{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_9170/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_9170","id":"gutenberg_9170","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9170","summary":null,"tags":["Category: French Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Catholics -- Fiction","Christian pilgrims and pilgrimages -- Fiction","Clergy -- Fiction","Lourdes (France) -- Fiction","Man-woman relationships -- Fiction","Paris (France) -- Fiction","Rome (Italy) -- Fiction"],"text":"THE THREE CITIES\n\nLOURDES, ROME, PARIS\n\n\nBy \u00c9mile Zola\n\n\nTranslated By Ernest A. Vizetelly\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nBEFORE perusing this work, it is as well that the reader should\nunderstand M. Zola\u2019s aim in writing it, and his views--as distinct from\nthose of his characters--upon Lourdes, its Grotto, and its cures. A short\ntime before the book appeared M. Zola was interviewed upon the subject by\nhis friend and biographer, Mr. Robert H. Sherard, to whom he spoke as\nfollows:\n\n\n\u201c\u2018Lourdes\u2019 came to be written by mere accident. In 1891 I happened to be\ntravelling for my pleasure, with my wife, in the Basque country and by\nthe Pyrenees, and being in the neighbourhood of Lourdes, included it in\nmy tour. I spent fifteen days there, and was greatly struck by what I\nsaw, and it then occurred to me that there was material here for just the\nsort of novel that I like to write--a novel in which great masses of men\ncan be shown in motion--_un grand mouvement de foule_--a novel the\nsubject of which stirred up my philosophical ideas.\n\n\u201cIt was too late then to study the question, for I had visited Lourdes\nlate in September, and so had missed seeing the best pilgrimage, which\ntakes place in August, under the direction of the P\u00e8res de la\nMis\u00e9ricorde, of the Rue de l\u2019Assomption in Paris--the National\nPilgrimage, as it is called. These Fathers are very active, enterprising\nmen, and have made a great success of this annual national pilgrimage.\nUnder their direction thirty thousand pilgrims are transported to\nLourdes, including over a thousand sick persons.\n\n\u201cSo in the following year I went in August, and saw a national\npilgrimage, and followed it during the three days which it lasts, in\naddition to the two days given to travelling. After its departure, I\nstayed on ten or twelve days, working up the subject in every detail. My\nbook is the story of such a national pilgrimage, and is, accordingly, the\nstory of five days. It is divided into five parts, each of which parts is\nlimited to one day.\n\n\u201cThere are from ninety to one hundred characters in the story: sick\npersons, pilgrims, priests, nuns, hospitallers, nurses, and peasants; and\nthe book shows Lourdes under every aspect. There are the piscinas, the\nprocessions, the Grotto, the churches at night, the people in the\nstreets. It is, in one word, Lourdes in its entirety. In this canvas is\nworked out a very delicate central intrigue, as in \u2018Dr. Pascal,\u2019 and\naround this are many little stories or subsidiary plots. There is the\nstory of the sick person who gets well, of the sick person who is not\ncured, and so on. The philosophical idea which pervades the whole book is\nthe idea of human suffering, the exhibition of the desperate and\ndespairing sufferers who, abandoned by science and by man, address\nthemselves to a higher Power in the hope of relief; as where parents have\na dearly loved daughter dying of consumption, who has been given up, and\nfor whom nothing remains but death. A sudden hope, however, breaks in\nupon them: \u2018supposing that after all there should be a Power greater than\nthat of man, higher than that of science.\u2019 They will haste to try this\nlast chance of safety. It is the instinctive hankering after the lie\nwhich creates human credulity.\n\n\u201cI will admit that I came across some instances of real cure. Many cases\nof nervous disorders have undoubtedly been cured, and there have also\nbeen other cures which may, perhaps be attributed to errors of diagnosis\non the part of doctors who attended the patients so cured. Often a\npatient is described by his doctor as suffering from consumption. He goes\nto Lourdes, and is cured. However, the probability is that the doctor\nmade a mistake. In my own case I was at one time suffering from a violent\npain in my chest, which presented all the symptoms of _angina pectoris_,\na mortal malady. It was nothing of the sort. Indigestion, doubtless, and,\nas such, curable. Remember that most of the sick persons who go to\nLourdes come from the country, and that the country doctors are not\nusually men of either great skill or great experience. But all doctors\nmistake symptoms. Put three doctors together to discuss a case, and in\nnine cases out of ten they will disagree in their diagnosis. Look at the\nquantities of tumours, swellings, and sores, which cannot be properly\nclassified. These cures are based on the ignorance of the medical\nprofession. The sick pretend, believe, that they suffer from such and\nsuch a desperate malady, whereas it is from some other malady that they\nare suffering. And so the legend forms itself. And, of course, there must\nbe cures out of so large a number of cases. Nature often cures without\nmedical aid. Certainly, many of the workings of Nature are wonderful, but\nthey are not supernatural. The Lourdes miracles can neither be proved nor\ndenied. The miracle is based on human ignorance. And so the doctor who\nlives at Lourdes, and who is commissioned to register the cures and to\ntabulate the miracles, has a very careless time of it. A person comes,\nand gets cured. He has but to get three doctors together to examine the\ncase. They will disagree as to what was the disease from which the\npatient suffered, and the only explanation left which will be acceptable\nto the public, with its hankering after the lie, is that a miracle has\nbeen vouchsafed.\n\n\u201cI interviewed a number of people at Lourdes, and could not find one who\nwould declare that he had witnessed a miracle. All the cases which I\ndescribe in my book are real cases, in which I have only changed the\nnames of the persons concerned. In none of these instances was I able to\ndiscover any real proof for or against the miraculous nature of the cure.\nThus, in the case of Clementine Trouve, who figures in my story as\nSophie--the patient who, after suffering for a long time from a horrid\nopen sore on her foot, was suddenly cured, according to current report,\nby bathing her foot in the piscina, where the bandages fell off, and her\nfoot was entirely restored to a healthy condition--I investigated that\ncase thoroughly. I was told that there were three or four ladies living\nin Lourdes who could guarantee the facts as stated by little Clementine.\nI looked up those ladies. The first said No, she could not vouch for\nanything. She had seen nothing. I had better consult somebody else. The\nnext answered in the same way, and nowhere was I able to find any\ncorroboration of the girl\u2019s story. Yet the little girl did not look like\na liar, and I believe that she was fully convinced of the miraculous\nnature of her cure. It is the facts themselves which lie.\n\n\u201cLourdes, the Grotto, the cures, the miracles, are, indeed, the creation\nof that need of the Lie, that necessity for credulity, which is a\ncharacteristic of human nature. At first, when little Bernadette came\nwith her strange story of what she had witnessed, everybody was against\nher. The Prefect of the Department, the Bishop, the clergy, objected to\nher story. But Lourdes grew up in spite of all opposition, just as the\nChristian religion did, because suffering humanity in its despair must\ncling to something, must have some hope; and, on the other hand, because\nhumanity thirsts after illusions. In a word, it is the story of the\nfoundation of all religions.\u201d\n\n\nTo the foregoing account of \u201cLourdes\u201d as supplied by its author, it may\nbe added that the present translation, first made from early proofs of\nthe French original whilst the latter was being completed, has for the\npurposes of this new American edition been carefully and extensively\nrevised by Mr. E. A. Vizetelly,--M. Zola\u2019s representative for all\nEnglish-speaking countries. \u201cLourdes\u201d forms the first volume of the\n\u201cTrilogy of the Three Cities,\u201d the second being \u201cRome,\u201d and the third\n\u201cParis.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n\nLOURDES\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST DAY\n\n\n\n\nI. PILGRIMS AND PATIENTS\n\nTHE pilgrims and patients, closely packed on the hard seats of a\nthird-class carriage, were just finishing the \u201cAve maris Stella,\u201d which\nthey had begun to chant on leaving the terminus of the Orleans line, when\nMarie, slightly raised on her couch of misery and restless with feverish\nimpatience, caught sight of the Paris fortifications through the window\nof the moving train.\n\n\u201cAh, the fortifications!\u201d she exclaimed, in a tone which was joyous\ndespite her suffering. \u201cHere we are, out of Paris; we are off at last!\u201d\n\nHer delight drew a smile from her father, M. de Guersaint, who sat in\nfront of her, whilst Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment, who was looking at her with\nfraternal affection, was so carried away by his compassionate anxiety as\nto say aloud: \u201cAnd now we are in for it till to-morrow morning. We shall\nonly reach Lourdes at three-forty. We have more than two-and-twenty\nhours\u2019 journey before us.\u201d\n\nIt was half-past five, the sun had risen, radiant in the pure sky of a\ndelightful morning. It was a Friday, the 19th of August. On the horizon,\nhowever, some small, heavy clouds already presaged a terrible day of\nstormy heat. And the oblique sunrays were enfilading the compartments of\nthe railway carriage, filling them with dancing, golden dust.\n\n\u201cYes, two-and-twenty hours,\u201d murmured Marie, relapsing into a state of\nanguish. \u201c_Mon Dieu_! what a long time we must still wait!\u201d\n\nThen her father helped her to lie down again in the narrow box, a kind of\nwooden gutter, in which she had been living for seven years past. Making\nan exception in her favour, the railway officials had consented to take\nas luggage the two pairs of wheels which could be removed from the box,\nor fitted to it whenever it became necessary to transport her from place\nto place. Packed between the sides of this movable coffin, she occupied\nthe room of three passengers on the carriage seat; and for a moment she\nlay there with eyes closed. Although she was three-and-twenty; her ashen,\nemaciated face was still delicately infantile, charming despite\neverything, in the midst of her marvellous fair hair, the hair of a\nqueen, which illness had respected. Clad with the utmost simplicity in a\ngown of thin woollen stuff, she wore, hanging from her neck, the card\nbearing her name and number, which entitled her to _hospitalisation_, or\nfree treatment. She herself had insisted on making the journey in this\nhumble fashion, not wishing to be a source of expense to her relatives,\nwho little by little had fallen into very straitened circumstances. And\nthus it was that she found herself in a third-class carriage of the\n\u201cwhite train,\u201d the train which carried the greatest sufferers, the most\nwoeful of the fourteen trains going to Lourdes that day, the one in\nwhich, in addition to five hundred healthy pilgrims, nearly three hundred\nunfortunate wretches, weak to the point of exhaustion, racked by\nsuffering, were heaped together, and borne at express speed from one to\nthe other end of France.\n\nSorry that he had saddened her, Pierre continued to gaze at her with the\nair of a compassionate elder brother. He had just completed his thirtieth\nyear, and was pale and slight, with a broad forehead. After busying\nhimself with all the arrangements for the journey, he had been desirous\nof accompanying her, and, having obtained admission among the\nHospitallers of Our Lady of Salvation as an auxiliary member, wore on his\ncassock the red, orange-tipped cross of a bearer. M. de Guersaint on his\nside had simply pinned the little scarlet cross of the pilgrimage on his\ngrey cloth jacket. The idea of travelling appeared to delight him;\nalthough he was over fifty he still looked young, and, with his eyes ever\nwandering over the landscape, he seemed unable to keep his head still--a\nbird-like head it was, with an expression of good nature and\nabsent-mindedness.\n\nHowever, in spite of the violent shaking of the train, which constantly\ndrew sighs from Marie, Sister Hyacinthe had risen to her feet in the\nadjoining compartment. She noticed that the sun\u2019s rays were streaming in\nthe girl\u2019s face.\n\n\u201cPull down the blind, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she said to Pierre. \u201cCome, come,\nwe must install ourselves properly, and set our little household in\norder.\u201d\n\nClad in the black robe of a Sister of the Assumption, enlivened by a\nwhite coif, a white wimple, and a large white apron, Sister Hyacinthe\nsmiled, the picture of courageous activity. Her youth bloomed upon her\nsmall, fresh lips, and in the depths of her beautiful blue eyes, whose\nexpression was ever gentle. She was not pretty, perhaps, still she was\ncharming, slender, and tall, the bib of her apron covering her flat chest\nlike that of a young man; one of good heart, displaying a snowy\ncomplexion, and overflowing with health, gaiety, and innocence.\n\n\u201cBut this sun is already roasting us,\u201d said she; \u201cpray pull down your\nblind as well, madame.\u201d\n\nSeated in the corner, near the Sister, was Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, who had\nkept her little bag on her lap. She slowly pulled down the blind. Dark,\nand well built, she was still nice-looking, although she had a daughter,\nRaymonde, who was four-and-twenty, and whom for motives of propriety she\nhad placed in the charge of two lady-hospitallers, Madame D\u00e9sagneaux and\nMadame Volmar, in a first-class carriage. For her part, directress as she\nwas of a ward of the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours at Lourdes, she did\nnot quit her patients; and outside, swinging against the door of her\ncompartment, was the regulation placard bearing under her own name those\nof the two Sisters of the Assumption who accompanied her. The widow of a\nruined man, she lived with her daughter on the scanty income of four or\nfive thousand francs a year, at the rear of a courtyard in the Rue\nVanneau. But her charity was inexhaustible, and she gave all her time to\nthe work of the Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation, an institution\nwhose red cross she wore on her gown of carmelite poplin, and whose aims\nshe furthered with the most active zeal. Of a somewhat proud disposition,\nfond of being flattered and loved, she took great delight in this annual\njourney, from which both her heart and her passion derived contentment.\n\n\u201cYou are right, Sister,\u201d she said, \u201cwe will organise matters. I really\ndon\u2019t know why I am encumbering myself with this bag.\u201d\n\nAnd thereupon she placed it under the seat, near her.\n\n\u201cWait a moment,\u201d resumed Sister Hyacinthe; \u201cyou have the water-can\nbetween your legs--it is in your way.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, it isn\u2019t, I assure you. Let it be. It must always be somewhere.\u201d\n\nThen they both set their house in order as they expressed it, so that for\na day and a night they might live with their patients as comfortably as\npossible. The worry was that they had not been able to take Marie into\ntheir compartment, as she wished to have Pierre and her father near her;\nhowever neighbourly intercourse was easy enough over the low partition.\nMoreover the whole carriage, with its five compartments of ten seats\neach, formed but one moving chamber, a common room as it were which the\neye took in at a glance from end to end. Between its wooden walls, bare\nand yellow, under its white-painted panelled roof, it showed like a\nhospital ward, with all the disorder and promiscuous jumbling together of\nan improvised ambulance. Basins, brooms, and sponges lay about,\nhalf-hidden by the seats. Then, as the train only carried such luggage as\nthe pilgrims could take with them, there were valises, deal boxes, bonnet\nboxes, and bags, a wretched pile of poor worn-out things mended with bits\nof string, heaped up a little bit everywhere; and overhead the litter\nbegan again, what with articles of clothing, parcels, and baskets hanging\nfrom brass pegs and swinging to and fro without a pause.\n\nAmidst all this frippery the more afflicted patients, stretched on their\nnarrow mattresses, which took up the room of several passengers, were\nshaken, carried along by the rumbling gyrations of the wheels; whilst\nthose who were able to remain seated, leaned against the partitions,\ntheir faces pale, their heads resting upon pillows. According to the\nregulations there should have been one lady-hospitaller to each\ncompartment. However, at the other end of the carriage there was but a\nsecond Sister of the Assumption, Sister Claire des Anges. Some of the\npilgrims who were in good health were already getting up, eating and\ndrinking. One compartment was entirely occupied by women, ten pilgrims\nclosely pressed together, young ones and old ones, all sadly, pitifully\nugly. And as nobody dared to open the windows on account of the\nconsumptives in the carriage, the heat was soon felt and an unbearable\nodour arose, set free as it were by the jolting of the train as it went\nits way at express speed.\n\nThey had said their chaplets at Juvisy; and six o\u2019clock was striking, and\nthey were rushing like a hurricane past the station of Bretigny, when\nSister Hyacinthe stood up. It was she who directed the pious exercises,\nwhich most of the pilgrims followed from small, blue-covered books.\n\n\u201cThe Angelus, my children,\u201d said she with a pleasant smile, a maternal\nair which her great youth rendered very charming and sweet.\n\nThen the \u201cAves\u201d again followed one another, and were drawing to an end\nwhen Pierre and Marie began to feel interested in two women who occupied\nthe other corner seats of their compartment. One of them, she who sat at\nMarie\u2019s feet, was a blonde of slender build and _bourgeoise_ appearance,\nsome thirty and odd years of age, and faded before she had grown old. She\nshrank back, scarcely occupying any room, wearing a dark dress, and\nshowing colourless hair, and a long grief-stricken face which expressed\nunlimited self-abandonment, infinite sadness. The woman in front of her,\nshe who sat on the same seat as Pierre, was of the same age, but belonged\nto the working classes. She wore a black cap and displayed a face ravaged\nby wretchedness and anxiety, whilst on her lap she held a little girl of\nseven, who was so pale, so wasted by illness, that she scarcely seemed\nfour. With her nose contracted, her eyelids lowered and showing blue in\nher waxen face, the child was unable to speak, unable to give utterance\nto more than a low plaint, a gentle moan, which rent the heart of her\nmother, leaning over her, each time that she heard it.\n\n\u201cWould she eat a few grapes?\u201d timidly asked the lady, who had hitherto\npreserved silence. \u201cI have some in my basket.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, madame,\u201d replied the woman, \u201cshe only takes milk, and\nsometimes not even that willingly. I took care to bring a bottleful with\nme.\u201d\n\nThen, giving way to the desire which possesses the wretched to confide\ntheir woes to others, she began to relate her story. Her name was\nVincent, and her husband, a gilder by trade, had been carried off by\nconsumption. Left alone with her little Rose, who was the passion of her\nheart, she had worked by day and night at her calling as a dressmaker in\norder to bring the child up. But disease had come, and for fourteen\nmonths now she had had her in her arms like that, growing more and more\nwoeful and wasted until reduced almost to nothingness. She, the mother,\nwho never went to mass, entered a church, impelled by despair to pray for\nher daughter\u2019s cure; and there she had heard a voice which had told her\nto take the little one to Lourdes, where the Blessed Virgin would have\npity on her. Acquainted with nobody, not knowing even how the pilgrimages\nwere organised, she had had but one idea--to work, save up the money\nnecessary for the journey, take a ticket, and start off with the thirty\nsous remaining to her, destitute of all supplies save a bottle of milk\nfor the child, not having even thought of purchasing a crust of bread for\nherself.\n\n\u201cWhat is the poor little thing suffering from?\u201d resumed the lady.\n\n\u201cOh, it must be consumption of the bowels, madame! But the doctors have\nnames they give it. At first she only had slight pains in the stomach.\nThen her stomach began to swell and she suffered, oh, so dreadfully! it\nmade one cry to see her. Her stomach has gone down now, only she\u2019s worn\nout; she has got so thin that she has no legs left her, and she\u2019s wasting\naway with continual sweating.\u201d\n\nThen, as Rose, raising her eyelids, began to moan, her mother leant over\nher, distracted and turning pale. \u201cWhat is the matter, my jewel, my\ntreasure?\u201d she asked. \u201cAre you thirsty?\u201d\n\nBut the little girl was already closing her dim eyes of a hazy sky-blue\nhue, and did not even answer, but relapsed into her torpor, quite white\nin the white frock she wore--a last coquetry on the part of her mother,\nwho had gone to this useless expense in the hope that the Virgin would be\nmore compassionate and gentle to a little sufferer who was well dressed,\nso immaculately white.\n\nThere was an interval of silence, and then Madame Vincent inquired: \u201cAnd\nyou, madame, it\u2019s for yourself no doubt that you are going to Lourdes?\nOne can see very well that you are ill.\u201d\n\nBut the lady, with a frightened look, shrank woefully into her corner,\nmurmuring: \u201cNo, no, I am not ill. Would to God that I were! I should\nsuffer less.\u201d\n\nHer name was Madame Maze, and her heart was full of an incurable grief.\nAfter a love marriage to a big, gay fellow with ripe, red lips, she had\nfound herself deserted at the end of a twelvemonth\u2019s honeymoon. Ever\ntravelling, following the profession of a jeweller\u2019s bagman, her husband,\nwho earned a deal of money, would disappear for six months at a stretch,\ndeceive her from one frontier to the other of France, at times even\ncarrying creatures about with him. And she worshipped him; she suffered\nso frightfully from it all that she had sought a remedy in religion, and\nhad at last made up her mind to repair to Lourdes, in order to pray the\nVirgin to restore her husband to her and make him amend his ways.\n\nAlthough Madame Vincent did not understand the other\u2019s words, she\nrealised that she was a prey to great mental affliction, and they\ncontinued looking at one another, the mother, whom the sight of her dying\ndaughter was killing, and the abandoned wife, whom her passion cast into\nthroes of death-like agony.\n\nHowever, Pierre, who, like Marie, had been listening to the conversation,\nnow intervened. He was astonished that the dressmaker had not sought free\ntreatment for her little patient. The Association of Our Lady of\nSalvation had been founded by the Augustine Fathers of the Assumption\nafter the Franco-German war, with the object of contributing to the\nsalvation of France and the defence of the Church by prayer in common and\nthe practice of charity; and it was this association which had promoted\nthe great pilgrimage movement, in particular initiating and unremittingly\nextending the national pilgrimage which every year, towards the close of\nAugust, set out for Lourdes. An elaborate organisation had been gradually\nperfected, donations of considerable amounts were collected in all parts\nof the world, sufferers were enrolled in every parish, and agreements\nwere signed with the railway companies, to say nothing of the active help\nof the Little Sisters of the Assumption and the establishment of the\nHospitality of Our Lady of Salvation, a widespread brotherhood of the\nbenevolent, in which one beheld men and women, mostly belonging to\nsociety, who, under the orders of the pilgrimage managers, nursed the\nsick, helped to transport them, and watched over the observance of good\ndiscipline. A written request was needed for the sufferers to obtain\nhospitalisation, which dispensed them from making the smallest payment in\nrespect either of their journey or their sojourn; they were fetched from\ntheir homes and conveyed back thither; and they simply had to provide a\nfew provisions for the road. By far the greater number were recommended\nby priests or benevolent persons, who superintended the inquiries\nconcerning them and obtained the needful papers, such as doctors\u2019\ncertificates and certificates of birth. And, these matters being settled,\nthe sick ones had nothing further to trouble about, they became but so\nmuch suffering flesh, food for miracles, in the hands of the hospitallers\nof either sex.\n\n\u201cBut you need only have applied to your parish priest, madame,\u201d Pierre\nexplained. \u201cThis poor child is deserving of all sympathy. She would have\nbeen immediately admitted.\u201d\n\n\u201cI did not know it, monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen how did you manage?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I went to take a ticket at a place which one of my\nneighbours, who reads the newspapers, told me about.\u201d\n\nShe was referring to the tickets, at greatly reduced rates, which were\nissued to the pilgrims possessed of means. And Marie, listening to her,\nfelt great pity for her, and also some shame; for she who was not\nentirely destitute of resources had succeeded in obtaining\n_hospitalisation_, thanks to Pierre, whereas that mother and her sorry\nchild, after exhausting their scanty savings, remained without a copper.\n\nHowever, a more violent jolt of the carriage drew a cry of pain from the\ngirl. \u201cOh, father,\u201d she said, \u201cpray raise me a little! I can\u2019t stay on my\nback any longer.\u201d\n\nWhen M. de Guersaint had helped her into a sitting posture, she gave a\ndeep sigh of relief. They were now at Etampes, after a run of an hour and\na half from Paris, and what with the increased warmth of the sun, the\ndust, and the noise, weariness was becoming apparent already. Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re had got up to speak a few words of kindly encouragement to\nMarie over the partition; and Sister Hyacinthe moreover again rose, and\ngaily clapped her hands that she might be heard and obeyed from one to\nthe other end of the carriage.\n\n\u201cCome, come!\u201d said she, \u201cwe mustn\u2019t think of our little troubles. Let us\npray and sing, and the Blessed Virgin will be with us.\u201d\n\nShe herself then began the rosary according to the rite of Our Lady of\nLourdes, and all the patients and pilgrims followed her. This was the\nfirst chaplet--the five joyful mysteries, the Annunciation, the\nVisitation, the Nativity, the Purification, and Jesus found in the\nTemple. Then they all began to chant the canticle: \u201cLet us contemplate\nthe heavenly Archangel!\u201d Their voices were lost amid the loud rumbling of\nthe wheels; you heard but the muffled surging of that human wave,\nstifling within the closed carriage which rolled on and on without a\npause.\n\nAlthough M. de Guersaint was a worshipper, he could never follow a hymn\nto the end. He got up, sat down again, and finished by resting his elbow\non the partition and conversing in an undertone with a patient who sat\nagainst this same partition in the next compartment. The patient in\nquestion was a thick-set man of fifty, with a good-natured face and a\nlarge head, completely bald. His name was Sabathier, and for fifteen\nyears he had been stricken with ataxia. He only suffered pain by fits and\nstarts, but he had quite lost the use of his legs, which his wife, who\naccompanied him, moved for him as though they had been dead legs,\nwhenever they became too heavy, weighty like bars of lead.\n\n\u201cYes, monsieur,\u201d he said, \u201csuch as you see me, I was formerly fifth-class\nprofessor at the Lyc\u00e9e Charlemagne. At first I thought that it was mere\nsciatica, but afterwards I was seized with sharp, lightning-like pains,\nred-hot sword thrusts, you know, in the muscles. For nearly ten years the\ndisease kept on mastering me more and more. I consulted all the doctors,\ntried every imaginable mineral spring, and now I suffer less, but I can\nno longer move from my seat. And then, after long living without a\nthought of religion, I was led back to God by the idea that I was too\nwretched, and that Our Lady of Lourdes could not do otherwise than take\npity on me.\u201d\n\nFeeling interested, Pierre in his turn had leant over the partition and\nwas listening.\n\n\u201cIs it not so, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d continued M. Sabathier. \u201cIs not\nsuffering the best awakener of souls? This is the seventh year that I am\ngoing to Lourdes without despairing of cure. This year the Blessed Virgin\nwill cure me, I feel sure of it. Yes, I expect to be able to walk about\nagain; I now live solely in that hope.\u201d\n\nM. Sabathier paused, he wished his wife to push his legs a little more to\nthe left; and Pierre looked at him, astonished to find such obstinate\nfaith in a man of intellect, in one of those university professors who,\nas a rule, are such Voltairians. How could the belief in miracles have\ngerminated and taken root in this man\u2019s brain? As he himself said, great\nsuffering alone explained this need of illusion, this blossoming of\neternal and consolatory hope.\n\n\u201cAnd my wife and I,\u201d resumed the ex-professor, \u201care dressed, you see, as\npoor folks, for I wished to go as a mere pauper this year, and applied\nfor _hospitalisation_ in a spirit of humility in order that the Blessed\nVirgin might include me among the wretched, her children--only, as I did\nnot wish to take the place of a real pauper, I gave fifty francs to the\nHospitalite, and this, as you are aware, gives one the right to have a\npatient of one\u2019s own in the pilgrimage. I even know my patient. He was\nintroduced to me at the railway station. He is suffering from\ntuberculosis, it appears, and seemed to me very low, very low.\u201d\n\nA fresh interval of silence ensued. \u201cWell,\u201d said M. Sabathier at last,\n\u201cmay the Blessed Virgin save him also, she who can do everything. I shall\nbe so happy; she will have loaded me with favours.\u201d\n\nThen the three men, isolating themselves from the others, went on\nconversing together, at first on medical subjects, and at last diverging\ninto a discussion on romanesque architecture, _\u00e0 propos_ of a steeple\nwhich they had perceived on a hillside, and which every pilgrim had\nsaluted with a sign of the cross. Swayed once more by the habits of\ncultivated intellect, the young priest and his two companions forgot\nthemselves together in the midst of their fellow-passengers, all those\npoor, suffering, simple-minded folk, whom wretchedness stupefied. Another\nhour went by, two more canticles had just been sung, and the stations of\nToury and Les Aubrais had been left behind, when, at Beaugency, they at\nlast ceased their chat, on hearing Sister Hyacinthe clap her hands and\nintonate in her fresh, sonorous voice:\n\n\u201c_Parce, Domine, parce populo tuo_.\u201d\n\nAnd then the chant went on; all voices became mingled in that\never-surging wave of prayer which stilled pain, excited hope, and little\nby little penetrated the entire being, harassed by the haunting thought\nof the grace and cure which one and all were going to seek so far away.\n\nHowever, as Pierre sat down again, he saw that Marie was very pale, and\nhad her eyes closed. By the painful contraction of her features he could\ntell that she was not asleep. \u201cAre you in great suffering?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cYes, yes, I suffer dreadfully. I shall never last to the end. It is this\nincessant jolting.\u201d\n\nShe moaned, raised her eyelids, and, half-fainting, remained in a sitting\nposture, her eyes turned on the other sufferers. In the adjoining\ncompartment, La Grivotte, hitherto stretched out, scarce breathing, like\na corpse, had just raised herself up in front of M. Sabathier. She was a\ntall, slip-shod, singular-looking creature of over thirty, with a round,\nravaged face, which her frizzy hair and flaming eyes rendered almost\npretty. She had reached the third stage of phthisis.\n\n\u201cEh, mademoiselle,\u201d she said, addressing herself in a hoarse, indistinct\nvoice to Marie, \u201chow nice it would be if we could only doze off a little.\nBut it can\u2019t be managed; all these wheels keep on whirling round and\nround in one\u2019s head.\u201d\n\nThen, although it fatigued her to speak, she obstinately went on talking,\nvolunteering particulars about herself. She was a mattress-maker, and\nwith one of her aunts had long gone from yard to yard at Bercy to comb\nand sew up mattresses. And, indeed, it was to the pestilential wool which\nshe had combed in her youth that she ascribed her malady. For five years\nshe had been making the round of the hospitals of Paris, and she spoke\nfamiliarly of all the great doctors. It was the Sisters of Charity, at\nthe Lariboisiere hospital, who, finding that she had a passion for\nreligious ceremonies, had completed her conversion, and convinced her\nthat the Virgin awaited her at Lourdes to cure her.\n\n\u201cI certainly need it,\u201d said she. \u201cThe doctors say that I have one lung\ndone for, and that the other one is scarcely any better. There are great\nbig holes you know. At first I only felt bad between the shoulders and\nspat up some froth. But then I got thin, and became a dreadful sight. And\nnow I\u2019m always in a sweat, and cough till I think I\u2019m going to bring my\nheart up. And I can no longer spit. And I haven\u2019t the strength to stand,\nyou see. I can\u2019t eat.\u201d\n\nA stifling sensation made her pause, and she became livid.\n\n\u201cAll the same I prefer being in my skin instead of in that of the Brother\nin the compartment behind you. He has the same complaint as I have, but\nhe is in a worse state that I am.\u201d\n\nShe was mistaken. In the farther compartment, beyond Marie, there was\nindeed a young missionary, Brother Isidore, who was lying on a mattress\nand could not be seen, since he was unable to raise even a finger. But he\nwas not suffering from phthisis. He was dying of inflammation of the\nliver, contracted in Senegal. Very long and lank, he had a yellow face,\nwith skin as dry and lifeless as parchment. The abscess which had formed\nin his liver had ended by breaking out externally, and amidst the\ncontinuous shivering of fever, vomiting, and delirium, suppuration was\nexhausting him. His eyes alone were still alive, eyes full of\nunextinguishable love, whose flame lighted up his expiring face, a\npeasant face such as painters have given to the crucified Christ, common,\nbut rendered sublime at moments by its expression of faith and passion.\nHe was a Breton, the last puny child of an over-numerous family, and had\nleft his little share of land to his elder brothers. One of his sisters,\nMarthe, older than himself by a couple of years, accompanied him. She had\nbeen in service in Paris, an insignificant maid-of-all-work, but withal\nso devoted to her brother that she had left her situation to follow him,\nsubsisting scantily on her petty savings.\n\n\u201cI was lying on the platform,\u201d resumed La Grivotte, \u201cwhen he was put in\nthe carriage. There were four men carrying him--\u201d\n\nBut she was unable to speak any further, for just then an attack of\ncoughing shook her and threw her back upon the seat. She was suffocating,\nand the red flush on her cheek-bones turned blue. Sister Hyacinthe,\nhowever, immediately raised her head and wiped her lips with a linen\ncloth, which became spotted with blood. At the same time Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re gave her attention to a patient in front of her, who had just\nfainted. She was called Madame Vetu, and was the wife of a petty\nclockmaker of the Mouffetard district, who had not been able to shut up\nhis shop in order to accompany her to Lourdes. And to make sure that she\nwould be cared for she had sought and obtained _hospitalisation_. The\nfear of death was bringing her back to religion, although she had not set\nfoot in church since her first communion. She knew that she was lost,\nthat a cancer in the chest was eating into her; and she already had the\nhaggard, orange-hued mark of the cancerous patient. Since the beginning\nof the journey she had not spoken a word, but, suffering terribly, had\nremained with her lips tightly closed. Then all at once, she had swooned\naway after an attack of vomiting.\n\n\u201cIt is unbearable!\u201d murmured Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, who herself felt faint;\n\u201cwe must let in a little fresh air.\u201d\n\nSister Hyacinthe was just then laying La Grivotte to rest on her pillows,\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said she, \u201cwe will open the window for a few moments. But\nnot on this side, for I am afraid we might have a fresh fit of coughing.\nOpen the window on your side, madame.\u201d\n\nThe heat was still increasing, and the occupants of the carriage were\nstifling in that heavy evil-smelling atmosphere. The pure air which came\nin when the window was opened brought relief however. For a moment there\nwere other duties to be attended to, a clearance and cleansing. The\nSister emptied the basins out of the window, whilst the lady-hospitaller\nwiped the shaking floor with a sponge. Next, things had to be set in\norder; and then came a fresh anxiety, for the fourth patient, a slender\ngirl whose face was entirely covered by a black fichu, and who had not\nyet moved, was saying that she felt hungry.\n\nWith quiet devotion Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re immediately tendered her\nservices. \u201cDon\u2019t you trouble, Sister,\u201d she said, \u201cI will cut her bread\ninto little bits for her.\u201d\n\nMarie, with the need she felt of diverting her mind from her own\nsufferings, had already begun to take an interest in that motionless\nsufferer whose countenance was so thickly veiled, for she not unnaturally\nsuspected that it was a case of some distressing facial sore. She had\nmerely been told that the patient was a servant, which was true, but it\nhappened that the poor creature, a native of Picardy, named Elise\nRouquet, had been obliged to leave her situation, and seek a home with a\nsister who ill-treated her, for no hospital would take her in. Extremely\ndevout, she had for many months been possessed by an ardent desire to go\nto Lourdes.\n\nWhile Marie, with dread in her heart, waited for the fichu to be moved\naside, Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, having cut some bread into small pieces,\ninquired maternally: \u201cAre they small enough? Can you put them into your\nmouth?\u201d\n\nThereupon a hoarse voice growled confused words under the black fichu:\n\u201cYes, yes, madame.\u201d And at last the veil fell and Marie shuddered with\nhorror.\n\nIt was a case of lupus which had preyed upon the unhappy woman\u2019s nose and\nmouth. Ulceration had spread, and was hourly spreading--in short, all the\nhideous peculiarities of this terrible disease were in full process of\ndevelopment, almost obliterating the traces of what once were pleasing\nwomanly lineaments.\n\n\u201cOh, look, Pierre!\u201d Marie murmured, trembling. The priest in his turn\nshuddered as he beheld Elise Rouquet cautiously slipping the tiny pieces\nof bread into her poor shapeless mouth. Everyone in the carriage had\nturned pale at sight of the awful apparition. And the same thought\nascended from all those hope-inflated souls. Ah! Blessed Virgin, Powerful\nVirgin, what a miracle indeed if such an ill were cured!\n\n\u201cWe must not think of ourselves, my children, if we wish to get well,\u201d\n resumed Sister Hyacinthe, who still retained her encouraging smile.\n\nAnd then she made them say the second chaplet, the five sorrowful\nmysteries: Jesus in the Garden of Olives, Jesus scourged, Jesus crowned\nwith thorns, Jesus carrying the cross, and Jesus crucified. Afterwards\ncame the canticle: \u201cIn thy help, Virgin, do I put my trust.\u201d\n\nThey had just passed through Blois; for three long hours they had been\nrolling onward; and Marie, who had averted her eyes from Elise Rouquet,\nnow turned them upon a man who occupied a corner seat in the compartment\non her left, that in which Brother Isidore was lying. She had noticed\nthis man several times already. Poorly clad in an old black frock-coat,\nhe looked still young, although his sparse beard was already turning\ngrey; and, short and emaciated, he seemed to experience great suffering,\nhis fleshless, livid face being covered with sweat. However, he remained\nmotionless, ensconced in his corner, speaking to nobody, but staring\nstraight before him with dilated eyes. And all at once Marie noticed that\nhis eyelids were falling, and that he was fainting away.\n\nShe thereupon drew Sister\u2019s Hyacinthe\u2019s attention to him: \u201cLook, Sister!\nOne would think that that gentleman is dangerously ill.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhich one, my dear child?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat one, over there, with his head thrown back.\u201d\n\nGeneral excitement followed, all the healthy pilgrims rose up to look,\nand it occurred to Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re to call to Marthe, Brother\nIsidore\u2019s sister, and tell her to tap the man\u2019s hands.\n\n\u201cQuestion him,\u201d she added; \u201cask what ails him.\u201d\n\nMarthe drew near, shook the man, and questioned him.\n\nBut instead of an answer only a rattle came from his throat, and his eyes\nremained closed.\n\nThen a frightened voice was heard saying, \u201cI think he is going to die.\u201d\n\nThe dread increased, words flew about, advice was tendered from one to\nthe other end of the carriage. Nobody knew the man. He had certainly not\nobtained _hospitalisation_, for no white card was hanging from his neck.\nSomebody related, however, that he had seen him arrive, dragging himself\nalong, but three minutes or so before the train started; and that he had\nremained quite motionless, scarce breathing, ever since he had flung\nhimself with an air of intense weariness into that corner, where he was\nnow apparently dying. His ticket was at last seen protruding from under\nthe band of an old silk hat which was hung from a peg near him.\n\n\u201cAh, he is breathing again now!\u201d Sister Hyacinthe suddenly exclaimed.\n\u201cAsk him his name.\u201d\n\nHowever, on being again questioned by Marthe, the man merely gave vent to\na low plaint, an exclamation scarcely articulated, \u201cOh, how I suffer!\u201d\n\nAnd thenceforward that was the only answer that could be obtained from\nhim. With reference to everything that they wished to know, who he was,\nwhence he came, what his illness was, what could be done for him, he gave\nno information, but still and ever continued moaning, \u201cOh, how I\nsuffer--how I suffer!\u201d\n\nSister Hyacinthe grew restless with impatience. Ah, if she had only been\nin the same compartment with him! And she resolved that she would change\nher seat at the first station they should stop at. Only there would be no\nstoppage for a long time. The position was becoming terrible, the more so\nas the man\u2019s head again fell back.\n\n\u201cHe is dying, he is dying!\u201d repeated the frightened voice.\n\nWhat was to be done, _mon Dieu_? The Sister was aware that one of the\nFathers of the Assumption, Father Massias, was in the train with the Holy\nOils, ready to administer extreme unction to the dying; for every year\nsome of the patients passed away during the journey. But she did not dare\nto have recourse to the alarm signal. Moreover, in the _cantine_ van\nwhere Sister Saint Fran\u00e7ois officiated, there was a doctor with a little\nmedicine chest. If the sufferer should survive until they reached\nPoitiers, where there would be half an hour\u2019s stoppage, all possible help\nmight be given to him.\n\nBut on the other hand he might suddenly expire. However, they ended by\nbecoming somewhat calmer. The man, though still unconscious, began to\nbreathe in a more regular manner, and seemed to fall asleep.\n\n\u201cTo think of it, to die before getting there,\u201d murmured Marie with a\nshudder, \u201cto die in sight of the promised land!\u201d And as her father sought\nto reassure her she added: \u201cI am suffering--I am suffering dreadfully\nmyself.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave confidence,\u201d said Pierre; \u201cthe Blessed Virgin is watching over\nyou.\u201d\n\nShe could no longer remain seated, and it became necessary to replace her\nin a recumbent position in her narrow coffin. Her father and the priest\nhad to take every precaution in doing so, for the slightest hurt drew a\nmoan from her. And she lay there breathless, like one dead, her face\ncontracted by suffering, and surrounded by her regal fair hair. They had\nnow been rolling on, ever rolling on for nearly four hours. And if the\ncarriage was so greatly shaken, with an unbearable spreading tendency, it\nwas from its position at the rear part of the train. The coupling irons\nshrieked, the wheels growled furiously; and as it was necessary to leave\nthe windows partially open, the dust came in, acrid and burning; but it\nwas especially the heat which grew terrible, a devouring, stormy heat\nfalling from a tawny sky which large hanging clouds had slowly covered.\nThe hot carriages, those rolling boxes where the pilgrims ate and drank,\nwhere the sick lay in a vitiated atmosphere, amid dizzying moans,\nprayers, and hymns, became like so many furnaces.\n\nAnd Marie was not the only one whose condition had been aggravated;\nothers also were suffering from the journey. Resting in the lap of her\ndespairing mother, who gazed at her with large, tear-blurred eyes, little\nRose had ceased to stir, and had grown so pale that Madame Maze had twice\nleant forward to feel her hands, fearful lest she should find them cold.\nAt each moment also Madame Sabathier had to move her husband\u2019s legs, for\ntheir weight was so great, said he, that it seemed as if his hips were\nbeing torn from him. Brother Isidore too had just begun to cry out,\nemerging from his wonted torpor; and his sister had only been able to\nassuage his sufferings by raising him, and clasping him in her arms. La\nGrivotte seemed to be asleep, but a continuous hiccoughing shook her, and\na tiny streamlet of blood dribbled from her mouth. Madame Vetu had again\nvomited, Elise Rouquet no longer thought of hiding the frightful sore\nopen on her face. And from the man yonder, breathing hard, there still\ncame a lugubrious rattle, as though he were at every moment on the point\nof expiring. In vain did Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and Sister Hyacinthe lavish\ntheir attentions on the patients, they could but slightly assuage so much\nsuffering. At times it all seemed like an evil dream--that carriage of\nwretchedness and pain, hurried along at express speed, with a continuous\nshaking and jolting which made everything hanging from the pegs--the old\nclothes, the worn-out baskets mended with bits of string--swing to and\nfro incessantly. And in the compartment at the far end, the ten female\npilgrims, some old, some young, and all pitifully ugly, sang on without a\npause in cracked voices, shrill and dreary.\n\nThen Pierre began to think of the other carriages of the train, that\nwhite train which conveyed most, if not all, of the more seriously\nafflicted patients; these carriages were rolling along, all displaying\nsimilar scenes of suffering among the three hundred sick and five hundred\nhealthy pilgrims crowded within them. And afterwards he thought of the\nother trains which were leaving Paris that day, the grey train and the\nblue train* which had preceded the white one, the green train, the yellow\ntrain, the pink train, the orange train which were following it. From\nhour to hour trains set out from one to the other end of France. And he\nthought, too, of those which that same morning had started from Orleans,\nLe Mans, Poitiers, Bordeaux, Marseilles, and Carcassonne. Coming from all\nparts, trains were rushing across that land of France at the same hour,\nall directing their course yonder towards the holy Grotto, bringing\nthirty thousand patients and pilgrims to the Virgin\u2019s feet. And he\nreflected that other days of the year witnessed a like rush of human\nbeings, that not a week went by without Lourdes beholding the arrival of\nsome pilgrimage; that it was not merely France which set out on the\nmarch, but all Europe, the whole world; that in certain years of great\nreligious fervour there had been three hundred thousand, and even five\nhundred thousand, pilgrims and patients streaming to the spot.\n\n  * Different-coloured tickets are issued for these trains; it is for\n    this reason that they are called the white, blue, and grey trains,\n    etc.--Trans.\n\nPierre fancied that he could hear those flying trains, those trains from\neverywhere, all converging towards the same rocky cavity where the tapers\nwere blazing. They all rumbled loudly amid the cries of pain and snatches\nof hymns wafted from their carriages. They were the rolling hospitals of\ndisease at its last stage, of human suffering rushing to the hope of\ncure, furiously seeking consolation between attacks of increased\nseverity, with the ever-present threat of death--death hastened,\nsupervening under awful conditions, amidst the mob-like scramble. They\nrolled on, they rolled on again and again, they rolled on without a\npause, carrying the wretchedness of the world on its way to the divine\nillusion, the health of the infirm, the consolation of the afflicted.\n\nAnd immense pity overflowed from Pierre\u2019s heart, human compassion for all\nthe suffering and all the tears that consumed weak and naked men. He was\nsad unto death and ardent charity burnt within him, the unextinguishable\nflame as it were of his fraternal feelings towards all things and beings.\n\nWhen they left the station of Saint Pierre des Corps at half-past ten,\nSister Hyacinthe gave the signal, and they recited the third chaplet, the\nfive glorious mysteries, the Resurrection of Our Lord, the Ascension of\nOur Lord, the Mission of the Holy Ghost, the Assumption of the Most\nBlessed Virgin, the Crowning of the Most Blessed Virgin. And afterwards\nthey sang the canticle of Bernadette, that long, long chant, composed of\nsix times ten couplets, to which the ever recurring Angelic Salutation\nserves as a refrain--a prolonged lullaby slowly besetting one until it\nends by penetrating one\u2019s entire being, transporting one into ecstatic\nsleep, in delicious expectancy of a miracle.\n\n\n\n\nII. PIERRE AND MARIE\n\nTHE green landscapes of Poitou were now defiling before them, and Abb\u00e9\nPierre Froment, gazing out of the window, watched the trees fly away\ntill, little by little, he ceased to distinguish them. A steeple appeared\nand then vanished, and all the pilgrims crossed themselves. They would\nnot reach Poitiers until twelve-thirty-five, and the train was still\nrolling on amid the growing weariness of that oppressive, stormy day.\nFalling into a deep reverie, the young priest no longer heard the words\nof the canticle, which sounded in his ears merely like a slow, wavy\nlullaby.\n\nForgetfulness of the present had come upon him, an awakening of the past\nfilled his whole being. He was reascending the stream of memory,\nreascending it to its source. He again beheld the house at Neuilly, where\nhe had been born and where he still lived, that home of peace and toil,\nwith its garden planted with a few fine trees, and parted by a quickset\nhedge and palisade from the garden of the neighbouring house, which was\nsimilar to his own. He was again three, perhaps four, years old, and\nround a table, shaded by the big horse-chestnut tree he once more beheld\nhis father, his mother, and his elder brother at _d\u00e9jeuner_. To his\nfather, Michel Froment, he could give no distinct lineaments; he pictured\nhim but faintly, vaguely, renowned as an illustrious chemist, bearing the\ntitle of Member of the Institute, and leading a cloistered life in the\nlaboratory which he had installed in that secluded, deserted suburb.\nHowever he could plainly see his first brother Guillaume, then fourteen\nyears of age, whom some holiday had brought from college that morning,\nand then and even more vividly his mother, so gentle and so quiet, with\neyes so full of active kindliness. Later on he learnt what anguish had\nracked that religious soul, that believing woman who, from esteem and\ngratitude, had resignedly accepted marriage with an unbeliever, her\nsenior by fifteen years, to whom her relatives were indebted for great\nservices. He, Pierre, the tardy offspring of this union, born when his\nfather was already near his fiftieth year, had only known his mother as a\nrespectful, conquered woman in the presence of her husband, whom she had\nlearnt to love passionately, with the frightful torment of knowing,\nhowever, that he was doomed to perdition. And, all at once, another\nmemory flashed upon the young priest, the terrible memory of the day when\nhis father had died, killed in his laboratory by an accident, the\nexplosion of a retort. He, Pierre, had then been five years old, and he\nremembered the slightest incidents--his mother\u2019s cry when she had found\nthe shattered body among the remnants of the chemical appliances, then\nher terror, her sobs, her prayers at the idea that God had slain the\nunbeliever, damned him for evermore. Not daring to burn his books and\npapers, she had contented herself with locking up the laboratory, which\nhenceforth nobody entered. And from that moment, haunted by a vision of\nhell, she had had but one idea, to possess herself of her second son, who\nwas still so young, to give him a strictly religious training, and\nthrough him to ransom her husband--secure his forgiveness from God.\nGuillaume, her elder boy, had already ceased to belong to her, having\ngrown up at college, where he had been won over by the ideas of the\ncentury; but she resolved that the other, the younger one, should not\nleave the house, but should have a priest as tutor; and her secret dream,\nher consuming hope, was that she might some day see him a priest himself,\nsaying his first mass and solacing souls whom the thought of eternity\ntortured.\n\nThen between green, leafy boughs, flecked with sunlight, another figure\nrose vividly before Pierre\u2019s eyes. He suddenly beheld Marie de Guersaint\nas he had seen her one morning through a gap in the hedge dividing the\ntwo gardens. M. de Guersaint, who belonged to the petty Norman\n_noblesse_, was a combination of architect and inventor; and he was at\nthat time busy with a scheme of model dwellings for the poor, to which\nchurches and schools were to be attached; an affair of considerable\nmagnitude, planned none too well, however, and in which, with his\ncustomary impetuosity, the lack of foresight of an imperfect artist, he\nwas risking the three hundred thousand francs that he possessed. A\nsimilarity of religious faith had drawn Madame de Guersaint and Madame\nFroment together; but the former was altogether a superior woman,\nperspicuous and rigid, with an iron hand which alone prevented her\nhousehold from gliding to a catastrophe; and she was bringing up her two\ndaughters, Blanche and Marie, in principles of narrow piety, the elder\none already being as grave as herself, whilst the younger, albeit very\ndevout, was still fond of play, with an intensity of life within her\nwhich found vent in gay peals of sonorous laughter. From their early\nchildhood Pierre and Marie played together, the hedge was ever being\ncrossed, the two families constantly mingled. And on that clear sunshiny\nmorning, when he pictured her parting the leafy branches she was already\nten years old. He, who was sixteen, was to enter the seminary on the\nfollowing Tuesday. Never had she seemed to him so pretty. Her hair, of a\npure golden hue, was so long that when it was let down it sufficed to\nclothe her. Well did he remember her face as it had been, with round\ncheeks, blue eyes, red mouth, and skin of dazzling, snowy whiteness. She\nwas indeed as gay and brilliant as the sun itself, a transplendency. Yet\nthere were tears at the corners of her eyes, for she was aware of his\ncoming departure. They sat down together at the far end of the garden, in\nthe shadow cast by the hedge. Their hands mingled, and their hearts were\nvery heavy. They had, however, never exchanged any vows amid their\npastimes, for their innocence was absolute. But now, on the eve of\nseparation, their mutual tenderness rose to their lips, and they spoke\nwithout knowing, swore that they would ever think of one another, and\nfind one another again, some day, even as one meets in heaven to be very,\nvery happy. Then, without understanding how it happened, they clasped\neach other tightly, to the point of suffocation, and kissed each other\u2019s\nface, weeping, the while, hot tears. And it was that delightful memory\nwhich Pierre had ever carried with him, which he felt alive within him\nstill, after so many years, and after so many painful renunciations.\n\nJust then a more violent shock roused him from his reverie. He turned his\neyes upon the carriage and vaguely espied the suffering beings it\ncontained--Madame Maze motionless, overwhelmed with grief; little Rose\ngently moaning in her mother\u2019s lap; La Grivotte, whom a hoarse cough was\nchoking. For a moment Sister Hyacinthe\u2019s gay face shone out amidst the\nwhiteness of her coif and wimple, dominating all the others. The painful\njourney was continuing, with a ray of divine hope still and ever shining\nyonder. Then everything slowly vanished from Pierre\u2019s eyes as a fresh\nwave of memory brought the past back from afar; and nothing of the\npresent remained save the lulling hymn, the indistinct voices of\ndreamland, emerging from the invisible.\n\nHenceforth he was at the seminary. The classrooms, the recreation ground\nwith its trees, rose up clearly before him. But all at once he only\nbeheld, as in a mirror, the youthful face which had then been his, and he\ncontemplated it and scrutinised it, as though it had been the face of a\nstranger. Tall and slender, he had an elongated visage, with an unusually\ndeveloped forehead, lofty and straight like a tower; whilst his jaws\ntapered, ending in a small refined chin. He seemed, in fact, to be all\nbrains; his mouth, rather large, alone retained an expression of\ntenderness. Indeed, when his usually serious face relaxed, his mouth and\neyes acquired an exceedingly soft expression, betokening an unsatisfied,\nhungry desire to love, devote oneself, and live. But immediately\nafterwards, the look of intellectual passion would come back again, that\nintellectuality which had ever consumed him with an anxiety to understand\nand know. And it was with surprise that he now recalled those years of\nseminary life. How was it that he had so long been able to accept the\nrude discipline of blind faith, of obedient belief in everything without\nthe slightest examination? It had been required of him that he should\nabsolutely surrender his reasoning faculties, and he had striven to do\nso, had succeeded indeed in stifling his torturing need of truth.\nDoubtless he had been softened, weakened by his mother\u2019s tears, had been\npossessed by the sole desire to afford her the great happiness she dreamt\nof. Yet now he remembered certain quiverings of revolt; he found in the\ndepths of his mind the memory of nights which he had spent in weeping\nwithout knowing why, nights peopled with vague images, nights through\nwhich galloped the free, virile life of the world, when Marie\u2019s face\nincessantly returned to him, such as he had seen it one morning, dazzling\nand bathed in tears, while she embraced him with her whole soul. And that\nalone now remained; his years of religious study with their monotonous\nlessons, their ever similar exercises and ceremonies, had flown away into\nthe same haze, into a vague half-light, full of mortal silence.\n\nThen, just as the train had passed though a station at full speed, with\nthe sudden uproar of its rush there arose within him a succession of\nconfused visions. He had noticed a large deserted enclosure, and fancied\nthat he could see himself within it at twenty years of age. His reverie\nwas wandering. An indisposition of rather long duration had, however, at\none time interrupted his studies, and led to his being sent into the\ncountry. He had remained for a long time without seeing Marie; during his\nvacations spent at Neuilly he had twice failed to meet her, for she was\nalmost always travelling. He knew that she was very ill, in consequence\nof a fall from a horse when she was thirteen, a critical moment in a\ngirl\u2019s life; and her despairing mother, perplexed by the contradictory\nadvice of medical men, was taking her each year to a different\nwatering-place. Then he learnt the startling news of the sudden tragical\ndeath of that mother, who was so severe and yet so useful to her kin. She\nhad been carried off in five days by inflammation of the lungs, which she\nhad contracted one evening whilst she was out walking at La Bourboule,\nthrough having taken off her mantle to place it round the shoulders of\nMarie, who had been conveyed thither for treatment. It had been necessary\nthat the father should at once start off to fetch his daughter, who was\nmad with grief, and the corpse of his wife, who had been so suddenly torn\nfrom him. And unhappily, after losing her, the affairs of the family went\nfrom bad to worse in the hands of this architect, who, without counting,\nflung his fortune into the yawning gulf of his unsuccessful enterprises.\nMarie no longer stirred from her couch; only Blanche remained to manage\nthe household, and she had matters of her own to attend to, being busy\nwith the last examinations which she had to pass, the diplomas which she\nwas obstinately intent on securing, foreseeing as she did that she would\nsomeday have to earn her bread.\n\nAll at once, from amidst this mass of confused, half-forgotten incidents,\nPierre was conscious of the rise of a vivid vision. Ill-health, he\nremembered, had again compelled him to take a holiday. He had just\ncompleted his twenty-fourth year, he was greatly behindhand, having so\nfar only secured the four minor orders; but on his return a\nsub-deaconship would be conferred on him, and an inviolable vow would\nbind him for evermore. And the Guersaints\u2019 little garden at Neuilly,\nwhither he had formerly so often gone to play, again distinctly appeared\nbefore him. Marie\u2019s couch had been rolled under the tall trees at the far\nend of the garden near the hedge, they were alone together in the sad\npeacefulness of an autumnal afternoon, and he saw Marie, clad in deep\nmourning for her mother and reclining there with legs inert; whilst he,\nalso clad in black, in a cassock already, sat near her on an iron garden\nchair. For five years she had been suffering. She was now eighteen, paler\nand thinner than formerly, but still adorable with her regal golden hair,\nwhich illness respected. He believed from what he had heard that she was\ndestined to remain infirm, condemned never to become a woman, stricken\neven in her sex. The doctors, who failed to agree respecting her case,\nhad abandoned her. Doubtless it was she who told him these things that\ndreary afternoon, whilst the yellow withered leaves rained upon them.\nHowever, he could not remember the words that they had spoken; her pale\nsmile, her young face, still so charming though already dimmed by\nregretfulness for life, alone remained present with him. But he realised\nthat she had evoked the far-off day of their parting, on that same spot,\nbehind the hedge flecked with sunlight; and all that was already as\nthough dead--their tears, their embrace, their promise to find one\nanother some day with a certainty of happiness. For although they had\nfound one another again, what availed it, since she was but a corpse, and\nhe was about to bid farewell to the life of the world? As the doctors\ncondemned her, as she would never be woman, nor wife, nor mother, he, on\nhis side, might well renounce manhood, and annihilate himself, dedicate\nhimself to God, to whom his mother gave him. And he still felt within him\nthe soft bitterness of that last interview: Marie smiling painfully at\nmemory of their childish play and prattle, and speaking to him of the\nhappiness which he would assuredly find in the service of God; so\npenetrated indeed with emotion at this thought, that she had made him\npromise that he would let her hear him say his first mass.\n\nBut the train was passing the station of Sainte-Maure, and just then a\nsudden uproar momentarily brought Pierre\u2019s attention back to the carriage\nand its occupants. He fancied that there had been some fresh seizure or\nswooning, but the suffering faces that he beheld were still the same,\never contracted by the same expression of anxious waiting for the divine\nsuccour which was so slow in coming. M. Sabathier was vainly striving to\nget his legs into a comfortable position, whilst Brother Isidore raised a\nfeeble continuous moan like a dying child, and Madame Vetu, a prey to\nterrible agony, devoured by her disease, sat motionless, and kept her\nlips tightly closed, her face distorted, haggard, and almost black. The\nnoise which Pierre had heard had been occasioned by Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re,\nwho whilst cleansing a basin had dropped the large zinc water-can. And,\ndespite their torment, this had made the patients laugh, like the simple\nsouls they were, rendered puerile by suffering. However, Sister\nHyacinthe, who rightly called them her children, children whom she\ngoverned with a word, at once set them saying the chaplet again, pending\nthe Angelus, which would only be said at Chatellerault, in accordance\nwith the predetermined programme. And thereupon the \u201cAves\u201d followed one\nafter the other, spreading into a confused murmuring and mumbling amidst\nthe rattling of the coupling irons and noisy growling of the wheels.\n\nPierre had meantime relapsed into his reverie, and beheld himself as he\nhad been at six-and-twenty, when ordained a priest. Tardy scruples had\ncome to him a few days before his ordination, a semi-consciousness that\nhe was binding himself without having clearly questioned his heart and\nmind. But he had avoided doing so, living in the dizzy bewilderment of\nhis decision, fancying that he had lopped off all human ties and feelings\nwith a voluntary hatchet-stroke. His flesh had surely died with his\nchildhood\u2019s innocent romance, that white-skinned girl with golden hair,\nwhom now he never beheld otherwise than stretched upon her couch of\nsuffering, her flesh as lifeless as his own. And he had afterwards made\nthe sacrifice of his mind, which he then fancied even an easier one,\nhoping as he did that determination would suffice to prevent him from\nthinking. Besides, it was too late, he could not recoil at the last\nmoment, and if when he pronounced the last solemn vow he felt a secret\nterror, an indeterminate but immense regret agitating him, he forgot\neverything, saving a divine reward for his efforts on the day when he\nafforded his mother the great and long-expected joy of hearing him say\nhis first mass.\n\nHe could still see the poor woman in the little church of Neuilly, which\nshe herself had selected, the church where the funeral service for his\nfather had been celebrated; he saw her on that cold November morning,\nkneeling almost alone in the dark little chapel, her hands hiding her\nface as she continued weeping whilst he raised the Host. It was there\nthat she had tasted her last happiness, for she led a sad and lonely\nlife, no longer seeing her elder son, who had gone away, swayed by other\nideas than her own, bent on breaking off all family intercourse since his\nbrother intended to enter the Church. It was said that Guillaume, a\nchemist of great talent, like his father, but at the same time a\nBohemian, addicted to revolutionary dreams, was living in a little house\nin the suburbs, where he devoted himself to the dangerous study of\nexplosive substances; and folks added that he was living with a woman who\nhad come no one knew whence. This it was which had severed the last tie\nbetween himself and his mother, all piety and propriety. For three years\nPierre had not once seen Guillaume, whom in his childhood he had\nworshipped as a kind, merry, and fatherly big brother.\n\nBut there came an awful pang to his heart--he once more beheld his mother\nlying dead. This again was a thunderbolt, an illness of scarce three\ndays\u2019 duration, a sudden passing away, as in the case of Madame de\nGuersaint. One evening, after a wild hunt for the doctor, he had found\nher motionless and quite white. She had died during his absence; and his\nlips had ever retained the icy thrill of the last kiss that he had given\nher. Of everything else--the vigil, the preparations, the funeral--he\nremembered nothing. All that had become lost in the black night of his\nstupor and grief, grief so extreme that he had almost died of it--seized\nwith shivering on his return from the cemetery, struck down by a fever\nwhich during three weeks had kept him delirious, hovering between life\nand death. His brother had come and nursed him and had then attended to\npecuniary matters, dividing the little inheritance, leaving him the house\nand a modest income and taking his own share in money. And as soon as\nGuillaume had found him out of danger he had gone off again, once more\nvanishing into the unknown. But then through what a long convalescence\nhe, Pierre, had passed, buried as it were in that deserted house. He had\ndone nothing to detain Guillaume, for he realised that there was an abyss\nbetween them. At first the solitude had brought him suffering, but\nafterwards it had grown very pleasant, whether in the deep silence of the\nrooms which the rare noises of the street did not disturb, or under the\nscreening, shady foliage of the little garden, where he could spend whole\ndays without seeing a soul. His favourite place of refuge, however, was\nthe old laboratory, his father\u2019s cabinet, which his mother for twenty\nyears had kept carefully locked up, as though to immure within it all the\nincredulity and damnation of the past. And despite the gentleness, the\nrespectful submissiveness which she had shown in former times, she would\nperhaps have some day ended by destroying all her husband\u2019s books and\npapers, had not death so suddenly surprised her. Pierre, however, had\nonce more had the windows opened, the writing-table and the bookcase\ndusted; and, installed in the large leather arm-chair, he now spent\ndelicious hours there, regenerated as it were by his illness, brought\nback to his youthful days again, deriving a wondrous intellectual delight\nfrom the perusal of the books which he came upon.\n\nThe only person whom he remembered having received during those two\nmonths of slow recovery was Doctor Chassaigne, an old friend of his\nfather, a medical man of real merit, who, with the one ambition of curing\ndisease, modestly confined himself to the _r\u00f4le_ of the practitioner. It\nwas in vain that the doctor had sought to save Madame Froment, but he\nflattered himself that he had extricated the young priest from grievous\ndanger; and he came to see him from time to time, to chat with him and\ncheer him, talking with him of his father, the great chemist, of whom he\nrecounted many a charming anecdote, many a particular, still glowing with\nthe flame of ardent friendship. Little by little, amidst the weak languor\nof convalescence, the son had thus beheld an embodiment of charming\nsimplicity, affection, and good nature rising up before him. It was his\nfather such as he had really been, not the man of stern science whom he\nhad pictured whilst listening to his mother. Certainly she had never\ntaught him aught but respect for that dear memory; but had not her\nhusband been the unbeliever, the man who denied, and made the angels\nweep, the artisan of impiety who sought to change the world that God had\nmade? And so he had long remained a gloomy vision, a spectre of damnation\nprowling about the house, whereas now he became the house\u2019s very light,\nclear and gay, a worker consumed by a longing for truth, who had never\ndesired anything but the love and happiness of all. For his part, Doctor\nChassaigne, a Pyrenean by birth, born in a far-off secluded village where\nfolks still believed in sorceresses, inclined rather towards religion,\nalthough he had not set his foot inside a church during the forty years\nhe had been living in Paris. However, his conviction was absolute: if\nthere were a heaven somewhere, Michel Froment was assuredly there, and\nnot merely there, but seated upon a throne on the Divinity\u2019s right hand.\n\nThen Pierre, in a few minutes, again lived through the frightful torment\nwhich, during two long months, had ravaged him. It was not that he had\nfound controversial works of an anti-religious character in the bookcase,\nor that his father, whose papers he sorted, had ever gone beyond his\ntechnical studies as a _savant_. But little by little, despite himself,\nthe light of science dawned upon him, an _ensemble_ of proven phenomena,\nwhich demolished dogmas and left within him nothing of the things which\nas a priest he should have believed. It seemed, in fact, as though\nillness had renewed him, as though he were again beginning to live and\nlearn amidst the physical pleasantness of convalescence, that still\nsubsisting weakness which lent penetrating lucidity to his brain. At the\nseminary, by the advice of his masters, he had always kept the spirit of\ninquiry, his thirst for knowledge, in check. Much of that which was\ntaught him there had surprised him; however, he had succeeded in making\nthe sacrifice of his mind required of his piety. But now, all the\nlaboriously raised scaffolding of dogmas was swept away in a revolt of\nthat sovereign mind which clamoured for its rights, and which he could no\nlonger silence. Truth was bubbling up and overflowing in such an\nirresistible stream that he realised he would never succeed in lodging\nerror in his brain again. It was indeed the total and irreparable ruin of\nfaith. Although he had been able to kill his flesh by renouncing the\nromance of his youth, although he felt that he had altogether mastered\ncarnal passion, he now knew that it would be impossible for him to make\nthe sacrifice of his intelligence. And he was not mistaken; it was indeed\nhis father again springing to life in the depths of his being, and at\nlast obtaining the mastery in that dual heredity in which, during so many\nyears, his mother had dominated. The upper part of his face, his\nstraight, towering brow, seemed to have risen yet higher, whilst the\nlower part, the small chin, the affectionate mouth, were becoming less\ndistinct. However, he suffered; at certain twilight hours when his\nkindliness, his need of love awoke, he felt distracted with grief at no\nlonger believing, distracted with desire to believe again; and it was\nnecessary that the lighted lamp should be brought in, that he should see\nclearly around him and within him, before he could recover the energy and\ncalmness of reason, the strength of martyrdom, the determination to\nsacrifice everything to the peace of his conscience.\n\nThen came the crisis. He was a priest and he no longer believed. This had\nsuddenly dawned before him like a bottomless abyss. It was the end of his\nlife, the collapse of everything. What should he do? Did not simple\nrectitude require that he should throw off the cassock and return to the\nworld? But he had seen some renegade priests and had despised them. A\nmarried priest with whom he was acquainted filled him with disgust. All\nthis, no doubt, was but a survival of his long religious training. He\nretained the notion that a priest cannot, must not, weaken; the idea that\nwhen one has dedicated oneself to God one cannot take possession of\noneself again. Possibly, also, he felt that he was too plainly branded,\ntoo different from other men already, to prove otherwise than awkward and\nunwelcome among them. Since he had been cut off from them he would remain\napart in his grievous pride; And, after days of anguish, days of struggle\nincessantly renewed, in which his thirst for happiness warred with the\nenergies of his returning health, he took the heroic resolution to remain\na priest, and an honest one. He would find the strength necessary for\nsuch abnegation. Since he had conquered the flesh, albeit unable to\nconquer the brain, he felt sure of keeping his vow of chastity, and that\nwould be unshakable; therein lay the pure, upright life which he was\nabsolutely certain of living. What mattered the rest if he alone\nsuffered, if nobody in the world suspected that his heart was reduced to\nashes, that nothing remained of his faith, that he was agonising amidst\nfearful falsehood? His rectitude would prove a firm prop; he would follow\nhis priestly calling like an honest man, without breaking any of the vows\nhe had taken; he would, in due accordance with the rites, discharge his\nduties as a minister of the Divinity, whom he would praise and glorify at\nthe altar, and distribute as the Bread of Life to the faithful. Who,\nthen, would dare to impute his loss of faith to him as a crime, even if\nthis great misfortune should some day become known? And what more could\nbe asked of him than lifelong devotion to his vow, regard for his\nministry, and the practice of every charity without the hope of any\nfuture reward? In this wise he ended by calming himself, still upright,\nstill bearing his head erect, with the desolate grandeur of the priest\nwho himself no longer believes, but continues watching over the faith of\nothers. And he certainly was not alone; he felt that he had many\nbrothers, priests with ravaged minds, who had sunk into incredulity, and\nwho yet, like soldiers without a fatherland, remained at the altar, and,\ndespite, everything, found the courage to make the divine illusion shine\nforth above the kneeling crowds.\n\nOn recovering his health Pierre had immediately resumed his service at\nthe little church of Neuilly. He said his mass there every morning. But\nhe had resolved to refuse any appointment, any preferment. Months and\nyears went by, and he obstinately insisted on remaining the least known\nand the most humble of those priests who are tolerated in a parish, who\nappear and disappear after discharging their duty. The acceptance of any\nappointment would have seemed to him an aggravation of his falsehood, a\ntheft from those who were more deserving than himself. And he had to\nresist frequent offers, for it was impossible for his merits to remain\nunnoticed. Indeed, his obstinate modesty provoked astonishment at the\narchbishop\u2019s palace, where there was a desire to utilise the power which\ncould be divined in him. Now and again, it is true, he bitterly regretted\nthat he was not useful, that he did not co-operate in some great work, in\nfurthering the purification of the world, the salvation and happiness of\nall, in accordance with his own ardent, torturing desire. Fortunately his\ntime was nearly all his own, and to console himself he gave rein to his\npassion for work by devouring every volume in his father\u2019s bookcase, and\nthen again resuming and considering his studies, feverishly preoccupied\nwith regard to the history of nations, full of a desire to explore the\ndepths of the social and religious crisis so that he might ascertain\nwhether it were really beyond remedy.\n\nIt was at this time, whilst rummaging one morning in one of the large\ndrawers in the lower part of the bookcase, that he discovered quite a\ncollection of papers respecting the apparitions of Lourdes. It was a very\ncomplete set of documents, comprising detailed notes of the\ninterrogatories to which Bernadette had been subjected, copies of\nnumerous official documents, and police and medical reports, in addition\nto many private and confidential letters of the greatest interest. This\ndiscovery had surprised Pierre, and he had questioned, Doctor Chassaigne\nconcerning it. The latter thereupon remembered that his friend, Michel\nFroment, had at one time passionately devoted himself to the study of\nBernadette\u2019s case; and he himself, a native of the village near Lourdes,\nhad procured for the chemist a portion of the documents in the\ncollection. Pierre, in his turn, then became impassioned, and for a whole\nmonth continued studying the affair, powerfully attracted by the\nvisionary\u2019s pure, upright nature, but indignant with all that had\nsubsequently sprouted up--the barbarous fetishism, the painful\nsuperstitions, and the triumphant simony. In the access of unbelief which\nhad come upon him, this story of Lourdes was certainly of a nature to\ncomplete the collapse of his faith. However, it had also excited his\ncuriosity, and he would have liked to investigate it, to establish beyond\ndispute what scientific truth might be in it, and render pure\nChristianity the service of ridding it of this scoria, this fairy tale,\nall touching and childish as it was. But he had been obliged to\nrelinquish his studies, shrinking from the necessity of making a journey\nto the Grotto, and finding that it would be extremely difficult to obtain\nthe information which he still needed; and of it all there at last only\nremained within him a tender feeling for Bernadette, of whom he could not\nthink without a sensation of delightful charm and infinite pity.\n\nThe days went by, and Pierre led a more and more lonely life. Doctor\nChassaigne had just left for the Pyrenees in a state of mortal anxiety.\nAbandoning his patients, he had set out for Cauterets with his ailing\nwife, who was sinking more and more each day, to the infinite distress of\nboth his charming daughter and himself. From that moment the little house\nat Neuilly fell into deathlike silence and emptiness. Pierre had no other\ndistraction than that of occasionally going to see the Guersaints, who\nhad long since left the neighbouring house, but whom he had found again\nin a small lodging in a wretched tenement of the district. And the memory\nof his first visit to them there was yet so fresh within him, that he\nfelt a pang at his heart as he recalled his emotion at sight of the\nhapless Marie.\n\nThat pang roused him from his reverie, and on looking round he perceived\nMarie stretched on the seat, even as he had found her on the day which he\nrecalled, already imprisoned in that gutter-like box, that coffin to\nwhich wheels were adapted when she was taken out-of-doors for an airing.\nShe, formerly so brimful of life, ever astir and laughing, was dying of\ninaction and immobility in that box. Of her old-time beauty she had\nretained nothing save her hair, which clad her as with a royal mantle,\nand she was so emaciated that she seemed to have grown smaller again, to\nhave become once more a child. And what was most distressing was the\nexpression on her pale face, the blank, frigid stare of her eyes which\ndid not see, the ever haunting absent look, as of one whom suffering\noverwhelmed. However, she noticed that Pierre was gazing at her, and at\nonce desired to smile at him; but irresistible moans escaped her, and\nwhen she did at last smile, it was like a poor smitten creature who is\nconvinced that she will expire before the miracle takes place. He was\novercome by it, and, amidst all the sufferings with which the carriage\nabounded, hers were now the only ones that he beheld and heard, as though\none and all were summed up in her, in the long and terrible agony of her\nbeauty, gaiety, and youth.\n\nThen by degrees, without taking his eyes from Marie, he again reverted to\nformer days, again lived those hours, fraught with a mournful and bitter\ncharm, which he had often spent beside her, when he called at the sorry\nlodging to keep her company. M. de Guersaint had finally ruined himself\nby trying to improve the artistic quality of the religious prints so\nwidely sold in France, the faulty execution of which quite irritated him.\nHis last resources had been swallowed up in the failure of a\ncolour-printing firm; and, heedless as he was, deficient in foresight,\never trusting in Providence, his childish mind continually swayed by\nillusions, he did not notice the awful pecuniary embarrassment of the\nhousehold; but applied himself to the study of aerial navigation, without\neven realising what prodigious activity his elder daughter, Blanche, was\nforced to display, in order to earn the living of her two children, as\nshe was wont to call her father and her sister. It was Blanche who, by\nrunning about Paris in the dust or the mud from morning to evening in\norder to give French or music lessons, contrived to provide the money\nnecessary for the unremitting attentions which Marie required. And Marie\noften experienced attacks of despair--bursting into tears and accusing\nherself of being the primary cause of their ruin, as for years and years\nnow it had been necessary to pay for medical attendance and for taking\nher to almost every imaginable spring--La Bourboule, Aix, Lamalou,\nAmelie-les-Bains, and others. And the outcome of ten years of varied\ndiagnosis and treatment was that the doctors had now abandoned her. Some\nthought her illness to be due to the rupture of certain ligaments, others\nbelieved in the presence of a tumour, others again to paralysis due to\ninjury to the spinal cord, and as she, with maidenly revolt, refused to\nundergo any examination, and they did not even dare to address precise\nquestions to her, they each contented themselves with their several\nopinions and declared that she was beyond cure. Moreover, she now solely\nrelied upon the divine help, having grown rigidly pious since she had\nbeen suffering, and finding her only relief in her ardent faith. Every\nmorning she herself read the holy offices, for to her great sorrow she\nwas unable to go to church. Her inert limbs indeed seemed quite lifeless,\nand she had sunk into a condition of extreme weakness, to such a point,\nin fact, that on certain days it became necessary for her sister to place\nher food in her mouth.\n\nPierre was thinking of this when all at once he recalled an evening he\nhad spent with her. The lamp had not yet been lighted, he was seated\nbeside her in the growing obscurity, and she suddenly told him that she\nwished to go to Lourdes, feeling certain that she would return cured. He\nhad experienced an uncomfortable sensation on hearing her speak in this\nfashion, and quite forgetting himself had exclaimed that it was folly to\nbelieve in such childishness. He had hitherto made it a rule never to\nconverse with her on religious matters, having not only refused to be her\nconfessor, but even to advise her with regard to the petty uncertainties\nof her pietism. In this respect he was influenced by feelings of mingled\nshame and compassion; to lie to her of all people would have made him\nsuffer, and, moreover, he would have deemed himself a criminal had he\neven by a breath sullied that fervent pure faith which lent her such\nstrength against pain. And so, regretting that he had not been able to\nrestrain his exclamation, he remained sorely embarrassed, when all at\nonce he felt the girl\u2019s cold hand take hold of his own. And then,\nemboldened by the darkness, she ventured in a gentle, faltering voice, to\ntell him that she already knew his secret, his misfortune, that\nwretchedness, so fearful for a priest, of being unable to believe.\n\nDespite himself he had revealed everything during their chats together,\nand she, with the delicate intuition of a friend, had been able to read\nhis conscience. She felt terribly distressed on his account; she deemed\nhim, with that mortal moral malady, to be more deserving of pity than\nherself. And then as he, thunderstruck, was still unable to find an\nanswer, acknowledging the truth of her words by his very silence, she\nagain began to speak to him of Lourdes, adding in a low whisper that she\nwished to confide him as well as herself to the protection of the Blessed\nVirgin, whom she entreated to restore him to faith. And from that evening\nforward she did not cease speaking on the subject, repeating again and\nagain, that if she went to Lourdes she would be surely cured. But she was\nprevented from making the journey by lack of means and she did not even\ndare to speak to her sister of the pecuniary question. So two months went\nby, and day by day she grew weaker, exhausted by her longing dreams, her\neyes ever turned towards the flashing light of the miraculous Grotto far\naway. Pierre then experienced many painful days. He had at first told\nMarie that he would not accompany her. But his decision was somewhat\nshaken by the thought that if he made up his mind to go, he might profit\nby the journey to continue his inquiries with regard to Bernadette, whose\ncharming image lingered in his heart. And at last he even felt penetrated\nby a delightful feeling, an unacknowledged hope, the hope that Marie was\nperhaps right, that the Virgin might take pity on him and restore to him\nhis former blind faith, the faith of the child who loves and does not\nquestion. Oh! to believe, to believe with his whole soul, to plunge into\nfaith for ever! Doubtless there was no other possible happiness. He\nlonged for faith with all the joyousness of his youth, with all the love\nthat he had felt for his mother, with all his burning desire to escape\nfrom the torment of understanding and knowing, and to slumber forever in\nthe depths of divine ignorance. It was cowardly, and yet so delightful;\nto exist no more, to become a mere thing in the hands of the Divinity.\nAnd thus he was at last possessed by a desire to make the supreme\nexperiment.\n\nA week later the journey to Lourdes was decided upon. Pierre, however,\nhad insisted on a final consultation of medical men in order to ascertain\nif it were really possible for Marie to travel; and this again was a\nscene which rose up before him, with certain incidents which he ever\nbeheld whilst others were already fading from his mind. Two of the\ndoctors who had formerly attended the patient, and one of whom believed\nin the rupture of certain ligaments, whilst the other asserted the case\nto be one of medullary paralysis, had ended by agreeing that this\nparalysis existed, and that there was also, possibly, some ligamentary\ninjury. In their opinion all the symptoms pointed to this diagnosis, and\nthe nature of the case seemed to them so evident that they did not\nhesitate to give certificates, each his own, agreeing almost word for\nword with one another, and so positive in character as to leave no room\nfor doubt. Moreover, they thought that the journey was practicable,\nthough it would certainly prove an exceedingly painful one. Pierre\nthereupon resolved to risk it, for he had found the doctors very prudent,\nand very desirous to arrive at the truth; and he retained but a confused\nrecollection of the third medical man who had been called in, a distant\ncousin of his named De Beauclair, who was young, extremely intelligent,\nbut little known as yet, and said by some to be rather strange in his\ntheories. This doctor, after looking at Marie for a long time, had asked\nsomewhat anxiously about her parents, and had seemed greatly interested\nby what was told him of M. de Guersaint, this architect and inventor with\na weak and exuberant mind. Then he had desired to measure the sufferer\u2019s\nvisual field, and by a slight discreet touch had ascertained the locality\nof the pain, which, under certain pressure, seemed to ascend like a heavy\nshifting mass towards the breast. He did not appear to attach importance\nto the paralysis of the legs; but on a direct question being put to him\nhe exclaimed that the girl ought to be taken to Lourdes and that she\nwould assuredly be cured there, if she herself were convinced of it.\nFaith sufficed, said he, with a smile; two pious lady patients of his,\nwhom he had sent thither during the preceding year, had returned in\nradiant health. He even predicted how the miracle would come about; it\nwould be like a lightning stroke, an awakening, an exaltation of the\nentire being, whilst the evil, that horrid, diabolical weight which\nstifled the poor girl would once more ascend and fly away as though\nemerging by her mouth. But at the same time he flatly declined to give a\ncertificate. He had failed to agree with his two _confr\u00e8res_, who treated\nhim coldly, as though they considered him a wild, adventurous young\nfellow. Pierre confusedly remembered some shreds of the discussion which\nhad begun again in his presence, some little part of the diagnosis framed\nby Beauclair. First, a dislocation of the organ, with a slight laceration\nof the ligaments, resulting from the patient\u2019s fall from her horse; then\na slow healing, everything returning to its place, followed by\nconsecutive nervous symptoms, so that the sufferer was now simply beset\nby her original fright, her attention fixed on the injured part, arrested\nthere amidst increasing pain, incapable of acquiring fresh notions unless\nit were under the lash of some violent emotion. Moreover, he also\nadmitted the probability of accidents due to nutrition, as yet\nunexplained, and on the course and importance of which he himself would\nnot venture to give an opinion. However, the idea that Marie _dreamt_ her\ndisease, that the fearful sufferings torturing her came from an injury\nlong since healed, appeared such a paradox to Pierre when he gazed at her\nand saw her in such agony, her limbs already stretched out lifeless on\nher bed of misery, that he did not even pause to consider it; but at that\nmoment felt simply happy in the thought that all three doctors agreed in\nauthorising the journey to Lourdes. To him it was sufficient that she\n_might_ be cured, and to attain that result he would have followed her to\nthe end of the world.\n\nAh! those last days of Paris, amid what a scramble they were spent! The\nnational pilgrimage was about to start, and in order to avoid heavy\nexpenses, it had occurred to him to obtain _hospitalisation_ for Marie.\nThen he had been obliged to run about in order to obtain his own\nadmission, as a helper, into the Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation. M.\nde Guersaint was delighted with the prospect of the journey, for he was\nfond of nature, and ardently desired to become acquainted with the\nPyrenees. Moreover, he did not allow anything to worry him, but was\nperfectly willing that the young priest should pay his railway fare, and\nprovide for him at the hotel yonder as for a child; and his daughter\nBlanche, having slipped a twenty-franc piece into his hand at the last\nmoment, he had even thought himself rich again. That poor brave Blanche\nhad a little hidden store of her own, savings to the amount of fifty\nfrancs, which it had been absolutely necessary to accept, for she became\nquite angry in her determination to contribute towards her sister\u2019s cure,\nunable as she was to form one of the party, owing to the lessons which\nshe had to give in Paris, whose hard pavements she must continue pacing,\nwhilst her dear ones were kneeling yonder, amidst the enchantments of the\nGrotto. And so the others had started on, and were now rolling, ever\nrolling along.\n\nAs they passed the station of Chatellerault a sudden burst of voices made\nPierre start, and drove away the torpor into which his reverie had\nplunged him. What was the matter? Were they reaching Poitiers? But it was\nonly half-past twelve o\u2019clock, and it was simply Sister Hyacinthe who had\nroused him, by making her patients and pilgrims say the Angelus, the\nthree \u201cAves\u201d thrice repeated. Then the voices burst forth, and the sound\nof a fresh canticle arose, and continued like a lamentation. Fully five\nand twenty minutes must elapse before they would reach Poitiers, where it\nseemed as if the half-hour\u2019s stoppage would bring relief to every\nsuffering! They were all so uncomfortable, so roughly shaken in that\nmalodorous, burning carriage! Such wretchedness was beyond endurance. Big\ntears coursed down the cheeks of Madame Vincent, a muttered oath escaped\nM. Sabathier usually so resigned, and Brother Isidore, La Grivotte, and\nMadame Vetu seemed to have become inanimate, mere waifs carried along by\na torrent. Moreover, Marie no longer answered, but had closed her eyes\nand would not open them, pursued as she was by the horrible vision of\nElise Rouquet\u2019s face, that face with its gaping cavities which seemed to\nher to be the image of death. And whilst the train increased its speed,\nbearing all this human despair onward, under the heavy sky, athwart the\nburning plains, there was yet another scare in the carriage. The strange\nman had apparently ceased to breathe, and a voice cried out that he was\nexpiring.\n\n\n\n\nIII. POITIERS\n\nAS soon as the train arrived at Poitiers, Sister Hyacinthe alighted in\nall haste, amidst the crowd of porters opening the carriage doors, and of\npilgrims darting forward to reach the platform. \u201cWait a moment, wait a\nmoment,\u201d she repeated, \u201clet me pass first. I wish to see if all is over.\u201d\n\nThen, having entered the other compartment, she raised the strange man\u2019s\nhead, and seeing him so pale, with such blank eyes, she did at first\nthink him already dead. At last, however, she detected a faint breathing.\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d she then exclaimed, \u201che still breathes. Quick! there is no time\nto be lost.\u201d And, perceiving the other Sister, she added: \u201cSister Claire\ndes Anges, will you go and fetch Father Massias, who must be in the third\nor fourth carriage of the train? Tell him that we have a patient in very\ngreat danger here, and ask him to bring the Holy Oils at once.\u201d\n\nWithout answering, the other Sister at once plunged into the midst of the\nscramble. She was small, slender, and gentle, with a meditative air and\nmysterious eyes, but withal extremely active.\n\nPierre, who was standing in the other compartment watching the scene, now\nventured to make a suggestion: \u201cAnd would it not be as well to fetch the\ndoctor?\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cYes, I was thinking of it,\u201d replied Sister Hyacinthe, \u201cand, Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9, it would be very kind of you to go for him yourself.\u201d\n\nIt so happened that Pierre intended going to the cantine carriage to\nfetch some broth for Marie. Now that she was no longer being jolted she\nfelt somewhat relieved, and had opened her eyes, and caused her father to\nraise her to a sitting posture. Keenly thirsting for fresh air, she would\nhave much liked them to carry her out on to the platform for a moment,\nbut she felt that it would be asking too much, that it would be too\ntroublesome a task to place her inside the carriage again. So M. de\nGuersaint remained by himself on the platform, near the open door,\nsmoking a cigarette, whilst Pierre hastened to the cantine van, where he\nknew he would find the doctor on duty, with his travelling pharmacy.\n\nSome other patients, whom one could not think of removing, also remained\nin the carriage. Amongst them was La Grivotte, who was stifling and\nalmost delirious, in such a state indeed as to detain Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re, who had arranged to meet her daughter Raymonde, with Madame\nVolmar and Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, in the refreshment-room, in order that they\nmight all four lunch together. But that unfortunate creature seemed on\nthe point of expiring, so how could she leave her all alone, on the hard\nseat of that carriage? On his side, M. Sabathier, likewise riveted to his\nseat, was waiting for his wife, who had gone to fetch a bunch of grapes\nfor him; whilst Marthe had remained with her brother the missionary,\nwhose faint moan never ceased. The others, those who were able to walk,\nhad hustled one another in their haste to alight, all eager as they were\nto escape for a moment from that cage of wretchedness where their limbs\nhad been quite numbed by the seven hours\u2019 journey which they had so far\ngone. Madame Maze had at once drawn apart, straying with melancholy face\nto the far end of the platform, where she found herself all alone; Madame\nVetu, stupefied by her sufferings, had found sufficient strength to take\na few steps, and sit down on a bench, in the full sunlight, where she did\nnot even feel the burning heat; whilst Elise Rouquet, who had had the\ndecency to cover her face with a black wrap, and was consumed by a desire\nfor fresh water, went hither and thither in search of a drinking\nfountain. And meantime Madame Vincent, walking slowly, carried her little\nRose about in her arms, trying to smile at her, and to cheer her by\nshowing her some gaudily coloured picture bills, which the child gravely\ngazed at, but did not see.\n\nPierre had the greatest possible difficulty in making his way through the\ncrowd inundating the platform. No effort of imagination could enable one\nto picture the living torrent of ailing and healthy beings which the\ntrain had here set down--a mob of more than a thousand persons just\nemerging from suffocation, and bustling, hurrying hither and thither.\nEach carriage had contributed its share of wretchedness, like some\nhospital ward suddenly evacuated; and it was now possible to form an idea\nof the frightful amount of suffering which this terrible white train\ncarried along with it, this train which disseminated a legend of horror\nwheresoever it passed. Some infirm sufferers were dragging themselves\nabout, others were being carried, and many remained in a heap on the\nplatform. There were sudden pushes, violent calls, innumerable displays\nof distracted eagerness to reach the refreshment-room and the _buvette_.\nEach and all made haste, going wheresoever their wants called them. This\nstoppage of half an hour\u2019s duration, the only stoppage there would be\nbefore reaching Lourdes, was, after all, such a short one. And the only\ngay note, amidst all the black cassocks and the threadbare garments of\nthe poor, never of any precise shade of colour, was supplied by the\nsmiling whiteness of the Little Sisters of the Assumption, all bright and\nactive in their snowy coifs, wimples, and aprons.\n\nWhen Pierre at last reached the cantine van near the middle of the train,\nhe found it already besieged. There was here a petroleum stove, with a\nsmall supply of cooking utensils. The broth prepared from concentrated\nmeat-extract was being warmed in wrought-iron pans, whilst the preserved\nmilk in tins was diluted and supplied as occasion required. There were\nsome other provisions, such as biscuits, fruit, and chocolate, on a few\nshelves. But Sister Saint-Fran\u00e7ois, to whom the service was entrusted, a\nshort, stout woman of five-and-forty, with a good-natured fresh-coloured\nface, was somewhat losing her head in the presence of all the hands so\neagerly stretched towards her. Whilst continuing her distribution, she\nlent ear to Pierre, as he called the doctor, who with his travelling\npharmacy occupied another corner of the van. Then, when the young priest\nbegan to explain matters, speaking of the poor unknown man who was dying,\na sudden desire came to her to go and see him, and she summoned another\nSister to take her place.\n\n\u201cOh! I wished to ask you, Sister, for some broth for a passenger who is\nill,\u201d said Pierre, at that moment turning towards her.\n\n\u201cVery well, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I will bring some. Go on in front.\u201d\n\nThe doctor and the abb\u00e9 went off in all haste, rapidly questioning and\nanswering one another, whilst behind them followed Sister Saint-Fran\u00e7ois,\ncarrying the bowl of broth with all possible caution amidst the jostling\nof the crowd. The doctor was a dark-complexioned man of eight-and-twenty,\nrobust and extremely handsome, with the head of a young Roman emperor,\nsuch as may still be occasionally met with in the sunburnt land of\nProvence. As soon as Sister Hyacinthe caught sight of him, she raised an\nexclamation of surprise: \u201cWhat! Monsieur Ferrand, is it you?\u201d Indeed,\nthey both seemed amazed at meeting in this manner.\n\nIt is, however, the courageous mission of the Sisters of the Assumption\nto tend the ailing poor, those who lie in agony in their humble garrets,\nand cannot pay for nursing; and thus these good women spend their lives\namong the wretched, installing themselves beside the sufferer\u2019s pallet in\nhis tiny lodging, and ministering to every want, attending alike to\ncooking and cleaning, and living there as servants and relatives, until\neither cure or death supervenes. And it was in this wise that Sister\nHyacinthe, young as she was, with her milky face, and her blue eyes which\never laughed, had installed herself one day in the abode of this young\nfellow, Ferrand, then a medical student, prostrated by typhoid fever, and\nso desperately poor that he lived in a kind of loft reached by a ladder,\nin the Rue du Four. And from that moment she had not stirred from his\nside, but had remained with him until she cured him, with the passion of\none who lived only for others, one who when an infant had been found in a\nchurch porch, and who had no other family than that of those who\nsuffered, to whom she devoted herself with all her ardently affectionate\nnature. And what a delightful month, what exquisite comradeship, fraught\nwith the pure fraternity of suffering, had followed! When he called her\n\u201cSister,\u201d it was really to a sister that he was speaking. And she was a\nmother also, a mother who helped him to rise, and who put him to bed as\nthough he were her child, without aught springing up between them save\nsupreme pity, the divine, gentle compassion of charity. She ever showed\nherself gay, sexless, devoid of any instinct excepting that which\nprompted her to assuage and to console. And he worshipped her, venerated\nher, and had retained of her the most chaste and passionate of\nrecollections.\n\n\u201cO Sister Hyacinthe!\u201d he murmured in delight.\n\nChance alone had brought them face to face again, for Ferrand was not a\nbeliever, and if he found himself in that train it was simply because he\nhad at the last moment consented to take the place of a friend who was\nsuddenly prevented from coming. For nearly a twelvemonth he had been a\nhouse-surgeon at the Hospital of La Pitie. However, this journey to\nLourdes, in such peculiar circumstances, greatly interested him.\n\nThe joy of the meeting was making them forget the ailing stranger. And so\nthe Sister resumed: \u201cYou see, Monsieur Ferrand, it is for this man that\nwe want you. At one moment we thought him dead. Ever since we passed\nAmboise he has been filling us with fear, and I have just sent for the\nHoly Oils. Do you find him so very low? Could you not revive him a\nlittle?\u201d\n\nThe doctor was already examining the man, and thereupon the sufferers who\nhad remained in the carriage became greatly interested and began to look.\nMarie, to whom Sister Saint-Fran\u00e7ois had given the bowl of broth, was\nholding it with such an unsteady hand that Pierre had to take it from\nher, and endeavour to make her drink; but she could not swallow, and she\nleft the broth scarce tasted, fixing her eyes upon the man waiting to see\nwhat would happen like one whose own existence is at stake.\n\n\u201cTell me,\u201d again asked Sister Hyacinthe, \u201chow do you find him? What is\nhis illness?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is his illness!\u201d muttered Ferrand; \u201che has every illness.\u201d\n\nThen, drawing a little phial from his pocket, he endeavoured to introduce\na few drops of the contents between the sufferer\u2019s clenched teeth. The\nman heaved a sigh, raised his eyelids and let them fall again; that was\nall, he gave no other sign of life.\n\nSister Hyacinthe, usually so calm and composed, so little accustomed to\ndespair, became impatient.\n\n\u201cBut it is terrible,\u201d said she, \u201cand Sister Claire des Anges does not\ncome back! Yet I told her plainly enough where she would find Father\nMassias\u2019s carriage. _Mon Dieu!_ what will become of us?\u201d\n\nSister Saint-Fran\u00e7ois, seeing that she could render no help, was now\nabout to return to the cantine van. Before doing so, however, she\ninquired if the man were not simply dying of hunger; for such cases\npresented themselves, and indeed she had only come to the compartment\nwith the view of offering some of her provisions. At last, as she went\noff, she promised that she would make Sister Claire des Anges hasten her\nreturn should she happen to meet her; and she had not gone twenty yards\nwhen she turned round and waved her arm to call attention to her\ncolleague, who with discreet short steps was coming back alone.\n\nLeaning out of the window, Sister Hyacinthe kept on calling to her, \u201cMake\nhaste, make haste! Well, and where is Father Massias?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe isn\u2019t there.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! not there?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. I went as fast as I could, but with all these people about it was\nnot possible to get there quickly. When I reached the carriage Father\nMassias had already alighted, and gone out of the station, no doubt.\u201d\n\nShe thereupon explained, that according to what she had heard, Father\nMassias and the priest of Sainte-Radegonde had some appointment together.\nIn other years the national pilgrimage halted at Poitiers for\nfour-and-twenty hours, and after those who were ill had been placed in\nthe town hospital the others went in procession to Sainte-Radegonde.*\nThat year, however, there was some obstacle to this course being\nfollowed, so the train was going straight on to Lourdes; and Father\nMassias was certainly with his friend the priest, talking with him on\nsome matter of importance.\n\n  * The church of Sainte-Radegonde, built by the saint of that name\n    in the sixth century, is famous throughout Poitou. In the crypt\n    between the tombs of Ste. Agnes and St. Disciole is that of Ste.\n    Radegonde herself, but it now only contains some particles of her\n    remains, as the greater portion was burnt by the Huguenots in\n    1562. On a previous occasion (1412) the tomb had been violated by\n    Jean, Duc de Berry, who wished to remove both the saint\u2019s head\n    and her two rings. Whilst he was making the attempt, however, the\n    skeleton is said to have withdrawn its hand so that he might not\n    possess himself of the rings. A greater curiosity which the church\n    contains is a footprint on a stone slab, said to have been left\n    by Christ when He appeared to Ste. Radegonde in her cell. This\n    attracts pilgrims from many parts.--Trans.\n\n\u201cThey promised to tell him and send him here with the Holy Oils as soon\nas they found him,\u201d added Sister Claire.\n\nHowever, this was quite a disaster for Sister Hyacinthe. Since Science\nwas powerless, perhaps the Holy Oils would have brought the sufferer some\nrelief. She had often seen that happen.\n\n\u201cO Sister, Sister, how worried I am!\u201d she said to her companion. \u201cDo you\nknow, I wish you would go back and watch for Father Massias and bring him\nto me as soon as you see him. It would be so kind of you to do so!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Sister,\u201d compliantly answered Sister Claire des Anges, and off she\nwent again with that grave, mysterious air of hers, wending her way\nthrough the crowd like a gliding shadow.\n\nFerrand, meantime, was still looking at the man, sorely distressed at his\ninability to please Sister Hyacinthe by reviving him. And as he made a\ngesture expressive of his powerlessness she again raised her voice\nentreatingly: \u201cStay with me, Monsieur Ferrand, pray stay,\u201d she said.\n\u201cWait till Father Massias comes--I shall be a little more at ease with\nyou here.\u201d\n\nHe remained and helped her to raise the man, who was slipping down upon\nthe seat. Then, taking a linen cloth, she wiped the poor fellow\u2019s face\nwhich a dense perspiration was continually covering. And the spell of\nwaiting continued amid the uneasiness of the patients who had remained in\nthe carriage, and the curiosity of the folks who had begun to assemble on\nthe platform in front of the compartment.\n\nAll at once however a girl hastily pushed the crowd aside, and, mounting\non the footboard, addressed herself to Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re: \u201cWhat is the\nmatter, mamma?\u201d she said. \u201cThey are waiting for you in the\nrefreshment-room.\u201d\n\nIt was Raymonde de Jonqui\u00e8re, who, already somewhat ripe for her\nfour-and-twenty years, was remarkably like her mother, being very dark,\nwith a pronounced nose, large mouth, and full, pleasant-looking face.\n\n\u201cBut, my dear, you can see for yourself. I can\u2019t leave this poor woman,\u201d\n replied the lady-hospitaller; and thereupon she pointed to La Grivotte,\nwho had been attacked by a fit of coughing which shook her frightfully.\n\n\u201cOh, how annoying, mamma!\u201d retorted Raymonde, \u201cMadame D\u00e9sagneaux and\nMadame Volmar were looking forward with so much pleasure to this little\nlunch together.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it can\u2019t be helped, my dear. At all events, you can begin without\nwaiting for me. Tell the ladies that I will come and join them as soon as\nI can.\u201d Then, an idea occurring to her, Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re added: \u201cWait\na moment, the doctor is here. I will try to get him to take charge of my\npatient. Go back, I will follow you. As you can guess, I am dying of\nhunger.\u201d\n\nRaymonde briskly returned to the refreshment-room whilst her mother\nbegged Ferrand to come into her compartment to see if he could do\nsomething to relieve La Grivotte. At Marthe\u2019s request he had already\nexamined Brother Isidore, whose moaning never ceased; and with a\nsorrowful gesture he had again confessed his powerlessness. However, he\nhastened to comply with Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re\u2019s appeal, and raised the\nconsumptive woman to a sitting posture in the hope of thus stopping her\ncough, which indeed gradually ceased. And then he helped the\nlady-hospitaller to make her swallow a spoonful of some soothing draught.\nThe doctor\u2019s presence in the carriage was still causing a stir among the\nailing ones. M. Sabathier, who was slowly eating the grapes which his\nwife had been to fetch him, did not, however, question Ferrand, for he\nknew full well what his answer would be, and was weary, as he expressed\nit, of consulting all the princes of science; nevertheless he felt\ncomforted as it were at seeing him set that poor consumptive woman on her\nfeet again. And even Marie watched all that the doctor did with\nincreasing interest, though not daring to call him herself, certain as\nshe also was that he could do nothing for her.\n\nMeantime, the crush on the platform was increasing. Only a quarter of an\nhour now remained to the pilgrims. Madame Vetu, whose eyes were open but\nwho saw nothing, sat like an insensible being in the broad sunlight, in\nthe hope possibly that the scorching heat would deaden her pains; whilst\nup and down, in front of her, went Madame Vincent ever with the same\nsleep-inducing step and ever carrying her little Rose, her poor ailing\nbirdie, whose weight was so trifling that she scarcely felt her in her\narms. Many people meantime were hastening to the water tap in order to\nfill their pitchers, cans, and bottles. Madame Maze, who was of refined\ntastes and careful of her person, thought of going to wash her hands\nthere; but just as she arrived she found Elise Rouquet drinking, and she\nrecoiled at sight of that disease-smitten face, so terribly disfigured\nand robbed of nearly all semblance of humanity. And all the others\nlikewise shuddered, likewise hesitated to fill their bottles, pitchers,\nand cans at the tap from which she had drunk.\n\nA large number of pilgrims had now begun to eat whilst pacing the\nplatform. You could hear the rhythmical taps of the crutches carried by a\nwoman who incessantly wended her way through the groups. On the ground, a\nlegless cripple was painfully dragging herself about in search of nobody\nknew what. Others, seated there in heaps, no longer stirred. All these\nsufferers, momentarily unpacked as it were, these patients of a\ntravelling hospital emptied for a brief half-hour, were taking the air\namidst the bewilderment and agitation of the healthy passengers; and the\nwhole throng had a frightfully woeful, poverty-stricken appearance in the\nbroad noontide light.\n\nPierre no longer stirred from the side of Marie, for M. de Guersaint had\ndisappeared, attracted by a verdant patch of landscape which could be\nseen at the far end of the station. And, feeling anxious about her, since\nshe had not been able to finish her broth, the young priest with a\nsmiling air tried to tempt her palate by offering to go and buy her a\npeach; but she refused it; she was suffering too much, she cared for\nnothing. She was gazing at him with her large, woeful eyes, on the one\nhand impatient at this stoppage which delayed her chance of cure, and on\nthe other terrified at the thought of again being jolted along that hard\nand endless railroad.\n\nJust then a stout gentleman whose full beard was turning grey, and who\nhad a broad, fatherly kind of face, drew near and touched Pierre\u2019s arm:\n\u201cExcuse me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said he, \u201cbut is it not in this carriage\nthat there is a poor man dying?\u201d\n\nAnd on the priest returning an affirmative answer, the gentleman became\nquite affable and familiar.\n\n\u201cMy name is Vigneron,\u201d he said; \u201cI am the head clerk at the Ministry of\nFinances, and applied for leave in order that I might help my wife to\ntake our son Gustave to Lourdes. The dear lad places all his hope in the\nBlessed Virgin, to whom we pray morning and evening on his behalf. We are\nin a second-class compartment of the carriage just in front of yours.\u201d\n\nThen, turning round, he summoned his party with a wave of the hand.\n\u201cCome, come!\u201d said he, \u201cit is here. The unfortunate man is indeed in the\nlast throes.\u201d\n\nMadame Vigneron was a little woman with the correct bearing of a\nrespectable _bourgeoise_, but her long, livid face denoted impoverished\nblood, terrible evidence of which was furnished by her son Gustave. The\nlatter, who was fifteen years of age, looked scarcely ten. Twisted out of\nshape, he was a mere skeleton, with his right leg so wasted, so reduced,\nthat he had to walk with a crutch. He had a small, thin face, somewhat\nawry, in which one saw little excepting his eyes, clear eyes, sparkling\nwith intelligence, sharpened as it were by suffering, and doubtless well\nable to dive into the human soul.\n\nAn old puffy-faced lady followed the others, dragging her legs along with\ndifficulty; and M. Vigneron, remembering that he had forgotten her,\nstepped back towards Pierre so that he might complete the introduction.\n\u201cThat lady,\u201d said he, \u201cis Madame Chaise, my wife\u2019s eldest sister. She\nalso wished to accompany Gustave, whom she is very fond of.\u201d And then,\nleaning forward, he added in a whisper, with a confidential air: \u201cShe is\nthe widow of Chaise, the silk merchant, you know, who left such an\nimmense fortune. She is suffering from a heart complaint which causes her\nmuch anxiety.\u201d\n\nThe whole family, grouped together, then gazed with lively curiosity at\nwhat was taking place in the railway carriage. People were incessantly\nflocking to the spot; and so that the lad might be the better able to\nsee, his father took him up in his arms for a moment whilst his aunt held\nthe crutch, and his mother on her side raised herself on tip-toe.\n\nThe scene in the carriage was still the same; the strange man was still\nstiffly seated in his corner, his head resting against the hard wood. He\nwas livid, his eyes were closed, and his mouth was twisted by suffering;\nand every now and then Sister Hyacinthe with her linen cloth wiped away\nthe cold sweat which was constantly covering his face. She no longer\nspoke, no longer evinced any impatience, but had recovered her serenity\nand relied on Heaven. From time to time she would simply glance towards\nthe platform to see if Father Massias were coming.\n\n\u201cLook at him, Gustave,\u201d said M. Vigneron to his son; \u201che must be\nconsumptive.\u201d\n\nThe lad, whom scrofula was eating away, whose hip was attacked by an\nabscess, and in whom there were already signs of necrosis of the\nvertebrae, seemed to take a passionate interest in the agony he thus\nbeheld. It did not frighten him, he smiled at it with a smile of infinite\nsadness.\n\n\u201cOh! how dreadful!\u201d muttered Madame Chaise, who, living in continual\nterror of a sudden attack which would carry her off, turned pale with the\nfear of death.\n\n\u201cAh! well,\u201d replied M. Vigneron, philosophically, \u201cit will come to each\nof us in turn. We are all mortal.\u201d\n\nThereupon, a painful, mocking expression came over Gustave\u2019s smile, as\nthough he had heard other words than those--perchance an unconscious\nwish, the hope that the old aunt might die before he himself did, that he\nwould inherit the promised half-million of francs, and then not long\nencumber his family.\n\n\u201cPut the boy down now,\u201d said Madame Vigneron to her husband. \u201cYou are\ntiring him, holding him by the legs like that.\u201d\n\nThen both she and Madame Chaise bestirred themselves in order that the\nlad might not be shaken. The poor darling was so much in need of care and\nattention. At each moment they feared that they might lose him. Even his\nfather was of opinion that they had better put him in the train again at\nonce. And as the two women went off with the child, the old gentleman\nonce more turned towards Pierre, and with evident emotion exclaimed: \u201cAh!\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, if God should take him from us, the light of our life\nwould be extinguished--I don\u2019t speak of his aunt\u2019s fortune, which would\ngo to other nephews. But it would be unnatural, would it not, that he\nshould go off before her, especially as she is so ill? However, we are\nall in the hands of Providence, and place our reliance in the Blessed\nVirgin, who will assuredly perform a miracle.\u201d\n\nJust then Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, having been reassured by Doctor Ferrand,\nwas able to leave La Grivotte. Before going off, however, she took care\nto say to Pierre: \u201cI am dying of hunger and am going to the\nrefreshment-room for a moment. But if my patient should begin coughing\nagain, pray come and fetch me.\u201d\n\nWhen, after great difficulty, she had managed to cross the platform and\nreach the refreshment-room, she found herself in the midst of another\nscramble. The better-circumstanced pilgrims had taken the tables by\nassault, and a great many priests were to be seen hastily lunching amidst\nall the clatter of knives, forks, and crockery. The three or four waiters\nwere not able to attend to all the requirements, especially as they were\nhampered in their movements by the crowd purchasing fruit, bread, and\ncold meat at the counter. It was at a little table at the far end of the\nroom that Raymonde was lunching with Madame D\u00e9sagneaux and Madame Volmar.\n\n\u201cAh! here you are at last, mamma!\u201d the girl exclaimed, as Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re approached. \u201cI was just going back to fetch you. You certainly\nought to be allowed time to eat!\u201d\n\nShe was laughing, with a very animated expression on her face, quite\ndelighted as she was with the adventures of the journey and this\nindifferent scrambling meal. \u201cThere,\u201d said she, \u201cI have kept you some\ntrout with green sauce, and there\u2019s a cutlet also waiting for you. We\nhave already got to the artichokes.\u201d\n\nThen everything became charming. The gaiety prevailing in that little\ncorner rejoiced the sight.\n\nYoung Madame D\u00e9sagneaux was particularly adorable. A delicate blonde,\nwith wild, wavy, yellow hair, a round, dimpled, milky face, a gay,\nlaughing disposition, and a remarkably good heart, she had made a rich\nmarriage, and for three years past had been wont to leave her husband at\nTrouville in the fine August weather, in order to accompany the national\npilgrimage as a lady-hospitaller. This was her great passion, an access\nof quivering pity, a longing desire to place herself unreservedly at the\ndisposal of the sick for five days, a real debauch of devotion from which\nshe returned tired to death but full of intense delight. Her only regret\nwas that she as yet had no children, and with comical passion, she\noccasionally expressed a regret that she had missed her true vocation,\nthat of a sister of charity.\n\n\u201cAh! my dear,\u201d she hastily said to Raymonde, \u201cdon\u2019t pity your mother for\nbeing so much taken up with her patients. She, at all events, has\nsomething to occupy her.\u201d And addressing herself to Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re,\nshe added: \u201cIf you only knew how long we find the time in our fine\nfirst-class carriage. We cannot even occupy ourselves with a little\nneedlework, as it is forbidden. I asked for a place with the patients,\nbut all were already distributed, so that my only resource will be to try\nto sleep tonight.\u201d\n\nShe began to laugh, and then resumed: \u201cYes, Madame Volmar, we will try to\nsleep, won\u2019t we, since talking seems to tire you?\u201d Madame Volmar, who\nlooked over thirty, was very dark, with a long face and delicate but\ndrawn features. Her magnificent eyes shone out like brasiers, though\nevery now and then a cloud seemed to veil and extinguish them. At the\nfirst glance she did not appear beautiful, but as you gazed at her she\nbecame more and more perturbing, till she conquered you and inspired you\nwith passionate admiration. It should be said though that she shrank from\nall self-assertion, comporting herself with much modesty, ever keeping in\nthe background, striving to hide her lustre, invariably clad in black and\nunadorned by a single jewel, although she was the wife of a Parisian\ndiamond-merchant.\n\n\u201cOh! for my part,\u201d she murmured, \u201cas long as I am not hustled too much I\nam well pleased.\u201d\n\nShe had been to Lourdes as an auxiliary lady-helper already on two\noccasions, though but little had been seen of her there--at the hospital\nof Our Lady of Dolours--as, on arriving, she had been overcome by such\ngreat fatigue that she had been forced, she said, to keep her room.\n\nHowever, Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, who managed the ward, treated her with\ngood-natured tolerance. \u201cAh! my poor friends,\u201d said she, \u201cthere will be\nplenty of time for you to exert yourselves. Get to sleep if you can, and\nyour turn will come when I can no longer keep up.\u201d Then addressing her\ndaughter, she resumed: \u201cAnd you would do well, darling, not to excite\nyourself too much if you wish to keep your head clear.\u201d\n\nRaymonde smiled and gave her mother a reproachful glance: \u201cMamma, mamma,\nwhy do you say that? Am I not sensible?\u201d she asked.\n\nDoubtless she was not boasting, for, despite her youthful, thoughtless\nair, the air of one who simply feels happy in living, there appeared in\nher grey eyes an expression of firm resolution, a resolution to shape her\nlife for herself.\n\n\u201cIt is true,\u201d the mother confessed with a little confusion, \u201cthis little\ngirl is at times more sensible than I am myself. Come, pass me the\ncutlet--it is welcome, I assure you. Lord! how hungry I was!\u201d\n\nThe meal continued, enlivened by the constant laughter of Madame\nD\u00e9sagneaux and Raymonde. The latter was very animated, and her face,\nwhich was already growing somewhat yellow through long pining for a\nsuitor, again assumed the rosy bloom of twenty. They had to eat very\nfast, for only ten minutes now remained to them. On all sides one heard\nthe growing tumult of customers who feared that they would not have time\nto take their coffee.\n\nAll at once, however, Pierre made his appearance; a fit of stifling had\nagain come over La Grivotte; and Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re hastily finished her\nartichoke and returned to her compartment, after kissing her daughter,\nwho wished her \u201cgood-night\u201d in a facetious way. The priest, however, had\nmade a movement of surprise on perceiving Madame Volmar with the red\ncross of the lady-hospitallers on her black bodice. He knew her, for he\nstill called at long intervals on old Madame Volmar, the\ndiamond-merchant\u2019s mother, who had been one of his own mother\u2019s friends.\nShe was the most terrible woman in the world, religious beyond all\nreason, so harsh and stern, moreover, as to close the very window\nshutters in order to prevent her daughter-in-law from looking into the\nstreet. And he knew the young woman\u2019s story, how she had been imprisoned\non the very morrow of her marriage, shut up between her mother-in-law,\nwho tyrannised over her, and her husband, a repulsively ugly monster who\nwent so far as to beat her, mad as he was with jealousy, although he\nhimself kept mistresses. The unhappy woman was not allowed out of the\nhouse excepting it were to go to mass. And one day, at La Trinit\u00e9, Pierre\nhad surprised her secret, on seeing her behind the church exchanging a\nfew hasty words with a well-groomed, distinguished-looking man.\n\nThe priest\u2019s sudden appearance in the refreshment-room had somewhat\ndisconcerted Madame Volmar.\n\n\u201cWhat an unexpected meeting, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9!\u201d she said, offering him her\nlong, warm hand. \u201cWhat a long time it is since I last saw you!\u201d And\nthereupon she explained that this was the third year she had gone to\nLourdes, her mother-in-law having required her to join the Association of\nOur Lady of Salvation. \u201cIt is surprising that you did not see her at the\nstation when we started,\u201d she added. \u201cShe sees me into the train and\ncomes to meet me on my return.\u201d\n\nThis was said in an apparently simple way, but with such a subtle touch\nof irony that Pierre fancied he could guess the truth. He knew that she\nreally had no religious principles at all, and that she merely followed\nthe rites and ceremonies of the Church in order that she might now and\nagain obtain an hour\u2019s freedom; and all at once he intuitively realised\nthat someone must be waiting for her yonder, that it was for the purpose\nof meeting him that she was thus hastening to Lourdes with her shrinking\nyet ardent air and flaming eyes, which she so prudently shrouded with a\nveil of lifeless indifference.\n\n\u201cFor my part,\u201d he answered, \u201cI am accompanying a friend of my childhood,\na poor girl who is very ill indeed. I must ask your help for her; you\nshall nurse her.\u201d\n\nThereupon she faintly blushed, and he no longer doubted the truth of his\nsurmise. However, Raymonde was just then settling the bill with the easy\nassurance of a girl who is expert in figures; and immediately afterwards\nMadame D\u00e9sagneaux led Madame Volmar away. The waiters were now growing\nmore distracted and the tables were fast being vacated; for, on hearing a\nbell ring, everybody had begun to rush towards the door.\n\nPierre, on his side, was hastening back to his carriage, when he was\nstopped by an old priest. \u201cAh! Monsieur le Cur\u00e9,\u201d he said, \u201cI saw you\njust before we started, but I was unable to get near enough to shake\nhands with you.\u201d\n\nThereupon he offered his hand to his brother ecclesiastic, who was\nlooking and smiling at him in a kindly way. The Abb\u00e9 Judaine was the\nparish priest of Saligny, a little village in the department of the Oise.\nTall and sturdy, he had a broad pink face, around which clustered a mass\nof white, curly hair, and it could be divined by his appearance that he\nwas a worthy man whom neither the flesh nor the spirit had ever\ntormented. He believed indeed firmly and absolutely, with a tranquil\ngodliness, never having known a struggle, endowed as he was with the\nready faith of a child who is unacquainted with human passions. And ever\nsince the Virgin at Lourdes had cured him of a disease of the eyes, by a\nfamous miracle which folks still talked about, his belief had become yet\nmore absolute and tender, as though impregnated with divine gratitude.\n\n\u201cI am pleased that you are with us, my friend,\u201d he gently said; \u201cfor\nthere is much in these pilgrimages for young priests to profit by. I am\ntold that some of them at times experience a feeling of rebellion. Well,\nyou will see all these poor people praying,--it is a sight which will\nmake you weep. How can one do otherwise than place oneself in God\u2019s\nhands, on seeing so much suffering cured or consoled?\u201d\n\nThe old priest himself was accompanying a patient; and he pointed to a\nfirst-class compartment, at the door of which hung a placard bearing the\ninscription: \u201cM. l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Judaine, Reserved.\u201d Then lowering his voice, he\nsaid: \u201cIt is Madame Dieulafay, you know, the great banker\u2019s wife. Their\nch\u00e2teau, a royal domain, is in my parish, and when they learned that the\nBlessed Virgin had vouchsafed me such an undeserved favour, they begged\nme to intercede for their poor sufferer. I have already said several\nmasses, and most sincerely pray for her. There, you see her yonder on the\nground. She insisted on being taken out of the carriage, in spite of all\nthe trouble which one will have to place her in it again.\u201d\n\nOn a shady part of the platform, in a kind of long box, there was, as the\nold priest said, a woman whose beautiful, perfectly oval face, lighted up\nby splendid eyes, denoted no greater age than six-and-twenty. She was\nsuffering from a frightful disease. The disappearance from her system of\nthe calcareous salts had led to a softening of the osseous framework, the\nslow destruction of her bones. Three years previously, after the advent\nof a stillborn child, she had felt vague pains in the spinal column. And\nthen, little by little, her bones had rarefied and lost shape, the\nvertebrae had sunk, the bones of the pelvis had flattened, and those of\nthe arms and legs had contracted. Thus shrunken, melting away as it were,\nshe had become a mere human remnant, a nameless, fluid thing, which could\nnot be set erect, but had to be carried hither and thither with infinite\ncare, for fear lest she should vanish between one\u2019s fingers. Her face, a\nmotionless face, on which sat a stupefied imbecile expression, still\nretained its beauty of outline, and yet it was impossible to gaze at this\nwretched shred of a woman without feeling a heart-pang, the keener on\naccount of all the luxury surrounding her; for not only was the box in\nwhich she lay lined with blue quilted silk, but she was covered with\nvaluable lace, and a cap of rare valenciennes was set upon her head, her\nwealth thus being proclaimed, displayed, in the midst of her awful agony.\n\n\u201cAh! how pitiable it is,\u201d resumed the Abb\u00e9 Judaine in an undertone. \u201cTo\nthink that she is so young, so pretty, possessed of millions of money!\nAnd if you knew how dearly loved she was, with what adoration she is\nstill surrounded. That tall gentleman near her is her husband, that\nelegantly dressed lady is her sister, Madame Jousseur.\u201d\n\nPierre remembered having often noticed in the newspapers the name of\nMadame Jousseur, wife of a diplomatist, and a conspicuous member of the\nhigher spheres of Catholic society in Paris. People had even circulated a\nstory of some great passion which she had fought against and vanquished.\nShe also was very prettily dressed, with marvellously tasteful\nsimplicity, and she ministered to the wants of her sorry sister with an\nair of perfect devotion. As for the unhappy woman\u2019s husband, who at the\nage of five-and-thirty had inherited his father\u2019s colossal business, he\nwas a clear-complexioned, well-groomed, handsome man, clad in a closely\nbuttoned frock-coat. His eyes, however, were full of tears, for he adored\nhis wife, and had left his business in order to take her to Lourdes,\nplacing his last hope in this appeal to the mercy of Heaven.\n\nEver since the morning, Pierre had beheld many frightful sufferings in\nthat woeful white train. But none had so distressed his soul as did that\nwretched female skeleton, slowly liquefying in the midst of its lace and\nits millions. \u201cThe unhappy woman!\u201d he murmured with a shudder.\n\nThe Abb\u00e9 Judaine, however, made a gesture of serene hope. \u201cThe Blessed\nVirgin will cure her,\u201d said he; \u201cI have prayed to her so much.\u201d\n\nJust then a bell again pealed, and this time it was really the signal for\nstarting. Only two minutes remained. There was a last rush, and folks\nhurried back towards the train carrying eatables wrapped in paper, and\nbottles and cans which they had filled with water. Several of them quite\nlost their heads, and in their inability to find their carriages, ran\ndistractedly from one to the other end of the train; whilst some of the\ninfirm ones dragged themselves about amidst the precipitate tapping of\ncrutches, and others, only able to walk with difficulty, strove to hasten\ntheir steps whilst leaning on the arms of some of the lady-hospitallers.\nIt was only with infinite difficulty that four men managed to replace\nMadame Dieulafay in her first-class compartment. The Vignerons, who were\ncontent with second-class accommodation, had already reinstalled\nthemselves in their quarters amidst an extraordinary heap of baskets,\nboxes, and valises which scarcely allowed little Gustave enough room to\nstretch his poor puny limbs--the limbs as it were of a deformed insect.\nAnd then all the women appeared again: Madame Maze gliding along in\nsilence; Madame Vincent raising her dear little girl in her outstretched\narms and dreading lest she should hear her cry out; Madame Vetu, whom it\nhad been necessary to push into the train, after rousing her from her\nstupefying torment; and Elise Rouquet, who was quite drenched through her\nobstinacy in endeavouring to drink from the tap, and was still wiping her\nmonstrous face. Whilst each returned to her place and the carriage filled\nonce more, Marie listened to her father, who had come back delighted with\nhis stroll to a pointsman\u2019s little house beyond the station, whence a\nreally pleasant stretch of landscape could be discerned.\n\n\u201cShall we lay you down again at once?\u201d asked Pierre, sorely distressed by\nthe pained expression on Marie\u2019s face.\n\n\u201cOh no, no, by-and-by!\u201d she replied. \u201cI shall have plenty of time to hear\nthose wheels roaring in my head as though they were grinding my bones.\u201d\n\nThen, as Ferrand seemed on the point of returning to the cantine van,\nSister Hyacinthe begged him to take another look at the strange man\nbefore he went off. She was still waiting for Father Massias, astonished\nat the inexplicable delay in his arrival, but not yet without hope, as\nSister Claire des Anges had not returned.\n\n\u201cPray, Monsieur Ferrand,\u201d said she, \u201ctell me if this unfortunate man is\nin any immediate danger.\u201d\n\nThe young doctor again looked at the sufferer, felt him, and listened to\nhis breathing. Then with a gesture of discouragement he answered in a low\nvoice, \u201cI feel convinced that you will not get him to Lourdes alive.\u201d\n\nEvery head was still anxiously stretched forward. If they had only known\nthe man\u2019s name, the place he had come from, who he was! But it was\nimpossible to extract a word from this unhappy stranger, who was about to\ndie there, in that carriage, without anybody being able to give his face\na name!\n\nIt suddenly occurred to Sister Hyacinthe to have him searched. Under the\ncircumstances there could certainly be no harm in such a course. \u201cFeel in\nhis pockets, Monsieur Ferrand,\u201d she said.\n\nThe doctor thereupon searched the man in a gentle, cautious way, but the\nonly things that he found in his pockets were a chaplet, a knife, and\nthree sous. And nothing more was ever learnt of the man.\n\nAt that moment, however, a voice announced that Sister Claire des Anges\nwas at last coming back with Father Massias. All this while the latter\nhad simply been chatting with the priest of Sainte-Radegonde in one of\nthe waiting-rooms. Keen emotion attended his arrival; for a moment all\nseemed saved. But the train was about to start, the porters were already\nclosing the carriage doors, and it was necessary that extreme unction\nshould be administered in all haste in order to avoid too long a delay.\n\n\u201cThis way, reverend Father!\u201d exclaimed Sister Hyacinthe; \u201cyes, yes, pray\ncome in; our unfortunate patient is here.\u201d\n\nFather Massias, who was five years older than Pierre, whose\nfellow-student however he had been at the seminary, had a tall, spare\nfigure with an ascetic countenance, framed round with a light-coloured\nbeard and vividly lighted up by burning eyes, He was neither the priest\nharassed by doubt, nor the priest with childlike faith, but an apostle\ncarried away by his passion, ever ready to fight and vanquish for the\npure glory of the Blessed Virgin. In his black cloak with its large hood,\nand his broad-brimmed flossy hat, he shone resplendently with the\nperpetual ardour of battle.\n\nHe immediately took from his pocket the silver case containing the Holy\nOils, and the ceremony began whilst the last carriage doors were being\nslammed and belated pilgrims were rushing back to the train; the\nstation-master, meantime, anxiously glancing at the clock, and realising\nthat it would be necessary for him to grant a few minutes\u2019 grace.\n\n\u201c_Credo in unum Deum_,\u201d hastily murmured the Father.\n\n\u201c_Amen_,\u201d replied Sister Hyacinthe and the other occupants of the\ncarriage.\n\nThose who had been able to do so, had knelt upon the seats, whilst the\nothers joined their hands, or repeatedly made the sign of the cross; and\nwhen the murmured prayers were followed by the Litanies of the ritual,\nevery voice rose, an ardent desire for the remission of the man\u2019s sins\nand for his physical and spiritual cure winging its flight heavenward\nwith each successive _Kyrie eleison_. Might his whole life, of which they\nknew nought, be forgiven him; might he enter, stranger though he was, in\ntriumph into the Kingdom of God!\n\n\u201c_Christe, exaudi nos_.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genitrix_.\u201d\n\nFather Massias had pulled out the silver needle from which hung a drop of\nHoly Oil. In the midst of such a scramble, with the whole train\nwaiting--many people now thrusting their heads out of the carriage\nwindows in surprise at the delay in starting--he could not think of\nfollowing the usual practice, of anointing in turn all the organs of the\nsenses, those portals of the soul which give admittance to evil.\n\nHe must content himself, as the rules authorised him to do in pressing\ncases, with one anointment; and this he made upon the man\u2019s lips, those\nlivid parted lips from between which only a faint breath escaped, whilst\nthe rest of his face, with its lowered eyelids, already seemed\nindistinct, again merged into the dust of the earth.\n\n\u201c_Per istam sanctam unctionem_,\u201d said the Father, \u201c_et suam piissimam\nmisericordiam indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum, auditum,\nodoratum, gustum, tactum, deliquisti_.\u201d*\n\n  * Through this holy unction and His most tender mercy may the\n    Lord pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed by thy sight,\n    hearing, etc.\n\nThe remainder of the ceremony was lost amid the hurry and scramble of the\ndeparture. Father Massias scarcely had time to wipe off the oil with the\nlittle piece of cotton-wool which Sister Hyacinthe held in readiness,\nbefore he had to leave the compartment and get into his own as fast as\npossible, setting the case containing the Holy Oils in order as he did\nso, whilst the pilgrims finished repeating the final prayer.\n\n\u201cWe cannot wait any longer! It is impossible!\u201d repeated the\nstation-master as he bustled about. \u201cCome, come, make haste everybody!\u201d\n\nAt last then they were about to resume their journey. Everybody sat down,\nreturned to his or her corner again. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, however, had\nchanged her place, in order to be nearer La Grivotte, whose condition\nstill worried her, and she was now seated in front of M. Sabathier, who\nremained waiting with silent resignation. Moreover, Sister Hyacinthe had\nnot returned to her compartment, having decided to remain near the\nunknown man so that she might watch over him and help him. By following\nthis course, too, she was able to minister to Brother Isidore, whose\nsufferings his sister Marthe was at a loss to assuage. And Marie, turning\npale, felt the jolting of the train in her ailing flesh, even before it\nhad resumed its journey under the heavy sun, rolling onward once more\nwith its load of sufferers stifling in the pestilential atmosphere of the\nover-heated carriages.\n\nAt last a loud whistle resounded, the engine puffed, and Sister Hyacinthe\nrose up to say: The _Magnificat_, my children!\n\n\n\n\nIV. MIRACLES\n\nJUST as the train was beginning to move, the door of the compartment in\nwhich Pierre and Marie found themselves was opened and a porter pushed a\ngirl of fourteen inside, saying: \u201cThere\u2019s a seat here--make haste!\u201d\n\nThe others were already pulling long faces and were about to protest,\nwhen Sister Hyacinthe exclaimed: \u201cWhat, is it you, Sophie? So you are\ngoing back to see the Blessed Virgin who cured you last year!\u201d\n\nAnd at the same time Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re remarked: \u201cAh! Sophie, my little\nfriend, I am very pleased to see that you are grateful.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, yes, Sister; why, yes, madame,\u201d answered the girl, in a pretty way.\n\nThe carriage door had already been closed again, so that it was necessary\nthat they should accept the presence of this new pilgrim who had fallen\nfrom heaven as it were at the very moment when the train, which she had\nalmost missed, was starting off again. She was a slender damsel and would\nnot take up much room. Moreover these ladies knew her, and all the\npatients had turned their eyes upon her on hearing that the Blessed\nVirgin had been pleased to cure her. They had now got beyond the station,\nthe engine was still puffing, whilst the wheels increased their speed,\nand Sister Hyacinthe, clapping her hands, repeated: \u201cCome, come, my\nchildren, the _Magnificat_.\u201d\n\nWhilst the joyful chant arose amidst the jolting of the train, Pierre\ngazed at Sophie. She was evidently a young peasant girl, the daughter of\nsome poor husbandman of the vicinity of Poitiers, petted by her parents,\ntreated in fact like a young lady since she had become the subject of a\nmiracle, one of the elect, whom the priests of the district flocked to\nsee. She wore a straw hat with pink ribbons, and a grey woollen dress\ntrimmed with a flounce. Her round face although not pretty was a very\npleasant one, with a beautifully fresh complexion and clear, intelligent\neyes which lent her a smiling, modest air.\n\nWhen the _Magnificat_ had been sung, Pierre was unable to resist his\ndesire to question Sophie. A child of her age, with so candid an air, so\nutterly unlike a liar, greatly interested him.\n\n\u201cAnd so you nearly missed the train, my child?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI should have been much ashamed if I had, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she replied.\n\u201cI had been at the station since twelve o\u2019clock. And all at once I saw\nhis reverence, the priest of Sainte-Radegonde, who knows me well and who\ncalled me to him, to kiss me and tell me that it was very good of me to\ngo back to Lourdes. But it seems the train was starting and I only just\nhad time to run on to the platform. Oh! I ran so fast!\u201d\n\nShe paused, laughing, still slightly out of breath, but already repenting\nthat she had been so giddy.\n\n\u201cAnd what is your name, my child?\u201d asked Pierre.\n\n\u201cSophie Couteau, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou do not belong to the town of Poitiers?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh no! certainly not. We belong to Vivonne, which is seven kilometres\naway. My father and mother have a little land there, and things would not\nbe so bad if there were not eight children at home--I am the\nfifth,--fortunately the four older ones are beginning to work.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you, my child, what do you do?\u201d\n\n\u201cI, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9! Oh! I am no great help. Since last year, when I came\nhome cured, I have not been left quiet a single day, for, as you can\nunderstand, so many people have come to see me, and then too I have been\ntaken to Monseigneur\u2019s,* and to the convents and all manner of other\nplaces. And before all that I was a long time ill. I could not walk\nwithout a stick, and each step I took made me cry out, so dreadfully did\nmy foot hurt me.\u201d\n\n  * The Bishop\u2019s residence.\n\n\u201cSo it was of some injury to the foot that the Blessed Virgin cured you?\u201d\n\nSophie did not have time to reply, for Sister Hyacinthe, who was\nlistening, intervened: \u201cOf caries of the bones of the left heel, which\nhad been going on for three years,\u201d said she. \u201cThe foot was swollen and\nquite deformed, and there were fistulas giving egress to continual\nsuppuration.\u201d\n\nOn hearing this, all the sufferers in the carriage became intensely\ninterested. They no longer took their eyes off this little girl on whom a\nmiracle had been performed, but scanned her from head to foot as though\nseeking for some sign of the prodigy. Those who were able to stand rose\nup in order that they might the better see her, and the others, the\ninfirm ones, stretched on their mattresses, strove to raise themselves\nand turn their heads. Amidst the suffering which had again come upon them\non leaving Poitiers, the terror which filled them at the thought that\nthey must continue rolling onward for another fifteen hours, the sudden\nadvent of this child, favoured by Heaven, was like a divine relief, a ray\nof hope whence they would derive sufficient strength to accomplish the\nremainder of their terrible journey. The moaning had abated somewhat\nalready, and every face was turned towards the girl with an ardent desire\nto believe.\n\nThis was especially the case with Marie, who, already reviving, joined\nher trembling hands, and in a gentle supplicating voice said to Pierre,\n\u201cQuestion her, pray question her, ask her to tell us everything--cured, O\nGod! cured of such a terrible complaint!\u201d\n\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re, who was quite affected, had leant over the partition\nto kiss the girl. \u201cCertainly,\u201d said she, \u201cour little friend will tell you\nall about it. Won\u2019t you, my darling? You will tell us what the Blessed\nVirgin did for you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, certainly! madame--as much as you like,\u201d answered Sophie with her\nsmiling, modest air, her eyes gleaming with intelligence. Indeed, she\nwished to begin at once, and raised her right hand with a pretty gesture,\nas a sign to everybody to be attentive. Plainly enough, she had already\nacquired the habit of speaking in public.\n\nShe could not be seen, however, from some parts of the carriage, and an\nidea came to Sister Hyacinthe, who said: \u201cGet up on the seat, Sophie, and\nspeak loudly, on account of the noise which the train makes.\u201d\n\nThis amused the girl, and before beginning she needed time to become\nserious again. \u201cWell, it was like this,\u201d said she; \u201cmy foot was past\ncure, I couldn\u2019t even go to church any more, and it had to be kept\nbandaged, because there was always a lot of nasty matter coming from it.\nMonsieur Rivoire, the doctor, who had made a cut in it, so as to see\ninside it, said that he should be obliged to take out a piece of the\nbone; and that, sure enough, would have made me lame for life. But when I\ngot to Lourdes and had prayed a great deal to the Blessed Virgin, I went\nto dip my foot in the water, wishing so much that I might be cured that I\ndid not even take the time to pull the bandage off. And everything\nremained in the water, there was no longer anything the matter with my\nfoot when I took it out.\u201d\n\nA murmur of mingled surprise, wonder, and desire arose and spread among\nthose who heard this marvellous tale, so sweet and soothing to all who\nwere in despair. But the little one had not yet finished. She had simply\npaused. And now, making a fresh gesture, holding her arms somewhat apart,\nshe concluded: \u201cWhen I got back to Vivonne and Monsieur Rivoire saw my\nfoot again, he said: \u2018Whether it be God or the Devil who has cured this\nchild, it is all the same to me; but in all truth she _is_ cured.\u2019\u201d\n\nThis time a burst of laughter rang out. The girl spoke in too recitative\na way, having repeated her story so many times already that she knew it\nby heart. The doctor\u2019s remark was sure to produce an effect, and she\nherself laughed at it in advance, certain as she was that the others\nwould laugh also. However, she still retained her candid, touching air.\n\nBut she had evidently forgotten some particular, for Sister Hyacinthe, a\nglance from whom had foreshadowed the doctor\u2019s jest, now softly prompted\nher \u201cAnd what was it you said to Madame la Comtesse, the superintendent\nof your ward, Sophie?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! yes. I hadn\u2019t brought many bandages for my foot with me, and I said\nto her, \u2018It was very kind of the Blessed Virgin to cure me the first day,\nas I should have run out of linen on the morrow.\u2019\u201d\n\nThis provoked a fresh outburst of delight. They all thought her so nice,\nto have been cured like that! And in reply to a question from Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re, she also had to tell the story of her boots, a pair of\nbeautiful new boots which Madame la Comtesse had given her, and in which\nshe had run, jumped, and danced about, full of childish delight. Boots!\nthink of it, she who for three years had not even been able to wear a\nslipper.\n\nPierre, who had become grave, waxing pale with the secret uneasiness\nwhich was penetrating him, continued to look at her. And he also asked\nher other questions. She was certainly not lying, and he merely suspected\na slow distortion of the actual truth, an easily explained embellishment\nof the real facts amidst all the joy she felt at being cured and becoming\nan important little personage. Who now knew if the cicatrisation of her\ninjuries, effected, so it was asserted, completely, instantaneously, in a\nfew seconds, had not in reality been the work of days? Where were the\nwitnesses?\n\nJust then Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re began to relate that she had been at the\nhospital at the time referred to. \u201cSophie was not in my ward,\u201d said she,\n\u201cbut I had met her walking lame that very morning--\u201d\n\nPierre hastily interrupted the lady-hospitaller. \u201cAh! you saw her foot\nbefore and after the immersion?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no! I don\u2019t think that anybody was able to see it, for it was bound\nround with bandages. She told you that the bandages had fallen into the\npiscina.\u201d And, turning towards the child, Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re added, \u201cBut\nshe will show you her foot--won\u2019t you, Sophie? Undo your shoe.\u201d\n\nThe girl took off her shoe, and pulled down her stocking, with a\npromptness and ease of manner which showed how thoroughly accustomed she\nhad become to it all. And she not only stretched out her foot, which was\nvery clean and very white, carefully tended indeed, with well-cut, pink\nnails, but complacently turned it so that the young priest might examine\nit at his ease. Just below the ankle there was a long scar, whose whity\nseam, plainly defined, testified to the gravity of the complaint from\nwhich the girl had suffered.\n\n\u201cOh! take hold of the heel, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said she. \u201cPress it as hard\nas you like. I no longer feel any pain at all.\u201d\n\nPierre made a gesture from which it might have been thought that he was\ndelighted with the power exercised by the Blessed Virgin. But he was\nstill tortured by doubt. What unknown force had acted in this case? Or\nrather what faulty medical diagnosis, what assemblage of errors and\nexaggerations, had ended in this fine tale?\n\nAll the patients, however, wished to see the miraculous foot, that\noutward and visible sign of the divine cure which each of them was going\nin search of. And it was Marie, sitting up in her box, and already\nfeeling less pain, who touched it first. Then Madame Maze, quite roused\nfrom her melancholy, passed it on to Madame Vincent, who would have\nkissed it for the hope which it restored to her. M. Sabathier had\nlistened to all the explanations with a beatific air; Madame Vetu, La\nGrivotte, and even Brother Isidore opened their eyes, and evinced signs\nof interest; whilst the face of Elise Rouquet had assumed an\nextraordinary expression, transfigured by faith, almost beatified. If a\nsore had thus disappeared, might not her own sore close and disappear,\nher face retaining no trace of it save a slight scar, and again becoming\nsuch a face as other people had? Sophie, who was still standing, had to\nhold on to one of the iron rails, and place her foot on the partition,\nnow on the right, now on the left. And she did not weary of it all, but\nfelt exceedingly happy and proud at the many exclamations which were\nraised, the quivering admiration and religious respect which were\nbestowed on that little piece of her person, that little foot which had\nnow, so to say, become sacred.\n\n\u201cOne must possess great faith, no doubt,\u201d said Marie, thinking aloud.\n\u201cOne must have a pure unspotted soul.\u201d And, addressing herself to M. de\nGuersaint, she added: \u201cFather, I feel that I should get well if I were\nten years old, if I had the unspotted soul of a little girl.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you are ten years old, my darling! Is it not so, Pierre? A little\ngirl of ten years old could not have a more spotless soul.\u201d\n\nPossessed of a mind prone to chimeras, M. de Guersaint was fond of\nhearing tales of miracles. As for the young priest, profoundly affected\nby the ardent purity which the young girl evinced, he no longer sought to\ndiscuss the question, but let her surrender herself to the consoling\nillusions which Sophie\u2019s tale had wafted through the carriage.\n\nThe temperature had become yet more oppressive since their departure from\nPoitiers, a storm was rising in the coppery sky, and it seemed as though\nthe train were rushing through a furnace. The villages passed, mournful\nand solitary under the burning sun. At Couhe-Verac they had again said\ntheir chaplets, and sung another canticle. At present, however, there was\nsome slight abatement of the religious exercises. Sister Hyacinthe, who\nhad not yet been able to lunch, ventured to eat a roll and some fruit in\nall haste, whilst still ministering to the strange man whose faint,\npainful breathing seemed to have become more regular. And it was only on\npassing Ruffec at three o\u2019clock that they said the vespers of the Blessed\nVirgin.\n\n\u201c_Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genitrix_.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi_.\u201d*\n\n  * \u201cPray for us, O holy Mother of God,\n     That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.\u201d\n\nAs they were finishing, M. Sabathier, who had watched little Sophie while\nshe put on her shoe and stocking, turned towards M. de Guersaint.\n\n\u201cThis child\u2019s case is interesting, no doubt,\u201d he remarked. \u201cBut it is a\nmere nothing, monsieur, for there have been far more marvellous cures\nthan that. Do you know the story of Pierre de Rudder, a Belgian\nworking-man?\u201d\n\nEverybody had again begun to listen.\n\n\u201cThis man,\u201d continued M. Sabathier, \u201chad his leg broken by the fall of a\ntree. Eight years afterwards the two fragments of the bone had not yet\njoined together again--the two ends could be seen in the depths of a sore\nwhich was continually suppurating; and the leg hung down quite limp,\nswaying in all directions. Well, it was sufficient for this man to drink\na glassful of the miraculous water, and his leg was made whole again. He\nwas able to walk without crutches, and the doctor said to him: \u2018Your leg\nis like that of a new-born child.\u2019 Yes, indeed, a perfectly new leg.\u201d\n\nNobody spoke, but the listeners exchanged glances of ecstasy.\n\n\u201cAnd, by the way,\u201d resumed M. Sabathier, \u201cit is like the story of Louis\nBouriette, a quarryman, one of the first of the Lourdes miracles. Do you\nknow it? Bouriette had been injured by an explosion during some blasting\noperations. The sight of his right eye was altogether destroyed, and he\nwas even threatened with the loss of the left one. Well, one day he sent\nhis daughter to fetch a bottleful of the muddy water of the source, which\nthen scarcely bubbled up to the surface. He washed his eye with this\nmuddy liquid, and prayed fervently. And, all at once, he raised a cry,\nfor he could see, monsieur, see as well as you and I. The doctor who was\nattending him drew up a detailed narrative of the case, and there cannot\nbe the slightest doubt about its truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is marvellous,\u201d murmured M. de Guersaint in his delight.\n\n\u201cWould you like another example, monsieur? I can give you a famous one,\nthat of Fran\u00e7ois Macary, the carpenter of Lavaur. During eighteen years\nhe had suffered from a deep varicose ulcer, with considerable enlargement\nof the tissues in the mesial part of the left leg. He had reached such a\npoint that he could no longer move, and science decreed that he would\nforever remain infirm. Well, one evening he shuts himself up with a\nbottle of Lourdes water. He takes off his bandages, washes both his legs,\nand drinks what little water then remains in the bottle. Then he goes to\nbed and falls asleep; and when he awakes, he feels his legs and looks at\nthem. There is nothing left; the varicose enlargement, the ulcers, have\nall disappeared. The skin of his knee, monsieur, had become as smooth, as\nfresh as it had been when he was twenty.\u201d\n\nThis time there was an explosion of surprise and admiration. The patients\nand the pilgrims were entering into the enchanted land of miracles, where\nimpossibilities are accomplished at each bend of the pathways, where one\nmarches on at ease from prodigy to prodigy. And each had his or her story\nto tell, burning with a desire to contribute a fresh proof, to fortify\nfaith and hope by yet another example.\n\nThat silent creature, Madame Maze, was so transported that she spoke the\nfirst. \u201cI have a friend,\u201d said she, \u201cwho knew the Widow Rizan, that lady\nwhose cure also created so great a stir. For four-and-twenty years her\nleft side had been entirely paralysed. Her stomach was unable to retain\nany solid food, and she had become an inert bag of bones which had to be\nturned over in bed, The friction of the sheets, too, had ended by rubbing\nher skin away in parts. Well, she was so low one evening that the doctor\nannounced that she would die during the night. An hour later, however,\nshe emerged from her torpor and asked her daughter in a faint voice to go\nand fetch her a glass of Lourdes water from a neighbour\u2019s. But she was\nonly able to obtain this glass of water on the following morning; and she\ncried out to her daughter: \u2018Oh! it is life that I am drinking--rub my\nface with it, rub my arm and my leg, rub my whole body with it!\u2019 And when\nher daughter obeyed her, she gradually saw the huge swelling subside, and\nthe paralysed, tumefied limbs recover their natural suppleness and\nappearance. Nor was that all, for Madame Rizan cried out that she was\ncured and felt hungry, and wanted bread and meat--she who had eaten none\nfor four-and-twenty years! And she got out of bed and dressed herself,\nwhilst her daughter, who was so overpowered that the neighbours thought\nshe had become an orphan, replied to them: \u2018No, no, mamma isn\u2019t dead, she\nhas come to life again!\u2019\u201d\n\nThis narrative had brought tears to Madame Vincent\u2019s eyes. Ah! if she had\nonly been able to see her little Rose recover like that, eat with a good\nappetite, and run about again! At the same time, another case, which she\nhad been told of in Paris and which had greatly influenced her in\ndeciding to take her ailing child to Lourdes, returned to her memory.\n\n\u201cAnd I, too,\u201d said she, \u201cknow the story of a girl who was paralysed. Her\nname was Lucie Druon, and she was an inmate of an orphan asylum. She was\nquite young and could not even kneel down. Her limbs were bent like\nhoops. Her right leg, the shorter of the two, had ended by becoming\ntwisted round the left one; and when any of the other girls carried her\nabout you saw her feet hanging down quite limp, like dead ones. Please\nnotice that she did not even go to Lourdes. She simply performed a\nnovena; but she fasted during the nine days, and her desire to be cured\nwas so great that she spent her nights in prayer. At last, on the ninth\nday, whilst she was drinking a little Lourdes water, she felt a violent\ncommotion in her legs. She picked herself up, fell down, picked herself\nup again and walked. All her little companions, who were astonished,\nalmost frightened at the sight, began to cry out \u2018Lucie can walk! Lucie\ncan walk!\u2019 It was quite true. In a few seconds her legs had become\nstraight and strong and healthy. She crossed the courtyard and was able\nto climb up the steps of the chapel, where the whole sisterhood,\ntransported with gratitude, chanted the _Magnificat_. Ah! the dear child,\nhow happy, how happy she must have been!\u201d\n\nAs Madame Vincent finished, two tears fell from her cheeks on to the pale\nface of her little girl, whom she kissed distractedly.\n\nThe general interest was still increasing, becoming quite impassioned.\nThe rapturous joy born of these beautiful stories, in which Heaven\ninvariably triumphed over human reality, transported these childlike\nsouls to such a point that those who were suffering the most grievously\nsat up in their turn, and recovered the power of speech. And with the\nnarratives of one and all was blended a thought of the sufferer\u2019s own\nailment, a belief that he or she would also be cured, since a malady of\nthe same description had vanished like an evil dream beneath the breath\nof the Divinity.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d stammered Madame Vetu, her articulation hindered by her sufferings,\n\u201cthere was another one, Antoinette Thardivail, whose stomach was being\neaten away like mine. You would have said that dogs were devouring it,\nand sometimes there was a swelling in it as big as a child\u2019s head.\nTumours indeed were ever forming in it, like fowl\u2019s eggs, so that for\neight months she brought up blood. And she also was at the point of\ndeath, with nothing but her skin left on her bones, and dying of hunger,\nwhen she drank some water of Lourdes and had the pit of her stomach\nwashed with it. Three minutes afterwards, her doctor, who on the previous\nday had left her almost in the last throes, scarce breathing, found her\nup and sitting by the fireside, eating a tender chicken\u2019s wing with a\ngood appetite. She had no more tumours, she laughed as she had laughed\nwhen she was twenty, and her face had regained the brilliancy of youth.\nAh! to be able to eat what one likes, to become young again, to cease\nsuffering!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the cure of Sister Julienne!\u201d then exclaimed La Grivotte, raising\nherself on one of her elbows, her eyes glittering with fever. \u201cIn her\ncase it commenced with a bad cold as it did with me, and then she began\nto spit blood. And every six months she fell ill again and had to take to\nher bed. The last time everybody said that she wouldn\u2019t leave it alive.\nThe doctors had vainly tried every remedy, iodine, blistering, and\ncauterising. In fact, hers was a real case of phthisis, certified by half\na dozen medical men. Well, she comes to Lourdes, and Heaven alone knows\namidst what awful suffering--she was so bad, indeed, that at Toulouse\nthey thought for a moment that she was about to die! The Sisters had to\ncarry her in their arms, and on reaching the piscina the\nlady-hospitallers wouldn\u2019t bathe her. She was dead, they said. No matter!\nshe was undressed at last, and plunged into the water, quite unconscious\nand covered with perspiration. And when they took her out she was so pale\nthat they laid her on the ground, thinking that it was certainly all over\nwith her at last. But, all at once, colour came back to her cheeks, her\neyes opened, and she drew a long breath. She was cured; she dressed\nherself without any help and made a good meal after she had been to the\nGrotto to thank the Blessed Virgin. There! there\u2019s no gainsaying it, that\nwas a real case of phthisis, completely cured as though by medicine!\u201d\n\nThereupon Brother Isidore in his turn wished to speak; but he was unable\nto do so at any length, and could only with difficulty manage to say to\nhis sister: \u201cMarthe, tell them the story of Sister Doroth\u00e9e which the\npriest of Saint-Sauveur related to us.\u201d\n\n\u201cSister Doroth\u00e9e,\u201d began the peasant girl in an awkward way, \u201cfelt her\nleg quite numbed when she got up one morning, and from that time she lost\nthe use of it, for it got as cold and as heavy as a stone. Besides which\nshe felt a great pain in the back. The doctors couldn\u2019t understand it.\nShe saw half a dozen of them, who pricked her with pins and burnt her\nskin with a lot of drugs. But it was just as if they had sung to her.\nSister Doroth\u00e9e had well understood that only the Blessed Virgin could\nfind the right remedy for her, and so she went off to Lourdes, and had\nherself dipped in the piscina. She thought at first that the water was\ngoing to kill her, for it was so bitterly cold. But by-and-by it became\nso soft that she fancied it was warm, as nice as milk. She had never felt\nso nice before, it seemed to her as if her veins were opening and the\nwater were flowing into them. As you will understand, life was returning\ninto her body since the Blessed Virgin was concerning herself in the\ncase. She no longer had anything the matter with her when she came out,\nbut walked about, ate the whole of a pigeon for her dinner, and slept all\nnight long like the happy woman she was. Glory to the Blessed Virgin,\neternal gratitude to the most Powerful Mother and her Divine Son!\u201d\n\nElise Rouquet would also have liked to bring forward a miracle which she\nwas acquainted with. Only she spoke with so much difficulty owing to the\ndeformity of her mouth, that she had not yet been able to secure a turn.\nJust then, however, there was a pause, and drawing the wrap, which\nconcealed the horror of her sore, slightly on one side, she profited by\nthe opportunity to begin.\n\n\u201cFor my part, I wasn\u2019t told anything about a great illness, but it was a\nvery funny case at all events,\u201d she said. \u201cIt was about a woman,\nC\u00e9lestine Dubois, as she was called, who had run a needle right into her\nhand while she was washing. It stopped there for seven years, for no\ndoctor was able to take it out. Her hand shrivelled up, and she could no\nlonger open it. Well, she got to Lourdes, and dipped her hand into the\npiscina. But as soon as she did so she began to shriek, and took it out\nagain. Then they caught hold of her and put her hand into the water by\nforce, and kept it there while she continued sobbing, with her face\ncovered with sweat. Three times did they plunge her hand into the\npiscina, and each time they saw the needle moving along, till it came out\nby the tip of the thumb. She shrieked, of course, because the needle was\nmoving though her flesh just as though somebody had been pushing it to\ndrive it out. And after that C\u00e9lestine never suffered again, and only a\nlittle scar could be seen on her hand as a mark of what the Blessed\nVirgin had done.\u201d\n\nThis anecdote produced a greater effect than even the miraculous cures of\nthe most fearful illnesses. A needle which moved as though somebody were\npushing it! This peopled the Invisible, showed each sufferer his Guardian\nAngel standing behind him, only awaiting the orders of Heaven in order to\nrender him assistance. And besides, how pretty and childlike the story\nwas--this needle which came out in the miraculous water after obstinately\nrefusing to stir during seven long years. Exclamations of delight\nresounded from all the pleased listeners; they smiled and laughed with\nsatisfaction, radiant at finding that nothing was beyond the power of\nHeaven, and that if it were Heaven\u2019s pleasure they themselves would all\nbecome healthy, young, and superb. It was sufficient that one should\nfervently believe and pray in order that nature might be confounded and\nthat the Incredible might come to pass. Apart from that there was merely\na question of good luck, since Heaven seemed to make a selection of those\nsufferers who should be cured.\n\n\u201cOh! how beautiful it is, father,\u201d murmured Marie, who, revived by the\npassionate interest which she took in the momentous subject, had so far\ncontented herself with listening, dumb with amazement as it were. \u201cDo you\nremember,\u201d she continued, \u201cwhat you yourself told me of that poor woman,\nJoachine Dehaut, who came from Belgium and made her way right across\nFrance with her twisted leg eaten away by an ulcer, the awful smell of\nwhich drove everybody away from her? First of all the ulcer was healed;\nyou could press her knee and she felt nothing, only a slight redness\nremained to mark where it had been. And then came the turn of the\ndislocation. She shrieked while she was in the water, it seemed to her as\nif somebody were breaking her bones, pulling her leg away from her; and,\nat the same time, she and the woman who was bathing her, saw her deformed\nfoot rise and extend into its natural shape with the regular movement of\na clock hand. Her leg also straightened itself, the muscles extended, the\nknee replaced itself in its proper position, all amidst such acute pain\nthat Joachine ended by fainting. But as soon as she recovered\nconsciousness, she darted off, erect and agile, to carry her crutches to\nthe Grotto.\u201d\n\nM. de Guersaint in his turn was laughing with wonderment, waving his hand\nto confirm this story, which had been told him by a Father of the\nAssumption. He could have related a score of similar instances, said he,\neach more touching, more extraordinary than the other. He even invoked\nPierre\u2019s testimony, and the young priest, who was unable to believe,\ncontented himself with nodding his head. At first, unwilling as he was to\nafflict Marie, he had striven to divert his thoughts by gazing though the\ncarriage window at the fields, trees, and houses which defiled before his\neyes. They had just passed Angoul\u00eame, and meadows stretched out, and\nlines of poplar trees fled away amidst the continuous fanning of the air,\nwhich the velocity of the train occasioned.\n\nThey were late, no doubt, for they were hastening onward at full speed,\nthundering along under the stormy sky, through the fiery atmosphere,\ndevouring kilometre after kilometre in swift succession. However, despite\nhimself, Pierre heard snatches of the various narratives, and grew\ninterested in these extravagant stories, which the rough jolting of the\nwheels accompanied like a lullaby, as though the engine had been turned\nloose and were wildly bearing them away to the divine land of dreams,\nThey were rolling, still rolling along, and Pierre at last ceased to gaze\nat the landscape, and surrendered himself to the heavy, sleep-inviting\natmosphere of the carriage, where ecstasy was growing and spreading,\ncarrying everyone far from the world of reality across which they were so\nrapidly rushing, The sight of Marie\u2019s face with its brightened look\nfilled the young priest with sincere joy, and he let her retain his hand,\nwhich she had taken in order to acquaint him, by the pressure of her\nfingers, with all the confidence which was reviving in her soul. And why\nshould he have saddened her by his doubts, since he was so desirous of\nher cure? So he continued clasping her small, moist hand, feeling\ninfinite affection for her, a dolorous brotherly love which distracted\nhim, and made him anxious to believe in the pity of the spheres, in a\nsuperior kindness which tempered suffering to those who were plunged in\ndespair, \u201cOh!\u201d she repeated, \u201chow beautiful it is, Pierre! How beautiful\nit is! And what glory it will be if the Blessed Virgin deigns to disturb\nherself for me! Do you really think me worthy of such a favour?\u201d\n\n\u201cAssuredly I do,\u201d he exclaimed; \u201cyou are the best and the purest, with a\nspotless soul as your father said; there are not enough good angels in\nParadise to form your escort.\u201d\n\nBut the narratives were not yet finished. Sister Hyacinthe and Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re were now enumerating all the miracles with which they were\nacquainted, the long, long series of miracles which for more than thirty\nyears had been flowering at Lourdes, like the uninterrupted budding of\nthe roses on the Mystical Rose-tree. They could be counted by thousands,\nthey put forth fresh shoots every year with prodigious verdancy of sap,\nbecoming brighter and brighter each successive season. And the sufferers\nwho listened to these marvellous stories with increasing feverishness\nwere like little children who, after hearing one fine fairy tale, ask for\nanother, and another, and yet another. Oh! that they might have more and\nmore of those stories in which evil reality was flouted, in which unjust\nnature was cuffed and slapped, in which the Divinity intervened as the\nsupreme healer, He who laughs at science and distributes happiness\naccording to His own good pleasure.\n\nFirst of all there were the deaf and the dumb who suddenly heard and\nspoke; such as Aur\u00e9lie Bruneau, who was incurably deaf, with the drums of\nboth ears broken, and yet was suddenly enraptured by the celestial music\nof a harmonium; such also as Louise Pourchet, who on her side had been\ndumb for five-and-twenty years, and yet, whilst praying in the Grotto,\nsuddenly exclaimed, \u201cHail, Mary, full of grace!\u201d And there were others and\nyet others who were completely cured by merely letting a few drops of\nwater fall into their ears or upon their tongues. Then came the procession\nof the blind: Father Hermann, who felt the Blessed Virgin\u2019s gentle hand\nremoving the veil which covered his eyes; Mademoiselle de Pontbriant, who\nwas threatened with a total loss of sight, but after a simple prayer was\nenabled to see better than she had ever seen before; then a child twelve\nyears old whose corneas resembled marbles, but who, in three seconds,\nbecame possessed of clear, deep eyes, bright with an angelic smile.\nHowever, there was especially an abundance of paralytics, of lame people\nsuddenly enabled to walk upright, of sufferers for long years powerless to\nstir from their beds of misery and to whom the voice said: \u201cArise and\nwalk!\u201d Delannoy,* afflicted with ataxia, vainly cauterised and burnt,\nfifteen times an inmate of the Paris hospitals, whence he had emerged with\nthe concurring diagnosis of twelve doctors, feels a strange force raising\nhim up as the Blessed Sacrament goes by, and he begins to follow it, his\nlegs strong and healthy once more. Marie Louise Delpon, a girl of\nfourteen, suffering from paralysis which had stiffened her legs, drawn\nback her hands, and twisted her mouth on one side, sees her limbs loosen\nand the distortion of her mouth disappear as though an invisible hand were\nsevering the fearful bonds which had deformed her. Marie Vachier, riveted\nto her arm-chair during seventeen years by paraplegia, not only runs and\nflies on emerging from the piscina, but finds no trace even of the sores\nwith which her long-enforced immobility had covered her body. And Georges\nHanquet, attacked by softening of the spinal marrow, passes without\ntransition from agony to perfect health; while L\u00e9onie Charton, likewise\nafflicted with softening of the medulla, and whose vertebrae bulge out to\na considerable extent, feels her hump melting away as though by\nenchantment, and her legs rise and straighten, renovated and vigorous.\n\n  * This was one of the most notorious of the recorded cases and had\n    a very strange sequel subsequent to the first publication of this\n    work. Pierre Delannoy had been employed as a ward-assistant in one\n    of the large Paris hospitals from 1877 to 1881, when he came to\n    the conclusion that the life of an in-patient was far preferable\n    to the one he was leading. He, therefore, resolved to pass the\n    rest of his days inside different hospitals in the capacity of\n    invalid. He started by feigning locomotor ataxia, and for six\n    years deceived the highest medical experts in Paris, so curiously\n    did he appear to suffer. He stayed in turn in all the hospitals in\n    the city, being treated with every care and consideration, until\n    at last he met with a doctor who insisted on cauterisation and\n    other disagreeable remedies. Delannoy thereupon opined that the\n    time to be cured had arrived, and cured he became, and was\n    discharged. He next appeared at Lourdes, supported by crutches,\n    and presenting every symptom of being hopelessly crippled. With\n    other infirm and decrepid people he was dipped in the piscina and\n    so efficacious did this treatment prove that he came out another\n    man, threw his crutches to the ground and walked, as an onlooker\n    expressed it, \u201clike a rural postman.\u201d All Lourdes rang with the\n    fame of the miracle, and the Church, after starring Delannoy\n    round the country as a specimen of what could be done at the holy\n    spring, placed him in charge of a home for invalids. But this was\n    too much like hard work, and he soon decamped with all the money\n    he could lay his hands on. Returning to Paris he was admitted to\n    the Hospital of Ste. Anne as suffering from mental debility, but\n    this did not prevent him from running off one night with about\n    $300 belonging to a dispenser. The police were put on his track\n    and arrested him in May, 1895, when he tried to pass himself off\n    as a lunatic; but he had become by this time too well known, and\n    was indicted in due course. At his trial he energetically denied\n    that he had ever shammed, but the Court would not believe him,\n    and sentenced him to four years\u2019 imprisonment with hard labour.\n    --Trans.\n\nThen came all sorts of ailments. First those brought about by scrofula--a\ngreat many more legs long incapable of service and made anew. There was\nMargaret Gehier, who had suffered from coxalgia for seven-and-twenty\nyears, whose hip was devoured by the disease, whose left knee was\nanchylosed, and who yet was suddenly able to fall upon her knees to thank\nthe Blessed Virgin for healing her. There was also Philom\u00e8ne Simonneau,\nthe young Vend\u00e9enne, whose left leg was perforated by three horrible\nsores in the depths of which her carious bones were visible, and whose\nbones, whose flesh, and whose skin were all formed afresh.\n\nNext came the dropsical ones: Madame Ancelin, the swelling of whose feet,\nhands, and entire body subsided without anyone being able to tell whither\nall the water had gone; Mademoiselle Montagnon, from whom, on various\noccasions, nearly twenty quarts of water had been drawn, and who, on\nagain swelling, was entirely rid of the fluid by the application of a\nbandage which had been dipped in the miraculous source. And, in her case\nalso, none of the water could be found, either in her bed or on the\nfloor. In the same way, not a complaint of the stomach resisted, all\ndisappeared with the first glass of water. There was Marie Souchet, who\nvomited black blood, who had wasted to a skeleton, and who devoured her\nfood and recovered her flesh in two days\u2019 time! There was Marie Jarlaud,\nwho had burnt herself internally through drinking a glass of a metallic\nsolution used for cleansing and brightening kitchen utensils, and who\nfelt the tumour which had resulted from her injuries melt rapidly away.\nMoreover, every tumour disappeared in this fashion, in the piscina,\nwithout leaving the slightest trace behind. But that which caused yet\ngreater wonderment was the manner in which ulcers, cancers, all sorts of\nhorrible, visible sores were cicatrised as by a breath from on high. A\nJew, an actor, whose hand was devoured by an ulcer, merely had to dip it\nin the water and he was cured. A very wealthy young foreigner, who had a\nwen as large as a hen\u2019s egg, on his right wrist, _beheld_ it dissolve.\nRose Duval, who, as a result of a white tumour, had a hole in her left\nelbow, large enough to accommodate a walnut, was able to watch and follow\nthe prompt action of the new flesh in filling up this cavity! The Widow\nFromond, with a lip half decoyed by a cancerous formation, merely had to\napply the miraculous water to it as a lotion, and not even a red mark\nremained. Marie Moreau, who experienced fearful sufferings from a cancer\nin the breast, fell asleep, after laying on it a linen cloth soaked in\nsome water of Lourdes, and when she awoke, two hours later, the pain had\ndisappeared, and her flesh was once more smooth and pink and fresh.\n\nAt last Sister Hyacinthe began to speak of the immediate and complete\ncures of phthisis, and this was the triumph, the healing of that terrible\ndisease which ravages humanity, which unbelievers defied the Blessed\nVirgin to cure, but which she did cure, it was said, by merely raising\nher little finger. A hundred instances, more extraordinary one than the\nother, pressed forward for citation.\n\nMarguerite Coupel, who had suffered from phthisis for three years, and\nthe upper part of whose lungs is destroyed by tuberculosis, rises up and\ngoes off, radiant with health. Madame de la Rivi\u00e8re, who spits blood, who\nis ever covered with a cold perspiration, whose nails have already\nacquired a violet tinge, who is indeed on the point of drawing her last\nbreath, requires but a spoonful of the water to be administered to her\nbetween her teeth, and lo! the rattles cease, she sits up, makes the\nresponses to the litanies, and asks for some broth. Julie Jadot requires\nfour spoonfuls; but then she could no longer hold up her head, she was of\nsuch a delicate constitution that disease had reduced her to nothing; and\nyet, in a few days, she becomes quite fat. Anna Catry, who is in the most\nadvanced stage of the malady, with her left lung half destroyed by a\ncavity, is plunged five times into the cold water, contrary to all the\ndictates of prudence, and she is cured, her lung is healthy once more.\nAnother consumptive girl, condemned by fifteen doctors, has asked\nnothing, has simply fallen on her knees in the Grotto, by chance as it\nwere, and is afterwards quite surprised at having been cured _au\npassage_, through the lucky circumstance of having been there, no doubt,\nat the hour when the Blessed Virgin, moved to pity, allows miracles to\nfall from her invisible hands.\n\nMiracles and yet more miracles! They rained down like the flowers of\ndreams from a clear and balmy sky. Some of them were touching, some of\nthem were childish. An old woman, who, having her hand anchylosed, had\nbeen incapable of moving it for thirty years, washes it in the water and\nis at once able to make the sign of the Cross. Sister Sophie, who barked\nlike a dog, plunges into the piscina and emerges from it with a clear,\npure voice, chanting a canticle. Mustapha, a Turk, invokes the White Lady\nand recovers the use of his right eye by applying a compress to it. An\nofficer of Turcos was protected at Sedan; a cuirassier of Reichsoffen\nwould have died, pierced in the heart by a bullet, if this bullet after\npassing though his pocket-book had not stayed its flight on reaching a\nlittle picture of Our Lady of Lourdes! And, as with the men and women, so\ndid the children, the poor, suffering little ones, find mercy; a\nparalytic boy of five rose and walked after being held for five minutes\nunder the icy jet of the spring; another one, fifteen years of age, who,\nlying in bed, could only raise an inarticulate cry, sprang out of the\npiscina, shouting that he was cured; another one, but two years old, a\npoor tiny fellow who had never been able to walk, remained for a quarter\nof an hour in the cold water and then, invigorated and smiling, took his\nfirst steps like a little man! And for all of them, the little ones as\nwell as the adults, the pain was acute whilst the miracle was being\naccomplished; for the work of repair could not be effected without\ncausing an extraordinary shock to the whole human organism; the bones\ngrew again, new flesh was formed, and the disease, driven away, made its\nescape in a final convulsion. But how great was the feeling of comfort\nwhich followed! The doctors could not believe their eyes, their\nastonishment burst forth at each fresh cure, when they saw the patients\nwhom they had despaired of run and jump and eat with ravenous appetites.\nAll these chosen ones, these women cured of their ailments, walked a\ncouple of miles, sat down to roast fowl, and slept the soundest of sleeps\nfor a dozen hours. Moreover, there was no convalescence, it was a sudden\nleap from the death throes to complete health. Limbs were renovated,\nsores were filled up, organs were reformed in their entirety, plumpness\nreturned to the emaciated, all with the velocity of a lightning flash!\nScience was completely baffled. Not even the most simple precautions were\ntaken, women were bathed at all times and seasons, perspiring\nconsumptives were plunged into the icy water, sores were left to their\nputrefaction without any thought of employing antiseptics. And then what\ncanticles of joy, what shouts of gratitude and love arose at each fresh\nmiracle! The favoured one falls upon her knees, all who are present weep,\nconversions are effected, Protestants and Jews alike embrace\nCatholicism--other miracles these, miracles of faith, at which Heaven\ntriumphs. And when the favoured one, chosen for the miracle, returns to\nher village, all the inhabitants crowd to meet her, whilst the bells peal\nmerrily; and when she is seen springing lightly from the vehicle which\nhas brought her home, shouts and sobs of joy burst forth and all intonate\nthe _Magnificat_: Glory to the Blessed Virgin! Gratitude and love for\never!\n\nIndeed, that which was more particularly evolved from the realisation of\nall these hopes, from the celebration of all these ardent thanksgivings,\nwas gratitude--gratitude to the Mother most pure and most admirable. She\nwas the great passion of every soul, she, the Virgin most powerful, the\nVirgin most merciful, the Mirror of Justice, the Seat of Wisdom.* All\nhands were stretched towards her, Mystical Rose in the dim light of the\nchapels, Tower of Ivory on the horizon of dreamland, Gate of Heaven\nleading into the Infinite. Each day at early dawn she shone forth, bright\nMorning Star, gay with juvenescent hope. And was she not also the Health\nof the weak, the Refuge of sinners, the Comforter of the afflicted?\nFrance had ever been her well-loved country, she was adored there with an\nardent worship, the worship of her womanhood and her motherhood, the\nsoaring of a divine affection; and it was particularly in France that it\npleased her to show herself to little shepherdesses. She was so good to\nthe little and the humble; she continually occupied herself with them;\nand if she was appealed to so willingly it was because she was known to\nbe the intermediary of love betwixt Earth and Heaven. Every evening she\nwept tears of gold at the feet of her divine Son to obtain favours from\nHim, and these favours were the miracles which He permitted her to\nwork,--these beautiful, flower-like miracles, as sweet-scented as the\nroses of Paradise, so prodigiously splendid and fragrant.\n\n  * For the information of Protestant and other non-Catholic readers\n    it may be mentioned that all the titles enumerated in this passage\n    are taken from the Litany of the Blessed Virgin.--Trans.\n\nBut the train was still rolling, rolling onward. They had just passed\nContras, it was six o\u2019clock, and Sister Hyacinthe, rising to her, feet,\nclapped her hands together and once again repeated: \u201cThe Angelus, my\nchildren!\u201d\n\nNever had \u201cAves\u201d impregnated with greater faith, inflamed with a more\nfervent desire to be heard by Heaven, winged their flight on high. And\nPierre suddenly understood everything, clearly realised the meaning of\nall these pilgrimages, of all these trains rolling along through every\ncountry of the civilised world, of all these eager crowds, hastening\ntowards Lourdes, which blazed over yonder like the abode of salvation for\nbody and for mind. Ah! the poor wretches whom, ever since morning, he had\nheard groaning with pain, the poor wretches who exposed their sorry\ncarcasses to the fatigues of such a journey! They were all condemned,\nabandoned by science, weary of consulting doctors, of having tried the\ntorturing effects of futile remedies. And how well one could understand\nthat, burning with a desire to preserve their lives, unable to resign\nthemselves to the injustice and indifference of Nature, they should dream\nof a superhuman power, of an almighty Divinity who, in their favour,\nwould perchance annul the established laws, alter the course of the\nplanets, and reconsider His creation! For if the world failed them, did\nnot the Divinity remain to them? In their cases reality was too\nabominable, and an immense need of illusion and falsehood sprang up\nwithin them. Oh! to believe that there is a supreme Justiciar somewhere,\none who rights the apparent wrongs of things and beings; to believe that\nthere is a Redeemer, a consoler who is the real master, who can carry the\ntorrents back to their source, who can restore youth to the aged, and\nlife to the dead! And when you are covered with sores, when your limbs\nare twisted, when your stomach is swollen by tumours, when your lungs are\ndestroyed by disease, to be able to say that all this is of no\nconsequence, that everything may disappear and be renewed at a sign from\nthe Blessed Virgin, that it is sufficient that you should pray to her,\ntouch her heart, and obtain the favour of being chosen by her. And then\nwhat a heavenly fount of hope appeared with the prodigious flow of those\nbeautiful stories of cure, those adorable fairy tales which lulled and\nintoxicated the feverish imaginations of the sick and the infirm. Since\nlittle Sophie Couteau, with her white, sound foot, had climbed into that\ncarriage, opening to the gaze of those within it the limitless heavens of\nthe Divine and the Supernatural, how well one could understand the breath\nof resurrection that was passing over the world, slowly raising those who\ndespaired the most from their beds of misery, and making their eyes shine\nsince life was itself a possibility for them, and they were, perhaps,\nabout to begin it afresh.\n\nYes, \u2019twas indeed that. If that woeful train was rolling, rolling on, if\nthat carriage was full, if the other carriages were full also, if France\nand the world, from the uttermost limits of the earth, were crossed by\nsimilar trains, if crowds of three hundred thousand believers, bringing\nthousands of sick along with them, were ever setting out, from one end of\nthe year to the other, it was because the Grotto yonder was shining forth\nin its glory like a beacon of hope and illusion, like a sign of the\nrevolt and triumph of the Impossible over inexorable materiality. Never\nhad a more impassionating romance been devised to exalt the souls of men\nabove the stern laws of life. To dream that dream, this was the great,\nthe ineffable happiness. If the Fathers of the Assumption had seen the\nsuccess of their pilgrimages increase and spread from year to year, it\nwas because they sold to all the flocking peoples the bread of\nconsolation and illusion, the delicious bread of hope, for which\nsuffering humanity ever hungers with a hunger that nothing will ever\nappease. And it was not merely the physical sores which cried aloud for\ncure, the whole of man\u2019s moral and intellectual being likewise shrieked\nforth its wretchedness, with an insatiable yearning for happiness. To be\nhappy, to place the certainty of life in faith, to lean till death should\ncome upon that one strong staff of travel--such was the desire exhaled by\nevery breast, the desire which made every moral grief bend the knee,\nimploring a continuance of grace, the conversion of dear ones, the\nspiritual salvation of self and those one loved. The mighty cry spread\nfrom pole to pole, ascended and filled all the regions of space: To be\nhappy, happy for evermore, both in life and in death!\n\nAnd Pierre saw the suffering beings around him lose all perception of the\njolting and recover their strength as league by league they drew nearer\nto the miracle. Even Madame Maze grew talkative, certain as she felt that\nthe Blessed Virgin would restore her husband to her. With a smile on her\nface Madame Vincent gently rocked her little Rose in her arms, thinking\nthat she was not nearly so ill as those all but lifeless children who,\nafter being plunged in the icy water, sprang out and played. M. Sabathier\njested with M. de Guersaint, and explained to him that, next October,\nwhen he had recovered the use of his legs, he should go on a trip to\nRome--a journey which he had been postponing for fifteen years and more.\nMadame Vetu, quite calmed, feeling nothing but a slight twinge in the\nstomach, imagined that she was hungry, and asked Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re to\nlet her dip some strips of bread in a glass of milk; whilst Elise\nRouquet, forgetting her sores, ate some grapes, with face uncovered. And\nin La Grivotte who was sitting up and Brother Isidore who had ceased\nmoaning, all those fine stories had left a pleasant fever, to such a\npoint that, impatient to be cured, they grew anxious to know the time.\nFor a minute also the man, the strange man, resuscitated. Whilst Sister\nHyacinthe was again wiping the cold sweat from his brow, he raised his\neyelids, and a smile momentarily brightened his pallid countenance. Yet\nonce again he, also, had hoped.\n\nMarie was still holding Pierre\u2019s fingers in her own small, warm hand. It\nwas seven o\u2019clock, they were not due at Bordeaux till half-past seven;\nand the belated train was quickening its pace yet more and more, rushing\nalong with wild speed in order to make up for the minutes it had lost.\nThe storm had ended by coming down, and now a gentle light of infinite\npurity fell from the vast clear heavens.\n\n\u201cOh! how beautiful it is, Pierre--how beautiful it is!\u201d Marie again\nrepeated, pressing his hand with tender affection. And leaning towards\nhim, she added in an undertone: \u201cI beheld the Blessed Virgin a little\nwhile ago, Pierre, and it was your cure that I implored and shall\nobtain.\u201d\n\nThe priest, who understood her meaning, was thrown into confusion by the\ndivine light which gleamed in her eyes as she fixed them on his own. She\nhad forgotten her own sufferings; that which she had asked for was his\nconversion; and that prayer of faith, emanating, pure and candid, from\nthat dear, suffering creature, upset his soul. Yet why should he not\nbelieve some day? He himself had been distracted by all those\nextraordinary narratives. The stifling heat of the carriage had made him\ndizzy, the sight of all the woe heaped up there caused his heart to bleed\nwith pity. And contagion was doing its work; he no longer knew where the\nreal and the possible ceased, he lacked the power to disentangle such a\nmass of stupefying facts, to explain such as admitted of explanation and\nreject the others. At one moment, indeed, as a hymn once more resounded\nand carried him off with its stubborn importunate rhythm, he ceased to be\nmaster of himself, and imagined that he was at last beginning to believe\namidst the hallucinatory vertigo which reigned in that travelling\nhospital, rolling, ever rolling onward at full speed.\n\n\n\n\nV. BERNADETTE\n\nTHE train left Bordeaux after a stoppage of a few minutes, during which\nthose who had not dined hastened to purchase some provisions. Moreover,\nthe ailing ones were constantly drinking milk, and asking for biscuits,\nlike little children. And, as soon as they were off again, Sister\nHyacinthe clapped her hands, and exclaimed: \u201cCome, let us make haste; the\nevening prayer.\u201d\n\nThereupon, during a quarter of an hour came a confused murmuring, made up\nof \u201cPaters\u201d and \u201cAves,\u201d self-examinations, acts of contrition, and vows\nof trustful reliance in God, the Blessed Virgin, and the Saints, with\nthanksgiving for protection and preservation that day, and, at last, a\nprayer for the living and for the faithful departed.\n\n\u201cIn the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.\u201d\n\nIt was ten minutes past eight o\u2019clock, the shades of night were already\nbedimming the landscape--a vast plain which the evening mist seemed to\nprolong into the infinite, and where, far away, bright dots of light\nshone out from the windows of lonely, scattered houses. In the carriage,\nthe lights of the lamps were flickering, casting a subdued yellow glow on\nthe luggage and the pilgrims, who were sorely shaken by the spreading\ntendency of the train\u2019s motion.\n\n\u201cYou know, my children,\u201d resumed Sister Hyacinthe, who had remained\nstanding, \u201cI shall order silence when we get to Lamothe, in about an\nhour\u2019s time. So you have an hour to amuse yourselves, but you must be\nreasonable and not excite yourselves too much. And when we have passed\nLamothe, you hear me, there must not be another word, another sound, you\nmust all go to sleep.\u201d\n\nThis made them laugh.\n\n\u201cOh! but it is the rule, you know,\u201d added the Sister, \u201cand surely you\nhave too much sense not to obey me.\u201d\n\nSince the morning they had punctually fulfilled the programme of\nreligious exercises specified for each successive hour. And now that all\nthe prayers had been said, the beads told, the hymns chanted, the day\u2019s\nduties were over, and a brief interval for recreation was allowed before\nsleeping. They were, however, at a loss as to what they should do.\n\n\u201cSister,\u201d suddenly said Marie, \u201cif you would allow Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 to\nread to us--he reads extremely well,--and as it happens I have a little\nbook with me--a history of Bernadette which is so interesting--\u201d\n\nThe others did nor let her finish, but with the suddenly awakened desire\nof children to whom a beautiful story has been promised, loudly\nexclaimed: \u201cOh! yes, Sister. Oh! yes, Sister--\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course I will allow it,\u201d replied Sister Hyacinthe, \u201csince it is a\nquestion of reading something instructive and edifying.\u201d\n\nPierre was obliged to consent. But to be able to read the book he wished\nto be under the lamp, and it was necessary that he should change seats\nwith M. de Guersaint, whom the promise of a story had delighted as much\nas it did the ailing ones. And when the young priest, after changing\nseats and declaring that he would be able to see well enough, at last\nopened the little book, a quiver of curiosity sped from one end of the\ncarriage to the other, and every head was stretched out, lending ear with\nrapt attention. Fortunately, Pierre had a clear, powerful voice and made\nhimself distinctly heard above the wheels, which, now that the train\ntravelled across a vast level plain, gave out but a subdued, rumbling\nsound.\n\nBefore beginning, however, the young priest had examined the book. It was\none of those little works of propaganda issued from the Catholic\nprinting-presses and circulated in profusion throughout all Christendom.\nBadly printed, on wretched paper, it was adorned on its blue cover with a\nlittle wood-cut of Our Lady of Lourdes, a naive design alike stiff and\nawkward. The book itself was short, and half an hour would certainly\nsuffice to read it from cover to cover without hurrying.\n\nAccordingly, in his fine, clear voice, with its penetrating, musical\ntones, he began his perusal as follows:--\n\n\u201cIt happened at Lourdes, a little town near the Pyrenees, on a Thursday,\nFebruary 11, 1858. The weather was cold, and somewhat cloudy, and in the\nhumble home of a poor but honest miller named Fran\u00e7ois Soubirous there\nwas no wood to cook the dinner. The miller\u2019s wife, Louise, said to her\nyounger daughter Marie, \u2018Go and gather some wood on the bank of the Gave\nor on the common-land.\u2019 The Gave is a torrent which passes through\nLourdes.\n\n\u201cMarie had an elder sister, named Bernadette, who had lately arrived from\nthe country, where some worthy villagers had employed her as a\nshepherdess. She was a slender, delicate, extremely innocent child, and\nknew nothing except her rosary. Louise Soubirous hesitated to send her\nout with her sister, on account of the cold, but at last, yielding to the\nentreaties of Marie and a young girl of the neighbourhood called Jeanne\nAbadie, she consented to let her go.\n\n\u201cFollowing the bank of the torrent and gathering stray fragments of dead\nwood, the three maidens at last found themselves in front of the Grotto,\nhollowed out in a huge mass of rock which the people of the district\ncalled Massabielle.\u201d\n\nPierre had reached this point and was turning the page when he suddenly\npaused and let the little book fall on his knees. The childish character\nof the narrative, its ready-made, empty phraseology, filled him with\nimpatience. He himself possessed quite a collection of documents\nconcerning this extraordinary story, had passionately studied even its\nmost trifling details, and in the depths of his heart retained a feeling\nof tender affection and infinite pity for Bernadette. He had just\nreflected, too, that on the very next day he would be able to begin that\ndecisive inquiry which he had formerly dreamt of making at Lourdes. In\nfact, this was one of the reasons which had induced him to accompany\nMarie on her journey. And he was now conscious of an awakening of all his\ncuriosity respecting the Visionary, whom he loved because he felt that\nshe had been a girl of candid soul, truthful and ill-fated, though at the\nsame time he would much have liked to analyse and explain her case.\nAssuredly, she had not lied, she had indeed beheld a vision and heard\nvoices, like Joan of Arc; and like Joan of Arc also, she was now, in the\nopinion of the devout, accomplishing the deliverance of France--from sin\nif not from invaders. Pierre wondered what force could have produced\nher--her and her work. How was it that the visionary faculty had become\ndeveloped in that lowly girl, so distracting believing souls as to bring\nabout a renewal of the miracles of primitive times, as to found almost a\nnew religion in the midst of a Holy City, built at an outlay of millions,\nand ever invaded by crowds of worshippers more numerous and more exalted\nin mind than had ever been known since the days of the Crusades?\n\nAnd so, ceasing to read the book, Pierre began to tell his companions all\nthat he knew, all that he had divined and reconstructed of that story\nwhich is yet so obscure despite the vast rivers of ink which it has\nalready caused to flow. He knew the country and its manners and customs,\nthrough his long conversations with his friend Doctor Chassaigne. And he\nwas endowed with charming fluency of language, an emotional power of\nexquisite purity, many remarkable gifts well fitting him to be a pulpit\norator, which he never made use of, although he had known them to be\nwithin him ever since his seminary days. When the occupants of the\ncarriage perceived that he knew the story, far better and in far greater\ndetail than it appeared in Marie\u2019s little book, and that he related it\nalso in such a gentle yet passionate way, there came an increase of\nattention, and all those afflicted souls hungering for happiness went\nforth towards him. First came the story of Bernadette\u2019s childhood at\nBartres, where she had grown up in the abode of her foster-mother, Madame\nLagues, who, having lost an infant of her own, had rendered those poor\nfolks, the Soubirouses, the service of suckling and keeping their child\nfor them. Bartres, a village of four hundred souls, at a league or so\nfrom Lourdes, lay as it were in a desert oasis, sequestered amidst\ngreenery, and far from any frequented highway. The road dips down, the\nfew houses are scattered over grassland, divided by hedges and planted\nwith walnut and chestnut trees, whilst the clear rivulets, which are\nnever silent, follow the sloping banks beside the pathways, and nothing\nrises on high save the small ancient romanesque church, which is perched\non a hillock, covered with graves. Wooded slopes undulate upon all sides.\nBartres lies in a hollow amidst grass of delicious freshness, grass of\nintense greenness, which is ever moist at the roots, thanks to the\neternal subterraneous expanse of water which is fed by the mountain\ntorrents. And Bernadette, who, since becoming a big girl, had paid for\nher keep by tending lambs, was wont to take them with her, season after\nseason, through all the greenery where she never met a soul. It was only\nnow and then, from the summit of some slope, that she saw the far-away\nmountains, the Pic du Midi, the Pic de Viscos, those masses which rose\nup, bright or gloomy, according to the weather, and which stretched away\nto other peaks, lightly and faintly coloured, vaguely and confusedly\noutlined, like apparitions seen in dreams.\n\nThen came the home of the Lagueses, where her cradle was still preserved,\na solitary, silent house, the last of the village. A meadow planted with\npear and apple trees, and only separated from the open country by a\nnarrow stream which one could jump across, stretched out in front of the\nhouse. Inside the latter, a low and damp abode, there were, on either\nside of the wooden stairway leading to the loft, but two spacious rooms,\nflagged with stones, and each containing four or five beds. The girls,\nwho slept together, fell asleep at even, gazing at the fine pictures\naffixed to the walls, whilst the big clock in its pinewood case gravely\nstruck the hours in the midst of the deep silence.\n\nAh! those years at Bartres; in what sweet peacefulness did Bernadette\nlive them! Yet she grew up very thin, always in bad health, suffering\nfrom a nervous asthma which stifled her in the least veering of the wind;\nand on attaining her twelfth year she could neither read nor write, nor\nspeak otherwise than in dialect, having remained quite infantile,\nbehindhand in mind as in body. She was a very good little girl, very\ngentle and well behaved, and but little different from other children,\nexcept that instead of talking she preferred to listen. Limited as was\nher intelligence, she often evinced much natural common-sense, and at\ntimes was prompt in her _r\u00e9parties_, with a kind of simple gaiety which\nmade one smile. It was only with infinite trouble that she was taught her\nrosary, and when she knew it she seemed bent on carrying her knowledge no\nfurther, but repeated it all day long, so that whenever you met her with\nher lambs, she invariably had her chaplet between her fingers, diligently\ntelling each successive \u201cPater\u201d and \u201cAve.\u201d For long, long hours she lived\nlike this on the grassy slopes of the hills, hidden away and haunted as\nit were amidst the mysteries of the foliage, seeing nought of the world\nsave the crests of the distant mountains, which, for an instant, every\nnow and then, would soar aloft in the radiant light, as ethereal as the\npeaks of dreamland.\n\nDays followed days, and Bernadette roamed, dreaming her one narrow dream,\nrepeating the sole prayer she knew, which gave her amidst her solitude,\nso fresh and na\u00efvely infantile, no other companion and friend than the\nBlessed Virgin. But what pleasant evenings she spent in the winter-time\nin the room on the left, where a fire was kept burning! Her foster-mother\nhad a brother, a priest, who occasionally read some marvellous stories to\nthem--stories of saints, prodigious adventures of a kind to make one\ntremble with mingled fear and joy, in which Paradise appeared upon earth,\nwhilst the heavens opened and a glimpse was caught of the splendour of\nthe angels. The books he brought with him were often full of\npictures--God the Father enthroned amidst His glory; Jesus, so gentle and\nso handsome with His beaming face; the Blessed Virgin, who recurred again\nand again, radiant with splendour, clad now in white, now in azure, now\nin gold, and ever so amiable that Bernadette would see her again in her\ndreams. But the book which was read more than all others was the Bible,\nan old Bible which had been in the family for more than a hundred years,\nand which time and usage had turned yellow. Each winter evening\nBernadette\u2019s foster-father, the only member of the household who had\nlearnt to read, would take a pin, pass it at random between the leaves of\nthe book, open the latter, and then start reading from the top of the\nright-hand page, amidst the deep attention of both the women and the\nchildren, who ended by knowing the book by heart, and could have\ncontinued reciting it without a single mistake.\n\nHowever, Bernadette, for her part, preferred the religious works in which\nthe Blessed Virgin constantly appeared with her engaging smile. True, one\nreading of a different character amused her, that of the marvellous story\nof the Four Brothers Aymon. On the yellow paper cover of the little book,\nwhich had doubtless fallen from the bale of some peddler who had lost his\nway in that remote region, there was a naive cut showing the four doughty\nknights, Renaud and his brothers, all mounted on Bayard, their famous\nbattle charger, that princely present made to them by the fairy Orlanda.\nAnd inside were narratives of bloody fights, of the building and\nbesieging of fortresses, of the terrible swordthrusts exchanged by Roland\nand Renaud, who was at last about to free the Holy Land, without\nmentioning the tales of Maugis the Magician and his marvellous\nenchantments, and the Princess Clarisse, the King of Aquitaine\u2019s sister,\nwho was more lovely than sunlight. Her imagination fired by such stories\nas these, Bernadette often found it difficult to get to sleep; and this\nwas especially the case on the evenings when the books were left aside,\nand some person of the company related a tale of witchcraft. The girl was\nvery superstitious, and after sundown could never be prevailed upon to\npass near a tower in the vicinity, which was said to be haunted by the\nfiend. For that matter, all the folks of the region were superstitious,\ndevout, and simple-minded, the whole countryside being peopled, so to\nsay, with mysteries--trees which sang, stones from which blood flowed,\ncross-roads where it was necessary to say three \u201cPaters\u201d and three\n\u201cAves,\u201d if you did not wish to meet the seven-horned beast who carried\nmaidens off to perdition. And what a wealth of terrifying stories there\nwas! Hundreds of stories, so that there was no finishing on the evenings\nwhen somebody started them. First came the wehrwolf adventures, the tales\nof the unhappy men whom the demon forced to enter into the bodies of\ndogs, the great white dogs of the mountains. If you fire a gun at the dog\nand a single shot should strike him, the man will be delivered; but if\nthe shot should fall on the dog\u2019s shadow, the man will immediately die.\nThen came the endless procession of sorcerers and sorceresses. In one of\nthese tales Bernadette evinced a passionate interest; it was the story of\na clerk of the tribunal of Lourdes who, wishing to see the devil, was\nconducted by a witch into an untilled field at midnight on Good Friday.\nThe devil arrived clad in magnificent scarlet garments, and at once\nproposed to the clerk that he should buy his soul, an offer which the\nclerk pretended to accept. It so happened that the devil was carrying\nunder his arm a register in which different persons of the town, who had\nalready sold themselves, had signed their names. However, the clerk, who\nwas a cunning fellow, pulled out of his pocket a pretended bottle of ink,\nwhich in reality contained holy water, and with this he sprinkled the\ndevil, who raised frightful shrieks, whilst the clerk took to flight,\ncarrying the register off with him. Then began a wild, mad race, which\nmight last throughout the night, over the mountains, through the valleys,\nacross the forests and the torrents. \u201cGive me back my register!\u201d shouted\nthe fiend. \u201cNo, you sha\u2019n\u2019t have it!\u201d replied the clerk. And again and\nagain it began afresh: \u201cGive me back my register!\u201d--\u201cNo, you sha\u2019n\u2019t have\nit\u2019!\u201d And at last, finding himself out of breath, near the point of\nsuccumbing, the clerk, who had his plan, threw himself into the cemetery,\nwhich was consecrated ground, and was there able to deride the devil at\nhis ease, waving the register which he had purloined so as to save the\nsouls of all the unhappy people who had signed their names in it. On the\nevening when this story was told, Bernadette, before surrendering herself\nto sleep, would mentally repeat her rosary, delighted with the thought\nthat hell should have been baffled, though she trembled at the idea that\nit would surely return to prowl around her, as soon as the lamp should\nhave been put out.\n\nThroughout one winter, the long evenings were spent in the church. Abb\u00e9\nAder, the village priest, had authorised it, and many families came, in\norder to economise oil and candles. Moreover, they felt less cold when\ngathered together in this fashion. The Bible was read, and prayers were\nrepeated, whilst the children ended by falling asleep. Bernadette alone\nstruggled on to the finish, so pleased she was at being there, in that\nnarrow nave whose slender nervures were coloured blue and red. At the\nfarther end was the altar, also painted and gilded, with its twisted\ncolumns and its screens on which appeared the Virgin and Ste. Anne, and\nthe beheading of St. John the Baptist--the whole of a gaudy and somewhat\nbarbaric splendour. And as sleepiness grew upon her, the child must have\noften seen a mystical vision as it were of those crudely coloured designs\nrising before her--have seen the blood flowing from St. John\u2019s severed\nhead, have seen the aureolas shining, the Virgin ever returning and\ngazing at her with her blue, living eyes, and looking as though she were\non the point of opening her vermilion lips in order to speak to her. For\nsome months Bernadette spent her evenings in this wise, half asleep in\nfront of that sumptuous, vaguely defined altar, in the incipiency of a\ndivine dream which she carried away with her, and finished in bed,\nslumbering peacefully under the watchful care of her guardian angel.\n\nAnd it was also in that old church, so humble yet so impregnated with\nardent faith, that Bernadette began to learn her catechism. She would\nsoon be fourteen now, and must think of her first communion. Her\nfoster-mother, who had the reputation of being avaricious, did not send\nher to school, but employed her in or about the house from morning till\nevening. M. Barbet, the schoolmaster, never saw her at his classes,\nthough one day, when he gave the catechism lesson, in the place of Abb\u00e9\nAder who was indisposed, he remarked her on account of her piety and\nmodesty. The village priest was very fond of Bernadette and often spoke\nof her to the schoolmaster, saying that he could never look at her\nwithout thinking of the children of La Salette, since they must have been\ngood, candid, and pious as she was, for the Blessed Virgin to have\nappeared to them.* On another occasion whilst the two men were walking\none morning near the village, and saw Bernadette disappear with her\nlittle flock under some spreading trees in the distance, the Abb\u00e9\nrepeatedly turned round to look for her, and again remarked \u201cI cannot\naccount for it, but every time I meet that child it seems to me as if I\nsaw M\u00e9lanie, the young shepherdess, little Maximin\u2019s companion.\u201d He was\ncertainly beset by this singular idea, which became, so to say, a\nprediction. Moreover, had he not one day after catechism, or one evening,\nwhen the villagers were gathered in the church, related that marvellous\nstory which was already twelve years old, that story of the Lady in the\ndazzling robes who walked upon the grass without even making it bend, the\nBlessed Virgin who showed herself to M\u00e9lanie and Maximin on the banks of\na stream in the mountains, and confided to them a great secret and\nannounced the anger of her Son? Ever since that day a source had sprung\nup from the tears which she had shed, a source which cured all ailments,\nwhilst the secret, inscribed on parchment fastened with three seals,\nslumbered at Rome! And Bernadette, no doubt, with her dreamy, silent air,\nhad listened passionately to that wonderful tale and carried it off with\nher into the desert of foliage where she spent her days, so that she\nmight live it over again as she walked along behind her lambs with her\nrosary, slipping bead by bead between her slender fingers.\n\n  * It was on September 19, 1846, that the Virgin is said to have\n    appeared in the ravine of La Sezia, adjacent to the valley of La\n    Salette, between Corps and Eutraigues, in the department of the\n    Is\u00e8re. The visionaries were M\u00e9lanie Mathieu, a girl of fourteen,\n    and Maximin Giraud, a boy of twelve. The local clergy speedily\n    endorsed the story of the miracle, and thousands of people still\n    go every year in pilgrimage to a church overlooking the valley,\n    and bathe and drink at a so-called miraculous source. Two priests\n    of Grenoble, however, Abb\u00e9 Deleon and Abb\u00e9 Cartellier, accused a\n    Mlle. de Lamerliere of having concocted the miracle, and when she\n    took proceedings against them for libel she lost her case.--Trans.\n\nThus her childhood ran its course at Bartres. That which delighted one in\nthis Bernadette, so poor-blooded, so slight of build, was her ecstatic\neyes, beautiful visionary eyes, from which dreams soared aloft like birds\nwinging their flight in a pure limpid sky. Her mouth was large, with lips\nsomewhat thick, expressive of kindliness; her square-shaped head had a\nstraight brow, and was covered with thick black hair, whilst her face\nwould have seemed rather common but for its charming expression of gentle\nobstinacy. Those who did not gaze into her eyes, however, gave her no\nthought. To them she was but an ordinary child, a poor thing of the\nroads, a girl of reluctant growth, timidly humble in her ways. Assuredly\nit was in her glance that Abb\u00e9 Ader had with agitation detected the\nstifling ailment which filled her puny, girlish form with suffering--that\nailment born of the greeny solitude in which she had grown up, the\ngentleness of her bleating lambs, the Angelic Salutation which she had\ncarried with her, hither and thither, under the sky, repeating and\nrepeating it to the point of hallucination, the prodigious stories, too,\nwhich she had heard folks tell at her foster-mother\u2019s, the long evenings\nspent before the living altar-screens in the church, and all the\natmosphere of primitive faith which she had breathed in that far-away\nrural region, hemmed in by mountains.\n\nAt last, on one seventh of January, Bernadette had just reached her\nfourteenth birthday, when her parents, finding that she learnt nothing at\nBartres, resolved to bring her back to Lourdes for good, in order that\nshe might diligently study her catechism, and in this wise seriously\nprepare herself for her first communion. And so it happened that she had\nalready been at Lourdes some fifteen or twenty days, when on February 11,\na Thursday, cold and somewhat cloudy--\n\nBut Pierre could carry his narrative no further, for Sister Hyacinthe had\nrisen to her feet and was vigorously clapping her hands. \u201cMy children,\u201d\n she exclaimed, \u201cit is past nine o\u2019clock. Silence! silence!\u201d\n\nThe train had indeed just passed Lamothe, and was rolling with a dull\nrumble across a sea of darkness--the endless plains of the Landes which\nthe night submerged. For ten minutes already not a sound ought to have\nbeen heard in the carriage, one and all ought to have been sleeping or\nsuffering uncomplainingly. However, a mutiny broke out.\n\n\u201cOh! Sister!\u201d exclaimed Marie, whose eyes were sparkling, \u201callow us just\nanother short quarter of an hour! We have got to the most interesting\npart.\u201d\n\nTen, twenty voices took up the cry: \u201cOh yes, Sister, please do let us\nhave another short quarter of an hour!\u201d\n\nThey all wished to hear the continuation, burning with as much curiosity\nas though they had not known the story, so captivated were they by the\ntouches of compassionate human feeling which Pierre introduced into his\nnarrative. Their glances never left him, all their heads were stretched\ntowards him, fantastically illumined by the flickering light of the\nlamps. And it was not only the sick who displayed this interest; the ten\nwomen occupying the compartment at the far end of the carriage had also\nbecome impassioned, and, happy at not missing a single word, turned their\npoor ugly faces now beautified by naive faith.\n\n\u201cNo, I cannot!\u201d Sister Hyacinthe at first declared; \u201cthe rules are very\nstrict--you must be silent.\u201d\n\nHowever, she weakened, she herself feeling so interested in the tale that\nshe could detect her heart beating under her stomacher. Then Marie again\nrepeated her request in an entreating tone; whilst her father, M. de\nGuersaint, who had listened like one hugely amused, declared that they\nwould all fall ill if the story were not continued. And thereupon, seeing\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re smile with an indulgent air, Sister Hyacinthe ended\nby consenting.\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d said she, \u201cI will allow you another short quarter of an\nhour; but only a short quarter of an hour, mind. That is understood, is\nit not? For I should otherwise be in fault.\u201d\n\nPierre had waited quietly without attempting to intervene. And he resumed\nhis narrative in the same penetrating voice as before, a voice in which\nhis own doubts were softened by pity for those who suffer and who hope.\n\nThe scene of the story was now transferred to Lourdes, to the Rue des\nPetits Foss\u00e9s, a narrow, tortuous, mournful street taking a downward\ncourse between humble houses and roughly plastered dead walls. The\nSoubirous family occupied a single room on the ground floor of one of\nthese sorry habitations, a room at the end of a dark passage, in which\nseven persons were huddled together, the father, the mother, and five\nchildren. You could scarcely see in the chamber; from the tiny, damp\ninner courtyard of the house there came but a greenish light. And in that\nroom they slept, all of a heap; and there also they ate, when they had\nbread. For some time past, the father, a miller by trade, could only with\ndifficulty obtain work as a journeyman. And it was from that dark hole,\nthat lowly wretchedness, that Bernadette, the elder girl, with Marie, her\nsister, and Jeanne, a little friend of the neighbourhood, went out to\npick up dead wood, on the cold February Thursday already spoken of.\n\nThen the beautiful tale was unfolded at length; how the three girls\nfollowed the bank of the Gave from the other side of the castle, and how\nthey ended by finding themselves on the Ile du Chalet in front of the\nrock of Massabielle, from which they were only separated by the narrow\nstream diverted from the Gave, and used for working the mill of Savy. It\nwas a wild spot, whither the common herdsman often brought the pigs of\nthe neighbourhood, which, when showers suddenly came on, would take\nshelter under this rock of Massabielle, at whose base there was a kind of\ngrotto of no great depth, blocked at the entrance by eglantine and\nbrambles. The girls found dead wood very scarce that day, but at last on\nseeing on the other side of the stream quite a gleaning of branches\ndeposited there by the torrent, Marie and Jeanne crossed over through the\nwater; whilst Bernadette, more delicate than they were, a trifle\nyoung-ladyfied, perhaps, remained on the bank lamenting, and not daring\nto wet her feet. She was suffering slightly from humour in the head, and\nher mother had expressly bidden her to wrap herself in her _capulet_,* a\nlarge white _capulet_ which contrasted vividly with her old black woollen\ndress. When she found that her companions would not help her, she\nresignedly made up her mind to take off her _sabots_, and pull down her\nstockings. It was then about noon, the three strokes of the Angelus rang\nout from the parish church, rising into the broad calm winter sky, which\nwas somewhat veiled by fine fleecy clouds. And it was then that a great\nagitation arose within her, resounding in her ears with such a\ntempestuous roar that she fancied a hurricane had descended from the\nmountains, and was passing over her. But she looked at the trees and was\nstupefied, for not a leaf was stirring. Then she thought that she had\nbeen mistaken, and was about to pick up her _sabots_, when again the\ngreat gust swept through her; but, this time, the disturbance in her ears\nreached her eyes, she no longer saw the trees, but was dazzled by a\nwhiteness, a kind of bright light which seemed to her to settle itself\nagainst the rock, in a narrow, lofty slit above the Grotto, not unlike an\nogival window of a cathedral. In her fright she fell upon her knees. What\ncould it be, _mon Dieu_? Sometimes, during bad weather, when her asthma\noppressed her more than usual, she spent very bad nights, incessantly\ndreaming dreams which were often painful, and whose stifling effect she\nretained on awaking, even when she had ceased to remember anything.\nFlames would surround her, the sun would flash before her face. Had she\ndreamt in that fashion during the previous night? Was this the\ncontinuation of some forgotten dream? However, little by little a form\nbecame outlined, she believed that she could distinguish a figure which\nthe vivid light rendered intensely white. In her fear lest it should be\nthe devil, for her mind was haunted by tales of witchcraft, she began to\ntell her beads. And when the light had slowly faded away, and she had\ncrossed the canal and joined Marie and Jeanne, she was surprised to find\nthat neither of them had seen anything whilst they were picking up the\nwood in front of the Grotto. On their way back to Lourdes the three girls\ntalked together. So she, Bernadette, had seen something then? What was\nit? At first, feeling uneasy, and somewhat ashamed, she would not answer;\nbut at last she said that she had seen something white.\n\n  * This is a kind of hood, more generally known among the Bearnese\n    peasantry as a _sarot_. Whilst forming a coif it also completely\n    covers the back and shoulders.--Trans.\n\nFrom this the rumours started and grew. The Soubirouses, on being made\nacquainted with the circumstance, evinced much displeasure at such\nchildish nonsense, and told their daughter that she was not to return to\nthe rock of Massabielle. All the children of the neighbourhood, however,\nwere already repeating the tale, and when Sunday came the parents had to\ngive way, and allow Bernadette to betake herself to the Grotto with a\nbottle of holy water to ascertain if it were really the devil whom one\nhad to deal with. She then again beheld the light, the figure became more\nclearly defined, and smiled upon her, evincing no fear whatever of the\nholy water. And, on the ensuing Thursday, she once more returned to the\nspot accompanied by several persons, and then for the first time the\nradiant lady assumed sufficient corporality to speak, and say to her: \u201cDo\nme the kindness to come here for fifteen days.\u201d\n\nThus, little by little, the lady had assumed a precise appearance. The\nsomething clad in white had become indeed a lady more beautiful than a\nqueen, of a kind such as is only seen in pictures. At first, in presence\nof the questions with which all the neighbours plied her from morning\ntill evening, Bernadette had hesitated, disturbed, perhaps, by scruples\nof conscience. But then, as though prompted by the very interrogatories\nto which she was subjected, she seemed to perceive the figure which she\nhad beheld, more plainly, so that it definitely assumed life, with lines\nand hues from which the child, in her after-descriptions, never departed.\nThe lady\u2019s eyes were blue and very mild, her mouth was rosy and smiling,\nthe oval of her face expressed both the grace of youth and of maternity.\nBelow the veil covering her head and falling to her heels, only a glimpse\nwas caught of her admirable fair hair, which was slightly curled. Her\nrobe, which was of dazzling whiteness, must have been of some material\nunknown on earth, some material woven of the sun\u2019s rays. Her sash, of the\nsame hue as the heavens, was fastened loosely about her, its long ends\nstreaming downwards, with the light airiness of morning. Her chaplet,\nwound about her right arm, had beads of a milky whiteness, whilst the\nlinks and the cross were of gold. And on her bare feet, on her adorable\nfeet of virgin snow, flowered two golden roses, the mystic roses of this\ndivine mother\u2019s immaculate flesh.\n\nWhere was it that Bernadette had seen this Blessed Virgin, of such\ntraditionally simple composition, unadorned by a single jewel, having but\nthe primitive grace imagined by the painters of a people in its\nchildhood? In which illustrated book belonging to her foster-mother\u2019s\nbrother, the good priest, who read such attractive stories, had she\nbeheld this Virgin? Or in what picture, or what statuette, or what\nstained-glass window of the painted and gilded church where she had spent\nso many evenings whilst growing up? And whence, above all things, had\ncome those golden roses poised on the Virgin\u2019s feet, that piously\nimagined florescence of woman\u2019s flesh--from what romance of chivalry,\nfrom what story told after catechism by the Abb\u00e9 Ader, from what\nunconscious dream indulged in under the shady foliage of Bartres, whilst\never and ever repeating that haunting Angelic Salutation?\n\nPierre\u2019s voice had acquired a yet more feeling tone, for if he did not\nsay all these things to the simple-minded folks who were listening to\nhim, still the human explanation of all these prodigies which the feeling\nof doubt in the depths of his being strove to supply, imparted to his\nnarrative a quiver of sympathetic, fraternal love. He loved Bernadette\nthe better for the great charm of her hallucination--that lady of such\ngracious access, such perfect amiability, such politeness in appearing\nand disappearing so appropriately. At first the great light would show\nitself, then the vision took form, came and went, leant forward, moved\nabout, floating imperceptibly, with ethereal lightness; and when it\nvanished the glow lingered for yet another moment, and then disappeared\nlike a star fading away. No lady in this world could have such a white\nand rosy face, with a beauty so akin to that of the Virgins on the\npicture-cards given to children at their first communions. And it was\nstrange that the eglantine of the Grotto did not even hurt her adorable\nbare feet blooming with golden flowers.\n\nPierre, however, at once proceeded to recount the other apparitions. The\nfourth and fifth occurred on the Friday and the Saturday; but the Lady,\nwho shone so brightly and who had not yet told her name, contented\nherself on these occasions with smiling and saluting without pronouncing\na word. On the Sunday, however, she wept, and said to Bernadette, \u201cPray\nfor sinners.\u201d On the Monday, to the child\u2019s great grief, she did not\nappear, wishing, no doubt, to try her. But on the Tuesday she confided to\nher a secret which concerned her (the girl) alone, a secret which she was\nnever to divulge*; and then she at last told her what mission it was that\nshe entrusted to her: \u201cGo and tell the priests,\u201d she said, \u201cthat they\nmust build a chapel here.\u201d On the Wednesday she frequently murmured the\nword \u201cPenitence! penitence! penitence!\u201d which the child repeated,\nafterwards kissing the earth. On the Thursday the Lady said to her: \u201cGo,\nand drink, and wash at the spring, and eat of the grass that is beside\nit,\u201d words which the Visionary ended by understanding, when in the depths\nof the Grotto a source suddenly sprang up beneath her fingers. And this\nwas the miracle of the enchanted fountain.\n\n  * In a like way, it will be remembered, the apparition at La\n    Salette confided a secret to M\u00e9lanie and Maximin (see _ante_,\n    note). There can be little doubt that Bernadette was acquainted\n    with the story of the miracle of La Salette.--Trans.\n\nThen the second week ran its course. The lady did not appear on the\nFriday, but was punctual on the five following days, repeating her\ncommands and gazing with a smile at the humble girl whom she had chosen\nto do her bidding, and who, on her side, duly told her beads at each\napparition, kissed the earth, and repaired on her knees to the source,\nthere to drink and wash. At last, on Thursday, March 4, the last day of\nthese mystical assignations, the Lady requested more pressingly than\nbefore that a chapel might be erected in order that the nations might\ncome thither in procession from all parts of the earth. So far, however,\nin reply to all Bernadette\u2019s appeals, she had refused to say who she was;\nand it was only three weeks later, on Thursday, March 25, that, joining\nher hands together, and raising her eyes to Heaven, she said: \u201cI am the\nImmaculate Conception.\u201d On two other occasions, at somewhat long\nintervals, April 7 and July 16, she again appeared: the first time to\nperform the miracle of the lighted taper, that taper above which the\nchild, plunged in ecstasy, for a long time unconsciously left her hand,\nwithout burning it; and the second time to bid Bernadette farewell, to\nfavour her with a last smile, and a last inclination of the head full of\ncharming politeness. This made eighteen apparitions all told; and never\nagain did the Lady show herself.\n\nWhilst Pierre went on with his beautiful, marvellous story, so soothing\nto the wretched, he evoked for himself a vision of that pitiable, lovable\nBernadette, whose sufferings had flowered so wonderfully. As a doctor had\nroughly expressed it, this girl of fourteen, at a critical period of her\nlife, already ravaged, too, by asthma, was, after all, simply an\nexceptional victim of hysteria, afflicted with a degenerate heredity and\nlapsing into infancy. If there were no violent crises in her case, if\nthere were no stiffening of the muscles during her attacks, if she\nretained a precise recollection of her dreams, the reason was that her\ncase was peculiar to herself, and she added, so to say, a new and very\ncurious form to all the forms of hysteria known at the time. Miracles\nonly begin when things cannot be explained; and science, so far, knows\nand can explain so little, so infinitely do the phenomena of disease vary\naccording to the nature of the patient! But how many shepherdesses there\nhad been before Bernadette who had seen the Virgin in a similar way,\namidst all the same childish nonsense! Was it not always the same story,\nthe Lady clad in light, the secret confided, the spring bursting forth,\nthe mission which had to be fulfilled, the miracles whose enchantments\nwould convert the masses? And was not the personal appearance of the\nVirgin always in accordance with a poor child\u2019s dreams--akin to some\ncoloured figure in a missal, an ideal compounded of traditional beauty,\ngentleness, and politeness. And the same dreams showed themselves in the\nna\u00efvet\u00e9 of the means which were to be employed and of the object which\nwas to be attained--the deliverance of nations, the building of churches,\nthe processional pilgrimages of the faithful! Then, too, all the words\nwhich fell from Heaven resembled one another, calls for penitence,\npromises of help; and in this respect, in Bernadette\u2019s case the only new\nfeature was that most extraordinary declaration: \u201cI am the Immaculate\nConception,\u201d which burst forth--very usefully--as the recognition by the\nBlessed Virgin herself of the dogma promulgated by the Court of Rome but\nthree years previously! It was not the Immaculate Virgin who appeared:\nno, it was the Immaculate Conception, the abstraction itself, the thing,\nthe dogma, so that one might well ask oneself if really the Virgin had\nspoken in such a fashion. As for the other words, it was possible that\nBernadette had heard them somewhere and stored them up in some\nunconscious nook of her memory. But these--\u201cI am the Immaculate\nConception\u201d--whence had they come as though expressly to fortify a\ndogma--still bitterly discussed--with such prodigious support as the\ndirect testimony of the Mother conceived without sin? At this thought,\nPierre, who was convinced of Bernadette\u2019s absolute good faith, who\nrefused to believe that she had been the instrument of a fraud, began to\nwaver, deeply agitated, feeling his belief in truth totter within him.\n\nThe apparitions, however, had caused intense emotion at Lourdes; crowds\nflocked to the spot, miracles began, and those inevitable persecutions\nbroke out which ensure the triumph of new religions. Abb\u00e9 Peyramale, the\nparish priest of Lourdes, an extremely honest man, with an upright,\nvigorous mind, was able in all truth to declare that he did not know this\nchild, that she had not yet been seen at catechism. Where was the\npressure, then, where the lesson learnt by heart? There was nothing but\nthose years of childhood spent at Bartres, the first teachings of Abb\u00e9\nAder, conversations possibly, religious ceremonies in honour of the\nrecently proclaimed dogma, or simply the gift of one of those\ncommemorative medals which had been scattered in profusion. Never did\nAbb\u00e9 Ader reappear upon the scene, he who had predicted the mission of\nthe future Visionary. He was destined to remain apart from Bernadette and\nher future career, he who, the first, had seen her little soul blossom in\nhis pious hands. And yet all the unknown forces that had sprung from that\nsequestered village, from that nook of greenery where superstition and\npoverty of intelligence prevailed, were still making themselves felt,\ndisturbing the brains of men, disseminating the contagion of the\nmysterious. It was remembered that a shepherd of Argel\u00e8s, speaking of the\nrock of Massabielle, had prophesied that great things would take place\nthere. Other children, moreover, now fell in ecstasy with their eyes\ndilated and their limbs quivering with convulsions, but these only saw\nthe devil. A whirlwind of madness seemed to be passing over the region.