In vain did Marc censure the indifference, the cowardly egotism, and

desertion which those words implied. The great voice, the irresistible

will of the people, said he, was compounded of individual protests, the

protests of the humblest and the weakest. Nobody could claim exemption

from his duty, the action of one single isolated individual might

suffice to modify destiny. Besides, it was not true to say that only

one person's fate was at stake in the struggle, all the members of the

nation were jointly and severally interested, for each defended his

own liberty by protecting that of his fellow. And then what a splendid

opportunity it was to accomplish at one stroke the work of a century

of slow political and social progress. On one side all the forces of

reaction were leagued against an unhappy, innocent man for the sole

purpose of keeping the old Catholic and monarchical scaffoldings erect;

and on the other, all who were bent on ensuring the triumph of the

future, all who believed in reason and liberty, had gathered together

from the four points of the compass, and united in the name of truth

and justice. And an effort on the part of the latter ought to suffice

to throw the former beneath the remnants of those old, worm-eaten

scaffoldings which were cracking on all sides. The scope of the affair

had expanded: it was no longer merely the case of a poor innocent man

who had been wrongly convicted; for that man had become the incarnation

of the martyrdom of all mankind, which must be wrested from the prison

of the ages. The release of Simon indeed would mean increase of freedom

for the people of France and an acceleration of its march towards more

dignity and happiness.

But Marc suddenly lapsed into silence, for he saw that Achille and

Philippe were looking at him in bewilderment, their weak eyes blinking

in their pale and sickly faces.

'Oh! Monsieur Froment, what's all that? When you put so many things

into the affair we can't follow you, that's certain. We know nothing of

those things, we can do nothing.'

Savin for his part had listened, sneering and fidgeting, though

unwilling to interrupt. Now, however, turning to the schoolmaster,

he exploded. 'All that is humbug--excuse me for saying so, Monsieur

Froment. Simon innocent--well, that's a matter on which I have my

doubts. I don't conceal it; I'm of the same opinion as formerly, and

I read nothing; I would rather let myself be killed than consent to

swallow a line of all the trash that is published. And, mind, I don't

say that because I like the priests. The dirty beasts--why, I wish a

pestilence would sweep them all away! Only, when there is a religion,

there is one. It's the same with the army. The army is the blood of

France. I am a Republican, I am now a Freemason, I will go so far as to

say that I am a Socialist, in the good sense of the word; but, before

everything else, I am a Frenchman, and I won't have people setting

their hands on what constitutes the grandeur of my country. Simon then

is guilty; everything proves it: public sentiment, the proofs submitted

to the Court, his condemnation, and the ignoble trafficking carried on

by the Jews in order to save him. And if, by a miracle, he should not

be guilty, the misfortune for the country would be too great; it would

be absolutely necessary that he should be guilty all the same.'

Confronted by so much blindness, blended with so much folly, Marc could

only bow. And he was about to withdraw when Savin's daughter Hortense

made her appearance with her little girl Charlotte, now nearly seven

years of age. Hortense was no longer the good-looking young person of

former days; compelled to marry her seducer, the milkman's assistant,

and lead with him a hard and toilsome life of poverty, she appeared

faded and careworn. Savin, moreover, received her without cordiality,

full of spite as he was, ashamed of that marriage which had mortified

his pride. Only the grace and keen intelligence of little Charlotte

assuaged, in some slight degree, his intensely bitter feelings.

'Good-morning, grandpapa; good-morning, grandmamma,' said the child.

'You know, I have been first in reading again, and Mademoiselle

Mazeline has given me the medal.'[1]

She was a charming little girl, and Madame Savin, dropping her beads at

once, took her on her lap, kissing her and feeling consoled and happy.

But the child, turning towards Marc, with whom she was well acquainted,

resumed: 'You know, I was the first, Monsieur Froment. It's fine--isn't

it?--to be the first!'

[Footnote 1: In French elementary schools the child who becomes first

in his or her class is given a medal which is worn pinned to jacket or

frock. Should the position be lost the medal has to be restored to the

teacher, who then transfers it to the more successful pupil.--_Trans._]

'Yes, my dear,' said the master, 'it is very nice to be first. And I

know that you are always very good. Mind, you must always listen to

Mademoiselle Mazeline, because she will make a very clever and sensible

little woman of you--one who will be very happy and who will give a

deal of happiness to all her family around her.'

At this Savin again began to growl: Happiness to all her family,

indeed! Well, that would be something new, for neither the grandmother

nor the mother had given any happiness to him. And if Mademoiselle

Mazeline should perform such a miracle as to turn a girl into something

decent and useful, he would go to tell Mademoiselle Rouzaire of

it. Then, annoyed at seeing his wife laugh, brightened as she was,

rejuvenated, so to say, by the companionship of the child, he bade her

get on with her work, speaking in so rough a voice that, as the unhappy

woman again lowered her head over her bead flowers, her eyes filled

with tears.

But Marc had now risen, and the clerk thereupon reverted to the matter

he had at heart: 'So you can give me no advice about my big idler,

Philippe?... Don't you think that, through Monsieur Salvan, who is the

friend of Monsieur Le Barazer, you might get him some petty situation

at the Préfecture?'

'Yes, certainly, I might try. I will speak to Monsieur Salvan about it,

I promise you.'

Marc then withdrew, and, on reaching the street, walked slowly, his

head bent, while he summed up the results of his visits to the parents

of his former pupils. No doubt he had found Achille and Philippe

possessed of riper and broader minds than Auguste and Charles, the

sons of Doloir the mason, even as he had found the latter freed from

the low credulity of Fernand, the son of the peasant Bongard. But at

the Savins' he had once again observed the blind obstinacy of the

father, who had learnt nothing, forgotten nothing, but still lingered

in the same old rut of error; whilst even the evolution of the sons

towards more reason and logic remained a very slight one. Just a

little step had been taken, no more, and with that Marc had to remain

content. He felt sad indeed when he compared all his efforts during a

period of nearly fifteen years with the little amelioration which had

resulted from them. And he shuddered as he thought of the vast amount

of labour, devotion, and faith which would be required throughout the

humble world of the elementary teachers, before they would succeed

in transforming the brutified, soiled, enthralled, lowly ones and

suffering ones into free and conscious men. Generations indeed would be

necessary for that to be effected.

The thought of poor Simon haunted Marc amid the grief he felt at having

failed to raise a people of truth and justice, such as would have the

strength of mind to rebel against the old iniquity and repair it. The

nation still refused to be the noble, generous, and equitable nation,

in which he had believed so long; and both his mind and his heart were

pained, for he could not accustom himself to the idea of a France

steeped in idiotic fanaticism. Then, however, a bright vision flitted

before his eyes; he again saw little Charlotte, so wide-awake and so

delighted at being the first of her class, and he began to hope once

more. The future belonged to the children; and might not some of those

charming little ones take giant steps when firm and upright minds

should direct them towards the light?

However, as Marc drew near to the school, another meeting brought a

pang to his heart. He encountered Madame Férou carrying a bundle--some

work which she was taking home with her. Having lost her eldest

children, who had succumbed more to want than to disease, she now

lived with her remaining girl in a frightful hovel, where they worked

themselves almost to death, without ever earning enough to satisfy

their hunger. As she glided along the street with downcast eyes,

as if ashamed of her poverty, Marc stopped her. She was no longer

the plump and pleasant-looking blonde, with fleshy lips and large,

bright, prominent eyes, whom he had known in past years, but a poor,

squat, careworn woman, aged before her time. 'Well, Madame Férou,' he

inquired, 'does the sewing prosper a little?'

She began to stammer, then at last regained some confidence: 'Oh!

things never prosper, Monsieur Froment,' she said; 'we may tire our

eyes out, but we are lucky when we manage to earn twenty-five _sous_ a

day between us.'

'And what about the application for relief which you sent to the

Préfecture, as a schoolmaster's widow?'

'Oh, they never answered me, and when I ventured to call there in

person, I really thought I should be arrested. A big dark man with

a fine beard asked me what I meant by daring to recall the memory

of my husband, the deserter and Anarchist, who was condemned by

court-martial, and then shot like a mad dog. And he frightened me so

much that I still tremble when I think of it.'

Then, as Marc, who was quivering, remained silent, the unhappy woman,

growing bolder and bolder, resumed: 'Good heavens! My poor Férou a mad

dog! You knew him when we were at Le Moreux. At first he only dreamt

of devotion, fraternity, truth, and justice; and it was by dint of

wretchedness, persecution, and iniquity that they ended by maddening

him. When he left me, never to return, he said to me: "France is done

for; it has been completely rotted by the priests, poisoned by a filthy

press, plunged into such a morass of ignorance and credulity that one

will never be able to extricate it!" ... And you see, Monsieur Froment,

he was right!'

'No, no! He wasn't right, Madame Férou; one must never despair of one's

country.'

But her blood was now up, and she retorted: 'I tell you that he _was_

right! Haven't you any eyes to see? Are not affairs shameful at Le

Moreux, where that man Chagnat, the creature of the priests, does

nothing but debase and stupefy the children--to such a point, indeed,

that for years past not a single one of them has been able to obtain

a certificate of elementary studies? And then Monsieur Jauffre, your

successor, does some fine work at Jonville in order to please Abbé

Cognasse. At the rate they are all going, France will have forgotten

how to read and write before ten years are over!'

She drew herself up as she spoke, and, consumed by hatred and rancour,

the rancour of a poor downtrodden woman overcome by social injustice,

she went on to prophesy: 'You hear me, Monsieur Froment. I tell you

that France is done for! Nothing good nor just will ever come from her

again; she will sink to the level of all those dead nations on whom

Catholicism has preyed like vermin and rottenness!'

Then, still quivering with the excitement which had prompted that

outburst, and trembling at having dared to say so much, she glided away

with humble and anxious mien, returning to the den of suffering where

her pale and silent daughter awaited her.

Marc remained confounded; it was as if he had heard Férou himself

calling from his grave, crying aloud the bitter pessimism, the savage

protest, dictated by the cruel sufferings of his life. And, making all

allowance for rancorous exaggeration, there was great truth in the

widow's words. Chagnat, indeed, was still brutifying Le Moreux, and

Jauffre, under the stubborn and narrow-minded sway of Abbé Cognasse,

was completing his deadly work at Jonville, in spite of the covert

rage he experienced at finding that his services remained so long

unrecognised, when, by rights, he ought to have been appointed at once

to the headmastership of a school at Beaumont. And the great work of

elementary education scarcely made more progress in any part of the

region. Nearly all the schools of Beaumont were still in the power

of timid masters and mistresses who, thinking of their advancement,

wished to remain on good terms with the Church. Mademoiselle Rouzaire

achieved great success by her devout zeal, while Doutrequin, that

Republican of the early days, whom patriotic alarm had gradually cast

into reaction, remained, though he was now on the retired list, a

personage of great influence, one whose lofty character was cited to

newcomers by way of example. How could young teachers believe in the

innocence of Simon, and fight against the Congregational schools,

when such a man, a combatant of 1870, a friend of the founder of the

Republic, set himself on the side of the Congregations in the name of

the country threatened by the Jews? For one Mademoiselle Mazeline, who

ever firmly inculcated sense and kindliness, for one Mignot, won by

example to the good cause, how many cowards and traitors there were,

and how very slowly did the teaching staff progress in breadth of mind,

generosity, and devotion, in spite of the reinforcements which came to

it every year from the training schools! Yet Salvan persevered in his

work of regeneration, full of ardent faith, convinced that the humble

schoolmaster alone would save the country from being annihilated by

the Clericals, when he himself should at last possess a free mind and

the capacity to teach truth and justice. As Salvan ever repeated, the

worth of the nation depended on the worth of the schoolmasters. And if

the march of progress was so slow, it was because the work of evolution

by which good masters might be produced had to be spread over several

generations, even as several generations of pupils would be needed

before a just nation, freed from error and falsehood, could spring into

being.

Having reached that conclusion as the result of his inquiries and the

despairing call which seemed to have come to him from Férou's grave,

Marc only retained a feverish eagerness to continue the battle and

increase his efforts. For some time past he had been busying himself

with what were called 'after-school' enterprises, established in order

to maintain a link between the masters and their former pupils, whom

the laws took from them at thirteen years of age. Friendly societies

were being founded on all sides, and some of the organisers dreamt of

federating all those of the same _arrondissement_, then those of the

same department, and finally all similar societies in France. Moreover,

there were patronage societies, mutual relief and pension funds; but

Marc, with the object he had in view, attached most importance to

the classes for adults which he held of an evening at his school.

