“I was ready to die in my despair, when a paper in which you were spoken of insultingly, drew my attention to your articles:  To the Dead and To Her Whom We Loved.  I wept with joy as I read them; I am not then left alone to suffer?  I am not solitary?—­You do believe; then, my dear Sir, tell me that you still have faith in these things.  They really exist, and cannot be destroyed?  I must tell you how much good it does me to know that; for I had begun to doubt.  You must forgive me, but I am old and alone and very weary....  God bless you, Sir!  I can die in peace, now that, thanks to you, I know that I have not been deceived.”

Instantly it was as if a window had been opened to the air; Clerambault’s lungs were filled, his heart beat strongly again, life seemed to be renewed, and to flow once more in a full channel.  How deep is the need we have of love from one another!...  A hand stretched out in the hour of my agony makes me feel that I am not a branch torn from the tree, but a living part of it; we save each other.  I give my strength, which would be nothing if it were not taken.  Truth alone is like a spark struck from a stone; dry, harsh, ephemeral.  Will it die out?  No, for it has kindled another soul, and a new star has risen on the horizon.

The new star was seen but for a few moments, then a cloud covered it, and it vanished forever.

Clerambault wrote the same day to his unknown friend, telling him effusively of all his trials and dangerous opinions, but no answer came.  Some weeks later, Clerambault wrote again, but without success.  Such was his longing for a friend with whom to share his troubles and his hopes that he took the train to Grenoble, and from there made his way on foot to the village of which he had the address; but when, joyful with the surprise he brought, he knocked at the door of the schoolhouse, the man who opened it evidently understood nothing of his errand.  After some explanation it appeared that this was a newcomer in the village; that his predecessor had been dismissed in disgrace a month before and ordered to a distance, but that the trouble of the journey had been spared him, for he had died of pneumonia the day before he was to have left the place where he had lived for thirty years.  He was there still, but under the ground.  Clerambault saw the cross over the newly-made mound, but he never knew if his lost friend had at least received his words of sympathy.  It was better for him to remain in doubt, for the letters had never reached their destination; even this gleam of light had been denied to the poor old schoolmaster.