With a nicely adjusted show of deference and cordiality, Monferrand

stepped forward, his hands outstretched: “Ah! my dear President, why did

you put yourself out to come here? I would have called on you if I had

known that you wished to see me.”

But with an impatient gesture Barroux brushed aside all question of

etiquette. “No, no! I was taking my usual stroll in the Champs Elysées,

and the worries of the situation impressed me so keenly that I preferred

to come here at once. You yourself must realise that we can’t put up with

what is taking place. And pending to-morrow morning’s council, when we

shall have to arrange a plan of defence, I felt that there was good

reason for us to talk things over.”

He took an armchair, and Monferrand on his side rolled another forward so

as to seat himself with his back to the light. Whilst Barroux, the elder

of the pair by ten years, blanched and solemn, with a handsome face,

snowy whiskers, clean-shaven chin and upper-lip, retained all the dignity

of power, the bearing of a Conventionnel of romantic views, who sought to

magnify the simple loyalty of a rather foolish but good-hearted

_bourgeois_ nature into something great; the other, beneath his heavy

common countenance and feigned frankness and simplicity, concealed

unknown depths, the unfathomable soul of a shrewd enjoyer and despot who

was alike pitiless and unscrupulous in attaining his ends.

For a moment Barroux drew breath, for in reality he was greatly moved,

his blood rising to his head, and his heart beating with indignation and

anger at the thought of all the vulgar insults which the “Voix du Peuple”

had poured upon him again that morning. “Come, my dear colleague,” said

he, “one must stop that scandalous campaign. Moreover, you can realise

what awaits us at the Chamber to-morrow. Now that the famous list has

been published we shall have every malcontent up in arms. Vignon is

bestirring himself already--”

“Ah! you have news of Vignon?” exclaimed Monferrand, becoming very

attentive.

“Well, as I passed his door just now, I saw a string of cabs waiting

there. All his creatures have been on the move since yesterday, and at

least twenty persons have told me that the band is already dividing the

spoils. For, as you must know, the fierce and ingenuous Mège is again

going to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for others. Briefly, we are

dead, and the others claim that they are going to bury us in mud before

they fight over our leavings.” With his arm outstretched Barroux made a

theatrical gesture, and his voice resounded as if he were in the tribune.

Nevertheless, his emotion was real, tears even were coming to his eyes.

“To think that I who have given my whole life to the Republic, I who

founded it, who saved it, should be covered with insults in this fashion,

and obliged to defend myself against abominable charges! To say that I

abused my trust! That I sold myself and took 200,000 francs from that man

Hunter, simply to slip them into my pocket! Well, certainly there _was_ a

question of 200,000 francs between us. But how and under what

circumstances? They were doubtless the same as in your case, with regard

to the 80,000 francs that he is said to have handed you--”

But Monferrand interrupted his colleague in a clear trenchant voice: “He

never handed me a centime.”

The other looked at him in astonishment, but could only see his big,

rough head, whose features were steeped in shadow: “Ah! But I thought you

had business relations with him, and knew him particularly well.”

“No, I simply knew Hunter as everyone knew him. I was not even aware that

he was Baron Duvillard’s agent in the African Railways matter; and there

was never any question of that affair between us.”

This was so improbable, so contrary to everything Barroux knew of the

business, that for a moment he felt quite scared. Then he waved his hand

as if to say that others might as well look after their own affairs, and

reverted to himself. “Oh! as for me,” he said, “Hunter called on me more

than ten times, and made me quite sick with his talk of the African

Railways. It was at the time when the Chamber was asked to authorise the

issue of lottery stock.* And, by the way, my dear fellow, I was then here

at the Home Department, while you had just taken that of Public Works. I

can remember sitting at that very writing-table, while Hunter was in the

same armchair that I now occupy. That day he wanted to consult me about

the employment of the large sum which Duvillard’s house proposed to spend

in advertising; and on seeing what big amounts were set down against the

Royalist journals, I became quite angry, for I realised with perfect

accuracy that this money would simply be used to wage war against the

Republic. And so, yielding to Hunter’s entreaties, I also drew up a list

allotting 200,000 francs among the friendly Republican newspapers, which

were paid through me, I admit it. And that’s the whole story.”**

* This kind of stock is common enough in France. A part of it is

extinguished annually at a public “drawing,” when all such

shares or bonds that are drawn become entitled to redemption

at “par,” a percentage of them also securing prizes of various

amounts. City of Paris Bonds issued on this system are very

popular among French people with small savings; but, on the

other hand, many ventures, whose lottery stock has been

authorised by the Legislature, have come to grief and ruined

investors.--Trans.

** All who are acquainted with recent French history will be

aware that Barroux’ narrative is simply a passage from the

life of the late M. Floquet, slightly modified to suit the

requirements of M. Zola’s story.--Trans.

Then he sprang to his feet and struck his chest, whilst his voice again

rose: “Well, I’ve had more than enough of all that calumny and falsehood!

And I shall simply tell the Chamber my story to-morrow. It will be my

only defence. An honest man does not fear the truth!”

But Monferrand, in his turn, had sprung up with a cry which was a

complete confession of his principles: “It’s ridiculous, one never

confesses; you surely won’t do such a thing!”

“I shall,” retorted Barroux with superb obstinacy. “And we shall see if

the Chamber won’t absolve me by acclamation.”

“No, you will fall beneath an explosion of hisses, and drag all of us

down with you.”

“What does it matter? We shall fall with dignity, like honest men!”

Monferrand made a gesture of furious anger, and then suddenly became

calm. Amidst all the anxious confusion in which he had been struggling

since daybreak, a gleam now dawned upon him. The vague ideas suggested by

Salvat’s approaching arrest took shape, and expanded into an audacious

scheme. Why should he prevent the fall of that big ninny Barroux? The

only thing of importance was that he, Monferrand, should not fall with

him, or at any rate that he should rise again. So he protested no

further, but merely mumbled a few words, in which his rebellious feeling

seemingly died out. And at last, putting on his good-natured air once

more, he said: “Well, after all you are perhaps right. One must be brave.

Besides, you are our head, my dear President, and we will follow you.”

They had now again sat down face to face, and their conversation

continued till they came to a cordial agreement respecting the course

which the Government should adopt in view of the inevitable

interpellation on the morrow.

Meantime, Baron Duvillard was on his way to the ministry. He had scarcely

slept that night. When on the return from Montmartre Gérard had set him

down at his door in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy, he had at once gone to bed,

like a man who is determined to compel sleep, so that he may forget his

worries and recover self-control. But slumber would not come; for hours

and hours he vainly sought it. The manner in which he had been insulted

by that creature Silviane was so monstrous! To think that she, whom he

had enriched, whose every desire he had contented, should have cast such

mud at him, the master, who flattered himself that he held Paris and the

Republic in his hands, since he bought up and controlled consciences just

as others might make corners in wool or leather for the purposes of

Bourse speculation. And the dim consciousness that Silviane was the

avenging sore, the cancer preying on him who preyed on others, completed

his exasperation. In vain did he try to drive away his haunting thoughts,

remember his business affairs, his appointments for the morrow, his

millions which were working in every quarter of the world, the financial

omnipotence which placed the fate of nations in his grasp. Ever, and in

spite of all, Silviane rose up before him, splashing him with mud. In

despair he tried to fix his mind on a great enterprise which he had been

planning for months past, a Trans-Saharan railway, a colossal venture

which would set millions of money at work, and revolutionise the trade of

the world. And yet Silviane appeared once more, and smacked him on both

cheeks with her dainty little hand, which she had dipped in the gutter.

It was only towards daybreak that he at last dozed off, while vowing in a

fury that he would never see her again, that he would spurn her, and

order her away, even should she come and drag herself at his feet.

However, when he awoke at seven, still tired and aching, his first

thought was for her, and he almost yielded to a fit of weakness. The idea

came to him to ascertain if she had returned home, and if so make his

peace. But he jumped out of bed, and after his ablutions he recovered all

his bravery. She was a wretch, and he this time thought himself for ever

cured of his passion. To tell the truth, he forgot it as soon as he

opened the morning newspapers. The publication of the list of

bribe-takers in the “Voix du Peuple” quite upset him, for he had hitherto

thought it unlikely that Sagnier held any such list. However, he judged

the document at a glance, at once separating the few truths it contained

from a mass of foolishness and falsehood. And this time also he did not

consider himself personally in danger. There was only one thing that he

really feared: the arrest of his intermediary, Hunter, whose trial might

have drawn him into the affair. As matters stood, and as he did not cease

to repeat with a calm and smiling air, he had merely done what every

banking-house does when it issues stock, that is, pay the press for

advertisements and puffery, employ brokers, and reward services

discreetly rendered to the enterprise. It was all a business matter, and

for him that expression summed up everything. Moreover, he played the

game of life bravely, and spoke with indignant contempt of a banker who,

distracted and driven to extremities by blackmailing, had imagined that

he would bring a recent scandal to an end by killing himself: a pitiful

tragedy, from all the mire and blood of which the scandal had sprouted

afresh with the most luxuriant and indestructible vegetation. No, no!

suicide was not the course to follow: a man ought to remain erect, and

struggle on to his very last copper, and the very end of his energy.

At about nine o’clock a ringing brought Duvillard to the telephone

installed in his private room. And then his folly took possession of him

once more: it must be Silviane who wished to speak to him. She often

amused herself by thus disturbing him amidst his greatest cares. No doubt

she had just returned home, realising that she had carried things too far

on the previous evening and desiring to be forgiven. However, when he

found that the call was from Monferrand, who wished him to go to the

ministry, he shivered slightly, like a man saved from the abyss beside

which he is travelling. And forthwith he called for his hat and stick,

desirous as he was of walking and reflecting in the open air. And again

he became absorbed in the intricacies of the scandalous business which

was about to stir all Paris and the legislature. Kill himself! ah, no,

that would be foolish and cowardly. A gust of terror might be sweeping

past; nevertheless, for his part he felt quite firm, superior to events,

and resolved to defend himself without relinquishing aught of his power.

As soon as he entered the ante-rooms of the ministry he realised that the

gust of terror was becoming a tempest. The publication of the terrible

list in the “Voix du Peuple” had chilled the guilty ones to the heart;

and, pale and distracted, feeling the ground give way beneath them, they

had come to take counsel of Monferrand, who, they hoped, might save them.

The first whom Duvillard perceived was Duthil, looking extremely

feverish, biting his moustaches, and constantly making grimaces in his

efforts to force a smile. The banker scolded him for coming, saying that

it was a great mistake to have done so, particularly with such a scared

face. The deputy, however, his spirits already cheered by these rough

words, began to defend himself, declaring that he had not even read

Sagnier’s article, and had simply come to recommend a lady friend to the

Minister. Thereupon the Baron undertook this business for him and sent

him away with the wish that he might spend a merry mid-Lent. However, the

one who most roused Duvillard’s pity was Chaigneux, whose figure swayed

about as if bent by the weight of his long equine head, and who looked so

shabby and untidy that one might have taken him for an old pauper. On

recognising the banker he darted forward, and bowed to him with

obsequious eagerness.

“Ah! Monsieur le Baron,” said he, “how wicked some men must be! They are

killing me, I shall die of it all; and what will become of my wife, what

will become of my three daughters, who have none but me to help them?”

The whole of his woeful story lay in that lament. A victim of politics,

he had been foolish enough to quit Arras and his business there as a

solicitor, in order to seek triumph in Paris with his wife and daughters,

whose menial he had then become--a menial dismayed by the constant

rebuffs and failures which his mediocrity brought upon him. An honest

deputy! ah, good heavens! yes, he would have liked to be one; but was he

not perpetually “hard-up,” ever in search of a hundred-franc note, and

thus, perforce, a deputy for sale? And withal he led such a pitiable

life, so badgered by the women folk about him, that to satisfy their

demands he would have picked up money no matter where or how.

“Just fancy, Monsieur le Baron, I have at last found a husband for my

eldest girl. It is the first bit of luck that I have ever had; there will

only be three women left on my hands if it comes off. But you can imagine

what a disastrous impression such an article as that of this morning must

create in the young man’s family. So I have come to see the Minister to

beg him to give my future son-in-law a prefectoral secretaryship. I have

already promised him the post, and if I can secure it things may yet be

arranged.”

He looked so terribly shabby and spoke in such a doleful voice that it

occurred to Duvillard to do one of those good actions on which he

ventured at times when they were likely to prove remunerative

investments. It is, indeed, an excellent plan to give a crust of bread to

some poor devil whom one can turn, if necessary, into a valet or an

accomplice. So the banker dismissed Chaigneux, undertaking to do his

business for him in the same way as he had undertaken to do Duthil’s. And

he added that he would be pleased to see him on the morrow, and have a

chat with him, as he might be able to help him in the matter of his

daughter’s marriage.

