At that same hour Judge Gaume was waiting at home for his daughter

Lucile and his son-in-law Jollivet, who were to fetch him in order that

they might all repair to the lunch together. During the last four years

the judge had greatly aged. He seemed to have become yet more severe,

and sadder; and he carried strict attention to the letter of the law

to the point of mania, drawing up the preambles of his judgments with

increasing minuteness of detail. It was said that he had been heard

sobbing on certain evenings, as if he felt everything connected with

his life giving way, even that human justice to which he clung so

despairingly as to a last piece of wreckage which might save him from

sinking. Amidst his dolorous remembrance of the tragedy which weighed

upon his life--his wife's betrayal and violent death--he must above all

else have suffered at seeing that drama begin afresh with his daughter

Lucile, of whom he was so fond, and who was so virginal of countenance,

and so strikingly like her mother. She in her turn was now deceiving

her husband. Indeed, she had not been married six months to Captain

Jollivet before she had taken a lover, a solicitor's petty clerk, a

tall fair youth with blue girlish eyes, younger than herself. The

judge having surprised the intrigue, suffered from it as if it were a

renewal of that betrayal which had left an ever-bleeding wound in his

heart. He recoiled from a painful explanation, which would have brought

him perchance a repetition of the awful day when his wife had killed

herself before his eyes after confessing her fault. But how abominable

was that world in which all that he had loved had betrayed and failed

him! And how could one believe in any human justice when it was the

most beautiful and the best who made one suffer so cruelly!

Thoughtful and morose, Judge Gaume was seated in his private room,

where he had just finished reading the 'Journal de Beauclair,' when the

Captain and Lucile made their appearance. The violent article against

La Crêcherie which he had just read seemed to him foolish, clumsy, and

vulgar. And he quietly expressed his opinion to that effect.

'It is not you, I hope, my good Jollivet, who write such articles, as

is rumoured. No good purpose is served by insulting one's adversaries,'

he said.

The Captain made a gesture of embarrassment: 'Oh, write!' he retorted,

'you know very well that I don't write, it is not to my taste. But it's

true that I give Lebleu some ideas, some notes, you know, on scraps of

paper, and he gets somebody or other to write articles based on them.'

Then, as the judge still pursed his lips disappprovingly, the captain

went on: 'What else can one do? One fights with such weapons as one

has. If those cursed Madagascar fevers had not compelled me to send

in my papers, I should have fallen sabre and not pen in hand on those

idealogues who are demolishing everything with their criminal utopian

schemes. Ah! yes indeed, it would relieve me to be able to bleed a

dozen of them!'

Lucile, short and _mignonne_, had hitherto remained silent, with her

usual keen enigmatical smile upon her lips. But now she turned so

plainly ironical a glance upon her husband, that great man with the

victorious moustaches, that the judge easily detected in it all the

merry disdain she felt for a swashbuckler whom her little hands toyed

with as a cat may toy with a mouse.

'Oh, Charles!' said she, 'don't be wicked, don't say things that

frighten me!'

But just then she met her father's glance, and feared lest her true

feelings should be divined; so putting on her candid, virginal air

again, she added: 'Isn't it wrong of Charles to get so heated, father

dear? We ought to live quietly in our little corner.'

But Gaume detected that she was still jeering. 'It is all very sad

and very cruel,' said he by way of conclusion, virtually speaking to

himself. 'What can one decide, what can one do when all deceive and

devour one another?'

He rose painfully, and took his hat and gloves in order to go to

Delaveau's. Then in spite of everything, when once he was in the

street, and Lucile--of whom he was so fond, whatever the sufferings she

caused him--took hold of his arm, he enjoyed a moment of delightful

forgetfulness as after a lovers' quarrel.

Meantime, when noon struck at the Abyss, Delaveau joined Fernande in

the little _salon_ opening into the dining-room of the pavilion built

by the Qurignons, which was now the home of the manager of the works.

It was a rather small dwelling; for, apart from the dining and drawing

rooms and the domestic offices, the ground floor only contained one

other apartment, which Delaveau had made his private room, and which

communicated by a wooden gallery with the general offices of the works.

Then on the first and second floors were some bed-rooms. Since a young

woman passionately fond of luxury had been living in the house, carpets

and hangings had imparted to the old floors and dark walls some little

of the splendour that she dreamt of.

Boisgelin was the first guest to arrive, and came unaccompanied.

'What!' exclaimed Fernande, as if greatly distressed, 'is not Suzanne

with you?'

'She begs you to excuse her,' Boisgelin replied in very correct

fashion. 'She woke up this morning with a sick headache, and has been

unable to leave her room.'

Each time that there was any question of going to the Abyss matters

took this course--Suzanne found some pretext for avoiding such an

aggravation of her grief, and only Delaveau, in his blindness, failed

to understand the truth.

Moreover, Boisgelin immediately changed the conversation. 'Ah! so here

we are on the eve of the famous law-suit,' said he. 'It is as good as

settled, eh? La Crêcherie will be condemned!'

Delaveau shrugged his broad shoulders. 'What does it matter to us

whether it be condemned or not?' he replied. 'It does us harm, no

doubt, by lowering the price of metal, but we don't compete in

manufactured articles, and there is nothing very serious as yet.'

Fernande, who looked wondrously beautiful that day, stood quivering,

gazing at her husband with flaming eyes. 'Oh! you don't know how to

hate!' she cried. 'What! that man set himself to thwart all your plans,

founded at your very door a rival enterprise, the success of which

would be the ruin of the one you manage--a man, too, who never ceases

to be an obstacle and a threat--and you don't even desire to see him

crushed! Ah! if he's flung naked into a ditch I shall be only too

pleased!'

From the very first day she had felt that Luc would be the enemy, and

she could not speak calmly of that man who threatened her enjoyment

of life. Therein for her lay his one great unique crime. With her

ever-increasing appetite for pleasure and luxury, she required ever

larger profits, an abundance of prosperity for the works, hundreds and

hundreds of workmen, kneading, fashioning steel at the flaming doors

of their furnaces. She was the devourer of men and money, the one

whose cravings the Abyss with its steam hammers and its huge machinery

no longer sufficed to satisfy. And what would become of her hopes of

future pomp and vanity, of millions amassed and devoured, if the Abyss

should fall into difficulties, and succumb to competition? With that

thought in her mind, she left neither her husband nor Boisgelin any

rest, but ever urged them on, worried them incessantly, seizing every

opportunity to give expression to her anger and her fears.

Boisgelin, who feigned a superior kind of way--never meddling with

business matters, but spending the profits of the works without

counting them, setting his only glory in being a handsome ladykiller,

an elegant horseman, and a great sportsman--was none the less

accustomed to shiver when he heard Fernande speak of possible ruin.

Thus, on the present occasion, turning towards Delaveau, in whom he

retained absolute confidence, he inquired, 'You have no anxiety, eh,

cousin? All is going on well here?'

The engineer again shrugged his shoulders. 'I repeat that the works are

in no wise affected as yet. Moreover, the whole town is rising against

that man--he is mad. We shall all see now how unpopular he is; and if

at bottom I am well pleased with that law-suit, it is because it will

finish him off in the opinion of Beauclair. Before three months have

elapsed all the workmen that he has taken from us will be coming with

hands clasped to beg me to take them back. You will see, you will see!

Authority is the only sound principle, the enfranchisement of labour is

arrant stupidity, for the workman no longer does anything properly when

once he becomes his own master.'

Silence fell, then he added more slowly, with a faint shade of anxiety

in his eyes, 'All the same, we ought to be prudent. La Crêcherie is not

a competitor that one can neglect, and what would alarm me would be any

lack of the necessary funds for a struggle in some sudden emergency. We

live too much from day to day, and it is becoming indispensable that

we should establish a substantial reserve fund, by setting apart, for

instance, one third of the annual profits.'

Fernande restrained a gesture of involuntary protest. That was indeed

her fear: that her lover might have to reduce his expenditure, and that

she, in her pride and pleasures, might suffer therefrom. She had to

content herself for the moment with looking at Boisgelin. But he, of

his own accord, plainly answered: 'No, no, cousin, not at the present

moment. I can't set anything aside, my expenses are too heavy. At the

same time I must thank you once more, for you make my money yield even

more than you promised. We will see about the rest later on--we will

talk it over.'

Nevertheless Fernande remained in a nervous state, and her covert anger

fell upon Nise, who had just lunched alone, under the supervision of a

maid, who now brought her into the _salon_ before taking her to spend

the afternoon with a little friend. Nise, who was now nearly seven

years old, was growing quite pretty, pink and fair, and ever merry,

with wild hair which made her resemble a little curly sheep.

'There, my dear Boisgelin,' said Fernande, 'there's a disobedient child

who will end by making me quite ill. Just ask her what she did the

other day at that treat which she offered to your son Paul and little

Louise Mazelle!'

Without evincing the slightest alarm, Nise, with her limpid blue eyes,

continued gaily smiling at those about her.

'Oh!' continued her mother, 'she won't admit any wrong-doing. But

do you know, although I had forbidden it a dozen times, she again

opened the old door in our garden wall to admit all the dirty urchins

of La Crêcherie into our grounds. There was that little Nanet, a

frightful little rascal for whom she has conceived an affection. And

your boy Paul was mixed up in it, and so was Louise Mazelle, all of

them fraternising with the children of that man Bonnaire, who left us

in such an insolent fashion. Yes, Paul with Antoinette, and Louise

with Lucien, and Mademoiselle Nise and her Nanet, leading them to the

assault of our flower-beds. Yet she has not even a blush of shame on

her cheeks, you see!'

'It isn't just,' Nise simply answered in her clear voice; 'we did not

break anything, we played together very nicely. He is funny, is Nanet.'

