“Ah! that little Princess, she’s really deranged you know,” exclaimed

Duthil. “You are aware that she calls herself a widow? But the truth, it

seems, is that her husband, a real Prince, connected with a royal house

and very handsome, is travelling about the world in the company of a

singer. She with her vicious urchin-like face preferred to come and reign

in Paris, in that mansion of the Avenue Hoche, which is certainly the

most extraordinary Noah’s ark imaginable, with its swarming of

cosmopolitan society indulging in every extravagance!”

“Be quiet, you malicious fellow,” the Baroness gently interrupted. “We,

here, are very fond of Rosemonde, who is a charming woman.”

“Oh! certainly,” Camille again resumed. “She invited us; and we are going

to her place by-and-by, are we not, mamma?”

To avoid replying, the Baroness pretended that she did not hear, whilst

Duthil, who seemed to be well-informed concerning the Princess, continued

to make merry over her intended _matinée_, at which she meant to produce

some Spanish dancing girls, whose performance was so very indecorous that

all Paris, forewarned of the circumstance, would certainly swarm to her

house. And he added: “You’ve heard that she has given up painting. Yes,

she busies herself with chemistry. Her _salon_ is full of Anarchists

now--and, by the way, it seemed to me that she had cast her eyes on you,

my dear Hyacinthe.”

Hyacinthe had hitherto held his tongue, as if he took no interest in

anything. “Oh! she bores me to death,” he now condescended to reply. “If

I’m going to her _matinée_ it’s simply in the hope of meeting my friend

young Lord George Eldrett, who wrote to me from London to give me an

appointment at the Princess’s. And I admit that hers is the only _salon_

where I find somebody to talk to.”

“And so,” asked Amadieu in an ironical way, “you have now gone over to

Anarchism?”

With his air of lofty elegance Hyacinthe imperturbably confessed his

creed: “But it seems to me, monsieur, that in these times of universal

baseness and ignominy, no man of any distinction can be other than an

Anarchist.”

A laugh ran round the table. Hyacinthe was very much spoilt, and

considered very entertaining. His father in particular was immensely

amused by the notion that he of all men should have an Anarchist for a

son. However, the General, in his rancorous moments, talked anarchically

enough of blowing up a society which was so stupid as to let itself be

led by half a dozen disreputable characters. And, indeed, the

investigating magistrate, who was gradually making a specialty of

Anarchist affairs, proved the only one who opposed the young man,

defending threatened civilisation and giving terrifying particulars

concerning what he called the army of devastation and massacre. The

others, while partaking of some delicious duck’s-liver _paté_, which the

house-steward handed around, continued smiling. There was so much misery,

said they; one must take everything into account: things would surely end

by righting themselves. And the Baron himself declared, in a conciliatory

manner: “It’s certain that one might do something, though nobody knows

exactly what. As for all sensible and moderate claims, oh! I agree to

them in advance. For instance, the lot of the working classes may be

ameliorated, charitable enterprises may be undertaken, such, for

instance, as our Asylum for the Invalids of Labour, which we have reason

to be proud of. But we must not be asked for impossibilities.”

With the dessert came a sudden spell of silence; it was as if, amidst the

restless fluttering of the conversation, and the dizziness born of the

copious meal, each one’s worry or distress was again wringing the heart

and setting an expression of perturbation on the countenance. The nervous

unconscientiousness of Duthil, threatened with denunciation, was seen to

revive; so, too, the anxious anger of the Baron, who was meditating how

he might possibly manage to content Silviane. That woman was this sturdy,

powerful man’s taint, the secret sore which would perhaps end by eating

him away and destroying him. But it was the frightful drama in which the

Baroness, Camille and Gérard were concerned that flitted by most visibly

across the faces of all three of them: that hateful rivalry of mother and

daughter, contending for the man they loved. And, meantime, the

silver-gilt blades of the dessert-knives were delicately peeling choice

fruit. And there were bunches of golden grapes looking beautifully fresh,

and a procession of sweetmeats, little cakes, an infinity of dainties,

over which the most satiated appetites lingered complacently.

Then, just as the finger-glasses were being served, a footman came and

bent over the Baroness, who answered in an undertone, “Well, show him

into the _salon_, I will join him there.” And aloud to the others she

added: “It’s Monsieur l’Abbé Froment, who has called and asks most

particularly to see me. He won’t be in our way; I think that almost all

of you know him. Oh! he’s a genuine saint, and I have much sympathy for

him.”

For a few minutes longer they loitered round the table, and then at last

quitted the dining-room, which was full of the odours of viands, wines,

fruits and roses; quite warm, too, with the heat thrown out by the big

logs of firewood, which were falling into embers amidst the somewhat

jumbled brightness of all the crystal and silver, and the pale, delicate

light which fell upon the disorderly table.

Pierre had remained standing in the centre of the little blue and silver

_salon_. Seeing a tray on which the coffee and the liqueurs were in

readiness, he regretted that he had insisted upon being received. And his

embarrassment increased when the company came in rather noisily, with

bright eyes and rosy cheeks. However, his charitable fervour had revived

so ardently within him that he overcame this embarrassment, and all that

remained to him of it was a slight feeling of discomfort at bringing the

whole frightful morning which he had just spent amid such scenes of

wretchedness, so much darkness and cold, so much filth and hunger, into

this bright, warm, perfumed affluence, where the useless and the

superfluous overflowed around those folks who seemed so gay at having

made a delightful meal.

However, the Baroness at once came forward with Gérard, for it was

through the latter, whose mother he knew, that the priest had been

presented to the Duvillards at the time of the famous conversion. And as

he apologised for having called at such an inconvenient hour, the

Baroness responded: “But you are always welcome, Monsieur l’Abbé. You

will allow me just to attend to my guests, won’t you? I will be with you

in an instant.”

She thereupon returned to the table on which the tray had been placed, in

order to serve the coffee and the liqueurs, with her daughter’s

assistance. Gérard, however, remained with Pierre; and, it so chanced,

began to speak to him of the Asylum for the Invalids of Labour, where

they had met one another at the recent laying of the foundation-stone of

a new pavilion which was being erected, thanks to a handsome donation of

100,000 francs made by Baron Duvillard. So far, the enterprise only

comprised four pavilions out of the fourteen which it was proposed to

erect on the vast site given by the City of Paris on the peninsula of

Gennevilliers*; and so the subscription fund remained open, and, indeed,

no little noise was made over this charitable enterprise, which was

regarded as a complete and peremptory reply to the accusations of those

evilly disposed persons who charged the satiated _bourgeoisie_ with doing

nothing for the workers. But the truth was that a magnificent chapel,

erected in the centre of the site, had absorbed two-thirds of the funds

hitherto collected. Numerous lady patronesses, chosen from all the

“worlds” of Paris--the Baroness Duvillard, the Countess de Quinsac, the

Princess Rosemonde de Harn, and a score of others--were entrusted with

the task of keeping the enterprise alive by dint of collections and fancy

bazaars. But success had been chiefly obtained, thanks to the happy idea

of ridding the ladies of all the weighty cares of organisation, by

choosing as managing director a certain Fonsègue, who, besides being a

deputy and editor of the “Globe” newspaper, was a prodigious promoter of

all sorts of enterprises. And the “Globe” never paused in its propaganda,

but answered the attacks of the revolutionaries by extolling the

inexhaustible charity of the governing classes in such wise that, at the

last elections, the enterprise had served as a victorious electoral

weapon.

* This so-called peninsula lies to the northwest of Paris, and

is formed by the windings of the Seine.--Trans.

However, Camille was walking about with a steaming cup of coffee in her

hand: “Will you take some coffee, Monsieur l’Abbé?” she inquired.

“No, thank you, mademoiselle.”

“A glass of Chartreuse then?”

“No, thank you.”

Then everybody being served, the Baroness came back and said amiably:

“Come, Monsieur l’Abbé, what do you desire of me?”

Pierre began to speak almost in an undertone, his throat contracting and

his heart beating with emotion. “I have come, madame, to appeal to your

great kindness of heart. This morning, in a frightful house, in the Rue

des Saules, behind Montmartre, I beheld a sight which utterly upset me.

You can have no idea what an abode of misery and suffering it was; its

inmates without fire or bread, the men reduced to idleness because there

is no work, the mothers having no more milk for their babes, the children

barely clad, coughing and shivering. And among all these horrors I saw

the worst, the most abominable of all, an old workman, laid on his back

by age, dying of hunger, huddled on a heap of rags, in a nook which a dog

would not even accept as kennel.”

He tried to recount things as discreetly as possible, frightened by the

very words he spoke, the horrors he had to relate in that sphere of

superlative luxury and enjoyment, before those happy ones who possessed

all the gifts of this world; for--to use a slang expression--he fully

realised that he sang out of tune, and in most uncourteous fashion. What

a strange idea of his to have called at the hour when one has just

finished _déjeuner_, when the aroma of hot coffee flatters happy

digestion. Nevertheless he went on, and even ended by raising his voice,

yielding to the feeling of revolt which gradually stirred him, going to

the end of his terrible narrative, naming Laveuve, insisting on the

unjust abandonment in which the old man was left, and asking for succour

in the name of human compassion. And the whole company approached to

listen to him; he could see the Baron and the General, and Duthil and

Amadieu, in front of him, sipping their coffee, in silence, without a

gesture.

“Well, madame,” he concluded, “it seemed to me that one could not leave

that old man an hour longer in such a frightful position, and that this

very evening you would have the extreme goodness to have him admitted

into the Asylum of the Invalids of Labour, which is, I think, the proper

and only place for him.”

Tears had moistened Eve’s beautiful eyes. She was in consternation at so

sad a story coming to her to spoil her afternoon when she was looking

forward to her assignation with Gérard. Weak and indolent as she was,

lacking all initiative, too much occupied moreover with her own person,

she had only accepted the presidency of the Committee on the condition

that all administrative worries were to fall on Fonsègue. “Ah! Monsieur

l’Abbé,” she murmured, “you rend my heart. But I can do nothing, nothing

at all, I assure you. Moreover, I believe that we have already inquired

into the affair of that man Laveuve. With us, you know, there must be the

most serious guarantees with regard to every admission. A reporter is

chosen who has to give us full information. Wasn’t it you, Monsieur

Duthil, who was charged with this man Laveuve’s affair?”

The deputy was finishing a glass of Chartreuse. “Yes, it was I. That fine

fellow played you a comedy, Monsieur l’Abbé. He isn’t at all ill, and if

you left him any money you may be sure he went down to drink it as soon

as you were gone. For he is always drunk; and, besides that, he has the

most hateful disposition imaginable, crying out from morning till evening

against the _bourgeois_, and saying that if he had any strength left in

his arms he would undertake to blow up the whole show. And, moreover, he

won’t go into the asylum; he says that it’s a real prison where one’s

guarded by Beguins who force one to hear mass, a dirty convent where the

gates are shut at nine in the evening! And there are so many of them like

that, who rather than be succoured prefer their liberty, with cold and

hunger and death. Well then, let the Laveuves die in the street, since

they refuse to be with us, and be warm and eat in our asylums!”

The General and Amadieu nodded their heads approvingly. But Duvillard

showed himself more generous. “No, no, indeed! A man’s a man after all,

and should be succoured in spite of himself.”

Eve, however, in despair at the idea that she would be robbed of her

afternoon, struggled and sought for reasons. “I assure you that my hands

are altogether tied. Monsieur l’Abbé does not doubt my heart or my zeal.

But how call I possibly assemble the Committee without a few days’ delay?

And I have particular reasons for coming to no decision, especially in an

affair which has already been inquired into and pronounced upon, without

the Committee’s sanction.” Then, all at once she found a solution: “What

I advise you to do, Monsieur l’Abbé, is to go at once to see Monsieur

Fonsègue, our managing director. He alone can act in an urgent case, for

he knows that the ladies have unlimited confidence in him and approve

everything he does.”

“You will find Fonsègue at the Chamber,” added Duthil smiling, “only the

sitting will be a warm one, and I doubt whether you will be able to have

a comfortable chat with him.”

Pierre, whose heart had contracted yet more painfully, insisted on the

subject no further; but at once made up his mind to see Fonsègue, and in

any event obtain from him a promise that the wretched Laveuve should be

admitted to the Asylum that very evening. Then he lingered in the saloon

for a few minutes listening to Gérard, who obligingly pointed out to him

how he might best convince the deputy, which was by alleging how bad an

effect such a story could have, should it be brought to light by the

revolutionary newspapers. However, the guests were beginning to take

their leave. The General, as he went off, came to ask his nephew if he

should see him that afternoon at his mother’s, Madame de Quinsac, whose

“day” it was: a question which the young man answered with an evasive

gesture when he noticed that both Eve and Camille were looking at him.

