interests of his life of battle he felt his energy restored. He again
reverted to the question of the little motor, and spoke of it for some
time with Thomas, while Pierre waited, feeling quite upset. Ah! he
thought, how universal was the thirst for happiness! Then, in spite of
the many technical terms that were used he caught a little of what the
others were saying. Small steam motors had been made at the works in
former times; but they had not proved successes. In point of fact a new
propelling force was needed. Electricity, though everyone foresaw its
future triumph, was so far out of the question on account of the weight
of the apparatus which its employment necessitated. So only petroleum
remained, and the inconvenience attaching to its use was so great that
victory and fortune would certainly rest with the manufacturer who should
be able to replace it by some other hitherto unknown agent. In the
discovery and adaptation of the latter lay the whole problem.
“Yes, I am eager about it now,” at last exclaimed Grandidier in an
animated way. “I allowed you to prosecute your experiments without
troubling you with any inquisitive questions. But a solution is becoming
imperative.”
Thomas smiled: “Well, you must remain patient just a little longer,” said
he; “I believe that I am on the right road.”
Then Grandidier shook hands with him and Pierre, and went off to make his
usual round through his busy, bustling works, whilst near at hand,
awaiting his return, stood the closed pavilion, where every evening he
was fated to relapse into endless, incurable anguish.
The daylight was already waning when Pierre and Thomas, after
re-ascending the height of Montmartre, walked towards the large work-shop
which Jahan, the sculptor, had set up among the many sheds whose erection
had been necessitated by the building of the Sacred Heart. There was here
a stretch of ground littered with materials, an extraordinary chaos of
building stone, beams and machinery; and pending the time when an army of
navvies would come to set the whole place in order, one could see gaping
trenches, rough flights of descending steps and fences, imperfectly
closing doorways which conducted to the substructures of the basilica.
Halting in front of Jahan’s work-shop, Thomas pointed to one of these
doorways by which one could reach the foundation works. “Have you never
had an idea of visiting the foundations?” he inquired of Pierre. “There’s
quite a city down there on which millions of money have been spent. They
could only find firm soil at the very base of the height, and they had to
excavate more than eighty shafts, fill them with concrete, and then rear
their church on all those subterranean columns.... Yes, that is so. Of
course the columns cannot be seen, but it is they who hold that insulting
edifice aloft, right over Paris!”
Having drawn near to the fence, Pierre was looking at an open doorway
beyond it, a sort of dark landing whence steps descended as if into the
bowels of the earth. And he thought of those invisible columns of
concrete, and of all the stubborn energy and desire for domination which
had set and kept the edifice erect.
Thomas was at last obliged to call him. “Let us make haste,” said he,
“the twilight will soon be here. We shan’t be able to see much.”
They had arranged to meet Antoine at Jahan’s, as the sculptor wished to
show them a new model he had prepared. When they entered the work-shop
they found the two assistants still working at the colossal angel which
had been ordered for the basilica. Standing on a scaffolding they were
rough-hewing its symmetrical wings, whilst Jahan, seated on a low chair,
with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hands soiled with clay,
was contemplating a figure some three feet high on which he had just been
working.
“Ah! it’s you,” he exclaimed. “Antoine has been waiting more than half an
hour for you. He’s gone outside with Lise to see the sun set over Paris,
I think. But they will soon be back.”
Then he relapsed into silence, with his eyes fixed on his work.
This was a bare, erect, lofty female figure, of such august majesty, so
simple were its lines, that it suggested something gigantic. The figure’s
abundant, outspread hair suggested rays around its face, which beamed
with sovereign beauty like the sun. And its only gesture was one of offer
and of greeting; its arms were thrown slightly forward, and its hands
were open for the grasp of all mankind.
Still lingering in his dream Jahan began to speak slowly: “You remember
that I wanted a pendant for my figure of Fecundity. I had modelled a
Charity, but it pleased me so little and seemed so commonplace that I let
the clay dry and spoil.... And then the idea of a figure of Justice
came to me. But not a gowned figure with the sword and the scales! That
wasn’t the Justice that inspired me. What haunted my mind was the other
Justice, the one that the lowly and the sufferers await, the one who
alone can some day set a little order and happiness among us. And I
pictured her like that, quite bare, quite simple, and very lofty. She is
the sun as it were, a sun all beauty, harmony and strength; for justice
is only to be found in the sun which shines in the heavens for one and
all, and bestows on poor and rich alike its magnificence and light and
warmth, which are the source of all life. And so my figure, you see, has
her hands outstretched as if she were offering herself to all mankind,
greeting it and granting it the gift of eternal life in eternal beauty.
Ah! to be beautiful and strong and just, one’s whole dream lies in that.”
Jahan relighted his pipe and burst into a merry laugh. “Well, I think the
good woman carries herself upright.... What do you fellows say?”
His visitors highly praised his work. Pierre for his part was much
affected at finding in this artistic conception the very idea that he had
so long been revolving in his mind--the idea of an era of Justice rising
from the ruins of the world, which Charity after centuries of trial had
failed to save.
Then the sculptor gaily explained that he had prepared his model there
instead of at home, in order to console himself a little for his big
dummy of an angel, the prescribed triteness of which disgusted him. Some
fresh objections had been raised with respect to the folds of the robe,
which gave some prominence to the thighs, and in the end he had been
compelled to modify all of the drapery.
“Oh! it’s just as they like!” he cried; “it’s no work of mine, you know;
it’s simply an order which I’m executing just as a mason builds a wall.
There’s no religious art left, it has been killed by stupidity and
disbelief. Ah! if social or human art could only revive, how glorious to
be one of the first to bear the tidings!”
Then he paused. Where could the youngsters, Antoine and Lise, have got
to, he wondered. He threw the door wide open, and, a little distance
away, among the materials littering the waste ground, one could see
Antoine’s tall figure and Lise’s short slender form standing out against
the immensity of Paris, which was all golden amidst the sun’s farewell.
The young man’s strong arm supported Lise, who with this help walked
beside him without feeling any fatigue. Slender and graceful, like a girl
blossoming into womanhood, she raised her eyes to his with a smile of
infinite gratitude, which proclaimed that she belonged to him for
evermore.
“Ah! they are coming back,” said Jahan. “The miracle is now complete, you
know. I’m delighted at it. I did not know what to do with her; I had even
renounced all attempts to teach her to read; I left her for days together
in a corner, infirm and tongue-tied like a lack-wit.... But your
brother came and took her in hand somehow or other. She listened to him
and understood him, and began to read and write with him, and grow
intelligent and gay. Then, as her limbs still gained no suppleness, and
she remained infirm, ailing and puny, he began by carrying her here, and
then helped her to walk in such wise that she can now do so by herself.
In a few weeks’ time she has positively grown and become quite charming.
Yes, I assure you, it is second birth, real creation. Just look at them!”
Antoine and Lise were still slowly approaching. The evening breeze which
rose from the great city, where all was yet heat and sunshine, brought
them a bath of life. If the young man had chosen that spot, with its
splendid horizon, open to the full air which wafted all the germs of
life, it was doubtless because he felt that nowhere else could he instil
more vitality, more soul, more strength into her. And love had been
created by love. He had found her asleep, benumbed, without power of
motion or intellect, and he had awakened her, kindled life in her, loved
her, that he might be loved by her in return. She was his work, she was
part of himself.
“So you no longer feel tired, little one?” said Jahan.
She smiled divinely. “Oh! no, it’s so pleasant, so beautiful, to walk
straight on like this.... All I desire is to go on for ever and ever
with Antoine.”
The others laughed, and Jahan exclaimed in his good-natured way: “Let us
hope that he won’t take you so far. You’ve reached your destination now,
and I shan’t be the one to prevent you from being happy.”
Antoine was already standing before the figure of Justice, to which the
falling twilight seemed to impart a quiver of life. “Oh! how divinely
simple, how divinely beautiful!” said he.
For his own part he had lately finished a new wood engraving, which
depicted Lise holding a book in her hand, an engraving instinct with
truth and emotion, showing her awakened to intelligence and love. And
this time he had achieved his desire, making no preliminary drawing, but
tackling the block with his graver, straight away, in presence of his
model. And infinite hopefulness had come upon him, he was dreaming of
great original works in which the whole period that he belonged to would
live anew and for ever.
Thomas now wished to return home. So they shook hands with Jahan, who, as
his day’s work was over, put on his coat to take his sister back to the
Rue du Calvaire.
“Till to-morrow, Lise,” said Antoine, inclining his head to kiss her.
She raised herself on tip-toes, and offered him her eyes, which he had
opened to life. “Till to-morrow, Antoine,” said she.
Outside, the twilight was falling. Pierre was the first to cross the
threshold, and as he did so, he saw so extraordinary a sight that for an
instant he felt stupefied. But it was certain enough: he could plainly
distinguish his brother Guillaume emerging from the gaping doorway which
conducted to the foundations of the basilica. And he saw him hastily
climb over the palings, and then pretend to be there by pure chance, as
though he had come up from the Rue Lamarck. When he accosted his two
sons, as if he were delighted to meet them, and began to say that he had
just come from Paris, Pierre asked himself if he had been dreaming.
However, an anxious glance which his brother cast at him convinced him
that he had been right. And then he not only felt ill at ease in presence
of that man whom he had never previously known to lie, but it seemed to
him that he was at last on the track of all he had feared, the formidable
mystery that he had for some time past felt brewing around him in the
little peaceful house.
When Guillaume, his sons and his brother reached home and entered the
large workroom overlooking Paris, it was so dark that they fancied nobody
was there.
“What! nobody in?” said Guillaume.
But in a somewhat low, quiet voice François answered out of the gloom:
“Why, yes, I’m here.”
He had remained at his table, where he had worked the whole afternoon,
and as he could no longer read, he now sat in a dreamy mood with his head
resting on his hands, his eyes wandering over Paris, where night was
gradually falling. As his examination was now near at hand, he was living
in a state of severe mental strain.
“What, you are still working there!” said his father. “Why didn’t you ask
for a lamp?”
“No, I wasn’t working, I was looking at Paris,” François slowly answered.
“It’s singular how the night falls over it by degrees. The last district
that remained visible was the Montague Ste. Genevieve, the plateau of the
Pantheon, where all our knowledge and science have grown up. A sun-ray
still gilds the schools and libraries and laboratories, when the
low-lying districts of trade are already steeped in darkness. I won’t say
that the planet has a particular partiality for us at the École Normale,
but it’s certain that its beams still linger on our roofs, when they are
to be seen nowhere else.”
He began to laugh at his jest. Still one could see how ardent was his
faith in mental effort, how entirely he gave himself to mental labour,
which, in his opinion, could alone bring truth, establish justice and
create happiness.
Then came a short spell of silence. Paris sank more and more deeply into
the night, growing black and mysterious, till all at once sparks of light
began to appear.
“The lamps are being lighted,” resumed François; “work is being resumed on
all sides.”
Then Guillaume, who likewise had been dreaming, immersed in his fixed
idea, exclaimed: “Work, yes, no doubt! But for work to give a full
harvest it must be fertilised by will. There is something which is
superior to work.”
Thomas and Antoine had drawn near. And François, as much for them as for
himself, inquired: “What is that, father?”
“Action.”
For a moment the three young men remained silent, impressed by the
solemnity of the hour, quivering too beneath the great waves of darkness
which rose from the vague ocean of the city. Then a young voice remarked,
though whose it was one could not tell: “Action is but work.”
And Pierre, who lacked the respectful quietude, the silent faith, of his
nephews, now felt his nervousness increasing. That huge and terrifying
mystery of which he was dimly conscious rose before him, while a great
quiver sped by in the darkness, over that black city where the lamps were
now being lighted for a whole passionate night of work.
IV. THE CRISIS
A GREAT ceremony was to take place that day at the basilica of the Sacred
Heart. Ten thousand pilgrims were to be present there, at a solemn
consecration of the Holy Sacrament; and pending the arrival of four
o’clock, the hour fixed for the service, Montmartre would be invaded by
people. Its slopes would be black with swarming devotees, the shops where
religious emblems and pictures were sold would be besieged, the cafés and
taverns would be crowded to overflowing. It would all be like some huge
fair, and meantime the big bell of the basilica, “La Savoyarde,” would be
ringing peal on peal over the holiday-making multitude.