Mademoiselle Mazeline, on her side also, had set an excellent example

and won very great success by giving occasional evening lessons in

cookery, family hygiene, and home nursing to those of her former pupils

who were now big girls. And such numbers of young people applied to

her that she ended by sacrificing her Sunday afternoons in order to

instruct those who could not conveniently attend of an evening. It

made her so happy, she said, to help her girls to become good wives

and mothers, able to keep house and shed gaiety, health, and happiness

around them.

Marc, in the same way, opened his school on three evenings every week,

summoned back the boys who had left him, and endeavoured to complete

their education with respect to all the practical questions of life. He

sowed good seed in those young brains unsparingly, saying to himself

that he would be well rewarded for his pains if but one grain out

of every hundred should germinate and bear fruit. And he interested

himself particularly in the few pupils whom he induced to enter the

teaching profession, keeping them near him, and preparing them right

zealously for the preliminary examinations at the Training College. On

his side, indeed, he devoted his Sunday afternoons to those private

lessons, and when evening came he was as delighted as if he had been

indulging in the greatest amusement.

One of Marc's victories at this juncture was to prevail on Madame

Doloir to allow him to continue educating little Léon, in order that

the boy might enter the Training College in due course. The dearest

of all Marc's former pupils, Sébastien Milhomme, was there already;

and Sébastien's mother, Madame Alexandre, had on her side returned to

the stationery shop, though she discreetly remained in the background,

for fear lest she might scare away the clerical customers. And Salvan,

like Marc, had now become very much attached to Sébastien, regarding

him as one of those future missionaries of good tidings, whom he

desired to disseminate through the country districts. Recently also,

at the beginning of a new term, Marc had experienced the satisfaction

of confiding to his old friend yet another pupil, none other than

Joseph Simon, the innocent man's son, who, in spite of every painful

obstacle, had resolved to become a schoolmaster like his father, hoping

to conquer on the very field where the dear stricken prisoner had

fought with so tragical a result. Thus Sébastien and Joseph had met

again, each inspired with the same zeal, the same faith, their old bond

of friendship tightened by yet closer sympathy than before. And what

pleasant hours they spent whenever an afternoon's holiday enabled them

to go to Maillebois, together, to shake hands with their former master!

While things were thus slowly moving, Marc, with respect to his home

troubles, remained in suspense, one day despairing and the morrow

reviving to hope. In vain had he relied on Geneviève returning to him,

enlightened at last and saved from the poison; at present he set his

only consolation in the quiet firmness of his daughter Louise. She,

as she had promised to do, came to see him every Thursday and Sunday,

invariably gay and full of gentle resolution. He dared not question

her about her mother, respecting whom she seldom volunteered any

information, for having no good news to give she doubtless regarded

the subject as painful. Louise would now soon be sixteen, and with

increase of age she became the better able to understand the cause of

their sufferings. She would have been pleased indeed could she have

become the mediator, the healer, the one to place the parents she

loved so well in each other's arms once more. On the days when she

detected extreme impatient anguish in her father's glance, she referred

discreetly to the frightful situation which haunted them.

'Mamma is still very poorly,' she would say; 'it is necessary to be

very careful, and I dare not as yet talk to her as to a friend. But

I have hopes. There are times when she takes me in her arms, and

presses me to her so tightly that I nearly suffocate, while her eyes

fill with tears. At other times, it is true, she becomes harsh and

unjust--accuses me of not loving her--complains, indeed, that nobody

has ever loved her.... You see, father, one must be very kind to her,

for she must suffer frightfully, thinking as she does that she will

never more be able to content her heart.'

Then Marc, in his excitement, cried: 'But why does she not come back

here? I still love her to distraction, and if she still loved me, we

might be so happy.'

But Louise, in a sorrowful, gentle, caressing way, placed her hand over

his mouth: 'No, no, papa, do not let us talk of that! I did wrong to

begin--it can only make us grieve the more. We must wait.... I am now

beside mamma; and some day she will surely see that only we two love

her. She will listen to me and follow me.'

At other times the girl arrived at her father's with glittering eyes

and a determined bearing, as if she had just emerged from some contest.

Marc noticed it, and said to her: 'You have been disputing with your

grandmother again!'

'Ah! you can see it? Well, it's true, she kept me for a good hour this

morning trying to shame and terrify me about my first Communion. She

speaks to me as if I were the vilest of creatures, describes to me

all the abominable tortures of hell, and seems quite stupefied and

scandalised by what she calls my inconceivable obstinacy.'

At this Marc brightened up, feeling somewhat reassured. He had so

greatly feared that his daughter might prove as weak as other girls,

and was happy to find that she remained so firm and strong-minded even

when he was no longer present to support her. But emotion came upon him

when he pictured her in the midst of persistent attacks, scoldings, and

scenes, which left her no peace.

'My poor child!' said he, 'how much courage you need! Those constant

quarrels must be very painful to you.'

But she, having now quite recovered her composure, answered, smiling:

'Quarrels? Oh! no, papa. I am too respectful with grandmamma to quarrel

with her. It is she who is always getting angry and threatening me. I

listen to her very deferentially, without ever making the slightest

interruption. And when she has quite finished, after beginning two or

three times afresh, I content myself with saying very gently: "But how

can I help it, grandmamma? I promised papa that I would wait until I

was twenty before deciding whether I would make my first Communion or

not; and as I swore it, I will keep my word." You see, I never depart

from that answer. I know it by heart, and repeat it without changing

a word. That makes me invincible. And I sometimes begin to pity poor

grandmamma, for she flies into such a temper, banging the door in my

face as soon as ever I begin that phrase!'

In the depths of her heart Louise suffered from that perpetual warfare;

but on observing her father's delight, she prettily cast her arms

around his neck, and added, 'You see, you may be quite easy, I am

really your daughter. Nobody will ever make me do anything when I have

decided that I won't do it!'

The girl also had to carry on a battle with her grandmother in order

to continue her studies, resolved as she was to devote herself to the

teaching profession. In this respect she fortunately had the support of

her mother, who regarded the future as being very uncertain by reason

of the increasing avarice which Madame Duparque displayed towards her

family. The old lady preferred to devote her little fortune to pious

works; and since giving an asylum to Geneviève and her daughter she had

insisted upon their paying for their board, in this respect wishing

to annoy Marc, who consequently had to make his wife a considerable

allowance out of his meagre salary. Perhaps Madame Duparque--advised

in this matter as in others by her good friends, those masters of

intrigue, whose unseen hands pulled every string--had hoped that

Marc would respond by a refusal, and that a scandal would ensue. But

he could live on very little, and he consented immediately, as if

indeed he were well pleased to remain the paterfamilias, the worker,

and supporter of those who belonged to him. And although straitened

circumstances aggravated his solitude, the meals he shared with Mignot

becoming extremely frugal, he did not suffer, for it was sufficient

for him to know that Geneviève had appeared moved by his willingness

to provide for her, and that she found in this pecuniary question a

motive to approve of Louise's resolution to pursue her studies in order

to ensure her future. Thus the girl, who had already obtained her

elementary certificate, continued to take lessons from Mademoiselle

Mazeline, preparing herself for the superior certificate examination,

which circumstance gave rise to further disputes with Madame Duparque,

who was exasperated by all the science which it had become the fashion

to impart to young girls, when, in her opinion, the catechism ought to

have sufficed them. And as Louise always answered every protest in her

extremely deferential manner: 'Yes, grandmamma; certainly, grandmamma,'

the old lady grew more exasperated than ever, and ended by picking

quarrels with Geneviève, who, losing patience, occasionally answered

back.

One day while Marc was listening to the news his daughter gave him, he

became quite astonished. 'Does mamma quarrel with grandmother then?' he

inquired.

'Oh, yes, papa. This was even the second or third time. And mamma,

you know, does not beat about the bush. She loses her temper at once,

answers back in a loud voice, and then goes to sulk in her room as she

used to do here before she left.'

Marc listened, unwilling to give utterance to the secret delight, the

hope, which was rising within him.

'And does Madame Berthereau take part in these discussions?' he resumed.

'Oh, grandmamma Berthereau never says anything. She sides with mamma

and me, I think; but she does not dare to support us openly for fear of

worries.... She looks very sad and very ailing.'

However, months went by, and Marc saw none of his hopes fulfilled.

It must be said that he observed great discretion in questioning his

daughter, for it was repugnant to him to turn her into a kind of spy

for the purpose of keeping himself informed of everything that occurred

in the dismal little house on the Place des Capucins. For weeks at a

time when Louise ceased to speak of her own accord, Marc relapsed into

anxious ignorance, again losing all hope of Geneviève's return. His

only consolation then lay in his daughter's presence beside him for a

few hours on Thursdays and Sundays. On those days also it occasionally

happened that the two chums of the Beaumont Training College, Joseph

Simon and Sébastien Milhomme, arrived at the Maillebois school about

three o'clock, and remained there until six, happy to meet their friend

Louise, who like themselves was all aglow with youth and courage and

faith. Their long chats were enlivened by merry laughter, which left

some gaiety in the mournful home throughout the ensuing week. Marc, who

felt comforted by these meetings, at times requested Joseph to bring

his sister Sarah from the Lehmanns', and likewise told Sébastien that

he would be happy to see his mother, Madame Alexandre, accompany him.

The schoolmaster would have been delighted to gather a number of worthy

folk, all the forces of the future, around him. At those affectionate

meetings the sympathies of former times revived, acquiring a strength

full of gentleness and gaiety, drawing Sébastien and Sarah, Joseph and

Louise together; while the master, smiling and content to await victory

at the hands of those who represented to-morrow, allowed good Mother

Nature, beneficent love, to do their work.

All at once, amidst the disheartening delays of the Court of Cassation,

at a moment when courage was forsaking David and Marc, they received a

letter from Delbos acquainting them with some great news and requesting

them to call on him. They did so in all haste. The great news--destined

to burst on Beaumont like a thunderclap--was that, after a long and

cruel struggle, Jacquin, the diocesan architect and foreman of the jury

which had convicted Simon, had at last felt it absolutely necessary to

relieve his conscience. Very pious, attending confession and Communion,

strict in his faith, and in all respects an upright man, Jacquin had

ended by feeling anxious with respect to his salvation, asking himself

whether, as he was in possession of the truth, it was possible for him

to keep silent any longer without incurring the risk of damnation. It

was said that his confessor, feeling extremely perplexed, not daring

to decide the question himself, had advised him to consult Father

Crabot, and that if the architect had remained silent several months

longer it was on account of the great pressure brought to bear on him

by the Jesuit, who, in the name of the Church's political interests,

had prevented him from speaking out. If, however, Jacquin was unable to

keep his terrible secret any longer, it was precisely by reason of the

anguish he felt as a Christian, one who believed that the Christ had

descended upon earth to ensure the triumph of truth and justice. And

the knowledge which consumed him was that of Judge Gragnon's illegal

communication to the jury in the Simon case of a document unknown

either to the prisoner or to his counsel. Summoned to the retiring room

to enlighten the jurymen respecting the penalty which might attach

to their verdict, the judge had shown them a letter received by him

a moment previously, a letter from Simon to a friend, followed by a

postscript and a paraph, which last was similar to the one on the

copy-slip tendered as evidence. It was to this same letter and this

paraph that Father Philibin had alluded in his sensational evidence;

and now it had been established that if the body of the letter was

indeed in Simon's handwriting, the postscript and the paraph were

assuredly impudent forgeries, in fact gross ones, by which a child even

would hardly have been deceived.

Thus David and Marc found Delbos triumphant: 'Ah! didn't I tell you

so?' he exclaimed. 'That illegal communication is now proved! Jacquin

has written to the President of the Court of Cassation, confessing the

truth, and asking to be heard.... I knew that the letter was among the

papers of the case, for Gragnon had not dared to destroy it. But how

difficult it was to have it produced and submitted to the examination

of experts! I scented a forgery; I felt that we were confronted by

some more of the handiwork of that terrible Father Philibin! Ah! that

man, how heavy and common he looked! But the more I fathom the affair

the greater do his talents, his suppleness, artfulness, and audacity

appear. He was not content with tearing off the stamped corner of the

copy-slip, he also falsified one of Simon's letters, so arranging

matters that this letter might prevail over the jury at the last

moment. Yes, assuredly that forgery was his work!'

