She nimbly sprang off her machine and, bidding him follow her, turned

into a path, along which she went some fifty paces. They placed their

bicycles against some trees, and then found themselves in a little

clearing, the most exquisite, leafy nest that one could dream of. The

forest here assumed an aspect of secluded sovereign beauty. The

springtide had endowed it with youth, the foliage was light and virginal,

like delicate green lace flecked with gold by the sun-rays. And from the

herbage and the surrounding thickets arose a breath of life, laden with

all the powerful aroma of the earth.

“It’s not too warm as yet, fortunately,” exclaimed Marie, as she seated

herself at the foot of a young oak-tree, against which she leant. “In

July ladies get rather red by the time they reach this spot, and all the

powder comes off their faces. However, one can’t always be beautiful.”

“Well, I’m not cold by any means,” replied Pierre, as he sat at her feet

wiping his forehead.

She laughed, and answered that she had never before seen him with such a

colour. Then they began to talk like children, like two young friends,

finding a source of gaiety in the most puerile things. She was somewhat

anxious about his health, however, and would not allow him to remain in

the cool shade, as he felt so very warm. In order to tranquillise her, he

had to change his place and seat himself with his back to the sun. Then a

little later he saved her from a large black spider, which had caught

itself in the wavy hair on the nape of her neck. At this all her womanly

nature reappeared, and she shrieked with terror. “How stupid it was to be

afraid of a spider!” she exclaimed a moment afterwards; yet, in spite of

her efforts to master herself, she remained pale and trembling.

Silence at last fell between them, and they looked at one another with a

smile. In the midst of that delicate greenery they felt drawn together by

frank affection--the affection of brother and sister, so it seemed to

them. It made Marie very happy to think that she had taken an interest in

Pierre, and that his return to health was largely her own work. However,

their eyes never fell, their hands never met, even as they sat there

toying with the grass, for they were as pure, as unconscious of all evil,

as were the lofty oaks around them.

At last Marie noticed that time was flying. “You know that they expect us

back to lunch,” she exclaimed. “We ought to be off.”

Thereupon they rose, wheeled their bicycles back to the highway, and

starting off again at a good pace passed the Loges and reached

Saint-Germain by the fine avenue which conducts to the château. It

charmed them to take their course again side by side, like birds of equal

flight. Their little bells jingled, their chains rustled lightly, and a

fresh breeze swept past them as they resumed their talk, quite at ease,

and so linked together by friendship that they seemed far removed from

all the rest of the world.

They took the train from Saint-Germain to Paris, and on the journey

Pierre suddenly noticed that Marie’s cheeks were purpling. There were two

ladies with them in the compartment.

“Ah!” said he, “so you feel warm in your turn now?”

But she protested the contrary, her face glowing more and more brightly

as she spoke, as if some sudden feeling of shame quite upset her. “No,

I’m not warm,” said she; “just feel my hands.... But how ridiculous it

is to blush like this without any reason for it!”

He understood her. This was one of those involuntary blushing fits which

so distressed her, and which, as Mère-Grand had remarked, brought her

heart to her very cheeks. There was no cause for it, as she herself said.

After slumbering in all innocence in the solitude of the forest her heart

had begun to beat, despite herself.

Meantime, over yonder at Montmartre, Guillaume had spent his morning in

preparing some of that mysterious powder, the cartridges of which he

concealed upstairs in Mère-Grand’s bedroom. Great danger attended this

manufacture. The slightest forgetfulness while he was manipulating the

ingredients, any delay, too, in turning off a tap, might lead to a

terrible explosion, which would annihilate the building and all who might

be in it. For this reason he preferred to work when he was alone, so that

on the one hand there might be no danger for others, and on the other

less likelihood of his own attention being diverted from his task. That

morning, as it happened, his three sons were working in the room, and

Mère-Grand sat sewing near the furnace. Truth to tell, she did not count,

for she scarcely ever left her place, feeling quite at ease there,

however great might be the peril. Indeed, she had become so well

acquainted with the various phases of Guillaume’s delicate operations,

and their terrible possibilities, that she would occasionally give him a

helping hand.

That morning, as she sat there mending some house linen,--her eyesight

still being so keen that in spite of her seventy years she wore no

spectacles,--she now and again glanced at Guillaume as if to make sure

that he forgot nothing. Then feeling satisfied, she would once more bend

over her work. She remained very strong and active. Her hair was only

just turning white, and she had kept all her teeth, while her face still

looked refined, though it was slowly withering with age and had acquired

an expression of some severity. As a rule she was a woman of few words;

her life was one of activity and good management. When she opened her

lips it was usually to give advice, to counsel reason, energy and

courage. For some time past she had been growing more taciturn than ever,

as if all her attention were claimed by the household matters which were

in her sole charge; still, her fine eyes would rest thoughtfully on those

about her, on the three young men, and on Guillaume, Marie and Pierre,

who all obeyed her as if she were their acknowledged queen. If she looked

at them in that pensive way, was it that she foresaw certain changes, and

noticed certain incidents of which the others remained unconscious?

Perhaps so. At all events she became even graver, and more attentive than

in the past. It was as if she were waiting for some hour to strike when

all her wisdom and authority would be required.

“Be careful, Guillaume,” she at last remarked, as she once more looked up

from her sewing. “You seem absent-minded this morning. Is anything

worrying you?”

He glanced at her with a smile. “No, nothing, I assure you,” he replied.

“But I was thinking of our dear Marie, who was so glad to go off to the

forest in this bright sunshine.”

Antoine, who heard the remark, raised his head, while his brothers

remained absorbed in their work. “What a pity it is that I had this block

to finish,” said he; “I would willingly have gone with her.”

“Oh, no matter,” his father quietly rejoined. “Pierre is with her, and he

is very cautious.”

For another moment Mère-Grand continued scrutinising Guillaume; then she

once more reverted to her sewing.

If she exercised such sway over the home and all its inmates, it was by

reason of her long devotion, her intelligence, and the kindliness with

which she ruled. Uninfluenced by any religious faith, and disregarding

all social conventionalities, her guiding principle in everything was the

theory of human justice which she had arrived at after suffering so

grievously from the injustice that had killed her husband. She put her

views into practice with wonderful courage, knowing nothing of any

prejudices, but accomplishing her duty, such as she understood it, to the

very end. And in the same way as she had first devoted herself to her

husband, and next to her daughter Marguerite, so at present she devoted

herself to Guillaume and his sons. Pierre, whom she had first studied

with some anxiety, had now, too, become a member of her family, a dweller

in the little realm of happiness which she ruled. She had doubtless found

him worthy of admission into it, though she did not reveal the reason

why. After days and days of silence she had simply said, one evening, to

Guillaume, that he had done well in bringing his brother to live among

them.

Time flew by as she sat sewing and thinking. Towards noon Guillaume, who

was still at work, suddenly remarked to her: “As Marie and Pierre haven’t

come back, we had better let the lunch wait a little while. Besides, I

should like to finish what I’m about.”

Another quarter of an hour then elapsed. Finally, the three young men

rose from their work, and went to wash their hands at a tap in the

garden.

“Marie is very late,” now remarked Mère-Grand. “We must hope that nothing

has happened to her.”

“Oh! she rides so well,” replied Guillaume. “I’m more anxious on account

of Pierre.”

At this the old lady again fixed her eyes on him, and said: “But Marie

will have guided Pierre; they already ride very well together.”

“No doubt; still I should be better pleased if they were back home.”

Then all at once, fancying that he heard the ring of a bicycle bell, he

called out: “There they are!” And forgetting everything else in his

satisfaction, he quitted his furnace and hastened into the garden in

order to meet them.

Mère-Grand, left to herself, quietly continued sewing, without a thought

that the manufacture of Guillaume’s powder was drawing to an end in an

apparatus near her. A couple of minutes later, however, when Guillaume

came back, saying that he had made a mistake, his eyes suddenly rested on

his furnace, and he turned quite livid. Brief as had been his absence the

exact moment when it was necessary to turn off a tap in order that no

danger might attend the preparation of his powder had already gone by;

and now, unless someone should dare to approach that terrible tap, and

boldly turn it, a fearful explosion might take place. Doubtless it was

too late already, and whoever might have the bravery to attempt the feat

would be blown to pieces.

Guillaume himself had often run a similar risk of death with perfect

composure. But on this occasion he remained as if rooted to the floor,

unable to take a step, paralysed by the dread of annihilation. He

shuddered and stammered in momentary expectation of a catastrophe which

would hurl the work-shop to the heavens.

“Mère-Grand, Mère-Grand,” he stammered. “The apparatus, the tap... it

is all over, all over!”

The old woman had raised her head without as yet understanding him. “Eh,

what?” said she; “what is the matter with you?” Then, on seeing how

distorted were his features, how he recoiled as if mad with terror, she

glanced at the furnace and realised the danger. “Well, but it’s simple

enough,” said she; “it’s only necessary to turn off the tap, eh?”

Thereupon, without any semblance of haste, in the most easy and natural

manner possible, she deposited her needlework on a little table, rose

from her chair, and turned off the tap with a light but firm hand.

“There! it’s done,” said she. “But why didn’t you do it yourself, my

friend?”

He had watched her in bewilderment, chilled to the bones, as if touched

by the hand of death. And when some colour at last returned to his

cheeks, and he found himself still alive in front of the apparatus whence

no harm could now come, he heaved a deep sigh and again shuddered. “Why

did I not turn it off?” he repeated. “It was because I felt afraid.”

At that very moment Marie and Pierre came into the work-shop all chatter

and laughter, delighted with their excursion, and bringing with them the

bright joyousness of the sunlight. The three brothers, Thomas, Francis

and Antoine, were jesting with them, and trying to make them confess that

Pierre had at least fought a battle with a cow on the high road, and

ridden into a cornfield. All at once, however, they became quite anxious,

for they noticed that their father looked terribly upset.

“My lads,” said he, “I’ve just been a coward. Ah! it’s a curious feeling,

I had never experienced it before.”

Thereupon he recounted his fears of an accident, and how quietly

Mère-Grand had saved them all from certain death. She waved her hand,

however, as if to say that there was nothing particularly heroic in

turning off a tap. The young men’s eyes nevertheless filled with tears,

and one after the other they went to kiss her with a fervour instinct

with all the gratitude and worship they felt for her. She had been

devoting herself to them ever since their infancy, she had now just given

them a new lease of life. Marie also threw herself into her arms, kissing

her with gratitude and emotion. Mère-Grand herself was the only one who

did not shed tears. She strove to calm them, begging them to exaggerate

nothing and to remain sensible.

“Well, you must at all events let me kiss you as the others have done,”

Guillaume said to her, as he recovered his self-possession. “I at least

owe you that. And Pierre, too, shall kiss you, for you are now as good

for him as you have always been for us.”

At table, when it was at last possible for them to lunch, he reverted to

that attack of fear which had left him both surprised and ashamed. He who

for years had never once thought of death had for some time past found

ideas of caution in his mind. On two occasions recently he had shuddered

at the possibility of a catastrophe. How was it that a longing for life

had come to him in his decline? Why was it that he now wished to live? At

last with a touch of tender affection in his gaiety, he remarked: “Do you

know, Marie, I think it is my thoughts of you that make me a coward. If

I’ve lost my bravery it’s because I risk something precious when any

danger arises. Happiness has been entrusted to my charge. Just now when I

fancied that we were all going to die, I thought I could see you, and my

fear of losing you froze and paralysed me.”

Marie indulged in a pretty laugh. Allusions to her coming marriage were

seldom made; however, she invariably greeted them with an air of happy

affection.

“Another six weeks!” she simply said.

Thereupon Mère-Grand, who had been looking at them, turned her eyes

towards Pierre. He, however, like the others was listening with a smile.

“That’s true,” said the old lady, “you are to be married in six weeks’

time. So I did right to prevent the house from being blown up.”

At this the young men made merry; and the repast came to an end in very

joyous fashion.

During the afternoon, however, Pierre’s heart gradually grew heavy.