This answer made Fernande quite angry: 'Ah! you think him funny, do

you? Just listen to me. If ever I catch you with him, you shall have no

dessert for a week. I don't want you to get me into any unpleasantness

with those people near us. They would go about everywhere saying that

we attract their children here in order to render them ill. You hear

me? This time it is serious; you will have to deal with me if you see

Nanet again.'

'Yes, mamma,' said Nise in her quiet, smiling way. And when she had

gone off with the maid, after kissing everybody, the mother concluded:

'It is very simple--I shall have the door walled up. In that way I

shall be certain that the children won't communicate. There is nothing

worse than that--it corrupts them.'

Neither Delaveau nor Boisgelin had intervened; for on the one hand they

saw in this affair only so much childishness, and on the other they

approved of severe measures when good order was in question. But the

future was germinating. Stubborn Mademoiselle Nise had carried away

in her little heart the thought of Nanet, who was funny and played so

nicely.

At last the guests arrived, the Gouriers with Châtelard, then Judge

Gaume with the Jollivets. Abbé Marle was the last to appear, late

according to his wont. Though the Mazelles had expressly promised to

come and take coffee, some obstacle prevented them from sharing the

repast. Thus there were only ten at table; but then they had desired

to be few in number in order that they might be able to chat at their

ease. Besides, the dining-room, of which Fernande felt ashamed, was

such a small one that the old mahogany sideboard interfered with the

service whenever there were more than a dozen round the table.

From the serving of the fish, some delicious trout of the Mionne, the

conversation naturally fell on La Crêcherie and Luc. And what was said

by those educated _bourgeois_, in a position to know the truth about

what they called 'socialist utopia,' proved scarcely one whit more

sensible or intelligent than the extraordinary views expressed by such

people as Dacheux and Laboque. The only man who might have understood

the real position was Châtelard. But then he preferred to jest.

'You know,' said he, 'that the boys and girls there grow up all

together in the same class-rooms and workshops, so that we may expect

the little town to become a populous one, very rapidly. With their

loose theories, they will all be papas and mammas, and there will be

quite a tribe of children running about?'

'How horrible!' exclaimed Fernande, with an air of profound disgust,

for she affected extreme prudishness.

Then, for a few moments, the free love theories attributed to the

denizens of La Crêcherie formed the topic of conversation. But a matter

of that kind did not worry Delaveau. In his estimation the serious

point was the undermining of authority, the criminal dream of living

without a master.

'Such a conception as that is beyond me,' he exclaimed. 'How will their

future city be governed? To speak only of the works, they say that by

association they will suppress the wage system, and that there will be

a just division of wealth when only workers are left, each giving his

share of toil to the community. But I can conceive of no more dangerous

dream than that, for it is irrealisable, is it not, Monsieur Gourier?'

The mayor, who was eating with his face bent over his plate, spent some

time in wiping his mouth before he answered, for he noticed that the

sub-prefect was looking at him.

'Irrealisable, no doubt,' he said at last. 'Only one must not lightly

condemn the principle of association. There is great strength in

association, and we ourselves may be called upon to make use of it.'

This prudent reply incensed the captain, who retorted angrily, 'What!

wouldn't you condemn once and for all the execrable deeds which that

man--I speak of that Monsieur Luc--is planning against all that we

love, that old France of ours, such as the swords of our fathers made

it and bequeathed it to us?'

Some mutton cutlets served with asparagus heads were now being handed

round, and a general outcry against Luc arose. The mention of his

hated name sufficed to draw them all together, unite them closely, in

alarm for their threatened interests, and with an imperious craving

for resistance and revenge. Somebody, however, was cruel enough to

ask Gourier for news of his son, Achille the renegade, and the mayor

had to curse the lad once again. Châtelard alone tried to tack about

and keep the discussion on a jocular footing. But in this he failed,

for the captain continued prophesying the worst disasters if the

factious-minded were not immediately kicked into obedience and order.

And his words disseminated such a panic that Boisgelin, becoming

anxious again, appealed to Delaveau, from whom there happily came a

reassuring declaration.

'Our man is already hit,' declared the manager of the Abyss. 'The

prosperity of La Crêcherie is only on the surface, and an accident

would suffice to bring everything to the ground. Thus, for instance, my

wife was lately giving me some particulars----'

'Yes,' broke in Fernande, happy to have an opportunity of relieving her

feelings, 'the information came to me from my laundress. She knows one

of our former hands, a man named Ragu, who left us in order to go to

the new works. Well, it seems that Ragu is declaring everywhere that he

has had quite enough of that dirty den, that the men are bored to death

there, that he isn't the only one to complain, and that one of these

fine days they will all be coming back here. Ah! who will begin, who

will deal the blow necessary to make that man Luc totter and fall to

pieces?'

'But there's the Laboque lawsuit,' said Boisgelin, coming to the young

woman's help. 'I hope that will suffice for everything.'

Fresh silence ensued whilst some roast ducks made their appearance.

Although the Laboque lawsuit was the real motive of that friendly

gathering, nobody as yet had dared to speak of it in presence of the

silence which Judge Gaume preserved. He ate but little, his secret

sorrows having brought him a complaint of the digestive organs, and

he contented himself with listening to the others and gazing at them

with his cold grey eyes, whence he knew how to withdraw all expression.

Never had he been seen in a less communicative mood, and this ended by

embarrassing the others, who would have liked to know on what footing

to treat him, and at least have some certainty as to the judgment which

he would deliver. Although no thought of possible acquittal at his

hands entered anybody's mind, they all hoped that he would have the

good taste to pledge himself in a sufficiently clear fashion.

Again it was the captain who advanced to the assault. 'The law is

formal, is it not, Monsieur le Président?' he inquired. 'All damage

done to anybody must be repaired?'

'No doubt,' answered Gaume.

More was expected from him, but he relapsed into silence. And

thereupon, by way of compelling him to pledge himself more thoroughly,

the Clouque affair was noisily discussed. That filthy stream became one

of the former adornments of Beauclair; it was not right that people

should steal a town's water in such a fashion as that man Luc had done,

particularly to give it to peasants whose brains had been turned to

such a point that they had converted their village into a hotbed of

furious anarchy which threatened the whole region. All the terror of

the _bourgeoisie_ now became apparent, for assuredly the ancient and

holy principle of property was in sore distress if the sons of the

hard-fisted peasants of former times had reached such a point as to

place their strips of land in common. It was high time that justice

should interfere and put a stop to such a scandal.

'Oh! we may be quite easy,' Boisgelin ended by saying in a flattering

tone. 'The cause of society will be in good hands. There is nothing

above a just judgment, rendered in all liberty by an honest conscience.'

'Without doubt,' Gaume simply repeated.

And this time it was necessary to rest content with that vague remark,

in which they all strove to detect the certainty of Luc's conviction.

The meal was now virtually over, for after a Russian salad there were

only some strawberry ices and the dessert. But the guests' stomachs

were comforted, and they laughed a good deal, for they were convinced

of victory. When they had gone into the _salon_ to take coffee and the

Mazelles arrived, the latter were, as usual, greeted with somewhat

jocose friendliness. Those worthy folk, living on their income, and

personifying the delights of idleness, moved one's heart! Madame

Mazelle's complaint was no better, but she was delighted at having

obtained from Doctor Novarre some new wafers which enabled her to eat

anything with impunity. It was only such matters as the abominable

stories of La Crêcherie, the threat that Rentes would be done away

with, and that the right of inheritance would be abolished, that now

gave her a turn. But what was the use of talking about disagreeable

things? Mazelle, who watched over his wife with profound satisfaction,

winked at the others and begged them to raise those horrid subjects

no more, since they had such a bad effect on Madame Mazelle's failing

health. And then the gathering became delightful, they all hastened to

revert to the happiness of life, a life of wealth and enjoyment, of

which they plucked all the flowers.

At last, amidst growing anger and hatred, the day of the famous lawsuit

dawned. Never had Beauclair been so upset by furious passion. Luc in

the first instance had felt astonished at Laboque's writ, and had

simply laughed at it, particularly as it seemed to him impossible that

the claim for twenty-five thousand francs by way of damages could be

sustained. If the Clouque had dried up it would in the first place

be difficult for anybody to prove that this had been caused by the

capturing of hillside springs at La Crêcherie; and moreover those

springs belonged to the estate, to the Jordans, and were free from all

servitude, in such wise that the owner had a full right to dispose of

them as he pleased. On the other hand Laboque must assuredly base his

claim for damages on facts proving that he had really sustained injury

and loss, but he simply made such a feeble and clumsy attempt to do

so that no court of justice in the world could possibly decide in his

favour. As Luc jocularly put it, it was he who ought to have claimed a

public grant as a reward for having delivered the waterside landowners

from a source of infection, of which they had long complained. The town

now simply had to fill up the bed of the stream and sell the land for

building purposes, thereby putting a few hundred thousand francs into

its coffers. Thus Luc laughed, not imagining that such a lawsuit as

Laboque's could be at all serious. It was only afterwards, on finding

rancour and hostility rising against him on every side, that he began

to realise the gravity of the situation, and the peril in which his

work would be placed.

This was a first painful shock for him. He was not ignorant of the

maliciousness of man. In giving battle to the old world, he had fully

expected that the latter would not yield him place without anger and

resistance. He was prepared for the Calvary he foresaw, the stones

and mud with which the ungrateful multitude usually pelt precursors.

