“And as we are speaking of this, Monseigneur,” said she, “I would even

ask you to give me some advice.... I shall need somebody to help me,

and I thought of securing the services of a priest whom I much admire,

Monsieur l’Abbe Pierre Froment.”

At this the Bishop became grave and embarrassed; but Princess Rosemonde,

who was passing by with Duthil, had overheard the Baroness, and drawing

near with her wonted impetuosity, she exclaimed: “Abbe Pierre Froment!

Oh! I forgot to tell you, my dear, that I met him going about in jacket

and trousers! And I’ve been told too that he cycles in the Bois with some

creature or other. Isn’t it true, Duthil, that we met him?”

The deputy bowed and smiled, whilst Eve clasped her hands in amazement.

“Is it possible! A priest who was all charitable fervour, who had the

faith and passion of an apostle!”

Thereupon Monseigneur intervened: “Yes, yes, great sorrows occasionally

fall upon the Church. I heard of the madness of the unhappy man you speak

of. I even thought it my duty to write to him, but he left my letter

unanswered. I should so much have liked to stifle such a scandal! But

there are abominable forces which we cannot always overcome; and so a day

or two ago the archbishop was obliged to put him under interdict....

You must choose somebody else, madame.”

It was quite a disaster. Eve gazed at Rosemonde and Duthil, without

daring to ask them for particulars, but wondering what creature could

have been so audacious as to turn a priest from the path of duty. She

must assuredly be some shameless demented woman! And it seemed to Eve as

if this crime gave a finishing touch to her own misfortune. With a wave

of the arm, which took in all the luxury around her, the roses steeping

her in perfume, and the crush of guests around the buffet, she murmured:

“Ah! decidedly there’s nothing but corruption left; one can no longer

rely on anybody!”

Whilst this was going on, Camille happened to be alone in her own room

getting ready to leave the house with Gerard. And all at once her brother

Hyacinthe joined her there. “Ah! it’s you, youngster!” she exclaimed.

“Well, make haste if you want to kiss me, for I’m off now, thank

goodness!”

He kissed her as she suggested, and then in a doctoral way replied: “I

thought you had more self-command. The delight you have been showing all

this morning quite disgusts me.”

A quiet glance of contempt was her only answer. However, he continued:

“You know very well that she’ll take your Gerard from you again, directly

you come back to Paris.”

At this Camille’s cheeks turned white and her eyes flared. She stepped

towards her brother with clenched fists: “She! you say that she will take

him from me!”

The “she” they referred to was their own mother.

“Listen, my boy! I’ll kill her first!” continued Camille. “Ah, no! she

needn’t hope for that. I shall know how to keep the man that belongs to

me.... And as for you, keep your spite to yourself, for I know you,

remember; you are a mere child and a fool!”

He recoiled as if a viper were rearing its sharp, slender black head

before him; and having always feared her, he thought it best to beat a

retreat.

While the last guests were rushing upon the buffet and finishing the

pillage there, the bridal pair took their leave, before driving off to

the railway station. General de Bozonnet had joined a group in order to

vent his usual complaints about compulsory military service, and the

Marquis de Morigny was obliged to fetch him at the moment when the

Countess de Quinsac was kissing her son and daughter-in-law. The old lady

trembled with so much emotion that the Marquis respectfully ventured to

sustain her. Meantime, Hyacinthe had started in search of his father, and

at last found him near a window with the tottering Chaigneux, whom he was

violently upbraiding, for Fonsegue’s conscientious scruples had put him

in a fury. Indeed, if Massot’s article should not be inserted in the

“Globe,” Silviane might lay all the blame upon him, the Baron, and wreak

further punishment upon him. However, upon being summoned by his son he

had to don his triumphal air once more, kiss his daughter on the

forehead, shake hands with his son-in-law, jest and wish them both a

pleasant journey. Then Eve, near whom Monseigneur Martha had remained,

smiling, in her turn had to say farewell. In this she evinced touching

bravery; her determination to remain beautiful and charming until the

very end lent her sufficient strength to show herself both gay and

motherly.

She took hold of the slightly quivering hand which Gerard proffered with

some embarrassment, and ventured to retain it for a moment in her own, in

a good-hearted, affectionate way, instinct with all the heroism of

renunciation. “Good by, Gerard,” she said, “keep in good health, be

happy.” Then turning to Camille she kissed her on both cheeks, while

Monseigneur Martha sat looking at them with an air of indulgent sympathy.

They wished each other “Au revoir,” but their voices trembled, and their

eyes in meeting gleamed like swords; in the same way as beneath the

kisses they had exchanged they had felt each other’s teeth. Ah! how it

enraged Camille to see her mother still so beautiful and fascinating in

spite of age and grief! And for Eve how great the torture of beholding

her daughter’s youth, that youth which had overcome her, and was for ever

wresting love from within her reach! No forgiveness was possible between

them; they would still hate one another even in the family tomb, where

some day they would sleep side by side.

All the same, that evening Baroness Duvillard excused herself from

attending the performance of “Polyeucte” at the Comedie Francaise. She

felt very tired and wished to go to bed early, said she. As a matter of

fact she wept on her pillow all night long. Thus the Baron’s stage-box on

the first balcony tier contained only himself, Hyacinthe, Duthil, and

little Princess de Harn.

At nine o’clock there was a full house, one of the brilliant chattering

houses peculiar to great dramatic solemnities. All the society people who

had marched through the sacristy of the Madeleine that morning were now

assembled at the theatre, again feverish with curiosity, and on the

lookout for the unexpected. One recognised the same faces and the sane

smiles; the women acknowledged one another’s presence with little signs

of intelligence, the men understood each other at a word, a gesture. One

and all had kept the appointment, the ladies with bared shoulders, the

gentlemen with flowers in their button-holes. Fonsegue occupied the

“Globe’s” box, with two friendly families. Little Massot had his

customary seat in the stalls. Amadieu, who was a faithful patron of the

Comedie, was also to be seen there, as well as General de Bozonnet and

Public Prosecutor Lehmann. The man who was most looked at, however, on

account of his scandalous article that morning, was Sagnier, the terrible

Sagnier, looking bloated and apoplectical. Then there was Chaigneux, who

had kept merely a modest bracket-seat for himself, and who scoured the

passages, and climbed to every tier, for the last time preaching

enthusiasm. Finally, the two ministers Monferrand and Dauvergne appeared

in the box facing Duvillard’s; whereupon many knowing smiles were

exchanged, for everybody was aware that these personages had come to help

on the success of the _debutante_.

On the latter point there had still been unfavourable rumours only the

previous day. Sagnier had declared that the _debut_ of such a notorious

harlot as Silviane at the Comedie Francaise, in such a part too as that

of “Pauline,” which was one of so much moral loftiness, could only be

regarded as an impudent insult to public decency. The whole press,

moreover, had long been up in arms against the young woman’s

extraordinary caprice. But then the affair had been talked of for six

months past, so that Paris had grown used to the idea of seeing Silviane

at the Comedie. And now it flocked thither with the one idea of being

entertained. Before the curtain rose one could tell by the very

atmosphere of the house that the audience was a jovial, good-humoured

one, bent on enjoying itself, and ready to applaud should it find itself

at all pleased.

The performance really proved extraordinary. When Silviane, chastely

robed, made her appearance in the first act, the house was quite

astonished by her virginal face, her innocent-looking mouth, and her eyes

beaming with immaculate candour. Then, although the manner in which she

had understood her part at first amazed people, it ended by charming

them. From the moment of confiding in “Stratonice,” from the moment of

relating her dream, she turned “Pauline” into a soaring mystical

creature, some saint, as it were, such as one sees in stained-glass

windows, carried along by a Wagnerian Brunhilda riding the clouds. It was

a thoroughly ridiculous conception of the part, contrary to reason and

truth alike. Still, it only seemed to interest people the more, partly on

account of mysticism being the fashion, and partly on account of the

contrast between Silviane’s assumed candour and real depravity. Her

success increased from act to act, and some slight hissing which was

attributed to Sagnier only helped to make the victory more complete.

Monferrand and Dauvergne, as the newspapers afterwards related, gave the

signal for applause; and the whole house joined in it, partly from

amusement and partly perhaps in a spirit of irony.

During the interval between the fourth and fifth acts there was quite a

procession of visitors to Duvillard’s box, where the greatest excitement

prevailed. Duthil, however, after absenting himself for a moment, came

back to say: “You remember our influential critic, the one whom I brought

to dinner at the Cafe Anglais? Well, he’s repeating to everybody that

‘Pauline’ is merely a little _bourgeoise_, and is not transformed by the

heavenly grace until the very finish of the piece. To turn her into a

holy virgin from the outset simply kills the part, says he.”

