Then he told him of his invention, a new explosive, a powder of such

extraordinary force that its effects were incalculable. And he had found

employment for this powder in an engine of warfare, a special cannon,

hurling bombs which would assure the most overwhelming victory to the

army using them. The enemy’s forces would be destroyed in a few hours,

and besieged cities would fall into dust at the slightest bombardment. He

had long searched and doubted, calculated, recalculated and experimented;

but everything was now ready: the precise formula of the powder, the

drawings for the cannon and the bombs, a whole packet of precious papers

stored in a safe spot. And after months of anxious reflection he had

resolved to give his invention to France, so as to ensure her a certainty

of victory in her coming, inevitable war with Germany!

At the same time, he was not a man of narrow patriotism; on the contrary

he had a very broad, international conception of the future liberative

civilisation. Only he believed in the initiatory mission of France, and

particularly in that of Paris, which, even as it is to-day, was destined

to be the world’s brain to-morrow, whence all science and justice would

proceed. The great idea of liberty and equality had already soared from

it at the prodigious blast of the Revolution; and from its genius and

valour the final emancipation of man would also take its flight. Thus it

was necessary that Paris should be victorious in the struggle in order

that the world might be saved.

Pierre understood his brother, thanks to the lecture on explosives which

he had heard at Bertheroy’s. And the grandeur of this scheme, this dream,

particularly struck him when he thought of the extraordinary future which

would open for Paris amidst the effulgent blaze of the bombs. Moreover,

he was struck by all the nobility of soul which had lain behind his

brother’s anxiety for a month past. If Guillaume had trembled it was

simply with fear that his invention might be divulged in consequence of

Salvat’s crime. The slightest indiscretion might compromise everything;

and that little stolen cartridge, whose effects had so astonished

_savants_, might reveal his secret. He felt it necessary to act in

mystery, choosing his own time, awaiting the proper hour, until when the

secret would slumber in its hiding-place, confided to the sole care of

Mère-Grand, who had her orders and knew what she was to do should he, in

any sudden accident, disappear.

“And, now,” said Guillaume in conclusion, “you know my hopes and my

anguish, and you can help me and even take my place if I am unable to

reach the end of my task. Ah! to reach the end! Since I have been shut up

here, reflecting, consumed by anxiety and impatience, there have been

hours when I have ceased to see my way clearly! There is that Salvat,

that wretched fellow for whose crime we are all of us responsible, and

who is now being hunted down like a wild beast! There is also that

insensate and insatiable _bourgeoisie_, which will let itself be crushed

by the fall of the shaky old house, rather than allow the least repair to

it! And there is further that avaricious, that abominable Parisian press,

so harsh towards the weak and little, so fond of insulting those who have

none to defend them, so eager to coin money out of public misfortune, and

ready to spread insanity on all sides, simply to increase its sales!

Where, therefore, shall one find truth and justice, the hand endowed with

logic and health that ought to be armed with the thunderbolt? Would Paris

the conqueror, Paris the master of the nations, prove the justiciar, the

saviour that men await! Ah! the anguish of believing oneself to be the

master of the world’s destinies, and to have to choose and decide.”

He had risen again quivering, full of anger and fear that human

wretchedness and baseness might prevent the realisation of his dream. And

amidst the heavy silence which fell in the room, the little house

suddenly resounded with a regular, continuous footfall.

“Ah, yes! to save men and love them, and wish them all to be equal and

free,” murmured Pierre, bitterly. “But just listen! Barthès’s footsteps

are answering you, as if from the everlasting dungeon into which his love

of liberty has thrown him!”

However, Guillaume had already regained possession of himself, and coming

back in a transport of his faith, he once more took Pierre in his loving,

saving arms, like an elder brother who gives himself without restraint.

“No, no, I’m wrong, I’m blaspheming,” he exclaimed; “I wish you to be

with me, full of hope and full of certainty. You must work, you must

love, you must revive to life. Life alone can give you back peace and

health.”

Tears returned to the eyes of Pierre, who was penetrated to the heart by

this ardent affection. “Ah! how I should like to believe you,” he

faltered, “and try to cure myself. True, I have already felt, as it were,

a vague revival within me. And yet to live again, no, I cannot; the

priest that I am is dead--a lifeless, an empty tomb.”

He was shaken by so frightful a sob, that Guillaume could not restrain

his own tears. And clasped in one another’s arms the brothers wept on,

their hearts full of the softest emotion in that home of their youth,

whither the dear shadows of their parents ever returned, hovering around

until they should be reconciled and restored to the peace of the earth.

And all the darkness and mildness of the garden streamed in through the

open window, while yonder, on the horizon, Paris had fallen asleep in the

mysterious gloom, beneath a very peaceful sky which was studded with

stars.

BOOK III.

I. THE RIVALS

ON the Wednesday preceding the mid-Lent Thursday, a great charity bazaar

was held at the Duvillard mansion, for the benefit of the Asylum of the

Invalids of Labour. The ground-floor reception rooms, three spacious

Louis Seize _salons_, whose windows overlooked the bare and solemn

courtyard, were given up to the swarm of purchasers, five thousand

admission cards having been distributed among all sections of Parisian

society. And the opening of the bombarded mansion in this wise to

thousands of visitors was regarded as quite an event, a real

manifestation, although some people whispered that the Rue

Godot-de-Mauroy and the adjacent streets were guarded by quite an army of

police agents.

The idea of the bazaar had come from Duvillard himself, and at his

bidding his wife had resigned herself to all this worry for the benefit

of the enterprise over which she presided with such distinguished

nonchalance. On the previous day the “Globe” newspaper, inspired by its

director Fonsègue, who was also the general manager of the asylum, had

published a very fine article, announcing the bazaar, and pointing out

how noble, and touching, and generous was the initiative of the Baroness,

who still gave her time, her money, and even her home to charity, in

spite of the abominable crime which had almost reduced that home to

ashes. Was not this the magnanimous answer of the spheres above to the

hateful passions of the spheres below? And was it not also a peremptory

answer to those who accused the capitalists of doing nothing for the

wage-earners, the disabled and broken-down sons of toil?

The drawing-room doors were to be opened at two o’clock, and would only

close at seven, so that there would be five full hours for the sales. And

at noon, when nothing was as yet ready downstairs, when workmen and women

were still decorating the stalls, and sorting the goods amidst a final

scramble, there was, as usual, a little friendly _déjeuner_, to which a

few guests had been invited, in the private rooms on the first floor.

However, a scarcely expected incident had given a finishing touch to the

general excitement of the house: that very morning Sagnier had resumed

his campaign of denunciation in the matter of the African Railway Lines.

In a virulent article in the “Voix du Peuple,” he had inquired if it were

the intention of the authorities to beguile the public much longer with

the story of that bomb and that Anarchist whom the police did not arrest.

And this time, while undertaking to publish the names of the thirty-two

corrupt senators and deputies in a very early issue, he had boldly named

Minister Barroux as one who had pocketed a sum of 200,000 francs. Mège

would therefore certainly revive his interpellation, which might become

dangerous, now that Paris had been thrown into such a distracted state by

terror of the Anarchists. At the same time it was said that Vignon and

his party had resolved to turn circumstances to account, with the object

of overthrowing the ministry. Thus a redoubtable crisis was inevitably at

hand. Fortunately, the Chamber did not meet that Wednesday; in fact, it

had adjourned until the Friday, with the view of making mid-Lent a

holiday. And so forty-eight hours were left one to prepare for the

onslaught.

Eve, that morning, seemed more gentle and languid than ever, rather pale

too, with an expression of sorrowful anxiety in the depths of her

beautiful eyes. She set it all down to the very great fatigue which the

preparations for the bazaar had entailed on her. But the truth was that

Gérard de Quinsac, after shunning any further assignation, had for five

days past avoided her in an embarrassed way. Still she was convinced that

she would see him that morning, and so she had again ventured to wear the

white silk gown which made her look so much younger than she really was.

At the same time, beautiful as she had remained, with her delicate skin,

superb figure and noble and charming countenance, her six and forty years

were asserting themselves in her blotchy complexion and the little

creases which were appearing about her lips, eyelids and temples.

Camille, for her part, though her position as daughter of the house made

it certain that she would attract much custom as a saleswoman, had

obstinately persisted in wearing one of her usual dresses, a dark

“carmelite” gown, an old woman’s frock, as she herself called it with a

cutting laugh. However, her long and wicked-looking face beamed with some

secret delight; such an expression of wit and intelligence wreathing her

thin lips and shining in her big eyes that one lost sight of her

deformity and thought her almost pretty.

Eve experienced a first deception in the little blue and silver

sitting-room, where, accompanied by her daughter, she awaited the arrival

of her guests. General de Bozonnet, whom Gérard was to have brought with

him, came in alone, explaining that Madame de Quinsac had felt rather

poorly that morning, and that Gérard, like a good and dutiful son, had

wished to remain with her. Still he would come to the bazaar directly

after _déjeuner_. While the Baroness listened to the General, striving to

hide her disappointment and her fear that she would now be unable to

obtain any explanation from Gérard that day, Camille looked at her with

eager, devouring eyes. And a certain covert instinct of the misfortune

threatening her must at that moment have come to Eve, for in her turn she

glanced at her daughter and turned pale as if with anxiety.

Then Princess Rosemonde de Harn swept in like a whirlwind. She also was

to be one of the saleswomen at the stall chosen by the Baroness, who

liked her for her very turbulence, the sudden gaiety which she generally

brought with her. Gowned in fire-hued satin (red shot with yellow),

looking very eccentric with her curly hair and thin boyish figure, she

laughed and talked of an accident by which her carriage had almost been

cut in halves. Then, as Baron Duvillard and Hyacinthe came in from their

rooms, late as usual, she took possession of the young man and scolded

him, for on the previous evening she had vainly waited for him till ten

o’clock in the expectation that he would keep his promise to escort her

to a tavern at Montmartre, where some horrible things were said to occur.

Hyacinthe, looking very bored, quietly replied that he had been detained

at a seance given by some adepts in the New Magic, in the course of which

the soul of St. Theresa had descended from heaven to recite a love

sonnet.

However, Fonsègue was now coming in with his wife, a tall, thin, silent

and generally insignificant woman, whom he seldom took about with him. On

this occasion he had been obliged to bring her, as she was one of the

lady-patronesses of the asylum, and he himself was coming to lunch with

the Duvillards in his capacity as general manager. To the superficial

observer he looked quite as gay as usual; but he blinked nervously, and

his first glance was a questioning one in the direction of Duvillard, as

if he wished to know how the latter bore the fresh thrust directed at him

by Sagnier. And when he saw the banker looking perfectly composed, as

superb, as rubicund as usual, and chatting in a bantering way with

Rosemonde, he also put on an easy air, like a gamester who had never lost

but had always known how to compel good luck, even in hours of treachery.

And by way of showing his unconstraint of mind he at once addressed the

Baroness on managerial matters: “Have you now succeeded in seeing M.

l’Abbé Froment for the affair of that old man Laveuve, whom he so warmly

recommended to us? All the formalities have been gone through, you know,

and he can be brought to us at once, as we have had a bed vacant for

three days past.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Eve; “but I can’t imagine what has become of Abbé

Froment, for he hasn’t given us a sign of life for a month past. However,

I made up my mind to write to him yesterday, and beg him to come to the

bazaar to-day. In this manner I shall be able to acquaint him with the

good news myself.”

“It was to leave you the pleasure of doing so,” said Fonsègue, “that I

refrained from sending him any official communication. He’s a charming

priest, is he not?”

“Oh! charming, we are very fond of him.”

However, Duvillard now intervened to say that they need not wait for

Duthil, as he had received a telegram from him stating that he was

detained by sudden business. At this Fonsègue’s anxiety returned, and he

once more questioned the Baron with his eyes. Duvillard smiled, however,

and reassured him in an undertone: “It’s nothing serious. Merely a

commission for me, about which he’ll only be able to bring me an answer

by-and-by.” Then, taking Fonsègue on one side, he added: “By the way,

don’t forget to insert the paragraph I told you of.”

“What paragraph? Oh! yes, the one about that _soiree_ at which Silviane

recited a piece of verse. Well, I wanted to speak to you about it. It

worries me a little, on account of the excessive praise it contains.”

