Then he again looked down into the hall, where the greatest confusion was

prevailing among the deputies with regard to the coming vote. There was

quite a rainfall of suggested “resolutions,” from a very violent one

proposed by Mège, to another, which was merely severe, emanating from

Vignon. The ministry, however, would only accept the “Order of the day

pure and simple,” a mere decision, that is, to pass to the next business,

as if Mège’s interpellation had been unworthy of attention. And presently

the Government was defeated, Vignon’s resolution being adopted by a

majority of twenty-five. Some portion of the Left had evidently joined

hands with the Right and the Socialist group. A prolonged hubbub followed

this result.

“Well, so we are to have a Vignon Cabinet,” said Massot, as he went off

with Pierre and the General. “All the same, though, Monferrand has saved

himself, and if I were in Vignon’s place I should distrust him.”

That evening there was a very touching farewell scene at the little house

at Neuilly. When Pierre returned thither from the Chamber, saddened but

reassured with regard to the future, Guillaume at once made up his mind

to go home on the morrow. And as Nicholas Barthès was compelled to leave,

the little dwelling seemed on the point of relapsing into dreary quietude

once more.

Théophile Morin, whom Pierre had informed of the painful alternative in

which Barthès was placed, duly came to dinner; but he did not have time

to speak to the old man before they all sat down to table at seven

o’clock. As usual Barthès had spent his day in marching, like a caged

lion, up and down the room in which he had accepted shelter after the

fashion of a big fearless child, who never worried with regard either to

his present circumstances or the troubles which the future might have in

store for him. His life had ever been one of unlimited hope, which

reality had ever shattered. Although all that he had loved, all that he

had hoped to secure by fifty years of imprisonment or exile,--liberty,

equality and a real brotherly republic,--had hitherto failed to come,

such as he had dreamt of them, he nevertheless retained the candid faith

of his youth, and was ever confident in the near future. He would smile

indulgently when new comers, men of violent ideas, derided him and called

him a poor old fellow. For his part, he could make neither head nor tail

of the many new sects. He simply felt indignant with their lack of human

feeling, and stubbornly adhered to his own idea of basing the world’s

regeneration on the simple proposition that men were naturally good and

ought to be free and brotherly.

That evening at dinner, feeling that he was with friends who cared for

him, Barthès proved extremely gay, and showed all his ingenuousness in

talking of his ideal, which would soon be realised, said he, in spite of

everything. He could tell a story well whenever he cared to chat, and on

that occasion he related some delightful anecdotes about the prisons

through which he had passed. He knew all the dungeons, Ste. Pelagie and

Mont St. Michel, Belle-Ile-en-Mer and Clairvaux, to say nothing of

temporary gaols and the evil-smelling hulks on board which political

prisoners are often confined. And he still laughed at certain

recollections, and related how in the direst circumstances he had always

been able to seek refuge in his conscience. The others listened to him

quite charmed by his conversation, but full of anguish at the thought

that this perpetual prisoner or exile must again rise and take his staff

to sally forth, driven from his native land once more.

Pierre did not speak out until they were partaking of dessert. Then he

related how the Minister had written to him, and how in a brief interview

he had stated that Barthès must cross the frontier within forty-eight

hours if he did not wish to be arrested. Thereupon the old man gravely

rose, with his white fleece, his eagle beak and his bright eyes still

sparkling with the fire of youth. And he wished to go off at once.

“What!” said he, “you have known all this since yesterday, and have still

kept me here at the risk of my compromising you even more than I had done

already! You must forgive me, I did not think of the worry I might cause

you, I thought that everything would be satisfactorily arranged. I must

thank you both--yourself and Guillaume--for the few days of quietude that

you have procured to an old vagabond and madman like myself.”

Then, as they tried to prevail on him to remain until the following

morning, he would not listen to them. There would be a train for Brussels

about midnight, and he had ample time to take it. He refused to let Morin

accompany him. No, no, said he, Morin was not a rich man, and moreover he

had work to attend to. Why should he take him away from his duties, when

it was so easy, so simple, for him to go off alone? He was going back

into exile as into misery and grief which he had long known, like some

Wandering Jew of Liberty, ever driven onward through the world.

When he took leave of the others at ten o’clock, in the little sleepy

street just outside the house, tears suddenly dimmed his eyes. “Ah! I’m

no longer a young man,” he said; “it’s all over this time. I shall never

come back again. My bones will rest in some corner over yonder.” And yet,

after he had affectionately embraced Pierre and Guillaume, he drew

himself up like one who remained unconquered, and he raised a supreme cry

of hope. “But after all, who knows? Triumph may perhaps come to-morrow.

The future belongs to those who prepare it and wait for it!”

Then he walked away, and long after he had disappeared his firm, sonorous

footsteps could be heard re-echoing in the quiet night.

BOOK IV.

I. PIERRE AND MARIE

ON the mild March morning when Pierre left his little house at Neuilly to

accompany Guillaume to Montmartre, he was oppressed by the thought that

on returning home he would once more find himself alone with nothing to

prevent him from relapsing into negation and despair. The idea of this

had kept him from sleeping, and he still found it difficult to hide his

distress and force a smile.

The sky was so clear and the atmosphere so mild that the brothers had

resolved to go to Montmartre on foot by way of the outer boulevards. Nine

o’clock was striking when they set out. Guillaume for his part was very

gay at the thought of the surprise he would give his family. It was as if

he were suddenly coming back from a long journey. He had not warned them

of his intentions; he had merely written to them now and again to tell

them that he was recovering, and they certainly had no idea that his

return was so near at hand.

When Guillaume and Pierre had climbed the sunlit slopes of Montmartre,

and crossed the quiet countrified Place du Tertre, the former, by means

of a latch-key, quietly opened the door of his house, which seemed to be

asleep, so profound was the stillness both around and within it. Pierre

found it the same as on the occasion of his previous and only visit.

First came the narrow passage which ran through the ground-floor,

affording a view of all Paris at the further end. Next there was the

garden, reduced to a couple of plum-trees and a clump of lilac-bushes,

the leaves of which had now sprouted. And this time the priest perceived

three bicycles leaning against the trees. Beyond them stood the large

work-shop, so gay, and yet so peaceful, with its huge window overlooking

a sea of roofs.

Guillaume had reached the work-shop without meeting anybody. With an

expression of much amusement he raised a finger to his lips. “Attention,

Pierre,” he whispered; “you’ll just see!”

Then having noiselessly opened the door, they remained for a moment on

the threshold.

The three sons alone were there. Near his forge stood Thomas working a

boring machine, with which he was making some holes in a small brass

plate. Then François and Antoine were seated on either side of their

large table, the former reading, and the latter finishing a block. The

bright sunshine streamed in, playing over all the seeming disorder of the

room, where so many callings and so many implements found place. A large

bunch of wallflowers bloomed on the women’s work-table near the window;

and absorbed as the young men were in their respective tasks the only

sound was the slight hissing of the boring machine each time that the

eldest of them drilled another hole.

However, although Guillaume did not stir, there suddenly came a quiver,

an awakening. His sons seemed to guess his presence, for they raised

their heads, each at the same moment. From each, too, came the same cry,

and a common impulse brought them first to their feet and then to his

arms.

“Father!”

Guillaume embraced them, feeling very happy. And that was all; there was

no long spell of emotion, no useless talk. It was as if he had merely

gone out the day before and, delayed by business, had now come back.

Still, he looked at them with his kindly smile, and they likewise smiled

with their eyes fixed on his. Those glances proclaimed everything, the

closest affection and complete self-bestowal for ever.

“Come in, Pierre,” called Guillaume; “shake hands with these young men.”

The priest had remained near the door, overcome by a singular feeling of

discomfort. When his nephews had vigorously shaken hands with him, he sat

down near the window apart from them, as if he felt out of his element

there.

“Well, youngsters,” said Guillaume, “where’s Mère-Grand, and where’s

Marie?”

Their grandmother was upstairs in her room, they said; and Marie had

taken it into her head to go marketing. This, by the way, was one of her

delights. She asserted that she was the only one who knew how to buy

new-laid eggs and butter of a nutty odour. Moreover, she sometimes

brought some dainty or some flowers home, in her delight at proving

herself to be so good a housewife.

“And so things are going on well?” resumed Guillaume. “You are all

satisfied, your work is progressing, eh?”

He addressed brief questions to each of them, like one who, on his return

home, at once reverts to his usual habits. Thomas, with his rough face

beaming, explained in a couple of sentences that he was now sure of

perfecting his little motor; François, who was still preparing for his

examination, jestingly declared that he yet had to lodge a heap of

learning in his brain; and then Antoine produced the block which he was

finishing, and which depicted his little friend Lise, Jahan’s sister,

reading in her garden amidst the sunshine. It was like a florescence of

that dear belated creature whose mind had been awakened by his affection.

However, the three brothers speedily went back to their places, reverting

to their work with a natural impulse, for discipline had made them regard

work as life itself. Then Guillaume, who had glanced at what each was

doing, exclaimed: “Ah! youngsters, I schemed and prepared a lot of things

myself while I was laid up. I even made a good many notes. We walked here

from Neuilly, but my papers and the clothes which Mère-Grand sent me will

come in a cab by-and-by.... Ah! how pleased I am to find everything in

order here, and to be able to take up my task with you again! Ah! I shall

polish off some work now, and no mistake!”

He had already gone to his own corner, the space reserved for him between

the window and the forge. He there had a chemical furnace, several glass

cases and shelves crowded with appliances, and a long table, one end of

which he used for writing purposes. And he once more took possession of

that little world. After glancing around with delight at seeing

everything in its place, he began to handle one object and another, eager

to be at work like his sons.

All at once, however, Mère-Grand appeared, calm, grave and erect in her

black gown, at the top of the little staircase which conducted to the

bedrooms. “So it’s you, Guillaume?” said she. “Will you come up for a

moment?”

He immediately did so, understanding that she wished to speak to him

alone and tranquillise him. It was a question of the great secret between

them, that one thing of which his sons knew nothing, and which, after

Salvat’s crime, had brought him much anguish, through his fear that it

might be divulged. When he reached Mère-Grand’s room she at once took him

to the hiding-place near her bed, and showed him the cartridges of the

new explosive, and the plans of the terrible engine of warfare which he

had invented. He found them all as he had left them. Before anyone could

have reached them, she would have blown up the whole place at the risk of

perishing herself in the explosion. With her wonted air of quiet heroism,

she handed Guillaume the key which he had sent her by Pierre.

“You were not anxious, I hope?” she said.

He pressed her hands with a commingling of affection and respect. “My

only anxiety,” he replied, “was that the police might come here and treat

you roughly.... You are the guardian of our secret, and it would be

for you to finish my work should I disappear.”

While Guillaume and Madame Leroi were thus engaged upstairs, Pierre,

still seated near the window below, felt his discomfort increasing. The

inmates of the house certainly regarded him with no other feeling than

one of affectionate sympathy; and so how came it that he considered them

hostile? The truth was that he asked himself what would become of him

among those workers, who were upheld by a faith of their own, whereas he

believed in nothing, and did not work. The sight of those young men, so

gaily and zealously toiling, ended by quite irritating him; and the

arrival of Marie brought his distress to a climax.

Joyous and full of life, she came in without seeing him, a basket on her

arm. And she seemed to bring all the sunlight of the spring morning with

her, so bright was the sparkle of her youth. The whole of her pink face,

her delicate nose, her broad intelligent brow, her thick, kindly lips,

beamed beneath the heavy coils of her black hair. And her brown eyes ever

laughed with the joyousness which comes from health and strength.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “I have brought such a lot of things, youngsters.

Just come and see them; I wouldn’t unpack the basket in the kitchen.”

It became absolutely necessary for the brothers to draw round the basket

which she had laid upon the table. “First there’s the butter!” said she;

“just smell if it hasn’t a nice scent of nuts! It’s churned especially

for me, you know. Then here are the eggs. They were laid only yesterday,

I’ll answer for it. And, in fact, that one there is this morning’s. And

look at the cutlets! They’re wonderful, aren’t they? The butcher cuts

them carefully when he sees me. And then here’s a cream cheese, real

cream, you know, it will be delicious! Ah! and here’s the surprise,

something dainty, some radishes, some pretty little pink radishes. Just

fancy! radishes in March, what a luxury!”

