It was, however, more particularly after following the Boulevard

Voltaire, and drawing near to the districts of La Roquette and Charonne,

that the brothers felt they were returning to a sphere of labour where

there was often lack of food, and where life was but so much pain. Pierre

found himself at home here. In former days, accompanied by good Abbé

Rose, visiting despairing ones, distributing alms, picking up children

who had sunk to the gutter, he had a hundred times perambulated every one

of those long, densely populated streets. And thus a frightful vision

arose before his mind’s eye; he recalled all the tragedies he had

witnessed, all the shrieks he had heard, all the tears and bloodshed he

had seen, all the fathers, mothers and children huddled together and

dying of want, dirt and abandonment: that social hell in which he had

ended by losing his last hopes, fleeing from it with a sob in the

conviction that charity was a mere amusement for the rich, and absolutely

futile as a remedy. It was this conviction which now returned to him as

he again cast eyes upon that want and grief stricken district which

seemed fated to everlasting destitution. That poor old man whom Abbé Rose

had revived one night in yonder hovel, had he not since died of

starvation? That little girl whom he had one morning brought in his arms

to the refuge after her parents’ death, was it not she whom he had just

met, grown but fallen to the streets, and shrieking beneath the fist of a

bully? Ah! how great was the number of the wretched! Their name was

legion! There were those whom one could not save, those who were hourly

born to a life of woe and want, even as one may be born infirm, and

those, too, who from every side sank in the sea of human injustice, that

ocean which has ever been the same for centuries past, and which though

one may strive to drain it, still and for ever spreads. How heavy was the

silence, how dense the darkness in those working-class streets where

sleep seems to be the comrade of death! Yet hunger prowls, and misfortune

sobs; vague spectral forms slink by, and then are lost to view in the

depths of the night.

As Pierre and Guillaume went along they became mixed with dark groups of

people, a whole flock of inquisitive folk, a promiscuous, passionate

tramp, tramp towards the guillotine. It came from all Paris, urged on by

brutish fever, a hankering for death and blood. In spite, however, of the

dull noise which came from this dim crowd, the mean streets that were

passed remained quite dark, not a light appeared at any of their windows;

nor could one hear the breathing of the weary toilers stretched on their

wretched pallets from which they would not rise before the morning

twilight.

On seeing the jostling crowd which was already assembled on the Place

Voltaire, Pierre understood that it would be impossible for him and his

brother to ascend the Rue de la Roquette. Barriers, moreover, must

certainly have been thrown across that street. In order therefore to

reach the corner of the Rue Merlin, it occurred to him to take the Rue de

la Folie Regnault, which winds round in the rear of the prison, farther

on.

Here indeed they found solitude and darkness again.

The huge, massive prison with its great bare walls on which a moonray

fell, looked like some pile of cold stones, dead for centuries past. At

the end of the street they once more fell in with the crowd, a dim

restless mass of beings, whose pale faces alone could be distinguished.

The brothers had great difficulty in reaching the house in which Mège

resided at the corner of the Rue Merlin. All the shutters of the

fourth-floor flat occupied by the Socialist deputy were closed, though

every other window was wide open and crowded with surging sightseers.

Moreover, the wine shop down below and the first-floor room connected

with it flared with gas, and were already crowded with noisy customers,

waiting for the performance to begin.

“I hardly like to go and knock at Mège’s door,” said Pierre.

“No, no, you must not do so!” replied Guillaume.

“Let us go into the wine shop. We may perhaps be able to see something

from the balcony.”

The first-floor room was provided with a very large balcony, which women

and gentlemen were already filling. The brothers nevertheless managed to

reach it, and for a few minutes remained there, peering into the darkness

before them. The sloping street grew broader between the two prisons, the

“great” and the “little” Roquette, in such wise as to form a sort of

square, which was shaded by four clumps of plane-trees, rising from the

footways. The low buildings and scrubby trees, all poor and ugly of

aspect, seemed almost to lie on a level with the ground, under a vast sky

in which stars were appearing, as the moon gradually declined. And the

square was quite empty save that on one spot yonder there seemed to be

some little stir. Two rows of guards prevented the crowd from advancing,

and even threw it back into the neighbouring streets. On the one hand,

the only lofty houses were far away, at the point where the Rue St. Maur

intersects the Rue de la Roquette; while, on the other, they stood at the

corners of the Rue Merlin and the Rue de la Folie Regnault, so that it

was almost impossible to distinguish anything of the execution even from

the best placed windows. As for the inquisitive folk on the pavement they

only saw the backs of the guards. Still this did not prevent a crush. The

human tide flowed on from all sides with increasing clamour.

Guided by the remarks of some women who, leaning forward on the balcony,

had been watching the square for a long time already, the brothers were

at last able to perceive something. It was now half-past three, and the

guillotine was nearly ready. The little stir which one vaguely espied

yonder under the trees, was that of the headsman’s assistants fixing the

knife in position. A lantern slowly came and went, and five or six

shadows danced over the ground. But nothing else could be distinguished,

the square was like a large black pit, around which ever broke the waves

of the noisy crowd which one could not see. And beyond the square one

could only identify the flaring wine shops, which showed forth like

lighthouses in the night. All the surrounding district of poverty and

toil was still asleep, not a gleam as yet came from workrooms or yards,

not a puff of smoke from the lofty factory chimneys.

“We shall see nothing,” Guillaume remarked.

But Pierre silenced him, for he has just discovered that an elegantly

attired gentleman leaning over the balcony near him was none other than

the amiable deputy Duthil. He had at first fancied that a woman muffled

in wraps who stood close beside the deputy was the little Princess de

Harn, whom he had very likely brought to see the execution since he had

taken her to see the trial. On closer inspection, however, he had found

that this woman was Silviane, the perverse creature with the virginal

face. Truth to tell, she made no concealment of her presence, but talked

on in an extremely loud voice, as if intoxicated; and the brothers soon

learnt how it was that she happened to be there. Duvillard, Duthil, and

other friends had been supping with her at one o’clock in the morning,

when on learning that Salvat was about to be guillotined, the fancy of

seeing the execution had suddenly come upon her. Duvillard, after vainly

entreating her to do nothing of the kind, had gone off in a fury, for he

felt that it would be most unseemly on his part to attend the execution

of a man who had endeavoured to blow up his house. And thereupon Silviane

had turned to Duthil, whom her caprice greatly worried, for he held all

such loathsome spectacles in horror, and had already refused to act as

escort to the Princess. However, he was so infatuated with Silviane’s

beauty, and she made him so many promises, that he had at last consented

to take her.

“He can’t understand people caring for amusement,” she said, speaking of

the Baron. “And yet this is really a thing to see.... But no matter,

you’ll find him at my feet again to-morrow.”

Duthil smiled and responded: “I suppose that peace has been signed and

ratified now that you have secured your engagement at the Comédie.”

“Peace? No!” she protested. “No, no. There will be no peace between us

until I have made my _début_. After that, we’ll see.”

They both laughed; and then Duthil, by way of paying his court, told her

how good-naturedly Dauvergne, the new Minister of Public Instruction and

Fine Arts, had adjusted the difficulties which had hitherto kept the

doors of the Comédie closed upon her. A really charming man was

Dauvergne, the embodiment of graciousness, the very flower of the

Monferrand ministry. His was the velvet hand in that administration whose

leader had a hand of iron.

“He told me, my beauty,” said Duthil, “that a pretty girl was in place

everywhere.” And then as Silviane, as if flattered, pressed closely

beside him, the deputy added: “So that wonderful revival of ‘Polyeucte,’

in which you are going to have such a triumph, is to take place on the

day after to-morrow. We shall all go to applaud you, remember.”

“Yes, on the evening of the day after to-morrow,” said Silviane, “the

very same day when the wedding of the Baron’s daughter will take place.

There’ll be plenty of emotion that day!”

“Ah! yes, of course!” retorted Duthil, “there’ll be the wedding of our

friend Gérard with Mademoiselle Camille to begin with. We shall have a

crush at the Madeleine in the morning and another at the Comédie in the

evening. You are quite right, too; there will be several hearts throbbing

in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy.”

Thereupon they again became merry, and jested about the Duvillard

family--father, mother, lover and daughter--with the greatest possible

ferocity and crudity of language. Then, all at once Silviane exclaimed:

“Do you know, I’m feeling awfully bored here, my little Duthil. I can’t

distinguish anything, and I should like to be quite near so as to see it

all plainly. You must take me over yonder, close to that machine of

theirs.”

This request threw Duthil into consternation, particularly as at that

same moment Silviane perceived Massot outside the wine shop, and began

calling and beckoning to him imperiously. A brief conversation then

ensued between the young woman and the journalist: “I say, Massot!” she

called, “hasn’t a deputy the right to pass the guards and take a lady

wherever he likes?”

“Not at all!” exclaimed Duthil. “Massot knows very well that a deputy

ought to be the very first to bow to the laws.”

This exclamation warned Massot that Duthil did not wish to leave the

balcony. “You ought to have secured a card of invitation, madame,” said

he, in reply to Silviane. “They would then have found you room at one of

the windows of La Petite Roquette. Women are not allowed elsewhere....

But you mustn’t complain, you have a very good place up there.”

“But I can see nothing at all, my dear Massot.”

“Well, you will in any case see more than Princess de Harn will. Just now

I came upon her carriage in the Rue du Chemin Vert. The police would not

allow it to come any nearer.”

This news made Silviane merry again, whilst Duthil shuddered at the idea

of the danger he incurred, for Rosemonde would assuredly treat him to a

terrible scene should she see him with another woman. Then, an idea

occurring to him, he ordered a bottle of champagne and some little cakes

for his “beautiful friend,” as he called Silviane. She had been

complaining of thirst, and was delighted with the opportunity of

perfecting her intoxication. When a waiter had managed to place a little

table near her, on the balcony itself, she found things very pleasant,

and indeed considered it quite brave to tipple and sup afresh, while

waiting for that man to be guillotined close by.

It was impossible for Pierre and Guillaume to remain up there any longer.

All that they heard, all that they beheld filled them with disgust. The

boredom of waiting had turned all the inquisitive folks of the balcony

and the adjoining room into customers. The waiter could hardly manage to

serve the many glasses of beer, bottles of expensive wine, biscuits, and

plates of cold meat which were ordered of him. And yet the spectators

here were all _bourgeois_, rich gentlemen, people of society! On the

other hand, time has to be killed somehow when it hangs heavily on one’s

hands; and thus there were bursts of laughter and paltry and horrible

jests, quite a feverish uproar arising amidst the clouds of smoke from

the men’s cigars. When Pierre and Guillaume passed through the wine shop

on the ground-floor they there found a similar crush and similar tumult,

aggravated by the disorderly behaviour of the big fellows in blouses who

were drinking draught wine at the pewter bar which shone like silver.

There were people, too, at all the little tables, besides an incessant

coming and going of folks who entered the place for a “wet,” by way of

calming their impatience. And what folks they were! All the scum, all the

vagabonds who had been dragging themselves about since daybreak on the

lookout for whatever chance might offer them, provided it were not work!

On the pavement outside, Pierre and Guillaume felt yet a greater

heart-pang. In the throng which the guards kept back, one simply found so

much mire stirred up from the very depths of Paris life: prostitutes and

criminals, the murderers of to-morrow, who came to see how a man ought to

die. Loathsome, bareheaded harlots mingled with bands of prowlers or ran

through the crowd, howling obscene refrains. Bandits stood in groups

chatting and quarrelling about the more or less glorious manner in which

certain famous _guillotines_ had died. Among these was one with respect

to whom they all agreed, and of whom they spoke as of a great captain, a

hero whose marvellous courage was deserving of immortality. Then, as one

passed along, one caught snatches of horrible phrases, particulars about

the instrument of death, ignoble boasts, and filthy jests reeking with

blood. And over and above all else there was bestial fever, a lust for

death which made this multitude delirious, an eagerness to see life flow

forth fresh and ruddy beneath the knife, so that as it coursed over the

soil they might dip their feet in it. As this execution was not an

ordinary one, however, there were yet spectators of another kind; silent

men with glowing eyes who came and went all alone, and who were plainly

thrilled by their faith, intoxicated with the contagious madness which

incites one to vengeance or martyrdom.

Guillaume was just thinking of Victor Mathis, when he fancied that he saw

him standing in the front row of sightseers whom the guards held in

check. It was indeed he, with his thin, beardless, pale, drawn face.

