BOOK III

I

The blow was a terrible one at La Guerdache. Ruin suddenly fell upon

that residence of luxury and pleasure, which had continually resounded

with festivities. A hunt had to be countermanded, and it was necessary

to stop the grand Tuesday dinners. The numerous domestics would have

to be discharged _en masse_, and there was already some talk of the

sale of the carriages, horses, and kennels. All the noisy life of the

gardens and park, the endless affluence of visitors, had ceased. In

the huge house itself the drawing-rooms, dining-room, billiard-room,

and smoking-room became so many deserts, quivering with the blast of

disaster. It was a stricken dwelling agonising in the sudden solitude

born of misfortune.

To and fro through that infinite sadness went Boisgelin like a woeful

shadow. Utterly overcome, with his mind almost unhinged, he spent the

most frightful days, at a loss what to do with himself, wandering about

like a soul in distress amidst the downfall of his life of enjoyment.

He was at bottom a sorry being, a horseman and clubman, an amiable

mediocrity whose fine presence and correct, proud mien--the mien of

the fool who wears a single eyeglass--collapsed entirely at the first

tragic gust of truth and justice. He had hitherto taken his pleasures

like one convinced that they were due to him; he had never done the

slightest work in his life; he imagined himself to be different from

others--a privileged being, one of the elect, born to be fed and amused

by the labour of others--and so how could he have understood the

catastrophe which had so logically fallen upon him? His egotistical

creed had received too severe a shock, and he remained in dismay

before the future, respecting which he had not previously felt any

disquietude. In the depths of his bewilderment there was particularly

the terror of the idler, the kept-man, one who was utterly upset by the

thought that he was incapable of earning his living. As Delaveau was

gone, from whom could he now demand the profits which had been promised

him on the day when he had invested his capital in the Abyss? The works

were burnt, the capital had vanished in the ruins, and where would

he now find the money to live? He roamed like a madman through the

deserted gardens and the lugubrious house without finding an answer to

that question.

At first, on the evening following the tragedy, Boisgelin was haunted

by thoughts of the frightful death of Delaveau and Fernande. He could

have no doubt on the matter, for he remembered in what a mood the young

woman had left him--full of wrath and pouring forth threats against her

husband. It was certainly Delaveau who, after some terrible scene, had

set fire to the house in order to destroy both the guilty woman and

himself. In that vengeance, for a mere enjoyer of life like Boisgelin,

there was a sombre ferocity, a monstrous violence, which inspired him

with unending fright. But the greatest blow was to understand that

he was deficient in strength of intellect, and that he lacked the

necessary energy to set his affairs in order. From morning till evening

he ruminated over various plans without knowing which to adopt. Would

it be best to try to resuscitate the works, seek money and an engineer,

endeavour to establish a company to carry on the business? He feared

that he might not succeed in such attempts, for the losses were very

great, and must in the first instance be made good. Ought he not rather

to wait for a purchaser who would take the land, and such plant and

materials as had been saved, at his risk and peril? But Boisgelin

greatly doubted whether such a purchaser would ever turn up, and in

particular he doubted whether he would obtain from him a sufficiently

large sum to liquidate the situation. Moreover, the question of

his future life still remained to be settled; for the estate of La

Guerdache was an expensive one to keep up, and perhaps at the end of

the month he would no longer have enough money to buy even bread.

In this emergency one sole creature took pity on the wretched,

trembling, forsaken man, who roamed about his empty house like a lost

child, and this was Suzanne, his wife, that woman full of heroic

gentleness whom he had so cruelly outraged. At the outset, when he had

imposed his _liaison_ with Fernande upon her, she had again and again

resolved upon asserting herself and driving the intruder, the strange

woman, from her house; but in the end she had invariably refrained from

taking that course, for she felt certain that if she were to drive

Fernande away, her infatuated husband would follow her. Then, their

relative positions being settled, Suzanne had taken a room for herself

and had become a wife in name only, keeping up appearances in the

presence of visitors, but devoting herself entirely to the education

of Paul, whom she wished to save from disaster. Had it not been for

that dear child, fair and gentle like herself, she would never have

become, resigned to the position. It was he who had brought about her

renunciation, her sacrifice. She had removed him as much as possible

from the influence of his unworthy father, anxious that his mind and

heart, in which by way of consolation she hoped to cultivate sense and

kindliness, should belong to herself alone. In this wise years went by,

amidst the delight of seeing him grow up reasonable and affectionate;

and it was only from a distance, so to say, that Suzanne had beheld

the slow ruin of the Abyss and the growing prosperity of La Crêcherie.

Like her husband, she had no doubt whatever that Delaveau, informed

of the truth, had personally fired that huge pyre in order to destroy

himself with that corrupting, devouring creature, his guilty wife.

Suzanne shuddered as she thought of it, and asked herself if she had

not in some small degree contributed to the catastrophe by her own

resignation, her weakness, in tolerating betrayal and shame in her own

home during so many years. If she had only rebelled at the outset,

perhaps the crime would never have reached that climax. And her qualms

of conscience quite upset her, and moved her to compassion for the

wretched man whom, since the days of the catastrophe, she had seen

roaming about like one demented, through the deserted garden and the

empty house.

One morning, as she herself was crossing the grand drawing-room where

Boisgelin had given so many _fêtes_, she perceived him there huddled up

on an arm-chair, and sobbing and weeping like a child. She was quite

stirred, filled with pity at the sight. And she, who for many years had

never spoken to him unless it were necessary to do so in the presence

of guests, drew near and said, 'It is not in despairing that you will

find the strength you need.'

Amazed at seeing her there, at hearing her speak to him, he looked at

her through the tears which blurred his eyes.

'Yes,' she continued, 'it is of no use roaming about from morning

till night--you must find courage in yourself, you will not find it

elsewhere.'

He made a gesture expressive of desolation, and answered in a faint

voice: 'I am so much alone.'

He was not by nature an evilly disposed man; he was simply a fool and

a weakling, one of those cowards whom egotistical pleasure turns into

brutes. And it was with such utter dejection that he complained of the

solitude in which she left him amidst his misfortune, that she again

felt very touched.

'You mean,' she said, 'that you wished to be alone. Since those

frightful occurrences why have you not come to me?'

'Good God!' he stammered, 'can you forgive me?'

Then he caught hold of her hands, which she left in his grasp, and,

overwhelmed and wildly repentant, confessed his fault. He acknowledged

nothing but what she knew already, his long betrayal, the mistress whom

he had brought into his home, that woman who had maddened him and urged

him on to ruin; but in accusing himself he displayed such passionate

frankness that Suzanne was touched as by some spontaneous confession

which he might have spared himself.

'It is true,' he ended by saying, 'I have wronged you so long, I have

behaved abominably. Ah! why did you abandon me, why did you try nothing

to win me back?'

His words awoke in her those qualms of conscience, the covert remorse

which she felt at the thought that she had perhaps not done all her

duty, that she had erred in not trying to stop him on his downward

course. And the reconciliation which pity had initiated was completed

by a feeling of indulgence. Are not the most pure, the most heroic

partially responsible at times, when the weak and the erring succumb

around them?

'Yes,' she said, 'I ought to have battled more, but I was too intent

on sparing my pride and procuring quietude. We both have need of

forgetfulness, we must regard all the past as dead.'

Then, as their son Paul happened to pass through the garden under the

windows, she called him indoors. He was now a big fellow of eighteen,

intelligent and refined, a son after her own image, very affectionate

and very sensible, free from all caste prejudices, and ready to live on

the fruit of his own exertions whenever circumstances might require it.

He had begun to take a passionate interest in the land, and spent whole

days at the farm, busy with questions of culture, the germination of

seed and harvesting of crops. As it happened, when his mother asked him

to come in for a moment, he was about to repair to Feuillat's to see a

new type of plough.

'Come in, my boy, your father is in great grief, and I wish you to kiss

him,' said Suzanne.

There had been a rupture between father and son as between husband

and wife. Won over entirely to his mother's side, Paul, in growing

up, had felt nothing but cold respect for his father, whose conduct,

he divined, must be the cause of his mother's frequent sorrow. Thus

he now came into the drawing-room, feeling both surprised and moved,

and for a few seconds remained gazing at his parents, whom he found so

pale, so upset by emotion. Then, understanding the position, he kissed

his father very affectionately, and flung his arms around his mother's

neck, anxious to embrace her also with all his heart. The family bond

was formed once more, and there came a happy moment, when one might

have believed that agreement would henceforth be complete between them.

When Suzanne in her turn had kissed her son, Boisgelin had to restrain

a fresh flow of tears. 'Good, good! now we all agree. Ah! that gives me

some courage again. We are in such a terrible position! We shall have

to come to some arrangement, take some decision.'

They went on talking for a little while, all three of them seated there

together; for Boisgelin felt a desire to unburden himself and confide

in that woman and that lad after roaming about alone so distressfully.

He reminded Suzanne how they had bought the Abyss for a million, and

La Guerdache for five hundred thousand francs, out of the two millions

which had remained to them, the one which had formed her dowry, and

the other which had been saved in the wreck of his own fortune. The

five hundred thousand francs left out of the two millions had been

handed to Delaveau, and had served as working capital for the Abyss.

All their money was thus invested in that enterprise, but unfortunately

during recent financial embarrassments it had been necessary to borrow

six hundred thousand francs, a debt which had weighed heavily upon

the business. It really seemed as if the works were quite dead since

they were burnt, and besides, before erecting them afresh it would be

necessary to pay the debt of six hundred thousand francs.

'Then what do you intend to do?' Suzanne inquired.

Boisgelin thereupon explained the two solutions between which he

hesitated, unable to adopt either, so great were the difficulties

which attended both. On the one hand they might rid themselves

of everything, sell what remained of the Abyss for what it would

fetch--that is, no doubt, barely enough to pay the outstanding debt of

six hundred thousand francs; or, on the other hand, they might try to

find fresh funds, and establish a company, to which he would belong by

contributing the land and the plant that had been saved. But here again

there seemed little hope of effecting such a combination. Meantime,

a solution was every day becoming more necessary, for their ruin was

growing more and more complete.

'We also have La Guerdache--we can sell it,' remarked Suzanne.

'Oh! sell La Guerdache!' he answered in a despairing way. 'Part with

this property to which we are so accustomed, so attached! And all to go

and hide ourselves in some wretched hovel! What a downfall it would be,

what a lot more grief it would bring!'

