attribute such thoughts to others.  Amid the complexity of human feelings, he remained blind towards evil and an advocate of the good.  This type of writer is born to please the public, for he does not see faults in men, and enhances their small merits, so that even those who see through him are grateful.  If we cannot amount to much, a good appearance is a consolation, and we love to be reflected in eyes which lend beauty to our mediocrity.

This widespread sympathy, which delighted Clerambault, was not less sweet to the three who surrounded him at this moment.  They were as proud of him as if they had made him, for what one admires does seem in a sense one’s own creation, and when in addition one is of the same blood, a part of the object of our admiration, it is hard to tell if we spring from him, or he from us.

Agenor Clerambault’s wife and his two children gazed at their great man with the tender satisfied expression of ownership; and he, tall and high-shouldered, towered over them with his glowing words and enjoyed it all; he knew very well that we really belong to the things that we fancy are our possessions.

Clerambault had just finished with a Schilleresque vision of the fraternal joys promised in the future.  Maxime, carried away by his enthusiasm in spite of his sense of humour, had given the orator a round of applause all by himself.  Pauline noisily asked if Agenor had not heated himself in speaking, and amid the excitement Rosine silently pressed her lips to her father’s hand.

The servant brought in the mail and the evening papers, but no one was in a hurry to read them.  The news of the day seemed behind the times compared with the dazzling future.  Maxime however took up the popular middle-class sheet, and threw his eye over the columns.  He started at the latest items and exclaimed; “Hullo!  War is declared.”  No one listened to him:  Clerambault was dreaming over the last vibrations of his verses; Rosine lost in a calm ecstasy; the mother alone, who could not fix her mind on anything, buzzing about like a fly, chanced to catch the last word,—­“Maxime, how can you be so silly?” she cried, but Maxime protested, showing his paper with the declaration of war between Austria and Servia.

“War with whom?”—­“With Servia?”—­“Is that all?” said the good woman, as if it were a question of something in the moon.