“Pooh!” repeated Duvillard, “let him argue if he likes, it will be all

the more advertisement.... The important point is to get Massot’s

article inserted in the ‘Globe’ to-morrow morning.”

On this point, unfortunately, the news was by no means good. Chaigneux,

who had gone in search of Fonsegue, declared that the latter still

hesitated in the matter in spite of Silviane’s success, which he declared

to be ridiculous. Thereupon, the Baron became quite angry. “Go and tell

Fonsegue,” he exclaimed, “that I insist on it, and that I shall remember

what he does.”

Meantime Princess Rosemonde was becoming quite delirious with enthusiasm.

“My dear Hyacinthe,” she pleaded, “please take me to Silviane’s

dressing-room; I can’t wait, I really must go and kiss her.”

“But we’ll all go!” cried Duvillard, who heard her entreaty.

The passages were crowded, and there were people even on the stage.

Moreover, when the party reached the door of Silviane’s dressing-room,

they found it shut. When the Baron knocked at it, a dresser replied that

madame begged the gentlemen to wait a moment.

“Oh! a woman may surely go in,” replied Rosemonde, hastily slipping

through the doorway. “And you may come, Hyacinthe,” she added; “there can

be no objection to you.”

Silviane was very hot, and a dresser was wiping her perspiring shoulders

when Rosemonde darted forward and kissed her. Then they chatted together

amidst the heat and glare from the gas and the intoxicating perfumes of

all the flowers which were heaped up in the little room. Finally,

Hyacinthe heard them promise to see one another after the performance,

Silviane even inviting Rosemonde to drink a cup of tea with her at her

house. At this the young man smiled complacently, and said to the

actress: “Your carriage is waiting for you at the corner of the Rue

Montpensier, is it not? Well, I’ll take the Princess to it. That will be

the simpler plan, you can both go off together!”

“Oh! how good of you,” cried Rosemonde; “it’s agreed.”

Just then the door was opened, and the men, being admitted, began to pour

forth their congratulations. However, they had to regain their seats in

all haste so as to witness the fifth act. This proved quite a triumph,

the whole house bursting into applause when Silviane spoke the famous

line, “I see, I know, I believe, I am undeceived,” with the rapturous

enthusiasm of a holy martyr ascending to heaven. Nothing could have been

more soul-like, it was said. And so when the performers were called

before the curtain, Paris bestowed an ovation on that virgin of the

stage, who, as Sagnier put it, knew so well how to act depravity at home.

Accompanied by Duthil, Duvillard at once went behind the scenes in order

to fetch Silviane, while Hyacinthe escorted Rosemonde to the brougham

waiting at the corner of the Rue Montpensier. Having helped her into it,

the young man stood by, waiting. And he seemed to grow quite merry when

his father came up with Silviane, and was stopped by her, just as, in his

turn, he wished to get into the carriage.

“There’s no room for you, my dear fellow,” said she. “I’ve a friend with

me.”

Rosemonde’s little smiling face then peered forth from the depths of the

brougham. And the Baron remained there open-mouthed while the vehicle

swiftly carried the two women away!

“Well, what would you have, my dear fellow?” said Hyacinthe, by way of

explanation to Duthil, who also seemed somewhat amazed by what had

happened. “Rosemonde was worrying my life out, and so I got rid of her by

packing her off with Silviane.”

Duvillard was still standing on the pavement and still looking dazed when

Chaigneux, who was going home quite tired out, recognised him, and came

up to say that Fonsegue had thought the matter over, and that Massot’s

article would be duly inserted. In the passages, too, there had been a

deal of talk about the famous Trans-Saharan project.

Then Hyacinthe led his father away, trying to comfort him like a sensible

friend, who regarded woman as a base and impure creature. “Let’s go home

to bed,” said he. “As that article is to appear, you can take it to her

to-morrow. She will see you, sure enough.”

Thereupon they lighted cigars, and now and again exchanging a few words,

took their way up the Avenue de l’Opera, which at that hour was deserted

and dismal. Meantime, above the slumbering houses of Paris the breeze

wafted a prolonged sigh, the plaint, as it were, of an expiring world.

III. THE GOAL OF LABOUR

EVER since the execution of Salvat, Guillaume had become extremely

taciturn. He seemed worried and absent-minded. He would work for hours at

the manufacture of that dangerous powder of which he alone knew the

formula, and the preparation of which was such a delicate matter that he

would allow none to assist him. Then, at other times he would go off, and

return tired out by some long solitary ramble. He remained very gentle at

home, and strove to smile there. But whenever anybody spoke to him he

started as if suddenly called back from dreamland.

Pierre imagined his brother had relied too much upon his powers of

renunciation, and found the loss of Marie unbearable. Was it not some

thought of her that haunted him now that the date fixed for the marriage

drew nearer and nearer? One evening, therefore, Pierre ventured to speak

out, again offering to leave the house and disappear.

But at the first words he uttered Guillaume stopped him, and

affectionately replied: “Marie? Oh! I love her, I love her too well to

regret what I have done. No, no! you only bring me happiness, I derive

all my strength and courage from you now that I know you are both happy.

... And I assure you that you are mistaken, there is nothing at all the

matter with me; my work absorbs me, perhaps, but that is all.”

That same evening he managed to cast his gloom aside, and displayed

delightful gaiety. During dinner he inquired if the upholsterer would

soon call to arrange the two little rooms which Marie was to occupy with

her husband over the workroom. The young woman, who since her marriage

with Pierre had been decided had remained waiting with smiling patience,

thereupon told Guillaume what it was she desired--first some hangings of

red cotton stuff, then some polished pine furniture which would enable

her to imagine she was in the country, and finally a carpet on the floor,

because a carpet seemed to her the height of luxury. She laughed as she

spoke, and Guillaume laughed with her in a gay and fatherly way. His good

spirits brought much relief to Pierre, who concluded that he must have

been mistaken in his surmises.

On the very morrow, however, Guillaume relapsed into a dreamy state. And

so disquietude again came upon Pierre, particularly when he noticed that

Mere-Grand also seemed to be unusually grave and silent. Not daring to

address her, he tried to extract some information from his nephews, but

neither Thomas nor Francois nor Antoine knew anything. Each of them

quietly devoted his time to his work, respecting and worshipping his

father, but never questioning him about his plans or enterprises.

Whatever he might choose to do could only be right and good; and they,

his sons, were ready to do the same and help him at the very first call,

without pausing to inquire into his purpose. It was plain, however, that

he kept them apart from anything at all perilous, that he retained all

responsibility for himself, and that Mere-Grand alone was his

_confidante_, the one whom he consulted and to whom he perhaps listened.

Pierre therefore renounced his hope of learning anything from the sons,

and directed his attention to the old lady, whose rigid gravity worried

him the more as she and Guillaume frequently had private chats in the

room she occupied upstairs. They shut themselves up there all alone, and

remained together for hours without the faintest sound coming from the

seemingly lifeless chamber.

One day, however, Pierre caught sight of Guillaume as he came out of it,

carrying a little valise which appeared to be very heavy. And Pierre

thereupon remembered both his brother’s powder, one pound weight of which

would have sufficed to destroy a cathedral, and the destructive engine

which he had purposed bestowing upon France in order that she might be

victorious over all other nations, and become the one great initiatory

and liberative power. Pierre remembered too that the only person besides

himself who knew his brother’s secret was Mere-Grand, who, at the time

when Guillaume was fearing some perquisition on the part of the police,

had long slept upon the cartridges of the terrible explosive. But now why

was Guillaume removing all the powder which he had been preparing for

some time past? As this question occurred to Pierre, a sudden suspicion,

a vague dread, came upon him, and gave him strength to ask his brother:

“Have you reason to fear anything, since you won’t keep things here? If

they embarrass you, they can all be deposited at my house, nobody will

make a search there.”

Guillaume, whom these words astonished, gazed at Pierre fixedly, and then

replied: “Yes, I have learnt that the arrests and perquisitions have

begun afresh since that poor devil was guillotined; for they are in

terror at the thought that some despairing fellow may avenge him.

Moreover, it is hardly prudent to keep destructive agents of such great

power here. I prefer to deposit them in a safe place. But not at

Neuilly--oh! no indeed! they are not a present for you, brother.”

