Page:Rolland - Clerambault, tr. Miller, 1921.djvu/262



"Your eyes do not look as if they needed to be waked."

"They do not need it now," said Edmé, "the farther off one is, the better one sees; but when I was close to everything I saw very little."

"Tell me what you see now."

"It is getting late," said Edmé, "and I am rather tired. Will you come another time?"

"Tomorrow, if you will let me."

As Clerambault went out Chastenay joined him. He felt the need of confiding to a heart that could feel the pain and grandeur of the tragedy of which his friend had been at once the hero and the victim. Edmé Froment had been struck on the spinal column by an exploding shell. Young as he was, he was one of the intellectual leaders of his generation, handsome, ardent, eloquent, overflowing with life and visions, loving and beloved, nobly ambitious, and all at once, at a blow,--a living death! His mother who had centred all her pride and love on him now saw him condemned for the rest of his days to this terrible fate. They had both suffered terribly, but each hid it from the other, and this effort kept them up. They took great pride in each other. She had all the care of him, washed and fed him like a little child, and he kept calm for her sake, and sustained her on the wings of his spirit.

"Ah," said Chastenay, "it makes one feel ashamed--when I think that I am alive and well, that I can reach out my arms to life, that I can run and leap, and draw this blessed air into my lungs...." As he spoke he stretched out his arms, raised his head, and breathed deeply.

"I ought to feel remorseful," he added, lowering his voice, "and the worst is that I do not." Clerambault could not help smiling.

"It is not very heroic," continued Chastenay, "and yet I care more for Froment than for anyone on earth