He lowered a lever, a door opened, and the ball, like some planet,

setting the horizon aglow with its luminous trail, slid down to the

chariot, whilst the young man continued smiling, without a drop of

perspiration appearing on his brow, his limbs remaining nimble and

supple, undeformed by excessive toil. The chariot had already started

off to deposit its burden under the hammer, one of a new pattern,

worked by electricity, and doing everything that had to be done by

itself, without need of any smith to turn the lump over, now upon this

side and now upon that. And the hammer also worked so easily and the

sound it gave out was so clear and light that it became like a musical

accompaniment to the mirth of the workmen.

'I must make haste,' said Adolphe again, after washing his hands. 'I

have to finish a table in which I'm greatly interested, and I shall do

a couple of hours in the carpenters' workshop.'

He was indeed a carpenter as well as a puddler, having learnt various

callings, like all the young folk of his age, in order that he might

not be brutified by clinging to some particular specialty. Varied in

this manner, work became both delight and recreation.

'Well, amuse yourself!' cried Luc, sharing his delight.

'Yes, yes, thanks, Monsieur Luc. That's the right thing to say--good

work, good amusement.'

One spot where Luc spent a few enjoyable minutes on the mornings when

he visited the works was the hall where the crucible furnaces were

installed. He there felt himself to be far indeed from the old hall at

the Abyss, that hall with its glowing pits growling like volcanoes,

whence the wretched workers, amidst a blaze of fire, had to lift at

arm's length their hundred pounds' weight of fusing metal. Instead of

the old-time grimy, filthy place, there was now a spacious gallery,

having broad windows through which the sunshine streamed, and a

pavement of large slabs between which opened batteries of symmetrically

disposed furnaces. As electricity was employed to work them they

remained cold, silent, clean, and bright. And here again mechanical

appliances performed all the work, lowered the crucibles, lifted them

all aglow, and emptied them into moulds under the eyes of the men

directing them. Women were even employed in this department, attending

to the distribution of the electric power, for it had been noticed that

they displayed more care and precision than men in working the delicate

appliances.

Luc walked up to a tall and good-looking girl of twenty, Laure

Fauchard, daughter of Louis Fauchard and Julienne Dacheux, who,

standing near one apparatus, was carefully directing the current

towards one of the furnaces in accordance with the indications of a

young workman, who on his side watched the progress of the fusion.

'Well, Laure, you are not tired, are you?' Luc asked her.

'Oh! no, Monsieur Luc, it amuses me. How can I get tired from merely

turning this little switch?'

The young workman, Hippolyte Mitaine, who was now nearly

three-and-twenty, had drawn near. He was the son of Évariste Mitaine

and Olympe Lenfant, and was reported to be betrothed to Laure Fauchard.

'Monsieur Luc,' said he, 'if you would like to see some billets cast we

are ready.'

The machinery on being started quietly and easily removed the

incandescent crucibles, and then emptied them into the moulds, which

another mechanism brought forward in turn. In five minutes, whilst the

young man and the girl looked on, the work was properly performed and

the furnace was ready to receive yet another charge.

'There!' exclaimed Laure, laughing. 'When I think of all the terrible

stories which my poor grandfather Fauchard used to tell me when I was a

child I can hardly believe them. He hadn't got much of his wits left,

and he related things about his old calling as a drawer that were fit

to make one shudder. It was as if he had spent his life in the midst of

a fire, with the flames licking his limbs. All the old folk think us

very happy nowadays.'

Luc had become grave, and emotion moistened his eyes. 'Yes, yes,'

said he, 'the grandfathers suffered a great deal. And that is why the

grandchildren enjoy a better life. Work well, and love one another

well, the lives of your sons and daughters will be better still.'

Then Luc resumed his round, and wherever he repaired throughout those

spacious works he found the same healthy cleanliness, the same tuneful

gaiety, the same easy and attractive work, thanks to the variety of the

duties entrusted to the staff and the sovereign help of the machinery.

The worker was no longer an overpowered beast of burden, held in

contempt; with freedom he had recovered conscience and intelligence.

As Luc concluded his inspection in the hall where the rolling-machinery

had its place, near the puddling furnaces, he again paused to say a few

friendly words to a young man, about twenty-six years of age, who was

just arriving.

'Yes, Monsieur Luc,' was the reply, 'I've come from Les Combettes,

where I've been helping my father. There was some sowing to finish, so

I did two hours at it over yonder. And now I mean to do another two

hours here, for there is an urgent order for some rails.'

The young man was named Alexandre, and was a son of Léon Feuillat and

Eugénie Yvonnot. Gifted with a lively fancy, he amused himself after

completing his regular four-hours' work by preparing ornamental designs

for Lange the potter.

However, he had already set himself to his task, which was the

superintendence of a train of rollers for the making of rails. Luc,

who felt very happy, looked on in a kindly way. Since electrical force

had been employed the terrible uproar of the machinery had ceased; one

only heard the silvery ring of each rail as it spurted forth, following

those which were cooling. 'Twas all the good and constant production

of an epoch of peace, rails and yet more rails, in order that every

frontier might be crossed, and that the nations, drawn closer and

closer together, might become but one sole nation, spread over the

surface of the earth, which was becoming a perfect network of roads.

And in addition to the rails there were the great steel ships--not

the hateful vessels of war, carrying devastation and death across the

ocean, but vessels of solidarity and brotherliness, enabling continents

to exchange their products, and helping on the increase of mankind's

fortune to such a degree that prodigious abundance reigned everywhere.

And there were also the bridges facilitating communication, and the

girders and all the structural materials for the erection of the

innumerable edifices which the reconciled communities needed for their

public life, the common-houses, the libraries, the museums, the asylums

for infancy and old age, the huge general stores and the granaries,

all vast enough for the life and keep of the federated nations. And

finally, there were the innumerable machines and appliances which upon

all sides and in all forms of labour replaced the arms of men: those

which tilled the soil, those which toiled in the workshops, those which

travelled along the roads, athwart the waves and through the sky. And

Luc rejoiced that all that iron and steel should have become pacific,

that the metal of conquest which mankind had so long employed solely

to make the swords and spears that it needed for its bloodthirsty

struggles, which it had afterwards turned into the guns and shells

of its latter days of carnage, should be used, now that peace was

won, solely for the erection of its city of fraternity, justice, and

happiness.

Before returning home that day Luc desired to give a last glance at the

battery of electrical furnaces which had replaced Morfain's smeltery.

The battery, as it happened, was then at work, amidst a blaze of

sunshine which filled the glazed shed where it was placed. Every five

minutes the mechanism charged the furnaces afresh, after the rolling

way had carried off the ten pigs whose glow was dimmed by the bright

light of the planet. And here again, watching over the electrical

appliances, there were two girls each about twenty, one of them a

charming blonde, Claudine, the daughter of Lucien Bonnaire and Louise

Mazelle, and the other a superb brunette, Céline, the daughter of

Arsène Lenfant and Eulalie Laboque. As it was needful that they should

give all their attention to switching the current on and off, they were

at first only able to smile at Luc. But a short rest ensued, and on

perceiving a group of children who stood inquisitively on the threshold

of the shed, they came forward.

'Good-day, my little Maurice! Good-day, my little Ludovic! Good-day, my

little Aline! Are lessons over, since you have come to see us?'

It should be mentioned that the children by way of recreation, and in

the idea that they would acquire some first notions of various forms of

work, were allowed to run about the place in comparative freedom. Luc,

well pleased at seeing his grandson Maurice again, made the whole party

enter the shed. And he answered their numerous questions, and explained

the mechanism of the furnaces, and even made the appliances work again

by way of showing the children how it sufficed for Claudine or Céline

to turn a little lever, in order to fuse the metal and enable it to

flow forth in a dazzling stream.

But Maurice, with all the importance of a little man who, though only

nine years old had already learnt a great many things, exclaimed 'Oh!

I know, I've already seen it. Grandfather Morfain showed me everything

one day. But tell me, grandfather Froment, is it true that there used

to be furnaces as high as mountains, and that one had to burn one's

face day and night in order to get anything out of them?'

The others all began to laugh at this, and it was Claudine who

answered: 'Of course there were! Grandfather Bonnaire has often

told me of it, and you, Maurice, ought to know the story, for your

great-grandfather--the great Morfain as he is still called--was the

last to wrestle with fire like a hero. He lived up yonder in a cavern

in the rocks, and never came down to the town, but from one end of

the year to the other watched over his gigantic furnace, the monster

whose ruins one can still see on the mountain-side, like those of some

storm-rent castle-keep of the ancient days.'

Maurice's eyes dilated with astonishment, and he listened with all the

passionate interest of a child to whom some prodigious fairy-tale is

being told. 'Oh! I know, I know! Grandfather Morfain told me all about

his father and the furnace as high as a mountain. But, all the same,

I thought he was inventing it just to amuse us, for he does invent

stories when he wants to make us laugh. And so it's true?'

'Why yes, it's true!' Claudine continued. 'Up above there were workmen

who loaded the furnace, by emptying into it truck-loads of ore and

coal, and down below there were other workmen ever on the watch, ever

nursing the monster so that it might not have an attack of indigestion

which would have prevented the work from being properly performed.'

'And that lasted seven and eight years at a stretch,' said Céline, the

other young woman; 'the monster remained alight all that time, always

flaming like a crater, without it being possible for one to let it

cool, for if it did cool, there was a great loss, it had to be broken

open, and cleaned, and almost entirely rebuilt.'

Then Claudine resumed: 'So you see, my little Maurice, your

great-grandfather Morfain had a vast deal of work to do, since he could

hardly quit that fire for a moment during seven or eight years; besides

which, every five hours, he had to clear the tap-hole with an iron bar,

in order to release the smelted ore, which ran out like a perfect river

of flames, hot enough to roast one, as if one were a duck on the spit.'

At this the hitherto stupefied children burst into loud laughter. Oh!

the idea of it, a duck on the spit, Old Morfain roasting like a duck!

'Ah well!' said Ludovic Boisgelin, 'it can't have been very amusing to

work in those days. It must have given one too much trouble.'

'Of course,' his sister Aline exclaimed, 'I'm glad that I was born

after all that, for it's very amusing to work nowadays.'

Maurice, however, had become serious and thoughtful, turning over

in his mind all the incredible things which had been told him. And

by way of summing up everything, he ended by saying: 'All the same,

grandfather's father must have been awfully strong, and if things go

better nowadays it is perhaps because he had such a lot of trouble

formerly.'

Luc, who hitherto had contented himself with smiling, was delighted by

this remark. He caught up Maurice and kissed him on both cheeks. 'You

are right, my boy,' said he. 'And in the same way, if you work with all

your heart nowadays, your great-grandchildren will be yet happier than

you are--even now, you see, one no longer roasts like a duck.'

