will have guided Pierre; they already ride very well together."
"No doubt; still I should be better pleased if they were back home."
Then all at once, fancying that he heard the ring of a bicycle bell, he
called out: "There they are!" And forgetting everything else in his
satisfaction, he quitted his furnace and hastened into the garden in
order to meet them.
Mere-Grand, left to herself, quietly continued sewing, without a thought
that the manufacture of Guillaume's powder was drawing to an end in an
apparatus near her. A couple of minutes later, however, when Guillaume
came back, saying that he had made a mistake, his eyes suddenly rested on
his furnace, and he turned quite livid. Brief as had been his absence the
exact moment when it was necessary to turn off a tap in order that no
danger might attend the preparation of his powder had already gone by;
and now, unless someone should dare to approach that terrible tap, and
boldly turn it, a fearful explosion might take place. Doubtless it was
too late already, and whoever might have the bravery to attempt the feat
would be blown to pieces.
Guillaume himself had often run a similar risk of death with perfect
composure. But on this occasion he remained as if rooted to the floor,
unable to take a step, paralysed by the dread of annihilation. He
shuddered and stammered in momentary expectation of a catastrophe which
would hurl the work-shop to the heavens.
"Mere-Grand, Mere-Grand," he stammered. "The apparatus, the tap . . . it
is all over, all over!"
The old woman had raised her head without as yet understanding him. "Eh,
what?" said she; "what is the matter with you?" Then, on seeing how
distorted were his features, how he recoiled as if mad with terror, she
glanced at the furnace and realised the danger. "Well, but it's simple
enough," said she; "it's only necessary to turn off the tap, eh?"
Thereupon, without any semblance of haste, in the most easy and natural
manner possible, she deposited her needlework on a little table, rose
from her chair, and turned off the tap with a light but firm hand.
"There! it's done," said she. "But why didn't you do it yourself, my
friend?"
He had watched her in bewilderment, chilled to the bones, as if touched
by the hand of death. And when some colour at last returned to his
cheeks, and he found himself still alive in front of the apparatus whence
no harm could now come, he heaved a deep sigh and again shuddered. "Why
did I not turn it off?" he repeated. "It was because I felt afraid."
At that very moment Marie and Pierre came into the work-shop all chatter
and laughter, delighted with their excursion, and bringing with them the
bright joyousness of the sunlight. The three brothers, Thomas, Francis
and Antoine, were jesting with them, and trying to make them confess that
Pierre had at least fought a battle with a cow on the high road, and
ridden into a cornfield. All at once, however, they became quite anxious,
for they noticed that their father looked terribly upset.
"My lads," said he, "I've just been a coward. Ah! it's a curious feeling,
I had never experienced it before."
Thereupon he recounted his fears of an accident, and how quietly
Mere-Grand had saved them all from certain death. She waved her hand,
however, as if to say that there was nothing particularly heroic in
turning off a tap. The young men's eyes nevertheless filled with tears,
and one after the other they went to kiss her with a fervour instinct
with all the gratitude and worship they felt for her. She had been
devoting herself to them ever since their infancy, she had now just given
them a new lease of life. Marie also threw herself into her arms, kissing
her with gratitude and emotion. Mere-Grand herself was the only one who
did not shed tears. She strove to calm them, begging them to exaggerate
nothing and to remain sensible.
"Well, you must at all events let me kiss you as the others have done,"
Guillaume said to her, as he recovered his self-possession. "I at least
owe you that. And Pierre, too, shall kiss you, for you are now as good
for him as you have always been for us."
At table, when it was at last possible for them to lunch, he reverted to
that attack of fear which had left him both surprised and ashamed. He who
for years had never once thought of death had for some time past found
ideas of caution in his mind. On two occasions recently he had shuddered
at the possibility of a catastrophe. How was it that a longing for life
had come to him in his decline? Why was it that he now wished to live? At
last with a touch of tender affection in his gaiety, he remarked: "Do you
know, Marie, I think it is my thoughts of you that make me a coward. If
I've lost my bravery it's because I risk something precious when any
danger arises. Happiness has been entrusted to my charge. Just now when I
fancied that we were all going to die, I thought I could see you, and my
fear of losing you froze and paralysed me."