However, David, who had met with so many deceptions, retained some

fears. 'But are you sure,' he asked, 'that Jacquin, who is the diocesan

architect and at the mercy of the priests, will remain firm to the end?'

'Quite sure. You don't know Jacquin. He is not at the mercy of the

priests; he is one of the few Christians who are governed solely

by their consciences. Some extraordinary things have been told me

respecting his interviews with Father Crabot. At first the Jesuit

spoke in a domineering way, in the name of his imperative Deity, who

forgives and even glorifies the worst deeds when the salvation of the

Church is in question. But Jacquin answered back in the name of a good

and equitable God, the God of the innocent and the just, who tolerates

neither error, nor falsehood, nor crime. I wish I had been present;

that battle between the mere believer and the political agent of a

crumbling religion must have been a fine spectacle. However, I have

been told that it was the Jesuit who ended by humbling himself, and

entreating Jacquin, though he failed to prevent him from doing his

duty----'

'All the same,' Marc interrupted, 'it took Jacquin a very long time to

relieve his conscience.'

'Oh! no doubt; I don't say that his duty became manifest to him at

once. For years, however, he did not know that President Gragnon's

communication was illegal. Almost all jurors are similarly situated;

they know nothing of the law, and take as correct whatever the chief

magistrates may say to them. When Jacquin learnt the truth he hesitated

evidently, and for years and years went about with a burden on his

conscience, saying nothing, however, for fear of scandal. We shall

never know the sufferings and the struggles of that man, who went

regularly to confession and Communion, ever terrified by the thought

that he was perhaps damning himself for all eternity. However, I can

assure you that when he became certain that the document was a forgery,

he no longer hesitated; he resolved to speak out, even if by doing

so he should cause the cathedral of Saint Maxence to fall, for on no

account was he disposed to disregard what he deemed to be his duty

towards God.'

Then Delbos, like a man who, after long efforts, was at last reaching

his goal, gaily summed up the situation, and David and Marc went off

radiant with hope.

But how great was the commotion in Beaumont when Jacquin's letter to

the Court of Cassation, his confession and his offer of evidence became

known. Judge Gragnon hastily closed his doors, refusing to answer

the journalists who applied to him, wrapping himself, as it were, in

haughty silence. He was no longer a jovial, sarcastic sportsman and

pursuer of pretty girls. People said that he was quite overwhelmed by

the blow which had thus fallen on him on the eve of his retirement from

the bench, at the moment when he was expecting to receive the collar of

a Commandership in the Legion of Honour. Of recent years his wife, the

once beautiful Madame Gragnon, having passed the age for reading poetry

with General Jarousse's young officers, had decided to occupy herself

in converting him, pointing out to him no doubt all the advantages of a

pious old age; and he followed her to confession and Communion, giving

a lofty example of fervent Catholicism, which explained the passionate

zeal with which Father Crabot had tried to prevent Jacquin from

relieving his conscience. The Jesuit, indeed, wished to save Gragnon, a

believer of great importance and influence, of whom the Church was very

proud.

Moreover, the whole judicial world of Beaumont sided with the presiding

judge, defending the conviction and condemnation of Simon as its own

work, its masterpiece, which none might touch without committing

high treason against the country. Behind that fine assumption of

indignation, however, there was base, shivering dread--dread of the

galleys, dread lest the gendarmes should set their heavy hands some

evening on the black or red robes, furred with ermine, whose wearers

had imagined themselves to be above the laws. The handsome Raoul de La

Bissonnière was no longer public prosecutor at Beaumont, he had been

transferred to the neighbouring Appeal Court of Mornay, where he was

growing embittered by his failure to secure a post in Paris, in spite

of all his suppleness and skill under every succeeding government.

On the other hand, Investigating Magistrate Daix had not quitted the

town, where he had been promoted to the rank of counsellor; but he

was still tortured by his terrible wife, whose ambition and craving

for luxury made his home a hell. It was said that Daix, seized with

remorse like Jacquin, was on the point of throwing off his wife's

acrimonious authority, and relating how he had cowardly yielded to her

representations, and sent Simon for trial, at the very moment when,

from lack of proof, he was about to stay further proceedings. Thus

the Palais de Justice was all agog, swept by gusts of fear and anger,

pending the advent of the cataclysm which would at last annihilate the

ancient worm-eaten framework of so-called human justice.

The political world of Beaumont was no less shaken, no less distracted.

Lemarrois, the Deputy and Mayor, felt that the Radical Republican views

he had long professed were losing their hold on the electorate, and

that he might be swept away in this supreme crisis which was bringing

the living strength of the people forward. Thus, in the much-frequented

_salon_ of his intelligent wife, the evolution towards reactionary

courses became more pronounced. Among those now often seen there was

Marcilly, once the representative of the intellectual young men,

the hope of the French mind, but now reduced to a kind of political

paralysis, bewildered by his inability to detect in which direction lay

his personal interests, and forced to inaction by the haunting fear

that if he should act in any particular way he might not be re-elected.

Then another visitor was General Jarousse, who, though a mere cipher,

now showed himself aggressive, spurred on, it seemed, by the perpetual

nagging of his little, dusky, withered wife. And Prefect Hennebise

also called at times, accompanied by the placid Madame Hennebise, each

desiring to live at peace with everybody, such being indeed the wish of

the government, whose motto was: 'No difficulties, only handshakes and

smiles.' There was great fear of 'bad' elections, as the department was

so enfevered by the revival of the Simon affair; and Marcilly and even

Lemarrois, though they did not own it, had resolved to ally themselves

secretly with Hector de Sanglebœuf and their other reactionary

colleagues in order to overcome the Socialist candidates, particularly

Delbos, whose success would become certain should he succeed in his

efforts on behalf of the innocent prisoner.

All this tended to the confusion which broke out directly people

heard of the intervention of Jacquin, by which the revision of the

case was rendered inevitable. The Simonists triumphed, and for a few

days the anti-Simonists seemed crushed. Nothing else was talked about

on the aristocratic promenade of Les Jaffres; and though _Le Petit

Beaumontais_, in order to inspirit its readers, declared every morning

that the revision of the case would be refused by a majority of two

to one, the friends of the Church remained plunged in desolation, for

private estimates indicated quite a different result.

Meantime the delight shown among the University men was very temperate.

Nearly all of them were Simonists, but they had hoped in vain so often

that they now scarcely dared to rejoice. Rector Forbes was relieved

to think that he would soon be rid of the case of that Maillebois

schoolmaster, Marc Froment, about whom he was so frequently assailed

by the reactionary forces. In spite of his desire to meddle with

nothing, Forbes had been obliged to confer with Le Barazer respecting

the necessity of an execution; and Le Barazer, whose own powers of

resistance were exhausted, foresaw the moment when policy would compel

him to sacrifice Marc. He had even mentioned it to Salvan, who had

shown deep grief at the announcement. When, however, Marc came to him

with the great news that made revision certain, the kind-hearted man

revived to gaiety and gave his friend quite a triumphal greeting. He

embraced him and then told him of the threatening danger from which the

favourable decision of the Court of Cassation alone would save him.

'If revision should not be granted, my dear fellow,' he said, 'you

would certainly be revoked, for this time you are deeply involved in

the affair, and all the reactionaries demand your head.... However,

the news you bring pleases me, for you are at last victorious, and our

secular schools triumph.'

'They need to do so,' Marc replied; 'our conquests over error and

ignorance are still so slight in spite of all your efforts to endow the

region with good masters.'

'Certainly a good many lives will be needed; but, no matter, we are

marching on, and we shall reach the goal,' Salvan responded with his

usual gesture expressive of unshakable hope.

Perhaps the best proof that Marc was really victorious was found by

him in the eager manner with which handsome Mauraisin, the Elementary

Inspector, rushed towards him, that same day, just as he had quitted

Salvan.

'Ah! my dear Monsieur Froment, I am very pleased to meet you,' the

Inspector exclaimed. 'We see each other so seldom apart from the

requirements of our duties.'

Since the revival of the affair, mortal anxiety had taken possession

of Mauraisin, who at an earlier stage had openly sided with the

anti-Simonists, convinced as he then was that the priests never allowed

themselves to be beaten. But now, if they should lose the game, how

would he be able to save himself? The idea of not being on the winning

side distressed him greatly.

Though nobody was passing in the street, he leant towards Marc to

whisper in his ear: 'For my part, you know, my dear Froment, I never

doubted Simon's innocence. I was convinced of it at bottom. Only it is

so necessary for public men like ourselves to remain prudent--is that

not so?'

For a long time past Mauraisin had been keeping his eye on Salvan's

post, hoping to secure it in due course; and in view of a possible

triumph of the Simonists he felt it would be as well to side with them

on the eve of victory. But as that victory was not yet quite certain he

did not wish to exhibit himself in their company. So he speedily took

leave of Marc, whispering, as he pressed his hand for the last time,

'Simon's triumph will be a triumph for all of us.'

On returning to Maillebois Marc perceived a change there also. Darras,

the ex-Mayor, whom he chanced to meet, did not rest content with bowing

to him discreetly, according to his wont, but stopped him in the middle

of the high street, and talked and laughed with him for more than ten

minutes. He, Darras, had been a Simonist at the outset, but since he

had lost his position as Mayor he had put his flag in his pocket, and

made it a habit to bolt his door before divulging what he thought.

If, therefore, he now openly chatted with Marc, it must have been

because Simon's acquittal seemed to him a certainty. As it happened,

Philis, the new Mayor, went by at that moment, gliding swiftly over the

pavement with his head bent and his eyes darting furtive glances around

him. This amused Darras, who with a knowing look at Marc exclaimed:

'What pleases some displeases others, is it not so, Monsieur Froment?

We all have our turns!'

Indeed a great change in public opinion gradually became manifest. Day

by day for several weeks Marc observed the increasing favour of the

cause he defended. However, the decisive importance of the success

already achieved became most manifest to him when he received a letter

from Baron Nathan, who was again staying at La Désirade, and who asked

him to call there with respect to a prize for the Communal School,

which he, the Baron, desired to found. Although Nathan, on two or

three occasions previously, had given a hundred francs or so to be

distributed in savings-bank deposits among the best pupils, Marc felt

that the offer of a prize at that juncture was only a pretext. So he

repaired to La Désirade full of wonder and curiosity.

He had not returned thither since the now distant day when he had

accompanied David on his attempt to interest the all-powerful Baron

in the cause of his accused and imprisoned brother. Marc remembered

the most trifling details of that visit, the skilful manner in which

the triumphant Jew, a king of finance and the father-in-law of a

Sanglebœuf, had shaken off the poor Jew, on whom public execration

had fallen. And now, on returning to La Désirade, Marc found that

its majesty and beauty had increased. Recently a million of francs

had been spent on new terraces and new fountains, which imparted an

aspect of sovereign grandeur to the parterres in front of the château.

Encompassed by plashing waters and a galaxy of marble nymphs, he ended

by reaching the steps, where two tall lackeys, in liveries of green

and gold, were waiting. On one of them conducting him to a little

drawing-room, where he was requested to wait, he remained alone for

a moment, and heard a confused murmur of voices in some neighbouring

room. Then two doors were shut, all became quiet, and finally Baron

Nathan entered with outstretched hand.

'Excuse me for having disturbed you, my dear Monsieur Froment,' he

said, 'but I know how devoted you are to your pupils, and I wish to

double the sum which I have been giving you of recent years. You are

aware that my ideas are broad, that I desire to reward merit wherever

it may be found, apart from all political and religious questions....

Yes, I make no difference between the congregational and the secular

schools; I am for all France.'

Short and somewhat bent, with a yellow face, a bald cranium, and a

large nose resembling the beak of a bird of prey, Nathan went on

talking, while Marc gazed at him. The schoolmaster knew that of recent

times the Baron had still further enriched himself by stealing a

hundred millions of francs in a colonial affair, a deed of rapine, the

huge booty of which he had been obliged to share with a Catholic bank.

