The scene was very different from that presented by the brand new

assize-hall of Beaumont, where a profusion of gilding had glittered in

the crude light that streamed in by the lofty windows. At Rozan the

assizes were held in an ancient feudal castle; the hall was small and

low, panelled with old oak, and scarcely lighted by the windows of a

few deep bays. One might have thought the place to be one of those dark

chapels where the Inquisition pronounced sentence. Only a few ladies

could possibly be admitted, and all of them, moreover, wore sombre

garb. Most of the seats were occupied by the witnesses, and even the

little standing-room usually allowed to the public had to be curtailed.

The audience, packed since seven o'clock in that stern and mournful

room, preserved a relative silence, through which swept a stealthy

quiver. If the eyes of the onlookers remained ardent their gestures

were restrained; they had come there for a subterranean execution, a

work of suppression which had to be accomplished far from the light,

with the least noise possible.

As soon as Marc was seated beside David, who went in with the

witnesses, he experienced a feeling of anguish, a stifling sensation,

as if the walls were about to crumble and bury them. He had seen all

eyes turn in their direction. David, particularly, aroused great

curiosity. Then Marc felt moved, for Delbos had just come in, looking

pale but resolute amid the evil glances of most of the spectators, who

were eager to ascertain if he had been upset by the infamous article

which had appeared that morning. However, the advocate, as if arrayed

in an armour of valour and contempt, remained for some time standing

there, displaying only smiling strength and indifference.

Marc then interested himself in the jurors, scrutinising them as they

entered, one by one, anxious as he was to ascertain to what kind of

men the great task of reparation was confided. And he perceived the

insignificant faces of various petty tradespeople, petty _bourgeois_,

with a chemist, a veterinary surgeon, and two retired captains. On

all those faces one found an expression of mournful disquietude, the

signs of a desire to hide internal perturbation. The worries which

had assailed those men since their names had become known had pursued

them to that hall. Several had the wan countenances of devotees, of

shaven, canting beadles, while others, red and corpulent, looked

as if they had doubled their usual ration of brandy that morning in

order to instil a little courage into their paunches. Behind them one

could divine the entirety of that old priestly and military city with

its convents and its barracks; and one shuddered to think that those

men, whose minds and consciences had been deformed, stifled, by their

surroundings, should be entrusted with such a work of justice.

But a buzzing spread through the hall, and all at once Marc experienced

the most poignant thrill of emotion he had ever known. He had not seen

Simon since his return, and now he suddenly perceived him, standing

behind Delbos. And terrible was the apparition of that bent and

emaciated little man, with ravaged features and bald cranium, on which

only a few scanty white locks remained. What! that wreck, that puny

remnant of a man was his old comrade, whom he had known so vivacious

and refined! If Simon had never possessed any great physical gifts, if

his voice had been weak, his gestures inelegant, at least a brazier of

youth and faith had glowed within him. And the galleys had only given

back that poor, broken, crushed being, a mere shred of humanity, in

whom nought of the past subsisted save two flaming eyes, which alone

proclaimed the invincible will and courage he preserved. One recognised

him only by those eyes; and they, too, explained how he had been able

for so many years to resist suffering, for their expression told of

the world of fancy, of pure ideality, in which he had always lived.

Every glance was turned upon him, but he did not seem conscious of it,

such was the power he possessed of isolating himself. He gazed at the

assembly in an absent-minded way until at last a smile of infinite

tenderness came over his face as he perceived his brother David. Marc,

who sat beside the latter, then felt him tremble in every limb.

It was a quarter past eight o'clock when the usher's call rang out,

and the Court entered. The assembly arose and then sat down again.

Marc, who remembered the violence of the spectators at Beaumont, who

from growls had passed to vociferations, was astonished by the heavy

quietude preserved by the present onlookers, though he divined that

they were swayed by the same passions, and remained mutely eager for

slaughter, as if they were lying in ambush in some sombre nook. The

sight of the prisoner had scarcely wrung a low murmur from them; and

now while the judges took their seats, they relapsed into their

attitude of dark expectancy. Again, compared with the rough and jovial

Gragnon, the new presiding judge, Guybaraud, surprised one by his

perfect courtesy, his unctuous gestures, his insinuating speech. He

was a little man, whose manner was all smiles and gentleness, but an

odour of the sacristies seemed to emanate from his person, and his

grey eyes were as cold and as cutting as steel. Nor was the difference

less remarkable between the former Procureur de la République, the

brilliant Raoul de La Bissonnière, and Pacart, the present one, who

was very long, slender, and lean, with a yellow, baked face, as if he

were consumed by a desire to efface his equivocal past and make a rapid

fortune.

After the first formalities, when the jury had been empanelled, an

usher called the names of the witnesses, who, one by one, withdrew.

Marc, like the others, had to leave the hall. Then, in a leisurely

way, President Guybaraud began to interrogate Simon, putting his

questions in a tone of voice that suggested the coldness of a blade,

handled with deadly skill and precision. That interminable examination,

which lingered over the slightest incidents of the old affair, and

insisted on the charge which the inquiry of the Court of Cassation

had destroyed, proved quite a surprise. Some clearing of the ground,

an examination on the questions set by the supreme jurisdiction,

was all that had been expected; but it at once became evident that

the Assize Court of Rozan did not intend to take any account of the

facts established by that jurisdiction, and that the presiding judge

meant to avail himself of his discretionary powers to deal with the

entire case from the very beginning. Soon, indeed, by the questions

which he asked, one understood that nothing of the old indictment had

been relinquished. It was again alleged that Simon had returned from

Beaumont by rail, that he had reached Maillebois at twenty minutes to

eleven o'clock, and that soon afterwards he had committed the crime. At

this point, however, the new version of the Jesuits--necessitated by

the discovery at Father Philibin's--was interpolated, and the prisoner

was accused of having procured a copy-slip, of having caused a false

stamp to be made, and of having forged on the slip the initials of

Brother Gorgias. Thus that childish story, which Gorgias himself had

deemed so idiotic that he had admitted the authenticity of the slip and

the paraph, was retained. While nothing was abandoned of the original

charges, a gross invention was brought forward in support of them;

and everything was again based on the famous report of the experts,

Masters Badoche and Trabut, who clung to their original statements in

spite of Brother Gorgias's formal admissions. And the Procureur de la

République, as if to leave no doubt of his own views, intervened in

order to extract precise statements from the prisoner with respect to

his denials on the question of the false stamp.

Simon's demeanour during that long examination was regarded as pitiful.

Many of his partisans had dreamt of him as a justiciar, armed with

the thunderbolts of heaven, and rising like an avenger from the

grave into which he had been thrust by iniquitous hands. And as he

answered politely in a voice which still quivered feverishly, and with

none of the outbursts that had been anticipated, the disappointment

was extreme. His enemies once more began to say that he virtually

confessed his crime, the ignominy of which they found stamped upon his

unprepossessing countenance. Only at one moment did he become excited,

display any passionate fervour. This was when the judge spoke to him

of the false stamp of which he heard for the first time. It should be

added that no proof was supplied respecting that stamp; the prosecution

contented itself with relating that an unknown workman had confided to

a woman that he had secretly done a curious job for the schoolmaster of

Maillebois. Confronted, however, by the sudden violence of Simon, the

judge did not insist on the point, particularly as Delbos had risen,

prepared to raise an 'incident.' And the public prosecutor merely added

that, though they had failed to find the unknown workman, he reserved

to himself the right of insisting on the serious probability of the

alleged occurrence.

In the evening, when David related what had occurred at that first

sitting, Marc, who divined some fresh iniquity, felt a pang at the

heart. Assuredly the greatest crime of all was now in preparation. He

was not astonished by the calm and unobtrusive bearing of Simon, who

was confident in the strength of his innocence, and incapable of an

outward show of emotion.[3] But he perfectly understood the bad effect

which had been produced; while, from the aggressive coldness of the

presiding judge, and the importance the latter gave to the most trivial

matters, already elucidated, he derived a disastrous impression, a

quasi-certainty that a fresh conviction was impending. On hearing him,

David, from whom he thought it wrong to hide his anxiety, could only

with difficulty restrain his tears, for he also had quitted the Palace

of Justice in despair, full of a dreadful presentiment.

[Footnote 3: This was a marked characteristic of the unfortunate

Captain Dreyfus, whose demeanour at the trial at Rennes produced

such an unfavourable impression on sundry foolish English 'special

correspondents,' that they veered round and began to regard the

prisoner as guilty, quite irrespective of the evidence. As one who has

witnessed many criminal trials, who has been a juror and the foreman of

a jury, I feel that everything that has been written to my knowledge in

English literature respecting the 'proper' demeanour of an innocent man

is nonsense and nothing else.--_Trans._.]

However, the following days, which were entirely devoted to the hearing

of evidence, brought back some courage and illusion. The former

witnesses for the prosecution were first examined, and one again

beheld a procession of railway employés and _octroi_ officials, who

contradicted one another on the question whether Simon, on the night

of the crime, had returned to Maillebois by train or on foot. Marc,

who wished to follow the case, had asked Delbos to have him called as

soon as possible, and this being done he gave evidence respecting the

discovery of poor little Zéphirin's body. He was then able to seat

himself once more beside David, who still occupied a corner of the

small space allotted to the witnesses. And thus Marc was present at

the first 'incident' raised by the counsel for the defence, who had

retained all his bravery and self-possession in spite of the cruel blow

which had lately struck him in the heart.

He rose to demand the attendance of Father Philibin and Brothers

Fulgence and Gorgias, who, said he, had been duly cited. But the

presiding judge briefly explained that the citations had reached

neither Father Philibin nor Brother Gorgias, both of whom, no doubt,

were abroad, though their exact whereabouts was not known. As for

Brother Fulgence, he was seriously ill, and had sent a medical

certificate to that effect. Delbos insisted, however, with respect to

Brother Fulgence, and ended by obtaining a promise that he should be

visited by a sworn medical man. Then, also, the advocate was unwilling

to content himself with a letter in which Father Crabot, while urging

his occupations, his confessional duties, as an excuse for absence,

declared that he knew nothing whatever of the affair; and, in spite of

the acrimonious intervention of the Procureur de la République, Delbos

again carried his point--that the Court should insist on the attendance

of the Rector of Valmarie. However, this first collision fomented

anger, and from that moment conflicts continually arose between the

judge and the advocate.

The day's sitting ended amidst an outburst of emotion, occasioned by

the unexpected character of the evidence given by assistant-teacher

Mignot. Mademoiselle Rouzaire, as bitter and as positive as ever, had

just reaffirmed that, at about twenty minutes to eleven o'clock, she

had heard the footsteps and the voice of Simon coming in and speaking

with Zéphirin--which evidence had weighed so heavily on the prisoner at

the previous trial--when Mignot, following her at the bar, retracted

the whole of his former statements in a tone of wondrous frankness

and emotion. He had heard nothing; he was now convinced of Simon's

innocence, and adduced the weightiest reasons. Mademoiselle Rouzaire

was then recalled, and there came a dramatic confrontation, in which

the schoolmistress ended by losing ground, becoming embarrassed in

her estimate of the hour, and finding nothing to answer when Mignot

pointed out that it was impossible to hear from her room anything that

took place in little Zéphirin's. Marc was recalled to confirm Mignot's

demonstration, and at the bar he found himself for a moment beside

Inspector Mauraisin, who, being asked for his opinion respecting the

prisoner and the witnesses, endeavoured to get out of his difficulty

by indulging in extravagant praise of Mademoiselle Rouzaire's merits,

while saying nothing particular against Mignot or Marc, or even Simon,

at a loss as he was to tell what turn the case might take.

The next two sittings of the Court proved even better for the defence.

The question of hearing a part of the evidence _in camera_, which

had impassioned people at the first trial, was not even put, for the

presiding judge did not dare to raise it. It was in public that he

interrogated Simon's former pupils, boys at the time of the crime but

now grown men, for the most part married. Fernand Bongard, Auguste

and Charles Doloir, Achille and Philippe Savin came in succession to

relate the little they remembered, and their statements were favourable

to the prisoner rather than the reverse. Thus ended the abominable

legend built up by the help of the former proceedings _in camera_, the

legend of horrible charges with which, it had been said, one could not

possibly soil the ears of an audience composed partially of women.

