BOOK I

TRUTH

[VÉRITÉ]

By

ÉMILE ZOLA

Translated by

ERNEST A. VIZETELLY

NEW YORK: JOHN LANE

THE BODLEY HEAD

1903

PREFACE

Conspicuous among the writings which influenced the great changes

witnessed by the world at the end of the eighteenth century were the

'Nouvelle Héloise,' the 'Contrat Social,' the 'Émile ou l'Éducation' of

Jean-Jacques Rousseau. At the close of the nineteenth, the advent of

the twentieth century, one finds three books, 'Fécondité,' 'Travail,'

and 'Vérité,' the works of Émile Zola, Rousseau's foremost descendant.

It is too soon by far to attempt to gauge the extent of the influence

which these works may exercise; but, disseminated in French and in many

other languages to the uttermost ends of the earth, they are works

which will certainly have to be reckoned with in a social as well as a

literary sense. The writings of Rousseau, violently assailed by some,

enthusiastically praised by others, ended by leaving their mark on

the world at large. Very few may read them nowadays, but in certain

essential respects their spirit pervaded the nineteenth century, and

their influence is not dead yet, for the influence which springs from

the eternal truths of nature cannot die. As for the critics who will

undoubtedly arise to dispute the likelihood of any great influence

being exercised by the last writings of Émile Zola, I adjourn them

to some twenty years hence. Rome was not built in a day, many long

years elapsed before the spirit of Rousseau's writings became fully

disseminated, and, although the world moves more quickly now than it

did then, time remains a factor of the greatest importance.

Moreover, the future alone can decide the fate of Émile Zola's last

books; for, while dealing with problems of the present time, they are

essentially books which appeal to the future for their justification.

Each of those three volumes, 'Fécondité,' 'Travail,' and 'Vérité,'

takes as its text an existing state of things, and then suggests

alterations and remedies which can only be applied gradually, long

years being required to bring about any substantial result. It is known

that the series was to have comprised a fourth and concluding volume,

which would have been entitled 'Justice'; and indeed the actual writing

of that volume would have been begun on September 29 last if, at an

early hour on that very day, the hand of Émile Zola had not been stayed

for ever by a tragic death, which a few precautions would undoubtedly

have prevented. At an earlier stage it was surmised--on many sides I

see by the newspaper cuttings before me--that this unwritten book,

'Justice,' would deal chiefly with the Dreyfus case, in which Zola

played so commanding and well-remembered a part. But that was a

mistake, a misconception of his intentions. Though his work would have

embraced the justice dispensed in courts of law, his chief thought

was social justice, equity as between class and class, man and man.

And thus the hand of death at least robbed those who are in any way

oppressed of a powerful statement of their rights.

As for the Dreyfus case, it figures in the present volume, or rather

it serves as the basis of one of the narratives unfolded in it.

The Dreyfus case certainly revealed injustice; but it even more

particularly revealed falsehood, the most unblushing and the most

egregious mendacity, the elevation of the _suppressio veri_ and the

_suggestio falsi_ to the dignity of a fine art. The world has known

greater deeds of injustice than the Dreyfus case, but never has it

known--and may it never again know--such a widespread exhibition of

mendacity, both so unscrupulous and so persevering, attended too by

the most amazing credulity on the part of nine-tenths of the French

nation--for small indeed (at the beginning, at all events) was the

heroic band which championed the truth. Behind all the mendacity and

credulity, beyond the personages directly implicated in the case,

stood one of the great forces of the world, the Roman Catholic Church.

Of all the ministers of that Church in France, only one raised his

voice in favour of the truth, all the others were tacitly or actively

accomplices in the great iniquity. And that will explain much which

will be found in Émile Zola's last book.

The horrible crime on which he bases a part of his narrative is not

ascribed to any military man (in fact the army scarcely figures in

'Vérité'); it is one of the crimes springing from the unnatural lives

led by those who have taken vows in the Roman Church, of which some

record will be found in the reports on criminality in France, which

the Keeper of the Seals issues every ten years. Many such crimes,

particularly those which are not carried to the point of murder,

are more or less hushed up, the offenders being helped to escape by

their friends in the Church; but sufficient cases have been legally

investigated during the last thirty years to enable one to say that

the crime set forth in 'Vérité' is not to be regarded as altogether

exceptional in its nature. The scene of the book is laid in the French

school world, and by the intriguing of clericalist teachers the crime

referred to is imputed to a Jew schoolmaster. Forthwith there comes an

explosion of that anti-Semitism--cruelly and cowardly spurred on by the

Roman Church--which was the very _fons et origo_ of the Dreyfus case.

On the dogmas of the Roman Church, and on her teaching methods with

the young, falls the entire responsibility of such fanaticism and

such credulity. Republican France, fully enlightened respecting the

Church's aims by many circumstances and occurrences--the Dreyfus

case, the treasonable monarchical spirit shown by her officers when

educated in Jesuit colleges, the whole Nationalist agitation, and the

very educational exhibits sent by the Religious Orders to the last

great world-show in Paris, exhibits which proved peremptorily that

1,600,000 children were being reared by Brothers and Sisters in hatred

and contempt of the government of the country--France is now driving

the Church from both the elementary and the superior schools. Those

who merely glance with indifference at the Paris letters and telegrams

appearing in the newspapers may be told that a great revolution is now

taking place in France, a revolution partaking of some of the features

of the Reformation, a change such as England, for instance, has not

witnessed since Henry VIII. and James II. The effects of that change

upon the world at large may be tremendous; Rome knows it, and resists

with the tenacity of despair; but faith in her dogmas and belief

in her protestations have departed from the great majority of the

French electorate; and, driven from the schools, unable in particular

to continue moulding the women by whom hitherto she has so largely

exercised her influence, the Church already finds herself in sore

straits, at a loss almost how to proceed. By hook or crook she will

resist, undoubtedly, to the last gasp; but with the secularisation of

the whole educational system it will be difficult for her to recruit

adherents in the future, and poison the national life as she did poison

it throughout the years of the Dreyfus unrest. She sowed the storm and

now she is reaping the whirlwind.

Besides the powerful 'story of a crime' which is unfolded in the

pages of 'Vérité,' besides the discussion of political and religious

methods and prospects, and the exposition of educational views which

will be found in the book, it has other very interesting features. The

whole story of Marc Froment and his struggle with his wife Geneviève

is admirable. It has appealed to me intensely, for personal reasons,

though happily my home never knew so fierce a conflict. Yet experience

has taught me what may happen when man and woman do not share the same

faith, and how, over the most passionate love, the sincerest affection,

there may for that reason fall a blighting shadow, difficult indeed to

dispel. And though Marc Froment at last found his remedy, as I found

mine, living to enjoy long after-years of perfect agreement with the

chosen helpmate, it is certain that a difference of religious belief

is a most serious danger for all who enter the married state, and that

it leads to the greatest misery, the absolute wrecking of many homes.

In 'Vérité' the subject is treated with admirable insight, force, and

pathos; and I feel confident that this portion of the book will be read

with the keenest interest.

Of the rest of the work I need hardly speak further; for I should

merely be paraphrasing things which will be found in it. Some of the

personages who figure in its pages will doubtless be recognised. Nobody

acquainted with the Dreyfus case can doubt, I think, the identity of

the scoundrel who served as the basis of Brother Gorgias. Father Crabot

also is a celebrity, and Simon, David, Delbos, and Baron Nathan are

drawn from life. There are several striking scenes--the discovery of

the crime, the arrest and the first trial of the Jew schoolmaster,

the parting of Marc from his wife, and subsequently from his daughter

Louise, the deaths of Madame Berthereau and Madame Duparque, and the

last public appearance of the impudent Gorgias. But amid all the

matter woven into the narrative one never loses sight of the chief

theme--the ignominy and even the futility of falsehood, the debasing

effects of credulity and ignorance, the health and power that come

from knowledge--this being the stepping-stone to truth, which ends by

triumphing over all things.

Let me add that the book is the longest as well as the last of my dear

master's writings. While translating it I have pruned it slightly here

and there in order to get rid of sundry repetitions. In so long a

work some repetition is perhaps necessary; and it must be remembered

that with Émile Zola repetition was more or less a method. One blow

seldom, if ever, sufficed him; he was bent on hammering his points into

his reader's skull. With the last part of 'Vérité' I have had some

little difficulty, the proofs from which my translation has been made

containing some scarcely intelligible passages, as well as various

errors in names and facts, which I have rectified as best I could.

These, however, are matters of little moment, and can hardly affect

the work as a whole, though, of course, it is unfortunate that Zola

should not have been spared to correct his last proofs.

And now as this is, in all likelihood, the last occasion on which I

shall be privileged to present one of his works in an English dress,

may I tender to all whom my translations have reached--the hundreds

of reviewers and the many thousands of readers in the lands where the

English language is spoken--my heartfelt thanks for the courtesy,

the leniency, the patience, the encouragement, the favour they have

shown to me for several years? As I said in a previous preface, I am

conscious of many imperfections in these renderings of mine. I can only

regret that they should not have been better; but, like others, I have

my limitations. At the same time I may say that I have never undertaken

any of these translations in a perfunctory or a mere mercantile spirit.

Such as they are, they have been to me essentially a labour of love.

And now that I am about to lay down my pen, that I see a whole period

of my life closing, I think it only right to express my gratitude to

all whose support has helped me to accomplish my self-chosen task of

placing the great bulk of Émile Zola's writings within the reach of

those Anglo-Saxons who, unfortunately, are unable to read French. My

good friend once remarked that it was a great honour and privilege to

be, if only for one single hour, the spokesman of one's generation.

I feel that the great honour and privilege of my life will consist

in having been--imperfectly no doubt, yet not I hope without some

fidelity--his spokesman for ten years among many thousands of my race.

E. A. V.

MERTON, SURREY, ENGLAND January, 1903

TRUTH

BOOK I

I

On the previous evening, that of Wednesday, Marc Froment, the Jonville

schoolmaster, with Geneviève his wife and Louise his little girl,

had arrived at Maillebois, where he was in the habit of spending a

month of his vacation, in the company of his wife's grandmother and

mother, Madame Duparque and Madame Berthereau--'those ladies,' as folk

called them in the district. Maillebois, which counted two thousand

inhabitants and ranked as the chief place of a canton, was only six

miles distant from the village of Jonville, and less than four from

Beaumont, the large old university town.

The first days of August were oppressively hot that year. There had

been a frightful storm on the previous Sunday, during the distribution

of prizes; and again that night, about two o'clock, a deluge of rain

had fallen, without, however, clearing the sky, which remained cloudy,

lowering, and oppressively heavy. The ladies, who had risen at six in

order to be ready for seven o'clock Mass, were already in their little

dining-room awaiting the younger folk, who evinced no alacrity to

come down. Four cups were set out on the white oilcloth table-cover,

and at last Pélagie appeared with the coffee-pot. Small of build and

red-haired, with a large nose and thin lips, she had been twenty years

in Madame Duparque's service, and was accustomed to speak her mind.

