BOOK II.

I. REVOLUTIONISTS

IN that out-of-the-way street at Neuilly, along which nobody passed after

dusk, Pierre’s little house was now steeped in deep slumber under the

black sky; each of its shutters closed, and not a ray of light stealing

forth from within. And one could divine, too, the profound quietude of

the little garden in the rear, a garden empty and lifeless, benumbed by

the winter cold.

Pierre had several times feared that his brother would faint away in the

cab in which they were journeying. Leaning back, and often sinking down,

Guillaume spoke not a word. And terrible was the silence between them--a

silence fraught with all the questions and answers which they felt it

would be useless and painful to exchange at such a time. However, the

priest was anxious about the wound, and wondered to what surgeon he might

apply, desirous as he was of admitting only a sure, staunch man into the

secret, for he had noticed with how keen a desire to disappear his

brother had sought to hide himself.

Until they reached the Arc de Triomphe the silence remained unbroken. It

was only there that Guillaume seemed to emerge from the prostration of

his reverie. “Mind, Pierre,” said he, “no doctor. We will attend to this

together.”

Pierre was on the point of protesting, but he realised that it would be

useless to discuss the subject at such a moment, and so he merely waved

his hand to signify that he should act in spite of the prohibition were

it necessary. In point of fact, his anxiety had increased, and, when the

cab at last drew up before the house, it was with real relief that he saw

his brother alight without evincing any marked feebleness. He himself

quickly paid the driver, well-pleased, too, at finding that nobody, not

even a neighbour, was about. And having opened the door with his latch

key, he helped the injured man to ascend the steps.

A little night lamp glimmered faintly in the vestibule. On hearing the

door open, Pierre’s servant, Sophie, had at once emerged from the

kitchen. A short, thin, dark woman of sixty, she had formed part of the

household for more than thirty years, having served the mother before

serving the son. She knew Guillaume, having seen him when he was a young

man, and doubtless she now recognised him, although well-nigh ten years

had gone by since he had last crossed that threshold. Instead of evincing

any surprise, she seemed to consider his extraordinary return quite

natural, and remained as silent and discreet as usual. She led, indeed,

the life of a recluse, never speaking unless her work absolutely required

it. And thus she now contented herself with saying: “Monsieur l’Abbe,

Monsieur Bertheroy is in the study, and has been waiting there for a

quarter of an hour.”

At this Guillaume intervened, as if the news revived him: “Does Bertheroy

still come here, then? I’ll see him willingly. His is one of the best,

the broadest, minds of these days. He has still remained my master.”

A former friend of their father,--the illustrious chemist, Michel

Froment,--Bertheroy had now, in his turn, become one of the loftiest

glories of France, one to whom chemistry owed much of the extraordinary

progress that has made it the mother-science, by which the very face of

the earth is being changed. A member of the Institute, laden with offices

and honours, he had retained much affection for Pierre, and occasionally

visited him in this wise before dinner, by way of relaxation, he would

say.

“You showed him into the study? All right, then, we will go there,” said

the Abbe to the servant. “Light a lamp and take it into my room, and get

my bed ready so that my brother may go to bed at once.”

While Sophie, without a word or sign of surprise, was obeying these

instructions, the brothers went into their father’s former laboratory, of

which the priest had now made a spacious study. And it was with a cry of

joyous astonishment that the _savant_ greeted them on seeing them enter

the room side by side, the one supporting the other. “What, together!” he

exclaimed. “Ah! my dear children, you could not have caused me greater

pleasure! I who have so often deplored your painful misunderstanding.”

Bertheroy was a tall and lean septuagenarian, with angular features. His

yellow skin clung like parchment to the projecting bones of his cheeks

and jaw. Moreover, there was nothing imposing about him; he looked like

some old shop-keeping herbalist. At the same time he had a fine, broad,

smooth brow, and his eyes still glittered brightly beneath his tangled

hair.

“What, have you injured yourself, Guillaume?” he continued, as soon as he

saw the bandaged hand.

Pierre remained silent, so as to let his brother tell the story as he

chose. Guillaume had realised that he must confess the truth, but in

simple fashion, without detailing the circumstances. “Yes, in an

explosion,” he answered, “and I really think that I have my wrist

broken.”

At this, Bertheroy, whose glance was fixed upon him, noticed that his

moustaches were burnt, and that there was an expression of bewildered

stupor, such as follows a catastrophe, in his eyes. Forthwith the

_savant_ became grave and circumspect; and, without seeking to compel

confidence by any questions, he simply said: “Indeed! an explosion! Will

you let me see the injury? You know that before letting chemistry ensnare

me I studied medicine, and am still somewhat of a surgeon.”

On hearing these words Pierre could not restrain a heart-cry: “Yes, yes,

master! Look at the injury--I was very anxious, and to find you here is

unhoped-for good fortune!”

The _savant_ glanced at him, and divined that the hidden circumstances of

the accident must be serious. And then, as Guillaume, smiling, though

paling with weakness, consented to the suggestion, Bertheroy retorted

that before anything else he must be put to bed. The servant just then

returned to say the bed was ready, and so they all went into the

adjoining room, where the injured man was soon undressed and helped

between the sheets.

“Light me, Pierre,” said Bertheroy, “take the lamp; and let Sophie give

me a basin full of water and some cloths.” Then, having gently washed the

wound, he resumed: “The devil! The wrist isn’t broken, but it’s a nasty

injury. I am afraid there must be a lesion of the bone. Some nails passed

through the flesh, did they not?”

Receiving no reply, he relapsed into silence. But his surprise was

increasing, and he closely examined the hand, which the flame of the

explosion had scorched, and even sniffed the shirt cuff as if seeking to

understand the affair better. He evidently recognised the effects of one

of those new explosives which he himself had studied, almost created. In

the present case, however, he must have been puzzled, for there were

characteristic signs and traces the significance of which escaped him.

“And so,” he at last made up his mind to ask, carried away by

professional curiosity, “and so it was a laboratory explosion which put

you in this nice condition? What devilish powder were you concocting

then?”

Guillaume, ever since he had seen Bertheroy thus studying his injury,

had, in spite of his sufferings, given marked signs of annoyance and

agitation. And as if the real secret which he wished to keep lay

precisely in the question now put to him, in that powder, the first

experiment with which had thus injured him, he replied with an air of

restrained ardour, and a straight frank glance: “Pray do not question me,

master. I cannot answer you. You have, I know, sufficient nobility of

nature to nurse me and care for me without exacting a confession.”

“Oh! certainly, my friend,” exclaimed Bertheroy; “keep your secret. Your

discovery belongs to you if you have made one; and I know that you are

capable of putting it to the most generous use. Besides, you must be

aware that I have too great a passion for truth to judge the actions of

others, whatever their nature, without knowing every circumstance and

motive.”

So saying, he waved his hand as if to indicate how broadly tolerant and

free from error and superstition was that lofty sovereign mind of his,

which in spite of all the orders that bedizened him, in spite of all the

academical titles that he bore as an official _savant_, made him a man of

the boldest and most independent views, one whose only passion was truth,

as he himself said.

He lacked the necessary appliances to do more than dress the wound, after

making sure that no fragment of any projectile had remained in the flesh.

Then he at last went off, promising to return at an early hour on the

morrow; and, as the priest escorted him to the street door, he spoke some

comforting words: if the bone had not been deeply injured all would be

well.

On returning to the bedside, Pierre found his brother still sitting up

and seeking fresh energy in his desire to write home and tranquillise his

loved ones. So the priest, after providing pen and paper, again had to

take up the lamp and light him. Guillaume fortunately retained full use

of his right hand, and was thus able to pen a few lines to say that he

would not be home that night. He addressed the note to Madame Leroi, the

mother of his deceased mistress, who, since the latter’s death, had

remained with him and had reared his three sons. Pierre was aware also

that the household at Montmartre included a young woman of five or six

and twenty, the daughter of an old friend, to whom Guillaume had given

shelter on her father’s death, and whom he was soon to marry, in spite of

the great difference in their ages. For the priest, however, all these

were vague, disturbing things, condemnable features of disorderly life,

and he had invariably pretended to be ignorant of them.

“So you wish this note to be taken to Montmartre at once?” he said to his

brother.

“Yes, at once. It is scarcely more than seven o’clock now, and it will be

there by eight. And you will choose a reliable man, won’t you?”

“The best course will be for Sophie to take a cab. We need have no fear

with her. She won’t chatter. Wait a moment, and I will settle

everything.”

Sophie, on being summoned, at once understood what was wanted of her, and

promised to say, in reply to any questions, that M. Guillaume had come to

spend the night at his brother’s, for reasons which she did not know. And

without indulging in any reflections herself, she left the house, saying

simply: “Monsieur l’Abbe’s dinner is ready; he will only have to take the

broth and the stew off the stove.”

However, when Pierre this time returned to the bedside to sit down there,

he found that Guillaume had fallen back with his head resting on both

pillows. And he looked very weary and pale, and showed signs of fever.

The lamp, standing on a corner of a side table, cast a soft light around,

and so deep was the quietude that the big clock in the adjoining

dining-room could be heard ticking. For a moment the silence continued

around the two brothers, who, after so many years of separation, were at

last re-united and alone together. Then the injured man brought his right

hand to the edge of the sheet, and the priest grasped it, pressed it

tenderly in his own. And the clasp was a long one, those two brotherly

hands remaining locked, one in the other.

“My poor little Pierre,” Guillaume faintly murmured, “you must forgive me

for falling on you in this fashion. I’ve invaded the house and taken your

bed, and I’m preventing you from dining.”

“Don’t talk, don’t tire yourself any more,” interrupted Pierre. “Is not

this the right place for you when you are in trouble?”

A warmer pressure came from Guillaume’s feverish hand, and tears gathered

in his eyes. “Thanks, my little Pierre. I’ve found you again, and you are

as gentle and loving as you always were. Ah! you cannot know how

delightful it seems to me.”

Then the priest’s eyes also were dimmed by tears. Amidst the deep

quietude, the great sense of comfort which had followed their violent

emotion, the brothers found an infinite charm in being together once more

in the home of their childhood.* It was there that both their father and

mother had died--the father tragically, struck down by an explosion in

his laboratory; the mother piously, like a very saint. It was there, too,

in that same bed, that Guillaume had nursed Pierre, when, after their

mother’s death, the latter had nearly died; and it was there now that

Pierre in his turn was nursing Guillaume. All helped to bow them down and

fill them with emotion: the strange circumstances of their meeting, the

frightful catastrophe which had caused them such a shock, the

mysteriousness of the things which remained unexplained between them. And

now that after so long a separation they were tragically brought together

again, they both felt their memory awaking. The old house spoke to them

of their childhood, of their parents dead and gone, of the far-away days

when they had loved and suffered there. Beneath the window lay the

garden, now icy cold, which once, under the sunbeams, had re-echoed with

their play. On the left was the laboratory, the spacious room where their

father had taught them to read. On the right, in the dining-room, they

could picture their mother cutting bread and butter for them, and looking

so gentle with her big, despairing eyes--those of a believer mated to an

infidel. And the feeling that they were now alone in that home, and the

pale, sleepy gleam of the lamp, and the deep silence of the garden and

the house, and the very past itself, all filled them with the softest of

emotion blended with the keenest bitterness.

