BOOK III

I

Directly the Court of Cassation started on its inquiry, David and

Marc, meeting one evening in the Lehmanns' dark little shop, decided

that it would be best to abstain from all agitation, and remain in the

background. Now that the idea of a revision of the case was accepted,

the family's great joy and hope had restored its courage. If the

inquiry should be loyally conducted by the Court, Simon's innocence

would surely be recognised, and acquittal would become certain. So

it would suffice to remain wakeful and watchful of the march of the

affair, without exhibiting any doubt of the conscientiousness and

equity of the highest judges in the land.

There was only one thing which prevented the joy of those poor people

from becoming perfect. The news of Simon's health was still far from

good; and might he not succumb over yonder before the triumph? The

Court had declared that there were no grounds for bringing him back

to France before its final judgment, and it seemed likely that the

inquiry might last several months. In spite of all this, however, David

remained full of superb confidence, relying on the wonderful strength

of resistance which his brother had hitherto displayed. He knew him,

and he tranquillised the others, even made them laugh, by telling

stories of Simon's youth, anecdotes which showed him retiring within

himself with singular force of will, thoughtful both of his dignity and

of the happiness of those near to him. So the interview between Marc,

David, and the Lehmanns ended, and they separated, resolved to show

neither anxiety nor impatience, but to behave as if the victory were

already won.

From that time, then, Marc shut himself up in his school, attending

to his pupils from morn till night, giving himself to them with an

abnegation, a devotion, which seemed to increase in the midst of

obstacles and suffering. While he was busy with them in the classroom,

while he acted as their big brother, striving to apportion the bread of

knowledge among them, he forgot some of his torture, he suffered less

from the ever-bleeding wound in his heart. But in the evenings, when he

found himself alone in the home whence love had fled, he relapsed into

frightful despair, and wondered how it would be possible for him to

continue living in dark and chilly widowerhood. Some little relief came

to him on the return of Louise from Mademoiselle Mazeline's; and yet,

when the lamp had been lighted for the evening meal, what long spells

of silence fell between the father and the daughter, each plunged into

inconsolable wretchedness by the departure of the wife, the mother,

whose desertion haunted them! They tried to escape from their pursuing

thoughts by talking of the petty incidents of the day. But everything

brought them back to her; they ended by talking of her alone, drawing

their chairs together, and taking each other's hands, as if to warm

each other in their solitude. And all their evenings ended in that

fashion, the daughter seated on her father's lap with one arm around

his neck, and both sobbing and quivering beside the smoky lamp. The

home was dead; the absent one had carried away its life, its warmth,

its light.

Yet Marc did nothing to compel Geneviève to return to him. Indeed, he

did not wish to be indebted in any way to such rights as it might be

possible for him to enforce. The idea of a scandal, a public dispute,

was odious to him; and not only had he resolved that he would not fall

into the trap set by those who had induced Geneviève to forsake him,

relying in this connection on some conjugal drama which would bring

about his revocation, but he also set all his hope in the sole force of

love. Geneviève would surely reflect and return home. In particular, it

seemed impossible that she would keep her expected child for herself

alone. As soon as possible after its birth she would bring it to him,

since it belonged to both of them. Even if the Church had succeeded in

perverting her as a loving woman, surely it would be unable to kill her

motherly feelings. And as a mother she would come back, and remain with

the child. The latter's birth was near at hand, so there would not be

more than a month to wait.

By degrees, after hoping for this _dénouement_, by way of consoling

himself, Marc began to regard it as a certainty. And, like a good

fellow, who did not wish to part mother and daughter, he sent Louise

to spend Thursday and Sunday afternoons with Geneviève at Madame

Duparque's, although that dark, dank, pious house had already brought

him so much suffering. Perhaps he unknowingly found some last,

melancholy satisfaction in this indirect intercourse, as well as a

means of maintaining a tie between himself and the absent one. Whenever

Louise came home after spending several hours with her mother, she

brought a little of Geneviève with her; and on those evenings her

father kept her longer than usual on his knees, and questioned her

eagerly, longing for tidings, even though they might make him suffer.

'How did you find her to-day, my dear?' he would ask. 'Does she laugh a

little? Does she seem pleased? Did she play with you?'

'No, no, father.... You know very well that she has long ceased to

play. But she still had a little gaiety when she was here, and now she

looks sad and ill.'

'Ill!'

'Oh! not ill enough to remain in bed. On the contrary, she cannot keep

from moving about, and her hands are burning hot, as if she had the

fever.'

'And what did you do, my dear?'

'We went to Vespers, as we do every Sunday. Then we returned to

grandmamma's for some refreshment. There was a monk there, whom I did

not know, some missionary, who told us stories of savages.'

Then Marc remained silent for a moment, full of great bitterness of

spirit, but unwilling to judge the mother in the daughter's presence,

or to give the latter an order to disobey her by refusing to accompany

her to church. At last he resumed gently: 'And did she speak to you of

me, my dear?'

'No, no, father.... Nobody there speaks to me of you, and as you told

me never to speak first about you, it is just as if you did not exist.'

'All the same, grandmother is not angry with you?'

'Grandmamma Duparque hardly looks at me, and I prefer that; for she

has such eyes that she frightens me when she scolds.... But Grandmamma

Berthereau is very kind, especially when there is nobody there to see

her. She gives me sweets, and takes me in her arms and kisses me ever

so much.'

'Grandmamma Berthereau!'

'Why, yes. One day even she told me that I ought to love you very much.

She is the only one who has ever spoken to me of you.'

Marc again relapsed into silence, for he did not wish his daughter to

be initiated too soon into the wretchedness of life. He had always

suspected that the doleful, silent Madame Berthereau, once so well

loved by her husband, now led a life of agony beneath the bigoted rule

of her mother, that harsh Madame Duparque. And he felt that he might

possibly have an ally in the younger woman, though, unfortunately, one

whose spirit was so broken that she might never find the courage to

speak or act.

'You must be very affectionate with Grandmamma Berthereau,' said Marc

to Louise, by way of conclusion. 'Though she may not say it, I think

she is grieved as we are.... And mind you kiss your mother for both of

us, she will feel that I have joined in your caress.'

'Yes, father.'

Thus did the long evening pass away, bitter but quiet, in the wrecked

home. Whenever, on a Sunday, the daughter returned with some bad

tidings--speaking, for instance, of a sick headache or some affection

of the nerves from which the mother now suffered--the father remained

full of anxiety until the ensuing Thursday. That nervous affection did

not surprise him, he trembled lest his poor wife should be consumed in

the perverse and imbecile flames of mysticism. But if on the following

Thursday his daughter told him that mamma had smiled, and inquired

about the little cat she had left at home, he revived to hope, and

laughed with satisfaction and relief. Then, once again, he composed

himself to await the return of the dear absent one, who would surely

come back with her new-born babe at her breast.

Since Geneviève's departure Mademoiselle Mazeline, by the force of

things, had become a _confidente_, an intimate for Marc and Louise.

She brought the child home almost every evening, after lessons, and

rendered little services in that disorganised home where there was

no longer any housewife. The dwellings of the schoolmaster and the

schoolmistress almost touched one another; there was only a little

yard to be crossed, while in the rear a gate facilitated communication

between the two gardens. Thus the intercourse became closer,

particularly as Marc felt great sympathy for Mademoiselle Mazeline,

whom he regarded as a most courageous and excellent woman. He had

learnt to esteem her at Jonville in former times on finding that she

was quite free from superstition, and strove to endow her pupils with

solid minds and loving hearts. And now at Maillebois he felt intense

friendship for her, so well did she realise his ideal of the educating,

initiating woman, the only one capable of liberating future society.

Marc was now thoroughly convinced that no serious progress would ever

be effected if woman did not accompany man, and even precede him,

on the road to the Happy City. And how comforting it was to meet at

least one of those pioneers, one who was both very intelligent and

very kind-hearted, all simplicity too, accomplishing her work of

salvation as if it were one of the natural functions of her being!

Thus Mademoiselle Mazeline became for Marc, amid his torture, a friend

prized for her serenity and gaiety, one who imparted consolation and

hope.

He was profoundly touched by the schoolmistress's sympathy and

obligingness. She frequently spoke of Geneviève with anxious affection,

devising excuses for her, explaining her case like a sensible woman

who regarded lack of sense in others with sympathetic compassion. And

she particularly begged of Marc that he would not be violent, that he

would not behave like an egotistical and jealous master, one of those

for whom a wife is a slave, a thing handed over to them by the laws.

Without doubt Mademoiselle Mazeline had much to do with the prudence

which Marc evinced in striving to remain patient and relying on sense

and love to convince Geneviève and bring her back to him. Finally, the

schoolmistress endeavoured with so much delicacy to replace the absent

mother with Louise that she became, as it were, the light of that

mournful home, where father and daughter shivered at the thought of

their abandonment.

During those first fine days of the year Mademoiselle Mazeline

frequently found herself of an evening with Marc and Louise in their

little garden behind the school. The schoolmistress had merely to open

the gate of communication, whose bolts were drawn back on either side,

and neighbourly intercourse followed. Indeed she somewhat neglected her

own garden for the schoolmaster's, where a table and a few chairs were

set out under some lilac bushes. They jestingly called this spot 'the

wood,' as if they had sought shelter under some large oaks on a patch

of forest land. Then the scanty lawn was likened to a great meadow,

the two flower borders became royal _parterres_; and after the day's

hard work it was pleasant indeed to chat there, amid the quietude of

twilight.

One evening, Louise, who had been reflecting with all a big girl's

gravity, suddenly inquired: 'Mademoiselle, why have you never married?'

At this the schoolmistress laughed good naturedly. 'Oh, my darling,

have you never looked at me!' she answered. 'A husband is not easily

found when one has such a big nose as mine, and no figure.'

The girl looked at her mistress with astonishment, for never had she

thought her ugly. True enough, Mademoiselle Mazeline did not possess

a fine figure, and her nose was too large, her face a broad one, with

a bumpy forehead and projecting cheek bones. But her admirable eyes

smiled so tenderly that her whole countenance became resplendent with

charm.

'You are very pretty,' declared Louise in a tone of conviction. 'If I

were a man I should like to marry you.'

Marc felt very much amused, while Mademoiselle Mazeline gave signs of

restrained emotion, tinged somewhat with melancholy. 'It would seem

that the men haven't the same taste as you, my dear,' said she, as she

recovered her quiet gaiety. 'When I was between twenty and twenty-five

I would willingly have married, but I met nobody who wished for me. And

I should not think of marrying now, when I am six and thirty.'

'Why not?' Marc inquired.

'Oh! because the time has passed.... An humble elementary teacher, born

of poor parents, hardly tempts the marrying men. Where can one be found

willing to burden himself with a wife who earns little, who is tied to

heavy duties, and compelled to live in the depths of some out of the

way region? If she is not lucky enough to marry a schoolmaster, and

share her poverty with his, she inevitably becomes an old maid.... I

long since gave up all idea of marriage, and I am happy all the same.'

