BOOK II

I

One sunny morning in May Marc, for the first time, took his class at

Maillebois. On the side facing the square, the large schoolroom had

three lofty windows, through whose panes of ground glass streamed a

gay, white, and vivid light. In front of the master's desk, which stood

on a small platform reached by three steps, the boys' little double

desks were set out, four in each of the eight rows.

Loud laughter, in fact quite an uproar, burst forth when one of the

lads, on proceeding to his seat, stumbled and fell intentionally.

'Now, boys,' Marc quietly said, 'you must behave yourselves. I am not

going to punish you, but you will find it more beneficial and pleasant

to behave yourselves with me.... Monsieur Mignot, please call the

register.'

Marc had wished to have Mignot's assistance on this first occasion, and

the other's demeanour plainly indicated his hostility and the surprise

he felt at having as his principal a man who had compromised himself

so greatly in the recent scandals. Mignot had even joined in the boys'

laughter when one of them had stumbled and fallen by way of amusing the

others. However, the calling of the register began.

'Auguste Doloir!'

'Present!' exclaimed a merry-looking lad in so gruff a voice that the

whole class again exploded.

Auguste was the mason's elder son, and it was he who had stumbled

a few minutes previously. Nine years of age, he looked vigorous

and intelligent, but he was wrong-headed, and his pranks often

revolutionised the school.

'Charles Doloir!' called Mignot.

'Present!' And this time Auguste's brother, two years his junior,

answered in so shrill a voice that the storm of laughter began afresh.

Though Charles was of a more refined and gentle nature than Auguste, he

invariably seconded him.

But Marc let the matter pass. He wished to be patient and to inflict

no punishments that first day. While the calling of the register

proceeded he glanced round the large room where he would have to deal

with all those turbulent lads. At Jonville there had been no such

lavish provision of blackboards--one behind his desk for himself,

and two others, right and left, for the boys--nor such a display

of coloured prints representing weights and measures, the mineral,

vegetable, and animal kingdoms, useful and harmful insects, mushrooms

and toadstools, without counting the large and numerous maps. There,

too, in a cabinet was a collection of the 'solid bodies,' as well as

various instruments for the teaching of physics and chemistry. But Marc

did not find among his new pupils the good understanding and cordiality

which had prevailed among those whom he had left at Jonville. The

neglect of his weak and ailing predecessor, Méchain, had evidently

helped to disorganise the school, which, after numbering nearly sixty

pupils, could now muster scarcely forty. Thus its position was sorely

compromised, and the hard task of restoring it to prosperity and

orderliness lay before him.

'Achille Savin!' Mignot called.

There was no answer, and he therefore repeated the name. Yet both the

Savins, the twin sons of the tax-collector's clerk, sat at one of the

double desks, with their heads lowered and a sly expression on their

faces. Though they were only eight years of age they seemed already

proficient in prudent hypocrisy.

'Achille and Philippe Savin!' Mignot repeated, glancing at them.

Thereupon, making up their minds, they answered leisurely but in

unison, 'Present!'

Marc, who felt surprised, inquired why they had previously remained

silent; but he could obtain no answer from them; they looked at him

distrustfully as if they had to defend themselves from him.

'Fernand Bongard!' Mignot continued.

Again nobody answered. Fernand, the peasant farmer's son, a sturdy boy

of ten, sat there huddled up, leaning on his elbows, with a stupefied

expression on his face. He seemed to be sleeping with his eyes open.

But one of his schoolfellows gave him a nudge, and then in a scared way

he shouted 'Present!'

This time none of the others dared to laugh, for they feared Fernand's

fists. And, silence continuing, Mignot was able to call the last name:

'Sébastien Milhomme!'

Marc had already recognised Madame Alexandre's son. Eight years of age,

with a face all gentleness, refinement, and intelligence, he sat at

the first desk on the right hand. And the young man smiled at the lad;

charmed by his candid eyes, in which he fancied he could detect the

early sparkle of a young mind, such as he desired to awaken.

'Present!' Sébastien answered in a clear gay voice, which to Marc

seemed like music compared with all the full or mocking voices of the

others.

The calling of the register was finished; and at a sign from Mignot all

the boys now rose for prayers. Since Simon's departure, Méchain had

allowed prayers to be said at the beginning and the end of each class,

yielding, in this respect, to the stealthy persuasion of Mademoiselle

Rouzaire, who, citing her own practice as an example, asserted that the

fear of hell greatly helped to keep her pupils quiet. Moreover, parents

were pleased with the prayer-saying, and Mauraisin, the Elementary

Inspector, regarded it with favour, although it in no wise figured in

the regulations. That morning, however, Marc swiftly intervened, saying

in his quiet and resolute way: 'Sit down, boys. You are not here to say

prayers. You may say them at home if your fathers and mothers desire

it.'

Mignot, nonplussed, looked at him inquisitively. Ah! well, he would

not exercise much authority at Maillebois if he began by suppressing

prayers! Marc fully understood the meaning of his assistant's glance,

for ever since his arrival in the little town he had been conscious of

the general feeling, the conviction that he was destined to encounter

rapid and complete defeat. Besides, Salvan had warned him, and had

recommended extreme prudence, a course of skilful tolerance during

the first months. If Marc, after due reflection, ventured to suppress

prayers, it was as a first step, the result of which would enable him

to feel his way. He would have liked to remove the big crucifix which

Méchain, exhausted by the pressure brought to bear on him, had allowed

to be hung over the blackboard behind the master's desk. But the young

man felt that he could hardly do that immediately; it was necessary

that he should establish himself firmly in his position and know his

ground thoroughly before he engaged in a real battle. Apart from the

crucifix he was also irritated by four glaring chromolithographs

which hung from the walls, one of them representing the fable of St.

Geneviève delivering Paris, another Joan of Arc listening to the voices

from heaven, another St. Louis healing the sick by the touch of his

hands, and another Napoleon riding across a battlefield. Miracle and

force, religious lie and military violence were ever given as examples,

ever sown as seed in the minds of the children who would become the

citizens of to-morrow. Marc asked himself if all that ought not to

be changed, if education ought not to be begun afresh at the very

beginning, with lessons of truth and solidarity, if one was to create

free and intelligent men, capable of practising justice.

The first class was duly held, Marc gently yet firmly taking possession

of his post among his new pupils, whose curiosity he found tinged

with rebellion. The pacific conquest of their minds and hearts which

the young master desired to effect proceeded patiently day by day. At

the outset he occasionally experienced some secret bitterness, for

his mind wandered back to the well-loved pupils, the children of his

brain, whom he had left at Jonville, and whom he knew to be now in the

hands of one of his former colleagues, Jauffre, with whose spirit of

intrigue and thirst for immediate success he was well acquainted. He

felt some remorse at the thought that he had abandoned his work yonder

to one who would surely destroy it, and his only consolation lay in

the circumstance that he had taken up yet more pressing and necessary

work at Maillebois. To that work he became more and more passionately

attached, devoting himself to it with enthusiastic faith as the days

flew by and lesson followed lesson.

On the morrow of the General Elections, which took place during

that month of May, quietude fell upon the region. Prior to those

elections silence and restraint with respect to Simon's case had been

declared imperative, in order that the result of the polling might

not prove disastrous for the Republic; and directly those elections

were over--the new Chamber of Deputies being composed of virtually

the same men as the previous one--silence was again declared to be

necessary, lest, by raising inopportune questions, one should retard

the realisation of promised reforms. The truth was that after all the

battling of the electoral campaign the successful candidates desired to

enjoy the dearly-bought fruits of victory in peace. Thus, at Beaumont,

neither Lemarrois nor Marcilly, on being re-elected, was willing to

mention Simon's name, although each had promised to act as soon as his

mandate should be renewed and he should no longer have to fear the

blindness of universal suffrage. But at present it was held that Simon

had been judged and well judged; in fact the slightest allusion to his

affair was deemed contrary to patriotism. Naturally enough the same

views prevailed at Maillebois. Darras, the Mayor, even begged Marc, in

the interest of the unhappy prisoner and his relatives, to do nothing

whatever, but to wait for some wakening of public opinion. Meantime

absolute forgetfulness was effected, perfect silence was enjoined, as

if there were no Simonists or anti-Simonists left.

Marc had to resign himself to the position, particularly as he was

entreated in that sense by the ever humble and anxious Lehmanns, and

even by David, who, with all his heroic tenacity, understood the

necessity of patience. Yet Simon's brother was now following up a

serious clue. Indirectly and without positive proof thereof, he had

heard of the illegal communication which President Gragnon had made to

the jury in their retiring room prior to the verdict; and if he could

only establish the fact that this communication had been really made,

the annulment of all the proceedings would necessarily follow. But

David was conscious of the difficulties of the times, and prosecuted

his inquiries with the greatest secrecy for fear of warning his

adversaries. Marc, though of a more feverish spirit, at last consented

to follow the same tactics and feign forgetfulness. Thus the Simon

affair began to slumber as if it were ended and forgotten, whereas, in

reality, it remained the secret sore, the poisoned, incurable wound

of which the social body--ever exposed to the danger of some sudden

and mortal outburst of delirium--was dying. For, be it remembered, one

single act of injustice may suffice for a whole nation to be stricken

with dementia and slowly die.

In this position of affairs Marc for a time was able to devote himself

entirely to his school duties, and he did so with the conviction that

he was contributing to the only work by which iniquity may be destroyed

and its renewal prevented--that work which consists in diffusing

knowledge and sowing the seeds of truth among the rising generations.

Never before had he understood so fully the terrible difficulties of

the task. He found himself utterly alone. He felt that his pupils and

their parents, his assistant Mignot, and his neighbour Mademoiselle

Rouzaire were all against him. And the times were disastrous; the

Brothers' school recruited five more pupils from the Communal school

during Marc's first month. A blast of unpopularity threatened to sweep

the young man away. Parents went to the Ignorantines in order to save

their children from the abominations of that new secular master who had

suppressed prayers on the very day he had entered upon his functions.

Thus Brother Fulgence was quite triumphant. He was again assisted by

Brothers Gorgias and Isidore, who had disappeared for a while after

Simon's trial, and who now had been recalled, by way of showing, no

doubt, that the community deemed itself to be above suspicion. If

Brother Lazarus, the third assistant, had not returned to Maillebois

with the others, the reason was that he had died during his absence.

The others remained the masters of the town, whose streets were always

full of cassocks.

For Marc the worst was the mocking contempt with which all those folk

seemed to regard him. They did not condescend to make any violent

attack on him, they waited for him to commit suicide by some act of

stupendous folly. Mignot's demeanour on the first day had become that

of the whole district. As Mademoiselle Rouzaire said, it was expected

that Marc would render his position untenable in less than two months.

The young man detected the hopes of his adversaries by the manner in

which Inspector Mauraisin spoke to him on the occasion of his first

visit. Mauraisin, knowing that Marc was covered by Salvan and Le

Barazer, displayed a kind of ironical indulgence, allowing the young

man to follow his own course, but watching stealthily for some serious

blunder which would enable him to apply for his removal to another

part. He said nothing about the suppression of prayers, he desired

something more decisive, an _ensemble_ of crushing facts. The Inspector

was seen laughing over the matter with Mademoiselle Rouzaire, one of

his favourites, and from that moment Marc was surrounded by spies,

eager to denounce both his expressions of opinion and his actions.

Every time that Marc called upon Salvan in search of a little comfort,

his protector repeated to him: 'Be prudent, my friend.... Yesterday Le

Barazer received another anonymous letter denouncing you as a poisoner

and a henchman of hell. You know that I wish all success to the good

work, but I also think that it may be compromised by precipitate

action. As a beginning, render yourself necessary, bring back affluence

to the school, get yourself liked.'