* See M. Zola’s “Lourdes,” Day I., Chapter II.

They would have liked to talk and unbosom themselves. But what could they

say to one another? Although their hands remained so tightly clasped, did

not the most impassable of chasms separate them? In any case, they

thought so. Guillaume was convinced that Pierre was a saint, a priest of

the most robust faith, without a doubt, without aught in common with

himself, whether in the sphere of ideas or in that of practical life. A

hatchet-stroke had parted them, and each lived in a different world. And

in the same way Pierre pictured Guillaume as one who had lost caste,

whose conduct was most suspicious, who had never even married the mother

of his three children, but was on the point of marrying that girl who was

far too young for him, and who had come nobody knew whence. In him,

moreover, were blended the passionate ideas of a _savant_ and a

revolutionist, ideas in which one found negation of everything,

acceptance and possibly provocation of the worst forms of violence, with

a glimpse of the vague monster of Anarchism underlying all. And so, on

what basis could there be any understanding between them, since each

retained his prejudices against the other, and saw him on the opposite

side of the chasm, without possibility of any plank being thrown across

it to enable them to unite? Thus, all alone in that room, their poor

hearts bled with distracted brotherly love.

Pierre knew that, on a previous occasion, Guillaume had narrowly escaped

being compromised in an Anarchist affair. He asked him no questions, but

he could not help reflecting that he would not have hidden himself in

this fashion had he not feared arrest for complicity. Complicity with

Salvat? Was he really an accomplice? Pierre shuddered, for the only

materials on which he could found a contrary opinion were, on one hand,

the words that had escaped his brother after the crime, the cry he had

raised accusing Salvat of having stolen a cartridge from him; and, on the

other hand, his heroic rush into the doorway of the Duvillard mansion in

order to extinguish the match. A great deal still remained obscure; but

if a cartridge of that frightful explosive had been stolen from Guillaume

the fact must be that he manufactured such cartridges and had others at

home. Of course, even if he were not an accomplice, the injury to his

wrist had made it needful for him to disappear. Given his bleeding hand,

and the previous suspicions levelled against him, he would never have

convinced anybody of his innocence. And yet, even allowing for these

surmises, the affair remained wrapt in darkness: a crime on Guillaume’s

part seemed a possibility, and to Pierre it was all dreadful to think of.

Guillaume, by the trembling of his brother’s moist, yielding hand, must

in some degree have realised the prostration of his poor mind, already

shattered by doubt and finished off by this calamity. Indeed, the

sepulchre was empty now, the very ashes had been swept out of it.

“My poor little Pierre,” the elder brother slowly said. “Forgive me if I

do not tell you anything. I cannot do so. And besides, what would be the

use of it? We should certainly not understand one another.... So let

us keep from saying anything, and let us simply enjoy the delight of

being together and loving one another in spite of all.”

Pierre raised his eyes, and for a long time their glances lingered, one

fixed on the other. “Ah!” stammered the priest, “how frightful it all

is!”

Guillaume, however, had well understood the mute inquiry of Pierre’s

eyes. His own did not waver but replied boldly, beaming with purity and

loftiness: “I can tell you nothing. Yet, all the same, let us love each

other, my little Pierre.”

And then Pierre for a moment felt that his brother was above all base

anxiety, above the guilty fear of the man who trembles for himself. In

lieu thereof he seemed to be carried away by the passion of some great

design, the noble thought of concealing some sovereign idea, some secret

which it was imperative for him to save. But, alas! this was only the

fleeting vision of a vague hope; for all vanished, and again came the

doubt, the suspicion, of a mind dealing with one that it knew nothing of.

And all at once a souvenir, a frightful spectacle, arose before Pierre’s

eyes and distracted him: “Did you see, brother,” he stammered, “did you

see that fair-haired girl lying under the archway, ripped open, with a

smile of astonishment on her face?”

Guillaume in his turn quivered, and in a low and dolorous voice replied:

“Yes, I saw her! Ah, poor little thing! Ah! the atrocious necessities,

the atrocious errors, of justice!”

Then, amidst the frightful shudder that seemed to sweep by, Pierre, with

his horror of all violence, succumbed, and let his face sink upon the

counterpane at the edge of the bed. And he sobbed distractedly: a sudden

attack of weakness, overflowing in tears, cast him there exhausted, with

no more strength than a child. It was as if all his sufferings since the

morning, the deep grief with which universal injustice and woe inspired

him, were bursting forth in that flood of tears which nothing now could

stay. And Guillaume, who, to calm his little brother, had set his hand

upon his head, in the same way as he had often caressingly stroked his

hair in childhood’s days, likewise felt upset and remained silent, unable

to find a word of consolation, resigned, as he was, to the eruption which

in life is always possible, the cataclysm by which the slow evolution of

nature is always liable to be precipitated. But how hard a fate for the

wretched ones whom the lava sweeps away in millions! And then his tears

also began to flow amidst the profound silence.

“Pierre,” he gently exclaimed at last, “you must have some dinner. Go, go

and have some. And screen the lamp; leave me by myself, and let me close

my eyes. It will do me good.”

Pierre had to content him. Still, he left the dining-room door open; and,

weak for want of food, though he had not hitherto noticed it, he ate

standing, with his ears on the alert, listening lest his brother should

complain or call him. And the silence seemed to have become yet more

complete, the little house sank, as it were, into annihilation, instinct

with all the melancholy charm of the past.

At about half-past eight, when Sophie returned from her errand to

Montmartre, Guillaume heard her step, light though it was. And he at once

became restless and wanted to know what news she brought. It was Pierre,

however, who enlightened him. “Don’t be anxious. Sophie was received by

an old lady who, after reading your note, merely answered, ‘Very well.’

She did not even ask Sophie a question, but remained quite composed

without sign of curiosity.”

Guillaume, realising that this fine serenity perplexed his brother,

thereupon replied with similar calmness: “Oh! it was only necessary that

grandmother should be warned. She knows well enough that if I don’t

return home it is because I can’t.”

However, from that moment it was impossible for the injured man to rest.

Although the lamp was hidden away in a corner, he constantly opened his

eyes, glanced round him, and seemed to listen, as if for sounds from the

direction of Paris. And it at last became necessary for the priest to

summon the servant and ask her if she had noticed anything strange on her

way to or from Montmartre. She seemed surprised by the question, and

answered that she had noticed nothing. Besides, the cab had followed the

outer boulevards, which were almost deserted. A slight fog had again

begun to fall, and the streets were steeped in icy dampness.

By the time it was nine o’clock Pierre realised that his brother would

never be able to sleep if he were thus left without news. Amidst his

growing feverishness the injured man experienced keen anxiety, a haunting

desire to know if Salvat were arrested and had spoken out. He did not

confess this; indeed he sought to convey the impression that he had no

personal disquietude, which was doubtless true. But his great secret was

stifling him; he shuddered at the thought that his lofty scheme, all his

labour and all his hope, should be at the mercy of that unhappy man whom

want had filled with delusions and who had sought to set justice upon

earth by the aid of a bomb. And in vain did the priest try to make

Guillaume understand that nothing certain could yet be known. He

perceived that his impatience increased every minute, and at last

resolved to make some effort to satisfy him.

But where could he go, of whom could he inquire? Guillaume, while talking

and trying to guess with whom Salvat might have sought refuge, had

mentioned Janzen, the Princess de Harn’s mysterious lover; and for a

moment he had even thought of sending to this man for information. But he

reflected that if Janzen had heard of the explosion he was not at all the

individual to wait for the police at home.

Meantime Pierre repeated: “I will willingly go to buy the evening papers

for you--but there will certainly be nothing in them. Although I know

almost everyone in Neuilly I can think of nobody who is likely to have

any information, unless perhaps it were Bache--”

“You know Bache, the municipal councillor?” interrupted Guillaume.

“Yes, we have both had to busy ourselves with charitable work in the

neighbourhood.”

“Well, Bache is an old friend of mine, and I know no safer man. Pray go

to him and bring him back with you.”

A quarter of an hour later Pierre returned with Bache, who resided in a

neighbouring street. And it was not only Bache whom he brought with him,

for, much to his surprise, he had found Janzen at Bache’s house. As

Guillaume had suspected, Janzen, while dining at the Princess de Harn’s,

had heard of the crime, and had consequently refrained from returning to

his little lodging in the Rue des Martyrs, where the police might well

have set a trap for him. His connections were known, and he was aware

that he was watched and was liable at any moment to arrest or expulsion

as a foreign Anarchist. And so he had thought it prudent to solicit a few

days’ hospitality of Bache, a very upright and obliging man, to whom he

entrusted himself without fear. He would never have remained with

Rosemonde, that adorable lunatic who for a month past had been exhibiting

him as her lover, and whose useless and dangerous extravagance of conduct

he fully realised.

Guillaume was so delighted on seeing Bache and Janzen that he wished to

sit up in bed again. But Pierre bade him remain quiet, rest his head on

the pillows, and speak as little as possible. Then, while Janzen stood

near, erect and silent, Bache took a chair and sat down by the bedside

with many expressions of friendly interest. He was a stout man of sixty,

with a broad, full face, a large white beard and long white hair. His

little, gentle eyes had a dim, dreamy expression, while a pleasant,

hopeful smile played round his thick lips. His father, a fervent St.

Simonian, had brought him up in the doctrines of that belief. While

retaining due respect for it, however, his personal inclinations towards

orderliness and religion had led him to espouse the ideas of Fourier, in

such wise that one found in him a succession and an abridgment, so to

say, of two doctrines. Moreover, when he was about thirty, he had busied

himself with spiritualism. Possessed of a comfortable little fortune, his

only adventure in life had been his connection with the Paris Commune of

1871. How or why he had become a member of it he could now scarcely tell.

Condemned to death by default, although he had sat among the Moderates,

he had resided in Belgium until the amnesty; and since then Neuilly had

elected him as its representative on the Paris Municipal Council, less by

way of glorifying in him a victim of reaction than as a reward for his

worthiness, for he was really esteemed by the whole district.

Guillaume, with his desire for tidings, was obliged to confide in his two

visitors, tell them of the explosion and Salvat’s flight, and how he

himself had been wounded while seeking to extinguish the match. Janzen,

with curly beard and hair, and a thin, fair face such as painters often

attribute to the Christ, listened coldly, as was his wont, and at last

said slowly in a gentle voice: “Ah! so it was Salvat! I thought it might

be little Mathis--I’m surprised that it should be Salvat--for he hadn’t

made up his mind.” Then, as Guillaume anxiously inquired if he thought

that Salvat would speak out, he began to protest: “Oh! no; oh! no.”