By his orders the battery of electrical furnaces was started once

more, Claudine and Céline turning the current on or off by a simple

gesture. The children wished to direct the mechanism themselves, and

how delightful did that easy work seem after the legend-like narrative

of Morfain's hard toil--the toil, it seemed, of some pain-racked giant

living in a world that had disappeared!

All at once, however, there came an apparition, and the children,

perturbed by it, ran off. Then Luc again perceived Boisgelin, who this

time stood at one of the doorways of the shed, watching the work in an

angry, mistrustful way, like some master who is for ever afraid that

his men may rob him. He was often to be seen in this fashion in one or

another part of the works, distracted by the idea that the place was

too vast to be properly inspected by him, and maddened more and more

by the thought of all the millions that he must every day be losing

through his inability to check the work of all those people who were

earning milliards for him. They were too numerous, he was never able

to see them all. He looked so haggard, so exhausted by his fruitless

roaming through the workshops, that Luc, stirred by pity, this time

wished to join him, calm him, and lead him gently home. But Boisgelin

was on his guard, and springing back, ran off towards the large

workshops.

His morning ramble over, Luc now returned home, and just as the

daylight was waning in the afternoon, after glancing round the general

stores, he went to spend an hour with the Jordans. In the little

drawing-room overlooking the park he found Sœurette chatting with

schoolmaster Hermeline and Abbé Marle; whilst Jordan, stretched on a

sofa and wrapped in a rug, remained thinking, according to his wont,

with his eyes fixed upon the setting sun. Amiable Doctor Novarre had

lately been carried off after an illness of a few hours, his only

regret being that he would not behold the realisation of so many

beautiful things in the possibility of which he had at the outset

scarcely believed. Thus Sœurette nowadays received but the schoolmaster

and the priest, and these only called at long intervals, when yielding

to their old habit of meeting at her house. Hermeline, now seventy

years of age and retired, was ending his days in a state of growing

bitterness and anger against all that passed before him. He had reached

such a point in this respect that he reproached the old priest with

lack of warmth. As a matter of fact Abbé Marle, who was five years

older than the other, sought refuge in dolorous dignity, silence which

became more and more haughty as he beheld his church becoming empty and

his religion expiring.

As Luc entered and took a chair beside Sœurette, who sat there silent,

gentle, and patient, it so happened that the schoolmaster was again

badgering the priest, like the sectarian and dictatorial republican

that he still was. 'Come, come, abbé,' he said, 'since I fall in with

your views you ought to help me. This is surely the end of the world.

Children's passions, evil growths which we the educators were formerly

appointed to crush, are nowadays cultivated, it seems. How is it

possible for the State to have any disciplined citizens reared for its

service when a free rein is given to anarchical individuality? If we,

the men of method and sense, don't manage to save the Republic, it is

surely lost!'

Since the day when he had thus begun to speak of saving the Republic

from those whom he called the Socialists and the Anarchists, he had

gone over to the side of reaction, joining the priest in his hatred

of all who dared to free themselves otherwise than by his own narrow

Jacobin formula.

And he went on yet more violently: 'I tell you, abbé, that your

church will be swept away if you do not defend it! Your religion, no

doubt, was never mine. But I have always admitted the necessity of a

religion for the people; and Catholicism was certainly an admirable

governing machine. So stir yourself! We are with you, and we will have

an explanation afterwards, when we have re-conquered the lost ground

together.'

At first Abbé Marle simply shook his head. As a rule nowadays he did

not take the trouble to answer or get angry. At last he slowly said: 'I

do the whole of my duty--I am at my altar every morning, even when my

church is empty, and I implore God to perform a miracle. He will surely

do so, if He deems it necessary.'

This brought the old schoolmaster's exasperation to a climax. 'Pooh!

one must help oneself! It is cowardly to do nothing.'

Sœurette, smiling and full of tolerance for those vanquished men,

thereupon thought it necessary to intervene: 'If the good doctor was

still here,' said she, 'he would beg you not to agree so well together,

since your seeming agreement only makes your quarrel worse. You grieve

me, my friends; I should have been so happy--not to convert you to our

ideas, but to see you admit, by virtue of experience, a little of all

the good which our ideas have effected in this region.'

They had both retained great deference for Sœurette, and indeed their

presence in that little drawing-room, beside the very hearth, so to

say, of the new city, showed what ascendancy she still exercised over

them. For her sake they even put up with the presence of Luc, their

victorious adversary, though he, it should be admitted, discreetly

avoided all appearance of triumphing over them. Thus, on this occasion,

he refrained from intervening, however furiously Hermeline might deny

all that he had created. After all, thought Luc, this was simply the

last revolt of the principle of authority against the liberation of

man both naturally and socially. On seeing the nations so near the

point of escaping from civil as well as religious servitude, the

once all-powerful State and the once all-powerful Church, which had

voraciously contended for possession of them, now tried to come to an

agreement, and league themselves together in order to reconquer the

nations.

'Ah!' cried Hermeline again, 'if you own yourself beaten, abbé, it

must be all over. In that case I can only keep silent as you do, and

withdraw into my corner to die.'

The priest once more shook his head, preserving silence. But

eventually, for the last time, he said: 'God cannot be beaten; it is

for God Himself to act.'

The night was now slowly falling over the park, lengthening shadows

were filling the little _salon_, and nobody spoke any further. Only a

great quiver, coming from the melancholy past, swept through the room.

Finally the schoolmaster rose and took his leave. Then, as the priest

was about to do the same, Sœurette wished to slip into his hand the sum

which at each recurring visit she had been accustomed to give him for

his poor. This time, however, he refused the alms which he had been

accepting so regularly for more than forty years; and in a low voice he

slowly said: 'No, thank you, mademoiselle; keep that money. I should

not know what to do with it; there are no more poor!'

Ah! what words those were for Luc: 'No more poor!' His heart had leapt

as he heard them. No more poor, no more starvelings in that town of

Beauclair, which he had known so black, so wretched, peopled by such

an accursed race of famished toilers! Would all the frightful sores

which had come from the wage-system be healed then? would shame and

crime soon disappear, even as want did? The reorganisation of work in

accordance with justice had sufficed already to bring about a better

apportionment of wealth. And thus, when work should on all sides become

honour and health and joy, an entirely peaceful and a brotherly race

would assuredly people the happy city.

Jordan, who still lay upon the sofa, wrapped in his rug, had hitherto

remained motionless, his eyes fixed upon space, through which no

doubt his mind was roaming. At last, Abbé Marle and Hermeline having

departed, he woke up, and without taking his eyes off the sunset which

he seemed to be watching with passionate interest, he said in a dreamy

manner: 'Each time that I see the sun set I become dreadfully sad and

anxious. Suppose it were not to come back, suppose it were never to

rise again over the black and frost-bound earth, what a terrible death

would then overtake all life! The sun is the father, the fructifier,

without whom all germs would wither or rot. And it is in the sun that

we must place our hope of relief and future happiness, for if it were

not to help us life would some day dry up.'

Luc had begun to smile. He knew that Jordan, in spite of his great

age--he was now nearly seventy-five--had for some years been studying

the problem of how he might capture solar heat and store it in vast

reservoirs in order to distribute it afterwards as the one, great,

eternal, living force. A time would come when the coal in the mines

would be exhausted, and where would one then find the necessary energy

for the torrent of electricity which had become so needful for life?

Thanks to his first discoveries, Jordan had succeeded in supplying an

abundance of electrical force for next to nothing. But what a victory

it would be if he should succeed in making the sun the universal

motor--if he should be able to take from it direct the caloric power

which was now found slumbering in coal--if he should manage to employ

it as the one sole fructifier, the very father of immortal life! He had

but a last discovery to effect, and then his work would be accomplished

and he would be ready to die.

'Don't alarm yourself!' said Luc gaily, 'the sun will rise to-morrow

and you will succeed at last in snatching the sacred fire from it.'

However, Sœurette, whom the evening breeze now coming in cool gusts

through the open window rendered somewhat anxious, stepped forward to

ask her brother: 'Don't you feel cold? Wouldn't you like me to shut the

window?'

He declined the offer with a motion of his hand, and all that he would

allow was that she should wrap him round with the rug to his very chin.

He now seemed to live solely by a miracle, solely because he wished

to live, having adjourned death until the evening of his last day of

work, the triumphant evening when, his task accomplished, he might at

last sink into the good sleep of a loyal and contented worker. His

sister surrounded him with greater precautions than ever; her extreme

care prolonged his strength, and still gave him two hours of physical

and intellectual energy each day--two hours which by force of method

he put to wonderful use. And thus that poor, old, puny being, whom the

slightest draught threatened with annihilation, was completing the

conquest of the world simply because he was still a stubborn worker,

one who did not throw his task aside.

'You will live to be a hundred years old!' said Luc, with an

affectionate laugh.

At this Jordan likewise made merry. 'No doubt,' said he, 'if a hundred

years prove necessary.'

Again deep silence fell in the little _salon_, full of such

affectionate intimacy. It was delightful to see the warm twilight

stealing slowly over the park, whose deep paths were gradually steeped

in the gloom. Vague gleams still hovered just above the lawns, whilst

the great trees faded away and became like light and quivering

apparitions in the blue distance. And it was now the sweethearts'

hour--the sweethearts to whom the park of La Crêcherie remained open,

and who therefore came thither in the twilight after their daily work.

Nobody troubled about the roaming, shadowy couples, who, holding one

another by the hand, gradually melted away and disappeared amidst the

greenery. They were confided to the keeping of the friendly old oaks.

Reliance was placed on the freedom to love that was granted them, for

this would render them gentle and chaste, like future spouses whose

embrace becomes an indissoluble tie if mutually desired. To love always

one need only know why and how one loves. Those who choose one another,

knowing and consenting, never part. And already, along the dim avenues,

over the lawns where the shadows stretched, there came sauntering

couples, who peopled, as with apparitions, the mysterious gloom amidst

the quiver of delight which the fresh odours of spring brought from the

earth.

As other couples arrived Luc recognised among them several of the

lads and girls whom he had seen in the workshops that morning. Were

not yonder shadowy forms, so close one to the other that they seemed

carried by one and the same flight over the tips of the grass, those

of Adolphe Laboque and Germaine Yvonnot? And those others, whose hair

mingled, their heads resting one against the other, were they not

Hippolyte Mitaine and Laure Fauchard? And those others too, whose arms

were tightly clasped around each other's waist, were they not Alexandre

Feuillat and Clémence Bourron? Yet softer emotion came to Luc's heart

when he fancied that he recognised his son Charles with his arm around

the dark-haired Céline Lenfant, and his son Jules leading away in his

embrace the fair Claudine Bonnaire. Ah! the young folk, the messengers

of the new springtide, the last to awaken to love, to feel kindling

within them the glow of life which the generations transmit one to

the other! As yet they knew but the chaste quiver which comes at the

first whispered words, and the innocent caress, the clasp in which

ignorant hearts seek one another, and the furtive kiss whose sweetness

suffices to open the portals of heaven. But before long the sovereign

flame would unite and blend them in order that yet other artisans of

love might spring from them, other couples, who in years to come would

repair to this same park to exchange the vows of budding affection.