Duvillard, but a moment before so full of serenity, with his lofty,

conquering, disdainful mien, now suddenly became pale and agitated. “But

I absolutely want it to be inserted, my dear fellow! You would place me

in the greatest embarrassment if it were not to appear, for I promised

Silviane that it should.”

As he spoke his lips trembled, and a scared look came into his eyes,

plainly revealing his dismay.

“All right, all right,” said Fonsègue, secretly amused, and well pleased

at this complicity. “As it’s so serious the paragraph shall go in, I

promise you.”

The whole company was now present, since neither Gérard nor Duthil was to

be expected. So they went into the dining-room amidst a final noise of

hammering in the sale-rooms below. The meal proved somewhat of a

scramble, and was on three occasions disturbed by female attendants, who

came to explain difficulties and ask for orders. Doors were constantly

slamming, and the very walls seemed to shake with the unusual bustle

which filled the house. And feverish as they all were in the dining-room,

they talked in desultory, haphazard fashion on all sorts of subjects,

passing from a ball given at the Ministry of the Interior on the previous

night, to the popular mid-Lent festival which would take place on the

morrow, and ever reverting to the bazaar, the prices that had been given

for the goods which would be on sale, the prices at which they might be

sold, and the probable figure of the full receipts, all this being

interspersed with strange anecdotes, witticisms and bursts of laughter.

On the General mentioning magistrate Amadieu, Eve declared that she no

longer dared to invite him to _déjeuner_, knowing how busy he was at the

Palace of Justice. Still, she certainly hoped that he would come to the

bazaar and contribute something. Then Fonsègue amused himself with

teasing Princess Rosemonde about her fire-hued gown, in which, said he,

she must already feel roasted by the flames of hell; a suggestion which

secretly delighted her, as Satanism had now become her momentary passion.

Meantime, Duvillard lavished the most gallant politeness on that silent

creature, Madame Fonsègue, while Hyacinthe, in order to astonish even the

Princess, explained in a few words how the New Magic could transform a

chaste young man into a real angel. And Camille, who seemed very happy

and very excited, from time to time darted a hot glance at her mother,

whose anxiety and sadness increased as she found the other more and more

aggressive, and apparently resolved upon open and merciless warfare.

At last, just as the dessert was coming to an end, the Baroness heard her

daughter exclaim in a piercing, defiant voice: “Oh! don’t talk to me of

the old ladies who still seem to be playing with dolls, and paint

themselves, and dress as if they were about to be confirmed! All such

ogresses ought to retire from the scene! I hold them in horror!”

At this, Eve nervously rose from her seat, and exclaimed apologetically:

“You must forgive me for hurrying you like this. But I’m afraid that we

shan’t have time to drink our coffee in peace.”

The coffee was served in the little blue and silver sitting-room, where

bloomed some lovely yellow roses, testifying to the Baroness’s keen

passion for flowers, which made the house an abode of perpetual spring.

Duvillard and Fonsègue, however, carrying their cups of steaming coffee

with them, at once went into the former’s private room to smoke a cigar

there and chat in freedom. As the door remained wide open, one could

hear their gruff voices more or less distinctly. Meantime, General de

Bozonnet, delighted to find in Madame Fonsègue a serious, submissive

person, who listened without interrupting, began to tell her a very long

story of an officer’s wife who had followed her husband through

every battle of the war of 1870. Then Hyacinthe, who took no

coffee--contemptuously declaring it to be a beverage only fit for

door-keepers--managed to rid himself of Rosemonde, who was sipping some

kummel, in order to come and whisper to his sister: “I say, it was very

stupid of you to taunt mamma in the way you did just now. I don’t care a

rap about it myself. But it ends by being noticed, and, I warn you

candidly, it shows ill breeding.”

Camille gazed at him fixedly with her black eyes. “Pray don’t _you_

meddle with my affairs,” said she.

At this he felt frightened, scented a storm, and decided to take

Rosemonde into the adjoining red drawing-room in order to show her a

picture which his father had just purchased. And the General, on being

called by him, likewise conducted Madame Fonsègue thither.

The mother and daughter then suddenly found themselves alone and face to

face. Eve was leaning on a pier-table, as if overcome; and indeed, the

least sorrow bore her down, so weak at heart she was, ever ready to weep

in her naive and perfect egotism. Why was it that her daughter thus hated

her, and did her utmost to disturb that last happy spell of love in which

her heart lingered? She looked at Camille, grieved rather than irritated;

and the unfortunate idea came to her of making a remark about her dress

at the very moment when the girl was on the point of following the others

into the larger drawing-room.

“It’s quite wrong of you, my dear,” said she, “to persist in dressing

like an old woman. It doesn’t improve you a bit.”

As Eve spoke, her soft eyes, those of a courted and worshipped handsome

woman, clearly expressed the compassion she felt for that ugly, deformed

girl, whom she had never been able to regard as a daughter. Was it

possible that she, with her sovereign beauty, that beauty which she

herself had ever adored and nursed, making it her one care, her one

religion--was it possible that she had given birth to such a graceless

creature, with a dark, goatish profile, one shoulder higher than the

other, and a pair of endless arms such as hunchbacks often have? All her

grief and all her shame at having had such a child became apparent in the

quivering of her voice.

Camille, however, had stopped short, as if struck in the face with a

whip. Then she came back to her mother and the horrible explanation began

with these simple words spoken in an undertone: “You consider that I

dress badly? Well, you ought to have paid some attention to me, have seen

that my gowns suited your taste, and have taught me your secret of

looking beautiful!”

Eve, with her dislike of all painful feeling, all quarrelling and bitter

words, was already regretting her attack. So she sought to make a

retreat, particularly as time was flying and they would soon be expected

downstairs: “Come, be quiet, and don’t show your bad temper when all

those people can hear us. I have loved you--”

But with a quiet yet terrible laugh Camille interrupted her. “You’ve

loved me! Oh! my poor mamma, what a comical thing to say! Have you ever

loved _anybody_? You want others to love _you_, but that’s another

matter. As for your child, any child, do you even know how it ought to be

loved? You have always neglected me, thrust me on one side, deeming me so

ugly, so unworthy of you! And besides, you have not had days and nights

enough to love yourself! Oh! don’t deny it, my poor mamma; but even now

you’re looking at me as if I were some loathsome monster that’s in your

way.”

From that moment the abominable scene was bound to continue to the end.

With their teeth set, their faces close together, the two women went on

speaking in feverish whispers.

“Be quiet, Camille, I tell you! I will not allow such language!”

“But I won’t be quiet when you do all you can to wound me. If it’s wrong

of me to dress like an old woman, perhaps another is rather ridiculous in

dressing like a girl, like a bride.”

“Like a bride? I don’t understand you.”

“Oh! yes, you do. However, I would have you know that everybody doesn’t

find me so ugly as you try to make them believe.”

“If you look amiss, it is because you don’t dress properly; that is all I

said.”

“I dress as I please, and no doubt I do so well enough, since I’m loved

as I am.”

“What, really! Does someone love you? Well, let him inform us of it and

marry you.”

“Yes--certainly, certainly! It will be a good riddance, won’t it? And

you’ll have the pleasure of seeing me as a bride!”

Their voices were rising in spite of their efforts to restrain them.

However, Camille paused and drew breath before hissing out the words:

“Gérard is coming here to ask for my hand in a day or two.”

Eve, livid, with wildly staring eyes, did not seem to understand.

“Gérard? why do you tell me that?”

“Why, because it’s Gérard who loves me and who is going to marry me! You

drive me to extremities; you’re for ever repeating that I’m ugly; you

treat me like a monster whom nobody will ever care for. So I’m forced to

defend myself and tell you the truth in order to prove to you that

everybody is not of your opinion.”

Silence fell; the frightful thing which had risen between them seemed to

have arrested the quarrel. But there was neither mother nor daughter left

there. They were simply two suffering, defiant rivals. Eve in her turn

drew a long breath and glanced anxiously towards the adjoining room to

ascertain if anyone were coming in or listening to them. And then in a

tone of resolution she made answer:

“You cannot marry Gérard.”

“Pray, why not?”

“Because I won’t have it; because it’s impossible.”

“That isn’t a reason; give me a reason.”

“The reason is that the marriage is impossible that is all.”

“No, no, I’ll tell you the reason since you force me to it. The reason is

that Gérard is your lover! But what does that matter, since I know it and

am willing to take him all the same?”

And to this retort Camille’s flaming eyes added the words: “And it is

particularly on that account that I want him.” All the long torture born

of her infirmities, all her rage at having always seen her mother

beautiful, courted and adored, was now stirring her and seeking vengeance

in cruel triumph. At last then she was snatching from her rival the lover

of whom she had so long been jealous!

“You wretched girl!” stammered Eve, wounded in the heart and almost

sinking to the floor. “You don’t know what you say or what you make me

suffer.”

However, she again had to pause, draw herself erect and smile; for

Rosemonde hastened in from the adjoining room with the news that she was

wanted downstairs. The doors were about to be opened, and it was

necessary she should be at her stall. Yes, Eve answered, she would be

down in another moment. Still, even as she spoke she leant more heavily

on the pier-table behind her in order that she might not fall.

Hyacinthe had drawn near to his sister: “You know,” said he, “it’s simply

idiotic to quarrel like that. You would do much better to come

downstairs.”

But Camille harshly dismissed him: “Just _you_ go off, and take the

others with you. It’s quite as well that they shouldn’t be about our

ears.”

Hyacinthe glanced at his mother, like one who knew the truth and

considered the whole affair ridiculous. And then, vexed at seeing her so

deficient in energy in dealing with that little pest, his sister, he

shrugged his shoulders, and leaving them to their folly, conducted the

others away. One could hear Rosemonde laughing as she went off below,

while the General began to tell Madame Fonsègue another story as they

descended the stairs together. However, at the moment when the mother and

daughter at last fancied themselves alone once more, other voices reached

their ears, those of Duvillard and Fonsègue, who were still near at hand.

The Baron from his room might well overhear the dispute.

Eve felt that she ought to have gone off. But she had lacked the strength

to do so; it had been a sheer impossibility for her after those words

which had smote her like a buffet amidst her distress at the thought of

losing her lover.

“Gérard cannot marry you,” she said; “he does not love you.”

“He does.”

“You fancy it because he has good-naturedly shown some kindness to you,

on seeing others pay you such little attention. But he does not love

you.”

“He does. He loves me first because I’m not such a fool as many others

are, and particularly because I’m young.”

This was a fresh wound for the Baroness; one inflicted with mocking

cruelty in which rang out all the daughter’s triumphant delight at seeing

her mother’s beauty at last ripening and waning. “Ah! my poor mamma, you

no longer know what it is to be young. If I’m not beautiful, at all

events I’m young; my eyes are clear and my lips are fresh. And my hair’s

so long too, and I’ve so much of it that it would suffice to gown me if I

chose. You see, one’s never ugly when one’s young. Whereas, my poor

mamma, everything is ended when one gets old. It’s all very well for a

woman to have been beautiful, and to strive to keep so, but in reality

there’s only ruin left, and shame and disgust.”

She spoke these words in such a sharp, ferocious voice that each of them

entered her mother’s heart like a knife. Tears rose to the eyes of the

wretched woman, again stricken in her bleeding wound. Ah! it was true,

she remained without weapons against youth. And all her anguish came from

the consciousness that she was growing old, from the feeling that love

was departing from her now, that like a fruit she had ripened and fallen

from the tree.

“But Gérard’s mother will never let him marry you,” she said.

“He will prevail on her; that’s his concern. I’ve a dowry of two

millions, and two millions can settle many things.”

“Do you now want to libel him, and say that he’s marrying you for your

money?”

“No, indeed! Gérard’s a very nice and honest fellow. He loves me and he’s

marrying me for myself. But, after all, he isn’t rich; he still has no

assured position, although he’s thirty-six; and there may well be some

advantage in a wife who brings you wealth as well as happiness. For, you

hear, mamma, it’s happiness I’m bringing him, real happiness, love that’s

shared and is certain of the future.”