Then came the turn of Amadieu, who hurried off saying that a serious

affair required his presence at the Palace of Justice. And Duthil soon

followed him in order to repair to the Chamber.

“I’ll see you between four and five at Silviane’s, eh?” said the Baron as

he conducted him to the door. “Come and tell me what occurs at the

Chamber in consequence of that odious article of Sagnier’s. I must at all

events know. For my part I shall go to the Ministry of Fine Arts, to

settle that affair of the Comédie; and besides I’ve some calls to make,

some contractors to see, and a big launching and advertisement affair to

settle.”

“It’s understood then, between four and five, at Silviane’s,” said the

deputy, who went off again mastered by his vague uneasiness, his anxiety

as to what turn that nasty affair of the African Railway Lines might

take.

And all of them had forgotten Laveuve, the miserable wretch who lay at

death’s door; and all of them were hastening away to their business or

their passions, caught in the toils, sinking under the grindstone and

whisked away by that rush of all Paris, whose fever bore them along,

throwing one against another in an ardent scramble, in which the sole

question was who should pass over the others and crush them.

“And so, mamma,” said Camille, who continued to scrutinise her mother and

Gérard, “you are going to take us to the Princess’s _matinée_?”

“By-and-by, yes. Only I shan’t be able to stay there with you. I received

a telegram from Salmon about my corsage this morning, and I must

absolutely go to try it on at four o’clock.”

By the slight trembling of her mother’s voice, the girl felt certain that

she was telling a falsehood. “Oh!” said she, “I thought you were only

going to try it on to-morrow? In that case I suppose we are to go and

call for you at Salmon’s with the carriage on leaving the _matinée_?”

“Oh! no my dear! One never knows when one will be free; and besides, if I

have a moment, I shall call at the _modiste’s_.”

Camille’s secret rage brought almost a murderous glare to her dark eyes.

The truth was evident. But however passionately she might desire to set

some obstacle across her mother’s path, she could not, dared not, carry

matters any further. In vain had she attempted to implore Gérard with her

eyes. He was standing to take his leave, and turned away his eyes.

Pierre, who had become acquainted with many things since he had

frequented the house, noticed how all three of them quivered, and divined

thereby the mute and terrible drama.

At this moment, however, Hyacinthe, stretched in an armchair, and

munching an ether capsule, the only liqueur in which he indulged, raised

his voice: “For my part, you know, I’m going to the Exposition du Lis.

All Paris is swarming there. There’s one painting in particular, ‘The

Rape of a Soul,’ which it’s absolutely necessary for one to have seen.”

“Well, but I don’t refuse to drive you there,” resumed the Baroness.

“Before going to the Princess’s we can look in at that exhibition.”

“That’s it, that’s it,” hastily exclaimed Camille, who, though she

harshly derided the symbolist painters as a rule, now doubtless desired

to delay her mother. Then, forcing herself to smile, she asked: “Won’t

you risk a look-in at the Exposition du Lis with us, Monsieur Gérard?”

“Well, no,” replied the Count, “I want to walk. I shall go with Monsieur

l’Abbé Froment to the Chamber.”

Thereupon he took leave of mother and daughter, kissing the hand of each

in turn. It had just occurred to him that to while away his time he also

might call for a moment at Silviane’s, where, like the others, he had his

_entrées_. On reaching the cold and solemn courtyard he said to the

priest, “Ah! it does one good to breathe a little cool air. They keep

their rooms too hot, and all those flowers, too, give one the headache.”

Pierre for his part was going off with his brain in a whirl, his hands

feverish, his senses oppressed by all the luxury which he left behind

him, like the dream of some glowing, perfumed paradise where only the

elect had their abode. At the same time his reviving thirst for charity

had become keener than ever, and without listening to the Count, who was

speaking very affectionately of his mother, he reflected as to how he

might obtain Laveuve’s admission to the Asylum from Fonsègue. However,

when the door of the mansion had closed behind them and they had taken a

few steps along the street, it occurred to Pierre that a moment

previously a sudden vision had met his gaze. Had he not seen a workman

carrying a tool-bag, standing and waiting on the foot pavement across the

road, gazing at that monumental door, closed upon so much fabulous

wealth--a workman in whom he fancied he had recognised Salvat, that

hungry fellow who had gone off that morning in search of work? At this

thought Pierre hastily turned round. Such wretchedness in face of so much

affluence and enjoyment made him feel anxious. But the workman, disturbed

in his contemplation, and possibly fearing that he had been recognised,

was going off with dragging step. And now, getting only a back view of

him, Pierre hesitated, and ended by thinking that he must have been

mistaken.

III. RANTERS AND RULERS

WHEN Abbé Froment was about to enter the Palais-Bourbon he remembered

that he had no card, and he was making up his mind that he would simply

ask for Fonsègue, though he was not known to him, when, on reaching the

vestibule, he perceived Mège, the Collectivist deputy, with whom he had

become acquainted in his days of militant charity in the poverty-stricken

Charonne district.

“What, you here? You surely have not come to evangelise us?” said Mège.

“No, I’ve come to see Monsieur Fonsègue on an urgent matter, about a poor

fellow who cannot wait.”

“Fonsègue? I don’t know if he has arrived. Wait a moment.” And stopping a

short, dark young fellow with a ferreting, mouse-like air, Mège said to

him: “Massot, here’s Monsieur l’Abbé Froment, who wants to speak to your

governor at once.”

“The governor? But he isn’t here. I left him at the office of the paper,

where he’ll be detained for another quarter of an hour. However, if

Monsieur l’Abbé likes to wait he will surely see him here.”

Thereupon Mège ushered Pierre into the large waiting-hall, the Salle des

Pas Perdus, which in other moments looked so vast and cold with its

bronze Minerva and Laocoon, and its bare walls on which the pale mournful

winter light fell from the glass doors communicating with the garden.

Just then, however, it was crowded, and warmed, as it were, by the

feverish agitation of the many groups of men that had gathered here and

there, and the constant coming and going of those who hastened through

the throng. Most of these were deputies, but there were also numerous

journalists and inquisitive visitors. And a growing uproar prevailed:

colloquies now in undertones, now in loud voices, exclamations and bursts

of laughter, amidst a deal of passionate gesticulation, Mège’s return

into the tumult seemed to fan it. He was tall, apostolically thin, and

somewhat neglectful of his person, looking already old and worn for his

age, which was but five and forty, though his eyes still glowed with

youth behind the glasses which never left his beak-like nose. And he had

a warm but grating voice, and had always been known to cough, living on

solely because he was bitterly intent on doing so in order to realise the

dream of social re-organisation which haunted him. The son of an

impoverished medical man of a northern town, he had come to Paris when

very young, living there during the Empire on petty newspaper and other

unknown work, and first making a reputation as an orator at the public

meetings of the time. Then, after the war, having become the chief of the

Collectivist party, thanks to his ardent faith and the extraordinary

activity of his fighting nature, he had at last managed to enter the

Chamber, where, brimful of information, he fought for his ideas with

fierce determination and obstinacy, like a _doctrinaire_ who has decided

in his own mind what the world ought to be, and who regulates in advance,

and bit by bit, the whole dogma of Collectivism. However, since he had

taken pay as a deputy, the outside Socialists had looked upon him as a

mere rhetorician, an aspiring dictator who only tried to cast society in

a new mould for the purpose of subordinating it to his personal views and

ruling it.

“You know what is going on?” he said to Pierre. “This is another nice

affair, is it not? But what would you have? We are in mud to our very

ears.”

He had formerly conceived genuine sympathy for the priest, whom he had

found so gentle with all who suffered, and so desirous of social

regeneration. And the priest himself had ended by taking an interest in

this authoritarian dreamer, who was resolved to make men happy in spite

even of themselves. He knew that he was poor, and led a retired life with

his wife and four children, to whom he was devoted.

“You can well understand that I am no ally of Sagnier’s,” Mège resumed.

“But as he chose to speak out this morning and threaten to publish the

names of all those who have taken bribes, we can’t allow ourselves to

pass as accomplices any further. It has long been said that there was

some nasty jobbery in that suspicious affair of the African railways. And

the worst is that two members of the present Cabinet are in question, for

three years ago, when the Chambers dealt with Duvillard’s emission,

Barroux was at the Home Department, and Monferrand at that of Public

Works. Now that they have come back again, Monferrand at the Home

Department, and Barroux at that of Finance, with the Presidency of the

Council, it isn’t possible, is it, for us to do otherwise than compel

them to enlighten us, in their own interest even, about their former

goings-on? No, no, they can no longer keep silence, and I’ve announced

that I intend to interpellate them this very day.”

It was the announcement of Mège’s interpellation, following the terrible

article of the “Voix du Peuple,” which thus set the lobbies in an uproar.

And Pierre remained rather scared at this big political affair falling

into the midst of his scheme to save a wretched pauper from hunger and

death. Thus he listened without fully understanding the explanations

which the Socialist deputy was passionately giving him, while all around

them the uproar increased, and bursts of laughter rang out, testifying to

the astonishment which the others felt at seeing Mège in conversation

with a priest.

“How stupid they are!” said Mège disdainfully. “Do they think then that I

eat a cassock for _déjeuner_ every morning? But I beg your pardon, my

dear Monsieur Froment. Come, take a place on that seat and wait for

Fonsègue.”

Then he himself plunged into all the turmoil, and Pierre realised that

his best course was to sit down and wait quietly. His surroundings began

to influence and interest him, and he gradually forgot Laveuve for the

passion of the Parliamentary crisis amidst which he found himself cast.

The frightful Panama adventure was scarcely over; he had followed the

progress of that tragedy with the anguish of a man who every night

expects to hear the tocsin sound the last hour of olden, agonising

society. And now a little Panama was beginning, a fresh cracking of the

social edifice, an affair such as had been frequent in all parliaments in

connection with big financial questions, but one which acquired mortal

gravity from the circumstances in which it came to the front. That story

of the African Railway Lines, that little patch of mud, stirred up and

exhaling a perturbing odour, and suddenly fomenting all that emotion,

fear, and anger in the Chamber, was after all but an opportunity for

political strife, a field on which the voracious appetites of the various

“groups” would take exercise and sharpen; and, at bottom, the sole

question was that of overthrowing the ministry and replacing it by

another. Only, behind all that lust of power, that continuous onslaught

of ambition, what a distressful prey was stirring--the whole people with

all its poverty and its sufferings!

Pierre noticed that Massot, “little Massot,” as he was generally called,

had just seated himself on the bench beside him. With his lively eye and

ready ear listening to everything and noting it, gliding everywhere with

his ferret-like air, Massot was not there in the capacity of a gallery

man, but had simply scented a stormy debate, and come to see if he could

not pick up material for some occasional “copy.” And this priest lost in

the midst of the throng doubtless interested him.

“Have a little patience, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said he, with the amiable

gaiety of a young gentleman who makes fun of everything. “The governor

will certainly come, for he knows well enough that they are going to heat

the oven here. You are not one of his constituents from La Corrèze, are

you?”

“No, no! I belong to Paris; I’ve come on account of a poor fellow whom I

wish to get admitted into the Asylum of the Invalids of Labour.”

“Oh! all right. Well, I’m a child of Paris, too.”

Then Massot laughed. And indeed he was a child of Paris, son of a chemist

of the St. Denis district, and an ex-dunce of the Lycée Charlemagne,

where he had not even finished his studies. He had failed entirely, and

at eighteen years of age had found himself cast into journalism with

barely sufficient knowledge of orthography for that calling. And for

twelve years now, as he often said, he had been a rolling stone wandering

through all spheres of society, confessing some and guessing at others.

He had seen everything, and become disgusted with everything, no longer

believing in the existence of great men, or of truth, but living

peacefully enough on universal malice and folly. He naturally had no

literary ambition, in fact he professed a deliberate contempt for

literature. Withal, he was not a fool, but wrote in accordance with no

matter what views in no matter what newspaper, having neither conviction

nor belief, but quietly claiming the right to say whatever he pleased to

the public on condition that he either amused or impassioned it.

“And so,” said he, “you know Mège, Monsieur l’Abbé? What a study in

character, eh? A big child, a dreamer of dreams in the skin of a terrible

sectarian! Oh! I have had a deal of intercourse with him, I know him

thoroughly. You are no doubt aware that he lives on with the everlasting

conviction that he will attain to power in six months’ time, and that

between evening and morning he will have established that famous

Collectivist community which is to succeed capitalist society, just as

day follows night. And, by the way, as regards his interpellation to-day,

he is convinced that in overthrowing the Barroux ministry he’ll be

hastening his own turn. His system is to use up his adversaries. How many

times haven’t I heard him making his calculations: there’s such a one to

be used up, then such a one, and then such a one, so that he himself may

at last reign. And it’s always to come off in six months at the latest.