However, the sensational evidence of the sitting was that given by

Sébastien and Victor Milhomme. In accents of emotion Sébastien, now two

and twenty years of age, explained the falsehood of his childhood, the

alarm of his mother, the suppression of the truth, which he and she had

expiated after prolonged torture. And he stated the facts such as they

really were, how he had seen a copy-slip in the hands of his cousin

Victor, how that slip had disappeared, how it had been found again, and

given up when his mother, grief-stricken beside his bed of sickness,

had deemed herself punished for her bad action. As for Victor, when his

turn came to testify, in order to please his mother, who did not wish

to compromise the stationery business any further, he feigned total

forgetfulness, the obtuseness of a big fellow who had no memory. No

doubt he must have brought the copy-slip from the Brothers' school, as

it had been found, but he knew nothing, he could say nothing further.

Finally, another of the Brothers' former pupils, Polydor Souquet,

now a servant in a Beaumont convent, appeared at the bar, and was

questioned very pressingly by Delbos respecting the manner in which

Brother Gorgias had escorted him home on the night of the crime, the

incidents which had occurred on the road, the words that had been

exchanged, and the hour. But all that Delbos could extract from Polydor

were some evasive answers, and malicious glances promptly tempered

by an affectation of stupidity. How could one remember after so many

years? the witness asked. The excuse was too convenient, and the

Procureur de la République began to show signs of anxious impatience,

while the onlookers, though they failed to understand why the advocate

insisted so much with an apparently insignificant witness, felt as it

were a quiver of the truth passing through the atmosphere--the truth

suspected, but once more taking flight.

People were stirred again at the next sitting of the Court, though it

began with the interminable demonstrations of the experts, Masters

Badoche and Trabut, who, disregarding even the admissions of Brother

Gorgias himself, obstinately refused to recognise his initials, an F

and a G, in the incriminated paraph, in which they alone recognised

those of Simon, an E and an S interlaced, but, it was true, illegible.

For more than three hours these men piled argument upon argument,

demonstration on demonstration, calmly persevering in their lunacy.

And the marvel was that the presiding judge allowed them to go on, and

listened to them with manifest complacency, while the Procureur made

a show of taking notes, and asked the experts for precise information

on certain points, as if the prosecution still adopted their system.

In presence of this _mise-en-scène_, even reasonable people in the

hall began to hesitate. And, after all, why not? For in matters of

handwriting one could never tell.

But at the close of the sitting an incident, which did not last

ten minutes, upset everybody. Clad in black from head to foot,

ex-investigating Magistrate Daix, who had been cited by the defence,

appeared at the bar. He was scarcely fifty-six years old, but he looked

seventy; thin and bent, his hair quite white, his face so emaciated

that little of it, save the slender, blade-like nose, seemed to remain.

He had lately lost his wife, and people talked of the torturing life

which that ugly, coquettish, ambitious woman had led him in her despair

that nothing ever raised them from their narrow circumstances, not

even the condemnation of that Jew Simon, on which she had insisted

and from which she had hoped to derive so much. And now that his wife

was no longer beside him, Daix, timid and anxious, painstaking in his

profession, an honest man at heart, had come there to relieve his

conscience, distracted as he was by the deeds which had been wrung

from his weakness, his craving to have peace at home. He did not

positively speak of all those things, he did not even admit that after

his investigations he had felt that the only possible decision was an

order to stay further proceedings. But he allowed Delbos to question

him, and when his present opinion was asked, he replied plainly that

the inquiry of the Court of Cassation had destroyed his work, the

original indictment, and that for his own part he now regarded Simon

as innocent. Then he withdrew amidst the silent stupefaction of the

onlookers. The apparition of that man in mourning garb, the admissions

made by him in slow and sorrowful accents, had stirred every heart.

That evening, in Marc's large room, where Simon's friends met after

every sitting of the Court in order to discuss matters, Delbos

and David expressed keen satisfaction, a conviction that success

was almost certain now, so great, apparently, was the impression

which Daix's evidence had produced on the jury. Nevertheless, Marc

remained anxious. He told the others of certain rumours which were

circulating concerning the stealthy doings of ex-President Gragnon,

who had been carrying on a subterranean campaign ever since his

arrival at Rozan. Marc was aware that, even as the friends of the

defence met in his own room, in like way mysterious meetings took

place every night at Gragnon's in an adjoining street. And there the

partisans of the prosecution certainly decided on the line they would

pursue on the morrow, invented the answers which it would be best to

give, planned the incidents which they felt ought to be raised, in

particular preparing the evidence in accordance with the result of the

day's sitting. For instance, whenever that sitting was regarded as

unfavourable to the prosecution, one might be sure that there would

be some surprise detrimental to the prisoner, at the outset of the

sitting on the morrow. Moreover, Father Crabot had been again seen

slipping into Gragnon's house. Several people also declared that they

had seen young Polydor Souquet leaving it. And others alleged that at

a very late hour they had met in the street a lady and a gentleman who

looked extremely like Mademoiselle Rouzaire and Inspector Mauraisin.

But the worst was some mysterious work, which centred round those

jurors who were notoriously on the side of the Church, and of which

Marc obtained an inkling, though his informant could not give him full

particulars. Gragnon did not commit such a blunder as to ask those

men to call at his house, nor did he, indeed, address himself to them

personally; but he made others call on them, and show them, so it was

said, an irrefutable proof of Simon's guilt, a terrible document, which

the most serious reasons prevented him from making public, though he

was resolved to employ it, all the same, should the defence drive him

to extremities. And this information made Marc feel anxious, for he

scented some fresh abomination in it. Thus, on the evening of the day

when Daix had dealt the prosecution such a severe blow, he predicted to

his friends some deed of retaliation on the enemy's part, some sample

of the thunder which Gragnon, according to his own account, had in his

pocket.

The following sitting of the Court was, indeed, one of the gravest and

most exciting. Jacquin, the foreman of the first jury, in his turn came

forward to relieve his conscience. In simple language he related how

President Gragnon, on being summoned by the jurors, who had wished

to consult him respecting the penalty attaching to their verdict, had

entered their room carrying a letter, and looking very much disturbed.

And he had shown them that letter, which bore Simon's signature,

followed by a postscriptum and a paraph, which last was identical with

the one on the copy-slip tendered as evidence. Several jurymen, who

had hesitated previously, then declared themselves convinced of the

prisoner's guilt. He, Jacquin, had retained no further doubts; and for

the peace of his conscience he had been well pleased at thus acquiring

certainty. At that time he had not known that such a communication

was illegal. It was only later that he had discovered such to be the

case, and had experienced great distress of mind until, at last, the

postscriptum and the paraph being recognised as forgeries, he had

resolved, like a good Christian, to make amends for his involuntary

error. A shudder of awe sped through those who heard him, when in his

quiet way he added a last detail: He had heard the very voice of Jesus

telling him to speak out, one evening when, tortured by remorse, he was

kneeling in a dim chapel of St. Maxence.

Then Gragnon was summoned to the bar, and at first tried the effect of

the rough frankness which he had so often assumed in his browbeating

judicial days. He was still fat, though his fears had made him pale;

and, striving to hide his prolonged anguish beneath the impudence of a

_bon vivant_, he pretended that he no longer remembered petty details.

And well--yes, he believed he had gone into the jurors' room carrying

the letter which he had just received. He had been upset by it, and

had shown it to the others in a moment of emotion, scarcely realising

the nature of his action, and being only desirous of establishing the

truth. He had never regretted that communication, so fully was he

convinced of the authenticity of the postscript and the paraph. In his

opinion the assertion that they were forgeries remained to be proved.

Then, as he formally charged Jacquin with having read the letter aloud

to the other jurors, and of having commented on it, the ex-foreman was

recalled, and a sharp dispute ensued. At last Gragnon convicted the

architect of some error or forgetfulness respecting the perusal of the

letter; and thereupon he triumphed while the spectators began to hiss

the honest witness, who from that moment was suspected of having sold

himself to the Jews.

In vain did Delbos repeatedly intervene, striving to exasperate Gragnon

and unmask him, by forcing him to an explosion, the production of

the famous document which it was said would clench everything. The

ex-judge, who retained all his self-possession, and who was satisfied

with having escaped immediate danger by casting a doubt on his

adversary's veracity, relapsed into evasive answers. It was noticed,

however, that one of the jurors caused a question to be put to him--a

question which nobody understood, but which was whether he did not

possess some knowledge of another document bearing on the authenticity

of the copy-slip. Gragnon answered enigmatically, that he abided by his

previous declarations, and was unwilling to enter into other matters,

however certain they might be. And thus that sitting of the Court,

which, at the outset, had seemed likely to ruin the prosecution, ended

to its advantage. In Marc's room in the evening, Simon's friends again

began to despair.

The examination of the witnesses dragged on during a few more sittings.

The doctor appointed to visit Brother Fulgence had returned with a

report that the Brother's condition was very serious, and that it was

impossible to bring him to Rozan. In like manner Father Crabot avoided

the embarrassment of attendance by feigning a sudden accident--a severe

sprain. In vain did Delbos make an application for his evidence to be

taken by commission. President Guybaraud, who at the outset had shown

himself so phlegmatic, now sabred everybody and everything in his

eagerness to bring the case to an end. He treated Simon harshly, as

if, indeed, he were already a condemned man; being emboldened to this

course by the singular calmness of the prisoner, who still listened to

the witnesses with curiosity and stupefaction, as if the extraordinary

adventures of somebody else were being recounted to him. Only on two or

three occasions did some extremely mendacious testimony prompt him to a

little rebellion; for the most part he contented himself with smiling

and shrugging his shoulders.

At last Pacart, the Procureur de la République, addressed the Court.

Tall and thin, he was addicted to long, nervous gestures, and affected

an unadorned, mathematically precise kind of eloquence. In presence of

the plainly-worded judgment of the Court of Cassation, his task was not

easy. But his tactics were very simple, he took no account of that

judgment, he did not once allude to the long inquiry which had ended

in a decision to send the affair for trial by another Assize Court. He

quietly reverted to the old indictment, based himself on the report of

the experts, and accepted the revised account of the copy-slip, holding

that the school-stamp as well as the initialling had been forged. He

even spoke of that stamp in a positive way, as if he held a proof that

it had been forged but could not produce it. As for Brother Gorgias, he

regarded him simply as an unfortunate man, perhaps mentally unhinged,

assuredly in need, and of a passionate nature--one who, after proving

an undisciplined and compromising son of the Church, had quitted it and

sold himself to the Jews. And Pacart concluded by asking the jurors

to put an end to this affair, which was so disastrous for the peace

of the country, by saying once more on which side the culprit really

was, whether among the Anarchists and the Cosmopolites--who sought

to destroy all belief in God and country--or among the men upholding

faith, respect, and tradition, to whom, for ages past, France had owed

her grandeur.

Then Delbos spoke during two sittings. Eager and nervous, endowed

with passionate eloquence, he also dealt with the affair from the

very beginning. But he did so in order to destroy the allegations

in the old indictment, with the help of the arguments supplied by

the Court of Cassation's inquiry. Not one of those allegations was

worth anything. It was proved that Simon had returned home on foot

on the night of the crime; that he had reached Maillebois at twenty

minutes to twelve o'clock, an hour after the crime had been committed.

Again, there was proof that the copy-slip had been stamped at the

Brothers' school and initialled by Brother Gorgias, whose admissions

on the subject were not even necessary, for counter experts, in a

memorable report addressed to the Court of Cassation, had destroyed

the extraordinary farrago of Masters Badoche and Trabut. Then Delbos

turned to the new story of the forged stamp. No proof of this had been

supplied. Nevertheless, he insisted on the subject; for he divined that

some supreme abomination lurked beneath all that stealthy manœuvring

compounded of mere allegation and reticence. A sick workman, it was

said, had told a woman a vague story about a stamp which he had made

for the Maillebois schoolmaster. Where was that woman? Who was she?

What was her calling? As nobody would or could reply, he (Delbos)

had a right to conclude that this story was one of those absurd lies

such as _Le Petit Beaumontais_ was in the habit of retailing. However,

if he was able to picture the whole crime as it must have taken

place--Brother Gorgias returning after he had escorted Polydor home,

pausing before Zéphirin's open window, finally entering the room, and

at last succumbing to his ungovernable passions--he admitted that there

was a gap in his narrative. Where had Gorgias found the copy-slip?

For the rascal was right when he jeeringly inquired if schoolmasters

usually walked about in the evening with copy-slips in their pockets.

