Ome of the intellectuals were among the most eager in demanding this
lowering of the position of their group. One would have thought that
they did not wish it to be supposed that they belonged to it. Perhaps
they had forgotten that they did. Moreau, however, had not forgotten it;
he was all the more bitter in repudiating this class, whose shirt of
Nessus still clung to his skin, and it made him extremely violent. He
now began to display singularly aggressive sentiments towards
Clerambault; during a discussion he would interrupt him rudely, with a
kind of sarcastic and bitter irritation. It almost seemed as if he meant
to wound him. 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