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NOVELS BY EMILE ZOLA. 
 
 Crown Svo. cloth extra, 3^, 6d, each. 
 
 VOLUMES OF THE *ROUGON-MACQUART' SERIES, 
 
 THE FAT AND THE THIN ('Le Ventre de Paris'). 
 Translated by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly. 
 
 _' A very satisfactory rendering, which has preserved the passion, the humour, and the 
 terrible insight of the original. Zola has never drawn a picture more pitilessly faithful 
 to the lower side of our common humanity than this is. ... A drama which reads like a 
 page torn out of the book of life itself.' — Speaker. 
 
 ' The characters are drawn with a master hand, and the two rival beauties will 
 bear comparison with any of the portraits in the author's literary gallery.'— Glasgow 
 Herald. 
 
 THE DRAM-SHOP C L'Assommoir '). With a Preface by 
 E. A. Vizetelly. 
 
 * After reading " L'Assommoir" and Zola's other books, it seems as if in the work of 
 all other novelists there were a veil between the reader and the-^hings described ; and 
 there is present to our minds the same difference as exists between a human face as 
 represented on canvas and the same face as reflected in a mirror. It is like finding truth 
 for the first time.' — Sigkok Edmondo db Amicis. 
 
 MONEY ('UArgent'). Translated by E. A. Vizetelly. 
 
 ' No one will be able to read " Money" without a deep sense of its absolute truth. 
 . . . Everything in the novel is on a grand scale. ... A vast panorama of national 
 viciousness. . . . An overpowering presentation of the disasters wrought by the unbridled 
 race for wealth.' — Morning Leader. 
 
 ' Suffice it to say of this book, one of Zola's masterpieces, that never has his brilliant 
 pen been used with such realistic, life-like force. . . . The figure of Sacard is a terrible, 
 fascinating creation. His love of money, his love of women (an altogether secondary 
 impulse), bis fixed hatred of the Jews, become more real than reality itself.' — Vanitt 
 Faik. 
 
 HIS EXCELLENCY ('Son Excellence Eugene Rougon'). 
 With a Preface by E. A. Vizetelly. 
 
 * The supreme craving for power was personified by Eugfene Rougon, the great man, 
 the eagle of the family, who loved force for its own sake^ and conquered Paris in company 
 with all 'the adventurers of the coming Empire, helped by his band, the hungry pack 
 which carried him alon^ and preyed upon him ; and, although momentarily defeated by a 
 woman, the lovely Clormde, for whom he entertained an insensate^ passion, he proved so 
 strong, so firm of purpose, that by abandoning every principle of his past life he yet again 
 victoriously climbed to power, marching on to the triumphal princely position of Vice- 
 Emperor.' — M. Z01.A in ' Doctor Fascau' 
 
 THE DREAM ('Le Rtvz'). Translated by Eliza E, 
 Chase. With 8 Full-page Illustrations by Georges Jeanniot, 
 
 * M. Zola has sotight in this charming story to prove to the world that he too can 
 write for the virgin, and that he can paint the better side of human nature in colours as 
 tender and true as those employed by any of his contemporaries. .... It is a beautiful 
 story admirably told.' — Speaker. 
 
 'Not a jarring touch, not a false note mars the harmony of this beautiful story of 
 ideal love. . . . Zola's perfect ease, the masterly simplicity of his workmanship, his 
 wondrous insight, are no less remarkable than the delicacy, grace, and infinite charm of 
 the great master's literary style.' — Morning Leader, 
 
Novels by tuiLE Zola. 
 
 THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS. Edited by 
 E. A. VizETELLY. [SAorlly. 
 
 THE ABBE MOURET'S TRANSGRESSION. Edited by 
 
 Ernest A. Vizbtelly. \Shorlly, 
 
 THE DOWNFALL (' La D^bAcle ') Translated by E. A. 
 Vizbtelly. With 2 Plans of the Battle of Sedan. 
 
 ' It would probably be no exaggeration to say that, taken as a whole, " La Debacle " 
 is the most wonderfully faithful reproduction of an historical drama ever committed to 
 writing. " La D^bScIe " is an appalling record of long-drawn-out misery, profligacy, and 
 military and official incapacity, unbroken by any ray of hope or sunshine,' — Spectator, 
 
 ' It is only when you have come to the end of " The Downfall " that you appreciate 
 the feverish hurry in which you have read page after page, and that you know the 
 splendid art with which M, Zola has concealed the fervour, the pity, the a^ony, and the 
 Inspiration with which he has told the tale.' — Sunday StJN. 
 
 DOCTOR PASCAL. Translated by E. A. Vizetelly. With 
 
 an Etched Portrait of the Author. 
 
 * This book, the crown and conclusion of the Rougon-Macquart volumes, strikes us 
 as being in some respects the most powerful] the most dramatic, and the most pathetic* 
 
 Times. 
 
 * Dr. Pascal Rougon, the skilled physician, and the onl^ member of his family that 
 has escaped the fatal taint of vice, here sits in judgment upon his relatives and compatriots, 
 and explains the causes of theirmoral decline and fall.^ The work further deals with many 
 of the great problems of the time, and incidental Ij' with the much-debated question, " Is 
 Christianity Played Out?" Artistically blended, however, with this controversial matter, 
 and the deeply interesting researches of the hero, is an absorbing love-story, the scene of 
 which is ]aid under the burning sky of Provence, which fires the human heart with passion 
 and maddens it to crime.*— Echo. 
 
 THE * THREE CITIES' SERIES. 
 
 LOURDES. Translated by E. A. Vizetelly. 
 
 ' A great and notable book. . . . The glory of the book is the inexhaustible, over- 
 flowing human sympathy which transfuses it from end to end. ... As you read, the heart is 
 set beating. . . . Instead of a mere name, " Lourdes " will always be something of a 
 reality to every reader of Zola's admirable pages. ... In almost every respect a signal 
 triumph— a book to be read and to be thankful for.' — National Observer. 
 
 * The most perfect specimen of literary art yet produced by M, Zola. , . . Beyond 
 question his best-written book, a model of powerful and poetic narrative, brilliant in style, 
 in form, and in colour.' — Gkafhic. 
 
 ROME. Translated by E. A. Vizetelly. 
 
 * A very great book. . . . We judge it as a work of art, and as such we must accord 
 It very high praise. Excepting only a few concluding pages of rhetoric, there is not a dull 
 or superfluous passage in it. Every part, great or small, fits perfectly into the whole . . . 
 and all the different characters, interests, motives, and points of view are presented with 
 the only kind of truth that we can fairly demand of a work of art. The Pope, the 
 CardinalSj and all the lesser dignitaries of the Church against which the writer brings his 
 great indictment are so painted that neither such greatness as is in themselves, nor the 
 greatness of the cause which they represent, shall be forgotten in the littleness of some of 
 the methods to which they stoop. The pride of noble houses is given its full value . 
 and the pathos of human suffering is allowed its due of sympathy and respect in thosa 
 who figure as the torturers of human hearts.*— Guardian. 
 
 PARIS. Translated by E. A. Vizetelly. 
 
 London : CHATTO & WINDUS. 1 1 1 St. Martin's Lane, W,C 
 
PARIS 
 
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS 
 
 ON 
 
 PARIS. 
 
 * " Paris " is a book to read, and it crowns a v/orlc finely plaimed.* 
 
 Makchestee Guardian. 
 
 * Recent events have flashed lurid lights on the knowledge and even prescience 
 with which the book was written. ... It will be read with all the zest which 
 attaches to stirring incidents fresh in men's minds. ... It is a scathing satire 
 professedly founded on facts, many of which are undeniable.' — Times. 
 
 ' The book is encyclopasdic in its pictures of Parisian life from gutter to mansion. 
 . . . The writing of it, one can see now, was a straight path leading its author 
 directly and inevitably to his action in the now famous trial, and from this point of 
 view it is remarkably interesting. . . . It is a grim and notable book, and, quaint as 
 it may sound to some to say thiji it impresses one more than in any other aspect as 
 the work of a rigid moralist,'— Daily Graphic. t ^^ 
 
 'The scene in which Guillaume, to whom Marie was betrothed, resigns his 
 claim to her in favour of Pierre, and the subsequent one in which Pierre saves ^s 
 brother from the commission of a terrible crime, are in M. Zola's best manner, and 
 deserving of unqualified praise ; while as for the characterisation, it goes without saying 
 that it is excellent. ..." Paris " will bring M. Zola new admirers and new friends, 
 for it shows him to be not only a great writer, but a man of noble aspirations and 
 splendid courage.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' No less than a confession and a gospel . . . written with splendid force and 
 absolute simplicity.'— Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' A gigantic panorama of the life of the most interesting city in the world.' 
 
 f Morning Leader. 
 
 ' The story, one of noticeable talent, breadth of view, and strength of grasp, and 
 on every page closely characteristic of its author, pictures the life of present Paris, 
 as it were, in a literary panorama. . . . Thus the one picture is made up of many, 
 each not only painted with that vividness of colour which is necessary to strike the 
 popular imagination, but also strikingly accurate in detail. . . . The translator's 
 version is so well done as to bespeak an unusual knowledge of the subject and an 
 unusual attention to the meaning of his original.' — Scotsman; 
 
 ' An able study of the development of a soul ; a brillantly realistic account of 
 all phases of Parisian life ; an honest and indignant onslaught on the corruption 
 which runs through all French official life and much of French social life at the 
 present moment. ... A fine and nobly conceived book.'— Glasgow Herald. 
 
 • A work of undoubted power. The writer's hand has lost none of its cunning. 
 He paints with relentless realism the darkest shades of life in the great city. He 
 shows us Paris corrupt in its politics, venal in its journalism, vicious in its higher 
 ranks, savage and suffering in its lower strata.'— Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 _ 'The book is strong in conception, and strong in execution. It is informed with 
 au immense pity for the woes of humanity, with a virile sincerity and a ruo-ged and 
 appealing eloquence.'— Daily News. " 
 
 ' The hook is a distinct achievement, and deserves general reading.' 
 
 Daily Mail. 
 
PARIS 
 
 BY 
 
 ^MILE ZOLA 
 
 TRANSLATED BY ERNEST ALFRED VIZETELLY 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS 
 
 1898 
 

 Copyrlgbt in the United States 
 by Thk MacMillak Company, iSgS 
 
 AU rights rtsfTvei 
 
 ^ 
 
PREFACE 
 
 With the present work M. Zola completes tlie ' Trilogy of 
 the Three Cities,' -n'hieh he began with ' Lourdes ' and con- 
 tinued with ' Eonie ' ; and thus the adventures and experiences 
 of Abb6 Pierre Froment, the doubting Catholic priest who 
 failed to find faith at the miraculous grotto of the Pyrenees, 
 and hope amidst the crumbling theocracy of the Vatican, are 
 here brought to what, from M. Zola's point of view, is their 
 logical conclusion. From the first pages of ' Lourdes ' many 
 readers will have divined that Abb6 Froment was bound to 
 finish as he does ; for, frankly, no other finish was possible 
 from a writer of M. Zola's opinions. 
 
 Taking the Trilogy as a whole, one will find that it is 
 essentially symbolical. Abb6 Froment is Man, and his 
 struggles are the struggles between Eeligion, as personified 
 by the Eoman Catholic Church, on the one hand, and Reason 
 and Life on the other. In the Abba's case the victory ulti- 
 mately rests with the latter, and we may take it as being 
 M. Zola's opinion that the same will eventually happen with 
 the great bulk of mankind. English writers are often accused 
 of treating subjects from an insular point of view, and certainly 
 there may be good ground for such a charge. But they are 
 not the only writers guilty of the practice. The purview of 
 French authors is often quite as limited ; they regard French 
 opinion as the only good opinion, and judge the rest of the 
 world by their own standard. In the present case, if we leave 
 the world and mankind generally on one side, and apply 
 J^. Zola's facts and theories to France alone, it will be found, 
 
viii PARIS 
 
 I think, that he has made out a remarkably good case for him- 
 self. For it is certain that Catholicism— I may say Chris- 
 tianity—is crumbling in France. There may be revivals 
 in certain limited circles— efforts of the greatest energy to 
 prop up the tottering edifice by a ' rallying ' of believers to 
 the democratic cause, and by a kindling of the most bitter 
 anti-Semitic warfare, but all these revivals and efforts, 
 although they are extremely well advertised and create no 
 little stir, produce very little impression on the bulk of the 
 population. So far as France is concerned, the policy of 
 Leo XIII. seems to have come too late. The French masses 
 regard Catholicism or Christianity, whichever one pleases, as 
 a religion of death, a religion which, taking its stand on the 
 text, 'Ye have the poor always with you,' condemns them 
 to toil and moil in poverty and distress their whole life long, 
 with no other consolation than the promise of happiness in 
 Heaven. And, on the other hand, they see the ministers of the 
 Deity ' whose kingdom is not of this world ' supporting the 
 wealthy and powerful, and striving to secure wealth and 
 power for themselves. Charity exists, of course, but the 
 masses declare that it is no remedy; they do not ask for 
 doles, they ask for justice. It is largely by reason of all this 
 that Socialism and Anarchism have made such great strides 
 in France of recent years. Robespierre, as will be remem- 
 bered, once tried to suppress Christianity altogether, and for 
 a time there was a virtually general cessation of religious 
 observances in France. But no such Reign of Terror 
 prevails there to-day ; men are perfectly free to believe if 
 they are inclined to do so ; and yet, never were there fewer 
 religious marriages, fewer baptisms, or smaller congregations 
 in the French churches. I refer not merely to Paris and 
 other large cities, but to the smaller towns, and even the 
 little hamlets of many parts. Old village priests — men 
 practising what they teach, and possessed of the most loving, 
 benevolent hearts— have told me with tears in their eyes of 
 the growing infidelity of their parishioners. 
 
 I have been studying this matter for some years, and I 
 
PREFACE ix 
 
 write without prejudice, merely setting down what I believe 
 to be the truth. Of course, we are all aware that the most 
 etrenuous efforts are being made by the Catholic clergy and 
 by believers generally to bring about a revival of the faith, 
 and certainly in some circles there has been a slight measure 
 of success. But the re-conversion of a nation is the most 
 formidable of tasks, and in my own opinion, as in M. Zola's, 
 France as a whole is lost to the Christian religion. On this 
 proposition, combined with a second one — namely, that even 
 as France as a nation will be the first to discard Christianity, 
 so she will be the first to promulgate a new faith based on 
 reason, science, and the teachings of life — is founded the whole 
 argument of M. Zola's Trilogy. 
 
 Having thus dealt with the Trilogy's religious aspects, I 
 would now speak of ' Paris,' its concluding volume. This is 
 very different from ' Lourdes ' and ' Eome.' Whilst recounting 
 the struggles and fate of Abb6 Froment and his brother 
 Guillaume, and entering in no small degree into the problem 
 of Capital and Labour, which problem has done so much to 
 turn the masses away from Christianity, it contains many an 
 interesting and valuable picture of the Parisian world at the 
 close of the nineteenth century. It is no guide-book to Paris, 
 but it paints the city's social hfe, its rich and poor, its scandals 
 and crimes, its work and its pleasures. Among the households 
 to which the reader is introduced are those of a banker, an 
 sged Countess of the old nohlesse, a cosmopolitan Princess 
 of a kind that Paris knows only too well, a scientist, a manu- 
 facturer, a working mechanician, a priest, an Anarchist, a 
 petty clerk, and an actress of a class that so often dishonours 
 the French stage. Science and art and learning and religion 
 all have their representatives. Then, too, the political world 
 is well to the front ; there are honest and unscrupulous 
 ministers of State, upright and venal deputies, enthusiastio 
 and cautious candidates for power, together with social 
 theoricians of various schools. And the hlasi, weak-minded 
 man of fashion is here, as well as the young ' symbolist ' of 
 perverted, degraded mind. The women are of all types, from 
 
x PARIS 
 
 the most loathsome to the most lovable. Then, too, the 
 journalists are portrayed in such life-like fasHon that I might 
 give each of them his real name. And journalism, Parisian 
 journalism, is flagellated, shown as it really is— if just a few 
 well-conducted organs be excepted— that is, venal and impu- 
 dent, mendacious and even filthy. 
 
 The actual scenes depicted are quite as kaleidoscopic as 
 are the characters in their variety. We enter the banker's 
 gilded saloon and the hovel of the pauper, the busy factory, 
 the priest's retired home, and the laboratory of the scientist. 
 We wait in the lobbies of the Chamber of Deputies, and after- 
 wards witness ' a great debate ' ; we penetrate into the private 
 sanctum of a Minister of the Interior ; we attend a fashionable 
 wedding at the Madeleine, and a first performance at the 
 Com^die Fran9aise ; we dine at the Cafe Anglais, and listen 
 to a notorious vocalist in a low music-hall at Montmartre ; 
 we pursue an Anarchist through the Bois de Boulogne ; we 
 slip into the Assize Court and see that Anarchist tried there ; 
 we afterwards gaze upon his execution by the guillotine ; we 
 are also on the boulevard when the lamps are lighted for a 
 long night of revelry, and we stroll along the quiet streets in 
 the small hours of the morning, when crime and homeless 
 want are prowling round. 
 
 And ever the scene changes : the whole world of Paris 
 passes before one. Yet the book, to my thinking, is far 
 less descriptive than analytical. The souls of the principal 
 characters are probed to their lowest depths. Many of the 
 scenes, too, are intensely dramatic, admirably adapted for the 
 stage, as, for instance, Baroness DuviUard's interview with 
 her daughter CamiUe in the chapter which I have called ' The 
 Eivals.' And side by side with baseness there is heroism, 
 while beauty of the flesh finds its counterpart in beauty of the 
 mind. M. Zola has often been reproached for showing us 
 the vileness of human nature, and no doubt such vileness may 
 be found in ' Paris,' but there are contrasting pictures. If 
 some of M. Zola's characters horrify the reader, there are 
 others that the latter can but admire. Life is compounde4 
 
PREFACE xi 
 
 of good and evil, and unfortunately it is usually the evil that 
 makes the most noise and attracts the most attention. More- 
 over, in M. Zola's case, it has always been his purpose to expose 
 the evils from which society suffers, in the hope of directing 
 attention to them, and thereby hastening a remedy ; and thus, 
 in the course of his works, he could not do otherwise than 
 drag the whole frightful mass of human villainy and degra- 
 dation into the full light of day. But if there are again black 
 pages in 'Paris,' others, bright and comforting, will be found 
 near them. And the book ends in no pessimist strain. 
 Whatever may be thought of the writer's views on religion, 
 most readers will, I imagine, agree with his opinion that, 
 despite much social injustice, much crime, vice, cupidity, and 
 baseness, we are ever marching on to better things. 
 
 In the making of the coming, though still far away, era 
 of truth and justice, Paris, he thinks, wiU play the leading 
 part, for whatever the stains upon her, they are but surface- 
 deep ; her heart remains good and sound ; she has genius 
 and courage, and energy and wit and fancy. She may at 
 times be prejudiced, but she can be generous when she 
 chooses ; and more than once her ideas have irradiated the 
 world. Thus M. Zola hopes much from her, and who will 
 gainsay him ? Not I, who can apply to her the words which 
 Byron addressed to the home of my own and M. Zola's fore- 
 fathers : 
 
 I loved her from my boyhood ; ste to me 
 
 Was as a fairy city of the heart. 
 
 And thus I can but hope that Paris, where I learnt the 
 little I know, where I struggled and found love and happiness, 
 whose every woe and disaster and triumph I have shared for 
 over thirty years, may, however dark the clouds that still pass 
 over her, some day fully justify M. Zola's confidence, and 
 bring to pass his splendid dream of perfect truth and perfect 
 justice. 
 
 E. A. V. 
 Fthrmry, 1898. 
 
'In the Twentieth Century there will be an extraordinary nation 
 This nation will be great, but its greatness will not prevent it iron 
 being free. It will be illustrious, wealthy, thoughtful, pacific, cordial t( 
 the rest of mankind. . . . The capital of this nation will be Paris, bu 
 its country will not be known as France. In the Twentieth Century iti 
 country will be called Europe, and in after centuries, as it still an< 
 ever develops, it will be called Mankind. . . . Before possessing iti 
 nation, Europe possesses its city. The nation does not yet exist, but iti 
 capital is already here. This may seem a prodigy, yet it is a law 
 Embryonic development, whether nation or creature be in question 
 always begins with the head. . . . Throughout historical times th( 
 world has ever had a city which has been The City. The brain is ! 
 necessity. Nothing can be accomplished without the organ whence comi 
 both initiative and will. Acephalous civilisation is beyond conception 
 It is from three cities, Jerusalem, Athens, Borne, that the modern worlc 
 has been evolved. They did their work. Of Jerusalem there now re 
 mains but a gibbet. Calvary ; of Athens, a ruin, the Parthenon ; of Eome 
 a phantom, its empire. Are these cities dead, then ? No. A broker 
 eggshell does not necessarily imply that the egg has been destroyed ; i' 
 rather signifies that tho bird has come forth from it, and lives. Fron 
 out of those shells lying yonder — Eome, Athens, and Jerusalem — th< 
 human ideal has sprung and soared. From Borne has come power 
 from Athena, Art ; from Jerusalem, freedom : the great, the beautiful 
 the true. . . . And they live anew in Paris, which in one way hai 
 resuscitated Bome, in another Athens, and in another Jerusalem ; foi 
 from the cry of Golgotha came the principle of the Eights of Man 
 And Paris also has its crucified ; one that has been crucified for eighteer 
 hundred years — the People. . . . But the function of Paris is to spreac 
 ideas. Its never-ending duty is to scatter truths over the world, a duty ii 
 incessantly discharges. Paris is a sower, sowing the darkness wiil 
 sparks of light. It is Paris which, without a pause, stirs up the fire ol 
 progress. It casts superstition and fanaticism, and hatred and folly anc 
 
xiv PARIS 
 
 prejudice on to this fire, and from all Bucb darkness comes a blaze of 
 light. . . . Moreover, Paris is like the centre of our nervous system ; 
 each of its quivers is felt throughout the world. . . . And, further, it is 
 like a ship sailing on through storms and whirlpools to unknown 
 Atlantides, and ever towing the fleet of mankind in its wake. There 
 can be no greater ecstasy than that which comes from perception of the 
 universal advance, when one hears the echoes of the receding tempests, 
 the creaking of the rigging and the panting of the toiling crew, when 
 one feels the straining of the timbers, and realises the speed vritb which, 
 in spite of all, one happily travels onward. Search the whole world 
 through ; it is ever upon the deck of Paris that one may best hear the 
 flapping and quivering of the full-spread, invisible sails of human 
 Progress.' 
 
 YiCTOB Hugo. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 SIKTIOS FAOB 
 
 I. XHE CBIESI AND IBE rOOB I 
 
 II. WEALTH AND WOBLDLINESS 20 
 
 HI, BANTEBS AlID BULEBS 42 
 
 IT. SOCIAL glDELIQBTS 6o 
 
 T. TBOU BELIQIOH 10 AKABCUY 8 1 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 I. BETOLCTIOKISIS .... ^ ... i 99 
 
 n. A HOME OP INDUSTBY 117 
 
 in. FENUB7 AKD TOUi 133 
 
 IT. CULIUBE AND HOPE 152 
 
 V. fBOBLEMS . l6S 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 I. TEE BITALa 189 
 
 XI. BFIBII AND FLESH 208 
 
 III. ELOI AND COUNTEBFLOX 23O 
 
 IT. IHE UAN-HCNI 251 
 
 W- 'rmr. mw. off vm.jTTP.a ........ 2*70 
 
XVI 
 
 PARIS 
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 .EOTIOS .... '■'g' 
 
 I. PIEP.ee ASD UiMB t ^^ 
 
 n. TOWAEDS LDTB . • ^ 
 
 Til. IHB DAWN OF LOVE 32/ 
 
 IV. lEIAI. AND BENTESCE ...•••••* 34" 
 
 V. SACBITIOB t 3°S 
 
 BOOK Y 
 
 I. THE G0ILLOTISB \ t . 3S4 
 
 n. IN TANIII FAIE ....#.•••• 4^4 
 
 III. THE GOAL OF LAEODK ••.••••• 4^5 
 
 IV. THE CEISIS ....•• 444 
 
 V. life's wobk and PKoaisB , . t • • • • 467 
 
PARIS 
 
 BOOK I 
 I 
 
 THE PBIEST AND THE POOB 
 
 That morning, one towards the end of January, Abbe Pierre 
 Froment, who had a mass to say at the Sacred Heart at 
 Montmartre, was on the height, in front of the basilica, 
 abeady at eight o'clock. And before going in he gazed for 
 a moment upon the immensity pf Paris spread out below 
 him. 
 
 After two months of bitter cold, ice and snow, the city 
 was steeped in a mournful, quivering thaw. From the far- 
 spreading, leaden-hued heavens a thick mist fell like a 
 mourning shroud. All the eastern portion of the city, the 
 abodes of misery and toil, seemed submerged beneath ruddy 
 steam, amid which the panting of workshops and factories 
 could be detected ; while westwards, towards the districts of 
 wealth and enjoyment, the fog broke and lightened, be- 
 coming but a fine and motionless veil of vapour. The curved 
 line of the horizon could scarcely be divined ; the expanse 
 of houses, which nothing bounded, appeared like a chaos of 
 stone, studded with stagnant pools, which filled the hoUows 
 with pale steam; whilst against them the summits of the 
 edifices, the house-tops of the loftier streets, showed black 
 like soot. It was a Paris of mystery, shrouded by clouds, 
 buried as it were beneath the ashes of some disaster, abeady 
 half-sunken in the suffering and the shame of that which its 
 immensity concealed. -^ 
 
» PARIS 
 
 Thin and sombre in his flimsy eassocic, Pierre was looking 
 
 V on, when Abb6 Eose, who seemed to have sheltered himself 
 
 behind a pillar of the porch on purpose to watch for him, 
 
 came forward : ' Ah I it's you at last, my dear child,' said he ; 
 
 ' I have something to ask you.' 
 
 He seemed embarrassed and anxious, and glanced round 
 distrustfully to make sure that nobody was near. Then, as if 
 the soHtude thereabouts did not suffice to reassure him, he led 
 Pierre some distance away, through the icy, biting wind, 
 which he himself did not seem to feel. ' This is the matter,' 
 he resumed ; ' I have been told that a poor fellow, a former 
 house-painter, an old man of seventy, who naturally can 
 work no more, is dying of hunger in a hovel in the Eue des 
 Saules. So, my dear child, I thought of you. I thought you 
 would consent to take him these three francs from me, 
 so that he may at lei'st have some bread to eat for a few 
 days.' 
 
 ' But why don't you take him your alms yourself ? ' 
 
 At this Abb6 Eose again grew anxious, and cast vague, 
 frightened glances about him. ' Oh, no, oh, no I ' he saidj 
 ' I can no longer do that after all the worries that have 
 befallen me. You know that I am watched, and should get 
 another scolding if I were caught giving alms like this, 
 scarcely knowing to whom I give them. It is true that I 
 had to sell something to get these three francs. But, my 
 dear chUd, render me this service, I pray you.' 
 
 Pierre, with heart oppressed, stood contemplating the old 
 priest, whose locks were quite white, whose full hps spoke of 
 infinite kindliness, and whose eyes shone clear and child-like 
 in his. round and smiling face. And he bitterly recalled the 
 story of that lover of the poor, the semi-disgrace into which 
 he had fallen through the sublime candour of his charitable 
 goodness. His little ground-floor of the Eue de Charonne, 
 which he had turned into a refuge where he offered shelter to 
 all the wretchedness of the streets, had ended by giving cause 
 for scandal. His naiveti and innocence had been abused ; 
 and abominable things had gone on under his roof without 
 his knowledge. Vice had turned the asylum into a meeting- 
 place ; and at last, one night, the police had descended upon 
 It to arrest a young girl accused of infanticide. Greatly con- 
 A®^?? r,^ ^^ scandal, the diocesan authorities, had forced 
 Abb6 Eose to close his shelter, and had removed him from 
 the ch\irch of Ste. Marguerite to that of St. Pierre of 
 
THE PRIEST AND THE POOR 3 
 
 Montmartre, where he now again acted as curate. Truth 
 to tell, it was not a disgrace but a removal to another spot. 
 However, he had been scolded and was watched, as he said ; 
 and he was much ashamed of it, and very unhappy at being 
 only able to give alms by stealth, much like some hare-brained 
 prodigal who blushes for his faults. 
 
 Pierre took the three francs. ' I promise to execute your 
 commissiooi my friend, oh ! with all my heart,' he said. 
 
 ' You will go after your mass, won't you ? His name ia 
 Laveuve ; he lives in the Eue des Saules in a house with a 
 courtyard, just before reaching the Eue Marcadet. You are 
 sure to find it. And if you want to be very kind you will tell 
 me of your visit this evening at five o'clock, at the Madeleine, 
 where I am going to hear Monseigneur Martha's address. He 
 has been so good to me ! Won't you also come to hear him ? ' 
 
 Pierre made an evasive gesture. Monseigneur Martha, 
 Bishop of Persepolis and aU powerful at the archiepiscopal 
 palace, since, like the genial propagandist he was, he had been 
 devoting himself to increasing the subscriptions for the 
 basilica of the Sacred Heart, had indeed supported Abbd Eose ; 
 in fact, it was by his influence that the Abb6 had been kept 
 in Paris, and placed once more at St. Pierre de Montmartre. 
 
 ' I don't know if I shaU be able to hear the address,' said 
 Pierre, ' but in any case I will go there to meet you.' 
 
 The north wind was blowing, and the gloomy cold 
 penetrated both of them on that deserted summit amidst the 
 fog which changed the vast city into a misty ocean. How- 
 ever, some footsteps were heard, and Abb6 Eose, again 
 mistrustful, saw a man go by, a taU and sturdy man, who 
 wore clogs and was bareheaded, showing his thick and closely 
 cut white hair. ' Is not that your brother ? ' asked the old 
 priest. 
 
 Pierre had not stirred. ' Yes, it is my brother GuiUaume,' 
 he quietly responded. ' I have found him again since I have 
 been coming occasionally to the Sacred Heart. He owns a 
 house close by, where he has been living for more than twenty 
 years, I think. When we meet we shake hands, but I have 
 never even been to his house. Oh I aU is quite'dead between 
 ns; we have nothing more in common, we are parted by 
 worlds.' 
 
 Abbfi Kose's tender smile again appeared, and he waved 
 his hand aa if to say that one must never despair of love. 
 6QilIa.ume Froment, a savant of lofty intelligence, a ohemiBt 
 
 b3 
 
4 PARIS 
 
 who lived apart from others, like one who rebelled against 
 the social system, was now a parishioner of the Abb6 s, and 
 when the latter passed the house where GuiUaume bved witn 
 his three sons— a house all alive with work— he must often 
 have dreamt of leading him back to God. 
 
 ' But, my dear child,' he resumed, ' I amkeepmg you here 
 in this dark cold, and you are not warm. Go and say your 
 mass. Till this evening, at the Madeleme.' Then, m 
 entreating fashion, after again making sure that none could 
 hear them, he added, still with the air of a child at fault: 
 ' And not a word to anybody about my little commission— it 
 would again be said that I don't know how to conduct 
 myself.' 
 
 Pierre watched the old priest as he went off towards the 
 Eue Cartot, where he lived on a damp ground-floor, enlivened 
 by a strip of garden. The veil of disaster, which was sub- 
 merging Paris, now seemed to grow thicker under the gusts 
 of the icy north wind. And at last Pierre entered the 
 basilica, his heart upset, overflowing with the bitterness 
 stirred up by the recollection of Abb6 Eose's story — that 
 bankruptcy of charity, the frightful irony of a holy man 
 punished for bestowing alms, and hiding himself that he 
 might still continue to bestow them. Nothing could calm 
 the smart of the wound reopened in Pierre's heart — neither 
 the warm peacefulness into which he entered, nor the silent 
 solemnity of the broad, deep fabric, whose new stonework was 
 quite bare, without a single painting or any kind of decoration ; 
 the nave being still half-barred by the scaffoldings which 
 blocked up the unfinished dome. At that early hour the 
 masses of entreaty had already been said at several altars, 
 under the grey light falling from the high and narrow 
 windows, and the tapers of entreaty were burning in the 
 depths of the apse. So Pierre made haste to go to the 
 sacristy, there to assume his vestments in order that he might 
 say his mass in the chapel of St. Vincent de Paul. 
 
 But the floodgates of memory had been opened, and his 
 only thoughts were for his distress whilst in mechanical 
 fashion he performed the rites and made the customary 
 gestures. Since his return from Rome three years previously 
 he had been living in the very worst anguish that can fall on 
 man. At the outset, in order to recover his lost faith, he had 
 essayed a first experiment : he had gone to Lourdes, there to 
 seek the innocent belief of the child who kneels and praya, 
 
THE PRIEST AND THE POOR 5 
 
 the primitive faith of young nations bending beneath the 
 terror bom of ignorance ; but he had rebelled yet more than 
 ever in presence of what he had witnessed at Lourdes : that 
 glorification of the absurd, that collapse of common-sense ; 
 and was convinced that salvation, the peace of men and 
 nations nowadays, could not he in such puerile relinquishment 
 of reason. And afterwards, again yielding to the need of 
 loving whilst yet allowing reason, so hard to satisfy, her share 
 in his intellect, he had staked his final peace on a second 
 experiment, and had gone to Eome to see if CathoUcism could 
 there be renewed, could revert to the spirit of primitive 
 Christianity and become the rehgion of the democracy, the 
 faith which the modern world, upheaving and in danger of 
 death, was awaiting in order to calm down and live. And he 
 had found there naught but ruins, the rotted trunk of a tree 
 that could never put forth another springtide ; and he had 
 heard there naught but the supreme rending of the old 
 social edifice, near to its fall. Then it was that, relapsing 
 into boundless doubt, total negation, he had been recalled 
 to Paris by Abbd Eose in the name of their poor, and had 
 returned thither that he might forget and immolate himself 
 and beHeve in them — the poor — since they and their frightful 
 sufferings alone remained certain. And then it was, too, that 
 for three years he had come in contact with that collapse, that 
 very bankruptcy of goodness itself : charity a derision, charity 
 useless and fiouted. 
 
 Those three years had been lived by Pierre amidst ever- 
 growing torments, in which his whole being had ended by 
 sinking. His faith was for ever dead ; dead, too, even his 
 hope of utilising the faith of the multitudes for the general 
 salvation. He denied everything, he anticipated nothing but 
 the final, inevitable catastrophe : revolt, massacre and con- 
 flagration, which would sweep away a guilty and condemned 
 world. Unbelieving priest that he was, yet watching over 
 the faith of others, honestly, chastely discharging his duties, 
 full of haughty sadness at the thought that he had been 
 unable to renounce his mind as he had renounced his flesh 
 and his dream of being a saviour of the nations, he withal 
 remained erect, full of fierce yet solitary grandeur. And this 
 despairing, denying priest, who had dived to the bottom of 
 nothingness, retained such a lofty and grave demeanour, 
 perfumed by such pure kindness, that in his parish of NeuUly 
 be had acquired the reputation of being a young saint, one 
 
6 PARIS 
 
 beloved by Providence, whose prayers wrought miracles. 
 He was but a personification of the rules of the Church ; of 
 the priest he retained only the gestures ; he was like an 
 empty sepulchre in which not even the ashes _ of na^Q 
 remained ; yet grief -stricken, weeping women worshipped him 
 and kissed his cassock ; and it was a tortured mother whose 
 infant was in danger of death, who had implored him to come 
 and ask that infant's cure of Jesus, certain as she felt that 
 Jesus would grant her the boon in that sanctuary of Mont- 
 martre, where blazed the prodigy of His heart, all burning 
 with love. 
 
 Clad in his vestments, Pierre had reached the Chapel of 
 St. Vincent de Paul. He there ascended the altar-step and 
 began the mass; and when he turned round with hands 
 spread out to bless the worshippers he showed his hollow 
 cheeks, his gentle mouth contracted by bitterness, his loving 
 eyes darkened by suffering. He was no longer the young 
 priest whose countenance had glowed with tender fever on the 
 road to Lourdes, whose face had been illumined by apostolic 
 fervour when he started for Eome. The two hereditary 
 influences which were ever at strife witbin him — that of his 
 father to whom he owed his impregnable, towering brow, that 
 of his mother who had given him his love- thirsting lips — were 
 still waging war, the whole human battle of sentiment and 
 reason, in that now ravaged face of his, whither in moments 
 of forgetfulness ascended all the chaos of internal suffering. 
 The lips stiU confessed that unquenched thirst for love, sefl- 
 bestowal and life, which he well thought he could never more 
 content, whilst the soKd brow, the citadel which made him 
 Buffer, obstinately refused to capitulate, whatever might be the 
 assaults of error. But he stiffened himself, hid the horror of 
 the void in which he struggled, and showed himself superb, 
 making each gesture, repeating each word in sovereign 
 fashion. And gazing at him through her tears, the mother who 
 was there among the few kneeling women, the mother who 
 awaited a supreme intercession from him, who thought him in 
 communion with Jesus for the salvation of her child, beheld 
 him radiant with angelic beauty like some messenger of the 
 Divine grace. 
 
 When, after the offertory, Pierre uncovered the chalice he 
 felt contempt for himself. The shock had been too great, 
 and he thought of those things in spite of all. "What 
 puerility there had been in his two experiments at Lourdea 
 
THE PRIEST AND THE POOR 7 
 
 and Eome, tte naweU of a poor distracted being, consumed by 
 a desire to love and believe. To have imagined that present- 
 day science would in his person accommodate itself to the 
 faith of the year One Thousand, and in particular to havo 
 foolishly believed that he, petty priest that he was, would be 
 able to indoctrinate the Pope and prevail on him to become 
 a saint and change the face of the world ! It all filled hiim 
 with shame ; how people must have laughed at him 1 Then, 
 too, his idea of a schism made him blush. He again beheld 
 himself at Eome, dreaming of writing a book by which he 
 would violently sever himself from Catholicism to preach the 
 new religion of the democracies, the purified, human and. 
 living Gospel. But what ridiculous folly'! A schism ? He 
 had known in Paris an abbd of great heart and mind who 
 had attempted to bring about that famous, predicted; awaited 
 schism. Ah 1 thfe poor man, the sad, the ludicrous labour in 
 the midst of universal incredulity, the icy indifference of 
 some, the mockery ' and the reviling of others 1 If Luther 
 were to come to France in our days he would end, forgotten 
 and dying of hunger, on a BatignoUes fifth-floor. A schism 
 cannot succeed among a people that no longer believes, that 
 has ceased to take all interest in the Church, and set its hope 
 elsewhere. And it was all Catholicism, in fact aU Christianity, 
 that would be swept away, for, apart from certain moral 
 maxims, the Gospel no longer supplied a possible code for 
 society. And this conviction increased Pierre's torment on 
 the days when his cassock weighed more heavily on his 
 shoulders, when he ended by feeling contempt for himself at 
 thus celebrating the Divine mystery of the mass, which for 
 him had become but the formula of a dead religion. 
 
 Having half-filled the chalice with wine from the vase, 
 Pierre washed his hands, and again perceived the mother with 
 her face of ardent entreaty. Then he thought it was for her 
 that, with the charitable leanings of a vow-bound man, he 
 had remained a priest, a priest without belief, feeding the 
 belief of others with the bread of illusion. But this heroic 
 conduct, the haughty spirit of duty in which he imprisoned 
 himself, was not practised by him without growing anguish. 
 Did not elementary probity require that he should cast aside 
 the cassock and return into the midst of men ? At certain 
 times the falsity of his position filled him with disgust for his 
 useless heroism ; and he asked himself if it were not 
 cowardly and dangerous to leave the masses in stiperstition. 
 
PARIS 
 
 Certainly tlie theory of a just and vigilant Providence, of a 
 future paradise where all the sufferings of the world would 
 receive compensation, had long seemed necessary to the 
 wretchedness of mankind ; but what a trap lay in it, what a 
 pretext for the tyrannical grinding down of nations ; and how 
 far more virile it would be to undeceive the nations, however 
 brutally, and give them courage to live the real life, even if it 
 were in tears. If they were already turning aside from 
 Christianity, was not this because they needed a more human 
 ideal, a religion of health and joy which should not be a 
 religion of death? On the day when the idea of charity 
 should crumble, Christianity would crumble also, for it was 
 built upon the idea of Divine charity correcting the injustice 
 of fate, and offering future rewards to those who might suffer 
 in this life. And it was crumbUng ; for the poor no longer 
 believed in it, but grew angry at the thought of that deceptive 
 paradise, with the promise of which their patience had been 
 beguiled so long, and demanded that their share of happiness 
 should not always be put off until the morrow of death. A 
 cry for justice arose from every lip, for justice upon this 
 earth, justice for those who hunger and thirst, whom alms are 
 weary of relieving after eighteen hundred years of Gospel 
 teaching, and who still and ever lack bread to eat. 
 
 When Pierre, with his elbows on the altar, had emptied 
 the chahce after breaking the sacred wafer, he felt himself 
 smkmg mto yet greater distress. And so a third experiment 
 was begmnmg for him, the supreme battle of justice against 
 charity, m which his heart and his mind would struggle 
 together m that great Paris, so full of terrible, unknown 
 things. The need for the divine stiU battled within him 
 against dommeermg intelligence. How among the masses 
 would one ever be able to content the thirst for the 
 mysterious? Leaving the iliU on one side, would science 
 suffice to pacify desire, luU suffering, and satisfy the dream? 
 And what would become of himself in the bankruptcy of 
 that same chanty, which for three years had alone kept him 
 erect by oocupymg his every hour, and giving hhn the 
 lUusion of self-devotion, of being useful to others ?ns^med 
 all at once, as if the ground sank beneath him, and he B 
 nothing save the cry of the masses, silent so long, but Mw 
 
 fwf ^°v,^ r^''"^' ^•■^r^°S ^^^ threatening to lake tS 
 share, which was withheld from them by force and ruse 
 Npthmg more, it seemed, could delay the ine«e caSteophei 
 
THE PRIEST AND THE POOR 9 
 
 the fratricidal class warfare that would sweep away the olden 
 world, which was condemned to disappear beneath the moun- 
 tain of its crimes. Every hour with frightful sadness he 
 expected the collapse, Paris steeped in blood, Paris in flames. 
 And his horror of all violence froze him ; he knew not where 
 to seek the new belief, which might dissipate the peril. 
 Fully conscious though he was that the social and religious 
 problems are but one, and are alone in question in the 
 dreadful daily labour of Paris, he was too deeply troubled 
 himself, too far removed from ordinary things by his position 
 as a priest, and too sorely rent by doubt and powerlessness, 
 to tell as yet where might be truth, and health, and life. Ah ! 
 to be healthy and to live, to content at last both heart and 
 reason in peace, in the certain, simply honest labour which 
 man has come to accomplish upon this earth I 
 
 The mass was finished, and Pierre descended from the 
 altar, when the weeping mother, near whom he passed, 
 caught hold of a corner of the chasuble with her trembling 
 hands, and kissed it with wild fervour, as one may kiss some 
 rehc of a saint from whom one expects salvation. She 
 thanked him for the miracle which he must have accom- 
 pUshed, certain as she felt that she would find her child 
 cured. And he was deeply stirred by that love, that ardent 
 faith of hers, in spite of the sudden and yet keener distress 
 which he felt at being in no wise the sovereign minister that 
 she thought him, the minister able to obtain a respite from 
 Death. But he dismissed her consoled and strengthened, 
 and it was with an ardent prayer that he entreated the 
 unknown but conscious Power to succour the poor creature. 
 Then, when he had divested himself in the sacristy, and 
 found himself again out of doors before the basilica, lashed 
 by the keen wintry wind, a mortal shiver came upon him, 
 and froze him, while through the mist he looked to see if a 
 whirlwind of anger and justice had not swept Paris away : 
 that catastrophe which must some day destroy it, leaving 
 only the pestilential quagmire of its ruins imder the leaden 
 heavens. 
 
 Pierre wished to fulfil Abbe Eose's commission immediately. 
 He followed the Eue des Norvins, on the crest of Montmartre ; 
 and, reaching the Eue des Saules, descended by its steep 
 slope, between mossy walls, to the other side of Paris. The 
 three francs which he was holding in his cassock pocket 
 filled him at once with gentle emotion and covert anger 
 
ro FAKIS 
 
 against the futility of charity. But as he gradually descended 
 by the sharp declivities and interminable storeys of steps, 
 the mournful nooks of misery which he espied took possession 
 of him, and infinite pity wrung his heart. A whole new 
 district was here being built alongside the broad thoroughfares 
 opened since the great works of the Sacred Heart had begun. 
 Lofty middle-class houses were already rising among ripped-up 
 gardens and plots of vacant land, still edged with palings. 
 And these houses with their substantial frontages, all new 
 and white, lent a yet more sombre and leprous aspect to such 
 of the old shaky buildings as remained, the low pothouses 
 with blood-coloured walls, the citis of workmen's dwellings, 
 those abodes of suffering with black, soiled buildings, in which 
 human cattle were piled. Under the low-hanging sky that 
 day the pavement, dented by heavily laden carts, was covered 
 with mud ; the thaw soaked the walls with an icy dampness, 
 whilst all the filth and destitution brought terrible sadness to 
 the heart. 
 
 After going as far as the Rue Marcadet Pierre retraced his 
 steps ; and in the Eue des Saules, certain that he was not 
 mistaken, he entered the courtyard of a kind of barracks or 
 hospital, encompassed by three irregular buildings. This 
 court was a quagmire, where filth must have accumulated 
 during the two months of terrible frost ; and now aU was melting, 
 and an abominable stench arose. The buildings were half 
 falling, the gaping vestibules looked like cellar holes, strips 
 of paper streaked the cracked and filthy window-panes, and 
 vile rags hung about like flags of death. Inside a shanty 
 which served as the doorkeeper's abode Pierre only saw an 
 infirm man rolled up in a tattered strip of what had onco 
 been a horse-cloth. 
 
 ' You have an old workman named Laveuve here,' said 
 the priest. ' "Which staircase is it, which floor ? ' 
 
 The man did not answer, but opened his anxious eyes, 
 like a scared idiot. The doorkeeper, no doubt, was in the 
 neighbourhood. For a moment the priest waited; then, 
 seeing a Utile girl on the other side of the courtyard, he 
 risked himself, crossed the quagmire on tiptoe, and asked: 
 ' Do you know an old workman named Laveuve in the house. 
 my child ? ' ' 
 
 The little girl, who only had a ragged gown of pink cotton 
 stuff about her meagre figure, stood there shivering her 
 hands covered with chilblains. She raised her delicat^'face 
 
THE PRIEST AND THE POOR ii 
 
 which looked pretty though nipped by the cold: 'Laveuve,' said 
 she, ' no, don't know, don't know.' And with the unconscious 
 gesture of a beggar child she put out one of her poor, numbed 
 and disfigured hands. Then, when the priest had given her 
 a little bit of silver, she beg&n to prance through the mud 
 hke a joyful goat, singing the while in a shriU voice : ' Don't 
 know, don't know.' 
 
 Pierre decided to foUow her. She vanished into one of 
 the gaping vestibules, and, in her rear, he climbed a dark and 
 fetid staircase, whose steps were half-broken and so slippery, 
 on account of the vegetable parings strewn over them, that 
 he had to avail himself of the greasy rope by which the 
 inmates hoisted themselves upwards. But every door was 
 closed; he vainly knocked at several of them, and only 
 elicited, at the last, a stifled growl, as though some despairing 
 animal were confined within. Eeturning to the yard he hesi- 
 tated, then made his way to another staircase, where he was 
 deafened by piercing cries, as of a child who is being 
 butchered. He climbed on hearing this noise, and at last 
 found himself in front of an open room where an infant, who 
 had been left alone, tied in his little chair, in order that he 
 might not fall, was howling without drawing breath. Then 
 Pierre went down again, upset, frozen by the sight of so much 
 destitution and abandonment. 
 
 But a woman was coming in, carrying three potatoes in 
 her apron, and on being questioned by him she gazed distrust- 
 fully at his cassock, ' Laveuve, Laveuve, I can't say,' she 
 Replied. ' If the doorkeeper were there she might be able to 
 tell you. There are five staircases, you see, and we don't all 
 know each other. Besides, there are so many changes. Still, 
 try over there ; at the far end.' 
 
 The staircase at the back of the yard was yet more 
 abominable than the others, its steps warped, its walls slimy, 
 as if soaked with the sweat of anguish. At each successive 
 floor the drain-sinks exhaled a pestilential stench, whilst from 
 every lodging came moans, or a noise of quarrelling, or some 
 frightful sign of misery. A door swung open, and a man 
 appeared dragging a woman by the hair, whilst three youngsters 
 Bobbed aloud. On the next floor, Pierre caught a glimpse of 
 a room where a young girl in her teens, racked by coughing, 
 was hastily carrying an infant to and fro to quiet it, in despair 
 that all the milk of her breast should be exhausted. Then, in 
 an adjoining lodging, came the poignant spectacle of three 
 
12 
 
 PARIS 
 
 beings, half clad in shreds, apparently sexless and ageless, 
 V\rho, amidst the dire bareness of their room, were gluttonously 
 eating from the same earthen pan some pottage which even 
 dogs would have refused. They barely raised their heads to 
 growl, and did not answer Pierre's questions. 
 
 He was about to go down again, when right atop of the 
 stairs, at the entry of a passage, it occurred to him to make a 
 last try by knocking at a door. It was opened by a woman 
 whose uncombed hair was already getting grey, though she 
 could not be more than forty ; while her pale lips, and dim 
 eyes set in a yellow countenance, expressed utter lassitude, the 
 shrinking, the constant dread of one whom wretchedness has 
 pitilessly assailed. The sight of Pierre's cassock disturbed her, 
 and she stammered anxiously : ' Come in, come in, Monsieur 
 I'Abb^.' 
 
 However, a man whom Pierre had not at first seen — a 
 workman also of some forty years, tall, thin, and bald, with 
 scanty moustache and beard of a washed-out, reddish hue — 
 made an angry gesture, a threat as it were, to turn the 
 priest out of doors. But he calmed himself, sat down near a 
 rickety table, and pretended to turn his back. And as there 
 was also a child present — a fair-haired girl, eleven or twelve 
 years old, with a long and gentle face and that intelligent and 
 somewhat aged expression which great misery imparts to 
 children — ^he called her to him and held her between his 
 knees, doubtless to keep her away from the man in the 
 cassock. 
 
 Pierre — ^whose heart was oppressed by his reception, and 
 who realised the utter destitution of this family by the sight 
 of the bare, fireless room and the distressed moumfulness of 
 its three inmates— decided all the same to repeat his ques- 
 tion : ' Madame, do you know an old workman named 
 Laveuve in the house ? ' 
 
 The wDman — who now trembled at having admitted him, 
 since it seemed to displease her man — timidly tried to arrange 
 matters. ' Laveuve, Laveuve ; no, I don't. But Salvat, you 
 hear ? Do you know a Laveuve here ? ' 
 
 Salvat merely shrugged his shoulders ; but the little girl 
 could not keep her tongue still : ' I say, mamma Theodore, it's 
 p'r'aps the Philosopher.' 
 
 ' A former house-painter,' continued Pierre, • an old man 
 who is ill and past work.' 
 
 Madame Theodore was at once enlightened. 'In that 
 
THE PRIEST AND THE POOR 13 
 
 case it's him, it's him. We call him the Philosopher, a nick- 
 name folks have given him in the neighbourhood. But there's 
 nothing to prevent his real name from being Laveuve.' 
 
 With one of his fists raised towards the ceiling, Salvat 
 seemed to be protesting against the abomination of a world 
 and a Providence that allowed old toilers to die of hungei 
 just like broken-down beasts. However, he did not speak, 
 but relapsed into the savage, heavy silence, the bitter medita- 
 tion in which he had been plunged when the priest arrived. 
 He was a journeyman engiaeer, and gazed obstinately at the 
 table where lay his little leather tool-bag, bulging with some- 
 thing it contained — something, perhaps, which he had to 
 take back to a workshop. He might have been thinking of a 
 long, enforced spell of idleness, of a vain search for any kind 
 of work during the two previous months of that terrible 
 winter. Or perhaps it was the coming bloody reprisals of 
 the starvelings that occupied the fiery reverie which set his 
 large, strange, vague blue eyes aglow. All at once he noticed 
 that his daughter had taken up the tool-bag and was trying 
 to open it to see what it might contain. At this he quivered 
 and at last spoke, his voice kindly, yet bitter with sudden 
 emotion, which made him turn pale. ' Celine, you must 
 leave that alone. I forbade you to touch my tools,' said he ; 
 then, taking the bag, he deposited it with great precaution 
 against the wall behind him. 
 
 ' And so, madame,' asked Pierre, ' this man Laveuve lives 
 on this floor ? ' 
 
 Madame Theodore directed a timid, questioning glance at 
 Salvat. She was not in favour of hustling priests when they 
 took the trouble to call, for at times there was a little money 
 to be got from them. And when she realised that Salvat, who 
 had once more relapsed into his black reverie, left her free to 
 act as she pleased, she at once tendered her services. ' If 
 Monsieur I'Abbe is agreeable, I will conduct him. It's just at 
 the end of the passage. But one must know the way, for there 
 are still some steps to climb.' 
 
 Celine, finding a pastime in this visit, escaped from her 
 father's knees and likewise accompanied the priest. And 
 Salvat remained alone in that den of poverty and suffering, 
 injustice and anger, without a fire, without bread, haunted by 
 his burning dream, his eyes again fixed upon his bag, as if 
 there, among his tools, he possessed the wherewithal to heal 
 the ailing world. 
 
14 PARIS 
 
 It indeed proved necessary to climb a few more steps ; and 
 then following Madame Thdodore and Celine, Pierre found 
 himself in a kind of narrow garret under the roof, a loft a 
 few yards square, where one could not stand erect. There 
 was no window, only a skyhght, and as the snow still covered 
 it one had to leave the door wide open in order that one might 
 see. And the thaw was entering the place, the melting snow 
 was falhng drop by drop, and coursing over the tiled floor. 
 After long weeks of intense cold, dark dampness poured 
 quivering over all. And there, lacking even a chair, even a 
 plank, Laveuve lay in a corner on a little pile of filthy rags 
 spread upon the bare tiles ; he looked hke some animal dying 
 on a dung-heap. 
 
 ' There ! ' said Celine in her sing-song voice, ' there he is, 
 that's the Philosopher ! ' 
 
 Madame Thdodore had bent down to ascertain if he still 
 lived. ' Yes, he breathes ; he's sleeping, I think. Oh ! if he 
 only had something to eat every day he would be well enough. 
 But what would you have ? He has nobody left him, and 
 when one gets to seventy the best is to throw oneself into 
 the river. In the house-painting line it often happens that 
 a man has to give up working on ladders and scaffoldings at 
 fifty. He at first found some work to do on the ground level. 
 Then he was lucky enough to get a job as night watchman. 
 But that's over ; he's been turned away from everywhere, and, 
 for two months now he's been lying in this nook waiting 
 to die. The landlord hasn't dared to fling him into the street 
 as yet, though not for want of any inclination that way. We 
 others sometimes bring him a little wine and a crust of course ; 
 but when one has nothing oneself how can one give to others ? ' 
 
 Pierre, terrified, gazed at that frightful remnant of 
 humanity, that remnant into which fifty years of toil, misery 
 and social injustice had turned a man. And he ended by 
 distinguishing Laveuve's white, worn, sunken, deformed head. 
 Here, on a human face, appeared all the ruin following upon 
 hopeless labour. Laveuve's unkempt beard straggled over 
 his features, suggesting an old horse that is no longer cropped ; 
 his toothless jaws were quite askew, his eyes were vitreous, 
 and his nose seemed to plunge into his mouth. But above 
 all else one noticed his resemblance to some beast of burden, 
 deformed by hard toil, lamed, worn to death, and now only 
 good for the knackers, 
 
 • Ah I tfee poor fcUow,' awttered the shuddering priest. 
 
THE PRIEST AND THE POOR 15 
 
 •And he is left to die of hunger, all alone, without any 
 succour ? And not a hospital, not an asylum haa given him 
 shelter ? ' 
 
 ' Well,' resumed Madame Theodore in her sad yet resigned 
 voice,, ' the hospitals are built for the sick, and he isn't sick, 
 he's siarply finishing off, with his strength at an end. Besides, 
 he isn't always easy to deal with. People came again only 
 lately to put him in an asylum, but he won't be fehut up. 
 And he speaks coarsely to those who question him, not to 
 mention that he has the reputation of liking drink and 
 talking badly about the gentlefolks. But, thank Heaven, he 
 will now soon be delivered.' 
 
 Pierre had leant forward on seeing Laveuve's eyes open, 
 and he spoke to him tenderly, telling him that he had come 
 from a friend with a little money to enable him to buy what 
 he might most pressingly require. At iirst, on seeing Pierre's 
 cassock, the old man growled some coarse words ; but, despite 
 his extreme feebleness, he still retained the pert chaffing 
 spirit of the Parisian artisan : ' Well, then, I'U wiUingly 
 drink a drop,' he said distinctly, ' and have a bit of bread 
 with it, if there's the needful ; for I've lost taste of both for 
 a couple of days past." 
 
 Clhne offered her services, and Madame Theodore sent 
 her to fetch a loaf and a quart of wine with Abb6 Rose's 
 money; And in the interval she told Pierre how Laveuve 
 was at one moment to have entered the Asylum of the 
 Invalids of Labour, a charitable enterprise whose lady 
 patronesses were presided over by Baroness Duvillard. 
 However, the usual regulation inquiries had doubtless led 
 to such an unfavourable report that matters had gone no 
 further. 
 
 ' Baroness Duvillard 1 But I know her, and will go to see 
 her to-day ! ' exclaimed Pierre, whose heart was bleeding. 
 ' It is impossible for a man to be left in such circumstances 
 any longer.' 
 
 Then, as Celine came back with the loaf and the wine, 
 the three of them tried to make Laveuve more comfortable, 
 raised him on his heap of rags, gave him to eat and to drink, 
 and afterwards left the remainder of the wine and the loaf — a 
 large four-pound loaf — near him, recommending him to wait 
 awhile before he finished the bread, as otherwise he might 
 stifle. 
 
 ' Monsieur rAbb4 ongh^ to give me his address in case I 
 
i6 PARIS 
 
 Bhould have any news to send him,' said Madame Theodore 
 when she again found herself at her door. 
 
 Pierre had no card with him, and so all three went into 
 the room. But Salvat was no longer alone there. He stood 
 talking in a low voice very quickly, and almost mouth to 
 mouth, with a young fellow of twenty. The latter, who wtg 
 slim and dark, with a sprouting beard and hair cut in brush 
 fashion, had bright eyes, a straight nose, and thin lips set in 
 a pale and slightly freckled face, betokening great intelUgenee. 
 With stem and stubborn brow, he stood shivering in his weU- 
 worn jacket. 
 
 ' Monsieur I'AbbS wants to leave me his address for the 
 Philosopher's affair,' gently explained Madame Theodore, 
 annoyed to find another there with Salvat. 
 
 The two men had glanced at the priest and then looked at 
 each other, each with terrible mien. And they suddenly 
 ceased speaking in the bitter cold which fell from the ceiling. 
 Then, again with infinite precaution, Salvat went to take hig 
 tool-bag from alongside the wall. 
 
 ' So you are going down, you are again going to look for 
 work ? ' asked Madame Theodore. 
 
 He did not answer, but merely made an angry gesture, ag 
 if to say that he would no longer have anything to do with 
 work, since work for so long a time had not cared to have 
 anything to do with him. 
 
 _ ' All the same,' resumed the woman, ' try to bring some- 
 thing back with you, for you know there's nothing. At what 
 time will you be back ? ' 
 
 With another gesture he seemed to answer that he would 
 come back when he could, perhaps never. And tears rising, 
 despite all his efforts, to his vagiie, blue, glowing eyes, he 
 caught hold of his daughter Celine, kissed her violently, 
 distractedly, and then went off, with his bag under his arm, 
 followed by his young companion. 
 
 'Celine,' resumed Madame Theodore, 'give Monsieur 
 l'Abb6 your pencil ; and, see, Monsieur, seat yourself here, it 
 will be better for writing.' 
 
 When Pierre had installed himself at the table, on the 
 chair previously occupied by Salvat, she went on talking, 
 seekmg to excuse her man for his scanty politeness: 'He 
 hasn't a bad heart, but he's had so many worries in life that 
 he has become a bit cracked. It's like that young man whom 
 you just saw here, Monsieur Victor Mathis. There's another 
 
THE PRIEST AND THE POOR nj 
 
 for you who isn't happy, a young man who was well brought 
 up, who has a lot of learning, and whose mother, a widow, 
 has only just got the wherewithal to buy bread. So one can 
 understand it, can't one ? It all upsets their heads, and they 
 talk of blowing up everybody. For my part, those are not 
 my notions, but I forgive them, oh 1 willingly enough.' 
 
 Perturbed, yet interested by all the vague mystery and 
 horror which he could divine around him, Pierre made no 
 haste to write his address, but lingered Ustening, as if in- 
 viting confidence. 
 
 'If you only knew. Monsieur I'Abb^, that poor Salvat 
 was a forsaken child, without father or mother, and had to 
 scour the roads and try every trade at first to get a living. 
 Then afterwards he became a mechanician, and a very good 
 workman, I assure you, very skilful and very painstafing. 
 But he already had those ideas of his, and quarrelled with 
 people, and tried to bring his mates over to his views ; and 
 so he was unable to stay anywhere. At last, when he was 
 thirty, he was stupid enough to go to America with an in- 
 ventor, who traded on him to such a point that after six 
 years of it he came back ill and penniless. I must teU you 
 that he had married my younger sister, L6onie, and that she 
 died before he went to America, leaving him little C61ine, who 
 was only a year old. I myself was then living with my 
 husband, Theodore Labitte, a mason ; and it's not to brag 
 that I say it, but however much I wore out my eyes with 
 needlework he used to beat me tiU he left me half-dead on the 
 floor. But he ended by deserting me and going off with a 
 young woman of twenty, which, after all, caused me more 
 pleasure than grief. And naturally when Salvat came back 
 he sought me out, and found me alone with his little Cdlino, 
 whom he had left in my charge when he went away, and who 
 called me mamma. And we've all three been living together 
 since then ,' 
 
 She became somewhat embarrassed, and then, as if to show 
 that she did not altogether lack some respectable family con- 
 nections, she went on to say : ' For my part I've had no luck; 
 but I've another sister, Hortense, who's married to a clerk, 
 Monsieur Chretiennot, and lives in a pretty lodging on the 
 Boulevard Eochechouart. There were three of us born of my 
 father's second marriage, , Hortense, who's the youngest, 
 L^onie, who's dead, and myself, Pauline, the eldest. And of 
 my father's first marriage I've still a brother, EugSna 
 
iS PARIS\ 
 
 Toussaint, who is ten years older than me and is an engineer 
 like Salvat, and has been working ever since the war m the 
 same estabhshment, the Grandidier factory, only a hundred 
 steps away in the Eue Marcadet. The misfortune is that he 
 had a stroke lately. As for me, my eyes are done for ; L 
 ruined them by working ten hours a day at fine needlework. 
 And now I can no longer even try to mend anything without 
 my eyes filling with water till I can't see at all. I've tried to 
 find charwoman's work, but I can't get any ; bad luck always 
 follows us. And so we are in need of everything; weve 
 nothing but black misery, two or three days sometimes gomg 
 by without a bite, so that it's like the chance life of a dog 
 that feeds on what it can find. And with these last two 
 months of bitter cold to freeze us, it's sometimes made us 
 think that one morning we should never wake up again. 
 But what would you have ? I've never been happy. I was 
 beaten to begin with, and now I'm done for, left in a comer, 
 living on, I really don't know why.' 
 
 Her voice had begun to tremble, her red eyes moistened, 
 and Pierre could realise that she thus wept through life, a 
 good enough woman, but one who had no will, and was already 
 blotted out, so to say, from existence. 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't complain of Salvat,' she went on. ' He's a 
 good fellow ; he only dreams of everybody's happiness, and ha 
 doesn't drink, and he works when he can. Only it's certain 
 that he'd work mere if he didn't busy himself with politics. 
 One can't discuss things with comrades, and go to public 
 meetings, and be at the workshop at the same time. In that 
 he's at fault, that's evident. But all the same he has good 
 reason to complain, for one can't imagine such misfortunes 
 as have pursued him. Everything has fallen on him, every- 
 thing has beaten him down. Why, a saint even would have 
 gone mad, so that one can undersfamd that a poor beggar who 
 has never had any luck should get quite wild. For the last 
 two months he has only met one good heart, a learned gentle- 
 man who lives up yonder on the height, Monsieur GuiUaume 
 Froment, who has given him a little work, just something to 
 enable ua to have some soup now and then.' 
 
 Much surprised by this mention of his brother, Pierre 
 wished to ask certain questions; but a singular feeling of 
 uneasiness, in which fear and discretion mingled, checked 
 his tongue. He looked at Cdline, who stood before him, 
 listening in silence with her grave, delicate air ; and Madame 
 
THE PRIEST AND THE POOR xq 
 
 ^Theodore, seeing him smile at the child, indulged in a final 
 remark : 'It's just the thought of that child,' said she, ' that 
 throws Salvat out of his wits. He adores her, and he'd kill 
 everybody, if he could, vrhen he sees her go supperless to bed. 
 She's such a good girl ; she was learning so nicely at the 
 Communal School 1 But now she hasn't even a shift to go 
 there in.' 
 
 Pierre, Who had at last written his address, slipped a 
 five-fra,nQ piece into the little girl's hand, and, desirous as he 
 was ■ of- curtailing any thanfe, he hastily said : ' You will 
 know now where to find me if you need me*'^r Laveuve. 
 But I'm going to busy myself about 'hifa-^hisvery afternoon, 
 and I really hope that he wiU be fetched away thia'^vening.' 
 
 Madame Thdcdore did not listen, but poured forth all 
 possible blessings ; whilst Celine, thunderstruck at seeing five 
 francs in her hand, murmured : ' Oh 1 that poor papa, who 
 has gone to hunt for money 1 Shall I run after him to tell 
 him that we've got enough for to-day ? ' 
 
 Then the priest, who was already in the passage, heard 
 the woman answer : ' Oh ! he's far away if he's still walking. 
 He'll p'r'aps come back right enough.' 
 
 However, as Pierre, with buzzing head and grief-stricken 
 heart, hastily escaped out of that frightful house of suffering, 
 he perceived to his astonishment Salvat and Victor Mathis 
 standing together in a corner of the filthy courtyard, where 
 the stench was so pestilential. They had come downstairs, 
 there to continue their interrupted colloquy. And again 
 they were talking in very low tones, and very quickly, mouth 
 to mouth, absorbed in the ■<^blent thoughts which made 
 their eyes flare. But they Eeard the priest's footsteps, 
 recognised him, and suddenly becoming cold and calm, 
 exchanged an energetic hand-shake without uttering another 
 word. Victor went up towards Montmartre, whilst Salvat 
 hesitated like a man who is consulting destiny. Then, as if 
 trusting himself to stern chance, drawing up his thin figure, 
 the figure of a weary, hungry toiler, he turned into the Eue 
 Marcadet, and walked towards Paris, his tool-bag still under 
 his arm. 
 
 For an instant Pierre felt a desire to run and caJl to him 
 that his little girl wished him to go back again. But the 
 same feeling of uneasiness as before came over the priest — a 
 commingling of discretion and fear, a covert conviction that 
 nothing could stay destiny. And he himself was no longes 
 
20 P-ARIS 
 
 calm, no longer experienced the icy, despairing distress of tha 
 early mominl. On finding himself again m the f eet amids„ 
 the quivering fog, he felt the fever, the 81°^°^/^^"*^^^^°^ 
 the sight of such frightful m-etohedness had ignited once 
 more within him. No, no ! such suffenng was too much , he 
 wished to struggle still, to save Laveuve and restore a httle 
 joy to all those poor folk. The new experiment presented 
 itself with that city of Paris which he had seen shrouded as 
 with ashes, so mysterious and so perturbmg beneath tne 
 threat of inevitable justice. And he dreamt of a huge sun 
 bringing health and fruitfulness, that would make of tne 
 huge city the fertile field where would sprout the better world 
 of to-morrow. 
 
 II 
 
 WEALTH AND WOELDLINESS 
 
 That same morning, as was the case nearly every day, soma 
 intimates were expected to dejeuner at the Duvillards', a few 
 friends who more or less invited themselves. And on that 
 chilly day, all thaw and fog, the regal mansion in the Eue 
 Godot-de-Mauroy, near the Boulevard de la Madeleine, bloomed 
 with the rarest flowers, for flowers were the greatest passion 
 of the Baroness, who transformed the lofty, sumptuous rooms, 
 littered with marvels, into warm and odoriferous conservatories, 
 whither the gloomy, livid light of Paris penetrated caressingly 
 with infinite softness. 
 
 The great reception rooms were on the ground floor, 
 looking on to the spacious courtyard, and preceded by a httle 
 winter garden, which served as a vestibule where two footmen 
 in liveries of dark green and gold were invariably on duty. 
 A famous gallery of paintings, valued at millions of francs, 
 occupied the whole of the northern side of the house. And 
 the grand staircase, of a sumptuousness which also was 
 famous, conducted to the apartments usually occupied by the 
 family — a large red drawing-room, a small blue and silver 
 drawing-room, a study whose walls were hung with old 
 stamped leather, and a dining-room in pale green with English 
 iurniture, not to mention the various bedchambers and 
 dressing-rooms. Built in the time of Louis XIV., the mansion 
 retained an aspect of noble grandeur, subordijaated to the 
 •epicurean tastes of the triumphant bourgeoisie, wbjch fpj a 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS zt 
 
 century now had reigned by virtue of the omnipotence of 
 money. 
 
 Noon had not yet struck, and Baron Duvillard, contrary 
 to custom, found himself the first in the little blue and silver 
 salon. He was a man of sixty, tall and sturdy, with a large 
 nose, full cheeks, broad, fleshy lips, and wolfish teeth, which 
 had remained very fine. He had, however, become bald 
 at an early age, and dyed the little hair that was left him. 
 Moreover, since his beard had turned white he had kept his 
 face clean-shaven. His grey eyes bespoke his audacity, and 
 in his laugh there was a ring of conquest, while the whole of 
 his face expressed the fact that this conquest was his own, that 
 he wielded the sovereignty of an unscrupulous master, who used 
 and abused the power stolen and retained by his caste. 
 
 He took a few steps, and then halted in front of a basket 
 of wonderful orchids near the window. On the mantelpiece 
 and table tufts of violets sent forth their perfume, and in the 
 warm, deep silence which seemed to fall from the hangings, 
 the Baron sat down and stretched himself in one of the large 
 armchairs, upholstered in blue satin striped with silver. He 
 had taken a newspaper from his pocket, and began to re-peruse 
 an article it contained, whilst all around him the entire 
 mansion proclaimed his immense fortune, his sovereign power, 
 the whole history of the century which had made him the master. 
 His grandfather, Jerome DuvUlard, son of a petty advocate 
 of Poitou, had come to Paris as a notary's clerk in 1788, 
 when he was eighteen; and very keen, intelligent and 
 hungry, he had gained the family's first three milUons — at 
 first in trafficking with the imigris' estates when they were 
 confiscated and sold as national property, and later, in con- 
 tracting for supplies to the imperial army. His father, 
 Gr^oire DuvUlard, born in 1805, and the real great man of the 
 family — he who had first reigned in the Eue Godot-de-Mauroy, 
 after King Louis Philippe had granted him the title of Baron — 
 remained one of the recognised heroes of modem finance by 
 reason of the scandalous profits which he had made in every 
 famous thieving speeulatioa. of the July Monarchy and the 
 Second Empire, such as mines, railroads, and the Suez Canal. 
 And he, the present Bar^h, Henri byname, and bom in 1836, 
 had only seriously gqjiemto business on Baron Gr^goire's death 
 soon after the Franco-German War. However, he had done 
 so with such a rageful appetite, that in a quarter of a century 
 he had again doubled the family fortune. He rotted and 
 
at PARIS 
 
 devoured everything that he touched ; and at the same time 
 he waa the tempter personified— the man who bought all 
 consciences that were for sale — having fully understood 
 the new era and its tendencies in presence of the demo- 
 cracy, which in its turn had become hungry and im- 
 patient. Inferior though he was both to his father and his 
 grandfather, being a man of enjoyment, caring less for the 
 work of conquest than the division of the spoU, he nevertheless 
 remained a terrible fellow, a sleek triumpHer; whose operatiens 
 were -all certainties, who amassed millions at each strote, and 
 treated with governments on a footing of equality, able as Ma 
 was;to place, if. not France, at least a ministry, in his pocket. 
 In one century and three generations royalty had become 
 embodied in him : a royalty "already threatened, already 
 shaken by the tempest close ahead. And at times his figure 
 grew and expanded till it became, as it were, an incarnation 
 of the whole bourgeoisie — that bourgeoisie which at the 
 division of the spoils in 1789 appropriated everything, and has 
 since fattened on everything at the expense of the masses, 
 and refuses to restore anything whatever. 
 
 The article which the Baron was re-perusing in a half- 
 penny newspaper interested him. ' La Voix du Peuple ' was 
 a noisy sheet whiclj, under the pretence of defending outraged 
 justice and morality, set a fresh scandal circulating every 
 morning in the hope of thereby increasing its sales. And 
 that day, in big type on its front page, this sub-title was 
 displayed : ' The Affair of the African Railways. Five Millions 
 spent in Bribes : Two Ministers Bought, Thirty Deputies and 
 Senators Compromised.' Then in an article of odious violence 
 the paper's editor, the famous Sagnier, announced that he 
 possessed and intended to publish the list of the thirty-two 
 members of Parliament, whose support Baron Duvillard had 
 purchased at the time when the Chambershad voted the bill 
 for the African Eailway Lines. Quite a romantic story waa 
 mingled with all this— the adventures of a certain Hunter, 
 whom the Baron had employed as his go-between, and who 
 had iiow fled. The Baron, however, re-perused each sentence 
 and weighed each word of the article very calmly; and 
 although he was alone he shrugged his shoulders and spoke 
 aloud with the tranquil assurance of a man whose responsi- 
 bility is covered and who is, moreover, too powerful to be 
 molested. 
 
 ' The idiot I ' be said ; ' he knows even less than he pretends.' 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS 43 
 
 Just then, however, a first guest arrived, a man of barely 
 four-and-thirty, elegantly dressed, dark and good looking, 
 with a delicately shaped nose, and curly hair and beard. Aa 
 a rule, too, he had laughing eyes, and something giddy, 
 flighty, bird-like in his demeanour ; but that morning he 
 seemed nervous, anxious even, and smiled in a seared way, 
 
 ' Ah 1 it's you, Duthil,' said the Baron, rising. ' Have you - 
 read this ? ' And he showed the new comer the ' Voix du 
 Peuple,' which he was folding up to replace it in his 
 pocket. 
 
 ' Why, yes, I've read it. It's amazing. How can Sagnier 
 have got hold of the list of names ? Has there been some 
 traitor ? ' 
 
 The Baron looked at his companion quietly, amused by 
 his secret anguish. Duthil, the son of a notary of Angoullme, 
 almost poor and very honest, had been sent to Paris as 
 deputy for that town whilst yet very young, thanks to the 
 high reputation of his father; and he there led a life of 
 pleasure and idleness, even as he had formerly done when a 
 student. However, his pleasant bachelor's quarters in the 
 Eue de Suresnes, and his success as a handsome man in the 
 whM of women among whom he Uved, cost him no little 
 money ; and gaily enough, devoid as he was of any moral 
 sense, he had already glided into aU sorts of compromising 
 and lowering actions, like' a light-headed, superior man, a 
 charming, thoughtless feUow, who attached no importance 
 whatever to such trifles. 
 
 ' Bah ! ' said the Baron at last. • Has Sagnier even got a 
 list ? I doubt it, for there was none ; Hunter v/asn't so 
 foolish as to draw one up. And besides, it was merely an 
 ordinary affair ; nothing more was done than is always done 
 in such matters of business.' 
 
 Duthil, who for the first time in his life had felt anxious, 
 listened like one that needs to be reassured. ' Quite so ; eh ? ' 
 he exclaimed. ' That's what I thought. There isn't a cat 
 to be whipped in the whole affair.' 
 
 He tried to laugh as usual, and no longer exactly knew 
 how it was that he had received some ten thousand francs in 
 connection with the matter — whether it were in the shape of 
 a vague loan, or else under some pretext of publicity, puffery, 
 or advertising, for Hunter had acted with extreme adroitness, 
 so as to give no offence to the susceptibilities of even the 
 least virginal consciences, 
 
24 PARIS 
 
 ' No, there's not a cat to be whipped ' repeated Duvillara, 
 who decidedly seemed amused by the face which Dui,hilwaa 
 pulling. 'And besides, my dear fellow, it's weU known that 
 cats always fall on their feet. But have you seen Silyiane .-' 
 
 ' I have just left her, I found her in a great rage with you. 
 She learnt this morning that her affair of the Comedie is ofl. 
 
 A rush of anger suddenly reddened the Baron's face, lie, . 
 who could scoff so calmly at the threat of the African Eail- 
 ways scandal, lost his balance and felt Ms blood boihng 
 directly there was any question of Silviane, the last, imperious 
 passion of his sixtieth year. 'What! off?' said he. 'But 
 at the Fine Arts Office they gave me ahnost a positive 
 promise only the day before yesterday.' 
 
 He referred to a stubborn caprice of Silviane d'Aulnay, 
 who, although she had hitherto only reaped a success of 
 beauty on the stage, obstinately sought to enter the Comedie 
 Fran9aise and make her dibut there in the part of ' Pauline ' 
 in Corneille's ' Polyeucte,' which part she had been studying 
 desperately for several months past. Her idea seemed an 
 insane one, and all Paris laughed at it ; but the young woman, 
 with superb assurance, kept herself well to the front, and 
 imperiously demanded the rdle, feeling sure that she would 
 conquer. 
 
 ' It was the minister ! who wouldn't have it,' explained 
 DuthU. 
 
 The Baron was choking. ' The minister ! the minister ! 
 Ah ! well, I will soon have that minister sent to the right- 
 about.' 
 
 However he had to cease speaking, for at that moment 
 Baroness Duvillard came into the Uttle drawing-room. At 
 forty-six years of age she was still very beautiful. Very fair 
 and tall, having hitherto put on but little superfluous fat, 
 and retaining perfect arms and shoulders, with speckless silky 
 skin, it was only her face that was spoiling — colouring shghtly 
 with reddish blotches. And these blemishes were her torment, 
 her hourly thought and worry. Her Jewish origin was re- 
 vealed by her somewhat long and strangely charming face, 
 with blue and softly voluptuous eyes. As indolent as an 
 Oriental slave, disliking to have to move, walk, or even speak, 
 she seemed intended for a harem life, especially as she was 
 tor ever tending her person. That day she was all in white, 
 gowned in a white silk toilette of delicious and lustrous 
 Bimphcity, 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS 25 
 
 Duthll complimented her, and kissed her hand with an 
 Enraptured air. ' Ah ! madame, you set a little springtide in 
 my heart, Paris is so black and muddy this morning.' 
 
 HoweTer, a second guest entered the room, a tall and 
 handsome man of five or six and thirty ; and the Baron, still 
 disturbed by his passion, profited by this opportunity to make 
 his escape. He carried Duthil away into his study, saying, 
 ' Come here an instant, my dear fellow. I have a few more 
 words to say to you about the affair in question. Monsieur da 
 Quinsao will keep my wife company for a moment.' 
 
 The Baroness, as soon as she was alone with the new 
 comer, who, like Duthil, had most respectfully kissed her hand, 
 gave him a long, silent look, while her soft eyes fiUed with 
 tears. Deep silence, tinged with some slight embarrassment, 
 had fallen, but she ended by saying in a very low voice : ' How 
 happy I am, Gerard, to find myself alone with you for a 
 moment. For a month past I have not had that happiness.' 
 
 The circumstances in which Henri Duvillard had married 
 the younger daughter of Justus Steinberger, the great Jew 
 banker, formed quite a story, which was often recalled. The 
 Steinbergers — after the fashion of the Eothschilds — were 
 originally four brothers — Justus, residing in Paris, and the 
 three others at Berlin, Vienna, and London, a circumstance 
 which gave their secret association most formidable 
 power in the financial markets of Europe. Justus, however, 
 was the least wealthy of the four, and in Baron Gregona 
 Duvillard he had a redoubtable adversary, against whom ha 
 was compelled to struggle each time that any large prey wag 
 in question. And it was after a terrible encounter between 
 the pair, after the eager sharing of the spoils, that the crafty idea 
 had come to Justus of giving his younger daughter, Eve, in 
 marriage, by way of douceur, to the Baron's son, Henri. So 
 far the latter had only been known as an amiable fellow, fond 
 of horses and club life ; and no doubt Justus's idea was 
 that, at the death of the redoubtable Baron, who was already 
 condemned by his physicians, he would be able to lay his 
 hands on the rival banking-house, particularly if he only 
 had in front of him a son-in-law whom it was easy to conquer. 
 As it happened, Henri had been mastered by a violent passion 
 for Eve's blonde beauty, which was then dazzling. Ha 
 wished to marry her, and his father, who knew him, 
 consented, in reahty greatly amused to think that Justus 
 was making an execrably bad stroke of business. The 
 
26 PARIS 
 
 enterprise became indeed disastrous for Justus when Henri 
 succeeded Ms father, and the man of prey appeared from 
 beneath the man of pleasure and carved himself his own 
 huge share in exploiting tlie unbridled appetites of the 
 middle-class democracy, which had at last secured possession 
 of power. Not only did Eve fail to devour Henri, who in 
 his turn had . become Baron Duvillard, the aU-powerful 
 banker, more and more master of the market ; but it was 
 the Baron who devoured Eve, and this in less than four 
 years' time. After she had borne him a daughter and a son 
 in tm-n, he suddenly drew away from her, neglected her, as 
 if she were a mere toy that he no longer cared for. She 
 was at first both surprised and distressed by the change, 
 especially on learning that he was resuming his bachelor's 
 habits, and had set his fickle if ardent affections elsewhere. 
 Then, however, without any kind of recrimination, any 
 display of anger, or even any particular effort to regain her 
 ascendency over him, she, on her side, imitated his example. 
 She could not hve without love, and assuredly she had only 
 been born to be beautiful, to fascinate, and reap adoration. 
 To the lover whom she chose when she was five-and-twenty 
 Bhe remained faithful for more than fifteen years, as faithful 
 as she might have been to a husband ; and when he died her 
 grief was intense — it was Hke real widowhood. Six months 
 later, however, having met Count Gerard de Quinsae, she had 
 again been unable to resist her imperative need of adoration, 
 and an intrigue had followed. 
 
 'Have you been iU, my dear Gerard?' she inquired, 
 noticing the young man's emharrassment. ' Are you hiding 
 some worry from me ? ' 
 
 She was ten years older than he was ; and she clung 
 desperately to this last passion of hers, revolting at the 
 thought of growmg old, and resolved upon every effort to 
 keep the young man beside her. 
 
 ' No, I am hiding nothing, I assure you,' replied the Count. 
 • But my mother has had much need of me recently.' 
 
 She continued looking at him, however, with anxious 
 passion, findmg him so taU and aristocratic of mien, with his 
 regular features and dark hair, and moustaches which were 
 always most carefully tended. He belonged to one of the 
 oldest families of France, and resided on a ground floor 
 "V *?®:i P^® ^*" I^O"ii>iiqia with his widowed mother, 
 who had been rumed by her adventurously inchned husband, 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS 27 
 
 and had at most an income of some fifteen thousand francs' 
 to live upon. Gerard, for his part, had never done anything. 
 Contenting himself ^Yith his one year of obligatory military 
 service, he had renounced the profession of arms in the same 
 way as he had renounced that of diplomacy, the only one that 
 offered him an opening of any dignity. He spent his days in 
 that busy idleness common to all young men who lead ' Paris 
 life.' "And his mether, haughtily severe though she was, 
 seemed to excuse this, as if in her opinion a man of his birth 
 was bound by way of protest to keep apart from ofBoial life 
 ■under a Eepublic. ■ However, she no doubt had more intimate, 
 more disturbing reasons for indulgence. She had nearly 
 lost him when he was only seven, through an attack of brain 
 fever. At eighteen he had complained of his heart, and tha 
 doctors had recommended that he should be treated gently in 
 all respects. She knew, therefore, what a he lurked behind his 
 proud demeanour, within his lofty figure, that haughty /agates 
 of his race. He was but dust, ever threatened with iUhess 
 and collapse. In the depths of his seeming virility there was 
 merely girlish abandon ; and he was simply a weak, good- 
 natured fellow, liable to every stumble. It was ^n the 
 occasion of a visit which he had paid with his mother to the 
 Asylum of the Invalids of Labour that he had first seen Eve, 
 whom he continued to meet ; his mother, closing her eyes to 
 this culpable connection in a sphere of society which she 
 treated with contempt, in the same way as she had closed 
 them to so many other acts of folly, which she had forgiven 
 because she regarded them as the mere lapses of an ailing 
 child. Moreover, Eve had made a conquest of Madame de 
 Quinsao, who was very pious, by an action which had recently 
 amazed society. It had been suddenly learnt that she had 
 allowed Monseigneur Martha to convert her to the Eoman 
 CathoHc faith. This thing, which she had refused to do when 
 solicited by her lawful husband, she had since done in the hope 
 of ensuring herself a lover's eternal affection. And all Paris 
 was stiU stirred by the magnificence exhibited at the 
 Madeleine, on the occasion of the baptism of that Jewess of 
 five-and-forty, whose beauty and whose tears had upset every 
 heart. 
 
 Gerard, on his side, was still flattered by the deep and 
 touching tenderness shown to him ; but weariness was coming, 
 and he had already sought to break off the connection by 
 
 • :£600. 
 
28 PARIS 
 
 avoiding any further assignations. He well understooa Eve's 
 glances and her tears, and though he was moved at sight of 
 them, he tried to excuse himself. ' I assure you,' said he, 
 ' my mother has kept me so busy that I could not get away," 
 But she, without a word, still turned her tearful glance on 
 him, and weak, like herself, in despair that he should have 
 been left alone with her in this fashion, he yielded, unable to 
 continue refusing. ' Well, then,' said he, | this afternoon at 
 four o'clock, Eue Matignon, if you are free.' 
 
 He had lowered his voice in speaking, but a slight rustle 
 made him turn his head and start Uke one in fault. It was 
 ■^the Baroness's daughter CamiUe entering the room. She had 
 heard nothing ; but by the smile which the others had ex- 
 changed, by tiie very quiver of the air, she understood 
 everything — an assignation for that very day and at the very 
 spot which she suspected. Some shght embarrassment fol- 
 lowed, an exchange of anxious and evil glances. 
 
 CamUle, at three-and-twenty, was a very dark young 
 woman, short of stature and somewhat deformed, with her 
 left shoulder higher than the right. There seemed to be 
 nothing of her father or mother in her. Her case was one 
 of those unforeseen accidents in family heredity which make 
 people wonder whence they can arise. Her only pride lay in 
 her beautiful black eyes and superb black hair, which, short 
 as she was, would, said she, have sufficed to clothe her. But 
 her nose was long, her face deviated to the left, and her chin 
 was pointed. Her thin, witty and malicious lips bespoke all 
 the rancour and perverse anger stored in the heart of this 
 uncomely creature, whom the thought of her uncomeliness 
 enraged. However, the one whom she most hated in the 
 whole world was her own mother — that amorosa who was so 
 little fitted to be a mother, who had never loved her, never 
 paid attention to her, but had abandoned her to the care of 
 servants from her very infancy. In this wise real hatred had 
 grown up between the two women, mute and frigid on the 
 one side, and active and passionate on the other. The 
 daughter hated her mother because she found her beautiful, 
 because she had not been created in the same image : beauti- 
 ful with the beauty with which her mother crushed her. Day 
 by day she suJffered at being sought by none, at realising that 
 the adoration of one and aU still went to her mother. As she 
 was amusing in her maliciousness, people listened to her and 
 laughed ; however, the glances of all the men — even, and 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS ag 
 
 indeed especially, the younger ones — soon reverted to her 
 triumphant mother, who seemingly defied old age. In part 
 for this reason Camille, with ferocious determination, had 
 decided that she would dispossess her mother of her last lover, 
 Gerard, and marry him herself, conscious that such a loss 
 would doubtless kill the Baroness. Thanks to her promised 
 dowry of five millions of francs, the young woman did not 
 lack suitors ; but, little flattered by their advances, she was 
 accustomed to say, with her malicious laugh : ' Oh ! of 
 course ; why, for five millions they would take a wife from a 
 madhouse.' However, she herself had really begun to love 
 Gerard, who, good-natured as he was, evinced much kindness 
 towards this suffering young woman whom nature had treated 
 so harshly. It worried him to see her forsaken by everyone, 
 and little by little he yielded to the grateful tenderness which 
 she displayed towards him, happy, handsome man that he 
 was, at being regarded as a demi-god and having such a 
 slave. Indeed, in his attempt to quit the mother there was 
 certainly a thought of allowing the daughter to marry him, 
 which would be an agreeable ending to it all ; though he did 
 not as yet acknowledge this, ashamed as he felt and em- 
 barrassed by his illustrious name and all the complications 
 and tears which he foresaw. 
 
 The silence continued. CamiUe with her piercing glance, 
 as sharp as any knife, had told her mother that she knew the 
 truth ; and then with another and pain-fraught glance she 
 had complained to Gerard. He, in order to re-establish 
 equilibrium, could only think of a compliment : ' Good 
 momiag, CamiUe. Ah ! that havana-brown gown of yours 
 looks nice 1 It's astonishing how well rather sombre colours 
 suit you.' 
 
 Camille glanced at her mother's white robe, and then at 
 her own dark gown, which scarcely allowed her neck and 
 wrists to be seen. ' Yes,' she replied, laughing, ' I only look 
 passable when I don't dress as a young girl.' 
 
 Eve, ill at ease, worried by the growth of a rivalry, in 
 which she did not as yet wish to believe, changed the 
 conversation. ' Isn't your brother there ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Why, yes, we came down together.' 
 
 Hyacinthe, who came in at that moment, shook hands 
 with G&ard in a weary way. He was twenty, and had 
 inherited his mother's pale blond hair, and her long face 
 full of Oriental languor; while from his father ho had 
 
30 PARIS 
 
 derived his grey eyes and thick lips, expressive of unscrupu- 
 lous appetites. A wretched scholar, regarding every profession 
 with the same contempt, he had . decided to do nothing. 
 Spoilt by his father, he took some little interest in poetry and 
 music, and lived in an extraordinary circle of artists, low 
 women, madmen and bandits ; -boasting himself of all sorts 
 of crimes and vices, professing the very worst philosophical 
 and social ideas, invariably going to ■jixtremes — becoming 
 in turn a Collectivist, an Individualist, ,an Anarchist, a 
 Pessimist, a Symbolist, and what not besides ; vathout, 
 however,; ceasing to be a CathoUo, as this conjunction of 
 Catholieity with something else seemed to him the supreme 
 hon ton. .'In reality he was simply empty and rather a fool. 
 In four generations the vigorous hungiry'Dlood of the DuviUards, 
 after producing three magnificent beasts of prey, hadi as if 
 exhausted by the contentment of every passion, ended ih this 
 sorry, emasculated creature, who was incapable alike of great 
 knavery or great debauchery. 
 
 Camille, who was too intelligent not to realise her brother's 
 nothingness, was fond of teasing him ; and looking at biin as 
 he stood there, tightly buttoned in his long frock-coat with 
 pleated skirt— a resurrection of the romantic period, which 
 he carried to exaggeration — she resumed : ' Mamma has been 
 asking for you, Hyacinthe. Come and show her your gown. 
 You are the one who would look nice dressed as a young 
 girl." 
 
 However, he eluded her without replying. He was 
 covertly afraid of her, though they lived together in great 
 intimacy, frankly exchanging confidences respecting their 
 perverse views of life. And he directed a glance of disdain 
 at the wonderful basket of orchids, which seemed to him past 
 the fashion, far too common nowadays. For his part he had 
 left the lilies of life behind him, and reached the ranunculus, 
 the flower of blood. 
 
 The two last guests who were expected now arrived 
 almost together. The first was the investigating magistrate 
 Amadieu, a little man of five-and-forty, who was an in- 
 timate of the household and had been brought into notoriety 
 by a recent Anarchist affair. Between a pair of fair, bushy 
 whiskers he displayed a flat, regular, judicial face, to which he 
 tried to impart an expression of keenness by wearing a single 
 eyeglass, behind which his glance sparkled. Very worldly, 
 moreover, he belonged to the new judicial school, being a 
 
WEALTH AND V/ORLDLINESS , 31 
 
 distinguished psychologist and having written a boob in reply 
 to the abuses of criminalist physiology. And he was also a 
 man of great, tenacious ambition, fond of notoriety, and ever 
 on the look-out for those resounding legal affairs which bring 
 glory. Behind him at last appeared General de Bozonnet, ■■ 
 Gfirard's ' uncle on the maternal side, a tall, lean old man 
 with a nose like an eagle's beak. Chronic rheumatism had 
 recently compelled him to retire from the service. Eaised 
 to a colonelcy after the Franco-German war in reward for hia 
 gallant conduct at St. Privat, he had, in spite of his extremely 
 monarchical connections, kept his^worn faith to Napoleon 
 III, And he was excused in his own sphere of society for 
 this species of military Bonapartism, on account of the 
 bitterness with which he accused the Republic of having 
 ruined the army. Worthy fellow that he was, extremely 
 fond of his sister, Madame de Quinsac, it seemed as though 
 he acted in accordance with some secret desire of hers in 
 accepting the invitations of Baroness Duvillard, by way of 
 rendering Gerard's constant presence in her house more natural 
 and excusable. 
 
 However, the Baron and Duthil now returned from the 
 study, laughing loudly in an exaggerated way, doubtless to 
 make the others believe that they were quite easy in mind. 
 And one and all passed into the large dining-room, where a 
 big wood fire was burning, its gay flames lighting like a 
 ray of springtide the fine mahogany furniture of English 
 make laden with silver and crystal. The room, of a soft 
 mossy green, had an unassuming charm in the pale light ; 
 and the table, which in the centre displayed the richness of 
 its covers and the immaculate whiteness of its linen adorned 
 with Venetian point, seemed to have flowered miraculously 
 with a wealth of large tea roses, most admirable blooms for 
 the season, and of delicious perfume. 
 
 The Baroness seated the General on her right and Amadieu 
 on her left. The Baron on his right placed Duthil, and on 
 his left Gerard. Then the young people installed themselves 
 at either end, Camille between Gerard and the General, and 
 Hyacinthe between Duthil and Amadieu. And forthwith, 
 from the moment of starting on the scrambled eggs and truffles, 
 conversation began — the usual conversation of Parisian 
 dijeuners, when every event, great or little, of the morning 
 or the day before is passed in review : the truths and the 
 falsehoods current in every social sphere, the financial scanda.! 
 
22 PARIS 
 
 and tlie political adventure of the hour, the novel that has 
 just appeared, the play that has just been produced, the stones 
 which should only be retailed m whispers, but which are 
 repeated aloud. And beneath all the light wit which circulates, 
 beneath all the laughter, which often has a false ring, each 
 retains his or her particular worry or distress of mind, at times 
 so acute that it becomes perfect agony. 
 
 With his quiet and wonted impudeWe, the Baron, bravely 
 enough, was the first to speak of the arti^e in the * Voix du 
 Peuple.' ' I say, have you read Sagnier's article this morning ? 
 It's a good one ; he has verve, you know, but what a dangerous 
 lunatic he is I' 
 
 This set everybody at ease, for the article would certainly 
 have weighed upon the dijeuner had no one mentioned it. 
 
 'It's the "Panama" dodge over again I' cried Duthil; 
 ' But no, no, we've bad quite enough of it ! ' 
 
 ' Why,' resumed the Baron, ' the affair of the African 
 Eailway Lines is as clear as spring water ! All those whom 
 Sagnier threatens may sleep in peace. The truth is that it's 
 a scheme to upset Barroux's ministry. Leave to interpellate 
 wUl certainly be asked for this afternoon. You'll see what a 
 fine uproar there'll be in the Chamber.' 
 
 'That libellous, Bcandal-seeHng press,' said Amadieu 
 gravely, ' is a dissolving agent which will bring France to 
 ruin. We ought to have laws against it.' 
 
 The General made an angry gesture : ' Laws I What's the 
 use of them, since nobody has the courage to enforce them ? ' 
 
 Silence fell. With a light, discreet step the house-steward 
 presented some grilled mullet. So noiseless was the service 
 amid the cheerful perfumed warmth that not even the faintest 
 clatter of crockery was heard. Without anyone knowing how 
 it had come about, however, the conversation had suddenly 
 changed ; and somebody inquired, ' So the revival of the 
 piece is postponed ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Gerard, ' I heard this morning that " Polyeucte " 
 wouldn't get its turn tiU April at the earUest.' 
 
 At this Canulle, who hitherto had remained silent, 
 watching the young Count and seeking to win him back, 
 turned her glittering eyes upon her father and mother. It 
 was a question of that revival in which Silviane was so 
 stubbornly determined to make her debut. However, the 
 Baron and the Baroness evinced perfect serenity, having long 
 been acquainted with all that concerned each 'other. More- 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS 33 
 
 over, Eve was too mucli occupied with her own passion to 
 think of anything else, and the Baron too busy with the fresh 
 application which he intended to make in tempestuous fashion 
 at the Ministry of Fine Arts, so as to wrest Silviane's engage- 
 ment from those in office. He contented himself with 
 saying: 'How would you have them revive pieces at the 
 Com^die ? They have no actresses left there.' 
 
 ' Oh, by the way,' the Baroness on her side simply re- 
 marked, ' yesterday, in that play at the Vaudeville, Delphine 
 Vignot wore such an exquisite gown. She's the only one too 
 who knows how to arrange her hair." 
 
 Thereupon Duthil, in somewhat veiled language, began to 
 relate a story about Delphine and a weU-known senator. And 
 then came another scandal, the sudden and almost suspicious 
 death of a lady friend of the Duvillards' ; whereupon the 
 General, without any transition, broke in to relieve his bitter 
 feelings by denouncing the idiotic manner in which the army 
 was now-a-days organised. Meantime the old Bordeaux 
 glittered like ruby blood in the delicate crystal glasses. A 
 truffled fillet of venison had just cast its somewhat sharp scent 
 amidst the dying perfume of the roses, when some asparagus 
 made its appearance, a primeur which once had been so rare, 
 but which no longer caused any astonishment. 
 
 ' Now-a-days we get it all through the winter,' said the 
 Baron with a gesture of disenchantment. 
 
 'And so,' asked Gerard at the same moment, 'the Princess 
 de Ham's matin&e is for this afternoon?' 
 
 Camille quickly intervened. ' Yes, this afternoon. Shall 
 you go ? ' 
 
 ' No, I don't think so, I sha'n't be able,' replied the young 
 man in embarrassment. 
 
 'Ah ! that little Princess, she's really deranged, you know,' 
 exclaimed Duthil. ' You are aware that she calls herself a 
 widow ? But the truth, it seems, is that her husband, a real 
 Prince, connected with a royal house and very handsome, is 
 travelling about the world in the company of a singer. She, with 
 her vicious, urchin-like face, preferred tooomeand reign in Paris, 
 in that mansion of the Avenue Hoche, which is certainly tha 
 most extraordinary Noah's ark imaginable, with its swarming 
 of cosmopolitan society indulging in every extravagance ! ' 
 
 ' Be quiet, you malicious fellow,' the Baroness gently in- 
 terrupted. ' We, here, are very fond of Kosemonde, who is a 
 charming womai},' 
 
 ..^■'//■' 
 
34 PARIS 
 
 ' Oh ! certainly,' Camilla again resumed. ' She invited 
 us ; and we are going to her place by-and-by, are we not, 
 
 mamma?' ,1.1 jj-j 
 
 To avoid replying, the Baroness pretended that she did 
 not hear ; whilst Duthil, who seemed to be well-informed 
 concerning the Princess, continued to make merry over her 
 intended . matiiiie, at which she meant to produce some 
 Spanish dancing-girls whose performance was so very in- 
 decorous that all Paris, forewarned of the circumstance, 
 would certainly swarm to her house. And he added : ' You've 
 heard that she has given up painting ? Yes, she busies her- 
 self with chemistry ? Her salon is fuU of Anarchists now — 
 and, by the way, it seemed to me that she had cast her eyes 
 on you, my dear Hyacinthe.' 
 
 Hyacinthe had hitherto held his tongue, as if he took no 
 interest in anything. ' Oh I she bores me to death,' he now 
 condescended to reply. ' If I'm going to her matinie, it's 
 simply in the hope of meeting my friend young Lord George 
 ' Eldretfc, who wrote to me from London to give me an appoint- 
 ment at the Princess's. And I admit that hers is the only 
 salon where I find somebody to talk to,' 
 
 ' And so,' asked Amadieu in an ironical way, ' you have 
 now gone over to Anarchism ? " 
 
 With his air of lofty elegance Hyacinthe imperturbably 
 confessed his creed : ' But it seems to me, monsieur, that in 
 these times of universal baseness and ignominy, no man of 
 any distinction can be other than an Anarchist.' 
 
 A laugh ran round the table. Hyacinthe was very much 
 spoilt, and considered very entertaining. His father in par- 
 ticular was immensely amused by the notion that he of all 
 men should have an Anarchist for a son. However, the 
 General, in his rancorous moments, talked anarehicjilly 
 enough of blowing up a society which was so stupid as to let 
 itself be led by half a dozen disreputable characters. And, 
 indeed, the investigating magistrate, who was gradually 
 maldng a specialty of Anarchist affairs, proved the only one 
 who opposed the young man, defending threatened civilisation 
 and giving terrifying particulars concerning what he tsajled 
 the army of devastation and massacre. The others, while 
 partaking of some deUcious duok's-liver pdU, which the house- 
 steward handed them, continued smiling. There was so 
 much misery, said they; one must take everything into 
 account; things would surely end by righting themselves. 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS 35 
 
 And the Baron Limself declared, in a conciliatory manner ; 
 ' It's certain that one might do something, though nobody 
 knows exactly what. As for all sensible and moderate claims, 
 oh ! I agree to them in advance. For, instance, the lot of 
 the working classes may be ameliorated, charitable enterprises 
 may be undertaken, such, for instance, as our Asylum for the 
 Invalids of Labour, which we have reason to be proud of. 
 But we must not be asked for impossibilities.' 
 
 With the dessert came a sudden spell of silence ; it was 
 as if, amidst the restless fluttering of the conversation, and the 
 dizziness born of the copious meal, each one's worry or 
 distress was again wringing the heart and setting an ex- 
 pression of perturbation on the countenance. The nervous 
 absent-mindedness of Duthil, threatened with denunciation, 
 was seen to revive ; so, too, the anxious anger of the Baron, 
 who was meditating how he might possibly manage to content 
 Silviane. That woman was this sturdy, powerful man's 
 taint, the secret sore which would perhaps end by eating him 
 away and destroying him. But it was the frightful drama in 
 which the Baroness, Camille and Gerard were concerned that 
 flitted by most visibly across the faces of all three of them : 
 that hateful rivalry of mother and daughter, contending for 
 the man they loved. And, meantime, the silver-gilt blades 
 of the dessert-knives were delicately peeling choice fruit. 
 And there were bunches of golden grapes looking beautifully 
 fresh, and a procession of sweetmeats and little cakes — an 
 infinity of dainties, over which the most satiated appetites 
 lingered complacently. 
 
 Then, just as the finger-glasses were being served, a foot- 
 man came and bent over the Baroness, who answered in an 
 undertone, ' Well, show him into the salon ; I will join him 
 there.' And aloud to the others she added : ' It's Monsieur 
 I'Abbd Froment, who has called and asks most particularly 
 to see me. He won't be in our way ; I think that almost all 
 of you know him. Oh ! he's a genuine saint, and I havo 
 much sympathy for him.' 
 
 For a few minutes longer they loitered round the table, and 
 then at last quitted the dining-room, which was full of the 
 odours of viands, wines, fruits, and roses ; quite warm-, too, with 
 the heat thrown out by the big logs of firewood, which were 
 falling into embers amidst the somewhat jumbled brightness 
 of all the crystal and silver, and the pale, delicate light which 
 fell npon the disorderly table. 
 
36 PARIS 
 
 Pierre had remained standing in the centre of the littla 
 blue and silver salcm. Seeing a tray on which the coffee and the 
 liqueurs were in readiness, he regretted that he had insisted 
 upon being received. And his embarrassment increased when 
 the company came in rather noisUy, with bright eyes and 
 rosy cheeks. However, his charitable fervour had revived so 
 ardently within him that he overcame this embarrassment, 
 and all that remained to him of it was a slight feeling of 
 discomfort at bringing the whole frightful morning which he 
 had just spent amid such scenes of wretchedness, such 
 darkness and cold, such filth and hunger, into this bright, 
 warm, perfumed affluence, where the useless and the super- 
 fluous overflowed around those folk who seemed so gay at 
 having made a delightful meal. 
 
 However, the Baroness at once came forward with Gerard ; 
 for it was through the latter, whose mother he knew, that the 
 priest had been presented to the DuviUards at the time of the 
 famous conversion. And as he apologised for having called 
 at such an inconvenient hour, the Baroness responded : ' But 
 you are always welcome. Monsieur I'Abbe. You will allow 
 me just to attend to my guests, won't you ? I will be with 
 you in an instant.' 
 
 She thereupon returned to the table on which the tray 
 had been placed, in order to serve the coffee and the liqueurs, 
 with her daughter's assistance. Gerard, however, remained 
 with Pierre ; and, so it chanced, began to speak to Viim of 
 the Asylum for the Invalids of Labour, where they had met 
 one another at the recent laying of the foundation-stone of a 
 new pavilion which was being erected, thanks to a handsome 
 donation of 100,000 francs made by Baron DuvUlard. So 
 far, the enterprise only comprised four pavilions out of the 
 fourteen which it was proposed to erect on the vast site given 
 by the City of Paris on the peninsula of GennevUliers ;' and 
 BO the subscription fund remained open. And, indeed, no little 
 noise was made over this charitable enterprise, which was 
 iregarded as a complete and peremptory reply to the accusa- 
 tions of those evilly disposed persons who charged the satiated 
 lourgeolsie with doing nothing for the workers. But the 
 truth was that a magnificent chapel, erected in the centre of 
 the site, had absorbed two-thirds of the funds hitherto 
 collected. Numerous lady patronesses, chosen from all the 
 
 •This so-oalled peninsula lies to the north-west of Paris, and ia 
 lormed by the windings of the Seine.— 2Va»s. 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS zi 
 
 ' worlds ' of Paris — the Baroness Duvillard, the Countess da 
 Qninsac, the Princess Bosemonde de Ham, and a score of 
 others — were entrusted with the task of keeping the enterprise 
 alive by dint of collections and fancy bazaars. But success 
 had been chiefly obtained thanks to the happy idea of ridding 
 the ladies of all the weighty cares of organisation by choosing 
 as managing director a certain Fons^gue, who, besides being a 
 deputy and editor of the ' Globe ' newspaper, was a prodigious 
 promoter of all sorts of enterprises. And the ' Globe ' never 
 paused in its propaganda, but answered the attacks of the 
 revolutionaries by extolling the inexhaustible charity of the 
 governing classes in such wise that at the last elections the 
 enterprise had served as a victorious electoral weapon. 
 
 However, Camille was walking about with a steaming cup 
 of coffee in her hand. ' Will you take some coffee, Monsieui 
 I'Abb^ ? ' she inquired. 
 
 ' No, thank you, mademoiselle.' 
 
 ' A glass of Chartreuse then ? ' 
 
 ' No, thank you.' 
 
 Then, everybody being served, the Baroness came back and 
 said amiably : ' Well, Monsieur I'Abb^, what do you desire 
 of me?' 
 
 Pierre began to speak almost in an undertone, his throat 
 contracting and his heart beating with emotion. ' I have 
 come, madame, to appeal to your great kindness of heart. 
 This morning, in a frightful house in the Eue des Sanies, 
 behind Montmartre, I beheld a sight which utterly upset me. 
 You can have no idea what an abode of misery and suffering 
 it was ; its inmates without fire or bread, the men reduced to 
 idleness because there is no work, the mothers having no 
 more mUk for their babes, the children barely clad, coughing 
 and shivering. And among all these horrors I saw the worst, 
 the most abominable of aU — an old workman, laid on his back 
 by age, dying of hunger, huddled on a heap of rags, in a nook 
 which a dog would not even accept as a kennel.' 
 
 He tried to recount things as discreetly as possible, 
 frightened by the very words he spoke, the horrors he had to 
 relate in that sphere of superlative luxury and enjoyment, 
 before those happy ones who possessed all the gifts of this 
 world ; for — to use a slang expression — he fully realised that 
 he sang out of tune, and in most uncourteous fashion. What 
 a strange idea of his to have called at the hour when one has 
 just finished dijeuner, when the aroma of hot coffee flatters 
 
38 PARIS 
 
 happy digestion ! Nevertheless he went on, and even ended 
 by raising his voice, yielding to the feeling of revolt wluch 
 gradually stirred him ; going to the end of his terrible narra- 
 tive, naming Laveuve, insisting on the unjust abandonment 
 in which the old man was left, and asking for succour m the 
 name of human compassion. And the whole company 
 approached to listen to him ; he could see the Baron and 
 the General, and Duthil and Amadieu in front of him, sipping 
 their coffee, in silence, without a gesture. 
 
 ' Well, madame,' he concluded, ' it seemed to me that 
 one could not leave that old man an hour longer in such a 
 frightful position, and that this very evening you would have 
 the extreme goodiiess to have him admitted into the Asylum 
 of the Invalids of Labour, which is, I think, the proper and 
 only place for him.' 
 
 Tears had moistened Eve's beautiful eyes. She was in 
 consternation at so sad a story coming to her to spoil her 
 afternoon, when she was looking forward to her assignation 
 with Gerard. V/eak and indolent as she was, lacking all 
 initiative, too much occupied moreover with her own person, 
 she had only accepted the presidency of the committee on 
 the condition that all administrative worries were to faU on 
 Fons^gue. 'Ah! Monsieur I'Abbd,' she murmured, 'you rend 
 my heart. But I can do nothing, nothing at all, I assure 
 you. Moreover, I believe that we have abeady inquired into 
 the affair of that man Laveuve. With us, you know, there 
 must be the most serious guarantees with regard to every 
 admission. A reporter is chosen who has to give us full infor- 
 mation. Wasn't it you. Monsieur Duthil, who were charged 
 with this man Laveuve's affair ? ' 
 
 The deputy was finishing a glass of Chartreuse. ' Yes, it 
 was I. That fine fellow played you a comedy, Monsieur 
 I'Abb^. He isn't at all ill, and if you left him any money you 
 may be sure he went down to diLak it as soon as you were 
 gone. For he is always drunk ; and, besides that, he has the 
 most hateful disposition imaginable, crying out from morning 
 till evening against the bourgeois, and saying that if he had 
 any strength left in his arms he would undertake to blow up 
 the whole show. And, moreover, he won't go into the asylum; 
 he says that it's a rep 1 prison, where one's guarded by Beguins 
 who force one to hear mass, a dirty convent where the gates 
 are shut at nine in the evening I And there are so many of 
 them like that, who rather than be succoured prefer their 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS 39 
 
 lioerty, with cold and hunger and death. Well, then, let the 
 Laveuves die in the street, since they refuse to be with us, 
 and be warm, and eat in our asylums ! ' 
 
 The General and Amadieu nodded their heads approvingly. 
 But Duvillard showed himself raore generous. ' No, no, in- 
 deed 1 A man's a man after all, and should be succoured in 
 spite of himself.' 
 
 Eve, however, in despair at the idea that she would be 
 robbed of her afternoon, struggled and sought for reasons. 'I 
 assure you that my hands are altogether tied. Monsieur 
 I'Abbd does not doubt my heart or my zeal. But how can I 
 possibly assemble the committee without a few days' delay ? 
 And I have particular reasons for coming to no decision, 
 especially in an affair which has already been inquired into 
 and pronounced upon, without the committee's sanction.' 
 Then, all at once she found a solution : ' What I advise you to 
 do, Monsieur I'Abb^, is to go at once to see Monsieur Fonsegue, 
 our managing director. He alone can act in an urgent ease, 
 for he knows that the ladies have unlimited coniidence in him 
 and approve everything he does.' 
 
 ' You will find Fonsegue at the Chamber,' added Duthil 
 smihng ; ' only the sitting will be a warm one, and I doubt 
 whether you will be able to have a comfortable chat with him.' 
 
 Pierre, whose heart had contracted yet more painfully, 
 insisted on the subject no further, but at once made up his 
 mind to see Fonsegue, and in any event obtain from him a 
 promise that the wretched Laveuve should be admitted to the 
 Asylum that very evening. Then he lingered in the salon 
 for a few minutes listening to Gerard, who obligingly pointed 
 out to him how he might best convince the deputy, which 
 was by alleging how bad an effect such a story might have 
 should it be brought to light by the revolutionary newspapers. 
 However, the guests were beginning to take their leave. 
 The General, as he went oif, came to ask his nephew if he 
 should see him that afternoon at his mother's, Madame de 
 Quinsac, whose ' day ' it was : a question which the young 
 man answered with an evasive gesture when he noticed that 
 both Eve and Camille were looking at him. Then came the 
 turn of Amadieu, who hurried off saying that a serious affair 
 required his presence at the Palace of Justice. And Duthil 
 Boon followed him in order to repair to the Chamber. 
 
 'I'll see you between four and five at Silviane's, eh?' 
 said the Baron as he conducted him to the door. ' Come and 
 
40 PARIS 
 
 tell me what occurs at the Chamber in consequence of that 
 odious article of Sagnier's, I must at all events know. For 
 my part I shall go to the Fine Arts Office, to settle that 
 affair of the Comddie ; and besides, I've some calls to ma,ke, 
 some contractors to see, and a big launching and advertise- 
 ment affair to settle.' , ^ 
 
 'It's understood then, between four and five, at Silviane s, 
 said the deputy, who went off again mastered by his vague 
 uneasiness, his anxiety as to what turn that nasty affair of 
 the African Kailway Lines might take. 
 
 And aU of them had forgotten Laveuve, the miserable 
 wretch who lay at death's door; and aU of them were 
 hastening away to their business or their passions, caught in 
 the toils, sinking under the grindstone and whisked away by 
 that rush of all Paris, whose fever bore them along, throwing 
 one against another in an ardent scramble, in which the 
 sole question was who should pass over the others and crush 
 them. 
 
 'And so, mamma,' said Camille, who continued to 
 scrutinise her mother and Gerard, ' you are going to take us 
 to the Princess's matinie.' 
 
 'By-and-by, yes. Only I sha'n't be able to stay there 
 with you. I received a telegram from Salmon about my 
 corsage this morning, and I must absolutely go to try it on 
 at four o'clock.' 
 
 By the slight trembling of her mother's voice the girl 
 felt certain that she was teUing a falsehood, ' Oh ! ' said 
 she, ' I thought you were only going to try it on to-morrow. 
 In that case I suppose we are to go and call for you at 
 Salmon's with the carriage on leaving the matinie ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no, my dear ! One never knows when one will be 
 free ; and besides, if I have a moment, I shall call at the 
 modiste's.' 
 
 Camille' s secret rage brought almost a murderous glare 
 to her dark eyes. The truth was evident. But however 
 passionately she might desire to set some obstacle across 
 her mother's path, she could not, dared not carry matters 
 any further. In vain had she attempted to implore Gerard 
 with her eyes. He was waiting to take hia leave, and 
 averted his gaze. Pierre, who had become acquainted 
 with many things since he had frequented the house, noticed 
 how all three of them quivered, and divined thereby the 
 mute and terrible drama. 
 
WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS 41 
 
 At this moment, however, Hyacinthe, stretched in an arm- 
 chair, and munching an ether capsule, the only liqueur in 
 which he indulged, raised his voice : ' For my part, you know, 
 I'm going to the Exposition du Lis. All Paris is swarming 
 there. There's one painting in particular, " The Eape of a 
 Soul," which it's absolutely necessary for one to have seen.' 
 
 ' WeU, but I don't refuse to drive you there,' resumed the 
 Baroness. ' Before going to the Princess's we can look in at 
 that exhibition.' 
 
 'That's it, that's it,' hastily exclaimed Camille, who, 
 though she harshly derided the symboUst painters as a rule, 
 now doubtless desired to delay her mother. Then, forcing 
 herself to smile, she asked : ' Won't you risk a look-in at the 
 Exposition du Lis with us, Monsieur Gerard ? ' 
 
 ' WeU, no,' replied the Count, ' I want to walk. I shall 
 go with Monsieur I'Abbe Froment as far as the Chamber.' 
 
 Thereupon he took leave of mother and daughter, kissing 
 the hand of each in turn. It had just occurred to him that 
 to while away his time he also might call for a moment at 
 Silviane's, where, like the others, he had his entries. On 
 reaching the cold and solemn courtyard he said to the priest, 
 ' Ah 1 it does one good to breathe a little cool air. They 
 keep their rooms too hot, and all those flowers, too, give one 
 the headache.' 
 
 Pierre for his part was going off with his brain in a whirl, 
 his hands feverish, his senses oppressed by all the luxury 
 which he left behind him, like the dream of some glowing, 
 perfumed paradise where only the elect have their abode. At 
 the same time his reviving thirst for charity had become 
 keener than ever, and without listening to the Count, who 
 was speaking very affectionately of his mother, he reflected 
 as to how he might obtain Laveuve's admission to the Asylum 
 from FonsSgue. However, when the door of the mansion 
 had closed behind them and they had taken a few steps along 
 the street, it occurred to Pierre that a moment previously a 
 sudden vision had met his gaze. Had he not seen a workman 
 carrying a tool-bag, standing and waiting on the foot pave- 
 ment across the road, gazing at that monumental door, 
 closed upon so much fabulous wealth — a workman in whom 
 he fancied he had recognised Salvat, that hungry fellow who 
 had gone off that morning in search of work ? At this 
 thought Pierre hastily turned round. Such wretchedness in 
 face of so much affluence and enjoyment made him feel 
 
42 PARIS 
 
 anxious. But the workman, disturbed in his contemplation, 
 and possibly fearing that he had been recognised, was going 
 off with dragging step. And now, getting only a back view 
 of him, Pierre hesitated, and ended by thinking that he must 
 have been mistaken. 
 
 Ill 
 
 EANTEES AND EULEBS 
 
 When Abb6 Proment was about to enter the Palais-Bourbon 
 he remembered he had no admission card, and he was making 
 up his mind that he would simply ask for Fonsegue, though 
 he was not known to him, when, on reaching the vestibule, he 
 perceived M^ge, the CoUectivist deputy, with whom he had 
 become acquainted in his days of militant charity in the 
 poverty-stricken Charonne district. 
 
 ' What ! yoii here ? You sm-ely have not come to evangelise 
 us ? ' said M^ge. 
 
 ' No, I've come to see Monsieur Fonsegue on an urgent 
 matter, about a poor fellow who cannot wait.' 
 
 'Fonsegue? I don't know if he has arrived. Wait a 
 moment.' And stopping a short, dark young fellow with a 
 sharp, sly air, Mege said to him : ' Massot, here's Monsieur 
 I'Abb^ Froment, who wants to speak to your governor 
 at once.' 
 
 ' The governor ? But he isn't here. I left him at the 
 office of the paper, where he'll be detained for another quarter 
 of an hour. However, if Monsieur I'Abbd likes to wait he 
 will surely see him here.' 
 
 Thereupon Mege ushered Pierre into the large waiting- 
 haU, the SaUe des Pas Perdus, which in other moments looked 
 so vast and cold with its bronze Minerva and Laocoon, and 
 its bare walls on which the pale mournful winter light fell 
 from the glass doors communicating with the garden. Just 
 then, however, it was crowded, and warmed, so to say, by 
 the feverish agitation of the many groups of men that had 
 gathered here and there, and the constant coming and going 
 of those who hastened through the throng. Most of these 
 were_ deputies, but there were also numerous journalists and 
 inquisitive visitors. And a growing uproar prevailed ; 
 colloquies now in undertones, now in loud voices, exclama- 
 
RANTEHS AND RULERS 43 
 
 tions and bursts of laughter, amidst no little passionate 
 gesticulation. Mege's return into the tumult seemed to fan 
 it. He was tall, apostolicaUy thin, and somewhat neglectful 
 of his person, looking already old and worn for his age, which 
 was but five and forty, though his eyes still glowed with 
 youth behind the glasses which never left his beak-like nose. 
 And he had a warm but grating voice, and had always been 
 known to cough, Uving on solely because he was bitterly intent 
 on doing so in order to realise the dream of social reorganisation 
 which haunted him. The son of a poorly circumstanced 
 medical man of a northern town, he had come to Paris when 
 very young, living there during the Empire on petty news- 
 paper and other unknown work, and first making a reputation 
 as an orator at the public meetings of the time. Then, after 
 the war, having become the chief of the Oollectivist party, 
 thanks to his ardent faith and the extraordinary activity of 
 his fighting nature, he had at last managed to enter the 
 Chamber, where, brimful of information, he fought for 
 his ideas with fierce deternunation and obstinacy, like a 
 doctrinaire who has decided in his own mind what the world 
 ought to be, and who regulates in advance, and bit by bit, the^ 
 whole dogma of Collectivism. However, since he had taken 
 pay as a deputy the outside Socialists had looked upon him 
 as a mere rhetorician, an aspiring dictator who only tried to 
 cast society in a new mould for the purpose of subordinating 
 it to his personal views and ruling it. 
 
 ' You know what is going on ? ' he said to Pierre. ' This 
 is another nice affair, is it not ? But what would you have ? 
 We are in mud to our very ears.' 
 
 He had formerly conceived genuine sympathy for the 
 priest, whom he had found so gentle with all who suffered, 
 and so desirous of social regeneration. And the priest himself 
 had ended by taking an interest in this authoritarian dreamer, 
 who was resolved to make men happy in spite even of them- 
 selves. He knew that he was poor, and led a retired life with 
 his wife and four children, to whom he was devoted. 
 
 ' You can well understand that I am no ally of Sagnier's,' 
 MSge resumed. ' But as he chose to speak out this morning and 
 threaten to pubUsh the names of all those who have taken 
 bribes, we can't allow ourselves to pass as accomplices any 
 further. It has long been said that there was some nasty 
 jobbery in that suspicious affair of the African Eailways. And 
 the worst is that two members of the present Cabinet are in 
 
44 PARIS 
 
 question ; for three years ago, when the Chambers dealt with 
 Duvillard's scheme, Barroux was at the Home Department, 
 and Monferrand at that of Public Works. Now that they 
 have come back again, Monferrand at the Home Department, 
 and Barroux at that of Finance, with the Presidency of the 
 Council, it isn't possible, is it ? for us to do otherwise than 
 compel them to enlighten us, in their own interest even, about 
 their former goings-on. No, no, they can no longer keep 
 silence, and I've announced that I intend to interpellate them 
 this very day.' 
 
 It was the announcement of Mage's interpellation, fol- 
 lowing the terrible article of the ' Voix du Peuple,' which thus 
 set the lobbies in an uproar. And Pierre remained rather 
 seared at this big political affair falling into the midst of his 
 scheme to save a wretched pauper from hunger and death. 
 Thus he listened without fully understanding the explana- 
 tions which the Socialist deputy was passionately giving him, 
 while all around them the uproar increased, and bursts of 
 laughter rang out, testifying to the astonishment which the 
 others felt at seeing Mege in conversation with a priest. 
 
 ' How stupid they are 1 ' said M^ge disdainfully. ' Do they 
 think, then, that I eat a cassock for dejeuner every morning ? 
 But I beg your pardon, my dear Monsieur Froment. Come, 
 take a place on that seat and wait for Fons^gue.' 
 
 Then he himseK plunged into aU the turmoil, and Pierre 
 realised that his best course was to sit down and wait quietly. 
 His surroundings began to influence and interest him, and he 
 gradually forgot Laveuve for the passion of the Parliamentary 
 crisis amidst which he found himself cast. ThefrightfulPanama 
 adventure was scarcely over ; he had followed the progress of 
 that tragedy with the anguish of a man who every night 
 expects to hear the tocsin sound the last hour of olden, agonising 
 society. And now a little Panama was beginning, a fresh 
 cracking of the social edifice, an affair such as had been 
 frequent in all parUaments in connection with big financial 
 questions, but one which acquired mortal gravity from the 
 circumstances in which it came to the front. That story of 
 the African Railway Lines, that little patch of mud, stirred 
 up and exhaling a perturbing odour, and suddenly fomenting 
 so much emotion, fear, and anger in the Chamber, was after 
 all but an opportunity for pohtieal strife, a field on which the 
 voracious appetites of the various 'groups' would take exercise 
 and sharpen ; and, at bottom, the sole question was that of 
 
RANTERS AND RULERS 45 
 
 overthromng the ministry and replacing it by another. Only, 
 behind all that lust of power, that continuous onslaught of 
 ambition, what a distressful prey was stirring — the whole 
 people with all its poverty and its sufferings ! 
 
 Pierre noticed that Massot — 'little Massot,' as he was gene- 
 rally called— had just seated himself on the bench beside him. 
 With his lively eye and ready ear Ustening to everything and 
 noting it, gUding everywhere with his ferret-like air, Massot 
 was not there in the capacity of a gallery man, but had simply 
 scented a stormy debate, and come to see if he could not pick 
 up material for some occasional ' copy.' And this priest lost 
 in the midst of the throng doubtless interested him. 
 
 ' Have a little patience. Monsieur I'Abb^,' said he, with the 
 amiable gaiety of a young gentleman who makes fun of every- 
 thing. ' The governor will certainly come, for he knows well 
 enough that they are going to heat the oven here. You are 
 not one of his constituents from La Corr^ze, are you ? ' 
 
 ' No, no I I belong to Paris ; I've come on account of a 
 poor fellow whom I wish to get admitted into the Asylum of 
 the Invalids of Labour.' 
 
 ' Oh ! all right. Well, I'm a child of Paris, too.' 
 
 Then Massot laughed. And indeed he was a child of 
 Paris, son of a chemist of the St. Denis district, and an ex- 
 dunce of the Lyc6e Charlemagne, where he had not even 
 finished his studies. He had failed entirely, and at eighteen 
 years of age had found himself east into journalism with 
 barely sufficient knowledge of orthography for that calling. 
 And for twelve years now, as he often said, he had been a 
 rolUng stone, wandering through all spheres of society, con- 
 fessing some and guessing at others. He had seen everything, 
 and become disgusted with everything, no longer beUeving in 
 the existence of great men, or of truth, but hving peacefully 
 enough on imiversal malice and folly. He naturally had no 
 literary ambition — in fact he professed a deliberate contempt 
 for literature. Withal, he was not a fool, but wrote in 
 accordance with no matter what views in no matter what 
 newspaper, having neither conviction nor belief, but quietly 
 claiming the right to say whatever he pleased to the public, 
 on condition that he either amused or impassioned it. 
 
 ' And so,' said he, ' you know MSge, Monsieur I'Abb^ ? 
 What a study in character, eh ? A big child, a dreamer of 
 dreams in the skin of a terrible sectarian ! Oh ! I have had 
 a deal of intercourse with him ; I know him thoroughly. You 
 
46 PARIS 
 
 are no doubt aware that he lives on with the everlasting con- 
 viction that he will attain to power in six months' time, and 
 that between evening and morning he will have established 
 that famous CoUectivist community which is to succeed 
 capitalist society, just as day follows night. And, by the way, 
 as regards his interpellation to-day, he is convinced that in 
 overthrowing the Barroux ministry he'll be hastening his 
 own turn. His system is to use up his adversaries. How 
 many times haven't I heard him making his calculations : 
 there's such an one to be used up, then such an one, and then 
 such an one, so that he himself may at last reign. And it's 
 always to come off in six months at the latest. The misfortune 
 is, however, that others are always springing up, and so hia 
 turn never comes at all.' 
 
 Little Massot openly made merry over it. Then, slightly 
 lowering his voice, he asked : ' And Sagnier, do you know 
 him ? No ? Do you see that red-haired man with the buU's 
 neck — the one who looks like a butcher ? That one yonder, 
 who is talking in a little group of frayed frock-coats.' 
 
 Pierre at last perceived the man in question. He had 
 broad red ears, a hanging under-hp, a large nose, and big, 
 projecting dull eyes. 
 
 ' I know that one thoroughly as well,' continued Massot ; 
 ' I was on the " Voix du Peuple " under him before I went on 
 the " Globe." The one thing that nobody is exactly aware of 
 is whence Sagnier first came. He long dragged out his Ufa 
 in the lower depths of journalism, doing nothing at all 
 brilliant, but wild with ambition and appetite. Perhaps you 
 remember the first hubbub he made — that rather dirty aflair 
 of a new Louis XVII. which he tried to launch, and which 
 made him the extraordinary Eoyalist that he still is. Then 
 it occurred to him to espouse the cause of the masses, and 
 he made a display of vengeful Cathoho socialism, attacking 
 the Eepublic and all the abominations of the times in tlie 
 name of justice and morality, under the pretest of curing 
 them. He began with a series of sketches of financiers, a 
 mass of dirty, uncontrolled, unproved tittle-tattle, which 
 ought to have led him to prison, but which met, as you 
 know, with such wonderful success when gathered together in 
 a volume. And he goes on in the same style in the " Voix du 
 Peuple," which he himself made a success at the time of the 
 Panama affair by dint of denunciation and scandal, and 
 which to-day is like a sewer-pipe pouring forth all the filth 
 
RANTERS AND RULERS 47 
 
 of tlio times. And whenever the stream slackens, why, he 
 invents things just to satisfy his craving for that hubbub on 
 which botli his pride and his pocket subsist.' 
 
 Little Massot spoke without bitterness ; indeed, he had 
 even begun to laugh again. Beneath his thoughtless ferocity 
 he really felt some respect for Sagnier. ' Oh I he's a bandit,' 
 he continued, ' but a clever fellow all the same. You can't 
 imagine how fuU of vanity he is. Lately it occurred to him 
 to get himself acclaimed by the populace, for he pretends to 
 be a kind of King of the Markets, you know. Perhaps he 
 has ended by taking his fine judge-like airs in earnest, and 
 really believes that he is saving the people' and helping the 
 cause of virtue. What astonishes me is his fertility in the 
 arts of denunciation and scandalmongering. Never a morning 
 comes but he discovers some fresh horror, and delivers 
 fresh culprits over to the hatred of the masses. No ! the 
 stream of mud never ceases ; there is an incessant, unexpected 
 spurt of infamy, an increase of monstrous fancies each time 
 that the disgusted public shows any sign of weariness. And, 
 do you know, there's genius in that, Monsieur I'Abbe ; for 
 he is well aware that his circulation goes up as soon as he 
 threatens to speak out and pubhsh a list of traitors and bribe- 
 takers. His sales are certain, now for some days to come.' 
 
 Listening to Massot's gay, bantering voice, Pierre began 
 to understand certain things the exact meaning of which 
 had hitherto escaped him. He ended by questioning the 
 young journalist, surprised as he was that so many deputies 
 should be in the lobbies when the sitting was in progress. 
 Oh ! the sitting, indeed. The gravest matters, some biU of 
 national interest, might be under discussion, yet every 
 member fled from it at the sudden threat of an interpellation 
 which might overturn the ministry. And the passion stirring 
 there was the restrained anger, the growing anxiety of the 
 present ministry's clients, who feared that they might have to 
 give place to others ; and it was also the sudden hope, the 
 eager hunger of all who were waiting — the clients of the 
 various piossible ministries of the morrow. 
 
 Massot pointed to Barroux, the head of the Cabinet, who, 
 though he was out of his element in the Department of 
 Finance, had taken it simply because his generally recognised 
 integrity was calculated to reassure public opinion after the 
 Panama crisis. Barroux was chatting in a corner with the 
 Minister of Public Instruction, Senator Taboureau, an old 
 
48 PARIS 
 
 nniversity man with a shrinking, mournful air, who was 
 extremely honest, but totally ignorant of Paris, coming as he 
 did from some far-away proviacial faculty. Barroux for hia 
 part was of decorative aspect, tall, and with a handsome, 
 clean-shaven face, which would have looked quite noble had 
 not his nose been rather too small. Although he was sixty, 
 he still had a profusion of curly snow-white hair to complete 
 the somewhat theatrical majesty of his appearance, which 
 he was wont to turn to account when in the tribune. Coming 
 of an old Parisian family, well-to-do, an advocate by pro- 
 fession, then a Republican joumaUst under the Empire, he 
 had reached office with Gambetta, showing himself at once 
 honest and romantic, loud of speech, and somewhat stupid, 
 but at the same time very brave and very upright, and 
 still clinging with ardent faith to the principles of the great 
 Eevolution. However, his Jacobinism was getting out of 
 fashion — ^he was becoming an ' ancestor,' as it were, one of the 
 last props of the middle-class Eepubhc, and the new comers, 
 the young poUtieians with long teeth, were beginning to 
 smile at him. Moreover, beneath the ostentation of his 
 demeanour and the pomp of his eloquence there was a man 
 of hesitating, sentimental nature, a good fellow who shed 
 tears when re-perusing the verses of Lamartine. 
 
 However, Monferrand, the minister for the Home Depart- 
 ment, passed by and drew Barroux aside to whisper a few 
 words in his ear. He, Monferrand, was fifty, short and fat, 
 with a smiling, fatherly air; nevertheless a look of keen 
 intelligence appeared at times on his round and somewhat 
 common face, fringed by a beard which was still dark. In 
 him one divined a man of government, with hands which 
 were fitted for difficult tasks, and which never released a 
 prey. Formerly mayor of the town of Tulle, he came from 
 La Correze, where he owned a large estate. He was 
 certainly a force in motion, one whose constant rise was 
 anxiously watched by keen observers. He spoke simply 
 and quietly, but with extraordinary power of conviction. 
 Having apparently no ambition, affecting indeed the greatest 
 disinterestedness, he nevertheless harboured the most 
 ferocious appetites. Sagnier had written that he was a 
 thief and a murderer, having strangled two of his aunts in 
 order to inherit their property. But even if he were a 
 murderer, he was certainly not a vulgar one. 
 
 Then, too. came another personage of the drama which 
 
HANTEHS AND R ULERS 49 
 
 \f as about to be performed — deputy Vignon, whose arrival 
 excited the various groups. The two ministers looked at 
 him, whilst he, at once surrounded by his friends, smiled at 
 them from a distance. He was not yet thirty-six. Slim, and 
 of average height, very fair, with a fine blonde beard, of which 
 he took great care, a Parisian by birth, having rapidly made 
 his way in the government service, at one time Prefect at 
 Bordeaux, he now represented youth and the future in the 
 Chamber. He had realised that new men were needed in the 
 direction of affairs in order to accomplish the more urgent, 
 indispensable reforms ; and very ambitious and intelligent as 
 he was, knowing many things, he already had a programme, 
 the appUcation of which he was quite capable of attempting, 
 in part at any rate. However, he evinced no haste, but was full 
 of prudence and shrewdness, convinced that his day would 
 dawn, strong in the fact that he was as yet compromised in 
 nothing, but had all space before him. At bottom he was 
 merely a first-class administrator, clear and precise in speech, 
 and his programme only differed from Barroux's by the 
 more up-to-date phraseology of its formulas, although the ad- 
 vent of a Vignon ministry in place of a Barroux one appeared 
 an event of importance. And it was of Vignon that Sagnier 
 had written that he aimed at the Presidency of the Eepublio, 
 even should he have to march through blood to reach the 
 Elys^e Palace. 
 
 'MonDieu!' Massot was explaining, 'it's quite possibia 
 that Sagnier isn't lying this time, and that he has really 
 found a list of names in some pocket-book of Hunter's that 
 has fallen into his hands. I myself have long known that 
 Hunter was Duvillard's vote-recruiter in the affair of the 
 African Railways. But to understand matters one must first 
 realise what his mode of proceeding was — the skiU and the 
 kind of amiable delicacy that he showed, which were far 
 from the brutal corruption and dirty trafficking that people 
 imagine. One must be such a man as Sagnier to picture a 
 parliament as an open market, where every conscience is for 
 sale and is impudently knocked down to the highest bidder. 
 Oh I things happened in a very different way indeed ; and 
 they are explainable, and at times even excusable. Thug 
 the article is levelled in particular against Barroux and 
 Monferrand, who are designated in the clearest possibia 
 manner although they are not named. You are no doubt 
 Oiware that at the time of the vote Barroux was at the Homa 
 
so PARIS 
 
 Department and Monferrand at that of Publio_ Worts, and 
 BO now they are accused of having betrayed their trusts, the 
 blackest of all social crimes. I don't know into what political 
 combinations Barroux may have entered, but I am ready to 
 swear that he put nothing in his pocket, for he is the most 
 honest of men. As for Monferrand, that's another matter ; 
 he's a man to carve himself his share, only I should be much 
 surprised if he had put himself in a bad position. He's 
 incapable of a blunder, particularly a stupid one like that of 
 taking money and leaving a receipt for it lying about.' 
 
 Massot paused, and with a jerk of his head called Pierre's 
 attention to Duthil, who, feverish, but nevertheless smiling, 
 stood in a group which had just collected around the two 
 ministers. ' There ! do you see that young man yonder, that 
 dark handsome feUow whose beard looks so triumphant ? ' 
 
 ' I know him,' said Pierre. 
 
 ' Oh ! you know Duthil. Well, he's one who most certainly 
 took money. But he's a mere bird. He came to us from 
 Angouleme to lead the pleasantest of lives here, and he hag 
 no'more conscience, no more scruples, than the pretty finches 
 of his native part, who are ever love-making. Ah ! for 
 Duthil, Hunter's money was like manna due to him, and he 
 never even paused to think that he was dirtying his fingers. 
 You may be quite sure he feels astonished that people should 
 attach the slightest importance to the matter.' 
 
 Then Massot designated another deputy in the same 
 group, a man of fifty or thereabouts, of slovenly aspect and 
 lachrymose mien, lanky, too, hke a maypole, and somewhat 
 bent by the weight of his head, which was long and sugges- 
 tive of a horse's. His scanty, straight, yellowish hair, his 
 drooping moustaches, in fact the whole of his countenance, 
 expressed everlasting distress. 
 
 ' And Chaigneux, do you know him ? ' continued Massot, 
 referring to the deputy in question. ' No ? Well, look at him, 
 and ask yourself if it isn't quite as natural that he, too, 
 should have taken money. He came from Arras. He was a 
 sohcitor there. When his division elected him he let poUtics 
 intoxicate him, and sold his practice to make his fortune in 
 Paris, where he installed himself with his wife and his three 
 daughters. And you can picture his bewilderment amidst 
 those four women— terrible women, ever busy with finery, 
 receiving and paying visits, and running after marriageable 
 wea who flee away. It's ill-luck with a, vengeance, the daily 
 
RANTERS AND RULERS 51 
 
 defeat of a poor devil of mediocre attainmenta, who imagined 
 that his position as a deputy would facilitate money-making, 
 and who is drowning himSeli in it all.. And so, how can 
 Chaigneux have done otherwise than take money, he who is 
 always hard up for a five-hundred-frano note .? I admit that 
 originally he wasn't a dishonest man. But he's become one.' 
 
 Massot was now fairly launched, and went on with his 
 portraits, the series which he had, at one moment, dreamt of 
 writing under the title of ' Deputies for Sale.' .There were 
 the simpletons who fell into the furnace, the men whom 
 ambition goaded to exasperation, the low minds that yielded 
 to the temptation of an open drawer, the company-promoters 
 who grew intoxicated and lost ground by dint of dealing with 
 big figures. At the same time, however, Massot admitted 
 that these men were relatively few in numlDer, and that black 
 sheep were to be found in every parliament of the world. 
 Then Sagnier's name cropped up again, and Massot remarked 
 that only Sagnier could regard the French Chambers as mere 
 dens of thieves. 
 