Yet his heart wavered as he realised the approach of folly, cruelty,

and betrayal. He understood that behind the Laboques and the other

petty traders there was the whole _bourgeoisie_, all who possess and

are unwilling to part with aught of their possessions. His attempts

at association and co-operation placed capitalist society, based on

the wage-earning system, in such peril that he became for it a public

enemy, of which it must rid itself at any cost. And it was the Abyss

and La Guerdache and the whole town and authority in every form that

were now bestirring themselves, joining in the struggle and striving

to crush him. If he fell that pack of wolves would rush upon him and

devour him. He knew the names of those enemies, functionaries, traders,

mere _rentiers_ with placid faces who would have eaten him alive had

they seen him fall at a street corner. And therefore, mastering his

distress of heart, he prepared for battle, full of the conviction that

one can found nothing without battling, and that all great human work

is sealed with human blood.

It was on a Tuesday, a market day, that Laboque's action was heard by

the civil court, over which Judge Gaume presided. Beauclair was in a

state of uproar, all the folk who had come in from the neighbouring

villages helped to increase the general feverishness on the Place de

la Mairie and in the Rue de Brias. Sœurette, who felt anxious, had

therefore begged Luc to ask a few strong friends to accompany him. But

he stubbornly refused to do so, he resolved to go to the court alone,

just as he had resolved to defend himself in person, having engaged an

advocate simply as a matter of form. When he entered the court-room,

which was small and already crowded with noisy people, silence suddenly

fell, and the eager curiosity which greets an isolated, unarmed victim

ready for sacrifice became manifest. Luc's quiet courage increased

the rage of his enemies, who pronounced his demeanour to be insolent.

He remained standing in front of the bench allotted to defendants,

and whilst quietly gazing at the closely packed people around him, he

recognised Laboque, Dacheux, Caffiaux, and other shopkeepers among all

the many furious enemies with ardent faces, whom he saw for the first

time. However, he felt a little relieved on finding that the intimates

of La Guerdache and the Abyss had at least had the good taste to

refrain from coming to see him delivered to the beasts.

Long and exciting proceedings were anticipated, but there was nothing

of the kind. Laboque has chosen one of those provincial advocates

with a reputation for maliciousness who are the terror of a region.

And, indeed, the best time which Luc's enemies spent was when this

man spoke. Knowing how flimsy were the legal grounds on which the

demand for damages was based, he contented himself with ridiculing

the reforms attempted at La Crêcherie. He made his hearers laugh a

good deal with the comical and distorted picture which he drew of

the proposed future society. And he raised general indignation when

he pictured the children of both sexes being corrupted, the holy

institution of marriage being abolished, and free love and all such

horrors taking its place. Nevertheless, the general opinion was that

he had not found the supreme insult or argument, the bludgeon blow

by which a suit is gained and a man for ever crushed. And so great,

therefore, became the anxiety that when Luc in his turn spoke, his

slightest words were greeted with murmurs. He spoke very simply,

refrained from replying to the attacks made upon his enterprise, and

contented himself with showing with decisive force that Laboque's

demands were ill-founded. Would he not rather have rendered a service

to Beauclair if he had, indeed, dried up that pestilential Clouque, and

presented the town with good building land? It was not even proved,

however, that the works carried out at La Crêcherie had caused the

disappearance of the torrent, and he was waiting for the other side

to give proof of it. When he concluded, some of his bitterness of

heart appeared, for he declared that if he desired nobody's thanks for

whatever useful work he might have done, he would be happy if people

would but allow him to pursue his enterprises in peace, without seeking

groundless quarrels with him. On several occasions Judge Gaume had to

enjoin silence on the audience; nevertheless when the public prosecutor

also had spoken, in a designedly confused manner, in turn praising and

condemning both parties, Laboque's advocate replied in so violent a

fashion, calling Luc an Anarchist bent on destroying the town, that

loud acclamations burst forth, and the judge had to threaten that

he would order the court to be cleared if such demonstrations were

renewed. Then he postponed judgment for a fortnight.

When that fortnight was past, the popular passions had become yet more

heated, and folk almost came to blows on the market-place in discussing

the probable terms of the judgment. Nearly everybody, however, was

convinced that it would be a severe one, fixing the damages at ten or

fifteen thousand francs, and ordering the defendant to restore the

Clouque to its former condition. At the same time some people wagged

their heads and felt sure of nothing, for they had not been satisfied

with Judge Gaume's demeanour in court. Anxiety was caused, too, by the

manner in which the judge had shut himself up at home on the morrow of

the hearing, under the pretence of suffering from some indisposition.

It was said that he was really in perfect health, and had simply

desired to place himself beyond any pressure, refusing to see people

lest they might try to influence his judicial conscience. What did

he do in that silent house of his, whose doors and windows were kept

strictly closed, and which his daughter even was not allowed to enter?

To what moral struggle, what internal drama had he fallen a prey amidst

his wrecked life, the collapse of all that he had loved and all that he

had believed in? Those were questions which occupied many people, but

which none could answer.

Judgment was to be delivered at noon at the outset of the court's

sitting. And the room was yet more crowded and excited than on the

former occasion. Laughter rang out, and words of hope and violence were

exchanged from one to the other end. All Luc's enemies had come to see

him annihilated. And he had again refused to let anybody accompany

him, preferring to present himself alone, the better to express the

peacefulness of his mission. He stood up smiling and looking around

him without even appearing to suspect that all that growling anger was

directed against himself. At last, punctual to the minute, Judge Gaume

came in, followed by his two assessors and the public prosecutor. There

was no need for the usher to command silence, the chatter suddenly

ceased, and the faces of one and all were stretched forward, aglow with

anxious curiosity. The judge had in the first instance seated himself,

then he rose holding the paper on which his judgment was written;

and for a moment he remained thus, motionless and silent, with his

eyes gazing far away beyond the crowd. At last, slowly and without

the faintest emphasis, he began to read his judgment. It was a long

business, for 'whereas' followed 'whereas' with monotonous regularity,

presenting the various questions submitted to the court in full detail

and under every possible aspect. The people present listened without

understanding much of what was read, and without managing to foresee

the conclusion, so incessantly and closely did arguments on either side

follow one another. It seemed, however, at each forward step that Luc's

contentions were adopted by the court, that no real damage had been

done to another, and that every landowner had a right to execute what

work he pleased on his own land when no servitude existed to restrain

him. And the decision at last burst forth--Luc was acquitted, the

action was dismissed.

At first a moment of stupefaction ensued in the court-room. Then,

everybody having understood the position, there came hooting and

violent threatening shouts. What! the excited crowd, maddened by lies

for months past, was robbed of its promised victim! It demanded that

victim, it claimed him that it might tear him to pieces, since an

attempt to rob it of him was made at the last moment by a judge who had

evidently sold himself. Was not Luc the public enemy, the stranger who

had come nobody knew whence to corrupt Beauclair, ruin its trade, and

foment civil war in its midst by banding the workmen together against

their masters? And had he not with diabolical wickedness stolen the

town's water, dried up a stream whose disappearance was a disaster for

all who had property near its banks? The 'Journal de Beauclair' had

repeated those accusations every week, all the authorities, all the

gentlefolk had spread them abroad, and now the humbler ones, blinded

and enraged, convinced that a pestilence would come from La Crêcherie,

'saw red' and demanded death. Fists were thrust forward, and the cries

increased:

'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner, to death with

him!'

Very pale, with his features rigid, Judge Gaume remained standing

amidst the uproar. He wished to speak and give orders for the court to

be cleared, but he had to renounce all hope of making himself heard.

And for dignity's sake he had to rest content with suspending the

sitting by withdrawing from the court followed by his two assessors and

the public prosecutor.

Luc had remained calm and smiling beside his bench. He had been as

much surprised as his adversaries by the tenor of the judgment, for he

knew in what a vitiated atmosphere the judge lived. It was comforting

to meet a just man amid so much human baseness. When, however, the

cries of death burst forth, Luc's smile became a sad one, and his heart

filled with bitterness as he turned towards that howling throng. What

had he done to those petty _bourgeois_, those tradesmen, those workmen?

Had he not desired to benefit all, was he not working in order that

all might become happy, loving, and brotherly? But the fists still

threatened him, and the shouts lashed him more violently than ever:

'To death! to death with the thief! To death with the poisoner!'

To see those poor folk so wild, maddened by falsehoods, caused Luc

profound grief, for he loved them in spite of everything. He restrained

his tears, for he wished to remain erect, proud, and courageous beneath

those insults. The public thinking itself braved, would have ended,

however, by breaking down the oaken partitions in order to get at him,

if some guards had not at last succeeded in thrusting him out of the

court-room and securing the doors. Then, on behalf of Judge Gaume, the

clerk of the court came to beg Luc to refrain from leaving immediately,

for fear of some accident; and eventually the clerk prevailed on him

to wait a few minutes in the room of the doorkeeper of the Palace of

Justice, whilst the crowd was dispersing.[1]

But if Luc consented to do this he none the less experienced a feeling

of shame and revolt at being obliged to hide himself. He spent in that

doorkeeper's room the most painful fifteen minutes of his life, for

he thought it cowardly not to face the crowd, and was indignant that

the position of an apparent culprit should thus be forced upon him.

Directly the approaches of the Palace of Justice had been cleared, he

insisted on going home, on foot, and unaccompanied by anybody. He had

merely a light walking-stick with him, and was even sorry that he had

brought it, for fear lest anybody should imagine that he had done so

for purposes of defence. He had all Beauclair to cross, and he set out

slowly and quietly along the streets. Until he reached the Place de

la Mairie nobody seemed to notice him. The people who had quitted the

court had waited for him for a few minutes; then feeling certain that

he would not venture out for some hours, they had gone off to spread

the news of the acquittal through the town. But on the Place de la

Mairie, where the market was being held, Luc was recognised. He was

pointed out and a few persons even began to follow him, not as yet with

evil intentions, but solely to see what might happen. There were only

some peasants and their customers present, mere sightseers who were not

mixed up in the quarrel. Thus matters only took a serious turn when the

young man turned into the Rue de Brias, at the corner of which, in

front of his shop, Laboque, infuriated by his defeat, was venting his

anger amidst a small crowd of people.