At this Marc, however bitter his feelings, ended by smiling: 'You are

right, I feel it is so,' he answered; 'it is by force of wisdom and

affection that one must conquer.'

He, Geneviève, and little Louise were now dwelling in the quarters

formerly allotted to Simon. The lodging was larger and more comfortable

than that of Jonville. There were two bedrooms and two sitting-rooms,

besides a kitchen and dependencies. And the whole was very clean and

very bright, full of sunshine, and overlooked a fairly large garden in

which vegetables and flowers grew. But the young couple's furniture was

scanty; and since their quarrel with Madame Duparque, it was difficult

for them to make both ends meet, for Marc's meagre salary was all they

had to depend upon. That salary now amounted to twelve hundred francs

a year, but it really represented no more than the thousand francs

allowed at Jonville, for there Marc had also received payment as parish

clerk, which post was not to be thought of at Maillebois. And how

were they to manage on a hundred francs a month in that little town

where living was more expensive than in the village? How were they to

maintain some little appearance of dignity and comfort? How was Marc

to wear fairly respectable frock coats, such as usage demanded? It was

a grave problem, the solution of which required prodigies of thrift,

continuous secret heroism in all the petty details of life. They often

ate dry bread in order that they might have clean linen.

But, in Geneviève, Marc found a valuable, an admirable helpmate. She

renewed the exploits she had accomplished at Jonville, she managed to

provide for all the requirements of the home, without allowing much

of its penury to be seen. She had to attend to everything--cooking,

washing, and mending--and Louise was ever all smiles and smartness in

her light-hued little frocks. If Mignot, according to usage, had taken

his meals with his principal, the money paid for his board might have

helped Geneviève slightly. But the young bachelor, who had his own

quarters on the other side of the landing, preferred to patronise a

neighbouring eating-house, perhaps in order to mark his hostility and

to avoid compromising himself by any companionship with a man for whom

Mademoiselle Rouzaire predicted the worst catastrophes. He, Mignot,

with his paltry monthly salary of seventy-one francs and twenty-five

centimes,[1] led the usual wretched life of a young assistant-master,

ill clad and ill fed, with no other diversion within his reach than

that of fishing on Thursdays and Sundays. This rendered him all the

more ill-tempered and distrustful, as though indeed it were Marc's

fault if he partook of such sorry messes at the eating-house. Yet

Geneviève displayed solicitude for his welfare. She offered to mend his

linen, and one evening, when he was suffering from a cold, she hastened

to make him some herb-drink. As she and her husband said, the young

fellow was not bad-hearted, he was badly advised. Perhaps, by showing

him some kindness and equity, they might at last win him over to better

sentiments.

[Footnote 1: A little less than $14.]

That which Geneviève dared not say, for fear of grieving Marc, was that

the home suffered particularly from the quarrel with Madame Duparque.

In former days the grandmother had provided Louise with clothes, made

presents, and rendered assistance at difficult times. Now that the

young people were at Maillebois, only a few doors distant from the old

lady, she might often have helped them. Under the circumstances it was

very embarrassing to live so near, and to be obliged to turn one's head

aside every time one met her. On two occasions little Louise, who,

being only three years of age, could not understand the situation, held

out her arms and called when the old lady passed, in such wise that the

fated reconciliation ended by taking place. Geneviève, on returning

home one day, in a state of great emotion, related that she had yielded

to circumstances and had embraced her grandmother and mother on meeting

them on the Place des Capucins, where Louise, in all innocence, had run

forward and cast herself into their arms.

At this confession Marc, in his turn, kissed his wife, saying with a

good-natured smile: 'But that is all right, my darling. For your sake

and Louise's I am well pleased with the reconciliation. It was bound

to come, and if I am on bad terms with those ladies you surely don't

imagine that I am such a barbarian as to demand the same of you.'

'No, my friend,' Geneviève replied, 'only it is very embarrassing in a

family when the wife visits a place where her husband cannot go.'

'Why should it be embarrassing? For the sake of peace it is best that

I should not call on your grandmother again, for I cannot possibly

agree with her. But there is nothing to prevent you and the little one

from visiting her and your mother also, from time to time.'

Geneviève had become grave, her eyes fell, and while she reflected she

quivered.

'I should have preferred not to go to grandmother's without you,' she

said. 'I feel firmer when we are together.... But you are right, I

understand that it would be painful for you to accompany me, and, on

the other hand, it is difficult for me to break off now.'

Thus the question was settled. At first Geneviève went but once a week

to the little house on the Place des Capucins, taking Louise with

her, and spending an hour there during the school work of Marc, who

contented himself with bowing to the ladies when he met them.

And now, for a period of two years, with infinite patience and good

nature, Marc prosecuted the conquest of his pupils amid hostile

surroundings and innumerable worries. He was a born teacher, one

who knew how to become a child again in order that children might

understand him. And, in particular, he strove to be gay; he willingly

joined in his pupils' play, behaving as if he were simply a companion,

an elder brother. And in the school work his strength lay in his power

to cast his science aside, to place himself within the reach of young

and imperfectly awakened minds, by finding easy explanatory words

suited to each occasion. It was as if he himself were still somewhat

ignorant, and participated in the delight of learning. Heavily laden

as the curriculum might be, what with reading, writing, grammar,

orthography, composition, arithmetic, history, geography, elementary

science, singing, gymnastics, notions of agriculture, manual work,

morals and civic instruction, he passed nothing by until the lads

had understood it. All his first efforts indeed were concentrated on

method, in order that nothing taught might be lost, but that everything

might be positively and fully assimilated.

Ah! how fervently did Marc devote himself to that sowing and

cultivation of truth! He strove to plan things in such wise that truth

might impose itself on his pupils by its own power, nourish their

expanding minds, and become both their flesh and their brains. And what

truth it was! It so happens that every error claims to be truth. Does

not even the Roman Catholic Church, though based on absurd dogmas,

pretend that it is the sole truth? Thus Marc began by teaching that

there is no truth outside the pale of reason, logic, and particularly

experiment. When the son of a peasant or a workman is told by his

schoolmaster that the world is round and revolves in space, he accepts

the statement upon trust just as he accepts the statements made to him

by the priest on matters of religion at the Catechism class. In order

that he may appreciate the difference, experiment must show him the

scientific certainty of the former statement. All so-called revealed

truth is falsehood; experimental truth alone is accurate--one, entire,

eternal. Marc therefore at the outset found it necessary to rebut the

Catholic catechism by the scientific catechism. He took the world and

mankind as they were explained by science, and set them forth in their

living reality and their march towards a continual and ever more and

more perfect future. There was no possibility of real amelioration,

liberation, and happiness otherwise than by truth--that is, by

knowledge of the conditions in which mankind exists and progresses. All

the craving for knowledge as a means for rapid attainment to health and

peace bore within itself its method of free expansion, science ceasing

to be a dead letter, and becoming a source of life, an excitant of

temperament and character.

Marc, as far as possible, left books upon one side, in order to compel

his pupils to judge things for themselves. They only knew things well

when they had seen or touched them. He never asked them to believe

in a phenomenon until he had proved its reality by experiment. The

whole domain of unproven facts was set aside, in reserve, for future

investigation. But he demonstrated that with the help of the acquired

truths mankind might already rear for itself a large and splendid home

of security and brotherliness. To see things for oneself, to convince

oneself of what one ought to believe, to develop one's reasoning powers

and one's individuality in accordance with the reasons of existence and

action, such were the principles which governed Marc's teaching method,

the only one by which true men might be created.

But knowledge was not sufficient--a social bond, a spiritual link of

perpetual solidarity was required. And this Marc found in Justice.

He had often noticed with what a flash of rebellion a boy, molested

in his rights, would exclaim: 'That isn't fair!' Indeed, any act of

injustice raises a tempest in the depths of those young minds, and

brings them frightful suffering. This is because the idea of justice in

them is absolute. Mark turned to good use the candour of equity, the

innate need of truth and justice, that one finds in children when life

has not yet inclined them to mendacious and iniquitous compromises.

By way of Truth towards Justice--such was the road along which he

strove to direct his pupils, as often as possible requiring them to

judge themselves when they happened to be in fault. If they had told

a falsehood, he made them admit the wrong they had done both to their

schoolfellows and to themselves. If they were disorderly and delayed

lessons, he showed them that they were the first to suffer. At times a

culprit spontaneously admitted his offence, thus earning forgiveness.

Emulation in equity ended by animating those young people; they learnt

to rival one another in frankness. At times, of course, there was

trouble, conflict, catastrophe, for all this was only a beginning, and

several generations of schoolboys would be needed for schools to become

the real abodes of healthy and happy life. Marc, however, rejoiced over

the slightest results that he obtained, convinced as he was that if

knowledge were primarily essential for all progress, nothing definitive

with respect to the happiness of mankind could be achieved without the

assistance of the spirit of justice. Why did the _bourgeois_ class,

which was the best educated, become rotten so soon? Was it not by

reason of its iniquities, its denial of justice, its refusal to restore

what it had stolen, to give to the humble and the suffering their

legitimate share of the world's good things? Some folk, in condemning

education, cited the ignominious downfall of the _bourgeoisie_ as an

example, and accused science of producing a multitude of casteless

individuals, thereby increasing the sum of evil and tribulation. And

yes, so long as the passion for knowledge merely for its own sake

should become keener and keener in a social system which was all

falsehood and injustice, it would only add to existing ruins. It was

necessary that science should tend towards justice, and bring to the

future city of fraternity a moral system of liberty and peace.

Even to be just did not suffice; Marc also required kindliness and

affection of his pupils. Nothing could germinate, nothing could flower,

unless it were by love and for it. In the universal flame of desire and

union one found the focus of the world. Within each human being was

implanted an imperious need to mingle with all others; and personal

action, liberty, and individuality were like the play of different

organs, all dependent on the universal Being. If each individual man,

even when isolated, represented so much will and power, his actions, at

all events, only began to count when they exercised an influence on the

community. To love, to make oneself loved, to make all others love: the

teacher's _rôle_ was found entire in those three propositions, those

three degrees of human instruction. To love--Marc loved his pupils

with his whole heart, giving himself to them unreservedly, knowing

full well that one must indeed love if one would teach, for only love

has the power of touching and convincing. To make oneself loved--that

was a task to which he devoted every hour, fraternising with his boys,

never seeking to make them fear him, but, on the contrary, striving

to win them over by persuasion, affection, the good-fellowship of an

elder brother still growing up among his juniors. To make all others

love--that again was his constant thought; he was ever recalling the

true saying that the happiness of each is compounded of the happiness

of all; and he brought forward the daily example of the progress and

pleasure of each boy when the whole class had worked well.

Schooling, no doubt, should have as its objects the culture of energy,

the liberation and exaltation of each individuality; a child must

judge and act by himself alone in order that as a man he may yield the

sum-total of his personal value. But, as Marc put it, would not the

crop resulting from such intensive culture increase the common harvest

of all? Could a man create true glory for himself without contributing

in one or another form to the happiness of others? Education

necessarily tended to solidarity, to the universal attraction which was

gradually blending mankind into one family. And Marc's mind and heart

were set on sympathy and affection, on a joyous, brotherly school, full

of sunshine, song, and laughter, where happiness was taught, where the

pupils learnt to live the life of science, truth, and justice, which

would come in all its fulness when the way for it should have been

sufficiently prepared by generations of children taught as they ought

to be.