 Pierre, meantime, felt most interested in the tempest 
 which the threat of a ministerial crisis was stirring up before 
 him. Not only the men like Duthil and Chaigneux, pale at 
 feeling the ground tremble beneath them, and wondering 
 whether they would not sleep at the Mazas prison that night, 
 were gathered round Barroux and Monferrand; all the 
 latter's clients were there, all who enjoyed influence or office 
 through them, and who would collapse and disappear should 
 they happen to fall. And it was something to see the anxious 
 glances and the pale dread amidst all the whispered chatter, 
 the bits of information and tittle-tattle which were carried 
 hither and thither. Then, in a neighbouring group formed 
 round Vignon, who looked very calm and smiled, were the 
 other clients, those who awaited the moment to climb to the 
 assault of power, in order that they, in their turn, might at 
 last possess influence or oiEce. Eyes glittered with covetous- 
 ness, hopeful delight could be read in them, pleasant surprise 
 at the sudden opportunity now offered. Vignon avoided 
 replying to the over-direct questions of his friends, and 
 simply announced that he did not intend to intervene. 
 Evidently enough his plan was to let Mege interpellate and 
 overthrow the ministry, for he did not fear him, and in hia 
 own estimation would afterwards simply have to stoop to pioi 
 up the fallen portfolios, 
 
 b2 
 
S2 PARIS 
 
 ' Ah ! Monferrand now,* little Massot was saying, 'there'a 
 a rascal who trims his sails ! I knew him as an anti-clerical, 
 a devourer of priests, Monsieur I'Abhd, if you wiU aUow me 
 so to express myself ; however, I don't say this to be agreeable 
 to you, but I think I may teU you for certain that he has 
 become reconciled to religion. At least, I have been told that 
 Monseigneur Martha, who is a great converter, now seldom 
 leaves him. This is calculated to please one in these new 
 times, when science has become bankrupt, and rehgion blooms 
 afresh with delicious mysticism on all sides, whether in art, 
 literature, or society itself.' , . i. , 
 
 Massot was jesting, according to his wont ; but he spoke 
 so amiably that the priest could not do otherwise than bow. 
 However, a great stir had set in before them ; it was announced 
 that Mege was about to ascend the tribune, and thereupon all 
 the deputies hastened into the assembly hall, leaving only the 
 inquisitive visitors and a few journalists in the Salle des Pas 
 Perdus. , 
 
 ^ 'It's astonishing that Fons^gue hasn't yet arrived, re- 
 sumed Massot ; 'he's interested in what's going on. However 
 he's so cunning, that when he doesn't behave as others doj 
 one may be sure he has his reasons for it. Do you 
 know him ? ' And as Pierre gave a negative answer, Massot 
 went on : 'Oh I he's a man of brains and real power — ^I 
 speak with all freedom, you know, for I don't possess the 
 bump of veneration ; and as for my editors, well, they're the 
 very puppets that I know the best and pick to pieces with 
 the most enjoyment. Fonsegue, also, is clearly designated 
 in Sagnier's article. Moreover, he's one of Duvillard's usual 
 clients. There can be no doubt that he took money, for he 
 takes money in everything. Only he always protects himself, 
 and takes it for reasons which may be acknowledged — as 
 payment or commission on account of advertising, and so 
 forth. And if I left him just now looking, as it seemed to 
 me, rather disturbed, and if he delays his arrival here to 
 establish, as it were, a moral alibi, the truth must be that 
 he has committed the first imprudent action in his life.' 
 
 Then Massot rattled on, telling all there was to tell about 
 PonsSgue. He, too, came from the department of La Corr^ze, 
 and had quarrelled for life with Monferrand after soma 
 unknown underhand affairs. Formerly an advocate at Tulle, 
 his ambition had been to conquer Paris ; and he had really 
 con.iuered it, thanks to his big morning newspaper, • Le Globe,' 
 
RANTERS AND RULERS 53 
 
 of wliich he was both founder and director. He now resided 
 in a luxurious mansion in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, 
 and no enterprise was launched but he carved himself a 
 princely share in it. He had a genius for ' business,' and 
 employed his newspaper as a weapon to enable him to reign 
 over the market. But how very carefully he had behaved, 
 what long and skilful patience he had shown before attaining 
 to the reputation of a really serious man, who guided authori- 
 tatively the most virtuous and respected of the organs of the 
 press 1 Though in reality he believed neither in God nor in 
 Devil, he had made this newspaper the supporter of order, 
 property, and family ties; and though he had become a 
 Conservative Eepublican, since it y/as to his interest to bo 
 such, he had remained outwardly religious, affecting a 
 Spiritualism which reassured the bourgeoisie. And amidst 
 all his accepted power, to which others bowed, he nevertheless 
 had one hand deep in every available money-bag. 
 
 'Ahl Monsieur I'Abbfi,' said Massot, 'see to what 
 journalism may lead a man 1 There you have Sagnier and 
 Fonsegue : just compare them a bit. In reality they are 
 birds of the same feather ; each has a quill and uses it. But 
 how different the systems and the results. Sagnier's print 
 is really a sewer which rolls him along and carries him to 
 the cesspool ; while the other's paper is certainly an example 
 of the best journalism one can have, most carefully written, 
 with a real literary flavour, a treat for readers of delicate 
 minds, and an honour to the man who directs it. But at the 
 bottom, good heavens 1 in both cases the farce is precisely 
 the same ! ' 
 
 Massot burst out laughing, well pleased with this final 
 thrust. Then all at once : ' Ah 1 here's Fonsegue at last I ' 
 said he. 
 
 Quite at his ease, and still laughing, he forthwith in- 
 troduced the priest. ' This is Monsieur I'Abbe Froment, my 
 dear patron, who has been waiting more than twenty minutes 
 for you. I'm just going to see what is happening inside. 
 You know that Mege is interpellating the government.' 
 
 The new comer started slightly : ' An interpellation 1 ' 
 said he. ' All right, all right, I'll go to it.' 
 
 Pierre was gazing at him. He was about fifty years of 
 age, short of stature, thin and active, and still young-looking, 
 without a grey hair in his black beard. He had sparkling 
 eyes, too, but his mouth, said to be a terrible one, was hidden 
 
54 PARIS 
 
 by his moustaches. And withal he looked a pleasant com- 
 panion, full of wit to the tip of his little pointed nose, the 
 nose of a sporting dog that is ever scenting game. ' What 
 can I do for you, Monsieur I'Abbe ? ' he inquired. 
 
 Then Pierre briefly presented his request, recounting his 
 visit to Laveuve that morning, giving every heartrending 
 particular, and asking for the poor WTetch's immediate admit- 
 tance to the Asylum. 
 
 ' Laveuve 1 ' said the other ; ' but hasn't his affair been 
 examined ? Why, Duthil drew up a report on it, and things 
 appeared to us of such a nature that we could not vote for 
 the man's admittance.' 
 
 But the priest insisted: 'I assure you, monsieur, that 
 your heart would have burst with compassion had you been 
 with me this morning. It is revolting that an old man should 
 be left in such frightM abandonment even for another hour. 
 He must sleep at the Asylum to night.' 
 
 Pons^gue began to protest. ' To-night ! But it's im- 
 possible, altogether impossible 1 There are aU sorts of in- 
 dispensable formalities to be observed. And besides, I alone 
 cannot take such responsibility. I haven't the power. I am 
 only the manager ; all that I do is to execute the orders of 
 the committee of lady patronesses.' 
 
 ' But it was iwecisely Baroness Duvillard who sent me to 
 you, monsieur, telling me that you alone had the necessary 
 authority to grant immediate admittance in an exceptional 
 case.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it was the Baroness who sent you. Ah ! that is 
 just like her, incapable of coming to any decision herself, and 
 far too desirous of her own quietude to accept any responsi- 
 bility. Why is it that she wants me to have the worries ? 
 No, no, Monsieur I'Abb^, I certamly won't go against all our 
 regulations; I won't give an order which would perhaps 
 embroil me with all those ladies. You don't know them, but 
 they become positively terrible directly they attend our 
 meetings.' 
 
 He was growing lively, defending himself with a jocular 
 air, whilst in secret he was fully determined to do nothing. 
 However, just then Duthil abruptly reappeared, hastening, 
 bareheaded, from lobby to lobby in order to recruit absent 
 members, particularly those who were interested in the grave 
 debate at that moment beginning. ' What, Fonsegue 1 ' he 
 
RANTERS AND RULERS 55 
 
 cried ; ' are you still here ? Go, go to your seat at once ; it's 
 serious 1 ' And thereupon he disappeared. 
 
 His colleague evinced no haste, however. It was as if 
 the suspicious affair which was impassioning the Chamber 
 had no concern for him. And he still smiled, although a 
 slight feverish quiver made him blink. ' Excuse me, Monsieur 
 I'Abbe,' he said at last. ' You see that my friends have need 
 of me. I repeat to you that I can do absolutely nothing for 
 your froUge' 
 
 But Pierre would not accept this reply as a final one. 
 ' No, no, monsieur,' he rejoined ; ' go to your affairs, I will 
 wait for you here. Don't come to a decision without full 
 reflection. You are wanted, and I feel that your mind is not 
 sufficiently at liberty for you to listen to me properly. By- 
 and-by, when you come back and give me your full attention, 
 I am sure that you will grant me what I ask.' 
 
 And although Fonsegue, as he went off, repeated that he 
 could not alter his decision, the priest stubbornly resolved to 
 make him do so, and sat down on the bench again, prepared, 
 if needful, to stay there till the evening. The Salle des Pas 
 Perdus was now almost quite empty, and looked yet more 
 frigid and mournful with its Laocoon and its Minerva, and 
 its bare commonplace walls like those of a railway-station 
 waiting-room, between which all the scramble of the century 
 passed, though apparently without even warming the lofty 
 ceiling. Never had paler and more callous light entered by 
 the large glazed doors, behind which one espied the little, 
 slumberous garden with its meagre, wintry lawns. And not 
 an echo of the tempest of the sitting near at hand reached 
 the spot ; from the whole heavy pile there fell but death-hke 
 silence, and a covert quiver of distress that had come from far 
 away, perhaps from the entire country. 
 
 It was that which now haunted Pierre's reverie. The 
 whole ancient, envenomed sore spread out before his mind's 
 eye, with its poison and virulence, ParUamentary rottenness 
 had slowly increased till it had begun to attack society itself. 
 Above all the low intrigues and the rush of personal ambition 
 there certainly remained the loftier struggle of the contending 
 principles, with history on the march, clearing the past away 
 and seeking to bring more truth, justice, and happiness in the 
 future. But in practice, if one only considered the horrid 
 daily cuisine of the sphere, what an mabridling of egotistical 
 appetite one beheld, what an absorbing passion to strangle 
 
56 PARIS 
 
 one's neighbour and triumph oneself alone 1 Among tho 
 various groups one found but an incessant battle for power 
 and the satisfactions that it gives. ' Left,' ' Eight/ 
 ' Cathohcs,' ' RepubHcans,' * Socialists,' the names given to 
 the parties of twenty different shades, were simply labels 
 classifying forms of the one burning thirst to rule and 
 dominate. All questions could be reduced to a single one, 
 that of knowing whether this man, that man, or that other 
 man should hold France in his grasp, to enjoy it, and dis- 
 tribute its favours among his creatures. And the worst was 
 that the outcome of the great parUamentary battles, the days 
 and the weeks lost in setting this man in the place of that 
 man, and that other man in the place of this man, was simply 
 stagnation, for not one of the three men was better than his 
 fellows, and there were but vague points of difference between 
 them ; in such wise that the new master bungled the very 
 same work as the previous one had bungled, forgetful, per- 
 force, of programmes and promises as soon as ever he began 
 to reign. 
 
 However, Pierre's thoughts invincibly reverted to Laveuve, 
 whom he had momentarily forgotten, but who now seized 
 hold of him again with a quiver as of anger and death. Ah ! 
 what could it matter to that poor old wretch, dying of 
 hunger on his bed of rags, whether Mege should overthrow 
 Barroux's ministry, and whether a Vignon ministry should 
 ascend to power or not ? At that rate a eentmy, two 
 centuries, would be needed before there would be bread in 
 the garrets where groan the lamed sons of labour, the old, 
 broken-down beasts of burden. And behind Laveuve there 
 appeared the whole army of misery, the whole multitude of 
 the disinherited and the poor, who agonised and asked for 
 justice whilst the Chamber, sitting in all pomp, grew 
 furiously impassioned over the question as to whom the 
 nation should belong to, as to who should devour it. Mire 
 was flowing on in a broad stream, the hideous, bleeding, 
 devouring sore displayed itself in all impudence, like some 
 cancer which preys upon an organ and spreads to the 
 heart. And what disgust, what nausea must such a 
 spectacle inspire ; and what a longing for the vengeful 
 knife that would bring health and joy I 
 
 Pierre could not have told for how long he had been 
 plunged in this reverie, when uproar again fiUed the hall. 
 People were coming back, gesticulating and gathering in 
 
RANTERS AND RULERS 57 
 
 groups. And suddenly he heard little Massot exclaim near 
 him : ' Well, if it isn't down it's not much better off. I 
 wouldn't give four sous for its chance of surviving.' 
 
 He referred to the ministry, and began to recount the 
 Bitting to a fellow-journalist who had just arrived. Mege 
 had spoken very eloquently, with extraordinary fury of 
 indignation against the rotten boiirgeoisie, which rotted 
 everything it touched ; but, as usual, he had gone much too 
 far, alarming the Chamber by his very violence. And so, 
 when Barroux had ascended the tribune to ask for a month's 
 adjournment of the interpellation, he had merely had 
 occasion to wax indignant, in all sincerity be it said, full of 
 lofty anger that such infamous campaigns should be carried 
 on by a certain portion of the press. Were the shameful 
 Panama scandals about to be renewed ? Were the national 
 representatives going to let themselves be intimidated by 
 fresh threats of denunciation ? It was the Eepubho itself 
 which its adversaries were seeking to submerge beneath a 
 flood of abominations. No, no, the hour had come for one 
 to collect one's thoughts, and work in quietude without 
 allowing those who hungered for scandal to disturb the 
 public peace. And the Chamber, impressed by these words, 
 fearing, too, lest the electorate should at last grow utterly 
 weary of the continuous overflow of filth, had adjourned 
 the interpellation to that day month. However, although 
 Vignon had not personally intervened in the debate, the 
 whole of his group had voted against the ministry, with the 
 result that the latter had merely secured a majority of two 
 votes — a mockery. 
 
 ' But in that case they wiU resign,' said somebody to 
 Massot. 
 
 ' Yes, so it's rumoured. But Barroux is very tenacious. 
 At aU events, if they show any obstinacy they will be down 
 before a week is over, particularly as Sagnier, who is quite 
 furious, declares that he will publish the list of names to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 Just then, indeed, Barroux and Monferrand were seen to 
 pass, hastening along with thoughtful, busy mien, and followed 
 by their anxious clients. It was said that the whole Cabinet 
 was about to assemble to consider the position and come to a 
 decision. And then Vignon, in his turn, reappeared amidst a 
 stream of friends. He, for his part, was radiant, with a joy 
 which he sought to conceal, calming his friends in his desire 
 
SS PARIS 
 
 not to cry victory too soon. However, the eyes of the band 
 glittered, like those of a pack of hounds when the moment 
 draws near for the offal of the quarry to be distributed. And 
 even Mege also looked triumphant. He had all but over- 
 thrown the ministry. That made another one that was worn 
 out, and by-and-by he would wear out Vignon's, and at last 
 govern in his turn. 
 
 ' The devil I ' muttered little Massot, ' Chaignenx and 
 Duthil look like whipped dogs. And see, there's nobody who 
 is worth the governor. Just look at him, how superb he is, 
 that Fons^gue ! But good-bye ; I must now be off ! ' 
 
 Then he shook hands with his brother-journalist, unwillino 
 as he was to remain any longer, although the sitting stiU 
 continued, some bill of public importance again being debated 
 before rows of empty seats. 
 
 Chaigneux, with his desolate mien, had gone to lean 
 against the pedestal of the high figure of Minerva ; and never 
 before had he been more bowed down by his needy distress, 
 the everlasting anguish of his ill-luck. On the other hand, 
 Duthil, in spite of everything, was perorating in the centre 
 of a group with an affectation of scoffing unconcern ; never- 
 theless nervous twitches made his nose pucker and distorted 
 his mouth, while the whole of his handsome face was becoming 
 moist with fear. And even as Massot had said, there really 
 was only PonsSgue who showed composure and bravery, ever 
 the same with his restless little figure, and his eyes beaming 
 with wit, though at times they were just faintly clouded by a 
 shadow of uneasiness. 
 
 Pierre had risen to renew his request ; but PonsSgue fore- 
 stalled him, vivaciously exclaiming: 'No, no. Monsieur I'Abb^, 
 I repeat that I cannot take on myself such an infraction of 
 our rules. There was an inquiry, and a decision was arrived 
 at. How would you have me overrule it ? ' 
 
 ' Monsieur,' said the priest, in a tone of deep grief, ' it is 
 a question of an old man who is hungry and cold, and in 
 danger of death if he be not succoured.' 
 
 With a despairing gesture, the director of ' Le Globe' seemed 
 to take the very walls as witnesses of his powerlessness. No 
 doubt he feared some nasty affair for his newspaper, in which 
 he had employed the Invalids of Labour enterprise as an 
 electoral weapon. Perhaps, too, the secret terror into which 
 the sitting of the Chamber had just thrown him was hardening 
 his heart. ' I can do nothing,' he repeated. ' But naturally 
 
RANTERS AND RULERS 59 
 
 I don't ask better than to liave my hands forced by the 
 ladies of the committee. You already have the support of 
 Baroness Duvillard; secure that of some others.' 
 
 Pierre, -who was determined to fight oh to the very end, 
 saw in this suggestion a supreme chance. ' I know the 
 Countess de Quinsac,' he said; 'I can go to see her at once.' 
 
 ' Quite so 1 An excellent idea, the Countess do Quinsac ! 
 Take a cab and go to see the Princess de Harn as well. She 
 bestirs herself a great deal, and is becoming very influential. 
 Secure the approval of those ladies, go back to the Baroness's 
 at seven, get a letter from her to cover me, and then call on 
 me at the office of my paper. That done, your man shall sleep 
 at the Asylum at nine o'clock ! ' 
 
 He evinced in speaking a kind of joyous good nature, as 
 though he no longer doubted of success now that he ran no risk 
 of compromising himself. And great hope again came back 
 to the priest : ' Ah ! thank you, monsieur,' he said ; ' it is a 
 work of salvation that you will accomplish.' 
 
 , ' But you surely know that I ask nothing better. Ah 1 
 if we could only cure misery, prevent hunger and thirst 
 by a mere word. However, make haste, you have not a 
 minute to lose.' 
 
 They shook hands, and Pierre at once tried to get out of 
 the throng. This, however, was no easy task, for the various 
 groups had grown larger as all the anger and anguish, roused 
 by the recent debate, ebbed back there amid a confused tumult. 
 It was as when a stone, cast into a pool, stirs the ooze below, 
 and causes hidden, rotting things to rise once more to the 
 surface. And Pierre had to bring his elbows into play and 
 force a passage athwart the throng, betwixt the shivering 
 cowardice of some, the insolent audacity of others, and the 
 smirchings which sullied the greater number, given the 
 contagion which inevitably prevailed. However, he carried 
 away a fresh hope, and it seemed to him that if he should 
 save a hfe, make but one man happy that day, it would be 
 like a first instalment of redemption, a sign that a little for- 
 giveness would be extended to the many follies and errors of 
 that egotistical and all-devouring political world. 
 
 On reaching the vestibule a final incident detained him 
 for a moment longer. Some commotion prevailed there, 
 following upon a quarrel between a man and an usher, the 
 latter of whom had prevented the former from entering on 
 finding that the admission ticket which he tendered was an 
 
6o PARIS 
 
 old one, with its original date scratched out. The man, very 
 rough at the outset, had then refrained from insisting — as if 
 indeed sudden timidity had come upon him. And in this 
 ill-dressed fellow Pierre was astonished to recognise Salvat, 
 the journeyman engineer, whom he had seen going off in 
 search of work that same morning. This time it was certainly 
 he, tall, thin and ravaged, with dreamy yet flaming eyes, 
 which set his pale starveling's face aglow. He no longer 
 carried his tool-bag ; his ragged jacket was buttoned up and 
 distended on the left side by something that he carried in a 
 pocket, doubtless some hunk of bread. And on being repulsed 
 by the ushers he walked away, taking the Concorde Bridge, 
 slowly, as if chancewise, like a man who knows not whither 
 he is going. 
 
 IV 
 
 BOCUL SIDELIGHTS 
 
 In her old faded drawing-room — a Louis Seize salon with 
 grey woodwork — the Countess de Quinsao sat near the 
 chimney-piece in her accustomed place. She was singularly 
 like her son, with a long and noble face, her chin somewhat 
 stern, but her eyes still beautiful beneath her fine snowy hair, 
 which was arranged in the antiquated style of her youth. 
 And whatever her haughty coldness, she knew how to be 
 amiable, with perfect, kindly graeiousness. 
 
 Slightly waving her hand after a long silence, she resumed, 
 addressing herself to the Marquis de Morigny, who sat on the 
 other side of the chimney, where for long years he had always 
 taken the same armchair : ' Ah 1 you are right, my friend. 
 Providence has left us here forgotten, in a most abominable 
 epoch.' 
 
 • Yes, we passed by the side of happiness and missed it,' 
 the Marquis slowly replied, ' and it was your fault, and doubt- 
 less mine as well.' 
 
 Smiling sadly, she stopped him with another wave of her 
 hand. And the silence fell once more; not a sound from the 
 streets reached that gloomy ground floor at the rear of the 
 courtyard of an old mansion in the Eue St. Dominique, 
 almost at the corner of the Eue de Bourgogne. 
 
 The Marquis was an old man of seventy-five, nine years 
 older than the Countess. Short and thin though be was, 
 
SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS 6i 
 
 be none the less had a distinguished air, with his clean-shaven 
 face, furrowed by deep, aristocratic wrinkles. He belonged 
 to one of the most ancient families of France, and remained 
 one of the last hopeless Legitimists, of very pure and lofty 
 views, zealously keeping bis faith to the dead monarchy 
 amidst the downfall of everything. His fortune, still estimated 
 at several millions of francs, remained, as it were, in a state 
 of stagnation through his refusal to invest it in any 
 enterprise of the century. It was known that in all discretion 
 he had loved the Countess, even when M. de Quinsao was alive, 
 and had, moreover, offered marriage after the latter's death, 
 at the time when tbe widow had sought a refuge on that damp 
 ground floor with merely an income of some 15,000 francs, 
 saved with great difficulty from the wreck of the family 
 fortune. But she, who adored her son Gerard, then in his 
 tenth year, and of delicate health, had sacrificed everything 
 to the boy from a kind of maternal chasteness and a super- 
 stitious fear that she might lose him should she set another 
 affection and another duty in her life. And the Marquis, 
 while bowing to her decision, had continued to worship her 
 with his whole soul, ever paying his court as on the first 
 evening when he had seen her, still gallant and faithful after 
 a quarter of a century had passed. There had never been 
 anything between them, not even the exchange of a kiss. 
 
 Seeing how sad she looked, he feared that he might have 
 displeased her, and so he asked : ' I should have liked to render 
 you happy, but I didn't know how, and the fault can certainly 
 only rest with me. Is Gerard giving you any cause for 
 anxiety ? ' 
 
 She shook her head, and then replied : ' As long as things 
 remain as they are we cannot complain of them, my friend, 
 since we accepted them.' 
 
 She referred to her son's culpable connection with Baroness 
 Duvillard. She had ever shown much weakness with regard to 
 that son whom she had had so much trouble to rear, for she 
 alone knew what exhaustion, what racial collapse was hidden 
 behind his proud bearing. She tolerated his idleness, the apathe- 
 tic disgust which,man of pleasure that he was, had turned him 
 from the profession of diplomacy as from that of arms. How 
 many times had she not repaired his acts of folly and paid his 
 petty debts, keeping silent concerning them, and refusing all 
 pecuniary help from the Marquis, who no longer dared offer 
 bis millions, so stubbornly intent she was on living upon the 
 
63 PARIS 
 
 remnants of her own fortune. And thus she had ended by 
 closing her eyes to her son's scandalous love intrigue, divining 
 in some measure how things had happened, through self- 
 abandonment and lack of conscience — the man weak,_ unable 
 to resume possession of himself, and the woman holding and 
 retaining him. The Marquis, however, strangely enough, had 
 only forgiven the intrigue on the day when Evo had allowed 
 herself to be converted. 
 
 ' You know, my friend, how good-natured Gerard is,' the 
 Countess resumed. 'In that lie both his strength and 
 weakness. How would you have me scold him when ha 
 weeps over it all with me ? He will tire of that woman.' 
 
 M. de Morigny wagged his head. ' She is still very 
 beautiful,' said he. ' And then there's the daughter. It would 
 be graver still if he were to marry her ' 
 
 ' But the daughter's infirm ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, and you know what would be said : A Quinsac 
 marrying a monster for the sake of her millions.' 
 
 This was their mutual terror. They knew everything that 
 went on at the Duvillards' — the affectionate friendship of the 
 uncomely Camille and the handsome Gerard, the seeming 
 idyll beneath which lurked the most awful of dramas. And 
 they protested with all their indignation. ' Oh ! that — no, no, 
 never I ' the Countess declared. ' My son in that family ? — no, 
 I will never consent to it.' 
 
 Just at that moment General de Bozonnet entered. He 
 was much attached to his sister and came to keep her company 
 on the days when she received, for the old circle had gradually 
 dwindled down till now only a few faithful ones ventured into 
 that grey, gloomy salon, where one might have fancied oneself 
 thousands of leagues from present-day- Paris. And forth- 
 with, in order to enliven the room, he related that he had been 
 to dijmner at the DuviUards', and named the guests, Gdrard 
 among them. He knew that he pleased his sister by going 
 to the banker's house, whence he brought her news — a house, 
 too, which he cleansed in some degree by conferring on it the 
 great honour of his presence. And he himself in nowise felt 
 bored there, for he had long been gained over to the century 
 and showed himself of a very accommodating disposition ia 
 everything that did not pertain to military art. 
 
 ' That poor little Camille worships Gdrard,' said he ; ' she 
 was devouring him with her eyes at table.' 
 
 But M. de Morigny gravely intervened ; ' There lies the 
 
SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS 63 
 
 Sanger ; a marriage would be absolutely monstrous from every 
 point of view.' 
 
 The General seemed astonished : ' Why, pray ? She 
 isn't beautiful, but it's not only the beauties who marry I 
 And there are her millions. However, our dear child would 
 only have to put them to a good use. True, there is also the 
 mother ; but, mon Dieu I such things are so common now-a- 
 days in Paris society ? ' 
 
 This revolted the Marquis, who made a gesture of utter 
 disgust. What was the use of discussion when all collapsed? 
 How could one answer a Bozonnet, the last surviving 
 representative of such an illustrious family, when he reached 
 such a point as to excuse the infamous morals that prevailed 
 under the Republic ; after denying his king, too, and serving 
 the Empire, faithfully and passionately attaching himself to 
 the fortunes and memory of Cassar ? However, the Countess 
 also became indignant : ' Oh ! what are you saying, brother ? 
 I will never authorise such a scandal ; I swore so only just 
 now.' 
 
 'Don't swear, sister,' exclaimed the General; 'for my 
 part, I should like to see our G6rard happy. That's all. And 
 one must admit that he's not good for much. I can under- 
 stand that he didn't go into the army, for that profession is 
 done for. But I do not so well understand why he did not 
 enter the diplomatic profession, or accept some other occu- 
 pation. It is very fine, no doubt, to run down the present 
 times and declare, that a .man of our sphere cannot possibly 
 do any clean work in them. But, as a matter of fact, it is 
 only idle fellows who still say that. And G6rard has but one 
 excuse, his lack of aptitude, will, and strength.' 
 
 Tears had risen to the mother's eyes. She ever trembled, 
 well knowing how deceitful were appearances : a mere chill 
 might carry her son off, however taU and strong he might 
 look. And was he not indeed a symbol of that old-time 
 aristocracy, still so lofty and proud in appearance, though at 
 bottom it is but dust 2 
 
 ' Well,' continued the General, ' he's thirty-six now ; he's 
 constantly hanging on your hands, and he must make an end 
 of it all.' 
 
 However, the Countess silenced him and turned to the 
 Marquis : ' Let us put our confidence in God, my friend,' said 
 she. ' He cannot but come to my help, for I have never 
 wiJliBgly offended Him." 
 
64 PAHIS 
 
 ' Never I ' replied the Marquis, who in that one word set 
 an expression of all his grief, all his affection and worship for 
 that woman whom he had adored for so many years. 
 
 But another faithful friend came in and the conversation 
 ^changed. M. de Larombiere, Vice-President of the Appeal 
 Court, was an old man of seventy-five, thin, bald, and clean- 
 shaven but for a pair of little white whiskers. And his grey 
 eyes, compressed mouth, and square and obstinate chin lent 
 an expression of great austerity to his long face. The grief 
 of his life was that, being afflicted with a somewhat childish 
 lisp, he had never been able to make his full merits known 
 T.-hen a public prosecutor, for he esteemed himself to be a 
 great orator. And this secret worry rendered him morose. 
 In him appeared an incarnation of that old royalist France 
 which sulked and only served the Eepublic against its heart, 
 that old stern magistracy which closed itself to aU evolution, 
 to all new views of things and beings. Of petty ' gown ' 
 nobility, originally a Legitimist, but now supporting Orleanism, 
 he believed himself to be the one man of wisdom and logic 
 in that salon, where he was very proud to meet the Marquis. 
 
 They talked of the last events ; but with them political 
 conversation was soon exhausted, amounting as it did to a 
 mere bitter condemnation of men and occurrences, for all 
 three were of one mind as to the abominations of the 
 Eepublican rigime. They themselves, however, were only 
 ruins, the remnants of the old parties now all but utterly 
 powerless. The Marquis for his part soared on high, yielding 
 in nothing, ever faithful to the dead past ; he was one of the 
 last representatives of that lofty, obstinate noblesse which dies 
 where it finds itself without an effort to escape its fate. The 
 judge, who at least had a pretender living, relied on a miracle, 
 and demonstrated the necessity of one, if France were not to 
 sink into the depths of misfortune and completely disappear. 
 And as for the General, all that he regretted of the two 
 Empires was their great wars ; he left the faint hope of a 
 Bonapartist restoration on one side to declare that by not 
 contenting itself with the Imperial mUitary system, and by 
 substituting therefor obligatory service, the nation in arms, 
 the Eepublic had killed both warfare and the country. 
 
 When the Countess's one man-servant came to ask her if 
 she would consent to receive Abb6 Froment, she seemed 
 somewhat surprised, ' What can he want of me ? Show him 
 in,' she said. 
 
SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS 65 
 
 She was very pioua, and having met Pierre in connection 
 with various charitable enterprises, she had been touched by 
 hia zeal as well as by the sauitly reputation which he owed to 
 his Neuilly parishioners. 
 
 He, absorbed by his fever, felt intimidated directly he 
 crossed the threshold. He could at first distinguish nothing, 
 but fancied he was entering some place of mourning, & 
 shadowy spot where human forms melted away and voices 
 were never raised above a whisper. Then, on perceiving 
 the persons who were present, he felt yet more out of hia 
 element, for they seemed so sad, so far removed from the 
 world whence he had just come, and wbither he was about to 
 return. And when the Countess had made him sit dowr 
 beside her in front of the chimney-piece, it was in a low voice 
 that he told her the lamentable story of Laveuve, and asked 
 her support to secure the man's admittance to the Asylum for 
 the Invalids of Labour. 
 
 'Ah I yes,' said she, 'that enterprise which my son wished 
 me to belong to. But, Monsieur I'Abb^, I have never once 
 attended the committee meetings. So how could I intervene, 
 having assuredly no influence whatever?' 
 
 Again had the figures of Eve and G&ard arisen before 
 her, for it was at this asylum that the pair had first met. 
 And influenced by her sorrowful maternal love she was already 
 weakening, although it was regretfully that she bad lent 
 her name to one of those noisy charitable enterprises, which 
 people abused to further their selfish interests in a manner 
 she condemned. 
 
 ' But, madame,' Pierre insisted, ' it is a question of a poor 
 starving old man. I implore you to be compassionate.' 
 
 Although the priest had spoken in a low voice, the General 
 drew near. ' It's for your old revolutionary that you are 
 running about, is it not ? ' said he. ' Didn't you succeed with 
 the manager, then ? The fact is that it's difficult to feel any 
 pity for fellows who, if they were the masters, would, as they 
 themselves say, sweep us all away.' 
 
 M. de Jjarombi^re jerked his chin approvingly. For some 
 time past lie had been haunted by the Anarchist peril. But 
 Pierre, distressed and quivering, again began to plead his 
 cause. He spoke of all the frightful misery, the homes where 
 there was no food, the women and children shivering with 
 cold, and the fathers scouring muddy, wintry Paris in search 
 of a bit of bread. All that he asked for was a line on a 
 
66 PARIS 
 
 visiting card, a kindly word from the Countess, which ha 
 would at once carry to Baroness Duvillard to prevail on her 
 to set the regulations aside. And in that mournful salon 
 his words, tremulous with stifled tears, fell one by one, like 
 sounds from afar, dying away in a dead world where there was 
 no echo left. 
 
 Madame de Quinsac turned towards M. de Morigny, but ha 
 seemed to take no interest in it at all. He was gazing fixedly 
 at the fire, with the haughty air of a stranger who was in- 
 different to the things and beings in whose midst an error of 
 time compelled him to live. But feeling that the glance of 
 the woman he worshipped was fixed upon him, he raised his 
 head ; and then their eyes met for a moment with an expres- 
 sion of infinite gentleness, the mournful gentleness of their 
 heroic love. 
 
 ' Mon Dieu I ' said she, ' I know your merits, Monsieur 
 I'Abbe, and I won't refuse my help to one of your good 
 works.' 
 
 Then she withdrew for a moment, and returned with a 
 card on which she had written that she supported with all 
 her heart Monsieur I'Abbe Froment in the steps he was 
 taking. And he thanked her and went off delighted, as if 
 he carried yet a fresh hope of salvation from that drawi»g- 
 room, where, as he retired, gloom and silence once mora 
 seemed to fall on that old lady and her last faithful friends 
 gathered around the fire, last relics of a world that was soon 
 to disappear. 
 
 Once outside, Pierre joyfully climbed into his cab again, 
 after giving the Princess de Ham's address ia the Avenue 
 Kl^ber. If he could also obtain her approval he would no 
 longer doubt of success. However, there was such a crush 
 on the Concorde Bridge that the driver had to walk his 
 horse. And, on the foot-pavement, Pierre again saw Duthil, 
 who, with a cigar between his lips, was smiUng at the crowd, 
 with his amiable bird-like heedlessness, happy as he felt at 
 finding the pavement dry and the sky blue on leaving that 
 worrying sitting of the Chamber. Seeing how gay and 
 triumphant he looked, a sudden inspiration came to the 
 priest, who said to himself that he ought to win over this 
 young man, whose report had had such a disastrous effect. 
 As it happened, the cab having been compelled to stop 
 altogether, the deputy had just recognised him and waa 
 euuling at him. 
 
SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS 67 
 
 ' Where are you going, Monsieur Duthil ? ' Pierre asked. 
 
 ' Close by, in the Champs-Elysdes." 
 
 ' I'm going that way, and, as I should much like to speak 
 to you for a moment, it would be very kind of you to taJie a 
 seat beside me. I will set you down wherever you like.' 
 
 ' Willingly, Monsieur I'Abb^. It won't inoonvenienoe you 
 if I finish my cigar ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! not at aU.' 
 
 The cab found its way out of the crush, crossed the Plfica 
 da la Concorde, and began to ascend the Champs Elys^es. 
 And Pierre, reflecting that he had very few minutes before 
 him, at once attacked Duthil, quite ready for any effort to 
 convince him. He remembered what a sortie the young 
 deputy had made against Laveuve at the Baron's ; and thus 
 he was astonished to hear him interrupt and say quite 
 pleasantly, enlivened as he seemed by the bright sun, which 
 was again beginning to shine : ' Ah, yes 1 your old drunkard ! 
 So you didn't settle his business with FonsSgue ? And what 
 is it you want ? To have him admitted to-day ? Well, you 
 know I don't oppose it ? ' 
 
 ' But there's your report.' 
 
 'My report? — oh, my report! But questions change 
 accordmg to the way one looks at them. And if you are so 
 anxious about your Laveuve I won't refuse to help you,' 
 
 Pierre gazed at him in astonishment, at bottom extremely 
 well pleased. And there was no further necessity even for 
 him to speak. 
 
 ' You didn't take the matter in hand properly,' continued 
 Duthil, leaning forward with a confidraitial air. 'It's the 
 Baron who's the master at home, for reasons which you may 
 divine, which you may very hkely know. The Baroness does 
 all that he asks without even discussing the point ; and this 
 morning, instead of starting on a lot of useless visits, you 
 only had to gain his support, particularly as he seemed to ba 
 very well disposed. And she would then have given way 
 immediately.' Duthil began to laugh. 'And so,' he con- 
 tinued, ' do you know what I'll do ? Well, I'll gain the Baron 
 over to your cause. Yes, I am this moment going to a house 
 where he is, where one is certain to find him every day at this 
 time.' Then he laughed more loudly, ' And perhaps you 
 are not ignorant of it, Monsieur I'AbbS. When he is there 
 you may be certain he never gives a refusal. I promise you 
 I'll make him swear that ha wUI compel his wife to grant 
 
68 PAMIS 
 
 your man admission this very evening. Only it will, pefllaps, 
 
 be rather late. ' t> u-i 
 
 Then all at once, as if struck by a fresh idea, Duthil 
 went on : ' But why shouldn't you come with me ? _ You 
 secure a line from the Baron, and thereupon, without losing a 
 minute, you go in search of the Baroness. Ah ! the character 
 of the house worries you a little ? I understand it. Well, 
 would you like to see only the Baron there ?_ You can 
 wait for him in a little salon downstairs ; I will bring him to 
 you. ' 
 
 This proposal made Duthil altogether merry ; but Pierre, 
 quite soared, hesitated at the idea of thus going to Silviane 
 d'Aulnay's. It Was hardly a place for him. However, to 
 achieve his purpose he woulji have descended into the very 
 dwelling of the fiend, and had akeady done so sometimes 
 with Abb6 Eose, when there was hope of assuaging wretched- 
 ness. Bo he turned to Duthil and consented to accompany 
 him. 
 
 Silviane d'Aulnay's little mansion, a very luxurious one, 
 displaying, so to say, the luxury of a temple, refined but sug- 
 gestive of gallantry, stood in the Avenue d'Antin, near the 
 Champs-Blys^es. The inmate of this sanctuary, where the 
 orfrays of old dalmaticas glittered in the mauve reflections 
 from the windows of stained glass, had just completed her 
 twenty-fifth year. Short and slim she was, of an adorable, 
 dark beauty, and all Paris was acquainted with her delicious, 
 virginal countenance of a gentle oval, her delicate nose, her 
 little mouth, her candid cheeks and artless chin, above all 
 which she wore her black hair in thick, heavy bands, which 
 hid her low brow. Her notoriety was due precisely to her 
 pretty air of astonishment, the infinite purity of her blue 
 eyes, the whole expression of chaste innocence which she 
 assumed when it so pleased her — an expression which con- 
 trasted powerfully with her true nature, shameless creature 
 that she really was, of the most monstrous, confessed, and 
 openly-displayed perversity ; such as, in fact, often spring up 
 from the rotting soil of great cities. Extraordinary things 
 were related about Silviane's tastes and fancies. Some said 
 that she was a doorkeeper's, others a doctor's, daughter. In 
 any case she had managed to acqiyre instruction and manners, 
 for when occasion required she lacked neither vrit, nor style, 
 nor deportment. She had been roUing through the theatres 
 for ten years or so, applauded for her beauty's sake, and she 
 
SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS 69 
 
 had even ended by obtaining some pretty little successes in 
 such parts as those of very pure young maidens or loving and 
 persecuted young wives. Since there had been a question, 
 however, of her entering the Comddie Fran9ai8e to play the 
 r6l& of Pauline in ' Polyeucte,' some people had waxed in- 
 dignant and others had roared with laughter, so ridiculous 
 did the idea appear, so outrageous for the majesty of classic 
 tragedy. She, however, quiet and stubborn, wished this thing 
 to be, was resolved that it should be, certain as she was that 
 she would secure it, and insolent hke a creature to whom men 
 had never yet been able to refuse anything. 
 
 That day, at three o'clock, G6rard de Quinsao, not know- 
 ing how to kill the time pending the appointment he had 
 given Eve in the Bue Matignon, had thought of calling at 
 Silviane's, which was in the neighbourhood. She was an old 
 caprice of his, and even nowadays he would sometimes 
 linger at the little mansion if its pretty mistress felt bored. 
 However, he had this time found her in a fury ; and, reclining 
 in one of the deep armchairs of the salon where ' old gold ' 
 formed the predominant colour, he was listening to her com- 
 plaints. She, standing before him in a white gown, white 
 indeed from head to foot, like Eve herself at the dijeuner, 
 was speaking passionately, and fast convincing him. Won 
 oyer indeed by so much youth and beauty, he unconsciously 
 compared her to his other flame, already regretting his coming 
 assignation, and so mastered by supineness, both moral 
 and physical, that he would have preferred to remain all day 
 in the depths of that armchair. 
 
 ' You hear me, Gdrard I ' she at last exclaimed ; ' I'll have 
 nothing whatever to do with him unless he brings me my 
 nomination.' 
 
 Just then Baron Duvillard came in, and forthwith she 
 changed to ice and received him like some sorely offended young 
 queen who awaits an explanation ; whilst he, who foresaw 
 the storm and brought moreover disastrous tidings, forced a 
 smile though very ill at ease. She was the stain, the blemish 
 attaching to that man who was yet so sturdy and so powerful 
 amidst the general decline of his race. And she was also 
 the beginning of justice and punishment, taking all his 
 piled-up gold from him by the handful, and avenging by 
 her cruelty those who shivered and who starved. And it was 
 pitiful to see that feared and flattered man, beneath whom 
 states and governments trembled, here torn pale withanxi«ty, 
 
70 PARIS 
 
 bend low in all humility, and relapse into senile, Btammering 
 iafancy under the Bpur of acute passion. 
 
 ' Ah 1 my dear friend,' said he, ' if you only knew_ how 
 I have been rushing about. I had a lot of worrying business, 
 some contractors to see, a big advertisement affair to settle, 
 and I feared that I should never be able to come and kiss 
 your hand.' 
 
 He kissed it, but she let her arm fall, coldly, indifferently, 
 contenting herself with looking at him, waiting for what he 
 might have to say to her, and embarrassing him to such a 
 point that he began to perspire and stammer, unable to 
 express himself. ' Of course,' he began, ' I also thought of 
 you, and went to the Fine Arts Office, where I had received 
 a positive promise. Oh 1 they are still very much in your 
 favour at the Fine Ajts Office 1 Only, just fancy, it's that 
 idiot of a minister, that Taboureau,' an old professor from 
 the provinces who knows nothing about our Paris, that has 
 expressly opposed your nomination, saying that as long as 
 he is in office you shall not appear at the ComSdie.' 
 
 Erect and rigid, she spoke but two words : ' And then? ' 
 
 ' And then — well, my dear, what would you have me 
 do ? One can't, after all, overthrow a ministry to enable you 
 to play the part of Pauline.' 
 
 • Why not ? ' 
 
 He pretended to laugh, but his blood rushed to his face, and 
 the whole of his sturdy figure quivered with anguish. ' Come, 
 my little Silviane,' said he, ' don't be obstinate. You can be 
 so nice when you choose. Give up the idea of that dihut. 
 You, yourself, would risk a great deal in it, for what would 
 be your worries if you were to fail ? You would weep all the 
 tears in your body. And besides, you can ask me for so many 
 other things which I should be so happy to give you. Gome 
 now, at once make a wish, and I will gratify it immediately.' 
 
 In a frolicsome way ho sought to take her hand again. 
 But she drew back with an air of much dignity. ' No, you 
 hear me, my dear fellow, I wiU have nothing whatever to do 
 with you — nothing, so long as I don't play Pauline.* 
 
 • Tabonreau is previously described as Minister of Public Instnietion. 
 It should be pointed out, however, that although under the present 
 Eepublio the Ministries of Public Instruction and Fine Arts have 
 occasionally been distinct departments, at other times they have been 
 united— one minister, as ia Taboureau's case, luiving charge of both.— 
 Tram, 
 
SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS 1i 
 
 He understood her fully, and be knew her well enough to 
 realise how rigorously she would treat him. Only a kind of 
 grunt came from his contracted throat, though he still tried 
 to treat the matter in a jesting way. ' Isn't she bad-tempered 
 to-day 1 ' he resumed at last, turning towards Gerard. 
 ' What have you done to her that I find her in such a state 9 ' 
 
 However, the young man, who kept very quiet for fear 
 lest be himself might be bespattered in the course of the dis- 
 pute, continued to stretch himself out in a languid way and 
 gave no answer. 
 
 But Silviane's anger burst forth. ' "What has he done to 
 me ? He has pitied me for being at the mercy of such a man 
 as you — so egotistical, so insensible to the insults heaped 
 upon me. Ought you not to be the first to bound with in- 
 dignation ? Ought you not to have exact&d my admittance 
 to the Com^die as a reparation for the insult ? For, after aU, 
 it is a defeat for you ; if I'm considered unworthy, you are 
 struck at the same time as I am. And so I'm a drab, eh ? 
 Say at once that I'm a creature to be driven away from all 
 respectable houses.' 
 
 She went on in this style, coming at last to vile words, the 
 abominable words which, in moments of anger, always ended 
 by returning to her innocent-looking lips. The Baron, who 
 well knew that a syllable from him would only increase the 
 foulness of the overflow, vainly turned an imploring glance 
 on the Count to solicit his intervention. Gerard, with his keen 
 desire for peace and quietness, often brought about a recon- 
 ciliation, but this time he did not stir, feeling too lazy and 
 sleepy to interfere. And Silviane all at once came to a finish, 
 repeating her trenchant, severing words : ' Well, manage as 
 you can — secure my debut, or I'U have nothing more to do 
 with you, nothing I ' 
 
 ' All right 1 all right 1 ' Duvillard at last murmured, 
 sneering, but in despair ; ' we'll arrange it all.' 
 
 However, at that moment a servant came in to say that 
 M. Duthil was downstairs and wished to speak to the Baron 
 in the smoking-room. Duvillard was astonished at this, for 
 Duthil usually came up as though the house were his own. 
 Then he reflected that the deputy had doubtless brought him 
 some serious news from the Chamber which he wished to 
 impart to him confidentially. So he followed the servant, 
 leaving Gerard and Silviane together. 
 
 In the smoking-room, an apartment communicating with 
 
72 PARIS 
 
 the hall by a wide bay, the curtain of which was drawn up, 
 Pierre stood with his companion, waiting and glancing curi- 
 ously around him. What particularly struck him was the 
 almost religious solemnness of the entrance, the heavy hang- 
 ings, the mystic gleams of the stained glass, the old furniture 
 steeped in chapel-like gloom amidst scattered perfumes of 
 myrrh and incense. DuthU, who was still very gay, tapped a 
 low divan with his cane and said : ' She has a nicely furnished 
 house, eh? Ohl she knows how to look after her interests.' 
 
 Then the Baron came ia, still quite upset and anxious. 
 And without even perceiving the priest, desirous as he was of 
 tidings, he began ; ' Well, what did they do ? Is there some 
 very bad news then?' 
 
 ' M^ge interpellated and applied for a declaration of urgency 
 60 as to overthrow Barroux. You can imagine what his speech 
 was.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, against the bourgeois, against me, against you. 
 It's always the same thing And then?' 
 
 'Then — well, urgency wasn't voted, but, in spite of a 
 very fine defence, Barroux only secured a majority of two 
 votes.' 
 
 ' Two votes — ^the devil ! Then he's down, and we shall 
 have a Vignon ministry next week.' 
 
 ' That's what everybody said in the lobbies.' 
 
 The Baron frowned, as if he were estimating what good 
 or evil might result to the world from such a change. Then, 
 with a gesture of displeasure, he said : * A Vignon ministry 1 
 The devil 1 That would hardly be any better. Those young 
 democrats pretend to be virtuous, and a Vignon ministry 
 wouldn't admit Silviane to the Comddie.' 
 
 _ Thi3,_ at first, was his only thought in presence of the 
 crisis which made the political world tremble. And so the 
 deputy could not refrain from referring to his own anxiety. 
 ' Well, and we others — what is our position in it all ? ' 
 
 This brought Duvillard back to the situation. With a 
 fresh gesture, this time a superbly proud one, he expressed 
 his fiill and impudent confidence. ' We others ? — why, we 
 remain as we are ; we've never been in peril I imagine. Oh ! 
 I am quite at ease ; Sagnier can publish his famous list if it 
 amuses him to do so. If we haven't long since bought Sagnier 
 and his list, it's because Barroux is a thoroughly honest man, 
 and for my part I don't care to throw money out pf wipdow. 
 I repeat to you that w§ feait nothing.' 
 
SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS 73 
 
 Then, as he at last recognised Abb6 Fromsnt, who had 
 remained in the shade, Duthil explained what service the 
 priest desired of him. And Duvillard in his state of emotion, 
 his heart still rent by Silviane's sternness, must have felt a 
 secret hope that a good action might bring him luck ; so he 
 at once consented to intervene in favour of Laveuve's admis- 
 sion. Taking a card and a pencil from his pocket-book he 
 drew near to the window. ' Oh ! whatever you desire, 
 Monsieur I'Abb^,' he said, ' I shall be very happy to partici- 
 pate in this good work. Here, this is what I have written : 
 "My dear, please do what M. I'AbbS Froment solicits in 
 favour of this unfortunate man, since our friend FonsSgua 
 only awaits a word from you to take proper steps." ' 
 
 At this moment through the open bay Pierre caught 
 sight of Gerard, whom Silviane, calm once more, and inquisi- 
 tive no doubt to know why Duthil had called, was escorting 
 into the hall. And the sight of the young woman filled him 
 with astonishment, so simple and gentle did she seem to him, 
 full of the immaculate candour of a virgin. Never had he 
 dreamt of a lily of more modest yet delicious bloom in 
 the whole garden of innocence. 
 
 'Now,' continued Du^dllard, ' if you wish to hand this card 
 to my wife at once, you must go to the Princess de Harn's, 
 
 where there is a matinie ' 
 
 ' I was going there. Monsieur le Baron," 
 ' Very good. You will certainly find my wife there ; she 
 is to take the children there.' Then he paused, for he too 
 had just seen Gerard; and he called him: 'I say, Gerard, 
 my wife said that she was going to that matin&e, didn't she ? 
 You feel sure— don't you?— that Monsieur I'Abb^ will find 
 her there ? ' 
 
 Although the young man was then going to the Eue 
 Matignon, there to wait for Eve, it was in the most natural 
 manner possible that he repUed : ' If Monsieur I'Abb^ makes 
 haste, I thmk he will find her there, for she was certainly 
 going there before trying on a corsage at Salmon's.' 
 
 Then he kissed Silviane's hand, and went off with the 
 air of a handsome, indolent man, who knows no malice, and 
 is even weary of pleasure. 
 
 Pierre, feeling rather embarrassed, was obliged to let 
 Duvillard introduce him to the mistress of the house. He 
 bowed in silence, whilst she, likewise silent, returned hia 
 bow with modest reserve, the tact appropriate to the occasion, 
 
74 PARIS 
 
 BHch 8.8 no ingenue, even at the Com^e, wag then capable 
 of. And while the Baron accompanied the priest to the 
 door, she returned to the salon with Dnthil, who wag 
 scarcely screened by the door-curtain before he passed his 
 arm round her waist. 
 
 When Pierre, who at last felt confident of success, found 
 himself, still in his cab, in front of the Princess de Harn's 
 mansion in the Avenue Kleber, he suddenly relapsed into 
 great embarrassment. The avenue was crowded with 
 carriages brought thither by the musical matinie, and such 
 a throng of arriving guests pressed round the entrance, 
 decorated with a kind of tent with scallopings of red velvet, 
 that he deemed the house unapproachable. How could he 
 manage to get in ? And how in his cassock could he reach 
 the Princess, and ask for a minute's conversation with 
 Baroness Duvillard ? Amidst aU his feverishness he had 
 not I thought of these difficulties. However, he was 
 approaching the door on foot, asking himself how he might 
 glide unperceived through the throng, when the sound of a 
 merry voice made him tarn : ' What, Monsieur I'Abbd 1 Is it 
 possible I So now I find you here 1 * 
 
 It was little Massot who spoke. He went everywhere, 
 witnessed ten sights a day — a parliamentary sitting, a funeral, 
 a wedding, any festive or mourning scene — when he wanted 
 a good subject for an article. ' What I Monsieur I'Abb^,' he 
 resumed, ' and so you have come to our amiable Princess's 
 to see the Mauritanians dance 1 ' 
 
 He was jesting, for the so-called Mauritanians were simply 
 six Spanish dancing-girls, who by the sensuality of their 
 performance were then making all Paris rush to the Folies- 
 Bergdre. For drawing-room entertainments these girls 
 reserved yet more indecorous dances — dances of such a 
 character indeed that they would certainly not have been 
 allowed in a theatre. And the beau monde rushed to see 
 them at the houses of the bolder lady-entertainers, the 
 eccentric and foreign ones like the Princess, who in order to 
 draw society recoiled from no ' attraction.' 
 
 However, when Pierre had explained to little Massot that 
 he was still running about on the same business, the 
 journalist obligingly offered to pilot him. He knew the 
 house, obtained admittance by a back door, and brought 
 Pierre along a passage into a corner of the hall, near the 
 very entrance of the grand drawing-room. Lofty green 
 
SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS 75 
 
 plants decorated this hall, and in the spot selected Pierre 
 was virtually hidden. 'Don't atir, my dear Abb6,' said 
 Massot, ' I will try to ferret out the Princess for you. And 
 you shall know if Baroness DuvUlard has already arrived.' 
 
 What surprised Pierre was that every vrindow-shutter of 
 the mansion was closed, every chink stopped up sothat day- 
 light might not enter, and that every room flared with electric 
 lamps, an illumination of supernatural intensity. The_ heat 
 was already very great, the atmosphere heavy with a violent 
 perfume of flowers and oiori d^femina. And to Pierre, who 
 felt both blinded and stifled, it seemed as if he were ent-ering 
 one of those luxurious, unearthly Dens of the Flesh such as 
 the pleasure-world of Paris conjures from dreamland. By 
 rising on tiptoes, as the drawing-room entrance was wide 
 open, he coi^d distinguish the backs of the women who were 
 already seated, rows of necks crowned with fair or dark hair. 
 The Mauritanians were doubtless executing their first dance. 
 He did not see them, but he could divine the lascivious 
 passion of the dance from the quiver of all those women's 
 necks, which swayed as beneath a great gust of wind. Then 
 laughter arose and a tempest of bravos, quite a tumult of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 ' I can't put my hand on the Princess ; you must wait a 
 little,' Massot returned to say. ' However, I met Janzen, and 
 he promised to bring her to me. Don't you know Janzen ? * 
 
 Then, in part because his profession willed it, and in part 
 for pleasure's sake, he began to gossip. The Princess was a 
 good friend of his. He had described her first soirie during the 
 previous year, when she had made her 'dibut at that mansion 
 on her arrival in Paris. He knew the real truth about her, so 
 far as it could be known. Eich ? yes, perhaps she was, for she 
 spent enormous sums. Married she must have been, and to a 
 real prince, too ; no doubt she was still married to him, in spite 
 of her story of widowhood. Indeed, it seemed certain that her 
 husband, who was as handsome as an archangel, was travel- 
 ling about with a vocalist. As for having a bee in her bonnet, 
 that was beyond discussion, as clear as noon-day. Whilst 
 showing much intelligence, she constantly and suddenly 
 shifted. Incapable of any prolonged effort, she went from one 
 thing that had awakened her curiosity to another, never 
 attaching herself anywhere. After ardently_ busying herself 
 with pAiting, she had lately become impassioned for 
 chemistry, and waa oow letting poetry master her. 
 
76 PARIS 
 
 'And so you don't know Janzen,* continued Massofc. 'It 
 was he who threw her into chemistry, into the study of 
 explosives especially, for, as you may imagine, the only 
 interest in chemistry for her is its connection with Anarchism. 
 She, I think, is really an Austrian, though one must always 
 doubt anything she herself says. As for Janzen, he calls 
 himself a Kussian, but he's probably German. Oh 1 he's the 
 most unobtrusive, enigmatical man in the world, without a 
 home, perhaps without a name — a terrible fellow with an 
 unknown past. I myself hold proofs which make me think 
 that he took part in that frightful crime at Barcelona. At 
 all events, for nearly a year now I've been meeting him in 
 Paris, where the police are no doubt watching hun. And 
 nothing can rid me of the idea that he merely consented to 
 become our lunatic Princess's lover in order to throw the 
 detectives off the scent. He pretends to live a mere life of 
 pleasure, but he has introduced to the house some extraordi- 
 nary people. Anarchists of aU nationalities and shades — ^for 
 
 ' instance, one Baphanel, that fat, jovial little man yonder, a 
 Frenchman he is, and his companions would do well to mis- 
 
 " trust him. Then there's a Bergaz, a Spaniard, I think, an 
 obscure jobber at the Bourse, whose sensual, blobber-lipped 
 mouth is so disquieting. And there are others and others, 
 adventurers and bandits from the four comers of the earth I 
 ... Ah 1 the foreign colonies of our Parisian pleasure-world 1 
 There are a few spotless fine names, a few real great fortunes 
 among them but, as for the rest, ah 1 what a herd 1 ' 
 
 Eosemonde's own drawing-room was summed up in those 
 words : resounding titles, real millionaires, then, down below, 
 the most extravagant medley of international imposture and 
 turpitude. And Pierre thought of that internationalism, that 
 cosmopohtanism, that flight of foreignera which, ever denser 
 and denser, swooped down upon Paris. Most certainly it 
 came thither to enjoy it, as to a city of adventure and delight, 
 and it helped to rot it a httle more. Was it then a necessary 
 thing, that decomposition of the great cities which have 
 governed the world, that affluxion of every passion, every 
 desire, every gratification, that gathering together of reeking 
 soil from all parts of the world, there where, in beauty and 
 intelligence, blooms the flower of civilisation ? 
 
 However, Janzen appeared, a tall, thin fellow of about 
 thirty, very fair, with grey, pale, harsh eyes, and a pointed 
 beard and flowing curly haor which elongated bis Uvid, cloudy 
 
SOCIAL SWIL LIGHTS 77 
 
 face, fie spoke indifferent French in a low voice and without 
 a gesture. And he declared that the Princess could not be 
 found ; he had looked for her everywhere. Possibly, if some- 
 body bad displeased her, she had shut herself up in her room 
 and gone to bed, leaving her guests to amuse themselves in 
 all freedom in whatever way they might choose. 
 
 ' Why, but here she is ! ' suddenly said Massot. 
 
 Eosemonde was indeed there, in the vestibule, watching • 
 the door as if she expected somebody. Short, slight, and 
 strange rather than pretty, with her delicate face, her sea- 
 green eyes, her small quivering nose, her rather large and 
 over-ruddy mouth, which was parted so that one could see 
 her superb teeth, she that day wore a sky-blue gown spangled 
 with silver ; and she had silver bracelets on her arms and a 
 silver circlet in her pale brown hair, which rained down in 
 curls and frizzy, straggling locks as though waving in a 
 perpetual breeze. 
 
 ' Oh I whatever you desire, Monsieur I'Abbd,' she said 
 to Pierre as soon as she knew his business. ' If they don't 
 take your old man ia at our asylum, send him to me ; I'll take 
 him, I will ; I will sleep him somewhere here.' 
 
 However, she remained fidgety, and continually glanced 
 towards the door. And on the priest asking if Baroness 
 Duvillard had yet arrived : ' Why, no ! ' she cried, 'and I am 
 much surprised at it. She is to bring her son and daughter. 
 Yesterday, Hyaeinthe positively promised me that he would 
 come.' 
 
 He was her new caprice. If her passion for chemistry 
 was giving way to a budding taste for decadent, symbolical 
 verse, it was because one evening, whilst discussing Occult- 
 ism with Hyaeinthe, she had discovered an extraordinary 
 beauty in him : the astral beauty of Nero's wandering soul 1 
 At least, said she, the signs of it were certain. 
 
 _ And all at once she quitted Pierre : ' Ah, at last I ' she 
 cried.feehng relieved and happy. Then she darted forward : 
 Hyaeinthe was at that moment coming in with his sister 
 Camille. 
 
 On the very threshold, however, he had just met the 
 friend on whose account he was there, young Lord George 
 Eldrett, a pale and languid stripling with the hair of a girl ; 
 and he scarcely condescended to notice the tender greeting of 
 Bosemonde, for he professed to regard woman as an impure 
 and degrading creature. Distressed by such coldness, she 
 
78 PARI^ 
 
 follo\red the two youflg men, returning in tHeir rear into the 
 reeking, blinding furnace of the drawing-room. 
 
 Massot, however, had been obliging enough to stop 
 Camille and bring her to Pierre, who at the first words they 
 exchanged relapsed into despair. ' What, mademoiselle I haa 
 not madame your mother accompanied you here ? ' 
 
 The girl, clad according to her wont in a dark gown, this 
 time of peacock-blue, was nervous, with wicked eyes and 
 sibilant voice. And as she ragefullydrew up her little figure, 
 her deformity, the unequal height of her two shoulders, 
 became more apparent than ever. ' No,' she rejoined, ' she 
 was unable. She had something to try on at her dress- 
 maker's. We stopped too long at the Exposition du Lis, and 
 she requested us to set her down at Salmon's door on our 
 way here.' 
 
 It was CamiUe herself who had skilfully prolonged the 
 visit to the art show, still hoping to prevent her mother from 
 meeting Gerard. And her rage arose from the ease with 
 which her mother had got rid of her, thanks to that falsehood 
 of having something to try on. 
 
 ' But,' ingenuously said Pierre, ' if I went at once to this 
 person, Salmon, I might perhaps be able to send up my card.' 
 
 Camijle gave a shrill laugh, so funny did the idea appear 
 to her. Then she retorted: 'Oh I who knows if you would 
 still find her there? She had another pressing appointment, 
 and is no doubt already keeping it I' 
 
 ' Well, then, I will wait for her here. She will surely 
 come to fetch you, will she not?" 
 
 ' Fetch us? Oh nol since I tell you that she has other 
 important affairs to attend to. The carriage will take us home 
 alone, my brother and I.' 
 
 The girl's pain-fraught irony was becoming yet more 
 bitter. Didn't that priest understand her, then, that he 
 asked such naive questions which ware like dagger-thrusts in 
 her heart? Yet he must know, since everybody knew the 
 truth. 
 
 'Ahl how worried I am,' Pierre resumed, so grieved indeed 
 that tears almost came to his eyes. ' It's still on account of 
 that poor man about whom I have been busying myself since 
 this morning. I have a Line from your father, and Monsieur 
 Gerard told me ' But at this point he paused in confu- 
 sion, and amidst all his thoughtlessness of the world, absorbed 
 i» he was in the one passion of charity, he laddenly divined 
 
SOCIAL SIDEUGHTS 79 
 
 the truth. 'Yes,' he added mechanically, 'I jusinow saw 
 yaur father again mth Monsieur de Quinsac' 
 
 ' I know, I know,' rephed Camilla, with the suffering yet 
 ecoffing air of a girl who is ignorant of nothing. ' Well, 
 Monsieur I'Abb^, if you have a line from papa for mamma, 
 you must wait till mamma has finished her business. You 
 might come to the house about six o'clock, but I doubt if 
 you'll find her there, as she may well be detained.' 
 
 While Camille thus spoke her murderous eyes glistened, 
 and each word she uttered, simple as it seemed, became 
 instinct with ferocity, as if it were a knife, which she would 
 have liked to plunge into her mother's breast. In all 
 certainty she had never before hated her mother to such a 
 point as this in her envy of her beauty and her happiness in 
 being loved. And the irony which poured from the girl's 
 virgjn lips, before that simple priest, was like a flood of mire 
 with which she sought to submerge her rival. 
 
 Just then, however, Eosemonde came back again, feverish 
 and flurried as usual. And she led Camille away : * Ah, my 
 dear, make haste. They are extraordinary, delightful, 
 intoxicating ! ' 
 
 Janzen and little Massot also followed the Princess. All 
 the men hastened from the adjoining rooms, scrambled and 
 plunged into the salon at the news that the Mauritanians 
 had again begun to dance. That time it must have been the 
 frantic, lascivious gallop that Paris whispered about, for 
 Pierre saw the rows of necks and heads, now fair, now dark, 
 wave and quiver as beneath a violent wind. With every 
 window- shutter closed, the conflagration of the electric lampa 
 turned the place into a perfect brazier, reeking with human 
 efiSuvia. And there came a spell of rapture, fresh laughter 
 and bravos, all the dehght of an overflowing orgie. 
 
 When Pierre again found himself on the footwalk, he 
 remained for a moment bewildered, blinking, astonished to ba 
 in broad daylight once more. Half-past four would soon 
 strike, but he had nearly two hours to wait before calling at 
 the house in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy. What should he do ? 
 He paid his driver ; preferring to descend the Champs Elys6es 
 on foot, since he had some time to lose. A walk, moreover, 
 might calm the fever which was burning his hands, in the 
 passion of charity which ever since the morning had been 
 mastering him more and more, in proportion as he encountered 
 fresh and fresh obstacles. He now had but one pressing 
 
8o PARIS 
 
 desire : to complete Lis good work, since success henceforth 
 seemed certain. And he tried to restrain his steps and walk 
 leisurely down the magnificent avenue, which had now been 
 dried by the bright sun, and was enlivened by a concourse of 
 people, while overhead the sky was again blue, lightly blue, 
 as in springtime. 
 
 Nearly two hours to lose while, yonder, the wretched 
 Laveuve lay with life ebbing from him on his bed of rags, in 
 his icjr den 1 Sudden feelings of revolt, of well-nigh irresistible 
 impatience ascended from Pierre's heart, making him quiver 
 with desire to run off and at once find Baroness Duvillard, so 
 as to obtain from her the aU-saving order. He felt sure that 
 she was somewhere near, in one of those quiet neighbouring 
 streets, and gjeat was his perturbation, his dolorous anger 
 at having to wait in this wise to save a human life until she 
 should have attended to those affairs of hers, of which her 
 daughter spoke with such murderous glances 1 He seemed to 
 hear a formidable cracking : the family life of the bourgeoisie 
 was collapsing : the father was at a hussy's house, the mother 
 with a lover; the son and daughter knew everything, the 
 former gliding to idiotic perversity, the latter enraged, and 
 dreaming of stealing her mother's lover to make an husband 
 of him. And meantime the splendid equipages descended the 
 triumphal avenue, and the crowd with its luxury flowed 
 along the side-walks, one and all joyous and superb, seemingly 
 with no idea that somewhere at the far end there was a 
 gaping abyss wherein every one of them would fall and be 
 annihilated I 
 
 When Pierre got as far as the Summer Circus he wag 
 much surprised at again seeing Salvat, the journeyman 
 engineer, on one of the avenue seats. He must have sunk 
 down there, overcome by weariness and hunger, after many a 
 vain search. However, his jacket was still distended by 
 something he carried in or under it, some bit of bread, no 
 doubt, which he meant to take home with him. And leaning 
 back, with his arms hanging listlessly, he was watching with 
 dreamy eyes the play of some very little children, who, with 
 the help of their wooden spades, were laboriously raising 
 mounds of sand, and then destroying them by dint of kicks. 
 As he looked at them his red eyelids moistened, and a very 
 gentle smile appeared on his poor discoloured lips. This 
 time Pierr3, feeling really anxious, wished to approach 
 and question him. But Salvat distrustfully rose acd went 
 
SOCIAL StD^LiaiiTS 8 1 
 
 off in the direction of the Circus, where a concert was then 
 finishing. And he prowled around the entrance of that 
 festive edifice, where two thousand happy people, piled up 
 together, were listening to musio. 
 
 FEOM EELIGIOJ? TO ANABCHT 
 
 As Pierre was reaching the Place de la Concorde he suddenly 
 rememhered the appointment which Abbd Eose had given 
 him for five o'clock at the Madeleine, and which he was for- 
 getting in the feverishness born of his repeated steps to save 
 Laveuve. And at thought of it he hastened on, well pleased 
 at having something to occupy and keep him patient. 
 
 When he entered the church he was surprised to find it so 
 dark. There were only a few candles burning, huge shadows 
 were flooding the nave, and amidst the semi-obscurity a very 
 loud, clear voice spoke on with a ceaseless streaming of words. 
 All that one could at first distinguish of the numerous con- 
 gregation was a pale, vague mass of heads, motionless with 
 extreme attention. In the pulpit stood Monseigneur Martha, 
 finishing his third address on the New Spirit. The two 
 former ones had re-echoed far and wide, and so what is called 
 ' all Paris ' was there — women of society, poUticians, and 
 writers, who were captivated by the speaker's artistic oratory, 
 his warm, skilful language, and his broad, easy gestures, 
 worthy of a great actor. 
 
 Pierre did not wish to disturb the solemn attention, the 
 quivering silence, above which the prelate's voice alone rang 
 out. Accordingly he resolved to wait before seeking Abb6 
 Eose, and remained standing near a pUlar. A parting gleam 
 of dayUght fell obliquely on Monseigneur Martha, who looked 
 tall and sturdy in his white surplice, and scarcely showed a 
 grey hair, although he was more than fifty. He had hand- 
 some features : black, keen eyes, a commanding nose, a mouth 
 and chin of the greatest firmness of contour. What more 
 particularly struck one, however, what gained the heart of 
 every listener, was the expression of extreme amiability, and 
 anxious sympathy which ^oftfened the imperious haughtiness 
 of the pi^elat'e's faed,, - , ,, , , , .... 
 
 Pierre hud formerly knbwn him aS Cu'rS, bt pktish priest, 
 
83 PARIS 
 
 of Ste Clotilde. He was doubtless of Italian origin, but he had 
 been born in Paris, and had quitted the seminary of St. Sul- 
 pice with the best possible record. Very intelligent and very 
 ambitious, he had evinced an activity which even made his 
 superiors anxious. Then, on being appointed Bishop of 
 Persepolis, he had disappeared, gone to Eome, where he had 
 spent five years engaged in work of which very little was 
 known. However, since his return he had been astonishing 
 Paris by his brilliant propaganda, busying himself with the 
 most varied affairs, and becoming much appreciated and very 
 powerful at the archiepiscopal residence. He devoted himself 
 in particular, and with wonderful results, to the task of in- 
 creasing the subscriptions for the completion of the basilica 
 of the Sacred Heart. He recoUed from nothing, neither from 
 journeys, nor lectures, nor collections, nor applications to 
 Government, nor even endeavours among Israelites and Free- 
 masons. And at last, again enlarging his sphere of action, he 
 had undertaken to reconcile Science with Catholicism, and to 
 bring all Christian France to the EepubUe, by on all sides ex- 
 pounding the policy of Pope Leo XIII., in order that the 
 Church might finally triumph. 
 
 However, in spite of the advances of this influential and 
 amiable man, Pierre scarcely liked him. He only felt grate- 
 ful to him for one thing, the appointment of good Abb6 Bosa 
 as curate at St. Pierre de Montmartre, which appointment he 
 had secured for him no doubt in order to prevent such a 
 scandal as the punishment of an old priest for showing him- 
 self too charitable. On thus finding and hearing the prelate 
 in that renowned pulpit of the Madeleine, still and ever 
 pursuing his work of conquest, Pierre remembered how he 
 had seen him at the DuviUards' during the previous spring, 
 when, with his usual inaestria, he had achieved his greatest 
 triumph — the conversion of Eve to CathoUcism. That 
 church, too, had witnessed her baptism, a wonderfully 
 pompous ceremony, a perfect gala ofl'ered to the public which 
 figures in all the great events of Parisian life. G6rard had 
 knelt down, moved to tears, whilst the Baron triumphed like 
 a good-natured husband who was happy to find religion 
 estabhshing perfect harmony in his household. It was 
 related among the spectators that Eve's family, and par- 
 ticularly old Justus Steiuberger, her father, was not in 
 reality much displeased by the affair. The old man sneer- 
 ingly remarked, indesd, uiat he knew h^ daughter well 
 
PROM RELIGION TO ANARCHY S3 
 
 enough to wish her to belong to hia worst enemy. In tha 
 bankmg business there is a class of security which one ia 
 
 E leased to see discounted by one's rivals. With the stubborn 
 ope of triumph peculiar to his race, Justus, consoling himself 
 for the failure of hia first scheme, doubtless considered that 
 Eve would prove a powerful dissolving agent in the Christian 
 famUy which she had entered, and thus help to make all 
 wealth and power fall into the hands of the Jews. 
 
 However, Pierre's vision faded. Monseigneur Martha's 
 voice vras rising with increase of volume, celebrating, amidst 
 tha quivering of the congregation, the benefits that would 
 accrue from tho New Spirit, which was at last about to pacify 
 France and restore her to her due rank and power. Were 
 there not certain signs of this resurrection on every hand ? 
 The New Spirit was the revival of the Ideal, the protest of 
 the soul against degrading materialism, the triumph of 
 spirituality over filthy literature ; and it was also Science 
 accepted, but set in its proper place, reconciled with Faith, 
 since it no longer pretended to encroach on the latter's sacred 
 domain ; and it was further the Democracy welcomed in 
 fatherly fashion, the Eepublic legitimated, recognised in her 
 turn as Eldest Daughter of the Church. A breath of poetry 
 passed by. The Church opened her heart to. all her children, 
 there would henceforth be but concord and delight if the 
 masses, obedient to the New Spinfc, would give themselves to 
 the Master of love as they had given themselves to their 
 kings, recognising that the Divinity was the one unique 
 power, absolute sovereign of both body and soul. 
 
 Pierre was now listening attentively, wondering where it 
 was that he had previously heard almost identical words. 
 And suddenly he remembered ; and could fancy, that he was 
 again at Eome, listening to the last words of Monsignor 
 Nani, the Assessor of the Holy Office. Here, again he found 
 the dream of a democratic Pope, ceasing to support the 
 compromised monarchies, and seeking to subdue the masses. 
 Since Csesar was down, or nearly so, might not the Pope 
 realise the ancient ambition of his forermmers and become 
 both emperor and pontiff, the sovereign, universal divinity on 
 earth ? This, too, was the dream in which Pierre himself, 
 with apostoUc naivete, had indulged when writing his book, 
 ' New Eome ' : a dream from which the sight of the real 
 Eome had so roughly. roused him. At bottom.it was.riierGly 
 p. policy of hypocritical falsehood, the priestly pohcy which 
 
 o 2 
 
84 FARIS 
 
 relies on time, and is ever tenacious, carrying on the work of 
 conquest with extraordinary suppleness, resolved to profit by 
 everything. And what an evolution it was, the Church of 
 Rome making advances to Science, to the Democracy, to 
 the Republican rigimes, convinced that it would be able to 
 devour them if only it were allowed the time! Ah! yes, 
 the New Spirit was simply the Old Spirit of Domination, 
 incessantly reviving and hungering to conquer and possess 
 the world. 
 
 Pierre thought that he recognised among the congregation 
 certain deputies whom he had seen at the Chamber. Wasn't 
 that tall gentleman with the fair beard, who listened so 
 devoutly, one of Monf errand's creatures? It was said that 
 Monferrand, once a devourer of priests, was now smilingly 
 coquetting with the clergy. Quite an underhand evolution 
 was beginning in the sacristies, orders from Rome flitted 
 hither and thither ; it was a question of accepting the new 
 form of government, and absorbing it by dint of invasion. 
 France was still the Eldest Daughter of the Church, the only 
 great nation that had sufficient health and strength to place 
 the Pope in possession of his temporal power once more. So 
 Fi-ance must be won; it was well worth one's while to 
 espouse her, even if she were Republican. In the eager 
 struggle of ambition the bishop made use of the minister, who 
 thought it to his interest to lean upon the bishop. But 
 which of the two would end by devouring the other ? And to 
 what a rdle had religion sunk; it was either an electoral 
 weapon, an element in a parhamentary majority, or a secret 
 reason for obtaining or retaining a ministerial portfolio 1 Of 
 divine charity, the basis of religion, there was no thought, and 
 Pierre's heart filled with bitterness as he remembered the 
 recent death of Cardinal Bergerot, the last of the great samts 
 and pure minds of the French episcopacy, which now seemed 
 to be merely a set of intriguers and fools. 
 
 However, the address was drawing to a close. In a glow- 
 ing peroration, which evoked the ba^ca of the Sacred Heart 
 dominating Paris with the saving symbol of the Cross from 
 the sacred Mount of the Martyrs,' Monseigneur Martha showed 
 the great city Christian once more and master of the 
 world, thanks to the moral omnipotence conferred upon it by 
 the divine breath of the New Spirit. Unable to applaud, the 
 congregation gave utterance to a murmuy pf approiving rap- 
 ' Moatmartre, 
 
PROM MMLIGION TO ANAMcJJY 85 
 
 ture, delighted as it was with this miraculous finish •which 
 reassured both pocket and conscience. Then Monseignenr 
 Martha quitted the pulpit with a noble step, whilst a loud 
 noise of chairs broke upon the dark peacefulness of the 
 church, where the few lighted candles guttered like the first 
 stars in the evening sky. A long stream of men, vague, 
 whispering shadows, glided away. The women alone re- 
 mained, praying on their knees. 
 
 Pierre, still in the same spot, was rising on tip-toes, look- 
 ing for Abb^ Bose, when a hand touched him. It was that of 
 the old priest, who had seen him &om a distance. ' I was 
 yonder near the pulpit,' said he, ' and I saw you plainly, my 
 dear child. Only I preferred to wait so as to disturb nobody. 
 What a beautiful address dear Monseigneur delivered 1 ' 
 
 He seemed, indeed, much moved. But there was deep 
 sadness about his kindly mouth and clear childlike eyes, whose 
 smile as a rule illumined his good, round white face. ' I was 
 afraid you might go off without seeing me,' he resumed, ' for 
 I have something to teU you. You know that poor old man 
 to whom I sent you this morning and in whom I asked you 
 to interest yourself? Well, on getting home I found a lady 
 there, who sometimes brings me a little money for my poor. 
 Then I thought to myself that the three francs I gave you 
 were really too small a sum, and this worried me like a kind 
 of remorse, so that I couldn't resist the impulse, but went this 
 afternoon to the Bue des Saules myself.' 
 
 He lowered his voice from a feeling of respect, in order not 
 to disturb the deep, sepulchral silence of the church. Covert 
 shame, moreover, impeded his utterance, shame at having 
 again relapsed into the sin of blind, imprudent charity, as his 
 superiors reproachfully said. And, quivering, he concluded 
 in a very low voice indeed : ' And so, my child, picture my 
 grief. I had five francs more to give the poor old man, and I 
 found him dead.' 
 
 Pierre suddenly shuddered. Bui he was unwilling to un- 
 derstand : ' What, dead 1 ' he cried. ' That old man dead I 
 Laveuve dead ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I found him dead — ah ! amidst what frightful 
 wretchedness, like an old animal that has laid itself down for , 
 the finish on a heap of rags in the depths of a hole. No 
 neighbours had assisted him in his last moments; he had 
 simply turned himself towards the wall. And ah 1 how bare 
 and cold and deserted it was I And what a pang for a poor 
 
86 PARIS 
 
 creature to go off like tliat without a. word, a caress. Ali i 
 my heart bounded within me and it is still bleeding I' 
 
 Pierre in' his utter amazement at first made but a gesture 
 of revolt against imbecile social cruelty. Had the bread left 
 near the unfortunate wretch, and devoured too eagerly, 
 perhaps, after long days of abstinence, been the cause of his 
 death ? Or was not this rather the fatal d&iiouement of an ended 
 life, worn away by labour and privation? However, what 
 did the cause signify ? Death had come and delivered the 
 poor man. ' It isn't he that I pity,' Pierre muttered at last ; 
 ' it is we — we who witness all that, we who are guilty of these 
 abominations,' 
 
 But good Abbfi Eose was already becoming resigned, and 
 would only think of forgiveness and hope. ' No, no, my child, 
 rebellion is evil. If we are aU guilty we can only implore 
 Providence to forget our faults. I had given you an appoint- 
 ment here hoping for good news ; and it's I who come to 
 tell you of that frightful thing. Let ns be penitent and 
 pray.' 
 
 Then he knelt upon the flagstones near the pillar, in the 
 rear of the praying women, who looked black and vague in 
 the gloom. And he inclined his white head, and for a long 
 time remained in a posture of humility. 
 
 But Pierre was unable to pray, so powerfully did revolt 
 stir him. He did not even bend his knees, he remained 
 erect and quivering. His heart seemed to have been crushed; 
 not a tear came to his ardent eyes. So Laveuve had died 
 yonder, stretched on his litter of rags, his hands clenched in 
 his obstinate desire to cling to his life of torture, whilst he, 
 Pierre, again glowing with the flame of charity, consumed 
 by apostolic zeal, had been scouring Paris to find him for the 
 evening a clean bed on which he might be saved. Ah ! 
 the atrocious irony of it all ! He must have been at the 
 Duvillards' in the warm salon, all blue and silver, whilst the 
 old man was expiring ; and it was for a wretched corpse that 
 he had then hastened to the Chamber of Deputies, to the 
 Countess de Quinsac's, to that creature Silviane's, and to that 
 creature Eosemonde's. And it was for that corpse, freed 
 from life, escaped from misery as from prison, that he had 
 worried people, broken in upon their egotism, disturbed the 
 peace of some, threatened the pleasures of others 1 What 
 was th« use of hastenmg from the parliamentary den to the 
 cold salon where the dust of the past was congealing ; of 
 
PROM RELIGION TO ANABCHY &j 
 
 going from the sphere of middle-class debauchery to that of 
 cosmopolitan extravagance, since one always arrived too late, 
 and saved people when they were already dead? How 
 ridiculous to have allowed himself to be fired once more by 
 that blaze of charity, that final conflagration, only the ashes 
 of which he now felt within him ? This time he thought he 
 was dead himself; he was nought but an empty sepulchre. 
 
 And all the frightful void and chaos which he had felt 
 that morning at the basilica of the Sacred Heart after hia 
 mass became yet deeper, henceforth unfathomable. If 
 charity were illusory and useless the Gospel crumbled, the 
 end of the Book was nigh. After centuries of stubborn 
 efforts, Eedemption through Christianity failed, and another 
 means of salvation was needed by the world in presence of 
 the exasperated thirst for justice which came from the duped 
 and wretched nations. They would have no more of that 
 deceptive paradise, the promise of which had so long served 
 to prop up social iniquity ; they demanded that the question 
 of happiness should be decided upon this earth. But how ? 
 By means of what new religion, what combination between 
 the sentiment of the Divine and the necessity for honouring life 
 in its sovereignty and its f ruitf ulness ? Therein lay the grievous, 
 torturing problem, into the midst of which Pierre was sinking ; 
 he, a priest, severed by vows of chastity and superstition from 
 the rest of mankind. 
 
 He had ceased to believe in the eificaey of alms ; it was 
 not sufficient that one should be charitable, henceforth one 
 must be just. Given justice, indeed, horrid want would 
 disappear, and no such thing as charity would be needed. 
 Most certainly there was no lack of compassionate hearts in 
 that grievous city of Paris ; charitable foundations sprouted 
 forth there like green leaves at the first warmth of springtide. 
 There were some for every age, every peril, every misfortune. 
 Through the concern shown for mothers children were 
 succoured even before they were born ; then came infant 
 and orphan asylums lavishly provided for all sorts of classes ; 
 and, afterwards, man was followed through his lifo, help was 
 tendered on all sides, particularly as he grew old, by a 
 multiplicity of asylums, almshouses, and refuges. And there 
 were all the hands stretched out to the forsaken ones, the 
 disinherited ones, even the criminals, aU sorts of associations 
 to protect the weak, societies for the prevention of crime, 
 ho33aes that offered hospitality to those who repented. 
 
88 PARIS 
 
 Whether as regards the propagation of good deeds, the 
 support of the young, the saving of life, the bestowal of 
 pecuniary help, or the promotion of guilds, pages and pages 
 would have been needed merely to particularise the extra- 
 ordinary vegetation of charity that sprouted between the 
 paving-stones of Paris with so fine a vigour, in which 
 goodness of soul was mingled with social vanity. Still that 
 could not matter, since charity redeemed and purified all. 
 But how terrible the proposition that this charity was a 
 useless mockery I What 1 after so many centuries of Christian 
 charity not a sore had healed 1 Misery had only grown and 
 spread, irritated even to rage. Incessantly aggravated, the 
 evil was reaching the point when it would be impossible to 
 tolerate it for another day, since social injustice was neither 
 arrested nor even diminished thereby. And besides, if only 
 one single old man died of cold and hunger, did not the 
 social edifice, raised on the theory of charity, collapse ? But 
 one victim, and society was condemned, thought Pierre. 
 
 He now felt such bitterness of heart that he could remain 
 no longer in that church where the shadows ever slowly fell, 
 blurring the sanctuaries and the large pale images of Christ 
 nailed upon the Cross. All was about to sink into darkness, 
 and he could hear nothing beyond an expiring murmur of 
 prayers, a plaint from the women who were praying on their 
 knees, in the depths of the shrouding gloom. 
 
 At the same time he hardly liked to go off without saying 
 a word to Abb6 Eose, who in his entreaties bom of simple 
 faith left the happiness and peace of mankind to the good plea- 
 sure of the Invisible. However, fearing that he might disturb 
 him, Pierre was making up his mind to retire, when the old priest 
 of his own accord raised his head. • Ah, my child,' said he, 
 'how difficult it is to be good in a reasonable manner. 
 Monseigneur Martha has scolded me again, and but for tha 
 forgiveness of God I should fear for my salvation.' 
 
 For a moment Pierre paused under the portious of the 
 Madeleine, on the summit of the great flight of steps which, 
 rising above the railings, dominates the Place. Before him 
 was the Eue Eoyale dipping down to the expanse of the Place 
 de la Concorde, where rose the obelisk and the pair of plashing 
 fountains. And, farther yet, the paling colonnade of the 
 Chamber of Deputies bounded the horizon. It was a vista of 
 sovereign grandeur under that pale sky over which twilight 
 was slowly stealing. The thoroughfares seemed to expand] 
 
FROM RELIGION TO ANARCHY 89 
 
 the edifices receded, and assumed a quivering, soaring aspect 
 like that of the palaces of dreamland. No other capital 
 in the world could boast a scene of such airy pomp, such 
 grandiose magnificence, at that hour of vagueness, when 
 falling night imparts to cities a dreamy semblance, the infinite 
 of human immensity. -J 
 
 Motionless and hesitating in presence of the opening 
 expanse, Pierre distressfully pondered as to ■whither he should 
 go now that all which he had so passionately sought to 
 achieve since the morning had suddenly crumbled away. 
 Was he still bound for the Duvillard mansion in the Rue 
 Godot-de-Mauroy ? He no longer knew. Then the exas- 
 perating remembrance, with its cruel irony, returned to him. 
 Since Laveuve was dead, of what use was it for him to kill 
 time and perambulate the pavements pending the arrival of 
 six o'clock ? The idea that he had a home, and that the 
 most simple course would be to return to it, did not even 
 occur to him. He felt as if there were something of impor- 
 tance left for him to do, though he could not possibly tell 
 what it might be. It seemed to him to be everywhere and 
 yet very far away, to be so vague and difficult of accomplish- 
 ment that he would certainly never be in time or have 
 sufficient power to do it. However, with heavy feet, and 
 tumultuous brain he descended the steps and, yielding to 
 some obstinate impulse, began to walk through the flower- 
 market, a late winter market where the first azaleas were 
 opening with a little shiver. Some women were purchasing 
 Nice roses and violets ; and Pierre looked at them as if he 
 were interested in all that soft, delicate, perfumed luxury. 
 But suddenly he felt a horror of it and went o£f, starting 
 along the Boulevards. 
 
 He walked straight before him without knowing why or 
 whither. The falling darkness surprised him as if it were an 
 unexpected phenomenon. Raising his eyes to the sky he felt 
 astonished at seeing its azure gently pale between the slen- 
 der black streaks of the chimneys. And the huge golden 
 letters by which names or trades were advertised on every 
 balcony also seemed to him singular in the last gleams of the 
 daylight. Never before had he paid attention to the motley 
 tints seen on the house-fi:onts, the painted mirrors, the blinds, 
 the coats of arms, the posters of violent hues, the magnificent 
 shops, like drawing-rooms and boudoirs open to the full light. 
 And then, both in the roadway and along the foot-pavements 
 
go PAHIS 
 
 between the blue, red or yellow columns and kiosks, what 
 mighty traffic there was, what an extraordinary crowd ! The 
 vehicles rolled along in a thundering stream : upon all sides 
 billows of cabs were parted by the ponderous tacking of 
 huge omnibuses, which suggested lofty, bright-hued battle- 
 ships. And on either hand, and farther and forther, and even 
 among the wheels, the flood of passengers rushed on in- 
 cessantly, with the conquering haste of ants in a state of 
 revolution. Whence came all those people, and whither 
 were all those vehicles going ? How stupefying and torturing 
 it all was. 
 
 Pierre was still walldng straight ahead, mechanically, 
 carried on by his gloomy reverie. Night was approaching, the 
 first gas-burners were being lighted; it was the dusk of 
 Paris, the hour when real darkness has not yet come, when 
 the electric lights flame in the dying day. Lamps shone 
 forth upon all sides, the shop-fronts were fast being 
 illumined. Soon, moreover, right along the Boulevards the 
 vehicles would carry their vivid starry lights, like a milky way 
 on the march betwixt the foot pavements all glowing with 
 lanterns and cordons and girandoles, a dazzling profusion of 
 radiance akin to sunlight. And the shouts of the drivers 
 and the jostling of the foot passengers re-echoed the parting 
 haste of the Paris which is all business or passion, which ia 
 absorbed in the merciless struggle for love and for money. 
 The hard day was over, and now the Paris of Pleasure was light- 
 ing up, for its night of f&te. The cafes, the wine shops, the 
 restaurants flared and displayed their bright metal bars, and 
 their little white tables behind their clear and lofty windows, 
 whilst near their doors, by way of temptation, were oysters and 
 choice fruits. And the Paris which was thus awaking with 
 the first flashes of the gas was already full of the gaiety of 
 enjoyment, already yielding to an unbridled appetite for 
 whatsoever may be purchased. 
 
 However, Pierre had a narrow escape of being knocked 
 down. A flock of newspaper hawkers came out of a side 
 street, and darted through the crowd shouting the titles of 
 the evening journals. A fresh edition of the - * Voix da 
 Peuple ' gave rise, in particular, to a deafening clamour, 
 which ascended above all the rumbling of wheels. At regu- 
 lar intervals hoarse voices raised and repeated the cry; 
 • Ask for the " Voix du Peuple " — the new scandal of the 
 African Railway Lines, the repulse of the ministry, the 
 
Mom religion to anarcht 91 
 
 thirty-two bribe-takers of the Chamber and the Senate ! ' 
 And these announcements, set in huge type, could be read 
 on the copies of the paper, which the hawkers flourished 
 like banners. Accustomed as it was to such filth, saturated 
 with infamy, the crowd continued on its way without paying 
 much attention. Still a few men paused and bought the 
 paper, while painted women, who had come down to the 
 Boulevards in search of a dinner, trailed their skirts and 
 waited for some chance lover, glancing interrogatively at the 
 outside customers of the cafds. And meantime the dis- 
 honouring shout of the newspaper hawkers, that cry in 
 which there was both smirch and buffet, seemed like the 
 last knell of the day, ringing the nation's funeral at the 
 outset of the night of pleasure which was beginning. 
 
 Then Pierre once more remembered his morning and that 
 frightful house in the Rue des Saules, where so much want 
 and suffering were heaped up. He again saw the yard filthy 
 like a quagmire, the evil-smelling staircases, the sordid, bare, 
 icy rooms, the families fighting for messes which even stray 
 dogs would not have eaten ; the mothers, with exhausted 
 breasts, carrying screaming children to and fro ; the old men 
 who fell in corners like brute beasts, and died of hunger amidst 
 filth. And then came his other hours with the magnificence 
 or the quietude or the gaiety of the salons through which he 
 had passed, the whole insolent display of financial Paris, and 
 political Paris, and society Paris. And at last he came to 
 the dusk, and to that Paris-Sodom and Paris-Gomorrah before 
 him, which was lighting itself up for the night, for the 
 abominations of that accomplice night which, like fine dust, 
 was little by little submerging the expanse of roofs. And the 
 hateful monstrosity of it all howled aloud under the pale sky 
 where the first pure, twinkling stars were gleaming. 
 
 A great shudder swept through Pierre as he thought of all 
 that mass of iniquity and suffering, of all that went on below 
 amid want and crime, and all that went on above amid wealth 
 and vice. The bourgeoisie, wielding power, would relinquish 
 nought of the sovereignty which it had conquered, wholly 
 stolen, while the people, the eternal dupe, silent so long, 
 clenched its fists and growled, claiming its legitimate share. 
 And it was that frightful injustice which filled the growing 
 gloom with anger. From what dark-breasted cloud would 
 the thunderbolt fall ? For years he had been waiting for that 
 thunderbolt which low rumbles announced on all points of 
 
92 PARIS 
 
 \ the horizon. And if he had written a book full of _ candour 
 and hope, if he had gone in all innocence to Eome, it was to 
 avert that thunderbolt and its frightful consequences. But 
 all hope of the kind was dead within him ; he felt that the 
 thunderbolt was inevitable, that nothing henceforth could 
 stay the catastrophe. And never before had it seemed to be 
 so near, amidst the smiling impudence of some, and the 
 exasperated distress of others. Aye, it was gathering, and it 
 would surely fall over that Paris, all lust and bravado, which, 
 when evening came, thus stirred up its famace._ 
 
 Tired out and distracted, Pierre raised his eyes as he 
 reached the Place de I'Op^ra. Where was he then ? The 
 heart of the great city seemed to beat on that spot, in that vast 
 expanse where met so many thoroughfares, as if from every 
 point the blood of distant districts flowed thither along 
 triumphal avenues. Eight away to the horizon stretched the 
 great gaps of the Avenue de I'Opera, the Rue du Quatre- 
 Septembre, and the Eue de la Pais, still showing clearly in a 
 final glimpse of daylight, but already starred with swarming 
 sparks. The torrent of the Boulevard traffic poured across 
 the Place where clashed, too, all that from the neighbouring 
 streets, with a constant turning and eddying which made the 
 spot the most dangerous of whirlpools. In vain did the police 
 seek to impose some little prudence, the stream of pedestrians 
 still rushed on, wheels became entangled and horses reared 
 amidst all the uproar of the human tide, which was as loud, 
 as incessant as the tempest voice of an ocean. Then there 
 was the detached mass of the opera-house, slowly steeped in 
 gloom and rising huge and mysterious like a symbol, its lyre- 
 bearing figure of Apollo, right aloft, showing a last reflection 
 of daylight amidst the livid sky. And all the windows of the 
 house-fronts began to shine, gaiety sprang from those thou- 
 sands of lamps which coruscated one by one, a universal 
 longing for ease and free gratification of each desire spread 
 with the growing dusk ; whilst, at long intervals, the 
 large globes of the electric lights shone as brightly as the 
 moons of the city's cloudless nights. 
 
 But why was he, Pierre, there, he asked himself, irritated 
 and wondering. Since Laveuve was dead he had but to go 
 home, bury himself in his nook, and close up door and win- 
 dows, hke one who was henceforth useless, who had neither 
 belief nor hope, and awaited nought save annihilation. It 
 was a long journey from the Place de I'Opdra to his little 
 house at Neuilly. Still, however great his wearioess, he 
 
FROM RELIGION TO ANARCHY 93 
 
 would not take a cab, but retraced his steps, turning towards 
 the Madeleine again, and plunging into the scramble of the 
 pavements, amidst the deafening uproar from the roadway, 
 with a bitter desire to aggravate his wound and saturate him- 
 self with revolt and anger. Was it not yonder at the corner 
 of that street, at the end of that Boulevard, that he would 
 find the expected abyss into which that rotten world, whose 
 old society he could hear rending at each step, must soon 
 assuredly topple ? 
 
 However, when Pierre wished to cross the Eue Scribe a 
 block in the traffic made him halt. In front of a luxurious 
 cafe two tall, shabbily-clad and very dirty fellows were alter- 
 nately offering the ' Voix du Peuple ' with its account of the 
 scandals and the bribe-takers of the Chamber and the Senate, 
 in voices so suggestive of cracked brass that passers-by 
 clustered around them. And here, in a hesitating, wandering 
 man, who after listening drew near to the large caf6 and peered 
 through its windows, Pierre was once again amazed to recognise 
 Salvat. This time the meeting struck him forcibly, filled 
 him with suspicion to such a point that he also stopped and 
 resolved to watch the journeyman engineer. He did not 
 expect that one of such wretched aspect, with what seemed to be 
 a hunk of bread distending his old ragged jacket, would enter and 
 seat himself at one of the cafe's little tables amidst the warm 
 gaiety of the lamps. However, he waited for a moment, and then 
 saw him wander away with slow and broken steps as if the 
 cafe, which was nearly empty, did not suit him. What could 
 he have been seeking, whither had he been going since the 
 morning, ever on a wild, solitary chase through the Paris of 
 wealth and enjoyment while hunger dogged his steps ? It was 
 only with difficulty that he now dragged himself along, his 
 will and energy seemed to be exhausted. As if quite over- 
 come, he drew near to a kiosk, and for a moment leant against 
 it. Then, however, he drew himself up again, and walked on 
 further, still as it were in search of something. 
 
 And now came an incident which brought Pierre's emotion 
 to a climax. A tall sturdy man on turning out of the Hue 
 Caumartin caught sight of Salvat, and approached him. And 
 just as the new-comer without false pride was shaking the 
 workman's hand, Pierre recognised him as his brother 
 Guillaume. Yes, it was indeed he, with his thick bushy hair- 
 already white like snow, though he was but geven-and-fcfrty. 
 However, his heavy moustache's hafl i^emainfe'd c[tdt'e datk 
 without a silver thread, thus lending '^an exjr'e'ssibn of 
 
94 PARIS 
 
 vigorous life to lis full face with its lofty towering brow. It 
 was from his father that he had inherited that brow of impreg- 
 nable logic and reason, similar to that which Pierre himself 
 possessed. But the lower part of the elder brother's coun- 
 tenance was fuller than that of bis junior; his nose was 
 larger, his chin was square, and his mouth broad and firm of 
 contour. A pale scar, the mark of an old wound, streaked Ms 
 left temple. And his physiognomy, though it might at first 
 seem very grave, rough, and unexpansive, beamed with 
 masculine kindliness whenever a smile revealed his teeth, 
 which had remained extremely white. 
 
 While looking at his brother, Pierre remembered what 
 Madame Thdodore had told him that morning. Guillaume, 
 touched by Salvat's dire want, had arranged to give him a few 
 days' employment. And this explained the air of interest 
 with which he now seemed to be questioning him, while the 
 engineer, whom the meeting disturbed, stamped about as 
 if eager to resume his mournful ramble. For a moment 
 GuiUaume appeared to notice the other's perturbation, by the 
 embarrassed answers which he obtained from him. Still they 
 at last parted as if each were going^his way. Then, however, 
 almost immediately, Guillaume turned round again and 
 watched the other, as with harassed stubborn mien he went 
 off through the crowd. And the thoughts which had come to 
 Guillaume must have been very serious and very pressing, 
 for he all at once began to retrace his steps and follow the 
 workman from a distance, as if to ascertain for certain what 
 direction he would take. 
 
 Pierre had watched the scene with growing disquietude. 
 His nervous apprehension of some great unknown calamity, 
 the suspicions born of his frequent and inexphoable meetings 
 with Salvat, his surprise at now seeing his brother mingled 
 with the affair, all helped to fill him with a pressing desire to 
 know, witness, and perhaps prevent. So he did not hesitate, 
 but followed the others in a prudent way. 
 
 Fresh pertm-bation came upon him when first Salvat and 
 then Guillaume suddenly turned into the EueGodot-de-Mauroy. 
 What destiny was thus bringing him back to that street 
 whither a little time previously he had wished to return in 
 feverish haste, and whence only the death of Laveuve had 
 kept him ? And his consternation increased yet further when 
 after losing sight of Salvat for a moment, he saw him stand- 
 ing in front of the Duvillard mansion, on tiie same spot where 
 
FROM RELIGION TO ANARCHY 95 
 
 he hud fancied he recognised him that morning. As it 
 happened the carriage entrance of the mansion was wide 
 open. Some repairs had been made to the paving of the porch, 
 and although the workmen had now gone off, the doorway 
 remained gaping, full of the falling night. The narrow street, 
 running from the glittering Boulevard, was steeped in bluish 
 gloom, starred at long intervals by a gas-lamp. Some 
 women went by compelling Salvat to step off the foot pavement. 
 But he returned to it again, lighted the stump of a cigar, some 
 remnant which he had found under a table outside a caf^, 
 and then resumed his watch, patient and motionless, in front 
 of the mansion. 
 
 Disturbed by his dim conjectures, Pierre gradually grew 
 frightened, and asked himself if he ought not to approach 
 that man. The chief thing that detained him was the 
 presence of his brother whom he had seen disappear into a 
 neighbouring doorway, whence he also was observing the 
 engineer, ready to intervene. And so Pierre contented himself 
 with not losing sight of Salvat, who was still waiting and 
 watching, merely taking his eyes from the mansion in order to 
 glance towards the Boulevard as though he expected someone 
 or something from that direction. And at last, indeed, the 
 Duviilards' landau appeared, with coachman and footman in 
 livery of green and gold— a closed landau to which a gair of 
 tail horses of superb build was harnessed in stylish fashion. 
 
 Contrary to custom, however, the carriage, which at that 
 hour usually brought the father and mother home, was only 
 occupied that evening by the son and daughter, HyMinthe 
 and Camille. Eeturning from the Princess de Ham's 
 tualinee, they were chatting freely, with that cahn immodesty 
 by which they sought to astonish one another. Hyacinths, 
 yielding to his perverted ideas, was attacking women, 
 whilst Camille openly counselled him to respond to the 
 Princess's advances. However, she was visibly irritated and 
 feverish that evening, and, suddenly changing the subject, she 
 began to speak of their mother and Gerard de Quinsac. 
 
 'But what can it matter to you?' quietly retorted Hya- 
 cinthe ; and, seeing that she almost bounded from the seat 
 at the remark, he continued : ' Are you still in love with him 
 then ? Do you still want to marry him?" 
 
 'Yes, I do, and I will 1 ' she cried with all the jealous rage 
 of an uncomely girl, who suffered so acutely at seeing hergelf 
 spurned whilst her yet beautiful mother stole &om bsi the 
 man she wanted. 
 
96 FARIS 
 
 'fou will, yon will I' resumed Hyaeinthe, well pleased to 
 have an opportunity of teasing his sister whom he somewhat 
 
 feared. ' But you won't unless ha is willing And ha 
 
 doesn't care for you.' 
 
 'He does!' retorted Camille in a fury. 'He's kind and 
 pleasant with me, and that's enough.' 
 
 Her brother felt afraid as he noticed the blackness of her 
 glance, and the clenching of her weak little hands whose 
 fingers bent like claws. And after a pause he asked: 'And 
 papa, what does he say about it?' 
 
 ' Oh, papa ! All that he cares about is the other one.' 
 
 Then Hyaeinthe began to laugh. 
 
 But the landau, with its tall horses trotting on sonorously, 
 had turned into the street and was approaching the house, 
 when a slim fair-haired girl of sixteen or seventeen, a modiste's 
 errand giil with a large bandbox on her arm, hastily crossed 
 the road in order to enter the arched doorway before the 
 carriage. She was bringing a new hat for the Baroness, and 
 had come all along the Boulevard musing, with her soft blue 
 eyes, her pinky nose, and her mouth which ever laughed in 
 the most adorable little face that one could see. And it was 
 at this same moment that Salvat, after another glance at the 
 landau, sprang forward and entered the doorway. An in- 
 stant^fterwards he reappeared, flung his lighted cigar stump 
 into the gutter; and without undue haste went ofl:', slinking 
 into the depths of the vague gloom. 
 
 And then what happened? Pierre, later on, remembered 
 that a dray of the Western Railway Company in coming up 
 stopped and delayed the landau for a moment, whilst the 
 young errand girl entered the doorway. And with a heart- 
 pang beyond description he saw his brother Guillaume in his 
 turn spring forward and rush into the mansion as though 
 impelled to do so by some revelation, some sudden certainty. 
 He, Pierre, though he understood nothing dearly, could 
 divme the approach of some frightful horror. But when he 
 would have run, when he would have shouted, he found 
 himself as if nailed to tlie pavement, and felt his throat 
 clutched as by a hand of lead. Then suddenly came a 
 thunderous roar, a formidable explosion, as if the earth was 
 opening, and the lightning-struck mansion was being anni- 
 hilated. Every window-pane of the neighbouring houses was 
 shivered, the glass raining dbWn with the lolid clatter of hail. 
 Fo'r a ]n<om6nt a hisllish fame fired the street, and the dust 
 
FROM RELIGION TO ANARCHY 97 
 
 and Ihe smoke ■were such that the few passers-by were blinded 
 and howled with affright, aghast at toppling, as they thought, 
 into that fiery furnace. 
 
 And that dazzling flare brought Pierre enlightenment. 
 He once more saw the bomb distending the tool-bag which 
 lack of work had emptied and rendered useless. He once 
 more saw it under the ragged jacket, a protuberance caused, 
 he had fancied, by some hunk of bread, picked up in a corner 
 and treasured that it might be carried home to wife and 
 child. After wandering and threatening all happy Paris, it 
 was there that it had flared, there that it had burst with a 
 Uiunder-clap, there on the threshold of the sovereign bour- 
 (jeoisie to whom all wealth belonged. He, however, at that 
 moment thought only of his brother Guillaume, and flung him- 
 self into that porch where a volcanic crater seemed to have 
 opened. And at first he distinguished nothing, the acrid 
 smoke streamed over all. Then he perceived the walls split, the 
 upper floor rent open, the paving broken up, strewn with 
 fragments. Outside, the landau which had been on the 
 point of entering, had escaped all injury ; neither of the 
 horses had been touched, nor was there even a scratch on 
 any panel of the vehicle. But the young girl, the pretty, 
 slim, fair-haired errand girl, lay there on her back, her 
 stomach ripped open, whilst her delicate face remained^intact, 
 her eyes clear, her smile full of astonishment, so swiftly and 
 lightning-like had come the catastrophe. And near her, 
 from the fallen band-box, whose lid had merely come un- 
 fastened, had rolled the new hat, a very fragile pink hat, 
 which still looked charming in its flowery freshness. 
 
 By a prodigy Guillaume was alive and already on his legs 
 again. His left hand alone streamed with blood, a projectUe 
 seemed to have broken his wrist. His moustaches moreover had 
 been burnt, and the explosion by throwing him to the ground 
 had so shaken and bruised him, that he shivered from head 
 to feet as with intense cold. Nevertheless, he recognised his 
 brother without even feeling astonished to see him there, as 
 indeed often happens after great disasters, when the unex- 
 plained becomes providential. That brother, of whom he 
 had so long lost sight, was there, naturally enough, because 
 it was necessary that he should be there. And Guillaume, 
 amidgt the wild quivers l^ which he was shaken, at on^e 
 cried to him: 'Take me away I take me awayl To yolM 
 b'ouge Qit N^uillv, 0^ 1 tsike me away t ' 
 
 H 
 
98 PARIS 
 
 Tlicn, for sole explanation, and referring to Salvat, he 
 Btammered : ' I suspected that he had stolen a cartridge from 
 me ; only one most fortunately, for otherwise the whole district 
 would have been blown to pieces. Ah ! the wretched 
 fellow ! I wasn't in time to set my foot upon the match." 
 
 With perfect lucidity of mind, such as danger sometimes 
 imparts, Pierre, neither speaking nor losing a moment, 
 remembered that the mansion had a back entrance fronting 
 the Eue Vignon. He had just reaUsed in what serious peril 
 hia brother would be if he were found mixed up in that 
 affair. And with all speed, when he had led him into the 
 gloom of the Eue Vignon, he tied his handkerchief round his 
 ■wrist, which he bade him press to his chest, imder his coat, 
 which would conceal it. 
 
 But Guillaume, still shivering and haunted by the 
 horror he had witnessed, repeated : ' Take me away — to your 
 place at Neuilly — not to my home.' 
 
 ' Of course, of course, be easy. Come, wait here a second, 
 1 will stop a cab.' 
 
 In his eagerness to procure a conveyance, Pierre had 
 brought his brother down to the Boulevard again. But the 
 terrible thunder-clap of the explosion had upset the whole 
 neighbourhood, horses were still rearing, and people were 
 running demented, hither and thither. And numerous police- 
 men had hastened up, and a rushing crowd was already 
 blocking the lower part of the Eua Godot-de-Mauroy, which 
 was now as black as a pit, every light m it having been ex- 
 tinguished ; whilst on the Boulevard a hawker of the ' Voix 
 da Peuple ' still stubbornly vociferated : ' The new scandal of 
 the African Eailway Lines ! The thirty-two bribe-takers of 
 the Chamber and the Senate 1 The approaching fall of the 
 Ministry 1 ' 
 
 Pierre was at last managing to stop a cab when he heard 
 a person who ran by say to another, ' The Ministry ? Ah, 
 well ! that bomb will mend it right enough 1 ' 
 
 Then the brothers seated themselves in the cab, which 
 carried them away. And now, over the whole of rumbling 
 Paris black night had gathered, an unforgiving night, in 
 which the stars foundered amidst the mist of crime and anger 
 that had risen from the house-roofs. The great cry of justice 
 swept by amidst the same terrifying flappmg of wings which 
 Sodom and Gomorrah onco heard bearing down upon them 
 from all the black clouds of the horizon. 
 
99 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 Ebvolutionists 
 
 In that out of the way street at Neuilly, along which nohody 
 passed after dusk, Pierre's little house was now steeped in 
 deep slumber under the black sky ; each of its shutters closed, 
 and not a ray of light stealing forth froni within. And one 
 could divine, too, the profound quietude of the little garden in 
 the rear, a garden empty and lifeless, benumbed by the 
 winter cold. 
 
 Pierre had several times feared that his brother would 
 faint away in the cab in which they were j ourneying. Leaning 
 back, and often sinking down, Guillaume spoke not a word. 
 And terrible was the silence between them — a silence fraught 
 with all the questions and answers which they felt it would be 
 useless and painful to exchange at such a time. However, 
 the priest was anxious about the wound, and wondered to what 
 surgeon he might apply, desirous as he was of admitting only 
 a sure, staunch man into the secret, for he had noticed with 
 how keen a desire to disappear his brother had sought to hide 
 himself. 
 
 Until they reached the Aro de Triomphe the silence 
 remained unbroken. It was only there that Guillauma 
 seemed to emerge from the prostration of his reverie. ' Mind 
 Pierre,' said he, 'no doctor. We will attend to this 
 together.' 
 
 Pierre was on the point of protesting, but he realised thai 
 it would be useless to discuss the subject at such a moment, 
 and so he merely waved his hand to signify that he should act 
 in spite of the prohibition were it necessary. In point of 
 fact, his anxiety had increased, and when the cab. at last drew 
 ufj before the house it was with real relief 'that he saw hia 
 brother alightwithdut eviniiing any mark^ feebleness. ^ 
 
100 PARIS 
 
 himself quickly paid the driver, well-pleased, too, at finding 
 that nobody, not even a neighbour, was about. And having 
 opened the door with his latch key, he helped the injured man 
 to ascend the steps. 
 
 A little night lamp glimmered faintly in the vestibule. 
 On hearing the door open, Pierre's servant, Sophie, had at 
 once emerged from the kitchen. A short, thin, dark woman 
 of sixty, she had formed part of the household ifor more than 
 thirty years, having served the mother before serving the son. 
 She knew Guillaume, having seen him when he was a young 
 man, and doubtless she now recognised him, although well- 
 nigh ten years had gone by since he had last crossed that 
 threshold. Instead of evincing any sm-prise, she seemed to 
 consider his extraordinary return quite natural, and remained 
 as silent and discreet as usual. She led, indeed, the life of a 
 recluse, never speaking unless her work absolutely required it. 
 And thus she now contented herself with saying : ' Monsieur 
 I'Abbe, Monsieur Bertheroy is in the study, and has been 
 waiting there for a quarter of an homr.' 
 
 At this GuiUaume intervened, as if the news revived him. 
 ' Does Bertheroy stiU come here, then ? I'U see him 
 willingly. His is one of the best, the broadest, minds of 
 these days. He has stiU remained my master.' 
 
 A former friend of their father — ^the illustrious chemist, 
 Michel Froment — Bertheroy had now, in his turn, become one 
 of the loftiest glories of France, one to whom chemistry owed 
 much of the extraordinary progress that has made it the 
 mother-science, by which the very face of the earth is being 
 changed. A member of the Institute, laden with offices and 
 honours, he had retained much affection for Pierre, and 
 occasionally visited him in this wise before dinner, by way 
 of relaxation, he would say. 
 
 ' You showed him into the study ? All right, then, we 
 will go there,' said the Abbe to the servant. ' Light a lamp 
 and take it into my room, and get my bed ready so that my 
 brother may go to bed at once.' 
 
 While Sophie, without a word or sign of surprise, was 
 obeying these instructions, the brothers went into their father's 
 former laboratory, of which the priest had now made a 
 Spacious study. And it was with a cry of joyous astonishment 
 that the savant greetfe'd theni on seeing thfem enter the room 
 side by sidfe, thb one stippprting this other. ' What, tbgether ! ' 
 be ellsiciymiBid. 'Ahl my de^ childi'e'b, ;t)'ac^diiot bave 
 
REVOLUTIONISTS loi 
 
 caused me greater pleasure 1 I who have so often deplored 
 your painful misunderstanding.' 
 
 Bertheroy was a tall and lean septuagenarian with angular ' 
 features. His yellow skin clung like parchment to the pro- 
 jecting bones of his cheeks and jaw. Moreover, there was 
 nothing imposing about him ; he looked like some old shop- 
 keeping herbalist. At the same time he had a fine, broad, 
 smooth brow, and his eyes still glittered brightly beneath hia 
 tangled hair. 
 
 ' What, have you injured yourself, Guillaume ? ' he 
 continued, as soon as he saw the bandaged hand. 
 
 Pierre remained silent, so as to let his brother tell the 
 story as he chose. Guillaume had realised that he must 
 confess the truth, but in simple fashion, without detailing 
 the circumstances. 'Yes, in an explosion,' he answered, 
 • and I really think that I have my wrist broken.' 
 
 At this, Bertheroy, whose glance was fixed upon him, 
 noticed that his moustaches were burnt, and that there was 
 an expression of bewildered stupor, such as follows a 
 catastrophe, in his eyes. Forthwith the savant became grave 
 and circumspect ; and without seeking to compel confidence 
 by any questions, he simply said : ' Indeed 1 an explosion 1 
 Will you let me see the injury ? You know that before letting 
 chemistry ensnare me I studied medicine, and am still some- 
 what of a surgeon.' 
 
 On hearing these words Pierre could not restrain a heart- 
 cry : ' Yes, yes, master ! Look at the injury — I was very 
 anxious, and to find you here is unhoped-for good fortune 1 ' 
 
 The savant glanced at him, and divined that the hidden 
 circumstances of the accident must be serious. And then, as 
 Guillaume, smiling, though paling with weakness, consented 
 to the suggestion, Bertheroy retorted that before anything 
 else he must be put to bed. The servant just then returned to 
 say the bed was ready, and so they aU went into the adjoining 
 room, where the injured man was soon undressed and helped 
 between the sheets. 
 
 ' Light me, Pierre,' said Bertheroy, ' take the lamp ; and 
 let Sophie give me a basin full of water and some cloths.' 
 Then, having gently washed the wound, he resumed : ' The 
 devil I The wrist isn't broken, but it's a nasty injury. I am 
 afraid there must be a lesion of the bone. Some nails passed 
 through the flesh, did they not ? ' 
 
 Beceiving no reply, he relapsed into silence. But his 
 
102 PARIS 
 
 surprise was increasing, and lie closely examined the hand, 
 which the flame of the explosion had scorched, and even 
 sniffed the shirt culf as if seeking to understand the affair 
 better. He evidently recognised the effects of one of those 
 new explosives which he himself had studied, almost created. 
 In the present case, hov/ever, he must have been puzzled, for 
 there were characteristic signs and traces the significance of 
 which escaped him. 
 
 ' And so,' he at last made up his mind to ask, carried 
 away by professional curiosity, ' and so it was a laboratory 
 explosion which put you in this nice condition. What devilish 
 powder were you concocting then ? ' 
 
 Guillaume, ever since he had seen Bertheroy thus study- 
 ing his injury, had, in spite of his sufferings, given marked 
 signs of annoyance and agitation. And as if the real secret 
 which he wished to keep lay precisely in the question now pat 
 to him, in that powder, the first experiment with which had 
 thus injured him, he replied with an air of restrained ardour, 
 and a straight frank glance : ' Pray do not question me, 
 master. I cannot answer you. You have, I know, sufficient 
 nobihty of nature to nurse me and care for me without exact- 
 ing a confession.' 
 
 ' Oh 1 certainly, my friend,' exclaimed Bertheroy ; ' keep 
 your secret. Your discovery belongs to you if you have made 
 one ; and I know that you are capable of putting it to the 
 most generous use. Besides, you must be aware that I have 
 too great a passion for truth to judge the actions of others, 
 whatever their nature, without Imowing every circumstance 
 and motive.' 
 
 So saying, he waved his hand as if to indicate how broadly 
 tolerant and firee from error and superstition was that lofty 
 sovereign mind of his, which in spite of all the orders that 
 bedizened him, in spite of all the academical titles that he bore 
 as an official savant, made him a man of the boldest and most 
 independent views, one whose only passion was truth, as ha 
 himself said. 
 
 He lacked the necessary appliances to do more than dress 
 the wound, after making sure that no fragment of any projec- 
 tile had remained in the flesh. Then he at last went off, 
 promising to return at an early hour on the morrow ; and, as 
 the priest escorted him to the street door, he spoke some 
 comforting words : if the bone had not been deeply injured 
 all would be well. 
 
RlLVOLVTTONISTS 103 
 
 On'relurBiug to the bedside, Pierre found his brother still 
 sitting up and seeking fresh energy in his desire to write homo 
 and tranquillisc his loved ones. So the priest, after providing 
 pen and paper, again had to take up the lamp and light him. 
 Guillaume fortunately retained full use of his right hand, and 
 was thus able to pen a few lines to say that" he would not be 
 home that night. He addressed the note to Madame Leroi, - 
 the mother of his deceased mistress, who, since the latter's 
 death, had remained with him and had reared his three sons. 
 Pierre was aware also that the household -at Montmartre 
 included a young woman of five- or Bix-ahd-twenty, the 
 daughter of an old friend to whom Guillaume had given 
 shelter on her father's death, and whom he was soon to marry, 
 in spite of the great difference in their ages. For the priest, 
 however, all these were vague, disturbing things, coniemnabla 
 features of disorderly, life, and he had invariably pretended to 
 be ignorant of them. 
 
 ' So you wish this note to be taken to Montmartre at 
 once ? ' he said to his brother, 
 
 ' Yes, at once. It is scarcely more than seven o'clock, now, 
 and it will be there by eight. And you will choose a reliable 
 man, won't you ? ' 
 
 ' The best course will be for Sophie to take a cab. Wa 
 need have no fsar with her. She won't chatter. Wait a 
 moment, and I will settle everything.' 
 
 Sophie, on being summoned, at once understood what was 
 wanted of her, and proinised to say, in reply to any questions, 
 that M. Guillaume had come to spend the 'night at his 
 brother's, for reasons which she did not know. And without 
 indulging in any reflections herself, she left the house, saying 
 simply : ' Monsieur I'Abbe's dinner is ready ; he will only have 
 to take the broth and the stew off the stove.' 
 
 However, when Pierre this time returned to the bedside to 
 sit down there, he found that Guillaume had fallen back with 
 his head resting on both pillows. And he looked veiy weary 
 and pale, and showed signs of fever. The lamp. Standing oh 
 a corner of a side table, cast a soft light around, and so deep 
 was the quietude that the big clock in the adjoining dining- 
 room coiild be heard ticking. For a moment the silence "con- 
 tinued around the two brothers, who, after so many year's; of 
 separation, were at last reunited and alone together; Then 
 the injured man brought his fight band to the edge Of the 
 gheet, and the priest grasped it, pressed it tenderly in his own. 
 
104 PARIS 
 
 And the clasp was a long one, those two brotherly hands 
 remained locked, one in the other. 
 
 ' My poor little Pierre,' Guillaume faintly murmured, ' yon 
 must forgive me for falling on you in this fashion. I've 
 invaded the house and taken your bed, and I'm preventing 
 you from dining.' 
 
 ' Don't talk, don't tire yourself any more,' interrupted 
 Pierre. ' Is not this the right place for you when you are in 
 trouble ? ' 
 
 A warmer pressure came from Guillaume's feverish hand, 
 and tears gathered in his eyes. ' Thanks, my little Pierre. 
 I've found you again, and you are as gentle and loving as 
 you always were. Ah 1 you cannot know how delightfuJ it 
 seems to me.' 
 
 Then the priest's eyes also were dimmed by tears. Amidst 
 the deep quietude, the great sense of comfort which had 
 followed their violent emotion, the brothers found an infinite 
 charm in being together once more in the home of their 
 childhood.' It was there that both their father and mother 
 had died — the father tragically, struck down by an explosion 
 in his laboratorjr ; the mother piously, like a very saint. It 
 was there, too, m that same bed, that Guillaume had nursed 
 Pierre, when, after their mother's death, the latter had nearly 
 died ; and it was there now that Pierre in his turn was 
 nursing Guillaume. All helped to bow them down and fill 
 them with emotion : the strange circumstances of their 
 meeting, the frightful catastrophe which had caused them 
 such a shock, the mysteriousness of the things which re- 
 mained unexplained between them. And now that after so 
 long a separation they were tragically brought together again, 
 they both felt their memory awaking. The old house spoke 
 to them of their childhood, of their parents dead and gone, 
 of the far-away days when they had loved and suffered there. 
 Beneath the window lay the garden, now icy cold, which 
 once, under the sunbeams, had re-echoed with their play. 
 On the left was the laboratory, the spacious room where their 
 father had taught them to read. On the right, in the dining- 
 room, they could picture their mother cutting bread and 
 butter for them, and looking so gentle with her big, despairing 
 eyes — those of a believer mated to an infidel. And the feeling 
 that they were now alone in that home, and the pale, sleepy 
 gleam of the lamp, and the deep silence of the garden and 
 ' See M, Zola's ' Lourdes,' Day I., Chapter U. 
 
REVOLUTIONISTS 105 
 
 the house, and the very past itself, all filled them with the 
 softest of emotion blended with the keenest bitterness. 
 
 They would have liked to talk and unbosom themselves. 
 But what could they say to one another ? Although their 
 hands remained so tightly clasped, did not the most im- 
 passable of chasms separate them ? In any case, they thought 
 BO. Guillaume was convinced that Pierre was a saint, a 
 priest of the most robust faith, without a doubt, without 
 aught in common with himself, whether in the sphere of 
 ideas or in that of practical life. A hatchet-stroke had 
 parted them, and each lived in a different world. And in 
 the same way Pierre pictured Guillaume as one who had lost 
 caste, whose conduct was most suspicious, who had never 
 even married the mother of his three children, but was on 
 the point of marrying that girl who was far too young for 
 him, and who had come nobody knev; whence. In him, 
 moreover, were blended the passionate ideas of a savant and 
 a revolutionist, ideas in which one found negation of every- 
 thing, acceptance and possibly provocation of the worst forms 
 of violence, with a glimpse of the vague monster of Anarchism 
 tmderlying all. And so, on what basis could there be any 
 understanding between them, since each retained his 
 prejudices against the other, and saw him on the opposite 
 side of the chasm, without possibility of any plank being 
 thrown across it to enable them to unite ? Thus, all alone in 
 that room, their poor hearts bled with distracted brotherly 
 love. 
 
 I Pierre knew that, on a previous occasion, Guillaume had 
 narrowly escaped being compromised in an Anarchist affair. 
 He asked him no questions, but he could not help reflecting 
 that he would not have hidden himself in this fashion had he 
 not feared arrest for complicity. Complicity with Salvat ? 
 Was he really an accomplice ? Pierre shuddered, for the only 
 materials on which he could found a contrary opinion were, 
 on one hand, the words that had escaped his brother after the 
 crime, the cry he had raised accusing Salvat of having stolen 
 a cartridge from him ; and, on the other hand, his heroic rush 
 into the doorway of the Duvillard mansion in order to ex- 
 tinguish the match. A great deal still remained obscure ; but if 
 a cartridge of that frightful explosive had been stolen from 
 Guillaume the fact must be that he manufactured such 
 cartridges and had others at home. Of course, even if he 
 were not an accomplice, the injury to his wrist had made it 
 
io6 PARIS 
 
 needful for him' to diisappear. Given his bleeding hand, and 
 the previous snspibions levelled agaiast him, he -would never 
 have convinced anybody of his innocence. And yet, even 
 allowing for these surmises, the affair remained wrapt_ in 
 darkness : a crime on Guillaume's part seemed a possibility, 
 and to Pierre it was all dreadful to think of. 
 
 Guillaume, by the trembling of his brother's moist, 
 yielding hand, must in some degree have reahsed the prostra- 
 tion of his poor mind, already shattered by doubt and finished 
 o£f by this calamity. Indeed, the sepulchre was empty now, 
 the very ashes had been swept out of it. 
 
 ' My poor little Pierre,' the elder brother slowly said. 
 ' Forgive nie if I do not tell you anything. I cannot do so. 
 And besides, what would be the use of it ? We shoiild 
 ■certainly not understand one another. ... So let us keep 
 from saying anything, and let us simply enjoy the delight of 
 being together and loving one another in spite of all.' 
 
 Pierre raised his eyes, and for a long time their glances 
 lingered, one fixed on the other. ' All 1 ' stammered the 
 priest, ' how frightful it all is I ' 
 
 GuiUaume, however, had well understood the mute inquiry 
 of Pierre's eyes. His own did not waver but replied boldly, 
 beaming with purity and loftiness : ' I can teU you nothing. 
 Yet, all the same, let us love each other, my little Pierre.' 
 
 And then Pierre for a moment felt that his brother was 
 above aU base anxiety, above the guilty fear of the man who 
 trembles for himself. In lieu thereof he seemed to be carried 
 away by the passion of some great design, the noble thought 
 of concealing some sovereign idea, some secret which it was 
 imperative for him to save. But, alas ! this was only the 
 fleeting vision of a vague hope ; for all vanished, and again 
 came the doubt, the suspicion of a mind dealing with one that 
 it knew nothing of. 
 
 And all at once a souvenir, a frightful spectacle, arose 
 before Pierre's eyes and distracted him : ' Did you see, 
 brother,' he stammered, ' did you see that fair-haired girl 
 lying under the archway, ripped open, with a smile of 
 astonishment on her face ? ' 
 
 Guillaume in his turn quivered, and in a low and 
 dolorous voice replied: 'Yes, I saw her I Ah, poor little 
 thing I Ah 1 the atrocious necessities, the atrocious errors of 
 justice 1 * 
 
 Then, amidst the frightful ehudder that seemed to sweep 
 
REvoLuno-msTs 107 
 
 by, Pierre, with his horror of all violence, succumbed, and let 
 his face sink upon the counterpane at the edge of the bed. 
 And he sobbed distractedly : a sudden attack of weakness, 
 overflowing in tears, cast him there exhausted, with no mora 
 strength than a child. It was as if all his sufferings since 
 the morning, the deep grief with which universal injustice 
 and woe inspired him, were bursting forth in that flood of 
 tears which nothing now could stay. And Guillaume who, 
 to calm his little brother, had set his hand upon his head, in 
 the same way as he had often caressingly stroked his hair in 
 childhood's days, likewise felt upset and remained silent, 
 imable to find a word of consolation, resigned, as he was, to 
 the eruption which in life is always possible, the cataclysm 
 by which the slow evolution of nature is always liable to be 
 precipitated. But how hard a fate for the wretched ones 
 whom the lava sweeps away in millions ! And then his tears 
 also began to flow amidst the profound silence. 
 
 'Pierre,' he gently exclaimed at last, 'you must have 
 some dinner. Go, go and have some. And screen the lamp ; 
 leave me by myself, and let me close my eyes. It will do ma 
 good.' 
 
 Pierre had to content him. However, he left the dining- 
 room door open ; and weak for want of food, though he had 
 not hitherto noticed it, he ate standing, with his ears on the 
 alert, listening lest his brother should complain or call him. 
 And the silence seemed to have become yet more complete, 
 the little house sank, as it were, into annihilation, instinct 
 with all the melancholy charm of the past. 
 
 At about half-past eight, when Sophie returned from her 
 errand to Montmartre, Guillaume heard her step, light 
 though it was. And he at once became restless and wanted 
 to know what news she brought. It was Pierre, however, 
 who enlightened him. 'Don't be anxious. Sophie was 
 received by an old lady who, after reading your note, merely 
 answered, " Very well." She did not even ask Sophie a 
 question, but remained quite composed without sign of 
 curiosity.' 
 
 Guillaume, realising that this fine serenity perplexed his 
 brother, thereupon replied with similar calmness ; ' Oh I it 
 was only necessary that grandmother should be warned. She 
 knows well enough that i£ I don't return home it is because 
 I can't.' 
 
 However, from that moment it was impossible for thg 
 
reS FARIS 
 
 injured man to rest. Although the lamp was hidden away in 
 a corner, he constantly opened his eyes, glanced round him, 
 and seemed to listen, as if for somids from the direction of 
 Paris. And it at last became necessary for the priest to 
 summon the servant and ask her if she had noticed anything 
 strange on her way to or from Montmartre. She seemed 
 surprised by the question, and answered that she had noticed 
 nothing. Besides, the cab had followed the outer boulevards, 
 which were almost deserted, A slight fog had again begun 
 to fall, and the streets were steeped in icy dampness. 
 
 By the time it was nine o'clock Pierre realised that hia 
 brother would never be able to sleep if he were thus left 
 without news. Amidst his growing feverishness the injured 
 man experienced keen anxiety, a haunting desire to know if 
 Salvat were arrested and had spoken out. He did not confess 
 this ; indeed he sought to convey the impression that he had 
 no personal disquietude, which was doubtless true. But big 
 great secret was stifling him ; he shuddered at the thought 
 that his lofty scheme, all his labotu: and all his hope, should 
 be at the mercy of that unhappy man whom want had filled 
 with delusions and who had sought to set justice upon earth 
 by the aid of a bomb. And in vain did the priest try to make 
 Guillaume understand that nothing certain could yet be 
 known. He perceived that hia impatience increased every 
 minute, and at last resolved to make some effort to satisfy 
 him. 
 
 But where could he go, of whom could he inquire? 
 GuiUaume, while talking and trying to guess with whom 
 Salvat might have sought refuge, had mentioned Jajizen, 
 the Princess de Ham's mysterious lover ; and for a moment 
 he had even thought of sending to this man for information. 
 But he reflected that if Janzen had heard of the explosion he 
 was not at all the individual to wait for the police at home. 
 
 Meantime Pierre repeated : ' I will willingly go to buy the 
 evening papers for you — but there will certainly be nothing in 
 them. Although I know almost everyone in Neuilly I can 
 think of nobody who is likely to have any information, unlesa 
 perhaps it were Bache ' 
 
 ' Yon know Bache, the municipal councillor ? ' interrupted 
 Guillaume. 
 
 ' Yes, we have both had to busy ourselves with charitable 
 work in the neighbourhood.' 
 
 ' Well, Basho is an old friend of mine, and I know no 
 
REVOLUTIONISTS 109 
 
 Eer man. Pray go to him and try to bring him back with 
 u.' 
 
 A quarter of an hour later Pierre returned with Bache, 
 10 resided in a neighbouring street. And it was not only 
 liOhe whom he brought with him, for, much to his surprise, 
 
 had found Janzen at Bache's house. As Guillaume had 
 spected, Janzen, while dining at the Princess de Harn's, 
 ,d heard of the crime, and had consequently refrained from 
 burning to his little lodging in the Eue des Martyrs, where 
 e pohce might well have set a trap for him. His con- 
 ctions were known, and he was aware that he was watched 
 d was liable at any moment to arrest or expulsion as a 
 reign Anarchist. And so he had thought it prudent to solicit 
 few days' hospitahty of Bache, a very upright and obhging 
 an, to whom he entrusted himself without fear. He would 
 iver have remained with Rosemonde, that adorable hmatio 
 10 for a month past had been exhibiting him as her lover, 
 id whose useless and dangerous extravagance of conduct he 
 Uy realised. 
 
 Guillaume was so delighted on seeing Bache and Janzen 
 at he wished to sit up in bed again. But Pierre bade him 
 main quiet, rest his head on the pillows, and speak as little 
 possible. Then, while Janzen stood near, erect and silent, 
 iche took a chair and sat down by the bedside with many 
 pressions of friendly interest. He was a stout man of sixty 
 th a broad, fuU face, a large white beard and long white 
 ir. His little, gentle eyes had a dim, dreamy expression, 
 lile a pleasant, hopeful smile played round his thick lips, 
 s father, a fervent St. Simonian, had brought him up in 
 e doctrines of that belief. While retaining due respect for 
 however, his personal inclinations towards orderliness and 
 igion had led him to espouse the ideas of Fourier, in such 
 se that one found in him a succession and an abridgment, 
 
 to say, of two doctrines. Moreover, when he was about 
 irty, he had busied himself with spiritualism. Possessed of 
 comfortable little fortune, his only adventure in life had 
 3n his connection with the Paris Commune of 1871. How 
 why he had become a member of it he could now scarcely 
 1. Condemned to death by default, although he had sat 
 long the Moderates, he had resided in Belgium until the 
 inesty; and eincie then Neuilly had elected him as its 
 jresentativ'e on the Paris Municipal Council, less by way of 
 )!iifyuig in yha. a victim of ii'euctib'n than as a rieVai/d for 
 
lie PARIS 
 
 his worthiness, for he was really esteemed by the whole 
 district. 
 
 Guillaume, with his desire for tidings, was_ obliged to con- 
 fide in his two visitors, tell them of the explosion and Salvat's 
 flight, and how he himself had been wounded while seeking 
 to extinguish the match. Janzen, with curly beard and hair, 
 and a thin, fair face such as painters often attribute to tha 
 Christ, listened coldly, as was his wont, and at last said slowly 
 in a gentle voice : ' Ah I so it was Salvat ! I thought it 
 might be little Mathis — I'm surprised that it should be Salvat 
 — for he hadn't made up his mind.' Then, as Guillaume 
 anxiously inquired if he thought that Salvat would speak out, 
 he began to protest ; ' Oh 1 no ; oh I no.' 
 
 However, he corrected himself with a gleam of disdain in 
 his clear, harsh eyes ; ' After all, there's no telling. Salvat is 
 a man of sentiment.' 
 
 Then Baohe, who was quite upset by the news of the 
 explosion, tried to think how his friend Guillaume, to whom 
 he was much attached, might be extricated from any charge of 
 complicity should he be denounced. And Guillaume, at sight 
 of Janzen's contemptuous coldness, must have suffered keenly, 
 for the other evidently believed him to be trembling, tortured 
 by the one desire to save his own skin. But what could he 
 say, how could he reveal the deep concern which rendered him 
 so feverish without betraying the secret which he had hidden 
 even from his brother ? 
 
 However, at this moment Sophie came to tell her master 
 ' that M. Th^ophile Morin had called with another gentleman. 
 Much astonished by this visit at so late an hour, Pierre 
 hastened into the next room to receive the new-comers. He 
 had become acquainted v/ith Morin since his return from Eome, 
 and had helped him to introduce a translation of an excellent 
 scientific manual, prepared according to the official pro- 
 grammes, into the Itahan schools.' A Franc-Comtois by 
 birth, a compatriot of Proudhon, with whose poor family he 
 had been intimate at Besan9on, Morin, himself the son of a 
 journeyman clockmaker, had grown up with Proudhonian 
 ideas, full of affection for the poor and an instinctive hatred 
 of property and wealth. Later on, having come to Paris as a 
 Bohool teacher, impassioned by study, he had given his whole 
 mind to Auguste Comte. Beneath the fervent Positiyisi, 
 however, one might yet find the old Proudhonian, the pauper 
 ' See M. Zola's ' KaniS,' Chiipfers lY. alidXVL 
 
REVOLUTIONISTS iii 
 
 who rebelled and detested want. Moreover, it was scisntifio 
 Positivism that he clung to ; in his hatred of all mysticism he 
 would have nought to do with the fantastic religious leanings 
 of Comte in his last years. And in Morin's brave, consistent, 
 somewhat mournful life, there had been but one page of 
 romance : the sudden feverish impulse which had carried him 
 off to fight in Sicily by Garibaldi's side. Afterwards he had 
 again become a petty professor in Paris, obscurely earning 
 a dismal livelihood. 
 
 When Pierre returned to the bedroom he said to hia 
 brother in a tone of emotion : ' Morin has brought me Barthfe, - 
 who fancies himself in danger and asks my hospitality.' 
 
 At this Guillaume forgot himself and became excited: 
 * Nicholas BarthSs, a hero with a soul worthy of antiquity. 
 Oh 1 1 know him ; I admire and love him. You must set your 
 door open wide for him.' 
 
 Bache and Janzen, however, had glanced at one another 
 smiling. And the latter with his cold ironical air, slowly 
 remarked: 'Why does Monsieur Barthes hide himself? A 
 great many people think he is dead ; he is simply a ghost who 
 no longer frightens anybody.' 
 
 Four-and-seventy years of age as he now was, Barthes 
 had spent nearly half a century in prison. He was the 
 eternal prisoner, the hero of liberty whom each successive 
 Government had carried from citadel to fortress. Since hia 
 youth he had been marching on amidst his dream of 
 fraternity, fighting for an ideal Republic based on truth and 
 justice, and each and every endeavour had led him to a 
 dungeon ; he had invariably finished his humanitarian reverie 
 under bolts and bars. Carbonaro, Eepublican, evangelical 
 sectarian, he had conspired at all times and in all places, 
 incessantly struggling against the Power of the day whatever 
 it might be. And when the Bepublic at last had come, that 
 EepubUc which had cost him so many years of gaol, it had, 
 in its own turn, imprisoned him, adding fresh years of gloom 
 to those which already had lacked sunlight. And thus he 
 remained the martyr of freedom : freedom which he still 
 desired in spite of everything ; freedom, which, strive as he 
 might, never came, never existed. 
 
 1 . ' But you are mistaken,' replied Guillaume, wounded by 
 Jajizen^s raillery. ' There is again a thought of getting rid 
 of -Barthes, whose uncompromising rectitude disturbs our 
 politicians; and he does w^lfo take his precautions ! ' 
 
112 PARIS 
 
 Nicholas Barth^s came in, a tall, slim, withered old man, 
 with a nose like an eagle's beak, and eyes that still burned in 
 their deep sockets, under white and bushy brows. His 
 mouth, toothless but still refined, was lost to sight between 
 his moustaches and snowy beard ; and his hair, crowning him 
 whitely like an aureola, fell in curls over his shoulders. 
 Behind him with all modesty came Th^ophile Morin with 
 his grey whiskers, his grey, brush-like hair, his spectacles, 
 and his yellow, weary mien — that of an old professor ex- 
 hausted by years of teaching. Neither of them seemed 
 astonished or awaited an explanation on finding that man in 
 bed with an injured wrist. And there were no introductions, 
 those who were acquainted merely smiled at one another. 
 
 BarthSs, for his part, stooped and kissed Guillaume on 
 both cheeks. ' Ah 1 ' said the latter, almost gaily, ' it gives 
 me courage to see you.' 
 