Suzanne became grave again, for she well perceived that he was not

resigned to the idea of leading a reasonable modest life. 'We shall

inevitably have to come to it, my friend,' said she. 'We cannot

continue living upon such a footing.'

'No doubt, no doubt, we shall sell La Guerdache, but later on, when an

opportunity presents itself. If we were to put it up for sale now we

should not obtain half its value, for in doing so we should confess

our ruin, and the whole district would league itself against us to

rejoice and speculate on our misfortunes.' Then he added more direct

arguments: 'Besides, my dear, La Guerdache belongs to you. As is stated

in the deeds, the five hundred thousand francs of the purchase money

were taken from your dowry, the remaining five hundred thousand francs

of which formed half of the million which the Abyss cost us. Whilst

we are co-proprietors of the works, La Guerdache is entirely your own

property, and I simply desire to keep it for you as long as possible.'

Suzanne did not wish to insist on the subject, but she made a gesture

as if to say that she had long since resigned herself to every

sacrifice. Her husband was looking at her, and all at once he seemed to

remember something.

'Oh, by the way,' he exclaimed, 'I've a question to ask you. Have you

ever seen your old friend, Monsieur Luc Froment, again?'

She remained for a moment stupefied. Following upon the foundation

of La Crêcherie and the acute rivalry which had ensued between that

enterprise and the Abyss, had come a rupture with Luc, a rupture which

had not been the slightest of her sorrows amongst her many bitter

experiences. She felt that she had lost in Luc a cordial, consoling,

brotherly friend who would have helped and sustained her. But once

again she had resigned herself, and whenever she had chanced to meet

him at long intervals, on one of the few occasions when she went

out, she had never spoken to him. He imitated her discretion and

renunciation, and it seemed as if their old intimacy were quite dead.

Still this did not prevent Suzanne from taking quite a passionate

interest in Luc's enterprise, an interest of which she spoke to nobody.

In secret she remained upon his side in the generous efforts which

he was making to set a little more justice and love upon the earth.

Thus she had suffered with him and triumphed with him, and when at one

moment she had imagined him to be dead, killed by Ragu's knife-thrust,

she had for forty-eight hours shut herself up alone, far away from

everybody.

In the depths of her grief she had then discovered an intolerable

anguish; that _liaison_ with Josine which Ragu's crime had revealed

to her left a torturing wound in her heart. Had she then been in love

with Luc without knowing it? Perhaps so, for had she not dreamt of

the joy, the pride that she would have felt at having such a husband

as he, one who would have turned fortune to such good and magnificent

use? Had she not thought, too, that she would have helped him, and that

between them they would have accomplished prodigies in the cause of

peace and kindness? But he grew well again, and was now the husband of

Josine; and Suzanne felt everything crumbling once more, leaving her

nought but the abnegation of a sacrificed wife, of a mother who only

continued living for her son's sake. From that moment Luc ceased to

exist for her, and the question which her husband had now put revived

what seemed to be such a distant past that she was unable to hide her

surprise.

'How can I have seen Monsieur Froment again?' she at last answered.

'You know that for more than ten years all intercourse between us has

been broken off.'

But Boisgelin quietly shrugged his shoulders. 'Oh! that doesn't prevent

it; you might have met him and have spoken to him. You agreed so well

together formerly. So you have kept up no relations with him at all?'

'No,' she answered, somewhat sharply. 'If I had, you would know it.'

Her astonishment was increasing; she felt hurt by her husband's

insistence; ashamed, too, at being questioned in that manner. What

could be his object? why did he wish that she had kept up relations

with Luc? In her turn she felt inquisitive, and inquired: 'Why do you

ask me that?'

'Oh! for nothing--only an idea which occurred to me just now.'

Finally, he reverted to the subject, and revealed what he had on his

mind. 'This is it. I was telling you a little while ago that we could

adopt one of two courses; either sell the Abyss, rid ourselves of

everything, or start a company to which I should belong. Well, there's

also a third course, a combination, as it were, of both the others,

and that would be to sell the Abyss to La Crêcherie, but in such a

way as to reserve to ourselves the larger part of the profits. Do you

understand?'

'No, not exactly.'

'But it is very simple. That fellow Luc must have a great desire to

acquire our land. Well, he has done us enough harm; is that not so?

And it is quite legitimate that we should get a large sum out of him.

And our salvation certainly lies in that direction, particularly if we

acquire an interest in the business which would enable us to keep La

Guerdache without need of retrenchment in our manner of life.'

Suzanne listened with sorrow and dismay. What! he was still the same

man as formerly; that frightful lesson had not corrected him! He only

dreamt of speculating on others, of deriving profit from the situation

in which they found themselves. And in particular he still had one

sole object, that of doing nothing, of remaining an idler, a kept-man,

otherwise a capitalist. In the wild despair amidst which he had been

struggling since the catastrophe there had been but terror, hatred of

work, and one haunting thought: how could he so arrange matters that he

might continue to live, doing nothing? His tears were already dry, and

now, all at once, he reappeared such as he really was--a man intent on

enjoyment.

However, Suzanne wished to know everything.

'But what have I to do with this matter?' she inquired; 'why did you

ask me if I had kept up any relations with Monsieur Froment?'

'Oh, _mon Dieu!_' he quietly replied; 'because that would have

facilitated the overtures which I think of making to him. As you can

understand, after years of rupture, it is not easy to approach a man to

discuss questions of interest, whereas things would be much easier if

he had remained your friend. In that case you yourself, perhaps, might

have seen him, spoken to him----'

With a sudden wave of her hand Suzanne stopped her husband: 'I would

never have spoken to Monsieur Froment under such circumstances. You

forget that I had a sisterly affection for him.'

Ah, the wretched being! So now he had sunk to so low a degree of

baseness that he was ready to speculate on such affection as Luc might

have retained for her, and it was she whom he thought of employing to

touch his adversary, in such wise that the latter might then be more

easily conquered.

Boisgelin must have understood that he had hurt Suzanne's feelings, for

he could see that she had become much paler and colder, as if she had

again withdrawn from him. He wished to efface that bad impression. 'You

are right,' said he, 'business is not a thing for women to attend to.

As you say, also, you could not have undertaken such a commission. But

all the same I am well pleased with my idea, for the more I think it

over, the more convinced I feel that our salvation lies in it. I shall

prepare my plan of attack, and find a means of opening up intercourse

with the director of La Crêcherie--unless, indeed, I allow him to take

the first steps, which would be a more skilful course.'

He was quite enlivened by the hope of duping another and deriving

sustenance and pleasure from him as he had hitherto done. There would

still be something good in life if one could live it with white and

idle hands, ignorant of work. He rose, gave a sigh of relief, and

looked on the great park. It seemed more extensive still on that

clear winter day, and he hoped to give fêtes in it again as soon as

the spring should come. Finally he exclaimed: 'It would really be too

stupid for us to distress ourselves. Can folk like ourselves ever

become paupers?'

Suzanne, who had remained seated, felt her painful sadness increase.

For a moment she had entertained the naïve hope of reforming that man,

and now she perceived that every tempest and revolution might pass over

him without bringing amendment, or even understanding of the new times.

The ancient system of the exploitation of man by man was in his blood,

he could only live on others. He would always remain a big bad child

who would fall to her charge later on should justice ever do its work.

And thus she could only regard him with great and bitter pity.

Throughout that long conversation Paul had remained motionless,

listening to his parents with his usual gentle, intelligent, and loving

expression. All the feelings which in turn agitated his mother were

reflected in his large pensive eyes. He was in constant communion with

her, and suffered like herself at seeing how unworthy his father was.

She at last perceived his painful embarrassment, and asked him: 'Where

were you going just now, my child?'

'I was going to the farm, mother; Feuillat must have received the new

plough for the winter ploughing.'

Boisgelin laughed: 'And that interests you?' he asked.

'Why yes, father. At Les Combettes they have steam ploughs which turn

up furrows several thousand yards long now that all the fields have

been joined together; and it is superb to see the land turned up like

that and fertilised.'

He was overflowing with youthful enthusiasm. His mother, who felt

touched by it, smiled at him. 'Go, go, my boy,' she said, 'go and see

the new plough, and work--your health will be all the better for it.'

During the ensuing days Suzanne noticed that her husband evinced no

haste in putting his project into execution. It seemed as if he deemed

it sufficient to have discovered a solution which in his opinion would

save them all. That done he relapsed into indolence, incapable of any

effort. However, there was another big child at La Guerdache, whose

manner suddenly caused Suzanne considerable disquietude. Monsieur

Jérôme, her grandfather, who had just reached the advanced age of

eighty-eight, in spite of the species of living death to which

paralysis had reduced him, still led a silent and retired existence,

having no intercourse with the outer world apart from his frequent

promenades in the bath-chair which a servant propelled. Suzanne alone

entered his room and ministered to his wants, evincing the same loving

attention as she had already shown when a mere girl, thirty years

previously, in that same large ground-floor room looking towards the

park. She was so accustomed to the old man's clear, fathomless eyes,

which seemed, as it were, full of spring water, that she was able

to detect the slightest shadow that passed over them. Now, since

the recent tragical events, those eyes had darkened somewhat after

the fashion of water when rising sand renders it turbid. For many

monotonous years Suzanne had seen nothing in them, and finding them so

limpid and so empty had imagined that power of thought had for ever

departed from her grandfather. But was it now returning? Did not those

shadows in Monsieur Jérôme's eyes, and his feverishness of manner,

indicate a possible awakening? Perhaps, indeed, he had always retained

his consciousness and intelligence; perhaps, too, by some kind of

miracle, now when he was drawing nigh to death, the hard physical bond

of paralysis was relaxing in some slight measure, releasing him from

the silence and immobility in which he had so long lived imprisoned.

It was with growing astonishment and anguish that Suzanne watched that

slow work of deliverance.

One night the servant who propelled Monsieur Jérôme's bath-chair

ventured to stop her just as she was coming from the old man's room,

quite stirred by the living glance with which he had watched her

depart. 'Madame,' said the servant, 'I made up my mind to tell you. It

seems to me that there is a change in Monsieur. To-day he spoke.'

'What! he spoke?' she answered, thunderstruck.

'Yes, even yesterday I fancied that I could hear him stammering words

in an undertone when we halted for a little while on the Brias road in

front of the Abyss. But to-day, when we passed before La Crêcherie, he

certainly spoke, I'm sure of it.'

'And what did he say?'

'Ah, madame, I did not understand, his words were disconnected, one

couldn't make sense of them.'