From the very outset Marc combated the system by which violence,

terror, and folly were inculcated in so many children. The right of the

stronger, massacre, carnage, the devastation and razing of cities--all

those things were set before the young, glorified in books, pictures,

and constant, almost hourly, lessons. Great was the display of the

bloody pages of history, the wars, the conquests, the names of the

captains who had butchered their fellow-beings. The minds of children

were enfevered by the crash of arms, by nightmares of slaughter

steeping the plains in blood. In the prize books given to them, in the

little papers published for their perusal, on the very covers of their

copybooks, their eyes encountered the savagery of armies, the burning

of fleets, the everlasting calamity of man sinking to the level of a

wolf. And when a battle was not depicted there came a miracle, some

absurd legend, some source of darkness: a saint delivering a country

by his or her prayers, an intervention of Jesus or Mary ensuring the

ownership of the world to the wealthy, a Churchman solving political

and social difficulties by a mere sign of the Cross. The humble were

invariably warned that they must show obedience and resignation. To

impress it on their minds in childhood's hour, stormy skies were shown

them, illumined by the lightning of an irritated and cruel Deity.

Terror reigned, terror of that Deity, terror too of the devil, a base

and hideous terror, which seized on man in his infancy and kept him

cowering until he reached the grave after a life which was all dense

night, ignorance, and falsehood. In that manner one fashioned only

slaves, flesh fit to serve the master's capricious purposes. And indeed

that education of blind faith and perpetual extermination was based on

the necessity of ever having soldiers ready to defend the established

and iniquitous order of things.

Yet what an antiquated idea it was to cultivate human energy by lessons

of warfare! It corresponded with the times when the sword alone decided

questions between nation and nation, and between kings and their

subjects. But nowadays, if nations still guard themselves--as they do,

in formidable fashion, full of anxious dread lest everything should

collapse--who will dare to say that victory will rest with the warlike

nations? Who, on the contrary, cannot see that the triumphant nation of

to-morrow will be that which defeats the others on the economic field,

by reorganising the conditions of human toil, and by bringing more

justice and happiness to mankind?

To Marc it seemed that the only worthy _rôle_ for France was that of

completing the Revolution and becoming the great emancipator. The

narrow doctrine that one's sole purpose should be to make soldiers

of Frenchmen filled him with grief and anger. On the morrow of the

disasters of 1870 such a programme may have had its excuse; and yet

all the unrest of years and years, the whole abominable crisis of the

present times has proceeded from that programme, from having placed

one's supreme hope in the army, from having abandoned the democracy to

military leaders. If it be still necessary to guard oneself, surrounded

as one is by neighbours in arms, it is yet more necessary to become

workers, free and just citizens, such as those to whom to-morrow will

belong. On the day when France knows it and wills it, on the day when

she becomes a nation freed from error, the armour-plated empires around

her will crumble beneath the breath of truth and justice emanating

from her lips--a breath which will achieve that which can never be

accomplished by all her armies and her guns. Nations awaken nations,

and on the day when, one by one, the nations rise, enlightened,

instructed by example, the world will witness the victory of peace, the

end of war. Marc could imagine for his country no more splendid _rôle_

than that of hastening the day when all countries would mingle in one.

Thus he kept a strict watch over his pupils' books, replacing as far

as possible all pictures and descriptions of spurious miracles and

bloody battles by others which dealt with the truths of science and the

fruitful labours of mankind. The one true source of energy lies in work

for happiness' sake.

In the course of the second year some good results were already

manifest. Dividing his school into two classes, Marc took charge of

the first, composed of boys from nine to thirteen years of age, while

Mignot attended to the second, in which the lads were from six to nine

years old. The young principal also adopted the system of appointing

monitors, whence he derived certain advantages, a saving of time in

some matters, and an increase of emulation among his boys. Not a

moment was lost during school hours, yet he allowed the lads as much

independence as possible, chatting with them, provoking objections from

them, and imposing nothing on them by dint of authority, desirous as

he was that all feeling of certainty should come from their own minds.

Thus gaiety prevailed, and the lessons in which those young minds

passed from discovery to discovery were full of attractiveness.

On one matter only did Marc insist, and that was great cleanliness.

Under his guidance the lads took pleasure in washing their hands at

the water taps, and the classroom windows were opened widely at each

interval between lessons, as well as afterwards. Before Marc's time it

had been the practice (a usual one in French elementary schools) for

the boys to sweep the schoolroom floor, whereby they raised a terrible

amount of dust,--a redoubtable means of spreading contagion,--but he

taught them to wash the floor with sponges, a duty which they soon

regarded as a pastime.

One sunshiny day in May, two years after Marc's appointment to

Maillebois, Inspector Mauraisin paid the school a surprise visit during

the interval between morning lessons. It was in vain that he had

hitherto kept a watch on Marc. He was disconcerted by the young man's

prudence, infuriated by his inability to send in a bad report such as

would have justified removal. That clumsy revolutionary dreamer, whom

nobody had expected to see six months in office, was becoming a perfect

fixture, to the amazement and scandal of all right-thinking people. By

devising that surprise visit, however, the Inspector hoped to catch him

in fault.

As it happened, the boys had just been washing the classroom floor,

and handsome little Mauraisin, sprucely buttoned up in his frock coat,

raised a cry of alarm: 'What! are you flooded?'

When Marc explained that he had replaced sweeping by washing, for

reasons of hygiene, the Inspector shrugged his shoulders: 'Another

novelty!' said he. 'You might at least have warned the Administration.

Besides, all this water cannot be healthy, it must tend to rheumatism.

You will please content yourself with the broom so long as you are not

authorised to use sponges.'

Then, as the interval between lessons was not quite over, he began to

rummage everywhere, even opening the cupboards to see if their contents

were in order. Perhaps he hoped to find some bad books, some Anarchist

pamphlets. At all events he criticised everything, laid stress on the

slightest sign of negligence, passing censure in a loud voice, in the

very midst of the boys, by way of humiliating Marc in their presence.

At last, the boys having resumed their seats, the usual questioning

began.

Mauraisin's first attack fell upon Mignot because little Charles

Doloir, eight years of age, and therefore in the second class, was

unable to answer a question on a subject which he had not yet studied.

'So you are behindhand with the programme!' said the Inspector. 'Why,

your pupils ought to have reached that lesson two months ago.'

Mignot, who, though he stood there in a respectful attitude, was

plainly irritated by the other's aggressive tone, turned towards his

principal. It was indeed at the latter that Mauraisin had really aimed

his remark. And so the young head-master replied: 'Excuse me, Monsieur

l'Inspecteur, it was I who thought it right to intervert certain parts

of the programme in order to make some of the lessons clearer. Besides,

is it not better to attend less to the exact order of the lessons as

given in the books than to their spirit, in such wise, however, that

all may be taught to the boys in the course of the year?'

Mauraisin affected great indignation: 'What! you interfere with the

programme, monsieur? You, yourself, decide what to take of it and

what to leave out? You substitute your fancy for the wisdom of your

superiors? Well, they shall know that this class is behindhand.'

Then, his glance falling on the elder Doloir, Auguste, who was ten

years old, he told him to stand up, and began to question him about

the Reign of Terror, asking him to name the leaders of the period,

Robespierre, Danton, Marat.

'Was Marat handsome, my boy?' he inquired.

Now Auguste Doloir, though Marc had succeeded in obtaining a little

better behaviour from him, was still the rebel and trickster of the

school. Either from ignorance or roguishness, it was hard to say, he

now made answer: 'Oh! very handsome, monsieur.'

His schoolfellows, vastly amused, laughed and wriggled on their seats.

'No, no, my boy!' exclaimed Mauraisin, 'Marat was hideous, with every

vice and every crime stamped upon his countenance!' And, turning

towards Marc, he added clumsily enough: 'You do not teach them that

Marat was handsome, I imagine!'

'No, Monsieur l'Inspecteur,' the master answered with a smile.

Laughter arose once more, and Mignot had to step between the desks

to restore order, while Mauraisin, clinging to the subject of Marat,

began to refer to Charlotte Corday. As luck would have it, he addressed

himself to Fernand Bongard, now a tall boy of eleven, whom he probably

imagined to be one of the most advanced pupils.

'Here! you big fellow yonder, can you tell me how Marat died?'

He could not have been more unlucky. It was only with the greatest

difficulty that Marc taught Fernand anything. The lad was not merely

thick-headed, he did not try to learn, and as for the names and dates

of history he was on the worst possible terms with them. He rose with a

scared expression in his dilated eyes.

'Come, compose yourself, my boy,' said Mauraisin. 'Did not Marat die

under peculiar circumstances?'

Fernand remained silent, with his mouth wide open. But a compassionate

schoolfellow behind him whispered: 'In a bath'; whereupon in a very

loud voice he answered: 'Marat drowned himself while taking a bath.'

This time the laughter became delirium, and Mauraisin flew into a

temper: 'These boys are really stupid!' he exclaimed. 'Marat was killed

in his bath by Charlotte Corday, a young girl of high-strung nature,

who sacrificed herself in order to save France from a monster thirsting

for blood.... Are you taught nothing, then, as you cannot answer the

simplest questions?'

However, he interrogated the twin brothers Savin, Achille and Philippe,

respecting the religious wars, and obtained fairly satisfactory answers

from them. They were scarcely popular in the school, for not only were

they sly and addicted to falsehoods, but they denounced those of their

schoolfellows whom they saw in fault, besides telling their father

of everything that occurred. Nevertheless the Inspector, won over by

their hypocritical ways, cited them as examples: 'These boys know at

least something,' said he. And again addressing himself to Philippe he

inquired: 'Now, can you tell me what one ought to do to follow one's

religion properly?'

'One ought to go to Mass, monsieur.'

'No doubt, but that is not sufficient; one ought to do everything that

religion teaches. You hear, my boy--everything that religion teaches.'

Marc looked at Mauraisin in stupefaction, still he did not intervene,

for he guessed that the Inspector in putting that singular question

had been prompted by a desire to make him compromise himself by some

imprudent remark. Indeed, that was so fully the other's object that

he continued aggressively, addressing himself this time to Sébastien

Milhomme: 'You, the little boy yonder with the fair hair, tell me what

religion teaches?'

Sébastien, who stood erect, with an expression of consternation on

his face, made no answer. He was the best pupil of the class, with a

quick, intelligent mind, and an affectionate and gentle disposition.

His inability to answer the Inspector brought tears to his eyes. As he

received no lessons in religion, he did not even understand what he was

asked.

'Well, you need not look at me like that, you little stupid!' exclaimed

Mauraisin; 'my question is clear enough.'

But Marc was unable to restrain himself any longer. The embarrassment

of his best pupil, to whom he was growing extremely attached, proved

unbearable to him. So he came to his help: 'Excuse me, Monsieur

l'Inspecteur, the teachings of religion are contained in the Church

Catechism, and the Catechism is not included in our programme. So how

can the lad answer you?'

This answer, no doubt, was what Mauraisin had expected. 'I have no

lessons to receive from you, Monsieur le Maître,' he responded,

feigning anger once more, 'I know what I am about. There is no properly

conducted school in which a child cannot give a general answer to a

question about the religion of his country.'

'I repeat. Monsieur l'Inspecteur,' rejoined Marc in a firm voice,

in which a little rising anger became apparent, 'I repeat that it

is not for me to teach the Catechism. You are mistaken, you are not

at the school of the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, who make

the Catechism the basis of all their teaching. You are in a secular

Republican school, expressly set apart from all the churches--one where

the teaching is based solely on reason and science. If it be necessary,

I shall appeal on the subject to my superiors.'

