Madame Clerambault and Rosine were out, so the poet was alone, and welcomed his young friend with delight, but Daniel responded awkwardly, answering questions somewhat at random, and at last abruptly brought up the subject which he had at heart. He said that he had heard talk at the front of Clerambault's articles, and he felt very badly. People said—they made out that—well, he had heard severe things about them; he knew people were often unjust, but he had come—here he pressed Clerambault's hand in a timid friendly way—he had come to entreat him not to desert all those who loved him. He reminded him of the devotion that had inspired the poet who had celebrated the traditions of French soil and the glories of the race…. "In this hour of trial," he implored, "stand by us."
"I have never been closer to you than now," answered Clerambault, and he added:
"You say that people blame what I have written. Dear boy, what do you think of it yourself?"
"I confess I have not read it," said Daniel. "I did not want to, for fear that it might disturb my affection for you, or hinder me in my duty."
"Your faith cannot be very strong, if a few lines of print can shake it."
"My convictions are firm enough," said Daniel, a little miffed, "but there are certain things which it is wisest not to discuss."
"That is something that I should not have expected to hear from a scientific man," said Clerambault. "The truth can lose nothing by discussion."
"Truth, no, but love—love of country."
"My dear Daniel, you go farther than I. I do not place truth in opposition to love of country, on the contrary I endeavour to reconcile them."
Daniel tried to cut the matter short.