The misfortune is, however, that others are always springing up, and so

his turn never comes at all.”

Little Massot openly made merry over it. Then, slightly lowering his

voice, he asked: “And Sagnier, do you know him? No? Do you see that

red-haired man with the bull’s neck--the one who looks like a butcher?

That one yonder who is talking in a little group of frayed frock-coats.”

Pierre at last perceived the man in question. He had broad red ears, a

hanging under-lip, a large nose, and big, projecting dull eyes.

“I know that one thoroughly, as well,” continued Massot; “I was on the

‘Voix du Peuple’ under him before I went on the ‘Globe.’ The one thing

that nobody is exactly aware of is whence Sagnier first came. He long

dragged out his life in the lower depths of journalism, doing nothing at

all brilliant, but wild with ambition and appetite. Perhaps you remember

the first hubbub he made, that rather dirty affair of a new Louis XVII.

which he tried to launch, and which made him the extraordinary Royalist

that he still is. Then it occurred to him to espouse the cause of the

masses, and he made a display of vengeful Catholic socialism, attacking

the Republic and all the abominations of the times in the name of justice

and morality, under the pretext of curing them. He began with a series of

sketches of financiers, a mass of dirty, uncontrolled, unproved

tittle-tattle, which ought to have led him to the dock, but which met, as

you know, with such wonderful success when gathered together in a volume.

And he goes on in the same style in the ‘Voix du Peuple,’ which he

himself made a success at the time of the Panama affair by dint of

denunciation and scandal, and which to-day is like a sewer-pipe pouring

forth all the filth of the times. And whenever the stream slackens, why,

he invents things just to satisfy his craving for that hubbub on which

both his pride and his pocket subsist.”

Little Massot spoke without bitterness; indeed, he had even begun to

laugh again. Beneath his thoughtless ferocity he really felt some respect

for Sagnier. “Oh! he’s a bandit,” he continued, “but a clever fellow all

the same. You can’t imagine how full of vanity he is. Lately it occurred

to him to get himself acclaimed by the populace, for he pretends to be a

kind of King of the Markets, you know. Perhaps he has ended by taking his

fine judge-like airs in earnest, and really believes that he is saving

the people and helping the cause of virtue. What astonishes me is his

fertility in the arts of denunciation and scandalmongering. Never a

morning comes but he discovers some fresh horror, and delivers fresh

culprits over to the hatred of the masses. No! the stream of mud never

ceases; there is an incessant, unexpected spurt of infamy, an increase of

monstrous fancies each time that the disgusted public shows any sign of

weariness. And, do you know, there’s genius in that, Monsieur l’Abbé; for

he is well aware that his circulation goes up as soon as he threatens to

speak out and publish a list of traitors and bribe-takers. His sales are

certain now for some days to come.”

Listening to Massot’s gay, bantering voice, Pierre began to understand

certain things, the exact meaning of which had hitherto escaped him. He

ended by questioning the young journalist, surprised as he was that so

many deputies should be in the lobbies when the sitting was in progress.

Oh! the sitting indeed. The gravest matters, some bill of national

interest, might be under discussion, yet every member fled from it at the

sudden threat of an interpellation which might overturn the ministry. And

the passion stirring there was the restrained anger, the growing anxiety

of the present ministry’s clients, who feared that they might have to

give place to others; and it was also the sudden hope, the eager hunger

of all who were waiting--the clients of the various possible ministries

of the morrow.

Massot pointed to Barroux, the head of the Cabinet, who, though he was

out of his element in the Department of Finances, had taken it simply

because his generally recognised integrity was calculated to reassure

public opinion after the Panama crisis. Barroux was chatting in a corner

with the Minister of Public Instruction, Senator Taboureau, an old

university man with a shrinking, mournful air, who was extremely honest,

but totally ignorant of Paris, coming as he did from some far-away

provincial faculty. Barroux for his part was of decorative aspect, tall,

and with a handsome, clean-shaven face, which would have looked quite

noble had not his nose been rather too small. Although he was sixty, he

still had a profusion of curly snow-white hair completing the somewhat

theatrical majesty of his appearance, which he was wont to turn to

account when in the tribune. Coming of an old Parisian family,

well-to-do, an advocate by profession, then a Republican journalist under

the Empire, he had reached office with Gambetta, showing himself at once

honest and romantic, loud of speech, and somewhat stupid, but at the same

time very brave and very upright, and still clinging with ardent faith to

the principles of the great Revolution. However, his Jacobinism was

getting out of fashion, he was becoming an “ancestor,” as it were, one of

the last props of the middle-class Republic, and the new comers, the

young politicians with long teeth, were beginning to smile at him.

Moreover, beneath the ostentation of his demeanour, and the pomp of his

eloquence, there was a man of hesitating, sentimental nature, a good

fellow who shed tears when re-perusing the verses of Lamartine.

However, Monferrand, the minister for the Home Department, passed by and

drew Barroux aside to whisper a few words in his ear. He, Monferrand, was

fifty, short and fat, with a smiling, fatherly air; nevertheless a look

of keen intelligence appeared at times on his round and somewhat common

face fringed by a beard which was still dark. In him one divined a man of

government, with hands which were fitted for difficult tasks, and which

never released a prey. Formerly mayor of the town of Tulle, he came from

La Corrèze, where he owned a large estate. He was certainly a force in

motion, one whose constant rise was anxiously watched by keen observers.

He spoke in a simple quiet way, but with extraordinary power of

conviction. Having apparently no ambition, affecting indeed the greatest

disinterestedness, he nevertheless harboured the most ferocious

appetites. Sagnier had written that he was a thief and a murderer, having

strangled two of his aunts in order to inherit their property. But even

if he were a murderer, he was certainly not a vulgar one.

Then, too, came another personage of the drama which was about to be

performed--deputy Vignon, whose arrival agitated the various groups. The

two ministers looked at him, whilst he, at once surrounded by his

friends, smiled at them from a distance. He was not yet thirty-six. Slim,

and of average height, very fair, with a fine blond beard of which he

took great care, a Parisian by birth, having rapidly made his way in the

government service, at one time Prefect at Bordeaux, he now represented

youth and the future in the Chamber. He had realised that new men were

needed in the direction of affairs in order to accomplish the more

urgent, indispensable reforms; and very ambitious and intelligent as he

was, knowing many things, he already had a programme, the application of

which he was quite capable of attempting, in part at any rate. However,

he evinced no haste, but was full of prudence and shrewdness, convinced

that his day would dawn, strong in the fact that he was as yet

compromised in nothing, but had all space before him. At bottom he was

merely a first-class administrator, clear and precise in speech, and his

programme only differed from Barroux’s by the rejuvenation of its

formulas, although the advent of a Vignon ministry in place of a Barroux

ministry appeared an event of importance. And it was of Vignon that

Sagnier had written that he aimed at the Presidency of the Republic, even

should he have to march through blood to reach the Elysée Palace.

“_Mon Dieu_!” Massot was explaining, “it’s quite possible that Sagnier

isn’t lying this time, and that he has really found a list of names in

some pocket-book of Hunter’s that has fallen into his hands. I myself

have long known that Hunter was Duvillard’s vote-recruiter in the affair

of the African Railways. But to understand matters one must first realise

what his mode of proceeding was, the skill and the kind of amiable

delicacy which he showed, which were far from the brutal corruption and

dirty trafficking that people imagine. One must be such a man as Sagnier

to picture a parliament as an open market, where every conscience is for

sale and is impudently knocked down to the highest bidder. Oh! things

happened in a very different way indeed; and they are explainable, and at

times even excusable. Thus the article is levelled in particular against

Barroux and Monferrand, who are designated in the clearest possible

manner although they are not named. You are no doubt aware that at the

time of the vote Barroux was at the Home Department and Monferrand at

that of Public Works, and so now they are accused of having betrayed

their trusts, the blackest of all social crimes. I don’t know into what

political combinations Barroux may have entered, but I am ready to swear

that he put nothing in his pocket, for he is the most honest of men. As

for Monferrand, that’s another matter; he’s a man to carve himself his

share, only I should be much surprised if he had put himself in a bad

position. He’s incapable of a blunder, particularly of a stupid blunder,

like that of taking money and leaving a receipt for it lying about.”

Massot paused, and with a jerk of his head called Pierre’s attention to

Duthil, who, feverish, but nevertheless smiling, stood in a group which

had just collected around the two ministers. “There! do you see that

young man yonder, that dark handsome fellow whose beard looks so

triumphant?”

“I know him,” said Pierre.

“Oh! you know Duthil. Well, he’s one who most certainly took money. But

he’s a mere bird. He came to us from Angoulême to lead the pleasantest of

lives here, and he has no more conscience, no more scruples, than the

pretty finches of his native part, who are ever love-making. Ah! for

Duthil, Hunter’s money was like manna due to him, and he never even

paused to think that he was dirtying his fingers. You may be quite sure

he feels astonished that people should attach the slightest importance to

the matter.”

Then Massot designated another deputy in the same group, a man of fifty

or thereabouts, of slovenly aspect and lachrymose mien, lanky, too, like

a maypole, and somewhat bent by the weight of his head, which was long

and suggestive of a horse’s. His scanty, straight, yellowish hair, his

drooping moustaches, in fact the whole of his distracted countenance,

expressed everlasting distress.

“And Chaigneux, do you know him?” continued Massot, referring to the

deputy in question. “No? Well, look at him and ask yourself if it isn’t

quite as natural that he, too, should have taken money. He came from

Arras. He was a solicitor there. When his division elected him he let

politics intoxicate him, and sold his practice to make his fortune in

Paris, where he installed himself with his wife and his three daughters.

And you can picture his bewilderment amidst those four women, terrible

women ever busy with finery, receiving and paying visits, and running

after marriageable men who flee away. It’s ill-luck with a vengeance, the

daily defeat of a poor devil of mediocre attainments, who imagined that

his position as a deputy would facilitate money-making, and who is

drowning himself in it all. And so how can Chaigneux have done otherwise

than take money, he who is always hard up for a five-hundred-franc note!

I admit that originally he wasn’t a dishonest man. But he’s become one,

that’s all.”

Massot was now fairly launched, and went on with his portraits, the

series which he had, at one moment, dreamt of writing under the title of

“Deputies for Sale.” There were the simpletons who fell into the furnace,

the men whom ambition goaded to exasperation, the low minds that yielded

to the temptation of an open drawer, the company-promoters who grew

intoxicated and lost ground by dint of dealing with big figures. At the

same time, however, Massot admitted that these men were relatively few in

number, and that black sheep were to be found in every parliament of the

world. Then Sagnier’s name cropped up again, and Massot remarked that

only Sagnier could regard the French Chambers as mere dens of thieves.

Pierre, meantime, felt most interested in the tempest which the threat of

a ministerial crisis was stirring up before him. Not only the men like

Duthil and Chaigneux, pale at feeling the ground tremble beneath them,

and wondering whether they would not sleep at the Mazas prison that

night, were gathered round Barroux and Monferrand; all the latters’

clients were there, all who enjoyed influence or office through them, and

who would collapse and disappear should they happen to fall. And it was

something to see the anxious glances and the pale dread amidst all the

whispered chatter, the bits of information and tittle-tattle which were

carried hither and thither. Then, in a neighbouring group formed round

Vignon, who looked very calm and smiled, were the other clients, those

who awaited the moment to climb to the assault of power, in order that

they, in their turn, might at last possess influence or office. Eyes

glittered with covetousness, hopeful delight could be read in them,

pleasant surprise at the sudden opportunity now offered. Vignon avoided

replying to the over-direct questions of his friends, and simply

announced that he did not intend to intervene. Evidently enough his plan

was to let Mège interpellate and overthrow the ministry, for he did not

fear him, and in his own estimation would afterwards simply have to stoop

to pick up the fallen portfolios.

“Ah! Monferrand now,” little Massot was saying, “there’s a rascal who

trims his sails! I knew him as an anti-clerical, a devourer of priests,

Monsieur l’Abbé, if you will allow me so to express myself; however, I

don’t say this to be agreeable to you, but I think I may tell you for

certain that he has become reconciled to religion. At least, I have been

told that Monseigneur Martha, who is a great converter, now seldom leaves

him. This is calculated to please one in these new times, when science

has become bankrupt, and religion blooms afresh with delicious mysticism

on all sides, whether in art, literature, or society itself.”