For there would ever be more and more happiness and more and more free

passion tending to increase of harmony. Even now other couples, and

others still, were arriving, the park was gradually becoming populous

with all the sweethearts of the happy city. This was the exquisite

evening after the good day of work, the gloaming spent amidst lawn and

cover, shadowy like dreamland, steeped in mystery and perfume, with

nought breaking upon the silence save light sounds of laughter and

kisses.

All at once, however, a shadowy form stopped outside the _salon_. It

was Suzanne, who had anxiously been seeking Luc. And on finding him

there she told him how greatly she was worried by Boisgelin's prolonged

absence, for he had not yet returned home. Never before had he lingered

like this out of doors after nightfall.

'You were right,' she repeated; 'I did wrong in leaving him to his mad

fancies. Ah! the unhappy man, the poor old child!'

Luc, who shared her fears, bade her go home again. 'He may return at

any moment,' he said; 'it is best that you should be there. For my part

I will have a look round and bring you tidings.'

He at once took two men with him and crossed the park, with the

intention of beginning the search among the workshops. But he had

scarcely taken three hundred steps, and was near the little lake,

fringed with willows, quite a nook of paradise, when he halted on

hearing a light cry of terror which came from an adjacent clump of

greenery. From amidst that foliage there ran a pair of frightened

lovers, who he fancied were his son Jules and the fair Claudine

Bonnaire. 'What is the matter? What has alarmed you?' he called.

But they did not answer, they fled as beneath a blast of terror,

like love birds whose caresses have been disturbed by some frightful

encounter. And when Luc himself decided to enter the copse, he also

gave vent to an exclamation of horror. For he had almost knocked

against a body which hung from a branch there, blocking the narrow

pathway. In the last gleam of light falling from the sky where the

stars were now appearing Luc recognised the body as that of Boisgelin.

'Ah! the unhappy man, the poor old child!' he murmured, repeating

Suzanne's words, and feeling quite upset by that horrible tragedy which

would cause her such deep grief.

With the help of his companions he cut down the body and laid it on

the ground. But it was already quite cold. The unhappy man must have

hanged himself there early in the afternoon, after his desperate ramble

through the busy works. Luc fancied that he could divine everything

when at the foot of the tree he noticed a large hole which Boisgelin

had apparently dug with his hands, a hole in which he had no doubt

meant to bury the prodigious fortune which his people of workers

earned for him, that fortune which he knew not how to manage or how to

store away. And despairing, perchance, of his power to make a pit of

sufficient size for so much wealth, he had ended by resolving to die

there and thus rid himself of the horrible embarrassment in which he

was placed by his ever-growing and crushing fortune. His day of wild

roaming, his madness, his inability to live, idler that he was, in the

new city of just work, had culminated in that tragic death, and he had

hung there whilst the park, in the clasp of warm and nuptial night, was

filled with the rustling of caresses and the whispering of loving vows.

In order to avoid frightening the shadowy couples gliding between the

trees around him, Luc at once sent the two men to fetch a stretcher

at La Crêcherie, at the same time begging them to tell nobody of the

lugubrious discovery. And when they had returned and laid the lifeless

body between the little curtains of grey canvas, the mournful _cortège_

set off along the blackest of the paths in order to escape observation.

In this wise death, frightful death, passed along silently, steeped in

shadows, through the delightful awakening of spring, now all a-quiver

with new life. Lovers seemed to arise on all sides, springing up at

the bends of each avenue, in the recesses of each clump of bushes.

A perfume of flowers made the air quite balmy, hands sought hands,

and lips met. Love was budding, a fresh wave was coming to increase

humanity's broad stream, death was incessantly vanquished, to-morrow

and to-morrow were ever sprouting in order that there might be yet more

truth, more justice, more happiness in the world.

Suzanne stood waiting in a state of anguish, at the door of the house,

her eyes gazing into the night. When she perceived the stretcher she

understood, and gave vent to a low moan. And when Luc in a few words

had acquainted her with the wretched end of the useless being now

slumbering there, she was only able to repeat, as she thought of that

empty, poisoned, and poisonous life which had brought her so much

suffering: 'Ah, the unhappy man, the poor old child!'

Other catastrophes took place amidst the crumbling of the rotten

society of the old days now fated to disappear. But the greatest stir

of all was caused by one that occurred during the ensuing month--the

collapse of the old church of Saint Vincent one bright sunshiny morning

when Abbé Marle was at the altar celebrating mass solely for the

sparrows which flew through the deserted nave.

The priest had long been aware that his church would some day fall

upon him. It dated from the sixteenth century, and was in a very

damaged condition, cracking upon all sides. The steeple had certainly

been repaired some forty years previously, but from lack of funds it

had been necessary to postpone all work on the roofing, whose beams,

half eaten away, were already yielding. And since that time every

application for a grant had been made in vain. The State, overburdened

with debts, abandoned that church of a remote region. The town of

Beauclair refused to contribute anything, Mayor Gourier having never

been on the side of the priests. Thus Abbé Marle, reduced to his own

resources, had been obliged to seek among the faithful the large sum

which became more and more urgently required if the edifice was not

to fall upon his shoulders. But in vain did he knock at the doors of

wealthy parishioners, the faithful were dwindling away, their zeal was

fast cooling. During the lifetime of the beautiful Léonore, the mayor's

wife, whose extreme piety proved some compensation for her husband's

atheism, the priest had found precious help in her. Subsequently,

however, only Madame Mazelle had remained to him, and not only did her

fervour decline, but she was in no wise of a generous disposition.

In course of time worries respecting her fortune consumed her, and

she came less and less frequently to Saint Vincent, in such wise that

nobody was left to the priest save a few poor creatures who in their

wretchedness clung obstinately to the hope of a better life. And

finally when no poor remained, the church became quite empty, and the

abbé lived there in solitude, amidst the abandonment in which mankind

now at last left his religion of error and wretchedness.

The abbé then felt that a world was indeed expiring around him.

His complaisance had been powerless to save the life of the lying,

poisonous _bourgeoisie_ which was devoured by its own iniquities. In

vain had he cast the cloak of religion over its last agony; it had

died amidst a final scandal. And in vain, too, had he sought a refuge

in the strict letter of dogma, in order that he might concede nothing

to the truths of science, which, he could realise, were mounting to

the supreme and victorious assault by which the ancient edifice of

Catholicism would be destroyed. Science, indeed, had at last effected

its breach, dogma was finally swept away, and the Kingdom of God was

about to be set, not in some fabulous paradise, but upon this very

earth, in the name of triumphant justice. A new religion, the religion

of man, at last truly conscious, free, and master of his destiny, was

sweeping away the ancient mythologies, the forms of symbolism amidst

which he had lost himself during the anguish of his long struggle

against nature. After the temples of ancient idolatry, the Catholic

churches in their turn had to disappear, now that a fraternal people

set its certain happiness in the sole force of its living solidarity

without need of any political system of punishments and rewards. Thus

the priest, since confessional and holy table alike had been deserted,

since the faithful had departed from his church, beheld each day when

he celebrated mass there the cracks in the walls spreading, and the

beams of the roofs yielding more and more. It was a constant crumbling,

a gradual process of destruction and ruin, the slightest premonitory

sounds of which he could detect. But since he had been unable to summon

the builders even for the most urgent repairs, he must necessarily

allow the work of death to follow its course and culminate in the

natural end of things. Thus he simply waited and continued to say his

mass, like a hero of faith, alone with his forsaken creed, whilst the

roof cracked more and more above the altar.

A morning came when Abbé Marle perceived that another large stretch

of the vaulting of the nave had split during the previous night.

And although he now felt certain of the downfall which he had been

anticipating for months past, he nevertheless came to celebrate

his last mass, clad in his richest vestments. Very tall and

broad-shouldered, with a nose like an eagle's beak, he still held

himself firm and upright in spite of his advanced age. He dispensed

with servers now, he came and went, spoke the sacramental words, and

made the usual gestures, as if a great throng were pressing together

before him, docile to his voice. But in the state of abandonment

in which the church was left, only some broken chairs lay upon the

flag-stones, suggesting the wretched-looking mouldy garden seats that

are left forgetfully out of doors exposed to the rains of winter. Weeds

grew round the columns, over which moss was spreading. All the winds of

heaven streamed in through the broken windows, and the great doorway

being half unhinged, remained partially open, allowing the animals of

the neighbourhood to flock in. On that fine bright day, however, it

was particularly the sunshine that poured into the edifice, like a

conqueror, setting as it were a triumphal invasion of life amidst that

tragic ruin where birds flew hither and thither, and where wild oats

germinated even among the stone mantles of the old saints. Above the

altar, however, there still reigned a great crucifix of painted and

gilded wood, displaying a long, livid, pain-racked effigy, splashed

with some blackish blood that dripped like tears.

Whilst Abbé Marle was reading the Gospel he heard a louder cracking,

and some dust and some fragments of plaster fell upon the altar. Then,

at the moment of the Offertory, the sinister rending began again,

and it seemed as if the edifice were shaking before it fell. But the

priest, collecting all the remaining strength of his faith together for

the Elevation, prayed with his whole soul for the miracle for whose

glorious, all-saving splendour he had so long been waiting. If it

should so please God, the church would regain its vigorous youth, and

be endowed with sturdy pillars upholding an indestructible nave. Masons

were not necessary, the Almighty power would suffice, and a magnificent

sanctuary would arise there, with chapels of gold, windows of purple,

wood-work marvellously carved, and dazzling marble, whilst a multitude

of the faithful on their knees would sing the hymn of Resurrection

amidst the blaze of thousands of candles and the loud pealing of bells.

But at the very moment when the priest, finishing his prayer, raised

the chalice, it was not the miracle he asked for that came, it was

annihilation. He stood there erect, with both arms raised in a superb

gesture of heroic belief, and the vaulted roof was rent asunder as if

by a bolt from heaven, and crashed downward in a whirlwind of fragments

with a roar like that of thunder. The shaken steeple tottered and then

in its turn fell, ripping the remainder of the roof open, and dragging

down the rest of the sundered walls. And nought remained beneath the

bright sun save a huge litter of stones and tiles, amidst which a

fruitless search was made for Abbé Marle. He had disappeared as if

the remnants of the shattered altar had consumed his flesh, drunk his

blood. And in like way nothing was ever found of the great crucifix of

painted and gilded wood. That also had been shattered to atoms, reduced

to dust. Thus yet another religion was dead, the last priest saying his

last mass had perished with the last of the churches.