But she quickly added: 'Of course marriage is necessary; a woman ought

to marry, for she does not live, she does not fulfil her natural

destiny, unless she becomes wife and mother. No real health or

happiness exists for any human creature apart from his or her complete

florescence. And in teaching my girls I never forget that they are

destined to have husbands and children some day.... Only, when one is

forgotten, sacrificed as it were, one has to arrange for oneself some

little corner of content. Thus, I have cut out for myself my share of

work, and I don't complain so much, for, in spite of everything, I have

succeeded in becoming a mother. All the children of others, all the

dear little girls with whom I busy myself from morning till evening,

belong to me. I am not alone, I have a very large family.'

She laughed as she thus referred to her admirable devotion in the

simple way of one who seemed to feel that she was under obligations to

all the pupils who consented to become the children of her mind and

heart.

'Yes,' said Marc by way of conclusion, 'when life shows itself harsh to

any of us the disinherited one must behave kindly to life. That is the

only way to prevent misfortune.'

On most occasions when Marc and Mademoiselle Mazeline met in the little

garden, over which the twilight stole, their talk was of Geneviève.

This was particularly the case on those evenings when Louise, after

spending the afternoon at Madame Duparque's, returned with news of

her mother. One day she came back in a state of much emotion, for her

mother, whom she had accompanied to the Capuchin Chapel to witness

some great ceremony in honour of St. Antony of Padua, had fainted away

there, and had been carried to Madame Duparque's in a disquieting

condition.

'They will end by killing her!' cried Marc despairingly.

But Mademoiselle Mazeline, wishing to comfort him, evinced stubborn

optimism.

'No, no, when all is said your Geneviève has only an ailing mind, she

is physically healthy and strong. Some day, you'll see, my friend, her

intelligence, helped by her heart, will win the victory.... And what

could you expect? She is paying for her mystical education and training

in one of those convents whence, as long as they remain unclosed, the

evils which assail women, and the disasters of married life, will

always come. You must forgive her, she is not the real culprit. She

suffers from the long heredity bequeathed to her by her forerunners,

possessed, terrorised, and stupefied by the Church.'

Overcome by sadness, Marc, though his daughter was present, could not

restrain a low plaint, a spontaneous avowal: 'Ah, for her sake and mine

it would have been better if we had never married! She could not become

my helpmate, my other self!'

'But whom would you have married, then?' the schoolmistress inquired.

'Where would you have found a girl of the middle class who had not been

brought up under Catholic rule, possessed with error and falsehoods?

The wife you needed, my poor friend, with your free mind--an artisan

of the future as you are--still remains to be created. Perhaps just a

few specimens exist, but even they are tainted by atavism and faulty

education.'

Then, with a laugh, she added in her gentle yet resolute way: 'But you

know that I am trying to form such companions as may be needed by the

men who have freed themselves from dogmas, and who thirst for truth and

equity. Yes, I am trying to provide wives for the young fellows whom

you, on your side, are training.... As for yourself, my friend, you

were merely born too soon.'

Thus conversing, the schoolmaster and the schoolmistress, those humble

pioneers of the future social system, forgot in some measure the

presence of the big girl of thirteen who listened to them in silence,

but with her ears wide open. Marc had discreetly refrained from giving

any direct lessons to his daughter. He contented himself with setting

her an example, and she loved him dearly because he showed so much

goodness of heart, sincerity, and equity. The mind of that big girl was

slowly awakening to reason, but she did not dare to intervene as yet in

the conversation of her father and mademoiselle; though assuredly she

derived profit from it, even if, like other children, when their elders

forget themselves so far as to speak before them of things regarded

as being above their intelligence, she appeared neither to hear nor

to understand. With her glance wandering away into the falling night,

her lips scarcely stirred by a faint quiver, she was always learning,

classifying in her little head all the ideas that emanated from those

two persons whom, with her mother, were the ones she loved best in the

world. And one day, after a conversation of the kind, a remark, which

escaped her as she emerged from one of her deep reveries, showed that

she had perfectly understood.

'When I marry,' said she, 'I shall want a husband whose ideas are like

papa's, so that we may discuss things and come to an agreement. And if

we both think alike, it will all go well.'

This manner of resolving the problem greatly amused Mademoiselle

Mazeline. Marc on his side was moved, for he felt that some of his

own passion for truth, his clear firm mind, was appearing in his

daughter. Doubtless, while a child's brain is yet dimly developing, it

is difficult to foretell what will be the woman's mature intellect.

Yet Marc thought he had grounds for believing that Louise would prove

sensible and healthy, free from many errors. And this probability was

very sweet to him, as if indeed he awaited from his daughter the help,

the loving mediation, which by bringing the absent one back to the home

would re-establish all the ties so tragically severed.

However, the news which Louise brought from the Place des Capucins grew

worse and worse. As the time for her child's birth drew near, Geneviève

became more and more gloomy, more and more capricious and bad tempered,

in such wise that at times she even rejected her daughter's caresses.

She had had several more fainting fits, and was giving way, it seemed,

to increasing religious exaltation, after the fashion of those patients

who, disappointed by the inefficacy of certain drugs, double and double

the dose until at last they poison themselves. Thus, one delightful

evening, while Mademoiselle Mazeline sat with the others in the flowery

garden, the news which Louise communicated rendered the schoolmistress

so anxious that she made a proposal to Marc.

'Shall I go to see your wife, my friend?' she asked. 'She showed some

affection for me in former times, and perhaps she might listen to me if

I were to talk sense to her.'

'But what would you say to her?' Marc replied.

'Why, that her place is beside you, that she still loves you though

she knows it not; that her sufferings are all due to a frightful

misunderstanding; and that she will only be cured when she returns to

you with that dear child, the thought of whom is stifling her like

remorse.'

Tears had risen to the eyes of Marc, who felt quite upset by the

schoolmistress's words. But Louise quickly intervened: 'Oh, no,

mademoiselle,' she said, 'don't go to see mamma; I advise you not to.'

'Why not, my darling?'

The girl blushed, and became greatly embarrassed. She knew not how

to explain in what contemptuous and hateful terms the schoolmistress

was spoken of at the little house on the Place des Capucins. But

Mademoiselle Mazeline understood, and, like a woman accustomed to

misrepresentation, she gently asked: 'Does your mamma no longer like

me, then? Do you fear she might receive me badly?'

'Oh! mamma does not say much,' Louise ended by confessing; 'it is the

others.'

Then Marc, overcoming his emotion, resumed, 'The child is right, my

friend. Your visit might become painful, and it would probably have no

effect. None the less, I thank you for your kindness; I know how warm

your heart is.'

A long spell of silence ensued. The sky overhead was beautifully clear,

and quietude descended from the vast vault of azure, where the sun was

expiring in a roseate flush. A few carnations, a few wallflowers, in

the little garden borders perfumed the mild air. And nothing more was

said that evening by Marc and his friend as they lingered, steeped in

melancholy, amid the delightful close of a fine day.

The inevitable had duly come to pass. A week had not elapsed after

Geneviève's departure from her home before all Maillebois was talking

of a scandalous intrigue carried on publicly by the schoolmaster and

the schoolmistress. In the daytime, it was said, they constantly left

their classrooms to join one another, and they spent their evenings

together in the garden of the boys' school, where they could be plainly

distinguished from certain neighbouring windows. And the abominable

thing was the constant presence of little Louise, who mingled with

it all. The vilest reports speedily began to circulate. Passers-by

pretended that they had heard Marc and Mademoiselle Mazeline singing,

and laughing over, filthy songs. Then a legend sprang up, it being

plainly established that if Geneviève had quitted her home it was

in a spirit of legitimate revolt and disgust, and in order to avoid

association with that other woman, that godless creature who depraved

the little girls confided to her care. Thus there was not merely a

question of restoring Louise to her mother; in order to save the

children of Maillebois from perdition, the schoolmaster and the

schoolmistress must be stoned and driven away.

Some of these rumours reached Marc's ears; but he, realising by their

imbecile violence whence they emanated, merely shrugged his shoulders.

As the Congregations had not managed to secure a scandal in connection

with Geneviève's departure, they were resuming their underhand work

of slander, striving to embitter the new state of things. They had

failed to bring about Marc's revocation by taking his wife from him,

but perhaps they might succeed by accusing him of keeping a mistress.

Moreover, this would cast a slur on the secular schools, and was dirty

work well suited to clerics who do not shrink from any lies to ensure

the triumph of religion. Since the revival of the Simon case, Father

Crabot, no doubt, had been leading a cloistered life, and, besides,

he seemed to occupy too high a position to stoop to such abominable

inventions; but all the cassocks and frocks of Maillebois were astir,

Brothers and Capuchins ever winging their flight, like a covey of black

gowns, over the road to Valmarie. They returned, looking very busy; and

then, in all the confessional boxes of the region, in quiet corners

of the chapels, and in the parlours of the convents, came endless

whispering with excited female devotees, who grew terribly indignant at

all the horrors they heard. Thence those horrors spread in undertones

and hints to families, tradespeople, and dependents. Yet if Marc felt

angry, it was only at the thought that ignoble tales were surely being

whispered to Geneviève herself, in order to make their separation

irrevocable.

A month elapsed, and it seemed to Marc that the birth of the expected

child must be imminent. After counting the days with feverish longing

he felt astonished at receiving no news, when one Thursday morning

Pélagie presented herself at the school and drily requested that

Mademoiselle Louise might not be sent to see her mamma that afternoon.

Then, as Marc, recognising her voice, hastened to the door and demanded

an explanation, the servant ended by informing him that Madame's

accouchement had taken place on the Monday evening, and that she was

not at all in a favourable state of health. That said, Pélagie took

to her heels, feeling worried that she had spoken, for she had been

told to say nothing. Marc, on his side, remained confounded. What! his

wife's relations acted as if he did not exist. A child was born to

him, and nobody informed him of it! And such rebellion, such a need of

protest, arose within him that he at once put on his hat and repaired

to the ladies' house.

When Pélagie opened the door she almost choked, thunderstruck, as she

was, by his audacity. But with a wave of the arm he brushed her aside,

and without a word walked into the little drawing-room where, according

to their wont, Madame Duparque was knitting beside the window, while

Madame Berthereau, seated a little in the rear, slowly continued some

embroidery. The little room, which smelt as usual of dampness and

mouldiness, seemed to be slumbering amid the deep silence and the

dismal light coming from the square.

But the grandmother, amazed and indignant at the sight of Marc, sprang

abruptly to her feet: 'What! you take such a liberty as this, sir! What

do you want? Why have you come here?' she cried.

The incredible violence of this greeting, when Marc himself was swayed

by such legitimate anger, restored his calmness.

'I have come to see my child,' he answered; 'why was I not warned?'

The old lady, who had remained rigidly erect, seemed to understand on

her side also that passion might place her in a position of inferiority.

'I had no reason to warn you,' she replied; 'I was waiting for

Geneviève to request me to do so.'

'And she did not ask you?'

'No.'

All at once Marc fancied that he understood the position. In the person

of his wife the Church had not only striven to kill the loving woman,

it had wished to kill the mother also. If Geneviève, on the eve of her

delivery, had not returned to him in accordance with his hopes, if she

had hidden herself away as if she were ashamed, the reason must be

that her child had been imputed to her as a crime. In order to keep

her in that house they must have filled her mind with fear and horror,

as if she were guilty of some sin, for which she would never obtain

absolution unless she severed every tie that had united her to Satan.

'Is the baby a boy?' Marc asked.

'Yes, a boy.'

'Where is he? I wish to see and kiss him.'

'He is no longer here.'

'No longer here!'