From that moment Suzanne, full of anxious solicitude, had a close watch

kept upon her grandfather. The servant received orders to report to

her every evening what had happened during the day. In this wise she

was able to follow the growing fever which seemed to have come upon

Monsieur Jérôme. He was possessed by a desire to see and hear, he made

it plain by signs that he wished to have his outings prolonged, as if

he were eager for the sights which he found upon the roads. But he

particularly insisted on being taken each day to the same spots, either

the Abyss or La Crêcherie, and he never wearied of contemplating the

former's sombre ruins and the latter's gay prosperity. He compelled his

servant to slacken his pace, made him go past the same spot several

times, and all the while he more and more distinctly stammered those

disjointed words, whose sense was not yet apparent. Suzanne, quite

upset by this awakening, at last sent for Doctor Novarre, whoso opinion

she was anxious to ascertain.

'Doctor,' said she, after explaining the case to him, 'you cannot

conceive how it frightens me. It is as if I were witnessing a

resurrection. My heart contracts, it all appears to me like some

prodigious sign announcing extraordinary events.'

Novarre smiled at her nervousness, and wished to see things himself.

But it was not easy to deal with Monsieur Jérôme; he had closed his

door to doctors as well as to others; and besides, as his ailment

admitted of no treatment, Novarre had for years abstained from making

any attempt to enter his room. In the present instance the doctor had

to wait for the old man in the park, where he bowed to him as he passed

in his bath-chair. Next he followed him along the road, and on drawing

near saw that his eyes began to gleam whilst his lips parted, and a

vague stammering came from them. In his turn Novarre felt astonished

and stirred.

'You were quite right, Madame,' he came to tell Suzanne, 'the case

is a very singular one. We are evidently in presence of some crisis

affecting the whole organism, and arising from some great internal

shock.'

'But what do you expect will happen, doctor?' Suzanne anxiously

inquired, 'and what can we do?'

'Oh, we can do nothing, that is unfortunately certain, and as for

foreseeing what such a condition may lead to, I won't attempt it. Yet I

ought to tell you that if such cases are very rare they do occasionally

occur. Thus I remember examining at the asylum of Saint-Cron an old

man who had been shut up there for nearly forty years, and whom the

keepers, to the best of their remembrance, had never once heard speak.

Quite suddenly, however, he appeared to awake, at first speaking in

a confused manner, and then very plainly, whereupon an interminable

flow of speech set in--whole hours of ceaseless chatter. But the

extraordinary part of it was that this old man, who was regarded as

an idiot, had seen, heard, and understood everything during his forty

years of apparent slumber. And when he recovered the power of speech

it was an endless narrative of his sensations and recollections stored

within him since his entry into the asylum that poured from his lips.'

Although Suzanne strove to hide the frightful emotion into which this

example threw her, she could not help shuddering. 'And what became of

that unhappy man?' she asked.

Novarre hesitated for a second, then replied: 'He died three days

afterwards. I must own it, madame, a crisis of that sort is almost

always a symptom of approaching dissolution. One finds in it the

eternal symbol of the lamp which throws up a last flame before going

out.'

Deep silence reigned. Suzanne had become very pale. The icy breath of

death swept by. But it was not so much the thought that her unhappy

grandfather would soon die that pained her--she had another poignant

fear. Had he seen, heard, and understood everything throughout his long

paralysis, even after the fashion of the old man of Saint-Cron?

At last she summoned sufficient bravery to ask another question: 'Do

you think, doctor,' she inquired, 'that intelligence has quite departed

from our dear patient? In your opinion does he understand, does he

think?'

Novarre made a vague gesture, the gesture of the scientist who does not

consider it right to venture on any pronouncement respecting matters

outside the pale of scientific certainty.

'Oh! you ask me too much, madame,' said he. 'Everything is possible in

that mystery, the human brain, into which we still penetrate with so

much difficulty. Intelligence can certainly remain intact after the

loss of speech; because one cannot speak it does not follow that one

is unable to think. However, I may say that I should formerly have

believed in a permanent weakening of all Monsieur Jérôme's mental

faculties, I should have thought him sunk in senile infancy for ever.'

'Still, it is possible that he may have retained his faculties intact.'

'Quite possible; I even begin to suspect that such is the case, as is

indicated by that awakening of his whole being, and that return of

speech which seems to be coming back to him gradually.'

This conversation left Suzanne in a state of dolorous horror. She

could no longer linger in her grandfather's room and witness his slow

resurrection without a secret feeling of alarm. If amidst the mute

rigidity in which he had been chained by paralysis he had indeed seen,

heard, and understood everything, what a terrible drama must have

filled his long silence! For more than thirty years he had remained

an impassive witness, as it were, of the decline of his race, those

clear eyes of his had beheld the rout of his descendants, a downfall

accelerated from father to son by the vertigo born of wealth. In the

devouring blaze of enjoyment two generations had sufficed to consume

the fortune which his father and he had built up, and which he had

deemed so firm. He had seen his son Michel ruin himself for worthless

women directly he became a widower, and blow his brains out with a

pistol-shot; whilst his daughter Laure, losing her head in mysticism,

entered a convent; and his second son, Philippe, married to a hussy,

perished in a duel after an imbecile career. He had also seen his

grandson Gustave impel his father Michel to suicide by robbing him of

his mistress and of the hundred thousand francs that he had collected

for his business payments; whilst at the same time his other grandson

André, Philippe's child, was relegated to a lunatic asylum. He had

further seen Boisgelin, the husband of his granddaughter Suzanne,

purchase the imperilled Abyss, and confide its management to a poor

cousin, Delaveau, who, after restoring it to prosperity for a brief

period, had reduced it to ashes on the night when he had discovered the

betrayal of his wife Fernande and that coxcomb Boisgelin--the pair of

them maddened by such a craving for luxury and pleasure that they had

destroyed all around them. And he had seen the Abyss, his well-loved

work, so small and modest when he had inherited it from his father, so

greatly enlarged by himself, he had seen that Abyss, which he had hoped

his race would make a city, the empire as it were of iron and steel,

decline so rapidly that with the second generation of his descendants

not a stone of it remained standing. Finally, he had seen his race, in

which creative power had accumulated so slowly through a long line of

wretched toilers, till it had burst forth at last in his father and

himself; he had seen his race spoilt, debased, and destroyed by the

abuse of wealth, as if nothing of the Qurignons' heroic passion for

work glowed among his grandchildren. And thus how frightful must be

the story amassed in the brain of that octogenarian, what a procession

of terrible occurrences, synthetising a whole century of effort, and

casting light on the past, the present, and the future of a family!

And what a terrifying thing, too, it was that the brain in which that

story had seemed to slumber should at last slowly awaken to life, and

that everything should threaten to come forth from it, in a great flood

of truth, if indeed the tongue that already stammered should end by

speaking plainly!

It was for that terrible awakening that Suzanne now waited with

growing anxiety. She and her son were the last of the race; Paul was

the sole heir of the Qurignons. Aunt Laure had lately died in the

Carmelite convent where she had lived for nearly forty years; and

Cousin André, cut off from the world since infancy, had been dead for

many years already. Thus nowadays, whenever Paul went with his mother

into Monsieur Jérôme's room, the old man's eyes, once more gleaming

with intelligence, rested on him for a long while. That lad was the

sole frail wattle of the oak from whose powerful trunk he had once

hoped to see a number of vigorous branches, a whole swarming family,

fork and grow. Was not that family tree full of new sap, health, and

vigour, derived from sturdy, toiling forerunners? Would not his line

blossom forth and spread around to conquer all the wealth and all the

joy of the world? But, behold the sap was already exhausted with the

coming of his grandchildren; in less than half a century a misspent

life of wealth had consumed the whole strength amassed through a long

ancestry! How bitter it was when that unhappy grandfather, the supreme

witness surviving amidst so much ruin, found himself confronted by one

sole heir, that gentle, delicate, refined Paul, who was like the last

gift vouchsafed by life, which perhaps had left him to the Qurignons

in order that they might grow afresh and flower in new soil! But what

dolorous irony there was in the fact that only that quiet, thoughtful

lad remained in that huge, royal residence of La Guerdache which

Monsieur Jérôme had originally purchased at such great cost, in the

hope of seeing it some day peopled by his numerous descendants. He had

pictured its spacious rooms occupied by ten households; he had imagined

that he could hear the laughter of an ever-increasing troop of boys

and girls; in his imagination the place became the happy, luxurious

family estate where the ever-fruitful dynasty of the Qurignons would

reign. But, on the contrary, the rooms had grown emptier day by day;

drunkenness, madness, and death had swept by, accomplishing their

destructive work; and then a final corrupting creature had come

to complete the ruin of the house; and since the last catastrophe

two-thirds of the rooms were kept closed, the whole of the second floor

was abandoned to the dust, and even the ground-floor reception-rooms

were only opened on Saturdays in order to admit a little sunshine. The

race would end if Paul did not raise it up afresh; the empire in which

it should have prospered was already naught but a large empty dwelling

which would crumble away in abandonment unless new life were imparted

to it.

Another week went by. The servant who attended Monsieur Jérôme could

now distinguish certain words amidst his stammering. At last a distinct

phrase was detected, and the man came to repeat it to Suzanne.

'Oh! he did not manage it without difficulty, madame, but I assure you

that this morning Monsieur repeated: "One must give back, one must give

back."'

Suzanne was incredulous. The words seemed to have no meaning. What was

to be given back?

'You must listen more attentively,' she said to the servant; 'try to

distinguish the words better.'

On the morrow, however, the man was still more positive. 'I assure

madame,' said he, 'that Monsieur really says: "One must give back, one

must give back." He says it twenty and thirty times in succession in a

low but persistent voice, as if putting all his strength into it.'

That same evening Suzanne determined to watch her grandfather herself,

in order that she might understand things better. On the following day

the old man was unable to get up. Whilst his brain seemed to be freeing

itself from its bonds, his legs and soon his trunk were attacked by

paralysis, and became quite lifeless. Suzanne was greatly alarmed by

this, and again sent for Novarre, who was unable to do anything, and

warned her that the end was approaching. From that moment she did not

quit the room.

It was a very large room, with very thick carpets and heavy hangings.

A deep ruddy hue and a substantial and rather sombre luxury prevailed

there. The furniture was of carved rosewood, the bed was a large

four-poster, and there was a tall mirror in which the park was

reflected. When the windows were open the view, beyond the lawns,

between the old trees, stretched over an immense panorama in which one

saw first the jumbled roofs of Beauclair, and then the Bleuse Mountains

with La Crêcherie and its smeltery, and the Abyss, whose gigantic

chimneys still rose erect.