Marie’s words constantly returned to him: “Another six weeks!” Yes, it

was indeed true, she would then be married. But it seemed to him that he

had never previously known it, never for a moment thought of it. And

later on, in the evening, when he was alone in his room at Neuilly, his

heart-pain became intolerable. Those words tortured him. Why was it that

they had not caused him any suffering when they were spoken, why had he

greeted them with a smile? And why had such cruel anguish slowly

followed? All at once an idea sprang up in his mind, and became an

overwhelming certainty. He loved Marie, he loved her as a lover, with a

love so intense that he might die from it.

With this sudden consciousness of his passion everything became clear and

plain. He had been going perforce towards that love ever since he had

first met Marie. The emotion into which the young woman had originally

thrown him had seemed to him a feeling of repulsion, but afterwards he

had been slowly conquered, all his torments and struggles ending in this

love for her. It was indeed through her that he had at last found

quietude. And the delightful morning which he had spent with her that

day, appeared to him like a betrothal morning, in the depths of the happy

forest. Nature had resumed her sway over him, delivered him from his

sufferings, made him strong and healthy once more, and given him to the

woman he adored. The quiver he had experienced, the happiness he had

felt, his communion with the trees, the heavens, and every living

creature--all those things which he had been unable to explain, now

acquired a clear meaning which transported him. In Marie alone lay his

cure, his hope, his conviction that he would be born anew and at last

find happiness. In her company he had already forgotten all those

distressing problems which had formerly haunted him and bowed him down.

For a week past he had not once thought of death, which had so long been

the companion of his every hour. All the conflict of faith and doubt, the

distress roused by the idea of nihility, the anger he had felt at the

unjust sufferings of mankind, had been swept away by her fresh cool

hands. She was so healthy herself, so glad to live, that she had imparted

a taste for life even to him. Yes, it was simply that: she was making him

a man, a worker, a lover once more.

Then he suddenly remembered Abbé Rose and his painful conversation with

that saintly man. The old priest, whose heart was so ingenuous, and who

knew nothing of love and passion, was nevertheless the only one who had

understood the truth. He had told Pierre that he was changed, that there

was another man in him. And he, Pierre, had foolishly and stubbornly

declared that he was the same as he had always been; whereas Marie had

already transformed him, bringing all nature back to his breast--all

nature, with its sunlit countrysides, its fructifying breezes, and its

vast heavens, whose glow ripens its crops. That indeed was why he had

felt so exasperated with Catholicism, that religion of death; that was

why he had shouted that the Gospel was useless, and that the world

awaited another law--a law of terrestrial happiness, human justice and

living love and fruitfulness!

Ah, but Guillaume? Then a vision of his brother rose before Pierre, that

brother who loved him so fondly, and who had carried him to his home of

toil, quietude and affection, in order to cure him of his sufferings. If

he knew Marie it was simply because Guillaume had chosen that he should

know her. And again Marie’s words recurred to him: “Another six weeks!”

Yes, in six weeks his brother would marry the young woman. This thought

was like a stab in Pierre’s heart. Still, he did not for one moment

hesitate: if he must die of his love, he would die of it, but none should

ever know it, he would conquer himself, he would flee to the ends of the

earth should he ever feel the faintest cowardice. Rather than bring a

moment’s pain to that brother who had striven to resuscitate him, who was

the artisan of the passion now consuming him, who had given him his whole

heart and all he had--he would condemn himself to perpetual torture. And

indeed, torture was coming back; for in losing Marie he could but sink

into the distress born of the consciousness of his nothingness. As he lay

in bed, unable to sleep, he already experienced a return of his

abominable torments--the negation of everything, the feeling that

everything was useless, that the world had no significance, and that life

was only worthy of being cursed and denied. And then the shudder born of

the thought of death returned to him. Ah! to die, to die without even

having lived!

The struggle was a frightful one. Until daybreak he sobbed in martyrdom.

Why had he taken off his cassock? He had done so at a word from Marie;

and now another word from her gave him the despairing idea of donning it

once more. One could not escape from so fast a prison. That black gown

still clung to his skin. He fancied that he had divested himself of it,

and yet it was still weighing on his shoulders, and his wisest course

would be to bury himself in it for ever. By donning it again he would at

least wear mourning for his manhood.

All at once, however, a fresh thought upset him. Why should he struggle

in that fashion? Marie did not love him. There had been nothing between

them to indicate that she cared for him otherwise than as a charming,

tender-hearted sister. It was Guillaume that she loved, no doubt. Then he

pressed his face to his pillow to stifle his sobs, and once more swore

that he would conquer himself and turn a smiling face upon their

happiness.

IV. TRIAL AND SENTENCE

HAVING returned to Montmartre on the morrow Pierre suffered so grievously

that he did not show himself there on the two following days. He

preferred to remain at home where there was nobody to notice his

feverishness. On the third morning, however, whilst he was still in bed,

strengthless and full of despair, he was both surprised and embarrassed

by a visit from Guillaume.

“I must needs come to you,” said the latter, “since you forsake us. I’ve

come to fetch you to attend Salvat’s trial, which takes place to-day. I

had no end of trouble to secure two places. Come, get up, we’ll have

_déjeuner_ in town, so as to reach the court early.”

Then, while Pierre was hastily dressing, Guillaume, who on his side

seemed thoughtful and worried that morning, began to question him: “Have

you anything to reproach us with?” he asked.

“No, nothing. What an idea!” was Pierre’s reply.

“Then why have you been staying away? We had got into the habit of seeing

you every day, but all at once you disappear.”

Pierre vainly sought a falsehood, and all his composure fled. “I had some

work to do here,” said he, “and then, too, my gloomy ideas cane back to

me, and I didn’t want to go and sadden you all.”

At this Guillaume hastily waved his hand. “If you fancy that your absence

enlivens us you’re mistaken,” he replied. “Marie, who is usually so well

and happy, had such a bad headache on the day before yesterday that she

was obliged to keep her room. And she was ill at ease and nervous and

silent again yesterday. We spent a very unpleasant day.”

As he spoke Guillaume looked Pierre well in the face, his frank loyal

eyes clearly revealing the suspicions which had come to him, but which he

would not express in words.

Pierre, quite dismayed by the news of Marie’s indisposition, and

frightened by the idea of betraying his secret, thereupon managed to tell

a lie. “Yes, she wasn’t very well on the day when we went cycling,” he

quietly responded. “But I assure you that I have had a lot to do here.

When you came in just now I was about to get up and go to your house as

usual.”

Guillaume kept his eyes on him for a moment longer. Then, either

believing him or deciding to postpone his search for the truth to some

future time, he began speaking affectionately on other subjects. With his

keen brotherly love, however, there was blended such a quiver of

impending distress, of unconfessed sorrow, which possibly he did not yet

realise, that Pierre in his turn began to question him. “And you,” said

he, “are you ill? You seem to me to have lost your usual serenity.”

“I? Oh! I’m not ill. Only I can’t very well retain my composure; Salvat’s

affair distresses me exceedingly, as you must know. They will all end by

driving me mad with the monstrous injustice they show towards that

unhappy fellow.”

Thenceforward Guillaume went on talking of Salvat in a stubborn

passionate way, as if he wished to find an explanation of all his pain

and unrest in that affair. While he and Pierre were partaking of

_déjeuner_ at a little restaurant on the Boulevard du Palais he related

how deeply touched he was by the silence which Salvat had preserved with

regard both to the nature of the explosive employed in the bomb and the

few days’ work which he had once done at his house. It was, thanks to

this silence, that he, Guillaume, had not been worried or even summoned

as a witness. Then, in his emotion, he reverted to his invention, that

formidable engine which would ensure omnipotence to France, as the great

initiatory and liberative power of the world. The results of the

researches which had occupied him for ten years past were now out of

danger and in all readiness, so that if occasion required they might at

once be delivered to the French government. And, apart from certain

scruples which came to him at the thought of the unworthiness of French

financial and political society; he was simply delaying any further steps

in the matter until his marriage with Marie, in order that he might

associate her with the gift of universal peace which he imagined he was

about to bestow upon the world.

It was through Bertheroy and with great difficulty that Guillaume had

managed to secure two seats in court for Salvat’s trial. When he and

Pierre presented themselves for admission at eleven o’clock, they fancied

that they would never be able to enter. The large gates of the Palace of

Justice were kept closed, several passages were fenced off, and terror

seemed to reign in the deserted building, as if indeed the judges feared

some sudden invasion of bomb-laden Anarchists. Each door and barrier,

too, was guarded by soldiers, with whom the brothers had to parley. When

they at last entered the Assize Court they found it already crowded with

people, who were apparently quite willing to suffocate there for an hour

before the arrival of the judges, and to remain motionless for some seven

or eight hours afterwards, since it was reported that the authorities

wished to get the case over in a single sitting. In the small space

allotted to the standing public there was a serried mass of sightseers

who had come up from the streets, a few companions and friends of Salvat

having managed to slip in among them. In the other compartment, where

witnesses are generally huddled together on oak benches, were those

spectators who had been allowed admittance by favour, and these were so

numerous and so closely packed that here and there they almost sat upon

one another’s knees. Then, in the well of the court and behind the bench,

were rows of chairs set out as for some theatrical performance, and

occupied by privileged members of society, politicians, leading

journalists, and ladies. And meantime a number of gowned advocates sought

refuge wherever chance offered, crowding into every vacant spot, every

available corner.

Pierre had never before visited the Assize Court, and its appearance

surprised him. He had expected much pomp and majesty, whereas this temple

of human justice seemed to him small and dismal and of doubtful

cleanliness. The bench was so low that he could scarcely see the

armchairs of the presiding judge and his two assessors. Then he was

struck by the profusion of old oak panels, balustrades and benches, which

helped to darken the apartment, whose wall hangings were of olive green,

while a further display of oak panelling appeared on the ceiling above.

From the seven narrow and high-set windows with scanty little white

curtains there fell a pale light which sharply divided the court. On one

hand one saw the dock and the defending counsel’s seat steeped in frigid

light, while, on the other, was the little, isolated jury box in the

shade. This contrast seemed symbolical of justice, impersonal and

uncertain, face to face with the accused, whom the light stripped bare,

probed as it were to his very soul. Then, through a kind of grey mist

above the bench, in the depths of the stern and gloomy scene, one could

vaguely distinguish the heavy painting of “Christ Crucified.” A white

bust of the Republic alone showed forth clearly against the dark wall

above the dock where Salvat would presently appear. The only remaining

seats that Guillaume and Pierre could find were on the last bench of the

witnesses’ compartment, against the partition which separated the latter

from the space allotted to the standing public. Just as Guillaume was

seating himself, he saw among the latter little Victor Mathis, who stood

there with his elbows leaning on the partition, while his chin rested on

his crossed hands. The young man’s eyes were glowing in his pale face

with thin, compressed lips. Although they recognised one another, Victor

did not move, and Guillaume on his side understood that it was not safe

to exchange greetings in such a place. From that moment, however, he

remained conscious that Victor was there, just above him, never stirring,

but waiting silently, fiercely and with flaming eyes, for what was going

to happen.

Pierre, meantime, had recognised that most amiable deputy Duthil, and

little Princess Rosemonde, seated just in front of him. Amidst the hubbub

of the throng which chatted and laughed to while away the time, their

voices were the gayest to be heard, and plainly showed how delighted they

were to find themselves at a spectacle to which so many desired

admittance. Duthil was explaining all the arrangements to Rosemonde,

telling her to whom or to what purpose each bench and wooden box was

allotted: there was the jury-box, the prisoner’s dock, the seats assigned

to counsel for the defence, the public prosecutor, and the clerk of the

court, without forgetting the table on which material evidence was

deposited and the bar to which witnesses were summoned. There was nobody

as yet in any of these places; one merely saw an attendant giving a last

look round, and advocates passing rapidly. One might indeed have thought

oneself in a theatre, the stage of which remained deserted, while the

spectators crowded the auditorium waiting for the play to begin. To fill

up the interval the little Princess ended by looking about her for

persons of her acquaintance among the close-pressed crowd of sight-seers

whose eager faces were already reddening.

“Oh! isn’t that Monsieur Fonsègue over there behind the bench, near that

stout lady in yellow?” she exclaimed. “Our friend General de Bozonnet is

on the other side, I see. But isn’t Baron Duvillard here?”

