Chapter 2




II

TOWARDS 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 of 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 cumbersome, 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 his 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
office? 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.

He had formerly indulged in a superb dream. Whilst believing 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 he would remain the minister of man's illusions respecting the
Divinity. And it was by reason of his conduct in this respect 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 religion in which he no longer believed? 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 ascendancy over him for those feelings to
return. The thought of such a lying apostolate now wounded him; he no
longer had the hypocritical 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 liked to play,
that supreme gift of himself which lay in stubborn adherence to the rules
of the 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, he 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 his 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 voiced
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 unknown, of what
the morrow of death might have in store for one; but 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 burn
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!
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 sunlight 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.

Feverishness, 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 the inquiry into
the crime was what is called a secret one; but magistrate Amadieu, to
whom it had been entrusted, conducted it in a very noisy way. The
newspapers, which he in some degree took into his confidence, were full
of articles and paragraphs about him and 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 he added that the only explosive used was dynamite,
derived from some stolen cartridges, for all the experts now declared
that dynamite would never have produced such effects as those which had
been witnessed. This, then, was the mysterious point which protracted the
investigations. And day by day the newspapers profited by it to circulate
the wildest stories under sensational headings, which were specially
devised for the purpose of sending up their sales.

It was all 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 exasperated, he was somehow attracted by the mire
which he found in that scurrilous journal. Moreover, the other
newspapers, 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 covering
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 soldier and a bad
worker. He had been punished for insubordination whilst he was in the
army, and he had been dismissed from a dozen work-shops because he
incessantly disturbed them by his Anarchical propaganda. Later still, he
had fled his country and led a suspicious life of adventure in America,
where, it was alleged, he must have committed all sorts of unknown
crimes. Moreover there was his horrible immorality, 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 Salvat,--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-cars 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 Toussaints, one of whom was the
prisoner's brother-in-law, while 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 he
had that day seen Madame Grandidier, the poor young woman who 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 life beside her was extremely painful, even during the
intervals when she remained 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 smiling
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 capitalists 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 their landlord a month's rent, so that they might go home
again. . . . Ah! there's somebody coming now--it's they, no doubt."

Guillaume 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 Theodore came in, humble 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 Mere-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. 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 admitted it to the magistrate. . . . For my part I
told everybody that he was in Belgium. 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! no, oh! no, mamma, they won't hurt him!"

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 starve. . . . Oh! of course I'm
not without relations; 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 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 with 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 the Toussaints themselves are
hard put. I don't complain of them. They've already lent me a little
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 so 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. All 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! 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! mamma, don't say that, I beg you! 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 tears,
and felt full of revolt against the social system which 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! Monsieur Froment!" 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! 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 explain 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 Salvat's family. Moreover, she refused to
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 Theodore 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 unknown, with scarcely sufficient bread to eat.
Ah! 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!

At that moment Mere-Grand came downstairs again, laden with a bundle of
linen and woollen clothing, and Madame Theodore and little Celine
withdrew while pouring forth their thanks. For a long time after they had
gone Guillaume, unable to resume work, continued walking to and fro in
silence, with a frown upon his face.

When Pierre, still hesitating and still tortured by conflicting 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
Rosemonde swept in, followed by young Hyacinthe 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, Francois and Antoine, who were also there. Then she resumed:
"Oh! my dear master, you have no idea how beautifully virginal Norway is!
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!"

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 affections. It was
the soul alone that travelled, and naturally it was fit that only kisses
of the soul should be exchanged on the journey. Unfortunately, however,
Hyacinthe had carried his symbolism so far as to exasperate Rosemonde,
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 companionship 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 explained: "By the way, do you
know what I found awaiting me on my return? Why, I found my house
pillaged, oh! completely pillaged! And in such a filthy condition, too!
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 in the cellars, and leaving every room in
a most filthy and disgusting condition. On discovering all this,
Rosemonde had immediately remembered the evening she had spent at the
Chamber of Horrors in the company of Bergaz and his acolytes, Rossi 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 villanous affairs which were attributed to
Bergaz and his band. And now the Anarchist leader openly declared that

Bergaz had sold himself to the police like Raphanel; and that the
burglary at the Princess's residence had been planned by the police
officials, who thereby hoped to cover the Anarchist cause with mire. If
proof was wanted of this, added Janzen, 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, when the Princess had finished her story. "They are inventing
such abominable things just now, in order to blacken the case of that
poor devil Salvat."

"Oh! they've exaggerated nothing!" Rosemonde gaily rejoined. "As a matter
of fact they have omitted a number of particulars which were too filthy
for publication. . . . For my part, I've merely had to go to an hotel.
I'm very comfortable there; I was beginning to feel bored in that house
of mine. . . . All the same, however, Anarchism is hardly a clean
business, and I no longer like to say that I have any connection with
it."

She again laughed, and then passed to another subject, asking Guillaume
to tell her of his most recent researches, in order, no doubt, that she
might show she knew enough chemistry to understand him. He had been
rendered thoughtful, 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
school-fellows, Francois and Antoine. He had accompanied the Princess to
Montmartre against his own inclinations; 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 was a man of
questionable reputation. Moreover, he thought it a duty to insist on his
own superiority in the presence of those old school-fellows of his, whom
he found toiling away in the common rut, like other people.

"Ah! yes," said he to Francois, 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 anything 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."

Francois, 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 aesthetic one."