When Pierre entered the workroom in the morning he perceived Guillaume
and Mère-Grand alone there; and a remark which he heard the former make
caused him to stop short and listen from behind a tall-revolving
bookstand. Mère-Grand sat sewing in her usual place near the big window,
while Guillaume stood before her, speaking in a low voice.
“Mother,” said he, “everything is ready, it is for to-day.”
She let her work fall, and raised her eyes, looking very pale. “Ah!” she
said, “so you have made up your mind.”
“Yes, irrevocably. At four o’clock I shall be yonder, and it will all be
over.”
“‘Tis well--you are the master.”
Silence fell, terrible silence. Guillaume’s voice seemed to come from far
away, from somewhere beyond the world. It was evident that his resolution
was unshakable, that his tragic dream, his fixed idea of martyrdom,
wholly absorbed him. Mère-Grand looked at him with her pale eyes, like an
heroic woman who had grown old in relieving the sufferings of others, and
had ever shown all the abnegation and devotion of an intrepid heart,
which nothing but the idea of duty could influence. She knew Guillaume’s
terrible scheme, and had helped him to regulate the pettiest details of
it; but if on the one hand, after all the iniquity she had seen and
endured, she admitted that fierce and exemplary punishment might seem
necessary, and that even the idea of purifying the world by the fire of a
volcano might be entertained, on the other hand, she believed too
strongly in the necessity of living one’s life bravely to the very end,
to be able, under any circumstances, to regard death as either good or
profitable.
“My son,” she gently resumed, “I witnessed the growth of your scheme, and
it neither surprised nor angered me. I accepted it as one accepts
lightning, the very fire of the skies, something of sovereign purity and
power. And I have helped you through it all, and have taken upon myself
to act as the mouthpiece of your conscience.... But let me tell you
once more, one ought never to desert the cause of life.”
“It is useless to speak, mother,” Guillaume replied: “I have resolved to
give my life and cannot take it back.... Are you now unwilling to
carry out my desires, remain here, and act as we have decided, when all
is over?”
She did not answer this inquiry, but in her turn, speaking slowly and
gravely, put a question to him: “So it is useless for me to speak to you
of the children, myself and the house?” said she. “You have thought it
all over, you are quite determined?” And as he simply answered “Yes,” she
added: “‘Tis well, you are the master.... I will be the one who is to
remain behind and act. And you may be without fear, your bequest is in
good hands. All that we have decided together shall be done.”
Once more they became silent. Then she again inquired: “At four o’clock,
you say, at the moment of that consecration?”
“Yes, at four o’clock.”
She was still looking at him with her pale eyes, and there seemed to be
something superhuman in her simplicity and grandeur as she sat there in
her thin black gown. Her glance, in which the greatest bravery and the
deepest sadness mingled, filled Guillaume with acute emotion. His hands
began to tremble, and he asked: “Will you let me kiss you, mother?”
“Oh! right willingly, my son,” she responded. “Your path of duty may not
be mine, but you see I respect your views and love you.”
They kissed one another, and when Pierre, whom the scene had chilled to
his heart, presented himself as if he were just arriving, Mère-Grand had
quietly taken up her needlework once more, while Guillaume was going to
and fro, setting one of his laboratory shelves in order with all his
wonted activity.
At noon when lunch was ready, they found it necessary to wait for Thomas,
who had not yet come home. His brothers François and Antoine complained
in a jesting way, saying that they were dying of hunger, while for her
part Marie, who had made a _crême_, and was very proud of it, declared
that they would eat it all, and that those who came late would have to go
without tasting it. When Thomas eventually put in an appearance he was
greeted with jeers.
“But it wasn’t my fault,” said he; “I stupidly came up the hill by way of
the Rue de la Barre, and you can have no notion what a crowd I fell upon.
Quite ten thousand pilgrims must have camped there last night. I am told
that as many as possible were huddled together in the St. Joseph Refuge.
The others no doubt had to sleep in the open air. And now they are busy
eating, here, there and everywhere, all over the patches of waste ground
and even on the pavements. One can scarcely set one foot before the other
without risk of treading on somebody.”
The meal proved a very gay one, though Pierre found the gaiety forced and
excessive. Yet the young people could surely know nothing of the
frightful, invisible thing which to Pierre ever seemed to be hovering
around in the bright sunlight of that splendid June day. Was it that the
dim presentiment which comes to loving hearts when mourning threatens
them, swept by during the short intervals of silence that followed the
joyous outbursts? Although Guillaume looked somewhat pale, and spoke with
unusual caressing softness, he retained his customary bright smile. But,
on the other hand, never had Mère-Grand been more silent or more grave.
Marie’s _crême_ proved a great success, and the others congratulated her
on it so fulsomely that they made her blush. Then, all at once, heavy
silence fell once more, a deathly chill seemed to sweep by, making every
face turn pale--even while they were still cleaning their plates with
their little spoons.
“Ah! that bell,” exclaimed François; “it is really intolerable. I can
feel my head splitting.”
He referred to “La Savoyarde,” the big bell of the basilica, which had
now begun to toll, sending forth deep sonorous volumes of sound, which
ever and ever winged their flight over the immensity of Paris. In the
workroom they were all listening to the clang.
“Will it keep on like that till four o’clock?” asked Marie.
“Oh! at four o’clock,” replied Thomas, “at the moment of the consecration
you will hear something much louder than that. The great peals of joy,
the song of triumph will then ring out.”
Guillaume was still smiling. “Yes, yes,” said he, “those who don’t want
to be deafened for life had better keep their windows closed. The worst
is, that Paris has to hear it whether it will or no, and even as far away
as the Pantheon, so I’m told.”
Meantime Mère-Grand remained silent and impassive. Antoine for his part
expressed his disgust with the horrible religious pictures for which the
pilgrims fought--pictures which in some respects suggested those on the
lids of sweetmeat boxes, although they depicted the Christ with His
breast ripped open and displaying His bleeding heart. There could be no
more repulsive materialism, no grosser or baser art, said Antoine. Then
they rose from table, talking at the top of their voices so as to make
themselves heard above the incessant din which came from the big bell.
Immediately afterwards they all set to work again. Mère-Grand took her
everlasting needlework in hand once more, while Marie, sitting near her,
continued some embroidery. The young men also attended to their
respective tasks, and now and again raised their heads and exchanged a
few words. Guillaume, for his part, likewise seemed very busy; Pierre
alone coming and going in a state of anguish, beholding them all as in a
nightmare, and attributing some terrible meaning to the most innocent
remarks. During _déjeuner_, in order to explain the frightful discomfort
into which he was thrown by the gaiety of the meal, he had been obliged
to say that he felt poorly. And now he was looking and listening and
waiting with ever-growing anxiety.
Shortly before three o’clock, Guillaume glanced at his watch and then
quietly took up his hat. “Well,” said he, “I’m going out.”
His sons, Mère-Grand and Marie raised their heads.
“I’m going out,” he repeated, “_au revoir_.”
Still he did not go off. Pierre could divine that he was struggling,
stiffening himself against the frightful tempest which was raging within
him, striving to prevent either shudder or pallor from betraying his
awful secret. Ah! he must have suffered keenly; he dared not give his
sons a last kiss, for fear lest he might rouse some suspicion in their
minds, which would impel them to oppose him and prevent his death! At
last with supreme heroism he managed to overcome himself.
“_Au revoir_, boys.”
“_Au revoir_, father. Will you be home early?”
“Yes, yes.... Don’t worry about me, do plenty of work.”
Mère-Grand, still majestically silent, kept her eyes fixed upon him. Her
he had ventured to kiss, and their glances met and mingled, instinct with
all that he had decided and that she had promised: their common dream of
truth and justice.
“I say, Guillaume,” exclaimed Marie gaily, “will you undertake a
commission for me if you are going down by way of the Rue des Martyrs?”
“Why, certainly,” he replied.
“Well, then, please look in at my dressmaker’s, and tell her that I
shan’t go to try my gown on till to-morrow morning.”
It was a question of her wedding dress, a gown of light grey silk, the
stylishness of which she considered very amusing. Whenever she spoke of
it, both she and the others began to laugh.
“It’s understood, my dear,” said Guillaume, likewise making merry over
it. “We know it’s Cinderella’s court robe, eh? The fairy brocade and lace
that are to make you very beautiful and for ever happy.”
However, the laughter ceased, and in the sudden silence which fell, it
again seemed as if death were passing by with a great flapping of wings
and an icy gust which chilled the hearts of everyone remaining there.
“It’s understood; so now I’m really off,” resumed Guillaume. “_Au
revoir_, children.”
Then he sallied forth, without even turning round, and for a moment they
could hear the firm tread of his feet over the garden gravel.
Pierre having invented a pretext was able to follow him a couple of
minutes afterwards. As a matter of fact there was no need for him to dog
Guillaume’s heels, for he knew where his brother was going. He was
thoroughly convinced that he would find him at that doorway, conducting
to the foundations of the basilica, whence he had seen him emerge two
days before. And so he wasted no time in looking for him among the crowd
of pilgrims going to the church. His only thought was to hurry on and
reach Jahan’s workshop. And in accordance with his expectation, just as
he arrived there, he perceived Guillaume slipping between the broken
palings. The crush and the confusion prevailing among the concourse of
believers favored Pierre as it had his brother, in such wise that he was
able to follow the latter and enter the doorway without being noticed.
Once there he had to pause and draw breath for a moment, so greatly did
the beating of his heart oppress him.
A precipitous flight of steps, where all was steeped in darkness,
descended from the narrow entry. It was with infinite precaution that
Pierre ventured into the gloom, which ever grew denser and denser. He
lowered his feet gently so as to make no noise, and feeling the walls
with his hands, turned round and round as he went lower and lower into a
kind of well. However, the descent was not a very long one. As soon as he
found beaten ground beneath his feet he paused, no longer daring to stir
for fear of betraying his presence. The darkness was like ink, and there
was not a sound, a breath; the silence was complete.
How should he find his way? he wondered. Which direction ought he to
take? He was still hesitating when some twenty paces away he suddenly saw
a bright spark, the gleam of a lucifer. Guillaume was lighting a candle.
Pierre recognised his broad shoulders, and from that moment he simply had
to follow the flickering light along a walled and vaulted subterranean
gallery. It seemed to be interminable and to run in a northerly
direction, towards the nave of the basilica.
All at once the little light at last stopped, while Pierre, anxious to
see what would happen, continued to advance, treading as softly as he
could and remaining in the gloom. He found that Guillaume had stood his
candle upon the ground in the middle of a kind of low rotunda under the
crypt, and that he had knelt down and moved aside a long flagstone which
seemed to cover a cavity. They were here among the foundations of the
basilica; and one of the columns or piles of concrete poured into shafts
in order to support the building could be seen. The gap, which the stone
slab removed by Guillaume had covered, was by the very side of the
pillar; it was either some natural surface flaw, or a deep fissure caused
by some subsidence or settling of the soil. The heads of other pillars
could be descried around, and these the cleft seemed to be reaching, for
little slits branched out in all directions. Then, on seeing his brother
leaning forward, like one who is for the last time examining a mine he
has laid before applying a match to the fuse, Pierre suddenly understood
the whole terrifying business. Considerable quantities of the new
explosive had been brought to that spot. Guillaume had made the journey a
score of times at carefully selected hours, and all his powder had been
poured into the gap beside the pillar, spreading to the slightest rifts
below, saturating the soil at a great depth, and in this wise forming a
natural mine of incalculable force. And now the powder was flush with the
flagstone which Guillaume has just moved aside. It was only necessary to
throw a match there, and everything would be blown into the air!
For a moment an acute chill of horror rooted Pierre to the spot. He could
neither have taken a step nor raised a cry. He pictured the swarming
throng above him, the ten thousand pilgrims crowding the lofty naves of
the basilica to witness the solemn consecration of the Host. Peal upon
peal flew from “La Savoyarde,” incense smoked, and ten thousand voices
raised a hymn of magnificence and praise. And all at once came thunder
and earthquake, and a volcano opening and belching forth fire and smoke,
and swallowing up the whole church and its multitude of worshippers.
Breaking the concrete piles and rending the unsound soil, the explosion,
which was certain to be one of extraordinary violence, would doubtless
split the edifice atwain, and hurl one-half down the slopes descending
towards Paris, whilst the other on the side of the apse would crumble and
collapse upon the spot where it stood. And how fearful would be the
avalanche; a broken forest of scaffoldings, a hail of stonework, rushing
and bounding through the dust and smoke on to the roofs below; whilst the
violence of the shock would threaten the whole of Montmartre, which, it
seemed likely, must stagger and sink in one huge mass of ruins!