'No, he was baptised yesterday under the name of the blessed Saint

Clément, and has gone away to be nursed.'

'But that is a crime!' Marc cried, with a pang of grief. 'It is not

right to baptise a child without its father's consent, or to send it

away, abduct it in that fashion! What! Geneviève, Geneviève, who nursed

Louise with such motherly delight, is not to nurse her little Clément!'

Madame Duparque, still fully retaining her composure, gave a little

grunt of satisfaction, pleased as she was in her rancour to see him

suffer. 'A Catholic mother,' she answered, 'always has the right to

have her child baptised, particularly when she has reason to suspect

that its salvation may be imperilled by its father's atheism. And as

for keeping the child here, there could be no thought of such a thing;

it would have done neither the child itself, nor anybody, any good.'

Things were indeed such as Marc had fancied. The child had been

regarded as the progeny of the devil, its birth had been awaited like

that of Antichrist, and it had been necessary to baptise it, and send

it away with all speed in order to avert the greatest misfortunes.

Later, it might be taken back, an attempt might be made to consecrate

it to the Deity and make a priest of it, in order to appease the divine

anger. In this wise the pious little home of the Place des Capucins

would not undergo the shame of sheltering that child, its father

would not soil the house by coming to kiss it, and as it would not be

constantly before its mother's eyes the latter would be delivered from

remorseful thoughts.

Marc, however, having by an effort calmed himself, exclaimed firmly: 'I

wish to see Geneviève.'

With equal decision Madame Duparque replied: 'You cannot see her.'

'I wish to see Geneviève,' he repeated. 'Where is she? Upstairs in her

old room? I shall know how to find her.'

He was already walking towards the door when the grandmother barred

his passage. 'You cannot see her, it is impossible,' said she. 'You

do not wish to kill her, do you? The sight of you would give her the

most terrible shock. She nearly died during her accouchement. For two

days past she has been pale as death, unable to speak. At the least

feverishness she loses her senses, the child had to be taken away

without letting her see it. Ah! you may be proud of your work; Heaven

chastises all whom you have contaminated!'

Then Marc, no longer restraining himself, relieved his heart in low

and quivering words: 'You evil woman! you have grown old in practising

the dark cruelty of your Deity, and now you seek to annihilate your

posterity.... You will pursue the work of withering your race as long

as it retains in its flesh one drop of blood, one spark of human

kindness. Ever since her widowhood you have banished your daughter

here from life and its sweetness, you have deprived her of even the

strength to speak and complain. And if your granddaughter is dying

upstairs, as the result of having been wrenched from her husband and

her child, it is also because you agreed to it, for you alone served as

the instrument of the abominable authors of this crime.... Ah! yes, my

poor, my adored Geneviève, how many lies, how many frightful impostures

were needed to take her from me! And here she has been so stupefied,

so perverted by black bigotry and senseless practices that she is no

longer woman, nor wife, nor mother. Her husband is the devil, whom she

may never see again lest she should fall into hell; her babe is the

offspring of sin, and she would be in peril of damnation should she

give it her breast.... Well, listen, such crimes will not be carried

out to the very end. Life always regains the upper hand, it drives away

the darkness and its delirious nightmares at each fresh dawn. You will

be vanquished, I am convinced of it, and I even feel less horror than

pity for you, wretched old woman that you are, without either mind or

heart!'

Madame Duparque had listened, preserving her usual expression of

haughty severity, and not even attempting to interrupt. 'Is that all!'

she now inquired. 'I am aware that you have no feelings of respect.

As you deny God, how could one expect you to show any deference for

a grandmother's white hair? Nevertheless, in order to show you how

mistaken you are in accusing me of cloistering Geneviève, I will let

you pass.... Go upstairs to her, kill her at your ease, you alone will

be responsible for the fearful agony into which the sight of you will

cast her.'

As she finished the old lady moved away from the door, and, returning

to her seat near the window, resumed her knitting without the slightest

sign of emotion, such as might have made another's hands tremble.

Marc on his side for a moment remained motionless, bewildered, at a

loss what to do. Was it possible for him to see Geneviève, talk to

her, strive to convince her and win her back at such a time as this?

He realised how inopportune, how perilous even, such an effort would

be. So without a word of adieu he slowly went towards the door. But a

sudden thought made him turn.

'Since the child is no longer here, give me the address of the nurse,'

he said.

Madame Duparque returned no answer, but continued to manipulate her

knitting needles with her long, withered fingers in the same regular

fashion as before.

'You won't give me the nurse's address?' Marc repeated.

There came a fresh pause, and at last the old woman ended by saying:

'It is not my business to give it you. Go and ask Geneviève for it,

since your idea is to kill the poor child.'

Fury then overcame Marc. He sprang to the window and shouted in the

grandmother's impassive face: 'You must give me the nurse's address

this moment, at once!'

She, however, was still silently braving him with her clear eyes

fixed upon his face when Madame Berthereau, now utterly distracted,

intervened. At the outset of the dispute she had stubbornly kept her

head bent over her embroidery, like one who was resigned to everything,

who had become cowardly, and wished to avoid compromising herself for

fear of great personal worries. But when Marc, while reproaching Madame

Duparque with her harsh and fanatical tyranny, had alluded to all that

she herself had suffered since her widowhood in that bigoted home, she

had yielded to increasing emotion, to the tears which, long forced

back, again rose from her heart and almost choked her. She forgot some

of her silent timidity; after long years she raised her head once more,

and became impassioned. And when she heard her mother refuse to give

that poor, robbed, tortured man the address of his child's nurse, she

at last rebelled, and cried the address aloud:

'The nurse is a Madame Delorme, at Dherbecourt, near Valmarie!'

At this, suddenly roused from her rigidity, Madame Duparque sprang to

her feet with the nimbleness of a young woman, waving her arm the while

as if to strike down the audacious creature whom she still treated as a

child, though she was more than fifty years old.

'Who allowed you to speak, my girl? Are you going to relapse into your

past weakness?' she cried. 'Are years of penitence powerless to efface

the fault of a wicked marriage? Take care! Sin is still within you, I

feel it is so, in spite of all your apparent resignation. Why did you

speak without my orders?'

For a moment Madame Berthereau, who still quivered with love and pity,

was able to resist. 'I spoke,' said she, 'because my heart bleeds and

protests. We have no right to refuse Marc the nurse's address.... Yes,

yes, what we have done is abominable!'

'Be quiet!' cried her mother furiously.

'I say that it was abominable to separate the wife from the husband,

and then to separate the child from both.... Never would Berthereau, my

poor dead husband, who loved me so much, never would he have allowed

love to be slain like that, had he been alive.'

'Be quiet! Be quiet!'

Erect, looking taller than ever in the vigorous leanness of her three

and seventy years, the old woman repeated that cry in such an imperious

voice that her white-haired daughter, seized with terror, surrendered,

and again bent her head over her embroidery. And heavy silence fell

while she shook with a slight convulsive tremor, and tears coursed

slowly down her withered cheeks, which so many other tears, shed

secretly, had ravaged.

Marc had been thunderstruck by the sudden outburst of that poignant

family drama, the existence of which he hitherto had merely suspected.

He felt intense sympathy for that sad widow who, for more than ten

years past, had been hebetated, crushed down by maternal despotism,

exercised in the name of a jealous and revengeful God. And if the poor

woman had not defended his Geneviève, if she had abandoned her and him

to the dark fury of the terrible grandmother, he forgave her for her

shuddering cowardice on seeing how greatly she suffered herself.

But Madame Duparque had again recovered her quiet composure. 'You

see, sir,' she said, 'your presence here brings scandal and violence.

Everything you touch becomes corrupt, your breath suffices to taint

the atmosphere of the spot where you are. Here is my daughter, who had

never ventured to raise her voice against me, but as soon as you enter

the house she lapses into disobedience and insult.... Go, sir, go to

your dirty work! Leave honest folk alone, and work for your filthy Jew,

though he will end by rotting where he is, it is I who predict it, for

God will never suffer his venerable servants to be defeated.'

In spite of the emotion which made him quiver, Marc could not refrain

from smiling as he heard those last words. 'Ah! you have come to the

point,' he said, gently. 'The affair, alone, is at the bottom of all

this, is it not so? And it is the friend, the defender of Simon who

must be annihilated by dint of persecution and moral torture. Well,

take heed of this, make no mistake; sooner or later truth and justice

will win the victory, Simon will some day leave his prison, and the

real culprits, the liars, the workers of darkness and death, will some

day be swept away with their temples whence for ages past they have

terrorised and stupefied mankind!'

Then, turning towards Madame Berthereau, who had sunk once more into

silent prostration, he added yet more gently: 'And I shall wait for

Geneviève. Tell her when she is able to understand you that I am

waiting for her. I shall wait as long as she is not restored to me.

Even if it be only after years, she will come back to me, I know it....

Suffering does not count; it is necessary to suffer a great deal to win

the day, and to enjoy, at last, a little happiness.'

Then, with his heart lacerated, swollen with bitterness, yet retaining

its courage, he withdrew. Madame Duparque had resumed her everlasting

knitting, and it seemed to Marc that the little house he quitted sank

once more into the cold gloom which came to it from the neighbouring

church.

A month slipped away. Mark learnt that Geneviève was slowly recovering.

One Sunday Pélagie came for Louise, who in the evening told her father

that she had found her mother looking very thin and broken, but able

to go downstairs and seat herself at table, with the others, in the

little dining-room. Fresh hope then came to Marc, the hope of seeing

Geneviève return to him as soon as she should be able to walk from the

Place des Capucins to the school. Assuredly she must have reflected,

her heart must have awakened during her sufferings. Thus he started at

the slightest sound he heard, imagining it was she. But the weeks went

by, and the invisible hands which had taken her from him were doubtless

barricading the doors and windows in order to detain her yonder. He

then sank into deep sadness, though without losing his invincible

faith, his conviction that he would yet conquer by force of truth and

love. He found consolation during those dark days in going, as often as

possible, to see his little son Clément, at the nurse's, in that pretty

village of Dherbecourt, which looked so fresh and bright amid the

meadows of the Verpille, among the poplar and willow trees. He there

spent a delightfully comforting hour, hoping perhaps that some happy

chance would lead to a meeting with Geneviève beside the dear baby's

cradle. But she was said to be still too weak to go to see her son,

whom the nurse took to her on appointed days.

From that time Marc remained waiting. Nearly a year had elapsed

since the Court of Cassation had begun its inquiry, which had been

retarded by all sorts of complications, impeded by many obstacles,

which were incessantly arising, thanks to the subterranean craft of

the evil powers. At the Lehmanns' house, after the keen delight which

had welcomed the first judgment ordering the inquiry, despair was

reappearing now that things moved so slowly and the news of Simon

was so bad. The Court, while deeming it useless to have him brought

back to France immediately, had caused him to be informed that it

was considering the revision of his case. But in what state would

he return? Would he not succumb to his long sufferings before that

constantly adjourned return could be effected? Even David, who was so

firm and brave, now felt frightened. And the whole region suffered

from that long wait full of anguish; it ravaged Maillebois like an

exhausting crisis, the prolongation of which kept all social life in

suspense. And it began to turn to the advantage of the anti-Simonists,

who had recovered from the effects of the terrible discovery made at

Father Philibin's. By degrees, availing themselves of the slowness of

the proceedings and the false news prompted by the very secrecy of

the inquiry, they again made a show of triumphing, and prophesied the

certain and crushing overthrow of the Simonists. The lies and insults

of great occasions again found place in the infamous articles of _Le

Petit Beaumontais_. Then, at a ceremony in honour of St. Antony of

Padua, Father Théodose, speaking from the pulpit, ventured to allude

to God's approaching triumph over the accursed race of Judas. Brother

Fulgence, also, was again seen rushing like a whirlwind along the

streets and across the squares, seemingly very busy and exultant, as if

indeed he were dragging the chariot of the Church behind him in some

triumphal procession.