Once again their faces drew close together. The hateful scene,

interrupted by sounds around them, postponed, and then resumed, was

dragging on, becoming a perfect drama full of murderous violence,

although they never shouted, but still spoke on in low and gasping

voices. Neither gave way to the other, though at every moment they were

liable to some surprise; for not only were all the doors open, so that

the servants might come in, but the Baron’s voice still rang out gaily,

close at hand.

“He loves you, he loves you”--continued Eve. “That’s what you say. But

_he_ never told you so.”

“He has told me so twenty times; he repeats it every time that we are

alone together!”

“Yes, just as one says it to a little girl by way of amusing her. But he

has never told you that he meant to marry you.”

“He told it me the last time he came. And it’s settled. I’m simply

waiting for him to get his mother’s consent and make his formal offer.”

“You lie, you lie, you wretched girl! You simply want to make me suffer,

and you lie, you lie!”

Eve’s grief at last burst forth in that cry of protest. She no longer

knew that she was a mother, and was speaking to her daughter. The woman,

the _amorosa_, alone remained in her, outraged and exasperated by a

rival. And with a sob she confessed the truth: “It is I he loves! Only

the last time I spoke to him, he swore to me--you hear me?--he swore upon

his honour that he did not love you, and that he would never marry you!”

A faint, sharp laugh came from Camille. Then, with an air of derisive

compassion, she replied: “Ah! my poor mamma, you really make me sorry for

you! What a child you are! Yes, really, you are the child, not I. What!

you who ought to have so much experience, you still allow yourself to be

duped by a man’s protests! That one really has no malice; and, indeed,

that’s why he swears whatever you want him to swear, just to please and

quiet you, for at heart he’s a bit of a coward.”

“You lie, you lie!”

“But just think matters over. If he no longer comes here, if he didn’t

come to _déjeuner_ this morning, it is simply because he’s had enough of

you. He has left you for good; just have the courage to realise it. Of

course he’s still polite and amiable, because he’s a well-bred man, and

doesn’t know how to break off. The fact is that he takes pity on you.”

“You lie, you lie!”

“Well, question him then. Have a frank explanation with him. Ask him his

intentions in a friendly way. And then show some good nature yourself,

and realise that if you care for him you ought to give him me at once in

his own interest. Give him back his liberty, and you will soon see that

I’m the one he loves.”

“You lie, you lie! You wretched child, you only want to torture and kill

me!”

Then, in her fury and distress, Eve remembered that she was the mother,

and that it was for her to chastise that unworthy daughter. There was no

stick near her, but from a basket of the yellow roses, whose powerful

scent intoxicated both of them, she plucked a handful of blooms, with

long and spiny stalks, and smote Camille across the face. A drop of blood

appeared on the girl’s left temple, near her eyelid.

But she sprang forward, flushed and maddened by this correction, with her

hand raised and ready to strike back. “Take care, mother! I swear I’d

beat you like a gipsy! And now just put this into your head: I mean to

marry Gérard, and I will; and I’ll take him from you, even if I have to

raise a scandal, should you refuse to give him to me with good grace.”

Eve, after her one act of angry vigour, had sunk into an armchair,

overcome, distracted. And all the horror of quarrels, which sprang from

her egotistical desire to be happy, caressed, flattered and adored, was

returning to her. But Camille, still threatening, still unsatiated,

showed her heart as it really was, her stern, black, unforgiving heart,

intoxicated with cruelty. There came a moment of supreme silence, while

Duvillard’s gay voice again rang out in the adjoining room.

The mother was gently weeping, when Hyacinthe, coming upstairs at a run,

swept into the little _salon_. He looked at the two women, and made a

gesture of indulgent contempt. “Ah! you’re no doubt satisfied now! But

what did I tell you? It would have been much better for you to have come

downstairs at once! Everybody is asking for you. It’s all idiotic. I’ve

come to fetch you.”

Eve and Camille would not yet have followed him, perhaps, if Duvillard

and Fonsègue had not at that moment come out of the former’s room. Having

finished their cigars they also spoke of going downstairs. And Eve had to

rise and smile and show dry eyes, while Camille, standing before a

looking-glass, arranged her hair, and stanched the little drop of blood

that had gathered on her temple.

There was already quite a number of people below, in the three huge

saloons adorned with tapestry and plants. The stalls had been draped with

red silk, which set a gay, bright glow around the goods. And no ordinary

bazaar could have put forth such a show, for there was something of

everything among the articles of a thousand different kinds, from

sketches by recognised masters, and the autographs of famous writers,

down to socks and slippers and combs. The haphazard way in which things

were laid out was in itself an attraction; and, in addition, there was a

buffet, where the whitest of beautiful hands poured out champagne, and

two lotteries, one for an organ and another for a pony-drawn village

cart, the tickets for which were sold by a bevy of charming girls, who

had scattered through the throng. As Duvillard had expected, however, the

great success of the bazaar lay in the delightful little shiver which the

beautiful ladies experienced as they passed through the entrance where

the bomb had exploded. The rougher repairing work was finished, the walls

and ceilings had been doctored, in part re-constructed. However, the

painters had not yet come, and here and there the whiter stone and

plaster work showed like fresh scars left by all the terrible gashes. It

was with mingled anxiety and rapture that pretty heads emerged from the

carriages which, arriving in a continuous stream, made the flagstones of

the court re-echo. And in the three saloons, beside the stalls, there was

no end to the lively chatter: “Ah! my dear, did you see all those marks?

How frightful, how frightful! The whole house was almost blown up. And to

think it might begin again while we are here! One really needs some

courage to come, but then, that asylum is such a deserving institution,

and money is badly wanted to build a new wing. And besides, those

monsters will see that we are not frightened, whatever they do.”

When the Baroness at last came down to her stall with Camille she found

the saleswomen feverishly at work already under the direction of Princess

Rosemonde, who on occasions of this kind evinced the greatest cunning and

rapacity, robbing the customers in the most impudent fashion. “Ah! here

you are,” she exclaimed. “Beware of a number of higglers who have come to

secure bargains. I know them! They watch for their opportunities, turn

everything topsy-turvy and wait for us to lose our heads and forget

prices, so as to pay even less than they would in a real shop. But I’ll

get good prices from them, you shall see!”

At this, Eve, who for her own part was a most incapable saleswoman, had

to laugh with the others. And in a gentle voice she made a pretence of

addressing certain recommendations to Camille, who listened with a

smiling and most submissive air. In point of fact the wretched mother was

sinking with emotion, particularly at the thought that she would have to

remain there till seven o’clock, and suffer in secret before all those

people, without possibility of relief. And thus it was almost like a

respite when she suddenly perceived Abbé Froment sitting and waiting for

her on a settee, covered with red velvet, near her stall. Her legs were

failing her, so she took a place beside him.

“You received my letter then, Monsieur l’Abbé. I am glad that you have

come, for I have some good news to give you, and wished to leave you the

pleasure of imparting it to your _protégé_, that man Laveuve, whom you so

warmly recommended to me. Every formality has now been fulfilled, and you

can bring him to the asylum to-morrow.”

Pierre gazed at her in stupefaction. “Laveuve? Why, he is dead!”

In her turn she became astonished. “What, dead! But you never informed me

of it! If I told you of all the trouble that has been taken, of all that

had to be undone and done again, and the discussions and the papers and

the writing! Are you quite sure that he is dead?”

“Oh! yes, he is dead. He has been dead a month.”

“Dead a month! Well, we could not know; you yourself gave us no sign of

life. Ah! _mon Dieu_! what a worry that he should be dead. We shall now

be obliged to undo everything again!”

“He is dead, madame. It is true that I ought to have informed you of it.

But that doesn’t alter the fact--he is dead.”

Dead! that word which kept on returning, the thought too, that for a

month past she had been busying herself for a corpse, quite froze her,

brought her to the very depths of despair, like an omen of the cold death

into which she herself must soon descend, in the shroud of her last

passion. And, meantime, Pierre, despite himself, smiled bitterly at the

atrocious irony of it all. Ah! that lame and halting Charity, which

proffers help when men are dead!

The priest still lingered on the settee when the Baroness rose. She had

seen magistrate Amadieu hurriedly enter like one who just wished to show

himself, purchase some trifle, and then return to the Palace of Justice.

However, he was also perceived by little Massot, the “Globe” reporter,

who was prowling round the stalls, and who at once bore down upon him,

eager for information. And he hemmed him in and forthwith interviewed him

respecting the affair of that mechanician Salvat, who was accused of

having deposited the bomb at the entrance of the house. Was this simply

an invention of the police, as some newspapers pretended? Or was it

really correct? And if so, would Salvat soon be arrested? In self-defence

Amadieu answered correctly enough that the affair did not as yet concern

him, and would only come within his attributions, if Salvat should be

arrested and the investigation placed in his hands. At the same time,

however, the magistrate’s pompous and affectedly shrewd manner suggested

that he already knew everything to the smallest details, and that, had he

chosen, he could have promised some great events for the morrow. A circle

of ladies had gathered round him as he spoke, quite a number of pretty

women feverish with curiosity, who jostled one another in their eagerness

to hear that brigand tale which sent a little shiver coursing under their

skins. However, Amadieu managed to slip off after paying Rosemonde twenty

francs for a cigarette case, which was perhaps worth thirty sous.

Massot, on recognising Pierre, came up to shake hands with him. “Don’t

you agree with me, Monsieur l’Abbé, that Salvat must be a long way off by

now if he’s got good legs? Ah! the police will always make me laugh!”

However, Rosemonde brought Hyacinthe up to the journalist. “Monsieur

Massot,” said she, “you who go everywhere, I want you to be judge. That

Chamber of Horrors at Montmartre, that tavern where Legras sings the

‘Flowers of the Streets’--”

“Oh! a delightful spot, madame,” interrupted Massot, “I wouldn’t take

even a gendarme there.”

“No, don’t jest, Monsieur Massot, I’m talking seriously. Isn’t it quite

allowable for a respectable woman to go there when she’s accompanied by a

gentleman?” And, without allowing the journalist time to answer her, she

turned towards Hyacinthe: “There! you see that Monsieur Massot doesn’t

say no! You’ve got to take me there this evening, it’s sworn, it’s

sworn.”

Then she darted away to sell a packet of pins to an old lady, while the

young man contented himself with remarking, in the voice of one who has

no illusions left: “She’s quite idiotic with her Chamber of Horrors!”

Massot philosophically shrugged his shoulders. It was only natural that a

woman should want to amuse herself. And when Hyacinthe had gone off,

passing with perverse contempt beside the lovely girls who were selling

lottery tickets, the journalist ventured to murmur: “All the same, it

would do that youngster good if a woman were to take him in hand.”

Then, again addressing Pierre, he resumed: “Why, here comes Duthil! What

did Sagnier mean this morning by saying that Duthil would sleep at Mazas

to-night?”

In a great hurry apparently, and all smiles, Duthil was cutting his way

through the crowd in order to join Duvillard and Fonsègue, who still

stood talking near the Baroness’s stall. And he waved his hand to them in

a victorious way, to imply that he had succeeded in the delicate mission

entrusted to him. This was nothing less than a bold manœuvre to hasten

Silviane’s admission to the Comédie Française. The idea had occurred to

her of making the Baron give a dinner at the Cafe Anglais in order that

she might meet at it an influential critic, who, according to her

statements, would compel the authorities to throw the doors wide open for

her as soon as he should know her. However, it did not seem easy to

secure the critic’s presence, as he was noted for his sternness and

grumbling disposition. And, indeed, after a first repulse, Duthil had for

three days past been obliged to exert all his powers of diplomacy, and

bring even the remotest influence into play. But he was radiant now, for

he had conquered.

“It’s for this evening, my dear Baron, at half-past seven,” he exclaimed.

“Ah! dash it all, I’ve had more trouble than I should have had to secure

a concession vote!” Then he laughed with the pretty impudence of a man of

pleasure, whom political conscientiousness did not trouble. And, indeed,

his allusion to the fresh denunciations of the “Voix du Peuple” hugely

amused him.

“Don’t jest,” muttered Fonsègue, who for his part wished to amuse himself

by frightening the young deputy. “Things are going very badly!”