Massot was jesting, according to his wont; but he spoke so amiably that

the priest could not do otherwise than bow. However, a great stir had set

in before them; it was announced that Mège was about to ascend the

tribune, and thereupon all the deputies hastened into the assembly hall,

leaving only the inquisitive visitors and a few journalists in the Salle

des Pas Perdus.

“It’s astonishing that Fonsègue hasn’t yet arrived,” resumed Massot;

“he’s interested in what’s going on. However, he’s so cunning, that when

he doesn’t behave as others do, one may be sure that he has his reasons

for it. Do you know him?” And as Pierre gave a negative answer, Massot

went on: “Oh! he’s a man of brains and real power--I speak with all

freedom, you know, for I don’t possess the bump of veneration; and, as

for my editors, well, they’re the very puppets that I know the best and

pick to pieces with the most enjoyment. Fonsègue, also, is clearly

designated in Sagnier’s article. Moreover, he’s one of Duvillard’s usual

clients. There can be no doubt that he took money, for he takes money in

everything. Only he always protects himself, and takes it for reasons

which may be acknowledged--as payment or commission on account of

advertising, and so forth. And if I left him just now, looking, as it

seemed to me, rather disturbed, and if he delays his arrival here to

establish, as it were, a moral alibi, the truth must be that he has

committed the first imprudent action in his life.”

Then Massot rattled on, telling all there was to tell about Fonsègue. He,

too, came from the department of La Corrèze, and had quarrelled for life

with Monferrand after some unknown underhand affairs. Formerly an

advocate at Tulle, his ambition had been to conquer Paris; and he had

really conquered it, thanks to his big morning newspaper, “Le Globe,” of

which he was both founder and director. He now resided in a luxurious

mansion in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, and no enterprise was launched

but he carved himself a princely share in it. He had a genius for

“business,” and employed his newspaper as a weapon to enable him to reign

over the market. But how very carefully he had behaved, what long and

skilful patience he had shown, before attaining to the reputation of a

really serious man, who guided authoritatively the most virtuous and

respected of the organs of the press! Though in reality he believed

neither in God nor in Devil, he had made this newspaper the supporter of

order, property, and family ties; and though he had become a Conservative

Republican, since it was to his interest to be such, he had remained

outwardly religious, affecting a Spiritualism which reassured the

_bourgeoisie_. And amidst all his accepted power, to which others bowed,

he nevertheless had one hand deep in every available money-bag.

“Ah! Monsieur l’Abbé,” said Massot, “see to what journalism may lead a

man. There you have Sagnier and Fonsègue: just compare them a bit. In

reality they are birds of the same feather: each has a quill and uses it.

But how different the systems and the results. Sagnier’s print is really

a sewer which rolls him along and carries him to the cesspool; while the

other’s paper is certainly an example of the best journalism one can

have, most carefully written, with a real literary flavour, a treat for

readers of delicate minds, and an honour to the man who directs it. But

at the bottom, good heavens! in both cases the farce is precisely the

same!”

Massot burst out laughing, well pleased with this final thrust. Then all

at once: “Ah! here’s Fonsègue at last!” said he.

Quite at his ease, and still laughing, he forthwith introduced the

priest. “This is Monsieur l’Abbé Froment, my dear _patron_, who has been

waiting more than twenty minutes for you--I’m just going to see what is

happening inside. You know that Mège is interpellating the government.”

The new comer started slightly: “An interpellation!” said he. “All right,

all right, I’ll go to it.”

Pierre was looking at him. He was about fifty years of age, short of

stature, thin and active, still looking young without a grey hair in his

black beard. He had sparkling eyes, too, but his mouth, said to be a

terrible one, was hidden by his moustaches. And withal he looked a

pleasant companion, full of wit to the tip of his little pointed nose,

the nose of a sporting dog that is ever scenting game. “What can I do for

you, Monsieur l’Abbé?” he inquired.

Then Pierre briefly presented his request, recounting his visit to

Laveuve that morning, giving every heart-rending particular, and asking

for the poor wretch’s immediate admittance to the Asylum.

“Laveuve!” said the other, “but hasn’t his affair been examined? Why,

Duthil drew up a report on it, and things appeared to us of such a nature

that we could not vote for the man’s admittance.”

But the priest insisted: “I assure you, monsieur, that your heart would

have burst with compassion had you been with me this morning. It is

revolting that an old man should be left in such frightful abandonment

even for another hour. He must sleep at the Asylum to-night.”

Fonsègue began to protest. “To-night! But it’s impossible, altogether

impossible! There are all sorts of indispensable formalities to be

observed. And besides I alone cannot take such responsibility. I haven’t

the power. I am only the manager; all that I do is to execute the orders

of the committee of lady patronesses.”

“But it was precisely Baroness Duvillard who sent me to you, monsieur,

telling me that you alone had the necessary authority to grant immediate

admittance in an exceptional case.”

“Oh! it was the Baroness who sent you? Ah! that is just like her,

incapable of coming to any decision herself, and far too desirous of her

own quietude to accept any responsibility. Why is it that she wants me to

have the worries? No, no, Monsieur l’Abbé, I certainly won’t go against

all our regulations; I won’t give an order which would perhaps embroil me

with all those ladies. You don’t know them, but they become positively

terrible directly they attend our meetings.”

He was growing lively, defending himself with a jocular air, whilst in

secret he was fully determined to do nothing. However, just then Duthil

abruptly reappeared, darting along bareheaded, hastening from lobby to

lobby to recruit absent members, particularly those who were interested

in the grave debate at that moment beginning. “What, Fonsègue!” he cried,

“are you still here? Go, go to your seat at once, it’s serious!” And

thereupon he disappeared.

His colleague evinced no haste, however. It was as if the suspicious

affair which was impassioning the Chamber had no concern for him. And he

still smiled, although a slight feverish quiver made him blink. “Excuse

me, Monsieur l’Abbé,” he said at last. “You see that my friends have need

of me. I repeat to you that I can do absolutely nothing for your

_protégé_.”

But Pierre would not accept this reply as a final one. “No, no,

monsieur,” he rejoined, “go to your affairs, I will wait for you here.

Don’t come to a decision without full reflection. You are wanted, and I

feel that your mind is not sufficiently at liberty for you to listen to

me properly. By-and-by, when you come back and give me your full

attention, I am sure that you will grant me what I ask.”

And, although Fonsègue, as he went off, repeated that he could not alter

his decision, the priest stubbornly resolved to make him do so, and sat

down on the bench again, prepared, if needful, to stay there till the

evening. The Salle des Pas Perdus was now almost quite empty, and looked

yet more frigid and mournful with its Laocoon and its Minerva, its bare

commonplace walls like those of a railway-station waiting-room, between

which all the scramble of the century passed, though apparently without

even warming the lofty ceiling. Never had paler and more callous light

entered by the large glazed doors, behind which one espied the little

slumberous garden with its meagre, wintry lawns. And not an echo of the

tempest of the sitting near at hand reached the spot; from the whole

heavy pile there fell but death-like silence, and a covert quiver of

distress that had come from far away, perhaps from the entire country.

It was that which now haunted Pierre’s reverie. The whole ancient,

envenomed sore spread out before his mind’s eye, with its poison and

virulence. Parliamentary rottenness had slowly increased till it had

begun to attack society itself. Above all the low intrigues and the rush

of personal ambition there certainly remained the loftier struggle of the

contending principles, with history on the march, clearing the past away

and seeking to bring more truth, justice, and happiness in the future.

But in practice, if one only considered the horrid daily cuisine of the

sphere, what an unbridling of egotistical appetite one beheld, what an

absorbing passion to strangle one’s neighbour and triumph oneself alone!

Among the various groups one found but an incessant battle for power and

the satisfactions that it gives. “Left,” “Right,” “Catholics,”

“Republicans,” “Socialists,” the names given to the parties of twenty

different shades, were simply labels classifying forms of the one burning

thirst to rule and dominate. All questions could be reduced to a single

one, that of knowing whether this man, that man, or that other man should

hold France in his grasp, to enjoy it, and distribute its favours among

his creatures. And the worst was that the outcome of the great

parliamentary battles, the days and the weeks lost in setting this man in

the place of that man, and that other man in the place of this man, was

simply stagnation, for not one of the three men was better than his

fellows, and there were but vague points of difference between them; in

such wise that the new master bungled the very same work as the previous

one had bungled, forgetful, perforce, of programmes and promises as soon

as ever he began to reign.

However, Pierre’s thoughts invincibly reverted to Laveuve, whom he had

momentarily forgotten, but who now seized hold of him again with a quiver

as of anger and death. Ah! what could it matter to that poor old wretch,

dying of hunger on his bed of rags, whether Mège should overthrow

Barroux’s ministry, and whether a Vignon ministry should ascend to power

or not! At that rate, a century, two centuries, would be needed before

there would be bread in the garrets where groan the lamed sons of labour,

the old, broken-down beasts of burden. And behind Laveuve there appeared

the whole army of misery, the whole multitude of the disinherited and the

poor, who agonised and asked for justice whilst the Chamber, sitting in

all pomp, grew furiously impassioned over the question as to whom the

nation should belong to, as to who should devour it. Mire was flowing on

in a broad stream, the hideous, bleeding, devouring sore displayed itself

in all impudence, like some cancer which preys upon an organ and spreads

to the heart. And what disgust, what nausea must such a spectacle

inspire; and what a longing for the vengeful knife that would bring

health and joy!

Pierre could not have told for how long he had been plunged in this

reverie, when uproar again filled the hall. People were coming back,

gesticulating and gathering in groups. And suddenly he heard little

Massot exclaim near him: “Well, if it isn’t down it’s not much better

off. I wouldn’t give four sous for its chance of surviving.”

He referred to the ministry, and began to recount the sitting to a fellow

journalist who had just arrived. Mège had spoken very eloquently, with

extraordinary fury of indignation against the rotten _bourgeoisie_, which

rotted everything it touched; but, as usual, he had gone much too far,

alarming the Chamber by his very violence. And so, when Barroux had

ascended the tribune to ask for a month’s adjournment of the

interpellation, he had merely had occasion to wax indignant, in all

sincerity be it said, full of lofty anger that such infamous campaigns

should be carried on by a certain portion of the press. Were the shameful

Panama scandals about to be renewed? Were the national representatives

going to let themselves be intimidated by fresh threats of denunciation?

It was the Republic itself which its adversaries were seeking to submerge

beneath a flood of abominations. No, no, the hour had come for one to

collect one’s thoughts, and work in quietude without allowing those who

hungered for scandal to disturb the public peace. And the Chamber,

impressed by these words, fearing, too, lest the electorate should at

last grow utterly weary of the continuous overflow of filth, had

adjourned the interpellation to that day month. However, although Vignon

had not personally intervened in the debate, the whole of his group had

voted against the ministry, with the result that the latter had merely

secured a majority of two votes--a mockery.

“But in that case they will resign,” said somebody to Massot.

“Yes, so it’s rumoured. But Barroux is very tenacious. At all events if

they show any obstinacy they will be down before a week is over,

particularly as Sagnier, who is quite furious, declares that he will

publish the list of names to-morrow.”

Just then, indeed, Barroux and Monferrand were seen to pass, hastening

along with thoughtful, busy mien, and followed by their anxious clients.

It was said that the whole Cabinet was about to assemble to consider the

position and come to a decision. And then Vignon, in his turn, reappeared

amidst a stream of friends. He, for his part, was radiant, with a joy

which he sought to conceal, calming his friends in his desire not to cry

victory too soon. However, the eyes of the band glittered, like those of

a pack of hounds when the moment draws near for the offal of the quarry

to be distributed. And even Mège also looked triumphant. He had all but

overthrown the ministry. That made another one that was worn out, and

by-and-by he would wear out Vignon’s, and at last govern in his turn.

“The devil!” muttered little Massot, “Chaigneux and Duthil look like

whipped dogs. And see, there’s nobody who is worth the governor. Just

look at him, how superb he is, that Fonsègue! But good-by, I must now be

off!”

Then he shook hands with his brother journalist unwilling as he was to

remain any longer, although the sitting still continued, some bill of

public importance again being debated before the rows of empty seats.

Chaigneux, with his desolate mien, had gone to lean against the pedestal

of the high figure of Minerva; and never before had he been more bowed

down by his needy distress, the everlasting anguish of his ill-luck. On

the other hand, Duthil, in spite of everything, was perorating in the

centre of a group with an affectation of scoffing unconcern; nevertheless

nervous twitches made his nose pucker and distorted his mouth, while the

whole of his handsome face was becoming moist with fear. And even as

Massot had said, there really was only Fonsègue who showed composure and

bravery, ever the same with his restless little figure, and his eyes

beaming with wit, though at times they were just faintly clouded by a

shadow of uneasiness.