\nAn old lady of Lourdes declared that Bernadette was simply a witch and\nthat she had herself seen the toad\u2019s foot in her eye. But for the others,\nfor the thousands of pilgrims who hastened to the spot, she was a saint,\nand they kissed her garments. Sobs burst forth and frenzy seemed to seize\nupon the souls of the beholders, when she fell upon her knees before the\nGrotto, a lighted taper in her right hand, whilst with the left she told\nthe beads of her rosary. She became very pale and quite beautiful,\ntransfigured, so to say. Her features gently ascended in her face,\nlengthened into an expression of extraordinary beatitude, whilst her eyes\nfilled with light, and her lips parted as though she were speaking words\nwhich could not be heard. And it was quite certain that she had no will\nof her own left her, penetrated as she was by a dream, possessed by it to\nsuch a point in the confined, exclusive sphere in which she lived, that\nshe continued dreaming it even when awake, and thus accepted it as the\nonly indisputable reality, prepared to testify to it even at the cost of\nher blood, repeating it over and over again, obstinately, stubbornly\nclinging to it, and never varying in the details she gave. She did not\nlie, for she did not know, could not and would not desire anything apart\nfrom it.\n\nForgetful of the flight of time, Pierre was now sketching a charming\npicture of old Lourdes, that pious little town, slumbering at the foot of\nthe Pyrenees. The castle, perched on a rock at the point of intersection\nof the seven valleys of Lavedan, had formerly been the key of the\nmountain districts. But, in Bernadette\u2019s time, it had become a mere\ndismantled, ruined pile, at the entrance of a road leading nowhere.\nModern life found its march stayed by a formidable rampart of lofty,\nsnow-capped peaks, and only the trans-Pyrenean railway--had it been\nconstructed--could have established an active circulation of social life\nin that sequestered nook where human existence stagnated like dead water.\nForgotten, therefore, Lourdes remained slumbering, happy and sluggish\namidst its old-time peacefulness, with its narrow, pebble-paved streets\nand its bleak houses with dressings of marble. The old roofs were still\nall massed on the eastern side of the castle; the Rue de la Grotte, then\ncalled the Rue du Bois, was but a deserted and often impassable road; no\nhouses stretched down to the Gave as now, and the scum-laden waters\nrolled through a perfect solitude of pollard willows and tall grass. On\nweek-days but few people passed across the Place du Marcadal, such as\nhousewives hastening on errands, and petty cits airing their leisure\nhours; and you had to wait till Sundays or fair days to find the\ninhabitants rigged out in their best clothes and assembled on the Champ\nCommun, in company with the crowd of graziers who had come down from the\ndistant tablelands with their cattle. During the season when people\nresort to the Pyrenean-waters, the passage of the visitors to Cauterets\nand Bagn\u00e8res also brought some animation; _diligences_ passed through the\ntown twice a day, but they came from Pau by a wretched road, and had to\nford the Lapaca, which often overflowed its banks. Then climbing the\nsteep ascent of the Rue Basse, they skirted the terrace of the church,\nwhich was shaded by large elms. And what soft peacefulness prevailed in\nand around that old semi-Spanish church, full of ancient carvings,\ncolumns, screens, and statues, peopled with visionary patches of gilding\nand painted flesh, which time had mellowed and which you faintly\ndiscerned as by the light of mystical lamps! The whole population came\nthere to worship, to fill their eyes with the dream of the mysterious.\nThere were no unbelievers, the inhabitants of Lourdes were a people of\nprimitive faith; each corporation marched behind the banner of its saint,\nbrotherhoods of all kinds united the entire town, on festival mornings,\nin one large Christian family. And, as with some exquisite flower that\nhas grown in the soil of its choice, great purity of life reigned there.\nThere was not even a resort of debauchery for young men to wreck their\nlives, and the girls, one and all, grew up with the perfume and beauty of\ninnocence, under the eyes of the Blessed Virgin, Tower of Ivory and Seat\nof Wisdom.\n\nAnd how well one could understand that Bernadette, born in that holy\nsoil, should flower in it, like one of nature\u2019s roses budding in the\nwayside bushes! She was indeed the very florescence of that region of\nancient belief and rectitude; she would certainly not have sprouted\nelsewhere; she could only appear and develop there, amidst that belated\nrace, amidst the slumberous peacefulness of a childlike people, under the\nmoral discipline of religion. And what intense love at once burst forth\nall around her! What blind confidence was displayed in her mission, what\nimmense consolation and hope came to human hearts on the very morrow of\nthe first miracles! A long cry of relief had greeted the cure of old\nBourriette recovering his sight, and of little Justin Bouhohorts coming\nto life again in the icy water of the spring. At last, then, the Blessed\nVirgin was intervening in favour of those who despaired, forcing that\nunkind mother, Nature, to be just and charitable. This was divine\nomnipotence returning to reign on earth, sweeping the laws of the world\naside in order to work the happiness of the suffering and the poor. The\nmiracles multiplied, blazed forth, from day to day more and more\nextraordinary, like unimpeachable proof of Bernadette\u2019s veracity. And she\nwas, indeed, the rose of the divine garden, whose deeds shed perfume, the\nrose who beholds all the other flowers of grace and salvation spring into\nbeing around her.\n\nPierre had reached this point of his story, and was again enumerating the\nmiracles, on the point of recounting the prodigious triumph of the\nGrotto, when Sister Hyacinthe, awaking with a start from the ecstasy into\nwhich the narrative had plunged her, hastily rose to her feet. \u201cReally,\nreally,\u201d said she, \u201cthere is no sense in it. It will soon be eleven\no\u2019clock.\u201d\n\nThis was true. They had left Morceux behind them, and would now soon be\nat Mont de Marsan. So Sister Hyacinthe clapped her hands once more, and\nadded: \u201cSilence, my children, silence!\u201d\n\nThis time they did not dare to rebel, for they felt she was in the right;\nthey were unreasonable. But how greatly they regretted not hearing the\ncontinuation, how vexed they were that the story should cease when only\nhalf told! The ten women in the farther compartment even let a murmur of\ndisappointment escape them; whilst the sick, their faces still\noutstretched, their dilated eyes gazing upon the light of hope, seemed to\nbe yet listening. Those miracles which ever and ever returned to their\nminds and filled them with unlimited, haunting, supernatural joy.\n\n\u201cAnd don\u2019t let me hear anyone breathe, even,\u201d added Sister Hyacinthe\ngaily, \u201cor otherwise I shall impose penance on you.\u201d\n\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re laughed good-naturedly. \u201cYou must obey, my children,\u201d\n she said; \u201cbe good and get to sleep, so that you may have strength to\npray at the Grotto to-morrow with all your hearts.\u201d\n\nThen silence fell, nobody spoke any further; and the only sounds were\nthose of the rumbling of the wheels and the jolting of the train as it\nwas carried along at full speed through the black night.\n\nPierre, however, was unable to sleep. Beside him, M. de Guersaint was\nalready snoring lightly, looking very happy despite the hardness of his\nseat. For a time the young priest saw Marie\u2019s eyes wide open, still full\nof all the radiance of the marvels that he had related. For a long while\nshe kept them ardently fixed upon his own, but at last closed them, and\nthen he knew not whether she was sleeping, or with eyelids simply closed\nwas living the everlasting miracle over again. Some of the sufferers were\ndreaming aloud, giving vent to bursts of laughter which unconscious moans\ninterrupted. Perhaps they beheld the Archangels opening their flesh to\nwrest their diseases from them. Others, restless with insomnia, turned\nover and over, stifling their sobs and gazing fixedly into the darkness.\nAnd, with a shudder born of all the mystery he had evoked, Pierre,\ndistracted, no longer master of himself in that delirious sphere of\nfraternal suffering, ended by hating his very mind, and, drawn into close\ncommunion with all those humble folks, sought to believe like them. What\ncould be the use of that physiological inquiry into Bernadette\u2019s case, so\nfull of gaps and intricacies? Why should he not accept her as a messenger\nfrom the spheres beyond, as one of the elect chosen for the divine\nmystery? Doctors were but ignorant men with rough and brutal hands, and\nit would be so delightful to fall asleep in childlike faith, in the\nenchanted gardens of the impossible. And for a moment indeed he\nsurrendered himself, experiencing a delightful feeling of comfort, no\nlonger seeking to explain anything, but accepting the Visionary with her\nsumptuous _cort\u00e8ge_ of miracles, and relying on God to think and\ndetermine for him. Then he looked out through the window, which they did\nnot dare to open on account of the consumptive patients, and beheld the\nimmeasurable night which enwrapped the country across which the train was\nfleeing. The storm must have burst forth there; the sky was now of an\nadmirable nocturnal purity, as though cleansed by the masses of fallen\nwater. Large stars shone out in the dark velvet, alone illumining, with\ntheir mysterious gleams, the silent, refreshed fields, which incessantly\ndisplayed only the black solitude of slumber. And across the Landes,\nthrough the valleys, between the hills, that carriage of wretchedness and\nsuffering rolled on and on, over-heated, pestilential, rueful, and\nwailing, amidst the serenity of the august night, so lovely and so mild.\n\nThey had passed Riscle at one in the morning. Between the jolting, the\npainful, the hallucinatory silence still continued. At two o\u2019clock, as\nthey reached Vic-de-Bigorre, low moans were heard; the bad state of the\nline, with the unbearable spreading tendency of the train\u2019s motion, was\nsorely shaking the patients. It was only at Tarbes, at half-past two,\nthat silence was at length broken, and that morning prayers were said,\nthough black night still reigned around them. There came first the\n\u201cPater,\u201d and then the \u201cAve,\u201d the \u201cCredo,\u201d and the supplication to God to\ngrant them the happiness of a glorious day.\n\n\u201cO God, vouchsafe me sufficient strength that I may avoid all that is\nevil, do all that is good, and suffer uncomplainingly every pain.\u201d\n\nAnd now there was to be no further stoppage until they reached Lourdes.\nBarely three more quarters of an hour, and Lourdes, with all its vast\nhopes, would blaze forth in the midst of that night, so long and cruel.\nTheir painful awakening was enfevered by the thought; a final agitation\narose amidst the morning discomfort, as the abominable sufferings began\nafresh.\n\nSister Hyacinthe, however, was especially anxious about the strange man,\nwhose sweat-covered face she had been continually wiping. He had so far\nmanaged to keep alive, she watching him without a pause, never having\nonce closed her eyes, but unremittingly listening to his faint breathing\nwith the stubborn desire to take him to the holy Grotto before he died.\n\nAll at once, however, she felt frightened; and addressing Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re, she hastily exclaimed, \u201cPray pass me the vinegar bottle at\nonce--I can no longer hear him breathe.\u201d\n\nFor an instant, indeed, the man\u2019s faint breathing had ceased. His eyes\nwere still closed, his lips parted; he could not have been paler, he had\nan ashen hue, and was cold. And the carriage was rolling along with its\nceaseless rattle of coupling-irons; the speed of the train seemed even to\nhave increased.\n\n\u201cI will rub his temples,\u201d resumed Sister Hyacinthe. \u201cHelp me, do!\u201d\n\nBut, at a more violent jolt of the train, the man suddenly fell from the\nseat, face downward.\n\n\u201cAh! _mon Dieu_, help me, pick him up!\u201d\n\nThey picked him up, and found him dead. And they had to seat him in his\ncorner again, with his back resting against the woodwork. He remained\nthere erect, his torso stiffened, and his head wagging slightly at each\nsuccessive jolt. Thus the train continued carrying him along, with the\nsame thundering noise of wheels, while the engine, well pleased, no\ndoubt, to be reaching its destination, began whistling shrilly, giving\nvent to quite a flourish of delirious joy as it sped through the calm\nnight.\n\nAnd then came the last and seemingly endless half-hour of the journey, in\ncompany with that wretched corpse. Two big tears had rolled down Sister\nHyacinthe\u2019s cheeks, and with her hands joined she had begun to pray. The\nwhole carriage shuddered with terror at sight of that terrible companion\nwho was being taken, too late alas! to the Blessed Virgin.\n\nHope, however, proved stronger than sorrow or pain, and although all the\nsufferings there assembled awoke and grew again, irritated by\noverwhelming weariness, a song of joy nevertheless proclaimed the\nsufferers\u2019 triumphal entry into the Land of Miracles. Amidst the tears\nwhich their pains drew from them, the exasperated and howling sick began\nto chant the \u201cAve maris Stella\u201d with a growing clamour in which\nlamentation finally turned into cries of hope.\n\nMarie had again taken Pierre\u2019s hand between her little feverish fingers.\n\u201cOh, _mon Dieu!_\u201d said she, \u201cto think that poor man is dead, and I feared\nso much that it was I who would die before arriving. And we are\nthere--there at last!\u201d\n\nThe priest was trembling with intense emotion. \u201cIt means that you are to\nbe cured, Marie,\u201d he replied, \u201cand that I myself shall be cured if you\npray for me--\u201d\n\nThe engine was now whistling in a yet louder key in the depths of the\nbluish darkness. They were nearing their destination. The lights of\nLourdes already shone out on the horizon. Then the whole train again sang\na canticle--the rhymed story of Bernadette, that endless ballad of six\ntimes ten couplets, in which the Angelic Salutation ever returns as a\nrefrain, all besetting and distracting, opening to the human mind the\nportals of the heaven of ecstasy:--\n\n\n  \u201cIt was the hour for ev\u2019ning pray\u2019r;\n   Soft bells chimed on the chilly air.\n                    Ave, ave, ave Maria!\n\n  \u201cThe maid stood on the torrent\u2019s bank,\n   A breeze arose, then swiftly sank.\n                    Ave, ave, ave Maria!\n\n  \u201cAnd she beheld, e\u2019en as it fell,\n   The Virgin on Massabielle.\n                    Ave, ave, ave Maria!\n\n  \u201cAll white appeared the Lady chaste,\n   A zone of Heaven round her waist.\n                    Ave, ave, ave Maria!\n\n  \u201cTwo golden roses, pure and sweet,\n   Bloomed brightly on her naked feet.\n                    Ave, ave, ave Maria!\n\n  \u201cUpon her arm, so white and round,\n   Her chaplet\u2019s milky pearls were wound.\n                    Ave, ave, ave Maria!\n\n  \u201cThe maiden prayed till, from her eyes,\n   The vision sped to Paradise.\n                    Ave, ave, ave Maria!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SECOND DAY\n\n\n\n\nI. THE TRAIN ARRIVES\n\nIT was twenty minutes past three by the clock of the Lourdes railway\nstation, the dial of which was illumined by a reflector. Under the\nslanting roof sheltering the platform, a hundred yards or so in length,\nsome shadowy forms went to and fro, resignedly waiting. Only a red signal\nlight peeped out of the black countryside, far away.\n\nTwo of the promenaders suddenly halted. The taller of them, a Father of\nthe Assumption, none other indeed than the Reverend Father Fourcade,\ndirector of the national pilgrimage, who had reached Lourdes on the\nprevious day, was a man of sixty, looking superb in his black cloak with\nits large hood. His fine head, with its clear, domineering eyes and thick\ngrizzly beard, was the head of a general whom an intelligent\ndetermination to conquer inflames. In consequence, however, of a sudden\nattack of gout he slightly dragged one of his legs, and was leaning on\nthe shoulder of his companion, Dr. Bonamy, the practitioner attached to\nthe Miracle Verification Office, a short, thick-set man, with a\nsquare-shaped, clean-shaven face, which had dull, blurred eyes and a\ntranquil cast of features.\n\nFather Fourcade had stopped to question the station-master whom he\nperceived running out of his office. \u201cWill the white train be very late,\nmonsieur?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cNo, your reverence. It hasn\u2019t lost more than ten minutes; it will be\nhere at the half-hour. It\u2019s the Bayonne train which worries me; it ought\nto have passed through already.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he ran off to give an order; but soon came back again, his\nslim, nervous figure displaying marked signs of agitation. He lived,\nindeed, in a state of high fever throughout the period of the great\npilgrimages. Apart from the usual service, he that day expected eighteen\ntrains, containing more than fifteen thousand passengers. The grey and\nthe blue trains which had started from Paris the first had already\narrived at the regulation hour. But the delay in the arrival of the white\ntrain was very troublesome, the more so as the Bayonne express--which\npassed over the same rails--had not yet been signalled. It was easy to\nunderstand, therefore, what incessant watchfulness was necessary, not a\nsecond passing without the entire staff of the station being called upon\nto exercise its vigilance.\n\n\u201cIn ten minutes, then?\u201d repeated Father Fourcade.\n\n\u201cYes, in ten minutes, unless I\u2019m obliged to close the line!\u201d cried the\nstation-master as he hastened into the telegraph office.\n\nFather Fourcade and the doctor slowly resumed their promenade. The thing\nwhich astonished them was that no serious accident had ever happened in\nthe midst of such a fearful scramble. In past times, especially, the most\nterrible disorder had prevailed. Father Fourcade complacently recalled\nthe first pilgrimage which he had organised and led, in 1875; the\nterrible endless journey without pillows or mattresses, the patients\nexhausted, half dead, with no means of reviving them at hand; and then\nthe arrival at Lourdes, the train evacuated in confusion, no _mat\u00e9riel_\nin readiness, no straps, nor stretchers, nor carts. But now there was a\npowerful organisation; a hospital awaited the sick, who were no longer\nreduced to lying upon straw in sheds. What a shock for those unhappy\nones! What force of will in the man of faith who led them to the scene of\nmiracles! The reverend Father smiled gently at the thought of the work\nwhich he had accomplished.\n\nThen, still leaning on the doctor\u2019s shoulder, he began to question him:\n\u201cHow many pilgrims did you have last year?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cAbout two hundred thousand. That is still the average. In the year of\nthe Coronation of the Virgin the figure rose to five hundred thousand.\nBut to bring that about an exceptional occasion was needed with a great\neffort of propaganda. Such vast masses cannot be collected together every\nday.\u201d\n\nA pause followed, and then Father Fourcade murmured: \u201cNo doubt. Still the\nblessing of Heaven attends our endeavours; our work thrives more and\nmore. We have collected more than two hundred thousand francs in\ndonations for this journey, and God will be with us, there will be many\ncures for you to proclaim to-morrow, I am sure of it.\u201d Then, breaking\noff, he inquired: \u201cHas not Father Dargeles come here?\u201d\n\nDr. Bonamy waved his hand as though to say that he did not know. Father\nDargeles was the editor of the \u201cJournal de la Grotte.\u201d He belonged to the\nOrder of the Fathers of the Immaculate Conception whom the Bishop had\ninstalled at Lourdes and who were the absolute masters there; though,\nwhen the Fathers of the Assumption came to the town with the national\npilgrimage from Paris, which crowds of faithful Catholics from Cambrai,\nArras, Chartres, Troyes, Rheims, Sens, Orleans, Blois, and Poitiers\njoined, they evinced a kind of affectation in disappearing from the\nscene. Their omnipotence was no longer felt either at the Grotto or at\nthe Basilica; they seemed to surrender every key together with every\nresponsibility. Their superior, Father Capdebarthe, a tall, peasant-like\nman, with a knotty frame, a big head which looked as if it had been\nfashioned with a bill-hook, and a worn face which retained a ruddy\nmournful reflection of the soil, did not even show himself. Of the whole\ncommunity you only saw little, insinuating Father Dargeles; but he was\nmet everywhere, incessantly on the look-out for paragraphs for his\nnewspaper. At the same time, however, although the Fathers of the\nImmaculate Conception disappeared in this fashion, it could be divined\nthat they were behind the vast stage, like a hidden sovereign power,\ncoining money and toiling without a pause to increase the triumphant\nprosperity of their business. Indeed, they turned even their humility to\naccount.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s true that we have had to get up early--two in the morning,\u201d resumed\nFather Fourcade gaily. \u201cBut I wished to be here. What would my poor\nchildren have said, indeed, if I had not come?\u201d\n\nHe was alluding to the sick pilgrims, those who were so much flesh for\nmiracle-working; and it was a fact that he had never missed coming to the\nstation, no matter what the hour, to meet that woeful white train, that\ntrain which brought such grievous suffering with it.\n\n\u201cFive-and-twenty minutes past three--only another five minutes now,\u201d\n exclaimed Dr. Bonamy repressing a yawn as he glanced at the clock; for,\ndespite his obsequious air, he was at bottom very much annoyed at having\nhad to get out of bed so early. However, he continued his slow promenade\nwith Father Fourcade along that platform which resembled a covered walk,\npacing up and down in the dense night which the gas jets here and there\nillumined with patches of yellow light. Little parties, dimly outlined,\ncomposed of priests and gentlemen in frock-coats, with a solitary officer\nof dragoons, went to and fro incessantly, talking together the while in\ndiscreet murmuring tones. Other people, seated on benches, ranged along\nthe station wall, were also chatting or putting their patience to proof\nwith their glances wandering away into the black stretch of country\nbefore them. The doorways of the offices and waiting-rooms, which were\nbrilliantly lighted, looked like great holes in the darkness, and all was\nflaring in the refreshment-room, where you could see the marble tables\nand the counter laden with bottles and glasses and baskets of bread and\nfruit.\n\nOn the right hand, beyond the roofing of the platform, there was a\nconfused swarming of people. There was here a goods gate, by which the\nsick were taken out of the station, and a mass of stretchers, litters,\nand hand-carts, with piles of pillows and mattresses, obstructed the\nbroad walk. Three parties of bearers were also assembled here, persons of\nwell-nigh every class, but more particularly young men of good society,\nall wearing red, orange-tipped crosses and straps of yellow leather. Many\nof them, too, had adopted the Bearnese cap, the convenient head-gear of\nthe region; and a few, clad as though they were bound on some distant\nexpedition, displayed wonderful gaiters reaching to their knees. Some\nwere smoking, whilst others, installed in their little vehicles, slept or\nread newspapers by the light of the neighbouring gas jets. One group,\nstanding apart, were discussing some service question.\n\nSuddenly, however, one and all began to salute. A paternal-looking man,\nwith a heavy but good-natured face, lighted by large blue eyes, like\nthose of a credulous child, was approaching. It was Baron Suire, the\nPresident of the Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation. He possessed a\ngreat fortune and occupied a high position at Toulouse.\n\n\u201cWhere is Berthaud?\u201d he inquired of one bearer after another, with a busy\nair. \u201cWhere is Berthaud? I must speak to him.\u201d\n\nThe others answered, volunteering contradictory information. Berthaud was\ntheir superintendent, and whilst some said that they had seen him with\nthe Reverend Father Fourcade, others affirmed that he must be in the\ncourtyard of the station inspecting the ambulance vehicles. And they\nthereupon offered to go and fetch him.\n\n\u201cNo, no, thank you,\u201d replied the Baron. \u201cI shall manage to find him\nmyself.\u201d\n\nWhilst this was happening, Berthaud, who had just seated himself on a\nbench at the other end of the station, was talking with his young friend,\nG\u00e9rard de Peyrelongue, by way of occupation pending the arrival of the\ntrain. The superintendent of the bearers was a man of forty, with a\nbroad, regular-featured, handsome face and carefully trimmed whiskers of\na lawyer-like pattern. Belonging to a militant Legitimist family and\nholding extremely reactionary opinions, he had been Procureur de la\nRepublique (public prosecutor) in a town of the south of France from the\ntime of the parliamentary revolution of the twenty-fourth of May* until\nthat of the decree of the Religious Communities,** when he had resigned\nhis post in a blusterous fashion, by addressing an insulting letter to\nthe Minister of Justice. And he had never since laid down his arms, but\nhad joined the Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation as a sort of protest,\nrepairing year after year to Lourdes in order to \u201cdemonstrate\u201d; convinced\nas he was that the pilgrimages were both disagreeable and hurtful to the\nRepublic, and that God alone could re-establish the Monarchy by one of\nthose miracles which He worked so lavishly at the Grotto. Despite all\nthis, however, Berthaud possessed no small amount of good sense, and\nbeing of a gay disposition, displayed a kind of jovial charity towards\nthe poor sufferers whose transport he had to provide for during the three\ndays that the national pilgrimage remained at Lourdes.\n\n  * The parliamentary revolution of May, 1873, by which M. Thiers\n    was overthrown and Marshal MacMahon installed in his place with\n    the object of restoring the Monarchy in France.--Trans.\n\n  ** M. Grevy\u2019s decree by which the Jesuits were expelled.--Trans.\n\n\u201cAnd so, my dear G\u00e9rard,\u201d he said to the young man seated beside him,\n\u201cyour marriage is really to come off this year?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy yes, if I can find such a wife as I want,\u201d replied the other. \u201cCome,\ncousin, give me some good advice.\u201d\n\nG\u00e9rard de Peyrelongue, a short, thin, carroty young man, with a\npronounced nose and prominent cheek-bones, belonged to Tarbes, where his\nfather and mother had lately died, leaving him at the utmost some seven\nor eight thousand francs a year. Extremely ambitious, he had been unable\nto find such a wife as he desired in his native province--a\nwell-connected young woman capable of helping him to push both forward\nand upward in the world; and so he had joined the Hospitality, and betook\nhimself every summer to Lourdes, in the vague hope that amidst the mass\nof believers, the torrent of devout mammas and daughters which flowed\nthither, he might find the family whose help he needed to enable him to\nmake his way in this terrestrial sphere. However, he remained in\nperplexity, for if, on the one hand, he already had several young ladies\nin view, on the other, none of them completely satisfied him.\n\n\u201cEh, cousin? You will advise me, won\u2019t you?\u201d he said to Berthaud. \u201cYou\nare a man of experience. There is Mademoiselle Lemercier who comes here\nwith her aunt. She is very rich; according to what is said she has over a\nmillion francs. But she doesn\u2019t belong to our set, and besides I think\nher a bit of a madcap.\u201d\n\nBerthaud nodded. \u201cI told you so; if I were you I should choose little\nRaymonde, Mademoiselle de Jonqui\u00e8re.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut she hasn\u2019t a copper!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s true--she has barely enough to pay for her board. But she is\nfairly good-looking, she has been well brought up, and she has no\nextravagant tastes. That is the really important point, for what is the\nuse of marrying a rich girl if she squanders the dowry she brings you?\nBesides, I know Madame and Mademoiselle de Jonqui\u00e8re very well, I meet\nthem all through the winter in the most influential drawing-rooms of\nParis. And, finally, don\u2019t forget the girl\u2019s uncle, the diplomatist, who\nhas had the painful courage to remain in the service of the Republic. He\nwill be able to do whatever he pleases for his niece\u2019s husband.\u201d\n\nFor a moment G\u00e9rard seemed shaken, and then he relapsed into perplexity.\n\u201cBut she hasn\u2019t a copper,\u201d he said, \u201cno, not a copper. It\u2019s too stiff. I\nam quite willing to think it over, but it really frightens me too much.\u201d\n\nThis time Berthaud burst into a frank laugh. \u201cCome, you are ambitious, so\nyou must be daring. I tell you that it means the secretaryship of an\nembassy before two years are over. By the way, Madame and Mademoiselle de\nJonqui\u00e8re are in the white train which we are waiting for. Make up your\nmind and pay your court at once.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no! Later on. I want to think it over.\u201d\n\nAt this moment they were interrupted, for Baron Suire, who had already\nonce gone by without perceiving them, so completely did the darkness\nenshroud them in that retired corner, had just recognised the ex-public\nprosecutor\u2019s good-natured laugh. And, thereupon, with the volubility of a\nman whose head is easily unhinged, he gave him several orders respecting\nthe vehicles and the transport service, deploring the circumstance that\nit would be impossible to conduct the patients to the Grotto immediately\non their arrival, as it was yet so extremely early. It had therefore been\ndecided that they should in the first instance be taken to the Hospital\nof Our Lady of Dolours, where they would be able to rest awhile after\ntheir trying journey.\n\nWhilst the Baron and the superintendent were thus settling what measures\nshould be adopted, G\u00e9rard shook hands with a priest who had sat down\nbeside him. This was the Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises, who was barely\neight-and-thirty years of age and had a superb head--such a head as one\nmight expect to find on the shoulders of a worldly priest. With his hair\nwell combed, and his person perfumed, he was not unnaturally a great\nfavourite among women. Very amiable and distinguished in his manners, he\ndid not come to Lourdes in any official capacity, but simply for his\npleasure, as so many other people did; and the bright, sparkling smile of\na sceptic above all idolatry gleamed in the depths of his fine eyes. He\ncertainly believed, and bowed to superior decisions; but the Church--the\nHoly See--had not pronounced itself with regard to the miracles; and he\nseemed quite ready to dispute their authenticity. Having lived at Tarbes\nhe was already acquainted with G\u00e9rard.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d he said to him, \u201chow impressive it is--isn\u2019t it?--this waiting for\nthe trains in the middle of the night! I have come to meet a lady--one of\nmy former Paris penitents--but I don\u2019t know what train she will come by.\nStill, as you see, I stop on, for it all interests me so much.\u201d\n\nThen another priest, an old country priest, having come to sit down on\nthe same bench, the Abb\u00e9 considerately began talking to him, speaking of\nthe beauty of the Lourdes district and of the theatrical effect which\nwould take place by-and-by when the sun rose and the mountains appeared.\n\nHowever, there was again a sudden alert, and the station-master ran along\nshouting orders. Removing his hand from Dr. Bonamy\u2019s shoulder, Father\nFourcade, despite his gouty leg, hastily drew near.\n\n\u201cOh! it\u2019s that Bayonne express which is so late,\u201d answered the\nstation-master in reply to the questions addressed to him. \u201cI should like\nsome information about it; I\u2019m not at ease.\u201d\n\nAt this moment the telegraph bells rang out and a porter rushed away into\nthe darkness swinging a lantern, whilst a distant signal began to work.\nThereupon the station-master resumed: \u201cAh! this time it\u2019s the white\ntrain. Let us hope we shall have time to get the sick people out before\nthe express passes.\u201d\n\nHe started off once more and disappeared. Berthaud meanwhile called to\nG\u00e9rard, who was at the head of a squad of bearers, and they both made\nhaste to join their men, into whom Baron Suire was already instilling\nactivity. The bearers flocked to the spot from all sides, and setting\nthemselves in motion began dragging their little vehicles across the\nlines to the platform at which the white train would come in--an unroofed\nplatform plunged in darkness. A mass of pillows, mattresses, stretchers,\nand litters was soon waiting there, whilst Father Fourcade, Dr. Bonamy,\nthe priests, the gentlemen, and the officer of dragoons in their turn\ncrossed over in order to witness the removal of the ailing pilgrims. All\nthat they could as yet see, far away in the depths of the black country,\nwas the lantern in front of the engine, looking like a red star which\ngrew larger and larger. Strident whistles pierced the night, then\nsuddenly ceased, and you only heard the panting of the steam and the dull\nroar of the wheels gradually slackening their speed. Then the canticle\nbecame distinctly audible, the song of Bernadette with the ever-recurring\n\u201cAves\u201d of its refrain, which the whole train was chanting in chorus. And\nat last this train of suffering and faith, this moaning, singing train,\nthus making its entry into Lourdes, drew up in the station.\n\nThe carriage doors were at once opened, the whole throng of healthy\npilgrims, and of ailing ones able to walk, alighted, and streamed over\nthe platform. The few gas lamps cast but a feeble light on the crowd of\npoverty-stricken beings clad in faded garments, and encumbered with all\nsorts of parcels, baskets, valises, and boxes. And amidst all the\njostling of this scared flock, which did not know in which direction to\nturn to find its way out of the station, loud exclamations were heard,\nthe shouts of people calling relatives whom they had lost, mingled with\nthe embraces of others whom relatives or friends had come to meet. One\nwoman declared with beatifical satisfaction, \u201cI have slept well.\u201d A\npriest went off carrying his travelling-bag, after wishing a crippled\nlady \u201cgood luck!\u201d Most of them had the bewildered, weary, yet joyous\nappearance of people whom an excursion train sets down at some unknown\nstation. And such became the scramble and the confusion in the darkness,\nthat they did not hear the railway _employ\u00e9s_ who grew quite hoarse\nthrough shouting, \u201cThis way! this way!\u201d in their eagerness to clear the\nplatform as soon as possible.\n\nSister Hyacinthe had nimbly alighted from her compartment, leaving the\ndead man in the charge of Sister Claire des Anges; and, losing her head\nsomewhat, she ran off to the cantine van in the idea that Ferrand would\nbe able to help her. Fortunately she found Father Fourcade in front of\nthe van and acquainted him with the fatality in a low voice. Repressing a\ngesture of annoyance, he thereupon called Baron Suire, who was passing,\nand began whispering in his ear. The muttering lasted for a few seconds,\nand then the Baron rushed off, and clove his way through the crowd with\ntwo bearers carrying a covered litter. In this the man was removed from\nthe carriage as though he were a patient who had simply fainted, the mob\nof pilgrims paying no further attention to him amidst all the emotion of\ntheir arrival. Preceded by the Baron, the bearers carried the corpse into\na goods office, where they provisionally lodged it behind some barrels;\none of them, a fair-haired little fellow, a general\u2019s son, remaining to\nwatch over it.\n\nMeanwhile, after begging Ferrand and Sister Saint-Fran\u00e7ois to go and wait\nfor her in the courtyard of the station, near the reserved vehicle which\nwas to take them to the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours, Sister Hyacinthe\nreturned to the railway carriage and talked of helping her patients to\nalight before going away. But Marie would not let her touch her. \u201cNo,\nno!\u201d said the girl, \u201cdo not trouble about me, Sister. I shall remain here\nthe last. My father and Abb\u00e9 Froment have gone to the van to fetch the\nwheels; I am waiting for their return; they know how to fix them, and\nthey will take me away all right, you may be sure of it.\u201d\n\nIn the same way M. Sabathier and Brother Isidore did not desire to be\nmoved until the crowd had decreased. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, who had taken\ncharge of La Grivotte, also promised to see to Madame Vetu\u2019s removal in\nan ambulance vehicle. And thereupon Sister Hyacinthe decided that she\nwould go off at once so as to get everything ready at the hospital.\nMoreover, she took with her both little Sophie Couteau and Elise Rouquet,\nwhose face she very carefully wrapped up. Madame Maze preceded them,\nwhile Madame Vincent, carrying her little girl, who was unconscious and\nquite white, struggled through the crowd, possessed by the fixed idea of\nrunning off as soon as possible and depositing the child in the Grotto at\nthe feet of the Blessed Virgin.\n\nThe mob was now pressing towards the doorway by which passengers left the\nstation, and to facilitate the egress of all these people it at last\nbecame necessary to open the luggage gates. The _employ\u00e9s_, at a loss how\nto take the tickets, held out their caps, which a downpour of the little\ncards speedily filled. And in the courtyard, a large square courtyard,\nskirted on three sides by the low buildings of the station, the most\nextraordinary uproar prevailed amongst all the vehicles of divers kinds\nwhich were there jumbled together. The hotel omnibuses, backed against\nthe curb of the footway, displayed the most sacred names on their large\nboards--Jesus and Mary, St. Michel, the Rosary, and the Sacred Heart.\nThen there were ambulance vehicles, landaus, cabriolets, brakes, and\nlittle donkey carts, all entangled together, with their drivers shouting,\nswearing, and cracking their whips--the tumult being apparently increased\nby the obscurity in which the lanterns set brilliant patches of light.\n\nRain had fallen heavily a few hours previously. Liquid mud splashed up\nunder the hoofs of the horses; the foot passengers sank into it to their\nankles. M. Vigneron, whom Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise were\nfollowing in a state of distraction, raised Gustave, in order to place\nhim in the omnibus from the Hotel of the Apparitions, after which he\nhimself and the ladies climbed into the vehicle. Madame Maze, shuddering\nslightly, like a delicate tabby who fears to dirty the tips of her paws,\nmade a sign to the driver of an old brougham, got into it, and quickly\ndrove away, after giving as address the Convent of the Blue Sisters. And\nat last Sister Hyacinthe was able to install herself with Elise Rouquet\nand Sophie Couteau in a large _char-a-bancs_, in which Ferrand and\nSisters Saint-Fran\u00e7ois and Claire des Anges were already seated. The\ndrivers whipped up their spirited little horses, and the vehicles went\noff at a breakneck pace, amidst the shouts of those left behind, and the\nsplashing of the mire.\n\nIn presence of that rushing torrent, Madame Vincent, with her dear little\nburden in her arms, hesitated to cross over. Bursts of laughter rang out\naround her every now and then. Oh! what a filthy mess! And at sight of\nall the mud, the women caught up their skirts before attempting to pass\nthrough it. At last, when the courtyard had somewhat emptied, Madame\nVincent herself ventured on her way, all terror lest the mire should make\nher fall in that black darkness. Then, on reaching a downhill road, she\nnoticed there a number of women of the locality who were on the watch,\noffering furnished rooms, bed and board, according to the state of the\npilgrim\u2019s purse.\n\n\u201cWhich is the way to the Grotto, madame, if you please?\u201d asked Madame\nVincent, addressing one old woman of the party.\n\nInstead of answering the question, however, the other offered her a cheap\nroom. \u201cYou won\u2019t find anything in the hotels,\u201d said she, \u201cfor they are\nall full. Perhaps you will be able to eat there, but you certainly won\u2019t\nfind a closet even to sleep in.\u201d\n\nEat, sleep, indeed! Had Madame Vincent any thought of such things; she\nwho had left Paris with thirty sous in her pocket, all that remained to\nher after the expenses she had been put to!\n\n\u201cThe way to the Grotto, if you please, madame?\u201d she repeated.\n\nAmong the women who were thus touting for lodgers, there was a tall,\nwell-built girl, dressed like a superior servant, and looking very clean,\nwith carefully tended hands. She glanced at Madame Vincent and slightly\nshrugged her shoulders. And then, seeing a broad-chested priest with a\nred face go by, she rushed after him, offered him a furnished room, and\ncontinued following him, whispering in his ear.\n\nAnother girl, however, at last took pity on Madame Vincent and said to\nher: \u201cHere, go down this road, and when you get to the bottom, turn to\nthe right and you will reach the Grotto.\u201d\n\nMeanwhile, the confusion inside the station continued. The healthy\npilgrims, and those of the sick who retained the use of their legs could\ngo off, thus, in some measure, clearing the platform; but the others, the\nmore grievously stricken sufferers whom it was difficult to get out of\nthe carriages and remove to the hospital, remained waiting. The bearers\nseemed to become quite bewildered, rushing madly hither and thither with\ntheir litters and vehicles, not knowing at what end to set about the\nprofusion of work which lay before them.\n\nAs Berthaud, followed by G\u00e9rard, went along the platform, gesticulating,\nhe noticed two ladies and a girl who were standing under a gas jet and to\nall appearance waiting. In the girl he recognised Raymonde, and with a\nsign of the hand he at once stopped his companion. \u201cAh! mademoiselle,\u201d\n said he, \u201chow pleased I am to see you! Is Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re quite well?\nYou have made a good journey, I hope?\u201d Then, without a pause, he added:\n\u201cThis is my friend, Monsieur G\u00e9rard de Peyrelongue.\u201d\n\nRaymonde gazed fixedly at the young man with her clear, smiling eyes.\n\u201cOh! I already have the pleasure of being slightly acquainted with this\ngentleman,\u201d she said. \u201cWe have previously met one another at Lourdes.\u201d\n\nThereupon G\u00e9rard, who thought that his cousin Berthaud was conducting\nmatters too quickly, and was quite resolved that he would not enter into\nany hasty engagement, contented himself with bowing in a ceremonious way.\n\n\u201cWe are waiting for mamma,\u201d resumed Raymonde. \u201cShe is extremely busy; she\nhas to see after some pilgrims who are very ill.\u201d\n\nAt this, little Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, with her pretty, light wavy-haired\nhead, began to say that it served Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re right for refusing\nher services. She herself was stamping with impatience, eager to join in\nthe work and make herself useful, whilst Madame Volmar, silent, shrinking\nback as though taking no interest in it at all, seemed simply desirous of\npenetrating the darkness, as though, indeed, she were seeking somebody\nwith those magnificent eyes of hers, usually bedimmed, but now shining\nout like brasiers.\n\nJust then, however, they were all pushed back. Madame Dieulafay was being\nremoved from her first-class compartment, and Madame D\u00e9sagneaux could not\nrestrain an exclamation of pity. \u201cAh! the poor woman!\u201d\n\nThere could in fact be no more distressing sight than this young woman,\nencompassed by luxury, covered with lace in her species of coffin, so\nwasted that she seemed to be a mere human shred, deposited on that\nplatform till it could be taken away. Her husband and her sister, both\nvery elegant and very sad, remained standing near her, whilst a\nman-servant and maid ran off with the valises to ascertain if the\ncarriage which had been ordered by telegram was in the courtyard. Abb\u00e9\nJudaine also helped the sufferer; and when two men at last took her up he\nbent over her and wished her _au revoir_, adding some kind words which\nshe did not seem to hear. Then as he watched her removal, he resumed,\naddressing himself to Berthaud, whom he knew: \u201cAh! the poor people, if\nthey could only purchase their dear sufferer\u2019s cure. I told them that\nprayer was the most precious thing in the Blessed Virgin\u2019s eyes, and I\nhope that I have myself prayed fervently enough to obtain the compassion\nof Heaven. Nevertheless, they have brought a magnificent gift, a golden\nlantern for the Basilica, a perfect marvel, adorned with precious stones.\nMay the Immaculate Virgin deign to smile upon it!\u201d\n\nIn this way a great many offerings were brought by the pilgrims. Some\nhuge bouquets of flowers had just gone by, together with a kind of triple\ncrown of roses, mounted on a wooden stand. And the old priest explained\nthat before leaving the station he wished to secure a banner, the gift of\nthe beautiful Madame Jousseur, Madame Dieulafay\u2019s sister.\n\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re was at last approaching, however, and on perceiving\nBerthaud and G\u00e9rard she exclaimed: \u201cPray do go to that carriage,\ngentlemen--that one, there! We want some men very badly. There are three\nor four sick persons to be taken out. I am in despair; I can do nothing\nmyself.\u201d\n\nG\u00e9rard ran off after bowing to Raymonde, whilst Berthaud advised Madame\nde Jonqui\u00e8re to leave the station with her daughter and those ladies\ninstead of remaining on the platform. Her presence was in nowise\nnecessary, he said; he would undertake everything, and within three\nquarters of an hour she would find her patients in her ward at the\nhospital. She ended by giving way, and took a conveyance in company with\nRaymonde and Madame D\u00e9sagneaux. As for Madame Volmar, she had at the last\nmoment disappeared, as though seized with a sudden fit of impatience. The\nothers fancied that they had seen her approach a strange gentleman, with\nthe object no doubt of making some inquiry of him. However, they would of\ncourse find her at the hospital.\n\nBerthaud joined G\u00e9rard again just as the young man, assisted by two\nfellow-bearers, was endeavouring to remove M. Sabathier from the\ncarriage. It was a difficult task, for he was very stout and very heavy,\nand they began to think that he would never pass through the doorway of\nthe compartment. However, as he had been got in they ought to be able to\nget him out; and indeed when two other bearers had entered the carriage\nfrom the other side, they were at last able to deposit him on the\nplatform.\n\nThe dawn was now appearing, a faint pale dawn; and the platform presented\nthe woeful appearance of an improvised hospital. La Grivotte, who had\nlost consciousness, lay there on a mattress pending her removal in a\nlitter; whilst Madame Vetu had been seated against a lamp-post, suffering\nso severely from another attack of her ailment that they scarcely dared\nto touch her. Some hospitallers, whose hands were gloved, were with\ndifficulty wheeling their little vehicles in which were poor,\nsordid-looking women with old baskets at their feet. Others, with\nstretchers on which lay the stiffened, woeful bodies of silent sufferers,\nwhose eyes gleamed with anguish, found themselves unable to pass; but\nsome of the infirm pilgrims, some unfortunate cripples, contrived to slip\nthrough the ranks, among them a young priest who was lame, and a little\nhumpbacked boy, one of whose legs had been amputated, and who, looking\nlike a gnome, managed to drag himself with his crutches from group to\ngroup. Then there was quite a block around a man who was bent in half,\ntwisted by paralysis to such a point that he had to be carried on a chair\nwith his head and feet hanging downward. It seemed as though hours would\nbe required to clear the platform.\n\nThe dismay therefore reached a climax when the station-master suddenly\nrushed up shouting: \u201cThe Bayonne express is signalled. Make haste! make\nhaste! You have only three minutes left!\u201d\n\nFather Fourcade, who had remained in the midst of the throng, leaning on\nDoctor Bonamy\u2019s arm, and gaily encouraging the more stricken of the\nsufferers, beckoned to Berthaud and said to him: \u201cFinish taking them out\nof the train; you will be able to clear the platform afterwards!\u201d\n\nThe advice was very sensible, and in accordance with it they finished\nplacing the sufferers on the platform. In Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re\u2019s carriage\nMarie now alone remained, waiting patiently. M. de Guersaint and Pierre\nhad at last returned to her, bringing the two pairs of wheels by means of\nwhich the box in which she lay was rolled about. And with G\u00e9rard\u2019s\nassistance Pierre in all haste removed the girl from the train. She was\nas light as a poor shivering bird, and it was only the box that gave them\nany trouble. However, they soon placed it on the wheels and made the\nlatter fast, and then Pierre might have rolled Marie away had it not been\nfor the crowd which hampered him.\n\n\u201cMake haste! make haste!\u201d furiously repeated the station-master.\n\nHe himself lent a hand, taking hold of a sick man by the feet in order to\nremove him from the compartment more speedily. And he also pushed the\nlittle hand-carts back, so as to clear the edge of the platform. In a\nsecond-class carriage, however, there still remained one woman who had\njust been overpowered by a terrible nervous attack. She was howling and\nstruggling, and it was impossible to think of touching her at that\nmoment. But on the other hand the express, signalled by the incessant\ntinkling of the electric bells, was now fast approaching, and they had to\nclose the door and in all haste shunt the train to the siding where it\nwould remain for three days, until in fact it was required to convey its\nload of sick and healthy passengers back to Paris. As it went off to the\nsiding the crowd still heard the cries of the suffering woman, whom it\nhad been necessary to leave in it, in charge of a Sister, cries which\ngrew weaker and weaker, like those of a strengthless child whom one at\nlast succeeds in consoling.\n\n\u201cGood Lord!\u201d muttered the station-master; \u201cit was high time!\u201d\n\nIn fact the Bayonne express was now coming along at full speed, and the\nnext moment it rushed like a crash of thunder past that woeful platform\nlittered with all the grievous wretchedness of a hospital hastily\nevacuated. The litters and little handcarts were shaken, but there was no\naccident, for the porters were on the watch, and pushed back the\nbewildered flock which was still jostling and struggling in its eagerness\nto get away. As soon as the express had passed, however, circulation was\nre-established, and the bearers were at last able to complete the removal\nof the sick with prudent deliberation.\n\nLittle by little the daylight was increasing--a clear dawn it was,\nwhitening the heavens whose reflection illumined the earth, which was\nstill black. One began to distinguish things and people clearly.\n\n\u201cOh, by-and-by!\u201d Marie repeated to Pierre, as he endeavoured to roll her\naway. \u201cLet us wait till some part of the crowd has gone.\u201d\n\nThen, looking around, she began to feel interested in a man of military\nbearing, apparently some sixty years of age, who was walking about among\nthe sick pilgrims. With a square-shaped head and white bushy hair, he\nwould still have looked sturdy if he had not dragged his left foot,\nthrowing it inward at each step he took. With the left hand, too, he\nleant heavily on a thick walking-stick. When M. Sabathier, who had\nvisited Lourdes for six years past, perceived him, he became quite gay.\n\u201cAh!\u201d said he, \u201cit is you, Commander!\u201d\n\nCommander was perhaps the old man\u2019s name. But as he was decorated with a\nbroad red riband, he was possibly called Commander on account of his\ndecoration, albeit the latter was that of a mere chevalier. Nobody\nexactly knew his story. No doubt he had relatives and children of his own\nsomewhere, but these matters remained vague and mysterious. For the last\nthree years he had been employed at the railway station as a\nsuperintendent in the goods department, a simple occupation, a little\nberth which had been given him by favour and which enabled him to live in\nperfect happiness. A first stroke of apoplexy at fifty-five years of age\nhad been followed by a second one three years later, which had left him\nslightly paralysed in the left side. And now he was awaiting the third\nstroke with an air of perfect tranquillity. As he himself put it, he was\nat the disposal of death, which might come for him that night, the next\nday, or possibly that very moment. All Lourdes knew him on account of the\nhabit, the mania he had, at pilgrimage time, of coming to witness the\narrival of the trains, dragging his foot along and leaning upon his\nstick, whilst expressing his astonishment and reproaching the ailing ones\nfor their intense desire to be made whole and sound again.\n\nThis was the third year that he had seen M. Sabathier arrive, and all his\nanger fell upon him. \u201cWhat! you have come back _again_!\u201d he exclaimed.\n\u201cWell, you _must_ be desirous of living this hateful life! But\n_sacrebleu_! go and die quietly in your bed at home. Isn\u2019t that the best\nthing that can happen to anyone?\u201d\n\nM. Sabathier evinced no anger, but laughed, exhausted though he was by\nthe handling to which he had been subjected during his removal from the\ncarriage. \u201cNo, no,\u201d said he, \u201cI prefer to be cured.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be cured, to be cured! That\u2019s what they all ask for. They travel\nhundreds of leagues and arrive in fragments, howling with pain, and all\nthis to be cured--to go through every worry and every suffering again.\nCome, monsieur, you would be nicely caught if, at your age and with your\ndilapidated old body, your Blessed Virgin should be pleased to restore\nthe use of your legs to you. What would you do with them, _mon Dieu?_\nWhat pleasure would you find in prolonging the abomination of old age for\na few years more? It\u2019s much better to die at once, while you are like\nthat! Death is happiness!\u201d\n\nHe spoke in this fashion, not as a believer who aspires to the delicious\nreward of eternal life, but as a weary man who expects to fall into\nnihility, to enjoy the great everlasting peace of being no more.\n\nWhilst M. Sabathier was gaily shrugging his shoulders as though he had a\nchild to deal with, Abb\u00e9 Judaine, who had at last secured his banner,\ncame by and stopped for a moment in order that he might gently scold the\nCommander, with whom he also was well acquainted.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t blaspheme, my dear friend,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is an offence against God\nto refuse life and to treat health with contempt. If you yourself had\nlistened to me, you would have asked the Blessed Virgin to cure your leg\nbefore now.\u201d\n\nAt this the Commander became angry. \u201cMy leg! The Virgin can do nothing to\nit! I\u2019m quite at my ease. May death come and may it all be over forever!\nWhen the time comes to die you turn your face to the wall and you\ndie--it\u2019s simple enough.\u201d\n\nThe old priest interrupted him, however. Pointing to Marie, who was lying\non her box listening to them, he exclaimed: \u201cYou tell all our sick to go\nhome and die--even mademoiselle, eh? She who is full of youth and wishes\nto live.\u201d\n\nMarie\u2019s eyes were wide open, burning with the ardent desire which she\nfelt to _be_, to enjoy her share of the vast world; and the Commander,\nwho had drawn near, gazed upon her, suddenly seized with deep emotion\nwhich made his voice tremble. \u201cIf mademoiselle gets well,\u201d he said, \u201cI\nwill wish her another miracle, that she be happy.\u201d\n\nThen he went off, dragging his foot and tapping the flagstones with the\nferrule of his stout stick as he continued wending his way, like an angry\nphilosopher among the suffering pilgrims.\n\nLittle by little, the platform was at last cleared. Madame Vetu and La\nGrivotte were carried away, and G\u00e9rard removed M. Sabathier in a little\ncart, whilst Baron Suire and Berthaud already began giving orders for the\ngreen train, which would be the next one to arrive. Of all the ailing\npilgrims the only one now remaining at the station was Marie, of whom\nPierre jealously took charge. He had already dragged her into the\ncourtyard when he noticed that M. de Guersaint had disappeared; but a\nmoment later he perceived him conversing with the Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises,\nwhose acquaintance he had just made. Their admiration of the beauties of\nnature had brought them together. The daylight had now appeared, and the\nsurrounding mountains displayed themselves in all their majesty.\n\n\u201cWhat a lovely country, monsieur!\u201d exclaimed M. de Guersaint. \u201cI have\nbeen wishing to see the Cirque de Gavarnie for thirty years past. But it\nis some distance away and the trip must be an expensive one, so that I\nfear I shall not be able to make it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are mistaken, monsieur,\u201d said the Abb\u00e9; \u201cnothing is more easily\nmanaged. By making up a party the expense becomes very slight. And as it\nhappens, I wish to return there this year, so that if you would like to\njoin us--\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, certainly, monsieur. We will speak of it again. A thousand thanks,\u201d\n replied M. de Guersaint.\n\nHis daughter was now calling him, however, and he joined her after taking\nleave of the Abb\u00e9 in a very cordial manner. Pierre had decided that he\nwould drag Marie to the hospital so as to spare her the pain of\ntransference to another vehicle. But as the omnibuses, landaus, and other\nconveyances were already coming back, again filling the courtyard in\nreadiness for the arrival of the next train, the young priest had some\ndifficulty in reaching the road with the little chariot whose low wheels\nsank deeply in the mud. Some police agents charged with maintaining order\nwere cursing that fearful mire which splashed their boots; and indeed it\nwas only the touts, the young and old women who had rooms to let, who\nlaughed at the puddles, which they crossed and crossed again in every\ndirection, pursuing the last pilgrims that emerged from the station.\n\nWhen the little car had begun to roll more easily over the sloping road\nMarie suddenly inquired of M. de Guersaint, who was walking near her:\n\u201cWhat day of the week is it, father?\u201d\n\n\u201cSaturday, my darling.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! yes, Saturday, the day of the Blessed Virgin. Is it to-day that she\nwill cure me?\u201d\n\nThen she began thinking again; while, at some distance behind her, two\nbearers came furtively down the road, with a covered stretcher in which\nlay the corpse of the man who had died in the train. They had gone to\ntake it from behind the barrels in the goods office, and were now\nconveying it to a secret spot of which Father Fourcade had told them.\n\n\n\n\nII. HOSPITAL AND GROTTO\n\nBUILT, so far as it extends, by a charitable Canon, and left unfinished\nthrough lack of money, the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours is a vast\npile, four storeys high, and consequently far too lofty, since it is\ndifficult to carry the sufferers to the topmost wards. As a rule the\nbuilding is occupied by a hundred infirm and aged paupers; but at the\nseason of the national pilgrimage these old folks are for three days\nsheltered elsewhere, and the hospital is let to the Fathers of the\nAssumption, who at times lodge in it as many as five and six hundred\npatients. Still, however closely packed they may be, the accommodation\nnever suffices, so that the three or four hundred remaining sufferers\nhave to be distributed between the Hospital of Salvation and the town\nhospital, the men being sent to the former and the women to the latter\ninstitution.\n\nThat morning at sunrise great confusion prevailed in the sand-covered\ncourtyard of Our Lady of Dolours, at the door of which a couple of\npriests were mounting guard. The temporary staff, with its formidable\nsupply of registers, cards, and printed formulas, had installed itself in\none of the ground-floor rooms on the previous day. The managers were\ndesirous of greatly improving upon the organisation of the preceding\nyear. The lower wards were this time to be reserved to the most helpless\nsufferers; and in order to prevent a repetition of the cases of mistaken\nidentity which had occurred in the past, very great care was to be taken\nin filling in and distributing the admission cards, each of which bore\nthe name of a ward and the number of a bed. It became difficult, however,\nto act in accordance with these good intentions in presence of the\ntorrent of ailing beings which the white train had brought to Lourdes,\nand the new formalities so complicated matters that the patients had to\nbe deposited in the courtyard as they arrived, to wait there until it\nbecame possible to admit them in something like an orderly manner. It was\nthe scene witnessed at the railway station all over again, the same\nwoeful camping in the open, whilst the bearers and the young seminarists\nwho acted as the secretary\u2019s assistants ran hither and thither in\nbewilderment.\n\n\u201cWe have been over-ambitious, we wanted to do things too well!\u201d exclaimed\nBaron Suire in despair.\n\nThere was much truth in his remark, for never had a greater number of\nuseless precautions been taken, and they now discovered that, by some\ninexplicable error, they had allotted not the lower--but the\nhigher-placed wards to the patients whom it was most difficult to move.\nIt was impossible to begin the classification afresh, however, and so as\nin former years things must be allowed to take their course, in a\nhaphazard way. The distribution of the cards began, a young priest at the\nsame time entering each patient\u2019s name and address in a register.\nMoreover, all the _hospitalisation_ cards bearing the patients\u2019 names and\nnumbers had to be produced, so that the names of the wards and the\nnumbers of the beds might be added to them; and all these formalities\ngreatly protracted the _d\u00e9file_.\n\nThen there was an endless coming and going from the top to the bottom of\nthe building, and from one to the other end of each of its four floors.\nM. Sabathier was one of the first to secure admittance, being placed in a\nground-floor room which was known as the Family Ward. Sick men were there\nallowed to have their wives with them; but to the other wards of the\nhospital only women were admitted. Brother Isidore, it is true, was\naccompanied by his sister; however, by a special favour it was agreed\nthat they should be considered as conjoints, and the missionary was\naccordingly placed in the bed next to that allotted to M. Sabathier. The\nchapel, still littered with plaster and with its unfinished windows\nboarded up, was close at hand. There were also various wards in an\nunfinished state; still these were filled with mattresses, on which\nsufferers were rapidly placed. All those who could walk, however, were\nalready besieging the refectory, a long gallery whose broad windows\nlooked into an inner courtyard; and the Saint-Frai Sisters, who managed\nthe hospital at other times, and had remained to attend to the cooking,\nbegan to distribute bowls of coffee and chocolate among the poor women\nwhom the terrible journey had exhausted.\n\n\u201cRest yourselves and try to gain a little strength,\u201d repeated Baron\nSuire, who was ever on the move, showing himself here, there, and\neverywhere in rapid succession. \u201cYou have three good hours before you, it\nis not yet five, and their reverences have given orders that you are not\nto be taken to the Grotto until eight o\u2019clock, so as to avoid any\nexcessive fatigue.\u201d\n\nMeanwhile, up above on the second floor, Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re had been one\nof the first to take possession of the Sainte-Honorine Ward of which she\nwas the superintendent. She had been obliged to leave her daughter\nRaymonde downstairs, for the regulations did not allow young girls to\nenter the wards, where they might have witnessed sights that were\nscarcely proper or else too horrible for such eyes as theirs. Raymonde\nhad therefore remained in the refectory as a helper; however, little\nMadame D\u00e9sagneaux, being a lady-hospitaller, had not left the\nsuperintendent, and was already asking her for orders, in her delight\nthat she should at last be able to render some assistance.\n\n\u201cAre all these beds properly made, madame?\u201d she inquired; \u201cperhaps I had\nbetter make them afresh with Sister Hyacinthe.\u201d\n\nThe ward, whose walls were painted a light yellow, and whose few windows\nadmitted but little light from an inner yard, contained fifteen beds,\nstanding in two rows against the walls.\n\n\u201cWe will see by-and-by,\u201d replied Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re with an absorbed\nair. She was busy counting the beds and examining the long narrow\napartment. And this accomplished she added in an undertone: \u201cI shall\nnever have room enough. They say that I must accommodate twenty-three\npatients. We shall have to put some mattresses down.\u201d\n\nSister Hyacinthe, who had followed the ladies after leaving Sister\nSaint-Fran\u00e7ois and Sister Claire des Anges in a small adjoining apartment\nwhich was being transformed into a linen-room, then began to lift up the\ncoverlets and examine the bedding. And she promptly reassured Madame\nD\u00e9sagneaux with regard to her surmises. \u201cOh! the beds are properly made,\u201d\n she said; \u201ceverything is very clean too. One can see that the Saint-Frai\nSisters have attended to things themselves. The reserve mattresses are in\nthe next room, however, and if madame will lend me a hand we can place\nsome of them between the beds at once.\n\n\u201cOh, certainly!\u201d exclaimed young Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, quite excited by the\nidea of carrying mattresses about with her weak slender arms.\n\nIt became necessary for Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re to calm her. \u201cBy-and-by,\u201d\n said the lady-superintendent; \u201cthere is no hurry. Let us wait till our\npatients arrive. I don\u2019t much like this ward, it is so difficult to air.\nLast year I had the Sainte-Rosalie Ward on the first floor. However, we\nwill organise matters, all the same.\u201d\n\nSome other lady-hospitallers were now arriving, quite a hiveful of busy\nbees, all eager to start on their work. The confusion which so often\narose was, in fact, increased by the excessive number of nurses, women of\nthe aristocracy and upper-middle class, with whose fervent zeal some\nlittle vanity was blended. There were more than two hundred of them, and\nas each had to make a donation on joining the Hospitality of Our Lady of\nSalvation, the managers did not dare to refuse any applicants, for fear\nlest they might check the flow of alms-giving. Thus the number of\nlady-hospitallers increased year by year. Fortunately there were among\nthem some who cared for nothing beyond the privilege of wearing the red\ncloth cross, and who started off on excursions as soon as they reached\nLourdes. Still it must be acknowledged that those who devoted themselves\nwere really deserving, for they underwent five days of awful fatigue,\nsleeping scarcely a couple of hours each night, and living in the midst\nof the most terrible and repulsive spectacles. They witnessed the death\nagonies, dressed the pestilential sores, cleaned up, changed linen,\nturned the sufferers over in their beds, went through a sickening and\noverwhelming labour to which they were in no wise accustomed. And thus\nthey emerged from it aching all over, tired to death, with feverish eyes\nflaming with the joy of the charity which so excited them.\n\n\u201cAnd Madame Volmar?\u201d suddenly asked Madame D\u00e9sagneaux. \u201cI thought we\nshould find her here.\u201d\n\nThis was apparently a subject which Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re did not care to\nhave discussed; for, as though she were aware of the truth and wished to\nbury it in silence, with the indulgence of a woman who compassionates\nhuman wretchedness, she promptly retorted: \u201cMadame Volmar isn\u2019t strong,\nshe must have gone to the hotel to rest. We must let her sleep.\u201d\n\nThen she apportioned the beds among the ladies present, allotting two to\neach of them; and this done they all finished taking possession of the\nplace, hastening up and down and backwards and forwards in order to\nascertain where the offices, the linen-room, and the kitchens were\nsituated.\n\n\u201cAnd the dispensary?\u201d then asked one of the ladies.\n\nBut there was no dispensary. There was no medical staff even. What would\nhave been the use of any?--since the patients were those whom science had\ngiven up, despairing creatures who had come to beg of God the cure which\npowerless men were unable to promise them. Logically enough, all\ntreatment was suspended during the pilgrimage. If a patient seemed likely\nto die, extreme unction was administered. The only medical man about the\nplace was the young doctor who had come by the white train with his\nlittle medicine chest; and his intervention was limited to an endeavour\nto assuage the sufferings of those patients who chanced to ask for him\nduring an attack.\n\nAs it happened, Sister Hyacinthe was just bringing Ferrand, whom Sister\nSaint-Fran\u00e7ois had kept with her in a closet near the linen-room which he\nproposed to make his quarters. \u201cMadame,\u201d said he to Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re,\n\u201cI am entirely at your disposal. In case of need you will only have to\nring for me.\u201d\n\nShe barely listened to him, however, engaged as she was in a quarrel with\na young priest belonging to the management with reference to a deficiency\nof certain utensils. \u201cCertainly, monsieur, if we should need a soothing\ndraught,\u201d she answered, and then, reverting to her discussion, she went\non: \u201cWell, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, you must certainly get me four or five more.\nHow can we possibly manage with so few? Things are bad enough as it is.\u201d\n\nFerrand looked and listened, quite bewildered by the extraordinary\nbehaviour of the people amongst whom he had been thrown by chance since\nthe previous day. He who did not believe, who was only present out of\nfriendship and charity, was amazed at this extraordinary scramble of\nwretchedness and suffering rushing towards the hope of happiness. And, as\na medical man of the new school, he was altogether upset by the careless\nneglect of precautions, the contempt which was shown for the most simple\nteachings of science, in the certainty which was apparently felt that, if\nHeaven should so will it, cure would supervene, sudden and resounding,\nlike a lie given to the very laws of nature. But if this were the case,\nwhat was the use of that last concession to human prejudices--why engage\na doctor for the journey if none were wanted? At this thought the young\nman returned to his little room, experiencing a vague feeling of shame as\nhe realised that his presence was useless, and even a trifle ridiculous.\n\n\u201cGet some opium pills ready all the same,\u201d said Sister Hyacinthe, as she\nwent back with him as far as the linen-room. \u201cYou will be asked for some,\nfor I feel anxious about some of the patients.\u201d\n\nWhile speaking she looked at him with her large blue eyes, so gentle and\nso kind, and ever lighted by a divine smile. The constant exercise which\nshe gave herself brought the rosy flush of her quick blood to her skin\nall dazzling with youthfulness. And like a good friend who was willing\nthat he should share the work to which she gave her heart, she added:\n\u201cBesides, if I should need somebody to get a patient in or out of bed,\nyou will help me, won\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nThereupon, at the idea that he might be of use to her, he was pleased\nthat he had come and was there. In his mind\u2019s eye, he again beheld her at\nhis bedside, at the time when he had so narrowly escaped death, nursing\nhim with fraternal hands, with the smiling, compassionate grace of a\nsexless angel, in whom there was something more than a comrade, something\nof a woman left. However, the thought never occurred to him that there\nwas religion, belief, behind her.\n\n\u201cOh! I will help you as much as you like, Sister,\u201d he replied. \u201cI belong\nto you, I shall be so happy to serve you. You know very well what a debt\nof gratitude I have to pay you.\u201d\n\nIn a pretty way she raised her finger to her lips so as to silence him.\nNobody owed her anything. She was merely the servant of the ailing and\nthe poor.\n\nAt this moment a first patient was making her entry into the\nSainte-Honorine Ward. It was Marie, lying in her wooden box, which\nPierre, with G\u00e9rard\u2019s assistance, had just brought up-stairs. The last to\nstart from the railway station, she had secured admission before the\nothers, thanks to the endless complications which, after keeping them all\nin suspense, now freed them according to the chance distribution of the\nadmission cards. M. de Guersaint had quitted his daughter at the hospital\ndoor by her own desire; for, fearing the hotels would be very full, she\nhad wished him to secure two rooms for himself and Pierre at once. Then,\non reaching the ward, she felt so weary that, after venting her chagrin\nat not being immediately taken to the Grotto, she consented to be laid on\na bed for a short time.\n\n\u201cCome, my child,\u201d repeated Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, \u201cyou have three hours\nbefore you. We will put you to bed. It will ease you to take you out of\nthat case.\u201d\n\nThereupon the lady-superintendent raised her by the shoulders, whilst\nSister Hyacinthe held her feet. The bed was in the central part of the\nward, near a window. For a moment the poor girl remained on it with her\neyes closed, as though exhausted by being moved about so much. Then it\nbecame necessary that Pierre should be readmitted, for she grew very\nfidgety, saying that there were things which she must explain to him.\n\n\u201cPray don\u2019t go away, my friend,\u201d she exclaimed when he approached her.\n\u201cTake the case out on to the landing, but stay there, because I want to\nbe taken down as soon as I can get permission.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you feel more comfortable now?\u201d asked the young priest.\n\n\u201cYes, no doubt--but I really don\u2019t know. I so much want to be taken\nyonder to the Blessed Virgin\u2019s feet.\u201d\n\nHowever, when Pierre had removed the case, the successive arrivals of the\nother patients supplied her with some little diversion. Madame Vetu, whom\ntwo bearers had brought up-stairs, holding her under the arms, was laid,\nfully dressed, on the next bed, where she remained motionless, scarce\nbreathing, with her heavy, yellow, cancerous mask. None of the patients,\nit should be mentioned, were divested of their clothes, they were simply\nstretched out on the beds, and advised to go to sleep if they could\nmanage to do so. Those whose complaints were less grievous contented\nthemselves with sitting down on their mattresses, chatting together, and\nputting the things they had brought with them in order. For instance,\nElise Rouquet, who was also near Marie, on the other side of the latter\u2019s\nbed, opened her basket to take a clean fichu out of it, and seemed sorely\nannoyed at having no hand-glass with her. In less than ten minutes all\nthe beds were occupied, so that when La Grivotte appeared, half carried\nby Sister Hyacinthe and Sister Claire des Anges, it became necessary to\nplace some mattresses on the floor.\n\n\u201cHere! here is one,\u201d exclaimed Madame D\u00e9sagneaux; \u201cshe will be very well\nhere, out of the draught from the door.\u201d\n\nSeven other mattresses were soon added in a line, occupying the space\nbetween the rows of beds, so that it became difficult to move about. One\nhad to be very careful, and follow narrow pathways which had been left\nbetween the beds and the mattresses. Each of the patients had retained\npossession of her parcel, or box, or bag, and round about the improvised\nshakedowns were piles of poor old things, sorry remnants of garments,\nstraying among the sheets and the coverlets. You might have thought\nyourself in some woeful infirmary, hastily organised after some great\ncatastrophe, some conflagration or earthquake which had thrown hundreds\nof wounded and penniless beings into the streets.\n\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re made her way from one to the other end of the ward,\never and ever repeating, \u201cCome, my children, don\u2019t excite yourselves; try\nto sleep a little.\u201d\n\nHowever, she did not succeed in calming them, and indeed, she herself,\nlike the other lady-hospitallers under her orders, increased the general\nfever by her own bewilderment. The linen of several patients had to be\nchanged, and there were other needs to be attended to. One woman,\nsuffering from an ulcer in the leg, began moaning so dreadfully that\nMadame D\u00e9sagneaux undertook to dress her sore afresh; but she was not\nskilful, and despite all her passionate courage she almost fainted, so\ngreatly was she distressed by the unbearable odour. Those patients who\nwere in better health asked for broth, bowlfuls of which began to\ncirculate amidst the calls, the answers, and the contradictory orders\nwhich nobody executed. And meanwhile, let loose amidst this frightful\nscramble, little Sophie Couteau, who remained with the Sisters, and was\nvery gay, imagined that it was playtime, and ran, and jumped, and hopped\nin turn, called and petted first by one and then by another, dear as she\nwas to all alike for the miraculous hope which she brought them.\n\nHowever, amidst this agitation, the hours went by. Seven o\u2019clock had just\nstruck when Abb\u00e9 Judaine came in. He was the chaplain of the\nSainte-Honorine Ward, and only the difficulty of finding an unoccupied\naltar at which he might say his mass had delayed his arrival. As soon as\nhe appeared, a cry of impatience arose from every bed.\n\n\u201cOh! Monsieur le Cur\u00e9, let us start, let us start at once!\u201d\n\nAn ardent desire, which each passing minute heightened and irritated, was\nupbuoying them, like a more and more devouring thirst, which only the\nwaters of the miraculous fountain could appease. And more fervently than\nany of the others, La Grivotte, sitting up on her mattress, and joining\nher hands, begged and begged that she might be taken to the Grotto. Was\nthere not a beginning of the miracle in this--in this awakening of her\nwill power, this feverish desire for cure which enabled her to set\nherself erect? Inert and fainting on her arrival, she was now seated,\nturning her dark glances in all directions, waiting and watching for the\nhappy moment when she would be removed. And colour also was returning to\nher livid face. She was already resuscitating.\n\n\u201cOh! Monsieur le Cur\u00e9, pray do tell them to take me--I feel that I shall\nbe cured,\u201d she exclaimed.\n\nWith a loving, fatherly smile on his good-natured face, Abb\u00e9 Judaine\nlistened to them all, and allayed their impatience with kind words. They\nwould soon set out; but they must be reasonable, and allow sufficient\ntime for things to be organised; and besides, the Blessed Virgin did not\nlike to have violence done her; she bided her time, and distributed her\ndivine favours among those who behaved themselves the best.\n\nAs he paused before Marie\u2019s bed and beheld her, stammering entreaties\nwith joined hands, he again paused. \u201cAnd you, too, my daughter, you are\nin a hurry?\u201d he said. \u201cBe easy, there is grace enough in heaven for you\nall.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am dying of love, Father,\u201d she murmured in reply. \u201cMy heart is so\nswollen with prayers, it stifles me--\u201d\n\nHe was greatly touched by the passion of this poor emaciated child, so\nharshly stricken in her youth and beauty, and wishing to appease her, he\ncalled her attention to Madame Vetu, who did not move, though with her\neyes wide open she stared at all who passed.\n\n\u201cLook at madame, how quiet she is!\u201d he said. \u201cShe is meditating, and she\ndoes right to place herself in God\u2019s hands, like a little child.\u201d\n\nHowever, in a scarcely audible voice, a mere breath, Madame Vetu\nstammered: \u201cOh! I am suffering, I am suffering.\u201d\n\nAt last, at a quarter to eight o\u2019clock, Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re warned her\ncharges that they would do well to prepare themselves. She herself,\nassisted by Sister Hyacinthe and Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, buttoned several\ndresses, and put shoes on impotent feet. It was a real toilette, for they\nall desired to appear to the greatest advantage before the Blessed\nVirgin. A large number had sufficient sense of delicacy to wash their\nhands. Others unpacked their parcels, and put on clean linen. On her\nside, Elise Rouquet had ended by discovering a little pocket-glass in the\nhands of a woman near her, a huge, dropsical creature, who was very\ncoquettish; and having borrowed it, she leant it against the bolster, and\nthen, with infinite care, began to fasten her fichu as elegantly as\npossible about her head, in order to hide her distorted features.\nMeanwhile, erect in front of her, little Sophie watched her with an air\nof profound interest.\n\nIt was Abb\u00e9 Judaine who gave the signal for starting on the journey to\nthe Grotto. He wished, he said, to accompany his dear suffering daughters\nthither, whilst the lady-hospitallers and the Sisters remained in the\nward, so as to put things in some little order again. Then the ward was\nat once emptied, the patients being carried down-stairs amidst renewed\ntumult. And Pierre, having replaced Marie\u2019s box upon its wheels, took the\nfirst place in the _cort\u00e8ge_, which was formed of a score of little\nhandcarts, bath-chairs, and litters. The other wards, however, were also\nemptying, the courtyard became crowded, and the _d\u00e9file_ was organised in\nhaphazard fashion. There was soon an interminable train descending the\nrather steep slope of the Avenue de la Grotte, so that Pierre was already\nreaching the Plateau de la Merlasse when the last stretchers were barely\nleaving the precincts of the hospital.\n\nIt was eight o\u2019clock, and the sun, already high, a triumphant August sun,\nwas flaming in the great sky, which was beautifully clear. It seemed as\nif the blue of the atmosphere, cleansed by the storm of the previous\nnight, were quite new, fresh with youth. And the frightful _d\u00e9file_, a\nperfect \u201cCour des Miracles\u201d of human woe, rolled along the sloping\npavement amid all the brilliancy of that radiant morning. There was no\nend to the train of abominations; it appeared to grow longer and longer.\nNo order was observed, ailments of all kinds were jumbled together; it\nseemed like the clearing of some inferno where the most monstrous\nmaladies, the rare and awful cases which provoke a shudder, had been\ngathered together. Eczema, roseola, elephantiasis, presented a long array\nof doleful victims. Well-nigh vanished diseases reappeared; one old woman\nwas affected with leprosy, another was, covered with impetiginous lichen\nlike a tree which has rotted in the shade. Then came the dropsical ones,\ninflated like wine-skins; and beside some stretchers there dangled hands\ntwisted by rheumatism, while from others protruded feet swollen by \u0153dema\nbeyond all recognition, looking, in fact, like bags full of rags. One\nwoman, suffering from hydrocephalus, sat in a little cart, the dolorous\nmotions of her head bespeaking her grievous malady. A tall girl afflicted\nwith chorea--St. Vitus\u2019s dance--was dancing with every limb, without a\npause, the left side of her face being continually distorted by sudden,\nconvulsive grimaces. A younger one, who followed, gave vent to a bark, a\nkind of plaintive animal cry, each time that the tic douloureux which was\ntorturing her twisted her mouth and her right cheek, which she seemed to\nthrow forward. Next came the consumptives, trembling with fever,\nexhausted by dysentery, wasted to skeletons, with livid skins, recalling\nthe colour of that earth in which they would soon be laid to rest; and\nthere was one among them who was quite white, with flaming eyes, who\nlooked indeed like a death\u2019s head in which a torch had been lighted. Then\nevery deformity of the contractions followed in succession--twisted\ntrunks, twisted arms, necks askew, all the distortions of poor creatures\nwhom nature had warped and broken; and among these was one whose right\nhand was thrust back behind her ribs whilst her head fell to the left\nresting fixedly upon her shoulder. Afterwards came poor rachitic girls\ndisplaying waxen complexions and slender necks eaten away by sores, and\nyellow-faced women in the painful stupor which falls on those whose\nbosoms are devoured by cancers; whilst others, lying down with their\nmournful eyes gazing heavenwards, seemed to be listening to the throbs of\nthe tumours which obstructed their organs. And still more and more went\nby; there was always something more frightful to come; this woman\nfollowing that other one increased the general shudder of horror. From\nthe neck of a girl of twenty who had a crushed, flattened head like a\ntoad\u2019s, there hung so large a goitre that it fell even to her waist like\nthe bib of an apron. A blind woman walked along, her head erect, her face\npale like marble, displaying the acute inflammation of her poor,\nulcerated eyes. An aged woman stricken with imbecility, afflicted with\ndreadful facial disfigurements, laughed aloud with a terrifying laugh.\nAnd all at once an epileptic was seized with convulsions, and began\nfoaming on her stretcher, without, however, causing any stoppage of the\nprocession, which never slackened its march, lashed onward as it was by\nthe blizzard of feverish passion which impelled it towards the Grotto.\n\nThe bearers, the priests, and the ailing ones themselves had just\nintonated a canticle, the song of Bernadette, and all rolled along amid\nthe besetting \u201cAves,\u201d so that the little carts, the litters, and the\npedestrians descended the sloping road like a swollen and overflowing\ntorrent of roaring water. At the corner of the Rue Saint-Joseph, near the\nPlateau de la Merlasse, a family of excursionists, who had come from\nCauterets or Bagn\u00e8res, stood at the edge of the footway, overcome with\nprofound astonishment. These people were evidently well-to-do\n_bourgeois_, the father and mother very correct in appearance and\ndemeanour, while their two big girls, attired in light-coloured dresses,\nhad the smiling faces of happy creatures who are amusing themselves. But\ntheir first feeling of surprise was soon followed by terror, a growing\nterror, as if they beheld the opening of some pesthouse of ancient times,\nsome hospital of the legendary ages, evacuated after a great epidemic.\nThe two girls became quite pale, while the father and the mother felt icy\ncold in presence of that endless _d\u00e9file_ of so many horrors, the\npestilential emanations of which were blown full in their faces. O God!\nto think that such hideousness, such filth, such suffering, should exist!\nWas it possible--under that magnificently radiant sun, under those broad\nheavens so full of light and joy whither the freshness of the Gave\u2019s\nwaters ascended, and the breeze of morning wafted the pure perfumes of\nthe mountains!\n\nWhen Pierre, at the head of the _cort\u00e8ge_, reached the Plateau de la\nMerlasse, he found himself immersed in that clear sunlight, that fresh\nand balmy air. He turned round and smiled affectionately at Marie; and as\nthey came out on the Place du Rosaire in the morning splendour, they were\nboth enchanted with the lovely panorama which spread around them.\n\nIn front, on the east, was Old Lourdes, lying in a broad fold of the\nground beyond a rock. The sun was rising behind the distant mountains,\nand its oblique rays clearly outlined the dark lilac mass of that\nsolitary rock, which was crowned by the tower and crumbling walls of the\nancient castle, once the redoubtable key of the seven valleys. Through\nthe dancing, golden dust you discerned little of the ruined pile except\nsome stately outlines, some huge blocks of building which looked as\nthough reared by Cyclopean hands; and beyond the rock you but vaguely\ndistinguished the discoloured, intermingled house-roofs of the old town.\nNearer in than the castle, however, the new town--the rich and noisy city\nwhich had sprung up in a few years as though by miracle--spread out on\neither hand, displaying its hotels, its stylish shops, its lodging-houses\nall with white fronts smiling amidst patches of greenery. Then there was\nthe Gave flowing along at the base of the rock, rolling clamorous, clear\nwaters, now blue and now green, now deep as they passed under the old\nbridge, and now leaping as they careered under the new one, which the\nFathers of the Immaculate Conception had built in order to connect the\nGrotto with the railway station and the recently opened Boulevard. And as\na background to this delightful picture, this fresh water, this greenery,\nthis gay, scattered, rejuvenated town, the little and the big Gers arose,\ntwo huge ridges of bare rock and low herbage, which, in the projected\nshade that bathed them, assumed delicate tints of pale mauve and green,\nfading softly into pink.\n\nThen, upon the north, on the right bank of the Gave, beyond the hills\nfollowed by the railway line, the heights of La Buala ascended, their\nwooded slopes radiant in the morning light. On that side lay Bartres.\nMore to the left arose the Serre de Julos, dominated by the Miramont.\nOther crests, far off, faded away into the ether. And in the foreground,\nrising in tiers among the grassy valleys beyond the Gave, a number of\nconvents, which seemed to have sprung up in this region of prodigies like\nearly vegetation, imparted some measure of life to the landscape. First,\nthere was an Orphan Asylum founded by the Sisters of Nevers, whose vast\nbuildings shone brightly in the sunlight. Next came the Carmelite\nconvent, on the highway to Pau, just in front of the Grotto; and then\nthat of the Assumptionists higher up, skirting the road to Poueyferre;\nwhilst the Dominicans showed but a corner of their roofs, sequestered in\nthe far-away solitude. And at last appeared the establishment of the\nSisters of the Immaculate Conception, those who were called the Blue\nSisters, and who had founded at the far end of the valley a home where\nthey received well-to-do lady pilgrims, desirous of solitude, as\nboarders.\n\nAt that early hour all the bells of these convents were pealing joyfully\nin the crystalline atmosphere, whilst the bells of other convents, on the\nother, the southern horizon, answered them with the same silvery strains\nof joy. The bell of the nunnery of Sainte Clarissa, near the old bridge,\nrang a scale of gay, clear notes, which one might have fancied to be the\nchirruping of a bird. And on this side of the town, also, there were\nvalleys that dipped down between the ridges, and mountains that upreared\ntheir bare sides, a commingling of smiling and of agitated nature, an\nendless surging of heights amongst which you noticed those of Visens,\nwhose slopes the sunlight tinged ornately with soft blue and carmine of a\nrippling, moire-like effect.\n\nHowever, when Marie and Pierre turned their eyes to the west, they were\nquite dazzled. The sun rays were here streaming on the large and the\nlittle B\u00eaout with their cupolas of unequal height. And on this side the\nbackground was one of gold and purple, a dazzling mountain on whose sides\none could only discern the road which snaked between the trees on its way\nto the Calvary above. And here, too, against the sunlit background,\nradiant like an aureola, stood out the three superposed churches which at\nthe voice of Bernadette had sprung from the rock to the glory of the\nBlessed Virgin. First of all, down below, came the church of the Rosary,\nsquat, circular, and half cut out of the rock, at the farther end of an\nesplanade on either side of which, like two huge arms, were colossal\ngradient ways ascending gently to the Crypt church. Vast labour had been\nexpended here, a quarryful of stones had been cut and set in position,\nthere were arches as lofty as naves supporting the gigantic terraced\navenues which had been constructed so that the processions might roll\nalong in all their pomp, and the little conveyances containing sick\nchildren might ascend without hindrance to the divine presence. Then came\nthe Crypt, the subterranean church within the rock, with only its low\ndoor visible above the church of the Rosary, whose paved roof, with its\nvast promenade, formed a continuation of the terraced inclines. And at\nlast, from the summit sprang the Basilica, somewhat slender and frail,\nrecalling some finely chased jewel of the Renascence, and looking very\nnew and very white--like a prayer, a spotless dove, soaring aloft from\nthe rocks of Massabielle. The spire, which appeared the more delicate and\nslight when compared with the gigantic inclines below, seemed like the\nlittle vertical flame of a taper set in the midst of the vast landscape,\nthose endless waves of valleys and mountains. By the side, too, of the\ndense greenery of the Calvary hill, it looked fragile and candid, like\nchildish faith; and at sight of it you instinctively thought of the\nlittle white arm, the little thin hand of the puny girl, who had here\npointed to Heaven in the crisis of her human sufferings. You could not\nsee the Grotto, the entrance of which was on the left, at the base of the\nrock. Beyond the Basilica, the only buildings which caught the eye were\nthe heavy square pile where the Fathers of the Immaculate Conception had\ntheir abode, and the episcopal palace, standing much farther away, in a\nspreading, wooded valley. And the three churches were flaming in the\nmorning glow, and the rain of gold scattered by the sun rays was sweeping\nthe whole countryside, whilst the flying peals of the bells seemed to be\nthe very vibration of the light, the musical awakening of the lovely day\nthat was now beginning.\n\nWhilst crossing the Place du Rosaire, Pierre and Marie glanced at the\nEsplanade, the public walk with its long central lawn skirted by broad\nparallel paths and extending as far as the new bridge. Here, with face\nturned towards the Basilica, was the great crowned statue of the Virgin.\nAll the sufferers crossed themselves as they went by. And still\npassionately chanting its canticle, the fearful _cort\u00e8ge_ rolled on,\nthrough nature in festive array. Under the dazzling sky, past the\nmountains of gold and purple, amidst the centenarian trees, symbolical of\nhealth, the running waters whose freshness was eternal, that _cort\u00e8ge_\nstill and ever marched on with its sufferers, whom nature, if not God,\nhad condemned, those who were afflicted with skin diseases, those whose\nflesh was eaten away, those who were dropsical and inflated like\nwine-skins, and those whom rheumatism and paralysis had twisted into\npostures of agony. And the victims of hydrocephalus followed, with the\ndancers of St. Vitus, the consumptives, the rickety, the epileptic, the\ncancerous, the goitrous, the blind, the mad, and the idiotic. \u201cAve, ave,\nave, Maria!\u201d they sang; and the stubborn plaint acquired increased\nvolume, as nearer and nearer to the Grotto it bore that abominable\ntorrent of human wretchedness and pain, amidst all the fright and horror\nof the passers-by, who stopped short, unable to stir, their hearts frozen\nas this nightmare swept before their eyes.\n\nPierre and Marie were the first to pass under the lofty arcade of one of\nthe terraced inclines. And then, as they followed the quay of the Gave,\nthey all at once came upon the Grotto. And Marie, whom Pierre wheeled as\nnear to the railing as possible, was only able to raise herself in her\nlittle conveyance, and murmur: \u201cO most Blessed Virgin, Virgin most\nloved!\u201d\n\nShe had seen neither the entrances to the piscinas nor the twelve-piped\nfountain, which she had just passed; nor did she distinguish any better\nthe shop on her left hand where crucifixes, chaplets, statuettes,\npictures, and other religious articles were sold, or the stone pulpit on\nher right which Father Massias already occupied. Her eyes were dazzled by\nthe splendour of the Grotto; it seemed to her as if a hundred thousand\ntapers were burning there behind the railing, filling the low entrance\nwith the glow of a furnace and illuminating, as with star rays, the\nstatue of the Virgin, which stood, higher up, at the edge of a narrow\nogive-like cavity. And for her, apart from that glorious apparition,\nnothing existed there, neither the crutches with which a part of the\nvault had been covered, nor the piles of bouquets fading away amidst the\nivy and the eglantine, nor even the altar placed in the centre near a\nlittle portable organ over which a cover had been thrown. However, as she\nraised her eyes above the rock, she once more beheld the slender white\nBasilica profiled against the sky, its slight, tapering spire soaring\ninto the azure of the Infinite like a prayer.\n\n\u201cO Virgin most powerful--Queen of the Virgins--Holy Virgin of Virgins!\u201d\n\nPierre had now succeeded in wheeling Marie\u2019s box to the front rank,\nbeyond the numerous oak benches which were set out here in the open air\nas in the nave of a church. Nearly all these benches were already\noccupied by those sufferers who could sit down, while the vacant spaces\nwere soon filled with litters and little vehicles whose wheels became\nentangled together, and on whose close-packed mattresses and pillows all\nsorts of diseases were gathered pell-mell. Immediately on arriving, the\nyoung priest had recognised the Vignerons seated with their sorry child\nGustave in the middle of a bench, and now, on the flagstones, he caught\nsight of the lace-trimmed bed of Madame Dieulafay, beside whom her\nhusband and sister knelt in prayer. Moreover, all the patients of Madame\nde Jonqui\u00e8re\u2019s carriage took up position here--M. Sabathier and Brother\nIsidore side by side, Madame Vetu reclining hopelessly in a conveyance,\nElise Rouquet seated, La Grivotte excited and raising herself on her\nclenched hands. Pierre also again perceived Madame Maze, standing\nsomewhat apart from the others, and humbling herself in prayer; whilst\nMadame Vincent, who had fallen on her knees, still holding her little\nRose in her arms, presented the child to the Virgin with ardent entreaty,\nthe distracted gesture of a mother soliciting compassion from the mother\nof divine grace. And around this reserved space was the ever-growing\nthrong of pilgrims, the pressing, jostling mob which gradually stretched\nto the parapet overlooking the Gave.\n\n\u201cO Virgin most merciful,\u201d continued Marie in an undertone, \u201cVirgin most\nfaithful, Virgin conceived without sin!\u201d\n\nThen, almost fainting, she spoke no more, but with her lips still moving,\nas though in silent prayer, gazed distractedly at Pierre. He thought that\nshe wished to speak to him and leant forward: \u201cShall I remain here at\nyour disposal to take you to the piscina by-and-by?\u201d he asked.\n\nBut as soon as she understood him she shook her head. And then in a\nfeverish way she said: \u201cNo, no, I don\u2019t want to be bathed this morning.\nIt seems to me that one must be truly worthy, truly pure, truly holy\nbefore seeking the miracle! I want to spend the whole morning in\nimploring it with joined hands; I want to pray, to pray with all my\nstrength and all my soul--\u201d She was stifling, and paused. Then she added:\n\u201cDon\u2019t come to take me back to the hospital till eleven o\u2019clock. I will\nnot let them take me from here till then.\u201d\n\nHowever, Pierre did not go away, but remained near her. For a moment, he\neven fell upon his knees; he also would have liked to pray with the same\nburning faith, to beg of God the cure of that poor sick child, whom he\nloved with such fraternal affection. But since he had reached the Grotto\nhe had felt a singular sensation invading him, a covert revolt, as it\nwere, which hampered the pious flight of his prayer. He wished to\nbelieve; he had spent the whole night hoping that belief would once more\nblossom in his soul, like some lovely flower of innocence and candour, as\nsoon as he should have knelt upon the soil of that land of miracle. And\nyet he only experienced discomfort and anxiety in presence of the\ntheatrical scene before him, that pale stiff statue in the false light of\nthe tapers, with the chaplet shop full of jostling customers on the one\nhand, and the large stone pulpit whence a Father of the Assumption was\nshouting \u201cAves\u201d on the other. Had his soul become utterly withered then?\nCould no divine dew again impregnate it with innocence, render it like\nthe souls of little children, who at the slightest caressing touch of the\nsacred legend give themselves to it entirely?\n\nThen, while his thoughts were still wandering, he recognised Father\nMassias in the ecclesiastic who occupied the pulpit. He had formerly\nknown him, and was quite stirred by his sombre ardour, by the sight of\nhis thin face and sparkling eyes, by the eloquence which poured from his\nlarge mouth as he offered violence to Heaven to compel it to descend upon\nearth. And whilst he thus examined Father Massias, astonished at feeling\nhimself so unlike the preacher, he caught sight of Father Fourcade, who,\nat the foot of the pulpit, was deep in conference with Baron Suire. The\nlatter seemed much perplexed by something which Father Fourcade said to\nhim; however he ended by approving it with a complaisant nod. Then, as\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine was also standing there, Father Fourcade likewise spoke to\nhim for a moment, and a scared expression came over the Abb\u00e9\u2019s broad,\nfatherly face while he listened; nevertheless, like the Baron, he at last\nbowed assent.\n\nThen, all at once, Father Fourcade appeared in the pulpit, erect, drawing\nup his lofty figure which his attack of gout had slightly bent; and he\nhad not wished that Father Massias, his well-loved brother, whom he\npreferred above all others, should altogether go down the narrow\nstairway, for he had kept him upon one of the steps, and was leaning on\nhis shoulder. And in a full, grave voice, with an air of sovereign\nauthority which caused perfect silence to reign around, he spoke as\nfollows:\n\n\u201cMy dear brethren, my dear sisters, I ask your forgiveness for\ninterrupting your prayers, but I have a communication to make to you, and\nI have to ask the help of all your faithful souls. We had a very sad\naccident to deplore this morning, one of our brethren died in one of the\ntrains by which you came to Lourdes, died just as he was about to set\nfoot in the promised land.\u201d\n\nA brief pause followed and Father Fourcade seemed to become yet taller,\nhis handsome face beaming with fervour, amidst his long, streaming, royal\nbeard.\n\n\u201cWell, my dear brethren, my dear sisters,\u201d he resumed, \u201cin spite of\neverything, the idea has come to me that we ought not to despair. Who\nknows if God Almighty did not will that death in order that He might\nprove His Omnipotence to the world? It is as though a voice were speaking\nto me, urging me to ascend this pulpit and ask your prayers for this man,\nthis man who is no more, but whose life is nevertheless in the hands of\nthe most Blessed Virgin who can still implore her Divine Son in his\nfavour. Yes, the man is here, I have caused his body to be brought\nhither, and it depends on you, perhaps, whether a brilliant miracle shall\ndazzle the universe, if you pray with sufficient ardour to touch the\ncompassion of Heaven. We will plunge the man\u2019s body into the piscina and\nwe will entreat the Lord, the master of the world, to resuscitate him, to\ngive unto us this extraordinary sign of His sovereign beneficence!\u201d\n\nAn icy thrill, wafted from the Invisible, passed through the listeners.\nThey had all become pale, and though the lips of none of them had opened,\nit seemed as if a murmur sped through their ranks amidst a shudder.\n\n\u201cBut with what ardour must we not pray!\u201d violently resumed Father\nFourcade, exalted by genuine faith. \u201cIt is your souls, your whole souls,\nthat I ask of you, my dear brothers, my dear sisters, it is a prayer in\nwhich you must put your hearts, your blood, your very life with whatever\nmay be most noble and loving in it! Pray with all your strength, pray\ntill you no longer know who you are, or where you are; pray as one loves,\npray as one dies, for that which we are about to ask is so precious, so\nrare, so astounding a grace that only the energy of our worship can\ninduce God to answer us. And in order that our prayers may be the more\nefficacious, in order that they may have time to spread and ascend to the\nfeet of the Eternal Father, we will not lower the body into the piscina\nuntil four o\u2019clock this afternoon. And now my dear brethren, now my dear\nsisters, pray, pray to the most Blessed Virgin, the Queen of the Angels,\nthe Comforter of the Afflicted!\u201d\n\nThen he himself, distracted by emotion, resumed the recital of the\nrosary, whilst near him Father Massias burst into sobs. And thereupon the\ngreat anxious silence was broken, contagion seized upon the throng, it\nwas transported and gave vent to shouts, tears, and confused stammered\nentreaties. It was as though a breath of delirium were sweeping by,\nreducing men\u2019s wills to naught, and turning all these beings into one\nbeing, exasperated with love and seized with a mad desire for the\nimpossible prodigy.\n\nAnd for a moment Pierre had thought that the ground was giving way\nbeneath him, that he was about to fall and faint. But with difficulty he\nmanaged to rise from his knees and slowly walked away.\n\n\n\n\nIII. FOUNTAIN AND PISCINA\n\nAs Pierre went off, ill at ease, mastered by invincible repugnance,\nunwilling to remain there any longer, he caught sight of M. de Guersaint,\nkneeling near the Grotto, with the absorbed air of one who is praying\nwith his whole soul. The young priest had not seen him since the morning,\nand did not know whether he had managed to secure a couple of rooms in\none or other of the hotels, so that his first impulse was to go and join\nhim. Then, however, he hesitated, unwilling to disturb his meditations,\nfor he was doubtless praying for his daughter, whom he fondly loved, in\nspite of the constant absent-mindedness of his volatile brain.\nAccordingly, the young priest passed on, and took his way under the\ntrees. Nine o\u2019clock was now striking, he had a couple of hours before\nhim.\n\nBy dint of money, the wild bank where swine had formerly pastured had\nbeen transformed into a superb avenue skirting the Gave. It had been\nnecessary to put back the river\u2019s bed in order to gain ground, and lay\nout a monumental quay bordered by a broad footway, and protected by a\nparapet. Some two or three hundred yards farther on, a hill brought the\navenue to an end, and it thus resembled an enclosed promenade, provided\nwith benches, and shaded by magnificent trees. Nobody passed along,\nhowever; merely the overflow of the crowd had settled there, and solitary\nspots still abounded between the grassy wall limiting the promenade on\nthe south, and the extensive fields spreading out northward beyond the\nGave, as far as the wooded slopes which the white-walled convents\nbrightened. Under the foliage, on the margin of the running water, one\ncould enjoy delightful freshness, even during the burning days of August.\n\nThus Pierre, like a man at last awakening from a painful dream, soon\nfound rest of mind again. He had questioned himself in the acute anxiety\nwhich he felt with regard to his sensations. Had he not reached Lourdes\nthat morning possessed by a genuine desire to believe, an idea that he\nwas indeed again beginning to believe even as he had done in the docile\ndays of childhood when his mother had made him join his hands, and taught\nhim to fear God? Yet as soon as he had found himself at the Grotto, the\nidolatry of the worship, the violence of the display of faith, the\nonslaught upon human reason which he witnessed, had so disturbed him that\nhe had almost fainted. What would become of him then? Could he not even\ntry to contend against his doubts by examining things and convincing\nhimself of their truth, thus turning his journey to profit? At all\nevents, he had made a bad beginning, which left him sorely agitated, and\nhe indeed needed the environment of those fine trees, that limpid,\nrushing water, that calm, cool avenue, to recover from the shock.\n\nStill pondering, he was approaching the end of the pathway, when he most\nunexpectedly met a forgotten friend. He had, for a few seconds, been\nlooking at a tall old gentleman who was coming towards him, dressed in a\ntightly buttoned frock-coat and broad-brimmed hat; and he had tried to\nremember where it was that he had previously beheld that pale face, with\neagle nose, and black and penetrating eyes. These he had seen before, he\nfelt sure of it; but the promenader\u2019s long white beard and long curly\nwhite hair perplexed him. However, the other halted, also looking\nextremely astonished, though he promptly exclaimed, \u201cWhat, Pierre? Is it\nyou, at Lourdes?\u201d\n\nThen all at once the young priest recognised Doctor Chassaigne, his\nfather\u2019s old friend, his own friend, the man who had cured and consoled\nhim in the terrible physical and mental crisis which had come upon him\nafter his mother\u2019s death.\n\n\u201cAh! my dear doctor, how pleased I am to see you!\u201d he replied.\n\nThey embraced with deep emotion. And now, in presence of that snowy hair\nand snowy beard, that slow walk, that sorrowful demeanour, Pierre\nremembered with what unrelenting ferocity misfortune had fallen on that\nunhappy man and aged him. But a few years had gone by, and now, when they\nmet again, he was bowed down by destiny.\n\n\u201cYou did not know, I suppose, that I had remained at Lourdes?\u201d said the\ndoctor. \u201cIt\u2019s true that I no longer write to anybody; in fact, I am no\nlonger among the living. I live in the land of the dead.\u201d Tears were\ngathering in his eyes, and emotion made his voice falter as he resumed:\n\u201cThere! come and sit down on that bench yonder; it will please me to live\nthe old days afresh with you, just for a moment.\u201d\n\nIn his turn the young priest felt his sobs choking him. He could only\nmurmur: \u201cAh! my dear doctor, my old friend, I can truly tell you that I\npitied you with my whole heart, my whole soul.\u201d\n\nDoctor Chassaigne\u2019s story was one of disaster, the shipwreck of a life.\nHe and his daughter Marguerite, a tall and lovable girl of twenty, had\ngone to Cauterets with Madame Chassaigne, the model wife and mother,\nwhose state of health had made them somewhat anxious. A fortnight had\nelapsed and she seemed much better, and was already planning several\npleasure trips, when one morning she was found dead in her bed. Her\nhusband and daughter were overwhelmed, stupefied by this sudden blow,\nthis cruel treachery of death. The doctor, who belonged to Bartres, had a\nfamily vault in the Lourdes cemetery, a vault constructed at his own\nexpense, and in which his father and mother already rested. He desired,\ntherefore, that his wife should be interred there, in a compartment\nadjoining that in which he expected soon to lie himself. And after the\nburial he had lingered for a week at Lourdes, when Marguerite, who was\nwith him, was seized with a great shivering, and, taking to her bed one\nevening, died two days afterwards without her distracted father being\nable to form any exact notion of the illness which had carried her off.\nAnd thus it was not himself, but his daughter, lately radiant with beauty\nand health, in the very flower of her youth, who was laid in the vacant\ncompartment by the mother\u2019s side. The man who had been so happy, so\nworshipped by his two helpmates, whose heart had been kept so warm by the\nlove of two dear creatures all his own, was now nothing more than an old,\nmiserable, stammering, lost being, who shivered in his icy solitude. All\nthe joy of his life had departed; he envied the men who broke stones upon\nthe highways when he saw their barefooted wives and daughters bring them\ntheir dinners at noontide. And he had refused to leave Lourdes, he had\nrelinquished everything, his studies, his practice in Paris, in order\nthat he might live near the tomb in which his wife and his daughter slept\nthe eternal sleep.\n\n\u201cAh, my old friend,\u201d repeated Pierre, \u201chow I pitied you! How frightful\nmust have been your grief! But why did you not rely a little on those who\nlove you? Why did you shut yourself up here with your sorrow?\u201d\n\nThe doctor made a gesture which embraced the horizon. \u201cI could not go\naway, they are here and keep me with them. It is all over, I am merely\nwaiting till my time comes to join them again.\u201d\n\nThen silence fell. Birds were fluttering among the shrubs on the bank\nbehind them, and in front they heard the loud murmur of the Gave. The sun\nrays were falling more heavily in a slow, golden dust, upon the\nhillsides; but on that retired bench under the beautiful trees, the\ncoolness was still delightful. And although the crowd was but a couple of\nhundred yards distant, they were, so to say, in a desert, for nobody tore\nhimself away from the Grotto to stray as far as the spot which they had\nchosen.\n\nThey talked together for a long time, and Pierre related under what\ncircumstances he had reached Lourdes that morning with M. de Guersaint\nand his daughter, all three forming part of the national pilgrimage. Then\nall at once he gave a start of astonishment and exclaimed: \u201cWhat! doctor,\nso you now believe that miracles are possible? You, good heavens! whom I\nknew as an unbeliever, or at least as one altogether indifferent to these\nmatters?\u201d\n\nHe was gazing at M. Chassaigne quite stupefied by something which he had\njust heard him say of the Grotto and Bernadette. It was amazing, coming\nfrom a man with so strong a mind, a _savant_ of such intelligence, whose\npowerful analytical faculties he had formerly so much admired! How was it\nthat a lofty, clear mind, nourished by experience and method, had become\nso changed as to acknowledge the miraculous cures effected by that divine\nfountain which the Blessed Virgin had caused to spurt forth under the\npressure of a child\u2019s fingers?\n\n\u201cBut just think a little, my dear doctor,\u201d he resumed. \u201cIt was you\nyourself who supplied my father with memoranda about Bernadette, your\nlittle fellow-villager as you used to call her; and it was you, too, who\nspoke to me at such length about her, when, later on, I took a momentary\ninterest in her story. In your eyes she was simply an ailing child, prone\nto hallucinations, infantile, but self-conscious of her acts, deficient\nof will-power. Recollect our chats together, my doubts, and the healthy\nreason which you again enabled me, to acquire!\u201d\n\nPierre was feeling very moved, for was not this the strangest of\nadventures? He a priest, who in a spirit of resignation had formerly\nendeavoured to believe, had ended by completely losing all faith through\nintercourse with this same doctor, who was then an unbeliever, but whom\nhe now found converted, conquered by the supernatural, whilst he himself\nwas racked by the torture of no longer believing.\n\n\u201cYou who would only rely on accurate facts,\u201d he said, \u201cyou who based\neverything on observation! Do you renounce science then?\u201d\n\nChassaigne, hitherto quiet, with a sorrowful smile playing on his lips,\nnow made a violent gesture expressive of sovereign contempt. \u201cScience\nindeed!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cDo I know anything? Can I accomplish anything?\nYou asked me just now what malady it was that killed my poor Marguerite.\nBut I do not know! I, whom people think so learned, so well armed against\ndeath, I understood nothing of it, and I could do nothing--not even\nprolong my daughter\u2019s life for a single hour! And my wife, whom I found\nin bed already cold, when on the previous evening she had lain down in\nmuch better health and quite gay--was I even capable of foreseeing what\nought to have been done in her case? No, no! for me at all events,\nscience has become bankrupt. I wish to know nothing; I am but a fool and\na poor old man!\u201d\n\nHe spoke like this in a furious revolt against all his past life of pride\nand happiness. Then, having become calm again, he added: \u201cAnd now I only\nfeel a frightful remorse. Yes, a remorse which haunts me, which ever\nbrings me here, prowling around the people who are praying. It is remorse\nfor not having in the first instance come and humbled myself at that\nGrotto, bringing my two dear ones with me. They would have knelt there\nlike those women whom you see, I should have knelt beside them, and\nperhaps the Blessed Virgin would have cured and preserved them. But, fool\nthat I was, I only knew how to lose them! It is my fault.\u201d\n\nTears were now streaming from his eyes. \u201cI remember,\u201d he continued, \u201cthat\nin my childhood at Bartres, my mother, a peasant woman, made me join my\nhands and implore God\u2019s help each morning. The prayer she taught me came\nback to my mind, word for word, when I again found myself alone, as weak,\nas lost, as a little child. What would you have, my friend? I joined my\nhands as in my younger days, I felt too wretched, too forsaken, I had too\nkeen a need of a superhuman help, of a divine power which should think\nand determine for me, which should lull me and carry me on with its\neternal prescience. How great at first was the confusion, the aberration\nof my poor brain, under the frightful, heavy blow which fell upon it! I\nspent a score of nights without being able to sleep, thinking that I\nshould surely go mad. All sorts of ideas warred within me; I passed\nthrough periods of revolt when I shook my fist at Heaven, and then I\nlapsed into humility, entreating God to take me in my turn. And it was at\nlast a conviction that there must be justice, a conviction that there\nmust be love, which calmed me by restoring me my faith. You knew my\ndaughter, so tall and strong, so beautiful, so brimful of life. Would it\nnot be the most monstrous injustice if for her, who did not know life,\nthere should be nothing beyond the tomb? She will live again, I am\nabsolutely convinced of it, for I still hear her at times, she tells me\nthat we shall meet, that we shall see one another again. Oh! the dear\nbeings whom one has lost, my dear daughter, my dear wife, to see them\nonce more, to live with them elsewhere, that is the one hope, the one\nconsolation for all the sorrows of this world! I have given myself to\nGod, since God alone can restore them to me!\u201d\n\nHe was shaking with a slight tremor, like the weak old man he had become;\nand Pierre was at last able to understand and explain the conversion of\nthis _savant_, this man of intellect who, growing old, had reverted to\nbelief under the influence of sentiment. First of all, and this he had\npreviously suspected, he discovered a kind of atavism of faith in this\nPyrenean, this son of peasant mountaineers, who had been brought up in\nbelief of the legend, and whom the legend had again mastered even when\nfifty years, of positive study had rolled over it. Then, too, there was\nhuman weariness; this man, to whom science had not brought happiness,\nrevolted against science on the day when it seemed to him shallow,\npowerless to prevent him from shedding tears. And finally there was\ndiscouragement, a doubt of all things, ending in a need of certainty on\nthe part of one whom age had softened, and who felt happy at being able\nto fall asleep in credulity.\n\nPierre did not protest, however; he did not jeer, for his heart was rent\nat sight of this tall, stricken old man, with his woeful senility. Is it\nnot indeed pitiful to see the strongest, the clearest-minded become mere\nchildren again under such blows of fate? \u201cAh!\u201d he faintly sighed, \u201cif I\ncould only suffer enough to be able to silence my reason, and kneel\nyonder and believe in all those fine stories.\u201d\n\nThe pale smile, which at times still passed over Doctor Chassaigne\u2019s\nlips, reappeared on them. \u201cYou mean the miracles?\u201d said he. \u201cYou are a\npriest, my child, and I know what your misfortune is. The miracles seem\nimpossible to you. But what do you know of them? Admit that you know\nnothing, and that what to our senses seems impossible is every minute\ntaking place. And now we have been talking together for a long time, and\neleven o\u2019clock will soon strike, so that you must return to the Grotto.\nHowever, I shall expect you, at half-past three, when I will take you to\nthe Medical Verification Office, where I hope I shall be able to show you\nsome surprising things. Don\u2019t forget, at half-past three.\u201d\n\nThereupon he sent him off, and remained on the bench alone. The heat had\nyet increased, and the distant hills were burning in the furnace-like\nglow of the sun. However, he lingered there forgetfully, dreaming in the\ngreeny half-light amidst the foliage, and listening to the continuous\nmurmur of the Gave, as if a voice, a dear voice from the realms beyond,\nwere speaking to him.\n\nPierre meantime hastened back to Marie. He was able to join her without\nmuch difficulty, for the crowd was thinning, a good many people having\nalready gone off to _d\u00e9jeuner_. And on arriving he perceived the girl\u2019s\nfather, who was quietly seated beside her, and who at once wished to\nexplain to him the reason of his long absence. For more than a couple of\nhours that morning he had scoured Lourdes in all directions, applying at\ntwenty hotels in turn without being able to find the smallest closet\nwhere they might sleep. Even the servants\u2019 rooms were let and you could\nnot have even secured a mattress on which to stretch yourself in some\npassage. However, all at once, just as he was despairing, he had\ndiscovered two rooms, small ones, it is true, and just under the roof,\nbut in a very good hotel, that of the Apparitions, one of the best\npatronised in the town. The persons who had retained these rooms had just\ntelegraphed that the patient whom they had meant to bring with them was\ndead. Briefly, it was a piece of rare good luck, and seemed to make M. de\nGuersaint quite gay.\n\nEleven o\u2019clock was now striking and the woeful procession of sufferers\nstarted off again through the sunlit streets and squares. When it reached\nthe hospital Marie begged her father and Pierre to go to the hotel, lunch\nand rest there awhile, and return to fetch her at two o\u2019clock, when the\npatients would again be conducted to the Grotto. But when, after\nlunching, the two men went up to the rooms which they were to occupy at\nthe Hotel of the Apparitions, M. de Guersaint, overcome by fatigue, fell\nso soundly asleep that Pierre had not the heart to awaken him. What would\nhave been the use of it? His presence was not indispensable. And so the\nyoung priest returned to the hospital alone. Then the _cort\u00e8ge_ again\ndescended the Avenue de la Grotte, again wended its way over the Plateau\nde la Merlasse, again crossed the Place du Rosaire, past an ever-growing\ncrowd which shuddered and crossed itself amid all the joyousness of that\nsplendid August day. It was now the most glorious hour of a lovely\nafternoon.\n\nWhen Marie was again installed in front of the Grotto she inquired if her\nfather were coming. \u201cYes,\u201d answered Pierre; \u201che is only taking a little\nrest.\u201d\n\nShe waved her hand as though to say that he was acting rightly, and then\nin a sorely troubled voice she added: \u201cListen, Pierre; don\u2019t take me to\nthe piscina for another hour. I am not yet in a state to find favour from\nHeaven, I wish to pray, to keep on praying.\u201d\n\nAfter evincing such an ardent desire to come to Lourdes, terror was\nagitating her now that the moment for attempting the miracle was at hand.\nIn fact, she began to relate that she had been unable to eat anything,\nand a girl who overheard her at once approached saying: \u201cIf you feel too\nweak, my dear young lady, remember we have some broth here.\u201d\n\nMarie looked at her and recognised Raymonde. Several young girls were in\nthis wise employed at the Grotto to distribute cups of broth and milk\namong the sufferers. Some of them, indeed, in previous years had\ndisplayed so much coquetry in the matter of silk, aprons trimmed with\nlace, that a uniform apron, of modest linen, with a small check pattern,\nblue and white, had been imposed on them. Nevertheless, in spite of this\nenforced simplicity, Raymonde, thanks to her freshness and her active,\ngood-natured, housewifely air, had succeeded in making herself look quite\ncharming.\n\n\u201cYou will remember, won\u2019t you?\u201d she added; \u201cyou have only to make me a\nsign and I will serve you.\u201d\n\nMarie thanked her, saying, however, that she felt sure she would not be\nable to take anything; and then, turning towards the young priest, she\nresumed: \u201cOne hour--you must allow me one more hour, my friend.\u201d\n\nPierre wished at any rate to remain near her, but the entire space was\nreserved to the sufferers, the bearers not being allowed there. So he had\nto retire, and, caught in the rolling waves of the crowd, he found\nhimself carried towards the piscinas, where he came upon an extraordinary\nspectacle which stayed his steps. In front of the low buildings where the\nbaths were, three by three, six for the women and three for the men, he\nperceived under the trees a long stretch of ground enclosed by a rope\nfastened to the tree-trunks; and here, various sufferers, some sitting in\ntheir bath-chairs and others lying on the mattresses of their litters,\nwere drawn up in line, waiting to be bathed, whilst outside the rope, a\nhuge, excited throng was ever pressing and surging. A Capuchin, erect in\nthe centre of the reserved space, was at that moment conducting the\nprayers. \u201cAves\u201d followed one after the other, repeated by the crowd in a\nloud confused murmur. Then, all at once, as Madame Vincent, who, pale\nwith agony, had long been waiting, was admitted to the baths, carrying\nher dear burden, her little girl who looked like a waxen image of the\nchild Christ, the Capuchin let himself fall upon his knees with his arms\nextended, and cried aloud: \u201cLord, heal our sick!\u201d He raised this cry a\ndozen, twenty times, with a growing fury, and each time the crowd\nrepeated it, growing more and more excited at each shout, till it sobbed\nand kissed the ground in a state of frenzy. It was like a hurricane of\ndelirium rushing by and laying every head in the dust. Pierre was utterly\ndistracted by the sob of suffering which arose from the very bowels of\nthese poor folks--at first a prayer, growing louder and louder, then\nbursting forth like a demand in impatient, angry, deafening, obstinate\naccents, as though to compel the help of Heaven. \u201cLord, heal our\nsick!\u201d--\u201cLord, heal our sick!\u201d The shout soared on high incessantly.\n\nAn incident occurred, however; La Grivotte was weeping hot tears because\nthey would not bathe her. \u201cThey say that I\u2019m a consumptive,\u201d she\nplaintively exclaimed, \u201cand that they can\u2019t dip consumptives in cold\nwater. Yet they dipped one this morning; I saw her. So why won\u2019t they dip\nme? I\u2019ve been wearing myself out for the last half-hour in telling them\nthat they are only grieving the Blessed Virgin, for I am going to be\ncured, I feel it, I am going to be cured!\u201d\n\nAs she was beginning to cause a scandal, one of the chaplains of the\npiscinas approached and endeavoured to calm her. They would see what they\ncould do for her, by-and-by, said he; they would consult the reverend\nFathers, and, if she were very good, perhaps they would bathe her all the\nsame.\n\nMeantime the cry continued: \u201cLord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!\u201d\n And Pierre, who had just perceived Madame Vetu, also waiting at the\npiscina entry, could no longer turn his eyes away from her hope-tortured\nface, whose eyes were fixed upon the doorway by which the happy ones, the\nelect, emerged from the divine presence, cured of all their ailments.\nHowever, a sudden increase of the crowd\u2019s frenzy, a perfect rage of\nentreaties, gave him such a shock as to draw tears from his eyes. Madame\nVincent was now coming out again, still carrying her little girl in her\narms, her wretched, her fondly loved little girl, who had been dipped in\na fainting state in the icy water, and whose little face, but imperfectly\nwiped, was as pale as ever, and indeed even more woeful and lifeless. The\nmother was sobbing, crucified by this long agony, reduced to despair by\nthe refusal of the Blessed Virgin, who had remained insensible to her\nchild\u2019s sufferings. And yet when Madame Vetu in her turn entered, with\nthe eager passion of a dying woman about to drink the water of life, the\nhaunting, obstinate cry burst out again, without sign of discouragement\nor lassitude: \u201cLord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!\u201d The Capuchin\nhad now fallen with his face to the ground, and the howling crowd, with\narms outstretched, devoured the soil with its kisses.\n\nPierre wished to join Madame Vincent to soothe her with a few kind,\nencouraging words; however, a fresh string of pilgrims not only prevented\nhim from passing, but threw him towards the fountain which another throng\nbesieged. There was here quite a range of low buildings, a long stone\nwall with carved coping, and it had been necessary for the people to form\nin procession, although there were twelve taps from which the water fell\ninto a narrow basin. Many came hither to fill bottles, metal cans, and\nstoneware pitchers. To prevent too great a waste of water, the tap only\nacted when a knob was pressed with the hand. And thus many weak-handed\nwomen lingered there a long time, the water dripping on their feet. Those\nwho had no cans to fill at least came to drink and wash their faces.\nPierre noticed one young man who drank seven small glassfuls of water,\nand washed his eyes seven times without wiping them. Others were drinking\nout of shells, tin goblets, and leather cups. And he was particularly\ninterested by the sight of Elise Rouquet, who, thinking it useless to go\nto the piscinas to bathe the frightful sore which was eating away her\nface, had contented herself with employing the water of the fountain as a\nlotion, every two hours since her arrival that morning. She knelt down,\nthrew back her fichu, and for a long time applied a handkerchief to her\nface--a handkerchief which she had soaked with the miraculous fluid like\na sponge; and the crowd around rushed upon the fountain in such fury that\nfolks no longer noticed her diseased face, but washed themselves and\ndrank from the same pipe at which she constantly moistened her\nhandkerchief.\n\nJust then, however, G\u00e9rard, who passed by dragging M. Sabathier to the\npiscinas, called to Pierre, whom he saw unoccupied, and asked him to come\nand help him, for it would not be an easy task to move and bathe this\nhelpless victim of ataxia. And thus Pierre lingered with the sufferer in\nthe men\u2019s piscina for nearly half an hour, whilst G\u00e9rard returned to the\nGrotto to fetch another patient. These piscinas seemed to the young\npriest to be very well arranged. They were divided into three\ncompartments, three baths separated by partitions, with steps leading\ninto them. In order that one might isolate the patient, a linen curtain\nhug before each entry, which was reached through a kind of waiting-room\nhaving a paved floor, and furnished with a bench and a couple of chairs.\nHere the patients undressed and dressed themselves with an awkward haste,\na nervous kind of shame. One man, whom Pierre found there when he\nentered, was still naked, and wrapped himself in the curtain before\nputting on a bandage with trembling hands. Another one, a consumptive who\nwas frightfully emaciated, sat shivering and groaning, his livid skin\nmottled with violet marks. However, Pierre became more interested in\nBrother Isidore, who was just being removed from one of the baths. He had\nfainted away, and for a moment, indeed, it was thought that he was dead.\nBut at last he began moaning again, and one\u2019s heart filled with pity at\nsight of his long, lank frame, which suffering had withered, and which,\nwith his diseased hip, looked a human remnant on exhibition. The two\nhospitallers who had been bathing him had the greatest difficulty to put\non his shirt, fearful as they were that if he were suddenly shaken he\nmight expire in their arms.\n\n\u201cYou will help me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, won\u2019t you?\u201d asked another hospitaller\nas he began to undress M. Sabathier.\n\nPierre hastened to give his services, and found that the attendant,\ndischarging such humble duties, was none other than the Marquis de\nSalmon-Roquebert whom M. de Guersaint had pointed out to him on the way\nfrom the station to the hospital that morning. A man of forty, with a\nlarge, aquiline, knightly nose set in a long face, the Marquis was the\nlast representative of one of the most ancient and illustrious families\nof France. Possessing a large fortune, a regal mansion in the Rue de\nLille at Paris, and vast estates in Normandy, he came to Lourdes each\nyear, for the three days of the national pilgrimage, influenced solely by\nhis benevolent feelings, for he had no religious zeal and simply observed\nthe rites of the Church because it was customary for noblemen to do so.\nAnd he obstinately declined any high functions. Resolved to remain a\nhospitaller, he had that year assumed the duty of bathing the patients,\nexhausting the strength of his arms, employing his fingers from morning\ntill night in handling rags and re-applying dressings to sores.\n\n\u201cBe careful,\u201d he said to Pierre; \u201ctake off the stockings very slowly.\nJust now, some flesh came away when they were taking off the things of\nthat poor fellow who is being dressed again, over yonder.\u201d\n\nThen, leaving M. Sabathier for a moment in order to put on the shoes of\nthe unhappy sufferer whom he alluded to, the Marquis found the left shoe\nwet inside. Some matter had flowed into the fore part of it, and he had\nto take the usual medical precautions before putting it on the patient\u2019s\nfoot, a task which he performed with extreme care; and so as not to touch\nthe man\u2019s leg, into which an ulcer was eating.\n\n\u201cAnd now,\u201d he said to Pierre, as he returned to M. Sabathier, \u201cpull down\nthe drawers at the same time I do, so that we may get them off at one\npull.\u201d\n\nIn addition to the patients and the hospitallers selected for duty at the\npiscinas, the only person in the little dressing-room was a chaplain who\nkept on repeating \u201cPaters\u201d and \u201cAves,\u201d for not even a momentary pause was\nallowed in the prayers. Merely a loose curtain hung before the doorway\nleading to the open space which the rope enclosed; and the ardent\nclamorous entreaties of the throng were incessantly wafted into the room,\nwith the piercing shouts of the Capuchin, who ever repeated \u201cLord, heal\nour sick! Lord, heal our sick!\u201d A cold light fell from the high windows\nof the building and constant dampness reigned there, with the mouldy\nsmell like that of a cellar dripping with water.\n\nAt last M. Sabathier was stripped, divested of all garments save a little\napron which had been fastened about his loins for decency\u2019s sake.\n\n\u201cPray don\u2019t plunge me,\u201d said he; \u201clet me down into the water by degrees.\u201d\n\nIn point of fact that cold water quite terrified him. He was still wont\nto relate that he had experienced such a frightful chilling sensation on\nthe first occasion that he had sworn never to go in again. According to\nhis account, there could be no worse torture than that icy cold. And then\ntoo, as he put it, the water was scarcely inviting; for, through fear\nlest the output of the source should not suffice, the Fathers of the\nGrotto only allowed the water of the baths to be changed twice a day. And\nnearly a hundred patients being dipped in the same water, it can be\nimagined what a terrible soup the latter at last became. All manner of\nthings were found in it, so that it was like a frightful _consomm\u00e9_ of\nall ailments, a field of cultivation for every kind of poisonous germ, a\nquintessence of the most dreaded contagious diseases; the miraculous\nfeature of it all being that men should emerge alive from their immersion\nin such filth.\n\n\u201cGently, gently,\u201d repeated M. Sabathier to Pierre and the Marquis, who\nhad taken hold of him under the hips in order to carry him to the bath.\nAnd he gazed with childlike terror at that thick, livid water on which\nfloated so many greasy, nauseating patches of scum. However, his dread of\nthe cold was so great that he preferred the polluted baths of the\nafternoon, since all the bodies that were dipped in the water during the\nearly part of the day ended by slightly warming it.\n\n\u201cWe will let you slide down the steps,\u201d exclaimed the Marquis in an\nundertone; and then he instructed Pierre to hold the patient with all his\nstrength under the arm-pits.\n\n\u201cHave no fear,\u201d replied the priest; \u201cI will not let go.\u201d\n\nM. Sabathier was then slowly lowered. You could now only see his back,\nhis poor painful back which swayed and swelled, mottled by the rippling\nof a shiver. And when they dipped him his head fell back in a spasm, a\nsound like the cracking of bones was heard, and breathing hard, he almost\nstifled.\n\nThe chaplain, standing beside the bath, had begun calling with renewed\nfervour: \u201cLord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!\u201d\n\nM. de Salmon-Roquebert repeated the cry, which the regulations required\nthe hospitallers to raise at each fresh immersion. Pierre, therefore, had\nto imitate his companion, and his pitiful feelings at the sight of so\nmuch suffering were so intense that he regained some little of his faith.\nIt was long indeed since he had prayed like this, devoutly wishing that\nthere might be a God in heaven, whose omnipotence could assuage the\nwretchedness of humanity. At the end of three or four minutes, however,\nwhen with great difficulty they drew M. Sabathier, livid and shivering,\nout of the bath, the young priest fell into deeper, more despairing\nsorrow than ever at beholding how downcast, how overwhelmed the sufferer\nwas at having experienced no relief. Again had he made a futile attempt;\nfor the seventh time the Blessed Virgin had not deigned to listen to his\nprayers. He closed his eyes, from between the lids of which big tears\nbegan to roll while they were dressing him again.\n\nThen Pierre recognised little Gustave Vigneron coming in, on his crutch,\nto take his first bath. His relatives, his father, his mother, and his\naunt, Madame Chaise, all three of substantial appearance and exemplary\npiety, had just fallen on their knees at the door. Whispers ran through\nthe crowd; it was said that the gentleman was a functionary of the\nMinistry of Finances. However, while the child was beginning to undress,\na tumult arose, and Father Fourcade and Father Massias, suddenly\narriving, gave orders to suspend the immersions. The great miracle was\nabout to be attempted, the extraordinary favour which had been so\nardently prayed for since the morning--the restoration of the dead man to\nlife.\n\nThe prayers were continuing outside, rising in a furious appeal which\ndied away in the sky of that warm summer afternoon. Two bearers came in\nwith a covered stretcher, which they deposited in the middle of the\ndressing-room. Baron Suire, President of the Association, followed,\naccompanied by Berthaud, one of its principal officers, for the affair\nwas causing a great stir among the whole staff, and before anything was\ndone a few words were exchanged in low voices between the gentlemen and\nthe two Fathers of the Assumption. Then the latter fell upon their knees,\nwith arms extended, and began to pray, their faces illumined,\ntransfigured by their burning desire to see God\u2019s omnipotence displayed.\n\n\u201cLord, hear us! Lord, grant our prayer!\u201d\n\nM. Sabathier had just been taken away, and the only patient now present\nwas little Gustave, who had remained on a chair, half-undressed and\nforgotten. The curtains of the stretcher were raised, and the man\u2019s\ncorpse appeared, already stiff, and seemingly reduced and shrunken, with\nlarge eyes which had obstinately remained wide open. It was necessary,\nhowever, to undress the body, which was still fully clad, and this\nterrible duty made the bearers momentarily hesitate. Pierre noticed that\nthe Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert, who showed such devotion to the living,\nsuch freedom from all repugnance whenever they were in question, had now\ndrawn aside and fallen on his knees, as though to avoid the necessity of\ntouching that lifeless corpse. And the young priest thereupon followed\nhis example, and knelt near him in order to keep countenance.\n\nFather Massias meanwhile was gradually becoming excited, praying in so\nloud a voice that it drowned that of his superior, Father Fourcade:\n\u201cLord, restore our brother to us!\u201d he cried. \u201cLord, do it for Thy glory!\u201d\n\nOne of the hospitallers had already begun to pull at the man\u2019s trousers,\nbut his legs were so stiff that the garment would not come off. In fact\nthe corpse ought to have been raised up; and the other hospitaller, who\nwas unbuttoning the dead man\u2019s old frock coat, remarked in an undertone\nthat it would be best to cut everything away with a pair of scissors.\nOtherwise there would be no end of the job.\n\nBerthaud, however, rushed up to them, after rapidly consulting Baron\nSuire. As a politician he secretly disapproved of Father Fourcade\u2019s\naction in making such an attempt, only they could not now do otherwise\nthan carry matters to an issue; for the crowd was waiting and had been\nentreating God on the dead man\u2019s behalf ever since the morning. The\nwisest course, therefore, was to finish with the affair at once, showing\nas much respect as possible for the remains of the deceased. In lieu,\ntherefore, of pulling the corpse about in order to strip it bare,\nBerthaud was of opinion that it would be better to dip it in the piscina\nclad as it was. Should the man resuscitate, it would be easy to procure\nfresh clothes for him; and in the contrary event, no harm would have been\ndone. This is what he hastily said to the bearers; and forthwith he\nhelped them to pass some straps under the man\u2019s hips and arms.\n\nFather Fourcade had nodded his approval of this course, whilst Father\nMassias prayed with increased fervour: \u201cBreathe upon him, O Lord, and he\nshall be born anew! Restore his soul to him, O, Lord, that he may glorify\nThee!\u201d\n\nMaking an effort, the two hospitallers now raised the man by means of the\nstraps, carried him to the bath, and slowly lowered him into the water,\nat each moment fearing that he would slip away from their hold. Pierre,\nalthough overcome by horror, could not do otherwise than look at them,\nand thus he distinctly beheld the immersion of this corpse in its sorry\ngarments, which on being wetted clung to the bones, outlining the\nskeleton-like figure of the deceased, who floated like a man who has been\ndrowned. But the repulsive part of it all was, that in spite of the\n_rigor mortis_, the head fell backward into the water, and was submerged\nby it. In vain did the hospitallers try to raise it by pulling the\nshoulder straps; as they made the attempt, the man almost sank to the\nbottom of the bath. And how could he have recovered his breath when his\nmouth was full of water, his staring eyes seemingly dying afresh, beneath\nthat watery veil?\n\nThen, during the three long minutes allowed for the immersion, the two\nFathers of the Assumption and the chaplain, in a paroxysm of desire and\nfaith, strove to compel the intervention of Heaven, praying in such loud\nvoices that they seemed to choke.\n\n\u201cDo Thou but look on him, O Lord, and he will live again! Lord! may he\nrise at Thy voice to convert the earth! Lord! Thou hast but one word to\nsay and all Thy people will acclaim Thee!\u201d\n\nAt last, as though some vessel had broken in his throat, Father Massias\nfell groaning and choking on his elbows, with only enough strength left\nhim to kiss the flagstones. And from without came the clamour of the\ncrowd, the ever-repeated cry, which the Capuchin was still leading:\n\u201cLord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!\u201d This appeal seemed so\nsingular at that moment, that Pierre\u2019s sufferings were increased. He\ncould feel, too, that the Marquis was shuddering beside him. And so the\nrelief was general when Berthaud, thoroughly annoyed with the whole\nbusiness, curtly shouted to the hospitallers: \u201cTake him out! Take him out\nat once!\u201d\n\nThe body was removed from the bath and laid on the stretcher, looking\nlike the corpse of a drowned man with its sorry garments clinging to its\nlimbs. The water was trickling from the hair, and rivulets began falling\non either side, spreading out in pools on the floor. And naturally, dead\nas the man had been, dead he remained.\n\nThe others had all risen and stood looking at him amidst a distressing\nsilence. Then, as he was covered up and carried away, Father Fourcade\nfollowed the bier leaning on the shoulder of Father Massias and dragging\nhis gouty leg, the painful weight of which he had momentarily forgotten.\nBut he was already recovering his strong serenity, and as a hush fell\nupon the crowd outside, he could be heard saying: \u201cMy dear brothers, my\ndear sisters, God has not been willing to restore him to us, doubtless\nbecause in His infinite goodness He has desired to retain him among His\nelect.\u201d\n\nAnd that was all; there was no further question of the dead man. Patients\nwere again being brought into the dressing-room, the two other baths were\nalready occupied. And now little Gustave, who had watched that terrible\nscene with his keen inquisitive eyes, evincing no sign of terror,\nfinished undressing himself. His wretched body, the body of a scrofulous\nchild, appeared with its prominent ribs and projecting spine, its limbs\nso thin that they looked like mere walking-sticks. Especially was this\nthe case as regards the left one, which was withered, wasted to the bone;\nand he also had two sores, one on the hip, and the other in the loins,\nthe last a terrible one, the skin being eaten away so that you distinctly\nsaw the raw flesh. Yet he smiled, rendered so precocious by his\nsufferings that, although but fifteen years old and looking no more than\nten, he seemed to be endowed with the reason and philosophy of a grown\nman.\n\nThe Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert, who had taken him gently in his arms,\nrefused Pierre\u2019s offer of service: \u201cThanks, but he weighs no more than a\nbird. And don\u2019t be frightened, my dear little fellow. I will do it\ngently.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I am not afraid of cold water, monsieur,\u201d replied the boy; \u201cyou may\nduck me.\u201d\n\nThen he was lowered into the bath in which the dead man had been dipped.\nMadame Vigneron and Madame Chaise, who were not allowed to enter, had\nremained at the door on their knees, whilst the father, M. Vigneron, who\nwas admitted into the dressing-room, went on making the sign of the\ncross.\n\nFinding that his services were no longer required, Pierre now departed.\nThe sudden idea that three o\u2019clock must have long since struck and that\nMarie must be waiting for him made him hasten his steps. However, whilst\nhe was endeavouring to pierce the crowd, he saw the girl arrive in her\nlittle conveyance, dragged along by G\u00e9rard, who had not ceased\ntransporting sufferers to the piscina. She had become impatient, suddenly\nfilled with a conviction that she was at last in a frame of mind to find\ngrace. And at sight of Pierre she reproached him, saying, \u201cWhat, my\nfriend, did you forget me?\u201d\n\nHe could find no answer, but watched her as she was taken into the\npiscina reserved for women, and then, in mortal sorrow, fell upon his\nknees. It was there that he would wait for her, humbly kneeling, in order\nthat he might take her back to the Grotto, cured without doubt and\nsinging a hymn of praise. Since she was certain of it, would she not\nassuredly be cured? However, it was in vain that he sought for words of\nprayer in the depths of his distracted being. He was still under the blow\nof all the terrible things that he had beheld, worn out with physical\nfatigue, his brain depressed, no longer knowing what he saw or what he\nbelieved. His desperate affection for Marie alone remained, making him\nlong to humble himself and supplicate, in the thought that when little\nones really love and entreat the powerful they end by obtaining favours.\nAnd at last he caught himself repeating the prayers of the crowd, in a\ndistressful voice that came from the depths of his being \u201cLord, heal our\nsick! Lord, heal our sick!\u201d\n\nTen minutes, a quarter of an hour perhaps, went by. Then Marie reappeared\nin her little conveyance. Her face was very pale and wore an expression\nof despair. Her beautiful hair was fastened above her head in a heavy\ngolden coil which the water had not touched. And she was not cured. The\nstupor of infinite discouragement hollowed and lengthened her face, and\nshe averted her eyes as though to avoid meeting those of the priest who\nthunderstruck, chilled to the heart, at last made up his mind to grasp\nthe handle of the little vehicle, so as to take the girl back to the\nGrotto.\n\nAnd meantime the cry of the faithful, who with open arms were kneeling\nthere and kissing the earth, again rose with a growing fury, excited by\nthe Capuchin\u2019s shrill voice: \u201cLord, heal our sick! Heal our sick, O\nLord!\u201d\n\nAs Pierre was placing Marie in position again in front of the Grotto, an\nattack of weakness came over her and she almost fainted. G\u00e9rard, who was\nthere, saw Raymonde quickly hurry to the spot with a cup of broth, and at\nonce they began zealously rivalling each other in their attentions to the\nailing girl. Raymonde, holding out the cup in a pretty way, and assuming\nthe coaxing airs of an expert nurse, especially insisted that Marie\nshould accept the bouillon; and G\u00e9rard, glancing at this portionless\ngirl, could not help finding her charming, already expert in the business\nof life, and quite ready to manage a household with a firm hand without\nceasing to be amiable. Berthaud was no doubt right, this was the wife\nthat he, G\u00e9rard, needed.\n\n\u201cMademoiselle,\u201d said he to Raymonde, \u201cshall I raise the young lady a\nlittle?\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, monsieur, I am quite strong enough. And besides I will give\nit to her in spoonfuls; that will be the better way.\u201d\n\nMarie, however, obstinately preserving her fierce silence as she\nrecovered consciousness, refused the broth with a gesture. She wished to\nbe left in quietness, she did not want anybody to question her. And it\nwas only when the others had gone off smiling at one another, that she\nsaid to Pierre in a husky voice: \u201cHas not my father come then?\u201d\n\nAfter hesitating for a moment the priest was obliged to confess the\ntruth. \u201cI left him sleeping and he cannot have woke up.\u201d\n\nThen Marie relapsed into her state of languid stupor and dismissed him in\nhis turn, with the gesture with which she declined all succour. She no\nlonger prayed, but remained quite motionless, gazing fixedly with her\nlarge eyes at the marble Virgin, the white statue amidst the radiance of\nthe Grotto. And as four o\u2019clock was now striking, Pierre with his heart\nsore went off to the Verification Office, having suddenly remembered the\nappointment given him by Doctor Chassaigne.\n\n\n\n\nIV. VERIFICATION\n\nTHE doctor was waiting for the young priest outside the Verification\nOffice, in front of which a compact and feverish crowd of pilgrims was\nassembled, waylaying and questioning the patients who went in, and\nacclaiming them as they came out whenever the news spread of any miracle,\nsuch as the restoration of some blind man\u2019s sight, some deaf woman\u2019s\nhearing, or some paralytic\u2019s power of motion.\n\nPierre had no little difficulty in making his way through the throng, but\nat last he reached his friend. \u201cWell,\u201d he asked, \u201care we going to have a\nmiracle--a real, incontestable one I mean?\u201d\n\nThe doctor smiled, indulgent despite his new faith. \u201cAh, well,\u201d said he,\n\u201ca miracle is not worked to order. God intervenes when He pleases.\u201d\n\nSome hospitallers were mounting guard at the door, but they all knew M.\nChassaigne, and respectfully drew aside to let him enter with his\ncompanion. The office where the cures were verified was very badly\ninstalled in a wretched wooden shanty divided into two apartments, first\na narrow ante-chamber, and then a general meeting room which was by no\nmeans so large as it should have been. However, there was a question of\nproviding the department with better accommodation the following year;\nwith which view some large premises, under one of the inclined ways of\nthe Rosary, were already being fitted up.\n\nThe only article of furniture in the antechamber was a wooden bench on\nwhich Pierre perceived two female patients awaiting their turn in the\ncharge of a young hospitaller. But on entering the meeting room the\nnumber of persons packed inside it quite surprised him, whilst the\nsuffocating heat within those wooden walls on which the sun was so\nfiercely playing, almost scorched his face. It was a square bare room,\npainted a light yellow, with the panes of its single window covered with\nwhitening, so that the pressing throng outside might see nothing of what\nwent on within. One dared not even open this window to admit a little\nfresh air, for it was no sooner set ajar than a crowd of inquisitive\nheads peeped in. The furniture was of a very rudimentary kind, consisting\nsimply of two deal tables of unequal height placed end to end and not\neven covered with a cloth; together with a kind of big \u201ccanterbury\u201d\n littered with untidy papers, sets of documents, registers and pamphlets,\nand finally some thirty rush-seated chairs placed here and there over the\nfloor and a couple of ragged arm-chairs usually reserved for the\npatients.\n\nDoctor Bonamy at once hastened forward to greet Doctor Chassaigne, who\nwas one of the latest and most glorious conquests of the Grotto. He found\na chair for him and, bowing to Pierre\u2019s cassock, also made the young\npriest sit down. Then, in the tone of extreme politeness which was\ncustomary with him, he exclaimed: \u201c_Mon cher confr\u00e8re_, you will kindly\nallow me to continue. We were just examining mademoiselle.\u201d\n\nHe referred to a deaf peasant girl of twenty, who was seated in one of\nthe arm-chairs. Instead of listening, however, Pierre, who was very\nweary, still with a buzzing in his head, contented himself with gazing at\nthe scene, endeavouring to form some notion of the people assembled in\nthe room. There were some fifty altogether, many of them standing and\nleaning against the walls. Half a dozen, however, were seated at the two\ntables, a central position being occupied by the superintendent of the\npiscinas, who was constantly consulting a thick register; whilst around\nhim were a Father of the Assumption and three young seminarists who acted\nas secretaries, writing, searching for documents, passing them and\nclassifying them again after each examination. Pierre, however, took most\ninterest in a Father of the Immaculate Conception, Father Dargeles, who\nhad been pointed out to him that morning as being the editor of the\n\u201cJournal de la Grotte.\u201d This ecclesiastic, whose thin little face, with\nits blinking eyes, pointed nose, and delicate mouth was ever smiling, had\nmodestly seated himself at the end of the lower table where he\noccasionally took notes for his newspaper. He alone, of the community to\nwhich he belonged, showed himself during the three days of the national\npilgrimage. Behind him, however, one could divine the presence of all the\nothers, the slowly developed hidden power which organised everything and\nraked in all the proceeds.\n\nThe onlookers consisted almost entirely of inquisitive people and\nwitnesses, including a score of doctors and a few priests. The medical\nmen, who had come from all parts, mostly preserved silence, only a few of\nthem occasionally venturing to ask a question; and every now and then\nthey would exchange oblique glances, more occupied apparently in watching\none another than in verifying the facts submitted to their examination.\nWho could they be? Some names were mentioned, but they were quite\nunknown. Only one had caused any stir, that of a celebrated doctor,\nprofessor at a Catholic university.\n\nThat afternoon, however, Doctor Bonamy, who never sat down, busy as he\nwas conducting the proceedings and questioning the patients, reserved\nmost of his attentions for a short, fair-haired man, a writer of some\ntalent who contributed to one of the most widely read Paris newspapers,\nand who, in the course of a holiday tour, had by chance reached Lourdes\nthat morning. Was not this an unbeliever whom it might be possible to\nconvert, whose influence it would be desirable to gain for\nadvertisement\u2019s sake? Such at all events appeared to be M. Bonamy\u2019s\nopinion, for he had compelled the journalist to take the second\narm-chair, and with an affectation of smiling good-nature was treating\nhim to a full performance, again and again repeating that he and his\npatrons had nothing to hide, and that everything took place in the most\nopen manner.\n\n\u201cWe only desire light,\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cWe never cease to call for the\ninvestigations of all willing men.\u201d\n\nThen, as the alleged cure of the deaf girl did not seem at all a\npromising case, he addressed her somewhat roughly: \u201cCome, come, my girl,\nthis is only a beginning. You must come back when there are more distinct\nsigns of improvement.\u201d And turning to the journalist he added in an\nundertone: \u201cIf we were to believe them they would all be healed. But the\nonly cures we accept are those which are thoroughly proven, which are as\napparent as the sun itself. Pray notice moreover that I say cures and not\nmiracles; for we doctors do not take upon ourselves to interpret and\nexplain. We are simply here to see if the patients, who submit themselves\nto our examination, have really lost all symptoms of their ailments.\u201d\n\nThereupon he struck an attitude. Doubtless he spoke like this in order\nthat his rectitude might not be called in question. Believing without\nbelieving, he knew that science was yet so obscure, so full of surprises,\nthat what seemed impossible might always come to pass; and thus, in the\ndeclining years of his life, he had contrived to secure an exceptional\nposition at the Grotto, a position which had both its inconveniences and\nits advantages, but which, taken for all in all, was very comfortable and\npleasant.\n\nAnd now, in reply to a question from the Paris journalist, he began to\nexplain his mode of proceeding. Each patient who accompanied the\npilgrimage arrived provided with papers, amongst which there was almost\nalways a certificate of the doctor who had been attending the case. At\ntimes even there were certificates given by several doctors, hospital\nbulletins and so forth--quite a record of the illness in its various\nstages. And thus if a cure took place and the cured person came forward,\nit was only necessary to consult his or her set of documents in order to\nascertain the nature of the ailment, and then examination would show if\nthat ailment had really disappeared.\n\nPierre was now listening. Since he had been there, seated and resting\nhimself, he had grown calmer, and his mind was clear once more. It was\nonly the heat which at present caused him any inconvenience. And thus,\ninterested as he was by Doctor Bonamy\u2019s explanations, and desirous of\nforming an opinion, he would have spoken out and questioned, had it not\nbeen for his cloth which condemned him to remain in the background. He\nwas delighted, therefore, when the little fair-haired gentleman, the\ninfluential writer, began to bring forward the objections which at once\noccurred to him.* Was it not most unfortunate that one doctor should\ndiagnose the illness and that another one should verify the cure? In this\nmode of proceeding there was certainly a source of frequent error. The\nbetter plan would have been for a medical commission to examine all the\npatients as soon as they arrived at Lourdes and draw up reports on every\ncase, to which reports the same commission would have referred whenever\nan alleged cure was brought before it. Doctor Bonamy, however, did not\nfall in with this suggestion. He replied, with some reason, that a\ncommission would never suffice for such gigantic labour. Just think of\nit! A thousand patients to examine in a single morning! And how many\ndifferent theories there would be, how many contrary diagnoses, how many\nendless discussions, all of a nature to increase the general uncertainty!\nThe preliminary examination of the patients, which was almost always\nimpossible, would, even if attempted, leave the door open for as many\nerrors as the present system. In practice, it was necessary to remain\ncontent with the certificates delivered by the medical men who had been\nin attendance on the patients, and these certificates accordingly\nacquired capital, decisive importance. Doctor Bonamy ran through the\ndocuments lying on one of the tables and gave the Paris journalist some\nof these certificates to read. A great many of them unfortunately were\nvery brief. Others, more skilfully drawn up, clearly specified the nature\nof the complaint; and some of the doctors\u2019 signatures were even certified\nby the mayors of the localities where they resided. Nevertheless doubts\nremained, innumerable and not to be surmounted. Who were these doctors?\nWho could tell if they possessed sufficient scientific authority to write\nas they did? With all respect to the medical profession, were there not\ninnumerable doctors whose attainments were very limited? And, besides,\nmight not these have been influenced by circumstances that one knew\nnothing of, in some cases by considerations of a personal character? One\nwas tempted to ask for an inquiry respecting each of these medical men.\nSince everything was based on the documents supplied by the patients,\nthese documents ought to have been most carefully controlled; for there\ncould be no proof of any miracle if the absolute certainty of the alleged\nailments had not been demonstrated by stringent examination.\n\n  * The reader will doubtless have understood that the Parisian\n    journalist is none other than M. Zola himself--Trans.\n\nVery red and covered with perspiration, Doctor Bonamy waved his arms.\n\u201cBut that is the course we follow, that is the course we follow!\u201d said\nhe. \u201cAs soon as it seems to us that a case of cure cannot be explained by\nnatural means, we institute a minute inquiry, we request the person who\nhas been cured to return here for further examination. And as you can\nsee, we surround ourselves with all means of enlightenment. These\ngentlemen here, who are listening to us, are nearly every one of them\ndoctors who have come from all parts of France. We always entreat them to\nexpress their doubts if they feel any, to discuss the cases with us, and\na very detailed report of each discussion is drawn up. You hear me,\ngentlemen; by all means protest if anything occurs here of a nature to\noffend your sense of truth.\u201d\n\nNot one of the onlookers spoke. Most of the doctors present were\nundoubtedly Catholics, and naturally enough they merely bowed. As for the\nothers, the unbelievers, the _savants_ pure and simple, they looked on\nand evinced some interest in certain phenomena, but considerations of\ncourtesy deterred them from entering into discussions which they knew\nwould have been useless. When as men of sense their discomfort became too\ngreat, and they felt themselves growing angry, they simply left the room.\n\nAs nobody breathed a word, Doctor Bonamy became quite triumphant, and on\nthe journalist asking him if he were all alone to accomplish so much\nwork, he replied: \u201cYes, all alone; but my functions as doctor of the\nGrotto are not so complicated as you may think, for, I repeat it, they\nsimply consist in verifying cures whenever any take place.\u201d However, he\ncorrected himself, and added with a smile: \u201cAll! I was forgetting, I am\nnot quite alone, I have Raboin, who helps me to keep things a little bit\nin order here.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he pointed to a stout, grey-haired man of forty, with a heavy\nface and bull-dog jaw. Raboin was an ardent believer, one of those\nexcited beings who did not allow the miracles to be called in question.\nAnd thus he often suffered from his duties at the Verification Office,\nwhere he was ever ready to growl with anger when anybody disputed a\nprodigy. The appeal to the doctors had made him quite lose his temper,\nand his superior had to calm him.\n\n\u201cCome, Raboin, my friend, be quiet!\u201d said Doctor Bonamy. \u201cAll sincere\nopinions are entitled to a hearing.\u201d\n\nHowever, the _d\u00e9file_ of patients was resumed. A man was now brought in\nwhose trunk was so covered with eczema that when he took off his shirt a\nkind of grey flour fell from his skin. He was not cured, but simply\ndeclared that he came to Lourdes every year, and always went away feeling\nrelieved. Then came a lady, a countess, who was fearfully emaciated, and\nwhose story was an extraordinary one. Cured of tuberculosis by the\nBlessed Virgin, a first time, seven years previously, she had\nsubsequently given birth to four children, and had then again fallen into\nconsumption. At present she was a morphinomaniac, but her first bath had\nalready relieved her so much, that she proposed taking part in the\ntorchlight procession that same evening with the twenty-seven members of\nher family whom she had brought with her to Lourdes. Then there was a\nwoman afflicted with nervous aphonia, who after months of absolute\ndumbness had just recovered her voice at the moment when the Blessed\nSacrament went by at the head of the four o\u2019clock procession.\n\n\u201cGentlemen,\u201d declared Doctor Bonamy, affecting the graciousness of a\n_savant_ of extremely liberal views, \u201cas you are aware, we do not draw\nany conclusions when a nervous affection is in question. Still you will\nkindly observe that this woman was treated at the Salp\u00eatri\u00e8re for six\nmonths, and that she had to come here to find her tongue suddenly\nloosened.\u201d\n\nDespite all these fine words he displayed some little impatience, for he\nwould have greatly liked to show the gentleman from Paris one of those\nremarkable instances of cure which occasionally presented themselves\nduring the four o\u2019clock procession--that being the moment of grace and\nexaltation when the Blessed Virgin interceded for those whom she had\nchosen. But on this particular afternoon there had apparently been none.\nThe cures which had so far passed before them were doubtful ones,\ndeficient in interest. Meanwhile, out-of-doors, you could hear the\nstamping and roaring of the crowd, goaded into a frenzy by repeated\nhymns, enfevered by its earnest desire for the Divine interposition, and\ngrowing more and more enervated by the delay.\n\nAll at once, however, a smiling, modest-looking young girl, whose clear\neyes sparkled with intelligence, entered the office. \u201cAh!\u201d exclaimed\nDoctor Bonamy joyously, \u201chere is our little friend Sophie. A remarkable\ncure, gentlemen, which took place at the same season last year, and the\nresults of which I will ask permission to show you.\u201d\n\nPierre had immediately recognized Sophie Couteau, the _miracul\u00e9e_ who had\ngot into the train at Poitiers. And he now witnessed a repetition of the\nscene which had already been enacted in his presence. Doctor Bonamy began\ngiving detailed explanations to the little fair-haired gentleman, who\ndisplayed great attention. The case, said the doctor, had been one of\ncaries of the bones of the left heel, with a commencement of necrosis\nnecessitating excision; and yet the frightful, suppurating sore had been\nhealed in a minute at the first immersion in the piscina.\n\n\u201cTell the gentlemen how it happened, Sophie,\u201d he added.\n\nThe little girl made her usual pretty gesture as a sign to everybody to\nbe attentive. And then she began: \u201cWell, it was like this; my foot was\npast cure, I couldn\u2019t even go to church any more, and it had to be kept\nbandaged because there was always a lot of matter coming from it.\nMonsieur Rivoire, the doctor, who had made a cut in it so as to see\ninside it, said that he should be obliged to take out a piece of the\nbone; and that, sure enough, would have made me lame for life. But when I\ngot to Lourdes, and had prayed a great deal to the Blessed Virgin, I went\nto dip my foot in the water, wishing so much that I might be cured, that\nI did not even take the time to pull the bandages off. And everything\nremained in the water; there was no longer anything the matter with my\nfoot when I took it out.\u201d\n\nDoctor Bonamy listened, and punctuated each word with an approving nod.\n\u201cAnd what did your doctor say, Sophie?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cWhen I got back to Vivonne, and Monsieur Rivoire saw my foot again, he\nsaid: \u2018Whether it be God or the Devil who has cured this child, it is all\nthe same to me; but in all truth, she is cured.\u2019\u201d\n\nA burst of laughter rang out. The doctor\u2019s remark was sure to produce an\neffect.\n\n\u201cAnd what was it, Sophie, that you said to Madame la Comtesse, the\nsuperintendent of your ward?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, yes! I hadn\u2019t brought many bandages for my foot with me, and I said\nto her, \u2018It was very kind of the Blessed Virgin to cure me the first day,\nas I should have run out of linen on the morrow.\u2019\u201d\n\nThen there was fresh laughter, a general display of satisfaction at\nseeing her look so pretty, telling her story, which she now knew by\nheart, in too recitative a manner, but, nevertheless, remaining very\ntouching and truthful in appearance.\n\n\u201cTake off your shoe, Sophie,\u201d now said Doctor Bonamy; \u201cshow your foot to\nthese gentlemen. Let them feel it. Nobody must retain any doubt.\u201d\n\nThe little foot promptly appeared, very white, very clean, carefully\ntended indeed, with its scar just below the ankle, a long scar, whose\nwhity seam testified to the gravity of the complaint. Some of the medical\nmen had drawn near, and looked on in silence. Others, whose opinions, no\ndoubt, were already formed, did not disturb themselves, though one of\nthem, with an air of extreme politeness, inquired why the Blessed Virgin\nhad not made a new foot while she was about it, for this would assuredly\nhave given her no more trouble. Doctor Bonamy, however, quickly replied,\nthat if the Blessed Virgin had left a scar, it was certainly in order\nthat a trace, a proof of the miracle, might remain. Then he entered into\ntechnical particulars, demonstrating that a fragment of bone and flesh\nmust have been instantly formed, and this, of course, could not be\nexplained in any natural way.\n\n\u201c_Mon Dieu_!\u201d interrupted the little fair-haired gentleman, \u201cthere is no\nneed of any such complicated affair. Let me merely see a finger cut with\na penknife, let me see it dipped in the water, and let it come out with\nthe cut cicatrised. The miracle will be quite as great, and I shall bow\nto it respectfully.\u201d Then he added: \u201cIf I possessed a source which could\nthus close up sores and wounds, I would turn the world topsy-turvy. I do\nnot know exactly how I should manage it, but at all events I would summon\nthe nations, and the nations would come. I should cause the miracles to\nbe verified in such an indisputable manner, that I should be the master\nof the earth. Just think what an extraordinary power it would be--a\ndivine power. But it would be necessary that not a doubt should remain,\nthe truth would have to be as patent, as apparent as the sun itself. The\nwhole world would behold it and believe!\u201d\n\nThen he began discussing various methods of control with the doctor. He\nhad admitted that, owing to the great number of patients, it would be\ndifficult, if not impossible, to examine them all on their arrival. Only,\nwhy didn\u2019t they organise a special ward at the hospital, a ward which\nwould be reserved for cases of visible sores? They would have thirty such\ncases all told, which might be subjected to the preliminary examination\nof a committee. Authentic reports would be drawn up, and the sores might\neven be photographed. Then, if a case of cure should present itself, the\ncommission would merely have to authenticate it by a fresh report. And in\nall this there would be no question of any internal complaint, the\ndiagnostication of which is difficult, and liable to be controverted.\nThere would be visible evidence of the ailment, and cure could be proved.\n\nSomewhat embarrassed, Doctor Bonamy replied: \u201cNo doubt, no doubt; all we\nask for is enlightenment. The difficulty would be in forming the\ncommittee you speak of. If you only knew how little medical men agree!\nHowever, there is certainly an idea in what you say.\u201d\n\nFortunately a fresh patient now came to his assistance. Whilst little\nSophie Couteau, already forgotten, was putting on, her shoes again, Elise\nRouquet appeared, and, removing her wrap, displayed her diseased face to\nview. She related that she had been bathing it with her handkerchief ever\nsince the morning, and it seemed to her that her sore, previously so\nfresh and raw, was already beginning to dry and grow paler in colour.\nThis was true; Pierre noticed, with great surprise, that the aspect of\nthe sore was now less horrible. This supplied fresh food for the\ndiscussion on visible sores, for the little fair-haired gentleman clung\nobstinately to his idea of organising a special ward. Indeed, said he, if\nthe condition of this girl had been verified that morning, and she should\nbe cured, what a triumph it would have been for the Grotto, which could\nhave claimed to have healed a lupus! It would then have no longer been\npossible to deny that miracles were worked.\n\nDoctor Chassaigne had so far kept in the background, motionless and\nsilent, as though he desired that the facts alone should exercise their\ninfluence on Pierre. But he now leant forward and said to him in an\nundertone: \u201cVisible sores, visible sores indeed! That gentleman can have\nno idea that our most learned medical men suspect many of these sores to\nbe of nervous origin. Yes, we are discovering that complaints of this\nkind are often simply due to bad nutrition of the skin. These questions\nof nutrition are still so imperfectly studied and understood! And some\nmedical men are also beginning to prove that the faith which heals can\neven cure sores, certain forms of lupus among others. And so I would ask\nwhat certainty that gentleman would obtain with his ward for visible\nsores? There would simply be a little more confusion and passion in\narguing the eternal question. No, no! Science is vain, it is a sea of\nuncertainty.\u201d\n\nHe smiled sorrowfully whilst Doctor Bonamy, after advising Elise Rouquet\nto continue using the water as lotion and to return each day for further\nexamination, repeated with his prudent, affable air: \u201cAt all events,\ngentlemen, there are signs of improvement in this case--that is beyond\ndoubt.\u201d\n\nBut all at once the office was fairly turned topsy-turvy by the arrival\nof La Grivotte, who swept in like a whirlwind, almost dancing with\ndelight and shouting in a full voice: \u201cI am cured! I am cured!\u201d\n\nAnd forthwith she began to relate that they had first of all refused to\nbathe her, and that she had been obliged to insist and beg and sob in\norder to prevail upon them to do so, after receiving Father Fourcade\u2019s\nexpress permission. And then it had all happened as she had previously\nsaid it would. She had not been immersed in the icy water for three\nminutes--all perspiring as she was with her consumptive rattle--before\nshe had felt strength returning to her like a whipstroke lashing her\nwhole body. And now a flaming excitement possessed her; radiant, stamping\nher feet, she was unable to keep still.\n\n\u201cI am cured, my good gentlemen, I am cured!\u201d\n\nPierre looked at her, this time quite stupefied. Was this the same girl\nwhom, on the previous night, he had seen lying on the carriage seat,\nannihilated, coughing and spitting blood, with her face of ashen hue? He\ncould not recognise her as she now stood there, erect and slender, her\ncheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling, upbuoyed by a determination to live, a\njoy in living already.\n\n\u201cGentlemen,\u201d declared Doctor Bonamy, \u201cthe case appears to me to be a very\ninteresting one. We will see.\u201d\n\nThen he asked for the documents concerning La Grivotte. But they could\nnot be found among all the papers heaped together on the tables. The\nyoung seminarists who acted as secretaries began turning everything over;\nand the superintendent of the piscinas who sat in their midst himself had\nto get up to see if these documents were in the \u201ccanterbury.\u201d At last,\nwhen he had sat down again, he found them under the register which lay\nopen before him. Among them were three medical certificates which he read\naloud. All three of them agreed in stating that the case was one of\nadvanced phthisis, complicated by nervous incidents which invested it\nwith a peculiar character.\n\nDoctor Bonamy wagged his head as though to say that such an _ensemble_ of\ntestimony could leave no room for doubt. Forthwith, he subjected the\npatient to a prolonged auscultation. And he murmured: \u201cI hear nothing--I\nhear nothing.\u201d Then, correcting himself, he added: \u201cAt least I hear\nscarcely anything.\u201d\n\nFinally he turned towards the five-and-twenty or thirty doctors who were\nassembled there in silence. \u201cWill some of you gentlemen,\u201d he asked,\n\u201ckindly lend me the help of your science? We are here to study and\ndiscuss these questions.\u201d\n\nAt first nobody stirred. Then there was one who ventured to come forward\nand, in his turn subject the patient to auscultation. But instead of\ndeclaring himself, he continued reflecting, shaking his head anxiously.\nAt last he stammered that in his opinion one must await further\ndevelopments. Another doctor, however, at once took his place, and this\none expressed a decided opinion. He could hear nothing at all, that woman\ncould never have suffered from phthisis. Then others followed him; in\nfact, with the exception of five or six whose smiling faces remained\nimpenetrable, they all joined the _d\u00e9file_. And the confusion now\nattained its apogee; for each gave an opinion sensibly differing from\nthat of his colleagues, so that a general uproar arose and one could no\nlonger hear oneself speak. Father Dargeles alone retained the calmness of\nperfect serenity, for he had scented one of those cases which impassion\npeople and redound to the glory of Our Lady of Lourdes. He was already\ntaking notes on a corner of the table.\n\nThanks to all the noise of the discussion, Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne,\nseated at some distance from the others, were now able to talk together\nwithout being heard. \u201cOh! those piscinas!\u201d said the young priest, \u201cI have\njust seen them. To think that the water should be so seldom changed! What\nfilth it is, what a soup of microbes! What a terrible blow for the\npresent-day mania, that rage for antiseptic precautions! How is it that\nsome pestilence does not carry off all these poor people? The opponents\nof the microbe theory must be having a good laugh--\u201d\n\nM. Chassaigne stopped him. \u201cNo, no, my child,\u201d said he. \u201cThe baths may be\nscarcely clean, but they offer no danger. Please notice that the\ntemperature of the water never rises above fifty degrees, and that\nseventy-seven are necessary for the cultivation of germs.* Besides,\nscarcely any contagious diseases come to Lourdes, neither cholera, nor\ntyphus, nor variola, nor measles, nor scarlatina. We only see certain\norganic affections here, paralysis, scrofula, tumours, ulcers and\nabscesses, cancers and phthisis; and the latter cannot be transmitted by\nthe water of the baths. The old sores which are bathed have nothing to\nfear, and offer no risk of contagion. I can assure you that on this point\nthere is even no necessity for the Blessed Virgin to intervene.\u201d\n\n  * The above are Fahrenheit degrees.--Trans.\n\n\u201cThen, in that case, doctor,\u201d rejoined Pierre, \u201cwhen you were practising,\nyou would have dipped all your patients in icy water--women at no matter\nwhat season, rheumatic patients, people suffering from diseases of the\nheart, consumptives, and so on? For instance, that unhappy girl, half\ndead, and covered with sweat--would you have bathed her?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly not! There are heroic methods of treatment to which, in\npractice, one does not dare to have recourse. An icy bath may undoubtedly\nkill a consumptive; but do we know, whether, in certain circumstances, it\nmight not save her? I, who have ended by admitting that a supernatural\npower is at work here, I willingly admit that some cures must take place\nunder natural conditions, thanks to that immersion in cold water which\nseems to us idiotic and barbarous. Ah! the things we don\u2019t know, the\nthings we don\u2019t know!\u201d\n\nHe was relapsing into his anger, his hatred of science, which he scorned\nsince it had left him scared and powerless beside the deathbed of his\nwife and his daughter. \u201cYou ask for certainties,\u201d he resumed, \u201cbut\nassuredly it is not medicine which will give you them. Listen for a\nmoment to those gentlemen and you will be edified. Is it not beautiful,\nall that confusion in which so many opinions clash together? Certainly\nthere are ailments with which one is thoroughly acquainted, even to the\nmost minute details of their evolution; there are remedies also, the\neffects of which have been studied with the most scrupulous care; but the\nthing that one does not know, that one cannot know, is the relation of\nthe remedy to the ailment, for there are as many cases as there may be\npatients, each liable to variation, so that experimentation begins afresh\nevery time. This is why the practice of medicine remains an art, for\nthere can be no experimental finality in it. Cure always depends on\nchance, on some fortunate circumstance, on some bright idea of the\ndoctor\u2019s. And so you will understand that all the people who come and\ndiscuss here make me laugh when they talk about the absolute laws of\nscience. Where are those laws in medicine? I should like to have them\nshown to me.\u201d\n\nHe did not wish to say any more, but his passion carried him away, so he\nwent on: \u201cI told you that I had become a believer--nevertheless, to speak\nthe truth, I understand very well why this worthy Doctor Bonamy is so\nlittle affected, and why he continues calling upon doctors in all parts\nof the world to come and study his miracles. The more doctors that might\ncome, the less likelihood there would be of the truth being established\nin the inevitable battle between contradictory diagnoses and methods of\ntreatment. If men cannot agree about a visible sore, they surely cannot\ndo so about an internal lesion the existence of which will be admitted by\nsome, and denied by others. And why then should not everything become a\nmiracle? For, after all, whether the action comes from nature or from\nsome unknown power, medical men are, as a rule, none the less astonished\nwhen an illness terminates in a manner which they have not foreseen. No\ndoubt, too, things are very badly organised here. Those certificates from\ndoctors whom nobody knows have no real value. All documents ought to be\nstringently inquired into. But even admitting any absolute scientific\nstrictness, you must be very simple, my dear child, if you imagine that a\npositive conviction would be arrived at, absolute for one and all. Error\nis implanted in man, and there is no more difficult task than that of\ndemonstrating to universal satisfaction the most insignificant truth.\u201d\n\nPierre had now begun to understand what was taking place at Lourdes, the\nextraordinary spectacle which the world had been witnessing for years,\namidst the reverent admiration of some and the insulting laughter of\nothers. Forces as yet but imperfectly studied, of which one was even\nignorant, were certainly at work--auto-suggestion, long prepared\ndisturbance of the nerves; inspiriting influence of the journey, the\nprayers, and the hymns; and especially the healing breath, the unknown\nforce which was evolved from the multitude, in the acute crisis of faith.\nThus it seemed to him anything but intelligent to believe in trickery.\nThe facts were both of a much more lofty and much more simple nature.\nThere was no occasion for the Fathers of the Grotto to descend to\nfalsehood; it was sufficient that they should help in creating confusion,\nthat they should utilise the universal ignorance. It might even be\nadmitted that everybody acted in good faith--the doctors void of genius\nwho delivered the certificates, the consoled patients who believed\nthemselves cured, and the impassioned witnesses who swore that they had\nbeheld what they described. And from all this was evolved the obvious\nimpossibility of proving whether there was a miracle or not. And such\nbeing the case, did not the miracle naturally become a reality for the\ngreater number, for all those who suffered and who had need of hope?\n\nThen, as Doctor Bonamy, who had noticed that they were chatting apart,\ncame up to them, Pierre ventured to inquire: \u201cWhat is about the\nproportion of the cures to the number of cases?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbout ten per cent.,\u201d answered the doctor; and reading in the young\npriest\u2019s eyes the words that he could not utter, he added in a very\ncordial way: \u201cOh! there would be many more, they would all be cured if we\nchose to listen to them. But it is as well to say it, I am only here to\nkeep an eye on the miracles, like a policeman as it were. My only\nfunctions are to check excessive zeal, and to prevent holy things from\nbeing made ridiculous. In one word, this office is simply an office where\na _visa_ is given when the cures have been verified and seem real ones.\u201d\n\nHe was interrupted, however, by a low growl. Raboin was growing angry:\n\u201cThe cures verified, the cures verified,\u201d he muttered. \u201cWhat is the use\nof that? There is no pause in the working of the miracles. What is the\nuse of verifying them so far as believers are concerned? _They_ merely\nhave to bow down and believe. And what is the use, too, as regards the\nunbelievers? _They_ will never be convinced. The work we do here is so\nmuch foolishness.\u201d\n\nDoctor Bonamy severely ordered him to hold his tongue. \u201cYou are a rebel,\nRaboin,\u201d said he; \u201cI shall tell Father Capdebarthe that I won\u2019t have you\nhere any longer since you pass your time in sowing disobedience.\u201d\n\nNevertheless, there was truth in what had just been said by this man, who\nso promptly showed his teeth, eager to bite whenever his faith was\nassailed; and Pierre looked at him with sympathy. All the work of the\nVerification Office--work anything but well performed--was indeed\nuseless, for it wounded the feelings of the pious, and failed to satisfy\nthe incredulous. Besides, can a miracle be proved? No, you must believe\nin it! When God is pleased to intervene, it is not for man to try to\nunderstand. In the ages of real belief, Science did not make any\nmeddlesome attempt to explain the nature of the Divinity. And why should\nit come and interfere here? By doing so, it simply hampered faith and\ndiminished its own prestige. No, no, there must be no Science, you must\nthrow yourself upon the ground, kiss it, and believe. Or else you must\ntake yourself off. No compromise was possible. If examination once began\nit must go on, and must, fatally, conduct to doubt.\n\nPierre\u2019s greatest sufferings, however, came from the extraordinary\nconversations which he heard around him. There were some believers\npresent who spoke of the miracles with the most amazing ease and\ntranquillity. The most stupefying stories left their serenity entire.\nAnother miracle, and yet another! And with smiles on their faces, their\nreason never protesting, they went on relating such imaginings as could\nonly have come from diseased brains. They were evidently living in such a\nstate of visionary fever that nothing henceforth could astonish them. And\nnot only did Pierre notice this among folks of simple, childish minds,\nilliterate, hallucinated creatures like Raboin, but also among the men of\nintellect, the men with cultivated brains, the _savants_ like Doctor\nBonamy and others. It was incredible. And thus Pierre felt a growing\ndiscomfort arising within him, a covert anger which would doubtless end\nby bursting forth. His reason was struggling, like that of some poor\nwretch who after being flung into a river, feels the waters seize him\nfrom all sides and stifle him; and he reflected that the minds which,\nlike Doctor Chassaigne\u2019s, sink at last into blind belief, must pass\nthough this same discomfort and struggle before the final shipwreck.\n\nHe glanced at his old friend and saw how sorrowful he looked, struck down\nby destiny, as weak as a crying child, and henceforth quite alone in\nlife. Nevertheless, he was unable to check the cry of protest which rose\nto his lips: \u201cNo, no, if we do not know everything, even if we shall\nnever know everything, there is no reason why we should leave off\nlearning. It is wrong that the Unknown should profit by man\u2019s debility\nand ignorance. On the contrary, the eternal hope should be that the\nthings which now seem inexplicable will some day be explained; and we\ncannot, under healthy conditions, have any other ideal than this march\ntowards the discovery of the Unknown, this victory slowly achieved by\nreason amidst all the miseries both of the flesh and of the mind. Ah!\nreason--it is my reason which makes me suffer, and it is from my reason\ntoo that I await all my strength. When reason dies, the whole being\nperishes. And I feel but an ardent thirst to satisfy my reason more and\nmore, even though I may lose all happiness in doing so.\u201d\n\nTears were appearing in Doctor Chassaigne\u2019s eyes; doubtless the memory of\nhis dear dead ones had again flashed upon him. And, in his turn, he\nmurmured: \u201cReason, reason, yes, certainly it is a thing to be very proud\nof; it embodies the very dignity of life. But there is love, which is\nlife\u2019s omnipotence, the one blessing to be won again when you have lost\nit.\u201d\n\nHis voice sank in a stifled sob; and as in a mechanical way he began to\nfinger the sets of documents lying on the table, he espied among them one\nwhose cover bore the name of Marie de Guersaint in large letters. He\nopened it and read the certificates of the two doctors who had inferred\nthat the case was one of paralysis of the marrow. \u201cCome, my child,\u201d he\nthen resumed, \u201cI know that you feel warm affection for Mademoiselle de\nGuersaint. What should you say if she were cured here? There are here\nsome certificates, bearing honourable names, and you know that paralysis\nof this nature is virtually incurable. Well, if this young person should\nall at once run and jump about as I have seen so many others do, would\nyou not feel very happy, would you not at last acknowledge the\nintervention of a supernatural power?\u201d\n\nPierre was about to reply, when he suddenly remembered his cousin\nBeauclair\u2019s expression of opinion, the prediction that the miracle would\ncome about like a lightning stroke, an awakening, an exaltation of the\nwhole being; and he felt his discomfort increase and contented himself\nwith replying: \u201cYes, indeed, I should be very happy. And you are right;\nthere is doubtless only a determination to secure happiness in all the\nagitation one beholds here.\u201d\n\nHowever, he could remain in that office no longer. The heat was becoming\nso great that perspiration streamed down the faces of those present.\nDoctor Bonamy had begun to dictate a report of the examination of La\nGrivotte to one of the seminarists, while Father Dargeles, watchful with\nregard to the phraseology employed, occasionally rose and whispered some\nverbal alteration in the writer\u2019s ear. Meantime, the tumult around them\nwas continuing; the discussion among the medical men had taken another\nturn and now bore on certain technical points of no significance with\nregard to the case in question. You could no longer breathe within those\nwooden walls, nausea was upsetting every heart and every head. The little\nfair-haired gentleman, the influential writer from Paris, had already\ngone away, quite vexed at not having seen a real miracle.\n\nPierre thereupon said to Doctor Chassaigne, \u201cLet us go; I shall be taken\nill if I stay here any longer.\u201d\n\nThey left the office at the same time as La Grivotte, who was at last\nbeing dismissed. And as soon as they reached the door they found\nthemselves caught in a torrential, surging, jostling crowd, which was\neager to behold the girl so miraculously healed; for the report of the\nmiracle must have already spread, and one and all were struggling to see\nthe chosen one, question her, and touch her. And she, with her empurpled\ncheeks, her flaming eyes, her dancing gait, could do nothing but repeat,\n\u201cI am cured, I am cured!\u201d\n\nShouts drowned her voice, she herself was submerged, carried off amidst\nthe eddies of the throng. For a moment one lost sight of her as though\nshe had sunk in those tumultuous waters; then she suddenly reappeared\nclose to Pierre and the doctor, who endeavoured to extricate her from the\ncrush. They had just perceived the Commander, one of whose manias was to\ncome down to the piscinas and the Grotto in order to vent his anger\nthere. With his frock-coat tightly girding him in military fashion, he\nwas, as usual, leaning on his silver-knobbed walking-stick, slightly\ndragging his left leg, which his second attack of paralysis had\nstiffened. And his face reddened and his eyes flashed with anger when La\nGrivotte, pushing him aside in order that she might pass, repeated amidst\nthe wild enthusiasm of the crowd, \u201cI am cured, I am cured!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell!\u201d he cried, seized with sudden fury, \u201cso much the worse for you, my\ngirl!\u201d\n\nExclamations arose, folks began to laugh, for he was well known, and his\nmaniacal passion for death was forgiven him. However, when he began\nstammering confused words, saying that it was pitiful to desire life when\none was possessed of neither beauty nor fortune, and that this girl ought\nto have preferred to die at once rather than suffer again, people began\nto growl around him, and Abb\u00e9 Judaine, who was passing, had to extricate\nhim from his trouble. The priest drew him away. \u201cBe quiet, my friend, be\nquiet,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is scandalous. Why do you rebel like this against\nthe goodness of God who occasionally shows His compassion for our\nsufferings by alleviating them? I tell you again that you yourself ought\nto fall on your knees and beg Him to restore to you the use of your leg\nand let you live another ten years.\u201d\n\nThe Commander almost choked with anger. \u201cWhat!\u201d he replied, \u201cask to live\nfor another ten years, when my finest day will be the day I die! Show\nmyself as spiritless, as cowardly as the thousands of patients whom I see\npass along here, full of a base terror of death, shrieking aloud their\nweakness, their passion to remain alive! Ah! no, I should feel too much\ncontempt for myself. I want to die!--to die at once! It will be so\ndelightful to be no more.\u201d\n\nHe was at last out of the scramble of the pilgrims, and again found\nhimself near Doctor Chassaigne and Pierre on the bank of the Gave. And he\naddressed himself to the doctor, whom he often met: \u201cDidn\u2019t they try to\nrestore a dead man to life just now?\u201d he asked; \u201cI was told of it--it\nalmost suffocated me. Eh, doctor? You understand? That man was happy\nenough to be dead, and they dared to dip him in their water in the\ncriminal hope to make him alive again! But suppose they had succeeded,\nsuppose their water had animated that poor devil once more--for one never\nknows what may happen in this funny world--don\u2019t you think that the man\nwould have had a perfect right to spit his anger in the face of those\ncorpse-menders? Had he asked them to awaken him? How did they know if he\nwere not well pleased at being dead? Folks ought to be consulted at any\nrate. Just picture them playing the same vile trick on me when I at last\nfall into the great deep sleep. Ah! I would give them a nice reception.\n\u2018Meddle with what concerns you,\u2019 I should say, and you may be sure I\nshould make all haste to die again!\u201d\n\nHe looked so singular in the fit of rage which had come over him that\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine and the doctor could not help smiling. Pierre, however,\nremained grave, chilled by the great quiver which swept by. Were not\nthose words he had just heard the despairing imprecations of Lazarus? He\nhad often imagined Lazarus emerging from the tomb and crying aloud: \u201cWhy\nhast Thou again awakened me to this abominable life, O Lord? I was\nsleeping the eternal, dreamless sleep so deeply; I was at last enjoying\nsuch sweet repose amidst the delights of nihility! I had known every\nwretchedness and every dolour, treachery, vain hope, defeat, sickness; as\none of the living I had paid my frightful debt to suffering, for I was\nborn without knowing why, and I lived without knowing how; and now,\nbehold, O Lord, Thou requirest me to pay my debt yet again; Thou\ncondemnest me to serve my term of punishment afresh! Have I then been\nguilty of some inexpiable transgression that thou shouldst inflict such\ncruel chastisement upon me? Alas! to live again, to feel oneself die a\nlittle in one\u2019s flesh each day, to have no intelligence save such as is\nrequired in order to doubt; no will, save such as one must have to be\nunable; no tenderness, save such as is needed to weep over one\u2019s own\nsorrows. Yet it was passed, I had crossed the terrifying threshold of\ndeath, I had known that second which is so horrible that it sufficeth to\npoison the whole of life. I had felt the sweat of agony cover me with\nmoisture, the blood flow back from my limbs, my breath forsake me, flee\naway in a last gasp. And Thou ordainest that I should know this distress\na second time, that I should die twice, that my human misery should\nexceed that of all mankind. Then may it be even now, O Lord! Yes, I\nentreat Thee, do also this great miracle; may I once more lay myself down\nin this grave, and again fall asleep without suffering from the\ninterruption of my eternal slumber. Have mercy upon me, and forbear from\ninflicting on me the torture of living yet again; that torture which is\nso frightful that Thou hast never inflicted it on any being. I have\nalways loved Thee and served Thee; and I beseech Thee do not make of me\nthe greatest example of Thy wrath, a cause of terror unto all\ngenerations. But show unto me Thy gentleness and loving kindness, O Lord!\nrestore unto me the slumber I have earned, and let me sleep once more\namid the delights of Thy nihility.\u201d\n\nWhile Pierre was pondering in this wise, Abb\u00e9 Judaine had led the\nCommander away, at last managing to calm him; and now the young priest\nshook hands with Doctor Chassaigne, recollecting that it was past five\no\u2019clock, and that Marie must be waiting for him. On his way back to the\nGrotto, however, he encountered the Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises deep in\nconversation with M. de Guersaint, who had only just left his room at the\nhotel, and was quite enlivened by his good nap. He and his companion were\nadmiring the extraordinary beauty which the fervour of faith imparted to\nsome women\u2019s countenances, and they also spoke of their projected trip to\nthe Cirque de Gavarnie.\n\nOn learning, however, that Marie had taken a first bath with no effect,\nM. de Guersaint at once followed Pierre. They found the poor girl still\nin the same painful stupor, with her eyes still fixed on the Blessed\nVirgin who had not deigned to hear her. She did not answer the loving\nwords which her father addressed to her, but simply glanced at him with\nher large distressful eyes, and then again turned them upon the marble\nstatue which looked so white amid the radiance of the tapers. And whilst\nPierre stood waiting to take her back to the hospital, M. de Guersaint\ndevoutly fell upon his knees. At first he prayed with passionate ardour\nfor his daughter\u2019s cure, and then he solicited, on his own behalf, the\nfavour of finding some wealthy person who would provide him with the\nmillion francs that he needed for his studies on aerial navigation.\n\n\n\n\nV. BERNADETTE\u2019S TRIALS\n\nABOUT eleven o\u2019clock that night, leaving M. de Guersaint in his room at\nthe Hotel of the Apparitions, it occurred to Pierre to return for a\nmoment to the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours before going to bed\nhimself. He had left Marie in such a despairing state, so fiercely\nsilent, that he was full of anxiety about her. And when he had asked for\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re at the door of the Sainte-Honorine Ward he became yet\nmore anxious, for the news was by no means good. The young girl, said the\nsuperintendent, had not even opened her mouth. She would answer nobody,\nand had even refused to eat. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, insisted therefore that\nPierre should come in. True, the presence of men was forbidden in the\nwomen\u2019s wards at night-time, but then a priest is not a man.\n\n\u201cShe only cares for you and will only listen to you,\u201d said the worthy\nlady. \u201cPray come in and sit down near her till Abb\u00e9 Judaine arrives. He\nwill come at about one in the morning to administer the communion to our\nmore afflicted sufferers, those who cannot move and who have to eat at\ndaybreak. You will be able to assist him.\u201d\n\nPierre thereupon followed Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, who installed him at the\nhead of Marie\u2019s bed. \u201cMy dear child,\u201d she said to the girl, \u201cI have\nbrought you somebody who is very fond of you. You will be able to chat\nwith him, and you will be reasonable now, won\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nMarie, however, on recognising Pierre, gazed at him with an air of\nexasperated suffering, a black, stern expression of revolt.\n\n\u201cWould you like him to read something to you,\u201d resumed Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re, \u201csomething that would ease and console you as he did in the\ntrain? No? It wouldn\u2019t interest you, you don\u2019t care for it? Well, we will\nsee by-and-by. I will leave him with you, and I am sure you will be quite\nreasonable again in a few minutes.\u201d\n\nPierre then began speaking to her in a low voice, saying all the kind\nconsoling things that his heart could think of, and entreating her not to\nallow herself to sink into such despair. If the Blessed Virgin had not\ncured her on the first day, it was because she reserved her for some\nconspicuous miracle. But he spoke in vain. Marie had turned her head\naway, and did not even seem to listen as she lay there with a bitter\nexpression on her mouth and a gleam of irritation in her eyes, which\nwandered away into space. Accordingly he ceased speaking and began to\ngaze at the ward around him.\n\nThe spectacle was a frightful one. Never before had such a nausea of pity\nand terror affected his heart. They had long since dined, nevertheless\nplates of food which had been brought up from the kitchens still lay\nabout the beds; and all through the night there were some who ate whilst\nothers continued restlessly moaning, asking to be turned over or helped\nout of bed. As the hours went by a kind of vague delirium seemed to come\nupon almost all of them. Very few were able to sleep quietly. Some had\nbeen undressed and were lying between the sheets, but the greater number\nwere simply stretched out on the beds, it being so difficult to get their\nclothes off that they did not even change their linen during the five\ndays of the pilgrimage. In the semi-obscurity, moreover, the obstruction\nof the ward seemed to have increased. To the fifteen beds ranged along\nthe walls and the seven mattresses filling the central space, some fresh\npallets had been added, and on all sides there was a confused litter of\nragged garments, old baskets, boxes, and valises. Indeed, you no longer\nknew where to step. Two smoky lanterns shed but a dim light upon this\nencampment of dying women, in which a sickly smell prevailed; for,\ninstead of any freshness, merely the heavy heat of the August night came\nin through the two windows which had been left ajar. Nightmare-like\nshadows and cries sped to and fro, peopling the inferno, amidst the\nnocturnal agony of so much accumulated suffering.\n\nHowever, Pierre recognised Raymonde, who, her duties over, had come to\nkiss her mother, before going to sleep in one of the garrets reserved to\nthe Sisters of the hospital. For her own part, Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re,\ntaking her functions to heart, did not close her eyes during the three\nnights spent at Lourdes.\n\nShe certainly had an arm-chair in which to rest herself, but she never\nsat down in it for a moment with out being disturbed. It must be admitted\nthat she was bravely seconded by little Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, who displayed\nsuch enthusiastic zeal that Sister Hyacinthe asked her, with a smile:\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t you take the vows?\u201d whereupon she responded, with an air of\nscared surprise: \u201cOh! I can\u2019t, I\u2019m married, you know, and I\u2019m very fond\nof my husband.\u201d As for Madame Volmar, she had not even shown herself; but\nit was alleged that Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re had sent her to bed on hearing\nher complain of a frightful headache. And this had put Madame D\u00e9sagneaux\nin quite a temper; for, as she sensibly enough remarked, a person had no\nbusiness to offer to nurse the sick when the slightest exertion exhausted\nher. She herself, however, at last began to feel her legs and arms\naching, though she would not admit it, but hastened to every patient whom\nshe heard calling, ever ready as she was to lend a helping hand. In Paris\nshe would have rung for a servant rather than have moved a candlestick\nherself; but here she was ever coming and going, bringing and emptying\nbasins, and passing her arms around patients to hold them up, whilst\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re slipped pillows behind them. However, shortly after\neleven o\u2019clock, she was all at once overpowered. Having imprudently\nstretched herself in the armchair for a moment\u2019s rest, she there fell\nsoundly asleep, her pretty head sinking on one of her shoulders amidst\nher lovely, wavy fair hair, which was all in disorder. And from that\nmoment neither moan nor call, indeed no sound whatever, could waken her.\n\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re, however, had softly approached the young priest\nagain. \u201cI had an idea,\u201d said she in a low voice, \u201cof sending for Monsieur\nFerrand, the house-surgeon, you know, who accompanies us. He would have\ngiven the poor girl something to calm her. Only he is busy downstairs\ntrying to relieve Brother Isidore, in the Family Ward. Besides, as you\nknow, we are not supposed to give medical attendance here; our work\nconsists in placing our dear sick ones in the hands of the Blessed\nVirgin.\u201d\n\nSister Hyacinthe, who had made up her mind to spend the night with the\nsuperintendent, now drew, near. \u201cI have just come from the Family Ward,\u201d\n she said; \u201cI went to take Monsieur Sabathier some oranges which I had\npromised him, and I saw Monsieur Ferrand, who had just succeeded in\nreviving Brother Isidore. Would you like me to go down and fetch him?\u201d\n\nBut Pierre declined the offer. \u201cNo, no,\u201d he replied, \u201cMarie will be\nsensible. I will read her a few consoling pages by-and-by, and then she\nwill rest.\u201d\n\nFor the moment, however, the girl still remained obstinately silent. One\nof the two lanterns was hanging from the wall close by, and Pierre could\ndistinctly see her thin face, rigid and motionless like stone. Then,\nfarther away, in the adjoining bed, he perceived Elise Rouquet, who was\nsound asleep and no longer wore her fichu, but openly displayed her face,\nthe ulcerations of which still continued to grow paler. And on the young\npriest\u2019s left hand was Madame Vetu, now greatly weakened, in a hopeless\nstate, unable to doze off for a moment, shaken as she was by a continuous\nrattle. He said a few kind words to her, for which she thanked him with a\nnod; and, gathering her remaining strength together, she was at last able\nto say: \u201cThere were several cures to-day; I was very pleased to hear of\nthem.\u201d\n\nOn a mattress at the foot of her bed was La Grivotte, who in a fever of\nextraordinary activity kept on sitting up to repeat her favourite phrase:\n\u201cI am cured, I am cured!\u201d And she went on to relate that she had eaten\nhalf a fowl for dinner, she who had been unable to eat for long months\npast. Then, too, she had followed the torchlight procession on foot\nduring nearly a couple of hours, and she would certainly have danced till\ndaybreak had the Blessed Virgin only been pleased to give a ball. And\nonce more she repeated: \u201cI am cured, yes, cured, quite cured!\u201d\n\nThereupon Madame Vetu found enough strength to say with childlike\nserenity and perfect, gladsome abnegation: \u201cThe Blessed Virgin did well\nto cure her since she is poor. I am better pleased than if it had been\nmyself, for I have my little shop to depend upon and can wait. We each\nhave our turn, each our turn.\u201d\n\nOne and all displayed a like charity, a like pleasure that others should\nhave been cured. Seldom, indeed, was any jealousy shown; they surrendered\nthemselves to a kind of epidemical beatitude, to a contagious hope that\nthey would all be cured whenever it should so please the Blessed Virgin.\nAnd it was necessary that she should not be offended by any undue\nimpatience; for assuredly she had her reasons and knew right well why she\nbegan by healing some rather than others. Thus with the fraternity born\nof common suffering and hope, the most grievously afflicted patients\nprayed for the cure of their neighbours. None of them ever despaired,\neach fresh miracle was the promise of another one, of the one which would\nbe worked on themselves. Their faith remained unshakable. A story was\ntold of a paralytic woman, some farm servant, who with extraordinary\nstrength of will had contrived to take a few steps at the Grotto, and who\nwhile being conveyed back to the hospital had asked to be set down that\nshe might return to the Grotto on foot. But she had gone only half the\ndistance when she had staggered, panting and livid; and on being brought\nto the hospital on a stretcher, she had died there, cured, however, said\nher neighbours in the ward. Each, indeed, had her turn; the Blessed\nVirgin forgot none of her dear daughters unless it were her design to\ngrant some chosen one immediate admission into Paradise.\n\nAll at once, at the moment when Pierre was leaning towards her, again\noffering to read to her, Marie burst into furious sobs. Letting her head\nfall upon her friend\u2019s shoulder, she vented all her rebellion in a low,\nterrible voice, amidst the vague shadows of that awful room. She had\nexperienced what seldom happened to her, a collapse of faith, a sudden\nloss of courage, all the rage of the suffering being who can no longer\nwait. Such was her despair, indeed, that she even became sacrilegious.\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d she stammered, \u201cthe Virgin is cruel; she is unjust, for she did\nnot cure me just now. Yet I felt so certain that she would grant my\nprayer, I had prayed to her so fervently. I shall never be cured, now\nthat the first day is past. It was a Saturday, and I was convinced that I\nshould be cured on a Saturday. I did not want to speak--and oh! prevent\nme, for my heart is too full, and I might say more than I ought to do.\u201d\n\nWith fraternal hands he had quickly taken hold of her head, and he was\nendeavouring to stifle the cry of her rebellion. \u201cBe quiet, Marie, I\nentreat you! It would never do for anyone to hear you--you so pious! Do\nyou want to scandalise every soul?\u201d\n\nBut in spite of her efforts she was unable to keep silence. \u201cI should\nstifle, I must speak out,\u201d she said. \u201cI no longer love her, no longer\nbelieve in her. The tales which are related here are all falsehoods;\nthere is _nothing_, she does not even exist, since she does not hear when\none speaks to her, and sobs. If you only knew all that I said to her! Oh!\nI want to go away at once. Take me away, carry me away in your arms, so\nthat I may go and die in the street, where the passers-by, at least, will\ntake pity on my sufferings!\u201d\n\nShe was growing weak again, and had once more fallen on her back,\nstammering, talking childishly. \u201cBesides, nobody loves me,\u201d she said. \u201cMy\nfather was not even there. And you, my friend, forsook me. When I saw\nthat it was another who was taking me to the piscinas, I began to feel a\nchill. Yes, that chill of doubt which I often felt in Paris. And that is\nat least certain, I doubted--perhaps, indeed, that is why she did not\ncure me. I cannot have prayed well enough, I am not pious enough, no\ndoubt.\u201d\n\nShe was no longer blaspheming, but seeking for excuses to explain the\nnon-intervention of Heaven. However, her face retained an angry\nexpression amidst this struggle which she was waging with the Supreme\nPower, that Power which she had loved so well and entreated so fervently,\nbut which had not obeyed her. When, on rare occasions, a fit of rage of\nthis description broke out in the ward, and the sufferers, lying on their\nbeds, rebelled against their fate, sobbing and lamenting, and at times\neven swearing, the lady-hospitallers and the Sisters, somewhat shocked,\nwould content themselves with simply closing the bed-curtains. Grace had\ndeparted, one must await its return. And at last, sometimes after long\nhours, the rebellious complaints would die away, and peace would reign\nagain amidst the deep, woeful silence.\n\n\u201cCalm yourself, calm yourself, I implore you,\u201d Pierre gently repeated to\nMarie, seeing that a fresh attack was coming upon her, an attack of doubt\nin herself, of fear that she was unworthy of the divine assistance.\n\nSister Hyacinthe, moreover, had again drawn near. \u201cYou will not be able\nto take the sacrament by-and-by, my dear child,\u201d said she, \u201cif you\ncontinue in such a state. Come, since we have given Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9\npermission to read to you, why don\u2019t you let him do so?\u201d\n\nMarie made a feeble gesture as though to say that she consented, and\nPierre at once took out of the valise at the foot of her bed, the little\nblue-covered book in which the story of Bernadette was so na\u00efvely\nrelated. As on the previous night, however, when the train was rolling\non, he did not confine himself to the bald phraseology of the book, but\nbegan improvising, relating all manner of details in his own fashion, in\norder to charm the simple folks who listened to him. Nevertheless, with\nhis reasoning, analytical proclivities, he could not prevent himself from\nsecretly re-establishing the real facts, imparting, for himself alone, a\nhuman character to this legend, whose wealth of prodigies contributed so\ngreatly to the cure of those that suffered. Women were soon sitting up on\nall the surrounding beds. They wished to hear the continuation of the\nstory, for the thought of the sacrament which they were passionately\nawaiting had prevented almost all of them from getting to sleep. And\nseated there, in the pale light of the lantern hanging from the wall\nabove him, Pierre little by little raised his voice, so that he might be\nheard by the whole ward.\n\n\u201cThe persecutions began with the very first miracles. Called a liar and a\nlunatic, Bernadette was threatened with imprisonment. Abb\u00e9 Peyramale, the\nparish priest of Lourdes, and Monseigneur Laurence, Bishop of Tarbes,\nlike the rest of the clergy, refrained from all intervention, waiting the\ncourse of events with the greatest prudence; whilst the civil\nauthorities, the Prefect, the Public Prosecutor, the Mayor, and the\nCommissary of Police, indulged in excessive anti-religious zeal.\u201d\n\nContinuing his perusal in this fashion, Pierre saw the real story rise up\nbefore him with invincible force. His mind travelled a short distance\nbackward and he beheld Bernadette at the time of the first apparitions,\nso candid, so charming in her ignorance and good faith, amidst all her\nsufferings. And she was truly the visionary, the saint, her face assuming\nan expression of superhuman beauty during her crises of ecstasy. Her brow\nbeamed, her features seemed to ascend, her eyes were bathed with light,\nwhilst her parted lips burnt with divine love. And then her whole person\nbecame majestic; it was in a slow, stately way that she made the sign of\nthe cross, with gestures which seemed to embrace the whole horizon. The\nneighbouring valleys, the villages, the towns, spoke of Bernadette alone.\nAlthough the Lady had not yet told her name, she was recognised, and\npeople said, \u201cIt is she, the Blessed Virgin.\u201d On the first market-day, so\nmany people flocked into Lourdes that the town quite overflowed. All\nwished to see the blessed child whom the Queen of the Angels had chosen,\nand who became so beautiful when the heavens opened to her enraptured\ngaze. The crowd on the banks of the Gave grew larger each morning, and\nthousands of people ended by installing themselves there, jostling one\nanother that they might lose nothing of the spectacle! As soon as\nBernadette appeared, a murmur of fervour spread: \u201cHere is the saint, the\nsaint, the saint!\u201d Folks rushed forward to kiss her garments. She was a\nMessiah, the eternal Messiah whom the nations await, and the need of whom\nis ever arising from generation to generation. And, moreover, it was ever\nthe same adventure beginning afresh: an apparition of the Virgin to a\nshepherdess; a voice exhorting the world to penitence; a spring gushing\nforth; and miracles astonishing and enrapturing the crowds that hastened\nto the spot in larger and larger numbers.\n\nAh! those first miracles of Lourdes, what a spring-tide flowering of\nconsolation and hope they brought to the hearts of the wretched, upon\nwhom poverty and sickness were preying! Old Bourriette\u2019s restored\neyesight, little Bouhohort\u2019s resuscitation in the icy water, the deaf\nrecovering their hearing, the lame suddenly enabled to walk, and so many\nother cases, Blaise Maumus, Bernade Soubies,* Auguste Bordes, Blaisette\nSoupenne, Benoite Cazeaux, in turn cured of the most dreadful ailments,\nbecame the subject of endless conversations, and fanned the illusions of\nall those who suffered either in their hearts or their flesh. On\nThursday, March 4th, the last day of the fifteen visits solicited by the\nVirgin, there were more than twenty thousand persons assembled before the\nGrotto. Everybody, indeed, had come down from the mountains. And this\nimmense throng found at the Grotto the divine food that it hungered for,\na feast of the Marvellous, a sufficient meed of the Impossible to content\nits belief in a superior Power, which deigned to bestow some attention\nupon poor folks, and to intervene in the wretched affairs of this lower\nworld, in order to re-establish some measure of justice and kindness. It\nwas indeed the cry of heavenly charity bursting forth, the invisible\nhelping hand stretched out at last to dress the eternal sores of\nhumanity. Ah! that dream in which each successive generation sought\nrefuge, with what indestructible energy did it not arise among the\ndisinherited ones of this world as soon as it found a favourable spot,\nprepared by circumstances! And for centuries, perhaps, circumstances had\nnever so combined to kindle the mystical fire of faith as they did at\nLourdes.\n\n  * I give this name as written by M. Zola; but in other works on\n    Lourdes I find it given as \u201cBernarde Loubie--a bed-ridden old\n    woman, cured of a paralytic affection by drinking the water of\n    the Grotto.\u201d--Trans.\n\nA new religion was about to be founded, and persecutions at once began,\nfor religions only spring up amidst vexations and rebellions. And even as\nit was long ago at Jerusalem, when the tidings of miracles spread, the\ncivil authorities--the Public Prosecutor, the Justice of the Peace, the\nMayor, and particularly the Prefect of Tarbes--were all roused and began\nto bestir themselves. The Prefect was a sincere Catholic, a worshipper, a\nman of perfect honour, but he also had the firm mind of a public\nfunctionary, was a passionate defender of order, and a declared adversary\nof fanaticism which gives birth to disorder and religious perversion.\nUnder his orders at Lourdes there was a Commissary of Police, a man of\ngreat intelligence and shrewdness, who had hitherto discharged his\nfunctions in a very proper way, and who, legitimately enough, beheld in\nthis affair of the apparitions an opportunity to put his gift of\nsagacious skill to the proof. So the struggle began, and it was this\nCommissary who, on the first Sunday in Lent, at the time of the first\napparitions, summoned Bernadette to his office in order that he might\nquestion her. He showed himself affectionate, then angry, then\nthreatening, but all in vain; the answers which the girl gave him were\never the same. The story which she related, with its slowly accumulated\ndetails, had little by little irrevocably implanted itself in her\ninfantile mind. And it was no lie on the part of this poor suffering\ncreature, this exceptional victim of hysteria, but an unconscious\nhaunting, a radical lack of will-power to free herself from her original\nhallucination. She knew not how to exert any such will, she could not,\nshe would not exert it. Ah! the poor child, the dear child, so amiable\nand so gentle, so incapable of any evil thought, from that time forward\nlost to life, crucified by her fixed idea, whence one could only have\nextricated her by changing her environment, by restoring her to the open\nair, in some land of daylight and human affection. But she was the chosen\none, she had beheld the Virgin, she would suffer from it her whole life\nlong and die from it at last!\n\nPierre, who knew Bernadette so well, and who felt a fraternal pity for\nher memory, the fervent compassion with which one regards a human saint,\na simple, upright, charming creature tortured by her faith, allowed his\nemotion to appear in his moist eyes and trembling voice. And a pause in\nhis narrative ensued. Marie, who had hitherto been lying there quite\nstiff, with a hard expression of revolt still upon her face, opened her\nclenched hands and made a vague gesture of pity. \u201cAh,\u201d she murmured, \u201cthe\npoor child, all alone to contend against those magistrates, and so\ninnocent, so proud, so unshakable in her championship of the truth!\u201d\n\nThe same compassionate sympathy was arising from all the beds in the\nward. That hospital inferno with its nocturnal wretchedness, its\npestilential atmosphere, its pallets of anguish heaped together, its\nweary lady-hospitallers and Sisters flitting phantom-like hither and\nthither, now seemed to be illumined by a ray of divine charity. Was not\nthe eternal illusion of happiness rising once more amidst tears and\nunconscious falsehoods? Poor, poor Bernadette! All waxed indignant at the\nthought of the persecutions which she had endured in defence of her\nfaith.\n\nThen Pierre, resuming his story, related all that the child had had to\nsuffer. After being questioned by the Commissary she had to appear before\nthe judges of the local tribunal. The entire magistracy pursued her, and\nendeavoured to wring a retractation from her. But the obstinacy of her\ndream was stronger than the common sense of all the civil authorities put\ntogether. Two doctors who were sent by the Prefect to make a careful\nexamination of the girl came, as all doctors would have done, to the\nhonest opinion that it was a case of nervous trouble, of which the asthma\nwas a sure sign, and which, in certain circumstances, might have induced\nvisions. This nearly led to her removal and confinement in a hospital at\nTarbes. But public exasperation was feared. A bishop had fallen on his\nknees before her. Some ladies had sought to buy favours from her for\ngold. Moreover she had found a refuge with the Sisters of Nevers, who\ntended the aged in the town asylum, and there she made her first\ncommunion, and was with difficulty taught to read and write. As the\nBlessed Virgin seemed to have chosen her solely to work the happiness of\nothers, and she herself had not been cured, it was very sensibly decided\nto take her to the baths of Cauterets, which were so near at hand.\nHowever, they did her no good. And no sooner had she returned to Lourdes\nthan the torture of being questioned and adored by a whole people began\nafresh, became aggravated, and filled her more and more with horror of\nthe world. Her life was over already; she would be a playful child no\nmore; she could never be a young girl dreaming of a husband, a young wife\nkissing the cheeks of sturdy children. She had beheld the Virgin, she was\nthe chosen one, the martyr. If the Virgin, said believers, had confided\nthree secrets to her, investing her with a triple armour as it were, it\nwas simply in order to sustain her in her appointed course.\n\nThe clergy had for a long time remained aloof, on its own side full of\ndoubt and anxiety. Abb\u00e9 Peyramale, the parish priest of Lourdes, was a\nman of somewhat blunt ways, but full of infinite kindness, rectitude, and\nenergy whenever he found himself in what he thought the right path. On\nthe first occasion when Bernadette visited him, he received this child\nwho had been brought up at Bartres and had not yet been seen at\nCatechism, almost as sternly as the Commissary of Police had done; in\nfact, he refused to believe her story, and with some irony told her to\nentreat the Lady to begin by making the briars blossom beneath her feet,\nwhich, by the way, the Lady never did. And if the Abb\u00e9 ended by taking\nthe child under his protection like a good pastor who defends his flock,\nit was simply through the advent of persecution and the talk of\nimprisoning this puny child, whose clear eyes shone so frankly, and who\nclung with such modest, gentle stubbornness to her original tale.\nBesides, why should he have continued denying the miracle after merely\ndoubting it like a prudent priest who had no desire to see religion mixed\nup in any suspicious affair? Holy Writ is full of prodigies, all dogma is\nbased on the mysterious; and that being so, there was nothing to prevent\nhim, a priest, from believing that the Virgin had really entrusted\nBernadette with a pious message for him, an injunction to build a church\nwhither the faithful would repair in procession. Thus it was that he\nbegan loving and defending Bernadette for her charm\u2019s sake, whilst still\nrefraining from active interference, awaiting as he did the decision of\nhis Bishop.\n\nThis Bishop, Monseigneur Laurence, seemed to have shut himself up in his\nepiscopal residence at Tarbes, locking himself within it and preserving\nabsolute silence as though there were nothing occurring at Lourdes of a\nnature to interest him. He had given strict instructions to his clergy,\nand so far not a priest had appeared among the vast crowds of people who\nspent their days before the Grotto. He waited, and even allowed the\nPrefect to state in his administrative circulars that the civil and the\nreligious authorities were acting in concert. In reality, he cannot have\nbelieved in the apparitions of the Grotto of Massabielle, which he\ndoubtless considered to be the mere hallucinations of a sick child. This\naffair, which was revolutionising the region, was of sufficient\nimportance for him to have studied it day by day, and the manner in which\nhe disregarded it for so long a time shows how little inclined he was to\nadmit the truth of the alleged miracles, and how greatly he desired to\navoid compromising the Church in a matter which seemed destined to end\nbadly. With all his piety, Monseigneur Laurence had a cool, practical\nintellect, which enabled him to govern his diocese with great good sense.\nImpatient and ardent people nicknamed him Saint Thomas at the time, on\naccount of the manner in which his doubts persisted until events at last\nforced his hand. Indeed, he turned a deaf ear to all the stories that\nwere being related, firmly resolved as he was that he would only listen\nto them if it should appear certain that religion had nothing to lose.\n\nHowever, the persecutions were about to become more pronounced. The\nMinister of Worship in Paris, who had been informed of what was going on,\nrequired that a stop should be put to all disorders, and so the Prefect\ncaused the approaches to the Grotto to be occupied by the military. The\nGrotto had already been decorated with vases of flowers offered by the\nzeal of the faithful and the gratitude of sufferers who had been healed.\nMoney, moreover, was thrown into it; gifts to the Blessed Virgin\nabounded. Rudimentary improvements, too, were carried out in a\nspontaneous way; some quarrymen cut a kind of reservoir to receive the\nmiraculous water, and others removed the large blocks of stone, and\ntraced a path in the hillside. However, in presence of the swelling\ntorrents of people, the Prefect, after renouncing his idea of arresting\nBernadette, took the serious resolution of preventing all access to the\nGrotto by placing a strong palisade in front of it. Some regrettable\nincidents had lately occurred; various children pretended that they had\nseen the devil, some of them being guilty of simulation in this respect,\nwhilst others had given way to real attacks of hysteria, in the\ncontagious nervous unhinging which was so prevalent. But what a terrible\nbusiness did the removal of the offerings from the Grotto prove! It was\nonly towards evening that the Commissary was able to find a girl willing\nto let him have a cart on hire, and two hours later this girl fell from a\nloft and broke one of her ribs. Likewise, a man who had lent an axe had\none of his feet crushed on the morrow by the fall of a block of stone.*\nIt was in the midst of jeers and hisses that the Commissary carried off\nthe pots of flowers, the tapers which he found burning, the coppers and\nthe silver hearts which lay upon the sand. People clenched their fists,\nand covertly called him \u201cthief\u201d and \u201cmurderer.\u201d Then the posts for the\npalisades were planted in the ground, and the rails were nailed to the\ncrossbars, no little labour being performed to shut off the Mystery, in\norder to bar access to the Unknown, and put the miracles in prison. And\nthe civil authorities were simple enough to imagine that it was all over,\nthat those few bits of boarding would suffice to stay the poor people who\nhungered for illusion and hope.\n\n  * Both of these accidents were interpreted as miracles.--Trans.\n\nBut as soon as the new religion was proscribed, forbidden by the law as\nan offence, it began to burn with an inextinguishable flame in the depths\nof every soul. Believers came to the river bank in far greater numbers,\nfell upon their knees at a short distance from the Grotto, and sobbed\naloud as they gazed at the forbidden heaven. And the sick, the poor\nailing folks, who were forbidden to seek cure, rushed on the Grotto\ndespite all prohibitions, slipped in whenever they could find an aperture\nor climbed over the palings when their strength enabled them to do so, in\nthe one ardent desire to steal a little of the water. What! there was a\nprodigious water in that Grotto, which restored the sight to the blind,\nwhich set the infirm erect upon their legs again, which instantaneously\nhealed all ailments; and there were officials cruel enough to put that\nwater under lock and key so that it might not cure any more poor people!\nWhy, it was monstrous! And a cry of hatred arose from all the humble\nones, all the disinherited ones who had as much need of the Marvellous as\nof bread to live! In accordance with a municipal decree, the names of all\ndelinquents were to be taken by the police, and thus one soon beheld a\nwoeful _d\u00e9file_ of old women and lame men summoned before the Justice of\nthe Peace for the sole offence of taking a little water from the fount of\nlife! They stammered and entreated, at their wit\u2019s end when a fine was\nimposed upon them. And, outside, the crowd was growling; rageful\nunpopularity was gathering around those magistrates who treated human\nwretchedness so harshly, those pitiless masters who after taking all the\nwealth of the world, would not even leave to the poor their dream of the\nrealms beyond, their belief that a beneficent superior power took a\nmaternal interest in them, and was ready to endow them with peace of soul\nand health of body. One day a whole band of poverty-stricken and ailing\nfolks went to the Mayor, knelt down in his courtyard, and implored him\nwith sobs to allow the Grotto to be reopened; and the words they spoke\nwere so pitiful that all who heard them wept. A mother showed her child\nwho was half-dead; would they let the little one die like that in her\narms when there was a source yonder which had saved the children of other\nmothers? A blind man called attention to his dim eyes; a pale, scrofulous\nyouth displayed the sores on his legs; a paralytic woman sought to join\nher woeful twisted hands: did the authorities wish to see them all\nperish, did they refuse them the last divine chance of life, condemned\nand abandoned as they were by the science of man? And equally great was\nthe distress of the believers, of those who were convinced that a corner\nof heaven had opened amidst the night of their mournful existences, and\nwho were indignant that they should be deprived of the chimerical\ndelight, the supreme relief for their human and social sufferings, which\nthey found in the belief that the Blessed Virgin had indeed come down\nfrom heaven to bring them the priceless balm of her intervention.\nHowever, the Mayor was unable to promise anything, and the crowd withdrew\nweeping, ready for rebellion, as though under the blow of some great act\nof injustice, an act of idiotic cruelty towards the humble and the simple\nfor which Heaven would assuredly take vengeance.\n\nThe struggle went on for several months; and it was an extraordinary\nspectacle which those sensible men--the Minister, the Prefect, and the\nCommissary of Police--presented, all animated with the best intentions\nand contending against the ever-swelling crowd of despairing ones, who\nwould not allow the doors of dreamland to be closed upon them, who would\nnot be shut off from the mystic glimpse of future happiness in which they\nfound consolation for their present wretchedness. The authorities\nrequired order, the respect of a discreet religion, the triumph of\nreason; whereas the need of happiness carried the people off into an\nenthusiastic desire for cure both in this world and in the next. Oh! to\ncease suffering, to secure equality in the comforts of life; to march on\nunder the protection of a just and beneficent Mother, to die only to\nawaken in heaven! And necessarily the burning desire of the multitude,\nthe holy madness of the universal joy, was destined to sweep aside the\nrigid, morose conceptions of a well-regulated society in which the\never-recurring epidemical attacks of religious hallucination are\ncondemned as prejudicial to good order and healthiness of mind.\n\nThe Sainte-Honorine Ward, on hearing the story, likewise revolted. Pierre\nagain had to pause, for many were the stifled exclamations in which the\nCommissary of Police was likened to Satan and Herod. La Grivotte had sat\nup on her mattress, stammering: \u201cAh! the monsters! To behave like that to\nthe Blessed Virgin who has cured me!\u201d\n\nAnd even Madame Vetu--once more penetrated by a ray of hope amidst the\ncovert certainty she felt that she was going to die--grew angry at the\nidea that the Grotto would not have existed had the Prefect won the day.\n\u201cThere would have been no pilgrimages,\u201d she said, \u201cwe should not be here,\nhundreds of us would not be cured every year.\u201d\n\nA fit of stifling came over her, however, and Sister Hyacinthe had to\nraise her to a sitting posture. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re was profiting by the\ninterruption to attend to a young woman afflicted with a spinal\ncomplaint, whilst two other women, unable to remain on their beds, so\nunbearable was the heat, prowled about with short, silent steps, looking\nquite white in the misty darkness. And from the far end of the ward,\nwhere all was black, there resounded a noise of painful breathing, which\nhad been going on without a pause, accompanying Pierre\u2019s narrative like a\nrattle. Elise Rouquet alone was sleeping peacefully, still stretched upon\nher back, and displaying her disfigured countenance, which was slowly\ndrying.\n\nMidnight had struck a quarter of an hour previously, and Abb\u00e9 Judaine\nmight arrive at any moment for the communion. Grace was now again\ndescending into Marie\u2019s heart, and she was convinced that if the Blessed\nVirgin had refused to cure her it was, indeed, her own fault in having\ndoubted when she entered the piscina. And she, therefore, repented of her\nrebellion as of a crime. Could she ever be forgiven? Her pale face sank\ndown among her beautiful fair hair, her eyes filled with tears, and she\nlooked at Pierre with an expression of anguish. \u201cOh! how wicked I was, my\nfriend,\u201d she said. \u201cIt was through hearing you relate how that Prefect\nand those magistrates sinned through pride, that I understood my\ntransgression. One must believe, my friend; there is no happiness outside\nfaith and love.\u201d\n\nThen, as Pierre wished to break off at the point which he had reached,\nthey all began protesting and calling for the continuation of his\nnarrative, so that he had to promise to go on to the triumph of the\nGrotto.\n\nIts entrance remained barred by the palisade, and you had to come\nsecretly at night if you wished to pray and carry off a stolen bottle of\nwater. Still, the fear of rioting increased, for it was rumoured that\nwhole villages intended to come down from the hills in order to deliver\nGod, as they na\u00efvely expressed it. It was a _lev\u00e9e en masse_ of the\nhumble, a rush of those who hungered for the miraculous, so irresistible\nin its impetuosity that mere common sense, mere considerations of public\norder were to be swept away like chaff. And it was Monseigneur Laurence,\nin his episcopal residence at Tarbes, who was first forced to surrender.\nAll his prudence, all his doubts were outflanked by the popular outburst.\nFor five long months he had been able to remain aloof, preventing his\nclergy from following the faithful to the Grotto, and defending the\nChurch against the tornado of superstition which had been let loose. But\nwhat was the use of struggling any longer? He felt the wretchedness of\nthe suffering people committed to his care to be so great that he\nresigned himself to granting them the idolatrous religion for which he\nrealised them to be eager. Some prudence remaining to him, however, he\ncontented himself in the first instance with drawing up an _ordonnance_,\nappointing a commission of inquiry, which was to investigate the\nquestion; this implied the acceptance of the miracles after a period of\nlonger or shorter duration. If Monseigneur Laurence was the man of\nhealthy culture and cool reason that he is pictured to have been, how\ngreat must have been his anguish on the morning when he signed that\n_ordonnance_! He must have knelt in his oratory, and have begged the\nSovereign Master of the world to dictate his conduct to him. He did not\nbelieve in the apparitions; he had a loftier, more intellectual idea of\nthe manifestations of the Divinity. Only would he not be showing true\npity and mercy in silencing the scruples of his reason, the noble\nprejudices of his faith, in presence of the necessity of granting that\nbread of falsehood which poor humanity requires in order to be happy?