Guillaume spoke with outward calmness; and if he had started with

surprise at the first moment, it had been scarcely perceptible.

“So everything is ready?” Pierre resumed. “You will soon be handing your

engine of destruction over to the Minister of War, I presume?”

A gleam of hesitation appeared in the depths of Guillaume’s eyes, and he

was for a moment about to tell a falsehood. However, he ended by replying

“No, I have renounced that intention. I have another idea.”

He spoke these last words with so much energy and decision that Pierre

did not dare to question him further, to ask him, for instance, what that

other idea might be. From that moment, however, he quivered with anxious

expectancy. From hour to hour Mere-Grand’s lofty silence and Guillaume’s

rapt, energetic face seemed to tell him that some huge and terrifying

scheme had come into being, and was growing and threatening the whole of

Paris.

One afternoon, just as Thomas was about to repair to the Grandidier

works, some one came to Guillaume’s with the news that old Toussaint, the

workman, had been stricken with a fresh attack of paralysis. Thomas

thereupon decided that he would call upon the poor fellow on his way, for

he held him in esteem and wished to ascertain if he could render him any

help. Pierre expressed a desire to accompany his nephew, and they started

off together about four o’clock.

On entering the one room which the Toussaints occupied, the room where

they ate and slept, the visitors found the mechanician seated on a low

chair near the table. He looked half dead, as if struck by lightning. It

was a case of hemiplegia, which had paralysed the whole of his right

side, his right leg and right arm, and had also spread to his face in

such wise that he could no longer speak. The only sound he could raise

was an incomprehensible guttural grunt. His mouth was drawn to the right,

and his once round, good-natured-looking face, with tanned skin and

bright eyes, had been twisted into a frightful mask of anguish. At fifty

years of age, the unhappy man was utterly done for. His unkempt beard was

as white as that of an octogenarian, and his knotty limbs, preyed upon by

toil, were henceforth dead. Only his eyes remained alive, and they

travelled around the room, going from one to another. By his side, eager

to do what she could for him, was his wife, who remained stout even when

she had little to eat, and still showed herself active and clear-headed,

however great her misfortunes.

“It’s a friendly visit, Toussaint,” said she. “It’s Monsieur Thomas who

has come to see you with Monsieur l’Abbe.” Then quietly correcting

herself she added: “With Monsieur Pierre, his uncle. You see that you are

not yet forsaken.”

Toussaint wished to speak, but his fruitless efforts only brought two big

tears to his eyes. Then he gazed at his visitors with an expression of

indescribable woe, his jaws trembling convulsively.

“Don’t put yourself out,” repeated his wife. “The doctor told you that it

would do you no good.”

At the moment of entering the room, Pierre had already noticed two

persons who had risen from their chairs and drawn somewhat on one side.

And now to his great surprise he recognised that they were Madame

Theodore and Celine, who were both decently clad, and looked as if they

led a life of comfort. On hearing of Toussaint’s misfortune they had come

to see him, like good-hearted creatures, who, on their own side, had

experienced the most cruel suffering. Pierre, on noticing that they now

seemed to be beyond dire want, remembered what he had heard of the

wonderful sympathy lavished on the child after her father’s execution,

the many presents and donations offered her, and the generous proposals

that had been made to adopt her. These last had ended in her being

adopted by a former friend of Salvat, who had sent her to school again,

pending the time when she might be apprenticed to some trade, while, on

the other hand, Madame Theodore had been placed as a nurse in a

convalescent home. In such wise both had been saved.

When Pierre drew near to little Celine in order to kiss her, Madame

Theodore told her to thank Monsieur l’Abbe--for so she still respectfully

called him--for all that he had previously done for her. “It was you who

brought us happiness, Monsieur l’Abbe,” said she. “And that’s a thing one

can never forget. I’m always telling Celine to remember you in her

prayers.”

“And so, my child, you are now going to school again,” said Pierre.

“Oh yes, Monsieur l’Abbe, and I’m well pleased at it. Besides, we no

longer lack anything.” Then, however, sudden emotion came over the girl,

and she stammered with a sob: “Ah! if poor papa could only see us!”

Madame Theodore, meanwhile, had begun to take leave of Madame Toussaint.

“Well, good by, we must go,” said she. “What has happened to you is very

sad, and we wanted to tell you how much it grieved us. The worry is that

when misfortune falls on one, courage isn’t enough to set things right..

.. Celine, come and kiss your uncle.... My poor brother, I hope

you’ll get back the use of your legs as soon as possible.”

They kissed the paralysed man on the cheeks, and then went off. Toussaint

had looked at them with his keen and still intelligent eyes, as if he

longed to participate in the life and activity into which they were

returning. And a jealous thought came to his wife, who usually was so

placid and good-natured. “Ah! my poor old man!” said she, after propping

him up with a pillow, “those two are luckier than we are. Everything

succeeds with them since that madman, Salvat, had his head cut off.

They’re provided for. They’ve plenty of bread on the shelf.”

Then, turning towards Pierre and Thomas, she continued: “We others are

done for, you know, we’re down in the mud, with no hope of getting out of

it. But what would you have? My poor husband hasn’t been guillotined,

he’s done nothing but work his whole life long; and now, you see, that’s

the end of him, he’s like some old animal, no longer good for anything.”

Having made her visitors sit down she next answered their compassionate

questions. The doctor had called twice already, and had promised to

restore the unhappy man’s power of speech, and perhaps enable him to

crawl round the room with the help of a stick. But as for ever being able

to resume real work that must not be expected. And so what was the use of

living on? Toussaint’s eyes plainly declared that he would much rather

die at once. When a workman can no longer work and no longer provide for

his wife he is ripe for the grave.

“Savings indeed!” Madame Toussaint resumed. “There are folks who ask if

we have any savings.... Well, we had nearly a thousand francs in the

Savings Bank when Toussaint had his first attack. And some people don’t

know what a lot of prudence one needs to put by such a sum; for, after

all, we’re not savages, we have to allow ourselves a little enjoyment now

and then, a good dish and a good bottle of wine.... Well, what with

five months of enforced idleness, and the medicines, and the underdone

meat that was ordered, we got to the end of our thousand francs; and now

that it’s all begun again we’re not likely to taste any more bottled wine

or roast mutton.”

Fond of good cheer as she had always been, this cry, far more than the

tears she was forcing back, revealed how much the future terrified her.

She was there erect and brave in spite of everything; but what a downfall

if she were no longer able to keep her room tidy, stew a piece of veal on

Sundays, and gossip with the neighbours while awaiting her husband’s

return from work! Why, they might just as well be thrown into the gutter

and carried off in the scavenger’s cart.

However, Thomas intervened: “Isn’t there an Asylum for the Invalids of

Labour, and couldn’t your husband get admitted to it?” he asked. “It

seems to me that is just the place for him.”

“Oh dear, no,” the woman answered. “People spoke to me of that place

before, and I got particulars of it. They don’t take sick people there.

When you call they tell you that there are hospitals for those who are

ill.”

With a wave of his hand Pierre confirmed her statement: it was useless to

apply in that direction. He could again see himself scouring Paris,

hurrying from the Lady President, Baroness Duvillard, to Fonsegue, the

General Manager, and only securing a bed for Laveuve when the unhappy man

was dead.

However, at that moment an infant was heard wailing, and to the amazement

of both visitors Madame Toussaint entered the little closet where her son

Charles had so long slept, and came out of it carrying a child, who

looked scarcely twenty months old. “Well, yes,” she explained, “this is

Charles’s boy. He was sleeping there in his father’s old bed, and now you

hear him, he’s woke up.... You see, only last Wednesday, the day

before Toussaint had his stroke, I went to fetch the little one at the

nurse’s at St. Denis, because she had threatened to cast him adrift since

Charles had got into bad habits, and no longer paid her. I said to myself

at the time that work was looking up, and that my husband and I would

always be able to provide for a little mouth like that.... But just

afterwards everything collapsed! At the same time, as the child’s here

now I can’t go and leave him in the street.”

While speaking in this fashion she walked to and fro, rocking the baby in

her arms. And naturally enough she reverted to Charles’s folly with the

girl, who had run away, leaving that infant behind her. Things might not

have been so very bad if Charles had still worked as steadily as he had

done before he went soldiering. In those days he had never lost an hour,

and had always brought all his pay home! But he had come back from the

army with much less taste for work. He argued, and had ideas of his own.