“Oh! no,” replied Duthil; “he could hardly come; it would look as if he

were here to ask for vengeance.” Then, in his turn questioning Rosemonde,

the deputy went on: “Do you happen to have quarrelled with your handsome

friend Hyacinthe? Is that the reason why you’ve given me the pleasure of

acting as your escort to-day?”

With a slight shrug of her shoulders, the Princess replied that poets

were beginning to bore her. A fresh caprice, indeed, was drawing her into

politics. For a week past she had found amusement in the surroundings of

the ministerial crisis, into which the young deputy for Angoulême had

initiated her. “They are all a little bit crazy at the Duvillards’, my

dear fellow,” said she. “It’s decided, you know, that Gérard is to marry

Camille. The Baroness has resigned herself to it, and I’ve heard from a

most reliable quarter that Madame de Quinsac, the young man’s mother, has

given her consent.”

At this Duthil became quite merry. He also seemed to be well informed on

the subject. “Yes, yes, I know,” said he. “The wedding is to take place

shortly, at the Madeleine. It will be a magnificent affair, no doubt. And

after all, what would you have? There couldn’t be a better finish to the

affair. The Baroness is really kindness personified, and I said all along

that she would sacrifice herself in order to ensure the happiness of her

daughter and Gérard. In point of fact that marriage will settle

everything, put everything in proper order again.”

“And what does the Baron say?” asked Rosemonde.

“The Baron? Why, he’s delighted,” replied Duthil in a bantering way. “You

read no doubt this morning that Dauvergne is given the department of

Public Instruction in the new Ministry. This means that Silviane’s

engagement at the Comédie is a certainty. Dauvergne was chosen simply on

that account.”

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by little Massot, who,

after a dispute with one of the ushers some distance away, had perceived

a vacant place by the side of the Princess. He thereupon made her a

questioning sign, and she beckoned to him to approach.

“Ah!” said he, as he installed himself beside her, “I have not got here

without trouble. One’s crushed to death on the press bench, and I’ve an

article to write. You are the kindest of women, Princess, to make a

little room for your faithful admirer, myself.” Then, after shaking hands

with Duthil, he continued without any transition: “And so there’s a new

ministry at last, Monsieur le Député. You have all taken your time about

it, but it’s really a very fine ministry, which everybody regards with

surprise and admiration.”

The decrees appointing the new ministers had appeared in the “Journal

Officiel” that very morning. After a long deadlock, after Vignon had for

the second time seen his plans fail through ever-recurring obstacles,

Monferrand, as a last resource, had suddenly been summoned to the Elysée,

and in four-and-twenty hours he had found the colleagues he wanted and

secured the acceptance of his list, in such wise that he now triumphantly

re-ascended to power after falling from it with Barroux in such wretched

fashion. He had also chosen a new post for himself, relinquishing the

department of the Interior for that of Finances, with the Presidency of

the Council, which had long been his secret ambition. His stealthy

labour, the masterly fashion in which he had saved himself while others

sank, now appeared in its full beauty. First had come Salvat’s arrest,

and the use he had made of it, then the wonderful subterranean campaign

which he had carried on against Vignon, the thousand obstacles which he

had twice set across his path, and finally the sudden _dénouement_ with

that list he held in readiness, that formation of a ministry in a single

day as soon as his services were solicited.

“It is fine work, I must compliment you on it,” added little Massot by

way of a jest.

“But I’ve had nothing to do with it,” Duthil modestly replied.

“Nothing to do with it! Oh! yes you have, my dear sir, everybody says

so.”

The deputy felt flattered and smiled, while the other rattled on with his

insinuations, which were put in such a humorous way that nothing he said

could be resented. He talked of Monferrand’s followers who had so

powerfully helped him on to victory. How heartily had Fonsègue finished

off his old friend Barroux in the “Globe”! Every morning for a month past

the paper had published an article belabouring Barroux, annihilating

Vignon, and preparing the public for the return of a saviour of society

who was not named. Then, too, Duvillard’s millions had waged a secret

warfare, all the Baron’s numerous creatures had fought like an army for

the good cause. Duthil himself had played the pipe and beaten the drum,

while Chaigneux resigned himself to the baser duties which others would

not undertake. And so the triumphant Monferrand would certainly begin by

stifling that scandalous and embarrassing affair of the African Railways,

and appointing a Committee of Inquiry to bury it.

By this time Duthil had assumed an important air. “Well, my dear fellow,”

said he, “at serious moments when society is in peril, certain

strong-handed men, real men of government, become absolutely necessary.

Monferrand had no need of our friendship, his presence in office was

imperiously required by the situation. His hand is the only one that can

save us!”

“I know,” replied Massot scoffingly. “I’ve even been told that if

everything was settled straight off so that the decrees might be

published this morning, it was in order to instil confidence into the

judges and jurymen here, in such wise that knowing Monferrand’s fist to

be behind them they would have the courage to pronounce sentence of death

this evening.”

“Well, public safety requires a sentence of death, and those who have to

ensure that safety must not be left ignorant of the fact that the

government is with them, and will know how to protect them, if need be.”

At this moment a merry laugh from the Princess broke in upon the

conversation. “Oh! just look over there!” said she; “isn’t that Silviane

who has just sat down beside Monsieur Fonsègue?”

“The Silviane ministry!” muttered Massot in a jesting way. “Well, there

will be no boredom at Dauvergne’s if he ingratiates himself with

actresses.”

Guillaume and Pierre heard this chatter, however little they cared to

listen to it. Such a deluge of society tittle-tattle and political

indiscretion brought the former a keen heart-pang. So Salvat was

sentenced to death even before he had appeared in court. He was to pay

for the transgressions of one and all, his crime was simply a favourable

opportunity for the triumph of a band of ambitious people bent on power

and enjoyment! Ah! what terrible social rottenness there was in it all;

money corrupting one and another, families sinking to filth, politics

turned into a mere treacherous struggle between individuals, and power

becoming the prey of the crafty and the impudent! Must not everything

surely crumble? Was not this solemn assize of human justice a derisive

parody, since all that one found there was an assembly of happy and

privileged people defending the shaky edifice which sheltered them, and

making use of all the forces they yet retained, to crush a fly--that

unhappy devil of uncertain sanity who had been led to that court by his

violent and cloudy dream of another, superior and avenging justice?

Such were Guillaume’s thoughts, when all at once everybody around him

started. Noon was now striking, and the jurymen trooped into court in

straggling fashion and took their seats in their box. Among them one saw

fat fellows clad in their Sunday best and with the faces of simpletons,

and thin fellows who had bright eyes and sly expressions. Some of them

were bearded and some were bald. However, they all remained rather

indistinct, as their side of the court was steeped in shade. After them

came the judges, headed by M. de Larombière, one of the Vice-Presidents

of the Appeal Court, who in assuming the perilous honour of conducting

the trial had sought to increase the majesty of his long, slender, white

face, which looked the more austere as both his assessors, one dark and

the other fair, had highly coloured countenances. The public prosecutor’s

seat was already occupied by one of the most skilful of the

advocates-general, M. Lehmann, a broad-shouldered Alsatian Israelite,

with cunning eyes, whose presence showed that the case was deemed

exceptionally important. At last, amidst the heavy tread of gendarmes,

Salvat was brought in, at once rousing such ardent curiosity that all the

spectators rose to look at him. He still wore the cap and loose overcoat

procured for him by Victor Mathis, and everybody was surprised to see his

emaciated, sorrowful, gentle face, crowned by scanty reddish hair, which

was turning grey. His soft, glowing, dreamy blue eyes glanced around, and

he smiled at someone whom he recognised, probably Victor, but perhaps

Guillaume. After that he remained quite motionless.

The presiding judge waited for silence to fall, and then came the

formalities which attend the opening of a court of law, followed by the

perusal of the lengthy indictment, which a subordinate official read in a

shrill voice. The scene had now changed, and the spectators listened

wearily and somewhat impatiently, as, for weeks past, the newspapers had

related all that the indictment set forth. At present not a corner of the

court remained unoccupied, there was scarcely space enough for the

witnesses to stand in front of the bench. The closely packed throng was

one of divers hues, the light gowns of ladies alternating with the black

gowns of advocates, while the red robes of the judges disappeared from

view, the bench being so low that the presiding judge’s long face

scarcely rose above the sea of heads. Many of those present became

interested in the jurors, and strove to scrutinise their shadowy

countenances. Others, who did not take their eyes off the prisoner,

marvelled at his apparent weariness and indifference, which were so great

that he scarcely answered the whispered questions of his counsel, a young

advocate with a wide-awake look, who was nervously awaiting the

opportunity to achieve fame. Most curiosity, however, centred in the

table set apart for the material evidence. Here were to be seen all sorts

of fragments, some of the woodwork torn away from the carriage-door of

the Duvillard mansion, some plaster that had fallen from the ceiling, a

paving-stone which the violence of the explosion had split in halves, and

other blackened remnants. The more moving sights, however, were the

milliner’s bonnet-box, which had remained uninjured, and a glass jar in

which something white and vague was preserved in spirits of wine. This

was one of the poor errand girl’s little hands, which had been severed at

the wrist. The authorities had been unable to place her poor ripped body

on the table, and so they had brought that hand!

At last Salvat rose, and the presiding judge began to interrogate him.

The contrast in the aspect of the court then acquired tragic force: in

the shrouding shade upon one hand were the jurors, their minds already

made up beneath the pressure of public terror, while in the full, vivid

light on the other side was the prisoner, alone and woeful, charged with

all the crimes of his race. Four gendarmes watched over him. He was

addressed by M. de Larombière in a tone of contempt and disgust. The

judge was not deficient in rectitude; he was indeed one of the last

representatives of the old, scrupulous, upright French magistracy; but he

understood nothing of the new times, and he treated prisoners with the

severity of a Biblical Jehovah. Moreover, the infirmity which was the

worry of his life, the childish lisp which, in his opinion, had alone

prevented him from shining as a public prosecutor, made him ferociously

ill-tempered, incapable of any intelligent indulgence. There were smiles,

which he divined, as soon as he raised his sharp, shrill little voice, to

ask his first questions. That droll voice of his took away whatever

majesty might have remained attached to these proceedings, in which a

man’s life was being fought for in a hall full of inquisitive, stifling

and perspiring folks, who fanned themselves and jested. Salvat answered

the judge’s earlier questions with his wonted weariness and politeness.

While the judge did everything to vilify him, harshly reproaching him

with his wretched childhood and youth, magnifying every stain and every

transgression in his career, referring to the promiscuity of his life

between Madame Théodore and little Céline as something bestial, he, the

prisoner, quietly said yes or no, like a man who has nothing to hide and

accepts the full responsibility of his actions. He had already made a

complete confession of his crime, and he calmly repeated it without

changing a word. He explained that if he had deposited his bomb at the

entrance of the Duvillard mansion it was to give his deed its true

significance, that of summoning the wealthy, the money-mongers who had so

scandalously enriched themselves by dint of theft and falsehood, to

restore that part of the common wealth which they had appropriated, to

the poor, the working classes, their children and their wives, who

perished of starvation. It was only at this moment that he grew excited;

all the misery that he had endured or witnessed rose to his clouded,

semi-educated brain, in which claims and theories and exasperated ideas

of absolute justice and universal happiness had gathered confusedly. And

from that moment he appeared such as he really was, a sentimentalist, a

dreamer transported by suffering, proud and stubborn, and bent on

changing the world in accordance with his sectarian logic.

“But you fled!” cried the judge in a voice such as would have befitted a

grasshopper. “You must not say that you gave your life to your cause and

were ready for martyrdom!”

Salvat’s most poignant regret was that he had yielded in the Bois de

Boulogne to the dismay and rage which come upon a tracked and hunted man

and impel him to do all he can to escape capture. And on being thus

taunted by the judge he became quite angry. “I don’t fear death, you’ll

see that,” he replied. “If all had the same courage as I have, your

rotten society would be swept away to-morrow, and happiness would at last

dawn.”