Short as he was, he had to raise himself on tiptoes in order to see

anything. Near him was a big, red-haired girl who gesticulated; but for

his part he never stirred or spoke. He was waiting motionless, gazing

yonder with the round, ardent, fixed eyes of a night-bird, seeking to

penetrate the darkness. At last a guard pushed him back in a somewhat

brutal way; but he soon returned to his previous position, ever patient

though full of hatred against the executioners, wishing indeed to see all

he could in order to increase his hate.

Then Massot approached the brothers. This time, on seeing Pierre without

his cassock, he did not even make a sign of astonishment, but gaily

remarked: “So you felt curious to see this affair, Monsieur Froment?”

“Yes, I came with my brother,” Pierre replied. “But I very much fear that

we shan’t see much.”

“You certainly won’t if you stay here,” rejoined Massot. And thereupon in

his usual good-natured way--glad, moreover, to show what power a

well-known journalist could wield--he inquired: “Would you like me to

pass you through? The inspector here happens to be a friend of mine.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he stopped the inspector and hastily

whispered to him that he had brought a couple of colleagues, who wanted

to report the proceedings. At first the inspector hesitated, and seemed

inclined to refuse Massot’s request; but after a moment, influenced by

the covert fear which the police always has of the press, he made a weary

gesture of consent.

“Come, quick, then,” said Massot, turning to the brothers, and taking

them along with him.

A moment later, to the intense surprise of Pierre and Guillaume, the

guards opened their ranks to let them pass. They then found themselves in

the large open space which was kept clear. And on thus emerging from the

tumultuous throng they were quite impressed by the death-like silence and

solitude which reigned under the little plane-trees. The night was now

paling. A faint gleam of dawn was already falling from the sky.

After leading his companions slantwise across the square, Massot stopped

them near the prison and resumed: “I’m going inside; I want to see the

prisoner roused and got ready. In the meantime, walk about here; nobody

will say anything to you. Besides, I’ll come back to you in a moment.”

A hundred people or so, journalists and other privileged spectators, were

scattered about the dark square. Movable wooden barriers--such as are set

up at the doors of theatres when there is a press of people waiting for

admission--had been placed on either side of the pavement running from

the prison gate to the guillotine; and some sightseers were already

leaning over these barriers, in order to secure a close view of the

condemned man as he passed by. Others were walking slowly to and fro, and

conversing in undertones. The brothers, for their part, approached the

guillotine.

It stood there under the branches of the trees, amidst the delicate

greenery of the fresh leaves of spring. A neighbouring gas-lamp, whose

light was turning yellow in the rising dawn, cast vague gleams upon it.

The work of fixing it in position--work performed as quietly as could be,

so that the only sound was the occasional thud of a mallet--had just been

finished; and the headsman’s “valets” or assistants, in frock-coats and

tall silk hats, were waiting and strolling about in a patient way. But

the instrument itself, how base and shameful it looked, squatting on the

ground like some filthy beast, disgusted with the work it had to

accomplish! What! those few beams lying on the ground, and those others

barely nine feet high which rose from it, keeping the knife in position,

constituted the machine which avenged Society, the instrument which gave

a warning to evil-doers! Where was the big scaffold painted a bright red

and reached by a stairway of ten steps, the scaffold which raised high

bloody arms over the eager multitude, so that everybody might behold the

punishment of the law in all its horror! The beast had now been felled to

the ground, where it simply looked ignoble, crafty and cowardly. If on

the one hand there was no majesty in the manner in which human justice

condemned a man to death at its assizes: on the other, there was merely

horrid butchery with the help of the most barbarous and repulsive of

mechanical contrivances, on the terrible day when that man was executed.

As Pierre and Guillaume gazed at the guillotine, a feeling of nausea came

over them. Daylight was now slowly breaking, and the surroundings were

appearing to view: first the square itself with its two low, grey

prisons, facing one another; then the distant houses, the taverns, the

marble workers’ establishments, and the shops selling flowers and

wreaths, which are numerous hereabouts, as the cemetery of Père-Lachaise

is so near. Before long one could plainly distinguish the black lines of

the spectators standing around in a circle, the heads leaning forward

from windows and balconies, and the people who had climbed to the very

house roofs. The prison of La Petite Roquette over the way had been

turned into a kind of tribune for guests; and mounted Gardes de Paris

went slowly to and fro across the intervening expanse. Then, as the sky

brightened, labour awoke throughout the district beyond the crowd, a

district of broad, endless streets lined with factories, work-shops and

work-yards. Engines began to snort, machinery and appliances were got

ready to start once more on their usual tasks, and smoke already curled

away from the forest of lofty brick chimneys which, on all sides, sprang

out of the gloom.

It then seemed to Guillaume that the guillotine was really in its right

place in that district of want and toil. It stood in its own realm, like

a _terminus_ and a threat. Did not ignorance, poverty and woe lead to it?

And each time that it was set up amidst those toilsome streets, was it

not charged to overawe the disinherited ones, the starvelings, who,

exasperated by everlasting injustice, were always ready for revolt? It

was not seen in the districts where wealth and enjoyment reigned. It

would there have seemed purposeless, degrading and truly monstrous. And

it was a tragical and terrible coincidence that the bomb-thrower, driven

mad by want, should be guillotined there, in the very centre of want’s

dominion.

But daylight had come at last, for it was nearly half-past four. The

distant noisy crowd could feel that the expected moment was drawing nigh.

A shudder suddenly sped through the atmosphere.

“He’s coming,” exclaimed little Massot, as he came back to Pierre and

Guillaume. “Ah! that Salvat is a brave fellow after all.”

Then he related how the prisoner had been awakened; how the governor of

the prison, magistrate Amadieu, the chaplain, and a few other persons had

entered the cell where Salvat lay fast asleep; and then how the condemned

man had understood the truth immediately upon opening his eyes. He had

risen, looking pale but quite composed. And he had dressed himself

without assistance, and had declined the nip of brandy and the cigarette

proffered by the good-hearted chaplain, in the same way as with a gentle

but stubborn gesture he had brushed the crucifix aside. Then had come the

“toilette” for death. With all rapidity and without a word being

exchanged, Salvat’s hands had been tied behind his back, his legs had

been loosely secured with a cord, and the neckband of his shirt had been

cut away. He had smiled when the others exhorted him to be brave. He only

feared some nervous weakness, and had but one desire, to die like a hero,

to remain the martyr of the ardent faith in truth and justice for which

he was about to perish.

“They are now drawing up the death certificate in the register,”

continued Massot in his chattering way. “Come along, come along to the

barriers if you wish a good view.... I turned paler, you know, and

trembled far more than he did. I don’t care a rap for anything as a rule;

but, all the same, an execution isn’t a pleasant business.... You

can’t imagine how many attempts were made to save Salvat’s life. Even

some of the papers asked that he might be reprieved. But nothing

succeeded, the execution was regarded as inevitable, it seems, even by

those who consider it a blunder. Still, they had such a touching

opportunity to reprieve him, when his daughter, little Céline, wrote that

fine letter to the President of the Republic, which I was the first to

publish in the ‘Globe.’ Ah! that letter, it cost me a lot of running

about!”

Pierre, who was already quite upset by this long wait for the horrible

scene, felt moved to tears by Massot’s reference to Céline. He could

again see the child standing beside Madame Théodore in that bare, cold

room whither her father would never more return. It was thence that he

had set out on a day of desperation with his stomach empty and his brain

on fire, and it was here that he would end, between yonder beams, beneath

yonder knife.

Massot, however, was still giving particulars. The doctors, said he, were

furious because they feared that the body would not be delivered to them

immediately after the execution. To this Guillaume did not listen. He

stood there with his elbows resting on the wooden barrier and his eyes

fixed on the prison gate, which still remained shut. His hands were

quivering, and there was an expression of anguish on his face as if it

were he himself who was about to be executed. The headsman had again just

left the prison. He was a little, insignificant-looking man, and seemed

annoyed, anxious to have done with it all. Then, among a group of

frock-coated gentlemen, some of the spectators pointed out Gascogne, the

Chief of the Detective Police, who wore a cold, official air, and

Amadieu, the investigating magistrate, who smiled and looked very spruce,

early though the hour was. He had come partly because it was his duty,

and partly because he wished to show himself now that the curtain was

about to fall on a wonderful tragedy of which he considered himself the

author. Guillaume glanced at him, and then as a growing uproar rose from

the distant crowd, he looked up for an instant, and again beheld the two

grey prisons, the plane-trees with their fresh young leaves, and the

houses swarming with people beneath the pale blue sky, in which the

triumphant sun was about to appear.

“Look out, here he comes!”

Who had spoken? A slight noise, that of the opening gate, made every

heart throb. Necks were outstretched, eyes gazed fixedly, there was

laboured breathing on all sides. Salvat stood on the threshold of the

prison. The chaplain, stepping backwards, had come out in advance of him,

in order to conceal the guillotine from his sight, but he had stopped

short, for he wished to see that instrument of death, make acquaintance

with it, as it were, before he walked towards it. And as he stood there,

his long, aged sunken face, on which life’s hardships had left their

mark, seemed transformed by the wondrous brilliancy of his flaring,

dreamy eyes. Enthusiasm bore him up--he was going to his death in all the

splendour of his dream. When the executioner’s assistants drew near to

support him he once more refused their help, and again set himself in

motion, advancing with short steps, but as quickly and as straightly as

the rope hampering his legs permitted.

All at once Guillaume felt that Salvat’s eyes were fixed upon him.

Drawing nearer and nearer the condemned man had perceived and recognised

his friend; and as he passed by, at a distance of no more than six or

seven feet, he smiled faintly and darted such a deep penetrating glance

at Guillaume, that ever afterwards the latter felt its smart. But what

last thought, what supreme legacy had Salvat left him to meditate upon,

perhaps to put into execution? It was all so poignant that Pierre feared

some involuntary call on his brother’s part; and so he laid his hand upon

his arm to quiet him.

“Long live Anarchy!”

It was Salvat who had raised this cry. But in the deep silence his husky,

altered voice seemed to break. The few who were near at hand had turned

very pale; the distant crowd seemed bereft of life. The horse of one of

the Gardes de Paris was alone heard snorting in the centre of the space

which had been kept clear.

Then came a loathsome scramble, a scene of nameless brutality and

ignominy. The headsman’s helps rushed upon Salvat as he came up slowly

with brow erect. Two of them seized him by the head, but finding little

hair there, could only lower it by tugging at his neck. Next two others

grasped him by the legs and flung him violently upon a plank which tilted

over and rolled forward. Then, by dint of pushing and tugging, the head

was got into the “lunette,” the upper part of which fell in such wise

that the neck was fixed as in a ship’s port-hole--and all this was

accomplished amidst such confusion and with such savagery that one might

have thought that head some cumbrous thing which it was necessary to get

rid of with the greatest speed. But the knife fell with a dull, heavy,

forcible thud, and two long jets of blood spurted from the severed

arteries, while the dead man’s feet moved convulsively. Nothing else

could be seen. The executioner rubbed his hands in a mechanical way, and

an assistant took the severed blood-streaming head from the little basket

into which it had fallen and placed it in the large basket into which the

body had already been turned.

Ah! that dull, that heavy thud of the knife! It seemed to Guillaume that

he had heard it echoing far away all over that district of want and toil,

even in the squalid rooms where thousands of workmen were at that moment

rising to perform their day’s hard task! And there the echo of that thud

acquired formidable significance; it spoke of man’s exasperation with

injustice, of zeal for martyrdom, and of the dolorous hope that the blood

then spilt might hasten the victory of the disinherited.

Pierre, for his part, at the sight of that loathsome butchery, the abject

cutthroat work of that killing machine, had suddenly felt his chilling

shudder become more violent; for before him arose a vision of another

corpse, that of the fair, pretty child ripped open by a bomb and

stretched yonder, at the entrance of the Duvillard mansion. Blood

streamed from her delicate flesh, just as it had streamed from that

decapitated neck. It was blood paying for blood; it was like payment for

mankind’s debt of wretchedness, for which payment is everlastingly being

made, without man ever being able to free himself from suffering.

Above the square and the crowd all was still silent in the clear sky. How

long had the abomination lasted? An eternity, perhaps, compressed into

two or three minutes. And now came an awakening: the spectators emerged

from their nightmare with quivering hands, livid faces, and eyes

expressive of compassion, disgust and fear.

“That makes another one. I’ve now seen four executions,” said Massot, who

felt ill at ease. “After all, I prefer to report weddings. Let us go off,

I have all I want for my article.”

Guillaume and Pierre followed him mechanically across the square, and

again reached the corner of the Rue Merlin. And here they saw little

Victor Mathis, with flaming eyes and white face, still standing in

silence on the spot where they had left him. He could have seen nothing

distinctly; but the thud of the knife was still echoing in his brain. A

policeman at last gave him a push, and told him to move on. At this he

looked the policeman in the face, stirred by sudden rage and ready to

strangle him. Then, however, he quietly walked away, ascending the Rue de

la Roquette, atop of which the lofty foliage of Père-Lachaise could be

seen, beneath the rising sun.