As for Brother Gorgias, whom the Congregations began to consider a

very compromising personage, attempts were made to cloister him as

much as possible, though his friends did not yet dare to conjure him

away into some safe retreat, like Father Philibin. In this matter, as

it happened, Brother Gorgias was not an easy customer to deal with,

he delighted to show himself and astonish people by playing the part

of a holy man who negotiated his salvation direct with Heaven. On two

occasions he created a scandal by boxing the ears of some children who

did not preserve a sufficiently sanctimonious demeanour on quitting

the Brothers' school. Thus Mayor Philis, who, being a punctilious

formalist, was scared by the other's extraordinary and violent piety,

thought it his duty to intervene in the very interests of religion.

The question came before the Municipal Council, where, by the way,

Darras, still in a minority, was now evincing the more prudence as he

did not despair of becoming Mayor again, with a larger majority than

formerly, should the Simon case only turn out well. Meantime he avoided

all occasions of speaking of it, keeping his lips sealed, feeling very

anxious whenever he saw the monks and the priests again taking the

side of the wall in Maillebois, as if it were for ever their conquered

possession.

But bad though the news might be, Marc forced himself to remain

hopeful. He was very much encouraged by the brave fidelity of his

assistant, Mignot, who each day took a larger share in his life of

devotion and battle. A singular moral phenomenon had manifested itself

in this transformation in which one observed the slowly increasing

influence of a master over a disciple, who at first had rebelled,

then had been won back and gradually absorbed. In former times nobody

would have suspected there was such heroic stuff in Mignot as now

began to appear. In the affair he had behaved in a most equivocal

manner, helping on the charges against Simon, and particularly

endeavouring to avoid everything compromising. It had seemed as if

his only thoughts were of his own advancement. Neither good nor bad,

he had been liable at that time to turn out well or ill, according to

circumstances and associates. And Marc had come, and had proved to

be the man of intellect and will who was to decide the fate of that

conscience, embellish it, and raise it to a perception of truth and

justice. The lesson shone forth, luminous and positive; example, the

teaching of a hero, sufficed to make other heroes arise from among the

vague dim masses of average folk. On two occasions during the last ten

years there had been a desire to appoint Mignot as head-master in a

neighbouring little village, but he had declined the offer, preferring

to remain by the side of Marc, whose influence over him had become

so great that he spoke of never leaving him, of remaining to the end

his faithful disciple, resolutely sharing his victory or defeat. In

the same way, after postponing in a spirit of expectant prudence the

question whether he would marry or not, he had decided to remain a

bachelor, saying that it was too late for him to seek a wife, and that

his pupils had now become his family. Besides, did he not take his

meals at Marc's, where he was greeted as a brother, making that home

his own, and enjoying all the delights of the nearest ties, those which

are drawn closer and closer as, by degrees, one thinks and feels the

same as one's fellow?

Thus the slow sundering of Marc and Geneviève had proved extremely

painful to Mignot, and since Geneviève's departure he was in despair.

He now again took his meals at a neighbouring eating house in order not

to increase the embarrassment of that stricken home where no housewife

was left. But he gave proof of respectful affection for his principal,

and endeavoured to console him. If he did not join him and keep him

company every evening after dinner, it was from a delicate feeling

of discretion, an unwillingness to obtrude himself when Marc was

alone with his daughter. He held back also when Mademoiselle Mazeline

was there, feeling that she would prove more useful to the forsaken

husband, more expert, with her sisterly hands, in assuaging the pain of

his wounds. And when he saw Marc plunging into the deepest melancholy,

ready to surrender to his sufferings, he as yet knew of only one way of

bringing joy and hope to his face again, which was to reproach himself

with his testimony at Simon's former trial, and vow that at the coming

one he would publicly relieve his conscience and cry the truth aloud!

Ah! yes, he would swear that Simon was innocent, he was convinced of it

now that a stream of light had illumined his memory.

However, the slow progress made by the Court of Cassation continued

to encourage the anti-Simonists in their desperate campaign, and

the onslaught of slander directed against Marc became fiercer than

ever. One morning a rumour spread through Maillebois that he and

Mademoiselle Mazeline had been seen under circumstances which left no

doubt whatever of their guilt. And ignoble particulars were given, the

inventions, evidently, of overheated pious minds. At the same time

the story remained unreal, for it was impossible to find a single

witness, and different versions began to circulate, contradictory in

character though tending to make the affair appear yet more horrible.

It was Mignot who, feeling very anxious, ventured to warn Marc of the

gravity of the scandal; and this time it was not sufficient for the

schoolmaster to meet the ignominious charges of his enemies with the

haughty silence of disdain. He spent a frightful day, wrestling with

his feelings, his heart rent by the fresh sacrifice which his work

demanded of him. When twilight came, however, he had made up his mind;

and, according to habit, he repaired to the little garden where he

spent such a pleasant and comforting hour every evening in the company

of Mademoiselle Mazeline. And as she was already there, also looking

very thoughtful and sad as she sat under the lilac bushes, he took a

seat in front of her. For a moment he looked at her without speaking;

then he said:

'My dear friend, something has happened which grieves me very much,

and I wish to relieve my heart before Louise joins us.... We cannot

continue meeting every day, as we have done. I even think we should

do well if we abstained in future from all intercourse.... It is a

question of real farewell; it is necessary we should part, my friend.'

She had listened without giving any sign of surprise; it was as if

she had known beforehand what he wished to say. Indeed, in a sad

but courageous voice she answered: 'Yes, my friend, it was for that

very farewell that I came here this evening. There is no necessity

for you to urge me to it, for, like you, I feel that it is a painful

necessity.... Somebody has told me everything. In presence of such

infamy our only weapons are abnegation and renouncement.'

A long interval of silence fell under the broad, calm sky, where

the daylight was slowly dying. A penetrating odour came from the

wallflowers, while a little freshness returned to the grass,

warmed by the sunshine. And Marc resumed, in an undertone: 'Those

unfortunate men who live outside the pale of simple nature and good

sense can in no wise deal with man and woman without imputing to them

the filth harboured by their own minds, which the idea of sin has

perverted. For them woman is but a she-devil, whose contact corrupts

everything--tenderness, affection, friendship.... I had foreseen what

has happened, but I turned a deaf ear to it all, unwilling as I was to

give them the satisfaction of seeing that I heeded their slanders. But

if I myself can afford to shrug my shoulders, there is the question of

you, my friend, and that of Louise, who, so I heard to-day, is likewise

being assailed with this mud.... Thus they are again victorious, and

will rejoice at having added another great grief to all the others.'

'For me it will be the hardest of all,' Mademoiselle Mazeline answered,

with much emotion. 'I shall not merely lose the pleasure of our evening

conversations; I shall have the sorrow of feeling that I am of no

further use to you, and have left you yet more lonely and unhappy.

Forgive me for that vain thought, my friend; but it made me so happy

to help you in your work, and to fancy I gave you some comfort and

support! And now I shall never think of you without picturing you

forsaken, alone--even friendless.... Ah! there are certainly some very

detestable people in the world.'

Marc made a trembling gesture, which betrayed his grief. 'It was what

they wished to do,' said he; 'yes, they wished to isolate me and reduce

me by turning every affection around me into a void. And I will admit

to you that this is the only wound which really makes me suffer. All

the rest, the attacks, the insults, the threats, spur me on, intoxicate

me with a desire to become heroic. But to be struck in the person of

those who belong to me, to see them soiled, poisoned, cast as victims

among the cruelty and shame of the struggle--that is a frightful thing,

which tortures me and makes me cowardly.... They have taken my poor

wife, now they are separating you from me, and--I quite expect it--they

will end by carrying off my daughter.'

Mademoiselle Mazeline, whose eyes were filling with tears, endeavoured

to silence him. 'Take care, my friend,' she said; 'here is Louise

coming.'

But he quickly retorted: 'I need not take care. I was waiting for her.

She must be told what has been decided.' And as the smiling girl came

forward and seated herself between them, he added: 'My darling, in a

moment you must make a little nosegay for Mademoiselle. I want her

to have a few of our flowers before I bolt the door between the two

gardens.'

'Bolt the door--why, father?'

'Because Mademoiselle must not come here again. Our friend is being

taken from us, as your mother was taken.'

Louise remained thoughtful and grave during the deep silence which

followed. After looking at her father, she looked at Mademoiselle

Mazeline. But she asked for no explanations; she seemed to understand,

all sorts of precocious thoughts passed like faint shadows over the

pure and lofty brow which she had inherited from her father, while

loving distress softened her eyes.

'I will go and make the nosegay,' she said at last, 'and you shall give

it to Mademoiselle, father.'

Then, while the girl went seeking the freshest flowers along the

borders, the others spent a few sad yet sweet minutes together. They

no longer spoke, but their thoughts mingled in brotherly, sisterly

fashion, thoughts which dwelt only on the happiness of others, the

reconciliation of the sexes, the education and liberation of woman, who

in her turn would liberate man. And this was human solidarity in all

its broadness, with all the binding and absolute ties which friendship

can set between two creatures, man and woman, apart from love. He was

her brother, she was his sister. Thus did they ponder; and the night,

which was falling more and more swiftly over the balmy garden, brought

them a restful freshness amid their sorrow.

'Here is the nosegay, father,' said Louise, approaching; 'I have tied

it with a bit of grass.'

Then Mademoiselle Mazeline stood up, and Marc gave her the nosegay. All

three next went towards the door. When they reached it, they remained

standing there, still saying nothing, but simply feeling happy at

delaying their parting for a moment. At last Marc set the door wide

open, and Mademoiselle Mazeline, after passing into her own garden,

turned round and, for the last time, looked at Marc, whose daughter had

cast her arms about him while resting her head against his shoulder.

'Good-bye, my friend.'

'Good-bye, my friend.'

That was all, the door was slowly closed; and on either side the bolts

were gently pushed forward. But they had become rusty, and raised a

little plaintive cry, which seemed very sad. Everything was over, blind

hatred had slain something that was good and consoling.

Another month elapsed. Marc now had only his daughter beside him,

and he felt his abandonment and solitude increasing. Louise, of

course, still attended Mademoiselle Mazeline's school, and under

the inquisitive eyes of the girls the mistress tried to evince no

preference for her, but to treat her exactly as she treated the others.

The child no longer lingered behind after class-time, but hastened home

to prepare her lessons beside her father. And if the schoolmaster and

the schoolmistress happened to meet, they merely bowed to each other,

refraining from any exchange of words, apart from such as might be

necessitated by their duties.

This attitude was very much remarked and discussed in Maillebois.