For a few days old Hermeline, the retired schoolmaster, was seen

prowling about the ruins, and talking aloud as old folk are wont to

do when haunted by some fixed idea. His words could not be plainly

distinguished, but he seemed to be still arguing and reproaching

the abbé for having failed to obtain the needed miracle. Then, one

morning, he was found dead in his bed. And later on, when the ruins

of the church had been cleared away, a garden was planted there, with

fine trees and shady walks, skirting sweet-smelling lawns. Lovers went

thither on pleasant evenings, even as they went to the park of La

Crêcherie. The happy city was ever spreading, children were growing and

becoming lovers in their turn, lovers whose kisses in the shade again

sowed future harvests. After the gay day of work came love amidst the

roses blooming upon every side. And in that delightful garden where

slept the dust of a religion of wretchedness and death, one now beheld

the growth of human joy, the overflowing florescence of life.

IV

During yet another ten years the city continued growing, and organising

new society in accordance with the principles of justice and peace. And

at last, one 20th of June, on the eve of one of the great Festivals of

Work, which took place four times a year, coinciding with the seasons,

Bonnaire met with a strange experience.

He, Bonnaire, now nearly eighty-five years of age, had become the

patriarch, the hero of work. Still straight and tall, with an energetic

head under a crown of thick white hair, he remained active and gay,

in the enjoyment of good health. Old revolutionary that he was, a

theoretical Collectivist pacified by the sight of his comrades'

happiness, he now tasted all the reward of his long efforts--the

conquest of that harmonious solidarity amidst which he saw his

grandchildren and great-grandchildren growing in all felicity.

That evening then, just as the daylight was waning, Bonnaire happened

to be strolling near the entrance of the Brias gorges. He often walked

abroad in this fashion, with the sole assistance of a stick, for the

pleasure of viewing the countryside once more and recalling old-time

memories. On this occasion he had just reached the spot where in

former days had stood the gates of the Abyss, which had long since

disappeared. Near that spot also a wooden bridge had once spanned the

Mionne, but no trace of it remained, for the torrent had been covered

over for a distance of about a hundred yards, to admit of the passage

of a broad boulevard.

What changes there were! thought Bonnaire. Who would ever have

recognised the former black and muddy threshold of the accursed factory

in that broad, open space, over which there now passed a quiet,

bright-looking avenue, lined with smiling houses? As he lingered there

for a moment, erect and handsome, like the happy old man he was, he

experienced great surprise on perceiving another old man, a stranger,

huddled up on a wayside bench near him. And this other seemed to have

been wrecked by misery, for his clothes were in tatters, his face

ravaged and bushy with hair, his frame emaciated and trembling as if

with some evil fever.

'A poor man!' muttered Bonnaire, speaking aloud in his astonishment.

It was certainly a poor man, and years had now gone by since Bonnaire

had seen one. It was evident, however, that he who sat on the bench did

not belong to the region. His shoes and clothes were white with dust,

and he must have sunk upon that bench near the entry of the town from

sheer fatigue, after tramping the roads for days and days. His staff

and his empty wallet had fallen from his weary hands and lay at his

feet. With an air of exhaustion he let his gaze wander around him, like

one who is lost, who knows not where he may be.

Full of pity Bonnaire drew near to him. 'Can I help you, my poor

fellow?' he asked; 'your strength is exhausted, and you seem to be in

great distress.'

Then, as the other did not answer, but still let his eyes roam in

a scared way from one point of the horizon to the other, Bonnaire

continued: 'Are you hungry? do you need a good bed? Let me guide

you--you will here find all the help you need.'

Thereupon the old and wretched-looking beggar began to stammer in a low

voice, as if speaking to himself: 'Beauclair, Beauclair--is this really

Beauclair?'

'Of course it is; you are at Beauclair, that's certain,' declared the

former master-puddler with a smile. But on seeing the other give signs

of increasing surprise and anxiety, he ended by understanding the

truth: 'You knew Beauclair formerly, no doubt,' said he. 'It is perhaps

a long time since you were last here?'

'Yes, it was more than fifty years ago,' the stranger answered in a

husky voice.

Then Bonnaire burst into good-natured laughter. 'In that case I am

not astonished if you find a difficulty in recognising the place,'

he retorted. 'There have been some changes. For instance, here the

Abyss works have disappeared, whilst yonder the sordid hovels of

old Beauclair have been razed to the ground. And you can see that a

new city has been built; the park of La Crêcherie has spread over

everything, invading the former town with its greenery and turning it

into a vast garden, where the little white houses peep brightly from

among the trees. And thus one naturally has to reflect before one can

recognise the place.'

The stranger had followed the explanations, turning his glance upon

the various points which Bonnaire with gentle gaiety indicated. But

again he wagged his head as if he could not believe what was told him.

'No, no,' said he, 'I don't recognise it; this can't be Beauclair.

Yonder are the two promontories of the Bleuse Mountains, between which

the Brias gorge opens; and yonder, too, far away, is the plain of La

Roumagne. That's certain, but all the rest--those fine gardens and

those houses belong to some other spot, some wealthy and smiling land

which I never saw before. Ah! well, I shall have to walk further; I

must have made a mistake in the road.'

After picking up his staff and his wallet, he was making an effort to

rise from the bench when his eyes at last rested on the old man who

had shown himself so obliging and friendly. And at the first glance

which he gave Bonnaire he shuddered, and became anxious to depart.

Had he recognised Bonnaire then, although he could not recognise the

town? Bonnaire, for his part, was so stirred by the sudden flame which

shot from the other's hairy countenance that he examined him more

attentively. Where had he previously seen those bright eyes, which

blazed in moments of savage violence? All at once his memory awoke, and

in his turn he shuddered, whilst all the past lived anew in the cry

which burst from his lips:

'Ragu!'

For fifty years people had believed him to be dead! But the crushed

and mutilated body found in a gorge of the Bleuse Mountains, on the

morrow of his flight, after his crime, had not been his. He lived,

he lived, good heavens! He had come back, and to Bonnaire that

extraordinary resurrection after so many events and so many years

brought anguish--anguish respecting all that had happened in the past,

and all that might happen to-morrow.

'Ragu, Ragu, it is you!' Bonnaire repeated.

The other already had his staff in his hand, his wallet on his

shoulder. But as he was recognised why should he go off? It was certain

now that he had not mistaken his road.

'It's me, sure enough, my old Bonnaire,' he replied; 'and since you are

still alive, though you are ten years older than I, I have certainly a

right to be alive also--though it's true that I'm very battered.'

Then, in the jeering tone of former times, he resumed: 'So you give me

your word for it, that splendid big garden yonder, with those pretty

houses, is really Beauclair? Well, since I've got here, I've only to

look for an inn where they'll let me sleep in a corner of the stables.'

Why had he come back? What plans were rife under that bald skull,

behind that wrinkled face, ravaged by so many years of evil and

vagabond life? Bonnaire, who grew more and more anxious, could already

picture Ragu disturbing the festival on the morrow by some scandal or

other. He dared not question him at once, but he felt that it would

be best to have him in his charge. Moreover, he was full of pity; his

heart was quite stirred at finding the unhappy man in such a state of

destitution.

'There are no more inns,' he answered; 'you will have to come to my

place. You'll be able to eat as much as you like there, and you will

sleep in a comfortable bed. Then we can have a chat. You'll tell me

what you want, and I'll help you to content yourself if possible.'

But Ragu jeered again: 'Oh! what I want,' he retorted--'why, the wishes

of an old beggar like me, more or less infirm, are of no account at

all. What I want, indeed! Why, I wanted to see you all again, to give a

glance in passing at the place where I was born. The idea worried me,

and I shouldn't have died easy in mind if I hadn't come for a stroll in

this direction. That's a thing anybody may do, isn't it? The roads are

still free.'

'No doubt.'

'Well, so I started--oh! years ago. When a man's got bad legs and never

a copper, he doesn't make much progress. All the same, one reaches

one's destination at last, since here I am. And, it's understood, let's

go to your place, since you offer me hospitality like a good comrade.'

The night was falling, and the two old men were able to cross new

Beauclair without being remarked. On the way Ragu's astonishment

increased; he glanced to right and to left, but could not recognise

a single spot. At last, when Bonnaire stopped before one of the most

charming of the dwellings, a house standing amidst a clump of fine

trees, an exclamation escaped Ragu, showing that he still retained his

ideas of former times: 'What! you've made your fortune; you've become a

_bourgeois_ now!'

The former master-puddler began to laugh. 'No, no; I've never been

anything but a workman, and I'm only one to-day. But in a sense it's

true that we've all made our fortunes and all become _bourgeois_.'

As if his envious fears were quieted by that answer, Ragu began to

sneer once more: 'A workman can't be a _bourgeois_,' said he, 'and if a

man still works it's because he hasn't made his fortune.'

'All right, my good fellow, we'll have a chat about it, and I'll

explain things to you. Meantime go in, go in.'

Bonnaire for the time being was dwelling alone in this house, which was

that of his granddaughter, Claudine, now the wife of Charles Froment.

Daddy Lunot had long since been dead, and his daughter, Ragu's sister,

the terrible Toupe, had followed him to his grave during the previous

year, after a frightful quarrel, which, as she expressed it, had turned

her blood. When Ragu heard of the loss of his sister and father, he

simply made a little gesture, as if to say that by reason of their age

he had anticipated it. After an absence of half a century one is not

surprised to find nobody one knew left among the living.

'So here we are in the house of my granddaughter, Claudine,' continued

Bonnaire; 'she's the daughter of my eldest son, Lucien, who married

Louise Mazelle, the daughter of the Rentiers, whom you must remember.

Claudine herself has married Charles Froment, a son of the master of

La Crêcherie. But she and Charles have taken their daughter Aline, a

little girl of eight, to see an aunt at Formeries, and they won't be

back till to-morrow evening.' Then he concluded gaily: 'For some months

now the children have taken me to live with them, by way of petting me.

Come, the house is ours; you must eat and drink your fill, and then

I'll show you to your bed. To-morrow, when it's daylight, we'll see to

all the rest.'

Ragu's head swam as he listened. All those names, those marriages,

those three generations flitting by at a gallop quite scared him. How

was he ever to understand things when so many unknown events and so

many marriages and births had taken place? He did not speak again, but,

seated at a well-spread table, ate some cold meat and fruit ravenously

in the gay room, which was brilliantly illumined by an electric lamp.

The comfort and ease which he felt around him must have weighed heavily

upon the old vagabond's shoulders, for he seemed yet more aged, more

utterly 'done for,' as with his face lowered over his plate he devoured

the food, glancing askance the while at all the encompassing happiness

in which he had no share. His very silence, his downcast mien at the

sight of so much comfort, was expressive of all his long stored-up

rancour, his powerless thirst for vengeance, his now irrealisable dream

of triumphing and seeing disaster fall on others. And Bonnaire, again

uneasy at the sight of his gloominess, wondered through what adventures

he had rolled during the last half-century, and felt more and more

astonished at finding him still alive and in such destitution.