Marie indulged in a pretty laugh. Allusions to her coming marriage were
seldom made; however, she invariably greeted them with an air of happy
affection.
"Another six weeks!" she simply said.
Thereupon Mere-Grand, who had been looking at them, turned her eyes
towards Pierre. He, however, like the others was listening with a smile.
"That's true," said the old lady, "you are to be married in six weeks'
time. So I did right to prevent the house from being blown up."
At this the young men made merry; and the repast came to an end in very
joyous fashion.
During the afternoon, however, Pierre's heart gradually grew heavy.
Marie's words constantly returned to him: "Another six weeks!" Yes, it
was indeed true, she would then be married. But it seemed to him that he
had never previously known it, never for a moment thought of it. And
later on, in the evening, when he was alone in his room at Neuilly, his
heart-pain became intolerable. Those words tortured him. Why was it that
they had not caused him any suffering when they were spoken, why had he
greeted them with a smile? And why had such cruel anguish slowly
followed? All at once an idea sprang up in his mind, and became an
overwhelming certainty. He loved Marie, he loved her as a lover, with a
love so intense that he might die from it.
With this sudden consciousness of his passion everything became clear and
plain. He had been going perforce towards that love ever since he had
first met Marie. The emotion into which the young woman had originally
thrown him had seemed to him a feeling of repulsion, but afterwards he
had been slowly conquered, all his torments and struggles ending in this
love for her. It was indeed through her that he had at last found
quietude. And the delightful morning which he had spent with her that
day, appeared to him like a betrothal morning, in the depths of the happy
forest. Nature had resumed her sway over him, delivered him from his
sufferings, made him strong and healthy once more, and given him to the
woman he adored. The quiver he had experienced, the happiness he had
felt, his communion with the trees, the heavens, and every living
creature--all those things which he had been unable to explain, now
acquired a clear meaning which transported him. In Marie alone lay his
cure, his hope, his conviction that he would be born anew and at last
find happiness. In her company he had already forgotten all those
distressing problems which had formerly haunted him and bowed him down.
For a week past he had not once thought of death, which had so long been
the companion of his every hour. All the conflict of faith and doubt, the
distress roused by the idea of nihility, the anger he had felt at the
unjust sufferings of mankind, had been swept away by her fresh cool
hands. She was so healthy herself, so glad to live, that she had imparted
a taste for life even to him. Yes, it was simply that: she was making him
a man, a worker, a lover once more.
Then he suddenly remembered Abbe Rose and his painful conversation with
that saintly man. The old priest, whose heart was so ingenuous, and who
knew nothing of love and passion, was nevertheless the only one who had
understood the truth. He had told Pierre that he was changed, that there
was another man in him. And he, Pierre, had foolishly and stubbornly
declared that he was the same as he had always been; whereas Marie had
already transformed him, bringing all nature back to his breast--all
nature, with its sunlit countrysides, its fructifying breezes, and its
vast heavens, whose glow ripens its crops. That indeed was why he had
felt so exasperated with Catholicism, that religion of death; that was
why he had shouted that the Gospel was useless, and that the world
awaited another law--a law of terrestrial happiness, human justice and
living love and fruitfulness!
Ah, but Guillaume? Then a vision of his brother rose before Pierre, that
brother who loved him so fondly, and who had carried him to his home of
toil, quietude and affection, in order to cure him of his sufferings. If
he knew Marie it was simply because Guillaume had chosen that he should
know her. And again Marie's words recurred to him: "Another six weeks!"