\nDoubtless, he begged the pardon of Heaven for allowing it to be mixed up\nin what he regarded as childish pastime, for exposing it to ridicule in\nconnection with an affair in which there was only sickliness and\ndementia. But his flock suffered so much, hungered so ravenously for the\nmarvellous, for fairy stories with which to lull the pains of life. And\nthus, in tears, the Bishop at last sacrificed his respect for the dignity\nof Providence to his sensitive pastoral charity for the woeful human\nflock.\n\nThen the Emperor in his turn gave way. He was at Biarritz at the time,\nand was kept regularly informed of everything connected with this affair\nof the apparitions, with which the entire Parisian press was also\noccupying itself, for the persecutions would not have been complete if\nthe pens of Voltairean newspaper-men had not meddled in them. And whilst\nhis Minister, his Prefect, and his Commissary of Police were fighting for\ncommon sense and public order, the Emperor preserved his wonted\nsilence--the deep silence of a day-dreamer which nobody ever penetrated.\nPetitions arrived day by day, yet he held his tongue. Bishops came, great\npersonages, great ladies of his circle watched and drew him on one side,\nand still he held his tongue. A truceless warfare was being waged around\nhim: on one side the believers and the men of fanciful minds whom the\nMysterious strongly interested; on the other the unbelievers and the\nstatesmen who distrusted the disturbances of the imagination;--and still\nand ever he held his tongue. Then, all at once, with the sudden decision\nof a naturally timid man, he spoke out. The rumour spread that he had\nyielded to the entreaties of his wife Eug\u00e9nie. No doubt she did\nintervene, but the Emperor was more deeply influenced by a revival of his\nold humanitarian dreams, his genuine compassion for the disinherited.*\nLike the Bishop, he did not wish to close the portals of illusion to the\nwretched by upholding the unpopular decree which forbade despairing\nsufferers to go and drink life at the holy source. So he sent a telegram,\na curt order to remove the palisade, so as to allow everybody free access\nto the Grotto.\n\n  * I think this view of the matter the right one, for, as all who\n    know the history of the Second Empire are aware, it was about\n    this time that the Emperor began taking great interest in the\n    erection of model dwellings for the working classes, and the\n    plantation and transformation of the sandy wastes of the\n    Landes.--Trans.\n\nThen came a shout of joy and triumph. The decree annulling the previous\none was read at Lourdes to the sound of drum and trumpet. The Commissary\nof Police had to come in person to superintend the removal of the\npalisade. He was afterwards transferred elsewhere like the Prefect.*\nPeople flocked to Lourdes from all parts, the new _cultus_ was organised\nat the Grotto, and a cry of joy ascended: God had won the victory!\nGod?--alas, no! It was human wretchedness which had won the battle, human\nwretchedness with its eternal need of falsehood, its hunger for the\nmarvellous, its everlasting hope akin to that of some condemned man who,\nfor salvation\u2019s sake, surrenders himself into the hands of an invisible\nOmnipotence, mightier than nature, and alone capable, should it be\nwilling, of annulling nature\u2019s laws. And that which had also conquered\nwas the sovereign compassion of those pastors, the merciful Bishop and\nmerciful Emperor who allowed those big sick children to retain the fetich\nwhich consoled some of them and at times even cured others.\n\n  * The Prefect was transferred to Grenoble, and curiously enough his\n    new jurisdiction extended over the hills and valleys of La\n    Salette, whither pilgrims likewise flocked to drink, pray, and\n    wash themselves at a miraculous fountain. Warned by experience,\n    however, Baron Massy (such was the Prefect\u2019s name) was careful to\n    avoid any further interference in religious matters.--Trans.\n\nIn the middle of November the episcopal commission came to Lourdes to\nprosecute the inquiry which had been entrusted to it. It questioned\nBernadette yet once again, and studied a large number of miracles.\nHowever, in order that the evidence might be absolute, it only registered\nsome thirty cases of cure. And Monseigneur Laurence declared himself\nconvinced. Nevertheless, he gave a final proof of his prudence, by\ncontinuing to wait another three years before declaring in a pastoral\nletter that the Blessed Virgin had in truth appeared at the Grotto of\nMassabielle and that numerous miracles had subsequently taken place\nthere. Meantime, he had purchased the Grotto itself, with all the land\naround it, from the municipality of Lourdes, on behalf of his see. Work\nwas then begun, modestly at first, but soon on a larger and larger scale\nas money began to flow in from all parts of Christendom. The Grotto was\ncleared and enclosed with an iron railing. The Gave was thrown back into\na new bed, so as to allow of spacious approaches to the shrine, with\nlawns, paths, and walks. At last, too, the church which the Virgin had\nasked for, the Basilica, began to rise on the summit of the rock itself.\nFrom the very first stroke of the pick, Abb\u00e9 Peyramale, the parish priest\nof Lourdes, went on directing everything with even excessive zeal, for\nthe struggle had made him the most ardent and most sincere of all\nbelievers in the work that was to be accomplished. With his somewhat\nrough but truly fatherly nature, he had begun to adore Bernadette, making\nher mission his own, and devoting himself, soul and body, to realising\nthe orders which he had received from Heaven through her innocent mouth.\nAnd he exhausted himself in mighty efforts; he wished everything to be\nvery beautiful and very grand, worthy of the Queen of the Angels who had\ndeigned to visit this mountain nook. The first religious ceremony did not\ntake place till six years after the apparitions. A marble statue of the\nVirgin was installed with great pomp on the very spot where she had\nappeared. It was a magnificent day, all Lourdes was gay with flags, and\nevery bell rang joyously. Five years later, in 1869, the first mass was\ncelebrated in the crypt of the Basilica, whose spire was not yet\nfinished. Meantime, gifts flowed in without a pause, a river of gold was\nstreaming towards the Grotto, a whole town was about to spring up from\nthe soil. It was the new religion completing its foundations. The desire\nto be healed did heal; the thirst for a miracle worked the miracle. A\nDeity of pity and hope was evolved from man\u2019s sufferings, from that\nlonging for falsehood and relief which, in every age of humanity, has\ncreated the marvellous palaces of the realms beyond, where an almighty\nPower renders justice and distributes eternal happiness.\n\nAnd thus the ailing ones of the Sainte-Honorine Ward only beheld in the\nvictory of the Grotto the triumph of their hopes of cure. Along the rows\nof beds there was a quiver of joy when, with his heart stirred by all\nthose poor faces turned towards him, eager for certainty, Pierre\nrepeated: \u201cGod had conquered. Since that day the miracles have never\nceased, and it is the most humble who are the most frequently relieved.\u201d\n\nThen he laid down the little book. Abb\u00e9 Judaine was coming in, and the\nSacrament was about to be administered. Marie, however, again penetrated\nby the fever of faith, her hands burning, leant towards Pierre. \u201cOh, my\nfriend!\u201d said she, \u201cI pray you hear me confess my fault and absolve me. I\nhave blasphemed, and have been guilty of mortal sin. If you do not\nsuccour me, I shall be unable to receive the Blessed Sacrament, and yet I\nso greatly need to be consoled and strengthened.\u201d\n\nThe young priest refused her request with a wave of the hand. He had\nnever been willing to act as confessor to this friend, the only woman he\nhad loved in the healthy, smiling days of youth. However, she insisted.\n\u201cI beg you to do so,\u201d said she; \u201cyou will help to work the miracle of my\ncure.\u201d\n\nThen he gave way and received the avowal of her fault, that impious\nrebellion induced by suffering, that rebellion against the Virgin who had\nremained deaf to her prayers. And afterwards he granted her absolution in\nthe sacramental form.\n\nMeanwhile Abb\u00e9 Judaine had already deposited the ciborium on a little\ntable, between two lighted tapers, which looked like woeful stars in the\nsemi-obscurity of the ward. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re had just decided to open\none of the windows quite wide, for the odour emanating from all the\nsuffering bodies and heaped-up rags had become unbearable. But no air\ncame in from the narrow courtyard into which the window opened; though\nblack with night, it seemed like a well of fire. Having offered to act as\nserver, Pierre repeated the \u201cConfiteor.\u201d Then, after responding with the\n\u201cMisereatur\u201d and the \u201cIndulgentiam,\u201d the chaplain, who wore his alb,\nraised the pyx, saying, \u201cBehold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins\nof the world.\u201d All the women who, writhing in agony, were impatiently\nawaiting the communion, like dying creatures who await life from some\nfresh medicine which is a long time coming, thereupon thrice repeated, in\nall humility, and with lips almost closed: \u201cLord, I am not worthy that\nThou shouldst enter under my roof; but only say the word and my soul\nshall be healed.\u201d\n\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine had begun to make the round of those woeful beds,\naccompanied by Pierre, and followed by Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and Sister\nHyacinthe, each of whom carried one of the lighted tapers. The Sister\ndesignated those who were to communicate; and, murmuring the customary\nLatin words, the priest leant forward and placed the Host somewhat at\nrandom on the sufferer\u2019s tongue. Almost all were waiting for him with\nwidely opened, glittering eyes, amidst the disorder of that hastily\npitched camp. Two were found to be sound asleep, however, and had to be\nawakened. Several were moaning without being conscious of it, and\ncontinued moaning even after they had received the sacrament. At the far\nend of the ward, the rattle of the poor creature who could not be seen\nstill resounded. And nothing could have been more mournful than the\nappearance of that little _cort\u00e8ge_ in the semi-darkness, amidst which\nthe yellow flames of the tapers gleamed like stars.\n\nBut Marie\u2019s face, to which an expression of ecstasy had returned, was\nlike a divine apparition. Although La Grivotte was hungering for the\nbread of life, they had refused her the sacrament on this occasion, as it\nwas to be administered to her in the morning at the Rosary; Madame Vetu,\nhowever, had received the Host on her black tongue in a hiccough. And now\nMarie was lying there under the pale light of the tapers, looking so\nbeautiful amidst her fair hair, with her eyes dilated and her features\ntransfigured by faith, that everyone admired her. She received the\nsacrament with rapture; Heaven visibly descended into her poor, youthful\nframe, reduced to such physical wretchedness. And, clasping Pierre\u2019s\nhand, she detained him for a moment, saying: \u201cOh! she will heal me, my\nfriend, she has just promised me that she will do so. Go and take some\nrest. I shall sleep so soundly now!\u201d\n\nAs he withdrew in company with Abb\u00e9 Judaine, Pierre caught sight of\nlittle Madame D\u00e9sagneaux stretched out in the arm-chair in which\nweariness had overpowered her. Nothing could awaken her. It was now\nhalf-past one in the morning; and Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and her assistant,\nSister Hyacinthe, were still going backwards and forwards, turning the\npatients over, cleansing them, and dressing their sores. However, the\nward was becoming more peaceful, its heavy darkness had grown less\noppressive since Bernadette with her charm had passed through it. The\nvisionary\u2019s little shadow was now flitting in triumph from bed to bed,\ncompleting its work, bringing a little of heaven to each of the\ndespairing ones, each of the disinherited ones of this world; and as they\nall at last sank to sleep they could see the little shepherdess, so\nyoung, so ill herself, leaning over them and kissing them with a kindly\nsmile.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE THIRD DAY\n\n\n\n\nI. BED AND BOARD\n\nAT seven o\u2019clock on the morning of that fine, bright, warm August Sunday,\nM. de Guersaint was already up and dressed in one of the two little rooms\nwhich he had fortunately been able to secure on the third floor of the\nHotel of the Apparitions. He had gone to bed at eleven o\u2019clock the night\nbefore and had awoke feeling quite fresh and gay. As soon as he was\ndressed he entered the adjoining room which Pierre occupied; but the\nyoung priest, who had not returned to the hotel until past one in the\nmorning, with his blood heated by insomnia, had been unable to doze off\nuntil daybreak and was now still slumbering. His cassock flung across a\nchair, his other garments scattered here and there, testified to his\ngreat weariness and agitation of mind.\n\n\u201cCome, come, you lazybones!\u201d cried M. de Guersaint gaily; \u201ccan\u2019t you hear\nthe bells ringing?\u201d\n\nPierre awoke with a start, quite surprised to find himself in that little\nhotel room into which the sunlight was streaming. All the joyous peals of\nthe bells, the music of the chiming, happy town, moreover, came in\nthrough the window which he had left open.\n\n\u201cWe shall never have time to get to the hospital before eight o\u2019clock to\nfetch Marie,\u201d resumed M. de Guersaint, \u201cfor we must have some breakfast,\neh?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course, make haste and order two cups of chocolate. I will get up at\nonce, I sha\u2019n\u2019t be long,\u201d replied Pierre.\n\nIn spite of the fatigue which had already stiffened his joints, he sprang\nout of bed as soon as he was alone, and made all haste with his toilet.\nHowever, he still had his head in the washing basin, ducking it in the\nfresh, cool water, when M. de Guersaint, who was unable to remain alone,\ncame back again. \u201cI\u2019ve given the order,\u201d said he; \u201cthey will bring it up.\nAh! what a curious place this hotel is! You have of course seen the\nlandlord, Master Majest\u00e9, clad in white from head to foot and looking so\ndignified in his office. The place is crammed, it appears; they have\nnever had so many people before. So it is no wonder that there should be\nsuch a fearful noise. I was wakened up three times during the night.\nPeople kept on talking in the room next to mine. And you, did you sleep\nwell?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed,\u201d answered Pierre; \u201cI was tired to death, but I couldn\u2019t\nclose my eyes. No doubt it was the uproar you speak of that prevented\nme.\u201d\n\nIn his turn he then began to talk of the thin partitions, and the manner\nin which the house had been crammed with people until it seemed as though\nthe floors and the walls would collapse with the strain. The place had\nbeen shaking all night long; every now and then people suddenly rushed\nalong the passages, heavy footfalls resounded, gruff voices ascended\nnobody knew whence; without speaking of all the moaning and coughing, the\nfrightful coughing which seemed to re-echo from every wall. Throughout\nthe night people evidently came in and went out, got up and lay down\nagain, paying no attention to time in the disorder in which they lived,\namid shocks of passion which made them hurry to their devotional\nexercises as to pleasure parties.\n\n\u201cAnd Marie, how was she when you left her last night?\u201d M. de Guersaint\nsuddenly inquired.\n\n\u201cA great deal better,\u201d replied Pierre; \u201cshe had an attack of extreme\ndiscouragement, but all her courage and faith returned to her at last.\u201d\n\nA pause followed; and then the girl\u2019s father resumed with his tranquil\noptimism: \u201cOh! I am not anxious. Things will go on all right, you\u2019ll see.\nFor my own part, I am delighted. I had asked the Virgin to grant me her\nprotection in my affairs--you know, my great invention of navigable\nballoons. Well, suppose I told you that she has already shown me her\nfavour? Yes, indeed yesterday evening while I was talking with Abb\u00e9 des\nHermoises, he told me that at Toulouse he would no doubt be able to find\na person to finance me--one of his friends, in fact, who is extremely\nwealthy and takes great interest in mechanics! And in this I at once saw\nthe hand of God!\u201d M. de Guersaint began laughing with his childish laugh,\nand then he added: \u201cThat Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises is a charming man. I shall\nsee this afternoon if there is any means of my accompanying him on an\nexcursion to the Cirque de Gavarnie at small cost.\u201d\n\nPierre, who wished to pay everything, the hotel bill and all the rest, at\nonce encouraged him in this idea. \u201cOf course,\u201d said he, \u201cyou ought not to\nmiss this opportunity to visit the mountains, since you have so great a\nwish to do so. Your daughter will be very happy to know that you are\npleased.\u201d\n\nTheir talk, however, was now interrupted by a servant girl bringing the\ntwo cups of chocolate with a couple of rolls on a metal tray covered with\na napkin. She left the door open as she entered the room, so that a\nglimpse was obtained of some portion of the passage. \u201cAh! they are\nalready doing my neighbour\u2019s room!\u201d exclaimed M. de Guersaint. \u201cHe is a\nmarried man, isn\u2019t he? His wife is with him?\u201d\n\nThe servant looked astonished. \u201cOh, no,\u201d she replied, \u201che is quite\nalone!\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite alone? Why, I heard people talking in his room this morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must be mistaken, monsieur,\u201d said the servant; \u201che has just gone out\nafter giving orders that his room was to be tidied up at once.\u201d And then,\nwhile taking the cups of chocolate off the tray and placing them on the\ntable, she continued: \u201cOh! he is a very respectable gentleman. Last year\nhe was able to have one of the pavilions which Monsieur Majest\u00e9 lets out\nto visitors, in the lane by the side of the hotel; but this year he\napplied too late and had to content himself with that room, which greatly\nworried him, for it isn\u2019t a large one, though there is a big cupboard in\nit. As he doesn\u2019t care to eat with everybody, he takes his meals there,\nand he orders good wine and the best of everything, I can tell you.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat explains it all!\u201d replied M. de Guersaint gaily; \u201che dined too well\nlast night, and I must have heard him talking in his sleep.\u201d\n\nPierre had been listening somewhat inquisitively to all this chatter.\n\u201cAnd on this side, my side,\u201d said he, \u201cisn\u2019t there a gentleman with two\nladies, and a little boy who walks about with a crutch?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I know them. The aunt, Madame Chaise, took one of\nthe two rooms for herself; and Monsieur and Madame Vigneron with their\nson Gustave have had to content themselves with the other one. This is\nthe second year they have come to Lourdes. They are very respectable\npeople too.\u201d\n\nPierre nodded. During the night he had fancied he could recognise the\nvoice of M. Vigneron, whom the heat doubtless had incommoded. However,\nthe servant was now thoroughly started, and she began to enumerate the\nother persons whose rooms were reached by the same passage; on the left\nhand there was a priest, then a mother with three daughters, and then an\nold married couple; whilst on the right lodged another gentleman who was\nall alone, a young lady, too, who was unaccompanied, and then a family\nparty which included five young children. The hotel was crowded to its\ngarrets. The servants had had to give up their rooms the previous evening\nand lie in a heap in the washhouse. During the night, also, some camp\nbedsteads had even been set up on the landings; and one honourable\necclesiastic, for lack of other accommodation, had been obliged to sleep\non a billiard-table.\n\nWhen the girl had retired and the two men had drunk their chocolate, M.\nde Guersaint went back into his own room to wash his hands again, for he\nwas very careful of his person; and Pierre, who remained alone, felt\nattracted by the gay sunlight, and stepped for a moment on to the narrow\nbalcony outside his window. Each of the third-floor rooms on this side of\nthe hotel was provided with a similar balcony, having a carved-wood\nbalustrade. However, the young priest\u2019s surprise was very great, for he\nhad scarcely stepped outside when he suddenly saw a woman protrude her\nhead over the balcony next to him--that of the room occupied by the\ngentleman whom M. de Guersaint and the servant had been speaking of.\n\nAnd this woman he had recognised: it was Madame Volmar. There was no\nmistaking her long face with its delicate drawn features, its magnificent\nlarge eyes, those brasiers over which a veil, a dimming _moire_, seemed\nto pass at times. She gave a start of terror on perceiving him. And he,\nextremely ill at ease, grieved that he should have frightened her, made\nall haste to withdraw into his apartment. A sudden light had dawned upon\nhim, and he now understood and could picture everything. So this was why\nshe had not been seen at the hospital, where little Madame D\u00e9sagneaux was\nalways asking for her. Standing motionless, his heart upset, Pierre fell\ninto a deep reverie, reflecting on the life led by this woman whom he\nknew, that torturing conjugal life in Paris between a fierce\nmother-in-law and an unworthy husband, and then those three days of\ncomplete liberty spent at Lourdes, that brief bonfire of passion to which\nshe had hastened under the sacrilegious pretext of serving the divinity.\nTears whose cause he could not even explain, tears that ascended from the\nvery depths of his being, from his own voluntary chastity, welled into\nhis eyes amidst the feeling of intense sorrow which came over him.\n\n\u201cWell, are you ready?\u201d joyously called M. de Guersaint as he came back,\nwith his grey jacket buttoned up and his hands gloved.\n\n\u201cYes, yes, let us go,\u201d replied Pierre, turning aside and pretending to\nlook for his hat so that he might wipe his eyes.\n\nThen they went out, and on crossing the threshold heard on their left\nhand an unctuous voice which they recognised; it was that of M. Vigneron,\nwho was loudly repeating the morning prayers. A moment afterwards came a\nmeeting which interested them. They were walking down the passage when\nthey were passed by a middle-aged, thick-set, sturdy-looking gentleman,\nwearing carefully trimmed whiskers. He bent his back and passed so\nrapidly that they were unable to distinguish his features, but they\nnoticed that he was carrying a carefully made parcel. And immediately\nafterwards he slipped a key into the lock of the room adjoining M. de\nGuersaint\u2019s, and opening the door disappeared noiselessly, like a shadow.\n\nM. de Guersaint had glanced round: \u201cAh! my neighbour,\u201d said he; \u201che has\nbeen to market and has brought back some delicacies, no doubt!\u201d\n\nPierre pretended not to hear, for his companion was so light-minded that\nhe did not care to trust him with a secret which was not his own.\nBesides, a feeling of uneasiness was returning to him, a kind of chaste\nterror at the thought that the world and the flesh were there taking\ntheir revenge, amidst all the mystical enthusiasm which he could feel\naround him.\n\nThey reached the hospital just as the patients were being brought out to\nbe carried to the Grotto; and they found that Marie had slept well and\nwas very gay. She kissed her father and scolded him when she learnt that\nhe had not yet decided on his trip to Gavarnie. She should really be\ndispleased with him, she said, if he did not go. Still with the same\nrestful, smiling expression, she added that she did not expect to be\ncured that day; and then, assuming an air of mystery, she begged Pierre\nto obtain permission for her to spend the following night before the\nGrotto. This was a favour which all the sufferers ardently coveted, but\nwhich only a few favoured ones with difficulty secured. After protesting,\nanxious as he felt with regard to the effect which a night spent in the\nopen air might have upon her health, the young priest, seeing how unhappy\nshe had suddenly become, at last promised that he would make the\napplication. Doubtless she imagined that she would only obtain a hearing\nfrom the Virgin when they were alone together in the slumbering\npeacefulness of the night. That morning, indeed, she felt so lost among\nthe innumerable patients who were heaped together in front of the Grotto,\nthat already at ten o\u2019clock she asked to be taken back to the hospital,\ncomplaining that the bright light tired her eyes. And when her father and\nthe priest had again installed her in the Sainte-Honorine Ward, she gave\nthem their liberty for the remainder of the day. \u201cNo, don\u2019t come to fetch\nme,\u201d she said, \u201cI shall not go back to the Grotto this afternoon--it\nwould be useless. But you will come for me this evening at nine o\u2019clock,\nwon\u2019t you, Pierre? It is agreed, you have given me your word.\u201d\n\nHe repeated that he would endeavour to secure the requisite permission,\nand that, if necessary, he would apply to Father Fourcade in person.\n\n\u201cThen, till this evening, darling,\u201d said M. de Guersaint, kissing his\ndaughter. And he and Pierre went off together, leaving her lying on her\nbed, with an absorbed expression on her features, as her large, smiling\neyes wandered away into space.\n\nIt was barely half-past ten when they got back to the Hotel of the\nApparitions; but M. de Guersaint, whom the fine weather delighted, talked\nof having _d\u00e9jeuner_ at once, so that he might the sooner start upon a\nramble through Lourdes. First of all, however, he wished to go up to his\nroom, and Pierre following him, they encountered quite a drama on their\nway. The door of the room occupied by the Vignerons was wide open, and\nlittle Gustave could be seen lying on the sofa which served as his bed.\nHe was livid; a moment previously he had suddenly fainted, and this had\nmade the father and mother imagine that the end had come. Madame Vigneron\nwas crouching on a chair, still stupefied by her fright, whilst M.\nVigneron rushed about the room, thrusting everything aside in order that\nhe might prepare a glass of sugared-water, to which he added a few drops\nof some elixir. This draught, he exclaimed, would set the lad right\nagain. But all the same, it was incomprehensible. The boy was still\nstrong, and to think that he should have fainted like that, and have\nturned as white as a chicken! Speaking in this wise, M. Vigneron glanced\nat Madame Chaise, the aunt, who was standing in front of the sofa,\nlooking in good health that morning; and his hands shook yet more\nviolently at the covert idea that if that stupid attack had carried off\nhis son, they would no longer have inherited the aunt\u2019s fortune. He was\nquite beside himself at this thought, and eagerly opening the boy\u2019s mouth\nhe compelled him to swallow the entire contents of the glass. Then,\nhowever, when he heard Gustave sigh, and saw him open his eyes again, his\nfatherly good-nature reappeared, and he shed tears, and called the lad\nhis dear little fellow. But on Madame Chaise drawing near to offer some\nassistance, Gustave repulsed her with a sudden gesture of hatred, as\nthough he understood how this woman\u2019s money unconsciously perverted his\nparents, who, after all, were worthy folks. Greatly offended, the old\nlady turned on her heel, and seated herself in a corner, whilst the\nfather and mother, at last freed from their anxiety, returned thanks to\nthe Blessed Virgin for having preserved their darling, who smiled at them\nwith his intelligent and infinitely sorrowful smile, knowing and\nunderstanding everything as he did, and no longer having any taste for\nlife, although he was not fifteen.\n\n\u201cCan we be of any help to you?\u201d asked Pierre in an obliging way.\n\n\u201cNo, no, I thank you, gentlemen,\u201d replied M. Vigneron, coming for a\nmoment into the passage. \u201cBut oh! we did have a fright! Think of it, an\nonly son, who is so dear to us too.\u201d\n\nAll around them the approach of the _d\u00e9jeuner_ hour was now throwing the\nhouse into commotion. Every door was banging, and the passages and the\nstaircase resounded with the constant pitter-patter of feet. Three big\ngirls passed by, raising a current of air with the sweep of their skirts.\nSome little children were crying in a neighbouring room. Then there were\nold people who seemed quite scared, and distracted priests who,\nforgetting their calling, caught up their cassocks with both hands, so\nthat they might run the faster to the dining-room. From the top to the\nbottom of the house one could feel the floors shaking under the excessive\nweight of all the people who were packed inside the hotel.\n\n\u201cOh, I hope that it is all over now, and that the Blessed Virgin will\ncure him,\u201d repeated M. Vigneron, before allowing his neighbours to\nretire. \u201cWe are going down-stairs, for I must confess that all this has\nmade me feel faint. I need something to eat, I am terribly hungry.\u201d\n\nWhen Pierre and M. de Guersaint at last left their rooms, and went\ndown-stairs, they found to their annoyance that there was not the\nsmallest table-corner vacant in the large dining-room. A most\nextraordinary mob had assembled there, and the few seats that were still\nunoccupied were reserved. A waiter informed them that the room never\nemptied between ten and one o\u2019clock, such was the rush of appetite,\nsharpened by the keen mountain air. So they had to resign themselves to\nwait, requesting the waiter to warn them as soon as there should be a\ncouple of vacant places. Then, scarcely knowing what to do with\nthemselves, they went to walk about the hotel porch, whence there was a\nview of the street, along which the townsfolk, in their Sunday best,\nstreamed without a pause.\n\nAll at once, however, the landlord of the Hotel of the Apparitions,\nMaster Majest\u00e9 in person, appeared before them, clad in white from head\nto foot; and with a great show of politeness he inquired if the gentlemen\nwould like to wait in the drawing-room. He was a stout man of\nfive-and-forty, and strove to bear the burden of his name in a right\nroyal fashion. Bald and clean-shaven, with round blue eyes in a waxy\nface, displaying three superposed chins, he always deported himself with\nmuch dignity. He had come from Nevers with the Sisters who managed the\norphan asylum, and was married to a dusky little woman, a native of\nLourdes. In less than fifteen years they had made their hotel one of the\nmost substantial and best patronised establishments in the town. Of\nrecent times, moreover, they had started a business in religious\narticles, installed in a large shop on the left of the hotel porch and\nmanaged by a young niece under Madame Majest\u00e9\u2019s Supervision.\n\n\u201cYou can wait in the drawing-room, gentlemen,\u201d again suggested the\nhotel-keeper whom Pierre\u2019s cassock rendered very attentive.\n\nThey replied, however, that they preferred to walk about and wait in the\nopen air. And thereupon Majest\u00e9 would not leave them, but deigned to chat\nwith them for a moment as he was wont to do with those of his customers\nwhom he desired to honour. The conversation turned at first on the\nprocession which would take place that night and which promised to be a\nsuperb spectacle as the weather was so fine. There were more than fifty\nthousand strangers gathered together in Lourdes that day, for visitors\nhad come in from all the neighbouring bathing stations. This explained\nthe crush at the _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_. Possibly the town would run short of\nbread as had been the case the previous year.\n\n\u201cYou saw what a scramble there is,\u201d concluded Majest\u00e9, \u201cwe really don\u2019t\nknow how to manage. It isn\u2019t my fault, I assure you, if you are kept\nwaiting for a short time.\u201d\n\nAt this moment, however, a postman arrived with a large batch of\nnewspapers and letters which he deposited on a table in the office. He\nhad kept one letter in his hand and inquired of the landlord, \u201cHave you a\nMadame Maze here?\u201d\n\n\u201cMadame Maze, Madame Maze,\u201d repeated the hotel-keeper. \u201cNo, no, certainly\nnot.\u201d\n\nPierre had heard both question and answer, and drawing near he exclaimed,\n\u201cI know of a Madame Maze who must be lodging with the Sisters of the\nImmaculate Conception, the Blue Sisters as people call them here, I\nthink.\u201d\n\nThe postman thanked him for the information and went off, but a somewhat\nbitter smile had risen to Majest\u00e9\u2019s lips. \u201cThe Blue Sisters,\u201d he\nmuttered, \u201cah! the Blue Sisters.\u201d Then, darting a side glance at Pierre\u2019s\ncassock, he stopped short, as though he feared that he might say too\nmuch. Yet his heart was overflowing; he would have greatly liked to ease\nhis feelings, and this young priest from Paris, who looked so\nliberal-minded, could not be one of the \u201cband\u201d as he called all those who\ndischarged functions at the Grotto and coined money out of Our Lady of\nLourdes. Accordingly, little by little, he ventured to speak out.\n\n\u201cI am a good Christian, I assure you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said he. \u201cIn fact\nwe are all good Christians here. And I am a regular worshipper and take\nthe sacrament every Easter. But, really, I must say that members of a\nreligious community ought not to keep hotels. No, no, it isn\u2019t right!\u201d\n\nAnd thereupon he vented all the spite of a tradesman in presence of what\nhe considered to be disloyal competition. Ought not those Blue Sisters,\nthose Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, to have confined themselves\nto their real functions, the manufacture of wafers for sacramental\npurposes, and the repairing and washing of church linen? Instead of that,\nhowever, they had transformed their convent into a vast hostelry, where\nladies who came to Lourdes unaccompanied found separate rooms, and were\nable to take their meals either in privacy or in a general dining-room.\nEverything was certainly very clean, very well organised and very\ninexpensive, thanks to the thousand advantages which the Sisters enjoyed;\nin fact, no hotel at Lourdes did so much business. \u201cBut all the same,\u201d\n continued Majest\u00e9, \u201cI ask you if it is proper. To think of nuns selling\nvictuals! Besides, I must tell you that the lady superior is really a\nclever woman, and as soon as she saw the stream of fortune rolling in,\nshe wanted to keep it all for her own community and resolutely parted\nwith the Fathers of the Grotto who wanted to lay their hands on it. Yes,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, she even went to Rome and gained her cause there, so\nthat now she pockets all the money that her bills bring in. Think of it,\nnuns, yes nuns, _mon Dieu_! letting furnished rooms and keeping a _table\nd\u2019h\u00f4te_!\u201d\n\nHe raised his arms to heaven, he was stifling with envy and vexation.\n\n\u201cBut as your house is crammed,\u201d Pierre gently objected, \u201cas you no longer\nhave either a bed or a plate at anybody\u2019s disposal, where would you put\nany additional visitors who might arrive here?\u201d\n\nMajest\u00e9 at once began protesting. \u201cAh! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9!\u201d said he, \u201cone\ncan see very well that you don\u2019t know the place. It\u2019s quite true that\nthere is work for all of us, and that nobody has reason to complain\nduring the national pilgrimage. But that only lasts four or five days,\nand in ordinary times the custom we secure isn\u2019t nearly so great. For\nmyself, thank Heaven, I am always satisfied. My house is well known, it\noccupies the same rank as the Hotel of the Grotto, where two landlords\nhave already made their fortunes. But no matter, it is vexing to see\nthose Blue Sisters taking all the cream of the custom, for instance the\nladies of the _bourgeoisie_ who spend a fortnight and three weeks here at\na stretch; and that, too, just in the quiet season, when there are not\nmany people here. You understand, don\u2019t you? There are people of position\nwho dislike uproar; they go by themselves to the Grotto, and pray there\nall day long, for days together, and pay good prices for their\naccommodation without any higgling.\u201d\n\nMadame Majest\u00e9, whom Pierre and M. de Guersaint had not noticed leaning\nover an account-book in which she was adding up some figures, thereupon\nintervened in a shrill voice: \u201cWe had a customer like that, gentlemen,\nwho stayed here for two months last year. She went to the Grotto, came\nback, went there again, took her meals, and went to bed. And never did we\nhave a word of complaint from her; she was always smiling, as though to\nsay that she found everything very nice. She paid her bill, too, without\neven looking at it. Ah! one regrets people of that kind.\u201d\n\nShort, thin, very dark, and dressed in black, with a little white collar,\nMadame Majest\u00e9 had risen to her feet; and she now began to solicit\ncustom: \u201cIf you would like to buy a few little souvenirs of Lourdes\nbefore you leave, gentlemen, I hope that you will not forget us. We have\na shop close by, where you will find an assortment of all the articles\nthat are most in request. As a rule, the persons who stay here are kind\nenough not to deal elsewhere.\u201d\n\nHowever, Majest\u00e9 was again wagging his head, with the air of a good\nChristian saddened by the scandals of the time. \u201cCertainly,\u201d said he, \u201cI\ndon\u2019t want to show any disrespect to the reverend Fathers, but it must in\nall truth be admitted that they are too greedy. You must have seen the\nshop which they have set up near the Grotto, that shop which is always\ncrowded, and where tapers and articles of piety are sold. A bishop\ndeclared that it was shameful, and that the buyers and sellers ought to\nbe driven out of the temple afresh. It is said, too, that the Fathers run\nthat big shop yonder, just across the street, which supplies all the\npetty dealers in the town. And, according to the reports which circulate,\nthey have a finger in all the trade in religious articles, and levy a\npercentage on the millions of chaplets, statuettes, and medals which are\nsold every year at Lourdes.\u201d\n\nMajest\u00e9 had now lowered his voice, for his accusations were becoming\nprecise, and he ended by trembling somewhat at his imprudence in talking\nso confidentially to strangers. However, the expression of Pierre\u2019s\ngentle, attentive face reassured him; and so he continued with the\npassion of a wounded rival, resolved to go on to the very end: \u201cI am\nwilling to admit that there is some exaggeration in all this. But all the\nsame, it does religion no good for people to see the reverend Fathers\nkeeping shops like us tradesmen. For my part, of course, I don\u2019t go and\nask for a share of the money which they make by their masses, or a\npercentage on the presents which they receive, so why should they start\nselling what I sell? Our business was a poor one last year owing to them.\nThere are already too many of us; nowadays everyone at Lourdes sells\n\u2018religious articles,\u2019 to such an extent, in fact, that there will soon be\nno butchers or wine merchants left--nothing but bread to eat and water to\ndrink. Ah! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, it is no doubt nice to have the Blessed\nVirgin with us, but things are none the less very bad at times.\u201d\n\nA person staying at the hotel at that moment disturbed him, but he\nreturned just as a young girl came in search of Madame Majest\u00e9. The\ndamsel, who evidently belonged to Lourdes, was very pretty, small but\nplump, with beautiful black hair, and a round face full of bright gaiety.\n\n\u201cThat is our niece Apolline,\u201d resumed Majest\u00e9. \u201cShe has been keeping our\nshop for two years past. She is the daughter of one of my wife\u2019s\nbrothers, who is in poor circumstances. She was keeping sheep at Ossun,\nin the neighbourhood of Bartres, when we were struck by her intelligence\nand nice looks and decided to bring her here; and we don\u2019t repent having\ndone so, for she has a great deal of merit, and has become a very good\nsaleswoman.\u201d\n\nA point to which he omitted to refer, was that there were rumours current\nof somewhat flighty conduct on Mademoiselle Apolline\u2019s part. But she\nundoubtedly had her value: she attracted customers by the power,\npossibly, of her large black eyes, which smiled so readily. During his\nsojourn at Lourdes the previous year, G\u00e9rard de Peyrelongue had scarcely\nstirred from the shop she managed, and doubtless it was only the\nmatrimonial ideas now flitting through his head that prevented him from\nreturning thither. It seemed as though the Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises had taken\nhis place, for this gallant ecclesiastic brought a great many ladies to\nmake purchases at the repository.\n\n\u201cAh! you are speaking of Apolline,\u201d said Madame Majest\u00e9, at that moment\ncoming back from the shop. \u201cHave you noticed one thing about her,\ngentlemen--her extraordinary likeness to Bernadette? There, on the wall\nyonder, is a photograph of Bernadette when she was eighteen years old.\u201d\n\nPierre and M. de Guersaint drew near to examine the portrait, whilst\nMajest\u00e9 exclaimed: \u201cBernadette, yes, certainly--she was rather like\nApolline, but not nearly so nice; she looked so sad and poor.\u201d\n\nHe would doubtless have gone on chattering, but just then the waiter\nappeared and announced that there was at last a little table vacant. M.\nde Guersaint had twice gone to glance inside the dining-room, for he was\neager to have his _d\u00e9jeuner_ and spend the remainder of that fine Sunday\nout-of-doors. So he now hastened away, without paying any further\nattention to Majest\u00e9, who remarked, with an amiable smile, that the\ngentlemen had not had so very long to wait after all.\n\nTo reach the table mentioned by the waiter, the architect and Pierre had\nto cross the dining-room from end to end. It was a long apartment,\npainted a light oak colour, an oily yellow, which was already peeling\naway in places and soiled with stains in others. You realised that rapid\nwear and tear went on here amidst the continual scramble of the big\neaters who sat down at table. The only ornaments were a gilt zinc clock\nand a couple of meagre candelabra on the mantelpiece. Guipure curtains,\nmoreover, hung at the five large windows looking on to the street, which\nwas flooded with sunshine; some of the fierce arrow-like rays penetrating\ninto the room although the blinds had been lowered. And, in the middle of\nthe apartment, some forty persons were packed together at the _table\nd\u2019h\u00f4te_, which was scarcely eleven yards in length and did not supply\nproper accommodation for more than thirty people; whilst at the little\ntables standing against the walls upon either side another forty persons\nsat close together, hustled by the three waiters each time that they went\nby. You had scarcely reached the threshold before you were deafened by\nthe extraordinary uproar, the noise of voices and the clatter of forks\nand plates; and it seemed, too, as if you were entering a damp oven, for\na warm, steamy mist, laden with a suffocating smell of victuals, assailed\nthe face.\n\nPierre at first failed to distinguish anything, but, when he was\ninstalled at the little table--a garden-table which had been brought\nindoors for the occasion, and on which there was scarcely room for two\ncovers--he felt quite upset, almost sick, in fact, at the sight presented\nby the _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_, which his glance now enfiladed from end to end.\nPeople had been eating at it for an hour already, two sets of customers\nhad followed one upon the other, and the covers were strewn about in\nhiggledy-piggledy fashion. On the cloth were numerous stains of wine and\nsauce, while there was no symmetry even in the arrangement of the glass\nfruit-stands, which formed the only decorations of the table. And one\u2019s\nastonishment increased at sight of the motley mob which was collected\nthere--huge priests, scraggy girls, mothers overflowing with superfluous\nfat, gentlemen with red faces, and families ranged in rows and displaying\nall the pitiable, increasing ugliness of successive generations. All\nthese people were perspiring, greedily swallowing, seated slantwise,\nlacking room to move their arms, and unable even to use their hands\ndeftly. And amidst this display of appetite, increased tenfold by\nfatigue, and of eager haste to fill one\u2019s stomach in order to return to\nthe Grotto more quickly, there was a corpulent ecclesiastic who in no\nwise hurried, but ate of every dish with prudent slowness, crunching his\nfood with a ceaseless, dignified movement of the jaws.\n\n\u201c_Fichtre_!\u201d exclaimed M. de Guersaint, \u201cit is by no means cool in here.\nAll the same, I shall be glad of something to eat, for I\u2019ve felt a\nsinking in the stomach ever since I have been at Lourdes. And you--are\nyou hungry?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, I shall eat,\u201d replied Pierre, though, truth to tell, he felt\nquite upset.\n\nThe _menu_ was a copious one. There was salmon, an omelet, mutton cutlets\nwith mashed potatoes, stewed kidneys, cauliflowers, cold meats, and\napricot tarts--everything cooked too much, and swimming in sauce which,\nbut for its grittiness, would have been flavourless. However, there was\nsome fairly fine fruit on the glass stands, particularly some peaches.\nAnd, besides, the people did not seem at all difficult to please; they\napparently had no palates, for there was no sign of nausea. Hemmed in\nbetween an old priest and a dirty, full-bearded man, a girl of delicate\nbuild, who looked very pretty with her soft eyes and silken skin, was\neating some kidneys with an expression of absolute beatitude, although\nthe so-called \u201csauce\u201d in which they swam was simply greyish water.\n\n\u201cHum!\u201d resumed even M. de Guersaint, \u201cthis salmon is not so bad. Add a\nlittle salt to it and you will find it all right.\u201d\n\nPierre made up his mind to eat, for after all he must take sustenance for\nstrength\u2019s sake. At a little table close by, however, he had just caught\nsight of Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise, who sat face to face,\napparently waiting. And indeed, M. Vigneron and his son Gustave soon\nappeared, the latter still pale, and leaning more heavily than usual on\nhis crutch. \u201cSit down next to your aunt,\u201d said his father; \u201cI will take\nthe chair beside your mother.\u201d But just then he perceived his two\nneighbours, and stepping up to them, he added: \u201cOh! he is now all right\nagain. I have been rubbing him with some eau-de-Cologne, and by-and-by he\nwill be able to take his bath at the piscina.\u201d\n\nThereupon M. Vigneron sat down and began to devour. But what an awful\nfright he had had! He again began talking of it aloud, despite himself,\nso intense had been his terror at the thought that the lad might go off\nbefore his aunt. The latter related that whilst she was kneeling at the\nGrotto the day before, she had experienced a sudden feeling of relief; in\nfact, she flattered herself that she was cured of her heart complaint,\nand began giving precise particulars, to which her brother-in-law\nlistened with dilated eyes, full of involuntary anxiety. Most certainly\nhe was a good-natured man, he had never desired anybody\u2019s death; only he\nfelt indignant at the idea that the Virgin might cure this old woman, and\nforget his son, who was so young. Talking and eating, he had got to the\ncutlets, and was swallowing the mashed potatoes by the forkful, when he\nfancied he could detect that Madame Chaise was sulking with her nephew.\n\u201cGustave,\u201d he suddenly inquired, \u201chave you asked your aunt\u2019s\nforgiveness?\u201d The lad, quite astonished, began staring at his father with\nhis large clear eyes. \u201cYes,\u201d added M. Vigneron, \u201cyou behaved very badly,\nyou pushed her back just now when she wanted to help you to sit up.\u201d\n\nMadame Chaise said nothing, but waited with a dignified air, whilst\nGustave, who, without any show of appetite, was finishing the _noix_ of\nhis cutlet, which had been cut into small pieces, remained with his eyes\nlowered on his plate, this time obstinately refusing to make the sorry\nshow of affection which was demanded of him.\n\n\u201cCome, Gustave,\u201d resumed his father, \u201cbe a good boy. You know how kind\nyour aunt is, and all that she intends to do for you.\u201d\n\nBut no, he would not yield. At that moment, indeed, he really hated that\nwoman, who did not die quickly enough, who polluted the affection of his\nparents, to such a point that when he saw them surround him with\nattentions he no longer knew whether it were himself or the inheritance\nwhich his life represented that they wished to save. However, Madame\nVigneron, so dignified in her demeanour, came to her husband\u2019s help. \u201cYou\nreally grieve me, Gustave,\u201d said she; \u201cask your aunt\u2019s forgiveness, or\nyou will make me quite angry with you.\u201d\n\nThereupon he gave way. What was the use of resisting? Was it not better\nthat his parents should obtain that money? Would he not himself die later\non, so as to suit the family convenience? He was aware of all that; he\nunderstood everything, even when not a word was spoken. So keen was the\nsense of hearing with which suffering had endowed him, that he even heard\nthe others\u2019 thoughts.\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon, aunt,\u201d he said, \u201cfor not having behaved well to you\njust now.\u201d\n\nThen two big tears rolled from his eyes, whilst he smiled with the air of\na tender-hearted man who has seen too much of life and can no longer be\ndeceived by anything. Madame Chaise at once kissed him and told him that\nshe was not at all angry. And the Vignerons\u2019 delight in living was\ndisplayed in all candour.\n\n\u201cIf the kidneys are not up to much,\u201d M. de Guersaint now said to Pierre,\n\u201chere at all events are some cauliflowers with a good flavour.\u201d\n\nThe formidable mastication was still going on around them. Pierre had\nnever seen such an amount of eating, amidst such perspiration, in an\natmosphere as stifling as that of a washhouse full of hot steam. The\nodour of the victuals seemed to thicken into a kind of smoke. You had to\nshout to make yourself heard, for everybody was talking in loud tones,\nand the scared waiters raised a fearful clatter in changing the plates\nand forks; not to mention the noise of all the jaw-crunching, a mill-like\ngrinding which was distinctly audible. What most hurt the feelings of the\nyoung priest, however, was the extraordinary promiscuity of the _table\nd\u2019h\u00f4te_, at which men and women, young girls and ecclesiastics, were\npacked together in chance order, and satisfied their hunger like a pack\nof hounds snapping at offal in all haste. Baskets of bread went round and\nwere promptly emptied. And there was a perfect massacre of cold meats,\nall the remnants of the victuals of the day before, leg of mutton, veal,\nand ham, encompassed by a fallen mass of transparent jelly which quivered\nlike soft glue. They had all eaten too much already, but these viands\nseemed to whet their appetites afresh, as though the idea had come to\nthem that nothing whatever ought to be left. The fat priest in the middle\nof the table, who had shown himself such a capital knife-and-fork, was\nnow lingering over the fruit, having just got to his third peach, a huge\none, which he slowly peeled and swallowed in slices with an air of\ncompunction.\n\nAll at once, however, the whole room was thrown into agitation. A waiter\nhad come in and begun distributing the letters which Madame Majest\u00e9 had\nfinished sorting. \u201cHallo!\u201d exclaimed M. Vigneron; \u201ca letter for me! This\nis surprising--I did not give my address to anybody.\u201d Then, at a sudden\nrecollection, he added, \u201cYes I did, though; this must have come from\nSauvageot, who is filling my place at the Ministry.\u201d He opened the\nletter, his hands began to tremble, and suddenly he raised a cry: \u201cThe\nchief clerk is dead!\u201d\n\nDeeply agitated, Madame Vigneron was also unable to bridle her tongue:\n\u201cThen you will have the appointment!\u201d\n\nThis was the secret dream in which they had so long and so fondly\nindulged: the chief clerk\u2019s death, in order that he, Vigneron, assistant\nchief clerk for ten years past, might at last rise to the supreme post,\nthe bureaucratic marshalship. And so great was his delight that he cast\naside all restraint. \u201cAh! the Blessed Virgin is certainly protecting me,\nmy dear. Only this morning I again prayed to her for a rise, and, you\nsee, she grants my prayer!\u201d\n\nHowever, finding Madame Chaise\u2019s eyes fixed upon his own, and seeing\nGustave smile, he realised that he ought not to exult in this fashion.\nEach member of the family no doubt thought of his or her interests and\nprayed to the Blessed Virgin for such personal favours as might be\ndesired. And so, again putting on his good-natured air, he resumed: \u201cI\nmean that the Blessed Virgin takes an interest in every one of us and\nwill send us all home well satisfied. Ah! the poor chief, I\u2019m sorry for\nhim. I shall have to send my card to his widow.\u201d\n\nIn spite of all his efforts he could not restrain his exultation, and no\nlonger doubted that his most secret desires, those which he did not even\nconfess to himself, would soon be gratified. And so all honour was done\nto the apricot tarts, even Gustave being allowed to eat a portion of one.\n\n\u201cIt is surprising,\u201d now remarked M. de Guersaint, who had just ordered a\ncup of coffee; \u201cit is surprising that one doesn\u2019t see more sick people\nhere. All these folks seem to me to have first-rate appetites.\u201d\n\nAfter a close inspection, however, in addition to Gustave, who ate no\nmore than a little chicken, he ended by finding a man with a goitre\nseated at the _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_ between two women, one of whom certainly\nsuffered from cancer. Farther on, too, there was a girl so thin and pale\nthat she must surely be a consumptive. And still farther away there was a\nfemale idiot who had made her entry leaning on two relatives, and with\nexpressionless eyes and lifeless features was now carrying her food to\nher mouth with a spoon, and slobbering over her napkin. Perhaps there\nwere yet other ailing ones present who could not be distinguished among\nall those noisy appetites, ailing ones whom the journey had braced, and\nwho were eating as they had not eaten for a long time past. The apricot\ntarts, the cheese, the fruits were all engulfed amidst the increasing\ndisorder of the table, where at last there only remained the stains of\nall the wine and sauce which had been spilt upon the cloth.\n\nIt was nearly noon. \u201cWe will go back to the Grotto at once, eh?\u201d said M.\nVigneron.\n\nIndeed, \u201cTo the Grotto! To the Grotto!\u201d were well-nigh the only words you\nnow heard. The full mouths were eagerly masticating and swallowing, in\norder that they might repeat prayers and hymns again with all speed.\n\u201cWell, as we have the whole afternoon before us,\u201d declared M. de\nGuersaint, \u201cI suggest that we should visit the town a little. I want to\nsee also if I can get a conveyance for my excursion, as my daughter so\nparticularly wishes me to make it.\u201d\n\nPierre, who was stifling, was glad indeed to leave the dining-room. In\nthe porch he was able to breathe again, though even there he found a\ntorrent of customers, new arrivals who were waiting for places. No sooner\ndid one of the little tables become vacant than its possession was\neagerly contested, whilst the smallest gap at the _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_ was\ninstantly filled up. In this wise the assault would continue for more\nthan another hour, and again would the different courses of the _menu_\nappear in procession, to be engulfed amidst the crunching of jaws, the\nstifling heat, and the growing nausea.\n\n\n\n\nII. THE \u201cORDINARY.\u201d\n\nWHEN Pierre and M. de Guersaint got outside they began walking slowly\namidst the ever-growing stream of the Sundayfied crowd. The sky was a\nbright blue, the sun warmed the whole town, and there was a festive\ngaiety in the atmosphere, the keen delight that attends those great fairs\nwhich bring entire communities into the open air. When they had descended\nthe crowded footway of the Avenue de la Grotte, and had reached the\ncorner of the Plateau de la Merlasse, they found their way barred by a\nthrong which was flowing backward amidst a block of vehicles and stamping\nof horses. \u201cThere is no hurry, however,\u201d remarked M. de Guersaint. \u201cMy\nidea is to go as far as the Place du Marcadal in the old town; for the\nservant girl at the hotel told me of a hairdresser there whose brother\nlets out conveyances cheaply. Do you mind going so far?\u201d\n\n\u201cI?\u201d replied Pierre. \u201cGo wherever you like, I\u2019ll follow you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right--and I\u2019ll profit by the opportunity to have a shave.\u201d\n\nThey were nearing the Place du Rosaire, and found themselves in front of\nthe lawns stretching to the Gave, when an encounter again stopped them.\nMesdames D\u00e9sagneaux and Raymonde de Jonqui\u00e8re were here, chatting gaily\nwith G\u00e9rard de Peyrelongue. Both women wore light-coloured gowns, seaside\ndresses as it were, and their white silk parasols shone in the bright\nsunlight. They imparted, so to say, a pretty note to the scene--a touch\nof society chatter blended with the fresh laughter of youth.\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d Madame D\u00e9sagneaux was saying, \u201cwe certainly can\u2019t go and visit\nyour \u2018ordinary\u2019 like that--at the very moment when all your comrades are\neating.\u201d\n\nG\u00e9rard, however, with a very gallant air, insisted on their accompanying\nhim, turning more particularly towards Raymonde, whose somewhat massive\nface was that day brightened by the radiant charm of health.\n\n\u201cBut it is a very curious sight, I assure you,\u201d said the young man, \u201cand\nyou would be very respectfully received. Trust yourself to me,\nmademoiselle. Besides, we should certainly find M. Berthaud there, and he\nwould be delighted to do you the honours.\u201d\n\nRaymonde smiled, her clear eyes plainly saying that she was quite\nagreeable. And just then, as Pierre and M. de Guersaint drew near in\norder to present their respects to the ladies, they were made acquainted\nwith the question under discussion. The \u201cordinary\u201d was a kind of\nrestaurant or _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_ which the members of the Hospitality of Our\nLady of Salvation--the bearers, the hospitallers of the Grotto, the\npiscinas, and the hospitals--had established among themselves with the\nview of taking their meals together at small cost. Many of them were not\nrich, for they were recruited among all classes; however, they had\ncontrived to secure three good meals for the daily payment of three\nfrancs apiece. And in fact they soon had provisions to spare and\ndistributed them among the poor. Everything was in their own management;\nthey purchased their own supplies, recruited a cook and a few waiters,\nand did not disdain to lend a hand themselves, in order that everything\nmight be comfortable and orderly.\n\n\u201cIt must be very interesting,\u201d said M, de Guersaint, when these\nexplanations had been given him. \u201cLet us go and see it, if we are not in\nthe way.\u201d\n\nLittle Madame D\u00e9sagneaux thereupon gave her consent. \u201cWell, if we are\ngoing in a party,\u201d said she, \u201cI am quite willing. But when this gentleman\nfirst proposed to take Raymonde and me, I was afraid that it might not be\nquite proper.\u201d\n\nThen, as she began to laugh, the others followed her example. She had\naccepted M. de Guersaint\u2019s arm, and Pierre walked beside her on the other\nhand, experiencing a sudden feeling of sympathy for this gay little\nwoman, who was so full of life and so charming with her fair frizzy hair\nand creamy complexion.\n\nBehind them came Raymonde, leaning upon G\u00e9rard\u2019s arm and talking to him\nin the calm, staid voice of a young lady who holds the best principles\ndespite her air of heedless youth. And since here was the husband whom\nshe had so often dreamt of, she resolved that she would this time secure\nhim, make him beyond all question her own. She intoxicated him with the\nperfume of health and youth which she diffused, and at the same time\nastonished him by her knowledge of housewifely duties and of the manner\nin which money may be economised even in the most trifling matters; for\nhaving questioned him with regard to the purchases which he and his\ncomrades made for their \u201cordinary,\u201d she proceeded to show him that they\nmight have reduced their expenditure still further.\n\nMeantime M. de Guersaint and Madame D\u00e9sagneaux were also chatting\ntogether: \u201cYou must be fearfully tired, madame,\u201d said the architect.\n\nBut with a gesture of revolt, and an exclamation of genuine anger, she\nreplied: \u201cOh no, indeed! Last night, it is true, fatigue quite overcame\nme at the hospital; I sat down and dozed off, and Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and\nthe other ladies were good enough to let me sleep on.\u201d At this the others\nagain began to laugh; but still with the same angry air she continued:\n\u201cAnd so I slept like a log until this morning. It was disgraceful,\nespecially as I had sworn that I would remain up all night.\u201d Then,\nmerriment gaining upon her in her turn, she suddenly burst into a\nsonorous laugh, displaying her beautiful white teeth. \u201cAh! a pretty nurse\nI am, and no mistake! It was poor Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re who had to remain\non her legs all the time. I tried to coax her to come out with us just\nnow. But she preferred to take a little rest.\u201d\n\nRaymonde, who overheard these words, thereupon raised her voice to say:\n\u201cYes, indeed, my poor mamma could no longer keep on her feet. It was I\nwho compelled her to lie down, telling her that she could go to sleep\nwithout any uneasiness, for we should get on all right without her--\u201d\n\nSo saying, the girl gave G\u00e9rard a laughing glance. He even fancied that\nhe could detect a faint squeeze of the fresh round arm which was resting\non his own, as though, indeed, she had wished to express her happiness at\nbeing alone with him so that they might settle their own affairs without\nany interference. This quite delighted him; and he began to explain that\nif he had not had _d\u00e9jeuner_ with his comrades that day, it was because\nsome friends had invited him to join them at the railway-station\nrefreshment-room at ten o\u2019clock, and had not given him his liberty until\nafter the departure of the eleven-thirty train.\n\n\u201cAh! the rascals!\u201d he suddenly resumed. \u201cDo you hear them, mademoiselle?\u201d\n\nThe little party was now nearing its destination, and the uproarious\nlaughter and chatter of youth rang out from a clump of trees which\nconcealed the old zinc and plaster building in which the \u201cordinary\u201d was\ninstalled. G\u00e9rard began by taking the visitors into the kitchen, a very\nspacious apartment, well fitted up, and containing a huge range and an\nimmense table, to say nothing of numerous gigantic cauldrons. Here,\nmoreover, the young man called the attention of his companions to the\ncircumstance that the cook, a fat, jovial-looking man, had the red cross\npinned on his white jacket, being himself a member of the pilgrimage.\nThen, pushing open a door, G\u00e9rard invited his friends to enter the common\nroom.\n\nIt was a long apartment containing two rows of plain deal tables; and the\nonly other articles of furniture were numerous rush-seated tavern chairs,\nwith an additional table which served as a sideboard. The whitewashed\nwalls and the flooring of shiny, red tiles looked, however, extremely\nclean amidst this intentional bareness, which was similar to that of a\nmonkish refectory. But, the feature of the place which more particularly\nstruck you, as you crossed the threshold, was the childish gaiety which\nreigned there; for, packed together at the tables, were a hundred and\nfifty hospitallers of all ages, eating with splendid appetites, laughing,\napplauding, and singing, with their mouths full. A wondrous fraternity\nunited these men, who had flocked to Lourdes from every province of\nFrance, and who belonged to all classes, and represented every degree of\nfortune. Many of them knew nothing of one another, save that they met\nhere and elbowed one another during three days every year, living\ntogether like brothers, and then going off and remaining in absolute\nignorance of each other during the rest of the twelvemonth. Nothing could\nbe more charming, however, than to meet again at the next pilgrimage,\nunited in the same charitable work, and to spend a few days of hard\nlabour and boyish delight in common once more; for it all became, as it\nwere, an \u201couting\u201d of a number of big fellows, let loose under a lovely\nsky, and well pleased to be able to enjoy themselves and laugh together.\nAnd even the frugality of the table, with the pride of managing things\nthemselves, of eating the provisions which they had purchased and cooked,\nadded to the general good humour.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d explained G\u00e9rard, \u201cwe are not at all inclined to be sad,\nalthough we have so much hard work to get through. The Hospitality\nnumbers more than three hundred members, but there are only about one\nhundred and fifty here at a time, for we have had to organise two\nsuccessive services, so that there may always be some of us on duty at\nthe Grotto and the hospitals.\u201d\n\nThe sight of the little party of visitors assembled on the threshold of\nthe room seemed to have increased the general delight; and Berthaud, the\nsuperintendent of the bearers, who was lunching at the head of one of the\ntables, gallantly rose up to receive the ladies.\n\n\u201cBut it smells very nice,\u201d exclaimed Madame D\u00e9sagneaux in her giddy way.\n\u201cWon\u2019t you invite us to come and taste your cookery to-morrow?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! we can\u2019t ask ladies,\u201d replied Berthaud, laughing. \u201cBut if you\ngentlemen would like to join us to-morrow we should be extremely pleased\nto entertain you.\u201d\n\nHe had at once noticed the good understanding which prevailed between\nG\u00e9rard and Raymonde, and seemed delighted at it, for he greatly wished\nhis cousin to make this match. He laughed pleasantly, at the enthusiastic\ngaiety which the young girl displayed as she began to question him. \u201cIs\nnot that the Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert,\u201d she asked, \u201cwho is sitting\nover yonder between those two young men who look like shop assistants?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are, in fact, the sons of a small stationer at Tarbes,\u201d replied\nBerthaud; \u201cand that is really the Marquis, your neighbour of the Rue de\nLille, the owner of that magnificent mansion, one of the richest and most\nnoble men of title in France. You see how he is enjoying our mutton\nstew!\u201d\n\nIt was true, the millionaire Marquis seemed delighted to be able to board\nhimself for his three francs a day, and to sit down at table in genuine\ndemocratic fashion by the side of petty _bourgeois_ and workmen who would\nnot have dared to accost him in the street. Was not that chance table\nsymbolical of social communion, effected by the joint practice of\ncharity? For his part, the Marquis was the more hungry that day, as he\nhad bathed over sixty patients, sufferers from all the most abominable\ndiseases of unhappy humanity, at the piscinas that morning. And the scene\naround him seemed like a realisation of the evangelical commonalty; but\ndoubtless it was so charming and so gay simply because its duration was\nlimited to three days.\n\nAlthough M. de Guersaint had but lately risen from table, his curiosity\nprompted him to taste the mutton stew, and he pronounced it perfect.\nMeantime, Pierre caught sight of Baron Suire, the director of the\nHospitality, walking about between the rows of tables with an air of some\nimportance, as though he had allotted himself the task of keeping an eye\non everything, even on the manner in which his staff fed itself. The\nyoung priest thereupon remembered the ardent desire which Marie had\nexpressed to spend the night in front of the Grotto, and it occurred to\nhim that the Baron might be willing to give the necessary authorisation.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d replied the director, who had become quite grave whilst\nlistening to Pierre, \u201cwe do sometimes allow it; but it is always a very\ndelicate matter! You assure me at all events that this young person is\nnot consumptive? Well, well, since you say that she so much desires it I\nwill mention the matter to Father Fourcade and warn Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re,\nso that she may let you take the young lady away.\u201d\n\nHe was in reality a very good-natured fellow, albeit so fond of assuming\nthe air of an indispensable man weighed down by the heaviest\nresponsibilities. In his turn he now detained the visitors, and gave them\nfull particulars concerning the organisation of the Hospitality. Its\nmembers said prayers together every morning. Two board meetings were held\neach day, and were attended by all the heads of departments, as well as\nby the reverend Fathers and some of the chaplains. All the hospitallers\ntook the Sacrament as frequently as possible. And, moreover, there were\nmany complicated tasks to be attended to, a prodigious rotation of\nduties, quite a little world to be governed with a firm hand. The Baron\nspoke like a general who each year gains a great victory over the spirit\nof the age; and, sending Berthaud back to finish his _d\u00e9jeuner_, he\ninsisted on escorting the ladies into the little sanded courtyard, which\nwas shaded by some fine trees.\n\n\u201cIt is very interesting, very interesting,\u201d repeated Madame D\u00e9sagneaux.\n\u201cWe are greatly obliged to you for your kindness, monsieur.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t mention it, don\u2019t mention it, madame,\u201d answered the Baron. \u201cIt is\nI who am pleased at having had an opportunity to show you my little\narmy.\u201d\n\nSo far G\u00e9rard had not quitted Raymonde\u2019s side; but M. de Guersaint and\nPierre were already exchanging glances suggestive of leave-taking, in\norder that they might repair by themselves to the Place du Marcadal, when\nMadame D\u00e9sagneaux suddenly remembered that a friend had requested her to\nsend her a bottle of Lourdes water. And she thereupon asked G\u00e9rard how\nshe was to execute this commission. The young man began to laugh. \u201cWill\nyou again accept me as a guide?\u201d said he. \u201cAnd by the way, if these\ngentlemen like to come as well, I will show you the place where the\nbottles are filled, corked, packed in cases, and then sent off. It is a\ncurious sight.\u201d\n\nM. de Guersaint immediately consented; and all five of them set out\nagain, Madame D\u00e9sagneaux still between the architect and the priest,\nwhilst Raymonde and G\u00e9rard brought up the rear. The crowd in the burning\nsunlight was increasing; the Place du Rosaire was now overflowing with an\nidle sauntering mob resembling some concourse of sight-seers on a day of\npublic rejoicing.\n\nThe bottling and packing shops were situated under one of the arches on\nthe left-hand side of the Place. They formed a suite of three apartments\nof very simple aspect. In the first one the bottles were filled in the\nmost ordinary of fashions. A little green-painted zinc barrel, not unlike\na watering-cask, was dragged by a man from the Grotto, and the\nlight-coloured bottles were then simply filled at its tap, one by one;\nthe blouse-clad workman entrusted with the duty exercising no particular\nwatchfulness to prevent the water from overflowing. In fact there was\nquite a puddle of it upon the ground. There were no labels on the\nbottles; the little leaden capsules placed over the corks alone bore an\ninscription, and they were coated with a kind of ceruse, doubtless to\nensure preservation. Then came two other rooms which formed regular\npacking shops, with carpenters\u2019 benches, tools, and heaps of shavings.\nThe boxes, most frequently made for one bottle or for two, were put\ntogether with great care, and the bottles were deposited inside them, on\nbeds of fine wood parings. The scene reminded one in some degree of the\npacking halls for flowers at Nice and for preserved fruits at Grasse.\n\nG\u00e9rard went on giving explanations with a quiet, satisfied air. \u201cThe\nwater,\u201d he said, \u201creally comes from the Grotto, as you can yourselves\nsee, so that all the foolish jokes which one hears really have no basis.\nAnd everything is perfectly simple, natural, and goes on in the broad\ndaylight. I would also point out to you that the Fathers don\u2019t sell the\nwater as they are accused of doing. For instance, a bottle of water here\ncosts twenty centimes,* which is only the price of the bottle itself. If\nyou wish to have it sent to anybody you naturally have to pay for the\npacking and the carriage, and then it costs you one franc and seventy\ncentimes.** However, you are perfectly at liberty to go to the source and\nfill the flasks and cans and other receptacles that you may choose to\nbring with you.\u201d\n\n  * Four cents, U.S.A.\n\n  ** About 32 cents, U.S.A.\n\nPierre reflected that the profits of the reverend Fathers in this respect\ncould not be very large ones, for their gains were limited to what they\nmade by manufacturing the boxes and supplying the bottles, which latter,\npurchased by the thousand, certainly did not cost them so much as twenty\ncentimes apiece. However, Raymonde and Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, as well as M.\nde Guersaint, who had such a lively imagination, experienced deep\ndisappointment at sight of the little green barrel, the capsules, sticky\nwith ceruse, and the piles of shavings lying around the benches. They had\ndoubtless imagined all sorts of ceremonies, the observance of certain\nrites in bottling the miraculous water, priests in vestments pronouncing\nblessings, and choir-boys singing hymns of praise in pure crystalline\nvoices. For his part, Pierre, in presence of all this vulgar bottling and\npacking, ended by thinking of the active power of faith. When one of\nthose bottles reaches some far-away sick-room, and is unpacked there, and\nthe sufferer falls upon his knees, and so excites himself by\ncontemplating and drinking the pure water that he actually brings about\nthe cure of his ailment, there must truly be a most extraordinary plunge\ninto all-powerful illusion.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d exclaimed G\u00e9rard as they came out, \u201cwould you like to see the\nstorehouse where the tapers are kept, before going to the offices? It is\nonly a couple of steps away.\u201d\n\nAnd then, not even waiting for their answer, he led them to the opposite\nside of the Place du Rosaire. His one desire was to amuse Raymonde, but,\nin point of fact, the aspect of the place where the tapers were stored\nwas even less entertaining than that of the packing-rooms which they had\njust left. This storehouse, a kind of deep vault under one of the\nright-hand arches of the Place, was divided by timber into a number of\nspacious compartments, in which lay an extraordinary collection of\ntapers, classified according to size. The overplus of all the tapers\noffered to the Grotto was deposited here; and such was the number of\nthese superfluous candles that the little conveyances stationed near the\nGrotto railing, ready to receive the pilgrims\u2019 offerings, had to be\nbrought to the storehouse several times a day in order to be emptied\nthere, after which they were returned to the Grotto, and were promptly\nfilled again. In theory, each taper that was offered ought to have been\nburnt at the feet of the Virgin\u2019s statue; but so great was the number of\nthese offerings, that, although a couple of hundred tapers of all sizes\nwere kept burning by day and night, it was impossible to exhaust the\nsupply, which went on increasing and increasing. There was a rumour that\nthe Fathers could not even find room to store all this wax, but had to\nsell it over and over again; and, indeed, certain friends of the Grotto\nconfessed, with a touch of pride, that the profit on the tapers alone\nwould have sufficed to defray all the expenses of the business.\n\nThe quantity of these votive candles quite stupefied Raymonde and Madame\nD\u00e9sagneaux. How many, how many there were! The smaller ones, costing from\nfifty centimes to a franc apiece, were piled up in fabulous numbers. M.\nde Guersaint, desirous of getting at the exact figures, quite lost\nhimself in the puzzling calculation he attempted. As for Pierre, it was\nin silence that he gazed upon this mass of wax, destined to be burnt in\nopen daylight to the glory of God; and although he was by no means a\nrigid utilitarian, and could well understand that some apparent acts of\nextravagance yield an illusive enjoyment and satisfaction which provide\nhumanity with as much sustenance as bread, he could not, on the other\nhand, refrain from reflecting on the many benefits which might have been\nconferred on the poor and the ailing with the money represented by all\nthat wax, which would fly away in smoke.\n\n\u201cBut come, what about that bottle which I am to send off?\u201d abruptly asked\nMadame D\u00e9sagneaux.\n\n\u201cWe will go to the office,\u201d replied G\u00e9rard. \u201cIn five minutes everything\nwill be settled.\u201d\n\nThey had to cross the Place du Rosaire once more and ascend the stone\nstairway leading to the Basilica. The office was up above, on the left\nhand, at the corner of the path leading to the Calvary. The building was\na paltry one, a hut of lath and plaster which the wind and the rain had\nreduced to a state of ruin. On a board outside was the inscription:\n\u201cApply here with reference to Masses, Offerings, and Brotherhoods.\nForwarding office for Lourdes water. Subscriptions to the \u2018Annals of O.\nL. of Lourdes.\u2019\u201d How many millions of people must have already passed\nthrough this wretched shanty, which seemed to date from the innocent days\nwhen the foundations of the adjacent Basilica had scarcely been laid!\n\nThe whole party went in, eager to see what might be inside. But they\nsimply found a wicket at which Madame D\u00e9sagneaux had to stop in order to\ngive her friend\u2019s name and address; and when she had paid one franc and\nseventy centimes, a small printed receipt was handed her, such as you\nreceive on registering luggage at a railway station.\n\nAs soon as they were outside again G\u00e9rard pointed to a large building\nstanding two or three hundred yards away, and resumed: \u201cThere, that is\nwhere the Fathers reside.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut we see nothing of them,\u201d remarked Pierre.\n\nThis observation so astonished the young man that he remained for a\nmoment without replying. \u201cIt\u2019s true,\u201d he at last said, \u201cwe do not see\nthem, but then they give up the custody of everything--the Grotto and all\nthe rest--to the Fathers of the Assumption during the national\npilgrimage.\u201d\n\nPierre looked at the building which had been pointed out to him, and\nnoticed that it was a massive stone pile resembling a fortress. The\nwindows were closed, and the whole edifice looked lifeless. Yet\neverything at Lourdes came from it, and to it also everything returned.\nIt seemed, in fact, to the young priest that he could hear the silent,\nformidable rake-stroke which extended over the entire valley, which\ncaught hold of all who had come to the spot, and placed both the gold and\nthe blood of the throng in the clutches of those reverend Fathers!\nHowever, G\u00e9rard just then resumed in a low voice \u201cBut come, they do show\nthemselves, for here is the reverend superior, Father Capdebarthe\nhimself.\u201d\n\nAn ecclesiastic was indeed just passing, a man with the appearance of a\npeasant, a knotty frame, and a large head which looked as though carved\nwith a billhook. His opaque eyes were quite expressionless, and his face,\nwith its worn features, had retained a loamy tint, a gloomy, russet\nreflection of the earth. Monseigneur Laurence had really made a politic\nselection in confiding the organisation and management of the Grotto to\nthose Garaison missionaries, who were so tenacious and covetous, for the\nmost part sons of mountain peasants and passionately attached to the\nsoil.\n\nHowever, the little party now slowly retraced its steps by way of the\nPlateau de la Merlasse, the broad boulevard which skirts the inclined way\non the left hand and leads to the Avenue de la Grotte. It was already\npast one o\u2019clock, but people were still eating their _d\u00e9jeuners_ from one\nto the other end of the overflowing town. Many of the fifty thousand\npilgrims and sight-seers collected within it had not yet been able to sit\ndown and eat; and Pierre, who had left the _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_ still crowded,\nwho had just seen the hospitallers squeezing together so gaily at the\n\u201cordinary,\u201d found more and more tables at each step he took. On all sides\npeople were eating, eating without a pause. Hereabouts, however, in the\nopen air, on either side of the broad road, the hungry ones were humble\nfolk who had rushed upon the tables set up on either footway--tables\nformed of a couple of long boards, flanked by two forms, and shaded from\nthe sun by narrow linen awnings. Broth and coffee were sold at these\nplaces at a penny a cup. The little loaves heaped up in high baskets also\ncost a penny apiece. Hanging from the poles which upheld the awnings were\nsausages, chitterlings, and hams. Some of the open-air _restaurateurs_\nwere frying potatoes, and others were concocting more or less savoury\nmesses of inferior meat and onions. A pungent smoke, a violent odour,\narose into the sunlight, mingling with the dust which was raised by the\ncontinuous tramp of the promenaders. Rows of people, moreover, were\nwaiting at each cantine, so that each time a party rose from table fresh\ncustomers took possession of the benches ranged beside the\noilcloth-covered planks, which were so narrow that there was scarcely\nroom for two bowls of soup to be placed side by side. And one and all\nmade haste, and devoured with the ravenous hunger born of their fatigue,\nthat insatiable appetite which so often follows upon great moral shocks.\nIn fact, when the mind had exhausted itself in prayer, when everything\nphysical had been forgotten amidst the mental flight into the legendary\nheavens, the human animal suddenly appeared, again asserted itself, and\nbegan to gorge. Moreover, under that dazzling Sunday sky, the scene was\nlike that of a fair-field with all the gluttony of a merrymaking\ncommunity, a display of the delight which they felt in living, despite\nthe multiplicity of their abominable ailments and the dearth of the\nmiracles they hoped for.\n\n\u201cThey eat, they amuse themselves; what else can one expect?\u201d remarked\nG\u00e9rard, guessing the thoughts of his amiable companions.\n\n\u201cAh! poor people!\u201d murmured Pierre, \u201cthey have a perfect right to do so.\u201d\n\nHe was greatly touched to see human nature reassert itself in this\nfashion. However, when they had got to the lower part of the boulevard\nnear the Grotto, his feelings were hurt at sight of the desperate\neagerness displayed by the female vendors of tapers and bouquets, who\nwith the rough fierceness of conquerors assailed the passers-by in bands.\nThey were mostly young women, with bare heads, or with kerchiefs tied\nover their hair, and they displayed extraordinary effrontery. Even the\nold ones were scarcely more discreet. With parcels of tapers under their\narms, they brandished the one which they offered for sale and even thrust\nit into the hand of the promenader. \u201cMonsieur,\u201d \u201cmadame,\u201d they called,\n\u201cbuy a taper, buy a taper, it will bring you luck!\u201d One gentleman, who\nwas surrounded and shaken by three of the youngest of these harpies,\nalmost lost the skirts of his frock-coat in attempting to escape their\nclutches. Then the scene began afresh with the bouquets--large round\nbouquets they were, carelessly fastened together and looking like\ncabbages. \u201cA bouquet, madame!\u201d was the cry. \u201cA bouquet for the Blessed\nVirgin!\u201d If the lady escaped, she heard muttered insults behind her.\nTrafficking, impudent trafficking, pursued the pilgrims to the very\noutskirts of the Grotto. Trade was not merely triumphantly installed in\nevery one of the shops, standing close together and transforming each\nstreet into a bazaar, but it overran the footways and barred the road\nwith hand-carts full of chaplets, medals, statuettes, and religious\nprints. On all sides people were buying almost to the same extent as they\nate, in order that they might take away with them some souvenir of this\nholy Kermesse. And the bright gay note of this commercial eagerness, this\nscramble of hawkers, was supplied by the urchins who rushed about through\nthe crowd, crying the \u201cJournal de la Grotte.\u201d Their sharp, shrill voices\npierced the ear: \u201cThe \u2018Journal de la Grotte,\u2019 this morning\u2019s number, two\nsous, the \u2018Journal de la Grotte.\u2019\u201d\n\nAmidst the continual pushing which accompanied the eddying of the\never-moving crowd, G\u00e9rard\u2019s little party became separated. He and\nRaymonde remained behind the others. They had begun talking together in\nlow tones, with an air of smiling intimacy, lost and isolated as they\nwere in the dense crowd. And Madame D\u00e9sagneaux at last had to stop, look\nback, and call to them: \u201cCome on, or we shall lose one another!\u201d\n\nAs they drew near, Pierre heard the girl exclaim: \u201cMamma is so very busy;\nspeak to her before we leave.\u201d And G\u00e9rard thereupon replied: \u201cIt is\nunderstood. You have made me very happy, mademoiselle.\u201d\n\nThus the husband had been secured, the marriage decided upon, during this\ncharming promenade among the sights of Lourdes. Raymonde had completed\nher conquest, and G\u00e9rard had at last taken a resolution, realising how\ngay and sensible she was, as she walked beside him leaning on his arm.\n\nM. de Guersaint, however, had raised his eyes, and was heard inquiring:\n\u201cAre not those people up there, on that balcony, the rich folk who made\nthe journey in the same train as ourselves?--You know whom I mean, that\nlady who is so very ill, and whose husband and sister accompany her?\u201d\n\nHe was alluding to the Dieulafays; and they indeed were the persons whom\nhe now saw on the balcony of a suite of rooms which they had rented in a\nnew house overlooking the lawns of the Rosary. They here occupied a\nfirst-floor, furnished with all the luxury that Lourdes could provide,\ncarpets, hangings, mirrors, and many other things, without mentioning a\nstaff of servants despatched beforehand from Paris. As the weather was so\nfine that afternoon, the large armchair on which lay the poor ailing\nwoman had been rolled on to the balcony. You could see her there, clad in\na lace _peignoir_. Her husband, always correctly attired in a black\nfrock-coat, stood beside her on her right hand, whilst her sister, in a\ndelightful pale mauve gown, sat on her left smiling and leaning over\nevery now and then so as to speak to her, but apparently receiving no\nreply.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d declared little Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, \u201cI have often heard people speak\nof Madame Jousseur, that lady in mauve. She is the wife of a diplomatist\nwho neglects her, it seems, in spite of her great beauty; and last year\nthere was a deal of talk about her fancy for a young colonel who is well\nknown in Parisian society. It is said, however, in Catholic _salons_ that\nher religious principles enabled her to conquer it.\u201d\n\nThey all five remained there, looking up at the balcony. \u201cTo think,\u201d\n resumed Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, \u201cthat her sister, poor woman, was once her\nliving portrait.\u201d And, indeed, there was an expression of greater\nkindliness and more gentle gaiety on Madame Dieulafay\u2019s face. And now you\nsee her--no different from a dead woman except that she is above instead\nof under ground--with her flesh wasted away, reduced to a livid, boneless\nthing which they scarcely dare to move. Ah! the unhappy woman!\n\nRaymonde thereupon assured the others that Madame Dieulafay, who had been\nmarried scarcely two years previously, had brought all the jewellery\ngiven her on the occasion of her wedding to offer it as a gift to Our\nLady of Lourdes; and G\u00e9rard confirmed this assertion, saying that the\njewellery had been handed over to the treasurer of the Basilica that very\nmorning with a golden lantern studded with gems and a large sum of money\ndestined for the relief of the poor. However, the Blessed Virgin could\nnot have been touched as yet, for the sufferer\u2019s condition seemed, if\nanything, to be worse.\n\nFrom that moment Pierre no longer beheld aught save that young woman on\nthat handsome balcony, that woeful, wealthy creature lying there high\nabove the merrymaking throng, the Lourdes mob which was feasting and\nlaughing in the Sunday sunshine. The two dear ones who were so tenderly\nwatching over her--her sister who had forsaken her society triumphs, her\nhusband who had forgotten his financial business, his millions dispersed\nthroughout the world--increased, by their irreproachable demeanour, the\nwoefulness of the group which they thus formed high above all other\nheads, and face to face with the lovely valley. For Pierre they alone\nremained; and they were exceedingly wealthy and exceedingly wretched.\n\nHowever, lingering in this wise on the footway with their eyes upturned,\nthe five promenaders narrowly escaped being knocked down and run over,\nfor at every moment fresh vehicles were coming up, for the most part\nlandaus drawn by four horses, which were driven at a fast trot, and whose\nbells jingled merrily. The occupants of these carriages were tourists,\nvisitors to the waters of Pau, Bareges, and Cauterets, whom curiosity had\nattracted to Lourdes, and who were delighted with the fine weather and\nquite inspirited by their rapid drive across the mountains. They would\nremain at Lourdes only a few hours; after hastening to the Grotto and the\nBasilica in seaside costumes, they would start off again, laughing, and\nwell pleased at having seen it all. In this wise families in light\nattire, bands of young women with bright parasols, darted hither and\nthither among the grey, neutral-tinted crowd of pilgrims, imparting to\nit, in a yet more pronounced manner, the aspect of a fair-day mob, amidst\nwhich folks of good society deign to come and amuse themselves.\n\nAll at once Madame D\u00e9sagneaux raised a cry \u201cWhat, is it you, Berthe?\u201d And\nthereupon she embraced a tall, charming brunette who had just alighted\nfrom a landau with three other young women, the whole party smiling and\nanimated. Everyone began talking at once, and all sorts of merry\nexclamations rang out, in the delight they felt at meeting in this\nfashion. \u201cOh! we are at Cauterets, my dear,\u201d said the tall brunette. \u201cAnd\nas everybody comes here, we decided to come all four together. And your\nhusband, is he here with you?\u201d\n\nMadame D\u00e9sagneaux began protesting: \u201cOf course not,\u201d said she. \u201cHe is at\nTrouville, as you ought to know. I shall start to join him on Thursday.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, of course,\u201d resumed the tall brunette, who, like her friend,\nseemed to be an amiable, giddy creature, \u201cI was forgetting; you are here\nwith the pilgrimage.\u201d\n\nThen Madame D\u00e9sagneaux offered to guide her friends, promising to show\nthem everything of interest in less than a couple of hours; and turning\nto Raymonde, who stood by, smiling, she added \u201cCome with us, my dear;\nyour mother won\u2019t be anxious.\u201d\n\nThe ladies and Pierre and M. de Guersaint thereupon exchanged bows: and\nG\u00e9rard also took leave, tenderly pressing Raymonde\u2019s hand, with his eyes\nfixed on hers, as though to pledge himself definitively. The women\nswiftly departed, directing their steps towards the Grotto, and when\nG\u00e9rard also had gone off, returning to his duties, M. de Guersaint said\nto Pierre: \u201cAnd the hairdresser on the Place du Marcadal, I really must\ngo and see him. You will come with me, won\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course I will go wherever you like. I am quite at your disposal as\nMarie does not need us.\u201d\n\nFollowing the pathways between the large lawns which stretch out in front\nof the Rosary, they reached the new bridge, where they had another\nencounter, this time with Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises, who was acting as guide to\ntwo young married ladies who had arrived that morning from Tarbes.\nWalking between them with the gallant air of a society priest, he was\nshowing them Lourdes and explaining it to them, keeping them well away,\nhowever, from its more repugnant features, its poor and its ailing folk,\nits odour of low misery, which, it must be admitted, had well-nigh\ndisappeared that fine, sunshiny day. At the first word which M. de\nGuersaint addressed to him with respect to the hiring of a vehicle for\nthe trip to Gavarnie, the Abb\u00e9 was seized with a dread lest he should be\nobliged to leave his pretty lady-visitors: \u201cAs you please, my dear sir,\u201d\n he replied. \u201cKindly attend to the matter, and--you are quite right, make\nthe cheapest arrangements possible, for I shall have two ecclesiastics of\nsmall means with me. There will be four of us. Let me know at the hotel\nthis evening at what hour we shall start.\u201d\n\nThereupon he again joined his lady-friends, and led them towards the\nGrotto, following the shady path which skirts the Gave, a cool,\nsequestered path well suited for lovers\u2019 walks.\n\nFeeling somewhat tired, Pierre had remained apart from the others,\nleaning against the parapet of the new bridge. And now for the first time\nhe was struck by the prodigious number of priests among the crowd. He saw\nall varieties of them swarming across the bridge: priests of correct mien\nwho had come with the pilgrimage and who could be recognised by their air\nof assurance and their clean cassocks; poor village priests who were far\nmore timid and badly clothed, and who, after making sacrifices in order\nthat they might indulge in the journey, would return home quite scared\nand, finally, there was the whole crowd of unattached ecclesiastics who\nhad come nobody knew whence, and who enjoyed such absolute liberty that\nit was difficult to be sure whether they had even said their mass that\nmorning. They doubtless found this liberty very agreeable; and thus the\ngreater number of them, like Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises, had simply come on a\nholiday excursion, free from all duties, and happy at being able to live\nlike ordinary men, lost, unnoticed as they were in the multitude around\nthem. And from the young, carefully groomed and perfumed priest, to the\nold one in a dirty cassock and shoes down at heel, the entire species had\nits representative in the throng--there were corpulent ones, others but\nmoderately fat, thin ones, tall ones and short ones, some whom faith had\nbrought and whom ardour was consuming, some also who simply plied their\ncalling like worthy men, and some, moreover, who were fond of intriguing,\nand who were only present in order that they might help the good cause.\nHowever, Pierre was quite surprised to see such a stream of priests pass\nbefore him, each with his special passion, and one and all hurrying to\nthe Grotto as one hurries to a duty, a belief, a pleasure, or a task. He\nnoticed one among the number, a very short, slim, dark man with a\npronounced Italian accent, whose glittering eyes seemed to be taking a\nplan of Lourdes, who looked, indeed, like one of those spies who come and\npeer around with a view to conquest; and then he observed another one, an\nenormous fellow with a paternal air, who was breathing hard through\ninordinate eating, and who paused in front of a poor sick woman, and\nended by slipping a five-franc piece into her hand.\n\nJust then, however, M. de Guersaint returned: \u201cWe merely have to go down\nthe boulevard and the Rue Basse,\u201d said he.\n\nPierre followed him without answering. He had just felt his cassock on\nhis shoulders for the first time that afternoon, for never had it seemed\nso light to him as whilst he was walking about amidst the scramble of the\npilgrimage. The young fellow was now living in a state of mingled\nunconsciousness and dizziness, ever hoping that faith would fall upon him\nlike a lightning flash, in spite of all the vague uneasiness which was\ngrowing within him at sight of the things which he beheld. However, the\nspectacle of that ever-swelling stream of priests no longer wounded his\nheart; fraternal feelings towards these unknown colleagues had returned\nto him; how many of them there must be who believed no more than he did\nhimself, and yet, like himself, honestly fulfilled their mission as\nguides and consolers!\n\n\u201cThis boulevard is a new one, you know,\u201d said M. de Guersaint, all at\nonce raising his voice. \u201cThe number of houses built during the last\ntwenty years is almost beyond belief. There is quite a new town here.\u201d\n\nThe Lapaca flowed along behind the buildings on their right and, their\ncuriosity inducing them to turn into a narrow lane, they came upon some\nstrange old structures on the margin of the narrow stream. Several\nancient mills here displayed their wheels; among them one which\nMonseigneur Laurence had given to Bernadette\u2019s parents after the\napparitions. Tourists, moreover, were here shown the pretended abode of\nBernadette, a hovel whither the Soubirous family had removed on leaving\nthe Rue des Petits Foss\u00e9s, and in which the young girl, as she was\nalready boarding with the Sisters of Nevers, can have but seldom slept.\nAt last, by way of the Rue Basse, Pierre and his companion reached the\nPlace du Marcadal.\n\nThis was a long, triangular, open space, the most animated and luxurious\nof the squares of the old town, the one where the caf\u00e9s, the chemists,\nall the finest shops were situated. And, among the latter, one showed\nconspicuously, coloured as it was a lively green, adorned with lofty\nmirrors, and surmounted by a broad board bearing in gilt letters the\ninscription: \u201cCazaban, Hairdresser\u201d.\n\nM. de Guersaint and Pierre went in, but there was nobody in the salon and\nthey had to wait. A terrible clatter of forks resounded from the\nadjoining room, an ordinary dining-room transformed into a _table\nd\u2019h\u00f4te_, in which some twenty people were having _d\u00e9jeuner_ although it\nwas already two o\u2019clock. The afternoon was progressing, and yet people\nwere still eating from one to the other end of Lourdes. Like every other\nhouseholder in the town, whatever his religious convictions might be,\nCazaban, in the pilgrimage season, let his bedrooms, surrendered his\ndining-room, end sought refuge in his cellar, where, heaped up with his\nfamily, he ate and slept, although this unventilated hole was no more\nthan three yards square. However, the passion for trading and moneymaking\ncarried all before it; at pilgrimage time the whole population\ndisappeared like that of a conquered city, surrendering even the beds of\nits women and its children to the pilgrims, seating them at its tables,\nand supplying them with food.\n\n\u201cIs there nobody here?\u201d called M. de Guersaint after waiting a moment.\n\nAt last a little man made his appearance, Cazaban himself, a type of the\nknotty but active Pyrenean, with a long face, prominent cheek-bones, and\na sunburned complexion spotted here and there with red. His big,\nglittering eyes never remained still; and the whole of his spare little\nfigure quivered with incessant exuberance of speech and gesture.\n\n\u201cFor you, monsieur--a shave, eh?\u201d said he. \u201cI must beg your pardon for\nkeeping you waiting; but my assistant has gone out, and I was in there\nwith my boarders. If you will kindly sit down, I will attend to you at\nonce.\u201d\n\nThereupon, deigning to operate in person, Cazaban began to stir up the\nlather and strop the razor. He had glanced rather nervously, however, at\nthe cassock worn by Pierre, who without a word had seated himself in a\ncorner and taken up a newspaper in the perusal of which he appeared to be\nabsorbed.\n\nA short interval of silence followed; but it was fraught with suffering\nfor Cazaban, and whilst lathering his customer\u2019s chin he began to\nchatter: \u201cMy boarders lingered this morning such a long time at the\nGrotto, monsieur, that they have scarcely sat down to _d\u00e9jeuner_. You can\nhear them, eh? I was staying with them out of politeness. However, I owe\nmyself to my customers as well, do I not? One must try to please\neverybody.\u201d\n\nM. de Guersaint, who also was fond of a chat, thereupon began to question\nhim: \u201cYou lodge some of the pilgrims, I suppose?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! we all lodge some of them, monsieur; it is necessary for the town,\u201d\n replied the barber.\n\n\u201cAnd you accompany them to the Grotto?\u201d\n\nAt this, however, Cazaban revolted, and, holding up his razor, he\nanswered with an air of dignity \u201cNever, monsieur, never! For five years\npast I have not been in that new town which they are building.\u201d\n\nHe was still seeking to restrain himself, and again glanced at Pierre,\nwhose face was hidden by the newspaper. The sight of the red cross pinned\non M. de Guersaint\u2019s jacket was also calculated to render him prudent;\nnevertheless his tongue won the victory. \u201cWell, monsieur, opinions are\nfree, are they not?\u201d said he. \u201cI respect yours, but for my part I don\u2019t\nbelieve in all that phantasmagoria! Oh I\u2019ve never concealed it! I was\nalready a republican and a freethinker in the days of the Empire. There\nwere barely four men of those views in the whole town at that time. Oh!\nI\u2019m proud of it.\u201d\n\nHe had begun to shave M. de Guersaint\u2019s left cheek and was quite\ntriumphant. From that moment a stream of words poured forth from his\nmouth, a stream which seemed to be inexhaustible. To begin with, he\nbrought the same charges as Majest\u00e9 against the Fathers of the Grotto. He\nreproached them for their dealings in tapers, chaplets, prints, and\ncrucifixes, for the disloyal manner in which they competed with those who\nsold those articles as well as with the hotel and lodging-house keepers.\nAnd he was also wrathful with the Blue Sisters of the Immaculate\nConception, for had they not robbed him of two tenants, two old ladies,\nwho spent three weeks at Lourdes each year? Moreover you could divine\nwithin him all the slowly accumulated, overflowing spite with which the\nold town regarded the new town--that town which had sprung up so quickly\non the other side of the castle, that rich city with houses as big as\npalaces, whither flowed all the life, all the luxury, all the money of\nLourdes, so that it was incessantly growing larger and wealthier, whilst\nits elder sister, the poor, antique town of the mountains, with its\nnarrow, grass-grown, deserted streets, seemed near the point of death.\nNevertheless the struggle still continued; the old town seemed determined\nnot to die, and, by lodging pilgrims and opening shops on her side,\nendeavoured to compel her ungrateful junior to grant her a share of the\nspoils. But custom only flowed to the shops which were near the Grotto,\nand only the poorer pilgrims were willing to lodge so far away; so that\nthe unequal conditions of the struggle intensified the rupture and turned\nthe high town and the low town into two irreconcilable enemies, who\npreyed upon one another amidst continual intrigues.\n\n\u201cAh, no! They certainly won\u2019t see me at their Grotto,\u201d resumed Cazaban,\nwith his rageful air. \u201cWhat an abusive use they make of that Grotto of\ntheirs! They serve it up in every fashion! To think of such idolatry,\nsuch gross superstition in the nineteenth century! Just ask them if they\nhave cured a single sufferer belonging to the town during the last twenty\nyears! Yet there are plenty of infirm people crawling about our streets.\nIt was our folk that benefited by the first miracles; but it would seem\nthat the miraculous water has long lost all its power, so far as we are\nconcerned. We are too near it; people have to come from a long distance\nif they want it to act on them. It\u2019s really all too stupid; why, I\nwouldn\u2019t go there even if I were offered a hundred francs!\u201d\n\nPierre\u2019s immobility was doubtless irritating the barber. He had now begun\nto shave M. de Guersaint\u2019s right cheek; and was inveighing against the\nFathers of the Immaculate Conception, whose greed for gain was the one\ncause of all the misunderstanding. These Fathers who were at home there,\nsince they had purchased from the Municipality the land on which they\ndesired to build, did not even carry out the stipulations of the contract\nthey had signed, for there were two clauses in it forbidding all trading,\nsuch as the sale of the water and of religious articles. Innumerable\nactions might have been brought against them. But they snapped their\nfingers, and felt themselves so powerful that they no longer allowed a\nsingle offering to go to the parish, but arranged matters so that the\nwhole harvest of money should be garnered by the Grotto and the Basilica.\n\nAnd, all at once, Cazaban candidly exclaimed: \u201cIf they were only\nreasonable, if they would only share with us!\u201d Then, when M. de Guersaint\nhad washed his face, and reseated himself, the hairdresser resumed: \u201cAnd\nif I were to tell you, monsieur, what they have done with our poor town!\nForty years ago all the young girls here conducted themselves properly, I\nassure you. I remember that in my young days when a young man was wicked\nhe generally had to go elsewhere. But times have changed, our manners are\nno longer the same. Nowadays nearly all the girls content themselves with\nselling candles and nosegays; and you must have seen them catching hold\nof the passers-by and thrusting their goods into their hands! It is\nreally shameful to see so many bold girls about! They make a lot of\nmoney, acquire lazy habits, and, instead of working during the winter,\nsimply wait for the return of the pilgrimage season. And I assure you\nthat the young men don\u2019t need to go elsewhere nowadays. No, indeed! And\nadd to all this the suspicious floating element which swells the\npopulation as soon as the first fine weather sets in--the coachmen, the\nhawkers, the cantine keepers, all the low-class, wandering folk reeking\nwith grossness and vice--and you can form an idea of the honest new town\nwhich they have given us with the crowds that come to their Grotto and\ntheir Basilica!\u201d\n\nGreatly struck by these remarks, Pierre had let his newspaper fall and\nbegun to listen. It was now, for the first time, that he fully realised\nthe difference between the two Lourdes--old Lourdes so honest and so\npious in its tranquil solitude, and new Lourdes corrupted, demoralised by\nthe circulation of so much money, by such a great enforced increase of\nwealth, by the ever-growing torrent of strangers sweeping through it, by\nthe fatal rotting influence of the conflux of thousands of people, the\ncontagion of evil examples. And what a terrible result it seemed when one\nthought of Bernadette, the pure, candid girl kneeling before the wild\nprimitive grotto, when one thought of all the naive faith, all the\nfervent purity of those who had first begun the work! Had they desired\nthat the whole countryside should be poisoned in this wise by lucre and\nhuman filth? Yet it had sufficed that the nations should flock there for\na pestilence to break out.\n\nSeeing that Pierre was listening, Cazaban made a final threatening\ngesture as though to sweep away all this poisonous superstition. Then,\nrelapsing into silence, he finished cutting M. de Guersaint\u2019s hair.\n\n\u201cThere you are, monsieur!\u201d\n\nThe architect rose, and it was only now that he began to speak of the\nconveyance which he wished to hire. At first the hairdresser declined to\nenter into the matter, pretending that they must apply to his brother at\nthe Champ Commun; but at last he consented to take the order. A\npair-horse landau for Gavarnie was priced at fifty francs. However, he\nwas so pleased at having talked so much, and so flattered at hearing\nhimself called an honest man, that he eventually agreed to charge only\nforty francs. There were four persons in the party, so this would make\nten francs apiece. And it was agreed that they should start off at about\ntwo in the morning, so that they might get back to Lourdes at a tolerably\nearly hour on the Monday evening.\n\n\u201cThe landau will be outside the Hotel of the Apparitions at the appointed\ntime,\u201d repeated Cazaban in his emphatic way. \u201cYou may rely on me,\nmonsieur.\u201d\n\nThen he began to listen. The clatter of crockery did not cease in the\nadjoining room. People were still eating there with that impulsive\nvoracity which had spread from one to the other end of Lourdes. And all\nat once a voice was heard calling for more bread.\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d hastily resumed Cazaban, \u201cmy boarders want me.\u201d And\nthereupon he rushed away, his hands still greasy through fingering the\ncomb.\n\nThe door remained open for a second, and on the walls of the dining-room\nPierre espied various religious prints, and notably a view of the Grotto,\nwhich surprised him; in all probability, however, the hairdresser only\nhung these engravings there during the pilgrimage season by way of\npleasing his boarders.\n\nIt was now nearly three o\u2019clock. When the young priest and M. de\nGuersaint got outside they were astonished at the loud pealing of bells\nwhich was flying through the air. The parish church had responded to the\nfirst stroke of vespers chiming at the Basilica; and now all the\nconvents, one after another, were contributing to the swelling peals. The\ncrystalline notes of the bell of the Carmelites mingled with the grave\nnotes of the bell of the Immaculate Conception; and all the joyous bells\nof the Sisters of Nevers and the Dominicans were jingling together. In\nthis wise, from morning till evening on fine days of festivity, the\nchimes winged their flight above the house-roofs of Lourdes. And nothing\ncould have been gayer than that sonorous melody resounding in the broad\nblue heavens above the gluttonous town, which had at last lunched, and\nwas now comfortably digesting as it strolled about in the sunlight.\n\n\n\n\nIII. THE NIGHT PROCESSION\n\nAS soon as night had fallen Marie, still lying on her bed at the Hospital\nof Our Lady of Dolours, became extremely impatient, for she had learnt\nfrom Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re that Baron Suire had obtained from Father\nFourcade the necessary permission for her to spend the night in front of\nthe Grotto. Thus she kept on questioning Sister Hyacinthe, asking her:\n\u201cPray, Sister, is it not yet nine o\u2019clock?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my child, it is scarcely half-past eight,\u201d was the reply. \u201cHere is a\nnice woollen shawl for you to wrap round you at daybreak, for the Gave is\nclose by, and the mornings are very fresh, you know, in these mountainous\nparts.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! but the nights are so lovely, Sister, and besides, I sleep so little\nhere!\u201d replied Marie; \u201cI cannot be worse off out-of-doors. _Mon Dieu_,\nhow happy I am; how delightful it will be to spend the whole night with\nthe Blessed Virgin!\u201d\n\nThe entire ward was jealous of her; for to remain in prayer before the\nGrotto all night long was the most ineffable of joys, the supreme\nbeatitude. It was said that in the deep peacefulness of night the chosen\nones undoubtedly beheld the Virgin, but powerful protection was needed to\nobtain such a favour as had been granted to Marie; for nowadays the\nreverend Fathers scarcely liked to grant it, as several sufferers had\ndied during the long vigil, falling asleep, as it were, in the midst of\ntheir ecstasy.\n\n\u201cYou will take the Sacrament at the Grotto tomorrow morning, before you\nare brought back here, won\u2019t you, my child?\u201d resumed Sister Hyacinthe.\n\nHowever, nine o\u2019clock at last struck, and, Pierre not arriving, the girl\nwondered whether he, usually so punctual, could have forgotten her? The\nothers were now talking to her of the night procession, which she would\nsee from beginning to end if she only started at once. The ceremonies\nconcluded with a procession every night, but the Sunday one was always\nthe finest, and that evening, it was said, would be remarkably splendid,\nsuch, indeed, as was seldom seen. Nearly thirty thousand pilgrims would\ntake part in it, each carrying a lighted taper: the nocturnal marvels of\nthe sky would be revealed; the stars would descend upon earth. At this\nthought the sufferers began to bewail their fate; what a wretched lot was\ntheirs, to be tied to their beds, unable to see any of those wonders.\n\nAt last Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re approached Marie\u2019s bed. \u201cMy dear girl,\u201d said\nshe, \u201chere is your father with Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\nRadiant with delight, the girl at once forgot her weary waiting. \u201cOh!\npray let us make haste, Pierre,\u201d she exclaimed; \u201cpray let us make haste!\u201d\n\nThey carried her down the stairs, and the young priest harnessed himself\nto the little car, which gently rolled along, under the star-studded\nheavens, whilst M. de Guersaint walked beside it. The night was moonless,\nbut extremely beautiful; the vault above looked like deep blue velvet,\nspangled with diamonds, and the atmosphere was exquisitely mild and pure,\nfragrant with the perfumes from the mountains. Many pilgrims were\nhurrying along the street, all bending their steps towards the Grotto,\nbut they formed a discreet, pensive crowd, with naught of the fair-field,\nlounging character of the daytime throng. And, as soon as the Plateau de\nla Merlasse was reached, the darkness spread out, you entered into a\ngreat lake of shadows formed by the stretching lawns and lofty trees, and\nsaw nothing rising on high save the black, tapering spire of the\nBasilica.\n\nPierre grew rather anxious on finding that the crowd became more and more\ncompact as he advanced. Already on reaching the Place du Rosaire it was\ndifficult to take another forward step. \u201cThere is no hope of getting to\nthe Grotto yet awhile,\u201d he said. \u201cThe best course would be to turn into\none of the pathways behind the pilgrims\u2019 shelter-house and wait there.\u201d\n\nMarie, however, greatly desired to see the procession start. \u201cOh! pray\ntry to go as far as the Gave,\u201d said she. \u201cI shall then see everything\nfrom a distance; I don\u2019t want to go near.\u201d\n\nM. de Guersaint, who was equally inquisitive, seconded this proposal.\n\u201cDon\u2019t be uneasy,\u201d he said to Pierre. \u201cI am here behind, and will take\ncare to let nobody jostle her.\u201d\n\nPierre had to begin pulling the little vehicle again. It took him a\nquarter of an hour to pass under one of the arches of the inclined way on\nthe left hand, so great was the crush of pilgrims at that point. Then,\ntaking a somewhat oblique course, he ended by reaching the quay beside\nthe Gave, where there were only some spectators standing on the sidewalk,\nso that he was able to advance another fifty yards. At last he halted,\nand backed the little car against the quay parapet, in full view of the\nGrotto. \u201cWill you be all right here?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cOh yes, thank you. Only you must sit me up; I shall then be able to see\nmuch better.\u201d\n\nM. de Guersaint raised her into a sitting posture, and then for his part\nclimbed upon the stonework running from one to the other end of the quay.\nA mob of inquisitive people had already scaled it in part, like\nsight-seers waiting for a display of fireworks; and they were all raising\nthemselves on tiptoe, and craning their necks to get a better view.\nPierre himself at last grew interested, although there was, so far,\nlittle to see.\n\nSome thirty thousand people were assembled, and, every moment there were\nfresh arrivals. All carried candles, the lower parts of which were\nwrapped in white paper, on which a picture of Our Lady of Lourdes was\nprinted in blue ink. However, these candles were not yet lighted, and the\nonly illumination that you perceived above the billowy sea of heads was\nthe bright, forge-like glow of the taper-lighted Grotto. A great buzzing\narose, whiffs of human breath blew hither and thither, and these alone\nenabled you to realise that thousands of serried, stifling creatures were\ngathered together in the black depths, like a living sea that was ever\neddying and spreading. There were even people hidden away under the trees\nbeyond the Grotto, in distant recesses of the darkness of which one had\nno suspicion.\n\nAt last a few tapers began to shine forth here and there, like sudden\nsparks of light spangling the obscurity at random. Their number rapidly\nincreased, eyots of stars were formed, whilst at other points there were\nmeteoric trails, milky ways, so to say, flowing midst the constellations.\nThe thirty thousand tapers were being lighted one by one, their beams\ngradually increasing in number till they obscured the bright glow of the\nGrotto and spread, from one to the other end of the promenade, the small\nyellow flames of a gigantic brasier.\n\n\u201cOh! how beautiful it is, Pierre!\u201d murmured Marie; \u201cit is like the\nresurrection of the humble, the bright awakening of the souls of the\npoor.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is superb, superb!\u201d repeated M. de Guersaint, with impassioned\nartistic satisfaction. \u201cDo you see those two trails of light yonder,\nwhich intersect one another and form a cross?\u201d\n\nPierre\u2019s feelings, however, had been touched by what Marie had just said.\nHe was reflecting upon her words. There was truth in them. Taken singly,\nthose slender flames, those mere specks of light, were modest and\nunobtrusive, like the lowly; it was only their great number that supplied\nthe effulgence, the sun-like resplendency. Fresh ones were continually\nappearing, farther and farther away, like waifs and strays. \u201cAh!\u201d\n murmured the young priest, \u201cdo you see that one which has just begun to\nflicker, all by itself, far away--do you see it, Marie? Do you see how it\nfloats and slowly approaches until it is merged in the great lake of\nlight?\u201d\n\nIn the vicinity of the Grotto one could see now as clearly as in the\ndaytime. The trees, illumined from below, were intensely green, like the\npainted trees in stage scenery. Above the moving brasier were some\nmotionless banners, whose embroidered saints and silken cords showed with\nvivid distinctness. And the great reflection ascended to the rock, even\nto the Basilica, whose spire now shone out, quite white, against the\nblack sky; whilst the hillsides across the Gave were likewise brightened,\nand displayed the pale fronts of their convents amidst their sombre\nfoliage.\n\nThere came yet another moment of uncertainty. The flaming lake, in which\neach burning wick was like a little wave, rolled its starry sparkling as\nthough it were about to burst from its bed and flow away in a river. Then\nthe banners began to oscillate, and soon a regular motion set in.\n\n\u201cOh! so they won\u2019t pass this way!\u201d exclaimed M. de Guersaint in a tone of\ndisappointment.\n\nPierre, who had informed himself on the matter, thereupon explained that\nthe procession would first of all ascend the serpentine road--constructed\nat great cost up the hillside--and that it would afterwards pass behind\nthe Basilica, descend by the inclined way on the right hand, and then\nspread out through the gardens.\n\n\u201cLook!\u201d said he; \u201cyou can see the foremost tapers ascending amidst the\ngreenery.\u201d\n\nThen came an enchanting spectacle. Little flickering lights detached\nthemselves from the great bed of fire, and began gently rising, without\nit being possible for one to tell at that distance what connected them\nwith the earth. They moved upward, looking in the darkness like golden\nparticles of the sun. And soon they formed an oblique streak, a streak\nwhich suddenly twisted, then extended again until it curved once more. At\nlast the whole hillside was streaked by a flaming zigzag, resembling\nthose lightning flashes which you see falling from black skies in cheap\nengravings. But, unlike the lightning, the luminous trail did not fade\naway; the little lights still went onward in the same slow, gentle,\ngliding manner. Only for a moment, at rare intervals, was there a sudden\neclipse; the procession, no doubt, was then passing behind some clump of\ntrees. But, farther on, the tapers beamed forth afresh, rising heavenward\nby an intricate path, which incessantly diverged and then started upward\nagain. At last, however, the time came when the lights no longer\nascended, for they had reached the summit of the hill and had begun to\ndisappear at the last turn of the road.\n\nExclamations were rising from the crowd. \u201cThey are passing behind the\nBasilica,\u201d said one. \u201cOh! it will take them twenty minutes before they\nbegin coming down on the other side,\u201d remarked another. \u201cYes, madame,\u201d\n said a third, \u201cthere are thirty thousand of them, and an hour will go by\nbefore the last of them leaves the Grotto.\u201d\n\nEver since the start a sound of chanting had risen above the low rumbling\nof the crowd. The hymn of Bernadette was being sung, those sixty couplets\nbetween which the Angelic Salutation, with its all-besetting rhythm, was\never returning as a refrain. When the sixty couplets were finished they\nwere sung again; and that lullaby of \u201cAve, ave, ave Maria!\u201d came back\nincessantly, stupefying the mind, and gradually transporting those\nthousands of beings into a kind of wide-awake dream, with a vision of\nParadise before their eyes. And, indeed, at night-time when they were\nasleep, their beds would rock to the eternal tune, which they still and\never continued singing.\n\n\u201cAre we going to stop here?\u201d asked M. de Guersaint, who speedily got\ntired of remaining in any one spot. \u201cWe see nothing but the same thing\nover and over again.\u201d\n\nMarie, who had informed herself by listening to what was said in the\ncrowd, thereupon exclaimed: \u201cYou were quite right, Pierre; it would be\nmuch better to go back yonder under the trees. I so much wish to see\neverything.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, certainly; we will seek a spot whence you may see it all,\u201d replied\nthe priest. \u201cThe only difficulty lies in getting away from here.\u201d\n\nIndeed, they were now inclosed within the mob of sight-seers; and, in\norder to secure a passage, Pierre with stubborn perseverance had to keep\non begging a little room for a suffering girl.\n\nM. de Guersaint meantime brought up the rear, screening the little\nconveyance so that it might not be upset by the jostling; whilst Marie\nturned her head, still endeavouring to see the sheet of flame spread out\nbefore the Grotto, that lake of little sparkling waves which never seemed\nto diminish, although the procession continued to flow from it without a\npause.\n\nAt last they all three found themselves out of the crowd, near one of the\narches, on a deserted spot where they were able to breathe for a moment.\nThey now heard nothing but the distant canticle with its besetting\nrefrain, and they only saw the reflection of the tapers, hovering like a\nluminous cloud in the neighbourhood of the Basilica.\n\n\u201cThe best plan would be to climb to the Calvary,\u201d said M. de Guersaint.\n\u201cThe servant at the hotel told me so this morning. From up there, it\nseems, the scene is fairy-like.\u201d\n\nBut they could not think of making the ascent. Pierre at once enumerated\nthe difficulties. \u201cHow could we hoist ourselves to such a height with\nMarie\u2019s conveyance?\u201d he asked. \u201cBesides, we should have to come down\nagain, and that would be dangerous work in the darkness amidst all the\nscrambling.\u201d\n\nMarie herself preferred to remain under the trees in the gardens, where\nit was very mild. So they started off, and reached the esplanade in front\nof the great crowned statue of the Virgin. It was illuminated by means of\nblue and yellow globes which encompassed it with a gaudy splendour; and\ndespite all his piety M. de Guersaint could not help finding these\ndecorations in execrable taste.\n\n\u201cThere!\u201d exclaimed Marie, \u201ca good place would be near those shrubs\nyonder.\u201d\n\nShe was pointing to a shrubbery near the pilgrims\u2019 shelter-house; and the\nspot was indeed an excellent one for their purpose, as it enabled them to\nsee the procession come down by the gradient way on the left, and watch\nit as it passed between the lawns to the new bridge and back again.\nMoreover, a delightful freshness prevailed there by reason of the\nvicinity of the Gave. There was nobody there as yet, and one could enjoy\ndeep peacefulness in the dense shade which fell from the big plane-trees\nbordering the path.\n\nIn his impatience to see the first tapers reappear as soon as they should\nhave passed behind the Basilica, M. de Guersaint had risen on tiptoe. \u201cI\nsee nothing as yet,\u201d he muttered, \u201cso whatever the regulations may be I\nshall sit on the grass for a moment. I\u2019ve no strength left in my legs.\u201d\n Then, growing anxious about his daughter, he inquired: \u201cShall I cover you\nup? It is very cool here.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no! I\u2019m not cold, father!\u201d answered Marie; \u201cI feel so happy. It is\nlong since I breathed such sweet air. There must be some roses\nabout--can\u2019t you smell that delicious perfume?\u201d And turning to Pierre she\nasked: \u201cWhere are the roses, my friend? Can you see them?\u201d\n\nWhen M. de Guersaint had seated himself on the grass near the little\nvehicle, it occurred to Pierre to see if there was not some bed of roses\nnear at hand. But is was in vain that he explored the dark lawns; he\ncould only distinguish sundry clumps of evergreens. And, as he passed in\nfront of the pilgrims\u2019 shelter-house on his way back, curiosity prompted\nhim to enter it.\n\nThis building formed a long and lofty hall, lighted by large windows upon\ntwo sides. With bare walls and a stone pavement, it contained no other\nfurniture than a number of benches, which stood here and there in\nhaphazard fashion. There was neither table nor shelf, so that the\nhomeless pilgrims who had sought refuge there had piled up their baskets,\nparcels, and valises in the window embrasures. Moreover, the place was\napparently empty; the poor folk that it sheltered had no doubt joined the\nprocession. Nevertheless, although the door stood wide open, an almost\nunbearable smell reigned inside. The very walls seemed impregnated with\nan odour of poverty, and in spite of the bright sunshine which had\nprevailed during the day, the flagstones were quite damp, soiled and\nsoaked with expectorations, spilt wine, and grease. This mess had been\nmade by the poorer pilgrims, who with their dirty skins and wretched rags\nlived in the hall, eating and sleeping in heaps on the benches. Pierre\nspeedily came to the conclusion that the pleasant smell of roses must\nemanate from some other spot; still, he was making the round of the hall,\nwhich was lighted by four smoky lanterns, and which he believed to be\naltogether unoccupied, when, against the left-hand wall, he was surprised\nto espy the vague figure of a woman in black, with what seemed to be a\nwhite parcel lying on her lap. She was all alone in that solitude, and\ndid not stir; however, her eyes were wide open.\n\nHe drew near and recognised Madame Vincent. She addressed him in a deep,\nbroken voice: \u201cRose has suffered so dreadfully to-day! Since daybreak she\nhas not ceased moaning. And so, as she fell asleep a couple of hours ago,\nI haven\u2019t dared to stir for fear lest she should awake and suffer again.\u201d\n\nThus the poor woman remained motionless, martyr-mother that she was,\nhaving for long months held her daughter in her arms in this fashion, in\nthe stubborn hope of curing her. In her arms, too, she had brought her to\nLourdes; in her arms she had carried her to the Grotto; in her arms she\nhad rocked her to sleep, having neither a room of her own, nor even a\nhospital bed at her disposal.\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t the poor little thing any better?\u201d asked Pierre, whose heart ached\nat the sight.\n\n\u201cNo, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9; no, I think not.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you are very badly off here on this bench. You should have made an\napplication to the pilgrimage managers instead of remaining like this, in\nthe street, as it were. Some accommodation would have been found for your\nlittle girl, at any rate; that\u2019s certain.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! what would have been the use of it, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9? She is all\nright on my lap. And besides, should I have been allowed to stay with\nher? No, no, I prefer to have her on my knees; it seems to me that it\nwill end by curing her.\u201d Two big tears rolled down the poor woman\u2019s\nmotionless cheeks, and in her stifled voice she continued: \u201cI am not\npenniless. I had thirty sous when I left Paris, and I still have ten\nleft. All I need is a little bread, and she, poor darling, can no longer\ndrink any milk even. I have enough to last me till we go back, and if she\ngets well again, oh! we shall be rich, rich, rich!\u201d\n\nShe had leant forward while speaking, and by the flickering light of a\nlantern near by, gazed at Rose, who was breathing faintly, with parted\nlips. \u201cYou see how soundly she is sleeping,\u201d resumed the unhappy mother.\n\u201cSurely the Blessed Virgin will take pity on her and cure her, won\u2019t she,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9? We only have one day left; still, I don\u2019t despair; and I\nshall again pray all night long without moving from here. She will be\ncured to-morrow; we must live till then.\u201d\n\nInfinite pity was filling the heart of Pierre, who, fearing that he also\nmight weep, now went away. \u201cYes, yes, my poor woman, we must hope, still\nhope,\u201d said he, as he left her there among the scattered benches, in that\ndeserted, malodorous hall, so motionless in her painful maternal passion\nas to hold her own breath, fearful lest the heaving of her bosom should\nawaken the poor little sufferer. And in deepest grief, with closed lips,\nshe prayed ardently.\n\nOn Pierre returning to Marie\u2019s side, the girl inquired of him: \u201cWell, and\nthose roses? Are there any near here?\u201d\n\nHe did not wish to sadden her by telling her what he had seen, so he\nsimply answered: \u201cNo, I have searched the lawns; there are none.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow singular!\u201d she rejoined, in a thoughtful way. \u201cThe perfume is both\nso sweet and penetrating. You can smell it, can\u2019t you? At this moment it\nis wonderfully strong, as though all the roses of Paradise were flowering\naround us in the darkness.\u201d\n\nA low exclamation from her father interrupted her. M. de Guersaint had\nrisen to his feet again on seeing some specks of light shine out above\nthe gradient ways on the left side of the Basilica. \u201cAt last! Here they\ncome!\u201d said he.\n\nIt was indeed the head of the procession again appearing; and at once the\nspecks of light began to swarm and extend in long, wavering double files.\nThe darkness submerged everything except these luminous points, which\nseemed to be at a great elevation, and to emerge, as it were, from the\nblack depths of the Unknown. And at the same time the everlasting\ncanticle was again heard, but so lightly, for the procession was far\naway, that it seemed as yet merely like the rustle of a coming storm,\nstirring the leaves of the trees.\n\n\u201cAh! I said so,\u201d muttered M. de Guersaint; \u201cone ought to be at the\nCalvary to see everything.\u201d With the obstinacy of a child he kept on\nreturning to his first idea, again and again complaining that they had\nchosen \u201cthe worst possible place.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut why don\u2019t you go up to the Calvary, papa?\u201d at last said Marie.\n\u201cThere is still time. Pierre will stay here with me.\u201d And with a mournful\nlaugh she added: \u201cGo; you know very well that nobody will run away with\nme.\u201d\n\nHe at first refused to act upon the suggestion, but, unable to resist his\ndesire, he all at once fell in with it. And he had to hasten his steps,\ncrossing the lawns at a run. \u201cDon\u2019t move,\u201d he called; \u201cwait for me under\nthe trees. I will tell you of all that I may see up there.\u201d\n\nThen Pierre and Marie remained alone in that dim, solitary nook, whence\ncame such a perfume of roses, albeit no roses could be found. And they\ndid not speak, but in silence watched the procession, which was now\ncoming down from the hill with a gentle, continuous, gliding motion.\n\nA double file of quivering stars leapt into view on the left-hand side of\nthe Basilica, and then followed the monumental, gradient way, whose curve\nis gradually described. At that distance you were still unable to see the\npilgrims themselves, and you beheld simply those well-disciplined\ntravelling lights tracing geometrical lines amidst the darkness. Under\nthe deep blue heavens, even the buildings at first remained vague,\nforming but blacker patches against the sky. Little by little, however,\nas the number of candles increased, the principal architectural\nlines--the tapering spire of the Basilica, the cyclopean arches of the\ngradient ways, the heavy, squat fa\u00e7ade of the Rosary--became more\ndistinctly visible. And with that ceaseless torrent of bright sparks,\nflowing slowly downward with the stubborn persistence of a stream which\nhas overflowed its banks and can be stopped by nothing, there came as it\nwere an aurora, a growing, invading mass of light, which would at last\nspread its glory over the whole horizon.\n\n\u201cLook, look, Pierre!\u201d cried Marie, in an access of childish joy. \u201cThere\nis no end of them; fresh ones are ever shining out.\u201d\n\nIndeed, the sudden appearances of the little lights continued with\nmechanical regularity, as though some inexhaustible celestial source were\npouring forth all those solar specks. The head of the procession had just\nreached the gardens, near the crowned statue of the Virgin, so that as\nyet the double file of flames merely outlined the curves of the Rosary\nand the broad inclined way. However, the approach of the multitude was\nforetokened by the perturbation of the atmosphere, by the gusts of human\nbreath coming from afar; and particularly did the voices swell, the\ncanticle of Bernadette surging with the clamour of a rising tide, through\nwhich, with rhythmical persistence, the refrain of \u201cAve, ave, ave Maria!\u201d\n rolled ever in a louder key.\n\n\u201cAh, that refrain!\u201d muttered Pierre; \u201cit penetrates one\u2019s very skin. It\nseems to me as though my whole body were at last singing it.\u201d\n\nAgain did Marie give vent to that childish laugh of hers. \u201cIt is true,\u201d\n said she; \u201cit follows me about everywhere. I heard it the other night\nwhilst I was asleep. And now it is again taking possession of me, rocking\nme, wafting me above the ground.\u201d Then she broke off to say: \u201cHere they\ncome, just across the lawn, in front of us.\u201d\n\nThe procession had entered one of the long, straight paths; and then,\nturning round the lawn by way of the Breton\u2019s Cross, it came back by a\nparallel path. It took more than a quarter of an hour to execute this\nmovement, during which the double file of tapers resembled two long\nparallel streams of flame. That which ever excited one\u2019s admiration was\nthe ceaseless march of this serpent of fire, whose golden coils crept so\ngently over the black earth, winding, stretching into the far distance,\nwithout the immense body ever seeming to end. There must have been some\njostling and scrambling every now and then, for some of the luminous\nlines shook and bent as though they were about to break; but order was\nsoon re-established, and then the slow, regular, gliding movement set in\nafresh. There now seemed to be fewer stars in the heavens; it was as\nthough a milky way had fallen from on high, rolling its glittering dust\nof worlds, and transferring the revolutions of the planets from the\nempyrean to earth. A bluish light streamed all around; there was naught\nbut heaven left; the buildings and the trees assumed a visionary aspect\nin the mysterious glow of those thousands of tapers, whose number still\nand ever increased.\n\nA faint sigh of admiration came from Marie. She was at a loss for words,\nand could only repeat \u201cHow beautiful it is! _Mon Dieu_! how beautiful it\nis! Look, Pierre, is it not beautiful?\u201d\n\nHowever, since the procession had been going by at so short a distance\nfrom them it had ceased to be a rhythmic march of stars which no human\nhand appeared to guide, for amidst the stream of light they could\ndistinguish the figures of the pilgrims carrying the tapers, and at times\neven recognise them as they passed. First they espied La Grivotte, who,\nexaggerating her cure, and repeating that she had never felt in better\nhealth, had insisted upon taking part in the ceremony despite the\nlateness of the hour; and she still retained her excited demeanour, her\ndancing gait in that cool night air, which often made her shiver. Then\nthe Vignerons appeared; the father at the head of the party, raising his\ntaper on high, and followed by Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise, who\ndragged their weary legs; whilst little Gustave, quite worn out, kept on\ntapping the sanded path with his crutch, his right hand covered meantime\nwith all the wax that had dripped upon it. Every sufferer who could walk\nwas there, among others Elise Rouquet, who, with her bare red face,\npassed by like some apparition from among the damned. Others were\nlaughing; Sophie Couteau, the little girl who had been miraculously\nhealed the previous year, was quite forgetting herself, playing with her\ntaper as though it were a switch. Heads followed heads without a pause,\nheads of women especially, more often with sordid, common features, but\nat times wearing an exalted expression, which you saw for a second ere it\nvanished amidst the fantastic illumination. And there was no end to that\nterrible march past; fresh pilgrims were ever appearing. Among them\nPierre and Marie noticed yet another little black shadowy figure, gliding\nalong in a discreet, humble way; it was Madame Maze, whom they would not\nhave recognised if she had not for a moment raised her pale face, down\nwhich the tears were streaming.\n\n\u201cLook!\u201d exclaimed Pierre; \u201cthe first tapers in the procession are\nreaching the Place du Rosaire, and I am sure that half of the pilgrims\nare still in front of the Grotto.\u201d\n\nMarie had raised her eyes. Up yonder, on the left-hand side of the\nBasilica, she could see other lights incessantly appearing with that\nmechanical kind of movement which seemed as though it would never cease.\n\u201cAh!\u201d she said, \u201chow many, how many distressed souls there are! For each\nof those little flames is a suffering soul seeking deliverance, is it\nnot?\u201d\n\nPierre had to lean over in order to hear her, for since the procession\nhad been streaming by, so near to them, they had been deafened by the\nsound of the endless canticle, the hymn of Bernadette. The voices of the\npilgrims rang out more loudly than ever amidst the increasing vertigo;\nthe couplets became jumbled together--each batch of processionists\nchanted a different one with the ecstatic voices of beings possessed, who\ncan no longer hear themselves. There was a huge indistinct clamour, the\ndistracted clamour of a multitude intoxicated by its ardent faith. And\nmeantime the refrain of \u201cAve, ave, ave Maria!\u201d was ever returning,\nrising, with its frantic, importunate rhythm, above everything else.\n\nAll at once Pierre and Marie, to their great surprise, saw M. de\nGuersaint before them again. \u201cAh! my children,\u201d he said, \u201cI did not want\nto linger too long up there, I cut through the procession twice in order\nto get back to you. But what a sight, what a sight it is! It is certainly\nthe first beautiful thing that I have seen since I have been here!\u201d\n Thereupon he began to describe the procession as he had beheld it from\nthe Calvary height. \u201cImagine,\u201d said he, \u201canother heaven, a heaven down\nbelow reflecting that above, a heaven entirely filled by a single immense\nconstellation. The swarming stars seem to be lost, to lie in dim faraway\ndepths; and the trail of fire is in form like a monstrance--yes, a real\nmonstrance, the base of which is outlined by the inclined ways, the stem\nby the two parallel paths, and the Host by the round lawn which crowns\nthem. It is a monstrance of burning gold, shining out in the depths of\nthe darkness with a perpetual sparkle of moving stars. Nothing else seems\nto exist; it is gigantic, paramount. I really never saw anything so\nextraordinary before!\u201d\n\nHe was waving his arms, beside himself, overflowing with the emotion of\nan artist.\n\n\u201cFather dear,\u201d said Marie, tenderly, \u201csince you have come back you ought\nto go to bed. It is nearly eleven o\u2019clock, and you know that you have to\nstart at two in the morning.\u201d Then, to render him compliant, she added:\n\u201cI am so pleased that you are going to make that excursion! Only, come\nback early to-morrow evening, because you\u2019ll see, you\u2019ll see--\u201d She\nstopped short, not daring to express her conviction that she would be\ncured.\n\n\u201cYou are right; I will go to bed,\u201d replied M. de Guersaint, quite calmed.\n\u201cSince Pierre will be with you I sha\u2019n\u2019t feel anxious.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I don\u2019t wish Pierre to pass the night out here. He will join you\nby-and-by after he has taken me to the Grotto. I sha\u2019n\u2019t have any further\nneed of anybody; the first bearer who passes can take me back to the\nhospital to-morrow morning.\u201d\n\nPierre had not interrupted her, and now he simply said: \u201cNo, no, Marie, I\nshall stay. Like you, I shall spend the night at the Grotto.\u201d\n\nShe opened her mouth to insist and express her displeasure. But he had\nspoken those words so gently, and she had detected in them such a\ndolorous thirst for happiness, that, stirred to the depths of her soul,\nshe stayed her tongue.\n\n\u201cWell, well, my children,\u201d replied her father, \u201csettle the matter between\nyou. I know that you are both very sensible. And now good-night, and\ndon\u2019t be at all uneasy about me.\u201d\n\nHe gave his daughter a long, loving kiss, pressed the young priest\u2019s\nhands, and then went off, disappearing among the serried ranks of the\nprocession, which he once more had to cross.\n\nThen they remained alone in their dark, solitary nook under the spreading\ntrees, she still sitting up in her box, and he kneeling on the grass,\nwith his elbow resting on one of the wheels. And it was truly sweet to\nlinger there while the tapers continued marching past, and, after a\nturning movement, assembled on the Place du Rosaire. What delighted\nPierre was that nothing of all the daytime junketing remained. It seemed\nas though a purifying breeze had come down from the mountains, sweeping\naway all the odour of strong meats, the greedy Sunday delights, the\nscorching, pestilential, fair-field dust which, at an earlier hour, had\nhovered above the town. Overhead there was now only the vast sky, studded\nwith pure stars, and the freshness of the Gave was delicious, whilst the\nwandering breezes were laden with the perfumes of wild flowers. The\nmysterious Infinite spread far around in the sovereign peacefulness of\nnight, and nothing of materiality remained save those little\ncandle-flames which the young priest\u2019s companion had compared to\nsuffering souls seeking deliverance. All was now exquisitely restful,\ninstinct with unlimited hope. Since Pierre had been there all the\nheart-rending memories of the afternoon, of the voracious appetites, the\nimpudent simony, and the poisoning of the old town, had gradually left\nhim, allowing him to savour the divine refreshment of that beautiful\nnight, in which his whole being was steeped as in some revivifying water.\n\nA feeling of infinite sweetness had likewise come over Marie, who\nmurmured: \u201cAh! how happy Blanche would be to see all these marvels.\u201d\n\nShe was thinking of her sister, who had been left in Paris to all the\nworries of her hard profession as a teacher forced to run hither and\nthither giving lessons. And that simple mention of her sister, of whom\nMarie had not spoken since her arrival at Lourdes, but whose figure now\nunexpectedly arose in her mind\u2019s eye, sufficed to evoke a vision of all\nthe past.\n\nThen, without exchanging a word, Marie and Pierre lived their childhood\u2019s\ndays afresh, playing together once more in the neighbouring gardens\nparted by the quickset hedge. But separation came on the day when he\nentered the seminary and when she kissed him on the cheeks, vowing that\nshe would never forget him. Years went by, and they found themselves\nforever parted: he a priest, she prostrated by illness, no longer with\nany hope of ever being a woman. That was their whole story--an ardent\naffection of which they had long been ignorant, then absolute severance,\nas though they were dead, albeit they lived side by side. They again\nbeheld the sorry lodging whence they had started to come to Lourdes after\nso much battling, so much discussion--his doubts and her passionate\nfaith, which last had conquered. And it seemed to them truly delightful\nto find themselves once more quite alone together, in that dark nook on\nthat lovely night, when there were as many stars upon earth as there were\nin heaven.\n\nMarie had hitherto retained the soul of a child, a spotless soul, as her\nfather said, good and pure among the purest. Stricken low in her\nthirteenth year, she had grown no older in mind. Although she was now\nthree-and-twenty, she was still a child, a child of thirteen, who had\nretired within herself, absorbed in the bitter catastrophe which had\nannihilated her. You could tell this by the frigidity of her glance, by\nher absent expression, by the haunted air she ever wore, unable as she\nwas to bestow a thought on anything but her calamity. And never was\nwoman\u2019s soul more pure and candid, arrested as it had been in its\ndevelopment. She had had no other romance in life save that tearful\nfarewell to her friend, which for ten long years had sufficed to fill her\nheart. During the endless days which she had spent on her couch of\nwretchedness, she had never gone beyond this dream--that if she had grown\nup in health, he doubtless would not have become a priest, in order to\nlive near her. She never read any novels. The pious works which she was\nallowed to peruse maintained her in the excitement of a superhuman love.\nEven the rumours of everyday life died away at the door of the room where\nshe lived in seclusion; and, in past years, when she had been taken from\none to the other end of France, from one inland spa to another, she had\npassed through the crowds like a somnambulist who neither sees nor hears\nanything, possessed, as she was, by the idea of the calamity that had\nbefallen her, the bond which made her a sexless thing. Hence her purity\nand childishness; hence she was but an adorable daughter of suffering,\nwho, despite the growth of her sorry flesh, harboured nothing in her\nheart save that distant awakening of passion, the unconscious love of her\nthirteenth year.\n\nHer hand sought Pierre\u2019s in the darkness, and when she found it, coming\nto meet her own, she, for a long time, continued pressing it. Ah! how\nsweet it was! Never before, indeed, had they tasted such pure and perfect\njoy in being together, far from the world, amidst the sovereign\nenchantment of darkness and mystery. Around them nothing subsisted, save\nthe revolving stars. The lulling hymns were like the very vertigo that\nbore them away. And she knew right well that after spending a night of\nrapture at the Grotto, she would, on the morrow, be cured. Of this she\nwas, indeed, absolutely convinced; she would prevail upon the Blessed\nVirgin to listen to her; she would soften her, as soon as she should be\nalone, imploring her face to face. And she well understood what Pierre\nhad wished to say a short time previously, when expressing his desire to\nspend the whole night outside the Grotto, like herself. Was it not that\nhe intended to make a supreme effort to believe, that he meant to fall\nupon his knees like a little child, and beg the all-powerful Mother to\nrestore his lost faith? Without need of any further exchange of words,\ntheir clasped hands repeated all those things. They mutually promised\nthat they would pray for each other, and so absorbed in each other did\nthey become that they forgot themselves, with such an ardent desire for\none another\u2019s cure and happiness, that for a moment they attained to the\ndepths of the love which offers itself in sacrifice. It was divine\nenjoyment.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d murmured Pierre, \u201chow beautiful is this blue night, this infinite\ndarkness, which has swept away all the hideousness of things and beings,\nthis deep, fresh peacefulness, in which I myself should like to bury my\ndoubts!\u201d\n\nHis voice died away, and Marie, in her turn, said in a very low voice:\n\u201cAnd the roses, the perfume of the roses? Can\u2019t you smell them, my\nfriend? Where can they be since you could not see them?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, I smell them, but there are none,\u201d he replied. \u201cI should\ncertainly have seen them, for I hunted everywhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow can you say that there are no roses when they perfume the air around\nus, when we are steeped in their aroma? Why, there are moments when the\nscent is so powerful that I almost faint with delight in inhaling it!\nThey must certainly be here, innumerable, under our very feet.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said Pierre, \u201cI swear to you I hunted everywhere, and there are\nno roses. They must be invisible, or they may be the very grass we tread\nand the spreading trees that are around us; their perfume may come from\nthe soil itself, from the torrent which flows along close by, from the\nwoods and the mountains that rise yonder.\u201d\n\nFor a moment they remained silent. Then, in an undertone, she resumed:\n\u201cHow sweet they smell, Pierre! And it seems to me that even our clasped\nhands form a bouquet.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, they smell delightfully sweet; but it is from you, Marie, that the\nperfume now ascends, as though the roses were budding from your hair.\u201d\n\nThen they ceased speaking. The procession was still gliding along, and at\nthe corner of the Basilica bright sparks were still appearing, flashing\nsuddenly from out of the obscurity, as though spurting from some\ninvisible source. The vast train of little flames, marching in double\nfile, threw a riband of light across the darkness. But the great sight\nwas now on the Place du Rosaire, where the head of the procession, still\ncontinuing its measured evolutions, was revolving and revolving in a\ncircle which ever grew smaller, with a stubborn whirl which increased the\ndizziness of the weary pilgrims and the violence of their chants. And\nsoon the circle formed a nucleus, the nucleus of a nebula, so to say,\naround which the endless riband of fire began to coil itself. And the\nbrasier grew larger and larger--there was first a pool, then a lake of\nlight. The whole vast Place du Rosaire changed at last into a burning\nocean, rolling its little sparkling wavelets with the dizzy motion of a\nwhirlpool that never rested. A reflection like that of dawn whitened the\nBasilica; while the rest of the horizon faded into deep obscurity, amidst\nwhich you only saw a few stray tapers journeying alone, like glowworms\nseeking their way with the help of their little lights. However, a\nstraggling rear-guard of the procession must have climbed the Calvary\nheight, for up there, against the sky, some moving stars could also be\nseen. Eventually the moment came when the last tapers appeared down\nbelow, marched round the lawns, flowed away, and were merged in the sea\nof flame. Thirty thousand tapers were burning there, still and ever\nrevolving, quickening their sparkles under the vast calm heavens where\nthe planets had grown pale. A luminous glow ascended in company with the\nstrains of the canticle which never ceased. And the roar of voices\nincessantly repeating the refrain of \u201cAve, ave, ave Maria!\u201d was like the\nvery crackling of those hearts of fire which were burning away in prayers\nin order that souls might be saved.\n\nThe candles had just been extinguished, one by one, and the night was\nfalling again, paramount, densely black, and extremely mild, when Pierre\nand Marie perceived that they were still there, hand in hand, hidden away\namong the trees. In the dim streets of Lourdes, far off, there were now\nonly some stray, lost pilgrims inquiring their way, in order that they\nmight get to bed. Through the darkness there swept a rustling sound--the\nrustling of those who prowl and fall asleep when days of festivity draw\nto a close. But the young priest and the girl lingered in their nook\nforgetfully, never stirring, but tasting delicious happiness amidst the\nperfume of the invisible roses.\n\n\n\n\nIV. THE VIGIL\n\nWHEN Pierre dragged Marie in her box to the front of the Grotto, and\nplaced her as near as possible to the railing, it was past midnight, and\nabout a hundred persons were still there, some seated on the benches, but\nthe greater number kneeling as though prostrated in prayer. The Grotto\nshone from afar, with its multitude of lighted tapers, similar to the\nillumination round a coffin, though all that you could distinguish was a\nstar-like blaze, from the midst of which, with visionary whiteness,\nemerged the statue of the Virgin in its niche. The hanging foliage\nassumed an emerald sheen, the hundreds of crutches covering the vault\nresembled an inextricable network of dead wood on the point of\nreflowering. And the darkness was rendered more dense by so great a\nbrightness, the surroundings became lost in a deep shadow in which\nnothing, neither walls nor trees, remained; whilst all alone ascended the\nangry and continuous murmur of the Gave, rolling along beneath the\ngloomy, boundless sky, now heavy with a gathering storm.\n\n\u201cAre you comfortable, Marie?\u201d gently inquired Pierre. \u201cDon\u2019t you feel\nchilly?\u201d\n\nShe had just shivered. But it was only at a breath from the other world,\nwhich had seemed to her to come from the Grotto.\n\n\u201cNo, no, I am so comfortable! Only place the shawl over my knees.\nAnd--thank you, Pierre--don\u2019t be anxious about me. I no longer require\nanyone now that I am with her.\u201d\n\nHer voice died away, she was already falling into an ecstasy, her hands\nclasped, her eyes raised towards the white statue, in a beatific\ntransfiguration of the whole of her poor suffering face.\n\nYet Pierre remained a few minutes longer beside her. He would have liked\nto wrap her in the shawl, for he perceived the trembling of her little\nwasted hands. But he feared to annoy her, so confined himself to tucking\nher in like a child; whilst she, slightly raised, with her elbows on the\nedges of her box, and her eyes fixed on the Grotto, no longer beheld him.\n\nA bench stood near, and he had just seated himself upon it, intending to\ncollect his thoughts, when his glance fell upon a woman kneeling in the\ngloom. Dressed in black, she was so slim, so discreet, so unobtrusive, so\nwrapt in darkness, that at first he had not noticed her. After a while,\nhowever, he recognised her as Madame Maze. The thought of the letter\nwhich she had received during the day then recurred to him. And the sight\nof her filled him with pity; he could feel for the forlornness of this\nsolitary woman, who had no physical sore to heal, but only implored the\nBlessed Virgin to relieve her heart-pain by converting her inconstant\nhusband. The letter had no doubt been some harsh reply, for, with bowed\nhead, she seemed almost annihilated, filled with the humility of some\npoor beaten creature. It was only at night-time that she readily forgot\nherself there, happy at disappearing, at being able to weep, suffer\nmartyrdom, and implore the return of the lost caresses, for hours\ntogether, without anyone suspecting her grievous secret. Her lips did not\neven move; it was her wounded heart which prayed, which desperately\nbegged for its share of love and happiness.\n\nAh! that inextinguishable thirst for happiness which brought them all\nthere, wounded either in body or in spirit; Pierre also felt it parching\nhis throat, in an ardent desire to be quenched. He longed to cast himself\nupon his knees, to beg the divine aid with the same humble faith as that\nwoman. But his limbs were as though tied; he could not find the words he\nwanted, and it was a relief when he at last felt someone touch him on the\narm. \u201cCome with me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, if you do not know the Grotto,\u201d said\na voice. \u201cI will find you a place. It is so pleasant there at this time!\u201d\n\nHe raised his head, and recognised Baron Suire, the director of the\nHospitality of Our Lady of Salvation. This benevolent and simple man no\ndoubt felt some affection for him. He therefore accepted his offer, and\nfollowed him into the Grotto, which was quite empty. The Baron had a key,\nwith which he locked the railing behind them.\n\n\u201cYou see, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said he, \u201cthis is the time when one can\nreally be comfortable here. For my part, whenever I come to spend a few\ndays at Lourdes, I seldom retire to rest before daybreak, as I have\nfallen into the habit of finishing my night here. The place is deserted,\none is quite alone, and is it not pleasant? How well one feels oneself to\nbe in the abode of the Blessed Virgin!\u201d\n\nHe smiled with a kindly air, doing the honours of the Grotto like an old\nfrequenter of the place, somewhat enfeebled by age, but full of genuine\naffection for this delightful nook. Moreover, in spite of his great\npiety, he was in no way ill at ease there, but talked on and explained\nmatters with the familiarity of a man who felt himself to be the friend\nof Heaven.\n\n\u201cAh! you are looking at the tapers,\u201d he said. \u201cThere are about two\nhundred of them which burn together night and day; and they end by making\nthe place warm. It is even warm here in winter.\u201d\n\nIndeed, Pierre was beginning to feel incommoded by the warm odour of the\nwax. Dazzled by the brilliant light into which he was penetrating, he\ngazed at the large, central, pyramidal holder, all bristling with little\ntapers, and resembling a luminous clipped yew glistening with stars. In\nthe background, a straight holder, on a level with the ground, upheld the\nlarge tapers, which, like the pipes of an organ, formed a row of uneven\nheight, some of them being as large as a man\u2019s thigh. And yet other\nholders, resembling massive candelabra, stood here and there on the\njutting parts of the rock. The vault of the Grotto sank towards the left,\nwhere the stone seemed baked and blackened by the eternal flames which\nhad been heating it for years. And the wax was perpetually dripping like\nfine snow; the trays of the holders were smothered with it, whitened by\nits ever-thickening dust. In fact, it coated the whole rock, which had\nbecome quite greasy to the touch; and to such a degree did it cover the\nground that accidents had occurred, and it had been necessary to spread\nsome mats about to prevent persons from slipping.\n\n\u201cYou see those large ones there,\u201d obligingly continued Baron Suire. \u201cThey\nare the most expensive and cost sixty francs apiece; they will continue\nburning for a month. The smallest ones, which cost but five sous each,\nonly last three hours. Oh! we don\u2019t husband them; we never run short.\nLook here! Here are two more hampers full, which there has not yet been\ntime to remove to the storehouse.\u201d\n\nThen he pointed to the furniture, which comprised a harmonium covered\nwith a cloth, a substantial dresser with several large drawers in which\nthe sacred vestments were kept, some benches and chairs reserved for the\nprivileged few who were admitted during the ceremonies, and finally a\nvery handsome movable altar, which was adorned with engraved silver\nplates, the gift of a great lady, and--for fear of injury from\ndampness--was only brought out on the occasions of remunerative\npilgrimages.\n\nPierre was disturbed by all this well-meant chatter. His religious\nemotion lost some of its charm. In spite of his lack of faith, he had, on\nentering, experienced a feeling of agitation, a heaving of the soul, as\nthough the mystery were about to be revealed to him. It was at the same\ntime both an anxious and a delicious feeling. And he beheld things which\ndeeply stirred him: bunches of flowers, lying in a heap at the Virgin\u2019s\nfeet, with the votive offerings of children--little faded shoes, a tiny\niron corselet, and a doll-like crutch which almost seemed to be a toy.\nBeneath the natural ogival cavity in which the apparition had appeared,\nat the spot where the pilgrims rubbed the chaplets and medals they wished\nto consecrate, the rock was quite worn away and polished. Millions of\nardent lips had pressed kisses on the wall with such intensity of love\nthat the stone was as though calcined, streaked with black veins, shining\nlike marble.\n\nHowever, he stopped short at last opposite a cavity in which lay a\nconsiderable pile of letters and papers of every description.\n\n\u201cAh! I was forgetting,\u201d hastily resumed Baron Suire; \u201cthis is the most\ninteresting part of it. These are the letters which the faithful throw\ninto the Grotto through the railing every day. We gather them up and\nplace them there; and in the winter I amuse myself by glancing through\nthem. You see, we cannot burn them without opening them, for they often\ncontain money--francs, half-francs, and especially postage-stamps.\u201d\n\nHe stirred up the letters, and, selecting a few at random, showed the\naddresses, and opened them to read. Nearly all of them were letters from\nilliterate persons, with the superscription, \u201cTo Our Lady of Lourdes,\u201d\n scrawled on the envelopes in big, irregular handwriting. Many of them\ncontained requests or thanks, incorrectly worded and wondrously spelt;\nand nothing was more affecting than the nature of some of the petitions:\na little brother to be saved, a lawsuit to be gained, a lover to be\npreserved, a marriage to be effected. Other letters, however, were angry\nones, taking the Blessed Virgin to task for not having had the politeness\nto acknowledge a former communication by granting the writer\u2019s prayers.\nThen there were still others, written in a finer hand, with carefully\nworded phrases containing confessions and fervent entreaties; and these\nwere from women who confided to the Queen of Heaven things which they\ndared not even say to a priest in the shadow of the confessional.\nFinally, one envelope, selected at random, merely contained a photograph;\na young girl had sent her portrait to Our Lady of Lourdes, with this\ndedication: \u201cTo my good Mother.\u201d In short, they every day received the\ncorrespondence of a most powerful Queen, to whom both prayers and secrets\nwere addressed, and who was expected to reply with favours and kindnesses\nof every kind. The franc and half-franc pieces were simple tokens of love\nto propitiate her; while, as for the postage-stamps, these could only be\nsent for convenience\u2019 sake, in lieu of coined money; unless, indeed, they\nwere sent guilelessly, as in the case of a peasant woman who had added a\npostscript to her letter to say that she enclosed a stamp for the reply.\n\n\u201cI can assure you,\u201d concluded the Baron, \u201cthat there are some very nice\nones among them, much less foolish than you might imagine. During a\nperiod of three years I constantly found some very interesting letters\nfrom a lady who did nothing without relating it to the Blessed Virgin.\nShe was a married woman, and entertained a most dangerous passion for a\nfriend of her husband\u2019s. Well, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, she overcame it; the\nBlessed Virgin answered her by sending her an armour for her chastity, an\nall-divine power to resist the promptings of her heart.\u201d Then he broke\noff to say: \u201cBut come and seat yourself here, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. You will\nsee how comfortable you will be.\u201d\n\nPierre went and placed himself beside him on a bench on the left hand, at\nthe spot where the rock sloped down. This was a deliciously reposeful\ncorner, and neither the one nor the other spoke; a profound silence had\nensued, when, behind him, Pierre heard an indistinct murmur, a light\ncrystalline voice, which seemed to come from the Invisible. He gave a\nstart, which Baron Suire understood.\n\n\u201cThat is the spring which you hear,\u201d said he; \u201cit is there, underground,\nbelow this grating. Would you like to see it?\u201d\n\nAnd without waiting for Pierre\u2019s reply, he at once bent down to open one\nof the iron plates protecting the spring, mentioning that it was thus\nclosed up in order to prevent freethinkers from throwing poison into it.\nFor a moment this extraordinary idea quite amazed the priest; but he\nended by attributing it entirely to the Baron, who was, indeed, very\nchildish. The latter, meantime, was vainly struggling with the padlock,\nwhich opened by a combination of letters, and refused to yield to his\nendeavours. \u201cIt is singular,\u201d he muttered; \u201cthe word is _Rome_, and I am\npositive that it hasn\u2019t been changed. The damp destroys everything. Every\ntwo years or so we are obliged to replace those crutches up there,\notherwise they would all rot away. Be good enough to bring me a taper.\u201d\n\nBy the light of the candle which Pierre then took from one of the\nholders, he at last succeeded in unfastening the brass padlock, which was\ncovered with _vert-de-gris_. Then, the plate having been raised, the\nspring appeared to view. Upon a bed of muddy gravel, in a fissure of the\nrock, there was a limpid stream, quite tranquil, but seemingly spreading\nover a rather large surface. The Baron explained that it had been\nnecessary to conduct it to the fountains through pipes coated with\ncement; and he even admitted that, behind the piscinas, a large cistern\nhad been dug in which the water was collected during the night, as\notherwise the small output of the source would not suffice for the daily\nrequirements.\n\n\u201cWill you taste it?\u201d he suddenly asked. \u201cIt is much better here, fresh\nfrom the earth.\u201d\n\nPierre did not answer; he was gazing at that tranquil, innocent water,\nwhich assumed a moire-like golden sheen in the dancing light of the\ntaper. The falling drops of wax now and again ruffled its surface. And,\nas he gazed at it, the young priest pondered upon all the mystery it\nbrought with it from the distant mountain slopes.\n\n\u201cCome, drink some!\u201d said the Baron, who had already dipped and filled a\nglass which was kept there handy. The priest had no choice but to empty\nit; it was good pure, water, fresh and transparent, like that which flows\nfrom all the lofty uplands of the Pyrenees.\n\nAfter refastening the padlock, they both returned to the bench. Now and\nagain Pierre could still hear the spring flowing behind him, with a music\nresembling the gentle warble of some unseen bird. And now the Baron again\nraised his voice, giving him the history of the Grotto at all times and\nseasons, in a pathetic babble, replete with puerile details.\n\nThe summer was the roughest season, for then came the great itinerant\npilgrimage crowds, with the uproarious fervour of thousands of eager\nbeings, all praying and vociferating together. But with the autumn came\nthe rain, those diluvial rains which beat against the Grotto entrance for\ndays together; and with them arrived the pilgrims from remote countries,\nsmall, silent, and ecstatic bands of Indians, Malays, and even Chinese,\nwho fell upon their knees in the mud at the sign from the missionaries\naccompanying them. Of all the old provinces of France, it was Brittany\nthat sent the most devout pilgrims, whole parishes arriving together, the\nmen as numerous as the women, and all displaying a pious deportment, a\nsimple and unostentatious faith, such as might edify the world. Then came\nthe winter, December with its terrible cold, its dense snow-drifts\nblocking the mountain ways. But even then families put up at the hotels,\nand, despite everything, faithful worshippers--all those who, fleeing the\nnoise of the world, wished to speak to the Virgin in the tender intimacy\nof solitude--still came every morning to the Grotto. Among them were some\nwhom no one knew, who appeared directly they felt certain they would be\nalone there to kneel and love like jealous lovers; and who departed,\nfrightened away by the first suspicion of a crowd. And how warm and\npleasant the place was throughout the foul winter weather! In spite of\nrain and wind and snow, the Grotto still continued flaring. Even during\nnights of howling tempest, when not a soul was there, it lighted up the\nempty darkness, blazing like a brasier of love that nothing could\nextinguish. The Baron related that, at the time of the heavy snowfall of\nthe previous winter, he had spent whole afternoons there, on the bench\nwhere they were then seated. A gentle warmth prevailed, although the spot\nfaced the north and was never reached by a ray of sunshine. No doubt the\ncircumstance of the burning tapers continually heating the rock explained\nthis generous warmth; but might one not also believe in some charming\nkindness on the part of the Virgin, who endowed the spot with perpetual\nspringtide? And the little birds were well aware of it; when the snow on\nthe ground froze their feet, all the finches of the neighbourhood sought\nshelter there, fluttering about in the ivy around the holy statue. At\nlength came the awakening of the real spring: the Gave, swollen with\nmelted snow, and rolling on with a voice of thunder: the trees, under the\naction of their sap, arraying themselves in a mantle of greenery, whilst\nthe crowds, once more returning, noisily invaded the sparkling Grotto,\nwhence they drove the little birds of heaven.\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d repeated Baron Suire, in a declining voice, \u201cI spent some\nmost delightful winter days here all alone. I saw no one but a woman, who\nleant against the railing to avoid kneeling in the snow. She was quite\nyoung, twenty-five perhaps, and very pretty--dark, with magnificent blue\neyes. She never spoke, and did not even seem to pray, but remained there\nfor hours together, looking intensely sad. I do not know who she was, nor\nhave I ever seen her since.\u201d\n\nHe ceased speaking; and when, a couple of minutes later, Pierre,\nsurprised at his silence, looked at him, he perceived that he had fallen\nasleep. With his hands clasped upon his belly, his chin resting on his\nchest, he slept as peacefully as a child, a smile hovering the while\nabout his mouth. Doubtless, when he said that he spent the night there,\nhe meant that he came thither to indulge in the early nap of a happy old\nman, whose dreams are of the angels. And now Pierre tasted all the charms\nof the solitude. It was indeed true that a feeling of peacefulness and\ncomfort permeated the soul in this rocky nook. It was occasioned by the\nsomewhat stifling fumes of the burning wax, by the transplendent ecstasy\ninto which one sank amidst the glare of the tapers. The young priest\ncould no longer distinctly see the crutches on the roof, the votive\nofferings hanging from the sides, the altar of engraved silver, and the\nharmonium in its wrapper, for a slow intoxication seemed to be stealing\nover him, a gradual prostration of his whole being. And he particularly\nexperienced the divine sensation of having left the living world, of\nhaving attained to the far realms of the marvellous and the superhuman,\nas though that simple iron railing yonder had become the very barrier of\nthe Infinite.\n\nHowever, a slight noise on his left again disturbed him. It was the\nspring flowing, ever flowing on, with its bird-like warble. Ah! how he\nwould have liked to fall upon his knees and believe in the miracle, to\nacquire a certain conviction that that divine water had gushed from the\nrock solely for the healing of suffering humanity. Had he not come there\nto prostrate himself and implore the Virgin to restore the faith of his\nchildhood? Why, then, did he not pray, why did he not beseech her to\nbring him back to grace? His feeling of suffocation increased, the\nburning tapers dazzled him almost to the point of giddiness. And, all at\nonce, the recollection came to him that for two days past, amidst the\ngreat freedom which priests enjoyed at Lourdes, he had neglected to say\nhis mass. He was in a state of sin, and perhaps it was the weight of this\ntransgression which was oppressing his heart. He suffered so much that he\nwas at last compelled to rise from his seat and walk away. He gently\nclosed the gate behind him, leaving Baron Suire still asleep on the\nbench. Marie, he found, had not stirred, but was still raised on her\nelbows, with her ecstatic eyes uplifted towards the figure of the Virgin.\n\n\u201cHow are you, Marie?\u201d asked Pierre. \u201cDon\u2019t you feel cold?\u201d\n\nShe did not reply. He felt her hands and found them warm and soft, albeit\nslightly trembling. \u201cIt is not the cold which makes you tremble, is it,\nMarie?\u201d he asked.\n\nIn a voice as gentle as a zephyr she replied: \u201cNo, no! let me be; I am so\nhappy! I shall see her, I feel it. Ah! what joy!\u201d\n\nSo, after slightly pulling up her shawl, he went forth into the night, a\nprey to indescribable agitation. Beyond the bright glow of the Grotto was\na night as black as ink, a region of darkness, into which he plunged at\nrandom. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to this gloom, he found\nhimself near the Gave, and skirted it, following a path shaded by tall\ntrees, where he again came upon a refreshing obscurity. This shade and\ncoolness, both so soothing, now brought him relief. And his only surprise\nwas that he had not fallen on his knees in the Grotto, and prayed, even\nas Marie was praying, with all the power of his soul. What could be the\nobstacle within him? Whence came the irresistible revolt which prevented\nhim from surrendering himself to faith even when his overtaxed, tortured\nbeing longed to yield? He understood well enough that it was his reason\nalone which protested, and the time had come when he would gladly have\nkilled that voracious reason, which was devouring his life and preventing\nhim from enjoying the happiness allowed to the ignorant and the simple.\nPerhaps, had he beheld a miracle, he might have acquired enough strength\nof will to believe. For instance, would he not have bowed himself down,\nvanquished at last, if Marie had suddenly risen up and walked before him.\nThe scene which he conjured up of Marie saved, Marie cured, affected him\nso deeply that he stopped short, his trembling arms uplifted towards the\nstar-spangled vault of heaven. What a lovely night it was!--so deep and\nmysterious, so airy and fragrant; and what joy rained down at the hope\nthat eternal health might be restored, that eternal love might ever\nrevive, even as spring returns! Then he continued his walk, following the\npath to the end. But his doubts were again coming back to him; when you\nneed a miracle to gain belief, it means that you are incapable of\nbelieving. There is no need for the Almighty to prove His existence.\nPierre also felt uneasy at the thought that, so long as he had not\ndischarged his priestly duties by saying his mass, his prayers would not\nbe answered. Why did he not go at once to the church of the Rosary, whose\naltars, from midnight till noon, are placed at the disposal of the\npriests who come from a distance? Thus thinking, he descended by another\npath, again finding himself beneath the trees, near the leafy spot whence\nhe and Marie had watched the procession of tapers. Not a light now\nremained, there was but a boundless expanse of gloom.\n\nHere Pierre experienced a fresh attack of faintness, and as though to\ngain time, he turned mechanically into the pilgrims\u2019 shelter-house. Its\ndoor had remained wide open; still this failed to sufficiently ventilate\nthe spacious hall, which was now full of people. On the very threshold\nPierre felt oppressed by the stifling heat emanating from the multitude\nof bodies, the dense pestilential smell of human breath and perspiration.\nThe smoking lanterns gave out so bad a light that he had to pick his way\nwith extreme care in order to avoid treading upon outstretched limbs; for\nthe overcrowding was extraordinary, and many persons, unable to find room\non the benches, had stretched themselves on the pavement, on the damp\nstone slabs fouled by all the refuse of the day. And on all sides\nindescribable promiscuousness prevailed: prostrated by overpowering\nweariness, men, women, and priests were lying there, pell-mell, at\nrandom, open-mouthed and utterly exhausted. A large number were snoring,\nseated on the slabs, with their backs against the walls and their heads\ndrooping on their chests. Others had slipped down, with limbs\nintermingled, and one young girl lay prostrate across an old country\npriest, who in his calm, childlike slumber was smiling at the angels. It\nwas like a cattle-shed sheltering poor wanderers of the roads, all those\nwho were homeless on that beautiful holiday night, and who had dropped in\nthere and fallen fraternally asleep. Still, there were some who found no\nrepose in their feverish excitement, but turned and twisted, or rose up\nto finish eating the food which remained in their baskets. Others could\nbe seen lying perfectly motionless, their eyes wide open and fixed upon\nthe gloom. The cries of dreamers, the wailing of sufferers, arose amidst\ngeneral snoring. And pity came to the heart, a pity full of anguish, at\nsight of this flock of wretches lying there in heaps in loathsome rags,\nwhilst their poor spotless souls no doubt were far away in the blue realm\nof some mystical dream. Pierre was on the point of withdrawing, feeling\nsick at heart, when a low continuous moan attracted his attention. He\nlooked, and recognised Madame Vincent, on the same spot and in the same\nposition as before, still nursing little Rose upon her lap. \u201cAh! Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d the poor woman murmured, \u201cyou hear her; she woke up nearly an\nhour ago, and has been sobbing ever since. Yet I assure you I have not\nmoved even a finger, I felt so happy at seeing her sleep.\u201d\n\nThe priest bent down, examining the little one, who had not even the\nstrength to raise her eyelids. A plaintive cry no stronger than a breath\nwas coming from her lips; and she was so white that he shuddered, for he\nfelt that death was hovering near.\n\n\u201cDear me! what shall I do?\u201d continued the poor mother, utterly worn out.\n\u201cThis cannot last; I can no longer bear to hear her cry. And if you knew\nall that I have been saying to her: \u2018My jewel, my treasure, my angel, I\nbeseech you cry no more. Be good; the Blessed Virgin will cure you!\u2019 And\nyet she still cries on.\u201d\n\nWith these words the poor creature burst out sobbing, her big tears\nfalling on the face of the child, whose rattle still continued. \u201cHad it\nbeen daylight,\u201d she resumed, \u201cI would long ago have left this hall, the\nmore especially as she disturbs the others. There is an old lady yonder\nwho has already complained. But I fear it may be chilly outside; and\nbesides, where could I go in the middle of the night? Ah! Blessed Virgin,\nBlessed Virgin, take pity upon us!\u201d\n\nOvercome by emotion, Pierre kissed the child\u2019s fair head, and then\nhastened away to avoid bursting into tears like the sorrowing mother. And\nhe went straight to the Rosary, as though he were determined to conquer\ndeath.\n\nHe had already beheld the Rosary in broad daylight, and had been\ndispleased by the aspect of this church, which the architect, fettered by\nthe rockbound site, had been obliged to make circular and low, so that it\nseemed crushed beneath its great cupola, which square pillars supported.\nThe worst was that, despite its archaic Byzantine style, it altogether\nlacked any religious appearance, and suggested neither mystery nor\nmeditation. Indeed, with the glaring light admitted by the cupola and the\nbroad glazed doors it was more like some brand-new corn-market. And then,\ntoo, it was not yet completed: the decorations were lacking, the bare\nwalls against which the altars stood had no other embellishment than some\nartificial roses of coloured paper and a few insignificant votive\nofferings; and this bareness heightened the resemblance to some vast\npublic hall. Moreover, in time of rain the paved floor became as muddy as\nthat of a general waiting-room at a railway station. The high altar was a\ntemporary structure of painted wood. Innumerable rows of benches filled\nthe central rotunda, benches free to the public, on which people could\ncome and rest at all hours, for night and day alike the Rosary remained\nopen to the swarming pilgrims. Like the shelter-house, it was a cow-shed\nin which the Almighty received the poor ones of the earth.\n\nOn entering, Pierre felt himself to be in some common hall trod by the\nfootsteps of an ever-changing crowd. But the brilliant sunlight no longer\nstreamed on the pallid walls, the tapers burning at every altar simply\ngleamed like stars amidst the uncertain gloom which filled the building.\nA solemn high mass had been celebrated at midnight with extraordinary\npomp, amidst all the splendour of candles, chants, golden vestments, and\nswinging, steaming censers; but of all this glorious display there now\nremained only the regulation number of tapers necessary for the\ncelebration of the masses at each of the fifteen altars ranged around the\nedifice. These masses began at midnight and did not cease till noon.\nNearly four hundred were said during those twelve hours at the Rosary\nalone. Taking the whole of Lourdes, where there were altogether some\nfifty altars, more than two thousand masses were celebrated daily. And so\ngreat was the abundance of priests, that many had extreme difficulty in\nfulfilling their duties, having to wait for hours together before they\ncould find an altar unoccupied. What particularly struck Pierre that\nevening, was the sight of all the altars besieged by rows of priests\npatiently awaiting their turn in the dim light at the foot of the steps;\nwhilst the officiating minister galloped through the Latin phrases,\nhastily punctuating them with the prescribed signs of the cross. And the\nweariness of all the waiting ones was so great, that most of them were\nseated on the flagstones, some even dozing on the altar steps in heaps,\nquite overpowered, relying on the beadle to come and rouse them.\n\nFor a moment Pierre walked about undecided. Was he going to wait like the\nothers? However, the scene determined him against doing so. At every\naltar, at every mass, a crowd of pilgrims was gathered, communicating in\nall haste with a sort of voracious fervour. Each pyx was filled and\nemptied incessantly; the priests\u2019 hands grew tired in thus distributing\nthe bread of life; and Pierre\u2019s surprise increased at the sight. Never\nbefore had he beheld a corner of this earth so watered by the divine\nblood, whence faith took wing in such a flight of souls. It was like a\nreturn to the heroic days of the Church, when all nations prostrated\nthemselves beneath the same blast of credulity in their terrified\nignorance which led them to place their hope of eternal happiness in an\nAlmighty God. He could fancy himself carried back some eight or nine\ncenturies, to the time of great public piety, when people believed in the\napproaching end of the world; and this he could fancy the more readily as\nthe crowd of simple folk, the whole host that had attended high mass, was\nstill seated on the benches, as much at ease in God\u2019s house as at home.\nMany had no place of refuge. Was not the church their home, the asylum\nwhere consolation awaited them both by day and by night? Those who knew\nnot where to sleep, who had not found room even at the shelter place,\ncame to the Rosary, where sometimes they succeeded in finding a vacant\nseat on a bench, at others sufficient space to lie down on the\nflagstones. And others who had beds awaiting them lingered there for the\njoy of passing a whole night in that divine abode, so full of beautiful\ndreams. Until daylight the concourse and promiscuity were extraordinary;\nevery row of benches was occupied, sleeping persons were scattered in\nevery corner and behind every pillar; men, women, children were leaning\nagainst each other, their heads on one another\u2019s shoulders, their breath\nmingling in calm unconsciousness. It was the break-up of a religious\ngathering overwhelmed by sleep, a church transformed into a chance\nhospital, its doors wide open to the lovely August night, giving access\nto all who were wandering in the darkness, the good and the bad, the\nweary and the lost. And all over the place, from each of the fifteen\naltars, the bells announcing the elevation of the Host incessantly\nsounded, whilst from among the mob of sleepers bands of believers now and\nagain arose, went and received the sacrament, and then returned to mingle\nonce more with the nameless, shepherdless flock which the semi-obscurity\nenveloped like a veil.\n\nWith an air of restless indecision, Pierre was still wandering through\nthe shadowy groups, when an old priest, seated on the step of an altar,\nbeckoned to him. For two hours he had been waiting there, and now that\nhis turn was at length arriving he felt so faint that he feared he might\nnot have strength to say the whole of his mass, and preferred, therefore,\nto surrender his place to another. No doubt the sight of Pierre,\nwandering so distressfully in the gloom, had moved him. He pointed the\nvestry out to him, waited until he returned with chasuble and chalice,\nand then went off and fell into a sound sleep on one of the neighbouring\nbenches. Pierre thereupon said his mass in the same way as he said it at\nParis, like a worthy man fulfilling a professional duty. He outwardly\nmaintained an air of sincere faith. But, contrary to what he had expected\nfrom the two feverish days through which he had just gone, from the\nextraordinary and agitating surroundings amidst which he had spent the\nlast few hours, nothing moved him nor touched his heart. He had hoped\nthat a great commotion would overpower him at the moment of the\ncommunion, when the divine mystery is accomplished; that he would find\nhimself in view of Paradise, steeped in grace, in the very presence of\nthe Almighty; but there was no manifestation, his chilled heart did not\neven throb, he went on to the end pronouncing the usual words, making the\nregulation gestures, with the mechanical accuracy of the profession. In\nspite of his effort to be fervent, one single idea kept obstinately\nreturning to his mind--that the vestry was far too small, since such an\nenormous number of masses had to be said. How could the sacristans manage\nto distribute the holy vestments and the cloths? It puzzled him, and\nengaged his thoughts with absurd persistency.\n\nAt length, to his surprise, he once more found himself outside. Again he\nwandered through the night, a night which seemed to him utterly void,\ndarker and stiller than before. The town was lifeless, not a light was\ngleaming. There only remained the growl of the Gave, which his accustomed\nears no longer heard. And suddenly, similar to a miraculous apparition,\nthe Grotto blazed before him, illumining the darkness with its\neverlasting brasier, which burnt with a flame of inextinguishable love.\nHe had returned thither unconsciously, attracted no doubt by thoughts of\nMarie. Three o\u2019clock was about to strike, the benches before the Grotto\nwere emptying, and only some twenty persons remained there, dark,\nindistinct forms, kneeling in slumberous ecstasy, wrapped in divine\ntorpor. It seemed as though the night in progressing had increased the\ngloom, and imparted a remote visionary aspect to the Grotto. All faded\naway amidst delicious lassitude, sleep reigned supreme over the dim,\nfar-spreading country side; whilst the voice of the invisible waters\nseemed to be merely the breathing of this pure slumber, upon which the\nBlessed Virgin, all white with her aureola of tapers, was smiling. And\namong the few unconscious women was Madame Maze, still kneeling, with\nclasped hands and bowed head, but so indistinct that she seemed to have\nmelted away amidst her ardent prayer.\n\nPierre, however, had immediately gone up to Marie. He was shivering, and\nfancied that she must be chilled by the early morning air. \u201cI beseech\nyou, Marie, cover yourself up,\u201d said he. \u201cDo you want to suffer still\nmore?\u201d And thereupon he drew up the shawl which had slipped off her, and\nendeavoured to fasten it about her neck. \u201cYou are cold, Marie,\u201d he added;\n\u201cyour hands are like ice.\u201d\n\nShe did not answer, she was still in the same attitude as when he had\nleft her a couple of hours previously. With her elbows resting on the\nedges of her box, she kept herself raised, her soul still lifted towards\nthe Blessed Virgin and her face transfigured, beaming with a celestial\njoy. Her lips moved, though no sound came from them. Perhaps she was\nstill carrying on some mysterious conversation in the world of\nenchantments, dreaming wide awake, as she had been doing ever since he\nhad placed her there. He spoke to her again, but still she answered not.\nAt last, however, of her own accord, she murmured in a far-away voice:\n\u201cOh! I am so happy, Pierre! I have seen her; I prayed to her for you, and\nshe smiled at me, slightly nodding her head to let me know that she heard\nme and would grant my prayers. And though she did not speak to me,\nPierre, I understood what she wished me to know. \u2018Tis to-day, at four\no\u2019clock in the afternoon, when the Blessed Sacrament passes by, that I\nshall be cured!\u201d\n\nHe listened to her in deep agitation. Had she been sleeping with her eyes\nwide open? Was it in a dream that she had seen the marble figure of the\nBlessed Virgin bend its head and smile? A great tremor passed through him\nat the thought that this poor child had prayed for him. And he walked up\nto the railing, and dropped upon his knees, stammering: \u201cO Marie! O\nMarie!\u201d without knowing whether this heart-cry were intended for the\nVirgin or for the beloved friend of his childhood. And he remained there,\nutterly overwhelmed, waiting for grace to come to him.\n\nEndless minutes went by. This was indeed the superhuman effort, the\nwaiting for the miracle which he had come to seek for himself, the sudden\nrevelation, the thunderclap which was to sweep away his unbelief and\nrestore him, rejuvenated and triumphant, to the faith of the\nsimple-minded. He surrendered himself, he wished that some mighty power\nmight ravage his being and transform it. But, even as before whilst\nsaying his mass, he heard naught within him but an endless silence, felt\nnothing but a boundless vacuum. There was no divine intervention, his\ndespairing heart almost seemed to cease beating. And although he strove\nto pray, to fix his mind wholly upon that powerful Virgin, so\ncompassionate to poor humanity, his thoughts none the less wandered, won\nback by the outside world, and again turning to puerile trifles. Within\nthe Grotto, on the other side of the railing, he had once more caught\nsight of Baron Suire, still asleep, still continuing his pleasant nap\nwith his hands clasped in front of him. Other things also attracted his\nattention: the flowers deposited at the feet of the Virgin, the letters\ncast there as though into a heavenly letter-box, the delicate lace-like\nwork of wax which remained erect around the flames of the larger tapers,\nlooking like some rich silver ornamentation. Then, without any apparent\nreason, his thoughts flew away to the days of his childhood, and his\nbrother Guillaume\u2019s face rose before him with extreme distinctness. He\nhad not seen him since their mother\u2019s death. He merely knew that he led a\nvery secluded life, occupying himself with scientific matters, in a\nlittle house in which he had buried himself with a mistress and two big\ndogs; and he would have known nothing more about him, but for having\nrecently read his name in a newspaper in connection with some\nrevolutionary attempt. It was stated that he was passionately devoting\nhimself to the study of explosives, and in constant intercourse with the\nleaders of the most advanced parties. Why, however, should Guillaume\nappear to him in this wise, in this ecstatic spot, amidst the mystical\nlight of the tapers,--appear to him, moreover, such as he had formerly\nknown him, so good, affectionate, and brotherly, overflowing with charity\nfor every affliction! The thought haunted him for a moment, and filled\nhim with painful regret for that brotherliness now dead and gone. Then,\nwith hardly a moment\u2019s pause, his mind reverted to himself, and he\nrealised that he might stubbornly remain there for hours without\nregaining faith. Nevertheless, he felt a sort of tremor pass through him,\na final hope, a feeling that if the Blessed Virgin should perform the\ngreat miracle of curing Marie, he would at last believe. It was like a\nfinal delay which he allowed himself, an appointment with Faith for that\nvery day, at four o\u2019clock in the afternoon, when, according to what the\ngirl had told him, the Blessed Sacrament would pass by. And at this\nthought his anguish at once ceased, he remained kneeling, worn out with\nfatigue and overcome by invincible drowsiness.\n\nThe hours passed by, the resplendent illumination of the Grotto was still\nprojected into the night, its reflection stretching to the neighbouring\nhillsides and whitening the walls of the convents there. However, Pierre\nnoticed it grow paler and paler, which surprised him, and he roused\nhimself, feeling thoroughly chilled; it was the day breaking, beneath a\nleaden sky overcast with clouds. He perceived that one of those storms,\nso sudden in mountainous regions, was rapidly rising from the south. The\nthunder could already be heard rumbling in the distance, whilst gusts of\nwind swept along the roads. Perhaps he also had been sleeping, for he no\nlonger beheld Baron Suire, whose departure he did not remember having\nwitnessed. There were scarcely ten persons left before the Grotto, though\namong them he again recognised Madame Maze with her face hidden in her\nhands. However, when she noticed that it was daylight and that she could\nbe seen, she rose up, and vanished at a turn of the narrow path leading\nto the convent of the Blue Sisters.\n\nFeeling anxious, Pierre went up to Marie to tell her she must not remain\nthere any longer, unless she wished to get wet through. \u201cI will take you\nback to the hospital,\u201d said he.\n\nShe refused and then entreated: \u201cNo, no! I am waiting for mass; I\npromised to communicate here. Don\u2019t trouble about me, return to the hotel\nat once, and go to bed, I implore you. You know very well that covered\nvehicles are sent here for the sick whenever it rains.\u201d\n\nAnd she persisted in refusing to leave, whilst on his side he kept on\nrepeating that he did not wish to go to bed. A mass, it should be\nmentioned, was said at the Grotto early every morning, and it was a\ndivine joy for the pilgrims to be able to communicate, amidst the glory\nof the rising sun, after a long night of ecstasy. And now, just as some\nlarge drops of rain were beginning to fall, there came the priest,\nwearing a chasuble and accompanied by two acolytes, one of whom, in order\nto protect the chalice, held a large white silk umbrella, embroidered\nwith gold, over him.\n\nPierre, after pushing Marie\u2019s little conveyance close to the railing, so\nthat the girl might be sheltered by the overhanging rock, under which the\nfew other worshippers had also sought refuge, had just seen her receive\nthe sacrament with ardent fervour, when his attention was attracted by a\npitiful spectacle which quite wrung his heart.\n\nBeneath a dense, heavy deluge of rain, he caught sight of Madame Vincent,\nstill with that precious, woeful burden, her little Rose, whom with\noutstretched arms she was offering to the Blessed Virgin. Unable to stay\nany longer at the shelter-house owing to the complaints caused by the\nchild\u2019s constant moaning, she had carried her off into the night, and\nduring two hours had roamed about in the darkness, lost, distracted,\nbearing this poor flesh of her flesh, which she pressed to her bosom,\nunable to give it any relief. She knew not what road she had taken,\nbeneath what trees she had strayed, so absorbed had she been in her\nrevolt against the unjust sufferings which had so sorely stricken this\npoor little being, so feeble and so pure, and as yet quite incapable of\nsin. Was it not abominable that the grip of disease should for weeks have\nbeen incessantly torturing her child, whose cry she knew not how to\nquiet? She carried her about, rocking her in her arms as she went wildly\nalong the paths, obstinately hoping that she would at last get her to\nsleep, and so hush that wail which was rending her heart. And suddenly,\nutterly worn-out, sharing each of her daughter\u2019s death pangs, she found\nherself opposite the Grotto, at the feet of the miracle-working Virgin,\nshe who forgave and who healed.\n\n\u201cO Virgin, Mother most admirable, heal her! O Virgin, Mother of Divine\nGrace, heal her!\u201d\n\nShe had fallen on her knees, and with quivering, outstretched arms was\nstill offering her expiring daughter, in a paroxysm of hope and desire\nwhich seemed to raise her from the ground. And the rain, which she never\nnoticed, beat down behind her with the fury of an escaped torrent, whilst\nviolent claps of thunder shook the mountains. For one moment she thought\nher prayer was granted, for Rose had slightly shivered as though visited\nby the archangel, her face becoming quite white, her eyes and mouth\nopening wide; and with one last little gasp she ceased to cry.\n\n\u201cO Virgin, Mother of Our Redeemer, heal her! O Virgin, All-powerful\nMother, heal her!\u201d\n\nBut the poor woman felt her child become even lighter in her extended\narms. And now she became afraid at no longer hearing her moan, at seeing\nher so white, with staring eyes and open mouth, without a sign of life.\nHow was it that she did not smile if she were cured? Suddenly a loud\nheart-rending cry rang out, the cry of the mother, surpassing even the\ndin of the thunder in the storm, whose violence was increasing. Her child\nwas dead. And she rose up erect, turned her back on that deaf Virgin who\nlet little children die, and started off like a madwoman beneath the\nlashing downpour, going straight before her without knowing whither, and\nstill and ever carrying and nursing that poor little body which she had\nheld in her arms during so many days and nights. A thunderbolt fell,\nshivering one of the neighbouring trees, as though with the stroke of a\ngiant axe, amidst a great crash of twisted and broken branches.\n\nPierre had rushed after Madame Vincent, eager to guide and help her. But\nhe was unable to follow her, for he at once lost sight of her behind the\nblurring curtain of rain. When he returned, the mass was drawing to an\nend, and, as soon as the rain fell less violently, the officiating priest\nwent off under the white silk umbrella embroidered with gold. Meantime a\nkind of omnibus awaited the few patients to take them back to the\nhospital.\n\nMarie pressed Pierre\u2019s hands. \u201cOh! how happy I am!\u201d she said. \u201cDo not\ncome for me before three o\u2019clock this afternoon.\u201d\n\nOn being left amidst the rain, which had now become an obstinate fine\ndrizzle, Pierre re-entered the Grotto and seated himself on the bench\nnear the spring. He would not go to bed, for in spite of his weariness he\ndreaded sleep in the state of nervous excitement in which he had been\nplunged ever since the day before. Little Rose\u2019s death had increased his\nfever; he could not banish from his mind the thought of that heart-broken\nmother, wandering along the muddy paths with the dead body of her child.\nWhat could be the reasons which influenced the Virgin? He was amazed that\nshe could make a choice. Divine Mother as she was, he wondered how her\nheart could decide upon healing only ten out of a hundred sufferers--that\nten per cent. of miracles which Doctor Bonamy had proved by statistics.\nHe, Pierre, had already asked himself the day before which ones he would\nhave chosen had he possessed the power of saving ten. A terrible power in\nall truth, a formidable selection, which he would never have had the\ncourage to make. Why this one, and not that other? Where was the justice,\nwhere the compassion? To be all-powerful and heal every one of them, was\nnot that the desire which rose from each heart? And the Virgin seemed to\nhim to be cruel, badly informed, as harsh and indifferent as even\nimpassible nature, distributing life and death at random, or in\naccordance with laws which mankind knew nothing of.\n\nThe rain was at last leaving off, and Pierre had been there a couple of\nhours when he felt that his feet were damp. He looked down, and was\ngreatly surprised, for the spring was overflowing through the gratings.\nThe soil of the Grotto was already covered; whilst outside a sheet of\nwater was flowing under the benches, as far as the parapet against the\nGave. The late storms had swollen the waters in the neighbourhood. Pierre\nthereupon reflected that this spring, in spite of its miraculous origin,\nwas subject to the laws that governed other springs, for it certainly\ncommunicated with some natural reservoirs, wherein the rain penetrated\nand accumulated. And then, to keep his ankles dry, he left the place.\n\n\n\n\nV. THE TWO VICTIMS\n\n\nPIERRE walked along thirsting for fresh air, his head so heavy that he\ntook off his hat to relieve his burning brow. Despite all the fatigue of\nthat terrible night of vigil, he did not think of sleeping. He was kept\nerect by that rebellion of his whole being which he could not quiet.\nEight o\u2019clock was striking, and he walked at random under the glorious\nmorning sun, now shining forth in a spotless sky, which the storm seemed\nto have cleansed of all the Sunday dust.\n\nAll at once, however, he raised his head, anxious to know where he was;\nand he was quite astonished, for he found that he had already covered a\ndeal of ground, and was now below the station, near the municipal\nhospital. He was hesitating at a point where the road forked, not knowing\nwhich direction to take, when a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder,\nand a voice inquired: \u201cWhere are you going at this early hour?\u201d\n\nIt was Doctor Chassaigne who addressed him, drawing up his lofty figure,\nclad in black from head to foot. \u201cHave you lost yourself?\u201d he added; \u201cdo\nyou want to know your way?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, thanks, no,\u201d replied Pierre, somewhat disturbed. \u201cI spent the night\nat the Grotto with that young patient to whom I am so much attached, and\nmy heart was so upset that I have been walking about in the hope it would\ndo me good, before returning to the hotel to take a little sleep.\u201d\n\nThe doctor continued looking at him, clearly detecting the frightful\nstruggle which was raging within him, the despair which he felt at being\nunable to sink asleep in faith, the suffering which the futility of all\nhis efforts brought him. \u201cAh, my poor child!\u201d murmured M. Chassaigne; and\nin a fatherly way he added: \u201cWell, since you are walking, suppose we take\na walk together? I was just going down yonder, to the bank of the Gave.\nCome along, and on our way back you will see what a lovely view we shall\nhave.\u201d\n\nFor his part, the doctor took a walk of a couple of hours\u2019 duration each\nmorning, ever alone, seeking, as it were, to tire and exhaust his grief.\nFirst of all, as soon as he had risen, he repaired to the cemetery, and\nknelt on the tomb of his wife and daughter, which, at all seasons, he\ndecked with flowers. And afterwards he would roam along the roads, with\ntearful eyes, never returning home until fatigue compelled him.\n\nWith a wave of the hand, Pierre accepted his proposal, and in perfect\nsilence they went, side by side, down the sloping road. They remained for\na long time without speaking; the doctor seemed more overcome than was\nhis wont that morning; it was as though his chat with his dear lost ones\nhad made his heart bleed yet more copiously. He walked along with his\nhead bowed; his face, round which his white hair streamed, was very pale,\nand tears still blurred his eyes. And yet it was so pleasant, so warm in\nthe sunlight on that lovely morning. The road now followed the Gave on\nits right bank, on the other side of the new town; and you could see the\ngardens, the inclined ways, and the Basilica. And, all at once, the\nGrotto appeared, with the everlasting flare of its tapers, now paling in\nthe broad light.\n\nDoctor Chassaigne, who had turned his head, made the sign of the cross,\nwhich Pierre did not at first understand. And when, in his turn, he had\nperceived the Grotto, he glanced in surprise at his old friend, and once\nmore relapsed into the astonishment which had come over him a couple of\ndays previously on finding this man of science, this whilom atheist and\nmaterialist, so overwhelmed by grief that he was now a believer, longing\nfor the one delight of meeting his dear ones in another life. His heart\nhad swept his reason away; old and lonely as he was, it was only the\nillusion that he would live once more in Paradise, where loving souls\nmeet again, that prolonged his life on earth. This thought increased the\nyoung priest\u2019s discomfort. Must he also wait until he had grown old and\nendured equal sufferings in order to find a refuge in faith?\n\nStill walking beside the Gave, leaving the town farther and farther\nbehind them, they were lulled as it were by the noise of those clear\nwaters rolling over the pebbles between banks shaded by trees. And they\nstill remained silent, walking on with an equal step, each, on his own\nside, absorbed in his sorrows.\n\n\u201cAnd Bernadette,\u201d Pierre suddenly inquired; \u201cdid you know her?\u201d\n\nThe doctor raised his head. \u201cBernadette? Yes, yes,\u201d said he. \u201cI saw her\nonce--afterwards.\u201d He relapsed into silence for a moment, and then began\nchatting: \u201cIn 1858, you know, at the time of the apparitions, I was\nthirty years of age. I was in Paris, still young in my profession, and\nopposed to all supernatural notions, so that I had no idea of returning\nto my native mountains to see a girl suffering from hallucinations. Five\nor six years later, however, some time about 1864, I passed through\nLourdes, and was inquisitive enough to pay Bernadette a visit. She was\nthen still at the asylum with the Sisters of Nevers.\u201d\n\nPierre remembered that one of the reasons of his journey had been his\ndesire to complete his inquiry respecting Bernadette. And who could tell\nif grace might not come to him from that humble, lovable girl, on the day\nwhen he should be convinced that she had indeed fulfilled a mission of\ndivine love and forgiveness? For this consummation to ensue it would\nperhaps suffice that he should know her better and learn to feel that she\nwas really the saint, the chosen one, as others believed her to have\nbeen.\n\n\u201cTell me about her, I pray you,\u201d he said; \u201ctell me all you know of her.\u201d\n\nA faint smile curved the doctor\u2019s lips. He understood, and would have\ngreatly liked to calm and comfort the young priest whose soul was so\ngrievously tortured by doubt. \u201cOh! willingly, my poor child!\u201d he\nanswered. \u201cI should be so happy to help you on the path to light. You do\nwell to love Bernadette--that may save you; for since all those old-time\nthings I have deeply reflected on her case, and I declare to you that I\nnever met a more charming creature, or one with a better heart.\u201d\n\nThen, to the slow rhythm of their footsteps along the well-kept, sunlit\nroad, in the delightful freshness of morning, the doctor began to relate\nhis visit to Bernadette in 1864. She had then just attained her twentieth\nbirthday, the apparitions had taken place six years previously, and she\nhad astonished him by her candid and sensible air, her perfect modesty.\nThe Sisters of Nevers, who had taught her to read, kept her with them at\nthe asylum in order to shield her from public inquisitiveness. She found\nan occupation there, helping them in sundry petty duties; but she was\nvery often taken ill, and would spend weeks at a time in her bed. The\ndoctor had been particularly struck by her beautiful eyes, pure, candid,\nand frank, like those of a child. The rest of her face, said he, had\nbecome somewhat spoilt; her complexion was losing its clearness, her\nfeatures had grown less delicate, and her general appearance was that of\nan ordinary servant-girl, short, puny, and unobtrusive. Her piety was\nstill keen, but she had not seemed to him to be the ecstatical, excitable\ncreature that many might have supposed; indeed, she appeared to have a\nrather positive mind which did not indulge in flights of fancy; and she\ninvariably had some little piece of needlework, some knitting, some\nembroidery in her hand. In a word, she appeared to have entered the\ncommon path, and in nowise resembled the intensely passionate female\nworshippers of the Christ. She had no further visions, and never of her\nown accord spoke of the eighteen apparitions which had decided her life.\nTo learn anything it was necessary to interrogate her, to address precise\nquestions to her. These she would briefly answer, and then seek to change\nthe conversation, as though she did not like to talk of such mysterious\nthings. If wishing to probe the matter further, you asked her the nature\nof the three secrets which the Virgin had confided to her, she would\nremain silent, simply averting her eyes. And it was impossible to make\nher contradict herself; the particulars she gave invariably agreed with\nher original narrative, and, indeed, she always seemed to repeat the same\nwords, with the same inflections of the voice.\n\n\u201cI had her in hand during the whole of one afternoon,\u201d continued Doctor\nChassaigne, \u201cand there was not the variation of a syllable in her story.\nIt was disconcerting. Still, I am prepared to swear that she was not\nlying, that she never lied, that she was altogether incapable of\nfalsehood.\u201d\n\nPierre boldly ventured to discuss this point. \u201cBut won\u2019t you admit,\ndoctor, the possibility of some disorder of the will?\u201d he asked. \u201cHas it\nnot been proved, is it not admitted nowadays, that when certain\ndegenerate creatures with childish minds fall into an hallucination, a\nfancy of some kind or other, they are often unable to free themselves\nfrom it, especially when they remain in the same environment in which the\nphenomenon occurred? Cloistered, living alone with her fixed idea,\nBernadette, naturally enough, obstinately clung to it.\u201d\n\nThe doctor\u2019s faint smile returned to his lips, and vaguely waving his\narm, he replied: \u201cAh! my child, you ask me too much. You know very well\nthat I am now only a poor old man, who prides himself but little on his\nscience, and no longer claims to be able to explain anything. However, I\ndo of course know of that famous medical-school example of the young girl\nwho allowed herself to waste away with hunger at home, because she\nimagined that she was suffering from a serious complaint of the digestive\norgans, but who nevertheless began to eat when she was taken elsewhere.\nHowever, that is but one circumstance, and there are so many\ncontradictory cases.\u201d\n\nFor a moment they became silent, and only the rhythmical sound of their\nsteps was heard along the road. Then the doctor resumed: \u201cMoreover, it is\nquite true that Bernadette shunned the world, and was only happy in her\nsolitary corner. She was never known to have a single intimate female\nfriend, any particular human love for anybody. She was kind and gentle\ntowards all, but it was only for children that she showed any lively\naffection. And as, after all, the medical man is not quite dead within\nme, I will confess to you that I have sometimes wondered if she remained\nas pure in mind, as, most undoubtedly, she did remain in body. However, I\nthink it quite possible, given her sluggish, poor-blooded temperament,\nnot to speak of the innocent sphere in which she grew up, first Bartres,\nand then the convent. Still, a doubt came to me when I heard of the\ntender interest which she took in the orphan asylum built by the Sisters\nof Nevers, farther along this very road. Poor little girls are received\ninto it, and shielded from the perils of the highways. And if Bernadette\nwished it to be extremely large, so as to lodge all the little lambs in\ndanger, was it not because she herself remembered having roamed the roads\nwith bare feet, and still trembled at the idea of what might have become\nof her but for the help of the Blessed Virgin?\u201d\n\nThen, resuming his narrative, he went on telling Pierre of the crowds\nthat flocked to see Bernadette and pay her reverence in her asylum at\nLourdes. This had proved a source of considerable fatigue to her. Not a\nday went by without a stream of visitors appearing before her. They came\nfrom all parts of France, some even from abroad; and it soon proved\nnecessary to refuse the applications of those who were actuated by mere\ninquisitiveness, and to grant admittance only to the genuine believers,\nthe members of the clergy, and the people of mark on whom the doors could\nnot well have been shut. A Sister was always present to protect\nBernadette against the excessive indiscretion of some of her visitors,\nfor questions literally rained upon her, and she often grew faint through\nhaving to repeat her story so many times. Ladies of high position fell on\ntheir knees, kissed her gown, and would have liked to carry a piece of it\naway as a relic. She also had to defend her chaplet, which in their\nexcitement they all begged her to sell to them for a fabulous amount. One\nday a certain marchioness endeavoured to secure it by giving her another\none which she had brought with her--a chaplet with a golden cross and\nbeads of real pearls. Many hoped that she would consent to work a miracle\nin their presence; children were brought to her in order that she might\nlay her hands upon them; she was also consulted in cases of illness, and\nattempts were made to purchase her influence with the Virgin. Large sums\nwere offered to her. At the slightest sign, the slightest expression of a\ndesire to be a queen, decked with jewels and crowned with gold, she would\nhave been overwhelmed with regal presents. And while the humble remained\non their knees on her threshold, the great ones of the earth pressed\nround her, and would have counted it a glory to act as her escort. It was\neven related that one among them, the handsomest and wealthiest of\nprinces, came one clear sunny April day to ask her hand in marriage.\n\n\u201cBut what always struck and displeased me,\u201d said Pierre, \u201cwas her\ndeparture from Lourdes when she was two-and-twenty, her sudden\ndisappearance and sequestration in the convent of Saint Gildard at\nNevers, whence she never emerged. Didn\u2019t that give a semblance of truth\nto those spurious rumours of insanity which were circulated? Didn\u2019t it\nhelp people to suppose that she was being shut up, whisked away for fear\nof some indiscretion on her part, some naive remark or other which might\nhave revealed the secret of a prolonged fraud? Indeed, to speak plainly,\nI will confess to you that for my own part I still believe that she was\nspirited away.\u201d\n\nDoctor Chassaigne gently shook his head. \u201cNo, no,\u201d said he, \u201cthere was no\nstory prepared in advance in this affair, no big melodrama secretly\nstaged and afterwards performed by more or less unconscious actors. The\ndevelopments came of themselves, by the sole force of circumstances; and\nthey were always very intricate, very difficult to analyse. Moreover, it\nis certain that it was Bernadette herself who wished to leave Lourdes.\nThose incessant visits wearied her, she felt ill at ease amidst all that\nnoisy worship. All that _she_ desired was a dim nook where she might live\nin peace, and so fierce was she at times in her disinterestedness, that\nwhen money was handed to her, even with the pious intent of having a mass\nsaid or a taper burnt, she would fling it upon the floor. She never\naccepted anything for herself or for her family, which remained in\npoverty. And with such pride as she possessed, such natural simplicity,\nsuch a desire to remain in the background, one can very well understand\nthat she should have wished to disappear and cloister herself in some\nlonely spot so as to prepare herself to make a good death. Her work was\naccomplished; she had initiated this great movement scarcely knowing how\nor why; and she could really be of no further utility. Others were about\nto conduct matters to an issue and insure the triumph of the Grotto.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us admit, then, that she went off of her own accord,\u201d said Pierre;\n\u201cstill, what a relief it must have been for the people you speak of, who\nthenceforth became the real masters, whilst millions of money were\nraining down on Lourdes from the whole world.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! certainly; I don\u2019t pretend that any attempt was made to detain her\nhere!\u201d exclaimed the doctor. \u201cFrankly, I even believe that she was in\nsome degree urged into the course she took. She ended by becoming\nsomewhat of an incumbrance. It was not that any annoying revelations were\nfeared from her; but remember that with her extreme timidity and frequent\nillnesses she was scarcely ornamental. Besides, however small the room\nwhich she took up at Lourdes, however obedient she showed herself, she\nwas none the less a power, and attracted the multitude, which made her,\nso to say, a competitor of the Grotto. For the Grotto to remain alone,\nresplendent in its glory, it was advisable that Bernadette should\nwithdraw into the background, become as it were a simple legend. Such,\nindeed, must have been the reasons which induced Monseigneur Laurence,\nthe Bishop of Tarbes, to hasten her departure. The only mistake that was\nmade was in saying that it was a question of screening her from the\nenterprises of the world, as though it were feared that she might fall\ninto the sin of pride, by growing vain of the saintly fame with which the\nwhole of Christendom re-echoed. And this was doing her a grave injury,\nfor she was as incapable of pride as she was of falsehood. Never, indeed,\nwas there a more candid or more modest child.\u201d\n\nThe doctor was growing impassioned, excited. But all at once he became\ncalm again, and a pale smile returned to his lips. \u201c\u2018Tis true,\u201d said he,\n\u201cI love her; the more I have thought of her, the more have I learned to\nlove her. But you must not think, Pierre, that I am completely brutified\nby belief. If I nowadays acknowledge the existence of an unseen power, if\nI feel a need of believing in another, better, and more just life, I\nnevertheless know right well that there are men remaining in this world\nof ours; and at times, even when they wear the cowl or the cassock, the\nwork they do is vile.\u201d\n\nThere came another interval of silence. Each was continuing his dream\napart from the other. Then the doctor resumed: \u201cI will tell you of a\nfancy which has often haunted me. Suppose we admit that Bernadette was\nnot the shy, simple child we knew her to be; let us endow her with a\nspirit of intrigue and domination, transform her into a conqueress, a\nleader of nations, and try to picture what, in that case, would have\nhappened. It is evident that the Grotto would be hers, the Basilica also.\nWe should see her lording it at all the ceremonies, under a dais, with a\ngold mitre on her head. She would distribute the miracles; with a\nsovereign gesture her little hand would lead the multitudes to heaven.\nAll the lustre and glory would come from her, she being the saint, the\nchosen one, the only one that had been privileged to see the Divinity\nface to face. And indeed nothing would seem more just, for she would\ntriumph after toiling, enjoy the fruit of her labour in all glory. But\nyou see, as it happens, she is defrauded, robbed. The marvellous harvests\nsown by her are reaped by others. During the twelve years which she lived\nat Saint Gildard, kneeling in the gloom, Lourdes was full of victors,\npriests in golden vestments chanting thanksgivings, and blessing churches\nand monuments erected at a cost of millions. She alone did not behold the\ntriumph of the new faith, whose author she had been. You say that she\ndreamt it all. Well, at all events, what a beautiful dream it was, a\ndream which has stirred the whole world, and from which she, dear girl,\nnever awakened!\u201d\n\nThey halted and sat down for a moment on a rock beside the road, before\nreturning to the town. In front of them the Gave, deep at this point of\nits course, was rolling blue waters tinged with dark moire-like\nreflections, whilst, farther on, rushing hurriedly over a bed of large\nstones, the stream became so much foam, a white froth, light like snow.\nAmidst the gold raining from the sun, a fresh breeze came down from the\nmountains.\n\nWhilst listening to that story of how Bernadette had been exploited and\nsuppressed, Pierre had simply found in it all a fresh motive for revolt;\nand, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he began to think of the\ninjustice of nature, of that law which wills that the strong should\ndevour the weak. Then, all at once raising his head, he inquired: \u201cAnd\ndid you also know Abb\u00e9 Peyramale?\u201d\n\nThe doctor\u2019s eyes brightened once more, and he eagerly replied:\n\u201cCertainly I did! He was an upright, energetic man, a saint, an apostle.\nHe and Bernadette were the great makers of Our Lady of Lourdes. Like her,\nhe endured frightful sufferings, and, like her, he died from them. Those\nwho do not know his story can know nothing, understand nothing, of the\ndrama enacted here.\u201d\n\nThereupon he related that story at length. Abb\u00e9 Peyramale was the parish\npriest of Lourdes at the time of the apparitions. A native of the region,\ntall, broad-shouldered, with a powerful leonine head, he was extremely\nintelligent, very honest and goodhearted, though at times violent and\ndomineering. He seemed built for combat. An enemy of all pious\nexaggerations, discharging the duties of his ministry in a broad, liberal\nspirit, he regarded the apparitions with distrust when he first heard of\nthem, refused to believe in Bernadette\u2019s stories, questioned her, and\ndemanded proofs. It was only at a later stage, when the blast of faith\nbecame irresistible, upsetting the most rebellious minds and mastering\nthe multitude, that he ended, in his turn, by bowing his head; and when\nhe was finally conquered, it was more particularly by his love for the\nhumble and the oppressed which he could not restrain when he beheld\nBernadette threatened with imprisonment. The civil authorities were\npersecuting one of his flock; at this his shepherd\u2019s heart awoke, and, in\nher defence, he gave full reign to his ardent passion for justice.\nMoreover, the charm which the child diffused had worked upon him; he felt\nher to be so candid, so truthful, that he began to place a blind faith in\nher and love her even as everybody else loved her. Moreover, why should\nhe have curtly dismissed all questions of miracles, when miracles abound\nin the pages of Holy Writ? It was not for a minister of religion,\nwhatever his prudence, to set himself up as a sceptic when entire\npopulations were falling on their knees and the Church seemed to be on\nthe eve of another great triumph. Then, too, he had the nature of one who\nleads men, who stirs up crowds, who builds, and in this affair he had\nreally found his vocation, the vast field in which he might exercise his\nenergy, the great cause to which he might wholly devote himself with all\nhis passionate ardour and determination to succeed.\n\nFrom that moment, then, Abb\u00e9 Peyramale had but one thought, to execute\nthe orders which the Virgin had commissioned Bernadette to transmit to\nhim. He caused improvements to be carried out at the Grotto. A railing\nwas placed in front of it; pipes were laid for the conveyance of the\nwater from the source, and a variety of work was accomplished in order to\nclear the approaches. However, the Virgin had particularly requested that\na chapel might be built; and he wished to have a church, quite a\ntriumphal Basilica. He pictured everything on a grand scale, and, full of\nconfidence in the enthusiastic help of Christendom, he worried the\narchitects, requiring them to design real palaces worthy of the Queen of\nHeaven. As a matter of fact, offerings already abounded, gold poured from\nthe most distant dioceses, a rain of gold destined to increase and never\nend. Then came his happy years: he was to be met among the workmen at all\nhours, instilling activity into them like the jovial, good-natured fellow\nhe was, constantly on the point of taking a pick or trowel in hand\nhimself, such was his eagerness to behold the realisation of his dream.\nBut days of trial were in store for him: he fell ill, and lay in danger\nof death on the fourth of April, 1864, when the first procession started\nfrom his parish church to the Grotto, a procession of sixty thousand\npilgrims, which wound along the streets amidst an immense concourse of\nspectators.\n\nOn the day when Abb\u00e9 Peyramale rose from his bed, saved, a first time,\nfrom death, he found himself despoiled. To second him in his heavy task,\nMonseigneur Laurence, the Bishop, had already given him as assistant a\nformer episcopal secretary, Father Semp\u00e9, whom he had appointed warden of\nthe Missionaries of Geraison, a community founded by himself. Father\nSemp\u00e9 was a sly, spare little man, to all appearance most disinterested\nand humble, but in reality consumed by all the thirst of ambition. At the\noutset he kept in his place, serving the parish priest of Lourdes like a\nfaithful subordinate, attending to matters of all kinds in order to\nlighten the other\u2019s work, and acquiring information on every possible\nsubject in his desire to render himself indispensable. He must soon have\nrealised what a rich farm the Grotto was destined to become, and what a\ncolossal revenue might be derived from it, if only a little skill were\nexercised. And thenceforth he no longer stirred from the episcopal\nresidence, but ended by acquiring great influence over the calm,\npractical Bishop, who was in great need of money for the charities of his\ndiocese. And thus it was that during Abb\u00e9 Peyramale\u2019s illness Father\nSemp\u00e9 succeeded in effecting a separation between the parish of Lourdes\nand the domain of the Grotto, which last he was commissioned to manage at\nthe head of a few Fathers of the Immaculate Conception, over whom the\nBishop placed him as Father Superior.\n\nThe struggle soon began, one of those covert, desperate, mortal struggles\nwhich are waged under the cloak of ecclesiastical discipline. There was a\npretext for rupture all ready, a field of battle on which the longer\npurse would necessarily end by conquering. It was proposed to build a new\nparish church, larger and more worthy of Lourdes than the old one already\nin existence, which was admitted to have become too small since the\nfaithful had been flocking into the town in larger and larger numbers.\nMoreover, it was an old idea of Abb\u00e9 Peyramale, who desired to carry out\nthe Virgin\u2019s orders with all possible precision. Speaking of the Grotto,\nshe had said that people would go \u201cthither in procession\u201d; and the Abb\u00e9\nhad always seen the pilgrims start in procession from the town, whither\nthey were expected to return in the same fashion, as indeed had been the\npractice on the first occasions after the apparitions. A central point, a\nrallying spot, was therefore required, and the Abb\u00e9\u2019s dream was to erect\na magnificent church, a cathedral of gigantic proportions, which would\naccommodate a vast multitude. Builder as he was by temperament,\nimpassioned artisan working for the glory of Heaven, he already pictured\nthis cathedral springing from the soil, and rearing its clanging belfry\nin the sunlight. And it was also his own house that he wished to build,\nthe edifice which would be his act of faith and adoration, the temple\nwhere he would be the pontiff, and triumph in company with the sweet\nmemory of Bernadette, in full view of the spot of which both he and she\nhad been so cruelly dispossessed. Naturally enough, bitterly as he felt\nthat act of spoliation, the building of this new parish church was in\nsome degree his revenge, his share of all the glory, besides being a task\nwhich would enable him to utilise both his militant activity and the\nfever that had been consuming him ever since he had ceased going to the\nGrotto, by reason of his soreness of heart.\n\nAt the outset of the new enterprise there was again a flash of\nenthusiasm. At the prospect of seeing all the life and all the money flow\ninto the new city which was springing from the ground around the\nBasilica, the old town, which felt itself thrust upon one side, espoused\nthe cause of its priest. The municipal council voted a sum of one hundred\nthousand francs, which, unfortunately, was not to be paid until the new\nchurch should be roofed in. Abb\u00e9 Peyramale had already accepted the plans\nof his architect--plans which, he had insisted, should be on a grand\nscale--and had also treated with a contractor of Chartres, who engaged to\ncomplete the church in three or four years if the promised supplies of\nfunds should be regularly forthcoming. The Abb\u00e9 believed that offerings\nwould assuredly continue raining down from all parts, and so he launched\ninto this big enterprise without any anxiety, overflowing with a careless\nbravery, and fully expecting that Heaven would not abandon him on the\nroad. He even fancied that he could rely upon the support of Monseigneur\nJourdan, who had now succeeded Monseigneur Laurence as Bishop of Tarbes,\nfor this prelate, after blessing the foundation-stone of the new church,\nhad delivered an address in which he admitted that the enterprise was\nnecessary and meritorious. And it seemed, too, as though Father Semp\u00e9,\nwith his customary humility, had bowed to the inevitable and accepted\nthis vexatious competition, which would compel him to relinquish a share\nof the plunder; for he now pretended to devote himself entirely to the\nmanagement of the Grotto, and even allowed a collection-box for\ncontributions to the building of the new parish church to be placed\ninside the Basilica.\n\nThen, however, the secret, rageful struggle began afresh. Abb\u00e9 Peyramale,\nwho was a wretched manager, exulted on seeing his new church so rapidly\ntake shape. The work was being carried on at a fast pace, and he troubled\nabout nothing else, being still under the delusion that the Blessed\nVirgin would find whatever money might be needed. Thus he was quite\nstupefied when he at last perceived that the offerings were falling off,\nthat the money of the faithful no longer reached him, as though, indeed,\nsomeone had secretly diverted its flow. And eventually the day came when\nhe was unable to make the stipulated payments. In all this there had been\nso much skilfully combined strangulation, of which he only became aware\nlater on. Father Semp\u00e9, however, had once more prevailed on the Bishop to\ngrant his favour exclusively to the Grotto. There was even a talk of some\nconfidential circulars distributed through the various dioceses, so that\nthe many sums of money offered by the faithful should no longer be sent\nto the parish. The voracious, insatiable Grotto was bent upon securing\neverything, and to such a point were things carried that five hundred\nfranc notes slipped into the collection-box at the Basilica were kept\nback; the box was rifled and the parish robbed. Abb\u00e9 Peyramale, however,\nin his passion for the rising church, his child, continued fighting most\ndesperately, ready if need were to give his blood. He had at first\ntreated with the contractor in the name of the vestry; then, when he was\nat a loss how to pay, he treated in his own name. His life was bound up\nin the enterprise, he wore himself out in the heroic efforts which he\nmade. Of the four hundred thousand francs that he had promised, he had\nonly been able to pay two hundred thousand; and the municipal council\nstill obstinately refused to hand over the hundred thousand francs which\nit had voted, until the new church should be covered in. This was acting\nagainst the town\u2019s real interests. However, it was said that Father Semp\u00e9\nwas trying to bring influence to bear on the contractor. And, all at\nonce, the work was stopped.\n\nFrom that moment the death agony began. Wounded in the heart, the Abb\u00e9\nPeyramale, the broad-shouldered mountaineer with the leonine face,\nstaggered and fell like an oak struck down by a thunderbolt. He took to\nhis bed, and never left it alive. Strange stories circulated: it was said\nthat Father Semp\u00e9 had sought to secure admission to the parsonage under\nsome pious pretext, but in reality to see if his much-dreaded adversary\nwere really mortally stricken; and it was added, that it had been\nnecessary to drive him from the sick-room, where his presence was an\noutrageous scandal. Then, when the unhappy priest, vanquished and steeped\nin bitterness, was dead, Father Semp\u00e9 was seen triumphing at the funeral,\nfrom which the others had not dared to keep him away. It was affirmed\nthat he openly displayed his abominable delight, that his face was\nradiant that day with the joy of victory. He was at last rid of the only\nman who had been an obstacle to his designs, whose legitimate authority\nhe had feared. He would no longer be forced to share anything with\nanybody now that both the founders of Our Lady of Lourdes had been\nsuppressed--Bernadette placed in a convent, and Abb\u00e9 Peyramale lowered\ninto the ground. The Grotto was now his own property, the alms would come\nto him alone, and he could do what he pleased with the eight hundred\nthousand francs* or so which were at his disposal every year. He would\ncomplete the gigantic works destined to make the Basilica a\nself-supporting centre, and assist in embellishing the new town in order\nto increase the isolation of the old one and seclude it behind its rock,\nlike an insignificant parish submerged beneath the splendour of its\nall-powerful neighbour. All the money, all the sovereignty, would be his;\nhe henceforth would reign.\n\n  * About 145,000 dollars.\n\nHowever, although the works had been stopped, and the new parish church\nwas slumbering inside its wooden fence, it was none the less more than\nhalf built. The vaulted aisles were already erected. And the imperfect\npile remained there like a threat, for the town might some day attempt to\nfinish it. Like Abb\u00e9 Peyramale, therefore, it must be killed for good,\nturned into an irreparable ruin. The secret labour therefore continued, a\nwork of refined cruelty and slow destruction. To begin with, the new\nparish priest, a simple-minded creature, was cowed to such a point that\nhe no longer opened the envelopes containing remittances for the parish;\nall the registered letters were at once taken to the Fathers. Then the\nsite selected for the new parish church was criticised, and the diocesan\narchitect was induced to draw up a report stating that the old church was\nstill in good condition and of ample size for the requirements of the\ncommunity. Moreover, influence was brought to bear on the Bishop, and\nrepresentations were made to him respecting the annoying features of the\npecuniary difficulties which had arisen with the contractor. With a\nlittle imagination poor Peyramale was transformed into a violent,\nobstinate madman, through whose undisciplined zeal the Church had almost\nbeen compromised. And, at last, the Bishop, forgetting that he himself\nhad blessed the foundation-stone, issued a pastoral letter laying the\nunfinished church under interdict, and prohibiting all religious services\nin it. This was the supreme blow. Endless lawsuits had already begun; the\ncontractor, who had only received two hundred thousand francs for the\nfive hundred thousand francs\u2019 worth of work which had been executed, had\ntaken proceedings against Abb\u00e9 Peyramale\u2019s heir-at-law, the vestry, and\nthe town, for the last still refused to pay over the amount which it had\nvoted. At first the Prefect\u2019s Council declared itself incompetent to deal\nwith the case, and when it was sent back to it by the Council of State,\nit rendered a judgment by which the town was condemned to pay the hundred\nthousand francs and the heir-at-law to finish the church. At the same\ntime the vestry was put out of court. However, there was a fresh appeal\nto the Council of State, which quashed this judgment, and condemned the\nvestry, and, in default, the heir-at-law, to pay the contractor. Neither\nparty being solvent, matters remained in this position. The lawsuits had\nlasted fifteen years. The town had now resignedly paid over the hundred\nthousand francs, and only two hundred thousand remained owing to the\ncontractor. However, the costs and the accumulated interest had so\nincreased the amount of indebtedness that it had risen to six hundred\nthousand francs; and as, on the other hand, it was estimated that four\nhundred thousand francs would be required to finish the church, a million\nwas needed to save this young ruin from certain destruction. The Fathers\nof the Grotto were thenceforth able to sleep in peace; they had\nassassinated the poor church; it was as dead as Abb\u00e9 Peyramale himself.\n\nThe bells of the Basilica rang out triumphantly, and Father Semp\u00e9 reigned\nas a victor at the conclusion of that great struggle, that dagger warfare\nin which not only a man but stones also had been done to death in the\nshrouding gloom of intriguing sacristies. And old Lourdes, obstinate and\nunintelligent, paid a hard penalty for its mistake in not giving more\nsupport to its minister, who had died struggling, killed by his love for\nhis parish, for now the new town did not cease to grow and prosper at the\nexpense of the old one. All the wealth flowed to the former: the Fathers\nof the Grotto coined money, financed hotels and candle shops, and sold\nthe water of the source, although a clause of their agreement with the\nmunicipality expressly prohibited them from carrying on any commercial\npursuits.\n\nThe whole region began to rot and fester; the triumph of the Grotto had\nbrought about such a passion for lucre, such a burning, feverish desire\nto possess and enjoy, that extraordinary perversion set in, growing worse\nand worse each day, and changing Bernadette\u2019s peaceful Bethlehem into a\nperfect Sodom or Gomorrah. Father Semp\u00e9 had ensured the triumph of his\nDivinity by spreading human abominations all around and wrecking\nthousands of souls. Gigantic buildings rose from the ground, five or six\nmillions of francs had already been expended, everything being sacrificed\nto the stern determination to leave the poor parish out in the cold and\nkeep the entire plunder for self and friends. Those costly, colossal\ngradient ways had only been erected in order to avoid compliance with the\nVirgin\u2019s express desire that the faithful should come to the Grotto in\nprocession. For to go down from the Basilica by the incline on the left,\nand climb up to it again by the incline on the right, could certainly not\nbe called going to the Grotto in procession: it was simply so much\nrevolving in a circle. However, the Fathers cared little about that; they\nhad succeeded in compelling people to start from their premises and\nreturn to them, in order that they might be the sole proprietors of the\naffair, the opulent farmers who garnered the whole harvest. Abb\u00e9\nPeyramale lay buried in the crypt of his unfinished, ruined church, and\nBernadette, who had long since dragged out her life of suffering in the\ndepths of a convent far away, was now likewise sleeping the eternal sleep\nunder a flagstone in a chapel.\n\nDeep silence fell when Doctor Chassaigne had finished this long\nnarrative. Then, with a painful effort, he rose to his feet again: \u201cIt\nwill soon be ten o\u2019clock, my dear child,\u201d said he, \u201cand I want you to\ntake a little rest. Let us go back.\u201d\n\nPierre followed him without speaking; and they retraced their steps\ntoward the town at a more rapid pace.\n\n\u201cAh! yes,\u201d resumed the doctor, \u201cthere were great iniquities and great\nsufferings in it all. But what else could you expect? Man spoils and\ncorrupts the most beautiful things. And you cannot yet understand all the\nwoeful sadness of the things of which I have been talking to you. You\nmust see them, lay your hand on them. Would you like me to show you\nBernadette\u2019s room and Abb\u00e9 Peyramale\u2019s unfinished church this evening?