'Where have you come from?' he ended by inquiring.

'Oh, from everywhere more or less!' Ragu answered with a sweeping

gesture.

'Ah! so you've seen a good many countries and people and things?'

'Oh, yes; in France, Germany, England and America, and elsewhere. I've

dragged my carcase, indeed, from one end of the world to the other.'

Then, lighting his pipe, he gave Bonnaire, before retiring to bed,

some idea of his life as a wanderer, in rebellion against work, idle

by nature and coveting enjoyment. He typified the spoilt fruit of the

wage-system--the wage-earner who dreams of suppressing the masters in

order to take their place, and in his turn crush down his fellows. In

his estimation there could be no other happiness than that of making a

big fortune and enjoying it, with the satisfaction that one had known

how to exploit the misery of the poor. And, violent in language, but

all the same cowardly in the master's presence, dishonest, addicted

to drink, and incapable of steady work, he had rolled from workshop

to workshop, from country to country, at times dismissed, at others

impelled by some silly whim to take himself off. He had never been

able to put a copper by, wherever he had found himself want had become

his companion, each succeeding year bringing about a fresh decline in

his fortunes. When old age arrived it was a wonder that he did not

die, famished and forsaken, in some gutter. Until he was nearly sixty,

however, he had still found some petty jobs to do. Then he had stranded

in a hospital, but had been obliged to leave it, though only to fall

into another one. For the last fifteen years he had thus been clinging

to life--how, he could hardly tell; and now he begged and tramped the

roads for the crust of bread and truss of straw that he needed. And

nothing of his old nature had departed from him, neither his covert

rage and jealousy, nor his eager desire to be a master and enjoy

himself.

Restraining a flood of questions which rose to his lips, Bonnaire at

last exclaimed, 'But all the countries you passed through must now be

in a state of revolution! I know very well that we have progressed

quickly here, and are in advance of the others. But the whole world is

now stirring, is it not?'

'Yes, yes,' Ragu answered in his jeering way, 'they are fighting and

building up a new society on all sides, but all that did not prevent me

from starving.'

He had passed through strikes and terrible risings in Germany, in

England, and especially in the United States. In all the countries

through which his rancour and idleness had carried him, he had

witnessed tragic events. The last empires were crumbling, republics

were springing up in their place, while frontiers were being suppressed

by the confederation of neighbouring nations. It was like a smash

up of the ice at the advent of springtide, when the ice melts and

disappears, uncovering the fertilised soil, where germs sprout and

flower forth in a few days, under the glow of the great brotherly sun.

All mankind was certainly in evolution, busying itself at last with the

foundation of the happy city. But he, Ragu, bad workman, discontented

reveller that he was, had simply suffered from all the catastrophes he

had witnessed, merely encountering blows therein without ever finding

an opportunity even to pillage a rich man's cellar, and, for once in

his life, drink his fill. Nowadays, having become a confirmed old

vagabond and beggar, he cared not a curse for the so-called city of

justice and peace. It would not bring him back his twentieth birthday,

it would not give him a palace full of slaves, where he might have

ended his days amidst a round of pleasures, like the kings that books

speak of. And he jeered bitterly at the idiocy of the human race which

took so much trouble to prepare a somewhat cleaner social edifice for

the great-grandchildren of the next century--an edifice which the men

of nowadays would only know in dreams!

'But that dream has long sufficed for happiness,' quietly said

Bonnaire. 'However, what you say is not true, the edifice is almost

rebuilt even now, and is very beautiful and healthy and gay. I will

show it to you to-morrow, and you will see if one does not taste

pleasure in dwelling in it.'

Then he explained that on the following day he would take Ragu to

witness one of the four Festivals of Work, which filled Beauclair with

delight on the first day of each season. Each of these festivals was

marked by some particular rejoicings appropriate to the seasons. The

one on the morrow, the summer festival, would be bright with all the

flowers and fruits of the earth, overflowing in prodigious abundance,

amidst the sovereign splendour of horizon and sky, in which the

powerful sun of June would blaze.

Ragu, however, relapsed into gloomy anxiety, a covert fear, indeed,

lest he should really find the ancient dream of social happiness

fulfilled at Beauclair. Was it a fact then that after traversing

so many countries where the society of to-morrow was coming forth

amidst such frightful struggles--was it a fact that he would behold

it virtually installed in that town, his own, whence he had fled on a

day of murderous madness? Had that happiness, for which he had sought

so frantically on all sides, come into being on his native spot,

during his absence? Had he returned merely to behold the felicity of

others, now that he himself could no longer expect any joy in life? The

idea that he had spoilt his existence to the very end seemed to him

like a supreme crushing blow amidst his misery and weariness whilst

he sat there silently finishing the bottle of wine which had been

placed before him. And when Bonnaire rose to show him to his room--a

sweet-smelling white room with a large white bed in it--he followed

with a heavy step, suffering from the open-handed brotherly hospitality

offered to him with such happy ease.

'Sleep well, my good fellow,' said Bonnaire, 'till to-morrow morning!'

'Yes, till to-morrow--unless this cursed world should fall to pieces

during the night.'

Bonnaire, who also went to bed, found some difficulty in getting to

sleep, for he still felt worried with respect to Ragu's intentions. He

had a dozen times resisted his desire to put plain questions to him on

the subject, from fear of provoking some dangerous explanation; for he

thought it might be preferable to keep the matter in reserve and act

hereafter according to circumstances. He feared some frightful scene;

for perhaps that wretched vagabond, maddened by want and disaster,

might have come back in order to provoke a scandal, insult Luc, insult

Josine, and even attempt murder again. Bonnaire therefore resolved

that he would not leave him alone for a moment on the following day.

Moreover, in his desire to show him everything at Beauclair, there

was the hope of morally paralysing him by an exhibition of such an

abundance of wealth and power as would make him realise how futile

would be the rage and rebellion of any one individual. When he should

have seen and learnt everything he would no longer dare to stir, his

defeat would be definitive. And thus Bonnaire at last fell asleep,

resolved on waging that final battle for the sake of general harmony,

peace, and love.

Already at six o'clock on the following morning a joyous flourish of

trumpets sped over the roofs of Beauclair, announcing the Festival of

Work. The sun was already high in the beautiful blue heavens. Windows

opened, greetings flew through the greenery from one house to another,

and one could feel that joy was already stirring the soul of the city,

whilst the trumpet calls continued, arousing from garden to garden the

cries of children and the laughter of loving couples.

Bonnaire, having quickly dressed himself, found Ragu up, washed and

clad in some clean garments, which had been laid for him the previous

evening on a chair. Now that he had well rested, the vagabond had

become quite the jeerer of former days, resolved upon deriding

everything and refusing to acknowledge the existence of the slightest

progress. On seeing his host enter he indulged once more in his old

evil insulting laugh.

'I say, old man!' he exclaimed, 'what a row they make with those

trumpets! That must be precious disagreeable for those who don't like

to be startled out of their sleep. Are you wakened every morning in

your barracks by that music?'

The old master-puddler preferred to find his guest in this mood. He

smiled quietly, and answered: 'No, no, that's only the _réveil_ of our

high days and holidays. On other mornings one can oversleep oneself if

one chooses, for the quiet is delightful. But when life's so pleasant

one always gets up early, and only the infirm regret having to lie in

bed.'

Then, with his attentive kindness, he added: 'Have you slept well? Did

you find everything you wanted?'

Ragu tried to make himself disagreeable again. 'Oh! I can sleep

anywhere,' said he. 'For years past I've been sleeping among hayricks,

and they are worth the best beds in the world. It's just the same as

regards all those inventions you have here--baths, and cold and hot

water taps, and electrical heating appliances, which you only have to

switch on. They may be useful, no doubt, when one's in a hurry, but

it's still preferable to wash in the river and warm oneself before

a good old stove.' And, as his host did not reply, he concluded by

saying: 'You have too much water in your houses, they must be damp!'

What blasphemy! The idea of it, those streaming beneficent waters, so

pure and so fresh, which were now the very health and joy and strength

of Beauclair, whose streets and gardens they bathed as with eternal

youth!

'Our water is our friend, the good fairy of our happy destiny,'

Bonnaire replied. 'You will see it gushing forth on every side and

fertilising our city. But come and have some breakfast; we will go out

directly afterwards.'

That first breakfast in the bright dining-room, illumined by the

rising sun, was delightful. On the white cloth there were eggs, milk,

and fruit, with bread which was so golden and smelt so sweet that one

could divine it had been kneaded by carefully worked machinery for a

happy people. And the old host lavished on his wretched guest the most

delicate attentions, a simple and affectionate hospitality, which set

an atmosphere of gentleness and kindness all around.

Whilst they ate they again began to chat. As on the previous evening,

Bonnaire prudently refrained from asking Ragu any direct questions. Yet

he felt persuaded that the other, after the fashion of all criminals,

had returned to the scene of his crime, consumed by an invincible

craving to behold it again and know what had taken place during his

absence. Was Josine still alive, and if so what was she doing? Had Luc

been saved from death, and had he taken her to live with him? At all

events, what had become of them both? Surely it was an ardent curiosity

with respect to all those matters which glittered in the vagabond's

bright eyes. As he did not mention them, however--preferring apparently

to keep his secret locked within him--Bonnaire had to content himself

with putting into execution the plan which he had thought of the

previous night. Without mentioning Luc's name he began to explain the

greatness of his work.

'For you to understand things properly, my good fellow,' said he, 'it's

necessary that I should tell you something about our position before we

take a stroll through Beauclair. We have now got to the triumph, the

full florescence of the movement, which was scarcely beginning when you

went away.'

Then he reverted to the origin of the evolution, the establishment of

the works of La Crêcherie, based on an association between capital,

labour, and brains, and its struggle with the Abyss, where the

barbarous wage-system had been enforced. At last the latter had been

vanquished and replaced, and La Crêcherie, with its pleasant white

houses, had gradually spread over the site of Old Beauclair, the

wretched home of want. Then Bonnaire showed how, both in a spirit of

imitation and by reason of the necessities of the position, all the

neighbouring works had ended by joining the original association; and

how in due course other groups had been formed, every calling of a

similar kind gradually being syndicated together, every family, as

it were, meeting and uniting. Then the co-operation of producers on

the one hand and of consumers on the other had completed the victory,

work being reorganised on a basis of human solidarity, and bringing

in its train a new form of society. There was now only four hours'

work a day, and it was work freely chosen and constantly varied, in

order that it might remain attractive; whilst machinery, the enemy of

former days, had at present become a docile slave, upon whom all great

efforts were cast. Then, moreover, the co-operation of consumers had

swept away old-time trade, which had simply absorbed so much energy

and gain. Huge general stores centralised products of all kinds, and

distributed them according to consumers' needs, and in this manner

millions of money were saved, agiotage and theft abstracting nothing

on the way. Indeed, life was becoming greatly simplified: there was a

tendency towards the complete suppression of specie and the closing of

law courts and prisons; for disputes on matters of private interest

ceased, and no longer urged man against man in some mad fit of fraud,

pillage, or murder. Why should there be any crime left since there were

no more poor, no more disinherited ones, since brotherly peace was

being established more and more firmly every day, all being at last

convinced that individual happiness came from the happiness of all? A

long peace reigned, the blood tax--the conscription--had disappeared

like all other taxes; there were no longer any rates of any kind or

any prohibitive laws, but in lieu thereof full liberty for production

and exchange. And in particular, since the parasites--the innumerable

_employés_, functionaries, magistrates, barrack-men, and churchmen--had

been suppressed, the greatest wealth had set in, such a prodigious heap

of riches accumulating that from year to year the granaries became too

small and threatened to burst beneath the ever-growing abundance of the

public fortune.