The brothers meantime fell upon a scene of explanations, which they heard

without wishing to do so. Now that the sight was over, the Princess de

Harn arrived, and she was the more furious as at the door of the wine

shop she could see her new friend Duthil accompanying a woman.

“I say!” she exclaimed, “you are nice, you are, to have left me in the

lurch like this! It was impossible for my carriage to get near, so I’ve

had to come on foot through all those horrid people who have been

jostling and insulting me.”

Thereupon Duthil, with all promptitude, introduced Silviane to her,

adding, in an aside, that he had taken a friend’s place as the actress’s

escort. And then Rosemonde, who greatly wished to know Silviane, calmed

down as if by enchantment, and put on her most engaging ways. “It would

have delighted me, madame,” said she, “to have seen this sight in the

company of an _artiste_ of your merit, one whom I admire so much, though

I have never before had an opportunity of telling her so.”

“Well, dear me, madame,” replied Silviane, “you haven’t lost much by

arriving late. We were on that balcony there, and all that I could see

were a few men pushing another one about.... It really isn’t worth the

trouble of coming.”

“Well, now that we have become acquainted, madame,” said the Princess, “I

really hope that you will allow me to be your friend.”

“Certainly, madame, my friend; and I shall be flattered and delighted to

be yours.”

Standing there, hand in hand, they smiled at one another. Silviane was

very drunk, but her virginal expression had returned to her face; whilst

Rosemonde seemed feverish with vicious curiosity. Duthil, whom the scene

amused, now had but one thought, that of seeing Silviane home; so calling

to Massot, who was approaching, he asked him where he should find a

cab-rank. Rosemonde, however, at once offered her carriage, which was

waiting in an adjacent street.

She would set the actress down at her door, said she, and the deputy at

his; and such was her persistence in the matter that Duthil, greatly

vexed, was obliged to accept her offer.

“Well, then, till to-morrow at the Madeleine,” said Massot, again quite

sprightly, as he shook hands with the Princess.

“Yes, till to-morrow, at the Madeleine and the Comédie.”

“Ah! yes, of course!” he repeated, taking Silviane’s hand, which he

kissed. “The Madeleine in the morning and the Comédie in the evening...

. We shall all be there to applaud you.”

“Yes, I expect you to do so,” said Silviane. “Till to-morrow, then!”

“Till to-morrow!”

The crowd was now wearily dispersing, to all appearance disappointed and

ill at ease. A few enthusiasts alone lingered in order to witness the

departure of the van in which Salvat’s corpse would soon be removed;

while bands of prowlers and harlots, looking very wan in the daylight,

whistled or called to one another with some last filthy expression before

returning to their dens. The headsman’s assistants were hastily taking

down the guillotine, and the square would soon be quite clear.

Pierre for his part wished to lead his brother away. Since the fall of

the knife, Guillaume had remained as if stunned, without once opening his

lips. In vain had Pierre tried to rouse him by pointing to the shutters

of Mège’s flat, which still remained closed, whereas every other window

of the lofty house was wide open. Although the Socialist deputy hated the

Anarchists, those shutters were doubtless closed as a protest against

capital punishment. Whilst the multitude had been rushing to that

frightful spectacle, Mège, still in bed, with his face turned to the

wall, had probably been dreaming of how he would some day compel mankind

to be happy beneath the rigid laws of Collectivism. Affectionate father

as he was, the recent death of one of his children had quite upset his

private life. His cough, too, had become a very bad one; but he ardently

wished to live, for as soon as that new Monferrand ministry should have

fallen beneath the interpellation which he already contemplated, his own

turn would surely come: he would take the reins of power in hand, abolish

the guillotine and decree justice and perfect felicity.

“Do you see, Guillaume?” Pierre gently repeated. “Mège hasn’t opened his

windows. He’s a good fellow, after all; although our friends Bache and

Morin dislike him.” Then, as his brother still refrained from answering,

Pierre added, “Come, let us go, we must get back home.”

They both turned into the Rue de la Folie Regnault, and reached the outer

Boulevards by way of the Rue du Chemin Vert. All the toilers of the

district were now at work. In the long streets edged with low buildings,

work-shops and factories, one heard engines snorting and machinery

rumbling, while up above, the smoke from the lofty chimneys was assuming

a rosy hue in the sunrise. Afterwards, when the brothers reached the

Boulevard de Menilmontant and the Boulevard de Belleville, which they

followed in turn at a leisurely pace, they witnessed the great rush of

the working classes into central Paris. The stream poured forth from

every side; from all the wretched streets of the faubourgs there was an

endless exodus of toilers, who, having risen at dawn, were now hurrying,

in the sharp morning air, to their daily labour. Some wore short jackets

and others blouses; some were in velveteen trousers, others in linen

overalls. Their thick shoes made their tramp a heavy one; their hanging

hands were often deformed by work. And they seemed half asleep, not a

smile was to be seen on any of those wan, weary faces turned yonder

towards the everlasting task--the task which was begun afresh each day,

and which--’twas their only chance--they hoped to be able to take up for

ever and ever. There was no end to that drove of toilers, that army of

various callings, that human flesh fated to manual labour, upon which

Paris preys in order that she may live in luxury and enjoyment.

Then the procession continued across the Boulevard de la Villette, the

Boulevard de la Chapelle, and the Boulevard de Rochechouart, where one

reached the height of Montmartre. More and more workmen were ever coming

down from their bare cold rooms and plunging into the huge city, whence,

tired out, they would that evening merely bring back the bread of

rancour. And now, too, came a stream of work-girls, some of them in

bright skirts, some glancing at the passers-by; girls whose wages were so

paltry, so insufficient, that now and again pretty ones among them never

more turned their faces homewards, whilst the ugly ones wasted away,

condemned to mere bread and water. A little later, moreover, came the

_employés_, the clerks, the counter-jumpers, the whole world of

frock-coated penury--“gentlemen” who devoured a roll as they hastened

onward, worried the while by the dread of being unable to pay their rent,

or by the problem of providing food for wife and children until the end

of the month should come.* And now the sun was fast ascending on the

horizon, the whole army of ants was out and about, and the toilsome day

had begun with its ceaseless display of courage, energy and suffering.

* In Paris nearly all clerks and shop-assistants receive

monthly salaries, while most workmen are paid once a

fortnight.--Trans.

Never before had it been so plainly manifest to Pierre that work was a

necessity, that it healed and saved. On the occasion of his visit to the

Grandidier works, and later still, when he himself had felt the need of

occupation, there had come to him the thought that work was really the

world’s law. And after that hateful night, after that spilling of blood,

after the slaughter of that toiler maddened by his dreams, there was

consolation and hope in seeing the sun rise once more, and everlasting

labour take up its wonted task. However hard it might prove, however

unjustly it might be lotted out, was it not work which would some day

bring both justice and happiness to the world?

All at once, as the brothers were climbing the steep hillside towards

Guillaume’s house, they perceived before and above them the basilica of

the Sacred Heart rising majestically and triumphantly to the sky. This

was no sublunar apparition, no dreamy vision of Domination standing face

to face with nocturnal Paris. The sun now clothed the edifice with

splendour, it looked golden and proud and victorious, flaring with

immortal glory.

Then Guillaume, still silent, still feeling Salvat’s last glance upon

him, seemed to come to some sudden and final decision. He looked at the

basilica with glowing eyes, and pronounced sentence upon it.

II. IN VANITY FAIR

THE wedding was to take place at noon, and for half an hour already

guests had been pouring into the magnificently decorated church, which

was leafy with evergreens and balmy with the scent of flowers. The high

altar in the rear glowed with countless candles, and through the great

doorway, which was wide open, one could see the peristyle decked with

shrubs, the steps covered with a broad carpet, and the inquisitive crowd

assembled on the square and even along the Rue Royale, under the bright

sun.

After finding three more chairs for some ladies who had arrived rather

late, Duthil remarked to Massot, who was jotting down names in his

note-book: “Well, if any more come, they will have to remain standing.”

“Who were those three?” the journalist inquired.

“The Duchess de Boisemont and her two daughters.”

“Indeed! All the titled people of France, as well as all the financiers

and politicians, are here! It’s something more even than a swell Parisian

wedding.”

As a matter of fact all the spheres of “society” were gathered together

there, and some at first seemed rather embarrassed at finding themselves

beside others. Whilst Duvillard’s name attracted all the princes of

finance and politicians in power, Madame de Quinsac and her son were

supported by the highest of the French aristocracy. The mere names of the

witnesses sufficed to indicate what an extraordinary medley there was. On

Gérard’s side these witnesses were his uncle, General de Bozonnet, and

the Marquis de Morigny; whilst on Camille’s they were the great banker

Louvard, and Monferrand, the President of the Council and Minister of

Finances. The quiet bravado which the latter displayed in thus supporting

the bride after being compromised in her father’s financial intrigues

imparted a piquant touch of impudence to his triumph. And public

curiosity was further stimulated by the circumstance that the nuptial

blessing was to be given by Monseigneur Martha, Bishop of Persepolis, the

Pope’s political agent in France, and the apostle of the endeavours to

win the Republic over to the Church by pretending to “rally” to it.

“But, I was mistaken,” now resumed Massot with a sneer. “I said a really

Parisian wedding, did I not? But in point of fact this wedding is a

symbol. It’s the apotheosis of the _bourgeoisie_, my dear fellow--the old

nobility sacrificing one of its sons on the altar of the golden calf in

order that the Divinity and the gendarmes, being the masters of France

once more, may rid us of those scoundrelly Socialists!”

Then, again correcting himself, he added: “But I was forgetting. There

are no more Socialists. Their head was cut off the other morning.”

Duthil found this very funny. Then in a confidential way he remarked:

“You know that the marriage wasn’t settled without a good deal of

difficulty.... Have you read Sagnier’s ignoble article this morning?”

“Yes, yes; but I knew it all before, everybody knew it.”

Then in an undertone, understanding one another’s slightest allusion,

they went on chatting. It was only amidst a flood of tears and after a

despairing struggle that Baroness Duvillard had consented to let her

lover marry her daughter. And in doing so she had yielded to the sole

desire of seeing Gérard rich and happy. She still regarded Camille with

all the hatred of a defeated rival. Then, an equally painful contest had

taken place at Madame de Quinsac’s. The Countess had only overcome her

revolt and consented to the marriage in order to save her son from the

dangers which had threatened him since childhood; and the Marquis de

Morigny had been so affected by her maternal abnegation, that in spite of

all his anger he had resignedly agreed to be a witness, thus making a

supreme sacrifice, that of his conscience, to the woman whom he had ever

loved. And it was this frightful story that Sagnier--using transparent

nicknames--had related in the “Voix du Peuple” that morning. He had even

contrived to make it more horrid than it really was; for, as usual, he

was badly informed, and he was naturally inclined to falsehood and

invention, as by sending an ever thicker and more poisonous torrent from

his sewer, he might, day by day, increase his paper’s sales. Since

Monferrand’s victory had compelled him to leave the African Railways

scandal on one side, he had fallen back on scandals in private life,

stripping whole families bare and pelting them with mud.

All at once Duthil and Massot were approached by Chaigneux, who, with his

shabby frock coat badly buttoned, wore both a melancholy and busy air.

“Well, Monsieur Massot,” said he, “what about your article on Silviane?

Is it settled? Will it go in?”

As Chaigneux was always for sale, always ready to serve as a valet, it

had occurred to Duvillard to make use of him to ensure Silviane’s success

at the Comédie. He had handed this sorry deputy over to the young woman,

who entrusted him with all manner of dirty work, and sent him scouring

Paris in search of applauders and advertisements. His eldest daughter was

not yet married, and never had his four women folk weighed more heavily

on his hands. His life had become a perfect hell; they had ended by

beating him, if he did not bring a thousand-franc note home on the first

day of every month.

“My article!” Massot replied; “no, it surely won’t go in, my dear deputy.

Fonsègue says that it’s written in too laudatory a style for the ‘Globe.’

He asked me if I were having a joke with the paper.”

Chaigneux became livid. The article in question was one written in

advance, from the society point of view, on the success which Silviane

would achieve in “Polyeucte,” that evening, at the Comédie. The

journalist, in the hope of pleasing her, had even shown her his “copy”;

and she, quite delighted, now relied upon finding the article in print in

the most sober and solemn organ of the Parisian press.

“Good heavens! what will become of us?” murmured the wretched Chaigneux.