Undoubtedly the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ had been in the pocket

of his own cassock, whence he had taken it in order to gag his victim.

And the slip must have been there also. But how had that happened?

Delbos suspected the truth, and if he had questioned Polydor Souquet

so pressingly it was in order to extract it from him. He had failed

in that endeavour, the witness having met him with an assumption of

hypocritical stupidity. But, after all, what did that obscure point

matter? Was not Gorgias's guilt absolutely manifest? His alleged alibi

was based solely on a series of false statements. Everything proved his

guilt--his flight, his semi-confessions, the criminal efforts made to

save him, and the dispersal of his accomplices--Father Philibin hiding

himself in some Italian convent; Brother Fulgence seeking refuge at a

distance, and shielding himself with a diplomatic illness; and Father

Crabot withdrawing to his cell, where Providence had visited him with

a very salutary sprain. Was it not also in order to save Gorgias that

President Gragnon had illegally communicated a forgery to the first

jurors, as had been proved by the evidence of architect Jacquin? Amidst

the accumulation of crimes, that one alone ought to have sufficed to

open the eyes of the most prejudiced. And Delbos ended by depicting

the frightful sufferings experienced by Simon, the fifteen years of

transportation which he had endured amidst the most cruel physical and

moral tortures, while ever stubbornly raising his cry of innocence.

The advocate added that, like the Procureur de la République, he also

desired to have the affair ended, but ended by an act of justice which

would redound to the honour of France; for if the innocent man should

be struck down again, the shame of France would be indescribable, and a

future full of incalculable evils would lie before her.

There was no reply from the prosecution, the case was closed, and the

jury at once withdrew to its retiring-room.[4] It was about eleven

o'clock in the morning, and for more than an hour the spectators

remained waiting, silent and anxious, in no wise resembling the

audience at Beaumont, which had been so tumultuous and violent.

The hall was very hot, and the atmosphere seemed as heavy as lead.

There was little conversation, though occasionally the Simonists

and the anti-Simonists glanced askance at one another. One might

have fancied oneself in some funeral chamber where the life or death

of a nation, the whole dolorous question of its future, was being

decided. At last the jury reappeared, the judges came in, and amidst

lugubrious silence the foreman arose: He was a little grey, lean man,

a goldsmith, enjoying the custom of the local clergy. His shrill voice

was distinctly heard. On the question of guilt the verdict was 'Yes,'

by a majority; while 'extenuating circumstances' were unanimously

granted. At Beaumont the jury had been unanimous with respect to guilt,

and only a small majority had favoured the admission of extenuating

circumstances. And now, after expediting the formalities, President

Guybaraud hastily pronounced a sentence of ten years' solitary

confinement. That done, he withdrew, and Pacart, the Procureur de la

République, followed him, after bowing to the jury as if to thank them.

[Footnote 4: At French criminal trials the judges no longer sum up

the evidence before the verdict is given. That privilege was taken

from them by a special law several years ago, in consequence of their

scandalous abuse of it.--_Trans._]

Marc, meantime, had glanced at Simon, on whose face he only detected a

kind of faint smile, a painful contraction of the lips. Delbos, beside

himself, was clenching his fists. David, whose emotion was too intense,

had not returned into Court, but was awaiting the decision outside. The

thunderbolt had fallen, and Marc felt a deadly chill in every vein.

It was a frigid horror: the supreme iniquity, in which just minds had

refused to believe, the crime of crimes, which had seemed impossible

a few hours earlier, which reason had rejected, had suddenly become

a monstrous reality. And there were no ferocious cries of joy, there

was no onslaught like that of cannibals rushing to a feast of blood,

as at Beaumont. Though the hall was full of rabid anti-Simonists, the

frightful silence continued, such was the horror which froze one and

all to their very bones. Only a long shudder, a stifled groan, sped

through the throng. And they went out without a word, without a push,

in a dark stream like some funeral assembly choking with emotion,

stricken with fear. And outside Marc found David sobbing.

So the Church was victorious--the Brothers' school would revive to

life, while the secular school would again become the ante-room of

hell, the satanic den where children were corrupted both in mind and

body. The desperate and gigantic effort made by the Congregations

and by almost all the clergy had again retarded their defeat, which

was certain in the future. For years, however, one would again

see the young generations stupefied by error, rotted by lies. The

forward march of mankind would be hampered afresh until the day when

free thought--invincible and still pursuing its course in spite of

everything--should at last deliver the people by science, which alone

could render it capable of truth and equity.

On the following evening, when Marc returned to Maillebois, exhausted

by fatigue and quite heart-broken, he found a letter of three lines

awaiting him: 'I have read the whole of the inquiry, I have followed

the trial. The most monstrous of crimes has been committed. Simon is

innocent.--_Geneviève.'_

IV

On the morrow, a Thursday, Marc, who had scarcely slept that night, had

just risen when he received an early visit from his daughter Louise.

She, having heard of his return, had escaped for a moment from her

grandmother's house. And, throwing her arms wildly about her father's

neck, she exclaimed: 'Oh! father, father, what a deal of sorrow you

must have had, and how pleased I am to be able to kiss you!'

A big girl nowadays, Louise was fully acquainted with the Simon affair,

and shared all the faith, all the passion for justice displayed by that

dearly-loved father, the master whose lofty mind was her guide. Thus

her cry was instinct with the revolt and despair into which she had

been cast by the monstrous proceedings at Rozan.

But, on thus seeing her before him and feeling her embrace, Marc

thought of Geneviève's letter, to which his sleeplessness that night

had been largely due. 'And your mother,' he asked, 'do you know that

she has written to me, and that she is now on our side?'

'Yes, yes, father, I know it. She spoke of it to me.... Ah! if I were

to tell you of all the quarrels there were when grandmother saw mamma

beginning to read everything, procuring documents which had never been

in the house before, and going out every morning to buy the full report

of the new trial. Grandmother wanted to burn everything, so mamma shut

herself up in her own room and spent all her time there.... And I also

read everything; mamma allowed me to do so. Oh! papa, what a dreadful

affair--that poor man, that poor innocent, overwhelmed by so many cruel

people! If I could, I should love you all the more for having loved and

defended him!'

She again threw her arms about her father's neck and kissed him

with heartfelt fervour. And he, in spite of his sufferings, began

to smile as if some delicious balm had somewhat calmed the smarting

of his wounds. And while he smiled he pictured his wife and his

daughter reading together, learning the truth, and at last returning

to him. 'Her letter, her dear letter,' he said in an undertone, 'what

consolation and hope it gave me! Will not joy return after so many

misfortunes?'

Then he anxiously questioned Louise: 'So your mother spoke to you of

me? Does she understand, does she regret our torments? I always felt

that she would come back to me when she knew the truth.'

But the girl prettily raised a finger to her lips. She, in her turn,

was smiling. 'Oh! papa,' she said, 'don't try to make me say what I

can't say yet. I should be telling a falsehood if I spoke positively.

Our affairs are in a good way, that is all.... Remain patient a

little longer, remain confident in your daughter, who tries to be as

reasonable and affectionate as you are.'

Then she gave him some bad news about Madame Berthereau. For several

years the latter had been suffering from a heart complaint, which

recent events seemed to have suddenly aggravated. Madame Duparque's

fits of anger, the outbursts with which she made the dark, dismal

little house shake at all hours of the day, proved very prejudicial

to the sick woman, for they brought on shuddering and stifling fits,

which she could hardly overcome. At present, in order to escape those

nervous frights, she no longer went down into the little sitting-room,

but remained on a couch in her bed-chamber, gazing from morn till night

at the deserted Place des Capucins, with those poor, melancholy eyes of

hers, in which one read such keen regret for the joys she had lost so

long ago.

'Oh! we don't amuse ourselves at all now,' Louise continued. 'Mamma

remains in her room, grandmamma Berthereau in hers, and grandmamma

Duparque goes up and down, bangs the doors, and quarrels with Pélagie

when she finds nobody to scold.... But I don't complain, for I shut

myself up as well, and work. Mamma has agreed to it, you know; I shall

go up for admission to the training school in six months' time, and I

hope to get in.'

Just at that moment, Sébastien Milhomme, who was free that day,

arrived from Beaumont, all anxiety to embrace his former master, of

whose return he had heard. And almost immediately afterwards came

Joseph and Sarah, who, on behalf of their mother and the Lehmanns,

whom the reconviction of Simon had overwhelmed, wished to thank Marc

for his heroic if vain efforts. The brother and sister related what a

thunderbolt had fallen on the wretched shop in the Rue du Trou on the

previous evening, when David had telegraphed the frightful tidings.

Madame Simon had preferred to await them there with her parents and her

children, such great hostility had she encountered in that clerical

town of Rozan, where, moreover, her modest means did not allow her

to live. And the mournful house was again in tears, acquainted only

with the iniquitous verdict and ignorant of what might now happen, all

decision as to the future being postponed until the return of David,

who, for the time, had remained near his brother.

The eyes of Joseph and Sarah were still red and swollen, for they had

spent a tearful, feverish night without a moment's quiet rest; and as,

while speaking of their father, they again began to sob, Sébastien,

carried away by his feelings, kissed his good friend Sarah, while

Louise, taking hold of Joseph's hands, and likewise shedding tears,

naïvely sought to console him somewhat by speaking of her great

affection for him. She was seventeen and he twenty. Sébastien was a

year or two older, and Sarah was eighteen. Marc felt moved as he saw

those young folk there before him, quivering with youth, intelligence,

and kindliness. And a thought, which had occurred to him and brought

him a delightful hope already in the days when he had seen them playing

as children, now returned. Might they not, indeed, be predestined

consorts, such as would produce the happy harvest of the future, who

would bring broader hearts and more liberal minds to the great work of

to-morrow?

But although his daughter's visit gave Marc no little comfort for the

time, he became very downcast on the ensuing days, so distressful was

the spectacle which his poor poisoned and dishonoured country now

presented. The crime of crimes had been committed, and France did not

rise against it! During the long struggle for revision Marc had already

failed to recognise in her the generous, magnanimous, liberating,

and justice-dealing country to which he had dedicated such lofty and

passionate love. But never had he thought it possible that she would

sink to that base level, and become a deaf, harsh, sleepy, and cowardly

France, making her bed in shame and iniquity!

How many years and generations would be needed to arouse her from that

abominable somnolence? For a moment Marc despaired; he deemed his

country lost; it was as if he could hear Férou's maledictions arising

from the grave: 'France doomed, completely rotted by the priests,

poisoned by a filthy press, sunk in such a morass of ignorance and

credulity that never would one be able to extricate her.' On the morrow

of the monstrous verdict of Rozan he had still imagined an awakening to

be possible, he had awaited a rising of upright consciences and healthy

minds; but none had stirred, the bravest seemed to hide themselves away

in their corners, and the supreme ignominy took its course, thanks to

the universal imbecility and cowardice.

As he went about Maillebois, Marc caught sight of Darras, who now

pulled a very long face, though he was simply in despair at the

mayoralty again escaping him, owing to the triumph of the clerical

party. Then, on meeting Fernand Bongard, the Doloirs and the Savins,

his former pupils, Marc felt greatly distressed, for he now realised,

decisively, that he had been able to impart to them little if any

social equity and civic courage. Fernand shrugged his shoulders, bent

on knowing nothing. The Doloirs had again begun to doubt Simon's

innocence; while as for the twin Savins, if they remained convinced of

it, they argued that they could not effect a revolution by themselves,

and that, after all, one Jew more or less was a matter of no

importance. Terror reigned, people hurried home, resolved to compromise

themselves no further. Things were even worse at Beaumont, whither Marc

repaired to see if he could not arouse some influential people and

persuade them to attempt a last effort to have the infamous verdict set

aside. Lemarrois, to whom he thus ventured to apply, seemed to take

him for a madman; and discarding his usual courteous kindliness, he

plainly, almost roughly, told him that the affair was ended, and that

any attempt to revise it would be insane, for the country was utterly

sick and weary of the whole business. It had become most hurtful as

a basis for political action, and if the clerical reactionaries were

allowed an opportunity to exploit it any further, the Republic would

certainly be undone at the approaching elections. The elections indeed!

That was again the great argument. The only policy was to bury the

supreme iniquity in even deeper silence than after the first trial.