At this Chaigneux, scenting a loan, collapsed into the most lavish

thanks. “Ah! Monsieur le Baron, my life will not be long enough to enable

me to repay such a debt of gratitude.”

As Duvillard turned round he was surprised to see Abbé Froment waiting in

a corner of the ante-room. Surely that one could not belong to the batch

of _suspects_, although by the manner in which he was pretending to read

a newspaper it seemed as if he were trying to hide some keen anxiety. At

last the Baron stepped forward, shook hands, and spoke to him cordially.

And Pierre thereupon related that he had received a letter requesting him

to call on the Minister that day. Why, he could not tell; in fact, he was

greatly surprised, he said, putting on a smile in order to conceal his

disquietude. He had been waiting a long time already, and hoped that he

would not be forgotten on that bench.

Just then the usher appeared, and hastened up to the banker. “The

Minister,” said he, “was at that moment engaged with the President of the

Council; but he had orders to admit the Baron as soon as the President

withdrew.” Almost immediately afterwards Barroux came out, and as

Duvillard was about to enter he recognised and detained him. And he spoke

of the denunciations very bitterly, like one indignant with all the

slander. Would not he, Duvillard, should occasion require it, testify

that he, Barroux, had never taken a centime for himself? Then, forgetting

that he was speaking to a banker, and that he was Minister of Finances,

he proceeded to express all his disgust of money. Ah! what poisonous,

murky, and defiling waters were those in which money-making went on!

However, he repeated that he would chastise his insulters, and that a

statement of the truth would suffice for the purpose.

Duvillard listened and looked at him. And all at once the thought of

Silviane came back, and took possession of the Baron, without any attempt

on his part to drive it away. He reflected that if Barroux had chosen to

give him a helping hand when he had asked for it, Silviane would now have

been at the Comédie Française, in which case the deplorable affair of the

previous night would not have occurred; for he was beginning to regard

himself as guilty in the matter; if he had only contented Silviane’s whim

she would never have dismissed him in so vile a fashion.

“You know, I owe you a grudge,” he said, interrupting Barroux.

The other looked at him in astonishment. “And why, pray?” he asked.

“Why, because you never helped me in the matter of that friend of mine

who wishes to make her _début_ in ‘Polyeucte.’”

Barroux smiled, and with amiable condescension replied: “Ah! yes,

Silviane d’Aulnay! But, my dear sir, it was Taboureau who put spokes in

the wheel. The Fine Arts are his department, and the question was

entirely one for him. And I could do nothing; for that very worthy and

honest gentleman, who came to us from a provincial faculty, was full of

scruples. For my own part I’m an old Parisian, I can understand anything,

and I should have been delighted to please you.”

At this fresh resistance offered to his passion Duvillard once more

became excited, eager to obtain that which was denied him. “Taboureau,

Taboureau!” said he, “he’s a nice deadweight for you to load yourself

with! Honest! isn’t everybody honest? Come, my dear Minister, there’s

still time, get Silviane admitted, it will bring you good luck for

to-morrow.”

This time Barroux burst into a frank laugh: “No, no, I can’t cast

Taboureau adrift at this moment--people would make too much sport of

it--a ministry wrecked or saved by a Silviane question!”

Then he offered his hand before going off. The Baron pressed it, and for

a moment retained it in his own, whilst saying very gravely and with a

somewhat pale face: “You do wrong to laugh, my dear Minister. Governments

have fallen or set themselves erect again through smaller matters than

that. And should you fall to-morrow I trust that you will never have

occasion to regret it.”

Wounded to the heart by the other’s jesting air, exasperated by the idea

that there was something he could not achieve, Duvillard watched Barroux

as he withdrew. Most certainly the Baron did not desire a reconciliation

with Silviane, but he vowed that he would overturn everything if

necessary in order to send her a signed engagement for the Comédie, and

this simply by way of vengeance, as a slap, so to say,--yes, a slap which

would make her tingle! That moment spent with Barroux had been a decisive

one.

However, whilst still following Barroux with his eyes, Duvillard was

surprised to see Fonsègue arrive and manœuvre in such a way as to escape

the Prime Minister’s notice. He succeeded in doing so, and then entered

the ante-room with an appearance of dismay about the whole of his little

figure, which was, as a rule, so sprightly. It was the gust of terror,

still blowing, that had brought him thither.

“Didn’t you see your friend Barroux?” the Baron asked him, somewhat

puzzled.

“Barroux? No!”

This quiet lie was equivalent to a confession of everything. Fonsègue was

so intimate with Barroux that he thee’d and thou’d him, and for ten years

had been supporting him in his newspaper, having precisely the same

views, the same political religion. But with a smash-up threatening, he

doubtless realised, thanks to his wonderfully keen scent, that he must

change his friendships if he did not wish to remain under the ruins

himself. If he had, for long years, shown so much prudence and diplomatic

virtue in order to firmly establish the most dignified and respected of

Parisian newspapers, it was not for the purpose of letting that newspaper

be compromised by some foolish blunder on the part of an honest man.

“I thought you were on bad terms with Monferrand,” resumed Duvillard.

“What have you come here for?”

“Oh! my dear Baron, the director of a leading newspaper is never on bad

terms with anybody. He’s at the country’s service.”

In spite of his emotion, Duvillard could not help smiling. “You are

right,” he responded. “Besides, Monferrand is really an able man, whom

one can support without fear.”

At this Fonsègue began to wonder whether his anguish of mind was visible.

He, who usually played the game of life so well, with his own hand under

thorough control, had been terrified by the article in the “Voix du

Peuple.” For the first time in his career he had perpetrated a blunder,

and felt that he was at the mercy of some denunciation, for with

unpardonable imprudence he had written a very brief but compromising

note. He was not anxious concerning the 50,000 francs which Barroux had

handed him out of the 200,000 destined for the Republican press. But he

trembled lest another affair should be discovered, that of a sum of money

which he had received as a present. It was only on feeling the Baron’s

keen glance upon him that he was able to recover some self-possession.

How silly it was to lose the knack of lying and to confess things simply

by one’s demeanour!

But the usher drew near and repeated that the Minister was now waiting

for the Baron; and Fonsègue went to sit down beside Abbé Froment, whom he

also was astonished to find there. Pierre repeated that he had received a

letter, but had no notion what the Minister might wish to say to him. And

the quiver of his hands again revealed how feverishly impatient he was to

know what it might be. However, he could only wait, since Monferrand was

still busy discussing such grave affairs.

On seeing Duvillard enter, the Minister had stepped forward, offering his

hand. However much the blast of terror might shake others, he had

retained his calmness and good-natured smile. “What an affair, eh, my

dear Baron!” he exclaimed.

“It’s idiotic!” plainly declared the other, with a shrug of his

shoulders. Then he sat down in the armchair vacated by Barroux, while the

Minister installed himself in front of him. These two were made to

understand one another, and they indulged in the same despairing gestures

and furious complaints, declaring that government, like business, would

no longer be possible if men were required to show such virtue as they

did not possess. At all times, and under every _régime_, when a decision

of the Chambers had been required in connection with some great

enterprise, had not the natural and legitimate tactics been for one to do

what might be needful to secure that decision? It was absolutely

necessary that one should obtain influential and sympathetic support, in

a word, make sure of votes. Well, everything had to be paid for, men like

other things, some with fine words, others with favours or money,

presents made in a more or less disguised manner. And even admitting

that, in the present cases, one had gone rather far in the purchasing,

that some of the bartering had been conducted in an imprudent way, was it

wise to make such an uproar over it? Would not a strong government have

begun by stifling the scandal, from motives of patriotism, a mere sense

of cleanliness even?

“Why, of course! You are right, a thousand times right!” exclaimed

Monferrand. “Ah! if I were the master you would see what a fine

first-class funeral I would give it all!” Then, as Duvillard looked at

him fixedly, struck by these last words, he added with his expressive

smile: “Unfortunately I’m not the master, and it was to talk to you of

the situation that I ventured to disturb you. Barroux, who was here just

now, seemed to me in a regrettable frame of mind.”

“Yes, I saw him, he has such singular ideas at times--” Then, breaking

off, the Baron added: “Do you know that Fonsègue is in the ante-room? As

he wishes to make his peace with you, why not send for him? He won’t be

in the way, in fact, he’s a man of good counsel, and the support of his

newspaper often suffices to give one the victory.”

“What, is Fonsègue there!” cried Monferrand. “Why, I don’t ask better

than to shake hands with him. There were some old affairs between us that

don’t concern anybody! But, good heavens! if you only knew what little

spite I harbour!”

When the usher had admitted Fonsègue the reconciliation took place in the

simplest fashion. They had been great friends at college in their native

Corrèze, but had not spoken together for ten years past in consequence of

some abominable affair the particulars of which were not exactly known.

However, it becomes necessary to clear away all corpses when one wishes

to have the arena free for a fresh battle.

“It’s very good of you to come back the first,” said Monferrand. “So it’s

all over, you no longer bear me any grudge?”

“No, indeed!” replied Fonsègue. “Why should people devour one another

when it would be to their interest to come to an understanding?”

Then, without further explanations, they passed to the great affair, and

the conference began. And when Monferrand had announced Barroux’

determination to confess and explain his conduct, the others loudly

protested. That meant certain downfall, they would prevent him, he surely

would not be guilty of such folly. Forthwith they discussed every

imaginable plan by which the Ministry might be saved, for that must

certainly be Monferrand’s sole desire. He himself with all eagerness

pretended to seek some means of extricating his colleagues and himself

from the mess in which they were. However, a faint smile, still played

around his lips, and at last as if vanquished he sought no further.

“There’s no help for it,” said he, “the ministry’s down.”

The others exchanged glances, full of anxiety at the thought of another

Cabinet dealing with the African Railways affair. A Vignon Cabinet would

doubtless plume itself on behaving honestly.

“Well, then, what shall we do?”

But just then the telephone rang, and Monferrand rose to respond to the

summons: “Allow me.”

He listened for a moment and then spoke into the tube, nothing that he

said giving the others any inkling of the information which had reached

him. This had come from the Chief of the Detective Police, and was to the

effect that Salvat’s whereabouts in the Bois de Boulogne had been

discovered, and that he would be hunted down with all speed. “Very good!

And don’t forget my orders,” replied Monferrand.

Now that Salvat’s arrest was certain, the Minister determined to follow

the plan which had gradually taken shape in his mind; and returning to

the middle of the room he slowly walked to and fro, while saying with his

wonted familiarity: “But what would you have, my friends? It would be

necessary for me to be the master. Ah! if I were the master! A Commission

of Inquiry, yes! that’s the proper form for a first-class funeral to take

in a big affair like this, so full of nasty things. For my part, I should

confess nothing, and I should have a Commission appointed. And then you

would see the storm subside.”

Duvillard and Fonsègue began to laugh. The latter, however, thanks to his

intimate knowledge of Monferrand, almost guessed the truth. “Just

listen!” said he; “even if the ministry falls it doesn’t necessarily

follow that you must be on the ground with it. Besides, a ministry can be

mended when there are good pieces of it left.”

Somewhat anxious at finding his thoughts guessed, Monferrand protested:

“No, no, my dear fellow, I don’t play that game. We are jointly

responsible, we’ve got to keep together, dash it all!”

“Keep together! Pooh! Not when simpletons purposely drown themselves!

And, besides, if we others have need of you, we have a right to save you

in spite of yourself! Isn’t that so, my dear Baron?”

Then, as Monferrand sat down, no longer protesting but waiting,

Duvillard, who was again thinking of his passion, full of anger at the

recollection of Barroux’ refusal, rose in his turn, and exclaimed: “Why,

certainly! If the ministry’s condemned let it fall! What good can you get

out of a ministry which includes such a man as Taboureau! There you have

an old, worn-out professor without any prestige, who comes to Paris from

Grenoble, and has never set foot in a theatre in his life! Yet the

control of the theatres is handed over to him, and naturally he’s ever

doing the most stupid things!”

Monferrand, who was well informed on the Silviane question, remained

grave, and for a moment amused himself by trying to excite the Baron.

“Taboureau,” said he, “is a somewhat dull and old-fashioned University

man, but at the department of Public Instruction he’s in his proper

element.”

“Oh! don’t talk like that, my dear fellow! You are more intelligent than

that, you are not going to defend Taboureau as Barroux did. It’s quite

true that I should very much like to see Silviane at the Comédie. She’s a

very good girl at heart, and she has an amazing lot of talent. Would you

stand in her way if you were in Taboureau’s place?”