However, he corrected himself with a gleam of disdain in his clear, harsh

eyes: “After all, there’s no telling. Salvat is a man of sentiment.”

Then Bache, who was quite upset by the news of the explosion, tried to

think how his friend Guillaume, to whom he was much attached, might be

extricated from any charge of complicity should he be denounced. And

Guillaume, at sight of Janzen’s contemptuous coldness, must have suffered

keenly, for the other evidently believed him to be trembling, tortured by

the one desire to save his own skin. But what could he say, how could he

reveal the deep concern which rendered him so feverish without betraying

the secret which he had hidden even from his brother?

However, at this moment Sophie came to tell her master that M. Theophile

Morin had called with another gentleman. Much astonished by this visit at

so late an hour, Pierre hastened into the next room to receive the new

comers. He had become acquainted with Morin since his return from Rome,

and had helped him to introduce a translation of an excellent scientific

manual, prepared according to the official programmes, into the Italian

schools.* A Franc-Comtois by birth, a compatriot of Proudhon, with whose

poor family he had been intimate at Besancon, Morin, himself the son of a

journeyman clockmaker, had grown up with Proudhonian ideas, full of

affection for the poor and an instinctive hatred of property and wealth.

Later on, having come to Paris as a school teacher, impassioned by study,

he had given his whole mind to Auguste Comte. Beneath the fervent

Positivist, however, one might yet find the old Proudhonian, the pauper

who rebelled and detested want. Moreover, it was scientific Positivism

that he clung to; in his hatred of all mysticism he would have naught to

do with the fantastic religious leanings of Comte in his last years. And

in Morin’s brave, consistent, somewhat mournful life, there had been but

one page of romance: the sudden feverish impulse which had carried him

off to fight in Sicily by Garibaldi’s side. Afterwards he had again

become a petty professor in Paris, obscurely earning a dismal livelihood.

* See M. Zola’s “Rome,” Chapters IV. and XVI.

When Pierre returned to the bedroom he said to his brother in a tone of

emotion: “Morin has brought me Barthes, who fancies himself in danger and

asks my hospitality.”

At this Guillaume forgot himself and became excited: “Nicholas Barthes, a

hero with a soul worthy of antiquity. Oh! I know him; I admire and love

him. You must set your door open wide for him.”

Bache and Janzen, however, had glanced at one another smiling. And the

latter, with his cold ironical air, slowly remarked: “Why does Monsieur

Barthes hide himself? A great many people think he is dead; he is simply

a ghost who no longer frightens anybody.”

Four and seventy years of age as he now was, Barthes had spent nearly

half a century in prison. He was the eternal prisoner, the hero of

liberty whom each successive Government had carried from citadel to

fortress. Since his youth he had been marching on amidst his dream of

fraternity, fighting for an ideal Republic based on truth and justice,

and each and every endeavour had led him to a dungeon; he had invariably

finished his humanitarian reverie under bolts and bars. Carbonaro,

Republican, evangelical sectarian, he had conspired at all times and in

all places, incessantly struggling against the Power of the day, whatever

it might be. And when the Republic at last had come, that Republic which

had cost him so many years of gaol, it had, in its own turn, imprisoned

him, adding fresh years of gloom to those which already had lacked

sunlight. And thus he remained the martyr of freedom: freedom which he

still desired in spite of everything; freedom, which, strive as he might,

never came, never existed.

“But you are mistaken,” replied Guillaume, wounded by Janzen’s raillery.

“There is again a thought of getting rid of Barthes, whose uncompromising

rectitude disturbs our politicians; and he does well to take his

precautions!”

Nicholas Barthes came in, a tall, slim, withered old man, with a nose

like an eagle’s beak, and eyes that still burned in their deep sockets,

under white and bushy brows. His mouth, toothless but still refined, was

lost to sight between his moustaches and snowy beard; and his hair,

crowning him whitely like an aureola, fell in curls over his shoulders.

Behind him with all modesty came Theophile Morin, with grey whiskers,

grey, brush-like hair, spectacles, and yellow, weary mien--that of an old

professor exhausted by years of teaching. Neither of them seemed

astonished or awaited an explanation on finding that man in bed with an

injured wrist. And there were no introductions: those who were acquainted

merely smiled at one another.

Barthes, for his part, stooped and kissed Guillaume on both cheeks. “Ah!”

said the latter, almost gaily, “it gives me courage to see you.”

However, the new comers had brought a little information. The boulevards

were in an agitated state, the news of the crime had spread from cafe to

cafe, and everybody was anxious to see the late edition which one paper

had published giving a very incorrect account of the affair, full of the

most extraordinary details. Briefly, nothing positive was as yet known.

On seeing Guillaume turn pale Pierre compelled him to lie down again, and

even talked of taking the visitors into the next room. But the injured

man gently replied: “No, no, I promise you that I won’t stir again, that

I won’t open my mouth. But stay there and chat together. I assure you

that it will do me good to have you near me and hear you.”

Then, under the sleepy gleams of the lamp, the others began to talk in

undertones. Old Barthes, who considered that bomb to be both idiotic and

abominable, spoke of it with the stupefaction of one who, after fighting

like a hero through all the legendary struggles for liberty, found

himself belated, out of his element, in a new era, which he could not

understand. Did not the conquest of freedom suffice for everything? he

added. Was there any other problem beyond that of founding the real

Republic? Then, referring to Mege and his speech in the Chamber that

afternoon, he bitterly arraigned Collectivism, which he declared to be

one of the democratic forms of tyranny. Theophile Morin, for his part,

also spoke against the Collectivist enrolling of the social forces, but

he professed yet greater hatred of the odious violence of the Anarchists;

for it was only by evolution that he expected progress, and he felt

somewhat indifferent as to what political means might bring about the

scientific society of to-morrow. And in like way Bache did not seem

particularly fond of the Anarchists, though he was touched by the idyllic

dream, the humanitarian hope, whose germs lay beneath their passion for

destruction. And, like Barthes, he also flew into a passion with Mege,

who since entering the Chamber had become, said he, a mere rhetorician

and theorist, dreaming of dictatorship. Meantime Janzen, still erect, his

face frigid and his lips curling ironically, listened to all three of

them, and vented a few trenchant words to express his own Anarchist

faith; the uselessness of drawing distinctions, and the necessity of

destroying everything in order that everything might be rebuilt on fresh

lines.

Pierre, who had remained near the bed, also listened with passionate

attention. Amidst the downfall of his own beliefs, the utter void which

he felt within him, here were these four men, who represented the

cardinal points of this century’s ideas, debating the very same terrible

problem which brought him so much suffering, that of the new belief which

the democracy of the coming century awaits. And, ah! since the days of

the immediate ancestors, since the days of Voltaire and Diderot and

Rousseau how incessantly had billows of ideas followed and jostled one

another, the older ones giving birth to new ones, and all breaking and

bounding in a tempest in which it was becoming so difficult to

distinguish anything clearly! Whence came the wind, and whither was the

ship of salvation going, for what port ought one to embark? Pierre had

already thought that the balance-sheet of the century ought to be drawn

up, and that, after accepting the legacies of Rousseau and the other

precursors, he ought to study the ideas of St. Simon, Fourier and even

Cabet; of Auguste Comte, Proudhon and Karl Marx as well, in order, at any

rate, to form some idea of the distance that had been travelled, and of

the cross-ways which one had now reached. And was not this an

opportunity, since chance had gathered those men together in his house,

living exponents of the conflicting doctrines which he wished to examine?

On turning round, however, he perceived that Guillaume was now very pale

and had closed his eyes. Had even he, with his faith in science, felt the

doubt which is born of contradictory theories, and the despair which

comes when one sees the fight for truth resulting in growth of error?

“Are you in pain?” the priest anxiously inquired.

“Yes, a little. But I will try to sleep.”

At this they all went off with silent handshakes. Nicholas Barthes alone

remained in the house and slept in a room on the first floor which Sophie

had got ready for him. Pierre, unwilling to quit his brother, dozed off

upon a sofa. And the little house relapsed into its deep quietude, the

silence of solitude and winter, through which passed the melancholy

quiver of the souvenirs of childhood.

In the morning, as soon as it was seven o’clock, Pierre had to go for the

newspapers. Guillaume had passed a bad night and intense fever had set

in. Nevertheless, his brother was obliged to read him the articles on the

explosion. There was an amazing medley of truths and inventions, of

precise information lost amidst the most unexpected extravagance.

Sagnier’s paper, the “Voix du Peuple,” distinguished itself by its

sub-titles in huge print and a whole page of particulars jumbled together

chance-wise. It had at once decided to postpone the famous list of the

thirty-two deputies and senators compromised in the African Railways

affair; and there was no end to the details it gave of the aspect of the

entrance to the Duvillard mansion after the explosion the pavement broken

up, the upper floor rent open, the huge doors torn away from their

hinges. Then came the story of the Baron’s son and daughter preserved as

by a miracle, the landau escaping the slightest injury, while the banker

and his wife, it was alleged, owed their preservation to the circumstance

that they had lingered at the Madeleine after Monseigneur Martha’s

remarkable address there. An entire column was given to the one victim,

the poor, pretty, fair-haired errand girl, whose identity did not seem to

be clearly established, although a flock of reporters had rushed first to

the modiste employing her, in the Avenue de l’Opera, and next to the

upper part of the Faubourg St. Denis, where it was thought her

grandmother resided. Then, in a gravely worded article in “Le Globe,”

evidently inspired by Fonsegue, an appeal was made to the Chamber’s

patriotism to avoid giving cause for any ministerial crisis in the

painful circumstances through which the country was passing. Thus the

ministry might last, and live in comparative quietude, for a few weeks

longer.

Guillaume, however, was struck by one point only: the culprit was not

known; Salvat, it appeared certain, was neither arrested nor even

suspected. It seemed, indeed, as if the police were starting on a false

scent--that of a well-dressed gentleman wearing gloves, whom a neighbour

swore he had seen entering the mansion at the moment of the explosion.

Thus Guillaume became a little calmer. But his brother read to him from

another paper some particulars concerning the engine of destruction that

had been employed. It was a preserved-meat can, and the fragments of it

showed that it had been comparatively small. And Guillaume relapsed into

anxiety on learning that people were much astonished at the violent

ravages of such a sorry appliance, and that the presence of some new

explosive of incalculable power was already suspected.

At eight o’clock Bertheroy put in an appearance. Although he was

sixty-eight, he showed as much briskness and sprightliness as any young

sawbones calling in a friendly way to perform a little operation. He had

brought an instrument case, some linen bands and some lint. However, he

became angry on finding the injured man nervous, flushed and hot with

fever.