All the tradespeople of the neighbourhood had hastened to Laboque's

establishment directly they had heard the disastrous tidings. What!

was it true then? La Crêcherie would be free to finish ruining them

with its co-operative stores, since the judges took its part? Caffiaux,

who looked overwhelmed, preserved silence, full of thoughts which he

would not express. But Dacheux the butcher, with all his blood rushing

to his face, showed himself one of the most violent, eager to defend

his meat, sacred meat, meat the privileged food of the wealthy! And he

even talked of killing people rather than reduce his prices by a single

centime. Madame Mitaine, for her part, had not come. She had never been

in favour of the lawsuit, and she simply declared that she should go

on selling bread as long as she found buyers, and that, for the rest,

she would see afterwards. Laboque, however, boiling over with fury, was

for the tenth time recounting the abominable treachery of Judge Gaume

when all at once he perceived Luc quietly walking past his shop--that

ironmongery shop whose ruin he was consummating. Such audacity brought

Laboque's rage to a climax; and he almost threw himself on the young

man as, half stifled by his rising bile, he growled, 'To death with the

thief! To death with the poisoner!'

Luc, without pausing, contented himself with turning his calm brave

eyes on the tumultuous throng whence came Laboque's husky invectives.

This was taken by all as an act of provocation, and a general clamour

arose, gathered force, and became like a tempest blast. 'To death with

the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death with him!'

Luc meantime, as if he himself were not in question, quietly went his

way, glancing to right and left, like one who is interested in the

sights of the streets. But almost the whole band had begun to follow

him with louder and louder hoots, and threats, and the outrageous

words, 'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death

with him!'

And those shouts never ceased, but grew and spread as he went at

a leisurely pace up the Rue de Brias. Out of each shop came fresh

tradespeople to join the demonstration. Women showed themselves in

the doorways and hooted the young man as he passed. Some in their

exasperation even rushed up and shouted with the men: 'To death with

the thief and poisoner!' Luc saw one of them, a fair young woman, a

fruiterer's wife, charmingly beautiful, showing her fine white teeth

as she shouted insults after him, and threatening him with her hands,

whose rosy finger-nails seemed eager to tear him to pieces. Children

also had begun to run after him, and there was one, some five or six

years old, no bigger than a jack-boot, who almost threw himself between

the young man's legs in order that he might be the better heard: 'To

death with the thief! To death with the poisoner!' Poor little urchin!

Who could have already taught him to raise that shout of hatred? But

matters became worse when Luc passed the factories situated in the

upper part of the street. The workgirls of Gourier's boot manufactory

appeared at their windows, clapped their hands and howled. Then there

were even the workmen of the Chodorge and Mirande factories, who stood

smoking on the foot-pavement waiting for the bells to ring the close of

the dinner-hour, and who, brutified by servitude, likewise joined in

the demonstration. One thin little fellow, with carroty hair and big

blurred eyes, seemed stricken with insanity, so furiously did he rush

about, shouting louder than all the others: 'To death with the thief!

To death with the poisoner! To death with him!'

Ah! that ascent of the Rue de Brias, with that growing band of enemies

at his heels, amidst that ignoble torrent of threats and insults!

Luc remembered the evening of his arrival at Beauclair four years

previously, when the black tramp, tramp of the disinherited starvelings

along that same street had filled him with such active compassion that

he had vowed to devote his life to the salvation of the wretched. What

had he done for four years past, that so much hatred should have sprung

up against him? He had made himself the apostle of the morrow, the

apostle of a community all solidarity and brotherliness, organised by

the ennoblement of work--work, the regulator of human wealth. He had

given an example of what he desired to establish, at that La Crêcherie

where the future city was germinating, and where such additional

justice and happiness as was for the time possible already reigned.

And that had sufficed--the whole town regarded him as a malefactor;

for he could feel that the whole of it was behind the band now barking

at his heels. How bitter was the suffering that accompanied that

Calvary-ascent, which all just men must make amidst the blows of the

very beings whose redemption they seek to hasten! Yet as for those

_bourgeois_ whose quiet digestions he troubled, Luc excused them for

hating him; for were they not terrified by the thought of having to

share their now egotistical enjoyment with others? He also excused

those shopkeepers who ascribed their ruin to his malice, when he simply

dreamt of a better employment of social forces, and of preventing

all useless waste of the public fortune. And he even excused those

workmen whom he had come to save from misery, and for whom he was so

laboriously raising a city of justice, yet who hooted and insulted him,

to such a degree, indeed, had their brains been fogged and their hearts

chilled. Only if he excused them all, in his sorrowful brotherliness,

he bled, indeed, at finding, amongst the most insulting, those very

toilers of factory and workshop whom he desired to make the nobles, the

free and happy men of to-morrow.

Luc was still ascending that endless Rue de Brias, and the pack of

wolves was still increasing in numbers, their shouts knowing no

cessation: 'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To

death with him!'

For a moment he paused, turned, and looked at all those people in order

that they might not imagine that he was fleeing. And as there happened

to be some piles of stones thereabouts, one man stooped down, took up a

stone and flung it at him. Immediately afterwards others stooped, and

the stones began to rain upon him amidst ever-growing threats.

'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death with

him!'

So now he was being stoned. However, he made not a gesture even, but

resumed his walk, persevering in the ascent of his Calvary. His hands

were empty, he had with him no weapon save his light walking-stick, and

this he had slipped under his arm. But he remained very calm, full of

the idea that if he were destined to fulfil his mission it would render

him invulnerable. His grief-stricken heart alone suffered, cruelly rent

as it was by the sight of so much error and madness. Tears rose to his

eyes, and he had to make a great effort to prevent them from flowing

down his cheeks.

'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death with

him!' Still and ever did those cries resound.

A stone at last struck one of Luc's heels, then another grazed his

hip. It had become a game now--the very children took part in it. But

they were unskilful, and most of the stones rebounded over the ground.

Twice, however, did pebbles pass so near Luc's head, that one might

have thought him struck. He no longer turned round, but still and ever

ascended the Rue de Brias at the same leisurely pace as before, like

one who, after going for a stroll, is returning home. But at last a

stone did hit him, tearing his right ear; and then another, striking

his left hand, cut the palm of it open. At this his blood gushed out,

and fell in big red drops upon the ground.

'To death with the thief and poisoner! To death with him!' some of the

crowd still cried. But an eddy of panic momentarily stayed the advance.

Several people ran off, seized with cowardice, now that the moment to

kill the man seemed to have arrived. Some of the women, too, shrieked,

and carried the children away in their arms. Only the most furious

fanatics then kept up the pursuit. Luc, still continuing his painful

journey, just glanced at his hand; then, after wiping his ear with his

handkerchief, he wrapped the latter over his bleeding palm. But he had

slackened his pace, and could hear his pursuers drawing quite near to

him. When on the nape of his neck he detected the ardent panting of the

throng, he turned round for the last time. Rushing on frantically, in

the front rank, was the short and scraggy workman with carroty hair and

big dull eyes. He was a smith belonging to the Abyss, it was said. With

a final bound he reached the man whom he had been following from the

bottom of the street, and though there seemed to be no motive for his

frenzied hatred, he spat with the greatest violence in his face.

'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death with

him!'

Luc had at last ascended his Calvary--he was at the top of the Rue de

Brias now. But he staggered beneath that final abominable outrage.

His face became frightfully pale, and an involuntary impulse of his

whole being prompted him to raise his uninjured hand and clench it

vengefully. He looked like some superb giant beside a wretched dwarf,

for with one blow he could have felled the little workman to the

ground. But his consciousness of strength enabled him to restrain

himself. He did not bring down his fist. From his eyes, however, flowed

two big tears, tears of infinite grief which hitherto he had been able

to keep back, but which he could now no longer hide, such had become

the bitterness of his feelings. He wept to think that there should be

so much ignorance, so terrible a misunderstanding, that all those poor,

unhappy, well-loved toilers should refuse to be saved! And they, after

sneering at him, allowed him to return home, bleeding, and all alone.

In the evening Luc shut himself up in the little pavilion which he

still occupied at the end of the park, alongside the road to Les

Combettes. His acquittal did not leave him any illusions. The violence

displayed towards him that afternoon, the savage pursuit of the crowd,

told him what warfare would be waged against him now that the whole

town was rising. These were the supreme convulsions of an expiring

social system which was unwilling to die. It resisted and struggled

furiously, with the hope of staying the march of mankind. Some, the

partisans of authority, set salvation in pitiless repression; others,

the sentimentalists, appealed to the past and its poetry, to all indeed

that man weeps for when he is forced to quit it for ever; and others,

again, seized with exasperation, joined the revolutionaries as if eager

to finish matters at once. And thus Luc felt that he had virtually been

pursued by all Beauclair, which was like a miniature world amidst the

great one. And if he remained brave and still resolved for battle, he

was none the less bitterly distressed, and anxious to hide it. During

the hours, few and far between, when he felt weakness coming over

him, he preferred to shut himself up and drain his cup of sorrow to

the dregs in privacy, only showing himself once more when he was hale

and brave again. That evening therefore he barred both the doors and

windows of the pavilion, and gave orders that nobody was to be admitted

to see him.

About eleven o'clock, however, he fancied that he could hear some light

footsteps on the road. Then came a low call, scarce audible, which made

him shiver. He went to open the window, and on looking between the

laths of the shutters he perceived a slender form. Then a very gentle

voice ascended, saying: 'It is I, Monsieur Luc, I must speak to you at

once.'