She triumphed like the good little housewife she was, one who had

followed a whole course of cookery and home duties at the Lycée Fénelon.

The brothers, as merry as she herself, were obliged to compliment her.

All at once, however, she caught sight of Pierre. “What! you are there,

Monsieur l’Abbé?” she exclaimed; “I beg your pardon, but I didn’t see

you. How is Guillaume? Have you brought us some news of him?”

“But father’s come home,” said Thomas; “he’s upstairs with Mère-Grand.”

Quite thunderstruck, she hastily placed her purchases in the basket.

“Guillaume’s come back, Guillaume’s come back!” said she, “and you don’t

tell me of it, you let me unpack everything! Well, it’s nice of me, I

must say, to go on praising my butter and eggs when Guillaume’s come

back.”

Guillaume, as it happened, was just coming down with Madame Leroi. Marie

gaily hastened to him and offered him her cheeks, on which he planted two

resounding kisses. Then she, resting her hands on his shoulders, gave him

a long look, while saying in a somewhat tremulous voice: “I am pleased,

very pleased to see you, Guillaume. I may confess it now, I thought I had

lost you, I was very anxious and very unhappy.”

Although she was still smiling, tears had gathered in her eyes, and he,

likewise moved, again kissed her, murmuring: “Dear Marie! How happy it

makes me to find you as beautiful and as affectionate as ever.”

Pierre, who was looking at them, deemed them cold. He had doubtless

expected more tears, and a more passionate embrace on the part of an

affianced pair, whom so grievous an accident had separated almost on the

eve of their wedding. Moreover, his feelings were hurt by the

disproportion of their respective ages. No doubt his brother still seemed

to him very sturdy and young, and his feeling of repulsion must have come

from that young woman whom, most decidedly, he did not like. Ever since

her arrival he had experienced increasing discomfort, a keener and keener

desire to go off and never return.

So acute became his suffering at feeling like a stranger in his brother’s

home, that he at last rose and sought to take his leave, under the

pretext that he had some urgent matters to attend to in town.

“What! you won’t stay to _déjeuner_ with us!” exclaimed Guillaume in

perfect stupefaction. “Why, it was agreed! You surely won’t distress me

like that! This house is your own, remember!”

Then, as with genuine affection they all protested and pressed him to

stay, he was obliged to do so. However, he soon relapsed into silence and

embarrassment, seated on the same chair as before, and listening moodily

to those people who, although they were his relatives, seemed to be far

removed from him.

As it was barely eleven o’clock they resumed work, but every now and

again there was some merry talk. On one of the servants coming for the

provisions, Marie told the girl to call her as soon as it should be time

to boil the eggs, for she prided herself on boiling them to a nicety, in

such wise as to leave the whites like creamy milk. This gave an

opportunity for a few jests from François, who occasionally teased her

about all the fine things she had learnt at the Lycée Fénelon, where her

father had placed her when she was twelve years old. However, she was not

afraid of him, but gave him tit for tat by chaffing him about all the

hours which he lost at the École Normale over a mass of pedagogic trash.

“Ah! you big children!” she exclaimed, while still working at her

embroidery. “You are all very intelligent, and you all claim to have

broad minds, and yet--confess it now--it worries you a little that a girl

like me should have studied at college in the same way as yourselves.

It’s a sexual quarrel, a question of rivalry and competition, isn’t it?”

They protested the contrary, declaring that they were in favour of girls

receiving as complete an education as possible. She was well aware of

this; however, she liked to tease them in return for the manner in which

they themselves plagued her.

“But do you know,” said she, “you are a great deal behind the times? I am

well aware of the reproaches which are levelled at girls’ colleges by

so-called right-minded people. To begin, there is no religious element

whatever in the education one receives there, and this alarms many

families which consider religious education to be absolutely necessary

for girls, if only as a moral weapon of defence. Then, too, the education

at our Lycées is being democratised--girls of all positions come to them.

Thanks to the scholarships which are so liberally offered, the daughter

of the lady who rents a first floor flat often finds the daughter of her

door-keeper among her school-fellows, and some think this objectionable.

It is said also that the pupils free themselves too much from home

influence, and that too much opportunity is left for personal initiative.

As a matter of fact the extensiveness of the many courses of study, all

the learning that is required of pupils at the examinations, certainly

does tend to their emancipation, to the coming of the future woman and

future society, which you young men are all longing for, are you not?”

“Of course we are!” exclaimed François; “we all agree on that point.”

She waved her hand in a pretty way, and then quietly continued: “I’m

jesting. My views are simple enough, as you well know, and I don’t ask

for nearly as much as you do. As for woman’s claims and rights, well, the

question is clear enough; woman is man’s equal so far as nature allows

it. And the only point is to agree and love one another. At the same time

I’m well pleased to know what I do--oh! not from any spirit of pedantry

but simply because I think it has all done me good, and given me some

moral as well as physical health.”

It delighted her to recall the days she had spent at the Lycée Fénelon,

which of the five State colleges for girls opened in Paris was the only

one counting a large number of pupils. Most of these were the daughters

of officials or professors, who purposed entering the teaching

profession. In this case, they had to win their last diploma at the École

Normale of Sevres, after leaving the Lycée. Marie, for her part, though

her studies had been brilliant, had felt no taste whatever for the

calling of teacher. Moreover, when Guillaume had taken charge of her

after her father’s death, he had refused to let her run about giving

lessons. To provide herself with a little money, for she would accept

none as a gift, she worked at embroidery, an art in which she was most

accomplished.

While she was talking to the young men Guillaume had listened to her

without interfering. If he had fallen in love with her it was largely on

account of her frankness and uprightness, the even balance of her nature,

which gave her so forcible a charm. She knew all; but if she lacked the

poetry of the shrinking, lamb-like girl who has been brought up in

ignorance, she had gained absolute rectitude of heart and mind, exempt

from all hypocrisy, all secret perversity such as is stimulated by what

may seem mysterious in life. And whatever she might know, she had

retained such child-like purity that in spite of her six-and-twenty

summers all the blood in her veins would occasionally rush to her cheeks

in fiery blushes, which drove her to despair.

“My dear Marie,” Guillaume now exclaimed, “you know very well that the

youngsters were simply joking. You are in the right, of course.... And

your boiled eggs cannot be matched in the whole world.”

He said this in so soft and affectionate a tone that the young woman

flushed purple. Then, becoming conscious of it, she coloured yet more

deeply, and as the three young men glanced at her maliciously she grew

angry with herself. “Isn’t it ridiculous, Monsieur l’Abbé,” she said,

turning towards Pierre, “for an old maid like myself to blush in that

fashion? People might think that I had committed a crime. It’s simply to

make me blush, you know, that those children tease me. I do all I can to

prevent it, but it’s stronger than my will.”

At this Mère-Grand raised her eyes from the shirt she was mending, and

remarked: “Oh! it’s natural enough, my dear. It is your heart rising to

your cheeks in order that we may see it.”

The _déjeuner_ hour was now at hand; and they decided to lay the table in

the work-shop, as was occasionally done when they had a guest. The

simple, cordial meal proved very enjoyable in the bright sunlight.

Marie’s boiled eggs, which she herself brought from the kitchen covered

with a napkin, were found delicious. Due honour was also done to the

butter and the radishes. The only dessert that followed the cutlets was

the cream cheese, but it was a cheese such as nobody else had ever

partaken of. And, meantime, while they ate and chatted all Paris lay

below them, stretching away to the horizon with its mighty rumbling.

Pierre had made an effort to become cheerful, but he soon relapsed into

silence. Guillaume, however, was very talkative. Having noticed the three

bicycles in the garden, he inquired of Marie how far she had gone that

morning. She answered that François and Antoine had accompanied her in

the direction of Orgemont. The worry of their excursions was that each

time they returned to Montmartre they had to push their machines up the

height. From the general point of view, however, the young woman was

delighted with bicycling, which had many virtues, said she. Then, seeing

Pierre glance at her in amazement, she promised that she would some day

explain her opinions on the subject to him. After this bicycling became

the one topic of conversation until the end of the meal. Thomas gave an

account of the latest improvements introduced into Grandidier’s machines;

and the others talked of the excursions they had made or meant to make,

with all the exuberant delight of school children eager for the open air.

In the midst of the chatter, Mère-Grand, who presided at table with the

serene dignity of a queen-mother, leant towards Guillaume, who sat next

to her, and spoke to him in an undertone. Pierre understood that she was

referring to his marriage, which was to have taken place in April, but

must now necessarily be deferred. This sensible marriage, which seemed

likely to ensure the happiness of the entire household, was largely the

work of Mère-Grand and the three young men, for Guillaume would never

have yielded to his heart if she whom he proposed to make his wife had

not already been a well-loved member of the family. At the present time

the last week in June seemed, for all sorts of reasons, to be a

favourable date for the wedding.

Marie, who heard the suggestion, turned gaily towards Mère-Grand.

“The end of June will suit very well, will it not, my dear?” said the

latter.

Pierre expected to see a deep flush rise to the young woman’s cheeks, but

she remained very calm. She felt deep affection, blended with the most

tender gratitude, for Guillaume, and was convinced that in marrying him

she would be acting wisely and well both for herself and the others.

“Certainly, the end of June,” she repeated, “that will suit very well

indeed.”

Then the sons, who likewise had heard the proposal, nodded their heads by

way of assenting also.

When they rose from table Pierre was absolutely determined to go off. The

cordial and simple meal, the sight of that family, which had been

rendered so happy by Guillaume’s return, and of that young woman who

smiled so placidly at life, had brought him keen suffering, though why he

could not tell. However, it all irritated him beyond endurance; and he

therefore again pretended that he had a number of things to see to in

Paris. He shook hands in turn with the young men, Mère-Grand and Marie;

both of the women evincing great friendliness but also some surprise at

his haste to leave the house. Guillaume, who seemed saddened and anxious,

sought to detain him, and failing in this endeavour followed him into the

little garden, where he stopped him in order to have an explanation.

“Come,” said he, “what is the matter with you, Pierre? Why are you

running off like this?”

“Oh! there’s nothing the matter I assure you; but I have to attend to a

few urgent affairs.”

“Oh, Pierre, pray put all pretence aside. Nobody here has displeased you

or hurt your feelings, I hope. They also will soon love you as I do.”

“I have no doubt of it, and I complain of nobody excepting perhaps

myself.”

Guillaume’s sorrow was increasing. “Ah! brother, little brother,” he

resumed, “you distress me, for I can detect that you are hiding something

from me. Remember that new ties have linked us together and that we love

one another as in the old days when you were in your cradle and I used to

come to play with you. I know you well, remember. I know all your

tortures, since you have confessed them to me; and I won’t have you

suffer, I want to cure you, I do!”

Pierre’s heart was full, and as he heard those words he could not

restrain his tears. “Oh! you must leave me to my sufferings,” he

responded. “They are incurable. You can do nothing for me, I am beyond

the pale of nature, I am a monster.”

“What do you say! Can you not return within nature’s pale even if you

_have_ gone beyond it? One thing that I will not allow is that you should

go and shut yourself up in that solitary little house of yours, where you

madden yourself by brooding over the fall of your faith. Come and spend

your time with us, so that we may again give you some taste for life.”

Ah! the empty little house which awaited him! Pierre shivered at the

thought of it, at the idea that he would now find himself all alone

there, bereft of the brother with whom he had lately spent so many happy

days. Into what solitude and torment must he not now relapse after that

companionship to which he had become accustomed? However, the very

thought of the latter increased his grief, and confession suddenly gushed

from his lips: “To spend my time here, live with you, oh! no, that is an

impossibility. Why do you compel me to speak out, and tell you things

that I am ashamed of and do not even understand. Ever since this morning

you must have seen that I have been suffering here. No doubt it is

because you and your people work, whereas I do nothing, because you love

one another and believe in your efforts, whereas I no longer know how to

love or believe. I feel out of my element. I’m embarrassed here, and I

embarrass you. In fact you all irritate me, and I might end by hating

you. There remains nothing healthy in me, all natural feelings have been

spoilt and destroyed, and only envy and hatred could sprout up from such

ruins. So let me go back to my accursed hole, where death will some day

come for me. Farewell, brother!”