Duthil turned pale, and a vision of the police and Mazas rose before his

eyes. In this wise sheer funk came over him from time to time. However,

with his lack of all moral sense, he soon felt reassured and began to

laugh. “Bah!” he retorted gaily, winking towards Duvillard, “the

governor’s there to pilot the barque!”

The Baron, who was extremely pleased, had pressed his hands, thanked him,

and called him an obliging fellow. And now turning towards Fonsègue, he

exclaimed: “I say, you must make one of us this evening. Oh! it’s

necessary. I want something imposing round Silviane. Duthil will

represent the Chamber, you journalism, and I finance--” But he suddenly

paused on seeing Gérard, who, with a somewhat grave expression, was

leisurely picking his way through the sea of skirts. “Gérard, my friend,”

said the Baron, after beckoning to him, “I want you to do me a service.”

And forthwith he told him what was in question; how the influential

critic had been prevailed upon to attend a dinner which would decide

Silviane’s future; and how it was the duty of all her friends to rally

round her.

“But I can’t,” the young man answered in embarrassment. “I have to dine

at home with my mother, who was rather poorly this morning.”

“Oh! a sensible woman like your mother will readily understand that there

are matters of exceptional importance. Go home and excuse yourself. Tell

her some story, tell her that a friend’s happiness is in question.” And

as Gérard began to weaken, Duvillard added: “The fact is, that I really

want you, my dear fellow; I must have a society man. Society, you know,

is a great force in theatrical matters; and if Silviane has society with

her, her triumph is certain.”

Gérard promised, and then chatted for a moment with his uncle, General de

Bozonnet, who was quite enlivened by that throng of women, among whom he

had been carried hither and thither like an old rudderless ship. After

acknowledging the amiability with which Madame Fonsègue had listened to

his stories, by purchasing an autograph of Monseigneur Martha from her

for a hundred francs, he had quite lost himself amid the bevy of girls

who had passed him on, one to another. And now, on his return from them,

he had his hands full of lottery tickets: “Ah! my fine fellow,” said he,

“I don’t advise you to venture among all those young persons. You would

have to part with your last copper. But, just look! there’s Mademoiselle

Camille beckoning to you!”

Camille, indeed, from the moment she had perceived Gérard, had been

smiling at him and awaiting his approach. And when their glances met he

was obliged to go to her, although, at the same moment, he felt that

Eve’s despairing and entreating eyes were fixed upon him. The girl, who

fully realised that her mother was watching her, at once made a marked

display of amiability, profiting by the license which charitable fervour

authorised, to slip a variety of little articles into the young man’s

pockets, and then place others in his hands, which she pressed within her

own, showing the while all the sparkle of youth, indulging in fresh,

merry laughter, which fairly tortured her rival.

So extreme was Eve’s suffering, that she wished to intervene and part

them. But it so chanced that Pierre barred her way, for he wished to

submit an idea to her before leaving the bazaar. “Madame,” said he,

“since that man Laveuve is dead, and you have taken so much trouble with

regard to the bed which you now have vacant, will you be so good as to

keep it vacant until I have seen our venerable friend, Abbé Rose? I am to

see him this evening, and he knows so many cases of want, and would be so

glad to relieve one of them, and bring you some poor _protégé_ of his.”

“Yes, certainly,” stammered the Baroness, “I shall be very happy,--I will

wait a little, as you desire,--of course, of course, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

She was trembling all over; she no longer knew what she was saying; and,

unable to conquer her passion, she turned aside from the priest, unaware

even that he was still there, when Gérard, yielding to the dolorous

entreaty of her eyes, at last managed to escape from Camille and join

her.

“What a stranger you are becoming, my friend!” she said aloud, with a

forced smile. “One never sees you now.”

“Why, I have been poorly,” he replied, in his amiable way. “Yes, I assure

you I have been ailing a little.”

He, ailing! She looked at him with maternal anxiety, quite upset. And,

indeed, however proud and lofty his figure, his handsome regular face did

seem to her paler than usual. It was as if the nobility of the façade

had, in some degree, ceased to hide the irreparable dilapidation within.

And given his real good nature, it must be true that he

suffered--suffered by reason of his useless, wasted life, by reason of

all the money he cost his impoverished mother, and of the needs that were

at last driving him to marry that wealthy deformed girl, whom at first he

had simply pitied. And so weak did he seem to Eve, so like a piece of

wreckage tossed hither and thither by a tempest, that, at the risk of

being overheard by the throng, she let her heart flow forth in a low but

ardent, entreating murmur: “If you suffer, ah! what sufferings are

mine!--Gérard, we must see one another, I will have it so.”

“No, I beg you, let us wait,” he stammered in embarrassment.

“It must be, Gérard; Camille has told me your plans. You cannot refuse to

see me. I insist on it.”

He made yet another attempt to escape the cruel explanation. “But it’s

impossible at the usual place,” he answered, quivering. “The address is

known.”

“Then to-morrow, at four o’clock, at that little restaurant in the Bois

where we have met before.”

He had to promise, and they parted. Camille had just turned her head and

was looking at them. Moreover, quite a number of women had besieged the

stall; and the Baroness began to attend to them with the air of a ripe

and nonchalant goddess, while Gérard rejoined Duvillard, Fonsègue and

Duthil, who were quite excited at the prospect of their dinner that

evening.

Pierre had heard a part of the conversation between Gérard and the

Baroness. He knew what skeletons the house concealed, what physiological

and moral torture and wretchedness lay beneath all the dazzling wealth

and power. There was here an envenomed, bleeding sore, ever spreading, a

cancer eating into father, mother, daughter and son, who one and all had

thrown social bonds aside. However, the priest made his way out of the

_salons_, half stifling amidst the throng of lady-purchasers who were

making quite a triumph of the bazaar. And yonder, in the depths of the

gloom, he could picture Salvat still running and running on; while the

corpse of Laveuve seemed to him like a buffet of atrocious irony dealt to

noisy and delusive charity.

II. SPIRIT AND FLESH

How delightful was the quietude of the little ground-floor overlooking a

strip of garden in the Rue Cortot, where good Abbé Rose resided!

Hereabouts there was not even a rumble of wheels, or an echo of the

panting breath of Paris, which one heard on the other side of the height

of Montmartre. The deep silence and sleepy peacefulness were suggestive

of some distant provincial town.

Seven o’clock had struck, the dusk had gathered slowly, and Pierre was in

the humble dining-room, waiting for the _femme-de-ménage_ to place the

soup upon the table. Abbé Rose, anxious at having seen so little of him

for a month past, had written, asking him to come to dinner, in order

that they might have a quiet chat concerning their affairs. From time to

time Pierre still gave his friend money for charitable purposes; in fact,

ever since the days of the asylum in the Rue de Charonne, they had had

accounts together, which they periodically liquidated. So that evening

after dinner they were to talk of it all, and see if they could not do

even more than they had hitherto done. The good old priest was quite

radiant at the thought of the peaceful evening which he was about to

spend in attending to the affairs of his beloved poor; for therein lay

his only amusement, the sole pleasure to which he persistently and

passionately returned, in spite of all the worries that his inconsiderate

charity had already so often brought him.

Glad to be able to procure his friend this pleasure, Pierre, on his side,

grew calmer, and found relief and momentary repose in sharing the other’s

simple repast and yielding to all the kindliness around him, far from his

usual worries. He remembered the vacant bed at the Asylum, which Baroness

Duvillard had promised to keep in reserve until he should have asked Abbé

Rose if he knew of any case of destitution particularly worthy of

interest; and so before sitting down to table he spoke of the matter.

“Destitution worthy of interest!” replied Abbé Rose, “ah! my dear child,

every case is worthy of interest. And when it’s a question of old toilers

without work the only trouble is that of selection, the anguish of

choosing one and leaving so many others in distress.” Nevertheless,

painful though his scruples were, he strove to think and come to some

decision. “I know the case which will suit you,” he said at last. “It’s

certainly one of the greatest suffering and wretchedness; and, so humble

a one, too--an old carpenter of seventy-five, who has been living on

public charity during the eight or ten years that he has been unable to

find work. I don’t know his name, everybody calls him ‘the big Old’un.’

There are times when he does not come to my Saturday distributions for

weeks together. We shall have to look for him at once. I think that he

sleeps at the Night Refuge in the Rue d’Orsel when lack of room there

doesn’t force him to spend the night crouching behind some palings. Shall

we go down the Rue d’Orsel this evening?”

Abbé Rose’s eyes beamed brightly as he spoke, for this proposal of his

signified a great debauch, the tasting of forbidden fruit. He had been

reproached so often and so roughly with his visits to those who had

fallen to the deepest want and misery, that in spite of his overflowing,

apostolic compassion, he now scarcely dared to go near them. However, he

continued: “Is it agreed, my child? Only this once? Besides, it is our

only means of finding the big Old’un. You won’t have to stop with me

later than eleven. And I should so like to show you all that! You will

see what terrible sufferings there are! And perhaps we may be fortunate

enough to relieve some poor creature or other.”

Pierre smiled at the juvenile ardour displayed by this old man with snowy

hair. “It’s agreed, my dear Abbé,” he responded, “I shall be very pleased

to spend my whole evening with you, for I feel it will do me good to

follow you once more on one of those rambles which used to fill our

hearts with grief and joy.”

At this moment the servant brought in the soup; however, just as the two

priests were taking their seats a discreet ring was heard, and when Abbé

Rose learnt that the visitor was a neighbour, Madame Mathis, who had come

for an answer, he gave orders that she should be shown in.

“This poor woman,” he explained to Pierre, “needed an advance of ten

francs to get a mattress out of pawn; and I didn’t have the money by me

at the time. But I’ve since procured it. She lives in the house, you

know, in silent poverty, on so small an income that it hardly keeps her

in bread.”

“But hasn’t she a big son of twenty?” asked Pierre, suddenly remembering

the young man he had seen at Salvat’s.

“Yes, yes. Her parents, I believe, were rich people in the provinces.

I’ve been told that she married a music master, who gave her lessons, at

Nantes; and who ran away with her and brought her to Paris, where he

died. It was quite a doleful love-story. By selling the furniture and

realising every little thing she possessed, she scraped together an

income of about two thousand francs a year, with which she was able to

send her son to college and live decently herself. But a fresh blow fell

on her: she lost the greater part of her little fortune, which was

invested in doubtful securities. So now her income amounts at the utmost

to eight hundred francs; two hundred of which she has to expend in rent.

For all her other wants she has to be content with fifty francs a month.

About eighteen months ago her son left her so as not to be a burden on

her, and he is trying to earn his living somewhere, but without success,

I believe.”

Madame Mathis, a short, dark woman, with a sad, gentle, retiring face,

came in. Invariably clad in the same black gown, she showed all the

anxious timidity of a poor creature whom the storms of life perpetually

assailed. When Abbé Rose had handed her the ten francs discreetly wrapped

in paper, she blushed and thanked him, promising to pay him back as soon

as she received her month’s money, for she was not a beggar and did not

wish to encroach on the share of those who starved.

“And your son, Victor, has he found any employment?” asked the old

priest.

She hesitated, ignorant as she was of what her son might be doing, for

now she did not see him for weeks together. And finally, she contented

herself with answering: “He has a good heart, he is very fond of me. It

is a great misfortune that we should have been ruined before he could

enter the École Normale. It was impossible for him to prepare for the

examination. But at the Lycée he was such a diligent and intelligent

pupil!”

“You lost your husband when your son was ten years old, did you not?”

said Abbé Rose.

At this she blushed again, thinking that her husband’s story was known to

the two priests. “Yes, my poor husband never had any luck,” she said.

“His difficulties embittered and excited his mind, and he died in prison.

He was sent there through a disturbance at a public meeting, when he had

the misfortune to wound a police officer. He had also fought at the time

of the Commune. And yet he was a very gentle man and extremely fond of

me.”

Tears had risen to her eyes; and Abbé Rose, much touched, dismissed her:

“Well, let us hope that your son will give you satisfaction, and be able

to repay you for all you have done for him.”

With a gesture of infinite sorrow, Madame Mathis discreetly withdrew. She

was quite ignorant of her son’s doings, but fate had pursued her so

relentlessly that she ever trembled.