 However, the new-comers had brought a little infomiation. 
 The boulevards were in an agitated state, the news of the 
 crime had spread from cafe to cafe, and everybody was 
 anxious to see a late edition which one paper had pubUshed 
 giving a very incorrect account of the affair, full of the 
 most extraordinary details. Briefly, nothing positive was as 
 yet known. 
 
 On seeing Guillaume turn pale Pierre compelled him to 
 lie down again, and even talked of taking the visitors into the 
 next room. But the injured man gently replied : ' No, no, I 
 promise you that I won't stu* again, that I won't open my 
 mouth. But stay there and chat together. I assure you 
 that it will do mo good to have you near me and hear you.' 
 
 Then, under the sleepy gleams of the lamp, the others 
 began to talk in undertones. Old Barth^s, who considered 
 that bomb to be both idiotic and abominable, spoke of it with 
 the stupefaction of one who, after fighting like a hero through 
 all the legendary struggles for Uberty, found himself belated, 
 out of his element, in a new era, which he could not under- 
 stand. Did not the conquest of freedom suffice for every- 
 thiag ? he added. Was there any other problem beyond that 
 of founding the real Republic ? Then, referring t-o Mege and 
 his speech in the Chamber that afternoon, he bitterly 
 arraigned Collectivism, which he declared to be one of the 
 democratic forms of tyranny. Thfophile Morin, for his part, 
 also spoke against the CoUectivist enrolling of the social 
 forces, but he professed yet greater hati^ of the odiiooB 
 
JiE VOL UTIOmSTS 1 1 3 
 
 violence of ths Anarchists ; for it was only by evolution that 
 he expected progress, and he felt somewhat indifferent as to 
 what political means might bring about the scientific society 
 of to-morrow. And in like way Bache did not seem to be 
 particularly fond of the Anarchists, though he was touched by 
 the idylUo dream, the humanitarian hope, whose germs lay 
 beneath their passion for destruction. And, like BarthSs, he 
 also fiew into a passion with MSge, who since entering the 
 Chamber had become, said he, a mere rhetorician and 
 theorist, dreaming of dictatorship. Meantime Janzen, still 
 erect, his face frigid and his Upa curling ironically, listened to 
 all three of them, and vented a few trenchant words to express 
 his own Anarchist faith ; the uselessness of drawing distinc- 
 tions, and the necessity of destroying everything in order 
 that everything might be rebuilt on fresh hnes. 
 
 Pierre, who had remained near the bed, also listened with 
 passionate attention. Amidst the downfall of his own beliefs, 
 the utter void which he felt within him, here were these four 
 men, who represented the cardinal points of this century's 
 ideas, debating the very same terrible problem which brought 
 him so much suffering, that of the new belief which the 
 democracy of the coming century awaits. And, ah 1 since the 
 days of the immediate ancestors, since the days of Voltaire 
 and Diderot and Rousseau, how incessantly had billows of 
 ideas foUoWEd and jostled one another, the older ones giving 
 birth to new ones, and all breaking and bounding in a 
 tempest in which it was becoming so difficult to distinguish 
 anything clearly 1 Whence came the wind, and whither 
 was the ship of salvation going, for what port ought one to 
 embark ? Pierre had already thought that the balance-sheet 
 of the century ought to be drawn up, and that, after accepting 
 the legacies of Rousseau and the other precursors, he ought 
 to study the ideas of St. Simon, Fourier, and even Cabet ; of 
 Auguste Comte, Proudhon and Karl Marx as well, in order, 
 at any rate, to form some idea of the distance that had been 
 travelled, and of the cross-ways which one had now reached. 
 And was not this an opportunity, since chance had gathered 
 those men together in his house, living exponents of the 
 conflicting doctrines which he wished to examine ? 
 
 On turning round, however, he perceived that Guillanma 
 was now very pale and had closed his eyes. Had even he, 
 with his faith in science, felt the doubt Trhich is born of 
 
 I 
 
114 PARIS 
 
 contradictory theories, and the despair which comes when 
 one sees the fight for truth resulting in growth of error ? 
 
 ' Are you in pain ? ' the priest anxiously inquired. 
 
 ' Yes, a little. But I will try to sleep.' 
 
 At this they all went off with silent handshakes. Nicholas 
 Barthfis alone remained in the house and slept in a room on 
 the first floor which Sophie had got ready for him. Pierre, 
 unwilling to quit his brother, dozed off upon a sofa. And 
 the little house relapsed into its deep quietude, the silence of 
 solitude and winter, through which passed the melancholy 
 quiver of the souvenirs of childhood. 
 
 In the morning, as soon as it was seven o'clock, Pierre 
 had to go for the newspapers. Guillaume had passed a bad 
 night and intense fever had set in. Nevertheless, his brother 
 was obliged to read him the endless articles on the explosion. 
 There was an amazing medley of truths and iuventions, of 
 precise information lost amidst unexpected extravagance. 
 Sagnier's paper, the ' Voix du Peuple,' distinguished itself by 
 its sub-titles in huge print and a whole page of particulars 
 jumbled together chancewise. It had at once decided to 
 postpone the famous list of the thirty-two deputies and 
 senators compromised in the African Eailwaya affair ; and 
 there was no end to the details it gave of the aspect of the 
 entrance to the Duvillard mansion after the explosion : the 
 pavement broken up, the upper floor rent open, the huge 
 doors torn away from their hinges. Then came the story of 
 the Baron's son and daughter preserved as by a miracle, the 
 landau escaping the slightest injury, while the banker and 
 his wife, it was alleged, owed their preservation to the 
 circumstance that they had lingered at the Madeleine after 
 Monseigneur Martha's remarkable address there. An entire 
 column was given to the one victim, the poor, pretty, fair-haired 
 en-and girl, whose identity did not seem to be clearly esta- 
 blished although a flock of reporters had rushed first to the 
 modiste employing her, in the Avenue de I'Op^ra, and next 
 to the upper part of the Faubourg St. Denis, where it was 
 thought her grandmother resided. Then, in a gravely worded 
 article in 'Le Globe,' evidently inspired by Fonsegue, an 
 appeal was made to the Chamber's patriotism to avoid giving 
 cause for any ministerial crisis in the painful circumstances 
 through which the country was passing. Thus the ministry 
 might last, and live in compara^ve quietude, fox a few weeka 
 longer. 
 
HEVOLUTIONISrS it.? 
 
 Guillaume, liowever, was struck by one point only : tlia 
 culprit was not known ; Salvat, it appeared certain, was neither 
 arrested nor even suspected. It seemed, indeed, as if the 
 police were starting on a false scent — that of a well-dressed 
 gentleman wearing gloves, whom a neighbour swore he had 
 seen entering the mansion at the moment of the explosion. 
 Thus Guillaume became a little calmer. But his brother 
 read to him from another paper some particulars concerning 
 the engine of destruction that had been employed. It was a 
 preserved-meat can, and the fragments of it showed that it 
 had been comparatively small. And Guillaume relapsed into 
 anxiety on learning that people were much astonished at the 
 violent ravages of such a sorry appliance, and that the 
 presence of some new explosive of iscalculable power wa8 
 already suspected. 
 
 At eight o'clock Bertheroy put in an appearance. Although 
 he was sixty-eight he showed as much briskness and spright- 
 liness as any young sa,wbones calling in a friendly way to 
 perform a little operation. He had brought an instrument 
 case, some linen bands and some hnt. However, he became 
 angry on finding the injured man nervous, flushed and hot 
 with fever. 
 
 ' Ah ! I see that you haven't been reasonable, my dear child,' 
 Baid he. ' You must have talked too much, and have bestirred 
 and excited yourself.' Then, having carefully probed t'na 
 wound, he added, while dressing it : ' The bone is injured, you 
 know, and I won't answer for anything unless you behave 
 better. Any complications would make amputation necessary.' 
 
 Pierre shuddered, but Guillaume shrugged his shoulders, 
 as if to say that he might just as well be amputated since all 
 was crumbling around him. Bertheroy, v»-lio had sat down, 
 lingering there for another moment, scrutinised both brothers 
 with his keen eyes. He now knew of the explosion, and must 
 have thought it over. 'My dear child,' he resumed in his 
 brusque way, ' I certainly don't think that you committed that 
 abominable act of folly in the Eiie Godot-ds-Mauroy. But I 
 fancy thatyou were in the neighbourhood — no, no, don't answer 
 me, don't defend yourself. I know nothing and desire to know 
 nothing, not even the formula of that devilish powder of 
 which your shirt-cuff bore traces, and which has wrought 
 Buch terrible havoc.' 
 
 And then as the brothers remained surprised, tnmiiig cold 
 ^itb anxiety, in spite oi his assuranges, h© added with a 
 
ir6 PARIS 
 
 sweeping gesture : ' Ah ! my friends, I regard such an action 
 as even more useless than criminal ! I only feel contempt for 
 the vain agitation of politics, whether they be revolutionary 
 or conservative. Does not science suffice ? Why hasten the 
 times when one single step of science brings humanity nearer 
 to the goal of truth and justice than do a hundred years of 
 politics and social revolt ? Why, it is science alone which 
 sweeps away dogmas, casts down gods, and creates light and 
 happiness. And I, Member of the Institute as I am,_decorated 
 and possessed of means, I am the only true Revolutionist.' 
 
 Then he began to laugh and Guillaume realised all the 
 good-natured irony of his laugh. While admiring him as a 
 great savant, he had hitherto suffered at seeing him lead such 
 a bourgeois life, accepting whatever appointments and honours 
 were offered him, a Eepublican under the Eepublio^but quite 
 ready to serve science under no matter what master. But 
 now, from beneath this opportunist, this hieratic!al savant, 
 this toiler who accepted wealth and glory from all hands, 
 there appeared a quiet yet terrible evolutionist, who certainly 
 expected that his own work would help to ravage and renew 
 the world 1 
 
 However, Bertheroy rose and took hia leave : ' I'll come 
 back ; behave sensibly, and love one another as well as you can.' 
 
 When the brothers again found themselves alone, Pierre 
 seated at Guillaume's bedside, their hands once more sought 
 each other and met in a burning clasp instinct with aU their 
 anguish. How much threatening mystery and distress there was 
 both around and within them ! The grey wintry daylight came 
 into the room, and they could see the black trees in the 
 garden, while the house remained full of quivering silence, 
 save that overhead a faint sound of footsteps was audible. 
 They were the steps of Nicholas Barth^s, the heroic lover of 
 freedom, who, rising at daybreak, had, like a caged lion, 
 resumed his wonted promenade, the incessant coming and 
 going of one who had ever been a prisoner. And as the 
 brothers ceased listening to him their eyes fell on a news- 
 paper which had remained open on the bed, a newspaper 
 soiled by a sketch in outline which pretended to portray 
 the poor dead errand girl, lying, ripped open, beside the band- 
 box and the hat it had contained. It was so frightful, so 
 atrociously hideous a scene, that two big tears again fell upon 
 Pierre's cheeks, whilst Guillaume's blurred, despairing eyea 
 gazed wistfully far away, seeking for the Future. 
 
"7 
 II 
 
 A EOMB OF INDUSTB7 
 
 The little house in -which Guillaume had dwelt for so many 
 years, a home of quietude and hard work, stood in the pale 
 light of winter up yonder at Montmartre, peacefully awaiting 
 his return. He reflected, however, after dijeuner that it 
 might not be prudent for him to go back thither for some 
 weeks, and he therefore thought of sending Pierre to 
 explain the position of affairs. ' Listen, brother,' he said. 
 * You must render me this service. Go and tell them the 
 truth — that I am here, slightly injured, and do not wish 
 them to come to see me, for fear lest somebody should 
 follow them and discover my retreat. After the note I wrote 
 them last evening they would end by getting anxious if I did 
 not send them some news.' Then, yielding to the one worry 
 which, since the previous night, had disturbed his clear, frank 
 glance, he added : ' Just feel in the right-hand pocket of my 
 waistcoat ; you will find a little key there. Good ! that's it. 
 Now you must give it to Madame Leroi, my mother-in-law, 
 and tell her that if any misfortune should happen to me, she 
 is to do what is agreed between us. That will sufSce, she wiU 
 understand you.' 
 
 At the first moment Pierre had hesitated ; but he saw how 
 even the slight effort of speaking exhausted his brother, so he 
 silenced him, saying : ' Don't talk, but put your mind at ease. 
 I will go and reassure your people, since you wish that this 
 commission should be undertaken by me.' 
 
 Truth to tell, the errand was so distasteful to Pierre that 
 he had at first thought of sending Sophie in his place. All 
 his old prejudices were reviving ; it was as if he were going to 
 some ogre's den. How many times had he not heard his 
 mother say ' that creature I ' in referring to the woman with 
 whom her elder son cohabited. Never had she been willing 
 to kiss Guillaume's boys ; the whole connection had shocked 
 her, and she was particularly indignant that Madame Leroi, 
 the woman's mother, should have joined the household for 
 the purpose of bringing up the little ones. Pierre retained so 
 strong a recollection of all this that even nowadays, when 
 he went to the basilica of the Sacred Heart and passed the 
 little house on his way, he glanced at it distrustfully, and kept 
 
ii8 FAMIS 
 
 as far from it as he could, as if it were some abode of vice and 
 error. Undoubtedly, for ten years now, the boys' mother had 
 been dead, but did not another scandal-inspiring creature 
 dwell there, that young orphan girl to whom his brother had 
 given shelter, and whom he was going to marry, although a 
 difference of twenty years lay between them ? To Pierre all 
 this was contrary to propriety, abnormal, and revolting, and 
 he pictured a home given over to social rebellion, where lack 
 of principle led to every kind of disorder. 
 
 However, he was leaving the room to start upon his 
 journey, when Guillaume called him back. ' Tell Madame 
 Leroi,' said he, ' that if I should die you vrill let her know of 
 it, so that she may immediately do what is necessary.' 
 
 'Yes, yes,' answered Pierre. 'But calm yourself, and 
 don't move about. I'll say everything. And in my absence 
 Sophie will stop here with you in case you should need her.' 
 
 Having given fuU instructions to the servant, Pierre set 
 out to take a tramcar, intending to alight from it on the 
 Boulevard de Eochechouart, and then climb the height on 
 foot. And on the road, lulled by the gliding motion of the 
 heavy vehicle, he began to think of his brother's past life and 
 connexions, with which he was but vaguely, imperfectly 
 acquainted. It was only at a later date that details of every- 
 thing came to his knowledge. In 1850 a young professor 
 named Leroi, who had come from Paris to the college of 
 Montauban with the most ardent republican ideas, had 
 there married Agathe Dagnan, the youngest girl of an 
 old Protestant family from the Cevennes. Young Madame 
 Leroi was enceinte when her husband, threatened with arrest 
 for contributing some violent articles to a local newspaper, 
 immediately after the ' Coup d'Etat,' found himself obliged to 
 seek refuge at Geneva. It was there that the young couple's 
 ""daughter. Marguerite, a very delicate child, was born in 1852. 
 For seven years, that is until the Amnesty of 1859, the house- 
 hold struggled with poverty, the husband giving but a few ill- 
 paid lessons, and the wife absorbed in the constant care which 
 the child required. Then, after their return to Paris, their 
 ill-luck became even greater. For a long time the ex-professor 
 vainly sought regular employment ; it was denied him on 
 account of big opinions, and he had to run about giving 
 lessons in private houses. When he was at last on the point 
 of being received back into the University a supreme blow, an 
 attack of paralysis, fell upon him. He lost the use of both 
 
A HOME OF INDUSTRY 119 
 
 legs. And then came utter misery, every kind of sordid 
 drudgery, the writing of articles for dictionaries, the copying 
 of manuscripts, and even the addressing of newspaper wrap- 
 pers, on the fruits of which the household barely contrived 
 to live, in a little lodging in the Eue Moasieur-le-Prince. 
 
 It was there that Marguerite grew up. Leroi, embittered by 
 injustice and suffering, predicted the advent of a Eepublio which 
 would avenge the follies of the Empire, and a reign of science 
 which would sweep away the deceptive and cruel divinity 
 of religious dogmas. On the other hand, Agathe's reKgioua 
 faith had collapsed at Geneva, at sight of the narrow and 
 imbecile practices of Calvinism, and all that she retained of 
 it was the old Protestant leaven of rebellion. She had 
 become at once the head and the arm of the house ; she went 
 for her husband's work, took it back when completed, and 
 even did much of it herself, whilst, at the same time, per- 
 forming her house duties, and rearing and educating her 
 daughter. The latter, who attended no school, was indebted 
 for all she learnt to her father and mother; on whose part 
 there was never any question of religious instruction. 
 Through contact with her husband, Madame Leroi had lost 
 all belief, and her Protestant heredity inclining her to free 
 inquiry and examination, she had arranged for herself a kind 
 of peaceful atheism, based on paramount principles of human 
 duty and justice, which she applied courageously, irrespective 
 of all social conventionaUties. The long iniquity of her 
 husband's fate, the undeserved misfortunes which struck her 
 through him and her daughter, ended by endowing her 
 with wonderful fortitude and devotion, which made her, 
 whether as a judge, a manager, or a consoler, a woman of 
 incomparable energy and nobleness of character. 
 
 It was in the Kue Monsieur-le-Prince that Guillaume 
 became acquainted with the Leroi family, after the war of 
 1870. On the same floor aa their little lodging he occupied a 
 large room, where he devoted himself passionately to hia 
 studies. At the outset there was only an , occasional bow, 
 for Gmllaume's neighbours were very proud and very grave, 
 leading their life of poverty in fierce silence and retirement. 
 Then intercourse began with the rendering of little services, 
 such as when the young man procured the ex-professor a 
 commission to write a few articles for a new encyclopaedia. 
 But all at once came the catastrophe : Leroi died in hia 
 aiTOchair gjje evening while hia daughter was wh«eU»g bim 
 
120 PARIS 
 
 from his table to bis bed. The two distracted women had 
 not even the money to bury him. The whole secret of their 
 bitter want flowed forth with their tears, and they were 
 obliged to accept the help of GuiUaume, who, from that 
 moment, became the necessary confidant and friend._ And 
 the thing which was bound to happen did happen, in the 
 most simple and loving manner, permitted by the mother 
 herself, who, full of contempt for a social system which 
 allowed those of good hearts to die of hxmger, refused to 
 admit the necessity of any social tie. Thus there was no 
 question of a regular marriage. One day GuiUaume, who 
 was twenty-three years old, found himself mated to Mar- 
 guerite, who was twenty ; both of them handsome, healthy, 
 and strong, adoring one another, loving work, and full of hope 
 in the future. 
 
 From that moment a new life began. Since his father's 
 death, GuiUaume, who had broken off aU intercourse with his 
 mother, had been receiving an aUowance of two hundred 
 francs (J8) a month. This just represented daily bread ; 
 however, he was already doubling the amount by his work as 
 a chemist : bis analyses and researches, which tended to 
 the employment of certain chemical products in industry. 
 So he and Marguerite installed themselves on the very 
 summit of Montmartre in a Uttle house, at a rental of 
 eight hundred francs a year, the great convenience of the 
 place being a strip of garden, where one might, later 
 on, erect a wooden workshop. In aU tranijuiUity Madame 
 Leroi took up her abode with the young people, helping them, 
 and sparing them the necessity of keeping a second servant. 
 And at successive intervals of two years, her three grand- 
 chUdren were born, three sturdy boys ; first Thomas, then 
 Fran9ois, and then Antoine. And in the same way as she 
 had devoted herself to her husband and daughter, and then 
 to GuiUaume, so did she now devote herself' to the children. 
 She became ' MSre-Grand ' — an emphatic and affectionate way 
 of expressing the term ' grandmother ' — for aU who lived in 
 the house, the older as well as the younger ones. She there 
 personified sense, and wisdom, and courage ; it was she who 
 was ever on the watch, who directed everything, who was 
 consulted about everything, and whose opinion was always 
 followed. Indeed, she reigned there like an aU-powerful 
 queen-mother. 
 
 For fifteen years this life went on, a life of hard work and 
 
A HOME OF INDUSTRV x%x 
 
 peaceful affection, while the strictest economy was observed 
 in contenting every need of the modest little household. Then 
 Guillaume lost his mother, took his share of the family in- 
 heritance, and was able to satisfy his old desire, which was to 
 buy the house he lived in, and bmld a spacious workshop in 
 the garden. He was even able to build it of bricks, and add 
 an upper story to it. But the work was scarcely finished, and 
 life seemed to be on the point of expanding and smiling on 
 them all, when misfortune returned, and typhoid fever, with 
 brutal force, carried off Marguerite, after a week's illness. 
 She was then five-and-thirty, and her eldest boy, Thomas, 
 was fourteen. Thus Guillaume, distracted by his loss, found 
 himself a widower at thirty-eight. The thought of introducing 
 any unknown woman into that retired home, where all hearts 
 beat in tender unison, was so unbearable to him that he deter- 
 mined to take no other mate. His work absorbed him, and 
 he would know how to quiet both his heart and his flesh. 
 Mere-Grand, fortunately, was still there, erect and courageous ; 
 the household retained its queen, and in her the children 
 found a manageress and teacher, schooled in adversity and 
 heroism. 
 
 Two years passed ; and then came an addition to the 
 family. A young woman, Marie Couturier, the daughter of 
 one of GuiUaume's friends, suddenly entered it. Couturier 
 had been an inventor, a madman with some measure of 
 genius, and had spent a fairly large fortune in attempting all 
 sorts of fantastic schemes. His wife, a very pious woman, 
 had died of grief at it all ; and although on the rare occasions 
 when he saw his daughter, he showed great fondness for her 
 and loaded her with presents, he had first placed her in a 
 boarding college, and afterwards left her in the charge of 
 a poor female relative. Eemembering her only on his death- 
 bed, iie had begged Guillaume to give her an asylum, and find 
 her a husband. The poor relation, who dealt in ladies' and 
 babies' Unen, had just become a bankrupt. So, at nineteen, 
 the girl, Marie, found herself a penniless outcast, possessed of 
 notMng save a good education, health and courage. Guil- 
 laume would never allow her to run about giving lessons. He 
 took her, in quite a natural way, to help MSre-Grand, who was 
 no longer so active as formerly. And the latter approved the 
 arrangement, well pleased at the advent of youth and gaiety, 
 which would somewhat brighten the household, whose life 
 bad been one of much gravity ever siiuso Marguerite's death. 
 
123 PARIS 
 
 Marie would simply be an elder sister ; she was too old for 
 the boys, who were still at college, to be disturbed by her 
 preseneei And she would work in that house where every- 
 body worked. She would help the little community pending 
 the time when she might meet and love some worthy fellow 
 who would marry Tier, 
 
 Five more years elapsed without Marie consenting to quit 
 that happy home. The sterling education she had received 
 was lodged in a vigorous brain, which contented itself with the 
 acquirement of knowledge. Yet she had remained very pure 
 and healthy, even very naive, maidenly by reason of her natural 
 rectitude. And she was also very much a woman, beautifying 
 and amusing herself with a mere nothing, and ever showing 
 
 f' aiety and contentment. Moreover, she was in no wise of a 
 reamy nature, but very practical, always intent on some work 
 or other, and only asking of life such tlungs as life could give, 
 without anxiety as to what might lie beyond it. She lovingly 
 remembered her pious mother, who had prepared her for her 
 first Communion in tears, imagining that she was opening 
 heaven's portals to her. But since she had been an orphan 
 she had of her own accord ceased all practice of religion ; her 
 good sense revolting and scorning the need of aay moral 
 police regulations to make her do her duty. Indeed, she con- 
 sidered such regulations dangerous and destructive of true 
 health. Thus, Uke M^re-Grand, she had come to a sort of 
 quiet and almost unconscious atheism, not after the fashion 
 of one who reasons, but simply like the brave, healthy girl she 
 was, one who had long endured poverty without suffering 
 from it, and believed in nothing save the necessity of effort. 
 She had been kept erect, indeed, by her conviction that hap- 
 piness was to be found in the normal joys of life, hved 
 courageously. And her happy equilibrium of mind had ever 
 guided and saved her ; in such wise that she willingly listened 
 to her natural instinct, saying, with her pleasant laugh, that 
 this was, after all, her best adviser. She rejected two offers of 
 marriage, and on the second occasion as Guillaume pressed 
 her to accept, she grew astonished, and inquired if he had had 
 enough of her in the house. She found herself very comfort- 
 able, and she rendered service there. So why should she 
 leave and run the risk of being less happy elsewhere, particu- 
 larly as she was not in love with anybody ? 
 
 Then, by degrees, the idea of a marriage between Marie 
 and Guillaume presented itself ; and indeed what c&uld have 
 
A HOME OI-' JNJDUSTHY 123 
 
 been more reasonable and advantageous for all ? If Guillaumo 
 bad not mated again it was for his sons' sake, became he 
 feared that by introducing a stranger to the house he might 
 impair its quietude and gaiety. But now there was a woman 
 among them who already showed herself maternal towards 
 the boys, and whose bright youth had ended by disturbing 
 his own heart. He was still in his prime, and had always 
 held that it was not good for man to live alone, although, 
 personally, thanks to his ardour for work, he had hitherto 
 escaped excessive suffering in his bereavement. However, 
 there was the great difference of ages to be considered ; and 
 he would have bravely remained in the backgroimd and have 
 sought a younger husband for Marie, if his three big sons 
 and M^re-Grand herself had not conspired to effect his 
 happiness by doing all they could to bring about a marriage 
 which would strengthen every home-tie and impart, as it 
 were, a fresh springtide to the house. As for Marie, touched 
 and grateful to Guillaume for the manner in which he had 
 treated her for five years past, she immediately consented with 
 an impulse of sincere affection, in which, she fancied, she 
 could detect love. And at all events, could she act in a 
 more sensible, reasonable way, base her life on more certain 
 prospects of happiness ? So the marriage had been resolved 
 upon; and about a month previously it had been decided 
 that it should take place during the ensuing spring, towards 
 the end of April. 
 
 When Pierre, after alighting from the tramcar, began to 
 climb the interminable flights of steps leading to the Bue 
 St.-Eleuth^re, a feeling of uneasiness again came over him 
 at the thought that he was about to enter that suspicious 
 ogre's den where everything would certainly wound and 
 irritate him. Given the letter which Sophie had carried 
 thither on the previous night, announcing that the master 
 would not return, how anxious and upset must all its inmates 
 be ! However, as Pierre ascended the final flight and 
 nervously raised his head, the little house appeared to him 
 right atop of the hill, looking very serene and quiet under the 
 bright wintry sun, which had peered forth as if to bestow 
 upon the modest dwelling an affectionate caress. 
 
 There was a door in the old garden wall alongside 
 the Eue St.-Eleuth^re, almost in front of the broad thorough- 
 fare conducting to the basilica of the Sacred Heart ; but to 
 reach the house itself one had to skirt the wall and climb to the 
 
124 PARIS 
 
 Place du Tertre, where one found the facade and the entrance. 
 Some children were playing on the Place,_ which, planted as 
 it was with a few scrubby trees, and edged with humble shops — 
 a fruiterer's, a grocer's, and a baker's — looked like soma 
 square in a small provincial town. In a corner, on the left, 
 Guillaume'B dwelling, which had been whitewashed during 
 the previous spring, showed its bright frontage and five lifeless 
 windows, for all its life was on the other, the garden side, 
 which overlooked Paris and the far horizon. 
 
 Pierre mustered his courage, and pulling a brass knob 
 which glittered like gold, rang the bell. There came a 
 gay, distant jingle ; but for a moment nobody appeared, and 
 he was about to ring again, when the door was thrown wide 
 open, revealing a passage which ran right through the house, 
 beyond which appeared the ocean of Paris, the endless sea of 
 house roofs bathed in sunlight. And against this spacious, 
 airy background, stood a young woman of twenty-six, clad 
 in a simple gown of black wooUen stuff, half covered by a 
 large blue apron. She had her sleeves rolled up above her 
 elbows, and her arms and hands were still moist with water 
 which she had but imperfectly wiped away. 
 
 A moment's surprise and embarrassment ensued. The 
 young woman who had hastened to the door with laughing 
 mien, became grave and covertly hostile at sight of the visitor's 
 cassock. The priest thereupon realised that he must give his 
 name : ' I am Abb6 Pierre Froment.' 
 
 At this the young woman's smile of welcome came back to 
 her. ' Oh 1 I beg your pardon, monsieur — I ought to have 
 recognised you, for I saw you wish Guillaume good day one 
 morning as you passed.' 
 
 She said Guillanme ; she, therefore, must be Marie. And 
 Pierre looked at her in astonishment, finding her very 
 different from what he had imagined. She was only of 
 average height, but she was vigorously, admirably built, 
 broad of hip and broad of shoulder, with Uie small firm bosom 
 of an amazon. By her erect and easy step, instinct with all 
 the adorable grace of woman in her prime, one could divine 
 that she was strong, muscular, and healthy. A brunette, but 
 very white of skin, she had a heavy helm of superb black 
 hair, which she fastened in a negligent way, without any 
 show of coquetry. And under her dark looks, her pure, 
 intelligent brow, her delicate nose and gay eyes appeared full 
 of intense life ; whilst the somewhat heavier character of hex 
 
A HOME OF INDUSTRY 125 
 
 lower f eatUTDS, her fleshy lips, and full chin, bespoke her quiet 
 kindliness. She had surely come on earth as a promise of 
 every form of tenderness, every form of devotion. In a word, 
 she was a true mate for man. 
 
 However, with her heavy, straying hair and superb arms, 
 so ingenuous in their nudity, she only gave Pierre an impression 
 of superfluous health and extreme self-assurance. She dis- 
 pleased him and even made him feel somewhat anxious, as if 
 she were a creature different from all others. 
 
 ' It is my brother Guillaume who has sent me,' he said. 
 
 At this her face again changed ; she became grave and 
 hastened to admit him to the passage. And when the door 
 was closed she answered : ' You have brought us news of him 
 then 1 I must apologise for receiving you in this fashion. 
 The servants have just finished some washing, and I was 
 malnng sure if the work had been well done. Pray excuse 
 me, and come in here for a moment ; it is perhaps best that I 
 should be the first to know the news.' 
 
 So saying, she led him past the kitchen to a little room 
 which served as scullery and wash-house. A tub full of soapy 
 water stood there, and some dripping linen hung over some 
 wooden bars. ' And so, Guillaume ? ' she asked. 
 
 Pierre then told the truth in simple fashion; that hia 
 brother's wrist had been injured ; that he himself had witnessed 
 the accident, and that his brother had then sought an asylum 
 with him at Neuilly, where he wished to remain and get cured 
 of his injury in peace and quietness, without even receiving 
 a visit from his sons. While speaking in this fashion, the 
 priest watched the effect of his words on Marie's face : first 
 fright and pity, and then an effort to calm herself and judge 
 things reasonably. 
 
 'His letter quite froze me last night,' she ended by 
 replying. ' I felt sure that some misfortune had happened. 
 But one must be brave and hide one's fear from others. His 
 wrist injured, you say — it is not a serious injury, is it ? ' 
 
 ' No ; but it is necessary that every precaution should be 
 taken with it.' 
 
 She looked him well in the face with her big frank eyes, 
 which dived into his own as if to reach the very depths of hia 
 being, though at the same time she plainly sought to restrain 
 the score of questions which rose to her lips. ' And that is 
 all, he was injured in an accident,' she resumed ; ' ho didn't 
 dsk you to tell na anything further about it ? ' 
 
125 PARTS 
 
 ' No ; be simply desires that you will not be anxious.' 
 
 Thereupon she insisted no further; but shovred herself 
 obedient and respectful of the decision which Guillaume had 
 arrived at. It sufficed that he should have sent a messenger 
 to reassure the household — she did not seek to learn anymore. 
 And even as she had returned to her work in spite of the secret 
 anxiety in which the letter of the previous evening had left 
 her, so now with her air of quiet strength, she recovered aa 
 appearance of serenity, a quiet smile and clear brave glance. 
 
 ' Guillaume only gave me one other commission,' resumed 
 Pierre, ' that of handing a little key to Madame Leroi.' 
 
 ' Very good,' Marie answered, ' Mere-Grand is here ; and, 
 besides, the children must see you. I wiU take you to 
 them.' 
 
 Once more quite tranqiiil, she examined Pierre without 
 managing to conceal her curiosity, which seemed of rather a 
 kindly nature blended with an element of vague pity. Her 
 fresh white arms had remained bare. In all candour she 
 slowly drew down her sleeves ; then took off the large blue 
 apron, and showed herself with her rounded figiire, at onca 
 robust and elegant, in her modest black gown. He mean- 
 while looked at her, and most certainly he did not find her to 
 his liking. On seeing her there before him, so natural, healthy, 
 and courageous, quite a feeling of revolt arose within liivu, 
 though he knew not why. 
 
 ' Will you please follow me, Monsieur I'Abbe ? ' she said. 
 ' We must cross the garden,' 
 
 On the ground-floor of the house, across the passage, and 
 facing the kitchen and the scullery, there were two other 
 rooms, a library overlooking the Place du Tcrtre, and a 
 dining-room whoso wiuclows opened into the garden. The 
 four rooms on the first floor served as bedchambers for the 
 father and the three boys. As for the garden, originally but 
 a small one, it bad now been reduced to a kmd of gravelled 
 yard by Use erection of the large workshop at one end of it. 
 Of the former greenery, however, there still remained twp 
 huge plmntress with old knotted trunks, as well as a big 
 clump of lilac bushes, which every spring were covered \vitii 
 bloom. And in front of the latter Mario had arranged a 
 broad flower-bed, in which she amused herself with growing a 
 few roses, sorue wallflowers, and some mignonette. 
 
 With a wave of her hand as she went past, she called 
 Pierre's attention to the black plumtresa and the Ulaes aia^ 
 
A HOME OF INDUSTRY 127 
 
 roses, which showed but a few greenish spots, for winter still 
 held the little nook in sleep. 'Tell Guillaumo,' she said, 
 ' that he mast make haste to get well and be back for the 
 first shoots.' 
 
 Then, as Pierre at that moment glanced at her, she all at 
 once flushed purple. Much to her distress, sudden and in- 
 voluntary blushes would in this wise cocasionally come upon 
 her, even at the most innocent remarks. She found it 
 ridiculous to feel such childish emotion when she had so 
 br%ve a heart. But her pure maidenly blood had retained 
 exqftiisite delicacy, such natural and instinctive modesty that 
 Ehe yielded to it perforce. And doubtless she had merely 
 blushed because she feared that the priest might think she 
 had referred to her marriage in speaking of the spring. 
 
 ' Please go in. Monsieur I'Abb^. The children are there, 
 all three.' And forthwith she ushered him into the work- 
 shop. 
 
 It was a very spacious place, over sixteen feet high, with 
 a brick flooring and bare walls painted an iron grey. A sheet 
 of light, a streaming bath of sunshine, spread to every corner 
 through a huge window facing the south, where lay the 
 immensity of Paris. The Venetian shutters often had to be 
 lowered in the summer to attenuate the great heat. From 
 morn till night the whole family lived here, closely and 
 affectionately united in work. Each was installed as fancy 
 listed, having a particular chosen place. One half of the 
 building was occupied by the father's chemical laboratory 
 with its stove, experiment tables, shelves for apparatus, glass 
 cases and cupboards for phials and jars. Near all this 
 Thomas, the eldsst-son, had installed a little forge, an anvil, 
 a vice bench, in fact everything necessary to a working 
 mechanician, such as he had becomo since tr.kin^ his 
 bachelor's degree, from his desire to remain with his iather 
 and help him with certain researches and inventions. 
 Then, at the other end, the younger brothers, Franjois and 
 Antoine, got on very well together on either side of a broad 
 table which stood amidst a medley of portfolios, nests of 
 drawers and revolving book-stands. Fran9ois, laden with 
 academical' laurels, first on the pass list for the Ecole Nor- 
 male, had entered that college where young men are trained 
 for university professorships, and was there preparing for his 
 Licentiate degree, while Antoine, who on reaching the third 
 9lasg at the Lyces Ccxidorcet had taken a dislike to classical 
 
taS PARIS , 
 
 Btudies, now devoted himself to his calling as a Vrood-engravet. 
 And, in the full light nnder the window, Mfire-Grand and 
 Marie likewise had their particular table, where needlework, 
 embroidery, all sorts of chiffons and delicate things lay about 
 near the somewhat rough jumble of retorts, tools, and big 
 books. 
 
 Marie, however, on the very threshold called out in her 
 calm voice, to which she strove to impart a gay and cheering 
 accent : ' Children ! children I here is Monsieur I'Abb^ with 
 news of father I ' 
 
 Children, indeed ! Yet what motherliness she already set 
 in the word as she applied it to those big fellows whose elder 
 sister she had long considered herself to be I At three-and- 
 twenty Thomas was quite a colossus, already bearded and 
 extremely like his father. But although he had a lofty brow 
 and energetic features, he was somewhat slow both in mind 
 and body. And he was also taciturn, almost unsociable, 
 absorbed in filial devotion, delighted with the manual toil 
 which made him a mere workman at his master's orders. 
 Fran9ois, two years younger than Thomas, and nearly as tall, 
 showed a more refined face, though he had the same large 
 brow and same firm mouth, a perfect blending of health and 
 gtrength, in which the man of intellect, the scientific 
 Normalian could only be detected by the brighter and more 
 subtle sparkle of the eyes. The youngest of the brothers, 
 Antoine, who for his eighteen years was almost as strong as 
 his elders, and promised to become as tall, differed from them 
 by his lighter hair and soft, blue dreamy eyes, which he had 
 inherited from his mother. It had been difficult, however, 
 to distinguish one from the other when all three were school- 
 boys at the Lyc^e Condorcet ; and even nowadays people 
 made mistakes unless they saw them side by side, so as to 
 detect the points of difference which were becoming more 
 marked as age progressed. 
 
 On Pierre's arrival the brothers were so absorbed in their 
 work that they did not even hear the door open. And again, 
 as in the case of Marie, the priest was surprised by the dis- 
 cipline and firmness of mind, which amidst the keenest 
 anxiety gave the young fellows strength to take up their 
 daily task. Thomas, who stood at his vice-bench in a blouse, 
 was carefully filing a little piece of copper with rough but 
 skilful hands. Fran9ois, leaning forward, was writing in a 
 bold, firm fashion, whilst on the other side of the tabloi 
 
A HOME OF INDUSTRY 129 
 
 Antoine, with a slender graver between his fingers, finished a 
 block for an illustrated newspaper. 
 
 However, Marie's clear voice made them raise their heads : 
 ' Children, father has sent you some news ! ' 
 
 Then all three with the same impulse hurriedly quitted 
 their work and came forward. One could tell that directly 
 there was any question of their father they were drawn 
 together, blended one with the other, so that but one and the 
 same heart beat in their three broad chests. However, a 
 door at the far end of the work-room opened at that moijient, 
 and M^re-Grand, coming from the upper floor where she and 
 Marie had their bedrooms, made her appearance. She had 
 just absented herseK to fetch a skein of wool ; and she gazed 
 fixedly at the priest, unable to understand the reason of his 
 presence. 
 
 Marie had to explain matters. ' M^re-Grand,' said she, 
 ' this is Monsieur I'Abbe Froment, Guillaume's brother ; he 
 has come from him.' 
 
 Pierre on his side was examining the old lady, astonished 
 to find her so erect and full of life at seventy. Her former 
 beauty had left a stately charm on her rather long face ; 
 youthful fire still lingered in her brown eyes ; and very firm 
 was the contour of her pale lips, which in parting showed 
 that she had retained all her teeth. A few white hairs alone 
 silvered her black tresses, which were arranged in old-time 
 fashion. Her cheeks had but slightly withered, and her deep, 
 symmetrical wrinkles gave her countenance an expression of 
 much nobility, a sovereign air as of a queen-mother, which, 
 taU and slight of stature as she was, and invariably gowned 
 in black woollen stuff, she always retained, no matter how 
 humble her occupation. 
 
 ' So Guillaume sent you, monsieur ? ' she said ; 'he is 
 injured, is he not ? ' 
 
 Surprised by this proof of intuition, Pierre repeated his 
 story. ' Yes, his wrist is injured — but oh 1 it's not a serious 
 matter so far.' 
 
 On the part of the three sons, he had divined a sudden 
 quiver, an impulse of their whole beings to rush to the help 
 and defence of their father. And for their sakes he sought 
 words of comfort : ' He is with me at Neuilly. And with 
 due care it is certain that no dangerous complications will 
 arise. He sent me to tell you to be in no wise uneasy about 
 him.' 
 
I30 PARIS 
 
 M^re-Graad for her part evinced no fears, but preseryed 
 great calmness, as if the priest's tidings contained no.tliiBg 
 beyond what she had known already. If anything, she 
 seemed rather relieved, freed from anxiety 'which she had 
 confided to none. ' If he is with you, monsieur,' she 
 answered, ' he is evidently as comfortable as he can be, and 
 sheltered from all risks. We were surprised, however, by his 
 letter last night, as it did not explain why he was detained, 
 and we should have ended by feeling frightened. But now 
 everything is satisfactory.' 
 
 Mere-Grand and the three sons, foUowing Marie's example, 
 sought no further explanation. On a table near by, Pierre 
 noticed several morning newspapers lying open and displaying 
 column after column of particulars about the crime. The 
 sons had certainly read those papers, and had feared lest their 
 father should be compromised in that frightful a:^aii:. How 
 far did- their knowledge of the latter go ? They must be 
 ignorant of the part played by Salvat. It was surely im- 
 possible for them to piece together all the unforeseen circum- 
 stances which had brought about their father's meeting with 
 the workman, and then the crime. Mere-Grand, no doubt, 
 was in certain respects better informed than the others. But 
 they, the sons and Marie, neither knew nor sought to know 
 anything. And thus what a wealth of respect and affection 
 there was in their unshakable confidence in the father, in 
 the tranquillity they displayed directly he sent them word 
 that they were not to be anxious about him ! 
 
 'Madame,' Pierre resumed, 'GmUaimie told me to give 
 you this little key, and to remind you of what he charged 
 you to do, if any misfortune should befaU him.' 
 
 She started, but so sUghtly that it was scarcely perceptible ; 
 and taking the key, she answered as if some ordinary wish on 
 the part of a sick person were alone in question. ' Very well. 
 Tell him that his wishes shall be carried out.' Then she 
 added, ' But pray take a seat, monsieur.' 
 
 Pierre, indeed, had remained standing. However, he now 
 felt it necessary to accept a chair, desirous as he was of hiding 
 the embarrassment which he still felt in this house, although 
 he was ere familh there. Marie, who could not live without 
 occupation for her fingers, had just returned to some em- 
 broidery, some of the fine needlework which she persisted 
 in executing for an establishment dealing in baby-linen and 
 bridal troussecmx ; for she wished at any rate to earn her 
 
A HOME OF INDUSTRY 131 
 
 own pocket-money, she often said with a laugh. MSre-Grand, 
 too, from habit, which she followed even when visitors were 
 present, had once more started on her perpetual stppking- 
 mending ; while FrEtn^ois and Antoine had again seated 
 themselves at their table ; and Thomas alone remained on his 
 legs, leaning against his bench. All the eharm of industrious 
 intimacy pervaded the spacious, sun-lit room. 
 
 ' But we'll aU go to see father to-morro^y,' Thomas sud- 
 denly exclaimed. 
 
 Before Pierre could answer Marie raised her head. ' No, 
 no,' said she, ' he does not wish any of us to go to him ; for 
 if we slnouid be watched and followed we should betray the 
 secret of his retreat. Isn't that so, Monsieur I'Abbd ? ' 
 
 ' It would indeed be prudent of you to deprive yourselves 
 of the pleasv^re of embracing him until he himself can come 
 hdif^ here. It will be a matter of some two or three weeks,' 
 answered Pierre. 
 
 Mere-Grand at once expressed approval of this. 'No 
 doubt,' said she. ' Nothing could be more sensible.' 
 
 So the three sons did not insist, but bravely accepted the 
 secret anxiety in which they must for a time live, renouncing 
 the visit which would have caused them so much delight 
 because their father bade them do so and because his safety 
 depended perhaps on their obedience. 
 
 However, Thomas resumed : ' Then, Monsieur I'Abb^, will 
 you please tell him that as work will be interrupted here, I 
 shall return to the factory during his absence. I shall be 
 more at ease there for some researches on which we are 
 engaged,' 
 
 ' Apd please tell him from me,' put in Francois, ' that he 
 mustn't worry about my examination. Things are going very 
 well, i feel almost certain of success.' 
 
 Pierre promised that he would forget nothing. However, 
 Marie raised her head, smiling and glancing at Antoine, who 
 had remained silent with a far-away look in his eyes. ' And 
 you, little one,' said she, ' don't you send bim any message ? ' 
 
 Emerging from a dream, the young fellow also began to 
 smile. ' Yes, yes, a message that you love him dearly, and 
 that he's to be quick back for you to make him happy.' 
 
 At this they all became merry, even Marie, who in lieu of 
 embarrassmeiit showed a tranquil gaiety born of confidence in 
 the future. Between her and the young men there was 
 nought but happy affection. And z, grave smile appeared 
 
 e2 
 
132 PARIS 
 
 even on the pale lips of MSre-Grand, who likewise approved 
 of the happiness which life seemed to be promising. 
 
 Pierre wished to stay a few minutes longer. They all 
 began to chat, and his astonishment increased. He had gone 
 from surprise to surprise in this house where he had expected 
 to find equivocal, disorderly life and rebellion against social 
 laws, such as destroys morality. But instead of this he 
 had found loving serenity, and such strong discipline that 
 life there partook of the gravity, almost the austerity of con- 
 vent life, tempered by youth and gaiety. The vast room was 
 redolent of industry and quietude, warm with bright sunshine. 
 However, what most particularly struck him was the Spartan 
 training, the bravery of mind and heart among those sons 
 who allowed nothing to be seen of their personal feelings, and 
 did not presumeto judge their father, but remained content 
 with his message, ready to await events, stoical and silent, 
 while carrying on their daUy tasks. Nothing could be more 
 simple, more dignified, more lofty. And there was also the 
 smiling heroism of M^re-Grand and Marie, those two women 
 who slept over that laboratory where terrible preparations 
 were manipulated, and where an explosion was always 
 possible. 
 
 However, such courage, orderliness, and dignity merely sur- 
 prised Pierre, without touching him. He had no cause for com- 
 plaint, he had received a poUte greeting if not an affectionate 
 one, but then he was as yet only a stranger there, a priest. 
 In spite of everything, however, he remained hostile, feeling 
 that he was in a sphere where none of his own torments 
 could be shared or even guessed. How did those folks manage 
 to be so calm and happy amidst their religious unbelief, their 
 exclusive faith in science, in presence of that terrifying Paris 
 J. which spread before them the boundless sea, the growling 
 abomination of its injustice and its want ? As this thought 
 came to him he turned his head and gazed at the city through 
 the huge window, whence it stretched away, ever present, 
 ever living its giant life. And at that hour, under the oblique 
 sunrays of the winter afternoon, all Paris was speckled with 
 luminous dust, as if some invisible sower, hidden amidst the 
 glory of the planet, were fast scattering seed which fell upon 
 every side in a stream of gold. The whole field was covered 
 with it ; for the endless chaos of house roofs and edifices 
 seemed to be land in tilth, furrowed by some gigantic plough. 
 And Pierre in his uneasiness, stirred despite everything by 
 
A HOME OF INDUSTRY 133 
 
 an invincible need of hope, asked himself if this was not 
 a good sowing, the furrows of Paris strewn with light by the 
 divine sun for the great future harvest, that harvest of truth 
 and justice of whose advent he had despaired. 
 
 At last he rose and took his leave, promising to return at 
 once, if there should be any bad news. It was Marie who 
 showed him to the front door. And there another of those 
 childish blushes which worried her so much suddenly rose 
 to her face, when she, in her turn, vrished to send her 
 loving message to the injured man. However, with her gay, 
 candid eyes fixed on those of the priest, she bravely spoke the 
 words : ' Good-bye, Monsiem I'Abbi. Tell Guillaume that I 
 love him and await him.' 
 
 Ill 
 
 PBNUBT AND TOID 
 
 Thebe days went by, and every morning Guillaume, confined 
 to his bed and consumed by fever and impatience, experienced 
 fresh anxiety directly the newspapers arrived. Pierre had 
 tried to keep them from him, but Guillaume then worried 
 himself the more, and so the priest had to read him column 
 by column aU the extraordinary articles that were published 
 respecting the crime. 
 
 N«ver before had so many rumours inundated the press. 
 Even the ' Globe,' usually so grave and circumspect, yielded 
 to the general furore, and printed whatever statements reached 
 it. But the more unscrupulous papers were the ones to read. 
 The ' Voix du Peuple ' made all possible use of the public 
 feverishness to increase its sales. Each morning it employed 
 some fi:esh device, and printed some frightful story of a 
 nature to drive people mad vsdth terror. It related that 
 not a day passed without Baron Duvillard receiving threaten- 
 ing letters of the coarsest description, announcing that his 
 wife, his son, and his daughter would all be killed, that he 
 himself would be butchered in turn, and that do what he 
 might his house would none the less be blown up. And as a 
 measure of precaution the house was guarded day and night 
 by a perfect army qf plain-clothes oi^cers. Then another 
 article contained an amazing piece of invention, Spm^ 
 
134 PARIS 
 
 Anarchists, after carrying barrels of powder into a sewer near 
 the Madeleine, were said to have undermined the whole 
 district, planning a perfect volcano there, into which one-half 
 of Paris would sink. And at another time it was alleged that 
 the police were on the track of a terrible plot which embraced 
 all Europe, from the depths of Russia to the shores of Spain. 
 The signal for putting it into execution was to be given in 
 France, and there Would be a three days' massacre, with 
 grape shot Sweeping every one off the Boulevards, and the 
 Seine running red, swollen by a torrent of blood. Thanks to 
 these able and intelligent devices of the Press, terror now 
 reigned in the city ; frightened foreigners fled fro'" the hotels 
 en masse ; and Paris had become a mere mad-Louse, where 
 the most idiotic delusions at once found credit. 
 
 It was not aU this, however, that worried Guillaume. He 
 was only anxious about Salvat and the various new ' clues ' 
 which the newspaper reporters attempted to foUow up. The 
 engineer was not yet arrested, and, so far indeed, there had 
 been no statement in print to indicate that the police were on 
 his track. At last, however, Pierre one morning read a 
 paragraph which made the injured man turn pale. 
 
 ' Dear me ! It seems that a tool has been found among 
 the rubbish at the entrance of the Duvillard mansion. It is a 
 bradawl, and its handle bears the name of Grandidier, which 
 is that of a man who owns some well-known metal works. 
 He is to appear before the investigating magistrate to-day.' 
 
 Guillaume made a gesture of despair. ' Ah 1 ' said he, 
 ' they are oh the right track at last. That tool must certainly 
 have been dropped by Salvat. He worked at Grandidier'a 
 before he came to me for a few days. And from Grandidier 
 they will learn all that they need to know in order to follow 
 the scent.' 
 
 Pierre then remembered that he had heard the Grandidier 
 factory mentioned at Montmartre. Guillaume's eldest son, 
 Thomas, had served his apprenticeship there, and even Worked 
 there occasionally nowadays. 
 
 ' You told bie,' resumed Guillattme, ' that during my 
 absence Thomas intended to go back to the factory. It's in 
 connection with a new motor which he's plaiming, and has 
 almost hit upon. If there should be an investigation there, he 
 may be questioned, atld may refuse to answer, in order to 
 guard his secret. Bo he ought to be warned of this, warned 
 H,ti once I ' 
 
PENURY AND TOIL 135 
 
 Without trying to extract any more preciss statement 
 from his brother, Pierre obligingly offered his services. ' If 
 you like;' said he, ' I will go to see Thomas this afternooh. 
 Perhaps I may come across Monsieur Grandidier himself and 
 learn how far the affair has gone, and what was said at the 
 investigating ms?istrate's.' 
 
 With a hioist glance and an affectionate grasp of the hand, 
 Guillaume at once thanked Pierre. ' Yes, yes, birother, go 
 there, it will be good and brave of you.' 
 
 ' Besides,' continued the priest, ' I really wanted to go to 
 Montmartre to-day. I haven't told you so, but something 
 has been worrying me. If Salvat has fled he must have left 
 the woman and the child all alone up yonder. On the 
 morning of the day when the explosion took place I saw 
 the poor creatures in such a state of destitution that I 
 can't think of them without a heart-pang. Women and 
 children so often die of starvation when the man is no longer 
 there.' 
 
 At this, Guillaume, who had kept Pierre's hand in his 
 own, pressed it more tightly, and in a trembling voice ex- 
 claimed : ' Yfes, yeSj and that will be good and brave too. Go 
 there, brothfer, go there.' 
 
 That holTse of the Eue des Saules, that horrible home of 
 want and agony, had lingered in Pierre's memory. To him it 
 was like an enib'odimfent bf the whole filthy cloaca in which 
 the poor of Paris suffer unto death. And on returning thither 
 that afternoon, he found the same slimy mud around it ; its 
 yard littered with the same filth, its dark, damp stairway? 
 redolent of the same stench of neglect and poverty, as before. 
 In Winter tiriie, while the fine central districts of Paris are 
 dried and cleansed, the far-away districts of the poor remain 
 gloomy and miry, beneath the everlasting tramp of the 
 wretched ones who dwell in thetn. 
 
 Eemembering the staircase which conducted to Salvat's 
 lodging, Pierre began to oUmb it amidst a loud screaming of 
 little children, who suddenly became quiet, letting the house 
 sink into death-like silence once more. Then the thought 
 of Laveuve, Whb had perished up there like a stray dog, Came 
 back to Piette. And he shuddered When, on the top landing, 
 he knocked at Salval'a door, and prdfomid silence alone 
 answered him. Not a breath was to be heard. 
 
 Howevet, he knocked again, and as nothing stirred he 
 began to thitik that nobody iodtlld be there. Perhaps Salvat 
 
136 PARIS 
 
 had returned to fetch the woman and the child, and perhaps 
 they had followed him to some humble nook abroad. Still 
 this would have astonished him ; for the poor seldom quit 
 their homes, they die where they have suffered. So he gave 
 another and a gentle knock. 
 
 And at last a faint sound, the light tread of little feet was 
 heard amidst the silence. Then a weak, childish voice 
 ventured to inquire : ' Who is there ? ' 
 
 ' Monsieur I'Abbd.' 
 
 The silence fell again, nothing more stirred. There was 
 evidently hesitation on the other side. 
 
 ' Monsieur I'Abb^ who came the other day,' said Pierre 
 again. 
 
 This evidently put an end to all uncertainty, for the door 
 was set ajar and little Celine admitted the priest. ' I beg 
 your pardon, Monsieur I'Abbd,' said she, 'but Mamma 
 Theodore has gone out, and she told me not to open the door 
 to anyone.' 
 
 Pierre had, for a moment, imagined that Salvat himself 
 was hiding there. But with a glance he took in the whole of 
 the small bare room, where man, woman, and child dwelt 
 together. At the same time, Madame Theodore doubtless 
 feared a visit from the poUce. Had she seen Salvat since the 
 crime ? Did she know where he was hiding ? Had he come 
 back there to embrace and tranqnillise them both ? 
 
 ' And your papa, my dear,' said Pierre to Cdline, ' isn't he 
 here either ? ' 
 
 ' Oh 1 no, monsieur, he has gone away." 
 
 ' What, gone away ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, he hasn't been home to sleep, and we don't know 
 where he is.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he's working.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! he'd send us some money if he was." 
 
 ' Then he's gone on a journey, perhaps ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know.' 
 
 ' He wrote to Mamma Thfodore, no doubt ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know.' 
 
 Pierre asked no further questions. In fact, he felt some- 
 what ashamed of his attempt to extract information from this 
 child of eleven, whom he thus found alone. It was quite 
 possible that she knew nothing, that Salvat, in a spirit of 
 prudence, had even refrained fiom sending any t dings of 
 himself. Indeed, there was an expression of truthfulness on 
 
PENURY AND TOIL 137 
 
 the child's fair, gentle, and intelligent face, which was grave 
 with the gravity that extreme misery imparts to the young. 
 
 ' I am sorry that Mamma Theodore isn't here,' said 
 Pierre, ' I wanted to speak to her.' 
 
 'But perhaps you would like to wait for her. Monsieur 
 I'Abhe. She has gone to my Uncle Toussaint's in the Eue 
 Marcadet ; and she can't stop much longer, for she's been 
 away more than an hour.' 
 
 Thereupon C6hne cleared one of the chairs on which lay 
 a handful of scraps of wood, picked up on some waste 
 ground. 
 
 The bare and fireless room was assuredly also a breadless 
 one. Pierre could divine the absence of the bread-winner, 
 the disappearance of the man who represents will and 
 strength in the home, and on whom one stiU relies even when 
 weeks have gone by without work. He goes out and scours 
 the city, and often ends by bringing back the indispensable 
 crust which keeps death at bay. But with his disappearance 
 comes complete abandonment, the wife and child in danger, 
 destitute of all prop and help. 
 
 Pierre, who had sat down and was looking at that poor, 
 little, blue-eyed girl, to whose lips a smile returned in spite 
 of everything, could not keep from questioning her on 
 another point. ' So you don't go to school, my child ? ' said 
 he. 
 
 She faintly blushed and answered : ' I've no shoes to go in.' 
 
 He glanced at her feet, and saw that she was wearing a 
 pair of ragged old list-slippers, from which her little toes 
 protruded, red with cold. 
 
 ' Besides,' she continued, ' Mamma Theodore says that 
 one doesn't go to school when one's got nothing to eat. 
 Mamma Theodore wanted to work but she couldn't, because 
 her eyes got burning hot and fuU of water. And so we don't 
 know what to do, for we've had nothing left since yesterday, 
 and if Uncle Toussaint can't lend us twenty sous it'll be all 
 over.' 
 
 She was still smiling in her unconscious way, but two big 
 tears had gathered in her eyes. And the sight of the child 
 shut up in that bare room, apart from aU the happy ones of 
 earth, so upset the priest that he again felt his anger with 
 want and misery awakening. Then, another ten minutes 
 having elapsed, he became impatient, for he had to go on to 
 the Graqdidier worljs before returning home. 
 
1.38 PARIS 
 
 ' I don't know Why Mamma Theodore doesn't come back,* 
 repeated Cdline, 'Perhaps she's chatting.' Then, an idea 
 occurring to her shis bontinued : ' I'll take you to my Uncle 
 Toussaint's, Monsieur I'Abbe, if you like, It's close by, just 
 round the corner.' 
 
 ' But you have no shoes, my child.' 
 
 ' Oh 1 that don't matter, I walk all the same.' 
 
 Thereupon he rose from the chair and said simply : ' WeU, 
 yes, that wUl be better, take me there. And I'll buy you 
 some shoes.' 
 
 Celine turned quite pink, and then made haste to follow 
 him after carefully locking the door of the room like a good 
 little housewife, thoughj truth to tell, there was nothing worth 
 stealing in the place. 
 
 In the meantime it had occurred to Madame Theodore 
 that before calling on her brother Toussaint to try to borrow 
 a franc from him, she might first essay her luck with her 
 younger sister, Hortense, who had married Uttle Chretiennot, 
 a clerk, and occupied a flat of fom- rooms on the Boulevard 
 de Eochechouart. This was quite an experiment, however, 
 and the poor woman only made the venture because Celine 
 had been fasting since the previous day. 
 
 Eugene Toussaint, the mechanician, a man of fifty, was 
 her step-brother, by the first marriage contracted by her 
 father. A young dressmaker, whom the latter had sub- 
 sequently Wedded, had borne him three daughters, Pauline, 
 L^onie, and Hortense. And on his death, his son Eugene, 
 who already had a wife and child of his own, had found him- 
 self for a short time with his stepmother and sisters on his 
 hands. The stepmother, fortunately, was an active and 
 intelUgent woman, and knew how to get out of difficulties. 
 She returned to her former workroom where her daughter 
 Pauline was already apprenticed, and she next placed L^nie 
 there ; so that, Hortense, the youngest girl, who was a spoilt 
 chUd, prettier and more delicate than her sisters, was alone 
 left at school. And, later on — after Pauline had married 
 Labitte the stonemason, and L6o1ub, Salvat the journeyman- 
 engineer — Hortense; while serving as assistant at a con- 
 fectioner's in the Eue des Martyrs, had there become acquainted 
 with Chretiennot, a clerk, who married hfer. L6onie had 
 died young, only a few weeks after her mother ; Pauline, 
 forsaken by her husband, lived with her brother-in-law 
 Salvat, and Hortense alone wore a light silk gown on 
 
PENURY AND TOIL 139 
 
 SundaySj resided in a new house, and ranked as a ' lady,' at 
 the price, however, of interminable worries and great priva- 
 tion. 
 
 Madame Theodore knew that her sister was generally 
 short of money towards the month's end, and therefore felt 
 rather ill at ease in thus venturing to apply for a loan. 
 Chretietmot, iHDreover, embittered by his own mediocrity, had 
 of late years accused his wife of being the causa of their sjpoilt 
 life, and had ceased all intercourse with her relatives. Tous- 
 sainb, ho doubt, was a decent workman ; but that Madame 
 Theodore who lived in misery with her brother-in-law, and 
 that Salvat who wandered from workshop to workshop like an 
 incorrigible ranter whom no einployer would keep ; those two 
 with their want and dirt and rebellion, had ended by incensing 
 the vain little clerk, who was not only a great stickler for the 
 proprieties, but was soured by all the difficulties he en- 
 countered in his own life. And thus he had forbidden 
 Hortense to receive her siBtet. 
 
 AU th6 same, as Madame Theodore climbed the carpeted 
 staircase of the house on the JSoulevatd Eochechouart, she 
 experienced a certain feeUng bf pride at the thought that she 
 had a relatibn living in sitch luxury. The Chrdtieniiots' rooms 
 were on the third floor, and overlooked the courtyard. Their 
 femme-de-minage — a woman who goes out by the day or hour 
 bharririg, cleaning, and cooking — came back every afternoon 
 about fbur o'clock to see to the dinner, and that day she was 
 already there. She adthitted the visitor, though she Could 
 not conceal her anxious surprise at her boldness in calling in 
 such slatternly garb. HoWfever, bn the very threshold of the 
 little salon, Madame Theodore stopped short in wondeirinent 
 herself, for her sister Hortense was sobbing and crouching on 
 one of the arrhehairs, upholstered in blue repp, of which she 
 was so proud. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? What has hsbppened tb ybu ? ' asked 
 Madame Theodore. 
 
 Her sister, though scarcely two-and-thirfcyj was no Ibnger 
 ' the beautiful Hdrlense ' of fotmer daysi She retained a doll- 
 like appearance, with a tall slim figure, pfetty eybs, and fine, 
 fair hair. But she who had once taken so much bare bf her- 
 self, had now ccme down to dressing-gowns of doubtful 
 cleanliness. Het eyelids, too, were reddenings and blotches 
 were appearing on her skiii. She had begun to fade after 
 giving birth to two daughters, one of Tvhom was now nine and 
 
140 PARIS 
 
 the other seven years of age. Very proud and egotistical, she 
 herself now regretted her marriage, for she had formerly 
 considered herself a real heauty, worthy of the palaces and 
 equipages of some Prince Charming. And at this moment 
 she was plunged in such despair that her sister's sudden appear- 
 ance on the scene did not even astonish her : ' Ah ! it's you,' 
 she gasped. ' Ah ! if you only knew what a blow's fallen on 
 me in the middle of all our worries ! ' 
 
 Madame Theodore at once thought of the children, 
 Lucienne and Marcelle. * Are your daughters ill ? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' No, no, our neighbour has taken them for a walk on the 
 Boulevard. But the fact is, my dear, I'm enceinte, and when 
 I told Chr^tiennot of it after lunch, he flew into a most 
 fearful passion, saying the most dreadful, the most cruel 
 things ! ' 
 
 Then she again sobbed. Gentle and indolent by nature, 
 desirous of peace and quietness before anything else, she was 
 incapable of deceiving her husband, as he well knew. But 
 the trouble was that an addition to the family would upset the 
 whole economy of the household. 
 
 ' Mem Dieu ! ' said Madame Theodore at last, ' you brought 
 up the others, and you'U bring up this one too.' 
 
 At this an explosion of anger dried the other's eyes ; and 
 she rose, exclaiming : ' You are good, you are ! One can 
 see that our purse isn't yours. How are we to bring up 
 another child when we can scarcely make both ends meet, as 
 it is ? ' 
 
 And thereupon, forgetting the pride and vanity which 
 usually prompted her to silence or falsehood, she freely 
 explained their embarrassment, the horrid pecuniary worries 
 which made their life perpetual misery. Their rent amounted 
 to 700 francs,* so that out of the 8,000 francs* which 
 the husband earned at his office, barely a couple of hun- 
 dred were left them every month. And how were they to 
 manage with that httle sum, provide food and clothes, keep up 
 their rank and so forth ? There was the indispensable black 
 coat for monsieur, the new dress which madame must have at 
 regular intervals, under penalty of losing caste, the new boots 
 which the children required almost every month, in fact, all 
 sorts of things that could not possibly be dispensed with. 
 One might strike a dish or two out of the bill of fare, and 
 1 ^28. ' £l?0. 
 
PENURY AND TOIL 141 
 
 even go without ■wine; but evenings came when it waa 
 absolutely necessary to take a cab. And, apart from aU this, 
 one had to reckon with the wastefulness of the children, the 
 disorder in which the discouraged wife left the house, and the 
 despair of the husband, who was convinced that he would 
 never extricate himself from his difficulties, even should his 
 salary some day be raised to as high a figure as 4,000 francs. 
 Briefly one here found the unbearable penury of the petty 
 clerk, with consequences as disastrous as the dire want of 
 the artisan : the mock fa9ade and lying luxury ; all the dis- 
 order and suffering which lie behind intellectual pride at not 
 earning one's living at a bench or on a scaffolding. 
 
 ' WeU, well,' repeated Madame Theodore, ' you can't kill 
 the child.' 
 
 ' No, of course not ; but it's the end of everything,' 
 answered Hortense, sinking into the armchair again. 
 ' What will become of us, mon Dieu I What will become of 
 us ! ' Then she collapsed in her unbuttoned dressing gown, 
 tears once more gushing from her red and swollen eyes. 
 
 Much vexed that circumstances should be so unpropitious, 
 Madame Theodore nevertheless ventured to ask for the loan 
 of twenty sous ; and this brought her sister's despair and 
 confusion to a climax. ' I really haven't a centime in the 
 house,' said she, 'just now I borrowed ten sous for the 
 children from the servant. I had to get ten francs from the 
 Mont de Pi6t6 on a little ring the other day. And it's always 
 the same at the end of the month. However, Chretiennot 
 will be paid to-day, and he's coming back early with the 
 money for dinner. So if I can I will send you something 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 At this same moment the servant hastened in with a dis- 
 tracted air, being well aware that monsieur was in no wise 
 partial to madame's relatives. ' Oh madame, madame ! ' 
 said she ; ' here's master coming up the stairs.' 
 
 ' Quick then, quick, go away ! ' cried Hortense, ' I should 
 only have another scene if he met you here. To-morrow, if 
 I can, I promise you.' 
 
 To avoid Chretiennot who was coming in, Madame 
 Theodore had to hide herself in the kitchen. As he passed, 
 she just caught sight of him, well dressed as usual in a 
 tight-fitting frock coat. Short and lean, with a thin face and 
 long and carefully tended beard, he had the bearing of one 
 who is both vain and quarrelsome. Fourteen years of ofSea 
 
142 PARIS 
 
 life hacl withered him, and now the long evening hours which 
 he spent at a neighbouring cafd were finishing him off. 
 
 When Madame Theodore had quitted the house she 
 turned with dragging steps towards the Rue Mareadet where 
 the Toussaints resided. Here, again, she had no great ex- 
 pectations, for she well knew what ill-luck and worry had 
 fallen upoji he? brother's home. During the pre^ous 
 autumn Toussaint, though he was but fifty, had experienced 
 an attack of paralysis which had laid him up for nearly five 
 months. Prior to this mishap he had borne himself bravely, 
 working steadily, abstaining firom drink, and bringing up 
 his three children in true fatherly fashion. One of them, a 
 girl, was now married to a carpenter, with whom she had 
 gone to Le Havre, while of the others, both boys^rone, a 
 soldier, had been killed in Tonquin, and the other, Charles, 
 after serving his time in the army, had become a working 
 mechanician. However, Toussaint'slongiUnesshadexhausted 
 the little money which he had in the Savings' Bank, and now 
 that he had been set on his legs again, he had to begin life 
 once more without a copper in pocket. 
 
 Madame Theodore found her sister-in-law alone in the 
 cleanly kept room which she and her husband occupied. 
 Madame Toussaint was a portly woman, whose corpulence 
 increased in spite of everything, whether it were v/orry or 
 fasting. She had a round puffy face with bright little eyes ; 
 and was a very worthy woman, whose only faults were an 
 inclination for gossiping and a fondness for good cheer. 
 Before Madame Theodore even opened her mouth she under- 
 stood the object of her visit. ' You've come on us at a bad 
 moment, my dear,' she said, 'we're stumped. Toussaint 
 wasn't able to go back to the works till the day before 
 yesterday, and he'U have to ask for an advance this 
 evening.' 
 
 As she spoke, she looked at the other with no great 
 sympathy, hurt as she felt by her slovenly appearance. 
 * And Salvat,' she added, ' is he still doing nothing ? ' 
 
 Madame Theodore doubtless foresaw the question, for she 
 quietly lied : ' He isn't in Paris ; a friend has taken him off 
 for some work over Belgium way, and I'm waiting for him 
 to send us something.' 
 
 Madame Toussaint stm remained distrustful, however: 
 ' Ah 1 ' she said, » it's just as well that he shouldn't be in 
 Paris ; for with all those bomb affairs we coulda't help tWnMng 
 
PENURY AND TOIL 143 
 
 of him, and saying that he was quite mad enough to mix 
 himself up in them." 
 
 The other did not even blink. If she knew anything she 
 kept it to herself. 
 
 ' But you, my dear, can't you find any work ? ' continued 
 Madame Toussaint. 
 
 ' Well, what would you have me do with my poor eyes ? 
 It's no longer possible for me to sew.' 
 
 'That's true. Every seamstress gets done for. When 
 Toussaint was laid up here I myself wanted to go back to my 
 old calling as a needlewoman. But there I I spoilt every- 
 thing and did no good. Charring's about the only thing that 
 one can always do. Why don't you get some jobs of that 
 kind ? ' 
 
 ' I'm trying, but I can't find any.' 
 
 Little by little Madame Toussaint was softening at sight 
 of the other's miserable appearance. She made her sit down, 
 and told her that she would give her something if Toussaint 
 should come home with money. Then, yielding to her 
 partiality for gossiping, since there was somebody to listen to 
 her, she started telluig stories. The one affair, however, on 
 which she invariably harped was the sorry business of her son 
 Charles and a servant girl at a wine shop over the way. 
 Before going into the army Charles had been a most hard- 
 working and affectionate son, invariably bringing his pay 
 home to his mother. And certainly he still worked and 
 showed himself good-natured; but military service, while 
 sharpening his wits, had taken away some of his Uking for 
 ordinary manual toU. It wasn't that he regretted army life, 
 for he spoke of his barracks as a prison. Only his tools had 
 seemed to him rather heavy when, on quitting the service, 
 he had been obliged to take them in hand once more. 
 
 'And so, my dear,' continued Madame Toussaint, ' it's all 
 very well for Charles to be kind-hearted, he can do no more for 
 us. I knew that he wasn't in a hurry to get married, as it 
 costs money to keep a wife. And he was always very 
 prudent too, with girls. But what would you have ? There 
 was that moment of folly with that Eugenie over the road, a 
 regular baggage who's abeady gone off with another man, 
 and left her ba;by behind. Charles has put it out to nurse, 
 and pays for it every month. And a lot of expense it is too, 
 perfect ruinatiop. Yes, indeed, every possible misfortune has 
 fallen on us.' 
 
144 PARIS 
 
 In this wise Madame Toussaint rattled on for a full half- 
 hour. Then seeing that waiting and anxiety had made her 
 sister-in-law turn very pale, she suddenly stopped short. 
 ' You're losing patience, eh ? ' she exclaimed. ' The fact is, 
 that Toussaint won't be back for some time. Shall we go to 
 the works together ? I'll easily find out if he's likely to 
 bring any money home.' 
 
 They then decided to go down, but at the bottom of the 
 stairs they lingered for another quarter of an hour chatting 
 with a neighbour who had lately lost a child. And just as 
 they were at last leaving the house they heard a call ; 
 ' Mamma ! mamma ! ' 
 
 It came from little Celine, whose fece was beaming with 
 deUght. She was wearing a pair of new shoes, and devouring a 
 cake. ' Mamma,' she resumed, ' Monsieur I'Abbe who came 
 the other day wants to see you. Just look 1 he bought ma 
 all this ! ' 
 
 On seeing the shoes and the cake, Madame Theodore 
 understood matters. And when Pierre, who was behind the 
 chUd, accosted her she began to tremble and stammer thanks. 
 Madame Toussaint on her side had quickly drawn near, not indeed 
 to ask for anything herself, but because she was well pleased at 
 such a God-send for her sister-in-law, whose circumstances 
 were worse than her own. And when she saw the priest slip 
 ten francs into Madame Theodore's hand she explained to 
 him that she herself would willingly have lent something had 
 she been able. Then she promptly started on the stories of 
 Toussaint's attack and her son Charles's Ul-luck. 
 
 But Celine broke in : ' I say, mamma, the factory where 
 papa used to work is here in this street, isn't it ? Monsieur 
 I'Abbe has some business there.'' 
 
 ' The Grandidier factory,' resumed Madame Toussaint ; 
 ' well, we were just going there, and we can show Monsieur 
 l'Abb6 the way.' 
 
 It was ordy a hundred steps off. Escorted by the two 
 women and the child, Pierre slackened his steps and tried 
 to extract some information about Salvat from Madame 
 
 ' Although the children of the French peasantry almost invariably 
 address their parents as ' father ' and ' mother,' those of the working 
 classes of Paris, and some other large cities usually employ the 
 terms ' papa ' and ' mamma.' I mention this because some readers, 
 mindful of the customs of the English working-classes, might think it 
 strange that Celine should make use of the latt«r appellations. — Trans. 
 
PENURY AND TOIL 145 
 
 Theodore. But she at once became very prudent. Blie had 
 not seen him again, she declared ; he must have gone with a 
 mate to Belgium, where there was a prospect of some work. 
 From what she said, it appeared to the priest that Salvat 
 had not dared to return to the Rue des Saules since his 
 crime, in which all had collapsed, both his past life of toil 
 and hope, and his recent existence with its duties towards the 
 woman and the child, 
 
 'There's the factory. Monsieur I'Abb^,' suddenly said 
 Madame Toussaint, ' my sister-in-law won't have to wait now, 
 since you've been kind enough to help her. Thank you for 
 her and for us.' 
 
 Madame Theodore and C6Une likewise poured forth their 
 thanks, standing beside Madame Toussaint in the everlasting 
 mud of that populous district, amidst the jostling of the 
 passers-by. And lingering there as if to see Pierre enter, 
 they again chatted together and repeated that, after all, some 
 priests were very kind. 
 
 The Grandidier works covered an extensive plot of ground. 
 Facing the street there was only a brick building vrith 
 narrow windows and a great archway, through which one 
 espied a long courtyard. But, in the rear, came a suite of 
 habitations, workshops, and sheds, above whose never-ending 
 roofs arose the two lofty chimneys of the furnaces. From 
 the very threshold one detected the rumbling and quivering 
 of machinery, all the noise and bustle of work. Black 
 water flowed by at one's feet, and up above white vapour 
 spurted from a slender pipe with a regular strident puff, as if 
 it were the very breath of that huge, toiling hive. 
 
 Bicycles were now the principal output of the works. When 
 Grandidier had taken them on leaving the Dijon Arts and 
 Trades School, they were declining under bad management, 
 slowly building some little motive engines by the aid of 
 antiquated machinery. Foreseeing the future, however, he 
 had induced his elder brother, one of the managers of the 
 Bon March6, to finance him, on the promise that he would 
 supply that great emporium with excellent bieyclea at 
 150 francs a-piece. And now quite a big venture was in 
 progress, for the Bon March6 was already bringing out the 
 new popular machine 'La Lisette,' the 'Bicycle for the 
 Million,' as the advertisements asserted. Nevertheless, 
 Grandidier was still in all the throes of a great struggle, for 
 his new machinery had cast a heavy burden of debt on him. 
 
146 PARIS 
 
 At the same time each month brought its effort, the perfecting 
 or simplifyihg of sdrne jpatt of the iriiiiufaetiire, which meant 
 a saving ill the filtiirg. Hfe was ever dn the watbh ; alid evefl 
 no\*' was thiiikitig of retferlihg td the CbfasttUctibn of little 
 motets, for Ht! thoiight hfe cbilld fbrfesee in the near future the 
 triunit)h of the mbtor-bd,t. 
 
 Oil askihg if M. Thblnas Fidhient ^tfetb thetS, Pifelrre ^v-aS 
 led by an old workman to a little shed, wliere he found the 
 yollng f eUow in the linen jaokbt of a lileohanician, his hands 
 black with filings. He was adjusting some piecb of 
 mechahism, and nobody would hate sUspbcied him to b8 a 
 former pupil of the Lyc6e Condorcet, one of thS thrbe cleVfer 
 Fibments whd had thety rtodfetfed the name fambti^. But 
 his only desire had beeh to act aS hia father's fibithfiil servant, 
 the arm that forgbs, the embdflinlfent of the matiUal toil by 
 which cohbeptibns are realised. And, a giaht of three-and- 
 twbiity, ever attentive aud courageous, he Wks likewise a man 
 of patient, silent, and sober nature. 
 
 Oil catcHihg sight dt Pierre he quivered l^ith diitiety 
 and sprang forward. ' Father is ho worse ? ' he askfed. 
 
 ' No, no. But he rbad in the papers a stdify bf a brad- 
 awl fttund iii the Eue Godot-de-Matii:dy, atid it inadb liim 
 antibus, bebauS^ thb pbllce may make a perquisition here.' 
 
 thomaS, his own aiixiety allayed, began to smils. ' Tell 
 hiiti he may sleS^ quietly,' he responded. ' iTo begin with, 
 I've unfortunately hot ybt atHariged our little motor sUch as I 
 vrartt it to be. Ih fadt, I haveh't yet put it togfether. I'm 
 keeping the piebes at om* hoUsB, and nobody ktibws exactly 
 what I come to do at the factory. So the pdJice may 
 seatdh, thejf wUl flhd riothirig here. Our secret runs no risk.' 
 
 Pierre prdinisefl to repeat these WoirdS to Gulllaume, Sb as 
 tb disgi^iatb his feats. However, iVhen he tried to SoUnd 
 Thdihas, and ascertain the position of affaiirs, what tbe factbry 
 people thbUght of the discovery df the bradawl, and \ybether 
 there was as ^et any suspicion of SalVat, he once more found 
 the yoUhg man tacituril, atld elicited merely a ' yes ' or a 
 'no' ifa answer to his inquiries. The poUCe had not been 
 there as yet ? No. But the men must Surely haVe meiltiohed 
 Balvat ? Yes, of course, bii accbunt of his Anarchist bpihibhs. 
 But Mfhat had Grandidier, the master, said oh returning frord 
 the ihveatigating magistrate's ? Aa for that Thomas knew 
 
 hothittg; He had hot Sebh d-rahdidier tbdl dajr. 
 ' But hete he fcohies I ' tke ybtiiig inaii ai 
 
 added. ■ Ah I 
 
PENURY AND TOIL 147 
 
 poor fellow, hia WifS, I failfcy, had another attack this 
 motning.' 
 
 He alluded tb a frightful stbijjr which GuilUtlihg htld 
 alrfeady reodilfated to Piterre. Glandidito, fdlllhg in Ibvb \Vith a 
 very beadtifill gitl, had iil&i:tied hei: ; btit fbr flvfe years rib^V 
 she had been insane : the result of puei-pferal f feivet atld the de^th 
 of an infant soti. Her hUsbatili; with his atdfent dffetitibn for 
 hbir, had befell un*illiiig tb pldbfe h6t in ah ksyliini, ahd had 
 acbbrdiiife;Iy ke^lt hfet iVith hirU ill a little pavilion, -tvhbse 
 windows, overlooking the courtyard of the factOryj always 
 retaainea closed. She was nfevfer sfeeh; aiid hevfer did he 
 speak of hfer to ahybbdy. It waS said that she -vfras ilsually 
 like a child, Very gfeiltlfe and Very sad; and still bfeadtiful, -ivith 
 qiifeeiily gbldfefa hair. At times, hbweVei:, dtiikcks of ftaiitib 
 rtadheSS Balll6 upon hfet, afad he theh had tb Stru^glb ^itk hfer, 
 ahd bftati hbld hfet fbr hbtirs in his arniS tb ptsvfent hat ^6'isi. 
 spUtting her head against the walls. Fieairful shtieks wbUld 
 Hn^ blit fbt a timej and thto death-like dilerice wbUld fall 
 bneb inbrb. 
 
 GraildidiBi: came intb the Shed whterfe Tiiorhas Was Vork- 
 iilg. A haudsoinb rttan of fbrty; with an ehergbtie f abe, hfe 
 had a aatk ahd heay^ ihbustachbj bttlSh-Uke ha,it, mA clfeSr 
 byeS; HB Wa§ vbry |)attiai tb Thbinas, and during thfe ybiirig 
 felloe's atltittotibesHiii thetB, had treated hlin like a Sbh. 
 Ana he hbW let hilh tBturh thilh^ir MfeiiBvei' it plfeaSed hiili, 
 And lilabbd hife appanbfeS at his diSjibsai. Hb kiifeW that hb 
 Waa tryiiig to dbifi^b a Hew inolbr, a qufeStiofa in Which he 
 hinigBlf was bxti-femfeiy ihlerbytfea ; itill he eviiis^d the greatest 
 dlSbtetibh, hbver qtiestibhiiig ^Thbihas^ but awaiting the result 
 bf his bttdeavoiir^. 
 
 ' This is my uhblb, Abb6 Frbrilbiit, who lobked in tb Wish 
 Mb gbod aay,' ^aid thfe youlig tnaa, IhtrodUcihg Pibrfb; 
 
 Ah bifihangb bf pblit^ retnarks ensilbd. Theh Grandidier 
 ^btight tb cast bff the SadhesS which made i)ebple think him 
 steth ahd har^hj ahd bxelaiihed in a bahtbrlhg tbhb : ' I 
 didn't tell you, Thbmas. bt tdy btlsihess With the ihvestigating 
 Inagistratb. If I hadti't bnjbyed a gbbd rBjilitatibri we ShdUld 
 have had an the Spies bf the I'rfefebtUte hete. The magis- 
 trate waiitbd hie tb fex^laih the prbsenbb bt that bradaWl in 
 the Jliie G-babt-de-Mfturoy'; ahcl I at otibe tfealisfed that, ih his 
 btlihibh) the bhlttHt milst haVe Wbiiked Here-. Pbt my patt I 
 immediateljr thoiighii bf SalVat. Btlt I dbn't denbunce iied|)le. 
 The magistrate has my hiring-book, and as for Salvat I 
 
 1.2 
 
148 PARIS 
 
 simply answered that he worked here for nearly three months 
 last autumn, and then disappeared. They can look for him 
 themselves ! Ah ! that magistrate ! you can picture him : a 
 little fellow with fak hair and cat-like eyes, very careful of 
 his appearance, a society man evidently, but quite frisky at 
 being mixed up in this affair.' 
 
 ' Isn't he Monsieur Amadieu ? ' asked Pierre. 
 
 ' Yes, that's his name. Ah ! he's certainly delighted with 
 the present which those Anarchists have made him, with that 
 crime of theirs.' 
 
 The priest listened in deep anxiety. As his brother had 
 feared, the true scent, the first conducting wire had now been 
 found. And he looked at Thomas to see if he also were dis- 
 turbed. But the young man was either ignorant of the ties 
 which linked Salvat to his father, or else he possessed gfreat 
 power of self-control, for he merely smiled at Grandidier's 
 sketch of the magistrate. 
 
 Then, as Grandidier went to look at the piece of 
 mechanism which Thomas was finishing, and they began to 
 speak about it, Pierre drew near to an open doorway which 
 communicated with a long workshop where engine lathes were 
 rumbling, and the beams of press-driUs fallmg quickly and 
 rhythmically. Leather gearing spun along with a continuous 
 gliding, and there was ceaseless bustle and activity amidst 
 the odoriferous dampness of all the steam. Scores of per- 
 spiring workmen, grimy with dust and filings, were stiU toil- 
 ing. Still this was the final effort of the d^y. And as three 
 men approached a water-tap near Pierre to wash their hands, 
 he listened to their talk, and became particularly interested 
 in it when he heard one of them, a tall ginger-haired fellow, 
 call another, Toussaint, and the third, Charles. 
 
 Toussaint, a big, square-shouldered man with knotty 
 arms, only showed his fifty years on his round, scorched foce, 
 which besides being roughened and wrinkled by labour, 
 bristled with grey hairs, which nowadays he was content to 
 shave off once a week. It was only his right arm that was 
 affected by paralysis, and moved rather sluggishly. As for 
 Charles, a living portrait of his father, he was now in all the 
 strength of his six-and-twentieth year, with splendid muscles 
 distending his white skin and a full face barred by a heavy 
 black moustache. The three men, like their employer, were 
 speaking of the explosion at the DuviUard mansion, of the 
 
PENURY AND TOIL 149 
 
 bradawl found there, and of Salvat, whom they all now 
 suspected. 
 
 ' Why only a brigand would do such a thing ! ' said 
 Toussaint. ' That Anarchism disgusts me. I'll have none oi 
 it. But all the same it's for the hourg&ois to settle matters. 
 If the others want to blow them up, it's their concern. It's 
 they who brought it about.' 
 
 This indifference was undoubtedly the outcome of a life of 
 want and social injustice ; it was the indifference of an old 
 toiler, who weary of struggling and hoping for improvements, 
 was now quite ready to tolerate the crumbling of a social 
 system, which threatened him with starvation in his impotent 
 old age. 
 
 ' Well, you know,' rejoined Charles, ' I've heard the 
 Anarchists talking, and they really say some very true and 
 sensible things. And just take yourself, father ; you've been 
 working for thirty years, and isn't it abominable that you 
 should have had to pass through all that you did pass through 
 recently, liable to go off like some old horse that's slaughtered 
 at the first sign of illness ? And, of course, it makes me 
 think of myself, and I can't help feeling that it won't be at all 
 amusing to end like that. And may the thunder of God kill 
 me if I'm wrong, but one feels half inclined to join in their 
 great flare-up if it's really to make everybody happy ! ' 
 
 He certainly lacked the flame of enthusiasm, and if he 
 had come to these views it was solely from impatience to lead 
 a less toUsome life, for compulsory military service had given 
 him ideas of equality among all men — a desire to struggle, 
 raise himself, and obtain his legitimate share of life's enjoy- 
 ments. It was, in fact, the inevitable step which carries each 
 generation a little more forward. There was the father, who, 
 deceived in his hope of a fraternal republic, had grown 
 sceptical and contemptuous ; and there was the son advancing 
 towards a new faith, and gradually yielding to violent ideas, 
 since political Uberty had failed to redeem its promises. 
 
 However, as the big, ginger-haired fellow grew angry, and 
 shouted that if Salvat were guilty, he ought to be caught and 
 guillotined at once, without waiting for judges, Toussaint 
 ended by endorsing his opinion. ' Yes, yes, he may have 
 married one of my sisters, but I renounce him. . . . And yet, 
 you know, it would astonish me to find him guilty, for he 
 isn't wicked at heart. I'm sure he wouldn't kill a fly." 
 
ISP PAIiJS 
 
 S Bnt whf^t WQ^l^ ypu b?),ye ? ' put in Ch^rl^g. f Wli^i^ ft 
 man's driven to extremities he goes mad.' 
 
 They ha4 noif washed tbemselyes ; bti|i Tp^ss£|,^qt) on 
 perpeiving bis e^lplQyer, Upge?:pct t^ipre ift or^ei: to asjf ^^ fp? 
 E(,n a^^ance. As it Ji^ppepe^, Qrawcli4ieT> *ftei^ cqr^ially 
 shaking }ia»4s with Bipvre, apprpac:jied tbei oW ¥fl?kfliw qI 
 his own accord, for he held him Ir ^stpeifl. An^i af|^y 
 liste^iing to him, bP gave biw a iioe fov the pasWer on ^ card. 
 As a rule, hp was ^}tRgetbpr ^g£|.inst tjie practice of a^va^ncwg 
 moriey, and his men disliked him, and sftid he wa? pver rigid, 
 though in poi^it of fact he hafl ^ gppd Jiefirt. Bwli he b^'d feia 
 position as aw qpiplpypr to defeo^, afl^ tp biift popcessip^g 
 meant ruin. With such keen competition on all sides, w|th 
 the capitalist system entailing a terrible and ^jpessant 
 struggle, hpw cpuld one grant the demands pf the 'vsrorkers, 
 even whe^ they we?e legitim£|,te ? 
 
 Svid^en compassion came upon Pier^re wben, aftpr quitting 
 Tbowa-s, bp saw Crrandicjier, who had flnisbefl bis rptm^, 
 crossing tbe poiirtyard in tbe direction of the pjpse^ pavilion, 
 where all the grief of bis bpart-tragedy awaited hiip. Here 
 was that man waging the b?itt|e pf life, defending his fprtunp, 
 with the risk tb^t bis business might meW V^^ amidst the 
 furipus w^rf^re bet\^een cE^pital and labpur ; and ^ tbs sanie 
 time, in lieu pf evening TPPPSe, finding nougbt but angfliah at 
 his hearth : a wa^ wife, an adored wife, who h^cl sunk back 
 into inlancy, an4 W^s fpr ever dea4 tp ^pye I ^<^ incurable 
 was bis secret despair ! Jlven on tbe days when be triunxpbed 
 in bis wprkshops, dis?.ster aWE^ited bini S^t borne. And PPIil^ W3. 
 more unhappy man, any man more Reserving p| pity, be 
 fpund even arupng the pppr wbp die4 of bnnger, jinipng tbflse 
 glponiy workers, tbpse vanquisbed spns of labpur ^J^p baited 
 and whp envie^ him ? 
 
 When Pierre fpund himself in tbe sti^epl agq4P fee was 
 astonished tp spe Madarue Tpuss^rint flifld Msidsims Tb^P^pre 
 still there witb little Online. With tbeir feet in tb^ mud, 
 like bi'is of wreckage against which be^t the ceaseless flpw of 
 wayfarers, tbey h^fl HngeTe4 there, gtiU ^fl ever pbaitiing, 
 loqH£i,pious an4 ^olefui, lulling tbw wretpbe^ness tp rest 
 beneath js. cleluge pf tittle-tattle- 4nq wbe^ Tqussffrott 
 {■pllowed by bis spn, came out, deligbte4 witli the a^v^ii^pe he 
 had secured, he ^Igo fpund them pn tbe same §ppt. Tben he 
 told Madame Theodore tbe story of tbe brj^^awl, and the idea 
 which had occurred to him and all bis mates that Salvafc 
 
PENURY AND TOIL 151 
 
 Ciighli well lie the culprit. She, however, though tviming 
 very pq^Je, tegan to protest, conoealipg both yi(\^^\ s}ie l^newi 
 §fld wl}at she really thought. 
 
 ' J tell you I haven't seen hini for several days,' sai^ she. 
 ' He must certainly be in Belgium. And as for a bomb, that's 
 rubbish. You say yourself that he's very gentle and wouldn't 
 harm a fly ! ' 
 
 A little later as Pierre journeyed back to Neuilly in a 
 tramcar he fell into a deep reverie. All the stir and bustle ot 
 that working class district, the buzzing of the factory, the 
 overflowing activity of that hive of labour, seemed to have 
 lingered within him. Apd foi^ the first tinie, amidst his 
 worries, he realised the necessity of ■s^qrk. Yes, it W£|.s fatal, 
 but it alsp gave health z,^A strength. Jn effort wl4ch 
 gustains and saves, Jie at lasji found a soUd ba-sis on which 
 all rnigjit be reared. W^s this, then, the first gleam of a 
 new faith ? But ah ! wh^t mockery 1 ^York an uncertainty, 
 work hopeless, work always ending in injustice I And then 
 want ever on the watch for the toiler, strangling him as soon 
 as slack times came round, and casting him into the streets 
 like a dead dog immediately old age set yo.. 
 
 On ^eacl^ing Neuilly, Pierre found Eertheroy at Guillaume's 
 bed.3ide. The o|d savant had just dressed the injured wrist, 
 and was not yet pertain that no pomplications would arise. 
 ' The fact ^s,' he said to (juillgiume, ' you dop't keep quiet. I 
 always find you in a state of feverish emotion which is thp 
 worst possible thing for you. You piust ea^m yourself, my 
 dear fellow, and not allow anything to wprry you.' 
 
 A few minutes later, however, just as he was going awayi 
 be said with his pleasant snaile : ' Po you know that a 
 newspaper writer came to interview me ai^out that explosion ? 
 Those reporters imagine that scientific inen know everything I 
 1 tpH the one wbo called on me tfiat it wquld be very kind of 
 hita to eplighten m^ as fo wbp-t powclet ^^s employed. And, 
 hj the way, I am giving ^ lesson OA explosives at my 
 laboratory to-niorro^. Thpre wiU be just a few person^ 
 present. You niight pome £|.s well. Pierre, so as to give an 
 account of it to Guiliannje ; it wonld interest hiru-' 
 
 At ^ glance Irom his bro^jier, Pierre accepted tbe 
 invitatifln. ^hen, Pertbei^oy t3.ving gone, lie recounted all 
 be had learnt during the afternoon, how Salvat was suspected, 
 and how tl^e investigfiting magistrate had been put on the 
 tighi scent. iV^d at ^]li^ news, biirhing fever again came 
 
154 PARIS 
 
 over Guillaume, who with his head buried in the pillow, and 
 his eyes closed, stammered as if in a kind of nightmare: 
 ' Ah ! then, this is the end I Salvat arrested, Sal vat interro- 
 gated ! Ah ! that so much toil and so much hope should 
 crumble I ' 
 
 IV 
 
 OULTUBB AND HOPE 
 
 On the morrow, punctually at one o'clock, Pierre reached the 
 Eue d'Ulm, where Bertheroy resided in a fairly large house, 
 which the State had placed at his disposal, in order that he 
 might install in it a laboratory for study and research. Thus 
 the whole first floor had been transformed into one spacious 
 apartment, where, from time to time, the illustrious chemist 
 was fond of receiving a limited number of pupils and 
 admirers, before whom he made experiments, and explained 
 his new discoveries and theories. 
 
 For these occasions a few chairs were set out before a 
 long and massive table, which was covered with jars and 
 appliances. In the rear one saw a furnace, while all 
 around were glass cases, full of vials and specimens. The 
 persons present were, for the most part, fellow savants, with 
 a few young men, and even a lady or two, and, of course, an 
 occasional journaUst. The whole made up a kind of family 
 gathering, the visitors chatting with the master in aU 
 freedom. 
 
 Directly Bertheroy perceived Pierre he came forward, 
 pressed his hand, and seated him on a chair beside Guil- 
 laume's son Pran9ois, who had been one of the first arrivals. 
 The young man was completing his third year at the Ecole 
 Normale, close by, so he only had a few steps to take to call 
 upon his master Bertheroy, whom he regarded as one of the 
 firmest minds of the age. Pierre was delighted to meet his 
 nephew, for he had been greatly impressed in his favour on 
 the occasion of his visit to Montmartre. Fran9ois, on his 
 side, greeted his uncle with all the cordial expansiveness of 
 youth. He was, moreover, well pleased to obtain some news 
 of his father. 
 
 However, Bertheroy began. He spoke in a familiar and 
 Bober fashion, but frequently employed some very happy 
 
CULTURE AND HOPE 153 
 
 expressions. At first he gave an account of his own ex- 
 tensive labours and investigations with regard to explosive 
 substances, and related with a laugh that he sometimes 
 manipulated powders which would have blown up the entire 
 district. But, said he, in order to reassure his listeners, he 
 was always extremely prudent. At last he turned to the 
 subject of that explosion in the Eue Godot-de-Mauroy, which, 
 for some days, had filled Paris with dismay. The remnants 
 of the bomb had been carefully examined by experts, and 
 one fragment had been brought to him, in order that he 
 might give his opinion on it. The bomb appeared to have 
 been prepared in a very rudimentary fashion ; it had been 
 charged with small pieces of iron, and fired by means of a 
 match, such as a child might have devised. The extra- 
 ordinary part of the affair was the formidable power of the 
 central cartridge, which, although it must have been a small 
 one, had wrought as much havoc as any thunder-bolt. And the 
 question was ;this : What incalculable power of destruction 
 might one not arrive at if the charge were increased ten, 
 twenty, or a hundredfold ! Embarrassment began, and 
 divergencies of opinion clouded the issue directly one tried to 
 specify what explosive had been employed. Of the three 
 experts who had been consulted, one pronounced himself in 
 favour of dynamite pure and simple ; but the two others, 
 although they did not agree together, believed in some com- 
 bination of explosive matters. He, Bertheroy, had modestly 
 declined to adjudicate, for the fragment submitted to him 
 bore traces of so slight a character, that analysis became 
 impossible. Thus he was unwilling to make any positive 
 pronouncement. But his opinion was that one found oneself 
 in presence of some unknown powder, some new explosive, 
 whose power exceeded anything that had hitherto been 
 dreamt of. He could picture some unknown savant, or some 
 ignorant but lucky inventor, discovering the formula of this 
 explosive under mysterious conditions. And this brought 
 him to the point he wished to reach, the question of all the 
 explosives which are so far unknown, and of the coming 
 discoveries which he could foresee. In the course of his 
 investigations he himself had found cause to suspect the 
 existence of several such explosives, though he had lacked 
 time and opportunity to prosecute his studies in that direc- 
 tion. However, he indicated the field which should be 
 explored, and the best way of proceeding. In his opinion it 
 
was tjipp jiljat Jf^y \]>,i^ iv,\w^'. •A-r4 ip » l^^^fia^ anfl eloquent perp- 
 ratjon, l^p ffpcjared tbat pxp'jfisives bad bitbe^tQ tieew 4egr^4e4 
 iiy heiflg f!piplpyp4 in idiqjijp spbefl^es qf veiigeanep aii4 destepo- 
 iiqfl ; ■\Yl|prp'£|,s iji "N^s in tbem ppssitjly tbat lay tbe liberating 
 force wjijph seicpcp \Fas seeking, tbe leve^; wbipb would cbangP 
 ibe f3.pe qf jibe wprld, wbpn they sbould fi^ve tppn so domestj- 
 catpd and fjiibdned as to jae only tbp obedient serva^ta pf 
 
 TIi^."qi:jghoi:it tbig familiar discqurse Pierfe eotd^ fpej that 
 F^raiigq^s ^£|,s g?;qwi^5g impassioned, quiveripg at jibqugbt of 
 tb§ vp,st bqpzpn witie}i tbe master opened up. Pe ^lifa- 
 p,el| b£|.d becpflip extreipply interested, for be epuld npt 
 do otliey^isa tban pptiop certain allusions, and connept 
 wbat he heard with 'what he had guessed of Guill^ume's 
 anxiety regarding t]iat secret yrbicb he feared to see at the 
 mercy of an investigating rnagistrate. And so as be, Pierre, 
 before going off with Fran5qis, ^pproq.piipd Bprtberpy tp ■vyisb 
 hini good-d^y> be pointedly remarked : ' Guillaume wiU be 
 vpry sqrry ^bat lie was unable to bear you iinfold those 
 Pidmirable ideas.' 
 
 Tbe old savant smiled. ' Ppob ! ' said be ; 'just give him 
 ^ summary qf what J said. IJe ■s^ill understand. He kno^s 
 n^ore a]30ut the nifttter than I do-' 
 
 In presence of tbe iUnstrious chemist, B'ran9ois preserved 
 tbp silent gravity of a respectful pupil, but when be and 
 Pierre had taken a fe\y steps dq'^ni the street, be suddenly 
 reniarked ; ' What a pity it is tbat a man of snch hrqad 
 intelligence, free from ail superstition, and anxious fpr the 
 gqlp triumph of truth, shquld have allowed himsplf to lie 
 plassified, ticketed, tpund round with titles and academical 
 funptions ! How greatly pur affection for him would increase 
 |f be took less State pay, and freed himself from all tlie grand 
 ppvdon^ which tie bis hands.' 
 
 ' 'Wh^t would you bave 1 ' ^r^oined Piprre, in a conciliatqry 
 spirit. ' A. man must live I A-t the same time \ belieye that 
 he dpps npt regard biniself as tied by anything.' 
 
 Thpn, as they had reaphed the entrance of the Beqle 
 Normale, tbe priest stopped, thinking tbat bis companiqn was 
 going befell to the pqllpge. But FranQois, raising big eyes and 
 glanPing at tl^e old place, remarked : ' ^p, np. to-day's Tburs- 
 day, and I'm at liliprty 1 Oil I we bave a deal of liberty, per- 
 haps top much. But for my part I'm well pleased at it, 
 for it often enables mp tp gp to Montmartrp and work at my 
 
CULTURE ^ND HOPE 155 
 
 p \\\% ti#^- \^\ Qftiy Mm^ ^)Pi)« \ \^^\ wy re?.! ^trwgti^ 
 d ciejiirness pf wxA: 
 
 Hi? preliininajcy ex^min^tjons ^ftd eptit|ad Jiirfi tfl a^dmis- 
 in at either the Epplepolytepl^fttijiie or tl;e ^oie !Kffi¥;^^a}e,^ 
 d he had chosen the latter, entering its scientific sectipfl 
 th ^Q. 1 a(g9.iiist his nftme. pig f^jiliei: |iq.4 ■yyisbpfl him to 
 (il^p STiye of E|.^ ayqc^tion, pli^t of p^-pfessor, eypn if pirc^^i- 
 ipees sl^QTil^ ftllow ^ii''^ ^° ren(ain i^dpBTOfiVpt wd follow 
 
 3 Q^n hppt, op leaving t]ae cpllege. E'r3,n9pis, who was very 
 acppipiig, ■^£13 nw prep^i^ring fpr big l^si e:^£Vfliiji3,tion there, 
 
 4 tl^e only re§t \\f tppj? -^as in veilkijig to ai;c[ f^rom Mwli- 
 artee, p;: ifl strblliflg through the I^iixppf^|ipni;g g£i,rdens. 
 
 Frp^n fprce of habit he na^iy turned tq^Eiri^a the latter, 
 pqmpfl^ied by Piprre a^d chatting ■^ith bim. Qnp fo^nd 
 e mildiipsg of sprirjg-time fb??e tbp'|i February afteriappii ; 
 r pale sunshine streamed between tbe trppg wbiph Tyere still 
 3,fless. It wag bl^eed one of those fiyst ^T^p d^ys "(yhich 4raw 
 itle gre§w gems from the b^^pcbes ol the ijlap bashes. 
 
 The Epple l^opriale was stiU the subjppt qf conversation 
 id ipierrp remarked : ' J must pwn thq,t I b^rdjy Jikp tbe 
 irit |ibq.ti prpyails there. Excellent work is done no doubt, 
 id the only ■sy^'y to fp^-ra professors Is to tef^ch mep the trade 
 ' cr£|,mming tberfi with thp rieoegs^ry knowledge, But the 
 :!fst is thfirt 4tliougb ^11 the gtu^PWts are frfilnpd for tbe 
 a.cbipg profpssion, ;^apy of then^ don't rerpaift in it, but go 
 i^ iiito tbp wcffld, t£(,l£e tp jOF'i^Us'p! P"^ inake \\ their bvisi- 
 iss tp control the s^rts, litprature and society, ^-iid thosp 
 ^o do this are fo? tbe most pa:ft unbearable. Aff^pr swear- 
 g ^y Voltaire they b^^e gope bacl£ to spiritualism and 
 ysticism, the lasi; draviflg-rpo^i cr3,ze. Now that a flrm 
 itb in so^e^^ce is regar(ied as bfu^sh and ipelegapt, tflpy 
 cipy that thpy rid tbemgelves of their oagte by feigning ami- 
 lip ^o^ht, ai^4 ignoranop and innopej^ce. '\(Yhat thpy mosl 
 \X \k tb^^t they may carry a scpnib of the schools about witb 
 eni, go tbey put on pxtrepiely Parisian airg, ypntiirp qn 
 mergayilts'aRfl sl^Hgi and fsgump a}} tbp grace qf flancing 
 ars in their eager desire to pleagp. ^qm tbat 4e§J¥e spring 
 p sarcastic sb^fts ■vybiph they aim at seip^ipe, they who pre- 
 qd th'at thpy frfto-vy eveyytbipg put ■^rbo go back to lihe belipf 
 
 ' The purposes of the iflcole Normale have been referred to on p. 127. 
 tlie Eoole PQlyteohnique young men leoeive much of the preliminary 
 lining 'VYj^icli t^ey require to beqoiR? eitliei: artillery officers, or iriili. 
 y, nayal, or piyil engineers. — 2V(^^s. 
 
iS6 PARIS 
 
 of the humble, the naive idealism of Biblical legends, just 
 because they think the latter to be more distinguished.' 
 
 Pran9ois began to laugh : ' The portrait is perhaps a little 
 overdrawn,' said he, ' still there's truth in it, a great deal of 
 truth.' 
 
 ' I have known several of them,' continued Pierre, who was 
 growing animated. ' And among them aU I have noticed that a 
 fear of being duped leads them to reaction against the entire 
 effort, the whole work of the century. Disgust with liberty, 
 distrust of science, denial of the future, that is what they now 
 profess. And they have such a horror of the commonplace 
 that they would rather believe in nothing or the incredible. 
 It may of course be commonplace to say that two and two 
 make four, yet it's true enough ; and it is far less foolish for a 
 man to say and repeat it than to believe, for instance, in the 
 miracles of Lourdes.' 
 
 Pran9ois glanced at the priest in astonishment. The 
 other noticed it and strove to restrain himself. Nevertheless, 
 grief and anger carried him away whenever he spoke of the 
 educated young people of the time, such, as in his despair, he 
 imagined them to be. In the same way as he had pitied the 
 toilers dying of starvation in the districts of misery and want, 
 so here he overflowed with contempt for the young men who 
 lacked bravery in the presence of knowledge, and harked back 
 to the consolation of deceptive spirituality, the promise of an 
 eternity of happiness in death, which last was longed for and 
 exalted as the very sum of life. Was not the cowardly 
 thought of refusing to live for the sake of living, so as to dis- 
 charge one's simple duty in being and making one's effort, 
 equivalent to absolute assassination of hfe ? However, the 
 ^gfo was always the mainspring, each one sought personal 
 happiness. And Pierre was grieved to think that those 
 young people, instead of discarding the past and marching on 
 to the truths of the future, were relapsing into shadowy meta- 
 physics through sheer weariness and idleness, due in part 
 perhaps to the excessive exertion of the century which had 
 been overladen with human toil. 
 
 However, Frangois had begun to smile again. ' But_ you 
 are mistaken,' said he, ' we are not all like that at the Ecole 
 Normale. You only seem to know the Normalians of the 
 Section of Letters, and your opinions would surely change if 
 you knew those of the Section of Sciences. It is quite true 
 that the reaction against Positivism is making itself felt 
 
CULTURE AND HOPE 157 
 
 long our literary fellow students, and that they, like others, 
 3 haunted by the idea of that famous bankruptcy of Science, 
 lis is perhaps due to their masters, the neo-spiritualists and 
 gmatical rhetoricians into ■whose hands they have fallen, 
 id it is still more due to fashion, the whim of the times which, 
 you have very well put it, regards scientific truth as bad 
 ste, something graceless and altogether too brutal for light 
 d distinguished minds. Consequently, a young fellow of 
 y shrewdness who desires to please is perforce won over 
 the new spirit.' 
 
 ' The new spirit ! ' interrupted Pierre, unable to restraiia 
 mself. ' Oh 1 that is no'mere innocent, passing fashion, it is 
 tactical device and a terrible one, an offensive return of the 
 iwers of darkness against those of light, of servitude against 
 36 thought, truth and justice.' 
 
 Then, as the young man again looked at him with grow- 
 g astonishment, he relapsed into silence. The figure of 
 onseigneur Martha had risen before his eyes, and he fancied 
 ! could again hear the prelate at the Madeleine, striving to 
 in Paris over to the policy of Eome, to that spurious neo- 
 ithoUcism which, with the object of destroying democracy 
 id science, accepted such portions of them as it could adapt 
 
 its own views. This was indeed the supreme struggle, 
 benoe came all the poison poured forth to the young. 
 ;erre knew what efforts were being made in religious circles 
 
 help on this revival of mysticism, in the mad hope of 
 bstening the rout of science. Monseigneur Martha, who 
 as all-powerful at the Catholic University, said to his 
 timates, however, that three generations of devout and 
 )cUe pupUs would be needed before the Church would again 
 ) absolute sovereign of France. 
 
 ' Well, as for the Ecole Normale,' continued Francois, ' I 
 isure you that you are mistaken. There are a few narrow 
 gots there no doubt. But even in the Section of Letters the 
 ajority of the students are sceptics at bottom — sceptics of 
 screet and good-natured average views. Of course they are 
 :ofessors before everything else, though they are a trifle 
 ihamed of it ; and, as professors, they judge things with no 
 btle pedantic irony, devoured by a spirit of criticism, and 
 lite incapable of creating anything themselves. I should 
 irtainly be astonished to see the man of genius whom we 
 pvait come out of their ranks. To my thinking indeed, it 
 ould be preferable that some barbarian genius, neither well 
 
158 PARi^ 
 
 read nor endbWed tifith eritiBM febult^, bir i)o\*rfer of -weighing 
 and shading thiilga, Brtbtlld isbnife and bfJfefi thb ri^xt c^iiturjr 
 ■with a iiEltbliai; sttbkB; sfehdillg up a fiilb flare of truth !kiid 
 reality. , . . Ho^evet, aS for pit cbinirEtdfeS bf the BeiBtitifliJ 
 Sebtibn, I asStire yoli thkt hfeb-Dathblibigitl aiid Mysticislii and 
 Ocoultisin, and evBry bthet branbh df ihe Mllioiifeible JiHari- 
 tastiiagoria ti-oublfe thfetli ter^ littlB indeed, tliey are not 
 making a teUgibd of scifehbfe, they reniain bp8h tb dbiibt bfa 
 many pbinta ; but they are inbstly lilen of vSry elbsbl: and firni 
 minds whose passion is the acquirement of cettAinty, And who 
 are ever absorbed in the invfestigatidns Whibh cofatinue 
 throughout the whblb vast flfeld of huinan knoMedge. . Thgy 
 haven't flihched, they have retnained I'bSitivikts, or Evolii- 
 tiohists, or DfeterininistS, and h^ve set their faith in obSetVatidh 
 and experiment to help on the final conquest bf the -^S^dfld;' 
 
 Fran9bis himself was girb-#iiig Bxcitedj as he thUS con- 
 fessed his faith while strolling along the qtiiBt BUhlit garden 
 tiathS. ' The yottng indeed !* he tbsiimed. ' Do pebble khbw 
 theih ? It makes us laugh wheh we see all sorts of ajiostles 
 fightitlg fbr us, ttyihg tb dttraet Mi, and sayihg that we ate 
 white oi blftdk or gtky, acBbtdihg to tke htife -S^hibh they H- 
 qiilte for the tritbHtih of theb particular ideas ! The real ^dtlhg 
 theti &,i-e ih the stihoolg, labdra.tories and librd,Hes. It's 
 they who work ahd whb'U bting to-morrbw tb the world. It's 
 not the ybung fellb^v^s of dihher ahd supper clubi, whb is^iie 
 mahifefetoes and indulge ih all sorts of extravagaiice; The 
 latter make a gresit deal of noise, no doubt ; in fact; thby 
 albne are heatd. Btlt if ybU kheW of the ceaseless efforts ELnd 
 tiassibhaie sttiving bf the others, thbSe whb tefaiaih silent, 
 absbrbed in their tasks. And I knovir many of them, thejr 
 are with their century, they hate rejected none of its hdjies, 
 but are ttiatcliing on tb the boming eehtur^, resolved to pursue 
 the work of their forerunners, ever going towards mbre light 
 and more equity. And jUst Speak to thtint of the bahkrtiptey 
 of science. They'll shrtig their ShotUdBrS at the mete ided, 
 fbir they knoA^ well enbtigh that Sbiefabb has never befbte ih- 
 flamed sb mahy hearts or achieved greater conquests ! It is 
 only if the schools, labbratbtieg feLtid libraries were blbseS, 
 and the sbbial soil tadibsblly bha,hgBd, that one -wbtild have 
 cause to feat a ftesh groivth of errbi? Siich aS weak hearts and 
 narrow minds hold sb dear ! ' 
 
 At this Jloint Ftah9ois's flhe flbW qf eloquence was 
 interttl^tea. A tall ybtihg fellb^ Stbpped td shake bands 
 
CULTURE AND HOPE 159 
 
 th him ; and Pierre tvas surpMsBd ib recogilise Bardii 
 ivillard's son Hyabiattle!, who bb^ed tb him in vfeiy correct 
 ?1&. 'Whiitl yoli hfete in cUi? bid quatlfei-,' exolfl,imed 
 •aneoi^. 
 
 ' My dear fellow, t'in going to Johas's, oveir yOhdfer, beliind 
 a Observatory. Don't you know Jonas ? Ah ! my dear 
 lo-vfr, he's a delightfill seulptbr, ■^Vho ha^ sticoSeded in doing 
 ray with niatter almost eiitiMj^. He has eelrved a figiirb of 
 omatt, no bigger thah the fitlgBi", and fentirsly soul, filfee 
 )ni all baseness ot fbtm, and yet corhpietS. All Woman, 
 deed, iii her essfehlidl syihbbUsiil I Ah ! it's grand, it's 
 er-jib'Wfering. A perfect sbhbnie bf segthetioS, a real re- 
 
 Francois sniiled as hb Ibbked at Syacinthe, biittoiied tip 
 
 his long, pleatfed frbck-edat, ■(^ilh hi^ iiiade-up face, ahd 
 refiilly cropped hair and bb^M. ' And yourself ? ' said he, 
 ; thought you were T<?orking, and ivere going to publish a 
 ;tle pobia, shortly ? ' . 
 
 ' Oh I the task of eifeatifag is so distasteful to me, iiiy 
 lar feUb\ir ! A single lihB olten tkkes rne weeks. . . . Still, 
 S, i have a littlb pbbtii on hand, " The End of Womaii." 
 id you Sbe, I'ln not so exclusive as some Jjeople preteiid, 
 icb i adihire Jona^, whb still .believes in Wbmari. llis 
 :cuse is feetilpturb, tvhicH, aftfer all, is at best siibh a gross 
 aterialistio art. Bilt in pofetry, gobd heavens, how we've 
 en bvetwheltoied with Wornah, always Wbman I It's surely 
 ne to drive her out of the teinple, and cleaiise it a little. 
 tt i it we were all purb and lofty enough to do without 
 'omatl, and tehounce aU thosb hbrrid sexual questions, so 
 at the last of the species niight die childless, eh ? The 
 3rld would then at Ibast finish in a clean and proper 
 anner ! ' 
 
 ThBteUpoH, Hyacinthe walked off with his latiguid air, 
 3II plsa^fea ^^ith the effect which he had produced on the 
 her^. 
 
 ' So yoii know him ? * paid f ierrd to J'ran9ois. 
 
 ' He was my schobl-fellbw at Cjdhdbrcet, we were iii the 
 irie classes tbgetner, Siich a fiiilily fellbw he was 1 A 
 irfect dilnbbl And he was always inaking a parade of 
 ither DuviUatd's millions, while preteiidiiig to disdain 
 enl, and act the revolutionist, for ever sayiiig that he'd use 
 i bigaf-ette tb fifb ihe cartridge which -^vas to blow, tip the 
 iridi Hb Tt^aa Schopehhauei:, and Nietzsche, aha Tolstoi, 
 
i6o PARIS 
 
 and Ibsen, rolled into one I And you can see what he haa 
 become with it all : a humbug with a diseased mind 1 ' 
 
 ' It's a terrible symptom,' muttered Pierre, ' when through 
 ewnvA or lassitude, or the contagion of destructive fury, the 
 sons of the happy and privileged ones start doing the work of 
 the demohshers.' 
 
 Pran9ois had resumed his walk, going down towards the 
 ornamental water, where some children were sailing their 
 boats. ' That feUow is simply grotesque,' he replied ; ' but 
 how would you have sane people give any heed to that 
 mysticism, that awakening of spirituality which is alleged 
 by the same doctrinaires who started the bankruptcy of 
 science cry, when after so brief an evolution it produces such 
 insanity, both in art and literature? A few yeajs of in- 
 fluence have sufficed; and now Satanism, Occultism, and 
 other absurdities are flourishing ; not to mention that, ac- 
 cording to some accounts, the Cities of the Plains are 
 reconciled with new Eome. Isn't the tree judged by its 
 fruits ? And isn't it evident that, instead of a renascence, a 
 far-spreading social movement bringing back the past, we are 
 simply witnessing a transitory reaction, which many things 
 explain ? The old world would rather not die, and is strug- 
 gling in a final convulsion, reviving for a last hour before it 
 is swept away by the overflowing river of human knowledge, 
 whose waters ever increase. And yonder, in the future, lies 
 the new world, which the real young men will bring into 
 existence, those who work, those who are not known, who 
 are not heard. And yet, just listen I Perhaps you wiU hear 
 them, for we are among them, in their " quarter." This deep 
 silence is that of the labour of aU the young fellows who are 
 leaning over their work-tables, and day by day carrying 
 forward the conquest of truth.' 
 
 So saying Fran9ois waved his hand towards aU the day- 
 schools and colleges and high schools beyond the Luxembourg 
 garden, towards the Faculties of Law and Medicine, the Institute 
 and its five Academies, the innumerable libraries and museums 
 which made up the broad domain of intellectual labour. And 
 Pierre, moved by it all, shaken in his theories of negation, 
 thought that he could indeed hear a low but far-spreading mur- 
 mur of the work of thousands of active minds, rising from 
 laboratories, studies and class, reading and lecture rooms. It 
 was not like the jerky, breathless trepidation, the loud clamour 
 of factories where manual labour toils and chafes. But here 
 
CULTURE AND HOPE i6i 
 
 too there were sighs of wearmess, efforts as kilUng, exertion 
 as fruitful in its results. Was it indeed true that the cul- 
 tured young were still and ever in their silent forge, renounc- 
 ing no hope, relinquishing no conquest, but in full freedom 
 of mind forging the truth and justice of to-morrow with the 
 invincible hammers of observation and experiment ? 
 
 Fran9ois, however, had raised his eyes to the Palace clock 
 to ascertain the time. ' I'm going to Montmartre,' he said ; 
 ' will you come part of the way with me ? ' 
 
 Pierre assented, particularly as the young man added that 
 on his way he meant to call for his brother Antoine at the 
 Museum of the Louvre. That bright afternoon the Louvre 
 picture galleries were steeped in warm and dignified quietude, 
 which one particularly noticed on coming from the tumult 
 and scramble of the streets. The majority of the few people 
 one found there were copyists working in deep silence, which 
 only the wandering footsteps of an occasional tourist disturbed. 
 Pierre and Fran9ois found Antoine at the end of the gallery 
 assigned to the Primitive masters. With scrupulous, almost 
 devout care he was making a drawing of a figure by Mantegna. 
 The Primitives did not impassion him by reason of any par- 
 ticular mysticism and ideahty, such as fashion pretends to 
 find in them, but on the contrary, and justifiably enough, 
 by reason of the sincerity of their ingenuous realism, their 
 respect and modesty in presence of nature, and the minute 
 fidelity with which they sought to transcribe it. He spent 
 days of hard work in copying and studying them, in order to 
 learn strictness and probity of drawing from them — all that 
 lofty distinction of style which they owe to their candour as 
 honest artists. 
 
 Pierre was struck by the pure glow which a sitting of good 
 hard work had set in Antoine's light blue eyes. It imparted 
 warmth and even feverishness to his fair face, which was 
 usually all dreaminess and gentleness. His lofty forehead 
 now truly looked like a citadel armed for the conquest of truth 
 and beauty. He was only eighteen, and his story was simply 
 this : as he had grown disgusted with classical studies and 
 been mastered by a passion for drawing, his father had let him 
 leave the Lyc^e Gondorcet when he was in the third class 
 there. Some little time had then elapsed while he felt his 
 way and the deep originaUty within him was being evolved. 
 He had tried etching on copper, but had soon come to wood- 
 engraving, and had attached himself to it in spite of the dis- 
 
i62 PARIS 
 
 credit into whicli it had fallen, lowered as it had been to the 
 level of a mere trade. Was there not here an entire art to 
 restore and enlarge ? For his own part he dreamt of engrav- 
 ing his own drawings, of being at onoe the brain which con- 
 ceives and the hand which executes, in such wise as to obtain 
 new effects of great intensity both as regards perception and 
 touch. To comply with the wishes of his father, who desired 
 each of his sons to have a trade, he earned his bread like 
 other engravers by working for the illustrated newspapers. 
 But, in addition to this current work, he had already engraved 
 several blocks instinct with wonderful power and life. They 
 were simply copies of real things, scenes of everyday existence, 
 but they were accentuated, elevated so to say, by the essen- 
 tial line, with a maestria which on the part of so young a lad 
 fairly astonished one. 
 
 ' Do you want to engrave that ? ' FraoQois asked him, as 
 he placed his copy of Mantegna'a figure in his portfolio. 
 
 ' Oh I no, that's merely a dip into innocence, a good 
 lesson to teach one to be modest and sjiioere. Life ig very 
 different nowadays.' 
 
 Then, while walking along the streets — for Pierre, who 
 felt growing sympathy far the two young fellows, went with 
 them in the direction of Montmartre, forgetful of aU else — 
 Antoine, who was beside him, spoke expansively of his artistic 
 dreams. 
 
 * Colour is certainly a power, a sovereign source of charm, 
 and one may, indeed, say that without colour nothing can be 
 completely represented. Yet, singularly enough, it isn't in- 
 dispensable to me. It seems to me that I can picture life as 
 intensely and definitely with mere black and white, and I 
 even fancy that I shall be able to do so in ft more essential 
 manner, without any of the dupery which Ues in colour. 
 But what a task it is ! I should like to depict the Paris of 
 nowadays in a few scenes, a few typical figures, which would 
 serve as testimony for all time. And I should like to do it 
 with great fidelity and candour, for an artist only lives 
 by reason of his candour, his humUity and steadfast belief 
 in Nature, which is ever beautiful. I've already done a 
 few figures; I will show them to you. But ah I if I only 
 dared to tackle my blocks with the graver, ftt the outset, 
 without drawing my subject beforehand. For that generally 
 takes away one's fire. However, what I do with the pencil 
 is a mere sketch ; for with the graver I may conie upon a 
 
CULTURE AND HOPE 163 
 
 find, some unexpected strength or delicacy of effect. And so 
 I'm draughtsman and engraver all in one, in such a way that 
 my blocks can only be turned out by myself. If the drawings 
 on them were engraved by another, they would be quite 
 lifeless. . . . Yes, life may spring from the fingers just as 
 well as from the brain, when one really possesses creative 
 power.' 
 
 They walked on, and when they found themselves below 
 Montmartre; and Pierre spoke of taking a tram-car to 
 return to Neuilly, Antoine, quite feverish with artistic 
 passiop, asked him if he knew Jahan, the sculptor, who was • 
 working for the Sacred Heart. And on receiving a negative 
 reply, he added : ' Well, come and see him for a moment. 
 He has a great future before him. You'U see an angel of his 
 which has been declined.' 
 
 Then, as Fran9ois began to praise the angel in question, 
 Pierre agreed to accompany them. On the summit of the 
 height, among all the sheds which the building of the 
 basilica necessitated, Jahan had been able to set up a glazed 
 workshop large enough for the huge angel ordered of him. 
 His three visitors found him there in a blouse, watching a 
 couple of assistants, who were rough-hewing the block of 
 stone whence the angel was to emerge. Jahan was a sturdy 
 man of thirty-six, with dark hair and beard, a large, ruddy 
 mouth, and fine bright eyes. Born in Paris, he had studied 
 at the Fine Art School, but his impetuous temperament had 
 constantly landed him in trouble there. 
 
 ' Ah I yes,' said he, ' you've come to see my angel, the one 
 which the Archbishop wouldn't take. Well, there it is.' 
 
 The clay model of the figure, some three feet high, and 
 already drying, looked superb in its soaring posture, with its 
 large, outspread wings expanding as if with passionate desire 
 for the infinite. The body, barely draped, was that of a slim 
 yet robust youth, whose face beamed with the rapture of his 
 ascent to heaven. 
 
 ' They found him too human,' said Jahan. ' And after all 
 they were right. There's nothing so difficult to imagine as 
 an angel. One even hesitates as to the sex ; and when faith 
 is lacking one has to take the first model one finds and copy 
 it and spoil it. For my part, while I was modelling that one, 
 I tried to imagine a beautiful youth suddenly endowed with 
 wings, and carried by the intoxication of his flight into all 
 the joy of the sunshine. But it upset them, they wanted 
 
 u2 
 
1 64 PARIS 
 
 something more religious, they said ; and so then I concocted 
 that wretched thing over there. After all, one has to earn 
 one's living, you know.' 
 
 So saying he waved his hand towards another model, the 
 one for which his assistants were preparing the stone. And 
 this model represented an angel of the correct type, with 
 symmetrical wings hke those of a goose, a figure of neither 
 sex, and commonplace features, expressing the silly ecstasy 
 that tradition requires. 
 
 'What would you have?* continued Jahan. 'Eeligious 
 art has sunk to the most disgusting triteness. People no 
 longer beUeve ; churches are built like barracks, and decor- 
 ated with saints and virgins fit to make one weep. The fact 
 is that genius is only the fruit of the social soil ; and a great 
 artist can only send up a blaze of the faith of the time he 
 lives in. For my part I'm the grandson of a Beauceron 
 veasant. My father came to Paris to set himself up in busi- 
 ness as a marble worker for tombstones and so forth, just at 
 the top of the Bue de la Boquette. It was there I grew up. 
 I began as a workman, and all my chUdhood was spent 
 among the masses, in the streets, without ever a thought 
 even of setting foot in a church. So few Parisians thmk 
 of going to church nowadays. And so what's to become of 
 art siace there's no beUef left in the Divinity or even in 
 beauty ? We're forced to go forward to the new faith, which 
 is the faith in life and work and fruitfulness, in all that 
 labours and produces.' 
 
 Then suddenly breaking off he exclaimed : ' By the way, 
 I've been doing some more work to my figure of Fecundity, 
 and I'm fairly well pleased with it. Just come with me and 
 I'U show it you.' 
 
 Thereupon he insisted on taking them to his private 
 studio which was near by, just below GuiUaame's little house. 
 It was entered by way of the Bue du Calvaire, a street which 
 is simply a succession of ladder-like flights of steps. The 
 door opened on to one of the little landings, and one found 
 oneself in a spacious well-lighted apartment littered with 
 models and casts, fragments and figures, quite an overflow of 
 sturdy, powerful talent. On a stool was the unfinished model 
 of Fecundity swathed in wet clothes. These Jahan removed, 
 and then she stood forth with her rounded figure, her broad 
 hips and her wifely, maternal bosom, full of the milk which 
 nourishes and redeems. 
 
CULTURE AND HOPE 165 
 
 • Well, what do you" think of her ? ' asked Jahan. ' Built 
 as she is, I fancy that her children ought to he less puny 
 than the pale, languid, sesthetio fellows of nowadays 1 ' 
 
 While Antoine and Francois were admiring the figure, 
 Pierre for his part took most interest in a young girl who 
 had opened the door to them, and who had now wearily re- 
 seated herseU at a little tahle to continue a book she was 
 reading. This was Jahan's sister, Lise. A score of years - 
 younger than himself, she was but sixteen, and had been 
 living alone with him since their father's death. Very slight 
 and delicate looking, she had a most gentle face, with fine 
 light hair which suggested pale gold-dust. She was almost 
 a cripple, with legs so weak that she only walked with 
 difficulty ; and her mind also was belated, still fuU of childish 
 ndive,t&. At first this had much saddened her brother, but 
 with time he had grown accustomed to her innocence and 
 languor. Busy as he always was, ever in a transport, over- 
 flowing with new plans, he somewhat neglected her by force 
 of circumstances, letting her live beside him much as she 
 listed. 
 
 Pierre had noticed, however, the sisterly impulsiveness 
 with which she had greeted Antoine. The latter, after 
 congratulating Jahan on his statue, came and sat down 
 beside her, questioned her and wished to see the book which 
 she was reading. During the last six months the most pure 
 and affectionate intercourse had sprung up between them. 
 He, from his father's garden, up yonder on the Place du 
 Tertre, could see her through the huge window of that studio 
 where she led so innocent a life. And noticing that she was 
 always alone, as if forsaken, he had begun to take an interest 
 in her. Then had come acquaintance ; and delighted to find 
 her so simple and so charming, he had conceived the design of 
 rousing her to intelligence and life, by loving her, by becom- 
 ing at once the mind and the heart whose power fructifies. 
 "Weak plant that she was, in need of delicate care, sun- 
 shine and affection, he became for her all that her brother 
 had, through circumstances, failed to be. He had already 
 taught her to read, a task in which every mistress had pre- 
 viously failed. But him she listened to and understood. 
 And by slow degrees a glow of happiness came to the beauti- 
 ful clear eyes set in her irregular face. It was love's miracle, 
 the creation of woman beneath the breath of a young lover 
 who gave himself entirely. No doubt she still remained very 
 
i66 PARIS 
 
 delicate, with siioh poor health that bile evet fearbfl she 
 might expire in a faint sigh'; and het legs, moreover, were 
 still too weak to admit of her walking atiy distance. But all 
 the same, she was no longer the little wilding, the little 
 ailing flower of the previous spf ing. 
 
 Jahah, who marvelled at the incipient iniracle, drfew near 
 to the young people. ' Ah ! ' s&id he, ' your pujiil does you 
 hoUout. She reads quite fluently you know, ahd Understdhds 
 the fine books you send her. You read to me of an evening 
 now, don't you, Lise ? ' 
 
 She rai^isd her candid eyeS, and gazed at Alltoine with a 
 smile of infinite gratitude. ' Oh ! whatever he'll teach me,' 
 she said, ' I'll Ifearn it, and do it.' 
 
 The others laughed gently. Then as the visitors wete 
 going off, Fran9ois paused before a model which had cracked 
 while drying. ' Oh ! that's a spoilt thing,' said the sculptor, 
 ' I wanted to model a figure of Charity. It was ordered of 
 me by a philanthropic institution. But try as I might, I coUld 
 only devise something so commbnplace that I let the clay 
 spoil. Still I must think it over and endeavour to take the 
 matter in hand again.' 
 
 When they were outside, it occurred to Pierre to gb as fat 
 as the basilica of the Sacred Heart, iH the hope of finding 
 Abbd Rose there. So the three of them went round by way 
 of the Rue Gabrielle and cUmbed the steps of the EUe Chape. 
 And just as they were reaching the summit where the basUiea 
 reared its forest of scaffoldings beneath the clear sky, they 
 encountered Thomas, who on lelavihg the factory had gone 
 to give an order to a founder in the Eue Lamarck. 
 
 He, who as a rule was so silent and discreet, now happened 
 to be in an expansive mood, which made him look quite 
 radiaht. ' Ah ! I'm so pleased,' he said, addressing tierre ; ' 1 
 fancy that I've found what I want for our Uttle motor. Tell 
 father that things are goihg on all right, and that he must 
 make haste to get well.* 
 
 At these word^ his brothers, Fran9ois and Antoine, drew 
 close to him with a common impulse. And they stobd there 
 all three, a valiant little gtoup, their hearts uniting and beat- 
 ing with bne and the same delight at the idea that their 
 father would be gladdened, that the good news they were 
 sending him would help him towards recovery. As fot 
 Pierre, who, now that he knew them, was beginning tb love 
 them and judge them at their worth, he marvelled at the sight 
 
CULTURE AND HOPE 167 
 
 of these three young giants, each bo strikingly like the other, 
 and drawn together so clOsfely and so promptly, directly their 
 filial affection took fire. 
 
 ' Tell him that we are waiting for him, and will come to 
 him at the first sign if we are wanted.' 
 
 Theh each in turn shook the priest's hand vigorously, 
 And while he remained watching thern as they went off towards 
 the little house, whose garden he perceived over the wall of 
 the Eue Saint-Eleuthere, he fancied he could there detect a 
 delicate silhouette, a white, sunlit face under a helm of dark 
 hair. It was doulatless the face of Marie, examining the buds 
 on her lilac bushes. At that evening hour, however, the dif- 
 fuse light was so golden that the vision seemed to fade in it 
 as in a halo. And Pierre, feeling dazzled, turned his head, 
 and on the other side saw nought but the overwhelming, 
 chalky mass of the basilica, whose hugeness shut out all view 
 of the horizon. 
 
 For a moment he remained motionless on that spotj bo 
 agitated by conflicting thoughts and feelings that he could 
 read neither heart nor mind clearly. Then, as he turned- 
 once more he saw all Paris spread Out at his feet, a limpid, 
 lightsome Paris, beneath the pink glow of that spring-like 
 evening. The endless billows of house-roofs showed forth 
 with wonderful distinctness, and one could have counted 
 the chimney stacks and the little black streaks of the 
 windows by the million. The edifices rising into the calm 
 atmosphere seemed like the anchored vessels of some fleet 
 arrested in its course, with lofty masting which glittered at the 
 sun's farewell. And never before had Pierre so distinctly 
 observed the divisions of that human ocean. Eastward and 
 northward was the city of manual toil with the rumbling and 
 the smoke of its factories. Southward, beyond the river, was 
 the city of study, of intellectual labour, so calm, so perfectly 
 serene. And on all sides the passion of trade ascended from 
 the central districts, where the crowds roiled and scrambled 
 amidst an everlasting uproar of wheels ; while westward, the 
 city of the happy and powerful ones, those who fought for 
 sovereignty and wealth, spread out its piles of palaces amidst 
 the slowly reddening flare of the declining planet. 
 
 And th^> from the depths of his ilegation, the chaos 
 into which his loss of faith had plUhged him, Pierre felt a 
 delicious freshness pass like the vague advent of a new faith. 
 So vague it was that he could not have expressed even his 
 
i68 PARIS 
 
 hope of it in words. But already among the rough factory 
 workers, manual toil had appeared to him necessary and re- 
 demptive, in spite of all the misery and abominable injustice 
 to which it led. And now the young men of intellect of whom 
 he had despaired, that generation of the morrow which he had 
 thought spoilt, relapsing into ancient error and rottenness, 
 had appeared to him full of virile promise, resolved to prose- 
 cute the work of those who had gone before, and effect, by 
 the aid of Science only, the conquest of absolute truth and 
 absolute justice. 
 
 PEOBLEMS 
 
 A FULL month had already gone by since Guillaume had 
 taken refuge at his brother's little house at Neuilly. His 
 wrist was now nearly healed. He had long ceased to keep 
 his bed, and often strolled through the garden. In spite of his 
 impatience to go back to Montmartre, join his loved ones, 
 and resume his work there, he was each morning prompted 
 to defer his return by the news he found in the newspapers. 
 The situation was ever the same. Salvat, whom the police 
 now suspected, had been perceived one evening near the 
 central markets, and then again lost sight of. Every day, 
 however, his arrest was said to be imminent. And in that 
 case what would happen ? Would he speak out, and would 
 fresh perquisitions be made ? 
 
 For a whole week the press had been busy with the 
 bradawl found under the entrance of the Duvillard mansion. 
 Nearly every reporter in Paris had called at the Grandidier 
 factory and interviewed both workmen and master. Some 
 had even started on personal investigations, in the hope of 
 capturing the culprit themselves. There was no end of 
 jesting about the incompetence of the police, and the hunt 
 for Salvat was followed aU the more passionately by the 
 general public, as the papers overflowed with the most 
 ridiculous concoctions, predicting further explosions, and 
 declaring even that all Paris would some morning be blown 
 into the air. The ' Voix du Peuple ' set a fresh shudder 
 circulating every day by its announcements of threatening 
 letters, incendiaryplacards, and mysterious far-reaching plots. 
 
PROBLEMS 169 
 
 And never before had so base and foolish a spirit of contagion 
 wafted insanity through a civilised city. 
 
 Guillaume, for his part, no sooner awoke of a morning 
 than he was all impatience to see the newspapers, quivering at 
 the idea that he would at last read of Salvat's arrest. In his 
 state of nervous expectancy, the wUd campaign which the 
 press had started, the idiotic and the ferocious things which 
 he found in one or another journal, almost drove him crazy. 
 A number of ' suspects ' had already been arrested in a kind 
 of chance razzia, which had swept up the usual Anarchist herd, 
 together with sundry honest workmen and bandits, illuminis 
 and lazy devils — in fact, a most singular, motley crew, which 
 investigating magistrate Amadieu was endeavouring to 
 turn into a gigantic association of evil-doers. One morning, 
 moreover, GuiUaume found his own name mentioned in 
 connection with a perquisition at the residence of a re- 
 volutionary journalist, who was a friend of his. At this his 
 heart bounded with revolt, but he was forced to the con- 
 clusion that it would be prudent for him to remain patient a 
 little longer, in his peaceful retreat at Neuilly, since the police 
 might at any moment break into his home at Montmartre, to 
 arrest him should it find him there. 
 
 Amidst all this anxiety the brothers led a most solitary 
 and gentle hfe. Pierre himself now spent most of his time 
 at home. The first days of March had come, and precocious 
 springtide imparted delightful charm and warmth to the little 
 garden. Guillaume, however, since quitting his bed, had 
 more particularly installed himself in his father's old 
 laboratory, now transformed into a spacious study. All the 
 books and papers left by the illustrious chemist were still 
 there, and among the latter Guillaume found a number of 
 unfinished essays, the perusal of which greatly excited his 
 interest, and often absorbed him from morning till night. 
 It was this which largely enabled him to bear his voluntary 
 seclusion patiently. Seated on the other side of the big 
 table, Pierre also mostly occupied himself with reading ; but 
 at times his eyes would quit his book and wander away into 
 gloomy reverie, into aU the chaos into which he still and ever 
 sank. For long hours the brothers would in this wise remain 
 side by side, without speaking a word. Yet they knew they 
 were together ; and occasionally, when their eyes met, they 
 would exchange a smile. The strong affection of former days 
 was again springing up within them ; their childhood, their 
 
170 PARIS 
 
 home, their parents, all seemed to live once more in the 
 quiet atmosphere they breathed. However^ the bay window 
 overlooked the garden in the direction of Paris, and often, 
 when they emerged from their reading or their reverie, it was 
 with a sudden feeling of anxiety, and in order to lend ear to 
 the distant rumbling, the increased clamour of the great 
 city. 
 
 On other occasions they pftliBed as if in astoniBhment at 
 hearing a continuous footfall overhead. It was that of 
 Nicholas Barthes, who still lingered in the room above. He 
 seldom came downstairs, and scarcely ever ventured into the 
 garden, for fear, said he, that he might be perceived and 
 recognised from a distant house whose windows were con- 
 cealed by a clump of trees. One might laugh at the old 
 conspirator's haunting thought of the police. Nevertheless, 
 the caged-liou restlessness, the ceaseless promenade of that 
 perpetiial prisoner who had spent two-thirds of his life in the 
 dungeons of France in his desire to secure the liberty of 
 others, imparted to the silence of the little house a touching 
 melancholy, the very rhythm as it were of all the gteat 
 good things which one hoped for, but which would never 
 perhaps come. 
 