“It’s absolutely necessary that the article should go in.”

“Well, I’m quite agreeable. But speak to the governor yourself. He’s

standing yonder between Vignon and Dauvergne, the Minister of Public

Instruction.”

“Yes, I certainly will speak to him--but not here. By-and-by in the

sacristy, during the procession. And I must also try to speak to

Dauvergne, for our Silviane particularly wants him to be in the

ministerial box this evening. Monferrand will be there; he promised

Duvillard so.”

Massot began to laugh, repeating the expression which had circulated

through Paris directly after the actress’s engagement: “The Silviane

ministry.... Well, Dauvergne certainly owes that much to his

godmother!” said he.

Just then the little Princess de Harn, coming up like a gust of wind,

broke in upon the three men. “I’ve no seat, you know!” she cried.

Duthil fancied that it was a question of finding her a well-placed chair

in the church. “You mustn’t count on me,” he answered. “I’ve just had no

end of trouble in stowing the Duchess de Boisemont away with her two

daughters.”

“Oh, but I’m talking of this evening’s performance. Come, my dear Duthil,

you really must find me a little corner in somebody’s box. I shall die, I

know I shall, if I can’t applaud our delicious, our incomparable friend!”

Ever since setting Silviane down at her door on the previous day,

Rosemonde had been overflowing with admiration for her.

“Oh! you won’t find a single remaining seat, madame,” declared Chaigneux,

putting on an air of importance. “We have distributed everything. I have

just been offered three hundred francs for a stall.”

“That’s true, there has been a fight even for the bracket seats, however

badly they might be placed,” Duthil resumed. “I am very sorry, but you

must not count on me.... Duvillard is the only person who might take

you in his box. He told me that he would reserve me a seat there. And so

far, I think, there are only three of us, including his son.... Ask

Hyacinthe by-and-by to procure you an invitation.”

Rosemonde, whom Hyacinthe had so greatly bored that she had given him his

dismissal, felt the irony of Duthil’s suggestion. Nevertheless, she

exclaimed with an air of delight: “Ah, yes! Hyacinthe can’t refuse me

that. Thanks for your information, my dear Duthil. You are very nice, you

are; for you settle things gaily even when they are rather sad.... And

don’t forget, mind, that you have promised to teach me politics. Ah!

politics, my dear fellow, I feel that nothing will ever impassion me as

politics do!”

Then she left them, hustled several people, and in spite of the crush

ended by installing herself in the front row.

“Ah! what a crank she is!” muttered Massot with an air of amusement.

Then, as Chaigneux darted towards magistrate Amadieu to ask him in the

most obsequious way if he had received his ticket, the journalist said to

Duthil in a whisper: “By the way, my dear friend, is it true that

Duvillard is going to launch his famous scheme for a Trans-Saharan

railway? It would be a gigantic enterprise, a question of hundreds and

hundreds of millions this time.... At the ‘Globe’ office yesterday

evening, Fonsègue shrugged his shoulders and said it was madness, and

would never come off!”

Duthil winked, and in a jesting way replied: “It’s as good as done, my

dear boy. Fonsègue will be kissing the governor’s feet before another

forty-eight hours are over.”

Then he gaily gave the other to understand that golden manna would

presently be raining down on the press and all faithful friends and

willing helpers. Birds shake their feathers when the storm is over, and

he, Duthil, was as spruce and lively, as joyous at the prospect of the

presents he now expected, as if there had never been any African Railways

scandal to upset him and make him turn pale with fright.

“The deuce!” muttered Massot, who had become serious. “So this affair

here is more than a triumph: it’s the promise of yet another harvest.

Well, I’m no longer surprised at the crush of people.”

At this moment the organs suddenly burst into a glorious hymn of

greeting. The marriage procession was entering the church. A loud clamour

had gone up from the crowd, which spread over the roadway of the Rue

Royale and impeded the traffic there, while the _cortège_ pompously

ascended the steps in the bright sunshine. And it was now entering the

edifice and advancing beneath the lofty, re-echoing vaults towards the

high altar which flared with candles, whilst on either hand crowded the

congregation, the men on the right and the women on the left. They had

all risen and stood there smiling, with necks outstretched and eyes

glowing with curiosity.

First, in the rear of the magnificent beadle, came Camille, leaning on

the arm of her father, Baron Duvillard, who wore a proud expression

befitting a day of victory. Veiled with superb _point d’Alençon_ falling

from her diadem of orange blossom, gowned in pleated silk muslin over an

underskirt of white satin, the bride looked so extremely happy, so

radiant at having conquered, that she seemed almost pretty. Moreover, she

held herself so upright that one could scarcely detect that her left

shoulder was higher than her right.

Next came Gérard, giving his arm to his mother, the Countess de

Quinsac,--he looking very handsome and courtly, as was proper, and she

displaying impassive dignity in her gown of peacock-blue silk embroidered

with gold and steel beads. But it was particularly Eve whom people wished

to see, and every neck was craned forward when she appeared on the arm of

General Bozonnet, the bridegroom’s first witness and nearest male

relative. She was gowned in “old rose” taffetas trimmed with Valenciennes

of priceless value, and never had she looked younger, more deliciously

fair. Yet her eyes betrayed her emotion, though she strove to smile; and

her languid grace bespoke her widowhood, her compassionate surrender of

the man she loved. Monferrand, the Marquis de Morigny, and banker

Louvard, the three other witnesses, followed the Baroness and General

Bozonnet, each giving his arm to some lady of the family. A considerable

sensation was caused by the appearance of Monferrand, who seemed on

first-rate terms with himself, and jested familiarly with the lady he

accompanied, a little brunette with a giddy air. Another who was noticed

in the solemn, interminable procession was the bride’s eccentric brother

Hyacinthe, whose dress coat was of a cut never previously seen, with its

tails broadly and symmetrically pleated.

When the affianced pair had taken their places before the prayer-stools

awaiting them, and the members of both families and the witnesses had

installed themselves in the rear in large armchairs, all gilding and red

velvet, the ceremony was performed with extraordinary pomp. The curé of

the Madeleine officiated in person; and vocalists from the Grand Opera

reinforced the choir, which chanted the high mass to the accompaniment of

the organs, whence came a continuous hymn of glory. All possible luxury

and magnificence were displayed, as if to turn this wedding into some

public festivity, a great victory, an event marking the apogee of a

class. Even the impudent bravado attaching to the loathsome private drama

which lay behind it all, and which was known to everybody, added a touch

of abominable grandeur to the ceremony. But the truculent spirit of

superiority and domination which characterised the proceedings became

most manifest when Monseigneur Martha appeared in surplice and stole to

pronounce the blessing. Tall of stature, fresh of face, and faintly

smiling, he had his wonted air of amiable sovereignty, and it was with

august unction that he pronounced the sacramental words, like some

pontiff well pleased at reconciling the two great empires whose heirs he

united. His address to the newly married couple was awaited with

curiosity. It proved really marvellous, he himself triumphed in it. Was

it not in that same church that he had baptised the bride’s mother, that

blond Eve, who was still so beautiful, that Jewess whom he himself had

converted to the Catholic faith amidst the tears of emotion shed by all

Paris society? Was it not there also that he had delivered his three

famous addresses on the New Spirit, whence dated, to his thinking, the

rout of science, the awakening of Christian spirituality, and that policy

of rallying to the Republic which was to lead to its conquest?

So it was assuredly allowable for him to indulge in some delicate

allusions, by way of congratulating himself on his work, now that he was

marrying a poor scion of the old aristocracy to the five millions of that

_bourgeoise_ heiress, in whose person triumphed the class which had won

the victory in 1789, and was now master of the land. The fourth estate,

the duped, robbed people, alone had no place in those festivities. But by

uniting the affianced pair before him in the bonds of wedlock,

Monseigneur Martha sealed the new alliance, gave effect to the Pope’s own

policy, that stealthy effort of Jesuitical Opportunism which would take

democracy, power and wealth to wife, in order to subdue and control them.

When the prelate reached his peroration he turned towards Monferrand, who

sat there smiling; and it was he, the Minister, whom he seemed to be

addressing while he expressed the hope that the newly married pair would

ever lead a truly Christian life of humility and obedience in all fear of

God, of whose iron hand he spoke as if it were that of some gendarme

charged with maintaining the peace of the world. Everybody was aware that

there was some diplomatic understanding between the Bishop and the

Minister, some secret pact or other whereby both satisfied their passion

for authority, their craving to insinuate themselves into everything and

reign supreme; and thus when the spectators saw Monferrand smiling in his

somewhat sly, jovial way, they also exchanged smiles.

“Ah!” muttered Massot, who had remained near Duthil, “how amused old

Justus Steinberger would be, if he were here to see his granddaughter

marrying the last of the Quinsacs!”

“But these marriages are quite the thing, quite the fashion, my dear

fellow,” the deputy replied. “The Jews and the Christians, the

_bourgeois_ and the nobles, do quite right to come to an understanding,

so as to found a new aristocracy. An aristocracy is needed, you know, for

otherwise we should be swept away by the masses.”

None the less Massot continued sneering at the idea of what a grimace

Justus Steinberger would have made if he had heard Monseigneur Martha. It

was rumoured in Paris that although the old Jew banker had ceased all

intercourse with his daughter Eve since her conversion, he took a keen

interest in everything she was reported to do or say, as if he were more

than ever convinced that she would prove an avenging and dissolving agent

among those Christians, whose destruction was asserted to be the dream of

his race. If he had failed in his hope of overcoming Duvillard by giving

her to him as a wife, he doubtless now consoled himself with thinking of

the extraordinary fortune to which his blood had attained, by mingling

with that of the harsh, old-time masters of his race, to whose corruption

it gave a finishing touch. Therein perhaps lay that final Jewish conquest

of the world of which people sometimes talked.

A last triumphal strain from the organ brought the ceremony to an end;

whereupon the two families and the witnesses passed into the sacristy,

where the acts were signed. And forthwith the great congratulatory

procession commenced.

The bride and bridegroom at last stood side by side in the lofty but

rather dim room, panelled with oak. How radiant with delight was Camille

at the thought that it was all over, that she had triumphed and married

that handsome man of high lineage, after wresting him with so much

difficulty from one and all, her mother especially! She seemed to have

grown taller. Deformed, swarthy, and ugly though she was, she drew

herself up exultingly, whilst scores and scores of women, friends or

acquaintances, scrambled and rushed upon her, pressing her hands or

kissing her, and addressing her in words of ecstasy. Gérard, who rose

both head and shoulders above his bride, and looked all the nobler and

stronger beside one of such puny figure, shook hands and smiled like some

Prince Charming, who good-naturedly allowed himself to be loved.

Meanwhile, the relatives of the newly wedded pair, though they were drawn

up in one line, formed two distinct groups past which the crowd pushed

and surged with arms outstretched. Duvillard received the congratulations

offered him as if he were some king well pleased with his people; whilst

Eve, with a supreme effort, put on an enchanting mien, and answered one

and all with scarcely a sign of the sobs which she was forcing back.

Then, on the other side of the bridal pair, Madame de Quinsac stood

between General de Bozonnet and the Marquis de Morigny. Very dignified,

in fact almost haughty, she acknowledged most of the salutations

addressed to her with a mere nod, giving her little withered hand only to

those people with whom she was well acquainted. A sea of strange

countenances encompassed her, and now and again when some particularly

murky wave rolled by, a wave of men whose faces bespoke all the crimes of

money-mongering, she and the Marquis exchanged glances of deep sadness.

This tide continued sweeping by for nearly half an hour; and such was the

number of those who wanted to shake hands with the bridal pair and their

relatives, that the latter soon felt their arms ache.

Meantime, some folks lingered in the sacristy; little groups collected,

and gay chatter rang out. Monferrand was immediately surrounded. Massot

pointed out to Duthil how eagerly Public Prosecutor Lehmann rushed upon

the Minister to pay him court. They were immediately joined by

investigating magistrate Amadieu. And even M. de Larombière, the judge,

approached Monferrand, although he hated the Republic, and was an

intimate friend of the Quinsacs. But then obedience and obsequiousness

were necessary on the part of the magistracy, for it was dependent on

those in power, who alone could give advancement, and appoint even as

they dismissed. As for Lehmann, it was alleged that he had rendered

assistance to Monferrand by spiriting away certain documents connected

with the African Railways affair, whilst with regard to the smiling and

extremely Parisian Amadieu, was it not to him that the government was

indebted for Salvat’s head?