“I? Good heavens, no! A pretty girl on the stage, why, it would please

everybody, I’m sure. Only it would be necessary to have a man of the same

views as were at the department of Instruction and Fine Arts.”

His sly smile had returned to his face. The securing of that girl’s

_début_ was certainly not a high price to pay for all the influence of

Duvillard’s millions. Monferrand therefore turned towards Fonsègue as if

to consult him. The other, who fully understood the importance of the

affair, was meditating in all seriousness: “A senator is the proper man

for Public Instruction,” said he. “But I can think of none, none at all,

such as would be wanted. A man of broad mind, a real Parisian, and yet

one whose presence at the head of the University wouldn’t cause too much

astonishment--there’s perhaps Dauvergne--”

“Dauvergne! Who’s he?” exclaimed Monferrand in surprise. “Ah! yes,

Dauvergne the senator for Dijon--but he’s altogether ignorant of

University matters, he hasn’t the slightest qualification.”

“Well, as for that,” resumed Fonsègue, “I’m trying to think. Dauvergne is

certainly a good-looking fellow, tall and fair and decorative. Besides,

he’s immensely rich, has a most charming young wife--which does no harm,

on the contrary--and he gives real _fêtes_ at his place on the Boulevard

St. Germain.”

It was only with hesitation that Fonsègue himself had ventured to suggest

Dauvergne. But by degrees his selection appeared to him a real “find.”

“Wait a bit! I recollect now that in his young days Dauvergne wrote a

comedy, a one act comedy in verse, and had it performed at Dijon. And

Dijon’s a literary town, you know, so that piece of his sets a little

perfume of ‘Belles-Lettres’ around him. And then, too, he left Dijon

twenty years ago, and is a most determined Parisian, frequenting every

sphere of society. Dauvergne will do whatever one desires. He’s the man

for us, I tell you.”

Duvillard thereupon declared that he knew him, and considered him a very

decent fellow. Besides, he or another, it mattered nothing!

“Dauvergne, Dauvergne,” repeated Monferrand. “_Mon Dieu_, yes! After all,

why not? He’ll perhaps make a very good minister. Let us say Dauvergne.”

Then suddenly bursting into a hearty laugh: “And so we are reconstructing

the Cabinet in order that that charming young woman may join the Comédie!

The Silviane cabinet--well, and what about the other departments?”

He jested, well knowing that gaiety often hastens difficult solutions.

And, indeed, they merrily continued settling what should be done if the

ministry were defeated on the morrow. Although they had not plainly said

so the plan was to let Barroux sink, even help him to do so, and then

fish Monferrand out of the troubled waters. The latter engaged himself

with the two others, because he had need of them, the Baron on account of

his financial sovereignty, and the director of “Le Globe” on account of

the press campaign which he could carry on in his favour. And in the same

way the others, quite apart from the Silviane business, had need of

Monferrand, the strong-handed man of government, who undertook to bury

the African Railways scandal by bringing about a Commission of Inquiry,

all the strings of which would be pulled by himself. There was soon a

perfect understanding between the three men, for nothing draws people

more closely together than common interest, fear and need. Accordingly,

when Duvillard spoke of Duthil’s business, the young lady whom he wished

to recommend, the Minister declared that it was settled. A very nice

fellow was Duthil, they needed a good many like him. And it was also

agreed that Chaigneux’ future son-in-law should have his secretaryship.

Poor Chaigneux! He was so devoted, always ready to undertake any

commission, and his four women folk led him such a hard life!

“Well, then, it’s understood.” And Monferrand, Duvillard and Fonsègue

vigorously shook hands.

However, when the first accompanied the others to the door, he noticed a

prelate, in a cassock of fine material, edged with violet, speaking to a

priest in the ante-room. Thereupon he, the Minister, hastened forward,

looking much distressed. “Ah! you were waiting, Monseigneur Martha! Come

in, come in quick!”

But with perfect urbanity the Bishop refused. “No, no, Monsieur l’Abbé

Froment was here before me. Pray receive him first.”

Monferrand had to give way; he admitted the priest, and speedily dealt

with him. He who usually employed the most diplomatic reserve when he was

in presence of a member of the clergy plumply unfolded the Barthès

business. Pierre had experienced the keenest anguish during the two hours

that he had been waiting there, for he could only explain the letter he

had received by a surmise that the police had discovered his brother’s

presence in his house. And so when he heard the Minister simply speak of

Barthès, and declare that the government would rather see him go into

exile than be obliged to imprison him once more, he remained for a moment

quite disconcerted. As the police had been able to discover the old

conspirator in the little house at Neuilly, how was it that they seemed

altogether ignorant of Guillaume’s presence there? It was, however, the

usual gap in the genius of great detectives.

“Pray what do you desire of me, Monsieur le Ministre?” said Pierre at

last; “I don’t quite understand.”

“Why, Monsieur l’Abbé, I leave all this to your sense of prudence. If

that man were still at your house in forty-eight hours from now, we

should be obliged to arrest him there, which would be a source of grief

to us, for we are aware that your residence is the abode of every virtue.

So advise him to leave France. If he does that we shall not trouble him.”

Then Monferrand hastily brought Pierre back to the ante-room; and,

smiling and bending low, he said: “Monseigneur, I am entirely at your

disposal. Come in, come in, I beg you.”

The prelate, who was gaily chatting with Duvillard and Fonsègue, shook

hands with them, and then with Pierre. In his desire to win all hearts,

he that morning displayed the most perfect graciousness. His bright,

black eyes were all smiles, the whole of his handsome face wore a

caressing expression, and he entered the ministerial sanctum leisurely

and gracefully, with an easy air of conquest.

And now only Monferrand and Monseigneur Martha were left, talking on and

on in the deserted building. Some people had thought that the prelate

wished to become a deputy. But he played a far more useful and lofty part

in governing behind the scenes, in acting as the directing mind of the

Vatican’s policy in France. Was not France still the Eldest Daughter of

the Church, the only great nation which might some day restore

omnipotence to the Papacy? For that reason he had accepted the Republic,

preached the duty of “rallying” to it, and inspired the new Catholic

group in the Chamber. And Monferrand, on his side, struck by the progress

of the New Spirit, that reaction of mysticism which flattered itself that

it would bury science, showed the prelate much amiability, like a

strong-handed man who, to ensure his own victory, utilised every force

that was offered him.

IV. THE MAN HUNT

ON the afternoon of that same day such a keen desire for space and the

open air came upon Guillaume, that Pierre consented to accompany him on a

long walk in the Bois de Boulogne. The priest, upon returning from his

interview with Monferrand, had informed his brother that the government

once more wished to get rid of Nicholas Barthès. However, they were so

perplexed as to how they should impart these tidings to the old man, that

they resolved to postpone the matter until the evening. During their walk

they might devise some means of breaking the news in a gentle way. As for

the walk, this seemed to offer no danger; to all appearance Guillaume was

in no wise threatened, so why should he continue hiding? Thus the

brothers sallied forth and entered the Bois by the Sablons gate, which

was the nearest to them.

The last days of March had now come, and the trees were beginning to show

some greenery, so soft and light, however, that one might have thought it

was pale moss or delicate lace hanging between the stems and boughs.

Although the sky remained of an ashen grey, the rain, after falling

throughout the night and morning, had ceased; and exquisite freshness

pervaded that wood now awakening to life once more, with its foliage

dripping in the mild and peaceful atmosphere. The mid-Lent rejoicings had

apparently attracted the populace to the centre of Paris, for in the

avenues one found only the fashionable folks of select days, the people

of society who come thither when the multitude stops away. There were

carriages and gentlemen on horseback; beautiful aristocratic ladies who

had alighted from their broughams or landaus; and wet-nurses with

streaming ribbons, who carried infants wearing the most costly lace. Of

the middle-classes, however, one found only a few matrons living in the

neighbourhood, who sat here and there on the benches busy with embroidery

or watching their children play.

Pierre and Guillaume followed the Allée de Longchamp as far as the road

going from Madrid to the lakes. Then they took their way under the trees,

alongside the little Longchamp rivulet. They wished to reach the lakes,

pass round them, and return home by way of the Maillot gate. But so

charming and peaceful was the deserted plantation through which they

passed, that they yielded to a desire to sit down and taste the delight

of resting amidst all the budding springtide around them. A fallen tree

served them as a bench, and it was possible for them to fancy themselves

far away from Paris, in the depths of some real forest. It was, too, of a

real forest that Guillaume began to think on thus emerging from his long,

voluntary imprisonment. Ah! for the space; and for the health-bringing

air which courses between that forest’s branches, that forest of the

world which by right should be man’s inalienable domain! However, the

name of Barthès, the perpetual prisoner, came back to Guillaume’s lips,

and he sighed mournfully. The thought that there should be even a single

man whose liberty was thus ever assailed, sufficed to poison the pure

atmosphere he breathed.

“What will you say to Barthès?” he asked his brother. “The poor fellow

must necessarily be warned. Exile is at any rate preferable to

imprisonment.”

Pierre sadly waved his hand. “Yes, of course, I must warn him. But what a

painful task it is!”

Guillaume made no rejoinder, for at that very moment, in that remote,

deserted nook, where they could fancy themselves at the world’s end, a

most extraordinary spectacle was presented to their view. Something or

rather someone leapt out of a thicket and bounded past them. It was

assuredly a man, but one who was so unrecognisable, so miry, so woeful

and so frightful, that he might have been taken for an animal, a boar

that hounds had tracked and forced from his retreat. On seeing the

rivulet, he hesitated for a moment, and then followed its course. But,

all at once, as a sound of footsteps and panting breath drew nearer, he

sprang into the water, which reached his thighs, bounded on to the

further bank, and vanished from sight behind a clump of pines. A moment

afterwards some keepers and policemen rushed by, skirting the rivulet,

and in their turn disappearing. It was a man hunt that had gone past, a

fierce, secret hunt with no display of scarlet or blast of horns athwart

the soft, sprouting foliage.

“Some rascal or other,” muttered Pierre. “Ah! the wretched fellow!”

Guillaume made a gesture of discouragement. “Gendarmes and prison!” said

he. “They still constitute society’s only schooling system!”

Meantime the man was still running on, farther and farther away.

When, on the previous night, Salvat had suddenly escaped from the

detectives by bounding into the Bois de Boulogne, it had occurred to him

to slip round to the Dauphine gate and there descend into the deep ditch*

of the city ramparts. He remembered days of enforced idleness which he

had spent there, in nooks where, for his own part, he had never met a

living soul. Nowhere, indeed, could one find more secret places of

retreat, hedged round by thicker bushes, or concealed from view by

loftier herbage. Some corners of the ditch, at certain angles of the

massive bastions, are favourite dens or nests for thieves and lovers.

Salvat, as he made his way through the thickest of the brambles, nettles

and ivy, was lucky enough to find a cavity full of dry leaves, in which

he buried himself to the chin. The rain had already drenched him, and

after slipping down the muddy slope, he had frequently been obliged to

grope his way upon all fours. So those dry leaves proved a boon such as

he had not dared to hope for. They dried him somewhat, serving as a

blanket in which he coiled himself after his wild race through the dank

darkness. The rain still fell, but he now only felt it on his head, and,

weary as he was, he gradually sank into deep slumber beneath the

continuous drizzle. When he opened his eyes again, the dawn was breaking,

and it was probably about six o’clock. During his sleep the rain had

ended by soaking the leaves, so that he was now immersed in a kind of

chilly bath. Still he remained in it, feeling that he was there sheltered

from the police, who must now surely be searching for him. None of those

bloodhounds would guess his presence in that hole, for his body was quite

buried, and briers almost completely hid his head. So he did not stir,

but watched the rise of the dawn.

* This ditch or dry moat is about 30 feet deep and 50 feet wide.

The counterscarp by which one may descend into it has an angle

of 45 degrees.--Trans.

When at eight o’clock some policemen and keepers came by, searching the

ditch, they did not perceive him. As he had anticipated, the hunt had

begun at the first glimmer of light. For a time his heart beat violently;

however, nobody else passed, nothing whatever stirred the grass. The only

sounds that reached him were faint ones from the Bois de Boulogne, the

ring of a bicyclist’s bell, the thud of a horse’s hoofs, the rumble of

carriage wheels. And time went by, nine o’clock came, and then ten

o’clock. Since the rain had ceased falling, Salvat had not suffered so

much from the cold, for he was wearing a thick overcoat which little

Mathis had given him. But, on the other hand, hunger was coming back;

there was a burning sensation in his stomach, and leaden hoops seemed to

be pressing against his ribs. He had eaten nothing for two days; he had

been starving already on the previous evening, when he had accepted a

glass of beer at that tavern at Montmartre. Nevertheless, his plan was to

remain in the ditch until nightfall, and then slip away in the direction

of the village of Boulogne, where he knew of a means of egress from the

wood. He was not caught yet, he repeated, he might still manage to

escape. Then he tried to get to sleep again, but failed, so painful had

his sufferings become. By the time it was eleven, everything swam before

his eyes. He once nearly fainted, and thought that he was going to die.