However, Guillaume had again risen. The candle standing on the ground,
its flame shooting up, erect and slender, threw his huge shadow all over
the subterranean vault. Amidst the dense blackness the light looked like
some dismal stationary star. Guillaume drew near to it in order to see
what time it was by his watch. It proved to be five minutes past three.
So he had nearly another hour to wait. He was in no hurry, he wished to
carry out his design punctually, at the precise moment he had selected;
and he therefore sat down on a block of stone, and remained there without
moving, quiet and patient. The candle now cast its light upon his pale
face, upon his towering brow crowned with white hair, upon the whole of
his energetic countenance, which still looked handsome and young, thanks
to his bright eyes and dark moustaches. And not a muscle of his face
stirred; he simply gazed into the void. What thoughts could be passing
through his mind at that supreme moment? Who could tell? There was not a
quiver; heavy night, the deep eternal silence of the earth reigned all
around.
Then Pierre, having quieted his palpitating heart, drew near. At the
sound of his footsteps Guillaume rose menacingly, but he immediately
recognised his brother, and did not seem astonished to see him.
“Ah! it’s you,” he said, “you followed me.... I felt that you
possessed my secret. And it grieves me that you should have abused your
knowledge to join me here. You might have spared me this last sorrow.”
Pierre clasped his trembling hands, and at once tried to entreat him.
“Brother, brother,” he began.
“No, don’t speak yet,” said Guillaume, “if you absolutely wish it I will
listen to you by-and-by. We have nearly an hour before us, so we can
chat. But I want you to understand the futility of all you may think
needful to tell me. My resolution is unshakable; I was a long time coming
to it, and in carrying it out I shall simply be acting in accordance with
my reason and my conscience.”
Then he quietly related that having decided upon a great deed he had long
hesitated as to which edifice he should destroy. The opera-house had
momentarily tempted him, but he had reflected that there would be no
great significance in the whirlwind of anger and justice destroying a
little set of enjoyers. In fact, such a deed might savour of jealousy and
covetousness. Next he had thought of the Bourse, where he might strike a
blow at money, the great agent of corruption, and the capitalist society
in whose clutches the wage-earners groaned. Only, here again the blow
would fall upon a restricted circle. Then an idea of destroying the
Palace of Justice, particularly the assize court, had occurred to him. It
was a very tempting thought--to wreak justice upon human justice, to
sweep away the witnesses, the culprit, the public prosecutor who charges
the latter, the counsel who defends him, the judges who sentence him, and
the lounging public which comes to the spot as to the unfolding of some
sensational serial. And then too what fierce irony there would be in the
summary superior justice of the volcano swallowing up everything
indiscriminately without pausing to enter into details. However, the plan
over which he had most lingered was that of blowing up the Arc de
Triomphe. This he regarded as an odious monument which perpetuated
warfare, hatred among nations, and the false, dearly purchased,
sanguineous glory of conquerors. That colossus raised to the memory of so
much frightful slaughter which had uselessly put an end to so many human
lives, ought, he considered, to be slaughtered in its turn. Could he so
have arranged things that the earth should swallow it up, he might have
achieved the glory of causing no other death than his own, of dying
alone, struck down, crushed to pieces beneath that giant of stone. What a
tomb, and what a memory might he thus have left to the world!
“But there was no means of approaching it,” he continued, “no basement,
no cellar, so I had to give up the idea.... And then, although I’m
perfectly willing to die alone, I thought what a loftier and more
terrible lesson there would be in the unjust death of an innocent
multitude, of thousands of unknown people, of all those that might happen
to be passing. In the same way as human society by dint of injustice,
want and harsh regulations causes so many innocent victims, so must
punishment fall as the lightning falls, indiscriminately killing and
destroying whatever it may encounter in its course. When a man sets his
foot on an ant-hill, he gives no heed to all the lives which he stamps
out.”
Pierre, whom this theory rendered quite indignant, raised a cry of
protest: “Oh! brother, brother, is it you who are saying such things?”
Yet, Guillaume did not pause: “If I have ended by choosing this basilica
of the Sacred Heart,” he continued, “it is because I found it near at
hand and easy to destroy. But it is also because it haunts and
exasperates me, because I have long since condemned it.... As I have
often said to you, one cannot imagine anything more preposterous than
Paris, our great Paris, crowned and dominated by this temple raised to
the glorification of the absurd. Is it not outrageous that common sense
should receive such a smack after so many centuries of science, that Rome
should claim the right of triumphing in this insolent fashion, on our
loftiest height in the full sunlight? The priests want Paris to repent
and do penitence for its liberative work of truth and justice. But its
only right course is to sweep away all that hampers and insults it in its
march towards deliverance. And so may the temple fall with its deity of
falsehood and servitude! And may its ruins crush its worshippers, so that
like one of the old geological revolutions of the world, the catastrophe
may resound through the very entrails of mankind, and renew and change
it!”
“Brother, brother!” again cried Pierre, quite beside himself, “is it you
who are talking? What! you, a great scientist, a man of great heart, you
have come to this! What madness is stirring you that you should think and
say such abominable things? On the evening when we confessed our secrets
one to the other, you told me of your proud and lofty dream of ideal
Anarchy. There would be free harmony in life, which left to its natural
forces would of itself create happiness. But you still rebelled against
the idea of theft and murder. You would not accept them as right or
necessary; you merely explained and excused them. What has happened then
that you, all brain and thought, should now have become the hateful hand
that acts?”
“Salvat has been guillotined,” said Guillaume simply, “and I read his
will and testament in his last glance. I am merely an executor.... And
what has happened, you ask? Why, all that has made me suffer for four
months past, the whole social evil which surrounds us, and which must be
brought to an end.”
Silence fell. The brothers looked at one another in the darkness. And
Pierre now understood things. He saw that Guillaume was changed, that the
terrible gust of revolutionary contagion sweeping over Paris had
transformed him. It had all come from the duality of his nature, the
presence of contradictory elements within him. On one side one found a
scientist whose whole creed lay in observation and experiment, who, in
dealing with nature, evinced the most cautious logic; while on the other
side was a social dreamer, haunted by ideas of fraternity, equality and
justice, and eager for universal happiness. Thence had first come the
theoretical anarchist that he had been, one in whom science and chimeras
were mingled, who dreamt of human society returning to the harmonious law
of the spheres, each man free, in a free association, regulated by love
alone. Neither Théophile Morin with the doctrines of Proudhon and Comte,
nor Bache with those of St. Simon and Fourier, had been able to satisfy
his desire for the absolute. All those systems had seemed to him
imperfect and chaotic, destructive of one another, and tending to the
same wretchedness of life. Janzen alone had occasionally satisfied him
with some of his curt phrases which shot over the horizon, like arrows
conquering the whole earth for the human family. And then in Guillaume’s
big heart, which the idea of want, the unjust sufferings of the lowly and
the poor exasperated, Salvat’s tragic adventure had suddenly found place,
fomenting supreme rebellion. For long weeks he had lived on with
trembling hands, with growing anguish clutching at his throat. First had
come that bomb and the explosion which still made him quiver, then the
vile cupidity of the newspapers howling for the poor wretch’s head, then
the search for him and the hunt through the Bois de Boulogne, till he
fell into the hands of the police, covered with mud and dying of
starvation. And afterwards there had been the assize court, the judges,
the gendarmes, the witnesses, the whole of France arrayed against one man
and bent on making him pay for the universal crime. And finally, there
had come the guillotine, the monstrous, the filthy beast consummating
irreparable injustice in human justice’s name. One sole idea now remained
to Guillaume, that idea of justice which maddened him, leaving naught in
his mind save the thought of the just, avenging flare by which he would
repair the evil and ensure that which was right for all time forward.
Salvat had looked at him, and contagion had done its work; he glowed with
a desire for death, a desire to give his own blood and set the blood of
others flowing, in order that mankind, amidst its fright and horror,
should decree the return of the golden age.
Pierre understood the stubborn blindness of such insanity; and he felt
utterly upset by the fear that he should be unable to overcome it. “You
are mad, brother!” he exclaimed, “they have driven you mad! It is a gust
of violence passing; they were treated in a wrong way and too
relentlessly at the outset, and now that they are avenging one another,
it may be that blood will never cease to flow.... But, listen,
brother, throw off that nightmare. You can’t be a Salvat who murders or a
Bergaz who steals! Remember the pillage of the Princess’s house and
remember the fair-haired, pretty child whom we saw lying yonder, ripped
open.... You do not, you cannot belong to that set, brother--”
With a wave of his hand, Guillaume brushed these vain reasons aside. Of
what consequence were a few lives, his own included? No change had ever
taken place in the world without millions and millions of existences
being stamped out.
“But you had a great scheme in hand,” cried Pierre, hoping to save him by
reviving his sense of duty. “It isn’t allowable for you to go off like
this.”
Then he fervently strove to awaken his brother’s scientific pride. He
spoke to him of his secret, of that great engine of warfare, which could
destroy armies and reduce cities to dust, and which he had intended to
offer to France, so that on emerging victorious from the approaching war,
she might afterwards become the deliverer of the world. And it was this
grand scheme that he had abandoned, preferring to employ his explosive in
killing innocent people and overthrowing a church, which would be built
afresh, whatever the cost, and become a sanctuary of martyrs!
Guillaume smiled. “I have not relinquished my scheme,” said he, “I have
simply modified it. Did I not tell you of my doubts, my anxious
perplexity? Ah! to believe that one holds the destiny of the world in
one’s grasp, and to tremble and hesitate and wonder if the intelligence
and wisdom, that are needful for things to take the one wise course, will
be forthcoming! At sight of all the stains upon our great Paris, all the
errors and transgressions which we lately witnessed, I shuddered. I asked
myself if Paris were sufficiently calm and pure for one to entrust her
with omnipotence. How terrible would be the disaster if such an invention
as mine should fall into the hands of a demented nation, possibly a
dictator, some man of conquest, who would simply employ it to terrorize
other nations and reduce them to slavery.... Ah! no, I do not wish to
perpetuate warfare, I wish to kill it.”
Then in a clear firm voice he explained his new plan, in which Pierre was
surprised to find some of the ideas which General de Bozonnet had one day
laid before him in a very different spirit. Warfare was on the road to
extinction, threatened by its very excesses. In the old days of
mercenaries, and afterwards with conscripts, the percentage of soldiers
designated by chance, war had been a profession and a passion. But
nowadays, when everybody is called upon to fight, none care to do so. By
the logical force of things, the system of the whole nation in arms means
the coming end of armies. How much longer will the nations remain on a
footing of deadly peace, bowed down by ever increasing “estimates,”
spending millions and millions on holding one another in respect? Ah! how
great the deliverance, what a cry of relief would go up on the day when
some formidable engine, capable of destroying armies and sweeping cities
away, should render war an impossibility and constrain every people to
disarm! Warfare would be dead, killed in her own turn, she who has killed
so many. This was Guillaume’s dream, and he grew quite enthusiastic, so
strong was his conviction that he would presently bring it to pass.
“Everything is settled,” said he; “if I am about to die and disappear, it
is in order that my idea may triumph.... You have lately seen me spend
whole afternoons alone with Mère-Grand. Well, we were completing the
classification of the documents and making our final arrangements. She
has my orders, and will execute them even at the risk of her life, for
none has a braver, loftier soul.... As soon as I am dead, buried
beneath these stones, as soon as she has heard the explosion shake Paris
and proclaim the advent of the new era, she will forward a set of all the
documents I have confided to her--the formula of my explosive, the
drawings of the bomb and gun--to each of the great powers of the world.
In this wise I shall bestow on all the nations the terrible gift of
destruction and omnipotence which, at first, I wished to bestow on France
alone; and I do this in order that the nations, being one and all armed
with the thunderbolt, may at once disarm, for fear of being annihilated,
when seeking to annihilate others.”
Pierre listened to him, gaping, amazed at this extraordinary idea, in
which childishness was blended with genius. “Well,” said he, “if you give
your secret to all the nations, why should you blow up this church, and
die yourself?”
