thereupon he seemed to hear her words again: "Why not take your cassock
off?" His conscience bled as if those words were a stab. What contempt
must she not feel for him, she who was so upright, so high-minded? Every
scattered blame, every covert criticism directed against his conduct,
seemed to find embodiment in her. It now sufficed that she should condemn
him, and he at once felt guilty. At the same time she had never voiced
her disapproval to him, in all probability because she did not think she
had any right to intervene in a struggle of conscience. The superb
calmness and healthiness which she displayed still astonished him. He
himself was ever haunted and tortured by thoughts of the unknown, of what
the morrow of death might have in store for one; but although he had
studied and watched her for days together, he had never seen her give a
sign of doubt or distress. This exemption from such sufferings as his own
was due, said she, to the fact that she gave all her gaiety, all her
energy, all her sense of duty, to the task of living, in such wise that
life itself proved a sufficiency, and no time was left for mere fancies
to terrify and stultify her. Well, then, since she with her air of quiet
strength had asked him why he did not take off his cassock, he would take
it off--yes, he would divest himself of that robe which seemed to burn
and weigh him down.
He fancied himself calmed by this decision, and towards morning threw
himself upon his bed; but all at once a stifling sensation, a renewal of
his abominable anguish, brought him to his feet again. No, no, he could
not divest himself of that gown which clung so tightly to his flesh. His
skin would come away with his cloth, his whole being would be lacerated!
Is not the mark of priesthood an indelible one, does it not brand the
priest for ever, and differentiate him from the flock? Even should he
tear off his gown with his skin, he would remain a priest, an object of
scandal and shame, awkward and impotent, shut off from the life of other
men. And so why tear it off, since he would still and ever remain in
prison, and a fruitful life of work in the broad sunlight was no longer
within his reach? He, indeed, fancied himself irremediably stricken with
impotence. Thus he was unable to come to any decision, and when he
returned to Montmartre two days later he had again relapsed into a state
of torment.
Feverishness, moreover, had come upon the happy home. Guillaume was
becoming more and more annoyed about Salvat's affair, not a day elapsing
without the newspapers fanning his irritation. He had at first been
deeply touched by the dignified and reticent bearing of Salvat, who had
declared that he had no accomplices whatever. Of course the inquiry into
the crime was what is called a secret one; but magistrate Amadieu, to
whom it had been entrusted, conducted it in a very noisy way. The
newspapers, which he in some degree took into his confidence, were full
of articles and paragraphs about him and his interviews with the
prisoner. Thanks to Salvat's quiet admissions, Amadieu had been able to
retrace the history of the crime hour by hour, his only remaining doubts
having reference to the nature of the powder which had been employed, and
the making of the bomb itself. It might after all be true that Salvat had
loaded the bomb at a friend's, as he indeed asserted was the case; but he
must be lying when he added that the only explosive used was dynamite,
derived from some stolen cartridges, for all the experts now declared
that dynamite would never have produced such effects as those which had
been witnessed. This, then, was the mysterious point which protracted the
investigations. And day by day the newspapers profited by it to circulate
the wildest stories under sensational headings, which were specially
devised for the purpose of sending up their sales.
It was all the nonsense contained in these stories that fanned
Guillaume's irritation. In spite of his contempt for Sagnier he could not
keep from buying the "Voix du Peuple." Quivering with indignation,
growing more and more exasperated, he was somehow attracted by the mire
which he found in that scurrilous journal. Moreover, the other
newspapers, including even the "Globe," which was usually so dignified,
published all sorts of statements for which no proof could be supplied,
and drew from them remarks and conclusions which, though couched in
milder language than Sagnier's, were none the less abominably unjust. It
seemed indeed as if the whole press had set itself the task of covering
Salvat with mud, so as to be able to vilify Anarchism generally.