He certainly hadn’t yet come to bomb-throwing like that madman Salvat,

but he spent half his time with Socialists and Anarchists, who put his

brain in a muddle. It was a real pity to see such a strong, good-hearted

young fellow turning out badly like that. But it was said in the

neighbourhood that many another was inclined the same way; that the best

and most intelligent of the younger men felt tired of want and

unremunerative labour, and would end by knocking everything to pieces

rather than go on toiling with no certainty of food in their old age.

“Ah! yes,” continued Madame Toussaint, “the sons are not like the fathers

were. These fine fellows won’t be as patient as my poor husband has been,

letting hard work wear him away till he’s become the sorry thing you see

there.... Do you know what Charles said the other evening when he

found his father on that chair, crippled like that, and unable to speak?

Why, he shouted to him that he’d been a stupid jackass all his life,

working himself to death for those _bourgeois_, who now wouldn’t bring

him so much as a glass of water. Then, as he none the less has a good

heart, he began to cry his eyes out.”

The baby was no longer wailing, still the good woman continued walking to

and fro, rocking it in her arms and pressing it to her affectionate

heart. Her son Charles could do no more for them, she said; perhaps he

might be able to give them a five-franc piece now and again, but even

that wasn’t certain. It was of no use for her to go back to her old

calling as a seamstress, she had lost all practice of it. And it would

even be difficult for her to earn anything as charwoman, for she had that

infant on her hands as well as her infirm husband--a big child, whom she

would have to wash and feed. And so what would become of the three of

them? She couldn’t tell; but it made her shudder, however brave and

motherly she tried to be.

For their part, Pierre and Thomas quivered with compassion, particularly

when they saw big tears coursing down the cheeks of the wretched,

stricken Toussaint, as he sat quite motionless in that little and still

cleanly home of toil and want. The poor man had listened to his wife, and

he looked at her and at the infant now sleeping in her arms. Voiceless,

unable to cry his woe aloud, he experienced the most awful anguish. What

dupery his long life of labour had been! how frightfully unjust it was

that all his efforts should end in such sufferings! how exasperating it

was to feel himself powerless, and to see those whom he loved and who

were as innocent as himself suffer and die by reason of his own suffering

and death! Ah! poor old man, cripple that he was, ending like some beast

of burden that has foundered by the roadside--that goal of labour! And it

was all so revolting and so monstrous that he tried to put it into words,

and his desperate grief ended in a frightful, raucous grunt.

“Be quiet, don’t do yourself harm!” concluded Madame Toussaint. “Things

are like that, and there’s no mending them.”

Then she went to put the child to bed again, and on her return, just as

Thomas and Pierre were about to speak to her of Toussaint’s employer, M.

Grandidier, a fresh visitor arrived. Thereupon the others decided to

wait.

The new comer was Madame Chretiennot, Toussaint’s other sister, eighteen

years younger than himself. Her husband, the little clerk, had compelled

her to break off almost all intercourse with her relatives, as he felt

ashamed of them; nevertheless, having heard of her brother’s misfortune,

she had very properly come to condole with him. She wore a gown of cheap

flimsy silk, and a hat trimmed with red poppies, which she had freshened

up three times already; but in spite of this display her appearance

bespoke penury, and she did her best to hide her feet on account of the

shabbiness of her boots. Moreover, she was no longer the beautiful

Hortense. Since a recent miscarriage, all trace of her good looks had

disappeared.

The lamentable appearance of her brother and the bareness of that home of

suffering chilled her directly she crossed the threshold. And as soon as

she had kissed Toussaint, and said how sorry she was to find him in such

a condition, she began to lament her own fate, and recount her troubles,

for fear lest she should be asked for any help.

“Ah! my dear,” she said to her sister-in-law, “you are certainly much to

be pitied! But if you only knew! We all have our troubles. Thus in my

case, obliged as I am to dress fairly well on account of my husband’s

position, I have more trouble than you can imagine in making both ends

meet. One can’t go far on a salary of three thousand francs a year, when

one has to pay seven hundred francs’ rent out of it. You will perhaps say

that we might lodge ourselves in a more modest way; but we can’t, my

dear, I must have a _salon_ on account of the visits I receive. So just

count!... Then there are my two girls. I’ve had to send them to

school; Lucienne has begun to learn the piano and Marcelle has some taste

for drawing.... By the way, I would have brought them with me, but I

feared it would upset them too much. You will excuse me, won’t you?”

Then she spoke of all the worries which she had had with her husband on

account of Salvat’s ignominious death. Chretiennot, vain, quarrelsome

little fellow that he was, felt exasperated at now having a _guillotine_

in his wife’s family. And he had lately begun to treat the unfortunate

woman most harshly, charging her with having brought about all their

troubles, and even rendering her responsible for his own mediocrity,

embittered as he was more and more each day by a confined life of office

work. On some evenings they had downright quarrels; she stood up for

herself, and related that when she was at the confectionery shop in the

Rue des Martyrs she could have married a doctor had she only chosen, for

the doctor found her quite pretty enough. Now, however, she was becoming

plainer and plainer, and her husband felt that he was condemned to

everlasting penury; so that their life was becoming more and more dismal

and quarrelsome, and as unbearable--despite the pride of being

“gentleman” and “lady”--as was the destitution of the working classes.

“All the same, my dear,” at last said Madame Toussaint, weary of her

sister-in-law’s endless narrative of worries, “you have had one piece of

luck. You won’t have the trouble of bringing up a third child, now.”

“That’s true,” replied Hortense, with a sigh of relief. “How we should

have managed, I don’t know.... Still, I was very ill, and I’m far from

being in good health now. The doctor says that I don’t eat enough, and

that I ought to have good food.”

Then she rose for the purpose of giving her brother another kiss and

taking her departure; for she feared a scene on her husband’s part should

he happen to come home and find her absent. Once on her feet, however,

she lingered there a moment longer, saying that she also had just seen

her sister, Madame Theodore, and little Celine, both of them comfortably

clad and looking happy. And with a touch of jealousy she added: “Well, my

husband contents himself with slaving away at his office every day. He’ll

never do anything to get his head cut off; and it’s quite certain that

nobody will think of leaving an income to Marcelle and Lucienne....

Well, good by, my dear, you must be brave, one must always hope that

things will turn out for the best.”

When she had gone off, Pierre and Thomas inquired if M. Grandidier had

heard of Toussaint’s misfortune and agreed to do anything for him. Madame

Toussaint answered that he had so far made only a vague promise; and on

learning this they resolved to speak to him as warmly as they could on

behalf of the old mechanician, who had spent as many as five and twenty

years at the works. The misfortune was that a scheme for establishing a

friendly society, and even a pension fund, which had been launched before

the crisis from which the works were now recovering, had collapsed

through a number of obstacles and complications. Had things turned out

otherwise, Thomas might have had a pittance assured him, even though he

was unable to work. But under the circumstances the only hope for the

poor stricken fellow lay in his employer’s compassion, if not his sense

of justice.

As the baby again began to cry, Madame Toussaint went to fetch it, and

she was once more carrying it to and fro, when Thomas pressed her

husband’s sound hand between both his own. “We will come back,” said the

young man; “we won’t forsake you, Toussaint. You know very well that

people like you, for you’ve always been a good and steady workman. So

rely on us, we will do all we can.”

Then they left him tearful and overpowered, in that dismal room, while,

up and down beside him, his wife rocked the squealing infant--that other

luckless creature, who was now so heavy on the old folks’ hands, and like

them was fated to die of want and unjust toil.

Toil, manual toil, panting at every effort, this was what Pierre and

Thomas once more found at the works. From the slender pipes above the

roofs spurted rhythmical puffs of steam, which seemed like the very

breath of all that labour. And in the work-shops one found a continuous

rumbling, a whole army of men in motion, forging, filing, and piercing,

amidst the spinning of leather gearing and the trembling of machinery.

The day was ending with a final feverish effort to complete some task or

other before the bell should ring for departure.