"Less aesthetic, 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 Francois had been speaking ironically. So he
turned to Antoine, who had remained seated in front of a block he was
engraving. It was the one which represented Lise reading in her garden,
for he was ever taking it in hand again and touching it up in his desire
to emphasise his indication of the girl's awakening to intelligence and
life.

"So you engrave, I see," said Hyacinthe. "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 replied,
"that art can render the essence of things and beings, that is, their
full 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."

Hyacinthe 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
baseness and excess of production.

"It's evident!" said Francois gaily by way of conclusion. "To do nothing
already shows that one has some talent!"

Meantime, Pierre and Marie listened and gazed around them, somewhat
embarrassed by this strange visit which had set the usually grave and
peaceful workroom topsy-turvy. The little Princess, though, evinced much
amiability, and on drawing near to Marie admired the wonderful delicacy
of some embroidery she was finishing. Before leaving, moreover, Rosemonde
insisted upon Guillaume inscribing his autograph in an album which
Hyacinthe 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 Rosemonde to
terrorize her sorry victim. When she at length led him away, after
declaring to Guillaume that she should always regard that visit as a
memorable incident in her life, she made the whole household smile by
saying: "Oh! 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 Guillaume.
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
Mere-Grand, Marie, and Guillaume'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
Theophile Morin, but he did not arrive before ten o'clock, as he was
detained by the work of correcting his pupils' exercises or some other
wearisome labour pertaining to his profession.

As soon as Guillaume had told the others of the Princess'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 Guillaume, 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 Raphanel was taken with those whom he betrayed. Besides, I know
something of Bergaz; he's a freebooter." Guillaume made a sorrowful
gesture, and then in a saddened voice continued: "Oh, I can understand
all claims and all legitimate reprisals. But theft, cynical theft for the
purpose of profit and enjoyment, is beyond me! It lowers my hope of a
better and more equitable form of society. 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! it's a matter of heredity with you!" 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 time freely associated.

Guillaume, who understood that all discussion would be useless, contented
himself with replying: "Ah! yes, Salvat! Everything is against that
unhappy fellow, he is certain to be condemned. But you can't know, my
friends, what a passion 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, condemned to pay
for one and all!"

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 Proudhon, clung 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/ Republic 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 in which the conflicting
parties of the time were 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! Every appetite is openly
displayed, it's a most disgusting sight! Did you see in the papers this
morning that the President has again been obliged to summon Vignon to the
Elysee?"

"Oh! the papers," muttered Morin in his weary way, "I no longer read
them! What's the use of doing so? They are so badly written, and they all
lie!"

As Bache had said, the ministerial crisis was still dragging on. The
President of the Republic, taking as his guide the debate in the Chamber
of Deputies, by which the Barroux administration 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 accomplishment in two or three days at
the utmost, for the names of the friends whom the young leader of the
Radical party would bring to power with him had been freely mentioned for
months past. But all sorts of difficulties 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 all at once hesitation arose, some
pulled one way, some another; every effort was slowly paralysed till
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 employed every form of pressure, whether
threats or promises, besides fanning and casting rival passions and
interests into collision. Thus the President, greatly embarrassed by this
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's gang is 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 Railways 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 Monferrand every day with the most respectful
sympathy? That's a grave sign; for it isn't Fonsegue's habit to show any
solicitude for the vanquished. But what can one expect from that wretched
Chamber! The only point certain is that something dirty is being plotted
there."

"And that big dunderhead Mege 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!"

The mention of Mege 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 pitiless severity. Janzen, for his part, treated the
Collectivist leader as a mere reactionary /bourgeois/, who ought to be
swept away one of the first. This hatred of Mege was indeed the common
passion of Guillaume's friends. They could occasionally show some justice
for men who in no wise 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
denunciations which poured each morning from Sagnier's newspaper, like
filth from the mouth of a sewer. Thereupon Guillaume, who had become
absorbed in reverie while pacing to and fro according to his habit,
suddenly exclaimed: "Ah! what dirty work it is that Sagnier does! Before
long there won't be a single person, a single thing left on which he
hasn't vomited! You think he's on your side, and suddenly he splashes you
with mire! . . . 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! It's always Salvat! He's the inexhaustible subject for
articles. The mere mention of him suffices to send up a paper's sales!
The bribe-takers of the African Railways 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!"

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 appeasement 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,
glittering like 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! 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! 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 his little house at
Neuilly, where none now visited him save the shades of his father and
mother, he was long kept awake by a supreme internal combat. He had never
before felt so 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 all that he had beheld and heard at his 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
contradiction 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 the kind,
without a shiver of shame at having lied so long. And now it was quite
decided, he would lie no longer, not even from feelings of compassion in
order that others might retain their 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 heartrending the thought that if he did remove
it he would be skinless, lacerated, infirm, unable, do what he might, to
become like other men!

It was this recurring thought which again tortured him throughout that
terrible night. Would life yet allow him to enter its fold? Had he not
been branded with a mark which for ever condemned him to dwell apart? He
thought he could feel his priestly vows burning his very flesh like
red-hot iron. What use would it be for him to dress as men dress, if in
reality he was never to be a man? He had hitherto lived in such a
quivering state, in a sphere of renunciation and dreams! To know manhood
never, to be too late for it, that thought filled him with terror. And
when at last he made up his mind to fling aside his cassock, he did so
from a simple sense of rectitude, for all his anguish remained.

When he returned to Montmartre 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 Mere-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, 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 his own home, amid the full
sunlight, the life which ever streamed in through yonder window.

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 cassock off?" She merely felt that by
removing it he would be more at ease for his work.

"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. One might take it to be 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!"



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