Reasonable people were pleased to see they did their best to put an

end to the horrid reports which had been circulated: but the others

sneered, saying that it was all very well to save appearances, but

this did not prevent the lovers from meeting secretly. Thus infamous

reports again began to circulate. When Marc heard of them from Mignot

he sank into bitter discouragement. There came hours when, his courage

failing, he asked of what use it was for him to wreck his life and

renounce every happiness, if no sacrifice was to be held in account by

the malicious. Never had his solitude been so bitter, so hard to bear.

As soon as at nightfall he found himself alone with Louise in the cold,

deserted house, despair came over him at the thought that if he should

some day lose his child nobody would be left to love him and warm his

heart.

The girl lighted the lamp and seated herself at her little table,

saying: 'Papa, I am going to write my history exercise, before I go to

bed.'

'That's right, my darling, work,' he answered.

Then, amid the deep silence of the empty house, anguish came upon him.

He could no longer continue correcting his pupils' exercises, but rose

and walked heavily up and down the room. In this wise he long went on

tramping to and fro in the gloom beyond the circle of light which fell

from the lamp-shade. And, at times, as he passed behind his daughter

he leant over her, and brusquely kissed her hair, tears gathering the

while in his eyes.

'Oh! what is the matter, papa?' asked Louise. 'You are distressing

yourself again.'

A hot tear had fallen on her brow. Then, turning round, she took hold

of her father with her caressing arms and compelled him to sit down

near her. 'It is not reasonable of you, papa, to distress yourself like

that when we are alone,' she said. 'You are so brave in the daytime,

but one would think you felt frightened in the evening, just as I used

to do when I did not like to remain without a light.... But as you have

work to do, you ought to work.'

He tried to laugh. 'So it is you who are now the sensible grown-up

person, my darling,' said he. 'But you are right, certainly; I will get

to work again.'

Then, however, as he continued looking at her, his eyes again clouded,

and he once more began to kiss her hair, wildly, distractedly.

'What is the matter? What is the matter?' she stammered, deeply

stirred, and, in her turn, shedding tears. 'Why do you kiss me like

that, papa?'

In quivering accents he then confessed his terror, acknowledged how

menacing he found all the surrounding gloom: 'Ah, if at least you

remain with me, my child, if at least they do not rob me of you as

well.'

She could find no answer to that plaint, but she caressed him, and they

wept together. At last, having succeeded in inducing him to turn to his

pupils' exercises, she herself reverted to her history lesson. But when

a few minutes had elapsed anxiety came on Marc again, he was compelled

to rise from his chair, and walk, walk, without a pause. One might have

thought he was pursuing his lost happiness athwart all the silence and

darkness of his wrecked home.

Louise had lately completed her thirteenth year, so that the time

when the first Communion is usually made had quite come; and all the

devotees of Maillebois were indignant to see such a big girl remaining

religionless, refusing to go to confession, and no longer even

attending Mass. And naturally she was compassionately called a victim,

crushed down beneath the brutal authority of her father, who by way of

sacrilege, it was said, made her spit on the crucifix every morning and

evening. Moreover, Mademoiselle Mazeline assuredly gave her lessons

of diabolical depravity. But was it not a crime to leave that poor

girl's soul in a state of perdition, in the power of two of the damned,

whose notorious misconduct horrified every conscience? Thus, there was

talk of energetic action, of organising demonstrations to compel that

unnatural father to restore the daughter to her mother, the pious woman

whom he had driven away by the loathsome baseness of his life.

Accustomed as Marc was to insults, he only felt anxious when he thought

of the violent scenes to which Louise must be subjected at the ladies'

house. Her mother, still in an ailing state, was content to treat her

coldly, with silent sadness, leaving Madame Duparque to thunder in

the name of her angry Deity, and quicken the infernal flames under

Satan's cauldrons. Ought not a big girl, already in her fourteenth

year, to feel ashamed of living like a savage, like one of those dogs,

who know nothing of religion and are driven from the churches? Was she

not frightened by the thought of the eternal chastisement which would

fall on her, the boiling oil, the iron forks, the red hot hooks, the

prospect of being lacerated, boiled, and roasted during thousands after

thousands of centuries? When Louise, on returning home in the evening,

told Marc of those threats, he shuddered to think that such attempts

should be made to capture her conscience by fright, and tried to read

her eyes in order to ascertain if she were shaken.

She at times seemed moved, but then things which were really too

abominable were told her. And in her quiet, sensible way she would

remark: 'It is really droll, papa, that the good God should be so

spiteful! Grandmamma said to-day that if I once missed going to Mass

the devil would cut my feet into little pieces through all eternity....

It would be very unjust; besides, it seems to me hardly possible.'

After such remarks her father felt a little easier in mind. Unwilling

as he was to do any violence to his daughter's growing intelligence,

he entered into no direct discussion of the strange lessons which

she received at the ladies' house; he contented himself with some

general teaching, based on reason, and appealing to the child's sense

of truth, justice, and kindness. He was delighted by the precocious

wakening of good sense which he noticed in her, a craving for logic and

certainty which she must have inherited from him. It was with joy that

he saw a woman with a clear, strong mind and a tender heart already

emerging from the weak girl, who still retained in many respects the

childishness of her years. And if he felt anxious, it was from a fear

lest the promise of a beautiful harvest should be destroyed. He only

recovered his calmness when the girl astonished him by reasoning things

as if she were already a grown woman full of sense.

'Oh! I am very polite, you know, with grandmamma,' she said one day. 'I

tell her that if I do not go to confession or make my first Communion,

it is because I am waiting till I am twenty years old, as you asked me

to do.... That seems to me very reasonable. And, by keeping to that,

I am very strong; for when one has reason on one's side one is always

very strong, is it not so?'

At times, too, in spite of her affection and deference for her mother,

she said with a smile, in a gentle, jesting way: 'You remember, papa,

that mamma said she would explain the Catechism to me, and I answered

her, "Yes, mamma, you shall hear me my lessons. You know that I try

my best to understand." Well, as I never understood anything at

the Catechism class, mamma wished to explain matters to me. But,

unfortunately, I still understand nothing whatever of it.... It puts

me into great embarrassment. I feel afraid I may grieve her, and all I

can do is to pretend that I suddenly understand something. But I must

look very stupid, for she always interrupts the lesson as if she were

angry, and calls me foolish.... The other day, when she was talking of

the mystery of the Incarnation, she repeated that it was not a question

of understanding but of believing; and as I unluckily told her that

I could not believe without understanding, she said that was one of

your phrases, papa, and that the devil would take both of us.... Oh, I

cried, I cried!'

She smiled, however, as she spoke of it, and added in a lower tone:

'Instead of making me think more as mamma does, the Catechism has

rather taken me away from her ideas. There are too many things in it

that worry my mind. It is wrong of mamma to try to force them into my

head.'

Her father could have kissed her. Was he to have the joy of finding

in his daughter an exception, one of those well-balanced little minds

that ripen early, in which sense seems to grow as in some propitious

soil? Other girls, at that troublous hour of maidenhood, are still so

childish and so greatly disturbed by the quiver which comes upon them

that they easily fall a prey to fairy tales and mystical reveries.

How rare would be his luck if his own girl should escape the fate of

her companions, whom the Church seized and conquered at a disturbing

hour of life. Tall, strong, and very healthy, she was already a young

woman, though there were days when she became quite childish once more,

amusing herself with trifles, saying silly things, returning to her

doll, with which she held extraordinary conversations. And on those

days anxiety came back to her father; he trembled as he observed that

there was still so much puerility in her nature, and wondered if the

others might not yet steal her from him, and end by obscuring her mind,

whose dawn was so limpid and so fresh.

'Ah, yes, papa, what my doll said just now was very silly! But what can

you expect? She's not very sensible yet.'

'And do you hope to make her sensible, my darling?'

'I scarcely know. Her head is so hard. With Bible history she does

fairly well; she can recite that by heart. But with grammar and

arithmetic she is a real blockhead.'

Then she laughed. That sorry home might be empty and icy cold, she

none the less filled it with childish gaiety, as sonorous as April's

trumpet-wind. But the days went by, and with the lapse of time Louise

became more serious and thoughtful. On returning from her Thursday and

Sunday visits to her mother she sank into long, silent reveries. Of an

evening, while she was working beside the lamp, she paused at times to

give her father a long look, full of sorrowful affection. And at last

came that which was bound to come.

It was a warm evening, and a storm was threatening, the heavens

were heavy with a mass of inky clouds. The father and the daughter,

according to their habit, sat working in the little circular patch of

light which fell from the lamp-shade; and through the window, set wide

open upon the dark and slumbering town, some moths flew in, they alone

disturbing the profound silence with the slight quiver of their wings.

Louise, who had spent the afternoon at the house on the Place des

Capucins, seemed very tired. It was as if her brow was laden with some

weighty thought. Leaning over her exercise paper, she ceased writing

and reflected. And, at last, making up her mind to set down her pen,

she spoke out amid the deep, mournful quietude of the house.

'Papa, I want to tell you something which grieves me very much. I shall

certainly cause you very great, great sorrow; and that is why I did not

have the courage to tell you of it before. But I have made up my mind

now not to go to bed before telling you of what I want to do--for it

seems to me so reasonable and necessary.'

Marc had immediately looked up, a pang, a feeling of terror coming

to his heart, for by the girl's tremulous voice he guessed that the

supreme disaster was at hand. 'What is it, my darling?' he asked.

'Well, papa, I have been turning the matter over in my head all day,

and it seems to me that, if you think as I do, I ought to go and live

with mamma at grandmother's.'

Marc, thoroughly upset, began by protesting violently: 'What, think

as you do! No, no, I won't allow it! I mean to keep you here, I will

prevent you from forsaking me.'

'Oh! papa,' she murmured distressfully, 'think it over, only just a

little, and you will see that I am right.'

But he did not listen, he had risen and was walking wildly about the

dim room. 'I have only you left me, and you think of going away! My

wife has been taken from me, and now my daughter is to be taken, and

I am to remain alone, stripped, forsaken, without an affection left!

Ah! I felt that this _coup de grâce_ was coming, I foresaw that those

abominable hands, working in the darkness, would tear away the last

shred of my heart.... But no! no! this is too much, never will I

consent to such a separation!'

And stopping short before his daughter, he continued roughly: 'Have you

also had your mind and heart spoilt that you no longer love me?... At

each of your visits to your grandmother's I am put on trial--is it not

so?--and infamous things are said about me in order to detach you from

me. It is a question--eh?--of saving you from the damned and restoring

you to the good friends of those ladies, who will turn you into a

hypocrite and a lunatic.... And you listen to my enemies, and yield to

their constant obsession by forsaking me.'

Louise, in despair, her eyes full of tears, raised her hands

entreatingly. 'Papa, papa, calm yourself!' she cried. 'I assure you

that you are mistaken, mamma has never allowed anything evil to be said

about you before me. Grandmother, no doubt, does not like you, and she

would often do well to keep quiet when I am there. It would be telling

a falsehood to say that she does not do all she can to get me to join

mamma and live with her. But I swear to you that neither she nor any

of the others has anything to do with what I propose.... You know very

well that I never tell you stories. It is I myself who have thought it

all over, and come to the conclusion that our separation would be a

good and sensible thing.'

'A good thing--that you should forsake me! Why, it would kill me!'

'No, you will understand--and you are so brave!... Sit down and listen

to me.'