 Very few visits drew the brothers from their solitude. 
 •Bertheroy came less frequently now that Guillaume's wrist 
 was healing. The most assiduous caller was certainly 
 Th^ophile Morin, whose discreet ring was heard every other 
 day at the same hour. Though he did not share the ideas of 
 Barthes he worshipped him as a martyr ; and would always 
 go upstairs to spend an hour with him. However, they must 
 have exchanged few wotds, for not a sound came from the 
 room. Whenever Morin sat down for a moment iu the 
 laboratory with the brothers, Pierre was struck by his seem- 
 ing weariness, his ashen grey hair and beard and dismal coun- 
 tenance, from which all life appeared to have been effaced by 
 long years spent in the teaching profession. Indeed, it was 
 only when the priest mentioned Italy that he sa'W his com- 
 panion's resigned eyes blaze Up like live coals. One day 
 when he spoke of the great patriot Orlando Prada, Morin's 
 companion of victory in Garibaldi's dayH, hs was amazed by 
 the sudden flare of enthusiasm which lighted up the other's 
 lifeless features. However, these were but transient flashes ; 
 the old professor soon teappearedj and all that one found in 
 Morin was the friend of Proudhon and the subsequent dis- 
 
PROBLEMS 171 
 
 Ciple of AuguBte Oomte. Of his Proudhbnian principles he 
 had retained all a pauper's hatred of wealth, and a desire for a 
 more equitable partition of fortune. But the new times dis- 
 mayed him, and neither principle nor temperament allowed 
 him to follow Eevolutionism to its utmost limits. Gomte 
 had imparted unshakable convictions to him in the sphere 
 of intellfeotual questions, and he contented himgfelf with the 
 clear and decisive logic of Positivism, rejfecting all meta- 
 physical hypotheses as useless, persuaded as he was that the 
 whole human question, whether social or religious, would be 
 solved by science alone. This faith, firm as it had remained, 
 was, howeve*, coupled with sectet bitterness, for nothing 
 seemed to advance in a sensible manner towards its goal. 
 Oomte himself had ended in the most cloudy mysticism; 
 great iwoants recoiled from truth in terror; and now bar- 
 barians were threatening the -World with fresh night ; all of 
 which made Morin almost a reactionist in politics, already 
 resigned to the advent of a dictator, who would set things 
 somewhat in order, so that humanity might be able to com- 
 plete its education. 
 
 Other visitors who occasionally called to see Guillaume 
 were Bache and Janzen, who invariably came together at 
 night-time. Every now and then they would hnger chat- 
 ting with Guillaume in the spacious study until two o'clock 
 in the morning. Bache, who was fat and had a fatherly air, 
 with his little eyes gently beaming amidst all the snowy 
 whiteness of his hair and beard, would talk on slowly, 
 unctuously, and interminably as soon as he had begun to 
 explain his vifews. He woUld address merely a poUte bow to 
 Saint-Bimon, the initiator, the first to lay dbwn the law that 
 work was a necessity for one and all according to their 
 capacities ; but on coming to Fourier his voice softened and 
 he confessed his whole religion. To his thinking, Fourier 
 had been the real messiah of modern times, the saviour of 
 genius who had sown the good seed of the future world, by 
 regulating society such as it would certainly be organised 
 to-morrow. The law of harmony had been promulgated; 
 human pasSionSj liberated and utilised in healthy fashion. 
 Would become the requisite machinery ; and work, rendered 
 pleasant and attractive, would prove the very function of life. 
 Nothing could discourage Bachfe ; if merely one parish begaU 
 by transforming itself into a phalansterium, the whole de- 
 partment would soon follow, then the adjacent departments, 
 
17* PARIS 
 
 » 
 
 and finally all France. Moreover, Baohe even favoured 
 the schemes of Cabet, whose Icaria, said he, had in no •wise 
 been such a foolish idea. Further, he recalled a motion he 
 had made, when member of the Commune in 1871, to apply 
 Fourier's ideas to the French Eepublio ; and he was appa- 
 rently convinced that the troops of Versailles had delayed the 
 triumph of Communism for half a century. Whenever people 
 nowadays talked of table-turning he pretended to laugh, 
 but at bottom he had remained an unpenitent 'spiritist.' 
 Since he had been a municipal councillor he had been 
 travelling from one socialist sect to another, according as 
 their ideas offered points of resemblance to his old faith. 
 And he was fairly consumed by his need of faith, his per- 
 plexity as to the Divine, which he was now occasionally in- 
 clined to find in the legs of some piece of furniture, after 
 denying its presence in the churches. 
 
 Janzen, for his part, was as taciturn as his friend Bache 
 was garrulous. Such remarks as he made were brief, but 
 they were as galling as lashes, as cutting as sabre-strokes. 
 At the same time his ideas and theories remained somewhat 
 obscure, partly by reason of this brevity of his, and partly on 
 account of the difficulty he experienced in expressing himself 
 in French. He was from over yonder, from some far away 
 land — Eussia, Poland, Austria or Germany, nobody exactly 
 knew ; and it mattered little, for he acknowledged no country, 
 but wandered far and wide with his dream of blood- shedding 
 fraternity. Whenever, with his wonted frigidity, he gave utter- 
 ance to one of those terrible remarks of his which, like a 
 scythe in a meadow, cut away all before him, little else than 
 the necessity of thus mowing down nations, in order to sow 
 the earth afresh with a young and better community, became 
 apparent. At each proposition unfolded by Bache, such as 
 labour rendered agreeable by police regulations, phalansteria 
 organised like barracks, religion transformed iato pantheist 
 or spiritist deism, he gently shrugged his shoulders. What 
 could be the use of such childishness, such hypocritical re- 
 -. pairing, when the house was falling and the only honest 
 course was to throw it to the ground, and build up the sub- 
 stantial edifice of to-morrow with entirely new materials ? On 
 the subject of propaganda by deeds, bomb-throwing and so 
 forth, he remained sUent, though his gestures were expressive 
 of infinite hope. He evidently approved that course. The 
 legend which made him one of the perpetrators of the crime 
 
PROBLEMS 173 
 
 of Barcelona set a gleam of horrible glory in Lis mysterious 
 past. One day -when Baehe, while speaking to him of hia 
 friend Bergaz, the shadowy Bourse jobber who had already 
 been compromised in some piece of thieving, plainly declared 
 that the aforesaid Bergaz was a bandit, Janzen contented 
 himself with smiling, and replying quietly that theft was 
 merely forced restitution. Briefly, in this man of culture and 
 refinement, in whose own mysterious life one might perhaps 
 have found various crimes but not a single act of base impro- 
 bity, one could divine an implacable, obstinate theorician,who 
 was resolved to set the world ablaze for the triumph of his 
 ideas. 
 
 On certain evenings when a visit from Th^ophile Morin 
 coincided with one from Bache and Janzen, and they and 
 GuiUaume continued chatting until far into the night, Pierre 
 would listen to them in despair from the shadowy corner 
 where he remained motionless, never once joining in the dis- 
 cussions. Distracted by his own unbelief and thirst for truth, 
 he had at the outset taken a passionate interest in these 
 debates, desirous as he was of drawing up a balance-sheet of 
 the century's ideas, so as to form some notion of the distance 
 that had been travelled, and the profits that had accrued. 
 But he recoiled from all this in fresh despair, on hearing the 
 others argue each from his own standpoint and without 
 possibility of concession and agreement. After the repulses 
 he had encountered at Lourdes and Bome, he well reaUsed 
 that in this fresh experiment which he was making with 
 Paris, the whole brain of the century was in question, the 
 new truths, the expected gospel which was to change the 
 face of the world. And, burning with inconsiderate zeal, he 
 went from one belief to another, which other he soon rejected 
 in order to adopt a third. If he had first felt himself to be a 
 Positivist with Morin, an Evolutionist and Determinist with 
 Guillaume, he had afterwards been touched by the fraternal 
 dream of a new golden age which he had found in Bache's 
 humanitarian Communism. And indeed even Janzen had 
 momentarily shaken him by his fierce confidence in the 
 theory of liberative Individualism. But afterwards he had 
 found himself out of his depth ; and each and every theory had 
 seemed to him but part of the chaotic contradictions and in- 
 coherences of humanity on its march. It was all a continuous 
 piling up of dross, amidst which he lost himself. Although 
 Fourier had sprung from Saint- Simon he denied him in part ; 
 
174 PAHIS 
 
 and if Saint- Simon's doctrine ended in a kind of mystical 
 sensuality, the other's conducted to an inaeceptable regi- 
 menting of society, froudhon, for his part, demolished 
 without rebuilding anything. Comte, who oreated_ method 
 and declared science to be the one and only sovereign, had 
 not even suspected the advent of the social crisis which 
 now threatened to sweep all away, and had finished personally 
 as a mere worshipper of love, overpowered by woman. 
 Nevertheless, these two, Cpmte and Proudhon, entered the 
 lists and fought against the others, Fourier and Bajnt- 
 Simon ; the combat between them or their disciples becoming 
 so bitter and so blind that the truths common to them all 
 were obscured and disfigured beyond recognition. Thence 
 came the extraordinary muddle of the present hour ; Bach§ 
 with Saint-Simon and Fourier, and Morin with Proudhon and 
 Comte, utterly faihng to understand Mege, the CoUectivist 
 deputy, whom they held up to execration, him and his State 
 Collectivism, in the same way, moreover, as they thundered 
 against all the other present-time Socialist sects, without 
 realising that these also, whatever their nature, had more or 
 less sprung from the same masters as themselves. And all 
 this seemingly indicated that Janzen was right when he de- 
 clared that the house was past repair, fast crumbling amidst 
 rottenness and insanity, and that it ought to be levelled to the 
 ground. 
 
 One night, after the three visitors had gone, Pierre, who 
 had remained with Guillaume, saw him grow very gloomy as 
 he slowly walked to and fro. He, in hig turn, had doubtless 
 felt that all was crumbling. And though his brother alone 
 was there tp hear him he went on speaking. He expressed 
 all his horror of the CoUectivist State as imagined by M%e, 
 a Dictator- State re-estabUshing ancient servitude on yet 
 closer hnes. The error of aU the Socialist sects was their 
 ■ arbitrary organisation of Labour, which enslaved the individual 
 for the profit of the community. And, forced to conciliate 
 the two great currents, the rights of society and the rights of 
 the individual, Guillaume had ended by placing his whole 
 faith in free Communism, an anarchical state •in which be 
 dreamt of seeing the individual freed, moving and developing 
 without restraint, for the benefit both of himself and of all 
 others. Was not this, said he, the one truly scientific theory, 
 unities creating worlds, atoms producing life by forqa of 
 E|,ttraction, free 8>nd »rdeot love ? AU oppressive minorities 
 
PROBLEMS 175 
 
 luld disappear ; and the faculties and energies of one and all 
 luld by free play arrive at harmopy amidst the equilibrium 
 which changed according to needs — of the active forces ol 
 vaneing humanity. In this wise he pictured a nation, know- 
 l no State tutelage, without a master, almost without laws, a 
 ppy nation, each citizen of which, eompletely developed by 
 6 exercise of liberty, would, of his free will, come to an under- 
 mding with his neighbours with regatd to the thousand 
 icessities of life. And thence would spring society, free 
 sociation, hundreds of associations which would regulate 
 cial hfe ; though at the same time they would remain 
 .riable, in fact often opposed and hostile to one another. 
 Dr progress is but the fruit of conflict and struggle ; the 
 jrld has only been created by the battle of opposing forces, 
 ud that was all ; there would be no more oppressors, no more 
 oh, no more poor ; the domain of the earth with its natural 
 easures and implements of labour would be restored to 
 le people, its legitimate owners, who would know how to 
 ijoy it rightfully and sensibly when nothing abnormal 
 ould impede their expansion. Then only Would the law of 
 ve make its action felt; then would human solidarity, 
 hioh, among mankind, is the living form of universal attrac- 
 on, acquire all its power, bringing men closer and closer 
 igethei^, and uniting them in one sole family. A splendid 
 ;eam it was —the noble and pure dream of absolute freedom 
 -free man in ftee society. And thither a savanVi superior 
 ind was fated to come after passing on the road the many 
 ocialist sects which one and all bore the stigma of tyranny. 
 nd, assuredly, as thus indulged, the Anarchist idea is the 
 iftiest, the proudest of all ideas. And how delightful to 
 ield to the hope of harmony in life — life which, restored to 
 le full exercise of its natural powers, would of itself create 
 a,ppiness 1 
 
 When Guillaume ceased speaking, he seemed to be 
 nerging from a dream; and he glanced at Pierre with 
 )me dismay, for he feared that he might have said too much 
 ad have hurt his feehngs. Pierre — moved though he was, 
 )r a moment in fact almost won over — had just seen the 
 irrible practical objection, which destroyed all hope, arise 
 efore his mind's eye. Why had not harmony asserted 
 self in the first days of the world, at the time of the 
 irliest forms of society? How was it that tyranny had 
 iumphed, delivering nations over to oppressors? And 
 
176 PARIS 
 
 Bupposing that the apparently insolvable problem of destroying 
 everything, and beginning everything afresh, should ever be 
 solved, who could promise that mankind, obedient to the 
 sams laws, would not again foUow the same paths as for- 
 merly ? After all, mankind, nowadays, is simply what life 
 has made it ; and nothing proves that life would again make 
 it other than it is. To begin afresh, ah, yes I but to attain 
 another result 1 But could that other result really come 
 from man ? Was it not rather man himself who should be 
 changed? To start i afresh from where one was, to continue 
 the evolution that had begun, undoubtedly meant slow travel 
 and dismal waiting. But how great would be the danger and 
 even the delay, if one went back without knowing by what 
 road across the whole chaos of ruins one might regain all the 
 lost time ! 
 
 ' Let us go to bed,' at last said Guillaume, smiling. ' It's 
 silly of me to weary you with aU these things which don't 
 concern you.* 
 
 Pierre, in his excitement, was about to reveal his own 
 heart and mind, and the whole torturing battle within him. 
 But a feeling of shame again restrained him. His brother 
 only knew him as a believing priest, faithful to his faith. 
 And so, without answering, he betook himself to his room. 
 
 On the following evening, about ten o'clock, while 
 Guillaume and Pierre sat reading in the study, the old 
 servant entered to announce M. Janzen and a friend. The 
 friend was Salvat. 
 
 ' He wished to see you,' Janzen explained to Guillaume. 
 ' I met him, and when he heard of your injury and anxiety 
 he implored me to bring him here. And I've done so, though 
 it was perhaps hardly prudent of me.' 
 
 Guillaume had risen fuU of surprise and emotion at such 
 a visit; Pierre, however, though equally upset by Salvat's 
 appearance, did not stir from his chair, but kept his eyes upon 
 the workman. 
 
 ' Monsieur Froment,' Salvat ended by saying, standing 
 there in a timid, embarrassed way, ' I was very sorry indeed 
 when I heard of the worry I'd put you in ; for I sh^ never 
 forget that you were very kind to me when everybody else 
 turned me away.' 
 
 As he spoke he balanced himself alternately on either 
 leg, and transferred his old felt hat from hand to hand. 
 
 ' And so I wanted to come and tell you myself that if I 
 
PROBLEMS 177 
 
 k a cartridge of your powder one evening wben you had 
 [r back turned, it's the only thing that I feel any remorse 
 lut in the whole business, since it may compromise you. 
 i I also want to take my oath before you that you've 
 hing to fear from me, that I'll let my head be cut off 
 >nty times, if need be, rather than utter your name. That's 
 that I had in my heart.' 
 
 He relapsed into silence and embarrassment, but his soft, 
 amy eyes, the eyes of a faithful dog, remained fixed upon 
 illaume with an expression of respectful worship. And 
 irre was stUl gazing at him athwart the hateful vision 
 ieh his arrival had conjured up, that of the poor, dead 
 and girl, the fair pretty child lying ripped open under the 
 irance of the DuvUlard mansion 1 Was it possible that he 
 s there, he, that madman, that murderer, and that his eyes 
 re actually moist I 
 
 GuiUaume, touched by Salvat's words had drawn near and 
 jssed his hand. ' I am well aware, Salvat,' said he, ' that 
 Q are not wicked at heart. But what a foolish and abom- 
 ible thing you did ! ' 
 
 Salvat showed no sign of anger, but gently smiled. ' Oh 1 
 it had to be done again. Monsieur Froment, I'd do it. It's 
 7 idea, you know. And apart from you, all is well ; I am 
 atent.' 
 
 He would not sit down, but for another moment contimied 
 king with Guillaume, while Janzen, as if he washed his 
 nds of the business, deeming this visit both useless and dan- 
 cous, sat down and turned over the leaves of a picture book. 
 id GuUlaume made Salvat tell him what he had done on 
 e day of the crime ; how like a stray dog he bad wandered 
 distraction through Paris, carrying his bomb with him, 
 Lginally in his tool-bag and then under his jacket; how 
 
 had gone a first time to the Duvillard mansion and found 
 
 carriage entrance closed ; then how he had betaken him- 
 [f first to the Chamber of Deputies which the ushers had 
 Bvented him from entering, and afterwards to the Circus, 
 lere the thought of making a great sacrifice of bourgeois 
 d occurred to him too late. And finally, how he had at last 
 me back to the Duvillard mansion, as if drawn thither by 
 a very power of destiny. His tool-bag was lying in the 
 pths of the Seine, he said ; he had thrown it into the water 
 th sudden hatred of work since it had even failed to give 
 m bread. And he next told the story of his flight ; the 
 
178 PARIS 
 
 explosion shaking tte whole district behind hira, while, with 
 deligjjt and astonishment, he found himself some distance off, 
 in quiet streets where nothing was as yet known; And for'a 
 month past be had been living in chance fashion, how or 
 where he could hardly tell, but he had often slept in the open, 
 and gone foj a day without food. One evening little Victor 
 Mathis had given him five francs. Then other comrades had 
 helped him, taken him in for a night and sent him off at 
 the first sign of peril. Far-spreading, tacit compUeity had 
 hitherto saved him from the police. As for going abroad, 
 well, he bad, at one moment, thought of doing so ; but a 
 description of his person must have been circulated, the 
 gendarmes must be \?aiting for him at the frontiers, and so 
 would not flight instead of retarding rather hasten his arrest ? 
 Paris, however, was an ocean ; it was there that ho incurred 
 the least risk of capture. Moreover, he no longer had 
 sufBcient energy to flee. A fatalist as he was after Tiis own 
 fashion, be could not find strength to quit the pavements 
 of Paris, but there awaited arrest, like a social waif carried 
 ehancewise through the multitude as in a dream. 
 
 ' And your daughter, little Cfline ? ' Guillaume inquired. 
 ' Have you ventured to go back to see her ? ' 
 
 Salvat waved his hand in a vague way. ' No, but what 
 would you have ? She's with Mamma Theodore. Women 
 always find some help. And then I'm done for, I can do 
 nothing for anybody. It's as if I were already dead.' How- 
 ever, in spite of these words, tears were rising to his eyes. 
 ' Ah 1 the poor little thing ! ' he added, ' I kissed her with all 
 my heart before I went away. If she and the woman hadn't 
 been starving so long the idea of that business would perhaps 
 never have come to me.' 
 
 Then, in aU simplicity, be declared thai he was ready to 
 die. If he had ended by depositing his bomb at the entrance 
 of the Duvillards' house, it was because he knew the banker 
 well, and was aware that he was the wealthiest of those 
 bourgeois whose fathers at the time of the Eevolution had 
 duped the people, by talcing all power and wealth for 
 themselves : the power and wealth which the sons were 
 nowadays so obstinately bent on retaining that they would 
 not even bestow the veriest crumbs on others, ^s for the 
 Bevolution, he understood it in bis own fashion, like an 
 illiterate fellow who had learnt the little he knew from 
 newspapers tind speeches at public meetings. And he struck 
 
PI^OBLEMS 179 
 
 hja cbest with his fist as JiQ spp^e of hig Jipnpsty, and was 
 partiovilariy desirous that none should dpuht bis courage 
 because ];e had ^ed. 
 
 ' I'ye never rpbbe^ anybody/ said hPj ' and H I dpn't go 
 
 and hand wysplf ^p to the police, it'^ because they way 
 surely \^Y^ the troijple to find an^ awest mp. I'm yery well 
 aware that niy affair's clear enpugh, as they've found that 
 bradawl and Impw i^e. All the same, it wpnld bs siUy of me 
 to help them in thel? wi'?^- ^tUl they'd better make haste, 
 fo^' J'ye almost had enough of beiflg tyacljed Ukp a wild beast 
 and no logger knowing how I live.' 
 
 Janzen, yielding to curiosity, bad ceased turning pyer the 
 leaves of the picture book and was looking at Batvat. There 
 was a smile p| disdain jn the Anarchist leader's cold eyes; 
 ajjd in his usi^art'IPken French he yemayked : ' A man fights 
 aiid defends himself, kills pthers and tpies to avoid being 
 killed himself. That's warfare.' 
 
 These words fell from his Hps amidst deep gilence. 
 Salvat, however, did noj; seem to have heard them, but stam- 
 mered forth his faith in a long sentence laden with fulsome ex- 
 pressions, snch as the sacrifice of his life in prder that want might 
 cease, and tfee example of a great action, in the certainty that 
 it 'vypnld inspire other heroes \o continue the strnggle- And 
 with this certainly sincere faith and illununism Pf his there 
 was biendpd a martyr's pride, delight at being one of the 
 radiant, worshipped saints of the dawning Beyplntionayy 
 Church. 
 
 As he had come so he went off. W^iW Janzen had led 
 him away, it seemed as if the night which had brought 
 hin^ ha^ caprie^ him back into its impenetrable depths. 
 An4 then only did Pierre rise from his chair. He was stifling, ~ 
 and threw the large 'v^indow of the room wide open. It was 
 a very mild but moonless night, whfise silence was only dis- 
 turbed by the subsiding clamour pf Paris, which stretched 
 away, invisible, on the hprizon. 
 
 Gnillanwe according to Ms habit had hegnn to walk up 
 and dowfi. And at last he spojcej again forgetting that his 
 brother was a priest. ' 4h ! the poor fellpy ! IJow well one 
 can understand that deed pf violence and hppe ! His whole 
 past hfe pf fruitless labour and ever-gfpwing want explains 
 it. Then, too, there has been §11 the contagion of ideas ; the 
 frequentation of pufclic meetings where men intp^iicate them- 
 selves with words, and of secret meetings among comfaiies 
 
i8o PARIS 
 
 ■where faith acquires firmness and the mind soars wildly. 
 Ah 1 I think I know that man well indeed ! He's a good 
 workman, sober and courageous. Injustice has always ex- 
 asperated him. And little by little the desire for universal 
 happiness has cast him out of the reaUties of life which he 
 has ended by holding in horror. So how can he do other- 
 wise than live in a dream — a dream of redemption, which, 
 from circumstances, has turned to fire and murder as its fit- 
 ting instruments ? As I looked at him standing there, I fancied 
 I could picture one of the first Christian slaves of ancient Eome. 
 All the iniquity of old Pagan society, agonising beneath 
 the rottenness born of debauchery and covetousness, was 
 weighing on his shoulders, bearing him down. He had come 
 from the dark Catacombs where he had whispered words of 
 deliverance and redemption with his wretched brethren. 
 And a thirst for martyrdom consumed him, he spat in the 
 face of Cffisar, he insulted the gods, he fired the pagan 
 temples, in order that the reign of Jesus might come and 
 abolish servitude. And he was ready to die, to be torn to 
 pieces by the wild beasts ! ' 
 
 Pierre did not immediately reply. He had already been 
 struck, however, by the fact that there were undoubted points 
 of resemblance between the secret propaganda and militant 
 faith of the Anarchists, and certain practices of the first 
 Christians. Both sects embrace a new faith in the hope 
 that the lowly may thereby at last reap justice. Paganism 
 disappears through weariness of the flesh and the need of a 
 more lofty and pure faith. That dream of a Christian para- 
 dise opening up a future life with a system of compensations 
 for the ills endured on earth, was the outcome of young hope 
 dawning at its historic hour. But to-day, when eighteen 
 centuries have exhausted that hope, when the long experi- 
 ment is over and the toiler finds himself duped and stUl and 
 ever a slave, he once more dreams of setting happiness upon 
 this earth, particularly as each day Science tends more and 
 more to show him that the happiness of the spheres beyond 
 is a lie. And in all this there is but the eternal struggle of 
 the poor and the rich, the eternal question of bringing more 
 justice and less suffering to the world. 
 
 ' But surely,' Pierre at last repUed, • you can't be on the 
 side of those bandits, those murderers whose savage violence 
 horrifies me ! I let you talk on yesterday, when you dreamt 
 of a great and happy people, of ideal anarchy in which each 
 
PROBLEMS i8i 
 
 would be free amidst the freedom of all. But what 
 abomination, what disgust both for mind and heart when one 
 passes from theory to propaganda and practice ! If yours is 
 the brain that thinks, whose is the hateful hand that acts, 
 that kQls children, breaks doors open and empties drawers ? 
 Do you accept that responsibility ? With your education, your 
 culture, the whole social heredity behind you, does not your 
 entire being revolt at the idea of stealing and murdering ? ' 
 
 GuiUaume baited before his brother, quivering. ' Steal 
 and murder I no ! no ! I will not. But one must say 
 everything and fully understand the history of the evil hour 
 through which we are passing. It is madness sweeping by : 
 and to tell the truth, everything necessary to provoke it has 
 been done. At the very dawn of the Anarchist theory, at the 
 very first innocent actions of its partisans, there was such 
 stern repression, the police so grossly ill-treating the poor 
 devils that fell into its hands, that little by little came anger 
 and rage leading to the most horrible reprisals. It is the 
 Terror iaitiated by the bourgeois that has produced Anarchist 
 savagery. And would you know whence Salvat and his crime 
 have come ? Why, from aU our centuries of impudence and 
 iniquity, from all that the nations have suffered, from all the 
 sores which are now devouring us, the impatience for 
 enjoyment, the contempt of the strong for the weak, the 
 whole monstrous spectacle which is presented by our rotting 
 society 1 ' 
 
 GuiUaume was again slowly walking to and fro ; and as if 
 he were reflecting aloud he continued : ' Ah ! to reach the point 
 I have attained, through how much thought, through how 
 many battles have I not passed I I was merely a Positivist, a 
 savant devoted to observation and experiment, accepting 
 nothing apart from proven facts. SeientifioaUy and socially, 
 I admitted that simple evolution had slowly brought humanity 
 iQto being. But both in the history of the globe and that of 
 human society, I found it necessary to make allowance for 
 the volcano, the sudden cataclysm, the sudden eruption, by 
 which each geological phase, each historical period has been 
 marked. In this wise one ends by ascertaining that no 
 forward step has ever been taken, no progress ever acoom^ 
 plished in the world's history, without the help of horrible 
 catastrophes. Each advance has meant the sacrifice of 
 millions and millions of human lives. This of course revolts 
 us, given our narrow ideas of justice, and we regard nature as 
 
i82 PARIS 
 
 a most barbarous mother; but, if we cannbt excuse the 
 voleaiib,-we blight to deal with it when it bursts forth, like Wise 
 men fdi-ewarried dt its possibility. . . . Aild then, ah, then I 
 well, periiaps, I'm a dkamet like othets, bilt t hftve my oWil 
 notidias.' 
 
 Witt a sweeping eesture he cbhfessfed what a. Sdciftl 
 dreamer there was within him beside the methodical ^nd 
 scrupiildus savant. MiS cohstaiit endeavotii: was to btihg 
 all back tb soiehbe, ^iid he -fras dbeply grieved kt finding in 
 nature no sciehtifie sign of e^ualit^ ot even justiefe, such as 
 he craved fdr in the social sphete. His dfeSpalit indeed cinia 
 from this inability to recbhcile scienlifid Ibgic with apdStblid 
 love, the dream of universal happihess and btotherhbbd and 
 ,. the eiid of all iniquity. 
 
 Pierre, however, who had remaihfed neat the Open wihddw, 
 gazing into tlie ni^ht towards Paris, wbehee ascended the last 
 sounds of the evenmg of passionate pledSui-e, felt the WhdlB 
 flood of his d\m ddiibt arid despair stiflirtg HiiU. It was all 
 too hiuch : that jbrolher bf his wbo had fallefa tipoh hiifa with 
 his scientiflc and apostolic beliefs, those men who camfe tb dis- 
 cuss conteihpbrary thought from every standpoint, and finally 
 that Salvat who had brought thithfer the exasperating metiiory 
 of his mad deed. And Pierre, who had listened tb them all 
 ■jvithoiil a wbrd,^ without a gesture^ wkb hid hidden his secteta 
 from his brother, seeking ref iige iii his sii^jtibsed ^rieStly view^, 
 suddenly felt such bitterness stirring his heart that he Cdiilfl 
 lie ho longer. 
 
 ' Ah 1 brotber, if you Have ybui drBatU, I hivfe my sote 
 which has eaten into me and left me tbld 1 YoUt Anatbhy; 
 your dream of just happines^, for whibh Salvat ■^otks with 
 bombs, why it is thei ^nsu. biirst of insanity wtltih will swbep 
 everything away J Hbw iS it that ydii can't realise it ? The 
 •- century Is eiidiiig in ruins. I've been listening tb you all foi 
 a month past. Fourier destroyed Saint- SiiHon, PtoudhoU 
 and Obinte demolished Fourier, each iii turn pilink Up ih- 
 coherenoes ahd contradictibiis, leaving mere chaos behihd 
 them, which nobody dares to sort piit. And sihtie then, 
 Socialist sects have been swarming; and multiplViiig, thb mbre 
 seiisible of thein leading simply to dictatorship, while thB bthers 
 indulge in most daiigerbus reveries. And after such a tfeihpst 
 of ideas there could indeed coine hbtliing but your AMirbby; 
 which undertakes to bring the old wbtld to 8. fihisH by 
 
PROBLEMS 183 
 
 reducing it to dust .... Ah 1 1 expected it, I was waiting for 
 it— that final catastrophe, that fratricidal niadhessi the in- 
 evitable class warfare in which our civilisation ■^vas destined 
 to Collapse I Everything anhoUricfed it ; the want 1 and misery 
 below, the egotism iip ;abov6, all the cracking of the old 
 human habitation, borne' down by tdp great a weight of isrime 
 and grief. When I went to liourdss it was to see if the 
 divinity of simple minds would work the awaitfed miracle, and 
 restore the belief of the early agtes to the people Which re- 
 belled through excess of feufferihg. And when I went to 
 Bome it Was in the naive hope bf there findihg the new 
 religion required by our democracies, the only one that could 
 pacify the world by brihging back the brotherliness of the 
 golden age. Biit how foolish of me all that was ! Both here 
 and there, I simply lighted on nothingness, there where I 
 so ardently dreamt of finding the salvatibh of others, I only 
 sank myself, going down a-p6a,k like a ship not a timber of 
 which is ever found again. One tie Btill linked toe to my 
 fellow nien, that of charity, the dressing, telieviiig and 
 perhaps, in the long run, healiiag bf wounds aiid sores ; but 
 that last (3able has now been sfevetfed. Charity, to my 
 mind, appears futile and derisive by the side of jiistiee, 
 to whoni all supt'emaey belongs, a,hd Whose advent has 
 become a necessity ahd cJtn be stayed by hone. 'And so it 
 is 111 over, I am mere ashfeS, an etojity grave as it were. I 
 no Ibngsr beheve in anything, anything, anything what- 
 ever ! ' 
 
 Pierre had risen to his full height, with arnis butstretchfed 
 as if to let &,11 th& nothingness within his heart and mind fall 
 frobl them. And GuiUS,ume, distracted by the sight of such 
 a fierce denier, such a despairing Nihilist aS wa^ now re- 
 vealed to him, drew near, Ijuivfering : ' What are you saying, 
 brother ! I thought you so firnii so cahn in yOUr belief ! A 
 j^rifest to be 6,dmired, a sa,int ■wbrshipp'ed by the whole 0^ 
 this parish 1 I was unwilling ev'eh to discuss your faith, 
 and now it is yttti who dfen^ 411j ahd believe in nothing what- 
 ever ! ' ' 
 
 Pierre again slowly sttetohed out his arms. 'There 
 is nothing ; I tried to learn all; ahd only fouhd the atrocious 
 grief born of the nothingness that Overwhelms me.' 
 
 'Ah! hbW you must suffer, Pibl:i:e, thy little brother! 
 Can religibhi then, bfe eveh ilibre withering than science, since 
 
i84 PARIS 
 
 it has ravaged you lilce that, while I have yet remained an old 
 madman, still full of fancies ? ' 
 
 Guillaume caught hold of Pierre's hands and pressed 
 them, full of ternfied compassion in presence of all the 
 grandeur and horror embodied in that unbelieving priest 
 who watched over the belief of others, and chastely, honestly 
 discharged his duty amidst the haughty sadness bom of his 
 falsehood. And how heavily must that falsehood have 
 weighed upon his conscience for him to confess himself in 
 that fashion, amidst an utter collapse of his whole being 1 A 
 month previously, La the unexpansiveness of his proud soli- 
 tude, he would never have taken such a course. To speak 
 out it was necessary that he should have been stirred by 
 many things, his reconciliation with his brother, the con- 
 versations he had heard of an evening, the terrible drama in 
 which he was mingled, as well as his reflections on labour 
 struggling against want, and the vague hope with which the 
 sight of intellectual youth had inspired him. And, indeed, 
 amid the very excess of his negation was there not already 
 the faint dawn of a new faith ? 
 
 This GniUaume must have understood, on seeing how he 
 quivered with unsatisfied tenderness as he emerged from the 
 fierce silence which he had preserved so long. He made Mm 
 sit down near the window, and placed himself beside him 
 without releasing his hands. ' But I won't have you suffer, 
 my little brother 1 ' he said, ' I won't leave you, I'll nurse 
 you. For I know you much better than you know yourself. 
 You would never have suffered were it not for the battle 
 between your heart and your mind, and you wiU cease to 
 suffer on the day when they make peace, and you love what 
 you understand.' And in a lower voice, with infinite affection, 
 he went on : ' You see, it's our poor mother and our poor 
 father continuing their painful struggle in you. You were 
 too young at the time, you couldn't know what went on. But 
 I knew them both very wretched : he, wretched through her, 
 who treated him as if he were one of the damned ; and she 
 suffering through him, tortured by his irreligion. When he 
 died, struck down by an explosion in this very room, she took 
 it to be the punishment of God. Yet, what an honest man 
 he was, with a good, great heart, what a worker, seeking for 
 truth alone, and desirous of the love and happiness of all 1 
 Since we have spent our evenings herp, I have felt him 
 coming back, reviving as it were both around and within us ; 
 
PROBLEMS 1 8s 
 
 and she, too, poor, saintly woman, is ever here, enveloping us 
 with love, weeping, and yet stubbornly refusing to understand. 
 It is they, perhaps, who have kept me here so long, and who 
 at this very moment are present to place your hands in 
 mine.' 
 
 And, indeed, it seemed to Pierre as if he could feel the 
 spirit of vigilant affection which GoiUanme evoked pass- 
 ing over them both. There was again a revival of all the 
 past, all their youth, and nothing could have been more 
 delightful. 
 
 ' You hear me, brother,' Guillaume resumed. ' You mu&t 
 reconcile them, for it is only in you that they can be re- 
 conciled. You have his firm, lofty brow, and her mouth and 
 eyes of unrealisable tenderness. So, try to bring them to 
 agreement, by some day contenting, as your reason shall 
 allow, the everlasting thirst for love, and self-bestowal, and 
 life, which for lack of satisfaction is kiUing you. Your 
 frightful wretchedness has no other cause. Gome back to 
 life, love, bestow yourself, be a man 1 ' 
 
 Pierre raised a dolorous cry : ' No, no, the death bom of 
 doubt has swept through me, withering and shattering every- 
 thing, and nothing more can live in such cold dust ! ' 
 
 ' But, come,' resumed Gmllaume, ' you cannot have 
 reached such absolute negation. No man reaches it. Even 
 in the most disabused of minds there remains a nook of fancy 
 and hope. To deny charity, devotion, the prodigies which 
 love may work, ah 1 for my part I do not go so far as that. 
 And now that you have shown me your sore, why should I 
 not tell you my dream, the wild hope which keeps me alive 1 
 It is strange ; but, are savants to be the last childish 
 dreamers, and is faith only to spring up nowadays in chemical 
 laboratories ? ' 
 
 Intense emotion was stirring Guillaume ; there was battle 
 waging in both his brain and his heart. And at last, 
 yielding to the deep compassion which filled him, vanquished 
 by his ardent affection for his unhappy brother, he spoke out. 
 But he had drawn yet closer to Pierre, even passed one arm 
 around him ; and it was thus embracing him that he, in his 
 turn, made his confession, lowering his voice as if he feared 
 that someone might overhear his secret. ' Why should you 
 not know it ? ' he said. ' My own sons are ignorant of it. 
 But you are a man and my brother, and since there is 
 nothing of the priest left in you, it is to the brother I will 
 
i86 PARIS 
 
 confide it. This will make me Ibve you the more, and 
 perhaps it may do ybti good.' 
 
 ThBn he told him of his invention, a Hew expldsive, a 
 powdet bf BUbh extraorditiary force that its effects were 
 incalculable. And he had found employment for this po#der 
 in ah engine of warfare, a special cahiioil, Hirrliiig bombs 
 which would assure the mdst overwhelming vibtbry to the 
 army using them. The enemy's forces would be destroyed ia 
 a few hours, and bfe^ieged cities vrbuld fall into dust at the 
 slightest bombardment. He had long searched and dbtibted, 
 calculated, recalciilatfed, and experimented; but 'Everything 
 was now ready : the precipe formula of the pbwder, the 
 drawings for the Cannon and thb boinbs, a whole packet of 
 precious papers stored ih a safe spot. Alld after months bf 
 ansious reflection he had tesoltfed to give his invention to 
 France, so as to ensure her a certainty of Victory in her 
 Coining, inevitable war with Geriilany 1 
 
 At the same time, he was nbt a iiian bf narrb* jiatidbtism ; 
 on the contrary he had a Very broad, international concfe^tibii 
 bf the futiire liberative civilisation. Only he believed in the 
 initiatory mission of France, and particularly in that of Paris, 
 which, even as it is tb-day, was destined to be the world's 
 brain to-tnbrrow, whence all science and jugtiee would 
 proceed. The great idea of libetty and equality had already 
 soarfed from it at the prodigious blast of the EevolUtibii ; and 
 from its geniUs and valour the final emancipation of man 
 would also take its flight. Thus it was necessary that Paris 
 should be victbrious ih the struggle in order that the world 
 inight be saved. 
 
 Pierre undetstood his brother, thanks to the lecture on 
 explosives which he had heard at Bertherby's. And the 
 grandeur of this scheme, this dream, particularly struck him 
 when he thought of the extraordinary future whibh t^ould bpen 
 fbr Paris amidst the effulgent blaze bf the bonlbS. Moreover, 
 hb was struck by all the nobilitj^ bf sbtll Mich had lain betiliia 
 his brbther's ahxiety fbr a month past. If (Gruillamne tad 
 tiristtibliBd it was simply -^vith fe^ that his invention might be 
 divulged in eonseqUeiicfe bf Salvat's crime. The sligliiiegt 
 indiscretion might coUiprbmiBS everything; and that little 
 stolen cartridge, whbSfe effebts had go astonished sdija^S, 
 might tbvfeal his secret. He felt it hebfeBsary to act in 
 mystbty, chbbsihg his bwh time, awaiting thb ptbpfei hoUr, 
 uhtil when the feectet would slliraber in its hiding-pldb^, 
 
PROBLEMS 187 
 
 confided to the sole cate of M^re- Grand, wlio had her orders 
 and knew Ivhat she was to do, should he, in dhy sUdden 
 accident, disappear. 
 
 ' And, now,' s^id Guillaiiine in conclusion, ' you know my 
 ho|)es and my anguish, and yoli cah help me and even take 
 my place if I am unable tb reach the end of iiiy task. All I 
 to reach the end I Since I have been shut Up here, tefleeting, 
 coiistlitied by anxiety and inipatieiiee, thelr'e have been hours 
 when I have eeElsed tb see tny wfty clearly ! there is 
 that Saltat, that wretched fellow fbt whose crime ive are all 
 of us irfespbilsible, and who iS now being hunted doWn like a 
 ^ild bfeast ! There is also ihat ihsen^atS and unsatiafele 
 ho'b/r^&oisiR, which will let itself be crushed by the fall of the 
 shaky bid noiise, rather than allow the leasi; rej)6,ii; tb ii I And 
 there is futthet that Ciipid, that febbiiiinable Parisian press, 
 so hatsh tbwarda the weak and little, so fbhd bf iiisultihg 
 those who have none to defend them, so eager to coin money 
 out of pubhc misfortune, and ready to spread insanity on all 
 sides, simply to increase its sales 1 Where, therefore, shall one 
 find truth and justice, the hand endowed with logic and health 
 that ought to be armed with the thunder-bolt ? Would Paris 
 the conqueror, Paris the master of the nations, prove the 
 justiciar, the saviour that men await 1 Ah ! the anguish of 
 believing oneself to be the master of the world's destinies, and 
 to have to choose and decide.' 
 
 He had risen again quivering, full of anger and fear that 
 human wretchedness and baseness might prevent the 
 realisation of his dream. And amidst the heavy silence which 
 fell in the room, the little house suddenly resounded with a 
 regular, continuous footfall. 
 
 'Ah, yes 1 to save men and love them, and wish them aU 
 to be equal and free,' murmured Pierre bitterly. ' But just 
 listen ! Barth^s' footsteps are answering you, as if from the 
 everlasting dungeon into which his love of liberty has thrown 
 himl ' 
 
 However, Guillaume had already regained possession of 
 himself, and coming back in a transport of his faith, he once 
 more took Pierre in his loving, saving arms, like an elder 
 brother who gives himself without restraint. ' No, no, I'm 
 wrong, I'm blaspheming,' he exclaimed, ' I wish you to be 
 with me, full of hope and full of certainty. You must work, 
 you must love, you must revive to life. Life alone can give 
 you back peace and health.' 
 
i88 PARIS 
 
 Tears returned to the eyes of Pierre, wlio was penetrated 
 to the heart by this ardent affection. ' Ah I how I should 
 like to believe you,' he faltered, 'and try to cure myself. 
 True, I have already felt, as it were, a vague revival within 
 me. And yet to live again, no, I cannot ; priest that I am 
 I can be nought but an empty tomb.' 
 
 He was shaken by so frightful a dob that Guillaume could 
 not restrain his own tears. And clasped in one another's 
 arms the brothers wept on, their hearts full of the softest 
 emotion in that home of their youth, whither the dear 
 shadows of their parents ever returned, hovering around until 
 _ they should be reconciled and restored to the peace of the 
 earth. And all the darkness and mildness of the garden 
 streamed in through the open window, while yonder, on the 
 horizon, Paris had fallen asleep in the mysterious gloom, 
 beneath a very peaceful sky which was studded with stars. 
 
i89 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 THE EIVAL3 
 
 On the Wednesday preceding the mid-Lent Thursday, a great 
 charity bazaar was held at the Duvillard mansion, for the 
 benefit of the Asylmn of the Invalids of Labour. The 
 ground-floor reception rooms, three spacious Louis Seize 
 salons, whose windows overlooked the bare and solemn court- 
 yard, were given up to the swarm of purchasers ; five thousand 
 admission cards having been distributed among all sections 
 of Parisian society. And the opening of the bombarded 
 mansion in this wise to thousands of visitors was regarded 
 as quite an event, a demonstration, although some people 
 whispered that the Eue Godot-de-Mauroy and the adjacent 
 streets were guarded by an army of police agents. 
 
 The idea of the bazaar had come from Duvillard himself, 
 and at his bidding his wife had resigned herself to all this 
 worry for the benefit of the enterprise over which she presided 
 with such distinguished nonchalance. On the previous day the 
 ' Globe ' newspaper, inspired by its director Pons^gue, who was 
 also the general manager of the asylmn, had published a very 
 fine article, announcing the bazaar, and pointing out how 
 noble, and touching, and generous was the initiative of the 
 Baroness, who still gave her time, her money, and even her 
 home to charity, in spite of the abominable crime which had 
 almost reduced that home to ashes. Was not this the 
 magnanimous answer of the spheres above to the hateful 
 passions of the spheres below ? And was it not also a 
 peremptory answer to those who accused the capitalists of 
 doing nothing for the wage-earners, the disabled and broken- 
 down sons of toil ? 
 
 The drawing-room doors were to be opened at two o'clock, 
 and would only close at seven, so that there would be five 
 
190 PARIS 
 
 full hours for the salea. And at noon, when nothing was as 
 yet ready downstairs, when workmen and women were still 
 decorating the stalls, and sorting the goods amidst a 
 final scramble, there was, as usual, a little friendly dijeuner, 
 to which a few guests had been invited, in the private rooms 
 on the first floor. However, a scarcely expected incident had 
 given a finishing touch to the general excitement of the 
 house ; that very morning Sagniey bad resumed his campaign 
 of denunciation in the matter of the African EaUway Lines. 
 In a virulent article in the ' Voix du Peuple,' he had inquired 
 if it were the intention of the authorities to beguile the pubUc 
 much longer with the story of that bomb and that Anarchist 
 whom the police did not arrest. And this time, while under- 
 taking to publish the namgs of the t^^irty-t^Q cofrupt senators 
 agd' q^puties in $. very early issue, be bad bqWly pamei 
 Minister Bfirroux as one who h^d pocketed a sum of 200,000 
 francs. Mege would therefpre certainly revive his interpel- 
 lation, which might becqpae dangerous, novf that Paris had 
 been throwri into such a distracted state by terrpr of the 
 Anarchists. At the same time it was said that yignon and 
 his party had resolved to turn eifcumstances to account, with 
 the object of overthrowing the Ministry. Thus a redoi^btable 
 crisis was inevitably at hand. Fortunately, the Chamber did 
 not meet that W^dhesday ; in fact, it had adjourned until the 
 Friday, with the view of making mid-Lent a holiday. An4 
 so forty-eight hours were left one to prepare fqr the on- 
 slaught. 
 
 Eve, that morning, seemed more gentle aiid languid than 
 ever, rather pale too, with an expression of sorrowful anxiety 
 in the depths of her beautiful eyes. She set it all down to 
 the very great fatigue which the pireparations for the bazaar 
 had entailed on her. But the truth was thst 0erard de 
 Quinsac, after shunning any further Sissignation, had for five 
 days past avoided her in an embarrassed way. StUl she was 
 conviiieed that she would see him that morning, and so she 
 had again ventured to wear the white silk gowp which made 
 her look so much younger than she really was. At the same 
 time, beautiful as she had remained, with her deUoate skip, 
 superb figure, and noble and charming countejjpipce, her six- 
 and-forty years were asserting themselves in h^y blotchy 
 complexion and the little creases which were §,ppeariiig about 
 her lips, eyelids, and teniples. 
 
 Oamille, for her part, tiioiigh her position q^s daughter of 
 
THE RIVALS 191 
 
 the house n&^e it ceEtsiin that she ttouIcI attract much 
 custom as a sal^swomari, had obstinately persisted in wearing 
 one of her usual dresses, a dark ■ Carmelite ' gown, an old 
 woman's frock as she herself called it with a cutting laugh. 
 However, her Jong and wicked looking face beamed with some 
 secret delight ; such an expression of wit and intelligence 
 wreathing he? thin lips and shining in her big eyes that 
 one lost sight of her deformity and thought her almost 
 pretty. 
 
 Eve experienced a first deception in the little blue and 
 silyer sitting-joon} where, accompanied by her daughter, she 
 awaited the arrival of her guests. General de Bozonnet, whom 
 G6rard wag to have brought with him, came in alone, ex- 
 plaining that Madame de Quinsac had felt rather poorly that 
 morning, grjjd that Gerard, like a good and dutiful son, had 
 wished to remain with her. Still he would come to the 
 hazaar directly after dijeuner. While the Baroness listened 
 to the General, striving to hide her disappointment and her 
 fear that she would now be unable to obtain any explanation 
 from Qerard that day, Camille looked at her with eager, de- 
 vouring eyes. And a certain covert instinct of the misfortune 
 threatening her must at that moment have come to Eve, for 
 in her turn she glanced at her daughter and turned pale as if 
 with anxiety. 
 
 Then Princess Rosemonde de Harn swept in like a whirl- 
 wind. She also was to be one of the saleswomen at the stall 
 chosen by the Baroness, who liked her for her very turbu- 
 lence, the sudden gaiety which she generally brought with her. 
 GoTYned in satin of a fiery hue — red shot with yellow — looking 
 very eccentric with her curly hair and thin boyish figure, 
 she laughed and talked of an accident by which her carriage 
 had almost been cut in halves. Then, as Baron Duvillard and 
 Hyaeinthe came in from their rooms, late as usual, she took 
 possession of the young man and scolded him, for on the 
 previous evening she had vainly waited for him till ten o'clock 
 in the expectation that he would keep his promise to escort 
 her to a tavern at Montmartre, where some horrible things 
 were said tp occur. Hyaeinthe, looking very bored, quietly 
 replied that he had been detained at a sSance given by some 
 adepts in the new Magic, i^ the course of which the soul 
 of St. Theresa had descended fcom heaven to recite a love 
 Bonust. 
 
 However, Fonsegue was now coming in with his wife, a 
 
192 PARIS 
 
 tall, thin, silent, and generally insignificant woman, whom he 
 seldom took about with him. On this occasion he had been 
 obliged to bring her, as she was one of the lady-patronesses 
 of the asylum, and he himself was coming to lunch with the 
 Duvillards in his capacity as general manager. To the 
 superficial observer he looked quite as gay as usual ; but he 
 blinked nervously, and his first glance was a questioning one 
 in the direction of Duvillard, as if he wished to know how 
 the latter bore the fresh thrust directed at him by Sagnier. 
 And when he saw the banker looking perfectly composed, as 
 superb, as rubicund as usual, and chatting in a bantering 
 way with Eosemonde, he also put on an easy air, like a 
 gamester who had never lost but had always known how to 
 compel good luck, even in hours of treachery. And by way 
 of showing his unconstraint of mind he at once addressed the 
 Baroness on managerial matters : ' Have you now succeeded 
 in seeing M. I'Abbe Proment for the affair of that old man 
 Laveuve, whom he so warmly recommended to us ? All the 
 formalities have been gone through, you know, and he can be 
 brought to us at once, as we have had a bed vacant for three 
 days past.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know,' replied Eve ; ' but I can't imagine what 
 has become of Abb6 R-oment, for he hasn't given us a sign 
 of life for a month past. However, I made up my mind to 
 write to him yesterday, and beg him to come to the bazaar 
 to-day. In this manner I shall be able to acquaint him with 
 the good news myself.' 
 
 ' It was to leave you the pleasure of doing so,' said 
 Fons^gue, ' that I refrained from sending him any o£6cial 
 communication. He's a charming priest, is he not ? ' 
 
 ' Oh 1 charming, we are very fond of him.' 
 
 However, Duvillard now intervened to say that they need 
 not wait for Duthil, as he had received a telegram from him 
 stating that he was detained by sudden business. At this 
 FonsSgue's anxiety returned, and he once more questioned 
 the Baron with his eyes. Duvillard smiled, however, and re- 
 assured him in an undertone : ' It's nothing serious. Merely 
 a commission for me, about which he'll only be able to bring 
 me an answer by-and-bye.' Then, taking Fonsegue on one 
 side, he added : ' By the way, don't forget to insert the 
 paragraph I told you of.' 
 
 ' What paragraph ? Oh ! yes, the one about that soir&a 
 at which Silviane recited a piece of verse. Well, I wanted to 
 
THE RIVALS 193 
 
 epeak to you about it. It worries me a little, on account of 
 the excessive praise it contains.' 
 
 Duvillard, but a moment before so full of serenity, with 
 his lofty, conquering, disdainful mien, now suddenly became 
 pale and agitated. ' But I absolutely want it to be inserted, 
 my dear fellow ! You would place me in the greatest 
 embarrassment if it were not to appear, for I promised 
 Silviane that it should.' 
 
 As he spoke his lips trembled, and a scared look came into 
 his eyes, plainly revealing his dismay. 
 
 ' All right, all right,' said Fonsegue, secretly amused, and 
 well pleased at this complicity. ' As it's so serious the 
 paragraph shall go in, I promise you.' 
 
 The whole company was now present, since neither 
 Gerard nor Duthil was to be expected. So they went into 
 the dining-room amidst a final noise of hammering in the 
 sale rooms below. The meal proved somewhat of a scramble, 
 and was on three occasions disturbed by female attendants, 
 who came to explain difficulties and ask for orders. Doors 
 were constantly slamming, and the very walls seemed to 
 shake with the unusual bustle which fiUed the house. And 
 feverish as they aU were in the dining-room, they talked in 
 desultory, haphazard fashion on all sorts of subjects, passing 
 from a ball given at the Ministry of the Interior on the 
 previous night, to the popular mid-Lent festival which would 
 take place on the morrow, and ever reverting to the bazaar, 
 the prices that had been given for the goods which would be 
 on sale, the prices at which they might be sold, aaid the 
 probable figure of the f uU receipts, aU this being interspersed 
 with strange anecdotes, witticisms, and bursts of laughter. 
 On the General mentioniag magistrate Amadieu, Eve de- 
 clared that she no longer dared to invite him to dijeuner, 
 knowing how busy he was at the Palace of Justice. Still, she 
 certainly hoped that he would come to the bazaar and 
 contribute something. Then Fons^ue amused himself 
 with teasing Princess Eosemonde about her fire-hued gown, in 
 which, said he, she must already feel roasted by the flames of 
 bell ; a suggestion which secretly delighted her, as Satanism 
 had now become her momentary passion. Meantime, 
 DuviUard lavished the most gallant politeness on that silent 
 creature, Madame Fonsegue, while Hyacinthe, in order to 
 astonish even the Princess, explained in a few words how the 
 New Magic could transform a young man of absolute chaste- 
 
 
 
194 PARIS 
 
 ness into a sexless angel. And Camille, who seemed very 
 happy and very excited, from time to time darted a hot glance 
 at her mother, whose anxiety and sadness increased as she 
 found the other more and more aggressive, and apparently 
 resolved upon open and merciless warfare. 
 
 At last, just as the dessert was coming to an end, the 
 Baroness heard her daughter exclaim in a piercing, defiant 
 voice : ' Oh ! don't talk to me of the old ladies who still 
 seem to be playing with doUs, and paint themselves, and dress 
 as if they were about to be confirmed ! All such ogresses 
 ought to retire from the scene ! I hold them in horror ! ' 
 
 At this. Eve nervously rose from her seat, and exclaimed 
 apologetically : ' You must forgive me for hurrying you Uke 
 this. But I'm afraid that we shall hardly have time to driak 
 our coffee in peace, though perhaps we may be able to draw 
 breath a little,' 
 
 The coffee was served in the little blue and silver sitting- 
 room, where bloomed some lovely yellow roses, testifying to 
 the Baroness's keen passion for flowers, which made the house 
 an abode of perpetual spring. Duvillard and Fonsegue, 
 however, carrying their cups of steaming coffee with them, 
 at once went into the former's private room to smoke a cigar 
 there and chat in freedom. Still the door remained wide open, 
 and one could hear their gruff voices more or less distinctly. 
 Meantime, General de Bozonnet, dehghted to find in Madame 
 Fonsegue a serious, submissive person, who Ustened without 
 interrupting, began to tell her a very long story of an officer's 
 wife who had followed her husband through every battle of 
 the war of 1870. Then Hyacinthe, who took no coffee — 
 contemptuously declaring it to be a beverage only fit for 
 doorkeepers — managed to rid himseK of Eosemonde, who was 
 sipping some kummel, in order to come and whisper to his 
 sister : ' I say, it was very stupid of you to taunt mamma in 
 the way you did just now. I don't care a rap about it myself. 
 But it ends by being noticed and, I warn you candidly, it shows 
 ill breeding.' 
 
 OamiUe gazed at him fixedly with her black eyes. ' Pray 
 don't you meddle with my afl'airs,' said she. 
 
 At this he felt frightened, scented a storm, and decided to 
 take Eosemonde into the adjoining red drawing-room in order 
 to show her a picture which his 'ather had lately purchased. 
 And the General, on being called by him, likewise conducted 
 Madame Pong^gue thither. 
 
THE RIVALS tgS 
 
 The mether and daughter then suddenly found themselvea 
 alone and face to face. Eve was leaning on a pier-table, as 
 if overcome ; and indeed the least sorrow bore her down, so 
 weak at heart she was, ever ready to weep in her naive and 
 perfect egotism. Why was it that her daughter thus hated 
 her, and did her utmost to disturb that last happy spell of love 
 in which her heart lingered ? She looked at Gamille, grieved 
 rather than irritated ; and the unfortunate idea came to her of 
 making a remark about her dress at the very moment when 
 the girl was on the point of following the others into the 
 larger drawing-room. 
 
 ' It's quite wrong of you, my dear,' said she, ' to persist in 
 dressing Uke an old woman. It doesn't improve you a bit.'. 
 
 As Eve spoke, her soft eyes, those of one who had 
 ever been courted and worshipped, expressed sudden compas- 
 sion for that ugly, deformed girl, whom she' had never 
 been able to regard as adaughter. Was it possible that she, 
 with her sovereign beauty, that beauty which she herself had 
 ever adored and nursed, making it her one care, her one 
 religion — ^was it possible that she had given birth to such a 
 graceless creature, with a dark goatish profile, one shoulder 
 higher than the other, and a pair of endless arms such as 
 hunchbacks often have ? All her grief and all her shame at 
 having had such a child became apparent in the quivering of 
 her voice. 
 
 Camille, however, had stopped short, as if struck in the 
 face with a whip. Then she came back to her mother and 
 the horrible explanation began with these simple words 
 spoken in an undertone : ' You consider that I dress badly ? 
 Well, you ought to have paid some attention to me, have seen 
 that my gowns suited your taste, and have taught me your 
 secret of looking beautiful ! ' 
 
 Eve, with her dislike of all painful feeling, all quarrelling 
 and bitter words, was already regretting her attack. , So she 
 sought to effect a retreat, particularly as time was flying and 
 they would soon be expected downstairs ; ' Come, be quiet, 
 and don't show your bad temper when all those people can 
 hear us. I have loved you ' 
 
 But with a quiet yet terrible laugh Gamille interrupted 
 her. 'You've loved me! Oh! my poor mamma, what; a 
 Eomical thing to say ! Have you ever loved anybody 1 ; You 
 want others to love you, but that's another matter. As for 
 your child, any child, do you even know how itoughtfco beloved ? 
 
igS* PAHIS 
 
 You liave always neglected me, thrust me on one side, deeming 
 me BO ugly, bo unworthy of you I And besides you have not 
 had days and nights enough to love yourself ! Oh ! don't deny 
 it, my poor mamma, but even now you're looking at me as if 
 I were some loathsome monster that's in your way.' 
 
 From that moment the abominable scene was bound 
 to continue to the end. With their teeth set, their faces 
 close together, the two women went on speaking in feverish 
 whispers. 
 
 'Be quiet, Camille, I tell you I I will not allow such 
 language 1 ' 
 
 ' But I won't be quiet when you do all you can to wound 
 me. If it's wrong of me to dress like an old woman, perhaps 
 somebody we know is rather ridiculous in dressing like a girl, 
 like a bride.' 
 
 ' Like a bride ? I don't understand you.' 
 
 ' Oh 1 yes, you do. However, I would have you know 
 that everybody doesn't find me so ugly as you try to make 
 them believe.' 
 
 ' If you look amiss it is because you don't dress properly, 
 that is all I said.' 
 
 ' I dress as I please, and no doubt I do so well enough, 
 since I'm loved as I am.' 
 
 ' What, really 1 Does someone love you ? Well, let him 
 inform us of it and marry you.' 
 
 ' Yes — certainly, certainly ! It will be a good riddance, 
 won't it ? And you'll have the pleasure of seeing me as a 
 bride ! ' 
 
 Their voices were rising in spite of their efforts to re- 
 strain them. However, CamUle paused and drew breath 
 before hissing out the words : ' Gerard is coming here to ask 
 for my hand in a day or two.' 
 
 Eve, livid, with wildly staring eyes, did not seem to 
 understand. ' Gerard 1 why do you tell me that ? ' 
 
 ' Why, because it's Gerard who loves me and who is going 
 to marry me I You drive me to extremities ; you're for ever 
 repeating that I'm ugly; you treat me like a monster whom 
 nobody will ever care for. So I'm forced to defend myself 
 and tell you the truth, in order to prove to you that every- 
 body is not of your opinion.' 
 
 Silence fell, the frightful thing which had risen between 
 them seemed to have arrested the quarrel. But there was 
 neither mother nor daughter left there. They were simply 
 
THE RIVALS igy 
 
 two tortured, defiant rivals. Eve in her turn drew a long 
 breath and glanced anxiously towards the adjoining room 
 to ascertain if anyone were coming in or listening to them. 
 And then in a tone of resolution she made answer : 
 
 ' You cannot marry Gerard.' 
 
 ' Pray, why not ? ' 
 
 ' Because I won't have it ; because it's impossible.' 
 
 ' That isn't a reason, give me a reason.' 
 
 • The reason is that the marriage is impossible — that ia 
 all.' 
 
 ' No, no, I'll tell you the reason since you force me to it. 
 The reason is that Gerard is your lover I But what does that 
 matter since I know it and am willing to take him all the 
 same?' 
 
 And to this retort CamiUe's flaming eyes added the words : 
 ' And it is particularly on that account that I want him.' 
 All the long torture born of her infirmities, all her rage at 
 having always seen her mother beautiful, courted and adored, 
 was now stirring her and seeking vengeance in cruel triumph. 
 At last then she was snatching from her rival the lover of 
 whom she had so long been jealous ! 
 
 ' You wretched girl 1 ' stammered Eve, wounded in the 
 heart and almost sinking to the floor. * You don't know what 
 you say or what you make me suffer.' 
 
 However, she again had to pause, draw herself erect, and 
 smile ; for Rosemonde and Hyacinthe hastened in from the ad- 
 joining room with the news that she was wanted downstairs. 
 The doors were about to be opened, and it was necessary she 
 should be at her stall. Yes, Eve answered, she would be down 
 in another moment. Still even as she spoke she leant more 
 heavily on the pier-table behind her in order that she might 
 not fall. 
 
 Hyacinthe had drawn near to his sister : ' You know,' 
 said he, ' it's simply idiotic to quarrel like that. You would do 
 much better to come downstairs.' 
 
 But Camille harshly dismissed him : ' Just you go off, and 
 take the others with you. It's quite as well that they 
 shouldn't be aboijt our ears.' 
 
 Hyacinthe glanced at his mother, like one who knew the 
 truth and considered the whole affair ridiculous. And then, 
 vexed at seeing her so deficient in energy in dealing with 
 that little pest his sister, he shrugged his shoulders, and 
 leaving them to their folly, conducted the others away. One 
 
igS PARIS 
 
 could hear Eosemonde laughing as^she went off belcw, while 
 the General, descending the stairs with Madame Fons^gue, 
 began to tell her another story. However, at the moment 
 when the mother and daughter at last fancied themselves 
 alone once more, other voices reached their ears, those of 
 Duvillard and Fonsegue, who were still near at hand. The 
 Baron Irom his room might well overhear the dispute. 
 
 Eve felt that she ought to have goneoff. But she had lacked 
 the strength to do so ; it hadbeen a sheer impossibility for her 
 after those words which had smote her like a buffet amidst 
 her distress at the thought of losing her lover. 
 
 ' Gerard cannot marry you,' she said, ' lie does not love 
 you.' 
 
 ' He does.' 
 
 ' You fancy it because he has good-naturedly shown some 
 kindness to you, on seeing others pay you such little attention. 
 But he does not love you.' 
 
 'He does. He loves me first because I'm not such a fool 
 as many others are, and particularly because I'm young.' ' 
 
 This was a fresh wound for the Baroness ; one inflicted with 
 mocking cruelty in which rang out all the daughter's triumphant 
 delight at seeing her mother's beauty at last ripening and 
 waning. ' Ah 1 my poor mamma, you no longer know what 
 it is to be young. If I'm not beautiful, at aU events I'm young ; 
 my eyes are clear and my lips are fresh. And my hair's so long 
 too, and I've so much of it that it would suffice to gown me 
 if I chose. You see, one's never ugly when one's young. 
 Whereas, my poor mamma, everything is ended when one 
 gets old. It's all very well for a woman to have been beauti- 
 ful, and to strive to keep so, but in reality there's only ruin 
 left, and shame, and disgust.' 
 
 She spoke those words in such a sharp, ferocious voice 
 that each of them entered her mother's heart like a knife. 
 Tears rose to the eyes of the wretched woman, again stricken 
 in her bleeding womid. Ah ! it was true, die remained 
 without weapons against youth. And all her anguish came 
 from the consciousness that she was growing old, from the 
 feeling that love was departing from her now that like a fruit 
 she had ripened and fallen from the tree. 
 
 ' But Gerard's mother will never let him marry you,' she 
 said. 
 
 ' He will prevail on her, that's his concern. I've a dowry 
 of two millions, and two millions can settle many things,' 
 
THE RIVALS 199 
 
 • Do you now want to libel him, and say that he's marrying 
 you for your money ? ' 
 
 'No, indeed 1 Gerard's a very nice and honest fellow. 
 He loves me and he's marrying me for myself. But, after 
 all, he isn't rich, he stUl has no assured position, although he's 
 thirty-six ; and there may well be some advantage in a wife 
 who brings you wealth as well as happiness. For, you hear, 
 mamma, it's happiness I'm bringing him, real happiness, 
 love that's shared and is certain of the future.' 
 
 Once again their faces drew close together. The hateful 
 scene, interrupted by sounds around them, postponed, and 
 then resumed, was dxagging on, becoming a perfect drama 
 full of murderous violence, although they never shouted, 
 but spoke the whole time in low and gasping voices. Neither 
 gave way to the other, though at every moment they were 
 liable to some surprise ; for as all the doors were open, the 
 servants might come in, and moreover the Baron's voice stiU 
 rang out gaily, close at hand. 
 
 ' He loves you, he loves you ' — continued Eve. ' That's 
 what you say. But he never told you so.' 
 
 ' He has told me so twenty times, he repeats it every time 
 that we are alone together I ' 
 
 ' Yes, just as one says it to a little girl by way of amusing 
 her. But he has never told you that he meant to marry 
 you.' 
 
 ' He told it me the last time he came. And it's settled. 
 I'm simply waiting for him to get his mother's consent and 
 make his formal offer.' 
 
 ' You lie, you lie, you wretched girl ! You simply want 
 to make me suffer, and you Ue, you he ! ' 
 
 Eve's grief at last burst forth in that cry of protest. She 
 no longer knew that she was a mother, and was speaking to 
 her daughter. The woman, the amorosa, alone remained in 
 her, outraged and exasperated by a rival. And with a sob 
 she confessed the truth : 'It is I he loves ! Only the last 
 time I spoke to him, he swore to me — you hear me? — he 
 swore upon his honour that he did not love you, and that he 
 would never marry you ! ' 
 
 A faint, sharp laugh came from Camille. Then, with an 
 air of derisive compassion, she replied : ' Ah ! my poor 
 mamma, you really make me sorry for you 1 What a child 
 you are I Yes, really, you are the child, not I. What 1 you 
 who ought to have so much experience, you still allow your- 
 
200 PARIS 
 
 self to be duped by a man's protests I That one really hag 
 no malice ; and, indeed, that's why he swears whatever you 
 want him to swear, just to please and quiet you, for at heart 
 he's a little bit of a coward.' 
 
 ' You lie, you lie ! ' 
 
 ' But just think matters over. If he no longer comes 
 here, if he didn't come to lunch this morning, it is simply 
 because he's had enough of you. He has left you for good, 
 just have the courage to realise it. Of course he's stiU polite 
 and amiable, because he's a well-bred man, and doesn't know 
 how to break off. The fact is that he takes pity on you.' 
 
 ' You lie, you lie ! ' 
 
 ' Well, question him then. Have a frank explanation with 
 him. Ask him his intentions in a friendly way. And then 
 show some good-nature yourself, and realise that if you care 
 for him you ought to give him me at once in his own interest. 
 Give him back his liberty, and you will soon see that I'm the 
 one he loves.' 
 
 ' You lie, you he 1 You wretched child, you only want to 
 torture and kill me ! ' 
 
 Then, in her fury and distress. Eve remembered that she was 
 the mother, and that it was for her to chastise that unworthy 
 daughter. There was no stick near her, but from a basket of 
 the yellow roses, whose powerful scent intoxicated both of 
 them, she plucked a handful of blooms, with long and spiny 
 stalks, and smote CamiUe across the face. A drop of blood 
 appeared on the girl's left temple, near her eyelid. 
 
 But she sprang forward, flushed and maddened by this 
 correction, with her hand raised, and ready to strike back. 
 ' Take care, mother ! I swear I'd beat you hke a gipsy I And 
 now just put this into your head: I mean to marry Gerard, 
 and I will ; and I'U take him from you, even if 1 have to 
 raise a scandal, should you refuse to give him to me with 
 good grace.' 
 
 Eve, after her one act of angry vigour, had sunk into an 
 armchair, overcome, distracted. And all the horror of 
 quarrels, which sprang from her egotistical desire to be happy, 
 caressed, flattered, and adored, was returning to her. But 
 CamiUe, still threatening, stiU unsatiated, showed her heart 
 as it really was, her stern, black, unforgiving heart, in- 
 toxicated with cruelty. There came a moment of supreme 
 silence, while Duvillard's gay voice again rang out in the 
 adjoining room. 
 
THE RIVALS -aoi 
 
 The mother was gently weeping, when Hyacinthe, coming 
 upstairs at a run, swept into the little salon. He looked at 
 the two women, and made a gesture of indulgent contempt. 
 ' Ah I you're no doubt satisfied now I But what did I tell 
 you ? It would have been much better for you to have come 
 downstairs at once 1 Everybody is asking for you. It's all 
 idiotic. I've come to fetch you.' 
 
 Eve and Camille would not yet have followed him, 
 perhaps, if Duvillard and FonsSgue had not at that moment 
 come out of the former's room. Having finished their cigars 
 they also spoke of going downstairs. And Eve had to rise 
 and smUe and show dry eyes, while CamiUe, standing before 
 a looking-glass, arranged her hair, and stanched the little 
 drop of blood that had gathered on her temple, with her 
 handkerchief. 
 
 There was already quite a number of people below, in the 
 three huge saloons adorned with tapestry and plants. The 
 stalls had been draped with red silk, which set a gay, bright 
 glow around the goods. And no ordinary bazaar could have 
 put forth such a show, for there was something of everything 
 among the articles of a thousand different kinds, from sketches 
 by recognised masters, and the autographs of famous writers, 
 down to socks, pins, and combs. The haphazard way in which 
 things were laid out was in itself an attraction; and, in 
 addition, there was a buffet, where the whitest of beautiful 
 hands poured out champagne, and two lotteries, one for an 
 organ and another for a pony-drawn village cart, the tickets 
 for which were sold by a bevy of charming girls, who had 
 scattered through the throng. As Duvillard had expected, 
 however, the great success of the bazaar lay in the deUghtful 
 little shiver which the beautiful ladies experienced as they 
 passed through the entrance where the bomb had exploded. 
 The rougher repairing work was finished, the walls and 
 ceilings had been doctored, in part reconstructed. However, 
 the painters had not yet come, and here and there white patches 
 of stone and plaster work showed like fresh scars left by all 
 the terrible gashes. It was with mingled anxiety and rapture, 
 that pretty heads emerged from the carriages which, arriving 
 in a continuous stream, made the flagstones of the court 
 re-echo. In the three saloons, beside the stalls, there was 
 no end to the lively chatter : ' Ah ! my dear, did you see 
 all those marks? How frightful I The whole house was 
 almost blown up. And to think it might begin again while 
 
aoj? PARIS 
 
 we are here I One really needs some courage to come, but 
 then, that asylum is such a deserving institution, and money 
 is badly wanted to build a new wing. And besides, those 
 monsters will see that we are not frightened, whatever they 
 do.' 
 
 When the Baroness at last came down to her stall with 
 Camille she found the saleswomen feverishly at work already 
 under the direction of Princess Eosemonde, who on occasions 
 of this kind evinced the greatest cunning and rapacity, robbing 
 her customers in the most impudent fashion. ' Ah I here you 
 are,' she exclaimed. ' Beware of a number of higglers who 
 have come to secure bargains. I know them 1 They watch 
 for their opportunities, turn everything topsy-turvy and wait 
 for us to lose our heads and forget prices, so as to pay even 
 less than they would in a real shop. But I'll get good prices 
 from them, you shall see 1 ' 
 
 At this. Eve, who for her own part was a most incapable 
 saleswoman, had to laugh with the others. And in a gentle 
 voice she made a pretence of addressing certain recommenda- 
 tions to Camille, who listened with a smiling and most submis- 
 sive air. In point of fact the wretched mother was sinking with 
 emotion, particularly at the thought that she would have to 
 remain there till seven o'clock, and suffer in secret before aU 
 those people, without possibiHty of rehef. And thus it was 
 almost like a respite when she suddenly perceived AbbS 
 Froment sitting and waiting for her on a settee, covered with 
 red velvet, near her stall. Her legs were failing her, so she 
 took a place beside him. 
 
 'You received my letter then. Monsieur I'AbbS. I am 
 glad that you have come, for I have some good news to give 
 you, and vnshed to leave you the pleasure of imparting it to 
 your prot&g&, that man Laveuve, whom you so warmly 
 recommended to me. Every formahty has now been fulfilled, 
 and you can bring him to the Asylum to-morrow.' 
 
 Pierre gazed at her in stupefaction. ' Laveuve ? Why, he 
 \s dead 1 ' 
 
 In her turn she became astonished. ' What, dead 1 But 
 you never informed me of it I If I told you of all the trouble 
 that has been taken, of all that had to be undone and done 
 again, and the discussions, and the papers and the writing I 
 Are you quite sure that he is dead ? ' 
 
 ' Oh 1 yes, ho is dead. He has been dead a month.' 
 
 ' Dead a month I Well, we could not know, you yourself 
 
THE RIVALS 203 
 
 gave us no sign of life. Ah 1 good heavens ! what a worry that 
 he should be dead. We shall now be obliged to undo every- 
 thing again I ' 
 
 ' He is dead, madame. It is true that I ought to have 
 informed you of it. But that doesn^t alter the fact — he is 
 dead.' 
 
 Dead ! that word which kept on returning, the thought too 
 that for a month past she had been busying herself for a corpse, 
 quite froze her, brought her to the very depths of despau* like 
 an omen of the cold death into which she herself must soon 
 descend, in the shroud of her last passion. And, meantime, 
 Pierre, despite himself, smiled bitterly at the atrocious irony 
 of it all. Ah I that lame and halting Charity, which proffers 
 help when men are dead 1 
 
 The priest still lingered on the settee when the Baroness 
 rose. She had seen magistrate Amadieu hiirriediy enter, as if 
 he wished just to show himself, purchase some trifle or other 
 and then return to the Palace of Justice. .However, he was 
 also perceived by little Massot, the ' Globe ' reporter, who was 
 prowling round the stalls, and who at once bore down upon 
 him, eager for information. And he hemmed him in and 
 forthwith interviewed him respecting the affair of that 
 mechanician Salvat, w^ho was accused of having deposited the 
 bomb at the entrance of the house. Was this simply an 
 invention of the police, as some newspapers pretended ? Or 
 was it really correct? And if. so would Salvat soon be 
 arrested ? In self-defence Amadieu answered correctly, enough 
 that the affair did not as yet concern him ; and would only 
 come within his attributions if Salvat should be arrested and 
 the investigation placed in his hands. At the same time, 
 the air of pomposity and shrewdness which the magistrate 
 assumed suggested that he already knew everything to the 
 smallest details, and that, had he chosen, he could have 
 promised some great events for the morrow. A circle of 
 ladies had gathered round him as he spoke ; quite a number 
 of pretty women, feverish with curiosity, jostling one 
 another in their eagerness to hear that brigand tale which 
 sent a little shiver coursing under their skins. However, 
 Amadieu managed to slip off after paying Bosemonde twenty 
 francs for a cigarette case, which was perhaps worth thirty 
 
 60U3. 
 
 Massot, on recognising Pierre, came up to shake hands 
 with him. 'Don't you agree with me, Monsieur I'Abb^, 
 
204 PARIS 
 
 that Salvat must be a long way off by now if he's got good 
 legs ? Ah 1 the police will always make me laugh 1 ' 
 
 However, Eosemonde brought Hyacinthe up to the 
 journalist. ' Monsieur Massot,' said she, ' you who go every- 
 where, I want you to be judge. That Chamber of Horrors 
 at Montmartre, that tavern where Legras sings the " Flowers 
 of the Pavement " ' 
 
 ' Oh I a delightful spot, madame,' interrupted Massot, ' I 
 wouldn't take even a gendarme there.' 
 
 ' No, don't jest. Monsieur Massot, I'm talking seriously. 
 Isn't it quite allowable for a respectable woman to go there 
 when she's accompanied by a gentleman ? ' And, without 
 allowing the journalist time to answer her she turned to- 
 wards Hyacinthe : ' There 1 you see that Monsieur Massot 
 doesn't say no 1 You've got to take me there this evening, 
 it's sworn, it's sworn." 
 
 Then she darted away to seU a packet of pins to an old 
 lady, while the young man contented himself with remarking in 
 the voice of one who has no illusions left : ' She's quite 
 idiotic with her Chamber of Horrors ! ' 
 
 Massot philosophically shrugged his shoulders. It was 
 only natural that a woman should want to amuse herself. 
 And when Hyacinthe had gone off, passing with perverse 
 contempt beside the lovely girls who were selling lottery 
 tickets, the journalist ventured to murmur : ' AU the same, 
 it would do that youngster good if a woman were to take him 
 in hand.' 
 
 Then, again addressing Pierre, he resumed : ' Why here 
 comes Duthil 1 What did Sagnier mean this morning by 
 saying that Duthil would sleep at Mazas to-night ? ' 
 
 In a great hurry apparently, and all smiles, Duthil wag 
 cleaving his way through the crowd in order to join DuvUlard 
 and Fons^gue, who still stood talking near the Baroness's 
 stall. And he waved his hand to them in a victorious way, 
 to imply that he had succeeded in the delicate mission en- 
 trusted to him. This was nothing less than a bold manceuvre 
 to hasten Silviane's admission to the Com^die Fran9aise. 
 The idea had occurred to her of making the Baron give a 
 dinner at the Caf6 Anglais in order that she might meet at it 
 an influential critic, who, according to her statements, would 
 compel the authorities to throw the doors wide open for her as 
 soon as he should know her. It did not seem easy, however, 
 to secure the critic's presence, as he was noted for his stern 
 
THE RIVALS soj 
 
 and grumbling disposition. And, indeed, after a first repulse, 
 Duthil had for three days past been obliged to exert all his 
 powers of diplomacy, and bring even the remotest influence 
 into play. But he was radiant now, for he had conquered. 
 
 ' It's for this evening, my dear Baron, at half-past seven,' 
 he exclaimed. ' Ah ! dash it aU, I've had more trouble than 
 I should have had to secure a concession vote 1 ' Then he 
 laughed with the pretty impudence of a man of pleasure, 
 whom political conscientiousness did not trouble. And, indeed, 
 his allusion to the fresh denunciations of the ' Yoix du 
 Peuple ' hugely amused him. 
 
 'Don't jest,' muttered FonsSgue, who for his part wished 
 to divert himself by frightening the young deputy. • Things 
 are going very badly 1 ' 
 
 Duthil turned pale, and a vision of the police and Mazas 
 rose before his eyes. In this wise abject terror came over 
 him from time to time. However, with his lack of all moral 
 sense, he soon felt reassured and began to laugh. ' Oh ! ' 
 he retorted gaily, winking towards Duvillard, ' the governor's 
 there to pilot the barque 1 ' 
 
 The Baron, who was extremely pleased, had pressed his 
 hands, thanked him, and called him an obliging fellow. 
 And now turning towards Fonsegue he exclaimed : ' I say, 
 you must make one of us this evening. Oh I it's necessary. 
 I want something imposing round Silviane. Duthil will 
 
 represent the Chamber, you journalism, and I finance ' 
 
 But he suddenly paused on seeing G6rard, who, with a 
 somewhat grave expression, was leisurely picking his way 
 through the sea of skirts. ' G&'ard, my friend,' exclaimed 
 the Baron after beckoning to him, ' I want you to do me a 
 service.' And forthwith he told him what was in question ; 
 how the influential critic had been prevailed upon to attend 
 a dinner which would decide Silviane's future ; and how it 
 was the duty of all her friends to rally round her. 
 
 'But I can't,' the young man answered in embarrass- 
 ment. ' I have to dine at home with my mother, who was 
 rather poorly this morning.' 
 
 'Oh! a sensible woman like your mother will readily 
 understand that there are matters of exceptional importance. 
 Go home and excuse yourself. Tell her some story, tell her 
 that a friend's happiness is in question.' And as Gerard 
 began to weaken, DuviUard added : ' The fact is that I really 
 want you, my dear fellow; I must have a society man. 
 
286 PARIS 
 
 Society, you know, is a great force in theatrical matters ; anS 
 if Silviane has society with her, her triumph is certain.' 
 
 Gerard promised, and then chatted for a moment with hia 
 uncle, General do Bozonnet, who was quite enlivened by that 
 throng of women, among whom he had been carried hither 
 and thither like an old rudderless ship, : After acknowledging 
 the amiability with which Madame Fons^gue had listened to 
 his stories, by purchasing an autograph of Monseignear 
 Martha from her for a hundred francs, he had quite lost him- 
 self amid the bevy of girls who had passed him on, one to 
 another. And now, on his return from them, he had hi^ 
 hands full of lottery tickets ; 'Ah! my fine fellow,' said he, 
 ' I don't advise you to venture among all those young persons. 
 You would have to part with your last copper. But, just 
 look 1 there's Mademoiselle Camille beckoning to you 1 ' 
 
 , Camille, indeed, from the moment she had perceivejl 
 G^rard,:hadJ)een smiling at him and awaitirvg his approach. 
 And when their glances met he was obUged to go to her, 
 althPUgh, at., the,. same moment, he felt that Eve's despairing 
 and entreating eyes were fixed upon him. The girl, who fully 
 re^^lised that, her mother was ^watching her, at once made a 
 marked display of amiabiUty, profiting by the licence which 
 charitable fervour authorised, to slip a variety of little articles 
 into the young, man's pockets, and then place others in hia 
 ihands, .which ghe pressed within her own, showing the while 
 all the sparkle , of yoatlv and indulging in fresh, merry 
 laUgh^;er,. which quite tortured' her livaL 
 
 So extreme waa- Eve's^ Buffering, thai she wished to 
 intervene and part them. But it fio chanced that Pierre 
 barred her way, for he wished to submit an idea to her before 
 leaving the bazaar. ' Madame,' said he, ' since that man 
 Laveuve is dead, and you have taken so much trouble with 
 regard to the bed which you now have vacant, will you be so 
 good as to keep it vacant until I have seen our venerable 
 friend, Abbd Eose ? I am to see him this evening, and he 
 knows so m.any cases of want, and would be so glad to relieve 
 one of them, and bring you some poor pjvtigd of his.' 
 
 ' Yes, certainly,' stammered the Baroness, ' I shall be very 
 happy — I will wait a little, ag you desire— of com'ss, Qf 
 course, Monsieur I'Abbe.' _, ; 
 
 She was trembling all over, she no longer knew what she 
 was saying; and, unable to conquer her pa.ssion, she turned 
 aside from the priest, unaware even that he waa sinll th«x|B, 
 
THE RIVALS so<j 
 
 wlien Gefard, yielding to the dolorous entreaty of her eyes, 
 at last managed to escape from CamUle and join her. 
 
 ' What a stranger you are becoming, my friend 1 ' she 
 Baid aloud, with a forced smile. ' One never sees you now.' 
 
 ' Why, I have been poorly,' he replied, in his amiable 
 way. ' Yes, I assure you I have been ailing a little.* 
 
 He, ailing 1 She looked at him with maternal anxiety, 
 quite upset. And, indeed, however proud and lofty his figure, 
 his handsome regular face did seem to her paler than usual. 
 It was as if the nobiUty of the facade had, in some degree, 
 ceased to hide the irreparable dilapidation within. And given 
 his real good-nature, it must have been true that he suffered-- 
 suffered by reason of his useless, wasted Kfe, on account of all 
 the money he cost his impoverished mother, and of the needs 
 that were at last driving him to marry that wealthy deformed 
 girl, whom at first he had merely pitied. And so weak did 
 he seem to Eve, so like a piece of wreckage tossed hither and 
 thither by a tempest, that, at the risk of being overheard by 
 the throng, she let her heart flow forth in a low but ardent, 
 entreating murmur : ' If you suffer, ah I what sufferings are 
 mine ! — Gerard we must see one another, I will have it so.' 
 
 ' No, I beg you, let us wait,' he stammered in embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 ' It must be, Gerard : Camille has told me your plans. 
 You cannot refuse to see me. I insist on it.' 
 
 He made yet another attempt to escape the cruel explana- 
 tion. ' But it's impossible at the usual place,' he answered 
 quivering. ' The address is known.' 
 
 ' Then to-morrow, at four o'clock, at that little restaurant 
 in the Bois where we have met before.' 
 
 He had to promise, and they parted. Camille had just 
 turned her head and was looldng at them. Moreover, quite 
 a number of women had besieged the stall ; and the Baroness 
 began to attend to them with the air of a ripe and nonchalant 
 goddess, while Gerard rejoined Duvillard, Fonsegue and 
 Duthil, who were quite excited at the prospect of their 
 dinner that evening. 
 
 Pierre had heard a part of the conversation between 
 G&ard and the Baroness. He knew what skeletons the house 
 concealed, what pLysiologicaland moral torture and wretched- 
 ness lay beneath all the dazzling wealth and power. There 
 was here an envenomed, bleeding sore, ever spreading, a 
 cancer eating into father, mother, ^ughtsr, and son, who esse 
 
HoS PARIS 
 
 anil all had thrown social bonds aside. However, the priest 
 made his way oat of the salons, half stifling amidst the 
 throng of lady-purchasers who were making quite a triumph 
 of the bazaar. And yonder, in the depths of the gloom he 
 could picture Salvat running and running on tiU he dis- 
 appeared from sight ; while the corpse of Laveuve seemed to 
 him like a buffet of atrocious irony dealt to noisy and delu- 
 Bive charity. 
 
 II 
 
 EFIBIT AND FLESH 
 
 How delightful was the quietude of the little ground floor 
 overlooking a strip of garden in the Eue Cortot, where 
 good Abbe Eose resided 1 Hereabouts there was not even a 
 rumble of wheels, or an echo of the panting breath of Paris, 
 which one heard on the other side of the height of Mont- 
 martre. The deep silence and sleepy peacefulness were 
 suggestive of some distant provincial town. 
 
 Seven o'clock had struck, the dusk had gathered slowly, 
 and Pierre was in the humble dining-room, waiting for the 
 fcmme-de-in&nage to place the soup upon the table. Abb6 
 Eose, anxious at having seen so little of him for a month 
 past, had written asking him to come to dinner, in order that 
 they might have a quiet chat concerning their affairs. From 
 time to time Pierre still gave his friend money for charitable 
 purposes ; in fact, ever since the days of the asylum in the 
 Eue de Charonne, they had had accounts together, which 
 they periodically settled. So that evening after dinner they 
 were to talk of it all, and see if they could not do even 
 more than they had hitherto done. The good old priest was 
 quite radiant at the thought of the peaceful evening 
 which he was about to spend in attending to the affairs of 
 bis beloved poor ; for therein lay his only amusement, the 
 sole pleasure to which he persistently and passionately re- 
 turned, in spite of all the worries that his inconsiderate 
 charity had already so often brought him. 
 
 Glad to be able to procure his friend this pleasure, Pierre, 
 on his side, grew calmer, and found relief and momentary 
 repose in sharing the other's simple repast and yielding to all 
 the kindliness around him, far from bia usual worries. He 
 
SPIRIT AND FLESH 209 
 
 remembered the vacant bed at the Asylum, which Baroness 
 Duvillard had promised to keep in reserve until he should 
 have asked Abb6 Eose if he knew of any case of destitution 
 particularly worthy of interest ; and so before sitting down 
 to table he spoke of the matter. 
 
 " ' Destitution worthy of interest 1 ' replied Abb6 Eose, 
 ' ah I my dear child, every case is worthy of interest. And 
 when it's a question of old toilers without work the only 
 trouble is that of selection, the anguish of choosing one and 
 leaving so many others in distress.' Nevertheless, painful 
 though his scruples were, he strove to think and come to some 
 decision. ' I know the case which will suit you,' he said at 
 last. 'It's certainly one of the greatest suffering and 
 wretchedness ; and, so humble a one, too — an old carpenter 
 of seventy-five, who has been living on public charity during 
 the eight or ten years that he has been unable to find work. 
 I don't know his name, everybody calls him " the big Old'un." 
 There are times when he does not come to my Saturday 
 distributions for weeks together. We shall have to look for 
 him at once. I think that he sleeps at the Night Eefuge in 
 the Eue d'Orsel when lack of room there doesn't force him 
 to spend the night crouching behind some palings. Shall we 
 go down the Eue d'Orsel this evening ? ' 
 
 Abb^ Eose's eyes beamed brightly as he spoke, for this 
 proposal of his signified a great debauch, the tasting of 
 lorbidden fruit. He had been reproached so often and so 
 roughly with his visits to those who had fallen to the deepest 
 want and misery, that in spite of his overflowing, apostolic 
 compassion, he now scarcely dared to go near them. However, 
 he continued: 'Is it agreed, my child? Only this once? 
 Besides, it is our only means of finding the' big Old'un. You 
 won't have to stop with me later than eleven. And I should 
 so like to show you all that 1 You will see what terrible 
 Bufi'erings there are ! And perhaps we may be fortunate 
 enough to relieve some poor creature or other.' 
 
 Pierre smiled at the juvenile ardour displayed by this old 
 man with snowy hair. 'It's agreed, my dear Abbd,' he 
 responded, ' I shall be very pleased to spend my whole evening 
 with you, for I feel it will do me good to follow you once more 
 on one of those rambles which used to fill our hearts with 
 grief and joy.' 
 
 At this moment the servant brought in the soup ; however, 
 just as the two priests were taking their seats a decreet ring 
 
 P 
 
210 PARIS 
 
 was heard, and when Abb6 Kose learnt that the visitor was a 
 neighbour, Madame Mathia, who had come for an answer, he 
 gave orders that she should be shown in. 
 
 ' This poor woman,' he explained to Pierre, 'needed an 
 advance of ten francs to get a mattress out of pawn ; and I 
 didn't have the money by me at the time. But I've since pro- 
 cured it. She lives in the house, you know, in silent poverty, 
 on so small an income that it hardly keeps her in bread.' 
 
 ' But hasn't she a big son of twenty ? ' asked Pierre, 
 suddenly remembering the young man he had seen at 
 Salvat's. 
 
 ' Yes, yes. Her parents, I believe, were rich people in the 
 provinces. Pve been told that she married a music master, 
 who gave her lessons, at Nantes ; and who ran away with her 
 and brought her to Paris, where he died. It was quite a 
 doleful love-story. By selling the furniture and realising 
 every little thing she possessed, she scraped together an 
 income of about two thousand francs a year, with which she 
 was able to send her son to college and live decently herself. 
 But a fresh blow fell on her ; she lost the greater part of her 
 littleiortune, which was invested in doubtful securities. So 
 now her income amounts at the utmost to eight himdred 
 francs; two hundred of which she has to expend in rent. 
 For all her other wants she has to be content with fifty francs 
 a rnonth. About eighteen months ago her son left her so as 
 not to be a burden on her, and he is trying to earn his living 
 somewhere, but without success, I believe.' 
 
 Madame Mathis, a short, dark woman, with a sad, gentle, 
 retiring face, canie in. Invariably clad in the same black 
 gown, she showed aU the anxious timidity of a poor creature 
 whom the storms of life perpetually assailed. When Abbe 
 Eose had handed her the ten francs discreetly wrapped in 
 paper, she blushed and thanked him, promising to pay him 
 back as soon as she received her month's money, for she was 
 not a beggar and did not Vv'ish to encroach on the share of 
 those who starved. 
 
 ' And your son, Victor, has he found any employment ? ' 
 asked the old priest. 
 
 She hesitated, ignorant as she was of what her son might 
 be doing, for nowadays she did not see him for weeks together. 
 And finally, she contented herself with answering : ' He has 
 a good heart, he is very fond of me. It is a great misfortune 
 that we should Iiavc been ruiaed before he could enter th» 
 
SPIRIT AND FLESH 211 
 
 Eoole Normale. It was impossible for him to prepare for the 
 examination. But at the Lyode he was such a diligent and 
 intelligent pupil 1 ' 
 
 ' You lost your husband when your son was ten years old, 
 did you not ? ' said Abbe Eose. 
 
 At this she blushed again, thinking that her husband's 
 story was known to the two priests. ' Yes, my poor husband 
 never had any luck,' she said. ' His difficulties embittered 
 and excited his mind, and he died in prison. He was sent 
 there through a disturbance at a public meeting, when he 
 had the misfortune to wound a police officer. He had also 
 fought at the time of the Commune. And yet he v/as a very 
 gentle man and extremely fond of me.' 
 
 Tears )iad risen to her eyes; and Abb6 Eose, much 
 touched, dismissed her : ' Well, let us hope that your son will 
 give you satisfaction, and be able to repay you for all you have 
 done for him.' 
 
 V/ith a gesture of infinite sorrow, Madame Mathis 
 discreetly withdrew. She was quite ignorant of her son's 
 doings, but fate had pursued her so relentlessly that she ever 
 trembled. 
 
 ' I don't think that the poor woman has much to expect 
 from her son,' said Pierre, when she had gone, ' I only saw 
 Lim once, but the gleam in his eyes was as harsh and 
 trenchant as that of a knife.' 
 
 'Do you think so?' the old priest exclaimed, with his 
 kindly naivete. ' Well, he seemed to me very polite, perhaps 
 a trifle eager to enjoy life ; but, then, all the young folks are 
 impatient nowadays. Come, let us sit down to table, for the 
 soup will be cold.' 
 
 , Almost at the same hour, on the other side of Paris, 
 night had in like fashion slowly fallen in the drawing-room 
 of the Countess de Quinsao, on the dismal, sUent ground-floor 
 of an old mansion in the Eue St. Dominique. The Countess 
 was there, alone with her faithful friend, the Marquis da 
 Morigny, she on one side, and he on the other side of the 
 chimney-piece, where the last embers of the wood fire were 
 dying out. The servant had not yet brought the lamp, and 
 the Countess refrained from ringing, finding some relief from 
 her anxiety in the falling darkness, which hid from view all 
 the imeonfessed thoughts that she was afraid she might show 
 on her weary face. Md it was only now, before that diia 
 
2ia i>ARlS 
 
 hearth, and in that black room, where never a sound of wheels 
 disturbed the silence of the slumberous past, that she dared to 
 speak. 
 
 ' Yes, my friend,' she said, ' I am not satisfied with 
 Gerard's health. You will see him yourself, for he promised 
 to come home early and dine with me. Oh ! I'm well aware 
 that he looks big and strong ; but to know him properly one 
 must have nursed and watched him as I have done 1 What 
 trouble I had to rear him ! In reaUty he is at the mercy of 
 any petty ailment. His slightest complaint becomes serious 
 illness. And the life he leads does not conduce to good health.' 
 
 She paused and sighed, hesitating to carry her confession 
 further. 
 
 ' He leads the life he can,' slowly responded the Marquis 
 de Morigny, of whose delicate profile, and proud, yet loving 
 bearing, little could be seen in the gloom. ' As he was unable 
 to endure military life, and as even the fatigues of diplomacy 
 frighten you, what would you have bim do ? He can only 
 live apart pending the final coUapse, while this abominable 
 Eepublic is dragging France to the grave." 
 
 ' No doubt, my friend. And yet it is just that idle life 
 which frightens me. He is losing iu it aU that was good and 
 healthy in bim. I don't refer merely to the liaisons which 
 we have had to tolerate. The last one, which I found so 
 much difficulty in countenancing at the outset, so contrary 
 did it seem to all my ideas and beUefs, has since seemed to 
 me to exercise almost a good influence. Only he is now 
 entering his thirty-sixth year, and can he continue living in 
 this fashion without object or duties ? If he is ailing it is 
 perhaps precisely because he does nothing, holds no position, 
 and serves no purpose.' Her voice again quavered. • And 
 then, my friend, since you force me to teU you everything, I must 
 own that I am not in good health myself. I have had several 
 fainting fits of late, and have consulted a doctor. The truth 
 is, that I may go off at any moment.' 
 
 With a quiver, Morigny leant forward in the stUl deepen- 
 ing gloom, and tried to take hold of her hands. ' You ! 
 what, am I to lose you, my last affection ! ' he faltered, ' I 
 who have seen the old world I belong to crumble away, I 
 who only live in the hope that you at all events will still be 
 here to close my eyes ! ' 
 
 But she begged him not to increase her grief : ' No, no, 
 don't take my hauda, doa't kiss them I Bemain there is the 
 
SPIRIT AND FLESH 213 
 
 shade, where I can scarcely see you. . • . We have loved one 
 another so long without aught to cause shame or regret ; and 
 that ■will prove our strength — our divine strength — ^till we 
 reach the grave. . . . And if you were to touch me, if I were 
 to feel you too near me I could not finish, for I have not 
 done so yet,' 
 
 As soon as he had relapsed into silence and immobility, 
 she continued : ' If I were to die to-morrow, Gerard would not 
 even find here the little fortune which he still fancies is in 
 my hands. The dear child has often cost me large sums of 
 money without apparently being conscious of it. I ought to 
 have been more severe, more prudent. But what would you 
 have? Euin is at hand, I have always been too weak a 
 mother. And do you now understand in what anguish I live ? 
 I ever have the thought that if I die Gerard will not even 
 possess enough to live on, for he is incapable of effecting the 
 miracle which I renew each day, in order to keep the house 
 up on a decent footing. ... Ah 1 I know him, so supine, so 
 sickly, in spite of his proud bearing, unable to do anything, 
 even conduct himself. And so what will become of him, wUl 
 he not faU into the most dire distress ? ' 
 
 Then her tears flowed freely, her heart opened and bled, 
 for she foresaw what must happen after her death : the 
 collapse of her race and of a whole world in the person of that 
 big chUd. And the Marquis, stUl motionless but distracted, 
 feeHng that he had no title to offer his own fortune, suddenly 
 understood her, foresaw in what disgrace this fresh disaster 
 would culminate. 
 
 ' Ah ! my poor friend 1 ' he said at last in a voice trembling 
 with revolt and grief. ' So you have agreed to that marriage 
 — yes, that abominable marriage with that woman's daughter 1 
 Yet you swore it should never be I You would rather witness 
 the collapse of everything, you said. And now you are 
 consenting, I can feel it ! ' 
 
 She still wept on in that black, silent drawing-room before 
 the chimney-piece where the fire had died out. Did not 
 Gerard's marriage to Camille mean a happy ending for herself, 
 a certainty of leaving her son wealthy, loved, and seated at 
 the banquet of hfe? However, a last feeling of rebellion 
 arose within her. ' No, no,' she exclaimed, ' I don't consent, I 
 swear to you that I don't consent as yet. I am fighting with 
 my whole strength, waging an incessant battle, the torture of 
 which you cannot imagine.' 
 
214 PARIS 
 
 Tlien, in all sincerity, she foresaw the likelihood of defeat. 
 ' If I "should some day give way, my friend, at all events 
 believe that I feel, as fully as you. do, how abominable such a 
 marriage must be. It wiU be the end of our race and our 
 honour ! ' 
 
 This cry profoundly stirred the Marquis, and he was unable 
 to add a word. Haughty and uncompromising Catholic and 
 Eoyalist that he was, he, on his side also, expected nothing but 
 the supreme collapse. Yet how heart-rending was the 
 thought that this noble woman, so dearly and so purely loved, 
 would prove one of the victims of the catastrophe ! And 
 in the shrouding gloom he found courage to kneel before 
 her, take her hand, and kiss it. 
 
 Just as the servant was at last bringing a lighted lamp 
 Gerard made his appearance. The past-ceritury charm of the 
 old Louis XVI. drawing-room, with its pale woodwork, again 
 became apparent in the soft light. In order that his mother 
 might not be over-saddened by his failure to dine with her 
 that evening the young man had put on an air of brisk 
 gaiety ; and when he had explained that some friends were 
 waiting for him, she at once released him from his promise, 
 happy as she felt at seeing him so merry. 
 
 ' Go, go, my dear boy,' said she, ' but mind you do not tire 
 yom'self too much. ... I am going to keep Morigny ; and the 
 General and Larombiere are coming at nine o'clock. So be 
 easy, I shall have someone with me, to keep me from fretting 
 and feeling lonely.' 
 
 In this wise Gerard after sitting down for a moment and 
 chatting with the Marquis was able to slip away, dress and 
 betake himself to the Caf6 Anglais. 
 
 When he reached it women in fur cloaks were already 
 climbing the stairs, fashionable and merry parties were filling 
 the private rooms, the electric lights shone brilliantly, and 
 the walls vibrated with the stir of feverish pleasure and 
 debauchery. In the room which Baron Duvillard had 
 engaged the young man found an extraordinary display, the 
 most superb flowers, and a profusion of plate and crystal as 
 for a royal gala. The pomp with which the six covers were 
 laid called forth a smile; while the bill of fare and the 
 wine-list proinised marvels, all the rarest and most expensive 
 things that could be selected. 
 
 ' It's stylish, isn't it ? ' exclaimed Silvians, who was already 
 there with Duvillard, Fonsegue and Duthil. 'I just wanted 
 
SPIRIT AND FLESH 215 
 
 to make your influential critic open his oyes a little ! When 
 cue treats a journalist to such a dinner as this, he has got to 
 be amiahle, hasn't he ? ' 
 
 In her desire to conquer it had occurred to the young 
 ■woman to array herself in the most amazing fashion. Her 
 gown of yellow satin, covered with old Alen9on lace, was cat 
 low at the neck ; and she had put on all her diamonds, a 
 necklace, a diadem, shoulder-knots, bracelets and rings. 
 With her candid, girlish face, she looked like some Virgin in 
 a missal, a Queen- Virgin, laden with the offerings of all 
 Christendom. 
 
 ' Well, well, you look so pretty,' said Gerard, who sometimea 
 jested with her, ' that I think it will do all the same.' 
 
 • Ah 1 ' she replied with equanimity. ' You consider me a 
 bit vulgar, I see. Your opinion is that a simple little dinner 
 and a modest gown would have shown better taste. But 
 ah 1 my dear fellow, you don't know the way to get round 
 men t ' 
 
 Duvillard signified his approval, for he was delighted to 
 be able to show her in all her glory, adorned like an idol. 
 Fonsegue, for his part, talked of diamonds, saying that they 
 were now doubtful investments, as the day when they would 
 become articles of current manufacture was fast approaching, 
 thanks to the electrical furnace and other inventions. Mean- 
 time Duthil, with an air of ecstasy and the dainty gestures of 
 a lady's maid, hovered around the young woman, either 
 smoothing a rebeUious bow or arranging some fold of her 
 lace. 
 
 ' But I say,* resumed Silviane, ' your critic seems to be an 
 ill-bred man, fOr he's keeping us waiting.' 
 
 Indeed, the critic arrived a quarter of an hour late, and 
 while apologising, he expressed his regret that he should bo 
 obliged to leave at half-past nine, for he was absolutely com- 
 pelled to put in an appearance at a little theatre in the Eue 
 Pigalle. He was a big fellow of fifty with broad shoulders 
 and a full, bearded face. His most disagreeable character- 
 istic was the narrow dogmatic pedantry which he had 
 acquired at the Ecole Normale, and had never since been 
 able to shake off. All his herculean efforts to be sceptical 
 and frivolous, and the twenty years he had spent in Paris 
 mingling with every section of society, had failed to rid hiin 
 of it. MagisUr he was, and magister he remained, even in 
 his most strenuous flights of imagination and audacity. From 
 
2i6 PARIS 
 
 the moment of his arrival he tried to show himself enraptured 
 with Silviane. Naturally enough, he already knew her by 
 sight, and had even criticised her on one occasion in five or 
 six contemptuous lines. However, the sight of her there, 
 in full beauty, clad like a queen, and presented by four in- 
 fluential protectors, filled him with emotion ; and he was 
 struck with the idea that nothing would be more Parisian and 
 less pedantic than to assert she had some talent and give her 
 his support. 
 
 They had seated themselves at table, and the repast 
 proved a magnificent one, the service ever prompt and assidu- 
 ous, an attendant being allotted to each dmer. While 
 the flowers scattered perfume through the room, and the 
 plate and crystal glittered on the snowy cloth, an abundance 
 of dehcious and unexpected dishes was handed round — a 
 sturgeon from Eussia, prohibited game, truffles as big as eggs, 
 and hothouse fruit as full of flavour as if it were naturally 
 matured. It was money flung out of vdndow, simply for the 
 pleasure of wasting more than other people, and eating what 
 they could not procure. The influential critic, though 
 he displayed the ease of a man accustomed to every sort of 
 festivity, really felt astonished at it all, and became servile, 
 promising his support, and pledging himself far more than he 
 really wished to. Moreover, he showed himself very gay, 
 found some witty remarks to repeat, and even some rather 
 ribald jests. But when the champagne appeared after the 
 roast and the grand burgundies, his over-excitement brought 
 him back perforce to his real natu^re. The conversation had 
 now turned on Corneille's 'Polyeucte' and the part of 
 ' Pauline,' in which Silviane wished to make her d&hut at the 
 Comedie Fran9aise. This extraordinary caprice, which had 
 quite revolted the influential critic a week previously, now 
 seemed to him simply a bold enterprise in which the young 
 woman might even prove victorious if she consented to listen 
 to his advice. And, once started, he delivered quite a lecture 
 on the part, boldly asserting that no actress had ever yet 
 understood it properly, for at the outset Pauline was simply 
 a well-meaning little hourgeoise, and the beauty of her con- 
 version at the finish arose from the working of a miracle, a 
 stroke of heavenly grace which endowed her with something 
 divine. This was not the opinion of Silviane, who from the 
 first lines regarded Pauline as the ideal heroine of some 
 symbolical legend. However, as the critic talked on and on, 
 
SPIRIT AND FLESH 217 
 
 she had to feign approval ; and he was delighted at finding 
 her so beaut3ul and docile beneath his ferrule. At last, as 
 ten o'clock was striking, he rose and tore out of the hot and 
 reeking room in order to attend to his work. 
 
 ' Ah 1 my dears,' cried Silviane, ' he's a nice bore is that 
 critic of yours 1 What a fool he is with his idea of Pauline 
 being a little bourgeoise 1 I would have given him a fine 
 dressing if it weren't for the fact that I have some need of 
 him. Ah 1 no, it's too idiotic 1 Pour me out a glass of cham- 
 pagne, I want something to set me right after all that 1 ' 
 
 The fite then took quite an intimate turn between the 
 four men who remained and that bare-armed, bare-breasted 
 girl, covered with diamonds. From the neighbouring 
 passages and rooms came bursts of laughter and sounds of 
 kissing, all the stir and mirth of the debauchery now filling 
 the house ; while beneath the windows torrents of vehicles 
 and pedestrians streamed along the Boulevards where reigned 
 the wild fever of pleasure and harlotry. 
 
 'No, don't open it, or I shall catch cold I' resumed 
 Silviane, addressing Fonsegue as he stepped towards the 
 window. ' Are you so very warm then ? I'm just comfort- 
 able. . , . But, Duvillard, my good fellow, please order some 
 more champagne. It's wonderful what a thirst your critic has 
 given me 1 ' 
 
 Amidst the blinding glare of the lamps and the perfume of 
 the flowers and wines, one almost stifled in the room. And 
 Silviane was seized with an irresistible desire for a spree, a 
 desire to tipple and amuse herself in some vulgar fashion, as 
 in her bygone days. A few glasses of champagne brought 
 her to full pitch, and she showed the boldest and giddiest 
 gaiety. The others, who had never before seen her so lively, 
 began on their side to feel much amused. As Fonsegue was 
 obliged to go to his office she embraced him 'like a daughter,' 
 as she expressed it. However, on remaining alone with the 
 others she indulged in great freedom of speech, which became 
 more and more marked as her intoxication increased. And 
 to the class of men with whom she consorted her great 
 attraction, as she was well aware, lay in the circumstance 
 that with her virginal countenance and her air of ideal purity 
 was coupled the most monstrous perversity ever displayed by 
 any shameless woman. Despite her innocent blue eyes and 
 lily-like candour, she would give rein, particularly when 
 she was drunk, to the most diabolical of fancies. 
 
2i8 PARIS 
 
 Duvillard let her drinlj on, but slie^guessed his thoughts, 
 like she guessed those of the othets', and simply smiled while 
 concocting impossible stdries and descanting fantastically in 
 the language of the gutter. And seeing her there in her 
 dazzling gown fit for a queenly virgin, and hearing her pour 
 forth the vilest words, they thought her most ■wonderfully droll. 
 However, when she had drunk as mugh champagne as she 
 cared for and was half crazy, a novel idea suddenly occurred 
 to her. ; 
 
 -, ' I say, my children,' she exclaimed, ' we are surely not 
 going to stop here. It's so precious slow ! You shall take 
 me to the Chamber of Horrors — eh? just to finish the 
 evening. I want to hear Legras sing " La Chemise," chat 
 Bong which all Paris is running to hear him sing.' 
 
 But Duvillard indignantly rebelled : ' Oh I no,' said he ; 
 ' most certainly not. It's a vile song and I'll never take you 
 to such an abominable place.' 
 
 However,' slie did not appear to hear him. She had 
 already staggered to her feet and was arranging her hair 
 before a looking-glass. ' I used to live at Montmartre,' she 
 said, 'and it'll amuse me to go back there. And, besides, 
 I want to find out if this Legras is a Legras that I knew, 
 oh I ever so long ago 1 Come, up you get, and let ug 
 be off ! ' 
 
 ' But my dear girl,' pleaded Duvillard, 'we can't take ;^ou 
 into that den dressed as you are 1 Just fancy your entering 
 that place in a low-necked gown and covered vrith diamonds) 
 Why everyone would jeer at us 1 Come, Gerard, just tell her 
 to be a little reasonable.' 
 
 Gerard, equally offended by the idea of such a freak, was 
 quite willing to intervene. But she closed his mouth with 
 her gloved hand and repeated with the gay obstinacy of 
 intoxication : ' Pooh, it will be all the more amusing if 
 they do jeer at us I Come, let us be off, let us be off, 
 quick 1 ' 
 
 Thereupon, Duthil who had been listening with a smild 
 and the air of a man of pleasure whom nothing astonishes or 
 displeases, gallantly toot her part. 'But,' my dear Baron, 
 everybody goes to the Chamber of Horrors,' said he. ' Why 
 I myself have taken the noblest ladies there, and precisely to 
 hear that song of Legras, which is no worse than anything 
 else.' 
 
 ' Ah I you hear what Duthil says ! ' cried Silviane. ' He's 
 
SFIJilT AND FLESH 219 
 
 a deputy, he is, and he woiildn't go there if he thought it 
 would compromise his honorability 1 ' 
 
 Then, as Duvillard still struggled on in despair at the 
 idea of exhibiting himself with her in such a scandalous 
 place, she became all the merrier : ' Well, my dear fellow, 
 please yourself, I don't need you. You and Gdrard can go 
 home if you like. But I'm going to Montniartre with 
 Duthil. You'll take charge of me, won't you, Duthil, eh ? ' 
 
 However, the Baron was in no wise disposed to let the 
 evening finish in that fashion. The mere idea of it gave him 
 a shock, and he had to resign himself to the girl's stubborn 
 caprice. The only consolation he could think of was to 
 secure Gerard's presence, for the young man, with some 
 lingering sense of decorum stiU obstinately refused to make 
 one of the party. So the Baron took his hands and detained 
 him, repeating in urgent tones that he begged him to come 
 as an essential mark of friendship. And at last the wife's 
 lover and daughter's sister had to give way to the man Vv'ho 
 was the former's husband and the latter's father. 
 
 Silviane was immensely amused by it all, and, indiscreetly 
 thee-ing and thou-ing Gerard, suggested that he at least ov.'ed 
 the Baron some little compliance with his wishes. 
 
 Duvillard pretended not to hear her. Ho was listening to 
 Duthil, who told him that there was a sort of box in a corner 
 of the Chamber of Horrors, in which one could in some 
 measure conceal oneself. And then, as Silviane's carriage — 
 a large closed landau, whose coachman, a sturdy handsome 
 fellow, sat waiting impassively on his bos — was down below, 
 they started off. 
 
 The Chamber of Horrors was installed in premises on the 
 Boulevard de Kocheohouart, formerly occupied, by a cafe 
 whose proprietor had become bankrupt.' It was a suffocating 
 place, narrow, irregular, with all sorts of twists^ turns, and 
 secluded nooks, and a low and smoky ceiling. And nothing 
 could have been more rudimentary than its decorations. The 
 walls had simply been placarded with posters of violent hues, 
 
 ' Those who know Paris will identify the site selected by M. Zola as 
 that where ' Colonel ' Lisbonne cJ the Commune installed his den the 
 ' Bagne ' some years ago. However, snoli places as th e ' Chamber of 
 Horrors ' nowadays abound in the neighbourhood of Montmartre, and it 
 must be admitted that whilst they are frequented by certain classes of 
 Frenchmen they owe much of their success in a pecuniary sense to the 
 patronage of foreigners. Among the latter. Englishmen are particularly 
 conspicuous. — 2Vajss. 
 
220 PARIS 
 
 Bome of the crudest character, showing the barest of femala 
 figures. Behind a piano at one end there was a hitle plat- 
 form reached by a curtained doorway. For the rest, one 
 simply found a number of bare wooden forms set along- 
 side the veriest pot-house tables, on which the glasses 
 containing various beverages left round and sticky marks. 
 There was no luxury, no artistic feature, no cleanliness even. 
 Globeless gas burners flared freely, heating a dense mist 
 compounded of tobacco smoke and human breath. Per- 
 spiring, apoplectical faces could be perceived through this 
 veil, and an acrid odour increased the intoxication of the 
 assembly, which excited itself with louder and louder 
 shouts at each fresh song. It had been sufficient for an 
 enterprising fellow to set up these boards, bring out 
 Legras, accompanied by two or three girls, make him sing 
 his frantic and abominable songs, and in two or three 
 evenings overwhelming success had come, aU Paris being 
 enticed and flocking to the place, which for ten years or so 
 had failed to pay as a mere caf6, where by way of amuse- 
 ment petty cits had been simply allowed their daily games 
 at dominoes. 
 
 And the change had been caused by the passion for filth, 
 the irresistible attraction exercised by all that brought 
 shame and disgust. The Paris of enjoyment, the hour- 
 geoisie which held aU wealth and power, which would 
 relinquish nought of either, though it was surfeited and 
 gradually wearying of both, simply hastened to the place in 
 order that obscenity and insult might be flung in its face. 
 Hypnotised, as it were, while staggering to its fall, it felt a 
 need of being spat upon. And what a frightful symptom 
 there lay in it all : those condemned ones rushing upon dirt 
 of their own accord, voluntarily hastening their own decom- 
 position by that unquenchable thirst for the vile, which 
 attracted men, reputed to be grave and upright, and lovely 
 women of the most perfect grace and luxury, to all the beasth- 
 uess of that low den 1 
 
 At one of the tables nearest the stage sat little Princess 
 Eosemonde de Harn, with wild eyes and quivering nostrils, 
 delighted as she felt at now being able to satisfy her curiosity 
 regarding the depths of Paris life. Young Hyacinthe had 
 resigned himself to the task of bringing her, and correctly 
 buttoned up in his long frock-coat, he was indulgent enough 
 to refrain from any marked expression of boredom. At a 
 
SPIRIT AITD FLESH an 
 
 neighbouring table they Lad found a shadowy Spaniard of 
 their acquaintance, a so-called Bourse jobber, Bergaz, who ' 
 had been introduced to the Princess by Janzen, and usually 
 attended her entertainments. They virtually knew nothing 
 about him, not even if he really earned at the Bourse all the 
 money which he sometimes spent so lavishly, and which 
 enabled him to dress with affected elegance. His slim, lofty 
 figure was not without a certain air of distinction, but his red 
 lips spoke of strong passions, and his bright eyes were those 
 of a beast of prey. That evening he had two young fellows 
 with him, one Bossi, a short, swarthy Italian, who had come - 
 to Paris as a painter's model, and had soon glided into the 
 lazy life of certain disreputable callings, and the other, 
 Sanfaute, a born Parisian blackguard, a pale, beardless, " 
 vicious and impudent stripUng of La Chapelle, whose long, 
 curly hair fell down upon either side of his bony cheeks. 
 
 ' Oh 1 pray now I ' feverishly said Eosemonde to Bergaz ; 
 ' as you seem to know all these horrid people, just show me 
 some of the celebrities. Aren't there some thieves and 
 murderers among them ? ' 
 
 He laughed shrilly, and in a bantering way replied: 
 ' But you know these people weU enough, madame. That 
 pretty, pink, delicate-looking woman over yonder is an 
 American lady, the wife of a consul, whom, I believe, you 
 receive at your house. That other on the right, that tall 
 brunette who shows such queenly dignity, is a Countess, whose 
 carriage passes yours every day in the Bois. And the thin 
 one yonder, whose eyes gUtter like those of a she-wolf, is the 
 particular fciend of a high official, who is well known for his 
 reputation of austerity.' 
 
 But she stopped him, in vexation : ' I know, I know. 
 But the others, those of the lower classes, those whom one 
 comes to see.' 
 
 Then she went on asking questions, and seeking for 
 terrifying and mysterious countenances. At last, two men 
 seated in a corner ended by attracting her attention ; one of them 
 a very young fellow with a pale, pinched face, and the other an 
 ageless individual who, besides being buttoned up to his neck 
 in an old coat, had pulled his cap so low over his eyes, that 
 one saw little of his face beyond the beard which fringed it. 
 Before these two stood a couple of mugs of beer, which they 
 drank slowly and in silence. 
 
 * Xou are making a great mistake, my dear,' saicf Hya- 
 
222 PARIS 
 
 cinthe with a frank laugh, ' if you are looking for brigands in 
 disguise. That poor fellow with the pale face, who surely 
 doesn't have food to eat every day, was my schoolfellow at 
 Condorcet ! ' 
 
 Bergaz expressed his amazement. ' What ! you knew 
 Mathis at Condorcet 1 After all, though, you're right, he re- 
 ceived a college education. Ah ! and so you know him. A 
 very remarkable young man he is, though want is throttling 
 him. But, I say, the other one, his companion, you don't 
 know Mm ? ' 
 
 Hyacinthe, after looking at the man with the cap -hidden 
 face, was abeady shaking his head, when Bergaz suddenly 
 gave him a nudge as a signal to keep quiet, and by way of 
 explanation he muttered : ' Hush ! Here's Eaphanel. I've 
 been distrusting him for some time past. Whenever he 
 appears anywhere, the police are not far off.' 
 
 Eaphanel was another of the vague, mysterious Anarchists 
 whom Janzen had presented to the Princess by way of satisfy- 
 ing her momentary passion for revolutionism. This one, 
 though he was a fat, gay, little man, with a doU-like face and 
 childish nose, which almost disappeared between his puffy 
 cheeks, had the reputation of being a thorough desperado ; 
 and at public meetings he certainly shouted for fire and 
 murder with all his lungs. However, although he had 
 already been compromised in various affairs, he had invariably 
 managed to save his own bacon, whilst his companions were 
 kept under lock and key ; and this they were now beginning to 
 think somewhat singular. 
 
 He at once shook hands with the Princess in a jovial way, 
 took a seat near her without being invited, and forthwith 
 denounced the dirty bourgeoisie which came to wallow 
 in places of ill fame. Eosemonde was delighted, and en- 
 couraged him, but others near by began to get angry, and 
 Bergaz examined him with his piercing eyes, like a man of 
 energy who acts, and lets others talk. Now and then, too, he 
 exchanged quick glances of intelligence with his silent 
 lieutenants, Sanfaute and Eossi, who plainly belonged to him, 
 both body and soul. They were the ones who found theii 
 profit in Anarchy, practising it to its logical conclusions, 
 whether in crime or in vice. 
 
 Meantime, pending the arrival of Legras with his ' Flowers 
 of the Pavement,' two female vocalists had followed one 
 auoUier on the stage, tUe Srsli M and the §QCOcid this, one 
 
SPIRIT AND FLESH 223 
 
 chirruping some silly love songs witli an under-current of dirt, 
 and the other shouting the coarsest of refrains, in a most 
 violent, fighting voice. She had just finished amidst a storm 
 of bravos, when the assembly, stirred to merriment and eager 
 for a laugh, sudderily exploded once more. Silviane was 
 entering the little box a,t one end of the hall. When she ap- 
 peared erect in the full light, with bare arms and shoulders, 
 looking like a planet in her gown of yellow satin and her blazing 
 diamonds, there arose a most formidable uproar, shouts, 
 jeers, hisses, laughter and growls mingled with ferocious 
 applause. And the scandal increased, and the vilest expres- 
 sions flew about as soon as Duvillard, Gdrard and Duthil also 
 showed themselves, looking very serious and dignified with 
 their white ties and spreading shirt fronts. 
 
 ' We told you so I ' muttered Duvillard, who was much 
 annoyed with the affair, while Gerard tried to conceal himself 
 in a dim corner. 
 
 She, however, smiling and enchanted, faced the public, 
 accepting the storm with the candid bearing of a foolish 
 virgin, much as one inhales the vivifying air of the open when 
 it bears down upon one in a squall. And, indeed, she herself 
 had sprung from the sphere before her, its atmosphere was 
 her native air. 
 
 'Well, what of it?' she said replying to the Baron who 
 wanted her to sit down. ' They are merry. It's very nice. 
 Oh ! I'm really amusing myself ! ' 
 
 ' Y/hy yes, it's very nice,' declared Duthil, who in like 
 fashion set himself at his ease. ' Silviane is right, people 
 naturally like a laugh now and then 1 ' 
 
 Amidst the uproar which did not cease, little Princess 
 Eosemonde rose enthusiastically to get a better view. ' Why 
 it's your father who's with that woman, Silviane ; ' she said to 
 Hyacinthe, ■' just look at them 1 Well, he certainly has plenty 
 of bounce. toishow himself here with her ! ' 
 
 Hyacinthe, however, refused to look. It didn't Interest 
 him, his father was an idiot, only a child would lose his head 
 over. a girl in that fashion. And with his contempt for 
 woman the young man became positively insulting. 
 
 ' You try my nerves, my dear fellow,' said Eosemonde 
 as she sat down. ' You are the child with your silly ideas 
 about us. And as for your father he does quite right to 
 love that girl. I fin4 aer very pretty indeed, quite ador- 
 able I' 
 
224 PARIS 
 
 Then all at once the uproar ceasefl, those who had risen 
 resuraed their seats, and the only sound was that of the 
 feverish throb which coursed through the assembly. Legras 
 had just appeared on the platform. He was a pale sturdy 
 fellow with a round and carefully shaven face, stern eyes, 
 and the powerful jaws of a man who compels the adoration 
 of women by terrorising them. He was not deficient in 
 talent, he sang true, and. his ringing voice was one of extra- 
 ordinary penetration and pathetic power. However, his success 
 was chiefly due to his so-called ' Flowers of the Pavement ' ; 
 for aU. the foulness and suffering of the lower spheres, the 
 whole abominable sore of the social hell created by the rich, 
 shrieked aloud in these songs in words of filth and fire and 
 blood. 
 
 A prelude was played on the piano, and Legras standing 
 there in his velvet jacket sang 'La Chemise,' the horrible 
 song which brought all Paris to hear him. AU the lust and 
 vice that crowd the streets of the great city appeared with 
 their filth and their poison ; and amid the spectacle of Woman 
 stripped, degraded, ill-treated, dragged through the mire 
 and cast into a cesspool, there rang out the crime of the 
 bourgeoisie. But the scorching insult of it all was less iu 
 the words themselves than in the manner in which Legras 
 cast them in the faces of the rich, the happy, the beautiful 
 ladies who came to Hsten to him. Under the low ceiling, 
 amidst the smoke from the pipes, in the blinding glare of 
 the gas, he sent his lines flying through the assembly Uke 
 expectorations, projected by a whirlwind of furious con- 
 tempt. And when he had finished there came delirium ; the 
 beautiful ladies did not even think of wiping away the 
 many affronts they had received but applauded frantically. 
 The whole assembly stamped and shouted, and wallowed, dis- 
 tracted, in its ignominy. 
 
 ' Bravo 1 bravo 1 ' the little Princess repeated in her shrill 
 voice. ' It's astonishing, astonishing, prodigious ! ' 
 
 And Silviane, whose intoxication seemed to have increased 
 since she had been there, in the depths of that fiery furnace, 
 made herself particularly conspicuous by the manner in 
 which she clapped her hands and shouted : ' It's he, it's my 
 Legras 1 I really must kiss him, he's pleased me so much ! ' 
 
 Duvillard, now fairly exasperated, wished to take her off 
 by force. But she clung to the hand-rest of the box, and 
 shouted yet more loudly, though without any show ol 
 
SPIRIT ANr> FLESH 225 
 
 temper. _ It became necessary to parley with her. Yes, she 
 was willing to go off and let them drive her home ; but, first 
 of all, she must embrace Legras, who was an old friend of 
 hers. ' Go and wait for me in the carriage ! ' she said, 'I 
 will be with you in a moment.' 
 
 Just as the assembly was at last becoming calmer, Eose- 
 monde perceived that the box was emptying ; and her own 
 curiosity being satisfied, she thought of prevailing on 
 HyacLnthe to see her home. He, who had listened to Legras 
 in a languid way without even applauding, was now talking 
 of Norway with Bergaz, who pretended that he had travelled 
 in the North. Oh ! the fiords I oh 1 the ice-bound lakes ! oh ! 
 the pure lily-white, chaste coldness of the eternal winter ! 
 It was only amid such surroundings, said Hyacinthe, that he 
 could understand woman and love, like a kiss of the very 
 snow itself. 
 
 ' Shall we go off there to-morrow ? ' exclaimed the Prin- 
 cess with her vivacious effrontery. ' I'll shut up my house 
 and slip the key under the door.' 
 
 Then she added that she was jesting, of course. But 
 Bergaz knew her to be quite capable of such a freak ; and at 
 the idea that she might shut up her httle mansion and 
 perhaps leave it unprotected he exchanged a quick glance 
 with Sanfaute and Eossi, who still smiled in silence. Ah ! 
 what an opportunity for a fine stroke ! What an opportunity 
 to get back some of the wealth of the community appro- 
 priated by the blackguard bourgeoisie 1 
 
 Meantime Eaphanel, after applauding Legras, was looking 
 all round the place with his little grey, sharp eyes. And at 
 last young Mathis and his companion, the ill-clad individual, 
 of whose face only a scrap of beard could be seen, attracted 
 his attention. They had neither laughed nor applauded ; 
 they seemed to be simply a couple of tired fellows who were 
 resting, and in whose opinion one is best hidden in the midst 
 of a crowd. 
 
 Then, all at once Eaphanel|turned towards Bergaz, saying : 
 ' That's surely little Mathis over yonder. But who's tha,t 
 with him ? ' 
 
 Bergaz made an evasive gesture ; he did not know. 
 However, he no longer took his eyes from Eaphanel. And 
 he saw the other feign indifference at what followed, and 
 finish his beer and take hia leave, with the jesting remark 
 yiat he hail an appointment with a lady at a neighbouring 
 
 •3 
 
aaS PARIS 
 
 omnibus office. No sooner had he gone than Bergaz rose, 
 sprang over some of the forms and jostled people in order to 
 reach httle Mathis, in whose ear he whispered a few words. 
 And the young man at once left his table, taking his com< 
 panion and pushing him outside through an occasional exit. 
 It was all so rapidly accomplished that none of the general 
 public paid attention to the flight. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' said the Princess to Bergaz, when he had 
 quietly resumed his seat between Eossi and Sanfaute. 
 
 'Oh! nothing, I merely wished to shake hands with 
 Mathis as he was going off.' 
 
 Thereupon Eosemonde announced that she meant to do 
 the same. Nevertheless, she lingered a moment longer and 
 again spoke of Norway on perceiving that nothing could 
 impassion Hyacinthe except the idea of the eternal snow, the 
 intense, purifying cold of the polar regions. In his poem on 
 the 'End of Woman,' a composition of some thirty hnes, 
 which he hoped he should never finish, he thought of intro- 
 ducing a forest of frozen pines by way of final scene. How- 
 ever, the Princess had risen and was gaily reverting to her 
 jest, declaring that she meant to take him home to drink a 
 cup of tea and arrange their trip to the Pole, when an in- 
 voluntary exclamation fell from Bergaz, who, while hstening, 
 had kept his eyes on the doorway. 
 ■^ ' Mondesir ! I was sure of it 1 ' 
 
 There had appeared at the entrance a short, sinewy, 
 broad-backed little man, about whose round face, bumpy fore- 
 head and snub nose there seemed to be much mihtary rough- 
 ness. One might have thought him a non-commissioned ' 
 officer in civilian attire. He gazed over the whole room, and 
 seemed at once dismayed and disappointed. 
 
 Bergaz, however, wishing to account for his exclamation, 
 resumed in an easy way : ' Ah ! I said there was a smell of 
 the police here ! You see that fellow, don't you ? — he's a 
 detective, a very clever one, named Mondesir, who had some 
 trouble when he was in the army. Just look at him, sniffing 
 like a dog that has lost scent 1 Well, well, my brave fellow, 
 if you've been told of any game you may look and look for it, 
 the bird's flown already I ' 
 
 Once outside, when Eosemonde had prevailed on 
 Hyacinthe to see her home, they hastened to get into the 
 brougham, which was waiting for them, for near at hand 
 they perceived Silviane's landau, with the majestic coachmas 
 
SFIRIT AND FLESH 227 
 
 motionless on his box, while Duvillard, Gerard, and Duthil 
 still stood waiting on the kerbstone. They had been there 
 for nearly twenty minutes already, in the semi-darkness of 
 that outer boulevard, where all the vices of the poor districts 
 of Paris were on the prowl. They were roughly jostled by 
 drunkards ; and shadowy women brushed against them as 
 they went by whispering beneath the oaths and blows of 
 bullies. And there were couples seeking the darkness under 
 the trees, and lingering on the benches there; while all 
 around were low taverns and dirty lodging-houses, and places 
 of ill-fame. All the human degradation which till break of 
 day swarms in the black mud of this part of Paris, enveloped 
 the three men, giving them the horrors, and yet neither the 
 Baron nor Gerard nor Duthil was wiUing to go off. Each 
 hoped that he would tire out the others, and escort Silviane 
 home when she should at last appear. 
 
 The Baron was the first to grow impatient, and he suddenly 
 said to the coachman : ' Jules, go and see why madame doesn't 
 come.' 
 
 ' But the horses, Monsieur le Baron ? ' 
 
 ' Oh 1 they will be all right, we are here.' 
 
 A fine drizzle had begun to fall ; and the wait went on 
 again as if it would never finish. However, an unexpected 
 meeting gave them momentary occupation. A shadowy 
 form, something which seemed to be a thin, black-skirted 
 woman brushed against them. And all of a sudden they were 
 surprised to find it was a priest. 
 
 ' ' What ! is it you, Monsieur I'Abb^ Froment ? ' exclaimed 
 Gerard. ' At this time of night — ^^and in this part of Paris ? ' 
 
 Thereupon Pierre, without venturing either to express his 
 own astonishment at finding them there themselves, or to ask 
 them what they were doing, explained that he had been 
 belated through accompanying Abb6 Rose on a visit to a night 
 refuge. Ah 1 to think of all the frightful want which at last 
 drifted to those pestilential dormitories where the stench had 
 almost made him faint I To think of all the weariness and 
 despair which there sank into the slumber of utter prostration, 
 like that of beasts falling to the ground to sleep off the 
 abominations of lifel No name could be given to the 
 promiscuity; poverty and suffering were there in heaps, 
 children and men, young and old, beggars in sordid rags 
 beside shamefaced paupers in threadbare frock-coats, all the 
 waifs and strays of the daily shipwrecks of Paris life, all the 
 
 8? 
 
228 PARIS 
 
 laziness and vice, and ill-luck and injustice wliicli the torrent 
 rolls on, and throws off like scum. Some slept as if quite 
 annihilated, with the faces of corpses. Others, lying on their 
 backs with mouths agape, snored loudly as if stiU venting the 
 plaint of their sorry Ufe. And others tossed restlessly, still 
 struggling in their slumber against fatigue and cold and 
 hunger, which pursued them like nightmares of monstrous 
 shape. And from all those human beings, stretched there 
 like wounded after a battle, from all that ambulance of life 
 reeking with a stench of rottenness and death, there ascended 
 a nausea born of revolt, the vengeance-prompting thought of 
 all the happy chambers where, at that same hour, the wealthy 
 loved or rested in fine Unen and costly lace.' 
 
 In vainhadPierreand AbbdEose passed all thepoorwretchea 
 in review while seeking the big Old 'un, the former carpenter, 
 so as to rescue him from that cesspool of misery, and send him 
 to the Asylum on the morrow. He had presented him- 
 self at the refuge that evening, but there was no room left, for, 
 horrible to say, even the shelter of that heU could only be 
 granted to early comers. And so he must now be leaning 
 against a wall, or lying behind some palings. This had greatly 
 distressed poor Abb6 Eose and Pierre, but it was impossible 
 for them to search every dark, suspicious comer ; and so the 
 fonner had returned to the Eue Cortot, while the latter was 
 seeking a cab to convey him back to Neuilly. 
 
 The fine drizzling rain was stiU falling and becoming 
 almost icy, when Silviane's coachman, Jules, at last reap- 
 peared and interrupted the priest, who was telling the Baron 
 
 ' Even the oldest Paris night-refuges, ■which are the outcome of private 
 philanthropy— L'CEuvre de THospitalitS de Nnit — ^have only been in 
 existence some fourteen or fifteen years. Before that time, and from the 
 period of the great Eevolution forward, there was absolutely no place, either 
 refuge, asylum, or workhouse, in the whole of that great city of wealth 
 and pleasure, where the houseless poor could crave a night's shelter. 
 The various royalist, imperialist, and republican governments and 
 municipalities of modern France have often been described as ' paternal,' 
 but no governments and municipalities in the whole civilised world have 
 done less for the very poor. The official Poor Belief Board — L'Assist- 
 ance Publique — has for fifty years been a by-word, a mockery, and a 
 sham, in spite of its large revenue. And this neglect of the very poor 
 has been an important factor in every French Bevolution. Each of 
 these — even that of 1870 — had its purely economic side, though many 
 superficial historians are content to ascribe economic causes to the one 
 Eevolution of 1789, and to pass them by in all other instances.— rrans. 
 
SPIRIT ANB FLESH 229 
 
 and the others how his visit to the refuge still made him 
 shudder, 
 
 'Well, Jules— and madame?' asked Duvillard, quite 
 anxious at seeing the coachman return alone. 
 
 Impassive and respectful, with no other sign of irony than 
 a slight involuntary twist of the lips, Jules answered: 
 ' Madame sends word that she is not going home ; and she 
 places her carriage at the. gentlemen's disposal if they will 
 allow me to drive them home.' 
 
 This was the last straw, and the Baron flew into a passion. 
 To have allowed her to drag him to that vile den, to have 
 waited there hopefully so long, and to be treated in this fashion 
 for the sake of a Legras ! No, no, he, the Baron, had had 
 enough of it, and she should pay dearly for her abominable 
 conduct 1 Then he stopped a passing cab and pushed Gdrard 
 inside it, saying, ' You can set me down at my door.' 
 
 ' But she's left us the carriage I ' shouted Duthil, who was 
 already consoled, and inwardly laughed at the termination of 
 it all. ' Come here, there's plenty of room for three. No ? 
 you prefer the cab ? Well, just as you like, you know.' 
 
 For his part he gaily climbed into the landau and drove 
 off lounging on the cushions, while the Baron, in the jolting 
 old cab, vented his rage without a word of interruption from 
 Gerard, whose face was hidden by the darkness. To think of 
 it ! that she, whom he had overwhelmed with gifts, who had 
 already cost him two milHons of francs, should in this fashion 
 insult him, the master who could dispose both of fortunes and 
 of men ! Well, she had chosen to do it, and he was delivered ! 
 Then DuviUard drew a long breath like a man released from 
 the galleys. 
 
 For a moment Pierre watched the two vehicles go off; 
 then he took his own way under the trees, so as to shelter 
 himself from the rain until a vacant cab should pass. Full 
 of distress and battling thoughts he had begun to feel icy 
 cold. The whole monstrous night of Paris, all the de- 
 bauchery and woe that sobbed around him made him shiver. 
 Phantom-like women who, when young, had led lives of 
 infamy in wealth, and who now, old and faded, led lives of 
 infamy in poverty, were still and ever wandering past him in 
 search of bread, when suddenly a shadowy form grazed him, 
 and a voice murmured in his ear : ' Warn your brother, the 
 police are on Salvat's track, he may be arrested at any 
 anoment.' 
 
230 PARIS 
 
 The sliadowy figure was already going ita way, and as a 
 gas ray fell .upon it, Pierre thougnt that he recognised the 
 pale, pinched face of Victor Mathis. And at the same time, 
 yonder in Abb6 Eose's peaceful dining-room, he fancied he 
 could again see the gentle countenance of Madame Mathis, so 
 sad and so resigned, Uving on solely by the force of the last trem- 
 bling hope which she had unhappily set in her son. 
 
 Ill 
 
 PLOT AND COUNTEBPLOI 
 
 Albeadt at eight o'clock on that holiday-making mid-Lent 
 Thursday, when all the offices of the Home Department were 
 empty, Monferrand, the Minister, sat alone in his private 
 room. A single usher guarded his door, and in the first 
 ante-chamber there were only a couple of messengers. 
 
 The Minister had experienced, on awaking, the most un- 
 pleasant of emotions. The ' Voix du Peuple,' which on the 
 previous day had revived the African Eailway scandal, by 
 accusing Barroux of having pocketed 200,000 francs, had that 
 morning published its long promised list of the bribe-taking 
 senators and deputies. And at the head of this list 
 Monferrand had found his own name set down against a sum 
 of 80,000 francs, while Fons^gue was credited with 50,000. 
 Then a fifth of the latter amount was said to have been 
 Duthil's share, and Chaigneux had contented himself with 
 the beggarly sum of 3,000 francs — the lowest price paid for 
 any one vote, the cost of each of the others ranging from 
 5 to 20,000. 
 
 It must be said that there was no anger in Monferrand's 
 emotion. Only he had never thought that Sagnier would 
 carry his passion for uproar and scandal so far as to publish 
 this list — a page which was said to have been torn from a 
 memorandum-book belonging to Duvillard's agent. Hunter, 
 and which was covered with incomprehensible hieroglyphics 
 that ought to have been discussed and explained, if, indeed, 
 the real truth was to be arrived at. Personally, Monferrand 
 felt quite at ease, for he had written nothing, signed nothing, 
 and knew that one could almost always extricate oneself 
 from a mess by dint of audacity, and denial. Neverthe- 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT 1531 
 
 less, what a commotion it would all cause in the parliamentary 
 duck-pond 1 He at once foresaw the inevitable consequence, 
 the ministry overthrown and swept away by this fresh whirl- 
 wind of denunciation and tittle-tattle. M^ge would renew 
 hia interpellation on the morrow, Vignon and his friends 
 would at once lay siege to the posts they coveted ; and he, 
 Monferrand, could picture himself driven out of that 
 ministerial sanctum where, for eight months past, he had 
 been taking his ease, not with any fooUsh vainglory, but 
 with the pleasure of feeling that he was in his proper place 
 as a born ruler, who believed he could tame and lead the 
 multitude. 
 