'That's all right,' interrupted Ragu when Bonnaire had reached this

point. 'But all the same, the real pleasure is to do nothing; and if

you still work you are not a gentleman. To my idea there's no getting

away from that. Besides, in one manner or another you are still paid,

so that you still have a wage-system. But you are converted, eh?--you,

who always demanded the absolute destruction of capital?'

Bonnaire laughed with joyous frankness. 'It's true, they've ended by

converting me,' he said. 'I believed in the necessity of a sudden

revolution, some stroke which would have placed power in our hands,

together with possession of the soil and all the instruments of work.

But how can one resist the force of experience? For so many years past

I've been witnessing here the assured victory of social justice and

brotherly happiness, which I dreamt of so long! And thus patience has

come to me; I'm weak enough--if you like to put it that way--to rest

content with to-day's conquests, certain as I am of to-morrow's final

victory. Of course, I'm ready to grant that a great deal remains to

be done--our liberty and justice are not complete, capital and the

wage-system must entirely disappear, the social pact must be rid of

all forms of authority, we must have the free individual in the free

community. And we try to act in such wise that our grandchildren's

children may bring about the reign of justice and liberty in their

entirety.'

Then he explained the new educational methods which were in force, the

working of the _crèches_, schools, and apprenticeship workshops, the

adoption and cultivation of all the forms of energy springing from

the passions, and the up-bringing of boys and girls together with

the view of drawing yet closer the ties of love on which the city's

strength would depend. The cause of greater freedom in the future

rested with the couples of to-morrow; it might be taken that each

generation growing up amidst an increase of equity and kindliness would

contribute its stone to the final edifice. Meantime, the city's wealth

would continue accumulating now that the suppression of the right of

inheritance--almost entirely accomplished--prevented the building up of

huge, scandalous, and poisonous individual fortunes; in such wise that

the prodigious output of the work of all was becoming the property of

all. Such things as the State Funds were also falling to pieces, the

Rentiers, the idlers who lived on the work of others or on egotistical

savings of their own, were disappearing. All citizens were equally

rich, since the city--overflowing with work, freed from obstacles and

hindrances, preserved from waste and theft--was piling up such immense

wealth, that production would assuredly some day have to be moderated.

Enjoyments once reserved for a few privileged beings were to-day

already within the reach of all, and if family life remained simple the

public edifices had become wonderfully sumptuous, large enough to hold

huge multitudes, and so charming and so commodious as to be indeed true

palaces of the people, centres of enjoyment where it loved to live.

There were museums, and libraries, theatres, bathing establishments,

places for diversions of one and another kind, together with simple

'porches,' opening out of meeting and lecture halls which the whole

town frequented in its hours of rest. There was also a great number of

hospitals, special isolated hospitals, for each kind of disease, and

asylums which the infirm and the aged could enter freely; others, too,

particularly for mothers and children, for pregnant women, who were

carefully nursed from an early stage until their babes were born, and

they themselves had fully recovered their strength. In this wise the

new city affirmed its faith in motherhood and childhood--the mother

who is the source of eternal life, the child who is the victorious

messenger of the future.

'And now,' Bonnaire gaily concluded, 'since you have finished

breakfast, let us go to see all those fine things, our Beauclair in its

festive gaiety. I shan't spare you a single interesting nook of it.'

At this Ragu, who had resolved upon no surrender, simply shrugged his

shoulders, repeating what he deemed to be his decisive argument: 'As

you like; but all the same you are not gentlemen, you are still poor

devils if you still work. Work's your master, and, when all's said,

you've remained a people of slaves.'

At the door of the house a little electric car with accommodation for

two persons was waiting. Similar cars were at the disposal of all. The

old master-puddler, who, despite his advanced years, had retained a

clear eyesight and a firm hand, made his companion get in, and then

took his own seat as driver.

'You don't mean to cripple me for good with this mechanism, eh?' asked

Ragu.

'No, no, don't be alarmed. We get on very well together, electricity

and I,' Bonnaire replied, adding: 'You will find it everywhere; it is

the one force which drives our machinery, and it is in general use in

our homes, just like a domestic servant. Oh! it has been necessary to

produce it in incalculable quantities, and yet it seems that there's

not enough, and that the former master of La Crêcherie is trying to

provide us with a still larger supply, in order that we may have

something like a planet blazing over Beauclair at night-time, and live

amidst the glow of eternal day.'

He laughed at this idea of putting all darkness to flight, whilst

the car glided rapidly along the broad avenues. Before exploring

Beauclair he proposed to go as far as Les Combettes, in order to show

his companion the magnificent estate which was changing La Roumagne

into a paradise of fertility. The festive morning was bright with

sunshine, the roads resounded with gaiety, laughter and songs arising

from all the other electric cars which were continually met on the

way. A great many foot passengers were also arriving from neighbouring

villages, mostly in bands, lads and girls brave in their ribbons, who

joyously saluted Bonnaire the patriarch. And on either side of the

road stretched a perfect sea of grain. Instead of the old-time narrow

patches of ground, badly manured and badly tilled, one found but

one sole, huge field, richly cultivated by thousands of associates.

Whenever the soil showed sign of impoverishment, the properties it

lacked were imparted to it by a chemical dressing; it was warmed,

too, and screened, and high cultivation brought forth two crops of

vegetables and fruit each season. Thanks to machinery, man was spared

many efforts: the harvests sprang up as if by enchantment over leagues

and leagues of ploughed land. It was even said that one would become

master of the clouds, directing them upon one or another point at one's

will by means of electric currents, in such wise as to obtain days of

rain or days of sunshine, according to the needs of cultivation.

'You see, my good fellow,' resumed Bonnaire with a sweeping gesture,

'we have the wherewithal for bread--bread for all, the bread to which

each acquires a right as soon as he is born.'

'So you feed even those who don't work?' asked Ragu.

'Certainly we do; but with very few exceptions only the sick and the

infirm refrain from working. When one's in good health it bores one too

much to remain doing nothing.'

The car was now traversing some orchards, and the endless rows of

cherry trees covered with red fruit presented a delightful spectacle.

The apricots, farther on, were not yet ripe, and green was the fruit

which weighed down the apple and pear trees. Nevertheless there was

extraordinary abundance, enough dessert indeed for a whole nation until

the ensuing spring. But they were at last reaching Les Combettes.

The sordid village of former days had disappeared, and white houses

had been built among the greenery alongside the Grand-Jean, the once

filthy stream, which was now canalised, its pure water contributing to

all the surrounding fertility. One no longer beheld the country side

of the old times, all abandonment, dirt, and wretchedness, in which

the peasantry had wallowed for centuries with the obstinacy born of

routine and hatred of each other. The spirit of truth and liberty had

visited that spot, and an evolution had set in towards science and

harmony, enlightening minds, reconciling hearts, and bringing health,

wealth, and joy in its train. Since all had consented to co-operate the

happiness of each had come into being.

'You remember old Combettes,' said Bonnaire, 'the hovels standing in

mud and dung, and the fierce-looking peasants, who complained of dying

of starvation? See what association has done for all that!'

In his savage jealousy, however, Ragu would not let himself be

convinced. With that hatred of work which had remained in his blood,

the hereditary hatred of a wage-earner chained to toil, he replied:

'If they work they are not happy. Their happiness is mendacious; the

sovereign enjoyment is to do nothing.' And though in former times he

had often reviled the priests, he now added: 'Doesn't the catechism say

that work is man's punishment and mark of degradation? When once one

gets to heaven one has nothing to do there.'

On the way back to Beauclair the car passed La Guerdache, which was now

enlarged, and whose grounds were full of young mothers, their babes,

and playful children. But even the sight of that palace of the people

and its beautiful park did not influence Ragu. 'After all, what's the

value of luxury and enjoyment which everybody can share?' said he. 'A

thing that one can't have entirely to oneself isn't worth much.'

However, the little car was still speeding along, and they soon found

themselves in Beauclair once more. The town, as Ragu had remarked on

first perceiving it, did indeed present the aspect of a large garden.

The houses, instead of being pressed close one to the other, as in the

days of tyranny and terror, seemed to have dispersed in order that

their inmates might enjoy more freedom, quietude, and health. Land

cost nothing since all had been put in common from one to the other

promontory of the Bleuse Mountains. Why, therefore, should folk have

heaped themselves together when the whole great plain spread before

them? Are a few thousand square yards of land too much for a family

when so many immense tracts of the earth are absolutely uninhabited?

Thus, each family had chosen its lot, and had built according to its

fancy. Broad avenues ran past the gardens, supplying abundant means

of communication, but people were not required to build their houses

in line; they simply set them amongst the trees in the manner they

pleased. Still, the dwellings had a family aspect, for all were clean

and gay, and decorated with stoneware and faïence of bright colours,

enamelled tiles, and so forth, which formed gables, borders, panels,

friezes, and cornices, the convolvulus-blue, the dandelion-yellow,

and the poppy-red of all this ornamentation imparting to the houses

much the appearance of huge nosegays amidst the verdure of the trees.

Then, on the squares, at the points where the avenues met, rose the

many public buildings, huge piles in which triumphed steel and iron.

Their magnificence was compounded of simplicity, of logical fitness for

the purpose for which they were intended, and of intelligence in the

choice of materials and style of decoration. In these buildings it was

intended that the people should be at home; the museums, libraries,

theatres, baths, laboratories, meeting and amusement halls were but

so many common-houses, open to the entire community. Moreover, some

portions of the avenues were already being covered with glass, and it

was proposed to warm them in winter, so as to enable people to stroll

there in comfort during cold and rainy weather.