There was no need of any understanding to that effect. The deputies,

the senators, the prefect, the officials, all sank instinctively into

perfect silence, in the dread they felt at the thought of the twice

condemned but innocent man. And once again former Republicans and

Voltaireans like Lemarrois drew yet nearer to the Church, whose help

they thought they might require to resist the rising tide of Socialism.

Lemarrois, personally, had been pleased to see his adversary Delbos

defeated at Rozan, and in resorting to a cowardly policy of silence

he was largely influenced by a desire to let Simon's compromised

champions drown themselves. Amid that general _débâcle_ only Marcilly

retained his amiable smile. He had already held the portfolio of

Public Instruction in a Radical ministry, and felt certain of securing

it again, some day, in a Moderate one. And so convinced was he now

of the irresistible power of his suppleness and his freely-bestowed

hand-shakes that, alone amongst those to whom Marc applied, he gave him

a cordial greeting; and, without making any express promise, allowed

him to hope for everything should he (Marcilly) return to power.

For the moment the Congregations became triumphant. What a relief it

was to think that Father Crabot, his accomplices and his creatures,

were saved! Ex-presiding Judge Gragnon gave a grand dinner, followed by

a reception, to which flocked all the members of the judicial world,

with many functionaries and even university men. They smiled and shook

hands, well pleased at finding themselves alive after incurring such

serious danger. Every morning _Le Petit Beaumontais_ celebrated the

victory of the valiant soldiers of God and the country. Then, all at

once, it became silent, in compliance no doubt with some hint received

from exalted spheres. The fact was that amid all the stir of victory

everybody began to detect moral defeat. Fear of the morrow revived, and

it was deemed prudent to divert people's minds.

Moreover, the Rozan jurors had now made revelations; it was known that

they had convicted Simon merely by a majority of seven to five, and

that on quitting the court they had unanimously signed a recommendation

for pardon. They could not have confessed more plainly the mortal

embarrassment in which they had been placed, the cruel necessity of

confirming the former verdict of Beaumont, even though they retained

little doubt of the prisoner's innocence. And the extraordinary course

taken by that jury, which, in the most contradictory way, at one

moment condemned Simon and at another absolved him, tended to make his

innocence manifest to everybody. A pardon was felt to be so necessary

and so inevitable that nobody was surprised when one was signed a few

days later. _Le Petit Beaumontais_ thought fit to insult the dirty Jew

a last time, but even the managers of that unprincipled rag heaved a

sigh of relief, glad to be at last delivered from the abominable part

they had played for so many years.

David was beset by a final anguish, a frightful struggle of conscience,

in connection with that pardon. His brother's strength was quite spent,

fever consumed him, he was so exhausted, both physically and morally,

that, doubtless, he would merely return to prison to die there. And,

on the other hand, a weeping wife and children awaited him, still

hoping that they might save him by dint of care and love. Nevertheless,

David at first rejected the idea of a pardon, and, before everything

else, wished to consult Marc, Delbos, and the other valiant defenders

of the innocent prisoner; for he well understood that, even if the

pardon would not deprive Simon of the right of some day establishing

his innocence, it would rob the others of their most powerful means

of prosecuting that cause of justice to which they had given their

lives. But, however grieved they might be, all bowed to the suggestion

of a pardon, and David then accepted it. At the same time it was

felt by Marc and Delbos that the Congregations had good reason to be

triumphant, for, humanly, the Simon affair was ended by that pardon, in

consequence of which it would no longer stir the multitude to a sense

of equity and generosity.

The question of Simon's future was speedily settled. It was impossible

to take him back to Maillebois, where Madame Simon had decided to

remain a little longer with her children, Joseph and Sarah, who were

awaiting the reopening of the neighbouring training schools. David once

more took everything on himself. He had long previously formed his

plans, which were to dispose of his sand and gravel pits, and acquire a

marble quarry in a lonely valley of the Pyrenees--an excellent affair,

which a friend had recommended to him and which he had carefully

studied. He meant to remove Simon thither, taking him as a partner,

and assuredly the mountain air and the delight of active life would

restore his health within six months' time. As soon as the installation

should be effected Madame Simon might rejoin her husband, and even the

children might end the vacation in their father's company. All this was

carried into effect with remarkable precision and despatch. Simon was

conjured away from Rozan, which was still in an agitated state, and for

a time nobody even suspected that he had been removed. He travelled

unrecognised, vanishing with David into that lonely valley, embosomed

amid lofty peaks. It only became known by a newspaper article that his

family had joined him. From that moment he altogether disappeared, and

people even began to forget his existence.

On the very day when the Simon family found itself reunited in that

Pyrenean solitude, Marc repaired to the Training College of Beaumont,

whither an urgent letter from Salvan had summoned him. And as soon as

they had shaken hands they began to talk of the Simons, evoking the

sweet and touching scene which was being enacted far away--indeed at

the other end of France.

'We must all take it as our reward,' said Salvan. 'If we have not

yet managed to make the affair yield the great social lesson and the

penalties that attach to it, we have at least brought this happiness to

pass, we have restored the poor martyr to his wife and his children.'

'Yes,' said Marc, 'I have been thinking of it ever since this morning.

I can picture them all together, smiling, in peace, under the broad

blue sky. And, for that poor man so long fastened to his chain, what

a delight it must be to be able to walk about freely, inhaling the

freshness of the mountain springs, the pure odours of the plants and

trees! The dear children, too, and the dear wife, how happy they must

feel to see their dream realised, to have him beside them again, to

take him about like a big child just recovering from a severe illness,

and watch him reviving to health and strength!... You are right, it is

our reward--the only one.'

He paused, then added in a lower voice with some of the bitterness of

a combatant who laments that his weapon should have been broken in his

hand: 'Our _rôle_ is quite over. A pardon was inevitable, no doubt, but

it has deprived us of all power of action. We can only wait for the

crop of good grain we have sown--that is, if ever it will sprout up in

the hard ground where we have scattered it.'

'Oh! it will rise, never fear, my friend,' Salvan exclaimed. 'We must

never despair of our poor, great country. It may be deceived, it may

deceive itself, but it always returns to truth and reason. Let us rest

satisfied with our work, it will bear fruit in the future.' Then, after

a pause, he continued in a thoughtful way: 'But I agree with you that

our victory will not be immediate. The times are really execrable;

never have we passed through a more troublous and threatening period.

And, indeed, if I asked you to call to-day, it was in order to talk to

you of the present disquieting situation.'

Then he acquainted Marc with what he had learnt. Since the trial

at Rozan, all the recognised Simonists, all the brave men who had

become compromised in the affair, had found themselves exposed to the

vengeance of the Congregations, the hatred of the egotistical and

cowardly multitude. Undoubtedly they would be made to pay heavily in

their interests and their persons for the crime they had committed by

supporting the cause of truth and justice.

'Have you heard that nobody now bows to Delbos at the Palace of

Justice?' said Salvan. 'Half the cases confided to him have been

withdrawn. Clients regard him as being altogether too compromising.

He has to begin his career afresh; and at the next elections he will

certainly be defeated again, for the affair has led to disruption

even in the Socialist ranks.... For my own part, I shall probably be

dismissed----'

'Dismissed? You!' interrupted Marc in accents of surprise and grief.

'Why, yes, my friend. You are not ignorant of the fact that Mauraisin

has long coveted my post. He never manœuvred otherwise than in order to

dislodge me. His prolonged flirtation with the Church party has been

simply a matter of tactics in order to secure its support in the hour

of victory. After the inquiry of the Court of Cassation he certainly

felt frightened, and began to say that he had always regarded Simon as

innocent. But, since Simon was reconvicted, Mauraisin has again been

barking with the clerical pack, feeling convinced that Le Barazer will

be compelled to dismiss me by the pressure brought to bear on him by

all the victorious reactionary forces. It will astonish me very much if

I am still here when the new term begins in October.'

Marc again began to express his grief; and, moreover, he refused to

believe Salvan. He recalled all the services which the latter had

rendered, and set forth the necessity of persevering with the great

work of saving France from falsehood and credulity. 'You cannot leave

before your task is accomplished,' he added; 'there remains so much

for you to do. Although Le Barazer has never spoken out plainly, he has

been at heart on our side, and I am sure that he will never be guilty

of such a bad action as to dismiss you.'

Salvan smiled somewhat sadly. 'In the first place,' he answered,

'nobody is indispensable; I may disappear, but others will rise to

continue the good work we have begun. Mauraisin may take my place, but

I am convinced that he will do no great harm, for he will not retain it

long, and he will be forced to follow in my footsteps. Some work, you

see, when once it has been begun, is accomplished by the very force of

human evolution, and remains independent of any particular, individual

men.... But one might think by the way you talk that you did not know

Le Barazer. We are, personally, of little account in his intricate

republican diplomacy. He was on our side, that is certain; he would be

with us still if we had won the battle. But our defeat has placed him

into the greatest possible embarrassment. He really has but one desire,

to save his work, the system of secular and compulsory education of

which he was one of the creators. Thus, as the Church has regained

power for the moment and threatens his work, he will resign himself

to necessary sacrifices and temporise until he is able to speak as a

master in his turn. Such is his nature, and we cannot alter him.'

Salvan continued in this strain, enumerating all the influences which

were being brought to bear on Le Barazer. Rector Forbes, who was

so desirous of quietude and who so greatly feared worries with the

minister, had plainly told him that he must satisfy the demands of

the opposition deputies. These, at the head of whom Count Hector de

Sanglebœuf distinguished himself by his violence, were making every

effort to secure the dismissal of all the notorious Simonists belonging

to the civil and the educational services. And none of the Republican

deputies, not even the radical Lemarrois, moved; indeed, they consented

to that hecatomb in order to pacify public opinion, anxious as they

were to lose as few electors as possible. At present, also, professors

and masters followed the example of Principal Depinvilliers, attending

Mass with their wives and daughters every Sunday. Then, at the Lycée

of Beaumont, the chaplain reigned supreme; religious exercises were

becoming compulsory; all pupils who refused attendance were badly

noted, harassed and ill-treated until no resource was left them but to

comply or quit. Father Crabot made his hand felt at that Lycée with the

same reactionary authority that he displayed in the management of the

College of Valmarie. And the increasing audacity of the Congregations

was demonstrated by the fact that the Jesuit professors of Valmarie now

openly acknowledged their standing, whereas previously, in order to

defeat the laws, they had outwardly passed themselves off as secular

priests.

'That is how we stand,' Salvan concluded. 'Thanks to the reconviction

of Simon, they speak as masters, and wring whatever they please from

the universal cowardice and imbecility.... It is already said that

Mademoiselle Rouzaire is to be appointed head-mistress of the chief

girls' school in Beaumont. Jauffre, now at Jonville, is also to be

appointed here, it seems; for he has threatened to turn against

Abbé Cognasse if there should be any further delay in rewarding his

services. Finally, Doutrequin, once a Republican, who has rallied to

the Church from a deplorable aberration of patriotism, has secured

two suburban schools for his sons, who have made Nationalism and

Anti-Semitism their chief dogmas, so that we are now once more in a

period of acute reaction--the last we shall witness, I hope, pending

the day when the country will spit out the poison which is killing

it.... And if I am dismissed, my friend--you suspect it, do you

not?--you will be dismissed also.'

Marc smiled. He now understood why Salvan had sent for him in all

haste. 'So I am condemned?' he said.

'Yes, I am afraid so; and I wished to warn you of it immediately....

Oh! the thing is not settled yet; Le Barazer remains silent, biding

his time, as it were, and saying nothing of his intentions. But you

can have no idea of the assaults he has to withstand, particularly

with respect to yourself. Naturally enough, it is your dismissal that

is most urgently demanded. I was talking to you just now of that big

simpleton Sanglebœuf, that puppet whose strings are pulled by the old

Marchioness de Boise, whom he drives to despair, I hear, so clumsily

does he execute the movements which she directs. Well, three times

already Sanglebœuf has bounced up to the Préfecture to threaten Le

Barazer with an interpellation in the Chamber of Deputies if he does

not come to an understanding with Prefect Hennebise to annihilate

you. You would be already dead, I think, if it had not been for the

arrogance of that ultimatum. But it isn't possible for Le Barazer

to resist much longer, my poor friend. And you mustn't bear him any

malice. Remember all the quiet obstinacy and diplomatic skill with

which for many years he supported you. He always found some means of

saving you by granting compensations to your adversaries. But now it

is all over, I have not even spoken to him about you. All efforts on

your behalf would be useless. You must let him act as he pleases.