Yes, in six weeks his brother would marry the young woman. This thought
was like a stab in Pierre's heart. Still, he did not for one moment
hesitate: if he must die of his love, he would die of it, but none should
ever know it, he would conquer himself, he would flee to the ends of the
earth should he ever feel the faintest cowardice. Rather than bring a
moment's pain to that brother who had striven to resuscitate him, who was
the artisan of the passion now consuming him, who had given him his whole
heart and all he had--he would condemn himself to perpetual torture. And
indeed, torture was coming back; for in losing Marie he could but sink
into the distress born of the consciousness of his nothingness. As he lay
in bed, unable to sleep, he already experienced a return of his
abominable torments--the negation of everything, the feeling that
everything was useless, that the world had no significance, and that life
was only worthy of being cursed and denied. And then the shudder born of
the thought of death returned to him. Ah! to die, to die without even
having lived!
The struggle was a frightful one. Until daybreak he sobbed in martyrdom.
Why had he taken off his cassock? He had done so at a word from Marie;
and now another word from her gave him the despairing idea of donning it
once more. One could not escape from so fast a prison. That black gown
still clung to his skin. He fancied that he had divested himself of it,
and yet it was still weighing on his shoulders, and his wisest course
would be to bury himself in it for ever. By donning it again he would at
least wear mourning for his manhood.
All at once, however, a fresh thought upset him. Why should he struggle
in that fashion? Marie did not love him. There had been nothing between
them to indicate that she cared for him otherwise than as a charming,
tender-hearted sister. It was Guillaume that she loved, no doubt. Then he
pressed his face to his pillow to stifle his sobs, and once more swore
that he would conquer himself and turn a smiling face upon their
happiness.
IV
TRIAL AND SENTENCE
HAVING returned to Montmartre on the morrow Pierre suffered so grievously
that he did not show himself there on the two following days. He
preferred to remain at home where there was nobody to notice his
feverishness. On the third morning, however, whilst he was still in bed,
strengthless and full of despair, he was both surprised and embarrassed
by a visit from Guillaume.
"I must needs come to you," said the latter, "since you forsake us. I've
come to fetch you to attend Salvat's trial, which takes place to-day. I
had no end of trouble to secure two places. Come, get up, we'll have
_dejeuner_ in town, so as to reach the court early."
Then, while Pierre was hastily dressing, Guillaume, who on his side
seemed thoughtful and worried that morning, began to question him: "Have
you anything to reproach us with?" he asked.
"No, nothing. What an idea!" was Pierre's reply.
"Then why have you been staying away? We had got into the habit of seeing
you every day, but all at once you disappear."
Pierre vainly sought a falsehood, and all his composure fled. "I had some
work to do here," said he, "and then, too, my gloomy ideas cane back to
me, and I didn't want to go and sadden you all."
At this Guillaume hastily waved his hand. "If you fancy that your absence
enlivens us you're mistaken," he replied. "Marie, who is usually so well
and happy, had such a bad headache on the day before yesterday that she
was obliged to keep her room. And she was ill at ease and nervous and
silent again yesterday. We spent a very unpleasant day."
As he spoke Guillaume looked Pierre well in the face, his frank loyal
eyes clearly revealing the suspicions which had come to him, but which he
would not express in words.
Pierre, quite dismayed by the news of Marie's indisposition, and
frightened by the idea of betraying his secret, thereupon managed to tell
a lie. "Yes, she wasn't very well on the day when we went cycling," he
quietly responded. "But I assure you that I have had a lot to do here.
When you came in just now I was about to get up and go to your house as
usual."
Guillaume kept his eyes on him for a moment longer. Then, either
believing him or deciding to postpone his search for the truth to some
future time, he began speaking affectionately on other subjects. With his
keen brotherly love, however, there was blended such a quiver of
impending distress, of unconfessed sorrow, which possibly he did not yet
realise, that Pierre in his turn began to question him. "And you," said
he, "are you ill? You seem to me to have lost your usual serenity."