But Guillaume, full of affection and compassion, caught hold of his arms

and detained him. “You shall not go, I will not allow you to go, without

a positive promise that you will come back. I don’t wish to lose you

again, especially now that I know all you are worth and how dreadfully

you suffer. I will save you, if need be, in spite of yourself. I will

cure you of your torturing doubts, oh! without catechising you, without

imposing any particular faith on you, but simply by allowing life to do

its work, for life alone can give you back health and hope. So I beg you,

brother, in the name of our affection, come back here, come as often as

you can to spend a day with us. You will then see that when folks have

allotted themselves a task and work together in unison, they escape

excessive unhappiness. A task of any kind--yes, that is what is wanted,

together with some great passion and frank acceptance of life, so that it

may be lived as it should be and loved.”

“But what would be the use of my living here?” Pierre muttered bitterly.

“I’ve no task left me, and I no longer know how to love.”

“Well, I will give you a task, and as for love, that will soon be

awakened by the breath of life. Come, brother, consent, consent!”

Then, seeing that Pierre still remained gloomy and sorrowful, and

persisted in his determination to go away and bury himself, Guillaume

added, “Ah! I don’t say that the things of this world are such as one

might wish them to be. I don’t say that only joy and truth and justice

exist. For instance, the affair of that unhappy fellow Salvat fills me

with anger and revolt. Guilty he is, of course, and yet how many excuses

he had, and how I shall pity him if the crimes of all of us are laid at

his door, if the various political gangs bandy him from one to another,

and use him as a weapon in their sordid fight for power. The thought of

it all so exasperates me that at times I am as unreasonable as yourself.

But now, brother, just to please me, promise that you will come and spend

the day after to-morrow with us.”

Then, as Pierre still kept silent, Guillaume went on: “I will have it so.

It would grieve me too much to think that you were suffering from

martyrdom in your solitary nook. I want to cure and save you.”

Tears again rose to Pierre’s eyes, and in a tone of infinite distress he

answered: “Don’t compel me to promise.... All I can say is that I will

try to conquer myself.”

The week he then spent in his little, dark, empty home proved a terrible

one. Shutting himself up he brooded over his despair at having lost the

companionship of that elder brother whom he once more loved with his

whole soul. He had never before been so keenly conscious of his solitude;

and he was a score of times on the point of hastening to Montmartre, for

he vaguely felt that affection, truth and life were there. But on each

occasion he was held back by a return of the discomfort which he had

already experienced, discomfort compounded of shame and fear. Priest that

he was, cut off from love and the avocations of other men, he would

surely find nothing but hurt and suffering among creatures who were all

nature, freedom and health. While he pondered thus, however, there rose

before him the shades of his father and mother, those sad spirits that

seemed to wander through the deserted rooms lamenting and entreating him

to reconcile them in himself, as soon as he should find peace. What was

he to do,--deny their prayer, and remain weeping with them, or go yonder

in search of the cure which might at last lull them to sleep and bring

them happiness in death by the force of his own happiness in life? At

last a morning came when it seemed to him that his father enjoined him

with a smile to betake himself yonder, while his mother consented with a

glance of her big soft eyes, in which her sorrow at having made so bad a

priest of him yielded to her desire to restore him to the life of our

common humanity.

Pierre did not argue with himself that day: he took a cab and gave

Guillaume’s address to the driver for fear lest he should be overcome on

the way and wish to turn back. And when he again found himself, as in a

dream, in the large work-shop, where Guillaume and the young men welcomed

him in a delicately affectionate way, he witnessed an unexpected scene

which both impressed and relieved him.

Marie, who had scarcely nodded to him as he entered, sat there with a

pale and frowning face. And Mère-Grand, who was also grave, said, after

glancing at her: “You must excuse her, Monsieur l’Abbé; but she isn’t

reasonable. She is in a temper with all five of us.”

Guillaume began to laugh. “Ah! she’s so stubborn!” he exclaimed. “You can

have no idea, Pierre, of what goes on in that little head of hers when

anybody says or does anything contrary to her ideas of justice. Such

absolute and lofty ideas they are, that they can descend to no

compromise. For instance, we were talking of that recent affair of a

father who was found guilty on his son’s evidence; and she maintained

that the son had only done what was right in giving evidence against his

father, and that one ought invariably to tell the truth, no matter what

might happen. What a terrible public prosecutor she would make, eh?”

Thereupon Marie, exasperated by Pierre’s smile, which seemingly indicated

that he also thought her in the wrong, flew into quite a passion: “You

are cruel, Guillaume!” she cried; “I won’t be laughed at like this.”

“But you are losing your senses, my dear,” exclaimed François, while

Thomas and Antoine again grew merry. “We were only urging a question of

humanity, father and I, for we respect and love justice as much as you

do.”

“There’s no question of humanity, but simply one of justice. What is just

and right is just and right, and you cannot alter it.”

Then, as Guillaume made a further attempt to state his views and win her

over to them, she rose trembling, in such a passion that she could

scarcely stammer: “No, no, you are all too cruel, you only want to grieve

me. I prefer to go up into my own room.”

At this Mère-Grand vainly sought to restrain her. “My child, my child!”

said she, “reflect a moment; this is very wrong, you will deeply regret

it.”

“No, no; you are not just, and I suffer too much.”

Then she wildly rushed upstairs to her room overhead.

Consternation followed. Scenes of a similar character had occasionally

occurred before, but there had never been so serious a one. Guillaume

immediately admitted that he had done wrong in laughing at her, for she

could not bear irony. Then he told Pierre that in her childhood and youth

she had been subject to terrible attacks of passion whenever she

witnessed or heard of any act of injustice. As she herself explained,

these attacks would come upon her with irresistible force, transporting

her to such a point that she would sometimes fall upon the floor and

rave. Even nowadays she proved quarrelsome and obstinate whenever certain

subjects were touched upon. And she afterwards blushed for it all, fully

conscious that others must think her unbearable.

Indeed, a quarter of an hour later, she came downstairs again of her own

accord, and bravely acknowledged her fault. “Wasn’t it ridiculous of me?”

she said. “To think I accuse others of being unkind when I behave like

that! Monsieur l’Abbé must have a very bad opinion of me.” Then, after

kissing Mère-Grand, she added: “You’ll forgive me, won’t you? Oh!

François may laugh now, and so may Thomas and Antoine. They are quite

right, our differences are merely laughing matters.”

“My poor Marie,” replied Guillaume, in a tone of deep affection. “You see

what it is to surrender oneself to the absolute. If you are so healthy

and reasonable it’s because you regard almost everything from the

relative point of view, and only ask life for such gifts as it can

bestow. But when your absolute ideas of justice come upon you, you lose

both equilibrium and reason. At the same time, I must say that we are all

liable to err in much the same manner.”

Marie, who was still very flushed, thereupon answered in a jesting way:

“Well, it at least proves that I’m not perfect.”

“Oh, certainly! And so much the better,” said Guillaume, “for it makes me

love you the more.”

This was a sentiment which Pierre himself would willingly have re-echoed.

The scene had deeply stirred him. Had not his own frightful torments

originated with his desire for the absolute both in things and beings? He

had sought faith in its entirety, and despair had thrown him into

complete negation. Again, was there not some evil desire for the absolute

and some affectation of pride and voluntary blindness in the haughty

bearing which he had retained amidst the downfall of his belief, the

saintly reputation which he had accepted when he possessed no faith at

all? On hearing his brother praise Marie, because she only asked life for

such things as it could give, it had seemed to him that this was advice

for himself. It was as if a refreshing breath of nature had passed before

his face. At the same time his feelings in this respect were still vague,

and the only well-defined pleasure that he experienced came from the

young woman’s fit of anger, that error of hers which brought her nearer

to him, by lowering her in some degree from her pedestal of serene

perfection. It was, perhaps, that seeming perfection which had made him

suffer; however, he was as yet unable to analyse his feelings. That day,

for the first time, he chatted with her for a little while, and when he

went off he thought her very good-hearted and very human.

Two days later he again came to spend the afternoon in the large sunlit

work-shop overlooking Paris. Ever since he had become conscious of the

idle life he was leading, he had felt very bored when he was alone, and

only found relief among that gay, hardworking family. His brother scolded

him for not having come to _déjeuner_, and he promised to do so on the

morrow. By the time a week had elapsed, none of the discomfort and covert

hostility which had prevailed between him and Marie remained: they met

and chatted on a footing of good fellowship. Although he was a priest,

she was in no wise embarrassed by his presence. With her quiet atheism,

indeed, she had never imagined that a priest could be different from

other men. Thus her sisterly cordiality both astonished and delighted

Pierre. It was as if he wore the same garments and held the same ideas as

his big nephews, as if there were nothing whatever to distinguish him

from other men. He was still more surprised, however, by Marie’s silence

on all religious questions. She seemed to live on quietly and happily,

without a thought of what might be beyond life, that terrifying realm of

mystery, which to him had brought such agony of mind.

Now that he came every two or three days to Montmartre she noticed that

he was suffering. What could be the matter with him, she wondered. When

she questioned him in a friendly manner and only elicited evasive

replies, she guessed that he was ashamed of his sufferings, and that they

were aggravated, rendered well-nigh incurable, by the very secrecy in

which he buried them. Thereupon womanly compassion awoke within her, and

she felt increasing affection for that tall, pale fellow with feverish

eyes, who was consumed by grievous torments which he would confess to

none. No doubt she questioned Guillaume respecting her brother’s sadness,

and he must have confided some of the truth to her in order that she

might help him to extricate Pierre from his sufferings, and give him back

some taste for life. The poor fellow always seemed so happy when she

treated him like a friend, a brother!

At last, one evening, on seeing his eyes full of tears as he gazed upon

the dismal twilight falling over Paris, she herself pressed him to

confide his trouble to her. And thereupon he suddenly spoke out,

confessing all his torture and the horrible void which the loss of faith

had left within him. Ah! to be unable to believe, to be unable to love,

to be nothing but ashes, to know of nothing certain by which he might

replace the faith that had fled from him! She listened in stupefaction.

Why, he must be mad! And she plainly told him so, such was her

astonishment and revolt at hearing such a desperate cry of wretchedness.

To despair, indeed, and believe in nothing and love nothing, simply

because a religious hypothesis had crumbled! And this, too, when the

whole, vast world was spread before one, life with the duty of living it,

creatures and things to be loved and succoured, without counting the

universal labour, the task which one and all came to accomplish!

Assuredly he must be mad, mad with the gloomiest madness; still she vowed

she would cure him.

From that time forward she felt the most compassionate affection for this

extraordinary young man, who had first embarrassed and afterwards

astonished her. She showed herself very gentle and gay with him; she

looked after him with the greatest skill and delicacy of heart and mind.

There had been certain similar features in their childhood; each had been

reared in the strictest religious views by a pious mother. But afterwards

how different had been their fates! Whilst he was struggling with his

doubts, bound by his priestly vows, she had grown up at the Lycée

Fénelon, where her father had placed her as soon as her mother died; and

there, far removed from all practice of religion, she had gradually

reached total forgetfulness of her early religious views. It was a

constant source of surprise for him to find that she had thus escaped all

distress of mind at the thought of what might come after death, whereas

that same thought had so deeply tortured him. When they chatted together

and he expressed his astonishment at it, she frankly laughed, saying that

she had never felt any fear of hell, for she was certain that no hell

existed. And she added that she lived in all quietude, without hope of

going to any heaven, her one thought being to comply in a reasonable way

with the requirements and necessities of earthly life. It was, perhaps,

in some measure a matter of temperament with her; but it was also a

matter of education. Yet, whatever that education had been, whatever

knowledge she had acquired, she had remained very womanly and very

loving. There was nothing stern or masculine about her.

“Ah, my friend,” she said one day to Pierre, “if you only knew how easy

it is for me to remain happy so long as I see those I love free from any

excessive suffering. For my own part I can always adapt myself to life. I

work and content myself no matter what may happen. Sorrow has only come

to me from others, for I can’t help wishing that everybody should be

fairly happy, and there are some who won’t.... I was for a long time

very poor, but I remained gay. I wish for nothing, except for things that

can’t be purchased. Still, want is the great abomination which distresses

me. I can understand that you should have felt everything crumbling when

charity appeared to you so insufficient a remedy as to be contemptible.

Yet it does bring relief; and, moreover, it is so sweet to be able to

give. Some day, too, by dint of reason and toil, by the good and

efficient working of life itself, the reign of justice will surely come.