Mauraisin understood that he had gone too far. Each time that he had

endeavoured to shake Marc's position he had found his superior, Academy

Inspector Le Barazer, tacitly, passively supporting the young man,

refusing to take any action against him unless grave and well-proven

charges were brought forward. Moreover, Mauraisin knew Le Barazer's

opinions respecting the absolute neutrality of the schools in religious

matters. And so, without insisting on the subject, he curtailed his

inspection, soon bringing it to an end, though not without again

indulging in criticisms, for he was determined to find nothing

satisfactory. The boys themselves deemed him ridiculous, and covertly

made merry over the bad temper of that vain little fop whose hair and

beard were so sprucely kept. When he withdrew, Mignot went so far as to

shrug his shoulders, and whisper to Marc: 'We shall have a bad report,

but you were quite right. That man is becoming altogether too stupid.'

For some time now, Mignot, gained upon by Marc's firm yet gentle

behaviour, had been coming over to his side. It was not that he as yet

shared his opinions in all things, for he was still anxious respecting

his own advancement; but he had a sound mind at bottom, and was

gradually yielding to the other's good guidance.

'Oh! a bad report!' Marc repeated gaily; 'he won't dare to venture

beyond hypocritical and venomous attacks.... Ah! do you see him going

into Mademoiselle Rouzaire's? He's with his divinity now. The worst is

that his behaviour is not dictated by principle, but merely by personal

policy, a desire to make his way in the world.'

At each inspection Mauraisin lavished very favourable reports upon

Mademoiselle Rouzaire. She, at all events, took her girls to church,

compelled them to recite the Catechism in school hours, and allowed the

Inspector to question them about religion as much as he desired. One of

her pupils, little Hortense Savin, who was being prepared for her first

Communion, quite astonished Mauraisin by her extensive knowledge of

Bible history. And if Angèle Bongard, thick-skulled like her brother,

showed less proficiency in spite of her painfully stubborn efforts to

learn, on the other hand Lucile Doloir, a little lass six years of

age, who had joined the school only recently, gave promise of great

intelligence, and would make, later on, a very charming 'Handmaiden of

the Virgin.'

When morning lessons were over, Marc again caught sight of Mauraisin,

whom Mademoiselle Rouzaire was escorting to the threshold of her

school. They lingered there together, chatting in an intimate way

and making gestures suggestive of great distress of mind. They were

undoubtedly deploring what went on in the neighbouring boys' school,

which was still in the hands of the disgraceful master of whom, for two

years, they had been vainly trying to rid the town.

After long expecting the sudden removal of Marc, Maillebois was now

growing accustomed to his presence. At a sitting of the Municipal

Council, Mayor Darras had even found an opportunity to praise him;

and his position had been strengthened recently by an incident of

considerable significance: the return of two boys who had been

previously transferred to the Brothers' school. This indicated that

parents felt tranquillised, and were disposed to accept the young

man, and it was also a check for the Congregational school, hitherto

so prosperous and victorious. Was Marc about to succeed, then,

in restoring the secular school to honour, by dint of wisdom and

affection, as he had said to Salvan? Anxiety must have arisen among

the Ignorantines and the monks, the whole clerical faction, for the

young man suddenly found himself attacked in so singular a fashion

that he was quite surprised. Mauraisin, on calling upon the Mayor and

others, had left the Catechism question on one side, speaking only

of Marc's new system of washing the schoolroom floor, and in this

connection affecting much alarm for the children's health. A great

controversy arose: ought the floor to be washed or ought it to be

swept? Before long Maillebois was divided into two camps, which became

quite impassioned and hurled all sorts of arguments at one another. The

children's parents were consulted, and Savin, the clerk, denounced the

washing system so bitterly that for a moment it was thought he would

remove his twin boys from the school. But Marc carried the question to

a higher court, soliciting the opinion of his superiors, and requesting

them to appoint a commission of medical men and hygienists. Then came

a serious investigation, and victory rested with the washing system.

For the master this was quite a triumph; the children's parents became

more and more disposed to support him; even Savin, with whom it was so

difficult to deal, had to retract, and another boy came back from the

Brothers' school, which, people began to say, was horribly dirty.

But, in spite of this dawning sympathy, Marc harboured no illusions. He

felt that years would be necessary to free the region from the poison

of Clericalism. Gaining a little more ground every now and then, he

practised the greatest prudence, well pleased with the result, however

slight it might be. At the instance of Geneviève, he had carried his

desire for peace so far as to renew his intercourse with her relations.

This, as it happened, took place in connection with the famous washing

controversy, in which, contrary to custom, the ladies shared his views.

So now, from time to time, accompanying his wife and daughter, he again

visited the little house on the Place des Capucins. The two old ladies

remained ceremonious and carefully avoided all dangerous subjects

of conversation. Thus there was no pleasant intimacy. Nevertheless

the reconciliation delighted Geneviève, for it freed her from the

embarrassment she had felt when calling alone on her grandmother and

mother. At present she saw them almost daily, and sometimes left Louise

with them, coming and going from one house to the other, Marc evincing

no anxiety, but feeling, indeed, well pleased with the gaiety displayed

by his wife, on whom the ladies again lavished caresses, services, and

little presents.

One Sunday, on going to lunch with a friend at Jonville, Marc--by

the force of contrast--suddenly realised how much ground he had

already gained at Maillebois. He had never previously understood how

decisive a schoolmaster's influence might prove. Whilst Maillebois

was slowly reverting to justice, health, and prosperity, he found

Jonville relapsing into darkness, poverty, and stagnation. It grieved

him to find that little or nothing remained of the good work he had

done there in former years. And this was due solely to the deplorable

action of the new schoolmaster, Jauffre, who cared for nothing save

his own personal success. Short, dark, quick and cunning, with narrow

prying eyes, Jauffre owed his success in life to the priest of his

native village, who had taken him from his father, a blacksmith, to

teach him his first lessons. Later on another priest had enriched

him by negotiating his marriage with a butcher's daughter, who was

short and dark like himself, and who brought him as dowry an income

of two thousand francs a year. Jauffre was convinced, therefore,

that if he desired to become a personage he ought to remain on the

side of the priests, who some day doubtless would provide him with a

splendid position. The income he owed to his wife already rendered him

respectable, and his superiors treated him with consideration, for a

man who was not dependent on the administration for his living could

hardly be hustled about as if he were a mere starveling like Férou. In

the school world, as elsewhere, favours go to the rich, never to the

poor.

Besides, exaggerated reports were spread respecting Jauffre's fortune,

in such wise that all the peasants took off their hats to him, he

completing his conquest of them by his greed for gain, his wonderful

skill in extracting as much profit as possible from everybody and

everything. He was not troubled with any sincere belief; if he were a

Republican, a good patriot, and a good Catholic, it was only so far as

his interests required. Thus, although he called upon Abbé Cognasse

as soon as he was appointed to Jonville, he did not immediately hand

the school over to him, for he detected the anti-clerical spirit then

prevalent in the village. But he gradually allowed the priest to become

all-powerful by intentional relinquishment of his own privileges, and

by covert resistance to the express desires of the Mayor and the parish

council. Mayor Martineau, so strong and firm when he had leant on Marc,

became quite lost on having to contend single-handed against the new

schoolmaster, who soon became the real ruler of the parish, and ended

by relinquishing his authority to Abbé Cognasse in such wise that, at

the expiration of six months, Jonville was in the priest's hands.

Jauffre's line of conduct interested Marc particularly, because it was

a masterpiece of Jesuitry. He obtained precise information about it

from the schoolmistress, Mademoiselle Mazeline, on whom he called. She

was sincerely grieved at being unable to effect anything useful now

that she remained alone in a parish where all was rotting. She told

Marc, of the comedy played by Jauffre in the earlier days when Mayor

Martineau complained of one or another encroachment on the part of the

priest, which the schoolmaster himself had stealthily provoked. The

latter pretended to be as indignant as the Mayor, and accused his wife,

Madame Jauffre, who was very devout, of assisting Abbé Cognasse. As

it happened, the husband and the wife were in full agreement, and had

devised this plan in order to escape responsibility. And so Martineau

was speedily vanquished, particularly as his coquettish wife became

the great friend of Madame Jauffre, who, on the strength of her dower,

affected the manners of a born lady. Before long Jauffre began to ring

the bell for Mass, a duty which Marc had always refused to discharge.

It brought in only thirty francs a year, but then, in Jauffre's

opinion, thirty francs were not to be sneezed at. At Marc's instigation

the money had been devoted for a time to the repair of the old church

clock, and now the latter, being neglected as in former days, got out

of order once more, in such wise that the peasants never again knew

the correct time, for the clock went by fits and starts, being one day

too fast and another too slow. As Mademoiselle Mazeline remarked, with

a sad smile, that clock was the image of the parish, where nothing was

now done in accordance with sense and logic.

The worst was that Abbé Cognasse's triumph extended to Le Moreux, whose

Mayor, Saleur, the ex-grazier, impressed by the turn which things

were taking at Jonville, and fearing for the fat life which he led,

thanks to his new wealth, went back to the Church, however little

he might really like the priests. And it was on that wretched rebel

schoolmaster, Férou, that the effects of the reconciliation fell.

Whenever Abbé Cognasse now came to Le Moreux, he displayed a most

insolent sense of victory, and inflicted on the schoolmaster all sorts

of humiliations, with which the other had to put up, abandoned as he

was by the Mayor and the parish council. Never did a poor man lead a

more rageful life. Possessed of a broad, quick mind, but condemned to

live among so much ignorance and malice, Férou was impelled to the most

extreme views by his ever-increasing misery. His wife, worn out by

hard toil, and his three poor, pale, and puny daughters were starving.

Yet, although indebtedness was consuming his last resources, he did

not submit. Looking more of a scarecrow than ever in his old whitening

frock coat, he evinced greater and greater bitterness, not only

refusing to take his pupils to Mass, but even growling insults when the

priest went by on Sundays. A catastrophe was imminent, dismissal was

inevitable, and, to make matters worse, as the unlucky man had served

only eight of his ten years as a teacher,[2] he would be seized by the

military authorities immediately after his dismissal. What would become

of the mournful wife and little girls, when the husband, the father,

should be lodged in some barracks?

[Footnote 2: See page 137, _ante_.]

On leaving Jonville that day, Marc and Mademoiselle Mazeline, who

accompanied him as far as the railway station, passed the church

at the moment when vespers were ending. Palmyre, Abbé Cognasse's

terrible old servant, stood on the threshold, taking stock of those

who showed themselves good Christians. Jauffre came out, and two of

his pupils saluted him in military fashion, a mark of deference which

he exacted, and which flattered his patriotic feelings. Then appeared

Madame Jauffre and Madame Martineau, Martineau himself, and a stream

of peasants of both sexes. Marc hastened his steps in order to avoid

recognition and an impulse to express his grief aloud. He was struck

by the fact that Jonville was less well kept than formerly; signs of

abandonment, of a diminution of prosperity were already apparent.

But then was not that the law? Did not intellectual poverty engender

material poverty? Filth and vermin have invaded every country where

Roman Catholicism has triumphed. Wherever it has passed it has proved

a blast of death, striking the soil with sterility, casting men into

idleness and imbecility, for it is the very negation of life, and it

kills nations like a slow but deadly poison.

Marc felt relieved when, on the morrow, he once more found himself in

his school at Maillebois among the children whose minds and hearts he

was striving to awaken. Doubtless his work progressed very slowly, but

the result achieved lent him the strength to persevere. Unfortunately,

the parents of his boys gave him no help. His advance would have been

more rapid if the lads had found in their homes some continuance of

the principles inculcated during their school hours. But the contrary

happened at times. In Achille and Philippe Savin, Marc detected the

sullen, jealous bitterness of their father, and he could only endeavour

to check their propensity for falsehood, slyness, and tale-bearing.