Then the interrogatory dealt at great length with the composition and

manufacture of the bomb. The judge, rightly enough, pointed out that this

was the only obscure point of the affair. “And so,” he remarked, “you

persist in saying that dynamite was the explosive you employed? Well, you

will presently hear the experts, who, it is true, differ on certain

points, but are all of opinion that you employed some other explosive,

though they cannot say precisely what it was. Why not speak out on the

point, as you glory in saying everything?”

Salvat, however, had suddenly calmed down, giving only cautious

monosyllabic replies. “Well, seek for whatever you like if you don’t

believe me,” he now answered. “I made my bomb by myself, and under

circumstances which I’ve already related a score of times. You surely

don’t expect me to reveal names and compromise comrades?”

From this declaration he would not depart. It was only towards the end of

the interrogatory that irresistible emotion overcame him on the judge

again referring to the unhappy victim of his crime, the little errand

girl, so pretty and fair and gentle, whom ferocious destiny had brought

to the spot to meet such an awful death. “It was one of your own class

whom you struck,” said M. de Larombière; “your victim was a work girl, a

poor child who, with the few pence she earned, helped to support her aged

grandmother.”

Salvat’s voice became very husky as he answered: “That’s really the only

thing I regret.... My bomb certainly wasn’t meant for her; and may all

the workers, all the starvelings, remember that she gave her blood as I’m

going to give mine!”

In this wise the interrogatory ended amidst profound agitation. Pierre

had felt Guillaume shuddering beside him, whilst the prisoner quietly and

obstinately refused to say a word respecting the explosive that had been

employed, preferring as he did to assume full responsibility for the deed

which was about to cost him his life. Moreover, Guillaume, on turning

round, in compliance with an irresistible impulse, had perceived Victor

Mathis still motionless behind him: his elbows ever leaning on the rail

of the partition, and his chin still resting on his hands, whilst he

listened with silent, concentrated passion. His face had become yet paler

than before, and his eyes glowed as with an avenging fire, whose flames

would never more be extinguished.

The interrogatory of the prisoner was followed by a brief commotion in

court.

“That Salvat looks quite nice, he has such soft eyes,” declared the

Princess, whom the proceedings greatly amused. “Oh! don’t speak ill of

him, my dear deputy. You know that I have Anarchist ideas myself.”

“I speak no ill of him,” gaily replied Duthil. “Nor has our friend

Amadieu any right to speak ill of him. For you know that this affair has

set Amadieu on a pinnacle. He was never before talked about to such an

extent as he is now; and he delights in being talked about, you know! He

has become quite a social celebrity, the most illustrious of our

investigating magistrates, and will soon be able to do or become whatever

he pleases.”

Then Massot, with his sarcastic impudence, summed up the situation. “When

Anarchism flourishes, everything flourishes, eh? That bomb has helped on

the affairs of a good many fine fellows that I know. Do you think that my

governor Fonsègue, who’s so attentive to Silviane yonder, complains of

it? And doesn’t Sagnier, who’s spreading himself out behind the presiding

judge, and whose proper place would be between the four

gendarmes--doesn’t he owe a debt to Salvat for all the abominable

advertisements he has been able to give his paper by using the wretched

fellow’s back as a big drum? And I need not mention the politicians or

the financiers or all those who fish in troubled waters.”

“But I say,” interrupted Duthil, “it seems to me that you yourself made

good use of the affair. Your interview with the little girl Céline

brought you in a pot of money.”

Massot, as it happened, had been struck with the idea of ferreting out

Madame Théodore and the child, and of relating his visit to them in the

“Globe,” with an abundance of curious and touching particulars. The

article had met with prodigious success, Céline’s pretty answers

respecting her imprisoned father having such an effect on ladies with

sensitive hearts that they had driven to Montmartre in their carriages in

order to see the two poor creatures. Thus alms had come to them from all

sides; and strangely enough the very people who demanded the father’s

head were the most eager to sympathise with the child.

“Well, I don’t complain of my little profits,” said the journalist in

answer to Duthil. “We all earn what we can, you know.”

At this moment Rosemonde, while glancing round her, recognised Guillaume

and Pierre, but she was so amazed to see the latter in ordinary civilian

garb that she did not dare to speak to him. Leaning forward she

acquainted Duthil and Massot with her surprise, and they both turned

round to look. From motives of discretion, however, they pretended that

they did not recognise the Froments.

The heat in court was now becoming quite unbearable, and one lady had

already fainted. At last the presiding judge again raised his lisping

voice, and managed to restore silence. Salvat, who had remained standing,

now held a few sheets of paper, and with some difficulty he made the

judge understand that he desired to complete his interrogatory by reading

a declaration, which he had drawn up in prison, and in which he explained

his reasons for his crime. For a moment M. de Larombière hesitated, all

surprise and indignation at such a request; but he was aware that he

could not legally impose silence on the prisoner, and so he signified his

consent with a gesture of mingled irritation and disdain. Thereupon

Salvat began his perusal much after the fashion of a schoolboy, hemming

and hawing here and there, occasionally becoming confused, and then

bringing out certain words with wonderful emphasis, which evidently

pleased him. This declaration of his was the usual cry of suffering and

revolt already raised by so many disinherited ones. It referred to all

the frightful want of the lower spheres; the toiler unable to find a

livelihood in his toil; a whole class, the most numerous and worthy of

the classes, dying of starvation; whilst, on the other hand, were the

privileged ones, gorged with wealth, and wallowing in satiety, yet

refusing to part with even the crumbs from their tables, determined as

they were to restore nothing whatever of the wealth which they had

stolen. And so it became necessary to take everything away from them, to

rouse them from their egotism by terrible warnings, and to proclaim to

them even with the crash of bombs that the day of justice had come. The

unhappy man spoke that word “justice” in a ringing voice which seemed to

fill the whole court. But the emotion of those who heard him reached its

highest pitch when, after declaring that he laid down his life for the

cause, and expected nothing but a verdict of death from the jury, he

added, as if prophetically, that his blood would assuredly give birth to

other martyrs. They might send him to the scaffold, said he, but he knew

that his example would bear fruit. After him would come another avenger,

and yet another, and others still, until the old and rotten social system

should have crumbled away so as to make room for the society of justice

and happiness of which he was one of the apostles.

The presiding judge, in his impatience and agitation, twice endeavoured

to interrupt Salvat. But the other read on and on with the imperturbable

conscientiousness of one who fears that he may not give proper utterance

to his most important words. He must have been thinking of that perusal

ever since he had been in prison. It was the decisive act of his suicide,

the act by which he proclaimed that he gave his life for the glory of

dying in the cause of mankind. And when he had finished he sat down

between the gendarmes with glowing eyes and flushed cheeks, as if he

inwardly experienced some deep joy.

To destroy the effect which the declaration had produced--a commingling

of fear and compassion--the judge at once wished to proceed with the

hearing of the witnesses. Of these there was an interminable procession;

though little interest attached to their evidence, for none of them had

any revelations to make. Most attention perhaps was paid to the measured

statements of Grandidier, who had been obliged to dismiss Salvat from his

employ on account of the Anarchist propaganda he had carried on. Then the

prisoner’s brother-in-law, Toussaint, the mechanician, also seemed a very

worthy fellow if one might judge him by the manner in which he strove to

put things favourably for Salvat, without in any way departing from the

truth. After Toussaint’s evidence considerable time was taken up by the

discussions between the experts, who disagreed in public as much as they

had disagreed in their reports. Although they were all of opinion that

dynamite could not have been the explosive employed in the bomb, they

indulged in the most extraordinary and contradictory suppositions as to

this explosive’s real nature. Eventually a written opinion given by the

illustrious _savant_ Bertheroy was read; and this, after clearly setting

forth the known facts, concluded that one found oneself in presence of a

new explosive of prodigious power, the formula of which he himself was

unable to specify.

Then detective Mondésir and commissary Dupot came in turn to relate the

various phases of the man hunt in the Bois de Boulogne. In Mondésir

centred all the gaiety of the proceedings, thanks to the guardroom

sallies with which he enlivened his narrative. And in like way the

greatest grief, a perfect shudder of revolt and compassion, was roused by

the errand girl’s grandmother, a poor, bent, withered old woman, whom the

prosecution had cruelly constrained to attend the court, and who wept and

looked quite dismayed, unable as she was to understand what was wanted of

her. When she had withdrawn, the only remaining witnesses were those for

the defence, a procession of foremen and comrades, who all declared that

they had known Salvat as a very worthy fellow, an intelligent and zealous

workman, who did not drink, but was extremely fond of his daughter, and

incapable of an act of dishonesty or cruelty.

It was already four o’clock when the evidence of the witnesses came to an

end. The atmosphere in court was now quite stifling, feverish fatigue

flushed every face, and a kind of ruddy dust obscured the waning light

which fell from the windows. Women were fanning themselves and men were

mopping their foreheads. However, the passion roused by the scene still

brought a glow of cruel delight to every eye. And no one stirred.

“Ah!” sighed Rosemonde all at once, “to think that I hoped to drink a cup

of tea at a friend’s at five o’clock. I shall die of thirst and

starvation here.”

“We shall certainly be kept till seven,” replied Massot. “I can’t offer

to go and fetch you a roll, for I shouldn’t be readmitted.”

Then Duthil, who had not ceased shrugging his shoulders while Salvat read

his declaration, exclaimed: “What childish things he said, didn’t he? And

to think that the fool is going to die for all that! Rich and poor,

indeed! Why, there will always be rich and poor. And it’s equally certain

that when a man is poor his one great desire is to become rich. If that

fellow is in the dock to-day it’s simply because he failed to make

money.”

While the others were thus conversing, Pierre for his part was feeling

extremely anxious about his brother, who sat beside him in silence, pale

and utterly upset. Pierre sought his hand and covertly pressed it. Then

in a low voice he inquired: “Do you feel ill? Shall we go away?”

Guillaume answered him by discreetly and affectionately returning his

handshake. He was all right, he would remain till the end, however much

he might be stirred by exasperation.

It was now Monsieur Lehmann, the public prosecutor, who rose to address

the court. He had a large, stern mouth, and was squarely built, with a

stubborn Jewish face. Nevertheless he was known to be a man of dexterous,

supple nature, one who had a foot in every political camp, and invariably

contrived to be on good terms with the powers that were. This explained

his rapid rise in life, and the constant favour he enjoyed. In the very

first words he spoke he alluded to the new ministry gazetted that

morning, referring pointedly to the strong-handed man who had undertaken

the task of reassuring peaceable citizens and making evil-doers tremble.

Then he fell upon the wretched Salvat with extraordinary vehemence,

recounting the whole of his life, and exhibiting him as a bandit

expressly born for the perpetration of crime, a monster who was bound to

end by committing some abominable and cowardly outrage. Next he

flagellated Anarchism and its partisans. The Anarchists were a mere herd

of vagabonds and thieves, said he. That had been shown by the recent

robbery at the Princess de Harn’s house. The ignoble gang that had been

arrested for that affair had given the apostles of the Anarchist doctrine

as their references! And that was what the application of Anarchist

theories resulted in--burglary and filth, pending a favourable hour for

wholesale pillage and murder! For nearly a couple of hours the public

prosecutor continued in this fashion, throwing truth and logic to the

winds, and exclusively striving to alarm his hearers. He made all

possible use of the terror which had reigned in Paris, and figuratively

brandished the corpse of the poor little victim, the pretty errand girl,

as if it were a blood-red flag, before pointing to the pale hand,

preserved in spirits of wine, with a gesture of compassionate horror

which sent a shudder through his audience. And he ended, as he had begun,

by inspiriting the jurors, and telling them that they might fearlessly do

their duty now that those at the head of the State were firmly resolved

to give no heed to threats.

Then the young advocate entrusted with the defence in his turn spoke. And

he really said what there was to say with great clearness and precision.