But now it’s I that am preaching! Oh! I have little taste for it! It

would be ridiculous for me to try to heal you with big phrases. All the

same, I should like to cure you of your gloomy sufferings. To do so, all

that I ask of you is to spend as much time as you can with us. You know

that this is Guillaume’s greatest desire. We will all love you so well,

you will see us all so affectionately united, and so gay over our common

work, that you will come back to truth by joining us in the school of our

good mother nature. You must live and work, and love and hope.”

Pierre smiled as he listened. He now came to Montmartre nearly every day.

She was so nice and affectionate when she preached to him in that way

with a pretty assumption of wisdom. As she had said too, life was so

delightful in that big workroom; it was so pleasant to be all together,

and to labour in common at the same work of health and truth. Ashamed as

Pierre was of doing nothing, anxious as he was to occupy his mind and

fingers, he had first taken an interest in Antoine’s engraving, asking

why he should not try something of the kind himself. However, he felt

that he lacked the necessary gift for art. Then, too, he recoiled from

François’ purely intellectual labour, for he himself had scarcely emerged

from the harrowing study of conflicting texts. Thus he was more inclined

for manual toil like that of Thomas. In mechanics he found precision and

clearness such as might help to quench his thirst for certainty. So he

placed himself at the young man’s orders, pulled his bellows and held

pieces of mechanism for him. He also sometimes served as assistant to

Guillaume, tying a large blue apron over his cassock in order to help in

the experiments. From that time he formed part of the work-shop, which

simply counted a worker the more.

One afternoon early in April, when they were all busily engaged there,

Marie, who sat embroidering at the table in front of Mère-Grand, raised

her eyes to the window and suddenly burst into a cry of admiration: “Oh!

look at Paris under that rain of sunlight!”

Pierre drew near; the play of light was much the same as that which he

had witnessed at his first visit. The sun, sinking behind some slight

purple clouds, was throwing down a hail of rays and sparks which on all

sides rebounded and leapt over the endless stretch of roofs. It might

have been thought that some great sower, hidden amidst the glory of the

planet, was scattering handfuls of golden grain from one horizon to the

other.

Pierre, at sight of it, put his fancy into words: “It is the sun sowing

Paris with grain for a future harvest,” said he. “See how the expanse

looks like ploughed land; the brownish houses are like soil turned up,

and the streets are deep and straight like furrows.”

“Yes, yes, that’s true,” exclaimed Marie gaily. “The sun is sowing Paris

with grain. See how it casts the seed of light and health right away to

the distant suburbs! And yet, how singular! The rich districts on the

west seem steeped in a ruddy mist, whilst the good seed falls in golden

dust over the left bank and the populous districts eastward. It is there,

is it not, that the crop will spring up?”

They had all drawn near, and were smiling at the symbol. As Marie had

said, it seemed indeed that while the sun slowly sank behind the lacework

of clouds, the sower of eternal life scattered his flaming seed with a

rhythmical swing of the arm, ever selecting the districts of toil and

effort. One dazzling handful of grain fell over yonder on the district of

the schools; and then yet another rained down to fertilise the district

of the factories and work-shops.

“Ah! well,” said Guillaume gaily. “May the crop soon sprout from the good

ground of our great Paris, which has been turned up by so many

revolutions, and enriched by the blood of so many workers! It is the only

ground in the world where Ideas can germinate and bloom. Yes, yes, Pierre

is quite right, it is the sun sowing Paris with the seed of the future

world, which can sprout only up here!”

Then Thomas, François and Antoine, who stood behind their father in a

row, nodded as if to say that this was also their own conviction; whilst

Mère-Grand gazed afar with dreamy eyes as though she could already behold

the splendid future.

“Ah! but it is only a dream; centuries must elapse. We shall never see

it!” murmured Pierre with a quiver.

“But others will!” cried Marie. “And does not that suffice?”

Those lofty words stirred Pierre to the depths of his being. And all at

once there came to him the memory of another Marie*--the adorable Marie

of his youth, that Marie de Guersaint who had been cured at Lourdes, and

the loss of whom had left such a void in his heart. Was that new Marie

who stood there smiling at him, so tranquil and so charming in her

strength, destined to heal that old-time wound? He felt that he was

beginning to live again since she had become his friend.

* The heroine of M. Zola’s “Lourdes.”

Meantime, there before them, the glorious sun, with the sweep of its

rays, was scattering living golden dust over Paris, still and ever sowing

the great future harvest of justice and of truth.

II. TOWARDS LIFE

ONE evening, at the close of a good day’s work, Pierre, who was helping

Thomas, suddenly caught his foot in the skirt of his cassock and narrowly

escaped falling. At this, Marie, after raising a faint cry of anxiety,

exclaimed: “Why don’t you take it off?”

There was no malice in her inquiry. She simply looked upon the priestly

robe as something too heavy and cumbersome, particularly when one had

certain work to perform. Nevertheless, her words deeply impressed Pierre,

and he could not forget them. When he was at home in the evening and

repeated them to himself they gradually threw him into feverish

agitation. Why, indeed, had he not divested himself of that cassock,

which weighed so heavily and painfully on his shoulders? Then a frightful

struggle began within him, and he spent a terrible, sleepless night,

again a prey to all his former torments.

At first sight it seemed a very simple matter that he should cast his

priestly gown aside, for had he not ceased to discharge any priestly

office? He had not said mass for some time past, and this surely meant

renunciation of the priesthood. Nevertheless, so long as he retained his

gown it was possible that he might some day say mass again, whereas if he

cast it aside he would, as it were, strip himself, quit the priesthood

entirely, without possibility of return. It was a terrible step to take,

one that would prove irrevocable; and thus he paced his room for hours,

in great anguish of mind.

He had formerly indulged in a superb dream. Whilst believing nothing

himself he had resolved to watch, in all loyalty, over the belief of

others. He would not so lower himself as to forswear his vows, he would

be no base renegade, but however great the torments of the void he felt

within him he would remain the minister of man’s illusions respecting the

Divinity. And it was by reason of his conduct in this respect that he had

ended by being venerated as a saint--he who denied everything, who had

become a mere empty sepulchre. For a long time his falsehood had never

disturbed him, but it now brought him acute suffering. It seemed to him

that he would be acting in the vilest manner if he delayed placing his

life in accord with his opinions. The thought of it all quite rent his

heart.

The question was a very clear one. By what right did he remain the

minister of a religion in which he no longer believed? Did not elementary

honesty require that he should quit a Church in which he denied the

presence of the Divinity? He regarded the dogmas of that Church as

puerile errors, and yet he persisted in teaching them as if they were

eternal truths. Base work it was, that alarmed his conscience. He vainly

sought the feverish glow of charity and martyrdom which had led him to

offer himself as a sacrifice, willing to suffer all the torture of doubt

and to find his own life lost and ravaged, provided that he might yet

afford the relief of hope to the lowly. Truth and nature, no doubt, had

already regained too much ascendancy over him for those feelings to

return. The thought of such a lying apostolate now wounded him; he no

longer had the hypocritical courage to call the Divinity down upon the

believers kneeling before him, when he was convinced that the Divinity

would not descend. Thus all the past was swept away; there remained

nothing of the sublime pastoral part he would once have liked to play,

that supreme gift of himself which lay in stubborn adherence to the rules

of the Church, and such devotion to faith as to endure in silence the

torture of having lost it.

What must Marie think of his prolonged falsehood, he wondered, and

thereupon he seemed to hear her words again: “Why not take your cassock

off?” His conscience bled as if those words were a stab. What contempt

must she not feel for him, she who was so upright, so high-minded? Every

scattered blame, every covert criticism directed against his conduct,

seemed to find embodiment in her. It now sufficed that she should condemn

him, and he at once felt guilty. At the same time she had never voiced

her disapproval to him, in all probability because she did not think she

had any right to intervene in a struggle of conscience. The superb

calmness and healthiness which she displayed still astonished him. He

himself was ever haunted and tortured by thoughts of the unknown, of what

the morrow of death might have in store for one; but although he had

studied and watched her for days together, he had never seen her give a

sign of doubt or distress. This exemption from such sufferings as his own

was due, said she, to the fact that she gave all her gaiety, all her

energy, all her sense of duty, to the task of living, in such wise that

life itself proved a sufficiency, and no time was left for mere fancies

to terrify and stultify her. Well, then, since she with her air of quiet

strength had asked him why he did not take off his cassock, he would take

it off--yes, he would divest himself of that robe which seemed to burn

and weigh him down.

He fancied himself calmed by this decision, and towards morning threw

himself upon his bed; but all at once a stifling sensation, a renewal of

his abominable anguish, brought him to his feet again. No, no, he could

not divest himself of that gown which clung so tightly to his flesh. His

skin would come away with his cloth, his whole being would be lacerated!

Is not the mark of priesthood an indelible one, does it not brand the

priest for ever, and differentiate him from the flock? Even should he

tear off his gown with his skin, he would remain a priest, an object of

scandal and shame, awkward and impotent, shut off from the life of other

men. And so why tear it off, since he would still and ever remain in

prison, and a fruitful life of work in the broad sunlight was no longer

within his reach? He, indeed, fancied himself irremediably stricken with

impotence. Thus he was unable to come to any decision, and when he

returned to Montmartre two days later he had again relapsed into a state

of torment.

Feverishness, moreover, had come upon the happy home. Guillaume was

becoming more and more annoyed about Salvat’s affair, not a day elapsing

without the newspapers fanning his irritation. He had at first been

deeply touched by the dignified and reticent bearing of Salvat, who had

declared that he had no accomplices whatever. Of course the inquiry into

the crime was what is called a secret one; but magistrate Amadieu, to

whom it had been entrusted, conducted it in a very noisy way. The

newspapers, which he in some degree took into his confidence, were full

of articles and paragraphs about him and his interviews with the

prisoner. Thanks to Salvat’s quiet admissions, Amadieu had been able to

retrace the history of the crime hour by hour, his only remaining doubts

having reference to the nature of the powder which had been employed, and

the making of the bomb itself. It might after all be true that Salvat had

loaded the bomb at a friend’s, as he indeed asserted was the case; but he

must be lying when he added that the only explosive used was dynamite,

derived from some stolen cartridges, for all the experts now declared

that dynamite would never have produced such effects as those which had

been witnessed. This, then, was the mysterious point which protracted the

investigations. And day by day the newspapers profited by it to circulate

the wildest stories under sensational headings, which were specially

devised for the purpose of sending up their sales.

It was all the nonsense contained in these stories that fanned

Guillaume’s irritation. In spite of his contempt for Sagnier he could not

keep from buying the “Voix du Peuple.” Quivering with indignation,

growing more and more exasperated, he was somehow attracted by the mire

which he found in that scurrilous journal. Moreover, the other

newspapers, including even the “Globe,” which was usually so dignified,

published all sorts of statements for which no proof could be supplied,

and drew from them remarks and conclusions which, though couched in

milder language than Sagnier’s, were none the less abominably unjust. It

seemed indeed as if the whole press had set itself the task of covering

Salvat with mud, so as to be able to vilify Anarchism generally.

According to the journalists the prisoner’s life had simply been one long

abomination. He had already earned his living by thievery in his

childhood at the time when he had roamed the streets, an unhappy,

forsaken vagrant; and later on he had proved a bad soldier and a bad

worker. He had been punished for insubordination whilst he was in the

army, and he had been dismissed from a dozen work-shops because he

incessantly disturbed them by his Anarchical propaganda. Later still, he

had fled his country and led a suspicious life of adventure in America,

where, it was alleged, he must have committed all sorts of unknown

crimes. Moreover there was his horrible immorality, his connection with

his sister-in-law, that Madame Théodore who had taken charge of his

forsaken child in his absence, and with whom he had cohabited since his

return to France. In this wise Salvat’s failings and transgressions were

pitilessly denounced and magnified without any mention of the causes

which had induced them, or of the excuses which lay in the unhappy man’s

degrading environment. And so Guillaume’s feelings of humanity and

justice revolted, for he knew the real Salvat,--a man of tender heart and

dreamy mind, so liable to be impassioned by fancies,--a man cast into

life when a child without weapon of defence, ever trodden down or thrust

aside, then gradually exasperated by the perpetual onslaughts of want,

and at last dreaming of reviving the golden age by destroying the old,

corrupt world.