Again, though the Doloirs were intelligent enough if they had only

been minded to learn, they showed little real improvement. Auguste was

very inattentive and quarrelsome, and Charles followed in his elder

brother's footsteps. With Fernand Bongard the difficulty was different;

he was exceptionally obtuse, and it was only with an incredible

amount of trouble that one could make him understand and remember the

slightest thing. Yet there was some improvement among the boys in their

_ensemble_ since Marc had brought them under a regimen of reason and

truth.

Besides, the young man did not hope to change the world with one

generation of schoolboys. The elementary master's task requires the

greatest patience and abnegation; and Marc's one desire was to furnish

an example by giving his whole life to the obscure work of preparing

the future. If others would only perform their duty one might hope

that in three or four generations a new liberating France might be

created, such as might emancipate the world. And the young man was

ambitious of no immediate reward, no personal success, though to his

great delight he did receive a recompense for his efforts in the

satisfaction which one of his pupils, little Sébastien Milhomme, gave

him. That gentle and remarkably intelligent lad had become passionately

attached to truth. Not only was he the first of his class, but he

also displayed much sincerity and uprightness, at once boyishly and

charmingly uncompromising in character. His schoolfellows often chose

him as umpire in a difficulty, and when he had pronounced judgment

he would not admit that any should free themselves from the effects

of his decision. Marc always felt happy when he saw Sébastien at his

desk, with his long and somewhat pensive face crowned by fair and

curly hair, and lighted by fine blue eyes, which, fixed on the master

with an ardent desire to learn, drank in every lesson. And it was not

only Sébastien's rapid progress which won Marc's heart; he was still

fonder of the boy on account of all the good and generous qualities

which he divined in him. Indeed, Sébastien's was an exquisite little

nature which Marc took pleasure in wakening, one of those child-natures

in which all the florescence of noble thoughts and noble deeds was

beginning to bud.

A painful scene occurred one day towards the close of the afternoon

lessons. Fernand Bongard, whom others were fond of teasing on account

of his dense stupidity, had discovered that the peak of his cap had

been torn off. Forthwith he had burst into tears, declaring that his

mother would surely beat him. Marc wished to discover the author of

this malicious act, but all the boys laughingly denied their guilt,

Auguste Doloir more impudently even than the others, though there was

reason to suspect that the misdeed was his work. And, indeed, as it was

proposed to keep the whole school in after lessons, until the culprit

should confess, Achille Savin betrayed Auguste by pulling the peak

of Fernand's cap out of his pocket. This gave Marc an opportunity to

denounce falsehood, and he did so with so much warmth that the culprit

himself shed tears and asked forgiveness. But Sébastien Milhomme's

emotion was extraordinary, and when the others departed he lingered in

the empty schoolroom, looking at his master with a desperate expression

in his eyes.

'Have you something to say to me, my boy?' Marc asked him.

'Yes, monsieur,' Sébastien replied. Yet he became silent, his lips

trembling, and his handsome face flushing with confusion.

'Is it very difficult to say, then?' Marc inquired.

'Yes, monsieur, it's a falsehood which I told you, and which makes me

feel very unhappy.'

The young master smiled, anticipating some peccadillo, some childishly

exaggerated scruple of conscience. 'Well, tell me the truth,' he said,

'it will relieve you.'

Another pause of some length followed. Signs of a fresh mental battle

became apparent in Sébastien's limpid blue eyes and even on his pure

lips. But at last the boy made up his mind and said: 'Well, monsieur,

I told you a falsehood a long time ago, when I was quite little and

ignorant--I told you a falsehood by saying what was not true, that I

had never seen my cousin Victor with that writing copy--you remember,

monsieur--the copy which people talked about so much. He had given it

to me as he did not want to keep it himself, for he felt anxious about

it as he had taken it from the Brothers'. And on that very day when I

told you I did not remember anything about it, I had hidden it in a

copybook of my own.'

Marc listened, thunderstruck. Once more the whole Simon case seemed to

arise before him, emerging from its apparent slumber. But he did not

wish the lad to see how deeply he was stirred by the unexpected shock,

and so he asked him: 'Are you sure that you are not again mistaken? Did

the copy bear the words "_Aimez vous les uns les autres_"?'

'Yes, monsieur.'

'And there was a paraph down below? I have taught you what a paraph is,

have I not?'

'Yes, monsieur.'

For a moment Marc relapsed into silence. His heart was beating

violently, he feared lest the cry which was rising to his lips might

escape him. Then, wishing to make quite sure, he continued: 'But why

did you keep silent till now, my lad? And what induced you to tell me

the truth this evening?'

Sébastien, already relieved, looked his master straight in the face

with an expression of charming candour. His delicate smile returned,

and he explained the wakening of his conscience in the simplest way.

'Oh! if I did not tell you the truth sooner, monsieur, it was because

I felt no need of doing so. I no longer remembered that I had told

you a falsehood, it was so long ago. But one day, here, you explained

to us how wrong it was to tell falsehoods, and then I remembered it,

and began to feel worried. Afterwards, every time you spoke of the

happiness one found in always saying the truth, I felt the more worried

because I had not said it to you.... And to-day it pained me so I

couldn't bear it any longer, and I had to tell you.'

Emotion brought tears to Marc's eyes. So his lessons were already

flowering in that little mind, and it was he who garnered that first

harvest--a harvest of truth--such precious truth, too, which would

perhaps enable him to bring about a little justice. Never had he hoped

for so prompt and so sweet a reward. The emotion he felt was exquisite.

With an impulse of tender affection he stooped and kissed the lad.

'Thank you, my little Sébastien, you have given me great pleasure, and

I love you with all my heart.'

Emotion had come upon the boy also. 'Oh! I love you very much,

monsieur,' he answered, 'for otherwise I should not have dared to tell

you everything.'

Marc resisted his desire to question the boy fully, for he feared

lest he might be accused of having abused his authority as master to

aggravate the confession. He merely ascertained that Madame Alexandre

had taken the copy-slip from her son, who did not know what she had

done with it, for she had never again mentioned it to him. For the

rest, the young man preferred to see the mother. She alone could

produce the slip--if it were still in her possession--and what a

precious document it would prove, for would it not constitute the

long-sought 'new fact,' which might enable Simon's family to apply for

the revision of his iniquitous trial?

On remaining alone, Marc felt full of joy. He wished it were possible

for him to hasten to the Lehmanns immediately, to tell them the good

news, and impart a little happiness to their sad, mourning home, which

was the object of so much popular execration. At last! at last! a

sunray had flashed upon the black night of iniquity.

Going upstairs to join his wife, he cried to her as he reached the

threshold, such was his excitement, his craving to relieve his heart:

'Geneviève, do you know, I now have proof of Simon's innocence ... Ah!

justice is wakening; we shall be able to go forward now!'

He had not noticed the presence, in a shadowy corner, of Madame

Duparque, who, since the reconciliation, condescended to visit her

granddaughter occasionally. She, on hearing him, gave a start and

exclaimed in her harsh voice: 'What? Simon's innocence! Do you still

persevere in your folly, then? A proof indeed! What proof do you mean?'

Then, after he had related his conversation with little Milhomme, the

old lady again flew into a temper: 'The evidence of a child! That isn't

of much value! He now pretends that he formerly lied; but what proof is

there that he is not lying now?... So the culprit would be a Brother,

eh? Oh! speak your mind plainly, acknowledge it; your only object is

to accuse one of the Brothers, is that not so? It is always the same

rageful impiety with you!'

Somewhat disconcerted at having thus come upon the old lady, and

wishing to spare his wife the grief of any fresh rupture, Marc

contented himself with saying: 'I won't discuss things with you,

grandmother. I merely wished to inform Geneviève of some news which was

likely to please her.'

'But your news does not please her!' cried Madame Duparque. 'Look at

her!'

Marc turned towards his wife, who stood there in the fading light which

fell from the window. And indeed, to his surprise, he saw that she

was grave, that her beautiful eyes had darkened, as if the night, now

slowly approaching, had filled them with shadows.

'Is it true, Geneviève?' he asked her; 'does a work of justice no

longer please you?'

She did not answer him at once. She had become pale and embarrassed,

as if tortured by painful hesitation. And just as he, likewise feeling

very uneasy, was repeating his question, she was saved the distress of

answering him by the sudden appearance of Madame Alexandre.

Sébastien, on returning home, had bravely told his mother of his

confession respecting the copy-slip. She had lacked the strength to

scold him for his good action; but full of fear at the thought that

the schoolmaster would call, question her, and demand the document in

the presence of her terrible sister-in-law, Madame Edouard, who was so

anxious for the prosperity of their little stationery business, she

had preferred to go to the school and do what she could to bury the

affair at once.

Yet now she was there her discomfort became great indeed. Like a gust

of wind she had darted out of her shop, hardly knowing what she would

say, and at present she remained stammering, full of embarrassment,

particularly as she perceived Geneviève and Madame Duparque with Marc,

whom she had hoped to see privately, alone.

'Monsieur Froment,' she began, 'Sébastien has just told me, yes, of

that confession he thought fit to make to you.... So I deemed it best

to give you the reasons of my conduct. You understand--do you not?--all

the worry which such a story would bring us with the difficulties that

already beset us in our business. Well, the fact is, it's true; I did

have that paper, but it no longer exists; I destroyed it.'

She breathed again as if relieved, having contrived to say what she

considered necessary in order to be freed from trouble.

'You destroyed it!' Marc exclaimed with a pang. 'Oh! Madame Alexandre!'

Some slight embarrassment returned to her and she once more sought her

words: 'I did wrong, perhaps.... But think of our position! We are two

poor women with nobody to assist us. And, besides, it was so sad to

have our children mixed up in that abominable affair.... I could not

keep a paper which prevented me from sleeping: I burnt it....'

She was still quivering so perceptibly that Marc looked at her as

she stood there, tall and fair, with the gentle face of a woman of

loving nature. And it seemed to him that she was experiencing some

secret torment. For a moment he felt suspicious--wondered if she were

lying--and it occurred to him to test her sincerity.

'By destroying that paper, Madame Alexandre,' he said, 'you condemned

an innocent man a second time.... Think of all that he is suffering

yonder. You would weep if I read his letters to you. There can be

no worse torture than his--the deadly climate, the harshness of his

keepers, and, above all else, the consciousness of his innocence and

the fearful obscurity as to the truth, amid which he is struggling....

And And what a frightful nightmare for you, should you remember that

all this is your work!'

She had become quite white, and her hands moved involuntarily as if to

ward off some horrible vision. There was kindness and weakness in her

nature, but Marc could not tell whether it were a quiver of remorse, or

some desperate struggle that he detected in her. For a moment, as if

imploring help, she stammered wildly: 'My poor child! my poor child!'

And that child, that little Sébastien, to whom she was so fondly, so

passionately attached, to whom she would have sacrificed everything,

must have suddenly appeared before her, and have restored some little

of her strength. 'Oh! you are cruel, Monsieur Froment!' she said; 'you

make me terribly unhappy.... But how can it be helped, since it's done?

I cannot find that paper again among the ashes.'

'So you burnt it, Madame Alexandre--you are sure of it?'

'Certainly, I told you so.... I burnt it for fear lest my little man

should be compromised, and suffer from it all his life.'

She spoke those last words in an ardent voice, as if with fierce

resolution. Marc was convinced, and made a gesture of despair. Once

again the triumph of truth was delayed, prevented. Without a word

he escorted Madame Alexandre to the door, she again becoming all

embarrassment, at a loss indeed how to take leave of the ladies who

were present. Bowing and stammering excuses, she disappeared, and, when

she was gone, deep silence reigned in the room.

