In September, then, the simple but cheerful house stood completed in

its pleasant garden, which was faced by a railing on the side of the

square. Its affectionately-awaited owner might come to take possession

of it when he pleased, for nothing was lacking. True, a drapery hung

before the marble slab bearing an inscription over the doorway; but

this inscription, so far as Simon was concerned, was to be the great

surprise, and would only be uncovered at the last moment. Adrien

repaired to the Pyrenees to plan the final arrangements with Simon and

David, and it was then decided that the former's wife, who was in a

very weak state of health, should in the first instance install herself

in the house, with the help of her children, Joseph and Sarah. Then,

on the appointed day, Simon would arrive with his brother David. There

would be an official reception at the railway station, and afterwards

he would be conducted in triumph to his new home, the gift of his

fellow-townsmen, where his wife and children would await him.

At last, on the Twentieth of September, a Sunday, the solemnity was

enacted amid radiant sunshine and a warm and pure atmosphere. The

streets of Maillebois were decorated with flags, the last flowers

of the season were scattered along the procession's line of route.

And early in the morning--although the train would only arrive at

three o'clock in the afternoon--the population assembled out of

doors, gathering together in a happy, singing, laughing multitude,

whose numbers were swollen by all the visitors who flocked in from

neighbouring parishes. At noon one could no longer circulate outside

the house on the large new square, whose recreation-ground was invaded

by the working-class families of the neighbourhood. There were people,

too, at all the windows, and the very roadways were blocked by waves of

spectators eager to see and to cry their passion for justice. Nothing

could have been grander or more inspiring.

Marc and Geneviève had arrived from Jonville, with Clément, Charlotte,

and little Lucienne, early in the day. It was arranged that they

should await Simon in the garden of the house, grouped around Madame

Simon, her children, Joseph and Sarah, her grandchildren, François and

Thérèse, and her great-granddaughter, little Rose. Louise, of course,

was there, beside her husband Joseph, and Sébastien beside his wife

Sarah. These constituted the three generations which had sprung from

the blood of the innocent man mingled with that of his champions. Then,

also, places had been reserved for the first defenders, the survivors

of the heroic days,--Salvan, Mademoiselle Mazeline, and Mignot,--as

well as for the fervent artisans of the work of reparation, the now

conquered and enthusiastic members of the Bongard, Doloir, and Savin

families. It was rumoured that Delbos, the ex-advocate, the hero of

the two trials, who for four years recently had held the office of

Minister of the Interior, had gone to join Simon and David, in order

to reach the town in their company. Only the Mayor and a deputation of

the Municipal Council were to meet the brothers at the railway station

and conduct them to the house, decked with banners and garlands, where

the ceremony of presentation would take place. And there, in accordance

with this programme, Marc remained waiting with the rest of the family,

in spite of all his joyous eagerness to embrace the triumpher.

Two o'clock struck; there was still an hour to be spent patiently.

Meanwhile the crowd steadily increased. Marc, having left the garden

to mingle with the groups and hear what was being said, found that

the one subject of conversation was that extraordinary story emerging

from the past, that condemnation of an innocent man, which had become

both abominable and inexplicable in the eyes of the new generations.

From the younger folk a long cry of indignant amazement arose; while

the old people, those who had witnessed the iniquity, tried to defend

themselves with vague gestures and shamefaced explanations. Now that

the truth had become manifest in the full sunlight, endowed with all

the force of invincible certainty, the children and the grandchildren

could not understand how their parents and grandparents had carried

blindness and egotism so far as to fail to fathom so simple an affair.

And doubtless many of the older folk shared the astonishment of the

younger ones, and were at a loss to account for the credulity into

which they had fallen. That, indeed, was their best answer to the

reproaches they heard; it was necessary to have lived in those times

to understand the power of falsehood over ignorance. One old man

penitently confessed his error; another related how he had hissed Simon

on the day of his arrest, and how he had now been waiting two hours in

order to acclaim him, anxious as he was not to die with his bad action

upon his conscience. And a youth, his grandson, thereupon threw himself

on the old man's neck and kissed him, laughing, with tears in his eyes.

Marc was delightfully touched by the scene, and continued to walk

about, looking and listening.

But all at once he stopped short. He had just recognised Polydor

Souquet, clad in rags, with a ravaged countenance, as if still under

the effects of a night of intoxication. And Marc was thunderstruck when

by the side of Polydor he perceived Brother Gorgias, clad as usual in

black, without a sign of linen, his greasy old frock-coat clinging fast

to his dark hide. He, Gorgias, was not drunk. Silent and fierce of

aspect, erect in all his tragic leanness, he darted fiery glances at

the crowd. And Marc could hear that Polydor, with a drunkard's stupid

obstinacy, was deriding him respecting the affair, of which everybody

was talking around them. Slabbering and stammering, the scamp went on:

'I say, old man, the copy-slip--you remember, eh? The copy-slip! It

was I who sneaked it. I had it in my pocket, and I was stupid enough

to give it you back while you were seeing me home.... Ah, yes! that

wretched copy-slip.'

A sudden flash of light illumined Marc's mind. He now knew the

whole truth. The one gap in the affair, which had still worried him

occasionally, was now filled. Polydor had given the slip to Gorgias,

and that explained how it had chanced to be in his pocket, and how

it had become mingled with a copy of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ when,

terrified by his victim's cries, he had hastily sought a handkerchief,

a stopper of any kind, to use as a gag.

'But you know, old man,' stammered Polydor, 'we liked each other very

much, and we didn't tell our business to other folk. And yet, if I

_had_ chattered, what a rumpus there would have been! Ah! what a face

my Aunt Pélagie would have pulled!'

Half-fuddled, in an ignoble state, the rascal went on jeering,

unconscious, it seemed, of the presence of the people around him. And

Gorgias, who from time to time gave him a contemptuous glance, must

suddenly have understood that Marc had heard the drunkard's involuntary

confession, for in a low voice he growled: 'Be quiet, you wine-bag! Be

quiet, you rotten cur! You stink of your sin and mine; you have damned

me again by your ignominy! Be quiet, you filthy thing; it is I who will

speak! Yes, I will confess my fault, in order that God may pardon me!'

Then, addressing himself to Marc, who was still lost in silent

amazement, he went on: 'You heard him, Monsieur Froment, didn't you?

Well, it's necessary that all should hear. I have been consumed long

enough by a desire to confess myself to men, even as I have confessed

to God, in order that my salvation may be the more glorious. And,

besides, all these people exasperate me! They know absolutely nothing;

they keep on repeating my name with execration, as if I were the only

culprit! But wait a moment; they will see it is not so, for I will tell

them everything!'

Then, though he was over seventy years old, he contrived to spring upon

the low wall supporting the garden railing of the house where Simon,

the innocent man, was soon to be received in triumph. And clinging with

one hand to that railing, he turned and faced his mighty audience.

During the hour he had spent roaming through the groups, he had heard

his name fall from every tongue as a name of infamy. And he had

gradually been fired by a sombre fever, the bravery of a fine bandit,

who denies none of his actions, but is ready to cast them in the teeth

of men, full of a mad pride that he should have dared to commit them.

What caused him most suffering, however, was that he alone should be

named, that all the weight of the general execration should be cast

upon his shoulders, for the others, his accomplices, seemed to be quite

forgotten. Only the previous day, his resources again being exhausted,

he had attempted to force himself upon Father Crabot, who was shut up

at the estate of La Désirade, and he had been flung out with the alms

of a twenty-franc piece, the very last that would be given him, so he

had been told. And now, amid all the insulting words that were levelled

at him, nobody shouted the name of Father Crabot. Why, as he was ready

to expiate his transgression, why should not Father Crabot expiate

his also? No doubt he, Gorgias, would extract no more twenty-franc

pieces from that coward if he were to reveal everything; but his hatred

was now dearer to him than money, and it would be blissful to cast

his enemy into the flames of hell, while he himself ascended to the

delights of paradise by virtue of the penance of a public confession,

the idea of which had long haunted him.

Thus an unexpected, an extraordinary scene began. With a violent,

sweeping gesture, Gorgias sought to gather the crowd together and

attract its attention. And in a shrill but still powerful voice he

called: 'Listen to me! listen to me! I will tell you everything!'

But at first he was not heard, and he had to raise the same cry twice,

thrice, a dozen times, with increasing, unwearying energy. By degrees

he was noticed and people became attentive; and when some of the old

folk had recognised him, when his name had flown from mouth to mouth

amid a quiver of horror, a death-like silence at last fell from one to

the other end of the great square.

'Listen to me! listen to me! I will tell you everything!'

Raised above the heads of all the others, with the broad sunlight

streaming on him, he clung with one hand to the iron railing, while

with the other he went on making vehement gesticulations as if he

were sabring the air. His threadbare frock-coat hung closely to his

withered, knotty frame, and with his dusky face, from which jutted the

big beak of a bird of prey, he looked quite terrible, like some phantom

of the past, whose eyes glowed with the flames of all the abominable

passions of long ago.

'You speak of truth and justice,' he cried. 'But you know nothing,

and you are not just!... You all fall upon me, you treat me as if I

were the only culprit, whereas others sinned more even than I did. I

may have been a criminal, but others accepted my crime, hid it, and

continued it.... Wait a little while; you will see by-and-by that I

don't lack the courage to confess my sin. But why am I the only one

ready to confess? Why isn't my master, my chief, the all-powerful

Father Crabot, here also, ready to humiliate himself and tell

everything? Let him come! Go and fetch him from his hiding-place,

and let him confess his sins before you and do penitence beside me.

Otherwise I shall speak out; I shall proclaim his crime with mine, for

though I be the most humble, the most miserable of sinners, God is in

me, and it is God who demands expiation of him as of me.'

Then, in the bitterest language, he declared that all his superiors,

Father Crabot at the head of them, were but degenerate Catholics,

poltroons, and enjoyers of life. The Church was dying by reason

of their cowardice, their compromises with the weaknesses and the

vanities of the world. It was, indeed, his favourite theory that all

true religious spirit had departed from those monks, those priests,

and those bishops, who ought to have ensured the reign of Jesus by

fire and sword. Earth and mankind belonged to God alone, and God had

given them to His Church, the sovereign delegate of His power. The

Church therefore possessed everything, and held absolute dominion over

everybody and everything. To her belonged the disposal of wealth;

none could be wealthy save by her permission. To her belonged even

the disposal of life, for every living man was her subject, whom she

allowed to live or suppressed according to the interests of Heaven.

Such was the doctrine from which the true saints had never departed.

He, a mere humble Ignorantine, had always practised and exalted that

doctrine, and his superiors, though they had wronged him in other

respects, had always recognised in him the rare merit of possessing

the true, absolute religious spirit; whereas they themselves--the

Crabots, the Philibins, and the Fulgences--had ruined religion by

their compromises, their trickery with the Freethinkers, the Jews, the

Protestants, and the Freemasons. Like opportunists, anxious to please,

they had gradually abandoned dogmas and concealed the asperity of

doctrines, whereas they ought to have fought openly against impiety,

and have slaughtered and burnt all heretics. He himself dreamt of

seeing a huge sacrificial pyre set up in the midst of Paris, on which

he would have cast the whole guilty nation, in order that the flames

and the stench from all those millions of bodies might have ascended to

the glowing skies to rejoice and appease the Deity.