Unfortunately for Salvat, everything had gone against him since he had

been shut up in strict confinement, at the mercy of the ambitious and

worldly Amadieu. Guillaume had learnt from his son, Thomas, that the

prisoner could count on no support whatever among his former mates at the

Grandidier works. These works were becoming prosperous once more, thanks

to their steady output of bicycles; and it was said that Grandidier was

only waiting for Thomas to perfect his little motor, in order to start

the manufacture of motor-cars on a large scale. However, the success

which he was now for the first time achieving, and which scarcely repaid

him for all his years of toil and battle, had in certain respects

rendered him prudent and even severe. He did not wish any suspicion to be

cast upon his business through the unpleasant affair of his former

workman Salvat, and so he had dismissed such of his workmen as held

Anarchist views. If he had kept the two Toussaints, one of whom was the

prisoner’s brother-in-law, while the other was suspected of sympathy with

him, this was because they had belonged to the works for a score of

years, and he did not like to cast them adrift. Moreover, Toussaint, the

father, had declared that if he were called as a witness for the defence,

he should simply give such particulars of Salvat’s career as related to

the prisoner’s marriage with his sister.

One evening when Thomas came home from the works, to which he returned

every now and then in order to try his little motor, he related that he

had that day seen Madame Grandidier, the poor young woman who had become

insane through an attack of puerperal fever following upon the death of a

child. Although most frightful attacks of madness occasionally came over

her, and although life beside her was extremely painful, even during the

intervals when she remained downcast and gentle as a child, her husband

had never been willing to send her to an asylum. He kept her with him in

a pavilion near the works, and as a rule the shutters of the windows

overlooking the yard remained closed. Thus Thomas had been greatly

surprised to see one of these windows open, and the young woman appear at

it amidst the bright sunshine of that early spring. True, she only

remained there for a moment, vision-like, fair and pretty, with smiling

face; for a servant who suddenly drew near closed the window, and the

pavilion then again sank into lifeless silence. At the same time it was

reported among the men employed at the works that the poor creature had

not experienced an attack for well-nigh a month past, and that this was

the reason why the “governor” looked so strong and pleased, and worked so

vigorously to help on the increasing prosperity of his business.

“He isn’t a bad fellow,” added Thomas, “but with the terrible competition

that he has to encounter, he is bent on keeping his men under control.

Nowadays, says he, when so many capitalists and wage earners seem bent on

exterminating one another, the latter--if they don’t want to

starve--ought to be well pleased when capital falls into the hands of an

active, fair-minded man.... If he shows no pity for Salvat, it is

because he really believes in the necessity of an example.”

That same day Thomas, after leaving the works and while threading his way

through the toilsome hive-like Marcadet district, had overtaken Madame

Théodore and little Céline, who were wandering on in great distress. It

appeared that they had just called upon Toussaint, who had been unable to

lend them even such a trifle as ten sous. Since Salvat’s arrest, the

woman and the child had been forsaken and suspected by one and all.

Driven forth from their wretched lodging, they were without food and

wandered hither and thither dependent on chance alms. Never had greater

want and misery fallen on defenceless creatures.

“I told them to come up here, father,” said Thomas, “for I thought that

one might pay their landlord a month’s rent, so that they might go home

again.... Ah! there’s somebody coming now--it’s they, no doubt.”

Guillaume had felt angry with himself whilst listening to his son, for he

had not thought of the poor creatures. It was the old story: the man

disappears, and the woman and the child find themselves in the streets,

starving. Whenever Justice strikes a man her blow travels beyond him,

fells innocent beings and kills them.

Madame Théodore came in, humble and timid, scared like a luckless

creature whom life never wearies of persecuting. She was becoming almost

blind, and little Céline had to lead her. The girl’s fair, thin face wore

its wonted expression of shrewd intelligence, and even now, however

woeful her rags, it was occasionally brightened by a childish smile.

Pierre and Marie, who were both there, felt extremely touched. Near them

was Madame Mathis, young Victor’s mother, who had come to help Mère-Grand

with the mending of some house-linen. She went out by the day in this

fashion among a few families, and was thus enabled to give her son an

occasional franc or two. Guillaume alone questioned Madame Théodore.

“Ah! monsieur,” she stammered, “who could ever have thought Salvat

capable of such a thing, he who’s so good and so humane? Still it’s true,

since he himself has admitted it to the magistrate.... For my part I

told everybody that he was in Belgium. I wasn’t quite sure of it, still

I’m glad that he didn’t come back to see us; for if he had been arrested

at our place I should have lost my senses.... Well, now that they have

him, they’ll sentence him to death, that’s certain.”

At this Céline, who had been looking around her with an air of interest,

piteously exclaimed: “Oh! no, oh! no, mamma, they won’t hurt him!”

Big tears appeared in the child’s eyes as she raised this cry. Guillaume

kissed her, and then went on questioning Madame Théodore.

“Well, monsieur,” she answered, “the child’s not old or big enough to

work as yet, and my eyes are done for, people won’t even take me as a

charwoman. And so it’s simple enough, we starve.... Oh! of course I’m

not without relations; I have a sister who married very well. Her husband

is a clerk, Monsieur Chrétiennot, perhaps you know him. Unfortunately

he’s rather proud, and as I don’t want any scenes between him and my

sister, I no longer go to see her. Besides, she’s in despair just now,

for she’s expecting another baby, which is a terrible blow for a small

household, when one already has two girls.... That’s why the only

person I can apply to is my brother Toussaint. His wife isn’t a bad sort

by any means, but she’s no longer the same since she’s been living in

fear of her husband having another attack. The first one carried off all

her savings, and what would become of her if Toussaint should remain on

her hands, paralysed? Besides, she’s threatened with another burden, for,

as you may know, her son Charles got keeping company with a servant at a

wine shop, who of course ran away after she had a baby, which she left

him to see to. So one can understand that the Toussaints themselves are

hard put. I don’t complain of them. They’ve already lent me a little

money, and of course they can’t go on lending for ever.”

She continued talking in this spiritless, resigned way, complaining only

on account of Céline; for, said she, it was enough to make one’s heart

break to see such an intelligent child obliged to tramp the streets after

getting on so well at the Communal School. She could feel too that

everybody now kept aloof from them on account of Salvat. The Toussaints

didn’t want to be compromised in any such business. There was only

Charles, who had said that he could well understand a man losing his head

and trying to blow up the _bourgeois_, because they really treated the

workers in a blackguard way.

“For my part, monsieur,” added Madame Théodore, “I say nothing, for I’m

only a woman. All the same, though, if you’d like to know what I think,

well, I think that it would have been better if Salvat hadn’t done what

he did, for we two, the girl and I, are the real ones to suffer from it.

Ah! I can’t get the idea into my head, that the little one should be the

daughter of a man condemned to death.”

Once more Céline interrupted her, flinging her arms around her neck: “Oh!

mamma, oh! mamma, don’t say that, I beg you! It can’t be true, it grieves

me too much!”

At this Pierre and Marie exchanged compassionate glances, while

Mère-Grand rose from her chair, in order to go upstairs and search her

wardrobes for some articles of clothing which might be of use to the two

poor creatures. Guillaume, who, for his part, had been moved to tears,

and felt full of revolt against the social system which rendered such

distress possible, slipped some alms into the child’s little hand, and

promised Madame Théodore that he would see her landlord so as to get her

back her room.

“Ah! Monsieur Froment!” replied the unfortunate woman. “Salvat was quite

right when he said you were a real good man! And as you employed him here

for a few days you know too that he isn’t a wicked one.... Now that

he’s been put in prison everybody calls him a brigand, and it breaks my

heart to hear them.” Then, turning towards Madame Mathis, who had

continued sewing in discreet silence, like a respectable woman whom none

of these things could concern, she went on: “I know you, madame, but I’m

better acquainted with your son, Monsieur Victor, who has often come to

chat at our place. Oh! you needn’t be afraid, I shan’t say it, I shall

never compromise anybody; but if Monsieur Victor were free to speak, he’d

be the man to explain Salvat’s ideas properly.”

Madame Mathis looked at her in stupefaction. Ignorant as she was of her

son’s real life and views, she experienced a vague dread at the idea of

any connection between him and Salvat’s family. Moreover, she refused to

believe it possible. “Oh! you must be mistaken,” she said. “Victor told

me that he now seldom came to Montmartre, as he was always going about in

search of work.”

By the anxious quiver of the widow’s voice, Madame Théodore understood

that she ought not to have mixed her up in her troubles; and so in all

humility she at once beat a retreat: “I beg your pardon, madame, I didn’t

think I should hurt your feelings. Perhaps, too, I’m mistaken, as you

say.”

Madame Mathis had again turned to her sewing as to the solitude in which

she lived, that nook of decent misery where she dwelt without

companionship and almost unknown, with scarcely sufficient bread to eat.

Ah! that dear son of hers, whom she loved so well; however much he might

neglect her, she had placed her only remaining hope in him: he was her

last dream, and would some day lavish all kinds of happiness upon her!

At that moment Mère-Grand came downstairs again, laden with a bundle of

linen and woollen clothing, and Madame Théodore and little Céline

withdrew while pouring forth their thanks. For a long time after they had

gone Guillaume, unable to resume work, continued walking to and fro in

silence, with a frown upon his face.

When Pierre, still hesitating and still tortured by conflicting feelings,

returned to Montmartre on the following day he witnessed with much

surprise a visit of a very different kind. There was a sudden gust of

wind, a whirl of skirts and a ring of laughter as little Princess

Rosemonde swept in, followed by young Hyacinthe Duvillard, who, on his

side, retained a very frigid bearing.

“It’s I, my dear master,” exclaimed the Princess. “I promised you a

visit, you remember, for I am such a great admirer of your genius. And

our young friend here has been kind enough to bring me. We have only just

returned from Norway, and my very first visit is for you.”

She turned as she spoke, and bowed in an easy and gracious way to Pierre

and Marie, François and Antoine, who were also there. Then she resumed:

“Oh! my dear master, you have no idea how beautifully virginal Norway is!

We all ought to go and drink at that new source of the Ideal, and we

should return purified, rejuvenated and capable of great renunciations!”

As a matter of fact she had been well-nigh bored to death there. To make

one’s honeymoon journey to the land of the ice and snow, instead of to

Italy, the hot land of the sun, was doubtless a very refined idea, which

showed that no base materialism formed part of one’s affections. It was

the soul alone that travelled, and naturally it was fit that only kisses

of the soul should be exchanged on the journey. Unfortunately, however,

Hyacinthe had carried his symbolism so far as to exasperate Rosemonde,

and on one occasion they had come to blows over it, and then to tears

when this lover’s quarrel had ended as many such quarrels do. Briefly,

they had no longer deemed themselves pure enough for the companionship of

the swans and the lakes of dreamland, and had therefore taken the first

steamer that was sailing for France.

As it was altogether unnecessary to confess to everybody what a failure

their journey had proved, the Princess abruptly brought her rapturous

references to Norway to an end, and then explained: “By the way, do you

know what I found awaiting me on my return? Why, I found my house

pillaged, oh! completely pillaged! And in such a filthy condition, too!

We at once recognised the mark of the beast, and thought of Bergaz’s

young friends.”

Already on the previous day Guillaume had read in the newspapers that a

band of young Anarchists had entered the Princess’s little house by

breaking a basement window. She had left it quite deserted, unprotected

even by a caretaker; and the robbers had not merely removed everything

from the premises--including even the larger articles of furniture, but

had lived there for a couple of days, bringing provisions in from

outside, drinking all the wine in the cellars, and leaving every room in

a most filthy and disgusting condition. On discovering all this,

Rosemonde had immediately remembered the evening she had spent at the

Chamber of Horrors in the company of Bergaz and his acolytes, Rossi and

Sanfaute, who had heard her speak of her intended trip to Norway. The two

young men had therefore been arrested, but Bergaz had so far escaped. The

Princess was not greatly astonished by it all, for she had already been

warned of the presence of dangerous characters among the mixed

cosmopolitan set with which she associated. Janzen had told her in

confidence of a number of villanous affairs which were attributed to

Bergaz and his band. And now the Anarchist leader openly declared that

Bergaz had sold himself to the police like Raphanel; and that the

burglary at the Princess’s residence had been planned by the police

officials, who thereby hoped to cover the Anarchist cause with mire. If

proof was wanted of this, added Janzen, it could be found in the fact

that the police had allowed Bergaz to escape.