Then rage gradually mastered him, and, all at once, he sprang out of his

leafy hiding-place, desperately hungering for food, unable to remain

there any longer, and determined to find something to eat, even should it

cost him his liberty and life. It was then noon.

On leaving the ditch he found the spreading lawns of the château of La

Muette before him. He crossed them at a run, like a madman, instinctively

going towards Boulogne, with the one idea that his only means of escape

lay in that direction. It seemed miraculous that nobody paid attention to

his helter-skelter flight. However, when he had reached the cover of some

trees he became conscious of his imprudence, and almost regretted the

sudden madness which had borne him along, eager for escape. Trembling

nervously, he bent low among some furze bushes, and waited for a few

minutes to ascertain if the police were behind him. Then with watchful

eye and ready ear, wonderful instinct and scent of danger, he slowly went

his way again. He hoped to pass between the upper lake and the Auteuil

race-course; but there were few trees in that part, and they formed a

broad avenue. He therefore had to exert all his skill in order to avoid

observation, availing himself of the slenderest stems, the smallest

bushes, as screens, and only venturing onward after a lengthy inspection

of his surroundings. Before long the sight of a guard in the distance

revived his fears and detained him, stretched on the ground behind some

brambles, for a full quarter of an hour. Then the approach first of a

cab, whose driver had lost his way, and afterwards of a strolling

pedestrian, in turn sufficed to stop him. He breathed once more, however,

when, after passing the Mortemart hillock, he was able to enter the

thickets lying between the two roads which lead to Boulogne and St.

Cloud. The coppices thereabouts were dense, and he merely had to follow

them, screened from view, in order to reach the outlet he knew of, which

was now near at hand. So he was surely saved.

But all at once, at a distance of some five and thirty yards, he saw a

keeper, erect and motionless, barring his way. He turned slightly to the

left and there perceived another keeper, who also seemed to be awaiting

him. And there were more and more of them; at every fifty paces or so

stood a fresh one, the whole forming a _cordon_, the meshes as it were of

a huge net. The worst was that he must have been perceived, for a light

cry, like the clear call of an owl, rang out, and was repeated farther

and farther off. The hunters were at last on the right scent, prudence

had become superfluous, and it was only by flight that the quarry might

now hope to escape. Salvat understood this so well that he suddenly began

to run, leaping over all obstacles and darting between the trees,

careless whether he were seen or heard. A few bounds carried him across

the Avenue de St. Cloud into the plantations stretching to the Allée de

la Reine Marguerite. There the undergrowth was very dense; in the whole

Bois there are no more closely set thickets. In summer they become one

vast entanglement of verdure, amidst which, had it been the leafy season,

Salvat might well have managed to secrete himself. For a moment he did

find himself alone, and thereupon he halted to listen. He could neither

see nor hear the keepers now. Had they lost his track, then? Profound

quietude reigned under the fresh young foliage. But the light, owlish cry

arose once more, branches cracked, and he resumed his wild flight,

hurrying straight before him. Unluckily he found the Allée de la Reine

Marguerite guarded by policemen, so that he could not cross over, but had

to skirt it without quitting the thickets. And now his back was turned

towards Boulogne; he was retracing his steps towards Paris. However, a

last idea came to his bewildered mind: it was to run on in this wise as

far as the shady spots around Madrid, and then, by stealing from copse to

copse, attempt to reach the Seine. To proceed thither across the bare

expanse of the race-course and training ground was not for a moment to be

thought of.

So Salvat still ran on and on. But on reaching the Allée de Longchamp he

found it guarded like the other roads, and therefore had to relinquish

his plan of escaping by way of Madrid and the river-bank. While he was

perforce making a bend alongside the Pré Catelan, he became aware that

the keepers, led by detectives, were drawing yet nearer to him, confining

his movements to a smaller and smaller area. And his race soon acquired

all the frenzy of despair. Haggard and breathless he leapt mounds, rushed

past multitudinous obstacles. He forced a passage through brambles, broke

down palings, thrice caught his feet in wire work which he had not seen,

and fell among nettles, yet picked himself up went on again, spurred by

the stinging of his hands and face. It was then Guillaume and Pierre saw

him pass, unrecognisable and frightful, taking to the muddy water of the

rivulet like a stag which seeks to set a last obstacle between itself and

the hounds. There came to him a wild idea of getting to the lake, and

swimming, unperceived, to the island in the centre of it. That, he madly

thought, would be a safe retreat, where he might burrow and hide himself

without possibility of discovery. And so he still ran on. But once again

the sight of some guards made him retrace his steps, and he was compelled

to go back and back in the direction of Paris, chased, forced towards the

very fortifications whence he had started that morning. It was now nearly

three in the afternoon. For more than two hours and a half he had been

running.

At last he saw a soft, sandy ride for horsemen before him. He crossed it,

splashing through the mire left by the rain, and reached a little

pathway, a delightful lovers’ lane, as shady in summer as any arbour. For

some time he was able to follow it, concealed from observation, and with

his hopes reviving. But it led him to one of those broad, straight

avenues where carriages and bicycles, the whole afternoon pageant of

society, swept past under the mild and cloudy sky. So he returned to the

thickets, fell once more upon the keepers, lost all notion of the

direction he took, and even all power of thought, becoming a mere thing

carried along and thrown hither and thither by the chances of the pursuit

which pressed more and more closely upon him. Star-like crossways

followed one upon other, and at last he came to a broad lawn, where the

full light dazzled him. And there he suddenly felt the hot, panting

breath of his pursuers close in the rear. Eager, hungry breath it was,

like that of hounds seeking to devour him. Shouts rang out, one hand

almost caught hold of him, there was a rush of heavy feet, a scramble to

seize him. But with a supreme effort he leapt upon a bank, crawled to its

summit, rose again, and once more found himself alone, still running on

amid the fresh and quiet greenery.

Nevertheless, this was the end. He almost fell flat upon the ground. His

aching feet could no longer carry him; blood was oozing from his ears,

and froth had come to his mouth. His heart beat with such violence that

it seemed likely to break his ribs. Water and perspiration streamed from

him, he was miry and haggard and tortured by hunger, conquered, in fact,

more by hunger than by fatigue. And through the mist which seemed to have

gathered before his wild eyes, he suddenly saw an open doorway, the

doorway of a coach-house in the rear of a kind of chalet, sequestered

among trees. Excepting a big white cat, which took to flight, there was

not a living creature in the place. Salvat plunged into it and rolled

over on a heap of straw, among some empty casks. He was scarcely hidden

there when he heard the chase sweep by, the detectives and the keepers

losing scent, passing the chalet and rushing in the direction of the

Paris ramparts. The noise of their heavy boots died away, and deep

silence fell, while the hunted man, who had carried both hands to his

heart to stay its beating, sank into the most complete prostration, with

big tears trickling from his closed eyes.

Whilst all this was going on, Pierre and Guillaume, after a brief rest,

had resumed their walk, reaching the lake and proceeding towards the

crossway of the Cascades, in order to return to Neuilly by the road

beyond the water. However, a shower fell, compelling them to take shelter

under the big leafless branches of a chestnut-tree. Then, as the rain

came down more heavily and they could perceive a kind of chalet, a little

café-restaurant amid a clump of trees, they hastened thither for better

protection. In a side road, which they passed on their way, they saw a

cab standing, its driver waiting there in philosophical fashion under the

falling shower. Pierre, moreover, noticed a young man stepping out

briskly in front of them, a young man resembling Gérard de Quinsac, who,

whilst walking in the Bois, had no doubt been overtaken by the rain, and

like themselves was seeking shelter in the chalet. However, on entering

the latter’s public room, the priest saw no sign of the gentleman, and

concluded that he must have been mistaken. This public room, which had a

kind of glazed verandah overlooking the Bois, contained a few chairs and

tables, the latter with marble tops. On the first floor there were four

or five private rooms reached by a narrow passage. Though the doors were

open the place had as yet scarcely emerged from its winter’s rest. There

was nobody about, and on all sides one found the dampness common to

establishments which, from lack of custom, are compelled to close from

November until March. In the rear were some stables, a coach-house, and

various mossy, picturesque outbuildings, which painters and gardeners

would now soon embellish for the gay pleasure parties which the fine

weather would bring.

“I really think that they haven’t opened for the season yet,” said

Guillaume as he entered the silent house.

“At all events they will let us stay here till the rain stops,” answered

Pierre, seating himself at one of the little tables.

However, a waiter suddenly made his appearance seemingly in a great

hurry. He had come down from the first floor, and eagerly rummaged a

cupboard for a few dry biscuits, which he laid upon a plate. At last he

condescended to serve the brothers two glasses of Chartreuse.

In one of the private rooms upstairs Baroness Duvillard, who had driven

to the chalet in a cab, had been awaiting her lover Gérard for nearly

half an hour. It was there that, during the charity bazaar, they had

given each other an appointment. For them the chalet had precious

memories: two years previously, on discovering that secluded nest, which

was so deserted in the early, hesitating days of chilly spring, they had

met there under circumstances which they could not forget. And the

Baroness, in choosing the house for the supreme assignation of their

dying passion, had certainly not been influenced merely by a fear that

she might be spied upon elsewhere. She had, indeed, thought of the first

kisses that had been showered on her there, and would fain have revived

them even if they should now prove the last that Gérard would bestow on

her.

But she would also have liked to see some sunlight playing over the

youthful foliage. The ashen sky and threatening rain saddened her. And

when she entered the private room she did not recognise it, so cold and

dim it seemed with its faded furniture. Winter had tarried there, with

all the dampness and mouldy smell peculiar to rooms which have long

remained closed. Then, too, some of the wall paper which had come away

from the plaster hung down in shreds, dead flies were scattered over the

parquetry flooring; and in order to open the shutters the waiter had to

engage in a perfect fight with their fastenings. However, when he had

lighted a little gas-stove, which at once flamed up and diffused some

warmth, the room became more cosy.

Eve had seated herself on a chair, without raising the thick veil which

hid her face. Gowned, gloved, and bonneted in black, as if she were

already in mourning for her last passion, she showed naught of her own

person save her superb fair hair, which glittered like a helm of tawny

gold. She had ordered tea for two, and when the waiter brought it with a

little plateful of dry biscuits, left, no doubt, from the previous

season, he found her in the same place, still veiled and motionless,

absorbed, it seemed, in a gloomy reverie. If she had reached the café

half an hour before the appointed time it was because she desired some

leisure and opportunity to overcome her despair and compose herself. She

resolved that of all things she would not weep, that she would remain

dignified and speak calmly, like one who, whatever rights she might

possess, preferred to appeal to reason only. And she was well pleased

with the courage that she found within her. Whilst thinking of what she

should say to dissuade Gérard from a marriage which to her mind would

prove both a calamity and a blunder, she fancied herself very calm,

indeed almost resigned to whatsoever might happen.

But all at once she started and began to tremble. Gérard was entering the

room.

“What! are you here the first, my dear?” he exclaimed. “I thought that I

myself was ten minutes before the time! And you’ve ordered some tea and

are waiting for me!”

He forced a smile as he spoke, striving to display the same delight at

seeing her as he had shown in the early golden days of their passion. But

at heart he was much embarrassed, and he shuddered at the thought of the

awful scene which he could foresee.

She had at last risen and raised her veil. And looking at him she

stammered: “Yes, I found myself at liberty earlier than I expected....

I feared some impediment might arise... and so I came.”

Then, seeing how handsome and how affectionate he still looked, she could

not restrain her passion. All her skilful arguments, all her fine

resolutions, were swept away. Her flesh irresistibly impelled her towards

him; she loved him, she would keep him, she would never surrender him to

another. And she wildly flung her arms around his neck.

“Oh! Gérard, Gérard! I suffer too cruelly; I cannot, I cannot bear it!

Tell me at once that you will not marry her, that you will never marry

her!”

Her voice died away in a sob, tears started from her eyes. Ah! those

tears which she had sworn she would never shed! They gushed forth without

cessation, they streamed from her lovely eyes like a flood of the

bitterest grief.