She gently compelled him to seat himself again in front of her. And,

taking his hands in hers caressingly, she reasoned with him like a

shrewd little woman.

'Everybody at grandmother's,' said she, 'is convinced that you alone

turn me away from religion. You weigh on me, it is said, you impose

your ideas on me, and if I could only escape from you I should go to

confession to-morrow and make my first Communion.... So why should I

not prove to them that they are mistaken? To-morrow I will go and live

at grandmother's, and then they will see for themselves, they will

have to admit how mistaken they have been, for nothing will prevent

me from giving them always the same answer: "I have promised not to

make my first Communion before I am twenty, in order that the full

responsibility of such an action may be mine only, and I shall keep my

promise, I shall wait."'

Marc made a gesture of doubt. 'My poor child,' said he, 'you don't know

them, they will have broken down your resistance and have conquered you

in a few weeks' time. You are still only a little girl.'

In her turn Louise rebelled. 'Ah! it is not nice of you, papa, to think

there is so little seriousness in me! I am a little girl, it is true,

but your little girl, and proud of it!'

She spoke those words with such childish bravery that he could not

help smiling. That darling daughter, in whom he every now and again

recognised himself, in whom he found thoughtfulness and logic blended

with passionate earnestness, warmed his heart. He looked at her, and

found her very pretty and very sensible, with a face which was both

firm and proud, and bright eyes, whose frankness was admirable. And he

continued listening while she, keeping his hands in her own, set forth

the reasons which prompted her to join her mother in the devout little

house of the Place des Capucins. Without any reference to the frightful

slanders which were current, she let him understand that it would

be well for them not to brave public opinion. As people said on all

sides that her right place was at the ladies' house, she was willing

to repair thither; and though she was only thirteen years of age, she

would certainly be its most sensible inmate, folk would see if the work

she did there did not prove the best.

'No matter, my child,' Marc said at last with an air of great

lassitude, 'you will never convince me of the necessity of a rupture

between you and me.'

She felt that he was weakening. 'But it is not a rupture papa,' she

exclaimed; 'I have gone to see mamma twice a week, and I shall come to

see you, more often than that, too.... Besides, don't you understand?

Perhaps mamma will listen to me a little when I am beside her. I shall

speak to her of you, I shall tell her how much you still love her, how

you weep for her. And--who knows?--she will reflect, and perhaps I

shall bring her back to you.'

Then the tears of both began to flow. They gave way to their emotion

in each other's arms. The father was upset by the deep charm of that

daughter in whom so much puerility still mingled with so much sense,

goodness, and hopefulness. And the girl yielded to her heart, like one

ripened before her time by things of which she was vaguely conscious,

but which she would have been unable to explain.

'Do, then, as you please,' Marc ended by stammering amid his tears.

'But if I yield, don't think that I approve, for my whole being rebels

and protests.'

That was the last evening they spent together. The warm night remained

of an inky blackness. There seemed to be not a breath of air. And

not a sound came through the open window from the resting town. Only

the silent moths flew in, scorching themselves by contact with the

lamp. The storm did not burst, and until very late the father and the

daughter, speaking no further, remained, one in front of the other,

seated at their table, as if busy with their work, but simply happy at

being together yet a little longer, amid the far-spreading peaceful

quietude.

How frightful, however, did the following evening prove for Marc! His

daughter had left him, and he was absolutely alone in that empty and

dismal dwelling. After the wife, the child--he had nobody to love him

now, all his heart had been torn from him, bit by bit. Moreover, in

order that he might not even have the consolation of friendship, he

had been compelled, by base slanders, to cease all intercourse with

the one woman whose lofty sisterly mind might have sustained him. The

complete wrecking of his life, of the approach of which he had long

been conscious, was now effected; the stealthy work of destruction,

performed by hateful, invisible hands bent on undermining him and

throwing him down on the ruins of his own work, was accomplished.

And now, no doubt, the others believed they held him, bleeding from

a hundred wounds, tortured and forsaken, strengthless in his blasted

dwelling, that soiled and deserted home, where he was left in agony.

And, indeed, on that first evening of solitude he was really a beaten

man, and his enemies might well have thought him at their mercy had

they been able to see him coming and going in the pale twilight with a

staggering gait, like some wretched stricken beast seeking a shadowy

nook there to lie down and die.

The times were, in truth, frightful. The worst possible news was

current respecting the inquiry of the Court of Cassation, whose

slowness seemed to hide a desire to bury the affair. In vain had Marc

hitherto compelled himself to hope: each day his dread increased

lest he should hear of Simon's death before the revision of the case

should be an accomplished fact. During that mournful time he pictured

everything as lost, revision rejected, his long efforts proving

useless, truth and justice finally slain--an execrable social crime, a

shameful catastrophe, which would engulf the whole country. The thought

of it filled him with a kind of pious horror, sent a chilling shudder

of dread through his veins. And, besides that public disaster, there

was the disaster of his own life, which weighed upon him more and more.

Now that Louise was no longer there, moving his heart with her charming

ways, inspiriting him with her precocious sense and courage, he asked

himself how he could have been mad enough to let her go to the ladies'

house. She was but a child, she would be conquered in a few weeks by

the all-powerful Church, which for ages past had been victorious over

woman. She had been taken from him; she would never be restored to him,

indeed he would never see her more. And it was he who had sent that

still defenceless victim to error. His work, he himself, and those who

belonged to him, were all annihilated; and at the thought of it he sank

into heartrending despair.

Eight o'clock struck, and Marc had not yet found the strength to seat

himself and dine alone in that room, which now had become quite dim,

when he heard a timid knock at the door. And great was his astonishment

when in came Mignot, who at first found it difficult to explain himself.

'You see, Monsieur Froment,' he began, 'as you announced to me this

morning the departure of your little Louise, an idea came to me, and

I've been turning it over in my mind all day.... So, this evening,

before going to dine at the eating house----'

He paused, seeking his words.

'What, haven't you dined yet, Mignot!' Marc exclaimed.

'Why, no, Monsieur Froment.... You see, my idea was to come and dine

with you, to keep you company a little. But I hesitated and lost

time.... If it would please you, however, now that you are alone, I

might board with you again. Two men can always agree. We could do

the cooking, and surely get through the housework together. Are you

agreeable? It would please me very much.'

A little joy had returned to Marc's heart; and, with a smile tinged

with emotion, he replied: 'I am quite willing.... You are a good

fellow, Mignot.... There, sit down, we will begin by dining together.'

And they dined, face to face, the master relapsing the while into his

bitterness of spirit, the assistant rising every now and then very

quietly to fetch a plate or a piece of bread, amid the melancholy calm

of evening.

II

Then, during the months and months that the inquiry of the Court of

Cassation lasted, Marc again had to shut himself up in his school, and

devote himself, body and soul, to his task of instructing the humble,

and rendering them more capable of truth and justice.

Among the hopes and the despairs which continued to enfever him,

according as the news he heard proved good or bad, there was one

thought that haunted him more and more. Long previously, at the very

outset of the affair, he had wondered why France, all France, did not

rise to exact the release of the innocent prisoner. One of his dearest

illusions had been his belief in a generous France, a magnanimous and

just France, which many times already had passionately espoused the

cause of equity, and which would surely prove its goodness of heart

yet once again by striving its utmost to repair the most execrable of

judicial errors. And the painful surprise he had experienced on finding

the country so stolid and indifferent after the trial at Beaumont now

increased daily, became more and more torturing; for in the earlier

stages of the affair he had been able to excuse it, realising that

people were ignorant of the true facts and poisoned with lies. But now,

when so much light had been cast on the affair, so much truth made

manifest, he could find no possible explanation for such prolonged and

such shameful slumber in iniquity. Had France been changed, then? Was

it no longer the liberator? Since it now knew the truth, why did it

not rise _en masse_, instead of remaining an obstacle, a blind, deaf

multitude barring the road?

And Marc always returned in thought to his starting-point, when the

necessity of his humble work as a schoolmaster had become apparent to

him. If France still slept the heavy sleep of conscienceless matter, it

was because France did not yet know enough. A shudder came upon him:

how many generations, how many centuries would be needed for a people,

nourished with truth, to become capable of equity? For nearly fifteen

years he had been endeavouring to train up just men, a generation

had already passed through his hands, and he asked himself what was

really the progress that had been effected. Whenever he met any of his

old pupils he chatted with them, and compared them both with their

parents, who were less freed from the original clay, and with the boys

who nowadays attended his school, and whom he hoped to free yet more

than their forerunners. Therein lay his great task, the mission he had

undertaken at a decisive hour of his life, and prosecuted throughout

all his sufferings, doubting its efficacy in occasional moments of

weariness, but on the morrow always taking it up again with renewed

faith.

One bright August evening, having strolled along the road to Valmarie

as far as Bongard's farm, Marc perceived Fernand, his former pupil,

who was returning home with a scythe on his shoulder. Fernand had

lately married Lucile, the daughter of Doloir, the mason; he now being

five-and-twenty, and she nineteen years of age. They had long been

friends, having played together in the old days on leaving school; and

that evening the young wife, a little blonde, with a gentle, smiling

demeanour, was also there, seated in the yard and mending some linen.

'Well, Fernand, are you satisfied? Is there a good crop of wheat this

year?' Marc inquired.

Fernand still had a heavy face with a hard and narrow brow, and his

words came slowly as in his childish days. 'Oh! Monsieur Froment,' he

replied, 'one can never be satisfied; there's too much worry with this

wretched land, it takes more than it gives.'

As his father, though barely fifty years of age, was already heavy

of limb, tortured by rheumatic pains, Fernand, on finishing his term

of military service, had resolved to help him, instead of seeking

employment elsewhere. And the struggle at the farm was the same bitter

one as of old, the family living from father to son on the fields

whence it seemed to have sprung, and toiling and moiling blindly in its

stubborn ignorance and neglect of progress.

'Ah! no, one is never satisfied,' Fernand slowly resumed; 'even you are

not over-pleased with things, Monsieur Froment, in spite of all you

know.'

Marc detected in those words some of the jeering contempt for knowledge

which was to be expected from a hard-headed, sleepy dunce who in his

school-days had found it difficult to remember a single lesson.

Moreover, Fernand's remark embodied a prudent allusion to the events

which were upsetting the whole region, and Marc availed himself of this

circumstance to inquire into his former pupil's views.

'Oh! I am always pleased when my boys learn their lessons fairly well,

and don't tell too many stories,' he said gaily. 'You know that very

well; just remember.... Besides, I received to-day some good news about

the affair to which I have been attending so long. Yes, the innocence

of my poor friend Simon is about to be recognised for good.'

At this Fernand manifested great embarrassment, his countenance became

heavier, and the light in his eyes died away. 'But that's not what some

folk say,' he remarked.

'What do they say, then?'

'They say that the judges have found out more things about the old

schoolmaster.'

'What things are those?'

'Oh, all sorts, it seems.'

At last Fernand consented to explain himself, and started on a

ridiculous yarn. The Jews, said he, had given a big sum of money, five

millions of francs, to their co-religionist Simon in order that he

might get a Brother of the Christian Doctrine guillotined. Simon having

failed in his plan, the five millions were lying in a hiding-place,

and the Jews were now striving to get Brother Gorgias sent to the

galleys--even if in doing so they should drown France in blood--in

order that Simon might return and dig up the treasure, the hiding-place

of which was known only to himself.