"I? Oh! I'm not ill. Only I can't very well retain my composure; Salvat's
affair distresses me exceedingly, as you must know. They will all end by
driving me mad with the monstrous injustice they show towards that
unhappy fellow."
Thenceforward Guillaume went on talking of Salvat in a stubborn
passionate way, as if he wished to find an explanation of all his pain
and unrest in that affair. While he and Pierre were partaking of
_dejeuner_ at a little restaurant on the Boulevard du Palais he related
how deeply touched he was by the silence which Salvat had preserved with
regard both to the nature of the explosive employed in the bomb and the
few days' work which he had once done at his house. It was, thanks to
this silence, that he, Guillaume, had not been worried or even summoned
as a witness. Then, in his emotion, he reverted to his invention, that
formidable engine which would ensure omnipotence to France, as the great
initiatory and liberative power of the world. The results of the
researches which had occupied him for ten years past were now out of
danger and in all readiness, so that if occasion required they might at
once be delivered to the French government. And, apart from certain
scruples which came to him at the thought of the unworthiness of French
financial and political society; he was simply delaying any further steps
in the matter until his marriage with Marie, in order that he might
associate her with the gift of universal peace which he imagined he was
about to bestow upon the world.
It was through Bertheroy and with great difficulty that Guillaume had
managed to secure two seats in court for Salvat's trial. When he and
Pierre presented themselves for admission at eleven o'clock, they fancied
that they would never be able to enter. The large gates of the Palace of
Justice were kept closed, several passages were fenced off, and terror
seemed to reign in the deserted building, as if indeed the judges feared
some sudden invasion of bomb-laden Anarchists. Each door and barrier,
too, was guarded by soldiers, with whom the brothers had to parley. When
they at last entered the Assize Court they found it already crowded with
people, who were apparently quite willing to suffocate there for an hour
before the arrival of the judges, and to remain motionless for some seven
or eight hours afterwards, since it was reported that the authorities
wished to get the case over in a single sitting. In the small space
allotted to the standing public there was a serried mass of sightseers
who had come up from the streets, a few companions and friends of Salvat
having managed to slip in among them. In the other compartment, where
witnesses are generally huddled together on oak benches, were those
spectators who had been allowed admittance by favour, and these were so
numerous and so closely packed that here and there they almost sat upon
one another's knees. Then, in the well of the court and behind the bench,
were rows of chairs set out as for some theatrical performance, and
occupied by privileged members of society, politicians, leading
journalists, and ladies. And meantime a number of gowned advocates sought
refuge wherever chance offered, crowding into every vacant spot, every
available corner.
Pierre had never before visited the Assize Court, and its appearance
surprised him. He had expected much pomp and majesty, whereas this temple
of human justice seemed to him small and dismal and of doubtful
cleanliness. The bench was so low that he could scarcely see the
armchairs of the presiding judge and his two assessors. Then he was
struck by the profusion of old oak panels, balustrades and benches, which
helped to darken the apartment, whose wall hangings were of olive green,
while a further display of oak panelling appeared on the ceiling above.
From the seven narrow and high-set windows with scanty little white
curtains there fell a pale light which sharply divided the court. On one
hand one saw the dock and the defending counsel's seat steeped in frigid
light, while, on the other, was the little, isolated jury box in the
shade. This contrast seemed symbolical of justice, impersonal and
uncertain, face to face with the accused, whom the light stripped bare,
probed as it were to his very soul. Then, through a kind of grey mist
above the bench, in the depths of the stern and gloomy scene, one could
vaguely distinguish the heavy painting of "Christ Crucified." A white
bust of the Republic alone showed forth clearly against the dark wall
above the dock where Salvat would presently appear. The only remaining
seats that Guillaume and Pierre could find were on the last bench of the
witnesses' compartment, against the partition which separated the latter
from the space allotted to the standing public. Just as Guillaume was
seating himself, he saw among the latter little Victor Mathis, who stood
there with his elbows leaning on the partition, while his chin rested on
his crossed hands. The young man's eyes were glowing in his pale face
with thin, compressed lips. Although they recognised one another, Victor
did not move, and Guillaume on his side understood that it was not safe
to exchange greetings in such a place. From that moment, however, he
remained conscious that Victor was there, just above him, never stirring,
but waiting silently, fiercely and with flaming eyes, for what was going
to happen.