“Ah! I see that you haven’t been reasonable, my dear child,” said he.

“You must have talked too much, and have bestirred and excited yourself.”

Then, having carefully probed the wound, he added, while dressing it:

“The bone is injured, you know, and I won’t answer for anything unless

you behave better. Any complications would make amputation necessary.”

Pierre shuddered, but Guillaume shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that

he might just as well be amputated since all was crumbling around him.

Bertheroy, who had sat down, lingering there for another moment,

scrutinised both brothers with his keen eyes. He now knew of the

explosion, and must have thought it over. “My dear child,” he resumed in

his brusque way, “I certainly don’t think that you committed that

abominable act of folly in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy. But I fancy that you

were in the neighbourhood--no, no, don’t answer me, don’t defend

yourself. I know nothing and desire to know nothing, not even the formula

of that devilish powder of which your shirt cuff bore traces, and which

has wrought such terrible havoc.”

And then as the brothers remained surprised, turning cold with anxiety,

in spite of his assurances, he added with a sweeping gesture: “Ah! my

friends, I regard such an action as even more useless than criminal! I

only feel contempt for the vain agitation of politics, whether they be

revolutionary or conservative. Does not science suffice? Why hasten the

times when one single step of science brings humanity nearer to the goal

of truth and justice than do a hundred years of politics and social

revolt? Why, it is science alone which sweeps away dogmas, casts down

gods, and creates light and happiness. And I, Member of the Institute as

I am, decorated and possessed of means, I am the only true

Revolutionist.”

Then he began to laugh and Guillaume realised all the good-natured irony

of his laugh. While admiring him as a great _savant_, he had hitherto

suffered at seeing him lead such a _bourgeois_ life, accepting whatever

appointments and honours were offered him, a Republican under the

Republic, but quite ready to serve science under no matter what master.

But now, from beneath this opportunist, this hieratical _savant_, this

toiler who accepted wealth and glory from all hands, there appeared a

quiet yet terrible evolutionist, who certainly expected that his own work

would help to ravage and renew the world!

However, Bertheroy rose and took his leave: “I’ll come back; behave

sensibly, and love one another as well as you can.”

When the brothers again found themselves alone, Pierre seated at

Guillaume’s bedside, their hands once more sought each other and met in a

burning clasp instinct with all their anguish. How much threatening

mystery and distress there was both around and within them! The grey

wintry daylight came into the room, and they could see the black trees in

the garden, while the house remained full of quivering silence, save that

overhead a faint sound of footsteps was audible. They were the steps of

Nicholas Barthes, the heroic lover of freedom, who, rising at daybreak,

had, like a caged lion, resumed his wonted promenade, the incessant

coming and going of one who had ever been a prisoner. And as the brothers

ceased listening to him their eyes fell on a newspaper which had remained

open on the bed, a newspaper soiled by a sketch in outline which

pretended to portray the poor dead errand girl, lying, ripped open,

beside the bandbox and the bonnet it had contained. It was so frightful,

so atrociously hideous a scene, that two big tears again fell upon

Pierre’s cheeks, whilst Guillaume’s blurred, despairing eyes gazed

wistfully far away, seeking for the Future.

II. A HOME OF INDUSTRY

THE little house in which Guillaume had dwelt for so many years, a home

of quietude and hard work, stood in the pale light of winter up yonder at

Montmartre, peacefully awaiting his return. He reflected, however, after

_dejeuner_ that it might not be prudent for him to go back thither for

some three weeks, and so he thought of sending Pierre to explain the

position of affairs. “Listen, brother,” he said. “You must render me this

service. Go and tell them the truth--that I am here, slightly injured,

and do not wish them to come to see me, for fear lest somebody should

follow them and discover my retreat. After the note I wrote them last

evening they would end by getting anxious if I did not send them some

news.” Then, yielding to the one worry which, since the previous night,

had disturbed his clear, frank glance, he added: “Just feel in the

right-hand pocket of my waistcoat; you will find a little key there.

Good! that’s it. Now you must give it to Madame Leroi, my mother-in-law,

and tell her that if any misfortune should happen to me, she is to do

what is understood between us. That will suffice, she will understand

you.”

At the first moment Pierre had hesitated; but he saw how even the slight

effort of speaking exhausted his brother, so he silenced him, saying:

“Don’t talk, but put your mind at ease. I will go and reassure your

people, since you wish that this commission should be undertaken by me.”

Truth to tell, the errand was so distasteful to Pierre that he had at

first thought of sending Sophie in his place. All his old prejudices were

reviving; it was as if he were going to some ogre’s den. How many times

had he not heard his mother say “that creature!” in referring to the

woman with whom her elder son cohabited. Never had she been willing to

kiss Guillaume’s boys; the whole connection had shocked her, and she was

particularly indignant that Madame Leroi, the woman’s mother, should have

joined the household for the purpose of bringing up the little ones.

Pierre retained so strong a recollection of all this that even nowadays,

when he went to the basilica of the Sacred Heart and passed the little

house on his way, he glanced at it distrustfully, and kept as far from it

as he could, as if it were some abode of vice and error. Undoubtedly, for

ten years now, the boys’ mother had been dead, but did not another

scandal-inspiring creature dwell there, that young orphan girl to whom

his brother had given shelter, and whom he was going to marry, although a

difference of twenty years lay between them? To Pierre all this was

contrary to propriety, abnormal and revolting, and he pictured a home

given over to social rebellion, where lack of principle led to every kind

of disorder.

However, he was leaving the room to start upon his journey, when

Guillaume called him back. “Tell Madame Leroi,” said he, “that if I

should die you will let her know of it, so that she may immediately do

what is necessary.”

“Yes, yes,” answered Pierre. “But calm yourself, and don’t move about.

I’ll say everything. And in my absence Sophie will stop here with you in

case you should need her.”

Having given full instructions to the servant, Pierre set out to take a

tramcar, intending to alight from it on the Boulevard de Rochechouart,

and then climb the height on foot. And on the road, lulled by the gliding

motion of the heavy vehicle, he began to think of his brother’s past life

and connections, with which he was but vaguely, imperfectly, acquainted.

It was only at a later date that details of everything came to his

knowledge. In 1850 a young professor named Leroi, who had come from Paris

to the college of Montauban with the most ardent republican ideas, had

there married Agathe Dagnan, the youngest of the five girls of an old

Protestant family from the Cevennes. Young Madame Leroi was _enceinte_

when her husband, threatened with arrest for contributing some violent

articles to a local newspaper, immediately after the “Coup d’Etat,” found

himself obliged to seek refuge at Geneva. It was there that the young

couple’s daughter, Marguerite, a very delicate child, was born in 1852.

For seven years, that is until the Amnesty of 1859, the household

struggled with poverty, the husband giving but a few ill-paid lessons,

and the wife absorbed in the constant care which the child required.

Then, after their return to Paris, their ill-luck became even greater.

For a long time the ex-professor vainly sought regular employment; it was

denied him on account of his opinions, and he had to run about giving

lessons in private houses. When he was at last on the point of being

received back into the University a supreme blow, an attack of paralysis,

fell upon him. He lost the use of both legs. And then came utter misery,

every kind of sordid drudgery, the writing of articles for dictionaries,

the copying of manuscripts, and even the addressing of newspaper

wrappers, on the fruits of which the household barely contrived to live,

in a little lodging in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.

It was there that Marguerite grew up. Leroi, embittered by injustice and

suffering, predicted the advent of a Republic which would avenge the

follies of the Empire, and a reign of science which would sweep away the

deceptive and cruel divinity of religious dogmas. On the other hand,

Agathe’s religious faith had collapsed at Geneva, at sight of the narrow

and imbecile practices of Calvinism, and all that she retained of it was

the old Protestant leaven of rebellion. She had become at once the head

and the arm of the house; she went for her husband’s work, took it back

when completed, and even did much of it herself, whilst, at the same

time, performing her house duties, and rearing and educating her

daughter. The latter, who attended no school, was indebted for all she

learnt to her father and mother, on whose part there was never any

question of religious instruction. Through contact with her husband,

Madame Leroi had lost all belief, and her Protestant heredity inclining

her to free inquiry and examination, she had arranged for herself a kind

of peaceful atheism, based on paramount principles of human duty and

justice, which she applied courageously, irrespective of all social

conventionalities. The long iniquity of her husband’s fate, the

undeserved misfortunes which struck her through him and her daughter,

ended by endowing her with wonderful fortitude and devotion, which made

her, whether as a judge, a manager, or a consoler, a woman of

incomparable energy and nobleness of character.

It was in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince that Guillaume became acquainted

with the Leroi family, after the war of 1870. On the same floor as their

little lodging he occupied a large room, where he devoted himself

passionately to his studies. At the outset there was only an occasional

bow, for Guillaume’s neighbours were very proud and very grave, leading

their life of poverty in fierce silence and retirement. Then intercourse

began with the rendering of little services, such as when the young man

procured the ex-professor a commission to write a few articles for a new

encyclopaedia. But all at once came the catastrophe: Leroi died in his

armchair one evening while his daughter was wheeling him from his table

to his bed. The two distracted women had not even the money to bury him.

The whole secret of their bitter want flowed forth with their tears, and

they were obliged to accept the help of Guillaume, who, from that moment,

became the necessary confidant and friend. And the thing which was bound

to happen did happen, in the most simple and loving manner, permitted by

the mother herself, who, full of contempt for a social system which

allowed those of good hearts to die of hunger, refused to admit the

necessity of any social tie. Thus there was no question of a regular

marriage. One day Guillaume, who was twenty-three years old, found

himself mated to Marguerite, who was twenty; both of them handsome,

healthy, and strong, adoring one another, loving work, and full of hope

in the future.

From that moment a new life began. Since his father’s death, Guillaume,

who had broken off all intercourse with his mother, had been receiving an

allowance of two hundred francs a month. This just represented daily

bread; however, he was already doubling the amount by his work as a

chemist,--his analyses and researches, which tended to the employment of

certain chemical products in industry. So he and Marguerite installed

themselves on the very summit of Montmartre, in a little house, at a

rental of eight hundred francs a year, the great convenience of the place

being a strip of garden, where one might, later on, erect a wooden

workshop. In all tranquillity Madame Leroi took up her abode with the

young people, helping them, and sparing them the necessity of keeping a

second servant. And at successive intervals of two years, her three

grandchildren were born, three sturdy boys: first Thomas, then Francois,

and then Antoine. And in the same way as she had devoted herself to her

husband and daughter, and then to Guillaume, so did she now devote

herself to the three children. She became “Mere-Grand”--an emphatic and

affectionate way of expressing the term “grandmother”--for all who lived

in the house, the older as well as the younger ones. She there

personified sense, and wisdom, and courage; it was she who was ever on

the watch, who directed everything, who was consulted about everything,

and whose opinion was always followed. Indeed, she reigned there like an

all-powerful queen-mother.