“Why! In order that I may be believed!” cried Guillaume with
extraordinary force of utterance. Then he added, “The edifice must lie on
the ground, and I must be under it. If the experiment is not made, if
universal horror does not attest and proclaim the amazing destructive
power of my explosive, people will consider me a mere schemer, a
visionary!... A lot of dead, a lot of blood, that is what is needed in
order that blood may for ever cease to flow!” Then, with a broad sweep of
his arm, he again declared that his action was necessary. “Besides,” he
said, “Salvat left me the legacy of carrying out this deed of justice. If
I have given it greater scope and significance, utilising it as a means
of hastening the end of war, this is because I happen to be a man of
intellect. It would have been better possibly if my mind had been a
simple one, and if I had merely acted like some volcano which changes the
soil, leaving life the task of renewing humanity.”
Much of the candle had now burnt away, and Guillaume at last rose from
the block of stone. He had again consulted his watch, and found that he
had ten minutes left him. The little current of air created by his
gestures made the light flicker, while all around him the darkness seemed
to grow denser. And near at hand ever lay the threatening open mine which
a spark might at any moment fire.
“It is nearly time,” said Guillaume. “Come, brother, kiss me and go away.
You know how much I love you, what ardent affection for you has been
awakened in my old heart. So love me in like fashion, and find love
enough to let me die as I want to die, in carrying out my duty. Kiss me,
kiss me, and go away without turning your head.”
His deep affection for Pierre made his voice tremble, but he struggled
on, forced back his tears, and ended by conquering himself. It was as if
he were no longer of the world, no longer one of mankind.
“No, brother, you have not convinced me,” said Pierre, who on his side
did not seek to hide his tears, “and it is precisely because I love you
as you love me, with my whole being, my whole soul, that I cannot go
away. It is impossible! You cannot be the madman, the murderer you would
try to be.”
“Why not? Am I not free. I have rid my life of all responsibilities, all
ties.... I have brought up my sons, they have no further need of me.
But one heart-link remained--Marie, and I have given her to you.”
At this a disturbing argument occurred to Pierre, and he passionately
availed himself of it. “So you want to die because you have given me
Marie,” said he. “You still love her, confess it!”
“No!” cried Guillaume, “I no longer love her, I swear it. I gave her to
you. I love her no more.”
“So you fancied; but you can see now that you still love her, for here
you are, quite upset; whereas none of the terrifying things of which we
spoke just now could even move you.... Yes, if you wish to die it is
because you have lost Marie!”
Guillaume quivered, shaken by what his brother said, and in low, broken
words he tried to question himself. “No, no, that any love pain should
have urged me to this terrible deed would be unworthy--unworthy of my
great design. No, no, I decided on it in the free exercise of my reason,
and I am accomplishing it from no personal motive, but in the name of
justice and for the benefit of humanity, in order that war and want may
cease.”
Then, in sudden anguish, he went on: “Ah! it is cruel of you, brother,
cruel of you to poison my delight at dying. I have created all the
happiness I could, I was going off well pleased at leaving you all happy,
and now you poison my death. No, no! question it how I may, my heart does
not ache; if I love Marie, it is simply in the same way as I love you.”
Nevertheless, he remained perturbed, as if fearing lest he might be lying
to himself; and by degrees gloomy anger came over him: “Listen, that is
enough, Pierre,” he exclaimed, “time is flying.... For the last time,
go away! I order you to do so; I will have it!”
“I will not obey you, Guillaume.... I will stay, and as all my
reasoning cannot save you from your insanity, fire your mine, and I will
die with you.”
“You? Die? But you have no right to do so, you are not free!”
“Free, or not, I swear that I will die with you. And if it merely be a
question of flinging this candle into that hole, tell me so, and I will
take it and fling it there myself.”
He made a gesture at which his brother thought that he was about to carry
out his threat. So he caught him by the arm, crying: “Why should you die?
It would be absurd. That others should die may be necessary, but you, no!
Of what use could be this additional monstrosity? You are endeavouring to
soften me, you are torturing my heart!” Then all at once, imagining that
Pierre’s offer had concealed another design, Guillaume thundered in a
fury: “You don’t want to take the candle in order to throw it there. What
you want to do is to blow it out! And you think I shan’t be able
then--ah! you bad brother!”
In his turn Pierre exclaimed: “Oh! certainly, I’ll use every means to
prevent you from accomplishing such a frightful and foolish deed!”
“You’ll prevent me!”
“Yes, I’ll cling to you, I’ll fasten my arms to your shoulders, I’ll hold
your hands if necessary.”
“Ah! you’ll prevent me, you bad brother! You think you’ll prevent me!”
Choking and trembling with rage, Guillaume had already caught hold of
Pierre, pressing his ribs with his powerful muscular arms. They were
closely linked together, their eyes fixed upon one another, and their
breath mingling in that kind of subterranean dungeon, where their big
dancing shadows looked like ghosts. They seemed to be vanishing into the
night, the candle now showed merely like a little yellow tear in the
midst of the darkness; and at that moment, in those far depths, a quiver
sped through the silence of the earth which weighed so heavily upon them.
Distant but sonorous peals rang out, as if death itself were somewhere
ringing its invisible bell.
“You hear,” stammered Guillaume, “it’s their bell up there. The time has
come. I have vowed to act, and you want to prevent me!”
“Yes, I’ll prevent you as long as I’m here alive.”
“As long as you are alive, you’ll prevent me!”
Guillaume could hear “La Savoyarde” pealing joyfully up yonder; he could
see the triumphant basilica, overflowing with its ten thousand pilgrims,
and blazing with the splendour of the Host amidst the smoke of incense;
and blind frenzy came over him at finding himself unable to act, at
finding an obstacle suddenly barring the road to his fixed idea.
“As long as you are alive, as long as you are alive!” he repeated, beside
himself. “Well, then, die, you wretched brother!”
A fratricidal gleam had darted from his blurred eyes. He hastily stooped,
picked up a large brick forgotten there, and raised it with both hands as
if it were a club.
“Ah! I’m willing,” cried Pierre. “Kill me, then; kill your own brother
before you kill the others!”
The brick was already descending, but Guillaume’s arms must have
deviated, for the weapon only grazed one of Pierre’s shoulders.
Nevertheless, he sank upon his knees in the gloom. When Guillaume saw him
there he fancied he had dealt him a mortal blow. What was it that had
happened between them, what had he done? For a moment he remained
standing, haggard, his mouth open, his eyes dilating with terror. He
looked at his hands, fancying that blood was streaming from them. Then he
pressed them to his brow, which seemed to be bursting with pain, as if
his fixed idea had been torn from him, leaving his skull open. And he
himself suddenly sank upon the ground with a great sob.
“Oh! brother, little brother, what have I done?” he called. “I am a
monster!”
But Pierre had passionately caught him in his arms again. “It is nothing,
nothing, brother, I assure you,” he replied. “Ah! you are weeping now.
How pleased I am! You are saved, I can feel it, since you are weeping.
And what a good thing it is that you flew into such a passion, for your
anger with me has dispelled your evil dream of violence.”
“I am horrified with myself,” gasped Guillaume, “to think that I wanted
to kill you! Yes, I’m a brute beast that would kill his brother! And the
others, too, all the others up yonder.... Oh! I’m cold, I feel so
cold.”
His teeth were chattering, and he shivered. It was as if he had awakened,
half stupefied, from some evil dream. And in the new light which his
fratricidal deed cast upon things, the scheme which had haunted him and
goaded him to madness appeared like some act of criminal folly, projected
by another.
“To kill you!” he repeated almost in a whisper. “I shall never forgive
myself. My life is ended, I shall never find courage enough to live.”
But Pierre clasped him yet more tightly. “What do you say?” he answered.
“Will there not rather be a fresh and stronger tie of affection between
us? Ah! yes, brother, let me save you as you saved me, and we shall be
yet more closely united! Don’t you remember that evening at Neuilly, when
you consoled me and held me to your heart as I am holding you to mine? I
had confessed my torments to you, and you told me that I must live and
love!... And you did far more afterwards: you plucked your own love
from your breast and gave it to me. You wished to ensure my happiness at
the price of your own! And how delightful it is that, in my turn, I now
have an opportunity to console you, save you, and bring you back to
life!”
“No, no, the bloodstain is there and it is ineffaceable. I can hope no
more!”
“Yes, yes, you can. Hope in life as you bade me do! Hope in love and hope
in labour!”
Still weeping and clasping one another, the brothers continued speaking
in low voices. The expiring candle suddenly went out unknown to them, and
in the inky night and deep silence their tears of redeeming affection
flowed freely. On the one hand, there was joy at being able to repay a
debt of brotherliness, and on the other, acute emotion at having been led
by a fanatical love of justice and mankind to the very verge of crime.
And there were yet other things in the depths of those tears which
cleansed and purified them; there were protests against suffering in
every form, and ardent wishes that the world might some day be relieved
of all its dreadful woe.
At last, after pushing the flagstone over the cavity near the pillar,
Pierre groped his way out of the vault, leading Guillaume like a child.
Meantime Mère-Grand, still seated near the window of the workroom, had
impassively continued sewing. Now and again, pending the arrival of four
o’clock, she had looked up at the timepiece hanging on the wall on her
left hand, or else had glanced out of the window towards the unfinished
pile of the basilica, which a gigantic framework of scaffoldings
encompassed. Slowly and steadily plying her needle, the old lady remained
very pale and silent, but full of heroic serenity. On the other hand,
Marie, who sat near her, embroidering, shifted her position a score of
times, broke her thread, and grew impatient, feeling strangely nervous, a
prey to unaccountable anxiety, which oppressed her heart. For their part,
the three young men could not keep in place at all; it was as if some
contagious fever disturbed them. Each had gone to his work: Thomas was
filing something at his bench; François and Antoine were on either side
of their table, the first trying to solve a mathematical problem, and the
other copying a bunch of poppies in a vase before him. It was in vain,
however, that they strove to be attentive. They quivered at the slightest
sound, raised their heads, and darted questioning glances at one another.
What could be the matter? What could possess them? What did they fear?
Now and again one or the other would rise, stretch himself, and then,
resume his place. However, they did not speak; it was as if they dared
not say anything, and thus the heavy silence grew more and more terrible.
When it was a few minutes to four o’clock Mère-Grand felt weary, or else
desired to collect her thoughts. After another glance at the timepiece,
she let her needlework fall on her lap and turned towards the basilica.
It seemed to her that she had only enough strength left to wait; and she
remained with her eyes fixed on the huge walls and the forest of
scaffolding which rose over yonder with such triumphant pride under the
blue sky. Then all at once, however brave and firm she might be, she
could not restrain a start, for “La Savoyarde” had raised a joyful clang.
The consecration of the Host was now at hand, the ten thousand pilgrims
filled the church, four o’clock was about to strike. And thereupon an
irresistible impulse forced the old lady to her feet; she drew herself
up, quivering, her hands clasped, her eyes ever turned yonder, waiting in
mute dread.
“What is the matter?” cried Thomas, who noticed her. “Why are you
trembling, Mère-Grand?”
François and Antoine raised their heads, and in turn sprang forward.
“Are you ill? Why are you turning so pale, you who are so courageous?”
But she did not answer. Ah! might the force of the explosion rend the
earth asunder, reach the house and sweep it into the flaming crater of
the volcano! Might she and the three young men, might they all die with
the father, this was her one ardent wish in order that grief might be
spared them. And she remained waiting and waiting, quivering despite
herself, but with her brave, clear eyes ever gazing yonder.
“Mère-Grand, Mère-Grand!” cried Marie in dismay; “you frighten us by
refusing to answer us, by looking over there as if some misfortune were
coming up at a gallop!”
Then, prompted by the same anguish, the same cry suddenly came from
Thomas, François and Antoine: “Father is in peril--father is going to
die!”
What did they know? Nothing precise, certainly. Thomas no doubt had been
astonished to see what a large quantity of the explosive his father had
recently prepared, and both François and Antoine were aware of the ideas
of revolt which he harboured in his mind. But, full of filial deference,
they never sought to know anything beyond what he might choose to confide
to them. They never questioned him; they bowed to whatever he might do.
And yet now a foreboding came to them, a conviction that their father was
going to die, that some most frightful catastrophe was impending. It must
have been that which had already sent such a quiver through the
atmosphere ever since the morning, making them shiver with fever, feel
ill at ease, and unable to work.
“Father is going to die, father is going to die!”