“You know,” muttered Massot, “they’ve all come to be thanked for

guillotining that man yesterday. Monferrand owes that wretched fellow a

fine taper; for in the first place his bomb prolonged the life of the

Barroux ministry, and later on it made Monferrand prime minister, as a

strong-handed man was particularly needed to strangle Anarchism. What a

contest, eh? Monferrand on one side and Salvat on the other. It was all

bound to end in a head being cut off; one was wanted.... Ah! just

listen, they are talking of it.”

This was true. As the three functionaries of the law drew near to pay

their respects to the all-powerful Minister, they were questioned by lady

friends whose curiosity had been roused by what they had read in the

newspapers. Thereupon Amadieu, whom duty had taken to the execution, and

who was proud of his own importance, and determined to destroy what he

called “the legend of Salvat’s heroic death,” declared that the scoundrel

had shown no true courage at all. His pride alone had kept him on his

feet. Fright had so shaken and choked him that he had virtually been dead

before the fall of the knife.

“Ah! that’s true!” cried Duthil. “I was there myself.”

Massot, however, pulled him by the arm, quite indignant at such an

assertion, although as a rule he cared a rap for nothing. “You couldn’t

see anything, my dear fellow,” said he; “Salvat died very bravely. It’s

really stupid to continue throwing mud at that poor devil even when he’s

dead.”

However, the idea that Salvat had died like a coward was too pleasing a

one to be rejected. It was, so to say, a last sacrifice deposited at

Monferrand’s feet with the object of propitiating him. He still smiled in

his peaceful way, like a good-natured man who is stern only when

necessity requires it. And he showed great amiability towards the three

judicial functionaries, and thanked them for the bravery with which they

had accomplished their painful duty to the very end. On the previous day,

after the execution, he had obtained a formidable majority in the Chamber

on a somewhat delicate matter of policy. Order reigned, said he, and all

was for the very best in France. Then, on seeing Vignon--who like a cool

gamester had made a point of attending the wedding in order to show

people that he was superior to fortune--the Minister detained him, and

made much of him, partly as a matter of tactics, for in spite of

everything he could not help fearing that the future might belong to that

young fellow, who showed himself so intelligent and cautious. When a

mutual friend informed them that Barroux’ health was now so bad that the

doctors had given him up as lost, they both began to express their

compassion. Poor Barroux! He had never recovered from that vote of the

Chamber which had overthrown him. He had been sinking from day to day,

stricken to the heart by his country’s ingratitude, dying of that

abominable charge of money-mongering and thieving; he who was so upright

and so loyal, who had devoted his whole life to the Republic! But then,

as Monferrand repeated, one should never confess. The public can’t

understand such a thing.

At this moment Duvillard, in some degree relinquishing his paternal

duties, came to join the others, and the Minister then had to share the

honours of triumph with him. For was not this banker the master? Was he

not money personified--money, which is the only stable, everlasting

force, far above all ephemeral tenure of power, such as attaches to those

ministerial portfolios which pass so rapidly from hand to hand?

Monferrand reigned, but he would pass away, and a like fate would some

day fall on Vignon, who had already had a warning that one could not

govern unless the millions of the financial world were on one’s side. So

was not the only real triumpher himself, the Baron--he who laid out five

millions of francs on buying a scion of the aristocracy for his daughter,

he who was the personification of the sovereign _bourgeoisie_, who

controlled public fortune, and was determined to part with nothing, even

were he attacked with bombs? All these festivities really centred in

himself, he alone sat down to the banquet, leaving merely the crumbs from

his table to the lowly, those wretched toilers who had been so cleverly

duped at the time of the Revolution.

That African Railways affair was already but so much ancient history,

buried, spirited away by a parliamentary commission. All who had been

compromised in it, the Duthils, the Chaigneux, the Fonsègues and others,

could now laugh merrily. They had been delivered from their nightmare by

Monferrand’s strong fist, and raised by Duvillard’s triumph. Even

Sagnier’s ignoble article and miry revelations in the “Voix du Peuple”

were of no real account, and could be treated with a shrug of the

shoulders, for the public had been so saturated with denunciation and

slander that it was now utterly weary of all noisy scandal. The only

thing which aroused interest was the rumour that Duvillard’s big affair

of the Trans-Saharan Railway was soon to be launched, that millions of

money would be handled, and that some of them would rain down upon

faithful friends.

Whilst Duvillard was conversing in a friendly way with Monferrand and

Dauvergne, the Minister of Public Instruction, who had joined them,

Massot encountered Fonsègue, his editor, and said to him in an undertone:

“Duthil has just assured me that the Trans-Saharan business is ready, and

that they mean to chance it with the Chamber. They declare that they are

certain of success.”

Fonsègue, however, was sceptical on the point. “It’s impossible,” said

he; “they won’t dare to begin again so soon.”

Although he spoke in this fashion, the news had made him grave. He had

lately had such a terrible fright through his imprudence in the African

Railways affair, that he had vowed he would take every precaution in

future. Still, this did not mean that he would refuse to participate in

matters of business. The best course was to wait and study them, and then

secure a share in all that seemed profitable. In the present instance he

felt somewhat worried. However, whilst he stood there watching the group

around Duvillard and the two ministers, he suddenly perceived Chaigneux,

who, flitting hither and thither, was still beating up applauders for

that evening’s performance. He sang Silviane’s praises in every key,

predicted a most tremendous success, and did his very best to stimulate

curiosity. At last he approached Dauvergne, and with his long figure bent

double exclaimed: “My dear Minister, I have a particular request to make

to you on the part of a very charming person, whose victory will not be

complete this evening if you do not condescend to favour her with your

vote.”

Dauvergne, a tall, fair, good-looking man, whose blue eyes smiled behind

his glasses, listened to Chaigneux with an affable air. He was proving a

great success at the Ministry of Public Instruction, although he knew

nothing of University matters. However, like a real Parisian of Dijon, as

people called him, he was possessed of some tact and skill, gave

entertainments at which his young and charming wife outshone all others,

and passed as being quite an enlightened friend of writers and artists.

Silviane’s engagement at the Comédie, which so far was his most notable

achievement, and which would have shaken the position of any other

minister, had by a curious chance rendered him popular. It was regarded

as something original and amusing.

On understanding that Chaigneux simply wished to make sure of his

presence at the Comédie that evening, he became yet more affable. “Why,

certainly, I shall be there, my dear deputy,” he replied. “When one has

such a charming god-daughter one mustn’t forsake her in a moment of

danger.”

At this Monferrand, who had been lending ear, turned round. “And tell

her,” said he, “that I shall be there, too. She may therefore rely on

having two more friends in the house.”

Thereupon Duvillard, quite enraptured, his eyes glistening with emotion

and gratitude, bowed to the two ministers as if they had granted him some

never-to-be-forgotten favour.

When Chaigneux, on his side also, had returned thanks with a low bow, he

happened to perceive Fonsègue, and forthwith he darted towards him and

led him aside. “Ah! my dear colleague,” he declared, “it is absolutely

necessary that this matter should be settled. I regard it as of supreme

importance.”

“What are you speaking of?” inquired Fonsègue, much surprised.

“Why, of Massot’s article, which you won’t insert.”

Thereupon, the director of the “Globe” plumply declared that he could not

insert the article. He talked of his paper’s dignity and gravity; and

declared that the lavishing of such fulsome praise upon a hussy--yes, a

mere hussy, in a journal whose exemplary morality and austerity had cost

him so much labour, would seem monstrous and degrading. Personally, he

did not care a fig about it if Silviane chose to make an exhibition of

herself, well, he would be there to see; but the “Globe” was sacred.

Disconcerted and almost tearful, Chaigneux nevertheless renewed his

attempt. “Come, my dear colleague,” said he, “pray make a little effort

for my sake. If the article isn’t inserted, Duvillard will think that it

is my fault. And you know that I really need his help. My eldest

daughter’s marriage has again been postponed, and I hardly know where to

turn.” Then perceiving that his own misfortunes in no wise touched

Fonsègue, he added: “And do it for your own sake, my dear colleague, your

own sake. For when all is said Duvillard knows what is in the article,

and it is precisely because it is so favourable a one that he wishes to

see it in the ‘Globe.’ Think it over; if the article isn’t published, he

will certainly turn his back on you.”

For a moment Fonsègue remained silent. Was he thinking of the colossal

Trans-Saharan enterprise? Was he reflecting that it would be hard to

quarrel at such a moment and miss his own share in the coming

distribution of millions among faithful friends? Perhaps so; however, the

idea that it would be more prudent to await developments gained the day

with him. “No, no,” he said, “I can’t, it’s a matter of conscience.”

In the mean time congratulations were still being tendered to the newly

wedded couple. It seemed as if all Paris were passing through the

sacristy; there were ever the same smiles and the same hand shakes.

Gérard, Camille and their relatives, however weary they might feel, were

forced to retain an air of delight while they stood there against the

wall, pent up by the crowd. The heat was now becoming unbearable, and a

cloud of dust arose as when some big flock goes by.

All at once little Princess de Harn, who had hitherto lingered nobody

knew where, sprang out of the throng, flung her arms around Camille,

kissed even Eve, and then kept Gérard’s hand in her own while paying him

extraordinary compliments. Then, on perceiving Hyacinthe, she took

possession of him and carried him off into a corner. “I say,” she

exclaimed, “I have a favour to ask you.”

The young man was wonderfully silent that day. His sister’s wedding

seemed to him a contemptible ceremony, the most vulgar that one could

imagine. So here, thought he, was another pair accepting the horrid

sexual law by which the absurdity of the world was perpetuated! For his

part, he had decided that he would witness the proceedings in rigid

silence, with a haughty air of disapproval. When Rosemonde spoke to him,

he looked at her rather nervously, for he was glad that she had forsaken

him for Duthil, and feared some fresh caprice on her part. At last,

opening his mouth for the first time that day, he replied: “Oh, as a

friend, you know, I will grant you whatever favour you like.”

Forthwith the Princess explained that she would surely die if she did not

witness the _début_ of her dear friend Silviane, of whom she had become

such a passionate admirer. So she begged the young man to prevail on his

father to give her a seat in his box, as she knew that one was left

there.

Hyacinthe smiled. “Oh, willingly, my dear,” said he; “I’ll warn papa,

there will be a seat for you.”

Then, as the procession of guests at last drew to an end and the vestry

began to empty, the bridal pair and their relatives were able to go off

through the chattering throng, which still lingered about to bow to them

and scrutinise them once more.

Gérard and Camille were to leave for an estate which Duvillard possessed

in Normandy, directly after lunch. This repast, served at the princely

mansion of the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy, provided an opportunity for fresh

display. The dining-room on the first floor had been transformed into a

buffet, where reigned the greatest abundance and the most wonderful

sumptuousness. Quite a reception too was held in the drawing-rooms, the

large red _salon_, the little blue and silver _salon_ and all the others,

whose doors stood wide open. Although it had been arranged that only

family friends should be invited, there were quite three hundred people

present. The ministers had excused themselves, alleging that the weighty

cares of public business required their presence elsewhere. But the

magistrates, the deputies and the leading journalists who had attended

the wedding were again assembled together. And in that throng of hungry

folks, longing for some of the spoils of Duvillard’s new venture, the

people who felt most out of their element were Madame de Quinsac’s few

guests, whom General de Bozonnet and the Marquis de Morigny had seated on

a sofa in the large red _salon_, which they did not quit.

Eve, who for her part felt quite overcome, both her moral and physical

strength being exhausted, had seated herself in the little blue and

silver drawing-room, which, with her passion for flowers, she had

transformed into an arbour of roses. She would have fallen had she

remained standing, the very floor had seemed to sink beneath her feet.

Nevertheless, whenever a guest approached her she managed to force a

smile, and appear beautiful and charming. Unlooked-for help at last came

to her in the person of Monseigneur Martha, who had graciously honoured

the lunch with his presence. He took an armchair near her, and began to

talk to her in his amiable, caressing way. He was doubtless well aware of

the frightful anguish which wrung the poor woman’s heart, for he showed

himself quite fatherly, eager to comfort her. She, however, talked on

like some inconsolable widow bent on renouncing the world for God, who

alone could bring her peace. Then, as the conversation turned on the

Asylum for the Invalids of Labour, she declared that she was resolved to

take her presidency very seriously, and, in fact, would exclusively

devote herself to it, in the future.

“And as we are speaking of this, Monseigneur,” said she, “I would even

ask you to give me some advice.... I shall need somebody to help me,

and I thought of securing the services of a priest whom I much admire,

Monsieur l’Abbé Pierre Froment.”

At this the Bishop became grave and embarrassed; but Princess Rosemonde,

who was passing by with Duthil, had overheard the Baroness, and drawing

near with her wonted impetuosity, she exclaimed: “Abbé Pierre Froment!