And he next exclaimed: 'As soon as a sinner confesses and does penance,

he is no longer guilty, he again recovers the grace of his Sovereign

Master. What man is there who never sins? All who are made of flesh

are liable to err. Even like the layman, he who is in holy orders and

whom the beast, which is in all men, precipitates into crime has but

one obligation cast upon him--that of confession; and if he receives

absolution, if he expiates his sin with firm repentance, he redeems

himself, he becomes again as white as snow, worthy to enter into

Heaven, among the roses and lilies of Mary.... I confessed my sin to

Father Théodose, who absolved me, and I owed nothing more to anybody,

since God, who ordains and knows all things, had pardoned me by the

sacrament of one of His ministers. And in the same way, from that day

forward, each time that I lied, each time that my superiors compelled

me to lie, I went back to the confessional, and I washed my soul clean

of all the impurities with which human fragility had soiled it. Alas! I

have often and I have greatly sinned, for God, in order no doubt to try

me, has allowed the devil to assail me with all the fires of hell. But

I have battered my chest with my fists, I have made my knees bleed by

dragging them over the flagstones of chapels--I have paid, and I repeat

that I owe nothing whatever. A flight of archangels would bear me

straight to Paradise if I should die by-and-by, ere lapsing again into

the original mire, whence in common with all men I have sprung. And in

particular I owe nothing to men; I have never owed them anything; my

crime lies between God and me, His servant. But He has forgiven me, and

so, if I speak here to-day, it is because I choose to do so, because

I desire to couple with the Divine mercy the martyrdom of a last

humiliation, in order that I may enter Paradise in triumph--a celestial

joy which, whatever my abjection, I shall assuredly taste, thanks to

my penitence; whereas you will never taste it--race of unbelievers and

blasphemers that you are, destined, one and all, to the flames of hell!'

Amid his sombre fury, that transport of savage faith which had raised

him there, alone and impudent, face to face with the multitude, Gorgias

again began to jeer. And there came to him that habitual twitching of

the lips, which disclosed some of his teeth in a grimace suggestive

of both scorn and cruelty. Polydor, who for a moment had seemed

quite scared, and had gazed at him with dilated eyes, blurred by his

drunkenness, had now fallen beside the railing, overcome by sleepiness

and already snoring. The crowd, in horrified expectancy of the promised

confession, had hitherto preserved death-like silence. But it was

now growing weary of that long oration, in which it found all the

unconquerable pride and insolence of the Churchman who deems himself

all-powerful and inviolate. What did the scamp mean by that speech?

Why did he not content himself with stating the facts? What was the use

of such a long preamble when a dozen words would have sufficed? Thus a

growl arose, and a rush would have swept Gorgias away if Marc, now very

attentive and fully master of himself, had not stepped forward and with

a gesture calmed the growing impatience and anger. Moreover, Gorgias

remained imperturbable. Despite all interruptions, he went on repeating

in the same shrill voice that he alone was brave, that he alone was

really upon God's side, and that the other sinners, the cowards, would

after all have to pay for their transgressions, since God had set him

there to make public confession on their behalf as well as his own,

this being a supreme expiation, whence the Church, compromised by her

unworthy leaders, would emerge rejuvenated and for ever victorious.

Then all at once, as if he were a prey to the wildest remorse, he beat

his chest violently with both fists, and cried in distressful, tearful

accents: 'I have sinned, O God! O God, do Thou forgive me! Release

me from the claws of the devil, O God, that I may yet bless Thy holy

name!... Yes, God wills it! Listen to me, listen to me; I will tell you

everything!'

Then he laid himself bare, as it were, before the assembled throng. He

spoke plainly of his gross appetites; he set forth that he had been

a big eater, a deep drinker, and that vice had dogged him from his

childhood. In spite of all his intelligence he had then refused to

study; he had preferred to play the truant, to roam the fields, and

hide in the woods with little hussies. His father, Jean Plumet, after

being a poacher, had been turned into a gamekeeper by the Countess

de Quédeville. His mother, a hussy, had disappeared after giving him

birth. He could still picture his father as he had appeared to him

lying on a stretcher in the courtyard at Valmarie, whither he had been

brought dead, after two bullets had been lodged in his chest by one of

his former companions, a poacher. And subsequently he, Gorgias, had

been brought up with the Countess's grandson, Gaston, an unmanageable

lad, who also refused to study, preferring to hide himself away with

little hussies, climb poplar trees for magpies' nests, and wade the

rivers in search of crawfish. At that time he, Gorgias, had become

acquainted with Father Philibin, Gaston's tutor, and Father Crabot,

who was then in all his manly prime, adored by the old Countess, and

already the real master of Valmarie. Then, with sudden abruptness,

plainly and brutally, Gorgias related how Gaston, the grandson and

heir, had come by his death--a death which he had witnessed from a

distance, and of which he had kept the terrible secret for so many

years. The boy had been deliberately pushed into the river and drowned

there, the misfortune being attributed to an accident, in such wise

that a few months later the old Countess finally bestowed her property

upon Father Crabot.

Striking his breast with increasing fury, beside himself with

contrition, Gorgias continued amid his sobs: 'I have sinned, I have

sinned, O God! And my superiors have sinned still more frightfully than

I, for it was they, O God! who ever set me an evil example!... But

since I am here to expiate their sins as well as mine by confessing

everything, O God, perchance Thou wilt pardon them in Thine infinite

mercy, even as Thou wilt assuredly pardon me also!'

But a quiver of indignant revolt now sped through the crowd. Fists

were raised and voices demanded vengeance; while Gorgias, resuming

his narrative, related that from that time forward Fathers Crabot and

Philibin had never abandoned him, linked to him as they were by a bond

of blood, relying on him as he relied on them. This was the old pact

which Marc had long suspected--Gorgias being admitted to the Church and

becoming an Ignorantine, an _enfant terrible_ of the Deity, one who

both alarmed and enraptured his superiors by the wonderful religious

spirit which glowed in his guilty flesh. Again the wretched man sobbed

aloud, and all at once he passed to the horrid crime of which Simon had

been accused.

'The little angel was there, O God!... It is the truth. I had just

taken the other boy home, and I was passing across the dark square,

when I saw the little angel in his room, which was lighted up.... Thou

God knowest that I approached him without evil intention, simply out of

curiosity, and in a fatherly spirit, in order to scold him for leaving

his window open. And Thou knowest also that for a while I talked to him

as a friend, asking him to show me the pictures on his table, sweet and

pious pictures, which were still perfumed by the incense of the first

Communion. But why, O God, why didst Thou then allow the devil to tempt

me? Why didst Thou abandon me to the tempter, who impelled me to spring

over the window-bar under the pretence of taking a closer look at the

pictures, though, alas! the flames of hell were already burning within

me? Ah! why didst Thou suffer it, O God? Ah! verily, my God, Thy ways

are mysterious and terrible!'

The throng had now again relapsed into deathly silence amid the

frightful anguish which wrung every breast as the ignoble confession at

last took its course. Not a breath was heard; horror spread over all

those motionless folk, terrified by the thought of what was coming. And

Marc, who was very white, quite scared at seeing the truth rise before

him at last, after so many lies, gazed fixedly at the wretched culprit,

who was gesticulating frantically amid the sobs which choked him.

'The little child--he was so pretty. Thou hadst given him, O God!

the fair and curly head of a little angel. Like the cherubs of pious

paintings, he seemed, indeed, to have but that angelic head with two

wings.... Kill him, O God! Did I have any such horrible thought?

Speak! Thou canst read my heart! I was so fond of him, I would not

have plucked a hair from his head.... But it is true the fire of hell

had come upon me; Satan transported me, blinded me, and the boy became

alarmed; he began to call out, to call out, to call out.... O God,

those calls, those calls! I hear them always, always, and they madden

me!'

It seemed, indeed, as if Gorgias were now a prey to some supreme

paroxysm; his eyes glowed like coals of fire in his convulsed

countenance, a little foam appeared upon his twisted lips, while his

lean, bent frame quivered from head to foot with spasmodic shocks.

And at last a great access of rage transported him. Like one of the

damned whom the devil turns with his fork over the infernal brazier, he

howled: 'No, no, that's not the plain truth; that again is arranged and

embellished.... I must tell all, I will tell all; it is at that price

only that I shall taste the eternal delights of Paradise!'

What followed was full of horror. He related everything in plain,

crude, abominable language, and when he again came to his victim's

cries he recounted his cowardly terror, his eager desire to conceal his

crime, for his buzzing ears already seemed to re-echo the gallop of the

gendarmes pursuing him. In wild despair he had sought for something;

he had searched his pocket, and finding some papers in it, he had

stuffed them without foresight or method into his victim's mouth, all

eagerness as he was to hear those terrible cries no more. But they had

begun again, and he told how he had then murdered, strangled, the boy,

pressing his strong, bony, hairy fingers, like iron bands, around the

child's delicate neck, and marking it with deep, dark furrows.

'O God!' he cried, 'I am a hog, I am a murderous brute, my limbs are

stained with mire and blood!... And I fled like a wretched coward,

without an idea in my head, quite brutified and senseless, leaving

the window open, and thereby showing my stupidity and the innocence

in which I should have remained but for the devil's unforeseen and

victorious assault upon me.... And now that I have confessed everything

to men, O God, I beg Thee, in reward for my penitence, open to me the

doors of Heaven!'

But the horror-fraught patience of the crowd was now exhausted. After

the stupor which had kept it chilled and mute there came an outburst of

extraordinary violence. A loud roar of imprecations rolled from one to

the other end of the square, a huge wave gathered and bounded towards

the railings, towards the impudent wretch, the monstrous penitent, who

in his religious dementia had thus dared to proclaim his crime in the

full sunlight. Shouts arose: 'To death with the scoundrel! To death

with the murderer! To death with the polluter and killer of children!'

And Marc then understood the terrible danger; he pictured the crowd

lynching that wretched man in its craving for immediate justice; he

beheld that festival of kindness and solidarity, that triumph of

truth and equity, soiled, blackened by the summary execution of the

culprit, whose limbs would be torn from him and cast to the four

winds of heaven. So in all haste he strove to remove Gorgias from the

railings. But he had to contend with his resistance, for the obstinate,

frantic scoundrel desired to say something more. At last, helped by the

vigorous arms of some of the bystanders, Marc managed to carry him into

the garden, the gate of which was at once shut. The rescue was effected

none too soon, for the huge wave of the indignant crowd rolled up and

burst against the railings, which fortunately checked its further

progress, as they were new and strong. Thus Gorgias was for the moment

out of reach, sheltered by the very house which had been built for the

innocent man, for whose tortures he, was responsible. And such was his

obstinacy, that when those who had seized him released their hold,

thinking him conquered, he picked himself up, and, rushing back to the

railings, hung to them from inside. And there, protected by the iron

bars, against which the furious, surging throng was sweeping, he began

once more:

'Thou didst witness, O God! my first expiation, when my superiors, as

foolish as they were cruel, abandoned me on the road to exile! Thou

knowest to what unacknowledgeable callings they reduced me, what fresh

and hateful transgressions they caused me to commit! Thou knowest

their base avarice--how they refused me even a crust of bread, how

they refuse it still, after being my counsellors and accomplices all

my life long.... For thou wert always present, O God! Thou didst hear

them bind themselves to me. Thou knowest that after my crime I did but

obey them, and that if I aggravated it by other crimes it was only

by and for them. Doubtless the desire was to save Thy Holy Church

from scandal--and I, indeed, would have given my blood, my life. But

they thought only of saving their own skins, and it is that which has

enraged me and stirred me to tell everything.... And now, O God! that

I have been Thy justiciary, that I have spoken the words of violence

ordained by Thee, and have cried aloud their unknown and unpunished

sins, it is for Thee to decide if Thou wilt pardon them or strike them

down in Thy wrath, even before these swinish people, who pretend to

forget Thy name, and for the roasting of whose sacrilegious limbs there

will never be room enough in hell!'

Threatening hoots interrupted him at every word; stones, passing from

hand to hand, began to fly around his head. The railings would not have

resisted much longer; in fact, a last great onrush was about to throw

them down when Marc and his assistants again managed to seize Gorgias

and carry him to the end of the garden, behind the house. On that

side there was a little gate conducting to a deserted lane, and the

miscreant was soon led forth, and then driven away.