On inquiring for the master Thomas learnt that he had not been seen since

_dejeuner_, which was such an unusual occurrence that the young man at

once feared some terrible scene in the silent pavilion, whose shutters

were ever closed upon Grandidier’s unhappy wife--that mad but beautiful

creature, whom he loved so passionately that he had never been willing to

part from her. The pavilion could be seen from the little glazed

work-shop which Thomas usually occupied, and as he and Pierre stood

waiting there, it looked very peaceful and pleasant amidst the big

lilac-bushes planted round about it. Surely, they thought, it ought to

have been brightened by the gay gown of a young woman and the laughter of

playful children. But all at once a loud, piercing shriek reached their

ears, followed by howls and moans, like those of an animal that is being

beaten or possibly slaughtered. Ah! those howls ringing out amidst all

the stir of the toiling works, punctuated it seemed by the rhythmical

puffing of the steam, accompanied too by the dull rumbling of the

machinery! The receipts of the business had been doubling and doubling

since the last stock-taking; there was increase of prosperity every

month, the bad times were over, far behind. Grandidier was realising a

large fortune with his famous bicycle for the million, the “Lisette”; and

the approaching vogue of motor-cars also promised huge gains, should he

again start making little motor-engines, as he meant to do, as soon as

Thomas’s long-projected motor should be perfected. But what was wealth

when in that dismal pavilion, whose shutters were ever closed, those

frightful shrieks continued, proclaiming some terrible drama, which all

the stir and bustle of the prosperous works were unable to stifle?

Pierre and Thomas looked at one another, pale and quivering. And all at

once, as the cries ceased and the pavilion sank into death-like silence

once more, the latter said in an undertone: “She is usually very gentle,

she will sometimes spend whole days sitting on a carpet like a little

child. He is fond of her when she is like that; he lays her down and

picks her up, caresses her and makes her laugh as if she were a baby. Ah!

how dreadfully sad it is! When an attack comes upon her she gets frantic,

tries to bite herself, and kill herself by throwing herself against the

walls. And then he has to struggle with her, for no one else is allowed

to touch her. He tries to restrain her, and holds her in his arms to calm

her.... But how terrible it was just now! Did you hear? I do not think

she has ever had such a frightful attack before.”

For a quarter of an hour longer profound silence prevailed. Then

Grandidier came out of the pavilion, bareheaded and still ghastly pale.

Passing the little glazed work-shop on his way, he perceived Thomas and

Pierre there, and at once came in. But he was obliged to lean against a

bench like a man who is dazed, haunted by a nightmare. His good-natured,

energetic face retained an expression of acute anguish; and his left ear

was scratched and bleeding. However, he at once wished to talk, overcome

his feelings, and return to his life of activity. “I am very pleased to

see you, my dear Thomas,” said he, “I have been thinking over what you

told me about our little motor. We must go into the matter again.”

Seeing how distracted he was, it occurred to the young man that some

sudden diversion, such as the story of another’s misfortunes, might

perhaps draw him from his haunting thoughts. “Of course I am at your

disposal,” he replied; “but before talking of that matter I should like

to tell you that we have just seen Toussaint, that poor old fellow who

has been stricken with paralysis. His awful fate has quite distressed us.

He is in the greatest destitution, forsaken as it were by the roadside,

after all his years of labour.”

Thomas dwelt upon the quarter of a century which the old workman had

spent at the factory, and suggested that it would be only just to take

some account of his long efforts, the years of his life which he had

devoted to the establishment. And he asked that he might be assisted in

the name both of equity and compassion.

“Ah! monsieur,” Pierre in his turn ventured to say. “I should like to

take you for an instant into that bare room, and show you that poor,

aged, worn-out, stricken man, who no longer has even the power of speech

left him to tell people his sufferings. There can be no greater

wretchedness than to die in this fashion, despairing of all kindliness

and justice.”

Grandidier had listened to them in silence. But big tears had

irresistibly filled his eyes, and when he spoke it was in a very low and

tremulous voice: “The greatest wretchedness, who can tell what it is? Who

can speak of it if he has not known the wretchedness of others? Yes, yes,

it’s sad undoubtedly that poor Toussaint should be reduced to that state

at his age, not knowing even if he will have food to eat on the morrow.

But I know sorrows that are just as crushing, abominations which poison

one’s life in a still greater degree.... Ah! yes, food indeed! To

think that happiness will reign in the world when everybody has food to

eat! What an idiotic hope!”

The whole grievous tragedy of his life was in the shudder which had come

over him. To be the employer, the master, the man who is making money,

who disposes of capital and is envied by his workmen, to own an

establishment to which prosperity has returned, whose machinery coins

gold, apparently leaving one no other trouble than that of pocketing

one’s profits; and yet at the same time to be the most wretched of men,

to know no day exempt from anguish, to find each evening at one’s hearth

no other reward or prop than the most atrocious torture of the heart!

Everything, even success, has to be paid for. And thus that triumpher,

that money-maker, whose pile was growing larger at each successive

inventory, was sobbing with bitter grief.

However, he showed himself kindly disposed towards Toussaint, and

promised to assist him. As for a pension that was an idea which he could

not entertain, as it was the negation of the wage-system such as it

existed. He energetically defended his rights as an employer, repeating

that the strain of competition would compel him to avail himself of them

so long as the present system should endure. His part in it was to do

good business in an honest way. However, he regretted that his men had

never carried out the scheme of establishing a relief fund, and he said

that he would do his best to induce them to take it in hand again.

Some colour had now come back to his checks; for on returning to the

interests of his life of battle he felt his energy restored. He again

reverted to the question of the little motor, and spoke of it for some

time with Thomas, while Pierre waited, feeling quite upset. Ah! he

thought, how universal was the thirst for happiness! Then, in spite of

the many technical terms that were used he caught a little of what the

others were saying. Small steam motors had been made at the works in

former times; but they had not proved successes. In point of fact a new

propelling force was needed. Electricity, though everyone foresaw its

future triumph, was so far out of the question on account of the weight

of the apparatus which its employment necessitated. So only petroleum

remained, and the inconvenience attaching to its use was so great that

victory and fortune would certainly rest with the manufacturer who should

be able to replace it by some other hitherto unknown agent. In the

discovery and adaptation of the latter lay the whole problem.

“Yes, I am eager about it now,” at last exclaimed Grandidier in an

animated way. “I allowed you to prosecute your experiments without

troubling you with any inquisitive questions. But a solution is becoming

imperative.”

Thomas smiled: “Well, you must remain patient just a little longer,” said

he; “I believe that I am on the right road.”

Then Grandidier shook hands with him and Pierre, and went off to make his

usual round through his busy, bustling works, whilst near at hand,

awaiting his return, stood the closed pavilion, where every evening he

was fated to relapse into endless, incurable anguish.

The daylight was already waning when Pierre and Thomas, after

re-ascending the height of Montmartre, walked towards the large work-shop

which Jahan, the sculptor, had set up among the many sheds whose erection

had been necessitated by the building of the Sacred Heart. There was here

a stretch of ground littered with materials, an extraordinary chaos of

building stone, beams and machinery; and pending the time when an army of

navvies would come to set the whole place in order, one could see gaping

trenches, rough flights of descending steps and fences, imperfectly

closing doorways which conducted to the substructures of the basilica.

Halting in front of Jahan’s work-shop, Thomas pointed to one of these

doorways by which one could reach the foundation works. “Have you never

had an idea of visiting the foundations?” he inquired of Pierre. “There’s

quite a city down there on which millions of money have been spent. They

could only find firm soil at the very base of the height, and they had to

excavate more than eighty shafts, fill them with concrete, and then rear

their church on all those subterranean columns.... Yes, that is so. Of

course the columns cannot be seen, but it is they who hold that insulting

edifice aloft, right over Paris!”

Having drawn near to the fence, Pierre was looking at an open doorway

beyond it, a sort of dark landing whence steps descended as if into the

bowels of the earth. And he thought of those invisible columns of

concrete, and of all the stubborn energy and desire for domination which

had set and kept the edifice erect.

Thomas was at last obliged to call him. “Let us make haste,” said he,

“the twilight will soon be here. We shan’t be able to see much.”

They had arranged to meet Antoine at Jahan’s, as the sculptor wished to

show them a new model he had prepared. When they entered the work-shop

they found the two assistants still working at the colossal angel which

had been ordered for the basilica. Standing on a scaffolding they were

rough-hewing its symmetrical wings, whilst Jahan, seated on a low chair,

with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hands soiled with clay,

was contemplating a figure some three feet high on which he had just been

working.

“Ah! it’s you,” he exclaimed. “Antoine has been waiting more than half an

hour for you. He’s gone outside with Lise to see the sun set over Paris,

I think. But they will soon be back.”

Then he relapsed into silence, with his eyes fixed on his work.

This was a bare, erect, lofty female figure, of such august majesty, so

simple were its lines, that it suggested something gigantic. The figure’s

abundant, outspread hair suggested rays around its face, which beamed

with sovereign beauty like the sun. And its only gesture was one of offer

and of greeting; its arms were thrown slightly forward, and its hands

were open for the grasp of all mankind.