“My daughter, O God! What! you would marry my daughter! She, here, on

your neck where I am now! No, no, such torture is past endurance, it must

not be, I will not have it!”

He shivered as he heard that cry of frantic jealousy raised by a mother

who now was but a woman, maddened by the thought of her rival’s youth,

those five and twenty summers which she herself had left far behind. For

his part, on his way to the assignation, he had come to what he thought

the most sensible decision, resolving to break off the intercourse after

the fashion of a well-bred man, with all sorts of fine consolatory

speeches. But sternness was not in his nature. He was weak and

soft-hearted, and had never been able to withstand a woman’s tears.

Nevertheless, he endeavoured to calm her, and in order to rid himself of

her embrace, he made her sit down upon the sofa. And there, beside her,

he replied: “Come, be reasonable, my dear. We came here to have a

friendly chat, did we not? I assure you that you are greatly exaggerating

matters.”

But she was determined to obtain a more positive answer from him. “No,

no!” she retorted, “I am suffering too dreadfully, I must know the truth

at once. Swear to me that you will never, never marry her!”

He again endeavoured to avoid replying as she wished him to do. “Come,

come,” he said, “you will do yourself harm by giving way to such grief as

this; you know that I love you dearly.”

“Then swear to me that you will never, never marry her.”

“But I tell you that I love you, that you are the only one I love.”

Then she again threw her arms around him, and kissed him passionately

upon the eyes. “Is it true?” she asked in a transport. “You love me, you

love no one else? Oh! tell me so again, and kiss me, and promise me that

you will never belong to her.”

Weak as he was he could not resist her ardent caresses and pressing

entreaties. There came a moment of supreme cowardice and passion; her

arms were around him and he forgot all but her, again and again repeating

that he loved none other, and would never, never marry her daughter. At

last he even sank so low as to pretend that he simply regarded that poor,

infirm creature with pity. His words of compassionate disdain for her

rival were like nectar to Eve, for they filled her with the blissful idea

that it was she herself who would ever remain beautiful in his eyes and

whom he would ever love....

At last silence fell between them, like an inevitable reaction after such

a tempest of despair and passion. It disturbed Gérard. “Won’t you drink

some tea?” he asked. “It is almost cold already.”

She was not listening, however. To her the reaction had come in a

different form; and as though the inevitable explanation were only now

commencing, she began to speak in a sad and weary voice. “My dear Gérard,

you really cannot marry my daughter. In the first place it would be so

wrong, and then there is the question of your name, your position.

Forgive my frankness, but the fact is that everybody would say that you

had sold yourself--such a marriage would be a scandal for both your

family and mine.”

As she spoke she took hold of his hands, like a mother seeking to prevent

her big son from committing some terrible blunder. And he listened to

her, with bowed head and averted eyes. She now evinced no anger, no

jealous rage; all such feelings seemed to have departed with the rapture

of her passion.

“Just think of what people would say,” she continued. “I don’t deceive

myself, I am fully aware that there is an abyss between your circle of

society and ours. It is all very well for us to be rich, but money simply

enlarges the gap. And it was all very fine for me to be converted, my

daughter is none the less ‘the daughter of the Jewess,’ as folks so often

say. Ah! my Gérard, I am so proud of you, that it would rend my heart to

see you lowered, degraded almost, by a marriage for money with a girl who

is deformed, who is unworthy of you and whom you could never love.”

He raised his eyes and looked at her entreatingly, anxious as he was to

be spared such painful talk. “But haven’t I sworn to you, that you are

the only one I love?” he said. “Haven’t I sworn that I would never marry

her! It’s all over. Don’t let us torture ourselves any longer.”

Their glances met and lingered on one another, instinct with all the

misery which they dared not express in words. Eve’s face had suddenly

aged; her eyelids were red and swollen, and blotches marbled her

quivering cheeks, down which her tears again began to trickle. “My poor,

poor Gérard,” said she, “how heavily I weigh on you. Oh! do not deny it!

I feel that I am an intolerable burden on your shoulders, an impediment

in your life, and that I shall bring irreparable disaster on you by my

obstinacy in wishing you to be mine alone.”

He tried to speak, but she silenced him. “No, no, all is over between us.

I am growing ugly, all is ended. And besides, I shut off the future from

you. I can be of no help to you, whereas you bestow all on me. And yet

the time has come for you to assure yourself a position. At your age you

can’t continue living without any certainty of the morrow, without a home

and hearth of your own; and it would be cowardly and cruel of me to set

myself up as an obstacle, and prevent you from ending your life happily,

as I should do if I clung to you and dragged you down with me.”

Gazing at him through her tears she continued speaking in this fashion.

Like his mother she was well aware that he was weak and even sickly; and

she therefore dreamt of arranging a quiet life for him, a life of

tranquil happiness free from all fear of want. She loved him so fondly;

and possessed so much genuine kindness of heart that perhaps it might be

possible for her to rise even to renunciation and sacrifice. Moreover,

the very egotism born of her beauty suggested that it might be well for

her to think of retirement and not allow the autumn of her life to be

spoilt by torturing dramas. All this she said to him, treating him like a

child whose happiness she wished to ensure even at the price of her own;

and he, his eyes again lowered, listened without further protest, pleased

indeed to let her arrange a happy life for him.

Examining the situation from every aspect, she at last began to

recapitulate the points in favour of that abominable marriage, the

thought of which had so intensely distressed her. “It is certain,” she

said, “that Camille would bring you all that I should like you to have.

With her, I need hardly say it, would come plenty, affluence. And as for

the rest, well, I do not wish to excuse myself or you, but I could name

twenty households in which there have been worse things. Besides, I was

wrong when I said that money opened a gap between people. On the

contrary, it draws them nearer together, it secures forgiveness for every

fault; so nobody would dare to blame you, there would only be jealous

ones around you, dazzled by your good fortune.”

Gérard rose, apparently rebelling once more. “Surely,” said he, “_you_

don’t insist on my marrying your daughter?”

“Ah! no indeed! But I am sensible, and I tell you what I ought to tell

you. You must think it all over.”

“I have done so already. It is you that I have loved, and that I love

still. What you say is impossible.”

She smiled divinely, rose, and again embraced him. “How good and kind you

are, my Gérard. Ah! if you only knew how I love you, how I shall always

love you, whatever happens.”

Then she again began to weep, and even he shed tears. Their good faith

was absolute; tender of heart as they were, they sought to delay the

painful wrenching and tried to hope for further happiness. But they were

conscious that the marriage was virtually an accomplished fact. Only

tears and words were left them, while life and destiny were marching on.

And if their emotion was so acute it was probably because they felt that

this was the last time they would meet as lovers. Still they strove to

retain the illusion that they were not exchanging their last farewell,

that their lips would some day meet again in a kiss of rapture.

Eve removed her arms from the young man’s neck, and they both gazed round

the room, at the sofa, the table, the four chairs, and the little hissing

gas-stove. The moist, hot atmosphere was becoming quite oppressive.

“And so,” said Gérard, “you won’t drink a cup of tea?”

“No, it’s so horrid here,” she answered, while arranging her hair in

front of the looking-glass.

At that parting moment the mournfulness of this place, where she had

hoped to find such delightful memories, filled her with distress, which

was turning to positive anguish, when she suddenly heard an uproar of

gruff voices and heavy feet. People were hastening along the passage and

knocking at the doors. And, on darting to the window, she perceived a

number of policemen surrounding the chalet. At this the wildest ideas

assailed her. Had her daughter employed somebody to follow her? Did her

husband wish to divorce her so as to marry Silviane? The scandal would be

awful, and all her plans must crumble! She waited in dismay, white like a

ghost; while Gérard, also paling and quivering, begged her to be calm. At

last, when loud blows were dealt upon the door and a Commissary of Police

enjoined them to open it, they were obliged to do so. Ah! what a moment,

and what dismay and shame!

Meantime, for more than an hour, Pierre and Guillaume had been waiting

for the rain to cease. Seated in a corner of the glazed verandah they

talked in undertones of Barthès’ painful affair, and ultimately decided

to ask Théophile Morin to dine with them on the following evening, and

inform his old friend that he must again go into exile.

“That is the best course,” repeated Guillaume. “Morin is very fond of him

and will know how to break the news. I have no doubt too that he will go

with him as far as the frontier.”

Pierre sadly looked at the falling rain. “Ah! what a choice,” said he,

“to be ever driven to a foreign land under penalty of being thrust into

prison. Poor fellow! how awful it is to have never known a moment of

happiness and gaiety in one’s life, to have devoted one’s whole existence

to the idea of liberty, and to see it scoffed at and expire with

oneself!”

Then the priest paused, for he saw several policemen and keepers approach

the café and prowl round it. Having lost scent of the man they were

hunting, they had retraced their steps with the conviction no doubt that

he had sought refuge in the chalet. And in order that he might not again

escape them, they now took every precaution, exerted all their skill in

surrounding the place before venturing on a minute search. Covert fear

came upon Pierre and Guillaume when they noticed these proceedings. It

seemed to them that it must all be connected with the chase which they

had caught a glimpse of some time previously. Still, as they happened to

be in the chalet they might be called upon to give their names and

addresses. At this thought they glanced at one another, and almost made

up their minds to go off under the rain. But they realised that anything

like flight might only compromise them the more. So they waited; and all

at once there came a diversion, for two fresh customers entered the

establishment.

A victoria with its hood and apron raised had just drawn up outside the

door. The first to alight from it was a young, well-dressed man with a

bored expression of face. He was followed by a young woman who was

laughing merrily, as if much amused by the persistence of the downpour.

By way of jesting, indeed, she expressed her regret that she had not come

to the Bois on her bicycle, whereupon her companion retorted that to

drive about in a deluge appeared to him the height of idiocy.

“But we were bound to go somewhere, my dear fellow,” she gaily answered.

“Why didn’t you take me to see the maskers?”

“The maskers, indeed! No, no, my dear. I prefer the Bois, and even the

bottom of the lake, to them.”

Then, as the couple entered the chalet, Pierre saw that the young woman

who made merry over the rain was little Princess Rosemonde, while her

companion, who regarded the mid-Lent festivities as horrible, and

bicycling as an utterly unaesthetic amusement, was handsome Hyacinthe

Duvillard. On the previous evening, while they were taking a cup of tea

together on their return from the Chamber of Horrors, the young man had

responded to the Princess’s blandishments by declaring that the only form

of attachment he believed in was a mystic union of intellects and souls.

And as such a union could only be fittingly arrived at amidst the cold,

chaste snow, they had decided that they would start for Christiania on

the following Monday. Their chief regret was that by the time they

reached the fiords the worst part of the northern winter would be over.

They sat down in the café and ordered some kummel, but there was none,

said the waiter, so they had to content themselves with common anisette.

Then Hyacinthe, who had been a schoolfellow of Guillaume’s sons,

recognised both him and Pierre; and leaning towards Rosemonde told her in

a whisper who the elder brother was.

Thereupon, with sudden enthusiasm, she sprang to her feet: “Guillaume

Froment, indeed! the great chemist!” And stepping forward with arm

outstretched, she continued: “Ah! monsieur, you must excuse me, but I

really must shake hands with you. I have so much admiration for you! You

have done such wonderful work in connection with explosives!” Then,

noticing the chemist’s astonishment, she again burst into a laugh: “I am

the Princess de Harn, your brother Abbé Froment knows me, and I ought to

have asked him to introduce me. However, we have mutual friends, you and

I; for instance, Monsieur Janzen, a very distinguished man, as you are

aware. He was to have taken me to see you, for I am a modest disciple of

yours. Yes, I have given some attention to chemistry, oh! from pure zeal

for truth and in the hope of helping good causes, not otherwise. So you

will let me call on you--won’t you?--directly I come back from

Christiania, where I am going with my young friend here, just to acquire

some experience of unknown emotions.”

In this way she rattled on, never allowing the others an opportunity to

say a word. And she mingled one thing with another; her cosmopolitan

tastes, which had thrown her into Anarchism and the society of shady

adventurers; her new passion for mysticism and symbolism; her belief that

the ideal must triumph over base materialism; her taste for aesthetic

verse; and her dream of some unimagined rapture when Hyacinthe should

kiss her with his frigid lips in a realm of eternal snow.

All at once, however, she stopped short and again began to laugh. “Dear

me!” she exclaimed. “What are those policemen looking for here? Have they

come to arrest us? How amusing it would be!”