Neither Geneviève nor Madame Duparque had intervened. Both had remained

frigid and motionless. And they still preserved silence while Marc,

absorbed in his grief, his head bowed, walked slowly to and fro. At

last, however, Madame Duparque rose to take her departure, and on

reaching the threshold she turned and said: 'That woman is a lunatic!

Her story of a destroyed paper appears to me to be a fairy tale which

nobody would believe. You would do wrong to relate it, for it would not

help on your affairs.... Good-night: be sensible.'

Marc did not even answer. With a heavy tread he long continued walking

up and down. Night had gathered round, and Geneviève lighted the lamp.

And when by its pale glow she began to lay the table in silence, her

husband did not even try to confess her. One sorrow was enough, and he

did not wish to hasten the advent of another, such as would come should

he learn, as he might, that she, his wife, was no longer in communion

with him in respect to many things.

But during the following days he was haunted by Madame Duparque's last

words. Supposing indeed that he should try to make use of the new

fact which had come to his knowledge, what credit would his statement

obtain among the public? Doubtless he would secure the testimony of

Sébastien; the boy would repeat that he had seen the copy-slip which

his cousin Victor had brought from the Brothers' school. But it would

be the testimony of a child barely ten years old, and his mother would

strive to weaken its importance. It was the paper itself that ought to

be produced; and the statement that it had been burnt would merely lead

to the affair being buried once again.

The more Marc reflected, the more he understood the necessity of

waiting. The new fact could not be put to use, given the conditions

in which he had discovered it. And yet for him how precious it was,

how fertile in decisive proof! It rendered his faith in Simon's

innocence unshakable, it confirmed all his deductions, materialised the

conviction to which reasoning had brought him. One of the Brothers was

the real culprit; a legally conducted inquiry would soon have shown

which of them it was. Yet the young man again had to resign himself

to patience, and rely on the strength of truth, which was now at last

on the march, and which would never more be stopped until full light

should be cast upon everything.

At the same time Marc's anguish increased, the torture of his

conscience became more tragical day by day. It was frightful to

know that an innocent man was suffering abominable martyrdom in a

penal settlement, and that the real culprit was free, near at hand,

impudent and triumphant, still pursuing his vile work as a corrupter

of children; and it was still more frightful that one should be unable

to cry all that aloud and prove it, confronted as one was by the base

complicity of all the social forces banded together by egotistical

interest to perpetuate the monstrous iniquity. Marc no longer slept,

he carried his secret with him like a sharp goad which incessantly

reminded him that it was his duty to ensure justice. Never for an hour

did he cease to think of his mission, and his heart bled despairingly

because he knew not what to do to hasten its success.

Even at the Lehmanns he said nothing of Sébastien's confession. What

good would it have done to give these poor folk a vague uncertain

hope? Life still treated them very harshly, overwhelmed them with

opprobrium and grief--grief for the prisoner yonder, whose letters

rent their hearts, and whose name was cast in their teeth as a supreme

insult. Old Lehmann's trade had declined yet more; Rachel, always

gowned in mourning like a widow, distressed by the rapid growth of her

children, who would learn everything before long, scarcely dared to

go out. Thus Marc only confided in David, in whom glowed the stubborn

determination to make everybody recognise and acclaim his brother's

innocence at some future time. He lived apart, ignored, carefully

avoiding all appearance on the scene, but never, not for an hour,

did he pause in the task of rehabilitation which had become the sole

object of his life. He reflected, studied, followed clues which he

too often had to abandon after a few steps. Despite two years of

constant research, he had discovered nothing decisive. His suspicion

of an illegal communication made by President Gragnon to the jurors

had become a moral certainty, only he had failed in all his efforts to

procure proof, and could not tell how to obtain it. Nevertheless he

was not discouraged; he had resolved to devote ten, twenty years of

his life even, to reach the real culprit. Marc's revelation inspired

him with additional courage and patience. He likewise held that it

was best to keep Sébastien's confession secret, so long as it was not

strengthened by some material proof. For the moment it merely supplied

the hope of an additional triumph. And that said, David again turned,

calmly and firmly, to his investigations, pursuing them with no haste,

but ever in the same prudent, continuous manner.

One morning, before lessons began, Marc at last made up his mind to

remove the large crucifix which hitherto he had left hanging from

the wall behind his desk. He had been waiting for two years to be

sufficiently master of the situation before expressing in this manner

the independence of the secular school--such as he understood and

desired it--in matters of religion. Until now he had willingly yielded

to Salvan's prudent advice, for he understood that he must assure

himself of his position before making it a position of combat. But

he now felt strong enough to begin the battle. Had he not restored

prosperity to the Communal school by winning back to it numerous pupils

who had been transferred to the Brothers'? Had he not gradually gained

personal respect, the affection of the children, the favour of their

parents? Besides, he was impelled to take action first by his recent

visit to Jonville, which he had left on the high road to knowledge,

and which Abbé Cognasse was once more transforming into an abode of

darkness, and secondly by all the anxiety and anger stirred up within

him by Sébastien's confession--anger with the ignominy that he divined

around him in Maillebois, which was enslaved and poisoned by the

clerical faction.

That morning, then, he had already climbed upon a stool to remove the

crucifix, when Geneviève, holding little Louise by the hand, entered

the classroom to inform him of her intention to take the child to spend

the day with her grandmother. At the sight of Marc on the stool the

young woman was quite surprised. 'What are you doing there?' she asked

him.

'Can't you see?' he answered. 'I am taking down this crucifix, which I

intend to give to Abbé Quandieu myself, in order that he may restore it

to the church which it ought never to have left.... Here! help me--take

it!'

But she did not hold out her arms. She did not move. Turning extremely

pale, she watched him as if she were witnessing some forbidden and

dangerous deed which filled her with fear. And he had to descend from

the stool unhelped by her, encumbered with the big crucifix, which he

immediately locked up in one of the cupboards.

'You wouldn't help me,' he exclaimed. 'What is the matter? Do you

disapprove of what I have done?'

In spite of her emotion, Geneviève answered plainly: 'Yes, I disapprove

of it.'

Her answer amazed Marc. Like her he began to quiver. It was the first

time that she assumed such an aggressive and angry tone with him. He

felt a little shock, a slight rending, such as presages rupture. And he

looked at her with astonishment and anxiety, as if he had heard a voice

he did not know, as if a stranger had just spoken to him.

'What! you disapprove of what I do? Was it really you who said that?'

'Yes, it was I. It is wrong of you to do what you have done.'

She it was indeed; for she stood before him, tall and slender, with her

fair amiable face, and her glance gleaming with some of her father's

sensual passion. Yes, it was she, and yet in the expression of those

large blue eyes there was already something different, a shadow,

a little of the mystical dimness of the _au-delà_. And Marc in his

astonishment felt a chill come to his heart as he suddenly observed

that change. What had happened, then? Why was she no longer the same?

But he recoiled from an immediate explanation, and contented himself

with adding: 'Hitherto, even when you did not think perhaps as I did,

you always told me to act in accordance with my conscience, and that

is what I have now done. And so your blame surprised me painfully. We

shall have to talk of it.'

She did not disarm, she preserved her angry frigidity of manner. 'We

will talk of it if you so desire,' she replied; 'meantime I am going

to take Louise to grandmother, who will not bring her back till this

evening.'

Sudden enlightenment dawned upon Marc. It was Madame Duparque who was

taking Geneviève from him, and who, doubtless, would take Louise also.

He had acted wrongly in disinteresting himself from his wife's doings,

in allowing her and the child to spend so much time in that pious

house, where the dimness and atmosphere of a chapel prevailed. He had

failed to notice the stealthy change which had been taking place in his

wife during the last two years, that revival of her pious youth, of the

indelible education of other days, which, little by little, had been

bringing her back to the dogmas which he imagined had been overcome

by the efforts of his intellect and the embrace of his love. As yet

she had not begun to follow her religion again by attendance at Mass,

Communion, and Confession, but he felt that she was already parting

from him, reverting to the past with slow but certain steps, each of

which would place them farther and farther asunder.

'Are we no longer in agreement, then, my darling?' he asked her sadly.

With great frankness she replied: 'No. And grandmother was right,

Marc; all the trouble has come from that horrible affair. Since you

have been defending that man, who was transported and who deserved

his punishment, misfortune has entered our home, and we shall end by

agreeing no more in anything.'

He raised a cry of despair. 'Is it you,' he repeated, 'you who speak

like that? You are against truth, against justice now!'

'I am against the deluded and malicious ones whose evil passions attack

religion. They wish to destroy God; but, even if one quits the Church,

one should at least respect its ministers, who do so much good.'

This time Marc made no rejoinder. A quarrel was out of place at that

moment when he was expecting the arrival of the boys. But was the

evil so deep already? His grief arose chiefly from the fact that at

the root of the dissentiment parting him from his wife he found the

Simon affair, the mission of equity which he had imposed on himself.

No concession in that matter was possible on his part, and thus no

agreement could be arrived at. For two years past that monstrous affair

had been mingled with every incident; it was like a poisoned source

which would continue to rot both people and things, so long as justice

was not done. And now his own home was poisoned by it.

Seeing that he preserved silence, Geneviève went towards the door,

repeating quietly: 'Well, I am going to grandmother's with Louise.'

Marc thereupon caught up the child as if anxious to kiss her. Would he

also allow that little one, the flesh of his flesh, to be taken from

him? Ought he not to keep her in his arms to save her from imbecile and

deadly contagion? For a moment he looked at her. Already at five years

of age, she showed signs of becoming tall and slender like her mother,

her grandmother, and her great-grandmother. But she lacked their pale

fair hair, and she had the lofty brow of the Froments, the brow that

suggested an impregnable tower of sense and knowledge. Laughing loudly,

she cast her arms prettily about her father's neck.

'You know, papa, I will repeat my fable to you when I come home; I know

it quite well.'

Yielding to a sentiment of tolerance, Marc, for the second time,

resolved that he would have no dispute. He restored the little one to

her mother, who led her away. Moreover, the boys were now arriving,

and the classroom soon became full. But anxiety remained in the

master's heart at the thought of the struggle which he had resolved

to wage when he removed the crucifix from the wall. That struggle, it

was now certain, would reach his own hearth. His tears and the tears

of his loved ones would flow. Nevertheless, by an heroic effort, he

mastered his suffering; and summoning little Sébastien, the monitor,

he bade him watch over the reading class, while for his part he gaily

proceeded with some demonstrations on the blackboard, amidst the joyous

brightness with which the sunshine flooded the schoolroom.

II

Three days later, in the evening, while Marc was undressing in the

bedroom, Geneviève being already in bed, he told her that he had

received an urgent letter from Salvan, who wished to see him on the

morrow, Sunday.

'No doubt it is about that crucifix which I removed from the

classroom,' the young man added. 'Some parents have complained, it

seems; and very likely there will be a great to-do. But I anticipated

it.'

Geneviève, whose head lay deep in her pillow, returned no answer.

But when Marc was in bed and the light was extinguished, he was

delightfully surprised to find her casting her arms about him, and

whispering in his ear: 'I spoke to you harshly the other day; and, it's

true, I don't think as you do about religion or about the affair; but I

still love you very dearly, I love you with all my heart.'

Marc felt the more moved by these words as, since the recent dispute,

his wife had turned her back upon him, as though in token of conjugal

rupture.

'And as you are going to have trouble,' she continued softly, 'I don't

want you to think me angry. One's ideas may differ, but all the same

one may love one another very much--is it not so? And if you are mine,

I am still yours, my dear, dear husband.'