Doubtless he is only delaying his decision in order to devise something

ingenious; for he himself does not like to be defeated, and he will

never relinquish his efforts on behalf of his work, that system of

secular and compulsory education which alone can give us a new France.'

Marc smiled no longer; indeed, he had become very sad. 'It will be a

great blow,' he answered. 'I shall leave the best of myself behind

me in that school of Maillebois, among those dear lads whom I regard

almost as my own children.... Besides, what shall I do if my career is

thus brought to an end? I am not competent to take up any other useful

work, and how painful it will be to see the work I have been doing

interrupted, left unfinished at the very moment when, more than ever,

truth has need of sturdy workers.'

But Salvan in his turn bravely smiled, and, taking hold of Marc's

hands, said to him: 'Come, don't lose your courage. We shall surely

find something to do; we sha'n't remain with our arms crossed.'

Then Marc, feeling comforted, replied: 'You are right! When a man like

you is struck, one can follow him into disgrace without thought of

shame. The future, at all events, belongs to us.'

A few more days went by. At Maillebois the victorious Congregations

were endeavouring to turn the situation to pecuniary account. Great

efforts were made to restore the former prosperity of the Brothers'

school, several families were won over, and it seemed likely that at

the new term the school would gain a dozen fresh pupils. Meantime the

Capuchins showed extraordinary audacity. Was it not, after all, the

glorious St. Antony of Padua who had managed everything, obtained

everything from the benevolence of heaven? Indeed, it could not be

denied. It was to him that one owed the reconviction of Simon, thanks

to the franc and two-franc pieces which so many pious souls had

dropped into the saint's collection-boxes while asking him to bring

about the annihilation of the Jew. Thus a fresh miracle had been

performed. Never before had the saint's power been manifested in so

lofty a manner, and as a natural result offerings poured in from all

sides. Moreover, Father Théodose, encouraged, inspired by this success,

conceived a masterly plan to reap another large harvest of money by

the saint's aid. He launched an extraordinary financial affair with

mortgage bonds on Paradise, each bond being of five francs' value. The

district was flooded with circulars and prospectuses explaining the

ingenious working of these investments in celestial felicity. Each

bond comprised ten coupons of half a franc, representing good works,

prayers, and masses payable as interest here below, and redeemable

in heaven at the cashier's office of the miracle-working St. Antony.

Premiums were also offered in order to attract subscribers. Twenty

bonds gave one a right to a coloured statuette of the saint, and a

hundred ensured one an annual Mass. Finally, the prospectus explained

that the name of St. Antony's Bonds was given to this scrip, because it

was the saint who would redeem it a hundredfold in the next world. And

the announcement ended with these words: 'Such supernatural guarantees

make these bonds absolutely safe. No financial catastrophe can threaten

them. Even the destruction of the world, at the end of time, would

leave them in force, or rather would at once place the holders in the

enjoyment of the full capitalised interest.'[1]

[Footnote 1: As some readers might think this an invention on M. Zola's

part, it is as well to mention that the prospectus referred to was

actually issued by a French religious community.--_Trans._]

The success was enormous. In a few weeks' time thousands of bonds had

been sold. Those devotees who were too poor to buy a whole one clubbed

together, and then divided the coupons. Credulous and suffering souls

eagerly risked their money in this new lottery, whose great prize

was to be the realisation of a fondly dreamt-of eternity of happy

life. It was certainly rumoured that Monseigneur Bergerot intended

to prohibit this impudent speculation which scandalised the more

reasonable Catholics; but in the unpleasant position in which the

prelate had been placed by the defeat of the Simonists, whom he was

accused of having stealthily supported, he was doubtless afraid to do

so. Though it greatly distressed him to abandon the Church to the

rising tide of superstition, he had found that he could place little

reliance on his clergy, and thus he had never had the courage to resist

the all-powerful Congregations. Aged as he now was, he had become

weaker still, only retaining enough strength to kneel and beg God's

forgiveness for thus suffering the merchants to invade the temple.

But Abbé Quandieu, the priest of St. Martin's, could not bear that

desecration any longer. All his Christian resignation forsook him

when the so-called Bonds of St. Antony made their appearance. Such

trafficking was too outrageous, and he gave expression in the pulpit

to his revolt as a minister of Christ, his grief at beholding the

base downfall of that great Christianity which had renewed the world,

and which so many illustrious minds had raised to the purest summits

of ideality. Then he paid a last visit to his Bishop and friend,

Monseigneur Bergerot, and finding him unable to continue the struggle,

feeling too that he himself was vanquished and paralysed, he resigned

his cure and withdrew to a little house in the outskirts of Maillebois,

intending to dwell there on a scanty income, outside that Church whose

policy of hatred and whose basely superstitious worship he could no

longer serve.

The Capuchins deemed the opportunity favourable for a fresh triumph

in celebration of what Father Théodose styled the flight of their

former adversary. By careful manœuvring the Bishop had been induced

to appoint a young curate of the _arriviste_ school, a creature of

Father Crabot's, to the parish of Maillebois, and the idea was to

bear a superb statue of St. Antony, all red and gold, in solemn

procession from the Capuchin Chapel to St. Martin's, where it would

be set up in great pomp. This would be the crowning consecration of

the victory which had been achieved, the conquest of the parish by

the Congregation, the monks becoming its sovereign masters, able to

disseminate on every side the idolatrous worship, by which they hoped

to bleed and abase the community, and turn it into the ignorant flock

of the days of servitude. The procession, which took place one warm day

in September, with the co-operation of all the clergy of the district,

proved magnificent, and was attended by a great concourse of people

who repaired to Maillebois from all points of the department. Only the

Place des Capucins and a short lane really separated the chapel from

the church, but a roundabout line of route was selected; they crossed

the Place de la République and marched along the whole high street, in

this wise promenading St. Antony from one to the other end of the town.

Mayor Philis, surrounded by the clerical majority of the Municipal

Council, followed the painted statue, which was borne on a platform

draped with red velvet. Although it was holiday time, the whole of the

Brothers' school had been mobilised, boys had been specially recruited,

dressed, and provided with candles. Behind them came the Daughters

of Mary and numerous pious brotherhoods, sisterhoods, and other

associations, an interminable string of devotees, to say nothing of all

the nuns brought expressly from the Beaumont convents. Only Monseigneur

Bergerot was wanting. As it happened he had sent a letter of regret,

having fallen ill two days previously.

Never before had Maillebois been possessed by such religious fever.

People knelt on the foot pavements, men shed tears, three girls fell

to the ground in hysterical fits, and had to be carried to a chemist's

shop. In the evening the benediction at St. Martin's amid the pealing

of the bells was quite dazzling. And not a doubt remained; surely

the town was now redeemed and forgiven; by that grandiose ceremony

Providence signified its willingness to wipe out for ever the vile

memory of Simon the Jew.

It so happened that Salvan came to Maillebois that day in order to

see Madame Berthereau, respecting whom he had received some extremely

disquieting news. And he had just quitted the little house in the

Place des Capucins when he caught sight of Marc, who, on his way home

after a visit to the Lehmanns, had found his progress barred by the

interminable procession. They shook hands in silence; then for some

time were compelled to remain waiting. When the last of the monks had

gone by behind the idol all ablaze with gilding and red paint, they

just exchanged a glance and took a few steps in silence.

'I was going to call on you,' said Salvan at last.

Marc fancied that he had brought him news of his dismissal. 'Is it

signed then?' he inquired. 'Am I to pack my trunks?'

'No, no, my friend; Le Barazer has given no signs of life as yet. He

is preparing something.... But our dismissal is certain, you must take

a little patience.' Then, ceasing to jest, he added with an expression

of grief: 'The fact is, I heard that Madame Berthereau was at the last

stage and I desired to see her.... I have just left her, and her end is

certainly very near.'

'Louise came to warn me of it yesterday evening,' Marc replied. 'I

should have liked to call at once, as you have done. But Madame

Duparque has signified that she will immediately quit the house if

I should dare to set foot in it on any pretext. And though Madame

Berthereau, as I know, would like to see me, she is afraid to give

expression to her desire, for fear of some scandal beside her

death-bed.... Ah! my friend, one can never overcome the hatred of a

bigot.'

They walked on, again preserving silence. At last Salvan resumed: 'Yes,

Madame Duparque keeps good guard, and for a moment I thought that

she would not let me go upstairs. At all events she did not quit me;

she kept a watch on everything I said, either to the patient or your

wife.... She is certainly afraid that something may result from the

blow which is about to fall on the house. Yes, Madame Berthereau, her

daughter, is about to escape from her by death, and she fears, perhaps,

that Geneviève, her granddaughter, may also free herself.'

Marc halted, and, giving his friend a keen glance, inquired: 'Did you

notice any sign of that?'

'Well, yes; but I did not wish to mention it to you, for it would

distress me to give you any false hope.... But it was in connection

with that procession, that barefaced idolatry which we witnessed just

now. It appears that your wife absolutely refused to attend it. And

that is why I found Madame Duparque at home. She, of course, was very

desirous of displaying her piety in the front rank of all the devotees,

but she feared that if she should absent herself for a single moment,

you or some other soul-snatcher might get into the house and rob her of

her daughter and granddaughter. So she remained at home, and you can

imagine with what cold fury she received me, trying to transpierce me

with those eyes of hers, which are like rapiers.'

Marc was becoming excited: 'Ah! so Geneviève refused to attend that

procession! She understood its hurtfulness, its baseness and folly,

then; and she is returning in some degree to the healthy common-sense

she used to show?'

'No doubt,' Salvan answered. 'I believe that she felt particularly

hurt by those ridiculous mortgage bonds on Paradise.... Ah! what a

master-stroke, my friend! Never before was human imbecility exploited

to such a degree by religious impudence.'

While conversing the friends had slowly directed their steps towards

the railway station, where Salvan intended to take the train in order

to return to Beaumont. He did so, and Marc, on quitting him, felt once

again full of hope.

As Salvan had indeed suggested, Geneviève--in that little house of the

Place des Capucins, which had become yet more mournful and frigid now

that death hovered over it so threateningly--was assailed by another

crisis which was gradually transforming her. At first she had been

thunderstruck by the revelation of the truth, the certainty of Simon's

innocence, which the perusal of all the documents had brought her--that

terrible light whose blaze had revealed to her the infamy of the holy

men whom she had hitherto accepted as the directors of her conscience

and her heart. All came from that, doubt penetrated into her mind,

faith took flight, she could not do otherwise than reflect, examine

and judge everything. A feeling of disquietude had already come upon

her at the time when she quitted Father Théodose; and the latter's

Bonds of St. Antony, that base attempt to exploit the credulity of

the public, had suddenly shown her his venality and disgusted her

with him. Moreover, not only did the monk's character decline in her

estimation to the lowest level, but the worship he represented--that

religion which had cast her into transports of mystical desire likewise

lost its semblance of holiness. What! must she accept that unworthy

trafficking, that idolatrous superstition, if she desired to remain

a practising Catholic, steadfast in her faith? She had long bowed to

beliefs and mysteries, even when her natural good sense had covertly

protested against them; but there were limits to everything. She could

not countenance that flotation of shares in heaven; she refused to

walk behind that St. Antony, bedaubed with red and gold and carried

about like a guy or an advertisement, to increase the multitude of

subscribers. And the revolt of her reason gathered additional strength

when she thought of the retirement of Abbé Quandieu, the gentle and

paternal confessor, to whom she had returned when the suspicious ardour

of Father Théodose had alarmed her. If such a man as the Abbé felt

unable to abide in the Church, such as it had been made by the clerical

policy of hatred and domination, was it not certain that all upright

souls would henceforth find it difficult to remain in it?

Doubtless, however, Geneviève's evolution would not have been so

rapid if certain preparatory work had not been already effected in

her, slowly and without her knowledge. In order that one might fully

understand those first causes, it was necessary to recall the whole

of her story. Inheriting much of her father's nature--tender, gay,

and amorous--she had fallen in love with Marc, carried away by such

ardent passion that, in order to have that modest schoolmaster as her

husband, she was willing to dwell with him almost in poverty, in the

depths of a lonely village. Weary, too, in her eighteenth year, of the

mournful life she had led beside Madame Duparque, the idea of liberty

had attracted her; and for a moment it had seemed as if she had cast

aside all her pious training, for with her husband she had displayed

such youthful enchantment that he had been able to think she was wholly

his. Moreover, if any fears lurked within him, he had dismissed them,

setting himself to worship her, imagining he would be powerful enough

to recast her in his own image, and so carried away by the happiness of

the hour that he deferred that moral conquest till some other time.