Pierre had risen to renew his request; but Fonsègue forestalled him,

vivaciously exclaiming: “No, no, Monsieur l’Abbé, I repeat that I cannot

take on myself such an infraction of our rules. There was an inquiry, and

a decision was arrived at. How would you have me over-rule it?”

“Monsieur,” said the priest, in a tone of deep grief, “it is a question

of an old man who is hungry and cold, and in danger of death if he be not

succoured.”

With a despairing gesture, the director of “Le Globe” seemed to take the

very walls as witnesses of his powerlessness. No doubt he feared some

nasty affair for his newspaper, in which he had abused the Invalids of

Labour enterprise as an electoral weapon. Perhaps, too, the secret terror

into which the sitting of the Chamber had just thrown him was hardening

his heart. “I can do nothing,” he repeated. “But naturally I don’t ask

better than to have my hands forced by the ladies of the Committee. You

already have the support of the Baroness Duvillard, secure that of some

others.”

Pierre, who was determined to fight on to the very end, saw in this

suggestion a supreme chance. “I know the Countess de Quinsac,” he said,

“I can go to see her at once.”

“Quite so! an excellent idea, the Countess de Quinsac! Take a cab and go

to see the Princess de Harn as well. She bestirs herself a great deal,

and is becoming very influential. Secure the approval of these ladies, go

back to the Baroness’s at seven, get a letter from her to cover me, and

then call on me at the office of my paper. That done, your man shall

sleep at the Asylum at nine o’clock!”

He evinced in speaking a kind of joyous good nature, as though he no

longer doubted of success now that he ran no risk of compromising

himself. And great hope again came back to the priest: “Ah! thank you,

monsieur,” he said; “it is a work of salvation that you will accomplish.”

“But you surely know that I ask nothing better. Ah! if we could only cure

misery, prevent hunger and thirst by a mere word. However, make haste,

you have not a minute to lose.”

They shook hands, and Pierre at once tried to get out of the throng.

This, however, was no easy task, for the various groups had grown larger

as all the anger and anguish, roused by the recent debate, ebbed back

there amid a confused tumult. It was as when a stone, cast into a pool,

stirs the ooze below, and causes hidden, rotting things to rise once more

to the surface. And Pierre had to bring his elbows into play and force a

passage athwart the throng, betwixt the shivering cowardice of some, the

insolent audacity of others, and the smirchings which sullied the greater

number, given the contagion which inevitably prevailed. However, he

carried away a fresh hope, and it seemed to him that if he should save a

life, make but one man happy that day, it would be like a first

instalment of redemption, a sign that a little forgiveness would be

extended to the many follies and errors of that egotistical and

all-devouring political world.

On reaching the vestibule a final incident detained him for a moment

longer. Some commotion prevailed there following upon a quarrel between a

man and an usher, the latter of whom had prevented the former from

entering on finding that the admission ticket which he tendered was an

old one, with its original date scratched out. The man, very rough at the

outset, had then refrained from insisting, as if indeed sudden timidity

had come upon him. And in this ill-dressed fellow Pierre was astonished

to recognise Salvat, the journeyman engineer, whom he had seen going off

in search of work that same morning. This time it was certainly he, tall,

thin and ravaged, with dreamy yet flaming eyes, which set his pale

starveling’s face aglow. He no longer carried his tool-bag; his ragged

jacket was buttoned up and distended on the left side by something that

he carried in a pocket, doubtless some hunk of bread. And on being

repulsed by the ushers, he walked away, taking the Concorde bridge,

slowly, as if chancewise, like a man who knows not whither he is going.

IV. SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS

IN her old faded drawing-room--a Louis Seize _salon_ with grey

woodwork--the Countess de Quinsac sat near the chimney-piece in her

accustomed place. She was singularly like her son, with a long and noble

face, her chin somewhat stern, but her eyes still beautiful beneath her

fine snowy hair, which was arranged in the antiquated style of her youth.

And whatever her haughty coldness, she knew how to be amiable, with

perfect, kindly graciousness.

Slightly waving her hand after a long silence, she resumed, addressing

herself to the Marquis de Morigny, who sat on the other side of the

chimney, where for long years he had always taken the same armchair. “Ah!

you are right, my friend, Providence has left us here forgotten, in a

most abominable epoch.”

“Yes, we passed by the side of happiness and missed it,” the Marquis

slowly replied, “and it was your fault, and doubtless mine as well.”

Smiling sadly, she stopped him with another wave of her hand. And the

silence fell once more; not a sound from the streets reached that gloomy

ground floor at the rear of the courtyard of an old mansion in the Rue

St. Dominique, almost at the corner of the Rue de Bourgogne.

The Marquis was an old man of seventy-five, nine years older than the

Countess. Short and thin though he was, he none the less had a

distinguished air, with his clean-shaven face, furrowed by deep,

aristocratic wrinkles. He belonged to one of the most ancient families of

France, and remained one of the last hopeless Legitimists, of very pure

and lofty views, zealously keeping his faith to the dead monarchy amidst

the downfall of everything. His fortune, still estimated at several

millions of francs, remained, as it were, in a state of stagnation,

through his refusal to invest it in any of the enterprises of the

century. It was known that in all discretion he had loved the Countess,

even when M. de Quinsac was alive, and had, moreover, offered marriage

after the latter’s death, at the time when the widow had sought a refuge

on that damp ground floor with merely an income of some 15,000 francs,

saved with great difficulty from the wreck of the family fortune. But

she, who adored her son Gérard, then in his tenth year, and of delicate

health, had sacrificed everything to the boy from a kind of maternal

chasteness and a superstitious fear that she might lose him should she

set another affection and another duty in her life. And the Marquis,

while bowing to her decision, had continued to worship her with his whole

soul, ever paying his court as on the first evening when he had seen her,

still gallant and faithful after a quarter of a century had passed. There

had never been anything between them, not even the exchange of a kiss.

Seeing how sad she looked, he feared that he might have displeased her,

and so he asked: “I should have liked to render you happy, but I didn’t

know how, and the fault can certainly only rest with me. Is Gérard giving

you any cause for anxiety?”

She shook her head, and then replied: “As long as things remain as they

are we cannot complain of them, my friend, since we accepted them.”

She referred to her son’s culpable connection with Baroness Duvillard.

She had ever shown much weakness with regard to that son whom she had had

so much trouble to rear, for she alone knew what exhaustion, what racial

collapse was hidden behind his proud bearing. She tolerated his idleness,

the apathetic disgust which, man of pleasure that he was, had turned him

from the profession of diplomacy as from that of arms. How many times had

she not repaired his acts of folly and paid his petty debts, keeping

silent concerning them, and refusing all pecuniary help from the Marquis,

who no longer dared offer his millions, so stubbornly intent she was on

living upon the remnants of her own fortune. And thus she had ended by

closing her eyes to her son’s scandalous love intrigue, divining in some

measure how things had happened, through self-abandonment and lack of

conscience--the man weak, unable to resume possession of himself, and the

woman holding and retaining him. The Marquis, however, strangely enough,

had only forgiven the intrigue on the day when Eve had allowed herself to

be converted.

“You know, my friend, how good-natured Gérard is,” the Countess resumed.

“In that lie both his strength and weakness. How would you have me scold

him when he weeps over it all with me? He will tire of that woman.”

M. de Morigny wagged his head. “She is still very beautiful,” said he.

“And then there’s the daughter. It would be graver still if he were to

marry her--”

“But the daughter’s infirm?”

“Yes, and you know what would be said: A Quinsac marrying a monster for

the sake of her millions.”

This was their mutual terror. They knew everything that went on at the

Duvillards, the affectionate friendship of the uncomely Camille and the

handsome Gérard, the seeming idyll beneath which lurked the most awful of

dramas. And they protested with all their indignation. “Oh! that, no, no,

never!” the Countess declared. “My son in that family, no, I will never

consent to it.”

Just at that moment General de Bozonnet entered. He was much attached to

his sister and came to keep her company on the days when she received,

for the old circle had gradually dwindled down till now only a few

faithful ones ventured into that grey gloomy _salon_, where one might

have fancied oneself at thousands of leagues from present-day Paris. And

forthwith, in order to enliven the room, he related that he had been to

_déjeuner_ at the Duvillards, and named the guests, Gérard among them. He

knew that he pleased his sister by going to the banker’s house whence he

brought her news, a house, too, which he cleansed in some degree by

conferring on it the great honour of his presence. And he himself in no

wise felt bored there, for he had long been gained over to the century

and showed himself of a very accommodating disposition in everything that

did not pertain to military art.

“That poor little Camille worships Gérard,” said he; “she was devouring

him with her eyes at table.”

But M. de Morigny gravely intervened: “There lies the danger, a marriage

would be absolutely monstrous from every point of view.”

The General seemed astonished: “Why, pray? She isn’t beautiful, but it’s

not only the beauties who marry! And there are her millions. However, our

dear child would only have to put them to a good use. True, there is also

the mother; but, _mon Dieu_! such things are so common nowadays in Paris

society.”

This revolted the Marquis, who made a gesture of utter disgust. What was

the use of discussion when all collapsed? How could one answer a

Bozonnet, the last surviving representative of such an illustrious

family, when he reached such a point as to excuse the infamous morals

that prevailed under the Republic; after denying his king, too, and

serving the Empire, faithfully and passionately attaching himself to the

fortunes and memory of Caesar? However, the Countess also became

indignant: “Oh! what are you saying, brother? I will never authorize such

a scandal, I swore so only just now.”

“Don’t swear, sister,” exclaimed the General; “for my part I should like

to see our Gérard happy. That’s all. And one must admit that he’s not

good for much. I can understand that he didn’t go into the Army, for that

profession is done for. But I do not so well understand why he did not

enter the diplomatic profession, or accept some other occupation. It is

very fine, no doubt, to run down the present times and declare that a man

of our sphere cannot possibly do any clean work in them. But, as a matter

of fact, it is only idle fellows who still say that. And Gérard has but

one excuse, his lack of aptitude, will and strength.”

Tears had risen to the mother’s eyes. She even trembled, well knowing how

deceitful were appearances: a mere chill might carry her son off, however

tall and strong he might look. And was he not indeed a symbol of that

old-time aristocracy, still so lofty and proud in appearance, though at

bottom it is but dust?

“Well,” continued the General, “he’s thirty-six now; he’s constantly

hanging on your hands, and he must make an end of it all.”

However, the Countess silenced him and turned to the Marquis: “Let us put

our confidence in God, my friend,” said she. “He cannot but come to my

help, for I have never willingly offended Him.”

“Never!” replied the Marquis, who in that one word set an expression of

all his grief, all his affection and worship for that woman whom he had

adored for so many years.

But another faithful friend came in and the conversation changed. M. de

Larombière, Vice-President of the Appeal Court, was an old man of

seventy-five, thin, bald and clean shaven but for a pair of little white

whiskers. And his grey eyes, compressed mouth and square and obstinate

chin lent an expression of great austerity to his long face. The grief of

his life was that, being afflicted with a somewhat childish lisp, he had

never been able to make his full merits known when a public prosecutor,

for he esteemed himself to be a great orator. And this secret worry

rendered him morose. In him appeared an incarnation of that old royalist

France which sulked and only served the Republic against its heart, that

old stern magistracy which closed itself to all evolution, to all new

views of things and beings. Of petty “gown” nobility, originally a

Legitimist but now supporting Orleanism, he believed himself to be the

one man of wisdom and logic in that _salon_, where he was very proud to

meet the Marquis.

They talked of the last events; but with them political conversation was

soon exhausted, amounting as it did to a mere bitter condemnation of men

and occurrences, for all three were of one mind as to the abominations of

the Republican _régime_. They themselves, however, were only ruins, the

remnants of the old parties now all but utterly powerless. The Marquis

for his part soared on high, yielding in nothing, ever faithful to the

dead past; he was one of the last representatives of that lofty obstinate

_noblesse_ which dies when it finds itself without an effort to escape

its fate. The judge, who at least had a pretender living, relied on a

miracle, and demonstrated the necessity for one if France were not to

sink into the depths of misfortune and completely disappear. And as for

the General, all that he regretted of the two Empires was their great

wars; he left the faint hope of a Bonapartist restoration on one side to

declare that by not contenting itself with the Imperial military system,

and by substituting thereto obligatory service, the nation in arms, the

Republic had killed both warfare and the country.

When the Countess’s one man-servant came to ask her if she would consent

to receive Abbé Froment she seemed somewhat surprised. “What can he want

of me? Show him in,” she said.