And he had now plunged into fierce reaction, for as new millions were

added to his former ones he became more and more convinced that priests

and soldiers were needed to enable him to retain his ill-gotten wealth.

He was no longer content with having wormed his way, through his

daughter, into the ancient family of the Sanglebœufs: he now absolutely

denied his race, openly displaying a ferocious anti-Semitism, showing

himself a monarchist, a militarist, a respectful friend of those who

in olden time had burnt the Jews. Nevertheless--and this astonished

Marc--Nathan, whatever his wealth, still retained much of his racial

humility. A dread of the persecutions which had fallen on his ancestors

appeared in his anxious eyes as they glanced at the doors as if he

wished to be ready to slip under a table at the slightest sign of

danger.

'So it is settled,' he said, after all sorts of involved explanations,

'and you will dispose of these two hundred francs yourself, as you

please, for I have perfect confidence in your sagacity.'

Marc thanked him, but still failed to understand the meaning of it all.

Even a politic desire to remain on good terms with everybody, a wish to

be among the Simonists if they should win the battle, did not explain

that flattering and useless appointment, that over-cordial reception at

La Désirade. However, just as the schoolmaster was retiring, there came

an explanation.

Baron Nathan, having accompanied him to the drawing-room door, detained

him there, and with a keen smile, which seemed prompted by a sudden

inspiration, exclaimed: 'My dear Monsieur Froment, I am going to be

very indiscreet.... When I was informed of your arrival just now, I

happened to be with somebody, an important personage, who exclaimed,

"Monsieur Froment! Oh! I should be so pleased to have a moment's

conversation with him!" A cry from the heart in fact.'

The Baron paused, waiting a few seconds in the hope that he would be

questioned. Then, as Marc remained silent, he laughed and said in a

jesting way: 'You would be greatly surprised if I told you who the

personage was.' And as the schoolmaster still looked grave, remaining

on the defensive, Nathan blurted out everything: 'It was Father Crabot.

You did not expect that, eh?... But he came to lunch here this morning.

As you may know, he honours my daughter with his affection, and is a

frequent visitor here. Well, he expressed to me a desire to have some

conversation with you. Setting aside all matters of opinion, he is a

man of the rarest merit. Why should you refuse to see him?'

To this Marc, who at last understood the object of the appointment

given him, and whose curiosity was more and more aroused, quietly

responded: 'But I don't refuse to see Father Crabot. If he has anything

to say to me I will listen to him willingly.'

'Very good, very good!' exclaimed the Baron, delighted with the success

of his diplomacy. 'I will go to tell him.'

Again the two doors opened, one after the other, and a confused murmur

of voices once more reached the little drawing-room. Then all relapsed

into silence, and Marc was left waiting for some time. Having at last

drawn near to the window he saw the persons, whose voices he had

heard, step on to the adjoining terrace. And he recognised Hector de

Sanglebœuf and his wife, the still beautiful Léa, accompanied by their

good friend, the Marchioness de Boise, who, though her fifty-seventh

birthday was now past, remained a buxom blonde, the ruins of whose

beauty were magnificent. Nathan likewise appeared, and one could also

divine that Father Crabot was standing at the glass door of the grand

drawing-room, still talking to his hosts, who left him in possession of

the apartment in order that he might receive the visitor as if he were

at home.

The Marchioness de Boise seemed particularly amused by the incident.

Though she had originally resolved to disappear as soon as she should

be fifty, unwilling as she was to impose too old a mistress on Hector,

she had ended by making the château her permanent home. Besides, people

said that she was still adorable, so why should she not continue to

ensure the happiness of the husband whose marriage she had so wisely

negotiated, and of the wife whose tender friend she was? Thus age might

come but happiness still reigned at La Désirade, amid its luxurious

appointments and Father Crabot's discreet smiles and pious benisons.

As Marc looked out of the window and observed the terrible Sanglebœuf

waving his arms and shaking his carroty head, it seemed to him that

this clerical champion with the heavy face and the narrow, stubborn

brow was deploring the practice of so much diplomacy, the honour which

Father Crabot accorded to a petty anarchical schoolmaster by thus

receiving him. Sanglebœuf had never once fought in his cuirassier days,

but he always talked of sabring people. Although the Marchioness,

after securing his election as a deputy, had made him rally to the

Republic--in accordance with the Pope's express commands--he still and

ever prated about his regiment, and flew into a passion whenever there

was any question of the flag. Indeed, he would have committed blunder

upon blunder had it not been for that intelligent Marchioness, and this

was one of the reasons she gave for remaining near him, Again, on this

occasion, she had to intervene and lead him and his wife away, walking

slowly between them, in the direction of the park, and showing the

while much gaiety of mien, and motherliness of manner towards both.

Baron Nathan, however, had quickly returned to the grand drawing-room,

the glass door of which he closed; and almost immediately afterwards

Marc heard himself called:

'Kindly follow me, my dear Monsieur Froment.'

The Baron led him through a billiard-room; then, having opened the

drawing-room door, drew back and ushered him in, delighted, it seemed,

with the strange part he was playing, his body bowed in a posture which

again showed racial humility reviving in the triumphant king of finance.

'Please enter--you are awaited.'

Nathan himself did not enter, but discreetly closed the door and

disappeared; while Marc, amazed, found himself in the presence of

Father Crabot, who stood, in his long black gown, in the centre of the

spacious and sumptuous room, hung with crimson and gold. A moment's

silence followed.

The Jesuit, whose noble mien, whose lofty and elegant carriage Marc

well remembered, seemed to him to have greatly aged. His hair had

whitened, and his countenance was ravaged by all the terrible anxiety

he had experienced for some time past. But the caressing charm of his

voice, its grave and captivating modulations, had remained.

'As circumstances have brought us both to this friendly house,

monsieur,' said he, 'you will perhaps excuse me for having prompted an

interview which I have long desired. I am aware of your merits, I can

render homage to all convictions, when they are sincere, loyal, and

courageous.'

He went on speaking in this strain for some minutes, heaping praises

on his adversary as if to daze him and win him over. But the device

was too familiar and too childish to influence Marc, who, after bowing

politely, quietly awaited the rest, striving even to conceal his

curiosity, for only some very grave reason could have induced such a

man as Father Crabot to run the risk of such an interview.

'How deplorable it is,' the Jesuit at last exclaimed, 'that the

misfortunes of the times should separate minds so fit to understand

each other! Some of the victims of our dissensions are really to be

pitied. For instance, there is President Gragnon----'

Then, as a hasty gesture escaped the schoolmaster, he broke off in

order to interpolate a brief explanation. 'I name him,' he said,

'because I know him well. He is a penitent of mine--a friend. A loftier

soul, a more upright and loyal heart could be found nowhere. You are

aware of the frightful position in which he finds himself--that charge

of prevarication,[2] which means the collapse of his entire judicial

career. He no longer sleeps; you would pity him if you were to witness

his sufferings.'

[Footnote 2: The word 'Prevarication' is used in a legal sense,

as signifying the betrayal of the interests of one party in a

lawsuit by collusion with the other party. The French call this

_forfaiture_.--_Trans._]

At last Marc understood everything. They wished to save Gragnon, who

only yesterday had been an all-powerful son of the Church, which felt

it would be grievously maimed if he should be struck down.

'I can understand his torment,' Marc finally answered, 'but he is

paying the penalty of his transgression. A judge must know the laws,

and the illegal communication of which he was guilty had frightful

consequences.'

'No, no, I assure you, he acted in all simplicity,' the Jesuit

exclaimed. 'That letter which he received at the last moment seemed

to him without importance. He still had it in his hand when he was

summoned to the jurymen's retiring room, and he no longer remembers how

it happened that he showed it to them.'

Marc gave a little shrug of the shoulders. 'Well,' he responded, 'he

will only have to tell that to the new judges, if there should be a new

trial.... In any case I hardly understand your intervention with me. I

can do nothing.'

'Oh! do not say that, monsieur! We know how great your power is,

however modest your position may seem to be. And that is why I thought

of applying to you. Throughout this affair all thought and action and

willpower have been centred in you. You are the friend of the Simon

family, which will do whatever you advise. So, come, will you not spare

an unfortunate man, whose ruin is by no means indispensable for your

cause?'

Father Crabot joined his hands and entreated his adversary so fervently

that the latter, again all astonishment, wondered what could be the

real reason of such a desperate appeal, such clumsy and impolitic

insistence. Did the Jesuit feel that the cause he defended was lost?

Did he possess private information which made him regard revision as a

certainty? In any case, matters had come to such a pass, that he was

now ready to leave something to the fire in order to save the rest. He

abandoned his former creatures, who were now too deeply compromised.

That poor Brother Fulgence had a befogged, unbalanced mind, spoilt by

excessive pride; disastrous consequences had attended his actions.

That unfortunate Father Philibin had always been full of faith, no

doubt; but then there were many gaps in his nature. He was deplorably

deficient in moral sense. As for the disastrous Brother Gorgias, Father

Crabot cast him off entirely; he was one of those adventurous, erring

sons of the Church, who become its curse. And if the Jesuit did not go

so far as to admit the possible innocence of Simon, he was, at least,

not far from believing Brother Gorgias capable of every crime.

'You see, my dear sir,' he said, 'I do not deceive myself; but there

are other men whom it would be really cruel to visit too severely for

mere errors. Help us to save them, and we will requite the service by

ceasing to contend with you in other matters.'

Never had Marc so plainly realised his strength, the very strength of

truth. He answered, engaging in quite a long discussion, desirous as

he was of forming a final opinion with respect to the merits of Father

Crabot. And his stupefaction increased as he fathomed the extraordinary

poverty of argument, the arrant clumsiness too, which accompanied

the vanity of this man, accustomed never to be contradicted. Was

this, then, the profound diplomatist whose crafty genius was feared

by everybody, and the presence of whose hand was suspected in every

incident, as if, indeed, he ruled the world? In this interview, which

had been prepared so clumsily, he showed himself a poor bewildered

individual, committing himself far more than was necessary, even

incompetent to defend his faith against one who was merely possessed of

sense and logic. A mediocrity--that was what he was--a mediocrity, with

a _façade_ of social gifts, which imposed on the man in the street. His

real strength lay in the stupidity of his flock, the submissiveness

with which the faithful bent low before his statements, which they

regarded as being beyond discussion. And Marc ended by understanding

that he was confronted by a mere show Jesuit, one of those who for

decorative purposes were allowed by their Order to thrust themselves

forward, shine, and charm, while, in the rear, other Jesuits--such, for

instance, as Father Poirier, the Provincial installed at Rozan, whose

name was never mentioned--directed everything like unknown sovereign

rulers hidden away in distant places of retreat.

Father Crabot, however, was shrewd enough to understand at last that

he was taking the wrong course with Marc, and he thereupon did what he

could to recover his lost ground. The whole ended by an exchange of

frigid courtesies. Then Baron Nathan, who must have remained listening

outside the door, reappeared, looking also very discomfited, with only

one remaining anxiety, which was to rid La Désirade as soon as possible

of the presence of that petty schoolmaster, who was such a fool that

he could not even understand his own interests. He escorted him to the

terrace and watched his departure. And Marc, as he went his way among

the parterres, the plashing waters, and the marble nymphs, again caught

a glimpse of the Marchioness de Boise, laughing affectionately with

her good friends Hector and Léa, as all three strolled slowly under the

far-spreading foliage.

On the evening of that same day Marc repaired to the Rue du Trou,

having given David an appointment at the Lehmanns'. He found them

all in a state of delirious joy, for a telegram from a friend in

Paris had just informed them that the Court of Cassation had at last

pronounced an unanimous judgment, quashing the proceedings of Beaumont,

and sending Simon before the Assize Court of Rozan. For Marc this

news was like a flash of light, and what he had regarded as Father

Crabot's folly seemed to him more excusable than before. The Jesuit

had evidently been well informed; that judgment had been known to

him; and, revision becoming a certainty, he had simply wished to save

those whom he thought might still be saved. And now, at the Lehmanns',

all were weeping with joy, for the long calamity was over. Wildly did

Joseph and Sarah kiss Rachel, their poor, aged, and exhausted mother.