'Ah! well,' said she, 'the coffee will be quite cold, but it will not

be my fault.'

When she had returned, grumbling, to her kitchen, Madame Duparque also

vented her displeasure. 'It is unbearable,' she said; 'one might think

that Marc took pleasure in making us late for Mass whenever he stays

here.'

Madame Berthereau, who was more indulgent, ventured to suggest an

excuse. 'The storm must have prevented them from sleeping,' she

replied; 'but I heard them hastening overhead just now.'

Three and sixty years of age, very tall, with hair still very dark, and

a frigid, symmetrically wrinkled face, severe eyes, and a domineering

nose, Madame Duparque had long kept a draper's shop, known by the

sign of 'The Guardian Angel,' on the Place St. Maxence, in front of

the cathedral of Beaumont. But after the sudden death of her husband,

caused, it was said, by the collapse of a Catholic banking-house, she

had sensibly disposed of the business, and retired, with an income

of some six thousand francs a year, to Maillebois, where she owned a

little house. This had taken place about twelve years previously, and

her daughter, Madame Berthereau, being also left a widow, had joined

her with her daughter Geneviève, who was then entering her eleventh

year. To Madame Duparque, the sudden death of her son-in-law, a State

revenue _employé_, in whose future she had foolishly believed but who

died poor, leaving his wife and child on her hands, proved another

bitter blow. Since that time the two widows had resided together in

the dismal little house at Maillebois, leading a confined, almost

claustral, life, limited in an increasing degree by the most rigid

religious practices. Nevertheless Madame Berthereau, who had been

fondly adored by her husband, retained, as a memento of that awakening

to love and life, an affectionate gentleness of manner. Tall and dark,

like her mother, she had a sorrowful, worn, and faded countenance, with

submissive eyes and tired lips, on which occasionally appeared her

secret despair at the thought of the happiness she had lost.

It was by one of Berthereau's friends, Salvan, who, after being a

schoolmaster at Beaumont, became an Inspector of Elementary Schools

and, subsequently, Director of the Training College, that the

marriage of Marc and Geneviève was brought about. He was the girl's

surrogate-guardian. Berthereau, a liberal-minded man, did not follow

the observances of the Church, but he allowed his wife to do so; and

with affectionate weakness he had even ended by accompanying her to

Mass. In a similarly affectionate way, Salvan, whose freedom of

thought was yet greater than his friend's, for he relied exclusively on

experimental certainty, was imprudent enough to foist Marc into a pious

family, without troubling himself about any possibility of conflict.

The young people were very fond of each other, and in Salvan's opinion

they would assuredly arrange matters between them. Indeed, during her

three years of married life, Geneviève, who had been one of the best

pupils of the Convent of the Visitation at Beaumont, had gradually

neglected her religious observances, absorbed as she was in her love

for her husband. At this Madame Duparque evinced deep affliction,

although the young woman, in her desire to please her, made it a duty

to follow her to church whenever she stayed at Maillebois. But this

was not sufficient for the terrible old grandmother, who in the first

instance had tried to prevent the marriage, and who now harboured a

feeling of dark rancour against Marc, accusing him of robbing her of

her grandchild's soul.

'A quarter to seven!' she muttered as she heard the neighbouring church

clock strike. 'We shall never be ready!'

Then, approaching the window, she glanced at the adjacent Place des

Capucins. The little house was built at a corner of that square and

the Rue de l'Église. On its ground floor, to the right and the left

of the central passage, were the dining and drawing rooms, and in the

rear came the kitchen and the scullery, which looked into a dark and

mouldy yard. Then, on the first floor, on the right hand were two rooms

set apart for Madame Duparque, and, on the left, two others occupied

by Madame Berthereau; whilst under the tiles, in front of Pélagie's

bed-chamber and some store places, were two more little rooms, which

had been furnished for Geneviève during her girlhood, and of which

she gaily resumed possession whenever she now came to Maillebois

with her husband. But how dark was the gloom, how heavy the silence,

how tomblike the chill which fell from the dim ceilings! The Rue de

l'Église, starting from the apse of the parish church of St. Martin,

was too narrow for vehicular traffic; twilight reigned there even at

noontide; the house-fronts were leprous, the little paving-stones

were mossy, the atmosphere stank of slops. And on the northern side

the Place des Capucins spread out treeless, but darkened by the lofty

front of an old convent, which had been divided between the Capuchins,

who there had a large and handsome chapel, and the Brothers of the

Christian Schools, who had installed a very prosperous educational

establishment in some of the conventual dependencies.

Madame Duparque remained for a moment in contemplation of that deserted

space, across which flitted merely the shadowy figures of the devout;

its priestly quietude being enlivened at intervals only by the children

attending the Brothers' school. A bell rang slowly in the lifeless air,

and the old lady was turning round impatiently, when the door of the

room opened and Geneviève came in.

'At last!' the grandmother exclaimed. 'We must breakfast quickly: the

first bell is ringing.'

Fair, tall, and slender, with splendid hair, and a face all life and

gaiety inherited from her father, Geneviève, childlike still, though

two and twenty, was laughing with a laugh which showed all her white

teeth. But Madame Duparque, on perceiving that she was alone, began to

protest: 'What! is not Marc ready?'

'He's following me, grandmother; he is coming down with Louise.'

Then, after kissing her silent mother, Geneviève gave expression to the

amusement she felt at finding herself once more, as a married woman,

in the quiet home of her youth. Ah! she knew each paving-stone of

that Place des Capucins; she found old friends in the smallest tufts

of weeds. And by way of evincing amiability and gaining time, she was

going into raptures over the scene she viewed from the window, when all

at once, on seeing two black figures pass, she recognised them.

'Why, there are Father Philibin and Brother Fulgence!' she said. 'Where

can they be going at this early hour?'

The two clerics were slowly crossing the little square, which, under

the lowering sky, the shadows of their cassocks seemed to fill. Father

Philibin, forty years of age and of peasant origin, displayed square

shoulders and a course, round, freckled face, with big eyes, a large

mouth, and strong jaws. He was prefect of the studies at the College

of Valmarie, a magnificent property which the Jesuits owned in the

environs of Maillebois. Brother Fulgence, likewise a man of forty, but

little, dark, and lean, was the superior of the three Brothers with

whom he carried on the neighbouring Christian School. The son of a

servant girl and a mad doctor, who had died a patient in a madhouse, he

was of a nervous, irritable temperament, with a disorderly overweening

mind; and it was he who was now speaking to his companion in a very

loud voice and with sweeping gestures.

'The prizes are to be given at the Brothers' school this afternoon,'

said Madame Duparque by way of explanation. 'Father Philibin, who

is very fond of our good Brothers, has consented to preside at the

distribution. He must have just arrived from Valmarie; and I suppose he

is going with Brother Fulgence to settle certain details.'

But she was interrupted, for Marc had at last made his appearance,

carrying his little Louise, who, scarcely two years old, hung about his

neck, playing and laughing blissfully.

'Puff, puff, puff!' the young man exclaimed as he entered the room.

'Here we are in the railway train. One can't come quicker than by

train, eh?'

Shorter than his three brothers, Mathieu, Luc, and Jean, Marc Froment

had a longer and a thinner face, with the lofty towerlike family

forehead greatly developed. But his particular characteristics were

his spell-working eyes and voice, soft clear eyes which dived into

one's soul, and an engaging conquering voice which won both mind and

heart. Though he wore moustaches and a slight beard, one could see

his rather large, firm, and kindly mouth. Like all the sons of Pierre

and Marie Froment,[1] he had learned a manual calling, that of a

lithographer, and, securing his bachelor's degree when seventeen years

of age, he had come to Beaumont to complete his apprenticeship with

the Papon-Laroches, the great firm which supplied maps and diagrams to

almost every school in France. It was at this time that his passion

for teaching declared itself, impelling him to enter the Training

College of Beaumont, which he had quitted in his twentieth year as

an assistant-master, provided with a superior certificate. Having

subsequently secured that of Teaching Capacity, he was, when seven and

twenty, about to be appointed schoolmaster at Jonville when he married

Geneviève Berthereau, thanks to his good friend Salvan, who introduced

him to the ladies, and who was moved by the sight of the love which

drew the young folk together. And now, for three years past, Marc

and Geneviève, though their means were scanty and they experienced

all manner of pecuniary straits and administrative worries, had been

leading a delightful life of love in their secluded village, which

numbered barely eight hundred souls.

[Footnote 1: See M. Zola's novel, _Paris_.]

But the happy laughter of the father and the little girl did not

dissipate the displeasure of Madame Duparque. 'That railway train is

not worth the coaches of my youth,' said she. 'Come, let us breakfast

quickly, we shall never get there.'

She had seated herself, and was already pouring some milk into the

cups. While Geneviève placed little Louise's baby-chair between herself

and her mother, in order to keep a good watch over the child, Marc, who

was in a conciliatory mood, tried to secure the old lady's forgiveness.

'Yes, I have delayed you, eh?' he said. 'But it is your fault,

grandmother; one sleeps too soundly in your house, it is so very quiet.'

Madame Duparque, who was hurrying over her breakfast, with her nose

in her cup, did not condescend to answer. But a pale smile appeared

on the face of Madame Berthereau after she had directed a long look

at Geneviève, who seemed so happy between her husband and her child.

And in a low voice, as if speaking involuntarily, the younger widow

murmured, glancing slowly around her: 'Yes, very quiet, so quiet that

one cannot even feel that one is living.'

'All the same, there was some noise on the square at ten o'clock,' Marc

retorted. 'Geneviève was amazed. The idea of a disturbance at night on

the Place des Capucins!'

He had blundered badly in his desire to make the others laugh. This

time it was the grandmother who, with an offended air, replied: 'It

was the worshippers leaving the Capuchin Chapel. The offices of the

Adoration of the Holy Sacrament were celebrated yesterday evening at

nine o'clock. The Brothers took with them those of their pupils who

attended their first Communion this year, and the children were rather

free in talking and laughing as they crossed the square. But that is

far better than the abominable pastimes of the children who are brought

up without moral or religious guidance!'

Silence, deep and embarrassing, fell immediately. Only the rattle of

the spoons in the cups was to be heard. That accusation of abominable

pastimes was directed against Marc's school, with its system of

secular education. But, as Geneviève turned on him a little glance of

entreaty, he did not lose his temper. Before long he even resumed the

conversation, speaking to Madame Berthereau of his life at Jonville,

and also of his pupils, like a master who was attached to them and who

derived from them pleasure and satisfaction. Three, said he, had just

obtained the certificate awarded for successful elementary studies.

But at this moment the church bell again rang out slowly, sending a

wail through the heavy atmosphere above the mournful, deserted district.

'The last bell!' cried Madame Duparque. 'I said that we should never

get there in time!'

She rose, and had already begun to hustle her daughter and her

granddaughter, who were finishing their coffee, when Pélagie, the

servant, again appeared, this time trembling, almost beside herself,

and with a copy of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ in her hand.