'Come, my lad,' Marc answered, quite aghast, 'surely you don't believe

such absurdity!'

'Well, why not?' rejoined the young peasant, who looked only half awake.

'Why, because your good sense ought to rebel against it. You know how

to read, you know how to write, and I flattered myself also that I had

in some degree awakened your mind and taught you how to distinguish

between truth and falsehood.... Come, come, haven't you remembered

anything of what you learnt when you were with me?'

Fernand waved his hand in a tired, careless way. 'If one had to

remember everything, Monsieur Froment, one would have one's head

too full,' he said. 'I have only told you what I hear people saying

everywhere. Folks who are far cleverer than I am give their word of

honour that it's true.... Besides, I read something like it in _Le

Petit Beaumontais_ the day before yesterday. And since it's in print

there must surely be some truth in it.'

Marc made a gesture of despair. What! he had not overcome ignorance

more than that after all his years of striving! That young fellow

remained the easiest prey for error and falsehood, he blindly accepted

the most stupid inventions, he possessed neither the freedom of mind

nor the sense of logic necessary to enable him to weigh the fables

which he read in his newspaper. So great indeed was his credulity that

it seemed to disturb even his wife, the blonde Lucile.

'Oh!' said she, raising her eyes from her work, 'a treasure of five

millions, that is a great deal of money.'

Though Lucile had failed to secure a certificate, she had been

one of Mademoiselle Rouzaire's passable pupils, and her mind now

seemed to have awakened. It was said she was pious. In former days

the schoolmistress had somewhat proudly cited her as an example,

on account of the glib manner in which she recited the long Gospel

narrative of the Passion without making a single mistake. But since

her marriage, though one still found in her the sly submissiveness and

the hypocritical restrictions of a woman on whom the Church had set

its mark, she had ceased to follow the usual observances. And she even

discussed things a little.

'Five millions in a hiding-place,' Marc repeated, 'five millions

slumbering there, pending the return of my poor Simon--it's madness!

But what of all the new documents that have been discovered, all the

proofs against Brother Gorgias?'

Lucile was becoming bolder. With a pretty laugh she exclaimed: 'Oh!

Brother Gorgias isn't worth much. He may well have a weight on his

conscience, though all the same it would be as well to leave him quiet

on account of religion.... But I've also read the newspapers, and

they've made me reflect.'

'Ah! well,' concluded Fernand, 'one would never finish if one had to

reflect after reading. It's far better to remain quiet in one's corner.'

Marc was again about to protest when a sound of footsteps made him

turn his head, and he perceived old Bongard and his wife, who also had

just returned from the fields, with their daughter, Angèle. Bongard,

who had heard his son's last words, at once addressed himself to the

schoolmaster.

'What the lad says is quite true, Monsieur Froment. It's best not to

worry one's mind with reading so much stuff.... In my time we did not

read the papers at all, and we were no worse off. Isn't that so, wife?'

'Sure it is!' declared La Bongard energetically.

But Angèle, who, in spite of her hard nut, had won a certificate

at Mademoiselle Rouzaire's by force of stubbornness, smiled in a

knowing manner. An inner light, fighting its way through dense matter,

occasionally illumined the whole of her face, which with its short

nose and large mouth remained at other moments so dull and heavy. In a

few weeks' time Angèle was to marry Auguste Doloir, her sister-in-law

Lucile's brother, a big strapping fellow, following, like his father,

the calling of a mason, and the girl already indulged in ambitious

dreams for him, some start in business on his own account when she

should be beside him to guide his steps.

In response to her father's words she quietly remarked: 'Well, for my

part I much prefer to know things. One can never succeed unless one

does. Everybody deceives and robs one.... You yourself, mamma, would

have given three _sous_ too many to the tinker yesterday if I had not

run through his bill.'

They all jogged their heads; and then Marc, in a thoughtful mood,

resumed his walk. That farmyard, where he had just lingered for a few

minutes, had not changed since the now far-distant day of Simon's

arrest, when he had entered it seeking for favourable evidence. The

Bongards had remained the same, full of crass, suspicious, silent

ignorance, like poor beings scarce raised from the soil, who ever

trembled lest they should be devoured by others bigger and stronger

than themselves. And the only new element was that supplied by the

children, whose progress, however, was of the slightest; for if

they knew a little more than their parents they had been weakened

by the incompleteness of their education, and had fallen into other

imbecilities. Yet, after all, they had taken a step forward, and the

slightest step forward on mankind's long road must tend to hope.

A few days later Marc repaired to Doloir's, in order to speak to him of

an idea which he had at heart. Auguste and Charles, the mason's elder

sons, had formerly belonged to his school, and their younger brother,

Léon,[1] had lately achieved great success there, having won his

certificate already in his twelfth year. For that very reason, however,

he was about to quit the school, and his departure worried Marc, for,

desirous as the latter was of securing good recruits for the elementary

education staff, of which Salvan spoke to him at times so anxiously, he

dreamt of making the lad a schoolmaster.

On reaching the flat over the wineshop in the Rue Plaisir, where the

mason still dwelt, Marc found Madame Doloir alone for the moment

with Léon, though the men would soon be home from work. She listened

to the schoolmaster very attentively in her serious and somewhat

narrow-minded way, like a good housewife who only thought of the family

interests; and then she answered: 'Oh, Monsieur Froment, I don't think

it possible. We shall have need of Léon: we mean to apprentice him

at once. Where could we find the money to enable him to continue his

studies? Things like that cost too much even when they cost nothing.'

And turning to the boy she added: 'Isn't that so? A carpenter's trade

suits you best. My own father was a carpenter.'

But Léon, whose eyes glittered, was bold enough to declare his

preference. 'Oh no, mamma,' said he, 'I should be so pleased if I could

continue learning.'

Marc was backing up the boy when Doloir came in, accompanied by his

elder sons. Auguste worked for the same master as his father, and on

their way home they had called for Charles, who was employed by a

neighbouring locksmith. On learning what was afoot Doloir quickly sided

with his wife, who was regarded as the clever one of the home, the

maintainer of sound traditions. True, she was an honest and a worthy

woman, but one who clung stubbornly to routine and who showed much

narrow egotism. And her husband, though he put on airs of bravado,

like an old soldier whose ideas had been broadened by regimental life,

invariably bowed to her decisions.

[Footnote 1: In the author's proofs of the earlier part of _Vérité_

Doloir the mason is said to have a young son named Léon; Savin, the

clerk, having one called Jules (see _ante_, p. 60). Some confusion

seems to have arisen subsequently in M. Zola's mind with respect to

these boys, for in later passages of the French original the name of

Jules is given to Doloir's child, and that of Léon to Savin's. This

error would undoubtedly have been rectified but for M. Zola's sudden

death. In the present translation Jules has been changed to Léon, and

Léon to Jules, wherever necessary.--_Trans._]

'No, no, Monsieur Froment,' he said, 'I don't think it possible.'

'Come, let us reason a little,' Marc answered patiently; 'I will

undertake to prepare Léon for the Training School. There we shall

obtain a scholarship for him; so it will cost you absolutely nothing.'

'But what of his food all that time?' the mother asked.

'Well, just one more when there are several at table does not mean a

great expense.... One may well risk a little for a child when he gives

one such bright hopes.'

At this the two elder brothers began to laugh, like good-natured

fellows who felt amused by the proud yet anxious bearing of their

junior.

'I say, youngster, so you are to be the great man of the family, eh?'

exclaimed Auguste. 'But don't put on too much side, for we won our

certificates also. That sufficed for us; we had enough and to spare

of all the things that one finds in books.... For my own part I much

prefer to temper my mortar.' And, addressing the schoolmaster, Auguste

continued gaily: 'Ah! didn't I worry you, Monsieur Froment! I could

never keep still; there were days, I remember, when I revolutionised

the whole class. Fortunately Charles was a little more reasonable.'

'No doubt,' said Charles, smiling in his turn, 'only I always ended by

following you, for I didn't wish to be thought timid or stupid.'

'Stupid! no, no,' responded Auguste by way of conclusion: 'we were only

wrong-headed and idle.... And nowadays we offer you every apology,

Monsieur Froment. And I agree with you: I think that if Léon has a

taste that way he ought to be helped on. Dash it all! one must be on

the side of progress!'

Those words gave much pleasure to Marc, who thought it as well to

rest content with them that day, and to postpone the task of finally

prevailing over the parents. However, continuing his conversation

with Auguste for a moment, he told him that he had lately seen his

betrothed, Angèle Bongard, a shrewd little person who seemed determined

to make her way in life. Then, seeing the young man laugh again and

look very much flattered, Marc thought of pursuing his investigations

and ascertaining what might be the views of his former pupil on the

question which interested him so deeply.

'I also saw Fernand Bongard, your brother-in-law,' he said; 'you

remember when he was at school with you----'

The brothers again became hilarious. 'Fernand? Oh! he had a hard nut

and no mistake,' said Auguste.

'Yes, and do you know, in that unfortunate Simon affair, Fernand

believes that a treasure of five millions of francs, given by the Jews,

is hidden away somewhere in readiness for the unhappy prisoner whenever

one may succeed in bringing him back from the galleys, and setting a

Brother of the Christian Doctrine in his place.'

As these words fell from Marc's lips Madame Doloir became very grave,

drawing her little figure together, and then remaining motionless;

while her husband on his side made a gesture of annoyance, and muttered

between his teeth: 'That's another matter which my wife rightly enough

does not wish us to meddle with.'

But Auguste, who seemed very much amused, exclaimed: 'Yes, I know, the

story of the treasure which appeared in _Le Petit Beaumontais_. I'm not

surprised at Fernand swallowing that yarn.... Five millions hidden in

the ground--it's nonsense!'

At this his father looked vexed, and emerged from his reserve. 'A

treasure,' said he, 'why not? You are not so clever as you fancy,

youngster. You don't know what the Jews are capable of. I knew a

corporal in my regiment, who had been a servant to a Jewish banker.

Well, every Saturday he saw that banker send casks full of gold to

Germany--all the gold of France, as he used to say.... We are sold,

that's quite certain.'

But Auguste, who never showed any great respect for anybody, retorted:

'Ah! no, father, you must not dish up the old stories of your regiment.

I've just come back from barracks, you know; and it's all too

stupid.... You'll soon see that for yourself, my poor Charles.'

Auguste, indeed, had lately finished his term of military service, and

Charles in his turn would have to join the colours in October.

'And for my part,' Auguste continued, 'I can't swallow that absurd yarn

of five millions buried at the foot of a tree, and waiting to be dug up

on some moonlight night.... At the same time that does not prevent me

from thinking that one would do well to leave that man Simon yonder,

without troubling one's brains any more about his innocence.'

Marc, who had felt pleased by the intelligent things said by his former

pupil, was painfully surprised by that sudden conclusion. 'How is

that?' he inquired. 'If Simon is innocent, just think of the torture

he has undergone! We should never be able to offer him sufficient

reparation.'

'Oh! innocent--that remains to be proved. Though I often read what is

printed, my mind only gets the more fogged by it.'

'That is because you only read falsehoods,' said Marc. 'Remember, it

is now known that the copy-slip came from the Brothers' school. The

corner which was torn off, and which was found at Father Philibin's, is

the proof of it; and the ridiculous blunder which the experts made is

demonstrated, for the paraph is certainly in the handwriting of Brother

Gorgias.'