If, however, the growling, threatening crowd suddenly became calm,

it was because cries of joy and glorification arose above the shouts

of anger, drawing nearer every moment in sonorous waves along the

sunlit avenue. Simon, having been received at the railway station

by a deputation of the Municipal Council, was arriving in a large

landau, he and David occupying the back seat, while in front of them

were Advocate Delbos and Jules Savin, the Mayor. As the carriage

slowly advanced between the serried crowd there came an extraordinary

ovation. Spurred to it by the abominable scene which had left everybody

quivering, they acclaimed Simon with the wildest enthusiasm, for

his innocence and his heroism seemed to have been rendered yet more

glorious by the public confession now made by the real culprit, the

savage and bestial Gorgias. Women wept and raised their children to let

them see the hero. Men rushed to unharness the horses; and indeed they

did unharness them, in such wise that the landau was dragged to the

house by a hundred brave arms. And all along the flower-strewn line of

route other flowers were flung from the windows, where handkerchiefs as

well as banners waved. A very beautiful girl mounted the carriage step,

and remained there like a living statue of youth, contributing the

splendour of her beauty to the martyr's triumph. Kisses were wafted,

words of affection and glorification fell into the carriage with the

bouquets which rained from every side. Never had people been stirred

by such intense emotion--emotion wrung from their very vitals by the

thought of such a great iniquity--emotion which, seeking to bestow

some supreme compensation on the victim, found it in the gift without

reserve of the hearts and love of all. Glory to the innocent man who

had well-nigh perished by the people's fault, and on whom the people

would never be able to bestow sufficient happiness! Glory to the martyr

who had suffered so greatly for unrecognised and strangled truth, and

whose victory was that of human reason freeing itself from the bonds of

error and falsehood! And glory to the schoolmaster struck down in his

functions, a victim of his efforts to promote enlightenment, and now

exalted the more as he had suffered untold pain and grief for each and

every particle of truth that he had imparted to the ignorant and the

humble!

Marc, who stood on the threshold of the house, dizzy with happiness,

watching that triumph approach amid an explosion of fraternity and

affection, bethought himself of the far-off day of Simon's arrest,

the hateful day when a vehicle had carried him away from Maillebois

at the moment of little Zéphirin's funeral. A furious crowd had

rushed to seize him, roll him in the mud, and tear him to pieces. A

horrible clamour had arisen: 'To death, to death with the assassin

and sacrilegist! To death, to death with the Jew!' And the crowd

had pursued the rolling wheels, unwilling to relinquish its prey,

while Simon, pale and frozen, responded with his ceaseless cry: 'I am

innocent! I am innocent! I am innocent!' And now that after long years

that innocence was manifest, how striking was the transformation! The

crowd was rejuvenated, transfigured; the children and the grandchildren

of the blind insulters of former days had grown up in knowledge

of truth, and become enthusiastic applauders, striving by dint of

sincerity and affection to redeem the crime of their forerunners!

But the landau drew up before the garden gate, and the emotion

increased when Simon was seen to alight with the help of his brother

David, who had remained more nimble and vigorous. Emaciated, reduced

to a shadow, Simon had white hair and a gentle countenance, softened

by extreme age. He smiled his thanks to David, and again there were

frantic acclamations at the sight of those two brothers, bound together

by long years of heroism. The cheers continued when, after the Mayor,

Jules Savin, Delbos also alighted--the great Delbos, as the crowd

called him, the hero of Beaumont and Rozan, who had not feared to speak

the truth aloud in the terrible days when it was perilous to do so,

and who ever since had worked for the advent of a just society. Then,

as Marc went forward to meet Simon and David, whom Delbos had just

joined, the four men found themselves together for a moment on the very

threshold of the house. And at that sight there came an increase of

enthusiasm. Cries were raised and arms were waved deliriously as the

three heroic defenders and the innocent man, whom they had rescued from

the worst of tortures, were seen thus standing side by side.

Then Simon impulsively cast himself on the neck of Marc, who

returned his embrace. Both sobbed, and were only able to stammer a

few words--almost the same as they had stammered long ago, on the

abominable day when they had been parted.

'Thank you, thank you, comrade. Like David, you have been to me a

brother--a second brother; you saved my own and my children's honour.'

'Oh! I merely helped David, comrade; the victory was won by truth

alone.... And there are your children--of their own accord they have

grown up in strength and reason.'

The whole family, indeed, was assembled amid the garden greenery;

four generations awaited the venerable old man, who triumphed after

so many years of suffering. Rachel, his wife, stood beside Geneviève,

the wife of his dear, good friend. Then came those whose blood had

mingled--Joseph and Louise, Sarah and Sébastien, accompanied by their

children, François and Thérèse, who were followed by little Rose, the

last born of the line. Clément and Charlotte were also present with

Lucienne. And tears started from all eyes, and endless kisses were

exchanged.

But a very fresh, sweet song arose. The children of the boys' and

girls' schools, the pupils of Joseph and Louise, were singing a welcome

to the former schoolmaster of Maillebois. Nothing could have been more

simple and more touching than that childish strophe, instinct with

tenderness and suggestive of the happy future. Then a lad stepped

forward and offered Simon a bouquet in the name of the boys' school.

'Thank you, my little friend. How fine you look.... Who are you?'

'I am Edmond Doloir; my father is Léon Doloir, a schoolmaster; he is

yonder, beside Monsieur Salvan.'

Then came the turn of a little girl, who, in like fashion, carried a

bouquet offered by the girls' school.

'Oh! what a pretty little darling! Thank you, thank you.... And what is

your name?'

'I am Georgette Doloir; I am the daughter of Adrien Doloir and Claire

Bongard. You can see them there with my grandpapa and grandmamma, and

my uncles and aunts.'

But there was yet another bouquet, and this was presented by Lucienne

Froment on behalf of Rose Simon, the last-born of the family, whom she

carried in her arms. And Lucienne recited: 'I am Lucienne Froment, the

daughter of Clément Froment and Charlotte Savin.... And this is Rose

Simon, the little daughter of your grandson François, and your own

great-granddaughter, as she is also the great-granddaughter of your

friend Marc Froment through her grandmother, Louise.'

With trembling hands Simon took the dear and bonnie babe in his arms.

'Ah! you dear little treasure, flesh of my flesh, you are like the ark

of alliance.... Ah, how good and vigorous has life proved! how bravely

it has worked in giving us so many strong, healthy, and handsome

offspring! And how everything broadens at each fresh generation; what

an increase of truth and justice and peace does life bring as it

pursues its eternal task!'

They were now all pressing around him, introducing themselves,

embracing him, and shaking his hands. There were the Savins, Jules and

his son Robert, the former the Mayor who had so actively helped on the

work of reparation, and who had received him at the railway station

on behalf of the whole town. There were the Doloirs also--Auguste,

who had built the house, Adrien, who had planned it, Charles, who had

undertaken the locksmith's work, and Marcel, who had attended to the

carpentry. There were likewise the Bongards--Fernand and his wife

Lucille, and Claire their daughter. And all were mingled, connected

by marriages, forming, as it were, but one great family, in such

wise that Simon could hardly tell who was who. But his old pupils

gave their names, and he traced on their aged faces some likeness

to the boyish features of long ago, while embrace followed embrace

amid ever-increasing emotion. And all at once, finding himself in

presence of Salvan, now very old indeed, but still showing a smiling

countenance, Simon fell into his arms, saying, 'Ah! my master, I owe

everything to you; it is your work which now triumphs, thanks to the

valiant artisans of truth whom you formed and sent out into the world!'

Then came the turn of Mademoiselle Mazeline, whom he kissed gaily on

both cheeks, and next that of Mignot, who shed tears when Simon had

embraced him.

'Have you forgiven me, Monsieur Simon?' he asked.

'Forgiven you, my old friend Mignot! You have shown a valiant and noble

heart! Ah! how delightful it is to meet again like this!'

The ceremony, so simple, yet so grand, was at last drawing to a

close. The house offered to the innocent man, that bright-looking

house standing on the site of the old den of the Rue du Trou, smiled

right gaily in the sunlight with its decorative garlands of flowers

and foliage. And all at once the drapery which still hung before the

inscription above the door was pulled aside, and the marble slab

appeared with its inscription in vivid letters of gold: 'Presented by

the town of Maillebois to Schoolmaster Simon in the name of Truth and

Justice, and as Reparation for the Torture inflicted on him.' Then came

the signature, which seemed to show forth in a yet brighter blaze:

'The Grandchildren of his Persecutors.' And at that sight, from all

the great square, and from the neighbouring avenue, from every window

and from every roof, there arose a last mighty acclamation, which

rolled on like thunder--an acclamation in which all at last united,

none henceforth daring to deny that truth and justice had triumphed.

On the morrow _Le Petit Beaumontais_ published an enthusiastic account

of the ceremony. That once filthy print had been quite transformed

by the new spirit, which had raised its readers both morally and

intellectually. Its offices, so long infected by poison, had been

swept and purged. The Press will, indeed, become a most admirable

instrument of education when it is no longer, as now, in the hands of

political and financial bandits, bent on debasing and plundering their

readers. And thus _Le Petit Beaumontais_, cleansed and rejuvenated, was

beginning to render great services, contributing day by day to increase

of enlightenment, reason, and brotherliness.

A few days later a terrible storm, one of those September storms which

consume everything, destroyed the Capuchin chapel at Maillebois. That

chapel was the last religious edifice of the district remaining open,

and several bigots still attended it. At Jonville, Abbé Cognasse had

lately been found dead in his sacristy, carried off by an apoplectic

stroke, which had followed one of his violent fits of anger; and

his church, long empty, was now definitively closed. At Maillebois,

Abbé Coquard no longer even opened the doors of St. Martin's, but

officiated alone at the altar, unable as he was to find a server for

the Mass. Thus the little chapel of the Capuchins, which, with its

big gilded and painted statue of St. Antony of Padua, standing amid

candles and artificial flowers, retained to the end its reputation

as a miracle-shop, sufficed for the few folk who still followed the

observances of the Church.

That day, as it happened, they were celebrating there some festival

connected with the saint,[3] a ceremony which had attracted about

a hundred of the faithful. Yielding to the solicitations of Father

Théodose, Father Crabot, who nowadays remained shut up at La Désirade,

where he intended to install some pious enterprise, had decided to

honour the solemnity with his presence. Thus both were there, one

officiating, the other seated in a velvet arm-chair before the statue

of the great saint, who was implored to show his miraculous power and

obtain from God the grace of some dreadful cataclysm, such as would at

once sweep away the infamous and sacrilegious society of the new times.

And it was then that the storm burst forth. A great inky, terrifying

cloud spread over Maillebois; there came flashes of lightning, which

seemed to show the furnaces of hell blazing in the empyrean, and

thunderclaps which suggested salvoes of some giant artillery bombarding

the earth. Father Théodose had ordered the bells to be rung, and a

loud and prolonged pealing arose from the chapel, as if to indicate

to the Deity that this was His house and should be protected by Him.

But in lieu thereof extermination came. A frightful clap resounded,

the lightning struck the bells, descended by the rope, and burst forth

in the nave with a detonation as if the very heavens were crumbling.

Father Théodose, fired as he stood at the altar, flamed there like a

torch. The sacerdotal vestments, the sacred vases, the very tabernacle,

were melted, reduced to ashes. And the great St. Antony, shivered to

pieces, fell upon the stricken Father Crabot, of whom only a bent and

blackened skeleton remained beneath all the dust. And as if those two

ministers of the Church were not sufficient sacrifice, five of the

devotees present were also killed, while the others fled, howling

with terror, eager to escape being crushed by the vaulted roof, which

cracked, then crumbled in a pile of remnants, leaving nought of the

cult intact.

[Footnote 3: The real festival of St. Antony of Padua falls on June

13th.--_Trans._]

The stupefaction was universal throughout Maillebois. How could the

Deity of the Holy Roman and Apostolic Church have made such a mistake?