One morning Suzanne sat down near the bed, after drawing back the

window curtains, in order to admit the winter sunshine; and all at once

she felt greatly moved on hearing Monsieur Jérôme speak. For a few

moments his face had been turned towards one of the windows through

which he had been looking at the distant horizon. And at first he only

uttered two words:

'Monsieur Luc.'

Suzanne, who had distinctly heard them, was quite overcome with

surprise. Why Monsieur Luc? Her grandfather had never had any

intercourse with Luc, he ought to have been ignorant of his existence,

unless indeed he was aware of what had lately occurred, had seen

everything, and understood everything, even as hitherto she had only

suspected and feared. Indeed, those words 'Monsieur Luc,' falling from

his lips which had been sealed so long, were like a first proof that he

had retained a lively intelligence amidst his silence, and could see

and understand. Suzanne felt her anguish increasing.

'Is it really Monsieur Luc that you say, grandfather?' she asked.

'Yes, yes, Monsieur Luc.'

He pronounced the name with increasing distinctness and energy, keeping

his ardent glance fixed upon her.

'But why do you speak to me of Monsieur Luc?' she said. 'Do you know

him then? Have you something to say to me about him?'

Monsieur Jérôme hesitated, doubtless because he could not find the

words he wished; then with childish impatience he repeated:

'Monsieur Luc!'

'He used to be my best friend,' resumed Suzanne, 'but for long years

now he has ceased coming here.'

Monsieur Jérôme quickly nodded his head, and then, as if his tongue

were gradually acquiring the power of speech, he said: 'I know, I

know--I wish him to come.'

'You wish Monsieur Luc to come to see you--you wish to speak to him,

grandfather?'

'Yes, yes, it is that. Let him come at once--I will speak to him.'

The surprise and the vague fright that possessed Suzanne were now

increasing. What could Monsieur Jérôme wish to say to Luc? There were

such painful possibilities, that for a moment she tried to avoid

granting the old man's request, as if indeed she imagined him to be

delirious. But he was in full possession of his senses, and entreated

her with increasing fervour, all the strength indeed remaining in his

poor infirm frame. And at this Suzanne felt profoundly disturbed,

asking herself if it would not be wrong of her to refuse the dying

man's request for that interview, although she shuddered at the thought

of the dimly threatening things which might result from it.

'Cannot you say what you wish to me, grandfather?' she ultimately asked.

'No, no--to Monsieur Luc. I will speak to him at once--oh, at once!'

'Very well, then, grandfather, I will write to him, and I hope that he

will come.'

When Suzanne sat down to write, however, her hand trembled. She

penned only two lines: 'My friend, I have need of you, come at once.'

Nevertheless she was twice compelled to pause, for she lacked strength

to trace even those few words, so painful were the memories that they

aroused within her--memories of her lost life and of the happiness

beside which she had passed, and which she would never know. At last,

however, the note was written, and it was scarcely ten in the morning

when one of the servants, a lad, set out to take it to La Crêcherie.

Luc, as it happened, was standing outside the common-house, finishing

his morning inspection, when the note was handed to him; and without

delay he followed the young messenger. But how great was the emotion

which he felt on reading those simple yet touching words: 'My friend,

I have need of you, come at once.' Events had parted him from Suzanne

for twelve long years, yet she wrote to him as if they had met only the

previous day--like one, too, who was certain that he would respond to

her appeal. She had not doubted his friendship for a moment, and he was

touched to tears at finding her ever the same, still full of sisterly

affection as in former times. The most frightful tragedies had burst

forth around them, every passion had run riot, sweeping away men and

things, yet after those years of separation they found themselves hand

in hand once more. Whilst walking on quickly, and drawing near to La

Guerdache, Luc began to wonder, however, why she had sent for him. He

was not ignorant of Boisgelin's desire to speculate on the situation

and sell the Abyss for as much money as possible; but he had resolved

that he would never buy it. The only acceptable solution of the matter

in his opinion was the entry of the Abyss into the association of La

Crêcherie, after the fashion of the other smaller factories. For a

moment it occurred to him that Boisgelin might have asked his wife to

make overtures to him, but he knew her, and felt that she was incapable

of playing such a part. It seemed to him that she must be exhausted

by some great anxiety, that she must need his help in some tragic

circumstance. And so he puzzled his mind no more--she herself would

soon tell him what service she required of his affection.

Suzanne was waiting for him in one of the little drawing-rooms, and

when Luc entered it she thought she was about to faint, so great became

her perturbation. He himself felt upset, and at first neither of them

could utter a word. They looked at one another in silence.

'Oh, my friend, my friend!' Suzanne murmured when she was at last able

to speak.

Those simple words were fraught with all the emotion she felt at the

thought of those last twelve years--their separation, broken only by a

few silent chance meetings, the cruel life which she herself had led in

her defiled home, and the work which he meantime had accomplished, and

which she had watched from afar, enthusiastically. He had become a hero

for her, she had worshipped him, and had longed to throw herself at his

knees, nurse his wounds, and become his consoling helpmate. But another

had stepped between them--Josine, who had caused her so much suffering

that now all passionate love seemed dead. Nevertheless, at the sight

of Luc standing once more before her all those hidden things rose from

the depths of her being, and the intensity of her emotion moistened

her eyes and made her hands quiver.

'Oh, my friend, my friend!' she repeated, 'so it was sufficient that I

should send for you!'

Luc quivered with a similar sympathy, and he also recalled the past. He

knew how unhappily she had lived beneath the horrible insult offered to

her, the presence of her husband's mistress in her home. He knew, too,

what dignity and heroism she had shown in remaining in that home with

head erect, for her son's sake and her own. Thus in spite of separation

she had never been absent from his mind and heart--he had pitied her

more and more at each fresh trial that fell upon her. He had often

wondered how he might help her. It would have greatly delighted him to

be able to prove that he had forgotten nothing, that he was still the

same good friend as formerly. And this was why he had now hastened to

respond to her first summons, full of an anxious affection which made

his heart swell and prevented him from speaking.

At last, however, he was able to reply: 'Yes, your friend, one who has

never ceased to be so, and who only awaited your summons to hasten

here.'

They were at that moment so keenly conscious of the bond that for ever

united them like brother and sister, that they embraced and kissed each

other on the cheeks, even as friends who fear nought of human folly or

suffering, but are certain that they will only impart peacefulness and

courage to one another. All the strength and tenderness with which the

friendship of man and woman may be instinct bloomed in their smiles.

'If you only knew, my friend,' said Luc, 'how great my fears were when

I realised that my competition would end by destroying the Abyss! Was

it not you whom I was ruining? And what faith in my work I needed

to prevent those thoughts from staying my hand! Great sorrow often

came upon me--I believed that you must curse me, that you would never

forgive me for being the cause of the worries in which you must be

struggling.'

'Curse you, my friend! But I was with you, I prayed for you--your

victories were my only joy. And living in a sphere that hated you,

it was very sweet for me to have a secret affection, to be able to

understand and love you, unknown to everybody.'

'None the less I have ruined you, my friend,' Luc retorted. 'What will

become of you now, accustomed as you have been since childhood to a

life of luxury?'

'Oh, ruined! That would have come about without you! It was the others

who ruined me. And you will see how brave I can be, no matter how

delicate you may think me.'

'But Paul, your son?'

'Paul! Why, nothing happier could have befallen him. He will work. You

know what wealth has done to my people.'

Then Suzanne at last told Luc why she had sent him such a pressing

summons. Monsieur Jérôme, the wondrous awakening of whose intelligence

she revealed, wished to speak to him. It was the desire of a dying man,

for Doctor Novarre believed in his imminent dissolution. Astonished

by these tidings even as she had been, seized too, like herself, with

vague alarm at the thought of this resurrection in which he was so

strangely desired to intervene, Luc none the less answered that he was

entirely at her disposal, and ready to do whatever she might request.

'Have you warned your husband of Monsieur Jérôme's desire and my

visit?' he inquired.

Suzanne looked at him and shrugged her shoulders. 'No, I did not think

of it--besides, it is useless,' said she; 'for a long time past it has

seemed as if my grandfather no longer knew that my husband existed. He

does not speak to him, he does not even seem to see him. Moreover, my

husband went out shooting early this morning, and he has not yet come

home.' Then she added, 'If you will follow me, I will take you to my

grandfather at once.'

When they entered Monsieur Jérôme's room, the old man, who was sitting

up in the large rosewood bed supported by several pillows, still had

his eyes turned towards the window whose curtains had been drawn back.

In all probability he had never ceased gazing over the park and the

spreading horizon, with the Abyss and La Crêcherie showing yonder,

beside the Bleuse Mountains, above the jumbled roofs of Beauclair.

It was a scene which seemed to attract him irresistibly, like some

symbolism of the past, the present, and the future, which he had had

before him during all his long silent years.

'Grandfather,' said Suzanne, 'I have had Monsieur Luc Froment fetched

for you. Here he is, he was kind enough to come at once.'

The old man slowly turned his head, and looked at Luc with his large

eyes, which had grown it seemed yet larger than formerly, and which

were now full of deep light. He said nothing, no word of greeting

or thanks came from his lips, and the heavy silence lasted several

minutes, whilst he kept his gaze fixed upon that stranger, the founder

of La Crêcherie, as if he were anxious to know him thoroughly, to dive

indeed into his very soul.

At last Suzanne, who felt slightly embarrassed, resumed, 'You do not

know Monsieur Froment, grandfather; but perhaps you may have noticed

him when you were out.'

Monsieur Jérôme did not appear to hear his granddaughter, for he still

returned no answer. After a moment, however, he once more turned his

head and looked round the room. And failing to find what he sought he

ended by speaking one word--a name--'Boisgelin.'

This caused Suzanne fresh astonishment as well as anxiety and

embarrassment. 'You are asking for my husband, grandfather--do you wish

him to come here?' she inquired.

'Yes, yes, Boisgelin.'

'But I am afraid that he has not come home yet. Meantime you ought to

tell Monsieur Froment why you wished to see him.'

'No, no, Boisgelin, Boisgelin.'

It was evident that he wished to speak in Boisgelin's presence. Suzanne

therefore apologised to Luc and left the room to seek her husband.

Meanwhile Luc remained face to face with Monsieur Jérôme, conscious

that the latter's bright glance was still and ever fixed upon him.