The three big fellows had drawn close together, distracted by one and the
same anguish, and furiously longing to know what the danger was, in order
that they might rush upon it and die with their father if they could not
save him. And amidst Mère-Grand’s stubborn silence death once more
flitted through the room: there came a cold gust such as they had already
felt brushing past them during _déjeuner_.
At last four o’clock began to strike, and Mère-Grand raised her white
hands with a gesture of supreme entreaty. It was then that she at last
spoke: “Father is going to die. Nothing but the duty of living can save
him.”
At this the three young men again wished to rush yonder, whither they
knew not; but they felt that they must throw down all obstacles and
conquer. Their powerlessness rent their hearts, they were both so frantic
and so woeful that their grandmother strove to calm them. “Father’s own
wish was to die,” said she, “and he is resolved to die alone.”
They shuddered as they heard her, and then, on their side, strove to be
heroic. But the minutes crept by, and it seemed as if the cold gust had
slowly passed away. Sometimes, at the twilight hour, a night-bird will
come in by the window like some messenger of misfortune, flit round the
darkened room, and then fly off again, carrying its sadness with it. And
it was much like that; the gust passed, the basilica remained standing,
the earth did not open to swallow it. Little by little the atrocious
anguish which wrung their hearts gave place to hope. And when at last
Guillaume appeared, followed by Pierre, a great cry of resurrection came
from one and all: “Father!”
Their kisses, their tears, deprived him of his little remaining strength.
He was obliged to sit down. He had glanced round him as if he were
returning to life perforce. Mère-Grand, who understood what bitter
feelings must have followed the subjugation of his will, approached him
smiling, and took hold of both his hands as if to tell him that she was
well pleased at seeing him again, and at finding that he accepted his
task and was unwilling to desert the cause of life. For his part he
suffered dreadfully, the shock had been so great. The others spared him
any narrative of their feelings; and he, himself, related nothing. With a
gesture, a loving word, he simply indicated that it was Pierre who had
saved him.
Thereupon, in a corner of the room, Marie flung her arms round the young
man’s neck. “Ah! my good Pierre, I have never yet kissed you,” said she;
“I want it to be for something serious the first time.... I love you,
my good Pierre, I love you with all my heart.”
Later that same evening, after night had fallen, Guillaume and Pierre
remained for a moment alone in the big workroom. The young men had gone
out, and Mère-Grand and Marie were upstairs sorting some house linen,
while Madame Mathis, who had brought some work back, sat patiently in a
dim corner waiting for another bundle of things which might require
mending. The brothers, steeped in the soft melancholy of the twilight
hour, and chatting in low tones, had quite forgotten her.
But all at once the arrival of a visitor upset them. It was Janzen with
the fair, Christ-like face. He called very seldom nowadays; and one never
knew from what gloomy spot he had come or into what darkness he would
return when he took his departure. He disappeared, indeed, for months
together, and was then suddenly to be seen like some momentary passer-by
whose past and present life were alike unknown.
“I am leaving to-night,” he said in a voice sharp like a knife.
“Are you going back to your home in Russia?” asked Guillaume.
A faint, disdainful smile appeared on the Anarchist’s lips. “Home!” said
he, “I am at home everywhere. To begin with, I am not a Russian, and then
I recognise no other country than the world.”
With a sweeping gesture he gave them to understand what manner of man he
was, one who had no fatherland of his own, but carried his gory dream of
fraternity hither and thither regardless of frontiers. From some words he
spoke the brothers fancied he was returning to Spain, where some
fellow-Anarchists awaited him. There was a deal of work to be done there,
it appeared. He had quietly seated himself, chatting on in his cold way,
when all at once he serenely added: “By the by, a bomb had just been
thrown into the Cafe de l’Univers on the Boulevard. Three _bourgeois_
were killed.”
Pierre and Guillaume shuddered, and asked for particulars. Thereupon
Janzen related that he had happened to be there, had heard the explosion,
and seen the windows of the café shivered to atoms. Three customers were
lying on the floor blown to pieces. Two of them were gentlemen, who had
entered the place by chance and whose names were not known, while the
third was a regular customer, a petty cit of the neighbourhood, who came
every day to play a game at dominoes. And the whole place was wrecked;
the marble tables were broken, the chandeliers twisted out of shape, the
mirrors studded with projectiles. And how great the terror and the
indignation, and how frantic the rush of the crowd! The perpetrator of
the deed had been arrested immediately--in fact, just as he was turning
the corner of the Rue Caumartin.
“I thought I would come and tell you of it,” concluded Janzen; “it is
well you should know it.”
Then as Pierre, shuddering and already suspecting the truth, asked him if
he knew who the man was that had been arrested, he slowly replied: “The
worry is that you happen to know him--it was little Victor Mathis.”
Pierre tried to silence Janzen too late. He had suddenly remembered that
Victor’s mother had been sitting in a dark corner behind them a short
time previously. Was she still there? Then he again pictured Victor,
slight and almost beardless, with a straight, stubborn brow, grey eyes
glittering with intelligence, a pointed nose and thin lips expressive of
stern will and unforgiving hatred. He was no simple and lowly one from
the ranks of the disinherited. He was an educated scion of the
_bourgeoisie_, and but for circumstances would have entered the École
Normale. There was no excuse for his abominable deed, there was no
political passion, no humanitarian insanity, in it. He was the destroyer
pure and simple, the theoretician of destruction, the cold energetic man
of intellect who gave his cultivated mind to arguing the cause of murder,
in his desire to make murder an instrument of the social evolution. True,
he was also a poet, a visionary, but the most frightful of all
visionaries: a monster whose nature could only be explained by mad pride,
and who craved for the most awful immortality, dreaming that the coming
dawn would rise from the arms of the guillotine. Only one thing could
surpass him: the scythe of death which blindly mows the world.
For a few seconds, amidst the growing darkness, cold horror reigned in
the workroom. “Ah!” muttered Guillaume, “he had the daring to do it, he
had.”
Pierre, however, lovingly pressed his arm. And he felt that he was as
distracted, as upset, as himself. Perhaps this last abomination had been
needed to ravage and cure him.
Janzen no doubt had been an accomplice in the deed. He was relating that
Victor’s purpose had been to avenge Salvat, when all at once a great sigh
of pain was heard in the darkness, followed by a heavy thud upon the
floor. It was Madame Mathis falling like a bundle, overwhelmed by the
news which chance had brought her. At that moment it so happened that
Mère-Grand came down with a lamp, which lighted up the room, and
thereupon they hurried to the help of the wretched woman, who lay there
as pale as a corpse in her flimsy black gown.
And this again brought Pierre an indescribable heart-pang. Ah! the poor,
sad, suffering creature! He remembered her at Abbé Rose’s, so discreet,
so shamefaced, in her poverty, scarce able to live upon the slender
resources which persistent misfortunes had left her. Hers had indeed been
a cruel lot: first, a home with wealthy parents in the provinces, a love
story and elopement with the man of her choice; next, ill-luck steadily
pursuing her, all sorts of home troubles, and at last her husband’s
death. Then, in the retirement of her widowhood, after losing the best
part of the little income which had enabled her to bring up her son,
naught but this son had been left to her. He had been her Victor, her
sole affection, the only one in whom she had faith. She had ever striven
to believe that he was very busy, absorbed in work, and on the eve of
attaining to some superb position worthy of his merits. And now, all at
once, she had learnt that this fondly loved son was simply the most
odious of assassins, that he had flung a bomb into a café, and had there
killed three men.
When Madame Mathis had recovered her senses, thanks to the careful
tending of Mère-Grand, she sobbed on without cessation, raising such a
continuous doleful wail, that Pierre’s hand again sought Guillaume’s, and
grasped it, whilst their hearts, distracted but healed, mingled lovingly
one with the other.
V. LIFE’S WORK AND PROMISE
FIFTEEN months later, one fine golden day in September, Bache and
Théophile Morin were taking _déjeuner_ at Guillaume’s, in the big
workroom overlooking the immensity of Paris.
Near the table was a cradle with its little curtains drawn. Behind them
slept Jean, a fine boy four months old, the son of Pierre and Marie. The
latter, simply in order to protect the child’s social rights, had been
married civilly at the town-hall of Montmartre. Then, by way of pleasing
Guillaume, who wished to keep them with him, and thus enlarge the family
circle, they had continued living in the little lodging over the
work-shop, leaving the sleepy house at Neuilly in the charge of Sophie,
Pierre’s old servant. And life had been flowing on happily for the
fourteen months or so that they had now belonged to one another.
There was simply peace, affection and work around the young couple.
François, who had left the École Normale provided with every degree,
every diploma, was now about to start for a college in the west of
France, so as to serve his term of probation as a professor, intending to
resign his post afterwards and devote himself, if he pleased, to science
pure and simple. Then Antoine had lately achieved great success with a
series of engravings he had executed--some views and scenes of Paris
life; and it was settled that he was to marry Lise Jahan in the ensuing
spring, when she would have completed her seventeenth year. Of the three
sons, however, Thomas was the most triumphant, for he had at last devised
and constructed his little motor, thanks to a happy idea of his father’s.
One morning, after the downfall of all his huge chimerical schemes,
Guillaume, remembering the terrible explosive which he had discovered and
hitherto failed to utilise, had suddenly thought of employing it as a
motive force, in the place of petroleum, in the motor which his eldest
son had so long been trying to construct for the Grandidier works. So he
had set to work with Thomas, devising a new mechanism, encountering
endless difficulties, and labouring for a whole year before reaching
success. But now the father and son had accomplished their task; the
marvel was created, and stood there riveted to an oak stand, and ready to
work as soon as its final toilet should have been performed.
Amidst all the changes which had occurred, Mère-Grand, in spite of her
great age, continued exercising her active, silent sway over the
household, which was now again so gay and peaceful. Though she seldom
seemed to leave her chair in front of her work-table, she was really
here, there and everywhere. Since the birth of Jean, she had talked of
rearing the child in the same way as she had formerly reared Thomas,
François and Antoine. She was indeed full of the bravery of devotion, and
seemed to think that she was not at all likely to die so long as she
might have others to guide, love and save. Marie marvelled at it all. She
herself, though she was always gay and in good health, felt tired at
times now that she was suckling her infant. Little Jean indeed had two
vigilant mothers near his cradle; whilst his father, Pierre, who had
become Thomas’s assistant, pulled the bellows, roughened out pieces of
metal, and generally completed his apprenticeship as a working
mechanician.
On the particular day when Bache and Théophile Morin came to Montmartre,
the _déjeuner_ proved even gayer than usual, thanks perhaps to their
presence. The meal was over, the table had been cleared, and the coffee
was being served, when a little boy, the son of a doorkeeper in the Rue
Cortot, came to ask for Monsieur Pierre Froment. When they inquired his
business, he answered in a hesitating way that Monsieur l’Abbé Rose was
very ill, indeed dying, and that he had sent him to fetch Monsieur Pierre
Froment at once.
Pierre followed the lad, feeling much affected; and on reaching the Rue
Cortot he there found Abbé Rose in a little damp ground-floor room
overlooking a strip of garden. The old priest was in bed, dying as the
boy had said, but he still retained the use of his faculties, and could
speak in his wonted slow and gentle voice. A Sister of Charity was
watching beside him, and she seemed so surprised and anxious at the
arrival of a visitor whom she did not know, that Pierre understood she
was there to guard the dying man and prevent him from having intercourse
with others. The old priest must have employed some stratagem in order to
send the doorkeeper’s boy to fetch him. However, when Abbé Rose in his
grave and kindly way begged the Sister to leave them alone for a moment,
she dared not refuse this supreme request, but immediately left the room.
“Ah! my dear child,” said the old man, “how much I wanted to speak to
you! Sit down there, close to the bed, so that you may be able to hear
me, for this is the end; I shall no longer be here to-night. And I have
such a great service to ask of you.”
Quite upset at finding his friend so wasted, with his face white like a
sheet, and scarce a sign of life save the sparkle of his innocent, loving
eyes, Pierre responded: “But I would have come sooner if I had known you
were in need of me! Why did you not send for me before? Are people being
kept away from you?”
A faint smile of shame and confession appeared on the old priest’s
embarrassed face. “Well, my dear child,” said he, “you must know that I
have again done some foolish things. Yes, I gave money to some people
who, it seems, were not deserving of it. In fact, there was quite a
scandal; they scolded me at the Archbishop’s palace, and accused me of
compromising the interests of religion. And when they heard that I was
ill, they put that good Sister beside me, because they said that I should
die on the floor, and give the very sheets off my bed if I were not
prevented.”