He was of a different school from that of the public prosecutor: his

eloquence was very simple and smooth, his only passion seemed to be zeal

for truth. Moreover, it was sufficient for him to show Salvat’s career in

its proper light, to depict him pursued by social fatalities since his

childhood, and to explain the final action of his career by all that he

had suffered and all that had sprung up in his dreamy brain. Was not his

crime the crime of one and all? Who was there that did not feel, if only

in a small degree, responsible for that bomb which a penniless, starving

workman had deposited on the threshold of a wealthy man’s abode--a

wealthy man whose name bespoke the injustice of the social system: so

much enjoyment on the one hand and so much privation on the other! If one

of us happened to lose his head, and felt impelled to hasten the advent

of happiness by violence in such troublous times, when so many burning

problems claimed solution, ought he to be deprived of his life in the

name of justice, when none could swear that they had not in some measure

contributed to his madness? Following up this question, Salvat’s counsel

dwelt at length on the period that witnessed the crime, a period of so

many scandals and collapses, when the old world was giving birth to a new

one amidst the most terrible struggles and pangs. And he concluded by

begging the jury to show themselves humane, to resist all passion and

terror, and to pacify the rival classes by a wise verdict, instead of

prolonging social warfare by giving the starvelings yet another martyr to

avenge.

It was past six o’clock when M. de Larombière began to sum up in a

partial and flowery fashion, in which one detected how grieved and angry

he was at having such a shrill little voice. Then the judges and the

jurors withdrew, and the prisoner was led away, leaving the spectators

waiting amidst an uproar of feverish impatience. Some more ladies had

fainted, and it had even been necessary to carry out a gentleman who had

been overcome by the cruel heat. However, the others stubbornly remained

there, not one of them quitting his place.

“Ah! it won’t take long now,” said Massot. “The jurors brought their

verdict all ready in their pockets. I was looking at them while that

little advocate was telling them such sensible things. They all looked as

if they were comfortably asleep in the gloom.”

Then Duthil turned to the Princess and asked her, “Are you still hungry?”

“Oh! I’m starving,” she replied. “I shall never be able to wait till I

get home. You will have to take me to eat a biscuit somewhere.... All

the same, however, it’s very exciting to see a man’s life staked on a yes

or a no.”

Meantime Pierre, finding Guillaume still more feverish and grieved, had

once again taken hold of his hand. Neither of them spoke, so great was

the distress that they experienced for many reasons which they themselves

could not have precisely defined. It seemed to them, however, that all

human misery--inclusive of their own, the affections, the hopes, the

griefs which brought them suffering--was sobbing and quivering in that

buzzing hall. Twilight had gradually fallen there, but as the end was now

so near it had doubtless been thought unnecessary to light the

chandeliers. And thus large vague shadows, dimming and shrouding the

serried throng, now hovered about in the last gleams of the day. The

ladies in light gowns yonder, behind the bench, looked like pale phantoms

with all-devouring eyes, whilst the numerous groups of black-robed

advocates formed large sombre patches which gradually spread everywhere.

The greyish painting of the Christ had already vanished, and on the walls

one only saw the glaring white bust of the Republic, which resembled some

frigid death’s head starting forth from the darkness.

“Ah!” Massot once more exclaimed, “I knew that it wouldn’t take long!”

Indeed, the jurors were returning after less than a quarter of an hour’s

absence. Then the judges likewise came back and took their seats.

Increased emotion stirred the throng, a great gust seemed to sweep

through the court, a gust of anxiety, which made every head sway. Some

people had risen to their feet, and others gave vent to involuntary

exclamations. The foreman of the jury, a gentleman with a broad red face,

had to wait a moment before speaking. At last in a sharp but somewhat

sputtering voice he declared: “On my honour and my conscience, before God

and before man, the verdict of the jury is: on the question of Murder,

yes, by a majority of votes.”*

* English readers may be reminded that in France the verdict of

a majority of the jury suffices for conviction or acquittal.

If the jury is evenly divided the prisoner is acquitted.--Trans.

The night had almost completely fallen when Salvat was once more brought

in. In front of the jurors, who faded away in the gloom, he stood forth,

erect, with a last ray from the windows lighting up his face. The judges

themselves almost disappeared from view, their red robes seemed to have

turned black. And how phantom-like looked the prisoner’s emaciated face

as he stood there listening, with dreamy eyes, while the clerk of the

court read the verdict to him.

When silence fell and no mention was made of extenuating circumstances,

he understood everything. His face, which had retained a childish

expression, suddenly brightened. “That means death. Thank you,

gentlemen,” he said.

Then he turned towards the public, and amidst the growing darkness

searched for the friendly faces which he knew were there; and this time

Guillaume became fully conscious that he had recognised him, and was

again expressing affectionate and grateful thanks for the crust he had

received from him on a day of want. He must have also bidden farewell to

Victor Mathis, for as Guillaume glanced at the young man, who had not

moved, he saw that his eyes were staring wildly, and that a terrible

expression rested on his lips.

As for the rest of the proceedings, the last questions addressed to the

jury and the counsel, the deliberations of the judges and the delivery of

sentence--these were all lost amidst the buzzing and surging of the

crowd. A little compassion was unconsciously manifested; and some stupor

was mingled with the satisfaction that greeted the sentence of death.

No sooner had Salvat been condemned, however, than he drew himself up to

his full height, and as the guards led him away he shouted in a

stentorian voice: “Long live Anarchy!”

Nobody seemed angered by the cry. The crowd went off quietly, as if

weariness had lulled all its passions. The proceedings had really lasted

too long and fatigued one too much. It was quite pleasant to inhale the

fresh air on emerging from such a nightmare.

In the large waiting hall, Pierre and Guillaume passed Duthil and the

Princess, whom General de Bozonnet had stopped while chatting with

Fonsègue. All four of them were talking in very loud voices, complaining

of the heat and their hunger, and agreeing that the affair had not been a

particularly interesting one. Yet, all was well that ended well. As

Fonsègue remarked, the condemnation of Salvat to death was a political

and social necessity.

When Pierre and Guillaume reached the Pont Neuf, the latter for a moment

rested his elbows on the parapet of the bridge. His brother, standing

beside him, also gazed at the grey waters of the Seine, which here and

there were fired by the reflections of the gas lamps. A fresh breeze

ascended from the river; it was the delightful hour when night steals

gently over resting Paris. Then, as the brothers stood there breathing

that atmosphere which usually brings relief and comfort, Pierre on his

side again became conscious of his heart-wound, and remembered his

promise to return to Montmartre, a promise that he must keep in spite of

the torture there awaiting him; whilst Guillaume on the other hand

experienced a revival of the suspicion and disquietude that had come to

him on seeing Marie so feverish, changed as it were by some new feeling,

of which she herself was ignorant. Were further sufferings, struggles,

and obstacles to happiness yet in store for those brothers who loved one

another so dearly? At all events their hearts bled once more with all the

sorrow into which they had been cast by the scene they had just

witnessed: that assize of justice at which a wretched man had been

condemned to pay with his head for the crimes of one and all.

Then, as they turned along the quay, Guillaume recognised young Victor

going off alone in the gloom, just in front of them. The chemist stopped

him and spoke to him of his mother. But the young man did not hear; his

thin lips parted, and in a voice as trenchant as a knife-thrust he

exclaimed: “Ah! so it’s blood they want. Well, they may cut off his head,

but he will be avenged!”

V. SACRIFICE

THE days which followed Salvat’s trial seemed gloomy ones up yonder in

Guillaume’s workroom, which was usually so bright and gay. Sadness and

silence filled the place. The three young men were no longer there.

Thomas betook himself to the Grandidier works early every morning in

order to perfect his little motor; François was so busy preparing for his

examination that he scarcely left the École Normale; while Antoine was

doing some work at Jahan’s, where he delighted to linger and watch his

little friend Lise awakening to life. Thus Guillaume’s sole companion was

Mère-Grand, who sat near the window busy with her needlework; for Marie

was ever going about the house, and only stayed in the workroom for any

length of time when Pierre happened to be there.

Guillaume’s gloom was generally attributed to the feelings of anger and

revolt into which the condemnation of Salvat had thrown him. He had flown

into a passion on his return from the Palace of Justice, declaring that

the execution of the unhappy man would simply be social murder,

deliberate provocation of class warfare. And the others had bowed on

hearing that pain-fraught violent cry, without attempting to discuss the

point. Guillaume’s sons respectfully left him to the thoughts which kept

him silent for hours, with his face pale and a dreamy expression in his

eyes. His chemical furnace remained unlighted, and his only occupation

from morn till night was to examine the plans and documents connected

with his invention, that new explosive and that terrible engine of war,

which he had so long dreamt of presenting to France in order that she

might impose the reign of truth and justice upon all the nations.

However, during the long hours which he spent before the papers scattered

over his table, often without seeing them, for his eyes wandered far

away, a multitude of vague thoughts came to him--doubts respecting the

wisdom of his project, and fears lest his desire to pacify the nations

should simply throw them into an endless war of extermination. Although

he really believed that great city of Paris to be the world’s brain,

entrusted with the task of preparing the future, he could not disguise

from himself that with all its folly and shame and injustice it still

presented a shocking spectacle. Was it really ripe enough for the work of

human salvation which he thought of entrusting to it? Then, on trying to

re-peruse his notes and verify his formulas, he only recovered his former

energetic determination on thinking of his marriage, whereupon the idea

came to him that it was now too late for him to upset his life by

changing such long-settled plans.

His marriage! Was it not the thought of this which haunted Guillaume and

disturbed him far more powerfully than his scientific work or his

humanitarian passion? Beneath all the worries that he acknowledged, there

was another which he did not confess even to himself, and which filled

him with anguish. He repeated day by day that he would reveal his

invention to the Minister of War as soon as he should be married to

Marie, whom he wished to associate with his glory. Married to Marie! Each

time he thought of it, burning fever and secret disquietude came over

him. If he now remained so silent and had lost his quiet cheerfulness, it

was because he had felt new life, as it were, emanating from her. She was

certainly no longer the same woman as formerly; she was becoming more and

more changed and distant. He had watched her and Pierre when the latter

happened to be there, which was now but seldom. He, too, appeared

embarrassed, and different from what he had been. On the days when he

came, however, Marie seemed transformed; it was as if new life animated

the house. Certainly the intercourse between her and Pierre was quite

innocent, sisterly on the one hand, brotherly on the other. They simply

seemed to be a pair of good friends. And yet a radiance, a vibration,

emanated from them, something more subtle even than a sun-ray or a

perfume. After the lapse of a few days Guillaume found himself unable to

doubt the truth any longer. And his heart bled, he was utterly upset by

it. He had not found them in fault in any way, but he was convinced that

these two children, as he so paternally called them, really adored one

another.

One lovely morning when he happened to be alone with Mère-Grand, face to

face with sunlit Paris, he fell into a yet more dolorous reverie than

usual. He seemed to be gazing fixedly at the old lady, as, seated in her

usual place, she continued sewing with an air of queenly serenity.

Perhaps, however, he did not see her. For her part she occasionally

raised her eyes and glanced at him, as if expecting a confession which

did not come. At last, finding such silence unbearable, she made up her

mind to address him: “What has been the matter with you, Guillaume, for

some time past? Why don’t you tell me what you have to tell me?”

He descended from the clouds, as it were, and answered in astonishment:

“What I have to tell you?”

“Yes, I know it as well as you do, and I thought you would speak to me of

it, since it pleases you to do nothing here without consulting me.”

At this he turned very pale and shuddered. So he had not been mistaken in

the matter, even Mère-Grand knew all about it. To talk of it, however,

was to give shape to his suspicions, to transform what, hitherto, might

merely have been a fancy on his part into something real and definite.

“It was inevitable, my dear son,” said Mère-Grand. “I foresaw it from the

outset. And if I did not warn you of it, it was because I believed in

some deep design on your part. Since I have seen you suffering, however,

I have realised that I was mistaken.” Then, as he still looked at her

quivering and distracted, she continued: “Yes, I fancied that you might

have wished it, that in bringing your brother here you wished to know if

Marie loved you otherwise than as a father. There was good reason for

testing her--for instance, the great difference between your ages, for

your life is drawing to a close, whilst hers is only beginning. And I

need not mention the question of your work, the mission which I have

always dreamt of for you.”