According to the journalists the prisoner's life had simply been one long
abomination. He had already earned his living by thievery in his
childhood at the time when he had roamed the streets, an unhappy,
forsaken vagrant; and later on he had proved a bad soldier and a bad
worker. He had been punished for insubordination whilst he was in the
army, and he had been dismissed from a dozen work-shops because he
incessantly disturbed them by his Anarchical propaganda. Later still, he
had fled his country and led a suspicious life of adventure in America,
where, it was alleged, he must have committed all sorts of unknown
crimes. Moreover there was his horrible immorality, his connection with
his sister-in-law, that Madame Theodore who had taken charge of his
forsaken child in his absence, and with whom he had cohabited since his
return to France. In this wise Salvat's failings and transgressions were
pitilessly denounced and magnified without any mention of the causes
which had induced them, or of the excuses which lay in the unhappy man's
degrading environment. And so Guillaume's feelings of humanity and
justice revolted, for he knew the real Salvat,--a man of tender heart and
dreamy mind, so liable to be impassioned by fancies,--a man cast into
life when a child without weapon of defence, ever trodden down or thrust
aside, then gradually exasperated by the perpetual onslaughts of want,
and at last dreaming of reviving the golden age by destroying the old,
corrupt world.
Unfortunately for Salvat, everything had gone against him since he had
been shut up in strict confinement, at the mercy of the ambitious and
worldly Amadieu. Guillaume had learnt from his son, Thomas, that the
prisoner could count on no support whatever among his former mates at the
Grandidier works. These works were becoming prosperous once more, thanks
to their steady output of bicycles; and it was said that Grandidier was
only waiting for Thomas to perfect his little motor, in order to start
the manufacture of motor-cars on a large scale. However, the success
which he was now for the first time achieving, and which scarcely repaid
him for all his years of toil and battle, had in certain respects
rendered him prudent and even severe. He did not wish any suspicion to be
cast upon his business through the unpleasant affair of his former
workman Salvat, and so he had dismissed such of his workmen as held
Anarchist views. If he had kept the two Toussaints, one of whom was the
prisoner's brother-in-law, while the other was suspected of sympathy with
him, this was because they had belonged to the works for a score of
years, and he did not like to cast them adrift. Moreover, Toussaint, the
father, had declared that if he were called as a witness for the defence,
he should simply give such particulars of Salvat's career as related to
the prisoner's marriage with his sister.
One evening when Thomas came home from the works, to which he returned
every now and then in order to try his little motor, he related that he
had that day seen Madame Grandidier, the poor young woman who had become
insane through an attack of puerperal fever following upon the death of a
child. Although most frightful attacks of madness occasionally came over
her, and although life beside her was extremely painful, even during the
intervals when she remained downcast and gentle as a child, her husband
had never been willing to send her to an asylum. He kept her with him in
a pavilion near the works, and as a rule the shutters of the windows
overlooking the yard remained closed. Thus Thomas had been greatly
surprised to see one of these windows open, and the young woman appear at
it amidst the bright sunshine of that early spring. True, she only
remained there for a moment, vision-like, fair and pretty, with smiling
face; for a servant who suddenly drew near closed the window, and the
pavilion then again sank into lifeless silence. At the same time it was
reported among the men employed at the works that the poor creature had
not experienced an attack for well-nigh a month past, and that this was
the reason why the "governor" looked so strong and pleased, and worked so
vigorously to help on the increasing prosperity of his business.
"He isn't a bad fellow," added Thomas, "but with the terrible competition
that he has to encounter, he is bent on keeping his men under control.
Nowadays, says he, when so many capitalists and wage earners seem bent on
exterminating one another, the latter--if they don't want to
starve--ought to be well pleased when capital falls into the hands of an
active, fair-minded man. . . . If he shows no pity for Salvat, it is
because he really believes in the necessity of an example."
That same day Thomas, after leaving the works and while threading his way
through the toilsome hive-like Marcadet district, had overtaken Madame
Theodore and little Celine, who were wandering on in great distress. It
appeared that they had just called upon Toussaint, who had been unable to
lend them even such a trifle as ten sous. Since Salvat's arrest, the
woman and the child had been forsaken and suspected by one and all.
Driven forth from their wretched lodging, they were without food and
wandered hither and thither dependent on chance alms. Never had greater
want and misery fallen on defenceless creatures.
"I told them to come up here, father," said Thomas, "for I thought that
one might pay their landlord a month's rent, so that they might go home
again. . . . Ah! there's somebody coming now--it's they, no doubt."