But her past had revived, and again he had shown weakness, delaying

action under the pretext of respecting the freedom of her conscience,

and allowing her to return to religious observances. All her childhood

then came back, the mystical poison which had not been eliminated from

her system asserted itself, and the crisis which fatally assails the

souls of women nourished on errors and falsehoods arrived, her case

being aggravated by her frequentation of that bigoted and domineering

woman, her grandmother. Then a whole series of incidents--the Simon

case, the postponement of Louise's first Communion--had precipitated

the rupture between husband and wife. In Geneviève there glowed a

desire for the _au-delà_ of passion, a hope of finding in heaven the

divine and boundless bliss promised to her formerly in her girlish

days; and her love for Marc had simply become dimmed amid her dream

of the ecstasies which the canticles celebrate, an ever loftier and

ever deceptive delight. But in vain had others excited her, lied to

her, set her against her husband, by promising to raise her to the

highest truth, the most perfect felicity. The failure, the defeat she

ever encountered, sprang from her abandonment of the only natural

and possible human happiness; for never since that time had she been

able to content her longings. She had lived, indeed, amid increasing

distress without either repose or joy, however stubbornly she might

declare that she had found felicity in her deceptive and empty chimeras.

Even now she did not confess in what a void she had ever remained

after her long prayers on the old flagstones of chapels, her useless

Communions, when she had vainly hoped to feel the flesh and blood of

Jesus mingling with her own in a union of eternal rapture. But good

Mother Nature each day was winning her back, restoring her a little

more to health and human love; while the old poison of mysticism

became in an increasing degree eliminated at each successive defeat

of religious imposture. Cast for a time into great perturbation,

she strove to divert her thoughts, to stupefy herself, by stern and

painful religious practices in order that she might not be compelled to

understand that her love for Marc had reawakened, that she craved for

rest in his embrace, in the one, sole, eternal certainty which makes of

husband and wife the emblems of health and happiness.

But quarrels had broken out between Madame Duparque and Geneviève,

and had grown more and more frequent and bitter. The grandmother felt

that her granddaughter was escaping from her. She watched her closely,

made her almost a prisoner; but, whenever a dispute arose, Geneviève

always had the resource of shutting herself up in her own room. There

she could dwell upon her thoughts, and she did not answer even when the

terrible old woman came up and hammered at the door. In this way she

secluded herself on two successive Sundays, refusing to accompany her

grandmother to vespers, in spite of both entreaties and threats.

Madame Duparque, now seventy-eight years old, had become a most

uncompromising bigot, fashioned in that sense by a long life of

absolute servitude to the Church. Reared by a rigid mother, she had

found no affection in her husband, whose mind had been set on his

business. For nearly five and twenty years they had kept a draper's

shop in front of the Cathedral of St. Maxence at Beaumont, a shop

whose custom came chiefly from the convents and the parsonages. And it

was towards her thirtieth year that Madame Duparque, neglected by her

husband and too upright to take a lover, had begun to devote herself

more and more to religious observances. She checked her passions, she

quieted them amid the ceremonies of the ritual, the smell of the

incense, the fervour of the prayers, the mystical assignations she made

with the fair-haired Jesus depicted in pious prints. Having never known

the transports of love, she found sufficient consolation in the society

of priests. And not only did she derive happiness from the unctuous

gestures and caressing words of her confessor, but even his occasional

rigour, his threats of hell and all its torments, sent a delightful

quiver coursing through her veins. In blind belief and strict adherence

to the most rigid practices, she found, too, not only satisfaction

for her deadened senses, but the support and governance she needed in

her weakness as a daughter of the ages. The Church knows it well; it

does not conquer woman only by the sensuality of its worship, it makes

her its own by brutalising and terrorising her. It treats her as a

slave habituated to harsh treatment for centuries, a slave who ends by

feeling a bitter delight in her very servitude.

Thus Madame Duparque, broken to obedience from her cradle days,

was one of the subjugated daughters of the Church, one of those

creatures whom it distrusts, strikes, and disciplines, turning them

into docile instruments, which enable it to attack men and conquer

them in their turn. When, after losing her husband and liquidating

her business, Madame Duparque had installed herself at Maillebois,

her one occupation, her one passion had become the practice of that

authoritarian piety, by which she strove to remedy the spoiling of

her life, and obtain compensation for all the natural joys, all the

human forms of happiness, which she had never known. And the roughness

with which she tried to impose her narrow, chilling faith upon her

granddaughter Geneviève was due, in some degree certainly, to the

regret she felt at having never experienced the felicity of love, which

she would have liked to forbid her grandchild, as if it were indeed

some unknown and perchance delightful hell, where she herself would

never set foot.

But between the grandmother and the granddaughter there was the

doleful Madame Berthereau. She likewise seemed to be only a devotee

bent beneath the rule of the Church, which had taken possession of her

from the moment of her birth. Never for a single day had she ceased to

follow its observances. With loving weakness her husband, Berthereau

the freethinker, had accompanied her to Mass. But she had also known

his love, the ardent passion with which he had always encompassed

her, and the recollection of it possessed her for ever. Though many

years had elapsed since his death, she still belonged to him; she lived

on that one memory, ending her days in solitude, in the arms of that

dear shade. This explained her long spells of silence, the resigned,

retiring manner she preserved in the mournful little house to which,

as to a convent, she had withdrawn with her daughter Geneviève. She

had never thought of marrying again; she had become a second Madame

Duparque, rigidly and meticulously pious, clad invariably in black, and

showing a waxen countenance, a cowed and crushed demeanour under the

rough hand which weighed so heavily on the house. At the utmost a faint

twinge of bitterness appeared on her tired lips, and a fugitive gleam

of rebellion shone in her submissive eyes when at times the memory of

her dead husband, awakening within her, filled her amid the frigid

empty life of religious observances in which she agonised with bitter

regret for all the old happiness of love. And of recent times only the

sight of her daughter Geneviève's frightful torment, that struggle of

a woman for whom priest and husband were contending, had been able

to draw her from the shrinking self-surrender of a recluse taking no

interest in the cares of worldly life, and lend her enough courage to

face her terrible mother.

And now Madame Berthereau was near her death, well pleased, personally,

by the prospect of that deliverance. Nevertheless, as her strength

ebbed away, day by day, she felt more and more grieved at having to

leave Geneviève struggling in torture, and at the mercy of Madame

Duparque. When she herself was gone, what would become of her poor

daughter in that abode of agony, where she had suffered so dreadfully

already? To the poor dying woman the thought of going off like

that, without doing anything, saying anything that might save her

daughter, and help her to recover a little health and happiness,

became intolerable. It haunted her, and one evening, when it was

still possible for her to speak gently and very slowly, she mustered

sufficient courage to satisfy her heart.

It was an evening in September--a mild and rainy one. Night was at

hand, and the little room, which, with its few old pieces of walnut

furniture, had an aspect of conventual simplicity, was gradually

growing dim. As the sick woman could not lie down, for she then at

once began to stifle, she remained in a sitting posture, propped up

by pillows, on a couch. Although she was only fifty-six, her long sad

face, crowned by snowy hair, looked very aged indeed, worn and blanched

by the emptiness of her life. Geneviève sat near her in an armchair,

and Louise had just come upstairs with a cup of milk, the only

nourishment which the ailing woman could still take. A heavy silence

was lulling the house to sleep, the last clang of the bells of the

Capuchin Chapel having just died away in the lifeless atmosphere of the

little deserted square.

'My daughter,' at last said Madame Berthereau in accents which came

from her lips very faintly and slowly, 'as we are alone, I beg you to

listen to me, for I have various things to tell you, and it is quite

time I should do so.'

Geneviève, surprised, and anxious as to the effect which this supreme

effort might have on her mother, wished her to remain silent. But

Madame Berthereau made such a resolute gesture that the young woman

merely inquired: 'Do you wish to speak to me alone, mother? Would you

like Louise to go away?'

For a moment Madame Berthereau preserved silence. She had turned her

face towards the girl, who, tall and charming, with a lofty brow and

frank eyes, gazed at her in affectionate distress. And the old lady

ended by murmuring: 'I prefer Louise to remain. She is seventeen, she

also ought to know.... Come and sit here, close beside me, my darling.'

Then, the girl having seated herself on a chair by the side of the

couch, Madame Berthereau took hold of her hands. 'I know how sensible

and brave you are,' she said, 'and if I have sometimes blamed you, I

none the less acknowledge how frank you are.... To-day, do you know,

now that I am near my last hour, I believe in nothing save kindness.'

Again she paused for a moment, reflecting, and turning her eyes towards

the open window, towards the paling sky, as if she were seeking her

long life of dejection and resignation in the farewell gleam of the

sun. Then her eyes came back to her daughter, at whom for a while she

remained gazing with an expression of indescribable compassion.

'It grieves me extremely, my Geneviève, to leave you so unhappy,'

she said. 'Ah! do not say no. I sometimes hear you sobbing overhead,

at night, when you are unable to sleep. And I can picture your

wretchedness, the battle which rends your heart.... For years now you

have been suffering, and I have not had even enough bravery to succour

you.'

Hot tears gathered suddenly in Geneviève's eyes. The evocation of her

sufferings at that tragic hour quite upset her. 'Mother, I beg you, do

not think of me,' she stammered; 'my only grief will be that of losing

you.'

'No, no, my girl; each has to go in turn, satisfied or in despair,

according to the life which he or she has chosen. But those who remain

behind ought not to persevere obstinately in useless suffering when

they may still be happy.' And joining her hands, and raising them with

a gesture of ardent entreaty, Madame Berthereau added: 'Oh! my girl,

I beg you, do not remain a day longer in this house. Make haste, take

your children, and go back to your husband.'

Geneviève did not even have time to answer. A tall black form was

before her, for Madame Duparque had slipped noiselessly into the room.

Always prowling about the house, haunted by an everlasting suspicion

of sin, she began to worry herself directly she was at a loss to tell

where Geneviève and Louise might be. If they had hidden themselves did

it not follow that they must be doing something evil? Moreover, the old

woman never liked to leave them long with Madame Berthereau for fear

lest something forbidden should be said. That evening, therefore, she

had crept up the stairs as quietly as possible, with her ears on the

alert; and, hearing certain words, she had gently opened the door, thus

catching the others _in flagrante delicto_.

'What is that you say, my daughter?' she demanded, her rasping voice

ringing with angry imperiousness.

The sick woman, pale already, became quite ghastly at that sudden

intervention, while Geneviève and Louise remained thunderstruck,

alarmed also as to what might now happen.

'What is that you say, my daughter?' Madame Duparque repeated. 'Are you

not aware that God can hear you?'

Madame Berthereau had sunk back on her pillows, closing her eyes as if

to collect her courage. She had so greatly hoped that she might be able

to speak to Geneviève alone, and avoid a battle with her redoubtable

mother. All her life long she had avoided any such collision, any such

struggle, feeling that she would be beaten in it. But now she had only

a few hours left her to be good and brave; and so she opened her eyes,

and dared--at last--to speak out.

'May God indeed hear me, mother! I am doing my duty,' she said. 'I

have told my daughter to take her children and return to her husband,

for she will only find real health and happiness in the home which she

quitted so imprudently.'

Madame Duparque, who waved her arms violently, had been minded to

interrupt her at the first word she spoke. But awed, perhaps, by the

majesty of death, which was already gathering in the room, embarrassed

too by the heartfelt cry of that poor enslaved creature, whose reason

and whose love were at last freeing themselves from their shackles, the

terrible old lady allowed her daughter to finish her sentence. A pause,

fraught with infinite anguish, then followed between those four women

who were thus gathered together, and who represented four generations

of their line.

There was a certain family resemblance between them; they were all

tall, they had long faces and somewhat prominent noses. But Madame

Duparque, now eight and seventy, and displaying a harsh jaw and rigidly

wrinkled cheeks, had grown lean and sallow in the practice of narrow

piety; whereas Madame Berthereau, who had reached her fifty-sixth year,

showed more flesh and suppleness, in spite of her malady, and still

retained on her livid face the gentleness bequeathed by the brief love

which she had tasted, and which she had ever mourned. From those two

solemn women, dark-haired in their younger days, had sprung Geneviève,

fair and gay, refined by paternal heredity, loving and lovable, and

still very charming at seven and thirty years of age. And Louise, the

last, who would soon be in her eighteenth year, was in her turn a

brunette, with hair of a deep gilded brown, inherited from her father,

Marc, who had also bestowed on her his broad forehead, and his large

bright eyes, glowing with passion for truth.