Thereupon, with his hands raised in prayerful fashion, Guillaume drew

near to the old lady and exclaimed: “Oh! speak out clearly, tell me what

you think. I don’t understand, my poor heart is so lacerated; and yet I

should so much like to know everything, so as to be able to act and take

a decision. To think that you whom I love, you whom I venerate as much as

if you were my real mother, you whose profound good sense I know so well

that I have always followed your advice--to think that you should have

foreseen this frightful thing and have allowed it to happen at the risk

of its killing me!... Why have you done so, tell me, why?”

Mère-Grand was not fond of talking. Absolute mistress of the house as she

was, managing everything, accountable to nobody for her actions, she

never gave expression to all that she thought or all that she desired.

Indeed, there was no occasion for it, as Guillaume, like the children,

relied upon her completely, with full confidence in her wisdom. And her

somewhat enigmatical ways even helped to raise her in their estimation.

“What is the use of words, when things themselves speak?” she now gently

answered, while still plying her needle. “It is quite true that I

approved of the plan of a marriage between you and Marie, for I saw that

it was necessary that she should be married if she was to stay here. And

then, too, there were many other reasons which I needn’t speak of.

However, Pierre’s arrival here has changed everything, and placed things

in their natural order. Is not that preferable?”

He still lacked the courage to understand her. “Preferable! When I’m in

agony? When my life is wrecked?”

Thereupon she rose and came to him, tall and rigid in her thin black

gown, and with an expression of austerity and energy on her pale face.

“My son,” she said, “you know that I love you, and that I wish you to be

very noble and lofty. Only the other morning, you had an attack of

fright, the house narrowly escaped being blown up. Then, for some days

now you have been sitting over those documents and plans in an

absent-minded, distracted state, like a man who feels weak, and doubts,

and no longer knows his way. Believe me, you are following a dangerous

path; it is better that Pierre should marry Marie, both for their sakes

and for your own.”

“For my sake? No, no! What will become of me!”

“You will calm yourself and reflect, my son. You have such serious duties

before you. You are on the eve of making your invention known. It seems

to me that something has bedimmed your sight, and that you will perhaps

act wrongly in this respect, through failing to take due account of the

problem before you. Perhaps there is something better to be done....

At all events, suffer if it be necessary, but remain faithful to your

ideal.”

Then, quitting him with a maternal smile, she sought to soften her

somewhat stern words by adding: “You have compelled me to speak

unnecessarily, for I am quite at ease; with your superior mind, whatever

be in question, you can but do the one right thing that none other would

do.”

On finding himself alone Guillaume fell into feverish uncertainty. What

was the meaning of Mère-Grand’s enigmatical words? He knew that she was

on the side of whatever might be good, natural, and necessary. But she

seemed to be urging him to some lofty heroism; and indeed what she had

said threw a ray of light upon the unrest which had come to him in

connection with his old plan of going to confide his secret to some

Minister of War or other, whatever one might happen to be in office at

the time. Growing hesitation and repugnance stirred him as he fancied he

could again hear her saying that perhaps there might be some better

course, that would require search and reflection. But all at once a

vision of Marie rose before him, and his heart was rent by the thought

that he was asked to renounce her. To lose her, to give her to another!

No, no, that was beyond his strength. He would never have the frightful

courage that was needed to pass by the last promised raptures of love

with disdain!

For a couple of days Guillaume struggled on. He seemed to be again living

the six years which the young woman had already spent beside him in that

happy little house. She had been at first like an adopted daughter there;

and later on, when the idea of their marriage had sprung up, he had

viewed it with quiet delight in the hope that it would ensure the

happiness of all around him. If he had previously abstained from marrying

again it was from the fear of placing a strange mother over his children;

and if he yielded to the charm of loving yet once more, and no longer

leading a solitary life, it was because he had found at his very hearth

one of such sensible views, who, in the flower of youth, was willing to

become his wife despite the difference in their ages. Then months had

gone by, and serious occurrences had compelled them to postpone the

wedding, though without undue suffering on his part. Indeed, the

certainty that she was waiting for him had sufficed him, for his life of

hard work had rendered him patient. Now, however, all at once, at the

threat of losing her, his hitherto tranquil heart ached and bled. He

would never have thought the tie so close a one. But he was now almost

fifty, and it was as if love and woman were being wrenched away from him,

the last woman that he could love and desire, one too who was the more

desirable, as she was the incarnation of youth from which he must ever be

severed, should he indeed lose her. Passionate desire, mingled with rage,

flared up within him at the thought that someone should have come to take

her from him.

One night, alone in his room, he suffered perfect martyrdom. In order

that he might not rouse the house he buried his face in his pillow so as

to stifle his sobs. After all, it was a simple matter; Marie had given

him her promise, and he would compel her to keep it. She would be his,

and his alone, and none would be able to steal her from him. Then,

however, there rose before him a vision of his brother, the

long-forgotten one, whom, from feelings of affection, he had compelled to

join his family. But his sufferings were now so acute that he would have

driven that brother away had he been before him. He was enraged,

maddened, by the thought of him. His brother--his little brother! So all

their love was over; hatred and violence were about to poison their

lives. For hours Guillaume continued complaining deliriously, and seeking

how he might so rid himself of Pierre that what had happened should be

blotted out. Now and again, when he recovered self-control, he marvelled

at the tempest within him; for was he not a _savant_ guided by lofty

reason, a toiler to whom long experience had brought serenity? But the

truth was that this tempest had not sprung up in his mind, it was raging

in the child-like soul that he had retained, the nook of affection and

dreaminess which remained within him side by side with his principles of

pitiless logic and his belief in proven phenomena only. His very genius

came from the duality of his nature: behind the chemist was a social

dreamer, hungering for justice and capable of the greatest love. And now

passion was transporting him, and he was weeping for the loss of Marie as

he would have wept over the downfall of that dream of his, the

destruction of war _by_ war, that scheme for the salvation of mankind at

which he had been working for ten years past.

At last, amidst his weariness, a sudden resolution calmed him. He began

to feel ashamed of despairing in this wise when he had no certain grounds

to go upon. He must know everything, he would question the young woman;

she was loyal enough to answer him frankly. Was not this a solution

worthy of them both? An explanation in all sincerity, after which they

would be able to take a decision. Then he fell asleep; and, tired though

he felt when he rose in the morning, he was calmer. It was as if some

secret work had gone on in his heart during his few hours of repose after

that terrible storm.

As it happened Marie was very gay that morning. On the previous day she

had gone with Pierre and Antoine on a cycling excursion over frightful

roads in the direction of Montmorency, whence they had returned in a

state of mingled anger and delight. When Guillaume stopped her in the

little garden, he found her humming a song while returning bare-armed

from the scullery, where some washing was going on.

“Do you want to speak to me?” she asked.

“Yes, my dear child, it’s necessary for us to talk of some serious

matters.”

She at once understood that their marriage was in question, and became

grave. She had formerly consented to that marriage because she regarded

it as the only sensible course she could take, and this with full

knowledge of the duties which she would assume. No doubt her husband

would be some twenty years older than herself, but this circumstance was

one of somewhat frequent occurrence, and as a rule such marriages turned

out well, rather than otherwise. Moreover, she was in love with nobody,

and was free to consent. And she had consented with an impulse of

gratitude and affection which seemed so sweet that she thought it the

sweetness of love itself. Everybody around her, too, appeared so pleased

at the prospect of this marriage, which would draw the family yet more

closely together. And, on her side, she had been as it were intoxicated

by the idea of making others happy.

“What is the matter?” she now asked Guillaume in a somewhat anxious

voice. “No bad news, I hope?”

“No, no,” he answered. “I’ve simply something to say to you.”

Then he led her under the plum-trees to the only green nook left in the

garden. An old worm-eaten bench still stood there against the

lilac-bushes. And in front of them Paris spread out its sea of roofs,

looking light and fresh in the morning sunlight.

They both sat down. But at the moment of speaking and questioning Marie,

Guillaume experienced sudden embarrassment, while his heart beat

violently at seeing her beside him, so young and adorable with her bare

arms.

“Our wedding-day is drawing near,” he ended by saying. And then as she

turned somewhat pale, perhaps unconsciously, he himself suddenly felt

cold. Had not her lips twitched as if with pain? Had not a shadow passed

over her fresh, clear eyes?

“Oh! we still have some time before us,” she replied.

Then, slowly and very affectionately, he resumed: “No doubt; still it is

necessary to attend to the formalities. And it is as well, perhaps, that

I should speak of those worries to-day, so that I may not have to bother

you about them again.”

Then he gently went on telling her all that would have to be done,

keeping his eyes on her whilst he spoke, watching for such signs of

emotion as the thought of her promise’s early fulfilment might bring to

her face. She sat there in silence, with her hands on her lap, and her

features quite still, thus giving no certain sign of any regret or

trouble. Still she seemed rather dejected, compliant, as it were, but in

no wise joyous.

“You say nothing, my dear Marie,” Guillaume at last exclaimed. “Does

anything of all this displease you?”

“Displease me? Oh, no!”

“You must speak out frankly, if it does, you know. We will wait a little

longer if you have any personal reasons for wishing to postpone the date

again.”

“But I’ve no reasons, my friend. What reasons could I have? I leave you

quite free to settle everything as you yourself may desire.”

Silence fell. While answering, she had looked him frankly in the face;

but a little quiver stirred her lips, and gloom, for which she could not

account, seemed to rise and darken her face, usually as bright and gay as

spring water. In former times would she not have laughed and sung at the

mere announcement of that coming wedding?

Then Guillaume, with an effort which made his voice tremble, dared to

speak out: “You must forgive me for asking you a question, my dear Marie.

There is still time for you to cancel your promise. Are you quite certain

that you love me?”

At this she looked at him in genuine stupefaction, utterly failing to

understand what he could be aiming at. And--as she seemed to be deferring

her reply, he added: “Consult your heart. Is it really your old friend or

is it another that you love?”

“I? I, Guillaume? Why do you say that to me? What can I have done to give

you occasion to say such a thing!”

All her frank nature revolted as she spoke, and her beautiful eyes,

glowing with sincerity, gazed fixedly on his.

“I love Pierre! I do, I?... Well, yes, I love him, as I love you all;

I love him because he has become one of us, because he shares our life

and our joys! I’m happy when he’s here, certainly; and I should like him

to be always here. I’m always pleased to see him and hear him and go out

with him. I was very much grieved recently when he seemed to be relapsing

into his gloomy ideas. But all that is natural, is it not? And I think

that I have only done what you desired I should do, and I cannot

understand how my affection for Pierre can in any way exercise an

influence respecting our marriage.”

These words, in her estimation, ought to have convinced Guillaume that

she was not in love with his brother; but in lieu thereof they brought

him painful enlightenment by the very ardour with which she denied the

love imputed to her.

“But you unfortunate girl!” he cried. “You are betraying yourself without

knowing it.... It is quite certain you do not love me, you love my

brother!”

He had caught hold of her wrists and was pressing them with despairing

affection as if to compel her to read her heart. And she continued

struggling. A most loving and tragic contest went on between them, he

seeking to convince her by the evidence of facts, and she resisting him,

stubbornly refusing to open her eyes. In vain did he recount what had

happened since the first day, explaining the feelings which had followed

one upon another in her heart and mind: first covert hostility, next

curiosity regarding that extraordinary young priest, and then sympathy

and affection when she had found him so wretched and had gradually cured

him of his sufferings. They were both young and mother Nature had done

the rest. However, at each fresh proof and certainty which he put before

her, Marie only experienced growing emotion, trembling at last from head

to foot, but still unwilling to question herself.

“No, no,” said she, “I do not love him. If I loved him I should know it

and would acknowledge it to you; for you are well aware that I cannot

tell an untruth.”

Guillaume, however, had the cruelty to insist on the point, like some

heroic surgeon cutting into his own flesh even more than into that of

others, in order that the truth might appear and everyone be saved.

“Marie,” said he, “it is not I whom you love. All that you feel for me is

respect and gratitude and daughterly affection. Remember what your

feelings were at the time when our marriage was decided upon. You were

then in love with nobody, and you accepted the offer like a sensible

girl, feeling certain that I should render you happy, and that the union

was a right and satisfactory one.... But since then my brother has

come here; love has sprung up in your heart in quite a natural way; and

it is Pierre, Pierre alone, whom you love as a lover and a husband should

be loved.”