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I should indeed,\u201d replied Pierre.\n\n\u201cWell, I will meet you in front of the Basilica after the four-o\u2019clock\nprocession, and you can come with me.\u201d\n\nThen they spoke no further, each becoming absorbed in his reverie once\nmore.\n\nThe Gave, now upon their right hand, was flowing through a deep gorge, a\nkind of cleft into which it plunged, vanishing from sight among the\nbushes. But at intervals a clear stretch of it, looking like unburnished\nsilver, would appear to view; and, farther on, after a sudden turn in the\nroad, they found it flowing in increased volume across a plain, where it\nspread at times into glassy sheets which must often have changed their\nbeds, for the gravelly soil was ravined on all sides. The sun was now\nbecoming very hot, and was already high in the heavens, whose limpid\nazure assumed a deeper tinge above the vast circle of mountains.\n\nAnd it was at this turn of the road that Lourdes, still some distance\naway, reappeared to the eyes of Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne. In the\nsplendid morning atmosphere, amid a flying dust of gold and purple rays,\nthe town shone whitely on the horizon, its houses and monuments becoming\nmore and more distinct at each step which brought them nearer. And the\ndoctor, still silent, at last waved his arm with a broad, mournful\ngesture in order to call his companion\u2019s attention to this growing town,\nas though to a proof of all that he had been telling him. There, indeed,\nrising up in the dazzling daylight, was the evidence which confirmed his\nwords.\n\nThe flare of the Grotto, fainter now that the sun was shining, could\nalready be espied amidst the greenery. And soon afterwards the gigantic\nmonumental works spread out: the quay with its freestone parapet skirting\nthe Gave, whose course had been diverted; the new bridge connecting the\nnew gardens with the recently opened boulevard; the colossal gradient\nways, the massive church of the Rosary, and, finally, the slim, tapering\nBasilica, rising above all else with graceful pride. Of the new town\nspread all around the monuments, the wealthy city which had sprung, as\nthough by enchantment, from the ancient impoverished soil, the great\nconvents and the great hotels, you could, at this distance, merely\ndistinguish a swarming of white fa\u00e7ades and a scintillation of new\nslates; whilst, in confusion, far away, beyond the rocky mass on which\nthe crumbling castle walls were profiled against the sky, appeared the\nhumble roofs of the old town, a jumble of little time-worn roofs,\npressing timorously against one another. And as a background to this\nvision of the life of yesterday and to-day, the little and the big Gers\nrose up beneath the splendour of the everlasting sun, and barred the\nhorizon with their bare slopes, which the oblique rays were tingeing with\nstreaks of pink and yellow.\n\nDoctor Chassaigne insisted on accompanying Pierre to the Hotel of the\nApparitions, and only parted from him at its door, after reminding him of\ntheir appointment for the afternoon. It was not yet eleven o\u2019clock.\nPierre, whom fatigue had suddenly mastered, forced himself to eat before\ngoing to bed, for he realised that want of food was one of the chief\ncauses of the weakness which had come over him. He fortunately found a\nvacant seat at the _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_, and made some kind of a _d\u00e9jeuner_,\nhalf asleep all the time, and scarcely knowing what was served to him.\nThen he went up-stairs and flung himself on his bed, after taking care to\ntell the servant to awake him at three o\u2019clock.\n\nHowever, on lying down, the fever that consumed him at first prevented\nhim from closing his eyes. A pair of gloves, forgotten in the next room,\nhad reminded him of M. de Guersaint, who had left for Gavarnie before\ndaybreak, and would only return in the evening. What a delightful gift\nwas thoughtlessness, thought Pierre. For his own part, with his limbs\nworn out by weariness and his mind distracted, he was sad unto death.\nEverything seemed to conspire against his willing desire to regain the\nfaith of his childhood. The tale of Abb\u00e9 Peyramale\u2019s tragic adventures\nhad simply aggravated the feeling of revolt which the story of\nBernadette, chosen and martyred, had implanted in his breast. And thus he\nasked himself whether his search after the truth, instead of restoring\nhis faith, would not rather lead him to yet greater hatred of ignorance\nand credulity, and to the bitter conviction that man is indeed all alone\nin the world, with naught to guide him save his reason.\n\nAt last he fell asleep, but visions continued hovering around him in his\npainful slumber. He beheld Lourdes, contaminated by Mammon, turned into a\nspot of abomination and perdition, transformed into a huge bazaar, where\neverything was sold, masses and souls alike! He beheld also Abb\u00e9\nPeyramale, dead and slumbering under the ruins of his church, among the\nnettles which ingratitude had sown there. And he only grew calm again,\nonly tasted the delights of forgetfulness when a last pale, woeful vision\nhad faded from his gaze--a vision of Bernadette upon her knees in a\ngloomy corner at Nevers, dreaming of her far-away work, which she was\nnever, never to behold.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE FOURTH DAY\n\n\n\n\nI. THE BITTERNESS OP DEATH\n\nAT the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours, that morning, Marie remained\nseated on her bed, propped up by pillows. Having spent the whole night at\nthe Grotto, she had refused to let them take her back there. And, as\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re approached her, to raise one of the pillows which was\nslipping from its place, she asked: \u201cWhat day is it, madame?\u201d\n\n\u201cMonday, my dear child.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! true. One so soon loses count of time. And, besides, I am so happy!\nIt is to-day that the Blessed Virgin will cure me!\u201d\n\nShe smiled divinely, with the air of a day-dreamer, her eyes gazing into\nvacancy, her thoughts so far away, so absorbed in her one fixed idea,\nthat she beheld nothing save the certainty of her hope. Round about her,\nthe Sainte-Honorine Ward was now quite deserted, all the patients,\nexcepting Madame Vetu, who lay at the last extremity in the next bed,\nhaving already started for the Grotto. But Marie did not even notice her\nneighbour; she was delighted with the sudden stillness which had fallen.\nOne of the windows overlooking the courtyard had been opened, and the\nglorious morning sunshine entered in one broad beam, whose golden dust\nwas dancing over her bed and streaming upon her pale hands. It was indeed\npleasant to find this room, so dismal at nighttime with its many beds of\nsickness, its unhealthy atmosphere, and its nightmare groans, thus\nsuddenly filled with sunlight, purified by the morning air, and wrapped\nin such delicious silence! \u201cWhy don\u2019t you try to sleep a little?\u201d\n maternally inquired Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re. \u201cYou must be quite worn out by\nyour vigil.\u201d\n\nMarie, who felt so light and cheerful that she no longer experienced any\npain, seemed surprised.\n\n\u201cBut I am not at all tired, and I don\u2019t feel a bit sleepy. Go to sleep?\nOh! no, that would be too sad. I should no longer know that I was going\nto be cured!\u201d\n\nAt this the superintendent laughed. \u201cThen why didn\u2019t you let them take\nyou to the Grotto?\u201d she asked. \u201cYou won\u2019t know what to do with yourself\nall alone here.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not alone, madame, I am with her,\u201d replied Marie; and thereupon,\nher vision returning to her, she clasped her hands in ecstasy. \u201cLast\nnight, you know, I saw her bend her head towards me and smile. I quite\nunderstood her, I could hear her voice, although she never opened her\nlips. When the Blessed Sacrament passes at four o\u2019clock I shall be\ncured.\u201d\n\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re tried to calm her, feeling rather anxious at the\nspecies of somnambulism in which she beheld her. However, the sick girl\nwent on: \u201cNo, no, I am no worse, I am waiting. Only, you must surely see,\nmadame, that there is no need for me to go to the Grotto this morning,\nsince the appointment which she gave me is for four o\u2019clock.\u201d And then the\ngirl added in a lower tone: \u201cPierre will come for me at half-past three.\nAt four o\u2019clock I shall be cured.\u201d\n\nThe sunbeam slowly made its way up her bare arms, which were now almost\ntransparent, so wasted had they become through illness; whilst her\nglorious fair hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, seemed like the\nvery effulgence of the great luminary enveloping her. The trill of a bird\ncame in from the courtyard, and quite enlivened the tremulous silence of\nthe ward. Some child who could not be seen must also have been playing\nclose by, for now and again a soft laugh could be heard ascending in the\nwarm air which was so delightfully calm.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re by way of conclusion, \u201cdon\u2019t sleep then,\nas you don\u2019t wish to. But keep quite quiet, and it will rest you all the\nsame.\u201d\n\nMeantime Madame Vetu was expiring in the adjoining bed. They had not\ndared to take her to the Grotto, for fear they should see her die on the\nway. For some little time she had lain there with her eyes closed; and\nSister Hyacinthe, who was watching, had beckoned to Madame D\u00e9sagneaux in\norder to acquaint her with the bad opinion she had formed of the case.\nBoth of them were now leaning over the dying woman, observing her with\nincreasing anxiety. The mask upon her face had turned more yellow than\never, and now looked like a coating of mud; her eyes too had become more\nsunken, her lips seemed to have grown thinner, and the death rattle had\nbegun, a slow, pestilential wheezing, polluted by the cancer which was\nfinishing its destructive work. All at once she raised her eyelids, and\nwas seized with fear on beholding those two faces bent over her own.\nCould her death be near, that they should thus be gazing at her? Immense\nsadness showed itself in her eyes, a despairing regret of life. It was\nnot a vehement revolt, for she no longer had the strength to struggle;\nbut what a frightful fate it was to have left her shop, her surroundings,\nand her husband, merely to come and die so far away; to have braved the\nabominable torture of such a journey, to have prayed both day and night,\nand then, instead of having her prayer granted, to die when others\nrecovered!\n\nHowever, she could do no more than murmur \u201cOh! how I suffer; oh! how I\nsuffer. Do something, anything, to relieve this pain, I beseech you.\u201d\n\nLittle Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, with her pretty milk-white face showing amidst\nher mass of fair, frizzy hair, was quite upset. She was not used to\ndeathbed scenes, she would have given half her heart, as she expressed\nit, to see that poor woman recover. And she rose up and began to question\nSister Hyacinthe, who was also in tears but already resigned, knowing as\nshe did that salvation was assured when one died well. Could nothing\nreally be done, however? Could not something be tried to ease the dying\nwoman? Abb\u00e9 Judaine had come and administered the last sacrament to her a\ncouple of hours earlier that very morning. She now only had Heaven to\nlook to; it was her only hope, for she had long since given up expecting\naid from the skill of man.\n\n\u201cNo, no! we must do something,\u201d exclaimed Madame D\u00e9sagneaux. And\nthereupon she went and fetched Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re from beside Marie\u2019s\nbed. \u201cLook how this poor creature is suffering, madame!\u201d she exclaimed.\n\u201cSister Hyacinthe says that she can only last a few hours longer. But we\ncannot leave her moaning like this. There are things which give relief.\nWhy not call that young doctor who is here?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course we will,\u201d replied the superintendent. \u201cWe will send for him at\nonce.\u201d\n\nThey seldom thought of the doctor in the wards. It only occurred to the\nladies to send for him when a case was at its very worst, when one of\ntheir patients was howling with pain. Sister Hyacinthe, who herself felt\nsurprised at not having thought of Ferrand, whom she believed to be in an\nadjoining room, inquired if she should fetch him.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d was the reply. \u201cBring him as quickly as possible.\u201d\n\nWhen the Sister had gone off, Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re made Madame D\u00e9sagneaux\nhelp her in slightly raising the dying woman\u2019s head, thinking that this\nmight relieve her. The two ladies happened to be alone there that\nmorning, all the other lady-hospitallers having gone to their devotions\nor their private affairs. However, from the end of the large deserted\nward, where, amidst the warm quiver of the sunlight such sweet\ntranquillity prevailed, there still came at intervals the light laughter\nof the unseen child.\n\n\u201cCan it be Sophie who is making such a noise?\u201d suddenly asked the\nlady-superintendent, whose nerves were somewhat upset by all the worry of\nthe death which she foresaw. Then quickly walking to the end of the ward,\nshe found that it was indeed Sophie Couteau--the young girl so\nmiraculously healed the previous year--who, seated on the floor behind a\nbed, had been amusing herself, despite her fourteen years, in making a\ndoll out of a few rags. She was now talking to it, so happy, so absorbed\nin her play, that she laughed quite heartily. \u201cHold yourself up,\nmademoiselle,\u201d said she. \u201cDance the polka, that I may see how you can do\nit! One! two! dance, turn, kiss the one you like best!\u201d\n\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re, however, was now coming up. \u201cLittle girl,\u201d she said,\n\u201cwe have one of our patients here in great pain, and not expected to\nrecover. You must not laugh so loud.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! madame, I didn\u2019t know,\u201d replied Sophie, rising up, and becoming\nquite serious, although still holding the doll in her hand. \u201cIs she going\nto die, madame?\u201d\n\n\u201cI fear so, my poor child.\u201d\n\nThereupon Sophie became quite silent. She followed the superintendent,\nand seated herself on an adjoining bed; whence, without the slightest\nsign of fear, but with her large eyes burning with curiosity, she began\nto watch Madame Vetu\u2019s death agony. In her nervous state, Madame\nD\u00e9sagneaux was growing impatient at the delay in the doctor\u2019s arrival;\nwhilst Marie, still enraptured, and resplendent in the sunlight, seemed\nunconscious of what was taking place about her, wrapt as she was in\ndelightful expectancy of the miracle.\n\nNot having found Ferrand in the small apartment near the linen-room which\nhe usually occupied, Sister Hyacinthe was now searching for him all over\nthe building. During the past two days the young doctor had become more\nbewildered than ever in that extraordinary hospital, where his assistance\nwas only sought for the relief of death pangs. The small medicine-chest\nwhich he had brought with him proved quite useless; for there could be no\nthought of trying any course of treatment, as the sick were not there to\nbe doctored, but simply to be cured by the lightning stroke of a miracle.\nAnd so he mainly confined himself to administering a few opium pills, in\norder to deaden the severer sufferings. He had been fairly amazed when\naccompanying Doctor Bonamy on a round through the wards. It had resolved\nitself into a mere stroll, the doctor, who had only come out of\ncuriosity, taking no interest in the patients, whom he neither questioned\nnor examined. He solely concerned himself with the pretended cases of\ncure, stopping opposite those women whom he recognised from having seen\nthem at his office where the miracles were verified. One of them had\nsuffered from three complaints, only one of which the Blessed Virgin had\nso far deigned to cure; but great hopes were entertained respecting the\nother two. Sometimes, when a wretched woman, who the day before had\nclaimed to be cured, was questioned with reference to her health, she\nwould reply that her pains had returned to her. However, this never\ndisturbed the doctor\u2019s serenity; ever conciliatory, the good man declared\nthat Heaven would surely complete what Heaven had begun. Whenever there\nwas an improvement in health, he would ask if it were not something to be\nthankful for. And, indeed, his constant saying was: \u201cThere\u2019s an\nimprovement already; be patient!\u201d What he most dreaded were the\nimportunities of the lady-superintendents, who all wished to detain him\nto show him sundry extraordinary cases. Each prided herself on having the\nmost serious illnesses, the most frightful, exceptional cases in her\nward; so that she was eager to have them medically authenticated, in\norder that she might share in the triumph should cure supervene. One\ncaught the doctor by the arm and assured him that she felt confident she\nhad a leper in her charge; another entreated him to come and look at a\nyoung girl whose back, she said, was covered with fish\u2019s scales; whilst a\nthird, whispering in his ear, gave him some terrible details about a\nmarried lady of the best society. He hastened away, however, refusing to\nsee even one of them, or else simply promising to come back later on when\nhe was not so busy. As he himself said, if he listened to all those\nladies, the day would pass in useless consultations. However, he at last\nsuddenly stopped opposite one of the miraculously cured inmates, and,\nbeckoning Ferrand to his side, exclaimed: \u201cAh! now here is an interesting\ncure!\u201d and Ferrand, utterly bewildered, had to listen to him whilst he\ndescribed all the features of the illness, which had totally disappeared\nat the first immersion in the piscina.\n\nAt last Sister Hyacinthe, still wandering about, encountered Abb\u00e9\nJudaine, who informed her that the young doctor had just been summoned to\nthe Family Ward. It was the fourth time he had gone thither to attend to\nBrother Isidore, whose sufferings were as acute as ever, and whom he\ncould only fill with opium. In his agony, the Brother merely asked to be\nsoothed a little, in order that he might gather together sufficient\nstrength to return to the Grotto in the afternoon, as he had not been\nable to do so in the morning. However, his pains increased, and at last\nhe swooned away.\n\nWhen the Sister entered the ward she found the doctor seated at the\nmissionary\u2019s bedside. \u201cMonsieur Ferrand,\u201d she said, \u201ccome up-stairs with\nme to the Sainte-Honorine Ward at once. We have a patient there at the\npoint of death.\u201d\n\nHe smiled at her; indeed, he never beheld her without feeling brighter\nand comforted. \u201cI will come with you, Sister,\u201d he replied. \u201cBut you\u2019ll\nwait a minute, won\u2019t you? I must try to restore this poor man.\u201d\n\nShe waited patiently and made herself useful. The Family Ward, situated\non the ground-floor, was also full of sunshine and fresh air which\nentered through three large windows opening on to a narrow strip of\ngarden. In addition to Brother Isidore, only Monsieur Sabathier had\nremained in bed that morning, with the view of obtaining a little rest;\nwhilst Madame Sabathier, taking advantage of the opportunity, had gone to\npurchase a few medals and pictures, which she intended for presents.\nComfortably seated on his bed, his back supported by some pillows, the\nex-professor was rolling the beads of a chaplet between his fingers. He\nwas no longer praying, however, but merely continuing the operation in a\nmechanical manner, his eyes, meantime, fixed upon his neighbour, whose\nattack he was following with painful interest.\n\n\u201cAh! Sister,\u201d said he to Sister Hyacinthe, who had drawn near, \u201cthat poor\nBrother fills me with admiration. Yesterday I doubted the Blessed Virgin\nfor a moment, seeing that she did not deign to hear me, though I have\nbeen coming here for seven years past; but the example set me by that\npoor martyr, so resigned amidst his torments, has quite shamed me for my\nwant of faith. You can have no idea how grievously he suffers, and you\nshould see him at the Grotto, with his eyes glowing with divine hope! It\nis really sublime! I only know of one picture at the Louvre--a picture by\nsome unknown Italian master--in which there is the head of a monk\nbeatified by a similar faith.\u201d\n\nThe man of intellect, the ex-university-professor, reared on literature\nand art, was reappearing in this poor old fellow, whose life had been\nblasted, and who had desired to become a free patient, one of the poor of\nthe earth, in order to move the pity of Heaven. He again began thinking\nof his own case, and with tenacious hopefulness, which the futility of\nseven journeys to Lourdes had failed to destroy, he added: \u201cWell, I still\nhave this afternoon, since we sha\u2019n\u2019t leave till to-morrow. The water is\ncertainly very cold, but I shall let them dip me a last time; and all the\nmorning I have been praying and asking pardon for my revolt of yesterday.\nWhen the Blessed Virgin chooses to cure one of her children, it only\ntakes her a second to do so; is that not so, Sister? May her will be\ndone, and blessed be her name!\u201d\n\nPassing the beads of the chaplet more slowly between his fingers, he\nagain began saying his \u201cAves\u201d and \u201cPaters,\u201d whilst his eyelids drooped on\nhis flabby face, to which a childish expression had been returning during\nthe many years that he had been virtually cut off from the world.\n\nMeantime Ferrand had signalled to Brother Isidore\u2019s sister, Marthe, to\ncome to him. She had been standing at the foot of the bed with her arms\nhanging down beside her, showing the tearless resignation of a poor,\nnarrow-minded girl whilst she watched that dying man whom she worshipped.\nShe was no more than a faithful dog; she had accompanied her brother and\nspent her scanty savings, without being of any use save to watch him\nsuffer. Accordingly, when the doctor told her to take the invalid in her\narms and raise him up a little, she felt quite happy at being of some\nservice at last. Her heavy, freckled, mournful face actually grew bright.\n\n\u201cHold him,\u201d said the doctor, \u201cwhilst I try to give him this.\u201d\n\nWhen she had raised him, Ferrand, with the aid of a small spoon,\nsucceeded in introducing a few drops of liquid between his set teeth.\nAlmost immediately the sick man opened his eyes and heaved a deep sigh.\nHe was calmer already; the opium was taking effect and dulling the pain\nwhich he felt burning his right side, as though a red-hot iron were being\napplied to it. However, he remained so weak that, when he wished to\nspeak, it became necessary to place one\u2019s ear close to his mouth in order\nto catch what he said. With a slight sign he had begged Ferrand to bend\nover him. \u201cYou are the doctor, monsieur, are you not?\u201d he faltered. \u201cGive\nme sufficient strength that I may go once more to the Grotto, this\nafternoon. I am certain that, if I am able to go, the Blessed Virgin will\ncure me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, of course you shall go,\u201d replied the young man. \u201cDon\u2019t you feel\never so much better?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! ever so much better--no! I know very well what my condition is,\nbecause I saw many of our Brothers die, out there in Senegal. When the\nliver is attacked and the abscess has worked its way outside, it means\nthe end. Sweating, fever, and delirium follow. But the Blessed Virgin\nwill touch the sore with her little finger and it will be healed. Oh! I\nimplore you all, take me to the Grotto, even if I should be unconscious!\u201d\n\nSister Hyacinthe had also approached, and leant over him. \u201cBe easy, dear\nBrother,\u201d said she. \u201cYou shall go to the Grotto after _d\u00e9jeuner_, and we\nwill all pray for you.\u201d\n\nAt length, in despair at these delays and extremely anxious about Madame\nVetu, she was able to get Ferrand away. Still, the Brother\u2019s state filled\nher with pity; and, as they ascended the stairs, she questioned the\ndoctor, asking him if there were really no more hope. The other made a\ngesture expressive of absolute hopelessness. It was madness to come to\nLourdes when one was in such a condition. However, he hastened to add,\nwith a smile: \u201cI beg your pardon, Sister. You know that I am unfortunate\nenough not to be a believer.\u201d\n\nBut she smiled in her turn, like an indulgent friend who tolerates the\nshortcomings of those she loves. \u201cOh! that doesn\u2019t matter,\u201d she replied.\n\u201cI know you; you\u2019re all the same a good fellow. Besides, we see so many\npeople, we go amongst such pagans that it would be difficult to shock\nus.\u201d\n\nUp above, in the Sainte-Honorine Ward, they found Madame Vetu still\nmoaning, a prey to most intolerable suffering. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and\nMadame D\u00e9sagneaux had remained beside the bed, their faces turning pale,\ntheir hearts distracted by that death-cry, which never ceased. And when\nthey consulted Ferrand in a whisper, he merely replied, with a slight\nshrug of the shoulders, that she was a lost woman, that it was only a\nquestion of hours, perhaps merely of minutes. All he could do was to\nstupefy her also, in order to ease the atrocious death agony which he\nforesaw. She was watching him, still conscious, and also very obedient,\nnever refusing the medicine offered her. Like the others, she now had but\none ardent desire--to go back to the Grotto--and she gave expression to\nit in the stammering accents of a child who fears that its prayer may not\nbe granted: \u201cTo the Grotto--will you? To the Grotto!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou shall be taken there by-and-by, I promise you,\u201d said Sister\nHyacinthe. \u201cBut you must be good. Try to sleep a little to gain some\nstrength.\u201d\n\nThe sick woman appeared to sink into a doze, and Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re then\nthought that she might take Madame D\u00e9sagneaux with her to the other end\nof the ward to count the linen, a troublesome business, in which they\nbecame quite bewildered, as some of the articles were missing. Meantime\nSophie, seated on the bed opposite Madame Vetu, had not stirred. She had\nlaid her doll on her lap, and was waiting for the lady\u2019s death, since\nthey had told her that she was about to die. Sister Hyacinthe, moreover,\nhad remained beside the dying woman, and, unwilling to waste her time,\nhad taken a needle and cotton to mend some patient\u2019s bodice which had a\nhole in the sleeve.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll stay a little while with us, won\u2019t you?\u201d she asked Ferrand.\n\nThe latter, who was still watching Madame Vetu, replied: \u201cYes, yes. She\nmay go off at any moment. I fear hemorrhage.\u201d Then, catching sight of\nMarie on the neighbouring bed, he added in a lower voice: \u201cHow is she?\nHas she experienced any relief?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, not yet. Ah, dear child! we all pray for her very sincerely. She is\nso young, so sweet, and so sorely afflicted. Just look at her now! Isn\u2019t\nshe pretty? One might think her a saint amid all this sunshine, with her\nlarge, ecstatic eyes, and her golden hair shining like an aureola!\u201d\n\nFerrand watched Marie for a moment with interest. Her absent air, her\nindifference to all about her, the ardent faith, the internal joy which\nso completely absorbed her, surprised him. \u201cShe will recover,\u201d he\nmurmured, as though giving utterance to a prognostic. \u201cShe will recover.\u201d\n\nThen he rejoined Sister Hyacinthe, who had seated herself in the\nembrasure of the lofty window, which stood wide open, admitting the warm\nair of the courtyard. The sun was now creeping round, and only a narrow\ngolden ray fell upon her white coif and wimple. Ferrand stood opposite to\nher, leaning against the window bar and watching her while she sewed. \u201cDo\nyou know, Sister,\u201d said he, \u201cthis journey to Lourdes, which I undertook\nto oblige a friend, will be one of the few delights of my life.\u201d\n\nShe did not understand him, but innocently asked: \u201cWhy so?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause I have found you again, because I am here with you, assisting\nyou in your admirable work. And if you only knew how grateful I am to\nyou, what sincere affection and reverence I feel for you!\u201d\n\nShe raised her head to look him straight in the face, and began jesting\nwithout the least constraint. She was really delicious, with her pure\nlily-white complexion, her small laughing mouth, and adorable blue eyes\nwhich ever smiled. And you could realise that she had grown up in all\ninnocence and devotion, slender and supple, with all the appearance of a\ngirl hardly in her teens.\n\n\u201cWhat! You are so fond of me as all that!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cWhy?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy I\u2019m fond of you? Because you are the best, the most consoling, the\nmost sisterly of beings. You are the sweetest memory in my life, the\nmemory I evoke whenever I need to be encouraged and sustained. Do you no\nlonger remember the month we spent together, in my poor room, when I was\nso ill and you so affectionately nursed me?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course, of course I remember it! Why, I never had so good a patient\nas you. You took all I offered you; and when I tucked you in, after\nchanging your linen, you remained as still as a little child.\u201d\n\nSo speaking, she continued looking at him, smiling ingenuously the while.\nHe was very handsome and robust, in the very prime of youth, with a\nrather pronounced nose, superb eyes, and red lips showing under his black\nmoustache. But she seemed to be simply pleased at seeing him there before\nher moved almost to tears.\n\n\u201cAh! Sister, I should have died if it hadn\u2019t been for you,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\nwas through having you that I was cured.\u201d\n\nThen, as they gazed at one another, with tender gaiety of heart, the\nmemory of that adorable month recurred to them. They no longer heard\nMadame Vetu\u2019s death moans, nor beheld the ward littered with beds, and,\nwith all its disorder, resembling some infirmary improvised after a\npublic catastrophe. They once more found themselves in a small attic at\nthe top of a dingy house in old Paris, where air and light only reached\nthem through a tiny window opening on to a sea of roofs. And how charming\nit was to be alone there together--he who had been prostrated by fever,\nshe who had appeared there like a good angel, who had quietly come from\nher convent like a comrade who fears nothing! It was thus that she nursed\nwomen, children, and men, as chance ordained, feeling perfectly happy so\nlong as she had something to do, some sufferer to relieve. She never\ndisplayed any consciousness of her sex; and he, on his side, never seemed\nto have suspected that she might be a woman, except it were for the\nextreme softness of her hands, the caressing accents of her voice, the\nbeneficent gentleness of her manner; and yet all the tender love of a\nmother, all the affection of a sister, radiated from her person. During\nthree weeks, as she had said, she had nursed him like a child, helping\nhim in and out of bed, and rendering him every necessary attention,\nwithout the slightest embarrassment or repugnance, the holy purity born\nof suffering and charity shielding them both the while. They were indeed\nfar removed from the frailties of life. And when he became convalescent,\nwhat a happy existence began, how joyously they laughed, like two old\nfriends! She still watched over him, scolding him and gently slapping his\narms when he persisted in keeping them uncovered. He would watch her\nstanding at the basin, washing him a shirt in order to save him the\ntrifling expense of employing a laundress. No one ever came up there;\nthey were quite alone, thousands of miles away from the world, delighted\nwith this solitude, in which their youth displayed such fraternal gaiety.\n\n\u201cDo you remember, Sister, the morning when I was first able to walk\nabout?\u201d asked Ferrand. \u201cYou helped me to get up, and supported me whilst\nI awkwardly stumbled about, no longer knowing how to use my legs. We did\nlaugh so.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, you were saved, and I was very pleased.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the day when you brought me some cherries--I can see it all again:\nmyself reclining on my pillows, and you seated at the edge of the bed,\nwith the cherries lying between us in a large piece of white paper. I\nrefused to touch them unless you ate some with me. And then we took them\nin turn, one at a time, until the paper was emptied; and they were very\nnice.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, very nice. It was the same with the currant syrup: you would\nonly drink it when I took some also.\u201d\n\nThereupon they laughed yet louder; these recollections quite delighted\nthem. But a painful sigh from Madame Vetu brought them back to the\npresent. Ferrand leant over and cast a glance at the sick woman, who had\nnot stirred. The ward was still full of a quivering peacefulness, which\nwas only broken by the clear voice of Madame D\u00e9sagneaux counting the\nlinen. Stifling with emotion, the young man resumed in a lower tone: \u201cAh!\nSister, were I to live a hundred years, to know every joy, every\npleasure, I should never love another woman as I love you!\u201d\n\nThen Sister Hyacinthe, without, however, showing any confusion, bowed her\nhead and resumed her sewing. An almost imperceptible blush tinged her\nlily-white skin with pink.\n\n\u201cI also love you well, Monsieur Ferrand,\u201d she said, \u201cbut you must not\nmake me vain. I only did for you what I do for so many others. It is my\nbusiness, you see. And there was really only one pleasant thing about it\nall, that the Almighty cured you.\u201d\n\nThey were now again interrupted. La Grivotte and Elise Rouquet had\nreturned from the Grotto before the others. La Grivotte at once squatted\ndown on her mattress on the floor, at the foot of Madame Vetu\u2019s bed, and,\ntaking a piece of bread from her pocket, proceeded to devour it. Ferrand,\nsince the day before, had felt some interest in this consumptive patient,\nwho was traversing such a curious phase of agitation, a prey to an\ninordinate appetite and a feverish need of motion. For the moment,\nhowever, Elise Rouquet\u2019s case interested him still more; for it had now\nbecome evident that the lupus, the sore which was eating away her face,\nwas showing signs of cure. She had continued bathing her face at the\nmiraculous fountain, and had just come from the Verification Office,\nwhere Doctor Bonamy had triumphed. Ferrand, quite surprised, went and\nexamined the sore, which, although still far from healed, was already\npaler in colour and slightly desiccated, displaying all the symptoms of\ngradual cure. And the case seemed to him so curious, that he resolved to\nmake some notes upon it for one of his old masters at the medical\ncollege, who was studying the nervous origin of certain skin diseases due\nto faulty nutrition.\n\n\u201cHave you felt any pricking sensation?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cNot at all, monsieur,\u201d she replied. \u201cI bathe my face and tell my beads\nwith my whole soul, and that is all.\u201d\n\nLa Grivotte, who was vain and jealous, and ever since the day before had\nbeen going in triumph among the crowds, thereupon called to the doctor.\n\u201cI say, monsieur, I am cured, cured, cured completely!\u201d\n\nHe waved his hand to her in a friendly way, but refused to examine her.\n\u201cI know, my girl. There is nothing more the matter with you.\u201d\n\nJust then Sister Hyacinthe called to him. She had put her sewing down on\nseeing Madame Vetu raise herself in a frightful fit of nausea. In spite\nof her haste, however, she was too late with the basin; the sick woman\nhad brought up another discharge of black matter, similar to soot; but,\nthis time, some blood was mixed with it, little specks of violet-coloured\nblood. It was the hemorrhage coming, the near end which Ferrand had been\ndreading.\n\n\u201cSend for the superintendent,\u201d he said in a low voice, seating himself at\nthe bedside.\n\nSister Hyacinthe ran for Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re. The linen having been\ncounted, she found her deep in conversation with her daughter Raymonde,\nat some distance from Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, who was washing her hands.\n\nRaymonde had just escaped for a few minutes from the refectory, where she\nwas on duty. This was the roughest of her labours. The long narrow room,\nwith its double row of greasy tables, its sickening smell of food and\nmisery, quite disgusted her. And taking advantage of the half-hour still\nremaining before the return of the patients, she had hurried up-stairs,\nwhere, out of breath, with a rosy face and shining eyes, she had thrown\nher arms around her mother\u2019s neck.\n\n\u201cAh! mamma,\u201d she cried, \u201cwhat happiness! It\u2019s settled!\u201d\n\nAmazed, her head buzzing, busy with the superintendence of her ward,\nMadame de Jonqui\u00e8re did not understand. \u201cWhat\u2019s settled, my child?\u201d she\nasked.\n\nThen Raymonde lowered her voice, and, with a faint blush, replied: \u201cMy\nmarriage!\u201d\n\nIt was now the mother\u2019s turn to rejoice. Lively satisfaction appeared\nupon her face, the fat face of a ripe, handsome, and still agreeable\nwoman. She at once beheld in her mind\u2019s eye their little lodging in the\nRue Vaneau, where, since her husband\u2019s death, she had reared her daughter\nwith great difficulty upon the few thousand francs he had left her. This\nmarriage, however, meant a return to life, to society, the good old times\ncome back once more.\n\n\u201cAh! my child, how happy you make me!\u201d she exclaimed.\n\nBut a feeling of uneasiness suddenly restrained her. God was her witness\nthat for three years past she had been coming to Lourdes through pure\nmotives of charity, for the one great joy of nursing His beloved\ninvalids. Perhaps, had she closely examined her conscience, she might,\nbehind her devotion, have found some trace of her fondness for authority,\nwhich rendered her present managerial duties extremely pleasant to her.\nHowever, the hope of finding a husband for her daughter among the\nsuitable young men who swarmed at the Grotto was certainly her last\nthought. It was a thought which came to her, of course, but merely as\nsomething that was possible, though she never mentioned it. However, her\nhappiness, wrung an avowal from her:\n\n\u201cAh! my child, your success doesn\u2019t surprise me. I prayed to the Blessed\nVirgin for it this morning.\u201d\n\nThen she wished to be quite sure, and asked for further information.\nRaymonde had not yet told her of her long walk leaning on G\u00e9rard\u2019s arm\nthe day before, for she did not wish to speak of such things until she\nwas triumphant, certain of having at last secured a husband. And now it\nwas indeed settled, as she had exclaimed so gaily: that very morning she\nhad again seen the young man at the Grotto, and he had formally become\nengaged to her. M. Berthaud would undoubtedly ask for her hand on his\ncousin\u2019s behalf before they took their departure from Lourdes.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d declared Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, who was now convinced, smiling, and\ndelighted at heart, \u201cI hope you will be happy, since you are so sensible\nand do not need my aid to bring your affairs to a successful issue. Kiss\nme.\u201d\n\nIt was at this moment that Sister Hyacinthe arrived to announce Madame\nVetu\u2019s imminent death. Raymonde at once ran off. And Madame D\u00e9sagneaux,\nwho was wiping her hands, began to complain of the lady-assistants, who\nhad all disappeared precisely on the morning when they were most wanted.\n\u201cFor instance,\u201d said she, \u201cthere\u2019s Madame Volmar. I should like to know\nwhere she can have got to. She has not been seen, even for an hour, ever\nsince our arrival.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray leave Madame Volmar alone!\u201d replied Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re with some\nasperity. \u201cI have already told you that she is ill.\u201d\n\nThey both hastened to Madame Vetu. Ferrand stood there waiting; and\nSister Hyacinthe having asked him if there were indeed nothing to be\ndone, he shook his head. The dying woman, relieved by her first emesis,\nnow lay inert, with closed eyes. But, a second time, the frightful nausea\nreturned to her, and she brought up another discharge of black matter\nmingled with violet-coloured blood. Then she had another short interval\nof calm, during which she noticed La Grivotte, who was greedily devouring\nher hunk of bread on the mattress on the floor.\n\n\u201cShe is cured, isn\u2019t she?\u201d the poor woman asked, feeling that she herself\nwas dying.\n\nLa Grivotte heard her, and exclaimed triumphantly: \u201cOh, yes, madame,\ncured, cured, cured completely!\u201d\n\nFor a moment Madame Vetu seemed overcome by a miserable feeling of grief,\nthe revolt of one who will not succumb while others continue to live. But\nalmost immediately she became resigned, and they heard her add very\nfaintly, \u201cIt is the young ones who ought to remain.\u201d\n\nThen her eyes, which remained wide open, looked round, as though bidding\nfarewell to all those persons, whom she seemed surprised to see about\nher. She attempted to smile as she encountered the eager gaze of\ncuriosity which little Sophie Couteau still fixed upon her: the charming\nchild had come to kiss her that very morning, in her bed. Elise Rouquet,\nwho troubled herself about nobody, was meantime holding her hand-glass,\nabsorbed in the contemplation of her face, which seemed to her to be\ngrowing beautiful, now that the sore was healing. But what especially\ncharmed the dying woman was the sight of Marie, so lovely in her ecstasy.\nShe watched her for a long time, constantly attracted towards her, as\ntowards a vision of light and joy. Perhaps she fancied that she already\nbeheld one of the saints of Paradise amid the glory of the sun.\n\nSuddenly, however, the fits of vomiting returned, and now she solely\nbrought up blood, vitiated blood, the colour of claret. The rush was so\ngreat that it bespattered the sheet, and ran all over the bed. In vain\ndid Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and Madame D\u00e9sagneaux bring cloths; they were\nboth very pale and scarce able to remain standing. Ferrand, knowing how\npowerless he was, had withdrawn to the window, to the very spot where he\nhad so lately experienced such delicious emotion; and with an instinctive\nmovement, of which she was surely unconscious, Sister Hyacinthe had\nlikewise returned to that happy window, as though to be near him.\n\n\u201cReally, can you do nothing?\u201d she inquired.\n\n\u201cNo, nothing! She will go off like that, in the same way as a lamp that\nhas burnt out.\u201d\n\nMadame Vetu, who was now utterly exhausted, with a thin red stream still\nflowing from her mouth, looked fixedly at Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re whilst\nfaintly moving her lips. The lady-superintendent thereupon bent over her\nand heard these slowly uttered words:\n\n\u201cAbout my husband, madame--the shop is in the Rue Mouffetard--oh! it\u2019s\nquite a tiny one, not far from the Gobelins.--He\u2019s a clockmaker, he is;\nhe couldn\u2019t come with me, of course, having to attend to the business;\nand he will be very much put out when he finds I don\u2019t come back.--Yes, I\ncleaned the jewelry and did the errands--\u201d Then her voice grew fainter,\nher words disjointed by the death rattle, which began. \u201cTherefore,\nmadame, I beg you will write to him, because I haven\u2019t done so, and now\nhere\u2019s the end.--Tell him my body had better remain here at Lourdes, on\naccount of the expense.--And he must marry again; it\u2019s necessary for one\nin trade--his cousin--tell him his cousin--\u201d\n\nThe rest became a confused murmur. Her weakness was too great, her breath\nwas halting. Yet her eyes continued open and full of life, amid her pale,\nyellow, waxy mask. And those eyes seemed to fix themselves despairingly\non the past, on all that which soon would be no more: the little\nclockmaker\u2019s shop hidden away in a populous neighbourhood; the gentle\nhumdrum existence, with a toiling husband who was ever bending over his\nwatches; the great pleasures of Sunday, such as watching children fly\ntheir kites upon the fortifications. And at last these staring eyes gazed\nvainly into the frightful night which was gathering.\n\nA last time did Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re lean over her, seeing that her lips\nwere again moving. There came but a faint breath, a voice from far away,\nwhich distantly murmured in an accent of intense grief: \u201cShe did not cure\nme.\u201d\n\nAnd then Madame Vetu expired, very gently.\n\nAs though this were all that she had been waiting for, little Sophie\nCouteau jumped from the bed quite satisfied, and went off to play with\nher doll again at the far end of the ward. Neither La Grivotte, who was\nfinishing her bread, nor Elise Rouquet, busy with her mirror, noticed the\ncatastrophe. However, amidst the cold breath which seemingly swept by,\nwhile Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and Madame D\u00e9sagneaux--the latter of whom was\nunaccustomed to the sight of death--were whispering together in\nagitation, Marie emerged from the expectant rapture in which the\ncontinuous, unspoken prayer of her whole being had plunged her so long.\nAnd when she understood what had happened, a feeling of sisterly\ncompassion--the compassion of a suffering companion, on her side certain\nof cure--brought tears to her eyes.\n\n\u201cAh! the poor woman!\u201d she murmured; \u201cto think that she has died so far\nfrom home, in such loneliness, at the hour when others are being born\nanew!\u201d\n\nFerrand, who, in spite of professional indifference, had also been\nstirred by the scene, stepped forward to verify the death; and it was on\na sign from him that Sister Hyacinthe turned up the sheet, and threw it\nover the dead woman\u2019s face, for there could be no question of removing\nthe corpse at that moment. The patients were now returning from the\nGrotto in bands, and the ward, hitherto so calm, so full of sunshine, was\nagain filling with the tumult of wretchedness and pain--deep coughing and\nfeeble shuffling, mingled with a noisome smell--a pitiful display, in\nfact, of well-nigh every human infirmity.\n\n\n\n\nII. THE SERVICE AT THE GROTTO\n\nON that day, Monday, the crowd at the Grotto, was enormous. It was the\nlast day that the national pilgrimage would spend at Lourdes, and Father\nFourcade, in his morning address, had said that it would be necessary to\nmake a supreme effort of fervour and faith to obtain from Heaven all that\nit might be willing to grant in the way of grace and prodigious cure. So,\nfrom two o\u2019clock in the afternoon, twenty thousand pilgrims were\nassembled there, feverish, and agitated by the most ardent hopes. From\nminute to minute the throng continued increasing, to such a point,\nindeed, that Baron Suire became alarmed, and came out of the Grotto to\nsay to Berthaud: \u201cMy friend, we shall be overwhelmed, that\u2019s certain.\nDouble your squads, bring your men closer together.\u201d\n\nThe Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation was alone entrusted with the\ntask of keeping order, for there were neither guardians nor policemen, of\nany sort present; and it was for this reason that the President of the\nAssociation was so alarmed. However, Berthaud, under grave circumstances,\nwas a leader whose words commanded attention, and who was endowed with\nenergy that could be relied on.\n\n\u201cBe easy,\u201d said he; \u201cI will be answerable for everything. I shall not\nmove from here until the four-o\u2019clock procession has passed by.\u201d\n\nNevertheless, he signalled to G\u00e9rard to approach.\n\n\u201cGive your men the strictest instructions,\u201d he said to him. \u201cOnly those\npersons who have cards should be allowed to pass. And place your men\nnearer each other; tell them to hold the cord tight.\u201d\n\nYonder, beneath the ivy which draped the rock, the Grotto opened, with\nthe eternal flaring of its candles. From a distance it looked rather\nsquat and misshapen, a very narrow and modest aperture for the breath of\nthe Infinite which issued from it, turning all faces pale and bowing\nevery head. The statue of the Virgin had become a mere white spot, which\nseemed to move amid the quiver of the atmosphere, heated by the small\nyellow flames. To see everything it was necessary to raise oneself; for\nthe silver altar, the harmonium divested of its housing, the heap of\nbouquets flung there, and the votive offerings streaking the smoky walls\nwere scarcely distinguishable from behind the railing. And the day was\nlovely; never yet had a purer sky expanded above the immense crowd; the\nsoftness of the breeze in particular seemed delicious after the storm of\nthe night, which had brought down the over-oppressive heat of the two\nfirst days.\n\nG\u00e9rard had to fight his way with his elbows in order to repeat the orders\nto his men. The crowd had already begun pushing. \u201cTwo more men here!\u201d he\ncalled. \u201cCome, four together, if necessary, and hold the rope well!\u201d\n\nThe general impulse was instinctive and invincible; the twenty thousand\npersons assembled there were drawn towards the Grotto by an irresistible\nattraction, in which burning curiosity mingled with the thirst for\nmystery. All eyes converged, every mouth, hand, and body was borne\ntowards the pale glitter of the candles and the white moving speck of the\nmarble Virgin. And, in order that the large space reserved to the sick,\nin front of the railings, might not be invaded by the swelling mob, it\nhad been necessary to inclose it with a stout rope which the bearers at\nintervals of two or three yards grasped with both hands. Their orders\nwere to let nobody pass excepting the sick provided with hospital cards\nand the few persons to whom special authorisations had been granted. They\nlimited themselves, therefore, to raising the cords and then letting them\nfall behind the chosen ones, without heeding the supplications of the\nothers. In fact they even showed themselves somewhat rough, taking a\ncertain pleasure in exercising the authority with which they were\ninvested for a day. In truth, however, they were very much pushed about,\nand had to support each other and resist with all the strength of their\nloins to avoid being swept away.\n\nWhile the benches before the Grotto and the vast reserved space were\nfilling with sick people, handcarts, and stretchers, the crowd, the\nimmense crowd, swayed about on the outskirts. Starting from the Place du\nRosaire, it extended to the bottom of the promenade along the Gave, where\nthe pavement throughout its entire length was black with people, so dense\na human sea that all circulation was prevented. On the parapet was an\ninterminable line of women--most of them seated, but some few standing so\nas to see the better--and almost all carrying silk parasols, which, with\nholiday-like gaiety, shimmered in the sunlight. The managers had wished\nto keep a path open in order that the sick might be brought along; but it\nwas ever being invaded and obstructed, so that the carts and stretchers\nremained on the road, submerged and lost until a bearer freed them.\nNevertheless, the great tramping was that of a docile flock, an innocent,\nlamb-like crowd; and it was only the involuntary pushing, the blind\nrolling towards the light of the candles that had to be contended\nagainst. No accident had ever happened there, notwithstanding the\nexcitement, which gradually increased and threw the people into the\nunruly delirium of faith.\n\nHowever, Baron Suire again forced his way through the throng. \u201cBerthaud!\nBerthaud!\u201d he called, \u201csee that the _d\u00e9file_ is conducted less rapidly.\nThere are women and children stifling.\u201d\n\nThis time Berthaud gave a sign of impatience. \u201cAh! hang it, I can\u2019t be\neverywhere! Close the gate for a moment if it\u2019s necessary.\u201d\n\nIt was a question of the march through the Grotto which went on\nthroughout the afternoon. The faithful were permitted to enter by the\ndoor on the left, and made their exit by that on the right.\n\n\u201cClose the gate!\u201d exclaimed the Baron. \u201cBut that would be worse; they\nwould all get crushed against it!\u201d\n\nAs it happened G\u00e9rard was there, thoughtlessly talking for an instant\nwith Raymonde, who was standing on the other side of the cord, holding a\nbowl of milk which she was about to carry to a paralysed old woman; and\nBerthaud ordered the young fellow to post two men at the entrance gate of\nthe iron railing, with instructions only to allow the pilgrims to enter\nby tens. When G\u00e9rard had executed this order, and returned, he found\nBerthaud laughing and joking with Raymonde. She went off on her errand,\nhowever, and the two men stood watching her while she made the paralysed\nwoman drink.\n\n\u201cShe is charming, and it\u2019s settled, eh?\u201d said Berthaud. \u201cYou are going to\nmarry her, aren\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall ask her mother to-night. I rely upon you to accompany me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, certainly. You know what I told you. Nothing could be more\nsensible. The uncle will find you a berth before six months are over.\u201d\n\nA push of the crowd separated them, and Berthaud went off to make sure\nwhether the march through the Grotto was now being accomplished in a\nmethodical manner, without any crushing. For hours the same unbroken tide\nrolled in--women, men, and children from all parts of the world, all who\nchose, all who passed that way. As a result, the crowd was singularly\nmixed: there were beggars in rags beside neat _bourgeois_, peasants of\neither sex, well dressed ladies, servants with bare hair, young girls\nwith bare feet, and others with pomatumed hair and foreheads bound with\nribbons. Admission was free; the mystery was open to all, to unbelievers\nas well as to the faithful, to those who were solely influenced by\ncuriosity as well as to those who entered with their hearts faint with\nlove. And it was a sight to see them, all almost equally affected by the\ntepid odour of the wax, half stifling in the heavy tabernacle air which\ngathered beneath the rocky vault, and lowering their eyes for fear of\nslipping on the gratings. Many stood there bewildered, not even bowing,\nexamining the things around with the covert uneasiness of indifferent\nfolks astray amidst the redoubtable mysteries of a sanctuary. But the\ndevout crossed themselves, threw letters, deposited candles and bouquets,\nkissed the rock below the Virgin\u2019s statue, or else rubbed their chaplets,\nmedals, and other small objects of piety against it, as the contact\nsufficed to bless them. And the _d\u00e9file_ continued, continued without end\nduring days and months as it had done for years; and it seemed as if the\nwhole world, all the miseries and sufferings of humanity, came in turn\nand passed in the same hypnotic, contagious kind of round, through that\nrocky nook, ever in search of happiness.\n\nWhen Berthaud had satisfied himself that everything was working well, he\nwalked about like a mere spectator, superintending his men. Only one\nmatter remained to trouble him: the procession of the Blessed Sacrament,\nduring which such frenzy burst forth that accidents were always to be\nfeared.\n\nThis last day seemed likely to be a very fervent one, for he already felt\na tremor of exalted faith rising among the crowd. The treatment needed\nfor miraculous care was drawing to an end; there had been the fever of\nthe journey, the besetting influence of the same endlessly repeated\nhymns, and the stubborn continuation of the same religious exercises; and\never and ever the conversation had been turned on miracles, and the mind\nfixed on the divine illumination of the Grotto. Many, not having slept\nfor three nights, had reached a state of hallucination, and walked about\nin a rageful dream. No repose was granted them, the continual prayers\nwere like whips lashing their souls. The appeals to the Blessed Virgin\nnever ceased; priest followed priest in the pulpit, proclaiming the\nuniversal dolour and directing the despairing supplications of the\nthrong, during the whole time that the sick remained with hands clasped\nand eyes raised to heaven before the pale, smiling, marble statue.\n\nAt that moment the white stone pulpit against the rock on the right of\nthe Grotto was occupied by a priest from Toulouse, whom Berthaud knew,\nand to whom he listened for a moment with an air of approval. He was a\nstout man with an unctuous diction, famous for his rhetorical successes.\nHowever, all eloquence here consisted in displaying the strength of one\u2019s\nlungs in a violent delivery of the phrase or cry which the whole crowd\nhad to repeat; for the addresses were nothing more than so much\nvociferation interspersed with \u201cAyes\u201d and \u201cPaters.\u201d\n\nThe priest, who had just finished the Rosary, strove to increase his\nstature by stretching his short legs, whilst shouting the first appeal of\nthe litanies which he improvised, and led in his own way, according to\nthe inspiration which possessed him.\n\n\u201cMary, we love thee!\u201d he called.\n\nAnd thereupon the crowd repeated in a lower, confused, and broken tone:\n\u201cMary, we love thee!\u201d\n\nFrom that moment there was no stopping. The voice of the priest rang out\nat full swing, and the voices of the crowd responded in a dolorous\nmurmur:\n\n\u201cMary, thou art our only hope!\u201d\n\n\u201cMary, thou art our only hope!\u201d\n\n\u201cPure Virgin, make us purer, among the pure!\u201d\n\n\u201cPure Virgin, make us purer, among the pure!\u201d\n\n\u201cPowerful Virgin, save our sick!\u201d\n\n\u201cPowerful Virgin, save our sick!\u201d\n\nOften, when the priest\u2019s imagination failed him, or he wished to thrust a\ncry home with greater force, he would repeat it thrice; while the docile\ncrowd would do the same, quivering under the enervating effect of the\npersistent lamentation, which increased the fever.\n\nThe litanies continued, and Berthaud went back towards the Grotto. Those\nwho defiled through it beheld an extraordinary sight when they turned and\nfaced the sick. The whole of the large space between the cords was\noccupied by the thousand or twelve hundred patients whom the national\npilgrimage had brought with it; and beneath the vast, spotless sky on\nthat radiant day there was the most heart-rending jumble of sufferers\nthat one could behold. The three hospitals of Lourdes had emptied their\nchambers of horror. To begin with, those who were still able to remain\nseated had been piled upon the benches. Many of them, however, were\npropped up with cushions, whilst others kept shoulder to shoulder, the\nstrong ones supporting the weak. Then, in front of the benches, before\nthe Grotto itself, were the more grievously afflicted sufferers lying at\nfull length; the flagstones disappearing from view beneath this woeful\nassemblage, which was like a large, stagnant pool of horror. There was an\nindescribable block of vehicles, stretchers, and mattresses. Some of the\ninvalids in little boxes not unlike coffins had raised themselves up and\nshowed above the others, but the majority lay almost on a level with the\nground. There were some lying fully dressed on the check-patterned ticks\nof mattresses; whilst others had been brought with their bedding, so that\nonly their heads and pale hands were seen outside the sheets. Few of\nthese pallets were clean. Some pillows of dazzling whiteness, which by a\nlast feeling of coquetry had been trimmed with embroidery, alone shone\nout among all the filthy wretchedness of all the rest--a fearful\ncollection of rags, worn-out blankets, and linen splashed with stains.\nAnd all were pushed, squeezed, piled up by chance as they came, women,\nmen, children, and priests, people in nightgowns beside people who were\nfully attired being jumbled together in the blinding light of day.\n\nAnd all forms of disease were there, the whole frightful procession\nwhich, twice a day, left the hospitals to wend its way through horrified\nLourdes. There were the heads eaten away by eczema, the foreheads crowned\nwith roseola, and the noses and mouths which elephantiasis had\ntransformed into shapeless snouts. Next, the dropsical ones, swollen out\nlike leathern bottles; the rheumatic ones with twisted hands and swollen\nfeet, like bags stuffed full of rags; and a sufferer from hydrocephalus,\nwhose huge and weighty skull fell backwards. Then the consumptive ones,\nwith livid skins, trembling with fever, exhausted by dysentery, wasted to\nskeletons. Then the deformities, the contractions, the twisted trunks,\nthe twisted arms, the necks all awry; all the poor broken, pounded\ncreatures, motionless in their tragic, marionette-like postures. Then the\npoor rachitic girls displaying their waxen complexions and slender necks\neaten into by sores; the yellow-faced, besotted-looking women in the\npainful stupor which falls on unfortunate creatures devoured by cancer;\nand the others who turned pale, and dared not move, fearing as they did\nthe shock of the tumours whose weighty pain was stifling them. On the\nbenches sat bewildered deaf women, who heard nothing, but sang on all the\nsame, and blind ones with heads erect, who remained for hours turned\ntoward the statue of the Virgin which they could not see. And there was\nalso the woman stricken with imbecility, whose nose was eaten away, and\nwho laughed with a terrifying laugh, displaying the black, empty cavern\nof her mouth; and then the epileptic woman, whom a recent attack had left\nas pale as death, with froth still at the corners of her lips.\n\nBut sickness and suffering were no longer of consequence, since they were\nall there, seated or stretched with their eyes upon the Grotto. The poor,\nfleshless, earthy-looking faces became transfigured, and began to glow\nwith hope. Anchylosed hands were joined, heavy eyelids found the strength\nto rise, exhausted voices revived as the priest shouted the appeals. At\nfirst there was nothing but indistinct stuttering, similar to slight\npuffs of air rising, here and there above the multitude. Then the cry\nascended and spread through the crowd itself from one to the other end of\nthe immense square.\n\n\u201cMary, conceived without sin, pray for us!\u201d cried the priest in his\nthundering voice.\n\nAnd the sick and the pilgrims repeated louder and louder: \u201cMary,\nconceived without sin, pray for us!\u201d\n\nThen the flow of the litany set in, and continued with increasing speed:\n\n\u201cMost pure Mother, most chaste Mother, thy children are at thy feet!\u201d\n\n\u201cMost pure Mother, most chaste Mother, thy children are at thy feet!\u201d\n\n\u201cQueen of the Angels, say but a word, and our sick shall be healed!\u201d\n\n\u201cQueen of the Angels, say but a word, and our sick shall be healed!\u201d\n\nIn the second row of sufferers, near the pulpit, was M. Sabathier, who\nhad asked to be brought there early, wishing to choose his place like an\nold _habitu\u00e9_ who knew the cosy corners. Moreover, it seemed to him that\nit was of paramount importance that he should be as near as possible,\nunder the very eyes of the Virgin, as though she required to see her\nfaithful in order not to forget them. However, for the seven years that\nhe had been coming there he had nursed this one hope of being some day\nnoticed by her, of touching her, and of obtaining his cure, if not by\nselection, at least by seniority. This merely needed patience on his part\nwithout the firmness of his faith being in the least shaken by his way of\nthinking. Only, like a poor, resigned man just a little weary of being\nalways put off, he sometimes allowed himself diversions. For instance, he\nhad obtained permission to keep his wife near him, seated on a\ncamp-stool, and he liked to talk to her, and acquaint her with his\nreflections.\n\n\u201cRaise me a little, my dear,\u201d said he. \u201cI am slipping. I am very\nuncomfortable.\u201d\n\nAttired in trousers and a coarse woollen jacket, he was sitting upon his\nmattress, with his back leaning against a tilted chair.\n\n\u201cAre you better?\u201d asked his wife, when she had raised him.\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d he answered; and then began to take an interest in Brother\nIsidore, whom they had succeeded in bringing in spite of everything, and\nwho was lying upon a neighbouring mattress, with a sheet drawn up to his\nchin, and nothing protruding but his wasted hands, which lay clasped upon\nthe blanket.\n\n\u201cAh! the poor man,\u201d said M. Sabathier. \u201cIt\u2019s very imprudent, but the\nBlessed Virgin is so powerful when she chooses!\u201d\n\nHe took up his chaplet again, but once more broke off from his devotions\non perceiving Madame Maze, who had just glided into the reserved\nspace--so slender and unobtrusive that she had doubtless slipped under\nthe ropes without being noticed. She had seated herself at the end of a\nbench and, very quiet and motionless, did not occupy more room there than\na child. And her long face, with its weary features, the face of a woman\nof two-and-thirty faded before her time, wore an expression of unlimited\nsadness, infinite abandonment.\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d resumed M. Sabathier in a low voice, again addressing his wife\nafter attracting her attention by a slight movement of the chin, \u201cit\u2019s\nfor the conversion of her husband that this lady prays. You came across\nher this morning in a shop, didn\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d replied Madame Sabathier. \u201cAnd, besides, I had some talk\nabout her with another lady who knows her. Her husband is a\ncommercial-traveller. He leaves her for six months at a time, and goes\nabout with other people. Oh! he\u2019s a very gay fellow, it seems, very nice,\nand he doesn\u2019t let her want for money; only she adores him, she cannot\naccustom herself to his neglect, and comes to pray the Blessed Virgin to\ngive him back to her. At this moment, it appears, he is close by, at\nLuchon, with two ladies--two sisters.\u201d\n\nM. Sabathier signed to his wife to stop. He was now looking at the\nGrotto, again becoming a man of intellect, a professor whom questions of\nart had formerly impassioned. \u201cYou see, my dear,\u201d he said, \u201cthey have\nspoilt the Grotto by endeavouring to make it too beautiful. I am certain\nit looked much better in its original wildness. It has lost its\ncharacteristic features--and what a frightful shop they have stuck there,\non the left!\u201d\n\nHowever, he now experienced sudden remorse for his thoughtlessness.\nWhilst he was chatting away, might not the Blessed Virgin be noticing one\nof his neighbours, more fervent, more sedate than himself? Feeling\nanxious on the point, he reverted to his customary modesty and patience,\nand with dull, expressionless eyes again began waiting for the good\npleasure of Heaven.\n\nMoreover, the sound of a fresh voice helped to bring him back to this\nannihilation, in which nothing was left of the cultured reasoner that he\nhad formerly been. It was another preacher who had just entered the\npulpit, a Capuchin this time, whose guttural call, persistently repeated,\nsent a tremor through the crowd.\n\n\u201cHoly Virgin of virgins, be blessed!\u201d\n\n\u201cHoly Virgin of virgins, be blessed!\u201d\n\n\u201cHoly Virgin of virgins, turn not thy face from thy children!\u201d\n\n\u201cHoly Virgin of virgins, turn not thy face from thy children!\u201d\n\n\u201cHoly Virgin of virgins, breathe upon our sores, and our sores shall\nheal!\u201d\n\n\u201cHoly Virgin of virgins, breathe upon our sores, and our sores shall\nheal!\u201d\n\nAt the end of the first bench, skirting the central path, which was\nbecoming crowded, the Vigneron family had succeeded in finding room for\nthemselves. They were all there: little Gustave, seated in a sinking\nposture, with his crutch between his legs; his mother, beside him,\nfollowing the prayers like a punctilious _bourgeoise_; his aunt, Madame\nChaise, on the other side, so inconvenienced by the crowd that she was\nstifling; and M. Vigneron, who remained silent and, for a moment, had\nbeen examining Madame Chaise attentively.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter with you, my dear?\u201d he inquired. \u201cDo you feel\nunwell?\u201d\n\nShe was breathing with difficulty. \u201cWell, I don\u2019t know,\u201d she answered;\n\u201cbut I can\u2019t feel my limbs, and my breath fails me.\u201d\n\nAt that very moment the thought had occurred to him that all the\nagitation, fever, and scramble of a pilgrimage could not be very good for\nheart-disease. Of course he did not desire anybody\u2019s death, he had never\nasked the Blessed Virgin for any such thing. If his prayer for\nadvancement had already been granted through the sudden death of his\nchief, it must certainly be because Heaven had already ordained the\nlatter\u2019s death. And, in the same way, if Madame Chaise should die first,\nleaving her fortune to Gustave, he would only have to bow before the will\nof God, which generally requires that the aged should go off before the\nyoung. Nevertheless, his hope unconsciously became so keen that he could\nnot help exchanging a glance with his wife, to whom had come the same\ninvoluntary thought.\n\n\u201cGustave, draw back,\u201d he exclaimed; \u201cyou are inconveniencing your aunt.\u201d\n And then, as Raymonde passed, he asked; \u201cDo you happen to have a glass of\nwater, mademoiselle? One of our relatives here is losing consciousness.\u201d\n\nBut Madame Chaise refused the offer with a gesture. She was getting\nbetter, recovering her breath with an effort. \u201cNo, I want nothing, thank\nyou,\u201d she gasped. \u201cThere, I\u2019m better--still, I really thought this time\nthat I should stifle!\u201d\n\nHer fright left her trembling, with haggard eyes in her pale face. She\nagain joined her hands, and begged the Blessed Virgin to save her from\nother attacks and cure her; while the Vignerons, man and wife, honest\nfolk both of them, reverted to the covert prayer for happiness that they\nhad come to offer up at Lourdes: a pleasant old age, deservedly gained by\ntwenty years of honesty, with a respectable fortune which in later years\nthey would go and enjoy in the country, cultivating flowers. On the other\nhand, little Gustave, who had seen and noted everything with his bright\neyes and intelligence sharpened by suffering, was not praying, but\nsmiling at space, with his vague enigmatical smile. What could be the use\nof his praying? He knew that the Blessed Virgin would not cure him, and\nthat he would die.\n\nHowever, M. Vigneron could not remain long without busying himself about\nhis neighbours. Madame Dieulafay, who had come late, had been deposited\nin the crowded central pathway; and he marvelled at the luxury about the\nyoung woman, that sort of coffin quilted with white silk, in which she\nwas lying, attired in a pink dressing-gown trimmed with Valenciennes\nlace. The husband in a frock-coat, and the sister in a black gown of\nsimple but marvellous elegance, were standing by; while Abb\u00e9 Judaine,\nkneeling near the sufferer, finished offering up a fervent prayer.\n\nWhen the priest had risen, M. Vigneron made him a little room on the\nbench beside him; and he then took the liberty of questioning him. \u201cWell,\nMonsieur le Cur\u00e9, does that poor young woman feel a little better?\u201d\n\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine made a gesture of infinite sadness.\n\n\u201cAlas! no. I was full of so much hope! It was I who persuaded the family\nto come. Two years ago the Blessed Virgin showed me such extraordinary\ngrace by curing my poor lost eyes, that I hoped to obtain another favour\nfrom her. However, I will not despair. We still have until to-morrow.\u201d\n\nM. Vigneron again looked towards Madame Dieulafay and examined her face,\nstill of a perfect oval and with admirable eyes; but it was\nexpressionless, with ashen hue, similar to a mask of death, amidst the\nlace. \u201cIt\u2019s really very sad,\u201d he murmured.\n\n\u201cAnd if you had seen her last summer!\u201d resumed the priest. \u201cThey have\ntheir country seat at Saligny, my parish, and I often dined with them. I\ncannot help feeling sad when I look at her elder sister, Madame Jousseur,\nthat lady in black who stands there, for she bears a strong resemblance\nto her; and the poor sufferer was even prettier, one of the beauties of\nParis. And now compare them together--observe that brilliancy, that\nsovereign grace, beside that poor, pitiful creature--it oppresses one\u2019s\nheart--ah! what a frightful lesson!\u201d\n\nHe became silent for an instant. Saintly man that he was naturally,\naltogether devoid of passions, with no keen intelligence to disturb him\nin his faith, he displayed a naive admiration for beauty, wealth, and\npower, which he had never envied. Nevertheless, he ventured to express a\ndoubt, a scruple, which troubled his usual serenity. \u201cFor my part, I\nshould have liked her to come here with more simplicity, without all\nthat surrounding of luxury, because the Blessed Virgin prefers the\nhumble--But I understand very well that there are certain social\nexigencies. And, then, her husband and sister love her so! Remember that\nhe has forsaken his business and she her pleasures in order to come here\nwith her; and so overcome are they at the idea of losing her that their\neyes are never dry, they always have that bewildered look which you can\nnotice. So they must be excused for trying to procure her the comfort of\nlooking beautiful until the last hour.\u201d\n\nM. Vigneron nodded his head approvingly. Ah! it was certainly not the\nwealthy who had the most luck at the Grotto! Servants, country folk, poor\nbeggars, were cured, while ladies returned home with their ailments\nunrelieved, notwithstanding their gifts and the big candles they had\nburnt. And, in spite of himself, Vigneron then looked at Madame Chaise,\nwho, having recovered from her attack, was now reposing with a\ncomfortable air.\n\nBut a tremor passed through the crowd and Abb\u00e9 Judaine spoke again: \u201cHere\nis Father Massias coming towards the pulpit. He is a saint; listen to\nhim.\u201d\n\nThey knew him, and were aware that he could not make his appearance\nwithout every soul being stirred by sudden hope, for it was reported that\nthe miracles were often brought to pass by his great fervour. His voice,\nfull of tenderness and strength, was said to be appreciated by the\nVirgin.\n\nAll heads were therefore uplifted and the emotion yet further increased\nwhen Father Fourcade was seen coming to the foot of the pulpit, leaning\non the shoulder of his well-beloved brother, the preferred of all; and he\nstayed there, so that he also might hear him. His gouty foot had been\npaining him more acutely since the morning, so that it required great\ncourage on his part to remain thus standing and smiling. The increasing\nexaltation of the crowd made him happy, however; he foresaw prodigies and\ndazzling cures which would redound to the glory of Mary and Jesus.\n\nHaving ascended the pulpit, Father Massias did not at once speak. He\nseemed, very tall, thin, and pale, with an ascetic face, elongated the\nmore by his discoloured beard. His eyes sparkled, and his large eloquent\nmouth protruded passionately.\n\n\u201cLord, save us, for we perish!\u201d he suddenly cried; and in a fever, which\nincreased minute by minute, the transported crowd repeated: \u201cLord, save\nus, for we perish!\u201d\n\nThen he opened his arms and again launched forth his flaming cry, as if\nhe had torn it from his glowing heart: \u201cLord, if it be Thy will, Thou\ncanst heal me!\u201d\n\n\u201cLord, if it be Thy will, Thou canst heal me!\u201d\n\n\u201cLord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof, but only\nsay the word, and I shall be healed!\u201d\n\n\u201cLord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof, but only\nsay the word, and I shall be healed!\u201d\n\nMarthe, Brother Isidore\u2019s sister, had now begun to talk in a whisper to\nMadame Sabathier, near whom she had at last seated herself. They had\nformed an acquaintance at the hospital; and, drawn together by so much\nsuffering, the servant had familiarly confided to the _bourgeoise_ how\nanxious she felt about her brother; for she could plainly see that he had\nvery little breath left in him. The Blessed Virgin must be quick indeed\nif she desired to save him. It was already a miracle that they had been\nable to bring him alive as far as the Grotto.\n\nIn her resignation, poor, simple creature that she was, she did not weep;\nbut her heart was so swollen that her infrequent words came faintly from\nher lips. Then a flood of past memories suddenly returned to her; and\nwith her utterance thickened by prolonged silence, she began to relieve\nher heart: \u201cWe were fourteen at home, at Saint Jacut, near Vannes. He,\nbig as he was, has always been delicate, and that was why he remained\nwith our priest, who ended by placing him among the Christian Brothers.\nThe elder ones took over the property, and, for my part, I preferred\ngoing out to service. Yes, it was a lady who took me with her to Paris,\nfive years ago already. Ah! what a lot of trouble there is in life!\nEveryone has so much trouble!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are quite right, my girl,\u201d replied Madame Sabathier, looking the\nwhile at her husband, who was devoutly repeating each of Father Massias\u2019s\nappeals.\n\n\u201cAnd then,\u201d continued Marthe, \u201cthere I learned last month that Isidore,\nwho had returned from a hot climate where he had been on a mission, had\nbrought a bad sickness back with him. And, when I ran to see him, he told\nme he should die if he did not leave for Lourdes, but that he couldn\u2019t\nmake the journey, because he had nobody to accompany him. Then, as I had\neighty francs saved up, I gave up my place, and we set out together. You\nsee, madame, if I am so fond of him, it\u2019s because he used to bring me\ngooseberries from the parsonage, whereas all the others beat me.\u201d\n\nShe relapsed into silence for a moment, her countenance swollen by grief,\nand her poor eyes so scorched by watching that no tears could come from\nthem. Then she began to stutter disjointed words: \u201cLook at him, madame.\nIt fills one with pity. Ah! my God, his poor cheeks, his poor chin, his\npoor face--\u201d\n\nIt was, in fact, a lamentable spectacle. Madame Sabathier\u2019s heart was\nquite upset when she observed Brother Isidore so yellow, cadaverous,\nsteeped in a cold sweat of agony. Above the sheet he still only showed\nhis clasped hands and his face encircled with long scanty hair; but if\nthose wax-like hands seemed lifeless, if there was not a feature of that\nlong-suffering face that stirred, its eyes were still alive,\ninextinguishable eyes of love, whose flame sufficed to illumine the whole\nof his expiring visage--the visage of a Christ upon the cross. And never\nhad the contrast been so clearly marked between his low forehead and\nunintelligent, loutish, peasant air, and the divine splendour which came\nfrom his poor human mask, ravaged and sanctified by suffering, sublime at\nthis last hour in the passionate radiance of his faith. His flesh had\nmelted, as it were; he was no longer a breath, nothing but a look, a\nlight.\n\nSince he had been set down there his eyes had not strayed from the statue\nof the Virgin. Nothing else existed around him. He did not see the\nenormous multitude, he did not even hear the wild cries of the priests,\nthe incessant cries which shook this quivering crowd. His eyes alone\nremained to him, his eyes burning with infinite tenderness, and they were\nfixed upon the Virgin, never more to turn from her. They drank her in,\neven unto death; they made a last effort of will to disappear, die out in\nher. For an instant, however, his mouth half opened and his drawn visage\nrelaxed as an expression of celestial beatitude came over it. Then\nnothing more stirred, his eyes remained wide open, still obstinately\nfixed upon the white statue.\n\nA few seconds elapsed. Marthe had felt a cold breath, chilling the roots\nof her hair. \u201cI say, madame, look!\u201d she stammered.\n\nMadame Sabathier, who felt anxious, pretended that she did not\nunderstand. \u201cWhat is it, my girl?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy brother! look! He no longer moves. He opened his mouth, and has not\nstirred since.\u201d Then they both shuddered, feeling certain he was dead. He\nhad, indeed, just passed away, without a rattle, without a breath, as if\nlife had escaped in his glance, through his large, loving eyes, ravenous\nwith passion. He had expired gazing upon the Virgin, and nothing could\nhave been so sweet; and he still continued to gaze upon her with his dead\neyes, as though with ineffable delight.\n\n\u201cTry to close his eyes,\u201d murmured Madame Sabathier. \u201cWe shall soon know\nthen.\u201d\n\nMarthe had already risen, and, leaning forward, so as not to be observed,\nshe endeavoured to close the eyes with a trembling finger. But each time\nthey reopened, and again looked at the Virgin with invincible obstinacy.\nHe was dead, and Marthe had to leave his eyes wide open, steeped in\nunbounded ecstasy.\n\n\u201cAh! it\u2019s finished, it\u2019s quite finished, madame!\u201d she stuttered.\n\nTwo tears then burst from her heavy eyelids and ran down her cheeks;\nwhile Madame Sabathier caught hold of her hand to keep her quiet. There\nhad been whisperings, and uneasiness was already spreading. But what\ncourse could be adopted? It was impossible to carry off the corpse amidst\nsuch a mob, during the prayers, without incurring the risk of creating a\ndisastrous effect. The best plan would be to leave it there, pending a\nfavourable moment. The poor fellow scandalised no one, he did not seem\nany more dead now than he had seemed ten minutes previously, and\neverybody would think that his flaming eyes were still alive, ardently\nappealing to the divine compassion of the Blessed Virgin.\n\nOnly a few persons among those around knew the truth. M. Sabathier, quite\nscared, had made a questioning sign to his wife, and on being answered by\na prolonged affirmative nod, he had returned to his prayers without any\nrebellion, though he could not help turning pale at the thought of the\nmysterious almighty power which sent death when life was asked for. The\nVignerons, who were very much interested, leaned forward, and whispered\nas though in presence of some street accident, one of those petty\nincidents which in Paris the father sometimes related on returning home\nfrom the Ministry, and which sufficed to occupy them all, throughout the\nevening. Madame Jousseur, for her part, had simply turned round and\nwhispered a word or two in M. Dieulafay\u2019s ear, and then they had both\nreverted to the heart-rending contemplation of their own dear invalid;\nwhilst Abb\u00e9 Judaine, informed by M. Vigneron, knelt down, and in a low,\nagitated voice recited the prayers for the dead. Was he not a Saint, that\nmissionary who had returned from a deadly climate, with a mortal wound in\nhis side, to die there, beneath the smiling gaze of the Blessed Virgin?\nAnd Madame Maze, who also knew what had happened, suddenly felt a taste\nfor death, and resolved that she would implore Heaven to suppress her\nalso, in unobtrusive fashion, if it would not listen to her prayer and\ngive her back her husband.\n\nBut the cry of Father Massias rose into a still higher key, burst forth\nwith a strength of terrible despair, with a rending like that of a sob:\n\u201cJesus, son of David, I am perishing, save me!\u201d\n\nAnd the crowd sobbed after him in unison \u201cJesus, son of David, I am\nperishing, save me!\u201d\n\nThen, in quick succession, and in higher and higher keys, the appeals\nwent on proclaiming the intolerable misery of the world:\n\n\u201cJesus, son of David, take pity on Thy sick children!\u201d\n\n\u201cJesus, son of David, take pity on Thy sick children!\u201d\n\n\u201cJesus, son of David, come, heal them, that they may live!\u201d\n\n\u201cJesus, son of David, come, heal them, that they may live!\u201d\n\nIt was delirium. At the foot of the pulpit Father Fourcade, succumbing to\nthe extraordinary passion which overflowed from all hearts, had likewise\nraised his arms, and was shouting the appeals in his thundering voice as\nthough to compel the intervention of Heaven. And the exaltation was still\nincreasing beneath this blast of desire, whose powerful breath bowed\nevery head in turn, spreading even to the young women who, in a spirit of\nmere curiosity, sat watching the scene from the parapet of the Gave; for\nthese also turned pale under their sunshades.\n\nMiserable humanity was clamouring from the depths of its abyss of\nsuffering, and the clamour swept along, sending a shudder down every\nspine, for one and all were plunged in agony, refusing to die, longing to\ncompel God to grant them eternal life. Ah! life, life! that was what all\nthose unfortunates, who had come so far, amid so many obstacles,\nwanted--that was the one boon they asked for in their wild desire to live\nit over again, to live it always! O Lord, whatever our misery, whatever\nthe torment of our life may be, cure us, grant that we may begin to live\nagain and suffer once more what we have suffered already. However unhappy\nwe may be, to be is what we wish. It is not heaven that we ask Thee for,\nit is earth; and grant that we may leave it at the latest possible\nmoment, never leave it, indeed, if such be Thy good pleasure. And even\nwhen we no longer implore a physical cure, but a moral favour, it is\nstill happiness that we ask Thee for; happiness, the thirst for which\nalone consumes us. O Lord, grant that we may be happy and healthy; let us\nlive, ay, let us live forever!\n\nThis wild cry, the cry of man\u2019s furious desire for life, came in broken\naccents, mingled with tears, from every breast.\n\n\u201cO Lord, son of David, heal our sick!\u201d\n\n\u201cO Lord, son of David, heal our sick!\u201d\n\nBerthaud had twice been obliged to dash forward to prevent the cords from\ngiving way under the unconscious pressure of the crowd. Baron Suire, in\ndespair, kept on making signs, begging someone to come to his assistance;\nfor the Grotto was now invaded, and the march past had become the mere\ntrampling of a flock rushing to its passion. In vain did G\u00e9rard again\nleave Raymonde and post himself at the entrance gate of the iron railing,\nso as to carry out the orders, which were to admit the pilgrims by tens.\nHe was hustled and swept aside, while with feverish excitement everybody\nrushed in, passing like a torrent between the flaring candles, throwing\nbouquets and letters to the Virgin, and kissing the rock, which the\npressure of millions of inflamed lips had polished. It was faith run\nwild, the great power that nothing henceforth could stop.\n\nAnd now, whilst G\u00e9rard stood there, hemmed in against the iron railing,\nhe heard two countrywomen, whom the advance was bearing onward, raise\nloud exclamations at sight of the sufferers lying on the stretchers\nbefore them. One of them was so greatly impressed by the pallid face of\nBrother Isidore, whose large dilated eyes were still fixed on the statue\nof the Virgin, that she crossed herself, and, overcome by devout\nadmiration, murmured: \u201cOh! look at that one; see how he is praying with\nhis whole heart, and how he gazes on Our Lady of Lourdes!\u201d\n\nThe other peasant woman thereupon replied \u201cOh! she will certainly cure\nhim, he is so beautiful!\u201d\n\nIndeed, as the dead man lay there, his eyes still fixedly staring whilst\nhe continued his prayer of love and faith, his appearance touched every\nheart. No one in that endless, streaming throng could behold him without\nfeeling edified.\n\n\n\n\nIII. MARIE\u2019S CURE\n\nIT was good Abb\u00e9 Judaine who was to carry the Blessed Sacrament in the\nfour-o\u2019clock procession. Since the Blessed Virgin had cured him of a\ndisease of the eyes, a miracle with which the Catholic press still\nresounded, he had become one of the glories of Lourdes, was given the\nfirst place, and honoured with all sorts of attentions.\n\nAt half-past three he rose, wishing to leave the Grotto, but the\nextraordinary concourse of people quite frightened him, and he feared he\nwould be late if he did not succeed in getting out of it. Fortunately\nhelp came to him in the person of Berthaud. \u201cMonsieur le Cur\u00e9,\u201d exclaimed\nthe superintendent of the bearers, \u201cdon\u2019t attempt to pass out by way of\nthe Rosary; you would never arrive in time. The best course is to ascend\nby the winding paths--and come! follow me; I will go before you.\u201d\n\nBy means of his elbows, he thereupon parted the dense throng and opened a\npath for the priest, who overwhelmed him with thanks. \u201cYou are too kind.\nIt\u2019s my fault; I had forgotten myself. But, good heavens! how shall we\nmanage to pass with the procession presently?\u201d\n\nThis procession was Berthaud\u2019s remaining anxiety. Even on ordinary days\nit provoked wild excitement, which forced him to take special measures;\nand what would now happen, as it wended its way through this dense\nmultitude of thirty thousand persons, consumed by such a fever of faith,\nalready on the verge of divine frenzy? Accordingly, in a sensible way, he\ntook advantage of this opportunity to give Abb\u00e9 Judaine the best advice.\n\n\u201cAh! Monsieur le Cur\u00e9, pray impress upon your colleagues of the clergy\nthat they must not leave any space between their ranks; they should come\non slowly, one close behind the other. And, above all, the banners should\nbe firmly grasped, so that they may not be overthrown. As for yourself,\nMonsieur le Cur\u00e9, see that the canopy-bearers are strong, tighten the\ncloth around the monstrance, and don\u2019t be afraid to carry it in both\nhands with all your strength.\u201d\n\nA little frightened by this advice, the priest went on expressing his\nthanks. \u201cOf course, of course; you are very good,\u201d said he. \u201cAh!\nmonsieur, how much I am indebted to you for having helped me to escape\nfrom all those people!\u201d\n\nThen, free at last, he hastened towards the Basilica by the narrow\nserpentine path which climbs the hill; while his companion again plunged\ninto the mob, to return to his post of inspection.\n\nAt that same moment Pierre, who was bringing Marie to the Grotto in her\nlittle cart, encountered on the other side, that of the Place du Rosaire,\nthe impenetrable wall formed by the crowd. The servant at the hotel had\nawakened him at three o\u2019clock, so that he might go and fetch the young\ngirl at the hospital. There seemed to be no hurry; they apparently had\nplenty of time to reach the Grotto before the procession. However, that\nimmense throng, that resisting, living wall, through which he did not\nknow how to break, began to cause him some uneasiness. He would never\nsucceed in passing with the little car if the people did not evince some\nobligingness. \u201cCome, ladies, come!\u201d he appealed. \u201cI beg of you! You see,\nit\u2019s for a patient!\u201d\n\nThe ladies, hypnotised as they were by the spectacle of the Grotto\nsparkling in the distance, and standing on tiptoe so as to lose nothing\nof the sight, did not move, however. Besides, the clamour of the litanies\nwas so loud at this moment that they did not even hear the young priest\u2019s\nentreaties.\n\nThen Pierre began again: \u201cPray stand on one side, gentlemen; allow me to\npass. A little room for a sick person. Come, please, listen to what I am\nsaying!\u201d\n\nBut the men, beside themselves, in a blind, deaf rapture, would stir no\nmore than the women.\n\nMarie, however, smiled serenely, as if ignorant of the impediments, and\nconvinced that nothing in the world could prevent her from going to her\ncure. However, when Pierre had found an aperture, and begun to work his\nway through the moving mass, the situation became more serious. From all\nparts the swelling human waves beat against the frail chariot, and at\ntimes threatened to submerge it. At each step it became necessary to\nstop, wait, and again entreat the people. Pierre had never before felt\nsuch an anxious sensation in a crowd. True, it was not a threatening mob,\nit was as innocent as a flock of sheep; but he found a troubling thrill\nin its midst, a peculiar atmosphere that upset him. And, in spite of his\naffection for the humble, the ugliness of the features around him, the\ncommon, sweating faces, the evil breath, and the old clothes, smelling of\npoverty, made him suffer even to nausea.\n\n\u201cNow, ladies, now, gentlemen, it\u2019s for a patient,\u201d he repeated. \u201cA little\nroom, I beg of you!\u201d\n\nBuffeted about in this vast ocean, the little vehicle continued to\nadvance by fits and starts, taking long minutes to get over a few yards\nof ground. At one moment you might have thought it swamped, for no sign\nof it could be detected. Then, however, it reappeared near the piscinas.\nTender sympathy had at length been awakened for this sick girl, so wasted\nby suffering, but still so beautiful. When people had been compelled to\ngive way before the priest\u2019s stubborn pushing, they turned round, but did\nnot dare to get angry, for pity penetrated them at sight of that thin,\nsuffering face, shining out amidst a halo of fair hair. Words of\ncompassion and admiration were heard on all sides: \u201cAh, the poor\nchild!\u201d--\u201cWas it not cruel to be infirm at her age?\u201d--\u201cMight the Blessed\nVirgin be merciful to her!\u201d Others, however, expressed surprise, struck\nas they were by the ecstasy in which they saw her, with her clear eyes\nopen to the spheres beyond, where she had placed her hope. She beheld\nHeaven, she would assuredly be cured. And thus the little car left, as it\nwere, a feeling of wonder and fraternal charity behind it, as it made its\nway with so much difficulty through that human ocean.\n\nPierre, however, was in despair and at the end of his strength, when some\nof the stretcher-bearers came to his aid by forming a path for the\npassage of the procession--a path which Berthaud had ordered them to keep\nclear by means of cords, which they were to hold at intervals of a couple\nof yards. From that moment the young priest was able to drag Marie along\nin a fairly easy manner, and at last place her within the reserved space,\nwhere he halted, facing the Grotto on the left side. You could no longer\nmove in this reserved space, where the crowd seemed to increase every\nminute. And, quite exhausted by the painful journey he had just\naccomplished, Pierre reflected what a prodigious concourse of people\nthere was; it had seemed to him as if he were in the midst of an ocean,\nwhose waves he had heard heaving around him without a pause.\n\nSince leaving the hospital Marie had not opened her lips. He now\nrealised, however, that she wished to speak to him, and accordingly bent\nover her. \u201cAnd my father,\u201d she inquired, \u201cis he here? Hasn\u2019t he returned\nfrom his excursion?\u201d\n\nPierre had to answer that M. de Guersaint had not returned, and that he\nhad doubtless been delayed against his will. And thereupon she merely\nadded with a smile: \u201cAh I poor father, won\u2019t he be pleased when he finds\nme cured!\u201d\n\nPierre looked at her with tender admiration. He did not remember having\never seen her looking so adorable since the slow wasting of sickness had\nbegun. Her hair, which alone disease had respected, clothed her in gold.\nHer thin, delicate face had assumed a dreamy expression, her eyes\nwandering away to the haunting thought of her sufferings, her features\nmotionless, as if she had fallen asleep in a fixed thought until the\nexpected shock of happiness should waken her. She was absent from\nherself, ready, however, to return to consciousness whenever God might\nwill it. And, indeed, this delicious infantile creature, this little girl\nof three-and-twenty, still a child as when an accident had struck her,\ndelaying her growth, preventing her from becoming a woman, was at last\nready to receive the visit of the angel, the miraculous shock which would\ndraw her out of her torpor and set her upright once more. Her morning\necstasy continued; she had clasped her hands, and a leap of her whole\nbeing had ravished her from earth as soon as she had perceived the image\nof the Blessed Virgin yonder. And now she prayed and offered herself\ndivinely.\n\nIt was an hour of great mental trouble for Pierre. He felt that the drama\nof his priestly life was about to be enacted, and that if he did not\nrecover faith in this crisis, it would never return to him. And he was\nwithout bad thoughts, without resistance, hoping with fervour, he also,\nthat they might both be healed! Oh! that he might be convinced by her\ncure, that he might believe like her, that they might be saved together!\nHe wished to pray, ardently, as she herself did. But in spite of himself\nhe was preoccupied by the crowd, that limitless crowd, among which he\nfound it so difficult to drown himself, disappear, become nothing more\nthan a leaf in the forest, lost amidst the rustle of all the leaves. He\ncould not prevent himself from analysing and judging it. He knew that for\nfour days past it had been undergoing all the training of suggestion;\nthere had been the fever of the long journey, the excitement of the new\nlandscapes, the days spent before the splendour of the Grotto, the\nsleepless nights, and all the exasperating suffering, ravenous for\nillusion. Then, again, there had been the all-besetting prayers, those\nhymns, those litanies, which agitated it without a pause. Another priest\nhad followed Father Massias in the pulpit, a little thin, dark Abb\u00e9, whom\nPierre heard hurling appeals to the Virgin and Jesus in a lashing voice\nwhich resounded like a whip. Father Massias and Father Fourcade had\nremained at the foot of the pulpit, and were now directing the cries of\nthe crowd, whose lamentations rose in louder and louder tones beneath the\nlimpid sunlight. The general exaltation had yet increased; it was the\nhour when the violence done to Heaven at last produced the miracles.\n\nAll at once a paralytic rose up and walked towards the Grotto, holding\nhis crutch in the air; and this crutch, waving like a flag above the\nswaying heads, wrung loud applause from the faithful. They were all on\nthe look-out for prodigies, they awaited them with the certainty that\nthey would take place, innumerable and wonderful. Some eyes seemed to\nbehold them, and feverish voices pointed them out. Another woman had been\ncured! Another! Yet another! A deaf person had heard, a mute had spoken,\na consumptive had revived! What, a consumptive? Certainly, that was a\ndaily occurrence! Surprise was no longer possible; you might have\ncertified that an amputated leg was growing again without astonishing\nanyone. Miracle-working became the actual state of nature, the usual\nthing, quite commonplace, such was its abundance. The most incredible\nstories seemed quite simple to those overheated imaginations, given what\nthey expected from the Blessed Virgin. And you should have heard the\ntales that went about, the quiet affirmations, the expressions of\nabsolute certainty which were exchanged whenever a delirious patient\ncried out that she was cured. Another! Yet another! However, a piteous\nvoice would at times exclaim: \u201cAh! she\u2019s cured; that one; she\u2019s lucky,\nshe is!\u201d\n\nAlready, at the Verification Office, Pierre had suffered from this\ncredulity of the folk among whom he lived. But here it surpassed\neverything he could have imagined; and he was exasperated by the\nextravagant things he heard people say in such a placid fashion, with the\nopen smiles of children. Accordingly he tried to absorb himself in his\nthoughts and listen to nothing. \u201cO God!\u201d he prayed, \u201cgrant that my reason\nmay be annihilated, that I may no longer desire to understand, that I may\naccept the unreal and impossible.\u201d For a moment he thought the spirit of\ninquiry dead within him, and allowed the cry of supplication to carry him\naway: \u201cLord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!\u201d He repeated this appeal\nwith all his charity, clasped his hands, and gazed fixedly at the statue\nof the Virgin, until he became quite giddy, and imagined that the figure\nmoved. Why should he not return to a state of childhood like the others,\nsince happiness lay in ignorance and falsehood? Contagion would surely\nend by acting; he would become nothing more than a grain of sand among\ninnumerable other grains, one of the humblest among the humble ones under\nthe millstone, who trouble not about the power that crushes them. But\njust at that second, when he hoped that he had killed the old man in him,\nthat he had annihilated himself along with his will and intelligence, the\nstubborn work of thought, incessant and invincible, began afresh in the\ndepths of his brain. Little by little, notwithstanding his efforts to the\ncontrary, he returned to his inquiries, doubted, and sought the truth.\nWhat was the unknown force thrown off by this crowd, the vital fluid\npowerful enough to work the few cures that really occurred? There was\nhere a phenomenon that no physiologist had yet studied. Ought one to\nbelieve that a multitude became a single being, as it were, able to\nincrease the power of auto-suggestion tenfold upon itself? Might one\nadmit that, under certain circumstances of extreme exaltation, a\nmultitude became an agent of sovereign will compelling the obedience of\nmatter? That would have explained how sudden cure fell at times upon the\nmost sincerely excited of the throng. The breaths of all of them united\nin one breath, and the power that acted was a power of consolation, hope,\nand life.\n\nThis thought, the outcome of his human charity, filled Pierre with\nemotion. For another moment he was able to regain possession of himself,\nand prayed for the cure of all, deeply touched by the belief that he\nhimself might in some degree contribute towards the cure of Marie. But\nall at once, without knowing what transition of ideas led to it, a\nrecollection returned to him of the medical consultation which he had\ninsisted upon prior to the young girl\u2019s departure for Lourdes. The scene\nrose before him with extraordinary clearness and precision; he saw the\nroom with its grey, blue-flowered wall-paper, and he heard the three\ndoctors discuss and decide. The two who had given certificates\ndiagnosticating paralysis of the marrow spoke discreetly, slowly, like\nesteemed, well-known, perfectly honourable practitioners; but Pierre\nstill heard the warm, vivacious voice of his cousin Beauclair, the third\ndoctor, a young man of vast and daring intelligence, who was treated\ncoldly by his colleagues as being of an adventurous turn of mind. And at\nthis supreme moment Pierre was surprised to find in his memory things\nwhich he did not know were there; but it was only an instance of that\nsingular phenomenon by which it sometimes happens that words scarce\nlistened to, words but imperfectly heard, words stored away in the brain\nalmost in spite of self, will awaken, burst forth, and impose themselves\non the mind after they have long been forgotten. And thus it now seemed\nto him that the very approach of the miracle was bringing him a vision of\nthe conditions under which--according to Beauclair\u2019s predictions--the\nmiracle would be accomplished.\n\nIn vain did Pierre endeavour to drive away this recollection by praying\nwith an increase of fervour. The scene again appeared to him, and the old\nwords rang out, filling his ears like a trumpet-blast. He was now again\nin the dining-room, where Beauclair and he had shut themselves up after\nthe departure of the two others, and Beauclair recapitulated the history\nof the malady: the fall from a horse at the age of fourteen; the\ndislocation and displacement of the organ, with doubtless a slight\nlaceration of the ligaments, whence the weight which the sufferer had\nfelt, and the weakness of the legs leading to paralysis. Then, a slow\nhealing of the disorder, everything returning to its place of itself, but\nwithout the pain ceasing. In fact this big, nervous child, whose mind had\nbeen so grievously impressed by her accident, was unable to forget it;\nher attention remained fixed on the part where she suffered, and she\ncould not divert it, so that, even after cure, her sufferings had\ncontinued--a neuropathic state, a consecutive nervous exhaustion,\ndoubtless aggravated by accidents due to faulty nutrition as yet\nimperfectly understood. And further, Beauclair easily explained the\ncontrary and erroneous diagnosis of the numerous doctors who had attended\nher, and who, as she would not submit to examination, had groped in the\ndark, some believing in a tumour, and the others, the more numerous,\nconvinced of some lesion of the marrow. He alone, after inquiring into\nthe girl\u2019s parentage, had just begun to suspect a simple state of\nauto-suggestion, in which she had obstinately remained ever since the\nfirst violent shock of pain; and among the reasons which he gave for this\nbelief were the contraction of her visual field, the fixity of her eyes,\nthe absorbed, inattentive expression of her face, and above all the\nnature of the pain she felt, which, leaving the organ, had borne to the\nleft, where it continued in the form of a crushing, intolerable weight,\nwhich sometimes rose to the breast in frightful fits of stifling. A\nsudden determination to throw off the false notion she had formed of her\ncomplaint, the will to rise, breathe freely, and suffer no more, could\nalone place her on her feet again, cured, transfigured, beneath the lash\nof some intense emotion.\n\nA last time did Pierre endeavour to see and hear no more, for he felt\nthat the irreparable ruin of all belief in the miraculous was in him.\nAnd, in spite of his efforts, in spite of the ardour with which he began\nto cry, \u201cJesus, son of David, heal our sick!\u201d he still saw, he still\nheard Beauclair telling him, in his calm, smiling manner how the miracle\nwould take place, like a lightning flash, at the moment of extreme\nemotion, under the decisive circumstance which would complete the\nloosening of the muscles. The patient would rise and walk in a wild\ntransport of joy, her legs would all at once be light again, relieved of\nthe weight which had so long made them like lead, as though this weight\nhad melted, fallen to the ground. But above all, the weight which bore\nupon the lower part of the trunk, which rose, ravaged the breast, and\nstrangled the throat, would this time depart in a prodigious soaring\nflight, a tempest blast bearing all the evil away with it. And was it not\nthus that, in the Middle Ages, possessed women had by the mouth cast up\nthe Devil, by whom their flesh had so long been tortured? And Beauclair\nhad added that Marie would at last become a woman, that in that moment of\nsupreme joy she would cease to be a child, that although seemingly worn\nout by her prolonged dream of suffering, she would all at once be\nrestored to resplendent health, with beaming face, and eyes full of life.\n\nPierre looked at her, and his trouble increased still more on seeing her\nso wretched in her little cart, so distractedly imploring health, her\nwhole being soaring towards Our Lady of Lourdes, who gave life. Ah! might\nshe be saved, at the cost even of his own damnation! But she was too ill;\nscience lied like faith; he could not believe that this child, whose\nlimbs had been dead for so many years, would indeed return to life. And,\nin the bewildered doubt into which he again relapsed, his bleeding heart\nclamoured yet more loudly, ever and ever repeating with the delirious\ncrowd: \u201cLord, son of David, heal our sick!--Lord, son of David, heal our\nsick!\u201d\n\nAt that moment a tumult arose agitating one and all. People shuddered,\nfaces were turned and raised. It was the cross of the four-o\u2019clock\nprocession, a little behind time that day, appearing from beneath one of\nthe arches of the monumental gradient way. There was such applause and\nsuch violent, instinctive pushing that Berthaud, waving his arms,\ncommanded the bearers to thrust the crowd back by pulling strongly on the\ncords. Overpowered for a moment, the bearers had to throw themselves\nbackward with sore hands; however, they ended by somewhat enlarging the\nreserved path, along which the procession was then able to slowly wend\nits way. At the head came a superb beadle, all blue and gold, followed by\nthe processional cross, a tall cross shining like a star. Then followed\nthe delegations of the different pilgrimages with their banners,\nstandards of velvet and satin, embroidered with metal and bright silk,\nadorned with painted figures, and bearing the names of towns: Versailles,\nRheims, Orleans, Poitiers, and Toulouse. One, which was quite white,\nmagnificently rich, displayed in red letters the inscription \u201cAssociation\nof Catholic Working Men\u2019s Clubs.\u201d Then came the clergy, two or three\nhundred priests in simple cassocks, about a hundred in surplices, and\nsome fifty clothed in golden chasubles, effulgent like stars. They all\ncarried lighted candles, and sang the \u201cLaudate Sion Salvatorem\u201d in full\nvoices. And then the canopy appeared in royal pomp, a canopy of purple\nsilk, braided with gold, and upheld by four ecclesiastics, who, it could\nbe seen, had been selected from among the most robust. Beneath it,\nbetween two other priests who assisted him, was Abb\u00e9 Judaine, vigorously\nclasping the Blessed Sacrament with both hands, as Berthaud had\nrecommended him to do; and the somewhat uneasy glances that he cast on\nthe encroaching crowd right and left showed how anxious he was that no\ninjury should befall the heavy divine monstrance, whose weight was\nalready straining his wrists. When the slanting sun fell upon him in\nfront, the monstrance itself looked like another sun. Choir-boys meantime\nwere swinging censers in the blinding glow which gave splendour to the\nentire procession; and, finally, in the rear, there was a confused mass\nof pilgrims, a flock-like tramping of believers and sightseers all\naflame, hurrying along, and blocking the track with their ever-rolling\nwaves.\n\nFather Massias had returned to the pulpit a moment previously; and this\ntime he had devised another pious exercise. After the burning cries of\nfaith, hope, and love that he threw forth, he all at once commanded\nabsolute silence, in order that one and all might, with closed lips,\nspeak to God in secret for a few minutes. These sudden spells of silence\nfalling upon the vast crowd, these minutes of mute prayer, in which all\nsouls unbosomed their secrets, were deeply, wonderfully impressive. Their\nsolemnity became formidable; you heard desire, the immense desire for\nlife, winging its flight on high. Then Father Massias invited the sick\nalone to speak, to implore God to grant them what they asked of His\nalmighty power. And, in response, came a pitiful lamentation, hundreds of\ntremulous, broken voices rising amidst a concert of sobs. \u201cLord Jesus, if\nit please Thee, Thou canst cure me!\u201d--\u201cLord Jesus take pity on Thy child,\nwho is dying of love!\u201d--\u201cLord Jesus, grant that I may see, grant that I\nmay hear, grant that I may walk!\u201d And, all at once, the shrill voice of a\nlittle girl, light and vivacious as the notes of a flute, rose above the\nuniversal sob, repeating in the distance: \u201cSave the others, save the\nothers, Lord Jesus!\u201d Tears streamed from every eye; these supplications\nupset all hearts, threw the hardest into the frenzy of charity, into a\nsublime disorder which would have impelled them to open their breasts\nwith both hands, if by doing so they could have given their neighbours\ntheir health and youth. And then Father Massias, not letting this\nenthusiasm abate, resumed his cries, and again lashed the delirious crowd\nwith them; while Father Fourcade himself sobbed on one of the steps of\nthe pulpit, raising his streaming face to heaven as though to command God\nto descend on earth.\n\nBut the procession had arrived; the delegations, the priests, had ranged\nthemselves on the right and left; and, when the canopy entered the space\nreserved to the sick in front of the Grotto, when the sufferers perceived\nJesus the Host, the Blessed Sacrament, shining like a sun, in the hands\nof Abb\u00e9 Judaine, it became impossible to direct the prayers, all voices\nmingled together, and all will was borne away by vertigo. The cries,\ncalls, entreaties broke, lapsing into groans. Human forms rose from\npallets of suffering; trembling arms were stretched forth; clenched hands\nseemingly desired to clutch at the miracle on the way. \u201cLord Jesus, save\nus, for we perish!\u201d--\u201cLord Jesus, we worship Thee; heal us!\u201d--\u201cLord\nJesus, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God; heal us!\u201d Thrice\ndid the despairing, exasperated voices give vent to the supreme\nlamentation in a clamour which rushed up to Heaven; and the tears\nredoubled, flooding all the burning faces which desire transformed. At\none moment, the delirium became so great, the instinctive leap toward the\nBlessed Sacrament seemed so irresistible, that Berthaud placed the\nbearers who were there in a chain about it. This was the extreme\nprotective man\u0153uvre, a hedge of bearers drawn up on either side of the\ncanopy, each placing an arm firmly round his neighbour\u2019s neck, so as to\nestablish a sort of living wall. Not the smallest aperture was left in\nit; nothing whatever could pass. Still, these human barriers staggered\nunder the pressure of the unfortunate creatures who hungered for life,\nwho wished to touch, to kiss Jesus; and, oscillating and recoiling, the\nbearers were at last thrust against the canopy they were defending, and\nthe canopy itself began swaying among the crowd, ever in danger of being\nswept away like some holy bark in peril of being wrecked.\n\nThen, at the very climax of this holy frenzy, the miracles began amidst\nsupplications and sobs, as when the heavens open during a storm, and a\nthunderbolt falls on earth. A paralytic woman rose and cast aside her\ncrutches. There was a piercing yell, and another woman appeared erect on\nher mattress, wrapped in a white blanket as in a winding sheet; and\npeople said it was a half-dead consumptive who had thus been\nresuscitated. Then grace fell upon two others in quick succession: a\nblind woman suddenly perceived the Grotto in a flame; a dumb woman fell\non both her knees, thanking the Blessed Virgin in a loud, clear voice.\nAnd all in a like way prostrated themselves at the feet of Our Lady of\nLourdes, distracted with joy and gratitude.\n\nBut Pierre had not taken his eyes off Marie, and he was overcome with\ntender emotion at what he saw. The sufferer\u2019s eyes were still\nexpressionless, but they had dilated, while her poor, pale face, with its\nheavy mask, was contracted as if she were suffering frightfully. She did\nnot speak in her despair; she undoubtedly thought that she was again in\nthe clutches of her ailment. But all at once, when the Blessed Sacrament\npassed by, and she saw the star-like monstrance sparkling in the sun, a\nsensation of dizziness came over her. She imagined herself struck by\nlightning. Her eyes caught fire from the glare which flashed upon her,\nand at last regained their flame of life, shining out like stars. And\nunder the influence of a wave of blood her face became animated, suffused\nwith colour, beaming with a smile of joy and health. And, suddenly,\nPierre saw her rise, stand upright in her little car, staggering,\nstuttering, and finding in her mind only these caressing words: \u201cOh, my\nfriend! Oh, my friend!\u201d\n\nHe hurriedly drew near in order to support her. But she drove him back\nwith a gesture. She was regaining strength, looking so touching, so\nbeautiful, in the little black woollen gown and slippers which she always\nwore; tall and slender, too, and crowned as with a halo of gold by her\nbeautiful flaxen hair, which was covered with a simple piece of lace. The\nwhole of her virgin form was quivering as if some powerful fermentation\nhad regenerated her. First of all, it was her legs that were relieved of\nthe chains that bound them; and then, while she felt the spirit of\nlife--the life of woman, wife, and mother--within her, there came a final\nagony, an enormous weight that rose to her very throat. Only, this time,\nit did not linger there, did not stifle her, but burst from her open\nmouth, and flew away in a cry of sublime joy.\n\n\u201cI am cured!--I am cured!\u201d\n\nThen there was an extraordinary sight. The blanket lay at her feet, she\nwas triumphant, she had a superb, glowing face. And her cry of cure had\nresounded with such rapturous delight that the entire crowd was\ndistracted by it. She had become the sole point of interest, the others\nsaw none but her, erect, grown so radiant and so divine.\n\n\u201cI am cured!--I am cured!\u201d\n\nPierre, at the violent shock his heart had received, had begun to weep.\nIndeed, tears glistened again in every eye. Amidst exclamations of\ngratitude and praise, frantic enthusiasm passed from one to another,\nthrowing the thousands of pilgrims who pressed forward to see into a\nstate of violent emotion. Applause broke out, a fury of applause, whose\nthunder rolled from one to the other end of the valley.\n\nHowever, Father Fourcade began waving his arms, and Father Massias was at\nlast able to make himself heard from the pulpit: \u201cGod has visited us, my\ndear brothers, my dear sisters!\u201d said he. \u201c_Magnificat anima mea\nDominum_, My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in\nGod my Saviour.\u201d\n\nAnd then all the voices, the thousands of voices, began the chant of\nadoration and gratitude. The procession found itself at a stand-still.\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine had been able to reach the Grotto with the monstrance, but\nhe patiently remained there before giving the Benediction. The canopy was\nawaiting him outside the railings, surrounded by priests in surplices and\nchasubles, all a glitter of white and gold in the rays of the setting\nsun.\n\nMarie, however, had knelt down, sobbing; and, whilst the canticle lasted,\na burning prayer of faith and love ascended from her whole being. But the\ncrowd wanted to see her walk, delighted women called to her, a group\nsurrounded her, and swept her towards the Verification Office, so that\nthe miracle might be proved true, as patent as the very light of the sun.\nHer box was forgotten, Pierre followed her, while she, stammering and\nhesitating, she who for seven years had not used her legs, advanced with\nadorable awkwardness, the uneasy, charming gait of a little child making\nits first steps; and it was so affecting, so delicious, that the young\npriest thought of nothing but the immense happiness of seeing her thus\nreturn to her childhood. Ah! the dear friend of infancy, the dear\ntenderness of long ago, so she would at last be the beautiful and\ncharming woman that she had promised to be as a young girl when, in the\nlittle garden at Neuilly, she had looked so gay and pretty beneath the\ntall trees flecked with sunlight!\n\nThe crowd continued to applaud her furiously, a huge wave of people\naccompanied her; and all remained awaiting her egress, swarming in a\nfever before the door, when she had entered the office, whither Pierre\nonly was admitted with her.\n\nThat particular afternoon there were few people at the Verification\nOffice. The small square room, with its hot wooden walls and rudimentary\nfurniture, its rush-bottomed chairs, and its two tables of unequal\nheight, contained, apart from the usual staff only some five or six\ndoctors, seated and silent. At the tables were the inspector of the\npiscinas and two young Abb\u00e9s making entries in the registers, and\nconsulting the sets of documents; while Father Dargeles, at one end,\nwrote a paragraph for his newspaper. And, as it happened, Doctor Bonamy\nwas just then examining Elise Rouquet, who, for the third time, had come\nto have the increasing cicatrisation of her sore certified.\n\n\u201cAnyhow, gentlemen,\u201d exclaimed the doctor, \u201chave you ever seen a lupus\nheal in this way so rapidly? I am aware that a new work has appeared on\nfaith healing in which it is stated that certain sores may have a nervous\norigin. Only that is by no means proved in the case of lupus, and I defy\na committee of doctors to assemble and explain mademoiselle\u2019s cure by\nordinary means.\u201d\n\nHe paused, and turning towards Father Dargeles, inquired: \u201cHave you\nnoted, Father, that the suppuration has completely disappeared, and that\nthe skin is resuming its natural colour?\u201d\n\nHowever, he did not wait for the reply, for just then Marie entered,\nfollowed by Pierre; and by her beaming radiance he immediately guessed\nwhat good-fortune was befalling him. She looked superb, admirably fitted\nto transport and convert the multitude. He therefore promptly dismissed\nElise Rouquet, inquired the new arrival\u2019s name, and asked one of the\nyoung priests to look for her papers. Then, as she slightly staggered, he\nwished to seat her in the arm-chair.\n\n\u201cOh no! oh no!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cI am so happy to be able to use my legs!\u201d\n\nPierre, with a glance, had sought for Doctor Chassaigne, whom he was\nsorry not to see there. He remained on one side, waiting while they\nrummaged in the untidy drawers without being able to place their hands on\nthe required papers. \u201cLet\u2019s see,\u201d repeated Dr. Bonamy; \u201cMarie de\nGuersaint, Marie de Guersaint. I have certainly seen that name before.\u201d\n\nAt last Raboin discovered the documents classified under a wrong letter;\nand when the doctor had perused the two medical certificates he became\nquite enthusiastic. \u201cHere is something very interesting, gentlemen,\u201d said\nhe. \u201cI beg you to listen attentively. This young lady, whom you see\nstanding here, was afflicted with a very serious lesion of the marrow.\nAnd, if one had the least doubt of it, these two certificates would\nsuffice to convince the most incredulous, for they are signed by two\ndoctors of the Paris faculty, whose names are well known to us all.\u201d\n\nThen he passed the certificates to the doctors present, who read them,\nwagging their heads the while. It was beyond dispute; the medical men who\nhad drawn up these documents enjoyed the reputation of being honest and\nclever practitioners.\n\n\u201cWell, gentlemen, if the diagnosis is not disputed--and it cannot be when\na patient brings us documents of this value--we will now see what change\nhas taken place in the young lady\u2019s condition.\u201d\n\nHowever, before questioning her he turned towards Pierre. \u201cMonsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said he, \u201cyou came from Paris with Mademoiselle de Guersaint, I\nthink. Did you converse with the doctors before your departure?\u201d\n\nThe priest shuddered amidst all his great delight.\n\n\u201cI was present at the consultation, monsieur,\u201d he replied.\n\nAnd again the scene rose up before him. He once more saw the two doctors,\nso serious and rational, and he once more saw Beauclair smiling, while\nhis colleagues drew up their certificates, which were identical. And was\nhe, Pierre, to reduce these certificates to nothing, reveal the other\ndiagnosis, the one that allowed of the cure being explained\nscientifically? The miracle had been predicted, shattered beforehand.\n\n\u201cYou will observe, gentlemen,\u201d now resumed Dr. Bonamy, \u201cthat the presence\nof the Abb\u00e9 gives these proofs additional weight. However, mademoiselle\nwill now tell us exactly what she felt.\u201d\n\nHe had leant over Father Dargeles\u2019s shoulder to impress upon him that he\nmust not forget to make Pierre play the part of a witness in the\nnarrative.\n\n\u201c_Mon Dieu_! gentlemen, how can I tell you?\u201d exclaimed Marie in a halting\nvoice, broken by her surging happiness. \u201cSince yesterday I had felt\ncertain that I should be cured. And yet, a little while ago, when the\npins and needles seized me in the legs again, I was afraid it might only\nbe another attack. For an instant I doubted. Then the feeling stopped.\nBut it began again as soon as I recommenced praying. Oh! I prayed, I\nprayed with all my soul! I ended by surrendering myself like a child.\n\u2018Blessed Virgin, Our Lady of Lourdes, do with me as thou wilt,\u2019 I said.\nBut the feeling did not cease, it seemed as if my blood were boiling; a\nvoice cried to me: \u2018Rise! Rise!\u2019 And I felt the miracle fall on me in a\ncracking of all my bones, of all my flesh, as if I had been struck by\nlightning.\u201d\n\nPierre, very pale, listened to her. Beauclair had positively told him\nthat the cure would come like a lightning flash, that under the influence\nof extreme excitement a sudden awakening of will so long somnolent would\ntake place within her.\n\n\u201cIt was my legs which the Holy Virgin first of all delivered,\u201d she\ncontinued. \u201cI could well feel that the iron bands which bound them were\ngliding along my skin like broken chains. Then the weight which still\nsuffocated me, there, in the left side, began to ascend; and I thought I\nwas going to die, it hurt me so. But it passed my chest, it passed my\nthroat, and I felt it there in my mouth, and spat it out violently. It\nwas all over, I no longer had any pain, it had flown away!\u201d\n\nShe had made a gesture expressive of the motion of a night bird beating\nits wings, and, lapsing into silence, stood smiling at Pierre, who was\nbewildered. Beauclair had told him all that beforehand, using almost the\nsame words and the same imagery. Point by point, his prognostics were\nrealised, there was nothing more in the case than natural phenomena,\nwhich had been foreseen.\n\nRaboin, however, had followed Marie\u2019s narrative with dilated eyes and the\npassion of a pietist of limited intelligence, ever haunted by the idea of\nhell. \u201cIt was the devil,\u201d he cried; \u201cit was the devil that she spat out!\u201d\n\nDoctor Bonamy, who was more wary, made him hold his tongue. And turning\ntowards the doctors he said: \u201cGentlemen, you know that we always avoid\npronouncing the big word of miracle here. Only here is a fact, and I am\ncurious to know how any of you can explain it by natural means. Seven\nyears ago this young lady was struck with serious paralysis, evidently\ndue to a lesion of the marrow. And that cannot be denied; the\ncertificates are there, irrefutable. She could no longer walk, she could\nno longer make a movement without a cry of pain, she had reached that\nextreme state of exhaustion which precedes but by little an unfortunate\nissue. All at once, however, here she rises, walks, laughs, and beams on\nus. The paralysis has completely disappeared, no pain remains, she is as\nwell as you and I. Come, gentlemen, approach, examine her, and tell me\nwhat has happened.\u201d\n\nHe triumphed. Not one of the doctors spoke. Two, who were doubtless true\nCatholics, had shown their approval of his speech by their vigorous nods,\nwhile the others remained motionless, with a constrained air, not caring\nto mix themselves up in the business. However, a little thin man, whose\neyes shone behind the glasses he was wearing, ended by rising to take a\ncloser look at Marie. He caught hold of her hand, examined the pupils of\nher eyes, and merely seemed preoccupied by the air of transfiguration\nwhich she wore. Then, in a very courteous manner, without even showing a\ndesire to discuss the matter, he came back and sat down again.\n\n\u201cThe case is beyond science, that is all I can assume,\u201d concluded Doctor\nBonamy, victoriously. \u201cI will add that we have no convalescence here;\nhealth is at once restored, full, entire. Observe the young lady. Her\neyes are bright, her colour is rosy, her physiognomy has recovered its\nlively gaiety. Without doubt, the healing of the tissues will proceed\nsomewhat slowly, but one can already say that mademoiselle has been born\nagain. Is it not so, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, you who have seen her so\nfrequently; you no longer recognise her, eh?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s true, that\u2019s true,\u201d stammered Pierre.\n\nAnd, in fact, she already appeared strong to him, her cheeks full and\nfresh, gaily blooming. But Beauclair had also foreseen this sudden joyful\nchange, this straightening and resplendency of her invalid frame, when\nlife should re-enter it, with the will to be cured and be happy. Once\nagain, however, had Doctor Bonamy leant over Father Dargeles, who was\nfinishing his note, a brief but fairly complete account of the affair.\nThey exchanged a few words in low tones, consulting together, and the\ndoctor ended by saying: \u201cYou have witnessed these marvels, Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9, so you will not refuse to sign the careful report which the\nreverend Father has drawn up for publication in the \u2018Journal de la\nGrotte.\u2019\u201d\n\nHe--Pierre--sign that page of error and falsehood! A revolt roused him,\nand he was on the point of shouting out the truth. But he felt the weight\nof his cassock on his shoulders; and, above all, Marie\u2019s divine joy\nfilled his heart. He was penetrated with deep happiness at seeing her\nsaved. Since they had ceased questioning her she had come and leant on\nhis arm, and remained smiling at him with eyes full of enthusiasm.\n\n\u201cOh, my, friend, thank the Blessed Virgin!\u201d she murmured in a low voice.\n\u201cShe has been so good to me; I am now so well, so beautiful, so young!\nAnd how pleased my father, my poor father, will be!\u201d\n\nThen Pierre signed. Everything was collapsing within him, but it was\nenough that she should be saved; he would have thought it sacrilegious to\ninterfere with the faith of that child, the great pure faith which had\nhealed her.\n\nWhen Marie reappeared outside the office, the applause began afresh, the\ncrowd clapped their hands. It now seemed that the miracle was official.\nHowever, certain charitable persons, fearing that she might again fatigue\nherself and again require her little car, which she had abandoned before\nthe Grotto, had brought it to the office, and when she found it there she\nfelt deeply moved. Ah! that box in which she had lived so many years,\nthat rolling coffin in which she had sometimes imagined herself buried\nalive, how many tears, how much despair, how many bad days it had\nwitnessed! And, all at once, the idea occurred to her that it had so long\nbeen linked with her sufferings, it ought also to share her triumph. It\nwas a sudden inspiration, a kind of holy folly, that made her seize the\nhandle.\n\nAt that moment the procession passed by, returning from the Grotto, where\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine had pronounced the Benediction. And thereupon Marie,\ndragging the little car, placed herself behind the canopy. And, in her\nslippers, her head covered with a strip of lace, her bosom heaving, her\nface erect, glowing, and superb, she walked on behind the clergy,\ndragging after her that car of misery, that rolling coffin, in which she\nhad endured so much agony. And the crowd which acclaimed her, the frantic\ncrowd, followed in her wake.\n\n\n\n\nIV. TRIUMPH--DESPAIR\n\nPIERRE also had followed Marie, and like her was behind the canopy,\ncarried along as it were by the blast of glory which made her drag her\nlittle car along in triumph. Every moment, however, there was so much\ntempestuous pushing that the young priest would assuredly have fallen if\na rough hand had not upheld him.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be alarmed,\u201d said a voice; \u201cgive me your arm, otherwise you won\u2019t\nbe able to remain on your feet.\u201d\n\nPierre turned round, and was surprised to recognise Father Massias, who\nhad left Father Fourcade in the pulpit in order to accompany the\nprocession. An extraordinary fever was sustaining him, throwing him\nforward, as solid as a rock, with eyes glowing like live coals, and an\nexcited face covered with perspiration.\n\n\u201cTake care, then!\u201d he again exclaimed; \u201cgive me your arm.\u201d\n\nA fresh human wave had almost swept them away. And Pierre now yielded to\nthe support of this terrible enthusiast, whom he remembered as a\nfellow-student at the seminary. What a singular meeting it was, and how\ngreatly he would have liked to possess that violent faith, that mad\nfaith, which was making Massias pant, with his throat full of sobs,\nwhilst he continued giving vent to the ardent entreaty \u201cLord Jesus, heal\nour sick! Lord Jesus, heal our sick!\u201d\n\nThere was no cessation of this cry behind the canopy, where there was\nalways a crier whose duty it was to accord no respite to the slow\nclemency of Heaven. At times a thick voice full of anguish, and at others\na shrill and piercing voice, would arise. The Father\u2019s, which was an\nimperious one, was now at last breaking through sheer emotion.\n\n\u201cLord Jesus, heal our sick! Lord Jesus, heal our sick!\u201d\n\nThe rumour of Marie\u2019s wondrous cure, of the miracle whose fame would\nspeedily fill all Christendom, had already spread from one to the other\nend of Lourdes; and from this had come the increased vertigo of the\nmultitude, the attack of contagious delirium which now caused it to whirl\nand rush toward the Blessed Sacrament like the resistless flux of a\nrising tide. One and all yielded to the desire of beholding the Sacrament\nand touching it, of being cured and becoming happy. The Divinity was\npassing; and now it was not merely a question of ailing beings glowing\nwith a desire for life, but a longing for happiness which consumed all\npresent and raised them up with bleeding, open hearts and eager hands.\n\nBerthaud, who feared the excesses of this religious adoration, had\ndecided to accompany his men. He commanded them, carefully watching over\nthe double chain of bearers beside the canopy in order that it might not\nbe broken.\n\n\u201cClose your ranks--closer--closer!\u201d he called, \u201cand keep your arms firmly\nlinked!\u201d\n\nThese young men, chosen from among the most vigorous of the bearers, had\nan extremely difficult duty to discharge. The wall which they formed,\nshoulder to shoulder, with arms linked at the waist and the neck, kept on\ngiving way under the involuntary assaults of the throng. Nobody,\ncertainly, fancied that he was pushing, but there was constant eddying,\nand deep waves of people rolled towards the procession from afar and\nthreatened to submerge it.\n\nWhen the canopy had reached the middle of the Place du Rosaire, Abb\u00e9\nJudaine really thought that he would be unable to go any farther.\nNumerous conflicting currents had set in over the vast expanse, and were\nwhirling, assailing him from all sides, so that he had to halt under the\nswaying canopy, which shook like a sail in a sudden squall on the open\nsea. He held the Blessed Sacrament aloft with his numbed hands, each\nmoment fearing that a final push would throw him over; for he fully\nrealised that the golden monstrance, radiant like a sun, was the one\npassion of all that multitude, the Divinity they demanded to kiss, in\norder that they might lose themselves in it, even though they should\nannihilate it in doing so. Accordingly, while standing there, the priest\nanxiously turned his eyes on Berthaud.\n\n\u201cLet nobody pass!\u201d called the latter to the bearers--\u201cnobody! The orders\nare precise; you hear me?\u201d\n\nVoices, however, were rising in supplication on all sides, wretched\nbeings were sobbing with arms outstretched and lips protruding, in the\nwild desire that they might be allowed to approach and kneel at the\npriest\u2019s feet. What divine grace it would be to be thrown upon the ground\nand trampled under foot by the whole procession!* An infirm old man\ndisplayed his withered hand in the conviction that it would be made sound\nagain were he only allowed to touch the monstrance. A dumb woman wildly\npushed her way through the throng with her broad shoulders, in order that\nshe might loosen her tongue by a kiss. Others were shouting, imploring,\nand even clenching their fists in their rage with those cruel men who\ndenied cure to their bodily sufferings and their mental wretchedness. The\norders to keep them back were rigidly enforced, however, for the most\nserious accidents were feared.\n\n  * One is here irresistibly reminded of the car of Juggernaut, and\n    of the Hindoo fanatics throwing themselves beneath its wheels\n    in the belief that they would thus obtain an entrance into\n    Paradise.--Trans.\n\n\u201cNobody, nobody!\u201d repeated Berthaud; \u201clet nobody whatever pass!\u201d\n\nThere was a woman there, however, who touched every heart with\ncompassion. Clad in wretched garments, bareheaded, her face wet with\ntears, she was holding in her arms a little boy of ten years or so, whose\nlimp, paralysed legs hung down inertly. The lad\u2019s weight was too great\nfor one so weak as herself, still she did not seem to feel it. She had\nbrought the boy there, and was now entreating the bearers with an\ninvincible obstinacy which neither words nor hustling could conquer.\n\nAt last, as Abb\u00e9 Judaine, who felt deeply moved, beckoned to her to\napproach, two of the bearers, in deference to his compassion, drew apart,\ndespite all the danger of opening a breach, and the woman then rushed\nforward with her burden, and fell in a heap before the priest. For a\nmoment he rested the foot of the monstrance on the child\u2019s head, and the\nmother herself pressed her eager, longing lips to it; and, as they\nstarted off again, she wished to remain behind the canopy, and followed\nthe procession, with streaming hair and panting breast, staggering the\nwhile under the heavy burden, which was fast exhausting her strength.\n\nThey managed, with great difficulty, to cross the remainder of the Place\ndu Rosaire, and then the ascent began, the glorious ascent by way of the\nmonumental incline; whilst upon high, on the fringe of heaven, the\nBasilica reared its slim spire, whence pealing bells were winging their\nflight, sounding the triumphs of Our Lady of Lourdes. And now it was\ntowards an apotheosis that the canopy slowly climbed, towards the lofty\nportal of the high-perched sanctuary which stood open, face to face with\nthe Infinite, high above the huge multitude whose waves continued soaring\nacross the valley\u2019s squares and avenues. Preceding the processional\ncross, the magnificent beadle, all blue and silver, was already rearing\nthe level of the Rosary cupola, the spacious esplanade formed by the roof\nof the lower church, across which the pilgrimage deputations began to\nwind, with their bright-coloured silk and velvet banners waving in the\nruddy glow of the sunset. Then came the clergy, the priests in snowy\nsurplices, and the priests in golden chasubles, likewise shining out like\na procession of stars. And the censers swung, and the canopy continued\nclimbing, without anything of its bearers being seen, so that it seemed\nas though a mysterious power, some troop of invisible angels, were\ncarrying it off in this glorious ascension towards the open portal of\nheaven.\n\nA sound of chanting had burst forth; the voices in the procession no\nlonger called for the healing of the sick, now that the _cort\u00e8ge_ had\nextricated itself from amidst the crowd. The miracle had been worked, and\nthey were celebrating it with the full power of their lungs, amidst the\npealing of the bells and the quivering gaiety of the atmosphere.\n\n\u201c_Magnificat anima mea Dominum_\u201d--they began. \u201cMy soul doth magnify the\nLord.\u201d\n\n\u2018Twas the song of gratitude, already chanted at the Grotto, and again\nspringing from every heart: \u201c_Et exsultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari\nmeo_.\u201d \u201cAnd my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.\u201d\n\nMeantime it was with increasing, overflowing joy that Marie took part in\nthat radiant ascent, by the colossal gradient way, towards the glowing\nBasilica. It seemed to her, as she continued climbing, that she was\ngrowing stronger and stronger, that her legs, so long lifeless, became\nfirmer at each step. The little car which she victoriously dragged behind\nher was like the earthly tenement of her illness, the _inferno_ whence\nthe Blessed Virgin had extricated her, and although its handle was making\nher hands sore, she nevertheless wished to pull it up yonder with her, in\norder that she might cast it at last at the feet of the Almighty. No\nobstacle could stay her course, she laughed through the big tears which\nwere falling on her cheeks, her bosom was swelling, her demeanour\nbecoming warlike. One of her slippers had become unfastened, and the\nstrip of lace had fallen from her head to her shoulders. Nevertheless,\nwith her lovely fair hair crowning her like a helmet and her face beaming\nbrightly, she still marched on and on with such an awakening of will and\nstrength that, behind her, you could hear her car leap and rattle over\nthe rough slope of the flagstones, as though it had been a mere toy.\n\nNear Marie was Pierre, still leaning on the arm of Father Massias, who\nhad not relinquished his hold. Lost amidst the far-spreading emotion, the\nyoung priest was unable to reflect. Moreover his companion\u2019s sonorous\nvoice quite deafened him.\n\n\u201c_Deposuit potentes de sede et exaltavit humiles_.\u201d \u201cHe hath put down the\nmighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble.\u201d\n\nOn Pierre\u2019s other side, the right, Berthaud, who no longer had any cause\nfor anxiety, was now also following the canopy. He had given his bearers\norders to break their chain, and was gazing with an expression of delight\non the human sea through which the procession had lately passed. The\nhigher they ascended the incline, the more did the Place du Rosaire and the\navenues and paths of the gardens expand below them, black with the\nswarming multitude. It was a bird\u2019s-eye view of a whole nation, an\nant-hill which ever increased in size, spreading farther and farther\naway. \u201cLook!\u201d Berthaud at last exclaimed to Pierre. \u201cHow vast and how\nbeautiful it is! Ah! well, the year won\u2019t have been a bad one after all.\u201d\n\nLooking upon Lourdes as a centre of propaganda, where his political\nrancour found satisfaction, he always rejoiced when there was a numerous\npilgrimage, as in his mind it was bound to prove unpleasant to the\nGovernment. Ah! thought he, if they had only been able to bring the\nworking classes of the towns thither, and create a Catholic democracy.\n\u201cLast year we scarcely reached the figure of two hundred thousand\npilgrims,\u201d he continued, \u201cbut we shall exceed it this year, I hope.\u201d And\nthen, with the gay air of the jolly fellow that he was, despite his\nsectarian passions, he added: \u201cWell, \u2018pon my word, I was really pleased\njust now when there was such a crush. Things are looking up, I thought,\nthings are looking up.\u201d\n\nPierre, however, was not listening to him; his mind had been struck by\nthe grandeur of the spectacle. That multitude, which spread out more and\nmore as the procession rose higher and higher above it, that magnificent\nvalley which was hollowed out below and ever became more and more\nextensive, displaying afar off its gorgeous horizon of mountains, filled\nhim with quivering admiration. His mental trouble was increased by it\nall, and seeking Marie\u2019s glance, he waved his arm to draw her attention\nto the vast circular expanse of country. And his gesture deceived her,\nfor in the purely spiritual excitement that possessed her she did not\nbehold the material spectacle he pointed at, but thought that he was\ncalling earth to witness the prodigious favours which the Blessed Virgin\nhad heaped upon them both; for she imagined that he had had his share of\nthe miracle, and that in the stroke of grace which had set her erect with\nher flesh healed, he, so near to her that their hearts mingled, had felt\nhimself enveloped and raised by the same divine power, his soul saved\nfrom doubt, conquered by faith once more. How could he have witnessed her\nwondrous cure, indeed, without being convinced? Moreover, she had prayed\nso fervently for him outside the Grotto on the previous night. And now,\ntherefore, to her excessive delight, she espied him transfigured like\nherself, weeping and laughing, restored to God again. And this lent\nincreased force to her blissful fever; she dragged her little car along\nwith unwearying hands, and--as though it were their double cross, her own\nredemption and her friend\u2019s redemption which she was carrying up that\nincline with its resounding flagstones--she would have liked to drag it\nyet farther, for leagues and leagues, ever higher and higher, to the most\ninaccessible summits, to the transplendent threshold of Paradise itself.\n\n\u201cO Pierre, Pierre!\u201d she stammered, \u201chow sweet it is that this great\nhappiness should have fallen on us together--yes, together! I prayed for\nit so fervently, and she granted my prayer, and saved you even in saving\nme. Yes, I felt your soul mingling with my own. Tell me that our mutual\nprayers have been granted, tell me that I have won your salvation even as\nyou have won mine!\u201d\n\nHe understood her mistake and shuddered.\n\n\u201cIf you only knew,\u201d she continued, \u201chow great would have been my grief\nhad I thus ascended into light alone. Oh! to be chosen without you, to\nsoar yonder without you! But with you, Pierre, it is rapturous delight!\nWe have been saved together, we shall be happy forever! I feel all\nneedful strength for happiness, yes, strength enough to raise the world!\u201d\n\nAnd in spite of everything, he was obliged to answer her and lie,\nrevolting at the idea of spoiling, dimming that great and pure felicity.\n\u201cYes, yes, be happy, Marie,\u201d he said, \u201cfor I am very happy myself, and\nall our sufferings are redeemed.\u201d\n\nBut even while he spoke he felt a deep rending within him, as though a\nbrutal hatchet-stroke were parting them forever. Amidst their common\nsufferings, she had hitherto remained the little friend of childhood\u2019s\ndays, the first artlessly loved woman, whom he knew to be still his own,\nsince she could belong to none. But now she was cured, and he remained\nalone in his hell, repeating to himself that she would never more be his!\nThis sudden thought so upset him that he averted his eyes, in despair at\nreaping such suffering from the prodigious felicity with which she\nexulted.\n\nHowever the chant went on, and Father Massias, hearing nothing and seeing\nnothing, absorbed as he was in his glowing gratitude to God, shouted the\nfinal verse in a thundering voice: \u201c_Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros,\nAbraham, et semini ejus in saecula_.\u201d \u201cAs He spake to our fathers, to\nAbraham, and to his seed for ever!\u201d\n\nYet another incline had to be climbed, yet another effort had to be made\nup that rough acclivity, with its large slippery flagstones. And the\nprocession rose yet higher, and the ascent still went on in the full,\nbright light. There came a last turn, and the wheels of Marie\u2019s car\ngrated against a granite curb. Then, still higher, still and ever higher,\ndid it roll until it finally reached what seemed to be the very fringe of\nheaven.\n\nAnd all at once the canopy appeared on the summit of the gigantic\ninclined ways, on the stone balcony overlooking the stretch of country\noutside the portal of the Basilica. Abb\u00e9 Judaine stepped forward holding\nthe Blessed Sacrament aloft with both hands. Marie, who had pulled her\ncar up the balcony steps, was near him, her heart beating from her\nexertion, her face all aglow amidst the gold of her loosened hair. Then\nall the clergy, the snowy surplices, and the dazzling chasubles ranged\nthemselves behind, whilst the banners waved like bunting decking the\nwhite balustrades. And a solemn minute followed.\n\nFrom on high there could have been no grander spectacle. First,\nimmediately below, there was the multitude, the human sea with its dark\nwaves, its heaving billows, now for a moment stilled, amidst which you\nonly distinguished the small pale specks of the faces uplifted towards\nthe Basilica, in expectation of the Benediction; and as far as the eye\ncould reach, from the place du Rosaire to the Gave, along the paths and\navenues and across the open spaces, even to the old town in the distance;\nthose little pale faces multiplied and multiplied, all with lips parted,\nand eyes fixed upon the august heaven was about to open to their gaze.\n\nThen the vast amphitheatre of slopes and hills and mountains surged\naloft, ascended upon all sides, crests following crests, until they faded\naway in the far blue atmosphere. The numerous convents among the trees on\nthe first of the northern slopes, beyond the torrent--those of the\nCarmelites, the Dominicans, the Assumptionists, and the Sisters of\nNevers--were coloured by a rosy reflection from the fire-like glow of the\nsunset. Then wooded masses rose one above the other, until they reached\nthe heights of Le Buala, which were surmounted by the Serre de Julos, in\nits turn capped by the Miramont.\n\nDeep valleys opened on the south, narrow gorges between piles of gigantic\nrocks whose bases were already steeped in lakes of bluish shadow, whilst\nthe summits sparkled with the smiling farewell of the sun. The hills of\nVisens upon this side were empurpled, and shewed like a promontory of\ncoral, in front of the stagnant lake of the ether, which was bright with\na sapphire-like transparency. But, on the east, in front of you, the\nhorizon again spread out to the very point of intersection of the seven\nvalleys. The castle which had formerly guarded them still stood with its\nkeep, its lofty walls, its black outlines--the outlines of a fierce\nfortress of feudal time,--upon the rock whose base was watered by the\nGave; and upon this side of the stern old pile was the new town, looking\nquite gay amidst its gardens, with its swarm of white house-fronts, its\nlarge hotels, its lodging-houses, and its fine shops, whose windows were\nglowing like live embers; whilst, behind the castle, the discoloured\nroofs of old Lourdes spread out in confusion, in a ruddy light which\nhovered over them like a cloud of dust. At this late hour, when the\ndeclining luminary was sinking in royal splendour behind the little Gers\nand the big Gers, those two huge ridges of bare rock, spotted with\npatches of short herbage, formed nothing but a neutral, somewhat violet,\nbackground, as though, indeed, they were two curtains of sober hue drawn\nacross the margin of the horizon.\n\nAnd higher and still higher, in front of this immensity, did Abb\u00e9 Judaine\nwith both hands raise the Blessed Sacrament. He moved it slowly from one\nto the other horizon, causing it to describe a huge sign of the cross\nagainst the vault of heaven. He saluted the convents, the heights of Le\nBuala, the Serre de Julos, and the Miramont, upon his left; he saluted\nthe huge fallen rocks of the dim valleys, and the empurpled hills of\nVisens, on his right; he saluted the new and the old town, the castle\nbathed by the Gave, the big and the little Gers, already drowsy, in front\nof him; and he saluted the woods, the torrents, the mountains, the faint\nchains linking the distant peaks, the whole earth, even beyond the\nvisible horizon: Peace upon earth, hope and consolation to mankind! The\nmultitude below had quivered beneath that great sign of the cross which\nenveloped it. It seemed as though a divine breath were passing, rolling\nthose billows of little pale faces which were as numerous as the waves of\nan ocean. A loud murmur of adoration ascended; all those parted lips\nproclaimed the glory of God when, in the rays of the setting sun, the\nillumined monstrance again shone forth like another sun, a sun of pure\ngold, describing the sign of the cross in streaks of flame upon the\nthreshold of the Infinite.\n\nThe banners, the clergy, with Abb\u00e9 Judaine under the canopy, were already\nreturning to the Basilica, when Marie, who was also entering it, still\ndragging her car by the handle, was stopped by two ladies, who kissed\nher, weeping. They were Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and her daughter Raymonde,\nwho had come thither to witness the Benediction, and had been told of the\nmiracle.\n\n\u201cAh! my dear child, what happiness!\u201d repeated the lady-hospitaller; \u201cand\nhow proud I am to have you in my ward! It is so precious a favour for all\nof us that the Blessed Virgin should have been pleased to select you.\u201d\n\nRaymonde, meanwhile, had kept one of the young girl\u2019s hands in her own.\n\u201cWill you allow me to call you my friend, mademoiselle?\u201d said she. \u201cI\nfelt so much pity for you, and I am now so pleased to see you walking, so\nstrong and beautiful already. Let me kiss you again. It will bring me\nhappiness.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, thank you with all my heart,\u201d Marie stammered amidst her\nrapture. \u201cI am so happy, so very happy!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! we will not leave you,\u201d resumed Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re. \u201cYou hear me,\nRaymonde? We must follow her, and kneel beside her, and we will take her\nback after the ceremony.\u201d\n\nThereupon the two ladies joined the _cort\u00e8ge_, and, following the canopy,\nwalked beside Pierre and Father Massias, between the rows of chairs which\nthe deputations already occupied, to the very centre of the choir. The\nbanners alone were allowed on either side of the high altar; but Marie\nadvanced to its steps, still dragging her car, whose wheels resounded\nover the flagstones. She had at last brought it to the spot whither the\nsacred madness of her desire had longingly impelled her to drag it. She\nhad brought it, indeed, woeful, wretched-looking as it was, into the\nsplendour of God\u2019s house, so that it might there testify to the truth of\nthe miracle. The threshold had scarcely been crossed when the organs\nburst into a hymn of triumph, the sonorous acclamation of a happy people,\nfrom amidst which there soon arose a celestial, angelic voice, of joyful\nshrillness and crystalline purity. Abb\u00e9 Judaine had placed the Blessed\nSacrament upon the altar, and the crowd was streaming into the nave, each\ntaking a seat, installing him or herself in a corner, pending the\ncommencement of the ceremony. Marie had at once fallen on her knees\nbetween Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and Raymonde, whose eyes were moist with\ntender emotion; whilst Father Massias, exhausted by the extraordinary\ntension of the nerves which had been sustaining him ever since his\ndeparture from the Grotto, had sunk upon the ground, sobbing, with his\nhead between his hands. Behind him Pierre and Berthaud remained standing,\nthe latter still busy with his superintendence, his eyes ever on the\nwatch, seeing that good order was preserved even during the most violent\noutbursts of emotion.\n\nThen, amidst all his mental confusion, increased by the deafening strains\nof the organ, Pierre raised his head and examined the interior of the\nBasilica. The nave was narrow and lofty, and streaked with bright\ncolours, which numerous windows flooded with light. There were scarcely\nany aisles; they were reduced to the proportions of a mere passage\nrunning between the side-chapels and the clustering columns, and this\ncircumstance seemed to increase the slim loftiness of the nave, the\nsoaring of the stonework in perpendicular lines of infantile, graceful\nslenderness. A gilded railing, as transparent as lace, closed the choir,\nwhere the high altar, of white marble richly sculptured, arose in all its\nlavish chasteness. But the feature of the building which astonished you\nwas the mass of extraordinary ornamentation which transformed the whole\nof it into an overflowing exhibition of embroidery and jewellery. What\nwith all the banners and votive offerings, the perfect river of gifts\nwhich had flowed into it and remained clinging to its walls in a stream\nof gold and silver, velvet and silk, covering it from top to bottom, it\nwas, so to say, the ever-glowing sanctuary of gratitude, whose thousand\nrich adornments seemed to be chanting a perpetual canticle of faith and\nthankfulness.\n\nThe banners, in particular, abounded, as innumerable as the leaves of\ntrees. Some thirty hung from the vaulted roof, whilst others were\nsuspended, like pictures, between the little columns around the\ntriforium. And others, again, displayed themselves on the walls, waved in\nthe depths of the side-chapels, and encompassed the choir with a heaven\nof silk, satin, and velvet. You could count them by hundreds, and your\neyes grew weary of admiring them. Many of them were quite celebrated, so\nrenowned for their skilful workmanship that talented embroideresses took\nthe trouble to come to Lourdes on purpose to examine them. Among these\nwere the banner of our Lady of Fourvi\u00e8res, bearing the arms of the city\nof Lyons; the banner of Alsace, of black velvet embroidered with gold;\nthe banner of Lorraine, on which you beheld the Virgin casting her cloak\naround two children; and the white and blue banner of Brittany, on which\nbled the sacred heart of Jesus in the midst of a halo. All empires and\nkingdoms of the earth were represented; the most distant lands--Canada,\nBrazil, Chili, Haiti--here had their flags, which, in all piety, were\nbeing offered as a tribute of homage to the Queen of Heaven.\n\nThen, after the banners, there were other marvels, the thousands and\nthousands of gold and silver hearts which were hanging everywhere,\nglittering on the walls like stars in the heavens. Some were grouped\ntogether in the form of mystical roses, others described festoons and\ngarlands, others, again, climbed up the pillars, surrounded the windows,\nand constellated the deep, dim chapels. Below the triforium somebody had\nhad the ingenious idea of employing these hearts to trace in tall letters\nthe various words which the Blessed Virgin had addressed to Bernadette;\nand thus, around the nave, there extended a long frieze of words, the\ndelight of the infantile minds which busied themselves with spelling\nthem. It was a swarming, a prodigious resplendency of hearts, whose\ninfinite number deeply impressed you when you thought of all the hands,\ntrembling with gratitude, which had offered them. Moreover, the\nadornments comprised many other votive offerings, and some of quite an\nunexpected description. There were bridal wreaths and crosses of honour,\njewels and photographs, chaplets, and even spurs, in glass cases or\nframes. There were also the epaulets and swords of officers, together\nwith a superb sabre, left there in memory of a miraculous conversion.\n\nBut all this was not sufficient; other riches, riches of every kind,\nshone out on all sides--marble statues, diadems enriched with brilliants,\na marvellous carpet designed at Blois and embroidered by ladies of all\nparts of France, and a golden palm with ornaments of enamel, the gift of\nthe sovereign pontiff. The lamps suspended from the vaulted roof, some of\nthem of massive gold and the most delicate workmanship, were also gifts.\nThey were too numerous to be counted, they studded the nave with stars of\ngreat price. Immediately in front of the tabernacle there was one, a\nmasterpiece of chasing, offered by Ireland. Others--one from Lille, one\nfrom Valence, one from Macao in far-off China--were veritable jewels,\nsparkling with precious stones. And how great was the resplendency when\nthe choir\u2019s score of chandeliers was illumined, when the hundreds of\nlamps and the hundreds of candles burned all together, at the great\nevening ceremonies! The whole church then became a conflagration, the\nthousands of gold and silver hearts reflecting all the little flames with\nthousands of fiery scintillations. It was like a huge and wondrous\nbrasier; the walls streamed with live flakes of light; you seemed to be\nentering into the blinding glory of Paradise itself; whilst on all sides\nthe innumerable banners spread out their silk, their satin, and their\nvelvet, embroidered with sanguifluous sacred hearts, victorious saints,\nand Virgins whose kindly smiles engendered miracles.\n\nAh! how many ceremonies had already displayed their pomp in that\nBasilica! Worship, prayer, chanting, never ceased there. From one end of\nthe year to the other incense smoked, organs roared, and kneeling\nmultitudes prayed there with their whole souls. Masses, vespers, sermons,\nwere continually following one upon another; day by day the religious\nexercises began afresh, and each festival of the Church was celebrated\nwith unparalleled magnificence. The least noteworthy anniversary supplied\na pretext for pompous solemnities. Each pilgrimage was granted its share\nof the dazzling resplendency. It was necessary that those suffering ones\nand those humble ones who had come from such long distances should be\nsent home consoled and enraptured, carrying with them a vision of\nParadise espied through its opening portals. They beheld the luxurious\nsurroundings of the Divinity, and would forever remain enraptured by the\nsight. In the depths of bare, wretched rooms, indeed, by the side of\nhumble pallets of suffering throughout all Christendom, a vision of the\nBasilica with its blazing riches continually arose like a vision of\nfortune itself, like a vision of the wealth of that life to be, into\nwhich the poor would surely some day enter after their long, long misery\nin this terrestrial sphere.\n\nPierre, however, felt no delight; no consolation, no hope, came to him as\nhe gazed upon all the splendour. His frightful feeling of discomfort was\nincreasing, all was becoming black within him, with that blackness of the\ntempest which gathers when men\u2019s thoughts and feelings pant and shriek.\nHe had felt immense desolation rising in his soul ever since Marie,\ncrying that she was healed, had risen from her little car and walked\nalong with such strength and fulness of life. Yet he loved her like a\npassionately attached brother, and had experienced unlimited happiness on\nseeing that she no longer suffered. Why, therefore, should her felicity\nbring him such agony? He could now no longer gaze at her, kneeling there,\nradiant amidst her tears, with beauty recovered and increased, without\nhis poor heart bleeding as from some mortal wound. Still he wished to\nremain there, and so, averting his eyes, he tried to interest himself in\nFather Massias, who was still shaking with violent sobbing on the\nflagstones, and whose prostration and annihilation, amidst the consuming\nillusion of divine love, he sorely envied. For a moment, moreover, he\nquestioned Berthaud, feigning to admire some banner and requesting\ninformation respecting it.\n\n\u201cWhich one?\u201d asked the superintendent of the bearers; \u201cthat lace banner\nover there?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, that one on the left.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! it is a banner offered by Le Puy. The arms are those of Le Puy and\nLourdes linked together by the Rosary. The lace is so fine that if you\ncrumpled the banner up, you could hold it in the hollow of your hand.\u201d\n\nHowever, Abb\u00e9 Judaine was now stepping forward; the ceremony was about to\nbegin. Again did the organs resound, and again was a canticle chanted,\nwhilst, on the altar, the Blessed Sacrament looked like the sovereign\nplanet amidst the scintillations of the gold and silver hearts, as\ninnumerable as stars. And then Pierre lacked the strength to remain there\nany longer. Since Marie had Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and Raymonde with her,\nand they would accompany her back, he might surely go off by himself,\nvanish into some shadowy corner, and there, at last, vent his grief. In a\nfew words he excused himself, giving his appointment with Doctor\nChassaigne as a pretext for his departure. However, another fear suddenly\ncame to him, that of being unable to leave the building, so densely did\nthe serried throng of believers bar the open doorway. But immediately\nafterwards he had an inspiration, and, crossing the sacristy, descended\ninto the crypt by the narrow interior stairway.\n\nDeep silence and sepulchral gloom suddenly succeeded to the joyous chants\nand prodigious radiance of the Basilica above. Cut in the rock, the crypt\nformed two narrow passages, parted by a massive block of stone which\nupheld the nave, and conducting to a subterranean chapel under the apse,\nwhere some little lamps remained burning both day and night. A dim forest\nof pillars rose up there, a mystic terror reigned in that semi-obscurity\nwhere the mystery ever quivered. The chapel walls remained bare, like the\nvery stones of the tomb, in which all men must some day sleep the last\nsleep. And along the passages, against their sides, covered from top to\nbottom with marble votive offerings, you only saw a double row of\nconfessionals; for it was here, in the lifeless tranquillity of the\nbowels of the earth, that sins were confessed; and there were priests,\nspeaking all languages, to absolve the sinners who came thither from the\nfour corners of the world.\n\nAt that hour, however, when the multitude was thronging the Basilica\nabove, the crypt had become quite deserted. Not a soul, save Pierre\u2019s,\nthrobbed there ever so faintly; and he, amidst that deep silence, that\ndarkness, that coolness of the grave, fell upon his knees. It was not,\nhowever, through any need of prayer and worship, but because his whole\nbeing was giving way beneath his crushing mental torment. He felt a\ntorturing longing to be able to see clearly within himself. Ah! why could\nhe not plunge even more deeply into the heart of things, reflect,\nunderstand, and at last calm himself.\n\nAnd it was a fearful agony that he experienced. He tried to remember all\nthe minutes that had gone by since Marie, suddenly springing from her\npallet of wretchedness, had raised her cry of resurrection. Why had he\neven then, despite his fraternal joy in seeing her erect, felt such an\nawful sensation of discomfort, as though, indeed, the greatest of all\npossible misfortunes had fallen upon him? Was he jealous of the divine\ngrace? Did he suffer because the Virgin, whilst healing her, had\nforgotten him, whose soul was so afflicted? He remembered how he had\ngranted himself a last delay, fixed a supreme appointment with Faith for\nthe moment when the Blessed Sacrament should pass by, were Marie only\ncured; and she was cured, and still he did not believe, and henceforth\nthere was no hope, for never, never would he be able to believe. Therein\nlay the bare, bleeding sore. The truth burst upon him with blinding\ncruelty and certainty--she was saved, he was lost. That pretended miracle\nwhich had restored her to life had, in him, completed the ruin of all\nbelief in the supernatural. That which he had, for a moment, dreamed of\nseeking, and perhaps finding, at Lourdes,--naive faith, the happy faith\nof a little child,--was no longer possible, would never bloom again after\nthat collapse of the miraculous, that cure which Beauclair had foretold,\nand which had afterwards come to pass, exactly as had been predicted.\nJealous! No--he was not jealous; but he was ravaged, full of mortal\nsadness at thus remaining all alone in the icy desert of his\nintelligence, regretting the illusion, the lie, the divine love of the\nsimpleminded, for which henceforth there was no room in his heart.\n\nA flood of bitterness stifled him, and tears started from his eyes. He\nhad slipped on to the flagstones, prostrated by his anguish. And, by\ndegrees, he remembered the whole delightful story, from the day when\nMarie, guessing how he was tortured by doubt, had become so passionately\neager for his conversion, taking hold of his hand in the gloom, retaining\nit in her own, and stammering that she would pray for him--oh! pray for\nhim with her whole soul. She forgot herself, she entreated the Blessed\nVirgin to save her friend rather than herself if there were but one grace\nthat she could obtain from her Divine Son. Then came another memory, the\nmemory of the delightful hours which they had spent together amid the\ndense darkness of the trees during the night procession. There, again,\nthey had prayed for one another, mingled one in the other with so ardent\na desire for mutual happiness that, for a moment, they had attained to\nthe very depths of the love which gives and immolates itself. And now\ntheir long, tear-drenched tenderness, their pure idyl of suffering, was\nending in this brutal separation; she on her side saved, radiant amidst\nthe hosannas of the triumphant Basilica; and he lost, sobbing with\nwretchedness, bowed down in the depths of the dark crypt in an icy,\ngrave-like solitude. It was as though he had just lost her again, and\nthis time forever and forever.\n\nAll at once Pierre felt the sharp stab which this thought dealt his\nheart. He at last understood his pain--a sudden light illumined the\nterrible crisis of woe amidst which he was struggling. He had lost Marie\nfor the first time on the day when he had become a priest, saying to\nhimself that he might well renounce his manhood since she, stricken in\nher sex by incurable illness, would never be a woman. But behold! she\n_was_ cured. Behold! she _had_ become a woman. She had all at once\nappeared to him very strong, very beautiful, living, and desirable. He,\nwho was dead, however, could not become a man again. Never more would he\nbe able to raise the tombstone which crushed and imprisoned his flesh.\nShe fled away alone, leaving him in the cold grave. The whole wide world\nwas opening before her with smiling happiness, with the love which laughs\nin the sunlit paths, with the husband, with children, no doubt. Whereas\nhe, buried, as it were to his shoulders, had naught of his body free,\nsave his brain, and that remained free, no doubt, in order that he might\nsuffer the more. She had still been his so long as she had not belonged\nto another; and if he had been enduring such agony during the past hour,\nit was only through this final rending which, this time, parted her from\nhim forever and forever.\n\nThen rage shook Pierre from head to foot. He was tempted to return to the\nBasilica, and cry the truth aloud to Marie. The miracle was a lie! The\nhelpful beneficence of an all-powerful Divinity was but so much illusion!\nNature alone had acted, life had conquered once again. And he would have\ngiven proofs: he would have shown how life, the only sovereign, worked\nfor health amid all the sufferings of this terrestrial sphere. And then\nthey would have gone off together; they would have fled far, far away,\nthat they might be happy. But a sudden terror took possession of him.\nWhat! lay hands upon that little spotless soul, kill all belief in it,\nfill it with the ruins which worked such havoc in his own soul? It all at\nonce occurred to him that this would be odious sacrilege. He would\nafterwards become horrified with himself, he would look upon himself as\nher murderer were he some day to realise that he was unable to give her a\nhappiness equal to that which she would have lost. Perhaps, too, she\nwould not believe him. And, moreover, would she ever consent to marry a\npriest who had broken his vows? She who would always retain the sweet and\nnever-to be-forgotten memory of how she had been healed in ecstasy! His\ndesign then appeared to him insane, monstrous, polluting. And his revolt\nrapidly subsided, until he only retained a feeling of infinite weariness,\na sensation of a burning, incurable wound--the wound of his poor,\nbruised, lacerated heart.\n\nThen, however, amidst his abandonment, the void in which he was whirling,\na supreme struggle began, filling him again with agony. What should he\ndo? His sufferings made a coward of him, and he would have liked to flee,\nso that he might never see Marie again. For he understood very well that\nhe would now have to lie to her, since she thought that he was saved like\nherself, converted, healed in soul, even as she had been healed in body.\nShe had told him of her joy while dragging her car up the colossal\ngradient way. Oh! to have had that great happiness together, together; to\nhave felt their hearts melt and mingle one in the other! And even then he\nhad already lied, as he would always be obliged to lie in order that he\nmight not spoil her pure and blissful illusion. He let the last\nthrobbings of his veins subside, and vowed that he would find sufficient\nstrength for the sublime charity of feigning peacefulness of soul, the\nrapture of one who is redeemed. For he wished her to be wholly\nhappy--without a regret, without a doubt--in the full serenity of faith,\nconvinced that the blessed Virgin had indeed given her consent to their\npurely mystical union. What did his torments matter? Later on, perhaps,\nhe might recover possession of himself. Amidst his desolate solitude of\nmind would there not always be a little joy to sustain him, all that joy\nwhose consoling falsity he would leave to her?\n\nSeveral minutes again elapsed, and Pierre, still overwhelmed, remained on\nthe flagstones, seeking to calm his fever. He no longer thought, he no\nlonger lived; he was a prey to that prostration of the entire being which\nfollows upon great crises. But, all at once, he fancied he could hear a\nsound of footsteps, and thereupon he painfully rose to his feet, and\nfeigned to be reading the inscriptions graven in the marble votive slabs\nalong the walls. He had been mistaken--nobody was there; nevertheless,\nseeking to divert his mind, he continued perusing the inscriptions, at\nfirst in a mechanical kind of way, and then, little by little, feeling a\nfresh emotion steal over him.\n\nThe sight was almost beyond imagination. Faith, love, and gratitude\ndisplayed themselves in a hundred, a thousand ways on these marble slabs\nwith gilded lettering. Some of the inscriptions were so artless as to\nprovoke a smile. A colonel had sent a sculptured representation of his\nfoot with the words: \u201cThou hast preserved it; grant that it may serve\nThee.\u201d Farther on you read the line: \u201cMay Her protection extend to the\nglass trade.\u201d And then, by the frankness of certain expressions of\nthanks, you realised of what a strange character the appeals had been.\n\u201cTo Mary the Immaculate,\u201d ran one inscription, \u201cfrom a father of a\nfamily, in recognition of health restored, a lawsuit won, and advancement\ngained.\u201d However, the memory of these instances faded away amidst the\nchorus of soaring, fervent cries. There was the cry of the lovers: \u201cPaul\nand Anna entreat Our Lady of Lourdes to bless their union.\u201d There was the\ncry of the mothers in various forms: \u201cGratitude to Mary, who has thrice\nhealed my child.\u201d--\u201cGratitude to Mary for the birth of Antoinette, whom I\ndedicate, like myself and all my kin, to Her.\u201d--\u201cP. D., three years old,\nhas been preserved to the love of his parents.\u201d And then came the cry of\nthe wives, the cry, too, of the sick restored to health, and of the souls\nrestored to happiness: \u201cProtect my husband; grant that my husband may\nenjoy good health.\u201d--\u201cI was crippled in both legs, and now I am\nhealed.\u201d--\u201cWe came, and now we hope.\u201d--\u201cI prayed, I wept, and She heard\nme.\u201d And there were yet other cries, cries whose veiled glow conjured up\nthoughts of long romances: \u201cThou didst join us together; protect us, we\npray Thee.\u201d--\u201cTo Mary, for the greatest of all blessings.\u201d And the same\ncries, the same words--gratitude, thankfulness, homage,\nacknowledgment,--occurred again and again, ever with the same passionate\nfervour. All! those hundreds, those thousands of cries which were forever\ngraven on that marble, and from the depths of the crypt rose clamorously\nto the Virgin, proclaiming the everlasting devotion of the unhappy beings\nwhom she had succoured.\n\nPierre did not weary of reading them, albeit his mouth was bitter and\nincreasing desolation was filling him. So it was only he who had no\nsuccour to hope for! When so many sufferers were listened to, he alone\nhad been unable to make himself heard! And he now began to think of the\nextraordinary number of prayers which must be said at Lourdes from one\nend of the year to the other. He tried to cast them up; those said during\nthe days spent at the Grotto and during the nights spent at the Rosary,\nthose said at the ceremonies at the Basilica, and those said at the\nsunlight and the starlight processions. But this continual entreaty of\nevery second was beyond computation. It seemed as if the faithful were\ndetermined to weary the ears of the Divinity, determined to extort\nfavours and forgiveness by the very multitude, the vast multitude of\ntheir prayers. The priests said that it was necessary to offer to God the\nacts of expiation which the sins of France required, and that when the\nnumber of these acts of expiation should be large enough, God would smite\nFrance no more. What a harsh belief in the necessity of chastisement!\nWhat a ferocious idea born of the gloomiest pessimism! How evil life must\nbe if it were indeed necessary that such imploring cries, such cries of\nphysical and moral wretchedness, should ever and ever ascend to Heaven!\n\nIn the midst of all his sadness, Pierre felt deep compassion penetrate\nhis heart. He was upset by the thought that mankind should be so\nwretched, reduced to such a state of woe, so bare, so weak, so utterly\nforsaken, that it renounced its own reason to place the one sole\npossibility of happiness in the hallucinatory intoxication of dreams.\nTears once more filled his eyes; he wept for himself and for others, for\nall the poor tortured beings who feel a need of stupefying and numbing\ntheir pains in order to escape from the realities of the world. He again\nseemed to hear the swarming, kneeling crowd of the Grotto, raising the\nglowing entreaty of its prayer to Heaven, the multitude of twenty and\nthirty thousand souls from whose midst ascended such a fervour of desire\nthat you seemed to see it smoking in the sunlight like incense. Then\nanother form of the exaltation of faith glowed, beneath the crypt, in the\nChurch of the Rosary, where nights were spent in a paradise of rapture,\namidst the silent delights of the communion, the mute appeals in which\nthe whole being pines, burns, and soars aloft. And as though the cries\nraised before the Grotto and the perpetual adoration of the Rosary were\nnot sufficient, that clamour of ardent entreaty burst forth afresh on the\nwalls of the crypt around him; and here it was eternised in marble, here\nit would continue shrieking the sufferings of humanity even into the\nfar-away ages. It was the marble, it was the walls themselves praying,\nseized by that shudder of universal woe which penetrated even the world\u2019s\nstones. And, at last, the prayers ascended yet higher, still higher,\nsoared aloft from the radiant Basilica, which was humming and buzzing\nabove him, full as it now was of a frantic multitude, whose mighty voice,\nbursting into a canticle of hope, he fancied he could hear through the\nflagstones of the nave. And it finally seemed to him that he was being\nwhirled away, transported, as though he were indeed amidst the very\nvibrations of that huge wave of prayer, which, starting from the dust of\nthe earth, ascended the tier of superposed churches, spreading from\ntabernacle to tabernacle, and filling even the walls with such pity that\nthey sobbed aloud, and that the supreme cry of wretchedness pierced its\nway into heaven with the white spire, the lofty golden cross, above the\nsteeple. O Almighty God, O Divinity, Helpful Power, whoever, whatever\nThou mayst be, take pity upon poor mankind and make human suffering\ncease!\n\nAll at once Pierre was dazzled. He had followed the left-hand passage,\nand was coming out into broad daylight, above the inclined ways, and two\naffectionate arms at once caught hold of him and clasped him. It was\nDoctor Chassaigne, whose appointment he had forgotten, and who had been\nwaiting there to take him to visit Bernadette\u2019s room and Abb\u00e9 Peyramale\u2019s\nchurch. \u201cOh! what joy must be yours, my child!\u201d exclaimed the good old\nman. \u201cI have just learnt the great news, the extraordinary favour which\nOur Lady of Lourdes has granted to your young friend. Recollect what I\ntold you the day before yesterday. I am now at ease--you are saved!\u201d\n\nA last bitterness came to the young priest who was very pale. However, he\nwas able to smile, and he gently answered: \u201cYes, we are saved, we are\nvery happy.\u201d\n\nIt was the lie beginning; the divine illusion which in a spirit of\ncharity he wished to give to others.\n\nAnd then one more spectacle met Pierre\u2019s eyes. The principal door of the\nBasilica stood wide open, and a red sheet of light from the setting sun\nwas enfilading the nave from one to the other end. Everything was flaring\nwith the splendour of a conflagration--the gilt railings of the choir,\nthe votive offerings of gold and silver, the lamps enriched with precious\nstones, the banners with their bright embroideries, and the swinging\ncensers, which seemed like flying jewels. And yonder, in the depths of\nthis burning splendour, amidst the snowy surplices and the golden\nchasubles, he recognised Marie, with hair unbound, hair of gold like all\nelse, enveloping her in a golden mantle. And the organs burst into a hymn\nof triumph; and the delirious people acclaimed God; and Abb\u00e9 Judaine, who\nhad again just taken the Blessed Sacrament from off the altar, raised it\naloft and presented it to their gaze for the last time; and radiantly\nmagnificent it shone out like a glory amidst the streaming gold of the\nBasilica, whose prodigious triumph all the bells proclaimed in clanging,\nflying peals.\n\n\n\n\nV. CRADLE AND GRAVE\n\nIMMEDIATELY afterwards, as they descended the steps, Doctor Chassaigne\nsaid to Pierre: \u201cYou have just seen the triumph; I will now show you two\ngreat injustices.\u201d\n\nAnd he conducted him into the Rue des Petits-Foss\u00e9s to visit Bernadette\u2019s\nroom, that low, dark chamber whence she set out on the day the Blessed\nVirgin appeared to her.\n\nThe Rue des Petits-Foss\u00e9s starts from the former Rue des Bois, now the\nRue de la Grotte, and crosses the Rue du Tribunal. It is a winding lane,\nslightly sloping and very gloomy. The passers-by are few; it is skirted\nby long walls, wretched-looking houses, with mournful fa\u00e7ades in which\nnever a window opens. All its gaiety consists in an occasional tree in a\ncourtyard.\n\n\u201cHere we are,\u201d at last said the doctor.\n\nAt the part where he had halted, the street contracted, becoming very\nnarrow, and the house faced the high, grey wall of a barn. Raising their\nheads, both men looked up at the little dwelling, which seemed quite\nlifeless, with its narrow casements and its coarse, violet pargeting,\ndisplaying the shameful ugliness of poverty. The entrance passage down\nbelow was quite black; an old light iron gate was all that closed it; and\nthere was a step to mount, which in rainy weather was immersed in the\nwater of the gutter.\n\n\u201cGo in, my friend, go in,\u201d said the doctor. \u201cYou have only to push the\ngate.\u201d\n\nThe passage was long, and Pierre kept on feeling the damp wall with his\nhand, for fear of making a false step. It seemed to him as if he were\ndescending into a cellar, in deep obscurity, and he could feel a slippery\nsoil impregnated with water beneath his feet. Then at the end, in\nobedience to the doctor\u2019s direction, he turned to the right.\n\n\u201cStoop, or you may hurt yourself,\u201d said M. Chassaigne; \u201cthe door is very\nlow. There, here we are.\u201d\n\nThe door of the room, like the gate in the street, stood wide open, as if\nthe place had been carelessly abandoned; and Pierre, who had stopped in\nthe middle of the chamber, hesitating, his eyes still full of the bright\ndaylight outside, could distinguish absolutely nothing. He had fallen\ninto complete darkness, and felt an icy chill about the shoulders similar\nto the sensation that might be caused by a wet towel.\n\nBut, little by little, his eyes became accustomed to the dimness. Two\nwindows of unequal size opened on to a narrow, interior courtyard, where\nonly a greenish light descended, as at the bottom of a well; and to read\nthere, in the middle of the day, it would be necessary to have a candle.\nMeasuring about fifteen feet by twelve, the room was flagged with large\nuneven stones; while the principal beam and the rafters of the roof,\nwhich were visible, had darkened with time and assumed a dirty, sooty\nhue. Opposite the door was the chimney, a miserable plaster chimney, with\na mantelpiece formed of a rotten old plank. There was a sink between this\nchimney and one of the windows. The walls, with their decaying,\ndamp-stained plaster falling off by bits, were full of cracks, and\nturning a dirty black like the ceiling. There was no longer any furniture\nthere; the room seemed abandoned; you could only catch a glimpse of some\nconfused, strange objects, unrecognisable in the heavy obscurity that\nhung about the corners.\n\nAfter a spell of silence, the doctor exclaimed \u201cYes, this is the room;\nall came from here. Nothing has been changed, with the exception that the\nfurniture has gone. I have tried to picture how it was placed: the beds\ncertainly stood against this wall, opposite the windows; there must have\nbeen three of them at least, for the Soubirouses were seven--the father,\nmother, two boys, and three girls. Think of that! Three beds filling this\nroom! Seven persons living in this small space! All of them buried alive,\nwithout air, without light, almost without bread! What frightful misery!\nWhat lowly, pity-awaking poverty!\u201d\n\nBut he was interrupted. A shadowy form, which Pierre at first took for an\nold woman, entered. It was a priest, however, the curate of the parish,\nwho now occupied the house. He was acquainted with the doctor.\n\n\u201cI heard your voice, Monsieur Chassaigne, and came down,\u201d said he. \u201cSo\nthere you are, showing the room again?\u201d\n\n\u201cJust so, Monsieur l\u2019 Abb\u00e9; I took the liberty. It does not inconvenience\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! not at all, not at all! Come as often as you please, and bring other\npeople.\u201d\n\nHe laughed in an engaging manner, and bowed to Pierre, who, astonished by\nthis quiet carelessness, observed: \u201cThe people who come, however, must\nsometimes plague you?\u201d\n\nThe curate in his turn seemed surprised. \u201cIndeed, no! Nobody comes. You\nsee the place is scarcely known. Every one remains over there at the\nGrotto. I leave the door open so as not to be worried. But days and days\noften pass without my hearing even the sound of a mouse.\u201d\n\nPierre\u2019s eyes were becoming more and more accustomed to the obscurity;\nand among the vague, perplexing objects which filled the corners, he\nended by distinguishing some old barrels, remnants of fowl cages, and\nbroken tools, a lot of rubbish such as is swept away and thrown to the\nbottom of cellars. Hanging from the rafters, moreover, were some\nprovisions, a salad basket full of eggs, and several bunches of big pink\nonions.\n\n\u201cAnd, from what I see,\u201d resumed Pierre, with a slight shudder, \u201cyou have\nthought that you might make use of the room?\u201d\n\nThe curate was beginning to feel uncomfortable. \u201cOf course, that\u2019s it,\u201d\n said he. \u201cWhat can one do? The house is so small, I have so little space.\nAnd then you can\u2019t imagine how damp it is here; it is altogether\nimpossible to occupy the room. And so, _mon Dieu_, little by little all\nthis has accumulated here by itself, contrary to one\u2019s own desire.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt has become a lumber-room,\u201d concluded Pierre.\n\n\u201cOh no! hardly that. An unoccupied room, and yet in truth, if you insist\non it, it is a lumber-room!\u201d\n\nHis uneasiness was increasing, mingled with a little shame. Doctor\nChassaigne remained silent and did not interfere; but he smiled, and was\nvisibly delighted at his companion\u2019s revolt against human ingratitude.\nPierre, unable to restrain himself, now continued: \u201cYou must excuse me,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, if I insist. But just reflect that you owe everything to\nBernadette; but for her Lourdes would still be one of the least known\ntowns of France. And really it seems to me that out of mere gratitude the\nparish ought to have transformed this wretched room into a chapel.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! a chapel!\u201d interrupted the curate. \u201cIt is only a question of a human\ncreature: the Church could not make her an object of worship.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, we won\u2019t say a chapel, then; but at all events there ought to be\nsome lights and flowers--bouquets of roses constantly renewed by the\npiety of the inhabitants and the pilgrims. In a word, I should like some\nlittle show of affection--a touching souvenir, a picture of\nBernadette--something that would delicately indicate that she deserves to\nhave a place in all hearts. This forgetfulness and desertion are\nshocking. It is monstrous that so much dirt should have been allowed to\naccumulate!\u201d\n\nThe curate, a poor, thoughtless, nervous man, at once adopted Pierre\u2019s\nviews: \u201cIn reality, you are a thousand times right,\u201d said he; \u201cbut I\nmyself have no power, I can do nothing. Whenever they ask me for the\nroom, to set it to rights, I will give it up and remove my barrels,\nalthough I really don\u2019t know where else to put them. Only, I repeat, it\ndoes not depend on me. I can do nothing, nothing at all!\u201d Then, under the\npretext that he had to go out, he hastened to take leave and run away\nagain, saying to Doctor Chassaigne: \u201cRemain, remain as long as you\nplease; you are never in my way.\u201d\n\nWhen the doctor once more found himself alone with Pierre he caught hold\nof both his hands with effusive delight. \u201cAh, my dear child,\u201d said he,\n\u201chow pleased you have made me! How admirably you expressed to him all\nthat has been boiling in my own heart so long! Like you, I thought of\nbringing some roses here every morning. I should have simply had the room\ncleaned, and would have contented myself with placing two large bunches\nof roses on the mantelpiece; for you know that I have long felt deep\naffection for Bernadette, and it seemed to me that those roses would be\nlike the very flowering and perfume of her memory. Only--only--\u201d and so\nsaying he made a despairing gesture, \u201conly courage failed me. Yes, I say\ncourage, no one having yet dared to declare himself openly against the\nFathers of the Grotto. One hesitates and recoils in the fear of stirring\nup a religious scandal. Fancy what a deplorable racket all this would\ncreate. And so those who are as indignant as I am are reduced to the\nnecessity of holding their tongues--preferring a continuance of silence\nto anything else.\u201d Then, by way of conclusion, he added: \u201cThe ingratitude\nand rapacity of man, my dear child, are sad things to see. Each time I\ncome into this dim wretchedness, my heart swells and I cannot restrain my\ntears.\u201d\n\nHe ceased speaking, and neither of them said another word, both being\novercome by the extreme melancholy which the surroundings fostered. They\nwere steeped in gloom. The dampness made them shudder as they stood there\namidst the dilapidated walls and the dust of the old rubbish piled upon\neither side. And the idea returned to them that without Bernadette none\nof the prodigies which had made Lourdes a town unique in the world would\nhave existed. It was at her voice that the miraculous spring had gushed\nforth, that the Grotto, bright with candles, had opened. Immense works\nwere executed, new churches rose from the ground, giant-like causeways\nled up to God. An entire new city was built, as if by enchantment, with\ngardens, walks, quays, bridges, shops, and hotels. And people from the\nuttermost parts of the earth flocked thither in crowds, and the rain of\nmillions fell with such force and so abundantly that the young city\nseemed likely to increase indefinitely--to fill the whole valley, from\none to the other end of the mountains. If Bernadette had been suppressed\nnone of those things would have existed, the extraordinary story would\nhave relapsed into nothingness, old unknown Lourdes would still have been\nplunged in the sleep of ages at the foot of its castle. Bernadette was\nthe sole labourer and creatress; and yet this room, whence she had set\nout on the day she beheld the Virgin, this cradle, indeed, of the miracle\nand of all the marvellous fortune of the town, was disdained, left a prey\nto vermin, good only for a lumber-room, where onions and empty barrels\nwere put away.\n\nThen the other side of the question vividly appeared in Pierre\u2019s mind,\nand he again seemed to see the triumph which he had just witnessed, the\nexaltation of the Grotto and Basilica, while Marie, dragging her little\ncar, ascended behind the Blessed Sacrament, amidst the clamour of the\nmultitude. But the Grotto especially shone out before him. It was no\nlonger the wild, rocky cavity before which the child had formerly knelt\non the deserted bank of the torrent; it was a chapel, transformed and\nenriched, a chapel illumined by a vast number of candles, where nations\nmarched past in procession. All the noise, all the brightness, all the\nadoration, all the money, burst forth there in a splendour of constant\nvictory. Here, at the cradle, in this dark, icy hole, there was not a\nsoul, not a taper, not a hymn, not a flower. Of the infrequent visitors\nwho came thither, none knelt or prayed. All that a few tender-hearted\npilgrims had done in their desire to carry away a souvenir had been to\nreduce to dust, between their fingers, the half-rotten plank serving as a\nmantelshelf. The clergy ignored the existence of this spot of misery,\nwhich the processions ought to have visited as they might visit a station\nof glory. It was there that the poor child had begun her dream, one cold\nnight, lying in bed between her two sisters, and seized with a fit of her\nailment while the whole family was fast asleep. It was thence, too, that\nshe had set out, unconsciously carrying along with her that dream, which\nwas again to be born within her in the broad daylight and to flower so\nprettily in a vision such as those of the legends. And no one now\nfollowed in her footsteps. The manger was forgotten, and left in\ndarkness--that manger where had germed the little humble seed which over\nyonder was now yielding such prodigious harvests, reaped by the workmen\nof the last hour amidst the sovereign pomp of ceremonies.\n\nPierre, whom the great human emotion of the story moved to tears, at last\nsummed up his thoughts in three words, saying in a low voice, \u201cIt is\nBethlehem.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d remarked Doctor Chassaigne, in his turn, \u201cit is the wretched\nlodging, the chance refuge, where new religions are born of suffering and\npity. And at times I ask myself if all is not better thus: if it is not\nbetter that this room should remain in its actual state of wretchedness\nand abandonment. It seems to me that Bernadette has nothing to lose by\nit, for I love her all the more when I come to spend an hour here.\u201d\n\nHe again became silent, and then made a gesture of revolt: \u201cBut no, no! I\ncannot forgive it--this ingratitude sets me beside myself. I told you I\nwas convinced that Bernadette had freely gone to cloister herself at\nNevers. But although no one smuggled her away, what a relief it was for\nthose whom she had begun to inconvenience here! And they are the same\nmen, so anxious to be the absolute masters, who at the present time\nendeavour by all possible means to wrap her memory in silence. Ah! my\ndear child, if I were to tell you all!\u201d\n\nLittle by little he spoke out and relieved himself. Those Fathers of the\nGrotto, who showed such greed in trading on the work of Bernadette,\ndreaded her still more now that she was dead than they had done whilst\nshe was alive. So long as she had lived, their great terror had assuredly\nbeen that she might return to Lourdes to claim a portion of the spoil;\nand her humility alone reassured them, for she was in nowise of a\ndomineering disposition, and had herself chosen the dim abode of\nrenunciation where she was destined to pass away. But at present their\nfears had increased at the idea that a will other than theirs might bring\nthe relics of the visionary back to Lourdes; that, thought had, indeed,\noccurred to the municipal council immediately after her death; the town\nhad wished to raise a tomb, and there had been talk of opening a\nsubscription. The Sisters of Nevers, however, formally refused to give up\nthe body, which they said belonged to them. Everyone felt that the\nSisters were acting under the influence of the Fathers, who were very\nuneasy, and energetically bestirred themselves to prevent by all means in\ntheir power the return of those venerated ashes, in whose presence at\nLourdes they foresaw a possible competition with the Grotto itself. Could\nthey have imagined some such threatening occurrence as this--a monumental\ntomb in the cemetery, pilgrims proceeding thither in procession, the sick\nfeverishly kissing the marble, and miracles being worked there amidst a\nholy fervour? This would have been disastrous rivalry, a certain\ndisplacement of all the present devotion and prodigies. And the great,\nthe sole fear, still and ever returned to them, that of having to divide\nthe spoils, of seeing the money go elsewhere should the town, now taught\nby experience, know how to turn the tomb to account.\n\nThe Fathers were even credited with a scheme of profound craftiness. They\nwere supposed to have the secret idea of reserving Bernadette\u2019s remains\nfor themselves; the Sisters of Nevers having simply undertaken to keep it\nfor them within the peaceful precincts of their chapel. Only, they were\nwaiting, and would not bring it back until the affluence of the pilgrims\nshould decrease. What was the use of a solemn return at present, when\ncrowds flocked to the place without interruption and in increasing\nnumbers? Whereas, when the extraordinary success of Our Lady of Lourdes\nshould decline, like everything else in this world, one could imagine\nwhat a reawakening of faith would attend the solemn, resounding ceremony\nat which Christendom would behold the relics of the chosen one take\npossession of the soil whence she had made so many marvels spring. And\nthe miracles would then begin again on the marble of her tomb before the\nGrotto or in the choir of the Basilica.\n\n\u201cYou may search,\u201d continued Doctor Chassaigne, \u201cbut you won\u2019t find a\nsingle official picture of Bernadette at Lourdes. Her portrait is sold,\nbut it is hung no where, in no sanctuary. It is systematic forgetfulness,\nthe same sentiment of covert uneasiness as that which has wrought silence\nand abandonment in this sad chamber where we are. In the same way as they\nare afraid of worship at her tomb, so are they afraid of crowds coming\nand kneeling here, should two candles burn or a couple of bouquets of\nroses bloom upon this chimney. And if a paralytic woman were to rise\nshouting that she was cured, what a scandal would arise, how disturbed\nwould be those good traders of the Grotto on seeing their monopoly\nseriously threatened! They are the masters, and the masters they intend\nto remain; they will not part with any portion of the magnificent farm\nthat they have acquired and are working. Nevertheless they tremble--yes,\nthey tremble at the memory of the workers of the first hour, of that\nlittle girl who is still so great in death, and for whose huge\ninheritance they burn with such greed that after having sent her to live\nat Nevers, they dare not even bring back her corpse, but leave it\nimprisoned beneath the flagstones of a convent!\u201d\n\nAh! how wretched was the fate of that poor creature, who had been cut off\nfrom among the living, and whose corpse in its turn was condemned to\nexile! And how Pierre pitied her, that daughter of misery, who seemed to\nhave been chosen only that she might suffer in her life and in her death!\nEven admitting that an unique, persistent will had not compelled her to\ndisappear, still guarding her even in her tomb, what a strange succession\nof circumstances there had been--how it seemed as if someone, uneasy at\nthe idea of the immense power she might grasp, had jealously sought to\nkeep her out of the way! In Pierre\u2019s eyes she remained the chosen one,\nthe martyr; and if he could no longer believe, if the history of this\nunfortunate girl sufficed to complete within him the ruin of his faith,\nit none the less upset him in all his brotherly love for mankind by\nrevealing a new religion to him, the only one which might still fill his\nheart, the religion of life, of human sorrow.\n\nJust then, before leaving the room, Doctor Chassaigne exclaimed: \u201cAnd\nit\u2019s here that one must believe, my dear child. Do you see this obscure\nhole, do you think of the resplendent Grotto, of the triumphant Basilica,\nof the town built, of the world created, the crowds that flock to\nLourdes! And if Bernadette was only hallucinated, only an idiot, would\nnot the outcome be more astonishing, more inexplicable still? What! An\nidiot\u2019s dream would have sufficed to stir up nations like this! No! no!\nThe Divine breath which alone can explain prodigies passed here.\u201d\n\nPierre was on the point of hastily replying \u201cYes!\u201d It was true, a breath\nhad passed there, the sob of sorrow, the inextinguishable yearning\ntowards the Infinite of hope. If the dream of a suffering child had\nsufficed to attract multitudes, to bring about a rain of millions and\nraise a new city from the soil, was it not because this dream in a\nmeasure appeased the hunger of poor mankind, its insatiable need of being\ndeceived and consoled? She had once more opened the Unknown, doubtless at\na favourable moment both socially and historically; and the crowds had\nrushed towards it. Oh! to take refuge in mystery, when reality is so\nhard, to abandon oneself to the miraculous, since cruel nature seems\nmerely one long injustice! But although you may organise the Unknown,\nreduce it to dogmas, make revealed religions of it, there is never\nanything at the bottom of it beyond the appeal of suffering, the cry of\nlife, demanding health, joy, and fraternal happiness, and ready to accept\nthem in another world if they cannot be obtained on earth. What use is it\nto believe in dogmas? Does it not suffice to weep and love?\n\nPierre, however, did not discuss the question. He withheld the answer\nthat was on his lips, convinced, moreover, that the eternal need of the\nsupernatural would cause eternal faith to abide among sorrowing mankind.\nThe miraculous, which could not be verified, must be a food necessary to\nhuman despair. Besides, had he not vowed in all charity that he would not\nwound anyone with his doubts?\n\n\u201cWhat a prodigy, isn\u2019t it?\u201d repeated the doctor.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d Pierre ended by answering. \u201cThe whole human drama has been\nplayed, all the unknown forces have acted in this poor room, so damp and\ndark.\u201d\n\nThey remained there a few minutes more in silence; they walked round the\nwalls, raised their eyes toward the smoky ceiling, and cast a final\nglance at the narrow, greenish yard. Truly it was a heart-rending sight,\nthis poverty of the cobweb level, with its dirty old barrels, its\nworn-out tools, its refuse of all kinds rotting in the corners in heaps.\nAnd without adding a word they at last slowly retired, feeling extremely\nsad.\n\nIt was only in the street that Doctor Chassaigne seemed to awaken. He\ngave a slight shudder and hastened his steps, saying: \u201cIt is not\nfinished, my dear child; follow me. We are now going to look at the other\ngreat iniquity.\u201d He referred to Abb\u00e9 Peyramale and his church.\n\nThey crossed the Place du Porche and turned into the Rue Saint Pierre; a\nfew minutes would suffice them. But their conversation had again fallen\non the Fathers of the Grotto, on the terrible, merciless war waged by\nFather Semp\u00e9 against the former Cur\u00e9 of Lourdes. The latter had been\nvanquished, and had died in consequence, overcome by feelings of\nfrightful bitterness; and, after thus killing him by grief, they had\ncompleted the destruction of his church, which he had left unfinished,\nwithout a roof, open to the wind and to the rain. With what a glorious\ndream had that monumental edifice filled the last year of the Cur\u00e9\u2019s\nlife! Since he had been dispossessed of the Grotto, driven from the work\nof Our Lady of Lourdes, of which he, with Bernadette, had been the first\nartisan, his church had become his revenge, his protestation, his own\nshare of the glory, the House of the Lord where he would triumph in his\nsacred vestments, and whence he would conduct endless processions in\ncompliance with the formal desire of the Blessed Virgin. Man of authority\nand domination as he was at bottom, a pastor of the multitude, a builder\nof temples, he experienced a restless delight in hurrying on the work,\nwith the lack of foresight of an eager man who did not allow indebtedness\nto trouble him, but was perfectly contented so long as he always had a\nswarm of workmen busy on the scaffoldings. And thus he saw his church\nrise up, and pictured it finished, one bright summer morning, all new in\nthe rising sun.\n\nAh! that vision constantly evoked gave him courage for the struggle,\namidst the underhand, murderous designs by which he felt himself to be\nenveloped. His church, towering above the vast square, at last rose in\nall its colossal majesty. He had decided that it should be in the\nRomanesque style, very large, very simple, its nave nearly three hundred\nfeet long, its steeple four hundred and sixty feet high. It shone out\nresplendently in the clear sunlight, freed on the previous day of the\nlast scaffolding, and looking quite smart in its newness, with its broad\ncourses of stone disposed with perfect regularity. And, in thought, he\nsauntered around it, charmed with its nudity, its stupendous candour, its\nchasteness recalling that of a virgin child, for there was not a piece of\nsculpture, not an ornament that would have uselessly loaded it. The roofs\nof the nave, transept, and apse were of equal height above the\nentablature, which was decorated with simple mouldings. In the same way\nthe apertures in the aisles and nave had no other adornments than\narchivaults with mouldings, rising above the piers. He stopped in thought\nbefore the great coloured glass windows of the transept, whose roses were\nsparkling; and passing round the building he skirted the semicircular\napse against which stood the vestry building with its two rows of little\nwindows; and then he returned, never tiring of his contemplation of that\nregal ordonnance, those great lines standing out against the blue sky,\nthose superposed roofs, that enormous mass of stone, whose solidity\npromised to defy centuries. But, when he closed his eyes he, above all\nelse, conjured up, with rapturous pride, a vision of the fa\u00e7ade and\nsteeple; down below, the three portals, the roofs of the two lateral ones\nforming terraces, while from the central one, in the very middle of the\nfa\u00e7ade, the steeple boldly sprang. Here again columns resting on piers\nsupported archivaults with simple mouldings. Against the gable, at a\npoint where there was a pinnacle, and between the two lofty windows\nlighting the nave, was a statue of Our Lady of Lourdes under a canopy. Up\nabove, were other bays with freshly painted luffer-boards. Buttresses\nstarted from the ground at the four corners of the steeple-base, becoming\nless and less massive from storey to storey, till they reached the spire,\na bold, tapering spire in stone, flanked by four turrets and adorned with\npinnacles, and soaring upward till it vanished in the sky. And to the\nparish priest of Lourdes it seemed as if it were his own fervent soul\nwhich had grown and flown aloft with this spire, to testify to his faith\nthroughout the ages, there on high, quite close to God.\n\nAt other times another vision delighted him still more. He thought he\ncould see the inside of his church on the day of the first solemn mass he\nwould perform there. The coloured windows threw flashes of fire brilliant\nlike precious stones; the twelve chapels, the aisles, were beaming with\nlighted candles. And he was at the high altar of marble and gold; and the\nfourteen columns of the nave in single blocks of Pyrenean marble,\nmagnificent marble purchased with money that had come from the four\ncorners of Christendom, rose up supporting the vaulted roof, while the\nsonorous voices of the organs filled the whole building with a hymn of\njoy. A multitude of the faithful was gathered there, kneeling on the\nflags in front of the choir, which was screened by ironwork as delicate\nas lace, and covered with admirably carved wood. The pulpit, the regal\npresent of a great lady, was a marvel of art cut in massive oak. The\nbaptismal fonts had been hewn out of hard stone by an artist of great\ntalent. Pictures by masters ornamented the walls. Crosses, pyxes,\nprecious monstrances, sacred vestments, similar to suns, were piled up in\nthe vestry cupboards. And what a dream it was to be the pontiff of such a\ntemple, to reign there after having erected it with passion, to bless the\ncrowds who hastened to it from the entire earth, while the flying peals\nfrom the steeple told the Grotto and Basilica that they had over there,\nin old Lourdes, a rival, a victorious sister, in whose great nave God\ntriumphed also!\n\nAfter following the Rue Saint Pierre for a moment, Doctor Chassaigne and\nhis companion turned into the little Rue de Langelle.\n\n\u201cWe are coming to it,\u201d said the doctor. But though Pierre looked around\nhim he could see no church. There were merely some wretched hovels, a\nwhole district of poverty, littered with foul buildings. At length,\nhowever, at the bottom of a blind alley, he perceived a remnant of the\nhalf-rotten palings which still surrounded the vast square site bordered\nby the Rue Saint Pierre, the Rue de Bagn\u00e8res, the Rue de Langelle, and\nthe Rue des Jardins.\n\n\u201cWe must turn to the left,\u201d continued the doctor, who had entered a\nnarrow passage among the rubbish. \u201cHere we are!\u201d\n\nAnd the ruin suddenly appeared amidst the ugliness and wretchedness that\nmasked it.\n\nThe whole great carcase of the nave and the aisles, the transept and the\napse was standing. The walls rose on all sides to the point where the\nvaulting would have begun. You entered as into a real church, you could\nwalk about at ease, identifying all the usual parts of an edifice of this\ndescription. Only when you raised your eyes you saw the sky; the roofs\nwere wanting, the rain could fall and the wind blow there freely. Some\nfifteen years previously the works had been abandoned, and things had\nremained in the same state as the last workman had left them. What struck\nyou first of all were the ten pillars of the nave and the four pillars of\nthe choir, those magnificent columns of Pyrenean marble, each of a single\nblock, which had been covered with a casing of planks in order to protect\nthem from damage. The bases and capitals were still in the rough,\nawaiting the sculptors. And these isolated columns, thus cased in wood,\nhad a mournful aspect indeed. Moreover, a dismal sensation filled you at\nsight of the whole gaping enclosure, where grass had sprung up all over\nthe ravaged, bumpy soil of the aisles and the nave, a thick cemetery\ngrass, through which the women of the neighbourhood had ended by making\npaths. They came in to spread out their washing there. And even now a\ncollection of poor people\u2019s washing--thick sheets, shirts in shreds, and\nbabies\u2019 swaddling clothes--was fast drying in the last rays of the sun,\nwhich glided in through the broad, empty bays.\n\nSlowly, without speaking, Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne walked round the\ninside of the church. The ten chapels of the aisles formed a species of\ncompartments full of rubbish and remnants. The ground of the choir had\nbeen cemented, doubtless to protect the crypt below against\ninfiltrations; but unfortunately the vaults must be sinking; there was a\nhollow there which the storm of the previous night had transformed into a\nlittle lake. However, it was these portions of the transept and the apse\nwhich had the least suffered. Not a stone had moved; the great central\nrose windows above the triforium seemed to be awaiting their coloured\nglass, while some thick planks, forgotten atop of the walls of the apse,\nmight have made anyone think that the workmen would begin covering it the\nnext day. But, when Pierre and the doctor had retraced their steps, and\nwent out to look at the fa\u00e7ade, the lamentable woefulness of the young\nruin was displayed to their gaze. On this side, indeed, the works had not\nbeen carried forward to anything like the same extent: the porch with its\nthree portals alone was built, and fifteen years of abandonment had\nsufficed for the winter weather to eat into the sculptures, the small\ncolumns and the archivaults, with a really singular destructive effect,\nas though the stones, deeply penetrated, destroyed, had melted away\nbeneath tears. The heart grieved at the sight of the decay which had\nattacked the work before it was even finished. Not yet to be, and\nnevertheless to crumble away in this fashion under the sky! To be\narrested in one\u2019s colossal growth, and simply strew the weeds with ruins!\n\nThey returned to the nave, and were overcome by the frightful sadness\nwhich this assassination of a monument provoked. The spacious plot of\nwaste ground inside was littered with the remains of scaffoldings, which\nhad been pulled down when half rotten, in fear lest their fall might\ncrush people; and everywhere amidst the tall grass were boards, put-logs,\nmoulds for arches, mingled with bundles of old cord eaten away by damp.\nThere was also the long narrow carcase of a crane rising up like a\ngibbet. Spade-handles, pieces of broken wheelbarrows, and heaps of\ngreenish bricks, speckled with moss and wild convolvuli in bloom, were\nstill lying among the forgotten materials. In the beds of nettles you\nhere and there distinguished the rails of a little railway laid down for\nthe trucks, one of which was lying overturned in a corner. But the\nsaddest sight in all this death of things was certainly the portable\nengine which had remained in the shed that sheltered it. For fifteen\nyears it had been standing there cold and lifeless. A part of the roof of\nthe shed had ended by falling in upon it, and now the rain drenched it at\nevery shower. A bit of the leather harness by which the crane was worked\nhung down, and seemed to bind the engine like a thread of some gigantic\nspider\u2019s web. And its metal-work, its steel and copper, was also\ndecaying, as if rusted by lichens, covered with the vegetation of old\nage, whose yellowish patches made it look like a very ancient,\ngrass-grown machine which the winters had preyed upon. This lifeless\nengine, this cold engine with its empty firebox and its silent boiler,\nwas like the very soul of the departed labour vainly awaiting the advent\nof some great charitable heart, whose coming through the eglantine and\nthe brambles would awaken this sleeping church in the wood from its heavy\nslumber of ruin.\n\nAt last Doctor Chassaigne spoke: \u201cAh!\u201d he said, \u201cwhen one thinks that\nfifty thousand francs would have sufficed to prevent such a disaster!\nWith fifty thousand francs the roof could have been put on, the heavy\nwork would have been saved, and one could have waited patiently. But they\nwanted to kill the work just as they had killed the man.\u201d With a gesture\nhe designated the Fathers of the Grotto, whom he avoided naming. \u201cAnd to\nthink,\u201d he continued, \u201cthat their annual receipts are eight hundred\nthousand francs. However, they prefer to send presents to Rome to\npropitiate powerful friends there.\u201d\n\nIn spite of himself, he was again opening hostilities against the\nadversaries of Cur\u00e9 Peyramale. The whole story caused a holy anger of\njustice to haunt him. Face to face with those lamentable ruins, he\nreturned to the facts--the enthusiastic Cur\u00e9 starting on the building of\nhis beloved church, and getting deeper and deeper into debt, whilst\nFather Semp\u00e9, ever on the lookout, took advantage of each of his\nmistakes, discrediting him with the Bishop, arresting the flow of\nofferings, and finally stopping the works. Then, after the conquered man\nwas dead, had come interminable lawsuits, lawsuits lasting fifteen years,\nwhich gave the winters time to devour the building. And now it was in\nsuch a woeful state, and the debt had risen to such an enormous figure,\nthat all seemed over. The slow death, the death of the stones, was\nbecoming irrevocable. The portable engine beneath its tumbling shed would\nfall to pieces, pounded by the rain and eaten away by the moss.\n\n\u201cI know very well that they chant victory,\u201d resumed the doctor; \u201cthat\nthey alone remain. It is just what they wanted--to be the absolute\nmasters, to have all the power, all the money for themselves alone. I may\ntell you that their terror of competition has even made them intrigue\nagainst the religious Orders that have attempted to come to Lourdes.\nJesuits, Dominicans, Benedictines, Capuchins, and Carmelites have made\napplications at various times, and the Fathers of the Grotto have always\nsucceeded in keeping them away. They only tolerate the female Orders, and\nwill only have one flock. And the town belongs to them; they have opened\nshop there, and sell God there wholesale and retail!\u201d\n\nWalking slowly, he had while speaking returned to the middle of the nave,\namidst the ruins, and with a sweeping wave of the arm he pointed to all\nthe devastation surrounding him. \u201cLook at this sadness, this frightful\nwretchedness! Over yonder the Rosary and Basilica cost them three\nmillions of francs.\u201d*\n\n  * About 580,000 dollars.\n\nThen, as in Bernadette\u2019s cold, dark room, Pierre saw the Basilica rise\nbefore him, radiant in its triumph. It was not here that you found the\nrealisation of the dream of Cur\u00e9 Peyramale, officiating and blessing\nkneeling multitudes while the organs resounded joyfully. The Basilica,\nover yonder, appeared, vibrating with the pealing of its bells, clamorous\nwith the superhuman joy of an accomplished miracle, all sparkling with\nits countless lights, its banners, its lamps, its hearts of silver and\ngold, its clergy attired in gold, and its monstrance akin to a golden\nstar. It flamed in the setting sun, it touched the heavens with its\nspire, amidst the soaring of the milliards of prayers which caused its\nwalls to quiver. Here, however, was the church that had died before being\nborn, the church placed under interdict by a mandamus of the Bishop, the\nchurch falling into dust, and open to the four winds of heaven. Each\nstorm carried away a little more of the stones, big flies buzzed all\nalone among the nettles which had invaded the nave; and there were no\nother devotees than the poor women of the neighbourhood, who came thither\nto turn their sorry linen, spread upon the grass.\n\nIt seemed amidst the mournful silence as though a low voice were sobbing,\nperhaps the voice of the marble columns weeping over their useless beauty\nunder their wooden shirts. At times birds would fly across the deserted\napse uttering a shrill cry. Bands of enormous rats which had taken refuge\nunder bits of the lowered scaffoldings would fight, and bite, and bound\nout of their holes in a gallop of terror. And nothing could have been more\nheart-rending than the sight of this pre-determined ruin, face to face\nwith its triumphant rival, the Basilica, which beamed with gold.\n\nAgain Doctor Chassaigne curtly said, \u201cCome.\u201d\n\nThey left the church, and following the left aisle, reached a door,\nroughly fashioned out of a few planks nailed together; and, when they had\npassed down a half-demolished wooden staircase, the steps of which shook\nbeneath their feet, they found themselves in the crypt.\n\nIt was a low vault, with squat arches, on exactly the same plan as the\nchoir. The thick, stunted columns, left in the rough, also awaited their\nsculptors. Materials were lying about, pieces of wood were rotting on the\nbeaten ground, the whole vast hall was white with plaster in the\nabandonment in which unfinished buildings are left. At the far end, three\nbays, formerly glazed, but in which not a pane of glass remained, threw a\nclear, cold light upon the desolate bareness of the walls.\n\nAnd there, in the middle, lay Cur\u00e9 Peyramale\u2019s corpse. Some pious friends\nhad conceived the touching idea of thus burying him in the crypt of his\nunfinished church. The tomb stood on a broad step and was all marble. The\ninscriptions, in letters of gold, expressed the feelings of the\nsubscribers, the cry of truth and reparation that came from the monument\nitself. You read on the face: \u201cThis tomb has been erected by the aid of\npious offerings from the entire universe to the blessed memory of the\ngreat servant of Our Lady of Lourdes.\u201d On the right side were these words\nfrom a Brief of Pope Pius IX.: \u201cYou have entirely devoted yourself to\nerecting a temple to the Mother of God.\u201d And on the left were these words\nfrom the New Testament: \u201cHappy are they who suffer persecution for\njustice\u2019 sake.\u201d Did not these inscriptions embody the true plaint, the\nlegitimate hope of the vanquished man who had fought so long in the sole\ndesire of strictly executing the commands of the Virgin as transmitted to\nhim by Bernadette? She, Our Lady of Lourdes, was there personified by a\nslender statuette, standing above the commemorative inscription, against\nthe naked wall whose only decorations were a few bead wreaths hanging\nfrom nails. And before the tomb, as before the Grotto, were five or six\nbenches in rows, for the faithful who desired to sit down.\n\nBut with another gesture of sorrowful compassion, Doctor Chassaigne had\nsilently pointed out to Pierre a huge damp spot which was turning the\nwall at the far end quite green. Pierre remembered the little lake which\nhe had noticed up above on the cracked cement flooring of the\nchoir--quite a quantity of water left by the storm of the previous night.\nInfiltration had evidently commenced, a perfect stream ran down, invading\nthe crypt, whenever there was heavy rain. And they both felt a pang at\ntheir hearts when they perceived that the water was trickling along the\nvaulted roof in narrow threads, and thence falling in large, regular\nrhythmical drops upon the tomb. The doctor could not restrain a groan.\n\u201cNow it rains,\u201d he said; \u201cit rains on him!\u201d\n\nPierre remained motionless, in a kind of awe. In the presence of that\nfalling water, at the thought of the blasts which must rush at winter\ntime through the glassless windows, that corpse appeared to him both\nwoeful and tragic. It acquired a fierce grandeur, lying there alone in\nits splendid marble tomb, amidst all the rubbish, at the bottom of the\ncrumbling ruins of its own church. It was the solitary guardian, the dead\nsleeper and dreamer watching over the empty spaces, open to all the birds\nof night. It was the mute, obstinate, eternal protest, and it was\nexpectation also. Cur\u00e9 Peyramale, stretched in his coffin, having all\neternity before him to acquire patience, there, without weariness,\nawaited the workmen who would perhaps return thither some fine April\nmorning. If they should take ten years to do so, he would be there, and\nif it should take them a century, he would be there still. He was waiting\nfor the rotten scaffoldings up above, among the grass of the nave, to be\nresuscitated like the dead, and by the force of some miracle to stand\nupright once more, along the walls. He was waiting, too, for the\nmoss-covered engine to become all at once burning hot, recover its\nbreath, and raise the timbers for the roof. His beloved enterprise, his\ngigantic building, was crumbling about his head, and yet with joined\nhands and closed eyes he was watching over its ruins, watching and\nwaiting too.\n\nIn a low voice, the doctor finished the cruel story, telling how, after\npersecuting Cur\u00e9 Peyramale and his work, they persecuted his tomb. There\nhad formerly been a bust of the Cur\u00e9 there, and pious hands had kept a\nlittle lamp burning before it. But a woman had one day fallen with her\nface to the earth, saying that she had perceived the soul of the\ndeceased, and thereupon the Fathers of the Grotto were in a flutter. Were\nmiracles about to take place there? The sick already passed entire days\nthere, seated on the benches before the tomb. Others knelt down, kissed\nthe marble, and prayed to be cured. And at this a feeling of terror\narose: supposing they should be cured, supposing the Grotto should find a\ncompetitor in this martyr, lying all alone, amidst the old tools left\nthere by the masons! The Bishop of Tarbes, informed and influenced,\nthereupon published the mandamus which placed the church under interdict,\nforbidding all worship there and all pilgrimages and processions to the\ntomb of the former priest of Lourdes. As in the case of Bernadette, his\nmemory was proscribed, his portrait could be found, officially, nowhere.\nIn the same manner as they had shown themselves merciless against the\nliving man, so did the Fathers prove merciless to his memory. They\npursued him even in his tomb. They alone, again nowadays, prevented the\nworks of the church from being proceeded with, by raising continual\nobstacles, and absolutely refusing to share their rich harvest of alms.\nAnd they seemed to be waiting for the winter rains to fall and complete\nthe work of destruction, for the vaulted roof of the crypt, the walls,\nthe whole gigantic pile to crumble down upon the tomb of the martyr, upon\nthe body of the defeated man, so that he might be buried beneath them and\nat last pounded to dust!\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d murmured the doctor, \u201cI, who knew him so valiant, so enthusiastic\nin all noble labour! Now, you see it, it rains, it rains on him!\u201d\n\nPainfully, he set himself on his knees and found relief in a long prayer.\n\nPierre, who could not pray, remained standing. Compassionate sorrow was\noverflowing from his heart. He listened to the heavy drops from the roof\nas one by one they broke on the tomb with a slow rhythmical pit-a-pat,\nwhich seemed to be numbering the seconds of eternity, amidst the profound\nsilence. And he reflected on the eternal misery of this world, on the\nchoice which suffering makes in always falling on the best. The two great\nmakers of Our Lady of Lourdes, Bernadette and Cur\u00e9 Peyramale, rose up in\nthe flesh again before him, like woeful victims, tortured during their\nlives and exiled after their deaths. That alone, indeed, would have\ncompleted within him the destruction of his faith; for the Bernadette,\nwhom he had just found at the end of his researches, was but a human\nsister, loaded with every dolour. But none the less he preserved a tender\nbrotherly veneration for her, and two tears slowly trickled down his\ncheeks.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIFTH DAY\n\n\n\n\nI. EGOTISM AND LOVE\n\nAGAIN that night Pierre, at the Hotel of the Apparitions, was unable to\nobtain a wink of sleep. After calling at the hospital to inquire after\nMarie, who, since her return from the procession, had been soundly\nenjoying the delicious, restoring sleep of a child, he had gone to bed\nhimself feeling anxious at the prolonged absence of M. de Guersaint. He\nhad expected him at latest at dinner-time, but probably some mischance\nhad detained him at Gavarnie; and he thought how disappointed Marie would\nbe if her father were not there to embrace her the first thing in the\nmorning. With a man like M. de Guersaint, so pleasantly heedless and so\nhare-brained, everything was possible, every fear might be realised.\n\nPerhaps this anxiety had at first sufficed to keep Pierre awake in spite\nof his great fatigue; but afterwards the nocturnal noises of the hotel\nhad really assumed unbearable proportions. The morrow, Tuesday, was the\nday of departure, the last day which the national pilgrimage would spend\nat Lourdes, and the pilgrims no doubt were making the most of their time,\ncoming from the Grotto and returning thither in the middle of the night,\nendeavouring as it were to force the grace of Heaven by their commotion,\nand apparently never feeling the slightest need of repose. The doors\nslammed, the floors shook, the entire building vibrated beneath the\ndisorderly gallop of a crowd. Never before had the walls reverberated\nwith such obstinate coughs, such thick, husky voices. Thus Pierre, a prey\nto insomnia, tossed about on his bed and continually rose up, beset with\nthe idea that the noise he heard must have been made by M. de Guersaint\nwho had returned. For some minutes he would listen feverishly; but he\ncould only hear the extraordinary sounds of the passage, amid which he\ncould distinguish nothing precisely. Was it the priest, the mother and\nher three daughters, or the old married couple on his left, who were\nfighting with the furniture? or was it rather the larger family, or the\nsingle gentleman, or the young single woman on his right, whom some\nincomprehensible occurrences were leading into adventures? At one moment\nhe jumped from his bed, wishing to explore his absent friend\u2019s empty\nroom, as he felt certain that some deeds of violence were taking place in\nit. But although he listened very attentively when he got there, the only\nsound he could distinguish was the tender caressing murmur of two voices.\nThen a sudden recollection of Madame Volmar came to him, and he returned\nshuddering to bed.\n\nAt length, when it was broad daylight and Pierre had just fallen asleep,\na loud knocking at his door awoke him with a start. This time there could\nbe no mistake, a loud voice broken by sobs was calling \u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9!\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9! for Heaven\u2019s sake wake up!\u201d\n\nSurely it must be M. de Guersaint who had been brought back dead, at\nleast. Quite scared, Pierre ran and opened the door, in his night-shirt,\nand found himself in the presence of his neighbour, M. Vigneron.\n\n\u201cOh! for Heaven\u2019s sake, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, dress yourself at once!\u201d\n exclaimed the assistant head-clerk. \u201cYour holy ministry is required.\u201d\n And he began to relate that he had just got up to see the time by his\nwatch on the mantelpiece, when he had heard some most frightful sighs\nissuing from the adjoining room, where Madame Chaise slept. She had left\nthe communicating door open in order to be more with them, as she\npleasantly expressed it. Accordingly he had hastened in, and flung the\nshutters open so as to admit both light and air. \u201cAnd what a sight,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9!\u201d he continued. \u201cOur poor aunt lying on her bed, nearly\npurple in the face already, her mouth wide open in a vain effort to\nbreathe, and her hands fumbling with the sheet. It\u2019s her heart complaint,\nyou know. Come, come at once, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, and help her, I implore\nyou!\u201d\n\nPierre, utterly bewildered, could find neither his breeches nor his\ncassock. \u201cOf course, of course I\u2019ll come with you,\u201d said he. \u201cBut I have\nnot what is necessary for administering the last sacraments.\u201d\n\nM. Vigneron had assisted him to dress, and was now stooping down looking\nfor his slippers. \u201cNever mind,\u201d he said, \u201cthe mere sight of you will\nassist her in her last moments, if Heaven has this affliction in store\nfor us. Here! put these on your feet, and follow me at once--oh! at\nonce!\u201d\n\nHe went off like a gust of wind and plunged into the adjoining room. All\nthe doors remained wide open. The young priest, who followed him, noticed\nnothing in the first room, which was in an incredible state of disorder,\nbeyond the half-naked figure of little Gustave, who sat on the sofa\nserving him as a bed, motionless, very pale, forgotten, and shivering\namid this drama of inexorable death. Open bags littered the floor, the\ngreasy remains of supper soiled the table, the parents\u2019 bed seemed\ndevastated by the catastrophe, its coverlets torn off and lying on the\nfloor. And almost immediately afterwards he caught sight of the mother,\nwho had hastily enveloped herself in an old yellow dressing-gown,\nstanding with a terrified look in the inner room.\n\n\u201cWell, my love, well, my love?\u201d repeated M. Vigneron, in stammering\naccents.\n\nWith a wave of her hand and without uttering a word Madame Vigneron drew\ntheir attention to Madame Chaise, who lay motionless, with her head sunk\nin the pillow and her hands stiffened and twisted. She was blue in the\nface, and her mouth gaped, as though with the last great gasp that had\ncome from her.\n\nPierre bent over her. Then in a low voice he said: \u201cShe is dead!\u201d\n\nDead! The word rang through the room where a heavy silence reigned, and\nthe husband and wife looked at each other in amazement, bewilderment. So\nit was over? The aunt had died before Gustave, and the youngster\ninherited her five hundred thousand francs. How many times had they dwelt\non that dream; whose sudden realisation dumfounded them? How many times\nhad despair overcome them when they feared that the poor child might\ndepart before her? Dead! Good heavens! was it their fault? Had they\nreally prayed to the Blessed Virgin for this? She had shown herself so\ngood to them that they trembled at the thought that they had not been\nable to express a wish without its being granted. In the death of the\nchief clerk, so suddenly carried off so that they might have his place,\nthey had already recognised the powerful hand of Our Lady of Lourdes. Had\nshe again loaded them with favours, listening even to the unconscious\ndreams of their desire? Yet they had never desired anyone\u2019s death; they\nwere worthy people incapable of any bad action, loving their relations,\nfulfilling their religious duties, going to confession, partaking of the\ncommunion like other people without any ostentation. Whenever they\nthought of those five hundred thousand francs, of their son who might be\nthe first to go, and of the annoyance it would be to them to see another\nand far less worthy nephew inherit that fortune, it was merely in the\ninnermost recesses of their hearts, in short, quite innocently and\nnaturally. Certainly they _had_ thought of it when they were at the\nGrotto, but was not the Blessed Virgin wisdom itself? Did she not know\nfar better than ourselves what she ought to do for the happiness of both\nthe living and the dead?\n\nThen Madame Vigneron in all sincerity burst into tears and wept for the\nsister whom she loved so much. \u201cAh! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she said, \u201cI saw\nher expire; she passed away before my eyes. What a misfortune that you\nwere not here sooner to receive her soul! She died without a priest; your\npresence would have consoled her so much.\u201d\n\nA prey also to emotion, his eyes full of tears, Vigneron sought to\nconsole his wife. \u201cYour sister was a saint,\u201d said he; \u201cshe communicated\nagain yesterday morning, and you need have no anxiety concerning her; her\nsoul has gone straight to heaven. No doubt, if Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 had been\nhere in time she would have been glad to see him. But what would you?\nDeath was quicker. I went at once, and really there is nothing for us to\nreproach ourselves with.\u201d\n\nThen, turning towards the priest, he added \u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, it was her\nexcessive piety which certainly hastened her end. Yesterday, at the\nGrotto, she had a bad attack, which was a warning. And in spite of her\nfatigue she obstinately followed the procession afterwards. I thought\nthen that she could not last long. Yet, out of delicacy, one did not like\nto say anything to her, for fear of frightening her.\u201d\n\nPierre gently knelt down and said the customary prayers, with that human\nemotion which was his nearest approach to faith in the presence of\neternal life and eternal death, both so pitiful. Then, as he remained\nkneeling a little longer, he overheard snatches of the conversation\naround him.\n\nLittle Gustave, forgotten on his couch amid the disorder of the other\nroom, must have lost patience, for he had begun to cry and call out,\n\u201cMamma! mamma! mamma!\u201d\n\nAt length Madame Vigneron went to quiet him, and it occurred to her to\ncarry him in her arms to kiss his poor aunt for the last time. But at\nfirst he struggled and refused, crying so much that M. Vigneron was\nobliged to interfere and try to make him ashamed of himself. What! he who\nwas never frightened of anything! who bore suffering with the courage of\na grown-up man! And to think it was a question of kissing his poor aunt,\nwho had always been so kind, whose last thought must most certainly have\nbeen for him!\n\n\u201cGive him to me,\u201d said he to his wife; \u201che\u2019s going to be good.\u201d\n\nGustave ended by clinging to his father\u2019s neck. He came shivering in his\nnight-shirt, displaying his wretched little body devoured by scrofula. It\nseemed indeed as though the miraculous water of the piscinas, far from\ncuring him, had freshened the sore on his back; whilst his scraggy leg\nhung down inertly like a dry stick.\n\n\u201cKiss her,\u201d resumed M. Vigneron.\n\nThe child leant forward and kissed his aunt on the forehead. It was not\ndeath which upset him and caused him to struggle. Since he had been in\nthe room he had been looking at the dead woman with an air of quiet\ncuriosity. He did not love her, he had suffered on her account so long.\nHe had the ideas and feelings of a man, and the weight of them was\nstifling him as, like his complaint, they developed and became more\nacute. He felt full well that he was too little, that children ought not\nto understand what only concerns their elders.\n\nHowever, his father, seating himself out of the way, kept him on his\nknee, whilst his mother closed the window and lit the two candles on the\nmantelpiece. \u201cAh! my poor dear,\u201d murmured M. Vigneron, feeling that he\nmust say something, \u201cit\u2019s a cruel loss for all of us. Our trip is now\ncompletely spoilt; this is our last day, for we start this afternoon. And\nthe Blessed Virgin, too, was showing herself so kind to us.\u201d\n\nHowever, seeing his son\u2019s surprised look, a look of infinite sadness and\nreproach, he hastened to add: \u201cYes, of course, I know that she hasn\u2019t yet\nquite cured you. But we must not despair of her kindness. She loves us so\nwell, she shows us so many favours that she will certainly end by curing\nyou, since that is now the only favour that remains for her to grant us.\u201d\n\nMadame Vigneron, who was listening, drew near and said: \u201cHow happy we\nshould have been to have returned to Paris all three hale and hearty!\nNothing is ever perfect!\u201d\n\n\u201cI say!\u201d suddenly observed Monsieur Vigneron, \u201cI sha\u2019n\u2019t be able to leave\nwith you this afternoon, on account of the formalities which have to be\ngone through. I hope that my return ticket will still be available\nto-morrow!\u201d\n\nThey were both getting over the frightful shock, feeling a sense of\nrelief in spite of their affection for Madame Chaise; and, in fact, they\nwere already forgetting her, anxious above all things to leave Lourdes as\nsoon as possible, as though the principal object of their journey had\nbeen attained. A decorous, unavowed delight was slowly penetrating them.\n\n\u201cWhen I get back to Paris there will be so much for me to do,\u201d continued\nM. Vigneron. \u201cI, who now only long for repose! All the same I shall\nremain my three years at the Ministry, until I can retire, especially now\nthat I am certain of the retiring pension of chief clerk. But\nafterwards--oh! afterwards I certainly hope to enjoy life a bit. Since\nthis money has come to us I shall purchase the estate of Les Billottes,\nthat superb property down at my native place which I have always been\ndreaming of. And I promise you that I sha\u2019n\u2019t find time hanging heavy on\nmy hands in the midst of my horses, my dogs, and my flowers!\u201d\n\nLittle Gustave was still on his father\u2019s knee, his night-shirt tucked up,\nhis whole wretched misshapen body shivering, and displaying the\nscragginess of a slowly dying child. When he perceived that his father,\nnow full of his dream of an opulent life, no longer seemed to notice that\nhe was there, he gave one of his enigmatical smiles, in which melancholy\nwas tinged with malice. \u201cBut what about me, father?\u201d he asked.\n\nM. Vigneron started, like one aroused from sleep, and did not at first\nseem to understand. \u201cYou, little one? You\u2019ll be with us, of course!\u201d\n\nBut Gustave gave him a long, straight look, without ceasing to smile with\nhis artful, though woeful lips. \u201cOh! do you think so?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cOf course I think so! You\u2019ll be with us, and it will be very nice to be\nwith us.\u201d\n\nUneasy, stammering, unable to find the proper words, M. Vigneron felt a\nchill come over him when his son shrugged his skinny shoulders with an\nair of philosophical disdain and answered: \u201cOh, no! I shall be dead.\u201d\n\nAnd then the terrified father was suddenly able to detect in the child\u2019s\ndeep glance the glance of a man who was very aged, very knowing in all\nthings, acquainted with all the abominations of life through having gone\nthrough them. What especially alarmed him was the abrupt conviction that\nthis child had always seen into the innermost recesses of his heart, even\nfarther than the things he dared to acknowledge to himself. He could\nrecall that when the little sufferer had been but a baby in his cradle\nhis eyes would frequently be fixed upon his own--and even then those eyes\nhad been rendered so sharp by suffering, endowed, too, with such an\nextraordinary power of divination, that they had seemed able to dive into\nthe unconscious thoughts buried in the depths of his brain. And by a\nsingular counter-effect all the things that he had never owned to himself\nhe now found in his child\u2019s eyes--he beheld them, read them there,\nagainst his will. The story of his cupidity lay unfolded before him, his\nanger at having such a sorry son, his anguish at the idea that Madame\nChaise\u2019s fortune depended upon such a fragile existence, his eager desire\nthat she might make haste and die whilst the youngster was still there,\nin order that he might finger the legacy. It was simply a question of\ndays, this duel as to which should go off first. And then, at the end, it\nstill meant death--the youngster must in his turn disappear, whilst he,\nthe father, alone pocketed the cash, and lived joyfully to a good old\nage. And these frightful things shone forth so clearly from the keen,\nmelancholy, smiling eyes of the poor condemned child, passed from son to\nfather with such evident distinctness, that for a moment it seemed to\nthem that they were shouting them aloud.