'Ah! I don't know all that,' Auguste answered. 'How can I read

everything that is printed? As I said just now, the more people try to

explain the affair to me, the less I understand of it. But, after all,

as the experts and the Court formerly ascribed the copy-slip to the

prisoner, the simplest thing is to believe that it was really his.'

From that opinion Auguste would not retreat in spite of all the efforts

of Marc, who, after imagining for a moment that the young fellow

possessed a free mind, was pained to discover that he had such narrow

views, and such a faint perception of truth.

'Well, that is sufficient,' at last said Madame Doloir, in the

authoritative manner of a prudent woman. 'You must excuse me, Monsieur

Froment, if I ask you to talk no more of that affair here. You do as

you please on your side, and I have nothing to say against it. Only,

for poor folk like ourselves it is best that we should not meddle with

what does not concern us.'

'But it would concern you, madame, if one of your sons should be taken

and sent to the galleys in spite of his innocence. And we are fighting,

remember, to prevent such monstrous injustice from ever being repeated.'

'Perhaps so, Monsieur Froment; but one of my sons won't be taken, for,

as it happens, I try to get on well with everybody, even the priests.

The priests are very strong, you see, and I would rather not have them

after me.'

Thereupon Doloir was moved to intervene in a patriotic way: 'Oh! I

don't care a curse about the priests,' he exclaimed. 'It's a question

of defending the country, and the Government allows us to be

humiliated by the English!'

'You also will please to keep quiet,' his wife immediately retorted.

'It is best to leave both the Government and the priests alone. Let's

try to get bread to eat--that will be far better.'

Then Doloir had to bend his head in spite of the circumstance that

among his mates he posed as being a Socialist, though he hardly knew

the meaning of the word. As for Auguste and Charles, though they

belonged to a better-taught generation, they sided with their mother,

almost spoilt as they were by their ill-digested semi-education, too

ignorant as yet to recognise the law of human solidarity which demands

that the happiness of each should be compounded of the happiness of

all. Only little Léon, with his ardent thirst for knowledge, remained

impassioned, full of anxiety also as to the turn which things were

taking.

Marc, who was sorely grieved, felt that further discussion would

be useless. So, taking his departure, he contented himself with

saying: 'Well, madame, I will see you again, and I hope to persuade

you to allow Léon to continue his studies so that he may become a

schoolmaster.'

'Quite so, Monsieur Froment,' the mother answered; 'but remember it

must not cost us a _sou_, for in any case we shall be sadly out of

pocket.'

Some bitter thoughts came over Marc as he returned home. As in the case

of the Bongards he was reminded of the visit he had made to the Doloirs

on the day of Simon's arrest. Those sorry folk, who were condemned to

a life of excessive toil and who imagined they defended themselves by

remaining in darkness and taking no interest in what went on around

them, had in no way changed. They were determined that they would

know nothing, for fear lest knowledge should bring them increase of

wretchedness. The sons, no doubt, were rather more enlightened than the

parents, but not enough to engage in any work of truth. And if they had

begun to reason, and no longer believed in idiotic fables, how much

ground there still remained for their children to cover before their

minds should be freed completely from error! It was grievous indeed

that the march of progress should be so slow; and yet it was necessary

to remain content, if one desired to retain enough courage to pursue

the arduous task of teaching and delivering the humble.

On another occasion, a little later, Marc happened to meet Savin the

clerk, with whom he had had some unpleasant quarrels at the time when

that embittered man's twin sons, Achille and Philippe, had attended

the school. Savin had then thought it good policy to serve the Church,

although he publicly pretended to have nothing to do with it, for he

was continually dreading lest he should offend his superiors. However,

two catastrophes, which fell upon him in rapid succession, steeped him

in irremediable bitterness. First of all, things took a very bad turn

with his pretty daughter, Hortense--that model pupil, in whose ardent

fervour at her first Communion Mademoiselle Rouzaire had gloried, but

who in reality was full of precocious hypocrisy. Savin, recognising

the girl's beauty, had dreamt of marrying her to the son of one of

his superiors, but, instead of that, he was compelled to marry her

to a milkman's assistant, who led her astray. Then, to complete the

clerk's mortification and despair, he discovered that his wife, the

refined and tender-hearted Marguerite, had become unfaithful to him. In

spite of her repugnance he had long compelled her to go to confession

and Communion, holding that religion was a needful curb for feminine

depravity; but, as it happened, her frequent attendance at the chapel

of the Capuchins, whose superior, Father Théodose, was her confessor,

led to her downfall, for that same holy man became her lover. The

facts were never exactly known, for no scandal was raised by Savin,

who, however great his rage, was overcome by the irony of things. It

was he himself, indeed, who, by his imbecile jealousy, had turned his

previously faithful wife into the path of infidelity. But if he raised

no great outcry, people declared that he revenged himself terribly

on the unhappy woman in the abominable hell which their home had now

become.

Having cause to hate the priests and the monks, Savin had drawn a

trifle nearer to Marc. On the day when they met in the street the

clerk had just quitted his office, and was walking along with a sour

and sleepy face, like some old circus horse half stupefied by his

never-varying round of duties. On perceiving the schoolmaster he seemed

to wake up: 'Ah! I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur Froment,' he said.

'It would be very kind of you to come as far as my rooms, for my son

Philippe is causing me great anxiety by his idleness, and you are the

only person who knows how to lecture him.'

'Willingly,' replied Marc, who was always desirous of seeing and

judging things.

On reaching the dismal little lodging in the Rue Fauche they found

Madame Savin--who still looked charming in spite of her four-and-forty

years--engaged on some bead flowers which had to be delivered that

same evening. Since his misfortune the clerk was no longer ashamed

of letting people see his wife toil as if she were a mere workwoman.

Perhaps, indeed, he hoped it would be thought that she was expiating

her transgression. In former times he had evinced much pride in her

when she went out wearing a lady's bonnet, but now she might well put

on an apron and contribute to the support of the family. He himself

also neglected his appearance, and had given up wearing frock coats.

No sooner did he enter the flat than he became brutal: 'You've taken

possession of the whole room as usual!' he shouted. 'Where can I ask

Monsieur Froment to sit down?'

Gentle, timid, and somewhat red of face, his wife hastened to gather up

her reels and boxes. 'But when I work, my friend,' she said, 'I need

some room. Besides, I did not expect you home so soon.'

'Yes, yes, I know, you never expect _me_!'

Those words, in which, perhaps, there was some cruel allusion to what

had happened, quite upset the unfortunate woman. One thing which her

husband did not forgive her was her lover's handsomeness, particularly

as he knew that he himself was so puny and sickly; and nothing enraged

himself more than to read his wife's excuse in her clear eyes. However,

she now bent her head, and made herself as small as possible, while she

resumed her work.

'Sit down, Monsieur Froment,' said Savin. 'As I was telling you just

now, that big fellow yonder drives me to despair. He is now nearly

two-and-twenty, he has already tried two or three trades, and all he

seems to be good for is to watch his mother work and pass her the beads

she may require.'

Young Philippe, indeed, was sitting in a corner of the room, silent

and motionless, like one who strove to keep in the background. Madame

Savin, amidst her humiliation, had given him a tender glance, to which

he had responded by a slight smile as if by way of consolation. One

could detect that he and his mother were linked together by some

bond of suffering. Pale, and of poor health, the sly, cowardly,

and mendacious schoolboy of former times had become a sorry young

fellow, quite destitute, it seemed, of energy, who sought a refuge in

his mother's kindness of heart; she, still so young in appearance,

looking like an elder sister, one who also suffered, and who therefore

sympathised with him.

'Why did you not listen to me?' Marc exclaimed in answer to the clerk;

'we would have made a schoolmaster of him.'

But Savin protested: 'Ah! no, indeed. Rather than that I prefer to

have him on my hands. To cram one's brains at school till one is over

twenty, then start at a paltry salary of sixty francs a month, and

work for more than ten years before earning a hundred--do you call

that a profession? A schoolmaster, indeed! Nobody cares to become one

nowadays; even the poorest peasants would rather break stones on the

highways!'

'But I thought I had persuaded you to let your son Jules enter the

Training College?' Marc rejoined. 'Don't you intend to make him an

elementary teacher?'

'Oh, dear, no. I've put him with an artificial-manure merchant. He's

barely sixteen, and he is already earning twenty francs a month. He

will thank me for it later on.'

Marc made a gesture expressive of his regret. He remembered having seen

Jules as a babe in swaddling clothes in his mother's arms. Later, the

lad, from his seventh to his fourteenth year, had become one of his

pupils--a pupil who evinced much higher intelligence than his elder

brothers, and who inspired great hopes. Like the master, Madame Savin,

no doubt, was worried that her youngest boy's studies had been cut

short by his father; for, again raising her beautiful eyes, she glanced

at Marc furtively and sadly.

'Come,' said her husband to the latter, 'what advice can you give me?

And first of all can't you make that big idler feel ashamed of his

sloth? As you were his master, perhaps he will listen to you.'

At that moment, however, Achille, the other son, came in, returning

from the process-server's office where he was now employed. He had made

a start there as an errand boy when he was fifteen, and though nearly

seven years had elapsed he did not yet earn enough to keep himself.

Paler and of even poorer blood than his brother Philippe, he had

remained a beardless stripling, sly, pusillanimous, and distrustful as

in his school-days, ever ready to denounce a comrade in order to escape

personal punishment. He seemed surprised on seeing his former master,

and, after bowing to him, he said, doubtless in a spirit of malice:

'I don't know what there can be in _Le Petit Beaumontais_ to-day, but

people are almost fighting for copies at Mesdames Milhomme's. It must

certainly be something more about that beastly affair.'

Marc already knew that the paper contained a fresh rectification,

brimful of extraordinary mendacious impudence, on the part of Brother

Gorgias; and he decided to avail himself of this opportunity to sound

the young men. 'Oh!' said he, 'whatever _Le Petit Beaumontais_ may

attempt with its stories of buried millions, and its superb denials of

well-established facts, everybody is beginning to admit that Simon is

innocent.'

At this the twins shrugged their shoulders, and Achille in his drawling

way replied: 'Oh! only imbeciles believe in those buried millions, and

it's true that they are lying too much: one can see it. But what does

it all matter to us?'

'Eh? what does it matter to you?' the schoolmaster exclaimed, surprised

and failing to understand.

'Yes, what interest is there for us in that affair with which we have

been plagued so long?'

Then Marc gradually became impassioned.

'My poor lads, I feel sorry for you,' he said; 'you admit Simon's

innocence, do you not?'

'Well--yes. It is by no means clear, as yet; but when one has read

things attentively it does seem that he may be innocent.'

'In that case, do not your feelings rebel at the idea that he is in

prison?'

'Oh! it certainly isn't amusing for him,' Achille admitted; 'but there

are so many other innocent people in prison. Besides, the officials may

release him for all I care.... One has quite enough worries of one's

own, so why should one spoil one's life by meddling with the troubles

of others?'

Then Philippe, in a more gentle voice, expressed his opinion, saying:

'I don't bother about that affair, for it would worry me too much.

I can understand that it would be one's duty to act if one were the

master. But when one can do nothing whatever, the best way is to ignore

it all and keep quiet.'