"'The Sun of Truth is like our sun. It rises in many different places. One day it appears in the sign of Cancer, on another it rises in Libra, but it is always the same sun. Once the Sun of Truth rose in the constellation of Abraham, and set in that of Moses, flaming over the whole horizon; and later it was seen in the sign of Christ, bright and resplendent. When its light shone over Sinai, the followers of Abraham were blinded. But wherever the sun may rise, my eyes will be fixed upon it; even if it should appear in the west it will always be the sun.'"

"'C'est du Nord aujourd'hui que nous vient la lumiere,'"[1] said Moreau, laughing ("It is from the North that our light comes today").

[Footnote 1: A famous line of Voltaire's. (Author.)]



Though the hearing was set for one o'clock, and it was now barely twelve, Clerambault wanted to start at once, he was so afraid of being late.

They had not far to go, and indeed his friends had no need to protect him against the rabble which hung about the Palais de Justice, a crowd which in any case was considerably thinned out by the morning's news. There were only a few curs, more noisy than dangerous, who might have snapped at their heels.

They had reached the corner of the Rue Vaugirard and the Rue d'Assas, when Clerambault, finding that he had forgotten an important paper, went back to look for it in his apartment; the others stood there waiting for him. They saw him come out and cross the street. On the opposite sidewalk, near a cab-stand, was a well-dressed man of about his own age, grey-haired, not very tall, and rather stout. They saw this person go up to Clerambault—it all passed so quickly that they had no time even to cry out. There was a brief exchange of words, an arm raised, a shot!—they saw him totter, and ran up. Too late.

They laid him down on a bench; a little crowd gathered, more curious than shocked (people had seen so many things of this kind), looking over each ether's shoulders:

"Who is it?"

"A defeatist."

"Serve him right, then I The dirty beasts have done us harm enough!"

"I don't know, there are worse things than to want the war to be over."

"There is only one way to finish it; we must fight it out. It is the pacifists' fault that it has dragged on so long."

"You might almost say that they were the cause of it; the boches counted on them. Without those fools there wouldn't have been any war." Clerambault lying there half-unconscious, thought of the old woman who threw her fagot on the wood stacked around John Huss ... Sancta simplicitas.

Vaucoux had not attempted to get away, but let them take the revolver out of his hand without resistance. They held his arms fast, and he stood looking at his victim, whose eyes met his; each thought of his son.

Moreau, much excited, spoke threateningly to Vaucoux; who, like an impassive image of hatred, only answered briefly: "I have killed the Adversary, the Enemy."

A faint smile hovered on Clerambault's lips as he looked at Vaucoux. "My poor friend," he thought, "It is within you yourself that the Enemy lies,"—his eyes closed ... centuries seemed to pass.... "There are no enemies...." and Clerambault entered into the peace of the worlds to come.

Seeing that he had lost consciousness, his friends carried him into Froment's house which was close by; but he was dead before they reached it.

They laid him on a bed, in a room beside that in which the young paralytic lay with his friends now gathered round him. The door remained open. The spirit of the dead man seemed near them.

Moreau spoke bitterly of the absurdity of this murder; why not strike one of the great pirates of the triumphant reaction, or a recognised head of the revolutionary group? Why choose this inoffensive, unbiassed man, who was kind to everyone, and almost too comprehending to all sides?

"Hatred makes no mistakes," said Edme Froment. "It has been guided by a sure instinct to the right mark; for an enemy often sees more clearly than a friend. No, there is no doubt about it, the most dangerous adversary of society and the established order in this world of violence, falsehood, and base compromises, is, and has always been, the man of peace and a free conscience. The crucifixion of Jesus was no accident; He had to be put to death. He would be executed today; for a great evangelist is a revolutionary, and the most radical of all. He is the inaccessible source from whence revolutions break through the hard ground, the eternal principle of non-submission of the spirit to Caesar, no matter who he may be—the unjust force. This explains the hatred of those servants of the State, the domesticated peoples, for the insulted Christ who looks at them in silence, and also for His disciples, for us, the eternal insurrectionists, the conscientious objectors to tyranny from high or low, to that of today or tomorrow ... for us, who go before One greater than ourselves, who comes bringing to the world the Word of salvation, the Master laid in the grave but 'qui sera en agonie jusqu' a la fin du monde,'[1] whose suffering will endure to the world's end, the unfettered Spirit, the Lord of all." [Footnote 1: The quotation is from Pascal. (Author.)]

SIERRE, 1916—PARIS, 1920.

THE END