Police Commissary Dupot and detective Mondésir had just made up their

minds to search the café, as their men had hitherto failed to find Salvat

in any of the outbuildings. They were convinced that he was here. Dupot,

a thin, bald, short-sighted, spectacled little man, wore his usual

expression of boredom and weariness; but in reality he was very wide

awake and extremely courageous. He himself carried no weapons; but, as he

anticipated a most violent resistance, such as might be expected from a

trapped wolf, he advised Mondésir to have his revolver ready. From

considerations of hierarchical respect, however, the detective, who with

his snub nose and massive figure had much the appearance of a bull-dog,

was obliged to let his superior enter first.

From behind his spectacles the Commissary of Police quickly scrutinized

the four customers whom he found in the café: the lady, the priest, and

the two other men. And passing them in a disdainful way, he at once made

for the stairs, intending to inspect the upper floor. Thereupon the

waiter, frightened by the sudden intrusion of the police, lost his head

and stammered: “But there’s a lady and gentleman upstairs in one of the

private rooms.”

Dupot quietly pushed him aside. “A lady and gentleman, that’s not what we

are looking for.... Come, make haste, open all the doors, you mustn’t

leave a cupboard closed.”

Then climbing to the upper floor, he and Mondésir explored in turn every

apartment and corner till they at last reached the room where Eve and

Gérard were together. Here the waiter was unable to admit them, as the

door was bolted inside. “Open the door!” he called through the keyhole,

“it isn’t you that they want!”

At last the bolt was drawn back, and Dupot, without even venturing to

smile, allowed the trembling lady and gentleman to go downstairs, while

Mondésir, entering the room, looked under every article of furniture, and

even peeped into a little cupboard in order that no neglect might be

imputed to him.

Meantime, in the public room which they had to cross after descending the

stairs, Eve and Gérard experienced fresh emotion; for people whom they

knew were there, brought together by an extraordinary freak of chance.

Although Eve’s face was hidden by a thick veil, her eyes met her son’s

glance and she felt sure that he recognised her. What a fatality! He had

so long a tongue and told his sister everything! Then, as the Count, in

despair at such a scandal, hurried off with the Baroness to conduct her

through the pouring rain to her cab, they both distinctly heard little

Princess Rosemonde exclaim: “Why, that was Count de Quinsac! Who was the

lady, do you know?” And as Hyacinthe, greatly put out, returned no

answer, she insisted, saying: “Come, you must surely know her. Who was

she, eh?”

“Oh! nobody. Some woman or other,” he ended by replying.

Pierre, who had understood the truth, turned his eyes away to hide his

embarrassment. But all at once the scene changed. At the very moment when

Commissary Dupot and detective Mondésir came downstairs again, after

vainly exploring the upper floor, a loud shout was raised outside,

followed by a noise of running and scrambling. Then Gascogne, the Chief

of the Detective Force, who had remained in the rear of the chalet,

continuing the search through the outbuildings, made his appearance,

pushing before him a bundle of rags and mud, which two policemen held on

either side. And this bundle was the man, the hunted man, who had just

been discovered in the coach-house, inside a staved cask, covered with

hay.

Ah! what a whoop of victory there was after that run of two hours’

duration, that frantic chase which had left them all breathless and

footsore! It had been the most exciting, the most savage of all sports--a

man hunt! They had caught the man at last, and they pushed him, they

dragged him, they belaboured him with blows. And he, the man, what a

sorry prey he looked! A wreck, wan and dirty from having spent the night

in a hole full of leaves, still soaked to his waist from having rushed

through a stream, drenched too by the rain, bespattered with mire, his

coat and trousers in tatters, his cap a mere shred, his legs and hands

bleeding from his terrible rush through thickets bristling with brambles

and nettles. There no longer seemed anything human about his face; his

hair stuck to his moist temples, his bloodshot eyes protruded from their

sockets; fright, rage, and suffering were all blended on his wasted,

contracted face. Still it was he, the man, the quarry, and they gave him

another push, and he sank on one of the tables of the little café, still

held and shaken, however, by the rough hands of the policemen.

Then Guillaume shuddered as if thunderstruck, and caught hold of Pierre’s

hand. At this the priest, who was looking on, suddenly understood the

truth and also quivered. Salvat! the man was Salvat! It was Salvat whom

they had seen rushing through the wood like a wild boar forced by the

hounds. And it was Salvat who was there, now conquered and simply a

filthy bundle. Then once more there came to Pierre, amidst his anguish, a

vision of the errand girl lying yonder at the entrance of the Duvillard

mansion, the pretty fair-haired girl whom the bomb had ripped and killed!

Dupot and Mondésir made haste to participate in Gascogne’s triumph. To

tell the truth, however, the man had offered no resistance; it was like a

lamb that he had let the police lay hold of him. And since he had been in

the café, still roughly handled, he had simply cast a weary and mournful

glance around him.

At last he spoke, and the first words uttered by his hoarse, gasping

voice were these: “I am hungry.”

He was sinking with hunger and weariness. This was the third day that he

had eaten nothing.

“Give him some bread,” said Commissary Dupot to the waiter. “He can eat

it while a cab is being fetched.”

A policeman went off to find a vehicle. The rain had suddenly ceased

falling, the clear ring of a bicyclist’s bell was heard in the distance,

some carriages drove by, and under the pale sunrays life again came back

to the Bois.

Meantime, Salvat had fallen gluttonously upon the hunk of bread which had

been given him, and whilst he was devouring it with rapturous animal

satisfaction, he perceived the four customers seated around. He seemed

irritated by the sight of Hyacinthe and Rosemonde, whose faces expressed

the mingled anxiety and delight they felt at thus witnessing the arrest

of some bandit or other. But all at once his mournful, bloodshot eyes

wavered, for to his intense surprise he had recognised Pierre and

Guillaume. When he again looked at the latter it was with the submissive

affection of a grateful dog, and as if he were once more promising that

he would divulge nothing, whatever might happen.

At last he again spoke, as if addressing himself like a man of courage,

both to Guillaume, from whom he had averted his eyes, and to others also,

his comrades who were not there: “It was silly of me to run,” said he. “I

don’t know why I did so. It’s best that it should be all ended. I’m

ready.”

V. THE GAME OF POLITICS

ON reading the newspapers on the following morning Pierre and Guillaume

were greatly surprised at not finding in them the sensational accounts of

Salvat’s arrest which they had expected. All they could discover was a

brief paragraph in a column of general news, setting forth that some

policemen on duty in the Bois de Boulogne had there arrested an

Anarchist, who was believed to have played a part in certain recent

occurrences. On the other hand, the papers gave a deal of space to the

questions raised by Sagnier’s fresh denunciations. There were innumerable

articles on the African Railways scandal, and the great debate which

might be expected at the Chamber of Deputies, should Mège, the Socialist

member, really renew his interpellation, as he had announced his

intention of doing.

As Guillaume’s wrist was now fast healing, and nothing seemed to threaten

him, he had already, on the previous evening, decided that he would

return to Montmartre. The police had passed him by without apparently

suspecting any responsibility on his part; and he was convinced that

Salvat would keep silent. Pierre, however, begged him to wait a little

longer, at any rate until the prisoner should have been interrogated by

the investigating magistrate, by which time they would be able to judge

the situation more clearly. Pierre, moreover, during his long stay at the

Home Department on the previous morning, had caught a glimpse of certain

things and overheard certain words which made him suspect some dim

connection between Salvat’s crime and the parliamentary crisis; and he

therefore desired a settlement of the latter before Guillaume returned to

his wonted life.

“Just listen,” he said to his brother. “I am going to Morin’s to ask him

to come and dine here this evening, for it is absolutely necessary that

Barthès should be warned of the fresh blow which is falling on him. And

then I think I shall go to the Chamber, as I want to know what takes

place there. After that, since you desire it, I will let you go back to

your own home.”

It was not more than half-past one when Pierre reached the

Palais-Bourbon. It had occurred to him that Fonsègue would be able to

secure him admittance to the meeting-hall, but in the vestibule he met

General de Bozonnet, who happened to possess a couple of tickets. A

friend of his, who was to have accompanied him, had, at the last moment,

been unable to come. So widespread was the curiosity concerning the

debate now near at hand, and so general were the predictions that it

would prove a most exciting one, that the demand for tickets had been

extremely keen during the last twenty-four hours. In fact Pierre would

never have been able to obtain admittance if the General had not

good-naturedly offered to take him in. As a matter of fact the old

warrior was well pleased to have somebody to chat with. He explained that

he had simply come there to kill time, just as he might have killed it at

a concert or a charity bazaar. However, like the ex-Legitimist and

Bonapartist that he was, he had really come for the pleasure of feasting

his eyes on the shameful spectacle of parliamentary ignominy.

When the General and Pierre had climbed the stairs, they were able to

secure two front seats in one of the public galleries. Little Massot, who

was already there, and who knew them both, placed one of them on his

right and the other on his left. “I couldn’t find a decent seat left in

the press gallery,” said he, “but I managed to get this place, from which

I shall be able to see things properly. It will certainly be a big

sitting. Just look at the number of people there are on every side!”

The narrow and badly arranged galleries were packed to overflowing. There

were men of every age and a great many women too in the confused, serried

mass of spectators, amidst which one only distinguished a multiplicity of

pale white faces. The real scene, however, was down below in the

meeting-hall, which was as yet empty, and with its rows of seats disposed

in semi-circular fashion looked like the auditorium of a theatre. Under

the cold light which fell from the glazed roofing appeared the solemn,

shiny tribune, whence members address the Chamber, whilst behind it, on a

higher level, and running right along the rear wall, was what is called

the Bureau, with its various tables and seats, including the presidential

armchair. The Bureau, like the tribune, was still unoccupied. The only

persons one saw there were a couple of attendants who were laying out new

pens and filling inkstands.

“The women,” said Massot with a laugh, after another glance at the

galleries, “come here just as they might come to a menagerie, that is, in

the secret hope of seeing wild beasts devour one another. But, by the

way, did you read the article in the ‘Voix du Peuple’ this morning? What

a wonderful fellow that Sagnier is. When nobody else can find any filth

left, he manages to discover some. He apparently thinks it necessary to

add something new every day, in order to send his sales up. And of course

it all disturbs the public, and it’s thanks to him that so many people

have come here in the hope of witnessing some horrid scene.”

Then he laughed again, as he asked Pierre if he had read an unsigned

article in the “Globe,” which in very dignified but perfidious language

had called upon Barroux to give the full and frank explanations which the

country had a right to demand in that matter of the African Railways.

This paper had hitherto vigorously supported the President of the

Council, but in the article in question the coldness which precedes a

rupture was very apparent. Pierre replied that the article had much

surprised him, for he had imagined that Fonsègue and Barroux were linked

together by identity of views and long-standing personal friendship.

Massot was still laughing. “Quite so,” said he. “And you may be sure that

the governor’s heart bled when he wrote that article. It has been much

noticed, and it will do the government a deal of harm. But the governor,

you see, knows better than anybody else what line he ought to follow to

save both his own position and the paper’s.”

Then he related what extraordinary confusion and emotion reigned among

the deputies in the lobbies through which he had strolled before coming

upstairs to secure a seat. After an adjournment of a couple of days the

Chamber found itself confronted by this terrible scandal, which was like

one of those conflagrations which, at the moment when they are supposed

to be dying out, suddenly flare up again and devour everything. The

various figures given in Sagnier’s list, the two hundred thousand francs

paid to Barroux, the eighty thousand handed to Monferrand, the fifty

thousand allotted to Fonsègue, the ten thousand pocketed by Duthil, and

the three thousand secured by Chaigneux, with all the other amounts

distributed among So-and-so and So-and-so, formed the general subject of

conversation. And at the same time some most extraordinary stories were

current; there was no end of tittle-tattle in which fact and falsehood

were so inextricably mingled that everybody was at sea as to the real

truth. Whilst many deputies turned pale and trembled as beneath a blast

of terror, others passed by purple with excitement, bursting with

delight, laughing with exultation at the thought of coming victory. For,

in point of fact, beneath all the assumed indignation, all the calls for

parliamentary cleanliness and morality, there simply lay a question of

persons--the question of ascertaining whether the government would be

overthrown, and in that event of whom the new administration would

consist. Barroux no doubt appeared to be in a bad way; but with things in

such a muddle one was bound to allow a margin for the unexpected. From

what was generally said it seemed certain that Mège would be extremely

violent. Barroux would answer him, and the Minister’s friends declared

that he was determined to speak out in the most decisive manner. As for

Monferrand he would probably address the Chamber after his colleague, but

Vignon’s intentions were somewhat doubtful, as, in spite of his delight,

he made a pretence of remaining in the background. He had been seen

going from one to another of his partisans, advising them to keep calm,

in order that they might retain the cold, keen _coup d’œil_ which in

warfare generally decides the victory. Briefly, such was the plotting and

intriguing that never had any witch’s cauldron brimful of drugs and

nameless abominations been set to boil on a more hellish fire than that

of this parliamentary cook-shop.