Guillaume had felt angry with himself whilst listening to his son, for he
had not thought of the poor creatures. It was the old story: the man
disappears, and the woman and the child find themselves in the streets,
starving. Whenever Justice strikes a man her blow travels beyond him,
fells innocent beings and kills them.
Madame Theodore came in, humble and timid, scared like a luckless
creature whom life never wearies of persecuting. She was becoming almost
blind, and little Celine had to lead her. The girl's fair, thin face wore
its wonted expression of shrewd intelligence, and even now, however
woeful her rags, it was occasionally brightened by a childish smile.
Pierre and Marie, who were both there, felt extremely touched. Near them
was Madame Mathis, young Victor's mother, who had come to help Mere-Grand
with the mending of some house-linen. She went out by the day in this
fashion among a few families, and was thus enabled to give her son an
occasional franc or two. Guillaume alone questioned Madame Theodore.
"Ah! monsieur," she stammered, "who could ever have thought Salvat
capable of such a thing, he who's so good and so humane? Still it's true,
since he himself has admitted it to the magistrate. . . . For my part I
told everybody that he was in Belgium. I wasn't quite sure of it, still
I'm glad that he didn't come back to see us; for if he had been arrested
at our place I should have lost my senses. . . . Well, now that they have
him, they'll sentence him to death, that's certain."
At this Celine, who had been looking around her with an air of interest,
piteously exclaimed: "Oh! no, oh! no, mamma, they won't hurt him!"
Big tears appeared in the child's eyes as she raised this cry. Guillaume
kissed her, and then went on questioning Madame Theodore.
"Well, monsieur," she answered, "the child's not old or big enough to
work as yet, and my eyes are done for, people won't even take me as a
charwoman. And so it's simple enough, we starve. . . . Oh! of course I'm
not without relations; I have a sister who married very well. Her husband
is a clerk, Monsieur Chretiennot, perhaps you know him. Unfortunately
he's rather proud, and as I don't want any scenes between him and my
sister, I no longer go to see her. Besides, she's in despair just now,
for she's expecting another baby, which is a terrible blow for a small
household, when one already has two girls. . . . That's why the only
person I can apply to is my brother Toussaint. His wife isn't a bad sort
by any means, but she's no longer the same since she's been living in
fear of her husband having another attack. The first one carried off all
her savings, and what would become of her if Toussaint should remain on
her hands, paralysed? Besides, she's threatened with another burden, for,
as you may know, her son Charles got keeping company with a servant at a
wine shop, who of course ran away after she had a baby, which she left
him to see to. So one can understand that the Toussaints themselves are
hard put. I don't complain of them. They've already lent me a little
money, and of course they can't go on lending for ever."
She continued talking in this spiritless, resigned way, complaining only
on account of Celine; for, said she, it was enough to make one's heart
break to see such an intelligent child obliged to tramp the streets after
getting on so well at the Communal School. She could feel too that
everybody now kept aloof from them on account of Salvat. The Toussaints
didn't want to be compromised in any such business. There was only
Charles, who had said that he could well understand a man losing his head
and trying to blow up the _bourgeois_, because they really treated the
workers in a blackguard way.
"For my part, monsieur," added Madame Theodore, "I say nothing, for I'm
only a woman. All the same, though, if you'd like to know what I think,
well, I think that it would have been better if Salvat hadn't done what
he did, for we two, the girl and I, are the real ones to suffer from it.
Ah! I can't get the idea into my head, that the little one should be the
daughter of a man condemned to death."
Once more Celine interrupted her, flinging her arms around her neck: "Oh!
mamma, oh! mamma, don't say that, I beg you! It can't be true, it grieves
me too much!"
At this Pierre and Marie exchanged compassionate glances, while
Mere-Grand rose from her chair, in order to go upstairs and search her
wardrobes for some articles of clothing which might be of use to the two
poor creatures. Guillaume, who, for his part, had been moved to tears,
and felt full of revolt against the social system which rendered such
distress possible, slipped some alms into the child's little hand, and
promised Madame Theodore that he would see her landlord so as to get her
back her room.