\n\nHowever, M. Vigneron struggled against it all, and, averting his head,\nbegan energetically protesting: \u201cHow! You\u2019ll be dead? What an idea! It\u2019s\nabsurd to have such ideas as that!\u201d\n\nMeantime, Madame Vigneron was sobbing. \u201cYou wicked child,\u201d she gasped;\n\u201chow can you make us so unhappy, when we already have such a cruel loss\nto deplore?\u201d\n\nGustave had to kiss them, and to promise them that he would live for\ntheir sakes. Yet he did not cease smiling, conscious as he was that a lie\nis necessary when one does not wish to be too miserable, and quite\nprepared, moreover, to leave his parents happy behind him, since even the\nBlessed Virgin herself was powerless to grant him in this world the\nlittle happy lot to which each creature should be born.\n\nHis mother took him back to bed, and Pierre at length rose up, just as M.\nVigneron had finished arranging the chamber of death in a suitable\nmanner. \u201cYou\u2019ll excuse me, won\u2019t you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d said he,\naccompanying the young priest to the door. \u201cI\u2019m not quite myself. Well,\nit\u2019s an unpleasant time to go through. I must get over it somehow,\nhowever.\u201d\n\nWhen Pierre got into the passage he stopped for a moment, listening to a\nsound of voices which was ascending the stairs. He had just been thinking\nof M. de Guersaint again, and imagined that he could recognise his voice.\nHowever, whilst he stood there waiting, an incident occurred which caused\nhim intense discomfort. The door of the room next to M. de Guersaint\u2019s\nsoftly opened and a woman, clad in black, slipped into the passage. As\nshe turned, she found herself face to face with Pierre, in such a fashion\nthat it was impossible for them to pretend not to recognise each other.\n\nThe woman was Madame Volmar. Six o\u2019clock had not yet struck, and she was\ngoing off, hoping that nobody would notice her, with the intention of\nshowing herself at the hospital, and there spending this last morning, in\norder, in some measure, to justify her journey to Lourdes. When she\nperceived Pierre, she began to tremble, and, at first, could only\nstammer: \u201cOh, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9!\u201d\n\nThen, noticing that the priest had left his door wide open, she seemed to\ngive way to the fever consuming her, to a need of speaking out,\nexplaining things and justifying herself. With her face suffused by a\nrush of blood she entered the young man\u2019s room, whither he had to follow\nher, greatly disturbed by this strange adventure. And, as he still left\nthe door open, it was she who, in her desire to confide her sorrow and\nher sin to him, begged that he would close it.\n\n\u201cOh! I pray you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said she, \u201cdo not judge me too\nharshly.\u201d\n\nHe made a gesture as though to reply that he did not allow himself the\nright to pass judgment upon her.\n\n\u201cBut yes, but yes,\u201d she responded; \u201cI know very well that you are\nacquainted with my misfortune. You saw me once in Paris behind the church\nof La Trinit\u00e9, and the other day you recognised me on the balcony here!\nYou were aware that I was there--in that room. But if you only knew--ah,\nif you only knew!\u201d\n\nHer lips were quivering, and tears were welling into her eyes. As he\nlooked at her he was surprised by the extraordinary beauty transfiguring\nher face. This woman, invariably clad in black, extremely simple, with\nnever a jewel, now appeared to him in all the brilliancy of her passion;\nno longer drawing back into the gloom, no longer seeking to bedim the\nlustre of her eyes, as was her wont. She, who at first sight did not seem\npretty, but too dark and slender, with drawn features, a large mouth and\nlong nose, assumed, as he now examined her, a troubling charm, a\npowerful, irresistible beauty. Her eyes especially--her large,\nmagnificent eyes, whose brasiers she usually sought to cover with a veil\nof indifference--were flaring like torches; and he understood that she\nshould be loved, adored, to madness.\n\n\u201cIf you only knew, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she continued. \u201cIf I were only to\ntell you all that I have suffered. Doubtless you have suspected something\nof it, since you are acquainted with my mother-in-law and my husband. On\nthe few occasions when you have called on us you cannot but have\nunderstood some of the abominable things which go on in my home, though I\nhave always striven to appear happy in my silent little corner. But to\nlive like that for ten years, to have no existence--never to love, never\nto be loved--no, no, it was beyond my power!\u201d\n\nAnd then she related the whole painful story: her marriage with the\ndiamond merchant, a disastrous, though it seemed an advantageous one; her\nmother-in-law, with the stern soul of a jailer or an executioner, and her\nhusband, a monster of physical ugliness and mental villainy. They\nimprisoned her, they did not even allow her to look out of a window. They\nhad beaten her, they had pitilessly assailed her in her tastes, her\ninclinations, in all her feminine weaknesses. She knew that her husband\nwandered in his affections, and yet if she smiled to a relative, if she\nhad a flower in her corsage on some rare day of gaiety, he would tear it\nfrom her, enter into the most jealous rage, and seize and bruise her\nwrists whilst shouting the most fearful threats. For years and years she\nhad lived in that hell, hoping, hoping still, having within her such a\npower of life, such an ardent need of affection, that she continued\nwaiting for happiness, ever thinking, at the faintest breath, that it was\nabout to enter.\n\n\u201cI swear to you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said she, \u201cthat I could not do\notherwise than I have done. I was too unhappy: my whole being longed for\nsomeone who would care for me. And when my friend the first time told me\nthat he loved me it was all over--I was his forever. Ah! to be loved, to\nbe spoken to gently, to have someone near you who is always solicitous\nand amiable; to know that in absence he thinks of you, that there is a\nheart somewhere in which you live... Ah! if it be a crime, Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9, I cannot, cannot feel remorse for it. I will not even say that I\nwas urged to it; I simply say that it came to me as naturally as my\nbreath, because it was as necessary to my life!\u201d\n\nShe had carried her hand to her lips as though to throw a kiss to the\nworld, and Pierre felt deeply disturbed in presence of this lovely woman,\nwho personified all the ardour of human passion, and at the same time a\nfeeling of deep pity began to arise within him.\n\n\u201cPoor woman!\u201d he murmured.\n\n\u201cIt is not to the priest that I am confessing,\u201d she resumed; \u201cit is to\nthe man that I am speaking, to a man by whom I should greatly like to be\nunderstood. No, I am not a believer: religion has not sufficed me. It is\nsaid that some women find contentment in it, a firm protection even\nagainst all transgressions. But I have ever felt cold in church, weary\nunto death. Oh! I know very well that it is wrong to feign piety, to\nmingle religion with my heart affairs. But what would you? I am forced to\nit. If you saw me in Paris behind La Trinit\u00e9 it was because that church\nis the only place to which I am allowed to go alone; and if you find me\nhere at Lourdes it is because, in the whole long year, I have but these\nthree days of happiness and freedom.\u201d\n\nAgain she began to tremble. Hot tears were coursing down her cheeks. A\nvision of it all arose in Pierre\u2019s mind, and, distracted by the thought\nof the ardent earthly love which possessed this unhappy creature, he\nagain murmured: \u201cPoor woman!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she continued, \u201cthink of the hell to which I am\nabout to return! For weeks and months I live my life of martyrdom without\ncomplaint. Another year, another year must go by without a day, an hour\nof happiness! Ah! I am indeed very unhappy, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, yet do you\nnot think all the same that I am a good woman?\u201d\n\nHe had been deeply moved by her sincere display of mingled grief and\npassion. He felt in her the breath of universal desire--a sovereign\nflame. And his compassion overflowed from his heart, and his words were\nwords of pardon. \u201cMadame,\u201d he said, \u201cI pity you and respect you\ninfinitely.\u201d\n\nThen she spoke no further, but looked at him with her large tear-blurred\neyes. And suddenly catching hold of both his hands, she grasped them\ntightly with her burning fingers. And then she went off, vanishing down\nthe passage as light, as ethereal, as a shadow.\n\nHowever, Pierre suffered from her presence in that room even more acutely\nafter she had departed. He opened the window wide that the fresh air\nmight carry off the breath of passion which she had left there. Already\non the Sunday when he had seen her on the balcony he had been seized with\nterror at the thought that she personified the revenge of the world and\nthe flesh amidst all the mystical exaltation of immaculate Lourdes. And\nnow his terror was returning to him. Love seemed stronger than faith, and\nperhaps it was only love that was divine. To love, to belong to one\nanother, to create and continue life--was not that the one sole object of\nnature outside of all social and religious policies? For a moment he was\nconscious of the abyss before him: his chastity was his last prop, the\nvery dignity of his spoilt life; and he realised that, if after yielding\nto his reason he also yielded to his flesh, he would be utterly lost. All\nhis pride of purity, all his strength which he had placed in professional\nrectitude, thereupon returned to him, and he again vowed that he would\nnever be a man, since he had voluntarily cut himself off from among men.\n\nSeven o\u2019clock was striking, and Pierre did not go back to bed, but began\nto wash himself, thoroughly enjoying the cool water, which ended by\ncalming his fever. As he finished dressing, the anxious thought of M. de\nGuersaint recurred to him on hearing a sound of footsteps in the passage.\nThese steps stopped outside his room and someone knocked. With a feeling\nof relief he went to open the door, but on doing so exclaimed in great\nsurprise \u201cWhat, it\u2019s you! How is it that you\u2019re already up, running about\nto see people?\u201d\n\nMarie stood on the threshold smiling, whilst behind her was Sister\nHyacinthe, who had come with her, and who also was smiling, with her\nlovely, candid eyes.\n\n\u201cAh! my friend,\u201d said the girl, \u201cI could not remain in bed. I sprang out\ndirectly I saw the sunshine. I had such a longing to walk, to run and\njump about like a child, and I begged and implored so much that Sister\nwas good enough to come with me. I think I should have got out through\nthe window if the door had been closed against me.\u201d\n\nPierre ushered them in, and an indescribable emotion oppressed him as he\nheard her jest so gaily and saw her move about so freely with such grace\nand liveliness. She, good heavens! she whom he had seen for years with\nlifeless legs and colourless face! Since he had left her the day before\nat the Basilica she had blossomed into full youth and beauty. One night\nhad sufficed for him to find again, developed it is true, the sweet\ncreature whom he had loved so tenderly, the superb, radiant child whom he\nhad embraced so wildly in the by-gone days behind the flowering hedge,\nbeneath the sun-flecked trees.\n\n\u201cHow tall and lovely you are, Marie!\u201d said he, in spite of himself.\n\nThen Sister Hyacinthe interposed: \u201cHasn\u2019t the Blessed Virgin done things\nwell, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9? When she takes us in hand, you see, she turns us\nout as fresh as roses and smelling quite as sweet.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d resumed Marie, \u201cI\u2019m so happy; I feel quite strong and well and\nspotless, as though I had just been born!\u201d\n\nAll this was very delicious to Pierre. It seemed to him that the\natmosphere was now truly purified of Madame Volmar\u2019s presence. Marie\nfilled the room with her candour, with the perfume and brightness of her\ninnocent youth. And yet the joy he felt at the sight of pure beauty and\nlife reflowering was not exempt from sadness. For, after all, the revolt\nwhich he had felt in the crypt, the wound of his wrecked life, must\nforever leave him a bleeding heart. As he gazed upon all that\nresuscitated grace, as the woman he loved thus reappeared before him in\nthe flower of her youth, he could not but remember that she would never\nbe his, that he belonged no longer to the world, but to the grave.\nHowever, he no longer lamented; he experienced a boundless melancholy--a\nsensation of utter nothingness as he told himself that he was dead, that\nthis dawn of beauty was rising on the tomb in which his manhood slept. It\nwas renunciation, accepted, resolved upon amidst all the desolate\ngrandeur attaching to those lives which are led contrary to nature\u2019s law.\nThen, like the other woman, the impassioned one, Marie took hold of\nPierre\u2019s hands. But hers were so soft, so fresh, so soothing! She looked\nat him with so little confusion and a great longing which she dared not\nexpress. After a while, however, she summoned up her courage and said:\n\u201cWill you kiss me, Pierre? It would please me so much.\u201d\n\nHe shuddered, his heart crushed by this last torture. Ah! the kisses of\nother days--those kisses which had ever lingered on his lips! Never since\nhad he kissed her, and to-day she was like a sister flinging her arms\naround his neck. She kissed him with a loud smack on both his cheeks, and\noffering her own, insisted on his doing likewise to her. So twice, in his\nturn, he embraced her.\n\n\u201cI, too, Marie,\u201d said he, \u201cam pleased, very pleased, I assure you.\u201d And\nthen, overcome by emotion, his courage exhausted, whilst at the same time\nfilled with delight and bitterness, he burst into sobs, weeping with his\nface buried in his hands, like a child seeking to hide its tears.\n\n\u201cCome, come, we must not give way,\u201d said Sister Hyacinthe, gaily.\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 would feel too proud if he fancied that we had merely\ncome on his account. M. de Guersaint is about, isn\u2019t he?\u201d\n\nMarie raised a cry of deep affection. \u201cAh! my dear father! After all,\nit\u2019s he who\u2019ll be most pleased!\u201d\n\nThereupon Pierre had to relate that M. de Guersaint had not returned from\nhis excursion to Gavarnie. His increasing anxiety showed itself while he\nspoke, although he sought to explain his friend\u2019s absence, surmising all\nsorts of obstacles and unforeseen complications. Marie, however, did not\nseem afraid, but again laughed, saying that her father never could be\npunctual. Still she was extremely eager for him to see her walking, to\nfind her on her legs again, resuscitated, in the fresh blossoming of her\nyouth.\n\nAll at once Sister Hyacinthe, who had gone to lean over the balcony,\nreturned to the room, saying \u201cHere he comes! He\u2019s down below, just\nalighting from his carriage.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d cried Marie, with the eager playfulness of a school-girl, \u201clet\u2019s\ngive him a surprise. Yes, we must hide, and when he\u2019s here we\u2019ll show\nourselves all of a sudden.\u201d\n\nWith these words, she hastily dragged Sister Hyacinthe into the adjoining\nroom.\n\nAlmost immediately afterwards, M. de Guersaint entered like a whirlwind\nfrom the passage, the door communicating with which had been quickly\nopened by Pierre, and, shaking the young priest\u2019s hand, the belated\nexcursionist exclaimed: \u201cHere I am at last! Ah! my friend, you can\u2019t have\nknown what to think since four o\u2019clock yesterday, when you expected me\nback, eh? But you have no idea of the adventures we have had. To begin\nwith, one of the wheels of our landau came off just as we reached\nGavarnie; then, yesterday evening--though we managed to start off\nagain--a frightful storm detained us all night long at Saint-Sauveur. I\nwasn\u2019t able to sleep a wink.\u201d Then, breaking off, he inquired, \u201cAnd you,\nare you all right?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wasn\u2019t able to sleep either,\u201d said the priest; \u201cthey made such a noise\nin the hotel.\u201d\n\nBut M. de Guersaint had already started off again: \u201cAll the same, it was\ndelightful. I must tell you; you can\u2019t imagine it. I was with three\ndelightful churchmen. Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises is certainly the most charming\nman I know. Oh! we did laugh--we did laugh!\u201d\n\nThen he again stopped, to inquire, \u201cAnd how\u2019s my daughter?\u201d\n\nThereupon a clear laugh behind him caused him to turn round, and he\nremained with his mouth wide open. Marie was there, and was walking, with\na look of rapturous delight upon her face, which was beaming with health.\nHe had never for a moment doubted the miracle, and was not in the least\nsurprised that it had taken place, for he had returned with the\nconviction that everything would end well, and that he would surely find\nher cured. But what so utterly astounded him was the prodigious spectacle\nwhich he had not foreseen: his daughter, looking so beautiful, so divine,\nin her little black gown!--his daughter, who had not even brought a hat\nwith her, and merely had a piece of lace tied over her lovely fair\nhair!--his daughter, full of life, blooming, triumphant, similar to all\nthe daughters of all the fathers whom he had envied for so many years!\n\n\u201cO my child! O my child!\u201d he exclaimed.\n\nAnd, as she had flown into his arms, he pressed her to his heart, and\nthen they fell upon their knees together. Everything disappeared from\nbefore them in a radiant effusion of faith and love. This heedless,\nhare-brained man, who fell asleep instead of accompanying his daughter to\nthe Grotto, who went off to Gavarnie on the day the Blessed Virgin was to\ncure her, overflowed with such paternal affection, with such Christian\nfaith so exalted by thankfulness, that for a moment he appeared sublime.\n\n\u201cO Jesus! O Mary! let me thank you for having restored my child to me! O\nmy child, we shall never have breath enough, soul enough, to render\nthanks to Mary and Jesus for the great happiness they have vouchsafed us!\nO my child, whom they have resuscitated, O my child, whom they have made\nso beautiful again, take my heart to offer it to them with your own! I am\nyours, I am theirs eternally, O my beloved child, my adored child!\u201d\n\nKneeling before the open window they both, with uplifted eyes, gazed\nardently on heaven. The daughter had rested her head on her father\u2019s\nshoulder; whilst he had passed an arm round her waist. They had become\none. Tears slowly trickled down their enraptured faces, which were\nsmiling with superhuman felicity, whilst they stammered together\ndisconnected expressions of gratitude.\n\n\u201cO Jesus, we give Thee thanks! O Holy Mother of Jesus, we give thee\nthanks! We love you, we adore you both. You have rejuvenated the best\nblood in our veins; it is yours, it circulates only for you. O\nAll-powerful Mother, O Divine and Well-beloved Son, behold a daughter and\na father who bless you, who prostrate themselves with joy at your feet.\u201d\n\nSo affecting was this mingling of two beings, happy at last after so many\ndark days, this happiness, which could but stammer as though still tinged\nwith suffering, that Pierre was again moved to tears. But this time they\nwere soothing tears which relieved his heart. Ah! poor pitiable humanity!\nhow pleasant it was to see it somewhat consoled and enraptured! and what\ndid it matter, after all, if its great joys of a few seconds\u2019 duration\nsprang from the eternal illusion! Was not the whole of humanity, pitiable\nhumanity, saved by love, personified by that poor childish man who\nsuddenly became sublime because he found his daughter resuscitated?\n\nStanding a little aside, Sister Hyacinthe was also weeping, her heart\nvery full, full of human emotion which she had never before experienced,\nshe who had known no other parents than the Almighty and the Blessed\nVirgin. Silence had now fallen in this room full of so much tearful\nfraternity. And it was she who spoke the first, when the father and the\ndaughter, overcome with emotion, at length rose up.\n\n\u201cNow, mademoiselle,\u201d she said, \u201cwe must be quick and get back to the\nhospital.\u201d\n\nBut they all protested. M. de Guersaint wished to keep his daughter with\nhim, and Marie\u2019s eyes expressed an eager desire, a longing to enjoy life,\nto walk and ramble through the whole vast world.\n\n\u201cOh! no, no!\u201d said the father, \u201cI won\u2019t give her back to you. We\u2019ll each\nhave a cup of milk, for I\u2019m dying of thirst; then we\u2019ll go out and walk\nabout. Yes, yes, both of us! She shall take my arm, like a little woman!\u201d\n\nSister Hyacinthe laughed again. \u201cVery well!\u201d said she, \u201cI\u2019ll leave her\nwith you, and tell the ladies that you\u2019ve stolen her from me. But for my\nown part I must be off. You\u2019ve no idea what an amount of work we have to\nget through at the hospital if we are to be ready in time to leave: there\nare all the patients and things to be seen to; and all is in the greatest\nconfusion!\u201d\n\n\u201cSo to-day\u2019s really Tuesday, and we leave this afternoon?\u201d asked Monsieur\nde Guersaint, already absent-minded again.\n\n\u201cOf course we do, and don\u2019t forget! The white train starts at 3.40. And\nif you\u2019re sensible you\u2019ll bring your daughter back early so that she may\nhave a little rest.\u201d\n\nMarie walked with the Sister to the door, saying \u201cBe easy, I will be very\ngood. Besides, I want to go back to the Grotto, to thank the Blessed\nVirgin once more.\u201d\n\nWhen they found themselves all three alone in the little room full of\nsunshine, it was delicious. Pierre called the servant and told her to\nbring them some milk, some chocolate, and cakes, in fact the nicest\nthings he could think of. And although Marie had already broken her fast,\nshe ate again, so great an appetite had come upon her since the night\nbefore. They drew the table to the window and made quite a feast amidst\nthe keen air from the mountains, whilst the hundred bells of Lourdes,\nproclaimed with flying peals the glory of that radiant day. They\nchattered and laughed, and the young woman told her father the story of\nthe miracle, with all the oft-repeated details. She related, too, how she\nhad left her box at the Basilica, and how she had slept twelve hours\nwithout stirring. Then M. de Guersaint on his side wished to relate his\nexcursion, but got mixed and kept coming back to the miracle. Finally, it\nappeared that the Cirque de Gavarnie was something colossal. Only, when\nyou looked at it from a distance it seemed small, for you lost all sense\nof proportion. The gigantic snow-covered tiers of cliffs, the topmost\nridge standing out against the sky with the outlines of some cyclopean\nfortress with razed keep and jagged ramparts, the great cascade, whose\nceaseless jet seemed so slow when in reality it must have rushed down\nwith a noise like thunder, the whole immensity, the forests on right and\nleft, the torrents and the landslips, looked as though they might have\nbeen held in the palm of one\u2019s hand, when one gazed upon them from the\nvillage market-place. And what had impressed him most, what he repeatedly\nalluded to, were the strange figures described by the snow, which had\nremained up there amongst the rocks. Amongst others was a huge crucifix,\na white cross, several thousand yards in length, which you might have\nthought had been thrown across the amphitheatre from one end to the\nother.\n\nHowever, all at once M. de Guersaint broke off to inquire: \u201cBy the way,\nwhat\u2019s happening at our neighbour\u2019s? As I came up-stairs a little while\nago I met Monsieur Vigneron running about like a madman; and, through the\nopen doorway of their room, I fancied I saw Madame Vigneron looking very\nred. Has their son Gustave had another attack?\u201d\n\nPierre had quite forgotten Madame Chaise lying dead on the other side of\nthe partition. He seemed to feel a cold breath pass over him. \u201cNo, no,\u201d\n he answered, \u201cthe child is all right.\u201d And he said no more, preferring to\nremain silent. Why spoil this happy hour of new life and reconquered\nyouth by mingling with it the image of death? However, from that moment\nhe himself could not cease thinking of the proximity of nothingness. And\nhe thought, too, of that other room where Madame Volmar\u2019s friend was now\nalone, stifling his sobs with his lips pressed upon a pair of gloves\nwhich he had stolen from her. All the sounds of the hotel were now\nbecoming audible again--the coughs, the sighs, the indistinct voices, the\ncontinual slamming of doors, the creaking of the floors beneath the great\naccumulation of travellers, and all the stir in the passages, along which\nflying skirts were sweeping, and families galloping distractedly amidst\nthe hurry-scurry of departure.\n\n\u201cOn my word! you\u2019ll do yourself an injury,\u201d all at once cried Monsieur de\nGuersaint, on seeing his daughter take up another cake.\n\nMarie was quite merry too. But at a sudden thought tears came into her\neyes, and she exclaimed: \u201cAh! how glad I am! but also how sorry when I\nthink that everybody is not as pleased as myself.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nII. PLEASANT HOURS\n\nIT was eight o\u2019clock, and Marie was so impatient that she could not keep\nstill, but continued going to the window, as if she wished to inhale all\nthe air of the vast, expanse and the immense sky. Ah! what a pleasure to\nbe able to run about the streets, across the squares, to go everywhere as\nfar as she might wish. And to show how strong she was, to have the pride\nof walking leagues in the presence of everyone, now that the Blessed\nVirgin had cured her! It was an irresistible impulsion, a flight of her\nentire being, her blood, and her heart.\n\nHowever, just as she was setting out she made up her mind that her first\nvisit with her father ought to be to the Grotto, where both of them had\nto thank Our Lady of Lourdes. Then they would be free; they would have\ntwo long hours before them, and might walk wherever they chose, before\nshe returned to lunch and pack up her few things at the hospital.\n\n\u201cWell, is everyone ready?\u201d repeated M. de Guersaint. \u201cShall we make a\nmove?\u201d\n\nPierre took his hat, and all three went down-stairs, talking very loud\nand laughing on the staircase, like boisterous school-boys going for\ntheir holidays. They had almost reached the street, when at the doorway\nMadame Majest\u00e9 rushed forward. She had evidently been waiting for them to\ngo out.\n\n\u201cAh! mademoiselle; ah! gentlemen, allow me to congratulate you,\u201d she\nsaid. \u201cWe have heard of the extraordinary favour that has been granted\nyou; we are so happy, so much flattered, when the Blessed Virgin is\npleased to select one of our customers!\u201d\n\nHer dry, harsh face was melting with amiability, and she observed the\nmiraculously healed girl with the fondest of eyes. Then she impulsively\ncalled her husband, who was passing: \u201cLook, my dear! It\u2019s mademoiselle;\nit\u2019s mademoiselle.\u201d\n\nMajest\u00e9\u2019s clean-shaven face, puffed out with yellow fat, assumed a happy\nand grateful expression. \u201cReally, mademoiselle, I cannot tell you how\nhonoured we feel,\u201d said he. \u201cWe shall never forget that your papa put up\nat our place. It has already excited the envy of many people.\u201d\n\nWhile he spoke Madame Majest\u00e9 stopped the other travellers who were going\nout, and with a sign summoned the families already seated in the\ndining-room; indeed, she would have called in the whole street if they\nhad given her time, to show that she had in her house the miracle at\nwhich all Lourdes had been marvelling since the previous day. People\nended by collecting there, a crowd gathered little by little, while she\nwhispered in the ear of each \u201cLook! that\u2019s she; the young party, you\nknow, the young party who--\u201d\n\nBut all at once she exclaimed: \u201cI\u2019ll go and fetch Apolline from the shop;\nI must show mademoiselle to Apolline.\u201d\n\nThereupon, however, Majest\u00e9, in a very dignified way, restrained her.\n\u201cNo,\u201d he said, \u201cleave Apolline; she has three ladies to serve already.\nMademoiselle and these gentlemen will certainly not leave Lourdes without\nmaking a few purchases. The little souvenirs that one carries away with\none are so pleasant to look at later on! And our customers make a point\nof never buying elsewhere than here, in the shop which we have annexed to\nthe hotel.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have already offered my services,\u201d added Madame Majest\u00e9, \u201cand I renew\nthem. Apolline will be so happy to show mademoiselle all our prettiest\narticles, at prices, too, which are incredibly low! Oh! there are some\ndelightful things, delightful!\u201d\n\nMarie was becoming impatient at being detained in this manner, and Pierre\nwas suffering from the increasing curiosity which they were arousing. As\nfor M. de Guersaint, he enjoyed this popularity and triumph of his\ndaughter immensely, and promised to return.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said he, \u201cwe will purchase a few little knick-knacks. Some\nsouvenirs for ourselves, and some presents that we shall have to make,\nbut later on, when we come back.\u201d\n\nAt last they escaped and descended the Avenue de la Grotte. The weather\nwas again superb after the storms of the two preceding nights. Cooled by\nthe rain, the morning air was delicious amidst the gaiety which the\nbright sun shed around. A busy crowd, well pleased with life, was already\nhurrying along the pavements. And what pleasure it all was for Marie, to\nwhom everything seemed new, charming, inappreciable! In the morning she\nhad had to allow Raymonde to lend her a pair of boots, for she had taken\ngood care not to put any in her portmanteau, superstitiously fearing that\nthey might bring her bad luck. However, Raymonde\u2019s boots fitted her\nadmirably, and she listened with childish delight to the little heels\ntapping merrily on the flagstones. And she did not remember having ever\nseen houses so white, trees so green, and passers-by so happy. All her\nsenses seemed holiday-making, endowed with a marvellously delicate\nsensibility; she heard music, smelt distant perfumes, savoured the air\ngreedily, as though it were some delicious fruit. But what she\nconsidered, above all, so nice, so charming, was to walk along in this\nwise on her father\u2019s arm. She had never done so before, although she had\nfelt the desire for years, as for one of those impossible pleasures with\nwhich people occupy their minds when invalided. And now her dream was\nrealised and her heart beat with joy. She pressed against her father, and\nstrove to walk very upright and look very handsome, so as to do him\nhonour. And he was quite proud, as happy as she was, showing, exhibiting\nher, overcome with joy at the thought that she belonged to him, that she\nwas his blood, his flesh, his daughter, henceforth beaming with youth and\nhealth.\n\nAs they were all three crossing the Plateau de la Merlasse, already\nobstructed by a band of candle and bouquet sellers running after the\npilgrims, M. de Guersaint exclaimed, \u201cWe are surely not going to the\nGrotto empty-handed!\u201d\n\nPierre, who was walking on the other side of Marie, himself brightened by\nher merry humour, thereupon stopped, and they were at once surrounded by\na crowd of female hawkers, who with eager fingers thrust their goods into\ntheir faces. \u201cMy beautiful young lady! My good gentleman! Buy of me, of\nme, of me!\u201d Such was the onslaught that it became necessary to struggle\nin order to extricate oneself. M. de Guersaint ended by purchasing the\nlargest nosegay he could see--a bouquet of white marguerites, as round\nand hard as a cabbage--from a handsome, fair-haired, well developed girl\nof twenty, who was extremely bold both in look and manner. It only cost\ntwenty sous, and he insisted on paying for it out of his own little\npurse, somewhat abashed meantime by the girl\u2019s unblushing effrontery.\nThen Pierre in his turn settled for the three candles which Marie had\ntaken from an old woman, candles at two francs each, a very reasonable\nprice, as she repeatedly said. And on being paid, the old creature, who\nhad an angular face, covetous eyes, and a nose like the beak of a bird of\nprey, returned profuse and mellifluous thanks: \u201cMay Our Lady of Lourdes\nbless you, my beautiful young lady! May she cure you of your complaints,\nyou and yours!\u201d This enlivened them again, and they set out once more,\nall three laughing, amused like children at the idea that the good\nwoman\u2019s wish had already been accomplished.\n\nAt the Grotto Marie wished to file off at once, in order to offer the\nbouquet and candles herself before even kneeling down. There were not\nmany people there as yet, and having gone to the end of the line their\nturn came after waiting some three or four minutes. And with what\nenraptured glances did she then examine everything--the altar of engraved\nsilver, the harmonium-organ, the votive offerings, the candle-holders,\nstreaming with wax blazing in broad daylight. She was now inside that\nGrotto which she had hitherto only seen from her box of misery; she\nbreathed there as in Paradise itself, steeped rapturously in a pleasant\nwarmth and odour, which slightly oppressed her. When she had placed the\ntapers at the bottom of the large basket, and had raised herself on\ntiptoe to fix the bouquet on one of the spears of the iron railing, she\nimprinted a long kiss upon the rock, below the statue of the Blessed\nVirgin, at the very spot, indeed, which millions of lips had already\npolished. And the stone received a kiss of love in which she put forth\nall the strength of her gratitude, a kiss with which her heart melted.\n\nWhen she was once more outside, Marie prostrated and humbled herself in\nan almost endless act of thanksgiving. Her father also had knelt down\nnear her, and mingled the fervour of his gratitude with hers. But he\ncould not remain doing the same thing for long. Little by little he\nbecame uneasy, and ended by bending down to his daughter\u2019s ear to tell\nher that he had a call to make which he had previously forgotten.\nAssuredly the best course would be for her to remain where she was,\npraying, and waiting for him. While she completed her devotions he would\nhurry along and get his troublesome errand over; and then they might walk\nabout at ease wheresoever they liked. She did not understand him, did not\neven hear him, but simply nodded her head, promising that she would not\nmove, and then such tender faith again took possession of her that her\neyes, fixed on the white statue of the Virgin, filled with tears.\n\nWhen M. de Guersaint had joined Pierre, who had remained a short distance\noff, he gave him the following explanation. \u201cMy dear fellow,\u201d he said,\n\u201cit\u2019s a matter of conscience; I formally promised the coachman who drove\nus to Gavarnie that I would see his master and tell him the real cause of\nour delay. You know whom I mean--the hairdresser on the Place du\nMarcadal. And, besides, I want to get shaved.\u201d\n\nPierre, who felt uneasy at this proposal, had to give way in face of the\npromise that they would be back within a quarter of an hour. Only, as the\ndistance seemed long, he on his side insisted on taking a trap which was\nstanding at the bottom of the Plateau de la Merlasse. It was a sort of\ngreenish cabriolet, and its driver, a fat fellow of about thirty, with\nthe usual Basque cap on his head, was smoking a cigarette whilst waiting\nto be hired. Perched sideways on the seat with his knees wide apart, he\ndrove them on with the tranquil indifference of a well-fed man who\nconsiders himself the master of the street.\n\n\u201cWe will keep you,\u201d said Pierre as he alighted, when they had reached the\nPlace du Marcadal.\n\n\u201cVery well, very well, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9! I\u2019ll wait for you!\u201d And then,\nleaving his lean horse in the hot sun, the driver went to chat and laugh\nwith a strong, dishevelled servant-girl who was washing a dog in the\nbasin of the neighbouring fountain.\n\nCazaban, as it happened, was just then on the threshold of his shop, the\nlofty windows and pale green painting of which enlivened the dull Place,\nwhich was so deserted on week-days. When he was not pressed with work he\ndelighted to parade in this manner, standing between his two windows,\nwhich pots of pomatum and bottles of perfumery decorated with bright\nshades of colour.\n\nHe at once recognised the gentlemen. \u201cVery flattered, very much honoured.\nPray walk in, I beg of you,\u201d he said.\n\nThen, at the first words which M. de Guersaint said to him to excuse the\nman who had driven him to Gavarnie, he showed himself well disposed. Of\ncourse it was not the man\u2019s fault; he could not prevent wheels coming to\npieces, or storms falling. So long as the travellers did not complain all\nwas well.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d thereupon exclaimed M. de Guersaint, \u201cit\u2019s a magnificent country,\nnever to be forgotten.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, monsieur, as our neighbourhood pleases you, you must come and see\nus again; we don\u2019t ask anything better,\u201d said Cazaban; and, on the\narchitect seating himself in one of the arm-chairs and asking to be\nshaved, he began to bustle about.\n\nHis assistant was still absent, running errands for the pilgrims whom he\nlodged, a whole family, who were taking a case of chaplets, plaster\nVirgins, and framed engravings away with them. You heard a confused\ntramping of feet and violent bursts of conversation coming from the first\nfloor, all the helter-skelter of people whom the approaching departure\nand the packing of purchases lying hither and thither drove almost crazy.\nIn the adjoining dining-room, the door of which had remained open, two\nchildren were draining the dregs of some cups of chocolate which stood\nabout amidst the disorder of the breakfast service. The whole of the\nhouse had been let, entirely given over, and now had come the last hours\nof this invasion which compelled the hairdresser and his wife to seek\nrefuge in the narrow cellar, where they slept on a small camp-bed.\n\nWhile Cazaban was rubbing M. de Guersaint\u2019s cheeks with soap-suds, the\narchitect questioned him. \u201cWell, are you satisfied with the season?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly, monsieur, I can\u2019t complain. As you hear, my travellers are\nleaving to-day, but I am expecting others to-morrow morning; barely\nsufficient time for a sweep out. It will be the same up to October.\u201d\n\nThen, as Pierre remained standing, walking about the shop and looking at\nthe walls with an air of impatience, he turned round politely and said:\n\u201cPray be seated, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9; take a newspaper. It will not be long.\u201d\n\nThe priest having thanked him with a nod, and refusing to sit down, the\nhairdresser, whose tongue was ever itching to talk, continued: \u201cOh! as\nfor myself, I am always busy, my house is renowned for the cleanliness of\nthe beds and the excellence of the fare. Only the town is not satisfied.\nAh, no! I may even say that I have never known so much discontent here.\u201d\n\nHe became silent for a moment, and shaved his customer\u2019s left cheek; then\nagain pausing in his work he suddenly declared with a cry, wrung from him\nby conviction, \u201cThe Fathers of the Grotto are playing with fire,\nmonsieur, that is all I have to say.\u201d\n\nFrom that moment, however, the vent-plug was withdrawn, and he talked and\ntalked and talked again. His big eyes rolled in his long face with\nprominent cheek-bones and sunburnt complexion sprinkled with red, while\nthe whole of his nervous little body continued on the jump, agitated by\nhis growing exuberance of speech and gesture. He returned to his former\nindictment, and enumerated all the many grievances that the old town had\nagainst the Fathers. The hotel-keepers complained; the dealers in\nreligious fancy articles did not take half the amount they ought to have\nrealised; and, finally, the new town monopolised both the pilgrims and\nthe cash; there was now no possibility for anyone but the keepers of the\nlodging-houses, hotels, and shops open in the neighbourhood of the Grotto\nto make any money whatever. It was a merciless struggle, a deadly\nhostility increasing from day to day, the old city losing a little of its\nlife each season, and assuredly destined to disappear,--to be choked,\nassassinated, by the young town. Ah! their dirty Grotto! He would rather\nhave his feet cut off than tread there. Wasn\u2019t it heart-rending, that\nknick-knack shop which they had stuck beside it? A shameful thing, at\nwhich a bishop had shown himself so indignant that it was said he had\nwritten to the Pope! He, Cazaban, who flattered himself with being a\nfreethinker and a Republican of the old days, who already under the\nEmpire had voted for the Opposition candidates, assuredly had the right\nto declare that he did not believe in their dirty Grotto, and that he did\nnot care a fig for it!\n\n\u201cLook here, monsieur,\u201d he continued; \u201cI am going to tell you a fact. My\nbrother belongs to the municipal council, and it\u2019s through him that I\nknow it. I must tell you first of all that we now have a Republican\nmunicipal council, which is much worried by the demoralisation of the\ntown. You can no longer go out at night without meeting girls in the\nstreets--you know, those candle hawkers! They gad about with the drivers\nwho come here when the season commences, and swell the suspicious\nfloating population which comes no one knows whence. And I must also\nexplain to you the position of the Fathers towards the town. When they\npurchased the land at the Grotto they signed an agreement by which they\nundertook not to engage in any business there. Well, they have opened a\nshop in spite of their signature. Is not that an unfair rivalry, unworthy\nof honest people? So the new council decided on sending them a deputation\nto insist on the agreement being respected, and enjoining them to close\ntheir shop at once. What do you think they answered, monsieur? Oh! what\nthey have replied twenty times before, what they will always answer, when\nthey are reminded of their engagements: \u2018Very well, we consent to keep\nthem, but we are masters at our own place, and we\u2019ll close the Grotto!\u2019\u201d\n\nHe raised himself up, his razor in the air, and, repeating his words, his\neyes dilated by the enormity of the thing, he said, \u201c\u2018We\u2019ll close the\nGrotto.\u2019\u201d\n\nPierre, who was continuing his slow walk, suddenly stopped and said in\nhis face, \u201cWell! the municipal council had only to answer, \u2018Close it.\u2019\u201d\n\nAt this Cazaban almost choked; the blood rushed to his face, he was\nbeside himself, and stammered out \u201cClose the Grotto?--Close the Grotto?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly! As the Grotto irritates you and rends your heart; as it\u2019s a\ncause of continual warfare, injustice, and corruption. Everything would\nbe over, we should hear no more about it. That would really be a capital\nsolution, and if the council had the power it would render you a service\nby forcing the Fathers to carry out their threat.\u201d\n\nAs Pierre went on speaking, Cazaban\u2019s anger subsided. He became very calm\nand somewhat pale, and in the depths of his big eyes the priest detected\nan expression of increasing uneasiness. Had he not gone too far in his\npassion against the Fathers? Many ecclesiastics did not like them;\nperhaps this young priest was simply at Lourdes for the purpose of\nstirring-up an agitation against them. Then who knows?--it might possibly\nresult in the Grotto being closed later on. But it was by the Grotto that\nthey all lived. If the old city screeched with rage at only picking up\nthe crumbs, it was well pleased to secure even that windfall; and the\nfreethinkers themselves, who coined money with the pilgrims, like\neveryone else, held their tongues, ill at ease, and even frightened, when\nthey found people too much of their opinion with regard to the\nobjectionable features of new Lourdes. It was necessary to be prudent.\n\nCazaban thereupon returned to M. de Guersaint, whose other cheek he began\nshaving, murmuring the while in an off-hand manner: \u201cOh! what I say about\nthe Grotto is not because it troubles me much in reality, and, besides,\neveryone must live.\u201d\n\nIn the dining-room, the children, amidst deafening shouts, had just\nbroken one of the bowls, and Pierre, glancing through the open doorway,\nagain noticed the engravings of religious subjects and the plaster Virgin\nwith which the hairdresser had ornamented the apartment in order to\nplease his lodgers. And just then, too, a voice shouted from the first\nfloor that the trunk was ready, and that they would be much obliged if\nthe assistant would cord it as soon as he returned.\n\nHowever, Cazaban, in the presence of these two gentlemen whom, as a\nmatter of fact, he did not know, remained suspicious and uneasy, his\nbrain haunted by all sorts of disquieting suppositions. He was in despair\nat the idea of having to let them go away without learning anything about\nthem, especially after having exposed himself. If he had only been able\nto withdraw the more rabid of his biting remarks about the Fathers.\nAccordingly, when M. de Guersaint rose to wash his chin, he yielded to a\ndesire to renew the conversation.\n\n\u201cHave you heard talk of yesterday\u2019s miracle? The town is quite upside\ndown with it; more than twenty people have already given me an account of\nwhat occurred. Yes, it seems they obtained an extraordinary miracle, a\nparalytic young lady got up and dragged her invalid carriage as far as\nthe choir of the Basilica.\u201d\n\nM. de Guersaint, who was about to sit down after wiping himself, gave a\ncomplacent laugh. \u201cThat young lady is my daughter,\u201d he said.\n\nThereupon, under this sudden and fortunate flash of enlightenment,\nCazaban became all smiles. He felt reassured, and combed M. de\nGuersaint\u2019s hair with a masterly touch, amid a returning exuberance of\nspeech and gesture. \u201cAh! monsieur, I congratulate you, I am flattered at\nhaving you in my hands. Since the young lady your daughter is cured, your\nfather\u2019s heart is at ease. Am I not right?\u201d\n\nAnd he also found a few pleasant words for Pierre. Then, when he had\ndecided to let them go, he looked at the priest with an air of\nconviction, and remarked, like a sensible man, desirous of coming to a\nconclusion on the subject of miracles: \u201cThere are some, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\nwhich are good fortunes for everybody. From time to time we require one\nof that description.\u201d\n\nOutside, M. de Guersaint had to go and fetch the coachman, who was still\nlaughing with the servant-girl, while her dog, dripping with water, was\nshaking itself in the sun. In five minutes the trap brought them back to\nthe bottom of the Plateau de la Merlasse. The trip had taken a good\nhalf-hour. Pierre wanted to keep the conveyance, with the idea of showing\nMarie the town without giving her too much fatigue. So, while the father\nran to the Grotto to fetch his daughter, he waited there beneath the\ntrees.\n\nThe coachman at once engaged in conversation with the priest. He had lit\nanother cigarette and showed himself very familiar. He came from a\nvillage in the environs of Toulouse, and did not complain, for he earned\ngood round sums each day at Lourdes. You fed well there, said he, you\namused yourself, it was what you might call a good neighbourhood. He said\nthese things with the _abandon_ of a man who was not troubled with\nreligious scruples, but yet did not forget the respect which he owed to\nan ecclesiastic.\n\nAt last, from the top of his box, where he remained half lying down,\ndangling one of his legs, he allowed this remark to fall slowly from his\nlips: \u201cAh! yes, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, Lourdes has caught on well, but the\nquestion is whether it will all last long!\u201d\n\nPierre, who was very much struck by the remark, was pondering on its\ninvoluntary profundity, when M. de Guersaint reappeared, bringing Marie\nwith him. He had found her kneeling on the same spot, in the same act of\nfaith and thankfulness, at the feet of the Blessed Virgin; and it seemed\nas if she had brought all the brilliant light of the Grotto away in her\neyes, so vividly did they sparkle with divine joy at her cure. She would\nnot entertain a proposal to keep the trap. No, no! she preferred to go on\nfoot; she did not care about seeing the town, so long as she might for\nanother hour continue walking on her father\u2019s arm through the gardens,\nthe streets, the squares, anywhere they pleased! And, when Pierre had\npaid the driver, it was she who turned into a path of the Esplanade\ngarden, delighted at being able to saunter in this wise beside the turf\nand the flower beds, under the great trees. The grass, the leaves, the\nshady solitary walks where you heard the everlasting rippling of the\nGave, were so sweet and fresh! But afterwards she wished to return by way\nof the streets, among the crowd, that she might find the agitation,\nnoise, and life, the need of which possessed her whole being.\n\nIn the Rue St. Joseph, on perceiving the panorama, where the former\nGrotto was depicted, with Bernadette kneeling down before it on the day\nof the miracle of the candle, the idea occurred to Pierre to go in. Marie\nbecame as happy as a child; and even M. de Guersaint was full of innocent\ndelight, especially when he noticed that among the batch of pilgrims who\ndived at the same time as themselves into the depths of the obscure\ncorridor, several recognised in his daughter the girl so miraculously\nhealed the day before, who was already famous, and whose name flew from\nmouth to mouth. Up above, on the circular platform, when they came out\ninto the diffuse light, filtering through a vellum, there was a sort of\novation around Marie; soft whispers, beatifical glances, a rapture of\ndelight in seeing, following, and touching her. Now glory had come, she\nwould be loved in that way wherever she went, and it was not until the\nshowman who gave the explanations had placed himself at the head of the\nlittle party of visitors, and begun to walk round, relating the incident\ndepicted on the huge circular canvas, nearly five hundred feet in length,\nthat she was in some measure forgotten. The painting represented the\nseventeenth apparition of the Blessed Virgin to Bernadette, on the day\nwhen, kneeling before the Grotto during her vision, she had heedlessly\nleft her hand on the flame of the candle without burning it. The whole of\nthe old primitive landscape of the Grotto was shown, the whole scene was\nset out with all its historical personages: the doctor verifying the\nmiracle watch in hand, the Mayor, the Commissary of Police, and the\nPublic Prosecutor, whose names the showman gave out, amidst the amazement\nof the public following him.\n\nThen, by an unconscious transition of ideas, Pierre recalled the remark\nwhich the driver of the cabriolet had made a short time previously:\n\u201cLourdes has caught on well, but the question is whether it will all last\nlong.\u201d That, in fact, was the question. How many venerated sanctuaries\nhad thus been built already, at the bidding of innocent chosen children,\nto whom the Blessed Virgin had shown herself! It was always the same\nstory beginning afresh: an apparition; a persecuted shepherdess, who was\ncalled a liar; next the covert propulsion of human misery hungering after\nillusion; then propaganda, and the triumph of the sanctuary shining like\na star; and afterwards decline, and oblivion, when the ecstatic dream of\nanother visionary gave birth to another sanctuary elsewhere. It seemed as\nif the power of illusion wore away; that it was necessary in the course\nof centuries to displace it, set it amidst new scenery, under fresh\ncircumstances, in order to renew its force. La Salette had dethroned the\nold wooden and stone Virgins that had healed; Lourdes had just dethroned\nLa Salette, pending the time when it would be dethroned itself by Our\nLady of to-morrow, she who will show her sweet, consoling features to\nsome pure child as yet unborn. Only, if Lourdes had met with such rapid,\nsuch prodigious fortune, it assuredly owed it to the little sincere soul,\nthe delightful charm of Bernadette. Here there was no deceit, no\nfalsehood, merely the blossoming of suffering, a delicate sick child who\nbrought to the afflicted multitude her dream of justice and equality in\nthe miraculous. She was merely eternal hope, eternal consolation.\nBesides, all historical and social circumstances seem to have combined to\nincrease the need of this mystical flight at the close of a terrible\ncentury of positivist inquiry; and that was perhaps the reason why\nLourdes would still long endure in its triumph, before becoming a mere\nlegend, one of those dead religions whose powerful perfume has\nevaporated.\n\nAh! that ancient Lourdes, that city of peace and belief, the only\npossible cradle where the legend could come into being, how easily Pierre\nconjured it up before him, whilst walking round the vast canvas of the\nPanorama! That canvas said everything; it was the best lesson of things\nthat could be seen. The monotonous explanations of the showman were not\nheard; the landscape spoke for itself. First of all there was the Grotto,\nthe rocky hollow beside the Gave, a savage spot suitable for\nreverie--bushy slopes and heaps of fallen stone, without a path among\nthem; and nothing yet in the way of ornamentation--no monumental quay, no\ngarden paths winding among trimly cut shrubs; no Grotto set in order,\ndeformed, enclosed with iron railings; above all, no shop for the sale of\nreligious articles, that simony shop which was the scandal of all pious\nsouls. The Virgin could not have selected a more solitary and charming\nnook wherein to show herself to the chosen one of her heart, the poor\nyoung girl who came thither still possessed by the dream of her painful\nnights, even whilst gathering dead wood. And on the opposite side of the\nGave, behind the rock of the castle, was old Lourdes, confident and\nasleep. Another age was then conjured up; a small town, with narrow\npebble-paved streets, black houses with marble dressings, and an antique,\nsemi-Spanish church, full of old carvings, and peopled with visions of\ngold and painted flesh. Communication with other places was only kept up\nby the Bagn\u00e8res and Cauterets _diligences_, which twice a day forded the\nLapaca to climb the steep causeway of the Rue Basse. The spirit of the\ncentury had not breathed on those peaceful roofs sheltering a belated\npopulation which had remained childish, enclosed within the narrow limits\nof strict religious discipline. There was no debauchery; a slow antique\ncommerce sufficed for daily life, a poor life whose hardships were the\nsafeguards of morality. And Pierre had never better understood how\nBernadette, born in that land of faith and honesty, had flowered like a\nnatural rose, budding on the briars of the road.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s all the same very curious,\u201d observed M. de Guersaint when they\nfound themselves in the street again. \u201cI\u2019m not at all sorry I saw it.\u201d\n\nMarie was also laughing with pleasure. \u201cOne would almost think oneself\nthere. Isn\u2019t it so, father? At times it seems as if the people were going\nto move. And how charming Bernadette looks on her knees, in ecstasy,\nwhile the candle flame licks her fingers without burning them.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us see,\u201d said the architect; \u201cwe have only an hour left, so we must\nthink of making our purchases, if we wish to buy anything. Shall we take\na look at the shops? We certainly promised Majest\u00e9 to give him the\npreference; but that does not prevent us from making a few inquiries. Eh!\nPierre, what do you say?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! certainly, as you like,\u201d answered the priest. \u201cBesides, it will give\nus a walk.\u201d\n\nAnd he thereupon followed the young girl and her father, who returned to\nthe Plateau de la Merlasse. Since he had quitted the Panorama he felt as\nthough he no longer knew where he was. It seemed to him as if he had all\nat once been transported from one to another town, parted by centuries.\nHe had left the solitude, the slumbering peacefulness of old Lourdes,\nwhich the dead light of the vellum had increased, to fall at last into\nnew Lourdes, sparkling with brightness and noisy with the crowd. Ten\no\u2019clock had just struck, and extraordinary animation reigned on the\nfootways, where before breakfast an entire people was hastening to\ncomplete its purchases, so that it might have nothing but its departure\nto think of afterwards. The thousands of pilgrims of the national\npilgrimage streamed along the thoroughfares and besieged the shops in a\nfinal scramble. You would have taken the cries, the jostling, and the\nsudden rushes for those at some fair just breaking up amidst a ceaseless\nroll of vehicles. Many, providing themselves with provisions for the\njourney, cleared the open-air stalls where bread and slices of sausages\nand ham were sold. Others purchased fruit and wine; baskets were filled\nwith bottles and greasy parcels until they almost burst. A hawker who was\nwheeling some cheeses about on a small truck saw his goods carried off as\nif swept away by the wind. But what the crowd more particularly purchased\nwere religious articles, and those hawkers whose barrows were loaded with\nstatuettes and sacred engravings were reaping golden gains. The customers\nat the shops stood in strings on the pavement; the women were belted with\nimmense chaplets, had Blessed Virgins tucked under their arms, and were\nprovided with cans which they meant to fill at the miraculous spring.\nCarried in the hand or slung from the shoulder, some of them quite plain\nand others daubed over with a Lady of Lourdes in blue paint, these cans\nheld from one to ten quarts apiece; and, shining with all the brightness\nof new tin, clashing, too, at times with the sharp jingle of stew-pans,\nthey added a gay note to the aspect of the noisy multitude. And the fever\nof dealing, the pleasure of spending one\u2019s money, of returning home with\none\u2019s pockets crammed with photographs and medals, lit up all faces with\na holiday expression, transforming the radiant gathering into a\nfair-field crowd with appetites either beyond control or satisfied.\n\nOn the Plateau de la Merlasse, M. de Guersaint for a moment felt tempted\nto enter one of the finest and most patronised shops, on the board over\nwhich were these words in large letters: \u201cSoubirous, Brother of\nBernadette.\u201d\n\n\u201cEh! what if we were to make our purchases there? It would be more\nappropriate, more interesting to remember.\u201d\n\nHowever, he passed on, repeating that they must see everything first of\nall.\n\nPierre had looked at the shop kept by Bernadette\u2019s brother with a heavy\nheart. It grieved him to find the brother selling the Blessed Virgin whom\nthe sister had beheld. However, it was necessary to live, and he had\nreason to believe that, beside the triumphant Basilica resplendent with\ngold, the visionary\u2019s relatives were not making a fortune, the\ncompetition being so terrible. If on the one hand the pilgrims left\nmillions behind them at Lourdes, on the other there were more than two\nhundred dealers in religious articles, to say nothing of the hotel and\nlodging-house keepers, to whom the largest part of the spoils fell; and\nthus the gain, so eagerly disputed, ended by being moderate enough after\nall. Along the Plateau on the right and left of the repository kept by\nBernadette\u2019s brother, other shops appeared, an uninterrupted row of them,\npressing one against the other, each occupying a division of a long\nwooden structure, a sort of gallery erected by the town, which derived\nfrom it some sixty thousand francs a year. It formed a regular bazaar of\nopen stalls, encroaching on the pavements so as to tempt people to stop\nas they passed along. For more than three hundred yards no other trade\nwas plied: a river of chaplets, medals, and statuettes streamed without\nend behind the windows; and in enormous letters on the boards above\nappeared the venerated names of Saint Roch, Saint Joseph, Jerusalem, The\nImmaculate Virgin, The Sacred Heart of Mary, all the names in Paradise\nthat were most likely to touch and attract customers.\n\n\u201cReally,\u201d said M. de Guersaint, \u201cI think it\u2019s the same thing all over the\nplace. Let us go anywhere.\u201d He himself had had enough of it, this\ninterminable display was quite exhausting him.\n\n\u201cBut as you promised to make the purchases at Majest\u00e9\u2019s,\u201d said Marie, who\nwas not, in the least tired, \u201cthe best thing will be to go back.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s it; let\u2019s return to Majest\u00e9\u2019s place.\u201d\n\nBut the rows of shops began again in the Avenue de la Grotte. They\nswarmed on both sides; and among them here were jewellers, drapers, and\numbrella-makers, who also dealt in religious articles. There was even a\nconfectioner who sold boxes of pastilles _\u00e0 l\u2019eau de Lourdes_, with a\nfigure of the Virgin on the cover. A photographer\u2019s windows were crammed\nwith views of the Grotto and the Basilica, and portraits of Bishops and\nreverend Fathers of all Orders, mixed up with views of famous sites in\nthe neighbouring mountains. A bookseller displayed the last Catholic\npublications, volumes bearing devout titles, and among them the\ninnumerable works published on Lourdes during the last twenty years, some\nof which had had a wonderful success, which was still fresh in memory. In\nthis broad, populous thoroughfare the crowd streamed along in more open\norder; their cans jingled, everyone was in high spirits, amid the bright\nsunrays which enfiladed the road from one end to the other. And it seemed\nas if there would never be a finish to the statuettes, the medals, and\nthe chaplets; one display followed another; and, indeed, there were miles\nof them running through the streets of the entire town, which was ever\nthe same bazaar selling the same articles.\n\nIn front of the Hotel of the Apparitions M. de Guersaint again hesitated.\n\u201cThen it\u2019s decided, we are going to make our purchases there?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said Marie. \u201cSee what a beautiful shop it is!\u201d\n\nAnd she was the first to enter the establishment, which was, in fact, one\nof the largest in the street, occupying the ground-floor of the hotel on\nthe left hand. M. de Guersaint and Pierre followed her.\n\nApolline, the niece of the Majest\u00e9s, who was in charge of the place, was\nstanding on a stool, taking some holy-water vases from a top shelf to\nshow them to a young man, an elegant bearer, wearing beautiful yellow\ngaiters. She was laughing with the cooing sound of a dove, and looked\ncharming with her thick black hair and her superb eyes, set in a somewhat\nsquare face, which had a straight forehead, chubby cheeks, and full red\nlips. Jumping lightly to the ground, she exclaimed: \u201cThen you don\u2019t think\nthat this pattern would please madame, your aunt?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d answered the bearer, as he went off. \u201cObtain the other pattern.\nI shall not leave until to-morrow, and will come back.\u201d\n\nWhen Apolline learnt that Marie was the young person visited by the\nmiracle of whom Madame Majest\u00e9 had been talking ever since the previous\nday, she became extremely attentive. She looked at her with her merry\nsmile, in which there was a dash of surprise and covert incredulity.\nHowever, like the clever saleswoman that she was, she was profuse in\ncomplimentary remarks. \u201cAh, mademoiselle, I shall be so happy to sell to\nyou! Your miracle is so beautiful! Look, the whole shop is at your\ndisposal. We have the largest choice.\u201d\n\nMarie was ill at ease. \u201cThank you,\u201d she replied, \u201cyou are very good. But\nwe have only come to buy a few small things.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you will allow us,\u201d said M. de Guersaint, \u201cwe will choose ourselves.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well. That\u2019s it, monsieur. Afterwards we will see!\u201d\n\nAnd as some other customers now came in, Apolline forgot them, returned\nto her duties as a pretty saleswoman, with caressing words and seductive\nglances, especially for the gentlemen, whom she never allowed to leave\nuntil they had their pockets full of purchases.\n\nM. de Guersaint had only two francs left of the louis which Blanche, his\neldest daughter, had slipped into his hand when he was leaving, as\npocket-money; and so he did not dare to make any large selection. But\nPierre declared that they would cause him great pain if they did not\nallow him to offer them the few things which they would like to take away\nwith them from Lourdes. It was therefore understood that they would first\nof all choose a present for Blanche, and then Marie and her father should\nselect the souvenirs that pleased them best.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t let us hurry,\u201d repeated M. de Guersaint, who had become very gay.\n\u201cCome, Marie, have a good look. What would be most likely to please\nBlanche?\u201d\n\nAll three looked, searched, and rummaged. But their indecision increased\nas they went from one object to another. With its counters, show-cases,\nand nests of drawers, furnishing it from top to bottom, the spacious shop\nwas a sea of endless billows, overflowing with all the religious\nknick-knacks imaginable. There were the chaplets: skeins of chaplets\nhanging along the walls, and heaps of chaplets lying in the drawers, from\nhumble ones costing twenty sous a dozen, to those of sweet-scented wood,\nagate, and lapis-lazuli, with chains of gold or silver; and some of them,\nof immense length, made to go twice round the neck or waist, had carved\nbeads, as large as walnuts, separated by death\u2019s-heads. Then there were\nthe medals: a shower of medals, boxes full of medals, of all sizes, of\nall metals, the cheapest and the most precious. They bore different\ninscriptions, they represented the Basilica, the Grotto, or the\nImmaculate Conception; they were engraved, _repouss\u00e9es_, or enamelled,\nexecuted with care, or made by the gross, according to the price. And\nnext there were the Blessed Virgins, great and small, in zinc, wood,\nivory, and especially plaster; some entirely white, others tinted in\nbright colours, in accordance with the description given by Bernadette;\nthe amiable and smiling face, the extremely long veil, the blue sash, and\nthe golden roses on the feet, there being, however, some slight\nmodification in each model so as to guarantee the copyright. And there\nwas another flood of other religious objects: a hundred varieties of\nscapularies, a thousand different sorts of sacred pictures: fine\nengravings, large chromo-lithographs in glaring colours, submerged\nbeneath a mass of smaller pictures, which were coloured, gilded,\nvarnished, decorated with bouquets of flowers, and bordered with lace\npaper. And there was also jewellery: rings, brooches, and bracelets,\nloaded with stars and crosses, and ornamented with saintly figures.\nFinally, there was the Paris article, which rose above and submerged all\nthe rest: pencil-holders, purses, cigar-holders, paperweights,\npaper-knives, even snuff-boxes; and innumerable other objects on which\nthe Basilica, Grotto, and Blessed Virgin ever and ever appeared,\nreproduced in every way, by every process that is known. Heaped together\npell-mell in one of the cases reserved to articles at fifty centimes\napiece were napkin-rings, egg-cups, and wooden pipes, on which was carved\nthe beaming apparition of Our Lady of Lourdes.\n\nLittle by little, M. de Guersaint, with the annoyance of a man who prides\nhimself on being an artist, became disgusted and quite sad. \u201cBut all this\nis frightful, frightful!\u201d he repeated at every new article he took up to\nlook at.\n\nThen he relieved himself by reminding Pierre of the ruinous attempt which\nhe had made to improve the artistic quality of religious prints. The\nremains of his fortune had been lost in that attempt, and the thought\nmade him all the more angry, in presence of the wretched productions with\nwhich the shop was crammed. Had anyone ever seen things of such idiotic,\npretentious, and complicated ugliness! The vulgarity of the ideas and the\nsilliness of the expressions portrayed rivalled the commonplace character\nof the composition. You were reminded of fashion-plates, the covers of\nboxes of sweets, and the wax dolls\u2019 heads that revolve in hairdressers\u2019\nwindows; it was an art abounding in false prettiness, painfully childish,\nwith no really human touch in it, no tone, and no sincerity. And the\narchitect, who was wound up, could not stop, but went on to express his\ndisgust with the buildings of new Lourdes, the pitiable disfigurement of\nthe Grotto, the colossal monstrosity of the inclined ways, the disastrous\nlack of symmetry in the church of the Rosary and the Basilica, the former\nlooking too heavy, like a corn market, whilst the latter had an anaemical\nstructural leanness with no kind of style but the mongrel.\n\n\u201cAh! one must really be very fond of God,\u201d he at last concluded, \u201cto have\ncourage enough to come and adore Him amidst such horrors! They have\nfailed in everything, spoilt everything, as though out of pleasure. Not\none of them has experienced that moment of true feeling, of real\nnaturalness and sincere faith, which gives birth to masterpieces. They\nare all clever people, but all plagiarists; not one has given his mind\nand being to the undertaking. And what must they not require to inspire\nthem, since they have failed to produce anything grand even in this land\nof miracles?\u201d\n\nPierre did not reply, but he was very much struck by these reflections,\nwhich at last gave him an explanation of a feeling of discomfort that he\nhad experienced ever since his arrival at Lourdes. This discomfort arose\nfrom the difference between the modern surroundings and the faith of past\nages which it sought to resuscitate. He thought of the old cathedrals\nwhere quivered that faith of nations; he pictured the former attributes\nof worship--the images, the goldsmith\u2019s work, the saints in wood and\nstone--all of admirable power and beauty of expression. The fact was that\nin those ancient times the workmen had been true believers, had given\ntheir whole souls and bodies and all the candour of their feelings to\ntheir productions, just as M. de Guersaint said. But nowadays architects\nbuilt churches with the same practical tranquillity that they erected\nfive-storey houses, just as the religious articles, the chaplets, the\nmedals, and the statuettes were manufactured by the gross in the populous\nquarters of Paris by merrymaking workmen who did not even follow their\nreligion. And thus what slopwork, what toymakers\u2019, ironmongers\u2019 stuff it\nall was! of a prettiness fit to make you cry, a silly sentimentality fit\nto make your heart turn with disgust! Lourdes was inundated, devastated,\ndisfigured by it all to such a point as to quite upset persons with any\ndelicacy of taste who happened to stray through its streets. It clashed\njarringly with the attempted resuscitation of the legends, ceremonies,\nand processions of dead ages; and all at once it occurred to Pierre that\nthe social and historical condemnation of Lourdes lay in this, that faith\nis forever dead among a people when it no longer introduces it into the\nchurches it builds or the chaplets it manufactures.\n\nHowever, Marie had continued examining the shelves with the impatience of\na child, hesitating, and finding nothing which seemed to her worthy of\nthe great dream of ecstasy which she would ever keep within her.\n\n\u201cFather,\u201d she said, \u201cit is getting late; you must take me back to the\nhospital; and to make up my mind, look, I will give Blanche this medal\nwith the silver chain. After all it\u2019s the most simple and prettiest thing\nhere. She will wear it; it will make her a little piece of jewellery. As\nfor myself, I will take this statuette of Our Lady of Lourdes, this small\none, which is rather prettily painted. I shall place it in my room and\nsurround it with fresh flowers. It will be very nice, will it not?\u201d\n\nM. de Guersaint approved of her idea, and then busied himself with his\nown choice. \u201cO dear! oh dear! how embarrassed I am!\u201d said he.\n\nHe was examining some ivory-handled penholders capped with pea-like\nballs, in which were microscopic photographs, and while bringing one of\nthe little holes to his eye to look in it he raised an exclamation of\nmingled surprise and pleasure. \u201cHallo! here\u2019s the Cirque de Gavarnie! Ah!\nit\u2019s prodigious; everything is there; how can that colossal panorama have\nbeen got into so small a space? Come, I\u2019ll take this penholder; it\u2019s\ncurious, and  will remind me of my excursion.\u201d\n\nPierre had simply chosen a portrait of Bernadette, the large photograph\nwhich represents her on her knees in a black gown, with a handkerchief\ntied over her hair, and which is said to be the only one in existence\ntaken from life. He hastened to pay, and they were all three on the point\nof leaving when Madame Majest\u00e9 entered, protested, and positively\ninsisted on making Marie a little present, saying that it would bring her\nestablishment good-fortune. \u201cI beg of you, mademoiselle, take a\nscapulary,\u201d said she. \u201cLook among those there. The Blessed Virgin who\nchose you will repay me in good luck.\u201d\n\nShe raised her voice and made so much fuss that the purchasers filling\nthe shop were interested, and began gazing at the girl with envious eyes.\nIt was popularity bursting out again around her, a popularity which ended\neven by reaching the street when the landlady went to the threshold of\nthe shop, making signs to the tradespeople opposite and putting all the\nneighbourhood in a flutter.\n\n\u201cLet us go,\u201d repeated Marie, feeling more and more uncomfortable.\n\nBut her father, on noticing a priest come in, detained her. \u201cAh! Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises!\u201d\n\nIt was in fact the handsome Abb\u00e9, clad in a cassock of fine cloth\nemitting a pleasant odour, and with an expression of soft gaiety on his\nfresh-coloured face. He had not noticed his companion of the previous\nday, but had gone straight to Apolline and taken her on one side. And\nPierre overheard him saying in a subdued tone: \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you bring me\nmy three-dozen chaplets this morning?\u201d\n\nApolline again began laughing with the cooing notes of a dove, and looked\nat him sideways, roguishly, without answering.\n\n\u201cThey are for my little penitents at Toulouse. I wanted to place them at\nthe bottom of my trunk; and you offered to help me pack my linen.\u201d\n\nShe continued laughing, and her pretty eyes sparkled.\n\n\u201cHowever, I shall not leave before to-morrow. Bring them me to-night,\nwill you not? When you are at liberty. It\u2019s at the end of the street, at\nDuch\u00eane\u2019s.\u201d\n\nThereupon, with a slight movement of her red lips, and in a somewhat\nbantering way, which left him in doubt as to whether she would keep her\npromise, she replied: \u201cCertainly, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I will go.\u201d\n\nThey were now interrupted by M. de Guersaint, who came forward to shake\nthe priest\u2019s hand. And the two men at once began talking again of the\nCirque de Gavarnie: they had had a delightful trip, a most pleasant time,\nwhich they would never forget. Then they enjoyed a laugh at the expense\nof their two companions, ecclesiastics of slender means, good-natured\nfellows, who had much amused them. And the architect ended by reminding\nhis new friend that he had kindly promised to induce a personage at\nToulouse, who was ten times a millionaire, to interest himself in his\nstudies on navigable balloons. \u201cA first advance of a hundred thousand\nfrancs would be sufficient,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cYou can rely on me,\u201d answered Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises. \u201cYou will not have\nprayed to the Blessed Virgin in vain.\u201d\n\nHowever, Pierre, who had kept Bernadette\u2019s portrait in his hand, had just\nthen been struck by the extraordinary likeness between Apolline and the\nvisionary. It was the same rather massive face, the same full thick\nmouth, and the same magnificent eyes; and he recollected that Madame\nMajest\u00e9 had already pointed out to him this striking resemblance, which\nwas all the more peculiar as Apolline had passed through a similar\npoverty-stricken childhood at Bartres before her aunt had taken her with\nher to assist in keeping the shop. Bernadette! Apolline! What a strange\nassociation, what an unexpected reincarnation at thirty years\u2019 distance!\nAnd, all at once, with this Apolline, who was so flightily merry and\ncareless, and in regard to whom there were so many odd rumours, new\nLourdes rose before his eyes: the coachmen, the candle-girls, the persons\nwho let rooms and waylaid tenants at the railway station, the hundreds of\nfurnished houses with discreet little lodgings, the crowd of free\npriests, the lady hospitallers, and the simple passers-by, who came there\nto satisfy their appetites. Then, too, there was the trading mania\nexcited by the shower of millions, the entire town given up to lucre, the\nshops transforming the streets into bazaars which devoured one another,\nthe hotels living gluttonously on the pilgrims, even to the Blue Sisters\nwho kept a _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_, and the Fathers of the Grotto who coined money\nwith their God! What a sad and frightful course of events, the vision of\npure Bernadette inflaming multitudes, making them rush to the illusion of\nhappiness, bringing a river of gold to the town, and from that moment\nrotting everything. The breath of superstition had sufficed to make\nhumanity flock thither, to attract abundance of money, and to corrupt\nthis honest corner of the earth forever. Where the candid lily had\nformerly bloomed there now grew the carnal rose, in the new loam of\ncupidity and enjoyment. Bethlehem had become Sodom since an innocent\nchild had seen the Virgin.\n\n\u201cEh? What did I tell you?\u201d exclaimed Madame Majest\u00e9, perceiving that\nPierre was comparing her niece with the portrait. \u201cApolline is Bernadette\nall over!\u201d\n\nThe young girl approached with her amiable smile, flattered at first by\nthe comparison.\n\n\u201cLet\u2019s see, let\u2019s see!\u201d said Abb\u00e9 des Hermoises, with an air of lively\ninterest.\n\nHe took the photograph in his turn, compared it with the girl, and then\nexclaimed in amazement: \u201cIt\u2019s wonderful; the same features. I had not\nnoticed it before. Really I\u2019m delighted--\u201d\n\n\u201cStill I fancy she had a larger nose,\u201d Apolline ended by remarking.\n\nThe Abb\u00e9 then raised an exclamation of irresistible admiration: \u201cOh! you\nare prettier, much prettier, that\u2019s evident. But that does not matter,\nanyone would take you for two sisters.\u201d\n\nPierre could not refrain from laughing, he thought the remark so\npeculiar. Ah! poor Bernadette was absolutely dead, and she had no sister.\nShe could not have been born again; it would have been impossible for her\nto exist in the region of crowded life and passion which she had made.\n\nAt length Marie went off leaning on her father\u2019s arm, and it was agreed\nthat they would both call and fetch her at the hospital to go to the\nstation together. More than fifty people were awaiting her in the street\nin a state of ecstasy. They bowed to her and followed her; and one woman\neven made her infirm child, whom she was bringing back from the Grotto,\ntouch her gown.\n\n\n\n\nIII. DEPARTURE\n\nAt half-past two o\u2019clock the white train, which was to leave Lourdes at\nthree-forty, was already in the station, alongside the second platform.\nFor three days it had been waiting on a siding, in the same state as when\nit had come from Paris, and since it had been run into the station again\nwhite flags had been waving from the foremost and hindmost of its\ncarriages, by way of preventing any mistakes on the part of the pilgrims,\nwhose entraining was usually a very long and troublesome affair.\nMoreover, all the fourteen trains of the pilgrimage were timed to leave\nthat day. The green train had started off at ten o\u2019clock, followed by the\npink and the yellow trains, and the others--the orange, the grey, and the\nblue--would start in turn after the white train had taken its departure.\nIt was, indeed, another terrible day\u2019s work for the station staff, amidst\na tumult and a scramble which altogether distracted them.\n\nHowever, the departure of the white train was always the event of the day\nwhich provoked most interest and emotion, for it took away with it all\nthe more afflicted patients, amongst whom were naturally those loved by\nthe Virgin and chosen by her for the miraculous cures. Accordingly, a\nlarge, serried crowd was collected under the roofing of the spacious\nplatform, a hundred yards in length, where all the benches were already\ncovered with waiting pilgrims and their parcels. In the refreshment-room,\nat one end of the buildings, men were drinking beer and women ordering\nlemonade at the little tables which had been taken by assault, whilst at\nthe other end bearers stood on guard at the goods entrance so as to keep\nthe way clear for the speedy passage of the patients, who would soon be\narriving. And all along the broad platform there was incessant coming and\ngoing, poor people rushing hither and thither in bewilderment, priests\ntrotting along to render assistance, gentlemen in frock-coats looking on\nwith quiet inquisitiveness: indeed, all the jumbling and jostling of the\nmost mixed, most variegated throng ever elbowed in a railway station.\n\nAt three o\u2019clock, however, the sick had not yet reached the station, and\nBaron Suire was in despair, his anxiety arising from the dearth of\nhorses, for a number of unexpected tourists had arrived at Lourdes that\nmorning and hired conveyances for Bareges, Cauterets, and Gavarnie. At\nlast, however, the Baron espied Berthaud and G\u00e9rard arriving in all\nhaste, after scouring the town; and when he had rushed up to them they\nsoon pacified him by announcing that things were going splendidly. They\nhad been able to procure the needful animals, and the removal of the\npatients from the hospital was now being carried out under the most\nfavorable circumstances. Squads of bearers with their stretchers and\nlittle carts were already in the station yard, watching for the arrival\nof the vans, breaks, and other vehicles which had been recruited. A\nreserve supply of mattresses and cushions was, moreover, heaped up beside\na lamp-post. Nevertheless, just as the first patients arrived, Baron\nSuire again lost his head, whilst Berthaud and G\u00e9rard hastened to the\nplatform from which the train would start. There they began to\nsuperintend matters, and gave orders amidst an increasing scramble.\n\nFather Fourcade was on this platform, walking up and down alongside the\ntrain, on Father Massias\u2019s arm. Seeing Doctor Bonamy approach, he stopped\nshort to speak to him: \u201cAh, doctor,\u201d said he, \u201cI am pleased to see you.\nFather Massias, who is about to leave us, was again telling me just now\nof the extraordinary favor granted by the Blessed Virgin to that\ninteresting young person, Mademoiselle Marie de Guersaint. There has not\nbeen such a brilliant miracle for years! It is signal good-fortune for\nus--a blessing which should render our labours fruitful. All Christendom\nwill be illumined, comforted, enriched by it.\u201d\n\nHe was radiant with pleasure, and forthwith the doctor with his\nclean-shaven face, heavy, peaceful features, and usually tired eyes, also\nbegan to exult: \u201cYes, your reverence, it is prodigious, prodigious! I\nshall write a pamphlet about it. Never was cure produced by supernatural\nmeans in a more authentic manner. Ah! what a stir it will create!\u201d\n\nThen, as they had begun walking to and fro again, all three together, he\nnoticed that Father Fourcade was dragging his leg with increased\ndifficulty, leaning heavily the while on his companion\u2019s arm. \u201cIs your\nattack of gout worse, your reverence?\u201d he inquired. \u201cYou seem to be\nsuffering a great deal.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! don\u2019t speak of it; I wasn\u2019t able to close my eyes all night! It is\nvery annoying that this attack should have come on me the very day of my\narrival here! It might as well have waited. But there is nothing to be\ndone, so don\u2019t let us talk of it any more. I am, at all events, very\npleased with this year\u2019s result.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! yes, yes indeed,\u201d in his turn said Father Massias, in a voice which\nquivered with fervour; \u201cwe may all feel proud, and go away with our\nhearts full of enthusiasm and gratitude. How many prodigies there have\nbeen, in addition to the healing of that young woman you spoke of! There\nis no counting all the miracles: deaf women and dumb women have recovered\ntheir faculties, faces disfigured by sores have become as smooth as the\nhand, moribund consumptives have come to life again and eaten and danced!\nIt is not a train of sufferers, but a train of resurrection, a train of\nglory, that I am about to take back to Paris!\u201d\n\nHe had ceased to see the ailing creatures around him, and in the\nblindness of his faith was soaring triumphantly.\n\nThen, alongside the carriages, whose compartments were beginning to fill,\nthey all three continued their slow saunter, smiling at the pilgrims who\nbowed to them, and at times again stopping to address a kind word to some\nmournful woman who, pale and shivering, passed by upon a stretcher. They\nboldly declared that she was looking much better, and would assuredly\nsoon get well.\n\nHowever, the station-master, who was incessantly bustling about, passed\nby, calling in a shrill voice: \u201cDon\u2019t block up the platform, please;\ndon\u2019t block up the platform!\u201d And on Berthaud pointing out to him that it\nwas, at all events, necessary to deposit the stretchers on the platform\nbefore hoisting the patients into the carriages, he became quite angry:\n\u201cBut, come, come; is it reasonable?\u201d he asked. \u201cLook at that little\nhand-cart which has been left on the rails over yonder. I expect the\ntrain to Toulouse in a few minutes. Do you want your people to be crushed\nto death?\u201d\n\nThen he went off at a run to instruct some porters to keep the bewildered\nflock of pilgrims away from the rails. Many of them, old and simple\npeople, did not even recognise the colour of their train, and this was\nthe reason why one and all wore cards of some particular hue hanging from\ntheir necks, so that they might be led and entrained like marked cattle.\nAnd what a constant state of excitement it was, with the starting of\nthese fourteen special trains, in addition to all the ordinary traffic,\nin which no change had been made.\n\nPierre arrived, valise in hand, and found some difficulty in reaching the\nplatform. He was alone, for Marie had expressed an ardent desire to kneel\nonce more at the Grotto, so that her soul might burn with gratitude\nbefore the Blessed Virgin until the last moment; and so he had left M. de\nGuersaint to conduct her thither whilst he himself settled the hotel\nbill. Moreover, he had made them promise that they would take a fly to\nthe station, and they would certainly arrive within a quarter of an hour.\nMeantime, his idea was to seek their carriage, and there rid himself of\nhis valise. This, however, was not an easy task, and he only recognised\nthe carriage eventually by the placard which had been swinging from it in\nthe sunlight and the storms during the last three days--a square of\npasteboard bearing the names of Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and Sisters Hyacinthe\nand Claire des Anges. There could be no mistake, and Pierre again\npictured the compartments full of his travelling companions. Some\ncushions already marked M. Sabathier\u2019s corner, and on the seat where\nMarie had experienced such suffering he still found some scratches caused\nby the ironwork of her box. Then, having deposited his valise in his own\nplace, he remained on the platform waiting and looking around him, with a\nslight feeling of surprise at not perceiving Doctor Chassaigne, who had\npromised to come and embrace him before the train started.\n\nNow that Marie was well again, Pierre had laid his bearer straps aside,\nand merely wore the red cross of the pilgrimage on his cassock. The\nstation, of which he had caught but a glimpse, in the livid dawn amidst\nthe anguish of the terrible morning of their arrival, now surprised him\nby its spacious platforms, its broad exits, and its clear gaiety. He\ncould not see the mountains, but some verdant slopes rose up on the other\nside, in front of the waiting-rooms; and that afternoon the weather was\ndelightfully mild, the sky of a milky whiteness, with light fleecy clouds\nveiling the sun, whence there fell a broad diffuse light, like a\nnacreous, pearly dust: \u201cmaiden\u2019s weather,\u201d as country folk are wont to\nsay.\n\nThe big clock had just struck three, and Pierre was looking at it when he\nsaw Madame D\u00e9sagneaux and Madame Volmar arrive, followed by Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re and her daughter. These ladies, who had driven from the\nhospital in a landau, at once began looking for their carriage, and it\nwas Raymonde who first recognised the first-class compartment in which\nshe had travelled from Paris. \u201cMamma, mamma, here; here it is!\u201d she\ncalled. \u201cStay a little while with us; you have plenty of time to install\nyourself among your patients, since they haven\u2019t yet arrived.\u201d\n\nPierre now again found himself face to face with Madame Volmar, and their\nglances met. However, he gave no sign of recognition, and on her side\nthere was but a slight sudden drooping of the eyelids. She had again\nassumed the air of a languid, indolent, black-robed woman, who modestly\nshrinks back, well pleased to escape notice. Her brasier-like eyes no\nlonger glowed; it was only at long intervals that they kindled into a\nspark beneath the veil of indifference, the moire-like shade, which\ndimmed them.\n\n\u201cOh! it was a fearful sick headache!\u201d she was repeating to Madame\nD\u00e9sagneaux. \u201cAnd, you can see, I\u2019ve hardly recovered the use of my poor\nhead yet. It\u2019s the journey which brings it on. It\u2019s the same thing every\nyear.\u201d\n\nHowever, Berthaud and G\u00e9rard, who had just perceived the ladies, were\nhurrying up to them. That morning they had presented themselves at the\nHospital of Our Lady of Dolours, and Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re had received\nthem in a little office near the linen-room. Thereupon, apologising with\nsmiling affability for making his request amidst such a hurly-burly,\nBerthaud had solicited the hand of Mademoiselle Raymonde for his cousin,\nG\u00e9rard. They at once felt themselves at ease, the mother, with some show\nof emotion, saying that Lourdes would bring the young couple good luck.\nAnd so the marriage was arranged in a few words, amidst general\nsatisfaction. A meeting was even appointed for the fifteenth of September\nat the Ch\u00e2teau of Berneville, near Caen, an estate belonging to\nRaymonde\u2019s uncle, the diplomatist, whom Berthaud knew, and to whom he\npromised to introduce G\u00e9rard. Then Raymonde was summoned, and blushed\nwith pleasure as she placed her little hand in those of her betrothed.\n\nBinding her now upon the platform, the latter began paying her every\nattention, and asking, \u201cWould you like some pillows for the night? Don\u2019t\nmake any ceremony about it; I can give you plenty, both for yourself and\nfor these ladies who are accompanying you.\u201d\n\nHowever, Raymonde gaily refused the offer, \u201cNo, no,\u201d said she, \u201cwe are\nnot so delicate. Keep them for the poor sufferers.\u201d\n\nAll the ladies were now talking together. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re declared\nthat she was so tired, so tired that she no longer felt alive; and yet\nshe displayed great happiness, her eyes smiling as she glanced at her\ndaughter and the young man she was engaged to. But neither Berthaud nor\nG\u00e9rard could remain there; they had their duties to perform, and\naccordingly took their leave, after reminding Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and\nRaymonde of the appointed meeting. It was understood, was it not, on\nSeptember 15th, at the Ch\u00e2teau of Berneville? Yes, yes, it was\nunderstood! And then came fresh smiles and handshakes, whilst the eyes of\nthe newly engaged couple--caressing, delighted eyes--added all that they\ndared not say aloud in the midst of such a throng.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d exclaimed little Madame D\u00e9sagneaux, \u201cyou will go to Berneville on\nthe 15th? But if we stay at Trouville till the 10th, as my husband wishes\nto do, we will go to see you!\u201d And then, turning towards Madame Volmar,\nwho stood there silent, she added, \u201cYou ought to come as well, my dear.\nIt would be so nice to meet there all together.\u201d\n\nBut, with a slow wave of the hand and an air of weary indifference,\nMadame Volmar answered, \u201cOh! my holiday is all over; I am going home.\u201d\n\nJust then her eyes again met those of Pierre, who had remained standing\nnear the party, and he fancied that she became confused, whilst an\nexpression of indescribable suffering passed over her lifeless face.\n\nThe Sisters of the Assumption were now arriving, and the ladies joined\nthem in front of the cantine van. Ferrand, who had come with the Sisters\nfrom the hospital, got into the van, and then helped Sister\nSaint-Fran\u00e7ois to mount upon the somewhat high footboard. Then he\nremained standing on the threshold of the van--transformed into a kitchen\nand containing all sorts of supplies for the journey, such as bread,\nbroth, milk, and chocolate,--whilst Sister Hyacinthe and Sister Claire\ndes Anges, who were still on the platform, passed him his little\nmedicine-chest and some small articles of luggage.\n\n\u201cYou are sure you have everything?\u201d Sister Hyacinthe asked him. \u201cAll\nright. Well, now you only have to go and lie down in your corner and get\nto sleep, since you complain that your services are not utilised.\u201d\n\nFerrand began to laugh softly. \u201cI shall help Sister Saint-Fran\u00e7ois,\u201d said\nhe. \u201cI shall light the oil-stove, wash the crockery, carry the cups of\nbroth and milk to the patients whenever we stop, according to the\ntime-table hanging yonder; and if, all the same, you _should_ require a\ndoctor, you will please come to fetch me.\u201d\n\nSister Hyacinthe had also begun to laugh. \u201cBut we no longer require a\ndoctor since all our patients are cured,\u201d she replied; and, fixing her\neyes on his, with her calm, sisterly air, she added, \u201cGood-bye, Monsieur\nFerrand.\u201d\n\nHe smiled again, whilst a feeling of deep emotion brought moisture to his\neyes. The tremulous accents of his voice expressed his conviction that he\nwould never be able to forget this journey, his joy at having seen her\nagain, and the souvenir of divine and eternal affection which he was\ntaking away with him. \u201cGood-bye, Sister,\u201d said he.\n\nThen Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re talked of going to her carriage with Sister\nClaire des Anges and Sister Hyacinthe; but the latter assured her that\nthere was no hurry, since the sick pilgrims were as yet scarcely\narriving. She left her, therefore, taking the other Sister with her, and\npromising to see to everything. Moreover, she even insisted on ridding\nthe superintendent of her little bag, saying that she would find it on\nher seat when it was time for her to come. Thus the ladies continued\nwalking and chatting gaily on the broad platform, where the atmosphere\nwas so pleasant.\n\nPierre, however, his eyes fixed upon the big clock, watched the minutes\nhasten by on the dial, and began to feel surprised at not seeing Marie\narrive with her father. It was to be hoped that M. de Guersaint would not\nlose himself on the road!\n\nThe young priest was still watching, when, to his surprise, he caught\nsight of M. Vigneron, in a state of perfect exasperation, pushing his\nwife and little Gustave furiously before him.\n\n\u201cOh, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201ctell me where our carriage is! Help\nme to put our luggage and this child in it. I am at my wit\u2019s end! They\nhave made me altogether lose my temper.\u201d\n\nThen, on reaching the second-class compartment, he caught hold of\nPierre\u2019s hands, just as the young man was about to place little Gustave\ninside, and quite an outburst followed. \u201cCould you believe it? They\ninsist on my starting. They tell me that my return-ticket will not be\navailable if I wait here till to-morrow. It was of no use my telling them\nabout the accident. As it is, it\u2019s by no means pleasant to have to stay\nwith that corpse, watch over it, see it put in a coffin, and remove it\nto-morrow within the regulation time. But they pretend that it doesn\u2019t\nconcern them, that they already make large enough reductions on the\npilgrimage tickets, and that they can\u2019t enter into any questions of\npeople dying.\u201d\n\nMadame Vigneron stood all of a tremble listening to him, whilst Gustave,\nforgotten, staggering on his crutch with fatigue, raised his poor,\ninquisitive, suffering face.\n\n\u201cBut at all events,\u201d continued the irate father, \u201cas I told them, it\u2019s a\ncase of compulsion. What do they expect me to do with that corpse? I\ncan\u2019t take it under my arm, and bring it them to-day, like an article of\nluggage! I am therefore absolutely obliged to remain behind. But no! ah!\nhow many stupid and wicked people there are!\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you spoken to the station-master?\u201d asked Pierre.\n\n\u201cThe station-master! Oh! he\u2019s somewhere about, in the midst of the\nscramble. They were never able to find him. How could you have anything\ndone properly in such a bear-garden? Still, I mean to rout him out, and\ngive him a bit of my mind!\u201d\n\nThen, perceiving his wife standing beside him motionless, glued as it\nwere to the platform, he cried: \u201cWhat are you doing there? Get in, so\nthat we may pass you the youngster and the parcels!\u201d\n\nWith these words he pushed her in, and threw the parcels after her,\nwhilst the young priest took Gustave in his arms. The poor little fellow,\nwho was as light as a bird, seemingly thinner than before, consumed by\nsores, and so full of pain, raised a faint cry. \u201cOh, my dear child, have\nI hurt you?\u201d asked Pierre.\n\n\u201cNo, no, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, but I\u2019ve been moved about so much to-day, and\nI\u2019m very tired this afternoon.\u201d As he spoke, he smiled with his usual\nintelligent and mournful expression, and then, sinking back into his\ncorner, closed his eyes, exhausted, indeed done for, by this fearful trip\nto Lourdes.\n\n\u201cAs you can very well understand,\u201d now resumed M. Vigneron, \u201cit by no\nmeans amuses me to stay here, kicking my heels, while my wife and my son\ngo back to Paris without me. They have to go, however, for life at the\nhotel is no longer bearable; and besides, if I kept them with me, and the\nrailway people won\u2019t listen to reason, I should have to pay three extra\nfares. And to make matters worse, my wife hasn\u2019t got much brains. I\u2019m\nafraid she won\u2019t be able to manage things properly.\u201d\n\nThen, almost breathless, he overwhelmed Madame Vigneron with the most\nminute instructions--what she was to do during the journey, how she was\nto get back home on arriving in Paris, and what steps she was to take if\nGustave was to have another attack. Somewhat scared, she responded, in\nall docility, to each recommendation: \u201cYes, yes, dear--of course, dear,\nof course.\u201d\n\nBut all at once her husband\u2019s rage came back to him. \u201cAfter all,\u201d he\nshouted, \u201cwhat I want to know is whether my return ticket be good or not!\nI must know for certain! They must find that station-master for me!\u201d\n\nHe was already on the point of rushing away through the crowd, when he\nnoticed Gustave\u2019s crutch lying on the platform. This was disastrous, and\nhe raised his eyes to heaven as though to call Providence to witness that\nhe would never be able to extricate himself from such awful\ncomplications. And, throwing the crutch to his wife, he hurried off,\ndistracted and shouting, \u201cThere, take it! You forget everything!\u201d\n\nThe sick pilgrims were now flocking into the station, and, as on the\noccasion of their arrival, there was plenty of disorderly carting along\nthe platform and across the lines. All the abominable ailments, all the\nsores, all the deformities, went past once more, neither their gravity\nnor their number seeming to have decreased; for the few cures which had\nbeen effected were but a faint inappreciable gleam of light amidst the\ngeneral mourning. They were taken back as they had come. The little\ncarts, laden with helpless old women with their bags at their feet,\ngrated over the rails. The stretchers on which you saw inflated bodies\nand pale faces with glittering eyes, swayed amidst the jostling of the\nthrong. There was wild and senseless haste, indescribable confusion,\nquestions, calls, sudden running, all the whirling of a flock which\ncannot find the entrance to the pen. And the bearers ended by losing\ntheir heads, no longer knowing which direction to take amidst the warning\ncries of the porters, who at each moment were frightening people,\ndistracting them with anguish. \u201cTake care, take care over there! Make\nhaste! No, no, don\u2019t cross! The Toulouse train, the Toulouse train!\u201d\n\nRetracing his steps, Pierre again perceived the ladies, Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re and the others, still gaily chatting together. Lingering near\nthem, he listened to Berthaud, whom Father Fourcade had stopped, to\ncongratulate him on the good order which had been maintained throughout\nthe pilgrimage. The ex-public prosecutor was now bowing his thanks,\nfeeling quite flattered by this praise. \u201cIs it not a lesson for their\nRepublic, your reverence?\u201d he asked. \u201cPeople get killed in Paris when\nsuch crowds as these celebrate some bloody anniversary of their hateful\nhistory. They ought to come and take a lesson here.\u201d\n\nHe was delighted with the thought of being disagreeable to the Government\nwhich had compelled him to resign. He was never so happy as when women\nwere just saved from being knocked over amidst the great concourse of\nbelievers at Lourdes. However, he did not seem to be satisfied with the\nresults of the political propaganda which he came to further there,\nduring three days, every year. Fits of impatience came over him, things\ndid not move fast enough. When did Our Lady of Lourdes mean to bring back\nthe monarchy?\n\n\u201cYou see, your reverence,\u201d said he, \u201cthe only means, the real triumph,\nwould be to bring the working classes of the towns here _en masse_. I\nshall cease dreaming, I shall devote myself to that entirely. Ah! if one\ncould only create a Catholic democracy!\u201d\n\nFather Fourcade had become very grave. His fine, intelligent eyes filled\nwith a dreamy expression, and wandered far away. How many times already\nhad he himself made the creation of that new people the object of his\nefforts! But was not the breath of a new Messiah needed for the\naccomplishment of such a task? \u201cYes, yes,\u201d he murmured, \u201ca Catholic\ndemocracy; ah! the history of humanity would begin afresh!\u201d\n\nBut Father Massias interrupted him in a passionate voice, saying that all\nthe nations of the earth would end by coming; whilst Doctor Bonamy, who\nalready detected a slight subsidence of fervour among the pilgrims,\nwagged his head and expressed the opinion that the faithful ones of the\nGrotto ought to increase their zeal. To his mind, success especially\ndepended on the greatest possible measure of publicity being given to the\nmiracles. And he assumed a radiant air and laughed complacently whilst\npointing to the tumultuous _d\u00e9file_ of the sick. \u201cLook at them!\u201d said he.\n\u201cDon\u2019t they go off looking better? There are a great many who, although\nthey don\u2019t appear to be cured, are nevertheless carrying the germs of\ncure away with them; of that you may be certain! Ah! the good people;\nthey do far more than we do all together for the glory of Our Lady of\nLourdes!\u201d\n\nHowever, he had to check himself, for Madame Dieulafay was passing before\nthem, in her box lined with quilted silk. She was deposited in front of\nthe door of the first-class carriage, in which a maid was already placing\nthe luggage. Pity came to all who beheld the unhappy woman, for she did\nnot seem to have awakened from her prostration during her three days\u2019\nsojourn at Lourdes. What she had been when they had removed her from the\ncarriage on the morning of her arrival, that she also was now when the\nbearers were about to place her inside it again--clad in lace, covered\nwith jewels, still with the lifeless, imbecile face of a mummy slowly\nliquefying; and, indeed, one might have thought that she had become yet\nmore wasted, that she was being taken back diminished, shrunken more and\nmore to the proportions of a child, by the march of that horrible disease\nwhich, after destroying her bones, was now dissolving the softened fibres\nof her muscles. Inconsolable, bowed down by the loss of their last hope,\nher husband and sister, their eyes red, were following her with Abb\u00e9\nJudaine, even as one follows a corpse to the grave.\n\n\u201cNo, no! not yet!\u201d said the old priest to the bearers, in order to\nprevent them from placing the box in the carriage. \u201cShe will have time\nenough to roll along in there. Let her have the warmth of that lovely sky\nabove her till the last possible moment.\u201d\n\nThen, seeing Pierre near him, he drew him a few steps aside, and, in a\nvoice broken by grief, resumed: \u201cAh! I am indeed distressed. Again this\nmorning I had a hope. I had her taken to the Grotto, I said my mass for\nher, and came back to pray till eleven o\u2019clock. But nothing came of it;\nthe Blessed Virgin did not listen to me. Although she cured me, a poor,\nuseless old man like me, I could not obtain from her the cure of this\nbeautiful, young, and wealthy woman, whose life ought to be a continual\n_f\u00eate_. Undoubtedly the Blessed Virgin knows what she ought to do better\nthan ourselves, and I bow and bless her name. Nevertheless, my soul is\nfull of frightful sadness.\u201d\n\nHe did not tell everything; he did not confess the thought which was\nupsetting him, simple, childish, worthy man that he was, whose life had\nnever been troubled by either passion or doubt. But his thought was that\nthose poor weeping people, the husband and the sister, had too many\nmillions, that the presents they had brought were too costly, that they\nhad given far too much money to the Basilica. A miracle is not to be\nbought. The wealth of the world is a hindrance rather than an advantage\nwhen you address yourself to God. Assuredly, if the Blessed Virgin had\nturned a deaf ear to their entreaties, had shown them but a stern, cold\ncountenance, it was in order that she might the more attentively listen\nto the weak voices of the lowly ones who had come to her with empty\nhands, with no other wealth than their love, and these she had loaded\nwith grace, flooded with the glowing affection of her Divine Motherhood.\nAnd those poor wealthy ones, who had not been heard, that sister and that\nhusband, both so wretched beside the sorry body they were taking away\nwith them, they themselves felt like pariahs among the throng of the\nhumble who had been consoled or healed; they seemed embarrassed by their\nvery luxury, and recoiled, awkward and ill at ease, covered with shame at\nthe thought that Our Lady of Lourdes had relieved beggars whilst never\ncasting a glance upon that beautiful and powerful lady agonising unto\ndeath amidst all her lace!\n\nAll at once it occurred to Pierre that he might have missed seeing M. de\nGuersaint and Marie arrive, and that they were perhaps already in the\ncarriage. He returned thither, but there was still only his valise on the\nseat. Sister Hyacinthe and Sister Claire des Anges, however, had begun to\ninstall themselves, pending the arrival of their charges, and as G\u00e9rard\njust then brought up M. Sabathier in a little handcart, Pierre helped to\nplace him in the carriage, a laborious task which put both the young\npriest and G\u00e9rard into a perspiration. The ex-professor, who looked\ndisconsolate though very calm, at once settled himself in his corner.\n\n\u201cThank you, gentlemen,\u201d said he. \u201cThat\u2019s over, thank goodness. And now\nthey\u2019ll only have to take me out at Paris.\u201d\n\nAfter wrapping a rug round his legs, Madame Sabathier, who was also\nthere, got out of the carriage and remained standing near the open door.\nShe was talking to Pierre when all at once she broke off to say: \u201cAh!\nhere\u2019s Madame Maze coming to take her seat. She confided in me the other\nday, you know. She\u2019s a very unhappy little woman.\u201d\n\nThen, in an obliging spirit, she called to her and offered to watch over\nher things. But Madame Maze shook her head, laughed, and gesticulated as\nthough she were out of her senses.\n\n\u201cNo, no, I am not going,\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cWhat! you are not going back?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, I am not going--that is, I am, but not with you, not with you!\u201d\n\nShe wore such an extraordinary air, she looked so bright, that Pierre and\nMadame Sabathier found it difficult to recognise her. Her fair,\nprematurely faded face was radiant, she seemed to be ten years younger,\nsuddenly aroused from the infinite sadness into which desertion had\nplunged her. And, at last, her joy overflowing, she raised a cry: \u201cI am\ngoing off with him! Yes, he has come to fetch me, he is taking me with\nhim. Yes, yes, we are going to Luchon together, together!\u201d\n\nThen, with a rapturous glance, she pointed out a dark, sturdy-looking\nyoung man, with gay eyes and bright red lips, who was purchasing some\nnewspapers. \u201cThere! that\u2019s my husband,\u201d said she, \u201cthat handsome man\nwho\u2019s laughing over there with the newspaper-girl. He turned up here\nearly this morning, and he\u2019s carrying me off. We shall take the Toulouse\ntrain in a couple of minutes. Ah! dear madame, I told you of all my\nworries, and you can understand my happiness, can\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nHowever, she could not remain silent, but again spoke of the frightful\nletter which she had received on Sunday, a letter in which he had\ndeclared to her that if she should take advantage of her sojourn at\nLourdes to come to Luchon after him, he would not open the door to her.\nAnd, think of it, theirs had been a love match! But for ten years he had\nneglected her, profiting by his continual journeys as a commercial\ntraveller to take friends about with him from one to the other end of\nFrance. Ah! that time she had thought it all over, she had asked the\nBlessed Virgin to let her die, for she knew that the faithless one was at\nthat very moment at Luchon with two friends. What was it then that had\nhappened? A thunderbolt must certainly have fallen from heaven. Those two\nfriends must have received a warning from on high--perhaps they had\ndreamt that they were already condemned to everlasting punishment. At all\nevents they had fled one evening without a word of explanation, and he,\nunable to live alone, had suddenly been seized with a desire to fetch his\nwife and keep her with him for a week. Grace must have certainly fallen\non him, though he did not say it, for he was so kind and pleasant that\nshe could not do otherwise than believe in a real beginning of\nconversion.\n\n\u201cAh! how grateful I am to the Blessed Virgin,\u201d she continued; \u201cshe alone\ncan have acted, and I well understood her last evening. It seemed to me\nthat she made me a little sign just at the very moment when my husband\nwas making up his mind to come here to fetch me. I asked him at what time\nit was that the idea occurred to him, and the hours fit in exactly. Ah!\nthere has been no greater miracle. The others make me smile with their\nmended legs and their vanished sores. Blessed be Our Lady of Lourdes, who\nhas healed my heart!\u201d\n\nJust then the sturdy young man turned round, and she darted away to join\nhim, so full of delight that she forgot to bid the others good-bye. And\nit was at this moment, amidst the growing crowd of patients whom the\nbearers were bringing, that the Toulouse train at last came in. The\ntumult increased, the confusion became extraordinary. Bells rang and\nsignals worked, whilst the station-master was seen rushing up, shouting\nwith all the strength of his lungs: \u201cBe careful there! Clear the line at\nonce!\u201d\n\nA railway _employ\u00e9_ had to rush from the platform to push a little\nvehicle, which had been forgotten on the line, with an old woman in it,\nout of harm\u2019s way; however, yet another scared band of pilgrims ran\nacross when the steaming, growling engine was only thirty yards distant.\nOthers, losing their heads, would have been crushed by the wheels if\nporters had not roughly caught them by the shoulders. Then, without\nhaving pounded anybody, the train at last stopped alongside the\nmattresses, pillows, and cushions lying hither and thither, and the\nbewildered, whirling groups of people. The carriage doors opened and a\ntorrent of travellers alighted, whilst another torrent climbed in, these\ntwo obstinately contending currents bringing the tumult to a climax.\nFaces, first wearing an inquisitive expression, and then overcome by\nstupefaction at the astonishing sight, showed themselves at the windows\nof the doors which remained closed; and, among them, one especially\nnoticed the faces of two remarkably pretty girls, whose large candid eyes\nended by expressing the most dolorous compassion.\n\nFollowed by her husband, however, Madame Maze had climbed into one of the\ncarriages, feeling as happy and buoyant as if she were in her twentieth\nyear again, as on the already distant evening of her honeymoon journey.\nAnd the doors having been slammed, the engine gave a loud whistle and\nbegan to move, going off slowly and heavily between the throng, which, in\nthe rear of the train, flowed on to the lines again like an invading\ntorrent whose flood-gates have been swept away.\n\n\u201cBar the platform!\u201d shouted the station-master to his men. \u201cKeep watch\nwhen the engine comes up!\u201d\n\nThe belated patients and pilgrims had arrived during this alert. La\nGrivotte passed by with her feverish eyes and excited, dancing gait,\nfollowed by Elise Rouquet and Sophie Couteau, who were very gay, and\nquite out of breath through running. All three hastened to their\ncarriage, where Sister Hyacinthe scolded them. They had almost been left\nbehind at the Grotto, where, at times, the pilgrims lingered forgetfully,\nunable to tear themselves away, still imploring and entreating the\nBlessed Virgin, when the train was waiting for them at the\nrailway-station.\n\nAll at once Pierre, who likewise was anxious, no longer knowing what to\nthink, perceived M. de Guersaint and Marie quietly talking with Abb\u00e9\nJudaine on the covered platform. He hastened to join them, and told them\nof his impatience. \u201cWhat have you been doing?\u201d he asked. \u201cI was losing\nall hope.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat have we been doing?\u201d responded M. de Guersaint, with quiet\nastonishment. \u201cWe were at the Grotto, as you know very well. There was a\npriest there, preaching in a most remarkable manner, and we should still\nbe there if I hadn\u2019t remembered that we had to leave. And we took a fly\nhere, as we promised you we would do.\u201d\n\nHe broke off to look at the clock. \u201cBut hang it all!\u201d he added, \u201cthere\u2019s\nno hurry. The train won\u2019t start for another quarter of an hour.\u201d\n\nThis was true. Then Marie, smiling with divine joy, exclaimed: \u201cOh! if\nyou only knew, Pierre, what happiness I have brought away from that last\nvisit to the Blessed Virgin. I saw her smile at me, I felt her giving me\nstrength to live. Really, that farewell was delightful, and you must not\nscold us, Pierre.\u201d\n\nHe himself had begun to smile, somewhat ill at ease, however, as he\nthought of his nervous fidgeting. Had he, then, experienced so keen a\ndesire to get far away from Lourdes? Had he feared that the Grotto might\nkeep Marie, that she might never come away from it again? Now that she\nwas there beside him, he was astonished at having indulged such thoughts,\nand felt himself to be very calm.\n\nHowever, whilst he was advising them to go and take their seats in the\ncarriage, he recognised Doctor Chassaigne hastily approaching. \u201cAh! my\ndear doctor,\u201d he said, \u201cI was waiting for you. I should have been sorry\nindeed to have gone away without embracing you.\u201d\n\nBut the old doctor, who was trembling with emotion, interrupted him.\n\u201cYes, yes, I am late. But ten minutes ago, just as I arrived, I caught\nsight of that eccentric fellow, the Commander, and had a talk with him\nover yonder. He was sneering at the sight of your people taking the train\nagain to go and die at home, when, said he, they ought to have done so\nbefore coming to Lourdes. Well, all at once, while he was talking like\nthis, he fell on the ground before me. It was his third attack of\nparalysis; the one he had long been expecting.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! _mon Dieu_,\u201d murmured Abb\u00e9 Judaine, who heard the doctor, \u201che was\nblaspheming. Heaven has punished him.\u201d\n\nM. de Guersaint and Marie were listening, greatly interested and deeply\nmoved.\n\n\u201cI had him carried yonder, into that shed,\u201d continued the doctor. \u201cIt is\nall over; I can do nothing. He will doubtless be dead before a quarter of\nan hour has gone by. But I thought of a priest, and hastened up to you.\u201d\n\nThen, turning towards Abb\u00e9 Judaine, M. Chassaigne added: \u201cCome with me,\nMonsieur le Cur\u00e9; you know him. We cannot let a Christian depart\nunsuccoured. Perhaps he will be moved, recognise his error, and become\nreconciled with God.\u201d\n\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine quickly followed the doctor, and in the rear went M. de\nGuersaint, leading Marie and Pierre, whom the thought of this tragedy\nimpassioned. All five entered the goods shed, at twenty paces from the\ncrowd which was still bustling and buzzing, without a soul in it\nexpecting that there was a man dying so near by.\n\nIn a solitary corner of the shed, between two piles of sacks filled with\noats, lay the Commander, on a mattress borrowed from the Hospitality\nreserve supply. He wore his everlasting frock-coat, with its buttonhole\ndecked with a broad red riband, and somebody who had taken the precaution\nto pick up his silver-knobbed walking-stick had carefully placed it on\nthe ground beside the mattress.\n\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine at once leant over him. \u201cYou recognise us, you can hear us,\nmy poor friend, can\u2019t you?\u201d asked the priest.\n\nOnly the Commander\u2019s eyes now appeared to be alive; but they _were_\nalive, still glittering brightly with a stubborn flame of energy. The\nattack had this time fallen on his right side, almost entirely depriving\nhim of the power of speech. He could only stammer a few words, by which\nhe succeeded in making them understand that he wished to die there,\nwithout being moved or worried any further. He had no relative at\nLourdes, where nobody knew anything either of his former life or his\nfamily. For three years he had lived there happily on the salary attached\nto his little post at the station, and now he at last beheld his ardent,\nhis only desire, approaching fulfilment--the desire that he might depart\nand fall into the eternal sleep. His eyes expressed the great joy he felt\nat being so near his end.\n\n\u201cHave you any wish to make known to us?\u201d resumed Abb\u00e9 Judaine. \u201cCannot we\nbe useful to you in any way?\u201d\n\nNo, no; his eyes replied that he was all right, well pleased. For three\nyears past he had never got up in the morning without hoping that by\nnight time he would be sleeping in the cemetery. Whenever he saw the sun\nshine he was wont to say in an envious tone: \u201cWhat a beautiful day for\ndeparture!\u201d And now that death was at last at hand, ready to deliver him\nfrom his hateful existence, it was indeed welcome.\n\n\u201cI can do nothing, science is powerless. He is condemned,\u201d said Doctor\nChassaigne in a low, bitter tone to the old priest, who begged him to\nattempt some effort.\n\nHowever, at that same moment it chanced that an aged woman, a pilgrim of\nfourscore years, who had lost her way and knew not whither she was going,\nentered the shed. Lame and humpbacked, reduced to the stature of\nchildhood\u2019s days, afflicted with all the ailments of extreme old age, she\nwas dragging herself along with the assistance of a stick, and at her\nside was slung a can full of Lourdes water, which she was taking away\nwith her, in the hope of yet prolonging her old age, in spite of all its\nfrightful decay. For a moment her senile, imbecile mind was quite scared.\nShe stood looking at that outstretched, stiffened man, who was dying.\nThen a gleam of grandmotherly kindliness appeared in the depths of her\ndim, vague eyes; and with the sisterly feelings of one who was very aged\nand suffered very grievously she drew nearer, and, taking hold of her can\nwith her hands, which never ceased shaking, she offered it to the man.\n\nTo Abb\u00e9 Judaine this seemed like a sudden flash of light, an inspiration\nfrom on high. He, who had prayed so fervently and so often for the cure\nof Madame Dieulafay without being heard by the Blessed Virgin, now glowed\nwith fresh faith in the conviction that if the Commander would only drink\nthat water he would be cured.\n\nThe old priest fell upon his knees beside the mattress. \u201cO brother!\u201d he\nsaid, \u201cit is God who has sent you this woman. Reconcile yourself with\nGod, drink and pray, whilst we ourselves implore the divine mercy with\nour whole souls. God will prove His power to you; God will work the great\nmiracle of setting you erect once more, so that you may yet spend many\nyears upon this earth, loving Him and glorifying Him.\u201d\n\nNo, no! the Commander\u2019s sparkling eyes cried no! He, indeed, show himself\nas cowardly as those flocks of pilgrims who came from afar, through so\nmany fatigues, in order to drag themselves on the ground and sob and beg\nHeaven to let them live a month, a year, ten years longer! It was so\npleasant, so simple to die quietly in your bed. You turned your face to\nthe wall and you died.\n\n\u201cDrink, O my brother, I implore you!\u201d continued the old priest. \u201cIt is\nlife that you will drink, it is strength and health, the very joy of\nliving. Drink that you may become young again, that you may begin a new\nand pious life; drink that you may sing the praises of the Divine Mother,\nwho will have saved both your body and your soul. She is speaking to me,\nyour resurrection is certain.\u201d\n\nBut no! but no! The eyes refused, repelled the offer of life with growing\nobstinacy, and in their expression now appeared a covert fear of the\nmiraculous. The Commander did not believe; for three years he had been\nshrugging his shoulders at the pretended cases of cure. But could one\never tell in this strange world of ours? Such extraordinary things did\nsometimes happen. And if by chance their water should really have a\nsupernatural power, and if by force they should make him drink some of\nit, it would be terrible to have to live again--to endure once more the\npunishment of a galley-slave existence, that abomination which\nLazarus--the pitiable object of the great miracle--had suffered twice.\nNo, no, he would not drink; he would not incur the fearful risk of\nresurrection.\n\n\u201cDrink, drink, my brother,\u201d repeated Abb\u00e9 Judaine, who was now in tears;\n\u201cdo not harden your heart to refuse the favours of Heaven.\u201d\n\nAnd then a terrible thing was seen; this man, already half dead, raised\nhimself, shaking off the stifling bonds of paralysis, loosening for a\nsecond his tied tongue, and stammering, growling in a hoarse voice: \u201cNo,\nno, NO!\u201d\n\nPierre had to lead the stupefied old woman away and put her in the right\ndirection again. She had failed to understand that refusal of the water\nwhich she herself was taking home with her like an inestimable treasure,\nthe very gift of God\u2019s eternity to the poor who did not wish to die. Lame\nof one leg, humpbacked, dragging the sorry remnants of her fourscore\nyears along by the assistance of her stick, she disappeared among the\ntramping crowd, consumed by the passion of being, eager for space, air,\nsunshine, and noise.\n\nMarie and her father had shuddered in presence of that appetite for\ndeath, that greedy hungering for the end which the Commander showed. Ah!\nto sleep, to sleep without a dream, in the infinite darkness forever and\never--nothing in the world could have seemed so sweet to him. He did not\nhope in a better life; he had no desire to become happy, at last, in\nParadise where equality and justice would reign. His sole longing was for\nblack night and endless sleep, the joy of being no more, of never, never\nbeing again. And Doctor Chassaigne also had shuddered, for he also\nnourished but one thought, the thought of the happy moment when he would\ndepart. But, in his case, on the other side of this earthly existence he\nwould find his dear lost ones awaiting him, at the spot where eternal\nlife began; and how icy cold all would have seemed had he but for a\nsingle moment thought that he might not meet them there.\n\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine painfully rose up. It had seemed to him that the Commander\nwas now fixing his bright eyes upon Marie. Deeply grieved that his\nentreaties should have been of no avail, the priest wished to show the\ndying man an example of that goodness of God which he repulsed.\n\n\u201cYou recognise her, do you not?\u201d he asked. \u201cYes, it is the young lady who\narrived here on Saturday so ill, with both legs paralysed. And you see\nher now, so full of health, so strong, so beautiful. Heaven has taken\npity on her, and now she is reviving to youth, to the long life she was\nborn to live. Do you feel no regret in seeing her? Would you also like\nher to be dead? would you have advised her not to drink the water?\u201d\n\nThe Commander could not answer; but his eyes no longer strayed from\nMarie\u2019s young face, on which one read such great happiness at having\nresuscitated, such vast hopes in countless morrows; and tears appeared in\nthose fixed eyes of his, gathered under their lids, and rolled down his\ncheeks, which were already cold. He was certainly weeping for her; he\nmust have been thinking of that other miracle which he had wished\nher--that if she should be cured, she might be happy. It was the\ntenderness of an old man, who knows the miseries of this world, stirred\nto pity by the thought of all the sorrows which awaited this young\ncreature. Ah! poor woman, how many times; perhaps, might she regret that\nshe had not died in her twentieth year!\n\nThen the Commander\u2019s eyes grew very dim, as though those last pitiful\ntears had dissolved them. It was the end; coma was coming; the mind was\ndeparting with the breath. He slightly turned, and died.\n\nDoctor Chassaigne at once drew Marie aside. \u201cThe train\u2019s starting,\u201d he\nsaid; \u201cmake haste, make haste!\u201d\n\nIndeed, the loud ringing of a bell was clearly resounding above the\ngrowing tumult of the crowd. And the doctor, having requested two bearers\nto watch the body, which would be removed later on when the train had\ngone, desired to accompany his friends to their carriage.\n\nThey hastened their steps. Abb\u00e9 Judaine, who was in despair, joined them\nafter saying a short prayer for the repose of that rebellious soul.\nHowever, while Marie, followed by Pierre and M. de Guersaint, was running\nalong the platform, she was stopped once more, and this time by Doctor\nBonamy, who triumphantly presented her to Father Fourcade. \u201cHere is\nMademoiselle de Guersaint, your reverence, the young lady who was healed\nso marvellously yesterday.\u201d\n\nThe radiant smile of a general who is reminded of his most decisive\nvictory appeared on Father Fourcade\u2019s face. \u201cI know, I know; I was\nthere,\u201d he replied. \u201cGod has blessed you among all women, my dear\ndaughter; go, and cause His name to be worshipped.\u201d\n\nThen he congratulated M. de Guersaint, whose paternal pride savoured\ndivine enjoyment. It was the ovation beginning afresh--the concert of\nloving words and enraptured glances which had followed the girl through\nthe streets of Lourdes that morning, and which again surrounded her at\nthe moment of departure. The bell might go on ringing; a circle of\ndelighted pilgrims still lingered around her; it seemed as if she were\ncarrying away in her person all the glory of the pilgrimage, the triumph\nof religion, which would echo and echo to the four corners of the earth.\n\nAnd Pierre was moved as he noticed the dolorous group which Madame\nJousseur and M. Dieulafay formed near by. Their eyes were fixed upon\nMarie; like the others, they were astonished by the resurrection of this\nbeautiful girl, whom they had seen lying inert, emaciated, with ashen\nface. Why should that child have been healed? Why not the young woman,\nthe dear woman, whom they were taking home in a dying state? Their\nconfusion, their sense of shame, seemed to increase; they drew back,\nuneasy, like pariahs burdened with too much wealth; and it was a great\nrelief for them when, three bearers having with difficulty placed Madame\nDieulafay in the first-class compartment, they themselves were able to\nvanish into it in company with Abb\u00e9 Judaine.\n\nThe _employ\u00e9s_ were already shouting, \u201cTake your seats! take your seats,\u201d\n and Father Massias, the spiritual director of the train, had returned to\nhis compartment, leaving Father Fourcade on the platform leaning on\nDoctor Bonamy\u2019s shoulder. In all haste G\u00e9rard and Berthaud again saluted\nthe ladies, while Raymonde got in to join Madame D\u00e9sagneaux and Madame\nVolmar in their corner; and Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re at last ran off to her\ncarriage, which she reached at the same time as the Guersaints. There was\nhustling, and shouting, and wild running from one to the other end of the\nlong train, to which the engine, a copper engine, glittering like a star,\nhad just been coupled.\n\nPierre was helping Marie into the carriage, when M. Vigneron, coming back\nat a gallop, shouted to him: \u201cIt\u2019ll be good to-morrow, it\u2019ll be good\ntomorrow!\u201d Very red in the face, he showed and waved his ticket, and then\ngalloped off again to the compartment where his wife and son had their\nseats, in order to announce the good news to them.\n\nWhen Marie and her father were installed in their places, Pierre lingered\nfor another moment on the platform with Doctor Chassaigne, who embraced\nhim paternally. The young man wished to induce the doctor to return to\nParis and take some little interest in life again. But M. Chassaigne\nshook his head. \u201cNo, no, my dear child,\u201d he replied. \u201cI shall remain\nhere. They are here, they keep me here.\u201d He was speaking of his dear lost\nones. Then, very gently and lovingly, he said, \u201cFarewell.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot farewell, my dear doctor; till we meet again.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, farewell. The Commander was right, you know; nothing can be so\nsweet as to die, but to die in order to live again.\u201d\n\nBaron Suire was now giving orders for the removal of the white flags on\nthe foremost and hindmost carriages of the train; the shouts of the\nrailway _employ\u00e9s_ were ringing out in more and more imperious tones,\n\u201cTake your seats! take your seats!\u201d and now came the supreme scramble,\nthe torrent of belated pilgrims rushing up distracted, breathless, and\ncovered with perspiration. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and Sister Hyacinthe were\ncounting their party in the carriage. La Grivotte, Elise Rouquet, and\nSophie Couteau were all three there. Madame Sabathier, too, had taken her\nseat in front of her husband, who, with his eyes half closed, was\npatiently awaiting the departure. However, a voice inquired, \u201cAnd Madame\nVincent, isn\u2019t she going back with us?\u201d\n\nThereupon Sister Hyacinthe, who was leaning out of the window exchanging\na last smile with Ferrand, who stood at the door of the cantine van,\nexclaimed: \u201cHere she comes!\u201d\n\nMadame Vincent crossed the lines, rushed up, the last of all, breathless\nand haggard. And at once, by an involuntary impulse, Pierre glanced at\nher arms. They carried nothing now.\n\nAll the doors were being closed, slammed one after the other; the\ncarriages were full, and only the signal for departure was awaited.\nPanting and smoking, the engine gave vent to a first loud whistle, shrill\nand joyous; and at that moment the sun, hitherto veiled from sight,\ndissipated the light cloudlets and made the whole train resplendent,\ngilding the engine, which seemed on the point of starting for the\nlegendary Paradise. No bitterness, but a divine, infantile gaiety\nattended the departure. All the sick appeared to be healed. Though most\nof them were being taken away in the same condition as they had been\nbrought, they went off relieved and happy, at all events, for an hour.\nAnd not the slightest jealousy tainted their brotherly and sisterly\nfeelings; those who were not cured waxed quite gay, triumphant at the\ncure of the others. Their own turns would surely come; yesterday\u2019s\nmiracle was the formal promise of to-morrow\u2019s. Even after those three\ndays of burning entreaty their fever of desire remained within them; the\nfaith of the forgotten ones continued as keen as ever in the conviction\nthat the Blessed Virgin had simply deferred a cure for their souls\u2019\nbenefit. Inextinguishable love, invincible hope glowed within all those\nwretched ones thirsting for life. And so a last outburst of joy, a\nturbulent display of happiness, laughter and shouts, overflowed from all\nthe crowded carriages.   \u201cTill next year! We\u2019ll come back, we\u2019ll come\nback again!\u201d was the cry; and then the gay little Sisters of the\nAssumption clapped their hands, and the hymn of gratitude, the\n\u201cMagnificat,\u201d began, sung by all the eight hundred pilgrims: \u201c_Magnificat\nanima mea Dominum_.\u201d \u201cMy soul doth magnify the Lord.\u201d\n\nThereupon the station-master, his mind at last at ease, his arms hanging\nbeside him, caused the signal to be given. The engine whistled once again\nand then set out, rolling along in the dazzling sunlight as amidst a\nglory. Although his leg was causing him great suffering, Father Fourcade\nhad remained on the platform, leaning upon Doctor Bonamy\u2019s shoulder, and,\nin spite of everything, saluting the departure of his dear children with\na smile. Berthaud, G\u00e9rard, and Baron Suire formed another group, and near\nthem were Doctor Chassaigne and M. Vigneron waving their handkerchiefs.\nHeads were looking joyously out of the windows of the fleeing carriages,\nwhence other handkerchiefs were streaming in the current of air produced\nby the motion of the train. Madame Vigneron compelled Gustave to show his\npale little face, and for a long time Raymonde\u2019s small hand could be seen\nwaving good wishes; but Marie remained the last, looking back on Lourdes\nas it grew smaller and smaller amidst the trees.\n\nAcross the bright countryside the train triumphantly disappeared,\nresplendent, growling, chanting at the full pitch of its eight hundred\nvoices: \u201c_Et exsultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo_.\u201d \u201cAnd my\nspirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nIV. MARIE\u2019S VOW\n\nONCE more was the white train rolling, rolling towards Paris on its way\nhome; and the third-class carriage, where the shrill voices singing the\n\u201cMagnificat\u201d at full pitch rose above the growling of the wheels, had\nagain become a common room, a travelling hospital ward, full of disorder,\nlittered like an improvised ambulance. Basins and brooms and sponges lay\nabout under the seats, which half concealed them. Articles of luggage,\nall the wretched mass of poor worn-out things, were heaped together, a\nlittle bit everywhere; and up above, the litter began again, what with\nthe parcels, the baskets, and the bags hanging from the brass pegs and\nswinging to and fro without a moment\u2019s rest. The same Sisters of the\nAssumption and the same lady-hospitallers were there with their patients,\namidst the contingent of healthy pilgrims, who were already suffering\nfrom the overpowering heat and unbearable odour. And at the far end there\nwas again the compartment full of women, the ten close-packed female\npilgrims, some young, some old, and all looking pitifully ugly as they\nviolently chanted the canticle in cracked and woeful voices.\n\n\u201cAt what time shall we reach Paris?\u201d M. de Guersaint inquired of Pierre.\n\n\u201cTo-morrow at about two in the afternoon, I think,\u201d the priest replied.\n\nSince starting, Marie had been looking at the latter with an air of\nanxious preoccupation, as though haunted by a sudden sorrow which she\ncould not reveal. However, she found her gay, healthful smile again to\nsay: \u201cTwenty-two hours\u2019 journey! Ah! it won\u2019t be so long and trying as it\nwas coming.\u201d\n\n\u201cBesides,\u201d resumed her father, \u201cwe have left some of our people behind.\nWe have plenty of room now.\u201d\n\nIn fact Madame Maze\u2019s absence left a corner free at the end of the seat\nwhich Marie, now sitting up like any other passenger, no longer\nencumbered with her box. Moreover, little Sophie had this time been\nplaced in the next compartment, where there was neither Brother Isidore\nnor his sister Marthe. The latter, it was said, had remained at Lourdes\nin service with a pious lady. On the other side, Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re and\nSister Hyacinthe also had the benefit of a vacant seat, that of Madame\nVetu; and it had further occurred to them to get rid of Elise Rouquet by\nplacing her with Sophie, so that only La Grivotte and the Sabathier\ncouple were with them in their compartment. Thanks to these new\narrangements, they were better able to breathe, and perhaps they might\nmanage to sleep a little.\n\nThe last verse of the \u201cMagnificat\u201d having been sung, the ladies finished\ninstalling themselves as comfortably as possible by setting their little\nhousehold in order. One of the most important matters was to put the zinc\nwater-can, which interfered with their legs, out of the way. All the\nblinds of the left-hand windows had been pulled down, for the oblique\nsunrays were falling on the train, and had poured into it in sheets of\nfire. The last storms, however, must have laid the dust, and the night\nwould certainly be cool. Moreover, there was less suffering: death had\ncarried off the most afflicted ones, and only stupefied ailments, numbed\nby fatigue and lapsing into a slow torpor, remained. The overpowering\nreaction which always follows great moral shocks was about to declare\nitself. The souls had made the efforts required of them, the miracles had\nbeen worked, and now the relaxing was beginning amidst a hebetude tinged\nwith profound relief.\n\nUntil they got to Tarbes they were all very much occupied in setting\nthings in order and making themselves comfortable. But as they left that\nstation Sister Hyacinthe rose up and clapped her hands. \u201cMy children,\u201d\n said she, \u201cwe must not forget the Blessed Virgin who has been so kind to\nus. Let us begin the Rosary.\u201d\n\nThen the whole carriage repeated the first chaplet--the five joyful\nmysteries, the Annunciation, the Visitation, the Nativity, the\nPurification, and the Finding of Jesus in the Temple. And afterwards they\nintoned the canticle, \u201cLet us contemplate the heavenly Archangel,\u201d in\nsuch loud voices that the peasants working in the fields raised their\nheads to look at this singing train as it rushed past them at full speed.\n\nMarie was at the window, gazing with admiration at the vast landscape and\nthe immense stretch of sky, which had gradually freed itself of its mist\nand was now of a dazzling blue. It was the delicious close of a fine day.\nHowever, she at last looked back into the carriage, and her eyes were\nfixing themselves on Pierre with that mute sadness which had previously\ndimmed them, when all at once a sound of furious sobbing burst forth in\nfront of her. The canticle was finished, and it was Madame Vincent who\nwas crying, stammering confused words, half-choked by her tears: \u201cAh, my\npoor little one!\u201d she gasped. \u201cAh, my jewel, my treasure, my life!\u201d\n\nShe had previously remained in her corner, shrinking back into it as\nthough anxious to disappear. With a fierce face, her lips tightly set,\nand her eyes closed, as though to isolate herself in the depths of her\ncruel grief, she had hitherto not said a word. But, chancing to open her\neyes, she had espied the leathern window-strap hanging down beside the\ndoor, and the sight of that strap, which her daughter had touched, almost\nplayed with at one moment during the previous journey, had overwhelmed\nher with a frantic despair which swept away her resolution to remain\nsilent.\n\n\u201cAh! my poor little Rose,\u201d she continued. \u201cHer little hand touched that\nstrap, she turned it, and looked at it--ah, it was her last plaything!\nAnd we were there both together then; she was still alive, I still had\nher on my lap, in my arms. It was still so nice, so nice! But now I no\nlonger have her; I shall never, never have her again, my poor little\nRose, my poor little Rose!\u201d\n\nDistracted, sobbing bitterly, she looked at her knees and her arms, on\nwhich nothing now rested, and which she was at a loss how to employ. She\nhad so long rocked her daughter on her knees, so long carried her in her\narms, that it now seemed to her as if some portion of her being had been\namputated, as if her body had been deprived of one of its functions,\nleaving her diminished, unoccupied, distracted at being unable to fulfil\nthat function any more. Those useless arms and knees of hers quite\nembarrassed her.\n\nPierre and Marie, who were deeply moved, had drawn near, uttering kind\nwords and striving to console the unhappy mother. And, little by little,\nfrom the disconnected sentences which mingled with her sobs, they learned\nwhat a Calvary she had ascended since her daughter\u2019s death. On the\nmorning of the previous day, when she had carried the body off in her\narms amidst the storm, she must have long continued walking, blind and\ndeaf to everything, whilst the torrential rain beat down upon her. She no\nlonger remembered what squares she had crossed, what streets she had\ntraversed, as she roamed through that infamous Lourdes, that Lourdes\nwhich killed little children, that Lourdes which she cursed.\n\n\u201cAh! I can\u2019t remember, I can\u2019t remember,\u201d she faltered. \u201cBut some people\ntook me in, had pity upon me, some people whom I don\u2019t know, but who live\nsomewhere. Ah! I can\u2019t remember where, but it was somewhere high up, far\naway, at the other end of the town. And they were certainly very poor\nfolk, for I can still see myself in a poor-looking room with my dear\nlittle one who was quite cold, and whom they laid upon their bed.\u201d\n\nAt this recollection a fresh attack of sobbing shook her, in fact almost\nstifled her.\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d she at last resumed, \u201cI would not part with her dear little\nbody by leaving it in that abominable town. And I can\u2019t tell exactly how\nit happened, but it must have been those poor people who took me with\nthem. We did a great deal of walking, oh! a great deal of walking; we saw\nall those gentlemen of the pilgrimage and the railway. \u2018What can it\nmatter to you?\u2019 I repeated to them. \u2018Let me take her back to Paris in my\narms. I brought her here like that when she was alive, I may surely take\nher back dead? Nobody will notice anything, people will think that she is\nasleep.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd all of them, all those officials, began shouting and driving me away\nas though I were asking them to let me do something wicked. Then I ended\nby telling them my mind. When people make so much fuss, and bring so many\nagonising sick to a place like that, they surely ought to send the dead\nones home again, ought they not? And do you know how much money they\nended by asking of me at the station? Three hundred francs! Yes, it\nappears it is the price! Three hundred francs, good Lord! of me, who came\nhere with thirty sous in my pocket and have only five left. Why, I don\u2019t\nearn that amount of money by six months\u2019 sewing. They ought to have asked\nme for my life; I would have given it so willingly. Three hundred francs!\nthree hundred francs for that poor little bird-like body, which it would\nhave consoled me so much to have brought away on my knees!\u201d\n\nThen she began stammering and complaining in a confused, husky voice:\n\u201cAh, if you only knew how sensibly those poor people talked to me to\ninduce me to go back. A work-woman like myself, with work waiting, ought\nto return to Paris, they said; and, besides, I couldn\u2019t afford to\nsacrifice my return ticket; I must take the three-forty train. And they\ntold me, too, that people are compelled to put up with things when they\nare not rich. Only the rich can keep their dead, do what they like with\nthem, eh? And I can\u2019t remember--no, again I can\u2019t remember! I didn\u2019t even\nknow the time; I should never have been able to find my way back to the\nstation. After the funeral over there, at a place where there were two\ntrees, it must have been those poor people who led me away, half out of\nmy senses, and brought me to the station, and pushed me into the carriage\njust at the moment when the train was starting. But what a rending it\nwas--as if my heart had remained there underground, and it is frightful,\nthat it is, frightful, my God!\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor woman!\u201d murmured Marie. \u201cTake courage, and pray to the Blessed\nVirgin for the succour which she never refuses to the afflicted.\u201d\n\nBut at this Madame Vincent shook with rage. \u201cIt isn\u2019t true!\u201d she cried.\n\u201cThe Blessed Virgin doesn\u2019t care a rap about me. She doesn\u2019t tell the\ntruth! Why did she deceive me? I should never have gone to Lourdes if I\nhadn\u2019t heard that voice in a church. My little girl would still be alive,\nand perhaps the doctors would have saved her. I, who would never set my\nfoot among the priests formerly! Ah! I was right! I was right! There\u2019s no\nBlessed Virgin at all!\u201d\n\nAnd in this wise, without resignation, without illusion, without hope,\nshe continued blaspheming with the coarse fury of a woman of the people,\nshrieking the sufferings of her heart aloud in such rough fashion that\nSister Hyacinthe had to intervene: \u201cBe quiet, you unhappy woman! It is\nGod who is making you suffer, to punish you.\u201d\n\nThe scene had already lasted a long time, and as they passed Riscle at\nfull speed the Sister again clapped her hands and gave the signal for the\nchanting of the \u201cLaudate Mariam.\u201d \u201cCome, come, my children,\u201d she\nexclaimed, \u201call together, and with all your hearts:\n\n     \u201cIn heav\u2019n, on earth,\n        All voices raise,\n      In concert sing\n        My Mother\u2019s praise:\n   _Laudate, laudate, laudate Mariam_!\u201d\n\nMadame Vincent, whose voice was drowned by this canticle of love, now\nonly sobbed, with her hands pressed to her face. Her revolt was over, she\nwas again strengthless, weak like a suffering woman whom grief and\nweariness have stupefied.\n\nAfter the canticle, fatigue fell more or less heavily upon all the\noccupants of the carriage. Only Sister Hyacinthe, so quick and active,\nand Sister Claire des Anges, so gentle, serious, and slight, retained, as\non their departure from Paris and during their sojourn at Lourdes, the\nprofessional serenity of women accustomed to everything, amidst the\nbright gaiety of their white coifs and wimples. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re, who\nhad scarcely slept for five days past, had to make an effort to keep her\npoor eyes open; and yet she was delighted with the journey, for her heart\nwas full of joy at having arranged her daughter\u2019s marriage, and at\nbringing back with her the greatest of all the miracles, a _miracul\u00e9e_\nwhom everybody was talking of. She decided in her own mind that she would\nget to sleep that night, however bad the jolting might be; though on the\nother hand she could not shake off a covert fear with regard to La\nGrivotte, who looked very strange, excited, and haggard, with dull eyes,\nand cheeks glowing with patches of violet colour. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re had\ntried a dozen times to keep her from fidgeting, but had not been able to\ninduce her to remain still, with joined hands and closed eyes.\nFortunately, the other patients gave her no anxiety; most of them were\neither so relieved or so weary that they were already dozing off. Elise\nRouquet, however, had bought herself a pocket mirror, a large round one,\nin which she did not weary of contemplating herself, finding herself\nquite pretty, and verifying from minute to minute the progress of her\ncure with a coquetry which, now that her monstrous face was becoming\nhuman again, made her purse her lips and try a variety of smiles. As for\nSophie Couteau, she was playing very prettily; for finding that nobody\nnow asked to examine her foot, she had taken off her shoe and stocking of\nher own accord, repeating that she must surely have a pebble in one or\nthe other of them; and as her companions still paid no attention to that\nlittle foot which the Blessed Virgin had been pleased to visit, she kept\nit in her hands, caressing it, seemingly delighted to touch it and turn\nit into a plaything.\n\nM. de Guersaint had meantime risen from his seat, and, leaning on the low\npartition between the compartments, he was glancing at M. Sabathier, when\nall of a sudden Marie called: \u201cOh! father, father, look at this notch in\nthe seat; it was the ironwork of my box that made it!\u201d\n\nThe discovery of this trace rendered her so happy that for a moment she\nforgot the secret sorrow which she seemed anxious to keep to herself. And\nin the same way as Madame Vincent had burst out sobbing on perceiving the\nleather strap which her little girl had touched, so she burst into joy at\nthe sight of this scratch, which reminded her of her long martyrdom in\nthis same carriage, all the abomination which had now disappeared,\nvanished like a nightmare. \u201cTo think that four days have scarcely gone\nby,\u201d she said; \u201cI was lying there, I could not stir, and now, now I come\nand go, and feel so comfortable!\u201d\n\nPierre and M. de Guersaint were smiling at her; and M. Sabathier, who had\nheard her, slowly said: \u201cIt is quite true. We leave a little of ourselves\nin things, a little of our sufferings and our hopes, and when we find\nthem again they speak to us, and once more tell us the things which\nsadden us or make us gay.\u201d\n\nHe had remained in his corner silent, with an air of resignation, ever\nsince their departure from Lourdes. Even his wife whilst wrapping up his\nlegs had only been able to obtain sundry shakes of the head from him in\nresponse to her inquiries whether he was suffering. In point of fact he\nwas not suffering, but extreme dejection was overcoming him.\n\n\u201cThus for my own part,\u201d he continued, \u201cduring our long journey from Paris\nI tried to divert my thoughts by counting the bands in the roofing up\nthere. There were thirteen from the lamp to the door. Well, I have just\nbeen counting them again, and naturally enough there are still thirteen.\nIt\u2019s like that brass knob beside me. You can\u2019t imagine what dreams I had\nwhilst I watched it shining at night-time when Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 was\nreading the story of Bernadette to us. Yes, I saw myself cured; I was\nmaking that journey to Rome which I have been talking of for twenty years\npast; I walked and travelled the world--briefly, I had all manner of wild\nand delightful dreams. And now here we are on our way back to Paris, and\nthere are thirteen bands across the roofing there, and the knob is still\nshining--all of which tells me that I am again on the same seat, with my\nlegs lifeless. Well, well, it\u2019s understood, I\u2019m a poor, old, used-up\nanimal, and such I shall remain.\u201d\n\nTwo big tears appeared in his eyes; he must have been passing through an\nhour of frightful bitterness. However, he raised his big square head,\nwith its jaw typical of patient obstinacy, and added: \u201cThis is the\nseventh year that I have been to Lourdes, and the Blessed Virgin has not\nlistened to me. No matter! It won\u2019t prevent me from going back next year.\nPerhaps she will at last deign to hear me.\u201d\n\nFor his part he did not revolt. And Pierre, whilst chatting with him, was\nstupefied to find persistent, tenacious credulity springing up once more,\nin spite of everything, in the cultivated brain of this man of intellect.\nWhat ardent desire of cure and life was it that had led to this refusal\nto accept evidence, this determination to remain blind? He stubbornly\nclung to the resolution to be saved when all human probabilities were\nagainst him, when the experiment of the miracle itself had failed so many\ntimes already; and he had reached such a point that he wished to explain\nhis fresh rebuff, urging moments of inattention at the Grotto, a lack of\nsufficient contrition, and all sorts of little transgressions which must\nhave displeased the Blessed Virgin. Moreover, he was already deciding in\nhis mind that he would perform a novena somewhere next year, before again\nrepairing to Lourdes.\n\n\u201cAh! by the way,\u201d he resumed, \u201cdo you know of the good-luck which my\nsubstitute has had? Yes, you must remember my telling you about that poor\nfellow suffering from tuberculosis, for whom I paid fifty francs when I\nobtained _hospitalisation_ for myself. Well, he has been thoroughly\ncured.\u201d\n\n\u201cReally! And he was suffering from tuberculosis!\u201d exclaimed M. de\nGuersaint.\n\n\u201cCertainly, monsieur, perfectly cured I had seen him looking so low, so\nyellow, so emaciated, when we started; but when he came to pay me a visit\nat the hospital he was quite a new man; and, dear me, I gave him five\nfrancs.\u201d\n\nPierre had to restrain a smile, for be had heard the story from Doctor\nChassaigne. This miraculously healed individual was a feigner, who had\neventually been recognised at the Medical Verification Office. It was,\napparently, the third year that he had presented himself there, the first\ntime alleging paralysis and the second time a tumour, both of which had\nbeen as completely healed as his pretended tuberculosis. On each occasion\nhe obtained an outing, lodging and food, and returned home loaded with\nalms. It appeared that he had formerly been a hospital nurse, and that he\ntransformed himself, \u201cmade-up\u201d a face suited to his pretended ailment, in\nsuch an extremely artistic manner that it was only by chance that Doctor\nBonamy had detected the imposition. Moreover, the Fathers had immediately\nrequired that the incident should be kept secret. What was the use of\nstirring up a scandal which would only have led to jocular remarks in the\nnewspapers? Whenever any fraudulent miracles of this kind were\ndiscovered, the Fathers contented themselves with forcing the guilty\nparties to go away. Moreover, these feigners were far from numerous,\ndespite all that was related of them in the amusing stories concocted by\nVoltairean humourists. Apart from faith, human stupidity and ignorance,\nalas! were quite sufficient to account for the miracles.\n\nM. Sabathier, however, was greatly stirred by the idea that Heaven had\nhealed this man who had gone to Lourdes at his expense, whereas he\nhimself was returning home still helpless, still in the same woeful\nstate. He sighed, and, despite all his resignation, could not help\nsaying, with a touch of envy: \u201cWhat would you, however? The Blessed\nVirgin must know very well what she\u2019s about. Neither you nor I can call\nher to account to us for her actions. Whenever it may please her to cast\nher eyes on me she will find me at her feet.\u201d\n\nAfter the \u201cAngelus\u201d when they got to Mont-de-Marsan, Sister Hyacinthe\nmade them repeat the second chaplet, the five sorrowful mysteries, Jesus\nin the Garden of Olives, Jesus scourged, Jesus crowned with thorns, Jesus\ncarrying the cross, and Jesus crucified. Then they took dinner in the\ncarriage, for there would be no stopping until they reached Bordeaux,\nwhere they would only arrive at eleven o\u2019clock at night. All the\npilgrims\u2019 baskets were crammed with provisions, to say nothing of the\nmilk, broth, chocolate, and fruit which Sister Saint-Fran\u00e7ois had sent\nfrom the cantine. Then, too, there was fraternal sharing: they sat with\ntheir food on their laps and drew close together, every compartment\nbecoming, as it were, the scene of a picnic, to which each contributed\nhis share. And they had finished their meal and were packing up the\nremaining bread again when the train passed Morceux.\n\n\u201cMy children,\u201d now said Sister Hyacinthe, rising up, \u201cthe evening\nprayer!\u201d\n\nThereupon came a confused murmuring made up of \u201cPaters\u201d and \u201cAves,\u201d\n self-examinations, acts of contrition and vows of trustful reliance in\nGod, the Blessed Virgin, and the Saints, with thanksgivings for that\nhappy day, and, at last, a prayer for the living and for the faithful\ndeparted.\n\n\u201cI warn you,\u201d then resumed the Sister, \u201cthat when we get to Lamothe, at\nten o\u2019clock, I shall order silence. However, I think you will all be very\ngood and won\u2019t require any rocking to get to sleep.\u201d\n\nThis made them laugh. It was now half-past eight o\u2019clock, and the night\nhad slowly covered the country-side. The hills alone retained a vague\ntrace of the twilight\u2019s farewell, whilst a dense sheet of darkness\nblotted out all the low ground. Rushing on at full speed, the train\nentered an immense plain, and then there was nothing but a sea of\ndarkness, through which they ever and ever rolled under a blackish sky,\nstudded with stars.\n\nFor a moment or so Pierre had been astonished by the demeanour of La\nGrivotte. While the other pilgrims and patients were already dozing off,\nsinking down amidst the luggage, which the constant jolting shook, she\nhad risen to her feet and was clinging to the partition in a sudden spasm\nof agony. And under the pale, yellow, dancing gleam of the lamp she once\nmore looked emaciated, with a livid, tortured face.\n\n\u201cTake care, madame, she will fall!\u201d the priest called to Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re, who, with eyelids lowered, was at last giving way to sleep.\n\nShe made all haste to intervene, but Sister Hyacinthe had turned more\nquickly and caught La Grivotte in her arms. A frightful fit of coughing,\nhowever, prostrated the unhappy creature upon the seat, and for five\nminutes she continued stifling, shaken by such an attack that her poor\nbody seemed to be actually cracking and rending. Then a red thread oozed\nfrom between her lips, and at last she spat up blood by the throatful.\n\n\u201cGood heavens! good heavens! it\u2019s coming on her again!\u201d repeated Madame\nde Jonqui\u00e8re in despair. \u201cI had a fear of it; I was not at ease, seeing\nher looking so strange. Wait a moment; I will sit down beside her.\u201d\n\nBut the Sister would not consent: \u201cNo, no, madame, sleep a little. I\u2019ll\nwatch over her. You are not accustomed to it: you would end by making\nyourself ill as well.\u201d\n\nThen she settled herself beside La Grivotte, made her rest her head\nagainst her shoulder, and wiped the blood from her lips. The attack\nsubsided, but weakness was coming back, so extreme that the wretched\nwoman was scarcely able to stammer: \u201cOh, it is nothing, nothing at all; I\nam cured, I am cured, completely cured!\u201d\n\nPierre was thoroughly upset: This sudden, overwhelming relapse had sent\nan icy chill through the whole carriage. Many of the passengers raised\nthemselves up and looked at La Grivotte with terror in their eyes. Then\nthey dived down into their corners again, and nobody spoke, nobody\nstirred any further. Pierre, for his part, reflected on the curious\nmedical aspect of this girl\u2019s case. Her strength had come back to her\nover yonder. She had displayed a ravenous appetite, she had walked long\ndistances with a dancing gait, her face quite radiant the while; and now\nshe had spat blood, her cough had broken out afresh, she again had the\nheavy ashen face of one in the last agony. Her ailment had returned to\nher with brutal force, victorious over everything. Was this, then, some\nspecial case of phthisis complicated by neurosis? Or was it some other\nmalady, some unknown disease, quietly continuing its work in the midst of\ncontradictory diagnosis? The sea of error and ignorance, the darkness\namidst which human science is still struggling, again appeared to Pierre.\nAnd he once more saw Doctor Chassaigne shrugging his shoulders with\ndisdain, whilst Doctor Bonamy, full of serenity, quietly continued his\nverification work, absolutely convinced that nobody would be able to\nprove to him the impossibility of his miracles any more than he himself\ncould have proved their possibility.\n\n\u201cOh! I am not frightened,\u201d La Grivotte continued, stammering. \u201cI am\ncured, completely cured; they all told me so, over yonder.\u201d\n\nMeantime the carriage was rolling, rolling along, through the black\nnight. Each of its occupants was making preparations, stretching himself\nout in order to sleep more comfortably. They compelled Madame Vincent to\nlie down on the seat, and gave her a pillow on which to rest her poor\npain-racked head; and then, as docile as a child, quite stupefied, she\nfell asleep in a nightmare-like torpor, with big, silent tears still\nflowing from her closed eyes. Elise Rouquet, who had a whole seat to\nherself, was also getting ready to lie down, but first of all she made\nquite an elaborate toilet, tying the black wrap which had served to hide\nher sore about her head, and then again peering into her glass to see if\nthis headgear became her, now that the swelling of her lip had subsided.\nAnd again did Pierre feel astonished at sight of that sore, which was\ncertainly healing, if not already healed--that face, so lately a\nmonster\u2019s face, which one could now look at without feeling horrified.\nThe sea of incertitude stretched before him once more. Was it even a real\nlupus? Might it not rather be some unknown form of ulcer of hysterical\norigin? Or ought one to admit that certain forms of lupus, as yet but\nimperfectly studied and arising from faulty nutrition of the skin, might\nbe benefited by a great moral shock? At all events there here seemed to\nbe a miracle, unless, indeed, the sore should reappear again in three\nweeks\u2019, three months\u2019, or three years\u2019 time, like La Grivotte\u2019s phthisis.\n\nIt was ten o\u2019clock, and the people in the carriage were falling asleep\nwhen they left Lamothe. Sister Hyacinthe, upon whose knees La Grivotte\nwas now drowsily resting her head, was unable to rise, and, for form\u2019s\nsake, merely said, \u201cSilence, silence, my children!\u201d in a low voice, which\ndied away amidst the growling rumble of the wheels.\n\nHowever, something continued stirring in an adjoining compartment; she\nheard a noise which irritated her nerves, and the cause of which she at\nlast fancied she could understand.\n\n\u201cWhy do you keep on kicking the seat, Sophie?\u201d she asked. \u201cYou must get\nto sleep, my child.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not kicking, Sister. It\u2019s a key that was rolling about under my\nfoot.\u201d\n\n\u201cA key!--how is that? Pass it to me.\u201d\n\nThen she examined it. A very old, poor-looking key it was--blackened,\nworn away, and polished by long use, its ring bearing the mark of where\nit had been broken and resoldered. However, they all searched their\npockets, and none of them, it seemed, had lost a key.\n\n\u201cI found it in the corner,\u201d now resumed Sophie; \u201cit must have belonged to\nthe man.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat man?\u201d asked Sister Hyacinthe.\n\n\u201cThe man who died there.\u201d\n\nThey had already forgotten him. But it had surely been his, for Sister\nHyacinthe recollected that she had heard something fall while she was\nwiping his forehead. And she turned the key over and continued looking at\nit, as it lay in her hand, poor, ugly, wretched key that it was, no\nlonger of any use, never again to open the lock it belonged to--some\nunknown lock, hidden far away in the depths of the world. For a moment\nshe was minded to put it in her pocket, as though by a kind of compassion\nfor this little bit of iron, so humble and so mysterious, since it was\nall that remained of that unknown man. But then the pious thought came to\nher that it is wrong to show attachment to any earthly thing; and, the\nwindow being half-lowered, she threw out the key, which fell into the\nblack night.\n\n\u201cYou must not play any more, Sophie,\u201d she resumed. \u201cCome, come, my\nchildren, silence!\u201d\n\nIt was only after the brief stay at Bordeaux, however, at about half-past\neleven o\u2019clock, that sleep came back again and overpowered all in the\ncarriage. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re had been unable to contend against it any\nlonger, and her head was now resting against the partition, her face\nwearing an expression of happiness amidst all her fatigue. The Sabathiers\nwere, in a like fashion, calmly sleeping; and not a sound now came from\nthe compartment which Sophie Couteau and Elise Rouquet occupied,\nstretched in front of each other, on the seats. From time to time a low\nplaint would rise, a strangled cry of grief or fright, escaping from the\nlips of Madame Vincent, who, amidst her prostration, was being tortured\nby evil dreams. Sister Hyacinthe was one of the very few who still had\ntheir eyes open, anxious as she was respecting La Grivotte, who now lay\nquite motionless, like a felled animal, breathing painfully, with a\ncontinuous wheezing sound. From one to the other end of this travelling\ndormitory, shaken by the rumbling of the train rolling on at full speed,\nthe pilgrims and the sick surrendered themselves to sleep, and limbs\ndangled and heads swayed under the pale, dancing gleams from the lamps.\nAt the far end, in the compartment occupied by the ten female pilgrims,\nthere was a woeful jumbling of poor, ugly faces, old and young, and all\nopen-mouthed, as though sleep had suddenly fallen upon them at the moment\nthey were finishing some hymn. Great pity came to the heart at the sight\nof all those mournful, weary beings, prostrated by five days of wild hope\nand infinite ecstasy, and destined to awaken, on the very morrow, to the\nstern realities of life.\n\nAnd now Pierre once more felt himself to be alone with Marie. She had not\nconsented to stretch herself on the seat--she had been lying down too\nlong, she said, for seven years, alas! And in order that M. de Guersaint,\nwho on leaving Bordeaux had again fallen into his childlike slumber,\nmight be more at ease, Pierre came and sat down beside the girl. As the\nlight of the lamp annoyed her he drew the little screen, and they thus\nfound themselves in the shade, a soft and transparent shade. The train\nmust now have been crossing a plain, for it glided through the night as\nin an endless flight, with a sound like the regular flapping of huge\nwings. Through the window, which they had opened, a delicious coolness\ncame from the black fields, the fathomless fields, where not even any\nlonely little village lights could be seen gleaming. For a moment Pierre\nhad turned towards Marie and had noticed that her eyes were closed. But\nhe could divine that she was not sleeping, that she was savouring the\ndeep peacefulness which prevailed around them amidst the thundering roar\nof their rush through the darkness, and, like her, he closed his eyelids\nand began dreaming.\n\nYet once again did the past arise before him: the little house at\nNeuilly, the embrace which they had exchanged near the flowering hedge\nunder the trees flecked with sunlight. How far away all that already was,\nand with what perfume had it not filled his life! Then bitter thoughts\nreturned to him at the memory of the day when he had become a priest.\nSince she would never be a woman, he had consented to be a man no more;\nand that was to prove their eternal misfortune, for ironical Nature was\nto make her a wife and a mother after all. Had he only been able to\nretain his faith he might have found eternal consolation in it. But all\nhis attempts to regain it had been in vain. He had gone to Lourdes, he\nhad striven his utmost at the Grotto, he had hoped for a moment that he\nwould end by believing should Marie be miraculously healed; but total and\nirremediable ruin had come when the predicted cure had taken place even\nas science had foretold. And their idyl, so pure and so painful, the long\nstory of their affection bathed in tears, likewise spread out before him.\nShe, having penetrated his sad secret, had come to Lourdes to pray to\nHeaven for the miracle of his conversion. When they had remained alone\nunder the trees amidst the perfume of the invisible roses, during the\nnight procession, they had prayed one for the other, mingling one in the\nother, with an ardent desire for their mutual happiness. Before the\nGrotto, too, she had entreated the Blessed Virgin to forget her and to\nsave him, if she could obtain but one favour from her Divine Son. Then,\nhealed, beside herself, transported with love and gratitude, whirled with\nher little car up the inclined ways to the Basilica, she had thought her\nprayers granted, and had cried aloud the joy she felt that they should\nhave both been saved, together, together! Ah! that lie which he, prompted\nby affection and charity, had told, that error in which he had from that\nmoment suffered her to remain, with what a weight did it oppress his\nheart! It was the heavy slab which walled him in his voluntarily chosen\nsepulchre. He remembered the frightful attack of grief which had almost\nkilled him in the gloom of the crypt, his sobs, his brutal revolt, his\nlonging to keep her for himself alone, to possess her since he knew her\nto be his own--all that rising passion of his awakened manhood, which\nlittle by little had fallen asleep again, drowned by the rushing river of\nhis tears; and in order that he might not destroy the divine illusion\nwhich possessed her, yielding to brotherly compassion, he had taken that\nheroic vow to lie to her, that vow which now filled him with such\nanguish.\n\nPierre shuddered amidst his reverie. Would he have the strength to keep\nthat vow forever? Had he not detected a feeling of impatience in his\nheart even whilst he was waiting for her at the railway station, a\njealous longing to leave that Lourdes which she loved too well, in the\nvague hope that she might again become his own, somewhere far away? If he\nhad not been a priest he would have married her. And what rapture, what\nfelicity would then have been his! He would have given himself wholly\nunto her, she would have been wholly his own, and he and she would have\nlived again in the dear child that would doubtless have been born to\nthem. Ah! surely that alone was divine, the life which is complete, the\nlife which creates life! And then his reverie strayed: he pictured\nhimself married, and the thought filled him with such delight that he\nasked why such a dream should be unrealisable? She knew no more than a\nchild of ten; he would educate her, form her mind. She would then\nunderstand that this cure for which she thought herself indebted to the\nBlessed Virgin, had in reality come to her from the Only Mother, serene\nand impassive Nature. But even whilst he was thus settling things in his\nmind, a kind of terror, born of his religious education, arose within\nhim. Could he tell if that human happiness with which he desired to endow\nher would ever be worth as much as the holy ignorance, the infantile\ncandour in which she now lived? How bitterly he would reproach himself\nafterwards if she should not be happy. Then, too, what a drama it would\nall be; he to throw off the cassock, and marry this girl healed by an\nalleged miracle--ravage her faith sufficiently to induce her to consent\nto such sacrilege? Yet therein lay the brave course; there lay reason,\nlife, real manhood, real womanhood. Why, then, did he not dare? Horrible\nsadness was breaking upon his reverie, he became conscious of nothing\nbeyond the sufferings of his poor heart.\n\nThe train was still rolling along with its great noise of flapping wings.\nBeside Pierre and Marie, only Sister Hyacinthe was still awake amidst the\nweary slumber of the carriage; and just then, Marie leant towards Pierre,\nand softly said to him: \u201cIt\u2019s strange, my friend; I am so sleepy, and yet\nI can\u2019t sleep.\u201d Then, with a light laugh, she added: \u201cI\u2019ve got Paris in my\nhead!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow is that--Paris?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes. I\u2019m thinking that it\u2019s waiting for me, that I am about to\nreturn to it--that Paris which I know nothing of, and where I shall have\nto live!\u201d\n\nThese words brought fresh anguish to Pierre\u2019s heart. He had well foreseen\nit; she could no longer belong to him, she would belong to others. If\nLourdes had restored her to him, Paris was about to take her from him\nagain. And he pictured this ignorant little being fatally acquiring all\nthe education of woman. That little spotless soul which had remained so\ncandid in the frame of a big girl of three-and-twenty, that soul which\nillness had kept apart from others, far from life, far even from novels,\nwould soon ripen, now that it could fly freely once more. He beheld her,\na gay, healthy young girl, running everywhere, looking and learning, and,\nsome day, meeting the husband who would finish her education.\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d said he, \u201cyou propose to amuse yourself in Paris?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! what are you saying, my friend? Are we rich enough to amuse\nourselves?\u201d she replied. \u201cNo, I was thinking of my poor sister Blanche,\nand wondering what I should be able to do in Paris to help her a little.\nShe is so good, she works so hard; I don\u2019t wish that she should have to\ncontinue earning all the money.\u201d\n\nAnd, after a fresh pause, as he, deeply moved, remained silent, she\nadded: \u201cFormerly, before I suffered so dreadfully, I painted miniatures\nrather nicely. You remember, don\u2019t you, that I painted a portrait of papa\nwhich was very like him, and which everybody praised. You will help me,\nwon\u2019t you? You will find me customers?\u201d\n\nThen she began talking of the new life which she was about to live. She\nwanted to arrange her room and hang it with cretonne, something pretty,\nwith a pattern of little blue flowers. She would buy it out of the first\nmoney she could save. Blanche had spoken to her of the big shops where\nthings could be bought so cheaply. To go out with Blanche and run about a\nlittle would be so amusing for her, who, confined to her bed since\nchildhood, had never seen anything. Then Pierre, who for a moment had\nbeen calmer, again began to suffer, for he could divine all her glowing\ndesire to live, her ardour to see everything, know everything, and taste\neverything. It was at last the awakening of the woman whom she was\ndestined to be, whom he had divined in childhood\u2019s days--a dear creature\nof gaiety and passion, with blooming lips, starry eyes, a milky\ncomplexion, golden hair, all resplendent with the joy of being.\n\n\u201cOh! I shall work, I shall work,\u201d she resumed; \u201cbut you are right,\nPierre, I shall also amuse myself, because it cannot be a sin to be gay,\ncan it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, surely not, Marie.\u201d\n\n\u201cOn Sundays we will go into the country, oh very far away, into the woods\nwhere there are beautiful trees. And we will sometimes go to the theatre,\ntoo, if papa will take us. I have been told that there are many plays\nthat one may see. But, after all, it\u2019s not all that. Provided I can go\nout and walk in the streets and see things, I shall be so happy; I shall\ncome home so gay. It is so nice to live, is it not, Pierre?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, Marie, it is very nice.\u201d\n\nA chill like that of death was coming over him; his regret that he was no\nlonger a man was filling him with agony. But since she tempted him like\nthis with her irritating candour, why should he not confess to her the\ntruth which was ravaging his being? He would have won her, have conquered\nher. Never had a more frightful struggle arisen between his heart and his\nwill. For a moment he was on the point of uttering irrevocable words.\n\nBut with the voice of a joyous child she was already resuming: \u201cOh! look\nat poor papa; how pleased he must be to sleep so soundly!\u201d\n\nOn the seat in front of them M. de Guersaint was indeed slumbering with a\ncomfortable expression on his face, as though he were in his bed, and had\nno consciousness of the continual jolting of the train. This monotonous\nrolling and heaving seemed, in fact, a lullaby rocking the whole carriage\nto sleep. All surrendered themselves to it, sinking powerless on to the\npiles of bags and parcels, many of which had also fallen; and the\nrhythmical growling of the wheels never ceased in the unknown darkness\nthrough which the train was still rolling. Now and again, as they passed\nthrough a station or under a bridge, there would be a loud rush of wind,\na tempest would suddenly sweep by; and then the lulling, growling sound\nwould begin again, ever the same for hours together.\n\nMarie gently took hold of Pierre\u2019s hands; he and she were so lost, so\ncompletely alone among all those prostrated beings, in the deep, rumbling\npeacefulness of the train flying across the black night. And sadness, the\nsadness which she had hitherto hidden, had again come back to her,\ncasting a shadow over her large blue eyes.\n\n\u201cYou will often come with us, my good Pierre, won\u2019t you?\u201d she asked.\n\nHe had started on feeling her little hand pressing his own. His heart was\non his lips, he was making up his mind to speak. However, he once again\nrestrained himself and stammered: \u201cI am not always at liberty, Marie; a\npriest cannot go everywhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cA priest?\u201d she repeated. \u201cYes, yes, a priest. I understand.\u201d\n\nThen it was she who spoke, who confessed the mortal secret which had been\noppressing her heart ever since they had started. She leant nearer, and\nin a lower voice resumed: \u201cListen, my good Pierre; I am fearfully sad. I\nmay look pleased, but there is death in my soul. You did not tell me the\ntruth yesterday.\u201d\n\nHe became quite scared, but did not at first understand her. \u201cI did not\ntell you the truth--About what?\u201d he asked.\n\nA kind of shame restrained her, and she again hesitated at the moment of\ndescending into the depths of another conscience than her own. Then, like\na friend, a sister, she continued: \u201cNo, you let me believe that you had\nbeen saved with me, and it was not true, Pierre, you have not found your\nlost faith again.\u201d\n\nGood Lord! she knew. For him this was desolation, such a catastrophe that\nhe forgot his torments. And, at first, he obstinately clung to the\nfalsehood born of his fraternal charity. \u201cBut I assure you, Marie. How\ncan you have formed such a wicked idea?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! be quiet, my friend, for pity\u2019s sake. It would grieve me too deeply\nif you were to speak to me falsely again. It was yonder, at the station,\nat the moment when we were starting, and that unhappy man had died. Good\nAbb\u00e9 Judaine had knelt down to pray for the repose of that rebellious\nsoul. And I divined everything, I understood everything when I saw that\nyou did not kneel as well, that prayer did not rise to your lips as to\nhis.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, really, I assure you, Marie--\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, you did not pray for the dead; you no longer believe. And\nbesides, there is something else; something I can guess, something which\ncomes to me from you, a despair which you can\u2019t hide from me, a\nmelancholy look which comes into your poor eyes directly they meet mine.\nThe Blessed Virgin did not grant my prayer, she did not restore your\nfaith, and I am very, very wretched.\u201d\n\nShe was weeping, a hot tear fell upon the priest\u2019s hand, which she was\nstill holding. It quite upset him, and he ceased struggling, confessing,\nin his turn letting his tears flow, whilst, in a very low voice, he\nstammered: \u201cAh! Marie, I am very wretched also. Oh! so very wretched.\u201d\n\nFor a moment they remained silent, in their cruel grief at feeling that\nthe abyss which parts different beliefs was yawning between them. They\nwould never belong to one another again, and they were in despair at\nbeing so utterly unable to bring themselves nearer to one another; but\nthe severance was henceforth definitive, since Heaven itself had been\nunable to reconnect the bond. And thus, side by side, they wept over\ntheir separation.\n\n\u201cI who prayed so fervently for your conversion,\u201d she said in a dolorous\nvoice, \u201cI who was so happy. It had seemed to me that your soul was\nmingling with mine; and it was so delightful to have been saved together,\ntogether. I felt such strength for life; oh, strength enough to raise the\nworld!\u201d\n\nHe did not answer; his tears were still flowing, flowing without end.\n\n\u201cAnd to think,\u201d she resumed, \u201cthat I was saved all alone; that this great\nhappiness fell upon me without you having any share in it. And to see you\nso forsaken, so desolate, when I am loaded with grace and joy, rends my\nheart. Ah! how severe the Blessed Virgin has been! Why did she not heal\nyour soul at the same time that she healed my body?\u201d\n\nThe last opportunity was presenting itself; he ought to have illumined\nthis innocent creature\u2019s mind with the light of reason, have explained\nthe miracle to her, in order that life, after accomplishing its healthful\nwork in her body, might complete its triumph by throwing them into one\nanother\u2019s arms. He also was healed, his mind was healthy now, and it was\nnot for the loss of faith, but for the loss of herself, that he was\nweeping. However, invincible compassion was taking possession of him\namidst all his grief. No, no, he would not trouble that dear soul; he\nwould not rob her of her belief, which some day might prove her only stay\namidst the sorrows of this world. One cannot yet require of children and\nwomen the bitter heroism of reason. He had not the strength to do it; he\neven thought that he had not the right. It would have seemed to him\nviolation, abominable murder. And he did not speak out, but his tears\nflowed, hotter and hotter, in this immolation of his love, this\ndespairing sacrifice of his own happiness in order that she might remain\ncandid and ignorant and gay at heart.\n\n\u201cOh, Marie, how wretched I am! Nowhere on the roads, nowhere at the\ngalleys even, is there a man more wretched than myself! Oh, Marie, if you\nonly knew; if you only knew how wretched I am!\u201d\n\nShe was distracted, and caught him in her trembling arms, wishing to\nconsole him with a sisterly embrace. And at that moment the woman awaking\nwithin her understood everything, and she herself sobbed with sorrow that\nboth human and divine will should thus part them. She had never yet\nreflected on such things, but suddenly she caught a glimpse of life, with\nits passions, its struggles, and its sufferings; and then, seeking for\nwhat she might say to soothe in some degree that broken heart, she\nstammered very faintly, distressed that she could find nothing sweet\nenough, \u201cI know, I know--\u201d\n\nThen the words it was needful she should speak came to her; and as though\nthat which she had to say ought only to be heard by the angels, she\nbecame anxious and looked around her. But the slumber which reigned in\nthe carriage seemed more heavy even than before. Her father was still\nsleeping, with the innocent look of a big child. Not one of the pilgrims,\nnot one of the ailing ones, had stirred amidst the rough rocking which\nbore them onward. Even Sister Hyacinthe, giving way to her overpowering\nweariness, had just closed her eyes, after drawing the lamp-screen in her\nown compartment. And now there were only vague shadows there, ill-defined\nbodies amidst nameless things, ghostly forms scarce visible, which a\ntempest blast, a furious rush, was carrying on and on through the\ndarkness. And she likewise distrusted that black country-side whose\nunknown depths went by on either side of the train without one even being\nable to tell what forests, what rivers, what hills one was crossing. A\nshort time back some bright sparks of light had appeared, possibly the\nlights of some distant forges, or the woeful lamps of workers or\nsufferers. Now, however, the night again streamed deeply all around, the\nobscure, infinite, nameless sea, farther and farther through which they\never went, not knowing where they were.\n\nThen, with a chaste confusion, blushing amidst her tears, Marie placed\nher lips near Pierre\u2019s ear. \u201cListen, my friend; there is a great secret\nbetween the Blessed Virgin and myself. I had sworn that I would never\ntell it to anybody. But you are too unhappy, you are suffering too\nbitterly; she will forgive me; I will confide it to you.\u201d\n\nAnd in a faint breath she went on: \u201cDuring that night of love, you know,\nthat night of burning ecstasy which I spent before the Grotto, I engaged\nmyself by a vow: I promised the Blessed Virgin the gift of my chastity if\nshe would but heal me.... She has healed me, and never--you hear me,\nPierre, never will I marry anybody.\u201d\n\nAh! what unhoped-for sweetness! He thought that a balmy dew was falling\non his poor wounded heart. It was a divine enchantment, a delicious\nrelief. If she belonged to none other she would always be a little bit\nhis own. And how well she had known his torment and what it was needful\nshe should say in order that life might yet be possible for him.\n\nIn his turn he wished to find happy words and promise that he also would\never be hers, ever love her as he had loved her since childhood, like the\ndear creature she was, whose one kiss, long, long ago, had sufficed to\nperfume his entire life. But she made him stop, already anxious, fearing\nto spoil that pure moment. \u201cNo, no, my friend,\u201d she murmured, \u201clet us say\nnothing more; it would be wrong, perhaps. I am very weary; I shall sleep\nquietly now.\u201d\n\nAnd, with her head against his shoulder, she fell asleep at once, like a\nsister who is all confidence. He for a moment kept himself awake in that\npainful happiness of renunciation which they had just tasted together. It\nwas all over, quite over now; the sacrifice was consummated. He would\nlive a solitary life, apart from the life of other men. Never would he\nknow woman, never would any child be born to him. And there remained to\nhim only the consoling pride of that accepted and desired suicide, with\nthe desolate grandeur that attaches to lives which are beyond the pale of\nnature.\n\nBut fatigue overpowered him also; his eyes closed, and in his turn he\nfell asleep. And afterwards his head slipped down, and his cheek touched\nthe cheek of his dear friend, who was sleeping very gently with her brow\nagainst his shoulder. Then their hair mingled. She had her golden hair,\nher royal hair, half unbound, and it streamed over his face, and he\ndreamed amidst its perfume. Doubtless the same blissful dream fell upon\nthem both, for their loving faces assumed the same expression of rapture;\nthey both seemed to be smiling to the angels. It was chaste and\npassionate abandon, the innocence of chance slumber placing them in one\nanother\u2019s arms, with warm, close lips so that their breath mingled, like\nthe breath of two babes lying in the same cradle. And such was their\nbridal night, the consummation of the spiritual marriage in which they\nwere to live, a delicious annihilation born of extreme fatigue, with\nscarcely a fleeting dream of mystical possession, amidst that carriage of\nwretchedness and suffering, which still and ever rolled along through the\ndense night. Hours and hours slipped by, the wheels growled, the bags and\nbaskets swung from the brass hooks, whilst from the piled-up, crushed\nbodies there only arose a sense of terrible fatigue, the great physical\nexhaustion brought back from the land of miracles when the overworked\nsouls returned home.\n\nAt last, at five o\u2019clock, whilst the sun was rising, there was a sudden\nawakening, a resounding entry into a large station, with porters calling,\ndoors opening, and people scrambling together. They were at Poitiers, and\nat once the whole carriage was on foot, amidst a chorus of laughter and\nexclamations. Little Sophie Couteau alighted here, and was bidding\neverybody farewell. She embraced all the ladies, even passing over the\npartition to take leave of Sister Claire des Anges, whom nobody had seen\nsince the previous evening, for, silent and slight of build, with eyes\nfull of mystery, she had vanished into her corner. Then the child came\nback again, took her little parcel, and showed herself particularly\namiable towards Sister Hyacinthe and Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re.\n\n\u201c_Au revoir_, Sister! _Au revoir_, madame! I thank you for all your\nkindness.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must come back again next year, my child.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I sha\u2019n\u2019t fail, Sister; it\u2019s my duty.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd be good, my dear child, and take care of your health, so that the\nBlessed Virgin may be proud of you.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure, madame, she was so good to me, and it amuses me so much to\ngo to see her.\u201d\n\nWhen she was on the platform, all the pilgrims in the carriage leaned\nout, and with happy faces watched her go off.\n\n\u201cTill next year!\u201d they called to her; \u201ctill next year!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, thank you kindly. Till next year.\u201d\n\nThe morning prayer was only to be said at Chatelherault. After the\nstoppage at Poitiers, when the train was once more rolling on in the\nfresh breeze of morning, M. de Guersaint gaily declared that he had slept\ndelightfully, in spite of the hardness of the seat. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re\nalso congratulated herself on the good rest which she had had, and of\nwhich she had been in so much need; though, at the same time, she was\nsomewhat annoyed at having left Sister Hyacinthe all alone to watch over\nLa Grivotte, who was now shivering with intense fever, again attacked by\nher horrible cough. Meanwhile the other female pilgrims were tidying\nthemselves. The ten women at the far end were fastening their _fichus_\nand tying their cap strings, with a kind of modest nervousness displayed\non their mournfully ugly faces. And Elise Rouquet, all attention, with\nher face close to her pocket glass, did not cease examining her nose,\nmouth, and cheeks, admiring herself with the thought that she was really\nand truly becoming nice-looking.\n\nAnd it was then that Pierre and Marie again experienced a feeling of deep\ncompassion on glancing at Madame Vincent, whom nothing had been able to\nrouse from a state of torpor, neither the tumultuous stoppage at\nPoitiers, nor the noise of voices which had continued ever since they had\nstarted off again. Prostrate on the seat, she had not opened her eyes,\nbut still and ever slumbered, tortured by atrocious dreams. And, with big\ntears still streaming from her closed eyes, she had caught hold of the\npillow which had been forced upon her, and was closely pressing it to her\nbreast in some nightmare born of her suffering. Her poor arms, which had\nso long carried her dying daughter, her arms now unoccupied, forever\nempty, had found this cushion whilst she slept, and had coiled around\nthem, as around a phantom, with a blind and frantic embrace.\n\nOn the other hand, M. Sabathier had woke up feeling quite joyous. Whilst\nhis wife was pulling up his rug, carefully wrapping it round his lifeless\nlegs; he began to chat with sparkling eyes, once more basking in\nillusion. He had dreamt of Lourdes, said he, and had seen the Blessed\nVirgin leaning towards him with a smile of kindly promise. And then,\nalthough he had before him both Madame Vincent, that mother whose\ndaughter the Virgin had allowed to die, and La Grivotte, the wretched\nwoman whom she had healed and who had so cruelly relapsed into her mortal\ndisease, he nevertheless rejoiced and made merry, repeating to M. de\nGuersaint, with an air of perfect conviction: \u201cOh! I shall return home\nquite easy in mind, monsieur--I shall be cured next year. Yes, yes, as\nthat dear little girl said just now: \u2018Till next year, till next year!\u2019\u201d\n\nIt was indestructible illusion, victorious even over certainty, eternal\nhope determined not to die, but shooting up with more life than ever,\nafter each defeat, upon the ruins of everything.\n\nAt Chatelherault, Sister Hyacinthe made them say the morning prayer, the\n\u201cPater,\u201d the \u201cAve,\u201d the \u201cCredo,\u201d and an appeal to God begging Him for the\nhappiness of a glorious day: \u201cO God, grant me sufficient strength that I\nmay avoid all that is evil, do all that is good, and suffer without\ncomplaint every pain.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nV. THE DEATH OP BERNADETTE--THE NEW RELIGION\n\nAND the journey continued; the train rolled, still rolled along.\nAt Sainte-Maure the prayers of the mass were said, and at\nSainte-Pierre-des-Corps the \u201cCredo\u201d was chanted. However, the religious\nexercises no longer proved so welcome; the pilgrims\u2019 zeal was flagging\nsomewhat in the increasing fatigue of their return journey, after such\nprolonged mental excitement. It occurred to Sister Hyacinthe that the\nhappiest way of entertaining these poor worn-out folks would be for\nsomeone to read aloud; and she promised that she would allow Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9 to read them the finish of Bernadette\u2019s life, some of the\nmarvellous episodes of which he had already on two occasions related to\nthem. However, they must wait until they arrived at Les Aubrais; there\nwould be nearly two hours between Les Aubrais and Etampes, ample time to\nfinish the story without being disturbed.\n\nThen the various religious exercises followed one after the other, in a\nmonotonous repetition of the order which had been observed whilst they\ncrossed the same plains on their way to Lourdes. They again began the\nRosary at Amboise, where they said the first chaplet, the five joyful\nmysteries; then, after singing the canticle, \u201cO loving Mother, bless,\u201d at\nBlois, they recited the second chaplet, the five sorrowful mysteries, at\nBeaugency. Some little fleecy clouds had veiled the sun since morning,\nand the landscapes, very sweet and somewhat sad, flew by with a\ncontinuous fan-like motion. The trees and houses on either side of the\nline disappeared in the grey light with the fleetness of vague visions,\nwhilst the distant hills, enveloped in mist, vanished more slowly, with\nthe gentle rise and fall of a swelling sea. Between Beaugency and Les\nAubrais the train seemed to slacken speed, though it still kept up its\nrhythmical, persistent rumbling, which the deafened pilgrims no longer\neven heard.\n\nAt length, when Les Aubrais had been left behind, they began to lunch in\nthe carriage. It was then a quarter to twelve, and when they had said the\n\u201cAngelus,\u201d and the three \u201cAves\u201d had been thrice repeated, Pierre took\nfrom Marie\u2019s bag the little book whose blue cover was ornamented with an\nartless picture of Our Lady of Lourdes. Sister Hyacinthe clapped her\nhands as a signal for silence, and amidst general wakefulness and ardent\ncuriosity like that of big children impassioned by the marvellous story,\nthe priest was able to begin reading in his fine, penetrating voice. Now\ncame the narrative of Bernadette\u2019s sojourn at Nevers, and then her death\nthere. Pierre, however, as on the two previous occasions, soon ceased\nfollowing the exact text of the little book, and added charming anecdotes\nof his own, both what he knew and what he could divine; and, for himself\nalone, he again evolved the true story, the human, pitiful story, that\nwhich none had ever told, but which he felt so deeply.\n\nIt was on the 8th July, 1866, that Bernadette left Lourdes. She went to\ntake the veil at Nevers, in the convent of Saint-Gildard, the chief\nhabitation of the Sisters on duty at the Asylum where she had learnt to\nread and had been living for eight years. She was then twenty-two years\nof age, and it was eight years since the Blessed Virgin had appeared to\nher. And her farewells to the Grotto, to the Basilica, to the whole town\nwhich she loved, were watered with tears. But she could no longer remain\nthere, owing to the continuous persecution of public curiosity, the\nvisits, the homage, and the adoration paid to her, from which, on account\nof her delicate health, she suffered cruelly. Her sincere humility, her\ntimid love of shade and silence, had at last produced in her an ardent\ndesire to disappear, to hide her resounding glory--the glory of one whom\nheaven had chosen and whom the world would not leave in peace--in the\ndepth of some unknown darkness; and she longed only for\nsimple-mindedness, for a quiet humdrum life devoted to prayer and petty\ndaily occupations. Her departure was therefore a relief both to her and\nto the Grotto, which she was beginning to embarrass with her excessive\ninnocence and burdensome complaints.\n\nAt Nevers, Saint-Gildard ought to have proved a paradise. She there found\nfresh air, sunshine, spacious apartments, and an extensive garden planted\nwith fine trees. Yet she did not enjoy peace,--that utter forgetfulness\nof the world for which one flees to the far-away desert. Scarcely twenty\ndays after her arrival, she donned the garb of the Order and assumed the\nname of Sister Marie-Bernard, for the time simply engaging herself by\npartial vows. However, the world still flocked around her, the\npersecution of the multitude began afresh. She was pursued even into the\ncloister through an irresistible desire to obtain favours from her\nsaintly person. Ah! to see her, touch her, become lucky by gazing on her\nor surreptitiously rubbing some medal against her dress. It was the\ncredulous passion of fetishism, a rush of believers pursuing this poor\nbeatified being in the desire which each felt to secure a share of hope\nand divine illusion. She wept at it with very weariness, with impatient\nrevolt, and often repeated: \u201cWhy do they torment me like this? What more\nis there in me than in others?\u201d And at last she felt real grief at thus\nbecoming \u201cthe raree-show,\u201d as she ended by calling herself with a sad,\nsuffering smile. She defended herself as far as she could, refusing to\nsee anyone. Her companions defended her also, and sometimes very sternly,\nshowing her only to such visitors as were authorised by the Bishop. The\ndoors of the Convent remained closed, and ecclesiastics almost alone\nsucceeded in effecting an entrance. Still, even this was too much for her\ndesire for solitude, and she often had to be obstinate, to request that\nthe priests who had called might be sent away, weary as she was of always\ntelling the same story, of ever answering the same questions. She was\nincensed, wounded, on behalf of the Blessed Virgin herself. Still, she\nsometimes had to yield, for the Bishop in person would bring great\npersonages, dignitaries, and prelates; and she would then appear with her\ngrave air, answering politely and as briefly as possible; only feeling at\nease when she was allowed to return to her shadowy corner. Never, indeed,\nhad distinction weighed more heavily on a mortal. One day, when she was\nasked if she was not proud of the continual visits paid her by the\nBishop, she answered simply: \u201cMonseigneur does not come to see me, he\ncomes to show me.\u201d On another occasion some princes of the Church, great\nmilitant Catholics, who wished to see her, were overcome with emotion and\nsobbed before her; but, in her horror of being shown, in the vexation\nthey caused her simple mind, she left them without comprehending, merely\nfeeling very weary and very sad.\n\nAt length, however, she grew accustomed to Saint-Gildard, and spent a\npeaceful existence there, engaged in avocations of which she became very\nfond. She was so delicate, so frequently ill, that she was employed in\nthe infirmary. In addition to the little assistance she rendered there,\nshe worked with her needle, with which she became rather skilful,\nembroidering albs and altar-cloths in a delicate manner. But at times\nshe, would lose all strength, and be unable to do even this light work.\nWhen she was not confined to her bed she spent long days in an\neasy-chair, her only diversion being to recite her rosary or to read some\npious work. Now that she had learnt to read, books interested her,\nespecially the beautiful stories of conversion, the delightful legends in\nwhich saints of both sexes appear, and the splendid and terrible dramas\nin which the devil is baffled and cast back into hell. But her great\nfavourite, the book at which she continually marvelled, was the Bible,\nthat wonderful New Testament of whose perpetual miracle she never\nwearied. She remembered the Bible at Bartres, that old book which had\nbeen in the family a hundred years, and whose pages had turned yellow;\nshe could again see her foster-father slip a pin between the leaves to\nopen the book at random, and then read aloud from the top of the\nright-hand page; and even at that time she had already known those\nbeautiful stories so well that she could have continued repeating the\nnarrative by heart, whatever might be the passage at which the perusal\nhad ceased. And now that she read the book herself, she found in it a\nconstant source of surprise, an ever-increasing delight. The story of the\nPassion particularly upset her, as though it were some extraordinary\ntragical event that had happened only the day before. She sobbed with\npity; it made her poor suffering body quiver for hours. Mingled with her\ntears, perhaps, there was the unconscious dolour of her own passion, the\ndesolate Calvary which she also had been ascending ever since her\nchildhood.\n\nWhen Bernadette was well and able to perform her duties in the infirmary,\nshe bustled about, filling the building with childish liveliness. Until\nher death she remained an innocent, infantile being, fond of laughing,\nromping, and play. She was very little, the smallest Sister of the\ncommunity, so that her companions always treated her somewhat like a\nchild. Her face grew long and hollow, and lost its bloom of youth; but\nshe retained the pure divine brightness of her eyes, the beautiful eyes\nof a visionary, in which, as in a limpid sky, you detected the flight of\nher dreams. As she grew older and her sufferings increased, she became\nsomewhat sour-tempered and violent, cross-grained, anxious, and at times\nrough; little imperfections which after each attack filled her with\nremorse. She would humble herself, think herself damned, and beg pardon\nof everyone. But, more frequently, what a good little daughter of\nProvidence she was! She became lively, alert, quick at repartee, full of\nmirth-provoking remarks, with a grace quite her own, which made her\nbeloved. In spite of her great devotion, although she spent days in\nprayer, she was not at all bigoted or over-exacting with regard to\nothers, but tolerant and compassionate. In fact, no nun was ever so much\na woman, with distinct features, a decided personality, charming even in\nits puerility. And this gift of childishness which she had retained, the\nsimple innocence of the child she still was, also made children love her,\nas though they recognised in her one of themselves. They all ran to her,\njumped upon her lap, and passed their tiny arms round her neck, and the\ngarden would then fill with the noise of joyous games, races, and cries;\nand it was not she who ran or cried the least, so happy was she at once\nmore feeling herself a poor unknown little girl as in the far-away days\nof Bartres! Later on it was related that a mother had one day brought her\nparalysed child to the convent for the saint to touch and cure it. The\nwoman sobbed so much that the Superior ended by consenting to make the\nattempt. However, as Bernadette indignantly protested whenever she was\nasked to perform a miracle, she was not forewarned, but simply called to\ntake the sick child to the infirmary. And she did so, and when she stood\nthe child on the ground it walked. It was cured.\n\nAh! how many times must Bartres and her free childhood spent watching her\nlambs--the years passed among the hills, in the long grass, in the leafy\nwoods--have returned to her during the hours she gave to her dreams when\nweary of praying for sinners! No one then fathomed her soul, no one could\nsay if involuntary regrets did not rend her wounded heart. One day she\nspoke some words, which her historians have preserved, with the view of\nmaking her passion more touching. Cloistered far away from her mountains,\nconfined to a bed of sickness, she exclaimed: \u201cIt seems to me that I was\nmade to live, to act, to be ever on the move, and yet the Lord will have\nme remain motionless.\u201d What a revelation, full of terrible testimony and\nimmense sadness! Why should the Lord wish that dear being, all grace and\ngaiety, to remain motionless? Could she not have honoured Him equally\nwell by living the free, healthy life that she had been born to live? And\nwould she not have done more to increase the world\u2019s happiness and her\nown if, instead of praying for sinners, her constant occupation, she had\ngiven her love to the husband who might have been united to her and to\nthe children who might have been born to her? She, so gay and so active,\nwould, on certain evenings, become extremely depressed. She turned gloomy\nand remained wrapped in herself, as though overcome by excess of pain. No\ndoubt the cup was becoming too bitter. The thought of her life\u2019s\nperpetual renunciation was killing her.\n\nDid Bernadette often think of Lourdes whilst she was at Saint-Gildard?\nWhat knew she of the triumph of the Grotto, of the prodigies which were\ndaily transforming the land of miracles? These questions were never\nthoroughly elucidated. Her companions were forbidden to talk to her of\nsuch matters, which remained enveloped in absolute, continual silence.\nShe herself did not care to speak of them; she kept silent with regard to\nthe mysterious past, and evinced no desire to know the present, however\ntriumphant it might be. But all the same did not her heart, in\nimagination, fly away to the enchanted country of her childhood, where\nlived her kith and kin, where all her life-ties had been formed, where\nshe had left the most extraordinary dream that ever human being dreamt?\nSurely she must have sometimes travelled the beautiful journey of memory,\nshe must have known the main features of the great events that had taken\nplace at Lourdes. What she most dreaded was to go there herself, and, she\nalways refused to do so, knowing full well that she could not remain\nunrecognised, and fearful of meeting the crowds whose adoration awaited\nher. What glory would have been hers had she been headstrong, ambitious,\ndomineering! She would have returned to the holy spot of her visions,\nhave worked miracles there, have become a priestess, a female pope, with\nthe infallibility and sovereignty of one of the elect, a friend of the\nBlessed Virgin. But the Fathers never really feared this, although\nexpress orders had been given to withdraw her from the world for her\nsalvation\u2019s sake. In reality they were easy, for they knew her, so gentle\nand so humble in her fear of becoming divine, in her ignorance of the\ncolossal machine which she had put in motion, and the working of which\nwould have made her recoil with affright had she understood it. No, no!\nthat was no longer her land, that place of crowds, of violence and\ntrafficking. She would have suffered too much there, she would have been\nout of her element, bewildered, ashamed. And so, when pilgrims bound\nthither asked her with a smile, \u201cWill you come with us?\u201d she shivered\nslightly, and then hastily replied, \u201cNo, no! but how I should like to,\nwere I a little bird!\u201d\n\nHer reverie alone was that little travelling bird, with rapid flight and\nnoiseless wings, which continually went on pilgrimage to the Grotto. In\nher dreams, indeed, she must have continually lived at Lourdes, though in\nthe flesh she had not even gone there for either her father\u2019s or her\nmother\u2019s funeral. Yet she loved her kin; she was anxious to procure work\nfor her relations who had remained poor, and she had insisted on seeing\nher eldest brother, who, coming to Nevers to complain, had been refused\nadmission to the convent. However, he found her weary and resigned, and\nshe did not ask him a single question about New Lourdes, as though that\nrising town were no longer her own. The year of the crowning of the\nVirgin, a priest whom she had deputed to pray for her before the Grotto\ncame back and told her of the never-to-be forgotten wonders of the\nceremony, the hundred thousand pilgrims who had flocked to it, and the\nfive-and-thirty bishops in golden vestments who had assembled in the\nresplendent Basilica. Whilst listening, she trembled with her customary\nlittle quiver of desire and anxiety. And when the priest exclaimed, \u201cAh!\nif you had only seen that pomp!\u201d she answered: \u201cMe! I was much better\nhere in my little corner in the infirmary.\u201d They had robbed her of her\nglory; her work shone forth resplendently amidst a continuous hosanna,\nand she only tasted joy in forgetfulness, in the gloom of the cloister,\nwhere the opulent farmers of the Grotto forgot her. It was never the\nre-echoing solemnities that prompted her mysterious journeys; the little\nbird of her soul only winged its lonesome flight to Lourdes on days of\nsolitude, in the peaceful hours when no one could there disturb its\ndevotions. It was before the wild primitive Grotto that she returned to\nkneel, amongst the bushy eglantine, as in the days when the Gave was not\nwalled in by a monumental quay. And it was the old town that she visited\nat twilight, when the cool, perfumed breezes came down from the\nmountains, the old painted and gilded semi-Spanish church where she had\nmade her first communion, the old Asylum so full of suffering where\nduring eight years she had grown accustomed to solitude--all that poor,\ninnocent old town, whose every paving-stone awoke old affections in her\nmemory\u2019s depths.\n\nAnd did Bernadette ever extend the pilgrimage of her dreams as far as\nBartres? Probably, at times when she sat in her invalid-chair and let\nsome pious book slip from her tired hands, and closed her eyes, Bartres\ndid appear to her, lighting up the darkness of her view. The little\nantique Romanesque church with sky-blue nave and blood-red altar screens\nstood there amidst the tombs of the narrow cemetery. Then she would find\nherself once more in the house of the Lagues, in the large room on the\nleft, where the fire was burning, and where, in winter-time, such\nwonderful stories were told whilst the big clock gravely ticked the hours\naway. At times the whole countryside spread out before her, meadows\nwithout end, giant chestnut-trees beneath which you lost yourself,\ndeserted table-lands whence you descried the distant mountains, the Pic\ndu Midi and the Pic de Viscos soaring aloft as airy and as rose-coloured\nas dreams, in a paradise such as the legends have depicted. And\nafterwards, afterwards came her free childhood, when she scampered off\nwhither she listed in the open air, her lonely, dreamy thirteenth year,\nwhen with all the joy of living she wandered through the immensity of\nnature. And now, too, perhaps, she again beheld herself roaming in the\ntall grass among the hawthorn bushes beside the streams on a warm sunny\nday in June. Did she not picture herself grown, with a lover of her own\nage, whom she would have loved with all the simplicity and affection of\nher heart? Ah! to be a child again, to be free, unknown, happy once more,\nto love afresh, and to love differently! The vision must have passed\nconfusedly before her--a husband who worshipped her, children gaily\ngrowing up around her, the life that everybody led, the joys and sorrows\nthat her own parents had known, and which her children would have had to\nknow in their turn. But little by little all vanished, and she again\nfound herself in her chair of suffering, imprisoned between four cold\nwalls, with no other desire than a longing one for a speedy death, since\nshe had been denied a share of the poor common happiness of this world.\n\nBernadette\u2019s ailments increased each year. It was, in fact, the\ncommencement of her passion, the passion of this new child-Messiah, who\nhad come to bring relief to the unhappy, to announce to mankind the\nreligion of divine justice and equality in the face of miracles which\nflouted the laws of impassible nature. If she now rose it was only to\ndrag herself from chair to chair for a few days at a time, and then she\nwould have a relapse and be again forced to take to her bed. Her\nsufferings became terrible. Her hereditary nervousness, her asthma,\naggravated by cloister life, had probably turned into phthisis. She\ncoughed frightfully, each fit rending her burning chest and leaving her\nhalf dead. To complete her misery, caries of the right knee-cap\nsupervened, a gnawing disease, the shooting pains of which caused her to\ncry aloud. Her poor body, to which dressings were continually being\napplied, became one great sore, which was irritated by the warmth of her\nbed, by her prolonged sojourn between sheets whose friction ended by\nbreaking her skin. One and all pitied her; those who beheld her martyrdom\nsaid that it was impossible to suffer more, or with greater fortitude.\nShe tried some of the Lourdes water, but it brought her no relief. Lord,\nAlmighty King, why cure others and not cure her? To save her soul? Then\ndost Thou not save the souls of the others? What an inexplicable\nselection! How absurd that in the eternal evolution of worlds it should\nbe necessary for this poor being to be tortured! She sobbed, and again\nand again said in order to keep up her courage: \u201cHeaven is at the end,\nbut how long the end is in coming!\u201d There was ever the idea that\nsuffering is the test, that it is necessary to suffer upon earth if one\nwould triumph elsewhere, that suffering is indispensable, enviable, and\nblessed. But is this not blasphemous, O Lord? Hast Thou not created youth\nand joy? Is it Thy wish that Thy creatures should enjoy neither the sun,\nnor the smiling Nature which Thou hast created, nor the human affections\nwith which Thou hast endowed their flesh? She dreaded the feeling of\nrevolt which maddened her at times, and wished also to strengthen herself\nagainst the disease which made her groan, and she crucified herself in\nthought, extending her arms so as to form a cross and unite herself to\nJesus, her limbs against His limbs, her mouth against His mouth,\nstreaming the while with blood like Him, and steeped like Him in\nbitterness! Jesus died in three hours, but a longer agony fell to her,\nwho again brought redemption by pain, who died to give others life. When\nher bones ached with agony she would sometimes utter complaints, but she\nreproached herself immediately. \u201cOh! how I suffer, oh! how I suffer! but\nwhat happiness it is to bear this pain!\u201d There can be no more frightful\nwords, words pregnant with a blacker pessimism. Happy to suffer, O Lord!\nbut why, and to what unknown and senseless end? Where is the reason in\nthis useless cruelty, in this revolting glorification of suffering, when\nfrom the whole of humanity there ascends but one desperate longing for\nhealth and happiness?\n\nIn the midst of her frightful sufferings, however, Sister Marie-Bernard\ntook the final vows on September 22, 1878. Twenty years had gone by since\nthe Blessed Virgin had appeared to her, visiting her as the Angel had\nvisited the Virgin, choosing her as the Virgin had been chosen, amongst\nthe most lowly and the most candid, that she might hide within her the\nsecret of King Jesus. Such was the mystical explanation of that election\nof suffering, the _raison d\u2019\u00eatre_ of that being who was so harshly\nseparated from her fellows, weighed down by disease, transformed into the\npitiable field of every human affliction. She was the \u201cgarden inclosed\u201d*\nthat brings such pleasure to the gaze of the Spouse. He had chosen her,\nthen buried her in the death of her hidden life. And even when the\nunhappy creature staggered beneath the weight of her cross, her\ncompanions would say to her: \u201cDo you forget that the Blessed Virgin\npromised you that you should be happy, not in this world, but in the\nnext?\u201d And with renewed strength, and striking her forehead, she would\nanswer: \u201cForget? no, no! it is here!\u201d She only recovered temporary energy\nby means of this illusion of a paradise of glory, into which she would\nenter escorted by seraphims, to be forever and ever happy. The three\npersonal secrets which the Blessed Virgin had confided to her, to arm her\nagainst evil, must have been promises of beauty, felicity, and\nimmortality in heaven. What monstrous dupery if there were only the\ndarkness of the earth beyond the grave, if the Blessed Virgin of her\ndream were not there to meet her with the prodigious guerdons she had\npromised! But Bernadette had not a doubt; she willingly undertook all the\nlittle commissions with which her companions na\u00efvely entrusted her for\nHeaven: \u201cSister Marie-Bernard, you\u2019ll say this, you\u2019ll say that, to the\nAlmighty.\u201d \u201cSister Marie-Bernard, you\u2019ll kiss my brother if you meet him\nin Paradise.\u201d \u201cSister Marie-Bernard, give me a little place beside you\nwhen I die.\u201d And she obligingly answered each one: \u201cHave no fear, I will\ndo it!\u201d Ah! all-powerful illusion, delicious repose, power ever reviving\nand consolatory!\n\n  * Song of Solomon iv. 12.\n\nAnd then came the last agony, then came death.\n\nOn Friday, March 28, 1879, it was thought that she would not last the\nnight. She had a despairing longing for the tomb, in order that she might\nsuffer no more, and live again in heaven. And thus she obstinately\nrefused to receive extreme unction, saying that twice already it had\ncured her. She wished, in short, that God would let her die, for it was\nmore than she could bear; it would have been unreasonable to require that\nshe should suffer longer. Yet she ended by consenting to receive the\nsacraments, and her last agony was thereby prolonged for nearly three\nweeks. The priest who attended her frequently said: \u201cMy daughter, you\nmust make the sacrifice of your life\u201d; and one day, quite out of\npatience, she sharply answered him: \u201cBut, Father, it is no sacrifice.\u201d A\nterrible saying, that also, for it implied disgust at _being_, furious\ncontempt for existence, and an immediate ending of her humanity, had she\nhad the power to suppress herself by a gesture. It is true that the poor\ngirl had nothing to regret, that she had been compelled to banish\neverything from her life, health, joy, and love, so that she might leave\nit as one casts off a soiled, worn, tattered garment. And she was right;\nshe condemned her useless, cruel life when she said: \u201cMy passion will\nfinish only at my death; it will not cease until I enter into eternity.\u201d\n And this idea of her passion pursued her, attaching her more closely to\nthe cross with her Divine Master. She had induced them to give her a\nlarge crucifix; she pressed it vehemently against her poor maidenly\nbreast, exclaiming that she would like to thrust it into her bosom and\nleave it there. Towards the end, her strength completely forsook her, and\nshe could no longer grasp the crucifix with her trembling hands. \u201cLet it\nbe tightly tied to me,\u201d she prayed, \u201cthat I may feel it until my last\nbreath!\u201d The Redeemer upon that crucifix was the only spouse that she was\ndestined to know; His bleeding kiss was to be the only one bestowed upon\nher womanhood, diverted from nature\u2019s course. The nuns took cords, passed\nthem under her aching back, and fastened the crucifix so roughly to her\nbosom that it did indeed penetrate it.\n\nAt last death took pity upon her. On Easter Monday she was seized with a\ngreat fit of shivering. Hallucinations perturbed her, she trembled with\nfright, she beheld the devil jeering and prowling around her. \u201cBe off, be\noff, Satan!\u201d she gasped; \u201cdo not touch me, do not carry me away!\u201d And\namidst her delirium she related that the fiend had sought to throw\nhimself upon her, that she had felt his mouth scorching her with all the\nflames of hell. The devil in a life so pure, in a soul without sin! what\nfor, O Lord! and again I ask it, why this relentless suffering, intense\nto the very last, why this nightmare-like ending, this death troubled\nwith such frightful fancies, after so beautiful a life of candour,\npurity, and innocence? Could she not fall asleep serenely in the\npeacefulness of her chaste soul? But doubtless so long as breath remained\nin her body it was necessary to leave her the hatred and dread of life,\nwhich is the devil. It was life which menaced her, and it was life which\nshe cast out, in the same way that she denied life when she reserved to\nthe Celestial Bridegroom her tortured, crucified womanhood. That dogma of\nthe Immaculate Conception, which her dream had come to strengthen, was a\nblow dealt by the Church to woman, both wife and mother. To decree that\nwoman is only worthy of worship on condition that she be a virgin, to\nimagine that virgin to be herself born without sin, is not this an insult\nto Nature, the condemnation of life, the denial of womanhood, whose true\ngreatness consists in perpetuating life? \u201cBe off, be off, Satan! let me\ndie without fulfilling Nature\u2019s law.\u201d And she drove the sunshine from the\nroom and the free air that entered by the window, the air that was sweet\nwith the scent of flowers, laden with all the floating germs which\ntransmit love throughout the whole vast world.\n\nOn the Wednesday after Easter (April 16th), the death agony commenced. It\nis related that on the morning of that day one of Bernadette\u2019s\ncompanions, a nun attacked with a mortal illness and lying in the\ninfirmary in an adjoining bed, was suddenly healed upon drinking a glass\nof Lourdes water. But she, the privileged one, had drunk of it in vain.\nGod at last granted her the signal favour which she desired by sending\nher into the good sound sleep of the earth, in which there is no more\nsuffering. She asked pardon of everyone. Her passion was consummated;\nlike the Saviour, she had the nails and the crown of thorns, the scourged\nlimbs, the pierced side. Like Him she raised her eyes to heaven, extended\nher arms in the form of a cross, and uttered a loud cry: \u201cMy God!\u201d And,\nlike Him, she said, towards three o\u2019clock: \u201cI thirst.\u201d She moistened her\nlips in the glass, then bowed her head and expired.\n\nThus, very glorious and very holy, died the Visionary of Lourdes,\nBernadette Soubirous, Sister Marie-Bernard, one of the Sisters of Charity\nof Nevers. During three days her body remained exposed to view, and vast\ncrowds passed before it; a whole people hastened to the convent, an\ninterminable procession of devotees hungering after hope, who rubbed\nmedals, chaplets, pictures, and missals against the dead woman\u2019s dress,\nto obtain from her one more favour, a fetish bringing happiness. Even in\ndeath her dream of solitude was denied her: a mob of the wretched ones of\nthis world rushed to the spot, drinking in illusion around her coffin.\nAnd it was noticed that her left eye, the eye which at the time of the\napparitions had been nearest to the Blessed Virgin, remained obstinately\nopen. Then a last miracle amazed the convent: the body underwent no\nchange, but was interred on the third day, still supple, warm, with red\nlips, and a very white skin, rejuvenated as it were, and smelling sweet.\nAnd to-day Bernadette Soubirous, exiled from Lourdes, obscurely sleeps\nher last sleep at Saint Gildard, beneath a stone slab in a little chapel,\namidst the shade and silence of the old trees of the garden, whilst\nyonder the Grotto shines resplendently in all its triumph.\n\nPierre ceased speaking; the beautiful, marvellous story was ended. And\nyet the whole carriage was still listening, deeply impressed by that\ndeath, at once so tragic and so touching. Compassionate tears fell from\nMarie\u2019s eyes, while the others, Elise Rouquet, La Grivotte herself, now\ncalmer, clasped their hands and prayed to her who was in heaven to\nintercede with the Divinity to complete their cure. M. Sabathier made a\nbig sign of the cross, and then ate a cake which his wife had bought him\nat Poitiers.\n\nM. de Guersaint, whom sad things always upset, had fallen asleep again in\nthe middle of the story. And there was only Madame Vincent, with her face\nburied in her pillow, who had not stirred, like a deaf and blind\ncreature, determined to see and hear nothing more.\n\nMeanwhile the train rolled, still rolled along. Madame de Jonqui\u00e8re,\nafter putting her head out of the window, informed them that they were\napproaching Etampes. And, when they had left that station behind them,\nSister Hyacinthe gave the signal, and they recited the third chaplet of\nthe Rosary, the five glorious mysteries--the Resurrection of Our Lord,\nthe Ascension of Our Lord, the Mission of the Holy Ghost, the Assumption\nof the Most Blessed Virgin, and the Crowning of the Most Blessed Virgin.\nAnd afterwards they sang the canticle:\n\n  \u201cO Virgin, in thy help I put my trust.\u201d\n\nThen Pierre fell into a deep reverie. His glance had turned towards the\nnow sunlit landscape, the continual flight of which seemed to lull his\nthoughts. The noise of the wheels was making him dizzy, and he ended by\nno longer recognising the familiar horizon of this vast suburban expanse\nwith which he had once been acquainted. They still had to pass Bretigny\nand Juvisy, and then, in an hour and a half at the utmost, they would at\nlast be at Paris. So the great journey was finished! the inquiry, which\nhe had so much desired to make, the experiment which he had attempted\nwith so much passion, were over! He had wished to acquire certainty, to\nstudy Bernadette\u2019s case on the spot, and see if grace would not come back\nto him in a lightning flash, restoring him his faith. And now he had\nsettled the point--Bernadette had dreamed through the continual torments\nof her flesh, and he himself would never believe again. And this forced\nitself upon his mind like a brutal fact: the simple faith of the child\nwho kneels and prays, the primitive faith of young people, bowed down by\nan awe born of their ignorance, was dead. Though thousands of pilgrims\nmight each year go to Lourdes, the nations were no longer with them; this\nattempt to bring about the resurrection of absolute faith, the faith of\ndead-and-gone centuries, without revolt or examination, was fatally\ndoomed to fail. History never retraces its steps, humanity cannot return\nto childhood, times have too much changed, too many new inspirations have\nsown new harvests for the men of to-day to become once more like the men\nof olden time. It was decisive; Lourdes was only an explainable accident,\nwhose reactionary violence was even a proof of the extreme agony in which\nbelief under the antique form of Catholicism was struggling. Never again,\nas in the cathedrals of the twelfth century, would the entire nation\nkneel like a docile flock in the hands of the Master. To blindly,\nobstinately cling to the attempt to bring that to pass would mean to dash\noneself against the impossible, to rush, perhaps, towards great moral\ncatastrophes.\n\nAnd of his journey there already only remained to Pierre an immense\nfeeling of compassion. Ah! his heart was overflowing with pity; his poor\nheart was returning wrung by all that he had seen. He recalled the words\nof worthy Abb\u00e9 Judaine; and he had seen those thousands of unhappy beings\npraying, weeping, and imploring God to take pity on their suffering; and\nhe had wept with them, and felt within himself, like an open wound, a\nsorrowful fraternal feeling for all their ailments. He could not think of\nthose poor people without burning with a desire to relieve them. If it\nwere true that the faith of the simple-minded no longer sufficed; if one\nran the risk of going astray in wishing to turn back, would it become\nnecessary to close the Grotto, to preach other efforts, other sufferings?\nHowever, his compassion revolted at that thought. No, no! it would be a\ncrime to snatch their dream of Heaven from those poor creatures who\nsuffered either in body or in mind, and who only found relief in kneeling\nyonder amidst the splendour of tapers and the soothing repetition of\nhymns. He had not taken the murderous course of undeceiving Marie, but\nhad sacrificed himself in order to leave her the joy of her fancy, the\ndivine consolation of having been healed by the Virgin. Where was the man\nhard enough, cruel enough, to prevent the lowly from believing, to rob\nthem of the consolation of the supernatural, the hope that God troubled\nHimself about them, that He held a better life in His paradise in reserve\nfor them? All humanity was weeping, desperate with anguish, like some\ndespairing invalid, irrevocably condemned, and whom only a miracle could\nsave. He felt mankind to be unhappy indeed, and he shuddered with\nfraternal affection in the presence of such pitiable humility, ignorance,\npoverty in its rags, disease with its sores and evil odour, all the lowly\nsufferers, in hospital, convent, and slums, amidst vermin and dirt, with\nugliness and imbecility written on their faces, an immense protest\nagainst health, life, and Nature, in the triumphal name of justice,\nequality, and benevolence. No, no! it would never do to drive the\nwretched to despair. Lourdes must be tolerated, in the same way that you\ntolerate a falsehood which makes life possible. And, as he had already\nsaid in Bernadette\u2019s chamber, she remained the martyr, she it was who\nrevealed to him the only religion which still filled his heart, the\nreligion of human suffering. Ah! to be good and kindly, to alleviate all\nills, to lull pain, to sleep in a dream, to lie even, so that no one\nmight suffer any more!\n\nThe train passed at full speed through a village, and Pierre vaguely\ncaught sight of a church nestling amidst some large apple trees. All the\npilgrims in the carriage crossed themselves. But he was now becoming\nuneasy, scruples were tingeing his reverie with anxiety. This religion of\nhuman suffering, this redemption by pain, was not this yet another lure,\na continual aggravation of pain and misery? It is cowardly and dangerous\nto allow superstition to live. To tolerate and accept it is to revive the\ndark evil ages afresh. It weakens and stupefies; the sanctimoniousness\nbequeathed by heredity produces humiliated, timorous generations,\ndecadent and docile nations, who are an easy prey to the powerful of the\nearth. Whole nations are imposed upon, robbed, devoured, when they have\ndevoted the whole effort of their will to the mere conquest of a future\nexistence. Would it not, therefore, be better to cure humanity at once by\nboldly closing the miraculous Grottos whither it goes to weep, and thus\nrestore to it the courage to live the real life, even in the midst of\ntears? And it was the same prayer, that incessant flood of prayer which\nascended from Lourdes, the endless supplication in which he had been\nimmersed and softened: was it not after all but puerile lullaby, a\ndebasement of all one\u2019s energies? It benumbed the will, one\u2019s very being\nbecame dissolved in it and acquired disgust for life and action. Of what\nuse could it be to will anything, do anything, when you totally resigned\nyourself to the caprices of an unknown almighty power? And, in another\nrespect, what a strange thing was this mad desire for prodigies, this\nanxiety to drive the Divinity to transgress the laws of Nature\nestablished by Himself in His infinite wisdom! Therein evidently lay\nperil and unreasonableness; at the risk even of losing illusion, that\ndivine comforter, only the habit of personal effort and the courage of\ntruth should have been developed in man, and especially in the child.\n\nThen a great brightness arose in Pierre\u2019s mind and dazzled him. It was\nReason, protesting against the glorification of the absurd and the\ndeposition of common-sense. Ah! reason, it was through her that he had\nsuffered, through her alone that he was happy. As he had told Doctor\nChassaigne, his one consuming longing was to satisfy reason ever more and\nmore, although it might cost him happiness to do so. It was reason, he\nnow well understood it, whose continual revolt at the Grotto, at the\nBasilica, throughout entire Lourdes, had prevented him from believing.\nUnlike his old friend--that stricken old man, who was afflicted with such\ndolorous senility, who had fallen into second childhood since the\nshipwreck of his affections,--he had been unable to kill reason and\nhumiliate and annihilate himself. Reason remained his sovereign mistress,\nand she it was who buoyed him up even amidst the obscurities and failures\nof science. Whenever he met with a thing which he could not understand,\nit was she who whispered to him, \u201cThere is certainly a natural\nexplanation which escapes me.\u201d He repeated that there could be no healthy\nideal outside the march towards the discovery of the unknown, the slow\nvictory of reason amidst all the wretchedness of body and mind. In the\nclashing of the twofold heredity which he had derived from his father,\nall brain, and his mother, all faith, he, a priest, found it possible to\nravage his life in order that he might keep his vows. He had acquired\nstrength enough to master his flesh, but he felt that his paternal\nheredity had now definitely gained the upper hand, for henceforth the\nsacrifice of his reason had become an impossibility; this he would not\nrenounce and would not master. No, no, even human suffering, the hallowed\nsuffering of the poor, ought not to prove an obstacle, enjoining the\nnecessity of ignorance and folly. Reason before all; in her alone lay\nsalvation. If at Lourdes, whilst bathed in tears, softened by the sight\nof so much affliction, he had said that it was sufficient to weep and\nlove, he had made a dangerous mistake. Pity was but a convenient\nexpedient. One must live, one must act; reason must combat suffering,\nunless it be desired that the latter should last forever.\n\nHowever, as the train rolled on and the landscape flew by, a church once\nmore appeared, this time on the fringe of heaven, some votive chapel\nperched upon a hill and surmounted by a lofty statue of the Virgin. And\nonce more all the pilgrims made the sign of the cross, and once more\nPierre\u2019s reverie strayed, a fresh stream of reflections bringing his\nanguish back to him. What was this imperious need of the things beyond,\nwhich tortured suffering humanity? Whence came it? Why should equality\nand justice be desired when they did not seem to exist in impassive\nnature? Man had set them in the unknown spheres of the Mysterious, in the\nsupernatural realms of religious paradises, and there contented his\nardent thirst for them. That unquenchable thirst for happiness had ever\nconsumed, and would consume him always. If the Fathers of the Grotto\ndrove such a glorious trade, it was simply because they made motley out\nof what was divine. That thirst for the Divine, which nothing had\nquenched through the long, long ages, seemed to have returned with\nincreased violence at the close of our century of science. Lourdes was a\nresounding and undeniable proof that man could never live without the\ndream of a Sovereign Divinity, re-establishing equality and re-creating\nhappiness by dint of miracles. When man has reached the depths of life\u2019s\nmisfortunes, he returns to the divine illusion, and the origin of all\nreligions lies there. Man, weak and bare, lacks the strength to live\nthrough his terrestrial misery without the everlasting lie of a paradise.\nTo-day, thought Pierre, the experiment had been made; it seemed that\nscience alone could not suffice, and that one would be obliged to leave a\ndoor open on the Mysterious.\n\nAll at once in the depths of his deeply absorbed mind the words rang out,\nA new religion! The door which must be left open on the Mysterious was\nindeed a new religion. To subject mankind to brutal amputation, lop off\nits dream, and forcibly deprive it of the Marvellous, which it needed to\nlive as much as it needed bread, would possibly kill it. Would it ever\nhave the philosophical courage to take life as it is, and live it for its\nown sake, without any idea of future rewards and penalties? It certainly\nseemed that centuries must elapse before the advent of a society wise\nenough to lead a life of rectitude without the moral control of some\ncultus and the consolation of superhuman equality and justice. Yes, a new\nreligion! The call burst forth, resounded within Pierre\u2019s brain like the\ncall of the nations, the eager, despairing desire of the modern soul. The\nconsolation and hope which Catholicism had brought the world seemed\nexhausted after eighteen hundred years full of so many tears, so much\nblood, so much vain and barbarous agitation. It was an illusion\ndeparting, and it was at least necessary that the illusion should be\nchanged. If mankind had long ago darted for refuge into the Christian\nparadise, it was because that paradise then opened before it like a fresh\nhope. But now a new religion, a new hope, a new paradise, yes, that was\nwhat the world thirsted for, in the discomfort in which it was\nstruggling. And Father Fourcade, for his part, fully felt such to be the\ncase; he had not meant to imply anything else when he had given rein to\nhis anxiety, entreating that the people of the great towns, the dense\nmass of the humble which forms the nation, might be brought to Lourdes.\nOne hundred thousand, two hundred thousand pilgrims at Lourdes each year,\nthat was, after all, but a grain of sand. It was the people, the whole\npeople, that was required. But the people has forever deserted the\nchurches, it no longer puts any soul in the Blessed Virgins which it\nmanufactures, and nothing nowadays could restore its lost faith. A\nCatholic democracy--yes, history would then begin afresh; only were it\npossible to create a new Christian people, would not the advent of a new\nSaviour, the mighty breath of a new Messiah, have been needed for such a\ntask?\n\nHowever, the words still sounded, still rang out in Pierre\u2019s mind with\nthe growing clamour of pealing bells. A new religion; a new religion.\nDoubtless it must be a religion nearer to life, giving a larger place to\nthe things of the world, and taking the acquired truths into due account.\nAnd, above all, it must be a religion which was not an appetite for\ndeath--Bernadette living solely in order that she might die, Doctor\nChassaigne aspiring to the tomb as to the only happiness--for all that\nspiritualistic abandonment was so much continuous disorganisation of the\nwill to live. At bottom of it was hatred to life, disgust with and\ncessation of action. Every religion, it is true, is but a promise of\nimmortality, an embellishment of the spheres beyond, an enchanted garden\nto be entered on the morrow of death. Could a new religion ever place\nsuch a garden of eternal happiness on earth? Where was the formula, the\ndogma, that would satisfy the hopes of the mankind of to-day? What belief\nshould be sown to blossom forth in a harvest of strength and peace? How\ncould one fecundate the universal doubt so that it should give birth to a\nnew faith? and what sort of illusion, what divine falsehood of any kind\ncould be made to germinate in the contemporary world, ravaged as it had\nbeen upon all sides, broken up by a century of science?