“I don’t think that the poor woman has much to expect from her son,” said

Pierre, when she had gone. “I only saw him once, but the gleam in his

eyes was as harsh and trenchant as that of a knife.”

“Do you think so?” the old priest exclaimed, with his kindly _naïveté_.

“Well, he seemed to me very polite, perhaps a trifle eager to enjoy life;

but then, all the young folks are impatient nowadays. Come, let us sit

down to table, for the soup will be cold.”

Almost at the same hour, on the other side of Paris, night had in like

fashion slowly fallen in the drawing-room of the Countess de Quinsac, on

the dismal, silent ground-floor of an old mansion in the Rue St.

Dominique. The Countess was there, alone with her faithful friend, the

Marquis de Morigny, she on one side, and he on the other side of the

chimney-piece, where the last embers of the wood fire were dying out. The

servant had not yet brought the lamp, and the Countess refrained from

ringing, finding some relief from her anxiety in the falling darkness,

which hid from view all the unconfessed thoughts that she was afraid of

showing on her weary face. And it was only now, before that dim hearth,

and in that black room, where never a sound of wheels disturbed the

silence of the slumberous past, that she dared to speak.

“Yes, my friend,” she said, “I am not satisfied with Gérard’s health. You

will see him yourself, for he promised to come home early and dine with

me. Oh! I’m well aware that he looks big and strong; but to know him

properly one must have nursed and watched him as I have done! What

trouble I had to rear him! In reality he is at the mercy of any petty

ailment. His slightest complaint becomes serious illness. And the life he

leads does not conduce to good health.”

She paused and sighed, hesitating to carry her confession further.

“He leads the life he can,” slowly responded the Marquis de Morigny, of

whose delicate profile, and lofty yet loving bearing, little could be

seen in the gloom. “As he was unable to endure military life, and as even

the fatigues of diplomacy frighten you, what would you have him do? He

can only live apart pending the final collapse, while this abominable

Republic is dragging France to the grave.”

“No doubt, my friend. And yet it is just that idle life which frightens

me. He is losing in it all that was good and healthy in him. I don’t

refer merely to the _liaisons_ which we have had to tolerate. The last

one, which I found so much difficulty in countenancing at the outset, so

contrary did it seem to all my ideas and beliefs, has since seemed to me

to exercise almost a good influence. Only he is now entering his

thirty-sixth year, and can he continue living in this fashion without

object or duties? If he is ailing it is perhaps precisely because he does

nothing, holds no position, and serves no purpose.” Her voice again

quavered. “And then, my friend, since you force me to tell you

everything, I must own that I am not in good health myself. I have had

several fainting fits of late, and have consulted a doctor. The truth is,

that I may go off at any moment.”

With a quiver, Morigny leant forward in the still deepening gloom, and

wished to take hold of her hands. “You! what, am I to lose you, my last

affection!” he faltered, “I who have seen the old world I belong to

crumble away, I who only live in the hope that you at all events will

still be here to close my eyes!”

But she begged him not to increase her grief: “No, no, don’t take my

hands, don’t kiss them! Remain there in the shade, where I can scarcely

see you.... We have loved one another so long without aught to cause

shame or regret; and that will prove our strength--our divine

strength--till we reach the grave.... And if you were to touch me, if

I were to feel you too near me I could not finish, for I have not done so

yet.”

As soon as he had relapsed into silence and immobility, she continued:

“If I were to die to-morrow, Gérard would not even find here the little

fortune which he still fancies is in my hands. The dear child has often

cost me large sums of money without apparently being conscious of it. I

ought to have been more severe, more prudent. But what would you have?

Ruin is at hand. I have always been too weak a mother. And do you now

understand in what anguish I live? I ever have the thought that if I die

Gérard will not even possess enough to live on, for he is incapable of

effecting the miracle which I renew each day, in order to keep the house

up on a decent footing.... Ah! I know him, so supine, so sickly, in

spite of his proud bearing, unable to do anything, even conduct himself.

And so what will become of him; will he not fall into the most dire

distress?”

Then her tears flowed freely, her heart opened and bled, for she foresaw

what must happen after her death: the collapse of her race and of a whole

world in the person of that big child. And the Marquis, still motionless

but distracted, feeling that he had no title to offer his own fortune,

suddenly understood her, foresaw in what disgrace this fresh disaster

would culminate.

“Ah! my poor friend!” he said at last in a voice trembling with revolt

and grief. “So you have agreed to that marriage--yes, that abominable

marriage with that woman’s daughter! Yet you swore it should never be!

You would rather witness the collapse of everything, you said. And now

you are consenting, I can feel it!”

She still wept on in that black, silent drawing-room before the

chimney-piece where the fire had died out. Did not Gérard’s marriage to

Camille mean a happy ending for herself, a certainty of leaving her son

wealthy, loved, and seated at the banquet of life? However, a last

feeling of rebellion arose within her.

“No, no,” she exclaimed, “I don’t consent, I swear to you that I don’t

consent as yet. I am fighting with my whole strength, waging an incessant

battle, the torture of which you cannot imagine.”

Then, in all sincerity, she foresaw the likelihood of defeat. “If I

should some day give way, my friend, at all events believe that I feel,

as fully as you do, how abominable such a marriage must be. It will be

the end of our race and our honour!”

This cry profoundly stirred the Marquis, and he was unable to add a word.

Haughty and uncompromising Catholic and Royalist that he was, he, on his

side also, expected nothing but the supreme collapse. Yet how

heartrending was the thought that this noble woman, so dearly and so

purely loved, would prove one of the most mournful victims of the

catastrophe! And in the shrouding gloom he found courage to kneel before

her, take her hand, and kiss it.

Just as the servant was at last bringing a lighted lamp Gérard made his

appearance. The past-century charm of the old Louis XVI. drawing-room,

with its pale woodwork, again became apparent in the soft light. In order

that his mother might not be over-saddened by his failure to dine with

her that evening the young man had put on an air of brisk gaiety; and

when he had explained that some friends were waiting for him, she at once

released him from his promise, happy as she felt at seeing him so merry.

“Go, go, my dear boy,” said she, “but mind you do not tire yourself too

much.... I am going to keep Morigny; and the General and Larombière

are coming at nine o’clock. So be easy, I shall have someone with me to

keep me from fretting and feeling lonely.”

In this wise Gérard after sitting down for a moment and chatting with the

Marquis was able to slip away, dress, and betake himself to the Cafe

Anglais.

When he reached it women in fur cloaks were already climbing the stairs,

fashionable and merry parties were filling the private rooms, the

electric lights shone brilliantly, and the walls were already vibrating

with the stir of pleasure and debauchery. In the room which Baron

Duvillard had engaged the young man found an extraordinary display, the

most superb flowers, and a profusion of plate and crystal as for a royal

gala. The pomp with which the six covers were laid called forth a smile;

while the bill of fare and the wine list promised marvels, all the rarest

and most expensive things that could be selected.

“It’s stylish, isn’t it?” exclaimed Silviane, who was already there with

Duvillard, Fonsègue and Duthil. “I just wanted to make your influential

critic open his eyes a little! When one treats a journalist to such a

dinner as this, he has got to be amiable, hasn’t he?”

In her desire to conquer, it had occurred to the young woman to array

herself in the most amazing fashion. Her gown of yellow satin, covered

with old Alençon lace, was cut low at the neck; and she had put on all

her diamonds, a necklace, a diadem, shoulder-knots, bracelets and rings.

With her candid, girlish face, she looked like some Virgin in a missal, a

Queen-Virgin, laden with the offerings of all Christendom.

“Well, well, you look so pretty,” said Gérard, who sometimes jested with

her, “that I think it will do all the same.”

“Ah!” she replied with equanimity. “You consider me a _bourgeoise_, I

see. Your opinion is that a simple little dinner and a modest gown would

have shown better taste. But ah! my dear fellow, you don’t know the way

to get round men!”

Duvillard signified his approval, for he was delighted to be able to show

her in all her glory, adorned like an idol. Fonsègue, for his part,

talked of diamonds, saying that they were now doubtful investments, as

the day when they would become articles of current manufacture was fast

approaching, thanks to the electrical furnace and other inventions.

Meantime Duthil, with an air of ecstasy and the dainty gestures of a

lady’s maid, hovered around the young woman, either smoothing a

rebellious bow or arranging some fold of her lace.

“But I say,” resumed Silviane, “your critic seems to be an ill-bred man,

for he’s keeping us waiting.”

Indeed, the critic arrived a quarter of an hour late, and while

apologising, he expressed his regret that he should be obliged to leave

at half-past nine, for he was absolutely compelled to put in an

appearance at a little theatre in the Rue Pigalle. He was a big fellow of

fifty with broad shoulders and a full, bearded face. His most

disagreeable characteristic was the narrow dogmatic pedantry which he had

acquired at the École Normale, and had never since been able to shake

off. All his herculean efforts to be sceptical and frivolous, and the

twenty years he had spent in Paris mingling with every section of

society, had failed to rid him of it. _Magister_ he was, and _magister_

he remained, even in his most strenuous flights of imagination and

audacity. From the moment of his arrival he tried to show himself

enraptured with Silviane. Naturally enough, he already knew her by sight,

and had even criticised her on one occasion in five or six contemptuous

lines. However, the sight of her there, in full beauty, clad like a

queen, and presented by four influential protectors, filled him with

emotion; and he was struck with the idea that nothing would be more

Parisian and less pedantic than to assert she had some talent and give

her his support.

They had seated themselves at table, and the repast proved a magnificent

one, the service ever prompt and assiduous, an attendant being allotted

to each diner. While the flowers scattered their perfumes through the

room, and the plate and crystal glittered on the snowy cloth, an

abundance of delicious and unexpected dishes were handed round--a

sturgeon from Russia, prohibited game, truffles as big as eggs, and

hothouse vegetables and fruit as full of flavour as if they had been

naturally matured. It was money flung out of window, simply for the

pleasure of wasting more than other people, and eating what they could

not procure. The influential critic, though he displayed the ease of a

man accustomed to every sort of festivity, really felt astonished at it

all, and became servile, promising his support, and pledging himself far

more than he really wished to. Moreover, he showed himself very gay,

found some witty remarks to repeat, and even some rather ribald jests.

But when the champagne appeared after the roast and the grand burgundies,

his over-excitement brought him back perforce to his real nature. The

conversation had now turned on Corneille’s “Polyeucte” and the part of

“Pauline,” in which Silviane wished to make her _début_ at the Comédie

Française. This extraordinary caprice, which had quite revolted the

influential critic a week previously, now seemed to him simply a bold

enterprise in which the young woman might even prove victorious if she

consented to listen to his advice. And, once started, he delivered quite

a lecture on the past, asserting that no actress had ever yet understood

it properly, for at the outset Pauline was simply a well-meaning little

creature of the middle classes, and the beauty of her conversion at the

finish arose from the working of a miracle, a stroke of heavenly grace

which endowed her with something divine. This was not the opinion of

Silviane, who from the first lines regarded Pauline as the ideal heroine

of some symbolical legend. However, as the critic talked on and on, she

had to feign approval; and he was delighted at finding her so beautiful

and docile beneath his ferule. At last, as ten o’clock was striking, he

rose and tore out of the hot and reeking room in order to do his work.

“Ah! my dears,” cried Silviane, “he’s a nice bore is that critic of

yours! What a fool he is with his idea of Pauline being a little

_bourgeoise_! I would have given him a fine dressing if it weren’t for

the fact that I have some need of him. Ah! no, it’s too idiotic! Pour me

out a glass of champagne. I want something to set me right after all

that!”

The _fête_ then took quite an intimate turn between the four men who

remained and that bare-armed, bare-breasted girl, covered with diamonds;

while from the neighbouring passages and rooms came bursts of laughter

and sounds of kissing, all the stir and mirth of the debauchery now

filling the house. And beneath the windows torrents of vehicles and

pedestrians streamed along the Boulevards where reigned the wild fever of

pleasure and harlotry.

“No, don’t open it, or I shall catch cold!” resumed Silviane, addressing

Fonsègue as he stepped towards the window. “Are you so very warm, then?

I’m just comfortable.... But, Duvillard, my good fellow, please order

some more champagne. It’s wonderful what a thirst your critic has given

me!”