'Ah! madame, madame, how horrible! The newspaper boy has just told

me----'

'What? Make haste!'

The servant was stifling.

'That little Zéphirin, the schoolmaster's nephew, has just been found

murdered, there, quite near, in his room.'

'Murdered!'

'Yes, madame; strangled in his nightdress. It is an abominable affair!'

A terrible shudder swept through the room; even Madame Duparque

quivered.

'Little Zéphirin?' said she. 'Ah! yes, the nephew of Simon, the Jew

schoolmaster, a child with a pretty face but infirm. For his part

the lad was a Catholic; he went to the Brothers' school, and he must

have been at the ceremony last night, for he took his first Communion

lately.... But what can you expect? Some families are accursed!'

Marc had listened, chilled and indignant. And careless now whether he

gave offence or not, he answered: 'Simon, I know Simon! He was at the

Training College with me; he is only two years older than myself. I

know nobody with a firmer intellect, a more affectionate heart. He had

given shelter to that poor child, that Catholic nephew, and allowed him

to attend the Brothers' school, from conscientious scruples which are

seldom found. What a frightful blow has fallen on him!'

Then the young man rose, quivering: 'I am going to him,' he added; 'I

want to hear everything, I want to sustain him in his grief.'

But Madame Duparque no longer listened. She was pushing Madame

Berthereau and Geneviève outside, scarcely allowing them time to put

on their hats. The ringing of the last bell had just ceased, and the

ladies hastened towards the church, amidst the heavy, storm-laden

silence of the deserted square. And Marc, after entrusting little

Louise to Pélagie, in his turn went out.

The elementary schools of Maillebois, newly built and divided into two

pavilions, one for boys and one for girls, stood on the Place de la

République, in front of the town hall, which was also a new building of

corresponding architecture, and only the High Street, really a section

of the road from Beaumont to Jonville running across the square,

separated the two edifices, which with their chalky whiteness were

the pride of the district. The High Street, which the parish church

of St. Martin likewise faced, a little further down, was, as became

a centre of trade, a populous thoroughfare, animated by the constant

coming and going of pedestrians and vehicles. But silence and solitude

were found again behind the schools, and weeds sprouted there between

the little paving-stones. A street, the Rue Courte, in which one found

but the parsonage and a stationer's shop kept by Mesdames Milhomme,

connected the sleepy end of the Place de la République with the Place

des Capucins, in such wise that Marc had few steps to take.

The school playgrounds faced the Rue Courte, and were separated by two

little gardens set apart for the schoolmaster and the schoolmistress.

On the ground floor of the boys' pavilion, at a corner of the

playground, was a tiny room, which Simon had been able to give to

little Zéphirin on taking charge of him. The boy was a nephew of his

wife, Rachel Lehmann, and a grandson of the old Lehmanns, who were poor

Jew tailors, dwelling in the Rue du Trou, the most wretched street

of Maillebois. Zéphirin's father, Daniel Lehmann, a mechanician, had

contracted a love-match with a Catholic girl, an orphan named Marie

Prunier, who had been reared by the Sisters, and was a dressmaker. The

young couple adored each other, and at first their son Zéphirin was not

baptised nor indeed brought up in any religious faith, neither parent

desiring to grieve the other by rearing the child according to his or

her particular creed. But after the lapse of six years a thunderbolt

fell: Daniel met with a frightful death, being caught and crushed to

pieces in some machinery before the very eyes of his wife, who had

come to the works, bringing his lunch with her. And Marie, terrified

by the sight, won back to the religion of her youth, picturing the

catastrophe as the chastisement of Heaven, which thereby punished

her for her guilt in having loved a Jew, soon caused her son to be

baptised, and sent him to the Brothers' school. Unhappily, through some

hereditary taint or flaw, the lad's frame became distorted, he grew

gradually humpbacked; in which misfortune the mother imagined she could

trace the implacable wrath of God pursuing her relentlessly, because

she was unable to pluck from her heart the fond memory of the husband

she had adored. That anguish, combined with excessive toil, ended

by killing her about the time when little Zéphirin, having reached

his eleventh birthday, was ready to take his first Communion. It was

then that Simon, though poor himself, gave the boy shelter, in order

that he might not become a charge on his wife's relations. At the

same time the schoolmaster, who was tolerant as well as kind-hearted,

contented himself with lodging and feeding his nephew, allowing him to

communicate as a Catholic and to complete his studies at the Brothers'

school.

The little room in which Zéphirin slept--formerly a kind of

lumber-room, but tidily arranged for him--had a window opening almost

on a level with the ground, behind the school, the spot being the

most secluded of the square. And that morning, about seven o'clock,

as young Mignot, the assistant-master, who slept on the first floor

of the building, went out, he noticed that Zéphirin's window was wide

open. Mignot was passionately fond of fishing, and, profiting by the

arrival of the vacation, he was about to start, in a straw hat and a

linen jacket, and with his rod on his shoulder, for the banks of the

Verpille, a streamlet which ran through the industrial quarter of

Maillebois. A peasant by birth, he had entered the Beaumont Training

College, even as he might have entered a seminary, in order to escape

the hard labour of the fields. Fair, with close-cut hair, he had a

massive pock-marked face, which gave him an appearance of sternness,

though he was not hardhearted, being indeed rather kindly disposed; but

his chief care was to do nothing which might impede his advancement. He

was five and twenty years of age, but showed no haste to get married,

waiting in that respect as in others, and destined to become such as

circumstances might decree. That morning he was greatly struck by

the sight of Zéphirin's open window, although there was nothing very

extraordinary in such a thing, for the lad usually rose at an early

hour. However, the young master drew near and glanced into the room.

Then stupefaction rooted him to the spot, and his horror found vent in

cries.

'O God, the poor boy! O God, God, what can have happened? What a

terrible misfortune!'

The tiny room, with its light wall paper, retained its wonted quietude,

its suggestion of happy boyhood. On the table was a coloured statuette

of the Virgin with a few books and little prints of a religious

character, carefully arranged and classified. The small white bed was

in no wise disarranged, the lad had not slept in it that night. The

only sign of disorder was an overturned chair. But on the rug beside

the bed Zéphirin was lying strangled, his face livid, his bare neck

showing the imprint of his murderer's cruel fingers. His rent garment

allowed a glimpse of his misshapen spine, the hump, that jutted out

below his left arm, which was thrown back across his head. In spite of

its bluish pallor his face retained its charm; it was the face of a

fair curly-haired angel, delicately girlish, with blue eyes, a slender

nose, and a small sweet mouth, whose gentle laugh in happy hours had

brought delightful dimples to the child's cheeks.

But Mignot, quite beside himself, did not cease to cry his horror

aloud. 'Ah! God, God, how frightful! For God's sake help, help! Come

quickly!'

Then Mademoiselle Rouzaire the schoolmistress, who heard the cries,

hastened to the spot. She had been paying an early visit to her garden,

being anxious about some lettuces which the stormy weather was helping

to go to seed. She was a red-haired woman of two and thirty, tall and

strongly built, with a round freckled face, big grey eyes, pale lips,

and a pointed nose, which denoted cunning and avaricious harshness.

Ugly though she was, her name had been associated with that of the

handsome Mauraisin, the Elementary Inspector, whose support ensured

her advancement. Moreover she was devoted to Abbé Quandieu, the parish

priest, the Capuchins, and even the Christian Brothers, and personally

conducted her pupils to the catechism classes and the church ceremonies.

As soon as she beheld the horrid sight, she also raised an outcry:

'Good Lord, take pity on us! It is a massacre; it is the devil's work,

O God of Mercy!'

Then, as Mignot was about to spring over the window-bar, she prevented

him: 'No, no, don't go in, one must ascertain, one must call----'

As she turned round, as if seeking somebody, she perceived Father

Philibin and Brother Fulgence emerging from the Rue Courte, on their

way from the Place des Capucins, across which Geneviève had seen them

pass. She recognised them, and raised her arms to heaven, as if at the

sight of Providence.

'Oh, Father! oh, Brother! come, come at once, the devil has been here!'

The two clerics drew near and experienced a terrible shock. But Father

Philibin, who was energetic and of a thoughtful bent, remained silent,

whereas impulsive Brother Fulgence, ever prompt to throw himself

forward, burst into exclamations: 'Ah! the poor child, ah! what a

horrid crime! So gentle and so good a lad, the best of our pupils, so

pious and fervent too! Come, we must investigate this matter, we cannot

leave things as they are.'

This time Mademoiselle Rouzaire did not dare to protest as the Brother

sprang over the window-bar followed by Father Philibin, who, having

perceived a ball of paper lying near the boy, at once picked it up.

From fear or rather prudence the schoolmistress did not join the

others; indeed, she even detained Mignot outside for another moment.

That which the ministers of the Deity might venture to do was not

fit perhaps for mere teachers. Meantime, while Brother Fulgence bent

over the victim without touching him, but again raising tumultuous

exclamations, Father Philibin, still silent, unrolled the paper ball,

and, to all appearance, examined it carefully. He was turning his back

to the window, and one could only see the play of his elbows, without

distinguishing the paper, the rustling of which could be heard. This

went on for a few moments; and when Mignot, in his turn, sprang into

the room he saw that the ball which Father Philibin had picked up had

been formed of a newspaper, in the midst of which a narrow, crumpled,

and stained slip of white paper appeared.

The Jesuit looked at the assistant-master, and quietly and slowly

remarked: 'It is a number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ dated yesterday,

August 2; but the singular thing is that, crumpled up in it, there

should be this copy-slip for a writing lesson. Just look at it.'

As the slip had been noticed by Mignot already, Father Philibin could

not do otherwise than show it; but he kept it between his big fingers

so that the other only distinguished the words, _'Aimez vous les uns

les autres'_ ('Love one another') lithographed in a well-formed

'English' round-hand. Rents and stains made this copy-slip a mere rag

of paper, and the assistant-master gave it only a brief glance, for

fresh exclamations now arose at the window.

They came from Marc, who had just arrived, and who was filled with

horror and indignation at the sight of the poor little victim. Without

listening to the schoolmistress's explanations, he brushed her aside

and vaulted over the window-bar. The presence of the two clerics

astonished him; but he learnt from Mignot that he and Mademoiselle

Rouzaire had summoned them as they were passing, immediately after the

discovery of the crime.

'Don't touch or disturb anything!' Marc exclaimed. 'One must at once

send to the mayor and the gendarmerie.'

People were collecting already; and a young man, who undertook the

suggested commission, set off at a run, while Marc continued to inspect

the room. In front of the body he saw Brother Fulgence distracted

with compassion, with his eyes full of tears, like a man of nervous

temperament unable to control emotion. Marc was really touched by

the Brother's demeanour. He himself shuddered at the sight of what

he beheld, for the abominable nature of the crime was quite evident.

And a thought, which was to return later on as a conviction, suddenly

flitted through his mind, then left him, in such wise that he was

only conscious of the presence of Father Philibin, who, full of deep

distressful calm, still held the newspaper and the writing-copy. For a

moment the Jesuit had turned round as if to look under the bed; then,

however, he had stepped back.