He paused to draw breath, and then continued: “So you understand, that
good Sister--oh! she is a very saintly woman--is here to nurse me and
prevent me from still doing foolish things. To overcome her vigilance I
had to use a little deceit, for which God, I trust, will forgive me. As
it happens, it’s precisely my poor who are in question; it was to speak
to you about them that I so particularly wished to see you.”
Tears had come to Pierre’s eyes. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he
answered; “I am yours, both heart and soul.”
“Yes, yes, I know it, my dear child. It was for that reason that I
thought of you--you alone. In spite of all that has happened, you are the
only one in whom I have any confidence, who can understand me, and give
me a promise which will enable me to die in peace.”
This was the only allusion he would venture to make to the cruel rupture
which had occurred after the young man had thrown off his cassock and
rebelled against the Church. He had since heard of Pierre’s marriage, and
was aware that he had for ever severed all religious ties. But at that
supreme moment nothing of this seemed of any account to the old priest.
His knowledge of Pierre’s loving heart sufficed him, for all that he now
desired was simply the help of that heart which he had seen glowing with
such passionate charity.
“Well,” he resumed, again finding sufficient strength to smile, “it is a
very simple matter. I want to make you my heir. Oh! it isn’t a fine
legacy I am leaving you; it is the legacy of my poor, for I have nothing
else to bestow on you; I shall leave nothing behind me but my poor.”
Of these unhappy creatures, three in particular quite upset his heart. He
recoiled from the prospect of leaving them without chance of succour,
without even the crumbs which he had hitherto distributed among them, and
which had enabled them to live. One was the big Old’un, the aged
carpenter whom he and Pierre had vainly sought one night with the object
of sending him to the Asylum for the Invalids of Labour. He had been sent
there a little later, but he had fled three days afterwards, unwilling as
he was to submit to the regulations. Wild and violent, he had the most
detestable disposition. Nevertheless, he could not be left to starve. He
came to Abbé Rose’s every Saturday, it seemed, and received a franc,
which sufficed him for the whole week. Then, too, there was a bedridden
old woman in a hovel in the Rue du Mont-Cenis. The baker, who every
morning took her the bread she needed, must be paid. And in particular
there was a poor young woman residing on the Place du Tertre, one who was
unmarried but a mother. She was dying of consumption, unable to work, and
tortured by the idea that when she should have gone, her daughter must
sink to the pavement like herself. And in this instance the legacy was
twofold: there was the mother to relieve until her death, which was near
at hand, and then the daughter to provide for until she could be placed
in some good household.
“You must forgive me, my dear child, for leaving you all these worries,”
added Abbé Rose. “I tried to get the good Sister, who is nursing me, to
take an interest in these poor people, but when I spoke to her of the big
Old’un, she was so alarmed that she made the sign of the cross. And it’s
the same with my worthy friend Abbé Tavernier. I know nobody of more
upright mind. Still I shouldn’t be at ease with him, he has ideas of his
own.... And so, my dear child, there is only you whom I can rely upon,
and you must accept my legacy if you wish me to depart in peace.”
Pierre was weeping. “Ah! certainly, with my whole soul,” he answered. “I
shall regard your desires as sacred.”
“Good! I knew you would accept.... So it is agreed: a franc for the
big Old’un every Saturday, the bread for the bedridden woman, some help
for the poor young mother, and then a home for her little girl. Ah! if
you only knew what a weight it is off my heart! The end may come now, it
will be welcome to me.”
His kind white face had brightened as if with supreme joy. Holding
Pierre’s hand within his own he detained him beside the bed, exchanging a
farewell full of serene affection. And his voice weakening, he expressed
his whole mind in faint, impressive accents: “Yes, I shall be pleased to
go off. I could do no more, I could do no more! Though I gave and gave, I
felt that it was ever necessary to give more and more. And how sad to
find charity powerless, to give without hope of ever being able to stamp
out want and suffering! I rebelled against that idea of yours, as you
will remember. I told you that we should always love one another in our
poor, and that was true, since you are here, so good and affectionate to
me and those whom I am leaving behind. But, all the same, I can do no
more, I can do no more; and I would rather go off, since the woes of
others rise higher and higher around me, and I have ended by doing the
most foolish things, scandalising the faithful and making my superiors
indignant with me, without even saving one single poor person from the
ever-growing torrent of want. Farewell, my dear child. My poor old heart
goes off aching, my old hands are weary and conquered.”
Pierre embraced him with his whole soul, and then departed. His eyes were
full of tears and indescribable emotion wrung his heart. Never had he
heard a more woeful cry than that confession of the impotence of charity,
on the part of that old candid child, whose heart was all simplicity and
sublime benevolence. Ah! what a disaster, that human kindness should be
futile, that the world should always display so much distress and
suffering in spite of all the compassionate tears that had been shed, in
spite of all the alms that had fallen from millions and millions of hands
for centuries and centuries! No wonder that it should bring desire for
death, no wonder that a Christian should feel pleased at escaping from
the abominations of this earth!
When Pierre again reached the workroom he found that the table had long
since been cleared, and that Bache and Morin were chatting with
Guillaume, whilst the latter’s sons had returned to their customary
occupations. Marie, also, had resumed her usual place at the work-table
in front of Mère-Grand; but from time to time she rose and went to look
at Jean, so as to make sure that he was sleeping peacefully, with his
little clenched fists pressed to his heart. And when Pierre, who kept his
emotion to himself, had likewise leant over the cradle beside the young
woman, whose hair he discreetly kissed, he went to put on an apron in
order that he might assist Thomas, who was now, for the last time,
regulating his motor.
Then, as Pierre stood there awaiting an opportunity to help, the room
vanished from before his eyes; he ceased to see or hear the persons who
were there. The scent of Marie’s hair alone lingered on his lips amidst
the acute emotion into which he had been thrown by his visit to Abbé
Rose. A recollection had come to him, that of the bitterly cold morning
when the old priest had stopped him outside the basilica of the Sacred
Heart, and had timidly asked him to take some alms to that old man
Laveuve, who soon afterwards had died of want, like a dog by the wayside.
How sad a morning it had been; what battle and torture had Pierre not
felt within him, and what a resurrection had come afterwards! He had that
day said one of his last masses, and he recalled with a shudder his
abominable anguish, his despairing doubts at the thought of nothingness.
Two experiments which he had previously made had failed most miserably.
First had come one at Lourdes, where the glorification of the absurd had
simply filled him with pity for any such attempt to revert to the
primitive faith of young nations, who bend beneath the terror born of
ignorance; and, secondly, there had been an experiment at Rome, which he
had found incapable of any renewal, and which he had seen staggering to
its death amidst its ruins, a mere great shadow, which would soon be of
no account, fast sinking, as it was, to the dust of dead religions. And,
in his own mind, Charity itself had become bankrupt; he no longer
believed that alms could cure the sufferings of mankind, he awaited
naught but a frightful catastrophe, fire and massacre, which would sweep
away the guilty, condemned world. His cassock, too, stifled him, a lie
alone kept it on his shoulders, the idea, unbelieving priest though he
was, that he could honestly and chastely watch over the belief of others.
The problem of a new religion, a new hope, such as was needful to ensure
the peace of the coming democracies tortured him, but between the
certainties of science and the need of the Divine, which seemed to
consume humanity, he could find no solution. If Christianity crumbled
with the principle of Charity, there could remain nothing else but
Justice, that cry which came from every breast, that battle of Justice
against Charity in which his heart must contend in that great city of
Paris. It was there that began his third and decisive experiment, the
experiment which was to make truth as plain to him as the sun itself, and
give him back health and strength and delight in life.
At this point of his reverie Pierre was roused by Thomas, who asked him
to fetch a tool. As he did so he heard Bache remarking: “The ministry
resigned this morning. Vignon has had enough of it, he wants to reserve
his remaining strength.”
“Well, he has lasted more than a twelvemonth,” replied Morin. “That’s
already an achievement.”
After the crime of Victor Mathis, who had been tried and executed within
three weeks, Monferrand had suddenly fallen from power. What was the use
of having a strong-handed man at the head of the Government if bombs
still continued to terrify the country? Moreover, he had displeased the
Chamber by his voracious appetite, which had prevented him from allowing
others more than an infinitesimal share of all the good things. And this
time he had been succeeded by Vignon, although the latter’s programme of
reforms had long made people tremble. He, Vignon, was honest certainly,
but of all these reforms he had only been able to carry out a few
insignificant ones, for he had found himself hampered by a thousand
obstacles. And thus he had resigned himself to ruling the country as
others had done; and people had discovered that after all there were but
faint shades of difference between him and Monferrand.
“You know that Monferrand is being spoken of again?” said Guillaume.
“Yes, and he has some chance of success. His creatures are bestirring
themselves tremendously,” replied Bache, adding, in a bitter, jesting
way, that Mège, the Collectivist leader, played the part of a dupe in
overthrowing ministry after ministry. He simply gratified the ambition of
each coterie in turn, without any possible chance of attaining to power
himself.
Thereupon Guillaume pronounced judgment. “Oh! well, let them devour one
another,” said he. “Eager as they all are to reign and dispose of power
and wealth, they only fight over questions of persons. And nothing they
do can prevent the evolution from continuing. Ideas expand, and events
occur, and, over and above everything else, mankind is marching on.”
Pierre was greatly struck by these words, and he again recalled the past.
His dolorous Parisian experiment had begun, and he was once more roaming
through the city. Paris seemed to him to be a huge vat, in which a world
fermented, something of the best and something of the worst, a frightful
mixture such as sorceresses might have used; precious powders mingled
with filth, from all of which was to come the philter of love and eternal
youth. And in that vat Pierre first marked the scum of the political
world: Monferrand who strangled Barroux, who purchased the support of
hungry ones such as Fonsègue, Duthil and Chaigneux, who made use of those
who attained to mediocrity, such as Taboureau and Dauvergne; and who
employed even the sectarian passions of Mège and the intelligent ambition
of Vignon as his weapons. Next came money the poisoner, with that affair
of the African Railways, which had rotted the Parliament and turned
Duvillard, the triumphant _bourgeois_, into a public perverter, the very
cancer as it were of the financial world. Then as a just consequence of
all this there was Duvillard’s own home infected by himself, that
frightful drama of Eve contending with her daughter Camille for the
possession of Gérard, then Camille stealing him from her mother, and
Hyacinthe, the son, passing his crazy mistress Rosemonde on to that
notorious harlot Silviane, with whom his father publicly exhibited
himself. Then there was the old expiring aristocracy, with the pale, sad
faces of Madame de Quinsac and the Marquis de Morigny; the old military
spirit whose funeral was conducted by General de Bozonnet; the magistracy
which slavishly served the powers of the day, Amadieu thrusting himself
into notoriety by means of sensational cases, Lehmann, the public
prosecutor, preparing his speeches in the private room of the Minister
whose policy he defended; and, finally, the mendacious and cupid Press
which lived upon scandal, the everlasting flood of denunciation and filth
which poured from Sagnier, and the gay impudence shown by the
unscrupulous and conscienceless Massot, who attacked all and defended
all, by profession and to order! And in the same way as insects, on
discovering one of their own kind dying, will often finish it off and
fatten upon it, so the whole swarm of appetites, interests and passions
had fallen upon a wretched madman, that unhappy Salvat, whose idiotic
crime had brought them all scrambling together, gluttonously eager to
derive some benefit from that starveling’s emaciated carcass. And all
boiled in the huge vat of Paris; the desires, the deeds of violence, the
strivings of one and another man’s will, the whole nameless medley of the
bitterest ferments, whence, in all purity, the wine of the future would
at last flow.
Then Pierre became conscious of the prodigious work which went on in the
depths of the vat, beneath all the impurity and waste. As his brother had
just said, what mattered the stains, the egotism and greed of
politicians, if humanity were still on the march, ever slowly and
stubbornly stepping forward! What mattered, too, that corrupt and
emasculate _bourgeoisie_, nowadays as moribund as the aristocracy, whose
place it took, if behind it there ever came the inexhaustible reserve of
men who surged up from the masses of the country-sides and the towns!
