"No!" roared Camus.
"Do you mean that I am not free to say what I think?"
"You are not free, you have no right to say such things," cried the exasperated Camus. "Your country has claims on you, and your family first of all. They ought to shut you up."
He insisted that the letter should be written that very moment, but Clerambault simply turned his back on him. So he left, banging the door after him, and vowing that he would never set foot there again, that all was over between them.
After this poor Clerambault had to submit to a string of questions from his wife who, without knowing what he had done, lamented his imprudence and asked with tears: "Why, why he had not kept silent? Had they not trouble enough? What was this mania he had for talking? And particularly for talking differently from other people?"
While this was going on, Rosine came back from an errand, and Clerambault appealed to her, telling her in a confused manner of the painful scene that had just taken place, and begging her to sit down there by his table and let him read the article to her. Without even taking off her hat and gloves, Rosine did sit down near him, and listened sensibly, sweetly, and when he had done, kissed him and said:
"Yes, I think it's fine,--but, dear Papa, why did you do it?" Clerambault was completely taken aback.
"What? You ask why I did it? Don't you think it is right?"
"I don't know. Yes, I believe it must be right since you say so.... But perhaps it was not necessary to write it...."
"Not necessary? But if it is right, it must be necessary."
"But if it makes such a fuss!"