Both children and wife were intoxicated by the thought of the return of

the father, the husband, for whom they had mourned and longed so much.

Outrage and torture were all forgotten, for acquittal was now certain;

nobody doubted it either at Maillebois or at Beaumont. And David and

Marc, those two brave workers in the cause of justice, also embraced

each other, drawn together by a great impulse of affection and hope.

But, as the days went by, anxiety arose once more. At the penal

settlement yonder Simon had fallen so dangerously ill that for a long

time yet it would be impossible to bring him back to France. Months and

months might elapse before the new trial would begin at Rozan. And thus

all necessary time was given to the spirit of injustice to revive and

spread once more in the midst of mendacity and the multitude's cowardly

ignorance.

III

During the year which followed, a year full of anxiety, uneasiness,

and contention, the Church made a supreme effort to regain her power.

Never had her position been more critical, more threatened, than during

that desperate battle, by which the duration of her empire might be

prolonged for a century, or perhaps two centuries, should she win it.

In order to do so it was necessary she should continue to educate and

train the youth of France, retain her sway over children and women,

and avail herself of the ignorance of the humble in such wise as to

mould them and make them all error, credulity, and submissiveness,

even as she needed them to be in order to reign. The day when she

might be forbidden to teach, when her schools would be closed, and

disappear, would prove for her the beginning of the end, when she would

be annihilated amidst a new and free people, which would have grown up

outside the pale of her falsehoods, cultivating an ideal of reason and

humanity. And the hour was a grave one. That Simon affair, with the

expected return and triumph of the innocent prisoner, might deal a most

terrible blow to the Congregational schools by glorifying the secular

ones. Meantime Father Crabot, who wished to save Judge Gragnon, was so

compromised himself that he had disappeared from society and hidden

himself, pale and trembling, in his lonely cell. Father Philibin, who

had been consigned to an Italian convent, was spending the remainder

of his days in penitence, unless indeed he were already dead. Brother

Fulgence, removed by his superiors in punishment for the discredit

which had fallen on his school, a third of whose pupils had already

quitted it, was said to have fallen dangerously ill in the distant

department whither he had been sent. Finally, Brother Gorgias had fled,

fearing that he might be arrested, and feeling that his principals were

forsaking him, willing to sacrifice him as an expiatory victim. And

this flight had increased the anxiety of the defenders of the Church,

who lived only with the thought of fighting a last and merciless battle

when the Simon affair should come before the Rozan Assize Court.

Marc also, while lamenting Simon's ill health, which delayed his

return to France, was preparing for that same battle, fully realising

its decisive importance. Almost every Thursday, sometimes with David,

sometimes alone, he repaired to Beaumont, calling first on Delbos, to

whom he made suggestions, and whom he questioned about the slightest

incidents of the week. And afterwards he went to see Salvan, who kept

him informed of the state of public opinion, every fluctuation of which

set all classes in the town agog. In this wise, then, one Thursday,

Marc paid a visit to the Training College, and on quitting it went down

the Avenue des Jaffres, where, close to the cathedral of St. Maxence,

he was upset by a most unexpected meeting.

On one of the deserted sidewalks of the avenue, at a spot where

scarcely anybody was ever seen after four o'clock, he perceived

Geneviève seated on a bench, and looking very downcast, weary, and

lonely in the cold shadow falling from the cathedral, whose proximity

encouraged the moss to grow on the trunks of the old elms.

For a moment Marc remained motionless, quite thunderstruck. He had

met his wife in Maillebois at long intervals, but invariably in the

company of Madame Duparque; and on those occasions she had passed

through the streets with absent-minded eyes, on her way, no doubt, to

some devotional exercise. This time, however, they found themselves

face to face, in perfect solitude, parted by none. Geneviève had seen

him, and was looking at him with an expression in which he fancied he

could detect great suffering, and an unacknowledged craving for help.

Thus he went forward, and even ventured to seat himself on the same

bench, though at some little distance from her, for fear lest he should

frighten her and drive her away.

Deep silence reigned. It was June, and the sun, descending towards the

horizon in a vast stretch of limpid sky, transpierced the surrounding

foliage with slender golden darts; while little wandering zephyrs

already began to cool the warm afternoon atmosphere. And Marc still

looked at his wife, saying nothing, but feeling deeply moved as he

noticed that she had grown thinner and paler, as if after a serious

illness. Her face, crowned by splendid fair hair, and with large eyes

which once had been all passion and gaiety, had not only become

emaciated, but had acquired an expression of ardent anxiety, the

torment of a parching thirst, which nothing could assuage. Her eyelids

quivered, and two tears, which she vainly tried to force back, coursed

down her cheeks. Then Marc began to speak--in such a way that it seemed

as if he had quitted her only the previous day, such indeed was his

desire to reassure her.

'Is our little Clément well?' he asked.

She did not answer immediately, for she feared, no doubt, that she

might reveal the emotion which was choking her. The little boy, who had

lately completed his fourth year, was no longer at Dherbecourt. Having

removed him from his nurse, Geneviève now kept him with her in spite of

all her grandmother's scoldings.

'He is quite well,' she said at last in a slightly tremulous voice,

though on her side also she strove to affect a kind of indifferent

quietude.

'And our Louise,' Marc resumed, 'are you satisfied with her?'

'Yes: she does not comply with my desires; you have remained the

master of her mind; but she is well behaved, she studies, and I do not

complain of her.'

Silence fell again, embarrassment once more stayed their tongues. That

allusion to their daughter's first Communion, and the terrible quarrel

which had parted them, had been sufficient. Yet the virulence of that

quarrel was necessarily abating day by day, the girl herself having

assumed all responsibility by her quiet resolve to await her twentieth

year before making any formal confession of religious faith. In her

gentle way she had exhausted her mother's resolution; and indeed a

gesture of lassitude had escaped the latter when speaking of her, as

if she had referred to some long-desired happiness, all hope of which

had fled. A few moments went by, and then Marc gently ventured to put

another question to her: 'And you, my friend, you have been so ill: how

are you now?'

She shrugged her shoulders in a hopeless way, and was again obliged to

force back her tears. 'I? Oh, I have long ceased to know how I am! But

no matter, I resign myself to live since God gives me the strength to

do so.'

So great was Marc's distress, so deeply was his whole being stirred by

a quiver of loving compassion at the sight of such great suffering,

that a cry of intense anxiety sprang from his lips: 'Geneviève, my

Geneviève, what ails you? what is your torment? Tell me! Ah, if I

could only console you, and cure you!'

Thus speaking, he came nearer to her on the bench, near enough indeed

to touch the folds of her gown, but she hastily drew back. 'No, no,

we have nothing more in common,' she exclaimed. 'You can no longer

do anything for me, my friend, for we belong to different worlds....

Ah! if I were to tell you! But of what use would it be? You would not

understand me!'

Nevertheless, she went on speaking; and in short and feverish

sentences, never noticing that she was confessing herself, she told

him of her torture, her daily increasing anguish, for she had reached

one of those distressful hours when the heart instinctively opens

and overflows. She related how, unknown to Madame Duparque, she had

escaped that afternoon from Maillebois, in order to speak with a famous

missionary, Father Athanase, whose pious counsels were at that time

revolutionising the pious folk of Beaumont. The missionary was merely

sojourning there for a short time, but it was said that he had already

worked some marvellous cures--a blessing, a prayer, from his lips

having restored angelic calmness to the unappeasable souls of women who

were racked by their yearning for Jesus. And Geneviève had just left

the neighbouring cathedral, where for two hours she had remained in

prayer, after confessing to that holy man her unquenchable thirst for

divine happiness. But he had merely absolved her for what he called

excess of pride and human passion, and by way of penitence had told her

to occupy her mind with humble duties, such as the care of the poor

and the sick. In vain afterwards had she striven to humble, annihilate

herself, in the darkest, the loneliest chapel of St. Maxence; she had

not found peace, she had not satisfied her hunger; she still glowed

with the same craving--a return for the gift of her whole being to the

Deity, that gift which she had tendered again and again, though never

once had it brought real peace and happiness to her flesh and her heart.

As Marc listened to what she said, he began to suspect the truth, and

whatever might be his sadness at seeing his Geneviève so wretched, a

quiver of hope arose within him. Plainly enough, neither Abbé Quandieu

nor even Father Théodose had satisfied the intense need of love that

existed in her nature. She had known love, and she must still love

the man, the husband, whom she had quitted, and who adored her. Mere

mystical delights had left her unsatisfied and irritated. She was now

but the proud, stubborn daughter of Catholicism, who turns desperately

to harsher and more frantic religious practices, as to stronger

stupefacients, in order to numb the bitterness and rebellion induced

by increasing disillusion. Everything pointed to it: the revival of

motherliness in her nature, for she had taken little Clément back, and

busied herself with him, and she even found some consolation in Louise,

who exercised a gentle healing influence over her, leading her back a

little more each day towards the father, the husband. Then, also, there

were her dissensions with her terrible grandmother, and her dawning

dislike for the little house on the Place des Capucins, where she at

last felt she could no longer live, for its coldness, silence, and

gloom were deathly. And, after failing with Abbé Quandieu and Father

Théodose, her sufferings had led her to make a supreme attempt with

that powerful missionary, to whom she had transferred her faith, that

miracle-working confessor, whom she had hastened to consult in secret

for fear lest she might be prevented, and who, by way of relief, had

only been able to prescribe practices which, in the circumstances, were

childish.

'But, my Geneviève,' Marc cried again, carried away, losing all thought

of prudence, 'if you are thus beset, thus tortured, it is because you

lack our home! You are too unhappy: come back, come back, I entreat

you!'

Her pride bristled up, however, and she answered: 'No, no, I shall

never go back to you. I am not unhappy: it is untrue. I am punished for

having loved you, for having been part of you, for having had a share

in your crime. Grandmother does right to remind me of it when I am so

weak as to complain. I expiate your sin, God strikes me to punish you,

and it is your poison which burns me beyond hope of relief.'

'But, my poor wife, all that is monstrous. They are driving you mad!

If it is true that I set a new harvest in you, it is precisely on that

harvest that I rely to ensure our happiness some day. Yes, we became

so blended one with the other that we can never be wholly parted. And

you will end by returning to me: our children will bring you back. The

pretended poison which your foolish grandmother talks about is our love

itself; it is working in your heart, and it will bring you back.'

'Never!... God would strike us down, both of us,' she retorted. 'You

drove me from our home by your blasphemy. If you had really loved me,

you would not have taken my daughter from me, by refusing to let her

make her first Communion. How can I return to a home of impiety where

it would not even be allowable for me to pray? Ah! how wretched I am;

nobody, nobody loves me, and heaven itself will not open!'

She burst into sobs. Filled with despair by that frightful cry of

distress Marc felt that it would be useless and cruel to torture her

further. The hour for reunion had not yet come. Silence fell between

them once more, while in the distance, on the Avenue des Jaffres, the

cries of some children at play rose into the limpid evening atmosphere.

During their impassioned converse they had at last drawn nearer to each

other on the lonely bench; and now, seated side by side, they seemed to

be reflecting, their glances wandering away amid the golden dust of the

sunset. At last Marc spoke again, as if finishing his thoughts aloud:

'I do not think, my friend, that you gave for a moment any credit to

the abominable charges with which certain people wished to besmirch me

_à propos_ of my brotherly intercourse with Mademoiselle Mazeline.'

'Oh! no,' Geneviève answered quickly, 'I know you, and I know her. Do

not imagine that I have become so foolish as to believe all that has

been said to me.'

Then with some slight embarrassment she continued: 'It is the same with

me. Some people, I know it, have set me among the flock which Father

Théodose is said to have turned into a kind of _cour galante_. In the

first place I do not admit that anything of the kind exists. Father

Théodose is, perhaps, rather too proud of his person, but I believe

his faith to be sincere. Besides, I should have known how to defend

myself--you do not doubt it, I hope?'

In spite of his sorrow Marc could not help smiling slightly.

Geneviève's evident embarrassment indicated that there had been some

audacity on the part of the Capuchin, and that she had checked it.

Assuming this to be the case Marc felt the better able to understand

why she was so perturbed and embittered.