Still lingering in his dream Jahan began to speak slowly: “You remember

that I wanted a pendant for my figure of Fecundity. I had modelled a

Charity, but it pleased me so little and seemed so commonplace that I let

the clay dry and spoil.... And then the idea of a figure of Justice

came to me. But not a gowned figure with the sword and the scales! That

wasn’t the Justice that inspired me. What haunted my mind was the other

Justice, the one that the lowly and the sufferers await, the one who

alone can some day set a little order and happiness among us. And I

pictured her like that, quite bare, quite simple, and very lofty. She is

the sun as it were, a sun all beauty, harmony and strength; for justice

is only to be found in the sun which shines in the heavens for one and

all, and bestows on poor and rich alike its magnificence and light and

warmth, which are the source of all life. And so my figure, you see, has

her hands outstretched as if she were offering herself to all mankind,

greeting it and granting it the gift of eternal life in eternal beauty.

Ah! to be beautiful and strong and just, one’s whole dream lies in that.”

Jahan relighted his pipe and burst into a merry laugh. “Well, I think the

good woman carries herself upright.... What do you fellows say?”

His visitors highly praised his work. Pierre for his part was much

affected at finding in this artistic conception the very idea that he had

so long been revolving in his mind--the idea of an era of Justice rising

from the ruins of the world, which Charity after centuries of trial had

failed to save.

Then the sculptor gaily explained that he had prepared his model there

instead of at home, in order to console himself a little for his big

dummy of an angel, the prescribed triteness of which disgusted him. Some

fresh objections had been raised with respect to the folds of the robe,

which gave some prominence to the thighs, and in the end he had been

compelled to modify all of the drapery.

“Oh! it’s just as they like!” he cried; “it’s no work of mine, you know;

it’s simply an order which I’m executing just as a mason builds a wall.

There’s no religious art left, it has been killed by stupidity and

disbelief. Ah! if social or human art could only revive, how glorious to

be one of the first to bear the tidings!”

Then he paused. Where could the youngsters, Antoine and Lise, have got

to, he wondered. He threw the door wide open, and, a little distance

away, among the materials littering the waste ground, one could see

Antoine’s tall figure and Lise’s short slender form standing out against

the immensity of Paris, which was all golden amidst the sun’s farewell.

The young man’s strong arm supported Lise, who with this help walked

beside him without feeling any fatigue. Slender and graceful, like a girl

blossoming into womanhood, she raised her eyes to his with a smile of

infinite gratitude, which proclaimed that she belonged to him for

evermore.

“Ah! they are coming back,” said Jahan. “The miracle is now complete, you

know. I’m delighted at it. I did not know what to do with her; I had even

renounced all attempts to teach her to read; I left her for days together

in a corner, infirm and tongue-tied like a lack-wit.... But your

brother came and took her in hand somehow or other. She listened to him

and understood him, and began to read and write with him, and grow

intelligent and gay. Then, as her limbs still gained no suppleness, and

she remained infirm, ailing and puny, he began by carrying her here, and

then helped her to walk in such wise that she can now do so by herself.

In a few weeks’ time she has positively grown and become quite charming.

Yes, I assure you, it is second birth, real creation. Just look at them!”

Antoine and Lise were still slowly approaching. The evening breeze which

rose from the great city, where all was yet heat and sunshine, brought

them a bath of life. If the young man had chosen that spot, with its

splendid horizon, open to the full air which wafted all the germs of

life, it was doubtless because he felt that nowhere else could he instil

more vitality, more soul, more strength into her. And love had been

created by love. He had found her asleep, benumbed, without power of

motion or intellect, and he had awakened her, kindled life in her, loved

her, that he might be loved by her in return. She was his work, she was

part of himself.

“So you no longer feel tired, little one?” said Jahan.

She smiled divinely. “Oh! no, it’s so pleasant, so beautiful, to walk

straight on like this.... All I desire is to go on for ever and ever

with Antoine.”

The others laughed, and Jahan exclaimed in his good-natured way: “Let us

hope that he won’t take you so far. You’ve reached your destination now,

and I shan’t be the one to prevent you from being happy.”

Antoine was already standing before the figure of Justice, to which the

falling twilight seemed to impart a quiver of life. “Oh! how divinely

simple, how divinely beautiful!” said he.

For his own part he had lately finished a new wood engraving, which

depicted Lise holding a book in her hand, an engraving instinct with

truth and emotion, showing her awakened to intelligence and love. And

this time he had achieved his desire, making no preliminary drawing, but

tackling the block with his graver, straight away, in presence of his

model. And infinite hopefulness had come upon him, he was dreaming of

great original works in which the whole period that he belonged to would

live anew and for ever.

Thomas now wished to return home. So they shook hands with Jahan, who, as

his day’s work was over, put on his coat to take his sister back to the

Rue du Calvaire.

“Till to-morrow, Lise,” said Antoine, inclining his head to kiss her.

She raised herself on tip-toes, and offered him her eyes, which he had

opened to life. “Till to-morrow, Antoine,” said she.

Outside, the twilight was falling. Pierre was the first to cross the

threshold, and as he did so, he saw so extraordinary a sight that for an

instant he felt stupefied. But it was certain enough: he could plainly

distinguish his brother Guillaume emerging from the gaping doorway which

conducted to the foundations of the basilica. And he saw him hastily

climb over the palings, and then pretend to be there by pure chance, as

though he had come up from the Rue Lamarck. When he accosted his two

sons, as if he were delighted to meet them, and began to say that he had

just come from Paris, Pierre asked himself if he had been dreaming.

However, an anxious glance which his brother cast at him convinced him

that he had been right. And then he not only felt ill at ease in presence

of that man whom he had never previously known to lie, but it seemed to

him that he was at last on the track of all he had feared, the formidable

mystery that he had for some time past felt brewing around him in the

little peaceful house.

When Guillaume, his sons and his brother reached home and entered the

large workroom overlooking Paris, it was so dark that they fancied nobody

was there.

“What! nobody in?” said Guillaume.

But in a somewhat low, quiet voice Francois answered out of the gloom:

“Why, yes, I’m here.”

He had remained at his table, where he had worked the whole afternoon,

and as he could no longer read, he now sat in a dreamy mood with his head

resting on his hands, his eyes wandering over Paris, where night was

gradually falling. As his examination was now near at hand, he was living

in a state of severe mental strain.

“What, you are still working there!” said his father. “Why didn’t you ask

for a lamp?”

“No, I wasn’t working, I was looking at Paris,” Francois slowly answered.

“It’s singular how the night falls over it by degrees. The last district

that remained visible was the Montague Ste. Genevieve, the plateau of the

Pantheon, where all our knowledge and science have grown up. A sun-ray

still gilds the schools and libraries and laboratories, when the

low-lying districts of trade are already steeped in darkness. I won’t say

that the planet has a particular partiality for us at the Ecole Normale,

but it’s certain that its beams still linger on our roofs, when they are

to be seen nowhere else.”

He began to laugh at his jest. Still one could see how ardent was his

faith in mental effort, how entirely he gave himself to mental labour,

which, in his opinion, could alone bring truth, establish justice and

create happiness.

Then came a short spell of silence. Paris sank more and more deeply into

the night, growing black and mysterious, till all at once sparks of light

began to appear.

“The lamps are being lighted,” resumed Francois; “work is being resumed on

all sides.”

Then Guillaume, who likewise had been dreaming, immersed in his fixed

idea, exclaimed: “Work, yes, no doubt! But for work to give a full

harvest it must be fertilised by will. There is something which is

superior to work.”

Thomas and Antoine had drawn near. And Francois, as much for them as for

himself, inquired: “What is that, father?”

“Action.”

For a moment the three young men remained silent, impressed by the

solemnity of the hour, quivering too beneath the great waves of darkness

which rose from the vague ocean of the city. Then a young voice remarked,

though whose it was one could not tell: “Action is but work.”

And Pierre, who lacked the respectful quietude, the silent faith, of his

nephews, now felt his nervousness increasing. That huge and terrifying

mystery of which he was dimly conscious rose before him, while a great

quiver sped by in the darkness, over that black city where the lamps were

now being lighted for a whole passionate night of work.

IV. THE CRISIS

A GREAT ceremony was to take place that day at the basilica of the Sacred

Heart. Ten thousand pilgrims were to be present there, at a solemn

consecration of the Holy Sacrament; and pending the arrival of four

o’clock, the hour fixed for the service, Montmartre would be invaded by

people. Its slopes would be black with swarming devotees, the shops where

religious emblems and pictures were sold would be besieged, the cafes and

taverns would be crowded to overflowing. It would all be like some huge

fair, and meantime the big bell of the basilica, “La Savoyarde,” would be

ringing peal on peal over the holiday-making multitude.