 Having thrown the newspapers aside with a disdainful 
 gesture, he rose and stretched himself, growling the while 
 like a plagued lion. And then he began to walk up and 
 down the spacious room, which showed all the faded official 
 luxury of mahogany furniture and green damask hangings. 
 Stepping to and fro, with his hands behind his back, he no 
 longer wore his usual fatherly, good-natured air. He 
 appeared as he really was, a born wrestler, short, but broad 
 shouldered, with sensual mouth, fleshy nose, and stern eyes, 
 that aU proclaimed him to be unscrupulous, of iron will, and 
 fit for the greatest tasks. Still, in this case, in what direction 
 lay his best course ? Must he let himself be dragged down 
 with Barroux ? Perhaps his personal position was not 
 absolutely compromised ? And yet how could he part 
 company from the others, swim ashore, and save himself 
 while they were being drowned? It was a grave problem, 
 and with his frantic desire to retain power, he made 
 desperate endeavours to devise some suitable manosuvre. 
 
 But he could think of nothing, and began to swear at the 
 virtuous fits of that silly Eepublio, which, in his opinion, 
 rendered all government impossible. To think of such 
 fooUsh fiddle-faddle stopping a man of his acumen and 
 strength I How indeed c^-n anybody govern a nation if he is 
 denied the use of money, that sovereign means of sway ? 
 Then he laughed bitterly ; for the idea of an idyllic country 
 where all great enterprises would be carried out in an abso.. 
 lutely honest manner seemed to him the height of absurdity. 
 At last, however, unable as he was to come to a determina- 
 tion, .it occurred to him to confer with Baron Duvillard, 
 whom he had long known, and whom he regretted not 
 having seen sooner so as to urge him to purchase Sagnier'a 
 
23? PARIS 
 
 silenee. At first he thought of sending the Baron a brief 
 note by a messenger ; but he dishked committing anything 
 to paper, for the veriest scrap of writing may prove dangerous ; 
 so he preferred to employ the telephone which had been 
 installed for his private use near his writing table. 
 
 ' It is Baron Duvillard who is speaking to me ? . . . Quite 
 so. It's I, the Minister, Monsieur Monferrand. I shall be 
 much obliged if you will come to see me at once. . . . Quite 
 so, quite so, I wiU wait for you.' 
 
 Then again he walked to and fro and meditated. That 
 fellow Duvillard was as clever a man as himself, and might be 
 able to give him an idea. For his own part he was still trying 
 to devise some scheme, when the usher entered saying that 
 Monsieur Gascogne, the Chief of the Detective Pohce, par- 
 ticularly wished to speak to him. Monferrand's first thought 
 was that the Prefecture of PoHce desired to know his views 
 respecting the steps which ought to be taken to ensm-e 
 public order that day ; for two mid-Lent processions — one of 
 the Washerwomen and the other of the Students — were 
 to march through Paris, whose streets would certainly be 
 crowded. 
 
 ' Show Monsieur Gascogne in,' he said. 
 
 A tall, slim, dark man, looking like an artisan in his 
 Sunday best, then stepped into the ministerial sanctum. 
 Fully acquainted with the under-currents of Paris life, this 
 Chief of the Detective Force had a cold dispassionate nature 
 and a clear and methodical mind. Professionalism slightly 
 spoilt him, however ; he would have possessed more intelli- 
 gence if he had not credited himself with so much. 
 
 He began by apologising for his superior the Prefect, who 
 would certainly have called in person had he not been suffer- 
 ing from indisposition. However, it was perhaps best that 
 he, Gascogne, should acquaint Monsieur le Ministre with 
 the grave affair which brought him, for he knew every 
 detail of it. Then he revealed what the grave affair was. 
 
 ' I believe, Monsieur le Ministre, that we at last hold 
 the perpetrator of the crime in the Eue Godot-de-Mauroy.' 
 
 At this, Monferrand, who had been listening impatiently, 
 became quite impassioned. The fruitless searches of the 
 police, the attacks and the jeers of the newspapers were a 
 source of daily worry to him. 'Ah! — "Well so much the 
 better for you, Monsieur Gascogne,' he replied with brutal 
 
PLOT AND COVNTERFLOT 233 
 
 frankness : 'You -would have ended by losing your post. The 
 man is arrested ? ' 
 
 ' Not yet, Monsieur le Ministre ; but he cannot escape, 
 and it is merely an affair of a few hours.' 
 
 Then the Chief of the Detective Force told the whole 
 story : how Detective Monddsir on being warned by a secret 
 agent that the Anarchist Salvat was in a tavern at Montmartre, 
 bad reached it just as the bird had flown ; then how chance had 
 again set him in presence of Salvat at a hundred paces or so 
 from the tavern, the rascal having foolishly loitered there to 
 watch the establishment ; and afterwards how Salvat had 
 been stealthily shadowed in the hope that they might catch 
 him in his hiding-place with his accompUces. In this 
 wise, he had been tracked to the Porte-Maillot, where realis- 
 ing, no doubt, that he was pursued he had suddenly bolted 
 into the Bois de Boulogne. It was there that he had been 
 hiding since two o'clock in the morning in the drizzle which 
 had not ceased to fall. They had waited for daylight in order 
 to organise a battue and hunt him down like some animal, 
 whose weariness must necessarily ensure capture. And so, 
 from one moment to another, he would be caught. 
 
 ' I know the great interest you take in the arrest. Monsieur 
 le Ministre,' added Gascogne, ' and it occurred to me to ask 
 your orders. Detective Mondesir is over there, directing the 
 hunt. He regrets that he did not apprehend the man on the 
 Boulevard de Eochechouart ; but, all the same, the idea of 
 following him was a capital one, and Mondesir can only be 
 reproached with having forgotten the Bois de Boulogne in his 
 calculations.' 
 
 Salvat arrested I That f eUow Salvat whose name had filled 
 the newspapers for three weeks past. Thiswasamost fortunate 
 stroke which would be talked of far and wide I In the depths 
 of Monferrand's eyes one could divine a world of thoughts, 
 with a sudden determination to turn this incident which 
 chance had brought him to his own personal advantage. In 
 his own mind a Hnk was already forming between this arrest 
 and that African Eailways interpellation which was likely to 
 overthrow the ministry on the morrow. The first outlines of 
 a scheme already rose before him. Was it not his good star 
 that had sent him what he had been seeking — a means of 
 fishing himself out of the troubled waters of the approaching 
 crisis ? 
 
234 PARIS 
 
 _ ' But tell me, Monsieur Gascogne,' said he, ' are you 
 quite sure that this man Salvat committed the crime ? ' 
 
 ' Oh 1 perfectly sure, Monsieur le Ministro. He'll con- 
 fess everything in the cab before he reaches the Prefecture.' 
 
 Monferrand again walked to and fro with a pensive air, 
 and ideas came to him as he spoke on in a slow, meditative 
 fashion. ' My orders 1 well, my orders, they are, first, that 
 you must act with the very greatest prudence. Yes, don't 
 gather a mob of promenaders together. Try to arrange 
 things so that the arrest may pass unperceived — and if you 
 secure a confession keep it to yourself, don't communicate it 
 to_ the newspapers. Yes, I particularly recommend that 
 point to you, don't take the newspapers into your confidence 
 at all — and finally, come and tell me everythmg, and observe 
 secrecy, absolute secrecy with everybody else.' 
 
 Gascogne bowed and would have withdrawn, but Mon- 
 ferrand detained him to say that not a day passed without 
 \ his friend Monsieur Lehmann, the Pubhc Prosecutor, re- 
 ceiving letters from Anarchists who threatened to blow him 
 up with his family ; in such wise that, although he was by 
 no means a coward, he wished his house to be guarded by 
 plain -ejpthes officers. A similar watch was already kept 
 upon the . house where investigating magistrate Amadieu 
 residedr - And if the latter's life was precious, that of Pubho 
 Prosecutor Lehmann was equally so, for he was one of those 
 poUtical magistrates, one of those shrewd talented Israehtes 
 who make their way in very honest fashion by invariably 
 taking the part of the Government in ofBce. 
 
 Then Gascogne in his turn remarked : ' There is also the 
 Barthfis affair, Monsieur le Ministre. — We are still waiting. 
 Are we to arrest Barthes at that httle house at Neuilly ? ' 
 
 One of those chances which sometimes come to the help 
 of detectives and make people think them men of genius 
 had revealed to him the circumstance that Barthds had found 
 a refuge with Abb6 Pierre Froment. Ever since the Anarch- 
 ist terror had thrown Paris into dismay a warrant bad been 
 out against the old man, not for any precise offence, but 
 simply because he was a suspicions character and might, 
 therefore, have had some intercourse with the Bevolutionists. 
 However, it had been repugnant to Gascogne to arrest him^t 
 the house of a priest whom the whole district venerated as a 
 saint; and the Minister, whom he had consulted on the 
 point, had not only approved of his reserve, since a member 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT 233 
 
 of the clergy was in question, but had undertaken to settle 
 the affair himself. ' 
 
 ' No, Monsieur Gascogne,' he now replied, ' don't move 
 in the matter. You know what my feelings are, that we 
 ought to have the priests with us and not against us. I have 
 had a letter written to Abb6 Froment in order that he may 
 call here this morning, as I shall have no other visitors. I 
 will speak to him myself, and you may take it that the affair 
 no longer concerns you.' 
 
 Then he was about to dismiss him when the usher came 
 back saying that the President of the Council was in the 
 ante-room.* 
 
 ' Barroux I — Ah ! dash it, then, Monsieur Gascogne, you 
 had better go out this way. It is as well that nobody should 
 meet you, as I wish you to keep silent respecting Salvat'a 
 arrest. It's fully understood, is it not ? I alone am to know 
 everything ; and you will communicate with me here direct, 
 by the telephone, if any serious incident should arise.' 
 
 The Chief of the Detective Pohce had scarcely gone off, 
 by way of an adjoining salon, when the usher reopened the 
 door communicating with the ante-room and announced : 
 ' Monsieur le President du Conseil.' 
 
 With a nicely adjusted show of deference and cordiality, 
 Monferrand stepped forward, his hands outstretched : 'Ah I 
 my dear President, why did you put yourself out to come 
 here ? I would have called on you if I had known that you 
 wished to see me.' 
 
 But with an impatient gesture Barroux brushed aside all 
 question of etiquette. ' No, no ! I was taking my usual 
 stroll in the Champs Elysdes, and the worries of the situation 
 impressed me so keenly that I preferred to come here at once. 
 You yourself must reahse that we can't put up with what is 
 taking place. And pending to-morrow morning's council, 
 when we shall have to arrange a plan of defence, I felt that 
 there was good reason for us to talk things over.' 
 
 He took an arm-chair, and Monferrand on his side rolled 
 another forward so as to seat himself with his back to the 
 light. Whilst Barroux, the elder of the pair by ten years, 
 blanched and soleinn, with a handsome face, snowy whiskers, 
 
 ' The title of President of the Connoil is given to the French prima 
 minister. I mention this because English readers might confound it 
 with that of ' Lord President of the Council,' which nowadays is but a 
 Becondaiy post in English administrations. — Trans, 
 
336 PARIS 
 
 clean shaven ohin and upper lip, retained all the dignity of 
 power, the bearing of a Conventionnel of romantic views, 
 who sought to magnify the rectitude of his rather foolish 
 but good-hearted bourgeois nature into something great ; the 
 other, beneath his heavy common countenance and feigned 
 frankness and simplicity, concealed unknown depths, the 
 unfathomable soul of a shrewd enjoyer and despot who was 
 ahke pitiless and unscrupulous in attaining his ends. 
 
 For a moment Barroux drew breath, for in reality he was 
 greatly moved, his blood rising to his head, and his heart 
 beating with indignation and anger at the thought of aU the 
 vulgar insults which the ' Voix du Peuple ' had heaped upon 
 him again that morning. ' Come, my dear colleague,' said 
 he, ' one must stop that scandalous campaign. Moreover, 
 you must know what awaits us at the Chamber to-morrow. 
 Now that the famous list has been published we shall have 
 every malcontent up in arms ; Vignon is bestirring himself 
 abeady ' 
 
 ' Ah ! you have news of Vignon ? ' exclaimed Monferrand, 
 becoming very attentive. 
 
 ' Well, as I passed his door just now, I saw a string of 
 cabs waiting there. All his creatures have been on the move 
 since yesterday, and at least twenty persons have told me 
 that the band is already dividing the spoils. For, as you 
 must know, the fierce and ingenuous Mege is again going to 
 pull the chestnuts out of the fire for others. Briefly, we are 
 dead, and the others claim that they are going to bury us in 
 mud before they fight over our leavings.' With his arm 
 outstretched Barroux made a theatrical gesture, and his voice 
 resounded as if he were in the tribune. Nevertheless, his 
 emotion was real, tears even were coming to his eyes. ' To 
 think that I who have given my whole life to the Eepublie, I 
 who founded it, who saved it, should be covered with insidts 
 in this fashion, and obliged to defend myself against abomin- 
 able charges I To say that I abused my trust I that I sold 
 myself and took 200,000 francs from that man Hunter, 
 simply to slip them into my pocket ! Well, certainly there 
 was a question of 200,000 francs between us. But how and 
 under what circumstances ? They were doubtless the same 
 as in your case, with regard to the 80,000 francs that he is 
 said to have handed you ' 
 
 But Monferrand interrupted liis colleague in a clear 
 trenchant voice : ' He never Landed me a centime.' 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT 237 
 
 The other looked at him in astonishment, but found that 
 the features of his big, rough head were steeped in 
 shadow : ' Ah ! But I thought you had business relations 
 with him, and knew him particularly well.' 
 
 ' No, I simply knew Hunter as everyone knew him. I was 
 not even aware that he was Baron Duvillard's agent in the 
 African Eailways matter ; and there was never any question 
 of that affair between us.' 
 
 This was so improbable, so contrary to everything which 
 Barroux knew of the business, that for a moment he felt quite 
 soared. Then he waved his hand as if to say that others 
 might as well look after their own affairs, and reverted to 
 himself. ' Oh ! as for me,' he said, ' Hunter called on me 
 more than ten times, and made me quite sick with his talk of 
 the African Eailways. It was at the time when the Chamber 
 was asked to authorise the issue of lottery stock.' And, by 
 the way, my dear fellow, I was then here at the Home 
 Department, while you had just taken that of Public Works. 
 I can remember sitting at that very writing-table, while 
 Hunter was in the same arm-chair that I now occupy. That 
 day he wanted to consult me about the employment of the 
 large sum which DuviUard's house proposed to spend in 
 advertising ; and on seeing what big amounts were set down 
 against the Eoyalist journals, I became quite angry, for I 
 reaUsed with perfect accuracy that this money would simply 
 be used to wage war against the Eepublio. And so, yielding 
 to Hunter's entreaties, I also drew up a list allotting 
 200,000 francs among the friendly Eepubhcan newspapers, 
 which were paid through me, I admit it. And that's the 
 whole story.' ^ 
 
 Then he sprang to his feet and struck his chest, whilst 
 his voice again rose : ' Well, I've had more than enough of all 
 
 ' This kind of stock is common enough in France. A part of it is 
 extinguished annually at a public ' drawing,' when all such shares or 
 bonds that are drawn become entitled to redemption at ' par ' ; a 
 percentage of them also securing prizes of various amounts. City of 
 Paris Bonds issued on this system are very popular among French 
 people with small savings ; but, on the other hand, many ventures, 
 whose lottery stock has been authorised by the liegislature, have come 
 to grief and ruined investors. — Trans. 
 
 ' All who are acquainted with recent French history will be aware 
 that Barroux's narrative is simply a passage from the life of the late 
 M. Floquet, slightly modified to suit the requirements of M. Zola's 
 Btory. — Trans. 
 
ajS PARIS 
 
 that calumny and falsehood 1 And to-morrow I shall simply 
 tell the Chamber my story. It will be my only defence. 
 An honest man does not fear the truth 1 ' 
 
 But Monferrand, in his turn, had sprung up with a cry 
 which was a complete confession of his principles : ' It's 
 ridiculous, one never confesses ; you surely won't do such a 
 thing ! ' 
 
 ' I shall,' retorted Barroux with superb obstinacy. ' And 
 we shall see if the Chamber won't absolve me by acclama- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' No, you will fall beneath an explosion of hisses, and drag 
 all of us down with you.' 
 
 ' What does it matter ? We shall fall with dignity, like 
 honest men ! ' 
 
 Monferrand made a gesture of furious anger, and then 
 suddenly became calm. Amidst all the anxious confusion in 
 which he had been struggling since daybreak, a gleam now 
 dawned upon him. The vague ideas suggested by Salvat's 
 approaching arrest took shape, and expanded into an 
 audacious schem.e. Why should he prevent the fall of that 
 big ninny Barroux ? The only thing of importance was that 
 he, Monferrand, should not fall with him, or any rate that he 
 should rise again. So he protested no further, but merely 
 mumbled a few words, in which his rebeUious feelings seemingly 
 died out. And at last, putting on his good-natm'ed air once 
 more, he said : ' Well, after all you are perhaps right. One 
 must be brave. Besides, you are our leader, my dear President, 
 and we will follow you.' 
 
 They had now again sat down face to face, and their 
 conversation continued till they came to a cordial agreement 
 respecting the course which the Government shoidd adopt 
 in view of the inevitable interpellation on the morrow. 
 
 Meantime, Baron Duvillard was on his way to the 
 ministry. He had scarcely slept that night. W^hen on the 
 return from Montmartre Gerard had set him down at his 
 door in the Bue Godot-de-Mauroy, he had at once gone to 
 bed, like a man who is determined to compel sleep, so that 
 he may forget his worries and recover self-control. But 
 slumber would not come, for hours and hours he vainly 
 sought it. The manner in which he had been insulted bj 
 that creature Silviane was so monstrous 1 To think that sh^ 
 whom he bad enriched, whose every desire he had contented, 
 Bboolcl have cast such mud at him, the master, who flattered 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT 239 
 
 himself that he held Paris and the Eepublic in hia hands, 
 since he bought up and controlled consciences just as others 
 might make corners in wool or leather for the purposes 
 of Bourse speculation. And the dim consciousness that 
 Silviane was the avenging sore, the cancer preying on him 
 who preyed on others, completed his exasperation. In vain 
 did he try to drive away his haunting thoughts, remember 
 his business affairs, his appointments for the morrow, his 
 millions which were working in every quarter of the world, 
 the financial omnipotence which placed the fate of nations in 
 his grasp. Ever, and in spite of all, Silviane rose up before 
 him, splashing him with mud. In despair he tried to fix his 
 mind on a great enterprise which he had been planning for 
 months past, a Trans- Saharian railway, a colossal venture 
 which would set millions of money at work, and revolutionise 
 the trade of the world. And yet Silviane appeared once 
 more, and smacked him on both cheeks with her dainty Uttle 
 hand which she had dipped in the gutter. It was only 
 towards daybreak that he at last dozed off, while vowing in a 
 fury that he would never see her again, that he would spurn 
 her, and order her away, even should she come and drag herself 
 at his feet. 
 
 However, when he awoke at seven, still tired and aching, 
 his first thought was for her, and he almost yielded to a fit 
 of weakness. The idea came to him to ascertain if she had 
 returned home, and if so make his peace. But he jumped 
 out of bed, and after his ablutions aU his courage came back 
 to him. She was a wretch, and he this time thought him- 
 self for ever cured of his passion. To tell the truth, he 
 forgot it as soon as he opened the morning newspapers. The 
 pubhcation of the list of bribe-takers in the ' Voix du Peuple ' 
 quite upset him, for he had hitherto thought it unUkely that 
 Bagnier held any such list. However, he judged the 
 document at a glance, at once separating the few truths it 
 contained from a mass of foolishness and falsehood. And 
 this time also he did not consider himseK personally in 
 danger. There was only one thing that he really feared : the 
 arrest of his intermediary, Hunter, whose trial might have 
 drawn him into the affair. As matters stood, and as he did 
 not cease to repeat with a calm smile, he had merely 
 done what every banker does when he launches a, company ; 
 that is, pay the press for advertisements and puffery, 
 eaifloy brokers, aad reward services discreetly rendered to 
 
240 PARIS 
 
 the enterprise. It was all a business matter, and for him 
 that expression summed up everything. Moreover, he 
 played the game of Ufe bravely, and spoke with indig- 
 nant contempt of a banker who, driven to extremities by 
 blackmailing, had imagined that he would bring a recent 
 scandal to an end by killing himself ; whereas from all the 
 mire and blood of that pitiful tragedy, the scandal had sprouted 
 afresh with the most luxuriant and indestructible vegetation. 
 No, no ! suicide was not the course to follow, a man ought to 
 remain erect, and struggle on to his very last copper, and the 
 very end of his energy. 
 
 When at about nine o'clock a ringing brought Duvillard to 
 the telephone installed in his private room, his folly took 
 possession of him again ; for he thought it must be Silviane 
 who wished to speak to him. She often amused herself by thus 
 disturbing him amidst his greatest cares. No doubt she had 
 just returned home, miderstood that she had carried things 
 too far on the previous evening, and desired to be forgiven. 
 However, when he found that the call -was from Monferrand 
 who wished him to go to the ministry he shivered slightly, 
 like a man saved from an abyss beside which he is travelHng. 
 And forthwith he called for his hat and stick, desirous as he 
 was of walking and reflecting in the open air. And again he 
 became absorbed in the intricacies of the scandalous busi- 
 ness which was about to stir all Paris and the legislature. 
 Kill himseK ! ah, no, that would be foolish and cowardly. A 
 gust of terror might be sweeping past ; nevertheless, for his 
 part he felt quite firm, superior to events, and resolved to 
 defend himself without relinquishing aught of his power. 
 
 As soon as he entered the ante-rooms of the ministry he 
 realised that the gust of terror was becoming a tempest. The 
 publication of the terrible list in the ' Voix du Peuple ' had 
 chilled the guilty ones to the heart ; and, pale and distracted, 
 feeling the ground give way beneath them they had come to 
 take counsel of Monferrand who, they hoped, might save them. 
 The first whom Duvillard perceived was DuthU, looking ex- 
 tremely upset, biting his moustaches, and constantly making 
 grimaces in his efforts to force a smile. The banker 
 scolded him for coming, saying that it was a great mistake to 
 have done so, particularly with such a scared face. The 
 deputy, however, his spirits already cheered by these rough 
 words, began to defend himself, declaring that he had not 
 even read Sagnier's article, and had simply come to reoom- 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT 241 
 
 mend a lady friend to the minister. Thereupon the Baron 
 undertook this business for him and sent him away with the 
 wish that he might spend a merry mid- Lent. However, tha 
 one who most roused Duvillard's pity was Ohaigneux, whose 
 figure swayed about as if bent by the weight of his long 
 equine head, and who looked so shabby and untidy that one 
 might have taken him for an old pauper. On recognising 
 the banker he darted forward, and bowed to him with 
 obsequious eagerness. 
 
 ' Ah 1 Monsieur le Baron,' said he, ' how wicked soma 
 men must be ! They are killing me, I shall die of it all ; and 
 what will become of my wife, what will become of my three 
 daughters who have none but me to help them ? ' 
 
 The whole of his woeful story lay in that lament. A 
 victim of politics, he had been foolish enough to quit Arraa 
 and his business there as a solicitor, in order to seek triumph in 
 Paris with his wife and daughters, whose menial he had 
 then become — a menial dismayed by the constant rebuffs and 
 failures which his mediocrity brought upon him. An honest 
 deputy 1 ah, good heavens ! yes, he would have liked to be 
 one ; but was he not perpetually ' hard-up,' ever in search 
 of a hundred-franc note, and thus, perforce, a deputy for sale ? 
 And withal he led such a pitiable life, so badgered by the 
 women folk about him, that to satisfy their demands he 
 would have picked up money no matter where or how. 
 
 ' Just fancy. Monsieur le Baron, I have at last found a 
 husband for my eldest girl. It is the first bit of luck that I have 
 ever had ; there will only be three women left on my hands if 
 it comes off. But you can imagine what a disastrous im- 
 pression such an article as that of this morning must create 
 in the young man's family. So I have come to see the 
 Minister to beg him to give my future son-in-law a prefectoral 
 secretaryship. I have already promised him the post, and if 
 I can secure it things may yet be arranged.' 
 
 He looked so terribly shabby and spoke in such a doleful 
 voice that it occurred to Duvillard to do one of those good actions 
 on which he ventured at times when they were likely to prove 
 remunerative investments. It is, indeed, an excellent plan to 
 give a crust of bread to some poor devil whom one can turn, 
 if necessary, into a valet or an accomplice. So the banker 
 dismissed Ohaigneux, undertaking to do his business for him 
 in the same way as he had undertaken to do Duthil's. And 
 he added that he would be pleased to see him on the morrow, 
 
24» PARIS 
 
 and have a chat with him, as he might be able to help himm 
 the matter of his daughter's marriage. 
 
 At this Chaigneux, ecenting a loan, coUapsed into the 
 most lavish thanks. ' Ah I Monsieur le Baron, my life •will 
 not be long enough to enable me to repay such a debt of 
 gratitude.' 
 
 As Duvillard turned round he was surprised to see AbbI 
 Froment waiting in a corner of the ante-room. Surely that 
 one could not belong to the batch of suspects, although by 
 the manner in which he was pretending to read a newspaper, 
 it seemed as if he were trying to hide some keen anxiety. 
 At last the Baron stepped forward, shook hands, and spoke 
 to him cordially. And Pierre thereupon related that he had 
 received a letter requesting him to call on the Minister that 
 day. "Why, he could not tell, in fact, he was greatly surprised, 
 he said, putting on a smile in order to conceal his disquietude. 
 He had been waiting a long time already, and hoped that he 
 would not be forgotten on that bench. 
 
 Just then the usher appeared, and hastened up to the 
 banker. 'The Minister,' said he, 'was at that moment 
 engaged with the President of the Council ; but he had orders 
 to admit the Baron as soon as the President withdrew.' 
 Almost iriimediately afterwards Barroux came out, and as 
 Duvillard was about to enter he recognised and detained him. 
 And he spoke of the denunciations very bitterly, like one indig- 
 nant with all the slander. Would not he, Duvillard, should 
 occasion require it, testify that he, Barroux, had never taken a 
 centime for himself ? Then, forgetting that he was speaking to 
 a banker, and that he was Minister of Finances, he proceeded 
 to express all his disgust of money. Ah ! what poisonous, 
 murky, and defiling waters were those in which money- 
 making went on 1 However, he repeated that he would 
 chastise his insulters, and that a statement of the truth would 
 suffice for the purpose. 
 
 DuviUard listened and looked at him. And all at once 
 the thought of Silviane came back, and took possession of the 
 Baron, without any attempt on his part to drive it away. He 
 reflected that if Barroux had chosen to give him a helping 
 hand when he had asked for it, Silviane would now have been 
 at the Com6die FranQsise, in which case the deplorable affair 
 of the previous night would not have occurred ; for he was 
 beginning to regard himself as guilty in the matter ; if he had 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT 343 
 
 only contented Silviane's whim she would never have dis- 
 missed him in so vile a fashion. , 
 
 ' You know, I owe you a grudge,' he said, interrupting 
 Barroux. 
 
 The other looked at him in astonishment. ' And why, 
 pray ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Why, because you never helped me in the matter of that 
 friend of mine who wishes to make her dihut in "Poly- 
 eucte." ' 
 
 Barroux smiled, and with amiable condescension replied : 
 ' Ah I yes, Silviane d'Aulnay ! But, my dear sir, it was 
 Taboureau who put spokes in the wheel. The Fine Arts are 
 his department, and the question was entirely one for him. 
 And I could do nothing ; for that very worthy and honest 
 gentleman, who came to us from a provincial faculty, was full 
 of scruples. For my ov/n part I'm an old Parisian, I can 
 understand anything, and I should have been delighted to 
 please you.' 
 
 At this fresh resistance offered to his passion Duvillard 
 once more became excited, eager to obtain that which was 
 denied him. ' Taboureau, Taboureau ! ' said he, ' he's a nice 
 deadweight for you to load yourself with ! Honest ! isn't 
 everybody honest? Come, my dear Minister, there's still 
 time, get Silviane admitted, it will bring you good luck for 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 This time Barroux burst into a frank laugh : ' No, no, I 
 can't cast Taboureau adrift at this moment — people would 
 make too much sport of it — a ministry wrecked or saved by a 
 Silviane question ! ' 
 
 Then he offered his hand before going off. The Baron 
 pressed it, and for a moment retained it in his own, whUst 
 saying very gravely and with a somewhat pale face : ' You dd 
 wrong to laugh, my dear Minister. Governments have fallen 
 or set themselves erect again through smaller matters than 
 that. And should you fall to-morrow I trust that you will 
 never have occasion to regret it.' 
 
 Wounded to the heart by the other's jesting air, exasperated 
 by the idea that there was something -he could not achieve, 
 Duvillard watched Barroux as he withdrew. Most certainly 
 the Baron did not desire a reconcihation with SUviane, but 
 he vowed that he would overturn everything if necessary in 
 Oi'der to send her a signed engagement for the Com^die, and this 
 
 b2 
 
244 Paris 
 
 simply by way of vengeance, as a slap, so to say, yes, a slap 
 wMch would make her tingle! That moment spent with 
 Barroux had been a decisive one. 
 
 However, whilst still following Barroux with his eyes, 
 Duvillard was surprised to see FonsSgue arrive and manoeuvre 
 in such a way as to escape the Prime Minister's notice. He 
 succeeded in doing so, and then entered the ante-room with 
 an appearance of dismay about the whole of his little figure, 
 which was, as a rule, so sprightly. It was the gust of terror, 
 still blowing, that had brought him thither. 
 
 ' Didn't you see your friend Barroux ? ' the Baron asked 
 him, somewhat puzzled. 
 
 ' Barroux ? No ! ' 
 
 This quiet lie was equivalent to a confession of everything. 
 Fons^gue was so intimate with Barroux that he thee'd and 
 thou'd him, and for ten years had been supporting him in his 
 newspaper, having precisely the same views, the same political 
 religion. But with a smash-up threatening, he doubtless 
 realised, thanks to his wonderfully keen scent, that he must 
 change his friendships if he did not wish to remain under the 
 ruins himself. If he had, for long years, shown so much 
 prudence and diplomatic virtue in order to firmly establish 
 the most dignified and respected of Parisian newspapers, it 
 was not for the purpose of letting that newspaper be com- 
 promised by some foolish blunder on the part of an honest man. 
 
 ' I thought you were on bad terms with Monferrand,' 
 resumed Duvillard. ' What have you come for here ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear Baron, the director of a leading newspaper 
 is never on bad terms with anybody. He's at the country's 
 service.' 
 
 In spite of his emotion, Duvillard could not help smiling. 
 'You are quite right, Fonsegue,' he responded. 'Besides, 
 Monferrand is really an able man, whom one can support 
 without fear.' 
 
 At this Fonsegue began to wonder whether his anguish 
 of mind was visible. He, who usually played the game of 
 life so well, with his own hand under thorough control, had 
 been terrified by the article in the ' Voix du Peuple.' For the 
 first time in his career he had perpetrated a blunder, and felt 
 that he was at the mercy of some denunciation, for with un- 
 pardonable imprudence he had written a very brief but com- 
 promising note. He was not anxious concerning the 50,000 
 francs which Barroux had handed him out of the 200,000 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT *4S' 
 
 destined for the Eepublican press. But he trembled lest 
 another affair should be discovered, that of a sum of money 
 which he had received as a present. It was only on feeling 
 the Baron's keen glance upon him that he was able to recover 
 some self-possession. How silly it was to lose the knack of 
 lying and to confess things simply by one's demeanour ! 
 
 But the usher drew near and repeated that the Minister 
 was now waiting for the Baron ; and Fonsegue went to sit 
 down beside Abb6 Froment, whom he also was astonished to 
 find there. Pierre repeated that he had received a letter, but 
 had no notion what the Minister might wish to say to him. 
 And the quiver of his hands again revealed how feverishly 
 impatient he was to know what it might be. However, he 
 could only wait, since Monferrand was still busy discussing 
 such grave affairs. 
 
 On seeing Duvillard enter, the Minister had stepped 
 forward, offering his hand. However much the blast of 
 terror might shake others, he had retained his calmness and 
 good-natured smile. ' What an affair, eh, my dear Baron I ' 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 ' It's idiotic ! ' plainly declared the other, with a shrug of 
 his shoulders. Then he sat down in the arm-chair vacated by 
 Barroux, while the Minister installed himself in front of him. 
 These two were made to understand one another, and they 
 indulged in the same despairing gestures and furious com- 
 plaints, declaring that government, like business, would no 
 longer be possible if men were required to show such virtue 
 as they did not possess. At all times, and under every rdgime, 
 when a decision of the Chambers had been required in con- 
 nection with some great enterprise, had not the natural and 
 legitimate tactics been for one to do what might be needful 
 to secure that decision ? It was absolutely necessary that 
 one should obtain influential and sympathetic support, in a 
 word, make sure of votes. Well, everything had to be paid 
 for, men like other things, some with fine words, others with 
 favours or money, presents made in a more or less disguised 
 manner. And even admitting that, in the present cases, one 
 had gone rather far in the purchasing, that some of the barter- 
 ing had been conducted in an imprudent way, was it wise to 
 make such an uproar over it ; would not a strong government 
 have begun by stifling the scandal, from motives of patriotism, 
 a mere sense of cleanliness even ? 
 
 ' Why, of course I You are right, a thousand times right 1 ' 
 
246 PARIS 
 
 exclaimed Monf errand. * Ah I if I were the master you would 
 see what a fine first-class funeral I would give it all 1 ' Then, 
 as Duvillard looked at him fixedly, struck by these last words, 
 he added with his expressive smile : ' Unfortunately I'm not 
 the master, and it was to talk to you of the situation that I 
 ventured to disturb you. Barroux, who was here just now, 
 seemed to me in a regrettable frame of mind.' 
 
 ' Yes, I saw him, he has such singular ideas at times ' 
 
 Then, breaking off, the Baron added : ' Do you know that 
 Fonsegue is in the ante-room ? As he wishes to make his 
 peace with you, why not send for him ? He won't be in the 
 way, in fact, he's a man of good counsel, and the support of 
 his newspaper often suf&ces to give one the victory.' 
 
 ' What, is Fonsegue there ! ' cried Monferrand. ' Why, I 
 don't ask better than to shake hands vath him. There v.'ere 
 some old affairs between us that don't concern anybody! 
 But, good heavens ! if you only knew what little spite I 
 harbour 1 ' 
 
 When the usher had admitted Fonsegue the reconciliation 
 took place in the simplest fashion. They had been great 
 friends at college in their native Corrdze, but had not spoken 
 together for ten years past in consequence of some abom- 
 inable affair the particulars of which were not exa<jtly 
 known. However, it becomes necessary to clear away all 
 corpses when one wishes to have the arena free for a fresh 
 battle. 
 
 ' It's very good of you to come back the first,' said Mon- 
 ferrand. So it's all over, you no longer bear me any 
 grudge ? ' 
 
 ' No, indeed 1 ' replied Fonsegue. ' Why should people 
 devour one another when it would be to their interest to 
 come to an understanding ? ' 
 
 Then, without further explanations, they passed to the 
 great affair, and the conference began. And when Mon- 
 ferrand had announced Barroux's determination to confess 
 and explain his conduct, the others loudly protested. That 
 meant certain downfall, they would prevent him, he surely 
 would not be guilty of such folly. Forthwith they discussed 
 every imaginable plan by which the ministry might be saved, 
 for that must certainly be Monferrand's sole desire. He 
 himself with all eagerness pretended to seek some means of 
 extricating his colleagues and himself from the mess in which 
 they were. However, a faint smile still played around his 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT zi,i 
 
 lips, and at last as if vanquished he sought no further, 
 ' There's no help for it,' said he, ' the ministry's down.' 
 
 The others exchanged glances, full of anxiety at the 
 thought of another Cabinet deahng with the African Eail- 
 ways affair. A Vignon Cabinet would doubtless plume itself 
 on behaving honestly. 
 
 ' Well, then, what shall we do ?' 
 
 But just then the telephone rang, and Monferrand rose 
 to respond to the summons : ' AUow me.' 
 
 He listened for a moment and then spoke into the tube, 
 nothing that he said giving the others any inkling of the 
 information which had reached him. This had come from 
 the Chief of the Detective Police, and was to the effect that 
 Salvat's whereabouts in the Bois de Boulogne had been 
 discovered, and that he would be hunted down with all 
 speed. 'Very good 1 And don't forget my orders,' replied 
 Monferrand. 
 
 Now that Salvat's arrest was certain, the Minister deter- 
 mined to follow the plan which had gradually taken shape in ' 
 his mind ; and returning to the middle of the room he slowly 
 walked to and fro, while saying with his wonted familiarity : 
 ' But what would you have, my friends ? It would be neces- 
 sary for me to be the master. Ah 1 if I were the master ! A 
 Commission of Inquiry, yes 1 that's the proper form for a 
 first-class funeral to take in a big affair Uke this, so full of 
 nasty things. For my part, I should confess nothing, and I 
 should have a Commission appointed. And then you would 
 see the storm subside.'' 
 
 Duvillard and FonsSgue began to laugh. The latter, 
 however, thanks to his intimate knowledge of Monferrand, 
 almost guessed the truth. ' Just 'listen ! ' said he, ' ev6n if 
 the ministry falls it doesn't necessarily follow that you must 
 be on the ground with it. Besides, a ministry can be mended 
 when there are good pieces of it left.' 
 
 Somewhat anxious at finding his -thoughts guessed, Mon- 
 ferrand protested : ' No, no, my dear feUow, I don't play that 
 game. We are jointly respon&ble| we've got to keep together, 
 dash it all!' 
 
 ' Keep together I Pooh ! Not when simpletons purposely 
 drown themselves 1 And, besides, if we others have need of 
 you, we have a right to sate you in spite of yourself I Isn't 
 that so, my dear Baron ? ' 
 
 Then, as Monferrand sat down, no longer protesting but 
 
248 PARIS 
 
 waiting, Duvillard, who was again thinking of his passion, 
 full of anger at the recollection of Barroux's refusal, rose in 
 his turn, and exclaimed : ' Why, certainly 1 If the ministry's 
 condemned let it fall 1 What good can you get out of a 
 ministry which includes such a man as Taboureau 1 There 
 you have an old, worn-out professor without any prestige, - 
 who comes to Paris from Grenoble, and has never set foot in 
 a theatre in his life ! Yet the control of the theatres is 
 handed over to him, and naturally he's ever doing the most 
 stupid things ! ' 
 
 Monferrand, who was well informed on the Silviane quea 
 tion, remained grave, and for a moment amused himself by 
 trying to excite the Baron. ' Taboureau,' said he, ' is a some- 
 what dull and old-fashioned University man, but at the 
 department of Public Instruction he's in his proper element.' 
 
 ' Oh ! don't talk like that, my dear fellow ! You are 
 more intelligent than that, you are not going to defend 
 Taboureau as Barroux did ! It's quite true that I should very 
 much like to see Silviane at the Com^die. She's a very good 
 girl at heart, and she has an amazing lot of talent. Would 
 you stand in her way if you were in Taboureau's place ? ' 
 
 ' I ? Good heavens, no ! A pretty girl on the stage, why, 
 it would please everybody, I'm sure. Only it would be neces- 
 sary to have a man of the same views as mine at the depart- 
 ment of Instruction and Fine Arts.' 
 
 His sly smile had returned to his face. The securing of 
 that girl's d&hut was not a high price to pay for aU the influ- 
 ence of Duvillard's millions. Monferrand therefore turned 
 towards Fonsegue as if to consult him. The other, who fully 
 understood the importance of the affair, was meditating in aU 
 seriousness : ' A senator is the proper man for Public Instruc- 
 tion,' said he. ' But I can think of none, none at all, such 
 as would be wanted. A man of broad mind, a real Parisian, 
 and yet one whose presence at the head of the University 
 wouldn't cause too much astonishment. — There's perhaps 
 Dauvergne ' 
 
 ' Dauvergne 1 Who's he ? ' exclaimed Monferrand in 
 surprise. ' Ah 1 yes, Dauvergne the senator for Dijon — ^but 
 he's altogether ignorant of University matters, he hasn't the 
 slightest qualification.' 
 
 'Well, as for that,' resumed Fonsegue,' I'm trying to 
 think. Dauvergne is certainly a good-looking fellow, tall and 
 fair and decorative. Besides, he's immensely rich, has a most 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOr 849 
 
 eharming young wife — •which does no harm, on the contrary 
 —and he gives real /SJes at his place on the Boulevard St. 
 Germain.' 
 
 It was only with hesitation that Fonsegue himself had 
 ventured to suggest Dauvergne. But by degrees his selection 
 appeared to him a real ' find.' ' Wait a bit I I recollect now 
 that in his young days Dauvergne wrote a comedy, a one act 
 comedy in verse, and had it performed at Dijon. And Dijon's 
 a literary town, you know, so that piece of his sets a little 
 perfume of " Belles-Lettres " around him. And then, too, he 
 left Dijon twenty years ago, and is now a most determined 
 Parisian, frequenting every sphere of society. Dauvergne 
 wUl do whatever one desires. He's the man for us, I tell 
 you.' 
 
 Duvillard thereupon declared that he knew him, and con- 
 sidered him a very decent fellow. Besides, he or another, 
 it mattered nothing ! 
 
 ' Dauvergne, Dauvergne,' repeated Monferrand. ' Mon 
 Dieu, yes ! After all, why not ? He'll perhaps make a very 
 good Minister. Let us say Dauvergne.' Then suddenly 
 bursting into a hearty laugh : ' And so we are reconstructing 
 the Cabinet in order that that charming young woman may 
 join the Comedie 1 The Silviane cabinet. — Well, and what 
 about the other departments ? ' 
 
 He jested, weU knowing that gaiety often hastens difficult 
 solutions. And, indeed, they merrily continued setthng what 
 should be done if the ministry were defeated on the morrow. 
 Although they had not plainly said so the plan was to let 
 Barroux sink, even help him to do so, and then fish Monfer- 
 rand out of the troubled waters. The latter engaged himself 
 with the two others, because he had need of them — the Baron 
 on account of his financial sovereignty, and the director of 
 ' Le Globe ' on account of the press campaign which he could 
 carry on in his favour. And in the same way the others, 
 quite apart from the Silviane business, had need of Monfer- 
 rand, the strong-handed man of government, who undertook 
 to bury the African Railways scandals by bringing about a 
 Commission of Inquiry, all the strings of which would be 
 pulled by himself. There was soon a perfect understanding 
 between the three men, for nothing draws people more closely 
 together than common interest, fear and need. Accordingly 
 when Duvillard spoke of Duthil'a business, the young lady 
 Vhom he wished to recommend, the Minister declared that it 
 
25* PARIS 
 
 was settled, A very nice fellow was Duthil, they needed a 
 good many like him. And it was also agreed that Chaig- 
 neux's future son-in-law should have his secretaryship. Poos 
 Chaigneux I He was so devoted, always ready to undertake 
 any commission, and his four womenfolk led him such a hard 
 life! 
 
 ' Well, then, it's understood.' And Monferrand, Duvillard, 
 and Fons^gue vigorously shook hands. 
 
 However, when the first accompanied the others to the 
 door, he noticed a prelate, in a cassock of fine material, edged 
 with violet, speaking to a priest in the ante-room. There- 
 upon he, the Minister, hastened forward, looking much 
 distressed. ' Ah I you were waiting Monseigneur Martha I 
 Come in, come in quick ! ' 
 
 But with perfect urbanity the Bishop refused. ' No, no, 
 Monsieur I'Abb^ Froment was here before me. Pray receive 
 him first.' 
 
 Monferrand had to give way ; he admitted the priest, and 
 speedily dealt with him. He who usually employed the most 
 diplomatic reserve when he was in presence of a member of 
 the clergy plumply unfolded the Barthes business. Pierre had 
 experienced the keenest anguish during the two hours that 
 he had been waiting there, for he could only explain the 
 letter he had received by a surmise that the police had 
 discovered his brother's presence in his house. And so when 
 he heard the Minister simply speak of Barthes, and declare 
 that the government would rather see him go into exile 
 than be obliged to imprison him once more, he remained 
 for a moment quite disconcerted. As the police had been able 
 to discover the old conspirator in the little house at Nenilly,' 
 how was it that they seemed altogether ignoraait-of Guil- 
 laume's presence there? It was, however, the usual gap in 
 the genius of great detectives. 
 
 ' Pray what do you desire of me, Monsieur le Ministre ? ' 
 said Pierre at last, ' I don't quite understand.' 
 
 ' Why, Monsieur I'Abb^, I leave all this to your sense of 
 prudence. If that man were stiil at your house in forty-eight 
 hours from now, we should be obliged to arrest In'm there, 
 which would be a source of grief to us, for we are aware that 
 your residence is the abode of every virtue. So advise him 
 to leave France. If he does that we shall not trouble him.' 
 
 Then Monferrand hastily brought Pierre back to the ante- 
 room ; and, smiling and bending low, he said : < MonseigneuTi 
 
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT 351 
 
 I am entirely at your disposal. Come in, come in, I beg 
 you.' 
 
 The prelate, who was gaily chatting with Duvillard and 
 Fons^gue, shook hands with them, and then with Pierre. In 
 his desire to win all hearts, he that morning displayed the 
 most perfect graciousness. His bright, black eyes were all 
 smiles, the whole of his handsome face were a caressing 
 expression, and he entered the ministerial sanctum leisurely 
 and gracefully, with an easy air of conquest. 
 
 AJad now only Monferrand and Monseigneur Martha were 
 left, talking on and on in the deserted building. Some 
 people had thought that the prelate wished to become a 
 deputy. But he played a far more useful and loffcy part in 
 governing behind the scenes, in acting as the directing mind 
 of the Vatican's policy in France. Was not France still the 
 Eldest Daughter of the Church, the only great nation which 
 might some day restore omnipotence to the Papacy ? For that 
 reason he had accepted the Eepublie, preached the duty 
 of ' rallying ' to it, and inspired the new Catholic group La 
 the Chamber. And Monferrand, on his side, struck by 
 the progress of the New Spirit, that reaction of mysticism 
 which flattered itself that it would bury science, showed 
 himself full of amiability, like a strong-handed man who, to 
 ensure hia own Tictory, utilised every force that was offered 
 him. 
 
 IV 
 
 THE MAN HUNT 
 
 On the afternoon of that same day such a keen desire for space 
 and the open air came upon GuiUaume, that Pierre consented 
 to accompany him on a long walk in the Bois de Boulogne. 
 The priest, upon returning from his- interview with Mon- 
 ferrand, had informed his brother that the government once 
 more wished to get rid of Nicholas BarthSs. However, they 
 were so perplexed as to how they should impart these tidings 
 to the old man, that they resolved to postpone the matter 
 until the evening. During their walk they might devise some 
 means of breaMng the news in a gentle way. As for tha 
 walk this seemed to offer no danger ; to all appearance Guil- 
 
252 PARIS 
 
 laume was in no wise threatened, so why should he continue 
 hiding? Thus the brothers salUed forth and entered the 
 Bois by the Sablons gate, which was the nearest to them. 
 
 The last days of March had now come, and the trees were 
 beginning to show some greenery, so soft and light, however, 
 that one might have thought it was pale moss or deUcate 
 lace hanging between the stems and boughs. Although the 
 sky remained of an ashen grey the rain, after falHng throughout 
 the night and morning, had ceased ; and exquisite freshness 
 pervaded that wood now awakening to lifeonce more, with its 
 foliage dripping in the mUd and peaceful atmosphere. The 
 mid-Lent rejoicings had apparently attracted the populace to 
 the centre of Paris, for in the avenues one only found the 
 fashionable folks of select days, the people of society who 
 come thither when the multitude stops away. There were 
 carriages and gentlemen on horseback ; beautiful aristocratic 
 ladies who had alighted from their broughams or landaus ; 
 and wet-nurses with streaming ribbons, who carried infants 
 wearing the most costly lace. Of the middle-classes, how- 
 ever, one only found a few matrons living in the neighbour- 
 hood, who sat here and there on the benches busy with 
 embroidery or watching their children play. 
 
 Pierre and Guillaume followed the Allee de Longchamp 
 as far as the road going from Madrid to the lakes. Then they 
 took their way under the trees, alongside the little Longchamps 
 rivulet. They wished to reach the lakes, pass round them, and 
 return home by way of the MaiUot gate. But so charming and 
 peaceful was the deserted plantation through which they passed, 
 that they yielded to a desire to sit down and taste the dehght 
 of resting amidst all the budding springtide around them. A 
 fallen tree served them as a bench, and it was possible for 
 them to fancy themselves far away from Paris, in the depths 
 of some real forest. It was, too, of a real forest that GuU- 
 laume began to think on thus emerging from his long 
 voluntary imprisonment. Ah ! for the space ; and for the 
 health-bringing air which courses between that forest's 
 branches, that forest of the world which by right should be 
 man's inalienable domain I However, the name of Barthes, 
 the perpetual prisoner, came back to Guillaume' s hps, and 
 he sighed mournfully. The thought that there should be 
 even a single man, whose liberty was thus ever assaUed, 
 GufQced to poison the pure atmosphere he breathed. 
 
 ' What will you say to Barthes ? ' he asked his brother. 
 
THE MAN HUNT ^53 
 
 ' The poor fellow must necessarily be warned. Exile is at 
 any rate preferable to imprisonment.' 
 
 Pierre sadly waved his hand. ' Yes, of course, I must 
 warn him. But what a painful task it is 1 ' 
 
 Guillaume made no rejoinder, for at that very moment, in 
 that remote, deserted nook, where they could fancy them- 
 selves at the world's end, a most extraordinary spectacle was 
 presented to their view. Something or rather someone 
 leapt out of a thicket and bounded past them. It was 
 assuredly a man, but one who was so unrecognisable, so 
 miry, so woeful and so frightful, that he might have been 
 taken for an animal, a boar that hounds had tracked and 
 forced from his retreat. On seeing the rivulet, he hesitated 
 for a moment, and then followed its course. But, all at once, 
 as a sound of footsteps and panting breath drew nearer, he 
 sprang into the water which reached his thighs, bounded on 
 to the further bank, and vanished from sight behind a clump 
 of pines. A moment afterwards some keepers and policemen 
 rushed by, skirting the rivulet, and in their turn disappearing. 
 It was a man hunt that had gone past, a fierce secret hunt 
 with no display of scarlet or blast of horns athwart the soft, 
 sprouting fohage. 
 
 ' Some rascal or other,' muttered Pierre. ' Ah I the 
 wretched fellow ! ' 
 
 Guillaume made a gesture of discouragement. ' Gen- 
 darmes and prison ! ' said he. ' They still constitute society's 
 only schooling system ! ' 
 
 Meantime the man was still running on, farther and 
 farther away. 
 
 When, on the previous night, Salvat had suddenly escaped 
 from the detectives by bounding into the Bois de Boulogne, it 
 had occurred to him to slip round to the Dauphine gate and 
 there descend into the deep ditch ' of the city ramparts. He 
 remembered days of enforced idleness which he had spent 
 there, in nooks where, for his ovvn part, he had never met a 
 living soul. Nowhere, indeed, could one find more secret 
 places of retreat, hedged round by thicker bushes, or concealed 
 from view by loftier herbage. Some corners of the ditch, at 
 certain angles of the massive bastions, are favourite dens or 
 nests for thieves and lovers. Salvat, as he made his way 
 
 ' This ditch or dry moat is about 30 feet deep and 50 feet -wide. 
 The counterscarp by which one may descend into it has an angle of 43 
 degrees. — Trans. 
 
254 FAHIS 
 
 through the thickest of the brambles, nettles and ivy, was 
 lucky enough to find a cavity full of dry leaves, in which he 
 buried himself to the chin. The rain had already drenched 
 him, and after slipping down the muddy slope, he had fre- 
 quently been obliged to grope his way upon all fours. So 
 those dry leaves proved a boon such as he had not dared to 
 hope for. They dried him somewhat, serving as a blanket in . 
 which he coiled himself after his wild race through the dank 
 darkness. The rain still fell, but he now only felt it on his 
 head, and, weary as ho was, he gradually sank into deep 
 slumber beneath the continuous fiizzle. When he opened 
 his eyes again, the daWn was breaking, and it was probably 
 about six o'clock. During 'his sleep the rain had ended by 
 soaking the leaves, so that he was now immersed in a kind of 
 •chilly bath. Still he remained in it, feelmg that he was 
 there sheltered from the police, who must nov/ surely be 
 searching for him. None of those bloodhounds would guess 
 his presence in that hole, for his body was quite buried, and 
 briars almost completely hid his head. So he did not stir, 
 but watched the rise of the dawn. 
 
 When at eight o'clock some policemen and keepers came 
 by, searching the ditch, they did not perceive him. As he 
 had. anticipated, the himt had begun at the first ghmmer ot 
 light. For a time his heart beat violently ; however, nobody 
 else passed, nothing whatever stirred the grass. The only 
 sounds that reached him were faint ones from the Bois de 
 Boulogne, the ring of a bicyclist's bell, the thud of a horse's 
 hoofs, the rumble of carriage wheels. And time went by, 
 nine o'clock came, and then ten o'clock. Since the rain had 
 ceased falling, Salvat had not suffered so much from the cold, 
 for he was wearing a thick overcoat which little Mathis had 
 given him. But, on the other hand, hunger was coming 
 l^ack ; there was a burning sensation in his stomach, and 
 leaden hoops seemed to be pressing against his ribs. He had 
 eaten nothing for two days ; he had been starving abeady on 
 the previous evening, when he had accepted a glass of beer at 
 that tavern at Itontmartre. Nevertheless, his plan was to 
 remain in the ditch until nightfall, and then slip away in the 
 direction of the village of Boulogne, where he knew of a 
 means of egress from the wood. He was not caught yet, he 
 repeated, he might still manage to escape. Then he tried to 
 get to sleep again, but failed, so painful had his sufferings 
 Become. By the time it was eleven, everything swam before 
 
THE MAN HUNT 955 
 
 his eyes. He onoe nearly fainted, and thought that he was 
 going to die. Then rage gradually mastered him, and, all at 
 once, he sprang out of his leafy hiding-place, desperately 
 hungering for food, unable to remain there any longer, and 
 determined to find something to eat, even should it cost him 
 his liberty and life. It was then noon. 
 
 On leaving the ditch he found the spreading lawns of the 
 chateau of La Muette before him. He crossed them at a run, 
 like a madman, instinctively going towards Boulogne, with the 
 one idea that his only means of escape lay in that direction. 
 It seemed miraculous that nobody paid attention to his helter- 
 skelter flight. However, when he had reached the cover of 
 some trees he became conscious of his imprudence, and almost 
 regretted the sudden madness which had borne him along, 
 eager for escape. Trembling nervously he bent low among 
 some farze bushes, and waited for a few minutes to ascertain 
 if the police were behind him. Then with watchful eye and 
 ready ear, wonderful instinct and scent of danger, he went 
 his way again, in slow and cautious fashion. He hoped to 
 pass between the upper lake and the AuteuU race-course ; but 
 there were few trees in that part, and they formed a broad 
 avenue. He therefore had to exert all his skill in order to 
 avoid observation, availing himself of the slenderest stems, the 
 smallest bushes, as screens, and only venturing onward after 
 a lengthy inspection of his surroundings. Before long the 
 sight of a guard in the distance revived his fears and detained 
 him, stretched on the ground behind some brambles, for a full 
 quarter of an hour. Then the approach first of a cab, whose 
 driver had lost his way, and afterwards of a stroUing pedestrian, 
 in turn sufficed to stop him. He breathed once more, how- 
 ever, when after passing the Mortemart hillock, he was able 
 to enter the thickets lying between the two roads which lead 
 to Boulogne and St. Gloud. The coppices thereabouts were 
 dense, and he merely had to foUow them, screened from view, 
 in order to reach \"ie outlet he knew of, v/hich was now near 
 at hand. 80 he was surely saved. 
 
 But all at once, at a distance of some five-and-thirty 
 yards, he saw a keeper, erect and motionless, barring his way. 
 He turned slightly to the left and there perceived another 
 keeper, who also seemed to be awaiting him. And there were 
 more and more of them ; at every fifty paces or so stood a 
 fresh one, the whole forming a cordon, the meshes as it were 
 pf a hug© net. The wotst was that he must have been pfer- 
 
2s6 PARIS 
 
 ceived, for a light cry, like the clear call of an owl, rang out, 
 and was repeated farther and farther off. The hunters were 
 at last on the right scent, prudence had become superfluous, 
 and it was only by flight that the quarry might now hope to 
 escape. Salvat understood this so well that he suddenly began 
 to run, leaping over all obstacles and darting between the 
 trees, careless whether he were seen or heard. A few bounds 
 carried Him across the Avenue de St. Cloud into the planta- 
 tions stretching to the AUee de la Beine Marguerite. There 
 the undergrowth was very dense ; in the whole Bois there are 
 no more closely set thickets. In summer they become one 
 vast entanglement of verdure, amidst which, had it been the 
 leafy season, Salvat might well have managed to secrete him- 
 self. For a moment he did find himself alone, and thereupon 
 he halted to listen. He could neither see nor hear the 
 keepers now. Had they lost his track then? Profound 
 quietude reigned under the fresh young foliage. But the 
 light, owlish cry arose once more, branches cracked, and he 
 resumed his wild flight, hurrying straight before him. Un- 
 luckily he found the AUee de la Reine Marguerite guarded by 
 policemen, so that he could not cross over, but had to skirt it 
 without quitting the thickets. And now his back was turned 
 towards Boulogne, he was retracing his steps towards 
 Paris. However, a last idea came to his bewildered mind ; 
 it was to run on in this wise as far as the shady spots around 
 Madrid, and then, by stealing from copse to copse, attempt to 
 reach the Seine. To proceed thither across the bare expanse 
 of the race-course and training-ground was not for a moment 
 to be thought of. 
 
 So Salvat still ran on and on. But on reaching the Alle6 
 de Longchamp he found it guarded like the other roads, and 
 therefore had to relinquish his plan of escaping by way of 
 Madrid and the river-bank. While he was perforce making a 
 bend alongside the Pr6 Catelan, he became aware that the 
 keepers, led by detectives, were drawing yet nearer to him, 
 confining his movements to a smaller and smaller area. And 
 his race soon aoqmred all the frenzy of despair. Haggard 
 and breathless he leapt mounds, rushed down slopes, fought 
 his way past multitudinous obstacles. He forced a passage 
 through brambles, broke down palings, thrice caught his feet 
 in wire-work which he had not seen, and fell among nettles, 
 yet picked himself up and went on again, spurred by the 
 stinging of his hands and face. It was then that Guillaum* 
 
THE MAN HUNT 257 
 
 fend PierrS saw bim pass, unrecognisable and frigbt£ul, taking 
 to tbe muddy water of tbe rivulet like a stag wbicb seeks to set 
 a last obstacle betwsen itself and the bounds. Tbere came 
 to bim a wild idea of getting to tbe lake, and swimming, un- 
 perceived, to tbe island in tbe centre of it. Tbat, be madly 
 thought, would be a safe retreat, where he might burrow and 
 bide himself without possibility of discovery. And so he still 
 ran on. But once again the sight of some guards made bim 
 retrace his steps, and be was compelled to go back and back 
 in the direction of Paris, chased, forced towards tbe very 
 fortifications whence he had started that morning. It was 
 now nearly three in tbe afternoon. For more than two hours 
 and a half he bad been running. 
 
 At last be saw a soft, sandy ride for horsemen before him. 
 He crossed it, splashing through tbe mire left by the rain, 
 and reached a little pathway, a debgbtful lovers' lane, as shady 
 in summer as any arbour. For some time he was able to 
 follow it, concealed from observation, and with bis hopes re- 
 viving. But it led him to one of those broad, straight avenues 
 where carriages and bicycles, the whole afternoon pageant of 
 society swept past under tbe mild and cloudy sky. So be 
 returned to tbe thickets, fell once more upon the keepers, lost all 
 notion of the direction he took, and even all power of thought, 
 becoming a mere thing carried along and thrown hither and 
 thither by tbe chances of tbe pursuit which pressed more and 
 more closely upon bim. Star-like crossways followed one 
 upon another, and at last he came to a broad lawn, where 
 the full Ugbt dazzled him. And tbere be suddenly felt the 
 hot, panting breath of bis pursuers close in the rear. Eager, 
 hungry breath it was, like tbat of hounds seeking to devour bim. 
 Shouts rang out, one hand almost caught hold of him, there 
 was a rush of heavy feet, a scramble to seize him. But with 
 a supreme effort he leapt upon a bank, crawled to its summit, 
 rose again, and once more found himself alone, still running 
 on amid the fresh and quiet greenery. 
 
 Nevertheless, this was the end. He almost fell flat upon 
 the ground. His aching feet could no longer carry him ; 
 blood was oozing from bis ears, and froth bad come to bis 
 mouth. His heart beat with such violence that it seemed 
 likely to break bis ribs. Water and perspiration streamed 
 from bim, be was miry and haggard and tortured by hunger, 
 conquered, in fact, more by hunger than by fatigue. And 
 through the mist which seemed to have gathered before his 
 
 s 
 
2s8 PARIS 
 
 wild eyes, he suddenly saw an open doorway, tte doorway of 
 a coach-house in the rear of a kind of chalet, sequestered 
 among trees. Excepting a big white cat which took to flight, 
 there was not a living creature in the place. Salvat plunged 
 into it and rolled over on a heap of straw, among some empty 
 casks. He was scarcely hidden there when he heard the 
 chase sweep by, the detectives and the keepers losing scent, 
 passing the chalet and rushing in the direction of the Paris 
 ramparts. The noise of their heavy boots died away, and 
 deep silence fell while the hunted man, who had carried both 
 hands to his heart to stay its beating, sank into the most 
 complete prostration, with big tears trickling from his closed 
 eyes. 
 
 Whilst all this was going on, Pierre and Gnillaume, after a 
 brief rest, had resumed their walk, reaching the lake and 
 proceeding towards the crossway of the Cascades, in order to 
 return to Neuilly by the road beyond the water. However, 
 a shower feU, compelling them to take shelter under the big 
 leafless branches of a chestnut tree. Then, as the rain came 
 down more heavily and they could perceive a kind of chalet, 
 a little caf6-restaurant, amid a elump of trees, they hastened 
 thither for better protection. In a side road, which they 
 passed on their way, they saw a cab standing, its driver wait- 
 ing there in philosophical fashion under the falling shower. 
 Pien-e, moreover, noticed a young man stepping out briskly in 
 front of them, a yoimg man resembling G6rard de Quinsac, 
 who, whilst walking in the Bois.had no doubt been overtaken 
 by the rain, and like themselves was seeking shelter in the 
 chalet. However, on entering the latter's public room, the 
 priest saw no sign of the gentleman, and concluded that he 
 must have been mistaken. This pubUo room, which had a 
 kind of glazed verandah overlooking the Bois, contained a 
 few chairs and tables, the latter with marble tops. On the 
 first floor there were four or five private rooms reached by a 
 narrow passage. Though the doors were open the place had as 
 yet scarcely emerged from its winter's rest. There was nobody 
 about, and on all sides one found the dampness common to 
 establishments which, from lack of custom, are compelled to 
 close from November until March. In the rear were some 
 stables, a coach-house, and various mossy, picturesque out- 
 buildings, which painters and gardeners would now soon em- 
 bellish for the gay pleasure parties which the fine weather 
 would bring. 
 
THE MAN HUNT 259 
 
 • I really think that they haven't opened for the season 
 yet,' said Guillaume as he entered the sHent house. 
 
 ' At all events they will let us stay here till the rain stops,' 
 answered Pierre, seating himself at one of the little tables. 
 
 Just then a waiter suddenly made his appearance seemingly 
 in a great hurry. He had come down from the first floor, and 
 eagerly rummaged a cupboard for a few dry biscuits which he 
 laid on a plate. At last he condescended to serve the brothers 
 two glasses of Chartreuse. 
 
 In one of the private rooms upstairs Baroness Duvillard, 
 who had driven to the chalet in a cab, had been awaiting her 
 lover Gdrard for nearly half an hour. It was there that, during 
 the charity bazaar, they had given each other an appointment. 
 For them the chalet had precious memories ; two years pre- 
 viously on discovering that secluded nest, which was so 
 deserted in the early, hesitating days of chilly spring, they 
 had met there under circumstances which they could not 
 forget. And the Baroness, in choosing the house for the 
 supreme assignation of their dying passion, had certainly not 
 merely been influenced by a fear that she might be spied upon 
 elsewhere. She had, indeed, thought of the first kisses that 
 had been showered on her there, and would fain have revived 
 them even if they should now prove the last that Gdrard 
 would bestow on her. 
 
 But she would also have liked to see some sunlight playing 
 over the youthful foliage. The ashen sky and threatening 
 rain saddened her. And when she entered the private room 
 she did not recognise it, so cold and dim it seemed with its 
 faded furniture. Winter had tarried there, with all the 
 dampness and mouldy smell peculiar to rooms which have 
 long remained closed. Then, too, some of the wall-paper 
 which had come away from the plaster hung down in shreds, 
 dead flies were scattered over the parquetry flooring ; and in 
 order to open the shutters the waiter had to engage in quite a 
 fight with their fastenings. However, when he had lighted a 
 little gas stove, which at onoe flamed up and diffused some 
 warmth, the room became more cosy. 
 
 Eve had seated herself on a chair, without raising the 
 thick veil which hid her face. Gowned, gloved and bonneted 
 in black, as if she were already in mourning for her last 
 passion, she showed nought of her own person save her superb 
 fair hair, which ghttered like a helm of tawny gold. She had 
 ordered tea for two, and when the waiter brought it with 4 
 
- «6o PARIS 
 
 little plateful bf dry biscuits, left, no doubt, from the previous 
 season, he found her in the same place, still veiled and motion* 
 less, absorbed, it seemed, in a gloomy reverie. If she had 
 reached the caf6 half an hour before the appointed time it was 
 because she desired some leisure and opportunity to overcome 
 her despair and compose herself. She resolved that of all 
 things she would not weep, that she would remain dignified 
 and speak calmly, like one who, whatever rights she might 
 possess, preferred to appeal to reason only. And she was 
 well pleased with the courage that she found within her. 
 Whilst thinking of what she should say to dissuade Gdrard 
 from a marriage which to her mind would prove both a 
 calamity and a blunder, she fancied herself very calm, indeed 
 almost resigned to whatsoever might happen. 
 
 But all at once she started and began to tremble. Gerard 
 was entering the room. 
 
 ' What I are you here the first, my dear ? ' he exclaimed. 
 ' I thought that I myself was ten minutes before the time ! 
 And you've ordered some tea and are waiting for me ! ' 
 
 He forced a smile as he spoke, striving to display the same 
 delight at seeing her, as he had shown in the early golden 
 days of their passion. But at heart he was much embarrassed, 
 and he shuddered at the thought of the awful scene which 
 he could foresee. 
 
 She had at last risen and raised her veil. And looking at 
 him she stammered : ' Yes, I found myself at liberty earher 
 than I expected. ... I feared some impediment might arise 
 . . . and so I came.' 
 
 Then, seeing how handsome and how affectionate he still 
 looked, she could not restrain her passion. All her skilful 
 arguments, all her fine resolutions were swept away. Her 
 €esh irresistibly impelled her towards him ; she loved him, 
 ste would keep him, she would never surrender him. to 
 another. And she wildly flung her arms around his neck. 
 
 ' Oh 1 Gerard, Gerard 1 I sufifer too cruelly ; I cannot, I 
 cannot bear it 1 Tell me at once that you will not marry her, 
 that you wiU never marry her 1 ' 
 
 Her voice died away in a sob, tears started from her eyes. 
 Ah 1 those tears which she had sworn she would never shed 1 
 They gushed forth without cessation, they streamed from her 
 lovely eyes like a flood of the bitterest grief. 
 
 'My daughter, Godl What I you would marry my 
 daughter I She, here, on your neck where I am now I No, 
 
THE MAN HUNT 26* 
 
 no, such torture is past endurance, it must not be, I will not 
 have it I ' 
 
 He shivered as he heard that cry of frantic jealousy raised 
 by a mother who now was but a woman, maddened by the 
 thought of her rival's youth, those five-and-twenty summers 
 which she herself had left far behind. For his part, on his 
 way to the assignation, he had come to what he thought the 
 most sensible decision, that of breaking off the intercourse 
 after the fashion of a well-bred man, with all sorts of fine 
 consolatory speeches. But sternness was not in his nature. 
 He was weak and soft-hearted, and had never been able to 
 withstand a woman's tears. Nevertheless, he endeavoured to 
 calm her, and in order to rid himself of her embrace, he made 
 her sit down upon the sofa. And there, beside her, he 
 replied : ' Come, be reasonable, my dear. We came here to 
 have a friendly chat, did we not ? I assure you that you are 
 greatly exaggerating matters.' 
 
 But she was determined to obtain a more positive answer 
 from him, ' No, no 1 ' she retorted, ' I am suffering too dread- 
 fully, I must know the truth at once. Swear to me that you 
 will never, never marry her 1 ' 
 
 He again endeavoured to avoid replying as she wished him 
 to do. ' Come, come,' he said, ' you wiU do yourself harm by 
 giving way to such grief as this ; you know that I love you 
 dearly.' 
 
 ' Then swear to me that you will never, never marry 
 her.' 
 
 ' But I tell you that I love you, that you are the only one 
 I love- 
 Then she again threw her arms around him, and kissed 
 him passionately upon the eyes. ' Is it true ? ' she asked in a 
 transport. ' You love me, you love no one else ? Oh ! tell 
 me so again, and kiss me, and promise me that you will never 
 belong to her,' 
 
 Weak as he was he could not resist her ardent caresses 
 and pressing entreaties. There came a moment of supreme . 
 cowardice and passion ; her arms were around him and he 
 forgot all but her ; again and again repeating that he loved 
 none other, and would never, never marry her daughter. At 
 last he even sank so low as to pretend that he simply 
 regarded that poor, deformed creature with pity. His words of 
 compassionate disdain for her rival were like nectar to Eve, for 
 they filled her with the blissful idea that it was she herself who 
 
262 PARIS 
 
 would ever remain beautiful in his eyes and whom he would 
 ever love. . . . 
 
 At last silence fell between them, Uke an inevitable re- 
 action after such a tempest of despair and passion. It dis- 
 turbed G6rard. ' Won't you drink some tea ? ' he asked. ' It 
 is almost cold already.' 
 
 She was not listening, however. To her the reaction had 
 come in a different form ; and as though the inevitable 
 explanation were only now commencing, she began to speak 
 in a sad and weary voice. ' My dear Gdrard, you really 
 cannot marry my daughter. In the first place it would be so 
 wrong, and then there is the question of your name, your 
 position. Forgive my frankness, but the fact is that every- 
 body would say that you had sold yourself — such a marriage 
 would be a scandal for both your family and mine.' 
 
 As she spoke she took hold of his hands, like a mother 
 seeking to prevent her big son from committing some terrible 
 blunder. And he listened to her, with bowed head and 
 averted eyes. She now evinced no anger, no jealous rage ; 
 aU such feelings seemed to have departed with the rapture of 
 her passion. 
 
 ' Just think of what people would say,' she continued. ' I 
 don't deceive myself, I am fully aware that there is an 
 abyss between your circle of society and ours. It is aU very 
 well for us to be rich, but money simply enlarges the gap. 
 And it was all very fine for me to be converted ; my daughter 
 is none the less " the daughter of the Jewess," as folks so 
 often say. Ah ! my G6rard, I am so proud of you, that it 
 would rend my heart to see you lowered, degraded almost, by 
 a marriage for money with a girl who is deformed, who is un- 
 worthy of you and whom you could not love.' 
 
 He raised his eyes and looked at her entreatingly, anxious 
 as he was to be spared such painful talk. ' But haven't I 
 sworn to you, that you are the only one I love ? ' he said. 
 ' Haven't I sworn that I would never marry her ? It's all 
 over. Don't let us torture ourselves any longer.' 
 
 Their glances met and lingered on one another, instinct 
 with all the misery which they dared not express in words. 
 Eve's face had suddenly aged; her eyelids were red and 
 swollen, and blotches marbled her quivering cheeks, down 
 which her tears again began to trickle. 'My poor, poor 
 Gdrard,' said she, ' how heavily I weigh on you. Oh 1 do not 
 deny it I I feel that I am an intolerable burden on your 
 
THE MAN HUNT 263 
 
 Bbonlders, an impediment in your life, and that I may bring 
 irreparable disaster on you by my obstinacy in wishing you to 
 be mine alone.' 
 
 He tried to speak, but she silenced him. ' No, no, all is 
 over between us. I am growing ugly, all is ended. And 
 besides, I, shut off the future from you. I can be of no help' 
 to you, whereas you bestow all on me. And yet the time has 
 come for you to assure yourself a position. At your age yoa 
 can't contmue living without any certainty of the morrow, 
 without a home and hearth of your own ; and it would be 
 cowardly and cruel of me to set myself up as an obstacle, and 
 prevent you from ending your life happily, as I should do if I 
 clung to you and dragged you down with me.' 
 
 Gazing at him through her tears she continued speaking 
 in this fashion. Like his mother she was well aware that he 
 was weak and even sickly ; and she therefore dreamt of ar- 
 ranging a quiet life for him, a life of tranquil happiness free 
 from all fear of want. She loved him so fondly and pos- 
 sessed so much genuine kindness of heart that perhaps it 
 . might be possible for her to rise even to renunciation and 
 sacrifice. Moreover, the very egotism born of her beauty sug- 
 gested that it might be well for her to think of retirement and 
 not allow the autumn of her life to be spoilt by torturing 
 dramas. All this she said to him, treating him like 
 a child whose happiness she wished to ensure even at the 
 price of her own ; and he, his eyes again lowered, listened 
 without further protest, pleased indeed to let her arrange a 
 pleasant life for him. 
 
 Examining the situation from every aspect she at last 
 began to recapitulate the points in favour of that abominable 
 marriage, the thought of which had so intensely distressed 
 her. ' It is certain,' she said, ' that Camille would bring you 
 all that I should like you to have. With her, I need hardly say 
 it, would come plenty, affluence. And, as for the rest, well, 
 I do not wish to excuse myself or you, but I could name 
 twenty households in which there have been worse things. 
 Besides, I was wrong when I said that money opened a gap 
 between people. On the contrary, it draws them nearer to- 
 gether, it secures forgiveness for every fault ; so nobody would 
 dare to blame you, there would only be jealous ones around 
 you, dazzled by your good fortune.' 
 
 Gerard rose, apparently rebelling once more. ' Surely,' 
 said he, ' yov, don't insist on my marrying your daughter ? ' 
 
264 PARIS 
 
 ' All ! no indeed ! But I am sensible, and I tell you what 
 I ought to tell you. You must think it all over.' 
 
 ' I have done so already. It is you that I have loved, and 
 that I love still. V/hat you say is impossible.' 
 
 She smiled divinely, rose, and again embraced him. 
 ' How good and kind you are, my Gerard. Ah ! if you only 
 knew how I love you, how I shall always love you, whatever 
 happens.' 
 
 Then she again began to weep, and even he shed tears. 
 Their good faith was absolute ; tender of heart as they were, 
 they sought to delay the painful wrenching and tried to hope for 
 further happiness. But they were conscious that the marriage - 
 was virtually an accomplished fact. Only tears and words were 
 left them, while life and destiny were marching on. And if 
 their emotion was so acute it was probably because they felt 
 that this was the last time they would meet as lovers. Still 
 they strove to retain the illusion that they were not exchang- 
 ing their last farewell, that then- lips would some day meet 
 again in a kiss of rapture. 
 
 Eve removed her arms from the young man's neck, and 
 they both gazed round the room, at the sofa, the table, the 
 four chairs, and the little hissing gas-stove. The moist, hot 
 atmosphere was becoming quite oppressive. 
 
 ' And so,' said Gerard, ' you won't drink a cup of tea ? ' 
 
 ' No, it's so horrid here,' she answered, while arranging 
 her hair in front of the looking-glass. 
 
 At that parting moment the mournfulness of this place 
 where she had hoped to find such delightful memories, fiUed 
 her with distress, which was turning to positive anguish, when 
 she suddenly heard an uproar of gruff voices and heavy feet. 
 People were hastening along the passage and knocking at the 
 doors. And, on darting to the window, she perceived a 
 number of pohcemen surrounding the chdlet. At this the 
 wildest ideas assailed her. Had her daughter employed 
 somebody to follow her ? Did her husband wish to divorce 
 her so as to marry Silviane ? The scandal would be awful, 
 and all her plans must crumble 1 She waited m dismay, white 
 like a ghost ; while Gerard, also paling and quivering, begged 
 her to be calm. At last, when loud blows were dealt upon 
 the door and a Commissary of Fohce enjoined them to open 
 it, they were obliged to do so. Ah ! what a moment, and 
 what dismay and shame ! 
 
 Meanwhile, dowij below, Pierre and Guillaume had beea 
 
THE MAN HUNT 265 
 
 waiting for the rain to cease. Seated in a corner of the 
 glazed verandah they talked in under-tones of Barthes' pain- 
 ful affair, and ultimately decided to ask Theophile Morin to 
 dine with them on thefoUowing evening, and inform his old 
 friend that he must again go into exile. 
 
 ' That is the best course,' repeated Guillaume. ' Morin is 
 very fond of him and will Imow how to break the nev/s. I 
 have no doubt too that he will go with him as far as the 
 frontier.' 
 
 Pierre sadly looked at the falling rain. ' Ah ! what a 
 choice,' said he, ' to be ever driven to a foreign land under 
 penalty of being thrust into prison. Poor fellow ! how awful 
 it is to have never known a moment of happiness and gaiety 
 in one's life, to have devoted one's whole existence to the idea 
 of liberty, and to see it scoffed at and expire with oneself ! ' 
 
 Then the priest paused, for he saw several policemen and 
 keepers approach the cafe and prowl round it. Having lost 
 Bcent of the man they were hunting, they had retraced their 
 steps with the con\'iction no doubt that he had sought refuge 
 in the chalet. And in order that he might not again escape 
 them, they now took every precaution, exerted all their skill 
 in surrounding the place before venturing on a minute search. 
 Covert fear came upon Pierre and Guillaume when they no- 
 ticed these proceedings. It seemed to them that it must all 
 be connected with the chase which they had caught a glimpse 
 of some time previously. Still as they happened to be in the 
 chalet they might be called upon to give their names and ad- 
 dresses. At this thought they glanced at one another, and 
 almost made up their minds to go off under the rain. But 
 they realised that anything like flight might only compro- 
 mise them the more. So they waited ; and all at once 
 there came a diversion, for two fresh customers entered the 
 establishment. 
 
 A victoria with both its hood and apron raised had just 
 drawn up outside the door. The first to alight from it was a 
 young, well-dressed man with a bored expression of face. He 
 was followed by a young woman who was laughing merrily, 
 as if much amused by the persistence of the downpour. By 
 way of jesting, indeed, she expressed her regret that she had 
 not come to the Bois on her bicycle, whereupon her compan- 
 ion retorted that to drive about in a deluge appeared to him 
 the height of idiocy. 
 
 ' But we were bound to go somewhere, my dear f§lIow,' 
 
,266 ' PARIS 
 
 she gaily answered, 'Why didn't you take me to see tha 
 maskers ? ' 
 
 _' The maskers, indeed I No, no, my dear. I prefer the 
 Bois, and even the bottom of the lake to them.' 
 
 Then, as the couple entered the chalet, Pierre saw that 
 the young woman who made merry over the rain was little 
 Princess Eosemonde, while her companion who regarded the 
 mid-Lent festivities as horrible, and bicycling as an utterly 
 unaBsthotic amusement, was handsome ^ya.cinthe Duvillard. 
 On the previous evening, while they were taking a cup of tea 
 together on their return from the Chamber of Horrors, the 
 young man had responded to the Princess's blandishments by 
 declaring that the only form of attachment he believed in was 
 a mystic union oi intellects and souls. And as such a union 
 could only be fittingly arrived at amidst the cold, chaste snow, 
 they had decided that they would start for Christiania on the 
 following Monday. Their chief regret was that by the time 
 they reached the fiords the worst part of the northern winter 
 would be over. 
 
 They sat down in the cafe and ordered some kummel, but 
 there was none, said the waiter, so they had to content them- 
 selves with common anisette. Then Hyaeinthe, who had been 
 a schoolfellow of Guillaume's sons, recognised both him and 
 Pierre ; and leaning towards Eosemonde told her in a whisper 
 who the elder brother was. 
 
 Thereupon, with sudden enthusiasm, she sprang to her 
 feet : ' Guillaume Froment, indeed ! the great chemist 1 ' 
 And stepping forward with arm outstretched, she continued : 
 ' Ah I monsieur, you must excuse me, but I really must shake 
 hands with you. I have so much admiration for you 1 You 
 have done such wonderful work in connection with ex- 
 plosives 1 ' Then, noticing the chemist's astonishment, she 
 again burst into a laugh : ' I am the Princess de Ham ; your 
 brother Abb6 Froment knows me, and I ought to have asked 
 him to introduce me. However, we have mutual friends, you 
 and I ; for instance, Monsieur Janzen, a very distinguished 
 man as you are aware. He was to have taken me to see you, 
 for I am a modest disciple of yours. Yes, I have given some 
 attention to chemistry, oh ! from pure zeal for truth and in 
 the hope of helping good causes, not otherwise. So you will let 
 me call on you — won't you? — directly I come back from 
 Christiania, where I am going with my young friend here, just 
 to acquire some experience of unknown emotions.* 
 
THE MAN HUNT 267 
 
 ' In this way she rattled on, never allowing the othera'^an 
 opportunity to say a word. And she mingled one thing with 
 another : her cosmopolitan tastes which had thrown her into 
 Anarchism and the society of shady adventurers ; her new 
 passion for mysticism and symbolism ; her belief that the 
 ideal must triumph over base materialism; her taste for 
 lesthetic verse ; and her dream of some unimagined rapture 
 when Hyaeinthe should kiss her with his frigid Ups in a realm 
 of eternal snow. 
 
 All at once, however, she stopped short and again began to 
 laugh. ' Dear me 1 ' she exclaimed. ' What are those police- 
 men looking for here ? Have they come to arrest us ? How 
 amusing it would be ! ' 
 
 Police Commissary Dupot and Detective Mond&ir had just 
 made up their minds to search the cafe, as their men had 
 hitherto failed to find Salvat in any of the outbuildings. 
 They were convinced that he was here. Dupot, a thin, bald, 
 short-sighted, spectacled little man, wore his usual expression 
 of boredom and weariness, though in reality he was very wide- 
 awake and extremely courageous. He himself carried no 
 weapons ; but, as he anticipated a most violent resistance, 
 such as might be expected from a trapped wolf, he advised 
 Mondesir to have his revolver ready. From considerations of 
 hierarchical respect, however, the detective, who with his snub 
 nose and massive figure had much the appearance of a bull- 
 dog, was obliged to let his superior enter first. 
 
 From behind his spectacles the Commissary of Police 
 quickly scrutinised the four customers whom he found in the 
 cafe : the lady, the priest, and the two other men. And 
 passing them in a disdainful way, he at once made for the 
 stairs, intending to inspect the upper floor. Thereupon, the 
 waiter, frightened by the sudden intrusion of the police, lost 
 his head and stammered : ' But there's a lady and gentleman 
 upstairs in one of the private rooms.' 
 
 Dupot quietly pushed him aside. ' A lady and gentleman, 
 that's not what we are looking for. . . . Come, make haste, 
 open all the doors, you mustn't leave a cupboard closed.' 
 
 Then climbing to the upper floor, he and Mondesir ex- 
 plored in turn every apartment and corner till they at last 
 reached the room where Eve and Gerard were together. 
 Here the waiter was unablo to admit them as the door was 
 bolted inside. ' Open the door ! ' he called through the key- 
 bole, ' it isn't you that they want I ' 
 
253 PARIS 
 
 At last the bolt was drawn back and Dupot, without even 
 venturing to smile, allowed the trembling lady and gentleman 
 to go downstairs, while Mondesir, entering the room, looked 
 under every article of furniture, and even peeped into a little 
 cupboard in order that no neglect might be imputed to him. 
 
 Meantime, in the public room which they had to cross 
 after descending the stairs, Eve and Gerard experienced fresh 
 emotion ; for people whom they knew were there, brought 
 together by an extraordinary freak of chance. Although 
 Eve's face was hidden by a thick veil, her eyes met her son's 
 glance and she felt sure that he recognised her. What a 
 fatality 1 He had so long a tongue and told his sister every- 
 thing 1 Then, as the Count, in despair at such a scandal, 
 hurried off with the Baroness to conduct her through the 
 pouring rain to her cab, they both distinctly heard little 
 Princess Eosemonde exclaim : ' Why, that was Count de 
 Quinsac 1 Who was the lady, do you know ? ' And as 
 Hyacinthe, greatly put out, returned no answer, she insisted, 
 saying : ' Come, you must surely know her. Who was she, 
 eh?" 
 
 ' Oh ! nobody. Some woman or other,' he ended by 
 replying. 
 
 Pierre, who had understood the truth, turned his eyes away 
 to hide his embarrassment. But all at once the scene 
 changed. At the very moment when Commissary Dupot and 
 Detective Mond6sir came downstau'S again, after vainly ex- 
 ploring the upper floor, a loud shout was raised outside, 
 followed by a noise of running and scrambling. Then Gas- 
 cogne, the Chief of the Detective Force, who had remainedin 
 the rear of the chalet, continuing the search through the out- 
 buildings, made his appearance pushing before him a bundle 
 of rags and mud, which two policemen held on either side. 
 And this bundle was the man, the hunted man, who had just 
 been discovered in the coach-house, inside a staved cask, 
 covered with hay. 
 
 Ah I what a whoop of victory there was after that run 
 of two hours' duration, that frantic chase which had left them 
 all breathless and footsore ! It had been the most exciting, 
 the most savage of all sports — a man hunt ! They had 
 caught the man at last and they pushed him, they dragged 
 him, they belaboured him with blows. And he, the man, 
 what a sorry prey he looked 1 A wreck, wan and dirty from 
 having spent the night in a hole full of leaves, still soaked to 
 
THE ^MAN HUNT 269 
 
 bis waist from having waded through a stream, drenched too 
 by the rain, bespattered with mire, his coat and trousers in 
 tatters, his cap a mere shred, hia legs and hands bleeding 
 from his terrible rush through thickets brisfchng with bram- 
 bles and nettles. There no longer seemed anything human 
 about him ; his hair stuck to his moist temples, his blood- 
 shot eyes protruded from their sockets ; fright, rage, and suf- 
 fering were all blended on his wasted, contracted face. Still 
 it was he, the man, the quarry, and they gave him another 
 push, and he sank on one of the tables of the little cafe, still 
 held and shaken, however, by the rough hands of the poUce- 
 men. 
 
 Then Guillaume shuddered as if thunderstruck, . and 
 caught hold of Pierre's hand. At this the priest, who was 
 looking on, suddenly understood the truth and also quivered. 
 Salvat ! the man was Salvat ! It was Salvat whom they had 
 seen rushing through the wood like a wild boar forced by the 
 hounds. And it was Salvat who was there, now conquered 
 and simply a filthy bundle. Then once more there came to 
 Pierre, amidst his anguish, a vision of the errand girl lying 
 yonder at the entrance of the Duvillard mansion, the pretty 
 fair-haired girl whom the bomb had ripped and killed ! 
 
 Dupot and Monddsir made haste to participate in 
 Gaseogne's triumph. To tell the truth, however, the man 
 had offered no resistance ; it was like a lamb that he had let 
 the police lay hold of him. And since he had been in the 
 cafe, still roughly handled, he had simply cast a weary and 
 mournful glance around him. 
 
 At last he spoke, and the first words he uttered in a hoarse, 
 gasping voice were these : ' I am hungry.' 
 
 He was sinking from hunger and weariness. This was the 
 third day that he had eaten nothing. 
 
 ' Give him some bread,' said Commissary Dupot to the 
 waiter. ' He can eat it while a cab is being fetched.' 
 
 A policeman went off to find a vehicle. The rain had 
 suddenly ceased falling, the clear ring of a bicycUst's bell was 
 heard in the distance, some carriages drove by, and under 
 the pale sunrays life again came back to the Bois. 
 
 Meantime, Salvat had fallen gluttonously upon the hunk 
 of bread which had been given him, and whilst he was de- 
 vouring it with rapturous animal satisfaction, he perceived 
 the four customers around him. He seemed irritated by 
 the sight of Hyaointhe and Eosemonde, whose faces expressed 
 
270 PARIS 
 
 the mingled anxiety and delight they felt at thus witnessing 
 the arrest of some bandit or other. But all at once his 
 mournful, bloodshot eyes wavered, for to his intense surprise 
 he had recognised Pierre and Guillaume. When he again 
 looked at the latter it was with the submissive affection of a 
 grateful dog, and as if he were once more promising that he 
 would divulge nothing, whatever should happen. 
 
 At last he again spoke, as if addressing himself like a man 
 of courage, both to Guillaume, from whom he had averted 
 his eyes, and to others also, his comrades who were not 
 there : ' It was silly of me to run,' said he, ' I don't know 
 why I did so. It's best that it should be all ended, I am 
 ready,' 
 
 THE GAME OF POLITICS 
 
 On reading the newspapers on the following morning Pierre 
 and Guillaume were greatly surprised at not finding in them 
 the sensational accounts of Salvat's arrest which they had 
 expected. All they could discover was a brief paragraph in a 
 column of general news, setting forth that some policemen on 
 duty in the Bois de Boulogne had there arrested an Anarcliist, 
 who was believed to have played a part in certain recent 
 occurrences. On the other hand the papers gave a deal of 
 space to the questions raised by Sagnier's fresh denunciations. 
 There were innumerable articles on the African Eailways 
 scandal, and the great debate which might be expected at the 
 Chamber of Deputies, should MSge, the Socialist member, 
 really renew his interpellation, as he had announced his 
 intention of doing. 
 
 As Guillaume's wrist was now fast heahng, and nothing 
 seemed to threaten him, he had already on the previous 
 evening decided that he would return to Montmartre. The 
 police had passed him by without apparently suspecting any 
 responsibility on his part ; and he was eonvinced that Salvat 
 would keep silent. Pierre, however, begged him to wait a 
 little longer, at any rate until the prisoner should have been 
 interrogated by the investigating magistrate, by which time 
 they would be able to judge the situation more clearly. Then 
 too, Pierre, during his long stay at the Home Department on 
 the previous morning, had caught a glimpse of certain things 
 
THE GAME OF POLITICS 2-71 
 
 ancl overheard certain words which made him suspect soine 
 dim connection between Salvat's crime and the parhamentary 
 crisis ; and he therefore desired a settlement of the latter 
 before Guillaume returned to his wonted life. 
 
 'Just listen,' he said to his brother. 'I am going to 
 Morin's to ask him to come and dine here this evening, for it 
 is absolutely necessary that Barthes should be warned of the 
 fresh blow which is falling on him. And then I think I shall 
 go to the Chamber, as I want to know what takes place there. 
 After that, since you desire it, I will let you go back to your 
 own home.' 
 
 It was not more than half-past one when Pierre reached 
 the Palais-Bourbon. It had occurred to him that Fonsegue 
 would be able to secure him admitMnce to the meeting-hall, 
 but in the vestibule he met General de Bozonnet, who hap- 
 pened to possess a couple of tickets. A friend of his, who 
 was to have accompanied him, had, at the last moment, been 
 unable to come. So widespread was the curiosity concerning 
 the debate now near at hand, and so general were the predic- 
 tions that it would prove a most exciting one, that the demand 
 for tickets had been extremely keen during the last twenty- 
 four hours. In fact, Pierre would never have been able to 
 obtain admittance if the General had not good-naturedly 
 offered to take him in. As a matter of fact the old warrior 
 was well pleased to have somebody to chat with. He 
 explained that he had simply come there to kill time, just as he 
 might have killed it at a concert or a charity bazaar. How- 
 ever, like the ex-Legitimist and Bonapartist that he was, he 
 had really come for the pleasure of feasting his eyes on the 
 shameful spectacle of parliamentary ignominy. 
 
 When the General and Pierre had climbed the stairs, they 
 were able to secure two front seats in one of the public galleries. 
 Little Massot who was already there, and who knew them both, 
 placed one of them on his right and the other on his left. 
 * I couldn't find a decent seat left in the press gallery,' said 
 he, ' but I managed to get this place, from which I shall be 
 able to see things properly. It will certainly be a big sitting. 
 Just look at the number of people there are on every side ! ' 
 
 The narrow and badly arranged galleries were packed to 
 overflowing. There were men of every age and a great many 
 women too in the confused, serried mass of spectators, amidst 
 which one only distinguished a multipHcity of pale white 
 iaces. The real scene, however, was down below in tho 
 
2li PARIS 
 
 meeting-hall, which was as yet empty, and with its tOws of 
 seats disposed in semicircular fashion looked like the audi- 
 torimn of a theatre. Under the cold light which fell from 
 the glazed roofing appeared the solemn, shiny tribune, 
 whence members address the Chamber, whilst behind it, on a 
 higher level, and running right along the rear wall, was what is 
 called the Bureau, with its various tables and seats, including 
 the presidential arm-chair. The Bureau, like the tribune, was 
 still unoccupied. The only persons one saw there were a 
 couple of attendants who were laying out new pens and filling 
 inkstands. 
 
 ' The women,' said Massot with a laugh, after another 
 glance at the galleries, ' come here just as they might come 
 to a menagerie, that is, in the secret hope of seeing wild 
 beasts devour one another. But, by the way, did you read the 
 article in the "Voix du Peuple " this morning? What a 
 wonderful fellow that Sagnier is 1 When nobody else can find 
 any filth left, he manages to discover some. He apparently 
 thinks it necessary to add something new every day, in order to 
 send his sales up. And of eom'se it all disturbs the public, and 
 it's thanks to him that so many people have come here in 
 the hope of witnessing some horrid scene.' 
 
 Then he laughed again, as he asked Pierre if he had read 
 an unsigned article in the ' Globe,' which in very dignified but 
 perfidious language had called upon Barroux to give the full and 
 frank explanations wliich the country had a right to demand 
 in that matter of the African Eailways. This paper had 
 hitherto vigorously supported the President of the Council, 
 but in the article in question the coldness which precedes a 
 rupture was very apparent. Pierre repUed that the article 
 had much surprised him, for he had imagined that Fons^gue 
 and Barroux were linked together by identity of views and 
 long-standing personal friendship. 
 
 Massot was still laughing. ' Quite so,' said he. . ' And 
 you may be sure that the governor's heart bled when he wrote 
 that article. It has been much noticed, and it will do the 
 government a deal of harm. But the governor, you see, knows 
 better than anybody else what line he ought to follow to save 
 both his own position and the paper's.' 
 
 Then he related what extraordinary confusion and emotion 
 reigned among the deputies in the lobbies through which ha 
 had strolled before coming upstairs to secure a seat. After 
 an adjournment of a couple of days the Chamber found itself 
 
THE GAME OF POLITICS 273 
 
 confronted by this terrible scandal, whieh was like one of 
 those conflagrations which, at the moment when they are 
 supposed to be dying out, suddenly flare up again and devour 
 everything. The various figures given in Sagnier's list, the two 
 hundred thousand francs paid to Barroux, the eighty thousand 
 handed to Monferrand, the fifty thousand allotted to Fons^gue, 
 the ten thousand pocketed by Duthil, and the three thousand 
 secured by Chaigneux, with all the other amounts distributed 
 among So-and-so and So-and-so, formed the general subject of 
 conversation. And at the same time some most extraordinary 
 stories were current ; there was no end of tittle-tattle in which 
 fact and falsehood were so inextricably mingled that every- 
 body was at sea as to the real truth. Whilst many deputies 
 turned pale and trembled as beneath a blast of terror, others 
 passed by purple with excitement, bursting with delight, 
 laughing with exultation at the thought of coming victory. 
 For, in point of fact, beneath all the assumed indignation, 
 all the calls for parliamentary cleanliness and morality, there 
 simply lay a question of persons — the question of ascertaining 
 whether the government would be overthrown, and in that 
 event of •whom the new administration would consist. 
 Barroux no doubt appeared to be in a bad way ; but with 
 things in such a muddle one was bound to allow a margin for 
 the unexpected. From what was generally said it seemed 
 certain that M^ge would be extremely violent. Barroux 
 would answer him, and the Minister's. friends declared that 
 he was determined to speak out in the most decisive 
 manner. As for Monferrand he would probably address the 
 Chamber after his colleague, but Vignon's intentions were 
 somewhat doubtful as, in spite of his delight, he made a 
 pretence of remaining in the background. He had been seen 
 going from one to another of his partisans, advising them to 
 keep calm, in order that they might retain the cold, keen 
 cowp d'ail which in warfare generally decides the victory. 
 Briefly, such was the plotting and intriguing that never had 
 any witch's cauldron brimful of drugs and nameless abomina- 
 tions been set to boil on a more hellish fire than that of this 
 parliamentary cook-shop. 
 
 ' Heaven only knows what they will end by serving us,* 
 said Uttle Massot by way of conclusion. 
 
 General de Bozonnet for his part anticipated nothing but 
 disaster. If France had only possessed an army, said he, 
 one might have swept away that handful of bribe-taking 
 
 T 
 
274 PAmS 
 
 parliamentarians who preyed upon the country and rotted it. 
 But there was no army left, there was merely an armed 
 nation, a very different thing. And thereupon, like a man of 
 a past age whom the present times distracted, he started on 
 what had been his favourite subject of complaint ever since 
 he had been retired from the service. 
 
 ' Here's an idea for an article if you want one,' he said to 
 Massot. ' Although France may have a million soldiers she 
 hasn't got an army. I'll give you some notes of mine, and 
 you will be able to teU people the truth.' 
 
 Warfare, he continued, ought to be pm'ely and simply 
 a caste occupation, with commanders designated by divine 
 right, leading mercenaries or volunteers into action. By 
 democratising warfare people had simply killed it ; a circum- 
 stance which he deeply regTetted, Uke a born soldier who 
 regarded fighting as the only really noble occupation that life 
 offered. However, as soon as it became every man's duty to 
 fight, none was willing to do so ; and thus compulsory mihtary 
 service — what was called ' the nation in arms ' — would, at a 
 more or less distant date, certainly bring about the end of 
 w-arfare. If France had not engaged in a European war 
 since 1870 this was precisely due to the fact that everybody 
 in France was ready to fight. But rulers hesitated to throw 
 a whole nation against another nation, for the loss both in 
 life and treasure would be tremendous. And so the thought 
 that all Europe was transformed into a vast camp fiUed the 
 General with anger and disgust. He sighed for the old times 
 when men fought for the pleasure of the thing, just as they 
 hunted ; whereas nowadays people were convinced that they 
 would exterminate one another at the very first engagement. 
 
 ' But surely it wouldn't be an evil if war should disappear,' 
 Pierre gently remarked. 
 
 This somewhat angered the General. ' Well, you'll have 
 pretty nations if people no longer fight,' he answered, and 
 then trying to show a practical spirit, he added : ' Never has 
 the art of war cost more money than since war itself has 
 become an impossibility. The present-day defensive peace la 
 purely and simply ruining every country in Europe. One 
 may be spared defeat, but utter bankruptcy is certainly at the 
 end of it all. And in any case the profession of arms is 
 done for. AU faith in it is dying out, and it will soon be 
 forsaken, just as men have begun to forsake the priesthood.' 
 
 Thereupon he made a gesture of mingled grief and anger, 
 
THE GAME OF POLITICS 275 
 
 almost cursing that parliament, that Espublican legislature 
 before him, as if he considered it responsible for the future 
 extinction of warfaro. Little Massot, however, was wagging 
 his head dubiously, for he regarded the subject as rather too 
 serious a one for him to write upon. And, all at once, in 
 order to turn the conversation into another channel, he ex- 
 claimed : ' Ah ! there's Monseigneur Martha in the diplomatic 
 gallery beside the Spanish Ambassador. It's djnied, you 
 know, that he intends to come forward as a candidate in 
 Morbihan. He's far too shrovi'd to wish to be a deputy. He 
 already pulls the strings which set most of the Catholic 
 deputies who have "rallied" to the Eepublican Government 
 in motion.' 
 
 Pierre himself had just noticed Monseigneur Martha's 
 smiling face. And, somehow or other, however modest 
 might be the prelate's demeanour, it seemed to him that ho 
 really played an important part in what was going on. He 
 could hardly take his eyes from him. It was as if he expected 
 that he would suddenly order men hither and thither, and 
 direct the whole march of events. 
 
 ' Ah 1 ' said Massot again. ' Here comes Mege. It won't 
 be long now before the sitting begins.' 
 
 The hall, down below, was gradually filling. Deputies 
 entered and descended the narrow passages between the 
 benches. Most of them remained standing and chatting in a 
 more or less excited way ; but some sealed themselves and 
 raised their grey, weary faces to the glazed roof. It was 
 a cloudy afternoon, and rain was doubtless threatening, 
 for the light became quite livid. If the haU was pompous it 
 was also dismal with its heavy columns, its cold allegorical 
 statues, and its stretches of bare marble and woodwork. The 
 only brightness was that of the red velvet of the benches and 
 the gallery hand-rests. 
 
 Every deputy of any consequence who entered was 
 named by Massot to his companions. M^gs, on being stopped 
 by another member of the little Socialist group, began to 
 fume and gesticulate. Then Vignon, detaching himself from 
 a group of friends and putting on an air of smiling com- 
 posure, descended the steps towards his seat. The occupants 
 of the galleries, however, gave most attention to the accused 
 members, those whose names figured in Sagnier's list. And 
 these were interesting studies. Some showed themselves 
 ^uite spightly, as if they were entirely at their ease ; but 
 
2 76 PARIS 
 
 others had assumed a most grave and indignant dsmeanour. 
 Chaigneux staggered and hesitated as if beneath the weight 
 of some frightful act of injustice'; whereas Duthil looked per- 
 fectly serene save for an occasional twitch of his lips. The 
 most admired, however, was Fons^gue, who showed so candid 
 a face, so open a glance, that his colleagues as well as the 
 spectators might well have declared him innocent. Nobody 
 indeed could have looked more like an honest man. 
 
 ' Ah ! there's none like the governor,' muttered Fons^gue 
 with enthusiasm. ' But be attentive, for here come the 
 Ministers. One mustn't miss Barroux's meeting with Fon- 
 segue, after this morning's article.' 
 
 Chance willed it that as Barroux came along with his 
 head erect, his face pale and his whole demeanour aggressive, 
 he was obliged to pass Fonsegue in order to reach the 
 ministerial bench. In doing so he did not speak to him, but 
 he gazed at him fixedly like one who is conscious of defection, 
 of a cowardly stab in the back on the part of a traitor. Fon- 
 segue, however, seemed quite at ease, and went on shaking 
 hands with one and another of his colleagues as if he were 
 altogether unconscious of Barroux's glance. Nor did he even 
 appear to see Monferrand, who walked by in the rear of the 
 prime minister, wearing a placid good-natured air, as if he 
 knew nothing of what was impending, but was simply coming 
 to some ordinary humdrum sitting. However, when he 
 reached his seat, he raised his eyes and smiled at Monseigneur 
 Martha, who gently nodded to him. Then, well pleased to 
 think that things were going as he wished them to go, he 
 began to rub his hands, as he often did by way of expressing 
 his satisfaction. 
 
 ' Who is that grey-haired, mournful-looking gentleman 
 on the ministerial bench ? ' Pierre inquired of Massot. 
 
 ' Why, that's Taboureau, the Minister of Public Instruction, 
 the excellent gentleman who is said .to have no prestige. 
 One's always hearing of him, and one never recognises him ; 
 he looks like an old, badly-worn coin. Just like Barroux he 
 can't feel very well pleased with the governor this afternoon, 
 for to-day's ' Globe ' contained an article pointing out his 
 thorough incapacity in everything concerning the fine arts. 
 It was an article in measured language, but aU the more effec- 
 tive for that very reason. It would surprise me if Taboureau 
 should recover from it.' 
 
 Just then a low roll of drums announced t}ie arrival of 
 
Tim GAME OF POLITICS 27) 
 
 the President and other officials of the Chamber. A door 
 opened, and a Uttle procession passed by amidst an uproar of 
 exclamations and hasty footsteps. Then, standing at his 
 table, the President rang his bell and declared the sitting 
 open. But few members remained silent, however, whilst 
 one of the secretaries, a dark, lanky young man, with a harsh 
 voice, read the minutes of the previous sitting. When they 
 had been adopted, various letters of apology for non-attend- 
 ance were read, and a short, unimportant biU was passed 
 without discussion. Then, however, came the big affair. 
 Mage's interpellation, and at once the whole Chamber was in 
 a flutter, while the most passionate curiosity reigned in the 
 galleries above. On the Government consenting to the 
 interpellation, the Chamber decided that the debate should 
 take place at once. And thereupon complete silence fell, save 
 that now and again a brief quiver sped by, in which one could 
 detect the various feeUngs, passions, and appetites swaying 
 the assembly. 
 
 MSge began to speak with assumed moderation, carefully 
 setting forth the various points at issue. Tall and thin, 
 gnarled and twisted like a vine-stock, he rested his hands on 
 the tribune as if to support his bent figure, and his speech 
 was often interrupted by the little dry cough which came 
 from the tuberculosis that was burning him. His eyes, how- 
 ever, sparkled with passion behind his glasses, and little by 
 little his voice rose in piercing accents and he drew his 
 lank figure erect and began to gesticulate vehemently. He 
 reminded the Chamber that some two months previously, at 
 the time of the first denunciations pubUshed by the ' Voix du 
 Peuple,' he had asked leave to interpellate the Government 
 respecting that deplorable affair of the African Railways ; and 
 he remarked, truly enough, that if the Chamber had not 
 yielded to certain considerations which he did not wish to 
 discuss, and had not adjourned his proposed inquiries, full 
 light would long since have been thrown on the whole affair, 
 in such wise that there would have been no revival, no 
 increase of the scandal, and no possible pretext for that 
 abominable campaign of denunciation which tortured and 
 disgusted the country. However, it had at last been under- 
 stood that silence could be maintained no longer. It was 
 necessary that the two Ministers who were so loudly accused 
 of having abused their trusts, should prove their innocence, 
 throw full light upon all they had done ; apart from which the 
 
2 73 PARIS 
 
 Chamber itself could not possibly remain beneath the charga 
 of wholesale venality. 
 
 Then he recounted the whole history of the affair, begin- 
 ning with the grant of a concession for the African lines to 
 Baron Duvillard ; and next passing to the proposals for the 
 issue of lottery stock, which proposals, it was now said, had 
 only been sanctioned by the Chamber after the most shameful 
 bargaining and buying of votes. At this point Mege became 
 extremely violent. Speaking of that mysterious individual 
 Hunter, Baron Duvillard's recruiter and go-between, he de- 
 clared that the police had allowed him to flee from France, 
 much preferring to spend its time in shadowing Socialist 
 deputies. Then, hammering the tribune with his fist, he 
 summoned Barroux to give a categorical denial to the charges 
 brought against him, and to make it absolutely clear that he 
 had never received a single copper of the two hundred thou- 
 sand francs specified in Hunter's list. Forthwith certain 
 members shouted to Mege that he ought to read the whole 
 list ; but when he wished to do so others vociferated that it 
 was abominable, that such a mendacious and slanderous 
 document ought not to be accorded a place in the proceedings 
 of the French legislature. M^ge went on, however, in 
 frantic fashipn, figuratively casting Sagnier into the gutter, 
 and protesting that there was nothing in common between 
 himself and such a base insulter. But at the same time he 
 demanded that justice and punishment should be meted out 
 equally to one and all, and that if indeed there were any 
 bribe-takers among his colleagues, they should be sent that 
 very night to the prison of Mazas. 
 
 Meantime the President, erect at his table, rang and rang 
 his bell without managing to quell the uproar. He was like 
 a pilot who finds the tempest too strong for him. Among all 
 the men with purple faces and barking mouths who were 
 gathered in front of him, the ushers alone maintained im- 
 perturbable gravity. At intervals between the bursts of 
 Bhouting, Mage's voice could still be heard. By some sudden 
 transition he had come to the question of a Collectivist 
 organisation of society such as he dreamt of, and he con- 
 trasted it with the criminal capitalist society of the present 
 day, which alone, said he, could produce such scandals. And 
 yielding more and more to his apostolic fervour, declaring 
 that there could be no salvation apart from Collectivism, he 
 shouted that the day of triumph would soon dawn. Ha 
 
THE GAME OF POLITICS 279 
 
 awaited it with a smile of confidence. In his opinion, indeed, 
 he merely had to overthrow that ministry and perhaps 
 another one, and then he himself would at last take the reins 
 of power in hand, like a reformer who would know how to 
 pacify the nation. As outside Socialists often, declared, it 
 was evident that the blood of a dictator flowed in that 
 sectarian's veins. His feverish, stubborn rhetoric ended by 
 exhausting his interrupters, who were compelled to listen to 
 him. When he at last decided to leave the tribune, loud 
 applause arose from a few benches on the Left. 
 
 ' Do you know,' said Massot to the General, ' I met Mega 
 taking a walk with his three Uttle children in the Jardin dea 
 Plantes the other day. He looked after them as carefully as 
 an old nurse. I believe he's a very worthy fellow at heart, 
 and Uves in a very modest way.' 
 
 But a quiver had now sped through the assembly. 
 Barroux had quitted his seat to ascend the tribune. He 
 there drew himself erect, throwing his head back after his 
 usual fashion. There was a haughty, majestic, slightly 
 sorrowful expression on his handsome face, which would have 
 been perfect had his nose only been a little larger. He began 
 to express his sorrow and indignation in fine flowery language, 
 which he punctuated Vr'ith theatrical gestures. His eloquence 
 was that of a tribune of the romantic school, and as one 
 listened to him one could divine that in spite of all his 
 pomposity he was really a worthy, tender-hearted, and some- 
 what foolish man. That afternoon he was stirred by genuine 
 emotion ; his heart bled at the thought of his disastrous 
 destiny, he felt that a whole world was crumbling with him- 
 self. Ah ! what a cry of despair he stifled, the cry of the 
 man who is buffeted and thrown aside by the course of events 
 on the very day when he thinks that his civic devotion entitles 
 him to triumph I To have given himself and all he possessed 
 to the cause of the EepubliCj even in the dark days of the 
 Second Empire ; to have fought and struggled and suffered 
 persecution for that Eepubhc's sake ; to have established that 
 Kepublic amidst the battle of parties, after all the horrors of 
 national and civil war ; and then, v^hen the Eepublic at last 
 triumphed and became a living fact, secure from all attacks 
 and intrigues, to suddenly feel like a survival of some other 
 age, to hear nevy-comers speak a new language, preach a new 
 ideal, and behold the collapse of all he had loved, all he had 
 reverenced, all that had given him strength to fight and 
 
sSo PARIS 
 
 conquer 1 The mighty artisans of the early hours were no 
 more ; it had been meet that Gambetta should die. How 
 bitter it all was for the last lingering old ones to find them- 
 selves among the men of the new, intelligent, and shrewd 
 generation, who gently smiled at them, deeming their 
 romanticism quite out of fashion ! All crumbled since the 
 ideal of liberty collapsed, since liberty was no longer the one 
 desideratum, the very basis of the EepubUo, whose existence 
 had been so dearly purchased, after so long an effort ! 
 
 Erect and dignified Barroux made his confession. The 
 Republic to him was like the sacred ark of life ; the very 
 worst deeds became saintly if they were employed to save her 
 from peril. And in all simplicity he told his story, how he 
 had found the great bulk of Baron Duvillard's money going 
 to the opposition newspapers as pretended payment for 
 puffery and advertising, whilst on the other hand the 
 Bepublican organs received but beggarly, trumpery amounts. 
 He had been Minister of the Interior at the time, and had 
 therefore had charge of the press ; so what would have been 
 said of him if he had not endeavoured to re-estabUsh some 
 equilibrium in this distribution of funds, in order that the 
 adversaries of the institutions of the country might not 
 acquire a great increase of strength by appropriating all the 
 sinews of war ? Hands had been stretched out towards him 
 on all sides, a score of newspapers, the most faithful, the most 
 meritorious, had claimed their legitimate share. And he 
 had ensured them that share by distributing among them the 
 two hundred thousand francs set down in the list against his 
 name. Not a centime of the money had gone into his own 
 pocket, he would allow nobody to impugn his personal 
 honesty, on that point his word must suffice. At that 
 moment Barroux was really grand. All his emphatic pom- 
 posity disappeared ; he showed himself as he really was — an 
 honest man, quivering, his heart bared, his conscience bleed- 
 ing, in his bitter distress at having been among those who 
 had laboured and at now being denied reward. 
 
 For, truth to tell, his words fell amidst icy silence. In his 
 childish simplicity he had anticipated an outburst of enthusi- 
 asm ; a Eepublican Chamber could but acclaim him for having 
 saved the Eepublic ; and now the frigidity of one and all quite 
 froze him. He suddenly felt that he was aU alone, done for, 
 touched by the hand of death. Nevertheless, he continued 
 speaking amidst that terrible silence with the courage of one 
 
Tim GAME OF POLITICS 281 
 
 who is committing suicide, and who, from his love of noble 
 and eloquent attitudes, is determined to die standing. He 
 ended with a final impressive gesture. However, as he came 
 down from the tribune, the general coldness seemed to increase, 
 not a single member applauded. With supreme clumsiness 
 he had alluded to the secret scheming of Rome and the clergy 
 whose one object, in his opinion, was to recover the predomi- 
 nant position they had lost and restore monarchy in France 
 at a more or less distant date. 
 
 ' How silly of him ! Ought a man ever to confess ? ' 
 muttered Massot. ' He's done for, and the ministry too ! ' 
 
 Amidst the general frigidity, however, Monferrand boldly 
 ascended the tribune-stairs. The prevailing uneasiness was 
 compounded of all the secret fear which sincerity always 
 causes, of all the distress of the bribe-taking deputies who felt 
 that they were rolling into an abyss, and also of the embarrass- 
 ment which the others felt at thought of the more or less 
 justifiable compromises of politics. Something like relief, 
 therefore, came when Monferrand started with the most 
 emphatic denials, protesting in the name of his outraged 
 honour, and dealing blow after blow on the tribune with one 
 hand, while with the other he smote his chest. Short and thick- 
 set, with his face thrust forward, hiding his shrewdness beneath 
 an expression of indignant frankness, he was for a moment 
 really superb. He denied everything. He was not only igno- 
 rant of what was meant by that sum of eighty thousand franca 
 set down against his name, but he defied the whole world to 
 prove that he had even touched a single copper of that money. 
 He boiled over with indignation to such a point that he did 
 not simply deny bribe-taking on his own part, he denied it on 
 behalf of the whole assembly, of all present and past French 
 legislatures, as if, indeed, bribe-taking on the part of a repre- 
 sentative of the people was altogether too monstrous an idea, 
 a crime that surpassed possibility to such an extent that the 
 mere notion of it was absurd. And thereupon applause rang 
 out ; the Chamber, delivered from its fears, thrilled by hia 
 words, acclaimed him. 
 
 Prom the little Socialist group, however, some jeers arose, 
 and voices summoned Monferrand to explain himself on the 
 subject of the African Eailways, reminding him that he had 
 been at the head of the PubUo Works Department at the time 
 of the vote, and requiring of him that he should state what he 
 now meant to do, as Minister of the Interior, in order to 
 
2S2 PARIS 
 
 reassure the country. He juggled with this question, declaring 
 tliat if there were any guilty parties they would be punished, 
 for he did not require anybody to remind him of his duty. 
 And then, all at once, with incomparable maestria, he had 
 recourse to the diversion which he had been preparing since 
 the previous day. His duty, said he, was a thing which he 
 never forgot ; he discharged it like a faithful soldier of the 
 nation hour by hour, and with as much vigilance as prudence. 
 He had been accused of employing the police on he knew not 
 what base spying work in such wise as to allow the man 
 Hunter to escape. Well, as for that much-slandered police 
 force, he would tell the Chamber on what work he had really 
 employed it the day before, and how zealously it "had laboured 
 for the cause of law and order. In the Bois de Boulogne'on 
 the previous afternoon, it had arrested that terrible scoundrel, 
 the perpetrator of the crime in the Bue Godot-de-Mauroy, 
 that Anarchist mechanician Salvat, who for six weeks past had 
 so cunningly contrived to elude capture. The scoundrel had 
 made a full confession during the evening, and the law would 
 now take its course with all despatch. Public morahty was 
 at last avenged, Paris might now emerge in safety from its 
 long spell of terror. Anarchism would be struck down, annihi- 
 lated. And that was what he, Monferrand, had done as a 
 Minister for the honour and safety of his country, whilst 
 villains were vainly seeking to dishonour him by inscribing 
 his name on a list of infamy, the outcome of the very basest 
 political intrigues. 
 
 The Chamber listened agape and quivering. This story 
 of Salvat's arrest, which none of the morning papers had 
 reported; the present which Monferrand seemed to be 
 making them of that terrible Anarchist whom many had 
 already begun to regard as a myth; the whole mise-cn- 
 scdne of the Minister's speech transported the deputies as if 
 they were suddenly witnessing the finish of a long interrupted 
 drama. Stirred and flattered, they prolonged their applause, 
 while Monferrand went on celebrating his act of energy, how 
 he had saved society, how crime should be punished, and how 
 he himself would ever prove that he had a strong arm and 
 could answer for public order. He even vron favour with the 
 Conservatives and Clericals on the Eight by separating 
 himself from Barroux, addressing a few words of sympathy 
 to those Catholics who had ' raJlied ' to the Eepublic, and 
 appealing for concord among men of different beliefs in order 
 
THE GAME OF POLITICS 283 
 
 that they miglit fight the common enemy, that fierce, wild 
 Bocialism which talked of overthrowing everything I 
 
 By the time Monf errand came down from the trihune, the 
 trick was played, he had virtually saved himself. Both the 
 Eight and Left of the Chamber ' applauded, drowning the 
 protests of the few Socialists whose vociferations only added 
 to the triumphal tumult. Members eagerly stretched out 
 their hands to the Minister, who for a moment remained 
 standing there and smiling. There was, however, some 
 anxiety in that smile of his ; his success was beginning to 
 frighten him. Had he spoken too well, and saved the entire 
 Cabinet instead of merely saving himself? That would mean 
 the ruin of his plan. The Chamber ought not to vote under 
 the effect of that speech which had thrilled it so powerfully. 
 Thus Monferrand, though he still continued to smile, spent 
 a few anxious moments in waiting to see if anybody would 
 rise to answer him. 
 
 His success had been as great among the occupants of the 
 galleries as among the deputies themselves. Several ladies 
 had been seen applauding, and Monseigncur Martha had 
 given unmistakable signs of the liveliest satisfaction. ' Ah, 
 General 1 ' said Massot to Bozonnet in a sneering way. 
 ' Those are our fighting men of the present time. And he's 
 a bold and strong one is Monferrand. Of course it is all 
 what people style" saving one's bacon," but none the less it's 
 very clever work.' 
 
 Just then, however, Monferrand to his great satisfaction 
 had seen Vignon rise from his seat in response to the urging 
 of his friends. And thereupon all anxiety vanished from the 
 Minister's smile, which became one of malicious placidity. 
 
 The very atmosphere of the Chamber seemed to change 
 with Yignon in the tribune. He was slim, with a fair and 
 
 ' Ever since the days of the Bourbon Restoration it has been the 
 practice in the French Chambers for the more Conservative members to 
 seat themselves on the President's right, and for the Eadical ones to 
 place themselves on his left. The central seats of the semicircle in 
 which the members' seats are arranged in tiers are usually occupied by 
 men of moderate views. Generally speaking, such terms as Eight Centre 
 and Left Centre are applied to groups of Moderates inclining In the first 
 place to Conservatism and in the latter to Badicalism. All this is of 
 course known to readers acquainted with French institutions, but I give 
 the explanation because others, after perusing French news in soma 
 daily paper, have often asked me what was meant by ' a deputy of the 
 Eight,' and so forth. — Trans. 
 
284 PARIS 
 
 carefully tended beard, blue eyes, and all the suppleness of 
 youth. He spoke, moreover, like a practical man, in simple, 
 straightforward language, which made the emptiness of the 
 others' declamatory style painfully conspicuous. His term 
 of official service as a prefect in the provinces had endowed 
 him with keen insight ; and it was in an easy way that he 
 propounded and unravelled the most intricate questions. 
 Active and courageous, confident in his own star, too young 
 and too shrewd to have compromised himself in anything so 
 far, he was steadily marching towards the future. He had 
 already drawn up a rather more advanced political programme 
 than that of Barroux and Monferrand, so that when oppor- 
 tunity offered there might be good reasons for him to take 
 their place. Moreover, he was quite capable of carrying out 
 his programme by attempting some of the long-promised 
 reforms for which the country was waiting. He had guessed 
 that honesty, when it had prudence and shrewdness as its 
 allies, must some day secure an innings. In a clear voice, 
 and in a very quiet, deliberate way, he now said what it was 
 right to say on the subject under discussion, the things that 
 common sense dictated and that the Chamber itself secretly 
 desired should be said. He was certainly the first to rejoice 
 over an arrest which would reassure the country ; but he 
 failed to understand what connection there could be between 
 that arrest and the sad business that had been brought before 
 the Chamber. The two affairs were quite distinct and dif- 
 ferent, and he begged his colleagues not to vote in the state of 
 excitement in which he saw them. Full light must be thrown 
 on the African Eailways question, and this one could not expect 
 from the two incriminated Ministers. However, he was 
 opposed to any suggestion of a committee of inquiry. In his 
 opinion the guilty parties, if such there were, ought to be 
 brought immediately before a court of law. And, like 
 Barroux, he wound up with a discreet allusion to the growing 
 influence of the clergy, declaring that he was against all 
 unworthy compromises, and was equally opposed to any state 
 dictatorship and any revival of the ancient theocratic 
 spirit. 
 
 Although there was but little applause when Vignon 
 returned to his seat, it was evident that the Chamber was 
 again master of its emotions. And the situation seemed so 
 clear, and the overthrow of the ministry so certain, that 
 M6ge, who had meant to reply to the others, wisely abstained 
 
THE GAME OF POLITICS 285 
 
 from doing so. Meantime people noticed the placid de- 
 meanour of Monferrand, wlio had listened to Vignon with the 
 utmost complacency, as if he were rendering homage to an 
 adversary's talent; whereas Barroux, ever since the cold 
 silence which had greeted his speech, had remained motion- 
 less in his seat, bowed down and pale as a corpse. 
 
 ' Well, it's all over,' resmned Massot, amidst the hubbub 
 which arose as the deputies prepared to vote ; ' the ministry's 
 done for. Little Yignon will go a long way, you know. 
 People say that he dreams of the Elysee. At all events 
 everything points to him as our next prime minister.' 
 
 'Then, as the journalist rose, intending to go off, the 
 General detained him : ' Wait a moment, Monsieur Massot,' 
 said he. ' How disgusting all that parliamentary cooking is 1 
 You ought to point it out in an article, and show people how 
 the country is gradually being weakened and rotted to the 
 marrow by all such useless and degrading discussions. Why 
 a great battle resulting in the loss of 50,000 men would 
 exhaust us less than ten years of this abominable parlia- 
 mentary system. You must call on me some morning. I 
 will show you a scheme of military reform, in which I point 
 out the necessity of returning to the limited, professional 
 armies which we used to have, for this present-day national 
 army, as folks call it, which is a semi-civilian affair and at 
 best a mere herd of men, is like a dead weight on us, and is 
 bound to pull us down ! ' 
 
 Pierre, for his part, had not spoken a word since the 
 beginning of the debate. He had listened to everything, at 
 first influenced by the thought of his brother's interests, and 
 afterwards mastered by the feverishness which gradually 
 took possession of everybody present. He had become con- 
 vinced that there was nothing more for Guillaume to fear ; 
 but how curiously did one event fit into another, and how 
 loudly had Salvat's arrest re-echoed in the Chamber ! Look- 
 ing down into the seething hall below him, he had detected 
 all the clash of rival passions and interests. After watching 
 the great struggle between Barroux, Monferrand, and Yignon, 
 he had gazed upon the childish delight of that terrible Socialist 
 M^ge, who was so pleased at having been able to stir up the 
 depths of those troubled waters, in which he always unwit- 
 tingly angled for the benefit of others. Then, too, Pierre 
 had become interested in Fonsegue, who, knowing what had 
 been arranged between Monferrand, Duvillard, and himself, 
 
2S6 FAHIS 
 
 evinced perfect calmness and strove to reassure Dutliil and 
 Cliaigneux, wlio, on their side, were quite dismayed by the 
 ministry's impending fall. However, Pierre's eyes always 
 came back to Monseigneur Martha. He had watched hia 
 serene smiling face throughout the sitting, striving to detect 
 his impressions cf the various incidents that had occurred, as 
 if in his opinion that dramatic parliamentary comedy had 
 only been played as a step towards the more or less distant 
 triumph for which the prelate laboured. And now, while 
 awaiting the result of the vote, as Pierre turned towards 
 Massot and the General, he found that they were talking of 
 nothing but recruiting and|tactics and the necessity of a bath 
 of blood for the whole of Europe. Ah ! poor mankind, ever 
 fighting and ever devouring one another in parliaments as 
 well as on battle-fields, when, thought Pierre, would it decide 
 to disarm once and for all, and Uve at peace according to the 
 laws of justice and reason I 
 
 Then he again looked down into the hall, where the great- 
 est confusion was prevaihng among the deputies with regard 
 to the coming vote. There was quite a rainfall of suggested 
 ' resolutions,' from a very violent one proposed by M^ge, to 
 another, which was merely severe, emanating from Vignon. 
 The ministry, however, would only accept the ' Order of the 
 day pure and simple,' a mere decision, that is, to pass to the 
 next business, as if Mage's interpellation had been unworthy 
 of attention. And presently the Government was defeated, 
 Vignon's resolution being adopted by a majority of twenty- 
 five. Some portion of the Left had evidently joined hands 
 with the Right and the Socialist group. A prolonged hubbub 
 followed this result. 
 
 ' Well, so we are to have a Vignon Cabinet,' said Massot, 
 as he went off with Pierre and the General. ' AH the same, 
 however, Monferrand has saved himself, and if I were in 
 Vignon's place I should distrust him.' 
 
 That evening there was a very touching farewell scene at 
 the little house at Neuilly. When Pierre returned thither 
 from the Chamber, saddened but reassured with regard to 
 the future, Guillaume at once made up his mind to go home 
 on the morrow. And as Nicholas Barthes was compelled to 
 leave, the little dwelling seemed on the point of relapsing 
 into dreary quietude once more. 
 
 Th6ophile Morin, whom Pierre had informed of the painful 
 alternative in which Barthes was placed, duly came to dinner ; 
 
THE GAME OF POLITICS 287 
 
 but he did not have time to speak to the old man before they 
 all sat down to table at seven o'clock. As usual Barthes 
 had spent his day in marching, like a caged lion, up and 
 down the room m which he had accepted shelter after the 
 fashion of a big fearless child, who never worried with re- 
 gard either to his present circumstances or the troubles 
 which the future might have in store for him. His life 
 had ever been one of unHmited hope, which reality had ever 
 shattered. Although all that he had loved, all that he 
 had hoped to secure by fifty years of imprisonment or exile — • 
 liberty, equality and a real brotherly republic — had hitherto 
 failed to come, such as he had dreamt of them, he never- 
 theless retained the candid faith of his youth, and was ever 
 confident in the near future. He would smile indulgently 
 when new-comers, men of violent ideas, derided him and 
 called him a poor old fellow. For his part, he could make 
 neither head nor tail of the many new sects. He simply felt 
 indignant with their lack of human feeHng, and stubbornly 
 adhered to his own idea of basing the world's regeneration on 
 the simple proposition that men were naturally good and ought 
 to be free and brotherly. 
 
 That evening at dinner, feeling that he was with friends 
 who oared for him, Barth^s proved extremely gay, and showed 
 all his ingenuousness in talking of his ideal which would soon 
 be realised, said he, in spite of everything. He could tell a 
 story well whenever he cared to chat, and on that occasion 
 he related some dehghtful anecdotes about the prisons through 
 which he had passed. He knew all the dungeons, Ste. P61agie 
 and Mont St. Michel, Belle-Ile-en-Mer and Clairvaux, to say 
 nothing of temporary gaols, and the evil-smelling hulks on 
 board which political prisoners are often confined. And he 
 BtiU laughed at certain recollections, and related how in the 
 direst circumstances he had always been able to seek refuge in 
 his conscience. The others listened to him quite charmed by 
 his conversation, but full of anguish at the thought that this 
 perpetual prisoner or exile must again rise and take his staff 
 to sally forth, driven from his native land once more. 
 
 Pierre did not speak out until they were partaking of 
 dessert. Then he related how the Minister had written to 
 him, and how in a brief mterview he had stated that Barthes 
 must cross the frontier within forty-eight hours if he did not 
 wish to be arrested. Thereupon the old man gravely rose, 
 with his white fleece, his eagle beak, and his bright eyes still 
 
288 PARIS 
 
 Eparkling with the fire of youth. And he wished to go off at 
 once. ' What ! ' said he, ' you have known all this since 
 yesterday, and have still kept me here at the risk of my 
 compromising you even more than I had done already ! You 
 must forgive me, I did not think of the worry I might cause 
 you, I thought that everything would be satisfactorily ar- 
 ranged. I must thank you both — yourself and Guillaume — 
 for the few days of quietude that you have procured to an 
 old vagabond and madman like myself.' 
 
 Then, as they tried to prevail on him to remain until the 
 following morning, he would not listen to them. There would 
 be a train for Brussels about midnight, and he had ample time 
 to take it. He refused to let Morin accompany him. No, no, 
 said he, Morin was not a rich man, and moreover he had work 
 to attend to. Why should he take him away from his duties, 
 when it was so easy, so simple, for him to go off alone? 
 He was going back into exile as into misery and grief which 
 he had long known, like some Wandering Jew of Liberty, 
 ever driven onward through the world. 
 
 When he took leave of the others at ten o'clock, in the 
 little sleepy street just outside the house, tears suddenly 
 dimmed his eyes. ' Ah ! I'm no longer a young man,' he 
 said ; ' it's all over this time. I shall never come back again. 
 My bones will rest in some corner over yonder.' And yet, 
 after he had affectionately embraced Pierre and Guillaume, 
 he drew himself up like one who remained unconquered, and 
 he raised a supreme cry of hope. ' But after all, who knows ? 
 Triumph may perhaps come to-morrow. The future belongs 
 to those who prepare it and wait for it ! ' 
 
 Then he walked away, and long after he had disappeared hia 
 firm, sonorous footsteps could be heard re-echoing in the quiet 
 night. 
 
289 
 
 BOOK IV 
 I 
 
 PIBEEB AND MAEIB 
 
 On the mild March morning when Pierre left his little house 
 at Neuilly to accompany Guillaume to Montmartre, he was 
 oppressed by the thought that on returning home he would 
 once more find himself alone with nothing to prevent him 
 from relapsing into negation and despair. The idea of this 
 had kept him from sleeping, and he still found it difficult to 
 hide his distress and force a smile. 
 
 The sky was so clear and the atmosphere so mild that the 
 brothers had resolved to go to Montmartre on foot by way of 
 the outer boulevards. Nine o'clock was striking when they 
 set out. GuiUaume for his part was very gay at the thought 
 of the surprise he would give his family. It was as if he were 
 suddenly coming back from a long journey. He had not 
 warned them of his intentions ; he had merely written to them 
 now and again to tell them that he was recovering, and they 
 certainly had no idea that his return was so near at hand. 
 
 When Guillaume and Pierre had climbed the sunlit slopes 
 of Montmartre, and crossed the quiet countryfied Place du 
 Tertre, the former, by means of a latchkey, quietly opened the 
 door of his house, which seemed to be asleep, so profound was 
 the stillness both around and within it. Pierre found it the 
 same as on the occasion of his previous and only visit. First 
 came the narrow passage which ran through the ground floor, 
 affording a view of all Paris at the further end. Next there 
 was the garden, reduced to a couple of plum trees and a clump 
 of lilac bushes, the leaves of which had now sprouted. And 
 this time the priest perceived three bicycles leaning against 
 the trees. Beyond them stood the large workshop, so gay, 
 
290 PARIS 
 
 and yet so peaceful, with its liuge window overlooking a sea 
 of roofs. 
 
 Guillaume liad reached the workshop without meeting 
 anybody. With an expression of much amusement he raised 
 a finger to his hps. ' Attention, Pierre,' he whispered ; ' you'll 
 just see 1 ' 
 
 Then having noiselessly opened the door, they remained 
 for a moment on the threshold- 
 
 The three sons alone were there. Near his forge stood 
 Thomas working a boring machine with which he was making 
 some holes in a small brass plate. Then Fran9ois andAntoina 
 were seated on either side of their large table, the former 
 reading, and the latter finishing a block. The bright sunshine 
 streamed in, playing over all the seeming disorder of the room, 
 where so many callings and so many implements found place. 
 A large bunch of wallflowers bloomed on the women's work- 
 table near the window ; and absorbed as the young men were 
 in their respective tasks the only sound was the slight hissing 
 of the boring-machine each time that the eldest of them drilled 
 another hole. 
 
 However, although Guillaume did not stu-, there suddenly 
 came a quiver, an awakening. His sons seemed to guess his 
 presence, for they raised their heads, each at the same moment. 
 From each, too, came the same cry, and a common impulse 
 brought them first to their feet and then to his arms. 
 
 ' Father ! ' 
 
 Guillaume embraced them, feeling very happy. And that 
 was all ; there was no long speU of emotion, no useless talk. 
 It was as if he had merely gone out the day before and, delayed 
 by business, had now come back. Still, he looked at them 
 with his kindly smile, and they likewise smiled with their eyes 
 fixed on his. Those glances proclaimed everything, the closest 
 affection and complete self-bestowal for ever. 
 
 'Come in, Pierre,' called Guillaume, 'shake hands with 
 these young men.' 
 
 The priest had remained near the door, overcome by a 
 •singular feeling of discomfort. When his nephews had 
 'vigorously shaken hands with him, he sat down near the 
 window apart from them, as if be felt out of his element 
 there. 
 
 ' Well, youngsters," said Guillaume, ' where's Mere-Grand, 
 •and Where's Marie ? ' 
 
 Their grandmother was upstairs in her room, they said ; 
 
PIERRE AND MARIE 291 
 
 and Maris had taken it into her head to go marketing. Tliis, 
 by the way, was one of her delights. She asserted that she 
 ■was the only one who knew how to buy new-laid eggs and 
 butter of a nutty odour. Moreover, she sometimes brought 
 some dainty or some flowers home, in her delight at proving 
 herself to be so good a housewife. 
 
 ' And so things are going on well ? ' resumed Guillaumo. 
 ' You are all satisfied, your work is progressing, eh ? ' 
 
 He addressed brief questions to each of them, like one 
 who, on his return home, at once reverts to his usual habits. 
 Thomas, with his rough face beaming, explained in a couple 
 of sentences that he was now sure of perfecting his little 
 motor ; Fran9ois, who was stUl preparing for his examina- 
 tion, jestingly declared that he yet had to lodge a heap of 
 learning in his brain ; and then Antoine produced the block 
 which he was finishing, and which depicted his little friend 
 Lise, Jahan's sister, reading in her garden amidst the sun- 
 Bhine. It was like a florescence of that dear belated creature 
 whose mind had been awakened by his affection. 
 
 However, the three brothers speedily went back to their 
 places, reverting to their work with a natural impulse, for 
 discipline had made, therot regard work as life itself. Then 
 Guillaumo, who had glanced at what each was doing, ex- 
 claimed : ' Ah ! youngsters, I schemed and prepared a lot of 
 things myself while I was laid up. I even made a good 
 many notes. We walked here from Neuilly, but my papers 
 and the clothes which Mere-Grand sent me will come in a 
 cab by-and-bye. . . . Ah ! how pleased I am to find every- 
 thing in order here, and to be able to take up my task with 
 you again 1 Ah ! I shall poUsh off some work now, and no 
 mistake 1 ' 
 
 He had akeady gone to his own corner, the space reserved 
 for him between the window and the forge. He there had 
 a chemical furnace, several glass cases and shelves crowded 
 with appliances, and a long table, one end of which he used 
 for writing purposes. And he once more took possession of 
 that little world. After glancing around with delight at 
 seeing everything in its place, he began to handle one object 
 and another, eager to be at work like his sons. 
 
 All at once, however, Mere-Grand appeared, calm, grave 
 and erect in her black gown, at the top of the little staircase 
 which conducted to the bedrooms. ' So it's you, Guillaume,' 
 Baid she, ' will you come up for a moment? ' 
 
 d2 
 
292 PARIS 
 
 He immecUately did so, understanding that she wished 
 to speak to him alone and tranquillise him. It was a ques- 
 tion of the great secret between them, that one thing of 
 which her sons knew nothing, and which, after Salvat's 
 crime, had brought him to much anguish, through his fear 
 that it might be divulged. When he reached Mere-Grand's 
 room she at once took him to the hiding-place near her bed, 
 and showed him the cartridges of the new explosive, and 
 the plans of the terrible engine of warfare which he had 
 invented. He found them all as he had left them. Before 
 anyone could have reached them, she would have blown up 
 the whole place at the risk of perishing herself in the explo- 
 sion. With her wonted air of quiet heroism, she handed 
 Guillaume the key which he had sent her by Pierre. 
 
 ' You were not anxious, I hope,' she said. 
 
 He pressed her hands with a commingling of affection 
 and respect. 'My only anxiety,' he replied, 'was that the 
 police might come here and treat you roughly. . . . You are 
 the guardian of our secret, and it would be for you to finish 
 my work should I disappear.' 
 
 While Guillaume and Madame Leroi were thus engaged 
 upstairs, Pierre, stiU seated near the window below, felt hia 
 discomfort increasing. The inmates of the house certainly 
 regarded him with no other feeling than one of affectionate 
 sympathy; and so how came it that he considered them 
 hostUe ? The truth was that he asked himself what would 
 become of him among those workers, who were upheld by 
 a faith of their own, whereas he believed in nothing, and 
 did not work. The sight of those young men, so gaily and 
 zealously toiling, ended by quite irritating him ; and the 
 arrival of Marie brought his distress to a climax. 
 
 Joyous and full of life she came in without seeing him, 
 a basket on her arm. And she seemed to bring all the sun- 
 light of the spring morning with her, so bright was the 
 sparkle of her youth. The whole of her pink face, her 
 delicate nose, her broad intelligent brow, her thick, kindly 
 lips beamed beneath the heavy coUs of her black hair. And 
 her brown eyes ever laughed with the joyousness which comes 
 from health and strength. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she exclaimed, ' I have brought such a lot of 
 things, youngsters. Just come and see them, I wouldn't 
 unpack the basket in the kitchen.' 
 
 It became absolutely necessary foi the brothers to draTV 
 
PIERRE AND MARIE 293 
 
 round the basket which she had laid upon the table. ' First 
 there's the butter I ' said she, ' just smell if it hasn't a nice 
 scent of nuts I It's churned especially for me, you know. 
 Then here are the eggs. They were laid only yesterday, I'll 
 answer for it. And, in fact, that one there is this morning's. 
 And look at the cutlets I They're wonderful, aren't they ? 
 The butcher cuts them carefully when he sees me. And then 
 here's a cream cheese, real cream, you know, it will be 
 delicious ! Ah I and here's the surprise, something dainty, 
 some radishes, some pretty little pink radishes. Just fancy ! 
 radishes in March, what a luxury ! ' ' 
 
 She triumphed like the good little housewife she was, one 
 who had followed a whole course of cookery and home duties 
 at the Lyc^e Fenelon. The brothers, as merry as she her- 
 self, were obliged to compliment her. 
 
 All at once, however, she caught sight of Pierre. ' What I 
 you are there. Monsieur I'Abb^ ? ' she exclaimed, ' I beg your 
 pardon, but I didn't see you. How is Guillaume? Have 
 you brought us some news of him ? ' 
 
 ' But father's come home,' said Thomas, ' he's upstairs 
 with Mke-Grand.' 
 
 Quite thunderstruck, she hastily placed her purchases in 
 the basket. ' GuiUaume's come back, GuUIaume's come 
 back I ' said she, ' and you don't tell me of it, you let me un- 
 pack everything I Well, it's nice of me, I must say, to go on 
 praising my butter and eggs when GuiUaume's come back.' 
 