'I certainly do not doubt it,' he responded. 'I know you, as you know

me, and I am aware that you are incapable of wrong-doing. I have no

anxiety respecting Father Théodose on your account, whatever another

husband of my acquaintance may have to say.... Yet all the same I

regret that you were so badly advised as to quit worthy Abbé Quandieu

for that handsome monk.'

A fugitive blush which appeared on Geneviève's cheeks while her husband

was speaking told him that he had guessed aright. It was not without

a profound knowledge of woman in her earlier years, when an _amorosa_

may exist within the penitent, that Father Crabot had advised Madame

Duparque to remove her daughter from the charge of old Abbé Quandieu

and place her in that of handsome Father Théodose. The Catholic doctors

are well aware that love alone can kill love, and that a woman who

loves apart from Christ never wholly belongs to Christ. The return

of Geneviève to her husband and her sin was fatal unless she should

cease to love, or rather unless she should love elsewhere. But, as it

happened, Father Théodose was not expert in analysing human nature,

he had blundered with respect to the passionate yet loyal penitent

confided to his hands, and had thus precipitated the crisis, provoking

repugnance and rebellion in that distracted, suffering woman, who,

without as yet returning to sober reason, saw the glorious, mystical

stage-scenery of the religion of her childhood collapse around her.

Well pleased with the symptoms which he fancied he could detect, Marc

asked somewhat maliciously: 'And so Father Théodose is no longer your

confessor?'

Geneviève turned her clear eyes upon him, and answered plainly:

'No, Father Théodose does not suit me, and I have gone back to Abbé

Quandieu, who, as grandmother rightly says, lacks warmth, but who

quiets me at times, for he is very kind.'

For a moment she seemed to ponder. Then, in an undertone, she allowed

another avowal to cross her lips: 'All the same, the dear man does not

know how greatly he has increased the torment in which I live by what

he said to me about that abominable affair----'

She stopped short, and Marc, guessing the truth, becoming quite

impassioned now that this subject was broached, continued: 'The Simon

affair, eh? Abbé Quandieu believes Simon to be innocent, does he not?'

Geneviève had cast her eyes towards the ground. For a moment she

remained silent; then said, very faintly: 'Yes, he believes in his

innocence; he told me so with great mystery in the choir of his church,

at the foot of the altar, before our Lord who heard him.'

'And you yourself, Geneviève, tell me, do you now believe in Simon's

innocence?'

'No, I do not, I cannot. You must remember that I should never have

left you had I believed him innocent, for his innocence would have

meant the guilt of the defenders of God. You, by defending him, charged

God with error and falsehood.'

Marc well remembered the circumstances. He again saw his wife bring

him the news of the revision, growing exasperated at the sight of his

delight, exclaiming that there was no truth or justice outside heaven,

and at last fleeing from the house where her faith was outraged. And

now that she seemed to him to be shaken he desired more ardently than

ever to convince her of the truth, for he felt that he would win her

back as soon as with the triumph of truth her mind should awaken to the

necessity of justice.

'But once more, Geneviève, my Geneviève, it is impossible that you,

who are so upright and so sincere, whose mind is so clear when the

superstitions of your childhood do not cloud it--it is impossible that

you should believe such gross falsehoods. Inform yourself, read the

documents.'

'But I am fully informed, I assure you, my friend; I have read

everything.'

'You have read all the documents which have been published? All the

inquiry of the Court of Cassation?'

'Why, yes! I have read everything that has appeared in _Le Petit

Beaumontais_. You know very well that grandmother takes that paper

every morning.'

With a violent gesture Marc gave expression to his disgust and

indignation. 'Ah well, my darling, you are, indeed, fully informed!

The vile print you speak of is a sewer of poison, which disseminates

only filth and falsehood. Documents are falsified in it, texts are

mutilated, and the poor credulous minds of the poor and the lowly are

gorged with stupid fables.[1]... You are simply poisoned like many

other worthy folk.'

[Footnote 1: This is exactly what happened in the Dreyfus case. If,

apart from all those who, hating Dreyfus as a Jew, were resolved

_a priori_ to regard him as guilty whatever might be the evidence,

there are still millions of Frenchmen who honestly retain a belief in

his culpability, this is because scores of French newspapers--those

owned or patronised by the Nationalist party and the Roman Catholic

Church--deliberately falsified and mutilated documents and evidence,

serving to their readers only such particulars as tended to indicate

the prisoner's guilt. It is hardly too much to say that half of France

is still ignorant of the real facts of the Dreyfus case. We are often

told that the press has much power for good: never was its power for

evil more strikingly exemplified than in that lamentable affair, from

the effects of which France is still suffering.--_Trans._]

She herself, no doubt, was conscious that the folly and impudence of

_Le Petit Beaumontais_ were excessive, for again she cast down her

eyes, and looked distressed.

'Listen!' Marc resumed. 'Let me send you the complete verbatim report

of the Court's inquiry, with the documents annexed to it; and promise

me that you will read everything attentively and straightforwardly.'

But at this suggestion she vivaciously raised her head: 'No, no; send

me nothing. I do not wish it.'

'Why?'

'Because it is useless. There is no need for me to read anything.'

He looked at her, again feeling discouraged and grieved.

'Say rather that you won't read.'

'Well, yes, if you prefer it that way, I won't read anything. As

grandmother says: "What is the use of it?" Ought one not always to

distrust one's reason?'

'You won't read anything because you fear you might be convinced,

because you already doubt the things which, only yesterday, you

regarded as certainties.'

She interrupted him with a gesture of fatigue and unconcern, but he

continued: 'And the words of Abbé Quandieu pursue you; you ask yourself

with terror how a holy priest can believe in an innocence which, if

recognised, would compel you to curse all the years of error with which

you have tortured our poor home.'

This time she did not even make a gesture, but it was apparent that she

had resolved to listen no further. For a moment her glance remained

fixed on the ground. Then she slowly said: 'Do not amuse yourself by

increasing my sorrow. Our life has been shattered. It is all over. I

should deem myself still more guilty than now if I were to go back to

you. And what personal relief could it give you to imagine that I made

a mistake, and that I have not found my grandmother's house to be the

home of peace and faith in which I thought I was taking refuge? My

sufferings would not cure yours.'

This, as Marc felt, was almost a confession--an acknowledgment of her

secret regret at having quitted him, and of the anxious doubts into

which she had sunk. Once more, therefore, he exclaimed: 'But if you are

unhappy, say it! And come back; bring the children with you; the house

still awaits you! It would be great joy, great happiness.'

But she stood up and repeated, like one who obstinately remains blind

and deaf: 'I am not unhappy. I am being punished, and I will endure my

punishment to the end. And if you have any pity for me, remain here;

do not try to follow me. Should you meet me again, too, turn your head

away, for all is ended, all must be ended, between us.'

Then she went off along the deserted avenue, amid the paling gold of

the sunset, her figure quite sombre, tall, and slim; and all that Marc

could still see of her beauty was her splendid fair hair, which a last

sunbeam irradiated. He obediently refrained from moving, but, hoping

for a last glance of farewell, he watched her as she walked away. She

did not turn, however; she disappeared from view among the trees, while

the evening wind, now rising, passed with a chilling quiver beneath the

foliage.

When Marc painfully rose to his feet, he was amazed to see his good

friend Salvan standing before him, with a happy smile on his lips. 'Ah!

my fine lover, so this is how I catch you giving assignations in lonely

corners! I saw you already some time ago, but remained watching, for

I did not wish to disturb you.... So this is why you remained with me

such a short time when you called at the college this afternoon, Master

Slyboots!'

Sadly shaking his head, Marc walked away beside his old friend.

'No, no,' he said, 'we merely met by chance, and my heart is quite

lacerated.'

Then he recounted the meeting, and the long conversation from which he

had just emerged feeling more convinced than ever that the rupture was

definitive. Salvan, who had never consoled himself for having promoted

a marriage which, however happy at the outset, was ending so badly,

and who recognised that he had acted with great imprudence in wedding

free thought to the Church, listened attentively, ceasing to smile, yet

looking fairly satisfied.

'But that is not so bad,' he said at last. 'You surely did not expect

that our poor Geneviève would throw herself at your head, and entreat

you to take her back? When a woman leaves her husband to give herself

to God, as your wife did, her pride prevents her from acknowledging

in that way the distress she now feels at having failed to find the

contentment she anticipated. None the less, in my opinion, Geneviève is

passing through a frightful crisis, which may bring her back to you at

any moment.... If truth should enlighten her, she will act at once. She

has retained too much sense to be unjust.'

And again becoming gay and animated, Salvan went on: 'I never told you,

my friend, of the attempts I made with Madame Duparque of recent years.

As they resulted in nothing, there was no occasion for me to vaunt them

to you. However, when your wife acted so inconsiderately, when she

left you, I thought of giving her a little lecture, for I was an old

friend of her father's, and, besides, I had been her own guardian. That

circumstance naturally gave me admittance to the dismal little house

on the Place des Capucins. But you can have no idea of the ferocious

manner in which the terrible old grandmother received me. She would not

leave me alone with Geneviève for a moment, and she interrupted every

conciliatory phrase of mine with imprecations intended to fall on you.

Nevertheless, I think I managed to say what I wished to say. True, the

poor child was in no fit state to listen to me. When Catholic training

revives, the ravages which religious exaltation may cause in a woman's

brain are frightful. Geneviève, for her part, appeared well-balanced

and healthy when you married her; but that unfortunate Simon affair

sufficed to shatter all equilibrium. She would not even listen to me;

her answers were so wild and foolish as to make one's reason stagger.

Briefly, I was beaten. I was not exactly turned out of doors, but,

after two subsequent attempts made at long intervals, I lost all hope

of introducing a little reasonableness into that abode of insanity,

where poor Madame Berthereau, in spite of her sufferings, seemed the

only person who retained a little good sense.'

'You see very well that there is no hope,' responded Marc, who remained

very gloomy. 'One cannot reclaim people when they so stubbornly persist

in refusing to make themselves acquainted with the truth.'

'Why not?' asked Salvan. 'I'm done for, that's true. It would be

useless for me to make any fresh attempt; they would stop up their eyes

and ears beforehand in order to see and hear nothing. But remember

that you have the most powerful of helpers, the best of advocates, the

shrewdest of diplomatists, the most skilful of captains, and in fact

the most triumphant of conquerors at work in that house!'

He laughed, and, growing quite excited, resumed: 'Yes, yes, your

charming Louise, whom I'm very fond of, and whom I regard as a prodigy

of good sense and grace. The firm and yet gentle behaviour of that

young girl, ever since her twelfth year, has been that of a heroine.

I know of no loftier or more touching example. Seldom does one meet

with such precocious sense and courage. And she is all deference and

affection, even when she refuses to do what her mother desires, by

reason of her promise to you respecting her first Communion. Now that

she has acquired the right to keep that promise, you should see how

prettily, how sedately, she manœuvres to effect the conquest of that

house where everybody is against her. Even her grandmother becomes

tired of scolding. But her dexterity is most marvellous with her

mother, whom she encompasses with an active worship, with all sorts of

attentions, as if dealing with some convalescent patient whose physical

and moral strength must first of all be restored, in order that she may

afterwards return to ordinary life. She seldom speaks to her mother

of you, but she accustoms her to live in an atmosphere which is full

of you, full of your thoughts and your love. She is there like your

other self, never pausing in her endeavours to bring about the return

of the wife and mother, by reconnecting the severed bond with her own

caressing hands. And if your wife returns to you, my friend, it will

be the child who will bring her back, the all-powerful child, whose

presence ensures health and peace in one's home.'

Marc listened, feeling deeply moved, and reviving to hope. 'Ah! may it

be true,' said he; 'nevertheless my poor Geneviève is still very ill.'

'Let your little healer do her work,' Salvan responded: 'the kiss she

gives her mother every morning brings life with it.... If Geneviève

suffers such torture it is because life is struggling within her, and

wresting her a little more each day from the deadly crisis in which you

nearly lost her. As soon as good Mother Nature triumphs over mystical

imbecility, she and your children will be in your arms.... Come, my

friend, be brave. It would be hard indeed if, after restoring poor

Simon to his family, your own domestic happiness should not be assured

by the triumph of truth and justice.'