Amidst the blinding glare of the lamps and the perfume of the flowers and

wines, one almost stifled in the room. And Silviane was seized with an

irresistible desire for a spree, a desire to tipple and amuse herself in

some vulgar fashion, as in her bygone days. A few glasses of champagne

brought her to full pitch, and she showed the boldest and giddiest

gaiety. The others, who had never before seen her so lively, began on

their own side to feel amused. As Fonsègue was obliged to go to his

office she embraced him “like a daughter,” as she expressed it. However,

on remaining alone with the others she indulged in great freedom of

speech, which became more and more marked as her intoxication increased.

And to the class of men with whom she consorted her great attraction, as

she was well aware, lay in the circumstance that with her virginal

countenance and her air of ideal purity was coupled the most monstrous

perversity ever displayed by any shameless woman. Despite her innocent

blue eyes and lily-like candour, she would give rein, particularly when

she was drunk, to the most diabolical of fancies.

Duvillard let her drink on, but she guessed his thoughts, like she

guessed those of the others, and simply smiled while concocting

impossible stories and descanting fantastically in the language of the

gutter. And seeing her there in her dazzling gown fit for a queenly

virgin, and hearing her pour forth the vilest words, they thought her

most wonderfully droll. However, when she had drunk as much champagne as

she cared for and was half crazy, a novel idea suddenly occurred to her.

“I say, my children,” she exclaimed, “we are surely not going to stop

here. It’s so precious slow! You shall take me to the Chamber of

Horrors--eh? just to finish the evening. I want to hear Legras sing ‘La

Chemise,’ that song which all Paris is running to hear him sing.”

But Duvillard indignantly rebelled: “Oh! no,” said he; “most certainly

not. It’s a vile song and I’ll never take you to such an abominable

place.”

But she did not appear to hear him. She had already staggered to her feet

and was arranging her hair before a looking-glass. “I used to live at

Montmartre,” she said, “and it’ll amuse me to go back there. And,

besides, I want to know if this Legras is a Legras that I knew, oh! ever

so long ago! Come, up you get, and let us be off!”

“But, my dear girl,” pleaded Duvillard, “we can’t take you into that den

dressed as you are! Just fancy your entering that place in a low-necked

gown and covered with diamonds! Why everyone would jeer at us! Come,

Gérard, just tell her to be a little reasonable.”

Gérard, equally offended by the idea of such a freak, was quite willing

to intervene. But she closed his mouth with her gloved hand and repeated

with the gay obstinacy of intoxication: “Pooh, it will be all the more

amusing if they do jeer at us! Come, let us be off, let us be off,

quick!”

Thereupon Duthil, who had been listening with a smile and the air of a

man of pleasure whom nothing astonishes or displeases, gallantly took her

part. “But, my dear Baron, everybody goes to the Chamber of Horrors,”

said he. “Why, I myself have taken the noblest ladies there, and

precisely to hear that song of Legras, which is no worse than anything

else.”

“Ah! you hear what Duthil says!” cried Silviane. “He’s a deputy, he is,

and he wouldn’t go there if he thought it would compromise his

honorability!”

Then, as Duvillard still struggled on in despair at the idea of

exhibiting himself with her in such a scandalous place, she became all

the merrier: “Well, my dear fellow, please yourself. I don’t need you.

You and Gérard can go home if you like. But I’m going to Montmartre with

Duthil. You’ll take charge of me, won’t you, Duthil, eh?”

Still, the Baron was in no wise disposed to let the evening finish in

that fashion. The mere idea of it gave him a shock, and he had to resign

himself to the girl’s stubborn caprice. The only consolation he could

think of was to secure Gérard’s presence, for the young man, with some

lingering sense of decorum, still obstinately refused to make one of the

party. So the Baron took his hands and detained him, repeating in urgent

tones that he begged him to come as an essential mark of friendship. And

at last the wife’s lover and daughter’s suitor had to give way to the man

who was the former’s husband and the latter’s father.

Silviane was immensely amused by it all, and, indiscreetly thee-ing and

thou-ing Gérard, suggested that he at least owed the Baron some little

compliance with his wishes.

Duvillard pretended not to hear her. He was listening to Duthil, who told

him that there was a sort of box in a corner of the Chamber of Horrors,

in which one could in some measure conceal oneself. And then, as

Silviane’s carriage--a large closed landau, whose coachman, a sturdy,

handsome fellow, sat waiting impassively on his box--was down below, they

started off.

The Chamber of Horrors was installed in premises on the Boulevard de

Rochechouart, formerly occupied by a café whose proprietor had become

bankrupt.* It was a suffocating place, narrow, irregular, with all sorts

of twists, turns, and secluded nooks, and a low and smoky ceiling. And

nothing could have been more rudimentary than its decorations. The walls

had simply been placarded with posters of violent hues, some of the

crudest character, showing the barest of female figures. Behind a piano

at one end there was a little platform reached by a curtained doorway.

For the rest, one simply found a number of bare wooden forms set

alongside the veriest pot-house tables, on which the glasses containing

various beverages left round and sticky marks. There was no luxury, no

artistic feature, no cleanliness even. Globeless gas burners flared

freely, heating a dense mist compounded of tobacco smoke and human

breath. Perspiring, apoplectical faces could be perceived through this

veil, and an acrid odour increased the intoxication of the assembly,

which excited itself with louder and louder shouts at each fresh song. It

had been sufficient for an enterprising fellow to set up these boards,

bring out Legras, accompanied by two or three girls, make him sing his

frantic and abominable songs, and in two or three evenings overwhelming

success had come, all Paris being enticed and flocking to the place,

which for ten years or so had failed to pay as a mere café, where by way

of amusement petty cits had been simply allowed their daily games at

dominoes.

* Those who know Paris will identify the site selected by M. Zola

as that where ‘Colonel’ Lisbonne of the Commune installed his

den the ‘Bagne’ some years ago. Nevertheless, such places as the

‘Chamber of Horrors’ now abound in the neighbourhood of

Montmartre, and it must be admitted that whilst they are

frequented by certain classes of Frenchmen they owe much of

their success in a pecuniary sense to the patronage of

foreigners. Among the latter, Englishmen are particularly

conspicuous.--Trans.

And the change had been caused by the passion for filth, the irresistible

attraction exercised by all that brought opprobrium and disgust. The

Paris of enjoyment, the _bourgeoisie_ which held all wealth and power,

which would relinquish naught of either, though it was surfeited and

gradually wearying of both, simply hastened to the place in order that

obscenity and insult might be flung in its face. Hypnotised, as it were,

while staggering to its fall, it felt a need of being spat upon. And what

a frightful symptom there lay in it all: those condemned ones rushing

upon dirt of their own accord, voluntarily hastening their own

decomposition by that unquenchable thirst for the vile, which attracted

men, reputed to be grave and upright, and lovely women of the most

perfect grace and luxury, to all the beastliness of that low den!

At one of the tables nearest the stage sat little Princess Rosemonde de

Harn, with wild eyes and quivering nostrils, delighted as she felt at now

being able to satisfy her curiosity regarding the depths of Paris life.

Young Hyacinthe had resigned himself to the task of bringing her, and,

correctly buttoned up in his long frock-coat, he was indulgent enough to

refrain from any marked expression of boredom. At a neighbouring table

they had found a shadowy Spaniard of their acquaintance, a so-called

Bourse jobber, Bergaz, who had been introduced to the Princess by Janzen,

and usually attended her entertainments. They virtually knew nothing

about him, not even if he really earned at the Bourse all the money which

he sometimes spent so lavishly, and which enabled him to dress with

affected elegance. His slim, lofty figure was not without a certain air

of distinction, but his red lips spoke of strong passions and his bright

eyes were those of a beast of prey. That evening he had two young fellows

with him, one Rossi, a short, swarthy Italian, who had come to Paris as a

painter’s model, and had soon glided into the lazy life of certain

disreputable callings, and the other, Sanfaute, a born Parisian

blackguard, a pale, beardless, vicious and impudent stripling of La

Chapelle, whose long curly hair fell down upon either side of his bony

cheeks.

“Oh! pray now!” feverishly said Rosemonde to Bergaz; “as you seem to know

all these horrid people, just show me some of the celebrities. Aren’t

there some thieves and murderers among them?”

He laughed shrilly, and in a bantering way replied: “But you know these

people well enough, madame. That pretty, pink, delicate-looking woman

over yonder is an American lady, the wife of a consul, whom, I believe,

you receive at your house. That other on the right, that tall brunette

who shows such queenly dignity, is a Countess, whose carriage passes

yours every day in the Bois. And the thin one yonder, whose eyes glitter

like those of a she-wolf, is the particular friend of a high official,

who is well known for his reputation of austerity.”

But she stopped him, in vexation: “I know, I know. But the others, those

of the lower classes, those whom one comes to see.”

Then she went on asking questions, and seeking for terrifying and

mysterious countenances. At last, two men seated in a corner ended by

attracting her attention; one of them a very young fellow with a pale,

pinched face, and the other an ageless individual who, besides being

buttoned up to his neck in an old coat, had pulled his cap so low over

his eyes, that one saw little of his face beyond the beard which fringed

it. Before these two stood a couple of mugs of beer, which they drank

slowly and in silence.

“You are making a great mistake, my dear,” said Hyacinthe with a frank

laugh, “if you are looking for brigands in disguise. That poor fellow

with the pale face, who surely doesn’t have food to eat every day, was my

schoolfellow at Condorcet!”

Bergaz expressed his amazement. “What! you knew Mathis at Condorcet!

After all, though, you’re right, he received a college education. Ah! and

so you knew him. A very remarkable young man he is, though want is

throttling him. But, I say, the other one, his companion, you don’t know

him?”

Hyacinthe, after looking at the man with the cap-hidden face, was already

shaking his head, when Bergaz suddenly gave him a nudge as a signal to

keep quiet, and by way of explanation he muttered: “Hush! Here’s

Raphanel. I’ve been distrusting him for some time past. Whenever he

appears anywhere, the police is not far off.”

Raphanel was another of the vague, mysterious Anarchists whom Janzen had

presented to the Princess by way of satisfying her momentary passion for

revolutionism. This one, though he was a fat, gay, little man, with a

doll-like face and childish nose, which almost disappeared between his

puffy cheeks, had the reputation of being a thorough desperado; and at

public meetings he certainly shouted for fire and murder with all his

lungs. Still, although he had already been compromised in various

affairs, he had invariably managed to save his own bacon, whilst his

companions were kept under lock and key; and this they were now beginning

to think somewhat singular.

He at once shook hands with the Princess in a jovial way, took a seat

near her without being invited, and forthwith denounced the dirty

_bourgeoisie_ which came to wallow in places of ill fame. Rosemonde was

delighted, and encouraged him, but others near by began to get angry, and

Bergaz examined him with his piercing eyes, like a man of energy who

acts, and lets others talk. Now and then, too, he exchanged quick glances

of intelligence with his silent lieutenants, Sanfaute and Rossi, who

plainly belonged to him, both body and soul. They were the ones who found

their profit in Anarchy, practising it to its logical conclusions,

whether in crime or in vice.

Meantime, pending the arrival of Legras with his “Flowers of the

Pavement,” two female vocalists had followed one another on the stage,

the first fat and the second thin, one chirruping some silly love songs

with an under-current of dirt, and the other shouting the coarsest of

refrains, in a most violent, fighting voice. She had just finished amidst

a storm of bravos, when the assembly, stirred to merriment and eager for

a laugh, suddenly exploded once more. Silviane was entering the little

box at one end of the hall. When she appeared erect in the full light,

with bare arms and shoulders, looking like a planet in her gown of yellow

satin and her blazing diamonds, there arose a formidable uproar, shouts,

jeers, hisses, laughing and growling, mingled with ferocious applause.

And the scandal increased, and the vilest expressions flew about as soon

as Duvillard, Gérard and Duthil also showed themselves, looking very

serious and dignified with their white ties and spreading shirt fronts.

“We told you so!” muttered Duvillard, who was much annoyed with the

affair, while Gérard tried to conceal himself in a dim corner.

She, however, smiling and enchanted, faced the public, accepting the

storm with the candid bearing of a foolish virgin, much as one inhales

the vivifying air of the open when it bears down upon one in a squall.