In his turn he then began to scrutinise the old man, and found him

looking wondrously handsome in his extreme old age, with his white

face and regular features, to which the approach of death seemed to

impart an expression of sovereign majesty. The wait was a long one,

and not a word was exchanged by those two men, whose eyes dived into

one another's. All around them the room with its heavy hangings and

massive furniture seemed to be slumbering. Not a sound arose--there

was naught but the quiver which came through the walls from the large

empty closed rooms, the stories and stories which had been abandoned

to dust. And nothing could have been more tragical or solemn than that

spell of silent waiting. At last Suzanne returned, bringing with her

Boisgelin, who had just come home. He still wore his shooting-jacket,

gloves, and gaiters, for she had not allowed him time to change his

clothes. And he came in with an anxious, bewildered air, astonished at

such an adventure. All that his wife had just rapidly told him of the

summoning of Luc, his presence in Monsieur Jérôme's room, the old man's

recovery of his intelligence, and the statement that he was awaiting

him--Boisgelin--before speaking, all those unforeseen occurrences quite

upset Suzanne's husband, who had not been allowed even a few minutes of

reflection.

'Well, grandfather,' said Suzanne, 'here is my husband. Speak if you

have something to tell us. We are listening.'

But again the old man looked round the room, and once more he asked,

'Paul, where is Paul?'

'Do you want Paul to be here too?'

'Yes, yes, I want him.'

'But the fact is that he must be at the farm. Fully a quarter of an

hour will be necessary to fetch him.'

'He must come--I want him, I want him!'

Suzanne yielded, and hastily despatched a servant for her son. And then

the waiting began afresh, and proved even more solemn and tragic than

before. Luc and Boisgelin had simply bowed to one another, finding

nothing to say on meeting after so many years in that room which an

august breath already seemed to fill. Nobody spoke, and amidst the

quiver of the air one only heard the somewhat heavy respiration of

Monsieur Jérôme. Once again his large eyes, full of light, were turned

towards the window, towards that horizon symbolical of the labour of

manhood, where the past had undergone accomplishment, and where the

future would be born. And the minutes went by, slowly, regularly, in

that anxious wait for what was to come, the act of sovereign grandeur

whose approach could be divined.

Some light footsteps were heard at last, and Paul came in, his face

glowing healthily from contact with the open air.

'My boy,' said Suzanne, 'it is your grandfather who has brought us all

together here. He wishes you to be present while he speaks.'

On the hitherto rigid lips of Monsieur Jérôme a smile of infinite

tenderness had at last appeared. He signed to Paul to approach, and

made him sit down as near as possible, on the edge of the bed. It was

particularly for him, the last heir of the Qurignons, through whom

the race might flower anew and yet yield excellent fruit, that he

desired to speak. And on seeing how moved the youth looked, full of

grief at the thought of a last farewell, he continued for a moment

trying to reassure him with his affectionate glances, like one to whom

death was sweet since he was about to bequeath as inheritance to his

great-grandson an act of goodness, justice, and pacification.

At last he began to speak, amidst the religious silence of one and

all. He had turned his face towards Boisgelin, and at first he merely

repeated the words which his servant had for two days past heard him

stammering in an undertone, amidst other confused utterances:

'One must give back, one must give back!'

Then, seeing that the others did not appear to understand what he

meant, he turned to Paul and repeated with growing energy:

'One must give back, my child, give back!'

Suzanne shuddered, and exchanged a glance with Luc, who also was

quivering; whilst Boisgelin, seized with uneasiness and alarm,

pretended to detect in all this some rambling on the old man's part.

But Suzanne inquired: 'What do you desire to tell us, grandfather--what

is it that we must give back?'

Monsieur Jérôme's speech was fast becoming easier and more distinct.

'Everything, my child--the Abyss yonder must be given back; La

Guerdache must be given back. One must give back the land of the farm.

Everything must be given, because nothing ought to belong to us,

because everything ought to belong to all.'

'But explain to us, grandfather--to whom are we to give these things?'

'I tell you, my girl, they must be given back to all. Nothing of what

we thought to be our property belongs to us. If that property has

poisoned and destroyed us, it is because it belonged to others. For our

happiness, and the happiness of all, it must be given back, given back!'

Then came a scene of sovereign beauty, incomparable grandeur. The

old man did not always find the words he desired, but his gestures

indicated his meaning. Amidst the silence of those who surrounded

him, he went on slowly, and in spite of all difficulties succeeded in

making himself understood. He had seen everything, heard everything,

understood everything, and even as Suzanne had divined with quivering

anguish, it was all the past which now came back, all the truth of the

terrible past, pouring forth in a flood from that hitherto silent,

impassive witness, so long imprisoned within his own body. It seemed as

if he had only survived the many disasters, a whole family of happy,

then stricken, beings, in order to draw from everything the great

lesson. On the day of awakening, before going to his death, he spread

out all the torture he had suffered as one who, after believing in the

triumphant reign of his race over an empire established by himself, had

lived long enough to see both race and empire swept away by the blast

of the future. And he told why all this had happened, he judged it, and

offered reparation.

At the outset came the first Qurignon, the drawer who with a few mates

had founded the Abyss, he being as poor as they were, but probably more

skilful and economical. Then came himself, the second Qurignon, the

one who had gained a fortune, and piled up millions in the course of

a stubborn struggle, in which he had displayed heroic determination,

ceaseless and ever-intelligent energy. But if he had accomplished

prodigies of activity and creative genius, if he had gained money,

thanks to his skill in adapting the conditions of production to those

of sale, he knew very well that he was simply the outcome of long

generations of toilers from whom he had derived all his strength and

triumph. How many peasants perspiring as they tilled the glebe, how

many workmen exhausted by the handling of tools had been required for

the advent of those two first Qurignons who had conquered fortune!

Among those forerunners there had been a keen passion to fight for

life, to make money, to rise from one class to another, to pursue all

the slow enfranchisement of the poor wretch who bends in servitude

over his appointed task. And at last one Qurignon had been strong

enough to conquer, to escape from the gaol of poverty, to acquire the

long-desired wealth, and become in his turn a rich man, a master! But

immediately afterwards, that is in two generations, his descendants

collapsed, fell once more into the dolorous struggle for existence,

exhausted already as they were by enjoyment, consumed by it as by a

flame.

'One must give back, one must give back, one must give back!' repeated

Monsieur Jérôme.

There was his son Michel, who after years of excesses had killed

himself on the eve of a pay-day; there was his other son Philippe,

who, having married a hussy, had been ruined by her, and had lost his

life in a foolish duel. There was his daughter Laure, who had died

in a convent, her mind weakened by mystical visions. There were his

two grandsons, André, a rachitic semi-maniac, who had passed away in

an asylum, and Gustave, who had met a tragic death in Italy after

impelling his father to suicide by robbing him of his mistress and

the money he needed for his business payments. Finally, there was

his granddaughter Suzanne, the tender-hearted, sensible, well-loved

creature, whose husband after repurchasing the Abyss and La Guerdache

had completed the work of destruction. The Abyss was now in ashes,

and La Guerdache, where he had hoped to see his race swarming, had

become a desert. And whilst his race had been collapsing, carrying off

both his father's work and his own, he had seen another work arise,

La Crêcherie, which was now full of prosperity, throbbing with the

future that it brought with it. He knew all those things because his

clear eyes had witnessed them in the course of his daily outings, those

hours of silent contemplation, when he had found himself outside the

Abyss at the moment when one or another shift was leaving, or outside

La Crêcherie where the men who had deserted his own foundation took

off their caps to him. And again he had passed before the Abyss on

the morning when of that well-loved creation he had found nought but

smoking ruins left.

'One must give back, one must give back, one must give back!'

That cry, which he constantly repeated amidst his slowly flowing words,

which he emphasised each time with more and more energy, ascended from

his heart like the natural consequence of all the disastrous events

which had caused him so much suffering. If everything around him had

crumbled away so soon, was it not because the fortune which he had

acquired by the labour of others was both poisoned and poisonous? The

enjoyment that such fortune brings is the most certain of destructive

ferments--it bastardises a race, disorganises a family, leads to

abominable tragedies. In less than half a century it had consumed the

strength, the intelligence, the genius which the Qurignons had amassed

during several centuries of rough toil. The mistake of those robust

workers had been their belief that to secure personal happiness they

ought to appropriate and enjoy the wealth created by the exertions of

their companions. And the wealth they had dreamt of, the wealth they

had acquired, had proved their chastisement. Nothing can be worse from

the moral point of view than to cite as an example the workman who

grows rich, who becomes an employer, the sovereign master of thousands

of his fellow-men who bend perspiring over their toil, producing

the wealth by which he triumphs! When a writer says: 'You see very

well that with order and intelligence a mere blacksmith may attain

to everything,' he simply contributes to the work of iniquity, and

aggravates social disequilibrium. The happiness of the elect is really

compounded of the unhappiness of others, for it is their happiness

which he cuts down and purloins. The comrade who makes his way, as the

saying goes, bars the road to thousands of other comrades, lives upon

their misery and their suffering. And it often happens that the happy

one is punished by success, by fortune itself, which coming too quickly

and disproportionately, proves murderous. This is why the only right

course is to revert to salutary work, work on the part of all--all

earning their livings and owing their happiness solely to the exertion

of their minds and their muscles.

'One must give back, one must give back, one must give back!' repeated

Monsieur Jérôme.

One must give back, indeed; one must restitute because one is liable

to die of that which one steals from another. One must give back,

because the sole cure, the only certainty of happiness lies in doing

so. One must give back in a spirit of justice, and even more in one's

own personal interest, since the happiness of each can only reside in

the happiness of all. One must give back in order that one may enjoy

better health and live a happy life in the midst of universal peace.

One must give back because if all the unjust victors of life, all the

egotistical holders of the public fortune, were to restore the wealth

that they squander for their personal pleasures--the great estates,

the great industrial enterprises, the roads, the towns--peace would be

restored to-morrow, love would flower once more among men, and there

would be such an abundance of possessions that not one single being

would be left in penury. One must give back because one must set the

example if one desires that other wealthy folk may understand, may

realise whence have come all the evils from which they suffer, and may

be inspired to endow their descendants with renewed vigour by plunging

them once more into active life, daily work. One must give back, too,

whilst there is yet time to do so, whilst there is still some nobility

in returning to one's comrades, in showing them that one was mistaken,

and that one returns to one's place in the ranks to participate in

the common effort, with the hope that the hour of justice and peace

will soon strike. And one must give back in order to die with a clear

conscience, a heart joyful at having accomplished one's duty, at

leaving a repairing and liberating lesson to the last of one's race,

so that he may restore it, save it from error, and perpetuate it in

strength, delight, and beauty.

