Bertin was of the same mind as his teachers; he was in haste to succeed, and believed that the fruit of triumph has more flavour when one’s teeth are young enough to bite into it.  He had scarcely left the University when he found means to publish in a great Parisian review a series of essays which immediately brought him to the notice of the general public.  And without pausing to take breath, he produced one after another a novel in the style of d’Annunzio, a comedy in Rostand’s vein, a book on love, another on reforms in the Constitution, a study of Modernism, a monograph on Sarah Bernhardt, and, finally, the “Dialogues of the Living.”  The sarcastic but measured spirit of this last work obtained for him the position of column writer on one of the leading dailies.  Having thus entered journalism he stayed in the profession, and became one of the ornaments of the Paris of Letters, while Clerambault’s name was still unknown.  The latter had been slow in gaining the mastery over his inward resources, and was so occupied in struggles with himself that he had no time for the conquest of the public.  His first works, which were published with difficulty, were not read by more than a dozen people.  It is only fair to Bertin to say that he was one of the dozen, and that he appreciated Clerambault’s talents.  He was even ready to say so, when opportunity served, and as long as Clerambault was unknown, he took pleasure in defending him.  It is true that he would sometimes add a friendly and patronising piece of advice to his praises, which, if Clerambault did not always follow, he received with the old affectionate respect.

In a little while Clerambault became known, and even celebrated.  Bertin, somewhat surprised, sincerely pleased by his friend’s success—­the least bit vexed by it, perhaps—­intimated that he thought it exaggerated, and that the better Clerambault was the obscure Clerambault before his reputation was made.  He would even undertake to prove this to Clerambault himself, sometimes, who neither agreed nor disagreed.  For how could he tell, who thought very little about it, his head being always full of some new work?  The two old comrades remained on excellent terms, but little by little they began to see less of one another.

The war had made Bertin a furious jingo.  In the old days at school he used to scandalise Clerambault’s provincial mind by his impudent disrespect for all values, political and social—­country, morality, and religion.  In his literary works he continued to parade his anarchism, but in a sceptical, worldly, bored sort of manner which was to the taste of his rich clientele.  Now, before this clientele and the rest of those who purveyed to it, his brethren of the popular press and theatres, the contemptible Parny’s and Crebillon Jr.’s of the day, he suddenly assumed the attitude of Brutus immolating his sons.  It is true he himself had none, but perhaps that was a regret to him.

Clerambault did not dream of finding fault with him for these opinions; but he did not dream either that his old friend and amoralist would come out against him as the defender of his outraged country.  But was it a question simply of his country?