\n\nAt that moment, without any apparent transition, Pierre saw the face of\nhis brother Guillaume arise in the troublous depths of his mind. Still,\nhe was not surprised; some secret link must have brought that vision\nthere. Ah! how fond they had been of one another long ago, and what a\ngood brother that elder brother, so upright and gentle, had been!\nHenceforth, also, the rupture was complete; Pierre no longer saw\nGuillaume, since the latter had cloistered himself in his chemical\nstudies, living like a savage in a little suburban house, with a mistress\nand two big dogs. Then Pierre\u2019s reverie again diverged, and he thought of\nthat trial in which Guillaume had been mentioned, like one suspected of\nhaving compromising friendships amongst the most violent revolutionaries.\nIt was related, too, that the young man had, after long researches,\ndiscovered the formula of a terrible explosive, one pound of which would\nsuffice to blow up a cathedral. And Pierre then thought of those\nAnarchists who wished to renew and save the world by destroying it. They\nwere but dreamers, horrible dreamers; yet dreamers in the same way as\nthose innocent pilgrims whom he had seen kneeling at the Grotto in an\nenraptured flock. If the Anarchists, if the extreme Socialists, demanded\nwith violence the equality of wealth, the sharing of all the enjoyments\nof the world, the pilgrims on their side demanded with tears equality of\nhealth and an equitable sharing of moral and physical peace. The latter\nrelied on miracles, the former appealed to brute force. At bottom,\nhowever, it was but the same exasperated dream of fraternity and justice,\nthe eternal desire for happiness--neither poor nor sick left, but bliss\nfor one and all. And, in fact, had not the primitive Christians been\nterrible revolutionaries for the pagan world, which they threatened, and\ndid, indeed, destroy? They who were persecuted, whom the others sought to\nexterminate, are to-day inoffensive, because they have become the Past.\nThe frightful Future is ever the man who dreams of a future society; even\nas to-day it is the madman so wildly bent on social renovation that he\nharbours the great black dream of purifying everything by the flame of\nconflagrations. This seemed monstrous to Pierre. Yet, who could tell?\nTherein, perchance, lay the rejuvenated world of to-morrow.\n\nAstray, full of doubts, he nevertheless, in his horror of violence, made\ncommon cause with old society now reduced to defend itself, unable though\nhe was to say whence would come the new Messiah of Gentleness, in whose\nhands he would have liked to place poor ailing mankind. A new religion,\nyes, a new religion. But it is not easy to invent one, and he knew not to\nwhat conclusion to come between the ancient faith, which was dead, and\nthe young faith of to-morrow, as yet unborn. For his part, in his\ndesolation, he was only sure of keeping his vow, like an unbelieving\npriest watching over the belief of others, chastely and honestly\ndischarging his duties, with the proud sadness that he had been unable to\nrenounce his reason as he had renounced his flesh. And for the rest, he\nwould wait.\n\nHowever, the train rolled on between large parks, and the engine gave a\nprolonged whistle, a joyful flourish, which drew Pierre from his\nreflections. The others were stirring, displaying emotion around him. The\ntrain had just left Juvisy, and Paris was at last near at hand, within a\nshort half-hour\u2019s journey. One and all were getting their things\ntogether: the Sabathiers were remaking their little parcels, Elise\nRouquet was giving a last glance at her mirror. For a moment Madame de\nJonqui\u00e8re again became anxious concerning La Grivotte, and decided that\nas the girl was in such a pitiful condition she would have her taken\nstraight to a hospital on arriving; whilst Marie endeavoured to rouse\nMadame Vincent from the torpor in which she seemed determined to remain.\nM. de Guersaint, who had been indulging in a little siesta, also had to\nbe awakened. And at last, when Sister Hyacinthe had clapped her hands,\nthe whole carriage intonated the \u201cTe Deum,\u201d the hymn of praise and\nthanksgiving. \u201c_Te Deum, laudamus, te Dominum confitemur_.\u201d The voices\nrose amidst a last burst of fervour. All those glowing souls returned\nthanks to God for the beautiful journey, the marvellous favours that He\nhad already bestowed on them, and would bestow on them yet again.\n\nAt last came the fortifications. The two o\u2019clock sun was slowly\ndescending the vast, pure heavens, so serenely warm. Distant smoke, a\nruddy smoke, was rising in light clouds above the immensity of Paris like\nthe scattered, flying breath of that toiling colossus. It was Paris in\nher forge, Paris with her passions, her battles, her ever-growling\nthunder, her ardent life ever engendering the life of to-morrow. And the\nwhite train, the woeful train of every misery and every dolour, was\nreturning into it all at full speed, sounding in higher and higher\nstrains the piercing flourishes of its whistle-calls. The five hundred\npilgrims, the three hundred patients, were about to disappear in the vast\ncity, fall again upon the hard pavement of life after the prodigious\ndream in which they had just indulged, until the day should come when\ntheir need of the consolation of a fresh dream would irresistibly impel\nthem to start once more on the everlasting pilgrimage to mystery and\nforgetfulness.\n\nAh! unhappy mankind, poor ailing humanity, hungering for illusion, and in\nthe weariness of this waning century distracted and sore from having too\ngreedily acquired science; it fancies itself abandoned by the physicians\nof both the mind and the body, and, in great danger of succumbing to\nincurable disease, retraces its steps and asks the miracle of its cure of\nthe mystical Lourdes of a past forever dead! Yonder, however, Bernadette,\nthe new Messiah of suffering, so touching in her human reality,\nconstitutes the terrible lesson, the sacrifice cut off from the world,\nthe victim condemned to abandonment, solitude, and death, smitten with\nthe penalty of being neither woman, nor wife, nor mother, because she\nbeheld the Blessed Virgin.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n                          *****\n\n\n\n\n\nROME\n\nFROM \u201cTHE THREE CITIES\u201d\n\n\nBy \u00c9mile Zola\n\n\nTranslated By Ernest A. Vizetelly\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nIN submitting to the English-speaking public this second volume of M.\nZola\u2019s trilogy \u201cLourdes, Rome, Paris,\u201d I have no prefatory remarks to\noffer on behalf of the author, whose views on Rome, its past, present,\nand future, will be found fully expounded in the following pages. That a\nbook of this character will, like its forerunner \u201cLourdes,\u201d provoke\nconsiderable controversy is certain, but comment or rejoinder may well be\npostponed until that controversy has arisen. At present then I only\ndesire to say, that in spite of the great labour which I have bestowed on\nthis translation, I am sensible of its shortcomings, and in a work of\nsuch length, such intricacy, and such a wide range of subject, it will\nnot be surprising if some slips are discovered. Any errors which may be\npointed out to me, however, shall be rectified in subsequent editions. I\nhave given, I think, the whole essence of M. Zola\u2019s text; but he himself\nhas admitted to me that he has now and again allowed his pen to run away\nwith him, and thus whilst sacrificing nothing of his sense I have at\ntimes abbreviated his phraseology so as slightly to condense the book. I\nmay add that there are no chapter headings in the original, and that the\ncircumstances under which the translation was made did not permit me to\nsupply any whilst it was passing through the press; however, as some\nindication of the contents of the book--which treats of many more things\nthan are usually found in novels--may be a convenience to the reader, I\nhave prepared a table briefly epitomising the chief features of each\nsuccessive chapter.\n\n                                                         E. A. V.\n\n     MERTON, SURREY, ENGLAND,\n          April, 1896.\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS TO PART I. I\n  \u201cNEW ROME\u201d--Abb\u00e9 Froment in the Eternal City--His First Impressions--His\n  Book and the Rejuvenation of Christianity\n\n  II\n  \u201cBLACK MOUTH, RED SOUL\u201d--The Boccaneras, their Mansion, Ancestors,\n  History, and Friends\n\n  III\n  ROMANS OF THE CHURCH--Cardinals Boccanera and Sanguinetti--Abb\u00e9s\n  Paparelli and Santobono--Don Vigilio--Monsignor Nani\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS TO PART II. IV\n  ROMANS OF NEW ITALY--The Pradas and the Saccos--The Corso and the Pincio\n\n  V\n  THE BLOOD OF AUGUSTUS--The Palaces of the Caesars--The Capitol--The\n  Forum--The Appian Way--The Campagna--The Catacombs--St. Peter\u2019s.\n\n  VI\n  VENUS AND HERCULES--The Vatican--The Sixtine Chapel--Michael Angelo and\n  Raffaelle--Botticelli and Bernini--Gods and Goddesses--The Gardens--Leo\n  XIII--The Revolt of Passion\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS TO PART III. VII\n  PRINCE AND PONTIFF--The International Pilgrimage--The Papal Revenue--A\n  Function at St. Peter\u2019s--The Pope-King--The Temporal Power\n\n  VIII\n  THE POOR AND THE POPE--The Building Mania--The Financial Crash--The\n  Horrors of the Castle Fields--The Roman Workman--May Christ\u2019s Vicar\n  Gamble?--Hopes and Fears of the Papacy\n\n  IX\n  TITO\u2019s WARNING--Aspects of Rome--The Via Giulia--The Tiber by Day--The\n  Gardens--The Villa Medici---The Squares--The Fountains--Poussin and the\n  Campagna--The Campo Verano--The Trastevere--The \u201cPalaces\u201d--Aristocracy,\n  Middle Class, Democracy--The Tiber by Night\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS TO PART IV. X\n  FROM PILLAR TO POST--The Propaganda--The Index--Dominicans, Jesuits,\n  Franciscans--The Secular Clergy--Roman Worship--Freemasonry--Cardinal\n  Vicar and Cardinal Secretary--The Inquisition.\n\n  XI\n  POISON!--Frascati--A Cardinal and his Creature--Albano, Castel Gandolfo,\n  Nemi--Across the Campagna--An Osteria--Destiny on the March\n\n  XII\n  THE AGONY OF PASSION--A Roman Gala--The Buongiovannis--The Grey\n  World--The Triumph of Benedetta--King Humbert and Queen Margherita--The\n  Fig-tree of Judas\n\n  XIII\n  DESTINY!--A Happy Morning--The Mid-day Meal--Dario and the Figs--Extreme\n  Unction--Benedetta\u2019s Curse--The Lovers\u2019 Death\n\n\n\n\n  CONTENTS TO PART V. XIV\n  SUBMISSION--The Vatican by Night--The Papal Anterooms--Some Great\n  Popes--His Holiness\u2019s Bed-room--Pierre\u2019s Reception--Papal Wrath--Pierre\u2019s\n  Appeal--The Pope\u2019s Policy--Dogma and Lourdes--Pierre Reprobates his Book\n\n  XV\n  A HOUSE OF MOURNING--Lying in State--Mother and Son--Princess and\n  Work-girl--Nani the Jesuit--Rival Cardinals--The Pontiff of Destruction\n\n  XVI\n  JUDGMENT--Pierre and Orlando--Italian Rome--Wanted, a Democracy--Italy\n  and France--The Rome of the Anarchists--The Agony of Guilt--A\n  Botticelli--The Papacy Condemned--The Coming Schism--The March of\n  Science--The Destruction of Rome--The Victory of Reason--Justice not\n  Charity--Departure--The March of Civilisation--One Fatherland for All\n  Mankind\n\n\n\n\n\nROME\n\n\n\n\nPART I.\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\nTHE train had been greatly delayed during the night between Pisa and\nCivita Vecchia, and it was close upon nine o\u2019clock in the morning when,\nafter a fatiguing journey of twenty-five hours\u2019 duration, Abb\u00e9 Pierre\nFroment at last reached Rome. He had brought only a valise with him, and,\nspringing hastily out of the railway carriage amidst the scramble of the\narrival, he brushed the eager porters aside, intent on carrying his\ntrifling luggage himself, so anxious was he to reach his destination, to\nbe alone, and look around him. And almost immediately, on the Piazza dei\nCinquecento, in front of the railway station, he climbed into one of the\nsmall open cabs ranged alongside the footwalk, and placed the valise near\nhim after giving the driver this address:\n\n\u201cVia Giulia, Palazzo Boccanera.\u201d*\n\n  * Boccanera mansion, Julia Street.\n\nIt was a Monday, the 3rd of September, a beautifully bright and mild\nmorning, with a clear sky overhead. The cabby, a plump little man with\nsparkling eyes and white teeth, smiled on realising by Pierre\u2019s accent\nthat he had to deal with a French priest. Then he whipped up his lean\nhorse, and the vehicle started off at the rapid pace customary to the\nclean and cheerful cabs of Rome. However, on reaching the Piazza delle\nTerme, after skirting the greenery of a little public garden, the man\nturned round, still smiling, and pointing to some ruins with his whip,\n\n\u201cThe baths of Diocletian,\u201d said he in broken French, like an obliging\ndriver who is anxious to court favour with foreigners in order to secure\ntheir custom.\n\nThen, at a fast trot, the vehicle descended the rapid slope of the Via\nNazionale, which dips down from the summit of the Viminalis,* where the\nrailway station is situated. And from that moment the driver scarcely\nceased turning round and pointing at the monuments with his whip. In this\nbroad new thoroughfare there were only buildings of recent erection.\nStill, the wave of the cabman\u2019s whip became more pronounced and his voice\nrose to a higher key, with a somewhat ironical inflection, when he gave\nthe name of a huge and still chalky pile on his left, a gigantic erection\nof stone, overladen with sculptured work-pediments and statues.\n\n  * One of the seven hills on which Rome is built. The other six\n    are the Capitoline, Aventine, Quirinal, Esquiline, C\u0153lian,\n    and Palatine. These names will perforce frequently occur in\n    the present narrative.\n\n\u201cThe National Bank!\u201d he said.\n\nPierre, however, during the week which had followed his resolve to make\nthe journey, had spent wellnigh every day in studying Roman topography in\nmaps and books. Thus he could have directed his steps to any given spot\nwithout inquiring his way, and he anticipated most of the driver\u2019s\nexplanations. At the same time he was disconcerted by the sudden slopes,\nthe perpetually recurring hills, on which certain districts rose, house\nabove house, in terrace fashion. On his right-hand clumps of greenery\nwere now climbing a height, and above them stretched a long bare yellow\nbuilding of barrack or convent-like aspect.\n\n\u201cThe Quirinal, the King\u2019s palace,\u201d said the driver.\n\nLower down, as the cab turned across a triangular square, Pierre, on\nraising his eyes, was delighted to perceive a sort of aerial garden high\nabove him--a garden which was upheld by a lofty smooth wall, and whence\nthe elegant and vigorous silhouette of a parasol pine, many centuries\nold, rose aloft into the limpid heavens. At this sight he realised all\nthe pride and grace of Rome.\n\n\u201cThe Villa Aldobrandini,\u201d the cabman called.\n\nThen, yet lower down, there came a fleeting vision which decisively\nimpassioned Pierre. The street again made a sudden bend, and in one\ncorner, beyond a short dim alley, there was a blazing gap of light. On a\nlower level appeared a white square, a well of sunshine, filled with a\nblinding golden dust; and amidst all that morning glory there arose a\ngigantic marble column, gilt from base to summit on the side which the\nsun in rising had laved with its beams for wellnigh eighteen hundred\nyears. And Pierre was surprised when the cabman told him the name of the\ncolumn, for in his mind he had never pictured it soaring aloft in such a\ndazzling cavity with shadows all around. It was the column of Trajan.\n\nThe Via Nazionale turned for the last time at the foot of the slope. And\nthen other names fell hastily from the driver\u2019s lips as his horse went on\nat a fast trot. There was the Palazzo Colonna, with its garden edged by\nmeagre cypresses; the Palazzo Torlonia, almost ripped open by recent\n\u201cimprovements\u201d; the Palazzo di Venezia, bare and fearsome, with its\ncrenelated walls, its stern and tragic appearance, that of some fortress\nof the middle ages, forgotten there amidst the commonplace life of\nnowadays. Pierre\u2019s surprise increased at the unexpected aspect which\ncertain buildings and streets presented; and the keenest blow of all was\ndealt him when the cabman with his whip triumphantly called his attention\nto the Corso, a long narrow thoroughfare, about as broad as Fleet\nStreet,* white with sunshine on the left, and black with shadows on the\nright, whilst at the far end the Piazza del Popolo (the Square of the\nPeople) showed like a bright star. Was this, then, the heart of the city,\nthe vaunted promenade, the street brimful of life, whither flowed all the\nblood of Rome?\n\n  * M. Zola likens the Corso to the Rue St. Honor\u00e9 in Paris, but\n    I have thought that an English comparison would be preferable\n    in the present version.--Trans.\n\nHowever, the cab was already entering the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, which\nfollows the Via Nazionale, these being the two piercings effected right\nacross the olden city from the railway station to the bridge of St.\nAngelo. On the left-hand the rounded apsis of the Ges\u00f9 church looked\nquite golden in the morning brightness. Then, between the church and the\nheavy Altieri palace which the \u201cimprovers\u201d had not dared to demolish, the\nstreet became narrower, and one entered into cold, damp shade. But a\nmoment afterwards, before the fa\u00e7ade of the Ges\u00f9, when the square was\nreached, the sun again appeared, dazzling, throwing golden sheets of\nlight around; whilst afar off at the end of the Via di Ara Coeli, steeped\nin shadow, a glimpse could be caught of some sunlit palm-trees.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s the Capitol yonder,\u201d said the cabman.\n\nThe priest hastily leant to the left, but only espied the patch of\ngreenery at the end of the dim corridor-like street. The sudden\nalternations of warm light and cold shade made him shiver. In front of\nthe Palazzo di Venezia, and in front of the Ges\u00f9, it had seemed to him as\nif all the night of ancient times were falling icily upon his shoulders;\nbut at each fresh square, each broadening of the new thoroughfares, there\ncame a return to light, to the pleasant warmth and gaiety of life. The\nyellow sunflashes, in falling from the house fronts, sharply outlined the\nviolescent shadows. Strips of sky, very blue and very benign, could be\nperceived between the roofs. And it seemed to Pierre that the air he\nbreathed had a particular savour, which he could not yet quite define,\nbut it was like that of fruit, and increased the feverishness which had\npossessed him ever since his arrival.\n\nThe Corso Vittorio Emanuele is, in spite of its irregularity, a very fine\nmodern thoroughfare; and for a time Pierre might have fancied himself in\nany great city full of huge houses let out in flats. But when he passed\nbefore the Cancelleria,* Bramante\u2019s masterpiece, the typical monument of\nthe Roman Renascence, his astonishment came back to him and his mind\nreturned to the mansions which he had previously espied, those bare,\nhuge, heavy edifices, those vast cubes of stone-work resembling hospitals\nor prisons. Never would he have imagined that the famous Roman \u201cpalaces\u201d\n were like that, destitute of all grace and fancy and external\nmagnificence. However, they were considered very fine and must be so; he\nwould doubtless end by understanding things, but for that he would\nrequire reflection.**\n\n  * Formerly the residence of the Papal Vice-Chancellors.\n\n  ** It is as well to point out at once that a palazzo is not a\n     palace as we understand the term, but rather a mansion.--Trans.\n\nAll at once the cab turned out of the populous Corso Vittorio Emanuele\ninto a succession of winding alleys, through which it had difficulty in\nmaking its way. Quietude and solitude now came back again; the olden\ncity, cold and somniferous, followed the new city with its bright\nsunshine and its crowds. Pierre remembered the maps which he had\nconsulted, and realised that he was drawing near to the Via Giulia, and\nthereupon his curiosity, which had been steadily increasing, augmented to\nsuch a point that he suffered from it, full of despair at not seeing more\nand learning more at once. In the feverish state in which he had found\nhimself ever since leaving the station, his astonishment at not finding\nthings such as he had expected, the many shocks that his imagination had\nreceived, aggravated his passion beyond endurance, and brought him an\nacute desire to satisfy himself immediately. Nine o\u2019clock had struck but\na few minutes previously, he had the whole morning before him to repair\nto the Boccanera palace, so why should he not at once drive to the\nclassic spot, the summit whence one perceives the whole of Rome spread\nout upon her seven hills? And when once this thought had entered into his\nmind it tortured him until he was at last compelled to yield to it.\n\nThe driver no longer turned his head, so that Pierre rose up to give him\nthis new address: \u201cTo San Pietro in Montorio!\u201d\n\nOn hearing him the man at first looked astonished, unable to understand.\nHe indicated with his whip that San Pietro was yonder, far away. However,\nas the priest insisted, he again smiled complacently, with a friendly nod\nof his head. All right! For his own part he was quite willing.\n\nThe horse then went on at a more rapid pace through the maze of narrow\nstreets. One of these was pent between high walls, and the daylight\ndescended into it as into a deep trench. But at the end came a sudden\nreturn to light, and the Tiber was crossed by the antique bridge of\nSixtus IV, right and left of which stretched the new quays, amidst the\nravages and fresh plaster-work of recent erections. On the other side of\nthe river the Trastevere district also was ripped open, and the vehicle\nascended the slope of the Janiculum by a broad thoroughfare where large\nslabs bore the name of Garibaldi. For the last time the driver made a\ngesture of good-natured pride as he named this triumphal route.\n\n\u201cVia Garibaldi!\u201d\n\nThe horse had been obliged to slacken its pace, and Pierre, mastered by\nchildish impatience, turned round to look at the city as by degrees it\nspread out and revealed itself behind him. The ascent was a long one;\nfresh districts were ever rising up, even to the most distant hills.\nThen, in the increasing emotion which made his heart beat, the young\npriest felt that he was spoiling the contentment of his desire by thus\ngradually satisfying it, slowly and but partially effecting his conquest\nof the horizon. He wished to receive the shock full in the face, to\nbehold all Rome at one glance, to gather the holy city together, and\nembrace the whole of it at one grasp. And thereupon he mustered\nsufficient strength of mind to refrain from turning round any more, in\nspite of the impulses of his whole being.\n\nThere is a spacious terrace on the summit of the incline. The church of\nSan Pietro in Montorio stands there, on the spot where, as some say, St.\nPeter was crucified. The square is bare and brown, baked by the hot\nsummer suns; but a little further away in the rear, the clear and noisy\nwaters of the Acqua Paola fall bubbling from the three basins of a\nmonumental fountain amidst sempiternal freshness. And alongside the\nterrace parapet, on the very crown of the Trastevere, there are always\nrows of tourists, slim Englishmen and square-built Germans, agape with\ntraditional admiration, or consulting their guide-books in order to\nidentify the monuments.\n\nPierre sprang lightly from the cab, leaving his valise on the seat, and\nmaking a sign to the driver, who went to join the row of waiting cabs,\nand remained philosophically seated on his box in the full sunlight, his\nhead drooping like that of his horse, both resigning themselves to the\ncustomary long stoppage.\n\nMeantime Pierre, erect against the parapet, in his tight black cassock,\nand with his bare feverish hands nervously clenched, was gazing before\nhim with all his eyes, with all his soul. Rome! Rome! the city of the\nCaesars, the city of the Popes, the Eternal City which has twice\nconquered the world, the predestined city of the glowing dream in which\nhe had indulged for months! At last it was before him, at last his eyes\nbeheld it! During the previous days some rainstorms had abated the\nintense August heat, and on that lovely September morning the air had\nfreshened under the pale blue of the spotless far-spreading heavens. And\nthe Rome that Pierre beheld was a Rome steeped in mildness, a visionary\nRome which seemed to evaporate in the clear sunshine. A fine bluey haze,\nscarcely perceptible, as delicate as gauze, hovered over the roofs of the\nlow-lying districts; whilst the vast Campagna, the distant hills, died\naway in a pale pink flush. At first Pierre distinguished nothing, sought\nno particular edifice or spot, but gave sight and soul alike to the whole\nof Rome, to the living colossus spread out below him, on a soil\ncompounded of the dust of generations. Each century had renewed the\ncity\u2019s glory as with the sap of immortal youth. And that which struck\nPierre, that which made his heart leap within him, was that he found Rome\nsuch as he had desired to find her, fresh and youthful, with a volatile,\nalmost incorporeal, gaiety of aspect, smiling as at the hope of a new\nlife in the pure dawn of a lovely day.\n\nAnd standing motionless before the sublime vista, with his hands still\nclenched and burning, Pierre in a few minutes again lived the last three\nyears of his life. Ah! what a terrible year had the first been, spent in\nhis little house at Neuilly, with doors and windows ever closed,\nburrowing there like some wounded animal suffering unto death. He had\ncome back from Lourdes with his soul desolate, his heart bleeding, with\nnought but ashes within him. Silence and darkness fell upon the ruins of\nhis love and his faith. Days and days went by, without a pulsation of his\nveins, without the faintest gleam arising to brighten the gloom of his\nabandonment. His life was a mechanical one; he awaited the necessary\ncourage to resume the tenor of existence in the name of sovereign reason,\nwhich had imposed upon him the sacrifice of everything. Why was he not\nstronger, more resistant, why did he not quietly adapt his life to his\nnew opinions? As he was unwilling to cast off his cassock, through\nfidelity to the love of one and disgust of backsliding, why did he not\nseek occupation in some science suited to a priest, such as astronomy or\narchaeology? The truth was that something, doubtless his mother\u2019s spirit,\nwept within him, an infinite, distracted love which nothing had yet\nsatisfied and which ever despaired of attaining contentment. Therein lay\nthe perpetual suffering of his solitude: beneath the lofty dignity of\nreason regained, the wound still lingered, raw and bleeding.\n\nOne autumn evening, however, under a dismal rainy sky, chance brought him\ninto relations with an old priest, Abb\u00e9 Rose, who was curate at the\nchurch of Ste. Marguerite, in the Faubourg St. Antoine. He went to see\nAbb\u00e9 Rose in the Rue de Charonne, where in the depths of a damp ground\nfloor he had transformed three rooms into an asylum for abandoned\nchildren, whom he picked up in the neighbouring streets. And from that\nmoment Pierre\u2019s life changed, a fresh and all-powerful source of interest\nhad entered into it, and by degrees he became the old priest\u2019s passionate\nhelper. It was a long way from Neuilly to the Rue de Charonne, and at\nfirst he only made the journey twice a week. But afterwards he bestirred\nhimself every day, leaving home in the morning and not returning until\nnight. As the three rooms no longer sufficed for the asylum, he rented\nthe first floor of the house, reserving for himself a chamber in which\nultimately he often slept. And all his modest income was expended there,\nin the prompt succouring of poor children; and the old priest, delighted,\ntouched to tears by the young devoted help which had come to him from\nheaven, would often embrace Pierre, weeping, and call him a child of God.\n\nIt was then that Pierre knew want and wretchedness--wicked, abominable\nwretchedness; then that he lived amidst it for two long years. The\nacquaintance began with the poor little beings whom he picked up on the\npavements, or whom kind-hearted neighbours brought to him now that the\nasylum was known in the district--little boys, little girls, tiny mites\nstranded on the streets whilst their fathers and mothers were toiling,\ndrinking, or dying. The father had often disappeared, the mother had gone\nwrong, drunkenness and debauchery had followed slack times into the home;\nand then the brood was swept into the gutter, and the younger ones half\nperished of cold and hunger on the footways, whilst their elders betook\nthemselves to courses of vice and crime. One evening Pierre rescued from\nthe wheels of a stone-dray two little nippers, brothers, who could not\neven give him an address, tell him whence they had come. On another\nevening he returned to the asylum with a little girl in his arms, a\nfair-haired little angel, barely three years old, whom he had found on a\nbench, and who sobbed, saying that her mother had left her there. And by\na logical chain of circumstances, after dealing with the fleshless,\npitiful fledglings ousted from their nests, he came to deal with the\nparents, to enter their hovels, penetrating each day further and further\ninto a hellish sphere, and ultimately acquiring knowledge of all its\nfrightful horror, his heart meantime bleeding, rent by terrified anguish\nand impotent charity.\n\nOh! the grievous City of Misery, the bottomless abyss of human suffering\nand degradation--how frightful were his journeys through it during those\ntwo years which distracted his whole being! In that Ste. Marguerite\ndistrict of Paris, in the very heart of that Faubourg St. Antoine, so\nactive and so brave for work, however hard, he discovered no end of\nsordid dwellings, whole lanes and alleys of hovels without light or air,\ncellar-like in their dampness, and where a multitude of wretches wallowed\nand suffered as from poison. All the way up the shaky staircases one\u2019s\nfeet slipped upon filth. On every story there was the same destitution,\ndirt, and promiscuity. Many windows were paneless, and in swept the wind\nhowling, and the rain pouring torrentially. Many of the inmates slept on\nthe bare tiled floors, never unclothing themselves. There was neither\nfurniture nor linen, the life led there was essentially an animal life, a\ncommingling of either sex and of every age--humanity lapsing into\nanimality through lack of even indispensable things, through indigence of\nso complete a character that men, women, and children fought even with\ntooth and nail for the very crumbs swept from the tables of the rich. And\nthe worst of it all was the degradation of the human being; this was no\ncase of the free naked savage, hunting and devouring his prey in the\nprimeval forests; here civilised man was found, sunk into brutishness,\nwith all the stigmas of his fall, debased, disfigured, and enfeebled,\namidst the luxury and refinement of that city of Paris which is one of\nthe queens of the world.\n\nIn every household Pierre heard the same story. There had been youth and\ngaiety at the outset, brave acceptance of the law that one must work.\nThen weariness had come; what was the use of always toiling if one were\nnever to get rich? And so, by way of snatching a share of happiness, the\nhusband turned to drink; the wife neglected her home, also drinking at\ntimes, and letting the children grow up as they might. Sordid\nsurroundings, ignorance, and overcrowding did the rest. In the great\nmajority of cases, prolonged lack of work was mostly to blame; for this\nnot only empties the drawers of the savings hidden away in them, but\nexhausts human courage, and tends to confirmed habits of idleness. During\nlong weeks the workshops empty, and the arms of the toilers lose\nstrength. In all Paris, so feverishly inclined to action, it is\nimpossible to find the slightest thing to do. And then the husband comes\nhome in the evening with tearful eyes, having vainly offered his arms\neverywhere, having failed even to get a job at street-sweeping, for that\nemployment is much sought after, and to secure it one needs influence and\nprotectors. Is it not monstrous to see a man seeking work that he may\neat, and finding no work and therefore no food in this great city\nresplendent and resonant with wealth? The wife does not eat, the children\ndo not eat. And then comes black famine, brutishness, and finally revolt\nand the snapping of all social ties under the frightful injustice meted\nout to poor beings who by their weakness are condemned to death. And the\nold workman, he whose limbs have been worn out by half a century of hard\ntoil, without possibility of saving a copper, on what pallet of agony, in\nwhat dark hole must he not sink to die? Should he then be finished off\nwith a mallet, like a crippled beast of burden, on the day when ceasing\nto work he also ceases to eat? Almost all pass away in the hospitals,\nothers disappear, unknown, swept off by the muddy flow of the streets.\nOne morning, on some rotten straw in a loathsome hovel, Pierre found a\npoor devil who had died of hunger and had been forgotten there for a\nweek. The rats had devoured his face.\n\nBut it was particularly on an evening of the last winter that Pierre\u2019s\nheart had overflowed with pity. Awful in winter time are the sufferings\nof the poor in their fireless hovels, where the snow penetrates by every\nchink. The Seine rolls blocks of ice, the soil is frost-bound, in all\nsorts of callings there is an enforced cessation of work. Bands of\nurchins, barefooted, scarcely clad, hungry and racked by coughing, wander\nabout the ragpickers\u2019 \u201crents\u201d and are carried off by sudden hurricanes of\nconsumption. Pierre found families, women with five and six children, who\nhad not eaten for three days, and who huddled together in heaps to try to\nkeep themselves warm. And on that terrible evening, before anybody else,\nhe went down a dark passage and entered a room of terror, where he found\nthat a mother had just committed suicide with her five little\nones--driven to it by despair and hunger--a tragedy of misery which for a\nfew hours would make all Paris shudder! There was not an article of\nfurniture or linen left in the place; it had been necessary to sell\neverything bit by bit to a neighbouring dealer. There was nothing but the\nstove where the charcoal was still smoking and a half-emptied palliasse\non which the mother had fallen, suckling her last-born, a babe but three\nmonths old. And a drop of blood had trickled from the nipple of her\nbreast, towards which the dead infant still protruded its eager lips. Two\nlittle girls, three and five years old, two pretty little blondes, were\nalso lying there, sleeping the eternal sleep side by side; whilst of the\ntwo boys, who were older, one had succumbed crouching against the wall\nwith his head between his hands, and the other had passed through the\nlast throes on the floor, struggling as though he had sought to crawl on\nhis knees to the window in order to open it. Some neighbours, hurrying\nin, told Pierre the fearful commonplace story; slow ruin, the father\nunable to find work, perchance taking to drink, the landlord weary of\nwaiting, threatening the family with expulsion, and the mother losing her\nhead, thirsting for death, and prevailing on her little ones to die with\nher, while her husband, who had been out since the morning, was vainly\nscouring the streets. Just as the Commissary of Police arrived to verify\nwhat had happened, the poor devil returned, and when he had seen and\nunderstood things, he fell to the ground like a stunned ox, and raised a\nprolonged, plaintive howl, such a poignant cry of death that the whole\nterrified street wept at it.\n\nBoth in his ears and in his heart Pierre carried away with him that\nhorrible cry, the plaint of a condemned race expiring amidst abandonment\nand hunger; and that night he could neither eat nor sleep. Was it\npossible that such abomination, such absolute destitution, such black\nmisery leading straight to death should exist in the heart of that great\ncity of Paris, brimful of wealth, intoxicated with enjoyment, flinging\nmillions out of the windows for mere pleasure? What! there should on one\nside be such colossal fortunes, so many foolish fancies gratified, with\nlives endowed with every happiness, whilst on the other was found\ninveterate poverty, lack even of bread, absence of every hope, and\nmothers killing themselves with their babes, to whom they had nought to\noffer but the blood of their milkless breast! And a feeling of revolt\nstirred Pierre; he was for a moment conscious of the derisive futility of\ncharity. What indeed was the use of doing that which he did--picking up\nthe little ones, succouring the parents, prolonging the sufferings of the\naged? The very foundations of the social edifice were rotten; all would\nsoon collapse amid mire and blood. A great act of justice alone could\nsweep the old world away in order that the new world might be built. And\nat that moment he realised so keenly how irreparable was the breach, how\nirremediable the evil, how deathly the cancer of misery, that he\nunderstood the actions of the violent, and was himself ready to accept\nthe devastating and purifying whirlwind, the regeneration of the world by\nflame and steel, even as when in the dim ages Jehovah in His wrath sent\nfire from heaven to cleanse the accursed cities of the plains.\n\nHowever, on hearing him sob that evening, Abb\u00e9 Rose came up to\nremonstrate in fatherly fashion. The old priest was a saint, endowed with\ninfinite gentleness and infinite hope. Why despair indeed when one had\nthe Gospel? Did not the divine commandment, \u201cLove one another,\u201d suffice\nfor the salvation of the world? He, Abb\u00e9 Rose, held violence in horror\nand was wont to say that, however great the evil, it would soon be\novercome if humanity would but turn backward to the age of humility,\nsimplicity, and purity, when Christians lived together in innocent\nbrotherhood. What a delightful picture he drew of evangelical society, of\nwhose second coming he spoke with quiet gaiety as though it were to take\nplace on the very morrow! And Pierre, anxious to escape from his\nfrightful recollections, ended by smiling, by taking pleasure in Abb\u00e9\nRose\u2019s bright consoling tale. They chatted until a late hour, and on the\nfollowing days reverted to the same subject of conversation, one which\nthe old priest was very fond of, ever supplying new particulars, and\nspeaking of the approaching reign of love and justice with the touching\nconfidence of a good if simple man, who is convinced that he will not die\ntill he shall have seen the Deity descend upon earth.\n\nAnd now a fresh evolution took place in Pierre\u2019s mind. The practice of\nbenevolence in that poor district had developed infinite compassion in\nhis breast, his heart failed him, distracted, rent by contemplation of\nthe misery which he despaired of healing. And in this awakening of his\nfeelings he often thought that his reason was giving way, he seemed to be\nretracing his steps towards childhood, to that need of universal love\nwhich his mother had implanted in him, and dreamt of chimerical\nsolutions, awaiting help from the unknown powers. Then his fears, his\nhatred of the brutality of facts at last brought him an increasing desire\nto work salvation by love. No time should be lost in seeking to avert the\nfrightful catastrophe which seemed inevitable, the fratricidal war of\nclasses which would sweep the old world away beneath the accumulation of\nits crimes. Convinced that injustice had attained its apogee, that but\nlittle time remained before the vengeful hour when the poor would compel\nthe rich to part with their possessions, he took pleasure in dreaming of\na peaceful solution, a kiss of peace exchanged by all men, a return to\nthe pure morals of the Gospel as it had been preached by Jesus.\n\nDoubts tortured him at the outset. Could olden Catholicism be\nrejuvenated, brought back to the youth and candour of primitive\nChristianity? He set himself to study things, reading and questioning,\nand taking a more and more passionate interest in that great problem of\nCatholic socialism which had made no little noise for some years past.\nAnd quivering with pity for the wretched, ready as he was for the miracle\nof fraternisation, he gradually lost such scruples as intelligence might\nhave prompted, and persuaded himself that once again Christ would work\nthe redemption of suffering humanity. At last a precise idea took\npossession of him, a conviction that Catholicism purified, brought back\nto its original state, would prove the one pact, the supreme law that\nmight save society by averting the sanguinary crisis which threatened it.\n\nWhen he had quitted Lourdes two years previously, revolted by all its\ngross idolatry, his faith for ever dead, but his mind worried by the\neverlasting need of the divine which tortures human creatures, a cry had\narisen within him from the deepest recesses of his being: \u201cA new\nreligion! a new religion!\u201d And it was this new religion, or rather this\nrevived religion which he now fancied he had discovered in his desire to\nwork social salvation--ensuring human happiness by means of the only\nmoral authority that was erect, the distant outcome of the most admirable\nimplement ever devised for the government of nations.\n\nDuring the period of slow development through which Pierre passed, two\nmen, apart from Abb\u00e9 Rose, exercised great influence on him. A benevolent\naction brought him into intercourse with Monseigneur Bergerot, a bishop\nwhom the Pope had recently created a cardinal, in reward for a whole life\nof charity, and this in spite of the covert opposition of the papal\n_curia_ which suspected the French prelate to be a man of open mind,\ngoverning his diocese in paternal fashion. Pierre became more impassioned\nby his intercourse with this apostle, this shepherd of souls, in whom he\ndetected one of the good simple leaders that he desired for the future\ncommunity. However, his apostolate was influenced even more decisively by\nmeeting Viscount Philibert de la Choue at the gatherings of certain\nworkingmen\u2019s Catholic associations. A handsome man, with military\nmanners, and a long noble-looking face, spoilt by a small and broken nose\nwhich seemed to presage the ultimate defeat of a badly balanced mind, the\nViscount was one of the most active agitators of Catholic socialism in\nFrance. He was the possessor of vast estates, a vast fortune, though it\nwas said that some unsuccessful agricultural enterprises had already\nreduced his wealth by nearly one-half. In the department where his\nproperty was situated he had been at great pains to establish model\nfarms, at which he had put his ideas on Christian socialism into\npractice, but success did not seem to follow him. However, it had all\nhelped to secure his election as a deputy, and he spoke in the Chamber,\nunfolding the programme of his party in long and stirring speeches.\n\nUnwearying in his ardour, he also led pilgrimages to Rome, presided over\nmeetings, and delivered lectures, devoting himself particularly to the\npeople, the conquest of whom, so he privately remarked, could alone\nensure the triumph of the Church. And thus he exercised considerable\ninfluence over Pierre, who in him admired qualities which himself did not\npossess--an organising spirit and a militant if somewhat blundering will,\nentirely applied to the revival of Christian society in France. However,\nthough the young priest learnt a good deal by associating with him, he\nnevertheless remained a sentimental dreamer, whose imagination,\ndisdainful of political requirements, straightway winged its flight to\nthe future abode of universal happiness; whereas the Viscount aspired to\ncomplete the downfall of the liberal ideas of 1789 by utilising the\ndisillusion and anger of the democracy to work a return towards the past.\n\nPierre spent some delightful months. Never before had neophyte lived so\nentirely for the happiness of others. He was all love, consumed by the\npassion of his apostolate. The sight of the poor wretches whom he\nvisited, the men without work, the women, the children without bread,\nfilled him with a keener and keener conviction that a new religion must\narise to put an end to all the injustice which otherwise would bring the\nrebellious world to a violent death. And he was resolved to employ all\nhis strength in effecting and hastening the intervention of the divine,\nthe resuscitation of primitive Christianity. His Catholic faith remained\ndead; he still had no belief in dogmas, mysteries, and miracles; but a\nhope sufficed him, the hope that the Church might still work good, by\nconnecting itself with the irresistible modern democratic movement, so as\nto save the nations from the social catastrophe which impended. His soul\nhad grown calm since he had taken on himself the mission of replanting\nthe Gospel in the hearts of the hungry and growling people of the\nFaubourgs. He was now leading an active life, and suffered less from the\nfrightful void which he had brought back from Lourdes; and as he no\nlonger questioned himself, the anguish of uncertainty no longer tortured\nhim. It was with the serenity which attends the simple accomplishment of\nduty that he continued to say his mass. He even finished by thinking that\nthe mystery which he thus celebrated--indeed, that all the mysteries and\nall the dogmas were but symbols--rites requisite for humanity in its\nchildhood, which would be got rid of later on, when enlarged, purified,\nand instructed humanity should be able to support the brightness of naked\ntruth.\n\nAnd in his zealous desire to be useful, his passion to proclaim his\nbelief aloud, Pierre one morning found himself at his table writing a\nbook. This had come about quite naturally; the book proceeded from him\nlike a heart-cry, without any literary idea having crossed his mind. One\nnight, whilst he lay awake, its title suddenly flashed before his eyes in\nthe darkness: \u201cNEW ROME.\u201d That expressed everything, for must not the new\nredemption of the nations originate in eternal and holy Rome? The only\nexisting authority was found there; rejuvenescence could only spring from\nthe sacred soil where the old Catholic oak had grown. He wrote his book\nin a couple of months, having unconsciously prepared himself for the work\nby his studies in contemporary socialism during a year past. There was a\nbubbling flow in his brain as in a poet\u2019s; it seemed to him sometimes as\nif he dreamt those pages, as if an internal distant voice dictated them\nto him.\n\nWhen he read passages written on the previous day to Viscount Philibert\nde la Choue, the latter often expressed keen approval of them from a\npractical point of view, saying that one must touch the people in order\nto lead them, and that it would also be a good plan to compose pious and\nyet amusing songs for singing in the workshops. As for Monseigneur\nBergerot, without examining the book from the dogmatic standpoint, he was\ndeeply touched by the glowing breath of charity which every page exhaled,\nand was even guilty of the imprudence of writing an approving letter to\nthe author, which letter he authorised him to insert in his work by way\nof preface. And yet now the Congregation of the Index Expurgatorius was\nabout to place this book, issued in the previous June, under interdict;\nand it was to defend it that the young priest had hastened to Rome,\ninflamed by the desire to make his ideas prevail, and resolved to plead\nhis cause in person before the Holy Father, having, he was convinced of\nit, simply given expression to the pontiff\u2019s views.\n\nPierre had not stirred whilst thus living his three last years afresh: he\nstill stood erect before the parapet, before Rome, which he had so often\ndreamt of and had so keenly desired to see. There was a constant\nsuccession of arriving and departing vehicles behind him; the slim\nEnglishmen and the heavy Germans passed away after bestowing on the\nclassic view the five minutes prescribed by their guidebooks; whilst the\ndriver and the horse of Pierre\u2019s cab remained waiting complacently, each\nwith his head drooping under the bright sun, which was heating the valise\non the seat of the vehicle. And Pierre, in his black cassock, seemed to\nhave grown slimmer and elongated, very slight of build, as he stood there\nmotionless, absorbed in the sublime spectacle. He had lost flesh after\nhis journey to Lourdes, his features too had become less pronounced.\nSince his mother\u2019s part in his nature had regained ascendency, the broad,\nstraight forehead, the intellectual air which he owed to his father\nseemed to have grown less conspicuous, while his kind and somewhat large\nmouth, and his delicate chin, bespeaking infinite affection, dominated,\nrevealing his soul, which also glowed in the kindly sparkle of his eyes.\n\nAh! how tender and glowing were the eyes with which he gazed upon the\nRome of his book, the new Rome that he had dreamt of! If, first of all,\nthe _ensemble_ had claimed his attention in the soft and somewhat veiled\nlight of that lovely morning, at present he could distinguish details,\nand let his glance rest upon particular edifices. And it was with\nchildish delight that he identified them, having long studied them in\nmaps and collections of photographs. Beneath his feet, at the bottom of\nthe Janiculum, stretched the Trastevere district with its chaos of old\nruddy houses, whose sunburnt tiles hid the course of the Tiber. He was\nsomewhat surprised by the flattish aspect of everything as seen from the\nterraced summit. It was as though a bird\u2019s-eye view levelled the city,\nthe famous hills merely showing like bosses, swellings scarcely\nperceptible amidst the spreading sea of house-fronts. Yonder, on the\nright, distinct against the distant blue of the Alban mountains, was\ncertainly the Aventine with its three churches half-hidden by foliage;\nthere, too, was the discrowned Palatine, edged as with black fringe by a\nline of cypresses. In the rear, the C\u0153lian hill faded away, showing only\nthe trees of the Villa Mattei paling in the golden sunshine. The slender\nspire and two little domes of Sta. Maria Maggiore alone indicated the\nsummit of the Esquiline, right in front and far away at the other end of\nthe city; whilst on the heights of the neighbouring Viminal, Pierre only\nperceived a confused mass of whitish blocks, steeped in light and\nstreaked with fine brown lines--recent erections, no doubt, which at that\ndistance suggested an abandoned stone quarry. He long sought the Capitol\nwithout being able to discover it; he had to take his bearings, and ended\nby convincing himself that the square tower, modestly lost among\nsurrounding house-roofs, which he saw in front of Sta. Maria Maggiore was\nits campanile. Next, on the left, came the Quirinal, recognisable by the\nlong fa\u00e7ade of the royal palace, a barrack or hospital-like fa\u00e7ade, flat,\ncrudely yellow in hue, and pierced by an infinite number of regularly\ndisposed windows. However, as Pierre was completing the circuit, a sudden\nvision made him stop short. Without the city, above the trees of the\nBotanical Garden, the dome of St. Peter\u2019s appeared to him. It seemed to\nbe poised upon the greenery, and rose up into the pure blue sky, sky-blue\nitself and so ethereal that it mingled with the azure of the infinite.\nThe stone lantern which surmounts it, white and dazzling, looked as\nthough it were suspended on high.\n\nPierre did not weary, and his glances incessantly travelled from one end\nof the horizon to the other. They lingered on the noble outlines, the\nproud gracefulness of the town-sprinkled Sabine and Alban mountains,\nwhose girdle limited the expanse. The Roman Campagna spread out in far\nstretches, bare and majestic, like a desert of death, with the glaucous\ngreen of a stagnant sea; and he ended by distinguishing \u201cthe stern round\ntower\u201d of the tomb of Cecilia Metella, behind which a thin pale line\nindicated the ancient Appian Way. Remnants of aqueducts strewed the short\nherbage amidst the dust of the fallen worlds. And, bringing his glance\nnearer in, the city again appeared with its jumble of edifices, on which\nhis eyes lighted at random. Close at hand, by its loggia turned towards\nthe river, he recognised the huge tawny cube of the Palazzo Farnese. The\nlow cupola, farther away and scarcely visible, was probably that of the\nPantheon. Then by sudden leaps came the freshly whitened walls of San\nPaolo-fuori-le-Mura,* similar to those of some huge barn, and the statues\ncrowning San Giovanni in Laterano, delicate, scarcely as big as insects.\nNext the swarming of domes, that of the Ges\u00f9, that of San Carlo, that of\nSt\u2019. Andrea della Valle, that of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini; then a\nnumber of other sites and edifices, all quivering with memories, the\ncastle of St\u2019. Angelo with its glittering statue of the Destroying Angel,\nthe Villa Medici dominating the entire city, the terrace of the Pincio\nwith its marbles showing whitely among its scanty verdure; and the\nthick-foliaged trees of the Villa Borghese, whose green crests bounded\nthe horizon. Vainly however did Pierre seek the Colosseum.\n\n  * St. Paul-beyond-the-walls.\n\nThe north wind, which was blowing very mildly, had now begun to dissipate\nthe morning haze. Whole districts vigorously disentangled themselves, and\nshowed against the vaporous distance like promontories in a sunlit sea.\nHere and there, in the indistinct swarming of houses, a strip of white\nwall glittered, a row of window panes flared, or a garden supplied a\nblack splotch, of wondrous intensity of hue. And all the rest, the medley\nof streets and squares, the endless blocks of buildings, scattered about\non either hand, mingled and grew indistinct in the living glory of the\nsun, whilst long coils of white smoke, which had ascended from the roofs,\nslowly traversed the pure sky.\n\nGuided by a secret influence, however, Pierre soon ceased to take\ninterest in all but three points of the mighty panorama. That line of\nslender cypresses which set a black fringe on the height of the Palatine\nyonder filled him with emotion: beyond it he saw only a void: the palaces\nof the Caesars had disappeared, had fallen, had been razed by time; and\nhe evoked their memory, he fancied he could see them rise like vague,\ntrembling phantoms of gold amidst the purple of that splendid morning.\nThen his glances reverted to St. Peter\u2019s, and there the dome yet soared\naloft, screening the Vatican which he knew was beside the colossus,\nclinging to its flanks. And that dome, of the same colour as the heavens,\nappeared so triumphant, so full of strength, so vast, that it seemed to\nhim like a giant king, dominating the whole city and seen from every spot\nthroughout eternity. Then he fixed his eyes on the height in front of\nhim, on the Quirinal, and there the King\u2019s palace no longer appeared\naught but a flat low barracks bedaubed with yellow paint.\n\nAnd for him all the secular history of Rome, with its constant\nconvulsions and successive resurrections, found embodiment in that\nsymbolical triangle, in those three summits gazing at one another across\nthe Tiber. Ancient Rome blossoming forth in a piling up of palaces and\ntemples, the monstrous florescence of imperial power and splendour; Papal\nRome, victorious in the middle ages, mistress of the world, bringing that\ncolossal church, symbolical of beauty regained, to weigh upon all\nChristendom; and the Rome of to-day, which he knew nothing of, which he\nhad neglected, and whose royal palace, so bare and so cold, brought him\ndisparaging ideas--the idea of some out-of-place, bureaucratic effort,\nsome sacrilegious attempt at modernity in an exceptional city which\nshould have been left entirely to the dreams of the future. However, he\nshook off the almost painful feelings which the importunate present\nbrought to him, and would not let his eyes rest on a pale new district,\nquite a little town, in course of erection, no doubt, which he could\ndistinctly see near St. Peter\u2019s on the margin of the river. He had dreamt\nof his own new Rome, and still dreamt of it, even in front of the\nPalatine whose edifices had crumbled in the dust of centuries, of the\ndome of St. Peter\u2019s whose huge shadow lulled the Vatican to sleep, of the\nPalace of the Quirinal repaired and repainted, reigning in homely fashion\nover the new districts which swarmed on every side, while with its ruddy\nroofs the olden city, ripped up by improvements, coruscated beneath the\nbright morning sun.\n\nAgain did the title of his book, \u201cNEW ROME,\u201d flare before Pierre\u2019s eyes,\nand another reverie carried him off; he lived his book afresh even as he\nhad just lived his life. He had written it amid a flow of enthusiasm,\nutilising the _data_ which he had accumulated at random; and its division\ninto three parts, past, present, and future, had at once forced itself\nupon him.\n\nThe PAST was the extraordinary story of primitive Christianity, of the\nslow evolution which had turned this Christianity into present-day\nCatholicism. He showed that an economical question is invariably hidden\nbeneath each religious evolution, and that, upon the whole, the\neverlasting evil, the everlasting struggle, has never been aught but one\nbetween the rich and the poor. Among the Jews, when their nomadic life\nwas over, and they had conquered the land of Canaan, and ownership and\nproperty came into being, a class warfare at once broke out. There were\nrich, and there were poor; thence arose the social question. The\ntransition had been sudden, and the new state of things so rapidly went\nfrom bad to worse that the poor suffered keenly, and protested with the\ngreater violence as they still remembered the golden age of the nomadic\nlife. Until the time of Jesus the prophets are but rebels who surge from\nout the misery of the people, proclaim its sufferings, and vent their\nwrath upon the rich, to whom they prophesy every evil in punishment for\ntheir injustice and their harshness. Jesus Himself appears as the\nclaimant of the rights of the poor. The prophets, whether socialists or\nanarchists, had preached social equality, and called for the destruction\nof the world if it were unjust. Jesus likewise brings to the wretched\nhatred of the rich. All His teaching threatens wealth and property; and\nif by the Kingdom of Heaven which He promised one were to understand\npeace and fraternity upon this earth, there would only be a question of\nreturning to a life of pastoral simplicity, to the dream of the Christian\ncommunity, such as after Him it would seem to have been realised by His\ndisciples. During the first three centuries each Church was an experiment\nin communism, a real association whose members possessed all in\ncommon--wives excepted. This is shown to us by the apologists and early\nfathers of the Church. Christianity was then but the religion of the\nhumble and the poor, a form of democracy, of socialism struggling against\nRoman society. And when the latter toppled over, rotted by money, it\nsuccumbed far more beneath the results of frantic speculation, swindling\nbanks, and financial disasters, than beneath the onslaught of barbarian\nhordes and the stealthy, termite-like working of the Christians.\n\nThe money question will always be found at the bottom of everything. And\na new proof of this was supplied when Christianity, at last triumphing by\nvirtue of historical, social, and human causes, was proclaimed a State\nreligion. To ensure itself complete victory it was forced to range itself\non the side of the rich and the powerful; and one should see by means of\nwhat artfulness and sophistry the fathers of the Church succeeded in\ndiscovering a defence of property and wealth in the Gospel of Jesus. All\nthis, however, was a vital political necessity for Christianity; it was\nonly at this price that it became Catholicism, the universal religion.\nFrom that time forth the powerful machine, the weapon of conquest and\nrule, was reared aloft: up above were the powerful and the wealthy, those\nwhose duty it was to share with the poor, but who did not do so; while\ndown below were the poor, the toilers, who were taught resignation and\nobedience, and promised the kingdom of futurity, the divine and eternal\nreward--an admirable monument which has lasted for ages, and which is\nentirely based on the promise of life beyond life, on the\ninextinguishable thirst for immortality and justice that consumes\nmankind.\n\nPierre had completed this first part of his book, this history of the\npast, by a broad sketch of Catholicism until the present time. First\nappeared St. Peter, ignorant and anxious, coming to Rome by an\ninspiration of genius, there to fulfil the ancient oracles which had\npredicted the eternity of the Capitol. Then came the first popes, mere\nheads of burial associations, the slow rise of the all-powerful papacy\never struggling to conquer the world, unremittingly seeking to realise\nits dream of universal domination. At the time of the great popes of the\nmiddle ages it thought for a moment that it had attained its goal, that\nit was the sovereign master of the nations. Would not absolute truth and\nright consist in the pope being both pontiff and ruler of the world,\nreigning over both the souls and the bodies of all men, even like the\nDeity whose vicar he is? This, the highest and mightiest of all\nambitions, one, too, that is perfectly logical, was attained by Augustus,\nemperor and pontiff, master of all the known world; and it is the\nglorious figure of Augustus, ever rising anew from among the ruins of\nancient Rome, which has always haunted the popes; it is his blood which\nhas pulsated in their veins.\n\nBut power had become divided into two parts amidst the crumbling of the\nRoman empire; it was necessary to content oneself with a share, and leave\ntemporal government to the emperor, retaining over him, however, the\nright of coronation by divine grant. The people belonged to God, and in\nGod\u2019s name the pope gave the people to the emperor, and could take it\nfrom him; an unlimited power whose most terrible weapon was\nexcommunication, a superior sovereignty, which carried the papacy towards\nreal and final possession of the empire. Looking at things broadly, the\neverlasting quarrel between the pope and the emperor was a quarrel for\nthe people, the inert mass of humble and suffering ones, the great silent\nmultitude whose irremediable wretchedness was only revealed by occasional\ncovert growls. It was disposed of, for its good, as one might dispose of\na child. Yet the Church really contributed to civilisation, rendered\nconstant services to humanity, diffused abundant alms. In the convents,\nat any rate, the old dream of the Christian community was ever coming\nback: one-third of the wealth accumulated for the purposes of worship,\nthe adornment and glorification of the shrine, one-third for the priests,\nand one-third for the poor. Was not this a simplification of life, a\nmeans of rendering existence possible to the faithful who had no earthly\ndesires, pending the marvellous contentment of heavenly life? Give us,\nthen, the whole earth, and we will divide terrestrial wealth into three\nsuch parts, and you shall see what a golden age will reign amidst the\nresignation and the obedience of all!\n\nHowever, Pierre went on to show how the papacy was assailed by the\ngreatest dangers on emerging from its all-powerfulness of the middle\nages. It was almost swept away amidst the luxury and excesses of the\nRenascence, the bubbling of living sap which then gushed from eternal\nnature, downtrodden and regarded as dead for ages past. More threatening\nstill were the stealthy awakenings of the people, of the great silent\nmultitude whose tongue seemed to be loosening. The Reformation burst\nforth like the protest of reason and justice, like a recall to the\ndisregarded truths of the Gospel; and to escape total annihilation Rome\nneeded the stern defence of the Inquisition, the slow stubborn labour of\nthe Council of Trent, which strengthened the dogmas and ensured the\ntemporal power. And then the papacy entered into two centuries of peace\nand effacement, for the strong absolute monarchies which had divided\nEurope among themselves could do without it, and had ceased to tremble at\nthe harmless thunderbolts of excommunication or to look on the pope as\naught but a master of ceremonies, controlling certain rites. The\npossession of the people was no longer subject to the same rules.\nAllowing that the kings still held the people from God, it was the pope\u2019s\nduty to register the donation once for all, without ever intervening,\nwhatever the circumstances, in the government of states. Never was Rome\nfarther away from the realisation of its ancient dream of universal\ndominion. And when the French Revolution burst forth, it may well have\nbeen imagined that the proclamation of the rights of man would kill that\npapacy to which the exercise of divine right over the nations had been\ncommitted. And so how great at first was the anxiety, the anger, the\ndesperate resistance with which the Vatican opposed the idea of freedom,\nthe new _credo_ of liberated reason, of humanity regaining\nself-possession and control. It was the apparent _d\u00e9nouement_ of the long\nstruggle between the pope and the emperor for possession of the people:\nthe emperor vanished, and the people, henceforward free to dispose of\nitself, claimed to escape from the pope--an unforeseen solution, in which\nit seemed as though all the ancient scaffolding of the Catholic world\nmust fall to the very ground.\n\nAt this point Pierre concluded the first part of his book by contrasting\nprimitive Christianity with present-day Catholicism, which is the triumph\nof the rich and the powerful. That Roman society which Jesus had come to\ndestroy in the name of the poor and humble, had not Catholic Rome\nsteadily continued rebuilding it through all the centuries, by its policy\nof cupidity and pride? And what bitter irony it was to find, after\neighteen hundred years of the Gospel, that the world was again collapsing\nthrough frantic speculation, rotten banks, financial disasters, and the\nfrightful injustice of a few men gorged with wealth whilst thousands of\ntheir brothers were dying of hunger! The whole redemption of the wretched\nhad to be worked afresh. However, Pierre gave expression to all these\nterrible things in words so softened by charity, so steeped in hope, that\nthey lost their revolutionary danger. Moreover, he nowhere attacked the\ndogmas. His book, in its sentimental, somewhat poetic form, was but the\ncry of an apostle glowing with love for his fellow-men.\n\nThen came the second part of the work, the PRESENT, a study of Catholic\nsociety as it now exists. Here Pierre had painted a frightful picture of\nthe misery of the poor, the misery of a great city, which he knew so well\nand bled for, through having laid his hands upon its poisonous wounds.\nThe present-day injustice could no longer be tolerated, charity was\nbecoming powerless, and so frightful was the suffering that all hope was\ndying away from the hearts of the people. And was it not the monstrous\nspectacle presented by Christendom, whose abominations corrupted the\npeople, and maddened it with hatred and vengeance, that had largely\ndestroyed its faith? However, after this picture of rotting and crumbling\nsociety, Pierre returned to history, to the period of the French\nRevolution, to the mighty hope with which the idea of freedom had filled\nthe world. The middle classes, the great Liberal party, on attaining\npower had undertaken to bring happiness to one and all. But after a\ncentury\u2019s experience it really seemed that liberty had failed to bring\nany happiness whatever to the outcasts. In the political sphere illusions\nwere departing. At all events, if the reigning third estate declares\nitself satisfied, the fourth estate, that of the toilers,* still suffers\nand continues to demand its share of fortune. The working classes have\nbeen proclaimed free; political equality has been granted them, but the\ngift has been valueless, for economically they are still bound to\nservitude, and only enjoy, as they did formerly, the liberty of dying of\nhunger. All the socialist revendications have come from that; between\nlabour and capital rests the terrifying problem, the solution of which\nthreatens to sweep away society. When slavery disappeared from the olden\nworld to be succeeded by salaried employment the revolution was immense,\nand certainly the Christian principle was one of the great factors in the\ndestruction of slavery. Nowadays, therefore, when the question is to\nreplace salaried employment by something else, possibly by the\nparticipation of the workman in the profits of his work, why should not\nChristianity again seek a new principle of action? The fatal and\nproximate accession of the democracy means the beginning of another phase\nin human history, the creation of the society of to-morrow. And Rome\ncannot keep away from the arena; the papacy must take part in the quarrel\nif it does not desire to disappear from the world like a piece of\nmechanism that has become altogether useless.\n\n  * In England we call the press the fourth estate, but in France\n    and elsewhere the term is applied to the working classes, and\n    in that sense must be taken here.--Trans.\n\nHence it followed that Catholic socialism was legitimate. On every side\nthe socialist sects were battling with their various solutions for the\nprivilege of ensuring the happiness of the people, and the Church also\nmust offer her solution of the problem. Here it was that New Rome\nappeared, that the evolution spread into a renewal of boundless hope.\nMost certainly there was nothing contrary to democracy in the principles\nof the Roman Catholic Church. Indeed she had only to return to the\nevangelical traditions, to become once more the Church of the humble and\nthe poor, to re-establish the universal Christian community. She is\nundoubtedly of democratic essence, and if she sided with the rich and\nthe powerful when Christianity became Catholicism, she only did so\nperforce, that she might live by sacrificing some portion of her\noriginal purity; so that if to-day she should abandon the condemned\ngoverning classes in order to make common cause with the multitude of\nthe wretched, she would simply be drawing nearer to Christ, thereby\nsecuring a new lease of youth and purifying herself of all the political\ncompromises which she formerly was compelled to accept. Without\nrenouncing aught of her absolutism the Church has at all times known how\nto bow to circumstances; but she reserves her perfect sovereignty,\nsimply tolerating that which she cannot prevent, and patiently waiting,\neven through long centuries, for the time when she shall again become\nthe mistress of the world.\n\nMight not that time come in the crisis which was now at hand? Once more,\nall the powers are battling for possession of the people. Since the\npeople, thanks to liberty and education, has become strong, since it has\ndeveloped consciousness and will, and claimed its share of fortune, all\nrulers have been seeking to attach it to themselves, to reign by it, and\neven with it, should that be necessary. Socialism, therein lies the\nfuture, the new instrument of government; and the kings tottering on\ntheir thrones, the middle-class presidents of anxious republics, the\nambitious plotters who dream of power, all dabble in socialism! They all\nagree that the capitalist organisation of the State is a return to pagan\ntimes, to the olden slave-market; and they all talk of breaking for ever\nthe iron law by which the labour of human beings has become so much\nmerchandise, subject to supply and demand, with wages calculated on an\nestimate of what is strictly necessary to keep a workman from dying of\nhunger. And, down in the sphere below, the evil increases, the workmen\nagonise with hunger and exasperation, while above them discussion still\ngoes on, systems are bandied about, and well-meaning persons exhaust\nthemselves in attempting to apply ridiculously inadequate remedies.\nThere is much stir without any progress, all the wild bewilderment which\nprecedes great catastrophes. And among the many, Catholic socialism,\nquite as ardent as Revolutionary socialism, enters the lists and strives\nto conquer.\n\nAfter these explanations Pierre gave an account of the long efforts made\nby Catholic socialism throughout the Christian world. That which\nparticularly struck one in this connection was that the warfare became\nkeener and more victorious whenever it was waged in some land of\npropaganda, as yet not completely conquered by Roman Catholicism. For\ninstance, in the countries where Protestantism confronted the latter, the\npriests fought with wondrous passion, as for dear life itself, contending\nwith the schismatical clergy for possession of the people by dint of\ndaring, by unfolding the most audacious democratic theories. In Germany,\nthe classic land of socialism, Mgr. Ketteler was one of the first to\nspeak of adequately taxing the rich; and later he fomented a wide-spread\nagitation which the clergy now directs by means of numerous associations\nand newspapers. In Switzerland Mgr. Mermillod pleaded the cause of the\npoor so loudly that the bishops there now almost make common cause with\nthe democratic socialists, whom they doubtless hope to convert when the\nday for sharing arrives. In England, where socialism penetrates so very\nslowly, Cardinal Manning achieved considerable success, stood by the\nworking classes on the occasion of a famous strike, and helped on a\npopular movement, which was signalised by numerous conversions. But it\nwas particularly in the United States of America that Catholic socialism\nproved triumphant, in a sphere of democracy where the bishops, like Mgr.\nIreland, were forced to set themselves at the head of the working-class\nagitation. And there across the Atlantic a new Church seems to be\ngerminating, still in confusion but overflowing with sap, and upheld by\nintense hope, as at the aurora of the rejuvenated Christianity of\nto-morrow.\n\nPassing thence to Austria and Belgium, both Catholic countries, one found\nCatholic socialism mingling in the first instance with anti-semitism,\nwhile in the second it had no precise sense. And all movement ceased and\ndisappeared when one came to Spain and Italy, those old lands of faith.\nThe former with its intractable bishops who contented themselves with\nhurling excommunication at unbelievers as in the days of the Inquisition,\nseemed to be abandoned to the violent theories of revolutionaries, whilst\nItaly, immobilised in the traditional courses, remained without\npossibility of initiative, reduced to silence and respect by the presence\nof the Holy See. In France, however, the struggle remained keen, but it\nwas more particularly a struggle of ideas. On the whole, the war was\nthere being waged against the revolution, and to some it seemed as though\nit would suffice to re-establish the old organisation of monarchical\ntimes in order to revert to the golden age. It was thus that the question\nof working-class corporations had become the one problem, the panacea for\nall the ills of the toilers. But people were far from agreeing; some,\nthose Catholics who rejected State interference and favoured purely moral\naction, desired that the corporations should be free; whilst others, the\nyoung and impatient ones, bent on action, demanded that they should be\nobligatory, each with capital of its own, and recognised and protected by\nthe State.\n\nViscount Philibert de la Choue had by pen and speech carried on a\nvigorous campaign in favour of the obligatory corporations; and his great\ngrief was that he had so far failed to prevail on the Pope to say whether\nin his opinion these corporations should be closed or open. According to\nthe Viscount, herein lay the fate of society, a peaceful solution of the\nsocial question or the frightful catastrophe which must sweep everything\naway. In reality, though he refused to own it, the Viscount had ended by\nadopting State socialism. And, despite the lack of agreement, the\nagitation remained very great; attempts, scarcely happy in their results,\nwere made; co-operative associations, companies for erecting workmen\u2019s\ndwellings, popular savings\u2019 banks were started; many more or less\ndisguised efforts to revert to the old Christian community organisation\nwere tried; while day by day, amidst the prevailing confusion, in the\nmental perturbation and political difficulties through which the country\npassed, the militant Catholic party felt its hopes increasing, even to\nthe blind conviction of soon resuming sway over the whole world.\n\nThe second part of Pierre\u2019s book concluded by a picture of the moral and\nintellectual uneasiness amidst which the end of the century is\nstruggling. While the toiling multitude suffers from its hard lot and\ndemands that in any fresh division of wealth it shall be ensured at least\nits daily bread, the _\u00e9lite_ is no better satisfied, but complains of the\nvoid induced by the freeing of its reason and the enlargement of its\nintelligence. It is the famous bankruptcy of rationalism, of positivism,\nof science itself which is in question. Minds consumed by need of the\nabsolute grow weary of groping, weary of the delays of science which\nrecognises only proven truths; doubt tortures them, they need a complete\nand immediate synthesis in order to sleep in peace; and they fall on\ntheir knees, overcome by the roadside, distracted by the thought that\nscience will never tell them all, and preferring the Deity, the mystery\nrevealed and affirmed by faith. Even to-day, it must be admitted, science\ncalms neither our thirst for justice, our desire for safety, nor our\neverlasting idea of happiness after life in an eternity of enjoyment. To\none and all it only brings the austere duty to live, to be a mere\ncontributor in the universal toil; and how well one can understand that\nhearts should revolt and sigh for the Christian heaven, peopled with\nlovely angels, full of light and music and perfumes! Ah! to embrace one\u2019s\ndead, to tell oneself that one will meet them again, that one will live\nwith them once more in glorious immortality! And to possess the certainty\nof sovereign equity to enable one to support the abominations of\nterrestrial life! And in this wise to trample on the frightful thought of\nannihilation, to escape the horror of the disappearance of the _ego_, and\nto tranquillise oneself with that unshakable faith which postpones until\nthe portal of death be crossed the solution of all the problems of\ndestiny! This dream will be dreamt by the nations for ages yet. And this\nit is which explains why, in these last days of the century, excessive\nmental labour and the deep unrest of humanity, pregnant with a new world,\nhave awakened religious feeling, anxious, tormented by thoughts of the\nideal and the infinite, demanding a moral law and an assurance of\nsuperior justice. Religions may disappear, but religious feelings will\nalways create new ones, even with the help of science. A new religion! a\nnew religion! Was it not the ancient Catholicism, which in the soil of\nthe present day, where all seemed conducive to a miracle, was about to\nspring up afresh, throw out green branches and blossom in a young yet\nmighty florescence?\n\nAt last, in the third part of his book and in the glowing language of an\napostle, Pierre depicted the FUTURE: Catholicism rejuvenated, and\nbringing health and peace, the forgotten golden age of primitive\nChristianity, back to expiring society. He began with an emotional and\nsparkling portrait of Leo XIII, the ideal Pope, the Man of Destiny\nentrusted with the salvation of the nations. He had conjured up a\npresentment of him and beheld him thus in his feverish longing for the\nadvent of a pastor who should put an end to human misery. It was perhaps\nnot a close likeness, but it was a portrait of the needed saviour, with\nopen heart and mind, and inexhaustible benevolence, such as he had\ndreamed. At the same time he had certainly searched documents, studied\nencyclical letters, based his sketch upon facts: first Leo\u2019s religious\neducation at Rome, then his brief nunciature at Brussels, and afterwards\nhis long episcopate at Perugia. And as soon as Leo became pope in the\ndifficult situation bequeathed by Pius IX, the duality of his nature\nappeared: on one hand was the firm guardian of dogmas, on the other the\nsupple politician resolved to carry conciliation to its utmost limits. We\nsee him flatly severing all connection with modern philosophy, stepping\nbackward beyond the Renascence to the middle ages and reviving Christian\nphilosophy, as expounded by \u201cthe angelic doctor,\u201d St. Thomas Aquinas, in\nCatholic schools. Then the dogmas being in this wise sheltered, he\nadroitly maintains himself in equilibrium by giving securities to every\npower, striving to utilise every opportunity. He displays extraordinary\nactivity, reconciles the Holy See with Germany, draws nearer to Russia,\ncontents Switzerland, asks the friendship of Great Britain, and writes to\nthe Emperor of China begging him to protect the missionaries and\nChristians in his dominions. Later on, too, he intervenes in France and\nacknowledges the legitimacy of the Republic.\n\nFrom the very outset an idea becomes apparent in all his actions, an idea\nwhich will place him among the great papal politicians. It is moreover\nthe ancient idea of the papacy--the conquest of every soul, Rome capital\nand mistress of the world. Thus Leo XIII has but one desire, one object,\nthat of unifying the Church, of drawing all the dissident communities to\nit in order that it may be invincible in the coming social struggle. He\nseeks to obtain recognition of the moral authority of the Vatican in\nRussia; he dreams of disarming the Anglican Church and of drawing it into\na sort of fraternal truce; and he particularly seeks to come to an\nunderstanding with the Schismatical Churches of the East, which he\nregards as sisters, simply living apart, whose return his paternal heart\nentreats. Would not Rome indeed dispose of victorious strength if she\nexercised uncontested sway over all the Christians of the earth?\n\nAnd here the social ideas of Leo XIII come in. Whilst yet Bishop of\nPerugia he wrote a pastoral letter in which a vague humanitarian\nsocialism appeared. As soon, however, as he had assumed the triple crown\nhis opinions changed and he anathematised the revolutionaries whose\naudacity was terrifying Italy. But almost at once he corrected himself,\nwarned by events and realising the great danger of leaving socialism in\nthe hands of the enemies of the Church. Then he listened to the bishops\nof the lands of propaganda, ceased to intervene in the Irish quarrel,\nwithdrew the excommunications which he had launched against the American\n\u201cknights of labour,\u201d and would not allow the bold works of Catholic\nsocialist writers to be placed in the Index. This evolution towards\ndemocracy may be traced through his most famous encyclical letters:\n_Immortale Dei_, on the constitution of States; _Libertas_, on human\nliberty; _Sapientoe_, on the duties of Christian citizens; _Rerum\nnovarum_, on the condition of the working classes; and it is particularly\nthis last which would seem to have rejuvenated the Church. The Pope\nherein chronicles the undeserved misery of the toilers, the undue length\nof the hours of labour, the insufficiency of salaries. All men have the\nright to live, and all contracts extorted by threats of starvation are\nunjust. Elsewhere he declares that the workman must not be left\ndefenceless in presence of a system which converts the misery of the\nmajority into the wealth of a few. Compelled to deal vaguely with\nquestions of organisation, he contents himself with encouraging the\ncorporative movement, placing it under State patronage; and after thus\ncontributing to restore the secular power, he reinstates the Deity on the\nthrone of sovereignty, and discerns the path to salvation more\nparticularly in moral measures, in the ancient respect due to family ties\nand ownership. Nevertheless, was not the helpful hand which the august\nVicar of Christ thus publicly tendered to the poor and the humble, the\ncertain token of a new alliance, the announcement of a new reign of Jesus\nupon earth? Thenceforward the people knew that it was not abandoned. And\nfrom that moment too how glorious became Leo XIII, whose sacerdotal\njubilee and episcopal jubilee were celebrated by all Christendom amidst\nthe coming of a vast multitude, of endless offerings, and of flattering\nletters from every sovereign!\n\nPierre next dealt with the question of the temporal power, and this he\nthought he might treat freely. Naturally, he was not ignorant of the fact\nthat the Pope in his quarrel with Italy upheld the rights of the Church\nover Rome as stubbornly as his predecessor; but he imagined that this was\nmerely a necessary conventional attitude, imposed by political\nconsiderations, and destined to be abandoned when the times were ripe.\nFor his own part he was convinced that if the Pope had never appeared\ngreater than he did now, it was to the loss of the temporal power that he\nowed it; for thence had come the great increase of his authority, the\npure splendour of moral omnipotence which he diffused.\n\nWhat a long history of blunders and conflicts had been that of the\npossession of the little kingdom of Rome during fifteen centuries!\nConstantine quits Rome in the fourth century, only a few forgotten\nfunctionaries remaining on the deserted Palatine, and the Pope naturally\nrises to power, and the life of the city passes to the Lateran. However,\nit is only four centuries later that Charlemagne recognises accomplished\nfacts and formally bestows the States of the Church upon the papacy. From\nthat time warfare between the spiritual power and the temporal powers has\nnever ceased; though often latent it has at times become acute, breaking\nforth with blood and fire. And to-day, in the midst of Europe in arms, is\nit not unreasonable to dream of the papacy ruling a strip of territory\nwhere it would be exposed to every vexation, and where it could only\nmaintain itself by the help of a foreign army? What would become of it in\nthe general massacre which is apprehended? Is it not far more sheltered,\nfar more dignified, far more lofty when disentangled from all terrestrial\ncares, reigning over the world of souls?\n\nIn the early times of the Church the papacy from being merely local,\nmerely Roman, gradually became catholicised, universalised, slowly\nacquiring dominion over all Christendom. In the same way the Sacred\nCollege, at first a continuation of the Roman Senate, acquired an\ninternational character, and in our time has ended by becoming the most\ncosmopolitan of assemblies, in which representatives of all the nations\nhave seats. And is it not evident that the Pope, thus leaning on the\ncardinals, has become the one great international power which exercises\nthe greater authority since it is free from all monarchical interests,\nand can speak not merely in the name of country but in that of humanity\nitself? The solution so often sought amidst such long wars surely lies in\nthis: Either give the Pope the temporal sovereignty of the world, or\nleave him only the spiritual sovereignty. Vicar of the Deity, absolute\nand infallible sovereign by divine delegation, he can but remain in the\nsanctuary if, ruler already of the human soul, he is not recognised by\nevery nation as the one master of the body also--the king of kings.\n\nBut what a strange affair was this new incursion of the papacy into the\nfield sown by the French Revolution, an incursion conducting it perhaps\ntowards the domination, which it has striven for with a will that has\nupheld it for centuries! For now it stands alone before the people. The\nkings are down. And as the people is henceforth free to give itself to\nwhomsoever it pleases, why should it not give itself to the Church? The\ndepreciation which the idea of liberty has certainly undergone renders\nevery hope permissible. The liberal party appears to be vanquished in the\nsphere of economics. The toilers, dissatisfied with 1789 complain of the\naggravation of their misery, bestir themselves, seek happiness\ndespairingly. On the other hand the new _r\u00e9gimes_ have increased the\ninternational power of the Church; Catholic members are numerous in the\nparliaments of the republics and the constitutional monarchies. All\ncircumstances seem therefore to favour this extraordinary return of\nfortune, Catholicism reverting to the vigour of youth in its old age.\nEven science, remember, is accused of bankruptcy, a charge which saves\nthe _Syllabus_ from ridicule, troubles the minds of men, and throws the\nlimitless sphere of mystery and impossibility open once more. And then a\nprophecy is recalled, a prediction that the papacy shall be mistress of\nthe world on the day when she marches at the head of the democracy after\nreuniting the Schismatical Churches of the East to the Catholic,\nApostolic, and Roman Church. And, in Pierre\u2019s opinion, assuredly the\ntimes had come since Pope Leo XIII, dismissing the great and the wealthy\nof the world, left the kings driven from their thrones in exile to place\nhimself like Jesus on the side of the foodless toilers and the beggars of\nthe high roads. Yet a few more years, perhaps, of frightful misery,\nalarming confusion, fearful social danger, and the people, the great\nsilent multitude which others have so far disposed of, will return to the\ncradle, to the unified Church of Rome, in order to escape the destruction\nwhich threatens human society.\n\nPierre concluded his book with a passionate evocation of New Rome, the\nspiritual Rome which would soon reign over the nations, reconciled and\nfraternising as in another golden age. Herein he even saw the end of\nsuperstitions. Without making a direct attack on dogma, he allowed\nhimself to dream of an enlargement of religious feeling, freed from\nrites, and absorbed in the one satisfaction of human charity. And still\nsmarting from his journey to Lourdes, he felt the need of contenting his\nheart. Was not that gross superstition of Lourdes the hateful symptom of\nthe excessive suffering of the times? On the day when the Gospel should\nbe universally diffused and practised, suffering ones would cease seeking\nan illusory relief so far away, assured as they would be of finding\nassistance, consolation, and cure in their homes amidst their brothers.\nAt Lourdes there was an iniquitous displacement of wealth, a spectacle so\nfrightful as to make one doubt of God, a perpetual conflict which would\ndisappear in the truly Christian society of to-morrow. Ah! that society,\nthat Christian community, all Pierre\u2019s work ended in an ardent longing\nfor its speedy advent: Christianity becoming once more the religion of\ntruth and justice which it had been before it allowed itself to be\nconquered by the rich and the powerful! The little ones and the poor ones\nreigning, sharing the wealth of earth, and owing obedience to nought but\nthe levelling law of work! The Pope alone erect at the head of the\nfederation of nations, prince of peace, with the simple mission of\nsupplying the moral rule, the link of charity and love which was to unite\nall men! And would not this be the speedy realisation of the promises of\nChrist? The times were near accomplishment, secular and religious society\nwould mingle so closely that they would form but one; and it would be the\nage of triumph and happiness predicted by all the prophets, no more\nstruggles possible, no more antagonism between the mind and the body, but\na marvellous equilibrium which would kill evil and set the kingdom of\nheaven upon earth. New Rome, the centre of the world, bestowing on the\nworld the new religion!\n\nPierre felt that tears were coming to his eyes, and with an unconscious\nmovement, never noticing how much he astonished the slim Englishmen and\nthick-set Germans passing along the terrace, he opened his arms and\nextended them towards the _real_ Rome, steeped in such lovely sunshine\nand stretched out at his feet. Would she prove responsive to his dream?\nWould he, as he had written, find within her the remedy for our\nimpatience and our alarms? Could Catholicism be renewed, could it return\nto the spirit of primitive Christianity, become the religion of the\ndemocracy, the faith which the modern world, overturned and in danger of\nperishing, awaits in order to be pacified and to live?\n\nPierre was full of generous passion, full of faith. He again beheld good\nAbb\u00e9 Rose weeping with emotion as he read his book. He heard Viscount\nPhilibert de la Choue telling him that such a book was worth an army. And\nhe particularly felt strong in the approval of Cardinal Bergerot, that\napostle of inexhaustible charity. Why should the Congregation of the\nIndex threaten his work with interdiction? Since he had been officiously\nadvised to go to Rome if he desired to defend himself, he had been\nturning this question over in his mind without being able to discover\nwhich of his pages were attacked. To him indeed they all seemed to glow\nwith the purest Christianity. However, he had arrived quivering with\nenthusiasm and courage: he was all eagerness to kneel before the Pope,\nand place himself under his august protection, assuring him that he had\nnot written a line without taking inspiration from his ideas, without\ndesiring the triumph of his policy. Was it possible that condemnation\nshould be passed on a book in which he imagined in all sincerity that he\nhad exalted Leo XIII by striving to help him in his work of Christian\nreunion and universal peace?\n\nFor a moment longer Pierre remained standing before the parapet. He had\nbeen there for nearly an hour, unable to drink in enough of the grandeur\nof Rome, which, given all the unknown things she hid from him, he would\nhave liked to possess at once. Oh! to seize hold of her, know her,\nascertain at once the true word which he had come to seek from her! This\nagain, like Lourdes, was an experiment, but a graver one, a decisive one,\nwhence he would emerge either strengthened or overcome for evermore. He\nno longer sought the simple, perfect faith of the little child, but the\nsuperior faith of the intellectual man, raising himself above rites and\nsymbols, working for the greatest happiness of humanity as based on its\nneed of certainty. His temples throbbed responsive to his heart. What\nwould be the answer of Rome?\n\nThe sunlight had increased and the higher districts now stood out more\nvigorously against the fiery background. Far away the hills became gilded\nand empurpled, whilst the nearer house-fronts grew very distinct and\nbright with their thousands of windows sharply outlined. However, some\nmorning haze still hovered around; light veils seemed to rise from the\nlower streets, blurring the summits for a moment, and then evaporating in\nthe ardent heavens where all was blue. For a moment Pierre fancied that\nthe Palatine had vanished, for he could scarcely see the dark fringe of\ncypresses; it was as though the dust of its ruins concealed the hill. But\nthe Quirinal was even more obscured; the royal palace seemed to have\nfaded away in a fog, so paltry did it look with its low flat front, so\nvague in the distance that he no longer distinguished it; whereas above\nthe trees on his left the dome of St. Peter\u2019s had grown yet larger in the\nlimpid gold of the sunshine, and appeared to occupy the whole sky and\ndominate the whole city!\n\nAh! the Rome of that first meeting, the Rome of early morning, whose new\ndistricts he had not even noticed in the burning fever of his\narrival--with what boundless hopes did she not inspirit him, this Rome\nwhich he believed he should find alive, such indeed as he had dreamed!\nAnd whilst he stood there in his thin black cassock, thus gazing on her\nthat lovely day, what a shout of coming redemption seemed to arise from\nher house-roofs, what a promise of universal peace seemed to issue from\nthat sacred soil, twice already Queen of the world! It was the third\nRome, it was New Rome whose maternal love was travelling across the\nfrontiers to all the nations to console them and reunite them in a common\nembrace. In the passionate candour of his dream he beheld her, he heard\nher, rejuvenated, full of the gentleness of childhood, soaring, as it\nwere, amidst the morning freshness into the vast pure heavens.\n\nBut at last Pierre tore himself away from the sublime spectacle. The\ndriver and the horse, their heads drooping under the broad sunlight, had\nnot stirred. On the seat the valise was almost burning, hot with rays of\nthe sun which was already heavy. And once more Pierre got into the\nvehicle and gave this address:\n\n\u201cVia Giulia, Palazzo Boccanera.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE Via Giulia, which runs in a straight line over a distance of five\nhundred yards from the Farnese palace to the church of St. John of the\nFlorentines, was at that hour steeped in bright sunlight, the glow\nstreaming from end to end and whitening the small square paving stones.\nThe street had no footways, and the cab rolled along it almost to the\nfarther extremity, passing the old grey sleepy and deserted residences\nwhose large windows were barred with iron, while their deep porches\nrevealed sombre courts resembling wells. Laid out by Pope Julius II, who\nhad dreamt of lining it with magnificent palaces, the street, then the\nmost regular and handsome in Rome, had served as Corso* in the sixteenth\ncentury. One could tell that one was in a former luxurious district,\nwhich had lapsed into silence, solitude, and abandonment, instinct with a\nkind of religious gentleness and discretion. The old house-fronts\nfollowed one after another, their shutters closed and their gratings\noccasionally decked with climbing plants. At some doors cats were seated,\nand dim shops, appropriated to humble trades, were installed in certain\ndependencies. But little traffic was apparent. Pierre only noticed some\nbare-headed women dragging children behind them, a hay cart drawn by a\nmule, a superb monk draped in drugget, and a bicyclist speeding along\nnoiselessly, his machine sparkling in the sun.\n\n  * The Corso was so called on account of the horse races held in\n    it at carnival time.--Trans.\n\nAt last the driver turned and pointed to a large square building at the\ncorner of a lane running towards the Tiber.\n\n\u201cPalazzo Boccanera.\u201d\n\nPierre raised his head and was pained by the severe aspect of the\nstructure, so bare and massive and blackened by age. Like its neighbours\nthe Farnese and Sacchetti palaces, it had been built by Antonio da\nSangallo in the early part of the sixteenth century, and, as with the\nformer of those residences, the tradition ran that in raising the pile\nthe architect had made use of stones pilfered from the Colosseum and the\nTheatre of Marcellus. The vast, square-looking fa\u00e7ade had three upper\nstories, each with seven windows, and the first one very lofty and noble.\nDown below, the only sign of decoration was that the high ground-floor\nwindows, barred with huge projecting gratings as though from fear of\nsiege, rested upon large consoles, and were crowned by attics which\nsmaller consoles supported. Above the monumental entrance, with folding\ndoors of bronze, there was a balcony in front of the central first-floor\nwindow. And at the summit of the fa\u00e7ade against the sky appeared a\nsumptuous entablature, whose frieze displayed admirable grace and purity\nof ornamentation. The frieze, the consoles, the attics, and the door-case\nwere of white marble, but marble whose surface had so crumbled and so\ndarkened that it now had the rough yellowish grain of stone. Right and\nleft of the entrance were two antique seats upheld by griffons also of\nmarble; and incrusted in the wall at one corner, a lovely Renascence\nfountain, its source dried up, still lingered; and on it a cupid riding a\ndolphin could with difficulty be distinguished, to such a degree had the\nwear and tear of time eaten into the sculpture.\n\nPierre\u2019s eyes, however, had been more particularly attracted by an\nescutcheon carved above one of the ground-floor windows, the escutcheon\nof the Boccaneras, a winged dragon venting flames, and underneath it he\ncould plainly read the motto which had remained intact: \u201c_Bocca nera,\nAlma rossa_\u201d (black mouth, red soul). Above another window, as a pendant\nto the escutcheon, there was one of those little shrines which are still\ncommon in Rome, a satin-robed statuette of the Blessed Virgin, before\nwhich a lantern burnt in the full daylight.\n\nThe cabman was about to drive through the dim and gaping porch, according\nto custom, when the young priest, overcome by timidity, stopped him. \u201cNo,\nno,\u201d he said; \u201cdon\u2019t go in, it\u2019s useless.\u201d\n\nThen he alighted from the vehicle, paid the man, and, valise in hand,\nfound himself first under the vaulted roof, and then in the central court\nwithout having met a living soul.\n\nIt was a square and fairly spacious court, surrounded by a porticus like\na cloister. Some remnants of statuary, marbles discovered in excavating,\nan armless Apollo, and the trunk of a Venus, were ranged against the\nwalls under the dismal arcades; and some fine grass had sprouted between\nthe pebbles which paved the soil as with a black and white mosaic. It\nseemed as if the sun-rays could never reach that paving, mouldy with\ndamp. A dimness and a silence instinct with departed grandeur and\ninfinite mournfulness reigned there.\n\nSurprised by the emptiness of this silent mansion, Pierre continued\nseeking somebody, a porter, a servant; and, fancying that he saw a shadow\nflit by, he decided to pass through another arch which led to a little\ngarden fringing the Tiber. On this side the fa\u00e7ade of the building was\nquite plain, displaying nothing beyond its three rows of symmetrically\ndisposed windows. However, the abandonment reigning in the garden brought\nPierre yet a keener pang. In the centre some large box-plants were\ngrowing in the basin of a fountain which had been filled up; while among\nthe mass of weeds, some orange-trees with golden, ripening fruit alone\nindicated the tracery of the paths which they had once bordered. Between\ntwo huge laurel-bushes, against the right-hand wall, there was a\nsarcophagus of the second century--with fauns offering violence to\nnymphs, one of those wild _baccanali_, those scenes of eager passion\nwhich Rome in its decline was wont to depict on the tombs of its dead;\nand this marble sarcophagus, crumbling with age and green with moisture,\nserved as a tank into which a streamlet of water fell from a large tragic\nmask incrusted in the wall. Facing the Tiber there had formerly been a\nsort of colonnaded loggia, a terrace whence a double flight of steps\ndescended to the river. For the construction of the new quays, however,\nthe river bank was being raised, and the terrace was already lower than\nthe new ground level, and stood there crumbling and useless amidst piles\nof rubbish and blocks of stone, all the wretched chalky confusion of the\nimprovements which were ripping up and overturning the district.\n\nPierre, however, was suddenly convinced that he could see somebody\ncrossing the court. So he returned thither and found a woman somewhat\nshort of stature, who must have been nearly fifty, though as yet she had\nnot a white hair, but looked very bright and active. At sight of the\npriest, however, an expression of distrust passed over her round face and\nclear eyes.\n\nEmploying the few words of broken Italian which he knew, Pierre at once\nsought to explain matters: \u201cI am Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment, madame--\u201d he began.\n\nHowever, she did not let him continue, but exclaimed in fluent French,\nwith the somewhat thick and lingering accent of the province of the\nIle-de-France: \u201cAh! yes, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I know, I know--I was expecting\nyou, I received orders about you.\u201d And then, as he gazed at her in\namazement, she added: \u201cOh! I\u2019m a Frenchwoman! I\u2019ve been here for five and\ntwenty years, but I haven\u2019t yet been able to get used to their horrible\nlingo!\u201d\n\nPierre thereupon remembered that Viscount Philibert de la Choue had\nspoken to him of this servant, one Victorine Bosquet, a native of Auneau\nin La Beauce, who, when two and twenty, had gone to Rome with a\nconsumptive mistress. The latter\u2019s sudden death had left her in as much\nterror and bewilderment as if she had been alone in some land of savages;\nand so she had gratefully devoted herself to the Countess Ernesta\nBrandini, a Boccanera by birth, who had, so to say, picked her up in the\nstreets. The Countess had at first employed her as a nurse to her\ndaughter Benedetta, hoping in this way to teach the child some French;\nand Victorine--remaining for some five and twenty years with the same\nfamily--had by degrees raised herself to the position of housekeeper,\nwhilst still remaining virtually illiterate, so destitute indeed of any\nlinguistic gift that she could only jabber a little broken Italian, just\nsufficient for her needs in her intercourse with the other servants.\n\n\u201cAnd is Monsieur le Vicomte quite well?\u201d she resumed with frank\nfamiliarity. \u201cHe is so very pleasant, and we are always so pleased to see\nhim. He stays here, you know, each time he comes to Rome. I know that the\nPrincess and the Contessina received a letter from him yesterday\nannouncing you.\u201d\n\nIt was indeed Viscount Philibert de la Choue who had made all the\narrangements for Pierre\u2019s sojourn in Rome. Of the ancient and once\nvigorous race of the Boccaneras, there now only remained Cardinal Pio\nBoccanera, the Princess his sister, an old maid who from respect was\ncalled \u201cDonna\u201d Serafina, their niece Benedetta--whose mother Ernesta had\nfollowed her husband, Count Brandini, to the tomb--and finally their\nnephew, Prince Dario Boccanera, whose father, Prince Onofrio, was\nlikewise dead, and whose mother, a Montefiori, had married again. It so\nchanced that the Viscount de la Choue was connected with the family, his\nyounger brother having married a Brandini, sister to Benedetta\u2019s father;\nand thus, with the courtesy rank of uncle, he had, in Count Brandini\u2019s\ntime, frequently sojourned at the mansion in the Via Giulia. He had also\nbecome attached to Benedetta, especially since the advent of a private\nfamily drama, consequent upon an unhappy marriage which the young woman\nhad contracted, and which she had petitioned the Holy Father to annul.\nSince Benedetta had left her husband to live with her aunt Serafina and\nher uncle the Cardinal, M. de la Choue had often written to her and sent\nher parcels of French books. Among others he had forwarded her a copy of\nPierre\u2019s book, and the whole affair had originated in that wise. Several\nletters on the subject had been exchanged when at last Benedetta sent\nword that the work had been denounced to the Congregation of the Index,\nand that it was advisable the author should at once repair to Rome, where\nshe graciously offered him the hospitality of the Boccanera mansion.\n\nThe Viscount was quite as much astonished as the young priest at these\ntidings, and failed to understand why the book should be threatened at\nall; however, he prevailed on Pierre to make the journey as a matter of\ngood policy, becoming himself impassioned for the achievement of a\nvictory which he counted in anticipation as his own. And so it was easy\nto understand the bewildered condition of Pierre, on tumbling into this\nunknown mansion, launched into an heroic adventure, the reasons and\ncircumstances of which were beyond him.\n\nVictorine, however, suddenly resumed: \u201cBut I am leaving you here,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. Let me conduct you to your rooms. Where is your\nluggage?\u201d\n\nThen, when he had shown her his valise which he had placed on the ground\nbeside him, and explained that having no more than a fortnight\u2019s stay in\nview he had contented himself with bringing a second cassock and some\nlinen, she seemed very much surprised.\n\n\u201cA fortnight! You only expect to remain here a fortnight? Well, well,\nyou\u2019ll see.\u201d\n\nAnd then summoning a big devil of a lackey who had ended by making his\nappearance, she said: \u201cTake that up into the red room, Giacomo. Will you\nkindly follow me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d\n\nPierre felt quite comforted and inspirited by thus unexpectedly meeting\nsuch a lively, good-natured compatriot in this gloomy Roman \u201cpalace.\u201d\n Whilst crossing the court he listened to her as she related that the\nPrincess had gone out, and that the Contessina--as Benedetta from motives\nof affection was still called in the house, despite her marriage--had not\nyet shown herself that morning, being rather poorly. However, added\nVictorine, she had her orders.\n\nThe staircase was in one corner of the court, under the porticus. It was\na monumental staircase with broad, low steps, the incline being so gentle\nthat a horse might easily have climbed it. The stone walls, however, were\nquite bare, the landings empty and solemn, and a death-like mournfulness\nfell from the lofty vault above.\n\nAs they reached the first floor, noticing Pierre\u2019s emotion, Victorine\nsmiled. The mansion seemed to be uninhabited; not a sound came from its\nclosed chambers. Simply pointing to a large oaken door on the right-hand,\nthe housekeeper remarked: \u201cThe wing overlooking the court and the river\nis occupied by his Eminence. But he doesn\u2019t use a quarter of the rooms.\nAll the reception-rooms on the side of the street have been shut. How\ncould one keep up such a big place, and what, too, would be the use of\nit? We should need somebody to lodge.\u201d\n\nWith her lithe step she continued ascending the stairs. She had remained\nessentially a foreigner, a Frenchwoman, too different from those among\nwhom she lived to be influenced by her environment. On reaching the\nsecond floor she resumed: \u201cThere, on the left, are Donna Serafina\u2019s\nrooms; those of the Contessina are on the right. This is the only part of\nthe house where there\u2019s a little warmth and life. Besides, it\u2019s Monday\nto-day, the Princess will be receiving visitors this evening. You\u2019ll\nsee.\u201d\n\nThen, opening a door, beyond which was a second and very narrow\nstaircase, she went on: \u201cWe others have our rooms on the third floor. I\nmust ask Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 to let me go up before him.\u201d\n\nThe grand staircase ceased at the second floor, and Victorine explained\nthat the third story was reached exclusively by this servants\u2019 staircase,\nwhich led from the lane running down to the Tiber on one side of the\nmansion. There was a small private entrance in this lane, which was very\nconvenient.\n\nAt last, reaching the third story, she hurried along a passage, again\ncalling Pierre\u2019s attention to various doors. \u201cThese are the apartments of\nDon Vigilio, his Eminence\u2019s secretary. These are mine. And these will be\nyours. Monsieur le Vicomte will never have any other rooms when he comes\nto spend a few days in Rome. He says that he enjoys more liberty up here,\nas he can come in and go out as he pleases. I gave him a key to the door\nin the lane, and I\u2019ll give you one too. And, besides, you\u2019ll see what a\nnice view there is from here!\u201d\n\nWhilst speaking she had gone in. The apartments comprised two rooms: a\nsomewhat spacious _salon_, with wall-paper of a large scroll pattern on a\nred ground, and a bed-chamber, where the paper was of a flax grey,\nstudded with faded blue flowers. The sitting-room was in one corner of\nthe mansion overlooking the lane and the Tiber, and Victorine at once\nwent to the windows, one of which afforded a view over the distant lower\npart of the river, while the other faced the Trastevere and the Janiculum\nacross the water.\n\n\u201cAh! yes, it\u2019s very pleasant!\u201d said Pierre, who had followed and stood\nbeside her.\n\nGiaccomo, who did not hurry, came in behind them with the valise. It was\nnow past eleven o\u2019clock; and seeing that the young priest looked tired,\nand realising that he must be hungry after such a journey, Victorine\noffered to have some breakfast served at once in the sitting-room. He\nwould then have the afternoon to rest or go out, and would only meet the\nladies in the evening at dinner. At the mere suggestion of resting,\nhowever, Pierre began to protest, declaring that he should certainly go\nout, not wishing to lose an entire afternoon. The breakfast he readily\naccepted, for he was indeed dying of hunger.\n\nHowever, he had to wait another full half hour. Giaccomo, who served him\nunder Victorine\u2019s orders, did everything in a most leisurely way. And\nVictorine, lacking confidence in the man, remained with the young priest\nto make sure that everything he might require was provided.\n\n\u201cAh! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said she, \u201cwhat people! What a country! You can\u2019t\nhave an idea of it. I should never get accustomed to it even if I were to\nlive here for a hundred years. Ah! if it were not for the Contessina, but\nshe\u2019s so good and beautiful.\u201d\n\nThen, whilst placing a dish of figs on the table, she astonished Pierre\nby adding that a city where nearly everybody was a priest could not\npossibly be a good city. Thereupon the presence of this gay, active,\nunbelieving servant in the queer old palace again scared him.\n\n\u201cWhat! you are not religious?\u201d he exclaimed.\n\n\u201cNo, no, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, the priests don\u2019t suit me,\u201d said Victorine; \u201cI\nknew one in France when I was very little, and since I\u2019ve been here I\u2019ve\nseen too many of them. It\u2019s all over. Oh! I don\u2019t say that on account of\nhis Eminence, who is a holy man worthy of all possible respect. And\nbesides, everybody in the house knows that I\u2019ve nothing to reproach\nmyself with. So why not leave me alone, since I\u2019m fond of my employers\nand attend properly to my duties?\u201d\n\nShe burst into a frank laugh. \u201cAh!\u201d she resumed, \u201cwhen I was told that\nanother priest was coming, just as if we hadn\u2019t enough already, I\ncouldn\u2019t help growling to myself. But you look like a good young man,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, and I feel sure we shall get on well together.... I\nreally don\u2019t know why I\u2019m telling you all this--probably it\u2019s because\nyou\u2019ve come from yonder, and because the Contessina takes an interest in\nyou. At all events, you\u2019ll excuse me, won\u2019t you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9? And\ntake my advice, stay here and rest to-day; don\u2019t be so foolish as to go\nrunning about their tiring city. There\u2019s nothing very amusing to be seen\nin it, whatever they may say to the contrary.\u201d\n\nWhen Pierre found himself alone, he suddenly felt overwhelmed by all the\nfatigue of his journey coupled with the fever of enthusiasm that had\nconsumed him during the morning. And as though dazed, intoxicated by the\nhasty meal which he had just made--a couple of eggs and a cutlet--he\nflung himself upon the bed with the idea of taking half an hour\u2019s rest.\nHe did not fall asleep immediately, but for a time thought of those\nBoccaneras, with whose history he was partly acquainted, and of whose\nlife in that deserted and silent palace, instinct with such dilapidated\nand melancholy grandeur, he began to dream. But at last his ideas grew\nconfused, and by degrees he sunk into sleep amidst a crowd of shadowy\nforms, some tragic and some sweet, with vague faces which gazed at him\nwith enigmatical eyes as they whirled before him in the depths of\ndreamland.\n\nThe Boccaneras had supplied two popes to Rome, one in the thirteenth, the\nother in the fifteenth century, and from those two favoured ones, those\nall-powerful masters, the family had formerly derived its vast\nfortune--large estates in the vicinity of Viterbo, several palaces in\nRome, enough works of art to fill numerous spacious galleries, and a pile\nof gold sufficient to cram a cellar. The family passed as being the most\npious of the Roman _patriziato_, a family of burning faith whose sword\nhad always been at the service of the Church; but if it were the most\nbelieving family it was also the most violent, the most disputatious,\nconstantly at war, and so fiercely savage that the anger of the\nBoccaneras had become proverbial. And thence came their arms, the winged\ndragon spitting flames, and the fierce, glowing motto, with its play on\nthe name \u201c_Bocca sera, Alma rossa_\u201d (black mouth, red soul), the mouth\ndarkened by a roar, the soul flaming like a brazier of faith and love.\n\nLegends of endless passion, of terrible deeds of justice and vengeance\nstill circulated. There was the duel fought by Onfredo, the Boccanera by\nwhom the present palazzo had been built in the sixteenth century on the\nsite of the demolished antique residence of the family. Onfredo, learning\nthat his wife had allowed herself to be kissed on the lips by young Count\nCostamagna, had caused the Count to be kidnapped one evening and brought\nto the palazzo bound with cords. And there in one of the large halls,\nbefore freeing him, he compelled him to confess himself to a monk. Then\nhe severed the cords with a stiletto, threw the lamps over and\nextinguished them, calling to the Count to keep the stiletto and defend\nhimself. During more than an hour, in complete obscurity, in this hall\nfull of furniture, the two men sought one another, fled from one another,\nseized hold of one another, and pierced one another with their blades.\nAnd when the doors were broken down and the servants rushed in they found\namong the pools of blood, among the overturned tables and broken seats,\nCostamagna with his nose sliced off and his hips pierced with two and\nthirty wounds, whilst Onfredo had lost two fingers of his right hand, and\nhad both shoulders riddled with holes! The wonder was that neither died\nof the encounter.\n\nA century later, on that same bank of the Tiber, a daughter of the\nBoccaneras, a girl barely sixteen years of age, the lovely and passionate\nCassia, filled all Rome with terror and admiration. She loved Flavio\nCorradini, the scion of a rival and hated house, whose alliance her\nfather, Prince Boccanera, roughly rejected, and whom her elder brother,\nErcole, swore to slay should he ever surprise him with her. Nevertheless\nthe young man came to visit her in a boat, and she joined him by the\nlittle staircase descending to the river. But one evening Ercole, who was\non the watch, sprang into the boat and planted his dagger full in\nFlavio\u2019s heart. Later on the subsequent incidents were unravelled; it was\nunderstood that Cassia, wrathful and frantic with despair, unwilling to\nsurvive her love and bent on wreaking justice, had thrown herself upon\nher brother, had seized both murderer and victim with the same grasp\nwhilst overturning the boat; for when the three bodies were recovered\nCassia still retained her hold upon the two men, pressing their faces one\nagainst the other with her bare arms, which had remained as white as\nsnow.\n\nBut those were vanished times. Nowadays, if faith remained, blood\nviolence seemed to be departing from the Boccaneras. Their huge fortune\nalso had been lost in the slow decline which for a century past has been\nruining the Roman _patriziato_. It had been necessary to sell the\nestates; the palace had emptied, gradually sinking to the mediocrity and\nbourgeois life of the new times. For their part the Boccaneras\nobstinately declined to contract any alien alliances, proud as they were\nof the purity of their Roman blood. And poverty was as nothing to them;\nthey found contentment in their immense pride, and without a plaint\nsequestered themselves amidst the silence and gloom in which their race\nwas dwindling away.\n\nPrince Ascanio, dead since 1848, had left four children by his wife, a\nCorvisieri; first Pio, the Cardinal; then Serafina, who, in order to\nremain with her brother, had not married; and finally Ernesta and\nOnofrio, both of whom were deceased. As Ernesta had merely left a\ndaughter, Benedetta, behind her, it followed that the only male heir, the\nonly possible continuator of the family name was Onofrio\u2019s son, young\nPrince Dario, now some thirty years of age. Should he die without\nposterity, the Boccaneras, once so full of life and whose deeds had\nfilled Roman history in papal times, must fatally disappear.\n\nDario and his cousin Benedetta had been drawn together by a deep,\nsmiling, natural passion ever since childhood. They seemed born one for\nthe other; they could not imagine that they had been brought into the\nworld for any other purpose than that of becoming husband and wife as\nsoon as they should be old enough to marry. When Prince Onofrio--an\namiable man of forty, very popular in Rome, where he spent his modest\nfortune as his heart listed--espoused La Montefiori\u2019s daughter, the\nlittle Marchesa Flavia, whose superb beauty, suggestive of a youthful\nJuno, had maddened him, he went to reside at the Villa Montefiori, the\nonly property, indeed the only belonging, that remained to the two\nladies. It was in the direction of St\u2019. Agnese-fuori-le-Mura,* and there\nwere vast grounds, a perfect park in fact, planted with centenarian\ntrees, among which the villa, a somewhat sorry building of the\nseventeenth century, was falling into ruins.\n\n  * St. Agnes-without-the-walls, N.E. of Rome.\n\nUnfavourable reports were circulated about the ladies, the mother having\nalmost lost caste since she had become a widow, and the girl having too\nbold a beauty, too conquering an air. Thus the marriage had not met with\nthe approval of Serafina, who was very rigid, or of Onofrio\u2019s elder\nbrother Pio, at that time merely a _Cameriere segreto_ of the Holy Father\nand a Canon of the Vatican basilica. Only Ernesta kept up a regular\nintercourse with Onofrio, fond of him as she was by reason of his gaiety\nof disposition; and thus, later on, her favourite diversion was to go\neach week to the Villa Montefiori with her daughter Benedetta, there to\nspend the day. And what a delightful day it always proved to Benedetta\nand Dario, she ten years old and he fifteen, what a fraternal loving day\nin that vast and almost abandoned garden with its parasol pines, its\ngiant box-plants, and its clumps of evergreen oaks, amidst which one lost\noneself as in a virgin forest.\n\nThe poor stifled soul of Ernesta was a soul of pain and passion. Born\nwith a mighty longing for life, she thirsted for the sun--for a free,\nhappy, active existence in the full daylight. She was noted for her large\nlimpid eyes and the charming oval of her gentle face. Extremely ignorant,\nlike all the daughters of the Roman nobility, having learnt the little\nshe knew in a convent of French nuns, she had grown up cloistered in the\nblack Boccanera palace, having no knowledge of the world than by those\ndaily drives to the Corso and the Pincio on which she accompanied her\nmother. Eventually, when she was five and twenty, and was already weary\nand desolate, she contracted the customary marriage of her caste,\nespousing Count Brandini, the last-born of a very noble, very numerous\nand poor family, who had to come and live in the Via Giulia mansion,\nwhere an entire wing of the second floor was got ready for the young\ncouple. And nothing changed, Ernesta continued to live in the same cold\ngloom, in the midst of the same dead past, the weight of which, like that\nof a tombstone, she felt pressing more and more heavily upon her.\n\nThe marriage was, on either side, a very honourable one. Count Brandini\nsoon passed as being the most foolish and haughty man in Rome. A strict,\nintolerant formalist in religious matters, he became quite triumphant\nwhen, after innumerable intrigues, secret plottings which lasted ten long\nyears, he at last secured the appointment of grand equerry to the Holy\nFather. With this appointment it seemed as if all the dismal majesty of\nthe Vatican entered his household. However, Ernesta found life still\nbearable in the time of Pius IX--that is until the latter part of\n1870--for she might still venture to open the windows overlooking the\nstreet, receive a few lady friends otherwise than in secrecy, and accept\ninvitations to festivities. But when the Italians had conquered Rome and\nthe Pope declared himself a prisoner, the mansion in the Via Giulia\nbecame a sepulchre. The great doors were closed and bolted, even nailed\ntogether in token of mourning; and during ten years the inmates only went\nout and came in by the little staircase communicating with the lane. It\nwas also forbidden to open the window shutters of the fa\u00e7ade. This was\nthe sulking, the protest of the black world, the mansion sinking into\ndeath-like immobility, complete seclusion; no more receptions, barely a\nfew shadows, the intimates of Donna Serafina who on Monday evenings\nslipped in by the little door in the lane which was scarcely set ajar.\nAnd during those ten lugubrious years, overcome by secret despair, the\nyoung woman wept every night, suffered untold agony at thus being buried\nalive.\n\nErnesta had given birth to her daughter Benedetta rather late in life,\nwhen three and thirty years of age. At first the little one helped to\ndivert her mind. But afterwards her wonted existence, like a grinding\nmillstone, again seized hold of her, and she had to place the child in\nthe charge of the French nuns, by whom she herself had been educated, at\nthe convent of the Sacred Heart of La Trinita de\u2019 Monti. When Benedetta\nleft the convent, grown up, nineteen years of age, she was able to speak\nand write French, knew a little arithmetic and her catechism, and\npossessed a few hazy notions of history. Then the life of the two women\nwas resumed, the life of a _gynoeceum_, suggestive of the Orient; never\nan excursion with husband or father, but day after day spent in closed,\nsecluded rooms, with nought to cheer one but the sole, everlasting,\nobligatory promenade, the daily drive to the Corso and the Pincio.\n\nAt home, absolute obedience was the rule; the tie of relationship\npossessed an authority, a strength, which made both women bow to the will\nof the Count, without possible thought of rebellion; and to the Count\u2019s\nwill was added that of Donna Serafina and that of Cardinal Pio, both of\nwhom were stern defenders of the old-time customs. Since the Pope had\nceased to show himself in Rome, the post of grand equerry had left the\nCount considerable leisure, for the number of equipages in the pontifical\nstables had been very largely reduced; nevertheless, he was constant in\nhis attendance at the Vatican, where his duties were now a mere matter of\nparade, and ever increased his devout zeal as a mark of protest against\nthe usurping monarchy installed at the Quirinal. However, Benedetta had\njust attained her twentieth year, when one evening her father returned\ncoughing and shivering from some ceremony at St. Peter\u2019s. A week later he\ndied, carried off by inflammation of the lungs. And despite their\nmourning, the loss was secretly considered a deliverance by both women,\nwho now felt that they were free.\n\nThenceforward Ernesta had but one thought, that of saving her daughter\nfrom that awful life of immurement and entombment. She herself had\nsorrowed too deeply: it was no longer possible for her to remount the\ncurrent of existence; but she was unwilling that Benedetta should in her\nturn lead a life contrary to nature, in a voluntary grave. Moreover,\nsimilar lassitude and rebellion were showing themselves among other\npatrician families, which, after the sulking of the first years, were\nbeginning to draw nearer to the Quirinal. Why indeed should the children,\neager for action, liberty, and sunlight, perpetually keep up the quarrel\nof the fathers? And so, though no reconciliation could take place between\nthe black world and the white world,* intermediate tints were already\nappearing, and some unexpected matrimonial alliances were contracted.\n\n  * The \u201cblacks\u201d are the supporters of the papacy, the \u201cwhites\u201d\n     those of the King of Italy.--Trans.\n\nErnesta for her part was indifferent to the political question; she knew\nnext to nothing about it; but that which she passionately desired was\nthat her race might at last emerge from that hateful sepulchre, that\nblack, silent Boccanera mansion, where her woman\u2019s joys had been frozen\nby so long a death. She had suffered very grievously in her heart, as\ngirl, as lover, and as wife, and yielded to anger at the thought that her\nlife should have been so spoiled, so lost through idiotic resignation.\nThen, too, her mind was greatly influenced by the choice of a new\nconfessor at this period; for she had remained very religious, practising\nall the rites of the Church, and ever docile to the advice of her\nspiritual director. To free herself the more, however, she now quitted\nthe Jesuit father whom her husband had chosen for her, and in his stead\ntook Abb\u00e9 Pisoni, the rector of the little church of Sta. Brigida, on the\nPiazza Farnese, close by. He was a man of fifty, very gentle, and very\ngood-hearted, of a benevolence seldom found in the Roman world; and\narchaeology, a passion for the old stones of the past, had made him an\nardent patriot. Humble though his position was, folks whispered that he\nhad on several occasions served as an intermediary in delicate matters\nbetween the Vatican and the Quirinal. And, becoming confessor not only of\nErnesta but of Benedetta also, he was fond of discoursing to them about\nthe grandeur of Italian unity, the triumphant sway that Italy would\nexercise when the Pope and the King should agree together.\n\nMeantime Benedetta and Dario loved as on the first day, patiently, with\nthe strong tranquil love of those who know that they belong to one\nanother. But it happened that Ernesta threw herself between them and\nstubbornly opposed their marriage. No, no! her daughter must not espouse\nthat Dario, that cousin, the last of the name, who in his turn would\nimmure his wife in the black sepulchre of the Boccanera palace! Their\nunion would be a prolongation of entombment, an aggravation of ruin, a\nrepetition of the haughty wretchedness of the past, of the everlasting\npeevish sulking which depressed and benumbed one! She was well acquainted\nwith the young man\u2019s character; she knew that he was egotistical and\nweak, incapable of thinking and acting, predestined to bury his race with\na smile on his lips, to let the last remnant of the house crumble about\nhis head without attempting the slightest effort to found a new family.\nAnd that which she desired was fortune in another guise, a new birth for\nher daughter with wealth and the florescence of life amid the victors and\npowerful ones of to-morrow.\n\nFrom that moment the mother did not cease her stubborn efforts to ensure\nher daughter\u2019s happiness despite herself. She told her of her tears,\nentreated her not to renew her own deplorable career. Yet she would have\nfailed, such was the calm determination of the girl who had for ever\ngiven her heart, if certain circumstances had not brought her into\nconnection with such a son-in-law as she dreamt of. At that very Villa\nMontefiori where Benedetta and Dario had plighted their troth, she met\nCount Prada, son of Orlando, one of the heroes of the reunion of Italy.\nArriving in Rome from Milan, with his father, when eighteen years of age,\nat the time of the occupation of the city by the Italian Government,\nPrada had first entered the Ministry of Finances as a mere clerk, whilst\nthe old warrior, his sire, created a senator, lived scantily on a petty\nincome, the last remnant of a fortune spent in his country\u2019s service. The\nfine war-like madness of the former comrade of Garibaldi had, however, in\nthe son turned into a fierce appetite for booty, so that the young man\nbecame one of the real conquerors of Rome, one of those birds of prey\nthat dismembered and devoured the city. Engaged in vast speculations on\nland, already wealthy according to popular report, he had--at the time of\nmeeting Ernesta--just become intimate with Prince Onofrio, whose head he\nhad turned by suggesting to him the idea of selling the far-spreading\ngrounds of the Villa Montefiori for the erection of a new suburban\ndistrict on the site. Others averred that he was the lover of the\nprincess, the beautiful Flavia, who, although nine years his senior, was\nstill superb. And, truth to tell, he was certainly a man of violent\ndesires, with an eagerness to rush on the spoils of conquest which\nrendered him utterly unscrupulous with regard either to the wealth or to\nthe wives of others.\n\nFrom the first day that he beheld Benedetta he desired her. But she, at\nany rate, could only become his by marriage. And he did not for a moment\nhesitate, but broke off all connection with Flavia, eager as he was for\nthe pure virgin beauty, the patrician youth of the other. When he\nrealised that Ernesta, the mother, favoured him, he asked her daughter\u2019s\nhand, feeling certain of success. And the surprise was great, for he was\nsome fifteen years older than the girl. However, he was a count, he bore\na name which was already historical, he was piling up millions, he was\nregarded with favour at the Quirinal, and none could tell to what heights\nhe might not attain. All Rome became impassioned.\n\nNever afterwards was Benedetta able to explain to herself how it happened\nthat she had eventually consented. Six months sooner, six months later,\nsuch a marriage would certainly have been impossible, given the fearful\nscandal which it raised in the black world. A Boccanera, the last maiden\nof that antique papal race, given to a Prada, to one of the despoilers of\nthe Church! Was it credible? In order that the wild project might prove\nsuccessful it had been necessary that it should be formed at a particular\nbrief moment--a moment when a supreme effort was being made to conciliate\nthe Vatican and the Quirinal. A report circulated that an agreement was\non the point of being arrived at, that the King consented to recognise\nthe Pope\u2019s absolute sovereignty over the Leonine City,* and a narrow band\nof territory extending to the sea. And if such were the case would not\nthe marriage of Benedetta and Prada become, so to say, a symbol of union,\nof national reconciliation? That lovely girl, the pure lily of the black\nworld, was she not the acquiescent sacrifice, the pledge granted to the\nwhites?\n\n  * The Vatican suburb of Rome, called the _Civitas Leonina_,\n    because Leo IV, to protect it from the Saracens and Arabs,\n    enclosed it with walls in the ninth century.--Trans.\n\nFor a fortnight nothing else was talked of; people discussed the\nquestion, allowed their emotion rein, indulged in all sorts of hopes. The\ngirl, for her part, did not enter into the political reasons, but simply\nlistened to her heart, which she could not bestow since it was hers no\nmore. From morn till night, however, she had to encounter her mother\u2019s\nprayers entreating her not to refuse the fortune, the life which offered.\nAnd she was particularly exercised by the counsels of her confessor, good\nAbb\u00e9 Pisoni, whose patriotic zeal now burst forth. He weighed upon her\nwith all his faith in the Christian destinies of Italy, and returned\nheartfelt thanks to Providence for having chosen one of his penitents as\nthe instrument for hastening the reconciliation which would work God\u2019s\ntriumph throughout the world. And her confessor\u2019s influence was certainly\none of the decisive factors in shaping Benedetta\u2019s decision, for she was\nvery pious, very devout, especially with regard to a certain Madonna\nwhose image she went to adore every Sunday at the little church on the\nPiazza Farnese. One circumstance in particular struck her: Abb\u00e9 Pisoni\nrelated that the flame of the lamp before the image in question whitened\neach time that he himself knelt there to beg the Virgin to incline his\npenitent to the all-redeeming marriage. And thus superior forces\nintervened; and she yielded in obedience to her mother, whom the Cardinal\nand Donna Serafina had at first opposed, but whom they left free to act\nwhen the religious question arose.\n\nBenedetta had grown up in such absolute purity and ignorance, knowing\nnothing of herself, so shut off from existence, that marriage with\nanother than Dario was to her simply the rupture of a long-kept promise\nof life in common. It was not the violent wrenching of heart and flesh\nthat it would have been in the case of a woman who knew the facts of\nlife. She wept a good deal, and then in a day of self-surrender she\nmarried Prada, lacking the strength to continue resisting everybody, and\nyielding to a union which all Rome had conspired to bring about.\n\nBut the clap of thunder came on the very night of the nuptials. Was it\nthat Prada, the Piedmontese, the Italian of the North, the man of\nconquest, displayed towards his bride the same brutality that he had\nshown towards the city he had sacked? Or was it that the revelation of\nmarried life filled Benedetta with repulsion since nothing in her own\nheart responded to the passion of this man? On that point she never\nclearly explained herself; but with violence she shut the door of her\nroom, locked it and bolted it, and refused to admit her husband. For a\nmonth Prada was maddened by her scorn. He felt outraged; both his pride\nand his passion bled; and he swore to master her, even as one masters a\ncolt, with the whip. But all his virile fury was impotent against the\nindomitable determination which had sprung up one evening behind\nBenedetta\u2019s small and lovely brow. The spirit of the Boccaneras had awoke\nwithin her; nothing in the world, not even the fear of death, would have\ninduced her to become her husband\u2019s wife.* And then, love being at last\nrevealed to her, there came a return of her heart to Dario, a conviction\nthat she must reserve herself for him alone, since it was to him that she\nhad promised herself.\n\n  * Many readers will doubtless remember that the situation as\n    here described is somewhat akin to that of the earlier part\n    of M. George Ohnet\u2019s _Ironmaster_, which, in its form as a\n    novel, I translated into English many years ago. However,\n    all resemblance between _Rome_ and the _Ironmaster_ is confined\n    to this one point.--Trans.\n\nEver since that marriage, which he had borne like a bereavement, the\nyoung man had been travelling in France. She did not hide the truth from\nhim, but wrote to him, again vowing that she would never be another\u2019s.\nAnd meantime her piety increased, her resolve to reserve herself for the\nlover she had chosen mingled in her mind with constancy of religious\nfaith. The ardent heart of a great _amorosa_ had ignited within her, she\nwas ready for martyrdom for faith\u2019s sake. And when her despairing mother\nwith clasped hands entreated her to resign herself to her conjugal\nduties, she replied that she owed no duties, since she had known nothing\nwhen she married. Moreover, the times were changing; the attempts to\nreconcile the Quirinal and the Vatican had failed, so completely, indeed,\nthat the newspapers of the rival parties had, with renewed violence,\nresumed their campaign of mutual insult and outrage; and thus that\ntriumphal marriage, to which every one had contributed as to a pledge of\npeace, crumbled amid the general smash-up, became but a ruin the more\nadded to so many others.\n\nErnesta died of it. She had made a mistake. Her spoilt life--the life of\na joyless wife--had culminated in this supreme maternal error. And the\nworst was that she alone had to bear all the responsibility of the\ndisaster, for both her brother, the Cardinal, and her sister, Donna\nSerafina, overwhelmed her with reproaches. For consolation she had but\nthe despair of Abb\u00e9 Pisoni, whose patriotic hopes had been destroyed, and\nwho was consumed with grief at having contributed to such a catastrophe.\nAnd one morning Ernesta was found, icy white and cold, in her bed. Folks\ntalked of the rupture of a blood-vessel, but grief had been sufficient,\nfor she had suffered frightfully, secretly, without a plaint, as indeed\nshe had suffered all her life long.\n\nAt this time Benedetta had been married about a twelvemonth: still strong\nin her resistance to her husband, but remaining under the conjugal roof\nin order to spare her mother the terrible blow of a public scandal.\nHowever, her aunt Serafina had brought influence to bear on her, by\nopening to her the hope of a possible nullification of her marriage,\nshould she throw herself at the feet of the Holy Father and entreat his\nintervention. And Serafina ended by persuading her of this, when,\ndeferring to certain advice, she removed her from the spiritual control\nof Abb\u00e9 Pisoni, and gave her the same confessor as herself. This was a\nJesuit father named Lorenza, a man scarce five and thirty, with bright\neyes, grave and amiable manners, and great persuasive powers. However, it\nwas only on the morrow of her mother\u2019s death that Benedetta made up her\nmind, and returned to the Palazzo Boccanera, to occupy the apartments\nwhere she had been born, and where her mother had just passed away.\n\nImmediately afterwards proceedings for annulling the marriage were\ninstituted, in the first instance, for inquiry, before the Cardinal Vicar\ncharged with the diocese of Rome. It was related that the Contessina had\nonly taken this step after a secret audience with his Holiness, who had\nshown her the most encouraging sympathy. Count Prada at first spoke of\napplying to the law courts to compel his wife to return to the conjugal\ndomicile; but, yielding to the entreaties of his old father Orlando, whom\nthe affair greatly grieved, he eventually consented to accept the\necclesiastical jurisdiction. He was infuriated, however, to find that the\nnullification of the marriage was solicited on the ground of its\nnon-consummation through _impotentia mariti_; this being one of the most\nvalid and decisive pleas on which the Church of Rome consents to part\nthose whom she has joined. And far more unhappy marriages than might be\nimagined are severed on these grounds, though the world only gives\nattention to those cases in which people of title or renown are\nconcerned, as it did, for instance, with the famous Martinez Campos suit.\n\nIn Benedetta\u2019s case, her counsel, Consistorial-Advocate Morano, one of\nthe leading authorities of the Roman bar, simply neglected to mention, in\nhis memoir, that if she was still merely a wife in name, this was\nentirely due to herself. In addition to the evidence of friends and\nservants, showing on what terms the husband and wife had lived since\ntheir marriage, the advocate produced a certificate of a medical\ncharacter, showing that the non-consummation of the union was certain.\nAnd the Cardinal Vicar, acting as Bishop of Rome, had thereupon remitted\nthe case to the Congregation of the Council. This was a first success for\nBenedetta, and matters remained in this position. She was waiting for the\nCongregation to deliver its final pronouncement, hoping that the\necclesiastical dissolution of the marriage would prove an irresistible\nargument in favour of the divorce which she meant to solicit of the civil\ncourts. And meantime, in the icy rooms where her mother Ernesta,\nsubmissive and desolate, had lately died, the Contessina resumed her\ngirlish life, showing herself calm, yet very firm in her passion, having\nvowed that she would belong to none but Dario, and that she would not\nbelong to him until the day when a priest should have joined them\ntogether in God\u2019s holy name.\n\nAs it happened, some six months previously, Dario also had taken up his\nabode at the Boccanera palace in consequence of the death of his father\nand the catastrophe which had ruined him. Prince Onofrio, after adopting\nPrada\u2019s advice and selling the Villa Montefiori to a financial company\nfor ten million _lire_,* had, instead of prudently keeping his money in\nhis pockets, succumbed to the fever of speculation which was consuming\nRome. He began to gamble, buying back his own land, and ending by losing\neverything in the formidable _krach_ which was swallowing up the wealth\nof the entire city. Totally ruined, somewhat deeply in debt even, the\nPrince nevertheless continued to promenade the Corso, like the handsome,\nsmiling, popular man he was, when he accidentally met his death through\nfalling from his horse; and four months later his widow, the ever\nbeautiful Flavia--who had managed to save a modern villa and a personal\nincome of forty thousand _lire_* from the disaster--was remarried to a\nman of magnificent presence, her junior by some ten years. This was a\nSwiss named Jules Laporte, originally a sergeant in the Papal Swiss\nGuard, then a traveller for a shady business in \u201crelics,\u201d and finally\nMarchese Montefiore, having secured that title in securing his wife,\nthanks to a special brief of the Holy Father. Thus the Princess Boccanera\nhad again become the Marchioness Montefiori.\n\n  * 400,000 pounds.\n  ** 1,800 pounds.\n\nIt was then that Cardinal Boccanera, feeling greatly hurt, insisted on\nhis nephew Dario coming to live with him, in a small apartment on the\nfirst floor of the palazzo. In the heart of that holy man, who seemed\ndead to the world, there still lingered pride of name and lineage, with a\nfeeling of affection for his young, slightly built nephew, the last of\nthe race, the only one by whom the old stock might blossom anew.\nMoreover, he was not opposed to Dario\u2019s marriage with Benedetta, whom he\nalso loved with a paternal affection; and so proud was he of the family\nhonour, and so convinced of the young people\u2019s pious rectitude that, in\ntaking them to live with him, he absolutely scorned the abominable\nrumours which Count Prada\u2019s friends in the white world had begun to\ncirculate ever since the two cousins had resided under the same roof.\nDonna Serafina guarded Benedetta, as he, the Cardinal, guarded Dario, and\nin the silence and the gloom of the vast deserted mansion, ensanguined of\nolden time by so many tragic deeds of violence, there now only remained\nthese four with their restrained, stilled passions, last survivors of a\ncrumbling world upon the threshold of a new one.\n\nWhen Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment all at once awoke from sleep, his head heavy\nwith painful dreams, he was worried to find that the daylight was already\nwaning. His watch, which he hastened to consult, pointed to six o\u2019clock.\nIntending to rest for an hour at the utmost, he had slept on for nearly\nseven hours, overcome beyond power of resistance. And even on awaking he\nremained on the bed, helpless, as though he were conquered before he had\nfought. Why, he wondered, did he experience this prostration, this\nunreasonable discouragement, this quiver of doubt which had come he knew\nnot whence during his sleep, and which was annihilating his youthful\nenthusiasm of the morning? Had the Boccaneras any connection with this\nsudden weakening of his powers? He had espied dim disquieting figures in\nthe black night of his dreams; and the anguish which they had brought him\ncontinued, and he again evoked them, scared as he was at thus awaking in\na strange room, full of uneasiness in presence of the unknown. Things no\nlonger seemed natural to him. He could not understand why Benedetta\nshould have written to Viscount Philibert de la Choue to tell him that\nhis, Pierre\u2019s, book had been denounced to the Congregation of the Index.\nWhat interest too could she have had in his coming to Rome to defend\nhimself; and with what object had she carried her amiability so far as to\ndesire that he should take up his quarters in the mansion? Pierre\u2019s\nstupefaction indeed arose from his being there, on that bed in that\nstrange room, in that palace whose deep, death-like silence encompassed\nhim. As he lay there, his limbs still overpowered and his brain seemingly\nempty, a flash of light suddenly came to him, and he realised that there\nmust be certain circumstances that he knew nothing of that, simple though\nthings appeared, they must really hide some complicated intrigue.\nHowever, it was only a fugitive gleam of enlightenment; his suspicions\nfaded; and he rose up shaking himself and accusing the gloomy twilight of\nbeing the sole cause of the shivering and the despondency of which he\nfelt ashamed.\n\nIn order to bestir himself, Pierre began to examine the two rooms. They\nwere furnished simply, almost meagrely, in mahogany, there being scarcely\nany two articles alike, though all dated from the beginning of the\ncentury. Neither the bed nor the windows nor the doors had any hangings.\nOn the floor of bare tiles, coloured red and polished, there were merely\nsome little foot-mats in front of the various seats. And at sight of this\nmiddle-class bareness and coldness Pierre ended by remembering a room\nwhere he had slept in childhood--a room at Versailles, at the abode of\nhis grandmother, who had kept a little grocer\u2019s shop there in the days of\nLouis Philippe. However, he became interested in an old painting which\nhung in the bed-room, on the wall facing the bed, amidst some childish\nand valueless engravings. But partially discernible in the waning light,\nthis painting represented a woman seated on some projecting stone-work,\non the threshold of a great stern building, whence she seemed to have\nbeen driven forth. The folding doors of bronze had for ever closed behind\nher, yet she remained there in a mere drapery of white linen; whilst\nscattered articles of clothing, thrown forth chance-wise with a violent\nhand, lay upon the massive granite steps. Her feet were bare, her arms\nwere bare, and her hands, distorted by bitter agony, were pressed to her\nface--a face which one saw not, veiled as it was by the tawny gold of her\nrippling, streaming hair. What nameless grief, what fearful shame, what\nhateful abandonment was thus being hidden by that rejected one, that\nlingering victim of love, of whose unknown story one might for ever dream\nwith tortured heart? It could be divined that she was adorably young and\nbeautiful in her wretchedness, in the shred of linen draped about her\nshoulders; but a mystery enveloped everything else--her passion, possibly\nher misfortune, perhaps even her transgression--unless, indeed, she were\nthere merely as a symbol of all that shivers and that weeps visageless\nbefore the ever closed portals of the unknown. For a long time Pierre\nlooked at her, and so intently that he at last imagined he could\ndistinguish her profile, divine in its purity and expression of\nsuffering. But this was only an illusion; the painting had greatly\nsuffered, blackened by time and neglect; and he asked himself whose work\nit might be that it should move him so intensely. On the adjoining wall a\npicture of a Madonna, a bad copy of an eighteenth-century painting,\nirritated him by the banality of its smile.\n\nNight was falling faster and faster, and, opening the sitting-room\nwindow, Pierre leant out. On the other bank of the Tiber facing him arose\nthe Janiculum, the height whence he had gazed upon Rome that morning. But\nat this dim hour Rome was no longer the city of youth and dreamland\nsoaring into the early sunshine. The night was raining down, grey and\nashen; the horizon was becoming blurred, vague, and mournful. Yonder, to\nthe left, beyond the sea of roofs, Pierre could still divine the presence\nof the Palatine; and yonder, to the right, there still arose the Dome of\nSt. Peter\u2019s, now grey like slate against the leaden sky; whilst behind\nhim the Quirinal, which he could not see, must also be fading away into\nthe misty night. A few minutes went by, and everything became yet more\nblurred; he realised that Rome was fading, departing in its immensity of\nwhich he knew nothing. Then his causeless doubt and disquietude again\ncame on him so painfully that he could no longer remain at the window. He\nclosed it and sat down, letting the darkness submerge him with its flood\nof infinite sadness. And his despairing reverie only ceased when the door\ngently opened and the glow of a lamp enlivened the room.\n\nIt was Victorine who came in quietly, bringing the light. \u201cAh! so you are\nup, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said she; \u201cI came in at about four o\u2019clock but I\nlet you sleep on. You have done quite right to take all the rest you\nrequired.\u201d\n\nThen, as he complained of pains and shivering, she became anxious. \u201cDon\u2019t\ngo catching their nasty fevers,\u201d she said. \u201cIt isn\u2019t at all healthy near\ntheir river, you know. Don Vigilio, his Eminence\u2019s secretary, is always\nhaving the fever, and I assure you that it isn\u2019t pleasant.\u201d\n\nShe accordingly advised him to remain upstairs and lie down again. She\nwould excuse his absence to the Princess and the Contessina. And he ended\nby letting her do as she desired, for he was in no state to have any will\nof his own. By her advice he dined, partaking of some soup, a wing of a\nchicken, and some preserves, which Giaccomo, the big lackey, brought up\nto him. And the food did him a great deal of good; he felt so restored\nthat he refused to go to bed, desiring, said he, to thank the ladies that\nvery evening for their kindly hospitality. As Donna Serafina received on\nMondays he would present himself before her.\n\n\u201cVery good,\u201d said Victorine approvingly. \u201cAs you are all right again it\ncan do you no harm, it will even enliven you. The best thing will be for\nDon Vigilio to come for you at nine o\u2019clock and accompany you. Wait for\nhim here.\u201d\n\nPierre had just washed and put on the new cassock he had brought with\nhim, when, at nine o\u2019clock precisely, he heard a discreet knock at his\ndoor. A little priest came in, a man scarcely thirty years of age, but\nthin and debile of build, with a long, seared, saffron-coloured face. For\ntwo years past attacks of fever, coming on every day at the same hour,\nhad been consuming him. Nevertheless, whenever he forgot to control the\nblack eyes which lighted his yellow face, they shone out ardently with\nthe glow of his fiery soul. He bowed, and then in fluent French\nintroduced himself in this simple fashion: \u201cDon Vigilio, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\nwho is entirely at your service. If you are willing, we will go down.\u201d\n\nPierre immediately followed him, expressing his thanks, and Don Vigilio,\nrelapsing into silence, answered his remarks with a smile. Having\ndescended the small staircase, they found themselves on the second floor,\non the spacious landing of the grand staircase. And Pierre was surprised\nand saddened by the scanty illumination, which, as in some dingy\nlodging-house, was limited to a few gas-jets, placed far apart, their\nyellow splotches but faintly relieving the deep gloom of the lofty,\nendless corridors. All was gigantic and funereal. Even on the landing,\nwhere was the entrance to Donna Serafina\u2019s apartments, facing those\noccupied by her niece, nothing indicated that a reception was being held\nthat evening. The door remained closed, not a sound came from the rooms,\na death-like silence arose from the whole palace. And Don Vigilio did not\neven ring, but, after a fresh bow, discreetly turned the door-handle.\n\nA single petroleum lamp, placed on a table, lighted the ante-room, a\nlarge apartment with bare fresco-painted walls, simulating hangings of\nred and gold, draped regularly all around in the antique fashion. A few\nmen\u2019s overcoats and two ladies\u2019 mantles lay on the chairs, whilst a pier\ntable was littered with hats, and a servant sat there dozing, with his\nback to the wall.\n\nHowever, as Don Vigilio stepped aside to allow Pierre to enter a first\nreception-room, hung with red _brocatelle_, a room but dimly lighted and\nwhich he imagined to be empty, the young priest found himself face to\nface with an apparition in black, a woman whose features he could not at\nfirst distinguish. Fortunately he heard his companion say, with a low\nbow, \u201cContessina, I have the honour to present to you Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9\nPierre Froment, who arrived from France this morning.\u201d\n\nThen, for a moment, Pierre remained alone with Benedetta in that deserted\n_salon_, in the sleepy glimmer of two lace-veiled lamps. At present,\nhowever, a sound of voices came from a room beyond, a larger apartment\nwhose doorway, with folding doors thrown wide open, described a\nparallelogram of brighter light.\n\nThe young woman at once showed herself very affable, with perfect\nsimplicity of manner: \u201cAh! I am happy to see you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. I was\nafraid that your indisposition might be serious. You are quite recovered\nnow, are you not?\u201d\n\nPierre listened to her, fascinated by her slow and rather thick voice, in\nwhich restrained passion seemed to mingle with much prudent good sense.\nAnd at last he saw her, with her hair so heavy and so dark, her skin so\nwhite, the whiteness of ivory. She had a round face, with somewhat full\nlips, a small refined nose, features as delicate as a child\u2019s. But it was\nespecially her eyes that lived, immense eyes, whose infinite depths none\ncould fathom. Was she slumbering? Was she dreaming? Did her motionless\nface conceal the ardent tension of a great saint and a great _amorosa_?\nSo white, so young, and so calm, her every movement was harmonious, her\nappearance at once very staid, very noble, and very rhythmical. In her\nears she wore two large pearls of matchless purity, pearls which had come\nfrom a famous necklace of her mother\u2019s, known throughout Rome.\n\nPierre apologised and thanked her. \u201cYou see me in confusion, madame,\u201d\n said he; \u201cI should have liked to express to you this morning my gratitude\nfor your great kindness.\u201d\n\nHe had hesitated to call her madame, remembering the plea brought forward\nin the suit for the dissolution of her marriage. But plainly enough\neverybody must call her madame. Moreover, her face had retained its calm\nand kindly expression.\n\n\u201cConsider yourself at home here, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she responded, wishing\nto put him at his ease. \u201cIt is sufficient that our relative, Monsieur de\nla Choue, should be fond of you, and take interest in your work. I have,\nyou know, much affection for him.\u201d Then her voice faltered slightly, for\nshe realised that she ought to speak of the book, the one reason of\nPierre\u2019s journey and her proffered hospitality. \u201cYes,\u201d she added, \u201cthe\nViscount sent me your book. I read it and found it very beautiful. It\ndisturbed me. But I am only an ignoramus, and certainly failed to\nunderstand everything in it. We must talk it over together; you will\nexplain your ideas to me, won\u2019t you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d\n\nIn her large clear eyes, which did not know how to lie, Pierre then read\nthe surprise and emotion of a child\u2019s soul when confronted by disquieting\nand undreamt-of problems. So it was not she who had become impassioned\nand had desired to have him near her that she might sustain him and\nassist his victory. Once again, and this time very keenly, he suspected a\nsecret influence, a hidden hand which was directing everything towards\nsome unknown goal. However, he was charmed by so much simplicity and\nfrankness in so beautiful, young, and noble a creature; and he gave\nhimself to her after the exchange of those few words, and was about to\ntell her that she might absolutely dispose of him, when he was\ninterrupted by the advent of another woman, whose tall, slight figure,\nalso clad in black, stood out strongly against the luminous background of\nthe further reception-room as seen through the open doorway.\n\n\u201cWell, Benedetta, have you sent Giaccomo up to see?\u201d asked the newcomer.\n\u201cDon Vigilio has just come down and he is quite alone. It is improper.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, aunt. Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 is here,\u201d was the reply of Benedetta,\nhastening to introduce the young priest. \u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Pierre\nFroment--The Princess Boccanera.\u201d\n\nCeremonious salutations were exchanged. The Princess must have been\nnearly sixty, but she laced herself so tightly that from behind one might\nhave taken her for a young woman. This tight lacing, however, was her\nlast coquetry. Her hair, though still plentiful, was quite white, her\neyebrows alone remaining black in her long, wrinkled face, from which\nprojected the large obstinate nose of the family. She had never been\nbeautiful, and had remained a spinster, wounded to the heart by the\nselection of Count Brandini, who had preferred her younger sister,\nErnesta. From that moment she had resolved to seek consolation and\nsatisfaction in family pride alone, the hereditary pride of the great\nname which she bore. The Boccaneras had already supplied two Popes to the\nChurch, and she hoped that before she died her brother would become the\nthird. She had transformed herself into his housekeeper, as it were,\nremaining with him, watching over him, and advising him, managing all the\nhousehold affairs herself, and accomplishing miracles in order to conceal\nthe slow ruin which was bringing the ceilings about their heads. If every\nMonday for thirty years past she had continued receiving a few intimates,\nall of them folks of the Vatican, it was from high political\nconsiderations, so that her drawing-room might remain a meeting-place of\nthe black world, a power and a threat.\n\nAnd Pierre divined by her greeting that she deemed him of little account,\npetty foreign priest that he was, not even a prelate. This too again\nsurprised him, again brought the puzzling question to the fore: Why had\nhe been invited, what was expected of him in this society from which the\nhumble were usually excluded? Knowing the Princess to be austerely\ndevout, he at last fancied that she received him solely out of regard for\nher kinsman, the Viscount, for in her turn she only found these words of\nwelcome: \u201cWe are so pleased to receive good news of Monsieur de la Choue!\nHe brought us such a beautiful pilgrimage two years ago.\u201d\n\nPassing the first through the doorway, she at last ushered the young\npriest into the adjoining reception-room. It was a spacious square\napartment, hung with old yellow _brocatelle_ of a flowery Louis XIV\npattern. The lofty ceiling was adorned with a very fine panelling, carved\nand coloured, with gilded roses in each compartment. The furniture,\nhowever, was of all sorts. There were some high mirrors, a couple of\nsuperb gilded pier tables, and a few handsome seventeenth-century\narm-chairs; but all the rest was wretched. A heavy round table of\nfirst-empire style, which had come nobody knew whence, caught the eye\nwith a medley of anomalous articles picked up at some bazaar, and a\nquantity of cheap photographs littered the costly marble tops of the pier\ntables. No interesting article of _virtu_ was to be seen. The old\npaintings on the walls were with two exceptions feebly executed. There\nwas a delightful example of an unknown primitive master, a\nfourteenth-century Visitation, in which the Virgin had the stature and\npure delicacy of a child of ten, whilst the Archangel, huge and superb,\ninundated her with a stream of dazzling, superhuman love; and in front of\nthis hung an antique family portrait, depicting a very beautiful young\ngirl in a turban, who was thought to be Cassia Boccanera, the _amorosa_\nand avengeress who had flung herself into the Tiber with her brother\nErcole and the corpse of her lover, Flavio Corradini. Four lamps threw a\nbroad, peaceful glow over the faded room, and, like a melancholy sunset,\ntinged it with yellow. It looked grave and bare, with not even a flower\nin a vase to brighten it.\n\nIn a few words Donna Serafina at once introduced Pierre to the company;\nand in the silence, the pause which ensued in the conversation, he felt\nthat every eye was fixed upon him as upon a promised and expected\ncuriosity. There were altogether some ten persons present, among them\nbeing Dario, who stood talking with little Princess Celia Buongiovanni,\nwhilst the elderly relative who had brought the latter sat whispering to\na prelate, Monsignor Nani, in a dim corner. Pierre, however, had been\nparticularly struck by the name of Consistorial-Advocate Morano, of whose\nposition in the house Viscount de la Choue had thought proper to inform\nhim in order to avert any unpleasant blunder. For thirty years past\nMorano had been Donna Serafina\u2019s _amico_. Their connection, formerly a\nguilty one, for the advocate had wife and children of his own, had in\ncourse of time, since he had been left a widower, become one of those\n_liaisons_ which tolerant people excuse and except. Both parties were\nextremely devout and had certainly assured themselves of all needful\n\u201cindulgences.\u201d And thus Morano was there in the seat which he had always\ntaken for a quarter of a century past, a seat beside the chimney-piece,\nthough as yet the winter fire had not been lighted, and when Donna\nSerafina had discharged her duties as mistress of the house, she returned\nto her own place in front of him, on the other side of the chimney.\n\nWhen Pierre in his turn had seated himself near Don Vigilio, who, silent\nand discreet, had already taken a chair, Dario resumed in a louder voice\nthe story which he had been relating to Celia. Dario was a handsome man,\nof average height, slim and elegant. He wore a full beard, dark and\ncarefully tended, and had the long face and pronounced nose of the\nBoccaneras, but the impoverishment of the family blood over a course of\ncenturies had attenuated, softened as it were, any sharpness or undue\nprominence of feature.\n\n\u201cOh! a beauty, an astounding beauty!\u201d he repeated emphatically.\n\n\u201cWhose beauty?\u201d asked Benedetta, approaching him.\n\nCelia, who resembled the little Virgin of the primitive master hanging\nabove her head, began to laugh. \u201cOh! Dario\u2019s speaking of a poor girl, a\nwork-girl whom he met to-day,\u201d she explained.\n\nThereupon Dario had to begin his narrative again. It appeared that while\npassing along a narrow street near the Piazza Navona, he had perceived a\ntall, shapely girl of twenty, who was weeping and sobbing violently,\nprone upon a flight of steps. Touched particularly by her beauty, he had\napproached her and learnt that she had been working in the house outside\nwhich she was, a manufactory of wax beads, but that, slack times having\ncome, the workshops had closed and she did not dare to return home, so\nfearful was the misery there. Amidst the downpour of her tears she raised\nsuch beautiful eyes to his that he ended by drawing some money from his\npocket. But at this, crimson with confusion, she sprang to her feet,\nhiding her hands in the folds of her skirt, and refusing to take\nanything. She added, however, that he might follow her if it so pleased\nhim, and give the money to her mother. And then she hurried off towards\nthe Ponte St\u2019. Angelo.*\n\n  * Bridge of St. Angelo.\n\n\u201cYes, she was a beauty, a perfect beauty,\u201d repeated Dario with an air of\necstasy. \u201cTaller than I, and slim though sturdy, with the bosom of a\ngoddess. In fact, a real antique, a Venus of twenty, her chin rather\nbold, her mouth and nose of perfect form, and her eyes wonderfully pure\nand large! And she was bare-headed too, with nothing but a crown of heavy\nblack hair, and a dazzling face, gilded, so to say, by the sun.\u201d\n\nThey had all begun to listen to him, enraptured, full of that passionate\nadmiration for beauty which, in spite of every change, Rome still retains\nin her heart.\n\n\u201cThose beautiful girls of the people are becoming very rare,\u201d remarked\nMorano. \u201cYou might scour the Trastevere without finding any. However,\nthis proves that there is at least one of them left.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what was your goddess\u2019s name?\u201d asked Benedetta, smiling, amused and\nenraptured like the others.\n\n\u201cPierina,\u201d replied Dario, also with a laugh.\n\n\u201cAnd what did you do with her?\u201d\n\nAt this question the young man\u2019s excited face assumed an expression of\ndiscomfort and fear, like the face of a child on suddenly encountering\nsome ugly creature amidst its play.\n\n\u201cOh! don\u2019t talk of it,\u201d said he. \u201cI felt very sorry afterwards. I saw\nsuch misery--enough to make one ill.\u201d\n\nYielding to his curiosity, it seemed, he had followed the girl across the\nPonte St\u2019. Angelo into the new district which was being built over the\nformer castle meadows*; and there, on the first floor of an abandoned\nhouse which was already falling into ruins, though the plaster was\nscarcely dry, he had come upon a frightful spectacle which still stirred\nhis heart: a whole family, father and mother, children, and an infirm old\nuncle, dying of hunger and rotting in filth! He selected the most\ndignified words he could think of to describe the scene, waving his hand\nthe while with a gesture of fright, as if to ward off some horrible\nvision.\n\n  * The meadows around the Castle of St. Angelo. The district, now\n    covered with buildings, is quite flat and was formerly greatly\n    subject to floods. It is known as the Quartiere dei Prati.--Trans.\n\n\u201cAt last,\u201d he concluded, \u201cI ran away, and you may be sure that I shan\u2019t\ngo back again.\u201d\n\nA general wagging of heads ensued in the cold, irksome silence which fell\nupon the room. Then Morano summed up the matter in a few bitter words, in\nwhich he accused the despoilers, the men of the Quirinal, of being the\nsole cause of all the frightful misery of Rome. Were not people even\ntalking of the approaching nomination of Deputy Sacco as Minister of\nFinances--Sacco, that intriguer who had engaged in all sorts of underhand\npractices? His appointment would be the climax of impudence; bankruptcy\nwould speedily and infallibly ensue.\n\nMeantime Benedetta, who had fixed her eyes on Pierre, with his book in\nher mind, alone murmured: \u201cPoor people, how very sad! But why not go back\nto see them?\u201d\n\nPierre, out of his element and absent-minded during the earlier moments,\nhad been deeply stirred by the latter part of Dario\u2019s narrative. His\nthoughts reverted to his apostolate amidst the misery of Paris, and his\nheart was touched with compassion at being confronted by the story of\nsuch fearful sufferings on the very day of his arrival in Rome.\nUnwittingly, impulsively, he raised his voice, and said aloud: \u201cOh! we\nwill go to see them together, madame; you will take me. These questions\nimpassion me so much.\u201d\n\nThe attention of everybody was then again turned upon the young priest.\nThe others questioned him, and he realised that they were all anxious\nabout his first impressions, his opinion of their city and of themselves.\nHe must not judge Rome by mere outward appearances, they said. What\neffect had the city produced on him? How had he found it, and what did he\nthink of it? Thereupon he politely apologised for his inability to answer\nthem. He had not yet gone out, said he, and had seen nothing. But this\nanswer was of no avail; they pressed him all the more keenly, and he\nfully understood that their object was to gain him over to admiration and\nlove. They advised him, adjured him not to yield to any fatal\ndisillusion, but to persist and wait until Rome should have revealed to\nhim her soul.\n\n\u201cHow long do you expect to remain among us, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d suddenly\ninquired a courteous voice, with a clear but gentle ring.\n\nIt was Monsignor Nani, who, seated in the gloom, thus raised his voice\nfor the first time. On several occasions it had seemed to Pierre that the\nprelate\u2019s keen blue eyes were steadily fixed upon him, though all the\nwhile he pretended to be attentively listening to the drawling chatter of\nCelia\u2019s aunt. And before replying Pierre glanced at him. In his\ncrimson-edged cassock, with a violet silk sash drawn tightly around his\nwaist, Nani still looked young, although he was over fifty. His hair had\nremained blond, he had a straight refined nose, a mouth very firm yet\nvery delicate of contour, and beautifully white teeth.\n\n\u201cWhy, a fortnight or perhaps three weeks, Monsignor,\u201d replied Pierre.\n\nThe whole _salon_ protested. What, three weeks! It was his pretension to\nknow Rome in three weeks! Why, six weeks, twelve months, ten years were\nrequired! The first impression was always a disastrous one, and a long\nsojourn was needed for a visitor to recover from it.\n\n\u201cThree weeks!\u201d repeated Donna Serafina with her disdainful air. \u201cIs it\npossible for people to study one another and get fond of one another in\nthree weeks? Those who come back to us are those who have learned to know\nus.\u201d\n\nInstead of launching into exclamations like the others, Nani had at first\ncontented himself with smiling, and gently waving his shapely hand, which\nbespoke his aristocratic origin. Then, as Pierre modestly explained\nhimself, saying that he had come to Rome to attend to certain matters and\nwould leave again as soon as those matters should have been concluded,\nthe prelate, still smiling, summed up the argument with the remark: \u201cOh!\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 will stay with us for more than three weeks; we shall\nhave the happiness of his presence here for a long time, I hope.\u201d\n\nThese words, though spoken with quiet cordiality, strangely disturbed the\nyoung priest. What was known, what was meant? He leant towards Don\nVigilio, who had remained near him, still and ever silent, and in a\nwhisper inquired: \u201cWho is Monsignor Nani?\u201d\n\nThe secretary, however, did not at once reply. His feverish face became\nyet more livid. Then his ardent eyes glanced round to make sure that\nnobody was watching him, and in a breath he responded: \u201cHe is the\nAssessor of the Holy Office.\u201d*\n\n  * Otherwise the Inquisition.\n\nThis information sufficed, for Pierre was not ignorant of the fact that\nthe assessor, who was present in silence at the meetings of the Holy\nOffice, waited upon his Holiness every Wednesday evening after the\nsitting, to render him an account of the matters dealt with in the\nafternoon. This weekly audience, this hour spent with the Pope in a\nprivacy which allowed of every subject being broached, gave the assessor\nan exceptional position, one of considerable power. Moreover the office\nled to the cardinalate; the only \u201crise\u201d that could be given to the\nassessor was his promotion to the Sacred College.\n\nMonsignor Nani, who seemed so perfectly frank and amiable, continued to\nlook at the young priest with such an encouraging air that the latter\nfelt obliged to go and occupy the seat beside him, which Celia\u2019s old aunt\nat last vacated. After all, was there not an omen of victory in meeting,\non the very day of his arrival, a powerful prelate whose influence would\nperhaps open every door to him? He therefore felt very touched when\nMonsignor Nani, immediately after the first words, inquired in a tone of\ndeep interest, \u201cAnd so, my dear child, you have published a book?\u201d\n\nAfter this, gradually mastered by his enthusiasm and forgetting where he\nwas, Pierre unbosomed himself, and recounted the birth and progress of\nhis burning love amidst the sick and the humble, gave voice to his dream\nof a return to the olden Christian community, and triumphed with the\nrejuvenescence of Catholicism, developing into the one religion of the\nuniversal democracy. Little by little he again raised his voice, and\nsilence fell around him in the stern, antique reception-room, every one\nlending ear to his words with increasing surprise, with a growing\ncoldness of which he remained unconscious.\n\nAt last Nani gently interrupted him, still wearing his perpetual smile,\nthe faint irony of which, however, had departed. \u201cNo doubt, no doubt, my\ndear child,\u201d he said, \u201cit is very beautiful, oh! very beautiful, well\nworthy of the pure and noble imagination of a Christian. But what do you\ncount on doing now?\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall go straight to the Holy Father to defend myself,\u201d answered\nPierre.\n\nA light, restrained laugh went round, and Donna Serafina expressed the\ngeneral opinion by exclaiming: \u201cThe Holy Father isn\u2019t seen as easily as\nthat.\u201d\n\nPierre, however, was quite impassioned. \u201cWell, for my part,\u201d he rejoined,\n\u201cI hope I shall see him. Have I not expressed his views? Have I not\ndefended his policy? Can he let my book be condemned when I believe that\nI have taken inspiration from all that is best in him?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt, no doubt,\u201d Nani again hastily replied, as if he feared that\nthe others might be too brusque with the young enthusiast. \u201cThe Holy\nFather has such a lofty mind. And of course it would be necessary to see\nhim. Only, my dear child, you must not excite yourself so much; reflect a\nlittle; take your time.\u201d And, turning to Benedetta, he added, \u201cOf course\nhis Eminence has not seen Abb\u00e9 Froment yet. It would be well, however,\nthat he should receive him to-morrow morning to guide him with his wise\ncounsel.\u201d\n\nCardinal Boccanera never attended his sister\u2019s Monday-evening receptions.\nStill, he was always there in the spirit, like some absent sovereign\nmaster.\n\n\u201cTo tell the truth,\u201d replied the Contessina, hesitating, \u201cI fear that my\nuncle does not share Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9\u2019s views.\u201d\n\nNani again smiled. \u201cExactly; he will tell him things which it is good he\nshould hear.\u201d\n\nThereupon it was at once settled with Don Vigilio that the latter would\nput down the young priest\u2019s name for an audience on the following morning\nat ten o\u2019clock.\n\nHowever, at that moment a cardinal came in, clad in town costume--his\nsash and his stockings red, but his simar black, with a red edging and\nred buttons. It was Cardinal Sarno, a very old intimate of the\nBoccaneras; and whilst he apologised for arriving so late, through press\nof work, the company became silent and deferentially clustered round him.\nThis was the first cardinal Pierre had seen, and he felt greatly\ndisappointed, for the newcomer had none of the majesty, none of the fine\nport and presence to which he had looked forward. On the contrary, he was\nshort and somewhat deformed, with the left shoulder higher than the\nright, and a worn, ashen face with lifeless eyes. To Pierre he looked\nlike some old clerk of seventy, half stupefied by fifty years of office\nwork, dulled and bent by incessantly leaning over his writing desk ever\nsince his youth. And indeed that was Sarno\u2019s story. The puny child of a\npetty middle-class family, he had been educated at the Seminario Romano.\nThen later he had for ten years professed Canon Law at that same\nseminary, afterwards becoming one of the secretaries of the Congregation\nfor the Propagation of the Faith. Finally, five and twenty years ago, he\nhad been created a cardinal, and the jubilee of his cardinalate had\nrecently been celebrated. Born in Rome, he had always lived there; he was\nthe perfect type of the prelate who, through growing up in the shade of\nthe Vatican, has become one of the masters of the world. Although he had\nnever occupied any diplomatic post, he had rendered such important\nservices to the Propaganda, by his methodical habits of work, that he had\nbecome president of one of the two commissions which furthered the\ninterests of the Church in those vast countries of the west which are not\nyet Catholic. And thus, in the depths of his dim eyes, behind his low,\ndull-looking brow, the huge map of Christendom was stored away.\n\nNani himself had risen, full of covert respect for the unobtrusive but\nterrible man whose hand was everywhere, even in the most distant corners\nof the earth, although he had never left his office. As Nani knew,\ndespite his apparent nullity, Sarno, with his slow, methodical, ably\norganised work of conquest, possessed sufficient power to set empires in\nconfusion.\n\n\u201cHas your Eminence recovered from that cold which distressed us so much?\u201d\n asked Nani.\n\n\u201cNo, no, I still cough. There is a most malignant passage at the offices.\nI feel as cold as ice as soon as I leave my room.\u201d\n\nFrom that moment Pierre felt quite little, virtually lost. He was not\neven introduced to the Cardinal. And yet he had to remain in the room for\nnearly another hour, looking around and observing. That antiquated world\nthen seemed to him puerile, as though it had lapsed into a mournful\nsecond childhood. Under all the apparent haughtiness and proud reserve he\ncould divine real timidity, unacknowledged distrust, born of great\nignorance. If the conversation did not become general, it was because\nnobody dared to speak out frankly; and what he heard in the corners was\nsimply so much childish chatter, the petty gossip of the week, the\ntrivial echoes of sacristies and drawing-rooms. People saw but little of\none another, and the slightest incidents assumed huge proportions. At\nlast Pierre ended by feeling as though he were transported into some\n_salon_ of the time of Charles X, in one of the episcopal cities of the\nFrench provinces. No refreshments were served. Celia\u2019s old aunt secured\npossession of Cardinal Sarno; but, instead of replying to her, he simply\nwagged his head from time to time. Don Vigilio had not opened his mouth\nthe whole evening. However, a conversation in a very low tone was started\nby Nani and Morano, to whom Donna Serafina listened, leaning forward and\nexpressing her approval by slowly nodding her head. They were doubtless\nspeaking of the dissolution of Benedetta\u2019s marriage, for they glanced at\nthe young woman gravely from time to time. And in the centre of the\nspacious room, in the sleepy glow of the lamps, there was only the young\npeople, Benedetta, Dario, and Celia who seemed to be at all alive,\nchattering in undertones and occasionally repressing a burst of laughter.\n\nAll at once Pierre was struck by the great resemblance between Benedetta\nand the portrait of Cassia hanging on the wall. Each displayed the same\ndelicate youth, the same passionate mouth, the same large, unfathomable\neyes, set in the same round, sensible, healthy-looking face. In each\nthere was certainly the same upright soul, the same heart of flame. Then\na recollection came to Pierre, that of a painting by Guido Reni, the\nadorable, candid head of Beatrice Cenci, which, at that moment and to his\nthinking, the portrait of Cassia closely resembled. This resemblance\nstirred him and he glanced at Benedetta with anxious sympathy, as if all\nthe fierce fatality of race and country were about to fall on her. But\nno, it could not be; she looked so calm, so resolute, and so patient!\nBesides, ever since he had entered that room he had noticed none other\nthan signs of gay fraternal tenderness between her and Dario, especially\non her side, for her face ever retained the bright serenity of a love\nwhich may be openly confessed. At one moment, it is true, Dario in a\njoking way had caught hold of her hands and pressed them; but while he\nbegan to laugh rather nervously, with a brighter gleam darting from his\neyes, she on her side, all composure, slowly freed her hands, as though\ntheirs was but the play of old and affectionate friends. She loved him,\nthough, it was visible, with her whole being and for her whole life.\n\nAt last when Dario, after stifling a slight yawn and glancing at his\nwatch, had slipped off to join some friends who were playing cards at a\nlady\u2019s house, Benedetta and Celia sat down together on a sofa near\nPierre; and the latter, without wishing to listen, overheard a few words\nof their confidential chat. The little Princess was the eldest daughter\nof Prince Matteo Buongiovanni, who was already the father of five\nchildren by an English wife, a Mortimer, to whom he was indebted for a\ndowry of two hundred thousand pounds. Indeed, the Buongiovannis were\nknown as one of the few patrician families of Rome that were still rich,\nstill erect among the ruins of the past, now crumbling on every side.\nThey also numbered two popes among their forerunners, yet this had not\nprevented Prince Matteo from lending support to the Quirinal without\nquarrelling with the Vatican. Son of an American woman, no longer having\nthe pure Roman blood in his veins, he was a more supple politician than\nother aristocrats, and was also, folks said, extremely grasping,\nstruggling to be one of the last to retain the wealth and power of olden\ntimes, which he realised were condemned to death. Yet it was in his\nfamily, renowned for its superb pride and its continued magnificence,\nthat a love romance had lately taken birth, a romance which was the\nsubject of endless gossip: Celia had suddenly fallen in love with a young\nlieutenant to whom she had never spoken; her love was reciprocated, and\nthe passionate attachment of the officer and the girl only found vent in\nthe glances they exchanged on meeting each day during the usual drive\nthrough the Corso. Nevertheless Celia displayed a tenacious will, and\nafter declaring to her father that she would never take any other\nhusband, she was waiting, firm and resolute, in the certainty that she\nwould ultimately secure the man of her choice. The worst of the affair\nwas that the lieutenant, Attilio Sacco, happened to be the son of Deputy\nSacco, a parvenu whom the black world looked down upon, as upon one sold\nto the Quirinal and ready to undertake the very dirtiest job.\n\n\u201cIt was for me that Morano spoke just now,\u201d Celia murmured in Benedetta\u2019s\near. \u201cYes, yes, when he spoke so harshly of Attilio\u2019s father and that\nministerial appointment which people are talking about. He wanted to give\nme a lesson.\u201d\n\nThe two girls had sworn eternal affection in their school-days, and\nBenedetta, the elder by five years, showed herself maternal. \u201cAnd so,\u201d\n she said, \u201cyou\u2019ve not become a whit more reasonable. You still think of\nthat young man?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! are you going to grieve me too, dear?\u201d replied Celia. \u201cI love\nAttilio and mean to have him. Yes, him and not another! I want him and\nI\u2019ll have him, because I love him and he loves me. It\u2019s simple enough.\u201d\n\nPierre glanced at her, thunderstruck. With her gentle virgin face she was\nlike a candid, budding lily. A brow and a nose of blossom-like purity; a\nmouth all innocence with its lips closing over pearly teeth, and eyes\nlike spring water, clear and fathomless. And not a quiver passed over her\ncheeks of satiny freshness, no sign, however faint, of anxiety or\ninquisitiveness appeared in her candid glance. Did she think? Did she\nknow? Who could have answered? She was virginity personified with all its\nredoubtable mystery.\n\n\u201cAh! my dear,\u201d resumed Benedetta, \u201cdon\u2019t begin my sad story over again.\nOne doesn\u2019t succeed in marrying the Pope and the King.\u201d\n\nAll tranquillity, Celia responded: \u201cBut you didn\u2019t love Prada, whereas I\nlove Attilio. Life lies in that: one must love.\u201d\n\nThese words, spoken so naturally by that ignorant child, disturbed Pierre\nto such a point that he felt tears rising to his eyes. Love! yes, therein\nlay the solution of every quarrel, the alliance between the nations, the\nreign of peace and joy throughout the world! However, Donna Serafina had\nnow risen, shrewdly suspecting the nature of the conversation which was\nimpassioning the two girls. And she gave Don Vigilio a glance, which the\nlatter understood, for he came to tell Pierre in an undertone that it was\ntime to retire. Eleven o\u2019clock was striking, and Celia went off with her\naunt. Advocate Morano, however, doubtless desired to retain Cardinal\nSarno and Nani for a few moments in order that they might privately\ndiscuss some difficulty which had arisen in the divorce proceedings. On\nreaching the outer reception-room, Benedetta, after kissing Celia on both\ncheeks, took leave of Pierre with much good grace.\n\n\u201cIn answering the Viscount to-morrow morning,\u201d said she, \u201cI shall tell\nhim how happy we are to have you with us, and for longer than you think.\nDon\u2019t forget to come down at ten o\u2019clock to see my uncle, the Cardinal.\u201d\n\nHaving climbed to the third floor again, Pierre and Don Vigilio, each\ncarrying a candlestick which the servant had handed to them, were about\nto part for the night, when the former could not refrain from asking the\nsecretary a question which had been worrying him for hours: \u201cIs Monsignor\nNani a very influential personage?\u201d\n\nDon Vigilio again became quite scared, and simply replied by a gesture,\nopening his arms as if to embrace the world. Then his eyes flashed, and\nin his turn he seemed to yield to inquisitiveness. \u201cYou already knew him,\ndidn\u2019t you?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cI? not at all!\u201d\n\n\u201cReally! Well, he knows you very well. Last Monday I heard him speak of\nyou in such precise terms that he seemed to be acquainted with the\nslightest particulars of your career and your character.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, I never even heard his name before.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen he must have procured information.\u201d\n\nThereupon Don Vigilio bowed and entered his room; whilst Pierre,\nsurprised to find his door open, saw Victorine come out with her calm\nactive air.\n\n\u201cAh! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I wanted to make sure that you had everything you\nwere likely to want. There are candles, water, sugar, and matches. And\nwhat do you take in the morning, please? Coffee? No, a cup of milk with a\nroll. Very good; at eight o\u2019clock, eh? And now rest and sleep well. I was\nawfully afraid of ghosts during the first nights I spent in this old\npalace! But I never saw a trace of one. The fact is, when people are\ndead, they are too well pleased, and don\u2019t want to break their rest!\u201d\n\nThen off she went, and Pierre at last found himself alone, glad to be\nable to shake off the strain imposed on him, to free himself from the\ndiscomfort which he had felt in that reception-room, among those people\nwho in his mind still mingled and vanished like shadows in the sleepy\nglow of the lamps. Ghosts, thought he, are the old dead ones of long ago\nwhose distressed spirits return to love and suffer in the breasts of the\nliving of to-day. And, despite his long afternoon rest, he had never felt\nso weary, so desirous of slumber, confused and foggy as was his mind,\nfull of the fear that he had hitherto not understood things aright. When\nhe began to undress, his astonishment at being in that room returned to\nhim with such intensity that he almost fancied himself another person.\nWhat did all those people think of his book? Why had he been brought to\nthis cold dwelling whose hostility he could divine? Was it for the\npurpose of helping him or conquering him? And again in the yellow\nglimmer, the dismal sunset of the drawing-room, he perceived Donna\nSerafina and Advocate Morano on either side of the chimney-piece, whilst\nbehind the calm yet passionate visage of Benedetta appeared the smiling\nface of Monsignor Nani, with cunning eyes and lips bespeaking indomitable\nenergy.\n\nHe went to bed, but soon got up again, stifling, feeling such a need of\nfresh, free air that he opened the window wide in order to lean out. But\nthe night was black as ink, the darkness had submerged the horizon. A\nmist must have hidden the stars in the firmament; the vault above seemed\nopaque and heavy like lead; and yonder in front the houses of the\nTrastevere had long since been asleep. Not one of all their windows\nglittered; there was but a single gaslight shining, all alone and far\naway, like a lost spark. In vain did Pierre seek the Janiculum. In the\ndepths of that ocean of nihility all sunk and vanished, Rome\u2019s four and\ntwenty centuries, the ancient Palatine and the modern Quirinal, even the\ngiant dome of St. Peter\u2019s, blotted out from the sky by the flood of\ngloom. And below him he could not see, he could not even hear the Tiber,\nthe dead river flowing past the dead city.\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nAT a quarter to ten o\u2019clock on the following morning Pierre came down to\nthe first floor of the mansion for his audience with Cardinal Boccanera.\nHe had awoke free of all fatigue and again full of courage and candid\nenthusiasm; nothing remaining of his strange despondency of the previous\nnight, the doubts and suspicions which had then come over him. The\nmorning was so fine, the sky so pure and so bright, that his heart once\nmore palpitated with hope.\n\nOn the landing he found the folding doors of the first ante-room wide\nopen. While closing the gala saloons which overlooked the street, and\nwhich were rotting with old age and neglect, the Cardinal still used the\nreception-rooms of one of his grand-uncles, who in the eighteenth century\nhad risen to the same ecclesiastical dignity as himself. There was a\nsuite of four immense rooms, each sixteen feet high, with windows facing\nthe lane which sloped down towards the Tiber; and the sun never entered\nthem, shut off as it was by the black houses across the lane. Thus the\ninstallation, in point of space, was in keeping with the display and pomp\nof the old-time princely dignitaries of the Church. But no repairs were\never made, no care was taken of anything, the hangings were frayed and\nragged, and dust preyed on the furniture, amidst an unconcern which\nseemed to betoken some proud resolve to stay the course of time.\n\nPierre experienced a slight shock as he entered the first room, the\nservants\u2019 ante-chamber. Formerly two pontifical _gente d\u2019armi_ in full\nuniform had always stood there amidst a stream of lackeys; and the single\nservant now on duty seemed by his phantom-like appearance to increase the\nmelancholiness of the vast and gloomy hall. One was particularly struck\nby an altar facing the windows, an altar with red drapery surmounted by a\n_baldacchino_ with red hangings, on which appeared the escutcheon of the\nBoccaneras, the winged dragon spitting flames with the device, _Bocca\nnera, Alma rossa_. And the grand-uncle\u2019s red hat, the old huge ceremonial\nhat, was also there, with the two cushions of red silk, and the two\nantique parasols which were taken in the coach each time his Eminence\nwent out. And in the deep silence it seemed as if one could almost hear\nthe faint noise of the moths preying for a century past upon all this\ndead splendour, which would have fallen into dust at the slightest touch\nof a feather broom.\n\nThe second ante-room, that was formerly occupied by the secretary, was\nalso empty, and it was only in the third one, the _anticamera nobile_,\nthat Pierre found Don Vigilio. With his retinue reduced to what was\nstrictly necessary, the Cardinal had preferred to have his secretary near\nhim--at the door, so to say, of the old throne-room, where he gave\naudience. And Don Vigilio, so thin and yellow, and quivering with fever,\nsat there like one lost, at a small, common, black table covered with\npapers. Raising his head from among a batch of documents, he recognised\nPierre, and in a low voice, a faint murmur amidst the silence, he said,\n\u201cHis Eminence is engaged. Please wait.\u201d\n\nThen he again turned to his reading, doubtless to escape all attempts at\nconversation.\n\nNot daring to sit down, Pierre examined the apartment. It looked perhaps\nyet more dilapidated than the others, with its hangings of green damask\nworn by age and resembling the faded moss on ancient trees. The ceiling,\nhowever, had remained superb. Within a frieze of gilded and coloured\nornaments was a fresco representing the Triumph of Amphitrite, the work\nof one of Raffaelle\u2019s pupils. And, according to antique usage, it was\nhere that the _berretta_, the red cap, was placed, on a credence, below a\nlarge crucifix of ivory and ebony.\n\nAs Pierre grew used to the half-light, however, his attention was more\nparticularly attracted by a recently painted full-length portrait of the\nCardinal in ceremonial costume--cassock of red moire, rochet of lace, and\n_cappa_ thrown like a royal mantle over his shoulders. In these vestments\nof the Church the tall old man of seventy retained the proud bearing of a\nprince, clean shaven, but still boasting an abundance of white hair which\nstreamed in curls over his shoulders. He had the commanding visage of the\nBoccaneras, a large nose and a large thin-lipped mouth in a long face\nintersected by broad lines; and the eyes which lighted his pale\ncountenance were indeed the eyes of his race, very dark, yet sparkling\nwith ardent life under bushy brows which had remained quite black. With\nlaurels about his head he would have resembled a Roman emperor, very\nhandsome and master of the world, as though indeed the blood of Augustus\npulsated in his veins.\n\nPierre knew his story which this portrait recalled. Educated at the\nCollege of the Nobles, Pio Boccanera had but once absented himself from\nRome, and that when very young, hardly a deacon, but nevertheless\nappointed ablegate to convey a _berretta_ to Paris. On his return his\necclesiastical career had continued in sovereign fashion. Honours had\nfallen on him naturally, as by right of birth. Ordained by Pius IX\nhimself, afterwards becoming a Canon of the Vatican Basilica, and\n_Cameriere segreto_, he had risen to the post of Majordomo about the time\nof the Italian occupation, and in 1874 had been created a Cardinal. For\nthe last four years, moreover, he had been Papal Chamberlain\n(_Camerlingo_), and folks whispered that Leo XIII had appointed him to\nthat post, even as he himself had been appointed to it by Pius IX, in\norder to lessen his chance of succeeding to the pontifical throne; for\nalthough the conclave in choosing Leo had set aside the old tradition\nthat the Camerlingo was ineligible for the papacy, it was not probable\nthat it would again dare to infringe that rule. Moreover, people asserted\nthat, even as had been the case in the reign of Pius, there was a secret\nwarfare between the Pope and his Camerlingo, the latter remaining on one\nside, condemning the policy of the Holy See, holding radically different\nopinions on all things, and silently waiting for the death of Leo, which\nwould place power in his hands with the duty of summoning the conclave,\nand provisionally watching over the affairs and interests of the Church\nuntil a new Pope should be elected. Behind Cardinal Pio\u2019s broad, stern\nbrow, however, in the glow of his dark eyes, might there not also be the\nambition of actually rising to the papacy, of repeating the career of\nGioachino Pecci, Camerlingo and then Pope, all tradition notwithstanding?\nWith the pride of a Roman prince Pio knew but Rome; he almost gloried in\nbeing totally ignorant of the modern world; and verily he showed himself\nvery pious, austerely religious, with a full firm faith into which the\nfaintest doubt could never enter.\n\nBut a whisper drew Pierre from his reflections. Don Vigilio, in his\nprudent way, invited him to sit down: \u201cYou may have to wait some time:\ntake a stool.\u201d\n\nThen he began to cover a large sheet of yellowish paper with fine\nwriting, while Pierre seated himself on one of the stools ranged\nalongside the wall in front of the portrait. And again the young man fell\ninto a reverie, picturing in his mind a renewal of all the princely pomp\nof the old-time cardinals in that antique room. To begin with, as soon as\nnominated, a cardinal gave public festivities, which were sometimes very\nsplendid. During three days the reception-rooms remained wide open, all\ncould enter, and from room to room ushers repeated the names of those who\ncame--patricians, people of the middle class, poor folks, all Rome\nindeed, whom the new cardinal received with sovereign kindliness, as a\nking might receive his subjects. Then there was quite a princely retinue;\nsome cardinals carried five hundred people about with them, had no fewer\nthan sixteen distinct offices in their households, lived, in fact, amidst\na perfect court. Even when life subsequently became simplified, a\ncardinal, if he were a prince, still had a right to a gala train of four\ncoaches drawn by black horses. Four servants preceded him in liveries,\nemblazoned with his arms, and carried his hat, cushion, and parasols. He\nwas also attended by a secretary in a mantle of violet silk, a\ntrain-bearer in a gown of violet woollen stuff, and a gentleman in\nwaiting, wearing an Elizabethan style of costume, and bearing the\n_berretta_ with gloved hands. Although the household had then become\nsmaller, it still comprised an _auditore_ specially charged with the\ncongregational work, a secretary employed exclusively for correspondence,\na chief usher who introduced visitors, a gentleman in attendance for the\ncarrying of the _berretta_, a train-bearer, a chaplain, a majordomo and a\n_valet-de-chambre_, to say nothing of a flock of underlings, lackeys,\ncooks, coachmen, grooms, quite a population, which filled the vast\nmansions with bustle. And with these attendants Pierre mentally sought to\nfill the three spacious ante-rooms now so deserted; the stream of lackeys\nin blue liveries broidered with emblazonry, the world of abb\u00e9s and\nprelates in silk mantles appeared before him, again setting magnificent\nand passionate life under the lofty ceilings, illumining all the\nsemi-gloom with resuscitated splendour.\n\nBut nowadays--particularly since the Italian occupation of Rome--nearly\nall the great fortunes of the Roman princes have been exhausted, and the\npomp of the great dignitaries of the Church has disappeared. The ruined\npatricians have kept aloof from badly remunerated ecclesiastical offices\nto which little renown attaches, and have left them to the ambition of\nthe petty _bourgeoisie_. Cardinal Boccanera, the last prince of ancient\nnobility invested with the purple, received scarcely more than 30,000\n_lire_* a year to enable him to sustain his rank, that is 22,000\n_lire_,** the salary of his post as Camerlingo, and various small sums\nderived from other functions. And he would never have made both ends meet\nhad not Donna Serafina helped him with the remnants of the former family\nfortune which he had long previously surrendered to his sisters and his\nbrother. Donna Serafina and Benedetta lived apart, in their own rooms,\nhaving their own table, servants, and personal expenses. The Cardinal\nonly had his nephew Dario with him, and he never gave a dinner or held a\npublic reception. His greatest source of expense was his carriage, the\nheavy pair-horse coach, which ceremonial usage compelled him to retain,\nfor a cardinal cannot go on foot through the streets of Rome. However,\nhis coachman, an old family servant, spared him the necessity of keeping\na groom by insisting on taking entire charge of the carriage and the two\nblack horses, which, like himself, had grown old in the service of the\nBoccaneras. There were two footmen, father and son, the latter born in\nthe house. And the cook\u2019s wife assisted in the kitchen. However, yet\ngreater reductions had been made in the ante-rooms, where the staff, once\nso brilliant and numerous, was now simply composed of two petty priests,\nDon Vigilio, who was at once secretary, auditore, and majordomo, and Abb\u00e9\nPaparelli, who acted as train-bearer, chaplain, and chief usher. There,\nwhere a crowd of salaried people of all ranks had once moved to and fro,\nfilling the vast halls with bustle and colour, one now only beheld two\nlittle black cassocks gliding noiselessly along, two unobtrusive shadows\nflitting about amidst the deep gloom of the lifeless rooms.\n\n  * 1,200 pounds.\n\n  ** 880 pounds.\n\nAnd Pierre now fully understood the haughty unconcern of the Cardinal,\nwho suffered time to complete its work of destruction in that ancestral\nmansion, to which he was powerless to restore the glorious life of former\ntimes! Built for that shining life, for the sovereign display of a\nsixteenth-century prince, it was now deserted and empty, crumbling about\nthe head of its last master, who had no servants left him to fill it, and\nwould not have known how to pay for the materials which repairs would\nhave necessitated. And so, since the modern world was hostile, since\nreligion was no longer sovereign, since men had changed, and one was\ndrifting into the unknown, amidst the hatred and indifference of new\ngenerations, why not allow the old world to collapse in the stubborn,\nmotionless pride born of its ancient glory? Heroes alone died standing,\nwithout relinquishing aught of their past, preserving the same faith\nuntil their final gasp, beholding, with pain-fraught bravery and infinite\nsadness, the slow last agony of their divinity. And the Cardinal\u2019s tall\nfigure, his pale, proud face, so full of sovereign despair and courage,\nexpressed that stubborn determination to perish beneath the ruins of the\nold social edifice rather than change a single one of its stones.\n\nPierre was roused by a rustling of furtive steps, a little mouse-like\ntrot, which made him raise his head. A door in the wall had just opened,\nand to his surprise there stood before him an abb\u00e9 of some forty years,\nfat and short, looking like an old maid in a black skirt, a very old maid\nin fact, so numerous were the wrinkles on his flabby face. It was Abb\u00e9\nPaparelli, the train-bearer and usher, and on seeing Pierre he was about\nto question him, when Don Vigilio explained matters.\n\n\u201cAh! very good, very good, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment. His Eminence will\ncondescend to receive you, but you must wait, you must wait.\u201d\n\nThen, with his silent rolling walk, he returned to the second ante-room,\nwhere he usually stationed himself.\n\nPierre did not like his face--the face of an old female devotee, whitened\nby celibacy, and ravaged by stern observance of the rites; and so, as Don\nVigilio--his head weary and his hands burning with fever--had not resumed\nhis work, the young man ventured to question him. Oh! Abb\u00e9 Paparelli, he\nwas a man of the liveliest faith, who from simple humility remained in a\nmodest post in his Eminence\u2019s service. On the other hand, his Eminence\nwas pleased to reward him for his devotion by occasionally condescending\nto listen to his advice.\n\nAs Don Vigilio spoke, a faint gleam of irony, a kind of veiled anger\nappeared in his ardent eyes. However, he continued to examine Pierre, and\ngradually seemed reassured, appreciating the evident frankness of this\nforeigner who could hardly belong to any clique. And so he ended by\ndeparting somewhat from his continual sickly distrust, and even engaged\nin a brief chat.\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d he said, \u201cthere is a deal of work sometimes, and rather hard\nwork too. His Eminence belongs to several Congregations, the\nConsistorial, the Holy Office, the Index, the Rites. And all the\ndocuments concerning the business which falls to him come into my hands.\nI have to study each affair, prepare a report on it, clear the way, so to\nsay. Besides which all the correspondence is carried on through me.\nFortunately his Eminence is a holy man, and intrigues neither for himself\nnor for others, and this enables us to taste a little peace.\u201d\n\nPierre took a keen interest in these particulars of the life led by a\nprince of the Church. He learnt that the Cardinal rose at six o\u2019clock,\nsummer and winter alike. He said his mass in his chapel, a little room\nwhich simply contained an altar of painted wood, and which nobody but\nhimself ever entered. His private apartments were limited to three\nrooms--a bed-room, dining-room, and study--all very modest and small,\ncontrived indeed by partitioning off portions of one large hall. And he\nled a very retired life, exempt from all luxury, like one who is frugal\nand poor. At eight in the morning he drank a cup of cold milk for his\nbreakfast. Then, when there were sittings of the Congregations to which\nhe belonged, he attended them; otherwise he remained at home and gave\naudience. Dinner was served at one o\u2019clock, and afterwards came the\nsiesta, lasting until five in summer and until four at other seasons--a\nsacred moment when a servant would not have dared even to knock at the\ndoor. On awaking, if it were fine, his Eminence drove out towards the\nancient Appian Way, returning at sunset when the _Ave Maria_ began to\nring. And finally, after again giving audience between seven and nine, he\nsupped and retired into his room, where he worked all alone or went to\nbed. The cardinals wait upon the Pope on fixed days, two or three times\neach month, for purposes connected with their functions. For nearly a\nyear, however, the Camerlingo had not been received in private audience\nby his Holiness, and this was a sign of disgrace, a proof of secret\nwarfare, of which the entire black world spoke in prudent whispers.\n\n\u201cHis Eminence is sometimes a little rough,\u201d continued Don Vigilio in a\nsoft voice. \u201cBut you should see him smile when his niece the Contessina,\nof whom he is very fond, comes down to kiss him. If you have a good\nreception, you know, you will owe it to the Contessina.\u201d\n\nAt this moment the secretary was interrupted. A sound of voices came from\nthe second ante-room, and forthwith he rose to his feet, and bent very\nlow at sight of a stout man in a black cassock, red sash, and black hat,\nwith twisted cord of red and gold, whom Abb\u00e9 Paparelli was ushering in\nwith a great display of deferential genuflections. Pierre also had risen\nat a sign from Don Vigilio, who found time to whisper to him, \u201cCardinal\nSanguinetti, Prefect of the Congregation of the Index.\u201d\n\nMeantime Abb\u00e9 Paparelli was lavishing attentions on the prelate,\nrepeating with an expression of blissful satisfaction: \u201cYour most\nreverend Eminence was expected. I have orders to admit your most reverend\nEminence at once. His Eminence the Grand Penitentiary is already here.\u201d\n\nSanguinetti, loud of voice and sonorous of tread, spoke out with sudden\nfamiliarity, \u201cYes, yes, I know. A number of importunate people detained\nme! One can never do as one desires. But I am here at last.\u201d\n\nHe was a man of sixty, squat and fat, with a round and highly coloured\nface distinguished by a huge nose, thick lips, and bright eyes which were\nalways on the move. But he more particularly struck one by his active,\nalmost turbulent, youthful vivacity, scarcely a white hair as yet showing\namong his brown and carefully tended locks, which fell in curls about his\ntemples. Born at Viterbo, he had studied at the seminary there before\ncompleting his education at the Universita Gregoriana in Rome. His\necclesiastical appointments showed how rapidly he had made his way, how\nsupple was his mind: first of all secretary to the nunciature at Lisbon;\nthen created titular Bishop of Thebes, and entrusted with a delicate\nmission in Brazil; on his return appointed nuncio first at Brussels and\nnext at Vienna; and finally raised to the cardinalate, to say nothing of\nthe fact that he had lately secured the suburban episcopal see of\nFrascati.* Trained to business, having dealt with every nation in Europe,\nhe had nothing against him but his ambition, of which he made too open a\ndisplay, and his spirit of intrigue, which was ever restless. It was said\nthat he was now one of the irreconcilables who demanded that Italy should\nsurrender Rome, though formerly he had made advances to the Quirinal. In\nhis wild passion to become the next Pope he rushed from one opinion to\nthe other, giving himself no end of trouble to gain people from whom he\nafterwards parted. He had twice already fallen out with Leo XIII, but had\ndeemed it politic to make his submission. In point of fact, given that he\nwas an almost openly declared candidate to the papacy, he was wearing\nhimself out by his perpetual efforts, dabbling in too many things, and\nsetting too many people agog.\n\n  * Cardinals York and Howard were Bishops of Frascati.--Trans.\n\nPierre, however, had only seen in him the Prefect of the Congregation of\nthe Index; and the one idea which struck him was that this man would\ndecide the fate of his book. And so, when the Cardinal had disappeared\nand Abb\u00e9 Paparelli had returned to the second ante-room, he could not\nrefrain from asking Don Vigilio, \u201cAre their Eminences Cardinal\nSanguinetti and Cardinal Boccanera very intimate, then?\u201d\n\nAn irrepressible smile contracted the secretary\u2019s lips, while his eyes\ngleamed with an irony which he could no longer subdue: \u201cVery\nintimate--oh! no, no--they see one another when they can\u2019t do otherwise.\u201d\n\nThen he explained that considerable deference was shown to Cardinal\nBoccanera\u2019s high birth, and that his colleagues often met at his\nresidence, when, as happened to be the case that morning, any grave\naffair presented itself, requiring an interview apart from the usual\nofficial meetings. Cardinal Sanguinetti, he added, was the son of a petty\nmedical man of Viterbo. \u201cNo, no,\u201d he concluded, \u201ctheir Eminences are not\nat all intimate. It is difficult for men to agree when they have neither\nthe same ideas nor the same character, especially too when they are in\neach other\u2019s way.\u201d\n\nDon Vigilio spoke these last words in a lower tone, as if talking to\nhimself and still retaining his sharp smile. But Pierre scarcely\nlistened, absorbed as he was in his own worries. \u201cPerhaps they have met\nto discuss some affair connected with the Index?\u201d said he.\n\nDon Vigilio must have known the object of the meeting. However, he merely\nreplied that, if the Index had been in question, the meeting would have\ntaken place at the residence of the Prefect of that Congregation.\nThereupon Pierre, yielding to his impatience, was obliged to put a\nstraight question. \u201cYou know of my affair--the affair of my book,\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cWell, as his Eminence is a member of the Congregation, and all the\ndocuments pass through your hands, you might be able to give me some\nuseful information. I know nothing as yet and am so anxious to know!\u201d\n\nAt this Don Vigilio relapsed into scared disquietude. He stammered,\nsaying that he had not seen any documents, which was true. \u201cNothing has\nyet reached us,\u201d he added; \u201cI assure you I know nothing.\u201d\n\nThen, as the other persisted, he signed to him to keep quiet, and again\nturned to his writing, glancing furtively towards the second ante-room as\nif he believed that Abb\u00e9 Paparelli was listening. He had certainly said\ntoo much, he thought, and he made himself very small, crouching over the\ntable, and melting, fading away in his dim corner.\n\nPierre again fell into a reverie, a prey to all the mystery which\nenveloped him--the sleepy, antique sadness of his surroundings. Long\nminutes went by; it was nearly eleven when the sound of a door opening\nand a buzz of voices roused him. Then he bowed respectfully to Cardinal\nSanguinetti, who went off accompanied by another cardinal, a very thin\nand tall man, with a grey, bony, ascetic face. Neither of them, however,\nseemed even to see the petty foreign priest who bent low as they went by.\nThey were chatting aloud in familiar fashion.\n\n\u201cYes! the wind is falling; it is warmer than yesterday.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe shall certainly have the sirocco to-morrow.\u201d\n\nThen solemn silence again fell on the large, dim room. Don Vigilio was\nstill writing, but his pen made no noise as it travelled over the stiff\nyellow paper. However, the faint tinkle of a cracked bell was suddenly\nheard, and Abb\u00e9 Paparelli, after hastening into the throne-room for a\nmoment, returned to summon Pierre, whom he announced in a restrained\nvoice: \u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment.\u201d\n\nThe spacious throne-room was like the other apartments, a virtual ruin.\nUnder the fine ceiling of carved and gilded wood-work, the red\nwall-hangings of _brocatelle_, with a large palm pattern, were falling\ninto tatters. A few holes had been patched, but long wear had streaked\nthe dark purple of the silk--once of dazzling magnificence--with pale\nhues. The curiosity of the room was its old throne, an arm-chair\nupholstered in red silk, on which the Holy Father had sat when visiting\nCardinal Pio\u2019s grand-uncle. This chair was surmounted by a canopy,\nlikewise of red silk, under which hung the portrait of the reigning Pope.\nAnd, according to custom, the chair was turned towards the wall, to show\nthat none might sit on it. The other furniture of the apartment was made\nup of sofas, arm-chairs, and chairs, with a marvellous Louis Quatorze\ntable of gilded wood, having a top of mosaic-work representing the rape\nof Europa.\n\nBut at first Pierre only saw Cardinal Boccanera standing by the table\nwhich he used for writing. In his simple black cassock, with red edging\nand red buttons, the Cardinal seemed to him yet taller and prouder than\nin the portrait which showed him in ceremonial costume. There was the\nsame curly white hair, the same long, strongly marked face, with large\nnose and thin lips, and the same ardent eyes, illumining the pale\ncountenance from under bushy brows which had remained black. But the\nportrait did not express the lofty tranquil faith which shone in this\nhandsome face, a complete certainty of what truth was, and an absolute\ndetermination to abide by it for ever.\n\nBoccanera had not stirred, but with black, fixed glance remained watching\nhis visitor\u2019s approach; and the young priest, acquainted with the usual\nceremonial, knelt and kissed the large ruby which the prelate wore on his\nhand. However, the Cardinal immediately raised him.\n\n\u201cYou are welcome here, my dear son. My niece spoke to me about you with\nso much sympathy that I am happy to receive you.\u201d With these words Pio\nseated himself near the table, as yet not telling Pierre to take a chair,\nbut still examining him whilst speaking slowly and with studied\npoliteness: \u201cYou arrived yesterday morning, did you not, and were very\ntired?\u201d\n\n\u201cYour Eminence is too kind--yes, I was worn out, as much through emotion\nas fatigue. This journey is one of such gravity for me.\u201d\n\nThe Cardinal seemed indisposed to speak of serious matters so soon. \u201cNo\ndoubt; it is a long way from Paris to Rome,\u201d he replied. \u201cNowadays the\njourney may be accomplished with fair rapidity, but formerly how\ninterminable it was!\u201d Then speaking yet more slowly: \u201cI went to Paris\nonce--oh! a long time ago, nearly fifty years ago--and then for barely a\nweek. A large and handsome city; yes, yes, a great many people in the\nstreets, extremely well-bred people, a nation which has accomplished\ngreat and admirable things. Even in these sad times one cannot forget\nthat France was the eldest daughter of the Church. But since that one\njourney I have not left Rome--\u201d\n\nThen he made a gesture of quiet disdain, expressive of all he left\nunsaid. What was the use of journeying to a land of doubt and rebellion?\nDid not Rome suffice--Rome, which governed the world--the Eternal City\nwhich, when the times should be accomplished, would become the capital of\nthe world once more?\n\nSilently glancing at the Cardinal\u2019s lofty stature, the stature of one of\nthe violent war-like princes of long ago, now reduced to wearing that\nsimple cassock, Pierre deemed him superb with his proud conviction that\nRome sufficed unto herself. But that stubborn resolve to remain in\nignorance, that determination to take no account of other nations\nexcepting to treat them as vassals, disquieted him when he reflected on\nthe motives that had brought him there. And as silence had again fallen\nhe thought it politic to approach the subject he had at heart by words of\nhomage.\n\n\u201cBefore taking any other steps,\u201d said he, \u201cI desired to express my\nprofound respect for your Eminence; for in your Eminence I place my only\nhope; and I beg your Eminence to be good enough to advise and guide me.\u201d\n\nWith a wave of the hand Boccanera thereupon invited Pierre to take a\nchair in front of him. \u201cI certainly do not refuse you my counsel, my dear\nson,\u201d he replied. \u201cI owe my counsel to every Christian who desires to do\nwell. But it would be wrong for you to rely on my influence. I have none.\nI live entirely apart from others; I cannot and will not ask for\nanything. However, this will not prevent us from chatting.\u201d Then,\napproaching the question in all frankness, without the slightest\nartifice, like one of brave and absolute mind who fears no responsibility\nhowever great, he continued: \u201cYou have written a book, have you\nnot?--\u2018New Rome,\u2019 I believe--and you have come to defend this book which\nhas been denounced to the Congregation of the Index. For my own part I\nhave not yet read it. You will understand that I cannot read everything.\nI only see the works that are sent to me by the Congregation which I have\nbelonged to since last year; and, besides, I often content myself with\nthe reports which my secretary draws up for me. However, my niece\nBenedetta has read your book, and has told me that it is not lacking in\ninterest. It first astonished her somewhat, and then greatly moved her.\nSo I promise you that I will go through it and study the incriminated\npassages with the greatest care.\u201d\n\nPierre profited by the opportunity to begin pleading his cause. And it\noccurred to him that it would be best to give his references at once.\n\u201cYour Eminence will realise how stupefied I was when I learnt that\nproceedings were being taken against my book,\u201d he said. \u201cMonsieur le\nVicomte Philibert de la Choue, who is good enough to show me some\nfriendship, does not cease repeating that such a book is worth the best\nof armies to the Holy See.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! De la Choue, De la Choue!\u201d repeated the Cardinal with a pout of\ngood-natured disdain. \u201cI know that De la Choue considers himself a good\nCatholic. He is in a slight degree our relative, as you know. And when he\ncomes to Rome and stays here, I willingly see him, on condition however\nthat no mention is made of certain subjects on which it would be\nimpossible for us to agree. To tell the truth, the Catholicism preached\nby De la Choue--worthy, clever man though he is--his Catholicism, I say,\nwith his corporations, his working-class clubs, his cleansed democracy\nand his vague socialism, is after all merely so much literature!\u201d\n\nThis pronouncement struck Pierre, for he realised all the disdainful\nirony contained in it--an irony which touched himself. And so he hastened\nto name his other reference, whose authority he imagined to be above\ndiscussion: \u201cHis Eminence Cardinal Bergerot has been kind enough to\nsignify his full approval of my book.\u201d\n\nAt this Boccanera\u2019s face suddenly changed. It no longer wore an\nexpression of derisive blame, tinged with the pity that is prompted by a\nchild\u2019s ill-considered action fated to certain failure. A flash of anger\nnow lighted up the Cardinal\u2019s dark eyes, and a pugnacious impulse\nhardened his entire countenance. \u201cIn France,\u201d he slowly resumed,\n\u201cCardinal Bergerot no doubt has a reputation for great piety. We know\nlittle of him in Rome. Personally, I have only seen him once, when he\ncame to receive his hat. And I would not therefore allow myself to judge\nhim if his writings and actions had not recently saddened my believing\nsoul. Unhappily, I am not the only one; you will find nobody here, of the\nSacred College, who approves of his doings.\u201d Boccanera paused, then in a\nfirm voice concluded: \u201cCardinal Bergerot is a Revolutionary!\u201d\n\nThis time Pierre\u2019s surprise for a moment forced him to silence. A\nRevolutionary--good heavens! a Revolutionary--that gentle pastor of\nsouls, whose charity was inexhaustible, whose one dream was that Jesus\nmight return to earth to ensure at last the reign of peace and justice!\nSo words did not have the same signification in all places; into what\nreligion had he now tumbled that the faith of the poor and the humble\nshould be looked upon as a mere insurrectional, condemnable passion? As\nyet unable to understand things aright, Pierre nevertheless realised that\ndiscussion would be both discourteous and futile, and his only remaining\ndesire was to give an account of his book, explain and vindicate it. But\nat his first words the Cardinal interposed.\n\n\u201cNo, no, my dear son. It would take us too long and I wish to read the\npassages. Besides, there is an absolute rule. All books which meddle with\nthe faith are condemnable and pernicious. Does your book show perfect\nrespect for dogma?\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe so, and I assure your Eminence that I have had no intention of\nwriting a work of negation.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood: I may be on your side if that is true. Only, in the contrary case,\nI have but one course to advise you, which is to withdraw your work,\ncondemn it, and destroy it without waiting until a decision of the Index\ncompels you to do so. Whosoever has given birth to scandal must stifle it\nand expiate it, even if he have to cut into his own flesh. The only\nduties of a priest are humility and obedience, the complete annihilation\nof self before the sovereign will of the Church. And, besides, why write\nat all? For there is already rebellion in expressing an opinion of one\u2019s\nown. It is always the temptation of the devil which puts a pen in an\nauthor\u2019s hand. Why, then, incur the risk of being for ever damned by\nyielding to the pride of intelligence and domination? Your book again, my\ndear son--your book is literature, literature!\u201d\n\nThis expression again repeated was instinct with so much contempt that\nPierre realised all the wretchedness that would fall upon the poor pages\nof his apostolate on meeting the eyes of this prince who had become a\nsaintly man. With increasing fear and admiration he listened to him, and\nbeheld him growing greater and greater.\n\n\u201cAh! faith, my dear son, everything is in faith--perfect, disinterested\nfaith--which believes for the sole happiness of believing! How restful it\nis to bow down before the mysteries without seeking to penetrate them,\nfull of the tranquil conviction that, in accepting them, one possesses\nboth the certain and the final! Is not the highest intellectual\nsatisfaction that which is derived from the victory of the divine over\nthe mind, which it disciplines, and contents so completely that it knows\ndesire no more? And apart from that perfect equilibrium, that explanation\nof the unknown by the divine, no durable peace is possible for man. If\none desires that truth and justice should reign upon earth, it is in God\nthat one must place them. He that does not believe is like a battlefield,\nthe scene of every disaster. Faith alone can tranquillise and deliver.\u201d\n\nFor an instant Pierre remained silent before the great figure rising up\nin front of him. At Lourdes he had only seen suffering humanity rushing\nthither for health of the body and consolation of the soul; but here was\nthe intellectual believer, the mind that needs certainty, finding\nsatisfaction, tasting the supreme enjoyment of doubting no more. He had\nnever previously heard such a cry of joy at living in obedience without\nanxiety as to the morrow of death. He knew that Boccanera\u2019s youth had\nbeen somewhat stormy, traversed by acute attacks of sensuality, a flaring\nof the red blood of his ancestors; and he marvelled at the calm majesty\nwhich faith had at last implanted in this descendant of so violent a\nrace, who had no passion remaining in him but that of pride.\n\n\u201cAnd yet,\u201d Pierre at last ventured to say in a timid, gentle voice, \u201cif\nfaith remains essential and immutable, forms change. From hour to hour\nevolution goes on in all things--the world changes.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is not true!\u201d exclaimed the Cardinal, \u201cthe world does not change.\nIt continually tramps over the same ground, loses itself, strays into the\nmost abominable courses, and it continually has to be brought back into\nthe right path. That is the truth. In order that the promises of Christ\nmay be fulfilled, is it not necessary that the world should return to its\nstarting point, its original innocence? Is not the end of time fixed for\nthe day when men shall be in possession of the full truth of the Gospel?\nYes, truth is in the past, and it is always to the past that one must\ncling if one would avoid the pitfalls which evil imaginations create. All\nthose fine novelties, those mirages of that famous so-called progress,\nare simply traps and snares of the eternal tempter, causes of perdition\nand death. Why seek any further, why constantly incur the risk of error,\nwhen for eighteen hundred years the truth has been known? Truth! why it\nis in Apostolic and Roman Catholicism as created by a long succession of\ngenerations! What madness to desire to change it when so many lofty\nminds, so many pious souls have made of it the most admirable of\nmonuments, the one instrument of order in this world, and of salvation in\nthe next!\u201d\n\nPierre, whose heart had contracted, refrained from further protest, for\nhe could no longer doubt that he had before him an implacable adversary\nof his most cherished ideas. Chilled by a covert fear, as though he felt\na faint breath, as of a distant wind from a land of ruins, pass over his\nface, bringing with it the mortal cold of a sepulchre, he bowed\nrespectfully whilst the Cardinal, rising to his full height, continued in\nhis obstinate voice, resonant with proud courage: \u201cAnd if Catholicism, as\nits enemies pretend, be really stricken unto death, it must die standing\nand in all its glorious integrality. You hear me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9--not\none concession, not one surrender, not a single act of cowardice!\nCatholicism is such as it is, and cannot be otherwise. No modification of\nthe divine certainty, the entire truth, is possible. The removal of the\nsmallest stone from the edifice could only prove a cause of instability.\nIs this not evident? You cannot save old houses by attacking them with\nthe pickaxe under pretence of decorating them. You only enlarge the\nfissures. Even if it were true that Rome were on the eve of falling into\ndust, the only result of all the repairing and patching would be to\nhasten the catastrophe. And instead of a noble death, met unflinchingly,\nwe should then behold the basest of agonies, the death throes of a coward\nwho struggles and begs for mercy! For my part I wait. I am convinced that\nall that people say is but so much horrible falsehood, that Catholicism\nhas never been firmer, that it imbibes eternity from the one and only\nsource of life. But should the heavens indeed fall, on that day I should\nbe here, amidst these old and crumbling walls, under these old ceilings\nwhose beams are being devoured by the worms, and it is here, erect, among\nthe ruins, that I should meet my end, repeating my _credo_ for the last\ntime.\u201d\n\nHis final words fell more slowly, full of haughty sadness, whilst with a\nsweeping gesture he waved his arms towards the old, silent, deserted\npalace around him, whence life was withdrawing day by day. Had an\ninvoluntary presentiment come to him, did the faint cold breath from the\nruins also fan his own cheeks? All the neglect into which the vast rooms\nhad fallen was explained by his words; and a superb, despondent grandeur\nenveloped this prince and cardinal, this uncompromising Catholic who,\nwithdrawing into the dim half-light of the past, braved with a soldier\u2019s\nheart the inevitable downfall of the olden world.\n\nDeeply impressed, Pierre was about to take his leave when, to his\nsurprise, a little door opened in the hangings. \u201cWhat is it? Can\u2019t I be\nleft in peace for a moment?\u201d exclaimed Boccanera with sudden impatience.\n\nNevertheless, Abb\u00e9 Paparelli, fat and sleek, glided into the room without\nthe faintest sign of emotion. And he whispered a few words in the ear of\nthe Cardinal, who, on seeing him, had become calm again. \u201cWhat curate?\u201d\n asked Boccanera. \u201cOh! yes, Santobono, the curate of Frascati. I\nknow--tell him I cannot see him just now.\u201d\n\nPaparelli, however, again began whispering in his soft voice, though not\nin so low a key as previously, for some of his words could be overheard.\nThe affair was urgent, the curate was compelled to return home, and had\nonly a word or two to say. And then, without awaiting consent, the\ntrain-bearer ushered in the visitor, a _prot\u00e9g\u00e9_ of his, whom he had left\njust outside the little door. And for his own part he withdrew with the\ntranquillity of a retainer who, whatever the modesty of his office, knows\nhimself to be all powerful.\n\nPierre, who was momentarily forgotten, looked at the visitor--a big\nfellow of a priest, the son of a peasant evidently, and still near to the\nsoil. He had an ungainly, bony figure, huge feet and knotted hands, with\na seamy tanned face lighted by extremely keen black eyes. Five and forty\nand still robust, his chin and cheeks bristling, and his cassock,\noverlarge, hanging loosely about his big projecting bones, he suggested a\nbandit in disguise. Still there was nothing base about him; the\nexpression of his face was proud. And in one hand he carried a small\nwicker basket carefully covered over with fig-leaves.\n\nSantobono at once bent his knees and kissed the Cardinal\u2019s ring, but with\nhasty unconcern, as though only some ordinary piece of civility were in\nquestion. Then, with that commingling of respect and familiarity which\nthe little ones of the world often evince towards the great, he said, \u201cI\nbeg your most reverend Eminence\u2019s forgiveness for having insisted. But\nthere were people waiting, and I should not have been received if my old\nfriend Paparelli had not brought me by way of that door. Oh! I have a\nvery great service to ask of your Eminence, a real service of the heart.\nBut first of all may I be allowed to offer your Eminence a little\npresent?\u201d\n\nThe Cardinal listened with a grave expression. He had been well\nacquainted with Santobono in the years when he had spent the summer at\nFrascati, at a princely residence which the Boccaneras had possessed\nthere--a villa rebuilt in the seventeenth century, surrounded by a\nwonderful park, whose famous terrace overlooked the Campagna, stretching\nfar and bare like the sea. This villa, however, had since been sold, and\non some vineyards, which had fallen to Benedetta\u2019s share, Count Prada,\nprior to the divorce proceedings, had begun to erect quite a district of\nlittle pleasure houses. In former times, when walking out, the Cardinal\nhad condescended to enter and rest in the dwelling of Santobono, who\nofficiated at an antique chapel dedicated to St. Mary of the Fields,\nwithout the town. The priest had his home in a half-ruined building\nadjoining this chapel, and the charm of the place was a walled garden\nwhich he cultivated himself with the passion of a true peasant.\n\n\u201cAs is my rule every year,\u201d said he, placing his basket on the table, \u201cI\nwished that your Eminence might taste my figs. They are the first of the\nseason. I gathered them expressly this morning. You used to be so fond of\nthem, your Eminence, when you condescended to gather them from the tree\nitself. You were good enough to tell me that there wasn\u2019t another tree in\nthe world that produced such fine figs.\u201d\n\nThe Cardinal could not help smiling. He was indeed very fond of figs, and\nSantobono spoke truly: his fig-tree was renowned throughout the district.\n\u201cThank you, my dear Abb\u00e9,\u201d said Boccanera, \u201cyou remember my little\nfailings. Well, and what can I do for you?\u201d\n\nAgain he became grave, for, in former times, there had been unpleasant\ndiscussions between him and the curate, a lack of agreement which had\nangered him. Born at Nemi, in the core of a fierce district, Santobono\nbelonged to a violent family, and his eldest brother had died of a stab.\nHe himself had always professed ardently patriotic opinions. It was said\nthat he had all but taken up arms for Garibaldi; and, on the day when the\nItalians had entered Rome, force had been needed to prevent him from\nraising the flag of Italian unity above his roof. His passionate dream\nwas to behold Rome mistress of the world, when the Pope and the King\nshould have embraced and made cause together. Thus the Cardinal looked on\nhim as a dangerous revolutionary, a renegade who imperilled Catholicism.\n\n\u201cOh! what your Eminence can do for me, what your Eminence can do if only\ncondescending and willing!\u201d repeated Santobono in an ardent voice,\nclasping his big knotty hands. And then, breaking off, he inquired, \u201cDid\nnot his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti explain my affair to your most\nreverend Eminence?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, the Cardinal simply advised me of your visit, saying that you had\nsomething to ask of me.\u201d\n\nWhilst speaking Boccanera\u2019s face had clouded over, and it was with\nincreased sternness of manner that he again waited. He was aware that the\npriest had become Sanguinetti\u2019s \u201cclient\u201d since the latter had been in the\nhabit of spending weeks together at his suburban see of Frascati. Walking\nin the shadow of every cardinal who is a candidate to the papacy, there\nare familiars of low degree who stake the ambition of their life on the\npossibility of that cardinal\u2019s election. If he becomes Pope some day, if\nthey themselves help him to the throne, they enter the great pontifical\nfamily in his train. It was related that Sanguinetti had once already\nextricated Santobono from a nasty difficulty: the priest having one day\ncaught a marauding urchin in the act of climbing his wall, had beaten the\nlittle fellow with such severity that he had ultimately died of it.\nHowever, to Santobono\u2019s credit it must be added that his fanatical\ndevotion to the Cardinal was largely based upon the hope that he would\nprove the Pope whom men awaited, the Pope who would make Italy the\nsovereign nation of the world.\n\n\u201cWell, this is my misfortune,\u201d he said. \u201cYour Eminence knows my brother\nAgostino, who was gardener at the villa for two years in your Eminence\u2019s\ntime. He is certainly a very pleasant and gentle young fellow, of whom\nnobody has ever complained. And so it is hard to understand how such an\naccident can have happened to him, but it seems that he has killed a man\nwith a knife at Genzano, while walking in the street in the evening. I am\ndreadfully distressed about it, and would willingly give two fingers of\nmy right hand to extricate him from prison. However, it occurred to me\nthat your Eminence would not refuse me a certificate stating that\nAgostino was formerly in your Eminence\u2019s service, and that your Eminence\nwas always well pleased with his quiet disposition.\u201d\n\nBut the Cardinal flatly protested: \u201cI was not at all pleased with\nAgostino. He was wildly violent, and I had to dismiss him precisely\nbecause he was always quarrelling with the other servants.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! how grieved I am to hear your Eminence say that! So it is true,\nthen, my poor little Agostino\u2019s disposition has really changed! Still\nthere is always a way out of a difficulty, is there not? You can still\ngive me a certificate, first arranging the wording of it. A certificate\nfrom your Eminence would have such a favourable effect upon the law\nofficers.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt,\u201d replied Boccanera; \u201cI can understand that, but I will give no\ncertificate.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! does your most reverend Eminence refuse my prayer?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbsolutely! I know that you are a priest of perfect morality, that you\ndischarge the duties of your ministry with strict punctuality, and that\nyou would be deserving of high commendation were it not for your\npolitical fancies. Only your fraternal affection is now leading you\nastray. I cannot tell a lie to please you.\u201d\n\nSantobono gazed at him in real stupefaction, unable to understand that a\nprince, an all-powerful cardinal, should be influenced by such petty\nscruples, when the entire question was a mere knife thrust, the most\ncommonplace and frequent of incidents in the yet wild land of the old\nRoman castles.\n\n\u201cA lie! a lie!\u201d he muttered; \u201cbut surely it isn\u2019t lying just to say what\nis good of a man, leaving out all the rest, especially when a man has\ngood points as Agostino certainly has. In a certificate, too, everything\ndepends on the words one uses.\u201d\n\nHe stubbornly clung to that idea; he could not conceive that a person\nshould refuse to soften the rigour of justice by an ingenious\npresentation of the facts. However, on acquiring a certainty that he\nwould obtain nothing, he made a gesture of despair, his livid face\nassuming an expression of violent rancour, whilst his black eyes flamed\nwith restrained passion.\n\n\u201cWell, well! each looks on truth in his own way,\u201d he said. \u201cI shall go\nback to tell his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. And I beg your Eminence\nnot to be displeased with me for having disturbed your Eminence to no\npurpose. By the way, perhaps the figs are not yet quite ripe; but I will\ntake the liberty to bring another basketful towards the end of the\nseason, when they will be quite nice and sweet. A thousand thanks and a\nthousand felicities to your most reverend Eminence.\u201d\n\nSantobono went off backwards, his big bony figure bending double with\nrepeated genuflections. Pierre, whom the scene had greatly interested, in\nhim beheld a specimen of the petty clergy of Rome and its environs, of\nwhom people had told him before his departure from Paris. This was not\nthe _scagnozzo_, the wretched famished priest whom some nasty affair\nbrings from the provinces, who seeks his daily bread on the pavements of\nRome; one of the herd of begowned beggars searching for a livelihood\namong the crumbs of Church life, voraciously fighting for chance masses,\nand mingling with the lowest orders in taverns of the worst repute. Nor\nwas this the country priest of distant parts, a man of crass ignorance\nand superstition, a peasant among the peasants, treated as an equal by\nhis pious flock, which is careful not to mistake him for the Divinity,\nand which, whilst kneeling in all humility before the parish saint, does\nnot bend before the man who from that saint derives his livelihood. At\nFrascati the officiating minister of a little church may receive a\nstipend of some nine hundred _lire_ a year,* and he has only bread and\nmeat to buy if his garden yields him wine and fruit and vegetables. This\none, Santobono, was not without education; he knew a little theology and\na little history, especially the history of the past grandeur of Rome,\nwhich had inflamed his patriotic heart with the mad dream that universal\ndomination would soon fall to the portion of renascent Rome, the capital\nof united Italy. But what an insuperable distance still remained between\nthis petty Roman clergy, often very worthy and intelligent, and the high\nclergy, the high dignitaries of the Vatican! Nobody that was not at least\na prelate seemed to count.