On hearing her speak like that he clasped her to him with passionate

eagerness. 'Ah! my dear wife, as long as you love me, as long as you

are mine,' said he, 'I shall fear nought of the terrible threats around

us.'

She yielded to his embrace, quivering, transported by the joy of love

which was essential to her being. And there came a moment of perfect

communion, irresistible reconciliation. The good understanding of a

young couple, united by love, is only seriously threatened when some

divergency of that love arises. As long as they are swayed by passion

one for the other, they remain in agreement athwart the worst mishaps.

He who would part them must first of all destroy their mutual passion.

When Marc gave Geneviève a last kiss before both fell asleep, he

thought it well to reassure her: 'I shall act very prudently in this

affair, I promise you,' said he. 'You know too that I am moderate and

reasonable at bottom.'

'Ah! do as you please,' she answered prettily. 'All I ask is that you

should come back to me, and that we should still love each other.'

On the morrow the young man repaired to Beaumont, quite enlivened by

his wife's ardent affection. He derived fresh courage from it, and thus

it was with a smiling face and the demeanour of a combatant that he

entered Salvan's private room at the Training College. But the first

words spoken by the director, after they had shaken hands in a friendly

way, surprised and embarrassed him.

'I say, my good fellow,' Salvan began, 'so it seems that you have at

last discovered the new fact, the long-sought proof of our poor Simon's

innocence, which will enable one to apply for the revision of his

trial?'

Marc, who had anticipated an immediate explanation on the subject of

the crucifix, remained for a moment silent, wondering whether he ought

to tell the truth even to Salvan. At last, seeking his words, he said

slowly: 'The new fact ... no, I have nothing decisive as yet.'

But Salvan did not notice his hesitation. 'That is what I thought,' he

rejoined, 'for you would have warned me, eh? Nevertheless, there is a

rumour of some discovery made by you, a document of capital importance,

placed in your hands by chance, something like a sword of Damocles

which you are said to hold over the heads of the real culprit and his

accomplices, the whole clerical gang of the region.'

Marc listened, full of stupefaction. Who could have spoken? How was it

that Sébastien's confession and his mother's visit had become known?

How was it that particulars had been spread abroad, modified and

exaggerated as they passed from mouth to mouth? The young man suddenly

made up his mind to tell the truth to Salvan; he felt it necessary to

confide in that worthy and sensible friend and adviser, on whom he

placed so much reliance. So he told him how he knew that a copy-slip,

similar to the one brought forward in evidence against Simon, had been

taken from the Brothers' school, and how it had been destroyed.

Salvan, who was deeply moved, rose from his chair. 'It was the proof we

needed!' he exclaimed. 'But you act rightly in remaining silent since

we hold no material evidence. One must wait.... At present, however,

I understand the disquietude, the covert alarm, which for some days

past I have detected among our adversaries. Some words may have escaped

you or the boy, or his mother, and chance words often go far; or else

some mysterious agency may have placed the secret in circulation,

misrepresenting the facts. In any case the culprit and his accomplices

have certainly felt the ground quaking beneath them; and, naturally,

they are alarmed, for they will have to defend their crime.'

Then, passing to the subject which had prompted his urgent letter,

he resumed: 'But I wished to speak to you of another incident, which

everybody is talking about--your removal of that crucifix from your

classroom. You know my views: our schools ought to be purely and simply

secular, therefore all religious symbols are out of place in them.

But you can have no idea of the tempest which your action will raise.

Unfortunately, it is now the interest of the good Brothers and their

supporters, the Jesuits, to ruin you absolutely, alarmed as they are by

the weapons which they believe to be in your hands. By your action in

the matter of the crucifix you have laid yourself open to attack, and

so they are naturally rushing forward to the onslaught.'

Marc understood, and made a gesture of defiance, like a man fully

prepared for battle. 'But have I not acted prudently, in accordance

with your advice?' he responded. 'Did I not wait two long years before

removing that cross which was hung up after Simon's trial to indicate

that the clerical faction had virtually taken possession of the

Communal school? I have set that poor school on its legs again; it was

suspected and discredited, and I have made it prosperous and free. So

was it not legitimate that my first independent act as schoolmaster,

after winning acceptance and then victory, should be to rid the school

of all emblems, and restore it to that neutrality in matters of

religion, from which it ought never to have departed?'

Salvan interrupted him: 'Once again, I do not blame you. You showed

great patience and tolerance. Nevertheless, your action has taken

place at a terrible moment, and, feeling alarmed for you, I wished to

discuss matters in order to provide, if possible, for all dangerous

contingencies.'

They sat down and talked at length. The political situation of

the department was still very bad. Fresh elections had taken place

recently, and the result had been another step in the direction of

clerical reaction. An extraordinary thing had happened: Lemarrois, the

Mayor of Beaumont, Gambetta's former friend, whose position as deputy

had been deemed unassailable, had found himself obliged to submit to

a second ballot,[1] through the advent of a Socialist candidate, none

other than Advocate Delbos, whose address at Simon's trial had marked

him out for the support of the revolutionary _faubourgs_; and, at

the second polling, Lemarrois had only won by a majority of about a

thousand votes. Meanwhile, the Royalist and Catholic reactionaries had

gained a seat, the handsome Hector de Sanglebœuf having secured the

return of a friend, a general officer, thanks to the entertainments

which he gave at La Désirade, and the lavish manner in which he

distributed Jew gold, derived from his father-in-law, Baron Nathan.

Then, too, in order to secure re-election, the amiable Marcilly, once

the hope of all the young men of culture, had skilfully completed his

evolution towards the welcoming Church, which was very desirous of

concluding a new pact with the _bourgeoisie_, whom the progress of

Socialism terrified.

[Footnote 1: In French elections, when several nominees contest some

particular seat, a candidate, to be successful, must obtain one half,

_plus_ one, of the total number of votes recorded. If no candidate

secures that number a second ballot ensues a fortnight later. On the

second occasion a relative majority suffices for election.--_Trans._]

Though it had accepted political equality the _bourgeoisie_ indeed was

unwilling to concede equality in the economic field, for it desired to

restore nothing of what it had stolen. And to resist the onslaught from

below, it preferred to ally itself with its old enemies. It again began

to think that religion had some good features, that it was useful as

a kind of police institution, a barrier, which alone might check the

growing appetite of the masses. And as a first step the _bourgeoisie_

was gradually garbing itself in militarism, nationalism, anti-semitism,

and all the other hypocritical disguises under which invading

Clericalism pursued its road.

The army became merely the emblem of brute force upholding the thefts

of ages, an impregnable wall of bayonets within whose shelter property

and capital, duly gorged, might digest in security. The nation, the

country, was the _ensemble_ of abuses and iniquities which it was

criminal to touch, the monstrous social edifice, not one beam of

which must be changed for dread lest all should fall. The Jews, even

as in the Middle Ages, served as a pretext to instil fresh warmth into

cooling beliefs, to exploit ancestral hatred, and sow the horrid seeds

of civil war. And beneath that all-embracing movement of reaction

there was nought save the stealthy labour of the Church, seeking to

regain the ground she had formerly lost when the old world broke up

beneath the liberating breath of the French Revolution. It was the

Revolution that the Church strove to kill by regaining ascendency over

the _bourgeoisie_, which the Revolution had raised to power, and which

had decided to betray it in order to retain that power, of which it

owed account to the masses. And the return of the _bourgeoisie_ to

the bosom of the Church would lead to the reconquest of the people,

for the Church's vast design was to subjugate men by the influence of

women, and particularly to lay hold of the children in their schools

and confine their minds in the dim prison of dogmas. If the France

of Voltaire were again becoming the France of Rome it was because

the teaching Congregations had set their grip on the young. And the

position was becoming worse and worse, the Church was already shrieking

victory--victory over the democracy, victory over science--full of

the hope that she would prevent the inevitable, the completion of the

Revolution, the junction of the masses with the _bourgeoisie_ in the

seat of power, and the final liberation of the entire people.

'The situation grows worse daily,' said Salvan; 'you know what a

frantic campaign is being carried on against our system of elementary

education. Last Sunday, at Beaumont, a priest went so far as to say

in the pulpit that a secular schoolmaster was Satan disguised as a

pedagogue. "Fathers and mothers!" he cried, "you should wish your

children to be dead rather than in such hells as those schools!"...

As for secondary education, that also is a prey to clerical reaction.

Apart from the ever-increasing prosperity of such Congregational

establishments as the College of Valmarie, where the Jesuits finish

poisoning the sons of the _bourgeoisie_, the officers, functionaries,

and magistrates of the future, our Lycées, even, remain in the

power of the priests. Here at Beaumont, for instance, the director,

the devout Depinvilliers, openly receives Father Crabot, who is, I

think, the confessor of his wife and daughters. Lately, as he felt

discontented with Abbé Leriche, a worthy but very aged man who had

fallen asleep in his post, he secured a thoroughly militant chaplain.

At the Lycées, no doubt, religious exercises are optional; but for a

boy to be exempted from them a request from his parents is required.

And naturally the pupil about whom a fuss is made in that respect

is badly noted, set upon one side, and even subjected to all sorts

of petty persecutions.... Briefly, after thirty years of Republican

rule, a century of active free thought, the Church still trains and

educates our children, still remains paramount, intent on retaining

her domination over the world by moulding in the same old moulds as

formerly the men of bondage and error that she needs to govern on her

behalf. And all the wretchedness of the times comes from that cause.'

'But what do you advise me to do, my friend?' Marc inquired. 'After

acting as I have done, am I to retreat?'

'No, certainly not. Perhaps, if you had warned me, I might have begged

you to wait a little longer. But as you have removed that crucifix

you must defend yourself. After writing to you I saw Le Barazer, our

Academy Inspector, and I now feel somewhat easier in mind. You know

him, and you are aware how difficult it is to guess his thoughts. Yet

I believe that he is at heart on our side, and I should be greatly

surprised if he were to play into the hands of our enemies. But

everything will depend on you, on your power of resistance, on the

firmness of the position you have acquired at Maillebois. I foresee

a frantic campaign on the part of the Brothers, the Capuchins, and

the Jesuits, for you are not merely a secular schoolmaster, otherwise

an incarnation of Satan, but you are, particularly, the defender of

Simon--that is, the torchbearer, the soldier of truth and justice,

whose light must be extinguished and whose lips must be sealed. In any

case, be prudent and sensible and keep up your courage.'

Salvan, who had risen, grasped the young man's hands, and for a moment

they remained thus, smiling as they gazed at each other, their eyes

shining with courage and faith.

'At least you do not despair of the final result, my friend?'

'Despair, my boy? Ah! never! Victory is certain; I do not know when

it will come, but it is certain. Besides, there is more cowardice and

egotism than actual malice among some of our adversaries. How many

of our university men are neither really good nor really bad, though

on striking an average one finds perhaps rather more goodness than

evil among them. The worst is that they are functionaries, and as such

are wedded to routine, apart from which their one concern is their

advancement, as is natural. Forbes, our Rector, harbours, I fancy,

the contempt of a philosopher for these wretched times, and on that

account is content to play the part of a piece of administrative

mechanism connecting the Minister with the university staff. Then,

too, if Depinvilliers sets himself on the side of the Church, it is

merely because he has two ugly daughters on his hands, and relies on

Father Crabot to supply them with rich husbands. As for the terrible

Mauraisin--whom you will do well to beware of, for he has an ugly

soul--he would like to be in my shoes; and he would go over to your

side to-morrow if he thought you in a position to give him my berth....