The same question had often been asked in former times--each time,

indeed, that a church had been struck and its steeple had fallen on the

priest and the kneeling worshippers. Had God desired, then, the end of

the religion which had taken His name? Or, more reasonably, was it that

no Divine hand whatever guided the lightning, and that it was but a

natural force, which would prove a source of happiness whenever mankind

should have domesticated it? In any case, after the calamity, Brother

Gorgias suddenly reappeared and was seen hurrying along the streets of

Maillebois, crying aloud that God had made no mistake. It was to him,

he said, that God had hearkened, resolving to strike down his imbecile

and cowardly superiors, and thus give a lesson to the whole Church,

which could only flourish anew by the power of fire and steel. And a

month later Gorgias himself was found, his skull split, his body soiled

with filth, outside the same suspicious house before which, some time

previously, a passer had already found the body of Victor Milhomme.

IV

Years, and again years, elapsed, and, thanks to the generosity of

life,--which, as Marc had lived and served it so well, wished, it

seemed, to reward him by keeping him and his adored Geneviève erect

like triumphant spectators,--he, now over eighty, still tasted the

supreme joy of seeing his dreams fulfilled yet more and more.

Generations continued to arise, each more freed, more purified, more

endowed with knowledge than its forerunners. In former days there had

been two Frances, each receiving a different education, remaining

ignorant of the other, hating it, and contending with it. For the

multitude of the nation, for the immense majority of the country folk,

there had only been what was called elementary instruction--reading,

writing, a little arithmetic, the rudiments which raised man just a

span above the level of the brute beast. To the _bourgeoisie_, the

petty minority of the elect, who had seized all wealth and power,

secondary education and superior education, every means of learning

and reigning, lay open. Thus was perpetuated the most frightful of all

social iniquities. The poor and the humble were kept down in their

ignorance beneath a heavy tombstone. To them it was forbidden to learn,

to become men of knowledge, power, and mastery. At rare intervals

one of them escaped and raised himself to the highest rank. But that

was the exception, tolerated, and cited with canting hypocrisy as an

example. All men were equal, it was said, and might raise themselves

by their own merits. But as a first step, by way of preventing it, the

necessary instruction, the enlightenment due to each and every child of

the nation, was withheld from the great majority, so intense, indeed,

was the terror of the great movement of truth and justice which would

accrue from the diffusion of knowledge--a movement which would sweep

away the _bourgeoisie_ and its monstrous errors and compel disgorgement

of the national fortune, in order that by just labour the city of

solidarity and peace might be at last established.

And now a France which soon would be all one was being constituted;

there would soon be no upper class, no lower class; those who knew

would cease to crush and exploit those who did not know in a stealthy,

fratricidal warfare, whose paroxysms had often reddened the paving

of the streets with blood. A system of integral education for one

and all was already at work; all the children of France had to pass

through the gratuitous, secular, compulsory primary schools, where

experimental facts, in lieu of grammatical rules, were now the bases of

all education. Moreover, the acquirement of knowledge did not suffice;

it was necessary one should learn to love, for it was only by love

that truth could prove fruitful. And a process of natural selection

ensued according to the tastes, aptitudes, and faculties of the pupils,

who from the primary schools passed to special schools, arranged in

accordance with requirements, embracing all practical applications of

knowledge and extending to the highest speculations of the human mind.

The law was that no member of a nation was privileged; that each being

born into the world was to be welcomed as a possible force, whose

culture was demanded by the national interests. And in this there was

not only equality and equity, but a wise employment of the common

treasure, a practical desire to lose nought that might contribute to

the power and grandeur of the country. And, indeed, what a mighty

awakening there was of all the accumulated energy which had lain

slumbering in the country districts and the industrial towns! Quite

an intellectual florescence sprang up, a new generation, able to act

and think, supplying the sap which had long been exhausted in the old

governing classes, worn out by the abuse of power. Genius arose daily

from the fertile popular soil; a great epoch, a renascence of mankind,

was impending. Integral instruction, which the ruling _bourgeoisie_

had so long opposed, because it felt that it would destroy the old

social order, was, indeed, destroying it, but at the same time it was

setting in its place the fresh and magnificent blossoming of all the

intellectual and moral power which would make France the liberator, the

emancipator of the world.

Thus disappeared the divided France of former times, the France in

which there had been two classes, two hostile, ever-warring races,

reared, it might have been thought, in different planets, as if

they were destined never to meet, never to come to an agreement. The

schoolmasters, also, were no longer herded in two unfriendly groups,

the one full of humiliation, the other full of contempt--on one side

the poor, imperfectly educated elementary teachers, scarcely cleansed

of the loam of their native fields, and on the other the professors of

the Lycées and the special schools, redolent of science and literature.

The masters who now taught the pupils of the primary schools followed

them through all the stages of their education. It was held that a man

needed as much intelligence and training to be able to awaken a boy's

mind, impart first principles, and set him on the right road, as to

maintain him in it and develop his faculties subsequently. A rotatory

service was organised, teachers were easily recruited, and worked right

zealously now that the profession had become one of the first of the

land, well paid, honoured, and glorified.

The nation had also understood it to be necessary that the integral

instruction it imparted should be gratuitous at all stages, however

great might be the cost, for its millions were not cast stupidly to

the winds, to foster falsehood and slaughter--they helped to rear

good artisans of prosperity and peace. No other harvest could be

compared with that: each _sou_ that was expended helped to give more

intelligence and strength to the people, helped it to master to-morrow.

And the inanity of the great reproach levelled at the general

diffusion of knowledge, that of casting _déclassés_, rebels, across

the narrow limits of old-time society, became plainly manifest now

that those limits had crumbled as the new society came into being. The

_bourgeoisie_, even as it feared, was bound to be swept away as soon

as it no longer possessed a monopoly of knowledge. But if in former

years each penniless and hungry peasant's or artisan's son who rose up

by the acquirement of knowledge had become a source of embarrassment

and danger by reason of his eagerness to carve for himself a share of

enjoyment among that of those who enjoyed already, that danger had now

disappeared. There could be no more _déclassés_, since the classes

themselves had ceased to exist, and no more rebels either, since the

normal condition of life was the ascent of one and all towards more and

more culture, in order that the most useful civic action might ensue.

Thus education had accomplished its revolutionary work, and it was now

the very strength of the community, the power which had both broadened

and tightened the bond of brotherliness, all being called upon to work

for the happiness of all, the energy of none remaining ignored and lost.

That complete education, the culture of the whole community, which

now yielded such a magnificent harvest, had only become possible on

the day when the Church had been deprived of her teaching privileges.

The separation of Church and State, and the suppression of the budget

of Public Worship, had freed the country and enabled it to dower its

schools more liberally. The priest ceased to be a functionary, the

Catholic faith no longer possessed the force of a law; those who chose

remained free to go to church, even as to the theatre, by paying for

their seats, but, in the result, the churches gradually emptied. And if

this occurred it was because they no longer manufactured worshippers,

poor stupefied beings, such as they needed to fill their naves. Long

and terrible years had elapsed before it had become possible to wrest

the children from the teachers of the Church, those who had poisoned

mankind through the ages, who had reigned over it by falsehood and

terrorism. From the very first day the Church had realised that she

must kill truth if she did not wish it to kill her; and what furious

battles had followed, what a desperate resistance she had offered

in order to delay her inevitable defeat, the resplendent outpouring

of Light, freed at last from every hindrance! Society would soon be

reduced to treating her as one treated those malodorous fishwives

whose shops were closed by the police. Yet she, the dogmatic and

authoritarian ruler--she who, imitating her Deity, strove to impose

her will on the world by thunderbolts, impudently dared to invoke and

claim liberty, in order that she might perpetuate her abominable work

of debasement and servitude. Laws of social protection then proved

necessary; it became imperative to deprive her legally of her power,

by refusing to her members, the monks and the priests, the right of

teaching. And then again what an uproar followed, what frantic attempts

to plunge France into civil war, credulous parents being banded

together, while the religious orders, thrust out by the doorways once

more, slipped into their dens by the windows, with the obstinacy of

folk who relied on the eternal credulity which they fancied they had

sown in the minds of men! Did they not represent error, superstition,

and wretched human cowardice, and did it not follow, therefore, that

eternity was theirs? But, for this to be, they had to retain their

hold upon the children, and, by them, obscure the morrow; and it

happened that the morrow and the children gradually escaped them, and

that the time came when the Holy Roman Catholic Church lay agonising

beneath the crumbling of her idiotic dogmas, pierced and destroyed by

science. Truth had conquered, the schools given to all had formed men

who knew, and who could exercise their will.

Thus hardly a day elapsed without Marc observing some fresh fortunate

conquest, some increase of reason and comfort. He and his wife

Geneviève alone remained erect of all the valiant generation which had

fought and suffered so much. Good old Salvan had been the first to

depart, then Mademoiselle Mazeline and Mignot had followed him. But

of all the deaths the most painful for Marc had been those of Simon

and David, the two brothers, carried off one after the other at an

interval of only a few days, as if they had been still linked together

by their heroic fraternity. Madame Simon had preceded them; all who

had participated in the monstrous affair were now beneath the peaceful

soil, lying there side by side, the good and the wicked, the heroes and

the criminals, all plunged in eternal silence. Many of the children and

grandchildren, moreover, had departed before their parents, for death

never paused in his mysterious work, mowing down men as he listed in

order to fertilise one or another field, whence other men would spring.

At last, quitting their retreat of Jonville, Marc and Geneviève had

come to reside again at Maillebois, where they occupied the first floor

of the house presented to Simon, and now belonging to his children,

Joseph and Sarah. She and her husband Sébastien still resided at

Beaumont, where the latter remained director of the Training College.

But Joseph, afflicted in the legs, almost infirm, had been obliged

to retire; and as his wife Louise had at the same time quitted the

Maillebois school, they were now installed on the second floor of the

paternal house, which the family shared in this fashion, well pleased

to be together during the last gentle, declining days of life. And if

they themselves had given up teaching, they at least had the joy of

seeing the good work carried on by their descendants, for François and

Thérèse had now been appointed to the Maillebois schools, in which,

therefore, three generations of the family had succeeded one another.

The delight of living side by side, in close affection, had lasted two

years, when quite a drama plunged the family into grief. One of those

insensate passions which devastate a man came upon François, then in

all the strength of his two and thirty years, and hitherto so tenderly

attached to his wife Thérèse. He became enamoured of a young woman of

eight and twenty years named Colette Roudille, whose mother, a very

pious widow, had lately died. Colette's father was said to have been

Théodose, the Capuchin, at one time her mother's confessor; and she

certainly resembled him, having a splendid head, with blood-red lips

and eyes of fire. The widow had lived on a little income, upon which,

however, her son Faustin, twelve years older than his sister, had

encroached to such a degree that the old woman had remained at last

with barely enough money to buy bread. However, the little clerical

group, all that remained of the once powerful faction which had ruled

the district, took an interest in Faustin, and ended by obtaining a

situation for him. For some months, then, he had been keeper of the

estate of La Désirade, which since Father Crabot's death had become the

subject of a number of lawsuits, and which some of the neighbouring

localities proposed to purchase and turn into a people's palace and

convalescent home, even as Valmarie had been turned into an asylum

where young mothers recovered their strength. Thus Colette lived alone

and in all freedom at Maillebois, almost in front of the school; and

it was certain that the glow of her fine eyes and the smile of her red

lips had largely helped on the passion which was maddening François.

But it happened that one day Thérèse surprised them, and dolorous

anger came upon her, the more particularly as she was not the only

one who might suffer from her husband's folly. Might it not, indeed,

prove a disaster for their daughter Rose, who was now near her twelfth

birthday? At one moment Thérèse appealed to her parents, Sébastien and

Sarah, wishing to have their views respecting the course she ought

to take. She spoke of a separation, offering to restore freedom to

the husband who had ceased to love her and who told her lies. But

she remained very calm, firm, and sensible in her trouble, and she

soon understood that on this occasion it was wise and fit to forgive.

