The following week a letter arrived from Daniel to Clerambault.  Though he seemed a little shamefaced about his attitude and that of his parents, he tried rather to explain, than to apologise for it.  He spoke of the ties of admiration, respect and friendship which united him to Clerambault, and alluded discreetly to the hope that he had formed of one day becoming closer yet; but he added that Clerambault had disturbed these dreams of the future by the regrettable position that he had seen fit to adopt in the life and death crisis through which the country was now passing, a position rendered worse by the wide publicity given to Clerambault’s words.  These words, little understood perhaps, but certainly imprudent, had raised a storm of opposition on account of their almost sacrilegious character; the feeling of indignation was unanimous among the men at the front, as well as in the circle of friends at home.  His parents knew what his hope had been, but they now absolutely refused to allow it, and in spite of the pain this caused him, he did not feel it right to disregard these scruples, springing as they did from a profound devotion to the wounded country.  An officer who had the honour to offer his life for France could not think of a union which would be regarded as his adhesion to these unfortunate theories; public opinion would condemn it.  Such a view would be unjust, undoubtedly, but it is a thing that must always be reckoned with; the opinion of a whole people is respectable, no matter how extreme and unfair it may appear, and Clerambault had made a grave mistake in trying to brave it.  Daniel entreated him to acknowledge this mistake, and try to rectify, if possible efface, the deplorable effect produced by articles written in a different key.  He urged this upon him as a duty—­towards his country and himself—­letting it be understood that it was also a duty towards one dear to both of them.  In ending his letter he brought forward other considerations where the word opinion constantly recurred, so as at last to take the place of reason and conscience.

As Clerambault read he smiled, recalling a scene of Spitteler’s.  The king Epimetheus was a man of firm conscience, but when the time came to put it to the proof, he could not lay his hand upon it, saw it trying to escape, ran after it, and finally threw himself flat on his stomach to look for it under the bed.  Clerambault reflected that one might be a hero under the fire of the enemy, but a timid small boy before the opinion of his fellow-citizens.

He showed the letter to Rosine, and in spite of the partiality of love, she was hurt that her friend should have wished to do violence to her father’s convictions.  Her conclusion was that Daniel did not love her enough; and she said that her own feeling was not sufficiently strong to endure such exactions; even if Clerambault had been willing to yield, she would not have consented to such an injustice; whereupon she kissed her father, tried to laugh bravely, and to forget her cruel disappointment.