They shook hands in brotherly fashion, and Marc, who returned to

Maillebois somewhat comforted, found himself on the morrow in the thick

of the fight again. The flight of Brother Gorgias had had a disastrous

effect in the little town, and the great days of the affair were now

beginning afresh. There was not a house whose inmates did not quarrel

and fight over the possible guilt of that terrible Christian Brother,

who, in disappearing from the scene, had impudently written to _Le

Petit Beaumontais_ to explain that, as his cowardly superiors had

decided to abandon him to his enemies, he was about to place himself in

safety, in order that he might be free to defend himself when and how

he pleased.

A much more important feature of this letter was, however, a revised

statement which Gorgias made in it to account for the presence of the

famous copy-slip in the paper gag found near Zéphirin's body. No doubt

the complicated story of a forgery, invented by his leaders, who were

unwilling even to admit that the copy-slip had come from the Brothers'

school, had always been regarded by Gorgias as idiotic. He must have

thought it stupid to deny the origin of the slip and the authenticity

of the initialling. Although every expert in the world might ascribe

that initialling to Simon, it would remain his, Gorgias's, handiwork

in the estimation of all honest and sensible folk. However, as his

superiors had threatened to abandon him to his own resources if he

did not accept their version of the affair, he had resigned himself

and relinquished his own. It was to the latter that he now reverted,

for since the missing corner bearing the school stamp had been found

at Father Philibin's, he regarded his superiors' version as utterly

ridiculous. It seemed to him absurd to pretend, as the Congregations

did, that Simon had procured a stamp, or had caused one to be made,

with the deliberate intention of ruining the Brothers' school. Now,

therefore, realising that his supporters were on the point of forsaking

and sacrificing him, Gorgias left them of his own accord, and by way

of intimidation revealed a part of the truth. His new version, which

upset all the credulous readers of _Le Petit Beaumontais_, was that the

copy-slip had really come from the Brothers', and had been initialled

by himself, but that Zéphirin had assuredly taken it home with him from

the school, even as Victor Milhomme had taken a similar slip, in spite

of all prohibitions; and that Simon had thus found it on the table in

his victim's room on the night of the abominable crime.

A fortnight after the appearance of this version the newspaper

published a fresh letter from Brother Gorgias. He had taken refuge in

Italy, he said; but he abstained from supplying his exact address,

though he offered to return and give evidence at the approaching trial

at Rozan if he received a formal guarantee that his liberty would not

be interfered with. In this second letter he still called Simon a

loathsome Jew, and declared that he possessed overwhelming proof of

his guilt, which proof, however, he would only divulge to the jury

at the Assize Court. At the same time this did not prevent him from

referring to his superiors, notably Father Crabot, in aggressive and

outrageous terms fraught with all the bitter violence of an accomplice

once willingly accepted but now cast off and sacrificed. How idiotic,

said he, was their story of a forged school stamp! What a wretched

falsehood, when the truth might well be told! They were fools and

cowards, cowards especially, for had they not acted with the vilest

cowardice in abandoning him, Gorgias, the faithful servant of God,

after sacrificing both the heroic Father Philibin and the unhappy

Brother Fulgence? Of the latter he only spoke in terms of indulgent

contempt; Fulgence, said he, had been a sorry individual, unhinged,

and full of vanity; and the others, after allowing him all freedom to

compromise himself, had got rid of him by sending him to some distant

spot under the pretext that he was ill. As for Father Philibin, Gorgias

set him on a pinnacle, called him his friend, a hero of dutifulness,

one who displayed passive obedience to his chiefs, who on their side

employed him for the dirtiest work, and struck him down as soon as it

was to their interest to close his mouth. And this hero, who was now

suffering untold agony in a convent among the Apennines, was depicted

by Gorgias as a martyr of the faith, even as he had been depicted in

print, with a palm and a halo, by some of the ardent anti-Simonists.

From this point Gorgias proceeded to glorify himself with extraordinary

vehemence, wild and splendid impudence. He became superb; he displayed

such a mixture of frankness and falsehood, energy and duplicity, that,

if the fates had been propitious, this base rascal might assuredly have

become a great man. Even as his superiors were still pleased to admit,

he remained a model cleric, full of admirable, exclusive, militant

faith, one who assigned to the Church the royalty both of heaven and of

earth, and who regarded himself as the Church's soldier, privileged to

do everything in her defence. At the head of the Church was the Deity,

then came his superiors and himself, and when he had given an account

of his actions to his superiors and the Deity, the only thing left for

the rest of the world was submission. Moreover, his superiors were of

no account when he deemed them to be unworthy. In that case he remained

alone in the presence of heaven. Thus, on days of confession, when

God had absolved him, he regarded himself as the unique, the one pure

man, who owed no account of his actions to anybody, and who was above

all human laws. Was not this indeed the essential Catholic doctrine,

according to which the ministers of the faith are rightly amenable to

the divine authority alone? And was it not only a Father Crabot, full

of social cowardice, who could trouble himself about imbecile human

justice, and the stupid opinions of the multitude?

In this second letter, moreover, Brother Gorgias admitted, with a

serene lack of shame, that he himself occasionally sinned. He then

beat his breast, cried aloud that he was but a wolf and a hog, and

humbly cast himself in the dust at the feet of God. Having thus made

atonement, he became tranquil and continued to serve the Church in all

holiness until the clay of creation cast him into sin again, whereupon

fresh absolution became necessary. But in any case he was at least a

loyal Catholic, he had the courage to confess, and the strength to

endure penitence, whereas all those dignitaries of the Church, those

Superiors of the Religious Orders, of whom he complained so bitterly,

were liars and poltroons, who trembled before the consequences of their

transgressions--who, like base hypocrites, concealed them or else cast

them upon others in their terror of the judgment of men.

At the outset Brother Gorgias's passionate recriminations had seemed to

be prompted merely by his anger at being so brutally abandoned after

serving as a docile instrument; but at present veiled threats began

to mingle with his reproaches. If he himself had always paid for his

transgressions like a good Christian, there were others, he said, who

had not done so. Yet some day assuredly they would be forced to make

atonement, should they continue to try the patience of heaven, which

would well know how to set up an avenger, a justiciary to proclaim the

unconfessed, unpunished crimes. In saying this Gorgias was evidently

alluding to Father Crabot and the mysterious story of the acquisition

of the Countess de Quédeville's immense fortune--that splendid domain

of Valmarie, where the Jesuit College had been subsequently established.

Several confused versions of that story had been current, and certain

particulars were now recalled: The old but still beautiful Countess

becoming extremely pious, and engaging Father Philibin, then a young

man, as tutor to her grandson, Gaston, the last of the Quédevilles,

who was barely nine years old. Next, Father Crabot arriving at the

château and becoming the confessor, the friend, and some even said the

lover, of the still beautiful Countess. Finally, the accident, the

death of little Gaston, who had been drowned while walking out with

his tutor, his death allowing his grandmother to bequeath the family

estate and fortune to Father Crabot, through the medium of a clerical

banker of Beaumont. And it was also remembered that among little

Gaston's playmates there had been a gamekeeper's son, a lad named

Georges Plumet, whom the Jesuits of Valmarie subsequently protected and

assisted, and who was none other than the present Brother Gorgias.

The latter's violent language and threatening manner recalled all

those half-forgotten incidents, and revived the old suspicion that

some dark deed might link the gamekeeper's humble son to the powerful

clerics who ruled the region. Would that not explain the protection

which they had so long given him, the audacious manner in which they

had shielded him, and at last even made his cause their own? Doubtless

their first impulse had been to save the Church, but a little later

they had done their utmost to make that terrible Ignorantine appear

innocent; and if they had now sacrificed him, it must be because they

deemed it impossible to defend him any longer. Perhaps, too, Brother

Gorgias only wished to alarm them in order to wring from them as much

money as possible. That he did alarm them was certain; one could detect

that they were greatly disturbed by the letters and articles of that

dreadful chatterer, who was ever ready to beat his breast and cry his

sinfulness and that of others aloud. Moreover, in spite of the seeming

abandonment in which he was left, one could divine that he was still

protected, powerfully even if secretly; while his sudden intervals

of silence, which lasted at times for weeks, plainly indicated that

friendly messages and money had been sent to him.

His admissions and his threats quite upset the rank and file of

the clerical faction. It was horrible! He profaned the temple, he

exposed the secrets of the tabernacle to the unhealthy curiosity of

unbelievers! Nevertheless, a good many devout folk remained attached to

him, impressed by the uncompromising faith with which he bowed to God

alone, and refused to recognise any of the so-called rights of human

society. Besides, why should one not accept his version of the affair,

his admission that he had really initialled the copy-slip, that it had

been carried away by Zéphirin, and utilised by Simon for a diabolical

purpose? This version was less ridiculous than that of his superiors:

it even supplied an excuse for what Father Philibin had done, for one

could picture the latter losing his head, and tearing off the stamped

corner of the slip, in a moment of blind zeal for the safety of his

holy mother, the Church.

To tell the truth, however, a far greater number of laymen, those who

were faithful to Father Crabot, as well as nearly all the priests and

other clerics clung stubbornly to the Jesuits' revised version of the

incident--that of Simon forging the paraph, and using a false stamp. It

was an absurd idea, but the readers of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ became

all the more impassioned over it, for the invention of a false stamp

added yet another glaring improbability to the affair. Every morning

the newspaper repeated imperturbably that material proofs existed of

the making of that false stamp, and that the recondemnation of Simon by

the Rozan Assize Court could no longer be a matter of doubt for anybody.

The rallying word had been passed round, and all 'right-minded' people

made a show of believing that the Brothers' school would triumph as

soon as the impious adversaries of the unfortunate Brother Gorgias

should be confounded. The school greatly needed such a victory,

for, discredited as it was by the semi-confessions and unpleasant

discoveries of recent times, it had just lost two more of its pupils.

Only the final overthrow of Simon and his return to the galleys could

restore its lustre. Until then it was fit that Brother Fulgence's

successor should remain patiently in the background, while Father

Théodose, the Superior of the Capuchins,--who also triumphed, even when

others were being ruined,--skilfully exploited the situation by urging

his devotees to make little periodical offerings, such for instance

as two francs a month, to St. Antony of Padua, in order that the

saint might exert his influence to keep the good Brothers' school at

Maillebois.

However, the most serious incident of the turmoil in the town was

supplied by Abbé Quandieu, who had long been regarded as a prudent

Simonist. At that time it had been said that Monseigneur Bergerot, the

Bishop, was behind him, even as Father Crabot was behind the Capuchins

and the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine. As usual, indeed, the

Seculars and the Regulars confronted each other, the priests resenting

the efforts which were made by the monks to divert all worship and

revenue to their own profit. And in this instance, as in fact in all

others, the better cause was that of the priests, whose conception of

the religion of Christ was more equitable and human than that of the

monks. Nevertheless, Monseigneur Bergerot had been defeated, and by his

advice Abbé Quandieu had submitted and had done penance by attending an

idolatrous ceremony at the Capuchin Chapel.

But all the disastrous disclosures and occurrences of recent

times--first Father Philibin shown guilty of perjury and forgery,

then Brother Fulgence spirited away after compromising himself, then,

too, Brother Gorgias absconding and almost confessing his guilt--had

stirred the parish priest of Maillebois to rebellion, and revived his

former belief in Simon's innocence. Nevertheless he would probably

have remained silent, in a spirit of discipline, if Abbé Cognasse,

the priest of Jonville, had not gone out of his way to allude to him

in a sermon, saying that an apostate priest, a hireling of the Jews,

a traitor to his God and his country, was unhappily at the head of a

neighbouring parish. On hearing this, Abbé Quandieu's Christian ardour

asserted itself; he could no longer control the grief he felt at seeing

'the dealers of the Temple,' as he called them, betraying the Saviour

who was all truth and justice. Thus, in his sermon on the following

Sunday, he spoke of certain baleful men who were slaying the Church by

their abominable complicity with the perpetrators of the vilest crimes.

One may picture the scandal, the agitation, that ensued in the clerical

world, particularly as it was asserted that Monseigneur Bergerot was

again behind Abbé Quandieu, and was determined this time that fanatical

and malignant sectarians should not be allowed to compromise religion

any further.

At last, while passion was thus running riot, the new trial began

before the Rozan Assize Court. It had been possible to bring Simon back

to France, though he was still ailing, imperfectly cured as yet of

the exhausting fevers which had delayed his return for nearly a year.