Pierre, meantime, had recognised that most amiable deputy Duthil, and
little Princess Rosemonde, seated just in front of him. Amidst the hubbub
of the throng which chatted and laughed to while away the time, their
voices were the gayest to be heard, and plainly showed how delighted they
were to find themselves at a spectacle to which so many desired
admittance. Duthil was explaining all the arrangements to Rosemonde,
telling her to whom or to what purpose each bench and wooden box was
allotted: there was the jury-box, the prisoner's dock, the seats assigned
to counsel for the defence, the public prosecutor, and the clerk of the
court, without forgetting the table on which material evidence was
deposited and the bar to which witnesses were summoned. There was nobody
as yet in any of these places; one merely saw an attendant giving a last
look round, and advocates passing rapidly. One might indeed have thought
oneself in a theatre, the stage of which remained deserted, while the
spectators crowded the auditorium waiting for the play to begin. To fill
up the interval the little Princess ended by looking about her for
persons of her acquaintance among the close-pressed crowd of sight-seers
whose eager faces were already reddening.
"Oh! isn't that Monsieur Fonsegue over there behind the bench, near that
stout lady in yellow?" she exclaimed. "Our friend General de Bozonnet is
on the other side, I see. But isn't Baron Duvillard here?"
"Oh! no," replied Duthil; "he could hardly come; it would look as if he
were here to ask for vengeance." Then, in his turn questioning Rosemonde,
the deputy went on: "Do you happen to have quarrelled with your handsome
friend Hyacinthe? Is that the reason why you've given me the pleasure of
acting as your escort to-day?"
With a slight shrug of her shoulders, the Princess replied that poets
were beginning to bore her. A fresh caprice, indeed, was drawing her into
politics. For a week past she had found amusement in the surroundings of
the ministerial crisis, into which the young deputy for Angouleme had
initiated her. "They are all a little bit crazy at the Duvillards', my
dear fellow," said she. "It's decided, you know, that Gerard is to marry
Camille. The Baroness has resigned herself to it, and I've heard from a
most reliable quarter that Madame de Quinsac, the young man's mother, has
given her consent."
At this Duthil became quite merry. He also seemed to be well informed on
the subject. "Yes, yes, I know," said he. "The wedding is to take place
shortly, at the Madeleine. It will be a magnificent affair, no doubt. And
after all, what would you have? There couldn't be a better finish to the
affair. The Baroness is really kindness personified, and I said all along
that she would sacrifice herself in order to ensure the happiness of her
daughter and Gerard. In point of fact that marriage will settle
everything, put everything in proper order again."
"And what does the Baron say?" asked Rosemonde.
"The Baron? Why, he's delighted," replied Duthil in a bantering way. "You
read no doubt this morning that Dauvergne is given the department of
Public Instruction in the new Ministry. This means that Silviane's
engagement at the Comedic is a certainty. Dauvergne was chosen simply on
that account."
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by little Massot, who,
after a dispute with one of the ushers some distance away, had perceived
a vacant place by the side of the Princess. He thereupon made her a
questioning sign, and she beckoned to him to approach.
"Ah!" said he, as he installed himself beside her, "I have not got here
without trouble. One's crushed to death on the press bench, and I've an
article to write. You are the kindest of women, Princess, to make a
little room for your faithful admirer, myself." Then, after shaking hands
with Duthil, he continued without any transition: "And so there's a new
ministry at last, Monsieur le Depute. You have all taken your time about
it, but it's really a very fine ministry, which everybody regards with
surprise and admiration."