What mattered the debauchery, the perversion arising from excess of
wealth and power, the luxuriousness and dissoluteness of life, since it
seemed a proven fact that the capitals that had been queens of the world
had never reigned without extreme civilisation, a cult of beauty and of
pleasure! And what mattered even the venality, the transgressions and the
folly of the press, if at the same time it remained an admirable
instrument for the diffusion of knowledge, the open conscience, so to
say, of the nation, a river which, though there might be horrors on its
surface, none the less flowed on, carrying all nations to the brotherly
ocean of the future centuries! The human lees ended by sinking to the
bottom of the vat, and it was not possible to expect that what was right
would triumph visibly every day; for it was often necessary that years
should elapse before the realisation of some hope could emerge from the
fermentation. Eternal matter is ever being cast afresh into the crucible
and ever coming from it improved. And if in the depths of pestilential
workshops and factories the slavery of ancient times subsists in the
wage-earning system, if such men as Toussaint still die of want on their
pallets like broken-down beasts of burden, it is nevertheless a fact that
once already, on a memorable day of tempest, Liberty sprang forth from
the vat to wing her flight throughout the world. And why in her turn
should not Justice spring from it, proceeding from those troubled
elements, freeing herself from all dross, flowing forth with dazzling
limpidity and regenerating the nations?
However, the voices of Bache and Morin, rising in the course of their
chat with Guillaume, once more drew Pierre from his reverie. They were
now speaking of Janzen, who after being compromised in a fresh outrage at
Barcelona had fled from Spain. Bache fancied that he had recognised him
in the street only the previous day. To think that a man with so clear a
mind and such keen energy should waste his natural gifts in such a
hateful cause!
“When I remember,” said Morin slowly, “that Barthès lives in exile in a
shabby little room at Brussels, ever quivering with the hope that the
reign of liberty is at hand--he who has never had a drop of blood on his
hands and who has spent two-thirds of his life in prison in order that
the nations may be freed!”
Bache gently shrugged his shoulders: “Liberty, liberty, of course,” said
he; “only it is worth nothing if it is not organised.”
Thereupon their everlasting discussion began afresh, with Saint-Simon and
Fourier on one side and Proudhon and Auguste Comte on the other. Bache
gave a long account of the last commemoration which had taken place in
honour of Fourier’s memory, how faithful disciples had brought wreaths
and made speeches, forming quite a meeting of apostles, who all
stubbornly clung to their faith, as confident in the future as if they
were the messengers of some new gospel. Afterwards Morin emptied his
pockets, which were always full of Positivist tracts and pamphlets,
manifestos, answers and so forth, in which Comte’s doctrines were
extolled as furnishing the only possible basis for the new, awaited
religion. Pierre, who listened, thereupon remembered the disputes in his
little house at Neuilly when he himself, searching for certainty, had
endeavoured to draw up the century’s balance-sheet. He had lost his
depth, in the end, amidst the contradictions and incoherency of the
various precursors. Although Fourier had sprung from Saint-Simon, he
denied him in part, and if Saint-Simon’s doctrine ended in a kind of
mystical sensuality, the other’s conducted to an inacceptable regimenting
of society. Proudhon, for his part, demolished without rebuilding
anything. Comte, who created method and declared science to be the one
and only sovereign, had not even suspected the advent of the social
crisis which now threatened to sweep all away, and had finished
personally as a mere worshipper of love, overpowered by woman.
Nevertheless, these two, Comte and Proudhon, entered the lists and fought
against the others, Fourier and Saint-Simon; the combat between them or
their disciples becoming so bitter and so blind that the truths common to
them all at first seemed obscured and disfigured beyond recognition. Now,
however, that evolution had slowly transformed Pierre, those common
truths seemed to him as irrefutable, as clear as the sunlight itself.
Amidst the chaos of conflicting assertions which was to be found in the
gospels of those social messiahs, there were certain similar phrases and
principles which recurred again and again, the defence of the poor, the
idea of a new and just division of the riches of the world in accordance
with individual labour and merit, and particularly the search for a new
law of labour which would enable this fresh distribution to be made
equitably. Since all the precursory men of genius agreed so closely upon
those points, must they not be the very foundations of to-morrow’s new
religion, the necessary faith which this century must bequeath to the
coming century, in order that the latter may make of it a human religion
of peace, solidarity and love?
Then, all at once, there came a leap in Pierre’s thoughts. He fancied
himself at the Madeleine once more, listening to the address on the New
Spirit delivered by Monseigneur Martha, who had predicted that Paris, now
reconverted to Christianity, would, thanks to the Sacred Heart, become
the ruler of the world. But no, but no! If Paris reigned, it was because
it was able to exercise its intelligence freely. To set the cross and the
mystic and repulsive symbolism of a bleeding heart above it was simply so
much falsehood. Although they might rear edifices of pride and domination
as if to crush Paris with their very weight, although they might try to
stop science in the name of a dead ideal and in the hope of setting their
clutches upon the coming century, these attempts would be of no avail.
Science will end by sweeping away all remnants of their ancient
sovereignty, their basilica will crumble beneath the breeze of Truth
without any necessity of raising a finger against it. The trial has been
made, the Gospel as a social code has fallen to pieces, and human wisdom
can only retain account of its moral maxims. Ancient Catholicism is on
all sides crumbling into dust, Catholic Rome is a mere field of ruins
from which the nations turn aside, anxious as they are for a religion
that shall not be a religion of death. In olden times the overburdened
slave, glowing with a new hope and seeking to escape from his gaol,
dreamt of a heaven where in return for his earthly misery he would be
rewarded with eternal enjoyment. But now that science has destroyed that
false idea of a heaven, and shown what dupery lies in reliance on the
morrow of death, the slave, the workman, weary of dying for happiness’
sake, demands that justice and happiness shall find place upon this
earth. Therein lies the new hope--Justice, after eighteen hundred years
of impotent Charity. Ah! in a thousand years from now, when Catholicism
will be naught but a very ancient superstition of the past, how amazed
men will be to think that their ancestors were able to endure that
religion of torture and nihility! How astonished they will feel on
finding that God was regarded as an executioner, that manhood was
threatened, maimed and chastised, that nature was accounted an enemy,
that life was looked upon as something accursed, and that death alone was
pronounced sweet and liberating! For well-nigh two thousand years the
onward march of mankind has been hampered by the odious idea of tearing
all that is human away from man: his desires, his passions, his free
intelligence, his will and right of action, his whole strength. And how
glorious will be the awakening when such virginity as is now honoured by
the Church is held in derision, when fruitfulness is again recognised as
a virtue, amidst the hosanna of all the freed forces of nature--man’s
desires which will be honoured, his passions which will be utilised, his
labour which will be exalted, whilst life is loved and ever and ever
creates love afresh!
A new religion! a new religion! Pierre remembered the cry which had
escaped him at Lourdes, and which he had repeated at Rome in presence of
the collapse of old Catholicism. But he no longer displayed the same
feverish eagerness as then--a puerile, sickly desire that a new Divinity
should at once reveal himself, an ideal come into being, complete in all
respects, with dogmas and form of worship. The Divine certainly seemed to
be as necessary to man as were bread and water; he had ever fallen back
upon it, hungering for the mysterious, seemingly having no other means of
consolation than that of annihilating himself in the unknown. But who can
say that science will not some day quench the thirst for what lies beyond
us? If the domain of science embraces the acquired truths, it also
embraces, and will ever do so, the truths that remain to be acquired. And
in front of it will there not ever remain a margin for the thirst of
knowledge, for the hypotheses which are but so much ideality? Besides, is
not the yearning for the divine simply a desire to behold the Divinity?
And if science should more and more content the yearning to know all and
be able to do all, will not that yearning be quieted and end by mingling
with the love of acquired truth? A religion grafted on science is the
indicated, certain, inevitable finish of man’s long march towards
knowledge. He will come to it at last as to a natural haven, as to peace
in the midst of certainty, after passing every form of ignorance and
terror on his road. And is there not already some indication of such a
religion? Has not the idea of the duality of God and the Universe been
brushed aside, and is not the principle of unity, _monisme_, becoming
more and more evident--unity leading to solidarity, and the sole law of
life proceeding by evolution from the first point of the ether that
condensed to create the world? But if precursors, scientists and
philosophers--Darwin, Fourier and all the others--have sown the seed of
to-morrow’s religion by casting the good word to the passing breeze, how
many centuries will doubtless be required to raise the crop! People
always forget that before Catholicism grew up and reigned in the
sunlight, it spent four centuries in germinating and sprouting from the
soil. Well, then, grant some centuries to this religion of science of
whose sprouting there are signs upon all sides, and by-and-by the
admirable ideas of some Fourier will be seen expanding and forming a new
gospel, with desire serving as the lever to raise the world, work
accepted by one and all, honoured and regulated as the very mechanism of
natural and social life, and the passions of man excited, contented and
utilised for human happiness! The universal cry of Justice, which rises
louder and louder, in a growing clamour from the once silent multitude,
the people that have so long been duped and preyed upon, is but a cry for
this happiness towards which human beings are tending, the happiness that
embodies the complete satisfaction of man’s needs, and the principle of
life loved for its own sake, in the midst of peace and the expansion of
every force and every joy. The time will come when this Kingdom of God
will be set upon the earth; so why not close that other deceptive
paradise, even if the weak-minded must momentarily suffer from the
destruction of their illusions; for it is necessary to operate even with
cruelty on the blind if they are to be extricated from their misery, from
their long and frightful night of ignorance!
All at once a feeling of deep joy came over Pierre. A child’s faint cry,
the wakening cry of his son Jean had drawn him from his reverie. And he
had suddenly remembered that he himself was now saved, freed from
falsehood and fright, restored to good and healthy nature. How he
quivered as he recalled that he had once fancied himself lost, blotted
out of life, and that a prodigy of love had extricated him from his
nothingness, still strong and sound, since that dear child of his was
there, sturdy and smiling. Life had brought forth life; and truth had
burst forth, as dazzling as the sun. He had made his third experiment
with Paris, and this had been conclusive; it had been no wretched
miscarriage with increase of darkness and grief, like his other
experiments at Lourdes and Rome. In the first place, the law of labour
had been revealed to him, and he had imposed upon himself a task, as
humble a one as it was, that manual calling which he was learning so late
in life, but which was, nevertheless, a form of labour, and one in which
he would never fail, one too that would lend him the serenity which comes
from the accomplishment of duty, for life itself was but labour: it was
only by effort that the world existed. And then, moreover, he had loved;
and salvation had come to him from woman and from his child. Ah! what a
long and circuitous journey he had made to reach this finish at once so
natural and so simple! How he had suffered, how much error and anger he
had known before doing what all men ought to do! That eager, glowing love
which had contended against his reason, which had bled at sight of the
arrant absurdities of the miraculous grotto of Lourdes, which had bled
again too in presence of the haughty decline of the Vatican, had at last
found contentment now that he was husband and father, now that he had
confidence in work and believed in the just laws of life. And thence had
come the indisputable truth, the one solution--happiness in certainty.
Whilst Pierre was thus plunged in thought, Bache and Morin had already
gone off with their customary handshakes and promises to come and chat
again some evening. And as Jean was now crying more loudly, Marie took
him in her arms and unhooked her dress-body to give him her breast.
“Oh! the darling, it’s his time, you know, and he doesn’t forget it!” she
said. “Just look, Pierre, I believe he has got bigger since yesterday.”
She laughed; and Pierre, likewise laughing, drew near to kiss the child.
And afterwards he kissed his wife, mastered as he was by emotion at the
sight of that pink, gluttonous little creature imbibing life from that
lovely breast so full of milk.
“Why! he’ll eat you,” he gaily said to Marie. “How he’s pulling!”
“Oh! he does bite me a little,” she replied; “but I like that the better,
it shows that he profits by it.”
Then Mère-Grand, she who as a rule was so serious and silent, began to
talk with a smile lighting up her face: “I weighed him this morning,”
said she, “he weighs nearly a quarter of a pound more than he did the
last time. And if you had only seen how good he was, the darling! He will
be a very intelligent and well-behaved little gentleman, such as I like.
When he’s five years old, I shall teach him his alphabet, and when he’s
fifteen, if he likes, I’ll tell him how to be a man.... Don’t you
agree with me, Thomas? And you, Antoine, and you, too, François?”
Raising their heads, the three sons gaily nodded their approval, grateful
as they felt for the lessons in heroism which she had given them, and
apparently finding no reason why she might not live another twenty years
in order to give similar lessons to Jean.