She was very pious, and having met Pierre in connection with various

charitable enterprises, she had been touched by his zeal as well as by

the saintly reputation which he owed to his Neuilly parishioners.

He, absorbed by his fever, felt intimidated directly he crossed the

threshold. He could at first distinguish nothing, but fancied he was

entering some place of mourning, a shadowy spot where human forms seemed

to melt away, and voices were never raised above a whisper. Then, on

perceiving the persons present, he felt yet more out of his element, for

they seemed so sad, so far removed from the world whence he had just

come, and whither he was about to return. And when the Countess had made

him sit down beside her in front of the chimney-piece, it was in a low

voice that he told her the lamentable story of Laveuve, and asked her

support to secure the man’s admittance to the Asylum for the Invalids of

Labour.

“Ah! yes,” said she, “that enterprise which my son wished me to belong

to. But, Monsieur l’Abbé, I have never once attended the Committee

meetings. So how could I intervene, having assuredly no influence

whatever?”

Again had the figures of Eve and Gérard arisen before her, for it was at

this asylum that the pair had first met. And influenced by her sorrowful

maternal love she was already weakening, although it was regretfully that

she had lent her name to one of those noisy charitable enterprises, which

people abused to further their selfish interests in a manner she

condemned.

“But, madame,” Pierre insisted, “it is a question of a poor starving old

man. I implore you to be compassionate.”

Although the priest had spoken in a low voice the General drew near.

“It’s for your old revolutionary that you are running about, is it not,”

said he. “Didn’t you succeed with the manager, then? The fact is that

it’s difficult to feel any pity for fellows who, if they were the

masters, would, as they themselves say, sweep us all away.”

M. de Larombière jerked his chin approvingly. For some time past he had

been haunted by the Anarchist peril. But Pierre, distressed and

quivering, again began to plead his cause. He spoke of all the frightful

misery, the homes where there was no food, the women and children

shivering with cold, and the fathers scouring muddy, wintry Paris in

search of a bit of bread. All that he asked for was a line on a visiting

card, a kindly word from the Countess, which he would at once carry to

Baroness Duvillard to prevail on her to set the regulations aside. And

his words fell one by one, tremulous with stifled tears, in that mournful

_salon_, like sounds from afar, dying away in a dead world where there

was no echo left.

Madame de Quinsac turned towards M. de Morigny, but he seemed to take no

interest in it all. He was gazing fixedly at the fire, with the haughty

air of a stranger who was indifferent to the things and beings in whose

midst an error of time compelled him to live. But feeling that the glance

of the woman he worshipped was fixed upon him he raised his head; and

then their eyes met for a moment with an expression of infinite

gentleness, the mournful gentleness of their heroic love.

“_Mon Dieu_!” said she, “I know your merits, Monsieur l’Abbé, and I won’t

refuse my help to one of your good works.”

Then she went off for a moment, and returned with a card on which she had

written that she supported with all her heart Monsieur l’Abbé Froment in

the steps he was taking. And he thanked her and went off delighted, as if

he carried yet a fresh hope of salvation from that drawing-room where, as

he retired, gloom and silence once more seemed to fall on that old lady

and her last faithful friends gathered around the fire, last relics of a

world that was soon to disappear.

Once outside, Pierre joyfully climbed into his cab again, after giving

the Princess de Harn’s address in the Avenue Kleber. If he could also

obtain her approval he would no longer doubt of success. However, there

was such a crush on the Concorde bridge, that the driver had to walk his

horse. And, on the foot-pavement, Pierre again saw Duthil, who, with a

cigar between his lips, was smiling at the crowd, with his amiable

bird-like heedlessness, happy as he felt at finding the pavement dry and

the sky blue on leaving that worrying sitting of the Chamber. Seeing how

gay and triumphant he looked, a sudden inspiration came to the priest,

who said to himself that he ought to win over this young man, whose

report had had such a disastrous effect. As it happened, the cab having

been compelled to stop altogether, the deputy had just recognized him and

was smiling at him.

“Where are you going, Monsieur Duthil?” Pierre asked.

“Close by, in the Champs Elysées.”

“I’m going that way, and, as I should much like to speak to you for a

moment, it would be very kind of you to take a seat beside me. I will set

you down wherever you like.”

“Willingly, Monsieur l’Abbé. It won’t inconvenience you if I finish my

cigar?”

“Oh! not at all.”

The cab found its way out of the crush, crossed the Place de la Concorde

and began to ascend the Champs Elysées. And Pierre, reflecting that he

had very few minutes before him, at once attacked Duthil, quite ready for

any effort to convince him. He remembered what a sortie the young deputy

had made against Laveuve at the Baron’s; and thus he was astonished to

hear him interrupt and say quite pleasantly, enlivened as he seemed by

the bright sun which was again beginning to shine: “Ah, yes! your old

drunkard! So you didn’t settle his business with Fonsègue? And what is it

you want? To have him admitted to-day? Well, you know I don’t oppose it?”

“But there’s your report.”

“My report, oh, my report! But questions change according to the way one

looks at them. And if you are so anxious about your Laveuve I won’t

refuse to help you.”

Pierre looked at him in astonishment, at bottom extremely well pleased.

And there was no further necessity even for him to speak.

“You didn’t take the matter in hand properly,” continued Duthil, leaning

forward with a confidential air. “It’s the Baron who’s the master at

home, for reasons which you may divine, which you may very likely know.

The Baroness does all that he asks without even discussing the point; and

this morning,--instead of starting on a lot of useless visits, you only

had to gain his support, particularly as he seemed to be very well

disposed. And she would then have given way immediately.” Duthil began to

laugh. “And so,” he continued, “do you know what I’ll do? Well, I’ll gain

the Baron over to your cause. Yes, I am this moment going to a house

where he is, where one is certain to find him every day at this time.”

Then he laughed more loudly. “And perhaps you are not ignorant of it,

Monsieur l’Abbé. When he is there you may be certain he never gives a

refusal. I promise you I’ll make him swear that he will compel his wife

to grant your man admission this very evening. Only it will, perhaps, be

rather late.”

Then all at once, as if struck by a fresh idea, Duthil went on: “But why

shouldn’t you come with me? You secure a line from the Baron, and

thereupon, without losing a minute, you go in search of the Baroness. Ah!

yes, the house embarrasses you a little, I understand it. Would you like

to see only the Baron there? You can wait for him in a little _salon_

downstairs; I will bring him to you.”

This proposal made Duthil altogether merry, but Pierre, quite scared,

hesitated at the idea of thus going to Silviane d’Aulnay’s. It was hardly

a place for him. However, to achieve his purpose, he would have descended

into the very dwelling of the fiend, and had already done so sometimes

with Abbé Rose, when there was hope of assuaging wretchedness. So he

turned to Duthil and consented to accompany him.

Silviane d’Aulnay’s little mansion, a very luxurious one, displaying,

too, so to say, the luxury of a temple, refined but suggestive of

gallantry, stood in the Avenue d’Antin, near the Champs Elysées. The

inmate of this sanctuary, where the orfrays of old dalmaticas glittered

in the mauve reflections from the windows of stained-glass, had just

completed her twenty-fifth year. Short and slim she was, of an adorable,

dark beauty, and all Paris was acquainted with her delicious, virginal

countenance of a gentle oval, her delicate nose, her little mouth, her

candid cheeks and artless chin, above all which she wore her black hair

in thick, heavy bands, which hid her low brow. Her notoriety was due

precisely to her pretty air of astonishment, the infinite purity of her

blue eyes, the whole expression of chaste innocence which she assumed

when it so pleased her, an expression which contrasted powerfully with

her true nature, shameless creature that she really was, of the most

monstrous, confessed, and openly-displayed perversity; such as, in fact,

often spring up from the rotting soil of great cities. Extraordinary

things were related about Silviane’s tastes and fancies. Some said that

she was a door-keeper’s, others a doctor’s, daughter. In any case she had

managed to acquire instruction and manners, for when occasion required

she lacked neither wit, nor style, nor deportment. She had been rolling

through the theatres for ten years or so, applauded for her beauty’s

sake, and she had even ended by obtaining some pretty little successes in

such parts as those of very pure young girls or loving and persecuted

young women. Since there had been a question, though, of her entering the

Comédie Française to play the _rôle_ of Pauline in “Polyeucte,” some

people had waxed indignant and others had roared with laughter, so

ridiculous did the idea appear, so outrageous for the majesty of classic

tragedy. She, however, quiet and stubborn, wished this thing to be, was

resolved that it should be, certain as she was that she would secure it,

insolent like a creature to whom men had never yet been able to refuse

anything.

That day, at three o’clock, Gérard de Quinsac, not knowing how to kill

the time pending the appointment he had given Eve in the Rue Matignon,

had thought of calling at Silviane’s, which was in the neighbourhood. She

was an old caprice of his, and even nowadays he would sometimes linger at

the little mansion if its pretty mistress felt bored. But he had this

time found her in a fury; and, reclining in one of the deep armchairs of

the _salon_ where “old gold” formed the predominant colour, he was

listening to her complaints. She, standing in a white gown, white indeed

from head to foot like Eve herself at the _déjeuner_, was speaking

passionately, and fast convincing the young man, who, won over by so much

youth and beauty, unconsciously compared her to his other flame, weary

already of his coming assignation, and so mastered by supineness, both

moral and physical, that he would have preferred to remain all day in the

depths of that armchair.

“You hear me, Gérard!” she at last exclaimed, “I’ll have nothing whatever

to do with him, unless he brings me my nomination.”

Just then Baron Duvillard came in, and forthwith she changed to ice and

received him like some sorely offended young queen who awaits an

explanation; whilst he, who foresaw the storm and brought moreover

disastrous tidings, forced a smile, though very ill at ease. She was the

stain, the blemish attaching to that man who was yet so sturdy and so

powerful amidst the general decline of his race. And she was also the

beginning of justice and punishment, taking all his piled-up gold from

him by the handful, and by her cruelty avenging those who shivered and

who starved. And it was pitiful to see that feared and flattered man,

beneath whom states and governments trembled, here turn pale with

anxiety, bend low in all humility, and relapse into the senile, lisping

infancy of acute passion.

“Ah! my dear friend,” said he, “if you only knew how I have been rushing

about. I had a lot of worrying business, some contractors to see, a big

advertisement affair to settle, and I feared that I should never be able

to come and kiss your hand.”

He kissed it, but she let her arm fall, coldly, indifferently, contenting

herself with looking at him, waiting for what he might have to say to

her, and embarrassing him to such a point that he began to perspire and

stammer, unable to express himself. “Of course,” he began, “I also

thought of you, and went to the Fine Arts Office, where I had received a

positive promise. Oh! they are still very much in your favour at the Fine

Arts Office! Only, just fancy, it’s that idiot of a minister, that

Taboureau,* an old professor from the provinces who knows nothing about

our Paris, that has expressly opposed your nomination, saying that as

long as he is in office you shall not appear at the Comédie.”

* Taboureau is previously described as Minister of Public

Instruction. It should be pointed out, however, that

although under the present Republic the Ministries of

Public Instruction and Fine Arts have occasionally been

distinct departments, at other times they have been

united, one minister, as in Taboureau’s case, having

charge of both.--Trans.

Erect and rigid, she spoke but two words: “And then?”

“And then--well, my dear, what would you have me do? One can’t after all

overthrow a ministry to enable you to play the part of Pauline.”

“Why not?”

He pretended to laugh, but his blood rushed to his face, and the whole of

his sturdy figure quivered with anguish. “Come, my little Silviane,” said

he, “don’t be obstinate. You can be so nice when you choose. Give up the

idea of that _début_. You, yourself, would risk a great deal in it, for

what would be your worries if you were to fail? You would weep all the

tears in your body. And besides, you can ask me for so many other things

which I should be so happy to give you. Come now, at once, make a wish

and I will gratify it immediately.”

In a frolicsome way he sought to take her hand again. But she drew back

with an air of much dignity. “No, you hear me, my dear fellow, I will

have nothing whatever to do with you--nothing, so long as I don’t play

Pauline.”

He understood her fully, and he knew her well enough to realise how

rigorously she would treat him. Only a kind of grunt came from his

contracted throat, though he still tried to treat the matter in a jesting

way. “Isn’t she bad-tempered to-day!” he resumed at last, turning towards

Gérard. “What have you done to her that I find her in such a state?”

But the young man, who kept very quiet for fear lest he himself might be

bespattered in the course of the dispute, continued to stretch himself

out in a languid way and gave no answer.