Yes, yes, many of them are merely poor hungry devils, while others are

men of weak intellect--they will come over to our side and even help us

when we have won the battle.'

He laughed indulgently. Then, becoming grave once more, he added:

'Besides, the good work I do here prevents me from despairing. As

you know, I hide myself away in my little corner; but, day by day, I

strive to hasten the future. And things move--they move. I am very well

satisfied with my young men. No doubt it is still rather difficult

to recruit students, for the profession appears so thankless, so

poorly paid, leading to nothing but contumely and a life of certain

wretchedness. All the same, we had more competitors than usual this

year. It is hoped that the Chambers will end by voting reasonable

salaries, such as may enable the humblest masters to live in some

little dignity. And you will see, you will see what will happen when

properly trained masters leave this college and spread through the

villages and the towns, carrying words of deliverance with them,

destroying error, superstition, and falsehood on all sides, like the

missionaries of a new humanity! The Church will be vanquished then,

for it can only subsist and triumph amid ignorance, and when it is

swept away the whole nation will march unchecked towards solidarity and

peace.'

'Ah! my old friend, that is the great hope!' cried Marc; 'that is what

lends all of us the strength and cheerfulness we need to do our work.

Thanks for inspiriting me; I will try to be sensible and courageous.'

They once more shook hands energetically, and Marc returned to

Maillebois, where the fiercest battle, war to the knife, awaited him.

There, as at Beaumont, the political situation had become worse. The

last municipal elections, following those for the Chamber of Deputies,

had also given disastrous results. Darras had found his party in

a minority in the new Municipal Council; and Philis, the clerical

councillor, the leader of the reactionary cause, had now been elected

Mayor. Before everything else, Marc wished to see Darras in order to

ascertain how far the latter might yet be able to support him. So he

presented himself, one evening, in the comfortable drawing-room of the

handsome house which the contractor had built himself. Darras, as soon

as he perceived him, raised his arms to the ceiling.

'Ah! my dear schoolmaster, so now you have the whole pack at your

heels! Oh! I shall be on your side, you may rely on me now that I

am beaten, reduced to opposition.... It was difficult for me to be

always on your side when I was Mayor; for, as you know, the majority

I disposed of was only one of two votes. But even when I had to act

contrary to your desires, I repeated to myself that you were a thousand

times right. At present we shall be able to go forward, since the only

course open to me is to fight and try to upset Philis, and take the

mayoralty from him. You did quite right when you removed that crucifix

from the schoolroom; it wasn't there in Simon's time, and it ought

never to have been there at all.'

Marc made bold to smile. 'Why, every time I spoke to you of removing

it,' said he, 'you protested. You talked of the necessity of prudence,

of the danger of frightening the children's parents, and giving our

adversaries a weapon against us.'

'But I have just admitted to you how embarrassed I was! Ah! it is by no

means easy to manage a town like Maillebois, where the forces of the

different parties have always balanced, and where nobody has ever been

able to tell whether the freethinkers or the priests would win the day.

At this moment we are certainly not in a brilliant position, but we

must keep up our courage. We shall end by giving them a good licking,

which will make us masters of the town for good.'

'That's certain,' replied Marc, delighted with the fine valour

displayed by the ambitious contractor, who, at heart, was a worthy man.

'Particularly,' continued Darras, 'as Philis won't dare to take any

serious step, for, in his turn, he has only a majority of two, such as

rendered me so timid. He is condemned to mark time, and will live in

constant fear of some slight change which may place him in a minority.

I know by experience what that means!'

He made merry over it in a noisy way. He harboured against Philis the

hatred of a big and healthy man with a sound stomach and a sound brain,

who was chagrined by the sight of the new Mayor's lean little figure,

dark, hard face, pointed nose and thin lips. Philis had retired from

business as a tilt and awning maker, at the time of his wife's death,

and, though possessed of an income of some ten thousand francs a year,

the real origin of which remained somewhat obscure, he lived in great

retirement, attended by a single servant, a huge fair creature of whom

evil tongues spoke very badly. Her master had a daughter named Octavie,

twelve years of age, now with the nuns of the Visitation at Beaumont,

and a son, Raymond, ten years old, who was a boarder at the Jesuit

College of Valmarie, pending the time when he might enter the military

school of St. Cyr. Having thus rid himself of his children, the new

Mayor led a close, narrow life, most careful in all his religious

observances, ever in conference with the black frocks, and really

acting as the executor of the Congregations' decisions. His election

as Mayor was sufficient proof of the acute stage which the religious

crisis had reached in that town of Maillebois, which the struggle

between the Republic and the Church was ravaging.

'And so I may go forward,' said Marc; 'you will support me with the

minority of the Council?'

'Why, certainly!' cried Darras. 'Only, be reasonable, don't give us too

big an affair to deal with.'

On the very morrow the contest began; and apparently it was Savin,

the clerk, the father of the twin boys, Achille and Philippe, who was

chosen to strike the first blow. At all events, on leaving his office

in the evening, he came to the school to pick a quarrel with the master.

'You know what I am--is that not so, Monsieur Froment?' said he. 'I am

a radical Republican, and nobody can suspect me of conspiring with the

priests. Nevertheless, on behalf of a number of parents I have come

to ask you to replace that crucifix which you removed, for religion

is necessary for children as well as for women.... No priests in the

school, I agree to that; but Christ, remember it, was the first of

Republicans and revolutionaries!'

Marc, however, desired to know the names of the other parents whom

Savin represented. 'If you have not come merely on your own behalf,'

said he, 'will you tell me what families have delegated you?'

'Oh! "delegated"--that is not quite correct. I have seen Doloir the

mason, and Bongard the farmer, and have found that they blame you as I

myself do. Only, it is always compromising to protest and give one's

signature--is that not so? I myself risk a good deal by coming forward,

on account of my superiors. But the voice of my conscience as the

father of a family speaks too loudly for me to act otherwise. How shall

I ever manage those two scapegraces of mine, Achille and Philippe,

if you do not frighten them a little with fear of the punishment of

God and the torments of hell? Look at my big girl, Hortense, who is

so good in every respect, and who was admired by all Maillebois when

she took her first Communion this year! By taking her to church,

Mademoiselle Rouzaire has made her really perfect. Compare your work

with Mademoiselle Rouzaire's, compare my two boys with my daughter. By

that comparison alone you stand condemned, Monsieur Froment.'

Marc smiled in his quiet way. The amiable Hortense, a pretty

and precocious girl of thirteen, one of Mademoiselle Rouzaire's

favourites, occasionally contrived to climb over the wall separating

the playgrounds of the two schools, in order that she might hide away

in corners with lads of her own age. Even as Savin had suggested,

the young man had often compared his pupils, from whom by degrees

he obtained a little more reason and truth, with the pupils of the

schoolmistress, his neighbour--the affectedly prim and gentle little

girls who were fed on clerical pap, falsehood, and hypocrisy, and

perturbed, even secretly spoilt, by the corrupting influence of the

mysterious. Marc would have liked to have seen his boys and those girls

together--those girls who were now reared and educated apart, from whom

everything was hidden, whose minds and whose senses were heated by all

the fires of mysticism. They would then have ceased to climb over walls

to go in search of so-called sin, the forbidden fruit of damnation and

delight. Yes, only a system of mixed schools could ensure the health

and strength of the free and happy nation of to-morrow.[2]

[Footnote 2: This problem seems to have been solved in the United

States, where, judging by official reports, the mingling of the sexes

in the schools is extensive. Thence (I judge the matter as an European)

must have come the very great and distinctly beneficial influence

exercised by American women on the national character. Perhaps it is

not too much to say that, apart from such incentives as a mere desire

to gain money, the women of the United States have largely helped to

make their race the most enterprising and progressive in the world. As

for the influence of mixed schools on morals, Americans have repeatedly

assured me that it has been the best possible.--_Trans._]

To Savin, however, Marc merely said: 'Mademoiselle Rouzaire does her

duty as she understands it; and I do mine in the same way.... If

families would only help me, the good work of training and education

would progress more rapidly.'

At this Savin lost his temper. Lean and puny, buttoned up in his shabby

frock coat, he drew himself erect on his little legs: 'Do you insinuate

that I give bad examples to my children?' he asked.

'Oh! certainly not. Only everything that I teach them here is

afterwards contradicted by what they see in the world around them. They

find truthfulness regarded as dangerous audacity, and reason condemned

as being insufficient, incapable of forming honest men.'

Marc indeed was greatly grieved that he should be thwarted so often

by his pupils' parents, when he dreamt of obtaining from them the

necessary help to hasten the emancipation of the humble. If on leaving

school every day the children had only found in their homes some

realisation of their lessons, some practice of the social duties and

rights in which they were instructed, how much easier and swifter

would have been the march of improvement! Such collaboration was even

indispensable; the schoolmaster could not suffice for many things,

the most delicate, the most useful, when his pupils' parents did not

continue his work in the same spirit and complete it. The master and

the parents ought to have gone hand in hand towards the same goal

of truth and justice. And how sad it was when, instead of obtaining

the parents' help, the master saw them destroying the little good

he effected, unconscious for the most part of what they were doing,

yielding simply to the incoherence of their ideas and their lives.

But Savin was again speaking. 'Briefly,' said he, 'you will hang up

that cross again, Monsieur Froment, if you wish to please us all, and

live on good terms with us, which is what we desire, for you are not a

bad schoolmaster.'

Marc smiled again. 'Thank you,' he said. 'But why did not Madame Savin

accompany you? She, at any rate, would have been playing her proper

part, for she follows the observances of the Church--I know it.'

'She is religious, as all respectable women ought to be,' the clerk

answered dryly. 'I would rather have her go to Mass than take a lover.'

He looked at Marc suspiciously, consumed as he was by sickly jealousy,

regarding every man as a possible rival. Why did the schoolmaster

regret that his wife had not accompanied him? Had she not twice called

at the school recently under the pretext of explaining to the master

why Achille and Philippe had been absent on sundry occasions? For some

time past he, Savin, had compelled her to confess regularly once a week

to Father Théodose, the Superior of the Capuchins, for it had occurred

to him that the shame of avowal might stay her in her course along the

road to infidelity. On her side, if in earlier times she had followed

the Church observances merely in order to secure peace at home--for

she was quite destitute of faith--she now repaired with some alacrity

to the tribunal of penitence, for, like the other young devotees who

dreamt of Father Théodose, she had rid herself of earlier prejudices,

and begun to regard him as a superb and most delightful man.

'As it happens,' said Marc, with some little maliciousness, in response

to Savin's declaration, 'I had the pleasure of meeting Madame Savin

last Thursday. She was leaving the chapel on the Place des Capucins,

and we had a brief chat. As all her words to me were most gracious, I

thought I might express my regret at not seeing her with you to-day.'

The husband made a doleful gesture. His everlasting suspicions had

reached such a point that he himself now went to Beaumont to deliver

the bead work which he allowed his wife to do in secret in order to add

a few indispensable coppers to his meagre salary. Their case was one

of hidden wretchedness, with all the torments that make hells of the

homes of needy employés, burdened with children, the embittered husband

becoming an unbearable despot, and the gentle and pretty wife resigning

herself in silence until she at last discovers some consolation.

'My wife neither has nor ought to have any opinion but mine,' Savin

ended by declaring. 'It is in her name as well as my own, and in the

names of many other parents--I repeat it--that I have made this

application to you.... It is now for you to decide if you will act upon

it. You will think the matter over.'

'I have thought it over, Monsieur Savin,' replied Marc, who had become

grave again. 'Before removing that crucifix I understood fully what I

was going to do; and since it is no longer there, I shall certainly not

put it up again.'