Oh! I forgot to tell you, my dear, that I met him going about in jacket

and trousers! And I’ve been told too that he cycles in the Bois with some

creature or other. Isn’t it true, Duthil, that we met him?”

The deputy bowed and smiled, whilst Eve clasped her hands in amazement.

“Is it possible! A priest who was all charitable fervour, who had the

faith and passion of an apostle!”

Thereupon Monseigneur intervened: “Yes, yes, great sorrows occasionally

fall upon the Church. I heard of the madness of the unhappy man you speak

of. I even thought it my duty to write to him, but he left my letter

unanswered. I should so much have liked to stifle such a scandal! But

there are abominable forces which we cannot always overcome; and so a day

or two ago the archbishop was obliged to put him under interdict....

You must choose somebody else, madame.”

It was quite a disaster. Eve gazed at Rosemonde and Duthil, without

daring to ask them for particulars, but wondering what creature could

have been so audacious as to turn a priest from the path of duty. She

must assuredly be some shameless demented woman! And it seemed to Eve as

if this crime gave a finishing touch to her own misfortune. With a wave

of the arm, which took in all the luxury around her, the roses steeping

her in perfume, and the crush of guests around the buffet, she murmured:

“Ah! decidedly there’s nothing but corruption left; one can no longer

rely on anybody!”

Whilst this was going on, Camille happened to be alone in her own room

getting ready to leave the house with Gérard. And all at once her brother

Hyacinthe joined her there. “Ah! it’s you, youngster!” she exclaimed.

“Well, make haste if you want to kiss me, for I’m off now, thank

goodness!”

He kissed her as she suggested, and then in a doctoral way replied: “I

thought you had more self-command. The delight you have been showing all

this morning quite disgusts me.”

A quiet glance of contempt was her only answer. However, he continued:

“You know very well that she’ll take your Gérard from you again, directly

you come back to Paris.”

At this Camille’s cheeks turned white and her eyes flared. She stepped

towards her brother with clenched fists: “She! you say that she will take

him from me!”

The “she” they referred to was their own mother.

“Listen, my boy! I’ll kill her first!” continued Camille. “Ah, no! she

needn’t hope for that. I shall know how to keep the man that belongs to

me.... And as for you, keep your spite to yourself, for I know you,

remember; you are a mere child and a fool!”

He recoiled as if a viper were rearing its sharp, slender black head

before him; and having always feared her, he thought it best to beat a

retreat.

While the last guests were rushing upon the buffet and finishing the

pillage there, the bridal pair took their leave, before driving off to

the railway station. General de Bozonnet had joined a group in order to

vent his usual complaints about compulsory military service, and the

Marquis de Morigny was obliged to fetch him at the moment when the

Countess de Quinsac was kissing her son and daughter-in-law. The old lady

trembled with so much emotion that the Marquis respectfully ventured to

sustain her. Meantime, Hyacinthe had started in search of his father, and

at last found him near a window with the tottering Chaigneux, whom he was

violently upbraiding, for Fonsègue’s conscientious scruples had put him

in a fury. Indeed, if Massot’s article should not be inserted in the

“Globe,” Silviane might lay all the blame upon him, the Baron, and wreak

further punishment upon him. However, upon being summoned by his son he

had to don his triumphal air once more, kiss his daughter on the

forehead, shake hands with his son-in-law, jest and wish them both a

pleasant journey. Then Eve, near whom Monseigneur Martha had remained,

smiling, in her turn had to say farewell. In this she evinced touching

bravery; her determination to remain beautiful and charming until the

very end lent her sufficient strength to show herself both gay and

motherly.

She took hold of the slightly quivering hand which Gérard proffered with

some embarrassment, and ventured to retain it for a moment in her own, in

a good-hearted, affectionate way, instinct with all the heroism of

renunciation. “Good by, Gérard,” she said, “keep in good health, be

happy.” Then turning to Camille she kissed her on both cheeks, while

Monseigneur Martha sat looking at them with an air of indulgent sympathy.

They wished each other “Au revoir,” but their voices trembled, and their

eyes in meeting gleamed like swords; in the same way as beneath the

kisses they had exchanged they had felt each other’s teeth. Ah! how it

enraged Camille to see her mother still so beautiful and fascinating in

spite of age and grief! And for Eve how great the torture of beholding

her daughter’s youth, that youth which had overcome her, and was for ever

wresting love from within her reach! No forgiveness was possible between

them; they would still hate one another even in the family tomb, where

some day they would sleep side by side.

All the same, that evening Baroness Duvillard excused herself from

attending the performance of “Polyeucte” at the Comédie Française. She

felt very tired and wished to go to bed early, said she. As a matter of

fact she wept on her pillow all night long. Thus the Baron’s stage-box on

the first balcony tier contained only himself, Hyacinthe, Duthil, and

little Princess de Harn.

At nine o’clock there was a full house, one of the brilliant chattering

houses peculiar to great dramatic solemnities. All the society people who

had marched through the sacristy of the Madeleine that morning were now

assembled at the theatre, again feverish with curiosity, and on the

lookout for the unexpected. One recognised the same faces and the same

smiles; the women acknowledged one another’s presence with little signs

of intelligence, the men understood each other at a word, a gesture. One

and all had kept the appointment, the ladies with bared shoulders, the

gentlemen with flowers in their button-holes. Fonsègue occupied the

“Globe’s” box, with two friendly families. Little Massot had his

customary seat in the stalls. Amadieu, who was a faithful patron of the

Comédie, was also to be seen there, as well as General de Bozonnet and

Public Prosecutor Lehmann. The man who was most looked at, however, on

account of his scandalous article that morning, was Sagnier, the terrible

Sagnier, looking bloated and apoplectical. Then there was Chaigneux, who

had kept merely a modest bracket-seat for himself, and who scoured the

passages, and climbed to every tier, for the last time preaching

enthusiasm. Finally, the two ministers Monferrand and Dauvergne appeared

in the box facing Duvillard’s; whereupon many knowing smiles were

exchanged, for everybody was aware that these personages had come to help

on the success of the _débutante_.

On the latter point there had still been unfavourable rumours only the

previous day. Sagnier had declared that the _début_ of such a notorious

harlot as Silviane at the Comédie Française, in such a part too as that

of “Pauline,” which was one of so much moral loftiness, could only be

regarded as an impudent insult to public decency. The whole press,

moreover, had long been up in arms against the young woman’s

extraordinary caprice. But then the affair had been talked of for six

months past, so that Paris had grown used to the idea of seeing Silviane

at the Comédie. And now it flocked thither with the one idea of being

entertained. Before the curtain rose one could tell by the very

atmosphere of the house that the audience was a jovial, good-humoured

one, bent on enjoying itself, and ready to applaud should it find itself

at all pleased.

The performance really proved extraordinary. When Silviane, chastely

robed, made her appearance in the first act, the house was quite

astonished by her virginal face, her innocent-looking mouth, and her eyes

beaming with immaculate candour. Then, although the manner in which she

had understood her part at first amazed people, it ended by charming

them. From the moment of confiding in “Stratonice,” from the moment of

relating her dream, she turned “Pauline” into a soaring mystical

creature, some saint, as it were, such as one sees in stained-glass

windows, carried along by a Wagnerian Brunhilda riding the clouds. It was

a thoroughly ridiculous conception of the part, contrary to reason and

truth alike. Still, it only seemed to interest people the more, partly on

account of mysticism being the fashion, and partly on account of the

contrast between Silviane’s assumed candour and real depravity. Her

success increased from act to act, and some slight hissing which was

attributed to Sagnier only helped to make the victory more complete.

Monferrand and Dauvergne, as the newspapers afterwards related, gave the

signal for applause; and the whole house joined in it, partly from

amusement and partly perhaps in a spirit of irony.

During the interval between the fourth and fifth acts there was quite a

procession of visitors to Duvillard’s box, where the greatest excitement

prevailed. Duthil, however, after absenting himself for a moment, came

back to say: “You remember our influential critic, the one whom I brought

to dinner at the Cafe Anglais? Well, he’s repeating to everybody that

‘Pauline’ is merely a little _bourgeoise_, and is not transformed by the

heavenly grace until the very finish of the piece. To turn her into a

holy virgin from the outset simply kills the part, says he.”

“Pooh!” repeated Duvillard, “let him argue if he likes, it will be all

the more advertisement.... The important point is to get Massot’s

article inserted in the ‘Globe’ to-morrow morning.”

On this point, unfortunately, the news was by no means good. Chaigneux,

who had gone in search of Fonsègue, declared that the latter still

hesitated in the matter in spite of Silviane’s success, which he declared

to be ridiculous. Thereupon, the Baron became quite angry. “Go and tell

Fonsègue,” he exclaimed, “that I insist on it, and that I shall remember

what he does.”

Meantime Princess Rosemonde was becoming quite delirious with enthusiasm.

“My dear Hyacinthe,” she pleaded, “please take me to Silviane’s

dressing-room; I can’t wait, I really must go and kiss her.”

“But we’ll all go!” cried Duvillard, who heard her entreaty.

The passages were crowded, and there were people even on the stage.

Moreover, when the party reached the door of Silviane’s dressing-room,

they found it shut. When the Baron knocked at it, a dresser replied that

madame begged the gentlemen to wait a moment.

“Oh! a woman may surely go in,” replied Rosemonde, hastily slipping

through the doorway. “And you may come, Hyacinthe,” she added; “there can

be no objection to you.”

Silviane was very hot, and a dresser was wiping her perspiring shoulders

when Rosemonde darted forward and kissed her. Then they chatted together

amidst the heat and glare from the gas and the intoxicating perfumes of

all the flowers which were heaped up in the little room. Finally,

Hyacinthe heard them promise to see one another after the performance,

Silviane even inviting Rosemonde to drink a cup of tea with her at her

house. At this the young man smiled complacently, and said to the

actress: “Your carriage is waiting for you at the corner of the Rue

Montpensier, is it not? Well, I’ll take the Princess to it. That will be

the simpler plan, you can both go off together!”

“Oh! how good of you,” cried Rosemonde; “it’s agreed.”

Just then the door was opened, and the men, being admitted, began to pour

forth their congratulations. However, they had to regain their seats in

all haste so as to witness the fifth act. This proved quite a triumph,

the whole house bursting into applause when Silviane spoke the famous

line, “I see, I know, I believe, I am undeceived,” with the rapturous

enthusiasm of a holy martyr ascending to heaven. Nothing could have been

more soul-like, it was said. And so when the performers were called

before the curtain, Paris bestowed an ovation on that virgin of the

stage, who, as Sagnier put it, knew so well how to act depravity at home.

Accompanied by Duthil, Duvillard at once went behind the scenes in order

to fetch Silviane, while Hyacinthe escorted Rosemonde to the brougham

waiting at the corner of the Rue Montpensier. Having helped her into it,

the young man stood by, waiting. And he seemed to grow quite merry when

his father came up with Silviane, and was stopped by her, just as, in his

turn, he wished to get into the carriage.

“There’s no room for you, my dear fellow,” said she. “I’ve a friend with

me.”

Rosemonde’s little smiling face then peered forth from the depths of the

brougham. And the Baron remained there open-mouthed while the vehicle

swiftly carried the two women away!

“Well, what would you have, my dear fellow?” said Hyacinthe, by way of

explanation to Duthil, who also seemed somewhat amazed by what had

happened. “Rosemonde was worrying my life out, and so I got rid of her by

packing her off with Silviane.”

Duvillard was still standing on the pavement and still looking dazed when

Chaigneux, who was going home quite tired out, recognised him, and came

up to say that Fonsègue had thought the matter over, and that Massot’s

article would be duly inserted. In the passages, too, there had been a

deal of talk about the famous Trans-Saharan project.

Then Hyacinthe led his father away, trying to comfort him like a sensible

friend, who regarded woman as a base and impure creature. “Let’s go home

to bed,” said he. “As that article is to appear, you can take it to her

to-morrow. She will see you, sure enough.”

Thereupon they lighted cigars, and now and again exchanging a few words,

took their way up the Avenue de l’Opera, which at that hour was deserted

and dismal. Meantime, above the slumbering houses of Paris the breeze

wafted a prolonged sigh, the plaint, as it were, of an expiring world.

III. THE GOAL OF LABOUR

EVER since the execution of Salvat, Guillaume had become extremely

taciturn. He seemed worried and absent-minded. He would work for hours at

the manufacture of that dangerous powder of which he alone knew the

formula, and the preparation of which was such a delicate matter that he

would allow none to assist him. Then, at other times he would go off, and

return tired out by some long solitary ramble. He remained very gentle at

home, and strove to smile there. But whenever anybody spoke to him he

started as if suddenly called back from dreamland.