And, indeed, she herself had sprung from the sphere before her, its

atmosphere was her native air.

“Well, what of it?” she said replying to the Baron who wanted her to sit

down. “They are merry. It’s very nice. Oh! I’m really amusing myself!”

“Why, yes, it’s very nice,” declared Duthil, who in like fashion set

himself at his ease. “Silviane is right, people naturally like a laugh

now and then!”

Amidst the uproar, which did not cease, little Princess Rosemonde rose

enthusiastically to get a better view. “Why, it’s your father who’s with

that woman Silviane,” she said to Hyacinthe. “Just look at them! Well, he

certainly has plenty of bounce to show himself here with her!”

Hyacinthe, however, refused to look. It didn’t interest him, his father

was an idiot, only a child would lose his head over a girl in that

fashion. And with his contempt for woman the young man became positively

insulting.

“You try my nerves, my dear fellow,” said Rosemonde as she sat down. “You

are the child with your silly ideas about us. And as for your father, he

does quite right to love that girl. I find her very pretty indeed, quite

adorable!”

Then all at once the uproar ceased, those who had risen resumed their

seats, and the only sound was that of the feverish throb which coursed

through the assembly. Legras had just appeared on the platform. He was a

pale sturdy fellow with a round and carefully shaven face, stern eyes,

and the powerful jaws of a man who compels the adoration of women by

terrorising them. He was not deficient in talent, he sang true, and his

ringing voice was one of extraordinary penetration and pathetic power.

And his _répertoire_, his “Flowers of the Pavement,” completed the

explanation of his success; for all the foulness and suffering of the

lower spheres, the whole abominable sore of the social hell created by

the rich, shrieked aloud in these songs in words of filth and fire and

blood.

A prelude was played on the piano, and Legras standing there in his

velvet jacket sang “La Chemise,” the horrible song which brought all

Paris to hear him. All the lust and vice that crowd the streets of the

great city appeared with their filth and their poison; and amid the

picture of Woman stripped, degraded, ill-treated, dragged through the

mire and cast into a cesspool, there rang out the crime of the

_bourgeoisie_. But the scorching insult of it all was less in the words

themselves than in the manner in which Legras cast them in the faces of

the rich, the happy, the beautiful ladies who came to listen to him.

Under the low ceiling, amidst the smoke from the pipes, in the blinding

glare of the gas, he sent his lines flying through the assembly like

expectorations, projected by a whirlwind of furious contempt. And when he

had finished there came delirium; the beautiful ladies did not even think

of wiping away the many affronts they had received, but applauded

frantically. The whole assembly stamped and shouted, and wallowed,

distracted, in its ignominy.

“Bravo! bravo!” the little Princess repeated in her shrill voice. “It’s

astonishing, astonishing, prodigious!”

And Silviane, whose intoxication seemed to have increased since she had

been there, in the depths of that fiery furnace, made herself

particularly conspicuous by the manner in which she clapped her hands and

shouted: “It’s he, it’s my Legras! I really must kiss him, he’s pleased

me so much!”

Duvillard, now fairly exasperated, wished to take her off by force. But

she clung to the hand-rest of the box, and shouted yet more loudly,

though without any show of temper. It became necessary to parley with

her. Yes, she was willing to go off and let them drive her home; but,

first of all, she must embrace Legras, who was an old friend of hers. “Go

and wait for me in the carriage!” she said, “I will be with you in a

moment.”

Just as the assembly was at last becoming calmer, Rosemonde perceived

that the box was emptying; and her own curiosity being satisfied, she

thought of prevailing on Hyacinthe to see her home. He, who had listened

to Legras in a languid way without even applauding, was now talking of

Norway with Bergaz, who pretended that he had travelled in the North. Oh!

the fiords! oh! the ice-bound lakes! oh! the pure lily-white, chaste

coldness of the eternal winter! It was only amid such surroundings, said

Hyacinthe, that he could understand woman and love, like a kiss of the

very snow itself.

“Shall we go off there to-morrow?” exclaimed the Princess with her

vivacious effrontery. “I’ll shut up my house and slip the key under the

door.”

Then she added that she was jesting, of course. But Bergaz knew her to be

quite capable of such a freak; and at the idea that she might shut up her

little mansion and perhaps leave it unprotected he exchanged a quick

glance with Sanfaute and Rossi, who still smiled in silence. Ah! what an

opportunity for a fine stroke! What an opportunity to get back some of

the wealth of the community appropriated by the blackguard _bourgeoisie_!

Meantime Raphanel, after applauding Legras, was looking all round the

place with his little grey, sharp eyes. And at last young Mathis and his

companion, the ill-clad individual, of whose face only a scrap of beard

could be seen, attracted his attention. They had neither laughed nor

applauded; they seemed to be simply a couple of tired fellows who were

resting, and in whose opinion one is best hidden in the midst of a crowd.

All at once, though, Raphanel turned towards Bergaz: “That’s surely

little Mathis over yonder. But who’s that with him?”

Bergaz made an evasive gesture; he did not know. Still, he no longer took

his eyes from Raphanel. And he saw the other feign indifference at what

followed, and finish his beer and take his leave, with the jesting remark

that he had an appointment with a lady at a neighbouring omnibus office.

No sooner had he gone than Bergaz rose, sprang over some of the forms and

jostled people in order to reach little Mathis, into whose ear he

whispered a few words. And the young man at once left his table, taking

his companion and pushing him outside through an occasional exit. It was

all so rapidly accomplished that none of the general public paid

attention to the flight.

“What is it?” said the Princess to Bergaz, when he had quietly resumed

his seat between Rossi and Sanfaute.

“Oh! nothing, I merely wished to shake hands with Mathis as he was going

off.”

Thereupon Rosemonde announced that she meant to do the same.

Nevertheless, she lingered a moment longer and again spoke of Norway on

perceiving that nothing could impassion Hyacinthe except the idea of the

eternal snow, the intense, purifying cold of the polar regions. In his

poem on the “End of Woman,” a composition of some thirty lines, which he

hoped he should never finish, he thought of introducing a forest of

frozen pines by way of final scene. Now the Princess had risen and was

gaily reverting to her jest, declaring that she meant to take him home to

drink a cup of tea and arrange their trip to the Pole, when an

involuntary exclamation fell from Bergaz, who, while listening, had kept

his eyes on the doorway.

“Mondésir! I was sure of it!”

There had appeared at the entrance a short, sinewy, broad-backed little

man, about whose round face, bumpy forehead, and snub nose there was

considerable military roughness. One might have thought him a

non-commissioned officer in civilian attire. He gazed over the whole

room, and seemed at once dismayed and disappointed.

Bergaz, however, wishing to account for his exclamation, resumed in an

easy way: “Ah! I said there was a smell of the police about the place!

You see that fellow--he’s a detective, a very clever one, named Mondésir,

who had some trouble when he was in the army. Just look at him, sniffing

like a dog that has lost scent! Well, well, my brave fellow, if you’ve

been told of any game you may look and look for it, the bird’s flown

already!”

Once outside, when Rosemonde had prevailed on Hyacinthe to see her home,

they hastened to get into the brougham, which was waiting for them, for

near at hand they perceived Silviane’s landau, with the majestic coachman

motionless on his box, while Duvillard, Gérard, and Duthil still stood

waiting on the curbstone. They had been there for nearly twenty minutes

already, in the semi-darkness of that outer boulevard, where all the

vices of the poor districts of Paris were on the prowl. They had been

jostled by drunkards; and shadowy women brushed against them as they went

by whispering beneath the oaths and blows of bullies. And there were

couples seeking the darkness under the trees, and lingering on the

benches there; while all around were low taverns and dirty lodging-houses

and places of ill-fame. All the human degradation which till break of day

swarms in the black mud of this part of Paris, enveloped the three men,

giving them the horrors, and yet neither the Baron nor Gérard nor Duthil

was willing to go off. Each hoped that he would tire out the others, and

take Silviane home when she should at last appear.

But after a time the Baron grew impatient, and said to the coachman:

“Jules, go and see why madame doesn’t come.”

“But the horses, Monsieur le Baron?”

“Oh! they will be all right, we are here.”

A fine drizzle had begun to fall; and the wait went on again as if it

would never finish. But an unexpected meeting gave them momentary

occupation. A shadowy form, something which seemed to be a thin,

black-skirted woman, brushed against them. And all of a sudden they were

surprised to find it was a priest.

“What, is it you, Monsieur l’Abbé Froment?” exclaimed Gérard. “At this

time of night? And in this part of Paris?”

Thereupon Pierre, without venturing either to express his own

astonishment at finding them there themselves, or to ask them what they

were doing, explained that he had been belated through accompanying Abbé

Rose on a visit to a night refuge. Ah! to think of all the frightful want

which at last drifted to those pestilential dormitories where the stench

had almost made him faint! To think of all the weariness and despair

which there sank into the slumber of utter prostration, like that of

beasts falling to the ground to sleep off the abominations of life! No

name could be given to the promiscuity; poverty and suffering were there

in heaps, children and men, young and old, beggars in sordid rags, beside

the shameful poor in threadbare frock-coats, all the waifs and strays of

the daily shipwrecks of Paris life, all the laziness and vice, and

ill-luck and injustice which the torrent rolls on, and throws off like

scum. Some slept on, quite annihilated, with the faces of corpses.

Others, lying on their backs with mouths agape, snored loudly as if still

venting the plaint of their sorry life. And others tossed restlessly,

still struggling in their slumber against fatigue and cold and hunger,

which pursued them like nightmares of monstrous shape. And from all those

human beings, stretched there like wounded after a battle, from all that

ambulance of life reeking with a stench of rottenness and death, there

ascended a nausea born of revolt, the vengeance-prompting thought of all

the happy chambers where, at that same hour, the wealthy loved or rested

in fine linen and costly lace.*

* Even the oldest Paris night refuges, which are the outcome

of private philanthropy--L’Œuvre de l’Hospitalité de Nuit--

have only been in existence some fourteen or fifteen years.

Before that time, and from the period of the great Revolution

forward, there was absolutely no place, either refuge, asylum,

or workhouse, in the whole of that great city of wealth and

pleasure, where the houseless poor could crave a night’s

shelter. The various royalist, imperialist and republican

governments and municipalities of modern France have often

been described as ‘paternal,’ but no governments and

municipalities in the whole civilised world have done less for

the very poor. The official Poor Relief Board--L’Assistance

Publique--has for fifty years been a by-word, a mockery and a

sham, in spite of its large revenue. And this neglect of the

very poor has been an important factor in every French

revolution. Each of these--even that of 1870--had its purely

economic side, though many superficial historians are content

to ascribe economic causes to the one Revolution of 1789, and

to pass them by in all other instances.--Trans.

In vain had Pierre and Abbé Rose passed all the poor wretches in review

while seeking the big Old’un, the former carpenter, so as to rescue him

from the cesspool of misery, and send him to the Asylum on the very

morrow. He had presented himself at the refuge that evening, but there

was no room left, for, horrible to say, even the shelter of that hell

could only be granted to early comers. And so he must now be leaning

against a wall, or lying behind some palings. This had greatly distressed

poor Abbé Rose and Pierre, but it was impossible for them to search every

dark, suspicious corner; and so the former had returned to the Rue

Cortot, while the latter was seeking a cab to convey him back to Neuilly.

The fine drizzling rain was still falling and becoming almost icy, when

Silviane’s coachman, Jules, at last reappeared and interrupted the

priest, who was telling the Baron and the others how his visit to the

refuge still made him shudder.

“Well, Jules--and madame?” asked Duvillard, quite anxious at seeing the

coachman return alone.

Impassive and respectful, with no other sign of irony than a slight

involuntary twist of the lips, Jules answered: “Madame sends word that

she is not going home; and she places her carriage at the gentlemen’s

disposal if they will allow me to drive them home.”

This was the last straw, and the Baron flew into a passion. To have

allowed her to drag him to that vile den, to have waited there hopefully

so long, and to be treated in this fashion for the sake of a Legras! No,

no, he, the Baron, had had enough of it, and she should pay dearly for

her abominable conduct! Then he stopped a passing cab and pushed Gérard

inside it saying, “You can set me down at my door.”