Moreover, Marc and Geneviève, afflicted by the rupture, lectured their

grandson François severely, and he evinced great sorrow, recognising

that he was in the wrong, and accepting the most violent reproaches.

But even while he confessed his fault, he unhappily remained disturbed,

full of anguish, with an evident fear that his passion might again

overcome him. Never had Marc so cruelly realised the fragility of

human happiness. It was not sufficient, then, that one should instruct

men and lead them towards justice by the paths of truth; it was also

necessary that passion should not rend them and cast them one against

the other like madmen. Marc had spent his life fighting in order that

a little light might extricate the children from the dim gaol in which

their fathers had groaned; and, in giving more happiness to others, he

thought he had given it to his own family. Yet now, at the hearth of

his grandson, who had seemed quite freed from error and very sensible,

another form of suffering displayed itself--the suffering of love,

with its eternal felicity and eternal torture! It was evident that one

must not be proud of one's knowledge, that one must not set all one's

strength in it. It was necessary that one should also be prepared to

suffer in one's heart, and strive to make it valiant in order that it

might bear up against a rending which always remained possible. And,

again, it was wrong to think that it was sufficient to do good in order

to be sheltered from the blows of evil. But though Marc said all those

things to himself, placing a very modest estimate on the work he had

accomplished, he still felt very sad as he saw mankind voluntarily

leaving some of its flesh on all the briars of its path, and lingering

there, as if unwilling to reach the happy city.

The holidays arrived, and all at once François disappeared. It seemed

as if he had waited to be rid of his pupils in order to go off with

Colette, the shutters of whose windows facing the High street remained

closed. Wishing to stifle the scandal, the family related that, as

François was in poor health, he had gone with a friend to take an

air cure abroad during the holidays. A tacit understanding ensued

in Maillebois--everybody pretended to accept that explanation out

of regard for Thérèse, the forsaken wife, who was much liked and

respected; but nobody really remained ignorant of the true cause of her

husband's flight. She behaved admirably in those painful circumstances,

hiding her tears, preserving perfect dignity in her home. In particular

she bestowed increased tenderness on her daughter Rose, from whom,

unfortunately, she could not hide the facts, but in whom she

inculcated a continuance of respect for her father in spite of his bad

conduct.

A month went by, and Marc, who was deeply grieved, still visited

Thérèse every day, when one evening there came a dramatic, a horrible,

occurrence. Rose having gone to spend the afternoon with a little

friend in the neighbourhood, Marc had found Thérèse alone, sobbing in

silence, far away from all prying eyes. For a long while he strove

to comfort her and restore her to some hope. Then, at nightfall, he

was obliged to leave her without having seen Rose, who had remained

apparently with her little friend. The evening was dark, the atmosphere

heavy with a threatening storm, and as Marc, eager to get home, was

crossing the small, dim square behind the school, into which looked the

window of the room once occupied by little Zéphirin, he suddenly heard

a confused noise of footsteps and calls.

'What is the matter? What is the matter?' he exclaimed as he went

forward.

He felt a chill in his veins, though why it was he could not tell.

Apparently some gust of terror, coming from afar, was sweeping by. And

at last in the faint light Marc perceived a man whom he recognised as a

certain Marsouillier, a poor nephew of the deceased Philis, at one time

mayor of Maillebois. Marsouillier now acted as beadle at St. Martin's,

where, since the destruction of the Capuchin Chapel, a small party of

believers still supported a priest.

'What is the matter?' Marc repeated, surprised to see that the other

was gesticulating and mumbling to himself.

Marsouillier in his turn now recognised Marc. 'I don't know, Monsieur

Froment,' he stammered with a terrified air. 'I was passing; I had come

from the Place des Capucins, when, all at once, I heard the cries of

a child, choking, it seemed, with fright. And as I hastened up I just

caught sight of a man running away, while yonder on the ground lay that

little body.... Then I also began to call.'

Marc himself now distinguished a pale and motionless form lying on the

ground. And a suspicion came to him, Was it this man Marsouillier who

had ill-used the child? Perhaps so, for curiously enough he was holding

something white--a handkerchief.

'And that handkerchief?' Marc asked.

'Oh! I picked it up here just now.... Perhaps the man wanted to stifle

the child's cries with it, and dropped it as he ran away.'

But Marc no longer listened; he was leaning over the little form upon

the ground, and an exclamation of frantic grief suddenly escaped his

lips: 'Rose! our little Rose!'

The victim was indeed the pretty little girl, who, as a babe, in the

arms of her cousin Lucienne, had offered a bouquet to Simon on the

occasion of his triumph ten years previously. She had grown up full

of beauty and charm, with a bright, dimpled, smiling face amid a mass

of fair and wavy tresses. And the scene could be easily pictured: the

child returning home across that deserted square in the falling night,

some bandit surprising her, ill-using her, and flinging her there upon

the ground, whereupon, hearing a sound of footsteps, he had been seized

with terror and had fled. The child did not stir; she lay there as if

lifeless, in her little white frock figured with pink flowerets, a

holiday frock which her mother had allowed her to wear for her visit to

her friend.

'Rose! Rose!' called Marc, who was beside himself. 'Why do you not

answer me, my darling? Speak, say only one word to me, only one word.'

He touched her gently, not daring as yet to raise her from the ground.

And, talking to himself, he said, 'She has only fainted; I can tell

that she is breathing. But I fear that something is broken.... Ah!

misfortune dogs us; here again is grief indeed!'

Indescribable terror came upon him as all the frightful past suddenly

arose before his mind's eye. There, under that tragic window, close to

that room where the wretched Gorgias had killed little Zéphirin, he had

now found his own great-granddaughter, his well-loved little Rose, who

was assuredly hurt, and who in all probability only owed her salvation

to the accidental arrival of a stranger. Who was it that had brought

about that awful renewal of the past? What new and prolonged anguish

was foreboded by that crime? As if by the glow of a great lightning

flash, Marc, at that horrible moment, saw all his past life spread out,

and lived all his battles and all his sufferings anew.

Marsouillier, however, had remained there with the handkerchief in his

hand. He ended by slipping it into his pocket in an embarrassed way,

like a man who had not said all he knew, and who devoutly wished that

he had not crossed the square that evening.

'One ought not to leave her there, Monsieur Froment,' he said at last.

'You are not strong enough to pick her up; if you like I will take her

in my arms and carry her to her mamma's, as it is close by.'

Marc was compelled to accept the offer, and followed the sturdy

beadle, who took the child up very gently, without rousing her from

her fainting fit. In this wise they reached the mother's door, and for

her what a shock it was when she beheld her well-loved child, now her

only joy and comfort, brought back to her insensible, as pale as death

in her bright frock, and with her beautiful hair streaming loosely

about her! The frock was in shreds, a lock of hair which had been torn

off was caught in the lace collar. And the struggle must have been

terrible, for the child's wrenched hands were all bruised, and her

right arm hung down so limply that it was certainly broken.

Thérèse, distracted, beside herself, repeated amid her choking sobs:

'Rose, my little Rose! They have killed my Rose!'

In vain did Marc point out to her that the child was still breathing,

and that not a drop of blood was to be seen; the mother still repeated

that her child was dead. But Marsouillier carried the girl upstairs and

laid her on a bed, where all at once she suddenly opened her eyes and

gazed around her with indescribable terror. Then, shivering the while,

she began to stammer: 'Oh, mamma, mamma, hide me, I am frightened!'

Thunderstruck by her revival to consciousness, Thérèse sank on the

bed beside her, caught her in her arms and pressed her to her bosom,

so overcome by emotion that she could no longer speak. Marc, however,

begged the assistant teacher, who happened to be present, to go for a

doctor; and then, quite upset by the mystery, endeavoured to fathom it

at once.

'What happened to you, my darling?' he inquired; 'can you tell us?'

Rose looked at him for a moment as if to make sure who was speaking to

her, and then, with haggard, wandering eyes, peered into all the dim

corners of the room. I'm afraid, I'm afraid, grandfather,' she said.

He endeavoured to reassure her and inquired gently: 'Did nobody

accompany you when you left your little friend's?'

'I didn't want anybody to come. The house is so near. And we had

played so long, I was afraid I would get home still later.'

'And so you came back running, my darling, eh? And somebody sprang on

you; that is what happened, is it not?'

But the terrified child again began to tremble, and did not answer.

Marc had to repeat his question. 'Yes, yes, somebody,' she stammered at

last.

Marc waited till she became calmer, caressing her hair the while,

and kissing her on the forehead. 'You see, you ought to tell us,' he

resumed. 'You cried out, naturally, you struggled. The man wanted to

close your mouth, did he not?'

'Oh, grandfather, it was all so quick! He took hold of my arms, and he

twisted them round. He wanted to drive me out of my senses and carry me

off on his back. It hurt me so dreadfully, I thought I should die, and

I fell to the ground: that is all I remember.'

Marc felt greatly relieved; he was now convinced that nothing worse had

happened, particularly as Marsouillier, on hearing the girl's cries,

had hastened to the spot. And so he asked but one question more: 'And

would you be able to recognise the man, my dear?'

Again Rose quivered, and her eyes became quite wild as if some terrible

vision was rising before her. Then, covering her face with her hand,

she relapsed into stubborn silence. As her glance had already fallen

on Marsouillier and she had raised no exclamation on seeing him, Marc

realised that he had been mistaken when he had suspected the beadle

of the crime. Nevertheless he wished to question him also; for, even

allowing that he had spoken the truth, it might be that he had not told

the whole of it.

'You saw the man run away?' said Marc. 'Would you be able to recognise

him?'

'Oh! I don't think so, Monsieur Froment. He passed me, but it was

already dark. Besides, I was so disturbed.' And the beadle, who had not

yet fully recovered his composure, let a further detail escape him: 'He

said something as he passed, I fancy ... he called "Imbecile!"'

'What! Imbecile?' retorted Marc, who was greatly surprised. 'Why should

he have said that to you?'

But Marsouillier, deeply regretting that he had added that particular,

for he understood the possible gravity of any admission on his part,

endeavoured to recall his words. 'I can't be sure of anything,' he

said, 'it was like a growl.... And no, no, I should not be able to

recognise him.'

Then, as Marc asked him for the handkerchief, he drew it from his

pocket with some appearance of _ennui_, and laid it on a table. It was

a very common kind of handkerchief, one of those which are embroidered

by the gross with initials in red thread. This one was marked with

the letter F, and the clue was a slight one, for dozens of similar

handkerchiefs were sold in the shops.

Meantime Thérèse, who had again caught Rose in a gentle embrace,

caressed her lovingly. 'The doctor is coming, my treasure,' she said.

'I won't touch you any more till he is here. It won't be anything. You

are not in great pain, are you?'

'No, mother,' Rose replied, 'but my arm burns me and seems very heavy.'

Then, in an undertone, Thérèse, in her turn, tried to confess the girl,

for the mysteriousness of the assault had left her very anxious. But

at each fresh question Rose evinced yet greater alarm, and at last she

closed her eyes and buried her head in the pillow, so as to see and

hear nothing more. Every time her mother made a fresh attempt, begging

her to say if she knew the man and would be able to recognise him, the

child quivered dreadfully. But all at once, bursting into loud sobs,

quite beside herself, almost delirious, she told everything in a loud,

distressful voice, fancying, perhaps, that she was simply whispering

her words in her mother's ear.

'Oh! mother, mother, I am so grieved! I recognised him--it was father

who was waiting there, and who threw himself upon me!'

Thérèse sprang to her feet in stupefaction. 'Your father? What is it

you say, you unhappy child?'

Marc and Marsouillier also had heard the girl. And the former drew

near to her with a violent gesture of incredulity: 'Your father? It is

impossible!... Come, come, my darling, you must have dreamt that.'