Pierre imagined his brother had relied too much upon his powers of

renunciation, and found the loss of Marie unbearable. Was it not some

thought of her that haunted him now that the date fixed for the marriage

drew nearer and nearer? One evening, therefore, Pierre ventured to speak

out, again offering to leave the house and disappear.

But at the first words he uttered Guillaume stopped him, and

affectionately replied: “Marie? Oh! I love her, I love her too well to

regret what I have done. No, no! you only bring me happiness, I derive

all my strength and courage from you now that I know you are both happy.

... And I assure you that you are mistaken, there is nothing at all the

matter with me; my work absorbs me, perhaps, but that is all.”

That same evening he managed to cast his gloom aside, and displayed

delightful gaiety. During dinner he inquired if the upholsterer would

soon call to arrange the two little rooms which Marie was to occupy with

her husband over the workroom. The young woman, who since her marriage

with Pierre had been decided had remained waiting with smiling patience,

thereupon told Guillaume what it was she desired--first some hangings of

red cotton stuff, then some polished pine furniture which would enable

her to imagine she was in the country, and finally a carpet on the floor,

because a carpet seemed to her the height of luxury. She laughed as she

spoke, and Guillaume laughed with her in a gay and fatherly way. His good

spirits brought much relief to Pierre, who concluded that he must have

been mistaken in his surmises.

On the very morrow, however, Guillaume relapsed into a dreamy state. And

so disquietude again came upon Pierre, particularly when he noticed that

Mère-Grand also seemed to be unusually grave and silent. Not daring to

address her, he tried to extract some information from his nephews, but

neither Thomas nor François nor Antoine knew anything. Each of them

quietly devoted his time to his work, respecting and worshipping his

father, but never questioning him about his plans or enterprises.

Whatever he might choose to do could only be right and good; and they,

his sons, were ready to do the same and help him at the very first call,

without pausing to inquire into his purpose. It was plain, however, that

he kept them apart from anything at all perilous, that he retained all

responsibility for himself, and that Mère-Grand alone was his

_confidante_, the one whom he consulted and to whom he perhaps listened.

Pierre therefore renounced his hope of learning anything from the sons,

and directed his attention to the old lady, whose rigid gravity worried

him the more as she and Guillaume frequently had private chats in the

room she occupied upstairs. They shut themselves up there all alone, and

remained together for hours without the faintest sound coming from the

seemingly lifeless chamber.

One day, however, Pierre caught sight of Guillaume as he came out of it,

carrying a little valise which appeared to be very heavy. And Pierre

thereupon remembered both his brother’s powder, one pound weight of which

would have sufficed to destroy a cathedral, and the destructive engine

which he had purposed bestowing upon France in order that she might be

victorious over all other nations, and become the one great initiatory

and liberative power. Pierre remembered too that the only person besides

himself who knew his brother’s secret was Mère-Grand, who, at the time

when Guillaume was fearing some perquisition on the part of the police,

had long slept upon the cartridges of the terrible explosive. But now why

was Guillaume removing all the powder which he had been preparing for

some time past? As this question occurred to Pierre, a sudden suspicion,

a vague dread, came upon him, and gave him strength to ask his brother:

“Have you reason to fear anything, since you won’t keep things here? If

they embarrass you, they can all be deposited at my house, nobody will

make a search there.”

Guillaume, whom these words astonished, gazed at Pierre fixedly, and then

replied: “Yes, I have learnt that the arrests and perquisitions have

begun afresh since that poor devil was guillotined; for they are in

terror at the thought that some despairing fellow may avenge him.

Moreover, it is hardly prudent to keep destructive agents of such great

power here. I prefer to deposit them in a safe place. But not at

Neuilly--oh! no indeed! they are not a present for you, brother.”

Guillaume spoke with outward calmness; and if he had started with

surprise at the first moment, it had been scarcely perceptible.

“So everything is ready?” Pierre resumed. “You will soon be handing your

engine of destruction over to the Minister of War, I presume?”

A gleam of hesitation appeared in the depths of Guillaume’s eyes, and he

was for a moment about to tell a falsehood. However, he ended by replying

“No, I have renounced that intention. I have another idea.”

He spoke these last words with so much energy and decision that Pierre

did not dare to question him further, to ask him, for instance, what that

other idea might be. From that moment, however, he quivered with anxious

expectancy. From hour to hour Mère-Grand’s lofty silence and Guillaume’s

rapt, energetic face seemed to tell him that some huge and terrifying

scheme had come into being, and was growing and threatening the whole of

Paris.

One afternoon, just as Thomas was about to repair to the Grandidier

works, some one came to Guillaume’s with the news that old Toussaint, the

workman, had been stricken with a fresh attack of paralysis. Thomas

thereupon decided that he would call upon the poor fellow on his way, for

he held him in esteem and wished to ascertain if he could render him any

help. Pierre expressed a desire to accompany his nephew, and they started

off together about four o’clock.

On entering the one room which the Toussaints occupied, the room where

they ate and slept, the visitors found the mechanician seated on a low

chair near the table. He looked half dead, as if struck by lightning. It

was a case of hemiplegia, which had paralysed the whole of his right

side, his right leg and right arm, and had also spread to his face in

such wise that he could no longer speak. The only sound he could raise

was an incomprehensible guttural grunt. His mouth was drawn to the right,

and his once round, good-natured-looking face, with tanned skin and

bright eyes, had been twisted into a frightful mask of anguish. At fifty

years of age, the unhappy man was utterly done for. His unkempt beard was

as white as that of an octogenarian, and his knotty limbs, preyed upon by

toil, were henceforth dead. Only his eyes remained alive, and they

travelled around the room, going from one to another. By his side, eager

to do what she could for him, was his wife, who remained stout even when

she had little to eat, and still showed herself active and clear-headed,

however great her misfortunes.

“It’s a friendly visit, Toussaint,” said she. “It’s Monsieur Thomas who

has come to see you with Monsieur l’Abbé.” Then quietly correcting

herself she added: “With Monsieur Pierre, his uncle. You see that you are

not yet forsaken.”

Toussaint wished to speak, but his fruitless efforts only brought two big

tears to his eyes. Then he gazed at his visitors with an expression of

indescribable woe, his jaws trembling convulsively.

“Don’t put yourself out,” repeated his wife. “The doctor told you that it

would do you no good.”

At the moment of entering the room, Pierre had already noticed two

persons who had risen from their chairs and drawn somewhat on one side.

And now to his great surprise he recognised that they were Madame

Théodore and Céline, who were both decently clad, and looked as if they

led a life of comfort. On hearing of Toussaint’s misfortune they had come

to see him, like good-hearted creatures, who, on their own side, had

experienced the most cruel suffering. Pierre, on noticing that they now

seemed to be beyond dire want, remembered what he had heard of the

wonderful sympathy lavished on the child after her father’s execution,

the many presents and donations offered her, and the generous proposals

that had been made to adopt her. These last had ended in her being

adopted by a former friend of Salvat, who had sent her to school again,

pending the time when she might be apprenticed to some trade, while, on

the other hand, Madame Théodore had been placed as a nurse in a

convalescent home. In such wise both had been saved.

When Pierre drew near to little Céline in order to kiss her, Madame

Théodore told her to thank Monsieur l’Abbé--for so she still respectfully

called him--for all that he had previously done for her. “It was you who

brought us happiness, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said she. “And that’s a thing one

can never forget. I’m always telling Céline to remember you in her

prayers.”

“And so, my child, you are now going to school again,” said Pierre.

“Oh yes, Monsieur l’Abbé, and I’m well pleased at it. Besides, we no

longer lack anything.” Then, however, sudden emotion came over the girl,

and she stammered with a sob: “Ah! if poor papa could only see us!”

Madame Théodore, meanwhile, had begun to take leave of Madame Toussaint.

“Well, good by, we must go,” said she. “What has happened to you is very

sad, and we wanted to tell you how much it grieved us. The worry is that

when misfortune falls on one, courage isn’t enough to set things right..

.. Céline, come and kiss your uncle.... My poor brother, I hope

you’ll get back the use of your legs as soon as possible.”

They kissed the paralysed man on the cheeks, and then went off. Toussaint

had looked at them with his keen and still intelligent eyes, as if he

longed to participate in the life and activity into which they were

returning. And a jealous thought came to his wife, who usually was so

placid and good-natured. “Ah! my poor old man!” said she, after propping

him up with a pillow, “those two are luckier than we are. Everything

succeeds with them since that madman, Salvat, had his head cut off.

They’re provided for. They’ve plenty of bread on the shelf.”

Then, turning towards Pierre and Thomas, she continued: “We others are

done for, you know, we’re down in the mud, with no hope of getting out of

it. But what would you have? My poor husband hasn’t been guillotined,

he’s done nothing but work his whole life long; and now, you see, that’s

the end of him, he’s like some old animal, no longer good for anything.”

Having made her visitors sit down she next answered their compassionate

questions. The doctor had called twice already, and had promised to

restore the unhappy man’s power of speech, and perhaps enable him to

crawl round the room with the help of a stick. But as for ever being able

to resume real work that must not be expected. And so what was the use of

living on? Toussaint’s eyes plainly declared that he would much rather

die at once. When a workman can no longer work and no longer provide for

his wife he is ripe for the grave.

“Savings indeed!” Madame Toussaint resumed. “There are folks who ask if

we have any savings.... Well, we had nearly a thousand francs in the

Savings Bank when Toussaint had his first attack. And some people don’t

know what a lot of prudence one needs to put by such a sum; for, after

all, we’re not savages, we have to allow ourselves a little enjoyment now

and then, a good dish and a good bottle of wine.... Well, what with

five months of enforced idleness, and the medicines, and the underdone

meat that was ordered, we got to the end of our thousand francs; and now

that it’s all begun again we’re not likely to taste any more bottled wine

or roast mutton.”

Fond of good cheer as she had always been, this cry, far more than the

tears she was forcing back, revealed how much the future terrified her.

She was there erect and brave in spite of everything; but what a downfall

if she were no longer able to keep her room tidy, stew a piece of veal on

Sundays, and gossip with the neighbours while awaiting her husband’s

return from work! Why, they might just as well be thrown into the gutter

and carried off in the scavenger’s cart.

However, Thomas intervened: “Isn’t there an Asylum for the Invalids of

Labour, and couldn’t your husband get admitted to it?” he asked. “It

seems to me that is just the place for him.”

“Oh dear, no,” the woman answered. “People spoke to me of that place

before, and I got particulars of it. They don’t take sick people there.

When you call they tell you that there are hospitals for those who are

ill.”

With a wave of his hand Pierre confirmed her statement: it was useless to

apply in that direction. He could again see himself scouring Paris,

hurrying from the Lady President, Baroness Duvillard, to Fonsègue, the

General Manager, and only securing a bed for Laveuve when the unhappy man

was dead.

However, at that moment an infant was heard wailing, and to the amazement

of both visitors Madame Toussaint entered the little closet where her son

Charles had so long slept, and came out of it carrying a child, who

looked scarcely twenty months old. “Well, yes,” she explained, “this is

Charles’s boy. He was sleeping there in his father’s old bed, and now you

hear him, he’s woke up.... You see, only last Wednesday, the day

before Toussaint had his stroke, I went to fetch the little one at the

nurse’s at St. Denis, because she had threatened to cast him adrift since

Charles had got into bad habits, and no longer paid her. I said to myself

at the time that work was looking up, and that my husband and I would

always be able to provide for a little mouth like that.... But just

afterwards everything collapsed! At the same time, as the child’s here

now I can’t go and leave him in the street.”

While speaking in this fashion she walked to and fro, rocking the baby in

her arms. And naturally enough she reverted to Charles’s folly with the

girl, who had run away, leaving that infant behind her. Things might not

have been so very bad if Charles had still worked as steadily as he had

done before he went soldiering. In those days he had never lost an hour,

and had always brought all his pay home! But he had come back from the

army with much less taste for work. He argued, and had ideas of his own.

He certainly hadn’t yet come to bomb-throwing like that madman Salvat,

but he spent half his time with Socialists and Anarchists, who put his

brain in a muddle. It was a real pity to see such a strong, good-hearted

young fellow turning out badly like that. But it was said in the

neighbourhood that many another was inclined the same way; that the best

and most intelligent of the younger men felt tired of want and

unremunerative labour, and would end by knocking everything to pieces

rather than go on toiling with no certainty of food in their old age.

“Ah! yes,” continued Madame Toussaint, “the sons are not like the fathers

were. These fine fellows won’t be as patient as my poor husband has been,

letting hard work wear him away till he’s become the sorry thing you see

there.... Do you know what Charles said the other evening when he

found his father on that chair, crippled like that, and unable to speak?