'One must give back, one must give back!'

Tears had appeared in Suzanne's eyes as she perceived the exaltation

with which her son Paul was filled by her grandfather's words; whilst

Boisgelin expressed his irritation by impatient movements.

'But, grandfather,' said she, 'to whom and how are we to give back?'

The old man turned his bright eyes upon Luc. 'If I desired the founder

of La Crêcherie to be present,' said he, 'it was in order that he might

hear me and help you, my children. He has already done much for the

work of reparation, he alone can intervene and restore what remains of

our fortune to the sons and grandsons of those who were my own and my

father's comrades.'

Luc was filled with emotion by the wondrous nobility of the scene,

yet he hesitated, for he could divine Boisgelin's keen hostility. 'I

can only do one thing,' said he--'that is, if the owners of the Abyss

are willing I will procure them admission into our association at La

Crêcherie. In the same way as other factories have already done, the

Abyss will increase our family--double, in fact, the importance of our

growing town. If by 'giving back' you mean a return to increase of

justice, a step towards the absolute justice of the future, I will help

you, I will consent to what you say with all my heart.'

'I know you will,' Monsieur Jérôme slowly answered; 'I ask nothing

more.'

But Boisgelin, unable to restrain himself any longer, began to protest.

'Ah! that is not what I desire. However much it may distress me to do

so, I am willing to sell the Abyss to La Crêcherie. A price will have

to be agreed upon, and in addition to the amount which may be fixed I

desire to retain an interest in the enterprise, which also will have to

be arranged. I need money and I wish to sell.'

This was the plan which he had been maturing for some days past, in the

idea that Luc was eager to secure possession of the Abyss land, and

that he would be able to obtain a considerable sum from him at once,

as well as a future income. But this plan entirely collapsed when Luc

declared in a voice expressive of irrevocable determination: 'It is

impossible for us to buy. It is contrary to the spirit which guides us.

We are simply an association, a family open to all those brothers who

may wish to join us.'

Then Monsieur Jérôme, whose bright eyes had been fixed on Boisgelin,

resumed with sovereign tranquillity of manner: 'It is I who wish

it and who order it. My granddaughter, Suzanne, here present, is

co-proprietress of the Abyss, and she will refuse her consent to any

other arrangement than that which I desire. And, like myself, I am sure

that she will have but one regret, that of being unable to restore

everything, of having to accept interest on her capital, which she will

dispose of as her heart may dictate.'

And as Boisgelin remained silent, submitting to the others with the

weakness that had come with his ruin, the old man continued: 'But that

is not all, there remain La Guerdache and the farm--they must be given

back, given back.'

Then, though he was again experiencing a difficulty in speaking and

was well-nigh exhausted, he made his last desires known. As the Abyss

would be blended with La Crêcherie, he wished the farm to join the

association of Les Combettes, so as to enlarge the fields which had

been united by Lenfant, Yvonnot, and all the other peasants, who had

been living together like brothers since a proper understanding of

their interests had reconciled them. There would be but one stretch

of earth, one common mother, loved by all, tilled by all, and feeding

all. The whole plain of La Roumagne would end by yielding one vast

harvest to fill the granaries of regenerated Beauclair. And as for

La Guerdache, which entirely belonged to Suzanne, he charged her to

restore it to the poor and suffering, so that she might keep nothing of

the property which had poisoned the Qurignons. Then, reverting to Paul,

who still sat on the edge of the bed, and taking his hand in his own,

and looking at him earnestly with his eyes which were now growing dim,

Monsieur Jérôme said in a lower and lower voice: 'One must give back,

one must give back, my child. You will keep nothing, you will give

yonder park to the old comrades, so that they may rejoice there on high

days, and so that their wives and children may walk there and enjoy

hours of gaiety and good health under the fine trees. And you will also

give back this house, this huge residence which we did not know how to

fill in spite of all our money, for I wish it to belong to the wives

and the children of poor workmen. They will be welcomed here and nursed

when they are ailing or when they are weary. Keep nothing, give all,

all back, my child, if you wish to save yourself from poison. And work

and live solely on the fruits of your work, and seek out the daughter

of some old comrade who still works and marry her, so that she may

bring you handsome children, who also will work, who will be just and

happy beings, and in their turn have handsome children for the eternal

work of futurity. Keep nothing, my child, give everything back, for

therein alone lies salvation, peace, and joy.'

They were all weeping now--never had a more beautiful, a loftier, a

more heroic breath passed over human souls. The great room had become

august. And the eyes of the old man, which had filled it with light,

faded slowly, whilst his voice likewise became fainter, returning

to eternal silence. He had at last accomplished his sublime work of

reparation, truth, and justice, to help on the advent of the happiness

which is the primordial right of every man. And his duty done, that

same evening he died.

Before then, however, when Suzanne and Luc left Monsieur Jérôme's

room together, they found themselves alone for a moment in the little

_salon_. They were so overcome by emotion that their hearts rose to

their lips.

'Rely on me,' said Luc. 'I swear to you that I will watch over the

fulfilment of the supreme desires which have been committed to you. I

will attend to matters from this moment.'

She had taken hold of his hands. 'Oh! my friend,' she answered, 'I

place my faith in you. I know what miracles you have already performed,

and I do not doubt the prodigy which you will accomplish by reconciling

us all. Ah! there is nothing but love. Ah! if I had only been loved as

I myself loved!'

She was trembling. The secret of which she herself had been ignorant so

long, escaped her at that solemn moment. 'My friend, my friend,' she

repeated, 'what strength I should have had for doing good, what help

might I not have given had I felt beside me the arm of a just man, a

hero, one whom I should have made my god! But if it be too late for

that, will you at least accept what help I may be able to give as a

friend, a sister----'

He understood her. It was a repetition of Sœurette's sweet, sad case.

She had loved him without revealing it, without even owning it to

herself, like an honest woman eager for tenderness, who amidst the

torments of her household dreamt of happy love. And now that Josine was

chosen, now that all else was dead without possibility of resurrection,

she gave herself, even as Sœurette had done, as a sisterly companion, a

devoted friend, who longed to participate in his mission.

'If I will accept your help!' cried Luc, who was touched to tears. 'Ah!

yes indeed, there is never enough affection, enough help and active

tenderness. The work is vast, and you will have ample opportunities for

giving without stint your heart. Come with us, my friend, and stay with

us, and you will be part of my thoughts and my love.'

She was transported by his words, she threw herself into his arms,

and they kissed. An indissoluble bond was being formed between

them, a marriage of sentiment, of exquisite purity, in which there

was nought but a common passion for the poor and the suffering, an

inextinguishable desire to obliterate the misery of the world.

Months went by, and the liquidation of the affairs of the Abyss,

which were extremely involved, proved a most laborious matter. Before

everything else it was necessary to get rid of the debt of six hundred

thousand francs. Arrangements were at last entered into with the

creditors, who agreed to accept payment in annuities levied upon the

share of profits to which the Abyss would be entitled when it entered

the Crêcherie association. Then it was necessary to value the plant

and materials saved from the fire. These, with all the land stretching

along the Mionne as far as Old Beauclair, formed the share of capital

which the Boisgelins brought into the association; and a modest income,

levied on the profits before they were divided among the creditors, was

ensured them. Old Qurignon's desires were but half fulfilled during

that period of transition, when capital still held a position similar

to that of work and intelligence, pending the time when, with the

victory of sovereign work, it would altogether disappear.

At least, however, La Guerdache and the farm returned completely to the

commonalty, the heirs of the toilers, who had formerly paid for them

with the sweat of their brows, for as soon as the farm lands--entering

the Combettes association in accordance with the long-planned schemes

of Feuillat--began to prosper and yield gain, the whole of the money

was employed to transform La Guerdache into a convalescent home for

weak children and women who had recently become mothers. Free beds were

installed there, with gratuitous board, and the park now belonged to

the humble ones of the world, forming a huge garden, a paradise as of

dreamland, where children played, where mothers recovered their health,

where the multitude enjoyed recreation as in some palace of nature

which had become the palace of one and all.

Years went by. Luc had ceded one of the little houses of La Crêcherie,

near the pavilion which he still occupied, to the Boisgelins. And at

first that modest life proved very hard for Boisgelin, who did not

become resigned to it without violent fits of revolt. At one moment

he even wished to go to Paris to live there chancewise, as he listed.

But his innate sloth and the impossibility of earning his own living

rendered him as weak as a child, and placed him in the hands of whoever

cared to take him. Since his downfall Suzanne, so sensible, so gentle,

and yet so firm, had acquired absolute authority over him, and he

always ended by doing what she wished, like a poor rudderless creature

carried away by the stream of life. Soon, too, among that active world

of workers he felt idleness weighing upon him to such a degree that

he began to desire some occupation. He felt weary of dragging himself

about all day long, he suffered from a secret feeling of shame, a need

of action, for he could no longer tire himself with the management and

squandering of a large fortune. Shooting remained a resource for him

during the winter months, but as soon as the fine weather came there

was nothing for him to do except to ride out occasionally, and dismal

_ennui_ then crushed him down. And so when Suzanne prevailed on Luc to

confide an inspectorship to him, a kind of control over a department

of the general stores, which meant employment for three hours of his

time every day, he ended by accepting the offer. His health, which had

suffered, then improved; still he always displayed anxiety, wearing a

lost, unhappy air, such as one might find in a man who had fallen from

one planet to another.

And years again went by. Suzanne had become the friend and sister

of Josine and Sœurette, in whose work she participated. All

three surrounded Luc, sustaining him and completing him, like

personifications of kindness, love, and gentleness. He called them with

a smile his three virtues. They busied themselves with the _crèches_,

the schools, the infirmaries, and the convalescent homes, they went

wherever there might be weakness to protect, pain to assuage, joy to

initiate. Sœurette and Suzanne, in particular, took on themselves the

most ungrateful tasks, those which require personal abnegation, entire

renunciation; whilst Josine, having to attend to her children, her

ever-growing home, naturally bestowed less of her time upon others.

She, moreover, was the _amorosa_, the flower of beauty and desire,

whilst Sœurette and Suzanne were the friends, the consolers, and the

counsellors. At times some very bitter trials still fell on Luc, and

often, on quitting his wife's embrace, it was to his two friends that

he listened, charging them to dress the wounds they spoke of and devote

themselves to the common work of salvation. It was by and for women

that the future city had to be founded.

