Clerambault saw that he had not known himself; he was, as it were, new-born, since that night of anguish.  He learned to taste a joy of which he had never before had an idea—­the giddy joy of the free lance in a fight; all his senses strung like a bow, glad in a perfect well-being.

This improved state, however, brought no advantage to Clerambault’s family; his wife’s share of the struggle was only the unpleasantness, a general animosity that finally made itself felt even among the small tradespeople of the neighbourhood.  Rosine drooped; her secret heart-ache wore upon her all the more because of her silence; but if she said nothing her mother complained enough for two.  She made no distinction between the fools who affronted her and the imprudent Clerambault who caused all the trouble; so that at every meal there were awkward remarks meant to induce him to keep still.  All this was of no use, reproaches whether spoken or silent, passed over his head; he was sorry, of course, but he had thrown himself into the thick of the fight, and with a somewhat childish egotism he thrust aside anything that interfered with this new interest.

Circumstances, however, came to Madame Clerambault’s assistance; an old relation who had brought her up died, leaving her little property in Berry to the Clerambaults.  The mourning was a good excuse for quitting Paris, which had now become detestable, and for tearing the poet from his dangerous surroundings.  There was also the question of money and of Rosine, who would be better for change of air.  Clerambault gave in, and they all three went to take possession of their small inheritance, and remained in Berry during the rest of the summer and autumn.  It was in the country, a respectable old house just outside a village.  From the agitation of Paris Clerambault passed at once to a stagnant calm, and in the long silent days all that broke the monotony was a cock crowing in a farm-yard or a cow lowing in the meadow.  Clerambault was too much wrought up to adapt himself to the slow and placid rhythm of nature; formerly he had adored it and was in harmony with the country people from whom his family had come.  Now, however, the peasants with whom he tried to talk seemed to him creatures from another planet.  Certainly, they were not infected by the virus of war; they showed no emotion, and no hatred for the enemy; but then they had no animosity either against war, which they accepted as a fact.  Certain keen, good-natured observations showed that they were not taken in as to the merits of the case, but since the war was there they made the most they could out of it.  They might lose their sons, but they did not mean to lose money; not that they were heartless, grief had marked them deeply, though they spoke little of it; but after all, men pass away,—­the land is always there.  They at least had not, like the bourgeois in cities, sent their children to death through national fanaticism.  Only they knew how to get something in exchange for what they gave; and it is probable that their sons would have thought this perfectly natural.  Because you have lost someone you love, must you lose your head too?  Our peasants did not lose theirs; it is said that in the country districts of France more than a million new proprietors have been made by the war.