'No, no, father was waiting for me behind the school, and I recognised

him by his beard and his hat. He tried to carry me away, and as I would

not let him he twisted my arms and made me fall.'

She clung stubbornly to that account of the affair, though she could

supply little proof of what she asserted, for the man had not spoken a

word to her, and she had only noticed his beard and hat, remembering

nothing else, not even his features, which had been hidden by the

darkness. Nevertheless, that man was her father, she was sure of it;

nothing could efface that impression, which, if incorrect, might be

some haunting idea which had sprung from the grief in which she had

seen her mother plunged since the departure of the unfaithful François.

'It is impossible; it is madness!' Marc repeated, for his reason

rebelled and protested against such a notion. 'If François had wished

to take Rose away he would not have hurt her--killed her almost!'

Thérèse also quietly displayed a feeling of perfect certainty.

'François is incapable of such an action,' said she. 'He has caused

me a great deal of grief, but I know him, and will defend him if need

be.... You were mistaken, my poor Rose.'

Nevertheless the unhappy woman went to look at the handkerchief which

had remained on the table. And she could not restrain a nervous start,

for it appeared to be one of a dozen marked with a similar letter F,

which she had purchased for her husband of the sisters Landois, who

kept a drapery shop in the High Street. On going to a chest of drawers

Thérèse found ten similar handkerchiefs, and it was quite possible

that François had taken two away with him at the time of his flight.

However, the unhappy wife strove to overcome her uneasiness, and as

firmly and as positively as before, she said: 'The handkerchief may

belong to him.... But it was not he; never shall I think him guilty.'

The strange scene seemed to have stupefied Marsouillier. He had

remained on one side, at a loss apparently as to how he might quit

those sorrowing folk, and since he had heard the child's story his eyes

had been all astonishment. The recognition of the handkerchief brought

his dismay to a climax, and at last, profiting by the arrival of the

doctor fetched by the assistant teacher, he managed to slip away. Marc,

on his side, went into the dining-room to await the result of the

medical examination. Rose's right arm was indeed broken, but there was

nothing of a disquieting character about the fracture, and the wrenched

wrists and a few bruises were the only other marks of violence which

the doctor found. He, indeed, was most concerned respecting the result

of the nervous shock which the girl had experienced, for it had been a

violent one. And he only left her an hour later, when he had reduced

the fracture and saw her overcome, as it were, plunged in a heavy

sleep.

Marc, however, had meantime sent a message to his wife and Louise,

for he feared that they might be alarmed by his failure to return

home. And they hastened to the school, terrified by this frightful

business, which reminded them also of the old and abominable affair.

Thérèse having joined them, a kind of family council was held, the

door of the bedroom remaining open in order that they might at once

hear the injured girl if she should wake up. Marc, who was quite

feverish, expressed his views at length. What possible reason could

there have been for François to commit such a deed? He might have

yielded to a transport of passion by running away with Colette, but he

had invariably shown himself to be a loving father, and his wife did

not even complain of his manner towards herself, for it had remained

outwardly dignified, almost deferential. Thus, what motive could have

prompted him if he were guilty? Hidden away with his mistress in some

unknown retreat, it could hardly be that he had experienced a sudden

craving to have his daughter with him. What could he have done with

the child? She would have been a burden on him in the life he must

be leading. And even supposing that he had wished to strike a cruel

blow at his wife, and reduce her to solitude, without a consolation

remaining to her, it was incredible that he should have ill-used and

injured his daughter, have left her upon the ground senseless! He

would simply have taken her away with him. Thus, in spite of Rose's

statements, in spite of the handkerchief, François could not be guilty,

the impossibilities were too great. Nevertheless, faced as he was by

this mysterious problem, and the task of again seeking the truth, Marc

felt disturbed and anxious, for he was convinced that Marsouillier

would relate what he had seen and heard, and that all Maillebois would

be discussing the drama on the morrow. And as all the appearances were

against François, would public opinion denounce him, even as in former

days it had denounced his grandfather, Simon the Jew? In that case, how

could he be defended? what ought to be done to prevent a renewal of the

monstrous iniquity of long ago?

'The one thing that tends to tranquillise me,' said Marc at last, 'is

that the times have changed. We now have to deal with people who have

been freed and educated, and it will greatly surprise me if they do not

help us to unravel the truth.'

Silence fell. At last, in spite of the little quiver which she was

unable to master, Thérèse exclaimed energetically, 'You are right,

grandfather. Before everything else we must establish the innocence

of François, which I cannot possibly doubt, whatever may be the

accusations.... He has made me suffer dreadfully, but I will forget it,

and you may rely on me, I will help you with all my strength.'

Geneviève and Louise nodded their assent. 'Ah!' muttered the latter,

'the unhappy lad! When he was seven years old he used to throw his

arms round me and say, "Little mother, I love you very dearly!" He has

a tender and passionate nature, and thus one must forgive him a great

deal.'

'There is always some resource when one has to deal with loving

natures,' remarked Geneviève in her turn. 'Even if they become guilty

of great transgressions, love helps them to repair them.'

On the morrow, even as Marc had foreseen, all Maillebois was in a

hubbub. People talked of nothing but that assault, of the charge

which the injured girl had brought against her own father, of the

handkerchief picked up by a passer, and recognised by the wife.

Marsouillier told the story to all who were willing to listen to him,

and he even embellished it somewhat, making out that he had seen and

done everything in connection with the rescue. He was not a malicious

man, he was simply vain and inclined to poltroonery in such wise that

while it flattered his feelings to become a personage he remained

secretly apprehensive of great personal worries if the affair should

turn out badly. He was, as already mentioned, a nephew of the pious

Philis, and he lived on his pay as a beadle, which pay was extremely

small now that only a few believers provided for the expenses at St.

Martin's. And it was said that he himself was not a believer at all,

that his views were really very free ones, and that if he thus ate the

bread of hypocrisy it was simply because he was unable to earn any

other. However that might be, the few remaining worshippers who paid

his salary, the last Catholics of the district, who were enraged by

their defeat and the abandonment into which the Church was sinking, at

once seized upon his adventure and resolved to exploit that scandal

which had assuredly been vouchsafed to them by Heaven. Never had they

dared to hope for such an opportunity to resume hostilities, and they

must profit by the divine favour to make a supreme effort. Thus black

skirts were again seen gliding along the streets of Maillebois, old

ladies were again heard telling the most extraordinary stories. Some

unknown person had related that she had seen François on the night

of the crime in the company of two masked men, who were Freemasons

undoubtedly. And, as everybody knew that the Freemasons needed the

blood of a young girl for their Black Mass, it followed that François,

after some drawing of lots, had been chosen to provide the blood of

his daughter. Did that not explain everything--the sectarian's savage

violence, his unnatural ferocity? But it happened that the inventors

of that idiotic fable could not find a single newspaper to print it,

and thus they had to spread it by word of mouth among the poorer folk.

When evening came it had already gone all round the town, and had even

reached Jonville, Le Moreux, and other neighbouring villages. And the

seed of falsehood being sown, the plotters only had to wait for the

poisonous crop which they hoped to see arise from the popular ignorance.

But, as Marc had said, the times had changed. On all sides people

shrugged their shoulders when they heard that foolish story. Such

inventions had been all very well in former times, when men were

children and fell eagerly on improbabilities. But nowadays people

knew too much, and a story of that kind was not accepted without due

examination. In the first place, it was immediately ascertained that

François did not happen to be a Freemason. Moreover, nobody had seen

him in the town; and it seemed certain that he was hidden away at a

distance with that girl Colette, who had disappeared from Maillebois

at the same time as himself. Again, there were all sorts of reasons

for thinking him innocent. Indeed the whole district pronounced the

same opinion on him as his relatives had done. He was a man of an

amorous nature, who might yield to a passionate transport, but he was

also a loving father, and as such incapable of ill-treating his own

child. Excellent testimony came in from all sides. His pupils and

their parents praised his gentleness; several neighbours related that

in spite of his errors he had remained affectionately attached to

his wife. Nevertheless, people were confronted by the accusations of

Rose, the disquieting clue of the handkerchief, the scene repeatedly

recounted by Marsouillier--the whole constituting an irritating

mystery, a distressing problem for all who were competent to weigh

and judge facts. If, indeed, François were not guilty, however much

appearances might be against him, somebody else must be the culprit,

and who could that be, and how was he to be discovered?

Then, while the judicial authorities were inquiring into the matter,

something quite new was seen--mere ordinary townsfolk came forward,

quite voluntarily, to relate whatever they knew, whatever they had

witnessed, felt, or surmised. Now that men's minds were cultivated

there was a general desire for justice, a dread of any possible error.

A Bongard came to say that on the evening of the assault, while he

was passing the town hall, he had seen a man who looked somewhat

scared, and who seemed to have run up from the direction of the Place

des Capucins. And that man was not François. Then a Doloir brought

a smoker's tinder-box, which he had found between two paving-stones

behind the schools. And he pointed out that this box might have fallen

from the culprit's pocket, and that François did not smoke. A Savin

also recounted that he had overheard a conversation between two old

ladies, from which he had drawn the conclusion that the culprit was to

be sought among the acquaintances of Marsouillier, the latter having

let his tongue wag while he was in the company of certain friendly

devotees. But the most intelligent and active helpers were the sisters

Landois, who kept the drapery shop in the High Street. They had been

pupils of Mademoiselle Mazeline; and, indeed, all the workers in the

cause of truth, all the voluntary witnesses, had passed through the

hands of the secular teachers, Marc, Joulic, or Joseph. As for the

sisters Landois, it had occurred to them to consult their books to

ascertain the names of the persons to whom they had sold handkerchiefs

similar to the one which the culprit had wished to employ as a gag.

They readily found François' name; and below it, two days later, they

perceived that of Faustin Roudille, the brother of the young woman

Colette, with whom François had fled. That was the first clue, the

first gleam of the light which was to spread and become decisive.

As it happened, this man Faustin had been without a situation for the

last fortnight. After coming to an agreement with the surrounding

localities, the town of Maillebois had at last purchased the

magnificent estate of La Désirade, which it intended to transform into

a People's Palace, a convalescent home, a public park, open to all the

workers of the region. Instead of some congregation of black frocks

being installed in that delightful spot, under that royal verdure,

among those plashing waters and those gleaming marbles, swains and

their lassies, young mothers and their babes, old folk desirous of

repose, would flock thither to enjoy the sweetness and splendour

of the scene. Thus Faustin, the ex-keeper, a creature of the last

remaining clericalists, had quitted the estate, and was to be seen

prowling about Maillebois, showing himself very bitter and aggressive,

especially with respect to his sister Colette, whose escapade, said

he, had dishonoured him. People were somewhat surprised by this sudden

severity on his part, for nobody was ignorant of the good understanding

which had previously reigned between the brother and the sister, and

the frequency with which the former had borrowed money from the young

woman when he knew her to be in funds. Had there been a rupture, then?

Was Faustin exasperated with Colette because she had taken herself

off just as he lost his situation? Or was he playing some comedy,

still remaining in agreement with his sister, acquainted with her

hiding-place, and secretly working on her behalf? These points remained

obscure, but the discovery made by the sisters Landois directed general

attention to Faustin, his actions, and his words. A week, then,

sufficed for the inquiry to make considerable progress.

First of all, Bongard's evidence was confirmed; several people now

remembered that on the evening of the assault they had met Faustin in

the High Street, looking agitated, and turning round as if he wished to

ascertain what might be taking place in the direction of the schools.