"Ah! Monsieur Froment!" replied the unfortunate woman. "Salvat was quite
right when he said you were a real good man! And as you employed him here
for a few days you know too that he isn't a wicked one. . . . Now that
he's been put in prison everybody calls him a brigand, and it breaks my
heart to hear them." Then, turning towards Madame Mathis, who had
continued sewing in discreet silence, like a respectable woman whom none
of these things could concern, she went on: "I know you, madame, but I'm
better acquainted with your son, Monsieur Victor, who has often come to
chat at our place. Oh! you needn't be afraid, I shan't say it, I shall
never compromise anybody; but if Monsieur Victor were free to speak, he'd
be the man to explain Salvat's ideas properly."
Madame Mathis looked at her in stupefaction. Ignorant as she was of her
son's real life and views, she experienced a vague dread at the idea of
any connection between him and Salvat's family. Moreover, she refused to
believe it possible. "Oh! you must be mistaken," she said. "Victor told
me that he now seldom came to Montmartre, as he was always going about in
search of work."
By the anxious quiver of the widow's voice, Madame Theodore understood
that she ought not to have mixed her up in her troubles; and so in all
humility she at once beat a retreat: "I beg your pardon, madame, I didn't
think I should hurt your feelings. Perhaps, too, I'm mistaken, as you
say."
Madame Mathis had again turned to her sewing as to the solitude in which
she lived, that nook of decent misery where she dwelt without
companionship and almost unknown, with scarcely sufficient bread to eat.
Ah! that dear son of hers, whom she loved so well; however much he might
neglect her, she had placed her only remaining hope in him: he was her
last dream, and would some day lavish all kinds of happiness upon her!
At that moment Mere-Grand came downstairs again, laden with a bundle of
linen and woollen clothing, and Madame Theodore and little Celine
withdrew while pouring forth their thanks. For a long time after they had
gone Guillaume, unable to resume work, continued walking to and fro in
silence, with a frown upon his face.
When Pierre, still hesitating and still tortured by conflicting feelings,
returned to Montmartre on the following day he witnessed with much
surprise a visit of a very different kind. There was a sudden gust of
wind, a whirl of skirts and a ring of laughter as little Princess
Rosemonde swept in, followed by young Hyacinthe Duvillard, who, on his
side, retained a very frigid bearing.
"It's I, my dear master," exclaimed the Princess. "I promised you a
visit, you remember, for I am such a great admirer of your genius. And
our young friend here has been kind enough to bring me. We have only just
returned from Norway, and my very first visit is for you."
She turned as she spoke, and bowed in an easy and gracious way to Pierre
and Marie, Francois and Antoine, who were also there. Then she resumed:
"Oh! my dear master, you have no idea how beautifully virginal Norway is!
We all ought to go and drink at that new source of the Ideal, and we
should return purified, rejuvenated and capable of great renunciations!"
As a matter of fact she had been well-nigh bored to death there. To make
one's honeymoon journey to the land of the ice and snow, instead of to
Italy, the hot land of the sun, was doubtless a very refined idea, which
showed that no base materialism formed part of one's affections. It was
the soul alone that travelled, and naturally it was fit that only kisses
of the soul should be exchanged on the journey. Unfortunately, however,
Hyacinthe had carried his symbolism so far as to exasperate Rosemonde,
and on one occasion they had come to blows over it, and then to tears
when this lover's quarrel had ended as many such quarrels do. Briefly,
they had no longer deemed themselves pure enough for the companionship of
the swans and the lakes of dreamland, and had therefore taken the first
steamer that was sailing for France.
As it was altogether unnecessary to confess to everybody what a failure
their journey had proved, the Princess abruptly brought her rapturous
references to Norway to an end, and then explained: "By the way, do you
know what I found awaiting me on my return? Why, I found my house
pillaged, oh! completely pillaged! And in such a filthy condition, too!
We at once recognised the mark of the beast, and thought of Bergaz's
young friends."