'You see,' he said, without waiting to be questioned, 'this is what I

found on the floor, rolled into a ball, which the murderer certainly

tried to thrust into the child's mouth as a gag, in order to stifle his

cries. As he did not succeed he strangled him. On this writing-copy,

soiled by saliva, one can see the marks left by the poor little

fellow's teeth. The ball was lying yonder, near that leg of the table.

Is that not so, Monsieur Mignot? You saw it?'

'Oh! quite so,' replied the assistant-master, 'I noticed it at once.'

As he drew near again and examined the copy, he felt vaguely surprised

on noticing that the right-hand corner of the slip of paper was torn

off. It seemed to him that he had not remarked that deficiency when

the Jesuit had first shown him the slip; but perhaps it had then been

hidden by Father Philibin's big fingers. However, Mignot's memory grew

confused; it would have been impossible for him to say whether that

corner had been torn away in the first instance or not.

Marc, however, having taken the slip from the Jesuit, was studying it

and expressing his thoughts aloud: 'Yes, yes, it has been bitten. But

it won't be much of an indication, for such slips are sold currently;

one can find them everywhere. Oh! but there is a kind of flourish down

here, I see, some initialling which one cannot well decipher.'

Without any haste, Father Philibin stepped up to him. 'Some

initialling? Do you think so? It seemed to me a mere blot, half effaced

by saliva and by the bite which pierced the slip, close by.'

'A blot, no! These marks are certainly initials, but they are quite

illegible.' Then, noticing that a corner of the slip was deficient,

Marc added: 'That, no doubt, was done by another bite. Have you found

the missing piece?'

Father Philibin answered that he had not looked for it; and he again

unfolded the newspaper and examined it carefully, while Mignot,

stooping, searched the floor. Nothing was found. Besides, the matter

was regarded as being of no importance. Marc agreed with the two

clerics that the murderer, seized with terror, must have strangled

the boy after vainly endeavouring to stifle his cries by stuffing the

paper gag into his mouth. The extraordinary circumstance was that the

copy-slip should have been found rolled up with the newspaper. The

presence of a number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ could be understood, for

anybody might have one in his pocket. But whence had that slip come,

how did it happen to be crumpled, almost kneaded, with the newspaper?

All sorts of suppositions were allowable, and the officers of the law

would have to open an investigation in order to discover the truth.

To Marc it seemed as if a calamitous gust had just swept through the

dim tragedy, suddenly steeping everything in horrid night. 'Ah!' he

murmured involuntarily, 'it is Crime, the monster, in the depths of his

dark pit.'

Meantime people continued to assemble before the window. On perceiving

the throng the Mesdames Milhomme, who kept the neighbouring stationery

business, had hastened from their shop. Madame Alexandre, who was

tall, fair, and gentle in appearance, and Madame Edouard, who was also

tall but dark and somewhat rough, felt the more concerned as Victor,

the latter's son, went to the Brothers' school, while Sébastien,

the former's boy, attended Simon's. Thus they listened eagerly to

Mademoiselle Rouzaire, who, standing in the middle of the group, was

giving various particulars, pending the arrival of the mayor and the

gendarmes.

'I went myself,' she said, 'to that touching Adoration of the Holy

Sacrament at the Capuchin Chapel last evening, and poor Zéphirin was

there with a few schoolfellows--those who took their first Communion

this year. He edified us all, he looked a little angel.'

'My son Victor did not go, for he is only nine years old,' Madame

Edouard answered. 'But did Zéphirin go alone? Did nobody bring him

back?'

'Oh! the chapel is only a few yards distant,' the schoolmistress

explained. 'I know that Brother Gorgias had orders to escort the

children whose parents could not attend, and whose homes are rather

distant. But Madame Simon asked me to watch over Zéphirin, and it

was I who brought him back. He was very gay; he opened the shutters,

which were simply pushed to, and sprang into his room through the open

window, laughing and saying that it was the easiest and shortest way. I

stayed outside for a moment, waiting until he had lighted his candle.'

Marc, drawing near, had listened attentively. 'What time was it?' he

now inquired.

'Exactly ten,' Mademoiselle Rouzaire replied. 'St. Martin's clock was

striking.'

The others shuddered, moved by that account of the lad springing so

gaily into the room where he was to meet such a tragic death. And

Madame Alexandre gently gave expression to a thought which suggested

itself to all: 'It was hardly prudent to let the lad sleep by himself

in this lonely room, so easily reached from the square. The shutters

ought to have been barred at night.'

'Oh! he fastened them,' said Mademoiselle Rouzaire.

'Did he do so last night while you were here?' inquired Marc,

intervening once more.

'No, when I left him to go to my rooms he had lighted his candle and

was arranging some pictures on his table, with the window wide open.'

Mignot, the assistant-master, now joined in the conversation. 'This

window made Monsieur Simon anxious,' he said; 'he wished he could have

given the lad another room. He often recommended him to fasten the

shutters carefully. But I fear that the child paid little heed.'

The two clerics in their turn had now decided to quit the room. Father

Philibin, after laying the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ and the

copy-slip on the table, had ceased speaking, preferring to look and

listen; and he followed very attentively each word and gesture that

came from Marc, while Brother Fulgence, for his part, continued to

relieve himself with lamentations. Eventually, the Jesuit, who seemed

to read the young schoolmaster's thoughts in his eyes, remarked to him:

'So you think that some tramp, some night prowler, seeing the boy alone

in this room, may have got in by the window?'

From prudence Marc would express no positive opinion. 'Oh! I think

nothing,' said he; 'it is for the law to seek and find the murderer.

However, the bed has not been opened, the boy was certainly about to

get into it, and this seems to show that, the crime must have been

committed shortly after ten o'clock. Suppose that he busied himself

for half an hour at the utmost with his pictures, and that he then saw

a stranger spring into his room. In that case he would have raised a

cry, which would certainly have been heard. You heard nothing, did you,

mademoiselle?'

'No, nothing,' the schoolmistress replied. 'I myself went to bed about

half-past ten. The neighbourhood was very quiet. The storm did not

awaken me until about one o'clock this morning.'

'Very little of the candle has been burnt,' Mignot now observed. 'The

murderer must have blown it out as he went off by the window, which he

left wide open, as I found it just now.'

These remarks, which lent some weight to the theory of a prowler

springing into the room, ill-using and murdering the boy, increased the

horror-fraught embarrassment of the bystanders. All wished to avoid

being compromised, and therefore kept to themselves their thoughts

respecting the impossibilities or improbabilities of the theory which

had been propounded. After a pause, however, as the mayor and the

gendarmes did not appear, Father Philibin inquired: 'Is not Monsieur

Simon at Maillebois?'

Mignot, who had not recovered from the shock of his discovery, gazed

at the Jesuit with haggard eyes. To bring the assistant-master to his

senses, Marc himself had to express his astonishment: 'But Simon is

surely in his rooms! Has he not been told?'

'Why no!' the assistant answered, 'I must have lost my head. Monsieur

Simon went to attend a banquet at Beaumont yesterday evening, but he

certainly came home during the night. His wife is rather poorly; they

must be still in bed.'

It was now already half-past seven, but the stormy sky remained so dark

and heavy that one might have thought dawn was only just appearing

in that secluded corner of the square. However, the assistant-master

made up his mind and ascended the stairs to fetch Simon. What a happy

awakening it would be for the latter, he muttered sarcastically, and

what an agreeable commission for himself was that which he had to

fulfil with his chief!

Simon was the younger son of a Jew clockmaker of Beaumont; he had a

brother, David, who was his elder by three years. When he was fifteen

and David eighteen their father, ruined by lawsuits, succumbed to a

sudden attack of apoplexy; and three years later their mother died

in very straitened circumstances. Simon had then just entered the

Training College, while David joined the army. The former, quitting

the college at an early age, became assistant-master at Dherbecourt,

a large _bourg_ of the district, where he remained nearly ten years.

There also, in his twenty-sixth year, he married Rachel Lehmann, the

daughter of the little tailor of the Rue du Trou, who had a fair number

of customers at Maillebois. Rachel, a brunette with magnificent hair

and large caressing eyes, was very beautiful. Her husband adored her,

encompassed her with passionate worship. Two children had been born to

them, a boy, Joseph, now four, and a girl, Sarah, two years of age.

And Simon, duly provided with a certificate of Teaching Capacity, was

proud of the fact that at two and thirty he should be schoolmaster at

Maillebois--where he had now dwelt a couple of years--for this was an

instance of rapid advancement.

Marc, though he disliked the Jews by reason of a sort of hereditary

antipathy and distrust, the causes of which he had never troubled to

analyse, retained a friendly recollection of Simon, whom he had known

at the Training College. He declared him to be extremely intelligent,

a very good teacher, full of a sense of duty. But he found him too

attentive to petty details, too slavishly observant of regulations,

which he followed to the very letter, ever bending low before

discipline, as if fearful of a bad report and the dissatisfaction of

his superiors. In this Marc traced the terror and humility of the

Jewish race, persecuted for so many centuries, and ever retaining a

dread of outrage and iniquity. Moreover, Simon had good cause for

prudence, for his appointment at Maillebois, that clerical little

town with its powerful Capuchin community and its Brothers' school,

had caused almost a scandal. It was only by dint of correctitude

and particularly of ardent patriotism among his pupils, such as the

glorification of France as a military power, the foretelling of

national glory and a supreme position among the nations, that Simon

obtained forgiveness for being a Jew.

He now suddenly made his appearance, accompanied by Mignot. Short,

thin, and sinewy, he had red, closely-cropped hair and a sparse beard.

His blue eyes were soft, his mouth was well shaped, his nose of the

racial type, long and slender; yet his physiognomy was scarcely

prepossessing, it remained vague, confused, paltry; and at that moment

he was so terribly upset by the dreadful tidings that, as he appeared

before the others, staggering and stammering, one might have thought

him intoxicated.

'Great God! is it possible?' he gasped. 'Such villainy, such

monstrosity!'

But he reached the window, where he remained like one overwhelmed,

unable to speak another word, and shuddering from head to foot, his

glance fixed meanwhile on the little victim. Those who were present,

the two clerics, the lady stationers, and the schoolmasters, watched

him in silence, astonished that he did not weep.

Marc, stirred by compassion, took hold of his hands and embraced him:

'Come, you must muster your courage; you need all your strength,' he

said to him.

But Simon, without listening, turned to his assistant. 'Pray go back

to my wife, Mignot,' he said; 'I do not want her to see this. She was

very fond of her nephew, and she is too poorly to be able to bear such

a horrible sight.'

Then, as the young man went off, he continued in broken accents: 'Ah!

what an awakening! For once in a while we were lying late in bed. My

poor Rachel was still asleep, and, as I did not wish to disturb her, I

remained by her side, thinking of our holiday pleasures. I roused her

late last night when I came home, and she did not get to sleep again

till three in the morning, for the storm upset her.'