 Guillaume, as it happened, was just coming down with 
 Madame Leroi. Marie gaily hastened to him and offered him 
 her cheeks, on which he printed two resounding kisses. Then 
 she, resting her hands on his shoulders, gave him a long look, 
 while saying in a somewhat tremulous voice : ' I am pleased, 
 very pleased to see you, Guillaume. I may confess it now ; I 
 thought I had lost you, I was very anxious and- very un- 
 happy.' 
 
 Although she was stUl smiling, tears had gathered in her 
 eyes, and he, likewise moved, again kissed her, murmuring : 
 ' Dear Marie 1 How happy it makes me to find you as 
 beautiful and as affectionate as ever.' 
 
 Pierre, who was looking at them, deemed them cold. He 
 had doubtless expected more tears, and a more passionate 
 
 ' Pampered Londoners, who nowadays get every kind of vegetable and 
 frnit both in and out of season, will scarcely be of Marie's opinion,— 
 Wram. 
 
294 PARIS 
 
 embrace on the part of an affianced pair, whom so grievous 
 an accident had separated ahnost on the eve of their wedding. 
 Moreover, his feelings were hurt by the disproportion of their 
 respective ages. No doubt his brother still seemed to him 
 very sturdy and young, and his feeling of repulsion must 
 have come from that young woman whom, most decidedly, he 
 did not like. Ever since her arrival he had experienced 
 increasing discomfort, a keener and keener desire to go off 
 and never return. 
 
 So acute became his suffering at feeling like a stranger in 
 his brother's home, that he at last rose and sought to take 
 his leave, under the pretext that he had some urgent matters 
 to attend to in town. 
 
 ' What ! you won't stay to dijeuner with us 1 ' exclaimed 
 Guillaume in perfect stupefaction. ' Why, it was agreed I 
 You surely won't distress me like that 1 This house is your 
 own, remember 1 ' 
 
 Then as with genuine affection they all protested and 
 pressed him to stay he was obliged to do so. However, he 
 soon relapsed into silence and embarrassment, seated on the 
 same chair as before, and listening moodUy to those people 
 who, although they were his relatives, seemed to be far 
 removed from him. 
 
 As it was barely eleven o'clock they resumed work, but 
 every now and again there was some merry talk. On one of 
 the servants coming for the provisions, Marie told the girl to 
 call her as soon as it should be time to boil the eggs, for she 
 prided herself on boiling them to a nicety, in such wise as to 
 leave the whites Uke creamy milk. This gave an opportunity 
 for a few jests from Fran9ois, who occasionally teased her 
 about all the fine things she had learnt at the Lyc6e Fenelon, 
 where her father had placed her when she was twelve years 
 old. However, she was not afraid of him, but gave him tit 
 for tat by chafBng him about all the hours which he lost at 
 the ificole Normale over a mass of pedagogic trash. 
 
 ' Ah 1 you big children I ' she exclaimed, while still 
 working at her embroidery. ' You are aU very intelligent, 
 and you all claim to have broad minds, and yet — confess it 
 now — it worries you a little that a girl Uke me should have 
 studied at college in the same way as yourselves. It's a 
 sexual quarrel, a question of rivalry and competition, isn't 
 it?' 
 
 They protested the contrary, declaring that they were in 
 
PIERRE AlfD MARIE 295 
 
 favour of girls receiving as complete an education as possible. 
 She was well aware of this ; however, she liked to tease them 
 in return for the manner in which they themselves plagued 
 her. 
 
 ' But do you know,' said she, ' you are a great deal behind 
 the times? I am well aware of the reproaches which are 
 levelled at girls' colleges by so-called right-minded people. 
 To begin, there is no religious element whatever in the 
 education one receives there, and this alarms many families 
 which consider religious education to be absolutely necessary 
 for girls, if only as a moral weapon of defence. Then, too, 
 the education at our Lycdes is being democratised — girls of 
 all positions come to them. Thanks to the scholarships 
 which are so liberally offered, the daughter of the lady who 
 rents a first floor flat often finds the daughter of her door- 
 keeper among her schoolfellows, and some think this objection- 
 able. It is said also that the pupils free themseh'es too much 
 from home influence, and that too much opportunity is left 
 for personal initiative. As a matter of fact the extensiveness 
 of the many courses of study, all the learning that is required of 
 pupils at the examinations, certainly does tend to their eman- 
 cipation, to the coming of the future woman and future 
 society, which you young men are all longing for, are you 
 not?' 
 
 ' Of course we are ! ' exclaimed Fran9oi3, ' we all agree on 
 that point.' 
 
 She waved her hand in a pretty way, and then quietly 
 continued : ' I'm jesting. My views are simple enough, as 
 you well know, and I don't ask for nearly as much as you do. 
 As for woman's claims and rights, well the question is clear 
 enough ; woman is man's equal so far as nature allows it 
 And the only point is to agree and love one another. At the 
 same time I'm well pleased to know what I do — oh ! not 
 from any spirit of pedantry but simply because I think it has 
 all done me good, and given me some moral as well as 
 physical health.' 
 
 It delighted her to recall the da,ys. she had spent at the 
 Lycee Fenelon, which of the five State colleges for girls 
 opened in Paris was the only one counting a large number of 
 pupils. Most of these were the daughters of officials or pro- 
 fessors, who. purposed entering the teaching profession.. In 
 this case, they had to win their last diploma at the Eeole 
 Normale of Sevres, after leaving the Lycee. Marie, for her 
 
296 PARIS 
 
 part, though her studies had been brilliant, had felt no taste 
 whatever for the calling of teacher. Moreover, when Guil- 
 laume had taken charge of her after her father's death, he 
 had refused to let her run about giving lessons. To provide 
 herself with a little money, for she would accept none as a 
 gift, she worked at embroidery, an art in which she was most 
 accomplished. 
 
 While she was talking to the young men Guillaume had 
 listened to her without interfering. If he had fallen in love 
 with her it was largely on account of her frankness and up- 
 rightness, the even balance of her nature, which gave her so 
 forcible a charm. She knew all ; but if she lacked the poetry 
 of the shrinking, lamblike girl who has been brought up in 
 ignorance, she' had gained absolute rectitude of heart and 
 mind, exempt from all hypocrisy, all secret perversity such as 
 is stimulated by what may seem mysterious in life. And 
 whatever she might know, she had retained such childlike 
 purity, that in spite of her six-and-twenty summers, all the 
 blood in her veins would occasionally rush to her cheeks in 
 fiery blushes, which drove her to despair. 
 
 ' My dear Marie,' Guillaume now exclaimed, ' you know 
 very well that the youngsters were simply joking. You are 
 in the right, of course. . . . And your boiled eggs cannot be 
 matched in the whole world.' 
 
 He said this in so soft and affectionate a tone that the 
 young woman flushed purple. Then, becoming conscious of 
 it, she coloured yet more deeply, and as the three young men 
 glanced at her maUciously she grew angry with herself. 
 ' Isn't it ridiculous. Monsieur I'Abb^,' she said, turning 
 towards Pierre, ' for an old maid like myself to blush in that 
 fashion ? People might think that I had committed a crime. 
 It's simply to make me blush, you know, that those children 
 tease me. I do all I can to prevent it, but it's stronger than 
 my will.' 
 
 At this M^re-Grand raised her eyes from the shirt she 
 was mending, and remarked : ' Oh ! it's natural enough, my 
 dear. It is your heart rising to your cheeks in order that we 
 may see it.' 
 
 The dijeuner hour was new at hand ; and they decided 
 to lay the table in the workshop as was occasionally done 
 when they had a guest. The simple, cordial meal proved 
 very enjoyable in the bright sunlight. Marie's boiled eggs, 
 which she herself brought from the kitchen covered with a 
 
PIERRE AND MARIE 297 
 
 napkin, were found delicious. Due honour was also done to 
 the butter and the radishes. The only dessert that followed 
 the cutlets was the cream cheese, but it was a cheese such as 
 nobody else had ever partaken of. And, meantime, while . 
 they ate and chatted all Paris lay below them stretching away 
 to the horizon with its mighty rumbling. 
 
 Pierre had made an effort to become cheerful, but he soon 
 relapsed into silence. Guillaume, however, was very talkative. 
 Having noticed the three bicycles in the garden, he inquired 
 of Marie how far she had gone that morning. She answered 
 that FranQois and Antoine had accompanied her in the 
 direction of Orgemont. The worry of their excursions was 
 that each time they returned to Montmartre they had to 
 push their machines up the height. From the general point 
 of view, however, the young woman was delighted with 
 bicycling, which had many virtues, said she. Then, seeing 
 Pierre glance at her in amazement, she promised that she 
 would some day explain her opinions on the subject to him. 
 After this bicycling became the one topic of conversation 
 until the end of the meal. Thomas gave an account of the 
 latest improvements introduced into Grandidier's machines ; 
 and the others talked of the excursions they had made or meant 
 to make, with all the exuberant delight of school children 
 eager for the open air. 
 
 In the midst of the chatter, M^re-Grand, who presided at 
 table with the serene dignity of a queen-mother, leant towards 
 Guillaume, who sat next to her, and spoke to him in an 
 undertone. Pierre understood that she was referring to his 
 marriage, which was to have taken place in April, but must 
 now necessarily be deferred. This sensible marriage, which 
 seemed Ukely to ensure the happiness of the entire household, 
 was largely the work of M^re-Grand and the three young 
 men, for Guillaume would never have yielded to his heart if 
 she whom he proposed to make his wife had not already been 
 a well-loved member of the family. At the present time the 
 last week in June seemed, for all sorts of reasons, to be a 
 faTOurable date for the wedding. 
 
 Marie, who beard the suggestion, turned gaily towards 
 MSre-Grand. 
 
 ' The end of June will suit very well, will it not, my dear ? * 
 said the latter. 
 
 Pierre expected to see a flush rise to the young woman's 
 cheeks, but she remained very calm. She felt deep affection, 
 
igS PARIS 
 
 blended Vvitli the most tender gratitude, for Guillaume, and 
 was convinced that in marrying him she would be acting 
 wisely and well both for herself and the others. 
 
 ' Certainly, the end of June,' she repeated, ' that will suit 
 very well uideed.' 
 
 Then the sons, who likewise had heard the proposal, 
 nodded their heads by way of assenting also. 
 
 When they rose from table Pierre was absolutely de- 
 termined to go off. The cordial and simple meal, the sight 
 of that family, which had been rendered so happy by 
 Guillaume's return, and of that young woman who smiled 
 BO placidly at life, had brought him keen suffering, though 
 why he could not tell. However, it all irritated him beyond 
 endurance ; and he therefore again pretended that he had a 
 number of things to see to in Paris. He shook hands in 
 turn with the young men, Mere-Grand and Marie ; both of the 
 women evincing great friendUness but also some surprise at 
 his haste to leave the house. GuUlaume, who seemed sad- 
 dened and anxious, sought to detain him, and failing in this 
 endeavour followed him into the little garden, where he 
 stopped him in order to have an explanation. 
 
 ' Come,' said he, ' what is the matter with you, Pierre ? 
 Why are you running off like this ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! there's nothing the matter I assure you ; but I have 
 to attend to a fevr urgent affairs.' 
 
 ' Oh, Pierre, pray put aU pretence aside. Nobody here hag 
 displeased you or hurt your feelings, I hope. They will all 
 soon love you as I do.' 
 
 ' I have no doubt of it, and I complain of nobody excepting 
 perhaps myself.' 
 
 Guillaume's sorrow was increasing. ' Ah 1 brother, little 
 brother,' he resumed, ' you distress me, for I can detect that 
 you are hiding something from me. Eemember that new 
 ties have linked us together and that we love one another as 
 in the old days when you were in your cradle and I used to 
 come to play with you. I know you well, remember. I 
 know all your tortures since you have confessed them to me ; 
 and I won't have you suffer ; I want to cure you, I do 1 ' 
 
 Pierre's heart was full, and as he heard those words hs 
 could not restrain his tears. ' Oh ! you must leave me to my 
 sufferings,' he responded. 'They are incurable. You can 
 do nothing for me ; I am beyond the pale of nature, I am a 
 monster.' 
 
PIERRE AND MARIE 299 
 
 ' What do you say 1 Can you not return within nature's 
 pale even if you liava gone beyond it ? One thing that I will 
 not allow is that you should go and shut yourself up in that 
 solitary little house of yours, where you madden yourself by 
 brooding over the fall of your faith. Come and spend your 
 time with us, so that we may again give you some taste for 
 life.' 
 
 Ah ! the empty little house which awaited him ! Pierre 
 shivered at the thought of it, at the idea that he would now 
 find himself all alone there, bereft of the brother with whom 
 he had lately spent so many happy days. Into what solitude 
 and torment must lie not now relapse after that companion- 
 ship to which he had become accustomed ? However, the 
 very thought of the latter increased his grief, and confession 
 suddenly gushed from his lips : ' To spend my time here, 
 live with you, oh ! no, that is an impossibility. Why do you 
 compel me to speak out, and tell you things that' I am 
 ashamed of and do not even understand ? Ever since this 
 morning you must have seen that I have been suffering here. 
 No doubt it is because you and your people work, whereas I 
 do nothing, because you love one another and believe in your 
 efforts, whereas I no longer know how to love or believe. I 
 feel out of my element. I'm embarrassed here, and I 
 embarrass you. In fact you all irritate me, and I might end 
 by hating you. There remains nothing healthy in me, all 
 natural feelings have been spoilt and destroyed, and only 
 envy and hatred could sprout up from such ruins. So let me 
 go back to my accursed hole, where death will some day come 
 for me. Farewell, brother 1 ' 
 
 But Guillaume, full of affection and compassion, caught 
 hold of. his arms and detained him. ' You shall not go, I 
 will not allow you to go without a positive promise that you 
 will come back. I don't wish to lose you again, especially 
 now that I know aU you are worth and how dreadfully you 
 suffer. I will save you, if need be, in spite of yourself. I 
 will cure you of your torturing doubts, oh ! without catechis- 
 ing you, without imposing any particular faith on you, but 
 simply by allowing life to do its work, for life alone can 
 give you back health and hope. So I beg you, brother, in 
 the name of our affection, come back here, come as often aa 
 you can to spend a day with us. You will then see that 
 when folks have allotted themselves a task and work to- 
 gether in unison, they escape excessive unbappiness. A task 
 
30(3 PARIS 
 
 of any kind — yes, that is what is wanted, together with 
 some great passion and frank acceptance of life, so that it 
 may be lived as it should be and loved.' 
 
 ' But what would be the use of my living here ? ' Pierre 
 muttered bitterly. ' I've no task left me, and I no longer 
 know how to love.' 
 
 ' Well, I will give you a task, and as for love that will 
 soon be awakened by the breath of life. Come, brother, con- 
 sent, consent 1 ' 
 
 Then, seeing that Pierre still remained gloomy and sor- 
 rowful, and persisted in his determination to go away and 
 bury himself, Guillaume added : ' Ah ! I don't say that the 
 things of this world are such as one might wish them to be. 
 I don't say that only joy and truth and justice exist. For 
 instance, the affair of that unhappy feUow Salvat fills me 
 with anger and revolt. Guilty he is, of course, and yet 
 how many excuses he had, and how I shall pity him if the 
 crimes of all of us are laid at his door, if the various poli- 
 tical gangs bandy him from one to another, and use him as 
 a weapon in their sordid fight for power. The thought of it 
 all so exasperates me that at times I am as unreasonable as 
 yourself. But now, brother, just to please me, promise that 
 you will come and spend the day after to-morrow with us.' 
 
 Then as Pierre still kept silent Guillaume went on : ' I 
 will have it so. It would grieve me too much to think that 
 you were suffering from martyrdom in your solitary nook. I 
 want to cure and save you.' 
 
 Tears again rose to Pierre's eyes, and in a tone of in- 
 finite distress he answered : ' Don't compel me to promise. 
 . . . All I can say is that I wiU try to conquer myself.' 
 
 The week he then spent in his little, dark, empty home 
 proved a terrible one. Shutting himself up he brooded over 
 his despair at having lost the companionship of that elder 
 brother whom he once more loved with his whole soul. He 
 had never before been so keenly conscious of his solitude ; 
 and he was a score of times on the point of hastening to 
 Montmartre, for he vaguely felt that affection, truth and life 
 were there. But on each occasion he was held back by a 
 return of the discomfort which he had already experienced, dis- 
 comfort compounded of shame and fear. Priest that he was, 
 cut off from love and the avocations of other men, he would 
 surely find nothing but hurt and suffering among creatures 
 who were all nature, freedom, and health. While he pon- 
 
PIERRE AND MARIE 301 
 
 dered thus, however, there rose before him the shades of his 
 father and mother, those sad spirits that seemed to wander 
 through the deserted rooms lamenting and entreating him to 
 reconcile them in himself, as soon as he should find peace. 
 What was he to do, deny their prayer, and remain weeping 
 with them, or go yonder in search of the cure which might 
 at last luU them to sleep and bring them happiness in death 
 by the force of his own happiness in life ? At last a morning 
 came when it seemed to him that his father enjoined him 
 with a smile to betake himself yonder, while his mother con- 
 sented with a glance of her big soft eyes, in which her sor- 
 row at having made so bad a priest of him yielded to her 
 desire to restore him to the life of our common humanity. 
 
 Pierre did not argue with himself that day ; he took a cab 
 and gave GuiUaume's address to the driver for fear lest he 
 should be overcome on the way and wish to turn back. And 
 when he again found himself, as in a dream, in the large 
 workshop, where Guillaume and the young men welcomed 
 him in a delicately affectionate way, he witnessed an unexpec- 
 ted scene which both impressed and relieved him. 
 
 Marie, who had scarcely nodded to him as he entered, sat 
 there with a pale and frowning face. And Mk-e-Grand, who 
 was also grave, said, after glancing at her : ' You must 
 excuse her, Monsieur I'Abbe ; but she isn't reasonable. She 
 is in a temper with all five of us.' 
 
 Guillaume began to laugh. ' Ah ! she's so stubborn I ' ha 
 exclaimed. ' You can have no idea, Pierre, of what goes on 
 in that little head of hers when anybody says or does anything 
 contrary to her ideas of justice. Such absolute and lofty 
 ideas they are, that they can descend to no compromise. For 
 instance, we were talking of that recent affair of a father who 
 was found guilty on his son's evidence ; and she maintained 
 that the son had only done what was right in giving evidence 
 against his father, and that one ought invariably to teU the 
 truth, no matter what might happen. What a terrible public 
 prosecutor she would make, eh ? ' 
 
 Thereupon Marie, exasperated by Pierre's smile, which 
 seemingly indicated that he also thought her in the wrong, 
 flew into quite a passion. 
 
 'You are cruel, Guillaume 1' she cried; 'I won't be 
 laughed at like this.' 
 
 'But you are losing your senses, my dear,' exclaimed 
 Fran9ois, while Thomas and Antoine again grew merry. ' We 
 
302 PARIS 
 
 wero only urging a question of humanity, father and I, for W9 
 respect and love justice as much as you do.' 
 
 'There's no question of humanity, but simply one of 
 justice. What ia just and right is just and right, and you 
 cannot alter it.' 
 
 Then, as GuUlaume made a further attempt to state his 
 views and win her over to them, she rose trembling, in such a 
 passion that she could scarcely stammer : ' No, no, you are all 
 too cruel, ycu only want to grieve me. I prefer to go up into 
 my own room.' 
 
 At this Mere-Grand vainly sought to restrain her. ' My 
 child, my child 1 ' said she, ' reflect a moment ; this is very 
 wrong, you will deeply regret it.' 
 
 ' No, no ; you are not just, and I suffer too much.' 
 
 Then she wildly rushed upstairs to her room overhead. 
 
 Consternation followed. Scenes of a similar character 
 had occasionally occurred before, but there had never been 
 so serious a one. Guillaume immediately admitted that he 
 had done wrong in laughing at her, for she could not bear 
 irony. Then he told Pierre that, in her childhood and youi-.h 
 she had been subject to terrible attacks of passion whenever 
 she witnessed or heard of any act of injustice. As she herself 
 explained, these attacks would come upon her with irresistible 
 force, transporting her to such a point that she would some- 
 times fall upon the floor and rave. Even nowadays she proved 
 quarrelsome and obstinate whenever certain subjects were 
 touched upon. And she afterwards blushed for it all, fully 
 conscious that others must think her unbearable. 
 
 Indeed, a quarter of an hour later, she came downstairs 
 again of her own accord, and bravely acknowledged her fault. 
 ' Wasn't it ridiculous of me ? ' she said. ' To think I accuse 
 others of being unkind when I behave Uke that ! Monsieur 
 I'Abbe must have a very bad opinion of me.' Then, after 
 kissing Mere-Grand, she added : ' You'll forgive me, won't 
 you ? Oh ! Fran9ois may laugh now, and so may Thomas 
 and Antoine. They are quite right, our differences are merely 
 laughing matters.' 
 
 ' My poor Marie,' replied Guillaume, in a tone of deep 
 affection, 'you see what it is to surrender oneself to the 
 absolute. If you are so healthy and reasonable it's because 
 you regard almost every thing from the relative point of view, 
 and oiJy ask life for such gifts as it can bestow. But when 
 your absolute ideas of justice come upon~ you, you lose both 
 
PIERRE AND MARIE 303 
 
 equilibrium and reason. At the same time, I must say that 
 we are all liable to err in much the same manner.' 
 
 Marie, who was still very flushed, thereupon answered in 
 a jesting way : ' Well, it at least proves that I'm not perfect,' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly ! And so much the better,' said Guillaume, 
 • for it makes me love you the more.' 
 
 This was a sentiment which Pierre himself would willingly 
 have re-echoed. The scene had deeply stirred him. Had not 
 his own frightful torments originated with his desire for the 
 absolute both in things and beings ? He had sought faith in 
 its entirety, and despair had thrown him into completenegation. 
 Again, was there not some evil desire for the absolute and some 
 affectation of pride and voluntary blindness in the haughty 
 bearing which he had retained amidst the downfall of his 
 belief, the saintly reputation which he had accepted when he 
 possessed no faith at all ? On hearing his brother praise 
 Marie, because she only asked life for such things as it could 
 give, it had seemed to him that this was advice for himself. 
 It was as if a refreshing breath of nature had passed before 
 his face. At the same time his feelings in this respect were 
 still vague, and the only well-defined pleasure that he ex- 
 perienced came from the young woman's fit of anger, that 
 error of hers which brought her nearer to him, by lowering 
 her in some degree from her pedestal of serene perfection. It 
 was, perhaps, that seeming perfection which had made him 
 sufier ; however, he was as yet unable to analyse his feelings. 
 That day, for the first time, he chatted with her for a little 
 while, and when he went off he thought her very good- hearted 
 and very human. 
 
 Two days later he again came to spend the afternoon in 
 the large sunlit workshop overlooking Paris. Ever since he 
 had become conscious of the idle life he was leading, he had 
 felt very bored when he was alone, and only found reUef 
 among that gay, hard-working family. His brother scolded 
 Lim for not having come to dSjeuner, and he promised to do 
 BO on the morrow. By the time a week had elapsed, none of 
 the discomfort and covert hostility which had prevailed 
 between him and Marie remained ; they met and chatted on 
 a footing of good-fellowship. Although he was a priest, she 
 was in no wise embarrassed by his presence. With her quiet 
 atheism, indeed, she had never imagined that a priest could 
 be different from other men. Thus her sisterly cordiality 
 both astonished and delighted Pierre. It was as if he wore 
 
304 PARIS 
 
 the same garments and held the same ideas as his big 
 nephews, as if there were nothing whatever to distinguish 
 him from other men. He was still more surprised, however, 
 by Marie's silence on all religious questions. She seemed to 
 live on quietly and happily, without a thought of what 
 might be beyond life, that terrifying realm of mystery, which 
 to him had brought such agony of mind. 
 
 Now that he came every two or three days to Montmartre 
 she noticed that he was suffering. What could be the matter 
 with him, she wondered. When she questioned him in a 
 friendly manner and only elicited evasive replies, she guessed 
 that he was ashamed of his sufferings, and that they were 
 aggravated, rendered well-nigh incurable by the very secrecy 
 in which he buried them. Thereupon womanly compassion 
 awoke within her, and she felt increasing affection for that 
 tall, pale fellow with feverish eyes, who was consumed by 
 grievous torments which he would confess to none. No doubt 
 she questioned Guillaume respecting her brother's sadness, 
 and he must have confided some of the truth to her in order 
 that she might help him to extricate Pierre from his suffer- 
 ings, and give him back some taste for life. The poor fellow 
 always seemed so happy when she treated him like a friend, 
 a brother I 
 
 At last, one evening, on seeing his eyes full of tears as 
 he gazed upon the dismal twilight falling over Paris, she 
 herself pressed him to confide his trouble to her. And there- 
 upon he suddenly spoke out, confessing all his torture and the 
 horrible void which the loss of faith had left within him. 
 Ah ! to be unable to believe, to be unable to love, to be 
 nothing but ashes, to know of nothing certain by which he 
 might replace the faith that had fled from him ! She hstened 
 in stupefaction. Why, he must be mad ! And she plainly 
 told him so, such was her astonishment and revolt at hearing 
 such a desperate cry of wretchedness. To despair, indeed, 
 and believe in nothing and love nothing, simply because a 
 religious hypothesis had crumbled I And this, too, when the 
 whole vast world was spread before one, life with the duty of 
 living it, creatures and things to be loved and succouxed, 
 without counting the universal labour, the task which one 
 and all came to accomplish 1 Assuredly he must be mad, 
 mad with the gloomiest madness ; still she vowed she would 
 cure him. 
 
 From that time forward she felt the most compassionate 
 
JPIERRM AND MAHIE jes 
 
 ftfectioii for this extraordinary young man, who had arst 
 embarrassed and afterwards astonished her. She showed 
 herself very gentle and gay with him ; she looked after him 
 with the greatest sldll and delicacy of heart and mind. 
 There had been certain similar features in their childhood ; 
 each had been reared in the strictest religious views by a 
 pious mother. But afterwards how different had been their 
 fates 1 Whilst he was struggling with his doubts, bound by 
 his priestly vows, she had grown up at the Lycle F6nelon, 
 where her father had placed her as soon as her mother died ; 
 and there, far removed from all practice of religion, she had 
 gradually reached total forgetfulness of her early religious 
 views. It was a constant source of surprise for him to find 
 that she had thus escaped all distress of mind at the thought 
 of what might come after death, whereas that same thought 
 had so deeply tortured him. When they chatted together 
 and he expressed his astonishment at it, she frankly laughed. 
 Baying that she had never felt any fear of Hell, for she was 
 certaia that no Hell existed. And she added that she lived 
 in all quietude, without hope of going to any Heaven, her one 
 thought being to comply in a reasonable way with the 
 requirements and necessities of earthly life. It was, perhaps, 
 in some measure a matter of temperament with her ; but it 
 was also a matter of education. Yet, whatever that educa- 
 tion had been, whatever knowledge she had acquired, she 
 had remained very womanly and very loving. There was 
 nothing stem or masculine about her. 
 
 ' Ah, my friend,' she said one day to Pierre, 'if you only 
 knew how easy it is for me to remain happy so long as I see 
 those I love free from any excessive suffering. For my own 
 part I can always adapt myself to hfe. I work and content 
 myself no matter what may happen. Sorrow has only come to 
 me from others, for I can't help wishing that everybody 
 shouldbe fairly happy, and there are some who won't. ... I 
 was for a long time very poor, but I remained gay. I wish 
 for nothing, except for things that can't be purchased. Still 
 want is the great abomination which distresses me. I can 
 understand that you should have felt everything crumbling 
 when charity appeared to you so insufficient a remedy as to 
 be contemptible. Yet it does bring relief ; and, moreover, it 
 is so sweet to be able to give. Some day, too, by dint of 
 reason and toil, by the good and efficient working of life 
 itself, the reign of justice will surely come. But now it's I 
 
3o5 PARIS 
 
 that am preaching 1 Oh 1 I have fittle taste for it I It woulcl 
 bo ridiculous for me to try to heal you with big phrases, AU 
 the same, I should like to cure you of your gloomy sufferings. 
 To do so, all that I ask of you is to spend as much time as 
 you can with us. You know that this is Guillaume's greatest 
 desire. We will all love you so well, you will see us all so 
 affectionately united, and so gay over our common work, that 
 you will come back to truth by joining us in the school of our 
 good mother nature. You must live and work, and love and 
 hope.' 
 
 Pierre smiled as he listened. He now came toMontmartre 
 nearly every day. She was so nice and affectionate when 
 she preached to him in that way with, a pretty assumption of 
 wisdom. As she had said tbo, life was so delightful in that 
 big workroom ; it was so pleasant to be all together, and to 
 labour in common at the same work of health' and truth. 
 Ashamed as Pierre was of doing nothing, anxious as he was 
 to occupy his mind and fingers, he had first taken an interest 
 in Antoine's engraving, asking why he should not try some- 
 ' thing of the kind himself. However, he felt that he lacked 
 the necessary gift for art. Then, too, he recoiled from 
 Frangois's purelyintellectual labour, for he himself had scarcely 
 emerged from the harrowing study of conflicting tests. Thus 
 he was more inclined for manual toil hke that of Thomas. 
 In mechanics he found precision and clearness such as might 
 help to quench his thirst for certainty. So he placed himself 
 at the young man's orders, pulled his bellows and held 
 pieces of mechanism for him. He also sometimes served as 
 assistant to Guillaume, tying a large blue apron over his 
 cassock in order to help in the experiments. From that time 
 he formed part of the workshop, which simply counted a 
 worker the more. 
 r One afternoon early in April, when they were aU busily 
 engaged there, Marie, who sat embroidering at the table in 
 front of Mfire-Grand, raised her eyes to the window and 
 suddenly burst into a cry of admiration : ' Oh ! look at Paris 
 under that rain of sunlight ! ' 
 
 Pierre drew near ; the play of light was much the same 
 as that which he had witnessed at his first visit. The sun, 
 sinking behind some slight purple clouds, was throwing down 
 a hail of rays and sparks which on all sides rebounded and 
 leapt over the endless stretch of roofs. It might have been 
 thought that some great sower, hidden 9>midstthe glory of tba 
 
PIERRE AND MARIE 307 
 
 planet, was scattering bandfula of golden grain from one 
 horizon to the other. 
 
 Pierre, at sight of it, put his fancy into words : ' It is the 
 Bun sowing Paris with grain for a future harvest,' said he. 
 ' See how the expanse looks hke ploughed land ; the brownish 
 houses are like soil turned up, and the streets are deep and 
 straight like furrows.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, that's true," exclaimed Marie gaily. ' The sun 
 13 sowing Paris with grain. See, how it casts the seed of 
 light and health right away to the distant suburbs 1 And yet, 
 how singular t The rich districts on the west seem steeped 
 in a ruddy mist, whilst the good seed falls in golden dust 
 over the left bank and the populous districts eastward. It is 
 there, is it not, that the crop will spring up ? ' 
 
 They had aU drawn near, and were smiling at the symbol. 
 As Marie bad said, it seemed indeed that v/bile the sun slowly 
 sank behind the laeework of clouds, the sower of eternal hfa 
 scattered his flaming seed with a rhythmical swing of the arm, 
 ever selecting the districts of toil and effort. One dazzling 
 handful of grain fell over yonder on the district of the schools ; 
 and then yet another rained down to fertilise the district of 
 the factories and workshops. 
 
 ' Ah ! well,' said Guillaume gaily. ' May the crop soon 
 sprout from the good ground of our great Paris, which has been 
 turned up by so many revolutions, and enriched by the blood 
 of so many workers I It is the only ground in the world where 
 Ideas can germinate and bloom. Yes, yes, Pierre is quite 
 right, it is the sun sowing Paris with the seed of the future 
 world which can only sprout up here ! ' 
 
 Then Thomas, Frangois, and Antoine who stood behind 
 their father in a row, nodded as if to say that this Vr'as also 
 their own conviction ; whilst M6re-Grand gazed afar with 
 dreamy eyes as though she could already behold the splendid 
 future. 
 
 ' Ah ! but it is only a dream ; centuries must elapse. Wa 
 shall never see it 1 ' murmured Pierre with a quiver. 
 
 ' But others will 1 ' cried Marie. ' And does not that 
 sufHce ? ' 
 
 Those lofty words stirred Pierre to the depths of his being 
 And all at once there came to him the memory of another 
 Marie ' — the adorable Marie of his youth, that Marie de Guer- 
 Beint who had been cured at Lourdes, and the loss of w'nom 
 
 ' TIse heroine ol M. Zola's Lour.'.es. 
 
 S2 
 
3o8 I'ARIS 
 
 had left sucli a void in his heart. Was that new Marie who 
 stood there smiling at him, so tranquil and so charming in 
 her strength, destined to heal that old-time wound ? He felt 
 that he was beginning to live again since she had become his 
 friend. 
 
 Meantime, there before them, the glorious sun, with the 
 sweep of its rays, was scattering living golden dust over Paris, 
 still and ever sowing the great future harvest of justice and of 
 truth. 
 
 II 
 
 (TOWABDS LIFE 
 
 One evening, at the close of a good day's work, Pierre, who 
 was helping Thomas, suddenly caught his foot in the skirt of 
 his cassock and narrowly escaped falling. At this, Marie, 
 after raising a faint cry cl anxiety, exclaimed : ' Why don't 
 you take it off ? ' 
 
 There was no malice in her inquiry. She simply looked 
 upon the priestly robe as something too heavy and cumber- 
 some, particularly when one had certain work to perform. 
 Nevertheless, her words deeply impressed Pierre, and he could 
 not forget them. When he was at home in the evening and 
 repeated them to himself they gradually threw him into 
 feverish agitation. Why, indeed, had he not divested himself 
 of that cassock, which weighed so heavily and painfully on 
 his shoulders? Then a frightful struggle began within him, 
 and he spent a terrible, sleepless night, again a prey to all 
 bis former torments. 
 
 At first sight it seemed a very simple matter that he 
 should cast his priestly gown aside, for had he not ceased to 
 discharge any priestly ofliee? He had not said mass for 
 some time past, and this surely meant renunciation of the 
 priesthood. Nevertheless, so long as he retained his gown it 
 was possible that he might some day say mass again, whereas 
 if he cast it aside, he would, as it were, strip himself, quit 
 the priesthood entirely, without possibility of return. It was 
 a terrible step to take, one that would prove irrevocable ; and 
 thus he paced his room for hours in great anguish of 
 mind. 
 
TOWAHnS LIFE 309 
 
 He had formerly indulged in a superb dream. Whilst be- 
 lieving nothing himself he had resolved to watch, in all loyalty, 
 over the belief of others. He would not so lower himself as 
 to forswear his vows, he would be no base renegade, but 
 however great the torments of the void he felt within him ha 
 would remain the minister of man's illusions respecting the 
 Divinity. And it was by reason of his conduct in this re- 
 spect that he had ended by being venerated as a saint — he who 
 denied everything, who had become a mere empty sepulchre. 
 For a long time his falsehood had never disturbed him, but 
 it now brought him acute suffering. It seemed to him that 
 he would be acting in the vilest manner if he delayed placing 
 his life in accord with his opinions. The thought of it all 
 quite rent his heart. 
 
 The question was a very clear one. By what right did he 
 remain the minister of a rehgion in which he no longer 
 beheved? Did not elementary honesty require that he 
 should quit a Church in which he denied the presence of the 
 Divinity? He regarded the dogmas of that Church. as 
 puerile errors, and yet he persisted in teaching them as if they 
 were eternal truths. Base work it was, that alarmed his 
 conscience. He vainly sought the feverish glow of charity 
 and martyrdom which had led him to offer himself as a 
 sacrifice, willing to suffer all the torture of doubt and to find 
 his own life lost and ravaged, provided that he might yet 
 afford the relief of hope to the lowly. Truth and nature, no 
 doubt, had already regained too much ascendency over him 
 for those feelings to return. The thought of such a lying 
 apostolate now wounded him ; he no longer had the hypo- 
 critical courage to call the Divinity down upon the believers 
 kneeling before him, when he was convinced that the Divinity 
 would not descend. Thus all the past was swept away ; 
 there remained nothing of the sublime pastoral part he 
 would once have Uked to play, that supreme gift of. him- 
 self which lay in stubborn adherence to the rules of th& 
 Church, and such devotion to faith as to endure in silence 
 the torture of having lost it. 
 
 What must Marie think of his prolonged falsehood ? ha 
 wondered, and thereupon he seemed to hear her words again : 
 ' Why not take your cassock off ? ' His conscience bled as if 
 those words were a stab. What contempt must she not feel 
 for him, she who was so upright, so high minded ? Every 
 scattered blame, every covert criticism directed against hia 
 
310 PARIS 
 
 conduct, seemed to find embodiment in her. It now sufficed 
 that she should condemn him, and he at once felt guilty. At 
 the same time she had never signified her disapproval to him, 
 in all probability because she did not think she had any right to 
 intervene in a struggle of conscience. The superb calmness 
 and healthiness which she displayed still astonished him. He 
 himself was ever haunted and tortured by thoughts of the 
 uiiknown, of what the morrow of death might have in store 
 for one ; bu.t although he had studied and watched her 
 for days together, he had never seen her give a sign of 
 doubt or distress. This exemption from such sufferings as 
 his own was due, said she, to the fact that she gave all her 
 gaiety, all her energy, all her sense of duty to the task of 
 living, in such wise that life itself proved a sufficiency, and 
 no time was left for mere fancies to terrify and stultify her. 
 Well, then, since she with her air of quiet strength had asked 
 him why he did not take off his cassock, he would take it off 
 — yes, he would divest himself of that robe which seemed to 
 hum and weigh him down. 
 
 He fancied himself calmed by this decision, and towards 
 morning threw himself upon his bed ; but all at once a 
 stifling sensation, a renewal of his abominable anguish 
 brought him to his feet again. No, no, he could not divest 
 himself of that gown which clung so tightly to his flesh. His 
 skin would come away with his cloth, his whole being would 
 be lacerated 1 Is not the mark of priesthood an indelible 
 one, does it not brand the priest for ever, and differentiate 
 him from the flock ? Even should he tear off his gown with 
 his skin, he would remain a priest, an object of scandal and 
 shame, awkward and impotent, shut off from the life of other 
 men. And so why tear it off, since he would still and ever 
 remain in prison, and a fruitful life of work in the broad 
 BunUght was no longer within his reach ? He, indeed, 
 fancied himself irremediably stricken with impotence. Thus 
 he was unable to come to any decision, and when he returned 
 to Montmartre two days later he had again relapsed into a 
 state of torment. 
 
 Peverishness, moreover, had come upon the happy home. 
 Guillaume was becoming more and more annoyed about 
 Salvat's affair ; not a day elapsing without the newspapers 
 fanning his irritation. He had at first been deeply touched 
 by the dignified and reticent bearing of Salvat, who had 
 declared that he had no accomplices whatever. Of course 
 
TOWAiCDS LIFE 311 
 
 the inquiry into the crime was ■what is called a secret one ; but 
 magistrate Amadieu, to whom it had been entrusted, con- 
 ducted it in a very noisy way. The newspapers, which hb 
 in some degree took into his confidence, were full of article^ 
 and paragraphs about him aud his interviews with the 
 prisoner. Thanks to Salvat's quiet admissions, Amadieu had 
 been able to retrace the history of the crime hour by hour, 
 his only remaining doubts having reference to the nature of 
 the powder which had been employed, and the making of the 
 bomb itself. It might after .all be true that Salvat had 
 loaded the bomb at a friend's, as he indeed asserted was the 
 case ; but he must be lying when lie added that the only ex- 
 plosive used was dynamite, derived from some stolen cart- 
 ridges, for aU the experts now declared that dynamite would 
 never have produced such efifects as those which had been 
 witnessed. This, then, was the mysterious point which pro- 
 tracted the investigations. And day by day the newspapers 
 profited by it to oiceulate the wUdest stories under sensational 
 headings, which were specially devised for the purpose of 
 sending up their sales. 
 
 It was aU the nonsense contained in these stories that 
 fanned Guillaume's irritation. In spite of his contempt for 
 Sagnier he could not keep from buying the ' Voix du Peuple.' 
 Quivering with indignation, growing more and more ex- 
 asperated, he was somehow attracted by the mire which he 
 found in that scurrilous journal. Moreover, the other news- 
 papers, including even the ' Globe,' which was usually so 
 dignified, published all sorts of statements for which no 
 proof could be supplied, and drew from them remarks and 
 conclusions which, though couched in milder language than 
 Sagnier's, were none the less abominably unjust. It seemed 
 indeed as if the whole press had set itself the task of cover- 
 ing Salvat with mud, so as to be able to vilify Anarchism 
 generally. According to the journalists the prisoner's life 
 had simply been one long abomination. He had already 
 earned his living by thievery in his childhood at the time 
 when he had roamed the streets, an unhappy, forsaken 
 vagrant ; and later on he had proved a bad soldaer and a 
 bad worker. He had been punished for insubordination 
 whilst he was in the army, and he had been dismissed from a 
 dozen workshops because he incessantly disturbed them by 
 his Anarchical propaganda. Later still, he had fled hia 
 country and led a suspicious life of adventure in America, 
 
313 PARIS 
 
 ■where, it was alleged, he must Lave committed all sorts of 
 unkno-wn crimes. Moreover, there was his horrible immor- 
 ality, his connection with his sister-in-law, that Madame 
 Theodore who had taken charge of his forsaken child in his 
 absence, and with whom he had cohabited since his return to 
 France. In this wise Salvat's failings and transgressions 
 were pitilessly denounced and magnified without any mention 
 of the causes which had induced them, or of the excuses 
 which lay in the unhappy man's degrading environment. 
 And so Guillaume's feelings of humanity and justice revolted, 
 for he knew the real Sal vat — a man of tender heart and 
 dreamy mind, so liable to be impassioned by fancies — a man 
 cast into life when a child without weapon of defence, ever 
 trodden down or thrust aside, then gradually exasperated by 
 the perpetual onslaughts of want, and at last dreaming of 
 reviving the golden age by destroying the old, corrupt world. 
 
 Unfortunately for Salvat, everything had gone against 
 him since he had been shut up in strict confinement, at the 
 mercy of the ambitious and worldly Amadieu. Guillaume 
 had learnt from his son, Thomas, that the prisoner could 
 count on no support whatever among his former mates at the 
 Grandidier works. These works were becoming prosperous 
 once more, thanks to their steady output of bicycles ; and it 
 was said that Grandidier was only waiting for Thomas to 
 perfect his little motor, in order to start the manufacture of 
 motor-oars on a large scale. However, the success which he 
 was now for the first time achieving, and which scarcely 
 repaid him for all his years of toil and battle, had in certain 
 respects rendered him prudent and even severe. He did not 
 wish any suspicion to be cast upon his business through the 
 unpleasant affair of his former workman Salvat, and so he had 
 dismissed such of his workmen as held Anarchist views. If 
 he had kept the two ToussaLats, one of whom was the 
 prisoner's brother-in-law, whUe the other was suspected of 
 sympathy with him, this was because they had belonged to 
 the works for a score of years, and he did not like to cast 
 them adrift. Moreover, Toussaint, the father, had declared 
 that if he were called as a witness for the defence, he should 
 simply give such particulars of Salvat's career as related to 
 the prisoner's marriage with his sister. 
 
 One evening when Thomas came home from the works, 
 to which he returned every now and then in order to try his 
 little motor, he related that be bad that day seen Madams 
 
TOWARDS LIFE 313 
 
 Granrlidier, the poor young woman wlio had become insane 
 through an attack of puerperal fever following upon the death 
 of a child. Although most frightful attacks of madness 
 occasionally came over her, and although hfe beside her was 
 extremely painful, even during the intervals when she re- 
 mained downcast and gentle as a child, her husband had 
 never been willing to send her to an asylum. He kept her 
 with him in a pavilion near the works, and as a rule the 
 shutters of the windows overlooking the yard remained closed. 
 Thus Thomas had been greatly surprised to see one of these 
 windows open, and the young woman appear at it amidst the 
 bright sunshine of that early spring. True, she only remained 
 there for a moment, vision-like, fair and pretty, with smUing 
 face ; for a servant who suddenly drew near closed the 
 window, and the pavilion then again sank into lifeless silence. 
 At the same time it was reported among the men employed 
 at the works that the poor creature had not experienced an 
 attack for well-nigh a month past, and that this was the 
 reason why the ' governor ' looked so strong and pleased, and 
 worked so vigorously to help on the increasing prosperity of 
 his business. 
 
 'He isn't a bad fellow,' added Thomas, 'but with the 
 terrible competition that he has to encounter, he is bent on 
 keeping his men under control. Nowadays, says he, when so 
 many eapitaUsts and wage earners seem bent on exterminating 
 one another, the latter — if they don't want to starve — ought 
 to be well pleased when capital falls into the hands of an 
 active, fair-minded man. . . . If he shows no pity for Salvat, 
 it is because he really believes in the necessity of an 
 example.' 
 
 That same day Thomas, after leaving the works and 
 while threading his way through the toilsome hive-like 
 Marcadet district, had overtaken Madame Theodore and little 
 Celine, who were wandering on in great distress. It appeared 
 that they had just called upon Toussaint, who had been 
 unable to lend them even such a trifle as ten sous. Since 
 Salvat's arrest, the woman and the child had been forsaken 
 and suspected by one and all. Driven forth from their 
 wretched lodging, they were without food and wandered 
 hither and thither dependent on chance alms. Never had 
 greater want and misery fallen on defenceless creatures. 
 
 ' I told them to come up here, father,' said Thomas, ' for I 
 thought that one might pay thei; landlord a month's rent, so 
 
314 PARIS 
 
 that they might go home again. ... Ah 1 there's somebody 
 coming now — it's they, no doubt.' 
 
 Gmllaume had felt angry with himself whilst listening to 
 his son, for he had not thought of the poor creatures. It 
 was the old story : the man disappears, and the woman and 
 the child find themselves in the streets, starving. Whenever 
 Justice strikes a man her blow travels beyond him, fells 
 innocent beings and kills them. 
 
 Madame Thdodore came in.ihumble and timid, scared like 
 a luckless creature whom life never wearies of persecuting. 
 She was becoming almost blind, and little Celine had to lead 
 her. The girl's fair, thin face wore its wonted expression of 
 shrewd intelligence, and even now, however woeful her rags, 
 it was occasionally brightened by a childish smile. 
 
 Pierre and Marie, who were both there, felt extremely 
 touched. Near them -was Madame Mathis, young Victor's 
 mother, who had come to help M^re-Grand with the mending 
 of some house-linen. She went out by the day in this 
 fashion among a few families, and was thus enabled to give 
 her son an occasional franc or two. However, Guillaume 
 alone questioned Madame Theodore. 
 
 'Ah! monsieur,' she stammered, 'who could ever have 
 thought Salvat capable of such a thing, he who's so good and 
 so humane ? Still it's true^ since he himself has a£aitted it 
 to the magistrate. . . . For my part I told everybody that he 
 was in Belgiimi. I wasn't quite sure of it, still I'm glad that 
 he didn't come back to see us ; for if he had been arrested at 
 our place I should have lost my senses. . . . Well, now that 
 they have him, they'll sentence him to death, that's 
 certain.' 
 
 At this Celine, who had been looking around her with an 
 air of interest, piteously exclaimed : ' Oh 1 no, oh 1 no, 
 mamma, they won't hurt him I ' 
 
 Big tears appeared in the child's eyes as she raised this 
 cry. Guillaume kissed her, and then went on questioning 
 Madame Theodore. 
 
 ' Well, monsieur,' she answered, ' the child's not old or big 
 enough to work as yet, and my eyes are done for, people 
 won't even take me as a charwoman. And so it's simple 
 enough, we star^'e. ... Oh 1 of course I'm not without re- 
 lations ; I have a sister who married very well. Her husband 
 is a clerk, Monsieur Chretiennot, perhaps you know him. 
 Unfortunately he's rather proud, and as I don't want any 
 
TOWARDS LIFE 315 
 
 scenes between him and my sister, I no longer go to see her. 
 Besides, she's in despair just now, for she's expecting another 
 baby, which is a terrible blow for a small household, when 
 one already has two girls. . . . That's why the only person I 
 can apply to is my brother Toussaint, His wife isn't a bad 
 sort by any means, but she's no longer the same since she's 
 been living in fear of her husband having another attack. 
 The first one carried off all her savings, and what would 
 become of her if Toussaint should remain on her hands, 
 paralysed ? Besides, she's threatened with another burden, 
 for, as you may know, her son Charles got keeping company 
 v/ith a servant at a wine shop, who of course ran away after 
 she had a baby, which she left him to see to. So one can 
 understand that t'ne Toussaints themselves are hard put. 
 I don't complain of them. They've already lent me a httle 
 money, and of course they can't go on lending for ever.' 
 
 She continued talking in this spiritless, resigned way, 
 complaining only on account of Celine ; for, said she, 
 it was enough to make one's heart break to see such an 
 intelligent child obliged to tramp the streets after getting on 
 80 well at the Communal School. She could feel too that 
 everybody now kept aloof from them on account of Salvat. 
 The Toussaints didn't want to be compromised in any such 
 business. There was only Charles who had said that he 
 could well understand a man losing his head and trying to 
 blow up the bourgeois, because they really treated the workers 
 in a blackguard way. 
 
 ' For my part, monsieur,' added Madame Theodore, ' I 
 say nothing, for I'm only a woman. AU the same though, if 
 you'd like to know what I think, well I think that it would 
 have been better if Salvat hadn't done what he did, for we 
 two, the girl and I, are the real ones to suffer from 
 it. Ah 1 I can't get the idea into my head, that the 
 little one should be the daughter of a man condemned to 
 death.' 
 
 Once more Celine interrupted her, flinging her arms 
 around her neck : ' Oh ! mamma, oh 1 mamma, don't say 
 that, I beg you I It can't be true, it grieves me too much ! ' 
 
 At this Pierre and Marie exchanged compassionate 
 glances, while Mere-Grand rose from her chair, in order to 
 go upstairs and search her wardrobes for some articles of 
 clothing which might be of use to the two poor creatures. 
 Guillaume, who, for his part, had been moved to teajs, and 
 
3i6 PARIS 
 
 felt full of revolt against the social system wLicli rendered 
 such distress possible, slipped some alms into [the child's 
 little hand, and promised Madame Theodore that he would 
 see her landlord so as to get her back her room. 
 
 ' Ah 1 Monsieur Froment 1 ' replied the unfortunate 
 woman, ' Salvat was quite right when he said you were a 
 real good man ! And as you employed him here for a few 
 days you know too that he isn't a wicked one. . . . Now 
 that he's been put in prison everybody calls him a brigand, 
 and it breaks my heart to hear them.' Then, turning towards 
 Madame Mathis who had continued sewing in discreet silence, 
 like a respectable woman whom none of these things could 
 concern, she went on : ' I know you, madame, but I'm better 
 acquainted with your son. Monsieur Victor, who has often 
 come to chat at our place. Oh I you needn't be afraid, I 
 shan't say it, I shall never compromise anybody; but if 
 Monsieur Victor were free to speak, he'd be the man to ex- 
 plain Salvat's ideas properly.' 
 
 Madame Mathis looked at her in stupefaction. Ignorant 
 as she was of her son's real life and views, she experienced a 
 vague dread at the idea of any connection between him and 
 that man Salvat's family. Moreover, she refusedto believe it 
 possible. 
 
 ' Oh ! you must be mistaken,' she said, ' Victor told me that 
 he now seldom came to Montmartre, as he was always going 
 about in search of work.' 
 
 By the anxious quiver of the widow's voice, Madame 
 Thdodore understood that she ought not to have mixed her 
 up in her troubles ; and so in all humility she at once beat 
 a retreat : ' I beg your pardon, Madame, I didn't think I 
 should hurt your feelings. Perhaps, too, I'm mistaken, as you 
 say.' 
 
 Madame Mathis had again turned to her sewing as to 
 the solitude in which she lived, that nook of decent misery 
 where she dwelt without companionship and almost un- 
 known, with scarcely suificient bread to eat. Ah 1 that dear 
 son of hers, whom she loved so well; however much he 
 might neglect her, she had placed her only remaining hope in 
 him : he was her last dream, and would some day lavish all 
 kinds of happiness upon her 1 
 
 At that moment Mfere-Grand came downstairs again, laden 
 with a bundle of linen and woollen clothing, and Madame 
 Theodore and little C61ine withdrew while pouring forth 
 
TOWAEDS LIFE 317 
 
 fiheir thanks. For a long time after they had gohe Guillaume, 
 unable to resume •work, continued ■walking to and fro in 
 silence, with a frown upon his face. 
 
 When Pierre, stiU hesitating and still tortured by con- 
 flicting feelings returned to Montmartre on the following 
 day he witnessed with much surprise a visit of a very different 
 kind. There was a sudden gust of wind, a whirl of skirts 
 and a ring of laughter as little Princess Eosemonde swept iu, 
 followed by young Ilyacinthe Duvillard, who, on his side, 
 retained a very frigid bearing. 
 
 'It's I, my dear master,' exclaimed the Princess, 'I 
 promised you a visit, you remember, for I am such a great 
 admirer of your genius. And our young friend here has 
 been kind enough to bring me. We have only just returned 
 from Norway, and my very first visit is for you.' 
 
 She turned as she spoke, and bowed in an easy and 
 gracious way to Pierre and Marie, Fran9ois and Antoine, who 
 were also there. Then she resumed : ' Oh ! my dear master, 
 you have no idea how beautifully virginal Norway is 1 We 
 all ought to go and drink at that new source of the Ideal, 
 and we should return purified, rejuvenated, and capable of 
 great renunciations 1 ' 
 
 As a matter of fact she had been well-nigh bored to death 
 there. To make one's honeymoon journey to the land of the 
 ice and snow, instead of to Italy, the hot land of the sun, was 
 doubtless a very refined idea, which showed that no base 
 materialism formed part of one's aifections. It was the soul 
 alone that travelled, and naturally it was fit that only kisses 
 of the soul should be exchanged on the journey. Un- 
 fortunately, however, Hyacinthe had carried his symbolism 
 so far as to exasperate Eosemonde, and on one occasion they 
 had come to blows over it and then to tears, when this lover's 
 quarrel had ended as many such quarrels do. Briefly they had 
 no longer deemed themselves pure enough for the companion- 
 ship of the swans and the lakes of dreamland, and had 
 therefore taken the first steamer that was sailing for 
 France. 
 
 As it was altogether unnecessary to confess to everybody 
 what a failure their journey had proved, the Princess 
 abruptly brought her rapturous references to Norway to an 
 end, and then exclaimed : ' By the way, do you know what I 
 found awaiting me on my return ? Why, I found my house 
 pillaged, oh ! completely pillaged I And in such a filthy 
 
3i8 PARIS 
 
 condition, too 1 We at once recognised the mark of the beast, 
 and thought of Bergaz's young friends.' 
 
 ~ Already on the previous day Guillaume had read in the 
 newspapers that a band of young Anarchists had entered the 
 Princess's little house by breaking a basement window. She 
 had left it quite deserted, unprotected, even by a caretaker ; 
 and the robbers had not merely removed everything from 
 the premises — including even the larger articles of furniture, 
 but had lived there for a couple of days, bringing provisions 
 in from outside, drinking all the wine they found in the 
 cellars, and leaving every room in a most filthy and disgust- 
 ing condition. On discovering all this, Eosemonde had 
 immediately remembered the evening she had spent at the 
 Chamber of Horrors in the company of Bergaz and his 
 acolytes, Eossi and Sanfaute, who had heard her speak of her 
 intended trip to Norway. The two young men had therefore 
 been arrested, but Bergaz had so far escaped. The 
 Princess was not greatly astonished by it all, for she had 
 already been warned of the presence of dangerous characters 
 among the mixed cosmopolitan set with which she associated. 
 Janzen had told her in confidence of a number of villaiaous 
 afiairs which were attributed to Bergaz and his band. And 
 now the Anarchist leader openly declared that Bergaz had 
 sold himself to the police like Eaphanel ; and that the bur- 
 glary at the Princess's residence had been planned by the 
 police officials, who thereby hoped to cover the Anarchist 
 cause with mare. If proof was wanted of this, added Ja.nzen, 
 it could be found in the fact that the police had allowed 
 Bergaz to escape. 
 
 ' I fancied that the newspapers might have exaggerated 
 matters,' said Guillaume, v/hcn the Princess had finished her 
 story. ' They are inventing such abominable things just 
 now, in order to blacken the ease of that poor devil Salvat.' 
 
 ' Oh I they've exaggerated nothing 1 ' Eosemonde gaily 
 rejoined. ' As a matter of fact they have omitted a number 
 of particulars which wore too filthy for publication. . . . For 
 my part, I've merely had to go to an hotel. I'm very com- 
 fortable there ; I was beginning to feel bored in that house 
 of mine. . . . AH the same, however, Anarchism is hardly a 
 clean busiaess, and I no longer hke to say that I have any 
 connection with it.' 
 
 She again laughed, and then passed to another subject, 
 asking Guillaume to toll her of his most recent researches, ia 
 
TOWAEDS LIFE 319 
 
 order, no doubt, that she might show she knew enough 
 chemistry to understand him. He had been rendered thought- 
 ful, however, by the story of Bergaz and the burglary, and 
 ■would only answer her in a general way. 
 
 Meantime, Hyacinthe was renewing his acquaintance with 
 his schoolfellows, Fran9ois and Antoine. He had accom- 
 panied the Princess to Montmartre against his own inclina- 
 tions; but since she had taken to whipping him he had 
 become afraid of her. The chemist's little home filled him 
 with disdain, particularly as the chemist v.'as a man of 
 questionable reputation. Moreover, he thought it a duty 
 to insist on his own superiority in the presence of those 
 old schoolfellows of his, whom he found toiling away in the 
 common rut, like other people. 
 
 ' Ah 1 yes,' said he to FranQois, who was taking notes from 
 a book spread open before him, 'you are at the Ecole 
 Normale, I believe, and are preparing for your licentiate. 
 Well, for my part, you know, the idea of being tied to any- 
 thing horrifies me. I become quite stupid when there's any 
 question of examination or competition. The only possible 
 road for one to follow is that of the Infinite. And between 
 ourselves what dupery there is in science, how it narrows our 
 horizon ! It's just as well to remain a child with eyes gazing 
 into the invisible. A child knows more than all your learned 
 men.' 
 
 Frangois, who occasionally indulged in irony, pretended to 
 share his opinion, ' No doubt, no doubt,' said he, ' but one 
 must have a natural disposition to remain a child. For my 
 part, unhappily, I'm consumed by a desire to learn and know. 
 It's deplorable, as I'm well aware, but I pass my days racking 
 my brain over books. . , , I shall never know very much, 
 that's certain ; and perhaps that's the reason why I'm ever 
 striving to learn a little more. You must at all events grant 
 that work like idleness is a means of passing life, though of 
 course it is a less elegant and festhetic one.' 
 
 'Less sesthetio, precisely,' rejoined Hyacinthe. 'Beauty 
 lies solely in the unexpressed, and life is simply degraded 
 when one introduces anything material into it.' 
 
 Simpleton though he was in spite of the enormity of his 
 pretensions, he doubtless detected that Frangois had been 
 speaking ironically. So he turned to Antoine, who had re- 
 mained seated in front of a block he was engraving. It waa 
 tlje one which represented Lise reading in her garden, for be 
 
323 - l>AIiIS 
 
 was ever takihg it; in hand again and touching it up, in. his 
 desire to improve bis indication of the girl's awakening to in- 
 telligence and Life. 
 
 ' So you engrave, I see,' said Hyaeinthe. ' Well, since I 
 renounced versification — a little poem I had begun on the 
 End of Woman — because words seemed to me so gross and 
 cumbersome, mere paving-stones as it were, fit for labourers, 
 I myself have had some idea of trying drawing, and perhaps 
 engraving too. But what drawing can portray the mystery 
 which lies beyond life, the only sphere that has any real 
 existence and importance for us ? With what pencil and on 
 what kind of plate could one depict it ? We should need 
 something impalpable, something unheard of, which would 
 merely suggest the essence of things and beings.' 
 
 'But it's only by material means,' Antoine somewhat 
 roughly rephed, 'that art can render the essence of things and 
 beings, that is their fuU significance as we understand it. To 
 transcribe life is my great passion ; and briefly life is the only 
 mystery that there is in things and beings. When it seems 
 to me that an engraving of mine lives, I'm well pleased, for I 
 feel that I have created.' 
 
 Hyaeinthe pouted by way of expressing his contempt of 
 all fruitfulness. Any fool might beget offspring. It was the 
 sexless idea, existing by itself, that was rare and exquisite. 
 He tried to explain this, but became confused, and fell back 
 on the conviction which he had brought back from Norway, 
 that literature and art were done for in France, killed by base- 
 ness and excess of production. 
 
 ' It's evident I ' said Francois gaily by way of conclusion. 
 To do nothing already shows that one has some talent 1 ' 
 
 Meantime, Pierre and Marie listened and gazed around 
 them, somewhat embarrassed by this strange visit which had 
 F.et the usually grave and peaceful workroom topsy-turvj'. 
 The little Princess, however, evinced much amiability, and on 
 drawing near to Marie admired the wonderful delicacy of some 
 embroidery she was finishing. Before leaving, moreover, 
 Eosemonde insisted upon Guillaume inscribing his autograph 
 in an album which Hyaeinthe had to fetch from her carriage. 
 The young man obeyed her with evident boredom. It could 
 be seen that they were already weary of one another. 
 Pending a fresh caprice, however, it amused Eosemonde to 
 terrorise her sorry victim. When she at length led him 
 away, after declaring to Guillaume that she should always 
 
TOWARDS LIFE 321 
 
 regard tliat visit as a memorable incident in her life, she 
 made the wliole household smile by saying : ' Oh I so your sons 
 knew Hyacinthe at college. He's a good-natured little fellow, 
 isn't he ? and he would really be quite nice if he would only 
 behave like other people.' 
 
 That same day Janzen and Bache came to spend the 
 evening with GuiUaiune. Once a week they now met at 
 Montmartre, as they had formerly done at Neuilly. Pierre, 
 on these occasions, went home very late, for as soon as M^re- 
 Grand, Marie, and Gnillaume's sons had retired for the night, 
 there were endless chats in the workroom, whence Paris 
 could be seen spangled with thousands of gas-lights. Another 
 visitor at these times was ThSophile Morin, but he did not 
 arrive before ten o'clock, as he was detained by the work of 
 correcting tis pupils' exercises or some other wearisome 
 labour pertaining to his profession. 
 
 As soon as GuiUaume had told the others of the Prin- 
 cess's visit that afternoon Janzen hastily exclaimed : ' But 
 she's mad, you know. When I first met her I thought for a 
 moment that I might perhaps utilise her for the cause. She 
 seemed so thoroughly convinced and bold ! But I soon 
 found that she was the craziest of women, and simply 
 hungered for new emotions ! ' 
 
 Janzen was at last emerging from his wonted frigidity 
 and mysteriousness. His cheeks were quite flushed. In all 
 probability he had suffered from his rupture with the woman 
 whom he had once called ' The Queen of the Anarchists,' and 
 whose fortune and extensive circle of acquaintance had 
 seemed to him such powerful weapons of propaganda. 
 
 ' You know,' said he, when he had calmed down, ' it 
 was the police who had her house pillaged and turned 
 into a pigstye. Yes, in view of Salvat's trial, which is now 
 near at hand, the idea was to damn Anarchism beyond 
 possibility of even the faintest sympathy on the part of the 
 bourgeois. ' 
 
 ' Yes, she told me so,' replied GuiUaume, who had become 
 attentive. ' But I scarcely credit the story. If Bergaz had 
 merely acted under such influence as you suggest, he would 
 have been arrested with the others, just as Eaphanel was 
 taken with those whom he betrayed. Besides, I know 
 something of Bergaz, he's a freebooter.' GuiUaume made a 
 sorrowful gesture, and then in a saddened voice continued : 
 ' Oh, I can understand aU claims and aU legitimate reprisals. 
 
32 3 PARIS 
 
 But tlieft, eynical theft for the piirpose of profit and enjoy- 
 ment, is beyond me 1 It lowers my hope of a better and 
 more equitable form of Bociety, Yes, that burglary at the 
 Princess's house has greatly distressed me.' 
 
 An enigmatical smile, sharp like a knife, again played 
 over Janzen's lips. ' Oh I it's a matter of heredity -with you 1 ' 
 said he, 'The centuries of education and belief that lie 
 behind you compel you to protest. All the same, however, 
 when people won't make restoration things must be taken from 
 them. What worries me is that Bergaz should have sold 
 himself just now. The public prosecutor will use that 
 farcical burglary as a crushing argument when he asks the 
 jury for Salvat's head.' 
 
 Such was Janzen's hatred of the police that he stubbornly 
 clung to his version of the affair. Perhaps, too, he had 
 quarrelled with Bergaz, with whom he had at one tune freely 
 associated. 
 
 Giiillaume, who understood that aU discussion would be 
 useless, contented himseU with replying : ' Ah 1 yes, Salvat 1 
 Everything is against that unhappy fellow, he is certain to be 
 condemned. But you can't know, my friends, what a pas- 
 sion that affair of his puts me into. All my ideas of truth 
 and justice revolt at the thought of it. He's a madman 
 certainly; but there are so many excuses to be urged for 
 him. At bottom he is simply a martyr who has followed the 
 wrong track. And yet he has become the scapegoat, laden 
 with the crimes of the whole nation, condenmed to pay for 
 one and all 1 ' 
 
 Bache and Morin nodded without replying. They both 
 professed horror of Anarchism ; while Morin, forgetting that 
 the word if not the thing dated from his first master Proud- 
 hon, cluiig to his Comtist doctrines, in the conviction that 
 science alone would ensure the happiness and pacification of 
 the nations. Bache, for his part, old mystical humanitarian 
 that he was, claimed that the only solution would come from 
 Fourier, who by decreeing an alliance of talent, labour, and 
 capital, had mapped out the future in a decisive manner. 
 Nevertheless, both Bache and Morin were so discontented 
 with the slow-paced bourgeoise Eepublic of the present day, 
 and so hurt by the thought that everything was going from 
 bad to worse through the flouting of their own particular 
 ideas, that they were quite willing to wax indignant at the 
 manner ia which the conflicting parties of the time were 
 
TOWARDS LIFE 323 
 
 striving to make use of Salvat in order to retain or acquire 
 power. 
 
 'When one thinks,' said Bache, 'that this ministerial 
 crisis of theirs has now been lasting for nearly three weeks I 
 Every appetite is openly displayed, it's a most disgusting 
 sight 1 Did you see in the papers this morning that the 
 President has again been obliged to summon Vignon to the 
 Elys^e ? • 
 
 ' Oh ! the papers,' muttered Morin, in his weary way, ' I 
 no longer read them 1 What's the use of doing so ? They 
 are so badly written, and they aU lie ! ' 
 
 As Bache had said, the ministerial crisis was still dragging 
 on. The President of the Eepublic, taking as his guide the 
 debate in the Chamber of Deputies, by which the Barroux ad- 
 ministration had been overthrown, had very properly sent for 
 Vignon, the victor on that occasion, and entrusted him with 
 the formation of a new ministry. It had seemed that this 
 would be an easy task, susceptible of accomphshment in two 
 or three days at the utmost, for the names of the friends 
 whom the young leader of the Eadical party would bring to 
 power with him had been freely mentioned for months past. 
 But all sorts of diflSculties had suddenly arisen. For ten days 
 or so Vignon had struggled on amidst inextricable obstacles. 
 Then, disheartened and disgusted, fearing, too, that he might 
 use himself up and shut off the future if he persisted in his 
 endeavours, he had been obliged to tell the President that he 
 renounced the task. Forthwith the President had summoned 
 other deputies, and questioned them until he had found one 
 brave enough to make an attempt on his own account; 
 whereupon incidents similar to those which had marked 
 Vignon's endeavours had once more occurred. At the outset 
 a list was drawn up with every prospect of being ratified 
 within a few hours, but aU at once hesitation arose, some 
 pulled one way, some another ; every effort was slowly 
 paralysed tUl absolute failure resulted. It seemed as though 
 the mysterious manoeuvres which had hampered Vignon had 
 begun again ; it was as if some band of invisible 
 plotters was, for some unknown purpose, doing its utmost to 
 wreck every combination. A thousand hindrances arose with 
 increasing force from every side — jealousy, dislike, and even 
 betrayal were secretly prompted by expert agents, who em- 
 ployed every form of pressure, whether threats or promiseSj 
 besides fanning and casting rival passions and iaterestr into 
 
324 PARIS 
 
 collision. Thns the President, greatly embarrassed by tHia 
 posture of affairs, had again found it necessary to summon 
 Vignon, who, after reflection and negotiation, now had an 
 almost complete list in his pocket, and seemed likely to perfect 
 a new administration within the next forty-eight hours. 
 
 ' Still it isn't settled,' resumed Bache. ' Well-informed 
 people assert that Vignon will fail again as he did the first 
 time. For my part I can't get rid of the idea that Duvillard'a 
 gang ia pulling the strings, though for whose benefit is_ a 
 mystery. You may be quite sure, however, that its chief 
 purpose is to stifle the African Eailways affair. If Monferrand 
 were not so badly compromised I should almost suspect some 
 trick on his part. Have you noticed that the " Globe," after 
 throwing Barroux overboard in all haste, now refers to Mon- 
 ferrand every day with the most respectful sympathy? 
 That's a grave sign ; for it isn't Fonsfegue's habit to show 
 any soHcitude for the vanquished. But what can one expect 
 from that wretched Chamber ! The only point certain is that 
 Bomething dirty is being plotted there.' 
 
 'And that big dunderhead MSge who works for every 
 party except his own ! ' exclaimed Morin ; ' what a dupe he is 
 with that idea that he need merely overthrow first one 
 cabinet and then another, in order to become the leader of 
 one himself 1 ' 
 
 The mention of M^ge brought them all to agreement, for they 
 unanimously hated him. Bache, although his views coincided 
 on many points with those of the apostle of State Collectivism, 
 judged each of his speeches, each of his actions, with pitilesa 
 severity. Janzen, for his part, treated the CoUeetivist leader 
 as a mere reactionary bourgeois, who ought to be swept away 
 one of the first. This hatred of M^ge was indeed the com- 
 mon passion of GuiUaume's friends. They could occasionally 
 show some justice for men who in nowise shared their 
 ideas ; but in their estimation it was an unpardonable crime 
 for anybody to hold much the same views as themselves, 
 without being absolutely in agreement with them on every 
 possible point. 
 
 Their discussion continued, their various theories mingling 
 or clashing till they passed from politics to the press, and 
 grew excited over the denunciationa which poured each 
 morning from Sagnier's newspaper, like filth from the mouth 
 of a sewer. Thereupon Guillaume, who had become absorbed 
 ia reverie while pacing to and fro according to his habiti 
 
TOWARDS LIFE 325 
 
 etddenly exclaimed : ' Ah ! what dirty work it is that Sagnier 
 does 1 Before long there won't be a single person, a single 
 thing left on which he hasn't vomited 1 You think he's on 
 your side, and suddenly he splashes you with mire 1 ... By 
 the way, he related yesterday that skeleton keys and stolen 
 purses were found on Salvat when he was arrested in the 
 Bois de Boulogne I It's always Salvat 1 He's the inex- 
 haustible subject for articles. The mere mention of him 
 suffices to send up a paper's sales I The bribe-takers of the 
 African Eailways shout " Salvat ! " to create a diversion. And 
 the battles which wreck ministers are waged round his 
 name. One and all set upon him and make use of him and 
 beat him down 1 ' 
 
 With that cry of revolt and compassion, the friends 
 separated for the night. Pierre, who sat near the open 
 window overlooking the sparkling immensity of Paris, had 
 listened to the others without speaking a word. He 
 had once more been mastered by his doubts, the terrible 
 struggle of his heart and mind ; and no solution, no appease- 
 ment had come to him from all the contradictory views he 
 had heard — the views of men who only united in predicting 
 the disappearance of the old world, and could make no joint 
 brotherly effort to rear the future world of truth and justice. 
 In that vast city of Paris stretching below him, spangled ' 
 with stars, ghttering Uke the sky of a summer's night, Pierre 
 also found a great enigma. It was like chaos, like a dim 
 expanse of ashes dotted with sparks whence the coming 
 aurora would arise. What future was being forged there, he 
 wondered, what decisive word of salvation and happiness 
 would come with the dawn and wing its flight to every point 
 of the horizon ? 
 
 When Pierre, in his turn, was about to retire, Guillaume 
 laid his hands upon his shoulders, and with much emotion 
 gave him a long look. ' Ah 1 my poor fellow,' said he, ' you've 
 been suffering too for some days past, I have noticed it. 
 But you are the master of your sufferings, for the struggle 
 you have to overcome is simply in yourself, and you can 
 subdue it ; whereas one cannot subdue the world, when it is 
 the world, its cruelty and injustice, that make one suffer 1 
 Good-night ! be brave, act as your reason tells you, even if it 
 makes you weep, and you will find peace surely enough.' 
 
 Later on, when Pierre again found himself alone in hia 
 little house at Neuilly, where none now visited bim save the 
 
326 PARIS 
 
 shades of Lis father and mother, he was long kept awate by 
 a supreme internal combat. He had never "before felt bo 
 disgusted with the falsehood of his life, that cassock which 
 he had persisted in wearing, though he was a priest in name 
 only. Perhaps it was aU that he had beheld and heard at hia 
 brother's, the want and wretchedness of some, the wild, 
 futile agitation of others, the need of improvement among 
 mankind which remained paramount amidst every contradic- 
 tion and form of weakness, that had made him more deeply 
 conscious of the necessity of living in loyal and normal 
 fashion in the broad daylight. He could no longer think of 
 his former dream of leading the solitary life of a saintly priest 
 when he was nothing of^t^ kind, without a shiver of shame 
 at having lied so Ipng. s^d now it was quite decided, he 
 would lie no longer, not eveHsfrom feelings of compassion in 
 order that others might retaiirtheir religious illusions. And 
 yet how painful it was to have 'to divest himself of that gown 
 which seemed to cling to his skin, and how heart-rending the 
 thought that if he did remove it he would be skinless, 
 lacerated, infirm, unabldw do what .he naight, to become 
 like other men ! ^ 
 
 It was this recurring thaoglit which again tortured him 
 throughout that terrible nJH|i-^ Would Ufe yet allow him to 
 enter its fold ? Had he nJffbeen branded with a maxk which 
 for ever condemned him fe/Mw^li apart ? He thought he could 
 feel his priestly vows bun&iM hi^ very flesh hke red-hot iron. 
 What use would it_be for^-qa to dress as men dress, if in 
 reality he was nevKr to hd a'man? He had hitherto Uved 
 in such a quivering state,j In' a sphere of renunciation and 
 dreams 1 To know madlifftid never, to be too late for it, 
 that thought filled him Svilhi terror. And when at last he 
 made up his mind to fiin"^ ^s^e his cassock, he did so from a 
 simple sense of rectitude, fo* all his anguish remained. 
 
 When he returned to Mbntmartre on the following day 
 he wore a jacket and trousers of a dark colour. Neither an 
 exclamation nor a glance that might have embarrassed him 
 came from M^re-Grand or the three young men. Was not 
 the change a natural one ? They greeted him therefore in 
 the quiet way that was usual with them ; perhaps, however, 
 with some increase of affection, as if to set him the more at 
 his ease. Guillaume, however, ventured to smile good- 
 naturedly. In that change he detected his own work. Cure 
 was coming, as he had hoped it would come, by him and in 
 
1^ 
 
 TO WALRUS LIFE 327 
 
 his own Iiome, amid the full sunligbi, tha lifa whieh «Tei! 
 streamed in through yonder windoTT. J 
 
 Marie, ■who on her side raised her eyes and looked at 
 Pierre, knew nothing of the sufferings which he had endured 
 through her simple and logical inquiry : ' Why not take your 
 eassock off? ' She merely felt that by remfoYing it ha would 
 bo more at ease for his work. 1 
 
 ' Oh, Pierre, just come and look ! ' she^suddenly exclaimed, 
 ' I have been amusing myself with watching all the smoke 
 which the wind is laying yonder over Paris, i One might 
 take it to bo a huge fleet of ships shining in the sunlight. 
 Yes, yes, golden ships, thousands of golden ships, setting 
 forth from the ocean of Paris to enlighten and pacify the- 
 world 1 ' 
 
 III 
 
 THE DAWN Off LOVB 
 
 A COUPLE of days afterwards when Pierre was already 
 growing accustomed to his new attire, and no longer gave it a 
 thought, it so happened that on reaching Montmartre he en- 
 countered Abb6 Bose outside the basilica of the Sacred 
 Heart. The old priest, who at first was quite thu^iderstruck 
 and scarcely able to recognise him, ended by takmg hold of 
 his hands and giving him a long look. Then with his eyes 
 full of tears he exclaimed : ' Oh 1 my son, so you have fallen 
 into the awful, state I feared 1 I never mentioned it, but I 
 felt that God had withdrawn from you. Ah ! nothing could 
 wound my heart so cruelly as this.' 
 
 Then, still trembling, he began to lead Pierre away as if 
 to hide such a scandal fiotn the few people who passed by ; 
 Bnd at last, his strength failing bim, he sank upon a heap of 
 bricks lying on the grass of one of the adjoining workyards. 
 
 The sincere grief which his old and affectionate friend dis- 
 played upset Pierre far more than any angry reproaches or 
 curses would have done. Tears had come to his own eyesj 
 BO acute was the suffering he experienced at this meeting 
 which he ought, however, to have foreseen. There was yet 
 another wrenching, and one which made the best of their 
 blooi flow, in that rupttire between Pierre and the saintly 
 
328 PARIS 
 
 man, ■whose charitable dreams and hopes of salvation he had 
 so long shared. There had been so many divine illusions, so 
 many struggles for the relief of the masses, so much re- 
 nunciation and forgiveness practised in common between 
 them in their desire to hasten the har^'est of the future! 
 And now they were parting ; he, Pierre, still young in years, 
 was returning to life, leaving his aged companion to his vain 
 waiting and his dreams. 
 
 In his turn, taking hold of Abb6 Eose's hands, he gave ex-: 
 pression to his sorrow. ' Ah, my friend, my father,' said he, 
 ' it is you alone that I regret losing, now that I am leaving 
 my frightful torments behind. I thought that I was cured of 
 them, but it has been sufficient for me to meet you, and my 
 heart is rent again. . . . Don't weep for me, I pray you, don't 
 reproach me for what I have done. It was necessary that I 
 should do it. If I had consulted you, you would yourself 
 have told me that it was better to renounce the priesthood 
 than to remain a priest without faith or honour.' 
 
 'Yes, yes,' Abbd.-Eose gently responded, 'you no longer 
 had any faith left. I suspected it. And your rigidity and 
 saintliness of hfe, in which I detected such great despair, mads 
 me anxious for you. How many hours did I not spend at 
 times in striving to calm you I And you must Usten to me 
 again, you must still let me save you. I am not a sufficiently 
 learned theologian to lead you back by discussing texts and 
 dogmas ; but in the name of Charity, my child, yes, in the 
 name of Charity alone, reflect and take up your task of conso- 
 lation and hope once more.' 
 
 Pierre had sat down beside Abbe Eose, in that deserted 
 nook, at the very foot of the basilica. ' Charity t charity ! ' 
 he replied in passionate accents ; ' why it is its nothingness 
 and bankruptcy that have kiUed the priest there was in me. 
 How can you beheve that benevolence is sufficient, when you 
 have spent your whole life in practising it without any other 
 result than that of seeing want perpetuated and even in- 
 creased, and without any possibility of naming the day when 
 such abomination shall cease ? . . . You think of the reward 
 after death, do you not ? The justice that is to reign in 
 heaven ? But that is not justice, it is dupery — dupery that 
 has brought the world nothing but STiffering for centuries 
 past.' 
 
 Then he reminded the old priest of their life in the 
 Charonne district, when they had gone about together sue- 
 
THE DAWN OF LOVE 329 
 
 oouring children in the streets and parents in their hovels ; 
 the whole of those admirable efforts which, so far as Abb6 
 Bose was concerned, had simply ended in blame from his 
 superiors, and removal from proximity to his poor, under 
 penalty of more severe punishment should he persist in com- 
 promising religion by the practice of blind benevolence 
 ■without reason or object. And now, was he not, so to say, 
 submerged beneath the ever-rising tide of want, aware that 
 he would never, never be able to give enough even should he 
 dispose of millions, and that he could only prolong the agony 
 of the poor, who, even should they eat to-day, would starve 
 again on the morrow ? Thus he was powerless. The wound 
 which he tried to dress and heal, immediately reopened and 
 spread, in such wise that all society would at last be stricken 
 and carried off by it. 
 
 Quivering as he listened, and slowly shaking his white 
 head, the old priest ended by replying : ' What does that 
 matter, my child ? what does that matter ? One must give, 
 always give, give in spite of everything 1 There is no other 
 joy on earth. ... If dogmas worry you, content yourself 
 with the Gospel, and even of that retain merely the promise 
 of salvation through charity ' 
 
 But at this Pierre's feelings revolted. He forgot that he 
 was speaking to one of simple mind, who was all love and 
 nothing else, and could therefore not follow him. ' The trial 
 has been made,' he answered, ' human salvation cannot be 
 effected by charity, nothing but justice can accomplish it. 
 That is the gathering cry which is going up from every 
 nation. For nearly two thousand years now the Gospel has 
 proved a failure. There has been no redemption ; the 
 Bufferings of mankind are every whit as great and unjust as 
 they were when Jesus came. And thus the Gospel is now 
 but an abolished code, from which society can only draw 
 things that are troublous and hurtful. Men must &ee them- 
 selves from it.' 
 
 This was his final conviction. How strange the idea, 
 thought he, of choosing as the world's social legislator one 
 who lived, as Jesus lived, amidst a social system absolutely 
 different from that of nowadays. The age was different, the 
 very world was different. And if it were merely a question of 
 retaining only such of the moral teaching of Jesus as seemed 
 human and eternal, was there not again a clanger in applying 
 immutable principles to the society of every age ? No society 
 
33° PAEIS 
 
 could live nndGr tbeskietlawof theGospel. Was not all order, 
 all labour, all life destroyed by the teaching of Jesua ? Did 
 He not deny woman, the earth, eternal nature, and the eternal 
 fruitfulness of things and beings ? Moreover, Catholicism 
 had reared upon His primitive teaching such a frightful edifice 
 of terror and oppression. The theory of original sin, that 
 terrible heredity reviving with each creature bom into the 
 world, made no allowance as Science does for the corrective 
 influences of education, circumstances,,- and environment. 
 There could be no more pessimist conception of man than 
 this one which devotes him to the Devil from the instant of 
 his birth, and pictures him as struggling against himself 
 until the instant of his death. An impossible and absurd 
 struggle, for it is a question of changing man, in his entirety, 
 killing the flesh, kiUing reason, destroying some guilty 
 energy in each and every passion, and of pursuing the Devil 
 to the very depths of the waters, mountains and forests, there 
 to annihilate him with the very sap of the world. If this 
 theory is accepted the world is but sin, a mere Hell of 
 temptation and suffering, through which one must pass in 
 order to merit Heaven. Ah 1 what an admtirable instrument 
 for absolute despotism is that religion of death, which the 
 principle of charity alone has enabled men to tolerate, but 
 which the need of justice will perforce sweep away. The 
 poor man, who is the wretched dupe of it all, no longer 
 believes in Paradise, but requires that each and all should be 
 rewarded according to their deserts upon this earth ; and 
 thus eternal life becomes the good goddess, and desire and 
 labour the very,laws of the world, while the fruitfulness of 
 woman is again honoured, and the idiotic nightmare of. Hell 
 is replaced by glorious . Nature whose travail k^ows no end. 
 Leaning upon modern Science, clear Latin reason sweeps 
 away the faicient Semitic conception of the Gospel. 
 
 ' For s^hteen hundred years,' concluded Pierre, ' Chris- 
 tianity has been hampering the march of mankind towardiS 
 truth and justice. And mankind wiU only resume its evolu- 
 tion on the day when it abolishes Christianity, and places the 
 Gospel among the works of the wise, without takmg it any 
 longer as its absolute and final law.' 
 
 But Abb6 Eose raised his trembling hands : ' Be quiet, be 
 quiet, my child I ' he cried ; ' you are blaspheming 1 I knew 
 that doubt distracted you ; but I thought you so patient, so 
 able to bear suffering, that I relied on your spirit of renuncia- 
 
THE DAWN DF LOVE 331 
 
 tioH and resignation. What can havo happened to make 
 you leave the Church in this ahrupt and violent fashion ? I 
 no longer recognise you. Sudden passion has sprung up in 
 you, an invincible force seems to carry you away. What is 
 it ? Who has changed you, tell me ? ' 
 
 Pierre listened in astonishment. '.No,' said he,, ' I assure 
 you, I am such as you have known me, and iii all this there is but 
 an inevitable result and finish. Who could have influenced 
 me, since nobody has entered my Ufe? What new feeling 
 Could transform rne, since I find none in me ? I am the 
 same as before, the same assuredly.' 
 
 Still there was a touch of hesitation in his voice. Was 
 it really true that there had been no change within him ? Ha 
 again questioned himself, and there came no cleat answer ; 
 decidedly, he could find nothing. It was aU but a' delightful 
 awakening, 'an overpowering desire for life, a longing to open 
 his arms widely enough to embrace everyone and everything. 
 Indeed, a breeze of joy seemed to raise him from the ground 
 and carry him along. 
 
 Although Abb6 Eose wag too innocent of heart to under- 
 stand things clearly, he again shook his head and thought of 
 the snares which the Devfl is ever setting for men. He was 
 quite overwhelnied by Pierre's defection. Continuing his 
 efforts to win him back, he made the mistake of advising him 
 to consult Monseigneur Martha, for he hoped that a pre- 
 late of such high authority would find the words necessary 
 to restpre him to his faith. Pierre, however, boldly replied 
 that if he was leaving the Church it was partly because' it 
 comprfSed such a man as Martha, such an artisaij of decep- 
 tion and despotism, one who turned religion into corrupt 
 diplomacy, and dreamt of winning men back to God by dint 
 of ruses. Thereupon Abb6 Eose, rising to his feet, could 
 find no other argument in his despair than that of pointing 
 to the basilica which stood beside them, square, huge, and 
 massive, and still waiting for its dome. 
 
 ' That is God's abode, my child,' said he,. ' the edifice of 
 expiation and triumph, of penitence and forgiveness. You 
 have said mass in it, and now you are leaving it sacrilegiously 
 and forswearing yourself I ' 
 
 But Pierre. also had risen; and buoyed up by a sudden 
 rush of health and strength he answered : ' No, no 1 I am 
 leaving it wilUngly, as one leaves a dark vault, to return into 
 the open air and the broad sunlight. God does not dwell 
 
33* PARIS 
 
 there; the only purpose of that huge edifice is to defy 
 reason, truth, and justice ; it has been erected on the highest 
 spot that could be found like a citadel of error that dominates, 
 insults, and threatens Paris 1 ' 
 
 Then, seeing that the old priest's eyes were again filling 
 with tears, and feeling on his own side so pained by their 
 rupture that he began to sob, Pierre wished to go away. 
 • Farewell 1 farewell I ' he stammered. 
 
 But Abb6 Rose caught him in his arms and kissed him, 
 as if he were a rebellious son who yet had remained the 
 dearest. ' No, not farewell, not farewell, my child,' he 
 answered ; ' say rather till we meet again. Promise me that 
 we shall see each other again, at least among those who 
 starve and weep. It is all very well for you to think that 
 charity has become bankrupt, but shall we not always love 
 one another in loving our poor ? ' 
 
 Then they parted. 
 
 On becoming the companion of his three big nephews, 
 Pierre had in a few lessons learnt from them how to ride a 
 bicycle, in order that he might occasionally accompany them 
 on their morning excursions. He went twice with them and 
 Marie along the somewhat roughly paved roads in the 
 direction of the Lake of Enghien. Then one morning when 
 the young woman had promised to take him and Antoine as 
 far as the forest of St. Germain, it was found at the last 
 moment that Antoine could not come. Marie was already 
 dressed in a chemisette of fawn-coloured silk, and a little 
 jacket and 'rationals' of black serge, and it was such a 
 warm, bright April day that she was not inclined to renounce 
 her trip. 
 
 ' Well, so much the worse ! ' she gaily said to Pierre, ' I 
 shall take you with me, there wUl only be the pair of us. I 
 really want you to see how delightful it is to bowl over a 
 good road between the beautiful trees.' 
 
 However, as tierre was not yet a very expert rider, 
 they decided that they would take the train as far as Maisons- 
 Laffitte, whence they would proceed on their bicycles to the 
 forest, cross it in the direction of St. Germain, and after- 
 wards return to Paris by train. 
 
 ' You will be here for d&jeuner, won't you ? ' asked Guil- 
 laume, whom this freak amused, and who looked with a smile 
 at bis brother. The latter, like Marie, was in black : jacket) 
 breeches, and stockings all of the same hue. 
 
THE LhAWN OF LOVE 333 
 
 ' Oh, certainly ! ' replied Marie. ' It's now barely eight 
 o'clock, so we have plenty of time. Still you need not wait 
 for us, you know, we shall always find our way back.' 
 
 It was a dehghtful morning. When they started, Pierra 
 could fancy himself with a friend of his own sex, so that this 
 trip together through the warm sunlight seemed quite 
 natural. Doubtless their costumes, which were so much 
 alike, conduced to the gay brotherly feeling he experienced. 
 But beyond all this there was the healthfulness of the open 
 air, the dehght which exercise brings, the pleasure of 
 roaming in all freedom through the midst of nature. 
 
 On taking the train they found themselves alone in a 
 compartment, and Marie once more began to talk of her 
 college days. ' Ah 1 you've no idea,' said she, ' what fine 
 games at baseball we used to have at Fdnelon 1 We used to 
 tie up our skirts with string so as to run the better, for we 
 were not allowed to wear rationals like I'm wearing now. 
 And there were shrieks, and rushes, and pushes, tUl our hair 
 waved about and we were quite red with exercise and ex- 
 citement. Still that didn't prevent us from working ia the 
 class-rooms. On the contrary ! Directly we were at study 
 we fought again, each striving to learn the most and reach 
 the top of the class I ' 
 
 She laughed gaily as she thus recalled her school life, and 
 Pierre glanced at her with candid admiration, so pink and 
 healthy did she look under her little hat of black felt, which 
 a long silver pin kept in position. Her fine dark hair was 
 caught up behind, showing her neck, which looked as fresh 
 and dehcate as a child's. And never before had she seemed 
 to him so supple and so strong. 
 
 ' Ah,' she continued in a jesting way, ' there is nothing 
 like rationals, you know 1 To think that some women are 
 foolish and obstinate enough to wear skirts when they go out 
 cycling I ' 
 
 Then, as he declared — just by way of speaking the truth, 
 and without the faintest idea of gallantry — that she looked 
 very nice indeed in her costume, she responded : ' Oh I I 
 don't count. I'm not a beauty. I simply enjoy good health. 
 . . . But can you understand it ? To think that women have 
 an unique opportunity of putting themselves at their ease, 
 and releasing their limbs from prison, and yet they won't do 
 BO I If they think that they look the prettier in short skirts like 
 Bohoolgirla they are vastly mistaken I And as for any question 
 
334 PARIS 
 
 ei moSesty, well it seems to me that it is infinitely less objec- 
 tionable for women to wear rationals than to bare their bosoms 
 at balls and theatres and dinners as society ladies do.' Then, . 
 with a gesture of girlish impulsiveness, she added: 'Besides, 
 does one think of such things when one's rolling along ? . . . 
 Yes, rationals are the only things, skirts are rank heresy ! ' 
 
 In her turn, she was now looking at him, and was struck 
 by the extraordinary change which had come over him since 
 the day when he had first appeared to her, so sombre in his 
 long cassock, with his face emaciated, livid, almost distorted 
 by anguish. It was like a resurrection, for now his counten- 
 ance was bright, his lofty brow had aU the serenity of hope, 
 while his eyes and lips once more showed some of the con- 
 fident tenderness which sprang from his everlasting thirst for 
 love, self -bestowal, and life. AU mark of the priesthood had 
 already left him, save that where he had been tonsured his 
 hair still remained rather short. 
 
 ' Why are you looking at me ? ' he asked. , 
 
 'I was noticing how much good has been done you by 
 work and the open air,' she frankly answered, ' I much prefer 
 you as you are. You used to look so poorly. I thought you 
 really ill.' 
 
 ' So I was,' said he. 
 
 The train, however, was now stopping at Maisons- 
 Laffitte. They alighted from it, and at once took the road to 
 the forest. This road rises gently till it reaches the Maisong- 
 gate, and on market days it is often crowded with carts. 
 
 * I shall go first, eh ? ' said Marie, gaily, ' for vehicles 
 still alarm you.' 
 
 Thereupon she started ahead, but every now and again 
 she turned with a smile to see if he were following her. And 
 every time they overtook and passed a cart she spoke to him 
 of the merits of their machines, which both came from the 
 Grandidier works. They were ' Lisettes,' examples of those 
 popular bicycles which Thomas had helped to perfect, and 
 which the Bon MarchS now sold in large numbers for 250 
 francs apiece. Perhaps they were rather heavy in appear- 
 ance, but on the other hand their strength was beyond ques- 
 tion. They were just the machines for a long journey, so 
 Marie declared. 
 
 ' Ah I here's the forest,' she at last exclaimed, ' We have 
 BOW reached the end of the rise; aad you will see what 
 
THE DAV/N OF LOVE 33S 
 
 Bplendid avenues there ar». One can boirl along ihem as on 
 a velvet carpet.' 
 
 Pierre had already joined her, and they rode on side by 
 side along the broad straight avenue fringed with magnificent 
 trees. 
 
 ' I am all right now,' said Pierre, ' your pupil will end fcy 
 doing you honour, I hope.' 
 
 ' Oh I I've no doubt of it. You already have a very good 
 seat, and before long you'll leave me behind, for a woman 
 is never a man's equal in a matter like this. At the same 
 time, however, what a capital education cycling is for 
 women I ' 
 
 ' In what way ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I've certain ideas of my own on the subject ; and 
 if ever I have a daughter I shall put her on a bicycle as soon 
 as she's ten years old, just to teach her how to conduct her- 
 self in life.' 
 
 ' Education by experience, eh ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, why not ? Look at the big girls who are brought 
 up hanging to their mothers' apron-strings. Their parents 
 frighten them with everything, they are allowed no initiative^ 
 no exercise of judgment or decision, so that at times they 
 hardly know how to cross a street, to such a degree does the 
 traiSo ailarm them. Well, I say that a girl ought to be set 
 on a bicycle in her childhood, and allowed to follow the roads. 
 She will then learn to open her eyes, to look out for stones and 
 avoid them, and to turn in the right direction at every bend 
 or crossway. If a vehicle comes up at a gallop or any 
 other danger presents itself, she'll have to make up her mind 
 on the instant, and steer her course firmly and properly if she 
 does not wish to lose a limb. Briefly, doesn't all this 
 supply proper apprenticeship for one's will, and teach one how 
 to conduct and defend oileself ? ' 
 
 Pierre had begun to laugh. ' You will all be too healthy,' 
 he remarked, 
 
 ' Oh, one must be healthy if one wants to be happy. But 
 what I; wish to convey is that those who learn to avoid 
 stones and to turn properly along the highways will know 
 how to overcome difficulties, and take the best decisions in 
 after life. The whole of edupation lies in knowledge and 
 energy.' 
 
 ' So ■women are to be emancipated by cycling ? ' 
 
356 PARIS 
 
 ' Well, why not ? It may seem a droll idea ; but sea what 
 progress has been made already 1 By wearing rationala 
 women free their limbs from prison ; then the facilities 
 which cycling affords people for going out together tend to 
 greater intercourse and equality between the sexes ; the wife 
 and the children can follow the husband everywhere, and 
 friends like ourselves are at liberty to roam hither and 
 thither without astonishing anybody. In this lies the 
 greatest advantage of all, one takes a bath of air and sun- 
 shine, one goes back to nature, to the earth, our common 
 mother, from whom one derives fresh strength and gaiety of 
 heart 1 Just look how delightful this forest is. And how 
 healthy tlie breeze that inflates our lungs ! Yes, it all puri- 
 fies, calms, and encourages one.' 
 
 The forest, which was quite deserted on week days, 
 stretched out in quietude on either hand, with sunlight filter- 
 ing between its deep bands of trees. At that hour the rays 
 only illumined one side of the avenue, there gilding the lofty 
 drapery of verdure ; on the other, the shady side, the greenery 
 seemed almost black. It was truly delightful to skini, 
 swallow-like, over that royal avenue in the fresh atmosphere, 
 amidst the waving of j grass and fohage, whose powerful scent 
 swept against one's face. Pierre and Marie scarcely touched 
 the soil; it was as if wings had come to them, and were 
 carrying them on with a regular flight, through alternate 
 patches of shade and sunshine, and all the scattered vilaUty 
 of the far-reaching, quivering forest with its mosses, its 
 sources, its animal and its insect life. 
 
 Marie would not stop when they reached the crossway of 
 the Croix de Noailles, a spot where people congregate on Sun- 
 days, for she was acquainted with secluded nooks, which were 
 far more charming resting-places. When they reached the 
 slope going down towards Poissy she roused Pierre, and they 
 let their machines rush on. Then came all the joyous 
 intoxication of speed, the rapturous feeling of darting along 
 breathlessly while the grey road flees beneath one, and the 
 trees on either hand turn like the opening folds of a fan. The 
 breeze blows tempestuously, and one fancies that one is 
 journeying yonder towards the horizon, the infinite, which 
 ever and ever recedes. It is like boundless hope, delivery 
 from every shackle, absolute freedom of motion through 
 space. And nothing can inspirit one more gloriously — ona'B 
 heart leaps as if one were in the very heavens. 
 
THE DAWN OF LOVE 337 
 
 _ • We are not going to Poissy, you know I ' Marie suddenly 
 cried, ' we have to turn to the left.' 
 
 They took the road from Achlres to the Loges, which 
 ascends and contracts, thus bringing one closer together in 
 the shade. Gradually slowing down, they began to exert 
 themselves in order to make their way up the incline. This 
 road was not so good as the others, it had been gullied by the 
 recent heavy rains, and sand and gravel lay about. But then 
 is there not even a pleasure in effort ? 
 
 ' You will get used to it,' said Marie to Pierre, ' it's 
 amusing to overcome obstacles. For my part I don't like 
 roads which are invariably smooth. A little ascent which 
 does not try one's limbs too much rouses and inspirits one. 
 And it is so agreeable to find oneself strong, and able to go 
 on and on in spite of rain, or wind, or hills.' 
 
 Her bright humour and courage quite charmed Pierre, 
 'And so,' said he, 'we are off for a journey round 
 France ? ' 
 
 ' No, no, we've arrived. You won't dislike a little rest, 
 eh ? And now, tell me, wasn't it worth our while to come 
 on here and rest in such a nice, fresh, quiet spot ? ' 
 
 She nimbly sprang off her machine and, bidding him 
 follow her, turned into a path, along which she went some 
 fifty paces. They placed their bicycles against some trees, 
 and then found themselves in a little clearing, the most ex- 
 quisite, leafy nest that one could dream of. The forest here 
 assumed an aspect of secluded sovereign beauty. The spring- 
 tide had endowed it with youth, the foliage was light and 
 virginal, like delicate green lace flecked with gold by the 
 Bun-rays. And from the herbage and the surrounding 
 thickets arose a breath of life, laden with all the powerful 
 aroma of the earth. 
 
 ' It's not too warm as yet, fortunately,' exclaimed Marie, 
 as she seated herself at the foot of a young oak tree against 
 which she leant. ' In July ladies get rather red by the time 
 they reach this spot, and all the powder comes off their faces. 
 However, one can't always be beautiful.' 
 
 ' Well, I'm not cold by any means,' replied Pierre, as ha 
 Bat at her feet wiping his forehead. 
 
 She laughed, and answered that she had never before 
 Been him with such a colour. Then they began to talk like 
 children, like two young friends, finding a source of gaiety in 
 the most puerile things. She was somewhat anxious about 
 
 z 
 
338 PARIS 
 
 his health, however, and would not allow him to remain 
 in the cool shade, as he felt so very warm. In order to tran- 
 quiUisG her, he had to change his place and seat himseK with 
 his back to the sun. Then, a httle later, he saved her from 
 a large black spider, which had caught itself in the wavy 
 hair on the nape of her neck. At this all her womanly 
 nature reappeared, and she shrieked with terror. ' How stupid 
 it was to be afraid of a spider 1 ' she exclaimed a moment 
 afterwards ; yet, in spite of her efforts to master herself, she 
 remained pale and trembling. 
 
 Silence at last fell between them, and they looked at one 
 another with a smile. In the midst of that delicate greenery 
 they felt drawn together by frank affection— the affection of 
 brother and sister, so it seemed to them. It made Marie very 
 happy to think that she had taken an interest in Pierre, and 
 that his return to health was largely her ovm work. How- 
 ever, their eyes never fell, their hands never met, even as they 
 sat there toying with the grass, for they were as pure, as 
 unconscious of all evil as were the lofty oaks around them. 
 
 At last Marie noticed that time was flying. ' You know 
 that they expect us back to lunch,' she exclaimed. ' V/e 
 ought to be off.' 
 
 Thereupon they rose, wheeled their bicycles back to the 
 highway, and starting off again at a good pace passed the 
 Loges and reached St. Germain by the fine avenue which 
 conducts to the chateau. It charmed them to take their 
 course again side by side like birds of equal flight. Their 
 little bells jingled, their chains rustled lightly, and a fresh 
 breeze swept past them as they resumed their talk, quite at 
 ease, and so linked together by friendship that they seemed 
 far removed from all the rest of the world. 
 
 They took the train from St. Germain to Paris, and on the 
 journey Pierre suddenly noticed that Marie's cheeks were 
 purpling. There were two ladies with them in the compart- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said he, ' so you feel warm in your turn now.' 
 
 But she protested the contrary, her face glowing more and 
 more brightly as she spoke, as if some sadden feehng of shame 
 quite upset her. ' No, I'm not warm,' said she, 'just feel my 
 hands. . . . But how ridiculous it is to blush like this 
 without any reason for it ! ' 
 
 He understood her. This was one of those involuntary 
 blushing fits which so distressed her, and which, as M6re- 
 
THE DAWN OF LOVE 339 
 
 Grand had remarked, brouglit her heart to her veiy ehooks. 
 There was no cause for it, as she herself said. After slum- 
 bering m all innocence in the solitude of the forest her heart 
 had begun to beat, despite herself. 
 
 Meantime, over yonder at Montmartre, Guillaumo had 
 spent his morning in preparing some ' of that mystorions 
 powdfer, the cartridges of which he concealed upstairs in 
 Mere-Grand's bedroom. Great danger attended this manu- 
 facture. The slightest forgetfulness while he was manipulat- 
 ing the ingredients, any delay too, in turning off a tap, might 
 lead to a terrible explosion, which would annihilate the 
 building and all who might be in it. For this reason he 
 preferred to work when he was alone, so that on the one 
 hand, there might be no danger for others, and on the other, 
 less likelihood of his own attention being diverted from his 
 task. That morning, as it happened, his three sons were 
 working in the room, and Mere-Grand sat sewing near the 
 furnace. Truth to tell, she did not count, for she scarcely 
 ever left her place, feeling quite at ease there, however 
 great might be the peril, Indeed, she had become so well 
 acquainted with the various phases of Guillaume's delicate 
 operations, and their terrible possibilities, that she would 
 occasionally give him a helping hand. 
 
 That morning, as she sat there mending some house 
 linen — her eyesight still being so keen that in spite of hei: 
 seventy years she wore no spectacles — she now and again 
 glanced at Guillaume as if to make sure that, he forgot 
 nothing. Then feeling satisfied she would once .more beiid 
 over her work. She remained very strong and active. Her 
 hair was only just turning white, aud she had kept all her 
 teeth ; while her face still looked refined, though- it was slowly 
 withering with age and had acquired an expression of some 
 severity. As a rule she was a woman of few words ; her life 
 was one of activity and good management. When she opened 
 her lips it was usually to give advieej to counsel reason, 
 energy, and courage. Eor some time past she had been grow- 
 ing more taciturn than ever, as if aU her attention were 
 claimed by the household matters which were in her sole 
 charge ; still her fine eyes would rest thoughtfully on those 
 about her, on the three young men, and on Guillaume, 
 Marie, and Pierre, j^o all obeyed her as if she were their ac- 
 knowledged queen. H she looked at them in that pensive 
 way, was it that she foresaw certain changes? and noticed 
 ■ ■'■•■■ 53 
 
340 PARIS 
 
 certain incidenis of which the others remained tmcoBscious ? 
 Perhaps so. At all events she became even graver, and more 
 attentive than in the past. It was as if she were waiting for 
 some hour to strike when all her wisdom and authority would 
 be required. 
 
 ' Be careful, GuiUaume,' she at last remarked, as she once 
 more looked up from her sewing. ' You seem absent-minded 
 this morning. Is anything worrying you ? ' 
 
 He glanced at her with a smile. ' No, nothing, I assure 
 you,' he replied. 'But I was thinking of our dear Marie, 
 who was BO glad to go off to the forest in this bright sun- 
 shine.' 
 
 Antoine, who heard the remark, raised his head, while his 
 brothers remained absorbed in their work. ' What a pity it 
 is that I had this block to finish,' said he, ' I would willingly 
 have gone with her.' 
 
 ' Oh, no matter,' his father quietly rejoined. ' Pierre ia 
 with her, and he is very cautious.' 
 
 For another moment Mere-Grand continued scrutinising 
 GuiUaume ; then she once more reverted to her sewing. 
 
 If she exercised such sway over the home and all its in- 
 mates, it was by reason of her long devotion, her intelligence, 
 and the kindliness with which she ruled. Uninfluenced by 
 any religious faith, and disregarding all social conventionaU- 
 ties, her guiding principle in everything was the theory of 
 human justice wMch she had arrived at after suffering so 
 grievously from the injustice which had killed her husband. 
 She put her views into practice with wonderful courage, 
 knowing nothing of any prejudices, but accomplishing her 
 duty, such as she understood it, to the very end. And in the 
 same way as she had first devoted herself to her husband, and 
 next to her daughter Marguerite, so at present she devoted 
 herself to GuiUaume and his sons. Pierre, whom she had 
 first studied with some anxiety, had now, too, become a member 
 of her family, a dweller in the little realm of happiness which 
 she ruled. She had doubtless found him worthy of admission 
 into it, though she did not reveal the reason why. After 
 days and days of silence she had simply said, one evening to 
 Guillaums, that he bad done well in bringing his brother to 
 live among them. 
 
 Time flew by as she sat sewing and thinking. Towards 
 Jsoon GuiUaume, who was still at work, suddenly remarked 
 to her ; ' As Marie and Pierre haven't cpme back, we had 
 
THE DAWN OF LOVE 341 
 
 better let the lunch wait a Uttle while. Besides, I should like 
 to finish what I'm about.' 
 
 Another quarter of an hour then elapsed. Finally, the 
 three young men rose from their work, and went to wash 
 their hands at a tap in the garden. 
 
 ' Marie is very late,' now remarked M^re-Grand. ' We 
 must hope that nothing has happened to her.' 
 
 ' Oh I she rides so well,' replied Guillaume. I'm more 
 anxious on account of Pierre.' 
 
 At this the old lady again fixed her eyes on him, and 
 Baid : ' But Marie will have guided Pierre, they already ride 
 very well together.' 
 
 ' No doubt, still I should be better pleased if they were 
 back home.' 
 
 Then all at once, fancying that he heard the ring of a 
 bicycle bell, he called, out : ' There they are 1 ' And forget- 
 ting everything else in his satisfaction, he quitted his furnace 
 and hastened into the garden in order to meet them. 
 
 M^re-Grand, left to herself, quietly continued sewing, 
 without a thought that the manufacture of Guillaume's 
 powder was drawing to an end in an apparatus near her. 
 A couple of minutes later, however, when Guillaume came back, 
 saying that he had made a mistake, his eyes suddenly rested 
 on his furnace, and he turned quite livid. Brief as had been 
 his absence the exact moment when it was necessary to turn 
 off a tap in order that no danger might attend the prepara- 
 tion of his powder, had already gone by ; and now, unless 
 someone should dare to approach that terrible tap, and 
 boldly turn it, a fearful explosion might take place. Doubt- 
 less it was too late already, and whoever might have the 
 bravery to attempt the feat would be blown to pieces. 
 
 GuiUaume himself had often run a similar risk of death 
 with perfect composure. But on this occasion he remained 
 as if rooted to the floor, unable to take a step, paralysed by 
 the dread of annihilation. He shuddered and stammered in 
 momentary expectation of a catastrophe which would hurl 
 the workshop to the heavens. 
 
 'MSre-Grand, M^re-Grand,' he stammered. 'The ap- 
 paratus, the tap . . . it is all over, all over I ' 
 
 The old woman had raised her head without as yet under- 
 standing him. ' Eh, what ? ' said she, ' what is the matter 
 with you?' Then, on seeing how distorted were his fea- 
 tures, how he recoiled as if mad with terror, she glanced at 
 
342 PARIS 
 
 the furnace and realised the danger. ' Well, but it's simple 
 enough,' said she, ' it's only necessary to turn off the tap, 
 eh?' 
 
 Thereupon, without any semblance of haste, in the most 
 easy and natural manner possible, she deposited her needle- 
 work on a little table, rose from her chair, and turned off the 
 tap with a light but firm hand. ' There 1 it's done,' said 
 she. ' But why didn't you do it yourself, my friend ? ' 
 
 He had watched her in bewilderment, chilled to the bones, 
 as if touched by the hand of death. And when some colour 
 at last returned to his cheeks, and he found himself still alive 
 in front of the apparatus whence no harm could now come, he 
 heaved a deep sigh, and again shuddered. 'Why I did not 
 turn it off ? ' he repeated. ' It was because I felt afraid.' 
 
 At that very moment Marie and Pierre came into the 
 workshop all chatter and laughter, delighted with their 
 excursion, and bringing with them the bright joyousness of 
 the sunlight. The three brothers, Thomas, Francois, and 
 Antoine, were jesting with them, and trying to make them 
 confess that Pierre had at least fought a battle with a cow on 
 the high road, and ridden into a cornfield. All at once, how- 
 ever, they became quite anxious, for they noticed that their 
 father looked terribly upset. 
 
 ' My lads,' said he, ' I've just been a coward. Ah ! it's 
 a curious feeling, I had never experienced it before.' 
 
 Thereupon he recounted his fears of an accident, and how 
 quietly Mke-Grand had saved them aU from certain death. 
 She waved her hand, however, as if to say that there was 
 nothing particularly heroic in turruDg off a tap. The young 
 men's eyes nevertheless fiUed with tears, and one after the 
 other they went to kiss her with a fervour, instinct with aU 
 the gratitude and worship they felt for her. She had been 
 devoting herself to them ever since their infancy, she had 
 now just given them a new lease of life. Marie also threw 
 herself into her arms, kissing her with gratitude and emotion, 
 M.^re-Grand herself was the only one who did not shed tears. 
 She strove to calm them, begging them to exaggerate nothing 
 and to remain sensible. 
 
 ' Well, you must at all events let me kiss you as the others 
 have done,' Guillaume said to her, as he recovered his self- 
 possession. ' I at least owe you that. , And Pierre, too, shall 
 kiss you, for you are now as good for him as yon have always 
 been for us.' 
 
THE DAWN OF LOVE 343 
 
 At table, when it was at last possible for them to lunch, 
 he reverted to that attack of fear which had left him both 
 surprised and ashamed. He, who for years had never onca 
 thought of death, had for some time past found ideas of 
 caution in his mind. On two occasions recently he had 
 shuddered at the possibility of a catastrophe. How was it 
 that a longing for Hfe had come to him in his decline ? Why 
 was it that he now wished to live ? At last with a touch of 
 tender affection in his gaiety, he remarked : ' Do you know, 
 Marie, I think it is my thoughts of you that make me a 
 coward. If I've lost my bravery it's because I risk some- 
 thing precious when any danger arises. Happiness has been 
 entrusted to my charge. Just now when I fancied that wa 
 were all going to die, I thought I could see you, and my 
 fear of losing you froze and paralysed me.' 
 
 Marie indulged in a pretty laugh. Allusions to her 
 coming marriage were seldom made ; however, she invariably 
 greeted them with an air of happy affection. ' Another six 
 weeks 1 ' she simply said. 
 
 Thereupon Mere-Grand, who had been looking at them, 
 turned her eyes towards Pierre. He, however, like the others 
 was listening with a smile. 
 
 ' That's true,' said the old lady, • you are to be married in 
 six weeks' time. So I did right to prevent the house from 
 being blown up.' 
 
 At this the young men made merry ; and the repast cama 
 to an end in very joyous fashion. 
 
 During the afternoon, however, Pierre's heart gradually 
 grew heavy. Marie's words constantly returned to him: 
 ' Another six weeks 1 ' Yes, it was indeed true, she would 
 then be married. But it seemed to him that he bad never 
 previously known it, never for a moment thought of it. And 
 later on, in the evening, when he was alone in his room at 
 Neuilly, his heart-pain became intolerable. Those words 
 tortured him. Why was it that they had not caused him any 
 Buffering when they were spoken, why had he greeted them 
 with a smUe? And why had such cruel anguish slowly 
 followed ? All at once an idea sprang up in his mind, and 
 became an overwhelming certainty. He loved Marie, ha 
 loved her as a lover, with a love so intense that he might die 
 from it. 
 
 With this sudden consciousness of his passion everything 
 became clear and plain. He had been going perforce towards 
 
S44 PARIS 
 
 that love ever Binee he had first met Marie. The emotion 
 into which the young woman had originally thrown him had 
 seemed to him a feeling of repulsion, but afterwards he had 
 been slowly conquered, all his torments and struggles ending in 
 this love for her. It was indeed through her that he had at 
 last found quietude. Andthe delightful morning which he had 
 spent with her that day, appeared to him hke a betrothal 
 morning, in the depths of the happy forest. Nature had 
 resumed her sway over him, delivered him from his sufferings, 
 made him strong and healthy once more, and given him to 
 the woman he adored. The quiver he had experienced, the 
 happiness he had felt, his communion with the trees, the 
 heavens, and every living creature — all those things which 
 he had been unable to explain, now acquired a clear meaning 
 which transported him. In Marie alone lay his cure, his 
 hope, his conviction that he would be bom anew and at last 
 find happiness. In her company he had already forgotten 
 all those distressing problems which had formerly haunted 
 him and bowed him down. For a week past he had not once 
 thought of death, which had so long been the companion of 
 his every hour. AU the conflict of faith and doubt, the 
 distress roused by the idea of nihility, the anger he had felt 
 at the unjust sufferings of mankind, had been swept away by 
 her fresh cool hands. She was so healthy herself, so glad to 
 live, that she had imparted a taste for life even to him. Yes, 
 it was simply that : she was making him a man, a worker, a 
 lover once more. 
 
 Then he suddenly remembered Abb6 Eose and his painful 
 conversation with that saintly man. The old priest, whose 
 heart was so ingenuous, and who knew nothing of love and 
 passion, was nevertheless the only one who had understood 
 the truth. He had told Pierre that he was changed, that 
 there was another man in him. And he, Pierre, had 
 foolishly and stubbornly declared that he was the same as he 
 had always been ; whereas Marie had already transformed 
 him, bringing all nature back to his breast — all natmre, with 
 its sunlit countrysides, fructifying breezes, and vast heavens, 
 whose glow ripens its crops. That indeed was why he had 
 felt so exasperated with Catholicism, that rehgion of death ; 
 why he had shouted that the Gospel was useless, and that the 
 world awaited another law— a law of terrestrial happiness, 
 human justice, and living love and fruitfulness I 
 
 Ah, but Guillaume ? Then a vision of his brother rose 
 
THE DAWN OF LOVE 34?s 
 
 before Pierre, that brother who loved him so fondly, and who 
 had carried him to his home of toU, quietude, and affection, 
 in order to cure him of his sufferings. If he knew Marie 
 it was simplj because GuUlanme had chosen that he 
 should know her. And again Marie's words recurred to 
 him : ' Another six weeks I ' Yes, in six weeks his brother 
 would marry the young woman. This thought was like a 
 stab in Pierre's heart. Still, he did not for one moment 
 hesitate : if he must die of his love, he would die of it, but 
 none should ever know it ; he would conquer himself, he 
 would flee to the ends of the earth should he ever feel the 
 faintest cowardice. Rather than bring a moment's pain to 
 that brother who had striven to resuscitate him, who was 
 the artisan of the passion now consumiag him, who had 
 given him his whole heart, and all he had — he would con- 
 demn himself to perpetual torture. And indeed, torture was 
 coming back; for in losing Marie he could but sink into 
 the distress bom of the consciousness of his nothingness. 
 As he lay in bed, unable to sleep, he already experienced 
 a return of his abominable torments — the negation of every- 
 thing, the feeling that everything was useless, that the world 
 had no significance, and that life was only worthy of being 
 cursed and denied. And then the shudder born of the 
 thought of death returned to him. Ah ! to die, to die 
 without even haviag lived 1 
 
 The struggle was a frightful one. Until daybreak he 
 sobbed in martyrdom. Why had he taken off his cassock ? 
 He had done so at a word from Marie ; and now another 
 word from her gave him the despairing idea of donning it 
 once more. One could not escape from so fast a prison. 
 That black gown BtUl clung to his skin. He fancied that he 
 had divested himself of it, and yet it was still weighing on 
 his shoulders, and his wisest course would be to bury him- 
 self in it for ever. By donning it again he would at least wear 
 mourning for his manhood. 
 
 AU at once, however, a fresh thought upset him. Why 
 should he struggle in that fashion? Marie did not love 
 him. There had been nothing between them to indicate 
 that she cared for him otherwise than as a charming, tender- 
 hearted sister. It was Guillaume whom she loved, no doubt. 
 Then he pressed his face to his pillow to stifle his sobs, and 
 once more swore that he would conquer himself and turn a 
 BmiUng face upon their happiness. \ 
 
346 PARIS 
 
 IV 
 
 TEIAL AND SENTENCB 
 
 Having returned to Montmartre on the morrow Pierre 
 Buffered so grievously that he did not show himself there on 
 the two following days. He preferred to remain at home where 
 there was nobody to notice his feverishness. On the third 
 morning, however, whilst he was still in bed, strengthlesa 
 and full of despair, he was both surprised and embarrassed by 
 a visit from Guillaume. 
 
 ' I must needs come to you,' said the latter, • since you 
 forsake us. I've come to fetch you to attend Salvat's trial, 
 which takes place to-day. I had no end of trouble to secuie 
 two places. Come, get up, we'll have d&jeuner in town, so 
 as to reach the court early.' 
 
 Then, while Pierre was hastily dressing, Guillaume, who 
 on his side seemed thoughtful and worried that morning, 
 began to question him : ' Have you anything to reproach us 
 with ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' No, nothing. What an idea I ' was Pierre's reply. 
 
 ' Then why have you been staying away ? We had got 
 into the habit of seeing you every day, but all at once you 
 disappear.' 
 
 Pierre vainly sought a falsehood, and all his com- 
 posure fled. ' I had some work to do here,' said he, ' and then, 
 too, my gloomy ideas came back to me, and I didn't want to 
 go and sadden you aU.' 
 
 At this Guillaume hastily waved his hand. ' If you fancy 
 that your absence enlivens us you're mistaken,' he replied. 
 'Marie, who is usually so well and happy, had such a bad 
 headache on the day before yesterday that she was obhged to 
 keep her room. And she was ill at ease and nervous and 
 silent again yesterday. We spent a very unpleasant day.' 
 
 As he spoke Guillaume looked Pierre well in the face, his 
 frank loyal eyes clearly revealing the suspicions which had 
 come to him, but which he would not express in words. 
 
 Pierre, quite dismayed by the news of Marie's indispo- 
 sition, and frightened by the idea of betraying his secret, 
 thereupon managed to tell a lie. ' Yes, she wasn't very well 
 on the day when we went cycling,' he quietly responded. ' But 
 
TRIAL AND SENTENCE 347 
 
 I assure you that I have had a lot to do here. When you 
 came in just now I was about to get up and go to your house 
 as usual.' 
 
 , Guillaume kepi his eyes on him for a moment longer. 
 Then either believing him or deciding to postpone his search 
 for the truth to some future time, he began speaking affec- 
 tionately on other subjects. With his keen brotherly love, 
 however, there was blended such a quiver of impending 
 distress, of unconfessed sorrow, which possibly he .did not 
 yet realise, that Pierre in his turn began to question him. 
 ' And you,' said he, ' are you HI ? You seem to me to have 
 lost your usual serenity.' 
 
 ' I ? Oh ! I'm not ill. Only I can't very well retain my 
 composure ; Salvat's affair distresses me exceedingly, as you 
 must know. They will all end by driving me mad with the 
 monstrous injustice they show towards that unhappy fellow.' 
 
 Thenceforward Guillaume went on talking of Salvat in a 
 stubborn passionate way, as if he wished to find an expla- 
 nation of all his pain and unrest in that affair. While ho 
 and Pierre were partaking of dijeuner at a little restaurant 
 on the Boulevard du Palais, he related how deeply touched 
 he was by the silence which Salvat had preserved with 
 regard both to the nature of the explosive employed in the 
 bomb and the few days' work which he had once done 
 at his house. It was, thanks to this silence, that he, 
 GuUlaume, had not been worried or even summoned as a wit- 
 ness. Then, in his emotion, he reverted to his invention, that 
 formidable engine which would ensure omnipotence to 
 France, as the great initiatory and Uberative power of the 
 world. The results of the researches which had occupied 
 Mm for ten years past, were now out of danger and in all 
 readiness, so that if occasion required they might at once be 
 delivered to the French government. And, apart from cer- 
 tain scruples which came to him at the thought of the un- 
 worthiness of French financial and political society, he waa 
 simply delaying any further steps in the matter until his 
 marriage with Marie, in order that he might associate 
 tier with the gift of universal peace which he imagined he waa 
 about to bestow upon the world;, 
 
 It was through Bertheroy and with great difficulty that 
 Guillaume had managed to secure two seats in court for 
 Balvat's trial. When he and Pierre presented themselves for 
 admission at eleven o'clock they fancied that they woiUd 
 
348 PARIS 
 
 never be 'able to enter. The large gates of the Palace of 
 Justice were kept closed, several passages were fenced off, and 
 terror seemed to reignj in the deserted building, as if indeed 
 the judges feared some sudden invasion of bomb-laden Anar- 
 chists. Each door and barrier, too, was guarded by soldiers 
 with whom the brothers had to parley. When they at last 
 entered the Assize Court they found it already crowded with 
 people, who were apparently quite willing to suffocate there 
 for an hour before the arrival of the judges, and to remain 
 motionless for some seven or eight hours afterwards, since it 
 was reported that the authorities wished to get the case over 
 in a single sitting. In the small space allotted to the standing 
 public there was a serried mass of sightseers who had come 
 up from the streets ; a few companions and friends of Salvat 
 having managed to slip in among them. In the other com- 
 partment, where witnesses are generally huddled together on 
 oak benches, were those spectators who had been aUowed ad- 
 mittance by favour, and these were so numerous and so 
 closely packed that here and there they almost sat upon one 
 another's knees. Then, in the well of the court and behind 
 the bench were rows of chairs set out as for some theatrical 
 performance, and occupied by privileged members of society, 
 poHticians, leading journalists, and ladies. And meantime a 
 number of gowned advocates sought refuge wherever chance 
 offered, crowding into every vacant spot, every available 
 corner. 
 
 Pierre had never before visited the Assize Court, and its 
 appearance surprised him. He had expected much pomp and 
 majesty, whereas this temple of human justice seemed to him 
 small and dismal and of doubtful cleanliness. The bench 
 was so low that he could scarcely see the arm-chairs of the 
 presiding judge and his two assessors. Then he was struck 
 by the profusion of old oak panels, balustrades, and benches, 
 which helped to darken the apartment, whose wall hangings 
 were of olive green, while a further display of oak panelling 
 appeared on the ceiling above. From the seven narrow and 
 high-set windows with scanty little white curtains there fell 
 a pale light which sharply divided the court. On one 
 hand one saw the dock and the defending counsel's seat 
 steeped in frigid light, while, on the other, was the little, 
 isolated jury box in the shade. This contrast seemed sym- 
 bolical of justice, impersonal and uncertain, face to face with 
 the Bccused, whom the light stripped bare, probed as it were 
 
TRIAL ANi> SENTENCE 349 
 
 to his very soul. Then, through a kind of grey mist above 
 the bench, in the depths of the stern and gloomy scene, one 
 could vaguely distinguish the heavy painting of ' Christ 
 Crucified.' A large white bust of the Republic alone showed 
 forth clearly against the dark wall just above the dock 
 where Salvat would presently appear. The only remaining 
 Beats that GuiUaume and Pierre could find were on the last 
 bench of the witnesses' compartment, against the partition 
 which separated the latter from the space allotted to the 
 standing public. Just as Guillaume was seating himself, be 
 saw among the latter little Victor Mathis, who stood 
 there with hi^ elbows leaning on the partition, while his chin 
 rested ob his crossed hands. The young man's eyes were 
 glowing in his pale face with thin, compressed lips. Although 
 they recognised one another, Victor did not move, and 
 GuUlaume on his side understood that it was not safe to ex- 
 change greetings in such a place. From that moment, 
 however, he remained conscious that Victor was there, just 
 above him, never stirring, but waiting silently, fiercely, and 
 with flaming eyes, for what was going to happen. 
 
 Pierre, meantime, had recognised that most amiable 
 deputy Duthil, and Uttle Princess Eosemonde seated just in 
 front of him. Amidst the hubbub of the throng which chatted 
 and laughed to while away the time, their voices were the 
 gayest to be heard, and plainly showed how delighted thej 
 were to find themselves at a spectacle to which so many 
 desired admittance. Duthil was explaining all the arrange- 
 ments to Eosemonde, telling her to whom or to what purpose 
 each bench and wooden box was allotted ; there was the jury- 
 box, the prisoner's dock, the seats assigned to counsel for the 
 defence, the pubUc prosecutor, and the clerk of the court, 
 without forgetting the table on which material evidence was 
 deposited and the bar to which witnesses were summoned. 
 There was nobody as yet in any of these places ; one merely 
 saw an attendant giving a last look round, and advocates pass- 
 ing rapidly. One might indeed have thought oneself in a 
 theatre, the stage of which remained deserted, while the spec- 
 tators Crowded the auditorium waiting for the play to begin. 
 To fill up the interval the little Prineess ended by looking 
 about her for persons of her acquaintance among the close- 
 pressed crowd of sight-seers whose eager faces were already 
 reddening. 
 
 ' Oh ! isn't that Monsieur Fons^gue over there behind the 
 
350 PARIS 
 
 bench, near that stout lady in yellow ? ' she exclaimea. ' Our 
 friend General de Bozonnet ia on the other side, I see. But 
 isn't Baron Duvillard here ? ' 
 
 ' Oh 1 no,' replied Duthil ; ' he could hardly come, it would 
 look as if he were here to ask for vengeance.' Then, in his 
 turn questioning Eosemonde, the Seputy went on : 'Do you 
 happen to have quarrelled with your handsome friend Hya- 
 cinthe ? Is that the reason why you've given me the pleasure 
 of acting as your escort to-day ? ' 
 
 With a sUght shrug of her shouldefs, the Princess replied 
 that poets were beginning to bore her. A fresh caprice, 
 indeed, was drawing her into politics; For a week past she 
 had found amusement in the surroundings of the ministerial 
 crisis, into which the young deputy ■ for Angouleme had 
 initiated her. ' They are aU a Utile bit crazy at the 
 DuvUlards', my dear fellow,' said she. ' It's decided, you 
 know, that Gerard is to marry CamiUe. The Baroness has 
 resignedherself to it, and I'veheard from a most reliable quarter 
 that Madame de Quinsac, the young man's mother, has given 
 her consent.' 
 
 At this Duthil became quite merry. He'' also seemed to be 
 well informed on the subject. ' Yes, yes, 1 know,' said he. 
 ' The wedding is to take place shortly at the Madeleine. It 
 wiU be a magnificent affair, no doubt. And after all what 
 would you have ? There couldn't be a better finish to the 
 affair. The Baroness is really kindness perteonified, and I 
 said all along that she would sacrifice herself in order to 
 ensure the happiness of her daughter and Gerard. In point of 
 fact that marriage wUl settle everything, put ^everything in 
 proper order again.' ■■*■ 
 
 ' And what does the Baron say ? ' asked Eosemonde. 
 
 ' The Baron 7 Why, he's delighted,' rephed Duthil in a 
 bantering Way. 'You read no" doubt this morning that 
 Dauvergnff is given the department K>i Public Instruction in 
 the new Ministry. -This means thafr^Silvifine's engagement at 
 the Comedie is a certainty. Dauver^e was simply chosen on 
 that account.' I 
 
 At this moment the conversation was irkerrup'ted by little 
 Massot who, after a dispute with one of 'the ushers Some 
 distance away, had perceived a vacant place by the side of the 
 Princess. He thereupon made her a questioning sign, and she 
 beckoned to him to approach. 
 
 ' Ah 1 ' said he, as he installed himself beside her, ' I have 
 
TRIAL AND SENTENCE 351 
 
 not got here ■without trouble. One's crushed to death on the 
 press bench, and I've an article to write. You are the kindest 
 of women, Princess, to make a little room for your faithful 
 admirer, myself.' Then, after shaking hands with Duthil, he 
 continued without any transition : ' And so there's a new 
 Ministry at last, Monsieur le d6put^. You have all taken your 
 time about it, but it's really a very fine Ministry, which every- 
 body regards with surprise and admiration.' 
 
 The decrees appointing the new Ministers had appeared 
 in the ' Journal Officiel ' that very morning. After a long 
 deadlock, after Vignon had for the second time seen his plans 
 fail through ever-reeurring obstacles, Monferrand, as a last 
 resource, had suddenly been summoned to the Elysee, and in 
 four-and-twenty hours he had found the colleagues he wanted 
 and secured the acceptance of his list, in such wise that he 
 now triumphantly reascended to power after falHng from it 
 with Barroux in such wretched fashion; He had also chosen 
 a new post for himself, relinquishing the department of the 
 Interior for that of Finances, with the Presidency of the 
 Council, which had long been his secret ambition. His 
 stealthy labour, the masterly fashion in which he had saved 
 himself while others sank, now appeared in its full beauty. 
 First had come Salvat's arrest, and the use he had made of ft, 
 then the wonderful subterranean campaign which he had 
 carried on against Vignon, the thousand obstacles v/hich he 
 had twice set across his path, and finally the sudden dinoue- 
 ment with that list he held in readiness, that formation of a 
 Ministry in a single day as soon as his services were 
 Bohcited. 
 
 'It is fine work; I must compliment you on it,' added 
 little Massot by way of a jest. 
 
 'But I've had nothing to do with it,' Duthil modestly 
 replied. 
 
 ' Nothing to do with it ! oh 1 yes you have, my dear sir, 
 everybody says so.' 
 
 The deputy felt flattered and smiled, while the other 
 rattled on with his insinuations, which were put in such a 
 humorous way that nothing he said could be resented. He 
 talked of Monferrand's followers who had eo powerfully 
 helped him on to victory. How heartily had FonsSgue 
 finished off his old friend Barroux in the ' Globe 1 ' Every 
 morning for a month past the paper had pu.blished an article 
 belabouring Barroux, annihilating Yignon, and preparing the 
 
33* fARlS 
 
 public for the return of a saviour of society TPho was not 
 named. Then, too, Duvillard's millions had waged a secret 
 warfare, all the Baron's numerous creatures had fought hke 
 an army for the good cause. Duthil himself had played the 
 pipe and beat the drum, while Chaigneux resigned himself 
 to the baser duties which others would not undertake. And 
 so the triumphant Monferrand would certainly begin by 
 stifling that scandalous and embarrassing affair of the African 
 Eailways, and appointing a committee of inquiry to bury it. 
 
 By this time Duthil had assumed an important air, 
 ' Well, my dear fellow,' said he, ' at serious momenta when 
 society is in peril, certain strong-handed men, real men of 
 government, become absolutely necessary, Monferrand had 
 no need of our friendship, his presence in office was im- 
 periously required by the situation. His hand is the only one 
 that can save us ! ' 
 
 ' I know,' repUed Massot seoffingly. ' I've even been told 
 that if everything was settled straight off so that the decrees 
 might be pubhshed this morning, it was in order to instil 
 confidence into the judges and jurymen here, in such wise 
 that knowing Monferrand's fist to be behind them they would 
 have the courage to pronounce sentence of death this 
 evening.' 
 
 ' Well, public safety requires a sentence of death, and 
 those who have to ensure that safety must not be left ignorant 
 of the fact that the government is with them, and wUl know 
 how to protect them, if need be." 
 
 At this moment a merry laugh from the Princess broke 
 in upon the conversation. ' Oh ! just look over there 1 ' said 
 she, 'isn't that 8ilviaue who has just sat down beside 
 Monsieur FonsSgue ? ' 
 
 ' The Silviane Ministry ! ' muttered Massot in a jesting 
 way. ' Well, there will be no boredom at Dauvergne's if ha 
 ingratiates himself with actresses.' 
 
 Guillaume and Pierre heard this chatter, however httle 
 they cared to Usten to it. Such a deluge of society tittle-tattle 
 and political indiscretion brought the former a keen heart 
 pang. So Salvat was sentenced to death even before he had 
 appeared in court. He was to pay for the transgressions of 
 one and all, his crime was simply a favourable opportunity 
 for the triumph of a band of ambitious people bent on power 
 and enjoyment 1 Ah 1 what terrible social rottenness there 
 was in it all ; money corrupting one and another, famiUea 
 
TRIAL AND SENTENCE 353 
 
 einking to filth, politics turned into a mere treacherous 
 struggle between individuals, and power becoming the prey of 
 the crafty and the impudent 1 Must not everything surely 
 crumble ? Was not this solemn assize of human justice a 
 derisive parody, since all that one found there was an 
 assembly of happy and privileged people defending the shaky 
 edifice which sheltered them, and making use of aU the forces 
 they yet retained, to crush a fly — that unhappy devil of un- 
 certain sanity who had been led to that court by hia violent 
 and cloudy dream of another superior and avenging justice ? 
 
 Such were Guillaume's thoughts, when all at once every- 
 body around him started. Noon was now striking, and the 
 jurymen trooped into court in straggling fashion and took 
 their seats in their box. Among them one saw fat fellows 
 clad in their Sunday best and with the faces of simpletons, 
 and thin fellows who had bright eyes and sly expressions. 
 Some of them were bearded and some were bald. However, 
 they all remained rather indistinct, as their side of the court was 
 steeped in shade. After them came the judges, headed by 
 M. de Larombiere, one of the Vice-Presidents of the Appeal 
 Court, who in assuming the perilous honour of conducting 
 the trial, had sought to mcrease the majesty of his long, 
 slender, white face, which looked the more austere as both his 
 assessors, one dark and the other fair, had highly coloured 
 countenances. The public prosecutor's seat was abeady occu- 
 pied by one of the most skUful of the advocates-general, 
 M. Lehmann, a broad-shouldered Alsatian Israelite with 
 cunning eyes, whose presence showed that the case was deemed 
 exceptionally important. At last, amidst the heavy tread 
 of gendarmes, Salvat was brought in, at once rousing such 
 ardent curiosity that all the spectators rose to look at him. 
 He still wore the cap and loose overcoat procured for him 
 by Victor Mathis, and everybody was surprised to see his 
 emaciated, sorrowful, gentle face, crowned by scanty reddish 
 hair, which was turning grey. His soft, glowing, dreamy blue 
 eyes glanced around, and he smiled at some one whom ha 
 recognised, probably Victor, but perhaps Guillaume. After 
 that he remained cLtiite motionless. 
 
 The presiding judge waited for silence to fall, and then 
 came the formalities which attend the opening of a court of 
 law, followed by the perusal of the lengthy indictment, which 
 a subordinate official read in a shrill voice. The scene had 
 now changed, and the spectators listened wearily and some- 
 
3S4 PARIS 
 
 what impatiently as, for weeks past, the newspapers had 
 related all that the indictment set forth. At present not a 
 comer of the court remained unoccupied, there was scarcely 
 space enough for the witnesses to stand in front of the bench. 
 The closely packed throng was one of divers hues, the Hght 
 gowns of laies alternating with the black gowns of advocates, 
 while the red robes of the judges disappeared from view, 
 the bench being so low that the presiding judge's long face 
 scarcely rose above the sea of heads. Many of those present 
 became interested in the jurors, and strove to scrutinise 
 their shadowy countenances. Others, who did not take their 
 eyes off the prisoner, marvelled at his apparent weariness and 
 indifference, which weie so great that he scarcely answered 
 the whispered questions of his counsel, a young advocate with 
 a wide-awake look, who was nervously awaiting the opportu- 
 nity to achieve fame. Most curiosity, however, centred in 
 the table set apart for the material evidence. Here were to 
 be seen all sorts of fragments, some of the woodwork torn away 
 from the carriage-door of the Duvillard mansion, soma 
 plaster that had fallen from the ceiling, a paving stone which 
 the violence of the explosion had spUt in halves, and other 
 blackened remnants. The more moving sights, however, 
 were the milliner's bonnet-box, which had remained uninjured, 
 and a glass jar in which something white and vague was pre- 
 served in spirits of wine. This was one of the poor errand- 
 girl's little hands, which had been severed at the wrist. The 
 authorities had been unable to place her poor ripped body on 
 the table, and so they had brought that hand 1 
 
 At last Salvat rose, and the presiding judge began to 
 interrogate hiid. The contrast in the aspect of the court 
 then acquired tragic force : in the shrouding shade upon 
 one hand were the jurors, their minds already made up be- 
 neath the pressure of publio terror, while in the full, vivid 
 light on the other side was the prisoner, alone and woeful, 
 charged with all the crimes of his race. Four gendarmes 
 watched over him. He was addressed by M. de Larombiere 
 in a tone of contempt and disgust. The judge was not 
 deficient in rectitude ; he was indeed one of the last representa- 
 tives of the old, scrupnlous, upright French magistracy ; but 
 he understood nothing of the new times, and he treated 
 prisoners with the severity of a Biblical Jehovah. Moreover, 
 the infirmity which was the worry of his life, the childish 
 lisp which, in his opinion, had alone prevented him from 
 
TRIAL AJSTD SENTENCE 353 
 
 Bhlning as a public prosecutor, made him ferociously ill- 
 tempered, incapable of any intelligent indulgence. There 
 were smiles, which he divined, aa soon as ho raised hig 
 sharp, shrill little voice, to ask his first questions. That 
 droll voice of his took away whatever majesty might have 
 remained attached to these proceedings, in which a man's life 
 was being fought for in ahaU fuU of inquisitive, stifling, and 
 perspiring folks, who fanned themselves and jested. Salvat 
 answered the judge's earher questions with his wonted 
 weariness and politeness. While the judge did everything 
 to vilify him, harshly reproaching him with his wretched 
 childhood and youth, magnifying every stain and every 
 transgression in his career, referring to the promiscuity of his 
 life between Madame Theodore and little Clline as something 
 bestial, he, the prisoner, quietly said yes or no, like a man 
 who has nothing to hide and accepts the full responsibility 
 of his actions. He had already made a complete confession 
 of his crime, and he calmly repeated it without changing a 
 word. He explained that if he had deposited his bomb at 
 the entrance of the Duvillard mansion it was to give his deed 
 its true significance, ttat of summoning the wealthy, the money- 
 mongers who had so scandalously enriched themselves by 
 dint of theft and falsehood, to restore that part of the 
 common wealth which they had appropriated, to the poor, the 
 working classes, their children and their wives, who perished 
 of starvation. It was only at this moment that he grew 
 excited ; all the misery that he had endured or witnessed rose 
 to his clouded, semi-educated brain, in which claims and 
 theories and exasperated ideas of absolute justice and uni- 
 versal happiness had gathered confusedly. And from that 
 moment he appeared such as he reaUy was, a sentimentalist, 
 a dreamer transported by suffering, proud and stubborn, and 
 bent on changing the world in accordance with his sectarian 
 logic. 
 