Ragu gave so many signs of surprise, and seemed so lost, that Bonnaire

began to laugh. 'Ah! it isn't easy to identify the place,' said he,

'but we are now on the old Place de la Mairie, whence started the four

great thoroughfares--the Rue de Brias, the Rue de Formeries, the Rue de

Saint-Cron, and the Rue de Magnolles. Only, as the old town-hall was

falling to pieces from sheer rottenness, it was demolished, together

with the old schools, where the boys learned to spell under the

master's rod. And now, you see, there is a series of large pavilions,

chemical and physical laboratories, where all are free to study and

experiment when they think they have made some discovery which may

prove useful to the community. Then, too, the four streets have been

transformed, their hovels have been swept away, and little of them

remains save the gardens and houses of the gentlefolk, in which sundry

marriages have ended by placing the children of the poor devils of

former times.'

Then Bonnaire went on to explain other transformations brought about

by the victory of the new social system. For instance, although the

sub-prefecture had been preserved and two wings had even been added to

it, it had been converted into a public library. In the same way the

law-courts had become a museum, whilst it had been possible at no very

great cost to turn the prison with its cells into a bath-house where

water abounded. Then there was the garden, which had been planted on

the site of the fallen church--a garden where some fine shady verdure

already arose around a little lake which now filled the ancient

underground crypt. In this wise, as the various forms of authority

disappeared, the buildings once allotted to them had reverted to the

people, who had disposed of them in such a manner as to increase their

own comfort and enjoyment.

However, whilst the car was ascending another fine long avenue Ragu

again felt lost, and inquired of his guide: 'Where are we now?'

'In the old Rue de Brias,' Bonnaire answered. 'Ah! its aspect has

greatly changed. Petty trade having completely disappeared, the shops

shut up one after the other, and at last the old houses were demolished

to make room for those new ones which smile so pleasantly among the

hawthorns and lilac bushes. The Clouque, that poisonous sewer, has been

covered up, and the side walk of this avenue, on the right, passes over

it.'

He went on recalling the narrow, dark Rue de Brias of former times,

with its ever-muddy pavement, over which weary workers had trudged day

by day. Hunger and prostitution had prowled there at night, whilst

poor housewives went from shop to shop to beg a petty credit. There

had reigned the Laboques, levying tribute on all purchasers, whilst

Caffiaux poisoned the workers with doctored alcohol, and Dacheux kept

jealous watch over his meat, holy meat--the chosen food of the wealthy.

Only the beautiful Madame Mitaine had been willing to close her eyes

when a loaf or two happened to disappear from her shop-front on the

days when the street urchins were unable to restrain their hunger. But

now all the misery and suffering had been swept away, and the avenue

ascended, broad, clean, and flooded with sunlight, with only the houses

of happy workers upon either hand, whilst the multitude strolled about

laughing and singing on that bright festive morning.

'But if La Clouque flow's under that grassy bank,' exclaimed Ragu

suddenly, 'Old Beauclair must have been over yonder, on the site of

that new park, where the white house-fronts are peeping out of the

greenery?'

And this time he remained aghast. The spot he mentioned had indeed

been Old Beauclair, the sordid mass of hovels spread out like an

evil-smelling stagnant pond, with its streets lacking both light and

air, and infected by their open drains. He particularly remembered the

Rue des Trois Lunes, the darkest, narrowest, and filthiest of them all.

But the blast of avenging justice had purified the spot, carried away

the abominable cloaca, and in place thereof had set that greenery,

amidst which had sprung dwellings of health and joy.

Bonnaire, amused by Ragu's astonishment, now drove him more slowly

along the new thoroughfares of the happy City of Work. In honour of

that day of rejoicing all the houses were gay with bunting; bright

oriflammes flapped in the light morning breeze, and vivid drapery

hung about doors and windows. The thresholds of the houses, too, were

covered with roses, the streets even were bestrewn with them; such

an abundance of roses being grown in the vast plantations of the

neighbourhood that the whole town was able to adorn itself with them,

like a woman on her bridal morn. Music resounded on all sides, the

chorus singing of maids and youths flew past in sonorous waves, whilst

the pure voices of the children soared aloft to the very sun itself. It

seemed as if the limpid and rejoicing orb were also participating in

the festival, as it cast great sheets of gold under the sky's sumptuous

tent, so aerial and silken, and so delightfully blue. All the people

were now flocking into the streets, arrayed in light-coloured garments

adorned with beautiful stuffs, which had once been so dear and which

were now at the disposal of all. New fashions, very simple in their

magnificence, made the women look adorable. Gold--since money had

gradually disappeared--was now simply used for purposes of adornment.

Each little girl that was born found in her cradle her necklets, her

bracelets, and her rings, even as the little ones of former days had

found their toys. But jewellery now had no value, gold had simply

become so much beauty. And, moreover, the electrical furnaces were

about to produce incalculable quantities of diamonds and precious

stones, sacks of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires--gems enough, indeed,

to cover all the women of the world. The maids who passed hanging on

their lovers' arms already had their hair adorned with constellations

of flashing stars. And there was an endless procession of couples,

those whom love in its freedom had just betrothed; the young folk

of twenty, too, who had recently mated and were never more to part;

and those also who had grown old amidst mutual affection, and whose

hand-clasp had tightened with each succeeding year.

'Where are they all going like that?' Ragu at last inquired.

'Oh! they are calling on one another,' Bonnaire answered, 'inviting

one another to the grand dinner which is to be given this evening,

and which you will attend. And many are just strolling about in the

sunshine for the love of the thing, because they feel gay and at home

in our beautiful brotherly streets. Besides, there are entertainments

and games on all sides, with admission gratis, of course, for one may

freely enter all our public establishments. Those parties of children

are being taken to one or another circus, and others of the crowd are

going to meetings, theatrical performances, and concerts. Our theatres,

you know, enter into our system of social education.'

Then, all at once, on reaching a house whose occupiers, it seemed, were

about to go out, Bonnaire stopped the car. 'Would you like to visit

one of our new houses?' he asked. 'This is where my grandson Félicien

lives, and as we have just caught him at home, he will receive us.'

Félicien was the son of Séverin Bonnaire, who had married Léonie,

the daughter of Ma-Bleue and Achille Gourier. He, Félicien, only

a fortnight previously had for his part espoused Hélène Jollivet,

daughter of André Jollivet and Pauline Froment. But when Bonnaire

wished to explain those relationships to Ragu, the latter made

the gesture of a man who feels quite lost amidst such a tangle of

alliances. The young people were charming--the wife very young and

adorably fair; the husband also fair, and tall and strong. Love

perfumed all the bright, gay, simple, yet elegantly furnished rooms

of their home, which, like the streets, was that day full of roses;

for it seemed as if roses had rained upon Beauclair--there were some

everywhere, even on the roofs. The whole house was visited, and then

they returned to a room which served as a workshop--a large, square

apartment, where an electrical motor was installed. Besides following

three or four other callings, Félicien was by taste a metal-turner, and

preferred to work at this avocation in his own home. Several of his

comrades, young men of his own age, were similarly inclined, and a new

movement was thus arising among the generation just reaching manhood.

One found the worker on a small scale following some calling at home

in all freedom, irrespective of work in the great general workshops.

For these individual artisans the supply of electric power, which they

found in their homes even as they found water there, was of wonderful

assistance. Home-work under such conditions proved easy, and clean, and

light, and some houses were gradually becoming family workshops and

tending to the realisation of the formula: The free workman in the free

city.

'Till this evening, my children,' said Bonnaire, taking leave. 'Shall

you dine at our table?'

'Oh! it's impossible this time, grandfather,' was the reply; 'we have

our places at grandmother Morfain's table. But we shall see one another

at dessert.'

Ragu took his seat in the car again without speaking a word. He had

remained silent throughout the visit, though for a moment he had paused

before the little motor. At last, he once again managed to throw off

the emotion which he had felt in the midst of so much comfort and

happiness.

'Come,' he exclaimed, 'can one call those the houses of well-to-do

_bourgeois_, when there's machinery in the largest room? I grant that

your men are better lodged, and have more enjoyment, since want has

disappeared. But they are still workmen, mercenaries condemned to

labour! In the old days there were at least a few happy, privileged

folk who did nothing. All your progress consists in reducing the entire

community to common slavery!'

At this despairing cry from that devotee of sloth, whose religion

was fast crumbling, Bonnaire gently shrugged his shoulders. 'One

must understand, my good fellow,' said he, 'what it is that you call

slavery. If it be slavery to breathe and eat and sleep--in a word, to

live--why, then work is slavery. But if you live you must necessarily

work; one cannot live an hour without doing work of some kind. However,

we'll talk of all that by-and-by. For the present let us go home to

lunch, and we'll spend the afternoon in visiting the workshops and the

stores.'

After their meal, indeed, they went out again, but this time on foot,

walking along leisurely. They crossed the entire works, all the

sunlit halls, where the steel and copper of the new machinery shone

like jewels in the bright radiance. That morning, moreover, some of

the workers--parties of youths and girls--had come to decorate the

machinery with garlands of verdure and roses; for was it not right that

it should participate in the festival of work, powerful, gentle, and

docile artisan that it was, bringing relief both to man and to beast?

And nothing could have been gayer or more touching. The roses that

adorned the presses, the huge hammers, the giant planing, rolling, and

turning machines, proclaimed how attractive work had become, bringing

comfort to the body and delight to the mind. Songs rang out, too,

chains were formed, and amidst general laughter quite a _farandole_

began, spreading gradually from one hall to another, and transforming

the entire works into an immense palace of rejoicing.

Ragu, who still remained impassive, walked about, raising his eyes to

the lofty windows, which were bright with sunshine, or glancing now at

the slabs under foot, and now at the walls of speckless brightness,

or else examining the machines, many of which were unknown to him.

They were huge creatures, provided with all sorts of intricate works,

in order that they might perform most of the tasks once allotted to

man, the most trying as well as the most delicate. Some had legs,

arms, feet, and hands, so that they might move, embrace, clutch, and

manipulate metal with fingers at once supple, nimble, and strong. The

new puddling furnaces, in which the 'bloom' was kneaded mechanically,

particularly struck Ragu. Was it possible that the 'bloom' came out

like that, quite ready to pass under the hammer! And then there was the

electricity that propelled the bridges, that set the huge hammers in

motion, that worked the rolling-machinery, which could have covered the

whole world with rails. On each and every side one found that sovereign

electric force. It had become like the very blood of the factory,

circulating from one to the other end of the workshops, giving life to

all things, acting as the one source of movement, heat, and light.

'It's good, no doubt,' Ragu grunted. 'The place is very clean and very

large, and ever so much better than our dirty dens of former times,

where we found ourselves like pigs in their styes. There has certainly

been a good deal of progress; but the worry is that one hasn't yet

found a way to give each man an income of a hundred thousand francs.'

'Oh! but we have our income of a hundred thousand francs,' retorted

Bonnaire jestingly. 'Just come and see.'