“Heaven only knows what they will end by serving us,” said little Massot

by way of conclusion.

General de Bozonnet for his part anticipated nothing but disaster. If

France had only possessed an army, said he, one might have swept away

that handful of bribe-taking parliamentarians who preyed upon the country

and rotted it. But there was no army left, there was merely an armed

nation, a very different thing. And thereupon, like a man of a past age

whom the present times distracted, he started on what had been his

favourite subject of complaint ever since he had been retired from the

service.

“Here’s an idea for an article if you want one,” he said to Massot.

“Although France may have a million soldiers she hasn’t got an army. I’ll

give you some notes of mine, and you will be able to tell people the

truth.”

Warfare, he continued, ought to be purely and simply a caste occupation,

with commanders designated by divine right, leading mercenaries or

volunteers into action. By democratising warfare people had simply killed

it; a circumstance which he deeply regretted, like a born soldier who

regarded fighting as the only really noble occupation that life offered.

For, as soon as it became every man’s duty to fight, none was willing to

do so; and thus compulsory military service--what was called “the nation

in arms”--would, at a more or less distant date, certainly bring about

the end of warfare. If France had not engaged in a European war since

1870 this was precisely due to the fact that everybody in France was

ready to fight. But rulers hesitated to throw a whole nation against

another nation, for the loss both in life and treasure would be

tremendous. And so the thought that all Europe was transformed into a

vast camp filled the General with anger and disgust. He sighed for the

old times when men fought for the pleasure of the thing, just as they

hunted; whereas nowadays people were convinced that they would

exterminate one another at the very first engagement.

“But surely it wouldn’t be an evil if war should disappear,” Pierre

gently remarked.

This somewhat angered the General. “Well, you’ll have pretty nations if

people no longer fight,” he answered, and then trying to show a practical

spirit, he added: “Never has the art of war cost more money than since

war itself has become an impossibility. The present-day defensive peace

is purely and simply ruining every country in Europe. One may be spared

defeat, but utter bankruptcy is certainly at the end of it all. And in

any case the profession of arms is done for. All faith in it is dying

out, and it will soon be forsaken, just as men have begun to forsake the

priesthood.”

Thereupon he made a gesture of mingled grief and anger, almost cursing

that parliament, that Republican legislature before him, as if he

considered it responsible for the future extinction of warfare. But

little Massot was wagging his head dubiously, for he regarded the subject

as rather too serious a one for him to write upon. And, all at once, in

order to turn the conversation into another channel, he exclaimed: “Ah!

there’s Monseigneur Martha in the diplomatic gallery beside the Spanish

Ambassador. It’s denied, you know, that he intends to come forward as a

candidate in Morbihan. He’s far too shrewd to wish to be a deputy. He

already pulls the strings which set most of the Catholic deputies who

have ‘rallied’ to the Republican Government in motion.”

Pierre himself had just noticed Monseigneur Martha’s smiling face. And,

somehow or other, however modest might be the prelate’s demeanour, it

seemed to him that he really played an important part in what was going

on. He could hardly take his eyes from him. It was as if he expected that

he would suddenly order men hither and thither, and direct the whole

march of events.

“Ah!” said Massot again. “Here comes Mège. It won’t be long now before

the sitting begins.”

The hall, down below, was gradually filling. Deputies entered and

descended the narrow passages between the benches. Most of them remained

standing and chatting in a more or less excited way; but some seated

themselves and raised their grey, weary faces to the glazed roof. It was

a cloudy afternoon, and rain was doubtless threatening, for the light

became quite livid. If the hall was pompous it was also dismal with its

heavy columns, its cold allegorical statues, and its stretches of bare

marble and woodwork. The only brightness was that of the red velvet of

the benches and the gallery hand-rests.

Every deputy of any consequence who entered was named by Massot to his

companions. Mège, on being stopped by another member of the little

Socialist group, began to fume and gesticulate. Then Vignon, detaching

himself from a group of friends and putting on an air of smiling

composure, descended the steps towards his seat. The occupants of the

galleries, however, gave most attention to the accused members, those

whose names figured in Sagnier’s list. And these were interesting

studies. Some showed themselves quite sprightly, as if they were entirely

at their ease; but others had assumed a most grave and indignant

demeanour. Chaigneux staggered and hesitated as if beneath the weight of

some frightful act of injustice; whereas Duthil looked perfectly serene

save for an occasional twitch of his lips. The most admired, however, was

Fonsègue, who showed so candid a face, so open a glance, that his

colleagues as well as the spectators might well have declared him

innocent. Nobody indeed could have looked more like an honest man.

“Ah! there’s none like the governor,” muttered Massot with enthusiasm.

“But be attentive, for here come the ministers. One mustn’t miss Barroux’

meeting with Fonsègue, after this morning’s article.”

Chance willed it that as Barroux came along with his head erect, his face

pale, and his whole demeanour aggressive, he was obliged to pass Fonsègue

in order to reach the ministerial bench. In doing so he did not speak to

him, but he gazed at him fixedly like one who is conscious of defection,

of a cowardly stab in the back on the part of a traitor. Fonsègue seemed

quite at ease, and went on shaking hands with one and another of his

colleagues as if he were altogether unconscious of Barroux’ glance. Nor

did he even appear to see Monferrand, who walked by in the rear of the

Prime Minister, wearing a placid good-natured air, as if he knew nothing

of what was impending, but was simply coming to some ordinary humdrum

sitting. However, when he reached his seat, he raised his eyes and smiled

at Monseigneur Martha, who gently nodded to him. Then well pleased to

think that things were going as he wished them to go, he began to rub his

hands, as he often did by way of expressing his satisfaction.

“Who is that grey-haired, mournful-looking gentleman on the ministerial

bench?” Pierre inquired of Massot.

“Why, that’s Taboureau, the Minister of Public Instruction, the excellent

gentleman who is said to have no prestige. One’s always hearing of him,

and one never recognises him; he looks like an old, badly worn coin. Just

like Barroux he can’t feel very well pleased with the governor this

afternoon, for to-day’s ‘Globe’ contained an article pointing out his

thorough incapacity in everything concerning the fine arts. It was an

article in measured language, but all the more effective for that very

reason. It would surprise me if Taboureau should recover from it.”

Just then a low roll of drums announced the arrival of the President and

other officials of the Chamber. A door opened, and a little procession

passed by amidst an uproar of exclamations and hasty footsteps. Then,

standing at his table, the President rang his bell and declared the

sitting open. But few members remained silent, however, whilst one of the

secretaries, a dark, lanky young man with a harsh voice, read the minutes

of the previous sitting. When they had been adopted, various letters of

apology for non-attendance were read, and a short, unimportant bill was

passed without discussion. And then came the big affair, Mège’s

interpellation, and at once the whole Chamber was in a flutter, while the

most passionate curiosity reigned in the galleries above. On the

Government consenting to the interpellation, the Chamber decided that the

debate should take place at once. And thereupon complete silence fell,

save that now and again a brief quiver sped by, in which one could detect

the various feelings, passions and appetites swaying the assembly.

Mège began to speak with assumed moderation, carefully setting forth the

various points at issue. Tall and thin, gnarled and twisted like a

vine-stock, he rested his hands on the tribune as if to support his bent

figure, and his speech was often interrupted by the little dry cough

which came from the tuberculosis that was burning him. But his eyes

sparkled with passion behind his glasses, and little by little his voice

rose in piercing accents and he drew his lank figure erect and began to

gesticulate vehemently. He reminded the Chamber that some two months

previously, at the time of the first denunciations published by the “Voix

du Peuple,” he had asked leave to interpellate the Government respecting

that deplorable affair of the African Railways; and he remarked, truly

enough, that if the Chamber had not yielded to certain considerations

which he did not wish to discuss, and had not adjourned his proposed

inquiries, full light would long since have been thrown on the whole

affair, in such wise that there would have been no revival, no increase

of the scandal, and no possible pretext for that abominable campaign of

denunciation which tortured and disgusted the country. However, it had at

last been understood that silence could be maintained no longer. It was

necessary that the two ministers who were so loudly accused of having

abused their trusts, should prove their innocence, throw full light upon

all they had done; apart from which the Chamber itself could not possibly

remain beneath the charge of wholesale venality.

Then he recounted the whole history of the affair, beginning with the

grant of a concession for the African Lines to Baron Duvillard; and next

passing to the proposals for the issue of lottery stock, which proposals,

it was now said, had only been sanctioned by the Chamber after the most

shameful bargaining and buying of votes. At this point Mège became

extremely violent. Speaking of that mysterious individual Hunter, Baron

Duvillard’s recruiter and go-between, he declared that the police had

allowed him to flee from France, much preferring to spend its time in

shadowing Socialist deputies. Then, hammering the tribune with his fist,

he summoned Barroux to give a categorical denial to the charges brought

against him, and to make it absolutely clear that he had never received a

single copper of the two hundred thousand francs specified in Hunter’s

list. Forthwith certain members shouted to Mège that he ought to read the

whole list; but when he wished to do so others vociferated that it was

abominable, that such a mendacious and slanderous document ought not to

be accorded a place in the proceedings of the French legislature. Mège

went on still in frantic fashion, figuratively casting Sagnier into the

gutter, and protesting that there was nothing in common between himself

and such a base insulter. But at the same time he demanded that justice

and punishment should be meted out equally to one and all, and that if

indeed there were any bribe-takers among his colleagues, they should be

sent that very night to the prison of Mazas.

Meantime the President, erect at his table, rang and rang his bell

without managing to quell the uproar. He was like a pilot who finds the

tempest too strong for him. Among all the men with purple faces and

barking mouths who were gathered in front of him, the ushers alone

maintained imperturbable gravity. At intervals between the bursts of

shouting, Mège’s voice could still be heard. By some sudden transition he

had come to the question of a Collectivist organisation of society such

as he dreamt of, and he contrasted it with the criminal capitalist

society of the present day, which alone, said he, could produce such

scandals. And yielding more and more to his apostolic fervour, declaring

that there could be no salvation apart from Collectivism, he shouted that

the day of triumph would soon dawn. He awaited it with a smile of

confidence. In his opinion, indeed, he merely had to overthrow that

ministry and perhaps another one, and then he himself would at last take

the reins of power in hand, like a reformer who would know how to pacify

the nation. As outside Socialists often declared, it was evident that the

blood of a dictator flowed in that sectarian’s veins. His feverish,

stubborn rhetoric ended by exhausting his interrupters, who were

compelled to listen to him. When he at last decided to leave the tribune,

loud applause arose from a few benches on the left.

“Do you know,” said Massot to the General, “I met Mège taking a walk with

his three little children in the Jardin des Plantes the other day. He

looked after them as carefully as an old nurse. I believe he’s a very

worthy fellow at heart, and lives in a very modest way.”

But a quiver had now sped through the assembly. Barroux had quitted his

seat to ascend the tribune. He there drew himself erect, throwing his

head back after his usual fashion. There was a haughty, majestic,

slightly sorrowful expression on his handsome face, which would have been

perfect had his nose only been a little larger. He began to express his

sorrow and indignation in fine flowery language, which he punctuated with

theatrical gestures. His eloquence was that of a tribune of the romantic

school, and as one listened to him one could divine that in spite of all

his pomposity he was really a worthy, tender-hearted and somewhat foolish

man. That afternoon he was stirred by genuine emotion; his heart bled at

the thought of his disastrous destiny, he felt that a whole world was

crumbling with himself. Ah! what a cry of despair he stifled, the cry of

the man who is buffeted and thrown aside by the course of events on the

very day when he thinks that his civic devotion entitles him to triumph!

To have given himself and all he possessed to the cause of the Republic,

even in the dark days of the Second Empire; to have fought and struggled

and suffered persecution for that Republic’s sake; to have established

that Republic amidst the battle of parties, after all the horrors of

national and civil war; and then, when the Republic at last triumphed and

became a living fact, secure from all attacks and intrigues, to suddenly

feel like a survival of some other age, to hear new comers speak a new

language, preach a new ideal, and behold the collapse of all he had

loved, all he had reverenced, all that had given him strength to fight

and conquer! The mighty artisans of the early hours were no more; it had

been meet that Gambetta should die. How bitter it all was for the last

lingering old ones to find themselves among the men of the new,

intelligent and shrewd generation, who gently smiled at them, deeming

their romanticism quite out of fashion! All crumbled since the ideal of

liberty collapsed, since liberty was no longer the one desideratum, the

very basis of the Republic whose existence had been so dearly purchased

after so long an effort!