It was the voice of Josine. Luc did not even pause to reflect, but at

once went to open the little door communicating with the road. And then

he led her into his closed room, where a lamp was burning peacefully.

But on looking at her he was seized with terrible anxiety, for her

garments were in disorder and her face was bruised.

'Good heavens! what is the matter, Josine? What has happened?' he cried.

Tears were falling from her eyes, her hair drooped about her delicate

white neck, and the collar of her gown was torn away.

'Ah, Monsieur Luc, I wanted to see you,' she began. 'It isn't because

he beat me again when he came home, but on account of the threats he

made. It's necessary you should know of them this very evening.'

Then she related that Ragu, on learning what had happened in the Rue

de Brias, the ignominious manner in which 'the governor,' as he called

Luc, had been escorted out of the town, had gone off to Caffiaux's

wine-shop, leading Bourron and others astray with him. And he had but

lately returned home, drunk, of course, and shouting that he had had

quite enough of La Crêcherie, and would not stop a day longer in a

dirty den where one was bored to death, and had not even the right to

drink a drop too much if one wanted to. At last, after jeering and

laughing and indulging in all sorts of foul language, he had wished to

compel her, Josine, to pack up their clothes at once in order that they

might go off in the morning to the Abyss, where all the hands leaving

La Crêcherie were readily taken on. And as she had desired him to pause

before coming to such a decision, he had ended by beating her and

turning her out of the house.

'Oh! I don't count, Monsieur Luc,' she continued. 'It's you who are

insulted and whom they want to injure. Ragu will certainly go off in

the morning--nothing can restrain him--and he will certainly carry off

Bourron as well as five or six others whom he didn't name to me. For

my part, I can't help it, but I shall have to follow him, and it all

grieves me so much that I felt I must tell it you at once, for fear

lest I might never see you again.'

Luc was still looking at her, and a wave of bitterness submerged his

heart. Was the disaster even greater then than he had supposed? His

workmen now were leaving him, returning to the hard toil and filthy

wretchedness of former times, seized with nostalgia for the hell whence

he had so laboriously striven to extricate them. In four years he

had won naught of their minds or their affection. And the worst was

that Josine was no happier; she now came back to him as on the first

day, insulted, beaten, cast into the street! Thus nothing was done,

and everything remained to be done; for did not Josine personify the

suffering people? It was only on that evening, when he had met her

grief-stricken and abandoned, a victim of accursed toil, imposed on

human kind like slavery, that he had yielded to his desires to act. She

was the most humble, the lowest, the nearest to the gutter, and she was

also the most beautiful, the gentlest, the saintliest. Ah! as long as

woman should suffer, the world would not be saved.

'Oh! Josine, Josine, how grieved I am for you--how I pity you!' he

murmured with infinite tenderness, whilst he also began to weep.

When she saw his tears thus falling, she suffered yet more grievously

than before. What! he was weeping thus bitterly, he, her god, he whom

she adored, like some superior power, in gratitude for all the help he

had brought her, the joy with which he had henceforth filled her life!

The thought, too, of the outrages that he had undergone, that awful

ascent of the Rue de Brias, increased her adoration, drew her near to

him as with a desire to dress his wounds. What could she do to comfort

him, how could she efface from his face the insult spat upon him,

enable him to feel himself respected, admired, and worshipped?

'Oh, Monsieur Luc,' said she, 'you do not know how grieved I am at

seeing you so unhappy, and how I should like to relieve your sorrows a

little.'

They were so near together that the warmth of their breath passed over

their faces. And their mutual compassion filled them with increasing

tenderness. How she suffered! how he suffered! And he only thought of

her, even as she only thought of him, with immensity of pity and a

craving for love and felicity.

'I am not to be pitied,' said Luc at last; 'there is only you, Josine,

whose suffering is a crime, and whom I must save.'

'No, no, Monsieur Luc, I do not count; it is you who ought not to

suffer, for you are the providence of us all.'

Then, as she let herself sink into his arms, he clasped her

passionately to his breast. It was a crisis not to be resisted--the

mingling of two flames in order that they might henceforth become

but one sole flame of affection and strength. Thus was their destiny

accomplished. All had led them to it; a sudden vision appeared to

them of their love born one stormy evening, then slowly growing in

intensity, in the depths of their hearts. Nothing henceforth could part

them. They were two beings meeting in a long-awaited kiss, attaining to

florescence. No remorse was possible; they loved even as they existed,

in order that they might be healthy and strong and fruitful. And as Luc

sat in that quiet chamber with Josine he became conscious that a great

help had suddenly come to him. Love alone could create harmony in the

city he dreamed of. Josine was his; and his union with the disinherited

was thereby sealed. Apostle that he was of a new creed, he felt that

he had need of a woman to help him to redeem mankind. The poor little

beaten workgirl whom he had met one evening dying of starvation had now

for him become a very queen. She had known the uttermost depths, and

she would help him to create a new world of splendour and joy. She was

the only one whose help he needed to complete his task.

'Give me your hand, your poor injured hand, Josine,' he gently said to

her.

She gave it him; it was the hand which had been caught in some

boot-stitching machinery, and the forefinger of which had been cut off.

'It is very ugly,' she murmured.

'Ugly, Josine? Oh no! it is so dear to me that I kiss it with devotion.'

He pressed his lips to the scar left by the injury, he covered the

poor, slender, maimed hand with caresses.

'Oh, Luc!' she cried, 'how you love me, and how I love you!'

As that cry of happiness and hope rang out they once more flung their

arms around each other's necks. Outside, over the heavy sleep of

Beauclair sped the thuds of hammer-strokes, the clang of steel coming

from La Crêcherie and the Abyss, both working, competing one with the

other through the night. And doubtless the war was not yet over, the

terrible battle between Yesterday and To-morrow was destined to become

fiercer still. But in the midst of all the torture there had come a

halt of happiness, and whatever sufferings might lie ahead, love at

least was sown for the harvest of the future.

[1] All who remember M. Zola's trial in Paris in connection with the

Dreyfus case will recognise that the above passages and others in this

chapter are in part founded on his personal experiences at the time

referred to.--_Trans._

III

From that time forward, at each fresh disaster which fell upon La

Crêcherie, when men refused to follow Luc or impeded him in his

endeavours to establish a community of work, justice, and peace, he

invariably exclaimed: 'But they don't love! If they only loved, all

would prove fruitful, all would grow and triumph in the sunlight.'

His work had reached the torturing all-deciding hour of regression,

that hour when, in every forward march, there comes a struggle, a

forced halt. One ceases to advance, one even recedes, the ground that

has been gained seems to crumble away, and it appears even as if one

would never reach one's goal. And this, too, is the hour when with

firmness of mind and unconquerable faith in final victory heroes make

themselves manifest.

Luc strove to restrain Ragu when he found him desirous of withdrawing

from the association and returning to the Abyss. But he was confronted

by an evilly disposed ranter, one who felt happy in doing wrong, since

defection on the part of the men might ruin the new works. Besides

there was something deeper in Ragu's case, a form of nostalgia, a

craving to return to slavish labour and black misery, all that horrid

past which he carried with him in his blood. In the warm sunlight,

amidst the gay cleanliness of his little home, girt round with

verdure, he had ever regretted the narrow evil-smelling streets of

Old Beauclair, the soiled hovels through which swept a pestilential

atmosphere. Whenever he spent an hour in the large clear hall of the

common-house, where alcohol was not allowed, he was haunted by the

acrid smells of Caffiaux's tavern. Even the orderly manner in which the

co-operative stores were now managed angered him, and prompted him to

spend his money after his own fashion with the dealers of the Rue de

Brias, whom he himself called thieves, but with whom he at least had

the pleasure of quarrelling. And the more Luc insisted, pointing out

how senseless was his departure, the more stubborn did Ragu become,

full of the idea that if such efforts were made to retain him, it must

be because his departure would deal the works a severe blow.

'No, no, Monsieur Luc,' said he, 'there's no arrangement possible.

Perhaps I am acting stupidly, though I don't think so. You promised us

all sorts of marvels--we were all to become rich men; but the truth is

that we don't earn more than elsewhere, and that we have additional

worries that are not at all to my taste.'

It was indeed a fact that the shares in the profits made at La

Crêcherie had, so far, amounted to little more than the salaries

earned at the Abyss. But Luc made haste to answer. 'We live, and is

it not everything to live when the future is certain? If I have asked

sacrifices of you, it has been in the conviction that everybody's

happiness lies at the end. But patience and courage are certainly

necessary, together with faith in the task and a great deal of work

also.'

Such language was not of a nature to influence Ragu. One expression

alone had struck him. 'Oh! everybody's happiness,' he said jeeringly,

'that's very pretty. Only I prefer to begin by my own.'

Luc then told him that he was free, that his account would be settled,

and that he might leave when he pleased. After all, he had no interest

in retaining a malicious man, whose evil disposition might prove

fatally contagious. But the thought of Josine's departure wrung Luc's

heart, and he felt slightly ashamed when he realised that he had only

shown so much warmth in seeking to retain Ragu at La Crêcherie because

he wished to retain her there. The thought that she would go back to

live amidst the filth of Old Beauclair, with that man who, relapsing

into his passion for drink, would assuredly treat her with violence,

was unbearable to Luc. He pictured her once more in the Rue des Trois

Lunes, in a filthy room, a prey to sordid, deadly misery; and he would

no longer be near to watch over her. Yet she was his now, and he would

have liked to have had her always with him in order to render her life

a happy one. On the following night she came back to see him, and

there was then a heart-rending scene between them: tears, vows, wild

suggestions and plans. But reason prevailed; it was needful that they

should accept facts as they were, if they did not wish to compromise

the success of the work which was now common to both of them. Josine

would follow Ragu, since she could not refuse to do so without raising

a dangerous scandal; whilst Luc at La Crêcherie would continue battling

for everybody's happiness in the conviction that victory would some

day unite them. They were strong, since love, the invincible, was with

them. She promised that she would come back to see him; nevertheless

how painful was the rending when she bade him good-bye, and when, on

the morrow, he saw her quit La Crêcherie, walking behind Ragu, who with

Bourron was pushing a little hand-cart containing their few chattels!

Three days later Bourron followed Ragu, whom he had met each evening

at Caffiaux's wine-shop. His mate had joked to such a degree about the

'syrups' of the common-house, that he fancied he was acting as became

a free man when in his turn he again went to live in the Rue des Trois

Lunes. His wife, Babette, after at first attempting to prevent such

foolish conduct, ended by resigning herself to it with all her usual

gaiety. _Bah!_ things would go on right enough, for her husband was a

good fellow at bottom, and sooner or later would see things clearly.

Thereupon she laughed, and moved her goods, simply saying _au revoir_

to her neighbours; for she could not believe that she would never

return to those pretty gardens which she had found so pleasant. She

particularly hoped to bring back her daughter, Marthe, and her son,

Sébastien, who were making so much progress at the schools. And,

Sœurette having spoken of keeping them there, she consented to it.

However, the situation at La Crêcherie became yet worse, for other

workmen yielded to the contagion of bad example by taking themselves

off in the same fashion as Bourron and Ragu had done. They lacked

faith quite as much as love, and Luc found himself battling with human

bad will, cowardice, defection in various forms, such as one always

encounters when one works for the happiness of others. He felt that

even Bonnaire, always so reasonable and loyal, was secretly shaken. His

home was troubled by the daily quarrels picked by his wife, La Toupe,

whose vanity remained unsatisfied, for she had not yet been able to

buy either the silk gown or the watch which she had been coveting ever

since her youth. Besides, she was one of those women who regret that

they have not been born princesses; and thus ideas of equality and of

a community of interests angered her. She kept a hurricane perpetually

blowing in the house, rationed out Daddy Lunot's tobacco more gingerly

than ever, and was for ever hustling her children, Lucien and

Antoinette. Two more had been born to her, Zoé and Séverin, and this

again she regarded as a disaster, for ever complaining of it to her

husband. Bonnaire, however, remained very calm; he was accustomed to

those storms, and they simply saddened him. He did not even answer when

she shouted to him that he was a poor beast, a mere dupe, who would end

by leaving his bones at La Crêcherie.

All the same Luc fully perceived that Bonnaire was scarcely with him.

The man never allowed himself to speak a word of censure, he remained

an active, punctual, conscientious worker, setting a good example to

all his mates. But, in spite of this, there was disapproval, almost

lassitude and discouragement, in his demeanour. Luc suffered greatly

from it; he felt something like despair on finding such a man, whose

heroism he knew and for whom he had so much esteem, drifting away so

soon. If he, Bonnaire, was losing faith, could it be that the work was

bad?

They had an explanation on the subject one evening, whilst seated on a

bench at the door of the workshops. They had met just as the sun was

setting in a quiet sky, and, sitting down, they talked together.

'It is quite true, monsieur,' said Bonnaire frankly, in reply to a

question from Luc, 'I have great doubts about your success. Besides,

you will remember that I never quite shared your ideas, and that your

attempt seemed to me regrettable on account of the concessions you

made. If I joined in it, it was, so to say, by way of experiment.

But the further things go the more I see that I wasn't wrong. The

experiment is made now, and something else, revolutionary action, will

have to be attempted.'

'What! the experiment made!' exclaimed Luc. 'Why, we are only beginning

it! It will require years--several lifetimes possibly; it may be a

century-long effort of will and courage. And it is you, my friend, you

a man of energy and bravery, who begin to doubt at this stage?'

As he spoke Luc gazed at Bonnaire, with his giant build, and broad,

peaceful face on which one read so much honest strength. But the man

gently shook his head. 'No, no,' said he, 'goodwill and courage will do

nothing. It's your method which is too gentle, which places too much

reliance on men's wisdom. Your association of capital, talent, and

work will go on always at a jog-trot, without establishing anything

substantial and final. The fact is the evil has reached such a degree

of abomination that one can only heal it by applying a red-hot iron.'

'Then what ought one to do, my friend?'

'It is necessary that the people should at once seize all the

implements of labour; it is necessary that it should dispossess the

_bourgeoise_ class and dispose of all the capital itself in order to

organise compulsory universal work.'

Once more did Bonnaire explain his ideas. He had remained entirely

on the side of Collectivism, and Luc, who listened sorrowfully, felt

astonished that he had in no wise won over that thoughtful but rather

obtuse mind. Even as he had heard him speaking in the Rue des Trois

Lunes on the night when he had quitted the Abyss, so did he find him

speaking now, still holding to the same revolutionary conceptions, his

faith in no degree modified by the five years which he had spent at

La Crêcherie. He held evolution to be too slow, saying that progress

merely by association would demand far too many years for realisation;

and he was weary of such an attempt, and only believed in immediate and

violent revolution.

'We shall never be given what we don't take,' said he by way of

conclusion. 'To have everything we must take everything.'

Silence fell. The sun had set, and the night shifts had started work

in the resounding galleries. Luc, whilst listening to those renewed

efforts of labour, could feel an indescribable sadness stealing over

him as he foresaw that his work would be compromised by the eager haste

of even the best to bring about their social ideal. Indeed, was it not

often the furious battling of ideas which hindered and retarded the

realisation of facts?

'I won't argue with you again, my friend,' he at last replied. 'I

don't think that any decisive revolution is possible or likely to give

good results in the circumstances in which we find ourselves. And I

am convinced that association and co-operation offer the preferable

road, one along which progress may be slow, but which will all the

same end by leading us to the promised city. We have often talked of

those matters without altogether agreeing. So what use would it be to

begin afresh and thereby sadden ourselves? One thing that I do hope of

you is, that in the difficulties through which we are passing you will

remain faithful to the enterprise we founded together.'

Bonnaire made a sudden gesture of annoyance. 'Oh, Monsieur Luc!' he

exclaimed, 'have you doubted me? You know very well that I am not a

traitor, and that since you one day saved me from starving, I'm ready

to eat my dry bread with you as long as may be necessary. Don't be

anxious; I never say to others what I've just said to you; those are

matters between you and me. Naturally, I'm not going to discourage our

men here by announcing that we shall soon be ruined. We are associated,

and we will remain associated until the walls fall down on our heads.'

Greatly moved, Luc pressed both his hands. And during the ensuing

week he witnessed a scene in the hall where the rolling-machinery was

installed, which touched him even more. He had been warned that two

or three wrong-headed fellows wished to follow Ragu's example and

carry off with them as many of their mates as possible. Just as he

was arriving to restore order, however, he saw Bonnaire intervening

vehemently in the midst of the mutineers. He thereupon stopped short

and listened. Bonnaire was saying precisely what it was requisite one

should say in such a difficulty, recalling the benefits that had come

from the works, and calming the anxiety of his mates by promises of

a better future, provided that they all worked bravely. He looked so

superb, so handsome, and spoke so well that the others speedily became

quiet. Influenced by the fact that one of themselves had used such

sensible arguments, none spoke any further of quitting the association;

and thus defection was stopped. Luc could never forget that spectacle

of Bonnaire pacifying his revolted comrades with the broad gestures of

a good giant, the courage of a hero of work, full of respect for freely

accepted toil. Since they were fighting for the happiness of all, he

would indeed have thought himself a coward had he deserted his post,

even though he was of opinion that they ought to have fought the battle

in another manner.

When Luc, however, expressed his thanks he was again distressed by

this quiet reply. 'It was simple enough,' said Bonnaire; 'I merely did

what it was my duty to do. All the same, Monsieur Luc, I shall have to

bring you round to my ideas, for otherwise we shall all end by dying of

starvation here.'

A few days later Luc's gloom was increased by another conversation. He

was coming down from the smeltery--with Bonnaire as it happened--when

the pair of them passed before the kilns of Lange the potter, who

obstinately clung to the narrow strip of land which had been left

him beside the rocky ridge of the Bleuse Mountains, and which he

had enclosed with a little wall of stones. In vain had Luc proposed

to take him on at La Crêcherie, offering him the management of

a crucible-making department which he had found it necessary to

establish. Lange's reply was that he wished to remain free 'without

either God or master.' So he continued dwelling in his wild den

and making common pottery, pans, stock-pots, and pitchers, which

he afterwards carted to the markets and fairs of the neighbouring

villages, he himself drawing the cart whilst Barefeet pushed it from

behind. That evening, as it happened, they were returning together from

one of their rounds when Luc and Bonnaire passed before their little

enclosure.

'Well, Lange, is business prospering?' the young man cordially inquired.

'Oh! always well enough to give us bread, Monsieur Luc. As you're

aware, that is all that I ask for,' answered Lange.

Indeed, he only carted his wares about when bread was lacking in his

home. Throughout his spare time he lingered over pottery which was not

intended for sale, remaining for hours in contemplation of the things

he thus made, his eyes having the dreamy expression of those of some

rustic poet full of a passion to impart life to things. Even the coarse

goods which he fashioned, his very pans and stock-pots, displayed

a _naïveté_ and purity of lines, a proud and simple gracefulness

which bespoke poetic fancy. A son of the people, as he was, he had

instinctively lighted upon the old primitive popular beauty, that

beauty of the humble domestic utensil which arises from perfection of

proportions and absolute adaptability to the uses to which the utensil

is intended to be put.