\n\n  * About 36 pounds. One is reminded of Goldsmith\u2019s line: \u201cAnd\n    passing rich with forty pounds a year.\u201d--Trans.\n\n\u201cA thousand thanks to your most reverend Eminence, and may success attend\nall your Eminence\u2019s desires.\u201d\n\nWith these words Santobono finally disappeared, and the Cardinal returned\nto Pierre, who also bowed preparatory to taking his leave.\n\n\u201cTo sum up the matter, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said Boccanera, \u201cthe affair of\nyour book presents certain difficulties. As I have told you, I have no\nprecise information, I have seen no documents. But knowing that my niece\ntook an interest in you, I said a few words on the subject to Cardinal\nSanguinetti, the Prefect of the Index, who was here just now. And he\nknows little more than I do, for nothing has yet left the Secretary\u2019s\nhands. Still he told me that the denunciation emanated from personages of\nrank and influence, and applied to numerous pages of your work, in which\nit was said there were passages of the most deplorable character as\nregards both discipline and dogma.\u201d\n\nGreatly moved by the idea that he had hidden foes, secret adversaries who\npursued him in the dark, the young priest responded: \u201cOh! denounced,\ndenounced! If your Eminence only knew how that word pains my heart! And\ndenounced, too, for offences which were certainly involuntary, since my\none ardent desire was the triumph of the Church! All I can do, then, is\nto fling myself at the feet of the Holy Father and entreat him to hear my\ndefence.\u201d\n\nBoccanera suddenly became very grave again. A stern look rested on his\nlofty brow as he drew his haughty figure to its full height. \u201cHis\nHoliness,\u201d said he, \u201ccan do everything, even receive you, if such be his\ngood pleasure, and absolve you also. But listen to me. I again advise you\nto withdraw your book yourself, to destroy it, simply and courageously,\nbefore embarking in a struggle in which you will reap the shame of being\noverwhelmed. Reflect on that.\u201d\n\nPierre, however, had no sooner spoken of the Pope than he had regretted\nit, for he realised that an appeal to the sovereign authority was\ncalculated to wound the Cardinal\u2019s feelings. Moreover, there was no\nfurther room for doubt. Boccanera would be against his book, and the\nutmost that he could hope for was to gain his neutrality by bringing\npressure to bear on him through those about him. At the same time he had\nfound the Cardinal very plain spoken, very frank, far removed from all\nthe secret intriguing in which the affair of his book was involved, as he\nnow began to realise; and so it was with deep respect and genuine\nadmiration for the prelate\u2019s strong and lofty character that he took\nleave of him.\n\n\u201cI am infinitely obliged to your Eminence,\u201d he said, \u201cand I promise that\nI will carefully reflect upon all that your Eminence has been kind enough\nto say to me.\u201d\n\nOn returning to the ante-room, Pierre there found five or six persons who\nhad arrived during his audience, and were now waiting. There was a\nbishop, a domestic prelate, and two old ladies, and as he drew near to\nDon Vigilio before retiring, he was surprised to find him conversing with\na tall, fair young fellow, a Frenchman, who, also in astonishment,\nexclaimed, \u201cWhat! are you here in Rome, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d\n\nFor a moment Pierre had hesitated. \u201cAh! I must ask your pardon, Monsieur\nNarcisse Habert,\u201d he replied, \u201cI did not at first recognise you! It was\nthe less excusable as I knew that you had been an _attach\u00e9_ at our\nembassy here ever since last year.\u201d\n\nTall, slim, and elegant of appearance, Narcisse Habert had a clear\ncomplexion, with eyes of a bluish, almost mauvish, hue, a fair frizzy\nbeard, and long curling fair hair cut short over the forehead in the\nFlorentine fashion. Of a wealthy family of militant Catholics, chiefly\nmembers of the bar or bench, he had an uncle in the diplomatic\nprofession, and this had decided his own career. Moreover, a place at\nRome was marked out for him, for he there had powerful connections. He\nwas a nephew by marriage of Cardinal Sarno, whose sister had married\nanother of his uncles, a Paris notary; and he was also cousin german of\nMonsignor Gamba del Zoppo, a _Cameriere segreto_, and son of one of his\naunts, who had married an Italian colonel. And in some measure for these\nreasons he had been attached to the embassy to the Holy See, his\nsuperiors tolerating his somewhat fantastic ways, his everlasting passion\nfor art which sent him wandering hither and thither through Rome. He was\nmoreover very amiable and extremely well-bred; and it occasionally\nhappened, as was the case that morning, that with his weary and somewhat\nmysterious air he came to speak to one or another of the cardinals on\nsome real matter of business in the ambassador\u2019s name.\n\nSo as to converse with Pierre at his ease, he drew him into the deep\nembrasure of one of the windows. \u201cAh! my dear Abb\u00e9, how pleased I am to\nsee you!\u201d said he. \u201cYou must remember what pleasant chats we had when we\nmet at Cardinal Bergerot\u2019s! I told you about some paintings which you\nwere to see for your book, some miniatures of the fourteenth and\nfifteenth centuries. And now, you know, I mean to take possession of you.\nI\u2019ll show you Rome as nobody else could show it to you. I\u2019ve seen and\nexplored everything. Ah! there are treasures, such treasures! But in\ntruth there is only one supreme work; one always comes back to one\u2019s\nparticular passion. The Botticelli in the Sixtine Chapel--ah, the\nBotticelli!\u201d\n\nHis voice died away, and he made a faint gesture as if overcome by\nadmiration. Then Pierre had to promise that he would place himself in his\nhands and accompany him to the Sixtine Chapel. \u201cYou know why I am here,\u201d\n at last said the young priest. \u201cProceedings have been taken against my\nbook; it has been denounced to the Congregation of the Index.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour book! is it possible?\u201d exclaimed Narcisse: \u201ca book like that with\npages recalling the delightful St. Francis of Assisi!\u201d And thereupon he\nobligingly placed himself at Pierre\u2019s disposal. \u201cBut our ambassador will\nbe very useful to you,\u201d he said. \u201cHe is the best man in the world, of\ncharming affability, and full of the old French spirit. I will present\nyou to him this afternoon or to-morrow morning at the latest; and since\nyou desire an immediate audience with the Pope, he will endeavour to\nobtain one for you. His position naturally designates him as your\nintermediary. Still, I must confess that things are not always easily\nmanaged. Although the Holy Father is very fond of him, there are times\nwhen his Excellency fails, for the approaches are so extremely\nintricate.\u201d\n\nPierre had not thought of employing the ambassador\u2019s good offices, for he\nhad na\u00efvely imagined that an accused priest who came to defend himself\nwould find every door open. However, he was delighted with Narcisse\u2019s\noffer, and thanked him as warmly as if the audience were already\nobtained.\n\n\u201cBesides,\u201d the young man continued, \u201cif we encounter any difficulties I\nhave relatives at the Vatican, as you know. I don\u2019t mean my uncle the\nCardinal, who would be of no use to us, for he never stirs out of his\noffice at the Propaganda, and will never apply for anything. But my\ncousin, Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, is very obliging, and he lives in\nintimacy with the Pope, his duties requiring his constant attendance on\nhim. So, if necessary, I will take you to see him, and he will no doubt\nfind a means of procuring you an interview, though his extreme prudence\nkeeps him perpetually afraid of compromising himself. However, it\u2019s\nunderstood, you may rely on me in every respect.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! my dear sir,\u201d exclaimed Pierre, relieved and happy, \u201cI heartily\naccept your offer. You don\u2019t know what balm your words have brought me;\nfor ever since my arrival everybody has been discouraging me, and you are\nthe first to restore my strength by looking at things in the true French\nway.\u201d\n\nThen, lowering his voice, he told the _attach\u00e9_ of his interview with\nCardinal Boccanera, of his conviction that the latter would not help him,\nof the unfavourable information which had been given by Cardinal\nSanguinetti, and of the rivalry which he had divined between the two\nprelates. Narcisse listened, smiling, and in his turn began to gossip\nconfidentially. The rivalry which Pierre had mentioned, the premature\ncontest for the tiara which Sanguinetti and Boccanera were waging,\nimpelled to it by a furious desire to become the next Pope, had for a\nlong time been revolutionising the black world. There was incredible\nintricacy in the depths of the affair; none could exactly tell who was\npulling the strings, conducting the vast intrigue. As regards\ngeneralities it was simply known that Boccanera represented\nabsolutism--the Church freed from all compromises with modern society,\nand waiting in immobility for the Deity to triumph over Satan, for Rome\nto be restored to the Holy Father, and for repentant Italy to perform\npenance for its sacrilege; whereas Sanguinetti, extremely politic and\nsupple, was reported to harbour bold and novel ideas: permission to vote\nto be granted to all true Catholics,* a majority to be gained by this\nmeans in the Legislature; then, as a fatal corollary, the downfall of the\nHouse of Savoy, and the proclamation of a kind of republican federation\nof all the former petty States of Italy under the august protectorate of\nthe Pope. On the whole, the struggle was between these two antagonistic\nelements--the first bent on upholding the Church by a rigorous\nmaintenance of the old traditions, and the other predicting the fall of\nthe Church if it did not follow the bent of the coming century. But all\nwas steeped in so much mystery that people ended by thinking that, if the\npresent Pope should live a few years longer, his successor would\ncertainly be neither Boccanera nor Sanguinetti.\n\n  * Since the occupation of Rome by the Italian authorities, the\n    supporters of the Church, obedient to the prohibition of the\n    Vatican, have abstained from taking part in the political\n    elections, this being their protest against the new order of\n    things which they do not recognise. Various attempts have been\n    made, however, to induce the Pope to give them permission to\n    vote, many members of the Roman aristocracy considering the\n    present course impolitic and even harmful to the interests of\n    the Church.--Trans.\n\nAll at once Pierre interrupted Narcisse: \u201cAnd Monsignor Nani, do you know\nhim? I spoke with him yesterday evening. And there he is coming in now!\u201d\n\nNani was indeed just entering the ante-room with his usual smile on his\namiable pink face. His cassock of fine texture, and his sash of violet\nsilk shone with discreet soft luxury. And he showed himself very amiable\nto Abb\u00e9 Paparelli, who, accompanying him in all humility, begged him to\nbe kind enough to wait until his Eminence should be able to receive him.\n\n\u201cOh! Monsignor Nani,\u201d muttered Narcisse, becoming serious, \u201che is a man\nwhom it is advisable to have for a friend.\u201d\n\nThen, knowing Nani\u2019s history, he related it in an undertone. Born at\nVenice, of a noble but ruined family which had produced heroes, Nani,\nafter first studying under the Jesuits, had come to Rome to perfect\nhimself in philosophy and theology at the Collegio Romano, which was then\nalso under Jesuit management. Ordained when three and twenty, he had at\nonce followed a nuncio to Bavaria as private secretary; and then had gone\nas _auditore_ to the nunciatures of Brussels and Paris, in which latter\ncity he had lived for five years. Everything seemed to predestine him to\ndiplomacy, his brilliant beginnings and his keen and encyclopaedical\nintelligence; but all at once he had been recalled to Rome, where he was\nsoon afterwards appointed Assessor to the Holy Office. It was asserted at\nthe time that this was done by the Pope himself, who, being well\nacquainted with Nani, and desirous of having a person he could depend\nupon at the Holy Office, had given instructions for his recall, saying\nthat he could render far more services at Rome than abroad. Already a\ndomestic prelate, Nani had also lately become a Canon of St. Peter\u2019s and\nan apostolic prothonotary, with the prospect of obtaining a cardinal\u2019s\nhat whenever the Pope should find some other favourite who would please\nhim better as assessor.\n\n\u201cOh, Monsignor Nani!\u201d continued Narcisse. \u201cHe\u2019s a superior man,\nthoroughly well acquainted with modern Europe, and at the same time a\nvery saintly priest, a sincere believer, absolutely devoted to the\nChurch, with the substantial faith of an intelligent politician--a belief\ndifferent, it is true, from the narrow gloomy theological faith which we\nknow so well in France. And this is one of the reasons why you will\nhardly understand things here at first. The Roman prelates leave the\nDeity in the sanctuary and reign in His name, convinced that Catholicism\nis the human expression of the government of God, the only perfect and\neternal government, beyond the pales of which nothing but falsehood and\nsocial danger can be found. While we in our country lag behind, furiously\narguing whether there be a God or not, they do not admit that God\u2019s\nexistence can be doubted, since they themselves are his delegated\nministers; and they entirely devote themselves to playing their parts as\nministers whom none can dispossess, exercising their power for the\ngreatest good of humanity, and devoting all their intelligence, all their\nenergy to maintaining themselves as the accepted masters of the nations.\nAs for Monsignor Nani, after being mixed up in the politics of the whole\nworld, he has for ten years been discharging the most delicate functions\nin Rome, taking part in the most varied and most important affairs. He\nsees all the foreigners who come to Rome, knows everything, has a hand in\neverything. Add to this that he is extremely discreet and amiable, with a\nmodesty which seems perfect, though none can tell whether, with his light\nsilent footstep, he is not really marching towards the highest ambition,\nthe purple of sovereignty.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnother candidate for the tiara,\u201d thought Pierre, who had listened\npassionately; for this man Nani interested him, caused him an instinctive\ndisquietude, as though behind his pink and smiling face he could divine\nan infinity of obscure things. At the same time, however, the young\npriest but ill understood his friend, for he again felt bewildered by all\nthis strange Roman world, so different from what he had expected.\n\nNani had perceived the two young men and came towards them with his hand\ncordially outstretched \u201cAh! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment, I am happy to meet\nyou again. I won\u2019t ask you if you have slept well, for people always\nsleep well at Rome. Good-day, Monsieur Habert; your health has kept good\nI hope, since I met you in front of Bernini\u2019s Santa Teresa, which you\nadmire so much.* I see that you know one another. That is very nice. I\nmust tell you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, that Monsieur Habert is a passionate\nlover of our city; he will be able to show you all its finest sights.\u201d\n\n  * The allusion is to a statue representing St. Theresa in ecstasy,\n    with the Angel of Death descending to transfix her with his dart.\n    It stands in a transept of Sta. Maria della Vittoria.--Trans.\n\nThen, in his affectionate way, he at once asked for information\nrespecting Pierre\u2019s interview with the Cardinal. He listened attentively\nto the young man\u2019s narrative, nodding his head at certain passages, and\noccasionally restraining his sharp smile. The Cardinal\u2019s severity and\nPierre\u2019s conviction that he would accord him no support did not at all\nastonish Nani. It seemed as if he had expected that result. However, on\nhearing that Cardinal Sanguinetti had been there that morning, and had\npronounced the affair of the book to be very serious, he appeared to lose\nhis self-control for a moment, for he spoke out with sudden vivacity:\n\n\u201cIt can\u2019t be helped, my dear child, my intervention came too late.\nDirectly I heard of the proceedings I went to his Eminence Cardinal\nSanguinetti to tell him that the result would be an immense advertisement\nfor your book. Was it sensible? What was the use of it? We know that you\nare inclined to be carried away by your ideas, that you are an\nenthusiast, and are prompt to do battle. So what advantage should we gain\nby embarrassing ourselves with the revolt of a young priest who might\nwage war against us with a book of which some thousands of copies have\nbeen sold already? For my part I desired that nothing should be done. And\nI must say that the Cardinal, who is a man of sense, was of the same\nmind. He raised his arms to heaven, went into a passion, and exclaimed\nthat he was never consulted, that the blunder was already committed\nbeyond recall, and that it was impossible to prevent process from taking\nits course since the matter had already been brought before the\nCongregation, in consequence of denunciations from authoritative sources,\nbased on the gravest motives. Briefly, as he said, the blunder was\ncommitted, and I had to think of something else.\u201d\n\nAll at once Nani paused. He had just noticed that Pierre\u2019s ardent eyes\nwere fixed upon his own, striving to penetrate his meaning. A faint flush\nthen heightened the pinkiness of his complexion, whilst in an easy way he\ncontinued, unwilling to reveal how annoyed he was at having said too\nmuch: \u201cYes, I thought of helping you with all the little influence I\npossess, in order to extricate you from the worries in which this affair\nwill certainly land you.\u201d\n\nAn impulse of revolt was stirring Pierre, who vaguely felt that he was\nperhaps being made game of. Why should he not be free to declare his\nfaith, which was so pure, so free from personal considerations, so full\nof glowing Christian charity? \u201cNever,\u201d said he, \u201cwill I withdraw; never\nwill I myself suppress my book, as I am advised to do. It would be an act\nof cowardice and falsehood, for I regret nothing, I disown nothing. If I\nbelieve that my book brings a little truth to light I cannot destroy it\nwithout acting criminally both towards myself and towards others. No,\nnever! You hear me--never!\u201d\n\nSilence fell. But almost immediately he resumed: \u201cIt is at the knees of\nthe Holy Father that I desire to make that declaration. He will\nunderstand me, he will approve me.\u201d\n\nNani no longer smiled; henceforth his face remained as it were closed. He\nseemed to be studying the sudden violence of the young priest with\ncuriosity; then sought to calm him with his own tranquil kindliness. \u201cNo\ndoubt, no doubt,\u201d said he. \u201cThere is certainly great sweetness in\nobedience and humility. Still I can understand that, before anything\nelse, you should desire to speak to his Holiness. And afterwards you will\nsee--is that not so?--you will see--\u201d\n\nThen he evinced a lively interest in the suggested application for an\naudience. He expressed keen regret that Pierre had not forwarded that\napplication from Paris, before even coming to Rome: in that course would\nhave rested the best chance of a favourable reply. Bother of any kind was\nnot liked at the Vatican, and if the news of the young priest\u2019s presence\nin Rome should only spread abroad, and the motives of his journey be\ndiscussed, all would be lost. Then, on learning that Narcisse had offered\nto present Pierre to the French ambassador, Nani seemed full of anxiety,\nand deprecated any such proceeding: \u201cNo, no! don\u2019t do that--it would be\nmost imprudent. In the first place you would run the risk of embarrassing\nthe ambassador, whose position is always delicate in affairs of this\nkind. And then, too, if he failed--and my fear is that he might\nfail--yes, if he failed it would be all over; you would no longer have\nthe slightest chance of obtaining an audience by any other means. For the\nVatican would not like to hurt the ambassador\u2019s feelings by yielding to\nother influence after resisting his.\u201d\n\nPierre anxiously glanced at Narcisse, who wagged his head, embarrassed\nand hesitating. \u201cThe fact is,\u201d the _attach\u00e9_ at last murmured, \u201cwe lately\nsolicited an audience for a high French personage and it was refused,\nwhich was very unpleasant for us. Monsignor is right. We must keep our\nambassador in reserve, and only utilise him when we have exhausted all\nother means.\u201d Then, noticing Pierre\u2019s disappointment, he added\nobligingly: \u201cOur first visit therefore shall be for my cousin at the\nVatican.\u201d\n\nNani, his attention again roused, looked at the young man in\nastonishment. \u201cAt the Vatican? You have a cousin there?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, yes--Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo.\u201d\n\n\u201cGamba! Gamba! Yes, yes, excuse me, I remember now. Ah! so you thought of\nGamba to bring influence to bear on his Holiness? That\u2019s an idea, no\ndoubt; one must see--one must see.\u201d\n\nHe repeated these words again and again as if to secure time to see into\nthe matter himself, to weigh the pros and cons of the suggestion.\nMonsignor Gamba del Zoppo was a worthy man who played no part at the\nPapal Court, whose nullity indeed had become a byword at the Vatican. His\nchildish stories, however, amused the Pope, whom he greatly flattered,\nand who was fond of leaning on his arm while walking in the gardens. It\nwas during these strolls that Gamba easily secured all sorts of little\nfavours. However, he was a remarkable poltroon, and had such an intense\nfear of losing his influence that he never risked a request without\nhaving convinced himself by long meditation that no possible harm could\ncome to him through it.\n\n\u201cWell, do you know, the idea is not a bad one,\u201d Nani at last declared.\n\u201cYes, yes, Gamba can secure the audience for you, if he is willing. I\nwill see him myself and explain the matter.\u201d\n\nAt the same time Nani did not cease advising extreme caution. He even\nventured to say that it was necessary to be on one\u2019s guard with the papal\n_entourage_, for, alas! it was a fact his Holiness was so good, and had\nsuch a blind faith in the goodness of others, that he had not always\nchosen his familiars with the critical care which he ought to have\ndisplayed. Thus one never knew to what sort of man one might be applying,\nor in what trap one might be setting one\u2019s foot. Nani even allowed it to\nbe understood that on no account ought any direct application to be made\nto his Eminence the Secretary of State, for even his Eminence was not a\nfree agent, but found himself encompassed by intrigues of such intricacy\nthat his best intentions were paralysed. And as Nani went on discoursing\nin this fashion, in a very gentle, extremely unctuous manner, the Vatican\nappeared like some enchanted castle, guarded by jealous and treacherous\ndragons--a castle where one must not take a step, pass through a doorway,\nrisk a limb, without having carefully assured oneself that one would not\nleave one\u2019s whole body there to be devoured.\n\nPierre continued listening, feeling colder and colder at heart, and again\nsinking into uncertainty. \u201c_Mon Dieu_!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI shall never know\nhow to act. You discourage me, Monsignor.\u201d\n\nAt this Nani\u2019s cordial smile reappeared. \u201cI, my dear child? I should be\nsorry to do so. I only want to repeat to you that you must wait and do\nnothing. Avoid all feverishness especially. There is no hurry, I assure\nyou, for it was only yesterday that a _consultore_ was chosen to report\nupon your book, so you have a good full month before you. Avoid\neverybody, live in such a way that people shall be virtually ignorant of\nyour existence, visit Rome in peace and quietness--that is the best\ncourse you can adopt to forward your interests.\u201d Then, taking one of the\npriest\u2019s hands between both his own, so aristocratic, soft, and plump, he\nadded: \u201cYou will understand that I have my reasons for speaking to you\nlike this. I should have offered my own services; I should have made it a\npoint of honour to take you straight to his Holiness, had I thought it\nadvisable. But I do not wish to mix myself up in the matter at this\nstage; I realise only too well that at the present moment we should\nsimply make sad work of it. Later on--you hear me--later on, in the event\nof nobody else succeeding, I myself will obtain you an audience; I\nformally promise it. But meanwhile, I entreat you, refrain from using\nthose words \u2018a new religion,\u2019 which, unfortunately, occur in your book,\nand which I heard you repeat again only last night. There can be no new\nreligion, my dear child; there is but one eternal religion, which is\nbeyond all surrender and compromise--the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman\nreligion. And at the same time leave your Paris friends to themselves.\nDon\u2019t rely too much on Cardinal Bergerot, whose lofty piety is not\nsufficiently appreciated in Rome. I assure you that I am speaking to you\nas a friend.\u201d\n\nThen, seeing how disabled Pierre appeared to be, half overcome already,\nno longer knowing in what direction to begin his campaign, he again\nstrove to comfort him: \u201cCome, come, things will right themselves;\neverything will end for the best, both for the welfare of the Church and\nyour own. And now you must excuse me, I must leave you; I shall not be\nable to see his Eminence to-day, for it is impossible for me to wait any\nlonger.\u201d\n\nAbb\u00e9 Paparelli, whom Pierre had noticed prowling around with his ears\ncocked, now hastened forward and declared to Monsignor Nani that there\nwere only two persons to be received before him. But the prelate very\ngraciously replied that he would come back again at another time, for the\naffair which he wished to lay before his Eminence was in no wise\npressing. Then he withdrew, courteously bowing to everybody.\n\nNarcisse Habert\u2019s turn came almost immediately afterwards. However,\nbefore entering the throne-room he pressed Pierre\u2019s hand, repeating, \u201cSo\nit is understood. I will go to see my cousin at the Vatican to-morrow,\nand directly I get a reply I will let you know. We shall meet again soon\nI hope.\u201d\n\nIt was now past twelve o\u2019clock, and the only remaining visitor was one of\nthe two old ladies who seemed to have fallen asleep. At his little\nsecretarial table Don Vigilio still sat covering huge sheets of yellow\npaper with fine handwriting, from which he only lifted his eyes at\nintervals to glance about him distrustfully, and make sure that nothing\nthreatened him.\n\nIn the mournful silence which fell around, Pierre lingered for yet\nanother moment in the deep embrasure of the window. Ah! what anxiety\nconsumed his poor, tender, enthusiastic heart! On leaving Paris things\nhad seemed so simple, so natural to him! He was unjustly accused, and he\nstarted off to defend himself, arrived and flung himself at the feet of\nthe Holy Father, who listened to him indulgently. Did not the Pope\npersonify living religion, intelligence to understand, justice based upon\ntruth? And was he not, before aught else, the Father, the delegate of\ndivine forgiveness and mercy, with arms outstretched towards all the\nchildren of the Church, even the guilty ones? Was it not meet, then, that\nhe should leave his door wide open so that the humblest of his sons might\nfreely enter to relate their troubles, confess their transgressions,\nexplain their conduct, imbibe comfort from the source of eternal loving\nkindness? And yet on the very first day of his, Pierre\u2019s, arrival, the\ndoors closed upon him with a bang; he felt himself sinking into a hostile\nsphere, full of traps and pitfalls. One and all cried out to him\n\u201cBeware!\u201d as if he were incurring the greatest dangers in setting one\nfoot before the other. His desire to see the Pope became an extraordinary\npretension, so difficult of achievement that it set the interests and\npassions and influences of the whole Vatican agog. And there was endless\nconflicting advice, long-discussed manoeuvring, all the strategy of\ngenerals leading an army to victory, and fresh complications ever arising\nin the midst of a dim stealthy swarming of intrigues. Ah! good Lord! how\ndifferent all this was from the charitable reception that Pierre had\nanticipated: the pastor\u2019s house standing open beside the high road for\nthe admission of all the sheep of the flock, both those that were docile\nand those that had gone astray.\n\nThat which began to frighten Pierre, however, was the evil, the\nwickedness, which he could divine vaguely stirring in the gloom: Cardinal\nBergerot suspected, dubbed a Revolutionary, deemed so compromising that\nhe, Pierre, was advised not to mention his name again! The young priest\nonce more saw Cardinal Boccanera\u2019s pout of disdain while speaking of his\ncolleague. And then Monsignor Nani had warned him not to repeat those\nwords \u201ca new religion,\u201d as if it were not clear to everybody that they\nsimply signified the return of Catholicism to the primitive purity of\nChristianity! Was that one of the crimes denounced to the Congregation of\nthe Index? He had begun to suspect who his accusers were, and felt\nalarmed, for he was now conscious of secret subterranean plotting, a\ngreat stealthy effort to strike him down and suppress his work. All that\nsurrounded him became suspicious. If he listened to advice and\ntemporised, it was solely to follow the same politic course as his\nadversaries, to learn to know them before acting. He would spend a few\ndays in meditation, in surveying and studying that black world of Rome\nwhich to him had proved so unexpected. But, at the same time, in the\nrevolt of his apostle-like faith, he swore, even as he had said to Nani,\nthat he would never yield, never change either a page or a line of his\nbook, but maintain it in its integrity in the broad daylight as the\nunshakable testimony of his belief. Even were the book condemned by the\nIndex, he would not tender submission, withdraw aught of it. And should\nit become necessary he would quit the Church, he would go even as far as\nschism, continuing to preach the new religion and writing a new book,\n_Real Rome_, such as he now vaguely began to espy.\n\nHowever, Don Vigilio had ceased writing, and gazed so fixedly at Pierre\nthat the latter at last stepped up to him politely in order to take\nleave. And then the secretary, yielding, despite his fears, to a desire\nto confide in him, murmured, \u201cHe came simply on your account, you know;\nhe wanted to ascertain the result of your interview with his Eminence.\u201d\n\nIt was not necessary for Don Vigilio to mention Nani by name; Pierre\nunderstood. \u201cReally, do you think so?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cOh! there is no doubt of it. And if you take my advice you will do what\nhe desires with a good grace, for it is absolutely certain that you will\ndo it later on.\u201d\n\nThese words brought Pierre\u2019s disquietude and exasperation to a climax. He\nwent off with a gesture of defiance. They would see if he would ever\nyield.\n\nThe three ante-rooms which he again crossed appeared to him blacker,\nemptier, more lifeless than ever. In the second one Abb\u00e9 Paparelli\nsaluted him with a little silent bow; in the first the sleepy lackey did\nnot even seem to see him. A spider was weaving its web between the\ntassels of the great red hat under the _baldacchino_. Would not the\nbetter course have been to set the pick at work amongst all that rotting\npast, now crumbling into dust, so that the sunlight might stream in\nfreely and restore to the purified soil the fruitfulness of youth?\n\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nON the afternoon of that same day Pierre, having leisure before him, at\nonce thought of beginning his peregrinations through Rome by a visit on\nwhich he had set his heart. Almost immediately after the publication of\n\u201cNew Rome\u201d he had been deeply moved and interested by a letter addressed\nto him from the Eternal City by old Count Orlando Prada, the hero of\nItalian independence and reunion, who, although unacquainted with him,\nhad written spontaneously after a first hasty perusal of his book. And\nthe letter had been a flaming protest, a cry of the patriotic faith still\nyoung in the heart of that aged man, who accused him of having forgotten\nItaly and claimed Rome, the new Rome, for the country which was at last\nfree and united. Correspondence had ensued, and the priest, while\nclinging to his dream of Neo-Catholicism saving the world, had from afar\ngrown attached to the man who wrote to him with such glowing love of\ncountry and freedom. He had eventually informed him of his journey, and\npromised to call upon him. But the hospitality which he had accepted at\nthe Boccanera mansion now seemed to him somewhat of an impediment; for\nafter Benedetta\u2019s kindly, almost affectionate, greeting, he felt that he\ncould not, on the very first day and with out warning her, sally forth to\nvisit the father of the man from whom she had fled and from whom she now\nasked the Church to part her for ever. Moreover, old Orlando was actually\nliving with his son in a little palazzo which the latter had erected at\nthe farther end of the Via Venti Settembre.\n\nBefore venturing on any step Pierre resolved to confide in the Contessina\nherself; and this seemed the easier as Viscount Philibert de la Choue had\ntold him that the young woman still retained a filial feeling, mingled\nwith admiration, for the old hero. And indeed, at the very first words\nwhich he uttered after lunch, Benedetta promptly retorted: \u201cBut go,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, go at once! Old Orlando, you know, is one of our\nnational glories--you must not be surprised to hear me call him by his\nChristian name. All Italy does so, from pure affection and gratitude. For\nmy part I grew up among people who hated him, who likened him to Satan.\nIt was only later that I learned to know him, and then I loved him, for\nhe is certainly the most just and gentle man in the world.\u201d\n\nShe had begun to smile, but timid tears were moistening her eyes at the\nrecollection, no doubt, of the year of suffering she had spent in her\nhusband\u2019s house, where her only peaceful hours had been those passed with\nthe old man. And in a lower and somewhat tremulous voice she added: \u201cAs\nyou are going to see him, tell him from me that I still love him, and,\nwhatever happens, shall never forget his goodness.\u201d\n\nSo Pierre set out, and whilst he was driving in a cab towards the Via\nVenti Settembre, he recalled to mind the heroic story of old Orlando\u2019s\nlife which had been told him in Paris. It was like an epic poem, full of\nfaith, bravery, and the disinterestedness of another age.\n\nBorn of a noble house of Milan, Count Orlando Prada had learnt to hate\nthe foreigner at such an early age that, when scarcely fifteen, he\nalready formed part of a secret society, one of the ramifications of the\nantique Carbonarism. This hatred of Austrian domination had been\ntransmitted from father to son through long years, from the olden days of\nrevolt against servitude, when the conspirators met by stealth in\nabandoned huts, deep in the recesses of the forests; and it was rendered\nthe keener by the eternal dream of Italy delivered, restored to herself,\ntransformed once more into a great sovereign nation, the worthy daughter\nof those who had conquered and ruled the world. Ah! that land of whilom\nglory, that unhappy, dismembered, parcelled Italy, the prey of a crowd of\npetty tyrants, constantly invaded and appropriated by neighbouring\nnations--how superb and ardent was that dream to free her from such long\nopprobrium! To defeat the foreigner, drive out the despots, awaken the\npeople from the base misery of slavery, to proclaim Italy free and Italy\nunited--such was the passion which then inflamed the young with\ninextinguishable ardour, which made the youthful Orlando\u2019s heart leap\nwith enthusiasm. He spent his early years consumed by holy indignation,\nproudly and impatiently longing for an opportunity to give his blood for\nhis country, and to die for her if he could not deliver her.\n\nQuivering under the yoke, wasting his time in sterile conspiracies, he\nwas living in retirement in the old family residence at Milan, when,\nshortly after his marriage and his twenty-fifth birthday, tidings came to\nhim of the flight of Pius IX and the Revolution of Rome.* And at once he\nquitted everything, wife and hearth, and hastened to Rome as if summoned\nthither by the call of destiny. This was the first time that he set out\nscouring the roads for the attainment of independence; and how\nfrequently, yet again and again, was he to start upon fresh campaigns,\nnever wearying, never disheartened! And now it was that he became\nacquainted with Mazzini, and for a moment was inflamed with enthusiasm\nfor that mystical unitarian Republican. He himself indulged in an ardent\ndream of a Universal Republic, adopted the Mazzinian device, \u201c_Dio e\npopolo_\u201d (God and the people), and followed the procession which wended\nits way with great pomp through insurrectionary Rome. The time was one of\nvast hopes, one when people already felt a need of renovated religion,\nand looked to the coming of a humanitarian Christ who would redeem the\nworld yet once again. But before long a man, a captain of the ancient\ndays, Giuseppe Garibaldi, whose epic glory was dawning, made Orlando\nentirely his own, transformed him into a soldier whose sole cause was\nfreedom and union. Orlando loved Garibaldi as though the latter were a\ndemi-god, fought beside him in defence of Republican Rome, took part in\nthe victory of Rieti over the Neapolitans, and followed the stubborn\npatriot in his retreat when he sought to succour Venice, compelled as he\nwas to relinquish the Eternal City to the French army of General Oudinot,\nwho came thither to reinstate Pius IX. And what an extraordinary and\nmadly heroic adventure was that of Garibaldi and Venice! Venice, which\nManin, another great patriot, a martyr, had again transformed into a\nrepublican city, and which for long months had been resisting the\nAustrians! And Garibaldi starts with a handful of men to deliver the\ncity, charters thirteen fishing barks, loses eight in a naval engagement,\nis compelled to return to the Roman shores, and there in all wretchedness\nis bereft of his wife, Anita, whose eyes he closes before returning to\nAmerica, where, once before, he had awaited the hour of insurrection. Ah!\nthat land of Italy, which in those days rumbled from end to end with the\ninternal fire of patriotism, where men of faith and courage arose in\nevery city, where riots and insurrections burst forth on all sides like\neruptions--it continued, in spite of every check, its invincible march to\nfreedom!\n\n  * It was on November 24, 1848, that the Pope fled to Gaeta,\n    consequent upon the insurrection which had broken out nine\n    days previously.--Trans.\n\nOrlando returned to his young wife at Milan, and for two years lived\nthere, almost in concealment, devoured by impatience for the glorious\nmorrow which was so long in coming. Amidst his fever a gleam of happiness\nsoftened his heart; a son, Luigi, was born to him, but the birth killed\nthe mother, and joy was turned into mourning. Then, unable to remain any\nlonger at Milan, where he was spied upon, tracked by the police,\nsuffering also too grievously from the foreign occupation, Orlando\ndecided to realise the little fortune remaining to him, and to withdraw\nto Turin, where an aunt of his wife took charge of the child. Count di\nCavour, like a great statesman, was then already seeking to bring about\nindependence, preparing Piedmont for the decisive _r\u00f4le_ which it was\ndestined to play. It was the time when King Victor Emmanuel evinced\nflattering cordiality towards all the refugees who came to him from every\npart of Italy, even those whom he knew to be Republicans, compromised and\nflying the consequences of popular insurrection. The rough, shrewd House\nof Savoy had long been dreaming of bringing about Italian unity to the\nprofit of the Piedmontese monarchy, and Orlando well knew under what\nmaster he was taking service; but in him the Republican already went\nbehind the patriot, and indeed he had begun to question the possibility\nof a united Republican Italy, placed under the protectorate of a liberal\nPope, as Mazzini had at one time dreamed. Was that not indeed a chimera\nbeyond realisation which would devour generation after generation if one\nobstinately continued to pursue it? For his part, he did not wish to die\nwithout having slept in Rome as one of the conquerors. Even if liberty\nwas to be lost, he desired to see his country united and erect, returning\nonce more to life in the full sunlight. And so it was with feverish\nhappiness that he enlisted at the outset of the war of 1859; and his\nheart palpitated with such force as almost to rend his breast, when,\nafter Magenta, he entered Milan with the French army--Milan which he had\nquitted eight years previously, like an exile, in despair. The treaty of\nVillafranca which followed Solferino proved a bitter deception: Venetia\nwas not secured, Venice remained enthralled. Nevertheless the Milanese\nwas conquered from the foe, and then Tuscany and the duchies of Parma and\nModena voted for annexation. So, at all events, the nucleus of the\nItalian star was formed; the country had begun to build itself up afresh\naround victorious Piedmont.\n\nThen, in the following year, Orlando plunged into epop\u0153ia once more.\nGaribaldi had returned from his two sojourns in America, with the halo of\na legend round him--paladin-like feats in the pampas of Uruguay, an\nextraordinary passage from Canton to Lima--and he had returned to take\npart in the war of 1859, forestalling the French army, overthrowing an\nAustrian marshal, and entering Como, Bergamo, and Brescia. And now, all\nat once, folks heard that he had landed at Marsala with only a thousand\nmen--the Thousand of Marsala, the ever illustrious handful of braves!\nOrlando fought in the first rank, and Palermo after three days\u2019\nresistance was carried. Becoming the dictator\u2019s favourite lieutenant, he\nhelped him to organise a government, then crossed the straits with him,\nand was beside him on the triumphal entry into Naples, whose king had\nfled. There was mad audacity and valour at that time, an explosion of the\ninevitable; and all sorts of supernatural stories were current--Garibaldi\ninvulnerable, protected better by his red shirt than by the strongest\narmour, Garibaldi routing opposing armies like an archangel, by merely\nbrandishing his flaming sword! The Piedmontese on their side had defeated\nGeneral Lamoriciere at Castelfidardo, and were invading the States of the\nChurch. And Orlando was there when the dictator, abdicating power, signed\nthe decree which annexed the Two Sicilies to the Crown of Italy; even as\nsubsequently he took part in that forlorn attempt on Rome, when the\nrageful cry was \u201cRome or Death!\u201d--an attempt which came to a tragic issue\nat Aspromonte, when the little army was dispersed by the Italian troops,\nand Garibaldi, wounded, was taken prisoner, and sent back to the solitude\nof his island of Caprera, where he became but a fisherman and a tiller of\nthe rocky soil.*\n\n  * M. Zola\u2019s brief but glowing account of Garibaldi\u2019s glorious\n    achievements has stirred many memories in my mind. My uncle,\n    Frank Vizetelly, the war artist of the _Illustrated London\n    News_, whose bones lie bleaching somewhere in the Soudan, was\n    one of Garibaldi\u2019s constant companions throughout the memorable\n    campaign of the Two Sicilies, and afterwards he went with him\n    to Caprera. Later, in 1870, my brother, Edward Vizetelly, acted\n    as orderly-officer to the general when he offered the help of\n    his sword to France.--Trans.\n\nSix years of waiting again went by, and Orlando still dwelt at Turin,\neven after Florence had been chosen as the new capital. The Senate had\nacclaimed Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy; and Italy was indeed almost\nbuilt, it lacked only Rome and Venice. But the great battles seemed all\nover, the epic era was closed; Venice was to be won by defeat. Orlando\ntook part in the unlucky battle of Custozza, where he received two\nwounds, full of furious grief at the thought that Austria should be\ntriumphant. But at that same moment the latter, defeated at Sadowa,\nrelinquished Venetia, and five months later Orlando satisfied his desire\nto be in Venice participating in the joy of triumph, when Victor Emmanuel\nmade his entry amidst the frantic acclamations of the people. Rome alone\nremained to be won, and wild impatience urged all Italy towards the city;\nbut friendly France had sworn to maintain the Pope, and this acted as a\ncheck. Then, for the third time, Garibaldi dreamt of renewing the feats\nof the old-world legends, and threw himself upon Rome like a soldier of\nfortune illumined by patriotism and free from every tie. And for the\nthird time Orlando shared in that fine heroic madness destined to be\nvanquished at Mentana by the Pontifical Zouaves supported by a small\nFrench corps. Again wounded, he came back to Turin in almost a dying\ncondition. But, though his spirit quivered, he had to resign himself; the\nsituation seemed to have no outlet; only an upheaval of the nations could\ngive Rome to Italy.\n\nAll at once the thunderclap of Sedan, of the downfall of France,\nresounded through the world; and then the road to Rome lay open, and\nOrlando, having returned to service in the regular army, was with the\ntroops who took up position in the Campagna to ensure the safety of the\nHoly See, as was said in the letter which Victor Emmanuel wrote to Pius\nIX. There was, however, but the shadow of an engagement: General\nKanzler\u2019s Pontifical Zouaves were compelled to fall back, and Orlando was\none of the first to enter the city by the breach of the Porta Pia. Ah!\nthat twentieth of September--that day when he experienced the greatest\nhappiness of his life--a day of delirium, of complete triumph, which\nrealised the dream of so many years of terrible contest, the dream for\nwhich he had sacrificed rest and fortune, and given both body and mind!\n\nThen came more than ten happy years in conquered Rome--in Rome adored,\nflattered, treated with all tenderness, like a woman in whom one has\nplaced one\u2019s entire hope. From her he awaited so much national vigour,\nsuch a marvellous resurrection of strength and glory for the endowment of\nthe young nation. Old Republican, old insurrectional soldier that he was,\nhe had been obliged to adhere to the monarchy, and accept a senatorship.\nBut then did not Garibaldi himself--Garibaldi his divinity--likewise call\nupon the King and sit in parliament? Mazzini alone, rejecting all\ncompromises, was unwilling to rest content with a united and independent\nItaly that was not Republican. Moreover, another consideration influenced\nOrlando, the future of his son Luigi, who had attained his eighteenth\nbirthday shortly after the occupation of Rome. Though he, Orlando, could\nmanage with the crumbs which remained of the fortune he had expended in\nhis country\u2019s service, he dreamt of a splendid destiny for the child of\nhis heart. Realising that the heroic age was over, he desired to make a\ngreat politician of him, a great administrator, a man who should be\nuseful to the mighty nation of the morrow; and it was on this account\nthat he had not rejected royal favour, the reward of long devotion,\ndesiring, as he did, to be in a position to help, watch, and guide Luigi.\nBesides, was he himself so old, so used-up, as to be unable to assist in\norganisation, even as he had assisted in conquest? Struck by his son\u2019s\nquick intelligence in business matters, perhaps also instinctively\ndivining that the battle would now continue on financial and economic\ngrounds, he obtained him employment at the Ministry of Finances. And\nagain he himself lived on, dreaming, still enthusiastically believing in\na splendid future, overflowing with boundless hope, seeing Rome double\nher population, grow and spread with a wild vegetation of new districts,\nand once more, in his loving enraptured eyes, become the queen of the\nworld.\n\nBut all at once came a thunderbolt. One morning, as he was going\ndownstairs, Orlando was stricken with paralysis. Both his legs suddenly\nbecame lifeless, as heavy as lead. It was necessary to carry him up\nagain, and never since had he set foot on the street pavement. At that\ntime he had just completed his fifty-sixth year, and for fourteen years\nsince he had remained in his arm-chair, as motionless as stone, he who\nhad so impetuously trod every battlefield of Italy. It was a pitiful\nbusiness, the collapse of a hero. And worst of all, from that room where\nhe was for ever imprisoned, the old soldier beheld the slow crumbling of\nall his hopes, and fell into dismal melancholy, full of unacknowledged\nfear for the future. Now that the intoxication of action no longer dimmed\nhis eyes, now that he spent his long and empty days in thought, his\nvision became clear. Italy, which he had desired to see so powerful, so\ntriumphant in her unity, was acting madly, rushing to ruin, possibly to\nbankruptcy. Rome, which to him had ever been the one necessary capital,\nthe city of unparalleled glory, requisite for the sovereign people of\nto-morrow, seemed unwilling to take upon herself the part of a great\nmodern metropolis; heavy as a corpse she weighed with all her centuries\non the bosom of the young nation. Moreover, his son Luigi distressed him.\nRebellious to all guidance, the young man had become one of the devouring\noffsprings of conquest, eager to despoil that Italy, that Rome, which his\nfather seemed to have desired solely in order that he might pillage them\nand batten on them. Orlando had vainly opposed Luigi\u2019s departure from the\nministry, his participation in the frantic speculations on land and house\nproperty to which the mad building of the new districts had given rise.\nBut at the same time he loved his son, and was reduced to silence,\nespecially now when everything had succeeded with Luigi, even his most\nrisky financial ventures, such as the transformation of the Villa\nMontefiori into a perfect town--a colossal enterprise in which many of\ngreat wealth had been ruined, but whence he himself had emerged with\nmillions. And it was in part for this reason that Orlando, sad and\nsilent, had obstinately restricted himself to one small room on the third\nfloor of the little palazzo erected by Luigi in the Via Venti\nSettembre--a room where he lived cloistered with a single servant,\nsubsisting on his own scanty income, and accepting nothing but that\nmodest hospitality from his son.\n\nAs Pierre reached that new Via Venti Settembre* which climbs the side and\nsummit of the Viminal hill, he was struck by the heavy sumptuousness of\nthe new \u201cpalaces,\u201d which betokened among the moderns the same taste for\nthe huge that marked the ancient Romans. In the warm afternoon glow,\nblent of purple and old gold, the broad, triumphant thoroughfare, with\nits endless rows of white house-fronts, bore witness to new Rome\u2019s proud\nhope of futurity and sovereign power. And Pierre fairly gasped when he\nbeheld the Palazzo delle Finanze, or Treasury, a gigantic erection, a\ncyclopean cube with a profusion of columns, balconies, pediments, and\nsculptured work, to which the building mania had given birth in a day of\nimmoderate pride. And on the other side of the street, a little higher\nup, before reaching the Villa Bonaparte, stood Count Prada\u2019s little\npalazzo.\n\n  * The name--Twentieth September Street--was given to the\n    thoroughfare to commemorate the date of the occupation\n    of Rome by Victor Emmanuel\u2019s army.--Trans.\n\nAfter discharging his driver, Pierre for a moment remained somewhat\nembarrassed. The door was open, and he entered the vestibule; but, as at\nthe mansion in the Via Giulia, no door porter or servant was to be seen.\nSo he had to make up his mind to ascend the monumental stairs, which with\ntheir marble balustrades seemed to be copied, on a smaller scale, from\nthose of the Palazzo Boccanera. And there was much the same cold\nbareness, tempered, however, by a carpet and red door-hangings, which\ncontrasted vividly with the white stucco of the walls. The\nreception-rooms, sixteen feet high, were on the first floor, and as a\ndoor chanced to be ajar he caught a glimpse of two _salons_, one\nfollowing the other, and both displaying quite modern richness, with a\nprofusion of silk and velvet hangings, gilt furniture, and lofty mirrors\nreflecting a pompous assemblage of stands and tables. And still there was\nnobody, not a soul, in that seemingly forsaken abode, which exhaled\nnought of woman\u2019s presence. Indeed Pierre was on the point of going down\nagain to ring, when a footman at last presented himself.\n\n\u201cCount Prada, if you please.\u201d\n\nThe servant silently surveyed the little priest, and seemed to\nunderstand. \u201cThe father or the son?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cThe father, Count Orlando Prada.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! that\u2019s on the third floor.\u201d And he condescended to add: \u201cThe little\ndoor on the right-hand side of the landing. Knock loudly if you wish to\nbe admitted.\u201d\n\nPierre indeed had to knock twice, and then a little withered old man of\nmilitary appearance, a former soldier who had remained in the Count\u2019s\nservice, opened the door and apologised for the delay by saying that he\nhad been attending to his master\u2019s legs. Immediately afterwards he\nannounced the visitor, and the latter, after passing through a dim and\nnarrow ante-room, was lost in amazement on finding himself in a\nrelatively small chamber, extremely bare and bright, with wall-paper of a\nlight hue studded with tiny blue flowers. Behind a screen was an iron\nbedstead, the soldier\u2019s pallet, and there was no other furniture than the\narm-chair in which the cripple spent his days, with a table of black wood\nplaced near him, and covered with books and papers, and two old\nstraw-seated chairs which served for the accommodation of the infrequent\nvisitors. A few planks, fixed to one of the walls, did duty as\nbook-shelves. However, the broad, clear, curtainless window overlooked\nthe most admirable panorama of Rome that could be desired.\n\nThen the room disappeared from before Pierre\u2019s eyes, and with a sudden\nshock of deep emotion he only beheld old Orlando, the old blanched lion,\nstill superb, broad, and tall. A forest of white hair crowned his\npowerful head, with its thick mouth, fleshy broken nose, and large,\nsparkling, black eyes. A long white beard streamed down with the vigour\nof youth, curling like that of an ancient god. By that leonine muzzle one\ndivined what great passions had growled within; but all, carnal and\nintellectual alike, had erupted in patriotism, in wild bravery, and\nriotous love of independence. And the old stricken hero, his torso still\nerect, was fixed there on his straw-seated arm-chair, with lifeless legs\nburied beneath a black wrapper. Alone did his arms and hands live, and\nhis face beam with strength and intelligence.\n\nOrlando turned towards his servant, and gently said to him: \u201cYou can go\naway, Batista. Come back in a couple of hours.\u201d Then, looking Pierre full\nin the face, he exclaimed in a voice which was still sonorous despite his\nseventy years: \u201cSo it\u2019s you at last, my dear Monsieur Froment, and we\nshall be able to chat at our ease. There, take that chair, and sit down\nin front of me.\u201d\n\nHe had noticed the glance of surprise which the young priest had cast\nupon the bareness of the room, and he gaily added: \u201cYou will excuse me\nfor receiving you in my cell. Yes, I live here like a monk, like an old\ninvalided soldier, henceforth withdrawn from active life. My son long\nbegged me to take one of the fine rooms downstairs. But what would have\nbeen the use of it? I have no needs, and I scarcely care for feather\nbeds, for my old bones are accustomed to the hard ground. And then too I\nhave such a fine view up here, all Rome presenting herself to me, now\nthat I can no longer go to her.\u201d\n\nWith a wave of the hand towards the window he sought to hide the\nembarrassment, the slight flush which came to him each time that he thus\nexcused his son; unwilling as he was to tell the true reason, the scruple\nof probity which had made him obstinately cling to his bare pauper\u2019s\nlodging.\n\n\u201cBut it is very nice, the view is superb!\u201d declared Pierre, in order to\nplease him. \u201cI am for my own part very glad to see you, very glad to be\nable to grasp your valiant hands, which accomplished so many great\nthings.\u201d\n\nOrlando made a fresh gesture, as though to sweep the past away. \u201cPooh!\npooh! all that is dead and buried. Let us talk about you, my dear\nMonsieur Froment, you who are young and represent the present; and\nespecially about your book, which represents the future! Ah! if you only\nknew how angry your book, your \u2018New Rome,\u2019 made me first of all.\u201d\n\nHe began to laugh, and took the book from off the table near him; then,\ntapping on its cover with his big, broad hand, he continued: \u201cNo, you\ncannot imagine with what starts of protest I read your book. The Pope,\nand again the Pope, and always the Pope! New Rome to be created by the\nPope and for the Pope, to triumph thanks to the Pope, to be given to the\nPope, and to fuse its glory in the glory of the Pope! But what about us?\nWhat about Italy? What about all the millions which we have spent in\norder to make Rome a great capital? Ah! only a Frenchman, and a Frenchman\nof Paris, could have written such a book! But let me tell you, my dear\nsir, if you are ignorant of it, that Rome has become the capital of the\nkingdom of Italy, that we here have King Humbert, and the Italian people,\na whole nation which must be taken into account, and which means to keep\nRome--glorious, resuscitated Rome--for itself!\u201d\n\nThis juvenile ardour made Pierre laugh in turn. \u201cYes, yes,\u201d said he, \u201cyou\nwrote me that. Only what does it matter from my point of view? Italy is\nbut one nation, a part of humanity, and I desire concord and fraternity\namong all the nations, mankind reconciled, believing, and happy. Of what\nconsequence, then, is any particular form of government, monarchy or\nrepublic, of what consequence is any question of a united and independent\ncountry, if all mankind forms but one free people subsisting on truth and\njustice?\u201d\n\nTo only one word of this enthusiastic outburst did Orlando pay attention.\nIn a lower tone, and with a dreamy air, he resumed: \u201cAh! a republic. In\nmy youth I ardently desired one. I fought for one; I conspired with\nMazzini, a saintly man, a believer, who was shattered by collision with\nthe absolute. And then, too, one had to bow to practical necessities; the\nmost obstinate ended by submitting. And nowadays would a republic save\nus? In any case it would differ but little from our parliamentary\nmonarchy. Just think of what goes on in France! And so why risk a\nrevolution which would place power in the hands of the extreme\nrevolutionists, the anarchists? We fear all that, and this explains our\nresignation. I know very well that a few think they can detect salvation\nin a republican federation, a reconstitution of all the former little\nstates in so many republics, over which Rome would preside. The Vatican\nwould gain largely by any such transformation; still one cannot say that\nit endeavours to bring it about; it simply regards the eventuality\nwithout disfavour. But it is a dream, a dream!\u201d\n\nAt this Orlando\u2019s gaiety came back to him, with even a little gentle\nirony: \u201cYou don\u2019t know, I suppose, what it was that took my fancy in your\nbook--for, in spite of all my protests, I have read it twice. Well, what\npleased me was that Mazzini himself might almost have written it at one\ntime. Yes! I found all my youth again in your pages, all the wild hope of\nmy twenty-fifth year, the new religion of a humanitarian Christ, the\npacification of the world effected by the Gospel! Are you aware that,\nlong before your time, Mazzini desired the renovation of Christianity? He\nset dogma and discipline on one side and only retained morals. And it was\nnew Rome, the Rome of the people, which he would have given as see to the\nuniversal Church, in which all the churches of the past were to be\nfused--Rome, the eternal and predestined city, the mother and queen,\nwhose domination was to arise anew to ensure the definitive happiness of\nmankind! Is it not curious that all the present-day Neo-Catholicism, the\nvague, spiritualistic awakening, the evolution towards communion and\nChristian charity, with which some are making so much stir, should be\nsimply a return of the mystical and humanitarian ideas of 1848? Alas! I\nsaw all that, I believed and burned, and I know in what a fine mess those\nflights into the azure of mystery landed us! So it cannot be helped, I\nlack confidence.\u201d\n\nThen, as Pierre on his side was growing impassioned and sought to reply,\nhe stopped him: \u201cNo, let me finish. I only want to convince you how\nabsolutely necessary it was that we should take Rome and make her the\ncapital of Italy. Without Rome new Italy could not have existed; Rome\nrepresented the glory of ancient time; in her dust lay the sovereign\npower which we wished to re-establish; she brought strength, beauty,\neternity to those who possessed her. Standing in the middle of our\ncountry, she was its heart, and must assuredly become its life as soon as\nshe should be awakened from the long sleep of ruin. Ah! how we desired\nher, amidst victory and amidst defeat, through years and years of\nfrightful impatience! For my part I loved her, and longed for her, far\nmore than for any woman, with my blood burning, and in despair that I\nshould be growing old. And when we possessed her, our folly was a desire\nto behold her huge, magnificent, and commanding all at once, the equal of\nthe other great capitals of Europe--Berlin, Paris, and London. Look at\nher! she is still my only love, my only consolation now that I am\nvirtually dead, with nothing alive in me but my eyes.\u201d\n\nWith the same gesture as before, he directed Pierre\u2019s attention to the\nwindow. Under the glowing sky Rome stretched out in its immensity,\nempurpled and gilded by the slanting sunrays. Across the horizon, far,\nfar away, the trees of the Janiculum stretched a green girdle, of a\nlimpid emerald hue, whilst the dome of St. Peter\u2019s, more to the left,\nshowed palely blue, like a sapphire bedimmed by too bright a light. Then\ncame the low town, the old ruddy city, baked as it were by centuries of\nburning summers, soft to the eye and beautiful with the deep life of the\npast, an unbounded chaos of roofs, gables, towers, _campanili_, and\ncupolas. But, in the foreground under the window, there was the new\ncity--that which had been building for the last five and twenty\nyears--huge blocks of masonry piled up side by side, still white with\nplaster, neither the sun nor history having as yet robed them in purple.\nAnd in particular the roofs of the colossal Palazzo delle Finanze had a\ndisastrous effect, spreading out like far, bare steppes of cruel\nhideousness. And it was upon the desolation and abomination of all the\nnewly erected piles that the eyes of the old soldier of conquest at last\nrested.\n\nSilence ensued. Pierre felt the faint chill of hidden, unacknowledged\nsadness pass by, and courteously waited.\n\n\u201cI must beg your pardon for having interrupted you just now,\u201d resumed\nOrlando; \u201cbut it seems to me that we cannot talk about your book to any\ngood purpose until you have seen and studied Rome closely. You only\narrived yesterday, did you not? Well, stroll about the city, look at\nthings, question people, and I think that many of your ideas will change.\nI shall particularly like to know your impression of the Vatican since\nyou have come here solely to see the Pope and defend your book against\nthe Index. Why should we discuss things to-day, if facts themselves are\ncalculated to bring you to other views, far more readily than the finest\nspeeches which I might make? It is understood, you will come to see me\nagain, and we shall then know what we are talking about, and, maybe,\nagree together.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy certainly, you are too kind,\u201d replied Pierre. \u201cI only came to-day to\nexpress my gratitude to you for having read my book so attentively, and\nto pay homage to one of the glories of Italy.\u201d\n\nOrlando was not listening, but remained for a moment absorbed in thought,\nwith his eyes still resting upon Rome. And overcome, despite himself, by\nsecret disquietude, he resumed in a low voice as though making an\ninvoluntary confession: \u201cWe have gone too fast, no doubt. There were\nexpenses of undeniable utility--the roads, ports, and railways. And it\nwas necessary to arm the country also; I did not at first disapprove of\nthe heavy military burden. But since then how crushing has been the war\nbudget--a war which has never come, and the long wait for which has\nruined us. Ah! I have always been the friend of France. I only reproach\nher with one thing, that she has failed to understand the position in\nwhich we were placed, the vital reasons which compelled us to ally\nourselves with Germany. And then there are the thousand millions of\n_lire_* swallowed up in Rome! That was the real madness; pride and\nenthusiasm led us astray. Old and solitary as I\u2019ve been for many years\nnow, given to deep reflection, I was one of the first to divine the\npitfall, the frightful financial crisis, the deficit which would bring\nabout the collapse of the nation. I shouted it from the housetops, to my\nson, to all who came near me; but what was the use? They didn\u2019t listen;\nthey were mad, still buying and selling and building, with no thought but\nfor gambling booms and bubbles. But you\u2019ll see, you\u2019ll see. And the worst\nis that we are not situated as you are; we haven\u2019t a reserve of men and\nmoney in a dense peasant population, whose thrifty savings are always at\nhand to fill up the gaps caused by big catastrophes. There is no social\nrise among our people as yet; fresh men don\u2019t spring up out of the lower\nclasses to reinvigorate the national blood, as they constantly do in your\ncountry. And, besides, the people are poor; they have no stockings to\nempty. The misery is frightful, I must admit it. Those who have any money\nprefer to spend it in the towns in a petty way rather than to risk it in\nagricultural or manufacturing enterprise. Factories are but slowly built,\nand the land is almost everywhere tilled in the same primitive manner as\nit was two thousand years ago. And then, too, take Rome--Rome, which\ndidn\u2019t make Italy, but which Italy made its capital to satisfy an ardent,\noverpowering desire--Rome, which is still but a splendid bit of scenery,\npicturing the glory of the centuries, and which, apart from its\nhistorical splendour, has only given us its degenerate papal population,\nswollen with ignorance and pride! Ah! I loved Rome too well, and I still\nlove it too well to regret being now within its walls. But, good heavens!\nwhat insanity its acquisition brought us, what piles of money it has cost\nus, and how heavily and triumphantly it weighs us down! Look! look!\u201d\n\n  * 40,000,000 pounds.\n\nHe waved his hand as he spoke towards the livid roofs of the Palazzo\ndelle Finanze, that vast and desolate steppe, as though he could see the\nharvest of glory all stripped off and bankruptcy appear with its fearful,\nthreatening bareness. Restrained tears were dimming his eyes, and he\nlooked superbly pitiful with his expression of baffled hope and grievous\ndisquietude, with his huge white head, the muzzle of an old blanched lion\nhenceforth powerless and caged in that bare, bright room, whose\npoverty-stricken aspect was instinct with so much pride that it seemed,\nas it were, a protest against the monumental splendour of the whole\nsurrounding district! So those were the purposes to which the conquest\nhad been put! And to think that he was impotent, henceforth unable to\ngive his blood and his soul as he had done in the days gone by.\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d he exclaimed in a final outburst; \u201cone gave everything, heart\nand brain, one\u2019s whole life indeed, so long as it was a question of\nmaking the country one and independent. But, now that the country is\nours, just try to stir up enthusiasm for the reorganisation of its\nfinances! There\u2019s no ideality in that! And this explains why, whilst the\nold ones are dying off, not a new man comes to the front among the young\nones--\u201d\n\nAll at once he stopped, looking somewhat embarrassed, yet smiling at his\nfeverishness. \u201cExcuse me,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019m off again, I\u2019m incorrigible. But\nit\u2019s understood, we\u2019ll leave that subject alone, and you\u2019ll come back\nhere, and we\u2019ll chat together when you\u2019ve seen everything.\u201d\n\nFrom that moment he showed himself extremely pleasant, and it was\napparent to Pierre that he regretted having said so much, by the\nseductive affability and growing affection which he now displayed. He\nbegged the young priest to prolong his sojourn, to abstain from all hasty\njudgments on Rome, and to rest convinced that, at bottom, Italy still\nloved France. And he was also very desirous that France should love\nItaly, and displayed genuine anxiety at the thought that perhaps she\nloved her no more. As at the Boccanera mansion, on the previous evening,\nPierre realised that an attempt was being made to persuade him to\nadmiration and affection. Like a susceptible woman with secret misgivings\nrespecting the attractive power of her beauty, Italy was all anxiety with\nregard to the opinion of her visitors, and strove to win and retain their\nlove.\n\nHowever, Orlando again became impassioned when he learnt that Pierre was\nstaying at the Boccanera mansion, and he made a gesture of extreme\nannoyance on hearing, at that very moment, a knock at the outer door.\n\u201cCome in!\u201d he called; but at the same time he detained Pierre, saying,\n\u201cNo, no, don\u2019t go yet; I wish to know--\u201d\n\nBut a lady came in--a woman of over forty, short and extremely plump, and\nstill attractive with her small features and pretty smile swamped in fat.\nShe was a blonde, with green, limpid eyes; and, fairly well dressed in a\nsober, nicely fitting mignonette gown, she looked at once pleasant,\nmodest, and shrewd.\n\n\u201cAh! it\u2019s you, Stefana,\u201d said the old man, letting her kiss him.\n\n\u201cYes, uncle, I was passing by and came up to see how you were getting\non.\u201d\n\nThe visitor was the Signora Sacco, niece of Prada and a Neapolitan by\nbirth, her mother having quitted Milan to marry a certain Pagani, a\nNeapolitan banker, who had afterwards failed. Subsequent to that disaster\nStefana had married Sacco, then merely a petty post-office clerk. He,\nlater on, wishing to revive his father-in-law\u2019s business, had launched\ninto all sorts of terrible, complicated, suspicious affairs, which by\nunforeseen luck had ended in his election as a deputy. Since he had\narrived in Rome, to conquer the city in his turn, his wife had been\ncompelled to assist his devouring ambition by dressing well and opening a\n_salon_; and, although she was still a little awkward, she rendered him\nmany real services, being very economical and prudent, a thorough good\nhousewife, with all the sterling, substantial qualities of Northern Italy\nwhich she had inherited from her mother, and which showed conspicuously\nbeside the turbulence and carelessness of her husband, in whom flared\nSouthern Italy with its perpetual, rageful appetite.\n\nDespite his contempt for Sacco, old Orlando had retained some affection\nfor his niece, in whose veins flowed blood similar to his own. He thanked\nher for her kind inquiries, and then at once spoke of an announcement\nwhich he had read in the morning papers, for he suspected that the deputy\nhad sent his wife to ascertain his opinion.\n\n\u201cWell, and that ministry?\u201d he asked.\n\nThe Signora had seated herself and made no haste to reply, but glanced at\nthe newspapers strewn over the table. \u201cOh! nothing is settled yet,\u201d she\nat last responded; \u201cthe newspapers spoke out too soon. The Prime Minister\nsent for Sacco, and they had a talk together. But Sacco hesitates a good\ndeal; he fears that he has no aptitude for the Department of Agriculture.\nAh! if it were only the Finances--However, in any case, he would not have\ncome to a decision without consulting you. What do you think of it,\nuncle?\u201d\n\nHe interrupted her with a violent wave of the hand: \u201cNo, no, I won\u2019t mix\nmyself up in such matters!\u201d\n\nTo him the rapid success of that adventurer Sacco, that schemer and\ngambler who had always fished in troubled waters, was an abomination, the\nbeginning of the end. His son Luigi certainly distressed him; but it was\neven worse to think that--whilst Luigi, with his great intelligence and\nmany remaining fine qualities, was nothing at all--Sacco, on the other\nhand, Sacco, blunderhead and ever-famished battener that he was, had not\nmerely slipped into parliament, but was now, it seemed, on the point of\nsecuring office! A little, swarthy, dry man he was, with big, round eyes,\nprojecting cheekbones, and prominent chin. Ever dancing and chattering,\nhe was gifted with a showy eloquence, all the force of which lay in his\nvoice--a voice which at will became admirably powerful or gentle! And\nwithal an insinuating man, profiting by every opportunity, wheedling and\ncommanding by turn.\n\n\u201cYou hear, Stefana,\u201d said Orlando; \u201ctell your husband that the only\nadvice I have to give him is to return to his clerkship at the\npost-office, where perhaps he may be of use.\u201d\n\nWhat particularly filled the old soldier with indignation and despair was\nthat such a man, a Sacco, should have fallen like a bandit on Rome--on\nthat Rome whose conquest had cost so many noble efforts. And in his turn\nSacco was conquering the city, was carrying it off from those who had won\nit by such hard toil, and was simply using it to satisfy his wild passion\nfor power and its attendant enjoyments. Beneath his wheedling air there\nwas the determination to devour everything. After the victory, while the\nspoil lay there, still warm, the wolves had come. It was the North that\nhad made Italy, whereas the South, eager for the quarry, simply rushed\nupon the country, preyed upon it. And beneath the anger of the old\nstricken hero of Italian unity there was indeed all the growing\nantagonism of the North towards the South--the North industrious,\neconomical, shrewd in politics, enlightened, full of all the great modern\nideas, and the South ignorant and idle, bent on enjoying life\nimmediately, amidst childish disorder in action, and an empty show of\nfine sonorous words.\n\nStefana had begun to smile in a placid way while glancing at Pierre, who\nhad approached the window. \u201cOh, you say that, uncle,\u201d she responded; \u201cbut\nyou love us well all the same, and more than once you have given me\nmyself some good advice, for which I\u2019m very thankful to you. For\ninstance, there\u2019s that affair of Attilio\u2019s--\u201d\n\nShe was alluding to her son, the lieutenant, and his love affair with\nCelia, the little Princess Buongiovanni, of which all the drawing-rooms,\nwhite and black alike, were talking.\n\n\u201cAttilio--that\u2019s another matter!\u201d exclaimed Orlando. \u201cHe and you are both\nof the same blood as myself, and it\u2019s wonderful how I see myself again in\nthat fine fellow. Yes, he is just the same as I was at his age,\ngood-looking and brave and enthusiastic! I\u2019m paying myself compliments,\nyou see. But, really now, Attilio warms my heart, for he is the future,\nand brings me back some hope. Well, and what about his affair?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! it gives us a lot of worry, uncle. I spoke to you about it before,\nbut you shrugged your shoulders, saying that in matters of that kind all\nthat the parents had to do was to let the lovers settle their affairs\nbetween them. Still, we don\u2019t want everybody to repeat that we are urging\nour son to get the little princess to elope with him, so that he may\nafterwards marry her money and title.\u201d\n\nAt this Orlando indulged in a frank outburst of gaiety: \u201cThat\u2019s a fine\nscruple! Was it your husband who instructed you to tell me of it? I know,\nhowever, that he affects some delicacy in this matter. For my own part, I\nbelieve myself to be as honest as he is, and I can only repeat that, if I\nhad a son like yours, so straightforward and good, and candidly loving, I\nshould let him marry whomsoever he pleased in his own way. The\nBuongiovannis--good heavens! the Buongiovannis--why, despite all their\nrank and lineage and the money they still possess, it will be a great\nhonour for them to have a handsome young man with a noble heart as their\nson-in-law!\u201d\n\nAgain did Stefana assume an expression of placid satisfaction. She had\ncertainly only come there for approval. \u201cVery well, uncle,\u201d she replied,\n\u201cI\u2019ll repeat that to my husband, and he will pay great attention to it;\nfor if you are severe towards him he holds you in perfect veneration. And\nas for that ministry--well, perhaps nothing will be done, Sacco will\ndecide according to circumstances.\u201d\n\nShe rose and took her leave, kissing the old soldier very affectionately\nas on her arrival. And she complimented him on his good looks, declaring\nthat she found him as handsome as ever, and making him smile by speaking\nof a lady who was still madly in love with him. Then, after acknowledging\nthe young priest\u2019s silent salutation by a slight bow, she went off, once\nmore wearing her modest and sensible air.\n\nFor a moment Orlando, with his eyes turned towards the door, remained\nsilent, again sad, reflecting no doubt on all the difficult, equivocal\npresent, so different from the glorious past. But all at once he turned\nto Pierre, who was still waiting. \u201cAnd so, my friend,\u201d said he, \u201cyou are\nstaying at the Palazzo Boccanera? Ah! what a grievous misfortune there\nhas been on that side too!\u201d\n\nHowever, when the priest had told him of his conversation with Benedetta,\nand of her message that she still loved him and would never forget his\ngoodness to her, no matter whatever happened, he appeared moved and his\nvoice trembled: \u201cYes, she has a good heart, she has no spite. But what\nwould you have? She did not love Luigi, and he was possibly violent.\nThere is no mystery about the matter now, and I can speak to you freely,\nsince to my great grief everybody knows what has happened.\u201d\n\nThen Orlando abandoned himself to his recollections, and related how keen\nhad been his delight on the eve of the marriage at the thought that so\nlovely a creature would become his daughter, and set some youth and charm\naround his invalid\u2019s arm-chair. He had always worshipped beauty, and\nwould have had no other love than woman, if his country had not seized\nupon the best part of him. And Benedetta on her side loved him, revered\nhim, constantly coming up to spend long hours with him, sharing his poor\nlittle room, which at those times became resplendent with all the divine\ngrace that she brought with her. With her fresh breath near him, the pure\nscent she diffused, the caressing womanly tenderness with which she\nsurrounded him, he lived anew. But, immediately afterwards, what a\nfrightful drama and how his heart had bled at his inability to reconcile\nthe husband and the wife! He could not possibly say that his son was in\nthe wrong in desiring to be the loved and accepted spouse. At first\nindeed he had hoped to soften Benedetta, and throw her into Luigi\u2019s arms.\nBut when she had confessed herself to him in tears, owning her old love\nfor Dario, and her horror of belonging to another, he realised that she\nwould never yield. And a whole year had then gone by; he had lived for a\nwhole year imprisoned in his arm-chair, with that poignant drama\nprogressing beneath him in those luxurious rooms whence no sound even\nreached his ears. How many times had he not listened, striving to hear,\nfearing atrocious quarrels, in despair at his inability to prove still\nuseful by creating happiness. He knew nothing by his son, who kept his\nown counsel; he only learnt a few particulars from Benedetta at intervals\nwhen emotion left her defenceless; and that marriage in which he had for\na moment espied the much-needed alliance between old and new Rome, that\nunconsummated marriage filled him with despair, as if it were indeed the\ndefeat of every hope, the final collapse of the dream which had filled\nhis life. And he himself had ended by desiring the divorce, so unbearable\nhad become the suffering caused by such a situation.\n\n\u201cAh! my friend!\u201d he said to Pierre; \u201cnever before did I so well\nunderstand the fatality of certain antagonism, the possibility of working\none\u2019s own misfortune and that of others, even when one has the most\nloving heart and upright mind!\u201d\n\nBut at that moment the door again opened, and this time, without\nknocking, Count Luigi Prada came in. And after rapidly bowing to the\nvisitor, who had risen, he gently took hold of his father\u2019s hands and\nfelt them, as if fearing that they might be too warm or too cold.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve just arrived from Frascati, where I had to sleep,\u201d said he; \u201cfor\nthe interruption of all that building gives me a lot of worry. And I\u2019m\ntold that you spent a bad night!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I assure you.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I knew you wouldn\u2019t own it. But why will you persist in living up\nhere without any comfort? All this isn\u2019t suited to your age. I should be\nso pleased if you would accept a more comfortable room where you might\nsleep better.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no--I know that you love me well, my dear Luigi. But let me do as my\nold head tells me. That\u2019s the only way to make me happy.\u201d\n\nPierre was much struck by the ardent affection which sparkled in the eyes\nof the two men as they gazed at one another, face to face. This seemed to\nhim very touching and beautiful, knowing as he did how many contrary\nideas and actions, how many moral divergencies separated them. And he\nnext took an interest in comparing them physically. Count Luigi Prada,\nshorter, more thick-set than his father, had, however, much the same\nstrong energetic head, crowned with coarse black hair, and the same frank\nbut somewhat stern eyes set in a face of clear complexion, barred by\nthick moustaches. But his mouth differed--a sensual, voracious mouth it\nwas, with wolfish teeth--a mouth of prey made for nights of rapine, when\nthe only question is to bite, and tear, and devour others. And for this\nreason, when some praised the frankness in his eyes, another would\nretort: \u201cYes, but I don\u2019t like his mouth.\u201d His feet were large, his hands\nplump and over-broad, but admirably cared for.\n\nAnd Pierre marvelled at finding him such as he had anticipated. He knew\nenough of his story to picture in him a hero\u2019s son spoilt by conquest,\neagerly devouring the harvest garnered by his father\u2019s glorious sword.\nAnd he particularly studied how the father\u2019s virtues had deflected and\nbecome transformed into vices in the son--the most noble qualities being\nperverted, heroic and disinterested energy lapsing into a ferocious\nappetite for possession, the man of battle leading to the man of booty,\nsince the great gusts of enthusiasm no longer swept by, since men no\nlonger fought, since they remained there resting, pillaging, and\ndevouring amidst the heaped-up spoils. And the pity of it was that the\nold hero, the paralytic, motionless father beheld it all--beheld the\ndegeneration of his son, the speculator and company promoter gorged with\nmillions!\n\nHowever, Orlando introduced Pierre. \u201cThis is Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Pierre\nFroment, whom I spoke to you about,\u201d he said, \u201cthe author of the book\nwhich I gave you to read.\u201d\n\nLuigi Prada showed himself very amiable, at once talking of home with an\nintelligent passion like one who wished to make the city a great modern\ncapital. He had seen Paris transformed by the Second Empire; he had seen\nBerlin enlarged and embellished after the German victories; and,\naccording to him, if Rome did not follow the movement, if it did not\nbecome the inhabitable capital of a great people, it was threatened with\nprompt death: either a crumbling museum or a renovated, resuscitated\ncity--those were the alternatives.*\n\n  * Personally I should have thought the example of Berlin a great\n    deterrent. The enlargement and embellishment of the Prussian\n    capital, after the war of 1870, was attended by far greater\n    roguery and wholesale swindling than even the previous\n    transformation of Paris. Thousands of people too were ruined,\n    and instead of an increase of prosperity the result was the\n    very reverse.--Trans.\n\nGreatly struck, almost gained over already, Pierre listened to this\nclever man, charmed with his firm, clear mind. He knew how skilfully\nPrada had man\u0153uvred in the affair of the Villa Montefiori, enriching\nhimself when every one else was ruined, having doubtless foreseen the\nfatal catastrophe even while the gambling passion was maddening the\nentire nation. However, the young priest could already detect marks of\nweariness, precocious wrinkles and a fall of the lips, on that\ndetermined, energetic face, as though its possessor were growing tired of\nthe continual struggle that he had to carry on amidst surrounding\ndownfalls, the shock of which threatened to bring the most firmly\nestablished fortunes to the ground. It was said that Prada had recently\nhad grave cause for anxiety; and indeed there was no longer any solidity\nto be found; everything might be swept away by the financial crisis which\nday by day was becoming more and more serious. In the case of Luigi,\nsturdy son though he was of Northern Italy, a sort of degeneration had\nset in, a slow rot, caused by the softening, perversive influence of\nRome. He had there rushed upon the satisfaction of every appetite, and\nprolonged enjoyment was exhausting him. This, indeed, was one of the\ncauses of the deep silent sadness of Orlando, who was compelled to\nwitness the swift deterioration of his conquering race, whilst Sacco, the\nItalian of the South--served as it were by the climate, accustomed to the\nvoluptuous atmosphere, the life of those sun-baked cities compounded of\nthe dust of antiquity--bloomed there like the natural vegetation of a\nsoil saturated with the crimes of history, and gradually grasped\neverything, both wealth and power.\n\nAs Orlando spoke of Stefana\u2019s visit to his son, Sacco\u2019s name was\nmentioned. Then, without another word, the two men exchanged a smile. A\nrumour was current that the Minister of Agriculture, lately deceased,\nwould perhaps not be replaced immediately, and that another minister\nwould take charge of the department pending the next session of the\nChamber.\n\nNext the Palazzo Boccanera was mentioned, and Pierre, his interest\nawakened, became more attentive. \u201cAh!\u201d exclaimed Count Luigi, turning to\nhim, \u201cso you are staying in the Via Giulia? All the Rome of olden time\nsleeps there in the silence of forgetfulness.\u201d\n\nWith perfect ease he went on to speak of the Cardinal and even of\nBenedetta--\u201cthe Countess,\u201d as he called her. But, although he was careful\nto let no sign of anger escape him, the young priest could divine that he\nwas secretly quivering, full of suffering and spite. In him the\nenthusiastic energy of his father appeared in a baser, degenerate form.\nQuitting the yet handsome Princess Flavia in his passion for Benedetta,\nher divinely beautiful niece, he had resolved to make the latter his own\nat any cost, determined to marry her, to struggle with her and overcome\nher, although he knew that she loved him not, and that he would almost\ncertainly wreck his entire life. Rather than relinquish her, however, he\nwould have set Rome on fire. And thus his hopeless suffering was now\ngreat indeed: this woman was but his wife in name, and so torturing was\nthe thought of her disdain, that at times, however calm his outward\ndemeanour, he was consumed by a jealous vindictive sensual madness that\ndid not even recoil from the idea of crime.\n\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 is acquainted with the situation,\u201d sadly murmured old\nOrlando.\n\nHis son responded by a wave of the hand, as though to say that everybody\nwas acquainted with it. \u201cAh! father,\u201d he added, \u201cbut for you I should\nnever have consented to take part in those proceedings for annulling the\nmarriage! The Countess would have found herself compelled to return here,\nand would not nowadays be deriding us with her lover, that cousin of\nhers, Dario!\u201d\n\nAt this Orlando also waved his hand, as if in protest.\n\n\u201cOh! it\u2019s a fact, father,\u201d continued Luigi. \u201cWhy did she flee from here\nif it wasn\u2019t to go and live with her lover? And indeed, in my opinion,\nit\u2019s scandalous that a Cardinal\u2019s palace should shelter such goings-on!\u201d\n\nThis was the report which he spread abroad, the accusation which he\neverywhere levelled against his wife, of publicly carrying on a shameless\n_liaison_. In reality, however, he did not believe a word of it, being\ntoo well acquainted with Benedetta\u2019s firm rectitude, and her\ndetermination to belong to none but the man she loved, and to him only in\nmarriage. However, in Prada\u2019s eyes such accusations were not only fair\nplay but also very efficacious.\n\nAnd now, although he turned pale with covert exasperation, and laughed a\nhard, vindictive, cruel laugh, he went on to speak in a bantering tone of\nthe proceedings for annulling the marriage, and in particular of the plea\nput forward by Benedetta\u2019s advocate Morano. And at last his language\nbecame so free that Orlando, with a glance towards the priest, gently\ninterposed: \u201cLuigi! Luigi!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, you are right, father, I\u2019ll say no more,\u201d thereupon added the young\nCount. \u201cBut it\u2019s really abominable and ridiculous. Lisbeth, you know, is\nhighly amused at it.\u201d\n\nOrlando again looked displeased, for when visitors were present he did\nnot like his son to refer to the person whom he had just named. Lisbeth\nKauffmann, very blonde and pink and merry, was barely thirty years of\nage, and belonged to the Roman foreign colony. For two years past she had\nbeen a widow, her husband having died at Rome whither he had come to\nnurse a complaint of the lungs. Thenceforward free, and sufficiently well\noff, she had remained in the city by taste, having a marked predilection\nfor art, and painting a little, herself. In the Via Principe Amadeo, in\nthe new Viminal district, she had purchased a little palazzo, and\ntransformed a large apartment on its second floor into a studio hung with\nold stuffs, and balmy in every season with the scent of flowers. The\nplace was well known to tolerant and intellectual society. Lisbeth was\nthere found in perpetual jubilation, clad in a long blouse, somewhat of a\n_gamine_ in her ways, trenchant too and often bold of speech, but\nnevertheless capital company, and as yet compromised with nobody but\nPrada. Their _liaison_ had begun some four months after his wife had left\nhim, and now Lisbeth was near the time of becoming a mother. This she in\nno wise concealed, but displayed such candid tranquillity and happiness\nthat her numerous acquaintances continued to visit her as if there were\nnothing in question, so facile and free indeed is the life of the great\ncosmopolitan continental cities. Under the circumstances which his wife\u2019s\nsuit had created, Prada himself was not displeased at the turn which\nevents had taken with regard to Lisbeth, but none the less his incurable\nwound still bled.\n\nThere could be no compensation for the bitterness of Benedetta\u2019s disdain,\nit was she for whom his heart burned, and he dreamt of one day wreaking\non her a tragic punishment.\n\nPierre, knowing nothing of Lisbeth, failed to understand the allusions of\nOrlando and his son. But realising that there was some embarrassment\nbetween them, he sought to take countenance by picking from off the\nlittered table a thick book which, to his surprise, he found to be a\nFrench educational work, one of those manuals for the _baccalaureat_,*\ncontaining a digest of the knowledge which the official programmes\nrequire. It was but a humble, practical, elementary work, yet it\nnecessarily dealt with all the mathematical, physical, chemical, and\nnatural sciences, thus broadly outlining the intellectual conquests of\nthe century, the present phase of human knowledge.\n\n  * The examination for the degree of bachelor, which degree is\n    the necessary passport to all the liberal professions in France.\n    M. Zola, by the way, failed to secure it, being ploughed for\n    \u201cinsufficiency in literature\u201d!--Trans.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d exclaimed Orlando, well pleased with the diversion, \u201cyou are\nlooking at the book of my old friend Th\u00e9ophile Morin. He was one of the\nthousand of Marsala, you know, and helped us to conquer Sicily and\nNaples. A hero! But for more than thirty years now he has been living in\nFrance again, absorbed in the duties of his petty professorship, which\nhasn\u2019t made him at all rich. And so he lately published that book, which\nsells very well in France it seems; and it occurred to him that he might\nincrease his modest profits on it by issuing translations, an Italian one\namong others. He and I have remained brothers, and thinking that my\ninfluence would prove decisive, he wishes to utilise it. But he is\nmistaken; I fear, alas! that I shall be unable to get anybody to take up\nhis book.\u201d\n\nAt this Luigi Prada, who had again become very composed and amiable,\nshrugged his shoulders slightly, full as he was of the scepticism of his\ngeneration which desired to maintain things in their actual state so as\nto derive the greatest profit from them. \u201cWhat would be the good of it?\u201d\n he murmured; \u201cthere are too many books already!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no!\u201d the old man passionately retorted, \u201cthere can never be too many\nbooks! We still and ever require fresh ones! It\u2019s by literature, not by\nthe sword, that mankind will overcome falsehood and injustice and attain\nto the final peace of fraternity among the nations--Oh! you may smile; I\nknow that you call these ideas my fancies of \u201848, the fancies of a\ngreybeard, as people say in France. But it is none the less true that\nItaly is doomed, if the problem be not attacked from down below, if the\npeople be not properly fashioned. And there is only one way to make a\nnation, to create men, and that is to educate them, to develop by\neducational means the immense lost force which now stagnates in ignorance\nand idleness. Yes, yes, Italy is made, but let us make an Italian nation.\nAnd give us more and more books, and let us ever go more and more forward\ninto science and into light, if we wish to live and to be healthy, good,\nand strong!\u201d\n\nWith his torso erect, with his powerful leonine muzzle flaming with the\nwhite brightness of his beard and hair, old Orlando looked superb. And in\nthat simple, candid chamber, so touching with its intentional poverty, he\nraised his cry of hope with such intensity of feverish faith, that before\nthe young priest\u2019s eyes there arose another figure--that of Cardinal\nBoccanera, erect and black save for his snow-white hair, and likewise\nglowing with heroic beauty in his crumbling palace whose gilded ceilings\nthreatened to fall about his head! Ah! the magnificent stubborn men of\nthe past, the believers, the old men who still show themselves more\nvirile, more ardent than the young! Those two represented the opposite\npoles of belief; they had not an idea, an affection in common, and in\nthat ancient city of Rome, where all was being blown away in dust, they\nalone seemed to protest, indestructible, face to face like two parted\nbrothers, standing motionless on either horizon. And to have seen them\nthus, one after the other, so great and grand, so lonely, so detached\nfrom ordinary life, was to fill one\u2019s day with a dream of eternity.\n\nLuigi, however, had taken hold of the old man\u2019s hands to calm him by an\naffectionate filial clasp. \u201cYes, yes, you are right, father, always\nright, and I\u2019m a fool to contradict you. Now, pray don\u2019t move about like\nthat, for you are uncovering yourself, and your legs will get cold\nagain.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he knelt down and very carefully arranged the wrapper; and\nthen remaining on the floor like a child, albeit he was two and forty, he\nraised his moist eyes, full of mute, entreating worship towards the old\nman who, calmed and deeply moved, caressed his hair with a trembling\ntouch.\n\nPierre had been there for nearly two hours, when he at last took leave,\ngreatly struck and affected by all that he had seen and heard. And again\nhe had to promise that he would return and have a long chat with Orlando.\nOnce out of doors he walked along at random. It was barely four o\u2019clock,\nand it was his idea to ramble in this wise, without any predetermined\nprogramme, through Rome at that delightful hour when the sun sinks in the\nrefreshed and far blue atmosphere. Almost immediately, however, he found\nhimself in the Via Nazionale, along which he had driven on arriving the\nprevious day. And he recognised the huge livid Banca d\u2019Italia, the green\ngardens climbing to the Quirinal, and the heaven-soaring pines of the\nVilla Aldobrandini. Then, at the turn of the street, as he stopped short\nin order that he might again contemplate the column of Trajan which now\nrose up darkly from its low piazza, already full of twilight, he was\nsurprised to see a victoria suddenly pull up, and a young man courteously\nbeckon to him.\n\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment!\u201d\n\nIt was young Prince Dario Boccanera, on his way to his daily drive along\nthe Corso. He now virtually subsisted on the liberality of his uncle the\nCardinal, and was almost always short of money. But, like all the Romans,\nhe would, if necessary, have rather lived on bread and water than have\nforgone his carriage, horse, and coachman. An equipage, indeed, is the\none indispensable luxury of Rome.\n\n\u201cIf you will come with me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment,\u201d said the young\nPrince, \u201cI will show you the most interesting part of our city.\u201d\n\nHe doubtless desired to please Benedetta, by behaving amiably towards her\nprot\u00e9g\u00e9. Idle as he was, too, it seemed to him a pleasant occupation to\ninitiate that young priest, who was said to be so intelligent, into what\nhe deemed the inimitable side, the true florescence of Roman life.\n\nPierre was compelled to accept, although he would have preferred a\nsolitary stroll. Yet he was interested in this young man, the last born\nof an exhausted race, who, while seemingly incapable of either thought or\naction, was none the less very seductive with his high-born pride and\nindolence. Far more a Roman than a patriot, Dario had never had the\nfaintest inclination to rally to the new order of things, being well\ncontent to live apart and do nothing; and passionate though he was, he\nindulged in no follies, being very practical and sensible at heart, as\nare all his fellow-citizens, despite their apparent impetuosity. As soon\nas his carriage, after crossing the Piazza di Venezia, entered the Corso,\nhe gave rein to his childish vanity, his desire to shine, his passion for\ngay, happy life in the open under the lovely sky. All this, indeed, was\nclearly expressed in the simple gesture which he made whilst exclaiming:\n\u201cThe Corso!\u201d\n\nAs on the previous day, Pierre was filled with astonishment. The long\nnarrow street again stretched before him as far as the white dazzling\nPiazza del Popolo, the only difference being that the right-hand houses\nwere now steeped in sunshine, whilst those on the left were black with\nshadow. What! was that the Corso then, that semi-obscure trench, close\npressed by high and heavy house-fronts, that mean roadway where three\nvehicles could scarcely pass abreast, and which serried shops lined with\ngaudy displays? There was neither space, nor far horizon, nor refreshing\ngreenery such as the fashionable drives of Paris could boast! Nothing but\njostling, crowding, and stifling on the little footways under the narrow\nstrip of sky. And although Dario named the pompous and historical\npalaces, Bonaparte, Doria, Odescalchi, Sciarra, and Chigi; although he\npointed out the column of Marcus Aurelius on the Piazza Colonna, the most\nlively square of the whole city with its everlasting throng of lounging,\ngazing, chattering people; although, all the way to the Piazza del\nPopolo, he never ceased calling attention to churches, houses, and\nside-streets, notably the Via dei Condotti, at the far end of which the\nTrinity de\u2019 Monti, all golden in the glory of the sinking sun, appeared\nabove that famous flight of steps, the triumphal Scala di Spagna--Pierre\nstill and ever retained the impression of disillusion which the narrow,\nairless thoroughfare had conveyed to him: the \u201cpalaces\u201d looked to him\nlike mournful hospitals or barracks, the Piazza Colonna suffered terribly\nfrom a lack of trees, and the Trinity de\u2019 Monti alone took his fancy by\nits distant radiance of fairyland.\n\nBut it was necessary to come back from the Piazza del Popolo to the\nPiazza di Venezia, then return to the former square, and come back yet\nagain, following the entire Corso three and four times without wearying.\nThe delighted Dario showed himself and looked about him, exchanging\nsalutations. On either footway was a compact crowd of promenaders whose\neyes roamed over the equipages and whose hands could have shaken those of\nthe carriage folks. So great at last became the number of vehicles that\nboth lines were absolutely unbroken, crowded to such a point that the\ncoachmen could do no more than walk their horses. Perpetually going up\nand coming down the Corso, people scrutinised and jostled one another. It\nwas open-air promiscuity, all Rome gathered together in the smallest\npossible space, the folks who knew one another and who met here as in a\nfriendly drawing-room, and the folks belonging to adverse parties who did\nnot speak together but who elbowed each other, and whose glances\npenetrated to each other\u2019s soul. Then a revelation came to Pierre, and he\nsuddenly understood the Corso, the ancient custom, the passion and glory\nof the city. Its pleasure lay precisely in the very narrowness of the\nstreet, in that forced elbowing which facilitated not only desired\nmeetings but the satisfaction of curiosity, the display of vanity, and\nthe garnering of endless tittle-tattle. All Roman society met here each\nday, displayed itself, spied on itself, offering itself in spectacle to\nits own eyes, with such an indispensable need of thus beholding itself\nthat the man of birth who missed the Corso was like one out of his\nelement, destitute of newspapers, living like a savage. And withal the\natmosphere was delightfully balmy, and the narrow strip of sky between\nthe heavy, rusty mansions displayed an infinite azure purity.\n\nDario never ceased smiling, and slightly inclining his head while he\nrepeated to Pierre the names of princes and princesses, dukes and\nduchesses--high-sounding names whose flourish had filled history, whose\nsonorous syllables conjured up the shock of armour on the battlefield and\nthe splendour of papal pomp with robes of purple, tiaras of gold, and\nsacred vestments sparkling with precious stones. And as Pierre listened\nand looked he was pained to see merely some corpulent ladies or\nundersized gentlemen, bloated or shrunken beings, whose ill-looks seemed\nto be increased by their modern attire. However, a few pretty women went\nby, particularly some young, silent girls with large, clear eyes. And\njust as Dario had pointed out the Palazzo Buongiovanni, a huge\nseventeenth-century fa\u00e7ade, with windows encompassed by foliaged\nornamentation deplorably heavy in style, he added gaily:\n\n\u201cAh! look--that\u2019s Attilio there on the footway. Young Lieutenant\nSacco--you know, don\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nPierre signed that he understood. Standing there in uniform, Attilio, so\nyoung, so energetic and brave of appearance, with a frank countenance\nsoftly illumined by blue eyes like his mother\u2019s, at once pleased the\npriest. He seemed indeed the very personification of youth and love, with\nall their enthusiastic, disinterested hope in the future.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll see by and by, when we pass the palace again,\u201d said Dario. \u201cHe\u2019ll\nstill be there and I\u2019ll show you something.\u201d\n\nThen he began to talk gaily of the girls of Rome, the little princesses,\nthe little duchesses, so discreetly educated at the convent of the Sacred\nHeart, quitting it for the most part so ignorant and then completing\ntheir education beside their mothers, never going out but to accompany\nthe latter on the obligatory drive to the Corso, and living through\nendless days, cloistered, imprisoned in the depths of sombre mansions.\nNevertheless what tempests raged in those mute souls to which none had\never penetrated! what stealthy growth of will suddenly appeared from\nunder passive obedience, apparent unconsciousness of surroundings! How\nmany there were who stubbornly set their minds on carving out their lives\nfor themselves, on choosing the man who might please them, and securing\nhim despite the opposition of the entire world! And the lover was chosen\nthere from among the stream of young men promenading the Corso, the lover\nhooked with a glance during the daily drive, those candid eyes speaking\naloud and sufficing for confession and the gift of all, whilst not a\nbreath was wafted from the lips so chastely closed. And afterwards there\ncame love letters, furtively exchanged in church, and the winning-over of\nmaids to facilitate stolen meetings, at first so innocent. In the end, a\nmarriage often resulted.\n\nCelia, for her part, had determined to win Attilio on the very first day\nwhen their eyes had met. And it was from a window of the Palazzo\nBuongiovanni that she had perceived him one afternoon of mortal\nweariness. He had just raised his head, and she had taken him for ever\nand given herself to him with those large, pure eyes of hers as they\nrested on his own. She was but an _amorosa_--nothing more; he pleased\nher; she had set her heart on him--him and none other. She would have\nwaited twenty years for him, but she relied on winning him at once by\nquiet stubbornness of will. People declared that the terrible fury of the\nPrince, her father, had proved impotent against her respectful, obstinate\nsilence. He, man of mixed blood as he was, son of an American woman, and\nhusband of an English woman, laboured but to retain his own name and\nfortune intact amidst the downfall of others; and it was rumoured that as\nthe result of a quarrel which he had picked with his wife, whom he\naccused of not sufficiently watching over their daughter, the Princess\nhad revolted, full not only of the pride of a foreigner who had brought a\nhuge dowry in marriage, but also of such plain, frank egotism that she\nhad declared she no longer found time enough to attend to herself, let\nalone another. Had she not already done enough in bearing him five\nchildren? She thought so; and now she spent her time in worshipping\nherself, letting Celia do as she listed, and taking no further interest\nin the household through which swept stormy gusts.\n\nHowever, the carriage was again about to pass the Buongiovanni mansion,\nand Dario forewarned Pierre. \u201cYou see,\u201d said he, \u201cAttilio has come back.\nAnd now look up at the third window on the first floor.\u201d\n\nIt was at once rapid and charming. Pierre saw the curtain slightly drawn\naside and Celia\u2019s gentle face appear. Closed, candid lily, she did not\nsmile, she did not move. Nothing could be read on those pure lips, or in\nthose clear but fathomless eyes of hers. Yet she was taking Attilio to\nherself, and giving herself to him without reserve. And soon the curtain\nfell once more.\n\n\u201cAh, the little mask!\u201d muttered Dario. \u201cCan one ever tell what there is\nbehind so much innocence?\u201d\n\nAs Pierre turned round he perceived Attilio, whose head was still raised,\nand whose face was also motionless and pale, with closed mouth, and\nwidely opened eyes. And the young priest was deeply touched, for this was\nlove, absolute love in its sudden omnipotence, true love, eternal and\njuvenescent, in which ambition and calculation played no part.\n\nThen Dario ordered the coachman to drive up to the Pincio; for, before or\nafter the Corso, the round of the Pincio is obligatory on fine, clear\nafternoons. First came the Piazza del Popolo, the most airy and regular\nsquare of Rome, with its conjunction of thoroughfares, its churches and\nfountains, its central obelisk, and its two clumps of trees facing one\nanother at either end of the small white paving-stones, betwixt the\nsevere and sun-gilt buildings. Then, turning to the right, the carriage\nbegan to climb the inclined way to the Pincio--a magnificent winding\nascent, decorated with bas-reliefs, statues, and fountains--a kind of\napotheosis of marble, a commemoration of ancient Rome, rising amidst\ngreenery. Up above, however, Pierre found the garden small, little better\nthan a large square, with just the four necessary roadways to enable the\ncarriages to drive round and round as long as they pleased. An\nuninterrupted line of busts of the great men of ancient and modern Italy\nfringed these roadways. But what Pierre most admired was the trees--trees\nof the most rare and varied kinds, chosen and tended with infinite care,\nand nearly always evergreens, so that in winter and summer alike the spot\nwas adorned with lovely foliage of every imaginable shade of verdure. And\nbeside these trees, along the fine, breezy roadways, Dario\u2019s victoria\nbegan to turn, following the continuous, unwearying stream of the other\ncarriages.\n\nPierre remarked one young woman of modest demeanour and attractive\nsimplicity who sat alone in a dark-blue victoria, drawn by a\nwell-groomed, elegantly harnessed horse. She was very pretty, short, with\nchestnut hair, a creamy complexion, and large gentle eyes. Quietly robed\nin dead-leaf silk, she wore a large hat, which alone looked somewhat\nextravagant. And seeing that Dario was staring at her, the priest\ninquired her name, whereat the young Prince smiled. Oh! she was nobody,\nLa Tonietta was the name that people gave her; she was one of the few\n_demi-mondaines_ that Roman society talked of. Then, with the freeness\nand frankness which his race displays in such matters, Dario added some\nparticulars. La Tonietta\u2019s origin was obscure; some said that she was the\ndaughter of an innkeeper of Tivoli, and others that of a Neapolitan\nbanker. At all events, she was very intelligent, had educated herself,\nand knew thoroughly well how to receive and entertain people at the\nlittle palazzo in the Via dei Mille, which had been given to her by old\nMarquis Manfredi now deceased. She made no scandalous show, had but one\nprotector at a time, and the princesses and duchesses who paid attention\nto her at the Corso every afternoon, considered her nice-looking. One\npeculiarity had made her somewhat notorious. There was some one whom she\nloved and from whom she never accepted aught but a bouquet of white\nroses; and folks would smile indulgently when at times for weeks together\nshe was seen driving round the Pincio with those pure, white bridal\nflowers on the carriage seat.\n\nDario, however, suddenly paused in his explanations to address a\nceremonious bow to a lady who, accompanied by a gentleman, drove by in a\nlarge landau. Then he simply said to the priest: \u201cMy mother.\u201d\n\nPierre already knew of her. Viscount de la Choue had told him her story,\nhow, after Prince Onofrio Boccanera\u2019s death, she had married again,\nalthough she was already fifty; how at the Corso, just like some young\ngirl, she had hooked with her eyes a handsome man to her liking--one,\ntoo, who was fifteen years her junior. And Pierre also knew who that man\nwas, a certain Jules Laporte, an ex-sergeant of the papal Swiss Guard, an\nex-traveller in relics, compromised in an extraordinary \u201cfalse relic\u201d\n fraud; and he was further aware that Laporte\u2019s wife had made a\nfine-looking Marquis Montefiori of him, the last of the fortunate\nadventurers of romance, triumphing as in the legendary lands where\nshepherds are wedded to queens.\n\nAt the next turn, as the large landau again went by, Pierre looked at the\ncouple. The Marchioness was really wonderful, blooming with all the\nclassical Roman beauty, tall, opulent, and very dark, with the head of a\ngoddess and regular if somewhat massive features, nothing as yet\nbetraying her age except the down upon her upper lip. And the Marquis,\nthe Romanised Swiss of Geneva, really had a proud bearing, with his solid\nsoldierly figure and long wavy moustaches. People said that he was in no\nwise a fool but, on the contrary, very gay and very supple, just the man\nto please women. His wife so gloried in him that she dragged him about\nand displayed him everywhere, having begun life afresh with him as if she\nwere still but twenty, spending on him the little fortune which she had\nsaved from the Villa Montefiori disaster, and so completely forgetting\nher son that she only saw the latter now and again at the promenade and\nacknowledged his bow like that of some chance acquaintance.\n\n\u201cLet us go to see the sun set behind St. Peter\u2019s,\u201d all at once said\nDario, conscientiously playing his part as a showman of curiosities.\n\nThe victoria thereupon returned to the terrace, where a military band was\nnow playing with a terrific blare of brass instruments. In order that\ntheir occupants might hear the music, a large number of carriages had\nalready drawn up, and a growing crowd of loungers on foot had assembled\nthere. And from that beautiful terrace, so broad and lofty, one of the\nmost wonderful views of Rome was offered to the gaze. Beyond the Tiber,\nbeyond the pale chaos of the new district of the castle meadows,* and\nbetween the greenery of Monte Mario and the Janiculum arose St. Peter\u2019s.\nThen on the left came all the olden city, an endless stretch of roofs, a\nrolling sea of edifices as far as the eye could reach. But one\u2019s glances\nalways came back to St. Peter\u2019s, towering into the azure with pure and\nsovereign grandeur. And, seen from the terrace, the slow sunsets in the\ndepths of the vast sky behind the colossus were sublime.\n\n  * See _ante_ note on castle meadows.\n\nSometimes there are topplings of sanguineous clouds, battles of giants\nhurling mountains at one another and succumbing beneath the monstrous\nruins of flaming cities. Sometimes only red streaks or fissures appear on\nthe surface of a sombre lake, as if a net of light has been flung to fish\nthe submerged orb from amidst the seaweed. Sometimes, too, there is a\nrosy mist, a kind of delicate dust which falls, streaked with pearls by a\ndistant shower, whose curtain is drawn across the mystery of the horizon.\nAnd sometimes there is a triumph, a _cort\u00e8ge_ of gold and purple chariots\nof cloud rolling along a highway of fire, galleys floating upon an azure\nsea, fantastic and extravagant pomps slowly sinking into the less and\nless fathomable abyss of the twilight.\n\nBut that night the sublime spectacle presented itself to Pierre with a\ncalm, blinding, desperate grandeur. At first, just above the dome of St.\nPeter\u2019s, the sun, descending in a spotless, deeply limpid sky, proved yet\nso resplendent that one\u2019s eyes could not face its brightness. And in this\nresplendency the dome seemed to be incandescent, you would have said a\ndome of liquid silver; whilst the surrounding districts, the house-roofs\nof the Borgo, were as though changed into a lake of live embers. Then, as\nthe sun was by degrees inclined, it lost some of its blaze, and one could\nlook; and soon afterwards sinking with majestic slowness it disappeared\nbehind the dome, which showed forth darkly blue, while the orb, now\nentirely hidden, set an aureola around it, a glory like a crown of\nflaming rays. And then began the dream, the dazzling symbol, the singular\nillumination of the row of windows beneath the cupola which were\ntranspierced by the light and looked like the ruddy mouths of furnaces,\nin such wise that one might have imagined the dome to be poised upon a\nbrazier, isolated, in the air, as though raised and upheld by the\nviolence of the fire. It all lasted barely three minutes. Down below the\njumbled roofs of the Borgo became steeped in violet vapour, sank into\nincreasing gloom, whilst from the Janiculum to Monte Mario the horizon\nshowed its firm black line. And it was the sky then which became all\npurple and gold, displaying the infinite placidity of a supernatural\nradiance above the earth which faded into nihility. Finally the last\nwindow reflections were extinguished, the glow of the heavens departed,\nand nothing remained but the vague, fading roundness of the dome of St.\nPeter\u2019s amidst the all-invading night.\n\nAnd, by some subtle connection of ideas, Pierre at that moment once again\nsaw rising before him the lofty, sad, declining figures of Cardinal\nBoccanera and old Orlando. On the evening of that day when he had learnt\nto know them, one after the other, both so great in the obstinacy of\ntheir hope, they seemed to be there, erect on the horizon above their\nannihilated city, on the fringe of the heavens which death apparently was\nabout to seize. Was everything then to crumble with them? was everything\nto fade away and disappear in the falling night following upon\naccomplished Time?\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nON the following day Narcisse Habert came in great worry to tell Pierre\nthat Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo complained of being unwell, and asked for\na delay of two or three days before receiving the young priest and\nconsidering the matter of his audience. Pierre was thus reduced to\ninaction, for he dared not make any attempt elsewhere in view of seeing\nthe Pope. He had been so frightened by Nani and others that he feared he\nmight jeopardise everything by inconsiderate endeavours. And so he began\nto visit Rome in order to occupy his leisure.\n\nHis first visit was for the ruins of the Palatine. Going out alone one\nclear morning at eight o\u2019clock, he presented himself at the entrance in\nthe Via San Teodoro, an iron gateway flanked by the lodges of the\nkeepers. One of the latter at once offered his services, and though\nPierre would have preferred to roam at will, following the bent of his\ndream, he somehow did not like to refuse the offer of this man, who spoke\nFrench very distinctly, and smiled in a very good-natured way. He was a\nsquatly built little man, a former soldier, some sixty years of age, and\nhis square-cut, ruddy face was barred by thick white moustaches.\n\n\u201cThen will you please follow me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said he. \u201cI can see\nthat you are French, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. I\u2019m a Piedmontese myself, but I\nknow the French well enough; I was with them at Solferino. Yes, yes,\nwhatever people may say, one can\u2019t forget old friendships. Here, this\nway, please, to the right.\u201d\n\nRaising his eyes, Pierre had just perceived the line of cypresses edging\nthe plateau of the Palatine on the side of the Tiber; and in the delicate\nblue atmosphere the intense greenery of these trees showed like a black\nfringe. They alone attracted the eye; the slope, of a dusty, dirty grey,\nstretched out bare and devastated, dotted by a few bushes, among which\npeeped fragments of ancient walls. All was instinct with the ravaged,\nleprous sadness of a spot handed over to excavation, and where only men\nof learning could wax enthusiastic.\n\n\u201cThe palaces of Tiberius, Caligula, and the Flavians are up above,\u201d\n resumed the guide. \u201cWe must keep then for the end and go round.\u201d\n Nevertheless he took a few steps to the left, and pausing before an\nexcavation, a sort of grotto in the hillside, exclaimed: \u201cThis is the\nLupercal den where the wolf suckled Romulus and Remus. Just here at the\nentry used to stand the Ruminal fig-tree which sheltered the twins.\u201d\n\nPierre could not restrain a smile, so convinced was the tone in which the\nold soldier gave these explanations, proud as he was of all the ancient\nglory, and wont to regard the wildest legends as indisputable facts.\nHowever, when the worthy man pointed out some vestiges of Roma\nQuadrata--remnants of walls which really seemed to date from the\nfoundation of the city--Pierre began to feel interested, and a first\ntouch of emotion made his heart beat. This emotion was certainly not due\nto any beauty of scene, for he merely beheld a few courses of tufa\nblocks, placed one upon the other and uncemented. But a past which had\nbeen dead for seven and twenty centuries seemed to rise up before him,\nand those crumbling, blackened blocks, the foundation of such a mighty\neclipse of power and splendour, acquired extraordinary majesty.\n\nContinuing their inspection, they went on, skirting the hillside. The\noutbuildings of the palaces must have descended to this point; fragments\nof porticoes, fallen beams, columns and friezes set up afresh, edged the\nrugged path which wound through wild weeds, suggesting a neglected\ncemetery; and the guide repeated the words which he had used day by day\nfor ten years past, continuing to enunciate suppositions as facts, and\ngiving a name, a destination, a history, to every one of the fragments.\n\n\u201cThe house of Augustus,\u201d he said at last, pointing towards some masses of\nearth and rubbish.\n\nThereupon Pierre, unable to distinguish anything, ventured to inquire:\n\u201cWhere do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d said the man, \u201cit seems that the walls were still to be seen at the\nend of the last century. But it was entered from the other side, from the\nSacred Way. On this side there was a huge balcony which overlooked the\nCircus Maximus so that one could view the sports. However, as you can\nsee, the greater part of the palace is still buried under that big garden\nup above, the garden of the Villa Mills. When there\u2019s money for fresh\nexcavations it will be found again, together with the temple of Apollo\nand the shrine of Vesta which accompanied it.\u201d\n\nTurning to the left, he next entered the Stadium, the arena erected for\nfoot-racing, which stretched beside the palace of Augustus; and the\npriest\u2019s interest was now once more awakened. It was not that he found\nhimself in presence of well-preserved and monumental remains, for not a\ncolumn had remained erect, and only the right-hand walls were still\nstanding. But the entire plan of the building had been traced, with the\ngoals at either end, the porticus round the course, and the colossal\nimperial tribune which, after being on the left, annexed to the house of\nAugustus, had afterwards opened on the right, fitting into the palace of\nSeptimius Severus. And while Pierre looked on all the scattered remnants,\nhis guide went on chattering, furnishing the most copious and precise\ninformation, and declaring that the gentlemen who directed the\nexcavations had mentally reconstructed the Stadium in each and every\nparticular, and were even preparing a most exact plan of it, showing all\nthe columns in their proper order and the statues in their niches, and\neven specifying the divers sorts of marble which had covered the walls.\n\n\u201cOh! the directors are quite at ease,\u201d the old soldier eventually added\nwith an air of infinite satisfaction. \u201cThere will be nothing for the\nGermans to pounce on here. They won\u2019t be allowed to set things\ntopsy-turvy as they did at the Forum, where everybody\u2019s at sea since they\ncame along with their wonderful science!\u201d\n\nPierre--a Frenchman--smiled, and his interest increased when, by broken\nsteps and wooden bridges thrown over gaps, he followed the guide into the\ngreat ruins of the palace of Severus. Rising on the southern point of the\nPalatine, this palace had overlooked the Appian Way and the Campagna as\nfar as the eye could reach. Nowadays, almost the only remains are the\nsubstructures, the subterranean halls contrived under the arches of the\nterraces, by which the plateau of the hill was enlarged; and yet these\ndismantled substructures suffice to give some idea of the triumphant\npalace which they once upheld, so huge and powerful have they remained in\ntheir indestructible massiveness. Near by arose the famous Septizonium,\nthe tower with the seven tiers of arcades, which only finally disappeared\nin the sixteenth century. One of the palace terraces yet juts out upon\ncyclopean arches and from it the view is splendid. But all the rest is a\ncommingling of massive yet crumbling walls, gaping depths whose ceilings\nhave fallen, endless corridors and vast halls of doubtful destination.\nWell cared for by the new administration, swept and cleansed of weeds,\nthe ruins have lost their romantic wildness and assumed an aspect of bare\nand mournful grandeur. However, flashes of living sunlight often gild the\nancient walls, penetrate by their breaches into the black halls, and\nanimate with their dazzlement the mute melancholy of all this dead\nsplendour now exhumed from the earth in which it slumbered for centuries.\nOver the old ruddy masonry, stripped of its pompous marble covering, is\nthe purple mantle of the sunlight, draping the whole with imperial glory\nonce more.\n\nFor more than two hours already Pierre had been walking on, and yet he\nstill had to visit all the earlier palaces on the north and east of the\nplateau. \u201cWe must go back,\u201d said the guide, \u201cthe gardens of the Villa\nMills and the convent of San Bonaventura stop the way. We shall only be\nable to pass on this side when the excavations have made a clearance. Ah!\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, if you had walked over the Palatine merely some fifty\nyears ago! I\u2019ve seen some plans of that time. There were only some\nvineyards and little gardens with hedges then, a real campagna, where not\na soul was to be met. And to think that all these palaces were sleeping\nunderneath!\u201d\n\nPierre followed him, and after again passing the house of Augustus, they\nascended the slope and reached the vast Flavian palace,* still half\nburied by the neighbouring villa, and composed of a great number of halls\nlarge and small, on the nature of which scholars are still arguing. The\naula regia, or throne-room, the basilica, or hall of justice, the\ntriclinium, or dining-room, and the peristylium seem certainties; but for\nall the rest, and especially the small chambers of the private part of\nthe structure, only more or less fanciful conjectures can be offered.\nMoreover, not a wall is entire; merely foundations peep out of the\nground, mutilated bases describing the plan of the edifice. The only ruin\npreserved, as if by miracle, is the house on a lower level which some\nassert to have been that of Livia,* a house which seems very small beside\nall the huge palaces, and where are three halls comparatively intact,\nwith mural paintings of mythological scenes, flowers, and fruits, still\nwonderfully fresh. As for the palace of Tiberius, not one of its stones\ncan be seen; its remains lie buried beneath a lovely public garden;\nwhilst of the neighbouring palace of Caligula, overhanging the Forum,\nthere are only some huge substructures, akin to those of the house of\nSeverus--buttresses, lofty arcades, which upheld the palace, vast\nbasements, so to say, where the praetorians were posted and gorged\nthemselves with continual junketings. And thus this lofty plateau\ndominating the city merely offered some scarcely recognisable vestiges to\nthe view, stretches of grey, bare soil turned up by the pick, and dotted\nwith fragments of old walls; and it needed a real effort of scholarly\nimagination to conjure up the ancient imperial splendour which once had\ntriumphed there.\n\n  * Begun by Vespasian and finished by Domitian.--Trans.\n\n  ** Others assert it to have been the house of Germanicus,\n     father of Caligula.--Trans.\n\nNevertheless Pierre\u2019s guide, with quiet conviction, persisted in his\nexplanations, pointing to empty space as though the edifices still rose\nbefore him. \u201cHere,\u201d said he, \u201cwe are in the Area Palatina. Yonder, you\nsee, is the fa\u00e7ade of Domitian\u2019s palace, and there you have that of\nCaligula\u2019s palace, while on turning round the temple of Jupiter Stator is\nin front of you. The Sacred Way came up as far as here, and passed under\nthe Porta Mugonia, one of the three gates of primitive Rome.\u201d\n\nHe paused and pointed to the northwest portion of the height. \u201cYou will\nhave noticed,\u201d he resumed, \u201cthat the Caesars didn\u2019t build yonder. And\nthat was evidently because they had to respect some very ancient\nmonuments dating from before the foundation of the city and greatly\nvenerated by the people. There stood the temple of Victory built by\nEvander and his Arcadians, the Lupercal grotto which I showed you, and\nthe humble hut of Romulus constructed of reeds and clay. Oh! everything\nhas been found again, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9; and, in spite of all that the\nGermans say there isn\u2019t the slightest doubt of it.\u201d\n\nThen, quite abruptly, like a man suddenly remembering the most\ninteresting thing of all, he exclaimed: \u201cAh! to wind up we\u2019ll just go to\nsee the subterranean gallery where Caligula was murdered.\u201d\n\nThereupon they descended into a long crypto-porticus, through the\nbreaches of which the sun now casts bright rays. Some ornaments of stucco\nand fragments of mosaic-work are yet to be seen. Still the spot remains\nmournful and desolate, well fitted for tragic horror. The old soldier\u2019s\nvoice had become graver as he related how Caligula, on returning from the\nPalatine games, had been minded to descend all alone into this gallery to\nwitness certain sacred dances which some youths from Asia were practising\nthere. And then it was that the gloom gave Cassius Chaereas, the chief of\nthe conspirators, an opportunity to deal him the first thrust in the\nabdomen. Howling with pain, the emperor sought to flee; but the\nassassins, his creatures, his dearest friends, rushed upon him, threw him\ndown, and dealt him blow after blow, whilst he, mad with rage and fright,\nfilled the dim, deaf gallery with the howling of a slaughtered beast.\nWhen he had expired, silence fell once more, and the frightened murderers\nfled.\n\nThe classical visit to the Palatine was now over, and when Pierre came up\ninto the light again, he wished to rid himself of his guide and remain\nalone in the pleasant, dreamy garden on the summit of the height. For\nthree hours he had been tramping about with the guide\u2019s voice buzzing in\nhis ears. The worthy man was now talking of his friendship for France and\nrelating the battle of Magenta in great detail. He smiled as he took the\npiece of silver which Pierre offered him, and then started on the battle\nof Solferino. Indeed, it seemed impossible to stop him, when fortunately\na lady came up to ask for some information. And, thereupon, he went off\nwith her. \u201cGood-evening, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d he said; \u201cyou can go down by\nway of Caligula\u2019s palace.\u201d\n\nDelightful was Pierre\u2019s relief when he was at last able to rest for a\nmoment on one of the marble seats in the garden. There were but few\nclumps of trees, cypresses, box-trees, palms, and some fine evergreen\noaks; but the latter, sheltering the seat, cast a dark shade of exquisite\nfreshness around. The charm of the spot was also largely due to its\ndreamy solitude, to the low rustle which seemed to come from that ancient\nsoil saturated with resounding history. Here formerly had been the\npleasure grounds of the Villa Farnese which still exists though greatly\ndamaged, and the grace of the Renascence seems to linger here, its breath\npassing caressingly through the shiny foliage of the old evergreen oaks.\nYou are, as it were, enveloped by the soul of the past, an ethereal\nconglomeration of visions, and overhead is wafted the straying breath of\ninnumerable generations buried beneath the sod.\n\nAfter a time, however, Pierre could no longer remain seated, so powerful\nwas the attraction of Rome, scattered all around that august summit. So\nhe rose and approached the balustrade of a terrace; and beneath him\nappeared the Forum, and beyond it the Capitoline hill. To the eye the\nlatter now only presented a commingling of grey buildings, lacking both\ngrandeur and beauty. On the summit one saw the rear of the Palace of the\nSenator, flat, with little windows, and surmounted by a high, square\ncampanile. The large, bare, rusty-looking walls hid the church of Santa\nMaria in Ara Coeli and the spot where the temple of Capitoline Jove had\nformerly stood, radiant in all its royalty. On the left, some ugly houses\nrose terrace-wise upon the slope of Monte Caprino, where goats were\npastured in the middle ages; while the few fine trees in the grounds of\nthe Caffarelli palace, the present German embassy, set some greenery\nabove the ancient Tarpeian rock now scarcely to be found, lost, hidden as\nit is, by buttress walls. Yet this was the Mount of the Capitol, the most\nglorious of the seven hills, with its citadel and its temple, the temple\nto which universal dominion was promised, the St. Peter\u2019s of pagan Rome;\nthis indeed was the hill--steep on the side of the Forum, and a precipice\non that of the Campus Martius--where the thunder of Jupiter fell, where\nin the dimmest of the far-off ages the Asylum of Romulus rose with its\nsacred oaks, a spot of infinite savage mystery. Here, later, were\npreserved the public documents of Roman grandeur inscribed on tablets of\nbrass; hither climbed the heroes of the triumphs; and here the emperors\nbecame gods, erect in statues of marble. And nowadays the eye inquires\nwonderingly how so much history and so much glory can have had for their\nscene so small a space, such a rugged, jumbled pile of paltry buildings,\na mole-hill, looking no bigger, no loftier than a hamlet perched between\ntwo valleys.\n\nThen another surprise for Pierre was the Forum, starting from the Capitol\nand stretching out below the Palatine: a narrow square, close pressed by\nthe neighbouring hills, a hollow where Rome in growing had been compelled\nto rear edifice close to edifice till all stifled for lack of breathing\nspace. It was necessary to dig very deep--some fifty feet--to find the\nvenerable republican soil, and now all you see is a long, clean, livid\ntrench, cleared of ivy and bramble, where the fragments of paving, the\nbases of columns, and the piles of foundations appear like bits of bone.\nLevel with the ground the Basilica Julia, entirely mapped out, looks like\nan architect\u2019s ground plan. On that side the arch of Septimius Severus\nalone rears itself aloft, virtually intact, whilst of the temple of\nVespasian only a few isolated columns remain still standing, as if by\nmiracle, amidst the general downfall, soaring with a proud elegance, with\nsovereign audacity of equilibrium, so slender and so gilded, into the\nblue heavens. The column of Phocas is also erect; and you see some\nportions of the Rostra fitted together out of fragments discovered near\nby. But if the eye seeks a sensation of extraordinary vastness, it must\ntravel beyond the three columns of the temple of Castor and Pollux,\nbeyond the vestiges of the house of the Vestals, beyond the temple of\nFaustina, in which the Christian Church of San Lorenzo has so composedly\ninstalled itself, and even beyond the round temple of Romulus, to light\nupon the Basilica of Constantine with its three colossal, gaping\narchways. From the Palatine they look like porches built for a nation of\ngiants, so massive that a fallen fragment resembles some huge rock hurled\nby a whirlwind from a mountain summit. And there, in that illustrious,\nnarrow, overflowing Forum the history of the greatest of nations held for\ncenturies, from the legendary time of the Sabine women, reconciling their\nrelatives and their ravishers, to that of the proclamation of public\nliberty, so slowly wrung from the patricians by the plebeians. Was not\nthe Forum at once the market, the exchange, the tribunal, the open-air\nhall of public meeting? The Gracchi there defended the cause of the\nhumble; Sylla there set up the lists of those whom he proscribed; Cicero\nthere spoke, and there, against the rostra, his bleeding head was hung.\nThen, under the emperors, the old renown was dimmed, the centuries buried\nthe monuments and temples with such piles of dust that all that the\nmiddle ages could do was to turn the spot into a cattle market! Respect\nhas come back once more, a respect which violates tombs, which is full of\nfeverish curiosity and science, which is dissatisfied with mere\nhypotheses, which loses itself amidst this historical soil where\ngenerations rise one above the other, and hesitates between the fifteen\nor twenty restorations of the Forum that have been planned on paper, each\nof them as plausible as the other. But to the mere passer-by, who is not\na professional scholar and has not recently re-perused the history of\nRome, the details have no significance. All he sees on this searched and\nscoured spot is a city\u2019s cemetery where old exhumed stones are whitening,\nand whence rises the intense sadness that envelops dead nations. Pierre,\nhowever, noting here and there fragments of the Sacred Way, now turning,\nnow running down, and now ascending with their pavement of silex indented\nby the chariot-wheels, thought of the triumphs, of the ascent of the\ntriumpher, so sorely shaken as his chariot jolted over that rough\npavement of glory.\n\nBut the horizon expanded towards the southeast, and beyond the arches of\nTitus and Constantine he perceived the Colosseum. Ah! that colossus, only\none-half or so of which has been destroyed by time as with the stroke of\na mighty scythe, it rises in its enormity and majesty like a stone\nlace-work with hundreds of empty bays agape against the blue of heaven!\nThere is a world of halls, stairs, landings, and passages, a world where\none loses oneself amidst death-like silence and solitude. The furrowed\ntiers of seats, eaten into by the atmosphere, are like shapeless steps\nleading down into some old extinct crater, some natural circus excavated\nby the force of the elements in indestructible rock. The hot suns of\neighteen hundred years have baked and scorched this ruin, which has\nreverted to a state of nature, bare and golden-brown like a\nmountain-side, since it has been stripped of its vegetation, the flora\nwhich once made it like a virgin forest. And what an evocation when the\nmind sets flesh and blood and life again on all that dead osseous\nframework, fills the circus with the 90,000 spectators which it could\nhold, marshals the games and the combats of the arena, gathers a whole\ncivilisation together, from the emperor and the dignitaries to the\nsurging plebeian sea, all aglow with the agitation and brilliancy of an\nimpassioned people, assembled under the ruddy reflection of the giant\npurple velum. And then, yet further, on the horizon, were other cyclopean\nruins, the baths of Caracalla, standing there like relics of a race of\ngiants long since vanished from the world: halls extravagantly and\ninexplicably spacious and lofty; vestibules large enough for an entire\npopulation; a _frigidarium_ where five hundred people could swim\ntogether; a _tepidarium_ and a _calidarium_* on the same proportions,\nborn of a wild craving for the huge; and then the terrific massiveness of\nthe structures, the thickness of the piles of brick-work, such as no\nfeudal castle ever knew; and, in addition, the general immensity which\nmakes passing visitors look like lost ants; such an extraordinary riot of\nthe great and the mighty that one wonders for what men, for what\nmultitudes, this monstrous edifice was reared. To-day, you would say a\nmass of rocks in the rough, thrown from some height for building the\nabode of Titans.\n\n  * Tepidarium, warm bath; calidarium, vapour bath.--Trans.\n\nAnd as Pierre gazed, he became more and more immersed in the limitless\npast which encompassed him. On all sides history rose up like a surging\nsea. Those bluey plains on the north and west were ancient Etruria; those\njagged crests on the east were the Sabine Mountains; while southward, the\nAlban Mountains and Latium spread out in the streaming gold of the\nsunshine. Alba Longa was there, and so was Monte Cavo, with its crown of\nold trees, and the convent which has taken the place of the ancient\ntemple of Jupiter. Then beyond the Forum, beyond the Capitol, the greater\npart of Rome stretched out, whilst behind Pierre, on the margin of the\nTiber, was the Janiculum. And a voice seemed to come from the whole city,\na voice which told him of Rome\u2019s eternal life, resplendent with past\ngreatness. He remembered just enough of what he had been taught at school\nto realise where he was; he knew just what every one knows of Rome with\nno pretension to scholarship, and it was more particularly his artistic\ntemperament which awoke within him and gathered warmth from the flame of\nmemory. The present had disappeared, and the ocean of the past was still\nrising, buoying him up, carrying him away.\n\nAnd then his mind involuntarily pictured a resurrection instinct with\nlife. The grey, dismal Palatine, razed like some accursed city, suddenly\nbecame animated, peopled, crowned with palaces and temples. There had\nbeen the cradle of the Eternal City, founded by Romulus on that summit\noverlooking the Tiber. There assuredly the seven kings of its two and a\nhalf centuries of monarchical rule had dwelt, enclosed within high,\nstrong walls, which had but three gateways. Then the five centuries of\nrepublican sway spread out, the greatest, the most glorious of all the\ncenturies, those which brought the Italic peninsula and finally the known\nworld under Roman dominion. During those victorious years of social and\nwar-like struggle, Rome grew and peopled the seven hills, and the\nPalatine became but a venerable cradle with legendary temples, and was\neven gradually invaded by private residences. But at last Caesar, the\nincarnation of the power of his race, after Gaul and after Pharsalia\ntriumphed in the name of the whole Roman people, having completed the\ncolossal task by which the five following centuries of imperialism were\nto profit, with a pompous splendour and a rush of every appetite. And\nthen Augustus could ascend to power; glory had reached its climax;\nmillions of gold were waiting to be filched from the depths of the\nprovinces; and the imperial gala was to begin in the world\u2019s capital,\nbefore the eyes of the dazzled and subjected nations. Augustus had been\nborn on the Palatine, and after Actium had given him the empire, he set\nhis pride in reigning from the summit of that sacred mount, venerated by\nthe people. He bought up private houses and there built his palace with\nluxurious splendour: an atrium upheld by four pilasters and eight\ncolumns; a peristylium encompassed by fifty-six Ionic columns; private\napartments all around, and all in marble; a profusion of marble, brought\nat great cost from foreign lands, and of the brightest hues, resplendent\nlike gems. And he lodged himself with the gods, building near his own\nabode a large temple of Apollo and a shrine of Vesta in order to ensure\nhimself divine and eternal sovereignty. And then the seed of the imperial\npalaces was sown; they were to spring up, grow and swarm, and cover the\nentire mount.\n\nAh! the all-powerfulness of Augustus, his four and forty years of total,\nabsolute, superhuman power, such as no despot has known even in his\ndreams! He had taken to himself every title, united every magistracy in\nhis person. Imperator and consul, he commanded the armies and exercised\nexecutive power; pro-consul, he was supreme in the provinces; perpetual\ncensor and princeps, he reigned over the senate; tribune, he was the\nmaster of the people. And, formerly called Octavius, he had caused\nhimself to be declared Augustus, sacred, god among men, having his\ntemples and his priests, worshipped in his lifetime like a divinity\ndeigning to visit the earth. And finally he had resolved to be supreme\npontiff, annexing religious to civil power, and thus by a stroke of\ngenius attaining to the most complete dominion to which man can climb. As\nthe supreme pontiff could not reside in a private house, he declared his\nabode to be State property. As the supreme pontiff could not leave the\nvicinity of the temple of Vesta, he built a temple to that goddess near\nhis own dwelling, leaving the guardianship of the ancient altar below the\nPalatine to the Vestal virgins. He spared no effort, for he well realised\nthat human omnipotence, the mastery of mankind and the world, lay in that\nreunion of sovereignty, in being both king and priest, emperor and pope.\nAll the sap of a mighty race, all the victories achieved, and all the\nfavours of fortune yet to be garnered, blossomed forth in Augustus, in a\nunique splendour which was never again to shed such brilliant radiance.\nHe was really the master of the world, amidst the conquered and pacified\nnations, encompassed by immortal glory in literature and in art. In him\nwould seem to have been satisfied the old intense ambition of his people,\nthe ambition which it had pursued through centuries of patient conquest,\nto become the people-king. The blood of Rome, the blood of Augustus, at\nlast coruscated in the sunlight, in the purple of empire. And the blood\nof Augustus, of the divine, triumphant, absolute sovereign of bodies and\nsouls, of the man in whom seven centuries of national pride had\nculminated, was to descend through the ages, through an innumerable\nposterity with a heritage of boundless pride and ambition. For it was\nfatal: the blood of Augustus was bound to spring into life once more and\npulsate in the veins of all the successive masters of Rome, ever haunting\nthem with the dream of ruling the whole world. And later on, after the\ndecline and fall, when power had once more become divided between the\nking and the priest, the popes--their hearts burning with the red,\ndevouring blood of their great forerunner--had no other passion, no other\npolicy, through the centuries, than that of attaining to civil dominion,\nto the totality of human power.\n\nBut Augustus being dead, his palace having been closed and consecrated,\nPierre saw that of Tiberius spring up from the soil. It had stood where\nhis feet now rested, where the beautiful evergreen oaks sheltered him. He\npictured it with courts, porticoes, and halls, both substantial and\ngrand, despite the gloomy bent of the emperor who betook himself far from\nRome to live amongst informers and debauchees, with his heart and brain\npoisoned by power to the point of crime and most extraordinary insanity.\nThen the palace of Caligula followed, an enlargement of that of Tiberius,\nwith arcades set up to increase its extent, and a bridge thrown over the\nForum to the Capitol, in order that the prince might go thither at his\nease to converse with Jove, whose son he claimed to be. And sovereignty\nalso rendered this one ferocious--a madman with omnipotence to do as he\nlisted! Then, after Claudius, Nero, not finding the Palatine large\nenough, seized upon the delightful gardens climbing the Esquiline in\norder to set up his Golden House, a dream of sumptuous immensity which he\ncould not complete and the ruins of which disappeared in the troubles\nfollowing the death of this monster whom pride demented. Next, in\neighteen months, Galba, Otho, and Vitellius fell one upon the other, in\nmire and in blood, the purple converting them also into imbeciles and\nmonsters, gorged like unclean beasts at the trough of imperial enjoyment.\nAnd afterwards came the Flavians, at first a respite, with commonsense\nand human kindness: Vespasian; next Titus, who built but little on the\nPalatine; but then Domitian, in whom the sombre madness of omnipotence\nburst forth anew amidst a _r\u00e9gime_ of fear and spying, idiotic atrocities\nand crimes, debauchery contrary to nature, and building enterprises born\nof insane vanity instinct with a desire to outvie the temples of the\ngods. The palace of Domitian, parted by a lane from that of Tiberius,\narose colossal-like--a palace of fairyland. There was the hall of\naudience, with its throne of gold, its sixteen columns of Phrygian and\nNumidian marble and its eight niches containing colossal statues; there\nwere the hall of justice, the vast dining-room, the peristylium, the\nsleeping apartments, where granite, porphyry, and alabaster overflowed,\ncarved and decorated by the most famous artists, and lavished on all\nsides in order to dazzle the world. And finally, many years later, a last\npalace was added to all the others--that of Septimius Severus: again a\nbuilding of pride, with arches supporting lofty halls, terraced storeys,\ntowers o\u2019er-topping the roofs, a perfect Babylonian pile, rising up at\nthe extreme point of the mount in view of the Appian Way, so that the\nemperor\u2019s compatriots--those from the province of Africa, where he was\nborn--might, on reaching the horizon, marvel at his fortune and worship\nhim in his glory.\n\nAnd now Pierre beheld all those palaces which he had conjured up around\nhim, resuscitated, resplendent in the full sunlight. They were as if\nlinked together, parted merely by the narrowest of passages. In order\nthat not an inch of that precious summit might be lost, they had sprouted\nthickly like the monstrous florescence of strength, power, and unbridled\npride which satisfied itself at the cost of millions, bleeding the whole\nworld for the enjoyment of one man. And in truth there was but one palace\naltogether, a palace enlarged as soon as one emperor died and was placed\namong the deities, and another, shunning the consecrated pile where\npossibly the shadow of death frightened him, experienced an imperious\nneed to build a house of his own and perpetuate in everlasting stone the\nmemory of his reign. All the emperors were seized with this building\ncraze; it was like a disease which the very throne seemed to carry from\none occupant to another with growing intensity, a consuming desire to\nexcel all predecessors by thicker and higher walls, by a more and more\nwonderful profusion of marbles, columns, and statues. And among all these\nprinces there was the idea of a glorious survival, of leaving a testimony\nof their greatness to dazzled and stupefied generations, of perpetuating\nthemselves by marvels which would not perish but for ever weigh heavily\nupon the earth, when their own light ashes should long since have been\nswept away by the winds. And thus the Palatine became but the venerable\nbase of a monstrous edifice, a thick vegetation of adjoining buildings,\neach new pile being like a fresh eruption of feverish pride; while the\nwhole, now showing the snowy brightness of white marble and now the\nglowing hues of coloured marble, ended by crowning Rome and the\nworld with the most extraordinary and most insolent abode of\nsovereignty--whether palace, temple, basilica, or cathedral--that\nomnipotence and dominion have ever reared under the heavens.\n\nBut death lurked beneath this excess of strength and glory. Seven hundred\nand thirty years of monarchy and republic had sufficed to make Rome\ngreat; and in five centuries of imperial sway the people-king was to be\ndevoured down to its last muscles. There was the immensity of the\nterritory, the more distant provinces gradually pillaged and exhausted;\nthere was the fisc consuming everything, digging the pit of fatal\nbankruptcy; and there was the degeneration of the people, poisoned by the\nscenes of the circus and the arena, fallen to the sloth and debauchery of\ntheir masters, the Caesars, while mercenaries fought the foe and tilled\nthe soil. Already at the time of Constantine, Rome had a rival,\nByzantium; disruption followed with Honorius; and then some ten emperors\nsufficed for decomposition to be complete, for the bones of the dying\nprey to be picked clean, the end coming with Romulus Augustulus, the\nsorry creature whose name is, so to say, a mockery of the whole glorious\nhistory, a buffet for both the founder of Rome and the founder of the\nempire.\n\nThe palaces, the colossal assemblage of walls, storeys, terraces, and\ngaping roofs, still remained on the deserted Palatine; many ornaments and\nstatues, however, had already been removed to Byzantium. And the empire,\nhaving become Christian, had afterwards closed the temples and\nextinguished the fire of Vesta, whilst yet respecting the ancient\nPalladium. But in the fifth century the barbarians rush upon Rome, sack\nand burn it, and carry the spoils spared by the flames away in their\nchariots. As long as the city was dependent on Byzantium a custodian of\nthe imperial palaces remained there watching over the Palatine. Then all\nfades and crumbles in the night of the middle ages. It would really seem\nthat the popes then slowly took the place of the Caesars, succeeding them\nboth in their abandoned marble halls and their ever-subsisting passion\nfor domination. Some of them assuredly dwelt in the palace of Septimius\nSeverus; a council of the Church was held in the Septizonium; and, later\non, Gelasius II was elected in a neighbouring monastery on the sacred\nmount. It was as if Augustus were again rising from the tomb, once more\nmaster of the world, with a Sacred College of Cardinals resuscitating the\nRoman Senate. In the twelfth century the Septizonium belonged to some\nBenedictine monks, and was sold by them to the powerful Frangipani\nfamily, who fortified it as they had already fortified the Colosseum and\nthe arches of Constantine and Titus, thus forming a vast fortress round\nabout the venerable cradle of the city. And the violent deeds of civil\nwar and the ravages of invasion swept by like whirlwinds, throwing down\nthe walls, razing the palaces and towers. And afterwards successive\ngenerations invaded the ruins, installed themselves in them by right of\ntrover and conquest, turned them into cellars, store-places for forage,\nand stables for mules. Kitchen gardens were formed, vines were planted on\nthe spots where fallen soil had covered the mosaics of the imperial\nhalls. All around nettles and brambles grew up, and ivy preyed on the\noverturned porticoes, till there came a day when the colossal assemblage\nof palaces and temples, which marble was to have rendered eternal, seemed\nto dive beneath the dust, to disappear under the surging soil and\nvegetation which impassive Nature threw over it. And then, in the hot\nsunlight, among the wild flowerets, only big, buzzing flies remained,\nwhilst herds of goats strayed in freedom through the throne-room of\nDomitian and the fallen sanctuary of Apollo.\n\nA great shudder passed through Pierre. To think of so much strength,\npride, and grandeur, and such rapid ruin--a world for ever swept away! He\nwondered how entire palaces, yet peopled by admirable statuary, could\nthus have been gradually buried without any one thinking of protecting\nthem. It was no sudden catastrophe which had swallowed up those\nmasterpieces, subsequently to be disinterred with exclamations of\nadmiring wonder; they had been drowned, as it were--caught progressively\nby the legs, the waist, and the neck, till at last the head had sunk\nbeneath the rising tide. And how could one explain that generations had\nheedlessly witnessed such things without thought of putting forth a\nhelping hand? It would seem as if, at a given moment, a black curtain\nwere suddenly drawn across the world, as if mankind began afresh, with a\nnew and empty brain which needed moulding and furnishing. Rome had become\ndepopulated; men ceased to repair the ruins left by fire and sword; the\nedifices which by their very immensity had become useless were utterly\nneglected, allowed to crumble and fall. And then, too, the new religion\neverywhere hunted down the old one, stole its temples, overturned its\ngods. Earthly deposits probably completed the disaster--there were, it is\nsaid, both earthquakes and inundations--and the soil was ever rising, the\nalluvia of the young Christian world buried the ancient pagan society.\nAnd after the pillaging of the temples, the theft of the bronze roofs and\nmarble columns, the climax came with the filching of the stones torn from\nthe Colosseum and the Theatre of Marcellus, with the pounding of the\nstatuary and sculpture-work, thrown into kilns to procure the lime needed\nfor the new monuments of Catholic Rome.\n\nIt was nearly one o\u2019clock, and Pierre awoke as from a dream. The sun-rays\nwere streaming in a golden rain between the shiny leaves of the\never-green oaks above him, and down below Rome lay dozing, overcome by\nthe great heat. Then he made up his mind to leave the garden, and went\nstumbling over the rough pavement of the Clivus Victoriae, his mind still\nhaunted by blinding visions. To complete his day, he had resolved to\nvisit the old Appian Way during the afternoon, and, unwilling to return\nto the Via Giulia, he lunched at a suburban tavern, in a large, dim room,\nwhere, alone with the buzzing flies, he lingered for more than two hours,\nawaiting the sinking of the sun.\n\nAh! that Appian Way, that ancient queen of the high roads, crossing the\nCampagna in a long straight line with rows of proud tombs on either\nhand--to Pierre it seemed like a triumphant prolongation of the Palatine.\nHe there found the same passion for splendour and domination, the same\ncraving to eternise the memory of Roman greatness in marble and daylight.\nOblivion was vanquished; the dead refused to rest, and remained for ever\nerect among the living, on either side of that road which was traversed\nby multitudes from the entire world. The deified images of those who were\nnow but dust still gazed on the passers-by with empty eyes; the\ninscriptions still spoke, proclaiming names and titles. In former times\nthe rows of sepulchres must have extended without interruption along all\nthe straight, level miles between the tomb of C\u00e6cilia Metella and that\nof Casale Rotondo, forming an elongated cemetery where the powerful and\nwealthy competed as to who should leave the most colossal and lavishly\ndecorated mausoleum: such, indeed, was the craving for survival, the\npassion for pompous immortality, the desire to deify death by lodging it\nin temples; whereof the present-day monumental splendour of the Genoese\nCampo Santo and the Roman Campo Verano is, so to say, a remote\ninheritance. And what a vision it was to picture all the tremendous tombs\non the right and left of the glorious pavement which the legions trod on\ntheir return from the conquest of the world! That tomb of C\u00e6cilia\nMetella, with its bond-stones so huge, its walls so thick that the middle\nages transformed it into the battlemented keep of a fortress! And then\nall the tombs which follow, the modern structures erected in order that\nthe marble fragments discovered might be set in place, the old blocks of\nbrick and concrete, despoiled of their sculptured-work and rising up like\nseared rocks, yet still suggesting their original shapes as shrines,\n_cippi_, and _sarcophagi_. There is a wondrous succession of high reliefs\nfiguring the dead in groups of three and five; statues in which the dead\nlive deified, erect; seats contrived in niches in order that wayfarers\nmay rest and bless the hospitality of the dead; laudatory epitaphs\ncelebrating the dead, both the known and the unknown, the children of\nSextius Pompeius Justus, the departed Marcus Servilius Quartus, Hilarius\nFuscus, Rabirius Hermodorus; without counting the sepulchres venturously\nascribed to Seneca and the Horatii and Curiatii. And finally there is the\nmost extraordinary and gigantic of all the tombs, that known as Casale\nRotondo, which is so large that it has been possible to establish a\nfarmhouse and an olive garden on its substructures, which formerly upheld\na double rotunda, adorned with Corinthian pilasters, large candelabra,\nand scenic masks.*\n\n  * Some believe this tomb to have been that of Messalla Corvinus,\n    the historian and poet, a friend of Augustus and Horace; others\n    ascribe it to his son, Aurelius Messallinus Cotta.--Trans.\n\nPierre, having driven in a cab as far as the tomb of C\u00e6cilia Metella,\ncontinued his excursion on foot, going slowly towards Casale Rotondo. In\nmany places the old pavement appears--large blocks of basaltic lava, worn\ninto deep ruts that jolt the best-hung vehicles. Among the ruined tombs\non either hand run bands of grass, the neglected grass of cemeteries,\nscorched by the summer suns and sprinkled with big violet thistles and\ntall sulphur-wort. Parapets of dry stones, breast high, enclose the\nrusset roadsides, which resound with the crepitation of grasshoppers;\nand, beyond, the Campagna stretches, vast and bare, as far as the eye can\nsee. A parasol pine, a eucalyptus, some olive or fig trees, white with\ndust, alone rise up near the road at infrequent intervals. On the left\nthe ruddy arches of the Acqua Claudia show vigorously in the meadows, and\nstretches of poorly cultivated land, vineyards, and little farms, extend\nto the blue and lilac Sabine and Alban hills, where Frascati, Rocca di\nPapa, and Albano set bright spots, which grow and whiten as one gets\nnearer to them. Then, on the right, towards the sea, the houseless,\ntreeless plain grows and spreads with vast, broad ripples, extraordinary\nocean-like simplicity and grandeur, a long, straight line alone parting\nit from the sky. At the height of summer all burns and flares on this\nlimitless prairie, then of a ruddy gold; but in September a green tinge\nbegins to suffuse the ocean of herbage, which dies away in the pink and\nmauve and vivid blue of the fine sunsets.\n\nAs Pierre, quite alone and in a dreary mood, slowly paced the endless,\nflat highway, that resurrection of the past which he had beheld on the\nPalatine again confronted his mind\u2019s eye. On either hand the tombs once\nmore rose up intact, with marble of dazzling whiteness. Had not the head\nof a colossal statue been found, mingled with fragments of huge sphinxes,\nat the foot of yonder vase-shaped mass of bricks? He seemed to see the\nentire colossal statue standing again between the huge, crouching beasts.\nFarther on a beautiful headless statue of a woman had been discovered in\nthe cella of a sepulchre, and he beheld it, again whole, with features\nexpressive of grace and strength smiling upon life. The inscriptions also\nbecame perfect; he could read and understand them at a glance, as if\nliving among those dead ones of two thousand years ago. And the road,\ntoo, became peopled: the chariots thundered, the armies tramped along,\nthe people of Rome jostled him with the feverish agitation of great\ncommunities. It was a return of the times of the Flavians or the\nAntonines, the palmy years of the empire, when the pomp of the Appian\nWay, with its grand sepulchres, carved and adorned like temples, attained\nits apogee. What a monumental Street of Death, what an approach to Rome,\nthat highway, straight as an arrow, where with the extraordinary pomp of\ntheir pride, which had survived their dust, the great dead greeted the\ntraveller, ushered him into the presence of the living! He may well have\nwondered among what sovereign people, what masters of the world, he was\nabout to find himself--a nation which had committed to its dead the duty\nof telling strangers that it allowed nothing whatever to perish--that its\ndead, like its city, remained eternal and glorious in monuments of\nextraordinary vastness! To think of it--the foundations of a fortress,\nand a tower sixty feet in diameter, that one woman might be laid to rest!\nAnd then, far away, at the end of the superb, dazzling highway, bordered\nwith the marble of its funereal palaces, Pierre, turning round,\ndistinctly beheld the Palatine, with the marble of its imperial\npalaces--the huge assemblage of palaces whose omnipotence had dominated\nthe world!\n\nBut suddenly he started: two carabiniers had just appeared among the\nruins. The spot was not safe; the authorities watched over tourists even\nin broad daylight. And later on came another meeting which caused him\nsome emotion. He perceived an ecclesiastic, a tall old man, in a black\ncassock, edged and girt with red; and was surprised to recognise Cardinal\nBoccanera, who had quitted the roadway, and was slowly strolling along\nthe band of grass, among the tall thistles and sulphur-wort. With his\nhead lowered and his feet brushing against the fragments of the tombs,\nthe Cardinal did not even see Pierre. The young priest courteously turned\naside, surprised to find him so far from home and alone. Then, on\nperceiving a heavy coach, drawn by two black horses, behind a building,\nhe understood matters. A footman in black livery was waiting motionless\nbeside the carriage, and the coachman had not quitted his box. And Pierre\nremembered that the Cardinals were not expected to walk in Rome, so that\nthey were compelled to drive into the country when they desired to take\nexercise. But what haughty sadness, what solitary and, so to say,\nostracised grandeur there was about that tall, thoughtful old man, thus\nforced to seek the desert, and wander among the tombs, in order to\nbreathe a little of the evening air!\n\nPierre had lingered there for long hours; the twilight was coming on, and\nonce again he witnessed a lovely sunset. On his left the Campagna became\nblurred, and assumed a slaty hue, against which the yellowish arcades of\nthe aqueduct showed very plainly, while the Alban hills, far away, faded\ninto pink. Then, on the right, towards the sea, the planet sank among a\nnumber of cloudlets, figuring an archipelago of gold in an ocean of dying\nembers. And excepting the sapphire sky, studded with rubies, above the\nendless line of the Campagna, which was likewise changed into a sparkling\nlake, the dull green of the herbage turning to a liquid emerald tint,\nthere was nothing to be seen, neither a hillock nor a flock--nothing,\nindeed, but Cardinal Boccanera\u2019s black figure, erect among the tombs, and\nlooking, as it were, enlarged as it stood out against the last purple\nflush of the sunset.\n\nEarly on the following morning Pierre, eager to see everything, returned\nto the Appian Way in order to visit the catacomb of St. Calixtus, the\nmost extensive and remarkable of the old Christian cemeteries, and one,\ntoo, where several of the early popes were buried. You ascend through a\nscorched garden, past olives and cypresses, reach a shanty of boards and\nplaster in which a little trade in \u201carticles of piety\u201d is carried on, and\nthere a modern and fairly easy flight of steps enables you to descend.\nPierre fortunately found there some French Trappists, who guard these\ncatacombs and show them to strangers. One brother was on the point of\ngoing down with two French ladies, the mother and daughter, the former\nstill comely and the other radiant with youth. They stood there smiling,\nthough already slightly frightened, while the monk lighted some long,\nslim candles. He was a man with a bossy brow, the large, massive jaw of\nan obstinate believer and pale eyes bespeaking an ingenuous soul.\n\n\u201cAh! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d he said to Pierre, \u201cyou\u2019ve come just in time. If\nthe ladies are willing, you had better come with us; for three Brothers\nare already below with people, and you would have a long time to wait.\nThis is the great season for visitors.\u201d\n\nThe ladies politely nodded, and the Trappist handed a candle to the\npriest. In all probability neither mother nor daughter was devout, for\nboth glanced askance at their new companion\u2019s cassock, and suddenly\nbecame serious. Then they all went down and found themselves in a narrow\nsubterranean corridor. \u201cTake care, mesdames,\u201d repeated the Trappist,\nlighting the ground with his candle. \u201cWalk slowly, for there are\nprojections and slopes.\u201d\n\nThen, in a shrill voice full of extraordinary conviction, he began his\nexplanations. Pierre had descended in silence, his heart beating with\nemotion. Ah! how many times, indeed, in his innocent seminary days, had\nhe not dreamt of those catacombs of the early Christians, those asylums\nof the primitive faith! Even recently, while writing his book, he had\noften thought of them as of the most ancient and venerable remains of\nthat community of the lowly and simple, for the return of which he\ncalled. But his brain was full of pages written by poets and great prose\nwriters. He had beheld the catacombs through the magnifying glass of\nthose imaginative authors, and had believed them to be vast, similar to\nsubterranean cities, with broad highways and spacious halls, fit for the\naccommodation of vast crowds. And now how poor and humble the reality!\n\n\u201cWell, yes,\u201d said the Trappist in reply to the ladies\u2019 questions, \u201cthe\ncorridor is scarcely more than a yard in width; two persons could not\npass along side by side. How they dug it? Oh! it was simple enough. A\nfamily or a burial association needed a place of sepulchre. Well, a first\ngallery was excavated with pickaxes in soil of this description--granular\ntufa, as it is called--a reddish substance, as you can see, both soft and\nyet resistant, easy to work and at the same time waterproof. In a word,\njust the substance that was needed, and one, too, that has preserved the\nremains of the buried in a wonderful way.\u201d He paused and brought the\nflamelet of his candle near to the compartments excavated on either hand\nof the passage. \u201cLook,\u201d he continued, \u201cthese are the _loculi_. Well, a\nsubterranean gallery was dug, and on both sides these compartments were\nhollowed out, one above the other. The bodies of the dead were laid in\nthem, for the most part simply wrapped in shrouds. Then the aperture was\nclosed with tiles or marble slabs, carefully cemented. So, as you can\nsee, everything explains itself. If other families joined the first one,\nor the burial association became more numerous, fresh galleries were\nadded to those already filled. Passages were excavated on either hand, in\nevery sense; and, indeed, a second and lower storey, at times even a\nthird, was dug out. And here, you see, we are in a gallery which is\ncertainly thirteen feet high. Now, you may wonder how they raised the\nbodies to place them in the compartments of the top tier. Well, they did\nnot raise them to any such height; in all their work they kept on going\nlower and lower, removing more and more of the soil as the compartments\nbecame filled. And in this wise, in these catacombs of St. Calixtus, in\nless than four centuries, the Christians excavated more than ten miles of\ngalleries, in which more than a million of their dead must have been laid\nto rest. Now, there are dozens of catacombs; the environs of Rome are\nhoneycombed with them. Think of that, and perhaps you will be able to\nform some idea of the vast number of people who were buried in this\nmanner.\u201d\n\nPierre listened, feeling greatly impressed. He had once visited a coal\npit in Belgium, and he here found the same narrow passages, the same\nheavy, stifling atmosphere, the same nihility of darkness and silence.\nThe flamelets of the candles showed merely like stars in the deep gloom;\nthey shed no radiance around. And he at last understood the character of\nthis funereal, termite-like labour--these chance burrowings continued\naccording to requirements, without art, method, or symmetry. The rugged\nsoil was ever ascending and descending, the sides of the gallery snaked:\nneither plumb-line nor square had been used. All this, indeed, had simply\nbeen a work of charity and necessity, wrought by simple, willing\ngrave-diggers, illiterate craftsmen, with the clumsy handiwork of the\ndecline and fall. Proof thereof was furnished by the inscriptions and\nemblems on the marble slabs. They reminded one of the childish drawings\nwhich street urchins scrawl upon blank walls.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d the Trappist continued, \u201cmost frequently there is merely a\nname; and sometimes there is no name, but simply the words _In Pace_. At\nother times there is an emblem, the dove of purity, the palm of\nmartyrdom, or else the fish whose name in Greek is composed of five\nletters which, as initials, signify: \u2018Jesus Christ, Son of God,\nSaviour.\u2019\u201d\n\nHe again brought his candle near to the marble slabs, and the palm could\nbe distinguished: a central stroke, whence started a few oblique lines;\nand then came the dove or the fish, roughly outlined, a zigzag indicating\na tail, two bars representing the bird\u2019s feet, while a round point\nsimulated an eye. And the letters of the short inscriptions were all\naskew, of various sizes, often quite misshapen, as in the coarse\nhandwriting of the ignorant and simple.\n\nHowever, they reached a crypt, a sort of little hall, where the graves of\nseveral popes had been found; among others that of Sixtus II, a holy\nmartyr, in whose honour there was a superbly engraved metrical\ninscription set up by Pope Damasus. Then, in another hall, a family vault\nof much the same size, decorated at a later stage, with naive mural\npaintings, the spot where St. Cecilia\u2019s body had been discovered was\nshown. And the explanations continued. The Trappist dilated on the\npaintings, drawing from them a confirmation of every dogma and belief,\nbaptism, the Eucharist, the resurrection, Lazarus arising from the tomb,\nJonas cast up by the whale, Daniel in the lions\u2019 den, Moses drawing water\nfrom the rock, and Christ--shown beardless, as was the practice in the\nearly ages--accomplishing His various miracles.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d repeated the Trappist, \u201call those things are shown there; and\nremember that none of the paintings was specially prepared: they are\nabsolutely authentic.\u201d\n\nAt a question from Pierre, whose astonishment was increasing, he admitted\nthat the catacombs had been mere cemeteries at the outset, when no\nreligious ceremonies had been celebrated in them. It was only later, in\nthe fourth century, when the martyrs were honoured, that the crypts were\nutilised for worship. And in the same way they only became places of\nrefuge during the persecutions, when the Christians had to conceal the\nentrances to them. Previously they had remained freely and legally open.\nThis was indeed their true history: cemeteries four centuries old\nbecoming places of asylum, ravaged at times during the persecutions;\nafterwards held in veneration till the eighth century; then despoiled of\ntheir holy relics, and subsequently blocked up and forgotten, so that\nthey remained buried during more than seven hundred years, people\nthinking of them so little that at the time of the first searches in the\nfifteenth century they were considered an extraordinary discovery--an\nintricate historical problem--one, moreover, which only our own age has\nsolved.\n\n\u201cPlease stoop, mesdames,\u201d resumed the Trappist. \u201cIn this compartment here\nis a skeleton which has not been touched. It has been lying here for\nsixteen or seventeen hundred years, and will show you how the bodies were\nlaid out. Savants say that it is the skeleton of a female, probably a\nyoung girl. It was still quite perfect last spring; but the skull, as you\ncan see, is now split open. An American broke it with his walking stick\nto make sure that it was genuine.\u201d\n\nThe ladies leaned forward, and the flickering light illumined their pale\nfaces, expressive of mingled fright and compassion. Especially noticeable\nwas the pitiful, pain-fraught look which appeared on the countenance of\nthe daughter, so full of life with her red lips and large black eyes.\nThen all relapsed into gloom, and the little candles were borne aloft and\nwent their way through the heavy darkness of the galleries. The visit\nlasted another hour, for the Trappist did not spare a detail, fond as he\nwas of certain nooks and corners, and as zealous as if he desired to work\nthe redemption of his visitors.\n\nWhile Pierre followed the others, a complete evolution took place within\nhim. As he looked about him, and formed a more and more complete idea of\nhis surroundings, his first stupefaction at finding the reality so\ndifferent from the embellished accounts of story-tellers and poets, his\ndisillusion at being plunged into such rudely excavated mole-burrows,\ngave way to fraternal emotion. It was not that he thought of the fifteen\nhundred martyrs whose sacred bones had rested there. But how humble,\nresigned, yet full of hope had been those who had chosen such a place of\nsepulchre! Those low, darksome galleries were but temporary\nsleeping-places for the Christians. If they did not burn the bodies of\ntheir dead, as the Pagans did, it was because, like the Jews, they\nbelieved in the resurrection of the body; and it was that lovely idea of\nsleep, of tranquil rest after a just life, whilst awaiting the celestial\nreward, which imparted such intense peacefulness, such infinite charm, to\nthe black, subterranean city. Everything there spoke of calm and silent\nnight; everything there slumbered in rapturous quiescence, patient until\nthe far-off awakening. What could be more touching than those terra-cotta\ntiles, those marble slabs, which bore not even a name--nothing but the\nwords _In Pace_--at peace. Ah! to be at peace--life\u2019s work at last\naccomplished; to sleep in peace, to hope in peace for the advent of\nheaven! And the peacefulness seemed the more delightful as it was enjoyed\nin such deep humility. Doubtless the diggers worked chance-wise and\nclumsily; the craftsmen no longer knew how to engrave a name or carve a\npalm or a dove. Art had vanished; but all the feebleness and ignorance\nwere instinct with the youth of a new humanity. Poor and lowly and meek\nones swarmed there, reposing beneath the soil, whilst up above the sun\ncontinued its everlasting task. You found there charity and fraternity\nand death; husband and wife often lying together with their offspring at\ntheir feet; the great mass of the unknown submerging the personage, the\nbishop, or the martyr; the most touching equality--that springing from\nmodesty--prevailing amidst all that dust, with compartments ever similar\nand slabs destitute of ornament, so that rows and rows of the sleepers\nmingled without distinctive sign. The inscriptions seldom ventured on a\nword of praise, and then how prudent, how delicate it was: the men were\nvery worthy, very pious: the women very gentle, very beautiful, very\nchaste. A perfume of infancy arose, unlimited human affection spread:\nthis was death as understood by the primitive Christians--death which hid\nitself to await the resurrection, and dreamt no more of the empire of the\nworld!\n\nAnd all at once before Pierre\u2019s eyes arose a vision of the sumptuous\ntombs of the Appian Way, displaying the domineering pride of a whole\ncivilisation in the sunlight--tombs of vast dimensions, with a profusion\nof marbles, grandiloquent inscriptions, and masterpieces of\nsculptured-work. Ah! what an extraordinary contrast between that pompous\navenue of death, conducting, like a highway of triumph, to the regal\nEternal City, when compared with the subterranean necropolis of the\nChristians, that city of hidden death, so gentle, so beautiful, and so\nchaste! Here only quiet slumber, desired and accepted night, resignation\nand patience were to be found. Millions of human beings had here laid\nthemselves to rest in all humility, had slept for centuries, and would\nstill be sleeping here, lulled by the silence and the gloom, if the\nliving had not intruded on their desire to remain in oblivion so long as\nthe trumpets of the Judgment Day did not awaken them. Death had then\nspoken of Life: nowhere had there been more intimate and touching life\nthan in these buried cities of the unknown, lowly dead. And a mighty\nbreath had formerly come from them--the breath of a new humanity destined\nto renew the world. With the advent of meekness, contempt for the flesh,\nterror and hatred of nature, relinquishment of terrestrial joys, and a\npassion for death, which delivers and opens the portals of Paradise,\nanother world had begun. And the blood of Augustus, so proud of purpling\nin the sunlight, so fired by the passion for sovereign dominion, seemed\nfor a moment to disappear, as if, indeed, the new world had sucked it up\nin the depths of its gloomy sepulchres.\n\nHowever, the Trappist insisted on showing the ladies the steps of\nDiocletian, and began to tell them the legend. \u201cYes,\u201d said he, \u201cit was a\nmiracle. One day, under that emperor, some soldiers were pursuing several\nChristians, who took refuge in these catacombs; and when the soldiers\nfollowed them inside the steps suddenly gave way, and all the persecutors\nwere hurled to the bottom. The steps remain broken to this day. Come and\nsee them; they are close by.\u201d\n\nBut the ladies were quite overcome, so affected by their prolonged\nsojourn in the gloom and by the tales of death which the Trappist had\npoured into their ears that they insisted on going up again. Moreover,\nthe candles were coming to an end. They were all dazzled when they found\nthemselves once more in the sunlight, outside the little hut where\narticles of piety and souvenirs were sold. The girl bought a paper\nweight, a piece of marble on which was engraved the fish symbolical of\n\u201cJesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour of Mankind.\u201d\n\nOn the afternoon of that same day Pierre decided to visit St. Peter\u2019s. He\nhad as yet only driven across the superb piazza with its obelisk and twin\nfountains, encircled by Bernini\u2019s colonnades, those four rows of columns\nand pilasters which form a girdle of monumental majesty. At the far end\nrises the basilica, its fa\u00e7ade making it look smaller and heavier than it\nreally is, but its sovereign dome nevertheless filling the heavens.\n\nPebbled, deserted inclines stretched out, and steps followed steps, worn\nand white, under the burning sun; but at last Pierre reached the door and\nwent in. It was three o\u2019clock. Broad sheets of light streamed in through\nthe high square windows, and some ceremony--the vesper service, no\ndoubt--was beginning in the Capella Clementina on the left. Pierre,\nhowever, heard nothing; he was simply struck by the immensity of the\nedifice, as with raised eyes he slowly walked along. At the entrance came\nthe giant basins for holy water with their boy-angels as chubby as\nCupids; then the nave, vaulted and decorated with sunken coffers; then\nthe four cyclopean buttress-piers upholding the dome, and then again the\ntransepts and apsis, each as large as one of our churches. And the proud\npomp, the dazzling, crushing splendour of everything, also astonished\nhim: he marvelled at the cupola, looking like a planet, resplendent with\nthe gold and bright colours of its mosaic-work, at the sumptuous\n_baldacchino_ of bronze, crowning the high altar raised above the very\ntomb of St. Peter, and whence descend the double steps of the Confession,\nillumined by seven and eighty lamps, which are always kept burning. And\nfinally he was lost in astonishment at the extraordinary profusion of\nmarble, both white and coloured. Oh! those polychromatic marbles,\nBernini\u2019s luxurious passion! The splendid pavement reflecting the entire\nedifice, the facings of the pilasters with their medallions of popes, the\ntiara and the keys borne aloft by chubby angels, the walls covered with\nemblems, particularly the dove of Innocent X, the niches with their\ncolossal statues uncouth in taste, the _loggie_ and their balconies, the\nbalustrade and double steps of the Confession, the rich altars and yet\nricher tombs--all, nave, aisles, transepts, and apsis, were in marble,\nresplendent with the wealth of marble; not a nook small as the palm of\none\u2019s hand appearing but it showed the insolent opulence of marble. And\nthe basilica triumphed, beyond discussion, recognised and admired by\nevery one as the largest and most splendid church in the whole world--the\npersonification of hugeness and magnificence combined.\n\nPierre still wandered on, gazing, overcome, as yet not distinguishing\ndetails. He paused for a moment before the bronze statue of St. Peter,\nseated in a stiff, hierarchical attitude on a marble pedestal. A few of\nthe faithful were there kissing the large toe of the Saint\u2019s right foot.\nSome of them carefully wiped it before applying their lips; others, with\nno thought of cleanliness, kissed it, pressed their foreheads to it, and\nthen kissed it again. Next, Pierre turned into the transept on the left,\nwhere stand the confessionals. Priests are ever stationed there, ready to\nconfess penitents in every language. Others wait, holding long staves,\nwith which they lightly tap the heads of kneeling sinners, who thereby\nobtain thirty days\u2019 indulgence. However, there were few people present,\nand inside the small wooden boxes the priests occupied their leisure time\nin reading and writing, as if they were at home. Then Pierre again found\nhimself before the Confession, and gazed with interest at the eighty\nlamps, scintillating like stars. The high altar, at which the Pope alone\ncan officiate, seemed wrapped in the haughty melancholy of solitude under\nits gigantic, flowery _baldacchino_, the casting and gilding of which\ncost two and twenty thousand pounds. But suddenly Pierre remembered the\nceremony in the Capella Clementina, and felt astonished, for he could\nhear nothing of it. As he drew near a faint breath, like the far-away\npiping of a flute, was wafted to him. Then the volume of sound slowly\nincreased, but it was only on reaching the chapel that he recognised an\norgan peal. The sunlight here filtered through red curtains drawn before\nthe windows, and thus the chapel glowed like a furnace whilst resounding\nwith the grave music. But in that huge pile all became so slight, so\nweak, that at sixty paces neither voice nor organ could be distinguished.\n\nOn entering the basilica Pierre had fancied that it was quite empty and\nlifeless. There were, however, some people there, but so few and far\nbetween that their presence was not noticed. A few tourists wandered\nabout wearily, guide-book in hand. In the grand nave a painter with his\neasel was taking a view, as in a public gallery. Then a French seminary\nwent by, conducted by a prelate who named and explained the tombs. But in\nall that space these fifty or a hundred people looked merely like a few\nblack ants who had lost themselves and were vainly seeking their way. And\nPierre pictured himself in some gigantic gala hall or tremendous\nvestibule in an immeasurable palace of reception. The broad sheets of\nsunlight streaming through the lofty square windows of plain white glass\nillumined the church with blending radiance. There was not a single stool\nor chair: nothing but the superb, bare pavement, such as you might find\nin a museum, shining mirror-like under the dancing shower of sunrays. Nor\nwas there a single corner for solitary reflection, a nook of gloom and\nmystery, where one might kneel and pray. In lieu thereof the sumptuous,\nsovereign dazzlement of broad daylight prevailed upon every side. And, on\nthus suddenly finding himself in this deserted opera-house, all aglow\nwith flaring gold and purple, Pierre could but remember the quivering\ngloom of the Gothic cathedrals of France, where dim crowds sob and\nsupplicate amidst a forest of pillars. In presence of all this ceremonial\nmajesty--this huge, empty pomp, which was all Body--he recalled with a\npang the emaciate architecture and statuary of the middle ages, which\nwere all Soul. He vainly sought for some poor, kneeling woman, some\ncreature swayed by faith or suffering, yielding in a modest half-light to\nthoughts of the unknown, and with closed lips holding communion with the\ninvisible. These he found not: there was but the weary wandering of the\ntourists, and the bustle of the prelates conducting the young priests to\nthe obligatory stations; while the vesper service continued in the\nleft-hand chapel, nought of it reaching the ears of the visitors save,\nperhaps, a confused vibration, as of the peal of a bell penetrating from\noutside through the vaults above.\n\nAnd Pierre then understood that this was the splendid skeleton of a\ncolossus whence life was departing. To fill it, to animate it with a\nsoul, all the gorgeous display of great religious ceremonies was needed;\nthe eighty thousand worshippers which it could hold, the great pontifical\npomps, the festivals of Christmas and Easter, the processions and\n_cort\u00e8ges_ displaying all the luxury of the Church amidst operatic\nscenery and appointments. And he tried to conjure up a picture of the\npast magnificence--the basilica overflowing with an idolatrous multitude,\nand the superhuman _cort\u00e8ge_ passing along whilst every head was lowered;\nthe cross and the sword opening the march, the cardinals going two by\ntwo, like twin divinities, in their rochets of lace and their mantles and\nrobes of red moire, which train-bearers held up behind them; and at last,\nwith Jove-like pomp, the Pope, carried on a stage draped with red velvet,\nseated in an arm-chair of red velvet and gold, and dressed in white\nvelvet, with cope of gold, stole of gold, and tiara of gold. The bearers\nof the _Sedia gestatoria_* shone bravely in red tunics broidered with\ngold. Above the one and only Sovereign Pontiff of the world the\n_flabelli_ waved those huge fans of feathers which formerly were waved\nbefore the idols of pagan Rome. And around the seat of triumph what a\ndazzling, glorious court there was! The whole pontifical family, the\nstream of assistant prelates, the patriarchs, the archbishops, and the\nbishops, with vestments and mitres of gold, the _Camerieri segreti\npartecipanti_ in violet silk, the _Camerieri partecipanti_ of the cape\nand the sword in black velvet Renascence costumes, with ruffs and golden\nchains, the whole innumerable ecclesiastical and laical suite, which not\neven a hundred pages of the \u201cGerarchia\u201d can completely enumerate, the\nprothonotaries, the chaplains, the prelates of every class and degree,\nwithout mentioning the military household, the gendarmes with their\nbusbies, the Palatine Guards in blue trousers and black tunics, the Swiss\nGuards costumed in red, yellow, and black, with breastplates of silver,\nsuggesting the men at arms of some drama of the Romantic school, and the\nNoble Guards, superb in their high boots, white pigskins, red tunics,\ngold lace, epaulets, and helmets! However, since Rome had become the\ncapital of Italy the doors were no longer thrown wide open; on the rare\noccasions when the Pope yet came down to officiate, to show himself as\nthe supreme representative of the Divinity on earth, the basilica was\nfilled with chosen ones. To enter it you needed a card of invitation. You\nno longer saw the people--a throng of fifty, even eighty, thousand\nChristians--flocking to the Church and swarming within it promiscuously;\nthere was but a select gathering, a congregation of friends convened as\nfor a private function. Even when, by dint of effort, thousands were\ncollected together there, they formed but a picked audience invited to\nthe performance of a monster concert.\n\n  * The chair and stage are known by that name.--Trans.\n\nAnd as Pierre strolled among the bright, crude marbles in that cold if\ngorgeous museum, the feeling grew upon him that he was in some pagan\ntemple raised to the deity of Light and Pomp. The larger temples of\nancient Rome were certainly similar piles, upheld by the same precious\ncolumns, with walls covered with the same polychromatic marbles and\nvaulted ceilings having the same gilded panels. And his feeling was\ndestined to become yet more acute after his visits to the other\nbasilicas, which could but reveal the truth to him. First one found the\nChristian Church quietly, audaciously quartering itself in a pagan\nchurch, as, for instance, San Lorenzo in Miranda installed in the temple\nof Antoninus and Faustina, and retaining the latter\u2019s rare porticus in\n_cipollino_ marble and its handsome white marble entablature. Then there\nwas the Christian Church springing from the ruins of the destroyed pagan\nedifice, as, for example, San Clemente, beneath which centuries of\ncontrary beliefs are stratified: a very ancient edifice of the time of\nthe kings or the republic, then another of the days of the empire\nidentified as a temple of Mithras, and next a basilica of the primitive\nfaith. Then, too, there was the Christian Church, typified by that of\nSaint Agnes-beyond-the-walls which had been built on exactly the same\npattern as the Roman secular basilica--that Tribunal and Exchange which\naccompanied every Forum. And, in particular, there was the Christian\nChurch erected with material stolen from the demolished pagan temples. To\nthis testified the sixteen superb columns of that same Saint Agnes,\ncolumns of various marbles filched from various gods; the one and twenty\ncolumns of Santa Maria in Trastevere, columns of all sorts of orders torn\nfrom a temple of Isis and Serapis, who even now are represented on their\ncapitals; also the six and thirty white marble Ionic columns of Santa\nMaria Maggiore derived from the temple of Juno Lucina; and the two and\ntwenty columns of Santa Maria in Ara Coeli, these varying in substance,\nsize, and workmanship, and certain of them said to have been stolen from\nJove himself, from the famous temple of Jupiter Capitolinus which rose\nupon the sacred summit. In addition, the temples of the opulent Imperial\nperiod seemed to resuscitate in our times at San Giovanni in Laterano and\nSan Paolo-fuori-le-mura. Was not that Basilica of San Giovanni--\u201cthe\nMother and Head of all the churches of the city and the earth\u201d--like the\nabode of honour of some pagan divinity whose splendid kingdom was of this\nworld? It boasted five naves, parted by four rows of columns; it was a\nprofusion of bas-reliefs, friezes, and entablatures, and its twelve\ncolossal statues of the Apostles looked like subordinate deities lining\nthe approach to the master of the gods! And did not San Paolo, lately\ncompleted, its new marbles shimmering like mirrors, recall the abode of\nthe Olympian immortals, typical temple as it was with its majestic\ncolonnade, its flat, gilt-panelled ceiling, its marble pavement\nincomparably beautiful both in substance and workmanship, its violet\ncolumns with white bases and capitals, and its white entablature with\nviolet frieze: everywhere, indeed, you found, the mingling of those two\ncolours so divinely carnal in their harmony. And there, as at St.\nPeter\u2019s, not one patch of gloom, not one nook of mystery where one might\npeer into the invisible, could be found! And, withal, St. Peter\u2019s\nremained the monster, the colossus, larger than the largest of all\nothers, an extravagant testimony of what the mad passion for the huge can\nachieve when human pride, by dint of spending millions, dreams of lodging\nthe divinity in an over-vast, over-opulent palace of stone, where in\ntruth that pride itself, and not the divinity, triumphs!\n\nAnd to think that after long centuries that gala colossus had been the\noutcome of the fervour of primitive faith! You found there a blossoming\nof that ancient sap, peculiar to the soil of Rome, which in all ages has\nthrown up preposterous edifices, of exaggerated hugeness and dazzling and\nruinous luxury. It would seem as if the absolute masters successively\nruling the city brought that passion for cyclopean building with them,\nderived it from the soil in which they grew, for they transmitted it one\nto the other, without a pause, from civilisation to civilisation, however\ndiverse and contrary their minds. It has all been, so to say, a\ncontinuous blossoming of human vanity, a passionate desire to set one\u2019s\nname on an imperishable wall, and, after being master of the world, to\nleave behind one an indestructible trace, a tangible proof of one\u2019s\npassing glory, an eternal edifice of bronze and marble fit to attest that\nglory until the end of time. At the bottom the spirit of conquest, the\nproud ambition to dominate the world, subsists; and when all has\ncrumbled, and a new society has sprung up from the ruins of its\npredecessor, men have erred in imagining it to be cured of the sin of\npride, steeped in humility once more, for it has had the old blood in its\nveins, and has yielded to the same insolent madness as its ancestors, a\nprey to all the violence of its heredity directly it has become great and\nstrong. Among the illustrious popes there has not been one that did not\nseek to build, did not revert to the traditions of the Caesars,\neternising their reigns in stone and raising temples for resting-places,\nso as to rank among the gods. Ever the same passion for terrestrial\nimmortality has burst forth: it has been a battle as to who should leave\nthe highest, most substantial, most gorgeous monument; and so acute has\nbeen the disease that those who, for lack of means and opportunity, have\nbeen unable to build, and have been forced to content themselves with\nrepairing, have, nevertheless, desired to bequeath the memory of their\nmodest achievements to subsequent generations by commemorative marble\nslabs engraved with pompous inscriptions! These slabs are to be seen on\nevery side: not a wall has ever been strengthened but some pope has\nstamped it with his arms, not a ruin has been restored, not a palace\nrepaired, not a fountain cleaned, but the reigning pope has signed the\nwork with his Roman and pagan title of \u201cPontifex Maximus.\u201d It is a\nhaunting passion, a form of involuntary debauchery, the fated florescence\nof that compost of ruins, that dust of edifices whence new edifices are\never arising. And given the perversion with which the old Roman soil\nalmost immediately tarnished the doctrines of Jesus, that resolute\npassion for domination and that desire for terrestrial glory which\nwrought the triumph of Catholicism in scorn of the humble and pure, the\nfraternal and simple ones of the primitive Church, one may well ask\nwhether Rome has ever been Christian at all!\n\nAnd whilst Pierre was for the second time walking round the huge\nbasilica, admiring the tombs of the popes, truth, like a sudden\nillumination, burst upon him and filled him with its glow. Ah! those\ntombs! Yonder in the full sunlight, in the rosy Campagna, on either side\nof the Appian Way--that triumphal approach to Rome, conducting the\nstranger to the august Palatine with its crown of circling palaces--there\narose the gigantic tombs of the powerful and wealthy, tombs of\nunparalleled artistic splendour, perpetuating in marble the pride and\npomp of a strong race that had mastered the world. Then, near at hand,\nbeneath the sod, in the shrouding night of wretched mole-holes, other\ntombs were hidden--the tombs of the lowly, the poor, and the\nsuffering--tombs destitute of art or display, but whose very humility\nproclaimed that a breath of affection and resignation had passed by, that\nOne had come preaching love and fraternity, the relinquishment of the\nwealth of the earth for the everlasting joys of a future life, and\ncommitting to the soil the good seed of His Gospel, sowing the new\nhumanity which was to transform the olden world. And, behold, from that\nseed, buried in the soil for centuries, behold, from those humble,\nunobtrusive tombs, where martyrs slept their last and gentle sleep whilst\nwaiting for the glorious call, yet other tombs had sprung, tombs as\ngigantic and as pompous as the ancient, destroyed sepulchres of the\nidolaters, tombs uprearing their marbles among a pagan-temple-like\nsplendour, proclaiming the same superhuman pride, the same mad passion\nfor universal sovereignty. At the time of the Renascence Rome became\npagan once more; the old imperial blood frothed up and swept Christianity\naway with the greatest onslaught ever directed against it. Ah! those\ntombs of the popes at St. Peter\u2019s, with their impudent, insolent\nglorification of the departed, their sumptuous, carnal hugeness, defying\ndeath and setting immortality upon this earth. There are giant popes of\nbronze, allegorical figures and angels of equivocal character wearing the\nbeauty of lovely girls, of passion-compelling women with the thighs and\nthe breasts of pagan goddesses! Paul III is seated on a high pedestal,\nJustice and Prudence are almost prostrate at his feet. Urban VIII is\nbetween Prudence and Religion, Innocent XI between Religion and Justice,\nInnocent XII between Justice and Charity, Gregory XIII between Religion\nand Strength. Attended by Prudence and Justice, Alexander VII appears\nkneeling, with Charity and Truth before him, and a skeleton rises up\ndisplaying an empty hour-glass. Clement XIII, also on his knees, triumphs\nabove a monumental sarcophagus, against which leans Religion bearing the\nCross; while the Genius of Death, his elbow resting on the right-hand\ncorner, has two huge, superb lions, emblems of omnipotence, beneath him.\nBronze bespeaks the eternity of the figures, white marble describes\nopulent flesh, and coloured marble winds around in rich draperies,\ndeifying the monuments under the bright, golden glow of nave and aisles.\n\nAnd Pierre passed from one tomb to the other on his way through the\nmagnificent, deserted, sunlit basilica. Yes, these tombs, so imperial in\ntheir ostentation, were meet companions for those of the Appian Way.\nAssuredly it was Rome, the soil of Rome, that soil where pride and\ndomination sprouted like the herbage of the fields that had transformed\nthe humble Christianity of primitive times, the religion of fraternity,\njustice, and hope into what it now was: victorious Catholicism, allied to\nthe rich and powerful, a huge implement of government, prepared for the\nconquest of every nation. The popes had awoke as Caesars. Remote heredity\nhad acted, the blood of Augustus had bubbled forth afresh, flowing\nthrough their veins and firing their minds with immeasurable ambition. As\nyet none but Augustus had held the empire of the world, had been both\nemperor and pontiff, master of the body and the soul. And thence had come\nthe eternal dream of the popes in despair at only holding the spiritual\npower, and obstinately refusing to yield in temporal matters, clinging\nfor ever to the ancient hope that their dream might at last be realised,\nand the Vatican become another Palatine, whence they might reign with\nabsolute despotism over all the conquered nations.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nPIERRE had been in Rome for a fortnight, and yet the affair of his book\nwas no nearer solution. He was still possessed by an ardent desire to see\nthe Pope, but could in no wise tell how to satisfy it, so frequent were\nthe delays and so greatly had he been frightened by Monsignor Nani\u2019s\npredictions of the dire consequences which might attend any imprudent\naction. And so, foreseeing a prolonged sojourn, he at last betook himself\nto the Vicariate in order that his \u201ccelebret\u201d might be stamped, and\nafterwards said his mass each morning at the Church of Santa Brigida,\nwhere he received a kindly greeting from Abb\u00e9 Pisoni, Benedetta\u2019s former\nconfessor.\n\nOne Monday evening he resolved to repair early to Donna Serafina\u2019s\ncustomary reception in the hope of learning some news and expediting his\naffairs. Perhaps Monsignor Nani would look in; perhaps he might be lucky\nenough to come across some cardinal or domestic prelate willing to help\nhim. It was in vain that he had tried to extract any positive information\nfrom Don Vigilio, for, after a short spell of affability and willingness,\nCardinal Pio\u2019s secretary had relapsed into distrust and fear, and avoided\nPierre as if he were resolved not to meddle in a business which, all\nconsidered, was decidedly suspicious and dangerous. Moreover, for a\ncouple of days past a violent attack of fever had compelled him to keep\nhis room.\n\nThus the only person to whom Pierre could turn for comfort was Victorine\nBosquet, the old Beauceronne servant who had been promoted to the rank of\nhousekeeper, and who still retained a French heart after thirty years\u2019\nresidence in Rome. She often spoke to the young priest of Auneau, her\nnative place, as if she had left it only the previous day; but on that\nparticular Monday even she had lost her wonted gay vivacity, and when she\nheard that he meant to go down in the evening to see the ladies she\nwagged her head significantly. \u201cAh! you won\u2019t find them very cheerful,\u201d\n said she. \u201cMy poor Benedetta is greatly worried. Her divorce suit is not\nprogressing at all well.\u201d\n\nAll Rome, indeed, was again talking of this affair. An extraordinary\nrevival of tittle-tattle had set both white and black worlds agog. And so\nthere was no need for reticence on Victorine\u2019s part, especially in\nconversing with a compatriot. It appeared, then, that, in reply to\nAdvocate Morano\u2019s memoir setting forth that the marriage had not been\nconsummated, there had come another memoir, a terrible one, emanating\nfrom Monsignor Palma, a doctor in theology, whom the Congregation of the\nCouncil had selected to defend the marriage. As a first point, Monsignor\nPalma flatly disputed the alleged non-consummation, questioned the\ncertificate put forward on Benedetta\u2019s behalf, and quoted instances\nrecorded in scientific text-books which showed how deceptive appearances\noften were. He strongly insisted, moreover, on the narrative which Count\nPrada supplied in another memoir, a narrative well calculated to inspire\ndoubt; and, further, he so turned and twisted the evidence of Benedetta\u2019s\nown maid as to make that evidence also serve against her. Finally he\nargued in a decisive way that, even supposing the marriage had not been\nconsummated, this could only be ascribed to the resistance of the\nCountess, who had thus set at defiance one of the elementary laws of\nmarried life, which was that a wife owed obedience to her husband.\n\nNext had come a fourth memoir, drawn up by the reporter of the\nCongregation, who analysed and discussed the three others, and\nsubsequently the Congregation itself had dealt with the matter, opining\nin favour of the dissolution of the marriage by a majority of one\nvote--such a bare majority, indeed, that Monsignor Palma, exercising his\nrights, had hastened to demand further inquiry, a course which brought\nthe whole _proc\u00e9dure_ again into question, and rendered a fresh vote\nnecessary.\n\n\u201cAh! the poor Contessina!\u201d exclaimed Victorine, \u201cshe\u2019ll surely die of\ngrief, for, calm as she may seem, there\u2019s an inward fire consuming her.\nIt seems that Monsignor Palma is the master of the situation, and can\nmake the affair drag on as long as he likes. And then a deal of money had\nalready been spent, and one will have to spend a lot more. Abb\u00e9 Pisoni,\nwhom you know, was very badly inspired when he helped on that marriage;\nand though I certainly don\u2019t want to soil the memory of my good mistress,\nCountess Ernesta, who was a real saint, it\u2019s none the less true that she\nwrecked her daughter\u2019s life when she gave her to Count Prada.\u201d\n\nThe housekeeper paused. Then, impelled by an instinctive sense of\njustice, she resumed. \u201cIt\u2019s only natural that Count Prada should be\nannoyed, for he\u2019s really being made a fool of. And, for my part, as there\nis no end to all the fuss, and this divorce is so hard to obtain, I\nreally don\u2019t see why the Contessina shouldn\u2019t live with her Dario without\ntroubling any further. Haven\u2019t they loved one another ever since they\nwere children? Aren\u2019t they both young and handsome, and wouldn\u2019t they be\nhappy together, whatever the world might say? Happiness, _mon Dieu_! one\nfinds it so seldom that one can\u2019t afford to let it pass.\u201d\n\nThen, seeing how greatly surprised Pierre was at hearing such language,\nshe began to laugh with the quiet composure of one belonging to the\nhumble classes of France, whose only desire is a quiet and happy life,\nirrespective of matrimonial ties. Next, in more discreet language, she\nproceeded to lament another worry which had fallen on the household,\nanother result of the divorce affair. A rupture had come about between\nDonna Serafina and Advocate Morano, who was very displeased with the ill\nsuccess of his memoir to the congregation, and accused Father\nLorenza--the confessor of the Boccanera ladies--of having urged them into\na deplorable lawsuit, whose only fruit could be a wretched scandal\naffecting everybody. And so great had been Morano\u2019s annoyance that he had\nnot returned to the Boccanera mansion, but had severed a connection of\nthirty years\u2019 standing, to the stupefaction of all the Roman\ndrawing-rooms, which altogether disapproved of his conduct. Donna\nSerafina was, for her part, the more grieved as she suspected the\nadvocate of having purposely picked the quarrel in order to secure an\nexcuse for leaving her; his real motive, in her estimation, being a\nsudden, disgraceful passion for a young and intriguing woman of the\nmiddle classes.\n\nThat Monday evening, when Pierre entered the drawing-room, hung with\nyellow brocatelle of a flowery Louis XIV pattern, he at once realised\nthat melancholy reigned in the dim light radiating from the lace-veiled\nlamps. Benedetta and Celia, seated on a sofa, were chatting with Dario,\nwhilst Cardinal Sarno, ensconced in an arm-chair, listened to the\nceaseless chatter of the old relative who conducted the little Princess\nto each Monday gathering. And the only other person present was Donna\nSerafina, seated all alone in her wonted place on the right-hand side of\nthe chimney-piece, and consumed with secret rage at seeing the chair on\nthe left-hand side unoccupied--that chair which Morano had always taken\nduring the thirty years that he had been faithful to her. Pierre noticed\nwith what anxious and then despairing eyes she observed his entrance, her\nglance ever straying towards the door, as though she even yet hoped for\nthe fickle one\u2019s return. Withal her bearing was erect and proud; she\nseemed to be more tightly laced than ever; and there was all the wonted\nhaughtiness on her hard-featured face, with its jet-black eyebrows and\nsnowy hair.\n\nPierre had no sooner paid his respects to her than he allowed his own\nworry to appear by inquiring whether they would not have the pleasure of\nseeing Monsignor Nani that evening. Thereupon Donna Serafina could not\nrefrain from answering: \u201cOh! Monsignor Nani is forsaking us like the\nothers. People always take themselves off when they can be of service.\u201d\n\nShe harboured a spite against the prelate for having done so little to\nfurther the divorce in spite of his many promises. Beneath his outward\nshow of extreme willingness and caressing affability he doubtless\nconcealed some scheme of his own which he was tenaciously pursuing.\nHowever, Donna Serafina promptly regretted the confession which anger had\nwrung from her, and resumed: \u201cAfter all, he will perhaps come. He is so\ngood-natured, and so fond of us.\u201d\n\nIn spite of the vivacity of her temperament she really wished to act\ndiplomatically, so as to overcome the bad luck which had recently set in.\nHer brother the Cardinal had told her how irritated he was by the\nattitude of the Congregation of the Council; he had little doubt that the\nfrigid reception accorded to his niece\u2019s suit had been due in part to the\ndesire of some of his brother cardinals to be disagreeable to him.\nPersonally, he desired the divorce, as it seemed to him the only means of\nensuring the perpetuation of the family; for Dario obstinately refused to\nmarry any other woman than his cousin. And thus there was an accumulation\nof disasters; the Cardinal was wounded in his pride, his sister shared\nhis sufferings and on her own side was stricken in the heart, whilst both\nlovers were plunged in despair at finding their hopes yet again deferred.\n\nAs Pierre approached the sofa where the young folks were chatting he\nfound that they were speaking of the catastrophe. \u201cWhy should you be so\ndespondent?\u201d asked Celia in an undertone. \u201cAfter all, there was a\nmajority of a vote in favour of annulling the marriage. Your suit hasn\u2019t\nbeen rejected; there is only a delay.\u201d\n\nBut Benedetta shook her head. \u201cNo, no! If Monsignor Palma proves\nobstinate his Holiness will never consent. It\u2019s all over.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! if one were only rich, very rich!\u201d murmured Dario, with such an air\nof conviction that no one smiled. And, turning to his cousin, he added in\na whisper: \u201cI must really have a talk with you. We cannot go on living\nlike this.\u201d\n\nIn a breath she responded: \u201cYes, you are right. Come down to-morrow\nevening at five. I will be here alone.\u201d\n\nThen dreariness set in; the evening seemed to have no end. Pierre was\ngreatly touched by the evident despair of Benedetta, who as a rule was so\ncalm and sensible. The deep eyes which illumined her pure, delicate,\ninfantile face were now blurred as by restrained tears. He had already\nformed a sincere affection for her, pleased as he was with her equable if\nsomewhat indolent disposition, the semblance of discreet good sense with\nwhich she veiled her soul of fire. That Monday even she certainly tried\nto smile while listening to the pretty secrets confided to her by Celia,\nwhose love affairs were prospering far more than her own. There was only\none brief interval of general conversation, and that was brought about by\nthe little Princess\u2019s aunt, who, suddenly raising her voice, began to\nspeak of the infamous manner in which the Italian newspapers referred to\nthe Holy Father. Never, indeed, had there been so much bad feeling\nbetween the Vatican and the Quirinal. Cardinal Sarno felt so strongly on\nthe subject that he departed from his wonted silence to announce that on\nthe occasion of the sacrilegious festivities of the Twentieth of\nSeptember, celebrating the capture of Rome, the Pope intended to cast a\nfresh letter of protest in the face of all the Christian powers, whose\nindifference proved their complicity in the odious spoliation of the\nChurch.\n\n\u201cYes, indeed! what folly to try and marry the Pope and the King,\u201d\n bitterly exclaimed Donna Serafina, alluding to her niece\u2019s deplorable\nmarriage.\n\nThe old maid now seemed quite beside herself; it was already so late that\nneither Monsignor Nani nor anybody else was expected. However, at the\nunhoped-for sound of footsteps her eyes again brightened and turned\nfeverishly towards the door. But it was only to encounter a final\ndisappointment. The visitor proved to be Narcisse Habert, who stepped up\nto her, apologising for making so late a call. It was Cardinal Sarno, his\nuncle by marriage, who had introduced him into this exclusive _salon_,\nwhere he had received a cordial reception on account of his religious\nviews, which were said to be most uncompromising. If, however, despite\nthe lateness of the hour, he had ventured to call there that evening, it\nwas solely on account of Pierre, whom he at once drew on one side.\n\n\u201cI felt sure I should find you here,\u201d he said. \u201cJust now I managed to see\nmy cousin, Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, and I have some good news for you.\nHe will see us to-morrow at about eleven in his rooms at the Vatican.\u201d\n Then, lowering his voice: \u201cI think he will endeavour to conduct you to\nthe Holy Father. Briefly, the audience seems to me assured.\u201d\n\nPierre was greatly delighted by this promised certainty, which came to\nhim so suddenly in that dreary drawing-room, where for a couple of hours\nhe had been gradually sinking into despair! So at last a solution was at\nhand!\n\nMeantime Narcisse, after shaking hands with Dario and bowing to Benedetta\nand Celia, approached his uncle the Cardinal, who, having rid himself of\nthe old relation, made up his mind to talk. But his conversation was\nconfined to the state of his health, and the weather, and sundry\ninsignificant anecdotes which he had lately heard. Not a word escaped him\nrespecting the thousand complicated matters with which he dealt at the\nPropaganda. It was as though, once outside his office, he plunged into\nthe commonplace and the unimportant by way of resting from the anxious\ntask of governing the world. And after he had spoken for a time every one\ngot up, and the visitors took leave.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t forget,\u201d Narcisse repeated to Pierre, \u201cyou will find me at the\nSixtine Chapel to-morrow at ten. And I will show you the Botticellis\nbefore we go to our appointment.\u201d\n\nAt half-past nine on the following morning Pierre, who had come on foot,\nwas already on the spacious Piazza of St. Peter\u2019s; and before turning to\nthe right, towards the bronze gate near one corner of Bernini\u2019s\ncolonnade, he raised his eyes and lingered, gazing at the Vatican.\nNothing to his mind could be less monumental than the jumble of buildings\nwhich, without semblance of architectural order or regularity of any\nkind, had grown up in the shadow cast by the dome of the basilica. Roofs\nrose one above the other and broad, flat walls stretched out chance-wise,\njust as wings and storeys had been added. The only symmetry observable\nabove the colonnade was that of the three sides of the court of San\nDamaso, where the lofty glass-work which now encloses the old _loggie_\nsparkled in the sun between the ruddy columns and pilasters, suggesting,\nas it were, three huge conservatories.\n\nAnd this was the most beautiful palace in the world, the largest of all\npalaces, comprising no fewer than eleven thousand apartments and\ncontaining the most admirable masterpieces of human genius! But Pierre,\ndisillusioned as he was, had eyes only for the lofty fa\u00e7ade on the right,\noverlooking the piazza, for he knew that the second-floor windows there\nwere those of the Pope\u2019s private apartments. And he contemplated those\nwindows for a long time, and remembered having been told that the fifth\none on the right was that of the Pope\u2019s bed-room, and that a lamp could\nalways be seen burning there far into the night.\n\nWhat was there, too, behind that gate of bronze which he saw before\nhim--that sacred portal by which all the kingdoms of the world\ncommunicated with the kingdom of heaven, whose august vicar had secluded\nhimself behind those lofty, silent walls? From where he stood Pierre\ngazed on that gate with its metal panels studded with large square-headed\nnails, and wondered what it defended, what it concealed, what it shut off\nfrom the view, with its stern, forbidding air, recalling that of the gate\nof some ancient fortress. What kind of world would he find behind it,\nwhat treasures of human charity jealously preserved in yonder gloom, what\nrevivifying hope for the new nations hungering for fraternity and\njustice? He took pleasure in fancying, in picturing the one holy pastor\nof humanity, ever watching in the depths of that closed palace, and,\nwhile the nations strayed into hatred, preparing all for the final reign\nof Jesus, and at last proclaiming the advent of that reign by\ntransforming our democracies into the one great Christian community\npromised by the Saviour. Assuredly the world\u2019s future was being prepared\nbehind that bronze portal; assuredly it was that future which would issue\nforth.\n\nBut all at once Pierre was amazed to find himself face to face with\nMonsignor Nani, who had just left the Vatican on his way to the\nneighbouring Palace of the Inquisition, where, as Assessor, he had his\nresidence.\n\n\u201cAh! Monsignor,\u201d said Pierre, \u201cI am very pleased. My friend Monsieur\nHabert is going to present me to his cousin, Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo,\nand I think I shall obtain the audience I so greatly desire.\u201d\n\nMonsignor Nani smiled with his usual amiable yet keen expression. \u201cYes,\nyes, I know.\u201d But, correcting himself as it were, he added: \u201cI share your\nsatisfaction, my dear son. Only, you must be prudent.\u201d And then, as if\nfearing that the young priest might have understood by his first words\nthat he had just seen Monsignor Gamba, the most easily terrified prelate\nof the whole prudent pontifical family, he related that he had been\nrunning about since an early hour on behalf of two French ladies, who\nlikewise were dying of a desire to see the Pope. However, he greatly\nfeared that the help he was giving them would not prove successful.\n\n\u201cI will confess to you, Monsignor,\u201d replied Pierre, \u201cthat I myself was\ngetting very discouraged. Yes, it is high time I should find a little\ncomfort, for my sojourn here is hardly calculated to brace my soul.\u201d\n\nHe went on in this strain, allowing it to be seen that the sights of Rome\nwere finally destroying his faith. Such days as those which he had spent\non the Palatine and along the Appian Way, in the Catacombs and at St.\nPeter\u2019s, grievously disturbed him, spoilt his dream of Christianity\nrejuvenated and triumphant. He emerged from them full of doubt and\ngrowing lassitude, having already lost much of his usually rebellious\nenthusiasm.\n\nStill smiling, Monsignor Nani listened and nodded approvingly. Yes, no\ndoubt that was the fatal result. He seemed to have foreseen it, and to be\nwell satisfied thereat. \u201cAt all events, my dear son,\u201d said he,\n\u201ceverything is going on well, since you are now certain that you will see\nhis Holiness.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is true, Monsignor; I have placed my only hope in the very just and\nperspicacious Leo XIII. He alone can judge me, since he alone can\nrecognise in my book his own ideas, which I think I have very faithfully\nset forth. Ah! if he be willing he will, in Jesus\u2019 name and by democracy\nand science, save this old world of ours!\u201d\n\nPierre\u2019s enthusiasm was returning again, and Nani, smiling more and more\naffably with his piercing eyes and thin lips, again expressed approval:\n\u201cCertainly; quite so, my dear son. You will speak to him, you will see.\u201d\n\nThen as they both raised their heads and looked towards the Vatican, Nani\ncarried his amiability so far as to undeceive Pierre with respect to the\nPope\u2019s bed-room. No, the window where a light was seen every evening was\nsimply that of a landing where the gas was kept burning almost all night.\nThe window of his Holiness\u2019s bed-chamber was the second one farther on.\nThen both relapsed into silence, equally grave as they continued to gaze\nat the fa\u00e7ade.\n\n\u201cWell, till we meet again, my dear son,\u201d said Nani at last. \u201cYou will\ntell me of your interview, I hope.\u201d\n\nAs soon as Pierre was alone he went in by the bronze portal, his heart\nbeating violently, as if he were entering some redoubtable sanctuary\nwhere the future happiness of mankind was elaborated. A sentry was on\nduty there, a Swiss guard, who walked slowly up and down in a grey-blue\ncloak, below which one only caught a glimpse of his baggy red, black, and\nyellow breeches; and it seemed as if this cloak of sober hue were\npurposely cast over a disguise in order to conceal its strangeness, which\nhad become irksome. Then, on the right-hand, came the covered stairway\nconducting to the Court of San Damaso; but to reach the Sixtine Chapel it\nwas necessary to follow a long gallery, with columns on either hand, and\nascend the royal staircase, the Scala Regia. And in this realm of the\ngigantic, where every dimension is exaggerated and replete with\noverpowering majesty, Pierre\u2019s breath came short as he ascended the broad\nsteps.\n\nHe was much surprised on entering the Sixtine Chapel, for it at first\nseemed to him small, a sort of rectangular and lofty hall, with a\ndelicate screen of white marble separating the part where guests\ncongregate on the occasion of great ceremonies from the choir where the\ncardinals sit on simple oaken benches, while the inferior prelates remain\nstanding behind them. On a low platform to the right of the soberly\nadorned altar is the pontifical throne; while in the wall on the left\nopens the narrow singing gallery with its balcony of marble. And for\neverything suddenly to spread out and soar into the infinite one must\nraise one\u2019s head, allow one\u2019s eyes to ascend from the huge fresco of the\nLast Judgment, occupying the whole of the end wall, to the paintings\nwhich cover the vaulted ceiling down to the cornice extending between the\ntwelve windows of white glass, six on either hand.\n\nFortunately there were only three or four quiet tourists there; and\nPierre at once perceived Narcisse Habert occupying one of the cardinals\u2019\nseats above the steps where the train-bearers crouch. Motionless, and\nwith his head somewhat thrown back, the young man seemed to be in\necstasy. But it was not the work of Michael Angelo that he thus\ncontemplated. His eyes never strayed from one of the earlier frescoes\nbelow the cornice; and on recognising the priest he contented himself\nwith murmuring: \u201cAh! my friend, just look at the Botticelli.\u201d Then, with\ndreamy eyes, he relapsed into a state of rapture.\n\nPierre, for his part, had received a great shock both in heart and in\nmind, overpowered as he was by the superhuman genius of Michael Angelo.\nThe rest vanished; there only remained, up yonder, as in a limitless\nheaven, the extraordinary creations of the master\u2019s art. That which at\nfirst surprised one was that the painter should have been the sole\nartisan of the mighty work. No marble cutters, no bronze workers, no\ngilders, no one of another calling had intervened. The painter with his\nbrush had sufficed for all--for the pilasters, columns, and cornices of\nmarble, for the statues and the ornaments of bronze, for the _fleurons_\nand roses of gold, for the whole of the wondrously rich decorative work\nwhich surrounded the frescoes. And Pierre imagined Michael Angelo on the\nday when the bare vault was handed over to him, covered with plaster,\noffering only a flat white surface, hundreds of square yards to be\nadorned. And he pictured him face to face with that huge white page,\nrefusing all help, driving all inquisitive folks away, jealously,\nviolently shutting himself up alone with his gigantic task, spending four\nand a half years in fierce solitude, and day by day adding to his\ncolossal work of creation. Ah! that mighty work, a task to fill a whole\nlifetime, a task which he must have begun with quiet confidence in his\nown will and power, drawing, as it were, an entire world from his brain\nand flinging it there with the ceaseless flow of creative virility in the\nfull heyday of its omnipotence.\n\nAnd Pierre was yet more overcome when he began to examine these\npresentments of humanity, magnified as by the eyes of a visionary,\noverflowing in mighty sympathetic pages of cyclopean symbolisation. Royal\ngrace and nobility, sovereign peacefulness and power--every beauty shone\nout like natural florescence. And there was perfect science, the most\naudacious foreshortening risked with the certainty of success--an\neverlasting triumph of technique over the difficulty which an arched\nsurface presented. And, in particular, there was wonderful simplicity of\nmedium; matter was reduced almost to nothingness; a few colours were used\nbroadly without any studied search for effect or brilliancy. Yet that\nsufficed, the blood seethed freely, the muscles projected, the figures\nbecame animated and stood out of their frames with such energy and dash\nthat it seemed as if a flame were flashing by aloft, endowing all those\nbeings with superhuman and immortal life. Life, aye, it was life, which\nburst forth and triumphed--mighty, swarming life, miraculous life, the\ncreation of one sole hand possessed of the supreme gift--simplicity\nblended with power.\n\nThat a philosophical system, a record of the whole of human destiny,\nshould have been found therein, with the creation of the world, of man,\nand of woman, the fall, the chastisement, then the redemption, and\nfinally God\u2019s judgment on the last day--this was a matter on which Pierre\nwas unable to dwell, at this first visit, in the wondering stupor into\nwhich the paintings threw him. But he could not help noticing how the\nhuman body, its beauty, its power, and its grace were exalted! Ah! that\nregal Jehovah, at once terrible and paternal, carried off amid the\nwhirlwind of his creation, his arms outstretched and giving birth to\nworlds! And that superb and nobly outlined Adam, with extended hand, whom\nJehovah, though he touch him not, animates with his finger--a wondrous\nand admirable gesture, leaving a sacred space between the finger of the\nCreator and that of the created--a tiny space, in which, nevertheless,\nabides all the infinite of the invisible and the mysterious. And then\nthat powerful yet adorable Eve, that Eve with the sturdy flanks fit for\nthe bearing of humanity, that Eve with the proud, tender grace of a woman\nbent on being loved even to perdition, that Eve embodying the whole of\nwoman with her fecundity, her seductiveness, her empire! Moreover, even\nthe decorative figures of the pilasters at the corners of the frescoes\ncelebrate the triumph of the flesh: there are the twenty young men\nradiant in their nakedness, with incomparable splendour of torso and of\nlimb, and such intensity of life that a craze for motion seems to carry\nthem off, bend them, throw them over in superb attitudes. And between the\nwindows are the giants, the prophets and the sibyls--man and woman\ndeified, with inordinate wealth of muscle and grandeur of intellectual\nexpression. There is Jeremiah with his elbow resting on his knee and his\nchin on his hand, plunged as he is in reflection--in the very depths of\nhis visions and his dreams; there is the Sibylla Erithraea, so pure of\nprofile, so young despite the opulence of her form, and with one finger\nresting on the open book of destiny; there is Isaiah with the thick lips\nof truth, virile and haughty, his head half turned and his hand raised\nwith a gesture of command; there is the Sibylla Cumaea, terrifying with\nher science and her old age, her wrinkled countenance, her vulture\u2019s\nnose, her square protruding chin; there is Jonah cast forth by the whale,\nand wondrously foreshortened, his torso twisted, his arms bent, his head\nthrown back, and his mouth agape and shouting: and there are the others,\nall of the same full-blown, majestic family, reigning with the\nsovereignty of eternal health and intelligence, and typifying the dream\nof a broader, loftier, and indestructible humanity. Moreover, in the\nlunettes and the arches over the windows other figures of grace, power,\nand beauty appear and throng, the ancestors of the Christ, thoughtful\nmothers with lovely nude infants, men with wondering eyes peering into\nthe future, representatives of the punished weary race longing for the\npromised Redeemer; while in the pendentives of the four corners various\nbiblical episodes, the victories of Israel over the Spirit of Evil,\nspring into life. And finally there is the gigantic fresco at the far\nend, the Last Judgment with its swarming multitude, so numerous that days\nand days are needed to see each figure aright, a distracted crowd, full\nof the hot breath of life, from the dead rising in response to the\nfurious trumpeting of the angels, from the fearsome groups of the damned\nwhom the demons fling into hell, even to Jesus the justiciar, surrounded\nby the saints and apostles, and to the radiant concourse of the blessed\nwho ascend upheld by angels, whilst higher and still higher other angels,\nbearing the instruments of the Passion, triumph as in full glory. And\nyet, above this gigantic composition, painted thirty years subsequently,\nin the full ripeness of age, the ceiling retains its ethereality, its\nunquestionable superiority, for on it the artist bestowed all his virgin\npower, his whole youth, the first great flare of his genius.\n\nAnd Pierre found but one word to express his feelings: Michael Angelo was\nthe monster dominating and crushing all others. Beneath his immense\nachievement you had only to glance at the works of Perugino,\nPinturicchio, Roselli, Signorelli, and Botticelli, those earlier\nfrescoes, admirable in their way, which below the cornice spread out\naround the chapel.\n\nNarcisse for his part had not raised his eyes to the overpowering\nsplendour of the ceiling. Wrapt in ecstasy, he did not allow his gaze to\nstray from one of the three frescoes of Botticelli. \u201cAh! Botticelli,\u201d he\nat last murmured; \u201cin him you have the elegance and the grace of the\nmysterious; a profound feeling of sadness even in the midst of\nvoluptuousness, a divination of the whole modern soul, with the most\ntroublous charm that ever attended artist\u2019s work.\u201d\n\nPierre glanced at him in amazement, and then ventured to inquire: \u201cYou\ncome here to see the Botticellis?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, certainly,\u201d the young man quietly replied; \u201cI only come here for\nhim, and five hours every week I only look at his work. There, just study\nthat fresco, Moses and the daughters of Jethro. Isn\u2019t it the most\npenetrating work that human tenderness and melancholy have produced?\u201d\n\nThen, with a faint, devout quiver in his voice and the air of a priest\ninitiating another into the delightful but perturbing atmosphere of a\nsanctuary, he went on repeating the praises of Botticelli\u2019s art; his\nwomen with long, sensual, yet candid faces, supple bearing, and rounded\nforms showing from under light drapery; his young men, his angels of\ndoubtful sex, blending stateliness of muscle with infinite delicacy of\noutline; next the mouths he painted, fleshy, fruit-like mouths, at times\nsuggesting irony, at others pain, and often so enigmatical with their\nsinuous curves that one knew not whether the words they left unuttered\nwere words of purity or filth; then, too, the eyes which he bestowed on\nhis figures, eyes of languor and passion, of carnal or mystical rapture,\ntheir joy at times so instinct with grief as they peer into the nihility\nof human things that no eyes in the world could be more impenetrable. And\nfinally there were Botticelli\u2019s hands, so carefully and delicately\npainted, so full of life, wantoning so to say in a free atmosphere, now\njoining, caressing, and even, as it were, speaking, the whole evincing\nsuch intense solicitude for gracefulness that at times there seems to be\nundue mannerism, though every hand has its particular expression, each\nvarying expression of the enjoyment or pain which the sense of touch can\nbring. And yet there was nothing effeminate or false about the painter\u2019s\nwork: on all sides a sort of virile pride was apparent, an atmosphere of\nsuperb passionate motion, absolute concern for truth, direct study from\nlife, conscientiousness, veritable realism, corrected and elevated by a\ngenial strangeness of feeling and character that imparted a\nnever-to-be-forgotten charm even to ugliness itself.\n\nPierre\u2019s stupefaction, however, increased as he listened to Narcisse,\nwhose somewhat studied elegance, whose curly hair cut in the Florentine\nfashion, and whose blue, mauvish eyes paling with enthusiasm he now for\nthe first time remarked. \u201cBotticelli,\u201d he at last said, \u201cwas no doubt a\nmarvellous artist, only it seems to me that here, at any rate, Michael\nAngelo--\u201d\n\nBut Narcisse interrupted him almost with violence. \u201cNo! no! Don\u2019t talk of\nhim! He spoilt everything, ruined everything! A man who harnessed himself\nto his work like an ox, who laboured at his task like a navvy, at the\nrate of so many square yards a day! And a man, too, with no sense of the\nmysterious and the unknown, who saw everything so huge as to disgust one\nwith beauty, painting girls like the trunks of oak-trees, women like\ngiant butchers, with heaps and heaps of stupid flesh, and never a gleam\nof a divine or infernal soul! He was a mason--a colossal mason, if you\nlike--but he was nothing more.\u201d\n\nWeary \u201cmodern\u201d that Narcisse was, spoilt by the pursuit of the original\nand the rare, he thus unconsciously gave rein to his fated hate of health\nand power. That Michael Angelo who brought forth without an effort, who\nhad left behind him the most prodigious of all artistic creations, was\nthe enemy. And his crime precisely was that he had created life, produced\nlife in such excess that all the petty creations of others, even the most\ndelightful among them, vanished in presence of the overflowing torrent of\nhuman beings flung there all alive in the sunlight.\n\n\u201cWell, for my part,\u201d Pierre courageously declared, \u201cI\u2019m not of your\nopinion. I now realise that life is everything in art; that real\nimmortality belongs only to those who create. The case of Michael Angelo\nseems to me decisive, for he is the superhuman master, the monster who\noverwhelms all others, precisely because he brought forth that\nmagnificent living flesh which offends your sense of delicacy. Those who\nare inclined to the curious, those who have minds of a pretty turn, whose\nintellects are ever seeking to penetrate things, may try to improve on\nthe equivocal and invisible, and set all the charm of art in some\nelaborate stroke or symbolisation; but, none the less, Michael Angelo\nremains the all-powerful, the maker of men, the master of clearness,\nsimplicity, and health.\u201d\n\nAt this Narcisse smiled with indulgent and courteous disdain. And he\nanticipated further argument by remarking: \u201cIt\u2019s already eleven. My\ncousin was to have sent a servant here as soon as he could receive us. I\nam surprised to have seen nobody as yet. Shall we go up to see the\n_stanze_ of Raffaelle while we wait?\u201d\n\nOnce in the rooms above, he showed himself perfect, both lucid in his\nremarks and just in his appreciations, having recovered all his easy\nintelligence as soon as he was no longer upset by his hatred of colossal\nlabour and cheerful decoration.\n\nIt was unfortunate that Pierre should have first visited the Sixtine\nChapel; for it was necessary he should forget what he had just seen and\naccustom himself to what he now beheld in order to enjoy its pure beauty.\nIt was as if some potent wine had confused him, and prevented any\nimmediate relish of a lighter vintage of delicate fragrance. Admiration\ndid not here fall upon one with lightning speed; it was slowly,\nirresistibly that one grew charmed. And the contrast was like that of\nRacine beside Corneille, Lamartine beside Hugo, the eternal pair, the\nmasculine and feminine genius coupled through centuries of glory. With\nRaffaelle it is nobility, grace, exquisiteness, and correctness of line,\nand divineness of harmony that triumph. You do not find in him merely the\nmaterialist symbolism so superbly thrown off by Michael Angelo; he\nintroduces psychological analysis of deep penetration into the painter\u2019s\nart. Man is shown more purified, idealised; one sees more of that which\nis within him. And though one may be in presence of an artist of\nsentimental bent, a feminine genius whose quiver of tenderness one can\nfeel, it is also certain that admirable firmness of workmanship confronts\none, that the whole is very strong and very great. Pierre gradually\nyielded to such sovereign masterliness, such virile elegance, such a\nvision of supreme beauty set in supreme perfection. But if the \u201cDispute\non the Sacrament\u201d and the so-called \u201cSchool of Athens,\u201d both prior to the\npaintings of the Sixtine Chapel, seemed to him to be Raffaelle\u2019s\nmasterpieces, he felt that in the \u201cBurning of the Borgo,\u201d and\nparticularly in the \u201cExpulsion of Heliodorus from the Temple,\u201d and \u201cPope\nSt. Leo staying Attila at the Gates of Rome,\u201d the artist had lost the\nflower of his divine grace, through the deep impression which the\noverwhelming grandeur of Michael Angelo had wrought upon him. How\ncrushing indeed had been the blow when the Sixtine Chapel was thrown open\nand the rivals entered! The creations of the monster then appeared, and\nthe greatest of the humanisers lost some of his soul at sight of them,\nthenceforward unable to rid himself of their influence.\n\nFrom the _stanze_ Narcisse took Pierre to the _loggie_, those glazed\ngalleries which are so high and so delicately decorated. But here you\nonly find work which pupils executed after designs left by Raffaelle at\nhis death. The fall was sudden and complete, and never had Pierre better\nunderstood that genius is everything--that when it disappears the school\ncollapses. The man of genius sums up his period; at a given hour he\nthrows forth all the sap of the social soil, which afterwards remains\nexhausted often for centuries. So Pierre became more particularly\ninterested in the fine view that the _loggie_ afford, and all at once he\nnoticed that the papal apartments were in front of him, just across the\nCourt of San Damaso. This court, with its porticus, fountain, and white\npavement, had an aspect of empty, airy, sunlit solemnity which surprised\nhim. There was none of the gloom or pent-up religious mystery that he had\ndreamt of with his mind full of the surroundings of the old northern\ncathedrals. Right and left of the steps conducting to the rooms of the\nPope and the Cardinal Secretary of State four or five carriages were\nranged, the coachmen stiffly erect and the horses motionless in the\nbrilliant light; and nothing else peopled that vast square desert of a\ncourt which, with its bareness gilded by the coruscations of its\nglass-work and the ruddiness of its stones, suggested a pagan temple\ndedicated to the sun. But what more particularly struck Pierre was the\nsplendid panorama of Rome, for he had not hitherto imagined that the Pope\nfrom his windows could thus behold the entire city spread out before him\nas if he merely had to stretch forth his hand to make it his own once\nmore.