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.