But Silviane’s anger burst forth. “What has he done to me? He has pitied

me for being at the mercy of such a man as you--so egotistical, so

insensible to the insults heaped upon me. Ought you not to be the first

to bound with indignation? Ought you not to have exacted my admittance to

the Comédie as a reparation for the insult? For, after all, it is a

defeat for you; if I’m considered unworthy, you are struck at the same

time as I am. And so I’m a drab, eh? Say at once that I’m a creature to

be driven away from all respectable houses.”

She went on in this style, coming at last to vile words, the abominable

words which, in moments of anger, always ended by returning to her

innocent-looking lips. The Baron, who well knew that a syllable from him

would only increase the foulness of the overflow, vainly turned an

imploring glance on the Count to solicit his intervention. Gérard, with

his keen desire for peace and quietness, often brought about a

reconciliation, but this time he did not stir, feeling too lazy and

sleepy to interfere. And Silviane all at once came to a finish, repeating

her trenchant, severing words: “Well, manage as you can, secure my

_début_, or I’ll have nothing more to do with you, nothing!”

“All right! all right!” Duvillard at last murmured, sneering, but in

despair, “we’ll arrange it all.”

However, at that moment a servant came in to say that M. Duthil was

downstairs and wished to speak to the Baron in the smoking-room.

Duvillard was astonished at this, for Duthil usually came up as though

the house were his own. Then he reflected that the deputy had doubtless

brought him some serious news from the Chamber which he wished to impart

to him confidentially at once. So he followed the servant, leaving Gérard

and Silviane together.

In the smoking-room, an apartment communicating with the hall by a wide

bay, the curtain of which was drawn up, Pierre stood with his companion,

waiting and glancing curiously around him. What particularly struck him

was the almost religious solemnness of the entrance, the heavy hangings,

the mystic gleams of the stained-glass, the old furniture steeped in

chapel-like gloom amidst scattered perfumes of myrrh and incense. Duthil,

who was still very gay, tapped a low divan with his cane and said: “She

has a nicely-furnished house, eh? Oh! she knows how to look after her

interests.”

Then the Baron came in, still quite upset and anxious. And without even

perceiving the priest, desirous as he was of tidings, he began: “Well,

what did they do? Is there some very bad news, then?”

“Mège interpellated and applied for a declaration of urgency so as to

overthrow Barroux. You can imagine what his speech was.”

“Yes, yes, against the _bourgeois_, against me, against you. It’s always

the same thing--And then?”

“Then--well, urgency wasn’t voted, but, in spite of a very fine defence,

Barroux only secured a majority of two votes.”

“Two votes, the devil! Then he’s down, and we shall have a Vignon

ministry next week.”

“That’s what everybody said in the lobbies.”

The Baron frowned, as if he were estimating what good or evil might

result to the world from such a change. Then, with a gesture of

displeasure, he said: “A Vignon ministry! The devil! that would hardly be

any better. Those young democrats pretend to be virtuous, and a Vignon

ministry wouldn’t admit Silviane to the Comédie.”

This, at first, was his only thought in presence of the crisis which made

the political world tremble. And so the deputy could not refrain from

referring to his own anxiety. “Well, and we others, what is our position

in it all?”

This brought Duvillard back to the situation. With a fresh gesture, this

time a superbly proud one, he expressed his full and impudent confidence.

“We others, why we remain as we are; we’ve never been in peril, I

imagine. Oh! I am quite at ease. Sagnier can publish his famous list if

it amuses him to do so. If we haven’t long since bought Sagnier and his

list, it’s because Barroux is a thoroughly honest man, and for my part I

don’t care to throw money out of the window--I repeat to you that we fear

nothing.”

Then, as he at last recognised Abbé Froment, who had remained in the

shade, Duthil explained what service the priest desired of him. And

Duvillard, in his state of emotion, his heart still rent by Silviane’s

sternness, must have felt a covert hope that a good action might bring

him luck; so he at once consented to intervene in favour of Laveuve’s

admission. Taking a card and a pencil from his pocket-book he drew near

to the window. “Oh! whatever you desire, Monsieur l’Abbé,” he said, “I

shall be very happy to participate in this good work. Here, this is what

I have written: ‘My dear, please do what M. l’Abbé Froment solicits in

favour of this unfortunate man, since our friend Fonsègue only awaits a

word from you to take proper steps.’”

At this moment through the open bay Pierre caught sight of Gérard, whom

Silviane, calm once more, and inquisitive no doubt to know why Duthil had

called, was escorting into the hall. And the sight of the young woman

filled him with astonishment, so simple and gentle did she seem to him,

full of the immaculate candour of a virgin. Never had he dreamt of a lily

of more unobtrusive yet delicious bloom in the whole garden of innocence.

“Now,” continued Duvillard, “if you wish to hand this card to my wife at

once, you must go to the Princess de Harn’s, where there is a

_matinée_--”

“I was going there, Monsieur le Baron.”

“Very good. You will certainly find my wife there; she is to take the

children there.” Then he paused, for he too had just seen Gérard; and he

called him: “I say, Gérard, my wife said that she was going to that

_matinée_, didn’t she? You feel sure--don’t you?--that Monsieur l’Abbé

will find her there?”

Although the young man was then going to the Rue Matignon, there to wait

for Eve, it was in the most natural manner possible that he replied: “If

Monsieur l’Abbé makes haste, I think he will find her there, for she was

certainly going there before trying on a corsage at Salmon’s.”

Then he kissed Silviane’s hand, and went off with the air of a handsome,

indolent man, who knows no malice, and is even weary of pleasure.

Pierre, feeling rather embarrassed, was obliged to let Duvillard

introduce him to the mistress of the house. He bowed in silence, whilst

she, likewise silent, returned his bow with modest reserve, the tact

appropriate to the occasion, such as no _ingénue_, even at the Comédie,

was then capable of. And while the Baron accompanied the priest to the

door, she returned to the _salon_ with Duthil, who was scarcely screened

by the door-curtain before he passed his arm round her waist.

When Pierre, who at last felt confident of success, found himself, still

in his cab, in front of the Princess de Harn’s mansion in the Avenue

Kleber, he suddenly relapsed into great embarrassment. The avenue was

crowded with carriages brought thither by the musical _matinée_, and such

a throng of arriving guests pressed round the entrance, decorated with a

kind of tent with scallopings of red velvet, that he deemed the house

unapproachable. How could he manage to get in? And how in his cassock

could he reach the Princess, and ask for a minute’s conversation with

Baroness Duvillard? Amidst all his feverishness he had not thought of

these difficulties. However, he was approaching the door on foot, asking

himself how he might glide unperceived through the throng, when the sound

of a merry voice made him turn: “What, Monsieur l’Abbé! Is it possible!

So now I find you here!”

It was little Massot who spoke. He went everywhere, witnessed ten sights

a day,--a parliamentary sitting, a funeral, a wedding, any festive or

mourning scene,--when he wanted a good subject for an article. “What!

Monsieur l’Abbé,” he resumed, “and so you have come to our amiable

Princess’s to see the Mauritanians dance!”

He was jesting, for the so-called Mauritanians were simply six Spanish

dancing-girls, who by the sensuality of their performance were then

making all Paris rush to the Folies-Bergère. For drawing-room

entertainments these girls reserved yet more indecorous dances--dances of

such a character indeed that they would certainly not have been allowed

in a theatre. And the _beau monde_ rushed to see them at the houses of

the bolder lady-entertainers, the eccentric and foreign ones like the

Princess, who in order to draw society recoiled from no “attraction.”

But when Pierre had explained to little Massot that he was still running

about on the same business, the journalist obligingly offered to pilot

him. He knew the house, obtained admittance by a back door, and brought

Pierre along a passage into a corner of the hall, near the very entrance

of the grand drawing-room. Lofty green plants decorated this hall, and in

the spot selected Pierre was virtually hidden. “Don’t stir, my dear

Abbé,” said Massot, “I will try to ferret out the Princess for you. And

you shall know if Baroness Duvillard has already arrived.”

What surprised Pierre was that every window-shutter of the mansion was

closed, every chink stopped up so that daylight might not enter, and that

every room flared with electric lamps, an illumination of supernatural

intensity. The heat was already very great, the atmosphere heavy with a

violent perfume of flowers and _odore di femina_. And to Pierre, who felt

both blinded and stifled, it seemed as if he were entering one of those

luxurious, unearthly Dens of the Flesh such as the pleasure-world of

Paris conjures from dreamland. By rising on tiptoes, as the drawing-room

entrance was wide open, he could distinguish the backs of the women who

were already seated, rows of necks crowned with fair or dark hair. The

Mauritanians were doubtless executing their first dance. He did not see

them, but he could divine the lascivious passion of the dance from the

quiver of all those women’s necks, which swayed as beneath a great gust

of wind. Then laughter arose and a tempest of bravos, quite a tumult of

enjoyment.

“I can’t put my hand on the Princess; you must wait a little,” Massot

returned to say. “I met Janzen and he promised to bring her to me. Don’t

you know Janzen?”

Then, in part because his profession willed it, and in part for

pleasure’s sake, he began to gossip. The Princess was a good friend of

his. He had described her first _soiree_ during the previous year, when

she had made her _début_ at that mansion on her arrival in Paris. He knew

the real truth about her so far as it could be known. Rich? yes, perhaps

she was, for she spent enormous sums. Married she must have been, and to

a real prince, too; no doubt she was still married to him, in spite of

her story of widowhood. Indeed, it seemed certain that her husband, who

was as handsome as an archangel, was travelling about with a vocalist. As

for having a bee in her bonnet that was beyond discussion, as clear as

noonday. Whilst showing much intelligence, she constantly and suddenly

shifted. Incapable of any prolonged effort, she went from one thing that

had awakened her curiosity to another, never attaching herself anywhere.

After ardently busying herself with painting, she had lately become

impassioned for chemistry, and was now letting poetry master her.

“And so you don’t know Janzen,” continued Massot. “It was he who threw

her into chemistry, into the study of explosives especially, for, as you

may imagine, the only interest in chemistry for her is its connection

with Anarchism. She, I think, is really an Austrian, though one must

always doubt anything she herself says. As for Janzen, he calls himself a

Russian, but he’s probably German. Oh! he’s the most unobtrusive,

enigmatical man in the world, without a home, perhaps without a name--a

terrible fellow with an unknown past. I myself hold proofs which make me

think that he took part in that frightful crime at Barcelona. At all

events, for nearly a year now I’ve been meeting him in Paris, where the

police no doubt are watching him. And nothing can rid me of the idea that

he merely consented to become our lunatic Princess’s lover in order to

throw the detectives off the scent. He affects to live in the midst of

_fêtes_, and he has introduced to the house some extraordinary people,

Anarchists of all nationalities and all colours--for instance, one

Raphanel, that fat, jovial little man yonder, a Frenchman he is, and his

companions would do well to mistrust him. Then there’s a Bergaz, a

Spaniard, I think, an obscure jobber at the Bourse, whose sensual,

blobber-lipped mouth is so disquieting. And there are others and others,

adventurers and bandits from the four corners of the earth!... Ah! the

foreign colonies of our Parisian pleasure-world! There are a few spotless

fine names, a few real great fortunes among them, but as for the rest,

ah! what a herd!”

Rosemonde’s own drawing-room was summed up in those words: resounding

titles, real millionaires, then, down below, the most extravagant medley

of international imposture and turpitude. And Pierre thought of that

internationalism, that cosmopolitanism, that flight of foreigners which,

ever denser and denser, swooped down upon Paris. Most certainly it came

thither to enjoy it, as to a city of adventure and delight, and it helped

to rot it a little more. Was it then a necessary thing, that

decomposition of the great cities which have governed the world, that

affluxion of every passion, every desire, every gratification, that

accumulation of reeking soil from all parts of the world, there where, in

beauty and intelligence, blooms the flower of civilisation?

However, Janzen appeared, a tall, thin fellow of about thirty, very fair

with grey, pale, harsh eyes, and a pointed beard and flowing curly hair

which elongated his livid, cloudy face. He spoke indifferent French in a

low voice and without a gesture. And he declared that the Princess could

not be found; he had looked for her everywhere. Possibly, if somebody had

displeased her, she had shut herself up in her room and gone to bed,

leaving her guests to amuse themselves in all freedom in whatever way

they might choose.

“Why, but here she is!” suddenly said Massot.

Rosemonde was indeed there, in the vestibule, watching the door as if she

expected somebody. Short, slight, and strange rather than pretty, with

her delicate face, her sea-green eyes, her small quivering nose, her

rather large and over-ruddy mouth, which was parted so that one could see

her superb teeth, she that day wore a sky-blue gown spangled with silver;

and she had silver bracelets on her arms and a silver circlet in her pale

brown hair, which rained down in curls and frizzy, straggling locks as

though waving in a perpetual breeze.