Erect and dignified Barroux made his confession. The Republic to him was

like the sacred ark of life; the very worst deeds became saintly if they

were employed to save her from peril. And in all simplicity he, told his

story, how he had found the great bulk of Baron Duvillard’s money going

to the opposition newspapers as pretended payment for puffery and

advertising, whilst on the other hand the Republican organs received but

beggarly, trumpery amounts. He had been Minister of the Interior at the

time, and had therefore had charge of the press; so what would have been

said of him if he had not endeavoured to reestablish some equilibrium in

this distribution of funds in order that the adversaries of the

institutions of the country might not acquire a great increase of

strength by appropriating all the sinews of war? Hands had been stretched

out towards him on all sides, a score of newspapers, the most faithful,

the most meritorious, had claimed their legitimate share. And he had

ensured them that share by distributing among them the two hundred

thousand francs set down in the list against his name. Not a centime of

the money had gone into his own pocket, he would allow nobody to impugn

his personal honesty, on that point his word must suffice. At that moment

Barroux was really grand. All his emphatic pomposity disappeared; he

showed himself, as he really was--an honest man, quivering, his heart

bared, his conscience bleeding, in his bitter distress at having been

among those who had laboured and at now being denied reward.

For, truth to tell, his words fell amidst icy silence. In his childish

simplicity he had anticipated an outburst of enthusiasm; a Republican

Chamber could but acclaim him for having saved the Republic; and now the

frigidity of one and all quite froze him. He suddenly felt that he was

all alone, done for, touched by the hand of death. Nevertheless, he

continued speaking amidst that terrible silence with the courage of one

who is committing suicide, and who, from his love of noble and eloquent

attitudes, is determined to die standing. He ended with a final

impressive gesture. However, as he came down from the tribune, the

general coldness seemed to increase, not a single member applauded. With

supreme clumsiness he had alluded to the secret scheming of Rome and the

clergy, whose one object, in his opinion, was to recover the predominant

position they had lost and restore monarchy in France at a more or less

distant date.

“How silly of him! Ought a man ever to confess?” muttered Massot. “He’s

done for, and the ministry too!”

Then, amidst the general frigidity, Monferrand boldly ascended the

tribune stairs. The prevailing uneasiness was compounded of all the

secret fear which sincerity always causes, of all the distress of the

bribe-taking deputies who felt that they were rolling into an abyss, and

also of the embarrassment which the others felt at thought of the more or

less justifiable compromises of politics. Something like relief,

therefore, came when Monferrand started with the most emphatic denials,

protesting in the name of his outraged honour, and dealing blow after

blow on the tribune with one hand, while with the other he smote his

chest. Short and thick-set, with his face thrust forward, hiding his

shrewdness beneath an expression of indignant frankness, he was for a

moment really superb. He denied everything. He was not only ignorant of

what was meant by that sum of eighty thousand francs set down against his

name, but he defied the whole world to prove that he had even touched a

single copper of that money. He boiled over with indignation to such a

point that he did not simply deny bribe-taking on his own part, he denied

it on behalf of the whole assembly, of all present and past French

legislatures, as if, indeed, bribe-taking on the part of a representative

of the people was altogether too monstrous an idea, a crime that

surpassed possibility to such an extent that the mere notion of it was

absurd. And thereupon applause rang out; the Chamber, delivered from its

fears, thrilled by his words, acclaimed him.

From the little Socialist group, however, some jeers arose, and voices

summoned Monferrand to explain himself on the subject of the African

Railways, reminding him that he had been at the head of the Public Works

Department at the time of the vote, and requiring of him that he should

state what he now meant to do, as Minister of the Interior, in order to

reassure the country. He juggled with this question, declaring that if

there were any guilty parties they would be punished, for he did not

require anybody to remind him of his duty. And then, all at once, with

incomparable maestria, he had recourse to the diversion which he had been

preparing since the previous day. His duty, said he, was a thing which he

never forgot; he discharged it like a faithful soldier of the nation hour

by hour, and with as much vigilance as prudence. He had been accused of

employing the police on he knew not what base spying work in such wise as

to allow the man Hunter to escape. Well, as for that much-slandered

police force, he would tell the Chamber on what work he had really

employed it the day before, and how zealously it had laboured for the

cause of law and order. In the Bois de Boulogne, on the previous

afternoon, it had arrested that terrible scoundrel, the perpetrator of

the crime in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy, that Anarchist mechanician Salvat,

who for six weeks past had so cunningly contrived to elude capture. The

scoundrel had made a full confession during the evening, and the law

would now take its course with all despatch. Public morality was at last

avenged, Paris might now emerge in safety from its long spell of terror,

Anarchism would be struck down, annihilated. And that was what he,

Monferrand, had done as a Minister for the honour and safety of his

country, whilst villains were vainly seeking to dishonour him by

inscribing his name on a list of infamy, the outcome of the very basest

political intrigues.

The Chamber listened agape and quivering. This story of Salvat’s arrest,

which none of the morning papers had reported; the present which

Monferrand seemed to be making them of that terrible Anarchist whom many

had already begun to regard as a myth; the whole _mise-en-scène_ of the

Minister’s speech transported the deputies as if they were suddenly

witnessing the finish of a long-interrupted drama. Stirred and flattered,

they prolonged their applause, while Monferrand went on celebrating his

act of energy, how he had saved society, how crime should be punished,

and how he himself would ever prove that he had a strong arm and could

answer for public order. He even won favour with the Conservatives and

Clericals on the Right by separating himself from Barroux, addressing a

few words of sympathy to those Catholics who had “rallied” to the

Republic, and appealing for concord among men of different beliefs in

order that they might fight the common enemy, that fierce, wild socialism

which talked of overthrowing everything!

By the time Monferrand came down from the tribune, the trick was played,

he had virtually saved himself. Both the Right and Left of the Chamber*

applauded, drowning the protests of the few Socialists whose

vociferations only added to the triumphal tumult. Members eagerly

stretched out their hands to the Minister, who for a moment remained

standing there and smiling. But there was some anxiety in that smile of

his; his success was beginning to frighten him. Had he spoken too well,

and saved the entire Cabinet instead of merely saving himself? That would

mean the ruin of his plan. The Chamber ought not to vote under the effect

of that speech which had thrilled it so powerfully. Thus Monferrand,

though he still continued to smile, spent a few anxious moments in

waiting to see if anybody would rise to answer him.

* Ever since the days of the Bourbon Restoration it has been

the practice in the French Chambers for the more conservative

members to seat themselves on the President’s right, and for

the Radical ones to place themselves on his left. The central

seats of the semicircle in which the members’ seats are

arranged in tiers are usually occupied by men of moderate views.

Generally speaking, such terms as Right Centre and Left Centre

are applied to groups of Moderates inclining in the first place

to Conservatism and in the latter to Radicalism. All this is of

course known to readers acquainted with French institutions, but

I give the explanation because others, after perusing French

news in some daily paper, have often asked me what was meant by

“a deputy of the Right,” and so forth.--Trans.

His success had been as great among the occupants of the galleries as

among the deputies themselves. Several ladies had been seen applauding,

and Monseigneur Martha had given unmistakable signs of the liveliest

satisfaction. “Ah, General!” said Massot to Bozonnet in a sneering way.

“Those are our fighting men of the present time. And he’s a bold and

strong one, is Monferrand. Of course it is all what people style ‘saving

one’s bacon,’ but none the less it’s very clever work.”

Just then, however, Monferrand to his great satisfaction had seen Vignon

rise from his seat in response to the urging of his friends. And

thereupon all anxiety vanished from the Minister’s smile, which became

one of malicious placidity.

The very atmosphere of the Chamber seemed to change with Vignon in the

tribune. He was slim, with a fair and carefully tended beard, blue eyes

and all the suppleness of youth. He spoke, moreover, like a practical

man, in simple, straightforward language, which made the emptiness of the

other’s declamatory style painfully conspicuous. His term of official

service as a prefect in the provinces had endowed him with keen insight;

and it was in an easy way that he propounded and unravelled the most

intricate questions. Active and courageous, confident in his own star,

too young and too shrewd to have compromised himself in anything so far,

he was steadily marching towards the future. He had already drawn up a

rather more advanced political programme than that of Barroux and

Monferrand, so that when opportunity offered there might be good reasons

for him to take their place. Moreover, he was quite capable of carrying

out his programme by attempting some of the long-promised reforms for

which the country was waiting. He had guessed that honesty, when it had

prudence and shrewdness as its allies, must some day secure an innings.

In a clear voice, and in a very quiet, deliberate way, he now said what

it was right to say on the subject under discussion, the things that

common sense dictated and that the Chamber itself secretly desired should

be said. He was certainly the first to rejoice over an arrest which would

reassure the country; but he failed to understand what connection there

could be between that arrest and the sad business that had been brought

before the Chamber. The two affairs were quite distinct and different,

and he begged his colleagues not to vote in the state of excitement in

which he saw them. Full light must be thrown on the African Railways

question, and this, one could not expect from the two incriminated

ministers. However, he was opposed to any suggestion of a committee of

inquiry. In his opinion the guilty parties, if such there were, ought to

be brought immediately before a court of law. And, like Barroux, he wound

up with a discreet allusion to the growing influence of the clergy,

declaring that he was against all unworthy compromises, and was equally

opposed to any state dictatorship and any revival of the ancient

theocratic spirit.

Although there was but little applause when Vignon returned to his seat,

it was evident that the Chamber was again master of its emotions. And the

situation seemed so clear, and the overthrow of the ministry so certain,

that Mège, who had meant to reply to the others, wisely abstained from

doing so. Meantime people noticed the placid demeanour of Monferrand, who

had listened to Vignon with the utmost complacency, as if he were

rendering homage to an adversary’s talent; whereas Barroux, ever since

the cold silence which had greeted his speech, had remained motionless in

his seat, bowed down and pale as a corpse.

“Well, it’s all over,” resumed Massot, amidst the hubbub which arose as

the deputies prepared to vote; “the ministry’s done for. Little Vignon

will go a long way, you know. People say that he dreams of the Elysée. At

all events everything points to him as our next prime minister.”

Then, as the journalist rose, intending to go off, the General detained

him: “Wait a moment, Monsieur Massot,” said he. “How disgusting all that

parliamentary cooking is! You ought to point it out in an article, and

show people how the country is gradually being weakened and rotted to the

marrow by all such useless and degrading discussions. Why, a great battle

resulting in the loss of 50,000 men would exhaust us less than ten years

of this abominable parliamentary system. You must call on me some

morning. I will show you a scheme of military reform, in which I point

out the necessity of returning to the limited professional armies which

we used to have, for this present-day national army, as folks call it,

which is a semi-civilian affair and at best a mere herd of men, is like a

dead weight on us, and is bound to pull us down!”

Pierre, for his part, had not spoken a word since the beginning of the

debate. He had listened to everything, at first influenced by the thought

of his brother’s interests, and afterwards mastered by the feverishness

which gradually took possession of everybody present. He had become

convinced that there was nothing more for Guillaume to fear; but how

curiously did one event fit into another, and how loudly had Salvat’s

arrest re-echoed in the Chamber! Looking down into the seething hall

below him, he had detected all the clash of rival passions and interests.

After watching the great struggle between Barroux, Monferrand and Vignon,

he had gazed upon the childish delight of that terrible Socialist Mège,

who was so pleased at having been able to stir up the depths of those

troubled waters, in which he always unwittingly angled for the benefit of

others. Then, too, Pierre had become interested in Fonsègue, who, knowing

what had been arranged between Monferrand, Duvillard and himself, evinced

perfect calmness and strove to reassure Duthil and Chaigneux, who, on

their side, were quite dismayed by the ministry’s impending fall. Yet,

Pierre’s eyes always came back to Monseigneur Martha. He had watched his

serene smiling face throughout the sitting, striving to detect his

impressions of the various incidents that had occurred, as if in his

opinion that dramatic parliamentary comedy had only been played as a step

towards the more or less distant triumph for which the prelate laboured.

And now, while awaiting the result of the vote, as Pierre turned towards

Massot and the General, he found that they were talking of nothing but

recruiting and tactics and the necessity of a bath of blood for the whole

of Europe. Ah! poor mankind, ever fighting and ever devouring one another

in parliaments as well as on battle-fields, when, thought Pierre, would

it decide to disarm once and for all, and live at peace according to the

laws of justice and reason!