The little fête was brilliant and tumultuous. More than forty children
were gathered about an immense table laden with flowers and food of all
kinds: smoking puddings; geese, stuffed with chestnuts, and roasted to
the hue of gold; pastry and ornamented sweets; and hillocks of comfits
and lozenges. But what were more beautiful still, were ten Christmas
trees, in all their wealth of green, hung with a thousand playthings of
all forms and colours.
Marianne and her four children arrived rather late; but as soon as
she appeared a place was made for her. A quarter of an hour later she
would have found it difficult to single out the elder ones, they were
so completely mixed with the joyous crowd. A little before midnight,
Marianne rose and her eyes searched for her truants. She was instantly
surrounded.
"You are not going to take them away from us?"
"It is getting late, and to-morrow----"
"To-morrow is a holiday, and to-night you belong to us; besides, the
playthings will not be distributed before one o'clock, and you would
not like your children not to have their share."
"Well, then," replied Marianne, "I will let the two elder ones stay and
leave the third in your charge while I go home and put the youngest to
bed. You see he is already asleep, and my neighbour has promised to
wait for me."
On this engagement she was allowed to go, and the supper, which was
drawing to a close, was continued with redoubled gaiety, with bravos
and peals of laughter.
In the street Marianne was surprised at the silence and deep darkness
all about her. She felt at first cold, then afraid, and hurried on
with rapid steps. But she had not gone many yards before she came to
a sudden standstill: a cloud seemed to pass before her eyes and a
suppressed scream rent her bosom. She fell back a pace.
"You!"
"Yes, it is I!"
[Illustration: "YOU!"]
"What are you doing here? You have, no doubt, been to the house? My
God, if you have been seen!"
"They may see me now, when they like--I care not! The blow is struck."
"The blow--what do you mean? I don't understand you--you terrify me.
What brings you here? You are not a bad-hearted man, you do not seek
anybody's life?"
"Don't I? What I want to do is to blow up everybody here!--this kind of
thing has lasted too long. The reign of masters and people of fortune
is over!"
"Unhappy man, what are you saying? Have you lost your senses?"
"What am I saying?--this! Look at that house blazing with light, where
they are feasting--the house of our exploiter, isn't it--where he is
regaling his well-to-do friends? Well, in ten minutes, they will all be
blown up."
"Blown up!--blown up!" repeated Marianne, almost mad with terror.
"Yes, it is there I have just come from; the dynamite is placed, the
fuse lit; at midnight--the explosion!"
Marianne comprehended. Out of herself, she sprang upon Jacques
Houdaille.
"Wretch!" she shrieked. "Wretch!--all the children in the country are
there--ours--yours--monster!"
"What!--my children?" cried the man, passing the back of his hand
across his brow and nearly sinking to the ground, but instantly
recovering himself and disappearing into the darkness in the direction
of the house.
Marianne was already there. She sprang across the threshold and,
flinging the door wide open, cried:--
"The house is mined! Save yourselves! Save yourselves, all of you!"
At any other time, those who heard her might have thought her mad, and
hesitated before taking flight; but, in the threatening circumstances
of the hour, she had scarcely opened her lips before her appearance had
told of danger.
The stronger carried out the weaker and the youngest of the party,
while their elders threw open all the doors and drove the little ones
out before them. By good fortune, the feast had been given on the
ground floor, a few steps only from the street. In a few moments the
house was emptied, the outer gates passed.
The twelfth stroke of midnight was sounding on the factory clock when
a terrible explosion was heard, and the house, full of light and the
odours of the entertainment so rudely interrupted, was blown into the
air and fell in a heap of ruins.
There was a frightful panic and flight. The street, but a few moments
before so full of cheerful sounds, became suddenly silent, as if death
had taken the place of life there.
At a short distance, one woman alone remained--a woman with an infant
in her arms and three other children clinging to her skirt.
This woman, followed by her children, advanced.
One gaslight only was burning in the street, lighting the immense
hecatomb and casting its trembling rays upon the body of a man.
She wished to reach this body, to see whether she recognised
it--praying to God that it might be _him_, preferring rather to know
that he was dead than a living assassin.
A glance sufficed, and, hiding her face, forcing back the tears that
were swelling her bosom to bursting, she drew her children to her and
fell upon her knees.
Through its windows the little workmen's church of the quarter seemed
to be on fire, and the bells pealed out with their utmost power of
sound, calling the faithful to the midnight service. But in the higher
part of the town the news of the explosion had spread with immense
rapidity, and presently an ever-growing crowd gathered from all points,
manifesting terror and indignation.
The body of the man was examined and identified.
"Jacques Houdaille, the Anarchist!" was cried on all sides.
"Yes," said Marianne, facing the exasperated crowd and protecting her
children with her trembling hands; "the Anarchist--but who did not
hesitate to rush on to death to save us, and accepted that fate as an
expiation."
_Illustrated Interviews._