Eight years had already elapsed when Paul Boisgelin, who was

seven-and-twenty, married Bonnaire's eldest daughter, then twenty-four

years old. As soon as the lands of La Guerdache had entered the

Combettes association, Paul, with Feuillat, the former farmer, had

begun to take a passionate interest in promoting the fertility of

the vast expanse which those fields had enlarged. He had become an

agriculturist, and directed one of the sections of the domain, which

it had been necessary to divide into several groups. And it was at his

parents' little house at La Crêcherie, whither he returned to sleep

every night, that he had renewed his acquaintance with Antoinette,

who lived with her parents in a neighbouring house. Close intercourse

had sprung up between that simple family of workers and the former

heiress of the Qurignons, who now lived so modestly and welcomed every

one so kindly. And although Madame Bonnaire, the terrible La Toupe,

had remained a rather difficult customer to deal with, the simple

nobility of character displayed by Bonnaire, that hero of work, one of

the founders of the new city, had sufficed to render the intercourse

intimate. It was charming to see the children loving one another, and

drawing yet closer the links which had thus been formed between the

representatives of two classes which had formerly fought one against

the other. Antoinette, who resembled her father, being a good-looking,

sturdy brunette, possessed of no little natural gracefulness, had

passed through Sœurette's schools, and now helped her at the big dairy

which was installed at the end of the park beside the ridge of the

Bleuse Mountains. As she said with a laugh, she was simply a dairymaid,

expert with milk, and cheese, and butter. When the young people

married, he, Paul, a _bourgeois_ by birth, who had gone back to the

soil, and she, Antoinette, a daughter of the people working with her

hands, a great _fête_ was given, for there was a desire to celebrate as

gloriously as possible those symbolical nuptials, which proclaimed the

reconciliation, the union of repentant capitalism and triumphant work.

During the ensuing year, one warm June day, shortly after the birth

of Antoinette's first child, the Boisgelins, accompanied by Luc, once

more found themselves together at La Guerdache. Nearly ten years had

now elapsed since the death of Monsieur Jérôme and the restitution of

the estate to the people in accordance with his desire. Antoinette had

for some time been a _pensionnaire_ in the convalescent home which

had been installed in the château where the Qurignons had reigned;

and, leaning on the arm of her husband, she was now able to stroll

under the beautiful foliage of the park, whilst Suzanne, like a good

grandmother, carried the baby. A few paces in the rear walked Luc

and Boisgelin. And what memories arose at the sight of that princely

house, those copses, those lawns, those avenues where the uproar of

costly _fêtes_, the galloping of horses and the baying of hounds no

longer resounded, but where the humble of the world at last enjoyed

the health-giving open air, and the restful delight that came from

the great trees! All the luxury of that magnificent domain was now

theirs, the convalescent home opened its bright bed-rooms, its pleasant

_salons_, its well-stocked larders to them, the park reserved for them

its shady paths, its crystalline springs, its lawns where for their

delight gardeners cultivated beds of perfume-shedding flowers. They

found there their long-withheld share of beauty and grace. And it was

delightful to see infancy, youth, and motherhood--which for centuries

had been condemned to suffering, shut up in sunless hovels, dying of

filthy wretchedness--suddenly summoned to partake of the joy of life,

the share of happiness belonging by right to every human creature, that

luxury of happiness at which innumerable generations of starvelings had

gazed from afar without ever being able to touch it!

As the young married couple, followed by the others, at last reached a

pool of water glistening with mirror-like limpidity under the blue sky,

beyond a row of willows, Luc began to laugh softly.

'Ah, my friends!' said he, 'what a gay and pretty scene this recalls to

me! You know nothing about it, eh? Nevertheless it was at the edge of

this calm water that Paul and Antoinette were betrothed a score or so

of years ago.'

Then he spoke of the delightful scene which he had witnessed beside

that pond on the occasion of his first visit to La Guerdache--the

invasion of the park by three youngsters of the streets, Nanet bringing

his companions, Lucien and Antoinette Bonnaire, through a gap in the

hedge in order that they might play beside the pond; then Lucien's

ingenious invention, the little boat which travelled all alone over the

water; and the arrival of the three little _bourgeois_, Paul Boisgelin,

Nise Delaveau, and Louise Mazelle, who all marvelled at the boat, and

immediately made friends with the intruders. And couples had been

formed quite naturally, there had been betrothals at once, Paul with

Antoinette, Nise with Nanet, Louise with Lucien, amidst the smiling

complicity of kind-hearted Nature, the eternal mother.

'Don't you remember it?' asked Luc gaily.

The young couple, who joined in his laughter, declared that he went

back too far. 'If I was only four years old,' said Antoinette, who felt

highly amused, 'my memory could not have been a very strong one.'

But Paul, gazing fixedly into the past, was making an effort to recall

the scene. 'I was seven,' said he. 'Wait a moment! It seems to me that

I vaguely remember--the little boat had to be brought back with a pole

whenever its wheels ceased turning; and then one of the little girls

narrowly missed falling into the pond; and afterwards the intruders,

the little bandits, ran away on seeing some people approach.'

'That was it!' cried Luc. 'Ah! so you remember! Well, for my part, I

remember that day experiencing a quiver of hope in the future, for that

scene in some measure suggested the reconciliation which was to come.

Childhood in its naïve fraternity was at work here, taking a first

step towards justice and peace. And whatever fresh happiness you may

bring about, you know, will be yet increased by that little gentleman

yonder.'

He pointed to the baby, little Ludovic, now lying in the arms of

Suzanne, who felt so happy at being a grandmother. She, on her side,

jestingly retorted: 'For the time being he is very good, because he

is asleep. Later on, my dear Luc, we will marry him to one of your

granddaughters, and in that manner the reconciliation will be complete,

all the combatants of yesterday will be united and pacified in the

persons of their descendants. Are you willing? Shall we have the

betrothal to-day?'

'Am I willing? Certainly I am! Our great-grandchildren will push on our

work hand in hand.'

Paul and Antoinette felt moved, and kissed one another, whilst

Boisgelin, who was not listening, looked round the park, his former

estate, in a mournful manner, though without any bitterness, to such a

degree indeed had the new world upset and stupefied him. And then they

all resumed their walk along the shady paths, Luc and Suzanne silently

exchanging smiles which told their joy.

When they all came back to the house they paused for a moment before

it, to the left of the steps, under the windows of the very room where

Monsieur Jérôme had died. From that point one perceived--between the

crests of the great trees--the distant roofs of Beauclair, and then La

Crêcherie and the Abyss. They gazed upon that spreading panorama in

silence. They could plainly distinguish the Abyss, now built afresh on

the same plan as La Crêcherie, and forming with it one sole city of

work--work, reorganised and ennobled, transformed into man's pride,

health, and gaiety. More justice and more love were born there every

morning. And the waves of little smiling houses, set in greenery, those

waves which the anxious Delaveau had seen always advancing, had flowed

over the once black land without a halt, ever enlarging the future

city. They now occupied the whole expanse from the ridge of the Bleuse

Mountains to the Mionne, and they would soon cross the narrow torrent,

to sweep away Old Beauclair, that sordid agglomeration of the hovels

of servitude and agony. And as they advanced they built up stone by

stone--under the fraternal sun, even to the verge of the fertile fields

of La Roumagne--the city where all at last would be freedom, justice,

and happiness.

II

Whilst evolution was carrying Beauclair towards its new destiny,

love, young, gay, and victorious, asserted itself, and on all sides

there came frequent marriages, drawing various classes together and

hastening the advent of harmony and final peace. Love the victorious

overthrew all obstacles, triumphed over the greatest resistance with a

passion full of happy vitality, an explosion of joy which proclaimed

in the broad sunlight what happiness there was in being, in loving, in

creating yet more and more.

Luc and Josine had set the example. During the last ten years a family

of three boys and two girls had sprung up around them. Hilaire, the

eldest, born before the collapse of the Abyss, was already eleven.

Then, at intervals of two years, had come the others: Charles, who was

now nine years old; Thérèse, who was seven; Pauline, who was five; and

Jules, who was three. To the old pavilion another structure had been

added, and there these children romped, filling the place with gaiety

and hope, and growing up for future unions. As Luc, in delight, often

said to the smiling Josine, the constancy of their affection sprang

largely from that triumphant fruitfulness. In Josine, the _amorosa_ had

now largely given way to the mother; yet she and Luc were still lovers,

for love does not age, it remains the eternal flame, the immortal

brazier whence the life of the world derives its being. Never had a

home resounded with brighter gaiety than theirs, full as it was of

children and flowers. And they loved one another so well there, that

misfortune passed them by. Whenever any recollection of the dolorous

past returned, when Josine recalled her sufferings and the downfall in

which she would have perished had it not been for Luc's helping hand,

she flung her arms around his neck in a transport of inexhaustible

gratitude, whilst he, full of emotion, felt that the iniquitous

opprobrium from which he had saved her rendered her all the dearer to

him.

Nanet, little Nanet, who was now becoming a man, lodged with Luc,

beside his 'big sister,' as he still called Josine. Gifted with keen

intelligence and an enterprising bravery which was ever on the alert,

the young fellow captivated Luc, whose dearest pupil he became, a

youthful disciple full of the master's lessons. And meantime, at the

Jordans', whose house was so near to Luc's, Nise, little Nise, was

likewise growing up in the affectionate charge of Sœurette, who had

given her a home on the morrow of the destruction of the Abyss, happy

in being able to adopt the young girl, in whom she found a charming

companion and assistant. And it followed that Nanet and Nise, seeing

one another every day, ended by living solely one for the other. As a

matter of fact, did not their betrothal date from infancy, from the

distant days when child-love, divine ingenuousness, had filled them

with a craving to be together, impelling them to brave all punishments

and even to scale walls in order to meet? They had been fair and curly

like little lambs in those days, and how silvery had seemed their

laughter when at each meeting they embraced, knowing nothing of what

parted them socially, she the _bourgeoise_ by birth, the master's

daughter, and he the urchin of the streets, the penniless son of a

wretched manual worker. Then had come the frightful tempest of flames,

Nise saved by Nanet, to whose neck she had clung, both of them covered

with burns, and at one moment in danger of death. And to-day also they

were both fair and curly, they gave vent to the same light laughter as

in childhood, and displayed a similarity of demeanour as if one matched

the other. But Nise had now become a big girl, Nanet a big youth, and

they adored one another.