“I fancied that the newspapers might have exaggerated matters,” said

Guillaume, when the Princess had finished her story. “They are inventing

such abominable things just now, in order to blacken the case of that

poor devil Salvat.”

“Oh! they’ve exaggerated nothing!” Rosemonde gaily rejoined. “As a matter

of fact they have omitted a number of particulars which were too filthy

for publication.... For my part, I’ve merely had to go to an hotel.

I’m very comfortable there; I was beginning to feel bored in that house

of mine.... All the same, however, Anarchism is hardly a clean

business, and I no longer like to say that I have any connection with

it.”

She again laughed, and then passed to another subject, asking Guillaume

to tell her of his most recent researches, in order, no doubt, that she

might show she knew enough chemistry to understand him. He had been

rendered thoughtful, however, by the story of Bergaz and the burglary,

and would only answer her in a general way.

Meantime, Hyacinthe was renewing his acquaintance with his

school-fellows, François and Antoine. He had accompanied the Princess to

Montmartre against his own inclinations; but since she had taken to

whipping him he had become afraid of her. The chemist’s little home

filled him with disdain, particularly as the chemist was a man of

questionable reputation. Moreover, he thought it a duty to insist on his

own superiority in the presence of those old school-fellows of his, whom

he found toiling away in the common rut, like other people.

“Ah! yes,” said he to François, who was taking notes from a book spread

open before him, “you are at the École Normale, I believe, and are

preparing for your licentiate. Well, for my part, you know, the idea of

being tied to anything horrifies me. I become quite stupid when there’s

any question of examination or competition. The only possible road for

one to follow is that of the Infinite. And between ourselves what dupery

there is in science, how it narrows our horizon! It’s just as well to

remain a child with eyes gazing into the invisible. A child knows more

than all your learned men.”

François, who occasionally indulged in irony, pretended to share his

opinion. “No doubt, no doubt,” said he, “but one must have a natural

disposition to remain a child. For my part, unhappily, I’m consumed by a

desire to learn and know. It’s deplorable, as I’m well aware, but I pass

my days racking my brain over books.... I shall never know very much,

that’s certain; and perhaps that’s the reason why I’m ever striving to

learn a little more. You must at all events grant that work, like

idleness, is a means of passing life, though of course it is a less

elegant and aesthetic one.”

“Less aesthetic, precisely,” rejoined Hyacinthe. “Beauty lies solely in

the unexpressed, and life is simply degraded when one introduces anything

material into it.”

Simpleton though he was in spite of the enormity of his pretensions, he

doubtless detected that François had been speaking ironically. So he

turned to Antoine, who had remained seated in front of a block he was

engraving. It was the one which represented Lise reading in her garden,

for he was ever taking it in hand again and touching it up in his desire

to emphasise his indication of the girl’s awakening to intelligence and

life.

“So you engrave, I see,” said Hyacinthe. “Well, since I renounced

versification--a little poem I had begun on the End of Woman--because

words seemed to me so gross and cumbersome, mere paving-stones as it

were, fit for labourers, I myself have had some idea of trying drawing,

and perhaps engraving too. But what drawing can portray the mystery which

lies beyond life, the only sphere that has any real existence and

importance for us? With what pencil and on what kind of plate could one

depict it? We should need something impalpable, something unheard of,

which would merely suggest the essence of things and beings.”

“But it’s only by material means,” Antoine somewhat roughly replied,

“that art can render the essence of things and beings, that is, their

full significance as we understand it. To transcribe life is my great

passion; and briefly life is the only mystery that there is in things and

beings. When it seems to me that an engraving of mine lives, I’m well

pleased, for I feel that I have created.”

Hyacinthe pouted by way of expressing his contempt of all fruitfulness.

Any fool might beget offspring. It was the sexless idea, existing by

itself, that was rare and exquisite. He tried to explain this, but became

confused, and fell back on the conviction which he had brought back from

Norway, that literature and art were done for in France, killed by

baseness and excess of production.

“It’s evident!” said François gaily by way of conclusion. “To do nothing

already shows that one has some talent!”

Meantime, Pierre and Marie listened and gazed around them, somewhat

embarrassed by this strange visit which had set the usually grave and

peaceful workroom topsy-turvy. The little Princess, though, evinced much

amiability, and on drawing near to Marie admired the wonderful delicacy

of some embroidery she was finishing. Before leaving, moreover, Rosemonde

insisted upon Guillaume inscribing his autograph in an album which

Hyacinthe had to fetch from her carriage. The young man obeyed her with

evident boredom. It could be seen that they were already weary of one

another. Pending a fresh caprice, however, it amused Rosemonde to

terrorize her sorry victim. When she at length led him away, after

declaring to Guillaume that she should always regard that visit as a

memorable incident in her life, she made the whole household smile by

saying: “Oh! so your sons knew Hyacinthe at college. He’s a good-natured

little fellow, isn’t he? and he would really be quite nice if he would

only behave like other people.”

That same day Janzen and Bache came to spend the evening with Guillaume.

Once a week they now met at Montmartre, as they had formerly done at

Neuilly. Pierre, on these occasions, went home very late, for as soon as

Mère-Grand, Marie, and Guillaume’s sons had retired for the night, there

were endless chats in the workroom, whence Paris could be seen spangled

with thousands of gas lights. Another visitor at these times was

Théophile Morin, but he did not arrive before ten o’clock, as he was

detained by the work of correcting his pupils’ exercises or some other

wearisome labour pertaining to his profession.

As soon as Guillaume had told the others of the Princess’s visit that

afternoon, Janzen hastily exclaimed: “But she’s mad, you know. When I

first met her I thought for a moment that I might perhaps utilise her for

the cause. She seemed so thoroughly convinced and bold! But I soon found

that she was the craziest of women, and simply hungered for new

emotions!”

Janzen was at last emerging from his wonted frigidity and mysteriousness.

His cheeks were quite flushed. In all probability he had suffered from

his rupture with the woman whom he had once called ‘the Queen of the

Anarchists,’ and whose fortune and extensive circle of acquaintance had

seemed to him such powerful weapons of propaganda.

“You know,” said he, when he had calmed down, “it was the police who had

her house pillaged and turned into a pigstye. Yes, in view of Salvat’s

trial, which is now near at hand, the idea was to damn Anarchism beyond

possibility of even the faintest sympathy on the part of the

_bourgeois_.”

“Yes, she told me so,” replied Guillaume, who had become attentive. “But

I scarcely credit the story. If Bergaz had merely acted under such

influence as you suggest, he would have been arrested with the others,

just as Raphanel was taken with those whom he betrayed. Besides, I know

something of Bergaz; he’s a freebooter.” Guillaume made a sorrowful

gesture, and then in a saddened voice continued: “Oh, I can understand

all claims and all legitimate reprisals. But theft, cynical theft for the

purpose of profit and enjoyment, is beyond me! It lowers my hope of a

better and more equitable form of society. Yes, that burglary at the

Princess’s house has greatly distressed me.”

An enigmatical smile, sharp like a knife, again played over Janzen’s

lips. “Oh! it’s a matter of heredity with you!” said he. “The centuries

of education and belief that lie behind you compel you to protest. All

the same, however, when people won’t make restoration, things must be

taken from them. What worries me is that Bergaz should have sold himself

just now. The public prosecutor will use that farcical burglary as a

crushing argument when he asks the jury for Salvat’s head.”

Such was Janzen’s hatred of the police that he stubbornly clung to his

version of the affair. Perhaps, too, he had quarrelled with Bergaz, with

whom he had at one time freely associated.

Guillaume, who understood that all discussion would be useless, contented

himself with replying: “Ah! yes, Salvat! Everything is against that

unhappy fellow, he is certain to be condemned. But you can’t know, my

friends, what a passion that affair of his puts me into. All my ideas of

truth and justice revolt at the thought of it. He’s a madman certainly;

but there are so many excuses to be urged for him. At bottom he is simply

a martyr who has followed the wrong track. And yet he has become the

scapegoat, laden with the crimes of the whole nation, condemned to pay

for one and all!”

Bache and Morin nodded without replying. They both professed horror of

Anarchism; while Morin, forgetting that the word if not the thing dated

from his first master Proudhon, clung to his Comtist doctrines, in the

conviction that science alone would ensure the happiness and pacification

of the nations. Bache, for his part, old mystical humanitarian that he

was, claimed that the only solution would come from Fourier, who by

decreeing an alliance of talent, labour and capital, had mapped out the

future in a decisive manner. Nevertheless, both Bache and Morin were so

discontented with the slow-paced _bourgeoise_ Republic of the present

day, and so hurt by the thought that everything was going from bad to

worse through the flouting of their own particular ideas, that they were

quite willing to wax indignant at the manner in which the conflicting

parties of the time were striving to make use of Salvat in order to

retain or acquire power.

“When one thinks,” said Bache, “that this ministerial crisis of theirs

has now been lasting for nearly three weeks! Every appetite is openly

displayed, it’s a most disgusting sight! Did you see in the papers this

morning that the President has again been obliged to summon Vignon to the

Elysée?”

“Oh! the papers,” muttered Morin in his weary way, “I no longer read

them! What’s the use of doing so? They are so badly written, and they all

lie!”

As Bache had said, the ministerial crisis was still dragging on. The

President of the Republic, taking as his guide the debate in the Chamber

of Deputies, by which the Barroux administration had been overthrown, had

very properly sent for Vignon, the victor on that occasion, and entrusted

him with the formation of a new ministry. It had seemed that this would

be an easy task, susceptible of accomplishment in two or three days at

the utmost, for the names of the friends whom the young leader of the

Radical party would bring to power with him had been freely mentioned for

months past. But all sorts of difficulties had suddenly arisen. For ten

days or so Vignon had struggled on amidst inextricable obstacles. Then,

disheartened and disgusted, fearing, too, that he might use himself up

and shut off the future if he persisted in his endeavours, he had been

obliged to tell the President that he renounced the task. Forthwith the

President had summoned other deputies, and questioned them until he had

found one brave enough to make an attempt on his own account; whereupon

incidents similar to those which had marked Vignon’s endeavours had once

more occurred. At the outset a list was drawn up with every prospect of

being ratified within a few hours, but all at once hesitation arose, some

pulled one way, some another; every effort was slowly paralysed till

absolute failure resulted. It seemed as though the mysterious manœuvres

which had hampered Vignon had begun again; it was as if some band of

invisible plotters was, for some unknown purpose, doing its utmost to

wreck every combination. A thousand hindrances arose with increasing

force from every side--jealousy, dislike, and even betrayal were secretly

prompted by expert agents, who employed every form of pressure, whether

threats or promises, besides fanning and casting rival passions and

interests into collision. Thus the President, greatly embarrassed by this

posture of affairs, had again found it necessary to summon Vignon, who,

after reflection and negotiation, now had an almost complete list in his

pocket, and seemed likely to perfect a new administration within the next

forty-eight hours.

“Still it isn’t settled,” resumed Bache. “Well-informed people assert

that Vignon will fail again as he did the first time. For my part I can’t

get rid of the idea that Duvillard’s gang is pulling the strings, though

for whose benefit is a mystery. You may be quite sure, however, that its

chief purpose is to stifle the African Railways affair. If Monferrand

were not so badly compromised I should almost suspect some trick on his

part. Have you noticed that the ‘Globe,’ after throwing Barroux overboard

in all haste, now refers to Monferrand every day with the most respectful

sympathy? That’s a grave sign; for it isn’t Fonsègue’s habit to show any

solicitude for the vanquished. But what can one expect from that wretched

Chamber! The only point certain is that something dirty is being plotted

there.”

“And that big dunderhead Mège who works for every party except his own!”

exclaimed Morin; “what a dupe he is with that idea that he need merely

overthrow first one cabinet and then another, in order to become the

leader of one himself!”

The mention of Mège brought them all to agreement, for they unanimously

hated him. Bache, although his views coincided on many points with those

of the apostle of State Collectivism, judged each of his speeches, each

of his actions, with pitiless severity. Janzen, for his part, treated the

Collectivist leader as a mere reactionary _bourgeois_, who ought to be

swept away one of the first. This hatred of Mège was indeed the common

passion of Guillaume’s friends. They could occasionally show some justice

for men who in no wise shared their ideas; but in their estimation it was

an unpardonable crime for anybody to hold much the same views as

themselves, without being absolutely in agreement with them on every

possible point.