Exhausted though she was, utterly distracted, too, by the light which,

despite herself, was dawning within her, Marie still stubbornly and

desperately protested.

“But why do you struggle like this against the truth, my child?” said

Guillaume; “I do not reproach you. It was I who chose that this should

happen, like the old madman I am. What was bound to come has come, and

doubtless it is for the best. I only wanted to learn the truth from you

in order that I might take a decision and act uprightly.”

These words vanquished her, and her tears gushed forth. It seemed as

though something had been rent asunder within her; and she felt quite

overcome, as if by the weight of a new truth of which she had hitherto

been ignorant. “Ah! it was cruel of you,” she said, “to do me such

violence so as to make me read my heart. I swear to you again that I did

not know I loved Pierre in the way you say. But you have opened my heart,

and roused what was quietly slumbering in it.... And it is true, I do

love Pierre, I love him now as you have said. And so here we are, all

three of us supremely wretched through your doing!”

She sobbed, and with a sudden feeling of modesty freed her wrists from

his grasp. He noticed, however, that no blush rose to her face. Truth to

tell, her virginal loyalty was not in question; she had no cause to

reproach herself with any betrayal; it was he alone, perforce, who had

awakened her to love. For a moment they looked at one another through

their tears: she so strong and healthy, her bosom heaving at each

heart-beat, and her white arms--arms that could both charm and

sustain--bare almost to her shoulders; and he still vigorous, with his

thick fleece of white hair and his black moustaches, which gave his

countenance such an expression of energetic youth. But it was all over,

the irreparable had swept by, and utterly changed their lives.

“Marie,” he nobly said, “you do not love me, I give you back your

promise.”

But with equal nobility she refused to take it back. “Never will I do

so,” she replied. “I gave it to you frankly, freely and joyfully, and my

affection and admiration for you have never changed.”

Nevertheless, with more firmness in his hitherto broken voice, Guillaume

retorted: “You love Pierre, and it is Pierre whom you ought to marry.”

“No,” she again insisted, “I belong to you. A tie which years have

tightened cannot be undone in an hour. Once again, if I love Pierre I

swear to you that I was ignorant of it this morning. And let us leave the

matter as it is; do not torture me any more, it would be too cruel of

you.”

Then, quivering like a woman who suddenly perceives that she is bare, in

a stranger’s presence, she hastily pulled down her sleeves, and even drew

them over her hands as if to leave naught of her person visible. And

afterwards she rose and walked away without adding a single word.

Guillaume remained alone on the bench in that leafy corner, in front of

Paris, to which the light morning sunshine lent the aspect of some

quivering, soaring city of dreamland. A great weight oppressed him, and

it seemed to him as if he would never be able to rise from the seat. That

which brought him most suffering was Marie’s assurance that she had till

that morning been ignorant of the fact that she was in love with Pierre.

She had been ignorant of it, and it was he, Guillaume, who had brought it

to her knowledge, compelled her to confess it! He had now firmly planted

it in her heart, and perhaps increased it by revealing it to her. Ah! how

cruel the thought--to be the artisan of one’s own torment! Of one thing

he was now quite certain: there would be no more love in his life. At the

idea of this, his poor, loving heart sank and bled. And yet amidst the

disaster, amidst his grief at realising that he was an old man, and that

renunciation was imperative, he experienced a bitter joy at having

brought the truth to light. This was very harsh consolation, fit only for

one of heroic soul, yet he found lofty satisfaction in it, and from that

moment the thought of sacrifice imposed itself upon him with

extraordinary force. He must marry his children; there lay the path of

duty, the only wise and just course, the only certain means of ensuring

the happiness of the household. And when his revolting heart yet leapt

and shrieked with anguish, he carried his vigorous hands to his chest in

order to still it.

On the morrow came the supreme explanation between Guillaume and Pierre,

not in the little garden, however, but in the spacious workroom. And here

again one beheld the vast panorama of Paris, a nation as it were at work,

a huge vat in which the wine of the future was fermenting. Guillaume had

arranged things so that he might be alone with his brother; and no sooner

had the latter entered than he attacked him, going straight to the point

without any of the precautions which he had previously taken with Marie.

“Haven’t you something to say to me, Pierre?” he inquired. “Why won’t you

confide in me?”

The other immediately understood him, and began to tremble, unable to

find a word, but confessing everything by the distracted, entreating

expression of his face.

“You love Marie,” continued Guillaume, “why did you not loyally come and

tell me of your love?”

At this Pierre recovered self-possession and defended himself vehemently:

“I love Marie, it’s true, and I felt that I could not conceal it, that

you yourself would notice it at last. But there was no occasion for me to

tell you of it, for I was sure of myself, and would have fled rather than

have allowed a single word to cross my lips. I suffered in silence and

alone, and you cannot know how great my torture was! It is even cruel on

your part to speak to me of it; for now I am absolutely compelled to

leave you.... I have already, on several occasions, thought of doing

so. If I have come back here, it was doubtless through weakness, but also

on account of my affection for you all. And what mattered my presence

here? Marie ran no risk. She does not love me.”

“She does love you!” Guillaume answered. “I questioned her yesterday, and

she had to confess that she loved you.”

At this Pierre, utterly distracted, caught Guillaume by the shoulders and

gazed into his eyes. “Oh! brother, brother! what is this you say? Why say

a thing which would mean terrible misfortune for us all? Even if it were

true, my grief would far exceed my joy, for I will not have you suffer.

Marie belongs to you. To me she is as sacred as a sister. And if there be

only my madness to part you, it will pass by, I shall know how to conquer

it.”

“Marie loves you,” repeated Guillaume in his gentle, obstinate way. “I

don’t reproach you with anything. I well know that you have struggled,

and have never betrayed yourself to her either by word or glance.

Yesterday she herself was still ignorant that she loved you, and I had to

open her eyes.... What would you have? I simply state a fact: she

loves you.”

This time Pierre, still quivering, made a gesture of mingled rapture and

terror, as if some divine and long-desired blessing were falling upon him

from heaven and crushing him beneath its weight.

“Well, then,” he said, after a brief pause, “it is all over.... Let us

kiss one another for the last time, and then I’ll go.”

“Go? Why? You must stay with us. Nothing could be more simple: you love

Marie and she loves you. I give her to you.”

A loud cry came from Pierre, who wildly raised his hands again with a

gesture of fright and rapture. “You give me Marie?” he replied. “You, who

adore her, who have been waiting for her for months? No, no, it would

overcome me, it would terrify me, as if you gave me your very heart after

tearing it from your breast. No, no! I will not accept your sacrifice!”

“But as it is only gratitude and affection that Marie feels for me,” said

Guillaume, “as it is you whom she really loves, am I to take a mean

advantage of the engagements which she entered into unconsciously, and

force her to a marriage when I know that she would never be wholly mine?

Besides, I have made a mistake, it isn’t I who give her to you, she has

already given herself, and I do not consider that I have any right to

prevent her from doing so.”

“No, no! I will never accept, I will never bring such grief upon you...

Kiss me, brother, and let me go.”

Thereupon Guillaume caught hold of Pierre and compelled him to sit down

by his side on an old sofa near the window. And he began to scold him

almost angrily while still retaining a smile, in which suffering and

kindliness were blended. “Come,” said he, “we are surely not going to

fight over it. You won’t force me to tie you up so as to keep you here? I

know what I’m about. I thought it all over before I spoke to you. No

doubt, I can’t tell you that it gladdens me. I thought at first that I

was going to die; I should have liked to hide myself in the very depths

of the earth. And then, well, it was necessary to be reasonable, and I

understood that things had arranged themselves for the best, in their

natural order.”

Pierre, unable to resist any further, had begun to weep with both hands

raised to his face.

“Don’t grieve, brother, either for yourself or for me,” said Guillaume.

“Do you remember the happy days we lately spent together at Neuilly after

we had found one another again? All our old affection revived within us,

and we remained for hours, hand in hand, recalling the past and loving

one another. And what a terrible confession you made to me one night, the

confession of your loss of faith, your torture, the void in which you

were rolling! When I heard of it my one great wish was to cure you. I

advised you to work, love, and believe in life, convinced as I was that

life alone could restore you to peace and health.... And for that

reason I afterwards brought you here. You fought against it, and it was I

who forced you to come. I was so happy when I found that you again took

an interest in life, and had once more become a man and a worker! I would

have given some of my blood if necessary to complete your cure....

Well, it’s done now, I have given you all I had, since Marie herself has

become necessary to you, and she alone can save you.”

Then as Pierre again attempted to protest, he resumed: “Don’t deny it. It

is so true indeed, that if she does not complete the work I have begun,

all my efforts will have been vain, you will fall back into your misery

and negation, into all the torments of a spoilt life. She is necessary to

you, I say. And do you think that I no longer know how to love you? Would

you have me refuse you the very breath of life that will truly make you a

man, after all my fervent wishes for your return to life? I have enough

affection for you both to consent to your loving one another....

Besides, I repeat it, nature knows what she does. Instinct is a sure

guide, it always tends to what is useful and trite. I should have been a

sorry husband, and it is best that I should keep to my work as an old

_savant_; whereas you are young and represent the future, all fruitful

and happy life.”

Pierre shuddered as he heard this, for his old fears returned to him. Had

not the priesthood for ever cut him off from life, had not his long years

of chaste celibacy robbed him of his manhood? “Fruitful and happy life!”

he muttered, “ah! if you only knew how distressed I feel at the idea that

I do not perhaps deserve the gift you so lovingly offer me! You are worth

more than I am; you would have given her a larger heart, a firmer brain,

and perhaps, too, you are really a younger man than myself.... There

is still time, brother, keep her, if with you she is likely to be happier

and more truly and completely loved. For my part I am full of doubts. Her

happiness is the only thing of consequence. Let her belong to the one who

will love her best!”

Indescribable emotion had now come over both men. As Guillaume heard his

brother’s broken words, the cry of a love that trembled at the thought of

possible weakness, he did for a moment waver. With a dreadful heart-pang

he stammered despairingly: “Ah! Marie, whom I love so much! Marie, whom I

would have rendered so happy!”

At this Pierre could not restrain himself; he rose and cried: “Ah! you

see that you love her still and cannot renounce her.... So let me go!

let me go!”

But Guillaume had already caught him around the body, clasping him with

an intensity of brotherly love which was increased by the renunciation he

was resolved upon: “Stay!” said he. “It wasn’t I that spoke, it was the

other man that was in me, he who is about to die, who is already dead! By

the memory of our mother and our father I swear to you that the sacrifice

is consummated, and that if you two refuse to accept happiness from me

you will but make me suffer.”

For a moment the weeping men remained in one another’s arms. They had

often embraced before, but never had their hearts met and mingled as they

did now. It was a delightful moment, which seemed an eternity. All the

grief and misery of the world had disappeared from before them; there

remained naught save their glowing love, whence sprang an eternity of

love even as light comes from the sun. And that moment was compensation

for all their past and future tears, whilst yonder, on the horizon before

them, Paris still spread and rumbled, ever preparing the unknown future.

Just then Marie herself came in. And the rest proved very simple.

Guillaume freed himself from his brother’s clasp, led him forward and

compelled him and Marie to take each other by the hand. At first she made

yet another gesture of refusal in her stubborn resolve that she would not

take her promise back. But what could she say face to face with those two

tearful men, whom she had found in one another’s arms, mingling together

in such close brotherliness? Did not those tears and that embrace sweep

away all ordinary reasons, all such arguments as she held in reserve?

Even the embarrassment of the situation disappeared, it seemed as if she

had already had a long explanation with Pierre, and that he and she were

of one mind to accept that gift of love which Guillaume offered them with

so much heroism. A gust of the sublime passed through the room, and

nothing could have appeared more natural to them than this extraordinary

scene. Nevertheless, Marie remained silent, she dared not give her

answer, but looked at them both with her big soft eyes, which, like their

own, were full of tears.

And it was Guillaume who, with sudden inspiration, ran to the little

staircase conducting to the rooms overhead, and called: “Mère-Grand!

Mère-Grand! Come down at once, you are wanted.”