 ' But you fled ! ' cried the judge in a voice such as would 
 have befitted a grasshopper. ' You must not say that you 
 gave your life to your cause and were ready for martyrdom ! ' 
 
 Salvat's most poignant regret was that he had yielded in 
 the Bois de Boulogne to the dismay and rage which come 
 upon a tracked and hunted man, and impel him to do all he 
 can to escape capture. And on being thus taunted by the 
 judge he became quite angry. ' I don't fear death, you'll see 
 that,' he replied. 'If all had the same couraige as 1 bave, 
 
 aa2 
 
3S6 PARIS 
 
 your rotten society ^-ould be swept away to-morrow, and happi- 
 ness would at last dawn.' 
 
 Then the interrogatory dealt at great length with the 
 composition and manufacture of the bomb. The judge, 
 rightly enough, pointed out that this was the only obscure 
 point of the affair. ' And so,' he remarked, ' you persist in 
 Baying that dynamite was the explosive you employed ? Well, 
 you will presently hear the experts, who, it is true, differ on 
 certain points, but are all of opinion that you employed some 
 other explosive, though they cannot say precisely what it was. 
 Why not speak out on the point, as you glory in saying every, 
 thing?' 
 
 Salvat, however, had suddenly calmed down, giving only 
 cautious monosyllabic replies. ' Well, seek for whatever you 
 like if you don't beUeve me,' he now answered. ' I made my 
 bomb by myself, and under circumstances which I've already 
 related a score of times. You surely don't expect me to 
 reveal names and compromise comrades ? ' 
 
 From this declaration he would not depart. It was only 
 towards the end of the interrogatory that irresistible emotion 
 overcame him on the judge again referring to the unhappy 
 victim of his crime, the httle errand girl, so pretty and fair 
 and gentle, whom ferocious destiny had brought to the spot 
 to meet such an awful death. ' It was one of your own class 
 whom you struck,' said M. de Larombiere ; ' your victim was 
 a work girl, a poor child who, with the few pence she earned, 
 helped to support her aged grandmother.' 
 
 Salvat's voice became very husky as he answered : ' That's 
 really the only thing I regret. . . . My bomb certainly 
 wasn't meant for her ; and may aU the workers, aU the 
 Btarvehngs remember that she gave her blood as I'm going 
 to give mine 1 ' 
 
 In this wise the interrogatory ended amidst profound 
 agitation. Pierre had felt Guillaume shuddering beside him, 
 whilst the prisoner quietly and obstinately refused to say a 
 word respecting the explosive that had been employed, pre- 
 ferring as he did to assume full responsibility for the deed, 
 which was about to cost him his life. Moreover, GuiUaume, 
 on turning round, in compliance with an irresistible im- 
 pulse, had perceived Victor Mathis stiU motionless behind 
 him : his elbows ever leaning on the rail of the partition, and 
 his chin still resting on his hands, whilst he listened with 
 silent, concentrated passion. His face had become yet paler 
 
THIAL AND SENTENCE 357 
 
 than before, and his eyea glowed as with an avenging fire, 
 whose flames would never more be extinguished. 
 
 The interrogatory of the prisoner was followed by a brief 
 commotion in court. 
 
 ' That Salvat looks quite nice, he has such soft eyes,' 
 declared the Princess, whom the proceedings greatly amused. 
 ' Oh I don't speak ill of him, my dear deputy. You know 
 that I have Anarchist ideas myself.' 
 
 ' I speak no iU of him,' gaily replied Dutliil. ' Nor has 
 our friend Amadieu any right to speak ill of him. For you 
 know that this affair has set Amadieu on a pinnacle. He 
 was never before talked about to such an extent as he is 
 now ; and he delights in being talked about, you know ! He 
 has become quite a social celebrity, the most illustrious of 
 our investigating magistrates, and will soon be able to do or 
 become whatever he pleases.' 
 
 Then Massot, with his sarcastic impudence, summed up 
 the situation. ' When Anarchism flourishes, everything 
 flourishes, eh ? That bomb has helped on the affairs of a 
 good many fine fellows that I know ! Do you think that my 
 governor FonsSgue, who's so attentive to Silviane yonder, 
 complains of it ? And doesn't Sagnier, who's spreading 
 himself out behind the presiding judge, and whose proper 
 place would be between the four gendarmes — doesn't he owe 
 a debt to Salvat for all the abominable advertisements he has 
 been able to give his paper by using the wretched fellow's 
 back as a big drum ? And I need not mention the politicians 
 or the financiers or all those who fish in troubled waters.' 
 
 ' But I say,' interrupted Duthil, ' it seems to me that you 
 yourself made good use of the affair. Your interview 
 with the little girl Celine brought you in a pot of money.' 
 
 Massot, as it happened, had been struck with the idea of 
 ferreting out Madame Theodore and the child, and of relat- 
 ing his visit to them in the ' Globe,' with an abundance of 
 curious and touching particulars. The article had met with 
 prodigious success ; Cfline's pretty answers respecting her 
 imprisoned father having such an effect on ladies with sen- 
 sitive hearts that they had driven to Montmartre in their 
 carriages in order to see the two poor creatures. Thus alma 
 had come to them from all sides ; and strangely enough 
 the very people who demanded the father's head were the 
 most eager to sympathise with the child. 
 
 •Well, I don't complain of my little profits,' said the 
 
3S8 PARIS 
 
 journalist in answer to DutMl. 'We all earn what we can, 
 you know.' 
 
 At this moment Eosemonde, while glancing round her, 
 recognised Guillaume and Pierre, but she was so amazed 
 to see the latter in ordinary civilian garb that she did not 
 dare to speak to him. Leaning forward she acquainted 
 Duthil and Massot with her surprise, and they both turned 
 round to look. From motives of discretion, however, they 
 pretended that they did not recognise the Froments. 
 
 The heat in court was now becoming quite unbearable, 
 and one lady had already fainted. At last the presiding 
 judge again raised his lisping voice, and managed to restore 
 silence. Salvat,' who had remained standing, now held a few 
 sheets of paper, and with some difficulty he made the judge 
 understand that he desired to complete his interrogatory by 
 reading a declaration, which he had drawn up in prison, and 
 in which he explained his reasons for his crime. For a 
 moment M. de Larombiere hesitated, aU surprise and indig- 
 nation at such a request, but he was aware that he could 
 not legally impose silence on the prisoner, and so he signified 
 his consent with a gesture of mingled irritation and disdain. 
 Thereupon Salvat began his perusal much after the fashion 
 of a schoolboy, hemming and hawing here and there, occa- 
 sionally becoming confused, and then bringing out certain 
 words with wonderful emphasis, which evidently pleased him. 
 This declaration of his was the usual cry of suffering and 
 revolt already raised by so many disinherited ones. It 
 referred to all the frightful want of the lower spheres ; the 
 toiler unable to find a livelihood in his toil ; a whole class, 
 the most numerous and worthy of the classes, dying of star- 
 vation ; whilst, on the other hand, were the privileged, ones, 
 gorged with wealth, and wallowing in satiety, yet refusing to 
 part with even the crumbs from their tables, determined as they 
 were to restore nothing whatever of the wealth which they 
 had stolen. And so it became necessary to take everything 
 away from them, to rouse them from their egotism by terrible 
 warnings, and to proclaim to them even with the crash of 
 bombs that the day of justice had come. The unhappy 
 man spoke that word 'justice' in a ringing voice which 
 seemed to fill the whole court. But the emotion of those who 
 heard him reached its highest pitch when, after declaring 
 that he laid down his hfe for the cause, and expected 
 nothing but a verdict of death from the jury, he added, as if 
 
TRIAL AND SENTENCE 359 
 
 prophetically, that his blood would assuredly give birth to 
 other martyrs. They might send him to the scaffold, said 
 he, but he knew that his example would bear fruit. After 
 him would come another avenger, and yet another, and 
 others stiU, until the old and rotten social system should have 
 crumbled away so as to make room for the society of justice 
 and happiness of which he was one of the apostles. 
 
 The presiding judge, in his impatience and agitation, twice 
 tried to interrupt Salvat. But the other read on and on with 
 the imperturbable conscientiousness of one who fears that he 
 may not give proper utterance to his most important words. 
 He must have been thinking of that perusal ever since he had 
 been in prison. It was the decisive act of his suicide, the act 
 by which he proclaimed that he gave his hfe for the glory of 
 dying in the cause of mankind. And when he had finished he 
 sat down between the gendarmes with glowing eyes and flushed 
 cheeks, as if he inwardly experienced some great joy. 
 
 To destroy the effect which the declaration had produced 
 — a commingling of fear and compassion — the judge at once 
 wished to proceed with the hearing of the witnesses. Of these 
 there was an interminable procession ; though little interest 
 attached to their evidence, for none of them had any revelations 
 to make. Most attention perhaps was paid to the measured 
 statements of Grandidier, who had been obliged to dismiss 
 Salvat from his employ on account of the Anarchist 
 propaganda he had carried on. Then the prisoner's brother-in- 
 law, Toussaint, the mechanician, also seemed a very worthy 
 fellow if one might judge him by the manner in which he 
 strove to put things favourably for Salvat, without, however, 
 departing from the truth. After Toussaint's evidence con- 
 siderable time was taken up by the discussions between the 
 experts, who 'disagreed in pubhc as much as they had disagreed 
 in their reports. Although they were all of opinion that 
 dynamite could not have been the explosive employed in the 
 bomb they indulged ia the most '■ extraordinary and contra- 
 dictory suppositions as to this explosive's real nature. 
 Eventually a written opinion given by the illustrious scientist 
 Bertheroy was read ; and this after clearly setting forth the 
 known facts concluded that one found oneself in presence 
 of a new explosive of prodigious power, the formula of which 
 he himself was unable to specify. 
 
 Then detective Mond^sir and commissary Dupot came in 
 turn to relate the various phases of the man hunt in the Boia 
 
36o PARIS 
 
 de Boulogne. In Mondesir centred all the gaietj of the pro- 
 ceedings, thanks to the guard-room sallies with which he en- 
 livened, his narrative. And in like way the greatest grief, a 
 perfect shudder of revolt and compassion, was roused by the 
 errand girl's grandmother, a poor bent, withered old woman, 
 whom the prosecution had cruelly constrained to attend the 
 court, and who wept and looked quite dismayed, unable as she 
 was to understand what was wanted of her. When she had 
 withdrawn, the only remaining witnesses were those for the 
 defence, a procession of foremen and comrades, who all 
 declared that they had known Salvat as a very worthy fellow, 
 an intelligent and zealous workman, who did not drink, but 
 was extremely fond of his daughter, and incapable of an act of 
 dishonesty or cruelty. 
 
 It was already four o'clock when the evidence of the 
 witnesses came to an end. The atmosphere in court was 
 now quite stifling, feverish fatigue flushed every face, and a 
 kind of ruddy dust obscured the waning light which fell from 
 the windows. Women were fanning themselves and men 
 were mopping their foreheads. However, the passion roused 
 by the scene still brought a glow of cruel delight to every eye. 
 And no one stirred. 
 
 ' Ah 1 ' sighed Eosemonde all at once, ' to think that I 
 hoped to drink a cup of tea at a friend's at five o'clock. I shall 
 die of thirst and starvation here.' 
 
 ' We shall certainly be kept till seven,' replied Massot. 'I 
 can't offer to go and fetch you a roll, for I shouldn't be re- 
 admitted.' 
 
 Then Duthil, who had not ceased shrugging his shoulders 
 while Salvat read his declaration, exclaimed : ' What childish 
 things he said, didn't he ? And to think that the fool is going 
 to die for all that ! Eich and poor, indeed 1 Why, there will 
 always be rich and poor. And it's equally certain that when 
 a man is poor his one great desire is to become rich. If that 
 fellow is in the dock to-day it's simply because he failed to 
 make money.' 
 
 WhUe the others were thus conversing, Pierre for his part 
 was feeling extremely anxious about his brother, who sat 
 beside him in silence, pale and utterly upset. Pierre sought 
 his hand and covertly pressed it. Then in a low voice he 
 inquired : ' Do you feel ill ? Shall we go away ? ' 
 
 Guillaume answered him by discreetly and affectionately 
 returning his handshake. He was all right, he would remain 
 
TRIAL AND SENTENCE 361 
 
 till the end, however much he might be stirred by exaspera- 
 tion. 
 
 It waa now Monsieur Lehmann, the public prosecutor, 
 who rose to address the court. He had a large stern mouth, 
 and was squarely built, with a stubborn Jewish face. Never- 
 theless he was known to be a man of dexterous, supple nature, 
 one who had a foot in every political camp, and invariably 
 contrived to be on good terms with the powers that were. 
 This explained his rapid rise in life, and the constant favour he 
 enjoyed. In the very first words he spoke he alluded to the 
 new ministry gazetted that morning, referring pointedly to the 
 strong-handed man who had undertaken the task of reassur- 
 ing peaceable citizens and making evil-doers tremble. Then 
 he feU upon the wretched Salvat with extraordinary vehe- 
 mence, recounting the whole of his life, and exhibiting him 
 as a bandit expressly born for the perpetration of crime, a 
 monster who was bound to end by committing some abomin- 
 able and cowardly outrage. Next he flagellated Anarchism 
 and its partisans. The Anarchists were a mere herd of 
 vagabonds and thieves, said he. That had been shown by 
 the recent robbery at the Princess do Ham's house. The 
 ignoble gang that had been arrested for that affair had given 
 the apostles of the Anarchist doctrine as their references ! 
 And that was what the application of Anarchist theories 
 resulted in — burglary and filth, pending a favourable hour 
 for wholesale pillage and murder I For nearly a couple of 
 hours the public prosecutor continued in this fashion, throwing 
 truth and logic to the winds, and exclusively striving to alarm his 
 hearers. He made aU possible use of the terror which had 
 reigned in Paris, and figuratively brandished the corpse of 
 the poor little victim, the pretty errand girl, as if it were a 
 blood-red flag, before pointing to the pale hand, preserved in 
 spirits of wine, with a gesture of compassionate horror which 
 sent a shudder through his audience. And he ended, as he 
 had begun, by inspiriting the jurors, and telling them that 
 they might fearlessly do their duty now that those at the head 
 of the State were firmly resolved to give no heed to threats. 
 
 Then the young advocate entrusted with the defence in 
 his turn spoke. And he really said what there was to say with 
 great clearness and precision. He was of a different school 
 from that of the public prosecutor, his eloquence was very 
 simple and smooth, his only passion seemed to be zeal for 
 truth. Moreover, it was sufBcient for him to show Salvat's 
 
36a PARIS 
 
 life in its proper light, to depict liim pursued by social 
 fatalities since his childhood, and to explain the final action 
 of his career by all that he bad suffered and all that had 
 sprung up in his dreamy brain. V/as not his crime the crime 
 of one and all ? Who was there that did not feel if only in a 
 small degree responsible for that bomb which a penniless, 
 starving workman had deposited on the threshold of a wealthy 
 man's abode — a wealthy man whose name bespoke the 
 injustice of the social system : so much enjoyment on the 
 one hand and so much privation on the other ? If one of ug 
 happened to lose his head, and felt impelled to hasten the 
 advent of happiness by violence in such troublous times, when 
 so many burning problems claimed solution, ought he to be 
 deprived of his life in the name of justice, when none could 
 swear that they had not in some measure contributed to hig 
 madness? Following up this question, Salvat's counsel 
 dwelt at length on the period that witnessed the crime, a 
 period of so many scandals and collapses, when the old 
 world was giving birth to a new one amidst the most terrible 
 struggles and pangs. And he concluded by begging the jury 
 to show themselves humane, to resist all passion and terror, 
 and to pacify the rival classes by a wise verdict, instead of 
 prolonging social warfare by giving the starvelicgs yet another 
 martyr to avenge. 
 
 It was past six o'clock when M. de Larombi^re began to 
 sum up in a partial and flowery fashion, in which one detected 
 how grieved and angry he was at having such a shrUI little 
 voice. Then the judges and the jurors withdrew, and the 
 prisoner was led away, leaving the spectators waiting amidst 
 an uproar of feverish impatience. Some more ladies had 
 fainted, and it had even been necessary to carry out a gentle- 
 man, who had been overcome by the cruel heat. However, 
 the others stubbornly remained there, not one of them quitting 
 his place. 
 
 ' Ah 1 it won't take long now,' said Massot. ' The jurors 
 brought their verdict all ready in their pockets. I was look- 
 ing at them while that little advocate was telling them such 
 sensible things. They all seemed to be comfortably asleep 
 in the gloom.' 
 
 Then Duthil turned to the Princess and asked her, ' Are 
 you still hungry ? ' 
 
 ' Oh I I'm starving,' she replied. ' I shall never be able 
 to wait till I get home. You wUl have to take me to eat a 
 
TRIAL AND SENTENCE 363 
 
 biscuit somewhere. ... All tlie same, however, it's very ex- 
 citing to see a man's life staked on a yes or a no.' 
 
 Meantime Pierre, finding Guillaume still more feverish 
 and grieved, had once again taken hold of his hand. Neither 
 of them spoke, so great was the distress that they experienced for 
 many reasons which they themselves could not have precisely 
 defined. It seemed to them, however, that all human misery 
 — inclusive of their own, the affections, the hopes, the griefs 
 which brought them suffering — was sobbing and quivering 
 in that buzzing hall. Twilight had gradually fallen there, 
 but as the end was now so near it had doubtless been thought 
 unnecessary to light the chandeliers. And thus large vague 
 shadows, dimming and shrouding the serried throng, now 
 hovered about in the last gleams of the day. The ladies in 
 light gowns yonder, behind the bench, looked like pale phan- 
 toms with all-devouring eyes, whilst the numerous groups of 
 black-robed advocates formed large sombre patches which 
 gradually spread everywhere. The greyish painting of the Christ 
 had already vanished, and on the walls one only saw the 
 glaring white bust of the EepubHc, which resembled some 
 frigid death's head starting forth from the darkness. 
 
 ' Ah I ' Massot once more exclaimed, ' I knew that it 
 wouldn't take long 1 ' 
 
 Indeed, the jurors were returning after less than a 
 quarter of an hour's absence. Then the judges likewise came 
 back and took their seats. Increased emotion stirred the 
 throng, a great gust seemed to sweep through the court, a 
 gust of anxiety, which made every bend sway. Some people 
 had risen to their feet, and others gave vent to iuvoluntary 
 exclamations. The foreman of the jury, a gentleman with a 
 broad red face, had to wait a moment before speaking. At 
 last in a sharp but somewhat sputtering voice he declared ; 
 ' On my honour and my conscience, before God and before 
 man, the verdict of the jury is : on the question of Murder, 
 yes, by a majority of votes.'' 
 
 The night had almost completely fallen when Salvat was 
 once more brought in. In front of the jurors who faded away 
 in the gloom, he stood forth erect with a last ray from the 
 windows lighting up hia face. The judges themselves almost 
 disappeared from view, their red robes seemed to have turned 
 
 ' English readers may be reminded that in France the verdict of a 
 majority of the jury suffices for conviction or acqaittaL If tie jury 
 IB evenly divided the prisoner is acquitted. — Trans, 
 
364 PARIS 
 
 black. And how phantom-like looked the prisoner's emaciated 
 face as he stood there listening, with dreamy eyes, while the 
 clerk of the court read the verdict to him. 
 
 When silence fell and no mention was made of extenuating 
 circumstances, he understood everything. His face, which 
 had retained a childish expression, suddenly brightened. ' That 
 means death. Thank you, gentlemen,' he said. 
 
 Then he turned towards the public, and amidst the growing 
 darkness searched for the friendly faces which he knew were 
 there ; and this time Guillaume became fully conscious that 
 he had recognised him, and was again expressing affection- 
 ate and grateful thanks for the crust he had received from him 
 on a day of want. He must, however, have also bidden fare- 
 well to Victor Mathis, for as Guillaume glanced at the young 
 man, who had not moved, he saw that his eyes were staring 
 wildly, and that a terrible expression rested on his lips. 
 
 As for the rest of the proceedings, the last questions ad- 
 dressed to the jury and the counsel, the deliberations of the 
 judges and the delivery of sentence — these were all lost 
 amidst the buzzing and surging of the crowd. A little com- 
 passion was unconsciously manifested ; and some stupor was 
 mingled with the satisfaction that greeted the sentence of 
 death. 
 
 No sooner had Salvat been condemned, however, than he 
 drew himself up to his full height, and as the guards led him 
 away he shouted in a stentorian voice : ' Long live Anarchy 1 ' 
 
 Nobody seemed angered by the cry. The crowd went off 
 somewhat quietly, as if weariness had lulled all its passions. 
 The proceedings had really lasted too long and fatigued one 
 too much. It was quite pleasant to inhale the fresh air on 
 emerging from such a nightmare. 
 
 In the large waiting hall, Pierre and Guillaume passed 
 Duthil and the Princess, whom General de Bozonnet had 
 stopped while chatting with Fons^gue. All four of them 
 were talking in very loud voices, complaining of the heat and 
 their hunger, and agreeing that the affair had not been a 
 particularly interesting one. However, all was weU that 
 ended well. As Fons^gue remarked, the condemnation of 
 Salvat to death was a political and social necessity. 
 
 When Pierre and GuiUaume reached the Pont Neuf, the 
 latter for a moment rested his elbows on the parapet of the 
 bridge. His brother, standing beside him, also gazed at the 
 grey waters of the Seine, which h^re and there were fired by 
 
TRtAL AND SENTENCE 365 
 
 the reflections of the gas lamps. A fresh breeze ascended 
 from the river ; it was the dehghtful hour when night steals 
 gently over resting Paris. However, as the brothers stood 
 there breathing that atmosphere which usually brings relief 
 and comfort, Pierre on his side again became conscious of 
 his heart-wound, and remembered his promise to return to 
 Montmartre, a promise that he must keep in spite of the 
 torture there awaiting him ; whilst Guillaume on the other 
 hand experienced a revival of the suspicion and disquietude 
 that had come to him on seeing Marie so feverish, changed 
 as it were by some new feeling, of which she herself was 
 ignorant. Were further sufferings, struggles, and obstacles 
 to happiness yet in store for those brothers who loved one 
 another so dearly ? At all events their hearts bled once mora 
 with all the sorrow into which they had been oast by the 
 scene they had just witnessed ; that assize of justice at which 
 a wretched man had been condemned to pay with his head 
 for the crimes of one and all. 
 
 Then, as they turned along the quay, Guillaume recog- 
 nised young Victor going off alone in the gloom, just in front 
 of them. The chemist stopped him and spoke to him of his 
 mother. But the young man did not hear ; his thin lips 
 parted, and in a voice as trenchant as a knife-thrust ha 
 exclaimed : 'Ah I so it's blood they want. Well, they may 
 cut off his head, but he will be avenged 1 ' 
 
 SACBIFICB 
 
 The days which followed Balvat's trial seemedgloomy ones up 
 yonder in Guillaume's workroom, which was usually so bright 
 and gay. Sadness and silence filled the place. The three young 
 men were no longer there. Thomas betook himself to the 
 Grandidier works early every morning in order to perfect hia 
 little motor ; Frangois was so busy preparing for his exami- 
 nation that he scarcely left the Ecole Normale ; while 
 Antoine was doing some work at Jahan's, where he delighted 
 to linger and watch his little friend Lise awakening to life. 
 Thus Guillaume's sole companion was M^re-Grand, who 
 eat near the window busy with her needlework ; for Maria 
 was ever going about the house, and only stayed in the 
 
366 I>AliIS 
 
 workroom for any length of time when Pierre happened to be 
 there. 
 
 Guillaume's gloom was generally attributed to the feelinga 
 of anger and revolt into which the condemnation of Salvat 
 had thrown him. He had flown into a passion on his return 
 from the Palace of Justice, declaring that the execution of 
 the unhappy man would simply be social murder, deliberate 
 provocation of class warfare. And the others had bowed on 
 hearing that pain-fraught, violent cry without attempting to 
 discuss the point. Guillaume's sons respectfully left him 
 to the thoughts which kept him silent for hours, with his face 
 pale and a dreamy expreis^ion in his eyes. His chemical 
 furnace remained tmlighted, and his only occupation from 
 mom tiU night was to examine the plans and documents 
 connected with his invention, that new explosive and that 
 terrible engine of war which he had so long dreamt of pre- 
 senting to France in order that she might impose the 
 reign of truth and justice upon all the nations. However, 
 during the long hours which he spent before the papers 
 scattered over his table, often without seeing them, for his 
 eyes wandered far away, a multitude of vague thoughts 
 came to him — doubts respecting the wisdom of his project, 
 and fears lest his desire to pacify the nations should simply 
 throw them into an endless war of extermination. Although 
 he really believed that great city of Paris to be the world's 
 brain, entrusted with the task of preparing the future, he 
 could not disguise from himself that with all its folly and 
 shame and injustice, it still presented a shocking spectacle. 
 Was it reaUy ripe enough for the work of human salvation 
 which he thought of entrusting to it? Then, on trying 
 to re-peruse his notes and verify his formulas, he only 
 recovered his former energetic determination on thinking of 
 his marriage, whereupon the idea came to him that it was 
 now too late for him to upset his hfe by changing such long 
 settled plans. 
 
 His marriage 1 Was it not the thought of this Which 
 haunted Guillaume and disturbed hini far more powerfully 
 than his scientific work or his humanitarian passion? 
 Beneath all the worries that he acknowledged, there was 
 another which he did not confess even to himself, and which 
 filled him with anguish. He repeated day by day that he 
 would reveal his invention to the Minister of War as soon 
 as be should be married to Marie, whom he wished to osso- 
 
SACRIFICE 367 
 
 ciate with bis glory. Married to Marie ! Eacb time ha 
 thought of it, burning fever and secret disquietude eamo oyer 
 him. If he now remained so silent and had lost his quiet 
 cheerfulness it was because he had felt new life, as it were, 
 emanating from her. She was certainly no longer the 
 same woman as formerly ; she was becoming more and 
 more changed and distant. He had watched her and Pierre 
 when the latter happened to be there, which was now but 
 seldom. He, top, appeared embarrassed, and different from 
 what he had been. On the days when he came, however, 
 Marie ' seemed transformed ; it was as if new life animated 
 the house. Certainly the intercourse between her and Pierre 
 was quite innocent, sisterly on the one hand, brotherly on the 
 other. They simply seemed to be a pair of good friends. 
 And yet a radiance, a vibration emanated from them, some- 
 thing more subtle even than a sun ray or a perfume. After 
 the lapse of a few days Guillaume found himself unable to 
 doubt the truth any longer. And his heart bled, he was 
 utterly upset by it. He had not found them in fault in any 
 way, but he was convinced that these two children, as he so 
 paternally called them, really adored one another. 
 
 One lovely morning when he happened to be alone with 
 MSre-Grand, face to face with sunlit Paris, he fell into a yet 
 more dolorous reverie than usual. He seemed to be gazing 
 fixedly at the old lady, as, seated in her usual place, she con- 
 tinued sewing with an air of queenly serenity. Perhaps, 
 however, he did not see her. For her part she occasionally 
 raised her eyes and glanced at him, as if expecting a confes- 
 sion which did not come. At last, finding such siknce un- 
 bearable, she made up her mind to address him : ' What has 
 been the matter with you, Guillaume, for some time past ? 
 Why don't you tell me what you have to tell me ? ' 
 
 He descended from the clouds, as it were, and answered 
 in astonishment : ' What I have to tell you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I know it as well as you do, and I thought you 
 would speak to me of it, since it pleases you to do nothing 
 here without consulting me.' 
 
 At this he turned very pale and shuddered. So he had 
 not been mistaken in the matter, even M&'e-Grand knew all 
 about it. To talk of it, however, was to give shape to his 
 suspicions, to transform what, hitherto, might merely have 
 been a fancy on his part into something real and definite. 
 
 ' It was inevitable, my dear son,' said Mere-Grand, ' I 
 
368 PARIS 
 
 foresaw it from the outset. And if I did not warn yon of it, 
 it was because I believed in some deep design on your part. 
 Since I have seen you suffering, however, I have realised 
 that I was mistaken.' Then, as he still looked at her quiver- 
 ing and distracted, she continued : ' Yes, I fancied that you 
 might have wished it, that in bringing your brother here, yoa 
 wished to know if Marie loved you otherwise than as a father. 
 There was good reason for testing her — for instance, the 
 great difference between your ages, for your life is drawing 
 to a close, whilst hers is only beginning. And I need not 
 mention the question of your work, the mission which I have 
 always dreamt of for you.' 
 
 Thereupon, with his hands raised in prayerful fashion, 
 Guillaume drew near to the old lady and exclaimed : ' Oh 1 
 speak out clearly, tell me what you think, I don't under- 
 stand, my poor heart is so lacerated ; and yet I should so 
 much like to know everything, so as to be able to act and take 
 a decision. To think that you whom I love, you whom I 
 venerate as much as if you were my real mother, you whose 
 profound good sense I know so well that I have always 
 followed your advice — to think that you should have foreseen 
 this frightful thing and have allowed it to happen at the risk 
 of its killing me 1 . . . Why have you done so, teU me, why ? ' 
 
 MSre-Grand was not fond of talking. Absolute mistress 
 of the house as she was, managing everything, accountable to 
 nobody for her actions, she never gave expression to all that 
 she thought or all that she desired. Indeed, there was no 
 occasion for it, as GuiUaume, Uke the children, rehed upon her 
 completely, with full confidence in her wisdom. And her 
 somewhat enigmatical ways even helped to raise her in theii 
 estimation. 
 
 'What is the use of words, when things themselves 
 speak ? ' she now gently answered, while stUl plying her 
 needle. ' It is quite true that I approved of the plan of a 
 marriage between you and Marie, for I saw that it was neces- 
 sary that she should be married if she was to stay here. And 
 then, too, there were many other reasons which I needn't speak 
 of. However, Kerre's arrival here has changed everything, 
 and placed things in their natm-al order. Is not that prefer- 
 able ? ■ 
 
 He still lacked the courage to understand her. ' Prefer- 
 able ! When I'm in agony ! When my life is wrecked 1 ' 
 
 Thereupon she rose and came to him, tall and rigid in her 
 
SACRIFICE 369 
 
 thin black gown, and with an expression of austerity and 
 energy on her pale face. ' My son,' she said, ' you know that 
 I love you, and that I wish you to be very noble and lofty. 
 Only the other morning, you had an attack of fright, the 
 house narrowly escaped being blown up. Then, for some 
 days now, you have been sitting over those documents and 
 plans in an absent-minded, distracted state, like a man who 
 feels weak, and doubts, and no longer knows his way. 
 Believe me, you are following a dangerous path ; it is better 
 that Pierre should marry Marie, both for their sakes and for 
 your own.' 
 
 ' For my sake ? no, no ! What will become of me ! ' 
 
 ' You will calm yourself and reflect, my son. You have 
 such serious duties before you. You are on the eve of making 
 your invention known. It seems to me that something has 
 bedimmed your sight, and that you will perhaps act wrongly 
 in this respect, through failing to take due account of the 
 problem before you. Perhaps there is something better to be 
 done. . . . At aU events, suffer if it be necessary, but remain 
 faithful to your ideal.' 
 
 Then, quitting him with a maternal smile, she sought to 
 soften her somewhat stern words by adding : ' You have com- 
 pelled me to speak unnecessarily ; for I am quite at ease ; 
 with your superior mind, whatever be in question, you can 
 but do the one right thing that none other would do.' 
 
 On finding himself alone GuiUaume fell into feverish un- 
 certainty. What was the meaning of M6re-Grand's enigmat- 
 ical words ? He knew that she was on the side of whatever 
 might be good, natural, and necessary. But she seemed to be 
 urging him to some lofty heroism ; and indeed what she had 
 said threw a ray of light upon the unrest which had come to 
 him in connection with his old plan of going to confide his 
 secret to some Minister of War or other, whatever one might 
 happen to be in office at the time. Growing hesitation and 
 repugnance stirred him as he fancied he could again hear her 
 saying that perhaps there might be some better course, that 
 would require search and reflection. But all at once a vision 
 of Marie rose before him, and his heart was rent by the 
 thought that he was asked to renounce her. To lose her, to 
 give her to another I No, no, that was beyond his strength. 
 He would never have the frightful courage that was needed to 
 pass by the last promised raptures of love with disdain ! 
 
 For a couple of days Guillanme struggled on. He seemed 
 
 B B 
 
370 PARIS 
 
 to be again living tlie six years which the yoimg woman had 
 akeady spent beside him in that happy little house. She had 
 been at first Uke an adopted daughter there ; and later on, 
 when the idea of their marriage had sprung up, he had viewed 
 it with quiet delight in the hope that it would ensure the 
 happiness of all around him. If he had previously abstained 
 from marrying again it was from the fear of placing a strange 
 mother over his children ; and if he yielded to the charm of 
 loving yet once more, and no longer leading a solitary life, it 
 was because he had found at his very hearth one of such sensi- 
 ble views, who, in the flower of youth, was willing to become 
 his wife despite the difference in their ages. Then months 
 had gone by, and serious occurrences had compelled them to 
 postpone the wedding, though without undue suffering on his 
 part. Indeed, the certainty that she was waiting for him had 
 sufficed him, for his life of hard work had rendered him 
 patient. Now, however, all at once, at the threat of losing 
 her, his hitherto tranquil heart ached and bled. He would never 
 have thought the tie so close a one. But he was now almost 
 fifty, and it was as if love and woman were being wrenched 
 away from him, the last woman that he could love and desire, 
 one too who was the more desirable as she was the incarnation 
 of youth, from which he must ever be severed, should he 
 indeed lose her. Passionate desire, mingled with rage, flared 
 up within him at the thought that some one should have come 
 to take her from him. 
 
 One night, alone in his room, he suffered perfect martyr- 
 dom. In order that he might not rouse the house he buried 
 his face in his pillow so as to stifle his sobs. After aU, it was 
 a simple matter ; Marie had given him her promise, and he 
 would compel her to keep it. She would be his, and his 
 alone, and none would be able to steal her from him. Then, 
 however, there rose before him a vision of his brother, the long- 
 forgotten one, whom, from feelings of affection, he had 
 compelled to join his family. But his sufferings were now so 
 acute that he would have driven that brother away had he 
 been before him. He was enraged, maddened by the thought 
 of him. His brother — his little brother 1 So all their love 
 was over ; hatred and violence were about to poison their 
 lives. For hours GuiUaume continued complaining deliriously, 
 and seeking how he might so rid himself of Pierre that what 
 had happened should be blotted out. Now and again, when 
 ho recovered seU-eontroli he iaftrY«Hed at the tempest within 
 
SACRIFICE 371 
 
 him ; for was lie not a scientist guided by lofty reason, a toiler 
 to ■whom long experience had brought serenity? But tha 
 truth was that this tempest had not sprung up in his mind, it 
 ■was raging in the child-like soul that he had retained, the 
 nook of affection and dreaminess which remained within him 
 side by side with his principles of pitiless logic and his belief 
 in proven phenomena only. His very genius came from tha 
 duahty of his nature : behind the chemist was a social 
 dreamer, hungering for justice and capable of the greatest love. 
 And now passion was transporting him, and he was weeping 
 for the loss of Marie as he would have wept over the downfall 
 of that dream of his : the destruction of war hy war, that 
 scheme for the salvation of mankind at which he had been 
 working for ten years past. 
 
 At last, amidst his weariness, a sudden resolution calmed 
 him. He began to feel ashamed of despairing in this wise 
 when he had no certain grounds to go upon. He must know 
 everything, he would question the young woman ; she was 
 loyal enough to answer him frankly. Was not this a solution 
 worthy of them both ? An explanation in all sincerity, after 
 which they would be able to take a decision. Then he fell 
 asleep ; and, tired though he felt when he rose in the morning, 
 he was calmer. It was as if some secret work had gone on in 
 his heart during his few hours of repose after that terrible 
 storm. 
 
 As it happened, Marie was very gay that morning. On tha 
 previous day she had gone with Pierre and Antoina on a 
 cycling excursion over frightful roads in the direction of Mont- 
 morency, whence they had returned in a state of mingled 
 anger and delight. When Guillaume stopped her in the little 
 garden, he found her humming a song while returning bare- 
 armed from the scullery, where some washing was going on. 
 
 ' Do you want to speak to me ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear child, it's necessary for us to talk of soma 
 serious matters.' 
 
 She at once understood that their marriage was in 
 question, and became grave. She had formerly consented to 
 that marriage because she regarded it as the only sensible 
 course she could take, and this with full knowledge of the 
 duties which she would assume. No doubt her husband 
 would be some twenty years older than herself, but this 
 circumstance was one of somewhat frequent occurrence, and 
 as a rule such' njaimages turned out well, rather than other- 
 
 bb2 
 
37» PARIS 
 
 wise. Moreovet, she was in love ■with nobody, and was free 
 to consent. And she had consented with an impulse of grati- 
 tude and affection which seemed so sweet that she thought 
 it the sweetness of love itself. Everybody around her, too, 
 appeared so pleased at the prospect of this marriage, which 
 would draw the family yet more closely together. And, on 
 her side, she had been as it were intoxicated by the idea of 
 making others happy. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' she now asked Guillaume in a 
 somewhat anxious voice. ' No bad news, I hope ? ' 
 
 * No, no,' he answered, ' I've simply something to say to 
 you.' 
 
 Then he led her under the plum trees to the only green 
 nook left in the garden. An old worm-eaten bench still 
 stood there against the lilac bushes. And in front of them 
 Paris spread out its sea of roofs, looking light and fresh in the 
 morning sunlight. 
 
 They both sat down. But at the moment of speaking 
 and questioning Marie, Guillaume experienced sudden em- 
 barrassment, while his heart beat violently at seeing her 
 beside him, so young and adorable with her bare arms. 
 
 ' Our wedding-day is drawing near,' he ended by saying. 
 And then as she turned somewhat pale, perhaps uncon- 
 sciously, he himself suddenly felt cold. Had not her lips 
 twitched as if with pain ? Had not a shadow passed over 
 her fresh, clear eyes ? 
 
 'Oh 1 we still have some time before us,' she replied. 
 
 Then, slowly and very affectionately, he resumed : ' No 
 doubt ; still it is necessary to attend to the formalities. And 
 it is as well, perhaps, that I should speak of those worries 
 to-day, so that I may not have to bother you about them 
 again.' 
 
 Then he gently went on telling her all that would have 
 to be done, keeping his eyes on her whilst he spoke, watch- 
 ing for such signs of emotion as the thought of her pro- 
 mise's early fulfilment might bring to her face. She sat 
 there in silence, with her hands on her lap, and her features 
 quite still, thus giving no certain sign of any regret or 
 trouble. Still she seemed rather dejected ; compliant, as it 
 were, but in no wise joyous. 
 
 ' You say nothing, my dear Marie,* Guillaume at last ex- 
 claimed. ' Does anything of all this displease you ? ' 
 
 ' Displease me ? Oh, no ! ' 
 
SACRIFICE 373 
 
 ' You must speak out frankly, if it does, you know. Wa 
 wUl wait a little longer if you have any personal reasons for 
 wishing to postpone the date again." 
 
 ' But I've no reasons, my friend. What reasons could I 
 have ? I leave you quite free to settle everything as you your- 
 self may desire.' 
 
 Silence fell. While answering, she had looked him 
 frankly in the face ; but a little quiver stirred her lips, and 
 gloom, for which she could not account, seemed to rise and 
 darken her face, usually as bright and gay as spring water. 
 In former times would she not have laughed and sung at the 
 mere announcement of that coming wedding ? 
 
 Then Guillaume, with an effort which made his voice 
 tremble, dared to speak out : ' You must forgive me for ask- 
 ing you a question, my dear Marie. There is still time for 
 you to cancel your promise. Are you quite certain that you 
 love me ? ' At this she looked at him in genuine stupefaction, 
 utterly failing to understand what he could be aiming at. And 
 as she seemed to be deferring her reply, he added : ' Consult 
 your heart. Is it really your old friend or is it another that 
 you love ? ' 
 
 ' I ? I, Guillaume ? Why do you say that to me ! What 
 can I have done to give you occasion to say such a thing ? ' 
 
 All her frank nature revolted as she spoke, and her 
 beautiful eyes, glowing with sincerity, gazed fixedly on his. 
 
 ' I must nevertheless go on to the end,' he resumed with 
 some difficulty, ' for the happiness of all of us is at stake. 
 Question your heart. You love my brother, you love Pierre.' 
 I love Pierre ! I do, I ? Well yes, I love him, as I love you 
 all ; I love him because he has become one of us, because ha 
 shares our Ufe and our joys I I'm happy when he's here cer- 
 tainly ; and I should like him to be always here. I'm always 
 pleased to see him and hear him and go out with him. I was 
 very much grieved recently when he seemed to be relapsing 
 into his gloomy ideas. But all that is natural, is it not ? 
 And I think that I have only done what you desired I should 
 do, and I cannot understand how my affection for Pierre can 
 in any way exercise an influence respecting our marriage.' 
 
 These words, in her estimation, ought to have convinced 
 Guillaume that she was not in love with his brother ; but in 
 lieu thereof they brought him painful enlightenment by the 
 very ardour with which she denied the love imputed to her. 
 
 ' But you unfortunate girl ! ' he cried. ' You are betraying 
 
374 PARIS 
 
 yourself without knowing it. . . . It is quite certain you do 
 not love me, you love my brother ! ' 
 
 He had caught hold of her wrists and was pressing them 
 with despairing affection as if to compel her to read her heart. 
 And she continued struggling. A most loving and tragic con- 
 test went on between them, he seeking to convince her by the 
 evidence of facts, and she resisting him, stubbornly refusing to 
 open her eyes. In vain did he recount what had happened 
 since the first day, explaining the feelings which had followed 
 one upon another in her heart and mind : first covert hostility, 
 next curiosity regarding that extraordinary young priest, then 
 sympathy and affection when she had found him so wretched 
 and had gradually cured him of his sufferings. They were 
 both young, and mother Nature had done the rest. However, 
 at each fresh proof and certainty which he put before her, 
 Marie only experienced growing emotion, trembling at last 
 from head to foot, but still unwilling to question herself; 
 
 ' No, no,' said she, ' I do not love him. If I loved him I 
 should know it and would acknowledge it to you ; for you are 
 well aware that I cannot tell an untruth.' 
 
 (JuiUaume, however, had the cruelty to insist on the point, 
 like some heroic surgeon cutting into Ins own flesh even more 
 than into that of others, in order that the truth might appear 
 and everyone be saved. ' Mariej' said he, ' it is not I whom 
 you love. All that you feel for me is respect and gratitude 
 and daughterly affection. Eemember what your feelings were 
 at the time when our marriage was decided upon. You were 
 then in love with nobody, and you accepted the offer like a 
 sensible girl, feeling certain that I should render you happy, 
 and that the union was a right and satisfactory one. . . . But 
 since then my brother has come here ; love has sprung up in 
 your heart in quite a natural way ; and it is Pierre, Pierre 
 alone, whom you love as a lover and a husband should be 
 loved.' 
 
 Exhausted though she was, agitated, too, by the light 
 which, despite herself, M'as dawning within her, Marie still 
 stubbornly and desperately protested. 
 
 ' But why do you struggle like this against the truth, my 
 child ? ' said Guillaume, ' I do not reproaeh you. It was I 
 who ehose that this should happen, like the old madman I 
 am. What was bound to come has come, and doubtless it is for 
 the best. I only wanted to learn the truth from you in order 
 that I might take a decision and act uprightly.' 
 
SACRIFICE 37S 
 
 These words vanquished her, and her tears gushed forth. 
 It seemed as though something had been rent asunder within 
 her ; and she felt quite overcome as if by the weight of a new 
 truth of which she had hitherto been ignorant. ' Ah 1 it was 
 eruel of you,' she said, ' to do me such violence so as to make 
 me read my heart. I swear to you again that I did not know 
 I loved Pierre in the way you say. But you have opened my 
 heart, and roused what was quietly slumjbering in it. . . . And 
 it is true, I do love Pierre, I love him now as you have said. 
 And .so here we are, all three of us supremely wretched 
 through your doing 1 ' 
 
 She sobbed, and with a sudden feeling of modesty freed 
 her wrists from his grasp. He noticed, however, that no 
 blush rose to her face. Truth to tell, her virginal loyalty was 
 not in question ; she had no cause to reproach herself with 
 any betrayal ; it was he alone, perforce, who had awakened 
 her to love. For a moment they looked at one another 
 through their tears : she so strong and healthy, her bosom 
 heaving at each heart-beat, and her white arms — arms that 
 could both charm and sustain — bare almost to her shoulders ; 
 and he still vigorous, with his thick fleece of white hair and 
 his black moustaches, which gave his countenance such an 
 expression of energetic youth. But it was all over, the irre- 
 parable had swept by, and utterly changed their lives. 
 
 ' Marie,' he nobly said, ' you do not love me ; I give you 
 back your promise.' 
 
 But with equal nobility she refused to take it back. 
 ' Never wiU I do so,' she replied. ' I gave it to you frankly, 
 freely, and joyfully, and my affection and admiration for you 
 Lave never ohariged.' 
 
 Nevertheless, with more firmness in his hitherto broken 
 voice, GuUlaume retorted : ' You love Pierre, and it is Pierre 
 whom you ought to marry.' 
 
 ' No,' she again insisted, ' I belong to you. A tie which 
 years have tightened cannot be undone in an hour. Once 
 again, if I love Pierre I swear to you that I was ignorant of 
 it this morning. And let us leave the matter as it is ; do 
 not torture me any more, it would be too cruel of you.' 
 
 Then, quivering like a woman who suddenly perceives 
 that she is bare, in a stranger's presence, she hastily puUed 
 flown heir sleeves, and even drew them over her hands as if 
 to leave naught of her person visible. And afterwards she 
 rose and walied away without adding a single word. 
 
376 PARIS 
 
 Guillaume remained alone on the bench in that leafy 
 corner, in front of Paris, to which the light morning sun- 
 shine lent the aspect of some quivering, soaring city of 
 dreamland. A great weight oppressed him, and it seemed to 
 him as if he would never be able to rise from the seat. That 
 which brought him most suffering was Marie's assurance that 
 she had till that morning been ignorant of the fact that she 
 was in love with Pierre. She had been ignorant of it, and 
 it was he, Guillaume, who had brought it to her knowledge, 
 compelled her to confess it 1 He had now firmly planted it 
 in her heart, and perhaps increased it by revealing it to her. 
 Ah !- how cruel the thought — to be the artisan of one's own 
 torment 1 Of one thing he was now quite certain : there 
 would be no more love in his life. At the idea of this, 
 his poor, loving heart sank and bled. And yet amidst the 
 disaster, amidst his grief at realising that he was an old man, 
 and that renunciation was imperative, he experienced a bitter 
 joy at having brought the truth to light. This was very 
 harsh consolation, fit only for one of heroic soul, yet he found 
 lofty satisfaction in it, and from that moment the thought of 
 sacrifice imposed itself upon him with extraordinary force. 
 He must marry his children ; there lay the path of duty, the 
 only wise and just course, the only certain means of ensuring 
 the happiness of the household. And when his revolting 
 heart yet leapt and shrieked with anguish, he carried hia 
 vigorous hands to his chest in order to stUl it. 
 
 On the morrow came the supreme explanation between 
 Guillaume and Pierre, not in the little garden, however, but 
 in the spacious workroom. And here again one beheld the 
 ■ vast panorama of Paris, a nation as it were at work, a huge 
 vat in which the wine of the future was fermenting. GuU- 
 laume had arranged things so that he might be alone with his 
 brother; and no sooner had the latter entered than he 
 attacked him, going straight to the point without any of the 
 precautions which he had previously taken with Marie. 
 
 ' Haven't you something to say to me, Pierre ? ' he in- 
 quired. ' Why won't you confide in me ? ' 
 
 The other immediately understood him, and began to 
 tremble, unable to find a word, but confessing everything by 
 the confused, entreating expression of his face. 
 
 ' You love Marie,' continued GuiUaume ; ' why did you not 
 loyally come and tell me of your love ? ' 
 
 At this Pierre recovered self-possession and defended him- 
 
SACRIFICE 377 
 
 self vehemently : ' I love Marie, it's true, and I felt that I 
 could not conceal it, that you yourself would notice it at last. 
 But there was no occasion for me to tell you of it, for I waa 
 sure of myself, and would have fled rather than have allowed a 
 single word to cross my lips. I suffered in silence and alone, 
 and you cannot know how great my torture was 1 It is even 
 cruel on your part to speak to me of it; for now I am 
 absolutely compelled to leave you. ... I have already, on 
 several occasions, thought of doing so. If I have come back 
 here, it was doubtless through weakness, but also on account 
 of my affection for you all. And what mattered my pre- 
 sence here ? Marie ran no risk. She does not love me.' 
 
 ' She does love you 1 ' Guillaume answered. ' I ques- 
 tioned her yesterday, and she had to confess that she loved 
 you.' 
 
 At this Pierre, utterly distracted, caught Guillaume by the 
 shoulders and gazed into his eyes. ' Oh 1 brother, brother ! 
 what is this you say ? Why say a thing which would mean 
 terrible misfortune for us all ? Even if it were true my grief 
 would far exceed my joy, for I wiU not have you suffer. Marie 
 belongs to you. To me she is as sacred as a sister. And if 
 there be only my madness to part you, it will pass by, I shall 
 know how to conquer it.' 
 
 'Marie loves you,' repeated Guillaume in his gentle, 
 obstinate way. ' I don't reproach you with anything, I well 
 know that you have struggled, and have never betrayed your- 
 seK to her either by word or glance. Yesterday she herself 
 was still ignorant that she loved you, and I had to open her 
 eyes. . . . What would you have? I simply state a fact: 
 she loves you.' 
 
 This time Pierre, still quivering, made a gesture of 
 mingled rapture and terror, as if some divine and long-desired 
 blessing were falling upon him from heaven and crushing him 
 beneath its weight. 
 
 ' Well, then,' he said, after a brief pause, ' it is all over. . . , 
 Let us kiss one another for the last time, and then I'll go." 
 
 ' Go 1 Why ? You must stay with us. Nothing could be 
 more simple, you love Marie and she loves you. I give her to 
 you.' 
 
 A loud cry came from Pierre, who wildly raised his hands 
 again with a gesture of fright and rapture. ' You give me 
 Marie ? ' he replied. ' You, who adore her, who have been 
 waiting for her for months ? No, no, it would overcome me, 
 
378 I'AEIS 
 
 it would terrify me, as if you gave me your veiy heart after 
 tearing it from your breast. No, no 1 I will not accept your 
 sacrifice 1 ' 
 
 ' But as it is only gratitude and affection that Marie feels 
 for me,' said Guillaume, ' as it is you whom she really loves, 
 am I to take a mean advantage of the engagements which she 
 entered into unconsciously, and force her to a marriage when 
 I know that she would never be wholly mine ? Besides, I 
 have made a mistake ; it isn't I who give her to you, she has 
 already given herseH, and I do not consider that I have any 
 right to prevent her from doing so.' 
 
 ' No, no 1 I will never accept, I will never bring such 
 grief upon you. . . . Kiss me, brother, and let me go.' 
 
 Thereupon GuUlaume caught hold of Pierre and compelled 
 him to sit down by his side on an old sofa near the window. 
 And he began to scold him almost angrily while still retaining 
 a smile, in which suffering and kindliness were blended. 
 ' Come,' said he, ' we are surely not going to fight over it. 
 You won't force me to tie you up so as to keep you here ? I 
 know what I'm about. I thought it all over before I spoke 
 to you. No doubt, I can't tell you that it gladdens me. I 
 thought at first that I was going to die ; I should have 
 liked to hide myself in the very depths of the earth. And 
 then, well, it was necessary to be reasonable, and I understood 
 that things had arranged themselves for the best in their 
 natural order.' 
 
 Pierre, unable to resist any further, had begun to weep 
 with both hands raised to his face. 
 
 ' Don't grieve, brother, either for yourself or for me,' said 
 Guillaume. 'Do you remember the happy days we lately 
 spent together at Neuilly after we had found one another 
 again ? All our old affection revived within us, and we re- 
 mained for hours, hand in hand, recaUing the past and loving 
 one another. And what a terrible confession you made to me 
 one night, the confession of your loss of faith, your torture, 
 the void in which you were roUing ! "When I heard of it my 
 one great wish was to cure you. I advised you to work, love, 
 and believe in life, convinced as I was that life alone could 
 restore you to peace and health. . . . And for that reason I 
 afterwards brought you here. You fought against it, and it 
 was I who forced you to come. I was so happy when I found 
 that you again took an interest in life, and had once more 
 become a man and a worker ! I would have given some of 
 
SACRIFICE 379 
 
 my blood if necessary to complete your cure. . . . Well, it's 
 done now ; I have given you all I had, since Marie herself has 
 become necessary to you, and she alone can save you.' 
 
 Then as Pierre again attempted to protest, he resumed : 
 ' Don't deny it. It is so true, indeed, that. if she does not com- 
 plete the work I have begun, all my efforts will have been 
 vain, you will fall back into your misery and negation, into 
 all the torments of a spoilt life. She is necessary to you, I 
 say. And do you think that I no longer know how to love 
 you ? Would you have me refuse you the very breath of life 
 that wiU truly make you a man, after all my fervent wishes 
 for your return to life ? I have enough affection for you both 
 to consent to your loving one another. . . . Besides, I repeat 
 it, nature knows what she does. Instinct is a sure guide, it 
 always tends to what is useful and true. I should have been 
 a sorry husband, and it is best that I should keep to my work 
 as an old scientist ; whereas you are young and represent the 
 future, aU fruitful and happy life.' 
 
 Pierre shuddered as he heard this, for his old fears 
 returned to him. Had not the priesthood for ever cut him off 
 from life, had not his long years of chaste celibacy robbed him 
 of his manhood ? ' Fruitful and happy life ! ' he muttered, 
 ' ah ! if you only knew how distressed I feel at the idea that 
 I do not perhaps deserve the gift you so lovingly offer me ! 
 You are worth more than I am ; you would have given her a 
 larger heart, a firmer brain, and perhaps, too, you are really 
 a younger man than myself. . . . There is still time, brother ; 
 keep her if with you she is likely to be happier and more truly 
 and completely loved. For my part I am full of doubts. Her 
 happiness is the only thing of consequence. Let her belong 
 to the one who will love her best 1 ' 
 
 Indescribable emotion had now come over both men. As 
 Guillaume heard his brother's broken words, the cry of a love 
 that trembled at the thought of possible weakness, he did for 
 a moment waver. With a dreadful heart-pang he stammered 
 despairingly : ' Ah 1 Marie, whom I love so much 1 Marie, 
 whom I would have rendered so happy ! ' 
 
 _ At this Pierre could not restrain himself; ha rose and 
 cried : ' Ah 1 you see that you love her still and cannot re- 
 nounce her. ... So let me go ! let me go 1 ' 
 
 But Guillaume had abeady caught him round the body, 
 clasping him with an intensity of brotherly love which was 
 increased by the renunciation he was resolved upon : ' Stay I ' 
 
38o PARIS 
 
 said he. ' It wasn't I that spoke, it was the other man that 
 was in me, he who is about to die, who is already dead ! By 
 the memory of our mother and our father I swear to you 
 that the sacrifice is consummated, and that if you two re- 
 fuse to accept happiness from me you will but make me 
 Buffer.' 
 
 For a moment the weeping men remained in one another's 
 arms. They had often embraced before, but never had theit 
 hearts met and mingled as they did now. It was a delightful 
 moment, which seemed an eternity. All the grief and misery 
 of the world had disappeared from before them; there re- 
 mained naught save their glowing love, whence sprang an 
 eternity of love even as light comes from the sun. And that 
 moment was compensation for all their past and future tears, 
 whilst yonder, on the horizon before them, Paris still spread 
 and rumbled, ever preparing the unknown future. 
 
 Just then Marie herself came in. And the rest proved 
 very simple. GuUlaume freed himself from his brother's 
 clasp, led him forward and compelled him and Marie to take 
 each other by the hand. At first she made yet another ges- 
 ture of refusal in her stubborn resolve that she would not take 
 her promise back. But what could she say face to face with 
 those two tearful men, whom she had foimd in one another's 
 arms, mingling together in such close brotherliness ? Did 
 not those tears and that embrace sweep away all ordinary 
 reasons, aU such arguments as she held Ln reserve ? Even 
 the embarrassment of the situation disappeared, it seemed as 
 if she had already had a long explanation with Pierre, and 
 that he and she were of one mind to accept that gift of love 
 which Guillaume offered them with so much heroism. A 
 gust of the sublime passed through the room, and nothing 
 could have appeared more natural to them than this extra- 
 ordinary scene. Nevertheless, Marie remained sUent, she 
 dared not give her answer, but looked at them both with her 
 big soft eyes which, like their own, were full of tears. 
 
 And it was Guillaume who, with sudden inspiration, ran 
 to the little staircase conducting to the rooms overhead, and 
 called : ' MSre-Grand I MSre-Grand I Come down at once, you 
 are wanted.' 
 
 Then, as soon as she was there, looking slim and pale in 
 her black gown, and showing the wise air of a queen-mother 
 whom all obeyed, he said : ' Tell these two children that 
 they o?;n do notlupg better tbao marry one another. Tell 
 
SACRIFICE 381 
 
 them that we have talked it over, you and I, and that it is 
 your desire, your will that they should do so.' 
 
 She quietly nodded her assent, and then said ; ' That is 
 true, it wiU he by far the most sensible course.' 
 
 Thereupon Marie flung herself into her arms, consenting, 
 yielding to the superior forces, the powers of Ufe, that had 
 thus changed the course of her existence. GuiUaume imme- 
 diately desired, that the date of the wedding should be fixed, 
 and accommodation provided for the young couple in the rooms 
 overhead. And as Pierre glanced at him with some remain- 
 ing anxiety and spoke of travelling, for he feared that his 
 wound was not yet healed, and that their presence might 
 bring him suffering, GuUlaume responded : ' No, no, I mean 
 to keep you. If I'm marrying you it is to have you both here. 
 Don't worry about me. I have so much work to do, I shall 
 work.' 
 
 In the evening when Thomas and Fran9ois came home 
 and learnt the news they did not seem particularly surprised 
 by it. They had doubtless felt that things would end hke 
 this. And they bowed to the denouement, not venturing to 
 say a word, since it was their father himself who announced 
 the decision which had been taken, with his usual air of com- 
 posure. Antoine, however, who on his own side quivered with 
 love for Lise, gazed with doubting, anxious eyes at his father, 
 who had thus had the courage to pluck out his heart. Could 
 he really survive such a sacrifice, must it not kill him ? Then 
 Antoine kissed his father passionately, and the elder brothers 
 in their turn embraced him with all their hearts. GuUlaume 
 smiled and his eyes became moist. After his victory over his 
 horrible torments nothing could have been sweeter to him 
 than the embraces of his three big sons. 
 
 There was, however, further emotion in store for him that 
 evening. Just as the dayhght was departing, and he was 
 sitting at his large table near the window, again checking and 
 classifying the documents and plans connected with his in- 
 vention, he was surprised to see his old master and friend 
 Bertheroy enter the workroom. The illustrious chemist 
 called on him in this fashion at long intervals, and Guillaume 
 felt the honour thus conferred on him by this old man to 
 whom eminence and fame had brought so many titles, offices, 
 and decorations. Moreover, Bertheroy, with his position as 
 an official swoant and member of the Institute, showed some 
 courage in thus venturing to call on one whom so-called 
 
382 PARIS 
 
 respectable folks regarded with contumely. On this occasion, 
 however, Guillaume at once understood that it was soma 
 feeling of curiosity that had brought him. And so he was 
 greatly embarrassed, for he hardly dared to remove the papers 
 and plans which were lying on the table. 
 
 ' Oh, don't be frightened,' gaily exclaimed Bertheroy, who, 
 despite his careless and abrupt ways, was really very shrewd. 
 ' I haven't come to pry into your secrets. . . . Leave youi 
 papers there, I promise you that I won't read anything.' 
 
 Then, in all frankness, he turned the conversation on the 
 subject of explosives, which he was still studying, he said, 
 with passionate interest. He had made some new discoveries 
 which he did not conceal. Incidentally, too, he spoke of the 
 opinion he had given in Salvat's affair. His dream was to 
 discover some explosive of great power, which one might 
 attempt to domesticate and reduce to complete obedience. 
 And with a smile he pointedly concluded : ' I don't know 
 where that madman found the formula of his powder. But 
 if you should ever discover it, remember that the future 
 perhaps lies in the employment of explosives as motive 
 power.' 
 
 Then, all at once, he added : ' By the way, that fellow 
 Salvat will be executed on the day after to-morrow. A friend 
 of mine at the Ministry of Justice has just told me so.' 
 
 Guillaume had hitherto listened to him with an air of 
 mingled distrust and amusement. But this announcement 
 of Salvat's execution stirred him to anger and revolt, though 
 for some days past he had known it to be inevitable, in spite 
 of the sympathy which the condemned man was now rousing 
 in many quarters. 
 
 ' It will be a murder I ' he cried vehemently. 
 
 Bertheroy waved his hand : ' What would you have ? ' he 
 answered ; ' there's a social system and it defends itself when 
 it is attacked. Besides, those Anarchists are really too 
 foolish in imagining that they will transform the world with 
 their squibs and crackers 1 In my opinion, you know, Science 
 is the only revolutionist. Science will not only bring us 
 truth but justice also, if indeed justice ever be possible on 
 this earth. And that is why I lead so calm a life and am 
 so tolerant.' 
 
 Once again Bertheroy appeared to Guillaume as a revolu- 
 tionist, one who was convinced that he helped on the ruin of 
 the ancient abominable society of nowadays, with its dogmas 
 
SACRIFICE 383 
 
 and laws, even wLilst he was working in the depths of his 
 laboratory. He was, however, too desirous of repose, and had 
 too great a contempt for futilities to mingie with the events 
 of the day, and he preferred to live in qaietude, liberally paid 
 and rewarded, and at peace with the government whatever it 
 might be, whilst at the same time foreseeing and preparing 
 the formidable parturition of the future. 
 
 He waved his hand towards Paris, over which a sun of 
 victory was setting, and then again spoke : ' Do you hear the 
 rumble? It is we who are the stokers, we who are ever 
 flinging fresh fuel under the boiler. Science does not pause 
 in her work for a single hour, and she is the artisan of 
 Paris which — let us hope it — will be the artisan of the future. 
 All the rest is of no account.' 
 
 Guillaume, however, was no longer listening to him. He 
 was thinking of Salvat and the terrible engine of war he had 
 invented, that engine which before long would shatter cities. 
 And a new idea was dawning and growing in his mind. He 
 had just freed himself of his last tie, he had created all the 
 happiness he could create around him. Ah I to recover his 
 courage, to be master of himself once more, and, at any rate, 
 derive from the sacrifice of his heart the lofty delight of being 
 free, of being able to lay down even his life, should he some 
 day deem it necessary 1' 
 
BOOK V 
 I 
 
 THE GUILLOTINa 
 
 Foe some reason of his own Guillaume was bent upon wit- 
 nessing the execution of Salvat. Pierre tried to dissuade him 
 from doing so ; and finding his efforts vain, became somewhat 
 anxious. He accordingly resolved to spend the night at 
 Montmartre, accompany his brother and watch over him. In 
 former times, when engaged with Abbe Eose in charitable 
 work in the Charonne district, he had learnt that the guillo- 
 tine could be seen from the house where M^ge, the Soeiahst 
 deputy, resided at the corner of the Eue Merhn. He there- 
 fore offered himself as a guide. As the execution was to take 
 place as soon as it should legally be daybreak, that is about 
 half-past four o'clock, the brothers did not go to bed but sat 
 up in the workroom, feeling somewhat drowsy, and exchanging 
 few words. Then as soon as two o'clock struck they started 
 off. 
 
 The night was beautifully serene and clear. The full 
 moon, shining Uke asilver lamp in the cloudless, far-stretch- 
 ing heavens, threw a calm, dreamy light over the vague 
 immensity of Paris, which was like some spell-bound city of 
 sleep, so overcome by fatigue that not a murmur arose from it. 
 It was as if beneath the soft radiance which spread over its 
 roofs, its panting labour and its cries of suffering were lulled 
 to repose until the dawn. However, in a far, out of the way 
 district dark work was even now progressing, a knife was being 
 raised on high in order that a man might be killed. 
 
 Pierre and Guillaume paused in the Eue St. Eleuthfire, and 
 gazed at the vaporous, tremulous city spread out below them. 
 And as they turned they perceived the basilica of the Sacred 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 385 
 
 Heart, still domeless but already looking huge indeed in the 
 moonbeams, whose clear white light accentuated its outlines 
 and brought them into sharp relief against a mass of shadows. 
 Under the pale nocturnal sky, the edifice showed like a 
 colossal monster, symbolical of provocation and sovereign 
 dominion. Never before had GuiUaume found it so huge, 
 never had it appeared to him to dominate Paris, even in the 
 latter's hours of slumber, with such stubborn and overwhelming 
 might. 
 
 This wounded him so keenly in the state of mind in which 
 he found himself, that he could not help exclaiming : ' Ah ! 
 they chose a good site for it, and how stupid it was to let 
 them do so 1 I know of nothing more nonsensical : Paris 
 crowned and dominated by that temple of idolatry ! How 
 impudent it is, what a buffet for the cause of reason after so 
 many centuries of science, labour, and battle I And to think 
 of it being reared over Paris, the one city in the world which 
 ought never to have been soiled in this fashion 1 One can 
 understand it at Lourdes and Eome ; but not in Paris, in the 
 very field of intelligence which has been so deeply ploughed, 
 and whence the future is sprouting. It is a declaration of 
 war, an insolent proclamation that they hope to conquer Paris 
 also! ' 
 
 GuiUaume usually evinced all the tolerance of a scientist, 
 for whom religions are simply social phenomena. He even 
 willingly admitted the grandeur or grace of certain Catholic 
 legends. But Marie Alacoque's famous vision, which has 
 given rise to the cult of the Sacred Heart, filled him with irri- 
 tation and something like physical disgust. He suffered at 
 the mere idea of Christ's open, bleeding breast, and the gigan- 
 tic heart which the saint asserted she had seen beating in the 
 depths of the wound — the huge heart in which Jesus placed 
 the woman's little heart to restore it to her inflated and 
 glowing with love. What base and loathsome materialism 
 there was in all this ! What a display of viscera, muscles, and 
 blood suggestive of a butcher's shop I And GuiUaume was 
 particularly disgusted with the engraving which depicted this 
 horror, and which he found everywhere, crudely coloured with 
 red and yeUow and blue, like some badly executed anatomical 
 plate. 
 
 Pierre on his side was also looking at the basilica as, white 
 witlf rnoctnlight, it r'ose out of the ^arkness like a gigantic 
 fortress raised to crush and cdnqufer lihe city slumbering 
 
 00 
 
386 PARIS 
 
 beneath it. It had abeady brought hiifl suffeiirig duiing the 
 Istst da;ys when he had said mass in itaiidwas struggling^ with 
 his torments. ' They call it the national votive oBferiiig,' he 
 now exckilhed. ' But the nation's lohging is for health and 
 strength and restoration to its old position by wo*k. That is 
 a thiig the Chttrch does not understahd. It strgueS that if 
 Fiance W£ts stricken with defeat, it -v^as' because she deserved 
 punishment. She was guUt^, rfhd so to-day she ought to 
 repent. Eepent of what ? Of the Eevolution, of a century of 
 free examinsitioil and science, of the emanci|)ationdf her mind, 
 of her initiator^ and liberative labour in all parts oi the world ? 
 That indeed is her real transgression ; and it is as a punish- 
 ment for all our labour, search for trdth, tacrease of kno'W'- 
 ledgfe, and match towards justice that they ha-^e reared that 
 huge pile which Paris triU see from all her Streets, and will 
 never be able to see without feeling derided and insulted in 
 her labour and glory.' 
 
 With a wave of his hand he pointed to the city slumbering 
 in the moonlight as beneath a sheet of gUver, and theti set off 
 again with his brother, do\^n the slopes, towards the black 
 and deserted streets. 
 
 They did hot meet a living soul rihtil tHejr reached the 
 outer boulevard. Here, however, no matter what the hour 
 may be, life continues with scarcely a pause. No sooner are 
 the wine shops, music and dancing halls closed, than vice and 
 want, cast into the street, there resume their nocturnal 
 existetiee. Thus the brothers came upoh all the hOinelesS 
 ones : low prostitutes seeking a paUet, vagabonds stretched on 
 the benches UEtder the trees, rogues who prowled hither and 
 thither on the look-out for a good stroke, fencouraged by 
 their accomplice, night, all the mire and woe of Paris had 
 returned to the surface. The erupty roadway now belOhged 
 to the breadless, homeless starvelings, those for whoih there 
 was no place in the sunlight, the Vague, swarming, despairing 
 herd which is only espied at night-tiUie. Ah ! what speottes 
 of destitution, what apparitions of grief and fright there were \ 
 "What a sob of agony passed by in Paris that morning, when 
 as soon as the daWn should rise, a man— a pauper, a saffSrei! 
 like the others — was to be guillotined ! 
 
 As Guillaume and Pierre were about to descend the EuS 
 des Martyrs, the former perceived an old man lying on a 
 bench with his bare feet protruding irom his gajiiig, filthy 
 shoes. Guillaume pointed to him in silence. Then, a few 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 387 
 
 steps farther on, Pierre in his turn^ Jointed to a ragged girt, 
 crouching, aslefep with open nidtith, in the corner of a db'or- 
 tray. There v?as no heed for the brothers to eipress in words 
 all the cbifl^flg^on tihd ang6f ^hich stitred their hearts. At 
 long intervals policeraen, walking slowly t^o by two, shool? the 
 poo'r Wretches and compelled therh to rise and wiilk on and ori. 
 Occasionally, if they ftirtnd theih Stispicidtis or refractory they 
 miirched them off to the police-station. And then rancour 
 and the cOntagibri of ihiprisohmlent often tfansformed a mere 
 V£igabond into a thief oi a murderer. 
 
 Ill the Eue des Martyrs and the Rue dii Faubourg-Mont- 
 rilartre, the brothers found nig;ht-birdg of ahother kind, women 
 who slunk past thein, cldse to the house-fronts, and men 
 and hUSMes whb belaboured one another with blfci'wS. Then, 
 up6H the gfSnd boulevards, on the thresholds df lofty black 
 hoTiees, 6hly one row of whose windows flared iti the night, 
 pale-faced individuals, who had just come down from their 
 clubs, stood lighting cigars before going honie. A lady with 
 a ball- wrap pier her evening gown went by accompanied by a 
 servant. A few cabs, rhoreover, still joggfed up and dowli the 
 roadway, while others, which had been waiting iat hours, 
 stood ori their ranks in rows, with drivers and horses alike 
 asleep. Arjd as one boulevard after ariother was reached, the 
 boulevard Ppissonfii^fe, the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, the 
 Boulevard St. Dfenis, and ^o. forth, as far as the Place de la 
 S6pubUque, there C'acie fresh want and iaisery, mote forsaken 
 and hungry ones, more and more of the huinan ' waste ' that 
 is cast into the streets and the darkiiess. And on the other 
 hand, an army of street-SWeepef 3 ■^&% now , iippearing to 
 reiiiove all the filth of the past fOur-and-twenty hours', in order 
 that Paris, spruce already at sunrise, might hoi blush for 
 having thrown up such a mass of dirt and loathsomeness in 
 the course of a single day. 
 
 It 'CraS, however, more ^j'^rticulsirly after following the 
 Boule^&rd l^oltaire, and di-a-^^ing hear to the districts of La 
 fioquStte and Charohhe, that the bfothefs felt they were 
 returning to a sphere of labour where there was often lack of 
 food, arid ^here life was Wt so much paiti. Pierre found 
 himself at home here. In f Oftner days, accompanied by good 
 Abb^ EoSe, visiting despairing ones, distributing alhis, pick- 
 ing up children ^ho had siink to the gutter, he had a hundred 
 iilnespferanibulated every one of those long, densely populated 
 StMets. And thus a frightfiil WMo'Q aro'Se b'efore his mind'a 
 
 ao2 
 
388 PARIS 
 
 eye ; he recalled all the tragedies he had witnessed, all the 
 shrieks he had heard, aU the tears and bloodshed he had 
 seen, all the fathers, mothers and children huddled together 
 and dying of want, dirt, and abandonment : that social hell in 
 which he had ended by losing his last hopes, fleeing from it 
 with a Bob in the conviction that Charity was a mere amuse- 
 ment for the rich, and absolutely futile as a remedy. It was 
 this conviction which now returned to him as he again cast 
 eyes upon that want- and grief-stricken district which seemed 
 fated to everlasting destitution. That poor old man whom 
 Abb6 Eose had revived one night in yonder hovel, had he not 
 since died of starvation ? That little girl whom he had one 
 morning brought in his arms to the Befuge after her parents' 
 death, was it not she whom he had just met, grown but fallen 
 to the street's, and shrieking beneath the Sst of a bully ? Ah ! 
 how great was the number of the wretched ! Their name 
 was legion ! There were those whom one could not save, 
 those who were hourly bom to a life of woe and want, even as 
 one may be bom infirm, and those, too, who from every side 
 sank in the sea of human injustice, that ocean which has ever 
 been the same for centuries past, and which though one may 
 strive to drain it, still and for ever spreads. How heavy was 
 the silence, how dense the darkness in those working-class 
 streets where sleep seems to be the comrade of death ! Yet 
 hunger prowls, and misfortune sobs; vague spectral forms 
 L slink by, and then are lost to view in the depths of the night. 
 
 As Pierre and GuiUaume went along they became mixed 
 with dark groups of people, a whole flock of inquisitive folk, 
 a promiscuous, passionate tramp, tramp towards the 
 guillotine. It came from all Paris, urged on by bratish 
 fever, a hankering for death and blood. In spite, however, 
 of the dull noise which came from this dim crowd, the mean 
 streets that were passed remained quite dark, not a light 
 appeared at any of their windows ; nor could one hear the 
 breathing of the weary toilers stretched on their wretched 
 pallets from which they would not rise before the morning 
 twilight. ! 
 
 On seeing the jostling crowd which was already assembled 
 on the Place Voltaire, Pierre imderstood that it would be 
 impossible for him and his brother to ascend the Eue de la 
 Eoquette. Earners, moreover, must certainly hate b'eten 
 thrown across that street. In order therefore to reach the 
 ocinler of th'i^ Bae Merlin, it oo<3urr@d &> him to fake the B'uei 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 389 
 
 de la Folie Begnault, which winds round in the rear of the 
 prison, farther on. 
 
 Here, indeed, they found solitude and darkness again. 
 The huge, massive prison with its great bare walls on whioU 
 a moonray fell, looked like some pile of cold stones, dead for 
 centuries past. At the end of the street, however, they once 
 more fell in with the crowd, a dim restless mass of beings, 
 whose pale faces alone could be distinguished. The brothers 
 had great difSculty in reaching the house in which MSge 
 resided at the corner of the Bue Merlin. All the shatters of 
 the fourth floor flat occupied by the Socialist deputy were 
 closed, though every other window was wide open and 
 crowded with surging sightseers. Moreover, the wine shop 
 down below and the first floor room connected with it flared 
 with gas, and were already crowded with noisy customers, 
 waiting for the performance to begin. 
 
 'I hardly like to go and knock at Mage's door,' said 
 Pierre. 
 
 ' No, no, you must not do so I ' replied Guillaume. ' Let 
 us go into the wine shop. We may perhaps be able to see 
 something from the balcony.' 
 
 The first floor room was provided with a very large 
 balcony, which women and gentlemen were already fiUing. 
 The brothers nevertheless managed to reach it, and for a few 
 minutes remained there, peering into the darkness before 
 them. The sloping street grew broader between the two 
 prisons, the ' great ' and the ' little ' Roquette, in such wise 
 as to form a sort of square, which was shaded by four clumps 
 of plane-trees, rising from the footways. The low buildings 
 and scrubby trees, all poor and ugly of aspect, seemed almost 
 to lie on a level with the ground, under a vast sky in which 
 stars were appearing, as the moon gradually declined. And 
 the square was quite empty save that on one spot yonder 
 there seemed to be some little stir. Two rows of guards pre- 
 vented the crowd from advancing, and even threw it back into 
 the neighbouring streets. On the one hand, the only lofty 
 houses were far away, at the point where the Eue St. Maur 
 intersects the Bue de la Boquette ; while, on the other, they 
 stood at the corners of the Bue Merlin and the Bue de la 
 Fohe Begnault, so that it was almost impossible to distin- 
 guish anything of the execution even from the best placed 
 windows. As for the inquisitive folk on the pavement they 
 only saw the backs of the guards. Still this did not prevent 
 
390 P4RIS 
 
 a crush. The human tide flowed on &oi^ all sides with in- 
 creasing clamour. 
 
 Guided by the remarks of some women who, leaning for- 
 ward on the balcony, had been watching the square for a 
 long time already, the brothers were at lagji able to perceive 
 something. It was now half-past three, pnd the guillotine 
 was nearly ready. The little stir which one yg.guely espied 
 yonder under the trees, was that of the headsman's 
 assistants fixing the knife in position. A lantern slowly 
 came and went, and five or six shadows danced over the 
 grouncf. But nothing else could he distinguished, the square 
 Vas Uke a largp black pit, around which ever liroke the waves 
 of the noisy cro^d ■\ybioh one could not see. And beyond the 
 square one could only identify the flaring wine shops, winch 
 showed forth like lighthpuse? in the night. All the surround- 
 ing district of poverty and toil was still asleep, not a gleanj 
 as yet came from workrooms or yards, not a puff of smoke 
 ■from the lofty factory chimneys. 
 
 ' We shall see nothing,' GuiUaume remarked. 
 
 But Pierre silenced him, for he had just discovered that 
 an elegantly attired gentleman leaning over the balcony near 
 him was none other than the amiable deputy Duthil. He 
 had at first fancied that a woman muffled in wraps who stood 
 elQse beside the deputy was the little Princess de Harn, whom 
 he had very likely brought to see the execution, since he had 
 taken her to see the trial. On closer inspection, howeyer, he had 
 found that this woman was Silviane, the perverse cre^iiiifrQ 
 with the virginal face. Truth to tell she made no pppcsalf- 
 ment of her presence, but talked on in an extremely loud 
 voice, as if intoxicated ; and the brothers soon learnt how it 
 was that she happened to be there. Duyillard, puthil, and 
 other friends had Ijeen supping with her at one Q'plop^ |n the 
 Tporning, when on learning that Salvat was about to be 
 guillotined, the fancy of seeing the execution had suddenly 
 come upon her. Duvills.rd, after vainly entreating her to ^o 
 nothing of the kind, had gone off in a fury, for he felji that it 
 would be most unseemly on his part to atji.end the execution 
 of a man who had endeavoured to blow up his house. An,4 
 thereupon Silviane had turned to Duthil, whorn her caprice 
 greatly ■vyprried, for he held all such loathsome speotacl^s in 
 horror, ajid tad aheady refused to act as escojt to the Princess. 
 However, he was so inf£|,Jiu'ated with Silviane's beauty, apd 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 391 
 
 Bhe m9,de hi^i sp mg^py prppuses, ttst Ji^ l^s-^ at last con- 
 sented to take her. 
 
 ' ^ can't ?Jb4P'"""3'I1!J people caring fop amusement,' she 
 sai^, speaking of thp B^ron. ' And yet this is really a thing tp 
 see. . . . !5ut no matter, ypu'U fin4 him at my feet again to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 Duthil smiled and resppjide4 : ' I sijpposp that peace 
 hp bgen signed and ratjfipd now t)j.at you have secured your 
 engagement at the Com^die.' 
 
 ' P,eac,P ? IJo r she protected. ■' No, no. There will be no 
 peace between us until 1 have made my di^y^t. After that, 
 we'll see.' 
 
 They bpt^i Jaughe4 ; apd then Duthil, by yyay pf paying 
 his cpnrt, told her hpw gpod-ijaturedly Dauvergne, the new 
 Minister of Pfiblie Instrjjption ajid Fine Arts, had adjusted 
 the difficulties yhich h^d hit]iprtp kept the doors of the 
 Com^die elospd upon her. A really pharmjpg man was 
 Dauvergne, the embodinient of gracipusness, the yery flower 
 of the Monferrand ministry. His was the velyet hand in that 
 administration wbpse lea^pr had a hand of iron. 
 
 ' He told me, my beauty,' sfiid Op.thil, 'that a pretty girl 
 Tyas in place everywhere.' And then as Silviane, as if 
 flattered, pressed closely beside him, the deputy added : ' So 
 that wonderful reyival of " Polyeu^te," in which you are going 
 to have such ^ trijfPP?i> is to take plp.ce on the day after to- 
 morrow. We shall all gp to ^Bplap4 ypu, remember.' 
 
 ' Yps, on the evening of the ^^j ^fter to-morrow,' s^id 
 Silviane, ' the very same day when the wedding o| tne Barpn's 
 daughter will take place. There'll h& plenty of epiqtion that 
 day!' 
 
 ' Ah I yes, of course ! ' retorte,d Dfl-thil, ' there'll be the 
 wedding of oiir friend GjSrard wjth Mademoiselle Caipille to 
 begin with. Ws shall have a crush at tjip MaiJelgine in tjie 
 morning and another at the Com^die in thg evening. Ypu 
 are quite right, too ; there wiU be several hearts throbbing in 
 thp Eue Qodpt de Mauroy.' 
 
 Thereupon thpy again became merry, and jested about the 
 Duyiilard family — father, mother, lover and daughtpr^ — with 
 the greatest possi|)le ferocity and crudity pf language. Then, 
 al} at once, Silviane exolaime,d : ' Do you know I'm feeling 
 awfully bpred iief e, my little Puthil. I can't distinguisii any- 
 thing, a,nd I shpji),d Jjke !i,9 Ibe q^jjt^ pear so as tp see it a}l 
 
39* PARIS 
 
 plainly. You must take me over yonder, close to that 
 machine of theirs.' 
 
 This request threw Duthilinto consternation, particularly 
 as at that same moment Silviane perceived Massot outside 
 the wine shop, and began calling and beckoning to him 
 imperiously. A brief conversation then ensued between the 
 young woman and the journalist : ' I say, Massot I ' she 
 called, ' hasn't a deputy the right to pass the guards and take 
 a lady wherever he likes ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all 1 ' exclaimed Dnthil. ' Massot knows very 
 well that a deputy ought to be the very first to bow to the 
 laws.' 
 
 This exclamation warned Massot that Duthil did not wish 
 to leave the balcony. ' You ought to have secured a card of 
 invitation, madame,' said he, in reply to Silviane. 'They 
 would then have found you room at one of the windows of La 
 Petite Roquette. Women are not allowed elsewhere. . . . But 
 you mustn't complain, you have a very good place up there.' 
 
 ' But I can see nothing at aU, my dear Massot.' 
 
 ' Well, you will in any case see more than Princess de 
 Ham will. Just now I came upon her carriage in the Rue du 
 Chemin Vert. The police would not allow it to come any 
 nearer.' 
 
 This news made Silviane merry again, whilst Duthil 
 shuddered at the idea of the danger he incurred, for Rose- 
 monde would assuredly treat him to a terrible scene should 
 she see him with another woman. Then, an[idea occurring to 
 him, he ordered a bottle of champagne and some Uttle cakes 
 for his ' beautiful friend,' as he called Silviane. She had 
 been complaining of thirst, and was delighted with the oppor- 
 tunity of perfecting her intoxication. When a waiter had 
 managed to place a little table near her, on the balcony itself, 
 she found things very pleasant, and indeed considered it quite 
 brave to tipple and sup afresh, while waiting for that man to 
 be guillotined close by. 
 
 It was impossible for Pierre and GuiUaume to remain up 
 there any longer. AU that they heard, all that they beheld 
 filled them with disgust. The boredom of waiting had turned 
 aU the inquisitive folks of the balcony and the adjoining room 
 into customers. The waiter could hardly manage to serve the 
 many glasses of beer, bottles of expensive wine, biscuits, and 
 plates of cold meat which were ordered of him. And yet the 
 spectators here were all bourgeois, rich gentlemen, people of 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 393 
 
 Bociety I On the other hand, time has to be killed somehow 
 when it hangs heavily on one's hands ; and thus there were 
 bursts of laughter and paltry and horrible jests, quite a 
 feverish uproar arising amidst the clouds of smoke from the 
 men's cigars. When Pierre and Guillaume passed through 
 the wine shop on the ground floor they there found a similar 
 crush and similar tumult, aggravated by the disorderly be- 
 haviour of the big fellows in blouses who were drinking 
 draught wine at the pewter bar which shone like silver. 
 There were people, too, at all the little tables, besides an in- 
 cessant coming and going of folks who entered the place for a 
 ' wet,' by way of calming then" impatience. And what folks 
 they were 1 All the scum, all the vagabonds who had been 
 dragging themselves about since daybreak on the look-out for 
 whatever chance might offer them, provided it were not 
 work 1 
 
 On the pavement outside, Pierre and Guillaume felt yet a 
 greater heart pang. In the throng which the guards kept back, 
 one simply found so much mire stirred up from the very depths 
 of Paris life : prostitutes and criminals, the murderers of to- 
 morrow, who came to see how a man ought to die. Loath- 
 some, bareheaded harlots mingled with bands of prowlers or 
 ran through the crowd, howling obscene refrains. Bandits 
 stood in groups chatting and quarrelling about the more or 
 less glorious manner in which certain famous guillotmis had 
 died. Among these was one vnth respect to whom they all 
 agreed, and of whom they spoke as of a great captain, a hero 
 whose marvellous courage was deserving of immortality. 
 Then, as one passed along, one caught snatches of horrible 
 phrases, particulars about the instrument of death, ignoble 
 boasts, and filthy jests reeking with blood. And over and 
 above aU else there was bestial fever, a lust for death which 
 made this multitude delirious, an eagerness to see life flow 
 forth fresh and ruddy beneath the knife, so that as it coursed 
 over the soil they might dip their Jeet in it. As this execution 
 was not an ordinary one, however, there were yet spectators 
 of another kind : silent men with glowing eyes who 
 came and went all alone, and who were plainly thrilled by 
 their Daith, intoxicated with the contagious madness which 
 incites one to vengeance or martyrdom. 
 
 Guillaume was just thinking of Victor Mathis, when he 
 fancied that he saw him standing in the front row of sight- 
 seers whom the guards held in check. It was, indeed, he, 
 
394 PARIS 
 
 with Lis thin, beardless, pale, drawn face. Short as he was, 
 he had to raise himself op tip-jiQieg iq order to see anything. 
 Near tim was a big, ped-haired girl wbp gesticulated ; bui fpr 
 hj.^ part he never stirred Qr spoke. He iffas waiting motion- 
 less, gazing yonder with the round, ardent, fixed eyes of a 
 night-bird, seeking to penetrate th.e ^^^rkniees. At last ^ guard 
 pushed him back m a somewhat }3rutal way ; however, ^ soop 
 returneci to his previous position, ever patient thopgh full pf 
 hatred ag^iinst the executioners, wishjpg ^pdeed to see all Jie 
 could in order to ine^egjse his hate. 
 
 Then Massot approached tlie brothers. This time, on see- 
 ing Pierre without his cassock, he did not even make a sign 
 of astonishment, but gaily reniarked : ' So you felt curjous Jfl 
 see this affair, Monsieur Frpnient? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I came with niy Jjpother,' Pierre repl}^d. ' But I very 
 much fear that we shan't see much.' 
 
 ' You certainly won't if you stay here^' rejoined Massot. 
 Andjthereupon in his usual goo4-iia.tured way — glad, moreover, 
 to show what power a well-known journalist could wield;— he 
 inquired : ' Would you like me to pass you through ? ^he 
 inspector here happens to be a frjyeud of mine.' 
 
 Then, wjthout waiting for an answer, he stppped thg 
 inspector and hastily whispered to him that he had brought a 
 couple of colleagues, who wanted to report the proceedings. At 
 first the inspector hesitated, and seemed inclined to re&se 
 Massot's request; but after a moment, influenced by the 
 covert fear which the police alw9>ys have of the press, he made 
 a weary gesture of consent. 
 
 ' dome, quick, then,' said Mg,ssoJ;, turnipg to the brothers, 
 and taking them alpng with him. 
 
 A moment lajier, ' to the intense surprise of Pierre apd 
 GuiUauine, the guards opened their ranks to let theni p^ss. 
 They then found theniselves in thp large open space wjiiph 
 was kept clear. And on thus emerging from tJ^e tunpiltuous 
 throng they were qui]te impressed by the de^th-Kke silence 
 and solitude which reigned under the little plane trees. The 
 night was now paling. 4 faint gle^m of dawn was already 
 falling from the sky. 
 
 After leading his cpnipanipns slantwise across the square, 
 Massot stopped them near the prison g,pd rpsunied: 'I'pi 
 going inside ; I want to see the prisoner rouspd and got ready. 
 In the meantime, walk about jbiere ; nobody will say anythjpg 
 to you. Besides, I'll come back tp you jn a moment.' 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 395 
 
 4 hundred peopjj^ or so, jo!jr)ig.Jists ^pd other privileged 
 Bpeciatqrs, were scattered about the darlj square. Movable 
 ■wooden barriers — sueli as are set up at the (doors of theatres 
 when there is a press of people yaiting for admission, haq| 
 been placed on eitW sid,Q of thp payenipnt riinning frojn the 
 prison gate tp the guillptine; ^.p^ some sight-geers VP^^ff 
 already Jpaning oyer j}bese barriers, m o?;,der to secure a close 
 viey of the condemiied man as he passed by. Others were 
 wal^iJg slowly to and fro, and conversing in updertones. The 
 brothers, for their part, apprpached the ggUlotine. 
 
 It stood there under the branches of the trees, amidst the 
 ^elicate greenery of the fresh leaves p^ spring. A neighbour- 
 ing gas-lamp, whose light was ■ turmng yellow iii the rising 
 ^aynj, cast yague gleams upon it. !}] ^e yprk of fixing it in 
 ppsitipn — work pepfprmp4 as quietly as ooul^ Ibg, sp that 
 the only sound was the pccasional thud of a maUet — h^id just 
 been finished ; and the headsman's ' yalpts ' or assistants, in 
 frojck coats aiid tall silk hats, were waiting apd strplling about 
 in a patient way. ^uji the jnstruin.ept itself lipw base and 
 shameful it looked, squatting pn the ground Ijke somp filthy 
 beast, disgusted with the worlj it had ^^o accomplish ! What 1 
 those few beams lying on the grpund, and those otjjers barely 
 nine feet high which rose from it, keeping the Ijnife in position, 
 constituted the rnachine y^hich avenged Spciety, {i]ie instru- 
 ment which gaye a warning to evil-doers [ "Where was the 
 big scaffold painted a bright red and reacbed by a stairway of 
 ten steps, the scaffold yhich raised higb gory arin^ pver the 
 eager multitude, so thgij: everybody might behold the punish- 
 ment of the law in all its horror ? The be^st had now been 
 felled to the ground, where it simply looked ignpple, crafty, 
 and cowardly. If on the one hand there was no majesty in the 
 manner in which human justice condemned a man to death aji 
 its assizes ; on the otfjpr, tbere yras merely horrid butchery with 
 the help pf the mpst barbarous and rppulsive of rpechanical 
 contrivances, pn the t.errible day 'svhefi };h^t man was e:f^cutp4. 
 As Pierre and GuilJ3,ume gazed §t the gfj-illotine, a feeling 
 of nausea came oyer thpna. Daylight Tvas now slo'vyly break- 
 ing, and the surroundings were appearing to vipiy : ftrst the 
 square itself with its jiwp }qw, grey prisons; facing one another ; 
 then the distant houses, ttie taverns, the marble workers' esta- 
 blishments, and |)he shops selling flowers and wreatbs, yhjch 
 are numerous hereabouts, as the cemetery of P4re-Lach^ise is 
 BO near. Before long one coul^ plainly distinguish thp blaclj 
 
396 PARIS 
 
 lines of the spectators standing around in e^ circle, the heads 
 leaning forward from windows and balconies, and the people 
 who had climbed to the very house roofs. The prison of La 
 Petite Eoquette over the way had been turned into a kind of 
 tribune for guests ; and mounted Gardes de Paris went slowly 
 to and fro across the intervening expanse. Then, as the slgr 
 brightened, labour awoke throughout the district beyond the 
 crowd, a district of broad, endless streets lined with factories, 
 workshops, and workyards. Engines began to snort, 
 machinery and appliances were got ready to start once more 
 on their usual tasks, and smoke already curled away from the 
 forest of lofty brick chimneys which, on aU sides, sprang out 
 of the gloom. 
 
 It then seemed to Gnillaume that the guillotine was really 
 in its right place in that district of want and toil. It stood in 
 its own realm, like a terminus and a threat. Did not igno- 
 rance, poverty, and woe lead to it ? And each time that it was 
 set up amidst those toilsome streets, was it not charged to over- 
 awe the disinherited ones, the starvelings, who, exasperated by 
 everlasting injustice, were always ready for revolt ? It was not 
 seen in the districts where wealth and enjoyment reigned. 
 It would there have seemed purposeless, degrading, and truly 
 monstrous. And it was a tragical and terrible coincidence 
 that the bomb-thrower, driven mad by want, should be guil- 
 lotined there, in the very centre of want's dominion. 
 
 But daylight had come at last, for it was nearly half -past 
 four. The distant noisy crowd could feel that the expected 
 moment was drawing nigh. A shudder suddenly sped 
 through the atmosphere. 
 
 ' He's coming,' exclaimed little Massot, as he came back to 
 Pierre and Guillaume. ' Ah 1 that Salvat is a brave fellow 
 after aU.' 
 
 Then he related how the prisoner had been awakened ; 
 how the governor of the prison, magistrate Amadieu, the 
 chaplain, and a few other persons had entered the cell where 
 Salvat lay fast asleep ; and then how the condemned man had 
 understood the truth immediately upon opening his eyes. He 
 had risen, looking pale but quite composed. And he had dressed 
 himself without assistance, and had declined the nip of 
 brandy and the cigarette proffered by the good-hearted chap- 
 lain, in the same way as with a gentle but stubborn gesture he 
 had brushed the crucifix aside. Then had come the ' toilette ' 
 for death. With all rapidity and without a word bemg 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 397 
 
 exchanged, Salvat's hands had been tied behind his back, hia 
 legs had been loosely secured with a cord, and the neckband 
 of his shirt had been cut away. He had smiled when the 
 others exhorted him to be brave. He only feared some 
 nervous weakness, and had but one desire, to die like a hero, 
 to remain the martyr of the ardent faith in truth and justice 
 for which he was about to perish. 
 
 ' They are now drawing up the death certificate in the 
 register,' continued Massot in his chattering way. 'Come 
 along, come close to the barriers if you wish a good view. . . • 
 I turned paler, you know, and trembled far more than he did. 
 I don't care a rap for anything as a rule ; but, all the same, 
 an execution isn't a pleasant business. . . . You can't ima- 
 gine how many attempts were made to save Salvat's hfe. 
 Even some of the papers asked that he might be reprieved^ 
 But nothing succeeded, the execution was regarded as inevi- 
 table, it seems, even by those who consider it a blunder. 
 StUl, they had such a touching opportunity to reprieve him, 
 when his daughter, little C61ine, wrote that fine letter to the 
 President of the Eepublic, which I was the first to publish in 
 the " Globe." Ah ! that letter, it cost me a lot of running 
 about 1 ' 
 
 Pierre, who was already quite upset by this long wait for 
 the horrible scene, felt moved to tears by Massot's reference 
 to C61ine. He could again see the child standing beside 
 Madame Theodore in that bare, cold room whither her father 
 would never more return. It was thence that he had set out 
 on a day of desperation with his stomach empty and his brain 
 on fire, and it was here that he would end, between yonder 
 beams, beneath yonder knife. 
 
 Massot, however, was still giving particulars. The 
 doctors, said he, were furious because they feared that the 
 body would not be delivered to them immediately after the 
 execution. To this Guillaume did not listen. He stood 
 there with his elbows resting on the wooden barrier and his 
 eyes fixed on the prison gate which still remained shut. His 
 hands were quivering, and there was an expression of anguish 
 on his face as if it were he himself who was about to be 
 executed. The headsman had again just left the prison. He 
 was a little, insignificant looking man, and seemed annoyed, 
 anxious to have done with it all. Then, among a group of 
 frock-coated gentlemen, some of the spectators pointed out 
 Criasoctgife, the chieff of the deteet'iv6 police, who Wore a cold 
 
35)8 PARIS 
 
 official air, and Imadieu, the investigatitig iiiagisirate, Hha 
 Biaiied Jtfiid looked tery spriioe, early though the hour was. 
 lie had corile paftly becettise it \pas his diity, and partly be- 
 cause he wished to show himself now that the curtain was 
 about to fall on a wofiderfiil tragedy of which hS considered 
 hiinself the atitbor. Gilillfitlme glanced at hiin, and thetl as 
 a growing uproar rose from the distant Crowd, he Iboked tip 
 for an insia;nt, and again beheld the two grfejr prisons, the 
 plane trees witit theijc fresh young leaves, a'tid the houses 
 SWarmiiig ■«7ith people berieath tlife pal^ blue sky, in 'C^Ilidi the 
 triumphaiit sun was about to' apflear. 
 
 ' Look out, hete he fcbmeg t ' 
 
 ■^ho had spoken ? A slight iioise, th^t Of ths bpeliillg 
 gate, made evetjr Heart throb. Necks were outstretched, 
 eyes gizSd fixedly, there was laboiired breathing on all sides. 
 BaWat Itood on the threshold of the prisoii. Tfie chaplaiii, 
 stepj)ifig b'ackwaMs, had cotne out in advance of Eiin, in order 
 to Conceal the guillotifie from Ms sight, bttt he tad stop'ped 
 short, for he wisted to see that instrtaflefit of death, inake 
 fecquaititance with it, as it were, before he -v^alked to^fards it. 
 And as he stood there, his long, aged gunkeii face, on which' 
 life's hardships had left their mark, seemed transformed by the 
 Wondrous brifliEtflcy of Ms flaring, dreamy eyes, filithusiasm 
 bote him up — he was going to Ms death in all the splendour 
 Of Ms dream. When the executioner's assistants drew near 
 lo support Mm he oiice more refusfed theit help, aHd agaifl set 
 himself in niotion, advancing with short steps but as quickly 
 and as straigMIy as the rope, hampering Ms legs, pertuitted. 
 
 All sit Once Guillaufne felt that Salvat's feyes were fixed 
 upon him. Drawing nearer and nearer the condemned ffiftn 
 had perceived atid recognised his friend ; and as he passed by, 
 at a distance Of no more than six or seven feet, he griiiled 
 faintly and datted such a deep pefieti-ating glance at 
 GuillaUine, that ever afterwards the latter felt its. smart. 
 But what last thougbt, what supreme legacy had Salv^t left 
 him to meditate upoii, perhaps to put into execution ? It was 
 all so poignant that Pierre feared some involuntary call 
 on his brother's part ; and so he laid Ms hahd upod his ai'm 
 to quiei him. 
 
 ^ Long live Anarchy I ' 
 
 It was Salvat who had taised this cry. But in the deep 
 silence Ms husky, altered voice seemed to break. The few 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 399 
 
 whd wet6 near at hand KM tu*flea very pale ; the distant 
 crowd seemed bereft of life. The horse of one 6f the Garden 
 de Paris was alotie heard snorting in the centre of the s|)ace 
 which had been kept clettir. 
 
 Then came a loathsome scramble, a scene of naiUeless 
 brutality and ighominy. The headsmiin's hfeljs rflshed 
 tipSn Sali'at as he came tip ^tffrly -i^itli brftw effect. T#oof them 
 seized him bv the head, but findiiig Httle hair there, could 
 only ibwer it by tugging sit his iiefcK. Next two others 
 gMsp'ed him by the legs and flung him violently upon a 
 plank which tilted over and rolled forward. Then, by dint of 
 pushing and tugging, the head -Was got into thei ' Itftiette,* 
 the upper part of -(Ihdoh fell in siieh wise that the iieck ^as 
 fixed its in a ship's poit-hole^i^atid all this -^as accomplished 
 amidst Such confilsioli and with such sa-v-agery that one 
 miglit have thought that head some dirmbrotts ming which 
 it was necessary to get rid of with the greatest speed. But 
 the knife fell with a dull, heavy, forcible thud, and two long 
 jets of blood spurted from the sevfered arteries, while the dead 
 man's fefet moved con^ulsivfel^. No'fhifig else could be seeil. 
 The exectttJo'fier nibbed his haiidS iiS it mechariicsil -W^a^, and 
 an riissistant took the severed blood-streaming head from the 
 little basket into which it had fallen and placed it in the large 
 basket into which the bddjr had already been turned. 
 
 Ah I that dull, that heavy thud of the kilife I It seemed 
 to Guillaume that he hstd heard it echoihg fat awaly all over 
 that district ofwatit and toil, even in the squalid rooms whfer6 
 thousands of workmen were at that moment rising to perfol-ra 
 their day's hard task ! And theie the echo of that thud 
 acquired formidable significance ; it spoke of man's exaspera- 
 tion with injustice, of zeal for martyrdom, and of the dblo^'ons 
 hope that the blood then Spilt might hasten the victory of the 
 disinherited. 
 
 Pierre, for his part, at the sight of that loathsome butchery, 
 the abject cut-throat work 6f that killing machine, had 
 stiddefily felt his chilling shudder become more violeiit ; for 
 before him arose a vision of Another corpse, that 6f the fair, 
 pretty child ripped open by a bomb and Stfetched ;^C)iiaer, 
 at the entrance of the Duvillard mansion. Blood streamed 
 from her delicate flesh, just as it had streamed ffom that 
 c(eea|)it^6d neck. It was blood paying for blood j it was like 
 payment for mankind's debt of wretchedness, for 'tvhich 
 
400 PARIS 
 
 payment is everlastingly being made, without man ever being 
 able to free himself from suffering. 
 
 Above the square and the crowd all was still silent in the 
 clear sky. How long had the abomination lasted? An 
 eternity, perhaps, compressed into two or three minutes. 
 And now came an awakening : the spectators emerged from 
 their nightmare with quivering hands, livid faces, and eyes 
 expressive of compassion, disgust, and fear. 
 
 ' That makes another one. I've now seen four executions,' 
 said Massot, who felt ill &i ease. ' After all, I prefer to report 
 weddings. Let us go off, I have all I want for my article.' 
 
 Guillaume and Pierre followed him mechanically across 
 the square, and again reached the comer of the Eue Merlin. 
 And here they found little Victor Mathis with flaming eyes 
 and white face, still standing in silence on the spot where 
 they had left him. He cotdd have seen nothing distinctly ; 
 but the thud of the knife was still echoing in his brain. A 
 policeman at last gave him a push, and told him to move on. 
 At this he looked the policeman in the face, stirred by 
 sudden rage and ready to strangle him. Then, however, he 
 quietly walked away, ascending the Eue de la Eoquette, atop 
 of which the lofty foliage of P^re-Lachaise could be seen, 
 beneath the rising sun. 
 
 The brothers meantime fell upon a scene of explanations, 
 which they heard without wishing to do so. Now that the 
 sight was over the Princess de Harn arrived, and she was the 
 more furious as at~ the door of the wine shop she could see 
 her new friend Duthil accompanying a woman. 
 
 ' 1 say I ' she exclaimed, ' you are nice, you are, to have 
 left me in the lurch like this ! It was impossible for my 
 carriage to get near, so I've had to come on foot through 
 all those horrid people who have been jostling and insulting 
 me.' 
 
 Thereupon Duthil, with all promptitude, introduced 
 Silviane to her, adding, in an aside, that he had taken a 
 friend's place as the actress's escort. And then Eosemonde, 
 who greatly wished to know Silviane, calmed down as if by 
 enchantment, and put on her most engaging ways. ' It would 
 have delighted me, madame,' said she, ' to have seen this 
 sight in the company of an artiste of yo'Ur merit, one whom 
 I admiiSe so mtich, though I have never before had an o^i)Dr- 
 tunlty of teUing her so.' . , 
 
 ' Well, Q^ar me, madame,* replied Silviane, ' you haven't 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 431 
 
 lost mueli by arriving late. We were on that balcony there ; 
 and all that I could see were a few men pushing another one 
 about. ... It really isn't worth the trouble of coming.' 
 
 ' Well, now that we have become acquainted, madame,' 
 Baid the Princess, ' I really hope that you will allow me to bo 
 your friend.' 
 
 ' Certainly, madame, my friend ; and I shall be flattered 
 and delighted to be yours.' 
 
 Standing there, hand in hand, they smiled at one another. 
 Silviane was very drunk, but her virginal expression had re- 
 turned to her face ; whilst Rosemonde seemed feverish with 
 vicious curiosity. Duthil, whom the scene amused, now had 
 but one thought, that of seeing Silviane home ; so, calling to 
 Massot who was approaching, he asked him where he should 
 find a cab-rank. Bosemonde, however, at once offered her 
 carriage, which was waiting in an adjacent street. She 
 would set the actress down at her door, said she, and the 
 deputy at his ; and such was her persistence in the matter 
 that Duthil, greatly vexed, was obUged to accept her offer. 
 
 ' Well, then, till to-morrow at the Madeleine,' said Massot 
 again quite sprightly, as he shook hands with the Princess. 
 
 ' Yes, till to-morrow, at the Madeleine and the Comedie.' 
 
 ' Ah 1 yes, of course 1 ' he repeated, taking Silviane's hand, 
 which he kissed. ' The Madeleine in the morning and the 
 Comedie in the evening. . . . We shall aU be there to ap- 
 plaud you.' 
 
 ' Yes, I expect you to do so,' said Silviane. ' Till to- 
 morrow then I ' 
 
 ' Till to-morrow ! ' 
 
 The crowd was now wearily dispersing, to all appearance 
 disappointed and Ul at ease. A few enthusiasts alone lingered 
 in order to witness the departure of the van in which Salvat'a 
 corpse would soon be removed ; whUe bands of prowlers and 
 harlots, looking very wan in the daylight, whistled or called to 
 one another with some last filthy expression before returning 
 to their dens. The headsman's assistants were hastily taking 
 down the guillotine, and the square would soon be quite 
 clear. 
 
 Pierre for his part wished to lead his brother away. Since 
 the fall of the knife, GuiUaume had remained as if stunned, 
 without once opening his lips. In vain had Pierre tried to 
 rouse him by pointing to the shutters of Mage's flat, which 
 still remained closed, whereas every other window of the lefty 
 
 DD 
 
402 PARIS 
 
 house was wide open. Although the Socialist deputy hated 
 the Anarohista, those shutters were doubtless closed as a 
 protest against capital punishment. Whilst the multituda 
 had been rushing to that frightful spectacle, Mege, still in bed, 
 with his face turned to the wall, had probably been dreaming 
 of how he would some day compel mankind to be happy 
 beneath the rigid laws of OoUeetivism. Affectionate father 
 as he was, the recent death of one of his children had quite 
 upset his private Uf e. His cough, too, had become a very bad 
 one ; but he ardently wished to live, for as soon as that new 
 Monf errand ministry should have fallen beneath the interpel- 
 lation which he already contemplated, his own turn would 
 surely come : he would take the reins of power in hand, 
 abolish the guillotine, and decree justice and perfect felicity. 
 
 ' Do you see, GuiUaume,' Pierre gently repeated. ' M6g9 
 hasn't opened his windows. He's a good fellow, after aU ; 
 although our friends Bache and Morin dislike him.' Then, 
 as his brother stiU refrained from answering, Pierre added, 
 ' Come, let us go, we must gat back home.' 
 
 They both turned into the Rue de la FoUe Eegnault, and 
 reached the outer Boulevards by way of the Rue du Chemin 
 Vert. All the toilers of the district were now at work. In the 
 long streets edged with low buildings, workshops and factories, 
 one heard engines snorting and machinery rumbling, whUe, 
 up above, the smoke from the lofty chimneys was assuming 
 a rosy hue in the sunrise. Afterwards, when the brothers 
 reached the Boulevard de MenUmontant and the Boulevard 
 de Belleville, which they followed in turn at a leisurely pace, 
 they witnessed the great rush of the working classes into 
 central Paris. The stream poured forth from every side; 
 from all the wretched streets of the faubourga there was an 
 endless exodus of toilers, who having risen at dawn, were now 
 hurrying, in the sharp morning air, to their daily labour, 
 Some wore short jackets and others blouses ; some were in 
 velveteen trousers, others in linen overalls. Their thick shoes 
 made their tramp a heavy one ; their hanging hands were 
 often deformed by work. And they seemed half asleep, not a 
 smile was to be seen on any of those wan, weary faces turned 
 yonder towards the everlasting task — the task which was 
 begun afresh each day, and which — 'twas their only chance— 
 they hoped to be able to take up for ever and ever. There 
 was no end to that drove of toilers, that army of various 
 oallings, that human flesh fated to manual labour, upon which 
 
THE GUILLOTINE 403 
 
 Paris preys in order that she may live in luxury and enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 Then the procession continued across the Boulevard de la 
 Villette, the Boulevard de la Chapelle, and the Boulevard 
 de Eochechouart, where one reached the height of Mont- 
 martre. More and more workmen were ever coming down 
 from their bare cold rooms and plunging into the huge city 
 whence, tired out, they would that evening merely bring back 
 the bread of rancour. And now, too, came a stream of work- 
 girls, some of them in bright skirts, some glancing at the 
 passers-by ; girls whose wages were so paltry, so insufi&cient, 
 that now and again pretty ones among them never more 
 turned their faces homewards, whilst the ugly ones wasted 
 away, condemned to mere bread and water. A little later, 
 moreover, came the employes, the clerks, the counter-jumpers, 
 the whole world of frock-coated penury — ' gentlemen ' who 
 devoured a roll as they hastened onward, worried the whUe by 
 the dread of being unable to pay their rent, or by the problem of 
 providing food for wife and children until the end of the 
 month should come.' And now the sun was fast ascending 
 on the horizon, the whole army of ants was out and about, and 
 the toilsome day had begun with its ceaseless display of 
 courage, energy, and suffering. 
 
 Never before had it been so plainly manifest to Pierre that 
 work was a necessity, that it healed and saved. On the 
 occasion of his visit to the Grandidier works, and later still, 
 when he himself had felt the need of occupation, there had 
 come to him the thought that work was really the world's 
 law. And after that hateful night, after that spilling of 
 blood, after the sls.ughter of that toiler maddened by his 
 dreams, there was consolation and hope in seeing the sun rise 
 once more, and everlasting labour take up its wonted task. 
 However hard it might prove, however unjustly it might be 
 lotted out, was it not work which would some day bring both 
 justice and happiness to the world ? 
 
 All at once, as the brothers were climbing the steep hill- 
 side towards GuiUaume's house, they perceived before and 
 above them the basilica of the Sacred Heart rising majestic- 
 ally and triumphantly to the sky. This was no sublunar 
 apparition, no dreamy vision of Pomination standing face to 
 face with nocturnal Paris, The sun now qlothed the edifice 
 
 ' In Paris nearly all clerka and shop-assistants receive monthly 
 lalarieB ; while most workmen are paid once a fortnight. — Trans. 
 
 D03 
 
404 PARIS 
 
 with splendour, it looked golden and proud and victorious, 
 flaring with immortal glory. 
 
 Then Guillaume, still silent, still feeling Salvat's last 
 glance upon him, seemed to come to some sudden and final 
 decision. He looked at the basilica with glowing eyes, and 
 pronounced sentence upon it. 
 
 n 
 
 IN VANITY FAIB 
 
 The wedding was to take place at noon, and for half an hour 
 already guests had been pouring into the magnificently 
 decorated church, which was leafy with evergreens and balmy 
 with the scent of flowers. The high altar in the rear glowed 
 with countless candles, and through the great doorway which 
 was wide open one coijd see the peristyle decked with shrubs, 
 the steps covered with a broad carpet, and the inquisitive crowd 
 assembled on the square and even along the Eue Eoyale, 
 under the bright sun. 
 
 After findmg three more chairs for some ladies who had 
 arrived rather late, DuthU remarked to Massot, who was 
 jotting down names in his note-book : ' WeU, if any more 
 come, they wiU have to remain standing.' 
 
 ' Who were those three ? ' the journalist inquired. 
 
 ' The Duchess de Boisemont and her two daughters.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! All the titled people of France, as well as all the 
 financiers and politicians, are here I It's something more even 
 than a swell Parisian wedding.' 
 
 As a matter of fact all the spheres of 'society' were 
 gathered together there, and some at first seemed rather em- 
 barrassed at finding themselves beside others. Whilst 
 Duvillard's name attracted all the princes of finance and 
 politicians in power, Madame de Quinsae and her son were 
 supported by the highest of the French aristocracy. The' 
 mere names of the witnesses suflSced to indicate what an 
 extraordinary medley there was. On Gerard's side these 
 witnesses were his uncle General de Bozonnet and the Marquis 
 de Morigny ; whilst on CamiUe's they were the great banker 
 Louvard, and Monferrand, the President of the GouncU and 
 Minister of Finances. The quiet bravado which the latter 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 405 
 
 displayed in thus supporting the bride after being compromised 
 in her father's financial intrigues, imparted a piquant touch of 
 impudence to his triumph. And public curiosity was further 
 stimulated by the circumstance that the niiptial blessing was 
 to be given by Monseigneur Martha, Bishop of Persepolis, the 
 Pope's political agent in France, and the apostle of the 
 endeavours to win the Eepublio over to the Church by pre- 
 tending to ' rally ' to it. 
 
 ' But, I was mistaken,' now resumed Massot with a sneer. 
 ' I said a really Parisian wedding, did I not ? But in point of 
 fact this wedding is a symbol. It's the apotheosis of the 
 bourgeoisie, my dear fellow — the old nobility sacrificing one 
 of its sons on the altar of the golden calf in order that the 
 Divinity and the gendarmes, being the masters of France once 
 more, may rid us of those scoundrelly Socialists 1 ' 
 
 Then, again correcting himself, he added : ' But I was 
 forgetting. There are no more Socialists. Theii head was 
 cut off the other morning.' 
 
 Duthil found this very funny. Then in a confidential way 
 he remarked : ' You know that the marriage wasn't settled 
 without a good deal of difficulty, . . . Have you read Sagnier's 
 ignoble' article this morning ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; but I knew it all before, everybody knew it.' 
 
 Then in an undertone, understanding one another's 
 slightest allusion, they went on chatting. It was only amidst 
 a flood of tears and after a despairing struggle that Baroness 
 Duvillard had consented to let her lover marry her daughter. 
 And in doing so she had yielded to the sole desire of seeing 
 Gerard rich and happy. She still regarded CamiUe with all 
 the hatred of a defeated rival. Then, an equally painful 
 contest had taken place at Madame de Quinsac's. The 
 Countess had only overcome her revolt and consented to the 
 marriage in order to save her son from the dangers which 
 had threatened him since childhood; and the Marquis de 
 Morigny had been so affected by her maternal abnegation, 
 that in spite of all his anger he had resignedly agreed to be 
 a witness; thus making a supreme sacrifice, that of his 
 conscience, to the woman whom he had ever loved. And it 
 was this frightful story that Sagnier — using transparent niek- 
 names^had related in the ' Voix du Peuple ' that morning. 
 He had even contrived to make it more horrid than it really 
 was ; for, as usual, he was badly informed, and he was 
 naturally inclined to falsehood and invention, as by sending an 
 
4o6 PAMIS 
 
 ever thickei? and more poisonotla torrent from his sewer, he 
 might, day by day, increase his paper's sales. Since 
 Monferrand's victory had compelled him to leave the African 
 Eailways scandal on one side, he had fallen back on scandals 
 in private life, stripping whole families bare and pelting them 
 with mud. 
 
 All at once Duthil and Massot were approached by 
 Chaigneux, who, with his shabby frock coat badly buttoned, 
 wore both a" melancholy and busy air. 'Well, Monsieur 
 Massot,' said he, ' what about your article on Silviane ? Is it 
 settled? Will it go in?' 
 
 As Chaigneux was always for sale, always ready to 
 serve as a valet, it had occurred to Duvillard to make use of 
 him to ensure Silviane's success at the Gom6die. He had 
 handed this sorry deputy over to the young woman, who 
 entrusted him with all manner of dirty work, and sent him 
 scouring Paris in search of applauders and advertisements. 
 His eldest daughter was not yet married, and never had his 
 four women-folk weighed more heavily on his hands. His 
 life had become a perfect hell ; they had ended by beating 
 him if he did not bring a thousand-franc note home on the 
 first day of every month. 
 
 ' My article ! ' Massot replied ; ' no, it surely won't go in, 
 my dear deputy. Fonsegue says that it's written in too 
 laudatory a style for the " Globe." He asked me if I were 
 having a joke with the paper.' 
 
 Chaigneux became Uvid. The article in question was 
 one writteti in advance, from the society point of view, on the 
 success which Silviane would achieve in 'Polyeucte,' that 
 evening, at the Comddie. The journalist, in the hope of 
 pleasing her, had even shown her his ' copy ' ; and she, 
 quite delighted, now relied upon finding the article in print 
 in the most sober and solemn organ of the Parisian press. 
 
 ' Good heavens ! what will become of us ? ' murmured the 
 wretched Chaigneux. 'It's absolutely necessary that the 
 article should go in.' 
 
 ' Well, I'm quite agreeable. But speak to the governor 
 yourself. He's standing yonder between Vignon and Dau- 
 vergne, the Minister of Public Instruction.' 
 
 ' Yes, I certainly will speak to him — ^but not here. By- 
 and-bye in the sacristy, during the procession. And I must 
 also try to speak to Dauvergne, for our Silviane particularly 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 407 
 
 wants him to be in the ministerial box this evening. 
 Monfen-and will be there ; he promised Duvillai-d so.' 
 
 Massot began to laugh, repeating the expression which 
 had circulated through Paris directly after the actress's 
 engagement ; ' The Silviane ministry. . . . Well, Dauvergne 
 certainly owes that much to his godmother I ' said he. 
 
 Just then the little Princess de, Harn, coming up like a 
 gust of wind, broke in upon the three men. ' I've no seat, you 
 know I ' she cried. 
 
 Duthil fancied that it was a question of finding her a 
 well-placed chair in the church. ' You mustn't count on 
 me,' he answered. 'I've just had no end of trouble in 
 stowing the Duchess de Boisemont away with her two 
 daughters.' 
 
 'Oh, but I'm talking of this evening's performance. 
 Come, my dear Duthil, you really must find me a little 
 corner in somebody's box. I shall die, I know I shall, if 
 I can't applaud our delicious, our incomparable friend ! ' 
 
 Ever since setting Silviane down at her door on the 
 previous day Bosemonde had been overflowing with admira- 
 tion for her. 
 
 ' Oh ! you won't find a single remaining seat, madame,' 
 declared Ohaigneux, putting on an air of importance. ' We 
 have distributed everything. I have just been offered three 
 hundred francs for a stall.' 
 
 ' That's true, there has been a fight even for the bracket 
 seats, however badly they might be placed,' Duthil resumed. 
 ' I am very sorry, but you must not count on me. . . . Duvil- 
 lard is the only person who might take you in his box. He 
 told me that he would reserve me a seat there. And so far, 
 t think, there are only three of us, including his son. . . 
 Ask Hyacinthe by-and-bye to procure you an invitation.' 
 
 Eosemonde, whom Hyacinthe had so greatly bored that 
 she had given him his dismissal, f?lt the irony of Duthil's 
 suggestion. Nevertheless, she exclaimed with an air of 
 delight ; ' Ah, yes ! Hyacinthe can't refuse me that. Thanks 
 for your information, my dear Duthil. You are very nice, 
 you are; for you settle things gaily even when they are 
 rather sad. . . . And don't forget, mind, that you have 
 
 Eromised to teach me politics. Ah ! politics, my dear 
 iiloW, I feel that nothing will ever impassion me as politics 
 do I' 
 
4o8 PARIS 
 
 Then she left them, hustled several people, and in spite 
 of the crush ended by instaUing herself in the front row. 
 
 ' Ah ! what a crank she is ! ' muttered Massot with an air 
 of amusement. 
 
 Then as Chaigneux darted towards magistrate Amadieu 
 to ask him in the most obsequious way if he had received his 
 ticket, the journalist said to Duthil in a whisper : ' By the 
 way, my dear friend, is it true that DuvUlard is going to 
 launch his famous scheme for a Trans-Saharian Eailway? 
 It would be a gigantic enterprise, a question of hundreds and 
 hundreds of millions this time. ... At the " Globe " office 
 yesterday evening, Fonsegue shrugged his shoulders and said 
 it was madness, and would never come off ! ' 
 
 Duthil winked, and in a jesting way replied : ' It's as 
 good as done, my dear boy. Fons?gue wiU be kissing the 
 governor's feet before another forty-eight hours are over.' 
 
 Then he gaily gave the other to understand that golden 
 manna would presently be raining down on the press, and aU 
 faithful friends and wilUng helpers. Birds shake their 
 feathers when the storm is over : and he, Duthil, was as 
 spruce and lively, as joyous at the prospect of the presents 
 he now expected, as if there had never been any African 
 Railways scandal to upset him and make him turn pale with 
 fright. 
 
 ' The deuce 1 ' muttered Massot, who had become serious. 
 ' So this affair here is more than a triumph ; it's the promise 
 of yet another harvest. Well, I'm no longer surprised at the 
 crush of people.' 
 
 At this moment the organs suddenly burst into a glorious 
 hymn of greeting. The marriage procession was entering the 
 church. A loud clamour had gone up from the crowd, which 
 spread over the roadway of the Eue Eoyale and impeded the 
 traffic there, while the cort&ge pompously ascended the steps 
 in the bright sunshine. And it was now entering the edifice 
 and advancing beneath the lofty, re-echoing vaults towards 
 the high altar which flared with candles, whilst on either 
 hand crowded the congregation, the men on the right and the 
 women on the left. They had all risen and stood there 
 smiling, with necks outstretched and eyes glowing with 
 curiosity. 
 
 First, in the rear of the magnificent beadle, came Camille, 
 leaning on the arm of her father, Baron Duvillard, who wore 
 a proud expression befitting a day of victory. Veiled with 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 409 
 
 Buperb jJOMjJ A^AUnqon falling from her diadem of orange 
 blossom, gowned in pleated silk muslin over an miderskirt of 
 white satin, the bride looked so extremely happy, so radiant at 
 having conquered, that she seemed almost pretty. Moreover, 
 she held herself so upright that one could scarcely detect that 
 her left shoulder was higher than her right. 
 
 Next came G6rard, giving his arm to his mother, the 
 Countess de Quinsao ; he looking very handsome and courtly, 
 as was proper, and she displaying impassive dignity in her 
 gown of peacock-blue silk embroidered with gold and steel 
 beads. But it was particularly Eve whom people wished to 
 see, and every neck was craned forward when she appeared on 
 the arm of General Bozonnet, the bridegroom's first witness 
 and nearest male relative. She was gowned in ' old rose ' 
 taffetas trimmed with Valenciennes of priceless value, and 
 never had she looked younger, more deliciously fair. Yet her 
 eyes betrayed her emotion, though she strove to smile ; and 
 her languid grace bespoke her widowhood, her compassionate 
 surrender of the man she loved. Monferrand, the Marquis de 
 Morigny, and banker Louvard, the three other witnesses, 
 followed the Baroness and General Bozonnet, each giving 
 his arm to some lady of the family. A considerable sensation 
 was caused by the appearance of Monferrand, who seemed on 
 first-rate terms with himself, and jested familiarly with the 
 lady he accompanied, a little brunette with a giddy air. 
 Anotherwho was noticed in the solemn, interminable procession 
 was the bride's eccentric brother Hyacinthe, whose dress coat 
 was of a cut never previously seen, with its tails broadly and 
 symmetrically pleated. 
 
 When the affianced pair had taken their places before the 
 prayer-stools awaiting them, and the members of both families 
 and the witnesses had installed themselves in the rear in large 
 armchairs, all gilding and red velvet, the ceremony was per- 
 formed with extraordinary pomp. The cur6 of the Madeleine 
 officiated in person ; and vocalists from the Grand Op6ra rein- 
 forced the choir, which chanted the high mass to the accom- 
 paniment of the organs, whence came a continuous hymn of 
 glory. All possible luxury and magnificence were displayed, 
 as if to turn this wedding into some pubhc festivity, a great 
 victory, an event marking the apogee of a class. Even the 
 impudent bravado attaching to the loathsome private drama 
 which lay behind it all, and which was known to everybody, 
 Hflded a touch of abominable grandeur to the ceremony. But 
 
4'o PARIS 
 
 the ti'iiculent spirit of superiority and domination which cha- 
 racterised the proceedings became most manifest when Mon- 
 Beigneui? Martha appeared in surplice and stole to pronounce 
 the blessing. Tall of stature, fresh of face, and faintly smiling, 
 he had his wonted air of amiable sovereignty, and it was 
 with august unction that he pronounced the sacramental 
 Words, like some pontiff well pleased at reconciling the two 
 great empires Whose heirs he united. His address to the 
 hewly-married couple was awaited with curiosity. It proved 
 really marVelloug — he himself triumphed in it. Was it not in 
 that same church that he had baptized the bride's mother, 
 that blonde Eve, who was still so beautiful, that Jewess whom 
 he himself had converted to the Catholic faith amidst the 
 tears of emotion shed by all Paris society ? Was it not there 
 also that he had delivered his three famous addresses on the 
 New Spirit, whence dated, to his thinking, the rout of science, 
 the awakening of Christian spirituality, and that policy of 
 rallying to the Eepublie which was to lead to its conquest ? 
 
 So it was assuredly allowable for him to indulge in some 
 delicate allusions, by way of congratulating himself on his 
 Work, now that he was marrying a poor scion of the old aris- 
 tocracy to the five millions of that botirgeoise heiress, in 
 whose person triumphed the class which had won the victoi^ 
 in 1789, and was now master of the land. The fourth estate, 
 the duped, robbed people alone had no place in those festivities. 
 But by uniting the affianced pair before him in the bonds of 
 wedlock, Monseigneur Martha sealed the new alliance, gave 
 effect to the Pope's own policy, that stealthy effort of Jesuitical 
 Opportunism which would take democracy, power, and wealth 
 to wife, in order to subdue and control them. When the pre- 
 late reached his peroration he turned towards Monferrand, 
 who sat there smiling ; and it was he, the Minister whom he 
 seemed to be addressing, while he expressed the hope that the 
 newly-married pair would ever lead a truly Christian Ufe of 
 humility and obedience in all fear of God, of whose iron hand 
 he spoke as if it were that of some gendarme charged with main- 
 taining the peace of the world. Everybody was aware that 
 there was some diplomatic understanding between the 
 Bishop and the Minister, some secret pact or othet whereby 
 both satisfied their passion for authority, their craving to in- 
 Binuate themselves into everything and reign supreme ; and 
 thus when the spectators saw Monferrand smiling in hia 
 somewhat sly, jovial way, they also exchanged smiles. 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 4" 
 
 ' Ah 1 ' muttered Massot, who had temamed near Duthil, 
 ' how amused old Justus Bteinberger Would be, if he were 
 here to see his grand-daughter mawying the last of the 
 Quinsacs ! ' 
 
 'But these marriages are quite the thing, quite the 
 fftshion, my dear fellow,' the deputy replied. ' The Jews and 
 the Christians, the boiirgeois and the noble?, do quite right to 
 cottie to an understanding, so as to found a new aristocracy. 
 An aristocracy is needed, you know, for otherwise we should 
 be swept away by the masses.' 
 
 None the less Massot continued sneering at the idea of 
 what a grimace Justus Bteinberger would nave made if he 
 had heard Monseigneur Martha. It was rumoured in taris 
 that although the old Jew banker had ceased all intercourse 
 with his daughter Eve since her conversion, he took a keen 
 interest in everything she was reported to do or say, as if he 
 were more than ever convinced that she would prove an 
 avenging and dissolving agent among those Christians, whose 
 destruction was asserted to be the dream of his race. If he 
 had failed in his hope of overcoming Duvillard by giving her 
 to him as a wife, he doubtless now consoled Iiimself with 
 thinking of the extraordinary fortune to which his blood had 
 attained, by mingling with that of the harsh, old-time masters 
 of his race, to whose corruption it gave a finishing touch. 
 Therein perhaps lay that final Jewish conquest of the World, 
 of which people sometimes talked. 
 
 A last triumphal strain from the organs brought the 
 ceremony to an end; whereupon the two families and the 
 witnesses passed into the sacristy, where the acts were signed. 
 And forthwith the great congratulatory procession com- 
 menced. 
 
 The bride and bridegroom at last stood side by side in the 
 lofty but rather dim toom, panelled' with oak. How radiant 
 with delight was Camille at the thought that It was all over, 
 that she had triumphed and married that handsolne man of 
 high lineage, after wresting him with so much difficulty from 
 one and all, her mother especially ! She seemed to have grown 
 tallet. Deformed, swarthy, and Ugly though she Was, she 
 drew hetself up exultingly, whilst scores and scores of women, 
 friends or acquaintances, scrambled and rushed upon her, 
 pressing her hands or kissing her, and addressing her in 
 words of ecstasy. Gdrard, who rose both head and shoulders 
 above his bride, and looked all the nobler and stronger beside 
 
4ia PARIS 
 
 one of such puny figure, shook hands and smiled like some 
 Prince Charming, who good-naturedly allowed himself to be 
 loved. Meanwhile, the relatives of the newly- wedded pair, 
 though they were drawn up in one line, formed two distinct 
 groups past which the crowd pushed and surged with 
 arms outstretched. Duvillard received the congratulationa 
 offered him, as if he were some king well pleased with his 
 people ; whilst Eve, with a supreme effort, put on an enchant- 
 ing mien, and answered one and all with scarcely a sign of 
 the sobs which she was forcing back. Then, on the other 
 side of the bridal pair, Madame de Quinsae stood between 
 General de Bozonnet and the Marquis de Morigny. Very 
 dignified, in fact almost haughty, she acknowledged most of the 
 salutations addressed to her with a mere nod, only giving her 
 little withered hand to those people with whom she was well 
 acquainted. A sea of strange countenances encompassed 
 her, and now and again when some particularly murky wave 
 rolled by, a wave of men whose faces bespoke aU the crimes of 
 money-mongering, she and the Marquis exchanged glances of 
 deep sadness. This tide continued sweeping by for nearly 
 half an hour ; and such was the number of those who wanted 
 to shake hands with the bridal pair and their relatives, that 
 the latter soon felt their arms ache. 
 
 Meantime, some folks lingered in the sacristy ; little 
 groups collected, and gay chatter rang out. Monferrand was 
 immediately sm'rounded. Massot pointed out to DuthU how 
 eagerly PubUo Prosecutor Lehmann rushed upon the 
 Minister to pay him court. They were immediately joined by 
 investigating magistrate Amadieu. And even M. de Larom- 
 bi^re, the judge, approached Monferrand, although he hated 
 the Kepublic, and was an intimate friend of the Quinsacs. 
 But then obedience and obsequiousness were necessary on 
 the part of the magistracy, for it was dependent on those in 
 power, who alone could give advancement, and appoint even 
 as they dismissed. As for Lehmann, it was alleged that he 
 had rendered assistance to Monferrand by spiriting away 
 certain documents connected with the African Railways 
 affair; whilst with regard to the smiling and extremely 
 Parisian Amadieu, was it not to him that the government was 
 indebted for Salvat's head ? 
 
 'You know,' muttered Massot, 'they've all come to be 
 thanked for guillotining that man yesterday. Monferrand 
 owes that wretched fellow a fine taper ; for in the first place 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 413 
 
 his bomb prolonged the life of the Barroux ministry, and 
 later on it made Monferrand prime minister, as a strong-handed 
 man was particularly needed to strangle Anarchism. What 
 a contest, eh ? Monferrand on one side and Salvat on the 
 other. It was all bound to end in a head being cut off ; 
 one was wanted. ... Ah 1 just listen, they are talking of 
 it.' 
 
 This was true. As the three functionaries of the law 
 drew near to pay their respects to the all-powerful Minister, 
 they were questioned by lady friends whose curiosity had been 
 roused by what they had read in the newspapers. Thereupon 
 Amadieu, whom duty had taken to the execution, and who 
 was proud of his own importance, and determined to destroy 
 what he called ' the legend of Salvat's heroic death,' declared 
 that the scoundrel had shown no true courage at all. His 
 pride alone had kept him on his feet. Fright had so shaken 
 and choked him that he had virtually been dead before the 
 fall of the knife. 
 
 ' Ah ! that's true ! ' cried Duthil. ' I was there myself.' 
 
 Massot, however, pulled him by the arm, quite indignant 
 at such an assertion, although as a rule he cared a rap for 
 nothing. ' You couldn't see anything, my dear fellow,' said 
 he, ' Salvat died very bravely. It's really stupid to continue 
 throwing mud at that poor devil even when he's dead.' 
 
 However, the idea that Salvat had died like a coward was 
 too pleasing a one to be rejected. It was, so to say, a last 
 sacrifice deposited at Monferrand's feet with the object of pro- 
 pitiating him. He still smiled in his peaceful way, like a 
 good-natured man who is stern only when necessity requires 
 it. And he showed great amiability towards the three 
 judicial functionaries, and thanked them for the bravery with 
 which they had accomplished their painful duty to the very 
 end. On the previous day, after the execution, he had 
 obtained a formidable majority in the Chamber on a some- 
 what delicate matter of policy. Order reigned, said he, and 
 all was for the very best in France. Then, on seeing Vignon 
 — who like a cool gamester had made a point of attending 
 the wedding in order to show people that he was superior to 
 fortune — the Minister detained him, and made much of him, 
 partly as a matter of tactics, for in spite of everything he 
 could not help fearing that the future might belong to that 
 young fellow, who showed himself so intelligent and cautious. 
 When a mutual friend informed them that Barroux' health 
 
4T4 PAh'IS 
 
 was now bo bad that the doetora had given him up aa lost, 
 they both began to express their compassion. Poo? 
 Barrous 1 he had never recovered from that vote of the 
 Chamber which had overthrown him. He had been sinldng 
 from day to day, stricken in the heart by his oomitry's 
 ingratitude, dying of that abominable charge of money- 
 mongering and thieving; he who was so upright and so 
 loyal, who had devoted his whole life to the Bepublic 1 But 
 then, as Monferrand repeated, one should never confess. The 
 public can't understand such a thing. 
 
 At this moment Duvillard, in some degree relinquishing 
 his paternal duties, came to join the others, and the Minister 
 then had to share the honours of triumph with him. For 
 was not this banker the master ? Was he not money per- 
 sonified — money, which is the only stable, everlasting force, 
 far above all ephemeral tenure of power, such as attaches to 
 those ministerial portfolios which pass so rapidly from hs«id 
 to hand ? Monferrand reigned, but he would pass away, ai}d 
 a like fate would some day faU on Vignon, who had already 
 had a warning that one could not govern unless the mUUons 
 of the financial world were on one's side. So was not the 
 only real triumpher himself, the Baron — ^he who laid out 
 five millions of francs on buying a scion of the aristocracy 
 for his daughter, he who was the personification of the 
 sovereign bourgeoisie, who controlled public fortune, and was 
 determined to part with nothing, even were he attacked with 
 bombs ? All these festivities really centred in himself, he 
 alone sat down to the banquet, leaving merely the crumbs 
 from his table to the lowly, those wretched toilers who had 
 been so cleverly duped at the time of the Bevolution. 
 
 That African Eailways affair was already but so much 
 ancient history, buried, spkited away by a parliamentary 
 commission. AU who had been compromised in it, the 
 Duthils, the Chaigneux, the Fonsegues and others, could 
 now laugh merrily. They had been delivered from theu' 
 nightmare by Monferrand's strong fist, and raised by 
 Duvillard's triumph. Even Sagnier's ignoble article and 
 miry revelations in the ' Voix du Peuple ' were of no real 
 account, and could be treated with a shrug of the shoulders, 
 for the public had been so saturated with denunciation and 
 slander that it was now utterly weary of all noisy scandal. 
 The only thing which aroused interest was the rumour that 
 Duvillard'a big affair of the Trans-Saharian Railway wai 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 415 
 
 soon to be launched, that millions of money would be 
 handled, and that some of them would rain down upon 
 faithful frienda. 
 
 Whilst Duvillard was conversing in a friendly way with 
 Monferrand and Dauvergne, the Minister of Public Instruc- 
 tion, who had joined them, Massot encountered Fonsegue, 
 his editor, and said to him in an undertone ! ' Duthil has 
 just assured me that the Trans-Saharian business is ready, 
 and that they mean to chance it with the Chamber. They 
 declare that they are certain of success.' 
 
 Fons%ue, however, was sceptical on the point. ' It's im- 
 possible,' said he, ' they surely won't dare to begin again so 
 soon.' 
 
 Although he spoke in this fashion the news had made him 
 grave. He had lately had such a terrible fright through his 
 imprudence in the African Kailways affair, that he had vowed 
 he would take every precaution in future. Still this did not 
 mean that he would refuse to participate in matters of business. 
 The best course was to wait and study them, and then secure 
 a share in all that seemed profitable. In the present instance 
 he felt somewhat worried. However, whilst he stood there 
 watching the group around Duvillard and the two ministers, 
 he suddenly perceived Ghaigneux, who, flitting hither and 
 thither, was still beating up applauders for that evening's 
 performance. He sang Silviane's praises in every key, 
 predicted a most tremendous success, and did bis very best to 
 stimulate curiosity. At last he approached Dauvergne, and 
 with his long figure bent double, exclaimed: *My dear 
 Minister, I have a particular request to make to you on the 
 part of a very charming person, whose victory will not be 
 complete this evening if you do not condescend to favour 
 her with your vote.' 
 
 Dauvergne, a tall, fair, good-looking man, whose blue eyes 
 smiled behind his glasses, listened to Ghaigneux with an affable 
 air. He was proving a great success at the Ministry of PubUc 
 Instruction, although he knew nothing of. University matters. 
 However, like a real Parisian of Dijon, as people called him, 
 he was possessed of some tact and skill, gave entertainments at 
 which his young and oharmin|[ wife outshone all others, and 
 passed as being quite an enlightened friend of writers and 
 artists. Silviane's engagement at the Com^die, which bo fai 
 was his most notable achievement, and which would have 
 shaken the position of any other minister, had by & ounoug 
 
41 6 FARIS 
 
 chance rendered him popular. It was regarded as something 
 original and amusing. 
 
 On understanding that Chaigneux simply wished to make 
 sure of his presence at the Oom6die that evening, he became 
 yet more affable; ' Why, certainly, I shall be there, my dear 
 deputy,' he replied. ' When one has such a charming god- 
 daughter one mustn't forsake her in a moment of danger.' 
 
 At this Monferrand, who had been lending ear, turned 
 round. 'And teU her,' said he, 'that I shall be there too. 
 She may therefore rely on having two more friends in the 
 house.' 
 
 Thereupon Duvillard, quite enraptured, his eyes glistening 
 with emotion and gratitude, bowed to the two ministers as 
 if they had granted him some never-to-be-forgotten favour. 
 
 When Chaigneux, on his side also, had returned thanks 
 with a low bow, he happened to perceive Fonsegue, and forth- 
 with he darted towards him and led him aside. ' Ah 1 my 
 dear colleague,' he declared, ' it is absolutely necessary that 
 this matter should be settled. I regard it as of supreme 
 importance.' 
 
 ' What are you speaking of ? ' inquired FonsSgue, much 
 surprised. 
 
 ' Why, of Massot's article, which you won't insert.' 
 
 Thereupon, the director of the ' Globe ' plumply declared 
 that he could not insert the article. He talked of his paper's 
 dignity and gravity ; and declared that the lavishing of much 
 fulsome praise upon a hussy — yes, a mere hussy — ^in a journal 
 whose exemplary morality and austerity had cost him so 
 much labour, would seem monstrous and degrading. 
 Personally, he did not care a fig about it ; if SUviane chose to 
 make an exhibition of herself, well, he would be there to see ; 
 but the ' Globe ' was sacred. 
 