Their discussion continued, their various theories mingling or clashing

till they passed from politics to the press, and grew excited over the

denunciations which poured each morning from Sagnier’s newspaper, like

filth from the mouth of a sewer. Thereupon Guillaume, who had become

absorbed in reverie while pacing to and fro according to his habit,

suddenly exclaimed: “Ah! what dirty work it is that Sagnier does! Before

long there won’t be a single person, a single thing left on which he

hasn’t vomited! You think he’s on your side, and suddenly he splashes you

with mire!... By the way, he related yesterday that skeleton keys and

stolen purses were found on Salvat when he was arrested in the Bois de

Boulogne! It’s always Salvat! He’s the inexhaustible subject for

articles. The mere mention of him suffices to send up a paper’s sales!

The bribe-takers of the African Railways shout ‘Salvat!’ to create a

diversion. And the battles which wreck ministers are waged round his

name. One and all set upon him and make use of him and beat him down!”

With that cry of revolt and compassion, the friends separated for the

night. Pierre, who sat near the open window, overlooking the sparkling

immensity of Paris, had listened to the others without speaking a word.

He had once more been mastered by his doubts, the terrible struggle of

his heart and mind; and no solution, no appeasement had come to him from

all the contradictory views he had heard--the views of men who only

united in predicting the disappearance of the old world, and could make

no joint brotherly effort to rear the future world of truth and justice.

In that vast city of Paris stretching below him, spangled with stars,

glittering like the sky of a summer’s night, Pierre also found a great

enigma. It was like chaos, like a dim expanse of ashes dotted with sparks

whence the coming aurora would arise. What future was being forged there,

he wondered, what decisive word of salvation and happiness would come

with the dawn, and wing its flight to every point of the horizon?

When Pierre, in his turn, was about to retire, Guillaume laid his hands

upon his shoulders, and with much emotion gave him a long look. “Ah! my

poor fellow,” said he, “you’ve been suffering too for some days past, I

have noticed it. But you are the master of your sufferings, for the

struggle you have to overcome is simply in yourself, and you can subdue

it; whereas one cannot subdue the world, when it is the world, its

cruelty and injustice that make one suffer! Good night, be brave, act as

your reason tells you, even if it makes you weep, and you will find peace

surely enough.”

Later on, when Pierre again found himself alone in his little house at

Neuilly, where none now visited him save the shades of his father and

mother, he was long kept awake by a supreme internal combat. He had never

before felt so disgusted with the falsehood of his life, that cassock

which he had persisted in wearing, though he was a priest in name only.

Perhaps it was all that he had beheld and heard at his brother’s, the

want and wretchedness of some, the wild, futile agitation of others, the

need of improvement among mankind which remained paramount amidst every

contradiction and form of weakness, that had made him more deeply

conscious of the necessity of living in loyal and normal fashion in the

broad daylight. He could no longer think of his former dream of leading

the solitary life of a saintly priest when he was nothing of the kind,

without a shiver of shame at having lied so long. And now it was quite

decided, he would lie no longer, not even from feelings of compassion in

order that others might retain their religious illusions. And yet how

painful it was to have to divest himself of that gown which seemed to

cling to his skin, and how heartrending the thought that if he did remove

it he would be skinless, lacerated, infirm, unable, do what he might, to

become like other men!

It was this recurring thought which again tortured him throughout that

terrible night. Would life yet allow him to enter its fold? Had he not

been branded with a mark which for ever condemned him to dwell apart? He

thought he could feel his priestly vows burning his very flesh like

red-hot iron. What use would it be for him to dress as men dress, if in

reality he was never to be a man? He had hitherto lived in such a

quivering state, in a sphere of renunciation and dreams! To know manhood

never, to be too late for it, that thought filled him with terror. And

when at last he made up his mind to fling aside his cassock, he did so

from a simple sense of rectitude, for all his anguish remained.

When he returned to Montmartre on the following day, he wore a jacket and

trousers of a dark colour. Neither an exclamation nor a glance that might

have embarrassed him came from Mère-Grand or the three young men. Was not

the change a natural one? They greeted him therefore in the quiet way

that was usual with them; perhaps, with some increase of affection, as if

to set him the more at his ease. Guillaume, however, ventured to smile

good-naturedly. In that change he detected his own work. Curé was coming,

as he had hoped it would come, by him and in his own home, amid the full

sunlight, the life which ever streamed in through yonder window.

Marie, who on her side raised her eyes and looked at Pierre, knew nothing

of the sufferings which he had endured through her simple and logical

inquiry: “Why not take your cassock off?” She merely felt that by

removing it he would be more at ease for his work.

“Oh, Pierre, just come and look!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I have been

amusing myself with watching all the smoke which the wind is laying

yonder over Paris. One might take it to be a huge fleet of ships shining

in the sunlight. Yes, yes, golden ships, thousands of golden ships,

setting forth from the ocean of Paris to enlighten and pacify the world!”

III. THE DAWN OF LOVE

A COUPLE of days afterwards, when Pierre was already growing accustomed

to his new attire, and no longer gave it a thought, it so happened that

on reaching Montmartre he encountered Abbé Rose outside the basilica of

the Sacred Heart. The old priest, who at first was quite thunderstruck

and scarcely able to recognise him, ended by taking hold of his hands and

giving him a long look. Then with his eyes full of tears he exclaimed:

“Oh! my son, so you have fallen into the awful state I feared! I never

mentioned it, but I felt that God had withdrawn from you. Ah! nothing

could wound my heart so cruelly as this.”

Then, still trembling, he began to lead Pierre away as if to hide such a

scandal from the few people who passed by; and at last, his strength

failing him, he sank upon a heap of bricks lying on the grass of one of

the adjoining work-yards.

The sincere grief which his old and affectionate friend displayed upset

Pierre far more than any angry reproaches or curses would have done.

Tears had come to his own eyes, so acute was the suffering he experienced

at this meeting, which he ought, however, to have foreseen. There was yet

another wrenching, and one which made the best of their blood flow, in

that rupture between Pierre and the saintly man whose charitable dreams

and hopes of salvation he had so long shared. There had been so many

divine illusions, so many struggles for the relief of the masses, so much

renunciation and forgiveness practised in common between them in their

desire to hasten the harvest of the future! And now they were parting;

he, Pierre, still young in years, was returning to life, leaving his aged

companion to his vain waiting and his dreams.

In his turn, taking hold of Abbé Rose’s hands, he gave expression to his

sorrow. “Ah, my friend, my father,” said he, “it is you alone that I

regret losing, now that I am leaving my frightful torments behind. I

thought that I was cured of them, but it has been sufficient for me to

meet you, and my heart is rent again.... Don’t weep for me, I pray

you, don’t reproach me for what I have done. It was necessary that I

should do it. If I had consulted you, you would yourself have told me

that it was better to renounce the priesthood than to remain a priest

without faith or honour.”

“Yes, yes,” Abbé Rose gently responded, “you no longer had any faith

left. I suspected it. And your rigidity and saintliness of life, in which

I detected such great despair, made me anxious for you. How many hours

did I not spend at times in striving to calm you! And you must listen to

me again, you must still let me save you. I am not a sufficiently learned

theologian to lead you back by discussing texts and dogmas; but in the

name of Charity, my child, yes, in the name of Charity alone, reflect and

take up your task of consolation and hope once more.”

Pierre had sat down beside Abbé Rose, in that deserted nook, at the very

foot of the basilica. “Charity! charity!” he replied in passionate

accents; “why, it is its nothingness and bankruptcy that have killed the

priest there was in me. How can you believe that benevolence is

sufficient, when you have spent your whole life in practising it without

any other result than that of seeing want perpetuated and even increased,

and without any possibility of naming the day when such abomination shall

cease?... You think of the reward after death, do you not? The justice

that is to reign in heaven? But that is not justice, it is dupery--dupery

that has brought the world nothing but suffering for centuries past.”

Then he reminded the old priest of their life in the Charonne district,

when they had gone about together succouring children in the streets and

parents in their hovels; the whole of those admirable efforts which, so

far as Abbé Rose was concerned, had simply ended in blame from his

superiors, and removal from proximity to his poor, under penalty of more

severe punishment should he persist in compromising religion by the

practice of blind benevolence without reason or object. And now, was he

not, so to say, submerged beneath the ever-rising tide of want, aware

that he would never, never be able to give enough even should he dispose

of millions, and that he could only prolong the agony of the poor, who,

even should they eat today, would starve again on the morrow? Thus he was

powerless. The wound which he tried to dress and heal, immediately

reopened and spread, in such wise that all society would at last be

stricken and carried off by it.

Quivering as he listened, and slowly shaking his white head, the old

priest ended by replying: “what does that matter, my child? what does

that matter? One must give, always give, give in spite of everything!

There is no other joy on earth.... If dogmas worry you, content

yourself with the Gospel, and even of that retain merely the promise of

salvation through charity.”

But at this Pierre’s feelings revolted. He forgot that he was speaking to

one of simple mind, who was all love and nothing else, and could

therefore not follow him. “The trial has been made,” he answered, “human

salvation cannot be effected by charity, nothing but justice can

accomplish it. That is the gathering cry which is going up from every

nation. For nearly two thousand years now the Gospel has proved a

failure. There has been no redemption; the sufferings of mankind are

every whit as great and unjust as they were when Jesus came. And thus the

Gospel is now but an abolished code, from which society can only draw

things that are troublous and hurtful. Men must free themselves from it.”

This was his final conviction. How strange the idea, thought he, of

choosing as the world’s social legislator one who lived, as Jesus lived,

amidst a social system absolutely different from that of nowadays. The

age was different, the very world was different. And if it were merely a

question of retaining only such of the moral teaching of Jesus as seemed

human and eternal, was there not again a danger in applying immutable

principles to the society of every age? No society could live under the

strict law of the Gospel. Was not all order, all labour, all life

destroyed by the teaching of Jesus? Did He not deny woman, the earth,

eternal nature and the eternal fruitfulness of things and beings?

Moreover, Catholicism had reared upon His primitive teaching such a

frightful edifice of terror and oppression. The theory of original sin,

that terrible heredity reviving with each creature born into the world,

made no allowance as Science does for the corrective influences of

education, circumstances and environment. There could be no more

pessimist conception of man than this one which devotes him to the Devil

from the instant of his birth, and pictures him as struggling against

himself until the instant of his death. An impossible and absurd

struggle, for it is a question of changing man in his entirety, killing

the flesh, killing reason, destroying some guilty energy in each and

every passion, and of pursuing the Devil to the very depths of the

waters, mountains and forests, there to annihilate him with the very sap

of the world. If this theory is accepted the world is but sin, a mere

Hell of temptation and suffering, through which one must pass in order to

merit Heaven. Ah! what an admirable instrument for absolute despotism is

that religion of death, which the principle of charity alone has enabled

men to tolerate, but which the need of justice will perforce sweep away.

The poor man, who is the wretched dupe of it all, no longer believes in

Paradise, but requires that each and all should be rewarded according to

their deserts upon this earth; and thus eternal life becomes the good

goddess, and desire and labour the very laws of the world, while the

fruitfulness of woman is again honoured, and the idiotic nightmare of

Hell is replaced by glorious Nature whose travail knows no end. Leaning

upon modern Science, clear Latin reason sweeps away the ancient Semitic

conception of the Gospel.

“For eighteen hundred years,” concluded Pierre, “Christianity has been

hampering the march of mankind towards truth and justice. And mankind

will only resume its evolution on the day when it abolishes Christianity,

and places the Gospel among the works of the wise, without taking it any

longer as its absolute and final law.”

But Abbé Rose raised his trembling hands: “Be quiet, be quiet, my child!”

he cried; “you are blaspheming! I knew that doubt distracted you; but I

thought you so patient, so able to bear suffering, that I relied on your

spirit of renunciation and resignation. What can have happened to make

you leave the Church in this abrupt and violent fashion? I no longer

recognise you. Sudden passion has sprung up in you, an invincible force

seems to carry you away. What is it? Who has changed you, tell me?”