'What time was it when you came home?' Marc inquired.

'Exactly twenty minutes to twelve. My wife asked me the time and I

looked at the clock.'

This seemed to surprise Mademoiselle Rouzaire, who remarked: 'But there

is no train from Beaumont at that hour.'

'I didn't come back by train,' Simon explained. 'The banquet lasted

till late, I missed the 10.30 train, and rather than wait for the one

at midnight I decided to walk the distance. I was anxious to join my

wife.'

Father Philibin still preserved silence and calmness; but Brother

Fulgence, unable to restrain himself any longer, began to question

Simon.

'Twenty minutes to twelve! Then the crime must have been committed

already. You saw nothing? You heard nothing?'

'Nothing at all. The square was deserted, the storm was beginning to

rumble in the distance. I did not meet a soul. All was quiet in the

house.'

'Then it did not occur to you to go to see if poor Zéphirin had

returned safely from the chapel, and if he were sleeping soundly? Did

you not pay him a visit every evening?'

'No, he was already a very shrewd little man, and we left him as

much liberty as possible. Besides, the place was so quiet, there was

nothing to suggest any reason for disturbing his sleep. I went straight

upstairs to my room, making the least possible noise. I kissed my

children, who were asleep, then I went to bed; and, well pleased to

find my wife rather better, I chatted with her in an undertone.'

Father Philibin nodded as if approvingly, and then remarked: 'Evidently

everything can be accounted for.'

The bystanders seemed convinced; the theory of a prowler committing the

crime about half-past ten o'clock, entering and leaving the room by

the window, seemed more and more probable. Simon's statement confirmed

the information given by Mignot and Mademoiselle Rouzaire. Moreover,

the Mesdames Milhomme, the stationers, asserted that they had seen an

evil-looking man roaming about the square at nightfall.

'There are so many rascals on the roads!' said the Jesuit Father by

way of conclusion. 'We must hope that the police will set hands on the

murderer, though such a task is not always an easy one.'

Marc alone experienced a feeling of uncertainty. Although he had been

the first to think it possible that some stranger might have sprung on

Zéphirin, he had gradually realised that there was little probability

of such an occurrence. Was it not more likely that the man had been

acquainted with the boy and had at first approached him as a friend?

Then, however, had come the abominable impulse, horror and murder,

strangulation as a last resource to stifle the victim's cries, followed

by flight amidst a gust of terror. But all this remained very involved;

and after some brief perception of its probability Marc relapsed into

darkness, into the anxiety born of contradictory suppositions. He

contented himself with saying to Simon, by way of calming him: 'All the

evidence agrees: the truth will soon be made manifest.'

At that moment, just as Mignot returned after prevailing on Madame

Simon to remain in her room, Darras, the Mayor of Maillebois, arrived

with three gendarmes. A building contractor, on the high road to a

considerable fortune, Darras was a stout man of forty-two, with a fair,

round, pinky, clean-shaven face. He immediately ordered the shutters to

be closed and placed two gendarmes outside the window, while the third,

entering the house passage, went to guard the door of the room, which

Zéphirin never locked. From this moment the orders were that nothing

should be touched, and that nobody should even approach the scene of

the crime. On hearing of it the mayor had immediately telegraphed to

the Public Prosecution Office at Beaumont, and the magistrates would

surely arrive by the first train.

Father Philibin and Brother Fulgence now spoke of having to attend to

various matters connected with the distribution of prizes which was to

take place in the afternoon, and Darras advised them to make haste and

then return, for, said he, the Procureur de la République, otherwise

the Public Prosecutor, would certainly wish to question them about

the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ and the copy-slip found near the

body. So the two clerics took their departure; and while the gendarmes,

stationed on the square outside the window, with difficulty restrained

the now increasing crowd, which became violent and raised threatening

cries, demanding the execution of the unknown murderer, Simon again

went into the building with Darras, Marc, Mademoiselle Rouzaire, and

Mignot, the whole party waiting in a large classroom lighted by broad

windows which faced the playground.

It was now eight o'clock, and after a sudden stormy rainfall, the sky

cleared, and the day became a splendid one. An hour elapsed before

the magistrates arrived. The Procureur de la République, Raoul de La

Bissonnière, came in person, accompanied by Daix, the Investigating

Magistrate. Both were moved by the magnitude of the crime and foresaw

a great trial. La Bissonnière, a dapper little man with a doll-like

face, and whiskers of a correct legal cut, was very ambitious. Not

content with his rapid advancement to the post he held--he was only

forty-five--he was ever on the watch for some resounding case which

would launch him in Paris, where, thanks to his suppleness and address,

his complaisant respect for the powers of the day, whatever they might

be, he relied on securing a high position. On the other hand, Daix,

tall and lean, with a sharp-cut face, was a type of the punctilious

Investigating Magistrate, devoted to his professional duties. But he

was also of an anxious and timid nature, for his ugly but coquettish

and extravagant wife, exasperated by the poverty of their home,

terrorised and distressed him with her bitter reproaches respecting his

lack of ambition.

On reaching the schools the legal functionaries, before taking any

evidence, desired to visit the scene of the crime. Simon and Darras

accompanied them to Zéphirin's bed-chamber while the others, who

were soon joined by Father Philibin and Brother Fulgence, waited in

the large classroom. When the magistrates returned thither, they had

verified all the material features of the crime, and were acquainted

with the various circumstances already known to the others. They

brought with them the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ and the

copy-slip, to which they seemed to attach extreme importance. At once

seating themselves at Simon's table, they examined those two pieces

of evidence, exchanging impressions concerning them, and then showing

the copy-slip to the two schoolmasters, Simon and Marc, as well as to

the schoolmistress and the clerics. But this was only done by way of

eliciting some general information, for no clerk was present to record

a formal interrogatory.

'Oh! those copies,' Marc replied, 'are used currently in all the

schools, in the secular ones as well as in those of the religious

orders.'

This was confirmed by Brother Fulgence. 'Quite so,' said he; 'similar

ones would be found at our school, even as there must be some here.'

La Bissonnière, however, desired more precise information. 'But do you

remember having placed this one in the hands of any of your pupils?' he

asked Simon. 'Those words "Love one another" must have struck you.'

'That copy was never used here,' Simon answered flatly. 'As you point

out, monsieur, I should have recollected it.'

The same question was then addressed to Brother Fulgence, who at

first evinced some little hesitation. 'I have three Brothers with

me--Brothers Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias,' he replied, 'and it is

difficult for me to avouch anything.'

Then, in the deep silence which was falling, he added: 'But no, no,

that copy was never used at our school, for it would have come before

me.'

The magistrates did not insist on the point. For the time being they

did not wish the importance which they attached to the slip to become

too manifest. They expressed their surprise, however, that the missing

corner of it had not been found.

'Do not these slips sometimes bear in one corner a stamp of the school

to which they belong?' Daix inquired. Brother Fulgence had to admit

that it was so, but Marc protested that he had never stamped any

copy-slips used in his school.

'Excuse me,' declared Simon in his tranquil way, 'I have some

slips here on which a stamp would be found. But I stamp them down

below--here!'

Perceiving the perplexity of the magistrates, Father Philibin, hitherto

silent and attentive, indulged in a light laugh. 'This shows,' he said,

'how difficult it is to arrive at the truth.... By the way, Monsieur

le Procureur de la République, matters are much the same with the

stain which you are now examining. One of us fancied it to be some

initialling, a kind of flourish. But, for my part, I believe it to be a

blot which some pupil tried to efface with his finger.'

'Is it usual for the masters to initial the copy-slips?' asked Daix.

'Yes,' Brother Fulgence acknowledged, 'that is done at our school.'

'Ah! no,' cried Simon and Marc in unison, 'we never do it in the

Communal schools.'

'You are mistaken,' said Mademoiselle Rouzaire, although I do not stamp

my copies, I have sometimes initialled them.'

With a wave of the hand La Bissonnière stopped the discussion, for

he knew by experience what a muddle is reached when one enters into

secondary questions of personal habits. The copy-slip, the missing

corner of it, the possible existence of a stamp and a paraph would all

have to be studied in the course of the investigation. For the moment

he now contented himself with asking the witnesses to relate how the

crime had been discovered. Mignot had to say that the open window had

attracted his attention and that he had raised an outcry on perceiving

the victim's body. Mademoiselle Rouzaire explained how she had hastened

to the spot and how, on the previous evening, she had brought Zéphirin

home from the Capuchin Chapel, when he had sprung into the room by the

window. Father Philibin and Brother Fulgence in their turn related how

chance had connected them with the tragedy, in what condition they had

found the room, and in what particular spot they had discovered the

paper gag, which they had merely unfolded before placing it on the

table. Finally, Marc indicated a few observations which he had made on

his arrival, subsequent to that of the others.

La Bissonnière thereupon turned to Simon and began to question him:

'You have told us that you came home at twenty minutes to twelve, and

that the whole house then seemed to you to be perfectly quiet. Your

wife was asleep----'

At this point Daix interrupted his superior: 'Monsieur le Procureur,'

said he, 'is it not advisable that Madame Simon should be present?

Could she not come down here a moment?'

La Bissonnière nodded assent, and Simon went to fetch his wife, who

soon made her appearance.

Rachel, attired in a plain morning wrap of unbleached linen, looked

so beautiful as she entered the room amidst the deep silence, that

a little quiver of admiration and tender sympathy sped by. Hers was

the Jewish beauty in its flower, a delightfully oval face, splendid

black hair, a gilded skin, large caressing eyes, and a red mouth with

speckless, dazzling teeth. And one could tell that she was all love, a

trifle indolent, living in seclusion in her home, with her husband and

her children, like a woman of the East in her little secret garden.

Simon was about to close the door behind her, when the two children,

Joseph and Sarah, four and two years old respectively, and both of them

strong and flourishing, ran in, although they had been forbidden to

come downstairs. And they sought refuge in the folds of their mother's

wrap, where the magistrates, by a gesture, intimated they might remain.

The gallant La Bissonnière, moved by the sight of such great beauty,

imparted a flute-like accent to his voice as he asked Rachel a few

questions: 'It was twenty minutes to twelve, madame, was it not, when

your husband came home?'

'Yes, monsieur, he looked at the clock. And he was in bed and we were

still chatting in an undertone and with the light out, in order that

the children might not be roused, when we heard midnight strike.'

'But before your husband's arrival, madame, between half-past ten and

half-past eleven, did you hear nothing, no footsteps nor talking, no

sounds of struggling, nor stifled cries?'

'No, absolutely nothing, monsieur. I was asleep. It was my husband's

entry into our room which awoke me. He had left me feeling poorly,

and he was so pleased to find me better that he began to laugh as he

kissed me, and I made him keep quiet for fear lest the others should

be disturbed, so deep was the silence around us. Ah! how could we have

imagined that such a frightful misfortune had fallen on the house!'