The idyll lasted for nearly seven years longer, whilst Luc was making

a man of Nanet, and Sœurette was helping Nise to grow up in kindliness

and beauty. Nise had been thirteen years of age at the time of the

terrible death of her father and mother, whose remains had been reduced

to ashes, in such wise that nothing of them was found under the

remnants of the burnt house. For long years the girl shuddered at the

recollection of that night. There was no reason to hurry her marriage;

so far as that was concerned, indeed, her friends wished to wait until

she should be twenty in order that she herself might come to a free and

sensible decision. Besides, Nanet himself was very young, her elder by

scarcely three years, and still an apprentice. With their gay playful

natures, moreover, simply intent as they were on making merry together,

they themselves were in no hurry. They met every evening, and found a

simple enjoyment in telling one another what they had done during the

day. They would often sit hand in hand, and when they parted for the

night they exchanged an affectionate kiss. But amidst their cordial

agreement there were at times some little quarrels. Nanet occasionally

found Nise too proud and wilful; she put on her princess's airs, as he

was wont to remark. Again, he sometimes thought her too coquettish, too

fond of fine attire and of the _fêtes_ at which she displayed it. Of

course it was not forbidden to appear beautiful--on the contrary; but

it was not right to spoil one's beauty by assuming an air of contempt

for others. At first Nise, in whom reappeared some little of her

mother's passion for enjoyment and her father's despotic disposition,

grew angry when she was reproved, and endeavoured to demonstrate that

she was perfection itself. But as she worshipped Nanet she ended by

confiding in him, listening to him, and striving to please him by

becoming the best and gentlest of little women. And when, as sometimes

happened, she did not succeed in this, she remarked with a laugh that

if she should ever have a daughter the latter would no doubt be much

better than herself, because it was necessary that the blood of the

princes of this world should have time to become democratised among a

more brotherly line of descendants.

The wedding at last took place, when Nise was twenty and Nanet

twenty-three years old. It had long been wished for, foreseen, and

awaited. For seven years not a day had elapsed without a step towards

this _dénouement_ of the long and happy idyll. And as this marriage

of Delaveau's daughter with the brother of Josine, who was now to all

intents and purposes Luc's wife, extinguished all hatred, and sealed a

pact of alliance, there was a desire that it should be made a festival

celebrating forgiveness of the past and the new community's radiant

entry into the future. With this object it was decided that there

should be singing and dancing on the very site of the Abyss, in one of

the halls now erected there as an adjunct to La Crêcherie, which at

present spread over acres and acres of ground, and ever and ever grew.

Luc and Sœurette were the organisers and masters of the ceremonies of

this marriage festival, as well as the witnesses of the bridal pair,

Luc being witness for Nanet, and Sœurette for Nise. They wished to

impart to the festival all the splendour of a triumph, to endow it

with the gaiety of hope's fulfilment, to make it like the very victory

of the city of work and peace, now founded and prosperous. It is good

that communities should indulge in great rejoicings; public life needs

frequent days of beauty, joy, and exultation. Thus Luc and Sœurette

chose the great foundry hall, where so many of the monster-like

hammers, the gigantic rolling bridges, the movable cranes of prodigious

strength were gathered together. The new buildings, all bricks and

steelwork, were clean and healthy, and full of joyous brightness with

their large windows through which streamed both air and sunlight.

And the plant was left in position, especially as, for a festival of

triumphant work, one could not have devised any better decorations

than were provided by those gigantic appliances, whose powerful forms

were instinct with a sovereign beauty compounded of logic, strength,

and certainty. However, they were decorated with foliage and crowned

with flowers, even as were altars in ancient times. The brick walls,

too, were ornamented with garlands of verdure, and the very pavement

was strewn with roses and broom flowers. The whole seemed like the

blossoming of man's effort to attain happiness, an effort which had

ended by flowering there, scattering perfume around the toil of the

worker, a toil once unjust and hard, but now attractive and leading

solely to happiness.

Two processions set forth, one from the home of the bridegroom, the

other from that of the bride. On his side Luc, followed by his wife

Josine and their children, brought the hero Nanet; on hers, Sœurette,

with her brother Jordan, brought their adopted daughter, the heroine

Nise. The whole population of the new city, where all work was stopped

in token of rejoicing, lined the road to acclaim the bridal pair.

The beautiful sun shone out, the gay houses were decked with bright

colours, the greenery was full of flowers and birds. And in the rear

of either _cortège_ followed the crowd of workers, a vast concourse of

joyous people who gradually invaded the great halls of the works, which

were as lofty and as broad as the naves of the old-time cathedrals.

The foundry hall, whither the bridal couple repaired, was soon crowded

to excess in spite of its immensity. In addition to Luc, his family,

and the Jordans, there were the Boisgelins with Paul, who at that time

had not yet married Antoinette, for their wedding was only to take

place four years later. Then came the Bonnaires, the Bourrons, even the

Fauchards, indeed, all those whose arms had contributed to the victory

of work. Those men of good will and faith, those workers of the first

days, had increased and multiplied. Was not the throng of comrades

around them an enlargement of their families, an assemblage of

brothers whose numbers still increased daily? There were five thousand

of them, and soon there would be ten. They would increase to a hundred

thousand, to a million, and would at last absorb all mankind.

The ceremony, in the midst of the powerful machinery decked with

flowers and garlands of verdure, was one of sovereign and touching

simplicity.

With smiling mien Luc and Sœurette placed Nanet's and Nise's hands one

in the other.

'Love one another with all your hearts,' they said to them, 'and have

handsome children who will love one another as you yourselves will be

loved.'

The crowd raised acclamations, and shouted the word 'Love!' For it was

King Love who alone could render work fruitful, by making the race

ever more and more numerous, and inflaming it with desire, the eternal

source of life.

But in all this there was already too much solemnity for Nanet and

Nise, who had loved one another so playfully ever since childhood.

Although those two little curly lambs had grown up, they remained

like toys in their festival raiment, both clad in white, charming and

delightful. And they were not content with a ceremonious hand-shake.

They fell upon each other's neck.

'Ah! my little Nise, how happy I am to have you for my wife at last,

after waiting for you for years and years!'

'Ah! my little Nanet, how happy I am to belong to you, for it is quite

true, you have earned it!'

'And little Nise, do you remember when I pulled you up by the arms to

help you over the walls, and when I carried you pick-a-back, and played

at being a rearing horse?'

'And little Nanet, do you remember when we played at hide-and-seek, and

you ended by finding me among the rosebushes, so well hidden there that

it was enough to make me die of laughing?'

'Little Nise, little Nise, we'll love each other as we played, very

heartily, with all, all the strength of health and gaiety.'

'Little Nanet, little Nanet, we played so much, and we will love one

another so much, that we shall love yet again in our children, and play

again even with our children's children.'

And they embraced, and laughed, and played together, raised to the

highest felicity. The throng, filled with enthusiasm by the sight,

traversed by a wave of sonorous gaiety, clapped hands and acclaimed

love, almighty love, which without cessation creates more and more

life and happiness. Then the singing began, chorus singing, in which

the aged sang their well-earned rest, the men the triumph of their

toil, the women the helpful sweetness of their love, the children the

confident cheerfulness of their hopes. Afterwards came the dances,

with a great final round and chain, which brought all that brotherly

little people hand in hand, stretching out and revolving for hours to

the strains of gay music, through the halls of the huge works. They

had formerly toiled so much and suffered so much in the dirty, grimy,

unhealthy inferno which had stood there, and which the flames had

swept away. The sunshine, the air, and life, now entered freely. And

the marriage _ronde_ still came and went around the huge appliances,

the colossal presses, the formidable steam hammers, the gigantic

planing-machines, which wore a smiling aspect beneath their adornments

of flowers and foliage, whilst the young married couple led the dance,

as if in them rested the soul of all those things, that morrow of

increase in equity and fraternity, which the victory of their long

affection had ensured.

Luc was preparing a surprise for Jordan, for he also wished to

celebrate the labour of the scientist whose endeavours would contribute

more than a hundred years of politics could have done to the happiness

of the city. When the night had fallen and it was quite dark, the whole

works suddenly glowed, thousands of lamps casting the gay light of

day-time over the place. Jordan's researches, it should be said, had at

last yielded fruit. After many defeats he had devised a system for the

transport of electrical force without loss, employing new appliances,

ingenious means of transmission. Henceforth the cost of conveying coal

was saved, it was burnt at the pit's mouth, and the machinery which

transformed calorical into electrical energy sent it to La Crêcherie by

special cables, which allowed of no loss on the way, in such wise that

the cost price was now only half of what it had formerly been. This

then was a first great victory, La Crêcherie profusely illumined, power

distributed abundantly among both the large and the small appliances,

comfort increased, work facilitated, and fortune augmented. And at the

same time it was virtually a fresh step towards happiness.

When Jordan, on beholding the festive illumination, understood Luc's

affectionate intention, he began to laugh like a child.

'Ah! my friend, so you give me a bouquet too! As a matter of fact, I

rather deserve it, for as you must remember I had been striving to

solve the problem for ten long years! What obstacles, what defeats did

I not encounter when I imagined success to be a certainty! But, no

matter, I set to work afresh on the morrow, on the ruins of all the

experiments that had failed. A man always ends by succeeding when he

works.'

Luc was laughing with his friend, whose courage and faith he shared.

'I know that very well,' said he in reply; 'you are the living proof

of it. I know no greater, loftier master of energy than you, and I

have tried to follow your example. Well, so night is now vanquished,

you have put darkness to flight, and as electricity at present costs

so little, we shall be able to light up a planet above La Crêcherie,

to replace the sun as soon as evening comes. And you have also wrought

economy in human toil, for, thanks to the abundance of mechanical power

yielded by your system, one man now suffices for work in which two had

to be employed. Thus we acclaim you as the master of light and warmth

and power.'

Jordan, wrapped in a rug which Sœurette, fearing the coolness of the

evening, had thrown over his shoulders, was still looking at the huge

pile around him, now sparkling like a palace of fairyland. Short

and puny, with a pale face and the feeble air of one who is on the

point of dying, he strolled about those glowing halls, examining them

curiously, for during the last ten years he had scarcely stirred from

his laboratory. Thus he marvelled at the results already obtained, the

success of a work of which he had been both the least known and the

most active artisan.

'Yes, yes,' he muttered, 'the result is very good already, no little

ground has been gained. We are advancing, the future we dreamt of is

nearer to us. And I owe you my apologies, my dear Luc, for I did not

hide from you at the outset that I scarcely believed in the success of

your mission. But you still have a great deal to accomplish, and for

my part, alas! I have done next to nothing by the side of all that I

should like to do.'