For fifteen years this life went on, a life of hard work and peaceful

affection, while the strictest economy was observed in contenting every

need of the modest little household. Then Guillaume lost his mother, took

his share of the family inheritance, and was able to satisfy his old

desire, which was to buy the house he lived in, and build a spacious

workshop in the garden. He was even able to build it of bricks, and add

an upper story to it. But the work was scarcely finished, and life seemed

to be on the point of expanding and smiling on them all, when misfortune

returned, and typhoid fever, with brutal force, carried off Marguerite,

after a week’s illness. She was then five and thirty, and her eldest boy,

Thomas, was fourteen. Thus Guillaume, distracted by his loss, found

himself a widower at thirty-eight. The thought of introducing any unknown

woman into that retired home, where all hearts beat in tender unison, was

so unbearable to him that he determined to take no other mate. His work

absorbed him, and he would know how to quiet both his heart and his

flesh. Mere-Grand, fortunately, was still there, erect and courageous;

the household retained its queen, and in her the children found a

manageress and teacher, schooled in adversity and heroism.

Two years passed; and then came an addition to the family. A young woman,

Marie Couturier, the daughter of one of Guillaume’s friends, suddenly

entered it. Couturier had been an inventor, a madman with some measure of

genius, and had spent a fairly large fortune in attempting all sorts of

fantastic schemes. His wife, a very pious woman, had died of grief at it

all; and although on the rare occasions when he saw his daughter, he

showed great fondness for her and loaded her with presents, he had first

placed her in a boarding college, and afterwards left her in the charge

of a poor female relative. Remembering her only on his death-bed, he had

begged Guillaume to give her an asylum, and find her a husband. The poor

relation, who dealt in ladies’ and babies’ linen, had just become a

bankrupt. So, at nineteen, the girl, Marie, found herself a penniless

outcast, possessed of nothing save a good education, health and courage.

Guillaume would never allow her to run about giving lessons. He took her,

in quite a natural way, to help Mere-Grand, who was no longer so active

as formerly. And the latter approved the arrangement, well pleased at the

advent of youth and gaiety, which would somewhat brighten the household,

whose life had been one of much gravity ever since Marguerite’s death.

Marie would simply be an elder sister; she was too old for the boys, who

were still at college, to be disturbed by her presence. And she would

work in that house where everybody worked. She would help the little

community pending the time when she might meet and love some worthy

fellow who would marry her.

Five more years elapsed without Marie consenting to quit that happy home.

The sterling education she had received was lodged in a vigorous brain,

which contented itself with the acquirement of knowledge. Yet she had

remained very pure and healthy, even very _naive_, maidenly by reason of

her natural rectitude. And she was also very much a woman, beautifying

and amusing herself with a mere nothing, and ever showing gaiety and

contentment. Moreover, she was in no wise of a dreamy nature, but very

practical, always intent on some work or other, and only asking of life

such things as life could give, without anxiety as to what might lie

beyond it. She lovingly remembered her pious mother, who had prepared her

for her first Communion in tears, imagining that she was opening heaven’s

portals to her. But since she had been an orphan she had of her own

accord ceased all practice of religion, her good sense revolting and

scorning the need of any moral police regulations to make her do her

duty. Indeed, she considered such regulations dangerous and destructive

of true health. Thus, like Mere-Grand, she had come to a sort of quiet

and almost unconscious atheism, not after the fashion of one who reasons,

but simply like the brave, healthy girl she was, one who had long endured

poverty without suffering from it, and believed in nothing save the

necessity of effort. She had been kept erect, indeed, by her conviction

that happiness was to be found in the normal joys of life, lived

courageously. And her happy equilibrium of mind had ever guided and saved

her, in such wise that she willingly listened to her natural instinct,

saying, with her pleasant laugh, that this was, after all, her best

adviser. She rejected two offers of marriage, and on the second occasion,

as Guillaume pressed her to accept, she grew astonished, and inquired if

he had had enough of her in the house. She found herself very

comfortable, and she rendered service there. So why should she leave and

run the risk of being less happy elsewhere, particularly as she was not

in love with anybody?

Then, by degrees, the idea of a marriage between Marie and Guillaume

presented itself; and indeed what could have been more reasonable and

advantageous for all? If Guillaume had not mated again it was for his

sons’ sake, because he feared that by introducing a stranger to the house

he might impair its quietude and gaiety. But now there was a woman among

them who already showed herself maternal towards the boys, and whose

bright youth had ended by disturbing his own heart. He was still in his

prime, and had always held that it was not good for man to live alone,

although, personally, thanks to his ardour for work, he had hitherto

escaped excessive suffering in his bereavement. However, there was the

great difference of ages to be considered; and he would have bravely

remained in the background and have sought a younger husband for Marie,

if his three big sons and Mere-Grand herself had not conspired to effect

his happiness by doing all they could to bring about a marriage which

would strengthen every home tie and impart, as it were, a fresh

springtide to the house. As for Marie, touched and grateful to Guillaume

for the manner in which he had treated her for five years past, she

immediately consented with an impulse of sincere affection, in which, she

fancied, she could detect love. And at all events, could she act in a

more sensible, reasonable way, base her life on more certain prospects of

happiness? So the marriage had been resolved upon; and about a month

previously it had been decided that it should take place during the

ensuing spring, towards the end of April.

When Pierre, after alighting from the tramcar, began to climb the

interminable flights of steps leading to the Rue St. Eleuthere, a feeling

of uneasiness again came over him at the thought that he was about to

enter that suspicious ogre’s den where everything would certainly wound

and irritate him. Given the letter which Sophie had carried thither on

the previous night, announcing that the master would not return, how

anxious and upset must all its inmates be! However, as Pierre ascended

the final flight and nervously raised his head, the little house appeared

to him right atop of the hill, looking very serene and quiet under the

bright wintry sun, which had peered forth as if to bestow upon the modest

dwelling an affectionate caress.

There was a door in the old garden wall alongside the Rue St. Eleuthere,

almost in front of the broad thoroughfare conducting to the basilica of

the Sacred Heart; but to reach the house itself one had to skirt the wall

and climb to the Place du Tertre, where one found the facade and the

entrance. Some children were playing on the Place, which, planted as it

was with a few scrubby trees, and edged with humble shops,--a

fruiterer’s, a grocer’s and a baker’s,--looked like some square in a

small provincial town. In a corner, on the left, Guillaume’s dwelling,

which had been whitewashed during the previous spring, showed its bright

frontage and five lifeless windows, for all its life was on the other,

the garden, side, which overlooked Paris and the far horizon.

Pierre mustered his courage and, pulling a brass knob which glittered

like gold, rang the bell. There came a gay, distant jingle; but for a

moment nobody appeared, and he was about to ring again, when the door was

thrown wide open, revealing a passage which ran right through the house,

beyond which appeared the ocean of Paris, the endless sea of house roofs

bathed in sunlight. And against this spacious, airy background, stood a

young woman of twenty-six, clad in a simple gown of black woolen stuff,

half covered by a large blue apron. She had her sleeves rolled up above

her elbows, and her arms and hands were still moist with water which she

had but imperfectly wiped away.

A moment’s surprise and embarrassment ensued. The young woman, who had

hastened to the door with laughing mien, became grave and covertly

hostile at sight of the visitor’s cassock. The priest thereupon realised

that he must give his name: “I am Abbe Pierre Froment.”

At this the young woman’s smile of welcome came back to her. “Oh! I beg

your pardon, monsieur--I ought to have recognised you, for I saw you wish

Guillaume good day one morning as you passed.”

She said Guillaume; she, therefore, must be Marie. And Pierre looked at

her in astonishment, finding her very different from what he had

imagined. She was only of average height, but she was vigorously,

admirably built, broad of hip and broad of shoulder, with the small firm

bosom of an amazon. By her erect and easy step, instinct with all the

adorable grace of woman in her prime, one could divine that she was

strong, muscular and healthy. A brunette, but very white of skin, she had

a heavy helm of superb black hair, which she fastened in a negligent way,

without any show of coquetry. And under her dark locks, her pure,

intelligent brow, her delicate nose and gay eyes appeared full of intense

life; whilst the somewhat heavier character of her lower features, her

fleshy lips and full chin, bespoke her quiet kindliness. She had surely

come on earth as a promise of every form of tenderness, every form of

devotion. In a word, she was a true mate for man.

However, with her heavy, straying hair and superb arms, so ingenuous in

their nudity, she only gave Pierre an impression of superfluous health

and extreme self-assurance. She displeased him and even made him feel

somewhat anxious, as if she were a creature different from all others.

“It is my brother Guillaume who has sent me,” he said.

At this her face again changed; she became grave and hastened to admit

him to the passage. And when the door was closed she answered: “You have

brought us news of him, then! I must apologise for receiving you in this

fashion. The servants have just finished some washing, and I was making

sure if the work had been well done. Pray excuse me, and come in here for

a moment; it is perhaps best that I should be the first to know the

news.”

So saying, she led him past the kitchen to a little room which served as

scullery and wash-house. A tub full of soapy water stood there, and some

dripping linen hung over some wooden bars. “And so, Guillaume?” she

asked.

Pierre then told the truth in simple fashion: that his brother’s wrist

had been injured; that he himself had witnessed the accident, and that

his brother had then sought an asylum with him at Neuilly, where he

wished to remain and get cured of his injury in peace and quietness,

without even receiving a visit from his sons. While speaking in this

fashion, the priest watched the effect of his words on Marie’s face:

first fright and pity, and then an effort to calm herself and judge

things reasonably.

“His letter quite froze me last night,” she ended by replying. “I felt

sure that some misfortune had happened. But one must be brave and hide

one’s fear from others. His wrist injured, you say; it is not a serious

injury, is it?”

“No; but it is necessary that every precaution should be taken with it.”

She looked him well in the face with her big frank eyes, which dived into

his own as if to reach the very depths of his being, though at the same

time she plainly sought to restrain the score of questions which rose to

her lips. “And that is all: he was injured in an accident,” she resumed;

“he didn’t ask you to tell us anything further about it?”

“No, he simply desires that you will not be anxious.”

Thereupon she insisted no further, but showed herself obedient and

respectful of the decision which Guillaume had arrived at. It sufficed

that he should have sent a messenger to reassure the household--she did

not seek to learn any more. And even as she had returned to her work in

spite of the secret anxiety in which the letter of the previous evening

had left her, so now, with her air of quiet strength, she recovered an

appearance of serenity, a quiet smile and clear brave glance.

“Guillaume only gave me one other commission,” resumed Pierre, “that of

handing a little key to Madame Leroi.”

“Very good,” Marie answered, “Mere-Grand is here; and, besides, the

children must see you. I will take you to them.”