She was thoroughly upset, and tears coursed down her cheeks, while

she turned towards her husband as if for consolation and support. And

he, weeping now at the sight of her grief, and forgetting where he

was, caught her passionately in his arms, and kissed her with infinite

tenderness. The two children raised their heads anxiously. There was

a moment of deep emotion and compassionate kindliness, in which all

participated.

'I was rather surprised at the time because there is no train at that

hour,' resumed Madame Simon of her own accord. 'But when my husband was

in bed he told me how it happened.'

'Yes,' Simon explained, 'I could not do otherwise than attend that

banquet; but when, on reaching the station at Beaumont, I saw the

half-past ten o'clock train steaming away before my eyes, I felt so

annoyed that I would not wait for the train at midnight, but set out

on foot at once. A walk of less than four miles is nothing to speak of.

The night was very beautiful, very warm.... About one o'clock, when the

storm burst, I was still talking softly to my wife, telling her how I

had spent my evening, for she could not get to sleep again. It was that

which kept us late in bed this morning, ignorant of the dreadful blow

that had fallen on us.'

Then, as Rachel began to weep again, he once more kissed her, like a

lover and like a father. 'Come, my darling, calm yourself. We loved

the poor little fellow with all our hearts, and we have no cause for

self-reproach in this abominable catastrophe.'

That was also the opinion of the onlookers. Darras, the mayor,

professed great esteem for the zealous and honest schoolmaster Simon.

Mignot and Mademoiselle Rouzaire, although by no means fond of the

Jews, shared the opinion that this one at all events strove by

irreproachable conduct to obtain forgiveness for his birth. Father

Philibin and Brother Fulgence on their side, in presence of the general

sentiment of the others, affected neutrality, remaining apart and

preserving silence, while with keen eyes they scrutinised people and

things. The magistrates, thrown back on the theory of some stranger who

must have entered and left the boy's room by the window, had to rest

content with this first verification of the facts. Only one point as

yet was clearly established, the hour of the crime, which must have

been perpetrated between half-past ten and eleven o'clock. As for the

crime itself it remained engulfed in darkness.

Leaving the authorities, who had certain details to settle, Marc,

after embracing Simon in brotherly fashion, was desirous of going home

to lunch. The scene between the husband and the wife had taught him

nothing, for he well knew how tenderly they loved each other. But tears

had come to his eyes, he had been deeply stirred by the sight of such

dolorous affection.

Noon was about to strike at St. Martin's Church when he again found

himself on the square, which was now blocked by such an increasing

crowd that it was difficult for him to open a way. As the news of the

crime spread, folk arrived from all directions, pressing towards the

closed window, which the two gendarmes could hardly defend; and the

horribly exaggerated accounts of the affair which circulated through

the crowd raised its indignation to fever heat and made it growl

wrathfully. Marc had just freed himself from the throng when a priest

approached him and inquired:

'Have you come from the school, Monsieur Froment? Are all these

horrible things which people are repeating true?'

The questioner was Abbé Quandieu, priest of St. Martin's, the parish

church. Forty-three years old, tall and robust, the Abbé had a gentle,

kindly face, with light blue eyes, round cheeks, and a soft chin. Marc

had met him at Madame Duparque's, for he was the old lady's confessor

and friend. And though the schoolmaster was not fond of priests he

felt some esteem for this one, knowing that he was tolerant and

reasonable--possessed, too, of more feeling than real mental ability.

In a few words Marc recounted the facts of the case, which were already

sufficiently horrid.

'Ah, poor Monsieur Simon!' said the priest compassionately, 'how deeply

grieved he must be, for he was very much attached to his nephew and

behaved very well in regard to him! I have had proof of it.'

This spontaneous testimony pleased Marc, who remained conversing

with the priest for another minute. But a Capuchin Father drew near,

Father Théodose, the Superior of the little community attached to the

neighbouring chapel. Superbly built, having also a handsome face with

large ardent eyes, and a splendid dark beard, which rendered him quite

majestic, Father Théodose was a confessor of repute, and a preacher of

a mystical turn, whose glowing accents attracted all the devout women

of Maillebois. Though he was covertly waging war against Abbé Quandieu,

he affected in his presence the deferential manner of a younger and

more humbly situated servant of Providence. He immediately gave

expression to his emotion and his grief, for he had noticed the poor

child, he said, at the chapel on the previous evening. So pious a child

he was, a little angel with a cherub's fair curly locks. But Marc did

not tarry to listen, for the Capuchin inspired him with unconquerable

distrust and antipathy. So he turned his steps homeward; but all at

once he was again stopped, this time by a friendly tap on the shoulder.

'What! Férou, are you at Maillebois?' he exclaimed. The man whom he

addressed by the name of Férou was schoolmaster at Le Moreau, a lonely

hamlet, some two and a half miles from Jonville. The little place had

not even a priest of its own, but was looked after, from the religious

standpoint, by the Jonville priest, Abbé Cognasse. Férou there led a

life of black misery with his wife and his children, three girls. He

was a big loosely-built fellow of thirty, whose clothes always seemed

too short for him. His dark hair bristled on his long and bony head,

he had a bumpy nose, a wide mouth, and a projecting chin, and knew not

what to do with his big feet and his big hands.

'You know very well that my wife's aunt keeps a grocery shop here,'

he answered. 'We came over to see her. But, I say, what an abominable

business this is about the poor little hunchback! Won't it just enable

those dirty priests to belabour us and say that we pervert and poison

the young!'

Marc regarded Férou as a very intelligent, well-read man, whom a

confined life full of privations had embittered to the point of

violence and inspired with ideas of revenge. The virulence of the

remark he had just made disturbed Marc, who rejoined: 'Belabour us? I

don't see what we have to do with it.'

'Then you are a simpleton,' Férou retorted. 'You don't understand that

species, but you will soon see the good Fathers and the dear Brothers,

all the black gowns, hard at work. Haven't they already allowed it to

be surmised that Simon himself strangled his nephew?'

At this Marc lost his temper. Férou's hatred of the Church led him too

far.

'You are out of your senses,' said Marc. 'Nobody suspects, nobody for

one moment would dare to suspect, Simon. All acknowledge his integrity

and kindliness. Even Abbé Quandieu told me a moment ago that he had had

proof of his fatherly treatment of the poor victim.'

Férou's lean and lanky figure was shaken by a convulsive laugh, his

hair seemed to bristle yet higher on his equine head. 'Ah! it's too

amusing,' he replied. 'So you fancy they will restrain themselves

when a dirty Jew is in question? Does a dirty Jew deserve to have the

truth told about him? Your friend Quandieu and all the others will say

whatever may be desirable if it is necessary that the dirty Jew should

be found guilty, thanks to the complicity of us others, the scamps who

know neither God nor country, and who corrupt the children of France.

For that is what the priests say of us--you know it well!'

Then as Marc, chilled to the heart, continued to protest, Férou

resumed yet more vehemently: 'But you know what goes on at Le Moreux!

I starve there, I'm treated with contempt, pressed down even lower

than the wretched road-menders. When Abbé Cognasse comes over to say

Mass he'd spit on me if he met me. And if I don't eat bread every day

it's simply because I refused to sing in the choir and ring the church

bell! You know Abbé Cognasse yourself. You have managed to check him

at Jonville, since you contrived to get the mayor over to your side;

but, none the less, you are always at war; he would devour you if you

only gave him the chance. A village schoolmaster indeed! Why, he's

everybody's beast of burden, everybody's lackey, a man without caste,

an arrant failure; and the peasants distrust him, and the priests would

like to burn him alive in order to ensure the undivided reign of the

Church Catechism throughout the country!'

He went on bitterly, enumerating the sufferings of those damned ones,

as he called the elementary teachers. He himself, a shepherd's son,

successful at the village school which he had attended, and afterwards

a student at the Training College, which he had quitted with excellent

certificates, had always suffered from lack of means; for in a spirit

of rectitude after some trouble with a shop girl at Maillebois, when

he was assistant-master there, he had foolishly married her, although

she was as poor as himself. But was Marc any happier at Jonville,

even though his wife received frequent presents from her grandmother?

Was he not always struggling with indebtedness, struggling too with

the priest, in order to retain dignity and independence? True, he was

seconded by Mademoiselle Mazeline, the mistress of the girls' school,

a woman of firm sense, with an inexhaustible heart, who had helped

him to win over the parish council and gradually the whole commune.

But circumstances had been in his favour, and the example was perhaps

unique in the department. On the other hand, the state of affairs

at Maillebois completed the picture. There, on one side, one found

Mademoiselle Rouzaire won over to the cause of the priests and the

monks, learning to take her pupils to church, and fulfilling so well

the office of the nuns that it had been considered unnecessary to

install a nuns' school in the little town. Then, on the other hand,

there was that poor fellow Simon, an honest man certainly, but one who,

from fear of being treated as a dirty Jew, tried circumspection with

everybody, allowing his nephew to be educated by the dear Brothers,

and bowing down to the ground before all the rooks who infested the

country.

'A dirty Jew!' cried Férou with emphasis, by way of conclusion. 'He is,

and always will be, a dirty Jew. And to be both a schoolmaster and a

Jew beats everything.... Ah! well, you'll see, you'll see!'

Then, with impetuous gestures which shook the whole of his big loose

frame he took himself off and mingled with the crowd.

Marc had remained on the kerb of the footway, shrugging his shoulders

and regarding Férou as a semi-lunatic, for the picture which he had

drawn seemed to him full of exaggeration. But of what use was it to

answer that poor fellow whose brain would soon be turned by ill luck?

Yet Marc was haunted by what he had heard, and grew vaguely anxious as

he resumed his walk towards the Place des Capucins.

It was a quarter past twelve when he reached the little house, and

for a quarter of an hour the ladies had been awaiting him in the

dining-room, where the table was already laid. This fresh delay had

quite upset Madame Duparque. She said nothing, but the brusqueness

with which she sat down and nervously unfolded her napkin denoted how

culpable she considered this lack of punctuality.

'I must apologise,' the young man explained, 'but I had to wait for the

magistrates, and there was such a crowd on the square afterwards that I

could not pass.'

At this, although the grandmother was resolved on silence, she could

not restrain an exclamation: 'I hope that you are not going to busy

yourself with that abominable affair!'

'Oh!' Marc merely answered, 'I certainly hope I sha'n't have to do

so--unless it be as a matter of duty.'

When Pélagie had served an omelet and some slices of grilled mutton

with mashed potatoes, the young man related all that he had learnt.

Geneviève listened to his story, quivering with horror and pity, while

Madame Berthereau, who was also greatly moved, battled with her tears

and glanced furtively at Madame Duparque, as if to ascertain how far

she might allow her sensibility to go. But the old lady had relapsed

into silent disapproval of everything which seemed to her contrary

to her rule of life. She ate steadily, and it was only after a time

that she remarked, 'I remember very well that a child disappeared at

Beaumont during my youth. It was found under the porch of St. Maxence.

The body was cut in quarters, and there was only the heart missing. It

was said that the Jews required the heart for the unleavened bread of

their Passover.'