Pierre listened in astonishment. “No,” said he, “I assure you, I am such

as you have known me, and in all this there is but an inevitable result

and finish. Who could have influenced me, since nobody has entered my

life? What new feeling could transform me, since I find none in me? I am

the same as before, the same assuredly.”

Still there was a touch of hesitation in his voice. Was it really true

that there had been no change within him? He again questioned himself,

and there came no clear answer; decidedly, he would find nothing. It was

all but a delightful awakening, an overpowering desire for life, a

longing to open his arms widely enough to embrace everyone and

everything indeed, a breeze of joy seemed to raise him from the ground

and carry him along.

Although Abbé Rose was too innocent of heart to understand things

clearly, he again shook his head and thought of the snares which the

Devil is ever setting for men. He was quite overwhelmed by Pierre’s

defection. Continuing his efforts to win him back, he made the mistake of

advising him to consult Monseigneur Martha, for he hoped that a prelate

of such high authority would find the words necessary to restore him to

his faith. Pierre, however, boldly replied that if he was leaving the

Church it was partly because it comprised such a man as Martha, such an

artisan of deception and despotism, one who turned religion into corrupt

diplomacy, and dreamt of winning men back to God by dint of ruses.

Thereupon Abbé Rose, rising to his feet, could find no other argument in

his despair than that of pointing to the basilica which stood beside

them, square, huge and massive, and still waiting for its dome.

“That is God’s abode, my child,” said he, “the edifice of expiation and

triumph, of penitence and forgiveness. You have said mass in it, and now

you are leaving it sacrilegiously and forswearing yourself!”

But Pierre also had risen; and buoyed up by a sudden rush of health and

strength he answered: “No, no! I am leaving it willingly, as one leaves a

dark vault, to return into the open air and the broad sunlight. God does

not dwell there; the only purpose of that huge edifice is to defy reason,

truth and justice; it has been erected on the highest spot that could be

found, like a citadel of error that dominates, insults and threatens

Paris!”

Then seeing that the old priest’s eyes were again filling with tears, and

feeling on his own side so pained by their rupture that he began to sob,

Pierre wished to go away. “Farewell! farewell!” he stammered.

But Abbé Rose caught him in his arms and kissed him, as if he were a

rebellious son who yet had remained the dearest. “No, not farewell, not

farewell, my child,” he answered; “say rather till we meet again. Promise

me that we shall see each other again, at least among those who starve

and weep. It is all very well for you to think that charity has become

bankrupt, but shall we not always love one another in loving our poor?”

Then they parted.

On becoming the companion of his three big nephews, Pierre had in a few

lessons learnt from them how to ride a bicycle, in order that he might

occasionally accompany them on their morning excursions. He went twice

with them and Marie along the somewhat roughly paved roads in the

direction of the Lake of Enghien. Then one morning when the young woman

had promised to take him and Antoine as far as the forest of

Saint-Germain, it was found at the last moment that Antoine could not

come. Marie was already dressed in a chemisette of fawn-coloured silk,

and a little jacket and “rationals” of black serge, and it was such a

warm, bright April day that she was not inclined to renounce her trip.

“Well, so much the worse!” she gaily said to Pierre, “I shall take you

with me, there will only be the pair of us. I really want you to see how

delightful it is to bowl over a good road between the beautiful trees.”

However, as Pierre was not yet a very expert rider, they decided that

they would take the train as far as Maisons-Laffitte, whence they would

proceed on their bicycles to the forest, cross it in the direction of

Saint-Germain, and afterwards return to Paris by train.

“You will be here for _déjeuner_, won’t you?” asked Guillaume, whom this

freak amused, and who looked with a smile at his brother. The latter,

like Marie, was in black: jacket, breeches and stockings all of the same

hue.

“Oh, certainly!” replied Marie. “It’s now barely eight o’clock, so we

have plenty of time. Still you need not wait for us, you know, we shall

always find our way back.”

It was a delightful morning. When they started, Pierre could fancy

himself with a friend of his own sex, so that this trip together through

the warm sunlight seemed quite natural. Doubtless their costumes, which

were so much alike, conduced to the gay brotherly feeling he experienced.

But beyond all this there was the healthfulness of the open air, the

delight which exercise brings, the pleasure of roaming in all freedom

through the midst of nature.

On taking the train they found themselves alone in a compartment, and

Marie once more began to talk of her college days. “Ah! you’ve no idea,”

said she, “what fine games at baseball we used to have at Fénelon! We

used to tie up our skirts with string so as to run the better, for we

were not allowed to wear rationals like I’m wearing now. And there were

shrieks, and rushes, and pushes, till our hair waved about and we were

quite red with exercise and excitement. Still that didn’t prevent us from

working in the class-rooms. On the contrary! Directly we were at study we

fought again, each striving to learn the most and reach the top of the

class!”

She laughed gaily as she thus recalled her school life, and Pierre

glanced at her with candid admiration, so pink and healthy did she look

under her little hat of black felt, which a long silver pin kept in

position. Her fine dark hair was caught up behind, showing her neck,

which looked as fresh and delicate as a child’s. And never before had she

seemed to him so supple and so strong.

“Ah,” she continued in a jesting way, “there is nothing like rationals,

you know! To think that some women are foolish and obstinate enough to

wear skirts when they go out cycling!”

Then, as he declared--just by way of speaking the truth, and without the

faintest idea of gallantry--that she looked very nice indeed in her

costume, she responded: “Oh! I don’t count. I’m not a beauty. I simply

enjoy good health.... But can you understand it? To think that women

have an unique opportunity of putting themselves at their ease, and

releasing their limbs from prison, and yet they won’t do so! If they

think that they look the prettier in short skirts like schoolgirls they

are vastly mistaken! And as for any question of modesty, well, it seems

to me that it is infinitely less objectionable for women to wear

rationals than to bare their bosoms at balls and theatres and dinners as

society ladies do.” Then, with a gesture of girlish impulsiveness, she

added: “Besides, does one think of such things when one’s rolling along?

... Yes, rationals are the only things, skirts are rank heresy!”

In her turn, she was now looking at him, and was struck by the

extraordinary change which had come over him since the day when he had

first appeared to her, so sombre in his long cassock, with his face

emaciated, livid, almost distorted by anguish. It was like a

resurrection, for now his countenance was bright, his lofty brow had all

the serenity of hope, while his eyes and lips once more showed some of

the confident tenderness which sprang from his everlasting thirst for

love, self-bestowal and life. All mark of the priesthood had already left

him, save that where he had been tonsured his hair still remained rather

short.

“Why are you looking at me?” he asked.

“I was noticing how much good has been done you by work and the open

air,” she frankly answered; “I much prefer you as you are. You used to

look so poorly. I thought you really ill.”

“So I was,” said he.

The train, however, was now stopping at Maisons-Laffitte. They alighted

from it, and at once took the road to the forest. This road rises gently

till it reaches the Maisons gate, and on market days it is often crowded

with carts.

“I shall go first, eh?” said Marie gaily, “for vehicles still alarm you.”

Thereupon she started ahead, but every now and again she turned with a

smile to see if he were following her. And every time they overtook and

passed a cart she spoke to him of the merits of their machines, which

both came from the Grandidier works. They were “Lisettes,” examples of

those popular bicycles which Thomas had helped to perfect, and which the

Bon Marché now sold in large numbers for 250 francs apiece. Perhaps they

were rather heavy in appearance, but on the other hand their strength was

beyond question. They were just the machines for a long journey, so Marie

declared.

“Ah! here’s the forest,” she at last exclaimed. “We have now reached the

end of the rise; and you will see what splendid avenues there are. One

can bowl along them as on a velvet carpet.”

Pierre had already joined her, and they rode on side by side along the

broad straight avenue fringed with magnificent trees.

“I am all right now,” said Pierre; “your pupil will end by doing you

honour, I hope.”

“Oh! I’ve no doubt of it. You already have a very good seat, and before

long you’ll leave me behind, for a woman is never a man’s equal in a

matter like this. At the same time, however, what a capital education

cycling is for women!”

In what way?”

“Oh! I’ve certain ideas of my own on the subject; and if ever I have a

daughter I shall put her on a bicycle as soon as she’s ten years old,

just to teach her how to conduct herself in life.”

“Education by experience, eh?”

“Yes, why not? Look at the big girls who are brought up hanging to their

mothers’ apron strings. Their parents frighten them with everything, they

are allowed no initiative, no exercise of judgment or decision, so that

at times they hardly know how to cross a street, to such a degree does

the traffic alarm them. Well, I say that a girl ought to be set on a

bicycle in her childhood, and allowed to follow the roads. She will then

learn to open her eyes, to look out for stones and avoid them, and to

turn in the right direction at every bend or crossway. If a vehicle comes

up at a gallop or any other danger presents itself, she’ll have to make

up her mind on the instant, and steer her course firmly and properly if

she does not wish to lose a limb. Briefly, doesn’t all this supply proper

apprenticeship for one’s will, and teach one how to conduct and defend

oneself?”

Pierre had begun to laugh. “You will all be too healthy,” he remarked.

“Oh, one must be healthy if one wants to be happy. But what I wish to

convey is that those who learn to avoid stones and to turn properly along

the highways will know how to overcome difficulties, and take the best

decisions in after life. The whole of education lies in knowledge and

energy.”

“So women are to be emancipated by cycling?”

“Well, why not? It may seem a droll idea; but see what progress has been

made already. By wearing rationals women free their limbs from prison;

then the facilities which cycling affords people for going out together

tend to greater intercourse and equality between the sexes; the wife and

the children can follow the husband everywhere, and friends like

ourselves are at liberty to roam hither and thither without astonishing

anybody. In this lies the greatest advantage of all: one takes a bath of

air and sunshine, one goes back to nature, to the earth, our common

mother, from whom one derives fresh strength and gaiety of heart! Just

look how delightful this forest is. And how healthful the breeze that

inflates our lungs! Yes, it all purifies, calms and encourages one.”

The forest, which was quite deserted on week days, stretched out in

quietude on either hand, with sunlight filtering between its deep bands

of trees. At that hour the rays only illumined one side of the avenue,

there gilding the lofty drapery of verdure; on the other, the shady side,

the greenery seemed almost black. It was truly delightful to skim,

swallow-like, over that royal avenue in the fresh atmosphere, amidst the

waving of grass and foliage, whose powerful scent swept against one’s

face. Pierre and Marie scarcely touched the soil: it was as if wings had

come to them, and were carrying them on with a regular flight, through

alternate patches of shade and sunshine, and all the scattered vitality

of the far-reaching, quivering forest, with its mosses, its sources, its

animal and its insect life.

Marie would not stop when they reached the crossway of the Croix de

Noailles, a spot where people congregate on Sundays, for she was

acquainted with secluded nooks which were far more charming

resting-places. When they reached the slope going down towards Poissy,

she roused Pierre, and they let their machines rush on. Then came all the

joyous intoxication of speed, the rapturous feeling of darting along

breathlessly while the grey road flees beneath one, and the trees on

either hand turn like the opening folds of a fan. The breeze blows

tempestuously, and one fancies that one is journeying yonder towards the

horizon, the infinite, which ever and ever recedes. It is like boundless

hope, delivery from every shackle, absolute freedom of motion through

space. And nothing can inspirit one more gloriously--one’s heart leaps as

if one were in the very heavens.

“We are not going to Poissy, you know!” Marie suddenly cried; “we have to

turn to the left.”

They took the road from Acheres to the Loges, which ascends and

contracts, thus bringing one closer together in the shade. Gradually

slowing down, they began to exert themselves in order to make their way

up the incline. This road was not so good as the others, it had been

gullied by the recent heavy rains, and sand and gravel lay about. But

then is there not even a pleasure in effort?

“You will get used to it,” said Marie to Pierre; “it’s amusing to

overcome obstacles. For my part I don’t like roads which are invariably

smooth. A little ascent which does not try one’s limbs too much rouses

and inspirits one. And it is so agreeable to find oneself strong, and

able to go on and on in spite of rain, or wind, or hills.”

Her bright humour and courage quite charmed Pierre. “And so,” said he,

“we are off for a journey round France?”

“No, no, we’ve arrived. You won’t dislike a little rest, eh? And now,

tell me, wasn’t it worth our while to come on here and rest in such a

nice fresh, quiet spot.”