Already on the previous day Guillaume had read in the newspapers that a
band of young Anarchists had entered the Princess's little house by
breaking a basement window. She had left it quite deserted, unprotected
even by a caretaker; and the robbers had not merely removed everything
from the premises--including even the larger articles of furniture, but
had lived there for a couple of days, bringing provisions in from
outside, drinking all the wine in the cellars, and leaving every room in
a most filthy and disgusting condition. On discovering all this,
Rosemonde had immediately remembered the evening she had spent at the
Chamber of Horrors in the company of Bergaz and his acolytes, Rossi and
Sanfaute, who had heard her speak of her intended trip to Norway. The two
young men had therefore been arrested, but Bergaz had so far escaped. The
Princess was not greatly astonished by it all, for she had already been
warned of the presence of dangerous characters among the mixed
cosmopolitan set with which she associated. Janzen had told her in
confidence of a number of villanous affairs which were attributed to
Bergaz and his band. And now the Anarchist leader openly declared that
Bergaz had sold himself to the police like Raphanel; and that the
burglary at the Princess's residence had been planned by the police
officials, who thereby hoped to cover the Anarchist cause with mire. If
proof was wanted of this, added Janzen, it could be found in the fact
that the police had allowed Bergaz to escape.
"I fancied that the newspapers might have exaggerated matters," said
Guillaume, when the Princess had finished her story. "They are inventing
such abominable things just now, in order to blacken the case of that
poor devil Salvat."
"Oh! they've exaggerated nothing!" Rosemonde gaily rejoined. "As a matter
of fact they have omitted a number of particulars which were too filthy
for publication. . . . For my part, I've merely had to go to an hotel.
I'm very comfortable there; I was beginning to feel bored in that house
of mine. . . . All the same, however, Anarchism is hardly a clean
business, and I no longer like to say that I have any connection with
it."
She again laughed, and then passed to another subject, asking Guillaume
to tell her of his most recent researches, in order, no doubt, that she
might show she knew enough chemistry to understand him. He had been
rendered thoughtful, however, by the story of Bergaz and the burglary,
and would only answer her in a general way.
Meantime, Hyacinthe was renewing his acquaintance with his
school-fellows, Francois and Antoine. He had accompanied the Princess to
Montmartre against his own inclinations; but since she had taken to
whipping him he had become afraid of her. The chemist's little home
filled him with disdain, particularly as the chemist was a man of
questionable reputation. Moreover, he thought it a duty to insist on his
own superiority in the presence of those old school-fellows of his, whom
he found toiling away in the common rut, like other people.
"Ah! yes," said he to Francois, who was taking notes from a book spread
open before him, "you are at the Ecole Normale, I believe, and are
preparing for your licentiate. Well, for my part, you know, the idea of
being tied to anything horrifies me. I become quite stupid when there's
any question of examination or competition. The only possible road for
one to follow is that of the Infinite. And between ourselves what dupery
there is in science, how it narrows our horizon! It's just as well to
remain a child with eyes gazing into the invisible. A child knows more
than all your learned men."
Francois, who occasionally indulged in irony, pretended to share his
opinion. "No doubt, no doubt," said he, "but one must have a natural
disposition to remain a child. For my part, unhappily, I'm consumed by a
desire to learn and know. It's deplorable, as I'm well aware, but I pass
my days racking my brain over books. . . . I shall never know very much,
that's certain; and perhaps that's the reason why I'm ever striving to
learn a little more. You must at all events grant that work, like
idleness, is a means of passing life, though of course it is a less
elegant and aesthetic one."
"Less aesthetic, precisely," rejoined Hyacinthe. "Beauty lies solely in
the unexpressed, and life is simply degraded when one introduces anything
material into it."
Simpleton though he was in spite of the enormity of his pretensions, he
doubtless detected that Francois had been speaking ironically. So he
turned to Antoine, who had remained seated in front of a block he was
engraving. It was the one which represented Lise reading in her garden,
for he was ever taking it in hand again and touching it up in his desire
to emphasise his indication of the girl's awakening to intelligence and
life.
"So you engrave, I see," said Hyacinthe. "Well, since I renounced
versification--a little poem I had begun on the End of Woman--because
words seemed to me so gross and cumbersome, mere paving-stones as it
were, fit for labourers, I myself have had some idea of trying drawing,
and perhaps engraving too. But what drawing can portray the mystery which
lies beyond life, the only sphere that has any real existence and
importance for us? With what pencil and on what kind of plate could one
depict it? We should need something impalpable, something unheard of,
which would merely suggest the essence of things and beings."