“Oh! whatever you desire, Monsieur l’Abbé,” she said to Pierre as soon as

she knew his business. “If they don’t take your old man in at our asylum,

send him to me, I’ll take him, I will; I will sleep him somewhere here.”

Still, she remained disturbed, and continually glanced towards the door.

And on the priest asking if Baroness Duvillard had yet arrived, “Why no!”

she cried, “and I am much surprised at it. She is to bring her son and

daughter. Yesterday, Hyacinthe positively promised me that he would

come.”

There lay her new caprice. If her passion for chemistry was giving way to

a budding taste for decadent, symbolical verse, it was because one

evening, whilst discussing Occultism with Hyacinthe, she had discovered

an extraordinary beauty in him: the astral beauty of Nero’s wandering

soul! At least, said she, the signs of it were certain.

And all at once she quitted Pierre: “Ah, at last!” she cried, feeling

relieved and happy. Then she darted forward: Hyacinthe was coming in with

his sister Camille.

On the very threshold, however, he had just met the friend on whose

account he was there, young Lord George Eldrett, a pale and languid

stripling with the hair of a girl; and he scarcely condescended to notice

the tender greeting of Rosemonde, for he professed to regard woman as an

impure and degrading creature. Distressed by such coldness, she followed

the two young men, returning in their rear into the reeking, blinding

furnace of the drawing-room.

Massot, however, had been obliging enough to stop Camille and bring her

to Pierre, who at the first words they exchanged relapsed into despair.

“What, mademoiselle, has not madame your mother accompanied you here?”

The girl, clad according to her wont in a dark gown, this time of

peacock-blue, was nervous, with wicked eyes and sibilant voice. And as

she ragefully drew up her little figure, her deformity, her left shoulder

higher than the right one, became more apparent than ever. “No,” she

rejoined, “she was unable. She had something to try on at her

dressmaker’s. We stopped too long at the Exposition du Lis, and she

requested us to set her down at Salmon’s door on our way here.”

It was Camille herself who had skilfully prolonged the visit to the art

show, still hoping to prevent her mother from meeting Gérard. And her

rage arose from the ease with which her mother had got rid of her, thanks

to that falsehood of having something to try on.

“But,” ingenuously said Pierre, “if I went at once to this person Salmon,

I might perhaps be able to send up my card.”

Camille gave a shrill laugh, so funny did the idea appear to her. Then

she retorted: “Oh! who knows if you would still find her there? She had

another pressing appointment, and is no doubt already keeping it!”

“Well, then, I will wait for her here. She will surely come to fetch you,

will she not?”

“Fetch us? Oh no! since I tell you that she has other important affairs

to attend to. The carriage will take us home alone, my brother and I.”

Increasing bitterness was infecting the girl’s pain-fraught irony. Did he

not understand her then, that priest who asked such naive questions which

were like dagger-thrusts in her heart? Yet he must know, since everybody

knew the truth.

“Ah! how worried I am,” Pierre resumed, so grieved indeed that tears

almost came to his eyes. “It’s still on account of that poor man about

whom I have been busying myself since this morning. I have a line from

your father, and Monsieur Gérard told me--” But at this point he paused

in confusion, and amidst all his thoughtlessness of the world, absorbed

as he was in the one passion of charity, he suddenly divined the truth.

“Yes,” he added mechanically, “I just now saw your father again with

Monsieur de Quinsac.”

“I know, I know,” replied Camille, with the suffering yet scoffing air of

a girl who is ignorant of nothing. “Well, Monsieur l’Abbé, if you have a

line from papa for mamma, you must wait till mamma has finished her

business. You might come to the house about six o’clock, but I doubt if

you’ll find her there, as she may well be detained.”

While Camille thus spoke, her murderous eyes glistened, and each word she

uttered, simple as it seemed, became instinct with ferocity, as if it

were a knife, which she would have liked to plunge into her mother’s

breast. In all certainty she had never before hated her mother to such a

point as this in her envy of her beauty and her happiness in being loved.

And the irony which poured from the girl’s virgin lips, before that

simple priest, was like a flood of mire with which she sought to submerge

her rival.

Just then, however, Rosemonde came back again, feverish and flurried as

usual. And she led Camille away: “Ah, my dear, make haste. They are

extraordinary, delightful, intoxicating!”

Janzen and little Massot also followed the Princess. All the men hastened

from the adjoining rooms, scrambled and plunged into the _salon_ at the

news that the Mauritanians had again begun to dance. That time it must

have been the frantic, lascivious gallop that Paris whispered about, for

Pierre saw the rows of necks and heads, now fair, now dark, wave and

quiver as beneath a violent wind. With every window-shutter closed, the

conflagration of the electric lamps turned the place into a perfect

brazier, reeking with human effluvia. And there came a spell of rapture,

fresh laughter and bravos, all the delight of an overflowing orgy.

When Pierre again found himself on the footwalk, he remained for a moment

bewildered, blinking, astonished to be in broad daylight once more.

Half-past four would soon strike, but he had nearly two hours to wait

before calling at the house in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy. What should he

do? He paid his driver; preferring to descend the Champs Elysées on foot,

since he had some time to lose. A walk, moreover, might calm the fever

which was burning his hands, in the passion of charity which ever since

the morning had been mastering him more and more, in proportion as he

encountered fresh and fresh obstacles. He now had but one pressing

desire, to complete his good work, since success henceforth seemed

certain. And he tried to restrain his steps and walk leisurely down the

magnificent avenue, which had now been dried by the bright sun, and was

enlivened by a concourse of people, while overhead the sky was again

blue, lightly blue, as in springtime.

Nearly two hours to lose while, yonder, the wretched Laveuve lay with

life ebbing from him on his bed of rags, in his icy den. Sudden feelings

of revolt, of well-nigh irresistible impatience ascended from Pierre’s

heart, making him quiver with desire to run off and at once find Baroness

Duvillard so as to obtain from her the all-saving order. He felt sure

that she was somewhere near, in one of those quiet neighbouring streets,

and great was his perturbation, his grief-fraught anger at having to wait

in this wise to save a human life until she should have attended to those

affairs of hers, of which her daughter spoke with such murderous glances!

He seemed to hear a formidable cracking, the family life of the

_bourgeoisie_ was collapsing: the father was at a hussy’s house, the

mother with a lover, the son and daughter knew everything; the former

gliding to idiotic perversity, the latter enraged and dreaming of

stealing her mother’s lover to make a husband of him. And meantime the

splendid equipages descended the triumphal avenue, and the crowd with its

luxury flowed along the sidewalks, one and all joyous and superb,

seemingly with no idea that somewhere at the far end there was a gaping

abyss wherein everyone of them would fall and be annihilated!

When Pierre got as far as the Summer Circus he was much surprised at

again seeing Salvat, the journeyman engineer, on one of the avenue seats.

He must have sunk down there, overcome by weariness and hunger, after

many a vain search. However, his jacket was still distended by something

he carried in or under it, some bit of bread, no doubt, which he meant to

take home with him. And leaning back, with his arms hanging listlessly,

he was watching with dreamy eyes the play of some very little children,

who, with the help of their wooden spades, were laboriously raising

mounds of sand, and then destroying them by dint of kicks. As he looked

at them his red eyelids moistened, and a very gentle smile appeared on

his poor discoloured lips. This time Pierre, penetrated by disquietude,

wished to approach and question him. But Salvat distrustfully rose and

went off towards the Circus, where a concert was drawing to a close; and

he prowled around the entrance of that festive edifice in which two

thousand happy people were heaped up together listening to music.

V. FROM RELIGION TO ANARCHY

AS Pierre was reaching the Place de la Concorde he suddenly remembered

the appointment which Abbé Rose had given him for five o’clock at the

Madeleine, and which he was forgetting in the feverishness born of his

repeated steps to save Laveuve. And at thought of it he hastened on, well

pleased at having this appointment to occupy and keep him patient.

When he entered the church he was surprised to find it so dark. There

were only a few candles burning, huge shadows were flooding the nave, and

amidst the semi-obscurity a very loud, clear voice spoke on with a

ceaseless streaming of words. All that one could at first distinguish of

the numerous congregation was a pale, vague mass of heads, motionless

with extreme attention. In the pulpit stood Monseigneur Martha, finishing

his third address on the New Spirit. The two former ones had re-echoed

far and wide, and so what is called “all Paris” was there--women of

society, politicians, and writers, who were captivated by the speaker’s

artistic oratory, his warm, skilful language, and his broad, easy

gestures, worthy of a great actor.

Pierre did not wish to disturb the solemn attention, the quivering

silence above which the prelate’s voice alone rang out. Accordingly he

resolved to wait before seeking Abbé Rose, and remained standing near a

pillar. A parting gleam of daylight fell obliquely on Monseigneur Martha,

who looked tall and sturdy in his white surplice, and scarcely showed a

grey hair, although he was more than fifty. He had handsome features:

black, keen eyes, a commanding nose, a mouth and chin of the greatest

firmness of contour. What more particularly struck one, however, what

gained the heart of every listener, was the expression of extreme

amiability and anxious sympathy which ever softened the imperious

haughtiness of the prelate’s face.

Pierre had formerly known him as Curé, or parish priest, of Ste.

Clotilde. He was doubtless of Italian origin, but he had been born in

Paris, and had quitted the seminary of St. Sulpice with the best possible

record. Very intelligent and very ambitious, he had evinced an activity

which even made his superiors anxious. Then, on being appointed Bishop of

Persepolis, he had disappeared, gone to Rome, where he had spent five

years engaged in work of which very little was known. However, since his

return he had been astonishing Paris by his brilliant propaganda, busying

himself with the most varied affairs, and becoming much appreciated and

very powerful at the archiepiscopal residence. He devoted himself in

particular, and with wonderful results, to the task of increasing the

subscriptions for the completion of the basilica of the Sacred Heart. He

recoiled from nothing, neither from journeys, nor lectures, nor

collections, nor applications to Government, nor even endeavours among

Israelites and Freemasons. And at last, again enlarging his sphere of

action, he had undertaken to reconcile Science with Catholicism, and to

bring all Christian France to the Republic, on all sides expounding the

policy of Pope Leo XIII., in order that the Church might finally triumph.

However, in spite of the advances of this influential and amiable man,

Pierre scarcely liked him. He only felt grateful to him for one thing,

the appointment of good Abbé Rose as curate at St. Pierre de Montmartre,

which appointment he had secured for him no doubt in order to prevent

such a scandal as the punishment of an old priest for showing himself too

charitable. On thus finding and hearing the prelate speak in that

renowned pulpit of the Madeleine, still and ever pursuing his work of

conquest, Pierre remembered how he had seen him at the Duvillards’ during

the previous spring, when, with his usual _maestria_, he had achieved his

greatest triumph--the conversion of Eve to Catholicism. That church, too,

had witnessed her baptism, a wonderfully pompous ceremony, a perfect gala

offered to the public which figures in all the great events of Parisian

life. Gérard had knelt down, moved to tears, whilst the Baron triumphed

like a good-natured husband who was happy to find religion establishing

perfect harmony in his household. It was related among the spectators

that Eve’s family, and particularly old Justus Steinberger, her father,

was not in reality much displeased by the affair. The old man sneeringly

remarked, indeed, that he knew his daughter well enough to wish her to

belong to his worst enemy. In the banking business there is a class of

security which one is pleased to see discounted by one’s rivals. With the

stubborn hope of triumph peculiar to his race, Justus, consoling himself

for the failure of his first scheme, doubtless considered that Eve would

prove a powerful dissolving agent in the Christian family which she had

entered, and thus help to make all wealth and power fall into the hands

of the Jews.

However, Pierre’s vision faded. Monseigneur Martha’s voice was rising

with increase of volume, celebrating, amidst the quivering of the

congregation, the benefits that would accrue from the New Spirit, which

was at last about to pacify France and restore her to her due rank and

power. Were there not certain signs of this resurrection on every hand?

The New Spirit was the revival of the Ideal, the protest of the soul

against degrading materialism, the triumph of spirituality over filthy

literature; and it was also Science accepted, but set in its proper

place, reconciled with Faith, since it no longer pretended to encroach on

the latter’s sacred domain; and it was further the Democracy welcomed in

fatherly fashion, the Republic legitimated, recognised in her turn as

Eldest Daughter of the Church. A breath of poetry passed by. The Church

opened her heart to all her children, there would henceforth be but

concord and delight if the masses, obedient to the New Spirit, would give

themselves to the Master of love as they had given themselves to their

kings, recognising that the Divinity was the one unique power, absolute

sovereign of both body and soul.