Marc looked at her in amazement. 'You are not serious, grandmother: you

surely don't believe such a stupid and infamous charge?'

She turned her cold, clear eyes on him, and, instead of giving a direct

answer, she said: 'It is simply an old recollection which came back to

me.... Of course I accuse nobody.'

At this Pélagie, who had just brought the dessert, ventured to join in

the conversation with the familiarity of an old servant: 'It is quite

right of madame to accuse nobody, and others ought to follow madame's

example. The neighbourhood has been in a state of revolution since this

morning. You can have no idea of the frightful stories which are being

told. Just now, too, I heard a workman say that the Brothers' school

ought to be burnt down.'

Deep silence followed those words. Marc, struck by them, made a

gesture, then restrained himself, like one who prefers to keep his

thoughts to himself. And Pélagie continued: 'Madame will let me go to

the distribution of prizes this afternoon, I hope? I don't think my

nephew Polydor will have a prize; but it would please me to be present.

Those good Brothers! It won't be a happy festival for them, falling on

the very day when one of their best pupils has been killed!'

Madame Duparque nodded assent to the servant's request, and the

conversation was then turned into another channel. Indeed the end of

the meal was brightened somewhat by the laughter of little Louise, who

gazed in astonishment at the grave faces of her father and her mother,

who usually smiled so brightly. This led to some relaxation of the

tension, and for a moment they all chatted in a cordial, intimate way.

The distribution of prizes at the Brothers' school that afternoon

roused great emotion. Never before had the ceremony attracted such a

throng. True, the circumstance that it was presided over by Father

Philibin, the prefect of the studies at the College of Valmarie, made

it particularly notable. The rector of that College, Father Crabot, who

was famous for his society influence and the powerful part he was said

to play in contemporary politics, also attended, desirous as he was of

giving the Brothers a public mark of his esteem. Further, there was a

reactionary deputy of the department, Count Hector de Sanglebœuf, the

owner of La Désirade, a splendid estate of the environs, which, with a

few millions, had formed the marriage portion of his wife, a daughter

of Baron Nathan, the great Jew banker. However, that which excited

everybody, and which drew to the usually quiet and deserted Place des

Capucins such a feverish crowd, was the monstrous crime discovered in

the morning, the murder of one of the Brothers' pupils under the most

abominable circumstances.

And it seemed as if the murdered boy were present, as if only he were

there, in the shady courtyard where the platform was set up beyond the

serried rows of chairs, while Father Philibin spoke in praise of the

school, of its director, the distinguished Brother Fulgence, and of his

three assistants, Brothers Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias. The haunting

sensation became yet more intense when the prize-list was read by the

last-named, a thin, knotty man, showing a low, harsh brow under his

frizzy black hair, a big nose projecting like an eagle's beak between

his prominent cheek-bones, and thin lips which in parting revealed

wolf-like teeth. Zéphirin had been the best scholar of his class, every

prize of which he had won. Thus his name recurred incessantly, and

Brother Gorgias, in his long black cassock, on which the ends of his

neck-band showed like a splotch of white, let that name fall from his

lips in such slow lugubrious fashion that on each occasion a quiver

of growing intensity sped through the assembled throng. Every time

the poor little dead boy was called he seemed to rise up to receive

his crown and his gilt-edged book. But, alas! crowns and books alike

formed an increasing pile on the table; and nothing could be more

poignant than the silence and the void to which so many prizes were

cast, the prizes of that model pupil who had vanished so tragically,

and whose lamentable remains were lying only a few doors away. At

last the emotion of the onlookers became too great to be restrained;

sobs burst forth while Brother Gorgias continued to call that name

with a twitching of the upper-lip, habitual to him, which disclosed

some of the teeth on the left side of his mouth amid an involuntary

grimace-like grin, suggestive of both scorn and cruelty.

The function ended amid general uneasiness. However fine might be the

assembly which had hastened thither to exalt the Brothers, anxiety

increased, disquietude swept over all, as if some menace had come from

afar. But the worst was the departure amid the murmurs and the covert

curses of numerous groups of artisans and peasants gathered on the

square. The abominable stories of which Pélagie had spoken circulated

through that quivering crowd. A horrid story which had been stifled the

previous year, the story of a Brother whom his superiors had conjured

away to save him from the Assize Court, was repeated. All sorts of

rumours had been current since that time, rumours of abominations, of

terrified children who dared not speak out. Naturally there had been

much enlargement of those mysterious rumours as they passed from mouth

to mouth; and the indignation of the folk assembled on the square came

from the revival of them which was prompted by the murder of one of

the Brothers' pupils. Accusations were already taking shape, words

of vengeance spread around. Would the guilty one again be allowed to

escape? Would that vile and bloody den never be closed? Thus, as the

fine folk departed, and particularly when the robes of the monks and

the cassocks of the priests were seen, fists were stretched out, and

menaces of death arose: the whole of one group of onlookers pursuing

with hisses Fathers Crabot and Philibin as they hurried away, pale and

anxious; while Brother Fulgence ordered the school-gates to be strongly

bolted.

Marc, out of curiosity, had watched the scene from a window of Madame

Duparque's little house, and, becoming keenly interested in it, he had

even gone for a moment to the threshold, in order that he might see and

hear the better. How ridiculous had been Férou's prophecy that the Jew

would be saddled with the crime, that the rancorous black gowns would

make a scapegoat of the secular schoolmaster! Far from things taking

that course, it seemed as though they might turn out very badly for the

good Brothers. The rising wrath of the crowd, those menaces of death,

indicated that matters might go very far indeed, that the popular anger

might spread from the one guilty man to the whole of his congregation,

and shake the very Church itself in the region, if indeed the guilty

man were one of its ministers. Marc questioned himself on that point

but could form no absolute conviction; indeed, even suspicion seemed to

him hazardous and wrong. The demeanour of Father Philibin and Brother

Fulgence had appeared quite natural, full of perfect tranquillity. And

he strove to be very tolerant and just, for fear lest he might yield to

his impulses as a freethinker delivered from belief in dogmas. All was

dark in that terrible tragedy, and he resolved to wait until he should

learn more.

But while he stood there he saw Pélagie returning in her Sunday-best,

accompanied by her nephew, Polydor Souquet, a lad of eleven, who

carried a handsomely bound book under his arm.

'It's the good conduct prize, monsieur!' exclaimed the servant proudly.

'That is even better than a prize for reading or writing, is it not?'

The truth was that Polydor, sly but torpid, astonished even the

Brothers by his prodigious idleness. He was a pale, sturdy boy, with

very light hair and a long dull face. The son of a road-mender addicted

to drink, he had lost his mother at an early age, and lived chancewise

nowadays while his father broke stones on the roads. Hating every kind

of work, terrified particularly by the idea of having to break stones

in his turn, he allowed his aunt to indulge in the dream of seeing him

become a Brother, invariably agreeing with everything she said, and

often visiting her in her kitchen, in the hope thereby of securing some

dainty morsel.

Pélagie, however, in spite of her delight, was affected by the uproar

on the square. She at last looked round, quivering, and cast a glance

of fury and defiance at the crowd. 'You hear them, monsieur!' she

exclaimed. 'You hear those anarchists! The idea of it! Such devoted

Brothers, who are so fond of their pupils, who look after them with

such motherly care! For instance, there's Polydor. He lives with his

father on the road to Jonville, nearly a mile away. Well, last night,

after that ceremony, for fear of a mishap, Brother Gorgias accompanied

him to his very door. Is that not so, Polydor?'

'Yes,' the boy answered laconically in his husky voice.

'Yet folk insult and threaten the Brothers!' the servant resumed. 'How

wicked! You can picture poor Brother Gorgias taking that long walk in

the dark night, in order that nothing might befall this little man! Ah!

it's enough to disgust one of being prudent and kind!'

Marc, who had been scrutinising the boy, was struck by his resolute

taciturnity, by the hypocritical somnolence in which he seemed to find

a pleasant refuge. He listened no further to Pélagie, to whose chatter

he never accorded much attention. But on returning to the little

drawing-room, where he had left his wife reading while Madame Duparque

and Madame Berthereau turned to their everlasting knitting for some

religious charities, he felt anxious, for he perceived that Geneviève

had laid her book aside, and was gazing with much emotion at the tumult

on the square. She came to him, and with an affectionate impulse,

fraught with alarm, looking extremely pretty in her agitation, she

almost threw herself upon his neck.

'What is happening?' she asked. 'Are they going to fight?'

He began to reassure her; and all at once Madame Duparque, raising her

eyes from her work, sternly gave expression to her will: 'Marc, I hope

that you will not mix yourself up in that horrid affair. What madness

it is to suspect and insult the Brothers! God will end by avenging His

ministers!'

II

Marc was unable to get to sleep that night, for he was haunted by the

events of the day--by that monstrous, mysterious, puzzling crime.

Thus, while Geneviève, his wife, reposed quietly beside him, he dwelt

in thought upon each incident of the affair, classified each detail,

striving to pierce the darkness and establish the truth.

Marc's mind was one that sought logic and light. His clear and firm

judgment demanded in all things a basis of certainty. Thence came

his absolute passion for truth. In his eyes no rest of mind, no real

happiness, was possible without complete, decisive certainty. He

was not very learned, but such things as he knew he wished to know

completely, in order that he might have no doubt of the possession of

the truth, experimental truth, established for ever. All unrest came

to an end when doubt ceased; he then fully recovered his spirits,

and to his passion for the acquirement of truth was added one for

imparting it to others, for driving it into the brains and hearts of

all. His marvellous gifts then became manifest; he brought with him a

methodical power which simplified, classified, illumined everything.

His quiet conviction imposed itself on his hearers, light was shed on

dim notions, things seemed easy and simple. He instilled life into the

driest subjects. He succeeded in imparting a passionate interest even

to grammar and arithmetic, rendering them as interesting as stories to

his pupils. In him one really found the born teacher.

He had discovered that he possessed that teaching gift at the time

when, already possessed of a bachelor's degree, he had come to Beaumont

to finish his apprenticeship as a lithographic draughtsman in the

establishment of Messrs. Papon-Laroche. Entrusted with the execution

of many school diagrams, he had exercised his ingenuity in simplifying

them, creating perfect masterpieces of clearness and precision, which

had revealed to him his true vocation, the happiness that he found in

teaching the young.

It was at Papon-Laroche's establishment also that he had first met

Salvan, now Director of the Training College, who, observing his bent,

had approved of the course he took in yielding to it completely, and

becoming what he was to-day--a humble elementary schoolmaster who,

convinced of the noble usefulness of his duties, was happy to discharge

them even in a small and lonely village. Marc's affection for those

whose narrow and slumbering minds required awakening and expansion had

decided his career. And, in the discharge of his modest functions,

his passion for truth increased, becoming a more and more imperious

craving. It ended indeed by constituting the _ratio_ of his health,

his very life, for it was only by satisfying it that he enjoyed normal

life. When it escaped him, he fell into anguish of spirit, consumed

by his desire to acquire and possess it wholly, in order that he

might communicate it to others, failing which he spent his days in

intolerable suffering, often physical as well as mental.