In like way one detected among those four women the progress of moral

evolution. First there was the great-grandmother, a serf of the Church,

one whose flesh and mind had been absolutely subjugated, who had become

a passive instrument of error and domination; next there was the

daughter, who had remained a practising and conquered Catholic, but who

was disturbed, tortured by her brief experience of human happiness;

then came the struggling granddaughter, in whose poor heart and mind

Catholicism was fighting its last battle, who was almost rent atwain

between the mendacious nothingness of her mystical education, and the

living reality of her wifely love and motherly tenderness, who needed,

too, all her strength to free herself; and finally there was the

great-granddaughter, who was at last freed, who had escaped the clutch

which the priest sets upon women and children, and who, all youth and

health, had reverted to happy nature, to the glorious beneficence of

the sunlight.

But in faint, slow accents Madame Berthereau was repeating: 'Listen,

my Geneviève! Do not remain here any longer. As soon as I am gone,

go away--go as speedily as you can.... My misfortunes began on the

day when I lost your father. He adored me. The only hours that I ever

really lived were those that I spent beside him; and I have often

reproached myself for not having then appreciated them more, for in

my stupidity I was ignorant of their value, and I only understood

how delightful, how unique they had been, when I came here, a widow,

loveless, for ever cut off from the world.... Ah! the icy cold of this

house, how often has it made me shiver! Ah! the silence and the gloom

in which I have gone on dying for years, not even daring to open a

window to inhale a little life, so foolish and so cowardly I was!'

Erect and motionless, Madame Duparque still refrained from interrupting

her daughter; but on hearing that cry of dolorous rebellion she could

not restrain a gesture of protest. 'I will not prevent you from

speaking, my daughter,' she said when the other paused, 'though if

you have a confession to make it would be better to send for Father

Théodose.... But since you were not wholly God's, why did you seek

refuge in this house? You knew very well that here you would find none

but God.'

'I have confessed,' the dying woman answered gently. 'I shall not go

off without receiving extreme unction, for I belong to God entirely,

I can only belong to Him now.... And even if I suffered so much from

the loss of my husband, I never regretted having come here. Where else

could I have gone? I had no other refuge. I was too closely linked to

religion to attempt to seek other happiness, even for an instant. Thus

I have lived the life I was bound to live.... But my daughter, in her

turn, is suffering too cruelly, and I will not have her begin my sorry

story over again, and fade away in the void in which I have agonised

for so many years, for she is free, and she still has a husband who

adores her.... You hear me, you hear me, do you not, my daughter?'

With a gesture of tender entreaty, she held out her poor waxen hands,

and Geneviève fell upon her knees beside her, with big tears rolling

down her cheeks, so deeply was she stirred by that extraordinary scene,

that poignant awakening of love at the very hour of death.

'Mother, I beg you, mother,' she said, 'do not continue to grieve about

my sufferings. You rend my heart by thinking only of me when we are all

here, with the one desire to give you a little comfort, whereas you, it

seems, wish to go off in despair.'

Increasing excitement had now gained possession of Madame Berthereau.

Taking Geneviève's head between her hands, she gazed into her eyes and

answered, 'No, no, listen to me. There is only one thing that can make

me happy before I leave you, and that is a certainty that you will

not lead a life of sacrifice and torture as I have done. Give me that

last consolation, do not let me go without your promise.... I shall

repeat what I have said as long as I have strength to do so. Leave this

house of error and death, return to your home, your husband. Give him

back his children, love each other with all your strength. Life lies

in that, and truth, aye, and happiness also.... I beg you, my girl,

promise me, swear to me that you will comply with my last desire.'

Then, as Geneviève, utterly upset, choking with sobs, gave her no

answer, Madame Berthereau turned towards Louise, who, likewise

distracted, was now kneeling at the other side of the couch. 'Help

me, my dear granddaughter,' she said, 'I know what your views are. I

have noticed your efforts to lead your mother home. You are a little

fairy, a very sensible little person, and you have done a great deal

to give a little quietness to all four of us.... Your mother must make

me a promise, is it not so? Tell her that she will make me very joyful

indeed by promising me to be happy.'

Louise had caught hold of the poor woman's hands, and kissing them she

stammered: 'Oh! grandmother, grandmother, how good you are, and how I

love you!... Mother will remember your last wishes, she will reflect,

and act as her heart bids her, you may be sure of it.'

Madame Duparque meanwhile had not for a moment departed from her

rigidity. Her eyes alone seemed to be alive in her frigid, wrinkled

face. And furious anger blazed in them while she strove to restrain

herself from any brutal action. At last she growled huskily: 'Be quiet,

all three of you! You are unhappy infidels, rebelling against God,

who will punish you with the flames of hell.... Be quiet, I tell you,

don't let me hear another word! Am I no longer mistress here? You, my

daughter, your illness has impaired your mind, I am willing to grant

it. You, my granddaughter, have Satan in you, and I excuse you for

having failed as yet to drive him out, in spite of your penitence.

And you, my great-granddaughter, I still hope that when I am free to

correct you I shall prevent you from going to damnation.... Be quiet,

my children, I tell you. If it were not for me you would not exist! It

is I who command here, and you would be guilty of yet another mortal

sin if you should not obey me!'

Her stature seemed to have increased, and her voice had risen while,

with fierce gestures, she thus spoke in the name of her Deity of anger

and vengeance. But, in spite of her commands, her daughter, who already

felt freed from her domination by the approach of death, was bold

enough to continue: 'I have been obeying for more than twenty years,

mother, I have preserved silence for more than twenty years; and if

my last hour were not at hand, perhaps I should be so cowardly as to

obey and keep silent now.... But I have gone through too much. All

that has tortured me, all that I have left unsaid would choke me in my

grave, and even there the cry I have stifled so long would rise from my

lips.... Oh! my daughter, promise me, promise me what I ask!'

Then Madame Duparque, beside herself, exclaimed in a rougher voice:

'Geneviève, I, your grandmother, forbid you to speak!'

It was Louise who, seeing that her mother was still sobbing, waging

a most frightful battle, with her face close pressed to the blanket

spread over the couch, took upon herself to answer in her resolute yet

deferential way: 'Grandmother, one must be kind to grandmother who is

so ill. Mother also is very ailing, and it is cruel to upset her like

this. Is it not right that each should act according to her conscience?'

Thereupon, without giving Madame Duparque time to intervene again,

Geneviève, whose heart melted, touched as it was by her daughter's

courageous gentleness, raised her head, and kissed the dying woman

with intense emotion: 'Mother, mother, you may sleep in peace, I will

not let you carry away any bitter thought on my account.... Yes, I

promise you I will remember your desire, I promise you I will do all

that my love for you may advise me to do.... Yes, yes, there is only

kindness, there is only love: therein lies the only truth.'

Then, as Madame Berthereau, exhausted, but with a divine smile

brightening her face, pressed her daughter to her bosom, Madame

Duparque made a last threatening gesture. The twilight had now fallen,

and only the pale gleam of the broad, cloudless sky, where the first

stars were shining, lighted up the room; while the open window admitted

the deep silence that rose from the deserted square, broken only by

the laugh of a child. And as everything thus sank into a quiescence

through which swept the august breath of coming death, the old woman,

who in her obstinacy would neither see nor hear, added these words:

'You belong to me no more, neither daughter, nor granddaughter, nor

great-granddaughter. One impelling the other, you are, all three of

you, on the road to eternal damnation! Go, go! God casts you off, and I

cast you off also!'

Then she departed, shutting the door roughly behind her. In the dim

quiet room the mother remained agonising between her daughter and her

granddaughter, all three united in the same embrace. And for a long,

long while they continued weeping, their tears full of delightful

comfort as well as bitter grief.

Two days later Madame Berthereau died, in a very Catholic spirit, after

receiving extreme unction, as she had desired. At the church the stern

demeanour of Madame Duparque, clad in the deepest mourning, was much

remarked. Only Louise accompanied her. Geneviève had been obliged to

take to her bed again, overcome by such a nervous shock that she seemed

no longer able to see or hear. For three days longer she thus remained

in bed with her face turned to the wall, unwilling to answer anybody,

even her daughter. She must have suffered terribly; distressful moans

escaped her, fits of weeping shook her from head to foot. When the

grandmother went up to her, obstinately remaining there, lecturing

her, and pointing out the necessity of appeasing the divine anger, the

attacks became yet more violent, there were convulsions and shrieks.

And Louise, who wished her mother to be spared any such aggravation

of her torment, in the supreme struggle which was almost rending her

asunder, ended by bolting the door, and remaining there as a sentinel,

forbidding access to everybody.

On the fourth day came the _dénouement_. Pélagie alone managed to force

an occasional entry in order to attend to certain work. Sixty years of

age, with a sullen face, a large nose, and thin lips, the servant had

become not only very thin, almost withered, but also insufferable in

manner. Ever mumbling sour words, she actually overruled her terrible

mistress, and often turned the work-girls, whom the latter engaged

to help her, into the street. Madame Duparque kept her, however, for

she was an old retainer, an old instrument who had always been ready

at hand. Indeed, her mistress could hardly have lived if she had

not had that underling, that serf beside her to extend, as it were,

her domination over all around. She employed her as a spy, as the

executor of base designs, and in return she herself belonged to her,

having to put up with all the bad temper, all the additional worry and

dolefulness with which the other filled the house.

On the morning of the fourth day, after the first breakfast, Pélagie,

having gone upstairs to fetch the cups and plates, hastened down again,

quite scared, and said to her mistress: 'Does madame know what is going

on up there? They are packing their trunks!'

'The mother and daughter?'

'Yes, madame. Oh! they are making no secret of it. The girl goes from

one room to the other, carrying armfuls of linen.... If madame cares to

go up, the door is wide open.'

Frigidly, without answering, Madame Duparque went up. And she indeed

found Geneviève and Louise actively engaged in packing two trunks, as

if for immediate departure, while little Clément, who was scarcely six

years old, sat very quietly on a chair, watching the preparations. The

mother and daughter just raised their heads when the old lady entered,

then went on with their work again.

A moment of silence followed; finally, Madame Duparque, not a muscle of

whose face stirred, but who seemed to become yet more frigid and stern,

inquired: 'Do you feel better, then, Geneviève?'

'Yes, grandmother. I have still some fever, but I shall never get well

if I remain shut up here.'

'So you have decided to go elsewhere, I see. Where are you going?'

A quiver came over Geneviève, who once more raised her head, showing

her eyes, which were still red with weeping: 'I am going where I

promised my mother I would go. For four days past the struggle has been

killing me.'

Another pause ensued. 'Your promise did not seem to me a formal one; I

regarded your words as mere words of consolation,' said Madame Duparque

at last. 'So you are going back to that man? You can have very little

pride!'

'Pride! Ah, yes, I know, it is by pride that you have kept me here so

long.... But I have had plenty of pride. Many a time, though I have

wept all night long, I have refused to admit my error.... But now I

understand the stupidity of my pride, the wretchedness into which I

have sunk is too great.'

'You unhappy creature! Has neither prayer nor penitence been able to

rid you of the poison, then? That poison is mastering you again, and it

will end by casting you into eternal punishment should you relapse into

your abominable sin.'

'What poison are you talking of, grandmother? My husband loves me,

and, in spite of everything, I love him still. Is that poison? I have

struggled for five years; I wished to give myself entirely to God;

why did not God fill the aching void of my being, in which I desired

to receive Him alone? Religion has satisfied me neither as to wifely

happiness nor as to motherly tenderness, and if I am now going back to

that happiness and tenderness, it is because of the downfall of that

heaven in which I have found only deception and falsehood.'

'You are blaspheming, my girl, and you will be punished for it by the

most cruel sufferings.... If the poison which has tortured you did not

come from Satan, it follows that it must have come from God. Faith

is forsaking you; you are on the high road to negation, to absolute

perdition.'

'That is true; for months now I have believed a little less each day.

