Clerambault did not take offence; he rather felt great pity for Moreau; he knew what he suffered, and he could imagine the bitterness of a young life spoiled like his. Patience and resignation, the moral nourishment on which stomachs fifty years old subsist, were not suited to his youth. One evening Moreau had shown himself particularly disagreeable, and yet he persisted in walking home with Clerambault, as if he could not make up his mind to leave him. He walked along by his side, silent and frowning. All at once Clerambault stopped, and putting his hand through Moreau's arm with a friendly gesture said with a smile: "It's all wrong, isn't it, old fellow?" Moreau was somewhat taken aback, but he pulled himself together and asked drily what made anyone think that things were "all wrong." "I thought so because you were so cross tonight," said Clerambault good naturally, and in answer to a protesting murmur. "Yes, you certainly were trying to hurt me,--just a little ... I know of course that you would not really,--but when a man like you tries to inflict pain on others it is because he is suffering himself ... isn't that true?" "Yes, it is true," said Moreau, "you must forgive me, but it hurts me when I see that you are not in sympathy with our action." "And are you?" demanded Clerambault. Moreau did not seem to understand. "You yourself," repeated Clerambault, "do you believe in it?" "Of course I do! What a question!" said Moreau indignantly. "I doubt it," said Clerambault gently. Moreau seemed to be on the point of losing his temper, but in a moment he said more quietly: "You are mistaken." Clerambault turned to walk on. "All right," said he, "you know your own thoughts better than I do." For some minutes they continued in silence; then Moreau seized his old friend's arm, and said excitedly: