'But,' resumed Abbé Marle, addressing himself this time to Luc, 'apart

from the demoralising education given in your schools, there is one

thing that I cannot pardon, which is that you have turned the Divinity

out of doors, and have voluntarily neglected to build a church in the

centre of your new town, among so many handsome and useful edifices.

Do you pretend then that you can live without God? No State hitherto

has been able to do so. A religion has always been necessary for the

government of men.'

'I pretend nothing,' Luc replied. 'Each man is free with respect to

his belief, and if no church has been built it is because none of us

has yet felt the need of one. But one can be built should there be

faithful to attend it. It will always be allowable for a group of

citizens to meet together for such satisfactions as may please them.

And with regard to the necessity of a religion, that is indeed a

real necessity when one desires to govern men. But we do not desire

to govern them at all; on the contrary, we wish them to live free in

the free city. Let me tell you, Monsieur l'Abbé, it is not we who are

destroying Catholicism, it is destroying itself, it is dying slowly of

old age, like all religions, after accomplishing their historical task,

necessarily die at the hour indicated by human evolution. Science

destroys all dogmas one by one; the religion of humanity is born and

will conquer the world. What is the use of a Catholic church at La

Crêcherie, since yours at Beauclair is already too large, growing more

and more deserted, and destined one of these days to topple over?'

The priest was very pale, but he would not understand. With the

stubbornness of a believer who places his strength in affirmation

without reason or proof, he contented himself with repeating: 'If God

is not with you, your defeat is certain. Believe me, build a church.'

Hermeline was unable to restrain himself any longer. The priest's words

of praise were still suffocating him, particularly as they had been

followed by that declaration of the necessity of a religion. 'Ah, no!

ah, no, Abbé!' he shouted, 'no church, please! I make no concealment

of the fact that matters are hardly organised in the new town in

accordance with my tastes. But if there is one thing that I approve,

it is certainly the relinquishment of any State religion. Govern men?

Why yes, only instead of the priests in their churches, it is we, the

citizens in our municipal buildings, who will govern them. As for the

churches, they will be turned into public granaries, barns for the

crops!'

Then as Abbé Marle, losing his temper, declared that he would not allow

sacrilegious language to be used in his presence, the dispute became

so bitter that Doctor Novarre, as usual, was forced to intervene. He

had hitherto listened to the others with his shrewd air, like a gentle

and somewhat sceptical man who was not put out by any words, however

violent, that might be exchanged. However, he fancied he could detect

that the dispute was beginning to pain Sœurette.

'Come, come!' said he, 'you almost agree, since both of you put the

churches to use. The Abbé will always be able to say mass provided he

leaves a little space in his church for the fruits of the earth, in

years of great abundance.' Then the doctor went on to speak of a new

rose that he had just raised, a superb flower, its outer petals very

white and pure, and its heart warmed by a pronounced flush of carmine.

He had brought a bunch of the flowers, which had been placed in a

vase on the table, and Sœurette looking at it smiled once more at the

sight of that florescence all charm and perfume, though she still felt

saddened and tired by the violence which nowadays marked the quarrels

attending her Tuesday lunches. If things went on in that fashion, it

would soon be impossible for them to see one another.

And it was only now that Jordan emerged from his reverie. He had

not ceased to appear attentive, as if indeed he were listening to

the others. But he made a remark which showed how far away his mind

had been. 'Do you know,' exclaimed he, 'that a learned electrician

in America has succeeded in storing enough solar heat to produce

electricity?'

When the priest, the schoolmaster, and the doctor had departed and Luc

found himself alone with the Jordans profound silence fell. The thought

of all the poor men who tore one another and crushed one another in

their blind struggle for happiness rent the young man's heart. As time

went by, seeing with what difficulty one worked for the common weal,

having to contend against the revolts even of those whom one worked to

save, Luc was sometimes seized with discouragement which he would not

as yet confess, but which left both his limbs and his mind strengthless

as after some great useless exertion. For a moment his will would

capsize and seem on the point of sinking. And again that day he raised

his cry of distress: 'But they don't love! If they loved all would

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

A few days later, one autumn morning, at a very early hour, Sœurette

experienced a terrible heart-blow which threw her into the greatest

anguish. She invariably rose betimes, and that morning she was going to

give some orders at a dairy which she had established for the infants

of her _créche_, when, as she went along the terrace which ended at

the pavilion occupied by Luc, it occurred to her to glance down at the

road which the terrace overlooked. And precisely at that moment the

door of the pavilion opening into the road was set ajar, and she saw a

woman steal out, a woman of slender form, who immediately afterwards

disappeared amidst the pinkish morning mist. Nevertheless Sœurette had

time to recognise her: it was Josine, leaving Luc at break of day.

Since Ragu's departure from La Crêcherie Josine, indeed, had returned

to see Luc every now and then. On this occasion she had come to tell

him that she should not again return, for she feared lest she might

be surprised when leaving her home or returning thither by some of

her inquisitive neighbours. Moreover, the idea of lying and hiding

herself in order to join the man whom she regarded as a god had become

so painful to her that she preferred to await the day when she might

proclaim her love aloud. Luc, understanding her, had resigned himself

to this separation; but how full of passion and despair was their hour

of farewell! They lingered there, exchanging vows, and the daylight

had already come when Josine was at last able to tear herself away.

Only the morning mist in some degree veiled her flitting, though not

sufficiently to prevent Jordan's sister from recognising her.

Sœurette, in the shock of her discovery, had stopped short, rooted to

the spot, as if she saw the earth opening before her. Such was her

agitation, such a buzzing filled her ears, that at first she could not

reason. She forgot that she was going to the dairy to give an order,

and all at once she fled, retracing her steps at a run, returning

to the house and climbing wildly to her room, the door of which she

locked behind her. And then she flung herself upon her bed, striving

to cover both her eyes and her ears with her hands, so that she might

see and hear nothing more. She did not weep, she had not recovered full

consciousness as yet, but a feeling of awful desolation, blended with

boundless fright, filled her being.

Why did she suffer thus, why did she feel such a rending within her?

She had hitherto thought herself to be simply Luc's affectionate

friend, his disciple and helper, one who was passionately devoted to

the work which he was striving to accomplish. Yet now she was all

aglow, shaken by burning fever, and this because her eyes could ever

picture that other woman quitting him at daybreak. Did she love Luc

then? And had she only become conscious of it on the day when it was

too late for her to win his love? That, indeed, was the disaster: to

learn in such a brutal fashion that she loved, and that another already

possessed the heart over which she might perchance have reigned like

some all-powerful, beloved queen. All the rest vanished: she recalled

neither how her love had sprung up, nor how it had grown, nor how

it was that she had remained ignorant of it, artless still in her

thirtieth year, happy simply in the enjoyment of affectionate intimacy,

untouched till now by passion's dart. Her tears gushed forth at last,

and she sobbed over her discovery, over the sudden obstacle which had

risen to part her from the man to whom unknowingly she had given both

heart and soul. And now naught but the knowledge of her love existed

for her; and she asked herself, What should she do--how should she

succeed in making herself loved? For it seemed impossible that she

should not be loved in return, since she herself loved and would never

cease to love. Now that her love was known to her, it began to consume

her heart, and she felt that she would no longer be able to live unless

it were shared. At the same time all remained confusion within her,

she struggled amidst vague and contradictory thoughts, obscure plans,

like a woman who, despite her years, has remained childish and suddenly

finds herself confronted by the torturing realities of life.

Long must she have remained striving to annihilate herself, with her

face close pressed to her pillow. The sun climbed the heavens, the

morning sped on; and yet in her increasing distress she could devise no

practical solution for the problem that tortured her. Ever and ever did

the haunting questions come back: how would she manage to say that she

loved, and how would she manage to secure love in return? All at once,

however, she bethought herself of her brother. It was in him that she

must confide, since he alone really knew her--knew that her heart had

never lied. He was a man, he would surely understand her, and he would

teach her what it is meet for one to do when a craving for happiness

possesses one. Accordingly, without reasoning any further, she sprang

off her bed and went downstairs to the laboratory, like a child who has

at last discovered a solution for its grief.

That morning Jordan himself had experienced a disastrous check. Of

recent months he had believed that he had devised a safe and cheap

system for the transport of electric force. He burnt coal beside the

pit it came from, and he carried electricity over long distances

without the slightest loss of power, in such wise as to lessen cost

price considerably. He had given four years of study to that problem

amidst all the recurring ailments to which his puny frame was subject.

He made the best use possible of his weak health, sleeping a great

deal, wrapped round with rugs, and then methodically employing the few

hours which he was able to wrest from his unkind mother Nature. For

fear of disturbing his studies, the crisis through which La Crêcherie

was passing had been hidden from him. He thought that things were

going on satisfactorily at the works, and, besides, it was out of the

question for him to take any interest in such matters, cloistered as he

was in his laboratory, absorbed in his work, apart from which nothing

seemed to exist in the whole world. That very morning at an early

hour he had resumed his studies, feeling his mind to be quite clear,

and wishing to profit by it, in order to make a last experiment. And

that experiment had absolutely failed; he found himself confronted by

an unforeseen obstacle, some error in his calculations, some detail

which he had neglected, and which suddenly became important and

all-destructive, indefinitely postponing the solution that he had long

sought with respect to his electrical furnaces.

It was the downfall of his hopes: so much hard work had yielded

nothing, so much more of it would be necessary! Yet he remained calm,

and had just wrapped himself in his rugs again, and ensconced himself

in the arm-chair in which he spent so many hours, when his sister came

into the laboratory. She looked so pale, so greatly distressed, that

he immediately felt anxious on her account, he who had witnessed the

failure of his experiment with unruffled brow, like a man whom nothing

can discourage.

'What is the matter, my dear?' he asked her; 'are you not well?'

Her confession in no wise embarrassed her. Without any hesitation, like

a poor creature whose heart opens with a sob, she said: 'The matter,

brother dear, is that I love Luc, and that he does not love me. Ah! I

am very unhappy!'

Then, simple and artless, she told her brother the whole story--how she

had seen Josine leaving the pavilion, and how she had then felt such

a heart-pang that she had come in search of consolation and cure: she

loved Luc, and Luc did not love her!

Jordan listened in a state of stupefaction, as if she had apprised him

of some unexpected, extraordinary cataclysm.

'You love Luc! you love Luc!' he repeated. 'Love, why love?' The

thought that love possessed that fondly treasured sister whom he had

always seen beside him like his second self, filled him with amazement.

He had never thought that she might some day love, and from that cause

become unhappy. Love was a craving of which he himself knew nothing, a

sphere into which he had never entered. And thus, artless and ignorant

as he himself was, his embarrassment became extreme.

'Oh! tell me, brother, why does Luc love that Josine, why does he not

love me?' Sœurette repeated. She was sobbing now. She had wound her

arms around her brother's neck, resting her head upon his shoulder, so

weighed down by distress that he was utterly distracted. And yet what

could he say to console her?

'I don't know, little sister; I don't know,' he answered. 'No doubt

he loves her because it is his nature to love. There can be no other

reason. He would love you if he had loved you the first.'

There was truth in this. Luc loved Josine because she was an _amorosa_,

a woman of charm and passion, whom he had found suffering, and who had

kindled into flame all the love of his heart. And besides, beauty was

hers, with the passion which peoples the world.

'But, brother,' said Sœurette, 'he knew me before he knew her, so why

did he not love me first?'

More and more embarrassed by these questions, Jordan anxiously sought

for delicate and kindly words: 'Perhaps,' he answered, 'it was because

he lived here like a friend, a brother. He has become a brother for you

and me.'

Whilst speaking thus, Jordan looked at his sister, and this time he

did not tell her all that he thought. He observed her resemblance to

himself. She was so slender, so frail, so insignificant. She did not

represent love; she was too pale and puny. Charming no doubt, very

gentle and very kind; but then, ever clad in black, sombre-looking and

sad, as are all the silent and devoted ones. For Luc she had never been

aught but an intelligent and a benevolent creature.

'You will understand, little sister,' Jordan presently resumed, 'that

if he has become as it were your brother and mine, he cannot love you

in the same way as he loves Josine. Such a thing would not have entered

his mind. But none the less I am sure that he loves you a great deal;

he loves you indeed all the more, as much in fact as I myself love you.'

But Sœœurette would not admit it. Her whole being protested dolorously,

and amidst a fresh explosion of sobs she cried her distress aloud: 'No,

no; he does not love me the more; he does not love me at all! To love

a woman as a brother! what is that when I suffer as I am suffering

now that I see him lost to me? If I knew naught of all those things a

little while ago, at least I divine them now, and I feel as if I should

die--yes, die!'

Like herself, Jordan was becoming more and more distressed, and only

with difficulty was he able to restrain his tears. 'Little sister,

little sister,' said he, 'you grieve me deeply. It is scarcely

reasonable of you to make yourself ill like this. I no longer recognise

you. You are usually so calm and sensible, and you are well aware what

firmness of spirit one ought to evince in order to resist the worries

of life.'

Then he wished to reason with her. 'Come,' he said, 'you have no

reproach to address to Luc?'

'Oh! none. I know that he has a great deal of affection for me. We are

very good friends,' she answered plaintively.

'Then you must not complain. He loves you as he is able to love, and

you do wrong in getting angry with him.'

'But I am not angry! I have no hate for anybody; I only suffer.'

Again did her sobs burst forth; again did distress master her, and

wring from her lips the cry: 'Why does he not love me? Why does he not

love me?'

'If he does not love you as you desire to be loved, little sister,'

said Jordan, 'it is because he does not know you well enough. No, he

does not know you as I do; he does not know that you are the best,

the gentlest, the most devoted and affectionate of women. You would

have been a fit companion and helper; the one that makes life's

pathway softer and easier. But the other came with her beauty, and

that assuredly was a powerful force, since he followed her without

perceiving you, and this although you already loved him. Come, my dear,

you must resign yourself.'

He had taken her in his arms, and he kissed her hair. But she still

went on struggling.

'No! no! I cannot.'

'Yes, you will resign yourself; you are too good, too intelligent to do

otherwise. Some day you will forget.'

'No! Never!'

'I did wrong to say that; I will not ask you to forget. Keep the

memory of it in your heart. But I do ask you to be resigned, because

I well know that you are capable of resignation, even to the point of

sacrifice. Think of all the disasters which would follow if you were

to rebel--to speak out! Our life would be broken up, our enterprises

shattered, and you would suffer a thousand times more than you do now.'

She interrupted him, quivering: 'Well, let our life be broken up! let

our enterprises be shattered! At least I shall have satisfied myself.

It is cruel of you, brother, to speak to me like that. You are an

egotist!'

'An egotist!' replied Jordan. 'When I am only thinking of you, my dear

little sister. At this moment grief is turning your wonted kindliness

to exasperation. But how bitter would be your remorse if I were to

allow you to destroy everything! You would no longer be able to live in

presence of the ruins that you would have piled up. Poor, dear girl!

you will resign yourself, and find happiness in abnegation and pure

affection.'

Tears were choking him, and their sobs mingled. That battle between

brother and sister, both so artless and so loving, was fraught with the

most exquisite fraternal affection. In a tone of intense compassion,

blended with boundless kindliness, Jordan repeated: 'You will resign

yourself; you will resign yourself.'

She still protested, but like one who is surrendering. Her moan now was

that of a poor, stricken creature whose hurt one strives to soothe:

'Oh, no! I cannot, I do not resign myself.'

* * * * *

As it happened, Luc that very day was to take _déjeuner_ with the

Jordans, and when at half-past eleven he joined the brother and sister

in the laboratory, he found them still agitated, with red, blurred

eyes. But he himself was so distressed, so downcast, that he noticed

nothing. Josine's farewell, the necessity of that separation, filled

him with despair. The severance of the love which he deemed essential

for his mission seemed to deprive him of his last strength. If he did

not save Josine he would never save the unhappy multitude to whom he

had given his heart. And that day, from the moment of rising, all the

obstacles which hindered his advance had risen up before him like

insurmountable impediments. A black vision of La Crêcherie had appeared

to him. La Crêcherie on the path to ruin, wrecked already, to such a

point indeed that it was madness to hope to save it. Men devoured one

another there; it had been impossible to establish brotherly accord

between them; every human fatality weighed upon the enterprise. And

thus, bowed down by the most frightful discouragement he had ever

known, Luc lost his faith. The heroism within him wavered; he was

almost on the point of renouncing his task, fearing as he did that

defeat was near at hand.

Sœurette noticed his perturbation directly she saw him, and, with

divine solicitude, she expressed her anxiety: 'Are you not well, my

friend?' she asked him.

'No, I do not feel well,' he answered. 'I spent an awful morning. I

have heard of nothing but misfortunes since I rose.'

She did not insist, but gazed at him with increasing anxiety, wondering

what his sufferings could be, since he loved and was loved in return.

To hide in some slight degree her own intense emotion, she had seated

herself at her little table, and pretended to be writing out some notes

for her brother; whilst the latter, who now seemed overwhelmed, again

lay back in his arm-chair.

'In that case, my good Luc,' said he, 'none of us is any better off

than the others; for if I felt well enough when I got up this morning,

I have since had no end of worry.'

For a moment Luc walked about the room, silent, with a frown upon

his face. He came and went, pausing at times before one of the large

windows to glance over La Crêcherie, the budding town, whose roofs

spread out before him. At last, unable to restrain his despair any

longer, he exploded: 'I must speak out, my friend. I owe you the truth.

We did not wish to worry you in the midst of your researches, and we

have hitherto hidden from you the fact that things are going on very

badly at La Crêcherie. Our men are leaving us; disunion and revolt have

sprung up among them, the fruit of egotism and hatred. All Beauclair

is rising against us, the traders, and even the workmen themselves,

whose long-acquired habits we interfere with; and thus our position is

day by day becoming more and more disquieting. I don't know if I see

things in too gloomy a light this morning, but they appear to me to be

beyond cure. Everything seems to be lost, and I cannot hide from you

any longer that we are going towards a catastrophe.'

Jordan listened with an expression of astonishment, though he remained

very calm. He even smiled slightly: 'Are you not exaggerating things a

little, my friend?' said he.

'Suppose that I am exaggerating; suppose that ruin will not actually

fall on us to-morrow, none the less I should be acting wrongly if

I failed to tell you that I fear ruin is approaching. When I asked

you for your land and your money, to undertake that work of social

salvation which I dreamt of, did I not promise you not only the

accomplishment of something great and beautiful, worthy of a man like

you, but also a good investment? And now it appears that I did not

speak the truth, for your money is likely to be swallowed up in the

disaster. Is it not natural therefore that I should be haunted by

remorse?'

Jordan tried to interrupt him by waving his hand, as if to say that the

pecuniary question was of no importance. But Luc continued: 'It is not

merely a question of the large sums which have already been swallowed

up; more money is, each day, becoming necessary to continue the

struggle. And I no longer dare to ask it of you; for if I can sacrifice

myself entirely, I have no right to pull you and your sister down with

me.'

He sank upon a chair like one overcome, whilst Sœurette, still very

pale, and seated at her little table, looked both at him and at her

brother, awaiting developments in a state of deep emotion.

'Ah, really! so things are so very bad,' Jordan quietly resumed. 'Yet

your idea was a very good one; you ended by convincing me of that.

I did not hide from you that I took no personal interest in such

political and social enterprises, being convinced that science is

the only revolutionary, and will alone bring about the evolution of

to-morrow, leading man towards truth and justice in their entirety.

But your theory of solidarity was so beautiful. Sitting at this window

after my day's work, I often looked at your town, and it was with

interest that I saw it growing. It amused me; and I said to myself that

I was working for it, since electricity would one day prove its chief

helpmate. Must everything be abandoned, then?'

A cry of supreme renunciation came from Luc: 'My energy is exhausted,'

he exclaimed, 'I have no courage left, all my faith has departed. It

is all over, and I came to tell you that I am prepared to abandon

everything rather than impose a fresh sacrifice upon you. How could you

give me the money which we should need? How could I even have audacity

enough to ask you for it?'

Never had man raised a more despairing cry. This was the evil hour,

the black hour, well known to all heroes, all apostles, the hour when

grace departs, when the mission becomes obscured, and the task appears

impossible. Forsooth a passing defeat, a momentary spell of cowardice,

accompanied, however, by the most frightful suffering.

But Jordan again smiled quietly. He did not immediately answer the

remark which Luc with a shudder had addressed to him respecting the

large amount of money which would be needed if the work were to be

carried on. In a chilly way he pulled his rugs over his spare limbs,

then gently said: 'Do you know, my good friend, I'm not very well

pleased either. Yes, a perfect disaster befell me this morning. You

know how I thought that I had planned a perfect scheme for transmitting

electric force cheaply and without any loss over long distances. Well,

I was mistaken; I have discovered nothing of what I thought I had. An

experiment which I made this morning by way of checking everything

failed completely, and I have convinced myself that it is necessary to

begin all over again. That means a fresh labour of years, and you will

understand how worrying it is to encounter defeat when one imagines

victory to be certain.'

Sœurette had turned towards her brother, quite upset at hearing of that

defeat of which she had hitherto been ignorant. In like manner Luc,

prompted to compassion by his own despair, stretched out his hand in

order to grasp his friend's with brotherly sympathy. And Jordan alone

remained calm, apart from the slight feverish tremulousness which

always came over him when he had exerted himself unduly.

'In that case what do you intend to do?' Luc inquired.

'What do I intend to do, my good friend? Why, I shall set to work

again. I shall make a fresh start to-morrow; I shall begin my work

anew from the very beginning. There is evidently nothing else to be

done. It is simple enough. You hear me! One ought never to throw up a

task. If it needs twenty years, thirty years, a whole lifetime, one

still ought to persevere with it. If one makes a mistake, one must

retrace one's steps and go over the whole ground afresh as many times

as may be necessary. Obstacles and hindrances are inevitable on the

road, and must be anticipated. A task, an _œuvre_, however, is like

a sacred child, and it would be criminal not to persevere during the

period of gestation. There is some of our blood in it, we have no right

to refuse to perfect it, we owe it all our strength, soul, flesh, and

mind. Even as a mother dies at times through the dear little one whom

she hopes to bring into the world, so should we be ready to die if our

task exhaust us. And if it does not cost us life, we have but one thing

to do when it is accomplished, and that is to begin another, never

pausing, but taking up one task after another as long as we are erect,

full of intelligence and virility.'

As Jordan spoke he seemed to become tall and strong--shielded against

all discouragement by his belief in human effort, convinced of

conquering provided that he devoted to the fight the last drop of blood

in his veins. And to Luc, who was listening, it seemed as if a gust of

energy came to him from that weak and puny being.

'Work! work!' continued Jordan; 'there is no other force in the world.

When one has set one's faith in work one is invincible. Why should we

doubt of to-morrow since it is we ourselves who create to-morrow by

our work to-day? All that is now being sown by our work will prove

to-morrow's harvest. Ah! holy work, creative, all-saving work, thou art

my life, the one sole reason why I live!'

His eyes wandered afar as communing with himself he repeated those last

words--that hymn to work which ever returned to his lips in moments of

great emotion. And once again he related how work had ever consoled

and sustained him. If he were still alive it was because he had taken

into his life a task for which he had regulated all the functions of

his being. He was convinced that he would not die so long as his work

should remain unfinished. Bad as was his health, he had never entered

his laboratory without feeling relief. How many times had he not sat

down to his task with pain-racked limbs and tearful heart; yet on each

occasion work had healed him. His uncertainties, his infrequent moments

of discouragement had only come from his hours of idleness.

All at once he turned towards Luc with his kindly smile, and said by

way of conclusion: 'You see, my friend, if you let La Crêcherie die,

you yourself will die of it. That task is your very life, and you must

live it to the end.'

Luc had risen, upbuoyed once more, for his friend's faith in work, his

passionate love for his chosen task, filled him again with a spirit of

heroism and restored both his faith and his strength. In his hours of

lassitude and doubt there was nothing like the bath of energy which he

found beside Jordan, that weak and sickly friend of his from whom peace

and certainty seemed to radiate.

'Ah! you are right,' he cried; 'I am a coward, I feel ashamed that

I despaired. Human happiness only exists in the glorification and

reorganisation of all-saving work. It will found our city. But then, my

friend, that money--all that money which must again be risked!'

Jordan, exhausted by his own passionate outburst, was now drawing his

rugs more closely around his puny shoulders, and in a faint voice he

simply said, 'I will give you the money. We will economise; we shall

always be able to get on. Here we need very little, you know--milk,

eggs, and fruit. Provided that I am still able to pay the expenses of

my experiments, the rest will be all right.'

Luc had caught hold of his hands, and was pressing them with deep

emotion.

'But my friend, my friend,' said he; 'there is your sister. Are we to

ruin her also?'

'True,' replied Jordan, 'we have forgotten Sœurette.'

They turned towards her. She was silently weeping at her little table,

on which she had leant her elbows, whilst her chin rested between her

hands. Big tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her poor, tortured,

bleeding heart was venting all its woe. She, as well as Luc, had

been stirred to the depths of her being by all that she had heard.

Everything which her brother had said to his friend had resounded with

equal energy within her own heart. The necessity of work, of abnegation

in the presence of one's task, did that not also mean acceptance of

life, whatever it might be, and resolution to live it loyally in order

that all possible harmony might accrue therefrom? Like Luc, she now

would have thought herself evil-minded and cowardly had she sought

to hinder the great work, had she not devoted herself to it even to

renunciation of all else besides. The great courage of her simple,

kindly, sublime nature had returned to her once more.

She rose and pressed a long kiss upon her brother's brow; and whilst

she remained beside him, with her head resting on his shoulder, she

whispered to him gently, 'Thank you, brother. You have healed me; I

will sacrifice myself.'

Luc, however, once again eager for action, was now bestirring himself.

He had gone back towards the window, and was gazing at the glow which

fell upon the roofs of La Crêcherie from the broad blue heavens. And

as he came back towards the others he once more repeated his favourite

cry: 'Ah! they do not love! On the day they love all will prove

fruitful; all will spread, and grow, and triumph in the sunlight!'

Then, with a last quiver of her subjugated flesh, Sœurette, who had

affectionately drawn near to him, replied: 'And one must love even

without wishing to be loved in return, for it is only by loving others

that the great work can ever be.'

Those words, from one who gave herself unreservedly, for the sole

joy of doing so and without hope of reward, were followed by a deep,

quivering silence. They no longer spoke, but all three, united by close

brotherliness, gazed towards the greenery amidst which the rising city

of justice and happiness would gradually but ever spread its roofs, now

that so much love was sown.

IV

From that time forward Luc the builder, the founder of cities,

recovered his self-possession, spoke his will and acted; and men and

stones arose at his bidding. He became very gay, and carried on the

struggle of La Crêcherie against the Abyss with triumphant joyousness,

little by little winning over both folk and things, thanks to the

craving for love and happiness which he inspired all around him. He

himself felt that the secure establishment of his city would bring him

back Josine. With her all the woeful ones of the whole world would be

saved. In this he set his faith, and he worked by and for love, in the

conviction that he would ultimately conquer.

One bright day, when the sky was radiantly blue, he came upon a

scene which again heightened his spirits and filled his heart with

tenderness and hope. As he was going round the dependencies of the

works, desirous of giving an eye to everything, he was surprised to

hear some light, fresh voices and bursts of laughter rising from a

corner of the property at the foot of the mountain ridge, a spot where

a wall separated the land of La Crêcherie from that of the Abyss.

Approaching prudently, for he wished to see without being seen himself,

Luc perceived to his delight a party of children playing freely in the

sunshine, restored to all the fraternal innocence of nature.

On Luc's side of the wall, Nanet, who daily returned to La Crêcherie in

search of playmates, stood beside Lucien and Antoinette Bonnaire, whom

he had doubtless persuaded to accompany him on some terrible lizard

hunt. All three of them stood there with upturned faces, laughing and

calling, whilst on the other side of the wall, other children who could

not be seen were laughing and calling also. It was easy to understand

that Nise Delaveau had had some young friends to lunch, and that the

party on being dismissed to the garden had heard the calls of those

outside it, one and all becoming eager to see each other, join hands,

and amuse themselves together. Unfortunately, the former doorway had

been walled up, for their elders had grown tired of scolding them. At

Delaveau's the children were even forbidden to go to the bottom of the

garden, and were punished if they were found doing so; whilst at La

Crêcherie there were many efforts to make them understand that their

disobedience might bring about some unpleasant affair, complaints,

and even a lawsuit. But, like artless young creatures yielding to the

unknown forces of the future, they continued meeting and mingling,

fraternising together in total forgetfulness of all class rancour and

hostility.

Shrill, pure, and crystalline voices continued rising, almost

suggesting the notes of skylarks.

'Is that you, Nise? Good day, Nise!'

'Good day, Nanet! Are you by yourself, Nanet?'

'Oh, no! I'm with Lucien and Antoinette! And you, Nise, are you alone?'

'Oh! no, no, I'm with Louise and Paul! Good day, good day, Nanet!'

'Good day, good day, Nise!'

At each 'good day,' again and again repeated, came peals of laughter,

so amused did they feel at talking together without seeing one another.

'I say, Nise, are you still there?'

'Why, yes, Nanet, I'm still here.'

'Nise, Nise, listen! Are you coming?'

'Oh, Nanet, how can I, since the door's walled up?'

'Jump, jump, Nise, jump, my little Nise!'

'Nanet, my little Nanet, jump, jump!'

Then came perfect delirium, all six of them repeated 'jump, jump!'

whilst dancing before the wall, as if indeed they imagined that by

bounding higher and higher they would at last find themselves together.

They turned and waltzed, and bowed to the pitiless wall, and with that

childish power of imagination which suppresses all obstacles played as

if they could really see one another.

At last a flute-like voice again arose. 'Listen, Nise! do you know

what?'

'No, Nanet, I don't know.'

'Well, I'm going to get on the wall, and I'll pull you up by the

shoulders and get you over here.'

'Oh! that's it, Nanet, that's it! Climb up!'

In a trice Nanet, clinging to the stone wall with hands and feet, as

agile as a cat, found himself on the top of the wall. And as he sat

there, bestriding it, he looked quite comical, with his big round

head, his large blue eyes, and his tumbled fair hair. He was already

fourteen, but he remained little, though very strong and resolute.

'Lucien, Antoinette!' he cried, 'just you keep watch.'

Then bending over Delaveau's garden, quite proud of overlooking

everything on both sides of the wall, he added: 'Come on, Nise, let me

catch hold of you.'

'Oh, no! not me first, Nanet! I'll keep watch over here.'

'Then who's coming, Nise?'

'Wait a minute, Nanet, be careful. Paul's climbing up. There's a

trellis. He'll try it to see if it breaks.'

Silence followed. One only heard the cracking of some old woodwork,

mingled with stifled laughter. And Luc began to ask himself if he

ought not to restore order by scattering both bands of urchins even

as one scatters sparrows on surprising them in a barn. How many times

already had not he himself scolded those children, from fear lest their

playfulness should prove the cause of some annoying trouble. Yet there

was something very charming about the bravery and joyousness which they

displayed in seeking to join one another in spite of every prohibition

and every obstacle!

At last a cry of triumph arose. Paul's head appeared just above

the wall, and Nanet was seen hoisting him up, and then passing

him over in order that he might fall into the arms of Lucien and

Antoinette. Although Paul himself was more than fourteen, he was

not a heavy weight. He had remained slim and delicate, a handsome,

fair-complexioned lad, very good-natured and gentle, with quick and

intelligent eyes. Directly he had fallen into Antoinette's embrace he

kissed her, for he knew her well, and was fond of being near her, for

she was tall and pretty, and very graceful, although but twelve years

old.

'That's done, Nise!' cried Nanet. 'I've, passed one over. Whose turn

next?'

But Nise was heard replying in a loud anxious whisper: 'Hush, hush,

Nanet! There's something moving near the fowls' run. Lie down on the

wall. Quick, quick!' Then the danger being past, she added: 'Look out,

Nanet! It's Louise's turn now; I'll push her up!'

This time, indeed, it was Louise's head which appeared above the

wall: a comical, goatish head with black and somewhat obliquely-set

eyes, a slender nose and pointed chin. With her vivacity and gaiety

she was very amusing. At eleven years of age she had already become

a self-willed little woman, quite upsetting her parents, the worthy

Mazelles, who were stupefied to find that such a riotous, enthusiastic

wilding had sprung from their placid egotism. She did not even wait for

Nanet to pass her over, but jumped of her own accord into the arms of

Lucien, her favourite playmate, who was the oldest of all of them. A

tall, sturdy lad of fifteen, endowed with great ingenuity and inventive

talent, he made her some extraordinary playthings.

But Nanet was again calling. 'That makes two, Nise,' said he. 'There's

only you now. Come up, quick! There's something moving again over

yonder near the well.'

A sound of cracking wood was once more heard; a large piece of the

trellis-work must have fallen to the ground, for Nise burst out: 'Oh!

dear me, dear me, Nanet, I can't! Louise broke it with her feet, and

now it's all down.'

'Never mind--it doesn't matter! Give me your hands, Nise, and I'll pull

you up.'

'No, no, I can't! I'm too little; can't you see, Nanet?'

'But I tell you I'll pull you. Stretch out your arms--there! Now I'll

stoop and you must stand on tip-toes. There we are! You see very well

that I can pull you up.'

Evincing great dexterity, he had raised Nise with his strong young

arms and seated her on the wall in front of him. She looked even more

tumbled than usual, with her fair curly pate, her pink and ever-smiling

mouth, and her pretty blue eyes. She and her friend Nanet formed a

pair, both of them with locks of the same soft golden hue, curling and

waving hither and thither.

For a moment they remained astride the wall, face to face and delighted

at finding themselves so high up.

'Ah! all the same you're strong, Nanet, to have pulled me up as you

did,' said the girl.

'But then you've grown quite tall, Nise. I'm fourteen now; how old are

you?'

'I'm eleven, Nanet. But, I say, isn't this like being on a horse, a

very tall horse, made of stone?'

'Yes, but I say, Nise, shall I stand upright?'

'Yes, upright, Nanet! I'll do the same!'

But again a stir was heard down the garden, this time in the direction

of the kitchen, and the two children, full of anxiety, caught hold of

each other, and fell to the ground together, locked in a close embrace.

They might have killed themselves, but they laughed gaily, unhurt and

delighted with their tumble. Paul and Antoinette, Lucien and Louise on

their side, were already running wildly among the bushes and fallen

rocks which helped to form many a delightful nook at the feet of the

Bleuse Mountains.

Thinking it too late to intervene, Luc went off very softly. As the

children had not seen him, they would not know that he had closed his

eyes to their escapade. After all, was it not best that they should

yield to the glow of youth within them, and meet and play in spite of

all the prohibitions? They were like the very florescence of life,

which well knew for what future harvests it thus flowered in them. And

they brought with them, perchance, the reconciliation of classes, the

morrow full of justice and peace which was awaited. That which their

fathers could not accomplish would be accomplished by them, and yet

more completely by their children, thanks to the evolution which was

ever spreading. And thus Luc, as he quietly walked away, refraining

from alarming them, laughed to himself as he heard them laughing,

heedless of the difficulties that they would encounter when they might

wish to climb over the wall again. That glimpse of the kindly future

had inspired the young man with a hope, a courage to continue fighting,

and a determination to achieve victory such as he had never known

before.

For long months the desperate, pitiless struggle went on between

La Crêcherie and the Abyss. Luc, who had momentarily thought his

enterprise in jeopardy, toppling towards ruin, exerted every effort

to keep it on its legs. He did not expect to gain any more ground for

a long time to come, but he wished to lose none; and it was already

an achievement to remain stationary, to continue living amidst the

blows which were aimed at La Crêcherie from all sides. And how mighty

was the toil, and with what joyous bravery was it accomplished!

Luc was always here, there, and everywhere, encouraging the men in

the workshops, promoting brotherliness between one and all at the

common-house, and watching over the management of the co-operative

stores. He was constantly seen too in the sunlit avenues of the little

town, amidst the women and the children, with whom he liked to laugh

and play, as if he were the father of the young nation now springing

up around him. Thanks to his genius and creative fruitfulness, things

arose and grew methodically, as if in obedience to a wave of his hand.

But his greatest achievement was the conquest of his workmen, amidst

whom discord and rebellion had for a moment swept. Although his views

were not always shared by Bonnaire, he had won that brave and kindly

man's affection in such wise as to secure in him the most faithful,

the most devoted of lieutenants, one without whose help it would have

been impossible to carry on the enterprise. And indeed the affection

which radiated from Luc had influenced all the workers of La Crêcherie,

who, finding him so loving and brotherly, intent on securing happiness

for others, in the conviction that he would therein find happiness

himself, had gradually grouped themselves around him. Thus the staff

was becoming a large family linked more and more closely together,

each ending by understanding that he worked for his own delight when

he worked for that of all. Over a period of six months not a single

hand quitted the works, and if those who had previously left did not

as yet return, the others who remained devoted themselves entirely to

the enterprise, even leaving a part of their profits untouched in order

that a substantial reserve fund might be formed.

At that critical period it was assuredly the solidarity evinced by all

the associated workers that saved La Crêcherie from falling beneath the

blows with which egotistical and jealous hatred inspired Beauclair. The

reserve fund, prudently increased and managed, proved a decisive help.

It enabled the folk of La Crêcherie to face difficult moments, and to

avoid borrowing at heavy interest. Thanks to this fund, moreover, they

were twice able to purchase new machinery, which had been rendered

requisite by changes in various processes, and which largely diminished

the cost of manufacture. Then, too, there came a few strokes of luck.

About that time there were some important enterprises: the laying down

of railways, the building of bridges and other things in which metal

work was largely used, and thus considerable quantities of rails,

girders, and structural material were required. The long peace in which

Europe lived vastly developed metallurgical industry in its pacific and

civilising branches. Never before had iron entered so largely into the

dwellings of men. Thus the output of La Crêcherie increased, though the

profits did not become very large, for Luc particularly wished to sell

cheaply, in the belief that cheapness would control the future. At the

same time he strengthened the works by wise management and constant

economy, and by gathering together that reserve fund of ready money in

order that it might be brought into use at the first sign of danger;

whilst the workers' devotion to the common cause, their abnegation in

foregoing a portion of their due, did the rest, enabling one to wait

for the arrival of triumph without excessive hardship.

The Abyss, meantime, apparently remained in a flourishing situation;

there had been no falling-off in its turnover, and great success

seemed to attend its costly output of guns and projectiles. Still this

prosperity was only on the surface, and Delaveau, though he did not

confess it, experienced at times serious anxiety. He certainly had

on his side the whole of Beauclair--the whole of that _bourgeoise_,

capitalist society whose existence was threatened. And he remained

convinced that he represented truth, authority, and power, and that

ultimate victory was certain. Nevertheless, after a time secret doubts

began to assail him: he was disturbed at finding so much vitality in

La Crêcherie, whose prompt collapse he prophesied every three months

or so. He could no longer contend against the neighbouring works

with respect to commercial iron and steel--those rails, girders,

and structural materials which La Crêcherie turned out so well and

so cheaply. There only remained to him the manufacture of superfine

steel, of carefully made articles valued at three and four francs

per kilogramme, and as it happened these were also made at two very

important establishments in a neighbouring department. The competition

of those establishments was terrible, and Delaveau felt that of the

three--the Abyss and the two others--there was one too many. The

question was which two of them would devour the third. Weakened as it

was by the rivalry of La Crêcherie, would not the Abyss prove to be

the establishment fated to disappear? This question preyed upon the

manager, although he showed more activity than ever, and professed

serene confidence in the good cause, that religion of the wage system

of which he had constituted himself the defender. But another matter

worried him even more than the competition of rivals and the chances of

industrial warfare. This was the absence of any reserve fund, such as

might enable him to face some emergency, some unforeseen catastrophe.

If a crisis were to arise--some strike, or simply some falling-off

in trade--the result would be disastrous, for the works would not

possess the wherewithal to await a revival of business. The necessity

of purchasing some new plant had already compelled him to borrow three

hundred thousand francs, and the heavy interest on the loan now weighed

upon his annual budget. But what if he were compelled to borrow again

and again, until at last he should find himself swallowed up by an

abyss of indebtedness?

About this time Delaveau tried to make Boisgelin listen to reason.

When he had induced the latter to confide to him the remnants of his

fortune, he had certainly promised that if the Abyss were purchased

he would hand him heavy interest on his capital, and enable him to

continue leading a luxurious life. Now, however, that difficulties were

likely to arise, he wished Boisgelin to be reasonable enough to cut

down his style of living for a time. He assured him that fortune would

soon smile once more, and that he would then be able to live again on

his former footing, and indeed in finer style than ever. Delaveau's

desire was to induce Boisgelin to content himself for a while with

one half of the profits, the other half being employed to constitute

a reserve fund which would enable the Abyss to emerge victoriously

from such bad times as might present themselves. But Boisgelin would

not listen; he demanded every penny, refusing to forego any one of the

pleasures of the costly life which he was leading. Quarrels even broke

out between the two cousins. Now that it seemed as if the invested

capital might no longer yield the expected interest, that the toil

of more than a thousand human beings might no longer suffice to keep

an idler in luxury, the capitalist accused his manager of failing to

keep his promises. Delaveau, though irritated by the other's idiotic

thirst for perpetual enjoyment, still entertained no suspicion that

behind that coxcomb, his cousin, there stood his own wife Fernande,

the all-corrupting, devouring creature, for whom all the money was

squandered in caprices and folly. Life at La Guerdache was nought but

a round of festivities, amidst which Fernande enjoyed such pleasing

triumphs that any pause in her delights would have seemed to her to

be absolute downfall. She egged on Boisgelin, she told him that her

husband's powers were declining, that he did not extract from the

works nearly so large a revenue as he might have done; and, according

to her, the only way to spur him on was to overwhelm him with demands

for money. The demeanour preserved by Delaveau--who was one of those

authoritative men who never take women into their confidence, making no

exception even of his wife, although he was passionately attached to

her--had ended by convincing Fernande that her view was the right one,

and that if she wished to realise her dream of returning to Paris with

millions of francs to squander, she must harass him without cessation.

One night, however, Delaveau forgot himself in Fernande's presence. A

hunt had taken place at La Guerdache that day, and in the course of

it Fernande, whose delight it was to gallop about on horseback, had

for a time disappeared in the company of Boisgelin. A great dinner

had followed in the evening, and it was past midnight when a carriage

brought the Delaveaus back to the Abyss. The young woman, who seemed

overcome with fatigue, satiated as it were with the consuming enjoyment

of which her life was compounded, hastened to get to bed, whilst her

husband, after taking off his coat, went hither and thither about the

room, looking both angry and worried.

'I say,' he ended by inquiring, 'did not Boisgelin tell you anything

when you went off with him?'

At this Fernande, who was closing her eyes, opened them again in

surprise. 'No,' she answered, 'nothing interesting at all events. What

would you have him tell me?'

'Oh! the fact is that we had previously had a discussion together,'

Delaveau resumed. 'He asked me to let him have another ten thousand

francs for the end of the month. But this time I positively refused.

It's impossible, it's madness!'

Fernande raised her head, and her eyes glittered. 'Madness--how's

that?' said she, 'why don't you give him those ten thousand francs?'

As it happened it was she herself who had suggested the application

for this money in order that Boisgelin might purchase an electrical

motor car in which she ardently desired to travel about the country at

express speed.

'Why?' cried Delaveau forgetting himself. 'Because that idiot with his

extravagance will end by ruining the works. We shall have a smash up

if he doesn't cut down his style of living. There can be nothing more

idiotic than that life of festivity which he leads, that stupid vanity

of his which prompts him to let everybody despoil him.'

Startled by these words, Fernande sat up in bed looking rather pale,

whilst Delaveau, with the _naïveté_ of a husband blind to his wife's

misconduct, went on: 'There's only one sensible person left at La

Guerdache, the only one, too, who enjoys nothing there. I mean poor

Suzanne. It grieves me to see her always looking so sad. However, when

I begged her to-day to intervene with her husband she answered, forcing

back her tears, that she was resolved to meddle in nothing.'

The idea that her husband had appealed to her lover's wife, the poor

sacrificed creature, who showed such lofty dignity in her life of

renunciation, brought Fernande's exasperation to a climax. But she was

still more moved by the thought that the works--the very source of her

enjoyment--might be in peril.

'We shall have a smash up--why do you say that?' she asked, 'I thought

that the business was going on very well?'

She put this question in so anxious a tone that Delaveau, fearing that

if she knew everything she might amplify the fears which he strove to

hide from himself, became distrustful, and forced back the truth which

anger well nigh wrung from him.

'The business is going on all right, no doubt,' said he, 'only it would

go on a great deal better if Boisgelin did not perpetually empty the

safe in order to continue leading an idiotic life. The man's a fool, I

tell you; he has only the poor paltry brain of a coxcomb.'

Reassured by this reply, Fernande stretched herself out in bed once

more. Her husband was simply an individual with a gross mind, a miser,

whose desire was to part as little as possible with the large sums

which were received at the works. As for his denunciation of Boisgelin,

this was an indirect attack upon herself.

'My dear,' said she by way of conclusion, 'all people are not made to

brutify themselves with work from morning till night; and those who

have money do right to enjoy themselves and taste the pleasures of a

higher life.'

Delaveau was about to reply violently, but by an effort he managed to

calm himself. Why should he try to convert his wife to his views? He

treated her as a spoilt child, and let her act as she listed, never

complaining of any lapses on her part, such as he condemned when others

were in question. He did not even notice the folly of her life, for she

was his own folly, the prized jewel which he had longed to grasp with

his big, hard-working hands. She remained through all the object of his

admiration and adoration, the idol for whom one sets aside both dignity

and reason, and whom it is impossible to suspect.

A little later, when Delaveau in his turn had got into bed, his anxiety

with respect to the position of the works came back to him. His wife

lay fast asleep beside him, but he himself was unable to close his

eyes, and amidst his painful insomnia the difficulties by which he was

menaced seemed to become greater. Never yet, indeed, had he surveyed

the future with so much insight and seen it under darker colours. He

became fully conscious that the cause of the impending ruin was that

mad craving for enjoyment, that sickly impatience which Boisgelin

displayed to spend his money the moment it was earned. There was an

abyss somewhere into which all that money sank, some abominable sore

also by which exuded all the strength and gain which work should have

brought with it. Accustomed as he was to be very frank with himself,

Delaveau passed his life in review, and could find nothing to reproach

himself with. He rose early, and was the last to leave the workshops

at night, remaining on the watch throughout the day, directing the

labour of his large staff as he might have directed the movements of

a regiment. He incessantly brought all his remarkable faculties into

play, showing a great deal of rectitude amidst his roughness, together

with rare powers of logic and method and the loyalty of a fighter who

has vowed to conquer and is determined to do so or to perish. Thus he

suffered frightfully at feeling that in spite of all his heroism he

was gliding to disaster through the collapse of everything that he set

on foot, a kind of daily destruction which came he knew not whence and

which his energy was powerless to stay. What he called Boisgelin's

imbecile life, that gluttonous craving for pleasure, was doubtless the

evil that preyed upon the works. But who, then, was it that made the

wretched man so stupid? whence came that insanity of his, which he,

Delaveau, could not understand, sensible and sober worker that he was

himself, hating idleness and excessive enjoyment since he knew that

they destroyed all creative health?

And still he had no suspicion that the demolisher of Boisgelin's

fortune, the poisoner of his mind, was his own well-loved Fernande,

she who now lay beside him, looking so charming in her slumber. Whilst

he, amidst the black smoke of the Abyss and the burning glow of its

furnaces, exhausted himself in efforts to wring money from the toil

of pain-racked workmen, she on her side strolled in gay apparel under

the shady foliage of La Guerdache, flung money to the four winds of

fancy, and with her white teeth crunched the hundreds of thousands of

francs which more than a thousand wage-earners coined for her amidst

the resounding thuds of the great hammers. That night, too, whilst her

husband, with his eyes wide open in the darkness, remained tortured

by the thought of future payments, wondering by what fresh efforts he

might make the works produce the amounts promised to one and another,

she lying by his side slept off her intoxication of the day, so weary

with enjoyment that only the faintest breath came from her glutted

breast. At last Delaveau himself ended by falling asleep, and dreamt

that some weird, perverse, diabolical powers were at work beneath the

Abyss, eating away the soil in such wise that the whole establishment

would suddenly be engulfed on some fulgural, tempestuous night.

During the days which followed Fernande recalled the fears which

her husband had expressed to her that evening. Whilst making every

allowance for what she regarded as his passion for heaping up money,

and his hatred of the pleasures of luxury, she could not help

shuddering at the thought of a possibility of ruin. Boisgelin ruined

indeed! In such a case what would become of her? That ruin would not

simply mean an end to the delightful life which she had always desired

as compensation for the wretched poverty of her earlier years, but

it would imply their return to Paris like vanquished beings, with a

flat of a thousand francs annual rental in the depths of some suburban

district, and some petty employment for Delaveau in which he would

vegetate whilst she herself would relapse into all the loathsome

coarseness of a home of penurious toil. No! no! she would not consent

to that; she would not allow her golden prey to escape her; every

muscle of her covetous being hungered for triumph. Within her slender

form, instinct with such delicate charm, such light gracefulness,

there was the keen appetite of a she-wolf, the most furious predatory

instincts. She was resolved that she would in no wise check that

appetite, that she would take her pleasure to the very end, allowing

none to rob her of it. No doubt she was full of contempt for those

grimy, muddy works where day and night she heard the monstrous-looking

hammers forging pleasure for her; and as for the men, those toilers

who roasted amidst hellish flames in order that she might lead a life

of happy idleness, she regarded them as domestic animals that gave

her food and spared her all fatigue. She never risked her little feet

on the uneven soil of the workshops; she never evinced the faintest

interest in the human flock which passed to and fro before her door,

bowed down by accursed labour. Nevertheless those works and that

flock were hers, and the idea that fortune might be wrested from her

by the ruin of the business roused her to revolt, prompted her to

defend herself as energetically as if her life itself were threatened.

Whosoever harmed the works became her personal enemy, a dangerous

evil-doer, of whom she was resolved to rid herself by all imaginable

means. Thus her hatred of Luc had gone on increasing ever since the

Sunday when they had first met at lunch at La Guerdache, where, with

a woman's keen acumen, she had guessed that he was the man who would

strive to bar her path. Since that time, moreover, she had frequently

come into collision with him, and now it was he who threatened to

destroy the Abyss and to cast her back into all the loathsomeness of

mediocrity. If she should allow him a free hand her happiness would be

over; he would rob her of everything that she cared for in life. And

thus, beneath her seeming graciousness, she was consumed by murderous

fury. One thought alone possessed her--that of suppressing that man,

and she dreamt of devising some catastrophe in which he might perish.

Eight months had now gone by since Josine had bidden farewell to Luc,

and since that time she had become _enceinte_. Ragu had discovered

the truth one day, when in a fit of drunkenness he had wished to beat

her. He himself had reverted to his old life of debauchery, leading

astray all the factory girls who were foolish enough to listen to him,

and utterly neglecting his own wife. Thus his discovery both amazed

and exasperated him, and terrible scenes followed it. At first he had

recourse to brutality, and it was a wonder that Josine escaped alive.

Then he kept her shut up for days together, or else watched her every

movement. He had long spoken of casting her into the streets, he had

long neglected her for the most shameless of creatures, but at present

he quivered with jealous fury whenever he saw her speaking with any man

out of doors. He tried by every means he could devise to wring from

her her lover's name, but this she steadfastly refused to tell him,

whatever might be his threats, his violence, or his promises; for after

striking her he would sometimes exclaim: 'Tell me his name, tell me his

name! And I promise you that I'll leave you alone!'

No suspicion of Luc entered Ragu's mind, for nobody, apart from

Sœurette, was aware of Josine's visit to the pavilion. Thus Ragu sought

the culprit among his own mates; but however much he might watch,

however much he might question, he learnt nothing, and the efforts he

made in this respect only increased his fury.

Josine meantime hid herself as much as possible; she dreaded the result

for Luc should the truth be discovered. So far as she was personally

concerned, she was overjoyed by what had happened, and would have

gladly hastened to her lover to tell him of it. But fears for his

safety came upon her, and she thought that it was best to wait; in

such wise that a chance meeting alone apprised Luc of the truth. And

even then Josine was only able to acquaint him with her secret by a

gesture; for others were present, and it was impossible for the lovers

to exchange a word.

Filled with emotion by the tidings thus imparted to him, Luc sought for

further information, and soon heard of Ragu's wrath and violence, and

of the close watch which he kept upon Josine. Had he, Luc, retained any

doubts on the matter, the other's ferocious jealousy and exasperation

would have sufficed to destroy them. From that moment he regarded

Josine as his own wife. She was his, and his alone, since she was soon

to become a mother--and the father of the child, and not the other,

was the real and sole husband. Ragu had vowed that he would never be

burdened with children, and thus there was no bond whatever between

him and Josine. There can, indeed, be but one bond between man and

woman, one firm and eternal bond--the bond which comes from the birth

of a child. Apart from that, whatever human laws may say, there is no

real union, no real marriage. Thus Josine now for ever belonged to Luc

alone, and assuredly she would come back to him, and the child would be

the living florescence of their love.

All the same, Luc suffered terribly when he learnt that Josine was

constantly being reviled and ill-treated, ever in danger of receiving

some dastardly blow. It was unbearable to the young man that he should

have to leave that fondly loved woman in the clutches of Ragu, when

he longed to set her in a paradise of affection. But what could he do

since she so stubbornly cloistered herself in order to spare him all

embarrassment and worry? She even refused to see him, for fear of some

surprise that would have revealed the secret which she so tenderly

buried in the depths of her dolorous heart. Thus Luc had to watch for

her, in order to be able to say a few words. At last, one very dark

evening, while hiding in a dim corner of the wretched Rue des Trois

Lunes, he was able to stop her for a moment as she was passing.

'Oh, Luc! is it you? How imprudent!' she gasped. 'Kiss me and run off,

I beg you.'

But he, quivering, had clasped her round the waist, and was whispering

passionately, 'No, no, Josine, I want to tell you ... You are suffering

too much, and it is criminal of me to leave you, who are so dear, so

precious, in such suffering.... Listen, Josine, I have come to fetch

you, and you must come with me, so that I may place you in my home,

your home, like a well-loved happy woman.'

She was already yielding to his gentle and consoling embrace. But all

at once she freed herself. 'Oh! what are you saying, Luc? Have you no

more reason than that?' she asked. 'Follow you, good heavens! when that

would be confession, and would draw the greatest dangers down upon

you! It is I who would then be acting wrongly, criminally, creating

embarrassment for you in the work that you are accomplishing. Be off,

quick! He may try to kill me, but I will never, never give him your

name.'

At this Luc tried to convince her of the uselessness of such a

sacrifice to the hypocrisy of the world. 'You are my wife, since I am

the father of your child,' said he, 'and me it is that you ought to

follow. By-and by, when our city of justice is built, there will be no

other law save that of love, and our union will be respected by one and

all. Why should we trouble about the people whom we may scandalise

to-day?'

Then as she seemed stubbornly bent on sacrifice, saying that she took

only the present into account, for she wished him to be spared all

obstacles, in order that he might become powerful and triumphant, he

raised a cry of grief: 'What, will you never return to me then? Will

that child never be mine, in the presence of one and all?'

Again she clasped him with her delicate, endearing arms, and with her

lips near his she softly murmured: 'I will come back on the day when

you need me, when I shall be not a source of embarrassment but a help,

and then I will bring with me that dear child whose presence will endow

us both with increase of strength.'

Black Beauclair, the old, pestilential den of accursed toil, lay around

them, agonising in the darkness beneath the crushing weight of its

centuries of iniquity, whilst those words, instinct with hope in a

future of peace and happiness, were spoken.

'You are my husband,' resumed Josine; 'you alone will have formed part

of my life; and ah! if you only knew with what delight I refrain from

speaking your name, no matter how much I may be threatened. I keep it

secret like a hidden flower, like hidden armour, too. Oh! do not pity

me; I am strong and I am very happy.'

And Luc made answer: 'You are my wife; I loved you on the very first

evening when I met you, so wretched yet so divine. And if you keep

my name secret so will I keep yours; it shall be my worship and my

strength till you yourself deem it time to cry our love aloud.'

'Oh, Luc! how good, how reasonable you are, and how happy we shall be!'

'It is you, Josine, who have made me good and reasonable, and it is

because I succoured you one evening that we shall be so very happy

later on, amidst the happiness of all.'

Without again speaking they remained yet another moment linked in a

close embrace. Then Josine freed herself and returned, glorious and

invincible, to martyrdom, whilst Luc disappeared amidst the gloom,

strengthened by that interview and ready to resume the battle which

would lead to victory.

A few weeks later, however, chance placed Josine's secret in

Fernande's hands. Fernande knew Ragu, whose sudden return to the

Abyss had created quite a sensation there, in such wise that Delaveau

had made a pretence of esteeming him, and had even appointed him

master-puddler, and favoured him in other ways, although his conduct

was execrable. That Fernande should have heard of the drama which had

upset Ragu's home was not surprising. He made no attempt whatever

to conceal the facts, but openly denounced his wife as a shameless

creature, with the result that the affair became a common subject

of conversation in the workshops. It was even spoken about at the

manager's house, and one day in Fernande's presence Delaveau expressed

his great annoyance at it all; for Ragu, now that he was wild with

jealousy, worked like a madman, at times never touching a tool for

three days in succession, and at others rushing upon his task and

stirring the fusing metal with all the fury of a man who is seized with

a longing to strike and kill.

At last one winter morning, when Delaveau was absent in Paris, whither

he had gone the previous day, Fernande questioned her maid, who had

just brought her the tea and toast which composed her first breakfast.

Nise was seated there drinking her own milk and casting covetous eyes

at her mother's tea, for tea was a thing which she was not usually

allowed to drink, though she was very fond of it.

'Is it true, Félicie,' Fernande inquired, 'that the Ragus have been

quarrelling again? The laundress told me that Ragu had half killed his

wife.'

'I don't know if that's so, madame,' replied the maid, 'but I think she

must have exaggerated, for I saw Josine pass the house a little while

ago, and she looked no worse than she usually does.'

A pause followed, and then the maid, as she went off, added, 'All the

same, it's pretty certain that he will end by killing her one of these

days. He tells everybody that he means to do so.'

Silence fell again, and Fernande slowly ate her toast, absorbed the

while in a gloomy reverie. But all at once, amidst the heavy stillness,

Nise, letting her thoughts escape her unawares, began to hum in an

undertone: 'Ragu isn't Josine's real husband; her husband is Monsieur

Luc, Monsieur Luc, Monsieur Luc!'

At this her mother raised her eyes in stupefaction, and gazed at the

child fixedly. 'What is that you are saying, Nise?' she exclaimed. 'Why

are you saying it?'

Thunderstruck at having unwittingly hummed those words aloud, Nise

lowered her face over her cup, and strove to assume an innocent air.

'Oh, for nothing! I don't know.'

'You don't know, you little falsehood-teller! You certainly did not

make up those words yourself. If you repeat them somebody must have

told them you.'

Nise, although she was becoming more and more disturbed, feeling that

she had landed herself in a nasty scrape which might have far-reaching

consequences, nevertheless held out against all evidence. 'I assure

you, mamma,' said she, in the most artless manner that she could

assume, 'one sings things without knowing, just as they come into one's

head.'

Then Fernande, seeing her repeat her fib with all the demeanour of a

genuine _gamine_, suddenly felt enlightened: 'It was Nanet who told you

what you sang; it can only have been Nanet.'

Nise blinked; it was indeed Nanet who had told her. But she was afraid

of being again scolded and punished, as on the day when her mother had

caught her returning from La Crêcherie with Paul Boisgelin and Louise

Mazelle by climbing over the wall, so she persisted in her falsehood:

'Oh! Nanet, Nanet--but I haven't seen him at all since you forbade it.'

Feverishly desirous of ascertaining the truth, her mother suddenly

assumed great gentleness of manner. Such was her emotion that she

forgot all question of scolding--Nise's escapades with Nanet being of

little moment compared with the important matter on which she desired

full enlightenment. 'Listen, little girl,' she said, 'it is very wrong

to tell falsehoods. That day when I said that you should have no

dessert it was because you wanted to make me believe that you and the

others had climbed over the wall simply to fetch a ball. Well, to-day,

if you tell me the truth, I promise that you shall not be punished.

Come, be frank--it was Nanet?'

Nise, who at bottom was a good little girl, immediately replied: 'Yes,

mamma, it _was_ Nanet.'

'And he told you that Josine's real husband was Monsieur Luc?'

'Yes, mamma.'

'And, pray, what does he know about it? Why does he say that Monsieur

Luc is Josine's real husband?'

Thereupon Nise became perplexed, and innocently lowered her face over

her cup again. 'Oh! he knows--he knows--well, he says he knows it.'

Greatly as Fernande desired to obtain precise information on the

subject, she felt that she could not put any further questions to her

child. And by way of precaution she sought to destroy the effect of

the eager curiosity which she had hitherto displayed: 'Nanet knows

nothing,' she said; 'he talks foolishly, and you are a little stupid to

repeat what he says. Don't go singing such silly things again, or else

you shall never have any dessert at all.'

Then the meal was finished in silence, the mother absorbed in what she

had learnt, and the child well pleased at having escaped so lightly.

Fernande spent the day in her room, reflecting. She began by asking

herself if what Nanet had said could really be the truth. But how was

she to doubt it? The lad had certainly heard something--discovered

something--and he was too much attached to his sister to tell any

falsehood about her. Moreover, a number of little incidents which

Fernande now recalled rendered the story quite probable--in fact,

certain. But then how could she make use of the weapon which chance

had placed in her hand? In a confused way she dreamt of steeping that

weapon in poison, so as to render it deadly. Never had she hated Luc

so much as she hated him now. If Delaveau was at present in Paris, it

was solely for the purpose of trying to negotiate a fresh loan, for

the Abyss was sinking a little more each day. How great, then, would

be her victory if she could succeed in suppressing the hated master of

La Crêcherie, the man who threatened her life of luxury and pleasure!

The enemy killed, the competition would be killed as well. With such a

man as Ragu, a drunkard, full of jealousy and wrath, a prompt finish

might be expected. It would doubtless suffice to inflame him, to prompt

him to draw his knife. But then, again, how was she to bring this

about--how was she to act? The proper course was evidently to warn

Ragu, to acquaint him with the name of the man whom he had been trying

to discover for three months past. Then, however, came a difficulty:

how was she to warn him, where, and by whom? At first she thought of

sending him an anonymous letter, and decided that she would cut the

words she needed out of some old newspaper, paste them on a sheet of

paper, and post the letter in the evening. She had, indeed, already

begun to cut out such words as she desired, when it suddenly occurred

to her that her plan might not prove efficacious, for Ragu might pay

little heed to a letter, whereas it was necessary to exasperate him. If

he were not excited, fired to the point of madness, perhaps he would

never strike. The truth must be cast at him like a blow--a whip stroke

in the face, and under such circumstances as might madden him. But whom

could she send? Whom could she choose to poison the man's mind? When

night came and she went to bed, she had grown convinced that there was

nobody whom she could employ, and that she herself must speak the fatal

words. Chance favoured her in this design. Her husband was absent,

and, on awaking at an early hour, she was able to go down and waylay

Ragu as he quitted the night shift. She had an excuse quite ready; she

would tell him that she wanted a woman to do some needlework, and had

thought of employing his wife, if he were willing to let her come.