Pierre still remained in front of Marie, basking in all the rapture of
love, when he felt Guillaume lay his hands upon his shoulders from
behind. And on turning round he saw that his brother was also radiant,
like one who felt well pleased at seeing them so happy. “Ah! brother,”
said Guillaume softly, “do you remember my telling you that you suffered
solely from the battle between your mind and your heart, and that you
would find quietude again when you loved what you could understand? It
was necessary that our father and mother, whose painful quarrel had
continued beyond the grave, should be reconciled in you. And now it’s
done, they sleep in peace within you, since you yourself are pacified.”
These words filled Pierre with emotion. Joy beamed upon his face, which
was now so open and energetic. He still had the towering brow, that
impregnable fortress of reason, which he had derived from his father, and
he still had the gentle chin and affectionate eyes and mouth which his
mother had given him, but all was now blended together, instinct with
happy harmony and serene strength. Those two experiments of his which had
miscarried, were like crises of his maternal heredity, the tearful
tenderness which had come to him from his mother, and which for lack of
satisfaction had made him desperate; and his third experiment had only
ended in happiness because he had contented his ardent thirst for love in
accordance with sovereign reason, that paternal heredity which pleaded so
loudly within him. Reason remained the queen. And if his sufferings had
thus always come from the warfare which his reason had waged against his
heart, it was because he was man personified, ever struggling between his
intelligence and his passions. And how peaceful all seemed, now that he
had reconciled and satisfied them both, now that he felt healthy, perfect
and strong, like some lofty oak, which grows in all freedom, and whose
branches spread far away over the forest.
“You have done good work in that respect,” Guillaume affectionately
continued, “for yourself and for all of us, and even for our dear parents
whose shades, pacified and reconciled, now abide so peacefully in the
little home of our childhood. I often think of our dear house at Neuilly,
which old Sophie is taking care of for us; and although, out of egotism,
a desire to set happiness around me, I wished to keep you here, your Jean
must some day go and live there, so as to bring it fresh youth.”
Pierre had taken hold of his brother’s hands, and looking into his eyes
he asked: “And you--are you happy?”
“Yes, very happy, happier than I have ever been; happy at loving you as I
do, and happy at being loved by you as no one else will ever love me.”
Their hearts mingled in ardent brotherly affection, the most perfect and
heroic affection that can blend men together. And they embraced one
another whilst, with her babe on her breast, Marie, so gay, healthful and
loyal, looked at them and smiled, with big tears gathering in her eyes.
Thomas, however, having finished his motor’s last toilet, had just set it
in motion. It was a prodigy of lightness and strength, of no weight
whatever in comparison with the power it displayed. And it worked with
perfect smoothness, without noise or smell. The whole family was gathered
round it in delight, when there came a timely visit, one from the learned
and friendly Bertheroy, whom indeed Guillaume had asked to call, in order
that he might see the motor working.
The great chemist at once expressed his admiration; and when he had
examined the mechanism and understood how the explosive was employed as
motive power--an idea which he had long recommended,--he tendered
enthusiastic congratulations to Guillaume and Thomas. “You have created a
little marvel,” said he, “one which may have far-reaching effects both
socially and humanly. Yes, yes, pending the invention of the electrical
motor which we have not yet arrived at, here is an ideal one, a system of
mechanical traction for all sorts of vehicles. Even aerial navigation may
now become a possibility, and the problem of force at home is finally
solved. And what a grand step! What sudden progress! Distance again
diminished, all roads thrown open, and men able to fraternise! This is a
great boon, a splendid gift, my good friends, that you are bestowing on
the world.”
Then he began to jest about the new explosive, whose prodigious power he
had divined, and which he now found put to such a beneficent purpose.
“And to think, Guillaume,” he said, “that I fancied you acted with so
much mysteriousness and hid the formula of your powder from me because
you had an idea of blowing up Paris!”
At this Guillaume became grave and somewhat pale. And he confessed the
truth. “Well, I did for a moment think of it.”
However, Bertheroy went on laughing, as if he regarded this answer as
mere repartee, though truth to tell he had felt a slight chill sweep
through his hair. “Well, my friend,” he said, “you have done far better
in offering the world this marvel, which by the way must have been both a
difficult and dangerous matter. So here is a powder which was intended to
exterminate people, and which in lieu thereof will now increase their
comfort and welfare. In the long run things always end well, as I’m quite
tired of saying.”
On beholding such lofty and tolerant good nature, Guillaume felt moved.
Bertheroy’s words were true. What had been intended for purposes of
destruction served the cause of progress; the subjugated, domesticated
volcano became labour, peace and civilisation. Guillaume had even
relinquished all idea of his engine of battle and victory; he had found
sufficient satisfaction in this last invention of his, which would
relieve men of some measure of weariness, and help to reduce their labour
to just so much effort as there must always be. In this he detected some
little advance towards Justice; at all events it was all that he himself
could contribute to the cause. And when on turning towards the window he
caught sight of the basilica of the Sacred Heart, he could not explain
what insanity had at one moment come over him, and set him dreaming of
idiotic and useless destruction. Some miasmal gust must have swept by,
something born of want that scattered germs of anger and vengeance. But
how blind it was to think that destruction and murder could ever bear
good fruit, ever sow the soil with plenty and happiness! Violence cannot
last, and all it does is to rouse man’s feeling of solidarity even among
those on whose behalf one kills. The people, the great multitude, rebel
against the isolated individual who seeks to wreak justice. No one man
can take upon himself the part of the volcano; this is the whole
terrestrial crust, the whole multitude which internal fire impels to rise
and throw up either an Alpine chain or a better and freer society. And
whatever heroism there may be in their madness, however great and
contagious may be their thirst for martyrdom, murderers are never
anything but murderers, whose deeds simply sow the seeds of horror. And
if on the one hand Victor Mathis had avenged Salvat, he had also slain
him, so universal had been the cry of reprobation roused by the second
crime, which was yet more monstrous and more useless than the first.
Guillaume, laughing in his turn, replied to Bertheroy in words which
showed how completely he was cured: “You are right,” he said, “all ends
well since all contributes to truth and justice. Unfortunately, thousands
of years are sometimes needed for any progress to be accomplished....
However, for my part, I am simply going to put my new explosive on the
market, so that those who secure the necessary authorisation may
manufacture it and grow rich. Henceforth it belongs to one and all....
And I’ve renounced all idea of revolutionising the world.”
But Bertheroy protested. This great official scientist, this member of
the Institute laden with offices and honours, pointed to the little
motor, and replied with all the vigour of his seventy years: “But that is
revolution, the true, the only revolution. It is with things like that
and not with stupid bombs that one revolutionises the world! It is not by
destroying, but by creating, that you have just done the work of a
revolutionist. And how many times already have I not told you that
science alone is the world’s revolutionary force, the only force which,
far above all paltry political incidents, the vain agitation of despots,
priests, sectarians and ambitious people of all kinds, works for the
benefit of those who will come after us, and prepares the triumph of
truth, justice and peace.... Ah, my dear child, if you wish to
overturn the world by striving to set a little more happiness in it, you
have only to remain in your laboratory here, for human happiness can
spring only from the furnace of the scientist.”
He spoke perhaps in a somewhat jesting way, but one could feel that he
was convinced of it all, that he held everything excepting science in
utter contempt. He had not even shown any surprise when Pierre had cast
his cassock aside; and on finding him there with his wife and child he
had not scrupled to show him as much affection as in the past.
Meantime, however, the motor was travelling hither and thither, making no
more noise than a bluebottle buzzing in the sunshine. The whole happy
family was gathered about it, still laughing with delight at such a
victorious achievement. And all at once little Jean, Monsieur Jean,
having finished sucking, turned round, displaying his milk-smeared lips,
and perceived the machine, the pretty plaything which walked about by
itself. At sight of it, his eyes sparkled, dimples appeared on his plump
cheeks, and, stretching out his quivering chubby hands, he raised a crow
of delight.
Marie, who was quietly fastening her dress, smiled at his glee and
brought him nearer, in order that he might have a better view of the toy.
“Ah! my darling, it’s pretty, isn’t it? It moves and it turns, and it’s
strong; it’s quite alive, you see.”
The others, standing around, were much amused by the amazed, enraptured
expression of the child, who would have liked to touch the machine,
perhaps in the hope of understanding it.
“Yes,” resumed Bertheroy, “it’s alive and it’s powerful like the sun,
like that great sun shining yonder over Paris, and ripening men and
things. And Paris too is a motor, a boiler in which the future is
boiling, while we scientists keep the eternal flame burning underneath.
Guillaume, my good fellow, you are one of the stokers, one of the
artisans of the future, with that little marvel of yours, which will
still further extend the influence of our great Paris over the whole
world.”
These words impressed Pierre, and he again thought of a gigantic vat
stretching yonder from one horizon to the other, a vat in which the
coming century would emerge from an extraordinary mixture of the
excellent and the vile. But now, over and above all passions, ambitions,
stains and waste, he was conscious of the colossal expenditure of labour
which marked the life of Paris, of the heroic manual efforts in
work-shops and factories, and the splendid striving of the young men of
intellect whom he knew to be hard at work, studying in silence,
relinquishing none of the conquests of their elders, but glowing with
desire to enlarge their domain. And in all this Paris was exalted,
together with the future that was being prepared within it, and which
would wing its flight over the world bright like the dawn of day. If
Rome, now so near its death, had ruled the ancient world, it was Paris
that reigned with sovereign sway over the modern era, and had for the
time become the great centre of the nations as they were carried on from
civilisation to civilisation, in a sunward course from east to west.
Paris was the world’s brain. Its past so full of grandeur had prepared it
for the part of initiator, civiliser and liberator. Only yesterday it had
cast the cry of Liberty among the nations, and to-morrow it would bring
them the religion of Science, the new faith awaited by the democracies.
And Paris was also gaiety, kindness and gentleness, passion for knowledge
and generosity without limit. Among the workmen of its faubourgs and the
peasants of its country-sides there were endless reserves of men on whom
the future might freely draw. And the century ended with Paris, and the
new century would begin and spread with it. All the clamour of its
prodigious labour, all the light that came from it as from a beacon
overlooking the earth, all the thunder and tempest and triumphant
brightness that sprang from its entrails, were pregnant with that final
splendour, of which human happiness would be compounded.
Marie raised a light cry of admiration as she pointed towards the city.
“Look! just look!” she exclaimed; “Paris is all golden, covered with a
harvest of gold!”
They all re-echoed her admiration, for the effect was really one of
extraordinary magnificence. The declining sun was once more veiling the
immensity of Paris with golden dust. But this was no longer the city of
the sower, a chaos of roofs and edifices suggesting brown land turned up
by some huge plough, whilst the sun-rays streamed over it like golden
seed, falling upon every side. Nor was it the city whose divisions had
one day seemed so plain to Pierre: eastward, the districts of toil, misty
with the grey smoke of factories; southward, the districts of study,
serene and quiet; westward, the districts of wealth, bright and open; and
in the centre the districts of trade, with dark and busy streets. It now
seemed as if one and the same crop had sprung up on every side, imparting
harmony to everything, and making the entire expanse one sole, boundless
field, rich with the same fruitfulness. There was corn, corn everywhere,
an infinity of corn, whose golden wave rolled from one end of the horizon
to the other. Yes, the declining sun steeped all Paris in equal
splendour, and it was truly the crop, the harvest, after the sowing!
“Look! just look,” repeated Marie, “there is not a nook without its
sheaf; the humblest roofs are fruitful, and every blade is full-eared
wherever one may look. It is as if there were now but one and the same
soil, reconciled and fraternal. Ah! Jean, my little Jean, look! see how
beautiful it is!”
Pierre, who was quivering, had drawn close beside her. And Mère-Grand and
Bertheroy smiled upon that promise of a future which they would not see,
whilst beside Guillaume, whom the sight filled with emotion, were his
three big sons, the three young giants, looking quite grave, they who
ever laboured and were ever hopeful. Then Marie, with a fine gesture of
enthusiasm, stretched out her arms and raised her child aloft, as if
offering it in gift to the huge city.
“See, Jean! see, little one,” she cried, “it’s you who’ll reap it all,
who’ll store the whole crop in the barn!”
And Paris flared--Paris, which the divine sun had sown with light, and
where in glory waved the great future harvest of Truth and of Justice.
THE END