Luc was struck by that beauty on examining a few unsold pieces in

the little hand-cart. And the sight of Barefeet, that tall, dark,

comely girl, with the strong, slender limbs of a wrestler and the firm

bosom of an Amazon, likewise filled him with mingled admiration and

astonishment.

'It is hard to push that along all day, isn't it?' he said to her.

But she was a silent creature, and contented herself with smiling with

her big, wild eyes, whilst the potter answered in her stead: 'Oh! we

rest in the shade by the wayside when we come upon a spring,' said he.

'Things are all right, aren't they, Barefeet, and we are happy.'

The young woman had turned her eyes on him, and they glowed with

boundless adoration, as for some beloved, powerful, benign master, a

saviour, a god. Then without a word she pushed the little hand-cart

into the enclosure and set it in place under a shed.

Lange, on his side, had watched her with a glance of deep affection.

At times he feigned some roughness, as if he still regarded her as a

mere gipsy picked up by the wayside, But truth to tell she was now the

mistress. He loved her with a passion which he did not confess, which

he hid beneath the demeanour of an uncouth peasant. In point of fact

that thick-set little man with square-shaped head, bushy with a tangle

of hair and beard, was of a very gentle and amorous nature.

All at once, again turning towards Luc, whom he affected to treat as

a 'comrade,' he said to him in his rough, frank way: 'Well, isn't

everybody's happiness getting on, then? Aren't those idiots who consent

to shut themselves up in your barracks willing to be happy in the

fashion you want?'

Each time that he met Luc he thus jeered at the attempt at Fourierist

Communism which was being made at La Crêcherie. And as the young man

contented himself with smiling, he added: 'I'm hoping that before

another six months have gone by you'll be with us, the Anarchists. I

tell you once again that everything is rotten, and that the only thing

is to blow old society to pieces with bombs!'

At this Bonnaire, hitherto silent, abruptly intervened. 'Oh! with

bombs--that's idiotic!'

He, a pure Collectivist, was not in favour of crime, so called

'propaganda by deeds,' although he believed in the necessity of a

general and violent revolution.

'What, idiotic?' cried Lange, who felt hurt. 'Do you imagine that

if the _bourgeois_ are not properly prepared for it your famous

socialisation of the instruments of labour will ever take place? It's

your disguised Capitalism which is idiotic. Just begin by destroying

everything so as to have the ground clear for building up things

properly.'

They went on arguing, the Anarchism of one contending with the

Collectivism of the other, and Luc remained listening to them. The

distance between Lange and Bonnaire, he noticed, was as great as the

distance between Bonnaire and himself. By the extreme bitterness

of their dispute one might have taken them to be men of different

races, hereditary enemies, ready to devour one another, and beyond all

possibility of agreement. Yet they desired the very same happiness

for one and all, they met at the very same point: justice, peace, and

a reorganisation of work giving bread and joy to all. But what fury,

what aggressive, deadly hatred became manifest on either side as soon

as there was a question of agreeing on the means to be employed to

attain that end! All along the rough road of progress at each halt the

brothers on the march, one and all inflamed by the same desire for

enfranchisement, waged bloody battles together on the simple question

whether they would do best to turn to the right or to the left.

'After all each of us is his own master,' Lange ended by declaring. 'Go

to sleep in your _bourgeoise_ niche, if it amuses you, mate. I know

what I myself have got to do. They are getting on, they are getting on,

those little presents of mine, those little pots which we shall deposit

some fine morning at the sub-prefect's, the mayor's, the judge's, and

the parson's. Isn't that so, Barefeet? We shall have a fine round that

morning! Ah! shan't we push our cart on gaily?'

The tall and beautiful girl had now returned to the threshold, and

stood out sculpturally, in sovereign fashion amongst the ruddy clay of

the little enclosure. Her eyes again blazed, and she smiled like one

who is all submission, ready to follow her master to the point of crime.

'She belongs to it, mate,' added Lange in all simplicity. 'She helps

me.'

When Luc and Bonnaire had quitted him, without any show of animosity

on either side, though they agreed together so little, they walked on

for a few moments in silence. Then Bonnaire felt a desire to renew his

argument and demonstrate yet once again that no salvation was possible

outside of the Collectivist faith. He anathematised the Anarchists,

even as he anathematised the Fourierists--the latter because they did

not immediately possess themselves of the capital, now in the hands of

the _bourgeois_, the former because they suppressed it by violence; and

it again appeared to Luc that reconciliation would only be possible

when the future community should be founded, for then, in presence of

the realisation of the common dream, all sects would necessarily be

contented. But what a long road yet remained to be travelled, and how

grievously he feared lest his brothers should devour one another on the

way!

He returned home saddened by all that constant clashing which impeded

the progress of his work. No sooner, apparently, had two men resolved

to act than they began to disagree. Then, on finding himself alone, the

cry which ever inflated Luc's heart burst forth from him: 'But they do

not love! If they loved, all would prove fruitful and grow and triumph

in the sunlight!'

Morfain was also now causing the young man a deal of worry. In vain had

he tried to civilise the smelter by offering him one of the gay little

houses of La Crêcherie if he would only quit his cave in the rocks. The

other stubbornly refused, on the pretext that up yonder he was near his

work and able to watch over it unceasingly. Luc had now confided to him

the whole management of the smeltery, which worked on in the ancient

fashion, pending the invention of those electrical furnaces which

Jordan, never wearying, was still striving to devise.

However, the real cause of Morfain's obstinacy in refusing to come

down and dwell among the men peopling the new town was the disdain,

the hatred almost, with which he regarded them. He who personified

the Vulcan of the primitive days, a tamer of fire, later on crushed

down by prolonged slavery, toiling with heroic resignation, and ending

by loving the sombre grandeur of the inferno in which fate kept him,

felt irritated with those new works where toilers were to become

gentlemen, using their arms but sparingly, since they would be replaced

by machinery, which mere children would soon know how to drive. That

desire to toil as little as possible, to cease battling personally with

fire and iron, seemed to Morfain abject and wretched. He could not even

understand it, but simply shrugged his shoulders whenever he thought of

it during his long days of silence. And, alone and proud, he remained

on his mountain-ridge reigning over the smeltery and looking down upon

the new works, which the dazzling flow of liquid metal crowned as with

flames four times every four-and-twenty hours.

But there was yet another reason which angered Morfain with those new

times which he wished to ignore; and this was a reason which must have

made the heart of the taciturn smelter bleed frightfully. Ma-Bleue, his

daughter, whose blue eyes were to him like the blue of heaven, that

tall and beautiful creature, who since her mother's death had worked

as the well-loved housewife of the wild home, had become _enceinte_.

Morfain flew into a rage when he discovered it, and then forgave her,

saying to himself that she would assuredly some day have got married.

But forgiveness was suddenly recalled, and became impossible when his

daughter gave him her lover's name--that of Achille Gourier, the son

of the mayor of Beauclair. The intrigue had been going on for years

now, amidst the evening breezes, under the starry sky, along the paths

of the Bleuse Mountains, and over their rocks and patches of thyme and

lavender. Achille, breaking off all intercourse with his family, like

a young _bourgeois_ whom the _bourgeoisie_ bored and disgusted, had at

last begged Luc to take him on at La Crêcherie, where he had become

a designer. He thus severed every tie connecting him with his former

life; he lived as he listed, resolved to toil for her whom he had

chosen, like a scion of the old condemned social system whom evolution

led towards the new age. What angered Morfain to such a point that

he drove his daughter from home was precisely the fact that she had

suffered herself to be led astray by a _monsieur_, in such wise that

to him there seemed naught but rebellion and devilry in her conduct.

The whole antique edifice must be tumbling to pieces since so good

and beautiful a girl had shaken it by listening to, and perhaps even

angling for, the son of the mayor.

As Ma-Bleue, on being turned out of doors, naturally sought a refuge

with Achille, Luc was compelled to intervene. The young people did not

even speak of marriage. What was the use of any such ceremony since

they were quite sure that they loved one another, and would never part?

Besides, in order to get married Achille would have had to address

'judicial summonses' to his father; and this seemed to him useless and

vexatious trouble. In vain did Sœurette insist on the matter, in the

idea that morality and the good repute of La Crêcherie still required

that there should be a legal marriage. Luc ended by prevailing on her

to close her eyes, for he felt that with the new generations one would

be gradually compelled to accept the principle of free union.

Morfain, however, did not consent to the position so readily, and Luc

had to go up one evening to reason with him. Since he had driven his

daughter away the master-smelter lived alone with his son, Petit-Da,

and between them they cooked their meals, and attended to the various

household duties in their rocky cave. That evening, after partaking of

some soup, they had remained seated on their stools at the roughly-hewn

table which they had made themselves, while the little lamp which

lighted them threw the shadows of their burly figures upon the smoky

stone walls.

'Yet the world advances, father,' Petit-Da was saying. 'One can't

remain motionless.'

Morfain banged his fist on the table and made it shake. 'I lived as my

father lived,' said he, 'and your duty is to live as I do.'

As a rule the two men scarcely exchanged four words a day. But for some

time past a feeling of uneasiness had been growing up between them, and

although they did all they could to avert it, disputes sometimes arose.

The son, who could read and write, was being more and more affected

by the evolution of the times, which penetrated even to the depths

of the mountain gorges. And the father, in his proud and stubborn

determination to remain merely a strong toiler, able to subjugate fire

and conquer iron, indulged in sorrowful outbursts, as if his race were

degenerating through all the science and useless ideas of the new era.

'If your sister hadn't read books and hadn't busied herself about what

went on down below, she'd still be with us,' said he. 'Ah! it was that

new town, that cursed town, that took her from us!'