Once more quite tranquil, she examined Pierre without managing to conceal

her curiosity, which seemed of rather a kindly nature blended with an

element of vague pity. Her fresh white arms had remained bare. In all

candour she slowly drew down her sleeves; then took off the large blue

apron, and showed herself with her rounded figure, at once robust and

elegant, in her modest black gown. He meanwhile looked at her, and most

certainly he did not find her to his liking. On seeing her so natural,

healthy, and courageous, quite a feeling of revolt arose within him,

though he knew not why.

“Will you please follow me, Monsieur l’Abbe?” she said. “We must cross

the garden.”

On the ground-floor of the house, across the passage, and facing the

kitchen and the scullery, there were two other rooms, a library

overlooking the Place du Tertre, and a dining-room whose windows opened

into the garden. The four rooms on the first floor served as bedchambers

for the father and the sons. As for the garden, originally but a small

one, it had now been reduced to a kind of gravelled yard by the erection

of the large workshop at one end of it. Of the former greenery, however,

there still remained two huge plum-trees with old knotted trunks, as well

as a big clump of lilac-bushes, which every spring were covered with

bloom. And in front of the latter Marie had arranged a broad flower-bed,

in which she amused herself with growing a few roses, some wallflowers

and some mignonette.

With a wave of her hand as she went past, she called Pierre’s attention

to the black plum-trees and the lilacs and roses, which showed but a few

greenish spots, for winter still held the little nook in sleep. “Tell

Guillaume,” she said, “that he must make haste to get well and be back

for the first shoots.”

Then, as Pierre glanced at her, she all at once flushed purple. Much to

her distress, sudden and involuntary blushes would in this wise

occasionally come upon her, even at the most innocent remarks. She found

it ridiculous to feel such childish emotion when she had so brave a

heart. But her pure maidenly blood had retained exquisite delicacy, such

natural and instinctive modesty that she yielded to it perforce. And

doubtless she had merely blushed because she feared that the priest might

think she had referred to her marriage in speaking of the spring.

“Please go in, Monsieur l’Abbe. The children are there, all three.” And

forthwith she ushered him into the workshop.

It was a very spacious place, over sixteen feet high, with a brick

flooring and bare walls painted an iron grey. A sheet of light, a stream

of sunshine, spread to every corner through a huge window facing the

south, where lay the immensity of Paris. The Venetian shutters often had

to be lowered in the summer to attenuate the great heat. From morn till

night the whole family lived here, closely and affectionately united in

work. Each was installed as fancy listed, having a particular chosen

place. One half of the building was occupied by the father’s chemical

laboratory, with its stove, experiment tables, shelves for apparatus,

glass cases and cupboards for phials and jars. Near all this Thomas, the

eldest son, had installed a little forge, an anvil, a vice bench, in fact

everything necessary to a working mechanician, such as he had become

since taking his bachelor’s degree, from his desire to remain with his

father and help him with certain researches and inventions. Then, at the

other end, the younger brothers, Francois and Antoine, got on very well

together on either side of a broad table which stood amidst a medley of

portfolios, nests of drawers and revolving book-stands. Francois, laden

with academical laurels, first on the pass list for the Ecole Normale,

had entered that college where young men are trained for university

professorships, and was there preparing for his Licentiate degree, while

Antoine, who on reaching the third class at the Lycee Condorcet had taken

a dislike to classical studies, now devoted himself to his calling as a

wood-engraver. And, in the full light under the window, Mere-Grand and

Marie likewise had their particular table, where needlework, embroidery,

all sorts of _chiffons_ and delicate things lay about near the somewhat

rough jumble of retorts, tools and big books.

Marie, however, on the very threshold called out in her calm voice, to

which she strove to impart a gay and cheering accent: “Children!

children! here is Monsieur l’Abbe with news of father!”

Children, indeed! Yet what motherliness she already set in the word as

she applied it to those big fellows whose elder sister she had long

considered herself to be! At three and twenty Thomas was quite a

colossus, already bearded and extremely like his father. But although he

had a lofty brow and energetic features, he was somewhat slow both in

mind and body. And he was also taciturn, almost unsociable, absorbed in

filial devotion, delighted with the manual toil which made him a mere

workman at his master’s orders. Francois, two years younger than Thomas,

and nearly as tall, showed a more refined face, though he had the same

large brow and firm mouth, a perfect blending of health and strength, in

which the man of intellect, the scientific Normalian, could only be

detected by the brighter and more subtle sparkle of the eyes. The

youngest of the brothers, Antoine, who for his eighteen years was almost

as strong as his elders, and promised to become as tall, differed from

them by his lighter hair and soft, blue, dreamy eyes, which he had

inherited from his mother. It had been difficult, however, to distinguish

one from the other when all three were schoolboys at the Lycee Condorcet;

and even nowadays people made mistakes unless they saw them side by side,

so as to detect the points of difference which were becoming more marked

as age progressed.

On Pierre’s arrival the brothers were so absorbed in their work that they

did not even hear the door open. And again, as in the case of Marie, the

priest was surprised by the discipline and firmness of mind, which amidst

the keenest anxiety gave the young fellows strength to take up their

daily task. Thomas, who stood at his vice-bench in a blouse, was

carefully filing a little piece of copper with rough but skilful hands.

Francois, leaning forward, was writing in a bold, firm fashion, whilst on

the other side of the table, Antoine, with a slender graver between his

fingers, finished a block for an illustrated newspaper.

However, Marie’s clear voice made them raise their heads: “Children,

father has sent you some news!”

Then all three with the same impulse hurriedly quitted their work and

came forward. One could divine that directly there was any question of

their father they were drawn together, blended one with the other, so

that but one and the same heart beat in their three broad chests.

However, a door at the far end of the workroom opened at that moment, and

Mere-Grand, coming from the upper floor where she and Marie had their

bedrooms, made her appearance. She had just absented herself to fetch a

skein of wool; and she gazed fixedly at the priest, unable to understand

the reason of his presence.

Marie had to explain matters. “Mere-Grand,” said she, “this is Monsieur

l’Abbe Froment, Guillaume’s brother; he has come from him.”

Pierre on his side was examining the old lady, astonished to find her so

erect and full of life at seventy. Her former beauty had left a stately

charm on her rather long face; youthful fire still lingered in her brown

eyes; and very firm was the contour of her pale lips, which in parting

showed that she had retained all her teeth. A few white hairs alone

silvered her black tresses, which were arranged in old-time fashion. Her

cheeks had but slightly withered, and her deep, symmetrical wrinkles gave

her countenance an expression of much nobility, a sovereign air as of a

queen-mother, which, tall and slight of stature as she was, and

invariably gowned in black woollen stuff, she always retained, no matter

how humble her occupation.

“So Guillaume sent you, monsieur,” she said; “he is injured, is he not?”

Surprised by this proof of intuition, Pierre repeated his story. “Yes,

his wrist is injured--but oh! it’s not a case of immediate gravity.”

On the part of the three sons, he had divined a sudden quiver, an impulse

of their whole beings to rush to the help and defence of their father.

And for their sakes he sought words of comfort: “He is with me at

Neuilly. And with due care it is certain that no serious complications

will arise. He sent me to tell you to be in no wise uneasy about him.”

Mere-Grand for her part evinced no fears, but preserved great calmness,

as if the priest’s tidings contained nothing beyond what she had known

already. If anything, she seemed rather relieved, freed from anxiety

which she had confided to none. “If he is with you, monsieur,” she

answered, “he is evidently as comfortable as he can be, and sheltered

from all risks. We were surprised, however, by his letter last night, as

it did not explain why he was detained, and we should have ended by

feeling frightened. But now everything is satisfactory.”

Mere-Grand and the three sons, following Marie’s example, asked no

explanations. On a table near at hand Pierre noticed several morning

newspapers lying open and displaying column after column of particulars

about the crime. The sons had certainly read these papers, and had feared

lest their father should be compromised in that frightful affair. How far

did their knowledge of the latter go? They must be ignorant of the part

played by Salvat. It was surely impossible for them to piece together all

the unforeseen circumstances which had brought about their father’s

meeting with the workman, and then the crime. Mere-Grand, no doubt, was

in certain respects better informed than the others. But they, the sons

and Marie, neither knew nor sought to know anything. And thus what a

wealth of respect and affection there was in their unshakable confidence

in the father, in the tranquillity they displayed directly he sent them

word that they were not to be anxious about him!

“Madame,” Pierre resumed, “Guillaume told me to give you this little key,

and to remind you to do what he charged you to do, if any misfortune

should befall him.”

She started, but so slightly that it was scarcely perceptible; and taking

the key she answered as if some ordinary wish on the part of a sick

person were alone in question. “Very well. Tell him that his wishes shall

be carried out.” Then she added, “But pray take a seat, monsieur.”

Pierre, indeed, had remained standing. However, he now felt it necessary

to accept a chair, desirous as he was of hiding the embarrassment which

he still felt in this house, although he was _en famille_ there. Marie,

who could not live without occupation for her fingers, had just returned

to some embroidery, some of the fine needlework which she stubbornly

executed for a large establishment dealing in baby-linen and bridal

_trousseaux_; for she wished at any rate to earn her own pocket-money,

she often said with a laugh. Mere-Grand, too, from habit, which she

followed even when visitors were present, had once more started on her

perpetual stocking-mending; while Francois and Antoine had again seated

themselves at their table; and Thomas alone remained on his legs, leaning

against his bench. All the charm of industrious intimacy pervaded the

spacious, sun-lit room.

“But we’ll all go to see father to-morrow,” Thomas suddenly exclaimed.

Before Pierre could answer Marie raised her head. “No, no,” said she, “he

does not wish any of us to go to him; for if we should be watched and

followed we should betray the secret of his retreat. Isn’t that so,

Monsieur l’Abbe?”

“It would indeed be prudent of you to deprive yourselves of the pleasure

of embracing him until he himself can come back here. It will be a matter

of some two or three weeks,” answered Pierre.

Mere-Grand at once expressed approval of this. “No doubt,” said she.

“Nothing could be more sensible.”

So the three sons did not insist, but bravely accepted the secret anxiety

in which they must for a time live, renouncing the visit which would have

caused them so much delight, because their father bade them do so and

because his safety depended perhaps on their obedience.

However, Thomas resumed: “Then, Monsieur l’Abbe, will you please tell him

that as work will be interrupted here, I shall return to the factory

during his absence. I shall be more at ease there for the researches on

which we are engaged.”

“And please tell him from me,” put in Francois, “that he mustn’t worry

about my examination. Things are going very well. I feel almost certain

of success.”

Pierre promised that he would forget nothing. However, Marie raised her

head, smiling and glancing at Antoine, who had remained silent with a

faraway look in his eyes. “And you, little one,” said she, “don’t you

send him any message?”