“But she’s left us the carriage!” shouted Duthil, who was already

consoled, and inwardly laughed at the termination of it all. “Come here,

there’s plenty of room for three. No? you prefer the cab? Well, just as

you like, you know.”

For his part he gaily climbed into the landau and drove off lounging on

the cushions, while the Baron, in the jolting old cab, vented his rage

without a word of interruption from Gérard, whose face was hidden by the

darkness. To think of it! that she, whom he had overwhelmed with gifts,

who had already cost him two millions of francs, should in this fashion

insult him, the master who could dispose both of fortunes and of men!

Well, she had chosen to do it, and he was delivered! Then Duvillard drew

a long breath like a man released from the galleys.

For a moment Pierre watched the two vehicles go off; and then took his

own way under the trees, so as to shelter himself from the rain until a

vacant cab should pass. Full of distress and battling thoughts he had

begun to feel icy cold. The whole monstrous night of Paris, all the

debauchery and woe that sobbed around him made him shiver. Phantom-like

women who, when young, had led lives of infamy in wealth, and who now,

old and faded, led lives of infamy in poverty, were still and ever

wandering past him in search of bread, when suddenly a shadowy form

grazed him, and a voice murmured in his ear: “Warn your brother, the

police are on Salvat’s track, he may be arrested at any moment.”

The shadowy figure was already going its way, and as a gas ray fell upon

it, Pierre thought that he recognised the pale, pinched face of Victor

Mathis. And at the same time, yonder in Abbé Rose’s peaceful dining-room,

he fancied he could again see the gentle face of Madame Mathis, so sad

and so resigned, living on solely by the force of the last trembling hope

which she had unhappily set in her son.

III. PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT

ALREADY at eight o’clock on that holiday-making mid-Lent Thursday, when

all the offices of the Home Department were empty, Monferrand, the

Minister, sat alone in his private room. A single usher guarded his door,

and in the first ante-chamber there were only a couple of messengers.

The Minister had experienced, on awaking, the most unpleasant of

emotions. The “Voix du Peuple,” which on the previous day had revived the

African Railway scandal, by accusing Barroux of having pocketed 20,000

francs, had that morning published its long-promised list of the

bribe-taking senators and deputies. And at the head of this list

Monferrand had found his own name set down against a sum of 80,000

francs, while Fonsègue was credited with 50,000. Then a fifth of the

latter amount was said to have been Duthil’s share, and Chaigneux had

contented himself with the beggarly sum of 3,000 francs--the lowest price

paid for any one vote, the cost of each of the others ranging from 5 to

20,000.

It must be said that there was no anger in Monferrand’s emotion. Only he

had never thought that Sagnier would carry his passion for uproar and

scandal so far as to publish this list--a page which was said to have

been torn from a memorandum book belonging to Duvillard’s agent, Hunter,

and which was covered with incomprehensible hieroglyphics that ought to

have been discussed and explained, if, indeed, the real truth was to be

arrived at. Personally, Monferrand felt quite at ease, for he had written

nothing, signed nothing, and knew that one could always extricate oneself

from a mess by showing some audacity, and never confessing. Nevertheless,

what a commotion it would all cause in the parliamentary duck-pond. He at

once realised the inevitable consequences, the ministry overthrown and

swept away by this fresh whirlwind of denunciation and tittle-tattle.

Mège would renew his interpellation on the morrow, and Vignon and his

friends would at once lay siege to the posts they coveted. And he,

Monferrand, could picture himself driven out of that ministerial sanctum

where, for eight months past, he had been taking his ease, not with any

foolish vainglory, but with the pleasure of feeling that he was in his

proper place as a born ruler, who believed he could tame and lead the

multitude.

Having thrown the newspapers aside with a disdainful gesture, he rose and

stretched himself, growling the while like a plagued lion. And then he

began to walk up and down the spacious room, which showed all the faded

official luxury of mahogany furniture and green damask hangings. Stepping

to and fro, with his hands behind his back, he no longer wore his usual

fatherly, good-natured air. He appeared as he really was, a born

wrestler, short, but broad shouldered, with sensual mouth, fleshy nose

and stern eyes, that all proclaimed him to be unscrupulous, of iron will

and fit for the greatest tasks. Still, in this case, in what direction

lay his best course? Must he let himself be dragged down with Barroux?

Perhaps his personal position was not absolutely compromised? And yet how

could he part company from the others, swim ashore, and save himself

while they were being drowned? It was a grave problem, and with his

frantic desire to retain power, he made desperate endeavours to devise

some suitable manœuvre.

But he could think of nothing, and began to swear at the virtuous fits of

that silly Republic, which, in his opinion, rendered all government

impossible. To think of such foolish fiddle-faddle stopping a man of his

acumen and strength! How on earth can one govern men if one is denied the

use of money, that sovereign means of sway? And he laughed bitterly; for

the idea of an idyllic country where all great enterprises would be

carried out in an absolutely honest manner seemed to him the height of

absurdity.

At last, however, unable as he was to come to a determination, it

occurred to him to confer with Baron Duvillard, whom he had long known,

and whom he regretted not having seen sooner so as to urge him to

purchase Sagnier’s silence. At first he thought of sending the Baron a

brief note by a messenger; but he disliked committing anything to paper,

for the veriest scrap of writing may prove dangerous; so he preferred to

employ the telephone which had been installed for his private use near

his writing-table.

“It is Baron Duvillard who is speaking to me?... Quite so. It’s I, the

Minister, Monsieur Monferrand. I shall be much obliged if you will come

to see me at once.... Quite so, quite so, I will wait for you.”

Then again he walked to and fro and meditated. That fellow Duvillard was

as clever a man as himself, and might be able to give him an idea. And he

was still laboriously trying to devise some scheme, when the usher

entered saying that Monsieur Gascogne, the Chief of the Detective Police,

particularly wished to speak to him. Monferrand’s first thought was that

the Prefecture of Police desired to know his views respecting the steps

which ought to be taken to ensure public order that day; for two mid-Lent

processions--one of the Washerwomen and the other of the Students--were

to march through Paris, whose streets would certainly be crowded.

“Show Monsieur Gascogne in,” he said.

A tall, slim, dark man, looking like an artisan in his Sunday best, then

stepped into the ministerial sanctum. Fully acquainted with the

under-currents of Paris life, this Chief of the Detective Force had a

cold dispassionate nature and a clear and methodical mind.

Professionalism slightly spoilt him, however: he would have possessed

more intelligence if he had not credited himself with so much.

He began by apologising for his superior the Prefect, who would certainly

have called in person had he not been suffering from indisposition.

However, it was perhaps best that he, Gascogne, should acquaint Monsieur

le Ministre with the grave affair which brought him, for he knew every

detail of it. Then he revealed what the grave affair was.

“I believe, Monsieur le Ministre, that we at last hold the perpetrator of

the crime in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy.”

At this, Monferrand, who had been listening impatiently, became quite

impassioned. The fruitless searches of the police, the attacks and the

jeers of the newspapers, were a source of daily worry to him. “Ah!--Well,

so much the better for you Monsieur Gascogne,” he replied with brutal

frankness. “You would have ended by losing your post. The man is

arrested?”

“Not yet, Monsieur le Ministre; but he cannot escape, and it is merely an

affair of a few hours.”

Then the Chief of the Detective Force told the whole story: how Detective

Mondésir, on being warned by a secret agent that the Anarchist Salvat was

in a tavern at Montmartre, had reached it just as the bird had flown;

then how chance had again set him in presence of Salvat at a hundred

paces or so from the tavern, the rascal having foolishly loitered there

to watch the establishment; and afterwards how Salvat had been stealthily

shadowed in the hope that they might catch him in his hiding-place with

his accomplices. And, in this wise, he had been tracked to the

Porte-Maillot, where, realising, no doubt, that he was pursued, he had

suddenly bolted into the Bois de Boulogne. It was there that he had been

hiding since two o’clock in the morning in the drizzle which had not

ceased to fall. They had waited for daylight in order to organise a

_battue_ and hunt him down like some animal, whose weariness must

necessarily ensure capture. And so, from one moment to another, he would

be caught.

“I know the great interest you take in the arrest, Monsieur le Ministre,”

added Gascogne, “and it occurred to me to ask your orders. Detective

Mondésir is over there, directing the hunt. He regrets that he did not

apprehend the man on the Boulevard de Rochechouart; but, all the same,

the idea of following him was a capital one, and one can only reproach

Mondésir with having forgotten the Bois de Boulogne in his calculations.”

Salvat arrested! That fellow Salvat whose name had filled the newspapers

for three weeks past. This was a most fortunate stroke which would be

talked of far and wide! In the depths of Monferrand’s fixed eyes one

could divine a world of thoughts and a sudden determination to turn this

incident which chance had brought him to his own personal advantage. In

his own mind a link was already forming between this arrest and that

African Railways interpellation which was likely to overthrow the

ministry on the morrow. The first outlines of a scheme already rose

before him. Was it not his good star that had sent him what he had been

seeking--a means of fishing himself out of the troubled waters of the

approaching crisis?

“But tell me, Monsieur Gascogne,” said he, “are you quite sure that this

man Salvat committed the crime?”

“Oh! perfectly sure, Monsieur le Ministre. He’ll confess everything in

the cab before he reaches the Prefecture.”

Monferrand again walked to and fro with a pensive air, and ideas came to

him as he spoke on in a slow, meditative fashion. “My orders! well, my

orders, they are, first, that you must act with the very greatest

prudence. Yes, don’t gather a mob of promenaders together. Try to arrange

things so that the arrest may pass unperceived--and if you secure a

confession keep it to yourself, don’t communicate it to the newspapers.

Yes, I particularly recommend that point to you, don’t take the

newspapers into your confidence at all--and finally, come and tell me

everything, and observe secrecy, absolute secrecy, with everybody else.”

Gascogne bowed and would have withdrawn, but Monferrand detained him to

say that not a day passed without his friend Monsieur Lehmann, the Public

Prosecutor, receiving letters from Anarchists who threatened to blow him

up with his family; in such wise that, although he was by no means a

coward, he wished his house to be guarded by plain-clothes officers. A

similar watch was already kept upon the house where investigating

magistrate Amadieu resided. And if the latter’s life was precious, that

of Public Prosecutor Lehmann was equally so, for he was one of those

political magistrates, one of those shrewd talented Israelites, who make

their way in very honest fashion by invariably taking the part of the

Government in office.

Then Gascogne in his turn remarked: “There is also the Barthès affair,

Monsieur le Ministre--we are still waiting. Are we to arrest Barthès at

that little house at Neuilly?”

One of those chances which sometimes come to the help of detectives and

make people think the latter to be men of genius had revealed to him the

circumstance that Barthès had found a refuge with Abbé Pierre Froment.

Ever since the Anarchist terror had thrown Paris into dismay a warrant

had been out against the old man, not for any precise offence, but simply

because he was a suspicious character and might, therefore, have had some

intercourse with the Revolutionists. However, it had been repugnant to

Gascogne to arrest him at the house of a priest whom the whole district

venerated as a saint; and the Minister, whom he had consulted on the

point, had warmly approved of his reserve, since a member of the clergy

was in question, and had undertaken to settle the affair himself.

“No, Monsieur Gascogne,” he now replied, “don’t move in the matter. You

know what my feelings are, that we ought to have the priests with us and

not against us--I have had a letter written to Abbé Froment in order that

he may call here this morning, as I shall have no other visitors. I will

speak to him myself, and you may take it that the affair no longer

concerns you.”

Then he was about to dismiss him when the usher came back saying that the

President of the Council was in the ante-room.*

* The title of President of the Council is given to the French

prime minister.--Trans.

“Barroux!--Ah! dash it, then, Monsieur Gascogne, you had better go out

this way. It is as well that nobody should meet you, as I wish you to

keep silent respecting Salvat’s arrest. It’s fully understood, is it not?

I alone am to know everything; and you will communicate with me here

direct, by the telephone, if any serious incident should arise.”

The Chief of the Detective Police had scarcely gone off, by way of an

adjoining _salon_, when the usher reopened the door communicating with

the ante-room: “Monsieur le President du Conseil.”