Why, he shouted to him that he’d been a stupid jackass all his life,

working himself to death for those _bourgeois_, who now wouldn’t bring

him so much as a glass of water. Then, as he none the less has a good

heart, he began to cry his eyes out.”

The baby was no longer wailing, still the good woman continued walking to

and fro, rocking it in her arms and pressing it to her affectionate

heart. Her son Charles could do no more for them, she said; perhaps he

might be able to give them a five-franc piece now and again, but even

that wasn’t certain. It was of no use for her to go back to her old

calling as a seamstress, she had lost all practice of it. And it would

even be difficult for her to earn anything as charwoman, for she had that

infant on her hands as well as her infirm husband--a big child, whom she

would have to wash and feed. And so what would become of the three of

them? She couldn’t tell; but it made her shudder, however brave and

motherly she tried to be.

For their part, Pierre and Thomas quivered with compassion, particularly

when they saw big tears coursing down the cheeks of the wretched,

stricken Toussaint, as he sat quite motionless in that little and still

cleanly home of toil and want. The poor man had listened to his wife, and

he looked at her and at the infant now sleeping in her arms. Voiceless,

unable to cry his woe aloud, he experienced the most awful anguish. What

dupery his long life of labour had been! how frightfully unjust it was

that all his efforts should end in such sufferings! how exasperating it

was to feel himself powerless, and to see those whom he loved and who

were as innocent as himself suffer and die by reason of his own suffering

and death! Ah! poor old man, cripple that he was, ending like some beast

of burden that has foundered by the roadside--that goal of labour! And it

was all so revolting and so monstrous that he tried to put it into words,

and his desperate grief ended in a frightful, raucous grunt.

“Be quiet, don’t do yourself harm!” concluded Madame Toussaint. “Things

are like that, and there’s no mending them.”

Then she went to put the child to bed again, and on her return, just as

Thomas and Pierre were about to speak to her of Toussaint’s employer, M.

Grandidier, a fresh visitor arrived. Thereupon the others decided to

wait.

The new comer was Madame Chrétiennot, Toussaint’s other sister, eighteen

years younger than himself. Her husband, the little clerk, had compelled

her to break off almost all intercourse with her relatives, as he felt

ashamed of them; nevertheless, having heard of her brother’s misfortune,

she had very properly come to condole with him. She wore a gown of cheap

flimsy silk, and a hat trimmed with red poppies, which she had freshened

up three times already; but in spite of this display her appearance

bespoke penury, and she did her best to hide her feet on account of the

shabbiness of her boots. Moreover, she was no longer the beautiful

Hortense. Since a recent miscarriage, all trace of her good looks had

disappeared.

The lamentable appearance of her brother and the bareness of that home of

suffering chilled her directly she crossed the threshold. And as soon as

she had kissed Toussaint, and said how sorry she was to find him in such

a condition, she began to lament her own fate, and recount her troubles,

for fear lest she should be asked for any help.

“Ah! my dear,” she said to her sister-in-law, “you are certainly much to

be pitied! But if you only knew! We all have our troubles. Thus in my

case, obliged as I am to dress fairly well on account of my husband’s

position, I have more trouble than you can imagine in making both ends

meet. One can’t go far on a salary of three thousand francs a year, when

one has to pay seven hundred francs’ rent out of it. You will perhaps say

that we might lodge ourselves in a more modest way; but we can’t, my

dear, I must have a _salon_ on account of the visits I receive. So just

count!... Then there are my two girls. I’ve had to send them to

school; Lucienne has begun to learn the piano and Marcelle has some taste

for drawing.... By the way, I would have brought them with me, but I

feared it would upset them too much. You will excuse me, won’t you?”

Then she spoke of all the worries which she had had with her husband on

account of Salvat’s ignominious death. Chrétiennot, vain, quarrelsome

little fellow that he was, felt exasperated at now having a _guillotine_

in his wife’s family. And he had lately begun to treat the unfortunate

woman most harshly, charging her with having brought about all their

troubles, and even rendering her responsible for his own mediocrity,

embittered as he was more and more each day by a confined life of office

work. On some evenings they had downright quarrels; she stood up for

herself, and related that when she was at the confectionery shop in the

Rue des Martyrs she could have married a doctor had she only chosen, for

the doctor found her quite pretty enough. Now, however, she was becoming

plainer and plainer, and her husband felt that he was condemned to

everlasting penury; so that their life was becoming more and more dismal

and quarrelsome, and as unbearable--despite the pride of being

“gentleman” and “lady”--as was the destitution of the working classes.

“All the same, my dear,” at last said Madame Toussaint, weary of her

sister-in-law’s endless narrative of worries, “you have had one piece of

luck. You won’t have the trouble of bringing up a third child, now.”

“That’s true,” replied Hortense, with a sigh of relief. “How we should

have managed, I don’t know.... Still, I was very ill, and I’m far from

being in good health now. The doctor says that I don’t eat enough, and

that I ought to have good food.”

Then she rose for the purpose of giving her brother another kiss and

taking her departure; for she feared a scene on her husband’s part should

he happen to come home and find her absent. Once on her feet, however,

she lingered there a moment longer, saying that she also had just seen

her sister, Madame Théodore, and little Céline, both of them comfortably

clad and looking happy. And with a touch of jealousy she added: “Well, my

husband contents himself with slaving away at his office every day. He’ll

never do anything to get his head cut off; and it’s quite certain that

nobody will think of leaving an income to Marcelle and Lucienne....

Well, good by, my dear, you must be brave, one must always hope that

things will turn out for the best.”

When she had gone off, Pierre and Thomas inquired if M. Grandidier had

heard of Toussaint’s misfortune and agreed to do anything for him. Madame

Toussaint answered that he had so far made only a vague promise; and on

learning this they resolved to speak to him as warmly as they could on

behalf of the old mechanician, who had spent as many as five and twenty

years at the works. The misfortune was that a scheme for establishing a

friendly society, and even a pension fund, which had been launched before

the crisis from which the works were now recovering, had collapsed

through a number of obstacles and complications. Had things turned out

otherwise, Thomas might have had a pittance assured him, even though he

was unable to work. But under the circumstances the only hope for the

poor stricken fellow lay in his employer’s compassion, if not his sense

of justice.

As the baby again began to cry, Madame Toussaint went to fetch it, and

she was once more carrying it to and fro, when Thomas pressed her

husband’s sound hand between both his own. “We will come back,” said the

young man; “we won’t forsake you, Toussaint. You know very well that

people like you, for you’ve always been a good and steady workman. So

rely on us, we will do all we can.”

Then they left him tearful and overpowered, in that dismal room, while,

up and down beside him, his wife rocked the squealing infant--that other

luckless creature, who was now so heavy on the old folks’ hands, and like

them was fated to die of want and unjust toil.

Toil, manual toil, panting at every effort, this was what Pierre and

Thomas once more found at the works. From the slender pipes above the

roofs spurted rhythmical puffs of steam, which seemed like the very

breath of all that labour. And in the work-shops one found a continuous

rumbling, a whole army of men in motion, forging, filing, and piercing,

amidst the spinning of leather gearing and the trembling of machinery.

The day was ending with a final feverish effort to complete some task or

other before the bell should ring for departure.

On inquiring for the master Thomas learnt that he had not been seen since

_déjeuner_, which was such an unusual occurrence that the young man at

once feared some terrible scene in the silent pavilion, whose shutters

were ever closed upon Grandidier’s unhappy wife--that mad but beautiful

creature, whom he loved so passionately that he had never been willing to

part from her. The pavilion could be seen from the little glazed

work-shop which Thomas usually occupied, and as he and Pierre stood

waiting there, it looked very peaceful and pleasant amidst the big

lilac-bushes planted round about it. Surely, they thought, it ought to

have been brightened by the gay gown of a young woman and the laughter of

playful children. But all at once a loud, piercing shriek reached their

ears, followed by howls and moans, like those of an animal that is being

beaten or possibly slaughtered. Ah! those howls ringing out amidst all

the stir of the toiling works, punctuated it seemed by the rhythmical

puffing of the steam, accompanied too by the dull rumbling of the

machinery! The receipts of the business had been doubling and doubling

since the last stock-taking; there was increase of prosperity every

month, the bad times were over, far behind. Grandidier was realising a

large fortune with his famous bicycle for the million, the “Lisette”; and

the approaching vogue of motor-cars also promised huge gains, should he

again start making little motor-engines, as he meant to do, as soon as

Thomas’s long-projected motor should be perfected. But what was wealth

when in that dismal pavilion, whose shutters were ever closed, those

frightful shrieks continued, proclaiming some terrible drama, which all

the stir and bustle of the prosperous works were unable to stifle?

Pierre and Thomas looked at one another, pale and quivering. And all at

once, as the cries ceased and the pavilion sank into death-like silence

once more, the latter said in an undertone: “She is usually very gentle,

she will sometimes spend whole days sitting on a carpet like a little

child. He is fond of her when she is like that; he lays her down and

picks her up, caresses her and makes her laugh as if she were a baby. Ah!

how dreadfully sad it is! When an attack comes upon her she gets frantic,

tries to bite herself, and kill herself by throwing herself against the

walls. And then he has to struggle with her, for no one else is allowed

to touch her. He tries to restrain her, and holds her in his arms to calm

her.... But how terrible it was just now! Did you hear? I do not think

she has ever had such a frightful attack before.”

For a quarter of an hour longer profound silence prevailed. Then

Grandidier came out of the pavilion, bareheaded and still ghastly pale.

Passing the little glazed work-shop on his way, he perceived Thomas and

Pierre there, and at once came in. But he was obliged to lean against a

bench like a man who is dazed, haunted by a nightmare. His good-natured,

energetic face retained an expression of acute anguish; and his left ear

was scratched and bleeding. However, he at once wished to talk, overcome

his feelings, and return to his life of activity. “I am very pleased to

see you, my dear Thomas,” said he, “I have been thinking over what you

told me about our little motor. We must go into the matter again.”

Seeing how distracted he was, it occurred to the young man that some

sudden diversion, such as the story of another’s misfortunes, might

perhaps draw him from his haunting thoughts. “Of course I am at your

disposal,” he replied; “but before talking of that matter I should like

to tell you that we have just seen Toussaint, that poor old fellow who

has been stricken with paralysis. His awful fate has quite distressed us.

He is in the greatest destitution, forsaken as it were by the roadside,

after all his years of labour.”

Thomas dwelt upon the quarter of a century which the old workman had

spent at the factory, and suggested that it would be only just to take

some account of his long efforts, the years of his life which he had

devoted to the establishment. And he asked that he might be assisted in

the name both of equity and compassion.

“Ah! monsieur,” Pierre in his turn ventured to say. “I should like to

take you for an instant into that bare room, and show you that poor,

aged, worn-out, stricken man, who no longer has even the power of speech

left him to tell people his sufferings. There can be no greater

wretchedness than to die in this fashion, despairing of all kindliness

and justice.”

Grandidier had listened to them in silence. But big tears had

irresistibly filled his eyes, and when he spoke it was in a very low and

tremulous voice: “The greatest wretchedness, who can tell what it is? Who

can speak of it if he has not known the wretchedness of others? Yes, yes,

it’s sad undoubtedly that poor Toussaint should be reduced to that state

at his age, not knowing even if he will have food to eat on the morrow.

But I know sorrows that are just as crushing, abominations which poison

one’s life in a still greater degree.... Ah! yes, food indeed! To

think that happiness will reign in the world when everybody has food to

eat! What an idiotic hope!”

The whole grievous tragedy of his life was in the shudder which had come

over him. To be the employer, the master, the man who is making money,

who disposes of capital and is envied by his workmen, to own an

establishment to which prosperity has returned, whose machinery coins

gold, apparently leaving one no other trouble than that of pocketing

one’s profits; and yet at the same time to be the most wretched of men,

to know no day exempt from anguish, to find each evening at one’s hearth

no other reward or prop than the most atrocious torture of the heart!

Everything, even success, has to be paid for. And thus that triumpher,

that money-maker, whose pile was growing larger at each successive

inventory, was sobbing with bitter grief.

However, he showed himself kindly disposed towards Toussaint, and

promised to assist him. As for a pension that was an idea which he could

not entertain, as it was the negation of the wage-system such as it

existed. He energetically defended his rights as an employer, repeating

that the strain of competition would compel him to avail himself of them

so long as the present system should endure. His part in it was to do

good business in an honest way. However, he regretted that his men had

never carried out the scheme of establishing a relief fund, and he said

that he would do his best to induce them to take it in hand again.