And it was certainly he whom they had seen; they had positively

recognised him. Then, too, the tinder-box found by Doloir seemed to

belong to him--at least, folk asserted that they had seen a similar one

in his hands. Finally, the conversation which Savin had overheard, and

the hypothesis of an acquaintance between Marsouillier and the culprit

received striking confirmation, for the beadle and the ex-keeper of

La Désirade had been quite intimate. That seemed to be the decisive

fact, the clue which would lead to full enlightenment, as Marc, who

was following the inquiry with impassioned attention, immediately

understood. Thus he took it upon himself to extract a confession from

Marsouillier. He recalled the beadle's strange manner when he had

found him near Rose after the culprit's flight. He remembered that he

had seemed embarrassed and anxious, disturbed at having to give up

the handkerchief; and he particularly recalled his stupefaction when

Rose had accused her father, and Thérèse had produced some similar

handkerchiefs from her chest of drawers. And he was greatly struck

by that word 'Imbecile!' which the culprit had cast in the beadle's

face, and which the latter in his perturbation had repeated. It was

a significant word, it was like a reproach hurled by a man at a

blundering friend whose inopportune arrival on the scene had spoilt

everything.

Thus Marc called upon Marsouillier. 'You know, my man,' he said to

him, 'the gravest charges are being accumulated against Faustin; he

will certainly be arrested this evening. Are you not afraid of being

compromised?'

Silent, with hanging head, the beadle listened to an enumeration of the

proofs.

'Come, own that you recognised him!' Marc added.

'But how could I have recognised him, Monsieur Froment?' said

Marsouillier. 'Faustin has no beard, and he wears a cap; whereas the

man I saw had a full beard and a felt hat.'

Those were points which Rose herself confirmed, and which as yet

remained unelucidated.

'Oh! he might have got a hat somewhere, and have put on a false

beard,' Marc suggested. 'But in any case he spoke; you yourself told

me so. Surely you must have recognised his voice when he called you an

imbecile!'

Marsouillier was already raising his hand to contradict himself, and

swear that the man had not pronounced a single word. But Marc's bright

eyes were fixed upon him, and as he met their gaze his strength failed

him. And then, good-hearted man as he was at bottom, he grew disturbed,

no longer having the courage to do a bad action in some stupid spirit

of vanity.

'Naturally I have inquired into your connection with Faustin,' Marc

resumed. 'I know that you and he often met, and that he readily

cast that expression "imbecile" in your face when he found you more

scrupulous than he liked.'

'That's true,' Marsouillier admitted; 'he called me an imbecile, and it

ended by being hardly pleasant.'

Then, on being pressed, exhorted to relieve his conscience in his own

interest, for the authorities might believe him to be an accomplice,

he ended by yielding to his fears as much as to his respect for truth.

'Well, yes, Monsieur Froment, I did recognise him.... Only he could

have called me an imbecile in that voice. I can't be mistaken, he has

given me that name too many times. And he must merely have worn a false

beard, as you surmise, and have pulled it off as he ran away, for when

some people saw him at the corner of the High Street he was wearing a

hat, but he was shaven as usual, with no beard at all.'

Marc felt delighted, for this testimony would certainly prove decisive.

Shaking hands with Marsouillier, he said to him: 'Ah! I knew it very

well; you are a good fellow.'

'A good fellow, no doubt.... You see, Monsieur Froment, I am an old

pupil of Monsieur Joulic, and when a master has taught one to love

truth it never goes away. One may wish to tell a falsehood, but the

whole of one's being rises up in protest. Besides, when one knows how

to use one's reason a little, it becomes impossible to credit the

foolish things which are put into circulation. I was very worried

at heart about this unhappy affair. But then I'm a very poor man; I

have only my post as beadle as a means of livelihood, and my position

compelled me to say the same as the old friends of my uncle Philis.'

Then Marsouillier paused, and, with a gesture of despair, big tears

gathering the while in his eyes, he added: 'Ah! I'm done for now. I

shall be turned out of doors, and left to starve in the streets.'

But Marc reassured him by a positive promise to find him some

employment. And then he hastened away, eager as he was to acquaint

Thérèse with the result of the interview, that conclusive testimony by

which François was completely cleared.

For a fortnight past Thérèse had remained nursing Rose, still feeling

firmly convinced of her husband's innocence, but intensely hurt at

receiving no news of him in spite of the stir occasioned by the affair,

which all the newspapers had recounted. And since her daughter had been

recovering, already able to get up, her arm healing in a satisfactory

manner, Thérèse, mastered by increasing sorrow, had remained mute,

quite overcome, in her deserted home. But that very evening, while Marc

was gaily completing his account of his conversation with Marsouillier,

she experienced a great shock, for François suddenly entered the room.

And the scene was a poignant one, however simple might be the words

that were exchanged.

'You did not think me guilty, Thérèse?'

'No, François, I assure you.'

'This morning, in the sad solitude in which I found myself, I was

still ignorant of everything.... But I happened to glance at an old

newspaper, and then I hastened here. How is Rose?'

'She is much better. She is there, in the bedroom.'

François had not dared to kiss his wife. She stood before him, erect

and severe amid her emotion. But Marc, who had risen, caught hold of

his grandson's hands, guessing by his pallor, his ravaged face, which

still bore traces of his tears, that he had been involved in some

tragic drama.

'Come, tell me everything, my poor lad.'

Then François, in a few quivering words and with all sincerity,

recounted his folly--his sudden flight from Maillebois on the arm

of that Colette who had maddened him; their life of seclusion in a

lonely district of Beaumont, where they had scarcely quitted their

room; a fortnight's cloistered life, interspersed with furious storms,

extravagant caprices on the part of that passionate gipsy, reproaches,

tears, and even blows; then, all at once, her flight nobody knew

whither, after a last scene when she had flung the furniture at her

lover's head. That had happened three weeks previously, and at first

he had awaited her return, then buried himself, as it were, in the

seclusion of that lonely room, full of despair and remorse, no longer

knowing how to return to Maillebois to his wife, whom he declared he

had never ceased to love in spite of all his folly.

While he spoke, Thérèse, who was still standing there, had turned her

head aside. And when he had finished she said, 'There is no occasion

for me to know those things.... I merely understand that you have come

back to answer the charges brought against you.'

'Oh!' Marc gently observed, 'those charges have now ceased to exist.'

'I have come back to see Rose,' François on his side declared, 'and

I repeat that I would have been here the very next day if I had not

remained ignorant of everything.'

'Very good,' Thérèse rejoined; 'I do not prevent you from seeing your

daughter; she is there--you may go in.'

There ensued a very singular scene which Marc watched with impassioned

interest. Rose was seated in an armchair, reading, her injured arm

hanging in a sling. As the door opened she looked up and raised a

quivering cry, instinct, it seemed, both with fear and with joy.

'Oh! papa!'

Then she rose, and all at once seemed stupefied. 'But it wasn't you,

papa--was it--the other evening?' she cried. 'The man was shorter and

his beard was different!'

And she continued to scrutinise her father as if she found him

otherwise than she had pictured him since his flight--since she had

watched her forsaken mother weeping. Had she pictured him as a wicked

man, then, squat of build and with an ogre's face? She now recognised

the father with the pleasant smile, whom she adored; and if he had come

back it was surely in order that no more tears might be shed in their

dear home. But all at once she began to tremble at the thought of the

dreadful consequences of her error.

'And to think I accused you, papa--that I kept on saying that the man

was you! No, no, it wasn't you, I told a story; I will explain it to

the gendarmes if they come to take you!'

She sank back in the arm-chair, weeping bitterly, and her father had to

take her on his lap, kiss her, and vow to her that their sorrows were

all over. He himself stammered with emotion as he spoke. Had he behaved

so vilely, then, that he had appeared a very monster in the eyes of

his daughter, and that she had thought him capable of ill-using her so

dreadfully?

Thérèse, meantime, while listening, had striven to remain impassive,

saying never a word. François glanced at her anxiously, as if to

ascertain whether she would again tolerate his presence in that home

which he had ravaged. And Marc, noticing the severity of her demeanour,

her unwillingness to forgive, preferred to take his grandson away with

him and provide him with a lodging pending the advent of a calmer hour.

That very evening the officers of the law presented themselves at

Faustin's dwelling, but they did not find the rascal there. The place

was closed, the man had fled, and the search for him failed: he was

never taken. People ended by believing that he had escaped to America.

His sister Colette had perhaps accompanied him thither, for although

she was sought she was never seen again, either at Maillebois or at

Beaumont. And the whole affair remained very obscure; one was reduced

to conjectures. Had the brother and sister been accomplices? Had

Colette co-operated in some plot when she had induced François to

carry her off, or had Faustin merely wished to avail himself in some

mysterious manner of the situation which the elopement had created? But

the chief point of all was whether there had been some superior behind

him, some man of intelligence and will, who had planned and prepared

everything in view of a supreme assault on the new order of things, by

renewing, as it were, the old Simon affair. All those suppositions were

allowable, given the facts; and in the end nobody doubted that there

had really been some mysterious agreement and ambush.

Thus, how great was Marc's relief when the authorities, being convinced

of Faustin's guilt and flight, set the affair aside. At the first

moment that renewal of the old abominations, that last supreme attempt

to besmirch the secular schools, had greatly disquieted Marc. But he

was astonished at the rapidity with which the truth had been made

manifest by public good sense. The appearances against François had

been far greater than those against Simon in the old days. His own

daughter had accused him; and, even if she had retracted her words, it

would simply have been said that she had yielded to family pressure.

In former times no witnesses, neither a Bongard, nor a Doloir, nor a

Savin, would have dared to come forward and say what they had heard or

seen, for fear of compromising themselves. In former times Marsouillier

would not have relieved his conscience; firstly, because he would have

felt no need of doing so, and secondly because a powerful faction would

have immediately risen to support and glorify his original falsehood.

The Congregations had then been ready at hand, poisoning everything,

making a dogma, a cult, of error. Rome in her battle against free

thought had made a savage use of political parties, maddening them,

hurling them one upon the other, in the hope of some civil war which,

by cutting the nation in halves, might render her mistress of the

majority, the poor and ignorant. And now that Rome was vanquished, that

the Congregations were disappearing, that not a Jesuit would soon be

left to obscure men's thoughts and pervert their actions, human reason

was working freely. The explanation of all the good sense and logic

which Marc had lately observed was not to be sought elsewhere. The

simple fact was that the people, being now educated and freed from the

errors of centuries, were becoming capable of truth and justice.

But amid the delight of victory some anxiety lingered in Marc's

heart, anxiety at the rupture which had occurred between François

and Thérèse, that question of the happiness of man and woman, which

happiness can only spring from their perfect agreement. Marc did not

entertain any wild hope of being able to kill the passions and prevent

our poor humanity from bleeding beneath the spur of desire. There

would always be broken hearts, tortured and jealous flesh. Only, might

one not hope that woman, being freed and raised to equality with man,

would render the sexual struggle less bitter, impart to it some calm

dignity? Already during the recent scandal women had shown themselves

the friends of truth, employing all their energy to discover it. They

were emancipated from the Church; they were no longer possessed by

base superstition and the fear of hell; they no longer feigned a false

humility before the priests; they were no longer the servants who

prostrated themselves before men, the sex which seems to acknowledge

its abjection and which revenges itself for its enforced humility by

rotting and disorganising everything. They had ceased to act as snares

of voluptuousness in accordance with the discreet advice of their

confessors, seeking to entrap men in order to promote the triumph of

religion. They had become normal wives and mothers since they had been

wrested from that morbid falsehood of the divine spouse, which had

unhinged so many poor minds. And now was it not their duty to complete

the great work by exercising the rights they had regained with great

wisdom and kindness?

At last it occurred to Marc to assemble the whole family at the school,

in that large classroom where he himself had taught, and where Joseph

and François had taught after him. And there was a certain solemnity

about that meeting, held one afternoon at the close of September,

amid the sunshine which cast gentle beams on the master's desk, the

boys' forms, the blackboards, and the pictures hanging from the

walls. Sébastien and Sarah came from Beaumont; Clément and Charlotte

arrived with their daughter Lucienne from Jonville. And Joseph, warned

some days previously, had returned from a holiday tour feeling very

much affected by all that had occurred in his absence. Finally, Marc

himself and Geneviève, accompanied by Louise and Joseph, repaired to

the rendezvous, taking François with them--Thérèse and Rose awaiting

their arrival in the classroom. Altogether twelve members of the family

attended the gathering, and at first deep silence prevailed.