That proposal would enable her to raise the subject which she had at

heart. And, indeed, at the first words that Fernande addressed to him

with respect to his wife, Ragu burst into invectives; and when she,

in a seemingly innocent way, declared that she imagined he had become

reconciled to the position, for she had heard that the child was to

be provided for by its father, Monsieur Luc, the man's fury became

uncontrollable. The die was cast, and it was certain that he would

wreak summary vengeance, for there was murder in his glance as he

wildly rushed away.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and the pale morning light of winter was

rising, when Luc was stabbed by Ragu. The former was about to pay his

usual morning visit to the school--his greatest daily pleasure--when

Ragu, who had been watching for him, secreted the while behind a clump

of spindle trees, suddenly sprang forward and thrust his knife into his

back, between his shoulders. Luc, standing at that moment on the very

threshold of the school, laughing with some of the little girls who

had come forward to meet him, gave a loud cry and fell to the ground,

whilst his assailant fled up the Bleuse Mountains, where he disappeared

amidst the rocks and the bushes. As it happened Sœurette had not yet

arrived; she was busy at the dairy on the other side of the park. The

children present fled in their terror, calling for help, and shrieking

that Ragu had just killed Monsieur Luc. Some minutes elapsed, however,

before some of the men of the works heard these calls and were able

to pick up the stricken man, who had swooned away. The blood that had

gushed from him already formed quite a pool, and the steps of the right

wing of the common-house, which the school occupied, seemed to have

been baptized with gore. For the time being nobody thought of pursuing

Ragu, who must have been far away already. The attention of one and all

was given to Luc, who, just as the men were about to carry him into a

hall adjoining the class-rooms, emerged from his swoon and gasped in a

faint, entreating voice; 'No, no! to my home, my friends.'

They had to obey him, and carry him to the pavilion on a stretcher;

but it was only with difficulty that they were able to lay him on his

bed, and then such was the agony he experienced that he again lost

consciousness.

At that moment Sœurette arrived. One of the little girls, retaining her

presence of mind, had gone to warn her at the dairy, whilst, on the

other hand, one of the workmen ran down to Beauclair in order to fetch

Doctor Novarre. When Sœurette entered the pavilion and saw Luc lying

there, with his face quite white and his body covered with blood, she

believed him to be dead. Thus she at once fell upon her knees beside

the bedstead, a prey to such keen grief that the secret of her love

escaped her. She took hold of one of Luc's inert hands and kissed it,

and sobbed, and stammered forth all the passion against which she

had battled, and which she had buried deep within her. In losing him

she felt that she was losing her own heart; she would love no more,

she would be unable to live another day. And amidst her despair she

did not perceive that Luc, upon whom her tears were falling, had at

last recovered consciousness, and was listening to her with infinite

affection, infinite tenderness. At last he faintly breathed the words,

'You love me. Ah! poor, poor Sœurette!'

Full of blissful surprise at finding him yet alive, Sœurette regretted

nought of her confession; rather was she delighted at no longer having

to lie to him, for she felt that her love was so great and so lofty it

would never bring suffering on him.

'Yes, I love you, Luc!' she gasped, 'but do I count, I? You live, and

that is sufficient. I am not jealous of your happiness. Oh, Luc, you

must live! you must live! and I will be your servant.'

At that tragic moment, when death seemed so near at hand, the discovery

of Sœurette's mute and absolute love, which had long surrounded and

accompanied him like that of some guardian angel, filled Luc with

immense but dolorous rapture.

'Poor, poor Sœurette! Oh, my divine, sad friend!' he murmured in his

failing voice.

But the door opened and Doctor Novarre entered in a state of keen

emotion. He immediately wished to examine the wound, with the

assistance of Sœurette, with whose skill as a nurse he was well

acquainted. Deep silence fell. There came a moment of inexpressible

anguish; then followed unhoped-for relief, a glow of hope. The knife

had struck the shoulder-blade and had swerved, reaching no vital

organ, but simply gashing the flesh. At the same time the wound was a

frightful one, and it seemed as if the bone might be broken, in which

event complications might arise. Even if there were no immediate danger

convalescence would at all events be a long time coming. Yet how joyful

was the thought that death had been averted!

Luc was holding Sœurette's hand and smiling feebly at the sight of her

happiness. 'And my good Jordan, does he know of it?' he asked.

'No, he knows nothing as yet; for three days past he has shut himself

up in his laboratory. But I will bring him to you. Ah! my friend, how

happy the doctor's assurance makes me!'

In her rapture Sœurette still let her hand rest in Luc's, when once

again the door of the room opened. And this time it was Josine who

entered. At the first news of the crime she had hastened to the spot,

distracted, wild with grief. That which she had feared had happened!

Some scoundrel had surprised and revealed her secret, and Ragu had

killed Luc, her husband, the father of her child. Her life was over,

there was nothing more for her to hide, she would die there, in her

real home.

Luc raised a light cry at the sight of her. And quickly dropping

Sœurette's hand, he held out both his arms.

'Ah! Josine,' he gasped, 'it is you--you have come back to me!'

Then, as she, staggering forward, sank down beside him, he understood

her anguish, and sought to reassure her. 'Do not grieve,' he said, 'you

have come back to me with the dear little one, and I shall live--the

doctor tells me so--live for both of you.'

She listened and drew a long breath, as though recovering life. Had she

then reached the realisation of her hopes, that which she had awaited

from life, which seems so harsh whilst it accomplishes its needful

work? He would live! And it was that abominable knife-thrust which

brought them together once more--they who were already for ever linked

one to the other.

'Yes, yes, I have come back to you, Luc,' she said, 'and it is all

over; we shall never part again since now we have nothing more to hide.

Remember that I promised to return to you whenever you might have need

of me, whenever I should no longer be a source of embarrassment to you.

All other ties are severed: I am your wife before one and all, and my

place is here, at your bedside.'

Luc was so moved, so thrilled with rapture, that tears gathered in his

eyes. 'Ah! dear, dear Josine, love and happiness have come with you.'

But all at once he remembered Sœurette, and then he raised his eyes and

saw her standing erect once more, on the other side of the bed; and

although she looked very pale she was smiling. With an affectionate

gesture he took hold of her hand again.

'My good Sœurette,' he said, 'this was a secret which I was compelled

to hide from you.'

She shivered slightly, then simply answered: 'Oh! I knew it, I had seen

Josine leave the pavilion one morning.'

'What! you knew it!'

Then he divined everything, and the compassion, the admiration, the

affection he felt for her became infinite. Her renunciation of hope,

the love which she still retained for him, and which she manifested in

boundless affection, in a gift of her whole life, touched him like an

act of the loftiest heroism. Drawing quite close to him she whispered:

'Have no fear, Luc, I knew it; and I shall never be aught but the most

devoted and most sisterly of friends.'

'Ah, Sœurette!' he repeated, in so faint a breath that he could

scarcely be heard, 'ah! my divine, sad friend!'

Noticing his exhaustion, Doctor Novarre intervened, and forbade

any further talking. The doctor smiled discreetly at all that he

had learnt at that bedside. It was very nice that the injured man

should have a sister, a wife to nurse him. But it was necessary to be

reasonable and to refrain from encouraging fever by excess of emotion.

Luc promised, however, that he would be very good; he spoke no more,

but only turned soft glances upon Josine and Sœurette, his two good

angels, who stood one on the right, the other on the left of his bed.

A long pause followed. The blood of the reformer had flowed, and this

was the Calvary, the passion whence triumph would arise. As the two

women moved gently around him the injured man opened his eyes to smile

at them again. Then he fell asleep, murmuring: 'Love has come at last,

and now we shall be the conquerors.'

V

Before long complications arose, and Luc barely escaped the clutches of

death. For a couple of days it was thought that he was dying. Josine

and Sœurette never quitted him, and Jordan came to seat himself beside

the bed of anguish, thus forsaking his laboratory, a thing which he had

not done since his mother's last illness. And how great was the despair

of those loving hearts which from hour to hour expected to see their

dear one drawing his last breath!

The knife-thrust which Ragu had dealt Luc had quite upset La Crêcherie.

Work went on in the mourning workshops, but at every moment the men

desired tidings. There was great solidarity among them, and all felt

an anxious affection for the victim of that crime, which did more

to tighten the bonds of fraternity between them than many years of

experimental humanitarianism. Even in Beauclair sympathy became

apparent; a great many people there felt for that young, handsome, and

active man, whose one crime, apart from his work of justice, consisted

in having loved a very charming woman, who had been incessantly reviled

and beaten by her husband. Briefly, nobody seemed to be scandalised at

seeing Josine instal herself at Luc's bedside. It was indeed thought

quite natural, for was he not the father of the child? And had they

not purchased at the cost of many tears the right to live together? On

the other hand, the gendarmes despatched after Ragu had found no trace

of him; for a fortnight all the researches proved fruitless, but at

last, in the depths of a ravine of the Bleuse Mountains, the remains of

a man, half devoured by wolves, were discovered; and in these remains

the searchers asserted that they could recognise the body of Ragu. It

was impossible to draw up a death certificate on such evidence, but a

legend arose to the effect that Ragu had perished either accidentally

or by suicide amidst the furious madness born of his crime. In this

case, if Josine were a widow, why should she not live with Luc? And why

should not the Jordans accept the situation? The union of the young

couple seemed so natural, so firm, so indissoluble, that later on the

idea that they were not legally married occurred to nobody.