This time he did not strike the table, but thrust his fist through the

open doorway, into the dark night, towards La Crêcherie, whose lights

twinkled like stars below the rocky ridge.

Petit-Da did not answer, in part from a sense of respect, in part

because he felt embarrassed, for he knew that his father had been

displeased with him ever since meeting him one day with Honorine, the

daughter of Caffiaux, the tavern-keeper. Honorine, short, slender, and

dark, with a gay wide-awake face, had fallen passionately in love with

that gentle young giant; and he for his part thought her charming. In

the discussion which had broken out that evening between the father and

the son, the question at bottom was really one of Honorine. And thus

the direct attack which Petit-Da had all along anticipated ended by

coming.

'And you,' suddenly said his father, 'when are you going to leave me?'

This idea of a separation seemed to upset Petit-Da. 'Why, do you want

me to leave you, father?' he asked.

'Oh, when a girl's in question there can only be quarrels and ruin. And

besides, what girl have you chosen? Will her people even let you have

her? Is there any sense in such marriages, which mix one class with

another, and turn the world topsy-turvy? It's the end of everything.

I've lived too long.'

Gently and tenderly his son strove to pacify him. The young man did

not deny his love for Honorine. Only he spoke like a sensible lad, who

was resolved to remain patient as long as might be necessary. They

would see about the matter later on. Nevertheless, when he and the

girl chanced to meet what harm could there be in wishing one another a

friendly good day? Although folks might not be of the same position,

that did not always prevent them from caring for one another. And even

if different classes were to mingle a little, would that not have its

good side, since they would thus learn to know each other and esteem

each other more?

Morfain, however, full of wrath and bitterness, did not listen to those

arguments. He suddenly rose up, and with a great tragic wave of his

arm under the rocky ceiling which his head almost touched, he replied:

'Be off! be off as soon as you like! Do as your sister has done! Spit

on everything that's respectable, leap into shamelessness and madness.

You are no longer my children, I no longer recognise you; somebody has

changed you! So leave me here alone in this wild den, where I hope the

rocks will soon fall down on me and crush me to death!'

Luc, at that moment just arriving, paused on the threshold and heard

those last words. He was greatly affected by them, for he held Morfain

in much esteem. For a long time he reasoned with him. But the smelter,

on the arrival of the young man whom he regarded as a master, had

forced back his grief to become once more a mere workman, a submissive

subordinate with no thoughts beyond his duties. He did not even allow

himself to judge Luc, although the latter was the primary cause of the

abominations which were upsetting the region and causing him so much

pain. The masters after all had a right to act as they pleased, and it

was for the workmen to remain honest and do their work as their elders

had done it before them.

'Do not be alarmed, Monsieur Luc,' he said, 'if I happen to have some

ideas of my own, and get angry when I find them thwarted. It seldom

happens, for you know that I'm no talker. And you may be quite sure

that the work does not suffer from it; for I always keep one eye open,

and no metal is ever run out otherwise than in my presence. After all,

when one's heart is full one works all the harder. Isn't that so?'

Then, however, as Luc again strove to make peace in that unhappy

family, ravaged by the evolution of which he had made himself the

apostle, the master-smelter all but flew into a passion once more.

'No, no, that's enough, let me be! If you came up, Monsieur Luc, to

speak to me about Ma-Bleue you did wrong, because that's the very way

to make things worse. Let her stop where she is, while I stop where I

am!'

Then, desirous of changing the conversation, he brusquely gave Luc some

bad news, which indeed had largely brought about his fit of ill-temper.

'I should probably have gone down to you by-and-by,' he said, 'for I

wanted to tell you that I went to the mine again this morning, and that

we've again been disappointed in our hope of finding the rich vein.

Yet I could have sworn that it would certainly be met at the end of

the gallery I indicated. What would you have? An evil spell seems to

have been cast over all we have undertaken for some time past. Nothing

succeeds!'

Those words resounded in Luc's ears like the knell of his great hopes.

He lingered for a moment talking with the father and the son, and then

went down the hillside again, overcome by bitter sadness, and wondering

upon what ever-increasing mass of ruins he would have to found his city.

Even at La Crêcherie he encountered reasons for discouragement.

Sœurette still received Abbé Marle, Schoolmaster Hermeline, and

Doctor Novarre, and it apparently gave her so much pleasure to have

her friend Luc to lunch on those occasions that he dared not decline

her invitations, in spite of the secret discomfort into which he was

thrown by the everlasting disputes of the schoolmaster and the priest.

Sœurette, whose mind was at peace, did not suffer from them, and even

thought that they interested Luc; whilst Jordan, wrapped in his rugs

and dreaming of some experiment which he had begun, seemed to listen

with a vague smile.

One Tuesday, after they had risen from table, the dispute in the

little drawing-room became exceptionally violent. Hermeline had

tackled Luc with respect to the education which was being given to the

children at La Crêcherie; he spoke of the boys and girls mingling in

the five classes, of the long intervals of play that were allowed, and

of the numerous hours spent in the workshops. This new school, where

methods diametrically opposed to his own were pursued, had robbed him

of several of his own pupils, a thing which he could not forgive. And

his angular face, with its long brow and thin lips, turned pale with

suppressed rage at the idea that anybody could believe otherwise than

himself.

'I might consent to see those boys and girls brought up together,' said

he, 'though it seems to me scarcely proper, for they already evince

an abundance of evil instincts when the sexes are separated, and the

extraordinary idea of uniting them can only pervert them the more.

But what I hold to be inadmissible is that the master's authority is

destroyed and discipline reduced to nothingness. Did you not tell me

that each pupil followed his own bent, applied himself to those studies

which pleased him, and was free to argue about his lessons? You call

that raising energy, it seems. But what can those studies be when the

pupils are always at play, when books are held in contempt, when the

master's word ceases to be infallible, and when the time not spent

in the garden is spent in workshops, planing wood or filing iron? A

manual calling is a good thing to learn, no doubt; but there is a time

for everything, and the first thing is to force as much grammar and

arithmetic as possible into the brains of all those idlers!'

Luc had ceased arguing, weary as he was of coming into collision with

the stubborn uncompromising views of that sectarian, who having decreed

a dogma of progress according to his own lights refused to stir from

it. Thus the young man quietly contented himself with replying: 'Yes,

we think it necessary to render the pupils' work attractive, to change

classical studies into constant lessons of things, and our object above

all else is to create will, to create men!'

Hermeline thereupon exploded: 'Well, do you know what you will create?'

he cried. 'You will create so many _déclassés_, so many rebels! There

is only one way to give citizens to the State, and that is to make

them expressly for it, such as it needs them in order to be strong and

glorious. Thence comes the necessity for discipline and a system of

education preparing, according to the programmes which are recognised

as the best, the workmen, the professional men, and the functionaries

which the country needs. Outside the pale of authority there is

no certainty. For my part I am an old republican, a free-thinker,

an atheist. Nobody, I hope, will ever picture me as a man with a

retrograde mind; and yet your system of education sets me beside

myself, because in half a century, with such a system of work, there

would be no more citizens, no more soldiers, no more patriots. Yes,

indeed, I defy you to make soldiers of your so-called free men; and in

that case how could the country defend itself in the event of war?'

'No doubt, in the event of war, it would be necessary to defend it,'

answered Luc, unmoved. 'But of what use will soldiers be some day,

if men no longer fight? You talk like Captain Jollivet writes in the

"Journal de Beauclair," when he accuses us of being traitors--men

without a country.'

This touch of sarcasm, although slight, brought Hermeline's anger

to a climax. 'Captain Jollivet is an idiot for whom I feel nothing

but contempt,' said he. 'But it is none the less true that you are

preparing a disorderly generation, in rebellion against the State, and

one which would assuredly lead the Republic to the worst catastrophes.'

'All liberty, all truth, all justice are catastrophes,' said Luc, again

smiling.

But Hermeline went on drawing a frightful picture of to-morrow's social

system, if indeed the schools should cease to turn out citizens on a

given pattern for the needs of his authoritarian republic. There would

be no more political discipline, no more government possible, no more

sovereignty of the State, but in lieu thereof would come disorderly

license, leading to the worst forms of corruption and debauchery. And

all at once Abbé Marle, who had been listening and nodding his head

approvingly, could not resist an impulse to exclaim, 'Ah! yes, you are

quite right, and all that is put very well indeed!'

His broad, full face, with its regular features and aquiline nose,

was radiant with delight at that furious attack upon the new society,

in which he felt his Deity would be condemned, regarded simply as the

historical idol of a dead religion. He himself, each Sunday in the

pulpit, brought forward the same accusations, prophesied the same

disasters as Hermeline. But he was scarcely listened to, his church

became emptier every day, and he felt deep, unacknowledged grief

thereat, confining himself more and more, as his sole consolation,

within his narrow doctrines. Never had he shown himself more attached

to the letter of dogma, never had he inflicted severer penance on his

penitents, as if indeed he were desirous that the _bourgeois_ world,

over whose rottenness he threw the cloak of religion, might at least

show a brave demeanour when it was submerged. On the day when his

church would fall, he at any rate would be at his altar, and would

finish his last mass beneath the ruins.

'It is quite true,' said he to Hermeline, 'that the reign of Satan is

near at hand, what with all those lads and girls brought up together,

every evil passion let loose, authority destroyed, the kingdom of God

set, not in Heaven, but on earth as in the time of the pagans. The

picture that you have drawn of it all is so correct that I myself could

add nothing stronger.'

Embarrassed at being thus praised by the priest, with whom he never

agreed on anything, the schoolmaster suddenly became silent, and gazed

at the lawns of the park as if he did not hear.