'My dear Thérèse,' said Marc at last, 'we have no wish to do violence

to your feelings, we have only come here for a family chat.... You have

no doubt suffered in your heart, but you have never known such a great

rending as when husband and wife have seemed to come from two different

worlds, and have suddenly found themselves parted by such an abyss as

to suggest no likelihood of ever being united again. In former times

woman, in the hands of the Church, had become an instrument of torture

for man, who was already freed. Ah! how many tears were shed in those

days, how many homes were broken up!'

Silence fell again; then Geneviève, who was deeply moved, in her

turn said: 'Yes, my dear Marc, I often regarded you wrongly, I often

tortured you in the old days, and you do right to recall those evil

years; your words cannot wound me now, since I have had strength enough

to overcome the poison. But how many women remained agonising in the

old dungeon, how many homes perished in grief? I myself have never been

entirely cured; I have always trembled with the dread of being mastered

once more by long heredity and the perverting influence of early

education. And if I have managed to remain erect, it is thanks to you,

your sturdy good sense and active affection, for all which I thank you,

my good Marc.'

Happy tears had come into her eyes, and she continued with increasing

emotion: 'Ah! my poor grandmother, my poor mother! Yes, they were to be

pitied! They were so wretched, assailed by destructive ferments, cast

out of their sex, as it were, by their voluntary martyrdom. My poor

grandmother was a terrible woman; but then she had never known a joy

in life, she lived in perpetual nothingness--and thus why should she

not have dreamt of reducing others to the same painful renunciation

of everything which she had imposed upon herself? And my poor mother,

too, what a long agony did she undergo from having tasted the delight

of being loved, and afterwards from having lapsed for ever into that

religion of falsehood and death which denies all the powers and joys of

life!'

While Geneviève spoke two shadowy forms seemed to flit by--the vanished

forms of Madame Duparque and Madame Berthereau--those pitiable,

disquieting devotees of another age, one of whom had belonged entirely

to the ferocious, exterminating Church, while the other, of a gentler

nature, had died in despair at the thought that she had never

attempted to sever her chain. Geneviève's eyes seemed to wander away

after them both. She herself had known the great battle, for it had

been waged around her and within her; and it was happiness for her to

think that she had one day felt free again, and had returned to life

and to health. But her eyes at last fell upon her daughter Louise, who

smiled at her very lovingly, and then leant forward to kiss her.

'Mother,' said Louise, 'you were the bravest and the most deserving,

for it was you who fought and suffered. It is to you we owe the

victory, paid for with so many tears. I remember. Coming as I did after

you, it was no great merit for me to free myself from the past; and if

never a quiver of error disturbed me, it was because I profited by the

terrible lesson which at one time made all our hearts bleed in our poor

mourning home.'

'Be quiet, you flatterer,' replied Geneviève, laughing and returning

her kiss. 'You were the child who saved us, whose strong and skilful

little mind intervened so lovingly and triumphed over every obstacle.

We owe our peace to you; you were the first free little woman with

enough intelligence, will, and resolution to set happiness on earth.

Then Marc, turning towards Thérèse, explained: 'You were not born, my

dear, at the time of all those things, and you are ignorant of them.

Having come after Louise, having never had anything to do with baptism

or confession or communion, you find it easy and simple to live freely

beyond the pale of religious imposture and social prejudice, with no

other bonds about you than those of your own reason and conscience.

But, for things to be as they are, mothers and grandmothers passed

through frightful crises, the worst follies, the worst torments....

As is the case with all the social questions, the one solution lay

in education. It was necessary to impart knowledge to woman before

setting her in her legitimate place as the equal and companion of man.

That was the first thing necessary, the essential condition of human

happiness, for woman could only free man after being freed herself. As

long as she remained the priest's servant and accomplice, an instrument

of reaction, espionage, and warfare in the home, man himself remained

in chains, incapable of all virile and decisive action. The strength

of the future will lie in the absolute agreement of man and wife....

And so, my dear, you see how sad it makes us that misfortune should

again have come into your home. There is no abyss created by different

beliefs between you and François. You are of the same spheres, the same

education. He is not your master by law and custom, as he would have

been in the old days; you are not his servant, seeking an opportunity

to revenge yourself on him for his mastery. You have the same rights as

he has. You can dispose of your life as you choose. Your joint peace

and agreement are based solely on reason, logic, and the dictates of

life itself, which, to be lived in health and all fulness, requires

the mating of man and woman. But, alas! we see your peace destroyed by

the eternal fragility of human nature, unless indeed kindness of heart

should help you to win it back.'

Thérèse had listened, calm, dignified, and with an expression of great

deference: 'I know all those things, grandfather; you must not think

I have forgotten them,' said she. 'But why has François been living

with you for some days past? He might have remained here. There are two

lodgings, the schoolmaster's and the schoolmistress's, and I do not

prevent him from taking possession of the former while I occupy the

other. In that fashion he can resume his duties when the boys come back

in a few days' time. We are free, as you say, and I desire to remain

free.'

Her father and her mother, Sébastien and Sarah, then tried to intervene

affectionately; and Geneviève, Louise, and Charlotte, indeed all the

women present, smiled at her, entreated her with their glances; but she

would listen to nothing, she rejected their suggestions resolutely,

though without any anger.

'François has wounded me cruelly,' she said. 'I thought I had quite

ceased to love him, and I should be telling you a falsehood if I said

that I am now certain I love him still.... You cannot wish me to tell

an untruth, you cannot wish me to resume life in common with him, when

it would be cowardice and shame.'

At this a cry escaped François, who hitherto had remained silent, and

visibly anxious. 'But I, Thérèse, I still love you!' he exclaimed. 'I

love you as I never loved you before, and if you have suffered, I think

that I now suffer even more than you have done!'

She turned towards him, and said very gently:' You speak the truth, I

am willing to believe it.... It is quite possible that you still love,

in spite of your folly, for amid all our craving for reason, our poor

human hearts will ever remain a source of dementia. And as you suffer

so much, there are two of us who suffer ... dreadfully. But I cannot be

your wife again if I no longer love you, if I no longer wish you for my

husband. It would be unworthy of us both, our ill, in lieu of healing,

would be poisoned by it. The best course for us to follow is to live

as good neighbours, good friends, and attending to our work, each free

once more.'

'But I, mamma!' cried Rose, whose eyes were full of tears.

'You, my darling? You will love us both to-morrow as you loved us

yesterday.... And don't be anxious, these are questions which one only

understands when one is older than you are.'

With a caressing gesture Marc summoned the girl to him, and, having

seated her on his knees, he was about to plead the cause of François

once more when Thérèse hastily forestalled him.

'No, no, grandfather, do not insist, I beg you. It is your tender

heart, not your reason, that now wishes to speak. If you prevailed over

me you might have cause to repent it. Let me be wise and strong.... I

know very well that you wish to spare us suffering. Ah! let us confess

that suffering will be eternal. It is in us, no doubt, for one of the

unknown purposes of life. Our poor hearts will always bleed, we shall

always rend them in hours of exasperated passion, in spite of all the

health and all the good sense that we may succeed in acquiring. And,

perhaps, that is the necessary good for happiness!'

A slight chilling quiver seemed to dim the bright sunlight; through

all there passed a consciousness of the sorrowful grandeur of that

recognition of suffering.

'But what does it matter?' Thérèse continued. 'Have no fears,

grandfather, we will be worthy and brave. It is nothing to suffer, it

is only necessary that suffering should not make us blind and wicked.

Nobody will know that we suffer, and we will even try to be the better

for it, more gentle to others, more desirous of assuaging the causes of

grief which exist in the world.... And, besides, grandfather, do not

regret anything; say to yourself that you have done all you possibly

could do, that you have carried out an admirable task which will give

us all the happiness that reason can yield. As for the rest, as for

sentimental life, each with his or her love will settle that according

to personal circumstances, even if it be in tears. Leave us, François

and me, leave us to live and suffer even, as we choose, for it only

concerns ourselves. It is sufficient that you should have freed our

minds, and made us conscious of a world of truth and justice.... And

as you have brought us together here, grandfather, it shall not be for

the purpose of preventing a rupture, of which only François and myself

can be the judges, but it shall be to give us an opportunity to acclaim

you, to express to you our adoration, and our gratitude for your work!'

At this they all clapped hands, transported with delight, and the

splendour of the sun seemed to have returned and to stream in a sheet

of gold through the lofty windows. Yes, yes, this was the grandfather's

triumph in that very classroom where he had fought so bravely, where he

had given the best of his heart and his mind to those who would become

the people of the morrow. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren,

all were his pupils, and all surrounded him as if he were a very

venerable and powerful patriarch, from whom the happy future had

sprung. He had kept Rose, who represented the last generation in its

flower, on his lap; and she had twined her arms about his neck, and was

covering his face with kisses. His daughter Louise, his son Clément,

had set themselves beside him with Joseph and Charlotte. And Sébastien

and Sarah smiled at him and stretched out their clasped hands, while

Thérèse and François, drawn nearer together, it seemed, by their

affection for the august old man, seated themselves at his feet. At

last Marc, deeply moved, almost stifled by the caresses heaped on him,

said jestingly, with a pleasant laugh, 'My children, my children, you

must not make a god of me! You know very well that the churches are

being shut up.... I am only a hard worker who has finished his day.

Besides, I don't want to triumph without my dear Geneviève beside me.'

He drew her near, taking her by the arm, and they all kissed her as

they had kissed him, in such wise that the husband and wife, once

parted, then reconciled and from that time commanding all possible

happiness, were conjointly glorified in that elementary classroom,

among those humble forms on which, again and again, the children's

children, all the generations going towards the happy city, would take

their seats.

And that was Marc's reward for all his years of courage and effort. He

saw his work before him. Rome had lost the battle, France was saved

from death, from the dust and ruin in which Catholic nations disappear,

one after the other. She had been rid of the clerical faction which had

chosen her territory as its battlefield, ravaging her fields, poisoning

her people, striving to create darkness in order to dominate the world

once more. She was no longer threatened with burial beneath the ashes

of a dead religion; she had again become her own mistress; she could

go forward to her destiny as a liberating and justice-dealing power.

And if she had conquered it was solely by the means of that primary

education which had extracted the humble, the lowly ones of her country

districts, from the ignorance of slaves, from the deadly imbecility in

which Roman Catholicism had maintained them for centuries. Some had

dared to say, 'Happy the poor in spirit!' and from that mortal error

had sprung the misery of two thousand years. The legend of the benefits

of ignorance now appeared like a prolonged social crime. Poverty, dirt,

superstition, falsehood, tyranny, woman exploited and held in contempt,

man stupefied and mastered, every physical and every moral ill, were

the fruits of that ignorance which had been fostered intentionally,

which had served as a system of state politics and religious police.

Knowledge alone would slay mendacious dogmas, disperse those who traded

and lived on them, and become the source of wealth, whether in respect

to the harvests of the soil or the general florescence of the human

mind. No! happiness had never had its abode in ignorance; it lay in

knowledge, which will change the frightful field of material and moral

wretchedness into a vast and fruitful expanse, whose wealth from year

to year culture will increase tenfold.

Thus Marc, laden with years and glory, had enjoyed the great reward

of living long enough to see his work's result. Justice resides in

truth alone, and there is no happiness apart from justice. And after

the creation of families, after the foundation of the cities of just

work, the nation itself was constituted on the day when, by decreeing

integral education for all its citizens, it showed itself capable of

practising truth and equity.

THE END