When Pierre entered the workroom in the morning he perceived Guillaume

and Mere-Grand alone there; and a remark which he heard the former make

caused him to stop short and listen from behind a tall-revolving

bookstand. Mere-Grand sat sewing in her usual place near the big window,

while Guillaume stood before her, speaking in a low voice.

“Mother,” said he, “everything is ready, it is for to-day.”

She let her work fall, and raised her eyes, looking very pale. “Ah!” she

said, “so you have made up your mind.”

“Yes, irrevocably. At four o’clock I shall be yonder, and it will all be

over.”

“‘Tis well--you are the master.”

Silence fell, terrible silence. Guillaume’s voice seemed to come from far

away, from somewhere beyond the world. It was evident that his resolution

was unshakable, that his tragic dream, his fixed idea of martyrdom,

wholly absorbed him. Mere-Grand looked at him with her pale eyes, like an

heroic woman who had grown old in relieving the sufferings of others, and

had ever shown all the abnegation and devotion of an intrepid heart,

which nothing but the idea of duty could influence. She knew Guillaume’s

terrible scheme, and had helped him to regulate the pettiest details of

it; but if on the one hand, after all the iniquity she had seen and

endured, she admitted that fierce and exemplary punishment might seem

necessary, and that even the idea of purifying the world by the fire of a

volcano might be entertained, on the other hand, she believed too

strongly in the necessity of living one’s life bravely to the very end,

to be able, under any circumstances, to regard death as either good or

profitable.

“My son,” she gently resumed, “I witnessed the growth of your scheme, and

it neither surprised nor angered me. I accepted it as one accepts

lightning, the very fire of the skies, something of sovereign purity and

power. And I have helped you through it all, and have taken upon myself

to act as the mouthpiece of your conscience.... But let me tell you

once more, one ought never to desert the cause of life.”

“It is useless to speak, mother,” Guillaume replied: “I have resolved to

give my life and cannot take it back.... Are you now unwilling to

carry out my desires, remain here, and act as we have decided, when all

is over?”

She did not answer this inquiry, but in her turn, speaking slowly and

gravely, put a question to him: “So it is useless for me to speak to you

of the children, myself and the house?” said she. “You have thought it

all over, you are quite determined?” And as he simply answered “Yes,” she

added: “‘Tis well, you are the master.... I will be the one who is to

remain behind and act. And you may be without fear, your bequest is in

good hands. All that we have decided together shall be done.”

Once more they became silent. Then she again inquired: “At four o’clock,

you say, at the moment of that consecration?”

“Yes, at four o’clock.”

She was still looking at him with her pale eyes, and there seemed to be

something superhuman in her simplicity and grandeur as she sat there in

her thin black gown. Her glance, in which the greatest bravery and the

deepest sadness mingled, filled Guillaume with acute emotion. His hands

began to tremble, and he asked: “Will you let me kiss you, mother?”

“Oh! right willingly, my son,” she responded. “Your path of duty may not

be mine, but you see I respect your views and love you.”

They kissed one another, and when Pierre, whom the scene had chilled to

his heart, presented himself as if he were just arriving, Mere-Grand had

quietly taken up her needlework once more, while Guillaume was going to

and fro, setting one of his laboratory shelves in order with all his

wonted activity.

At noon when lunch was ready, they found it necessary to wait for Thomas,

who had not yet come home. His brothers Francois and Antoine complained

in a jesting way, saying that they were dying of hunger, while for her

part Marie, who had made a _creme_, and was very proud of it, declared

that they would eat it all, and that those who came late would have to go

without tasting it. When Thomas eventually put in an appearance he was

greeted with jeers.

“But it wasn’t my fault,” said he; “I stupidly came up the hill by way of

the Rue de la Barre, and you can have no notion what a crowd I fell upon.

Quite ten thousand pilgrims must have camped there last night. I am told

that as many as possible were huddled together in the St. Joseph Refuge.

The others no doubt had to sleep in the open air. And now they are busy

eating, here, there and everywhere, all over the patches of waste ground

and even on the pavements. One can scarcely set one foot before the other

without risk of treading on somebody.”

The meal proved a very gay one, though Pierre found the gaiety forced and

excessive. Yet the young people could surely know nothing of the

frightful, invisible thing which to Pierre ever seemed to be hovering

around in the bright sunlight of that splendid June day. Was it that the

dim presentiment which comes to loving hearts when mourning threatens

them, swept by during the short intervals of silence that followed the

joyous outbursts? Although Guillaume looked somewhat pale, and spoke with

unusual caressing softness, he retained his customary bright smile. But,

on the other hand, never had Mere-Grand been more silent or more grave.

Marie’s _creme_ proved a great success, and the others congratulated her

on it so fulsomely that they made her blush. Then, all at once, heavy

silence fell once more, a deathly chill seemed to sweep by, making every

face turn pale--even while they were still cleaning their plates with

their little spoons.

“Ah! that bell,” exclaimed Francois; “it is really intolerable. I can

feel my head splitting.”

He referred to “La Savoyarde,” the big bell of the basilica, which had

now begun to toll, sending forth deep sonorous volumes of sound, which

ever and ever winged their flight over the immensity of Paris. In the

workroom they were all listening to the clang.

“Will it keep on like that till four o’clock?” asked Marie.

“Oh! at four o’clock,” replied Thomas, “at the moment of the consecration

you will hear something much louder than that. The great peals of joy,

the song of triumph will then ring out.”

Guillaume was still smiling. “Yes, yes,” said he, “those who don’t want

to be deafened for life had better keep their windows closed. The worst

is, that Paris has to hear it whether it will or no, and even as far away

as the Pantheon, so I’m told.”

Meantime Mere-Grand remained silent and impassive. Antoine for his part

expressed his disgust with the horrible religious pictures for which the

pilgrims fought--pictures which in some respects suggested those on the

lids of sweetmeat boxes, although they depicted the Christ with His

breast ripped open and displaying His bleeding heart. There could be no

more repulsive materialism, no grosser or baser art, said Antoine. Then

they rose from table, talking at the top of their voices so as to make

themselves heard above the incessant din which came from the big bell.

Immediately afterwards they all set to work again. Mere-Grand took her

everlasting needlework in hand once more, while Marie, sitting near her,

continued some embroidery. The young men also attended to their

respective tasks, and now and again raised their heads and exchanged a

few words. Guillaume, for his part, likewise seemed very busy; Pierre

alone coming and going in a state of anguish, beholding them all as in a

nightmare, and attributing some terrible meaning to the most innocent

remarks. During _dejeuner_, in order to explain the frightful discomfort

into which he was thrown by the gaiety of the meal, he had been obliged

to say that he felt poorly. And now he was looking and listening and

waiting with ever-growing anxiety.

Shortly before three o’clock, Guillaume glanced at his watch and then

quietly took up his hat. “Well,” said he, “I’m going out.”

His sons, Mere-Grand and Marie raised their heads.

“I’m going out,” he repeated, “_au revoir_.”

Still he did not go off. Pierre could divine that he was struggling,

stiffening himself against the frightful tempest which was raging within

him, striving to prevent either shudder or pallor from betraying his

awful secret. Ah! he must have suffered keenly; he dared not give his

sons a last kiss, for fear lest he might rouse some suspicion in their

minds, which would impel them to oppose him and prevent his death! At

last with supreme heroism he managed to overcome himself.

“_Au revoir_, boys.”

“_Au revoir_, father. Will you be home early?”

“Yes, yes.... Don’t worry about me, do plenty of work.”

Mere-Grand, still majestically silent, kept her eyes fixed upon him. Her

he had ventured to kiss, and their glances met and mingled, instinct with

all that he had decided and that she had promised: their common dream of

truth and justice.

“I say, Guillaume,” exclaimed Marie gaily, “will you undertake a

commission for me if you are going down by way of the Rue des Martyrs?”

“Why, certainly,” he replied.

“Well, then, please look in at my dressmaker’s, and tell her that I

shan’t go to try my gown on till to-morrow morning.”

It was a question of her wedding dress, a gown of light grey silk, the

stylishness of which she considered very amusing. Whenever she spoke of

it, both she and the others began to laugh.