Emerging from a dream, the young fellow also began to smile. “Yes, yes, a

message that you love him dearly, and that he’s to make haste back for

you to make him happy.”

At this they all became merry, even Marie, who in lieu of embarrassment

showed a tranquil gaiety born of confidence in the future. Between her

and the young men there was naught but happy affection. And a grave smile

appeared even on the pale lips of Mere-Grand, who likewise approved of

the happiness which life seemed to be promising.

Pierre wished to stay a few minutes longer. They all began to chat, and

his astonishment increased. He had gone from surprise to surprise in this

house where he had expected to find that equivocal, disorderly life, that

rebellion against social laws, which destroy morality. But instead of

this he had found loving serenity, and such strong discipline that life

there partook of the gravity, almost the austerity, of convent life,

tempered by youth and gaiety. The vast room was redolent of industry and

quietude, warm with bright sunshine. However, what most particularly

struck him was the Spartan training, the bravery of mind and heart among

those sons who allowed nothing to be seen of their personal feelings, and

did not presume to judge their father, but remained content with his

message, ready to await events, stoical and silent, while carrying on

their daily tasks. Nothing could be more simple, more dignified, more

lofty. And there was also the smiling heroism of Mere-Grand and Marie,

those two women who slept over that laboratory where terrible

preparations were manipulated, and where an explosion was always

possible.

However, such courage, orderliness and dignity merely surprised Pierre,

without touching him. He had no cause for complaint, he had received a

polite greeting if not an affectionate one; but then he was as yet only a

stranger there, a priest. In spite of everything, however, he remained

hostile, feeling that he was in a sphere where none of his own torments

could be shared or even divined. How did these folks manage to be so calm

and happy amidst their religious unbelief, their sole faith in science,

and in presence of that terrifying Paris which spread before them the

boundless sea, the growling abomination of its injustice and its want? As

this thought came to him he turned his head and gazed at the city through

the huge window, whence it stretched away, ever present, ever living its

giant life. And at that hour, under the oblique sun-rays of the winter

afternoon, all Paris was speckled with luminous dust, as if some

invisible sower, hidden amidst the glory of the planet, were fast

scattering seed which fell upon every side in a stream of gold. The whole

field was covered with it; for the endless chaos of house roofs and

edifices seemed to be land in tilth, furrowed by some gigantic plough.

And Pierre in his uneasiness, stirred, despite everything, by an

invincible need of hope, asked himself if this was not a good sowing, the

furrows of Paris strewn with light by the divine sun for the great future

harvest, that harvest of truth and justice of whose advent he had

despaired.

At last he rose and took his leave, promising to return at once, if there

should be any bad news. It was Marie who showed him to the front door.

And there another of those childish blushes which worried her so much

suddenly rose to her face, just as she, in her turn, also wished to send

her loving message to the injured man. However, with her gay, candid eyes

fixed on those of the priest, she bravely spoke the words: “_Au revoir,

Monsieur l’Abbe_. Tell Guillaume that I love him and await him.”

III. PENURY AND TOIL

THREE days went by, and every morning Guillaume, confined to his bed and

consumed by fever and impatience, experienced fresh anxiety directly the

newspapers arrived. Pierre had tried to keep them from him, but Guillaume

then worried himself the more, and so the priest had to read him column

by column all the extraordinary articles that were published respecting

the crime.

Never before had so many rumours inundated the press. Even the “Globe,”

usually so grave and circumspect, yielded to the general _furore_, and

printed whatever statements reached it. But the more unscrupulous papers

were the ones to read. The “Voix du Peuple” in particular made use of the

public feverishness to increase its sales. Each morning it employed some

fresh device, and printed some frightful story of a nature to drive

people mad with terror. It related that not a day passed without Baron

Duvillard receiving threatening letters of the coarsest description,

announcing that his wife, his son and his daughter would all be killed,

that he himself would be butchered in turn, and that do what he might his

house would none the less be blown up. And as a measure of precaution the

house was guarded day and night alike by a perfect army of plain-clothes

officers. Then another article contained an amazing piece of invention.

Some anarchists, after carrying barrels of powder into a sewer near the

Madeleine, were said to have undermined the whole district, planning a

perfect volcano there, into which one half of Paris would sink. And at

another time it was alleged that the police were on the track of a

terrible plot which embraced all Europe, from the depths of Russia to the

shores of Spain. The signal for putting it into execution was to be given

in France, and there would be a three days’ massacre, with grape shot

sweeping everyone off the Boulevards, and the Seine running red, swollen

by a torrent of blood. Thanks to these able and intelligent devices of

the Press, terror now reigned in the city; frightened foreigners fled

from the hotels _en masse_; and Paris had become a mere mad-house, where

the most idiotic delusions at once found credit.

It was not all this, however, that worried Guillaume. He was only anxious

about Salvat and the various new “scents” which the newspaper reporters

attempted to follow up. The engineer was not yet arrested, and, so far

indeed, there had been no statement in print to indicate that the police

were on his track. At last, however, Pierre one morning read a paragraph

which made the injured man turn pale.

“Dear me! It seems that a tool has been found among the rubbish at the

entrance of the Duvillard mansion. It is a bradawl, and its handle bears

the name of Grandidier, which is that of a man who keeps some well-known

metal works. He is to appear before the investigating magistrate to-day.”

Guillaume made a gesture of despair. “Ah!” said he, “they are on the

right track at last. That tool must certainly have been dropped by

Salvat. He worked at Grandidier’s before he came to me for a few days.

And from Grandidier they will learn all that they need to know in order

to follow the scent.”

Pierre then remembered that he had heard the Grandidier factory mentioned

at Montmartre. Guillaume’s eldest son, Thomas, had served his

apprenticeship there, and even worked there occasionally nowadays.

“You told me,” resumed Guillaume, “that during my absence Thomas intended

to go back to the factory. It’s in connection with a new motor which he’s

planning, and has almost hit upon. If there should be a perquisition

there, he may be questioned, and may refuse to answer, in order to guard

his secret. So he ought to be warned of this, warned at once!”

Without trying to extract any more precise statement from his brother,

Pierre obligingly offered his services. “If you like,” said he, “I will

go to see Thomas this afternoon. Perhaps I may come across Monsieur

Grandidier himself and learn how far the affair has gone, and what was

said at the investigating magistrate’s.”

With a moist glance and an affectionate grasp of the hand, Guillaume at

once thanked Pierre: “Yes, yes, brother, go there, it will be good and

brave of you.”

“Besides,” continued the priest, “I really wanted to go to Montmartre

to-day. I haven’t told you so, but something has been worrying me. If

Salvat has fled, he must have left the woman and the child all alone up

yonder. On the morning of the day when the explosion took place I saw the

poor creatures in such a state of destitution, such misery, that I can’t

think of them without a heart-pang. Women and children so often die of

hunger when the man is no longer there.”

At this, Guillaume, who had kept Pierre’s hand in his own, pressed it

more tightly, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: “Yes, yes, and that

will be good and brave too. Go there, brother, go there.”

That house of the Rue des Saules, that horrible home of want and agony,

had lingered in Pierre’s memory. To him it was like an embodiment of the

whole filthy _cloaca_, in which the poor of Paris suffer unto death. And

on returning thither that afternoon, he found the same slimy mud around

it; its yard littered with the same filth, its dark, damp stairways

redolent of the same stench of neglect and poverty, as before. In winter

time, while the fine central districts of Paris are dried and cleansed,

the far-away districts of the poor remain gloomy and miry, beneath the

everlasting tramp of the wretched ones who dwell in them.

Remembering the staircase which conducted to Salvat’s lodging, Pierre

began to climb it amidst a loud screaming of little children, who

suddenly became quiet, letting the house sink into death-like silence

once more. Then the thought of Laveuve, who had perished up there like a

stray dog, came back to Pierre. And he shuddered when, on the top

landing, he knocked at Salvat’s door, and profound silence alone answered

him. Not a breath was to be heard.

However, he knocked again, and as nothing stirred he began to think that

nobody could be there. Perhaps Salvat had returned to fetch the woman and

the child, and perhaps they had followed him to some humble nook abroad.

Still this would have astonished him; for the poor seldom quit their

homes, but die where they have suffered. So he gave another gentle knock.

And at last a faint sound, the light tread of little feet, was heard

amidst the silence. Then a weak, childish voice ventured to inquire: “Who

is there?”

“Monsieur l’Abbe.”

The silence fell again, nothing more stirred. There was evidently

hesitation on the other side.

“Monsieur l’Abbe who came the other day,” said Pierre again.

This evidently put an end to all uncertainty, for the door was set ajar

and little Celine admitted the priest. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur

l’Abbe,” said she, “but Mamma Theodore has gone out, and she told me not

to open the door to anyone.”

Pierre had, for a moment, imagined that Salvat himself was hiding there.

But with a glance he took in the whole of the small bare room, where man,

woman and child dwelt together. At the same time, Madame Theodore

doubtless feared a visit from the police. Had she seen Salvat since the

crime? Did she know where he was hiding? Had he come back there to

embrace and tranquillise them both?

“And your papa, my dear,” said Pierre to Celine, “isn’t he here either?”

“Oh! no, monsieur, he has gone away.”

“What, gone away?”

“Yes, he hasn’t been home to sleep, and we don’t know where he is.”

“Perhaps he’s working.”

“Oh, no! he’d send us some money if he was.”

“Then he’s gone on a journey, perhaps?”

“I don’t know.”

“He wrote to Mamma Theodore, no doubt?”

“I don’t know.”

Pierre asked no further questions. In fact, he felt somewhat ashamed of

his attempt to extract information from this child of eleven, whom he

thus found alone. It was quite possible that she knew nothing, that

Salvat, in a spirit of prudence, had even refrained from sending any

tidings of himself. Indeed, there was an expression of truthfulness on

the child’s fair, gentle and intelligent face, which was grave with the

gravity that extreme misery imparts to the young.

“I am sorry that Mamma Theodore isn’t here,” said Pierre, “I wanted to

speak to her.”

“But perhaps you would like to wait for her, Monsieur l’Abbe. She has

gone to my Uncle Toussaint’s in the Rue Marcadet; and she can’t stop much

longer, for she’s been away more than an hour.”

Thereupon Celine cleared one of the chairs on which lay a handful of

scraps of wood, picked up on some waste ground.

The bare and fireless room was assuredly also a breadless one. Pierre

could divine the absence of the bread-winner, the disappearance of the

man who represents will and strength in the home, and on whom one still

relies even when weeks have gone by without work. He goes out and scours

the city, and often ends by bringing back the indispensable crust which

keeps death at bay. But with his disappearance comes complete

abandonment, the wife and child in danger, destitute of all prop and

help.

Pierre, who had sat down and was looking at that poor, little, blue-eyed

girl, to whose lips a smile returned in spite of everything, could not

keep from questioning her on another point. “So you don’t go to school,

my child?” said he.