Then he took the other to the general stores--great barns, huge

granaries, vast magazines--where all the produce and wealth of the city

was accumulated. They had been enlarged, perforce, year by year; for

one no longer knew where to store the crops, and indeed it had even

been necessary to check the production of manufactured goods, to avoid

encumbrance. Nowhere else could one better realise what an incalculable

fortune a nation might amass when all intermediaries were done away

with--the drones and the thieves, all those who had lived upon the work

of others without producing anything themselves.

'There are our Rentes!' Bonnaire repeated; 'each of us can help himself

here without counting. And don't you think that it all represents a

hundred thousand francs' worth of happy life for each of us? We are all

equally rich, it's true, and, as you have said, that would spoil your

pleasure, fortune being nothing to you unless it be seasoned with the

misery of others. Yet it has an advantage; for one no longer incurs the

risk of being robbed or murdered some evening at a street corner, just

for the sake of gain.'

Then he mentioned a movement that was setting in, quite apart from the

working of the general stores--that is, a movement of direct exchange

between producers, a movement which had originated among the petty

family workshops. Perhaps then the great workshops and the huge general

stores would end by disappearing in the course of the advance towards

increase of liberty: the sovereign freedom of the individual amidst the

freedom of all mankind.

Ragu listened, more and more upset by that conquest of happiness which

he still wished to deny. And at a loss as to how he might hide the fact

that he was sorely shaken, he exclaimed: 'So you're an Anarchist now!'

This time Bonnaire burst into noisy merriment. 'Oh! my good fellow, I

used to be a Collectivist, and you reproached me for having ceased to

be one. Now you make an Anarchist of me. But the truth is that we are

no longer anything at all since the common dream of happiness, truth,

and justice has been realised. But, now that I think of it, come a

little way with me and see something else by way of finishing up our

visit.'

He led him to the rear of the general stores, to the base of the

mountain ridge, to the very spot, indeed, where Lange the potter had

formerly installed his rudimentary kilns in an enclosure barricaded

with dry stones. To-day a large building stood there, a manufactory of

stoneware and faïence, whence came the enamelled bricks and tiles, the

thousand bright-hued decorations which adorned the whole city. Yielding

indeed to the friendly entreaties of Luc, and seeing a little equity

arise to relieve the misery of the people, Lange had decided to take

some pupils. Since the masses were reviving to joy he would be able

to realise an old dream of his by making and scattering broadcast all

the bright earthenware, glowing like golden wheatears, cornflowers and

poppies, with which he had so long desired to enliven the house-fronts

peeping out of the garden greenery. And beauty had blossomed forth

under the touch of his big, genial hands--beauty in an admirable form

of art, coming from the people and returning to it, instinct with all

the popular primitive strength and grace. He had not renounced the

making of humble utensils, kitchen and table pottery, pans, pots,

pitchers, and plates--all exquisite in form and colour, setting the

glorious charm of art in the most commonplace daily life; but he had

each year increased his production, adorning the public buildings

with superb friezes, peopling the promenades with graceful statues,

setting up in the squares lofty fountains which looked like nosegays,

and whence the water of the springs flowed with all the freshness of

eternal youth. And the band of artists whom he had created in his own

image now set the beauty of art in the very pots which the housewives

used as receptacles for their preserves and jam.

As it happened, Lange was at the top of the little flight of steps on

the threshold of the factory. Although he had nearly completed his

seventy-fifth year, his short squat figure had remained robust. He

still had the same rustic-looking square head, bushy with hair and

beard, now white like snow. But at present all the kindliness, long

hidden beneath his rough bark, gleamed from his eyes in clear smiles. A

party of playful children stood before him, boys and girls, who pushed

one another and stretched out their hands whilst he went on with a

distribution of little presents, as was indeed his habit every _fête_

day. He thus apportioned among them some little clay figures modelled

with a few thumbstrokes, coloured and baked by the gross, yet very

graceful, and in some instances charmingly comical. They represented

the most simple subjects, everyday occupations, the petty incidents and

fugitive delights of the passing hour. There were children laughing

or crying, young girls attending to their household duties, men at

work--in fact, all life in its everlasting, marvellous florescence.

'Come, come, my children,' said Lange, 'don't be in a hurry, there

are enough for all of you. Here, my pet, take this little girl who's

putting on her stockings; and for you, my lad, here's this boy coming

back from school. Ah! you little darky, yonder, take this smith with

his hammer.'

He shouted and laughed, vastly amusing himself in the midst of all

those children, who struggled for the possession of his exquisite

little figures.

'Ah! be careful!' he cried, 'you must not break them. Put them in your

rooms, so that you may have some pretty colours and pleasant lines

before your eyes. And in that wise when you grow up you will love

what's beautiful and good, and be handsome and good yourselves.'

It was his theory that the people needed beauty in order to become

healthy and brotherly. Everything that surrounded them, particularly

all objects of current use--utensils, furniture, and dwellings--ought

to suggest beauty. And belief in the superiority of aristocratic art

was imbecile. The greatest, most touching and most human art was that

into which most life entered. Moreover, the work that proved immortal

and defied the centuries was one that sprang from the multitude and

summed up for it an epoch or a civilisation. And it was ever from the

people that art flowered forth in order that it might embellish the

people themselves and impart to them the perfume and the radiance which

were as necessary to their life as was daily bread.

'Ah! here's a peasant reaping, and a woman washing linen. Take that

one, my big lassie; and you, my little man, there's one for you. Well,

it's over now. Mind you are very good; kiss your mammas and papas for

me. Ah! my little lambs, my little chicks, life is beautiful, life is

good!'

Ragu had listened motionless and silent, but he was evidently more

and more surprised. At last, with a ferocious sneer he exploded: 'Ah!

Master Anarchist!' said he, 'so you no longer talk of blowing up the

whole show, eh?'

Lange turned sharply and looked at Ragu without recognising him.

However, he displayed no anger, but simply began to laugh again: 'Ah!

so you know me,' he said, 'though what your name is I can't remember.

Well, yes, it's true, I did wish to blow up the whole show. I cried

it everywhere, to all the winds of the sky, and I heaped malediction

after malediction upon the accursed city, announcing its approaching

destruction by iron and fire. I had even resolved to do justice myself

and raze Beauclair as by lightning. But things turned out otherwise.

Enough justice came to disarm me. The town was purified, and rebuilt,

and I can't destroy it now that all I wanted, all I dreamt of, is being

realised--isn't that so, Bonnaire; we've made peace, eh?'

Thereupon Lange, the former Anarchist, held out his hand to the

ex-Collectivist with whom he had once had such bitter quarrels: 'We

were ready to eat one another, were we not, Bonnaire?' he resumed. 'We

agreed as to the city of liberty, equity, and cordial understanding

which we wished to reach; only we differed as to the best road to

follow, and those who thought that they ought to turn to the right were

ready to massacre those who showed a desire to turn to the left. But

now that we've all reached our destination, it would be too stupid of

us to continue quarrelling. Is that not so, Bonnaire? As I said before,

peace is made.'

Bonnaire, who had retained the potter's hand in his grasp, pressed and

shook it affectionately.

'Yes, yes, Lange,' he replied; 'we did wrong in not coming to an

understanding, it was perhaps that which prevented us from making

progress. Or perhaps we were all right, since now here we are, hand in

hand, willing to admit that at bottom we all wanted the same thing.'

'And if things are not yet altogether such as absolute justice would

require,' Lange resumed, 'we can rely on those lads and lassies to

continue the work and some day finish it. You hear, my little chicks,

my little lambs, love each other well.'

The shouting and laughing was beginning afresh, when Ragu in his brutal

fashion intervened once more: 'But I say, you spoilt Anarchist, what

about your Barefeet, have you made her your wife, eh?'

Tears started to Lange's eyes. Nearly twenty years previously the

tall and beautiful creature whom he had compassionately picked up on

the roads, and who had worshipped him like a slave, had died in his

arms, the victim of a frightful and mysterious accident. He had spoken

of an explosion in one of his kilns, saying that its iron door had

been carried away, and had struck Barefeet full in the bosom. But the

truth was assuredly different. She had assisted him in his experiments

with explosives, and must have been struck down during some attempts

to charge those famous little 'stock-pots,' of which he had spoken

so complacently, intending to deposit them at the town-hall, the

sub-prefecture, the law-courts--in all the places, indeed, where there

was any form of authority to be destroyed. For months and for years

that tragic death had made Lange's heart bleed, and even nowadays,

after the attainment of so much happiness, he still wept for the loss

of that gentle yet impassioned woman who, in return for the alms of

a piece of bread, had for ever bestowed on him the royal gift of her

beauty.

He strode roughly towards Ragu: 'You are a bad man,' he cried, 'why do

you stab me in the heart like that? Who are you? Where have you sprung

from? Don't you know that my dear wife is dead, and that every evening

I still ask her forgiveness, accusing myself of having caused her

death? If I haven't become a bad man, I owe it to her dear memory, for

she is always with me, she is my good counsellor. But you, you are a

bad man, I don't want to recognise you, I don't want to know your name.

Go away, go away from our city!'

He was superb in his dolorous violence. The poetic spirit that dwelt

within his rugged form, and which had formerly manifested itself in

vengeful flights of fancy of a sombre grandeur, had now softened,

tempering his heart with infinite quivering kindliness.

'Have you recognised him then?' asked Bonnaire anxiously. 'Who is he?

Tell me.'

'I do not wish to recognise him,' Lange repeated yet more rigorously.

'I shall not say anything--let him go his way, let him go his way at

once! He isn't fit to be one of us.'

Thereupon Bonnaire, feeling convinced that the potter had recognised

Ragu, gently led the latter away in order to avoid any painful

explanations. For his part Ragu evinced no desire to linger and

quarrel, but retired in silence. All that he had seen and heard had

dealt him blow after blow in the heart, filling him with bitter regret

and boundless envy. He had begun to stagger beneath the shock of that

happiness, in which he had not, and would never have, the slightest

part.

But it was particularly the aspect of Beauclair in the evening that

upset him. It had become a custom for each family to set its table in

the street and dine there on that first day of summer. The repast was

like a fraternal communion of the whole city, the bread was broken,

and the wine was drunk in public, and the tables were at last brought

together in such wise that they formed but one table, the whole town

changing into a vast banqueting-hall, where the people became one sole

family.

At seven o'clock, whilst the sun was still shining, the tables were

set out, decorated with roses, that rain of roses which had perfumed

Beauclair ever since the morning. The white cloths, the decorated

crockery, the glass and the silver reflected the purple glow of the

sunset. As silver money, like gold money, was fast disappearing, each

now had his or her silver goblet, even as in olden time one had goblets

or mugs of pewter. And Bonnaire insisted on Ragu taking his seat at his

table, or rather at that of his granddaughter Claudine, who had married

Luc's son, Charles Froment.

'I have brought you a guest,' he simply said to the others, without

naming Ragu. 'He is a stranger, a friend.'

And all made answer: 'He is welcome.'