“It’s understood, my dear,” said Guillaume, likewise making merry over

it. “We know it’s Cinderella’s court robe, eh? The fairy brocade and lace

that are to make you very beautiful and for ever happy.”

However, the laughter ceased, and in the sudden silence which fell, it

again seemed as if death were passing by with a great flapping of wings

and an icy gust which chilled the hearts of everyone remaining there.

“It’s understood; so now I’m really off,” resumed Guillaume. “_Au

revoir_, children.”

Then he sallied forth, without even turning round, and for a moment they

could hear the firm tread of his feet over the garden gravel.

Pierre having invented a pretext was able to follow him a couple of

minutes afterwards. As a matter of fact there was no need for him to dog

Guillaume’s heels, for he knew where his brother was going. He was

thoroughly convinced that he would find him at that doorway, conducting

to the foundations of the basilica, whence he had seen him emerge two

days before. And so he wasted no time in looking for him among the crowd

of pilgrims going to the church. His only thought was to hurry on and

reach Jahan’s workshop. And in accordance with his expectation, just as

he arrived there, he perceived Guillaume slipping between the broken

palings. The crush and the confusion prevailing among the concourse of

believers favored Pierre as it had his brother, in such wise that he was

able to follow the latter and enter the doorway without being noticed.

Once there he had to pause and draw breath for a moment, so greatly did

the beating of his heart oppress him.

A precipitous flight of steps, where all was steeped in darkness,

descended from the narrow entry. It was with infinite precaution that

Pierre ventured into the gloom, which ever grew denser and denser. He

lowered his feet gently so as to make no noise, and feeling the walls

with his hands, turned round and round as he went lower and lower into a

kind of well. However, the descent was not a very long one. As soon as he

found beaten ground beneath his feet he paused, no longer daring to stir

for fear of betraying his presence. The darkness was like ink, and there

was not a sound, a breath; the silence was complete.

How should he find his way? he wondered. Which direction ought he to

take? He was still hesitating when some twenty paces away he suddenly saw

a bright spark, the gleam of a lucifer. Guillaume was lighting a candle.

Pierre recognised his broad shoulders, and from that moment he simply had

to follow the flickering light along a walled and vaulted subterranean

gallery. It seemed to be interminable and to run in a northerly

direction, towards the nave of the basilica.

All at once the little light at last stopped, while Pierre, anxious to

see what would happen, continued to advance, treading as softly as he

could and remaining in the gloom. He found that Guillaume had stood his

candle upon the ground in the middle of a kind of low rotunda under the

crypt, and that he had knelt down and moved aside a long flagstone which

seemed to cover a cavity. They were here among the foundations of the

basilica; and one of the columns or piles of concrete poured into shafts

in order to support the building could be seen. The gap, which the stone

slab removed by Guillaume had covered, was by the very side of the

pillar; it was either some natural surface flaw, or a deep fissure caused

by some subsidence or settling of the soil. The heads of other pillars

could be descried around, and these the cleft seemed to be reaching, for

little slits branched out in all directions. Then, on seeing his brother

leaning forward, like one who is for the last time examining a mine he

has laid before applying a match to the fuse, Pierre suddenly understood

the whole terrifying business. Considerable quantities of the new

explosive had been brought to that spot. Guillaume had made the journey a

score of times at carefully selected hours, and all his powder had been

poured into the gap beside the pillar, spreading to the slightest rifts

below, saturating the soil at a great depth, and in this wise forming a

natural mine of incalculable force. And now the powder was flush with the

flagstone which Guillaume has just moved aside. It was only necessary to

throw a match there, and everything would be blown into the air!

For a moment an acute chill of horror rooted Pierre to the spot. He could

neither have taken a step nor raised a cry. He pictured the swarming

throng above him, the ten thousand pilgrims crowding the lofty naves of

the basilica to witness the solemn consecration of the Host. Peal upon

peal flew from “La Savoyarde,” incense smoked, and ten thousand voices

raised a hymn of magnificence and praise. And all at once came thunder

and earthquake, and a volcano opening and belching forth fire and smoke,

and swallowing up the whole church and its multitude of worshippers.

Breaking the concrete piles and rending the unsound soil, the explosion,

which was certain to be one of extraordinary violence, would doubtless

split the edifice atwain, and hurl one-half down the slopes descending

towards Paris, whilst the other on the side of the apse would crumble and

collapse upon the spot where it stood. And how fearful would be the

avalanche; a broken forest of scaffoldings, a hail of stonework, rushing

and bounding through the dust and smoke on to the roofs below; whilst the

violence of the shock would threaten the whole of Montmartre, which, it

seemed likely, must stagger and sink in one huge mass of ruins!

However, Guillaume had again risen. The candle standing on the ground,

its flame shooting up, erect and slender, threw his huge shadow all over

the subterranean vault. Amidst the dense blackness the light looked like

some dismal stationary star. Guillaume drew near to it in order to see

what time it was by his watch. It proved to be five minutes past three.

So he had nearly another hour to wait. He was in no hurry, he wished to

carry out his design punctually, at the precise moment he had selected;

and he therefore sat down on a block of stone, and remained there without

moving, quiet and patient. The candle now cast its light upon his pale

face, upon his towering brow crowned with white hair, upon the whole of

his energetic countenance, which still looked handsome and young, thanks

to his bright eyes and dark moustaches. And not a muscle of his face

stirred; he simply gazed into the void. What thoughts could be passing

through his mind at that supreme moment? Who could tell? There was not a

quiver; heavy night, the deep eternal silence of the earth reigned all

around.

Then Pierre, having quieted his palpitating heart, drew near. At the

sound of his footsteps Guillaume rose menacingly, but he immediately

recognised his brother, and did not seem astonished to see him.

“Ah! it’s you,” he said, “you followed me.... I felt that you

possessed my secret. And it grieves me that you should have abused your

knowledge to join me here. You might have spared me this last sorrow.”

Pierre clasped his trembling hands, and at once tried to entreat him.

“Brother, brother,” he began.

“No, don’t speak yet,” said Guillaume, “if you absolutely wish it I will

listen to you by-and-by. We have nearly an hour before us, so we can

chat. But I want you to understand the futility of all you may think

needful to tell me. My resolution is unshakable; I was a long time coming

to it, and in carrying it out I shall simply be acting in accordance with

my reason and my conscience.”

Then he quietly related that having decided upon a great deed he had long

hesitated as to which edifice he should destroy. The opera-house had

momentarily tempted him, but he had reflected that there would be no

great significance in the whirlwind of anger and justice destroying a

little set of enjoyers. In fact, such a deed might savour of jealousy and

covetousness. Next he had thought of the Bourse, where he might strike a

blow at money, the great agent of corruption, and the capitalist society

in whose clutches the wage-earners groaned. Only, here again the blow

would fall upon a restricted circle. Then an idea of destroying the

Palace of Justice, particularly the assize court, had occurred to him. It

was a very tempting thought--to wreak justice upon human justice, to

sweep away the witnesses, the culprit, the public prosecutor who charges

the latter, the counsel who defends him, the judges who sentence him, and

the lounging public which comes to the spot as to the unfolding of some

sensational serial. And then too what fierce irony there would be in the

summary superior justice of the volcano swallowing up everything

indiscriminately without pausing to enter into details. However, the plan

over which he had most lingered was that of blowing up the Arc de

Triomphe. This he regarded as an odious monument which perpetuated

warfare, hatred among nations, and the false, dearly purchased,

sanguineous glory of conquerors. That colossus raised to the memory of so

much frightful slaughter which had uselessly put an end to so many human

lives, ought, he considered, to be slaughtered in its turn. Could he so

have arranged things that the earth should swallow it up, he might have

achieved the glory of causing no other death than his own, of dying

alone, struck down, crushed to pieces beneath that giant of stone. What a

tomb, and what a memory might he thus have left to the world!

“But there was no means of approaching it,” he continued, “no basement,

no cellar, so I had to give up the idea.... And then, although I’m

perfectly willing to die alone, I thought what a loftier and more

terrible lesson there would be in the unjust death of an innocent

multitude, of thousands of unknown people, of all those that might happen

to be passing. In the same way as human society by dint of injustice,

want and harsh regulations causes so many innocent victims, so must

punishment fall as the lightning falls, indiscriminately killing and

destroying whatever it may encounter in its course. When a man sets his

foot on an ant-hill, he gives no heed to all the lives which he stamps

out.”

Pierre, whom this theory rendered quite indignant, raised a cry of

protest: “Oh! brother, brother, is it you who are saying such things?”