I did not dare to confess it to myself, but amid all my bitterness of

feeling something was slowly destroying the beliefs of my childhood

and youth.... How strange it was! All my childhood full of chimeras,

all my pious youth had revived within me, with all the fine mysteries

and ceremonies of worship, when I first sought refuge here. But when

I again endeavoured to plunge into the _au delà_ of the mysteries,

when I strove to give myself to Jesus amid the chants and the flowers,

those dreams gradually faded, became mere deceptive fancies, in which

nought of my being found contentment.... Yes, the poison must have been

my training, the errors in which I grew up, which brought me so much

suffering when they revived, and of which I shall only be cured when

the evil ferment is completely eliminated.... Shall I ever be cured? I

hardly know. There is still such strife within me!'

Madame Duparque was restraining herself, for she well understood that

violence on her part would seal her rupture with the young woman and

the girl, who, with the little boy, seated on his chair, listening

attentively without understanding, were all that remained of her race.

Thus she was minded to make a last effort, and addressing herself to

Louise, she said: 'You, my poor child, are the most to be pitied, and

I shudder when I think of the pit of abomination into which you are

casting yourself.... If you had made your first Communion all these

sorrows would have been spared us. God is punishing us for having

failed to overcome your impious resistance. Yet there is still time,

and what favours would you not obtain from His infinite mercy if you

would only submit, and approach the Holy Table as a humble handmaiden

of Jesus!'

But the girl responded gently: 'Why revert to that, grandmother? You

know very well what promise I gave my father. I cannot vary in my

answer; I will come to a decision when I am twenty; I shall then see if

I have faith.'

'But, you unhappy, obstinate child, if you go back to that man, who has

wrecked both your mother's life and your own, your decision can be told

in advance! You will remain without any belief, any religion at all,

like a mere beast of the fields!'

Then, as the daughter and mother deferentially preserved silence, and

even resumed their packing in order to curtail a useless and painful

discussion, the old lady gave expression to a last desire: 'Well, if

you have both resolved to go, at least leave me the little boy--leave

me Clément. He will redeem your folly, I will bring him up in the love

of God, I will make a holy priest of him, and at least I shall not be

alone; there will be two of us to pray that the divine anger may not

fall upon you on the terrible Day of Judgment.'

But Geneviève had sprung to her feet. 'Leave Clément!' she exclaimed;

'why, it is largely on his account that I am going. I no longer know

how to bring him up; I wish to restore him to his father, in order that

we may come to an understanding and endeavour to make a man of him....

No, no, I am taking him with me!'

Then Louise, who also stepped forward, added very gently and

respectfully: 'Why do you say that you will remain alone, grandmother?

We do not wish to forsake you, we will often come to see you, every day

if you will allow us. And we will love you well, and try to show you

how much we desire to make you happy.'

Madame Duparque could restrain herself no longer. The flood of anger

which she had found it so difficult to check flowed over and carried

her away with a rush of furious words: 'That's enough! Keep quiet! I

will listen to you no longer! But you are quite right, pack your boxes

and be off! Be off, all three of you, I cast you out! Go and join that

cursed man, that bandit who spat on God and His ministers to endeavour

to save that filthy Jew, who has been twice condemned!'

'Simon is innocent!' cried Geneviève, in her turn losing all restraint;

'and those who caused him to be condemned are liars and forgers!'

'Yes, yes, I know; it is that affair which has ruined you and is

separating us. You imagine the Jew to be innocent; you can no longer

believe in God. But your imbecile justice is the negation of divine

authority. And for that reason all is quite over between us.... Go, go

as quickly as possible with your children! Don't soil this house any

longer, don't bring any more thunderbolts upon it! You are the sole

cause of its misfortunes.... And, mind, don't set foot here again; I

cast you off, I cast you off for ever! When once you have crossed the

threshold you need never knock at the door, it will not be opened to

you. I have no children left, I am alone in the world, and I will live

and die alone!'

As she spoke, the old woman, nearly in her eightieth year, drew up

her lofty figure with a fierce energy. Her voice was still strong,

her gestures were commanding ones. She cursed, she punished, she

exterminated after the fashion of her Deity of wrath and death. And

afterwards she descended the stairs with a pitiless tread, and shut

herself in her room, waiting there till the last children of her flesh

should be gone for ever.

It so happened that Marc, that very same day, received a visit from

Salvan, who found him in the large classroom, which was quite bright

with the glow of the September sunshine. The vacation would come to

an end in another ten days, and, though Marc hourly expected to be

informed of his dismissal, he was consulting his books and notes as

if preparing for the new school year. However, by Salvan's grave if

smiling demeanour, he at once understood the truth.

'This time it's done, is it not?' he exclaimed.

_'Mon Dieu_, yes, it's done, my friend. Quite a long list of changes,

appointments, and promotions, prepared by Le Barazer, has been

signed.... Jauffre will leave Jonville and come to Beaumont, which is

fine advancement for him. That clerical Chagnat goes from Le Moreux to

Dherbecourt, which is scandalous when one remembers what a brute the

fellow is.... For my part, I am simply pensioned off to make room for

Mauraisin, who triumphs.... And you, my friend----'

'I am dismissed, eh?'

'No, no, you have simply fallen into disgrace. You are sent back to

Jonville in the place of Jauffre, and Mignot, your assistant, who is

compromised with you, is to take Chagnat's post at Le Moreux.'

Marc raised a cry of happy surprise: 'But I am delighted!'

Salvan, who had come expressly to acquaint him with the news, indulged

in a hearty laugh. 'That is Le Barazer's diplomacy, you see! That is

what he was preparing, when, according to his habit, he endeavoured

to gain time. He has ended by satisfying that terrible Sanglebœuf and

all the other reactionaries by appointing Mauraisin to succeed me,

and promoting Jauffre and Chagnat. And this has enabled him to retain

your services and those of Mignot. Outwardly he seems to blame you,

but he does not intend to disown you entirely. Besides, he is leaving

Mademoiselle Mazeline here, and in your place is appointing Joulic, one

of my best pupils, a man of free and healthy mind. Thus Maillebois,

Jonville, and Le Moreux will be henceforth provided with excellent

masters, ardent missionaries of the future.... That is the position,

and, I tell you once again, nobody can alter Le Barazer; one must take

him as he is and feel pleased, even when what he does is only half of

what one would like to see.'

'I am delighted,' Marc repeated. 'It was more particularly the prospect

of having to quit the profession altogether that grieved me. Thinking

of the new term I felt sorrowful all this morning. Where could I have

gone, what could I have done? It will certainly pain me to leave the

boys here, for I am very fond of them. But my consolation will be to

find others yonder, to whom I shall also become attached. And as for

the humbleness of the school, what does that matter if I am able to

continue my life-work and still sow the seed which alone can yield the

harvest of truth and equity? Ah! yes, I shall go back to Jonville right

willingly, and with fresh hope.'

Then he strode gaily about the bright, sunshiny classroom as if again

taking on himself that teaching mission, the relinquishment of which

would have been so hard to bear. And at last, with juvenile ardour

and delight, he flung his arms about Salvan and embraced him. At that

same moment Mignot, who, also expecting dismissal, had been seeking a

situation for some days past, came in, worried at having encountered

another refusal on the part of the manager of a neighbouring factory.

But when he learnt that he was appointed to Le Moreux, he likewise gave

expression to his joy. 'Le Moreux! Le Moreux! a real land of savages!'

said he. 'No matter, one will try to civilise them a little. And we

sha'n't be separated, the distance is less than three miles. That, you

know, is what pleases me most of all!'

But Marc had now calmed down, and, indeed, sorrow was reviving in him,

dimming his eyes once more. Silence fell, and the others could feel a

quiver pass--the quiver of hope deferred, of a heart-pang which was

ever keen. How hard would be the battle that Marc still had before him,

how many more tears must he shed before he regained his lost happiness!

At that thought he, and the others also, preserved silence; and Salvan,

unable to give his friends any further comfort, sank into a sorrowful

reverie as he stood gazing through the large sunlit window which faced

the square outside.

But all at once he exclaimed: 'Why, are you expecting somebody?'

'Expecting somebody?' rejoined Marc, at a loss to understand.

'Yes, here comes a little hand-cart with some trunks on it.'

At that same moment the door opened, and they turned round. It was

Geneviève who came in, holding little Clément by the hand, and having

Louise also beside her. The surprise and the emotion were so great that

at first nobody spoke. Marc was trembling. But Geneviève, in a halting

voice, began at last: 'My dear Marc, I have brought you back your son.

Yes, I give him back to you--he belongs to you--he belongs to us both.

Let us try to make a man of him.'

The boy had stretched out his little arms, and the father caught him

up wildly, and pressed him to his heart, while the mother, the wife,

continued: 'And I have come back to you with him, my good Marc. You

told me that I should bring him back, and come back myself.... It

was truth that first conquered me; then all that you had set in me

germinated, no doubt, and I have no pride left.... And here I am, for

I still love you.... I vainly sought other happiness, but only your

love exists. Apart from us and our children there is only unreason and

wretchedness.... Take me back, my good Marc! I give myself to you as

you give yourself to me.'

Thus speaking, she had slowly drawn near to her husband, and she was

about to cast her arms around his neck when Louise's gay voice was

heard: 'And I, and I, father! I must share in it too, you know. You

must not forget me.'

'Yes, indeed, she must share in it, the dear girl!' said Geneviève.

'She strove so much to bring about this happiness, she showed such

gentleness and skill.'

Then she caught Louise also in her embrace, and kissed both her and

Marc, who was already holding Clément to his heart. All four were at

last reunited, held in the same bond of flesh and love, having but one

heart, one breath between them. And what a quiver of deep humanity, of

fruitful and healthy joy now filled that large classroom, which looked

so bare and empty, pending the return of the boys for the new term! Big

tears welled into the eyes of Salvan and Mignot, whom emotion quite

upset.

At last Marc was able to speak, and his whole heart rose to his lips:

'Ah! my dear wife, as you return to me you must at last be cured.

I knew it would be so. You turned to more and more rigid religious

practices as to stronger and stronger stupefacients for the purpose of

sending your nature to sleep; but, in spite of everything, nature was

bound to eliminate the poison when at last you again felt that you were

a wife and a mother.... Yes, yes, you are right: love has delivered

you; you are won from that religion of error and death, from which

human society has suffered for eighteen centuries past.'

But Geneviève quivered again, becoming anxious and disturbed. 'Ah! no,

no, my good Marc, do not say that! Who can tell if I am really cured?

Never, perhaps, shall I be cured completely.... Our Louise will be

entirely free, but the mark set on me is ineffaceable, I shall always

be afraid of relapsing into those mystical dreams.... And if I have

come back, it is to seek a refuge in your embrace, and to enable you to

complete the work that has begun. Keep me, perfect me, try to prevent

anything from ever separating us again!'

They caught each other in a tighter clasp: it was as if they were but

one. Even as Geneviève had said, was not that the great work which

needed to be accomplished--the work of taking woman from the Church,

and setting her in her true place as companion and mother, by the side

of man? For only the freed woman can free man: her slavery is ours.

But all at once Louise, who a moment previously had disappeared, opened

the door again, bringing with her Mademoiselle Mazeline, who entered

breathless and smiling. 'Mamma,' said the girl, 'mademoiselle must have

a share in our happiness. If you only knew how she has loved me, and

how kind and useful she was here!'

Geneviève stepped forward and embraced the schoolmistress

affectionately. 'I knew it,' she said. 'Thank you, my friend, for all

you did for us during our long worries.'

The good woman laughed, with tears in her eyes. 'Oh! don't thank me, my

dear. It is I who am grateful to you for all the happiness you give me

to-day.'

Salvan and Mignot were also laughing now. More handshakes were

exchanged. And as Salvan, amid the babel of voices which burst forth,

informed the schoolmistress of the appointments signed the previous

day, Geneviève raised a cry of joy.

'What! we are going back to Jonville? Is it really true?... Ah!

Jonville, that charming, lonely village where we loved each other so

well, where we first lived together so happily! What a good omen it is

that we are going back there, to begin our life afresh in affection and

quietude! Maillebois made me feel nervous, but Jonville is hope and

certainty.'

Renewed courage and infinite confidence in the future were now

upbuoying Marc, filling him with superb enthusiasm. 'Love has returned

to us,' said he; 'henceforth we are all-powerful. And even though

falsehood, iniquity, and crime triumphed to-day, eternal victory will

to-morrow be ours.'