Then, as soon as she was there, looking slim and pale in her black gown,

and showing the wise air of a queen-mother whom all obeyed, he said:

“Tell these two children that they can do nothing better than marry one

another. Tell them that we have talked it over, you and I, and that it is

your desire, your will that they should do so.”

She quietly nodded her assent, and then said: “That is true, it will be

by far the most sensible course.”

Thereupon Marie flung herself into her arms, consenting, yielding to the

superior forces, the powers of life, that had thus changed the course of

her existence. Guillaume immediately desired that the date of the wedding

should be fixed, and accommodation provided for the young couple in the

rooms overhead. And as Pierre glanced at him with some remaining anxiety

and spoke of travelling, for he feared that his wound was not yet healed,

and that their presence might bring him suffering, Guillaume responded:

“No, no, I mean to keep you. If I’m marrying you, it is to have you both

here. Don’t worry about me. I have so much work to do, I shall work.”

In the evening when Thomas and François came home and learnt the news,

they did not seem particularly surprised by it. They had doubtless felt

that things would end like this. And they bowed to the _dénouement_, not

venturing to say a word, since it was their father himself who announced

the decision which had been taken, with his usual air of composure. As

for Antoine, who on his own side quivered with love for Lise, he gazed

with doubting, anxious eyes at his father, who had thus had the courage

to pluck out his heart. Could he really survive such a sacrifice, must it

not kill him? Then Antoine kissed his father passionately, and the elder

brothers in their turn embraced him with all their hearts. Guillaume

smiled and his eyes became moist. After his victory over his horrible

torments nothing could have been sweeter to him than the embraces of his

three big sons.

There was, however, further emotion in store for him that evening. Just

as the daylight was departing, and he was sitting at his large table near

the window, again checking and classifying the documents and plans

connected with his invention, he was surprised to see his old master and

friend Bertheroy enter the workroom. The illustrious chemist called on

him in this fashion at long intervals, and Guillaume felt the honour thus

conferred on him by this old man to whom eminence and fame had brought so

many titles, offices and decorations. Moreover, Bertheroy, with his

position as an official _savant_ and member of the Institute, showed some

courage in thus venturing to call on one whom so-called respectable folks

regarded with contumely. And on this occasion, Guillaume at once

understood that it was some feeling of curiosity that had brought him.

And so he was greatly embarrassed, for he hardly dared to remove the

papers and plans which were lying on the table.

“Oh, don’t be frightened,” gaily exclaimed Bertheroy, who, despite his

careless and abrupt ways, was really very shrewd. “I haven’t come to pry

into your secrets.... Leave your papers there, I promise you that I

won’t read anything.”

Then, in all frankness, he turned the conversation on the subject of

explosives, which he was still studying, he said, with passionate

interest. He had made some new discoveries which he did not conceal.

Incidentally, too, he spoke of the opinion he had given in Salvat’s

affair. His dream was to discover some explosive of great power, which

one might attempt to domesticate and reduce to complete obedience. And

with a smile he pointedly concluded: “I don’t know where that madman

found the formula of his powder. But if you should ever discover it,

remember that the future perhaps lies in the employment of explosives as

motive power.”

Then, all at once, he added: “By the way, that fellow Salvat will be

executed on the day after to-morrow. A friend of mine at the Ministry of

Justice has just told me so.”

Guillaume had hitherto listened to him with an air of mingled distrust

and amusement. But this announcement of Salvat’s execution stirred him to

anger and revolt, though for some days past he had known it to be

inevitable, in spite of the sympathy which the condemned man was now

rousing in many quarters.

“It will be a murder!” he cried vehemently.

Bertheroy waved his hand: “What would you have?” he answered: “there’s a

social system and it defends itself when it is attacked. Besides, those

Anarchists are really too foolish in imagining that they will transform

the world with their squibs and crackers! In my opinion, you know,

science is the only revolutionist. Science will not only bring us truth

but justice also, if indeed justice ever be possible on this earth. And

that is why I lead so calm a life and am so tolerant.”

Once again Bertheroy appeared to Guillaume as a revolutionist, one who

was convinced that he helped on the ruin of the ancient abominable

society of today, with its dogmas and laws, even whilst he was working in

the depths of his laboratory. He was, however, too desirous of repose,

and had too great a contempt for futilities to mingle with the events of

the day, and he preferred to live in quietude, liberally paid and

rewarded, and at peace with the government whatever it might be, whilst

at the same time foreseeing and preparing for the formidable parturition

of the future.

He waved his hand towards Paris, over which a sun of victory was setting,

and then again spoke: “Do you hear the rumble? It is we who are the

stokers, we who are ever flinging fresh fuel under the boiler. Science

does not pause in her work for a single hour, and she is the artisan of

Paris, which--let us hope it--will be the artisan of the future. All the

rest is of no account.”

But Guillaume was no longer listening to him. He was thinking of Salvat

and the terrible engine of war he had invented, that engine which before

long would shatter cities. And a new idea was dawning and growing in his

mind. He had just freed himself of his last tie, he had created all the

happiness he could create around him. Ah! to recover his courage, to be

master of himself once more, and, at any rate, derive from the sacrifice

of his heart the lofty delight of being free, of being able to lay down

even his life, should he some day deem it necessary!

BOOK V.

I. THE GUILLOTINE

FOR some reason of his own Guillaume was bent upon witnessing the

execution of Salvat. Pierre tried to dissuade him from doing so; and

finding his efforts vain, became somewhat anxious. He accordingly

resolved to spend the night at Montmartre, accompany his brother and

watch over him. In former times, when engaged with Abbé Rose in

charitable work in the Charonne district, he had learnt that the

guillotine could be seen from the house where Mège, the Socialist deputy,

resided at the corner of the Rue Merlin. He therefore offered himself as

a guide. As the execution was to take place as soon as it should legally

be daybreak, that is, about half-past four o’clock, the brothers did not

go to bed but sat up in the workroom, feeling somewhat drowsy, and

exchanging few words. Then as soon as two o’clock struck, they started

off.

The night was beautifully serene and clear. The full moon, shining like a

silver lamp in the cloudless, far-stretching heavens, threw a calm,

dreamy light over the vague immensity of Paris, which was like some

spell-bound city of sleep, so overcome by fatigue that not a murmur arose

from it. It was as if beneath the soft radiance which spread over its

roofs, its panting labour and its cries of suffering were lulled to

repose until the dawn. Yet, in a far, out of the way district, dark work

was even now progressing, a knife was being raised on high in order that

a man might be killed.

Pierre and Guillaume paused in the Rue St. Eleuthère, and gazed at the

vaporous, tremulous city spread out below then. And as they turned they

perceived the basilica of the Sacred Heart, still domeless but already

looking huge indeed in the moonbeams, whose clear white light accentuated

its outlines and brought them into sharp relief against a mass of

shadows. Under the pale nocturnal sky, the edifice showed like a colossal

monster, symbolical of provocation and sovereign dominion. Never before

had Guillaume found it so huge, never had it appeared to him to dominate

Paris, even in the latter’s hours of slumber, with such stubborn and

overwhelming might.

This wounded him so keenly in the state of mind in which he found

himself, that he could not help exclaiming: “Ah! they chose a good site

for it, and how stupid it was to let them do so! I know of nothing more

nonsensical; Paris crowned and dominated by that temple of idolatry! How

impudent it is, what a buffet for the cause of reason after so many

centuries of science, labour, and battle! And to think of it being reared

over Paris, the one city in the world which ought never to have been

soiled in this fashion! One can understand it at Lourdes and Rome; but

not in Paris, in the very field of intelligence which has been so deeply

ploughed, and whence the future is sprouting. It is a declaration of war,

an insolent proclamation that they hope to conquer Paris also!”

Guillaume usually evinced all the tolerance of a _savant_, for whom

religions are simply social phenomena. He even willingly admitted the

grandeur or grace of certain Catholic legends. But Marie Alacoque’s

famous vision, which has given rise to the cult of the Sacred Heart,

filled him with irritation and something like physical disgust. He

suffered at the mere idea of Christ’s open, bleeding breast, and the

gigantic heart which the saint asserted she had seen beating in the

depths of the wound--the huge heart in which Jesus placed the woman’s

little heart to restore it to her inflated and glowing with love. What

base and loathsome materialism there was in all this! What a display of

viscera, muscles and blood suggestive of a butcher’s shop! And Guillaume

was particularly disgusted with the engraving which depicted this horror,

and which he found everywhere, crudely coloured with red and yellow and

blue, like some badly executed anatomical plate.

Pierre on his side was also looking at the basilica as, white with

moonlight, it rose out of the darkness like a gigantic fortress raised to

crush and conquer the city slumbering beneath it. It had already brought

him suffering during the last days when he had said mass in it and was

struggling with his torments. “They call it the national votive

offering,” he now exclaimed. “But the nation’s longing is for health and

strength and restoration to its old position by work. That is a thing the

Church does not understand. It argues that if France was stricken with

defeat, it was because she deserved punishment. She was guilty, and so

to-day she ought to repent. Repent of what? Of the Revolution, of a

century of free examination and science, of the emancipation of her mind,

of her initiatory and liberative labour in all parts of the world? That

indeed is her real transgression; and it is as a punishment for all our

labour, search for truth, increase of knowledge and march towards justice

that they have reared that huge pile which Paris will see from all her

streets, and will never be able to see without feeling derided and

insulted in her labour and glory.”

With a wave of his hand he pointed to the city, slumbering in the

moonlight as beneath a sheet of silver, and then set off again with his

brother, down the slopes, towards the black and deserted streets.

They did not meet a living soul until they reached the outer boulevard.

Here, however, no matter what the hour may be, life continues with

scarcely a pause. No sooner are the wine shops, music and dancing halls

closed, than vice and want, cast into the street, there resume their

nocturnal existence. Thus the brothers came upon all the homeless ones:

low prostitutes seeking a pallet, vagabonds stretched on the benches

under the trees, rogues who prowled hither and thither on the lookout for

a good stroke. Encouraged by their accomplice--night, all the mire and

woe of Paris had returned to the surface. The empty roadway now belonged

to the breadless, homeless starvelings, those for whom there was no place

in the sunlight, the vague, swarming, despairing herd which is only

espied at night-time. Ah! what spectres of destitution, what apparitions

of grief and fright there were! What a sob of agony passed by in Paris

that morning, when as soon as the dawn should rise, a man--a pauper, a

sufferer like the others--was to be guillotined!

As Guillaume and Pierre were about to descend the Rue des Martyrs, the

former perceived an old man lying on a bench with his bare feet

protruding from his gaping, filthy shoes. Guillaume pointed to him in

silence. Then, a few steps farther on, Pierre in his turn pointed to a

ragged girl, crouching, asleep with open mouth, in the corner of a

doorway. There was no need for the brothers to express in words all the

compassion and anger which stirred their hearts. At long intervals

policemen, walking slowly two by two, shook the poor wretches and

compelled them to rise and walk on and on. Occasionally, if they found

them suspicious or refractory, they marched them off to the

police-station. And then rancour and the contagion of imprisonment often

transformed a mere vagabond into a thief or a murderer.

In the Rue des Martyrs and the Rue du Faubourg-Montmartre, the brothers

found night-birds of another kind, women who slunk past them, close to

the house-fronts, and men and hussies who belaboured one another with

blows. Then, upon the grand boulevards, on the thresholds of lofty black

houses, only one row of whose windows flared in the night, pale-faced

individuals, who had just come down from their clubs, stood lighting

cigars before going home. A lady with a ball wrap over her evening gown

went by accompanied by a servant. A few cabs, moreover, still jogged up

and down the roadway, while others, which had been waiting for hours,

stood on their ranks in rows, with drivers and horses alike asleep. And

as one boulevard after another was reached, the Boulevard Poissonniere,

the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, the Boulevard St. Denis, and so forth, as

far as the Place de la Republique, there came fresh want and misery, more

forsaken and hungry ones, more and more of the human “waste” that is cast

into the streets and the darkness. And on the other hand, an army of

street-sweepers was now appearing to remove all the filth of the past

four and twenty hours, in order that Paris, spruce already at sunrise,

might not blush for having thrown up such a mass of dirt and

loathsomeness in the course of a single day.