During the voyage it had been feared that he would not be put ashore

alive. Moreover, for fear of disorder, violence, and outrage, it had

been necessary to practise dissimulation with respect to the spot where

he would land, and bring him to Rozan at night time by roundabout ways

which none suspected. At present he was in prison near the Palace of

Justice, having only a street to cross in order to appear before his

judges. And pending that event he was closely watched and guarded,

defended also, like the important and disquieting personage he had

become, one with whose fate that of the whole nation was bound up.

The first person privileged to see him was Rachel his wife, whom

that reunion, after so many frightful years, cast into wild emotion.

Ah! what an embrace they exchanged! And how great was the grief she

displayed after that visit, so thin, so weak had she found him, so

aged, too, with his white hair! And he had showed himself so strange,

ignorant as he still was of the facts, for the brief communication

by which the Court of Cassation had informed him of the approaching

revision of his case had given no particulars. It had not surprised

him to hear of the revision, he had always felt that it would some day

take place; and this conviction, in spite of all his tortures, had

lent him the strength to live in order that he might once more see

his children and give them back a spotless name. But how dark was the

anguish in which he had remained plunged, his mind ever dwelling on the

frightful enigma of his condemnation, which he could not unravel! His

brother David and Advocate Delbos, who hastened to the prison, ended by

acquainting him with the whole monstrous affair, the terrible war which

had been waged for years respecting his case, between those perpetual

foes, the men of authoritarian views who defended the rotten edifice of

the past, and the men of free thought who went towards the future. Then

only did Simon understand the truth and come to regard his personal

sufferings as mere incidents, whose only importance arose from the fact

that they had led to a splendid uprising in the name of justice, which

would benefit all mankind. Moreover, he did not willingly speak of his

torments; he had suffered less from his companions, the thieves and

murderers around him, than from his keepers, those ferocious brutes who

were left free to act as they pleased, and who, like disciples of the

Marquis de Sade, took a voluptuous delight in torturing and killing

with impunity. Had it not been for the strength of resistance which

Simon owed to racial heredity, and his cold logical temperament, he

would twenty times have provoked his custodians to shoot him dead. And

at present he talked of all those things in a quiet way, and evinced a

naïve astonishment on being told of the extraordinary complications of

the drama of which he was the victim.

Having secured a citation as a witness, Marc obtained leave of absence,

and, a few days before the trial began, he took up his abode at Rozan,

where he found David and Delbos already in the thick of the supreme

battle. He was surprised by the nervousness and anxious thoughtfulness

of David, who was usually so brave and calm. And it seemed to him

that Delbos, as a rule so gaily valiant, was likewise uneasy. As a

matter of fact it was for the latter a very big affair, in which he

risked both his position as an advocate and his increasing popularity

as a Socialist leader. If he should win the case he would doubtless

end by beating Lemarrois at Beaumont; but unfortunately all sorts of

disquieting symptoms were becoming manifest. Indeed Marc himself, after

reaching Rozan full of hope, soon began to feel alarmed amid his new

surroundings.

Elsewhere, even at Maillebois, the acquittal of Simon appeared certain

to everybody possessed of any sense. Father Crabot's clients, in their

private converse, did not conceal the fact that they felt their cause

to be greatly endangered. The best news also came from Paris, where

the Ministers regarded a just _dénouement_ as certain, lulled into

confidence as they were by their agents' reports respecting the Court

and the jury. But the atmosphere was very different at Rozan, where

an odour of falsehood and treachery pervaded the streets, and found

its way into the depths of men's souls. This town, once the capital

of a province, and now greatly fallen from its former importance, had

retained all its monarchical and religious faith, all the antiquated

fanaticism of a past age, which elsewhere had disappeared.[2] Thus

it supplied an excellent battle-ground for the Congregations, which

absolutely needed a decisive victory if they were to retain their

teaching privileges and control the future. And never had Marc more

fully realised how deeply Rome was interested in winning that battle;

never had he more plainly detected that behind the slightest incidents

of that interminable and monstrous affair there was papal Rome,

clinging stubbornly to its dream of universal domination--Rome which,

at every step over the paving-stones of Rozan, he found at work there,

whispering, striving, and conquering.

[Footnote 2: If proof were wanted to show that by Rozan M. Zola means

Rennes, the fanatical ex-capital of Brittany, it would be found in the

passage given above.--_Trans._]

Delbos and David advised him to observe extreme prudence. They

themselves were guarded by detectives for fear of some ambush; and he,

on the very morrow of his arrival, found shadowy forms hovering around

him. Was he not Simon's successor, the secular schoolmaster, the enemy

of which the Church must rid itself if it desired to triumph? And the

stealthy hatred by which Marc felt himself to be encompassed, the

menace of an evil blow in some dark corner, sufficed to show him that

the battle had sunk to the very lowest level, and that his adversaries

were indeed those men of blind, bigoted violence, who through the ages

had tortured, burnt, and murdered their fellow-beings in their mad

dream of staying the march of mankind!

That much established, Marc understood the terror weighing on the town,

the dismal aspect of its houses, whose shutters remained closed, as

if an epidemic were raging. As a rule, there is little animation in

Rozan during the summer, and at that moment the town seemed emptier

than ever. Pedestrians hastened their steps, glancing anxiously around

them as they went their way in the broad sunshine; shopkeepers stood at

their windows, inspecting the streets as if they feared some massacre.

The selection of the jury particularly upset those trembling folk;

there was much melancholy jogging of heads when the names of the chosen

jurors were made public. It was evidently considered a disaster to have

one among one's relatives.

Churchgoers abounded among the petty _rentiers_, manufacturers, and

tradespeople of that clerical centre, where lack of religion was

regarded as a shameful blot, and proved extremely prejudicial to one's

pecuniary interests. Frantic was the pressure exercised by mothers

and wives, led by all the priests, abbés, and monks of the six parish

churches and the thirty convents, whose bells were always ringing. At

Beaumont, in former times, the Church had been obliged to work with

some discretion, for it had found itself in the presence of both an

old Voltairean _bourgeoisie_ and of revolutionary _faubourgs_. But

there was no need for it to beat about the bush in that sleepy city of

Rozan, whose traditions were entirely pious. The workmen's wives went

to Mass, the women of the middle class formed all sorts of religious

associations; and thus a holy crusade began; none refused to help in

defeating Simon. A week before the trial the whole town had become a

battlefield; there was not a house that did not witness some combat

waged for the good cause. The wretched jurors shut themselves up, no

longer daring to go out, for strangers accosted them in the streets,

terrified them with evil glances or passing words, in which there

lurked a threat to punish them in their pockets or their persons if

they did not behave as good Catholics, and re-condemn the dirty Jew.

Marc was rendered yet more anxious by some information he received

respecting Counsellor Guybaraud, who was to preside over the Assize

Court, and Procureur Pacart, who was to conduct the prosecution.

The first had been a pupil of the Valmarie Jesuits, to whom he owed

his rapid promotion, and had married a very wealthy and very pious

hunchbacked girl, whom he had received from their hands. The latter,

an ex-demagogue, had been vaguely compromised in some gambling affair,

and, becoming a frantic anti-semite, had rallied to the Church, from

which he expected a post in Paris. Marc felt particularly distrustful

of Pacart on observing how insidiously the anti-Simonists affected

anxiety respecting his attitude, as if indeed they feared some revival

of his revolutionary past. While they never ceased praising the lofty

conscientiousness of Guybaraud, they spoke of Pacart with all sorts

of reservations, in order, no doubt, to enable him to play the heroic

part of an honest man, overcome by the force of truth, on the day when

he would have to ask the jury for Simon's head. The very circumstance

that the clericals went about Rozan dolefully repeating that Pacart was

not on their side made Marc distrustful, for information from a good

source had acquainted him with the undoubted venality of this man, who

was ready for the vilest bargaining in his eager desire to regain a

semblance of honour in some high position.

However, the desperate and deadly battle became at Rozan a subterranean

one. The affair was not lightly prosecuted in drawing-rooms among

the smiles of ladies, as at Beaumont. Nor was there any question of a

liberal prelate like Monseigneur Bergerot resisting the Congregations

from a dread lest the Church should be submerged and swept away by the

rising tide of base superstition. This time the contest was carried

on in the darkness in which great social crimes take their course;

all that appeared on the surface was some turbid ebullition, a kind

of terror sweeping through the streets as through a city stricken

with a pestilence. And Marc's anguish arose particularly from that

circumstance. Instead of again witnessing the resounding clash of

Simonists and anti-Simonists, as at Beaumont, he was confronted by the

stealthy preparations for a dark crime, for which a Guybaraud and a

Pacart were doubtless the necessary chosen instruments.

Every evening David and Delbos repaired to the large room which Marc

had rented in a lonely street, and ardent friends of all classes

surrounded them. These formed the little sacred phalanx; each visitor

brought some news, contributed suggestions and courage. They were

determined that they would not despair. Indeed, after an evening spent

together they felt inspirited, ready for fresh encounters. And they

were aware that their enemies met in a neighbouring street, at the

house of a brother-in-law of Judge Gragnon, who, having been summoned

as a witness by the defence, was staying there, receiving all the

militant anti-Simonists of the town--a procession of frocks and gowns

that slipped into the house as soon as night had fallen. Father Crabot

had slept there twice, it was said, and had then returned to Valmarie,

where with a great display of humility he had cloistered himself in

penitence.

Suspicious characters prowled about that sparsely populated district;

the streets were not safe; and, accordingly, when David and Delbos

quitted Marc at night, their friends accompanied them home in a band.

One night a shot was fired; but the detectives, though always on the

watch, could find nobody to arrest. But the favourite weapon of the

priests is venomous slander, moral murder, perpetrated in a cowardly

fashion in the dark. And Delbos became the chosen victim. On the very

day when the trial was to begin, the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_

which reached Rozan contained an abominable disclosure, full of

mendacity, a shamefully travestied story, half a century old, about

the advocate's father. The elder Delbos, though of peasant stock,

had become a goldsmith, in a small way, in the neighbourhood of the

Bishop's residence at Beaumont; and the newspaper charged him with

having made away with certain sacred vessels which had been entrusted

to him for repair. The truth was that the goldsmith, robbed by a woman

whom he was unwilling to denounce, had found himself obliged to pay the

value of the stolen goods. There had been no prosecution; the affair

had remained obscure; but one had to read that filthy print to realise

to what depths of malevolence and ignominy certain men could descend.

That painful, forgotten, buried misfortune of the father's was cast in

the face of the son with an abundance of spurious particulars, vile

imaginings, set forth in language which was all outrage and mire. And

the desecrator of the grave, the murderously-minded libeller who wrote

those things, had plainly obtained the documents he published from the

very hands of Father Crabot, to whom they had been communicated, no

doubt, by some priestly archivist. It was hoped that this unexpected

bludgeon-blow would strike Delbos full in the heart, assassinate him

morally, discredit him as an advocate, annihilate him to such a point

that he would have neither the strength to speak nor the authority to

gain a hearing in the defence of Simon.

However, the trial began one Monday, a hot day in July. Apart from

Gragnon, whom it was intended to confront with Jacquin, the foreman

of the first jury, several witnesses had been cited for the defence.

Mignot, Mlle. Rouzaire, Daix, Mauraisin, Salvan, Sébastien and

Victor Milhomme, Polydor Souquet, the younger Bongards, Doloirs, and

Savins were all on the list. Fathers Crabot and Philibin, Brothers

Fulgence and Gorgias had also been cited, though it was known that the

last three would not appear. On the other side the Procureur de la

République had contented himself with recalling the witnesses for the

prosecution who had given evidence at the first trial. And the streets

of Rozan had at last become animated with witnesses, journalists, and

inquisitive folk, arriving in fresh batches by each succeeding train.

Already at six o'clock in the morning a crowd assembled near the Palace

of Justice eager to catch a glimpse of Simon. But a considerable

military force had been set on foot, the street was cleared, and Simon

crossed it between two rows of soldiers, set so closely together that

none of the onlookers could distinguish his features. It was then

eight o'clock. That early hour had been chosen in order to avoid the

oppressive heat of the afterpart of the day when one would have stifled

in the court-room.