From this passion assuredly sprang the torment which kept Marc awake

that night by the side of his sleeping wife. He suffered from his

ignorance, his failure to penetrate the truth respecting the murder

of that child. He was not confronted merely by an ignoble crime; he

divined behind it the existence of dark and threatening depths, some

dim but yawning abyss. Would his sufferings continue then as long as

he should not know the truth, which perchance he might never know?

for the shadows seemed to increase at each effort that he made to

dissipate them. Mastered by uncertainty and fear, he ended by longing

for daybreak, in order that he might resume his investigations. But

his wife laughed lightly in her sleep; some happy dream, no doubt,

had come to her; and then the terrible old grandmother seemed to rise

up before the young man's eyes, and repeat that he must on no account

meddle in that horrible affair. At this the certainty of a conflict

with his wife's relations appeared to him, and brought his hesitation

and unhappiness to a climax.

Hitherto he had experienced no serious trouble with that devout family

whence he, who held no religious belief whatever, had taken the young

girl who had become his wife, his life's companion. He did not carry

tolerance so far as to follow his wife to Mass, as Berthereau had done,

but he had allowed his daughter Louise to be baptised, in order that

he might have some peace with the ladies. Besides, as his wife in her

adoration for him had ceased to follow the religious observances of

her Church soon after the marriage, no quarrel had yet arisen between

them. Occasionally he remarked in Geneviève some revival of her long

Catholic training, ideas of the absolute which clashed with his own,

superstitions which sent a chill to his heart. But these were merely

passing incidents; he believed that the love which bound him to his

wife was strong enough to triumph over such divergencies; for did they

not soon find themselves in each other's arms again, even when they had

momentarily felt themselves to be strangers, belonging to different

worlds?

Geneviève had been one of the best pupils of the Sisters of the

Visitation; she had quitted their establishment with a superior

certificate, in such wise that her first idea had been to become a

teacher herself. But there was no place for her at Jonville, where

the excellent Mademoiselle Mazeline managed the girls' school without

assistance; and, naturally enough, she had been unwilling to quit her

husband. Then household duties had taken possession of her; now, also,

she had to attend to her little girl; and thus all thought of realising

her early desire was postponed, perhaps for ever. But did not this very

circumstance make their life all happiness and perfect agreement, far

from the reach of storms?

If, from concern for their future happiness, the worthy Salvan,

Berthereau's faithful friend, to whom the marriage was due, had for a

moment thought of trying to check the irresistible love by which the

young people were transported, he must have felt reassured on finding

them still tenderly united after three years of matrimony. It was only

now while the wife dreamt happily in her slumber that the husband

for the first time experienced anxiety at the thought of the case of

conscience before him, foreseeing, as he did, that a quarrel might

well arise with his wife's relations, and that all sorts of unpleasant

consequences might ensue in his home, should he yield to his imperative

craving for truth.

At last, however, he dozed off and ended by sleeping soundly. In the

morning, when his eyes opened to the clear bright light, he felt

astonished at having passed through such a nightmare-like vigil. It

had assuredly been caused by the haunting influence of that frightful

crime, to which, as it happened, Geneviève, still full of emotion and

pity, was the first to refer again.

'Poor Simon must be in great distress,' she said. 'You cannot abandon

him. I think that you ought to see him this morning and place yourself

at his disposal.'

Marc embraced her, delighted to find her so kind-hearted and brave.

'But grandmother will get angry again,' he replied, 'and our life here

will become unbearable.'

Geneviève laughed lightly, and gently shrugged her shoulders. 'Oh!

grandmother would quarrel with the very angels,' she retorted. 'When

one does half what she desires, one does quite enough.'

This sally enlivened them both, and, Louise having awoke, they spent a

few delightful moments in playing with her in her little cot.

Then Marc resolved to go out and resume his inquiry directly after

breakfast. While he was dressing, he thought the matter over

quietly and sensibly. He was well acquainted with Maillebois and

the characteristics of its two thousand inhabitants, divided into

petty _bourgeois_, petty shopkeepers, and workmen; the latter, some

eight hundred in number, being distributed through the workshops of

some four or five firms, all of which were prosperous, thanks to the

vicinity of Beaumont. Being nearly equally divided, the two sections

of the population fought strenuously for authority, and the Municipal

Council was a faithful picture of their differences, one half of

it being Clerical and Reactionary, while the other was Republican

and Progressive. As yet only a very few Socialists figured in the

population, lost among all the folk of other views, and they were

quite without influence. Darras, the Mayor and building contractor,

was certainly a declared Republican, and even made a profession of

anti-clericalism. But, owing to the almost equal strength of the two

parties in the council, it was only by a majority of two votes that

he, rich and active, with about a hundred workpeople under his orders,

had been preferred to Philis, a retired tilt and awning maker, with an

income of from ten to twelve thousand francs a year, who led the stern

confined life of a militant Clerical, interested in nothing beyond the

observance of the narrowest piety. Thus Darras was compelled to observe

extreme prudence, for the displacement of a few votes would unseat him.

Ah! if there had been only a substantial Republican majority behind

him, how bravely he would have supported the cause of liberty, truth,

and justice, instead of practising, as he was reduced to do, the most

diplomatic 'opportunism.'

Another thing known to Marc was the increasing power of the Clerical

party, which seemed likely to conquer the whole region. For ten years

the little community of Capuchins established in the old convent, a

part of which it had surrendered to the Brothers of the Christian

Schools, had carried on the worship of St. Antony of Padua with

ever-increasing audacity, and also with such great success that the

profits were enormous.[1] While the Brothers, on their side, derived

advantage from this success, which brought them many pupils and thus

increased the prosperity of the schools, the Capuchins worked their

chapel as one may work a distillery, and sent forth from it every

kind of moral poison. The Saint stood on a golden altar, ever decked

with flowers and ablaze with lights, collection boxes appeared on

all sides, and a commercial office was permanently installed in the

sacristy, where the procession of clients lasted from morn till night.

The Saint did not merely find lost things,--his specialty in the early

days of his _cultus_,--he had extended his business. For a few francs

he undertook to enable the dullest youths to pass their examinations,

to render doubtful business affairs excellent, to exonerate the rich

scions of patriotic families from military service, to say nothing

of performing a multitude of other equally genuine miracles, such as

healing the sick and the maimed, and according a positive protection

against ruin and death, in the last respect going indeed so far as to

resuscitate a young girl who had expired two days previously. Naturally

enough, as each new story circulated, more and more money flowed

in, and the business spread from the _bourgeois_ and shopkeepers of

Reactionary Maillebois to the workmen of Republican Maillebois, whom

the poison ended by infecting.

[Footnote 1: The Protestant reader may be informed that this Saint

(1195-1231) was a Portuguese Franciscan, famous for the eloquence of

his sermons. The practices of which M. Zola speaks are not inventions.

The so-called worship of St. Antony has become widespread in France of

recent years. Such is superstition!--_Trans._]

It is true that, in his Sunday sermons, Abbé Quandieu, priest of St.

Martin's, the parish church, forcibly pointed out the danger of low

superstition; but few people listened to him. Possessed of a more

enlightened faith than that of many priests, he deplored the harm

which the rapacity of the Capuchins was doing to religion. In the first

place they were ruining him; the parish church was losing many sources

of revenue, all the alms and offerings now going to the convent chapel.

But his grief came largely from a higher cause; he experienced the

sorrow of an intelligent priest who was not disposed to bow to Rome in

all things, but who still believed in the possible evolution amid the

great modern democratic movement of an independent and liberal Church

of France. Thus he waged war against those 'dealers of the Temple'

who betrayed the cause of Jesus; and it was said that Monseigneur

Bergerot,[2] the Bishop of Beaumont, shared his views. But this did

not prevent the Capuchins from increasing their triumphs, subjugating

Maillebois and transforming it into a holy spot, by dint of their

spurious miracles.

Marc also knew that, if Monseigneur Bergerot was behind Abbé Quandieu,

the Capuchins and the Brothers possessed the support of Father

Crabot, the all-powerful Rector of the College of Valmarie. If Father

Philibin, the Prefect of the Studies there, had presided at the recent

prize-giving at the Brothers' school, it had been by way of according

to the latter a public mark of esteem and protection. The Jesuits had

the affair in hand, as folk of evil mind were wont to say. And Simon,

the Jew schoolmaster, found himself caught amid those inextricable

quarrels, alone in a region swept by religious passion, at a dangerous

moment, when the victory would be won by the most impudent. Men's

hearts were perturbed; a spark would suffice to fire and devastate all

minds. Nevertheless the Communal school had not lost a pupil as yet;

its attendances and successes equalled those of the Brothers' school;

and this comparative victory was undoubtedly due to the prudent skill

displayed by Simon, who behaved cautiously with everybody, and who

moreover was supported openly by Darras, and covertly by Abbé Quandieu.

But the rivalry of the two schools would undoubtedly lead to the real

battle, the decisive assault which must come sooner or later; for these

two schools could not possibly live side by side, one must end by

devouring the other. And the Church would be unable to subsist should

she lose the privilege of teaching and enslaving the humble.

[Footnote 2: Frequently referred to in M. Zola's _Lourdes_ and _Rome_

as a liberal prelate at variance with the Vatican.--_Trans._]

That morning, during breakfast with the ladies in the dismal little

dining-room, Marc, already oppressed by his reflections, felt his

discomfort increase. Madame Duparque quietly related that if Polydor

had secured a prize the previous day, he owed it to a pious precaution

taken by his aunt Pélagie, who had thoughtfully given a franc to St.

Antony of Padua. On hearing this, Madame Berthereau nodded as if

approvingly, and even Geneviève did not venture to smile, but seemed

interested in the marvellous stories related by her grandmother. The

old lady recounted a number of extraordinary incidents, how lives and

fortunes had been saved, thanks to presents of two and three francs

bestowed on the Saint by the medium of the Capuchins' Agency. And one

realised how--one little sum being added to another--rivers of gold

ended by flowing to their chapel, like so much tribute levied on public

suffering and imbecility.

However, that morning's number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_, printed

during the night, had arrived, and Marc was well pleased when, at the

end of a long article on the crime of Maillebois, he found a paragraph

containing a very favourable mention of Simon. The schoolmaster, who

was esteemed by everybody, had received, it was said, the most touching

assurances of sympathy in the great misfortune which had befallen him.

This note had evidently been penned by some correspondent the previous

evening, after the tumultuous departure from the distribution of prizes

which had indicated in which direction the wind was likely to blow.

Indeed, nobody could have mistaken the public hostility against the

Brothers; and all the vague rumours, all the horrid stories hushed

up in the past, aggravated that hostility, in such wise that one was

threatened with some abominable scandal in which the whole Catholic and

Reactionary party might collapse.

Thus Marc was surprised at the lively and even triumphant demeanour

of Pélagie when she came in to clear the breakfast table. He lingered

there on purpose to draw her out.