 Disconcerted and almost tearful, Chaigneux nevertheless 
 renewed his attempt. ' Come, my dear colleague,' said he, 
 ' pray make a Kttle effort for my sake. If the article isn't 
 inserted Duvillard will think that it is my fault. And you 
 know that I really need his help. My eldest daughter's 
 marriage has again been postponed, and I hardly know where 
 to turn.' Then perceiving that hia own misfortunes in no 
 wise touched Fonsegue, he added : ' And do it for your own 
 sake, my dear colleague, your own sake. For when all is said 
 Duvillard knows what is in the article, and it is precisely 
 beeause it is so favourable a one that he wishes to see it in the 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 41? 
 
 '' Globe." Think it over ; if the article isn't published he will 
 certainly turn his back on you.' 
 
 For a moment Fons^gue remained silent. Was he think- 
 ing of the colossal Trans-Saharian enterprise? Was he 
 reflecting that it would be hard to quarrel at such a moment 
 and miss his own share in the coming distribution of millions 
 among faithful friends ? Perhaps so ; however, the idea that 
 it would be more prudent to await developments gained the 
 day with him. * No, no,' he said ; ' I can't, it's a matter of 
 conscience.' 
 
 In the meantime congratulations were still being tendered 
 to the newly- wedded couple. It seemed as if all Paris were 
 passing through the sacristy ; there were ever the same smiles 
 and the same hand shakes. Gdrard, Camille, and their 
 relatives, however weary they might feel, were forced to retain 
 an air of delight while they stood there against the wall, pent 
 up by the crowd. The heat was now reaUy becoming un- 
 bearable, and a cloud of dust arose as when some big flock 
 goes by. 
 
 All at once little Princess de Ham, who had hitherto 
 lingered nobody knew where, sprang out of the throng, flung her 
 arms round Camille, kissed even Eve, and then kept Gerard's 
 hand in her own while paying him extraordinary compliments. 
 Then, on perceiving Hyacinthe, she took possession of him 
 and carried him off into a corner. ' I say,' she exclaimed, ' I 
 have a favour to ask you.' 
 
 The young man was wonderfully silent that day. His 
 sister's wedding seemed to him a contemptible ceremony, the 
 most vulgar that one could imagine. So here, thought he, 
 was another pair accepting the horrid sexual law by which 
 the absurdity of the world was perpetuated I For his part, he 
 had decided that he would witness the proceedings in rigid 
 silence with a haughty air of disapproval. When Eosemonde 
 spoke to him, he looked at her rather nervously, for he was glad 
 that she had forsaken him for Duthil, and feared some fresh 
 caprice on her part. At last, opening his mouth for the first 
 time that day, he replied : ' Oh, as a friend, you know, I will 
 grant you whatever favour you like.' 
 
 Forthwith the Princess explained that she should surely 
 die if she did not witness the d&hut of her dear friend Silviane, 
 of whom she had become such a passionate admirer. So she 
 begged the young man to prevail on his father to give her a 
 seat in his box, as she knew that one was left there. 
 
 E B 
 
4i8 PARIS 
 
 Hyaeinthesimled. « Oh willingly, my dear,' said he; '111 
 warn papa, there •will be a seat for yon.' 
 
 Then, as the procession of gjnests at last drew to an end 
 and the vestry began to empty, the bridal pair and. their rela- 
 tives were able to go off through the chattering throng, which 
 still lingered abont to bow to them and scmtinise them once 
 more. 
 
 Gerard and Canulle were to leave for an estate which 
 DnviUard possessed in Normandy, directly after Inneh. This 
 repast, served at the princely mansion of the Bue Godot-de- 
 Manroy, provided an opportunity for fresh display. The 
 diDing-room on the first floor had been transformed into a 
 buffet, where reigned the greatest abundance and the most 
 wonderful sumptuousness. Quite a reception too was held in 
 the drawing-rooms, the large red sdUm, the httle blue and 
 silver saUm and all the others, whose doors stood wide open. 
 Although it had been arranged that only family fiiends should 
 be invited there were quite three hundred people present. 
 The ministers had excused themselves, alleging that the 
 weighty cares of pubUc business required their presence else- 
 where. But the magistrates, the deputies, and the leading 
 journalists who had attended the wedding were again assem- 
 bled together. And in that throng of hungry folks, longing 
 for some of the spoils of DuviUard's new venture, the people 
 who felt most out of their element were Madame de Quinsac's 
 few guests, whom General de Bozonnet and the Marquis da 
 Morigny had seated on a sofa in the large red sahn, which 
 they did not quit. 
 
 Eve who, for her part, was quite overcome, both her moral 
 and physical strength being exhausted, had seated herself in 
 the little blue and silver drawing-room, which, with her pas- 
 sion for flowers, she had transformed into an arbour of roses. 
 She would have fallen had she remained standing, the very 
 floor bad seemed to sink beneath her feet. Nevertheless, 
 whenever a guest approached her she managed to force a 
 smile, and appear beautiful and charming. Unlooked for help 
 at last came to her in the person of Monseigneur Martha, who 
 had graciously honoured the lunch with his presence. He 
 took an armchair near her, and began to talk to her in his 
 amiable, caressing way. He was doubtless well aware of the 
 frightful anguish which wrung the poor woman's heart, for ha 
 showed himself quite fatherly, eager to comfort her. bbe, 
 however, talked on like some inconsolable widow bent on re- 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 419 
 
 nouncing the -world for God, who alone could bring her peace. 
 Then as the conversation turned on the Asylum for the 
 Invalids of Labour, she declared that she was resolved to take 
 her presidency very seriously, and, in fact, would exclusively 
 devote herself to it, in the future. 
 
 ' 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 I'Abb^ 
 Pierre Froment.' 
 
 At this the Bishop became grave and embarrassed ; but 
 Princess Eosemonde, who was passing by with Duthil, had 
 overheard the Baroness, and drawing near with her wonted 
 impetuosity, she exclaimed : ' Abbe Pierre Froment I Oh ! I 
 forgot to tell you, my dear, that I met him going about in 
 jacket and trousers 1 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 on the Church. I heard of the mad- 
 ness 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 over- 
 come ; 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 Bosemonde 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 1 decidedly 
 there's nothing but corruption left ; one can no longer rely 
 on anybody ! ' 
 
 Whilst this was going on, Gamille happened to be alone in 
 
 BE 2 
 
420 PARIS 
 
 her own room getting ready to leave the house with Gerard. 
 And all at once her brother Hyaointhe 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 G6rard 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 I 
 you say that she will take him from me 1 ' 
 
 The ' she ' they referred to was their own mother. 
 ' Listen, my boy ! I'll kill her first ! ' continued Camilla 
 ' 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 obUged to fetch him at the moment 
 when the Countess de Quinsao 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 
 Fonsfigue'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 punish him yet further. However, on being 
 summoned by his son, he was obliged 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 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 42I 
 
 journey. Then Eve, near whom Monseignenr 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 both gaiety and motherliness. 
 
 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, affec- 
 tionate way, instinct with all the heroism of renunciation. 
 'Good-bye, 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 ' Aa 
 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, a.nd 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 
 Comddie-FranQaise. 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 only contained himself, Hyaointhe, Duthil, 
 and little Princess de Ham. 
 
 At nine o'clock there was a fuU 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 look-out for the unexpected. One recognised the same 
 faces and the same 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. 
 
422 PARIS 
 
 Little Massot had his customary seat in the stalls. Amadieu, 
 who was a faithful patron of the Comddie, was also to be seen 
 there, as well as General de Bozonnet and PubUe Prosecutor 
 Lehmann. The man who was most looked at, however, on 
 account of his scandalous article that morning, was Sagnier, 
 the terrible Sagnier with a bloated, apoplectical face. Then 
 there was Chaigneux, who had merely kept 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, Monf errand and Dauvergne, appeared in the 
 box facing Duvillard's ; whereupon many knowing smiles 
 were exchanged, for everybody was aware that these person- 
 ages had come to help on the success of the dibutante. 
 
 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 SUviane at the 
 Com^die-FranQaise, 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 Com6die. 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 pe:dormance 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 immacu- 
 late candour. Then, although the manner in which she had 
 understood her part at first amazed people, it ended by charm- 
 ing 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 BrunhUda 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 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 423 
 
 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 Caf6 Anglais. Well, he's repeating to everybody 
 that " Pauline " is merely a little howrgeoise, and is not trans- 
 formed by the heavenly grace until the very finish of the 
 piece. To turn her into a holy virgin from the outset simply 
 Mils the- part, says he.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! ' retorted DuviUard, ' 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 Fons^gue, 
 declared that the latter stiU hesitated in the matter in spite 
 of Silviane's success, ^hich he declared to be ridiculous. 
 Thereupon the Baron became quite angry. ' Go and tell 
 FohsSgue,' he exclaimed, ' that I insist on it, -and that I shall 
 remember what he does.' 
 
 Meantime Princess Eosemonde 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 Eosemonde, 
 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 
 
434 PARIS 
 
 perspiring shoulders when Eosemonde 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, SUviane even inviting Eosemonde to drink a 
 cup of tea with her at her house. At this the young man 
 smUed complacently, and said to the actress : ' Your carriage 
 is waiting for you at the comer of the Eue Montpensier, is 
 it not ? Well, I'll take the Princess to it. That will be the 
 simpler plan, you can both go off together 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh 1 how good of you,' cried Eosemonde ; ' it's agreed.' 
 
 Just then the door was opened, and the men being ad- 
 mitted, 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 
 burst into applause T«hen Silviane spoke the famous line, 
 'I see, I know, I belie v-j,- I am uiiJeCvjived,' with the rap- 
 turous enthusiasm of a holy martyr ascending to heaven. 
 Nothing could have been more soul-hke, 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, whUe Hyacinthe 
 escorted Eosemonde to the brougham waiting at the comer 
 of the Eue 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 SUviane, 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.' 
 
 Eosemonde'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 
 awayl 
 
 ' 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. ' Eosemonde waa 
 worrying my life out, and so I got rid of her by packing her 
 o£f with Silviane.' 
 
 Duvillard was still standing on the pavement and still 
 
IN VANITY FAIR 425 
 
 looking dazed -when Chaigneux, who was going home quite 
 tired out, recognised him, and came up to say that Fons^gue 
 had thought the matter over, and that Massot's article would 
 be inserted. It seemed that in the passages there had been 
 a deal of talk about the famous Trans-Saharian project. 
 
 Then Hyaointhe 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 ex- 
 changing a few words, took their way up the Avenue do 
 rOpera, which at that hour was deserted and dismal. Mean- 
 time, above the slumbering houses of Paris the breeze 
 wafted a prolonged sigh, the plaint, as it were, of an expiring 
 world. 
 
 Ill 
 
 SHE aOAIi OF LABOUB 
 
 EvEB since the execution of Salvat, GuUlaume had become 
 extremely taciturn. He seemed worried and absent-minded. 
 He would work for hours at the manufacture of that danger- 
 ous 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 1 I love her, I love 
 her too well to regret what I have done. No, no 1 you only 
 bring me happiness, I derive all my strength and courage 
 from you now that I know you are both happy. . . . And I 
 
426 PARIS 
 
 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 east 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 considerable relief to Pierre, 
 who concluded that he must have been mistaken iu 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 Fran9ois 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 thereforerenouneed hishope 
 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 
 
THE GOAL OF LABOUR 4^7 
 
 po-wder, 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 pohce, 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 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 scarcely 
 been 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 deci- 
 sion that Pierre did not dare to question him further, to ask 
 him, for instance, what that other idea might be. Prom that 
 moment, however, he quivered with anxious expectancy. 
 From hour to hour MSre-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 
 
428 PARIS 
 
 Grandidier works, someone 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 hia 
 nephew, and they started off together about four o'clock. 
 
 On entering the one room which the Toussaints occu- 
 pied, 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 Ughtning. 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. Atfiftyyearaof 
 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 I'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 convulsivdy. 
 
 ' 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 &om their chairs and drawn 
 somewhat on one side. And now to his great surprise he 
 recognised that they were Madame Theodore and Online, 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, 
 
THE GOAL OF LABOUR 429 
 
 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 Thdodore 
 had been placed as a nurse in a convalescent home ; in such 
 wise that both had been saved. 
 
 When Pierre drew near to little Celine in order to kiss her, 
 Madame Theodore told her to thank Monsieur I'AbbS — for so 
 she still respectfully called him — for all that he had previously 
 done for her. ' It was you who brought us happiness. Mon- 
 sieur rAbb6,' said she. ' And that's a thing one can never 
 forget. I'm always telling C61ine to remember you in her 
 prayers.' 
 
 ' And so, my child, you are now goi)^ to school again,* 
 said Pierre. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes. Monsieur I'Abbd, and I'm well pleased at it. 
 Besides, we no longer lack anything.' Then, howevar, sudden 
 emotion came over the girl, and she stammered with a sob : 
 ' Ah ! if poor papa could only see us I ' 
 
 Madame Theodore, meanwhile, had begun to take leave 
 of Madame Toussaint. ' Well, good-bye, 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 youi 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 manl' she said, 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 ; 
 
430 PARIS 
 
 ' 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 1 ' Madame Toussaintresumed. 'There are 
 folks who ask us 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 Uttle 
 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 1 Why, they might just as 
 well be thrown into the gutter and carried off in the scaven- 
 ger'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 
 
THE GOAL OF LABOUR 43« 
 
 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 useiess to apply in that direction. He could again 
 see himself scouring Paris, hurrying from the Lady President, 
 Baroness Duvillard, to FonsSgue, the General Manager, and 
 only securing a bed for Laveuve when the unhappy man was 
 dead! 
 
 However, at that moment an infant was heard wailingj 
 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 
 wenii 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 sa.id 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 hke that. . . . But just afterwards everything 
 collapsed 1 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 1 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 1 yes,' continued Madame Toussaint, 'the sons are 
 
432 PARIS 
 
 not like the fathers were. These fine fellows won't be aa 
 patient as my poor husband has been, letting hard work wear 
 bim 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, rocMng 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 com- 
 passion, 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 1 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 
 Buffering and death I Ah ! poor old man, cripple that he was, 
 ending like some beast of burden that has foundered by the 
 roadside — that goal of labour I And it was aJl 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. 
 
THE GOAL OF LABOUR 433 
 
 Tlito 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 Chr6tiennot, Toussaint's 
 .other sister, eighteen years younger than himself. Her 
 husband, the little clerk, had compelled her to break oflf 
 almost all intercourse with her relatives, as he felt ashamed 
 of them ; nevertheless, having heard of her brother's misfor- 
 tune, she had very properly come to condole with him. She 
 wore a gown of cheap flimsy sUk, 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, aU trace of 
 her good looks had disappeared. 
 
 The lamentable appearance of her brother and the bare- 
 ness 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 I my dear,' she said to her sister-in-law, ' you are 
 certainly much to be pitied 1 But if you only knew I We 
 all have our worries. 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 wiU perhaps say that we might lodge ourselves in a more 
 modest way ; but we can't, my dear, I mast have a salon on 
 account of the visits I receive. So just count 1 . . • Then 
 there are my two girls. I've had to send them to school ; 
 Lueienne 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 
 exasperatfed at now having a guillotine in his wife's family. 
 And he had t&My b'tfgun to teat the uafcfrtituate wontan 
 
 .r F 
 
434 PARIS 
 
 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 
 serious quarrels ; she stood up for herself, and related that 
 when she was at the confectionery shop in the Hue des 
 Martyrs she could have married a doctor had she only chosen, 
 for the doctor foimd her quite pretty enough. Now, however, 
 she was becoming plainet and plainer, and her husband felt 
 that he was condemned to evetlasting penury ; so that their 
 life was becoming more and more dismal and quarrelsome, 
 and as unbetoablfe — despite the pride of being ' gentleman ' 
 and ' lady ' — as was the destitution of the worMng classes. 
 
 ' AU 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 conifortably 
 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 wlQ think 
 of leaving an income to Mareelle and Lucienne. . . . Well, 
 good-bye, my dear, you must be brave, one must always hope 
 that things will turn out iot 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 Efohisme fcfr establishing a friendly society, an^ even a 
 
THE GOAL OF LABOUR 435 
 
 pension fund, which had been launched before the crisis from 
 which the worka 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 circum- 
 stances 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 Touasaint 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 wiU 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 in&nt — that other luckless creature, who was now 
 so heavy on the old folks' hands, and like them, no doubt, 
 would some day die of want and unjust toil. 
 
 Toil, manual toU, 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 workshops one found a continuous rumbling, a 
 whole army of men in motion, forging, filing, and piercing, 
 amidst the spinning of leather gearing and the trepidation 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 dijeuner, 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 workshop 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 
 laughtier of playful children. But all at once a loud, piercing 
 shriek reached their ears, followed by howls and moans, like 
 
 ri?2 
 
436 PARIS 
 
 tliose 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 puflSng of 
 the steam, accompanied too by the drJl 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 approach- 
 ing vogue of motor-ears 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, wMeh 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 sUence once more, the latter said 
 in an undertone : 
 
 ' The poor young woman 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 1 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 workshop 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. How- 
 ever, he at once wished to talk, overcome his feelingis, and 
 retnrn to his life of activity. ' I am very pleased to see ybu, 
 my dear Thomas,' said he, ' I have been thlnldng oveir what 
 
THE GOAL OF LABOUR 437 
 
 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 pf another's 
 misfortunes, might perhaps draw him from hia 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 only be just to take some account of his long efforts, 
 the years of his life which he had devoted to the establish- 
 ment. 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 Uke 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 that 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 un- 
 doubtedly 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 idiotio 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 thatofpooketing one's profits j 
 and yet at the same time to be the most wretched of men to 
 
438 PARIS 
 
 know no day exempt from anguish, to find each evening at one's 
 hearth no other reward or prop than the most atrocious tor- 
 ture 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 energeti- 
 cally 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 cheeks ; for on 
 retm'ning 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, feeUng quite upset. Ah ! he thought, how uni- 
 versal was the thirst for happiness I Then, in spite of the 
 many technical terms that were used he caught a httle 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 
 at present 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 Grandi- 
 dier 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 Grandidiev shook hands with him and Pierre, and 
 
THE GOAL OF LABOUR 439 
 
 went off to make his usual rouncl through his busy, bustling 
 works, whilst near at band, ^waiting his return, stood the 
 closed pq.vilion, where every. evening he was fated to relapse 
 mto endless, uncurable anguish- 
 
 The daylight was already waning when Pierre and 
 Thomas, after reasoending the height of Montmartre, walked 
 towards the large workshop whiqh 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 Uttered with materials, an extra- 
 ordinary 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 
 baaihca. 
 
 Salting in front of Jahan's workshop, Thomas pointed to 
 one of these doorways by which one could reach the 
 foundatiqn works. ' Have you jiever 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 the edifice 
 erect and kept it there. 
 
 Thomas was at last obhged 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 workshop they found the two assistants 
 still worldpg 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 
 
440 PARIS 
 
 soiled with clay, was contemplating a figure some three feet 
 high on which he had just been working. 
 
 'Ah I 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 hia 
 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 
 Uke the sun. And its only gesture was one of ofler and of 
 greeting ; its arms were thrown shghtly 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 sufierers 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 magnifi- 
 cence 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 I 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 \isitors 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 
 
THE GOAL OF LABOUR 44i 
 
 his model there instead of at home, in order to console himself 
 a little for Lis big dummy of an angel, the prescribed trite- 
 ness 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 com- 
 pelled to modify all the drapery. 
 
 ' Oh ! it's just as they like I ' 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. ^ 1 if social or 
 human art could only revive, how glorious to be one of the first 
 to bear the tidings I ' 
 
 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 Utter- 
 ing the waste ground, one could see Antoine's taU 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, Uke a girl blossoming into womanhood, she raised 
 her eyes to his with a smile of infinite gratitude, which pro- 
 claimed that she belonged to him for evermore. 
 
 ' Ah I 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 comer, 
 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 Lnfirm, 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 
 feiT 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 approsiehing. 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 be felt that nowhere else could he instil 
 
442 PARIS 
 
 more vitality, more soul, more strength into her. And love 
 Lad 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 him- 
 self. 
 
 ' So you no longer feel tired, little one ? ' said Jahan. 
 She smiled divinely. ' Oh ! no, it's so pleasant, so beau- 
 tiful 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 1 how divinely simple, how divinely beautiful 1 ' 
 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 intelUgence 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 hia 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 Bue du Calvaire. 
 
 ' TiU 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 extra- 
 ordinary a sight that for an instant he felt stupified. But it 
 was certain enough ; he could plainly distinguish his brother 
 Guillaume emerging from the gaping doorway which con- 
 ducted to the foundations of the basilica. And he saw him 
 hastily climb over the palings, and then pretend to be there 
 
THE GOAL OF LABOUR 443 
 
 by pure chance, as though he had come up from the Rue 
 Lamarck. When he accosted his two Bons, 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 dream- 
 ing. 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 aroimd 
 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 1 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 fall- 
 , ing. As his examination was now near at hand, he was 
 living in a state of severe mental strain. 
 
 'What I 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,' Fran9ois 
 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 dark- 
 ness. I won't, say that the planet has a particular partiaUty 
 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, estaWish justice, and create happiness. 
 
 Then came a short spell of silence. Paris sank more and 
 more deeply into the nightj growing black and mysterious, 
 tjll all at once sparks of light began to appear. 
 
444 PARIS 
 
 ' The lamps are being lighted,' resumed Frangois ; ' work 
 is being resumed on all sides.' 
 
 Then Guillaume, who likewise had been dreaming, 
 immersed in his fixed idea, exclaimed ; ' Work, yes, no doubt I 
 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 solemnness 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 CEISia 
 
 A GBBAT 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 Sacra- 
 ment ; 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 sbops 
 where religious emblems and pictures were sold would be 
 besieged, the cafds and taverns would be crowded to over- 
 flowing. 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 M^re-Grand alone there; and a 
 remark which he heard the former make caused him to stop 
 
THE CRISIS 445 
 
 short and listen from behind a tall revolving book-stand. 
 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, ' eveiything is rea^y, 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 unshakeable, that his 
 tragic dream, his fixed idea of martyrdom wholly absorbed 
 liim. Mere-Grand looked at him with her pale eyeis, 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 circum- 
 stances, 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 yon 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, niyself, and 
 the house ? ' said ^be. ' YcfU have thought it all tnr^rj yoti are 
 
446 PARIS 
 
 quite determined ? ' And as he simply answered ' Yes,' she 
 added : ' 'Tis well, you are the master. ... I wUl 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 shaU 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 
 iningled, 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 chiUed to his heart, presented himself as if he were 
 just arriving, M4re-Grand had quietly taken up her needle- 
 work 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 
 Fran9ois and Antoine complained in a jesting way, saying 
 that they were dying of hunger, while for her part Marie, who 
 had made a crime, 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 Eue 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 Si. 
 Joseph Eefuge. The others no doubt tad to sleep in the open 
 air. And now they are busy eating, here, there, and every- 
 where, all over the patches of waste ground and even on the 
 pavements. One dan scarcely set one foot before the other 
 withdut risk of treading on somebody.' 
 
THE CRISIS 447 
 
 The meal proved a very gay one, though Pierre fotrnd 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 sun- 
 light 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 Gttillaumo 
 looked somewhat pale, and spoke. with unusual caressiilg soft- 
 ness, he retained his customary bright smile. But on the 
 other hand, never had Mere-Grand been more silent or more 
 grave. 
 
 Marie's er^me 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 mere, a 
 deathly ehiU seemed to sweep by making evefy face turn pale 
 —even while they were still cleaning their plates with their 
 httle spoons. 
 
 ' Ah ! that bell,' exclaimed Fran9oi3 ; ' it is reaUy in- 
 tolerable. I can feel my head splitting.' 
 
 He referred to ' La Savoyarde,' the big bell of the basilica, 
 which had now begun to toU, 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 dang. 
 
 'WUl it keep oh like that till four o'clock?' asked 
 Marie. 
 
 ' Oh I 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 P^ris has to hear it 
 whether it will or no, and even as far away as the tanth^on, 
 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 sweet- 
 ineat 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, 
 
448 PARIS 
 
 said Antoine. Then they rose from table, talking at the top 
 of their voices so as to make themselves heard above the in- 
 cessant 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. 
 Guillavime, 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 mpst innocent remarks. During dijeuner, 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 
 pobriy. , And now he was looking and listening and waiting 
 with ever-growing anxiety. 
 
 Shortly before three o'clock, Guiliaume 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 himseK 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 unpel them to oppose him and prevent his 
 death ! At last with supreme heroism he managed to calm 
 himself. 
 
 ' Au revoir ! boys.' 
 
 ' Au revoir 1 father. Will you be home early ? ' 
 
 'Yes, yes. . . Don't worry about me, do plenty of 
 work.' 
 
 Mere-Grand, still majestically silent, kept her ejes 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, Guiliaume,' exclaimed Marie gaily, ' will you under- 
 take a commission for me if you are gomg down by way of 
 thfe Ene, deS Martyfs ? ' 
 
 ' Wliyj betfaufly? hie replied. 
 
THH CRISIS 449 
 
 ' Well, then, please look in at my dressmaker's, and tell 
 her that I shan't go to try my gown on till to-mprro\v 
 morning.' 
 
 It was a question of her wedding dress, a gown of light 
 grey silk, the extreme 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'3 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 silenca 
 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 Guil- 
 laume. ' Au revoir I 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 foun- 
 dations 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 favoured Pierre as it had his brother, in such 
 wise that he was able to follow the latter and enter the door- 
 way 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 
 BO as to make no noise, and, feeling the walls with his 
 hands, turned round and round as he went lower and lower 
 
450 PARIS 
 
 into a kind of well. However, the descent was not a very 
 long one. As soon aa 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 direc- 
 tion 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 wag 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, however, the little light 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. 5hey were here 
 among the foundations of the basilica ; and one of the eolumna 
 or piles of concrete poured into shafts in order to support the 
 building could be seen. The gap, which the stone slab 
 removed by GuiUaume 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 soU. 
 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, Piene 
 suddenly understood the whole terrifying business. Con- 
 siderable 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 had just moved aside. It was only necessary 
 to throw a amtflji thare, and everything wowld b» blown inta 
 space I 
 
TITS CRISIS 451 
 
 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, GuiUaume 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. GuiUaume 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 vrished 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 bis footsteps GuiUaume rose 
 
 aa3 
 
4S« PARIS 
 
 menacingly, but be immediately recognised hia brotnei*, and 
 did not seem astonifihed to see him. 
 
 'Ahl 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-bye. We have nearly an 
 hour before us, so we can chat. But I want you to under- 
 stand the futility of all you may think needful to tell me. 
 My resolution is unshakeable ; 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 baying 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 httle 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 corrup- 
 tion, 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-pnr- 
 chased, sanguineous glory of conquerors. That colossus 
 raised to the memory of so much frightful slaughter, which 
 ^ad uselessly put an end to so many human lives, ought, ha 
 considered, to be slaughtered in its turn. Could he so hav9 
 
THE CRISIS 453 
 
 arranged things that the earth should swallow it up, he 
 might have achieved the glory of causing no other death thaa 
 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 I 
 
 ' 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 bo 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 I brother, brother, is it you who are 
 saying such things ? ' 
 
 However, Guillaume did not pause : ' If I have ended by 
 choosing this basilica of the Sacred Heart,' he continued, ' it 
 is because I found it near at hand and easy to destroy. But 
 it is also because it haunts and exasperates me, because I 
 have long since condemned it. . . . As I have often said to 
 you, one cannot imagine anything more preposterous than 
 Paris, our great Paris, crowned and dominated by this temple 
 raised to the glorification of the absurd. Is it not outrageous 
 that common sense should receive such a smack after so many 
 centuries of science, that Bome should claim the right of 
 triumphing in this insolent fashion, on our loftiest height in 
 the full sunlight ? The priests want Paris to repent and do 
 penitence for its liberative work of truth and justice. But its 
 only right course is to sweep away all that hampers and 
 insults it in its march towards deliverance. And so may the 
 temple fall with its deity of falsehood and servitude I And 
 may its ruins crush its worshippers, so that like one of the 
 old geological revolutions of the world, the catastrophe may 
 resound through the very entrails of mankind, and renew and 
 change it 1 ' 
 
 ' Brother, brother ! ' again cried Pierre quite beside him- 
 wlf ; ' is it you who ara talking ? What I you, a great scientist, 
 
454 PARIS 
 
 a man of great heart, you have come to this I What madness 
 is stirring you that you should think and say such abominable 
 things ? On the evening when we confessed our secrets one 
 to the other, you told me of your proud and lofty dream of 
 ideal anarchy. There would be free harmony in life, whiel 
 left to its natural forces would of itself create happiness. But 
 you still rebelled against the idea of theft and murder. You 
 would not accept them as right or necessary; you merely 
 explained and excused them. What has happened then that 
 you, aU brain and thought, should now have become the 
 hateful hand that acts ? ' 
 
 ' Salvat has been guillotined,' said Gmllaume simply, 
 ' and I read his will and testament in his last glance. I am 
 merely an executor. . . . And what has happened, you ask ? 
 Why all that has made me suffer for four months past, the 
 whole social evil which surrounds us, and which must be 
 brought to an end 
 
 SUence fell. The brothers looked at one another in the 
 darkness. And Pierre now understood things ; he saw that 
 GuiUaume was changed, that the terrible gust of revolution- 
 ary contagion sweeping over Paris had transformed him. It 
 had all come from the duality of his nature, the presence of 
 contradictory elements within him. On one side one found a 
 scientist whose whole creed lay in observation and experiment, 
 who, in deaUng with nature, evinced the most cautious logic ; 
 while on the other side was a social dreamer, haunted by ideas 
 of fraternity, equahty and justice, and eager for universal 
 happiness. Thence had first come the theoretical anarchist 
 that he had been, one in whom science and chimeras were 
 mingled, who dreamt of human society returning to the har- 
 monious law of the spheres, each man free, in a free associa- 
 tion, regulated by love alone. Neither ThdophUe Morin with 
 the doctrines of Proudhon and Comte, nor Bache with those 
 of St. Simon and Fourier, had been able to satisfy his desire 
 for the absolute. AU those systems had seemed to him 
 imperfect and chaotic, destructive of one another, and tendhig 
 to the same wretchedness of hfe. Janzen alone had occa- 
 sionally satisfied him with some of his curt phrases which 
 shot over the horizon, hke arrows conquering the whole earth 
 for the human family. And then in Gmllaume's big heart, 
 which the idea of want, the unjust sufferings of the lowly 
 and the poor exasperated, Salvat's tragic adventure had sud- 
 denly found place, fomenting supreme rebellion. For long 
 
THE CRISIS 4SS 
 
 weeks he had lived on with trembling hands, with growing 
 anguish clutching at his throat. First had come that bomb 
 and the explosion which still made bun quiver, then the vile 
 cupidity of the newspapers howling for the poor wretch's head, 
 then the search for him and the hunt through the Bois de 
 Boulogne, till he fell into the hands of the police, covered with 
 mud and dying of starvation. And afterwards there had 
 been the Assize Court, the judges, the gendarmes, the wit- 
 nesses, the whole of France arrayed against one man, and bent 
 on making him pay for the universal crime. And finally, 
 there had come the guillotine, the monstrous, the filthy beast 
 consummating irreparable injustice in human justice's name. 
 One sole idea now remained to Guillaume, that idea of justice 
 which maddened him, leaving naught in his mind save the 
 thought of the just, avenging flare by which he would repair 
 the evil and ensure what was right for all time forward. 
 Salvat had looked at him, and contagion had done its work ; 
 he glowed with a desire for death, a desire to give his own 
 blood and set the blood of others flowing, in order that man- 
 kind, amidst its fright and honor, should decree the return of 
 the golden age. 
 
 Pierre understood the stubborn blindness of such insanity ; 
 and he felt utterly upset by the fear that he should be unable 
 to overcome it. ' You are mad, brother 1 ' he exclaimed, 
 ' they have driven you mad 1 It is a gust of violence passing ; 
 they were treated in a wrong way and too relentlessly at the 
 outset, and now that they are avenging one another, it may 
 be that blood will never cease to flow. . . . But, listen, 
 brother, Ihrow 'off that night-mare. You can't be a Salvat 
 who murders or a Bergaz who steals 1 Eemember the pillage 
 of the Princess's house and remember the fair-haired, pretty 
 child whom we saw lying yonder, ripped open. . . . You do 
 not, you cannot belong to that set, brother ' 
 
 With a wave of his hand, Guillaume brushed these vain 
 reasons aside. Of what consequence were a few lives, his own 
 included ? No change had ever taken place in the world 
 without millions and millions of existences being stamped 
 out. 
 
 ' But you had a great scheme in hand,' cried Pierre, hoping 
 to save him by reviving his sense of duty. ' It isn't allowable 
 for you to go off like this 1 ' 
 
 _ Then he fervently strove to awaken his brother's scientific 
 pride. He spoke to him of his secret, of that great engine of 
 
4SS PARIS 
 
 Warfare which could destroy armies and reduce cities to dust, 
 and which he had intended to offer to France, so that on 
 emerging victorious from the approaching war, she plight 
 afterwards become the deliverer of the world. And it was 
 this grand scheme that he had abandoned, preferring to 
 employ his explosive in killing innocent people and over- 
 throwing a church, which would be built afresh, whatever the 
 cost, and become a sanctuary of martyrs I 
 
 Guillaume smiled. ' I have not relinquished my scheme," 
 said he, ' I have simply modified it. Did I not tell you of 
 my doubts, my anxious perplexity ? Ah I to believe that one 
 holds the destiny of the world in one's grasp, and to tremble 
 and hesitate and wonder if the intelligence and wisdom that 
 are needful for things to take the one wise course will be 
 forthcoming 1 At sight of aU the stains upon our great 
 Paris, all the errors and transgressions which we lately 
 witnessed, I shuddered. I asked myself if Paris were 
 8u£Sciently calm and pure for one to entrust her with omni- 
 potence. How terrible would be the disaster if such an in- 
 vention as mine should fall into the hands of a demented 
 nation, possibly a dictator, some man of conquest, who would 
 simply employ it to terrorise other nations and reduce them 
 to slavery. ... Ah I no, I do not wish to perpetuate waifare, 
 I wish to Mil it.' 
 
 Then in a clear firm voice he explained his new plan, in 
 which Pierre was surprised to find some of the ideas wMoh 
 General de Bozonnet had one day laid before him in a very 
 different spirit. Warfare was on the road to extinction, 
 threatened by its very excesses. In the old days of mercenaries, 
 and afterwards with conscripts, the percentage of soldiers 
 designated by chance, war had been a profession and a passion. 
 But nowadays, when everybody is called upon to fight, none 
 care to do so. By the logical force of things, the system of the 
 whole nation in arms means the coming end of armies. How 
 much longer will the nations remain on a footing of deadly 
 peace, bowed down by ever increasing ' estimates,' spending 
 millions and millions on holding one another in respect? 
 Ah I how great the deliverance, what a cry of relief would go 
 up on the day when some formidable engine, capable of 
 destroying armies and sweeping cities away, should render 
 war an impossibility and constrain every people to disarm I 
 Warfare would be dead, killed in her own turn, she who has 
 killed go many. TWs was Gujllaupie's dream, and he grew 
 
THE CRISIS 457 
 
 quite enthusiastic, so strong was his conviction that he would 
 presently bring it to pass. 
 
 ' Everything is settled,' said he ; ' if I am about to die 
 and disappear it is in order that my idea may triumph. . . . 
 You have lately seen me spend whole afternoons alone with 
 Mdre-Grand. Well, we were completing the classification of 
 the documents and making our final arrangements. She has 
 my orders, and will execute them even at the risk of her Ufe, 
 for none has a braver, loftier soul. ... As soon as I am dead, 
 buried beneath these stones, as soon as she has heard the 
 explosion shake Paris and proclaim the advent of the new 
 era, she will forward a set of all the documents I have con- 
 fided to her — the formula of my explosive, the drawings of 
 the bomb and gun — to each of the great powers of the world. 
 In this wise I shall bestow on all the nations the terrible gift 
 of destruction and omnipotence which, at first, I wished to 
 bestow on France alone ; and I shall do this in order that the 
 nations, being one and all armed with the thunderbolt, may 
 at once disarm, for fear of being annihilated, when seeking to 
 annihilate others.' 
 
 Pierre listened to him, gaping, amazed at this extra- 
 ordinary idea, in which childishness was blended with genius. 
 ' Well," said he, ' if you give your secret to all the nations, 
 why should you blow up this church, and die yourself ? ' 
 
 ' Why 1 In order that I may be believed I ' cried 
 GmUaume with extraordinary force of utterance. Then he 
 added, ' The edifice must lie on the ground, and I must be 
 under it. If the experiment is not made, if universal horror 
 does not attest and proclaim the amazing destructive power of 
 my explosive, people will consider me a mere schemer, a 
 visionary I ... A lot of dead, a lot of blood, that is what is 
 needed in order that blood may for ever cease to flow ! * Then, 
 with a broad sweep of his arm, he again declared that hia 
 action was necessary. ' Besides,' he said, ' Salvat left me 
 the legacy of carrying out this deed of justice. If I have 
 given it greater scope and significance, utilising it as a means 
 of hastening the end of war, this is because I happen to be a 
 man of intellect. It would have been better possibly if my 
 mind had been a simple one, and if I had merely acted like 
 some volcano which changes the soil, leaving life the task of 
 renewing humanity.' 
 
 Much of the caudle had now burnt away, and Guillaume 
 at last rose from the block of stone. He had again consulted 
 
4S8 FAHIS 
 
 his watch, and found that he had ten minutes left him. The 
 little current of air created by hia gestures made the light 
 flicker, whUe all around him the darkness seemed to grow 
 denser. And near at hand ever lay the threatening, open mine, 
 ■which a spark might at any moment fire. 
 
 ' It is nearly time,' said Guillaume. ' Come, brother, kiss 
 me and go away. You know how much I love you, what 
 ardent affection for you has been awakened in my old heart. 
 So love me in like fashion, and find love enough to let me 
 die as I want to die, in carrying out my duty. Kiss me, kiss 
 me, and go away without turning your head.' 
 
 His deep affection for Pierre made his voice tremble, but 
 he struggled on, forced back his tears, and ended by con- 
 quering himself. It was as if he were no longer of the world, 
 no longer one of mankind. 
 
 ' No, brother, you have not convinced me,' said Pierre, who 
 on his side did not seek to hide his tears, ' and it is precisely 
 because I love you as you love me, with my whole being, my 
 whole soul, that I cannot go away. It is impossible I You 
 cannot be the madman, the murderer you would try to be.' 
 
 * Why not ? Am I not free ? I have rid my life of all 
 responsibiUties, aU ties. ... I have brought up my sons, 
 they have no further need of me. But one heart-link re- 
 mained — Marie, and I have given her to you.' 
 
 At this a disturbing argument occurred to Pierre, and he 
 passionately availed Mmself of it. ' So you want to die 
 because you have given me Marie,' said he. ' You still love 
 heir, confess it 1 ' 
 
 'No 1' cried Guillaume, ' I no longer love her, I swear it. 
 I gave her to you, I love her no more.' 
 
 ' So you fancied ; but you can see now that yon still love 
 her, for here you are, quite upset ; whereas none of the 
 terrifying things of which we spoke just now could even move 
 you. . . . Yes, if you wish to die it is because you have lost 
 Marie I ' 
 
 GuiUaume quivered, shaken by what his brother said, 
 and in low broken words he tried to question himself. ' No, 
 no, that any love pain should have urged me to this terrible 
 deed would be unworthy — unworthy of my great design. No, 
 no, I decided on it in the free exercise of my reason, and I 
 am accomplishing it from no personal motive, but in the name 
 of justice and for the benefit of humanity, in order tiiat war 
 and want may cease.' 
 
THE CRISIS 459 
 
 Then, in sudden anguish, he went on ; ' Ah I it is cruel of 
 you, brother, cruel of you to poison my delight at dying. I 
 have created all the happiness I could, I was going oflf well 
 pleased at leaving you all happy, and now you poison my 
 death. No, no I question it how I may, my heart does not 
 ache; it' I love Marie it is simply in the same way as I love 
 
 Nevertheless, he remained perturbed, as if feanng lest he 
 might be lying to himself; and by degrees gloomy anger 
 came over him ; ' Listen, that is enough, Pierre," he exclaimed, 
 ' time is flying. . . . For the last time, go away 1 I order you 
 to do so ; I will have it ! ' 
 
 ' I wUl not obey you, Guillaume. ... I will stay, and as 
 all my reasoning cannot save you from your insanity, fire your 
 mine, and I will die with you.' 
 
 ' You ? Die ? But you have no right to do so, you are 
 not free 1 ' 
 
 ' Free, or not, I swear that I will die with you. And if it 
 merely be a question of flinging this candle into that hole, 
 tell me so, and I wiU take it and fling it there myself.' 
 
 He made a gesture at which his brother thought that he 
 was about to carry out his threat. So he caught him by the 
 arm, crying : ' Why should you die ? It would be absurd. 
 That others should die may be necessary, but you, no I Of 
 what use could be this additional monstrosity ? You are 
 endeavouring to soften me, you are torturing my heart 1 ' 
 Then all at once, imagining that Pierre's offer had concealed 
 another design, Guillaume thundered in a fury : • You don't 
 want to take the candle in order to throw it there. What 
 you want to do ia to blow it out I And you think I shan't 
 be able then — ah ! you bad brother ! ' 
 
 In his turn Pierre exclaimed : ' Oh ! certainly, I'll use 
 every means to prevent you from accomplishing such a fright- 
 ful and foolish deed 1 ' 
 
 ' You'll prevent me 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, I'll cling to you, I'll fasten vci;^ arms to your shoul- 
 ders, I'll hold your hands if necessary.' 
 
 'Ahl you'll prevent me, you bad brother! You think 
 you'll prevent me I ' 
 
 Choking and trembling with rage, Guillaume had already 
 caught hold of Pierre, whose ribs he pressed with his powerful, 
 muscular arms. They were closely linked together, their 
 eyes fixed upon one another, and their breath mingling in 
 
45o PARIS 
 
 that kind of subterranean dungeon, where their big dancing 
 Bhadows looked like ghosts. They seemed to be vanishing 
 into the night ; the candle now showed merely like a little 
 yellow tear in the midst of the darkness ; and at that moment, 
 in those far depths, a quiver sped through the silence of the 
 earth which weighed so heavily upon them. Distant but 
 sonorous peals rang out, as if death itself were somewhere 
 ringing its invisible bell. 
 
 ' You hear,' stammered Guillaume, ' it's their bell up 
 there. The time has come, I have vowed to act, and you 
 want to prevent me ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I'U prevent you as long as I'm here alive.' 
 
 ' As long as you are alive, you'll prevent me ! ' 
 
 Guillaume could hear ' La Savoyarde ' pealing joyfully up 
 yonder; he could see the triumphant basUica, overflowing 
 with its ten thousand pilgrims, and blazing with the splen- 
 dour of the Host amidst the smoke of incense ; and blind 
 frenzy came over him at finding himself unable to act, at 
 finding an obstacle suddenly barring the road to his fixed idea. 
 
 ' As long as you are alive, as long as you are alive I ' he 
 repeated, beside himself. 'Well, then, die, you wretched 
 brother ! ' 
 
 A fratricidal gleam had darted from his blurred eyes. He 
 hastily stooped, picked up a large brick forgotten there, and 
 raised it with both hands as if it were a club. 
 
 •Ah I I'm willing,' cried Pierre. 'Kill me, then; kill 
 your own brother before you kill the others 1 ' 
 
 The brick was already descending, but Guillaume's arms 
 must have deviated, for the weapon only grazed one of Pierre's 
 shoulders. Nevertheless, he sank upon his knees in the gloom. 
 When Guillaume saw him there he fancied he had dealt him 
 a mortal blow. What was it that had happened between 
 them, what had he done ? For a moment he remained stand- 
 ing, haggard, his mouth open, his eyes dilating with terror. 
 He looked at his hands, fancying that blood was streaming 
 from them. Then he pressed them to his brow, which seemed 
 to be bursting with pain, as if his fixed idea had been torn 
 from him, leaving bis skull open. And he himself suddenly 
 sank upon the ground with a great sob. 
 
 ' Oh I brother, little brother, what have I done ? ' he called. 
 ' I am a monster I ' 
 
 But Pierre had passionately caught him in his arms again. 
 ' It is nothing, nothing, brother, I assure you,' be replied. 
 
THE CRISIS 461 
 
 ' Ah 1 you are weeping now. How pleased I am I You are 
 saved, I can feel it, since you are weeping. And what a good 
 thing it is that you flew into such a passion, for your anger 
 with me has dispelled your evil dream of violence.' 
 
 ' I am horrified with myself,' gasped Guillaume, ' to think 
 that J-nranted to kill you ! Yes, I'm a brute beast that would 
 kill his brother 1 And the others, too, all the others up 
 yonder. ... Oh ! I'm cold, I feel so cold.' 
 
 His teeth were chattering, and he shivered. It was as if 
 he had awakened, half stupified, from some evil dream. And 
 in the new light which his fratricidal deed cast upon things, 
 the scheme which had haunted him and goaded him to mad- 
 ness, appeared like some act of criminal folly, projected by 
 another. 
 
 ' To kill you I ' he repeated almost in a whisper. ' I shall 
 never forgive myself. My life is ended, I shall never find 
 courage enough to live.' 
 
 But Pierre clasped .him yet more tightly. ' What do you 
 say ? ' he answered. ' Will there not rather be a fresh and 
 stronger tie of affection between us ? Ah 1 yes, brother, let 
 me save you as you saved me, and we shall be yet more 
 closely united 1 Don't you remember that evening at NeuUly, 
 when you consoled me and held me to your heart as I am 
 holding you to mine ? I had confessed my torments to you, 
 and you told me that I must live and love I . . . And you did 
 far more afterwards, you plucked your own love from your 
 breast and gave it to me. You wished to ensure my happi- 
 ness at the price of your own I And how delightful it is that, 
 in my turn, I now have an opportunity to console you, save 
 you, and bring you back to life ! ' 
 
 ' No, no, the bloodstain is there and it is ineffaceable. I 
 can hope no more I ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, you can. Hope in life as you bade me do I 
 Hope in love and hope in labour 1 ' 
 
 Still weeping and clasping one another, the brothers con- 
 tinued speaking in low voices. The expiring candle suddenly 
 went out unknown to them, and in the inky night and deep 
 silence their tears of redeeming afi'ection flowed freely. On 
 the one hand, there was joy at being able to repay a debt of 
 brotherliness, and on the other, acute emotion at having been 
 led by a fanatical love of justice and mankind to the very 
 verge of crime. And there were yet other things in the 
 depths of those tears which cleansed and purified them ; there 
 
46i PARIS 
 
 were protests against suffering in every form, and ardent 
 wishes that the world might some day bo relieved of all its 
 dreadful woe. 
 
 At last, after pushing the flagstone over the cavity near 
 the pillar, Pierre groped his way out of the vault, leading 
 GuiUamne like a child. 
 
 Meantime MSre-Grand, still seated near the window of 
 the workroom, had impassively continued sewing. Now and 
 again, pending the arrival of four o'clock, she had looked up 
 at the timepiece hanging on the wall on her left hand, or else 
 had glanced out of the window towards the unfinished, pile 
 of the basiUca, which a gigantic framework of scaffoldings 
 encompassed. Slowly and steadily plying her needle, the old 
 lady remained very pale and sUent, but full of heroic serenity. 
 On the other hand, Marie, who sat near her, embroidering, 
 shifted her position a score of times, broke her thread, and 
 grew impatient, feeling strangely nervous, a prey to unaccount- 
 able anxiety, which oppressed her heart. For their part, the 
 three young men could not keep in place at all ; it was as if 
 some contagious fever disturbed them. Each had gone to his 
 work ; Thomas was filing something at his bench ; rran9oi8 
 and Antoine were on either side of their table, the first trying 
 to solve a mathematical problem, and the other copying a 
 bunch of poppies in a vase before him. It was in vain, how- 
 ever, that they strove to be attentive. They quivered at the 
 slightest sound, raised their heads, and darted questioning 
 glances at one another. What could be the matter ? What 
 could possess them ? What did they fear ? Now and again 
 one or the other would rise, stretch himself, and then resume 
 his place. However, they did not speak ; it was as if they 
 dared not say anything, and thus the heavy silence grow more 
 and more terrible. 
 
 When it was a few minutes to four o'clock MSre-Grand 
 felt weary, or else desired to collect her thoughts. After 
 another glance at the timepiece, she let her needlework fall 
 on her lap and turned towards the basihca. It seemed to her 
 that she only had enough strength left her to wait ; and she 
 remained with her eyes fixed on the huge walls and the forest 
 of scaffolding which rose over yonder with such triumphant 
 pride under the blue sky. Then all at once, however brave 
 and firm she might be, she could not restrain a start, for ' La 
 Savoyarde ' had raised a joyful clang. The consecration of the 
 Ho&t wa'B now at band; tm ten thousand pilgrims filled th« 
 
THE CRISIS 463 
 
 church, four o'clock was about to strilie. And thereupon an 
 irresistible impulse forced the old lady to her feet ; she drew 
 herself up quiTering, her hands clasped, her eyes ever turned 
 yonder, waiting in mute dread. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' cried Thomas, who noticed her. 
 'Why are you trembling, MSre-Grand ? ' 
 
 Franjoia and Antoine raised their heads, and in turn 
 sprang forward. ' Are you ill ? Why are you turning so 
 pale, you who are so courageous ? * 
 
 But she did not answer. Ah 1 might the force of the ex- 
 plosion rend the earth asunder, reach the house and sweep it 
 into tte flaming crater of the volcano I Might she and the 
 three young men, might they all die with the father, this was 
 her one ardent vrish in order that grief might be spared them. 
 And she remained waiting and waiting, quivering despite 
 herself, but with her brave, clear eyes ever gazing yonder. 
 
 ' Mere-Grand, Mere-Grand 1 ' cried Marie in dismay ; ' you 
 frighten us by refusing to answer ua, by looking over there as 
 if some misfortune were coming up at a gaUop ! ' 
 
 Then, prompted by the same anguish, the same cry sud- 
 denly came from Thomas, Fran9ois, and Antoine : ' Father ia 
 in peril — father is going to die 1 ' 
 
 What did they know ? Nothing precise certainly. Thomas 
 no doubt had been astonished to see what a large quantity 
 of the explosive his father had recently prepared, and both 
 Fran9ois and Antoine were aware of the ideas of revolt which 
 ho harboured in his mind. But, full of filial deference, they 
 never sought to know anything beyond what he might choose 
 to confide to them. They never questioned him ; they bowed 
 to whatever he might do. And yet now a foreboding came to 
 them, a conviction that their father was going to die, that 
 some most frightful catastrophe was impending. It must 
 have been that which had already sent such a quiver through 
 the atmosphere ever since the morning, making thera shiver 
 with fever, feel ill at ease, and unable to work. 
 
 • Father is going to die, father is going to die I ' 
 
 The three big fellows had drawn close together, distracted 
 by one and the same anguish, and furiously longing to know 
 what the danger was, in order that they might rush upon it 
 and die with their father if they could not save him. And 
 amidst M4re-Grand's stubborn silence death once more flitted 
 through the room : there came a cold gust such as they had 
 steady felt brushing past them during %'e«»ter, 
 
464 PARiS 
 
 At last four o'clock began to strike, and MSre-Grand raised 
 her white hands with a gesture of supreme entreaty. It was 
 then that she at last spoke : ' Father is going to die. Nothing 
 but the duty of living can save him.' 
 
 At this the three young men again wished to rush yonder, 
 whither they knew not ; but they felt that they must throw 
 down all obstacles and conquer. Their powerlessness rent 
 their hearts, they were both so frantic and so woeful that 
 their grandmother strove to calm them. ' Father's own wish 
 was to die,' said she, ' and he is resolved to die alone.' 
 
 They shuddered as they heard her, and then, on their side, 
 itrove to be heroic. But the minutes crept by, and it seemed 
 as if the cold gust had slowly passed away. Sometimes, at the 
 twilight hour, a night-bird will come in by the window hke 
 some messenger of misfortune, flit round the darkened room, 
 and then fly off again, carrying its sadness with it. And it was 
 much like that ; the gust passed, the basUica remained stand- 
 ing, the earth did not open to swallow it. Little by httle the 
 atrocious anguish which wrung their hearts gave place to 
 hope. And when at last GuiBaume appeared, followed by 
 Pierre, a great cry of resurrection came from one and all : 
 ' Father! "^ 
 
 Their kisses, their tears deprived him of his httle remain- 
 ing strength. He was obliged to sit down. He had glanced 
 round hun as if he were returning to life perforce. Mere- 
 Grand, who understood what bitter feelings must have fol- 
 lowed the subjugation of his will, approached him smihng, 
 and took hold of both his hands as if to tell him that she was 
 well pleased at seeing him again, and at finding that he ac- 
 cepted his task and was unwilling to desert the cause of Hfe. 
 For his part he suffered dreadfully ; the shock had been so 
 great. The others spared him any narrative of their feelings ; 
 and he, himself, related nothing. With a gesture, a loving 
 word, he simply indicated that it was Pierre who had saved 
 him. 
 
 Thereupon, in a comer of the room, Marie flung her arms 
 round the young man's neck. ' Ah I my good Pierre, I have 
 never yet kissed you,' said she, ' I want it to be for something 
 serious the first time. ... I love you, my good Pierre, I love 
 you with all my heart.' 
 
 Later that same evening, after night had fallen, Guillauma 
 and Pierre remained for a moment alone in the big work- 
 room. The young men had gone out, and M6re-Grand and 
 
THE CRISIS 46s 
 
 Maris were Upstairs sorting some Louse linen, while Madams 
 Matbis, who had brought some work back, sat patiently in a 
 dim corner waiting for another bundle of things which 
 might require mending. The brothers, steeped in the soft 
 melancholy of the twilight hour, and chatting in low tones, 
 had quite forgotten her. 
 
 But all at once the arrival of a visitor upset them. It 
 was Janzen with the fair Christ-like face. He called very 
 seldom nowadays ; and one never knew from what gloomy spot 
 he had come or into what darkness he would return when ha 
 took his departure. He disappeared, indeed, for months 
 together, and was then suddenly to be seen like some 
 momentary passer-by whose past and present life were 
 alike unknown. 
 
 ' I am leaving to-night,' he said, in a voice sharp like a 
 knife. 
 
 ' Are you going back to your home in Eussia ? ' asked 
 Guillaume. 
 
 A faint, disdainful smile appeared on the Anarchist's lips. 
 ' Home 1 ' said he, ' I am a,t home everywhere. To begin, I 
 am not a Eussian, and then I recognise no other country than 
 the world.' 
 
 With a sweeping gesture he gave them to understand 
 what manner of man he was, one who had no fatherland of 
 his own, but carried his gory dream of fraternity hither and 
 thither regardless of frontiers. From some words he spoke 
 the brothers fancied he was returning to Spain, where some 
 fellow-Anarchists awaited him. There was a deal of work to 
 be done there, it appeared. He had quietly seated himself, 
 chatting on in his cold way, when all at once he serenely 
 added : ' By-the-bye, a bomb has just been thrown into the 
 Caf^ da rUnivers on the Boulevard. Three bourqeois were 
 killed.' 
 
 Pierre and Guillaume shuddered, and asked for particulars. 
 Thereupon Janzen related that he had happened to be there, 
 •had heard the explosion, and seen the windows of the cafe 
 shivered to atoms. Three customers were lying on the floor 
 blown to pieces. Two of them were gentlemen, who had 
 entered the place by chance and whose names were not 
 known, while the third was a regular customer, a petty cit 
 of the Qeighbottrhood, who (Jame every day to play a game at 
 dominoes. And the whole place was wrecked ; the marble 
 tables were brokenly the chancteliere twisted out of shape, the 
 
 E B 
 
466 PARIS 
 
 mirrors studded with projectiles. And how great the terror 
 and the indignation, and how frantic the rush of the crowd 1 
 The perpetrator of the deed had been arrested immediately 
 — in fact, just as he was turning the corner of the Eue Cau- 
 martin. 
 
 ' I thought I would come and tell you of it,' concluded 
 Janzen, ' it is well you should know it.' 
 
 Then as Pierre, shuddering and already suspecting the 
 truth, asked him if he knew who the man was that had been 
 arrested, he slowly replied : ' The worry is that you happen 
 to know him — it was little Victor Mathis.' 
 
 Pierre tried to silence Janzen too late. He had suddenly 
 remembered that Victor's mother had been sitting in a dark 
 corner behind them a short time previously. Was she still 
 there ? Then he again pictured Victor, slight and almost 
 beardless, with a straight, stubborn brow, grey eyes glittering 
 with intelligence, a pointed nose and thin lips expressive of 
 stem wiU and unforgiving hatred. He was no simple and 
 lowly one from the ranks of the disinherited. He was an 
 educated scion of the bourgeoisie, and but for circumstances 
 would have entered the !^cole Normale. There was no excuse 
 for his abominable deed, there was no pohtical passion, no 
 humanitarian insanity in it. He was the destroyer pure and 
 simple, the theorician of destruction, the cold energetic man 
 of intellect who gave his cultivated mind to arguing the 
 cause of murder, in his desire to make murder an instrument 
 of the social evolution. True, he was also a poet, a 
 visionary, but the most frightful of all visionaries : a monster 
 whose nature could only be explained by mad pride, and who 
 craved for the most awful immortality, dreaming that the 
 coming dawn would rise from the arms of the guillotine. 
 Only one thing could surpass him ; the scythe of death which 
 blindly mows the world. 
 
 For a few seconds, amidst the growing darkness, cold 
 horror reigned in the workroom. ' Ah 1 ' muttered Guillaume, 
 ' he had the daring to do it, he had.' 
 
 Pierre, however, lovingly pressed his arm. And he felt 
 that he was as distracted, as upset as himself. Perhaps this 
 last abomination had been needed to ravage and cure him. 
 
 Janzen no doubt had been an accomplice in the deed. 
 He was relating that Victor's purpose had been to avenge 
 Balvat, when all at oace a great sigh of pain was beard in 
 the darkness, followed by a heavy thud upon the floor, It 
 
THE CRISIS 467 
 
 \('as Madame Mathis falling like a bundle, overwhelmed by 
 the news which chance had brought her. At that moment 
 it so happened that Mere-Grand came down with a lamp, 
 which lighted up the room, and thereupon they hurried to 
 the help of the wretched woman, who lay there as pale as a 
 corpse in her flimsy black gown. 
 
 And this again brought Pierre an indescribable heart-pang. 
 Ah ! the poor sad, suffermg creature 1 He remembered her at 
 Abb6 Eose's, so discreet, so shamefaced in her poverty, scarce 
 able to hve upon the slender resources which persistent mis- 
 fortunes had left her. Hera had indeed been a cruel lot ; 
 first a home with wealthy parents in the provinces, a love 
 story and elopement with the man of her choice ; next, ill- 
 luck steadily pursuing her, all sorts of home troubles, and at 
 last her husband's death. Then, in the retirement of her 
 mdowhood, after losing the best part of the little income 
 which had enabled her to bring up her son, naught but this 
 son had been left to her. He had been her Victor, her sole 
 affection, the only one in whom she had faith. She had ever 
 striven to believe that he was very busy, absorbed in work, 
 and on the eve of attaining to some superb position worthy of 
 his merits. And now, all at once, she had learnt that this 
 fondly-loved son was simply the most odious of assassins, that 
 he had flung a bomb into a caf 6, and had there killed three 
 men. 
 
 When Madame Mathis had recovered her senses, thanks 
 to the careful tending of Mfere-Grand, she sobbed on with- 
 out cessation, raising such a continuous doleful wail, that 
 Pierre's hand again sought Guillaume's, and grasped it, 
 whilst their hearts, distracted but healed, mingled lovingly one 
 with the other. 
 
 V 
 
 liitb's wokk and peomisb 
 
 Fifteen months later, one fine golden day in September, 
 Baohe and Th^ophile Morin were taking dSjeuner at Guil- 
 laume's, in the big workroom overlooking the immensity of 
 Paris. 
 
 Near the table was a. cradle with its little curtains drawn. 
 
 bh2 
 
468 PARIS 
 
 Behind them slept Jean, a fine boy four months old, the son 
 of Pierre and Marie. The latter, simply in order to protect 
 the child's social rights, had been married civilly at the town- 
 hall of Montmartre. Then, by way of pleasing Guillaume, 
 who wished to keep them with him, and thus enlarge the 
 family circle, they had continued living in the little lodging 
 over the workshop, leaving the sleepy house at Neuilly in the 
 charge of Sophie, Pierre's old servant. And life had been 
 flowing on happily for the fourteen months or so that they 
 had now belonged to one another. 
 
 There was simply peace, affection, and work around the 
 young couple. Fran90is, who had left the Ecole Normale 
 provided with every degree, every diploma, was now about to 
 start for a college in the west of France, so as to serve his 
 term of probation as a professor, quit to resign his post after- 
 wards and devote himself, if he pleased to science pure and 
 simple. Then Antoine had lately achieved great success 
 with a series of engravings he had executed — some views and 
 scenes of Paris life ; and it was settled that he was to marry 
 Lise Jahan in the ensuing spring, when she would have com- 
 pleted her seventeenth year. Of the three sons, however, 
 Thomas was the most triumphant, for he had at last devised 
 and constructed his little motor, thanks to a happy idea of his 
 father's. One morning after the downfall of all his huge 
 chimerical schemes Guillaume, remembering the terrible 
 explosive which he had discovered and hitherto failed to 
 utilise, had suddenly thought of employing it as a motive 
 force in the place of petroleum, in the motor which his eldest 
 son had so long been trying to construct for the Grandidier 
 works. So he had set to work with Thomas, devising a new 
 mechanism, encountering endless difficulties, and labouring 
 for a whole year before reaching success. But now the 
 father and son had accomplished their task ; the marvel wag 
 created, and stood there riveted to an oak stand, and ready 
 to work as soon as its final toilet should have been per- 
 formed. 
 
 Amidst all the changes which had occurred, Mke-Grand, 
 in spite of her great age, continued exercising her active, 
 silent sway over the household, which was now again so gay 
 and peaceful. Though she seldom seemed to leave her chair 
 in front of her work-table, she was really here, there, and 
 eveiywhere. Since the birth of Jean she had talked of 
 rearing the child in the same way as ^e had formerly reared 
 Thomas, Franjois, and Antoine. She was indeed full of the 
 
LIFES WORK AND PROMISE 469 
 
 bravery of devotion, and seemed to think that she was not at 
 all likely to die so long as she might have others to guide, 
 love, and save. Marie marvelled at it all. She herself, 
 though she was always gay and in good health, felt tired at 
 times now that she was suckling her infant. Little Jean 
 indeed had two vigilant mothers near his cradle ; whilst his 
 father Pierre, who had become Thomas's assistant, pulled the 
 bellows, roughened out pieces of metal, and generally com- 
 pleted his apprenticeship as a working mechanician. 
 
 On the particular day when Bache and Thdophile Morin 
 came to Montmartrej the dijeuner proved even gayer than 
 usual, thanks perhaps to their presence. The meal was over, 
 the table had been cleared, and the coffee was being served, 
 when a little boy, the son of a doorkeeper in the Rue Cortot, 
 came to ask for Monsieur Pierre Proment. When they in- 
 quired his business, he answered in a hesitating way that 
 Monsieur I'Abbe Eose was very ill, indeed dying, and that he 
 had sent him to fetch Monsieur Pierre Froment at once. 
 
 Pierre followed the lad, feeling much affected ; and on 
 reaching the Bue Cortot he there found Abbe Bose in a little 
 damp ground-floor room overlooking a strip of garden. The 
 old priest was in bed, dying as the boy had said, but he stUl 
 retained the use of his faculties, and could speak in his wonted 
 slow and gentle voice. A Sister of Charity was watching 
 beside him, and she seemed so surprised and anxious at the 
 arrival of a visitor whom she did not know, that Pierre under- 
 stood she was there to guard the dying man and prevent him 
 from having intercourse with others. The old priest must 
 have employed some stratagem in order to send the door- 
 keeper's boy to fetch him. However, when Abb6 Bose in hia 
 grave and kindly way begged the Sister to leave them alone 
 for a moment, she dared not refuse this supreme request, but 
 immediately left the room. 
 
 'Ahl my dear child,' said the old man, 'how much I 
 wanted to speak to you 1 Sit down there, close to the bed, so 
 that you may be able to hear me, for this is the end ; I shall 
 no longer be here to-night. And I have such a great service 
 to ask of you.' 
 
 Quite upset at finding his friend so wasted, with his face 
 white hke a sheet, and scarce a sign of life save the sparkle of 
 his innocent, loving eyes, Pierre responded : ' But I would 
 have come sooner if I had known you were in need of me ! 
 Why did you not send for me before ? Are people being kept 
 away frem you ? ' 
 
470 PARIS 
 
 A faint smile of shame and confession appeared on the old 
 priest's embarrassed face. ' Well, my dear child,' said he, 
 • you must know that I have again done some foolish things. 
 Yes, I gave money to some people who, it seems, were not 
 deserving of it. la fact, there was quite a scandal ; they 
 scolded me at the Archbishop's palace, and accused me of 
 compromising the interests of religion. And when they heard 
 that I was ill they put that good Sister beside me, because they 
 said that I should die on the floor, and give the very sheets off 
 my bed if I were not prevented.' 
 
 He paused to draw breath, and then continued : ' So you 
 understand, that good Sister — oh! she is a very saintly 
 woman — is here to nurse me and prevent me from stiU doing 
 foolish things. To overcome her vigUanee I had to use a 
 little deceit, for which God, I trust, will forgive me. As it 
 happens, it's precisely my poor who are in question; it was 
 to speak to you about them that I so particularly wished to 
 Bee you.' 
 
 Tears had come to Pierre's eyes. 'Tell me what you 
 want me to do,' he answered ; ' I am yours, both heart and 
 
 BOUl.' 
 
 • Yes, yes, I know it, my dear child. It was for that reason 
 that I thought of you — you alone. In spite of all that has 
 happened, you are the only one in whom I have any confidence, 
 who can understand me, and give me a promise which will 
 enable me to die in peace.' 
 
 This was the only allusion he would venture to make to 
 the cruel rupture which had occurred after the young man 
 had thrown off his cassock and rebelled against the Church. 
 He had since heard of Pierre's marriage, and was aware that 
 he had for ever severed all religious ties. But at that 
 supreme moment nothing of this seemed of any account 
 to the old priest. His knowledge of Pierre's loving heart 
 sufficed him, for all that he now desired was simply the 
 help of that heart which he had seen glowing with such 
 passionate charity. 
 
 ' Well,' he resumed, again finding sufficient strength to 
 smile, ' it is a very simple matter. I want to make you my 
 heir. Oh t it isn't a fine legacy I am leaving you ; it is the 
 legacy of my poor, for I have nothing else to bestow on you; 
 I shall leave nothing behind me but my poor.' 
 
 Of these unhappy creatures, three in particular quite 
 upset his heart. He recoiled from the prospect of leaving 
 
LIFES WORK AND PROMISE 47 » 
 
 them without chance of succour, without even the crumbs 
 •which he had hitherto distributed among them, and which 
 had enabled them to live. One was the big Old'un, the aged 
 carpenter whom he and Pierre had vainly sought one night 
 with the object of sending him to the Asylum for the Invalids 
 of Labour. He had been sent there a little later, but he had 
 fled three days afterwards, unwilling as he was to submit to 
 the regulations. Wild and violent, he had the most detest- 
 able disposition. Nevertheless, he could not be left to starve. 
 He came to Abb6 Rose's every Saturday, it seemed, and 
 received a franc, which sufficed him for the whole week. 
 Then, too, there was a oedridden old woman in a hovel in 
 the Eue du Mont-Cenis. The baitei-, wiio cvery morning 
 took her the bread she needed, must bo paid. And in par- 
 ticular there was a poor young woman residing on the Place 
 du Tertre, one who was unmarried but a mother. She was 
 dying of consumption, unable to work, and tortured by the 
 idea that, when she should have gone, her daughter must 
 sink to the pavement like herself. And in this instance 
 the legacy was twofold : there was the mother to relieve 
 until her death, which was near at hand, and then the 
 daughter to provide for until she could be placed in some 
 good household. 
 
 ' Yon must forgive me, my dear child, for leaving you all 
 these worries,' added Abb6 Eose. ' I tried to get the good 
 Sister, who is nursing me, to take an interest in these poor 
 people, but when I spoke to her of the big Old'un she was so 
 alarmed that she made the sign of the Cross. And it's the 
 same with my worthy friend Abb6 Tavernier. I know nobody 
 of more upright mind. Still, I shouldn't be at ease with 
 him, he has ideas of his own. . . . And so, my dear child, 
 there is only you whom I can rely upon, and you must 
 accept my legacy if you wish me to depart in peace." 
 
 Pierre was weeping. ' Ah ! certainly, with my whole 
 Boul,' he answered. ' I shall regard your desires as sacred.' 
 
 ' Good t I knew you would accept. ... So it is agreed ; 
 a franc for the big Old'un every Saturday, the bread for the 
 bedridden woman, some help for the poor young mother, and 
 then a home for her little girl. Ah I if you only knew what 
 a weight it is o£f my heart 1 The end may come now, it will 
 be welcome to me." 
 
 His kind white face had brightened as if with supreme 
 joy. Holding Pierre's band within hia own, he detained him 
 
47» PARIS 
 
 beside the bed, excbanging a farewell full of serene atfectioil. 
 And his voice weakening, he expressed his whole mind in faint, 
 impressive accents : ' Yes, I shall be pleased to go off. I 
 could do no more, I could do no more I Though I gave and 
 gave, I felt that it was ever necessary to give more and 
 more. And how sad to find charity powerless, to giva 
 without hope of ever being able to stamp out want and 
 suffering I I rebelled against that idea of yours, as you will 
 remember. I told you that we should always love one 
 another in our poor, and that was true, since you are here, 
 so good and affectionate to me and those whom I am leaving 
 behind. But, all the same, I can do no more, I can do no 
 more ; and I would rather go off, since the woes of others rise 
 higher and higher around me, and I have ended by doing 
 such fooUsh things, scandalising the faithful and making 
 my superiors indignant with me, without even saving one 
 single poor person from the ever-growing torrent of want. 
 Farewell, my dear child. My poor old heart goes off aching, 
 my old hands are weary and conquered.' 
 
 Pierre embraced him with his whole soul, and then 
 departed. His eyes were full of tears and indescribable 
 emotion wrung his heart. Never had he heard a more 
 woeful cry than that confession of the impotence of charityi 
 on the part of that old candid child, whose heart was aJl 
 simplicity and sublime benevolence. Ah ! what a disaster, 
 that human kindness should be futile, that the world should 
 always display so much distress and suffering in spite of all 
 the compassionate tears that had been shed, in spite of all 
 the alms that had fallen from millions and millions of hands 
 for centuries and centuries 1 No wonder that it should bring 
 desire for death, no wonder that a Christian should feel 
 pleased at escaping from the abominations of this earth 1 
 
 When Pierre again reached the workroom he found that 
 the table had long since been cleared, and that Bache and 
 Morin were chattiig with GuiUaume, whilst the latter's sons 
 had returned to their customary occupations. Marie, also, 
 had resumed her usual place at the work-table in front of 
 M6re- Grand; but from time to time she rose and went to look 
 at Jean, so as to make sure that he was sleeping peacefully, 
 with his little clenched fists pressed to his heart. And when 
 Pierre, who kept his emotion to himself, had Ukewise leant 
 over the cradle beside the young woman, whose hair he dis- 
 creetly kissed, he went to put on an apron in order that he 
 
LIFES WORK AND PROMISE 475 
 
 migtt assist Thomas, -who was now, for the last time, regu- 
 lating his motor. 
 
 Then, as Pierre stood there awaiting an opportunity to 
 help, the room vanished from before his eyes ; he ceased to 
 see or hear the persons who were there. The scent of Marie's 
 hair alone lingered on his lips amidst the acute emotion into 
 which he had been thrown by his visit to Abb6 Eose. A 
 recollection had come to him, that of the bitterly cold morn- 
 ing when the old priest had stopped him outside the basilica 
 of the Sacred Heart, and had timidly asked him to take some 
 ahns to that old man Laveuve, who soon afterwards had died 
 of want, like a dog by the wayside. How sad a morning it 
 had been ; what battle and torture had Pierre not felt within 
 him, and what a resurrection had come afterwards 1 He had 
 that day said one of his last masses, and he recalled with a 
 shudder his abominable anguish, his despairing doubts at the 
 thought of nothingness. Two experiments which he had 
 previously made had failed most miserably. First had come 
 one at Lourdes, where the glorification of the absurd had 
 simply fiUed him with pity for any such attempt to revert to 
 the primitive faith of young nations, who bend beneath the 
 terror born of ignorance ; and, secondly, there had been an 
 experiment at Eome, which he had found incapable of any 
 renewal, and which he had seen staggering to its death amidst 
 its ruins, a mere great shadow, which would soon be of no 
 account, fast sinking, as it was, to the dust of dead religions. 
 And, in his own mind, Charity itself had become bankrupt ; ' 
 he no longer believed that alms could cure the sufferings of 
 mankmd, he awaited nought but a frightful catastrophe, fire 
 and massacre, which would sweep away the guilty, condemned 
 world. His cassock, too, stifled him ; a lie alone kept it on 
 his shoulders — the idea, unbelieving priest though he was, 
 that he could honestly and chastely watch over the belief of 
 others. The problem of a new religion, a new hope, such as 
 was needful to ensure the peace of the coming democracies 
 tortured him, but between the certainties of Science and the 
 need of the Divine, which seemed to consume humanity, he 
 could find no solution. If Christianity crumbled with the 
 principle of Charity there could remain nothing else but 
 Justice, that cry which came from every breast, that battle of 
 Justice against Charity in which his heart must contend in 
 that great city of Paris. It was there that began his third 
 and decisive experiment, the experiment which was to make 
 
474 PARIS 
 
 truth as plain to him as the sun itself, and give him back 
 health and strength and dehght in life. 
 
 At this point of his reverie Pierre was roused by Thomas, 
 who asked him to fetch a tool. As he did so he heard Bache 
 remarking : ' The Ministry resigned this morning. Vignon 
 has had enough of it, he wants to reserve his remaining 
 strength.' 
 
 'Well, he has lasted more than a twelvemonth,' replied 
 Morin. ' That's already an achievement.' 
 
 After the crime of Victor Mathis, who had been tried and 
 executed within three weeks, Monferrand had suddenly fallen 
 from power. What was the use of having a strong-handed 
 man at the head of the Government if bombs still continued 
 to terrify the country? Moreover, he had displeased the 
 Chamber by his voracious appetite, which had prevented him 
 from allowing others more than an infinitesimal share of all 
 the good things. And this time he had been succeeded by 
 Vignon, although the latter's programme of reforms had long 
 made people tremble. He, Vignon, was honest certainly, but 
 of all these reforms he had only been able to carry.out a few 
 insignificant ones, for he had found himself hampered by a 
 thousand obstacles. And thus he had resigned himself to 
 ruling the country as others had done ; and people had dis- 
 covered that after all there were but faint shades of difi'erence 
 between him and Monferrand. 
 
 ' You know that Monferrand ia being spoken of again ? ' 
 said GuiUaume. 
 
 ' Yes, and he has some chance of success. His creatures 
 are bestirring themselves tremendously,' replied Bache, adding, 
 in a bitter, jesting way, that Mege, the Collectivist leader, 
 played the part of a dupe in overthrowing ministry after 
 ministry. He simply gratified the ambition of each coterie 
 in turn, without any possible chance of attaining to power 
 himself. 
 
 Thereupon Guillaume pronounced judgment. ' Ohl well, 
 let them devour one another,' said he. ' Eager as they all are 
 to reign and dispose of power and wealth, they only fight 
 over questions of persons. And nothing they do can prevent 
 the evolution from continuing. Ideas expand, and events 
 occur, and, over and above everything else, mankind is 
 marching on.' 
 
 Pierre was greatly struck by these words, and he agam 
 recalled the past. His doloroua Parisian experiment had 
 
LIFJrS WORK AND PROMISE 473 
 
 begun, and he was once more roaming through the city. 
 Paris seemed to him to be a huge vat, in which a world 
 fermented, something of the best and something of the 
 worst, a frightfiU mixture such as sorceresses might have 
 used ; precious powders mingled with filth, from all of which 
 was to come the philter of love and eternal youth. And in 
 that vat Pierre first remarked the scum of the political world : 
 Monferrand who strangled Barroux, who purchased the 
 support of hungry ones such as Fons^gue, Duthil and 
 Chaigneux; who made use of those who only attained to 
 mediocrity, such aa Taboureau and Dauvergne; and who 
 employed even the sectarian passions of Mege and the intel- 
 ligent ambition of Vignon as his weapons. Next came money 
 the poisoner, with that affair of the African Kailways, which 
 had rotted the Parliament and turned Duvillard, the trium- 
 phant bourgeois, into a public perverter, the very cancer as it 
 were of the financial world. Then, aa a just consequence of 
 ail this there was DuvLUard's own home infected by himself, 
 that frightful drama of Eve contending with her daughter 
 Camille for the possession of Gerard, then Camille stealing 
 him from her mother, and Hyacinthe, the son, passing his 
 crazy mistress Eosemonde on to that notorious harlot Silviane, 
 with whom his father publicly exhibited himself. Then there 
 was the old expiring aristocracy, with the pale sad faces of 
 Madame do Quinsao and the Marquis de Morigny ; the old 
 military spirit whose funeral wag conducted by General de 
 Bozonnet ; the magistracy which slavishly served the powers 
 of the day, Amadieu thrusting himself into notoriety by 
 means of sensational eases, Lehmann, the public prosecutor, 
 preparing his speeches in the private room of the Minister 
 whose policy he defended ; and finally, the mendacious and 
 cupid press which lived upon scandal, the everlasting flood of 
 denunciation and filth which poured from Sagnier, and the 
 gay impudence shown by the unscrupulous and conscienceless 
 Massot, who attacked all and defended all, by profession and 
 to order 1 And in the same way as insects, on discovering one 
 of their own kind dying, wiU often finish it off and fatten 
 upon it, so the whole swarm of appetites, interests, and 
 passions had fallen upon a wretched madman, that unhappy 
 Salvat, whose idiotic crime had brought them all scrambling 
 together, gluttonously eager to derive some benefit from that 
 Btarveling's emaciated carcass. And all boiled in the huge vat 
 ef Paria : the desires, the deeds of violence, the strivings of 
 
476 PARIS 
 
 ono and another man's will, the whole nameless medley of the 
 bitterest ferments, whence, in all purity, the wine of the future 
 would at last flow. 
 
 Then Pierre became conscious of the prodigious work 
 which went on in the depths of the vat, beneath all the 
 impurity and waste. As his brother had just said, what 
 mattered the stains, the egotism, and greed of politicians if 
 humanity were still on the march, ever slowly and stubbornly 
 stepping forward? What mattered, too, that corrupt and 
 emasculate bourgeoisie, nowadays as moribund as the aristo- 
 cracy, whose place it took, if behind it there ever came the 
 inexhaustible reserve of men who surged up from the masses 
 of the country-sides and the towns? What mattered the 
 debauchery, the perversion arising from excess of wealth and 
 power, the luxuriousness and dissoluteness of life, since it 
 seemed a proven fact that the capitals that had been queens 
 of the world had never reigned without extreme civilisation, 
 a cult of beauty and of pleasure ? And what mattered even 
 the venality, the transgressions and the foUy of the press, if 
 at the same time it remained an admirable instrument for the 
 diffusion of knowledge, the open conscience, so to say, of the 
 nation, a river which, though there might be horrors on its 
 surface, none the less flowed on, carrying all nations to the 
 brotherly ocean of the future centuries? The human lees 
 ended by sinking to the bottom of the vat, and it was not 
 possible to expect that what was right would triumph visibly 
 every day ; for it was often necessary that years should elapse 
 before the reaUsation of some hope could emerge from the 
 fermentation. Eternal matter is ever being cast afresh into 
 the crucible and ever coming from it improved. And if in 
 the depths of pestilential workshops and factories the slavery 
 of ancient times subsists in the wage-earning system, if such 
 men as Toussaint stUl die of want on their pallets like broken- 
 down beasts of burden, it is nevertheless a fact that once 
 already, on a memorable day of tempest. Liberty sprang forth 
 from the vat to wing her flight throughout the world. And 
 why in her turn should not Justice spring from it, proceed- 
 ing from those troubled elements, freeing herself from all 
 dross, flowing forth with dazzling limpidity and regenerating 
 the nations ? 
 
 However, the voices of Bache and Morin, rising in the 
 course of their chat with Guillaume, once more drew Pierre 
 from his reverie. They were now speaking of Janzen, who 
 
LIFE'S WORK AND PROMISE 477 
 
 after being compromised in a fresh outrage at Barcelona had 
 fled from Spain. Bache fancied that he had recognised him 
 in the street only the previous day. To think that a man 
 with so clear a mind and such keen energy should waste 
 his natural gifts in such a hateful cause 1 
 
 'When I remember,' said Morin slowly, 'that Barth^s 
 lives in exile in a shabby little room at Brussels, ever quiver- 
 ing with the hope that the reign of liberty is at hand — he 
 who has never had a drop of blood on his hands and who has 
 ppent two-thirds of his life in prison in order that the nations 
 may be freed 1 ' 
 
 Bache gently shrugged his shoulders : ' Liberty, liberty 
 of course,' said he ; ' only it is worth nothing if it is not 
 organised.' 
 
 Thereupon their everlasting discussion began afresh, with 
 Baiat-Simon and Fourier on one side and Proudhon and 
 Auguste Comte on the other. Bache gave a long account of 
 the last commemoration which had taken place in honour of 
 Fourier's memory, how faithful disciples had brought wreaths 
 and made speeches, forming quite a meeting of apostles, who 
 aU stubbornly clung to their faith, as confident in the future 
 as if they were the messengers of some new gospel. After- 
 wards Morin emptied his pockets, which were always full 
 of Positivist tracts and pamphlets, manifestos, answers, and 
 60 forth, in which Comte's doctrines were extolled as furnish- 
 ing the only possible basis for the new, awaited religion. 
 Pierre, who listened, thereupon remembered the disputes in 
 Ms Uttle house at Neuilly when he himself, searching for 
 certainty, had endeavoured to draw up the century's balance- 
 sheet. He had lost his depth, however, amidst the contradic- 
 tions and incoherency of the various precursors. Although 
 Fourier had sprung from Saint- Simon he denied him in 
 part, and if Saint-Simon's doctrine ended in a kind of 
 mystical sensuality, the other's conducted to an inacceptable 
 regimenting of society. Proudhon, for his part, demolished 
 without rebuilding anything. Comte, who created method 
 and declared science to be the one and only sovereign, had 
 not even suspected the advent of the social crisis which now 
 threatened to sweep all away, and had finished personally as a 
 mere worshipper of loVe, overpowered by w'omaiii Neverthe- 
 less, these two, Comte and Proudhon, e'ntSred the lists and 
 fought against the othSis, Fourier and Saint-Sinian;_the 
 combat between th^m or l^eir disciples becomiitg so bitter 
 
478 PARIS 
 
 and Eo blind that the truths common to them_ all at first 
 seemed obscured and disfigured beyond recognition. Now, 
 however, that evolution had slowly transformed Pierre, those 
 common truths seemed to him as irrefutable, as clear as the 
 sunlight itself. Amidst the chaos of conflieting assertions 
 which was to be found in the gospels of those social messiahs 
 there were certain similar phrases and principles which 
 recurred again and again, the defence of the poor, the 
 idea of a new and just division of the riches of the world 
 in accordance with individual labour and merit, and particu- 
 larly the search for a new law of labour which would enable 
 this fresh distribution to be made equitably. Since all the 
 precursory men of genius agreed so closely upon those points 
 must they not be the very foundations of to-morrow's new 
 religion, the necessary faith which this century must bequeath 
 to the coming century, in order that the latter may make of 
 it a human religion of peace, soUdarity, and love ? 
 
 Then, all at once, there came a leap in Pierre's thoughts. 
 He fancied himself at the Madeleine once more, listening to 
 the address on the New Spirit deUvered by Monseigneur 
 Martha, who had predicted that Paris, now reconverted to 
 Christianity, would, thanks to the Sacred Heart, become the 
 ruler of the world. But no, but no ! If Paris reigned it 
 was because it was able to exercise its intelligence freely. 
 To set the cross and the mystic and repulsive symboUsm of 
 a bleeding heart above it was simply so much falsehood. 
 Although they might rear edifices of pride and domina- 
 tion as if to crush Paris with their very weight, although 
 they might try to stop Science in the name of a dead 
 ideal and in the hope of setting their clutches upon the 
 coming century, these attempts would be of no avail. 
 Science will end by sweeping away all remnants of their 
 ancient sovereignty, their basilica will crumble beneath the 
 breeze of Truth without any necessity of raising a finger 
 against it. The trial has been made, the Gospel as a social 
 code has fallen to pieces, and human wisdom can only retain 
 account of its moral maxims. Ancient Catholicism is on all 
 sides crumbling into dust. Catholic Bome is a mere field of 
 ruins from which the nations turn aside, anxious as they are 
 for a religion that shall not be a religion of death. In old,en 
 times the over-burdened slave, glowing with a new hope, and 
 seeking to escape from his gaol, dreamt of a heaven where 
 in return for his earthly misery he would be rewarded with 
 
LIFE'S WORK AND PROMISE 479 
 
 eternal enjoyment. But now that Science has destroyed 
 that false idea of a heaven, and shown what dupery lies in 
 reliance on the morrow of death, the slave, the workman, 
 weary of dying for happiness' sake, demand that justice and 
 happiness shall find place upon this earth. Therein lies the 
 new hope — Justice, after eighteen hundred years of impotent . 
 Charity. Ah I in a thousand years from now, when 
 Catholicism will be nought but a very ancient superstition 
 of the past, how amazed men will be to think that their 
 ancestors were able to endure that religion of torture and 
 nihility I How astonished they will feel on finding that God 
 was regarded as an executioner, that manhood was threatened, 
 maimed, and chastised, that nature was accounted an enemy, 
 that Ufe was looked upon as something accursed, and that 
 death alone was pronounced sweet and liberating I For 
 well-nigh two thousand years the onward march of mankind 
 has been hampered by the odious idea of tearing all that is 
 human away from man : his desires, his passions,' his free 
 intelligence, his will and right of action, his whole strength. 
 And how glorious will be the awakening when such virginity 
 as is now honoured by the Church is held in derision, when 
 fruitfulness is again recognised as a virtue, amidst the 
 hosannah of all the freed forces of nature — ^man's desires 
 which will be honoured, his passions which will be utilised, 
 his labour which will be exalted, whilst life is loved and ever 
 and ever creates love afresh 1 
 
 A new religion 1 a new religion ! Pierre remembered the 
 cry which had escaped him at Lourdes, and which he had 
 repeated at Boine in presence of the collapse of old Catholi- 
 cism. But he no longer displayed the same feverish eagerness 
 as then — a puerile, sickly desire that a new Divinity should 
 at once reveal himself, an ideal come into being, complete in 
 all respects, with dogmas and form of worship. The Divine 
 certainly seemed to be as necessary to man as were bread and 
 water ; he had ever fallen back upon it, hungering for the 
 mysterious, seemingly having no other means of consolation 
 than that of annihilating himself in the unknown. But who , 
 can say that Science will not some day quench the thirst for 
 what lies beyond us ? If the domain of Science embraces the 
 acquired truths, it also embraces, and will ever do so, the truths 
 that remain to be acquired. And in front of it will there not 
 ever remain a margin for the thirst of knowledge, for the 
 hypotheses which are but so much ideality ? Besides, is not the 
 
4So PARIS 
 
 yearning for the divine simply a desire to behold the Divinity ? 
 And if Science should more and more content the yearning to 
 know all and be able to do all, will not that yearning be 
 quieted and end by mingling with the love of acquired truth ? 
 A religion grafted on Science is the indicated, certain, in- 
 ^ evitable finish of man's long march towards knowledge. He 
 will come to it at last as to a natural haven, as to peace in 
 the midst of certainty, after passing every form of ignorance 
 and terror on his road. And is there not already some indica- 
 tion of such a religion ? Has not the idea of the duality of 
 God and the Universe been brushed aside, and is not the 
 principle of unity, monisme, becoming more and more evident 
 — unity leading to solidarity, and the sole law of Ufe proceed- 
 ing by evolution from the first point of the ether that con- 
 densed to create the world ? But if precursors, scientists, and 
 philosophers — Darwin, Fom-ier, and all the others — have sown 
 the seed of to-morrow's religion by easting the good word to 
 the passing breeze, how many centuries will doubtless be 
 required to raise the crop I People always forget that before 
 Catholicism grew up and reigned in the sunlight, it spent 
 four centuries in germinating and sprouting from the soil. 
 Well, then, grant some centuries to this religion of Science of 
 whose sprouting there are signs upon all sides, and by-and- 
 bye the admirable ideas of some Fourier wiU be seen expanding 
 and forming a new Gospel, with desire serving as the lever to 
 raise the world, work accepted by one and all, honoured and 
 regulated as the very mechanism of natural and social hfe, 
 and the passions of man excited, contented, and utilised for 
 human happiness ! The universal cry of Justice, which rises 
 louder and louder, in a growing clamour from the once silent 
 multitude, the people that have so long been duped and preyed 
 upon, is but a cry for this happiness towards which human 
 beings are tending, the happiness that embodies the complete 
 satisfaction of man's needs, and the principle of life loved for 
 its own sake, in the midst of peace and the expansion of every 
 force and every joy. The time will come when this Kingdom 
 of God vyill be set up on the earth ; so why not dose that other 
 deceptive paradise even if the weak-minded must momentarily 
 Buffer from the destruction of their illusions ; for it is neees- 
 Bai?y to operate even with cruelty on the blind if they are to 
 be extricated from their misery, from their long and frightful 
 night of ignorance ! 
 
 All at once a feelbg of deep joy came over Pierre. A 
 
LIFES WORK AND PROMISE 481 
 
 child's faint cry, the wakening cry of hia son Jean had drawn 
 him from his reverie. And he had suddenly remembered that 
 he himself was now saved, freed from falsehood and fright, 
 restored to good and healthy nature. How he quivered as he 
 recalled that he had once fancied himself lost, blotted out of 
 life, and that a prodigy of love had extricated him from his 
 nothingness, still strong and sound, since that dear child of 
 his was there, sturdy and smiling. Life had brought forth 
 life ; and truth had burst forth, as dazzling as the sun. He 
 had made his third experiment with Paris, and this had been 
 conclusive ; it had been no wretched miscarriage with increase 
 of darkness and grief, like his other experiments at Lourdea 
 and Eome. In the first place the law of labour had been 
 revealed to him, and he had imposed upon himself a task, aa 
 humble a one as was, that manual calling which he was 
 learning so late in life, but which was, nevertheless, a form of 
 labour, and one in which he would never fail, one too that 
 would lend him the serenity which comes from the accom- 
 plishment of duty, for life itself was but laboiu: : it was only 
 by effort that the world existed. And then, moreover, he had 
 loved ; and salvation had come to him from woman, and from 
 his child. Ah 1 what a long and circuitous journey he had 
 made to reach this finish at once so natural and so simple ! 
 How he had suffered, how much error and anger he had 
 known before doing what all men ought to do 1 That eager, 
 glowing love which had contended against his reason, which 
 had bled at sight of the arrant absurdities of the miraculous 
 grotto of Lourdes, which had bled again too in presence of 
 the haughty decline of the Vatican, had at last found content- 
 ment now that he was husband and father, now that he had 
 confidence in work and believed in the just laws of life. And 
 thence had come the indisputable truth, the one solution — 
 happiness in certainty. 
 
 Whilst Pierre was thus plunged in thought, Bache and 
 Morin had already gone off with their customary handshakes 
 and promises to come and chat again some evening. And as 
 Jean was now crying more loudly, Marie took him in her arms 
 and unhooked her dress-body to give him her breast. 
 
 ' Oh 1 the darling, it's his time, you know, and he doesn't 
 forget it 1 ' she said. ' Just look, Pierre, I believe he has got 
 bigger since yesterday.' 
 
 She laughed ; and Pierre, likewise laughing, drew near to 
 kiss the child. And afterwards he kissed his wife, mastered 
 
 II 
 
482 PARIS 
 
 as he was by emotion at the sight of that pink, gluttonous 
 little creature Imbibing life from that lovely breast so full of 
 milk. 
 
 ' Why I he'll eat you,' he gaily said to Marie. ' How he's 
 pulling I ' 
 
 ' Oh 1 he does bite me a little,' she replied ; ' but I like that 
 the better, it shows that he profits by it.' 
 
 Then Mere-Grand, she who as a rule was so serious and 
 silent, began to talk with a smile lighting up her face : ' I 
 weighed him this morning,' said she ; ' he weighs nearly a 
 quarter of a pound more than he did the last time. And if 
 you had only seen how good he was, the darling 1 He wiU be 
 a very intelligent and well-behaved little gentleman, such as I 
 like. When he's five years old I shall teach him his alphabet, 
 and when he's fifteen, if he Ukes, I'll tell him how to be a 
 man. . . . Don't you agree with me, Thomas ? And you 
 Antoine, and you, too, Prangois ? ' 
 
 Eaising their heads the three song gaily nodded their 
 approval, grateful as they felt for the lessons in heroism 
 which she had given them, and apparently finding no reason 
 why she might not live another twenty years in order to giva 
 similar lessons to Jean. 
 
 Pierre still remained in front of Marie, basking in all the 
 rapture of love, when he felt Guillaume lay his hands upon 
 his shoulders from behind. And on turning round he saw 
 that his brother was also radiant, like one who felt well 
 pleased at seeing them so happy. ' Ah ! brother,' said 
 Guillaume softly, ' do you remember my telling you that you 
 suffered solely from the battle between your mind and your 
 heart, and that you would find quietude again when you loved 
 what you could understand ? It was necessary that our father 
 and mother, whose painful quarrel had continued beyond the 
 grave, should be reconciled in you. And now it's done, they 
 sleep in peace within you, since you yourself are pacified.' 
 
 These words filled Pierre with emotion. Joy beamed 
 upon his face, which was now so open and energetic. He 
 still had the towering brow, that impregnable fortress of 
 reason, which he had derived from his father, and he still 
 had the gentle chin and affectionate eyes and mouth which 
 his mother had given him, but all was now blended together, 
 instinct with happy harmony and serene strength. Those 
 two experiments of his which had miscarried, were like 
 crises of his maternal heredity, the tearful tenderness which 
 
LIFES WORK AND PROMISE 483 
 
 had come to bim from his mother, and which for lack of 
 satisfaction had made him desperate ; and his third experi- 
 ment had only ended in happiness because he had contented 
 his ardent thirst for love in accordance with sovereign reason, 
 that paternal heredity which pleaded eo loudly within him. 
 Reason remained the queen. And if his sufferings had thus 
 always come from the warfare which his reason had waged 
 against his heart, it was because he was man personified, 
 ever struggling between his intelligence and his passions. 
 And how peaceful all seemed now that he had reconciled and 
 satisfied them both, now that he felt healthy, perfect, and 
 strong, like some lofty oak, which grows in all freedom, and 
 whose branches spread far away over the forest ! 
 
 ' You have done good work in that respect,' Guillaume 
 affectionately continued, ' for yourself and tor all of us, and 
 even for our dear parents whose shades, pacified and reconciled, 
 now abide so peacefully in the little home of our childhood. 
 I often think of our dear house at Neuilly, which old Sophie 
 is taking care of for us, and although out of egotism, a desire 
 to set happiness around me, I wished to keep you here, your 
 Jean must some day go and live there, so as to bring it fresh 
 youth.' 
 
 Pierre had taken hold of his brother's hands, and looking 
 into his eyes he asked : ' And you — are you happy ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, very happy, happier than I have ever been ; happy 
 at loving you as I do, and happy at being loved by you as 
 no one else will ever love me.' 
 
 Their hearts mingled in ardent brotherly affection, the 
 most perfect and heroic affection that can blend men together. 
 And they embraced one another whilst, with her babe on 
 her breast, Marie, so gay, healthful and loyal, looked at them 
 and smiled, with big tears gathering in her eyes. 
 
 Thomas, however, having finished his motor's last toilet, 
 had just set it in motion. It was a prodigy of lightness and 
 strength, of no weight whatever in comparison with the 
 power it displayed. And it worked with perfect smoothness 
 without noise or smell. The whole family was gathered 
 round it in delight when there came a timely visit, one from 
 the learned and friendly Bertheroy, whom indeed Guillaume 
 bad asked to call, in order that he might see the motor 
 Working. 
 
 The great chemist at once expressed his admk'ation ; and 
 when he had examined the mechanism and understood how 
 
 Il2 
 
484 PARIS 
 
 the explosive was employed as motive power — an idea which 
 he had long recommended — he tendered enthusiastic con- 
 gratulations to Guillaume and Thomas. ' You have created 
 a little marvel,' said he, ' one which may have far-reaching 
 effects both socially and humanly. Yes, yes, pending the 
 invention of the electrical motor which we have not yet 
 arrived at, here is an ideal one, a system of mechanical 
 traction for all sorts of vehicles. Even aerial navigation 
 may now become a possibility, and the problem of force at 
 home is finally solved. And what a grand step I What 
 sudden progress 1 Distance again diminished, all roads 
 thrown open, and men able to fraternise I This is a great 
 boon, a splendid gift, my good friends, that you are bestowing 
 on the world.' 
 
 Then he began to jest about the new explosive, whose 
 prodigious power he had divined, and which he now found 
 put to such a beneficent purpose. ' And to think, Guillaume, 
 he said, ' that I fancied you acted with so much mysterious- 
 ness, and hid the formula of your powder fcom me, because 
 you had an idea of blowing up Paris ! ' 
 
 At this Guillaume became grave and somewhat pale. 
 And he confessed the truth. ' Well, I did for a moment think 
 of it.' 
 
 However, Bertheroy went on laughing as if he regarded 
 this answer as mere repartee, though, truth to tell, he had felt 
 a slight chill sweep through his hair. ' Well, my friend,' he 
 said, ' you have done far better in offering the world this 
 marvel, which by the way must have been both a difficult 
 and dangerous matter. So here is a powder which was 
 intended to exterminate people, and which in lieu thereof 
 will now increase their comfort and welfare. In the long 
 run tilings always end well, as I'm quite tired of saying.' 
 
 On beholding such lofty and tolerant good-nature, Guil- 
 laume felt moved. Bertheroy's words were true. What had 
 been intended for purposes of destruction served the cause 
 of progress, the subjugated, domesticated volcano became 
 labour, peace, and civilisation. GuUlaume had even relin- 
 quished all idea of his engine of battle and victory, he had 
 found sufficient satisfaction in this last invention of his, 
 which would relieve men of some measure of weariness, and 
 help to reduce their labour to just so much effort as there 
 mtist aJways be. In this he detected some little advance 
 towards Justice; at all feints it wa^ all thait be himself 
 
LIFES WORK AND PROMISE 485 
 
 could contribute to the cause. And when on turning towards 
 the window he caught sight of the basilica of the Sacred 
 Heart, he could not explain what insanity had at one moment 
 come over him, and set him dreaming of idiotic and useless 
 destruction. Some miasmal gust must have swept by, some- 
 thing born of want that scattered germs of anger and 
 vengeance. But how blind it was to think that destruction 
 and murder could ever bear good fruit, ever sow the soil with 
 plenty and happiness ! Violence cannot last, and all it does 
 is to rouse man's feeling of solidarity even among those on 
 whose behalf one kills. The people, the great multitude, 
 rebel against the isolated individual who seeks to wreak 
 justice. No one man can take upon himself the part of the 
 volcano ; this is the whole terrestrial crust, the whole multi- 
 tude which internal fire compels to rise and throw up either 
 an Alpine chain or a better and freer society. And whatever 
 heroism there may be in their madness, however great and 
 contagious may be their thirst for martyrdom, murderers are 
 never anything but murderers, whose deeds simply sow the 
 seeds of horror. And it on the one hand Victor Mathis had 
 avenged Salvat, he had also slain him, so universal had been 
 the cry of reprobation roused by the second crime, which was 
 yet more monstrous and more useless than the first. 
 
 GuUlaume, laughing in his turn, repUed to Bertheroy in 
 words which showed how completely he was cured : ' You 
 are right," he said, ' all ends well since all contributes to 
 truth and justice. Unfortunately, thousands of years are 
 sometimes needed for any progress to be accomplished. . . . 
 However, for my part I am simply going to put my new 
 explosive on the market, so that those who secure the neces- 
 sary authorisation may manufacture it and grow rich. Hence- 
 forth it belongs to one and all. . . And I've renounced all 
 idea of revolutionising the world.' 
 
 But Bertheroy protested. This great official scientist, 
 this member of the Institute laden with offices and honours, 
 pointed to the little motor, and replied with all the vigour of 
 his seventy years : ' But that is revolution, the true, the only 
 revolution. It is with things like that and not with stupid 
 bombs that one revolutionises the world I It is not by 
 destroying but by creating that you have just done the work 
 of a revolutionist. And how many times already have I not 
 told you that science alone is the world's revolutionary force, 
 the only force which far above all paltry political incidents, 
 
486 PAJilS 
 
 the vain agitation of despots, priests, sectarians, and ambitious 
 people of all kinds, works for the benefit of those who will 
 come after us, and prepares the triumph of truth, justice, and 
 peace. . . . Ah, my dear child, if you wish to overturn the 
 world by striving to set a Uttle more happiness in it, you 
 have only to remain in your laboratory here, for human 
 happiness can only spring from the furnace of the scientist.' 
 
 He spoke perhaps in a somewhati jesting way, but one 
 could feel that he was convinced of it all, that he held every- 
 thing excepting science in utter contempt. He had not even 
 shown any surprise when Pierre had cast his cassook aside ; 
 and on finding him there with his wife and child he had not 
 scrupled to show him as much a&ction as in the past. 
 
 Meantime, however, the motor was travelHng hither and 
 thither, making no more noise than a bluebottle buzzing in 
 the sunshine. The whole happy family was gathered about 
 it, still laughing with deHght at such a victorious achieve- 
 ment. And all at once little Jean, Monsieur Jean, having 
 finished sucking, turned round, displaying his milk-smeared 
 lips, and perceived the machine, the pretty plaything which 
 walked about by itself. At sight of it, his eyes sparkled, 
 dimples appeared on his plump cheeks, and stretching out 
 his quivering chubby hands he raised a crow of delight. 
 
 Marie, who was quietly fastening her dress, smiled at his 
 glee and brought him nearer, in order that he might have a 
 better view of the toy. ' Ahl my darling, it's pretty, isn't it ? 
 It moves and it turns, and it's strong ; it's quite alive, you 
 see.' 
 
 The others standing around were much amused by the 
 amazed, enraptured expression of the child, who would have 
 liked to touch the machine, perhaps in the hope of under- 
 standing it. 
 
 'Yes,' resumed Bertheroy, 'it's alive and it's powerful 
 like the sun, like that great sun shining yonder over Paris, 
 and ripening men and things. And Paris too is a motor, a 
 boiler in which the future is boiling, wlule we scientists keep 
 the eternal fiame burning underneath. Guillaume, my good 
 fellow, you are one of the stokers, one of the artisans of the 
 future with that httle marvel of yours, which will still further 
 extend the influence of our great Paris over the whole world.' 
 
 These words impressed PieiTe, and he again thought of a 
 gigantic vat stretching yonder from one horizon to the other, 
 a vat in which the coming century would emerge from an 
 
LIFES WORK AND PROMISE 4S7 
 
 extraordinary mixture of the excellent and the vile. But 
 now, over and above all passions, ambitions, stains and waste, 
 he was conscious of the colossal expenditure of labour which 
 marked the life of Paris, of the heroic manual efforts in work- 
 shops and factories, and the splendid striving of the young 
 men of intellect whom he knew to be hard at work, studying 
 in silence, relinquishing none of the conquests of their elders, 
 but glowing with desire to enlarge their domain. And in all 
 this Paris was exalted, together with the future that was 
 being prepared within it, and which would wing its flght over 
 the world bright like the dawn of day. If Eome, now so 
 near its death, had ruled the ancient world, it was Paris that 
 reigned with sovereign sway over the modern era ; and had for 
 the time become the great centre of the nations as they were 
 carried on from civilisation to civilisation, in a sunward course 
 from east to west. Paris was the world's brain. Its past so 
 full of grandeur had prepared it for the part of initiator, 
 civiliser, and liberator. Only yesterday it had cast the cry of 
 Liberty among the nations, and to-morrow it would bring 
 them the rehgion of Science, the new faith awaited by the 
 democracies. And Paris was also gaiety, kindness, and 
 gentleness, passion for knowledge and generosity without 
 hmii. Among the workmen of its faubourgs and the peasants 
 of its country-sides there were endless reserves of men on 
 whom the future might freely draw. And the century ended 
 with Paris, and the new century would begin and spread with 
 it. All the clamour of its prodigious labour, all the Ught that 
 came from it as from a beacon overlooking the earth, all the 
 thunder and tempest and triumphant brightness that sprang 
 from its entrails, were pregnant with that final splendour, of 
 which human happiness would be compounded. 
 
 Marie raised a light cry of admiration as she pointed 
 towards the city. ' Look 1 just look 1 ' she exclaimed; ' Paris 
 is all golden, covered with a harvest of gold 1 ' 
 
 They all re-echoed her admiration, for the effect was really 
 one of extraordinary magnificence. The declining sun was 
 once more veiling the immensity of Paris with golden dust. 
 But this was no longer the city of the sower, a chaos of roofs 
 and edifices suggesting brown land turned up by some huge 
 plough, whilst the sun-rays streamed over it like golden seed, 
 falling upon every side. Nor was it the city whose divisions 
 had one day seemed so plain to Pierre : eastward, the districts 
 of toil, misty with the grey smoke of factories ; southward, the 
 
L 
 
 488 PARIS 
 
 districts of study, serene and quiet ; westward, the districts of 
 wealth, bright and open ; and in the centre the districts of 
 trade with dark and busy streets. It now seemed as if one 
 and the same crop had sprung up on every side, imparting 
 harmony to everything, and making the entire expanse one 
 sole, boundless field, rich with the same fruitfulness. There 
 was corn, corn everywhere, an infinity of corn, whose golden 
 wave rolled from one end of the horizon to the other. Yes, 
 the decUning sun steeped all Paris in equal splendour, and it 
 was truly the crop, the harvest, after the sowing. 
 
 'Lookl just look,' repeated Marie, 'there is not a nook 
 without its sheaf ; the humblest roofs are fruitful, and every 
 blade is full-eared wherever one may turn. It is as if there 
 were now but one and the same soil, reconciled and fraternal. 
 Ah ! Jean, my little Jean, look I see how beautiful it is ! ' 
 
 Pierre, who was quivering, had drawn close beside her. 
 And M^re-Grand and Bertheroy smiled upon that promise of 
 a future which they would not see, whilst behind GuiUaume, 
 whom the sight filled with emotion, were his three big sons, 
 the three young giants, looking quite grave, they who ever 
 laboured and were ever hopeful. Then Marie, with a fine 
 gesture of enthusiasm, stretched out her arms and raised her 
 chUd aloft, as if offering it in gift to the huge city. 
 
 ' See, Jean ! see, little one,' she cried, ' it's you who'll reap 
 it all, who'll store the whole crop in the barn 1 ' 
 
 And Paris flared— Paris which the divine sun had sown 
 with light, and where in glory waved the great future harvest 
 of Truth and of Justice. 
 
 THB END 
 
 SpottUmtiit t Ca. Printert, Nea-4tTeel Square, Lottion, 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS'S 
 
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 • To Let' 
 
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 VillageTales&JungleTragedies. 
 
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 Mr. Jervis. 
 
 The Real Lady Hilda. 
 
 Married or Single ? 
 
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 The Evangelist 
 
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 Pandurang HirL 
 
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 gachesg of Fowysland. 
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 tn all Sbad-ea. 
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 Othello's Qcctmatlon. 
 
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 Fhia the fbfeniclan. I Constable of St. Klcholas. 
 
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 Tn a Steamer Ob^r. | A Woman Intervenes. 
 From Whose Bourne. Kevcnge I 
 
 By FRANK BARRETT. 
 Tbe Woman of the Iron Bracelets. 
 The Harding Scandal. I A luUssinS Witness. 
 
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 Taihtl and Esther. 
 By Sir W. BESANT and J. RICE. 
 
 Ready-MoneyMortllioy. 
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 I'he Golden Butterfly. 
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 Chaplain of the Fleet. 
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 All Sorts and Condl< 
 
 tlons of Men. 
 The Captains' Boom. 
 All In a Garden Fair. 
 Dorothy Forster. 
 Uncle Jack, 
 
 World W^nt Well Then. 
 OMldreii of Qlbeon. 
 Herr Faulus. 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 'To CaU Her Mine. 
 The KeTols of Ma.n. 
 The BeU of St. Paul's. 
 
 By A 
 
 lidatfi 
 
 The Holy-Kose. 
 Armoral of Lyonesse. 
 S.Eatherine's bv Tower 
 .Tfirbeua Camellia.. Ste* 
 
 phanotla. 
 The Ivory Gate. 
 The Behol Queen. 
 Beyond the Dreams «f 
 
 Avarice. 
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 The Charm. 
 
 Xr the Midst of Life, 
 
 By PAUL BOURGEU 
 
 A Living Lie. ' 
 
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 Matt. I Rachel Dene. 
 Master of the Mine, 
 The Heir of Linne. 
 Woman and the Man. 
 Red xbd White Heather. 
 
 Lady KUpatrlck. 
 
 MURRAY. 
 
 Shadow of the Sword. 
 AOhUdofNatore. 
 God and the Man. 
 Martyrdom of Madeline 
 Love Me for Ever, 
 Annan Water. 
 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 
 ROB. BUCHANAN & HY, 
 The Charlatan. _ _ 
 
 By J. MITCHELL CHAPPLB* 
 fhe Mmor Chord. 
 
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 The Shadow of a Crime. I The Deemster, 
 A Son of Hagar. 
 
 By ANNE COATES. 
 Kle'i Diary. ._ 
 
 By WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 Annadale. fAfterDarb. 
 No Name. Antonlna 
 Basil. I Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts, 
 My Miscellanies. 
 The Woman In WI4t«, 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 Ulsii or Mrs. ^ 
 Vhfl New Magdalea. 
 lh» Vroies DMp. 
 
 The TwoDestinies. 
 The Law and the Lady. 
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 The Fallen Leaves. 
 JezebHl'fi Daughter. 
 The Slack Robe. 
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 ' I^ay No.' 
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 Tne LtiMcy of OalOi 
 
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 Blacksitiith ft Scholar. I night. 
 
 Ths Village Comedy. | Tou Play me False. 
 
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 The Red saltan. J The Bnrdon of Isabel. 
 
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 Every lahu. a Soldier. 
 
 By E. H. COOPER. 
 Geoflory Hamilton. 
 
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 Two Girls on a Barge. 
 
 By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 
 His Vanished Star. ' 
 
 By H. N. CRELLIN. 
 
 Romances of the Old Seraglio. 
 
 By MATT CRIM. 
 
 The Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
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 Tales of Our Coast. 
 
 M. CROKER. 
 
 The Real Lady Hilda, 
 MaiTied or Siiigle'? 
 Two Masters. 
 IntheElQgdom of Kerry 
 tnterference. 
 A Third ferson. 
 Beyond the Pale. 
 
 By B. 
 
 Dla^na Barrlngtott. 
 Proper Pride, 
 AF^lly Likeness, 
 Pretty MlflsNevillo. 
 A Bird of Paaaago, 
 'To Let.' I Mr. Jervls. 
 Village Tales. 
 
 By WILLIAM CYPLES. 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 The Evangelist ; or. Port SalvVtion. 
 
 fey H. CdLEMAN DAVIDSON. 
 
 Mr. Sadler's Daughters. 
 
 By ERASMUS DAWSON. 
 The Fountain of Youth. 
 
 By JAMES DE MILLE. 
 A Castle in Spain. > 
 
 By. J. LEJTH DERWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. | Civce's'Lovers. 
 
 By DICK DONOVAN, 
 Tracked to Doom. I The Mystery of Jamaica 
 
 Man from Manchester. | Terrace. 
 The Chronicles of Michael Dauevitcb. 
 
 By RICHARD DOWLINQ. 
 Old Corcoran's Money.. '^ 
 
 By A. CONAN DOYLE. 
 The Firm of Glrdlestone. 
 
 By S. JEANNETTE DUNCAN. 
 A Daughter of To-day. 1 Vernon's Aunt. 
 By ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 A Flaster^Salnt. 
 
 By Q, S. EDWARDS. 
 BnazellepaTllla. ' 
 
 By G. MANVILLE FENN, 
 
 The New Mistress. 1 The Tiger Lily. 
 
 Witney tfl the Deed. 1 The White Virgin. 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD.— Fatal Zero. 
 
 By R. E, FRANCILLON. 
 Oiie by One.' I Ropes of Sand. 
 
 A Dog and his S}iadow. .Jack Doyle's Daughter, 
 A Real Queen. 1 ~^ 
 
 , By HAROLD FREDERIC. 
 Soth'8 Brotber's Wife. I Tlie Lawton Girl. 
 
 By PAUL QAULOT. 
 The Ked GUits. 
 
 By CHARLES OIBBON. 
 EobtR Gray.> I Of High Decree. 
 
 Loviiig a Dream. I The Goldea Shaft, 
 
 By E. OLANVILLE. 
 The X.ost Heiress. f The Golden Sock. 
 
 A Fair Oplonut. ' Tales froja the veld, 
 
 ^^e FossicUer. I 
 
 By E. J. dOODMAN. 
 ma ftU of Beriun warne. 
 
 By Rev. S. BARINO QOULD. 
 aed»»Uet,- . -^ itifl, , 
 
iS CHAttO &. WlNbtiS, Pubitfitierg. Hi St. Marilb^s Uil£, London, W,Ci 
 
 A FrotegC-e of Jack 
 
 HiLinUn's. 
 Clarence. 
 BaTber's Lnck. 
 Devil's Ford. rcelsloT.' 
 The Cmsade of the ' Ex- 
 Three Partner!. 
 
 Thk Piccadilly (3/6) iiovw.i.&— continued. 
 By CECIL, GRIFFITH. 
 
 OorlnQUft lutf azlon. 
 
 By SYDNEY GRUNDY. 
 
 The Dayi of bfi Vanitr- 
 
 - By 0W1BN HALL, 
 
 The Trftfife, of a Storm, j Jetiiam. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY. 
 
 Vnder the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 
 A Waif of the Plains, - . . . 
 
 A Word of the Golden 
 Gate. [Springs. 
 
 A Sappho of Green 
 Col.Starbottle's Clients 
 Snsy. I Sally Dows. 
 
 Beli-Siuger or Angel's. 
 
 Tales of l^ail and Town. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Garth. I Dnet. 1 Beatrix Randolph. 
 
 tlllce Qnentln. David Fpindezter'a DJ»- 
 
 ehaBtlan Stroma. appearance. 
 
 Fortune's Fool. I Spectre of Camera. 
 
 By Sir A, HELPS.— IvandeBiron. 
 By 1. HENDERSON.—AfathaPage. 
 By G. A. HENTY. 
 Ra.f ob the Juggler. | The Queen's Cup. 
 Dorothy a Double. 
 
 By JOHN HILL. 
 
 The Common Ancestor. 
 
 By TIGHE HOPKINS. 
 'Twlxt Love and Duty. 
 
 By Mrs. HUNGERFORD. 
 
 lady Vemer'B Flight. ( Nora Crema. 
 
 The E.ed-Houae Mystery An Anzioua Moment. 
 
 The Three Graces. I April's Lady. 
 
 Frofesstfr's Experiment. [Peter's Wife. 
 
 A Folnt of Conscience. | Lovlce. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 
 The Leaden Casket, I Self-Condemned. 
 That Other Person. i Mrs. Juliet. 
 
 By C. J. CUTCLIFFE HYNE. 
 
 Honour of. Thieves, 
 
 By R. ASHE KING. 
 
 A Drawn Game, - 
 
 By EDMOND LEPELLETIER. 
 
 Madame Sa-nxGdne. 
 
 By ADAM LILBURN. 
 A Tragedylu Marble. 
 
 By HARRY LINDSAY. 
 Rhoda Roberts. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY. 
 Gideon Flevce 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON 
 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 Under which Lord 7 
 ^^aiyLovef ) lone, 
 Fasten Carew. 
 Bowing the Wind. 
 
 The Atonement of Learn 
 
 DundaB. 
 The World Well Lost. 
 Tbepn^Tco Many. 
 Dulcle Everton. 
 
 By JUSTIN McCarthy. 
 
 A Fair Sascon. 
 
 Linlfly Rochford. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 
 Camlola 
 
 Waterdale Nolghbonri. 
 
 Mv Enemy's Daughter. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
 Maid of Athens. 
 
 The Comet of a Seaaon. 
 
 The Dictator. 
 
 Red Diamonds. 
 
 The Riddle Ring. 
 
 The Three Disgraces. 
 
 By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY. 
 
 A London Legend. | The RoyM Christopher. 
 
 By GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 Heather and Snow. ) Phantastea. 
 By PAUL & VICTOR MARGUERITXE 
 The Disaster 
 
 By L. T. AlEADE. 
 A BoMler of Fortune. I The Yolce of the 
 In an Iron Grip. Charmer. 
 
 Dr. Rnmsey's Patient. ) 
 
 By LEONARD MERRICK. 
 Thti Stage of Fools. t Cynthia. 
 
 Bv BERTRAM MITFORD 
 The Otiu Runner. i The Klnp'B Asie~at. 
 
 Luck-cIQerardRlttgelsy. 1 Stnah. FasuoK'eQ&oat. 
 
 The Way of the World. 
 BohMarUn's Little GtrL 
 Time's Revoiges. 
 A Wasted Crime. 
 In Direst Pe'ril. 
 Mount Despair. 
 A Capfnl o' Nails. 
 Tales In Prose & Terse. 
 A Race for Millions. 
 
 By J. B. MUDDOCK, 
 Maid MarUa auA BaUb Hood. 
 Baslla the Ja*t«r. 7ouug Lochlnvar. 
 
 By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 
 A Life's Atonaraiftt. 
 Joseph's Coat. 
 Coals of Fire. 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 Val Strange. | Hearts. 
 A Model Father. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 FijBt Person Singular. 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 
 By MURRAY and HERMAN. 
 The Bishopa' Bible. I p»al Jones's Alias. 
 One Traveller Returns. | 
 
 By HUME NISBET. 
 
 'BalllTpl' 
 
 By W. E. NORRIS. 
 
 Saint Ann'i. | Billy Belletr. 
 
 By G. OHNET. 
 A Weird 01ft. 
 
 By Mrs. OUPHANT. 
 The BorceraH. 
 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 Held In Bondage. 
 Strathmore J Chandosi 
 Under Two Flags. 
 Zdalla. fGage. 
 
 Cecil Castlemaine'a 
 Tricotrin. [ Fnck. 
 Folle Farine. 
 A Dog of Flandem. 
 FascareL | Sign*. 
 Princess Napraxine, 
 Two Wooden Shoes. 
 
 In a^WlnterClty. 
 Friendship. 
 Moths. I Bnffino. 
 Fipletrello. | Ariadne. 
 A village Commune. 
 BlmbL I Wanda. 
 Frescoes. ] Othmar. 
 In Maremma. 
 Syrlln. | Gullderoy. 
 Santa Barbara. 
 Two Offenders. 
 
 By MARGARET A. PAUL. 
 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 Lost Sir Maesingbu^ 
 Less BIac)i than We're 
 
 Painted. 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 In Peril and Privation. 
 The Mystery of Mlr- 
 By Proxy. [bridge. 
 The Canon's Wafd. 
 Walter's Word. 
 High Spirits. 
 
 By WILL PAYNE. 
 Jerry the Dreamer. 
 
 By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED. 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. 1 Mi-s. Tregashlu. 
 Christina Chard. | Nulma. 
 
 By E. C. PRICE. 
 
 Valentlna. I Foretcners. | Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 
 By RICHARD PRYCE. 
 
 MlBB Ulaxwell's Affections. 
 
 By CHARLES READE. 
 
 Vnde^ One Roof. 
 Glow-worm Tales 
 The Talk of the Town. ~ 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 For Cash Only. 
 The Burnt Million. 
 The Word and the Will. 
 Sonny Stories. 
 A Trying Patirnt. 
 A Modem Sick Whit- 
 tlngton. 
 
 Fei; WofSngton ; and 
 
 ChrlBtle Johnstone, 
 Hard Cash, 
 Cloister & the Hearth. 
 Never Too Late to Mend 
 The Course of True 
 
 Love Never Did Run 
 
 Smooth ; and^ihgle- 
 
 heart andDonbleface. 
 Autobiography of a 
 
 Thief; Jack of all 
 
 Trades ; A Hero and 
 
 a Martyr; and The 
 
 Wandering Heir. 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 
 By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL. 
 Weird Stories. - - ■ 
 
 By AMELIE RIVES. 
 Barbara Dering. | Meriel. 
 
 By F. W. ROBINSON. 
 
 The Hands of Justice. < Woman in the Dark. 
 
 By HERBERT RUSSI^LL. 
 
 l*rtte Blue. 
 
 Love Me Little, Love 
 
 Mo Long. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Foul Play. 
 Put Yourself In Els 
 
 Place. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 A ^ni^eton. 
 A Woman~Hat«r. 
 The Jilt, & other.S-f^rift'; : 
 &Qood Stor]f>8of Mao 
 and other Animals. 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 Beaditina ; and Bliiie 
 
 Characters. 
 
CHAttd & WiNbtl^, f^ubiUhefS. lit St. MdHiii's LaAfi!, Undoii. W.Q. &^ 
 
 Thb Ticcadilly (3/6) KovKhs— continued. 
 By W. CLARK RUSSELL,. 
 
 th« - - — — - - 
 
 Rsuid tn« Gteller-Firfl. 
 tn thfl Middle WKtcb. 
 On the Fo'k'ile Rqb4. 
 A Voyafie to the Caps. 
 Book for the Bammocfc. 
 Myiteryof 'Ocean Star' 
 The Bomance of Jenny 
 
 Harlowa. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 
 By DORA 
 
 Uy Shipmate Iionlse. 
 Alone onWldeWide Sea, 
 The Fhantom Death. 
 Ii.He the Man.'/ 
 €h>od Sblp 'Mohock.* 
 The Convict tibip. 
 Heart of Oat. 
 The Tale of the Ten. 
 The Last Enti?, 
 
 _, RUSSELL. 
 
 A Oonntry sweetheart. | The Drift of Fate. 
 
 By BAYLE ST. JOHN. 
 A levantlne Family. 
 
 By ADELINE SERGEANT. 
 
 Dr. Endicott'S Experiment. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 
 
 Without Cove or Licence. I The Oatslder. 
 
 The Master of Bathkel^. Beatrice & Benedick. 
 
 Long Odds. I A Bacing Ruhber. 
 
 By T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 
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 Orchard Damerel, 
 
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 Mistress Judith. 
 
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 My Flirtations. 
 
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 Dr. Pascal. 
 
 Money, | Lonrdes^ 
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 Rome. I Paris. 
 
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 Dorothy Foreter. 
 
 Uncle Jack. 
 
 The World Went Very 
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 Children of Glbeon. 
 
 Herr Fanlus. 
 
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 To CaJl Her Mine, 
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 Camp Notes. I Chronicles of Mo-man's 
 
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 Armorel of Lyonesse. 
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 Verbena Camellia £te- 
 
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 In Deacon's Orders. 
 
 Callfomlan Stories. 
 Gahrlel Conroy. 
 Luck of Roaring Ramp. 
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 Flip 
 
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 ilp. I 
 
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 The Martyrdom of Sfa- 
 
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 The Heir of Linne. 
 Woman and the Hnn. 
 Bachel Dene. | Matt. 
 Lady KUpatrLck. 
 
 Shadow of this Bword, 
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 God and the Man. 
 love Me for Ever*. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
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 The Charlatan. 
 
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 The Shadow of a Crime. I The OeemBter, 
 A Sou of Hagar. L 
 
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 By HAYDBN CARRUTH. 
 The Adventures of Jonee. 
 
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 For uhe Love of a Lass. 
 
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 Paul Ferroll. 
 
 Why Paul Ferroll ZOllect his Wife. 
 
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 Sweet Anno Page. 
 Transmigration: 
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 Sweet and Twenty. 
 TThe, Village Comady. 
 Tou Play me False. 
 Blacksmith and Scholar 
 Frances. 
 
 Armadale. ] , AfterDarh. 
 
 No Name. 
 
 Autonina. 
 
 Basil. 
 
 Hide and Seek. 
 
 The Dead Secret. ', 
 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 
 MlBS or Mrs. 7 
 
 The New Magdalen. 
 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 
 The Law and the Lady 
 
 The Two Destinies.' 
 
 The Haunted HoteL 
 
 A Sogne's Life. , 
 
 By M. J; COLQUHOUN. 
 Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
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 Leo. I Faul Foster's Daughter. 
 
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 The Prophet of the Great Smoky Monntaini. 
 
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 Pretty Miss Neville, 
 
 My Miscellanies.. 
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 Man and Wile. 
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 Legacy of Cain. 
 Blind Love. 
 
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 Mr. Jervls. 
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 -Marrl&d or Slnsle t 
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 Diana Barrlngton. 
 
 •To Let.' 
 
 A Bird of FasHage. 
 
 Proper Pride. 
 
 A Family LikenoBB. 
 
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 Hearts of Oold. 
 
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 The Fountalu of T6uth. 
 
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 A Outle in flpaln. 
 
 By J. LBITM^DBRWBNT. 
 Oar U^ Its V«uf. | Oiretf I<eT«ri< 
 
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 la the Grip of the Law. 
 From Information &•• 
 
 ceived. 
 Tracked to Doom. 
 Link hy Link - 
 Suspicion Aroused. 
 Dark Deeds. 
 Riddles Read. 
 
 The Man-Hunter. 
 Tracked and Taken. 
 Caught at Last I 
 Wanted I ' 
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 Dunuan 7 
 Man from MancheJster. ' 
 A Detective's Trinn]|>lu 
 Th6 Mystery of J'amaica Terrace. 
 The Chronicles of Michael Danevltch. r 
 
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 A Point of Honour. [ A^-chie Lovell. 
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 Felicia. lEltty., 
 
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 Rory. 
 
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 The New Mlatrese. | The Tiger Lily. 
 
 Witness to the Deed. | The White "^gln. 
 
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 Bella Donna, J Second Mrs. TlUotson. 
 
 Never Forgotten. I Seventy - five Brooke 
 
 Folly. Street. 
 
 Fatal Zero. | The Lady of Brantome. 
 
 By P. FITZGERALD and others. 
 
 Strange Secrcta. 
 
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 Filthy Lucre. 
 
 E. FRANCILLON. 
 
 King or EnaVeT 
 
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 Ropes of Band. 
 
 A Dog and his Shadow. 
 
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 Olympla. * 
 
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 A Real QueeU. 
 Queen Cophetua, 
 
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 SeUi'B Brother's Wife. ( The Lawton Qlrl. 
 Prefaced by Sir BARTLB FRERB 
 Fandurang Harl. 
 
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 The Capel Girls. 
 
 By GILBERT GAUL, 
 
 A Strange Manuscript. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 Fancy Free. 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 What wlU World Say ? 
 lu Love and War. 
 For tiie King. 
 In Pastures Greeo. 
 Queen of the Meadow. 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 The Dead Heart, 
 
 In Honour Bound. 
 Flower of the Forest. 
 The Braes of Tarrow. 
 The Golden. Shaft, 
 Of High Degree. 
 By Mead and Stream, 
 Loving a Dream. 
 A Hard Knot. 
 Heart's Delight. 
 Blood-Money. 
 
 By WILLIAM GILBERT. 
 
 Dr. Austin's GneBts. J The Wizard of th« 
 James Duke. | Mountain. 
 
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 The Lost Heiress. I The Fossickcr. 
 
 A Fair Colonist. j 
 
 By Rev. S. BARING GOULD. 
 
 Bed Spider. | Eve. 
 
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 A Noble Woman. { Nlkanor. 
 
 By CECIL GRIFFITH. 
 
 CorintMa Karazion. 
 
 By SYDNEY GRUNDY. 
 
 The Days of his Vanity. 
 
 By JOHN HABBERTON, 
 
 Bnteton's Bayou. | Country Luck. 
 
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 £T«jr.day Faper«. 
 
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CHATTO & WINDUS. PubMshefd^ ill 5t. Mairtla's Lane, London, W.C. 31 
 
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 Beatrix Kondolph, 
 
 Love— or a Haiae. 
 
 bavidPeiinlexter'a Dis- 
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 ITie Spectre of tlie 
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 Qartli. 
 
 ElUce Qnentln. 
 
 Fortuas'B fool. 
 
 MIbs CadogXLa. 
 
 Bebastlau Strome. 
 
 Dust. 
 
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 Ivan de Blrou. 
 
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 Zambra the Detective. 
 
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 The Iovor'8 Creed. 
 
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 The House of Raby. 
 
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 Lady Fatty., 
 Nora Creliub. 
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 In Durance TUe. 
 
 SXarvel. 
 
 A Mental Struggle. 
 
 A Modern' Olrce. 
 
 lady Verner's Plight. 
 
 , The fied House Mystery 
 
 3y Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 
 niornicroft's Model, I Self-Oondemned. 
 That Other Person. j The Leaden Casket. 
 
 By WM. JAMESON. 
 
 My Dead Self. ' 
 
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 rhe Dark Colleen. , | Queen of Connaught, 
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 Colonial Facts and Fictions. 
 
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 A Drawn Qame. j Passion's »lave, 
 
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 Madame Sans Gene. 
 
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 Patricia Eemhall. 
 The World Well LQSt, 
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 Paston Carew, 
 ' My Love I ' 
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 With a Eilksn Thread. 
 
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 Dundas. 
 Kehel of the Family. 
 Sowing the Wind. 
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 Dulcie Ever ton. 
 
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 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
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 Donna Quixote. 
 Maid of Athens. 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 The Dictator. 
 Ked Diarn'm^is. 
 The Riddle Rliig, 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 Waterdale Neighbours. 
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 vAFair Saxon. 
 Linley Bochford. 
 UlfiB Misanthrope. 
 Cauulola. 
 
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 Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet. 
 
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 Heather and Snow. 
 
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 Quaker Cousins. 
 
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 The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose. 
 
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 'ARomanceof theNine- 1 The New Republlo. 
 feentn Century. I 
 
 By J. MASTEI?MAN. 
 
 Half-a-dozen Daughters. 
 
 By BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 
 A Secrnt of the Sea. 
 
 By L. T. MEADB. 
 
 A Soldier of Fortune. 
 
 By LEONARD MERRICK. 
 
 The Man who was Good. 
 
 By JEAN MIDDLEMASS. 
 
 Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorillion. 
 
 By Mrs. MOLESWORTH. 
 
 Hathercotirb Rectory. 
 
 By J. E. MUDDOCK. 
 
 StoriesWeird aud Won- I From, the Bosom of the 
 
 derlul. Deep. 
 
 TheDeadMan'sSecret. I 
 
 By D, CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 
 A Model Father. A Blt<of Human Nature. 
 
 Joseph's Coat. First Person SinguUr. 
 
 Coals of Fire. Bob Martin's LittieGiri. 
 
 Val Strange. I Hearts. Time's Revenges, 
 
 Old Blazer's Hero. . A Wasted Crime. 
 
 The Way of thq^ World. In Direst Peril., 
 
 Cynic Fortune. Mount Descalr. 
 
 A Life's Atonement. A Capful o' Nails. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 
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 Paul Jones's Alias. | 
 
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 Saint A^'B. 
 
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 The TTnforeseeu. ' | Chance 7 or Fate 1 
 
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 Dr. Eameau. I A Weird Gift. 
 
 A Last Love. ' | 
 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
 
 Whlteladles. j T4e Greatest Heiress In 
 
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 By Mrs. ROBERT O'REILLY^ 
 
 Phoebe's Fortunes. 
 
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 Held in Bondage. 
 
 Strathmoroi 
 
 Cbandos. ^ 
 
 Idalia; 
 
 Undeif Two Flags. 
 
 Cecil Castlentbine'sGage 
 
 Tri'cotrin. 
 
 Fuck. 
 
 Folle Farlne. 
 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 
 Fascarel. 
 
 Signa. 
 
 Princess Napraxine. 
 
 la a Winter City. 
 
 Ariadue. 
 
 Pribndship. 
 
 Two LltjWoorten Shoes 
 Moths. 
 Kmbi: 
 Piplatrello. 
 A village Commune. 
 Wanda. 
 Othmar 
 
 Frescoes. , > 
 
 In Maremmo. 
 Guilderoy. 
 Ruffino. 
 Byrlin. 
 
 Santa Barbara. 
 
 Two Offenders. 
 
 Ouida's Wisdom. W'.t. 
 
 and' Pathos. 
 
 By MARGARET AGNES PAUL. 
 
 Gentlo and Simple. 
 
 By EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 The 'JJLyeteTy of Mai-ie Roget. 
 
 By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED. 
 
 The Romance o( a Station. 
 The Soul of Counteiis Adrian. 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. 
 Christina Chard. | Mrs. Tregasklss. 
 
 By E. C. PRICE. 
 
 Valentlna. I Mrs. Lancaater'&RivaL 
 
 The Foreigners. | Gerald. 
 
 By RICHARD PRYCE. 
 
 Miss Maxwell's Afloctlona. 
 
32 CHATTO & WINDUS, Publishers, in St. Martin's Lane, London, W.C. 
 
 Two-Shilling Novels — continued. 
 By JAMBS PAYN. 
 
 Bentluflk'i Tutor. 
 
 Morphy'R MAster. 
 A CoantT FamUf . 
 Aft Her Mercy, 
 
 CecU'9 ITryHt, 
 
 The Olyffards pt Olyfla. 
 
 The Foster Brothen. 
 
 Found Deatt. 
 
 The Best of Hnsbvidl, 
 
 Walter's Word. 
 
 Halves, 
 
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 Humcroaa Storlea. 
 
 £200 Reward. 
 
 A Marine Besldenc*. 
 
 Mirk Abbey 
 
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 High Spirits 
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 Kit. 
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 Holiday Tasks. 
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 What He Cost Her. 
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 Sonny Stories. 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
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 Like Father, Like Son. 
 Married Beneath Him. 
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 Leas Black than We're 
 
 Fainted. 
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 The Mystery of Mir- 
 ■- bridge. 
 
 The Word and the Will. 
 A Prince of tli^ Blood. 
 A Trying Patient. 
 
 By CHARLES READE. 
 
 It la Never Too Late to 
 
 Mend. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
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 pat Yourself In His 
 
 Flace 
 Love Me Little, Love 
 
 Me Long. 
 The CloisLer and the 
 
 Hearth. 
 The Uonrse of Tme 
 
 Love. 
 The Jilt. 
 The. Autobiography of 
 
 a Thief. 
 
 By Mrs. J. 
 Weird Stories, r 
 Fairy Water. 
 Her Mother's Diurllng. 
 The Prince of Wales's 
 
 Garden Party. 
 
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 Barbara Dering. 
 
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 Women are Strange. I The Woman in the Dark 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
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 Skippers and Shellbacks. | Schools and Scholars, 
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 Round the Galley Fire. '" "—"" >»>—-.-. 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 
 Foul Play. 
 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 
 Hard Cash. 
 
 Slngleheart and Double- 
 face. 
 
 Good Stories of Man and 
 other Animals. 
 
 Peg Woffington. 
 
 Gnmth Gaunt. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 
 A Simpleton. 
 
 Readiana. 
 
 A Woman-Hater. 
 
 H. RIDDELL. 
 
 The nniuhabited House. 
 The Mystery lu Palace 
 
 Garde Ds. 
 The Nun's Curse. 
 Idle Tales. 
 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 
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 A Book for the Ham- 
 mock. 
 
 The Mystery of the 
 ' Ocean Star.' 
 
 The Romance of Jenny 
 Har2ow6. 
 
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 A Country Sweetboart. 
 By QBORQE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 By QEORQB R. SIMS. 
 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone onWideWlde Sea. 
 The Good Ship 'Mo- 
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 The Phantom Death. 
 Is He the Man. 
 Hea-tof Oak. 
 The Cauvlct Ship, 
 
 Zoph. 
 
 MemblTB of a Landlady. 
 Scenes from the Show. 
 The 10 CammuiduieutB. 
 Dagonet Abroad. 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 
 The Ring o' Bells. 
 Mary Jane's Memolra. 
 Mary Jano Married. 
 Tales of Today, 
 Drama;* of Life. 
 Tlnkletop's Ci'lm*. 
 My Two Wives. 
 
 By ARTHUR SKETCHLEY. 
 A Match in the Dark. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 
 
 Without Love or Licence. I The P'uuger« 
 Bnatriue and Benedlok. XongOdds. 
 The Master of Rathkelly. | 
 
 By T. W. SPEIGHT. 
 
 The Mysteries of Heron 
 
 Dyke. 
 The Golden Hoop. 
 Hoodwinked. 
 By Devious Wayi, 
 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 
 Back to Life. 
 
 The LoudwaterTragedy. 
 
 Burgos Romance. ' 
 
 Quittance in Full. 
 Husband from the Be* 
 
 -Orchard DamereL 
 IntheFaceoftheWorld. 
 The TremlettDiamonda. 
 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 The Junior Dean. 
 Master of Bt.Beaedlct's 
 To His Own Master. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 The Afglian Enife. 
 
 By Ti. LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 New Arabian Nights. 
 
 By BERTHA THOMAS. 
 Cresslda. I The Violin-Player. 
 
 Proud Malafe. | 
 
 By WALTER THORNBURY. 
 Tales for Uie Marines. | Old Stories Setold. 
 By T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 By F. ELEANOR TROLLOPE. 
 .Like Ships upon the | AJme Fumess. 
 Sea. I Mabel's Progress. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 The Laud-Leagxiers. ^ 
 The American Senator, 
 Mr. Scarborough's 
 
 Family. 
 GoldenLion of Granper* 
 
 Fran Frohmanu. 
 Marion Fay. 
 Kept in the Dark. 
 John Caldlgate. 
 The Way W« Live Now, 
 
 By J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 Famell'E Folly. v 
 
 By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c 
 stories from Foreign Koveiists, 
 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 
 A Pleasure "Shp on the 
 
 Continent. 
 The Gilded Age. 
 Huckleberry Kmn. 
 MarkTwain's Sketeliei. 
 Tom Sawyer. 
 A Tramo Abroad. 
 Stolen White Elephant. 
 
 By C. C. FRASER-TYTLER. 
 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 
 Life ou tlie MlsslsslppL 
 The Prince and the 
 
 Pauper. 
 A Yankee at th6 Court 
 
 of King Arxhnr. 
 The £1,000,000 Bask- 
 
 Note. 
 
 The Huguenot Famfly. 
 The Blac&haU Ghosts. 
 
 What SheCame Through 
 Bsauty and the Beast. 
 Citoyenne JaqueUne. 
 
 The Bride's Pass. 
 Juried Diamonds. 
 St. Miiugo'E City. 
 I.adv Bell. 
 NobleEse Oblige. 
 Disappeared. 
 
 By ALLEN UPWARD. 
 
 The Queen against Owen. | Prince of Balklstan. 
 ' God Save the ^Queen 1' 
 
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 WASSERMANN. 
 The Marquis of Cikrabas. , 
 
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 Trust- Money. 
 
 By Mrs. F. H. WILLIAMSON. 
 A Child Widow. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 
 Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends. 
 
 By H. F. WOOD. 
 
 Tbe Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
 Tbe Englishman of the Rue Cam. 
 By CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY. 
 
 Sacuel Armstrong : or. Love and Theology. 
 
 By EDMUND YATES- 
 
 The Forlorn Hope. I Castavray. 
 
 Land at Last. I 
 
 By L 2ANGWILL. 
 
 ghetto Tragedies. 
 
 OGDEN, SMALB AND PKTTT, L1UITED, PRINTERS, GREAT SAFFRON HIU^ B.C,