She faintly blushed and answered: “I’ve no shoes to go in.”

He glanced at her feet, and saw that she was wearing a pair of ragged old

list-slippers, from which her little toes protruded, red with cold.

“Besides,” she continued, “Mamma Theodore says that one doesn’t go to

school when one’s got nothing to eat. Mamma Theodore wanted to work but

she couldn’t, because her eyes got burning hot and full of water. And so

we don’t know what to do, for we’ve had nothing left since yesterday, and

if Uncle Toussaint can’t lend us twenty sous it’ll be all over.”

She was still smiling in her unconscious way, but two big tears had

gathered in her eyes. And the sight of the child shut up in that bare

room, apart from all the happy ones of earth, so upset the priest that he

again felt his anger with want and misery awakening. Then, another ten

minutes having elapsed, he became impatient, for he had to go to the

Grandidier works before returning home.

“I don’t know why Mamma Theodore doesn’t come back,” repeated Celine.

“Perhaps she’s chatting.” Then, an idea occurring to her she continued:

“I’ll take you to my Uncle Toussaint’s, Monsieur l’Abbe, if you like.

It’s close by, just round the corner.”

“But you have no shoes, my child.”

“Oh! that don’t matter, I walk all the same.”

Thereupon he rose from the chair and said simply: “Well, yes, that will

be better, take me there. And I’ll buy you some shoes.”

Celine turned quite pink, and then made haste to follow him after

carefully locking the door of the room like a good little housewife,

though, truth to tell, there was nothing worth stealing in the place.

In the meantime it had occurred to Madame Theodore that before calling on

her brother Toussaint to try to borrow a franc from him, she might first

essay her luck with her younger sister, Hortense, who had married little

Chretiennot, the clerk, and occupied a flat of four rooms on the

Boulevard de Rochechouart. This was quite an affair, however, and the

poor woman only made the venture because Celine had been fasting since

the previous day.

Eugene Toussaint, the mechanician, a man of fifty, was her stepbrother,

by the first marriage contracted by her father. A young dressmaker whom

the latter had subsequently wedded, had borne him three daughters,

Pauline, Leonie and Hortense. And on his death, his son Eugene, who

already had a wife and child of his own, had found himself for a short

time with his stepmother and sisters on his hands. The stepmother,

fortunately, was an active and intelligent woman, and knew how to get out

of difficulties. She returned to her former workroom where her daughter

Pauline was already apprenticed, and she next placed Leonie there; so

that Hortense, the youngest girl, who was a spoilt child, prettier and

more delicate than her sisters, was alone left at school. And, later

on,--after Pauline had married Labitte the stonemason, and Leonie, Salvat

the journeyman-engineer,--Hortense, while serving as assistant at a

confectioner’s in the Rue des Martyrs, there became acquainted with

Chretiennot, a clerk, who married her. Leonie had died young, only a few

weeks after her mother; Pauline, forsaken by her husband, lived with her

brother-in-law Salvat, and Hortense alone wore a light silk gown on

Sundays, resided in a new house, and ranked as a _bourgeoise_, at the

price, however, of interminable worries and great privation.

Madame Theodore knew that her sister was generally short of money towards

the month’s end, and therefore felt rather ill at ease in thus venturing

to apply for a loan. Chretiennot, moreover, embittered by his own

mediocrity, had of late years accused his wife of being the cause of

their spoilt life, and had ceased all intercourse with her relatives.

Toussaint, no doubt, was a decent workman; but that Madame Theodore who

lived in misery with her brother-in-law, and that Salvat who wandered

from workshop to workshop like an incorrigible ranter whom no employer

would keep; those two, with their want and dirt and rebellion, had ended

by incensing the vain little clerk, who was not only a great stickler for

the proprieties, but was soured by all the difficulties he encountered in

his own life. And thus he had forbidden Hortense to receive her sister.

All the same, as Madame Theodore climbed the carpeted staircase of the

house on the Boulevard Rochechouart, she experienced a certain feeling of

pride at the thought that she had a relation living in such luxury. The

Chretiennot’s rooms were on the third floor, and overlooked the

courtyard. Their _femme-de-menage_--a woman who goes out by the day or

hour charring, cleaning and cooking--came back every afternoon about four

o’clock to see to the dinner, and that day she was already there. She

admitted the visitor, though she could not conceal her anxious surprise

at her boldness in calling in such slatternly garb. However, on the very

threshold of the little salon, Madame Theodore stopped short in

wonderment herself, for her sister Hortense was sobbing and crouching on

one of the armchairs, upholstered in blue repp, of which she was so

proud.

“What is the matter? What has happened to you?” asked Madame Theodore.

Her sister, though scarcely two and thirty, was no longer “the beautiful

Hortense” of former days. She retained a doll-like appearance, with a

tall slim figure, pretty eyes and fine, fair hair. But she who had once

taken so much care of herself, had now come down to dressing-gowns of

doubtful cleanliness. Her eyelids, too, were reddening, and blotches were

appearing on her skin. She had begun to fade after giving birth to two

daughters, one of whom was now nine and the other seven years of age.

Very proud and egotistical, she herself had begun to regret her marriage,

for she had formerly considered herself a real beauty, worthy of the

palaces and equipages of some Prince Charming. And at this moment she was

plunged in such despair, that her sister’s sudden appearance on the scene

did not even astonish her: “Ah! it’s you,” she gasped. “Ah! if you only

knew what a blow’s fallen on me in the middle of all our worries!”

Madame Theodore at once thought of the children, Lucienne and Marcelle.

“Are your daughters ill?” she asked.

“No, no, our neighbour has taken them for a walk on the Boulevard. But

the fact is, my dear, I’m _enceinte_, and when I told Chretiennot of it

after _dejeuner_, he flew into a most fearful passion, saying the most

dreadful, the most cruel things!”

Then she again sobbed. Gentle and indolent by nature, desirous of peace

and quietness before anything else, she was incapable of deceiving her

husband, as he well knew. But the trouble was that an addition to the

family would upset the whole economy of the household.

“_Mon Dieu_!” said Madame Theodore at last, “you brought up the others,

and you’ll bring up this one too.”

At this an explosion of anger dried the other’s eyes; and she rose,

exclaiming: “You are good, you are! One can see that our purse isn’t

yours. How are we to bring up another child when we can scarcely make

both ends meet as it is?”

And thereupon, forgetting the _bourgeois_ pride which usually prompted

her to silence or falsehood, she freely explained their embarrassment,

the horrid pecuniary worries which made their life a perpetual misery.

Their rent amounted to 700 francs,* so that out of the 3000 francs**

which the husband earned at his office, barely a couple of hundred were

left them every month. And how were they to manage with that little sum,

provide food and clothes, keep up their rank and so forth? There was the

indispensable black coat for monsieur, the new dress which madame must

have at regular intervals, under penalty of losing caste, the new boots

which the children required almost every month, in fact, all sorts of

things that could not possibly be dispensed with. One might strike a dish

or two out of the daily menu, and even go without wine; but evenings came

when it was absolutely necessary to take a cab. And, apart from all this,

one had to reckon with the wastefulness of the children, the disorder in

which the discouraged wife left the house, and the despair of the

husband, who was convinced that he would never extricate himself from his

difficulties, even should his salary some day be raised to as high a

figure as 4000 francs. Briefly, one here found the unbearable penury of

the petty clerk, with consequences as disastrous as the black want of the

artisan: the mock facade and lying luxury; all the disorder and suffering

which lie behind intellectual pride at not earning one’s living at a

bench or on a scaffolding.

* $140.

** $600.

“Well, well,” repeated Madame Theodore, “you can’t kill the child.”

“No, of course not; but it’s the end of everything,” answered Hortense,

sinking into the armchair again. “What will become of us, _mon Dieu_!

What will become of us!” Then she collapsed in her unbuttoned dressing

gown, tears once more gushing from her red and swollen eyes.

Much vexed that circumstances should be so unpropitious, Madame Theodore

nevertheless ventured to ask for the loan of twenty sons; and this

brought her sister’s despair and confusion to a climax. “I really haven’t

a centime in the house,” said she, “just now I borrowed ten sous for the

children from the servant. I had to get ten francs from the Mont de Piete

on a little ring the other day. And it’s always the same at the end of

the month. However, Chretiennot will be paid to-day, and he’s coming back

early with the money for dinner. So if I can I will send you something

to-morrow.”

At this same moment the servant hastened in with a distracted air, being

well aware that monsieur was in no wise partial to madame’s relatives.

“Oh madame, madame!” said she; “here’s monsieur coming up the stairs.”

“Quick then, quick, go away!” cried Hortense, “I should only have another

scene if he met you here. To-morrow, if I can, I promise you.”

To avoid Chretiennot who was coming in, Madame Theodore had to hide

herself in the kitchen. As he passed, she just caught sight of him, well

dressed as usual in a tight-fitting frock-coat. Short and lean, with a

thin face and long and carefully tended beard, he had the bearing of one

who is both vain and quarrelsome. Fourteen years of office life had

withered him, and now the long evening hours which he spent at a

neighbouring cafe were finishing him off.

When Madame Theodore had quitted the house she turned with dragging steps

towards the Rue Marcadet where the Toussaints resided. Here, again, she

had no great expectations, for she well knew what ill-luck and worry had

fallen upon her brother’s home. During the previous autumn Toussaint,

though he was but fifty, had experienced an attack of paralysis which had

laid him up for nearly five months. Prior to this mishap he had borne

himself bravely, working steadily, abstaining from drink, and bringing up

his three children in true fatherly fashion. One of them, a girl, was now

married to a carpenter, with whom she had gone to Le Havre, while of the

others, both boys--one a soldier, had been killed in Tonquin, and the

other Charles, after serving his time in the army, had become a working

mechanician. Still, Toussaint’s long illness had exhausted the little

money which he had in the Savings Bank, and now that he had been set on

his legs again, he had to begin life once more without a copper before

him.

Madame Theodore found her sister-in-law alone in the cleanly kept room

which she and her husband occupied. Madame Toussaint was a portly woman,

whose corpulence increased in spite of everything, whether it were worry

or fasting. She had a round puffy face with bright little eyes; and was a

very worthy woman, whose only faults were an inclination for gossiping

and a fondness for good cheer. Before Madame Theodore even opened her

mouth she understood the object of her visit. “You’ve come on us at a bad

moment, my dear,” she said, “we’re stumped. Toussaint wasn’t able to go

back to the works till the day before yesterday, and he’ll have to ask

for an advance this evening.”

As she spoke, she looked at the other with no great sympathy, hurt as she

felt by her slovenly appearance. “And Salvat,” she added, “is he still

doing nothing?”

Madame Theodore doubtless foresaw the question, for she quietly lied: “He

isn’t in Paris, a friend has taken him off for some work over Belgium

way, and I’m waiting for him to send us something.”