\n\nWhile Pierre contemplated the scene a sound of voices caused him to turn;\nand he perceived a servant in black livery who, after repeating a message\nto Narcisse, was retiring with a deep bow. Looking much annoyed, the\n_attach\u00e9_ approached the young priest. \u201cMonsignor Gamba del Zoppo,\u201d said\nhe, \u201chas sent word that he can\u2019t see us this morning. Some unexpected\nduties require his presence.\u201d However, Narcisse\u2019s embarrassment showed\nthat he did not believe in the excuse, but rather suspected some one of\nhaving so terrified his cousin that the latter was afraid of compromising\nhimself. Obliging and courageous as Habert himself was, this made him\nindignant. Still he smiled and resumed: \u201cListen, perhaps there\u2019s a means\nof forcing an entry. If your time is your own we can lunch together and\nthen return to visit the Museum of Antiquities. I shall certainly end by\ncoming across my cousin and we may, perhaps, be lucky enough to meet the\nPope should he go down to the gardens.\u201d\n\nAt the news that his audience was yet again postponed Pierre had felt\nkeenly disappointed. However, as the whole day was at his disposal, he\nwillingly accepted the _attach\u00e9\u2019s_ offer. They lunched in front of St.\nPeter\u2019s, in a little restaurant of the Borgo, most of whose customers\nwere pilgrims, and the fare, as it happened, was far from good. Then at\nabout two o\u2019clock they set off for the museum, skirting the basilica by\nway of the Piazza della Sagrestia. It was a bright, deserted, burning\ndistrict; and again, but in a far greater degree, did the young priest\nexperience that sensation of bare, tawny, sun-baked majesty which had\ncome upon him while gazing into the Court of San Damaso. Then, as he\npassed the apse of St. Peter\u2019s, the enormity of the colossus was brought\nhome to him more strongly than ever: it rose like a giant bouquet of\narchitecture edged by empty expanses of pavement sprinkled with fine\nweeds. And in all the silent immensity there were only two children\nplaying in the shadow of a wall. The old papal mint, the Zecca, now an\nItalian possession, and guarded by soldiers of the royal army, is on the\nleft of the passage leading to the museums, while on the right, just in\nfront, is one of the entrances of honour to the Vatican where the papal\nSwiss Guard keeps watch and ward; and this is the entrance by which,\naccording to etiquette, the pair-horse carriages convey the Pope\u2019s\nvisitors into the Court of San Damaso.\n\nFollowing the long lane which ascends between a wing of the palace and\nits garden wall, Narcisse and Pierre at last reached the Museum of\nAntiquities. Ah! what a museum it is, with galleries innumerable, a\nmuseum compounded of three museums, the Pio-Clementino, Chiaramonti, and\nthe Braccio-Nuovo, and containing a whole world found beneath the soil,\nthen exhumed, and now glorified in full sunlight. For more than two hours\nPierre went from one hall to another, dazzled by the masterpieces,\nbewildered by the accumulation of genius and beauty. It was not only the\ncelebrated examples of statuary, the Laocoon and the Apollo of the\ncabinets of the Belvedere, the Meleager, or even the torso of\nHercules--that astonished him. He was yet more impressed by the\n_ensemble_, by the innumerable quantities of Venuses, Bacchuses, and\ndeified emperors and empresses, by the whole superb growth of beautiful\nor August flesh celebrating the immortality of life. Three days\npreviously he had visited the Museum of the Capitol, where he had admired\nthe Venus, the Dying Gaul,* the marvellous Centaurs of black marble, and\nthe extraordinary collection of busts, but here his admiration became\nintensified into stupor by the inexhaustible wealth of the galleries.\nAnd, with more curiosity for life than for art, perhaps, he again\nlingered before the busts which so powerfully resuscitate the Rome of\nhistory--the Rome which, whilst incapable of realising the ideal beauty\nof Greece, was certainly well able to create life. The emperors, the\nphilosophers, the learned men, the poets are all there, and live such as\nthey really were, studied and portrayed in all scrupulousness with their\ndeformities, their blemishes, the slightest peculiarities of their\nfeatures. And from this extreme solicitude for truth springs a wonderful\nwealth of character and an incomparable vision of the past. Nothing,\nindeed, could be loftier: the very men live once more, and retrace the\nhistory of their city, that history which has been so falsified that the\nteaching of it has caused generations of school-boys to hold antiquity in\nhorror. But on seeing the men, how well one understands, how fully one\ncan sympathise! And indeed the smallest bits of marble, the maimed\nstatues, the bas-reliefs in fragments, even the isolated limbs--whether\nthe divine arm of a nymph or the sinewy, shaggy thigh of a satyr--evoke\nthe splendour of a civilisation full of light, grandeur, and strength.\n\n  * Best known in England, through Byron\u2019s lines, as the\n    Dying Gladiator, though that appellation is certainly\n    erroneous.--Trans.\n\nAt last Narcisse brought Pierre back into the Gallery of the Candelabra,\nthree hundred feet in length and full of fine examples of sculpture.\n\u201cListen, my dear Abb\u00e9,\u201d said he. \u201cIt is scarcely more than four o\u2019clock,\nand we will sit down here for a while, as I am told that the Holy Father\nsometimes passes this way to go down to the gardens. It would be really\nlucky if you could see him, perhaps even speak to him--who can tell? At\nall events, it will rest you, for you must be tired out.\u201d\n\nNarcisse was known to all the attendants, and his relationship to\nMonsignor Gamba gave him the run of almost the entire Vatican, where he\nwas fond of spending his leisure time. Finding two chairs, they sat down,\nand the _attach\u00e9_ again began to talk of art.\n\nHow astonishing had been the destiny of Rome, what a singular, borrowed\nroyalty had been hers! She seemed like a centre whither the whole world\nconverged, but where nothing grew from the soil itself, which from the\noutset appeared to be stricken with sterility. The arts required to be\nacclimatised there; it was necessary to transplant the genius of\nneighbouring nations, which, once there, however, flourished\nmagnificently. Under the emperors, when Rome was the queen of the earth,\nthe beauty of her monuments and sculpture came to her from Greece. Later,\nwhen Christianity arose in Rome, it there remained impregnated with\npaganism; it was on another soil that it produced Gothic art, the\nChristian Art _par excellence_. Later still, at the Renascence, it was\ncertainly at Rome that the age of Julius II and Leo X shone forth; but\nthe artists of Tuscany and Umbria prepared the evolution, brought it to\nRome that it might thence expand and soar. For the second time, indeed,\nart came to Rome from without, and gave her the royalty of the world by\nblossoming so triumphantly within her walls. Then occurred the\nextraordinary awakening of antiquity, Apollo and Venus resuscitated\nworshipped by the popes themselves, who from the time of Nicholas V\ndreamt of making papal Rome the equal of the imperial city. After the\nprecursors, so sincere, tender, and strong in their art--Fra Angelico,\nPerugino, Botticelli, and so many others--came the two sovereigns,\nMichael Angelo and Raffaelle, the superhuman and the divine. Then the\nfall was sudden, years elapsed before the advent of Caravaggio with power\nof colour and modelling, all that the science of painting could achieve\nwhen bereft of genius. And afterwards the decline continued until Bernini\nwas reached--Bernini, the real creator of the Rome of the present popes,\nthe prodigal child who at twenty could already show a galaxy of colossal\nmarble wenches, the universal architect who with fearful activity\nfinished the fa\u00e7ade, built the colonnade, decorated the interior of St.\nPeter\u2019s, and raised fountains, churches, and palaces innumerable. And\nthat was the end of all, for since then Rome has little by little\nwithdrawn from life, from the modern world, as though she, who always\nlived on what she derived from others, were dying of her inability to\ntake anything more from them in order to convert it to her own glory.\n\n\u201cAh! Bernini, that delightful Bernini!\u201d continued Narcisse with his\nrapturous air. \u201cHe is both powerful and exquisite, his verve always\nready, his ingenuity invariably awake, his fecundity full of grace and\nmagnificence. As for their Bramante with his masterpiece, that cold,\ncorrect Cancelleria, we\u2019ll dub him the Michael Angelo and Raffaelle of\narchitecture and say no more about it. But Bernini, that exquisite\nBernini, why, there is more delicacy and refinement in his pretended bad\ntaste than in all the hugeness and perfection of the others! Our own age\nought to recognise itself in his art, at once so varied and so deep, so\ntriumphant in its mannerisms, so full of a perturbing solicitude for the\nartificial and so free from the baseness of reality. Just go to the Villa\nBorghese to see the group of Apollo and Daphne which Bernini executed\nwhen he was eighteen,* and in particular see his statue of Santa Teresa\nin ecstasy at Santa Maria della Vittoria! Ah! that Santa Teresa! It is\nlike heaven opening, with the quiver that only a purely divine enjoyment\ncan set in woman\u2019s flesh, the rapture of faith carried to the point of\nspasm, the creature losing breath and dying of pleasure in the arms of\nthe Divinity! I have spent hours and hours before that work without\nexhausting the infinite scope of its precious, burning symbolisation.\u201d\n\n  * There is also at the Villa Borghese Bernini\u2019s _Anchises carried\n    by Aeneas_, which he sculptured when only sixteen. No doubt his\n    faults were many; but it was his misfortune to belong to a\n    decadent period.--Trans.\n\nNarcisse\u2019s voice died away, and Pierre, no longer astonished at his\ncovert, unconscious hatred of health, simplicity, and strength, scarcely\nlistened to him. The young priest himself was again becoming absorbed in\nthe idea he had formed of pagan Rome resuscitating in Christian Rome and\nturning it into Catholic Rome, the new political, sacerdotal, domineering\ncentre of earthly government. Apart from the primitive age of the\nCatacombs, had Rome ever been Christian? The thoughts that had come to\nhim on the Palatine, in the Appian Way, and in St. Peter\u2019s were gathering\nconfirmation. Genius that morning had brought him fresh proof. No doubt\nthe paganism which reappeared in the art of Michael Angelo and Raffaelle\nwas tempered, transformed by the Christian spirit. But did it not still\nremain the basis? Had not the former master peered across Olympus when\nsnatching his great nudities from the terrible heavens of Jehovah? Did\nnot the ideal figures of Raffaelle reveal the superb, fascinating flesh\nof Venus beneath the chaste veil of the Virgin? It seemed so to Pierre,\nand some embarrassment mingled with his despondency, for all those\nbeautiful forms glorifying the ardent passions of life, were in\nopposition to his dream of rejuvenated Christianity giving peace to the\nworld and reviving the simplicity and purity of the early ages.\n\nAll at once he was surprised to hear Narcisse, by what transition he\ncould not tell, speaking to him of the daily life of Leo XIII. \u201cYes, my\ndear Abb\u00e9, at eighty-four* the Holy Father shows the activity of a young\nman and leads a life of determination and hard work such as neither you\nnor I would care for! At six o\u2019clock he is already up, says his mass in\nhis private chapel, and drinks a little milk for breakfast. Then, from\neight o\u2019clock till noon, there is a ceaseless procession of cardinals and\nprelates, all the affairs of the congregations passing under his eyes,\nand none could be more numerous or intricate. At noon the public and\ncollective audiences usually begin. At two he dines. Then comes the\nsiesta which he has well earned, or else a promenade in the gardens until\nsix o\u2019clock. The private audiences then sometimes keep him for an hour or\ntwo. He sups at nine and scarcely eats, lives on nothing, in fact, and is\nalways alone at his little table. What do you think, eh, of the etiquette\nwhich compels him to such loneliness? There you have a man who for\neighteen years has never had a guest at his table, who day by day sits\nall alone in his grandeur! And as soon as ten o\u2019clock strikes, after\nsaying the Rosary with his familiars, he shuts himself up in his room.\nBut, although he may go to bed, he sleeps very little; he is frequently\ntroubled by insomnia, and gets up and sends for a secretary to dictate\nmemoranda or letters to him. When any interesting matter requires his\nattention he gives himself up to it heart and soul, never letting it\nescape his thoughts. And his life, his health, lies in all this. His mind\nis always busy; his will and strength must always be exerting themselves.\nYou may know that he long cultivated Latin verse with affection; and I\nbelieve that in his days of struggle he had a passion for journalism,\ninspired the articles of the newspapers he subsidised, and even dictated\nsome of them when his most cherished ideas were in question.\u201d\n\n  * The reader should remember that the period selected for this\n    narrative is the year 1894. Leo XIII was born in 1810.--Trans.\n\nSilence fell. At every moment Narcisse craned his neck to see if the\nlittle papal _cort\u00e8ge_ were not emerging from the Gallery of the\nTapestries to pass them on its way to the gardens. \u201cYou are perhaps\naware,\u201d he resumed, \u201cthat his Holiness is brought down on a low chair\nwhich is small enough to pass through every doorway. It\u2019s quite a\njourney, more than a mile, through the _loggie_, the _stanze_ of\nRaffaelle, the painting and sculpture galleries, not to mention the\nnumerous staircases, before he reaches the gardens, where a pair-horse\ncarriage awaits him. It\u2019s quite fine this evening, so he will surely\ncome. We must have a little patience.\u201d\n\nWhilst Narcisse was giving these particulars Pierre again sank into a\nreverie and saw the whole extraordinary history pass before him. First\ncame the worldly, ostentatious popes of the Renascence, those who\nresuscitated antiquity with so much passion and dreamt of draping the\nHoly See with the purple of empire once more. There was Paul II, the\nmagnificent Venetian who built the Palazzo di Venezia; Sixtus IV, to whom\none owes the Sixtine Chapel; and Julius II and Leo X, who made Rome a\ncity of theatrical pomp, prodigious festivities, tournaments, ballets,\nhunts, masquerades, and banquets. At that time the papacy had just\nrediscovered Olympus amidst the dust of buried ruins, and as though\nintoxicated by the torrent of life which arose from the ancient soil, it\nfounded the museums, thus reviving the superb temples of the pagan age,\nand restoring them to the cult of universal admiration. Never had the\nChurch been in such peril of death, for if the Christ was still honoured\nat St. Peter\u2019s, Jupiter and all the other gods and goddesses, with their\nbeauteous, triumphant flesh, were enthroned in the halls of the Vatican.\nThen, however, another vision passed before Pierre, one of the modern\npopes prior to the Italian occupation--notably Pius IX, who, whilst yet\nfree, often went into his good city of Rome. His huge red and gold coach\nwas drawn by six horses, surrounded by Swiss Guards and followed by Noble\nGuards; but now and again he would alight in the Corso, and continue his\npromenade on foot, and then the mounted men of the escort galloped\nforward to give warning and stop the traffic. The carriages drew up, the\ngentlemen had to alight and kneel on the pavement, whilst the ladies\nsimply rose and devoutly inclined their heads, as the Holy Father,\nattended by his Court, slowly wended his way to the Piazza del Popolo,\nsmiling and blessing at every step. And now had come Leo XIII, the\nvoluntary prisoner, shut up in the Vatican for eighteen years, and he,\nbehind the high, silent walls, in the unknown sphere where each of his\ndays flowed by so quietly, had acquired a more exalted majesty, instinct\nwith sacred and redoubtable mysteriousness.\n\nAh! that Pope whom you no longer meet or see, that Pope hidden from the\ncommon of mankind like some terrible divinity whom the priests alone dare\nto approach! It is in that sumptuous Vatican which his forerunners of the\nRenascence built and adorned for giant festivities that he has secluded\nhimself; it is there he lives, far from the crowd, in prison with the\nhandsome men and the lovely women of Michael Angelo and Raffaelle, with\nthe gods and goddesses of marble, with the whole of resplendent Olympus\ncelebrating around him the religion of life and light. With him the\nentire Papacy is there steeped in paganism. What a spectacle when the\nslender, weak old man, all soul, so purely white, passes along the\ngalleries of the Museum of Antiquities on his way to the gardens. Right\nand left the statues behold him pass with all their bare flesh. There is\nJupiter, there is Apollo, there is Venus the _dominatrix_, there is Pan,\nthe universal god in whose laugh the joys of earth ring out. Nereids\nbathe in transparent water. Bacchantes roll, unveiled, in the warm grass.\nCentaurs gallop by carrying lovely girls, faint with rapture, on their\nsteaming haunches. Ariadne is surprised by Bacchus, Ganymede fondles the\neagle, Adonis fires youth and maiden with his flame. And on and on passes\nthe weak, white old man, swaying on his low chair, amidst that splendid\ntriumph, that display and glorification of the flesh, which shouts aloud\nthe omnipotence of Nature, of everlasting matter! Since they have found\nit again, exhumed it, and honoured it, that it is which once more reigns\nthere imperishable; and in vain have they set vine leaves on the statues,\neven as they have swathed the huge figures of Michael Angelo; sex still\nflares on all sides, life overflows, its germs course in torrents through\nthe veins of the world. Near by, in that Vatican library of incomparable\nwealth, where all human science lies slumbering, there lurks a yet more\nterrible danger--the danger of an explosion which would sweep away\neverything, Vatican and St. Peter\u2019s also, if one day the books in their\nturn were to awake and speak aloud as speak the beauty of Venus and the\nmanliness of Apollo. But the white, diaphanous old man seems neither to\nsee nor to hear, and the huge heads of Jupiter, the trunks of Hercules,\nthe equivocal statues of Antinous continue to watch him as he passes on!\n\nHowever, Narcisse had become impatient, and, going in search of an\nattendant, he learnt from him that his Holiness had already gone down. To\nshorten the distance, indeed, the _cort\u00e8ge_ often passes along a kind of\nopen gallery leading towards the Mint. \u201cWell, let us go down as well,\u201d\n said Narcisse to Pierre; \u201cI will try to show you the gardens.\u201d\n\nDown below, in the vestibule, a door of which opened on to a broad path,\nhe spoke to another attendant, a former pontifical soldier whom he\npersonally knew. The man at once let him pass with Pierre, but was unable\nto tell him whether Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo had accompanied his\nHoliness that day.\n\n\u201cNo matter,\u201d resumed Narcisse when he and his companion were alone in the\npath; \u201cI don\u2019t despair of meeting him--and these, you see, are the famous\ngardens of the Vatican.\u201d\n\nThey are very extensive grounds, and the Pope can go quite two and a half\nmiles by passing along the paths of the wood, the vineyard, and the\nkitchen garden. Occupying the plateau of the Vatican hill, which the\nmedieval wall of Leo IV still girdles, the gardens are separated from the\nneighbouring valleys as by a fortified rampart. The wall formerly\nstretched to the castle of Sant\u2019 Angelo, thereby forming what was known\nas the Leonine City. No inquisitive eyes can peer into the grounds\nexcepting from the dome of St. Peter\u2019s, which casts its huge shadow over\nthem during the hot summer weather. They are, too, quite a little world,\nwhich each pope has taken pleasure in embellishing. There is a large\nparterre with lawns of geometrical patterns, planted with handsome palms\nand adorned with lemon and orange trees in pots; there is a less formal,\na shadier garden, where, amidst deep plantations of yoke-elms, you find\nGiovanni Vesanzio\u2019s fountain, the Aquilone, and Pius IV\u2019s old Casino;\nthen, too, there are the woods with their superb evergreen oaks, their\nthickets of plane-trees, acacias, and pines, intersected by broad\navenues, which are delightfully pleasant for leisurely strolls; and\nfinally, on turning to the left, beyond other clumps of trees, come the\nkitchen garden and the vineyard, the last well tended.\n\nWhilst walking through the wood Narcisse told Pierre of the life led by\nthe Holy Father in these gardens. He strolls in them every second day\nwhen the weather allows. Formerly the popes left the Vatican for the\nQuirinal, which is cooler and healthier, as soon as May arrived; and\nspent the dog days at Castle Gandolfo on the margins of the Lake of\nAlbano. But nowadays the only summer residence possessed by his Holiness\nis a virtually intact tower of the old rampart of Leo IV. He here spends\nthe hottest days, and has even erected a sort of pavilion beside it for\nthe accommodation of his suite. Narcisse, like one at home, went in and\nsecured permission for Pierre to glance at the one room occupied by the\nPope, a spacious round chamber with semispherical ceiling, on which are\npainted the heavens with symbolical figures of the constellations; one of\nthe latter, the lion, having two stars for eyes--stars which a system of\nlighting causes to sparkle during the night. The walls of the tower are\nso thick that after blocking up a window, a kind of room, for the\naccommodation of a couch, has been contrived in the embrasure. Beside\nthis couch the only furniture is a large work-table, a dining-table with\nflaps, and a large regal arm-chair, a mass of gilding, one of the gifts\nof the Pope\u2019s episcopal jubilee. And you dream of the days of solitude\nand perfect silence, spent in that low donjon hall, where the coolness of\na tomb prevails whilst the heavy suns of August are scorching overpowered\nRome.\n\nAn astronomical observatory has been installed in another tower,\nsurmounted by a little white cupola, which you espy amidst the greenery;\nand under the trees there is also a Swiss chalet, where Leo XIII is fond\nof resting. He sometimes goes on foot to the kitchen garden, and takes\nmuch interest in the vineyard, visiting it to see if the grapes are\nripening and if the vintage will be a good one. What most astonished\nPierre, however, was to learn that the Holy Father had been very fond of\n\u201csport\u201d before age had weakened him. He was indeed passionately addicted\nto bird snaring. Broad-meshed nets were hung on either side of a path on\nthe fringe of a plantation, and in the middle of the path were placed\ncages containing the decoys, whose songs soon attracted all the birds of\nthe neighbourhood--red-breasts, white-throats, black-caps, nightingales,\nfig-peckers of all sorts. And when a numerous company of them was\ngathered together Leo XIII, seated out of sight and watching, would\nsuddenly clap his hands and startle the birds, which flew up and were\ncaught by the wings in the meshes of the nets. All that then remained to\nbe done was to take them out of the nets and stifle them by a touch of\nthe thumb. Roast fig-peckers are delicious.*\n\n  * Perhaps so; but what a delightful pastime for the Vicar of the\n    Divinity!--Trans.\n\nAs Pierre came back through the wood he had another surprise. He suddenly\nlighted on a \u201cGrotto of Lourdes,\u201d a miniature imitation of the original,\nbuilt of rocks and blocks of cement. And such was his emotion at the\nsight that he could not conceal it. \u201cIt\u2019s true, then!\u201d said he. \u201cI was\ntold of it, but I thought that the Holy Father was of loftier mind--free\nfrom all such base superstitions!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d replied Narcisse, \u201cI fancy that the grotto dates from Pius IX, who\nevinced especial gratitude to our Lady of Lourdes. At all events, it must\nbe a gift, and Leo XIII simply keeps it in repair.\u201d\n\nFor a few moments Pierre remained motionless and silent before that\nimitation grotto, that childish plaything. Some zealously devout visitors\nhad left their visiting cards in the cracks of the cement-work! For his\npart, he felt very sad, and followed his companion with bowed head,\nlamenting the wretched idiocy of the world. Then, on emerging from the\nwood, on again reaching the parterre, he raised his eyes.\n\nAh! how exquisite in spite of everything was that decline of a lovely\nday, and what a victorious charm ascended from the soil in that part of\nthe gardens. There, in front of that bare, noble, burning parterre, far\nmore than under the languishing foliage of the wood or among the fruitful\nvines, Pierre realised the strength of Nature. Above the grass growing\nmeagrely over the compartments of geometrical pattern which the pathways\ntraced there were barely a few low shrubs, dwarf roses, aloes, rare tufts\nof withering flowers. Some green bushes still described the escutcheon of\nPius IX in accordance with the strange taste of former times. And amidst\nthe warm silence one only heard the faint crystalline murmur of the water\ntrickling from the basin of the central fountain. But all Rome, its\nardent heavens, sovereign grace, and conquering voluptuousness, seemed\nwith their own soul to animate this vast rectangular patch of decorative\ngardening, this mosaic of verdure, which in its semi-abandonment and\nscorched decay assumed an aspect of melancholy pride, instinct with the\never returning quiver of a passion of fire that could not die. Some\nantique vases and statues, whitely nude under the setting sun, skirted\nthe parterres. And above the aroma of eucalyptus and of pine, stronger\neven than that of the ripening oranges, there rose the odour of the\nlarge, bitter box-shrubs, so laden with pungent life that it disturbed\none as one passed as if indeed it were the very scent of the fecundity of\nthat ancient soil saturated with the dust of generations.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s very strange that we have not met his Holiness,\u201d exclaimed\nNarcisse. \u201cPerhaps his carriage took the other path through the wood\nwhile we were in the tower.\u201d\n\nThen, reverting to Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, the _attach\u00e9_ explained\nthat the functions of _Copiere_, or papal cup-bearer, which his cousin\nshould have discharged as one of the four _Camerieri segreti\npartecipanti_ had become purely honorary since the dinners offered to\ndiplomatists or in honour of newly consecrated bishops had been given by\nthe Cardinal Secretary of State. Monsignor Gamba, whose cowardice and\nnullity were legendary, seemed therefore to have no other _r\u00f4le_ than\nthat of enlivening Leo XIII, whose favour he had won by his incessant\nflattery and the anecdotes which he was ever relating about both the\nblack and the white worlds. Indeed this fat, amiable man, who could even\nbe obliging when his interests were not in question, was a perfect\nnewspaper, brimful of tittle-tattle, disdaining no item of gossip\nwhatever, even if it came from the kitchens. And thus he was quietly\nmarching towards the cardinalate, certain of obtaining the hat without\nother exertion than that of bringing a budget of gossip to beguile the\npleasant hours of the promenade. And Heaven knew that he was always able\nto garner an abundant harvest of news in that closed Vatican swarming\nwith prelates of every kind, in that womanless pontifical family of old\nbegowned bachelors, all secretly exercised by vast ambitions, covert and\nrevolting rivalries, and ferocious hatreds, which, it is said, are still\nsometimes carried as far as the good old poison of ancient days.\n\nAll at once Narcisse stopped. \u201cAh!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI was certain of it.\nThere\u2019s the Holy Father! But we are not in luck. He won\u2019t even see us; he\nis about to get into his carriage again.\u201d\n\nAs he spoke a carriage drew up at the verge of the wood, and a little\n_cort\u00e8ge_ emerging from a narrow path, went towards it.\n\nPierre felt as if he had received a great blow in the heart. Motionless\nbeside his companion, and half hidden by a lofty vase containing a\nlemon-tree, it was only from a distance that he was able to see the white\nold man, looking so frail and slender in the wavy folds of his white\ncassock, and walking so very slowly with short, gliding steps. The young\npriest could scarcely distinguish the emaciated face of old diaphanous\nivory, emphasised by a large nose which jutted out above thin lips.\nHowever, the Pontiff\u2019s black eyes were glittering with an inquisitive\nsmile, while his right ear was inclined towards Monsignor Gamba del\nZoppo, who was doubtless finishing some story at once rich and short,\nflowery and dignified. And on the left walked a Noble Guard; and two\nother prelates followed.\n\nIt was but a familiar apparition; Leo XIII was already climbing into the\nclosed carriage. And Pierre, in the midst of that large, odoriferous,\nburning garden, again experienced the singular emotion which had come\nupon him in the Gallery of the Candelabra while he was picturing the Pope\non his way between the Apollos and Venuses radiant in their triumphant\nnudity. There, however, it was only pagan art which had celebrated the\neternity of life, the superb, almighty powers of Nature. But here he had\nbeheld the Pontiff steeped in Nature itself, in Nature clad in the most\nlovely, most voluptuous, most passionate guise. Ah! that Pope, that old\nman strolling with his Divinity of grief, humility, and renunciation\nalong the paths of those gardens of love, in the languid evenings of the\nhot summer days, beneath the caressing scents of pine and eucalyptus,\nripe oranges, and tall, acrid box-shrubs! The whole atmosphere around him\nproclaimed the powers of the great god Pan. How pleasant was the thought\nof living there, amidst that magnificence of heaven and of earth, of\nloving the beauty of woman and of rejoicing in the fruitfulness of all!\nAnd suddenly the decisive truth burst forth that from a land of such joy\nand light it was only possible for a temporal religion of conquest and\npolitical domination to rise; not the mystical, pain-fraught religion of\nthe North--the religion of the soul!\n\nHowever, Narcisse led the young priest away, telling him other anecdotes\nas they went--anecdotes of the occasional _bonhomie_ of Leo XIII, who\nwould stop to chat with the gardeners, and question them about the health\nof the trees and the sale of the oranges. And he also mentioned the\nPope\u2019s former passion for a pair of gazelles, sent him from Africa, two\ngraceful creatures which he had been fond of caressing, and at whose\ndeath he had shed tears. But Pierre no longer listened. When they found\nthemselves on the Piazza of St. Peter\u2019s, he turned round and gazed at the\nVatican once more.\n\nHis eyes had fallen on the gate of bronze, and he remembered having\nwondered that morning what there might be behind these metal panels\nornamented with big nails. And he did not yet dare to answer the\nquestion, and decide if the new nations thirsting for fraternity and\njustice would really find there the religion necessary for the\ndemocracies of to-morrow; for he had not been able to probe things, and\nonly carried a first impression away with him. But how keen it was, and\nhow ill it boded for his dreams! A gate of bronze! Yes, a hard,\nimpregnable gate, so completely shutting the Vatican off from the rest of\nthe world that nothing new had entered the palace for three hundred\nyears. Behind that portal the old centuries, as far as the sixteenth,\nremained immutable. Time seemed to have stayed its course there for ever;\nnothing more stirred; the very costumes of the Swiss Guards, the Noble\nGuards, and the prelates themselves were unchanged; and you found\nyourself in the world of three hundred years ago, with its etiquette, its\ncostumes, and its ideas. That the popes in a spirit of haughty protest\nshould for five and twenty years have voluntarily shut themselves up in\ntheir palace was already regrettable; but this imprisonment of centuries\nwithin the past, within the grooves of tradition, was far more serious\nand dangerous. It was all Catholicism which was thus imprisoned, whose\ndogmas and sacerdotal organisation were obstinately immobilised. Perhaps,\nin spite of its apparent flexibility, Catholicism was really unable to\nyield in anything, under peril of being swept away, and therein lay both\nits weakness and its strength. And then what a terrible world was there,\nhow great the pride and ambition, how numerous the hatreds and rivalries!\nAnd how strange the prison, how singular the company assembled behind the\nbars--the Crucified by the side of Jupiter Capitolinus, all pagan\nantiquity fraternising with the Apostles, all the splendours of the\nRenascence surrounding the pastor of the Gospel who reigns in the name of\nthe humble and the poor!\n\nThe sun was sinking, the gentle, luscious sweetness of the Roman evenings\nwas falling from the limpid heavens, and after that splendid day spent\nwith Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, the ancients, and the Pope, in the finest\npalace of the world, the young priest lingered, distracted, on the Piazza\nof St. Peter\u2019s.\n\n\u201cWell, you must excuse me, my dear Abb\u00e9,\u201d concluded Narcisse. \u201cBut I will\nnow confess to you that I suspect my worthy cousin of a fear that he\nmight compromise himself by meddling in your affair. I shall certainly\nsee him again, but you will do well not to put too much reliance on him.\u201d\n\nIt was nearly six o\u2019clock when Pierre got back to the Boccanera mansion.\nAs a rule, he passed in all modesty down the lane, and entered by the\nlittle side door, a key of which had been given him. But he had that\nmorning received a letter from M. de la Choue, and desired to communicate\nit to Benedetta. So he ascended the grand staircase, and on reaching the\nanteroom was surprised to find nobody there. As a rule, whenever the\nman-servant went out Victorine installed herself in his place and busied\nherself with some needlework. Her chair was there, and Pierre even\nnoticed some linen which she had left on a little table when probably\nsummoned elsewhere. Then, as the door of the first reception-room was\najar, he at last ventured in. It was almost night there already, the\ntwilight was softly dying away, and all at once the young priest stopped\nshort, fearing to take another step, for, from the room beyond, the large\nyellow _salon_, there came a murmur of feverish, distracted words, ardent\nentreaties, fierce panting, a rustling and a shuffling of footsteps. And\nsuddenly Pierre no longer hesitated, urged on despite himself by the\nconviction that the sounds he heard were those of a struggle, and that\nsome one was hard pressed.\n\nAnd when he darted into the further room he was stupefied, for Dario was\nthere, no longer showing the degenerate elegance of the last scion of an\nexhausted race, but maddened by the hot, frantic blood of the Boccaneras\nwhich had bubbled up within him. He had clasped Benedetta by the\nshoulders in a frenzy of passion and was scorching her face with his hot,\nentreating words: \u201cBut since you say, my darling, that it is all over,\nthat your marriage will never be dissolved--oh! why should we be wretched\nfor ever! Love me as you do love me, and let me love you--let me love\nyou!\u201d\n\nBut the Contessina, with an indescribable expression of tenderness and\nsuffering on her tearful face, repulsed him with her outstretched arms,\nshe likewise evincing a fierce energy as she repeated: \u201cNo, no; I love\nyou, but it must not, it must not be.\u201d\n\nAt that moment, amidst the roar of his despair, Dario became conscious\nthat some one was entering the room. He turned and gazed at Pierre with\nan expression of stupefied insanity, scarce able even to recognise him.\nThen he carried his two hands to his face, to his bloodshot eyes and his\ncheeks wet with scalding tears, and fled, heaving a terrible,\npain-fraught sigh in which baffled passion mingled with grief and\nrepentance.\n\nBenedetta seated herself, breathing hard, her strength and courage\nwellnigh exhausted. But as Pierre, too much embarrassed to speak, turned\ntowards the door, she addressed him in a calmer voice: \u201cNo, no, Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9, do not go away--sit down, I pray you; I should like to speak to\nyou for a moment.\u201d\n\nHe thereupon thought it his duty to account for his sudden entrance, and\nexplained that he had found the door of the first _salon_ ajar, and that\nVictorine was not in the ante-room, though he had seen her work lying on\nthe table there.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d exclaimed the Contessina, \u201cVictorine ought to have been there; I\nsaw her there but a short time ago. And when my poor Dario lost his head\nI called her. Why did she not come?\u201d Then, with sudden expansion, leaning\ntowards Pierre, she continued: \u201cListen, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I will tell you\nwhat happened, for I don\u2019t want you to form too bad an opinion of my poor\nDario. It was all in some measure my fault. Last night he asked me for an\nappointment here in order that we might have a quiet chat, and as I knew\nthat my aunt would be absent at this time to-day I told him to come. It\nwas only natural--wasn\u2019t it?--that we should want to see one another and\ncome to an agreement after the grievous news that my marriage will\nprobably never be annulled. We suffer too much, and must form a decision.\nAnd so when he came this evening we began to weep and embrace, mingling\nour tears together. I kissed him again and again, telling him how I\nadored him, how bitterly grieved I was at being the cause of his\nsufferings, and how surely I should die of grief at seeing him so\nunhappy. Ah! no doubt I did wrong; I ought not to have caught him to my\nheart and embraced him as I did, for it maddened him, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9; he\nlost his head, and would have made me break my vow to the Blessed\nVirgin.\u201d\n\nShe spoke these words in all tranquillity and simplicity, without sign of\nembarrassment, like a young and beautiful woman who is at once sensible\nand practical. Then she resumed: \u201cOh! I know my poor Dario well, but it\ndoes not prevent me from loving him; perhaps, indeed, it only makes me\nlove him the more. He looks delicate, perhaps rather sickly, but in truth\nhe is a man of passion. Yes, the old blood of my people bubbles up in\nhim. I know something of it myself, for when I was a child I sometimes\nhad fits of angry passion which left me exhausted on the floor, and even\nnow, when the gusts arise within me, I have to fight against myself and\ntorture myself in order that I may not act madly. But my poor Dario does\nnot know how to suffer. He is like a child whose fancies must be\ngratified. And yet at bottom he has a good deal of common sense; he waits\nfor me because he knows that the only real happiness lies with the woman\nwho adores him.\u201d\n\nAs Pierre listened he was able to form a more precise idea of the young\nprince, of whose character he had hitherto had but a vague perception.\nWhilst dying of love for his cousin, Dario had ever been a man of\npleasure. Though he was no doubt very amiable, the basis of his\ntemperament was none the less egotism. And, in particular, he was unable\nto endure suffering; he loathed suffering, ugliness, and poverty, whether\nthey affected himself or others. Both his flesh and his soul required\ngaiety, brilliancy, show, life in the full sunlight. And withal he was\nexhausted, with no strength left him but for the idle life he led, so\nincapable of thought and will that the idea of joining the new _r\u00e9gime_\nhad not even occurred to him. Yet he had all the unbounded pride of a\nRoman; sagacity--a keen, practical perception of the real--was mingled\nwith his indolence; while his inveterate love of woman, more frequently\ndisplayed in charm of manner, burst forth at times in attacks of frantic\nsensuality.\n\n\u201cAfter all he is a man,\u201d concluded Benedetta in a low voice, \u201cand I must\nnot ask impossibilities of him.\u201d Then, as Pierre gazed at her, his\nnotions of Italian jealousy quite upset, she exclaimed, aglow with\npassionate adoration: \u201cNo, no. Situated as we are, I am not jealous. I\nknow very well that he will always return to me, and that he will be mine\nalone whenever I please, whenever it may be possible.\u201d\n\nSilence followed; shadows were filling the room, the gilding of the large\npier tables faded away, and infinite melancholy fell from the lofty, dim\nceiling and the old hangings, yellow like autumn leaves. But soon, by\nsome chance play of the waning light, a painting stood out above the sofa\non which the Contessina was seated. It was the portrait of the beautiful\nyoung girl with the turban--Cassia Boccanera the forerunner, the\n_amorosa_ and avengeress. Again was Pierre struck by the portrait\u2019s\nresemblance to Benedetta, and, thinking aloud, he resumed: \u201cPassion\nalways proves the stronger; there invariably comes a moment when one\nsuccumbs--\u201d\n\nBut Benedetta violently interrupted him: \u201cI! I! Ah! you do not know me; I\nwould rather die!\u201d And with extraordinary exaltation, all aglow with\nlove, as if her superstitious faith had fired her passion to ecstasy, she\ncontinued: \u201cI have vowed to the Madonna that I will belong to none but\nthe man I love, and to him only when he is my husband. And hitherto I\nhave kept that vow, at the cost of my happiness, and I will keep it\nstill, even if it cost me my life! Yes, we will die, my poor Dario and I,\nif it be necessary; but the holy Virgin has my vow, and the angels shall\nnot weep in heaven!\u201d\n\nShe was all in those words, her nature all simplicity, intricate,\ninexplicable though it might seem. She was doubtless swayed by that idea\nof human nobility which Christianity has set in renunciation and purity;\na protest, as it were, against eternal matter, against the forces of\nNature, the everlasting fruitfulness of life. But there was more than\nthis; she reserved herself, like a divine and priceless gift, to be\nbestowed on the one being whom her heart had chosen, he who would be her\nlord and master when God should have united them in marriage. For her\neverything lay in the blessing of the priest, in the religious\nsolemnisation of matrimony. And thus one understood her long resistance\nto Prada, whom she did not love, and her despairing, grievous resistance\nto Dario, whom she did love, but who was not her husband. And how\ntorturing it was for that soul of fire to have to resist her love; how\ncontinual was the combat waged by duty in the Virgin\u2019s name against the\nwild, passionate blood of her race! Ignorant, indolent though she might\nbe, she was capable of great fidelity of heart, and, moreover, she was\nnot given to dreaming: love might have its immaterial charms, but she\ndesired it complete.\n\nAs Pierre looked at her in the dying twilight he seemed to see and\nunderstand her for the first time. The duality of her nature appeared in\nher somewhat full, fleshy lips, in her big black eyes, which suggested a\ndark, tempestuous night illumined by flashes of lightning, and in the\ncalm, sensible expression of the rest of her gentle, infantile face. And,\nwithal, behind those eyes of flame, beneath that pure, candid skin, one\ndivined the internal tension of a superstitious, proud, and self-willed\nwoman, who was obstinately intent on reserving herself for her one love.\nAnd Pierre could well understand that she should be adored, that she\nshould fill the life of the man she chose with passion, and that to his\nown eyes she should appear like the younger sister of that lovely, tragic\nCassia who, unwilling to survive the blow that had rendered self-bestowal\nimpossible, had flung herself into the Tiber, dragging her brother Ercole\nand the corpse of her lover Flavio with her.\n\nHowever, with a gesture of kindly affection Benedetta caught hold of\nPierre\u2019s hands. \u201cYou have been here a fortnight, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said\nshe, \u201cand I have come to like you very much, for I feel you to be a\nfriend. If at first you do not understand us, at least pray do not judge\nus too severely. Ignorant as I may be, I always strive to act for the\nbest, I assure you.\u201d\n\nPierre was greatly touched by her affectionate graciousness, and thanked\nher whilst for a moment retaining her beautiful hands in his own, for he\nalso was becoming much attached to her. A fresh dream was carrying him\noff, that of educating her, should he have the time, or, at all events,\nof not returning home before winning her soul over to his own ideas of\nfuture charity and fraternity. Did not that adorable, unoccupied,\nindolent, ignorant creature, who only knew how to defend her love,\npersonify the Italy of yesterday? The Italy of yesterday, so lovely and\nso sleepy, instinct with a dying grace, charming one even in her\ndrowsiness, and retaining so much mystery in the fathomless depths of her\nblack, passionate eyes! And what a _r\u00f4le_ would be that of awakening her,\ninstructing her, winning her over to truth, making her the rejuvenated\nItaly of to-morrow such as he had dreamt of! Even in that disastrous\nmarriage with Count Prada he tried to see merely a first attempt at\nrevival which had failed, the modern Italy of the North being over-hasty,\ntoo brutal in its eagerness to love and transform that gentle, belated\nRome which was yet so superb and indolent. But might he not take up the\ntask? Had he not noticed that his book, after the astonishment of the\nfirst perusal, had remained a source of interest and reflection with\nBenedetta amidst the emptiness of her days given over to grief? What! was\nit really possible that she might find some appeasement for her own\nwretchedness by interesting herself in the humble, in the happiness of\nthe poor? Emotion already thrilled her at the idea, and he, quivering at\nthe thought of all the boundless love that was within her and that she\nmight bestow, vowed to himself that he would draw tears of pity from her\neyes.\n\nBut the night had now almost completely fallen, and Benedetta rose to ask\nfor a lamp. Then, as Pierre was about to take leave, she detained him for\nanother moment in the gloom. He could no longer see her; he only heard\nher grave voice: \u201cYou will not go away with too bad an opinion of us,\nwill you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9? We love one another, Dario and I, and that is\nno sin when one behaves as one ought. Ah! yes, I love him, and have loved\nhim for years. I was barely thirteen, he was eighteen, and we already\nloved one another wildly in those big gardens of the Villa Montefiori\nwhich are now all broken up. Ah! what days we spent there, whole\nafternoons among the trees, hours in secret hiding-places, where we\nkissed like little angels. When the oranges ripened their perfume\nintoxicated us. And the large box-plants, ah, _Dio!_ how they enveloped\nus, how their strong, acrid scent made our hearts beat! I can never smell\nthen nowadays without feeling faint!\u201d\n\nA man-servant brought in the lamp, and Pierre ascended to his room. But\nwhen half-way up the little staircase he perceived Victorine, who started\nslightly, as if she had posted herself there to watch his departure from\nthe _salon_. And now, as she followed him up, talking and seeking for\ninformation, he suddenly realised what had happened. \u201cWhy did you not go\nto your mistress instead of running off,\u201d he asked, \u201cwhen she called you,\nwhile you were sewing in the ante-room?\u201d\n\nAt first she tried to feign astonishment and reply that she had heard\nnothing. But her good-natured, frank face did not know how to lie, and\nshe ended by confessing, with a gay, courageous air. \u201cWell,\u201d she said,\n\u201cit surely wasn\u2019t for me to interfere between lovers! Besides, my poor\nlittle Benedetta is simply torturing herself to death with those ideas of\nhers. Why shouldn\u2019t they be happy, since they love one another? Life\nisn\u2019t so amusing as some may think. And how bitterly one regrets not\nhaving seized hold of happiness when the time for it has gone!\u201d\n\nOnce alone in his room, Pierre suddenly staggered, quite overcome. The\ngreat box-plants, the great box-plants with their acrid, perturbing\nperfume! She, Benedetta, like himself, had quivered as she smelt them;\nand he saw them once more in a vision of the pontifical gardens, the\nvoluptuous gardens of Rome, deserted, glowing under the August sun. And\nnow his whole day crystallised, assumed clear and full significance. It\nspoke to him of the fruitful awakening, of the eternal protest of Nature\nand life, Venus and Hercules, whom one may bury for centuries beneath the\nsoil, but who, nevertheless, one day arise from it, and though one may\nseek to wall them up within the domineering, stubborn, immutable Vatican,\nreign yet even there, and rule the whole, wide world with sovereign\npower!\n\n\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\n\nOn the following day as Pierre, after a long ramble, once more found\nhimself in front of the Vatican, whither a harassing attraction ever led\nhim, he again encountered Monsignor Nani. It was a Wednesday evening, and\nthe Assessor of the Holy Office had just come from his weekly audience\nwith the Pope, whom he had acquainted with the proceedings of the\nCongregation at its meeting that morning. \u201cWhat a fortunate chance, my\ndear sir,\u201d said he; \u201cI was thinking of you. Would you like to see his\nHoliness in public while you are waiting for a private audience?\u201d\n\nNani had put on his pleasant expression of smiling civility, beneath\nwhich one would barely detect the faint irony of a superior man who knew\neverything, prepared everything, and could do everything.\n\n\u201cWhy, yes, Monsignor,\u201d Pierre replied, somewhat astonished by the\nabruptness of the offer. \u201cAnything of a nature to divert one\u2019s mind is\nwelcome when one loses one\u2019s time in waiting.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, you are not losing your time,\u201d replied the prelate. \u201cYou are\nlooking round you, reflecting, and enlightening yourself. Well, this is\nthe point. You are doubtless aware that the great international\npilgrimage of the Peter\u2019s Pence Fund will arrive in Rome on Friday, and\nbe received on Saturday by his Holiness. On Sunday, moreover, the Holy\nFather will celebrate mass at the Basilica. Well, I have a few cards\nleft, and here are some very good places for both ceremonies.\u201d So saying\nhe produced an elegant little pocketbook bearing a gilt monogram and\nhanded Pierre two cards, one green and the other pink. \u201cIf you only knew\nhow people fight for them,\u201d he resumed. \u201cYou remember that I told you of\ntwo French ladies who are consumed by a desire to see his Holiness. Well,\nI did not like to support their request for an audience in too pressing a\nway, and they have had to content themselves with cards like these. The\nfact is, the Holy Father is somewhat fatigued at the present time. I\nfound him looking yellow and feverish just now. But he has so much\ncourage; he nowadays only lives by force of soul.\u201d Then Nani\u2019s smile came\nback with its almost imperceptible touch of derision as he resumed:\n\u201cImpatient ones ought to find a great example in him, my dear son. I\nheard that Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo had been unable to help you. But you\nmust not be too much distressed on that account. This long delay is\nassuredly a grace of Providence in order that you may instruct yourself\nand come to understand certain things which you French priests do not,\nunfortunately, realise when you arrive in Rome. And perhaps it will\nprevent you from making certain mistakes. Come, calm yourself, and\nremember that the course of events is in the hands of God, who, in His\nsovereign wisdom, fixes the hour for all things.\u201d\n\nThereupon Nani offered Pierre his plump, supple, shapely hand, a hand\nsoft like a woman\u2019s but with the grasp of a vice. And afterwards he\nclimbed into his carriage, which was waiting for him.\n\nIt so happened that the letter which Pierre had received from Viscount\nPhilibert de la Choue was a long cry of spite and despair in connection\nwith the great international pilgrimage of the Peter\u2019s Pence Fund. The\nViscount wrote from his bed, to which he was confined by a very severe\nattack of gout, and his grief at being unable to come to Rome was the\ngreater as the President of the Committee, who would naturally present\nthe pilgrims to the Pope, happened to be Baron de Fouras, one of his most\nbitter adversaries of the old conservative, Catholic party. M. de la\nChoue felt certain that the Baron would profit by his opportunity to win\nthe Pope over to the theory of free corporations; whereas he, the\nViscount, believed that the salvation of Catholicism and the world could\nonly be worked by a system in which the corporations should be closed and\nobligatory. And so he urged Pierre to exert himself with such cardinals\nas were favourable, to secure an audience with the Holy Father whatever\nthe obstacles, and to remain in Rome until he should have secured the\nPontiff\u2019s approbation, which alone could decide the victory. The letter\nfurther mentioned that the pilgrimage would be made up of a number of\ngroups headed by bishops and other ecclesiastical dignitaries, and would\ncomprise three thousand people from France, Belgium, Spain, Austria, and\neven Germany. Two thousand of these would come from France alone. An\ninternational committee had assembled in Paris to organise everything and\nselect the pilgrims, which last had proved a delicate task, as a\nrepresentative gathering had been desired, a commingling of members of\nthe aristocracy, sisterhood of middle-class ladies, and associations of\nthe working classes, among whom all social differences would be forgotten\nin the union of a common faith. And the Viscount added that the\npilgrimage would bring the Pope a large sum of money, and had settled the\ndate of its arrival in the Eternal City in such wise that it would figure\nas a solemn protest of the Catholic world against the festivities of\nSeptember 20, by which the Quirinal had just celebrated the anniversary\nof the occupation of Rome.\n\nThe reception of the pilgrimage being fixed for noon, Pierre in all\nsimplicity thought that he would be sufficiently early if he reached St.\nPeter\u2019s at eleven. The function was to take place in the Hall of\nBeatifications, which is a large and handsome apartment over the portico,\nand has been arranged as a chapel since 1890. One of its windows opens on\nto the central balcony, whence the popes formerly blessed the people, the\ncity, and the world. To reach the apartment you pass through two other\nhalls of audience, the Sala Regia and Sala Ducale, and when Pierre wished\nto gain the place to which his green card entitled him he found both\nthose rooms so extremely crowded that he could only elbow his way forward\nwith the greatest difficulty. For an hour already the three or four\nthousand people assembled there had been stifling, full of growing\nemotion and feverishness. At last the young priest managed to reach the\nthreshold of the third hall, but was so discouraged at sight of the\nextraordinary multitude of heads before him that he did not attempt to go\nany further.\n\nThe apartment, which he could survey at a glance by rising on tip-toe,\nappeared to him to be very rich of aspect, with walls gilded and painted\nunder a severe and lofty ceiling. On a low platform, where the altar\nusually stood, facing the entry, the pontifical throne had now been set:\na large arm-chair upholstered in red velvet with glittering golden back\nand arms; whilst the hangings of the _baldacchino_, also of red velvet,\nfell behind and spread out on either side like a pair of huge purple\nwings. However, what more particularly interested Pierre was the wildly\npassionate concourse of people whose hearts he could almost hear beating\nand whose eyes sought to beguile their feverish impatience by\ncontemplating and adoring the empty throne. As if it had been some golden\nmonstrance which the Divinity in person would soon deign to occupy, that\nthrone dazzled them, disturbed them, filled them all with devout rapture.\nAmong the throng were workmen rigged out in their Sunday best, with clear\nchildish eyes and rough ecstatic faces; ladies of the upper classes\nwearing black, as the regulations required, and looking intensely pale\nfrom the sacred awe which mingled with their excessive desire; and\ngentlemen in evening dress, who appeared quite glorious, inflated with\nthe conviction that they were saving both the Church and the nations. One\ncluster of dress-coats assembled near the throne, was particularly\nnoticeable; it comprised the members of the International Committee,\nheaded by Baron de Fouras, a very tall, stout, fair man of fifty, who\nbestirred and exerted himself and issued orders like some commander on\nthe morning of a decisive victory. Then, amidst the general mass of grey,\nneutral hue, there gleamed the violet silk of some bishop\u2019s cassock, for\neach pastor had desired to remain with his flock; whilst members of\nvarious religious orders, superiors in brown, black, and white habits,\nrose up above all others with lofty bearded or shaven heads. Right and\nleft drooped banners which associations and congregations had brought to\npresent to the Pope. And the sea of pilgrims ever waved and surged with a\ngrowing clamour: so much impatient love being exhaled by those perspiring\nfaces, burning eyes, and hungry mouths that the atmosphere, reeking with\nthe odour of the throng, seemed thickened and darkened.\n\nAll at once, however, Pierre perceived Monsignor Nani standing near the\nthrone and beckoning him to approach; and although the young priest\nreplied by a modest gesture, implying that he preferred to remain where\nhe was, the prelate insisted and even sent an usher to make way for him.\nDirectly the usher had led him forward, Nani inquired: \u201cWhy did you not\ncome to take your place? Your card entitled you to be here, on the left\nof the throne.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe truth is,\u201d answered the priest, \u201cI did not like to disturb so many\npeople. Besides, this is an undue honour for me.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no; I gave you that place in order that you should occupy it. I want\nyou to be in the first rank, so that you may see everything of the\nceremony.\u201d\n\nPierre could not do otherwise than thank him. Then, on looking round, he\nsaw that several cardinals and many other prelates were likewise waiting\non either side of the throne. But it was in vain that he sought Cardinal\nBoccanera, who only came to St. Peter\u2019s and the Vatican on the days when\nhis functions required his presence there. However, he recognised\nCardinal Sanguinetti, who, broad and sturdy and red of face, was talking\nin a loud voice to Baron de Fouras. And Nani, with his obliging air,\nstepped up again to point out two other Eminences who were high and\nmighty personages--the Cardinal Vicar, a short, fat man, with a feverish\ncountenance scorched by ambition, and the Cardinal Secretary, who was\nrobust and bony, fashioned as with a hatchet, suggesting a romantic type\nof Sicilian bandit, who, to other courses, had preferred the discreet,\nsmiling diplomacy of the Church. A few steps further on, and quite alone,\nthe Grand Penitentiary, silent and seemingly suffering, showed his grey,\nlean, ascetic profile.\n\nNoon had struck. There was a false alert, a burst of emotion, which swept\nin like a wave from the other halls. But it was merely the ushers opening\na passage for the _cort\u00e8ge_. Then, all at once, acclamations arose in the\nfirst hall, gathered volume, and drew nearer. This time it was the\n_cort\u00e8ge_ itself. First came a detachment of the Swiss Guard in undress,\nheaded by a sergeant; then a party of chair-bearers in red; and next the\ndomestic prelates, including the four _Camerieri segreti partecipanti_.\nAnd finally, between two rows of Noble Guards, in semi-gala uniforms,\nwalked the Holy Father, alone, smiling a pale smile, and slowly blessing\nthe pilgrims on either hand. In his wake the clamour which had risen in\nthe other apartments swept into the Hall of Beatifications with the\nviolence of delirious love; and, under his slender, white, benedictive\nhand, all those distracted creatures fell upon both knees, nought\nremaining but the prostration of a devout multitude, overwhelmed, as it\nwere, by the apparition of its god.\n\nQuivering, carried away, Pierre had knelt like the others. Ah! that\nomnipotence, that irresistible contagion of faith, of the redoubtable\ncurrent from the spheres beyond, increased tenfold by a _scenario_ and a\npomp of sovereign grandeur! Profound silence fell when Leo XIII was\nseated on the throne surrounded by the cardinals and his court; and then\nthe ceremony proceeded according to rite and usage. First a bishop spoke,\nkneeling and laying the homage of the faithful of all Christendom at his\nHoliness\u2019s feet. The President of the Committee, Baron de Fouras,\nfollowed, remaining erect whilst he read a long address in which he\nintroduced the pilgrimage and explained its motive, investing it with all\nthe gravity of a political and religious protest. This stout man had a\nshrill and piercing voice, and his words jarred like the grating of a\ngimlet as he proclaimed the grief of the Catholic world at the spoliation\nwhich the Holy See had endured for a quarter of a century, and the desire\nof all the nations there represented by the pilgrims to console the\nsupreme and venerated Head of the Church by bringing him the offerings of\nrich and poor, even to the mites of the humblest, in order that the\nPapacy might retain the pride of independence and be able to treat its\nenemies with contempt. And he also spoke of France, deplored her errors,\npredicted her return to healthy traditions, and gave it to be understood\nthat she remained in spite of everything the most opulent and generous of\nthe Christian nations, the donor whose gold and presents flowed into Rome\nin a never ending stream. At last Leo XIII arose to reply to the bishop\nand the baron. His voice was full, with a strong nasal twang, and\nsurprised one coming from a man so slight of build. In a few sentences he\nexpressed his gratitude, saying how touched he was by the devotion of the\nnations to the Holy See. Although the times might be bad, the final\ntriumph could not be delayed much longer. There were evident signs that\nmankind was returning to faith, and that iniquity would soon cease under\nthe universal dominion of the Christ. As for France, was she not the\neldest daughter of the Church, and had she not given too many proofs of\nher affection for the Holy See for the latter ever to cease loving her?\nThen, raising his arm, he bestowed on all the pilgrims present, on the\nsocieties and enterprises they represented, on their families and\nfriends, on France, on all the nations of the Catholic world, his\napostolic benediction, in gratitude for the precious help which they sent\nhim. And whilst he was again seating himself applause burst forth,\nfrantic salvoes of applause lasting for ten minutes and mingling with\nvivats and inarticulate cries--a passionate, tempestuous outburst, which\nmade the very building shake.\n\nAmidst this blast of frantic adoration Pierre gazed at Leo XIII, now\nagain motionless on his throne. With the papal cap on his head and the\nred cape edged with ermine about his shoulders, he retained in his long\nwhite cassock the rigid, sacerdotal attitude of an idol venerated by two\nhundred and fifty millions of Christians. Against the purple background\nof the hangings of the _baldacchino_, between the wing-like drapery on\neither side, enclosing, as it were, a brasier of glory, he assumed real\nmajesty of aspect. He was no longer the feeble old man with the slow,\njerky walk and the slender, scraggy neck of a poor ailing bird. The\nsimious ugliness of his face, the largeness of his nose, the long slit of\nhis mouth, the hugeness of his ears, the conflicting jumble of his\nwithered features disappeared. In that waxen countenance you only\ndistinguished the admirable, dark, deep eyes, beaming with eternal youth,\nwith extraordinary intelligence and penetration. And then there was a\nresolute bracing of his entire person, a consciousness of the eternity\nwhich he represented, a regal nobility, born of the very circumstance\nthat he was now but a mere breath, a soul set in so pellucid a body of\nivory that it became visible as though it were already freed from the\nbonds of earth. And Pierre realised what such a man--the Sovereign\nPontiff, the king obeyed by two hundred and fifty millions of\nsubjects--must be for the devout and dolent creatures who came to adore\nhim from so far, and who fell at his feet awestruck by the splendour of\nthe powers incarnate in him. Behind him, amidst the purple of the\nhangings, what a gleam was suddenly afforded of the spheres beyond, what\nan Infinite of ideality and blinding glory! So many centuries of history\nfrom the Apostle Peter downward, so much strength and genius, so many\nstruggles and triumphs to be summed up in one being, the Elect, the\nUnique, the Superhuman! And what a miracle, incessantly renewed, was that\nof Heaven deigning to descend into human flesh, of the Deity fixing His\nabode in His chosen servant, whom He consecrated above and beyond all\nothers, endowing him with all power and all science! What sacred\nperturbation, what emotion fraught with distracted love might one not\nfeel at the thought of the Deity being ever there in the depths of that\nman\u2019s eyes, speaking with his voice and emanating from his hand each time\nthat he raised it to bless! Could one imagine the exorbitant absoluteness\nof that sovereign who was infallible, who disposed of the totality of\nauthority in this world and of salvation in the next! At all events, how\nwell one understood that souls consumed by a craving for faith should fly\ntowards him, that those who at last found the certainty they had so\nardently sought should seek annihilation in him, the consolation of\nself-bestowal and disappearance within the Deity Himself.\n\nMeantime, the ceremony was drawing to an end; Baron de Fouras was now\npresenting the members of the committee and a few other persons of\nimportance. There was a slow procession with trembling genuflections and\nmuch greedy kissing of the papal ring and slipper. Then the banners were\noffered, and Pierre felt a pang on seeing that the finest and richest of\nthem was one of Lourdes, an offering no doubt from the Fathers of the\nImmaculate Conception. On one side of the white, gold-bordered silk Our\nLady of Lourdes was painted, while on the other appeared a portrait of\nLeo XIII. Pierre saw the Pope smile at the presentment of himself, and\nwas greatly grieved thereat, as though, indeed, his whole dream of an\nintellectual, evangelical Pope, disentangled from all low superstition,\nwere crumbling away. And just then his eyes met those of Nani, who from\nthe outset had been watching him with the inquisitive air of a man who is\nmaking an experiment.\n\n\u201cThat banner is superb, isn\u2019t it?\u201d said Nani, drawing near. \u201cHow it must\nplease his Holiness to be so nicely painted in company with so pretty a\nvirgin.\u201d And as the young priest, turning pale, did not reply, the\nprelate added, with an air of devout enjoyment: \u201cWe are very fond of\nLourdes in Rome; that story of Bernadette is so delightful.\u201d\n\nHowever, the scene which followed was so extraordinary that for a long\ntime Pierre remained overcome by it. He had beheld never-to-be-forgotten\nidolatry at Lourdes, incidents of naive faith and frantic religious\npassion which yet made him quiver with alarm and grief. But the crowds\nrushing on the grotto, the sick dying of divine love before the Virgin\u2019s\nstatue, the multitudes delirious with the contagion of the\nmiraculous--nothing of all that gave an idea of the blast of madness\nwhich suddenly inflamed the pilgrims at the feet of the Pope. Some\nbishops, superiors of religious orders, and other delegates of various\nkinds had stepped forward to deposit near the throne the offerings which\nthey brought from the whole Catholic world, the universal \u201ccollection\u201d of\nSt. Peter\u2019s Pence. It was the voluntary tribute of the nations to their\nsovereign: silver, gold, and bank notes in purses, bags, and cases.\nLadies came and fell on their knees to offer silk and velvet alms-bags\nwhich they themselves had embroidered. Others had caused the note cases\nwhich they tendered to be adorned with the monogram of Leo XIII in\ndiamonds. And at one moment the enthusiasm became so intense that several\nwomen stripped themselves of their adornments, flung their own purses on\nto the platform, and emptied their pockets even to the very coppers they\nhad about them. One lady, tall and slender, very beautiful and very dark,\nwrenched her watch from about her neck, pulled off her rings, and threw\neverything upon the carpet. Had it been possible, they would have torn\naway their flesh to pluck out their love-burnt hearts and fling them\nlikewise to the demi-god. They would even have flung themselves, have\ngiven themselves without reserve. It was a rain of presents, an explosion\nof the passion which impels one to strip oneself for the object of one\u2019s\ncult, happy at having nothing of one\u2019s own that shall not belong to him.\nAnd meantime the clamour grew, vivats and shrill cries of adoration arose\namidst pushing and jostling of increased violence, one and all yielding\nto the irresistible desire to kiss the idol!\n\nBut a signal was given, and Leo XIII made haste to quit the throne and\ntake his place in the _cort\u00e8ge_ in order to return to his apartments. The\nSwiss Guards energetically thrust back the throng, seeking to open a way\nthrough the three halls. But at sight of his Holiness\u2019s departure a\nlamentation of despair arose and spread, as if heaven had suddenly closed\nagain and shut out those who had not yet been able to approach. What a\nfrightful disappointment--to have beheld the living manifestation of the\nDeity and to see it disappear before gaining salvation by just touching\nit! So terrible became the scramble, so extraordinary the confusion, that\nthe Swiss Guards were swept away. And ladies were seen to dart after the\nPope, to drag themselves on all fours over the marble slabs and kiss his\nfootprints and lap up the dust of his steps! The tall dark lady suddenly\nfell at the edge of the platform, raised a loud shriek, and fainted; and\ntwo gentlemen of the committee had to hold her so that she might not do\nherself an injury in the convulsions of the hysterical fit which had come\nupon her. Another, a plump blonde, was wildly, desperately kissing one of\nthe golden arms of the throne-chair, on which the old man\u2019s poor, bony\nelbow had just rested. And others, on seeing her, came to dispute\npossession, seized both arms, gilding and velvet, and pressed their\nmouths to wood-work or upholstery, their bodies meanwhile shaking with\ntheir sobs. Force had to be employed in order to drag them away.\n\nWhen it was all over Pierre went off, emerging as it were from a painful\ndream, sick at heart, and with his mind revolting. And again he\nencountered Nani\u2019s glance, which never left him. \u201cIt was a superb\nceremony, was it not?\u201d said the prelate. \u201cIt consoles one for many\niniquities.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, no doubt; but what idolatry!\u201d the young priest murmured despite\nhimself.\n\nNani, however, merely smiled, as if he had not heard the last word. At\nthat same moment the two French ladies whom he had provided with tickets\ncame up to thank him, and. Pierre was surprised to recognise the mother\nand daughter whom he had met at the Catacombs. Charming, bright, and\nhealthy as they were, their enthusiasm was only for the spectacle: they\ndeclared that they were well pleased at having seen it--that it was\nreally astonishing, unique.\n\nAs the crowd slowly withdrew Pierre all at once felt a tap on his\nshoulder, and, on turning his head, perceived Narcisse Habert, who also\nwas very enthusiastic. \u201cI made signs to you, my dear Abb\u00e9,\u201d said he, \u201cbut\nyou didn\u2019t see me. Ah! how superb was the expression of that dark woman\nwho fell rigid beside the platform with her arms outstretched. She\nreminded me of a masterpiece of one of the primitives, Cimabue, Giotto,\nor Fra Angelico. And the others, those who devoured the chair arms with\ntheir kisses, what suavity, beauty, and love! I never miss these\nceremonies: there are always some fine scenes, perfect pictures, in which\nsouls reveal themselves.\u201d\n\nThe long stream of pilgrims slowly descended the stairs, and Pierre,\nfollowed by Nani and Narcisse, who had begun to chat, tried to bring the\nideas which were tumultuously throbbing in his brain into something like\norder. There was certainly grandeur and beauty in that Pope who had shut\nhimself up in his Vatican, and who, the more he became a purely moral,\nspiritual authority, freed from all terrestrial cares, had grown in the\nadoration and awe of mankind. Such a flight into the ideal deeply stirred\nPierre, whose dream of rejuvenated Christianity rested on the idea of the\nsupreme Head of the Church exercising only a purified, spiritual\nauthority. He had just seen what an increase of majesty and power was in\nthat way gained by the Supreme Pontiff of the spheres beyond, at whose\nfeet the women fainted, and behind whom they beheld a vision of the\nDeity. But at the same moment the pecuniary side of the question had\nrisen before him and spoilt his joy. If the enforced relinquishment of\nthe temporal power had exalted the Pope by freeing him from the worries\nof a petty sovereignty which was ever threatened, the need of money still\nremained like a chain about his feet tying him to earth. As he could not\naccept the proffered subvention of the Italian Government,* there was\ncertainly in the Peter\u2019s Pence a means of placing the Holy See above all\nmaterial cares, provided, however, that this Peter\u2019s Pence were really\nthe Catholic _sou_, the mite of each believer, levied on his daily income\nand sent direct to Rome. Such a voluntary tribute paid by the flock to\nits pastor would, moreover, suffice for the wants of the Church if each\nof the 250,000,000 of Catholics gave his or her _sou_ every week. In this\nwise the Pope, indebted to each and all of his children, would be\nindebted to none in particular. A _sou_ was so little and so easy to\ngive, and there was also something so touching about the idea. But,\nunhappily, things were not worked in that way; the great majority of\nCatholics gave nothing whatever, while the rich ones sent large sums from\nmotives of political passion; and a particular objection was that the\ngifts were centralised in the hands of certain bishops and religious\norders, so that these became ostensibly the benefactors of the papacy,\nthe indispensable cashiers from whom it drew the sinews of life. The\nlowly and humble whose mites filled the collection boxes were, so to say,\nsuppressed, and the Pope became dependent on the intermediaries, and was\ncompelled to act cautiously with them, listen to their remonstrances, and\neven at times obey their passions, lest the stream of gifts should\nsuddenly dry up. And so, although he was disburdened of the dead weight\nof the temporal power, he was not free; but remained the tributary of his\nclergy, with interests and appetites around him which he must needs\nsatisfy. And Pierre remembered the \u201cGrotto of Lourdes\u201d in the Vatican\ngardens, and the banner which he had just seen, and he knew that the\nLourdes fathers levied 200,000 francs a year on their receipts to send\nthem as a present to the Holy Father. Was not that the chief reason of\ntheir great power? He quivered, and suddenly became conscious that, do\nwhat he might, he would be defeated, and his book would be condemned.\n\n  * 110,000 pounds per annum. It has never been accepted, and the\n    accumulations lapse to the Government every five years, and\n    cannot afterwards be recovered.--Trans.\n\nAt last, as he was coming out on to the Piazza of St. Peter\u2019s, he heard\nNarcisse asking Monsignor Nani: \u201cIndeed! Do you really think that\nto-day\u2019s gifts exceeded that figure?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, more than three millions,* I\u2019m convinced of it,\u201d the prelate\nreplied.\n\n  * All the amounts given on this and the following pages are\n    calculated in francs. The reader will bear in mind that a\n    million francs is equivalent to 40,000 pounds.--Trans.\n\nFor a moment the three men halted under the right-hand colonnade and\ngazed at the vast, sunlit piazza where the pilgrims were spreading out\nlike little black specks hurrying hither and thither--an ant-hill, as it\nwere, in revolution.\n\nThree millions! The words had rung in Pierre\u2019s ears. And, raising his\nhead, he gazed at the Vatican, all golden in the sunlight against the\nexpanse of blue sky, as if he wished to penetrate its walls and follow\nthe steps of Leo XIII returning to his apartments. He pictured him laden\nwith those millions, with his weak, slender arms pressed to his breast,\ncarrying the silver, the gold, the bank notes, and even the jewels which\nthe women had flung him. And almost unconsciously the young priest spoke\naloud: \u201cWhat will he do with those millions? Where is he taking them?\u201d\n\nNarcisse and even Nani could not help being amused by this strangely\nexpressed curiosity. It was the young _attach\u00e9_ who replied. \u201cWhy, his\nHoliness is taking them to his room; or, at least, is having them carried\nthere before him. Didn\u2019t you see two persons of his suite picking up\neverything and filling their pockets? And now his Holiness has shut\nhimself up quite alone; and if you could see him you would find him\ncounting and recounting his treasure with cheerful care, ranging the\nrolls of gold in good order, slipping the bank notes into envelopes in\nequal quantities, and then putting everything away in hiding-places which\nare only known to himself.\u201d\n\nWhile his companion was speaking Pierre again raised his eyes to the\nwindows of the Pope\u2019s apartments, as if to follow the scene. Moreover,\nNarcisse gave further explanations, asserting that the money was put away\nin a certain article of furniture, standing against the right-hand wall\nin the Holy Father\u2019s bedroom. Some people, he added, also spoke of a\nwriting table or secr\u00e9taire with deep drawers; and others declared that\nthe money slumbered in some big padlocked trunks stored away in the\ndepths of the alcove, which was very roomy. Of course, on the left side\nof the passage leading to the Archives there was a large room occupied by\na general cashier and a monumental safe; but the funds kept there were\nsimply those of the Patrimony of St. Peter, the administrative receipts\nof Rome; whereas the Peter\u2019s Pence money, the voluntary donations of\nChristendom, remained in the hands of Leo XIII: he alone knew the exact\namount of that fund, and lived alone with its millions, which he disposed\nof like an absolute master, rendering account to none. And such was his\nprudence that he never left his room when the servants cleaned and set it\nin order. At the utmost he would consent to remain on the threshold of\nthe adjoining apartment in order to escape the dust. And whenever he\nmeant to absent himself for a few hours, to go down into the gardens, for\ninstance, he double-locked the doors and carried the keys away with him,\nnever confiding them to another.\n\nAt this point Narcisse paused and, turning to Nani, inquired: \u201cIs not\nthat so, Monsignor? These are things known to all Rome.\u201d\n\nThe prelate, ever smiling and wagging his head without expressing either\napproval or disapproval, had begun to study on Pierre\u2019s face the effect\nof these curious stories. \u201cNo doubt, no doubt,\u201d he responded; \u201cso many\nthings are said! I know nothing myself, but you seem to be certain of it\nall, Monsieur Habert.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d resumed the other, \u201cI don\u2019t accuse his Holiness of sordid avarice,\nsuch as is rumoured. Some fabulous stories are current, stories of\ncoffers full of gold in which the Holy Father is said to plunge his hands\nfor hours at a time; treasures which he has heaped up in corners for the\nsole pleasure of counting them over and over again. Nevertheless, one may\nwell admit that his Holiness is somewhat fond of money for its own sake,\nfor the pleasure of handling it and setting it in order when he happens\nto be alone--and after all that is a very excusable mania in an old man\nwho has no other pastime. But I must add that he is yet fonder of money\nfor the social power which it brings, the decisive help which it will\ngive to the Holy See in the future, if the latter desires to triumph.\u201d\n\nThese words evoked the lofty figure of a wise and prudent Pope, conscious\nof modern requirements, inclined to utilise the powers of the century in\norder to conquer it, and for this reason venturing on business and\nspeculation. As it happened, the treasure bequeathed by Pius IX had\nnearly been lost in a financial disaster, but ever since that time Leo\nXIII had sought to repair the breach and make the treasure whole again,\nin order that he might leave it to his successor intact and even\nenlarged. Economical he certainly was, but he saved for the needs of the\nChurch, which, as he knew, increased day by day; and money was absolutely\nnecessary if Atheism was to be met and fought in the sphere of the\nschools, institutions, and associations of all sorts. Without money,\nindeed, the Church would become a vassal at the mercy of the civil\npowers, the Kingdom of Italy and other Catholic states; and so, although\nhe liberally helped every enterprise which might contribute to the\ntriumph of the Faith, Leo XIII had a contempt for all expenditure without\nan object, and treated himself and others with stern closeness.\nPersonally, he had no needs. At the outset of his pontificate he had set\nhis small private patrimony apart from the rich patrimony of St. Peter,\nrefusing to take aught from the latter for the purpose of assisting his\nrelatives. Never had pontiff displayed less nepotism: his three nephews\nand his two nieces had remained poor--in fact, in great pecuniary\nembarrassment. Still he listened neither to complaints nor accusations,\nbut remained inflexible, proudly resolved to bequeath the sinews of life,\nthe invincible weapon money, to the popes of future times, and therefore\nvigorously defending the millions of the Holy See against the desperate\ncovetousness of one and all.\n\n\u201cBut, after all, what are the receipts and expenses of the Holy See?\u201d\n inquired Pierre.\n\nIn all haste Nani again made his amiable, evasive gesture. \u201cOh! I am\naltogether ignorant in such matters,\u201d he replied. \u201cAsk Monsieur Habert,\nwho is so well informed.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor my part,\u201d responded the _attach\u00e9_, \u201cI simply know what is known to\nall the embassies here, the matters which are the subject of common\nreport. With respect to the receipts there is, first of all, the treasure\nleft by Pius IX, some twenty millions, invested in various ways and\nformerly yielding about a million a year in interest. But, as I said\nbefore, a disaster happened, and there must then have been a falling off\nin the income. Still, nowadays it is reported that nearly all\ndeficiencies have been made good. Well, besides the regular income from\nthe invested money, a few hundred thousand francs are derived every year\nfrom chancellery dues, patents of nobility, and all sorts of little fees\npaid to the Congregations. However, as the annual expenses exceed seven\nmillions, it has been necessary to find quite six millions every year;\nand certainly it is the Peter\u2019s Pence Fund that has supplied, not the six\nmillions, perhaps, but three or four of them, and with these the Holy See\nhas speculated in the hope of doubling them and making both ends meet. It\nwould take me too long just now to relate the whole story of these\nspeculations, the first huge gains, then the catastrophe which almost\nswept everything away, and finally the stubborn perseverance which is\ngradually supplying all deficiencies. However, if you are anxious on the\nsubject, I will one day tell you all about it.\u201d\n\nPierre had listened with deep interest. \u201cSix millions--even four!\u201d he\nexclaimed, \u201cwhat does the Peter\u2019s Pence Fund bring in, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I can only repeat that nobody has ever known the exact figures. In\nformer times the Catholic Press published lists giving the amounts of\ndifferent offerings, and in this way one could frame an approximate\nestimate. But the practice must have been considered unadvisable, for no\ndocuments nowadays appear, and it is absolutely impossible for people to\nform any real idea of what the Pope receives. He alone knows the correct\namount, keeps the money, and disposes of it with absolute authority.\nStill I believe that in good years the offerings have amounted to between\nfour and five millions. Originally France contributed one-half of the\nsum; but nowadays it certainly gives much less. Then come Belgium and\nAustria, England and Germany. As for Spain and Italy--oh! Italy--\u201d\n\nNarcisse paused and smiled at Monsignor Nani, who was wagging his head\nwith the air of a man delighted at learning some extremely curious things\nof which he had previously had no idea.\n\n\u201cOh, you may proceed, you may proceed, my dear son,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cWell, then, Italy scarcely distinguishes itself. If the Pope had to\nprovide for his living out of the gifts of the Italian Catholics there\nwould soon be a famine at the Vatican. Far from helping him, indeed, the\nRoman nobility has cost him dear; for one of the chief causes of his\npecuniary losses was his folly in lending money to the princes who\nspeculated. It is really only from France and England that rich people,\nnoblemen and so forth, have sent royal gifts to the imprisoned and\nmartyred Pontiff. Among others there was an English nobleman who came to\nRome every year with a large offering, the outcome of a vow which he had\nmade in the hope that Heaven would cure his unhappy idiot son. And, of\ncourse, I don\u2019t refer to the extraordinary harvest garnered during the\nsacerdotal and the episcopal jubilees--the forty millions which then fell\nat his Holiness\u2019s feet.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the expenses?\u201d asked Pierre.\n\n\u201cWell, as I told you, they amount to about seven millions. We may reckon\ntwo of them for the pensions paid to former officials of the pontifical\ngovernment who were unwilling to take service under Italy; but I must add\nthat this source of expense is diminishing every year as people die off\nand their pensions become extinguished. Then, broadly speaking, we may\nput down one million for the Italian sees, another for the Secretariate\nand the Nunciatures, and another for the Vatican. In this last sum I\ninclude the expenses of the pontifical Court, the military establishment,\nthe museums, and the repair of the palace and the Basilica. Well, we have\nreached five millions, and the two others may be set down for the various\nsubsidised enterprises, the Propaganda, and particularly the schools,\nwhich Leo XIII, with great practical good sense, subsidises very\nhandsomely, for he is well aware that the battle and the triumph be in\nthat direction--among the children who will be men to-morrow, and who\nwill then defend their mother the Church, provided that they have been\ninspired with horror for the abominable doctrines of the age.\u201d\n\nA spell of silence ensued, and the three men slowly paced the majestic\ncolonnade. The swarming crowd had gradually disappeared, leaving the\npiazza empty, so that only the obelisk and the twin fountains now arose\nfrom the burning desert of symmetrical paving; whilst on the entablature\nof the porticus across the square a noble line of motionless statues\nstood out in the bright sunlight. And Pierre, with his eyes still raised\nto the Pope\u2019s windows, again fancied that he could see Leo XIII amidst\nall the streaming gold that had been spoken of, his whole, white, pure\nfigure, his poor, waxen, transparent form steeped amidst those millions\nwhich he hid and counted and expended for the glory of God alone. \u201cAnd\nso,\u201d murmured the young priest, \u201che has no anxiety, he is not in any\npecuniary embarrassment.\u201d\n\n\u201cPecuniary embarrassment!\u201d exclaimed Monsignor Nani, his patience so\nsorely tried by the remark that he could no longer retain his diplomatic\nreserve. \u201cOh! my dear son! Why, when Cardinal Mocenni, the treasurer,\ngoes to his Holiness every month, his Holiness always gives him the sum\nhe asks for; he would give it, and be able to give it, however large it\nmight be! His Holiness has certainly had the wisdom to effect great\neconomies; the Treasure of St. Peter is larger than ever. Pecuniary\nembarrassment, indeed! Why, if a misfortune should occur, and the\nSovereign Pontiff were to make a direct appeal to all his children, the\nCatholics of the entire world, do you know that in that case a thousand\nmillions would fall at his feet just like the gold and the jewels which\nyou saw raining on the steps of his throne just now?\u201d Then suddenly\ncalming himself and recovering his pleasant smile, Nani added: \u201cAt least,\nthat is what I sometimes hear said; for, personally, I know nothing,\nabsolutely nothing; and it is fortunate that Monsieur Habert should have\nbeen here to give you information. Ah! Monsieur Habert, Monsieur Habert!\nWhy, I fancied that you were always in the skies absorbed in your passion\nfor art, and far removed from all base mundane interests! But you really\nunderstand these things like a banker or a notary. Nothing escapes you,\nnothing. It is wonderful.\u201d\n\nNarcisse must have felt the sting of the prelate\u2019s delicate sarcasm. At\nbottom, beneath this make-believe Florentine all-angelicalness, with long\ncurly hair and mauve eyes which grew dim with rapture at sight of a\nBotticelli, there was a thoroughly practical, business-like young man,\nwho took admirable care of his fortune and was even somewhat miserly.\nHowever, he contented himself with lowering his eyelids and assuming a\nlanguorous air. \u201cOh!\u201d said he, \u201cI\u2019m all reverie; my soul is elsewhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt all events,\u201d resumed Nani, turning towards Pierre, \u201cI am very glad\nthat you were able to see such a beautiful spectacle. A few more such\nopportunities and you will understand things far better than you would\nfrom all the explanations in the world. Don\u2019t miss the grand ceremony at\nSt. Peter\u2019s to-morrow. It will be magnificent, and will give you food for\nuseful reflection; I\u2019m sure of it. And now allow me to leave you,\ndelighted at seeing you in such a fit frame of mind.\u201d\n\nDarting a last glance at Pierre, Nani seemed to have observed with\npleasure the weariness and uncertainty which were paling his face. And\nwhen the prelate had gone off, and Narcisse also had taken leave with a\ngentle hand-shake, the young priest felt the ire of protest rising within\nhim. What fit frame of mind did Nani mean? Did that man hope to weary him\nand drive him to despair by throwing him into collision with obstacles,\nso that he might afterwards overcome him with perfect ease? For the\nsecond time Pierre became suddenly and briefly conscious of the stealthy\nefforts which were being made to invest and crush him. But, believing as\nhe did in his own strength of resistance, pride filled him with disdain.\nAgain he swore that he would never yield, never withdraw his book, no\nmatter what might happen. And then, before crossing the piazza, he once\nmore raised his eyes to the windows of the Vatican, all his impressions\ncrystallising in the thought of that much-needed money which like a last\nbond still attached the Pope to earth. Its chief evil doubtless lay in\nthe manner in which it was provided; and if indeed the only question were\nto devise an improved method of collection, his dream of a pope who\nshould be all soul, the bond of love, the spiritual leader of the world,\nwould not be seriously affected. At this thought, Pierre felt comforted\nand was unwilling to look on things otherwise than hopefully, moved as he\nwas by the extraordinary scene which he had just beheld, that feeble old\nman shining forth like the symbol of human deliverance, obeyed and\nvenerated by the multitudes, and alone among all men endowed with the\nmoral omnipotence that might at last set the reign of charity and peace\non earth.\n\nFor the ceremony on the following day, it was fortunate that Pierre held\na private ticket which admitted him to a reserved gallery, for the\nscramble at the entrances to the Basilica proved terrible. The mass,\nwhich the Pope was to celebrate in person, was fixed for ten o\u2019clock, but\npeople began to pour into St. Peter\u2019s four hours earlier, as soon,\nindeed, as the gates had been thrown open. The three thousand members of\nthe International Pilgrimage were increased tenfold by the arrival of all\nthe tourists in Italy, who had hastened to Rome eager to witness one of\nthose great pontifical functions which nowadays are so rare. Moreover,\nthe devotees and partisans whom the Holy See numbered in Rome itself and\nin other great cities of the kingdom, helped to swell the throng, all\nalacrity at the prospect of a demonstration. Judging by the tickets\ndistributed, there would be a concourse of 40,000 people. And, indeed, at\nnine o\u2019clock, when Pierre crossed the piazza on his way to the Canons\u2019\nEntrance in the Via Santa Marta, where the holders of pink tickets were\nadmitted, he saw the portico of the fa\u00e7ade still thronged with people who\nwere but slowly gaining admittance, while several gentlemen in evening\ndress, members of some Catholic association, bestirred themselves to\nmaintain order with the help of a detachment of Pontifical Guards.\nNevertheless, violent quarrels broke out in the crowd, and blows were\nexchanged amidst the involuntary scramble. Some people were almost\nstifled, and two women were carried off half crushed to death.\n\nA disagreeable surprise met Pierre on his entry into the Basilica. The\nhuge edifice was draped; coverings of old red damask with bands of gold\nswathed the columns and pilasters, seventy-five feet high; even the\naisles were hung with the same old and faded silk; and the shrouding of\nthose pompous marbles, of all the superb dazzling ornamentation of the\nchurch bespoke a very singular taste, a tawdry affectation of pomposity,\nextremely wretched in its effect. However, he was yet more amazed on\nseeing that even the statue of St. Peter was clad, costumed like a living\npope in sumptuous pontifical vestments, with a tiara on its metal head.\nHe had never imagined that people could garment statues either for their\nglory or for the pleasure of the eyes, and the result seemed to him\ndisastrous.\n\nThe Pope was to say mass at the papal altar of the Confession, the high\naltar which stands under the dome. On a platform at the entrance of the\nleft-hand transept was the throne on which he would afterwards take his\nplace. Then, on either side of the nave, tribunes had been erected for\nthe choristers of the Sixtine Chapel, the Corps Diplomatique, the Knights\nof Malta, the Roman nobility, and other guests of various kinds. And,\nfinally, in the centre, before the altar, there were three rows of\nbenches covered with red rugs, the first for the cardinals and the other\ntwo for the bishops and the prelates of the pontifical court. All the\nrest of the congregation was to remain standing.\n\nAh! that huge concert-audience, those thirty, forty thousand believers\nfrom here, there, and everywhere, inflamed with curiosity, passion, or\nfaith, bestirring themselves, jostling one another, rising on tip-toe to\nsee the better! The clamour of a human sea arose, the crowd was as gay\nand familiar as if it had found itself in some heavenly theatre where it\nwas allowable for one to chat aloud and recreate oneself with the\nspectacle of religious pomp! At first Pierre was thunderstruck, he who\nonly knew of nervous, silent kneeling in the depths of dim cathedrals,\nwho was not accustomed to that religion of light, whose brilliancy\ntransformed a religious celebration into a morning festivity. Around him,\nin the same tribune as himself, were gentlemen in dress-coats and ladies\ngowned in black, carrying glasses as in an opera-house. There were German\nand English women, and numerous Americans, all more or less charming,\ndisplaying the grace of thoughtless, chirruping birds. In the tribune of\nthe Roman nobility on the left he recognised Benedetta and Donna\nSerafina, and there the simplicity of the regulation attire for ladies\nwas relieved by large lace veils rivalling one another in richness and\nelegance. Then on the right was the tribune of the Knights of Malta,\nwhere the Grand Master stood amidst a group of commanders: while across\nthe nave rose the diplomatic tribune where Pierre perceived the\nambassadors of all the Catholic nations, resplendent in gala uniforms\ncovered with gold lace. However, the young priest\u2019s eyes were ever\nreturning to the crowd, the great surging throng in which the three\nthousand pilgrims were lost amidst the multitude of other spectators. And\nyet as the Basilica was so vast that it could easily contain eighty\nthousand people, it did not seem to be more than half full. People came\nand went along the aisles and took up favourable positions without\nimpediment. Some could be seen gesticulating, and calls rang out above\nthe ceaseless rumble of voices. From the lofty windows of plain white\nglass fell broad sheets of sunlight, which set a gory glow upon the faded\ndamask hangings, and these cast a reflection as of fire upon all the\ntumultuous, feverish, impatient faces. The multitude of candles, and the\nseven-and-eighty lamps of the Confession paled to such a degree that they\nseemed but glimmering night-lights in the blinding radiance; and\neverything proclaimed the worldly gala of the imperial Deity of Roman\npomp.\n\nAll at once there came a premature shock of delight, a false alert. Cries\nburst forth and circulated through the crowd: \u201cEccolo! eccolo! Here he\ncomes!\u201d And then there was pushing and jostling, eddying which made the\nhuman sea whirl and surge, all craning their necks, raising themselves to\ntheir full height, darting forward in a frenzied desire to see the Holy\nFather and the _cort\u00e8ge_. But only a detachment of Noble Guards marched\nby and took up position right and left of the altar. A flattering murmur\naccompanied them, their fine impassive bearing with its exaggerated\nmilitary stiffness, provoking the admiration of the throng. An American\nwoman declared that they were superb-looking fellows; and a Roman lady\ngave an English friend some particulars about the select corps to which\nthey belonged. Formerly, said she, young men of the aristocracy had\ngreatly sought the honour of forming part of it, for the sake of wearing\nits rich uniform and caracoling in front of the ladies. But recruiting\nwas now such a difficult matter that one had to content oneself with\ngood-looking young men of doubtful or ruined nobility, whose only care\nwas for the meagre \u201cpay\u201d which just enabled them to live.\n\nWhen another quarter of an hour of chatting and scrutinising had elapsed,\nthe papal _cort\u00e8ge_ at last made its appearance, and no sooner was it\nseen than applause burst forth as in a theatre--furious applause it was\nwhich rose and rolled along under the vaulted ceilings, suggesting the\nacclamations which ring out when some popular, idolised actor makes his\nentry on the stage. As in a theatre, too, everything had been very\nskilfully contrived so as to produce all possible effect amidst the\nmagnificent scenery of the Basilica. The _cort\u00e8ge_ was formed in the\nwings, that is in the Cappella della Pieta, the first chapel of the right\naisle, and in order to reach it, the Holy Father, coming from his\napartments by the way of the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, had been\nstealthily carried behind the hangings of the aisle which served the\npurpose of a drop-scene. Awaiting him in all readiness in the Cappella\ndella Pieta were the cardinals, archbishops, and bishops, the whole\npontifical prelacy, hierarchically classified and grouped. And then, as\nat a signal from a ballet master, the _cort\u00e8ge_ made its entry, reaching\nthe nave and ascending it in triumph from the closed Porta Santa to the\naltar of the Confession. On either hand were the rows of spectators whose\napplause at the sight of so much magnificence grew louder and louder as\ntheir delirious enthusiasm increased.\n\nIt was the _cort\u00e8ge_ of the olden solemnities, the cross and sword, the\nSwiss Guard in full uniform, the valets in scarlet simars, the Knights of\nthe Cape and the Sword in Renascence costumes, the Canons in rochets of\nlace, the superiors of the religious communities, the apostolic\nprothonotaries, the archbishops, and bishops, all the pontifical prelates\nin violet silk, the cardinals, each wearing the _cappa magna_ and draped\nin purple, walking solemnly two by two with long intervals between each\npair. Finally, around his Holiness were grouped the officers of the\nmilitary household, the chamber prelates, Monsignor the Majordomo,\nMonsignor the Grand Chamberlain, and all the other high dignitaries of\nthe Vatican, with the Roman prince assistant of the throne, the\ntraditional, symbolical defender of the Church. And on the _sedia\ngestatoria_, screened by the _flabelli_ with their lofty triumphal fans\nof feathers and carried on high by the bearers in red tunics broidered\nwith silk, sat the Pope, clad in the sacred vestments which he had\nassumed in the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, the amict, the alb, the\nstole, and the white chasuble and white mitre enriched with gold, two\ngifts of extraordinary sumptuousness that had come from France. And, as\nhis Holiness drew near, all hands were raised and clapped yet more loudly\namidst the waves of living sunlight which streamed from the lofty\nwindows.\n\nThen a new and different impression of Leo XIII came to Pierre. The Pope,\nas he now beheld him, was no longer the familiar, tired, inquisitive old\nman, leaning on the arm of a talkative prelate as he strolled through the\nloveliest gardens in the world. He no longer recalled the Holy Father, in\nred cape and papal cap, giving a paternal welcome to a pilgrimage which\nbrought him a fortune. He was here the Sovereign Pontiff, the\nall-powerful Master whom Christendom adored. His slim waxen form seemed\nto have stiffened within his white vestments, heavy with golden broidery,\nas in a reliquary of precious metal; and he retained a rigid, haughty,\nhieratic attitude, like that of some idol, gilded, withered for centuries\npast by the smoke of sacrifices. Amidst the mournful stiffness of his\nface only his eyes lived--eyes like black sparkling diamonds gazing afar,\nbeyond earth, into the infinite. He gave not a glance to the crowd, he\nlowered his eyes neither to right nor to left, but remained soaring in\nthe heavens, ignoring all that took place at his feet.\n\nAnd as that seemingly embalmed idol, deaf and blind, in spite of the\nbrilliancy of his eyes, was carried through the frantic multitude which\nit appeared neither to hear nor to see, it assumed fearsome majesty,\ndisquieting grandeur, all the rigidity of dogma, all the immobility of\ntradition exhumed with its _fascioe_ which alone kept it erect. Still\nPierre fancied he could detect that the Pope was ill and weary, suffering\nfrom the attack of fever which Nani had spoken of when glorifying the\ncourage of that old man of eighty-four, whom strength of soul alone now\nkept alive.\n\nThe service began. Alighting from the _sedia gestatoria_ before the altar\nof the Confession, his Holiness slowly celebrated a low mass, assisted by\nfour prelates and the pro-prefect of the ceremonies. When the time came\nfor washing his fingers, Monsignor the Majordomo and Monsignor the Grand\nChamberlain, accompanied by two cardinals, poured the water on his august\nhands; and shortly before the elevation of the host all the prelates of\nthe pontifical court, each holding a lighted taper, came and knelt around\nthe altar. There was a solemn moment, the forty thousand believers there\nassembled shuddered as if they could feel the terrible yet delicious\nblast of the invisible sweeping over them when during the elevation the\nsilver clarions sounded the famous chorus of angels which invariably\nmakes some women swoon. Almost immediately an aerial chant descended from\nthe cupola, from a lofty gallery where one hundred and twenty choristers\nwere concealed, and the enraptured multitude marvelled as though the\nangels had indeed responded to the clarion call. The voices descended,\ntaking their flight under the vaulted ceilings with the airy sweetness of\ncelestial harps; then in suave harmony they died away, reascended to the\nheavens as with a faint flapping of wings. And, after the mass, his\nHoliness, still standing at the altar, in person started the _Te Deum_,\nwhich the singers of the Sixtine Chapel and the other choristers took up,\neach party chanting a verse alternately. But soon the whole congregation\njoined them, forty thousand voices were raised, and a hymn of joy and\nglory spread through the vast nave with incomparable splendour of effect.\nAnd then the scene became one of extraordinary magnificence: there was\nBernini\u2019s triumphal, flowery, gilded _baldacchino_, surrounded by the\nwhole pontifical court with the lighted tapers showing like starry\nconstellations, there was the Sovereign Pontiff in the centre, radiant\nlike a planet in his gold-broidered chasuble, there were the benches\ncrowded with cardinals in purple and archbishops and bishops in violet\nsilk, there were the tribunes glittering with official finery, the gold\nlace of the diplomatists, the variegated uniforms of foreign officers,\nand then there was the throng flowing and eddying on all sides, rolling\nbillows after billows of heads from the most distant depths of the\nBasilica. And the hugeness of the temple increased one\u2019s amazement; and\neven the glorious hymn which the multitude repeated became colossal,\nascended like a tempest blast amidst the great marble tombs, the\nsuperhuman statues and gigantic pillars, till it reached the vast vaulted\nheavens of stone, and penetrated into the firmament of the cupola where\nthe Infinite seemed to open resplendent with the gold-work of the\nmosaics.\n\nA long murmur of voices followed the _Te Deum_, whilst Leo XIII, after\ndonning the tiara in lieu of the mitre, and exchanging the chasuble for\nthe pontifical cope, went to occupy his throne on the platform at the\nentry of the left transept. He thence dominated the whole assembly,\nthrough which a quiver sped when after the prayers of the ritual, he once\nmore rose erect. Beneath the symbolic, triple crown, in the golden\nsheathing of his cope, he seemed to have grown taller. Amidst sudden and\nprofound silence, which only feverish heart-beats interrupted, he raised\nhis arm with a very noble gesture and pronounced the papal benediction in\na slow, loud, full voice, which seemed, as it were, the very voice of the\nDeity, so greatly did its power astonish one, coming from such waxen\nlips, from such a bloodless, lifeless frame. And the effect was\nprodigious: as soon as the _cort\u00e8ge_ reformed to return whence it had\ncome, applause again burst forth, a frenzy of enthusiasm which the\nclapping of hands could no longer content. Acclamations resounded and\ngradually gained upon the whole multitude. They began among a group of\nardent partisans stationed near the statue of St. Peter: _\u201cEvviva il\nPapa-R\u00e8! evviva il Papa-R\u00e8_! Long live the Pope-King!\u201d as the _cort\u00e8ge_\nwent by the shout rushed along like leaping fire, inflaming heart after\nheart, and at last springing from every mouth in a thunderous protest\nagainst the theft of the states of the Church. All the faith, all the\nlove of those believers, overexcited by the regal spectacle they had just\nbeheld, returned once more to the dream, to the rageful desire that the\nPope should be both King and Pontiff, master of men\u2019s bodies as he was of\ntheir souls--in one word, the absolute sovereign of the earth. Therein\nlay the only truth, the only happiness, the only salvation! Let all be\ngiven to him, both mankind and the world! \u201c_Evviva il Papa-R\u00e8! evviva il\nPapa-R\u00e8_! Long live the Pope-King!\u201d\n\nAh! that cry, that cry of war which had caused so many errors and so much\nbloodshed, that cry of self-abandonment and blindness which, realised,\nwould have brought back the old ages of suffering, it shocked Pierre, and\nimpelled him in all haste to quit the tribune where he was in order that\nhe might escape the contagion of idolatry. And while the _cort\u00e8ge_ still\nwent its way and the deafening clamour of the crowd continued, he for a\nmoment followed the left aisle amidst the general scramble. This,\nhowever, made him despair of reaching the street, and anxious to escape\nthe crush of the general departure, it occurred to him to profit by a\ndoor which he saw open and which led him into a vestibule, whence\nascended the steps conducting to the dome. A sacristan standing in the\ndoorway, both bewildered and delighted at the demonstration, looked at\nhim for a moment, hesitating whether he should stop him or not. However,\nthe sight of the young priest\u2019s cassock combined with his own emotion\nrendered the man tolerant. Pierre was allowed to pass, and at once began\nto climb the staircase as rapidly as he could, in order that he might\nflee farther and farther away, ascend higher and yet higher into peace\nand silence.\n\nAnd the silence suddenly became profound, the walls stifled the cry of\nthe multitude. The staircase was easy and light, with broad paved steps\nturning within a sort of tower. When Pierre came out upon the roofs of\nnave and aisles, he was delighted to find himself in the bright sunlight\nand the pure keen air which blew there as in the open country. And it was\nwith astonishment that he gazed upon the huge expanse of lead, zinc, and\nstone-work, a perfect aerial city living a life of its own under the blue\nsky. He saw cupolas, spires, terraces, even houses and gardens, houses\nbright with flowers, the residences of the workmen who live atop of the\nBasilica, which is ever and ever requiring repair. A little population\nhere bestirs itself, labours, loves, eats, and sleeps. However, Pierre\ndesired to approach the balustrade so as to get a near view of the\ncolossal statues of the Saviour and the Apostles which surmount the\nfa\u00e7ade on the side of the piazza. These giants, some nineteen feet in\nheight, are constantly being mended; their arms, legs, and heads, into\nwhich the atmosphere is ever eating, nowadays only hold together by the\nhelp of cement, bars, and hooks. And having examined them, Pierre was\nleaning forward to glance at the Vatican\u2019s jumble of ruddy roofs, when it\nseemed to him that the shout from which he had fled was rising from the\npiazza, and thereupon, in all haste, he resumed his ascent within the\npillar conducting to the dome. There was first a staircase, and then came\nsome narrow, oblique passages, inclines intersected by a few steps,\nbetween the inner and outer walls of the cupola. Yielding to curiosity,\nPierre pushed a door open, and suddenly found himself inside the Basilica\nagain, at nearly 200 feet from the ground. A narrow gallery there ran\nround the dome just above the frieze, on which, in letters five feet\nhigh, appeared the famous inscription: _Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram\n\u0153dificabo ecclesiam meam et tibi dabo claves regni c\u0153lorum._* And then,\nas Pierre leant over to gaze into the fearful cavity beneath him and the\nwide openings of nave, and aisles, and transepts, the cry, the delirious\ncry of the multitude, yet clamorously swarming below, struck him full in\nthe face. He fled once more; but, higher up, yet a second time he pushed\nanother door open and found another gallery, one perched above the\nwindows, just where the splendid mosaics begin, and whence the crowd\nseemed to him lost in the depths of a dizzy abyss, altar and\n_baldacchino_ alike looking no larger than toys. And yet the cry of\nidolatry and warfare arose again, and smote him like the buffet of a\ntempest which gathers increase of strength the farther it rushes. So to\nescape it he had to climb higher still, even to the outer gallery which\nencircles the lantern, hovering in the very heavens.\n\n  * Thou art Peter (Petrus) and on that rock (Petram) will I build\n    my church, and to thee will I give the keys of the Kingdom of\n    Heaven.\n\nHow delightful was the relief which that bath of air and sunlight at\nfirst brought him! Above him now there only remained the ball of gilt\ncopper into which emperors and queens have ascended, as is testified by\nthe pompous inscriptions in the passages; a hollow ball it is, where the\nvoice crashes like thunder, where all the sounds of space reverberate. As\nhe emerged on the side of the apse, his eyes at first plunged into the\npapal gardens, whose clumps of trees seemed mere bushes almost level with\nthe soil; and he could retrace his recent stroll among them, the broad\n_parterre_ looking like a faded Smyrna rug, the large wood showing the\ndeep glaucous greenery of a stagnant pool. Then there were the kitchen\ngarden and the vineyard easily identified and tended with care. The\nfountains, the observatory, the casino, where the Pope spent the hot days\nof summer, showed merely like little white spots in those undulating\ngrounds, walled in like any other estate, but with the fearsome rampart\nof the fourth Leo, which yet retained its fortress-like aspect. However,\nPierre took his way round the narrow gallery and abruptly found himself\nin front of Rome, a sudden and immense expanse, with the distant sea on\nthe west, the uninterrupted mountain chains on the east and the south,\nthe Roman Campagna stretching to the horizon like a bare and greenish\ndesert, while the city, the Eternal City, was spread out at his feet.\nNever before had space impressed him so majestically. Rome was there, as\na bird might see it, within the glance, as distinct as some geographical\nplan executed in relief. To think of it, such a past, such a history, so\nmuch grandeur, and Rome so dwarfed and contracted by distance! Houses as\nlilliputian and as pretty as toys; and the whole a mere mouldy speck upon\nthe earth\u2019s face! What impassioned Pierre was that he could at a glance\nunderstand the divisions of Rome: the antique city yonder with the\nCapitol, the Forum, and the Palatine; the papal city in that Borgo which\nhe overlooked, with St. Peter\u2019s and the Vatican gazing across the city of\nthe middle ages--which was huddled together in the right angle described\nby the yellow Tiber--towards the modern city, the Quirinal of the Italian\nmonarchy. And particularly did he remark the chalky girdle with which the\nnew districts encompassed the ancient, central, sun-tanned quarters, thus\nsymbolising an effort at rejuvenescence, the old heart but slowly mended,\nwhereas the outlying limbs were renewed as if by miracle.\n\nIn that ardent noontide glow, however, Pierre no longer beheld the pure\nethereal Rome which had met his eyes on the morning of his arrival in the\ndelightfully soft radiance of the rising sun. That smiling, unobtrusive\ncity, half veiled by golden mist, immersed as it were in some dream of\nchildhood, now appeared to him flooded with a crude light, motionless,\nhard of outline and silent like death. The distance was as if devoured by\ntoo keen a flame, steeped in a luminous dust in which it crumbled. And\nagainst that blurred background the whole city showed with violent\ndistinctness in great patches of light and shade, their tracery harshly\nconspicuous. One might have fancied oneself above some very ancient,\nabandoned stone quarry, which a few clumps of trees spotted with dark\ngreen. Of the ancient city one could see the sunburnt tower of the\nCapitol, the black cypresses of the Palatine, and the ruins of the palace\nof Septimius Severus, suggesting the white osseous carcase of some fossil\nmonster, left there by a flood. In front, was enthroned the modern city\nwith the long, renovated buildings of the Quirinal, whose yellow walls\nstood forth with wondrous crudity amidst the vigorous crests of the\ngarden trees. And to right and left on the Viminal, beyond the palace,\nthe new districts appeared like a city of chalk and plaster mottled by\ninnumerable windows as with a thousand touches of black ink. Then here\nand there were the Pincio showing like a stagnant mere, the Villa Medici\nuprearing its campanili, the castle of Sant\u2019 Angelo brown like rust, the\nspire of Santa Maria Maggiore aglow like a burning taper, the three\nchurches of the Aventine drowsy amidst verdure, the Palazzo Farnese with\nits summer-baked tiles showing like old gold, the domes of the Ges\u00f9, of\nSant\u2019 Andrea della Valle, of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini, and yet other\ndomes and other domes, all in fusion, incandescent in the brazier of the\nheavens. And Pierre again felt a heart-pang in presence of that harsh,\nstern Rome, so different from the Rome of his dream, the Rome of\nrejuvenescence and hope, which he had fancied he had found on his first\nmorning, but which had now faded away to give place to the immutable city\nof pride and domination, stubborn under the sun even unto death.\n\nAnd there on high, all alone with his thoughts, Pierre suddenly\nunderstood. It was as if a dart of flaming light fell on him in that\nfree, unbounded expanse where he hovered. Had it come from the ceremony\nwhich he had just beheld, from the frantic cry of servitude still ringing\nin his ears? Had it come from the spectacle of that city beneath him,\nthat city which suggested an embalmed queen still reigning amidst the\ndust of her tomb? He knew not; but doubtless both had acted as factors,\nand at all events the light which fell upon his mind was complete: he\nfelt that Catholicism could not exist without the temporal power, that it\nmust fatally disappear whenever it should no longer be king over this\nearth. A first reason of this lay in heredity, in the forces of history,\nthe long line of the heirs of the Caesars, the popes, the great pontiffs,\nin whose veins the blood of Augustus, demanding the empire of the world,\nhad never ceased to flow. Though they might reside in the Vatican they\nhad come from the imperial abodes on the Palatine, from the palace of\nSeptimius Severus, and throughout the centuries their policy had ever\npursued the dream of Roman mastery, of all the nations vanquished,\nsubmissive, and obedient to Rome. If its sovereignty were not universal,\nextending alike over bodies and over souls, Catholicism would lose its\n_raison d\u2019\u00eatre_; for the Church cannot recognise any empire or kingdom\notherwise than politically--the emperors and the kings being purely and\nsimply so many temporary delegates placed in charge of the nations\npending the time when they shall be called upon to relinquish their\ntrust. All the nations, all humanity, and the whole world belong to the\nChurch to whom they have been given by God. And if real and effective\npossession is not hers to-day, this is only because she yields to force,\ncompelled to face accomplished facts, but with the formal reserve that\nshe is in presence of guilty usurpation, that her possessions are\nunjustly withheld from her, and that she awaits the realisation of the\npromises of the Christ, who, when the time shall be accomplished, will\nfor ever restore to her both the earth and mankind. Such is the real\nfuture city which time is to bring: Catholic Rome, sovereign of the world\nonce more. And Rome the city forms a substantial part of the dream, Rome\nwhose eternity has been predicted, Rome whose soil has imparted to\nCatholicism the inextinguishable thirst of absolute power. And thus the\ndestiny of the papacy is linked to that of Rome, to such a point indeed\nthat a pope elsewhere than at Rome would no longer be a Catholic pope.\nThe thought of all this frightened Pierre; a great shudder passed through\nhim as he leant on the light iron balustrade, gazing down into the abyss\nwhere the stern mournful city was even now crumbling away under the\nfierce sun.\n\nThere was, however, evidence of the facts which had dawned on him. If\nPius IX and Leo XIII had resolved to imprison themselves in the Vatican,\nit was because necessity bound them to Rome. A pope is not free to leave\nthe city, to be the head of the Church elsewhere; and in the same way a\npope, however well he may understand the modern world, has not the right\nto relinquish the temporal power. This is an inalienable inheritance\nwhich he must defend, and it is moreover a question of life, peremptory,\nabove discussion. And thus Leo XIII has retained the title of Master of\nthe temporal dominions of the Church, and this he has done the more\nreadily since as a cardinal--like all the members of the Sacred College\nwhen elected--he swore that he would maintain those dominions intact.\nItaly may hold Rome as her capital for another century or more, but the\ncoming popes will never cease to protest and claim their kingdom. If ever\nan understanding should be arrived at, it must be based on the gift of a\nstrip of territory. Formerly, when rumours of reconciliation were\ncurrent, was it not said that the papacy exacted, as a formal condition,\nthe possession of at least the Leonine City with the neutralisation of a\nroad leading to the sea? Nothing is not enough, one cannot start from\nnothing to attain to everything, whereas that Civitas Leonina, that bit\nof a city, would already be a little royal ground, and it would then only\nbe necessary to conquer the rest, first Rome, next Italy, then the\nneighbouring states, and at last the whole world. Never has the Church\ndespaired, even when, beaten and despoiled, she seemed to be at the last\ngasp. Never will she abdicate, never will she renounce the promises of\nthe Christ, for she believes in a boundless future and declares herself\nto be both indestructible and eternal. Grant her but a pebble on which to\nrest her head, and she will hope to possess, first the field in which\nthat pebble lies, and then the empire in which the field is situated. If\none pope cannot achieve the recovery of the inheritance, another pope,\nten, twenty other popes will continue the work. The centuries do not\ncount. And this explains why an old man of eighty-four has undertaken\ncolossal enterprises whose achievement requires several lives, certain as\nhe is that his successors will take his place, and that the work will\never and ever be carried forward and completed.\n\nAs these thoughts coursed through his mind, Pierre, overlooking that\nancient city of glory and domination, so stubbornly clinging to its\npurple, realised that he was an imbecile with his dream of a purely\nspiritual pope. The notion seemed to him so different from the reality,\nso out of place, that he experienced a sort of shame-fraught despair. The\nnew pope, consonant to the teachings of the Gospel, such as a purely\nspiritual pope reigning over souls alone, would be, was virtually beyond\nthe ken of a Roman prelate. At thought of that papal court congealed in\nritual, pride, and authority, Pierre suddenly understood what horror and\nrepugnance such a pastor would inspire. How great must be the\nastonishment and contempt of the papal prelates for that singular notion\nof the northern mind, a pope without dominions or subjects, military\nhousehold or royal honours, a pope who would be, as it were, a spirit,\nexercising purely moral authority, dwelling in the depths of God\u2019s\ntemple, and governing the world solely with gestures of benediction and\ndeeds of kindliness and love! All that was but a misty Gothic invention\nfor this Latin clergy, these priests of light and magnificence, who were\ncertainly pious and even superstitious, but who left the Deity well\nsheltered within the tabernacle in order to govern in His name, according\nto what they considered the interests of Heaven. Thence it arose that\nthey employed craft and artifice like mere politicians, and lived by dint\nof expedients amidst the great battle of human appetites, marching with\nthe prudent, stealthy steps of diplomatists towards the final terrestrial\nvictory of the Christ, who, in the person of the Pope, was one day to\nreign over all the nations. And how stupefied must a French prelate have\nbeen--a prelate like Monseigneur Bergerot, that apostle of renunciation\nand charity--when he lighted amidst that world of the Vatican! How\ndifficult must it have been for him to understand and focus things, and\nafterwards how great his grief at finding himself unable to come to any\nagreement with those men without country, without fatherland, those\n\u201cinternationals,\u201d who were ever poring over the maps of both hemispheres,\never absorbed in schemes which were to bring them empire. Days and days\nwere necessary, one needed to live in Rome, and he, Pierre himself, had\nonly seen things clearly after a month\u2019s sojourn, whilst labouring under\nthe violent shock of the royal pomp of St. Peter\u2019s, and standing face to\nface with the ancient city as it slumbered heavily in the sunlight and\ndreamt its dream of eternity.\n\nBut on lowering his eyes to the piazza in front of the Basilica he\nperceived the multitude, the 40,000 believers streaming over the pavement\nlike insects. And then he thought that he could hear the cry again\nrising: \u201c_Evviva il Papa-R\u00e8! evviva il Papa-R\u00e8_! Long live the\nPope-King!\u201d Whilst ascending those endless staircases a moment previously\nit had seemed to him as if the colossus of stone were quivering with the\nfrantic shout raised beneath its ceilings. And now that he had climbed\neven into cloudland that shout apparently was traversing space. If the\ncolossal pile beneath him still vibrated with it, was it not as with a\nlast rise of sap within its ancient walls, a reinvigoration of that\nCatholic blood which formerly had demanded that the pile should be a\nstupendous one, the veritable king of temples, and which now was striving\nto reanimate it with the powerful breath of life, and this at the very\nhour when death was beginning to fall upon its over-vast, deserted nave\nand aisles? The crowd was still streaming forth, filling the piazza, and\nPierre\u2019s heart was wrung by frightful anguish, for that throng with its\nshout had just swept his last hope away. On the previous afternoon, after\nthe reception of the pilgrimage, he had yet been able to deceive himself\nby overlooking the necessity for money which bound the Pope to earth in\norder that he might see nought but the feeble old man, all spirituality,\nresplendent like the symbol of moral authority. But his faith in such a\npastor of the Gospel, free from all considerations of earthly wealth, and\nking of none other than a heavenly kingdom, had fled. Not only did the\nPeter\u2019s Pence impose hard servitude upon Leo XIII but he was also the\nprisoner of papal tradition--the eternal King of Rome, riveted to the\nsoil of Rome, unable either to quit the city or to renounce the temporal\npower. The fatal end would be collapse on the spot, the dome of St.\nPeter\u2019s falling even as the temple of Olympian Jupiter had fallen,\nCatholicism strewing the grass with its ruins whilst elsewhere schism\nburst forth: a new faith for the new nations. Of this Pierre had a\ngrandiose and tragical vision: he beheld his dream destroyed, his book\nswept away amidst that cry which spread around him as if flying to the\nfour corners of the Catholic world \u201c_Evviva il Papa-R\u00e8! evviva il\nPapa-R\u00e8!_ Long live the Pope-King!\u201d But even in that hour of the papacy\u2019s\npassing triumph he already felt that the giant of gold and marble on\nwhich he stood was oscillating, even as totter all old and rotten\nsocieties.\n\nAt last he took his way down again, and a fresh shock of emotion came to\nhim as he reached the roofs, that sunlit expanse of lead and zinc, large\nenough for the site of a town. Monsignor Nani was there, in company with\nthe two French ladies, the mother and the daughter, both looking very\nhappy and highly amused. No doubt the prelate had good-naturedly offered\nto conduct them to the dome. However, as soon as he recognised the young\npriest he went towards him: \u201cWell, my dear son,\u201d he inquired, \u201care you\npleased? Have you been impressed, edified?\u201d As he spoke, his searching\neyes dived into Pierre\u2019s soul, as if to ascertain the present result of\nhis experiments. Then, satisfied with what he detected, he began to laugh\nsoftly: \u201cYes, yes, I see--come, you are a sensible fellow after all. I\nbegin to think that the unfortunate affair which brought you here will\nhave a happy ending.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nWHEN Pierre remained in the morning at the Boccanera mansion he often\nspent some hours in the little neglected garden which had formerly ended\nwith a sort of colonnaded _loggia_, whence two flights of steps descended\nto the Tiber. This garden was a delightful, solitary nook, perfumed by\nthe ripe fruit of the centenarian orange-trees, whose symmetrical lines\nwere the only indication of the former pathways, now hidden beneath rank\nweeds. And Pierre also found there the acrid scent of the large\nbox-shrubs growing in the old central fountain basin, which had been\nfilled up with loose earth and rubbish.\n\nOn those luminous October mornings, full of such tender and penetrating\ncharm, the spot was one where all the joy of living might well be\nsavoured, but Pierre brought thither his northern dreaminess, his concern\nfor suffering, his steadfast feeling of compassion, which rendered yet\nsweeter the caress of the sunlight pervading that atmosphere of love. He\nseated himself against the right-hand wall on a fragment of a fallen\ncolumn over which a huge laurel cast a deep-black shadow, fresh and\naromatic. In the antique greenish sarcophagus beside him, on which fauns\noffered violence to nymphs, the streamlet of water trickling from the\nmask incrusted in the wall, set the unchanging music of its crystal note,\nwhilst he read the newspapers and the letters which he received, all the\ncommunications of good Abb\u00e9 Rose, who kept him informed of his mission\namong the wretched ones of gloomy Paris, now already steeped in fog and\nmud.\n\nOne morning however, Pierre unexpectedly found Benedetta seated on the\nfallen column which he usually made his chair. She raised a light cry of\nsurprise on seeing him, and for a moment remained embarrassed, for she\nhad with her his book \u201cNew Rome,\u201d which she had read once already, but\nhad then imperfectly understood. And overcoming her embarrassment she now\nhastened to detain him, making him sit down beside her, and frankly\nowning that she had come to the garden in order to be alone and apply\nherself to an attentive study of the book, in the same way as some\nignorant school-girl. Then they began to chat like a pair of friends, and\nthe young priest spent a delightful hour. Although Benedetta did not\nspeak of herself, he realised that it was her grief alone which brought\nher nearer to him, as if indeed her own sufferings enlarged her heart and\nmade her think of all who suffered in the world. Patrician as she was,\nregarding social hierarchy as a divine law, she had never previously\nthought of such things, and some pages of Pierre\u2019s book greatly\nastonished her. What! one ought to take interest in the lowly, realise\nthat they had the same souls and the same griefs as oneself, and seek in\nbrotherly or sisterly fashion to make them happy? She certainly sought to\nacquire such an interest, but with no great success, for she secretly\nfeared that it might lead her into sin, as it could not be right to alter\naught of the social system which had been established by God and\nconsecrated by the Church. Charitable she undoubtedly was, wont to bestow\nsmall sums in alms, but she did not give her heart, she felt no true\nsympathy for the humble, belonging as she did to such a different race,\nwhich looked to a throne in heaven high above the seats of all the\nplebeian elect.\n\nShe and Pierre, however, found themselves on other mornings side by side\nin the shade of the laurels near the trickling, singing water; and he,\nlacking occupation, weary of waiting for a solution which seemed to\nrecede day by day, fervently strove to animate this young and beautiful\nwoman with some of his own fraternal feelings. He was impassioned by the\nidea that he was catechising Italy herself, the queen of beauty, who was\nstill slumbering in ignorance, but who would recover all her past glory\nif she were to awake to the new times with soul enlarged, swelling with\npity for men and things. Reading good Abb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s letters to Benedetta,\nhe made her shudder at the frightful wail of wretchedness which ascends\nfrom all great cities. With such deep tenderness in her eyes, with the\nhappiness of love reciprocated emanating from her whole being, why should\nshe not recognise, even as he did, that the law of love was the sole\nmeans of saving suffering humanity, which, through hatred, incurred the\ndanger of death? And to please him she did try to believe in democracy,\nin the fraternal remodelling of society, but among other nations\nonly--not at Rome, for an involuntary, gentle laugh came to her lips\nwhenever his words evoked the idea of the poor still remaining in the\nTrastevere district fraternising with those who yet dwelt in the old\nprincely palaces. No, no, things had been as they were so long; they\ncould not, must not, be altered! And so, after all, Pierre\u2019s pupil made\nlittle progress: she was, in reality, simply touched by the wealth of\nardent love which the young priest had chastely transferred from one\nalone to the whole of human kind. And between him and her, as those\nsunlit October mornings went by, a tie of exquisite sweetness was formed;\nthey came to love one another with deep, pure, fraternal affection,\namidst the great glowing passion which consumed them both.\n\nThen, one day, Benedetta, her elbow resting on the sarcophagus, spoke of\nDario, whose name she had hitherto refrained from mentioning. Ah! poor\n_amico_, how circumspect and repentant he had shown himself since that\nfit of brutal insanity! At first, to conceal his embarrassment, he had\ngone to spend three days at Naples, and it was said that La Tonietta, the\nsentimental _demi-mondaine_, had hastened to join him there, wildly in\nlove with him. Since his return to the mansion he had avoided all private\nmeetings with his cousin, and scarcely saw her except at the Monday\nreceptions, when he wore a submissive air, and with his eyes silently\nentreated forgiveness.\n\n\u201cYesterday, however,\u201d continued Benedetta, \u201cI met him on the staircase\nand gave him my hand. He understood that I was no longer angry with him\nand was very happy. What else could I have done? One must not be severe\nfor ever. Besides, I do not want things to go too far between him and\nthat woman. I want him to remember that I still love him, and am still\nwaiting for him. Oh! he is mine, mine alone. But alas! I cannot say the\nword: our affairs are in such sorry plight.\u201d\n\nShe paused, and two big tears welled into her eyes. The divorce\nproceedings to which she alluded had now come to a standstill, fresh\nobstacles ever arising to stay their course.\n\nPierre was much moved by her tears, for she seldom wept. She herself\nsometimes confessed, with her calm smile, that she did not know how to\nweep. But now her heart was melting, and for a moment she remained\novercome, leaning on the mossy, crumbling sarcophagus, whilst the clear\nwater falling from the gaping mouth of the tragic mask still sounded its\nflutelike note. And a sudden thought of death came to the priest as he\nsaw her, so young and so radiant with beauty, half fainting beside that\nmarble resting-place where fauns were rushing upon nymphs in a frantic\nbacchanal which proclaimed the omnipotence of love--that omnipotence\nwhich the ancients were fond of symbolising on their tombs as a token of\nlife\u2019s eternity. And meantime a faint, warm breeze passed through the\nsunlit, silent garden, wafting hither and thither the penetrating scent\nof box and orange.\n\n\u201cOne has so much strength when one loves,\u201d Pierre at last murmured.\n\n\u201cYes, yes, you are right,\u201d she replied, already smiling again. \u201cI am\nchildish. But it is the fault of your book. It is only when I suffer that\nI properly understand it. But all the same I am making progress, am I\nnot? Since you desire it, let all the poor, all those who suffer, as I\ndo, be my brothers and sisters.\u201d\n\nThen for a while they resumed their chat.\n\nOn these occasions Benedetta was usually the first to return to the\nhouse, and Pierre would linger alone under the laurels, vaguely dreaming\nof sweet, sad things. Often did he think how hard life proved for poor\ncreatures whose only thirst was for happiness!\n\nOne Monday evening, at a quarter-past ten, only the young folks remained\nin Donna Serafina\u2019s reception-room. Monsignor Nani had merely put in an\nappearance that night, and Cardinal Sarno had just gone off.\n\nEven Donna Serafina, in her usual seat by the fireplace, seemed to have\nwithdrawn from the others, absorbed as she was in contemplation of the\nchair which the absent Morano still stubbornly left unoccupied. Chatting\nand laughing in front of the sofa on which sat Benedetta and Celia were\nDario, Pierre, and Narcisse Habert, the last of whom had begun to twit\nthe young Prince, having met him, so he asserted, a few days previously,\nin the company of a very pretty girl.\n\n\u201cOh! don\u2019t deny it, my dear fellow,\u201d continued Narcisse, \u201cfor she was\nreally superb. She was walking beside you, and you turned into a lane\ntogether--the Borgo Angelico, I think.\u201d\n\nDario listened smiling, quite at his ease and incapable of denying his\npassionate predilection for beauty. \u201cNo doubt, no doubt; it was I, I\ndon\u2019t deny it,\u201d he responded. \u201cOnly the inferences you draw are not\ncorrect.\u201d And turning towards Benedetta, who, without a thought of\njealous anxiety, wore as gay a look as himself, as though delighted that\nhe should have enjoyed that passing pleasure of the eyes, he went on: \u201cIt\nwas the girl, you know, whom I found in tears six weeks ago. Yes, that\nbead-worker who was sobbing because the workshop was shut up, and who\nrushed along, all blushing, to conduct me to her parents when I offered\nher a bit of silver. Pierina her name is, as you, perhaps, remember.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes, Pierina.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, since then I\u2019ve met her in the street on four or five occasions.\nAnd, to tell the truth, she is so very beautiful that I\u2019ve stopped and\nspoken to her. The other day, for instance, I walked with her as far as a\nmanufacturer\u2019s. But she hasn\u2019t yet found any work, and she began to cry,\nand so, to console her a little, I kissed her. She was quite taken aback\nat it, but she seemed very well pleased.\u201d\n\nAt this all the others began to laugh. But suddenly Celia desisted and\nsaid very gravely, \u201cYou know, Dario, she loves you; you must not be hard\non her.\u201d\n\nDario, no doubt, was of Celia\u2019s opinion, for he again looked at\nBenedetta, but with a gay toss of the head, as if to say that, although\nthe girl might love him, he did not love her. A bead-worker indeed, a\ngirl of the lowest classes, pooh! She might be a Venus, but she could be\nnothing to him. And he himself made merry over his romantic adventure,\nwhich Narcisse sought to arrange in a kind of antique sonnet: A beautiful\nbead-worker falling madly in love with a young prince, as fair as\nsunlight, who, touched by her misfortune, hands her a silver crown; then\nthe beautiful bead-worker, quite overcome at finding him as charitable as\nhandsome, dreaming of him incessantly, and following him everywhere,\nchained to his steps by a link of flame; and finally the beautiful\nbead-worker, who has refused the silver crown, so entreating the handsome\nprince with her soft, submissive eyes, that he at last deigns to grant\nher the alms of his heart. This pastime greatly amused Benedetta; but\nCelia, with her angelic face and the air of a little girl who ought to\nhave been ignorant of everything, remained very grave and repeated sadly,\n\u201cDario, Dario, she loves you; you must not make her suffer.\u201d\n\nThen the Contessina, in her turn, was moved to pity. \u201cAnd those poor\nfolks are not happy!\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d exclaimed the Prince, \u201cit\u2019s misery beyond belief. On the day she\ntook me to the Quartiere dei Prati* I was quite overcome; it was awful,\nastonishingly awful!\u201d\n\n  * The district of the castle meadows--see _ante_ note.--Trans.\n\n\u201cBut I remember that we promised to go to see the poor people,\u201d resumed\nBenedetta, \u201cand we have done wrong in delaying our visit so long. For\nyour studies, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment, you greatly desired to accompany\nus and see the poor of Rome--was that not so?\u201d\n\nAs she spoke she raised her eyes to Pierre, who for a moment had been\nsilent. He was much moved by her charitable thought, for he realised, by\nthe faint quiver of her voice, that she desired to appear a docile pupil,\nprogressing in affection for the lowly and the wretched. Moreover, his\npassion for his apostolate had at once returned to him. \u201cOh!\u201d said he, \u201cI\nshall not quit Rome without having seen those who suffer, those who lack\nwork and bread. Therein lies the malady which affects every nation;\nsalvation can only be attained by the healing of misery. When the roots\nof the tree cannot find sustenance the tree dies.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d resumed the Contessina, \u201cwe will fix an appointment at once; you\nshall come with us to the Quartiere dei Prati--Dario will take us there.\u201d\n\nAt this the Prince, who had listened to the priest with an air of\nstupefaction, unable to understand the simile of the tree and its roots,\nbegan to protest distressfully, \u201cNo, no, cousin, take Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 for\na stroll there if it amuses you. But I\u2019ve been, and don\u2019t want to go\nback. Why, when I got home the last time I was so upset that I almost\ntook to my bed. No, no; such abominations are too awful--it isn\u2019t\npossible.\u201d\n\nAt this moment a voice, bitter with displeasure, arose from the chimney\ncorner. Donna Serafina was emerging from her long silence. \u201cDario is\nquite right! Send your alms, my dear, and I will gladly add mine. There\nare other places where you might take Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, and which it would\nbe far more useful for him to see. With that idea of yours you would send\nhim away with a nice recollection of our city.\u201d\n\nRoman pride rang out amidst the old lady\u2019s bad temper. Why, indeed, show\none\u2019s sores to foreigners, whose visit is possibly prompted by hostile\ncuriosity? One always ought to look beautiful; Rome should not be shown\notherwise than in the garb of glory.\n\nNarcisse, however, had taken possession of Pierre. \u201cIt\u2019s true, my dear\nAbb\u00e9,\u201d said he; \u201cI forgot to recommend that stroll to you. You really\nmust visit the new district built over the castle meadows. It\u2019s typical,\nand sums up all the others. And you won\u2019t lose your time there, I\u2019ll\nwarrant you, for nowhere can you learn more about the Rome of the present\nday. It\u2019s extraordinary, extraordinary!\u201d Then, addressing Benedetta, he\nadded, \u201cIs it decided? Shall we say to-morrow morning? You\u2019ll find the\nAbb\u00e9 and me over there, for I want to explain matters to him beforehand,\nin order that he may understand them. What do you say to ten o\u2019clock?\u201d\n\nBefore answering him the Contessina turned towards her aunt and\nrespectfully opposed her views. \u201cBut Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, aunt, has met\nenough beggars in our streets already, so he may well see everything.\nBesides, judging by his book, he won\u2019t see worse things than he has seen\nin Paris. As he says in one passage, hunger is the same all the world\nover.\u201d Then, with her sensible air, she gently laid siege to Dario. \u201cYou\nknow, Dario,\u201d said she, \u201cyou would please me very much by taking me\nthere. We can go in the carriage and join these gentlemen. It will be a\nvery pleasant outing for us. It is such a long time since we went out\ntogether.\u201d\n\nIt was certainly that idea of going out with Dario, of having a pretext\nfor a complete reconciliation with him, that enchanted her; he himself\nrealised it, and, unable to escape, he tried to treat the matter as a\njoke. \u201cAh! cousin,\u201d he said, \u201cit will be your fault; I shall have the\nnightmare for a week. An excursion like that spoils all the enjoyment of\nlife for days and days.\u201d\n\nThe mere thought made him quiver with revolt. However, laughter again\nrang out around him, and, in spite of Donna Serafina\u2019s mute disapproval,\nthe appointment was finally fixed for the following morning at ten\no\u2019clock. Celia as she went off expressed deep regret that she could not\nform one of the party; but, with the closed candour of a budding lily,\nshe really took interest in Pierina alone. As she reached the ante-room\nshe whispered in her friend\u2019s ear: \u201cTake a good look at that beauty, my\ndear, so as to tell me whether she is so very beautiful--beautiful beyond\ncompare.\u201d\n\nWhen Pierre met Narcisse near the Castle of Sant\u2019 Angelo on the morrow,\nat nine o\u2019clock, he was surprised to find him again languid and\nenraptured, plunged anew in artistic enthusiasm. At first not a word was\nsaid of the excursion. Narcisse related that he had risen at sunrise in\norder that he might spend an hour before Bernini\u2019s \u201cSanta Teresa.\u201d It\nseemed that when he did not see that statue for a week he suffered as\nacutely as if he were parted from some cherished mistress. And his\nadoration varied with the time of day, according to the light in which he\nbeheld the figure: in the morning, when the pale glow of dawn steeped it\nin whiteness, he worshipped it with quite a mystical transport of the\nsoul, whilst in the afternoon, when the glow of the declining sun\u2019s\noblique rays seemed to permeate the marble, his passion became as fiery\nred as the blood of martyrs. \u201cAh! my friend,\u201d said he with a weary air\nwhilst his dreamy eyes faded to mauve, \u201cyou have no idea how delightful\nand perturbing her awakening was this morning--how languorously she\nopened her eyes, like a pure, candid virgin, emerging from the embrace of\nthe Divinity. One could die of rapture at the sight!\u201d\n\nThen, growing calm again when he had taken a few steps, he resumed in the\nvoice of a practical man who does not lose his balance in the affairs of\nlife: \u201cWe\u2019ll walk slowly towards the castle-fields district--the\nbuildings yonder; and on our way I\u2019ll tell you what I know of the things\nwe shall see there. It was the maddest affair imaginable, one of those\ndelirious frenzies of speculation which have a splendour of their own,\njust like the superb, monstrous masterpiece of a man of genius whose mind\nis unhinged. I was told of it all by some relatives of mine, who took\npart in the gambling, and, in point of fact, made a good deal of money by\nit.\u201d\n\nThereupon, with the clearness and precision of a financier, employing\ntechnical terms with perfect ease, he recounted the extraordinary\nadventure. That all Italy, on the morrow of the occupation of Rome,\nshould have been delirious with enthusiasm at the thought of at last\npossessing the ancient and glorious city, the eternal capital to which\nthe empire of the world had been promised, was but natural. It was, so to\nsay, a legitimate explosion of the delight and the hopes of a young\nnation anxious to show its power. The question was to make Rome a modern\ncapital worthy of a great kingdom, and before aught else there were\nsanitary requirements to be dealt with: the city needed to be cleansed of\nall the filth which disgraced it. One cannot nowadays imagine in what\nabominable putrescence the city of the popes, the _Roma sporca_ which\nartists regret, was then steeped: the vast majority of the houses lacked\neven the most primitive arrangements, the public thoroughfares were used\nfor all purposes, noble ruins served as store-places for sewage, the\nprincely palaces were surrounded by filth, and the streets were perfect\nmanure beds which fostered frequent epidemics. Thus vast municipal works\nwere absolutely necessary, the question was one of health and life\nitself. And in much the same way it was only right to think of building\nhouses for the newcomers, who would assuredly flock into the city. There\nhad been a precedent at Berlin, whose population, after the establishment\nof the German empire, had suddenly increased by some hundreds of\nthousands. In the same way the population of Rome would certainly be\ndoubled, tripled, quadrupled, for as the new centre of national life the\ncity would necessarily attract all the _vis viva_ of the provinces. And\nat this thought pride stepped in: the fallen government of the Vatican\nmust be shown what Italy was capable of achieving, what splendour she\nwould bestow on the new and third Rome, which, by the magnificence of its\nthoroughfares and the multitude of its people, would far excel either the\nimperial or the papal city.\n\nTrue, during the early years some prudence was observed; wisely enough,\nhouses were only built in proportion as they were required. The\npopulation had doubled at one bound, rising from two to four hundred\nthousand souls, thanks to the arrival of the little world of employees\nand officials of the public services--all those who live on the State or\nhope to live on it, without mentioning the idlers and enjoyers of life\nwhom a Court always carries in its train. However, this influx of\nnewcomers was a first cause of intoxication, for every one imagined that\nthe increase would continue, and, in fact, become more and more rapid.\nAnd so the city of the day before no longer seemed large enough; it was\nnecessary to make immediate preparations for the morrow\u2019s need by\nenlarging Rome on all sides. Folks talked, too, of the Paris of the\nsecond empire, which had been so extended and transformed into a city of\nlight and health. But unfortunately on the banks of the Tiber there was\nneither any preconcerted general plan nor any clear-seeing man, master of\nthe situation, supported by powerful financial organisations. And the\nwork, begun by pride, prompted by the ambition of surpassing the Rome of\nthe Caesars and the Popes, the determination to make the eternal,\npredestined city the queen and centre of the world once more, was\ncompleted by speculation, one of those extraordinary gambling frenzies,\nthose tempests which arise, rage, destroy, and carry everything away\nwithout premonitory warning or possibility of arresting their course. All\nat once it was rumoured that land bought at five francs the metre had\nbeen sold again for a hundred francs the metre; and thereupon the fever\narose--the fever of a nation which is passionately fond of gambling. A\nflight of speculators descending from North Italy swooped down upon Rome,\nthe noblest and easiest of preys. Those needy, famished mountaineers\nfound spoils for every appetite in that voluptuous South where life is so\nbenign, and the very delights of the climate helped to corrupt and hasten\nmoral gangrene. At first, too; it was merely necessary to stoop; money\nwas to be found by the shovelful among the rubbish of the first districts\nwhich were opened up. People who were clever enough to scent the course\nwhich the new thoroughfares would take and purchase buildings threatened\nwith demolition increased their capital tenfold in a couple of years. And\nafter that the contagion spread, infecting all classes--the princes,\nburgesses, petty proprietors, even the shop-keepers, bakers, grocers, and\nboot-makers; the delirium rising to such a pitch that a mere baker\nsubsequently failed for forty-five millions.* Nothing, indeed, was left\nbut rageful gambling, in which the stakes were millions, whilst the lands\nand the houses became mere fictions, mere pretexts for stock-exchange\noperations. And thus the old hereditary pride, which had dreamt of\ntransforming Rome into the capital of the world, was heated to madness by\nthe high fever of speculation--folks buying, and building, and selling\nwithout limit, without a pause, even as one might throw shares upon the\nmarket as fast and as long as presses can be found to print them.\n\n  * 1,800,000 pounds. See _ante_ note.--Trans.\n\nNo other city in course of evolution has ever furnished such a spectacle.\nNowadays, when one strives to penetrate things one is confounded. The\npopulation had increased to five hundred thousand, and then seemingly\nremained stationary; nevertheless, new districts continued to sprout up\nmore thickly than ever. Yet what folly it was not to wait for a further\ninflux of inhabitants! Why continue piling up accommodation for thousands\nof families whose advent was uncertain? The only excuse lay in having\nbeforehand propounded the proposition that the third Rome, the triumphant\ncapital of Italy, could not count less than a million souls, and in\nregarding that proposition as indisputable fact. The people had not come,\nbut they surely would come: no patriot could doubt it without being\nguilty of treason. And so houses were built and built without a pause,\nfor the half-million citizens who were coming. There was no anxiety as to\nthe date of their arrival; it was sufficient that they should be\nexpected. Inside Rome the companies which had been formed in connection\nwith the new thoroughfares passing through the old, demolished,\npestiferous districts, certainly sold or let their house property, and\nthereby realised large profits. But, as the craze increased, other\ncompanies were established for the purpose of erecting yet more and more\ndistricts outside Rome--veritable little towns, of which there was no\nneed whatever. Beyond the Porta San Giovanni and the Porta San Lorenzo,\nsuburbs sprang up as by miracle. A town was sketched out over the vast\nestate of the Villa Ludovisi, from the Porta Pia to the Porta Salaria and\neven as far as Sant\u2019 Agnese. And then came an attempt to make quite a\nlittle city, with church, school, and market, arise all at once on the\nfields of the Castle of Sant\u2019 Angelo. And it was no question of small\ndwellings for labourers, modest flats for employees, and others of\nlimited means; no, it was a question of colossal mansions three and four\nstoreys high, displaying uniform and endless fa\u00e7ades which made these new\nexcentral quarters quite Babylonian, such districts, indeed, as only\ncapitals endowed with intense life, like Paris and London, could contrive\nto populate. However, such were the monstrous products of pride and\ngambling; and what a page of history, what a bitter lesson now that Rome,\nfinancially ruined, is further disgraced by that hideous girdle of empty,\nand, for the most part, uncompleted carcases, whose ruins already strew\nthe grassy streets!\n\nThe fatal collapse, the disaster proved a frightful one. Narcisse\nexplained its causes and recounted its phases so clearly that Pierre\nfully understood. Naturally enough, numerous financial companies had\nsprouted up: the Immobiliere, the Society d\u2019Edilizia e Construzione, the\nFondaria, the Tiberiana, and the Esquilino. Nearly all of them built,\nerected huge houses, entire streets of them, for purposes of sale; but\nthey also gambled in land, selling plots at large profit to petty\nspeculators, who also dreamt of making large profits amidst the\ncontinuous, fictitious rise brought about by the growing fever of\nagiotage. And the worst was that the petty speculators, the middle-class\npeople, the inexperienced shop-keepers without capital, were crazy enough\nto build in their turn by borrowing of the banks or applying to the\ncompanies which had sold them the land for sufficient cash to enable them\nto complete their structures. As a general rule, to avoid the loss of\neverything, the companies were one day compelled to take back both land\nand buildings, incomplete though the latter might be, and from the\ncongestion which resulted they were bound to perish. If the expected\nmillion of people had arrived to occupy the dwellings prepared for them\nthe gains would have been fabulous, and in ten years Rome might have\nbecome one of the most flourishing capitals of the world. But the people\ndid not come, and the dwellings remained empty. Moreover, the buildings\nerected by the companies were too large and costly for the average\ninvestor inclined to put his money into house property. Heredity had\nacted, the builders had planned things on too huge a scale, raising a\nseries of magnificent piles whose purpose was to dwarf those of all other\nages; but, as it happened, they were fated to remain lifeless and\ndeserted, testifying with wondrous eloquence to the impotence of pride.\n\nSo there was no private capital that dared or could take the place of\nthat of the companies. Elsewhere, in Paris for instance, new districts\nhave been erected and embellishments have been carried out with the\ncapital of the country--the money saved by dint of thrift. But in Rome\nall was built on the credit system, either by means of bills of exchange\nat ninety days, or--and this was chiefly the case--by borrowing money\nabroad. The huge sum sunk in these enterprises is estimated at a\nmilliard, four-fifths of which was French money. The bankers did\neverything; the French ones lent to the Italian bankers at 3 1-2 or 4 per\ncent.; and the Italian bankers accommodated the speculators, the Roman\nbuilders, at 6, 7, and even 8 per cent. And thus the disaster was great\nindeed when France, learning of Italy\u2019s alliance with Germany, withdrew\nher 800,000,000 francs in less than two years. The Italian banks were\ndrained of their specie, and the land and building companies, being\nlikewise compelled to reimburse their loans, were compelled to apply to\nthe banks of issue, those privileged to issue notes. At the same time\nthey intimidated the Government, threatening to stop all work and throw\n40,000 artisans and labourers starving on the pavement of Rome if it did\nnot compel the banks of issue to lend them the five or six millions of\npaper which they needed. And this the Government at last did, appalled by\nthe possibility of universal bankruptcy. Naturally, however, the five or\nsix millions could not be paid back at maturity, as the newly built\nhouses found neither purchasers nor tenants; and so the great fall began,\nand continued with a rush, heaping ruin upon ruin. The petty speculators\nfell on the builders, the builders on the land companies, the land\ncompanies on the banks of issue, and the latter on the public credit,\nruining the nation. And that was how a mere municipal crisis became a\nfrightful disaster: a whole milliard sunk to no purpose, Rome disfigured,\nlittered with the ruins of the gaping and empty dwellings which had been\nprepared for the five or six hundred thousand inhabitants for whom the\ncity yet waits in vain!\n\nMoreover, in the breeze of glory which swept by, the state itself took a\ncolossal view of things. It was a question of at once making Italy\ntriumphant and perfect, of accomplishing in five and twenty years what\nother nations have required centuries to effect. So there was feverish\nactivity and a prodigious outlay on canals, ports, roads, railway lines,\nand improvements in all the great cities. Directly after the alliance\nwith Germany, moreover, the military and naval estimates began to devour\nmillions to no purpose. And the ever growing financial requirements were\nsimply met by the issue of paper, by a fresh loan each succeeding year.\nIn Rome alone, too, the building of the Ministry of War cost ten\nmillions, that of the Ministry of Finances fifteen, whilst a hundred was\nspent on the yet unfinished quays, and two hundred and fifty were sunk on\nworks of defence around the city. And all this was a flare of the old\nhereditary pride, springing from that soil whose sap can only blossom in\nextravagant projects; the determination to dazzle and conquer the world\nwhich comes as soon as one has climbed to the Capitol, even though one\u2019s\nfeet rest amidst the accumulated dust of all the forms of human power\nwhich have there crumbled one above the other.\n\n\u201cAnd, my dear friend,\u201d continued Narcisse, \u201cif I could go into all the\nstories that are current, that are whispered here and there, you would be\nstupefied at the insanity which overcame the whole city amidst the\nterrible fever to which the gambling passion gave rise. Folks of small\naccount, and fools and ignorant people were not the only ones to be\nruined; nearly all the Roman nobles lost their ancient fortunes, their\ngold and their palaces and their galleries of masterpieces, which they\nowed to the munificence of the popes. The colossal wealth which it had\ntaken centuries of nepotism to pile up in the hands of a few melted away\nlike wax, in less than ten years, in the levelling fire of modern\nspeculation.\u201d Then, forgetting that he was speaking to a priest, he went\non to relate one of the whispered stories to which he had alluded:\n\u201cThere\u2019s our good friend Dario, Prince Boccanera, the last of the name,\nreduced to live on the crumbs which fall to him from his uncle the\nCardinal, who has little beyond his stipend left him. Well, Dario would\nbe a rich man had it not been for that extraordinary affair of the Villa\nMontefiori. You have heard of it, no doubt; how Prince Onofrio, Dario\u2019s\nfather, speculated, sold the villa grounds for ten millions, then bought\nthem back and built on them, and how, at last, not only the ten millions\nwere lost, but also all that remained of the once colossal fortune of the\nBoccaneras. What you haven\u2019t been told, however, is the secret part which\nCount Prada--our Contessina\u2019s husband--played in the affair. He was the\nlover of Princess Boccanera, the beautiful Flavia Montefiori, who had\nbrought the villa as dowry to the old Prince. She was a very fine woman,\nmuch younger than her husband, and it is positively said that it was\nthrough her that Prada mastered the Prince--for she held her old doting\nhusband at arm\u2019s length whenever he hesitated to give a signature or go\nfarther into the affair of which he scented the danger. And in all this\nPrada gained the millions which he now spends, while as for the beautiful\nFlavia, you are aware, no doubt, that she saved a little fortune from the\nwreck and bought herself a second and much younger husband, whom she\nturned into a Marquis Montefiori. In the whole affair the only victim is\nour good friend Dario, who is absolutely ruined, and wishes to marry his\ncousin, who is as poor as himself. It\u2019s true that she\u2019s determined to\nhave him, and that it\u2019s impossible for him not to reciprocate her love.\nBut for that he would have already married some American girl with a\ndowry of millions, like so many of the ruined princes, on the verge of\nstarvation, have done; that is, unless the Cardinal and Donna Serafina\nhad opposed such a match, which would not have been surprising, proud and\nstubborn as they are, anxious to preserve the purity of their old Roman\nblood. However, let us hope that Dario and the exquisite Benedetta will\nsome day be happy together.\u201d\n\nNarcisse paused; but, after taking a few steps in silence, he added in a\nlower tone: \u201cI\u2019ve a relative who picked up nearly three millions in that\nVilla Montefiori affair. Ah! I regret that I wasn\u2019t here in those heroic\ndays of speculation. It must have been very amusing; and what strokes\nthere were for a man of self-possession to make!\u201d\n\nHowever, all at once, as he raised his head, he saw before him the\nQuartiere dei Prati--the new district of the castle fields; and his face\nthereupon changed: he again became an artist, indignant with the modern\nabominations with which old Rome had been disfigured. His eyes paled, and\na curl of his lips expressed the bitter disdain of a dreamer whose\npassion for the vanished centuries was sorely hurt: \u201cLook, look at it\nall!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cTo think of it, in the city of Augustus, the city of\nLeo X, the city of eternal power and eternal beauty!\u201d\n\nPierre himself was thunderstruck. The meadows of the Castle of Sant\u2019\nAngelo, dotted with a few poplar trees, had here formerly stretched\nalongside the Tiber as far as the first slopes of Monte Mario, thus\nsupplying, to the satisfaction of artists, a foreground or greenery to\nthe Borgo and the dome of St. Peter\u2019s. But now, amidst the white,\nleprous, overturned plain, there stood a town of huge, massive houses,\ncubes of stone-work, invariably the same, with broad streets intersecting\none another at right angles. From end to end similar fa\u00e7ades appeared,\nsuggesting series of convents, barracks, or hospitals. Extraordinary and\npainful was the impression produced by this town so suddenly immobilised\nwhilst in course of erection. It was as if on some accursed morning a\nwicked magician had with one touch of his wand stopped the works and\nemptied the noisy stone-yards, leaving the buildings in mournful\nabandonment. Here on one side the soil had been banked up; there deep\npits dug for foundations had remained gaping, overrun with weeds. There\nwere houses whose halls scarcely rose above the level of the soil; others\nwhich had been raised to a second or third floor; others, again, which\nhad been carried as high as was intended, and even roofed in, suggesting\nskeletons or empty cages. Then there were houses finished excepting that\ntheir walls had not been plastered, others which had been left without\nwindow frames, shutters, or doors; others, again, which had their doors\nand shutters, but were nailed up like coffins with not a soul inside\nthem; and yet others which were partly, and in a few cases fully,\ninhabited--animated by the most unexpected of populations. And no words\ncould describe the fearful mournfulness of that City of the Sleeping\nBeauty, hushed into mortal slumber before it had even lived, lying\nannihilated beneath the heavy sun pending an awakening which, likely\nenough, would never come.\n\nFollowing his companion, Pierre walked along the broad, deserted streets,\nwhere all was still as in a cemetery. Not a vehicle nor a pedestrian\npassed by. Some streets had no foot ways; weeds were covering the unpaved\nroads, turning them once more into fields; and yet there were temporary\ngas lamps, mere leaden pipes bound to poles, which had been there for\nyears. To avoid payment of the door and window tax, the house owners had\ngenerally closed all apertures with planks; while some houses, of which\nlittle had been built, were surrounded by high palings for fear lest\ntheir cellars should become the dens of all the bandits of the district.\nBut the most painful sight of all was that of the young ruins, the proud,\nlofty structures, which, although unfinished, were already cracking on\nall sides, and required the support of an intricate arrangement of\ntimbers to prevent them from falling in dust upon the ground. A pang came\nto one\u2019s heart as though one was in a city which some scourge had\ndepopulated--pestilence, war, or bombardment, of which these gaping\ncarcases seem to retain the mark. Then at the thought that this was\nabortment, not death--that destruction would complete its work before the\ndreamt-of, vainly awaited denizens would bring life to the still-born\nhouses, one\u2019s melancholy deepened to hopeless discouragement. And at each\ncorner, moreover, there was the frightful irony of the magnificent marble\nslabs which bore the names of the streets, illustrious historical names,\nGracchus, Scipio, Pliny, Pompey, Julius Caesar, blazing forth on those\nunfinished, crumbling walls like a buffet dealt by the Past to modern\nincompetency.\n\nThen Pierre was once more struck by this truth--that whosoever possesses\nRome is consumed by the building frenzy, the passion for marble, the\nboastful desire to build and leave his monument of glory to future\ngenerations. After the Caesars and the Popes had come the Italian\nGovernment, which was no sooner master of the city than it wished to\nreconstruct it, make it more splendid, more huge than it had ever been\nbefore. It was the fatal suggestion of the soil itself--the blood of\nAugustus rushing to the brain of these last-comers and urging them to a\nmad desire to make the third Rome the queen of the earth. Thence had come\nall the vast schemes such as the cyclopean quays and the mere ministries\nstruggling to outvie the Colosseum; and thence had come all the new\ndistricts of gigantic houses which had sprouted like towns around the\nancient city. It was not only on the castle fields, but at the Porta San\nGiovanni, the Porta San Lorenzo, the Villa Ludovisi, and on the heights\nof the Viminal and the Esquiline that unfinished, empty districts were\nalready crumbling amidst the weeds of their deserted streets. After two\nthousand years of prodigious fertility the soil really seemed to be\nexhausted. Even as in very old fruit gardens newly planted plum and\ncherry trees wither and die, so the new walls, no doubt, found no life in\nthat old dust of Rome, impoverished by the immemorial growth of so many\ntemples, circuses, arches, basilicas, and churches. And thus the modern\nhouses, which men had sought to render fruitful, the useless, over-huge\nhouses, swollen with hereditary ambition, had been unable to attain\nmaturity, and remained there sterile like dry bushes on a plot of land\nexhausted by over-cultivation. And the frightful sadness that one felt\narose from the fact that so creative and great a past had culminated in\nsuch present-day impotency--Rome, who had covered the world with\nindestructible monuments, now so reduced that she could only generate\nruins.\n\n\u201cOh, they\u2019ll be finished some day!\u201d said Pierre.\n\nNarcisse gazed at him in astonishment: \u201cFor whom?\u201d\n\nThat was the cruel question! Only by dint of patriotic enthusiasm on the\nmorrow of the conquest had one been able to indulge in the hope of a\nmighty influx of population, and now singular blindness was needed for\nthe belief that such an influx would ever take place. The past\nexperiments seemed decisive; moreover, there was no reason why the\npopulation should double: Rome offered neither the attraction of pleasure\nnor that of gain to be amassed in commerce and industry for those she had\nnot, nor of intensity of social and intellectual life, since of this she\nseemed no longer capable. In any case, years and years would be\nrequisite. And, meantime, how could one people those houses which were\nfinished; and for whom was one to finish those which had remained mere\nskeletons, falling to pieces under sun and rain? Must they all remain\nthere indefinitely, some gaunt and open to every blast and others closed\nand silent like tombs, in the wretched hideousness of their inutility and\nabandonment? What a terrible proof of error they offered under the\nradiant sky! The new masters of Rome had made a bad start, and even if\nthey now knew what they ought to have done would they have the courage to\nundo what they had done? Since the milliard sunk there seemed to be\ndefinitely lost and wasted, one actually hoped for the advent of a Nero,\nendowed with mighty, sovereign will, who would take torch and pick and\nburn and raze everything in the avenging name of reason and beauty.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d resumed Narcisse, \u201chere are the Contessina and the Prince.\u201d\n\nBenedetta had told the coachman to pull up in one of the open spaces\nintersecting the deserted streets, and now along the broad, quiet, grassy\nroad--well fitted for a lovers\u2019 stroll--she was approaching on Dario\u2019s\narm, both of them delighted with their outing, and no longer thinking of\nthe sad things which they had come to see. \u201cWhat a nice day it is!\u201d the\nContessina gaily exclaimed as she reached Pierre and Narcisse. \u201cHow\npleasant the sunshine is! It\u2019s quite a treat to be able to walk about a\nlittle as if one were in the country!\u201d\n\nDario was the first to cease smiling at the blue sky, all the delight of\nhis stroll with his cousin on his arm suddenly departing. \u201cMy dear,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cwe must go to see those people, since you are bent on it, though it\nwill certainly spoil our day. But first I must take my bearings. I\u2019m not\nparticularly clever, you know, in finding my way in places where I don\u2019t\ncare to go. Besides, this district is idiotic with all its dead streets\nand dead houses, and never a face or a shop to serve as a reminder. Still\nI think the place is over yonder. Follow me; at all events, we shall\nsee.\u201d\n\nThe four friends then wended their way towards the central part of the\ndistrict, the part facing the Tiber, where a small nucleus of a\npopulation had collected. The landlords turned the few completed houses\nto the best advantage they could, letting the rooms at very low rentals,\nand waiting patiently enough for payment. Some needy employees, some\npoverty-stricken families--had thus installed themselves there, and in\nthe long run contrived to pay a trifle for their accommodation. In\nconsequence, however, of the demolition of the ancient Ghetto and the\nopening of the new streets by which air had been let into the Trastevere\ndistrict, perfect hordes of tatterdemalions, famished and homeless, and\nalmost without garments, had swooped upon the unfinished houses, filling\nthem with wretchedness and vermin; and it had been necessary to tolerate\nthis lawless occupation lest all the frightful misery should remain\ndisplayed in the public thoroughfares. And so it was to those frightful\ntenants that had fallen the huge four and five storeyed palaces, entered\nby monumental doorways flanked by lofty statues and having carved\nbalconies upheld by caryatides all along their fronts. Each family had\nmade its choice, often closing the frameless windows with boards and the\ngaping doorways with rags, and occupying now an entire princely flat and\nnow a few small rooms, according to its taste. Horrid-looking linen hung\ndrying from the carved balconies, foul stains already degraded the white\nwalls, and from the magnificent porches, intended for sumptuous\nequipages, there poured a stream of filth which rotted in stagnant pools\nin the roads, where there was neither pavement nor footpath.\n\nOn two occasions already Dario had caused his companions to retrace their\nsteps. He was losing his way and becoming more and more gloomy. \u201cI ought\nto have taken to the left,\u201d said he, \u201cbut how is one to know amidst such\na set as that!\u201d\n\nParties of verminous children were now to be seen rolling in the dust;\nthey were wondrously dirty, almost naked, with black skins and tangled\nlocks as coarse as horsehair. There were also women in sordid skirts and\nwith their loose jackets unhooked. Many stood talking together in yelping\nvoices, whilst others, seated on old chairs with their hands on their\nknees, remained like that idle for hours. Not many men were met; but a\nfew lay on the scorched grass, sleeping heavily in the sunlight. However,\nthe stench was becoming unbearable--a stench of misery as when the human\nanimal eschews all cleanliness to wallow in filth. And matters were made\nworse by the smell from a small, improvised market--the emanations of the\nrotting fruit, cooked and sour vegetables, and stale fried fish which a\nfew poor women had set out on the ground amidst a throng of famished,\ncovetous children.\n\n\u201cAh! well, my dear, I really don\u2019t know where it is,\u201d all at once\nexclaimed the Prince, addressing his cousin. \u201cBe reasonable; we\u2019ve surely\nseen enough; let\u2019s go back to the carriage.\u201d\n\nHe was really suffering, and, as Benedetta had said, he did not know how\nto suffer. It seemed to him monstrous that one should sadden one\u2019s life\nby such an excursion as this. Life ought to be buoyant and benign under\nthe clear sky, brightened by pleasant sights, by dance and song. And he,\nwith his naive egotism, had a positive horror of ugliness, poverty, and\nsuffering, the sight of which caused him both mental and physical pain.\n\nBenedetta shuddered even as he did, but in presence of Pierre she desired\nto be brave. Glancing at him, and seeing how deeply interested and\ncompassionate he looked, she desired to persevere in her effort to\nsympathise with the humble and the wretched. \u201cNo, no, Dario, we must\nstay. These gentlemen wish to see everything--is it not so?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, the Rome of to-day is here,\u201d exclaimed Pierre; \u201cthis tells one more\nabout it than all the promenades among the ruins and the monuments.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou exaggerate, my dear Abb\u00e9,\u201d declared Narcisse. \u201cStill, I will admit\nthat it is very interesting. Some of the old women are particularly\nexpressive.\u201d\n\nAt this moment Benedetta, seeing a superbly beautiful girl in front of\nher, could not restrain a cry of enraptured admiration: \u201c_O che\nbellezza!_\u201d\n\nAnd then Dario, having recognised the girl, exclaimed with the same\ndelight: \u201cWhy, it\u2019s La Pierina; she\u2019ll show us the way.\u201d\n\nThe girl had been following the party for a moment already without daring\nto approach. Her eyes, glittering with the joy of a loving slave, had at\nfirst darted towards the Prince, and then had hastily scrutinised the\nContessina--not, however, with any show of jealous anger, but with an\nexpression of affectionate submission and resigned happiness at seeing\nthat she also was very beautiful. And the girl fully answered to the\nPrince\u2019s description of her--tall, sturdy, with the bust of a goddess, a\nreal antique, a Juno of twenty, her chin somewhat prominent, her mouth\nand nose perfect in contour, her eyes large and full like a heifer\u2019s, and\nher whole face quite dazzling--gilded, so to say, by a sunflash--beneath\nher casque of heavy jet-black hair.\n\n\u201cSo you will show us the way?\u201d said Benedetta, familiar and smiling,\nalready consoled for all the surrounding ugliness by the thought that\nthere should be such beautiful creatures in the world.\n\n\u201cOh yes, signora, yes, at once!\u201d And thereupon Pierina ran off before\nthem, her feet in shoes which at any rate had no holes, whilst the old\nbrown woollen dress which she wore appeared to have been recently washed\nand mended. One seemed to divine in her a certain coquettish care, a\ndesire for cleanliness, which none of the others displayed; unless,\nindeed, it were simply that her great beauty lent radiance to her humble\ngarments and made her appear a goddess.\n\n\u201c_Che bellezza! the bellezza!_\u201d the Contessina repeated without wearying.\n\u201cThat girl, Dario _mio_, is a real feast for the eyes!\u201d\n\n\u201cI knew she would please you,\u201d he quietly replied, flattered at having\ndiscovered such a beauty, and no longer talking of departure, since he\ncould at last rest his eyes on something pleasant.\n\nBehind them came Pierre, likewise full of admiration, whilst Narcisse\nspoke to him of the scrupulosity of his own tastes, which were for the\nrare and the subtle. \u201cShe\u2019s beautiful, no doubt,\u201d said he; \u201cbut at bottom\nnothing can be more gross than the Roman style of beauty; there\u2019s no\nsoul, none of the infinite in it. These girls simply have blood under\ntheir skins without ever a glimpse of heaven.\u201d\n\nMeantime Pierina had stopped, and with a wave of the hand directed\nattention to her mother, who sat on a broken box beside the lofty doorway\nof an unfinished mansion. She also must have once been very beautiful,\nbut at forty she was already a wreck, with dim eyes, drawn mouth, black\nteeth, broadly wrinkled countenance, and huge fallen bosom. And she was\nalso fearfully dirty, her grey wavy hair dishevelled and her skirt and\njacket soiled and slit, revealing glimpses of grimy flesh. On her knees\nshe held a sleeping infant, her last-born, at whom she gazed like one\noverwhelmed and courageless, like a beast of burden resigned to her fate.\n\n\u201c_Bene, bene,_\u201d said she, raising her head, \u201cit\u2019s the gentleman who came\nto give me a crown because he saw you crying. And he\u2019s come back to see\nus with some friends. Well, well, there are some good hearts in the world\nafter all.\u201d\n\nThen she related their story, but in a spiritless way, without seeking to\nmove her visitors. She was called Giacinta, it appeared, and had married\na mason, one Tomaso Gozzo, by whom she had had seven children, Pierina,\nthen Tito, a big fellow of eighteen, then four more girls, each at an\ninterval of two years, and finally the infant, a boy, whom she now had on\nher lap. They had long lived in the Trastevere district, in an old house\nwhich had lately been pulled down; and their existence seemed to have\nthen been shattered, for since they had taken refuge in the Quartiere dei\nPrati the crisis in the building trade had reduced Tomaso and Tito to\nabsolute idleness, and the bead factory where Pierina had earned as much\nas tenpence a day--just enough to prevent them from dying of hunger--had\nclosed its doors. At present not one of them had any work; they lived\npurely by chance.\n\n\u201cIf you like to go up,\u201d the woman added, \u201cyou\u2019ll find Tomaso there with\nhis brother Ambrogio, whom we\u2019ve taken to live with us. They\u2019ll know\nbetter than I what to say to you. Tomaso is resting; but what else can he\ndo? It\u2019s like Tito--he\u2019s dozing over there.\u201d\n\nSo saying she pointed towards the dry grass amidst which lay a tall young\nfellow with a pronounced nose, hard mouth, and eyes as admirable as\nPierina\u2019s. He had raised his head to glance suspiciously at the visitors,\na fierce frown gathering on his forehead when he remarked how rapturously\nhis sister contemplated the Prince. Then he let his head fall again, but\nkept his eyes open, watching the pair stealthily.\n\n\u201cTake the lady and gentlemen upstairs, Pierina, since they would like to\nsee the place,\u201d said the mother.\n\nOther women had now drawn near, shuffling along with bare feet in old\nshoes; bands of children, too, were swarming around; little girls but\nhalf clad, amongst whom, no doubt, were Giacinta\u2019s four. However, with\ntheir black eyes under their tangled mops they were all so much alike\nthat only their mothers could identify them. And the whole resembled a\nteeming camp of misery pitched on that spot of majestic disaster, that\nstreet of palaces, unfinished yet already in ruins.\n\nWith a soft, loving smile, Benedetta turned to her cousin. \u201cDon\u2019t you\ncome up,\u201d she gently said; \u201cI don\u2019t desire your death, Dario _mio_. It\nwas very good of you to come so far. Wait for me here in the pleasant\nsunshine: Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 and Monsieur Habert will go up with me.\u201d\n\nDario began to laugh, and willingly acquiesced. Then lighting a\ncigarette, he walked slowly up and down, well pleased with the mildness\nof the atmosphere.\n\nLa Pierina had already darted into the spacious porch whose lofty,\nvaulted ceiling was adorned with coffers displaying a rosaceous pattern.\nHowever, a veritable manure heap covered such marble slabs as had already\nbeen laid in the vestibule, whilst the steps of the monumental stone\nstaircase with sculptured balustrade were already cracked and so grimy\nthat they seemed almost black. On all sides appeared the greasy stains of\nhands; the walls, whilst awaiting the painter and gilder, had been\nsmeared with repulsive filth.\n\nOn reaching the spacious first-floor landing Pierina paused, and\ncontented herself with calling through a gaping portal which lacked both\ndoor and framework: \u201cFather, here\u2019s a lady and two gentlemen to see you.\u201d\n Then to the Contessina she added: \u201cIt\u2019s the third room at the end.\u201d And\nforthwith she herself rapidly descended the stairs, hastening back to her\npassion.\n\nBenedetta and her companions passed through two large rooms, bossy with\nplaster under foot and having frameless windows wide open upon space; and\nat last they reached a third room, where the whole Gozzo family had\ninstalled itself with the remnants it used as furniture. On the floor,\nwhere the bare iron girders showed, no boards having been laid down, were\nfive or six leprous-looking palliasses. A long table, which was still\nstrong, occupied the centre of the room, and here and there were a few\nold, damaged, straw-seated chairs mended with bits of rope. The great\nbusiness had been to close two of the three windows with boards, whilst\nthe third one and the door were screened with some old mattress ticking\nstudded with stains and holes.\n\nTomaso\u2019s face expressed the surprise of a man who is unaccustomed to\nvisits of charity. Seated at the table, with his elbows resting on it and\nhis chin supported by his hands, he was taking repose, as his wife\nGiacinta had said. He was a sturdy fellow of five and forty, bearded and\nlong-haired; and, in spite of all his misery and idleness, his large face\nhad remained as serene as that of a Roman senator. However, the sight of\nthe two foreigners--for such he at once judged Pierre and Narcisse to be,\nmade him rise to his feet with sudden distrust. But he smiled on\nrecognising Benedetta, and as she began to speak of Dario, and to explain\nthe charitable purpose of their visit, he interrupted her: \u201cYes, yes, I\nknow, Contessina. Oh! I well know who you are, for in my father\u2019s time I\nonce walled up a window at the Palazzo Boccanera.\u201d\n\nThen he complaisantly allowed himself to be questioned, telling Pierre,\nwho was surprised, that although they were certainly not happy they would\nhave found life tolerable had they been able to work two days a week. And\none could divine that he was, at heart, fairly well content to go on\nshort commons, provided that he could live as he listed without fatigue.\nHis narrative and his manner suggested the familiar locksmith who, on\nbeing summoned by a traveller to open his trunk, the key of which was\nlost, sent word that he could not possibly disturb himself during the\nhour of the siesta. In short, there was no rent to pay, as there were\nplenty of empty mansions open to the poor, and a few coppers would have\nsufficed for food, easily contented and sober as one was.\n\n\u201cBut oh, sir,\u201d Tomaso continued, \u201cthings were ever so much better under\nthe Pope. My father, a mason like myself, worked at the Vatican all his\nlife, and even now, when I myself get a job or two, it\u2019s always there. We\nwere spoilt, you see, by those ten years of busy work, when we never left\nour ladders and earned as much as we pleased. Of course, we fed ourselves\nbetter, and bought ourselves clothes, and took such pleasure as we cared\nfor; so that it\u2019s all the harder nowadays to have to stint ourselves. But\nif you\u2019d only come to see us in the Pope\u2019s time! No taxes, everything to\nbe had for nothing, so to say--why, one merely had to let oneself live.\u201d\n\nAt this moment a growl arose from one of the palliasses lying in the\nshade of the boarded windows, and the mason, in his slow, quiet way,\nresumed: \u201cIt\u2019s my brother Ambrogio, who isn\u2019t of my opinion.\n\n\u201cHe was with the Republicans in \u201849, when he was fourteen. But it doesn\u2019t\nmatter; we took him with us when we heard that he was dying of hunger and\nsickness in a cellar.\u201d\n\nThe visitors could not help quivering with pity. Ambrogio was the elder\nby some fifteen years; and now, though scarcely sixty, he was already a\nruin, consumed by fever, his legs so wasted that he spent his days on his\npalliasse without ever going out. Shorter and slighter, but more\nturbulent than his brother, he had been a carpenter by trade. And,\ndespite his physical decay, he retained an extraordinary head--the head\nof an apostle and martyr, at once noble and tragic in its expression, and\nencompassed by bristling snowy hair and beard.\n\n\u201cThe Pope,\u201d he growled; \u201cI\u2019ve never spoken badly of the Pope. Yet it\u2019s\nhis fault if tyranny continues. He alone in \u201849 could have given us the\nRepublic, and then we shouldn\u2019t have been as we are now.\u201d\n\nAmbrogio had known Mazzini, whose vague religiosity remained in him--the\ndream of a Republican pope at last establishing the reign of liberty and\nfraternity. But later on his passion for Garibaldi had disturbed these\nviews, and led him to regard the papacy as worthless, incapable of\nachieving human freedom. And so, between the dream of his youth and the\nstern experience of his life, he now hardly knew in which direction the\ntruth lay. Moreover, he had never acted save under the impulse of violent\nemotion, but contented himself with fine words--vague, indeterminate\nwishes.\n\n\u201cBrother Ambrogio,\u201d replied Tomaso, all tranquillity, \u201cthe Pope is the\nPope, and wisdom lies in putting oneself on his side, because he will\nalways be the Pope--that is to say, the stronger. For my part, if we had\nto vote to-morrow I\u2019d vote for him.\u201d\n\nCalmed by the shrewd prudence characteristic of his race, the old\ncarpenter made no haste to reply. At last he said, \u201cWell, as for me,\nbrother Tomaso, I should vote against him--always against him. And you\nknow very well that we should have the majority. The Pope-king indeed!\nThat\u2019s all over. The very Borgo would revolt. Still, I won\u2019t say that we\noughtn\u2019t to come to an understanding with him, so that everybody\u2019s\nreligion may be respected.\u201d\n\nPierre listened, deeply interested, and at last ventured to ask: \u201cAre\nthere many socialists among the Roman working classes?\u201d\n\nThis time the answer came after a yet longer pause. \u201cSocialists? Yes,\nthere are some, no doubt, but much fewer than in other places. All those\nthings are novelties which impatient fellows go in for without\nunderstanding much about them. We old men, we were for liberty; we don\u2019t\nbelieve in fire and massacre.\u201d\n\nThen, fearing to say too much in presence of that lady and those\ngentlemen, Ambrogio began to moan on his pallet, whilst the Contessina,\nsomewhat upset by the smell of the place, took her departure, after\ntelling the young priest that it would be best for them to leave their\nalms with the wife downstairs. Meantime Tomaso resumed his seat at the\ntable, again letting his chin rest on his hands as he nodded to his\nvisitors, no more impressed by their departure than he had been by their\narrival: \u201cTo the pleasure of seeing you again, and am happy to have been\nable to oblige you.\u201d\n\nOn the threshold, however, Narcisse\u2019s enthusiasm burst forth; he turned\nto cast a final admiring glance at old Ambrogio\u2019s head, \u201ca perfect\nmasterpiece,\u201d which he continued praising whilst he descended the stairs.\n\nDown below Giacinta was still sitting on the broken box with her infant\nacross her lap, and a few steps away Pierina stood in front of Dario,\nwatching him with an enchanted air whilst he finished his cigarette.\nTito, lying low in the grass like an animal on the watch for prey, did\nnot for a moment cease to gaze at them.\n\n\u201cAh, signora!\u201d resumed the woman, in her resigned, doleful voice, \u201cthe\nplace is hardly inhabitable, as you must have seen. The only good thing\nis that one gets plenty of room. But there are draughts enough to kill\nme, and I\u2019m always so afraid of the children falling down some of the\nholes.\u201d\n\nThereupon she related a story of a woman who had lost her life through\nmistaking a window for a door one evening and falling headlong into the\nstreet. Then, too, a little girl had broken both arms by tumbling from a\nstaircase which had no banisters. And you could die there without anybody\nknowing how bad you were and coming to help you. Only the previous day\nthe corpse of an old man had been found lying on the plaster in a lonely\nroom. Starvation must have killed him quite a week previously, yet he\nwould still have been stretched there if the odour of his remains had not\nattracted the attention of neighbours.\n\n\u201cIf one only had something to eat things wouldn\u2019t be so bad!\u201d continued\nGiacinta. \u201cBut it\u2019s dreadful when there\u2019s a baby to suckle and one gets\nno food, for after a while one has no milk. This little fellow wants his\ntitty and gets angry with me because I can\u2019t give him any. But it isn\u2019t\nmy fault. He has sucked me till the blood came, and all I can do is to\ncry.\u201d\n\nAs she spoke tears welled into her poor dim eyes. But all at once she\nflew into a tantrum with Tito, who was still wallowing in the grass like\nan animal instead of rising by way of civility towards those fine people,\nwho would surely leave her some alms. \u201cEh! Tito, you lazy fellow, can\u2019t\nyou get up when people come to see you?\u201d she called.\n\nAfter some pretence of not hearing, the young fellow at last rose with an\nair of great ill-humour; and Pierre, feeling interested in him, tried to\ndraw him out as he had done with the father and uncle upstairs. But Tito\nonly returned curt answers, as if both bored and suspicious. Since there\nwas no work to be had, said he, the only thing was to sleep. It was of no\nuse to get angry; that wouldn\u2019t alter matters. So the best was to live as\none could without increasing one\u2019s worry. As for socialists--well, yes,\nperhaps there were a few, but he didn\u2019t know any. And his weary,\nindifferent manner made it quite clear that, if his father was for the\nPope and his uncle for the Republic, he himself was for nothing at all.\nIn this Pierre divined the end of a nation, or rather the slumber of a\nnation in which democracy has not yet awakened. However, as the priest\ncontinued, asking Tito his age, what school he had attended, and in what\ndistrict he had been born, the young man suddenly cut the questions short\nby pointing with one finger to his breast and saying gravely, \u201c_Io son\u2019\nRomano di Roma_.\u201d\n\nAnd, indeed, did not that answer everything? \u201cI am a Roman of Rome.\u201d\n Pierre smiled sadly and spoke no further. Never had he more fully\nrealised the pride of that race, the long-descending inheritance of glory\nwhich was so heavy to bear. The sovereign vanity of the Caesars lived\nanew in that degenerate young fellow who was scarcely able to read and\nwrite. Starveling though he was, he knew his city, and could\ninstinctively have recounted the grand pages of its history. The names of\nthe great emperors and great popes were familiar to him. And why should\nmen toil and moil when they had been the masters of the world? Why not\nlive nobly and idly in the most beautiful of cities, under the most\nbeautiful of skies? \u201c_Io son\u2019 Romano di Roma_!\u201d\n\nBenedetta had slipped her alms into the mother\u2019s hand, and Pierre and\nNarcisse were following her example when Dario, who had already done so,\nthought of Pierina. He did not like to offer her money, but a pretty,\nfanciful idea occurred to him. Lightly touching his lips with his\nfinger-tips, he said, with a faint laugh, \u201cFor beauty!\u201d\n\nThere was something really pretty and pleasing in the kiss thus wafted\nwith a slightly mocking laugh by that familiar, good-natured young Prince\nwho, as in some love story of the olden time, was touched by the\nbeautiful bead-worker\u2019s mute adoration. Pierina flushed with pleasure,\nand, losing her head, darted upon Dario\u2019s hand and pressed her warm lips\nto it with unthinking impulsiveness, in which there was as much divine\ngratitude as tender passion. But Tito\u2019s eyes flashed with anger at the\nsight, and, brutally seizing his sister by the skirt, he threw her back,\ngrowling between his teeth, \u201cNone of that, you know, or I\u2019ll kill you,\nand him too!\u201d\n\nIt was high time for the visitors to depart, for other women, scenting\nthe presence of money, were now coming forward with outstretched hands,\nor despatching tearful children in their stead. The whole wretched,\nabandoned district was in a flutter, a distressful wail ascended from\nthose lifeless streets with high resounding names. But what was to be\ndone? One could not give to all. So the only course lay in flight--amidst\ndeep sadness as one realised how powerless was charity in presence of\nsuch appalling want.\n\nWhen Benedetta and Dario had reached their carriage they hastened to take\ntheir seats and nestle side by side, glad to escape from all such\nhorrors. Still the Contessina was well pleased with her bravery in the\npresence of Pierre, whose hand she pressed with the emotion of a pupil\ntouched by the master\u2019s lesson, after Narcisse had told her that he meant\nto take the young priest to lunch at the little restaurant on the Piazza\nof St. Peter\u2019s whence one obtained such an interesting view of the\nVatican.\n\n\u201cTry some of the light white wine of Genzano,\u201d said Dario, who had become\nquite gay again. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing better to drive away the blues.\u201d\n\nHowever, Pierre\u2019s curiosity was insatiable, and on the way he again\nquestioned Narcisse about the people of modern Rome, their life, habits,\nand manners. There was little or no education, he learnt; no large\nmanufactures and no export trade existed. The men carried on the few\ntrades that were current, all consumption being virtually limited to the\ncity itself. Among the women there were bead-workers and embroiderers;\nand the manufacture of religious articles, such as medals and chaplets,\nand of certain popular jewellery had always occupied a fair number of\nhands. But after marriage the women, invariably burdened with numerous\noffspring, attempted little beyond household work. Briefly, the\npopulation took life as it came, working just sufficiently to secure\nfood, contenting itself with vegetables, pastes, and scraggy mutton,\nwithout thought of rebellion or ambition. The only vices were gambling\nand a partiality for the red and white wines of the Roman province--wines\nwhich excited to quarrel and murder, and on the evenings of feast days,\nwhen the taverns emptied, strewed the streets with groaning men, slashed\nand stabbed with knives. The girls, however, but seldom went wrong; one\ncould count those who allowed themselves to be seduced; and this arose\nfrom the great union prevailing in each family, every member of which\nbowed submissively to the father\u2019s absolute authority. Moreover, the\nbrothers watched over their sisters even as Tito did over Pierina,\nguarding them fiercely for the sake of the family honour. And amidst all\nthis there was no real religion, but simply a childish idolatry, all\nhearts going forth to Madonna and the Saints, who alone were entreated\nand regarded as having being: for it never occurred to anybody to think\nof God.\n\nThus the stagnation of the lower orders could easily be understood.\nBehind them were the many centuries during which idleness had been\nencouraged, vanity flattered, and nerveless life willingly accepted. When\nthey were neither masons, nor carpenters, nor bakers, they were servants\nserving the priests, and more or less directly in the pay of the Vatican.\nThence sprang the two antagonistic parties, on the one hand the more\nnumerous party composed of the old Carbonari, Mazzinians, and\nGaribaldians, the _\u00e9lite_ of the Trastevere; and on the other the\n\u201cclients\u201d of the Vatican, all who lived on or by the Church and regretted\nthe Pope-King. But, after all, the antagonism was confined to opinions;\nthere was no thought of making an effort or incurring a risk. For that,\nsome sudden flare of passion, strong enough to overcome the sturdy\ncalmness of the race, would have been needed. But what would have been\nthe use of it? The wretchedness had lasted for so many centuries, the sky\nwas so blue, the siesta preferable to aught else during the hot hours!\nAnd only one thing seemed positive--that the majority was certainly in\nfavour of Rome remaining the capital of Italy. Indeed, rebellion had\nalmost broken out in the Leonine City when the cession of the latter to\nthe Holy See was rumoured. As for the increase of want and poverty, this\nwas largely due to the circumstance that the Roman workman had really\ngained nothing by the many works carried on in his city during fifteen\nyears. First of all, over 40,000 provincials, mostly from the North, more\nspirited and resistant than himself, and working at cheaper rates, had\ninvaded Rome; and when he, the Roman, had secured his share of the\nlabour, he had lived in better style, without thought of economy; so that\nafter the crisis, when the 40,000 men from the provinces were sent home\nagain, he had found himself once more in a dead city where trade was\nalways slack. And thus he had relapsed into his antique indolence, at\nheart well pleased at no longer being hustled by press of work, and again\naccommodating himself as best he could to his old mistress, Want, empty\nin pocket yet always a _grand seigneur_.\n\nHowever, Pierre was struck by the great difference between the want and\nwretchedness of Rome and Paris. In Rome the destitution was certainly\nmore complete, the food more loathsome, the dirt more repulsive. Yet at\nthe same time the Roman poor retained more ease of manner and more real\ngaiety. The young priest thought of the fireless, breadless poor of\nParis, shivering in their hovels at winter time; and suddenly he\nunderstood. The destitution of Rome did not know cold. What a sweet and\neternal consolation; a sun for ever bright, a sky for ever blue and\nbenign out of charity to the wretched! And what mattered the vileness of\nthe dwelling if one could sleep under the sky, fanned by the warm breeze!\nWhat mattered even hunger if the family could await the windfall of\nchance in sunlit streets or on the scorched grass! The climate induced\nsobriety; there was no need of alcohol or red meat to enable one to face\ntreacherous fogs. Blissful idleness smiled on the golden evenings,\npoverty became like the enjoyment of liberty in that delightful\natmosphere where the happiness of living seemed to be all sufficient.\nNarcisse told Pierre that at Naples, in the narrow odoriferous streets of\nthe port and Santa Lucia districts, the people spent virtually their\nwhole lives out-of-doors, gay, childish, and ignorant, seeking nothing\nbeyond the few pence that were needed to buy food. And it was certainly\nthe climate which fostered the prolonged infancy of the nation, which\nexplained why such a democracy did not awaken to social ambition and\nconsciousness of itself. No doubt the poor of Naples and Rome suffered\nfrom want; but they did not know the rancour which cruel winter implants\nin men\u2019s hearts, the dark rancour which one feels on shivering with cold\nwhile rich people are warming themselves before blazing fires. They did\nnot know the infuriated reveries in snow-swept hovels, when the guttering\ndip burns low, the passionate need which then comes upon one to wreak\njustice, to revolt, as from a sense of duty, in order that one may save\nwife and children from consumption, in order that they also may have a\nwarm nest where life shall be a possibility! Ah! the want that shivers\nwith the bitter cold--therein lies the excess of social injustice, the\nmost terrible of schools, where the poor learn to realise their\nsufferings, where they are roused to indignation, and swear to make those\nsufferings cease, even if in doing so they annihilate all olden society!\n\nAnd in that same clemency of the southern heavens Pierre also found an\nexplanation of the life of St. Francis,* that divine mendicant of love\nwho roamed the high roads extolling the charms of poverty. Doubtless he\nwas an unconscious revolutionary, protesting against the overflowing\nluxury of the Roman court by his return to the love of the humble, the\nsimplicity of the primitive Church. But such a revival of innocence and\nsobriety would never have been possible in a northern land. The\nenchantment of Nature, the frugality of a people whom the sunlight\nnourished, the benignity of mendicancy on roads for ever warm, were\nneeded to effect it. And yet how was it possible that a St. Francis,\nglowing with brotherly love, could have appeared in a land which nowadays\nso seldom practises charity, which treats the lowly so harshly and\ncontemptuously, and cannot even bestow alms on its own Pope? Is it\nbecause ancient pride ends by hardening all hearts, or because the\nexperience of very old races leads finally to egotism, that one now\nbeholds Italy seemingly benumbed amidst dogmatic and pompous Catholicism,\nwhilst the return to the ideals of the Gospel, the passionate interest in\nthe poor and the suffering comes from the woeful plains of the North,\nfrom the nations whose sunlight is so limited? Yes, doubtless all that\nhas much to do with the change, and the success of St. Francis was in\nparticular due to the circumstance that, after so gaily espousing his\nlady, Poverty, he was able to lead her, bare-footed and scarcely clad,\nduring endless and delightful spring-tides, among communities whom an\nardent need of love and compassion then consumed.\n\n  * St. Francis of Assisi, the founder of the famous order of\n    mendicant friars.--Trans.\n\nWhile conversing, Pierre and Narcisse had reached the Piazza of St.\nPeter\u2019s, and they sat down at one of the little tables skirting the\npavement outside the restaurant where they had lunched once before. The\nlinen was none too clean, but the view was splendid. The Basilica rose up\nin front of them, and the Vatican on the right, above the majestic curve\nof the colonnade. Just as the waiter was bringing the _hors-d\u2019\u0153uvre_,\nsome _finocchio_* and anchovies, the young priest, who had fixed his eyes\non the Vatican, raised an exclamation to attract Narcisse\u2019s attention:\n\u201cLook, my friend, at that window, which I am told is the Holy Father\u2019s.\nCan\u2019t you distinguish a pale figure standing there, quite motionless?\u201d\n\n  * Fennel-root, eaten raw, a favourite \u201cappetiser\u201d in Rome during\n    the spring and autumn.--Trans.\n\nThe young man began to laugh. \u201cOh! well,\u201d said he, \u201cit must be the Holy\nFather in person. You are so anxious to see him that your very anxiety\nconjures him into your presence.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I assure you,\u201d repeated Pierre, \u201cthat he is over there behind the\nwindow-pane. There is a white figure looking this way.\u201d\n\nNarcisse, who was very hungry, began to eat whilst still indulging in\nbanter. All at once, however, he exclaimed: \u201cWell, my dear Abb\u00e9, as the\nPope is looking at us, this is the moment to speak of him. I promised to\ntell you how he sunk several millions of St. Peter\u2019s Patrimony in the\nfrightful financial crisis of which you have just seen the ruins; and,\nindeed, your visit to the new district of the castle fields would not be\ncomplete without this story by way of appendix.\u201d\n\nThereupon, without losing a mouthful, Narcisse spoke at considerable\nlength. At the death of Pius IX the Patrimony of St. Peter, it seemed,\nhad exceeded twenty millions of francs. Cardinal Antonelli, who\nspeculated, and whose ventures were usually successful, had for a long\ntime left a part of this money with the Rothschilds and a part in the\nhands of different nuncios, who turned it to profit abroad. After\nAntonelli\u2019s death, however, his successor, Cardinal Simeoni, withdrew the\nmoney from the nuncios to invest it at Rome; and Leo XIII on his\naccession entrusted the administration of the Patrimony to a commission\nof cardinals, of which Monsignor Folchi was appointed secretary. This\nprelate, who for twelve years played such an important _r\u00f4le_, was the\nson of an employee of the Dataria, who, thanks to skilful financial\noperations, had left a fortune of a million francs. Monsignor Folchi\ninherited his father\u2019s cleverness, and revealed himself to be a financier\nof the first rank in such wise that the commission gradually relinquished\nits powers to him, letting him act exactly as he pleased and contenting\nitself with approving the reports which he laid before it at each\nmeeting. The Patrimony, however, yielded scarcely more than a million\nfrancs per annum, and, as the expenditure amounted to seven millions, six\nhad to be found. Accordingly, from that other source of income, the\nPeter\u2019s Pence, the Pope annually gave three million francs to Monsignor\nFolchi, who, by skilful speculations and investments, was able to double\nthem every year, and thus provide for all disbursements without ever\nbreaking into the capital of the Patrimony. In the earlier times he\nrealised considerable profit by gambling in land in and about Rome. He\ntook shares also in many new enterprises, speculated in mills, omnibuses,\nand water-services, without mentioning all the gambling in which he\nparticipated with the Banca di Roma, a Catholic institution. Wonderstruck\nby his skill, the Pope, who, on his own side, had hitherto speculated\nthrough the medium of a confidential employee named Sterbini, dismissed\nthe latter, and entrusted Monsignor Folchi with the duty of turning his\nmoney to profit in the same way as he turned that of the Holy See. This\nwas the climax of the prelate\u2019s favour, the apogee of his power. Bad days\nwere dawning, things were tottering already, and the great collapse was\nsoon to come, sudden and swift like lightning. One of Leo XIII\u2019s\npractices was to lend large sums to the Roman princes who, seized with\nthe gambling frenzy, and mixed up in land and building speculations, were\nat a loss for money. To guarantee the Pope\u2019s advances they deposited\nshares with him, and thus, when the downfall came, he was left with heaps\nof worthless paper on his hands. Then another disastrous affair was an\nattempt to found a house of credit in Paris in view of working off the\nshares which could not be disposed of in Italy among the French\naristocracy and religious people. To egg these on it was said that the\nPope was interested in the venture; and the worst was that he dropped\nthree millions of francs in it.* The situation then became the more\ncritical as he had gradually risked all the money he disposed of in the\nterrible agiotage going on in Rome, tempted thereto by the prospect of\nhuge profits and perhaps indulging in the hope that he might win back by\nmoney the city which had been torn from him by force. His own\nresponsibility remained complete, for Monsignor Folchi never made an\nimportant venture without consulting him; and he must have been therefore\nthe real artisan of the disaster, mastered by his passion for gain, his\ndesire to endow the Church with a huge capital, that great source of\npower in modern times. As always happens, however, the prelate was the\nonly victim. He had become imperious and difficult to deal with; and was\nno longer liked by the cardinals of the commission, who were merely\ncalled together to approve such transactions as he chose to entrust to\nthem. So, when the crisis came, a plot was laid; the cardinals terrified\nthe Pope by telling him of all the evil rumours which were current, and\nthen forced Monsignor Folchi to render a full account of his\nspeculations. The situation proved to be very bad; it was no longer\npossible to avoid heavy losses. And so Monsignor Folchi was disgraced,\nand since then has vainly solicited an audience of Leo XIII, who has\nalways refused to receive him, as if determined to punish him for their\ncommon fault--that passion for lucre which blinded them both. Very pious\nand submissive, however, Monsignor Folchi has never complained, but has\nkept his secrets and bowed to fate. Nobody can say exactly how many\nmillions the Patrimony of St. Peter lost when Rome was changed into a\ngambling-hell, but if some prelates only admit ten, others go as far as\nthirty. The probability is that the loss was about fifteen millions.**\n\n  * The allusion is evidently to the famous Union G\u00e9n\u00e9rale, on\n    which the Pope bestowed his apostolic benediction, and with\n    which M. Zola deals at length in his novel _Money_. Certainly\n    a very brilliant idea was embodied in the Union G\u00e9n\u00e9rale, that\n    of establishing a great international Catholic bank which\n    would destroy the Jewish financial autocracy throughout Europe,\n    and provide both the papacy and the Legitimist cause in several\n    countries with the sinews of war. But in the battle which\n    ensued the great Jew financial houses proved the stronger, and\n    the disaster which overtook the Catholic speculators was a\n    terrible one.--Trans.\n\n  ** That is 600,000 pounds.\n\nWhilst Narcisse was giving this account he and Pierre had despatched\ntheir cutlets and tomatoes, and the waiter was now serving them some\nfried chicken. \u201cAt the present time,\u201d said Narcisse by way of conclusion,\n\u201cthe gap has been filled up; I told you of the large sums yielded by the\nPeter\u2019s Pence Fund, the amount of which is only known by the Pope, who\nalone fixes its employment. And, by the way, he isn\u2019t cured of\nspeculating: I know from a good source that he still gambles, though with\nmore prudence. Moreover, his confidential assistant is still a prelate.\nAnd, when all is said, my dear Abb\u00e9, he\u2019s in the right: a man must belong\nto his times--dash it all!\u201d\n\nPierre had listened with growing surprise, in which terror and sadness\nmingled. Doubtless such things were natural, even legitimate; yet he, in\nhis dream of a pastor of souls free from all terrestrial cares, had never\nimagined that they existed. What! the Pope--the spiritual father of the\nlowly and the suffering--had speculated in land and in stocks and shares!\nHe had gambled, placed funds in the hands of Jew bankers, practised\nusury, extracted hard interest from money--he, the successor of the\nApostle, the Pontiff of Christ, the representative of Jesus, of the\nGospel, that divine friend of the poor! And, besides, what a painful\ncontrast: so many millions stored away in those rooms of the Vatican, and\nso many millions working and fructifying, constantly being diverted from\none speculation to another in order that they might yield the more gain;\nand then down below, near at hand, so much want and misery in those\nabominable unfinished buildings of the new districts, so many poor folks\ndying of hunger amidst filth, mothers without milk for their babes, men\nreduced to idleness by lack of work, old ones at the last gasp like\nbeasts of burden who are pole-axed when they are of no more use! Ah! God\nof Charity, God of Love, was it possible! The Church doubtless had\nmaterial wants; she could not live without money; prudence and policy had\ndictated the thought of gaining for her such a treasure as would enable\nher to fight her adversaries victoriously. But how grievously this\nwounded one\u2019s feelings, how it soiled the Church, how she descended from\nher divine throne to become nothing but a party, a vast international\nassociation organised for the purpose of conquering and possessing the\nworld!\n\nAnd the more Pierre thought of the extraordinary adventure the greater\nwas his astonishment. Could a more unexpected, startling drama be\nimagined? That Pope shutting himself up in his palace--a prison, no\ndoubt, but one whose hundred windows overlooked immensity; that Pope who,\nat all hours of the day and night, in every season, could from his window\nsee his capital, the city which had been stolen from him, and the\nrestitution of which he never ceased to demand; that Pope who, day by\nday, beheld the changes effected in the city--the opening of new streets,\nthe demolition of ancient districts, the sale of land, and the gradual\nerection of new buildings which ended by forming a white girdle around\nthe old ruddy roofs; that Pope who, in presence of this daily spectacle,\nthis building frenzy, which he could follow from morn till eve, was\nhimself finally overcome by the gambling passion, and, secluded in his\nclosed chamber, began to speculate on the embellishments of his old\ncapital, seeking wealth in the spurt of work and trade brought about by\nthat very Italian Government which he reproached with spoliation; and\nfinally that Pope losing millions in a catastrophe which he ought to have\ndesired, but had been unable to foresee! No, never had dethroned monarch\nyielded to a stranger idea, compromised himself in a more tragical\nventure, the result of which fell upon him like divine punishment. And it\nwas no mere king who had done this, but the delegate of God, the man who,\nin the eyes of idolatrous Christendom, was the living manifestation of\nthe Deity!\n\nDessert had now been served--a goat\u2019s cheese and some fruit--and Narcisse\nwas just finishing some grapes when, on raising his eyes, he in turn\nexclaimed: \u201cWell, you are quite right, my dear Abb\u00e9, I myself can see a\npale figure at the window of the Holy Father\u2019s room.\u201d\n\nPierre, who scarcely took his eyes from the window, answered slowly:\n\u201cYes, yes, it went away, but has just come back, and stands there white\nand motionless.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, after all, what would you have the Pope do?\u201d resumed Narcisse with\nhis languid air. \u201cHe\u2019s like everybody else; he looks out of the window\nwhen he wants a little distraction, and certainly there\u2019s plenty for him\nto look at.\u201d\n\nThe same idea had occurred to Pierre, and was filling him with emotion.\nPeople talked of the Vatican being closed, and pictured a dark, gloomy\npalace, encompassed by high walls, whereas this palace overlooked all\nRome, and the Pope from his window could see the world. Pierre himself\nhad viewed the panorama from the summit of the Janiculum, the _loggie_ of\nRaffaelle, and the dome of St. Peter\u2019s, and so he well knew what it was\nthat Leo XIII was able to behold. In the centre of the vast desert of the\nCampagna, bounded by the Sabine and Alban mountains, the seven\nillustrious hills appeared to him with their trees and edifices. His eyes\nranged also over all the basilicas, Santa Maria Maggiore, San Giovanni in\nLaterano, the cradle of the papacy, San Paolo-fuori-le-Mura, Santa Croce\nin Gerusalemme, Sant\u2019 Agnese, and the others; they beheld, too, the domes\nof the Ges\u00f9 of Sant\u2019 Andrea della Valle, San Carlo and San Giovanni dei\nFiorentini, and indeed all those four hundred churches of Rome which make\nthe city like a _campo santo_ studded with crosses. And Leo XIII could\nmoreover see the famous monuments testifying to the pride of successive\ncenturies--the Castle of Sant\u2019 Angelo, that imperial mausoleum which was\ntransformed into a papal fortress, the distant white line of the tombs of\nthe Appian Way, the scattered ruins of the baths of Caracalla and the\nabode of Septimius Severus; and then, after the innumerable columns,\nporticoes, and triumphal arches, there were the palaces and villas of the\nsumptuous cardinals of the Renascence, the Palazzo Farnese, the Palazzo\nBorghese, the Villa Medici, and others, amidst a swarming of fa\u00e7ades and\nroofs. But, in particular, just under his window, on the left, the Pope\nwas able to see the abominations of the unfinished district of the castle\nfields. In the afternoon, when he strolled through his gardens, bastioned\nby the wall of the fourth Leo like the plateau of a citadel, his view\nstretched over the ravaged valley at the foot of Monte Mario, where so\nmany brick-works were established during the building frenzy. The green\nslopes are still ripped up, yellow trenches intersect them in all\ndirections, and the closed works and factories have become wretched ruins\nwith lofty, black, and smokeless chimneys. And at any other hour of the\nday Leo XIII could not approach his window without beholding the\nabandoned houses for which all those brick-fields had worked, those\nhouses which had died before they even lived, and where there was now\nnought but the swarming misery of Rome, rotting there like some\ndecomposition of olden society.\n\nHowever, Pierre more particularly thought of Leo XIII, forgetting the\nrest of the city to let his thoughts dwell on the Palatine, now bereft of\nits crown of palaces and rearing only its black cypresses towards the\nblue heavens. Doubtless in his mind he rebuilt the palaces of the\nCaesars, whilst before him rose great shadowy forms arrayed in purple,\nvisions of his real ancestors, those emperors and Supreme Pontiffs who\nalone could tell him how one might reign over every nation and be the\nabsolute master of the world. Then, however, his glances strayed to the\nQuirinal, and there he could contemplate the new and neighbouring\nroyalty. How strange the meeting of those two palaces, the Quirinal and\nthe Vatican, which rise up and gaze at one another across the Rome of the\nmiddle ages and the Renascence, whose roofs, baked and gilded by the\nburning sun, are jumbled in confusion alongside the Tiber. When the Pope\nand the King go to their windows they can with a mere opera-glass see\neach other quite distinctly. True, they are but specks in the boundless\nimmensity, and what a gulf there is between them--how many centuries of\nhistory, how many generations that battled and suffered, how much\ndeparted greatness, and how much new seed for the mysterious future!\nStill, they can see one another, and they are yet waging the eternal\nfight, the fight as to which of them--the pontiff and shepherd of the\nsoul or the monarch and master of the body--shall possess the people\nwhose stream rolls beneath them, and in the result remain the absolute\nsovereign. And Pierre wondered also what might be the thoughts and dreams\nof Leo XIII behind those window-panes where he still fancied he could\ndistinguish his pale, ghostly figure. On surveying new Rome, the ravaged\nolden districts and the new ones laid waste by the blast of disaster, the\nPope must certainly rejoice at the colossal failure of the Italian\nGovernment. His city had been stolen from him; the newcomers had\nvirtually declared that they would show him how a great capital was\ncreated, and their boast had ended in that catastrophe--a multitude of\nhideous and useless buildings which they did not even know how to finish!\nHe, the Pope, could moreover only be delighted with the terrible worries\ninto which the usurping _r\u00e9gime_ had fallen, the political crisis, and\nthe financial crisis, the whole growing national unrest amidst which that\n_r\u00e9gime_ seemed likely to sink some day; and yet did not he himself\npossess a patriotic soul? was he not a loving son of that Italy whose\ngenius and ancient ambition coursed in the blood of his veins? Ah! no,\nnothing against Italy; rather everything that would enable her to become\nonce more the mistress of the world. And so, even amidst the joy of hope,\nhe must have been grieved to see her thus ruined, threatened with\nbankruptcy, displaying like a sore that overturned, unfinished Rome which\nwas a confession of her impotency. But, on the other hand, if the House\nof Savoy were to be swept away, would he not be there to take its place,\nand at last resume possession of his capital, which, from his window, for\nfifteen years past, he had beheld in the grip of masons and demolishers?\nAnd then he would again be the master and reign over the world, enthroned\nin the predestined city to which prophecy has ensured eternity and\nuniversal dominion.\n\nBut the horizon spread out, and Pierre wondered what Leo XIII beheld\nbeyond Rome, beyond the Campagna and the Sabine and Alban mountains. What\nhad he seen for eighteen years past from that window whence he obtained\nhis only view of the world? What echoes of modern society, its truths and\ncertainties, had reached his ears? From the heights of the Viminal, where\nthe railway terminus stands, the prolonged whistling of engines must have\noccasionally been carried towards him, suggesting our scientific\ncivilisation, the nations brought nearer together, free humanity marching\non towards the future. Did he himself ever dream of liberty when, on\nturning to the right, he pictured the sea over yonder, past the tombs of\nthe Appian Way? Had he ever desired to go off, quit Rome and her\ntraditions, and found the Papacy of the new democracies elsewhere? As he\nwas said to possess so clear and penetrating a mind he ought to have\nunderstood and trembled at the far-away stir and noise that came from\ncertain lands of battle, from those United States of America, for\ninstance, where revolutionary bishops were conquering, winning over the\npeople. Were they working for him or for themselves? If he could not\nfollow them, if he remained stubborn within his Vatican, bound on every\nside by dogma and tradition, might not rupture some day become\nunavoidable? And, indeed, the fear of a blast of schism, coming from\nafar, must have filled him with growing anguish. It was assuredly on that\naccount that he had practised the diplomacy of conciliation, seeking to\nunite in his hands all the scattered forces of the Church, overlooking\nthe audacious proceedings of certain bishops as far as possible, and\nhimself striving to gain the support of the people by putting himself on\nits side against the fallen monarchies. But would he ever go any farther?\nShut up in that Vatican, behind that bronze portal, was he not bound to\nthe strict formulas of Catholicism, chained to them by the force of\ncenturies? There obstinacy was fated; it was impossible for him to resign\nhimself to that which was his real and surpassing power, the purely\nspiritual power, the moral authority which brought mankind to his feet,\nmade thousands of pilgrims kneel and women swoon. Departure from Rome and\nthe renunciation of the temporal power would not displace the centre of\nthe Catholic world, but would transform him, the head of the Catholic\nChurch, into the head of something else. And how anxious must have been\nhis thoughts if the evening breeze ever brought him a vague presentiment\nof that something else, a fear of the new religion which was yet dimly,\nconfusedly dawning amidst the tramp of the nations on the march, and the\nsound of which must have reached him at one and the same time from every\npoint of the compass.\n\nAt this precise moment, however, Pierre felt that the white and\nmotionless shadow behind those windowpanes was held erect by pride, by\nthe ever present conviction of victory. If man could not achieve it, a\nmiracle would intervene. He, the Pope, was absolutely convinced that he\nor some successor would recover possession of Rome. Had not the Church\nall eternity before it? And, moreover, why should not the victor be\nhimself? Could not God accomplish the impossible? Why, if it so pleased\nGod, on the very morrow his city would be restored to him, in spite of\nall the objections of human reason, all the apparent logic of facts. Ah!\nhow he would welcome the return of that prodigal daughter whose equivocal\nadventures he had ever watched with tears bedewing his paternal eyes! He\nwould soon forget the excesses which he had beheld during eighteen years\nat all hours and in all seasons. Perhaps he dreamt of what he would do\nwith those new districts with which the city had been soiled. Should they\nbe razed, or left as evidence of the insanity of the usurpers? At all\nevents, Rome would again become the august and lifeless city, disdainful\nof such vain matters as material cleanliness and comfort, and shining\nforth upon the world like a pure soul encompassed by the traditional\nglory of the centuries. And his dream continued, picturing the course\nwhich events would take on the very morrow, no doubt. Anything, even a\nrepublic was preferable to that House of Savoy. Why not a federal\nrepublic, reviving the old political divisions of Italy, restoring Rome\nto the Church, and choosing him, the Pope, as the natural protector of\nthe country thus reorganised? But his eyes travelled beyond Rome and\nItaly, and his dream expanded, embracing republican France, Spain which\nmight become republican again, Austria which would some day be won, and\nindeed all the Catholic nations welded into the United States of Europe,\nand fraternising in peace under his high presidency as Sovereign Pontiff.\nAnd then would follow the supreme triumph, all the other churches at last\nvanishing, and all the dissident communities coming to him as to the one\nand only pastor, who would reign in the name of Jesus over the universal\ndemocracy.\n\nHowever, whilst Pierre was immersed in this dream which he attributed to\nLeo XIII, he was all at once interrupted by Narcisse, who exclaimed: \u201cOh!\nmy dear Abb\u00e9, just look at those statues on the colonnade.\u201d The young\nfellow had ordered a cup of coffee and was languidly smoking a cigar,\ndeep once more in the subtle aesthetics which were his only\npreoccupation. \u201cThey are rosy, are they not?\u201d he continued; \u201crosy, with a\ntouch of mauve, as if the blue blood of angels circulated in their stone\nveins. It is the sun of Rome which gives them that supra-terrestrial\nlife; for they live, my friend; I have seen them smile and hold out their\narms to me during certain fine sunsets. Ah! Rome, marvellous, delicious\nRome! One could live here as poor as Job, content with the very\natmosphere, and in everlasting delight at breathing it!\u201d\n\nThis time Pierre could not help feeling surprised at Narcisse\u2019s language,\nfor he remembered his incisive voice and clear, precise, financial acumen\nwhen speaking of money matters. And, at this recollection, the young\npriest\u2019s mind reverted to the castle fields, and intense sadness filled\nhis heart as for the last time all the want and suffering rose before\nhim. Again he beheld the horrible filth which was tainting so many human\nbeings, that shocking proof of the abominable social injustice which\ncondemns the greater number to lead the joyless, breadless lives of\naccursed beasts. And as his glance returned yet once more to the window\nof the Vatican, and he fancied he could see a pale hand uplifted behind\nthe glass panes, he thought of that papal benediction which Leo XIII gave\nfrom that height, over Rome, and over the plain and the hills, to the\nfaithful of all Christendom. And that papal benediction suddenly seemed\nto him a mockery, destitute of all power, since throughout such a\nmultitude of centuries it had not once been able to stay a single one of\nthe sufferings of mankind, and could not even bring a little justice for\nthose poor wretches who were agonising yonder beneath the very window.\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nTHAT evening at dusk, as Benedetta had sent Pierre word that she desired\nto see him, he went down to her little _salon_, and there found her\nchatting with Celia.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve seen your Pierina, you know,\u201d exclaimed the latter, just as the\nyoung priest came in. \u201cAnd with Dario, too. Or rather, she must have been\nwatching for him; he found her waiting in a path on the Pincio and smiled\nat her. I understood at once. What a beauty she is!\u201d\n\nBenedetta smiled at her friend\u2019s enthusiasm; but her lips twitched\nsomewhat painfully, for, however sensible she might be, this passion,\nwhich she realised to be so naive and so strong, was beginning to make\nher suffer. She certainly made allowances for Dario, but the girl was too\nmuch in love with him, and she feared the consequences. Even in turning\nthe conversation she allowed the secret of her heart to escape her. \u201cPray\nsit down, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she said, \u201cwe are talking scandal, you see.\nMy poor Dario is accused of making love to every pretty woman in Rome.\nPeople say that it\u2019s he who gives La Tonietta those white roses which she\nhas been exhibiting at the Corso every afternoon for a fortnight past.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s certain, my dear,\u201d retorted Celia impetuously. \u201cAt first people\nwere in doubt, and talked of little Pontecorvo and Lieutenant Moretta.\nBut every one now knows that La Tonietta\u2019s caprice is Dario. Besides, he\njoined her in her box at the Costanzi the other evening.\u201d\n\nPierre remembered that the young Prince had pointed out La Tonietta at\nthe Pincio one afternoon. She was one of the few _demi-mondaines_ that\nthe higher-class society of Rome took an interest in. For a month or so\nthe rich Englishman to whom she owed her means had been absent,\ntravelling.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d resumed Benedetta, whose budding jealousy was entirely confined to\nLa Pierina, \u201cso my poor Dario is ruining himself in white roses! Well, I\nshall have to twit him about it. But one or another of these beauties\nwill end by robbing me of him if our affairs are not soon settled.\nFortunately, I have had some better news. Yes, my suit is to be taken in\nhand again, and my aunt has gone out to-day on that very account.\u201d\n\nThen, as Victorine came in with a lamp, and Celia rose to depart,\nBenedetta turned towards Pierre, who also was rising from his chair:\n\u201cPlease stay,\u201d said she; \u201cI wish to speak to you.\u201d\n\nHowever, Celia still lingered, interested by the mention of the divorce\nsuit, and eager to know if the cousins would soon be able to marry. And\nat last throwing her arms round Benedetta, she kissed her passionately.\n\u201cSo you are hopeful, my dear,\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cYou think that the Holy\nFather will give you back your liberty? Oh! I am so pleased; it will be\nso nice for you to marry Dario! And I\u2019m well pleased on my own account,\nfor my father and mother are beginning to yield. Only yesterday I said to\nthem with that quiet little air of mine, \u2018I want Attilio, and you must\ngive him me.\u2019 And then my father flew into a furious passion and\nupbraided me, and shook his fist at me, saying that if he\u2019d made my head\nas hard as his own he would know how to break it. My mother was there\nquite silent and vexed, and all at once he turned to her and said: \u2018Here,\ngive her that Attilio she wants, and then perhaps we shall have some\npeace!\u2019 Oh yes! I\u2019m well pleased, very well pleased indeed!\u201d\n\nAs she spoke her pure virginal face beamed with so much innocent,\ncelestial joy that Pierre and Benedetta could not help laughing. And at\nlast she went off attended by a maid who had waited for her in the first\n_salon_.\n\nWhen they were alone Benedetta made the priest sit down again: \u201cI have\nbeen asked to give you some important advice, my friend,\u201d she said. \u201cIt\nseems that the news of your presence in Rome is spreading, and that bad\nreports of you are circulated. Your book is said to be a fierce appeal to\nschism, and you are spoken of as a mere ambitious, turbulent schismatic.\nAfter publishing your book in Paris you have come to Rome, it is said, to\nraise a fearful scandal over it in order to make it sell. Now, if you\nstill desire to see his Holiness, so as to plead your cause before him,\nyou are advised to make people forget you, to disappear altogether for a\nfortnight or three weeks.\u201d\n\nPierre was stupefied. Why, they would end by maddening him with all the\nobstacles they raised to exhaust his patience; they would actually\nimplant in him an idea of schism, of an avenging, liberating scandal! He\nwished to protest and refuse the advice, but all at once he made a\ngesture of weariness. What would be the good of it, especially with that\nyoung woman, who was certainly sincere and affectionate. \u201cWho asked you\nto give me this advice?\u201d he inquired. She did not answer, but smiled, and\nwith sudden intuition he resumed: \u201cIt was Monsignor Nani, was it not?\u201d\n\nThereupon, still unwilling to give a direct reply, she began to praise\nthe prelate. He had at last consented to guide her in her divorce affair;\nand Donna Serafina had gone to the Palace of the Inquisition that very\nafternoon in order to acquaint him with the result of certain steps she\nhad taken. Father Lorenza, the confessor of both the Boccanera ladies,\nwas to be present at the interview, for the idea of the divorce was in\nreality his own. He had urged the two women to it in his eagerness to\nsever the bond which the patriotic priest Pisoni had tied full of such\nfine illusions. Benedetta became quite animated as she explained the\nreasons of her hopefulness. \u201cMonsignor Nani can do everything,\u201d she said,\n\u201cand I am very happy that my affair should be in his hands. You must be\nreasonable also, my friend; do as you are requested. I\u2019m sure you will\nsome day be well pleased at having taken this advice.\u201d\n\nPierre had bowed his head and remained thoughtful. There was nothing\nunpleasant in the idea of remaining for a few more weeks in Rome, where\nday by day his curiosity found so much fresh food. Of course, all these\ndelays were calculated to discourage him and bend his will. Yet what did\nhe fear, since he was still determined to relinquish nothing of his book,\nand to see the Holy Father for the sole purpose of proclaiming his new\nfaith? Once more, in silence, he took that oath, then yielded to\nBenedetta\u2019s entreaties. And as he apologised for being a source of\nembarrassment in the house she exclaimed: \u201cNo, no, I am delighted to have\nyou here. I fancy that your presence will bring us good fortune now that\nluck seems to be changing in our favour.\u201d\n\nIt was then agreed that he would no longer prowl around St. Peter\u2019s and\nthe Vatican, where his constant presence must have attracted attention.\nHe even promised that he would virtually spend a week indoors, desirous\nas he was of reperusing certain books, certain pages of Rome\u2019s history.\nThen he went on chatting for a moment, lulled by the peacefulness which\nreigned around him, since the lamp had illumined the _salon_ with its\nsleepy radiance. Six o\u2019clock had just struck, and outside all was dark.\n\n\u201cWasn\u2019t his Eminence indisposed to-day?\u201d the young man asked.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied the Contessina. \u201cBut we are not anxious: it is only a\nlittle fatigue. He sent Don Vigilio to tell me that he intended to shut\nhimself up in his room and dictate some letters. So there can be nothing\nmuch the matter, you see.\u201d\n\nSilence fell again. For a while not a sound came from the deserted street\nor the old empty mansion, mute and dreamy like a tomb. But all at once\nthe soft somnolence, instinct with all the sweetness of a dream of hope,\nwas disturbed by a tempestuous entry, a whirl of skirts, a gasp of\nterror. It was Victorine, who had gone off after bringing the lamp, but\nnow returned, scared and breathless: \u201cContessina! Contessina!\u201d\n\nBenedetta had risen, suddenly quite white and cold, as at the advent of a\nblast of misfortune. \u201cWhat, what is it? Why do you run and tremble?\u201d she\nasked.\n\n\u201cDario, Monsieur Dario--down below. I went down to see if the lantern in\nthe porch were alight, as it is so often forgotten. And in the dark, in\nthe porch, I stumbled against Monsieur Dario. He is on the ground; he has\na knife-thrust somewhere.\u201d\n\nA cry leapt from the _amorosa\u2019s_ heart: \u201cDead!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, wounded.\u201d\n\nBut Benedetta did not hear; in a louder and louder voice she cried:\n\u201cDead! dead!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, I tell you, he spoke to me. And for Heaven\u2019s sake, be quiet. He\nsilenced me because he did not want any one to know; he told me to come\nand fetch you--only you. However, as Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 is here, he had\nbetter help us. We shall be none too many.\u201d\n\nPierre listened, also quite aghast. And when Victorine wished to take the\nlamp her trembling hand, with which she had no doubt felt the prostrate\nbody, was seen to be quite bloody. The sight filled Benedetta with so\nmuch horror that she again began to moan wildly.\n\n\u201cBe quiet, be quiet!\u201d repeated Victorine. \u201cWe ought not to make any noise\nin going down. I shall take the lamp, because we must at all events be\nable to see. Now, quick, quick!\u201d\n\nAcross the porch, just at the entrance of the vestibule, Dario lay prone\nupon the slabs, as if, after being stabbed in the street, he had only had\nsufficient strength to take a few steps before falling. And he had just\nfainted, and lay there with his face very pale, his lips compressed, and\nhis eyes closed. Benedetta, recovering the energy of her race amidst her\nexcessive grief, no longer lamented or cried out, but gazed at him with\nwild, tearless, dilated eyes, as though unable to understand. The horror\nof it all was the suddenness and mysteriousness of the catastrophe, the\nwhy and wherefore of this murderous attempt amidst the silence of the old\ndeserted palace, black with the shades of night. The wound had as yet\nbled but little, for only the Prince\u2019s clothes were stained.\n\n\u201cQuick, quick!\u201d repeated Victorine in an undertone after lowering the\nlamp and moving it around. \u201cThe porter isn\u2019t there--he\u2019s always at the\ncarpenter\u2019s next door--and you see that he hasn\u2019t yet lighted the\nlantern. Still he may come back at any moment. So the Abb\u00e9 and I will\ncarry the Prince into his room at once.\u201d She alone retained her head,\nlike a woman of well-balanced mind and quiet activity. The two others,\nwhose stupor continued, listened to her and obeyed her with the docility\nof children. \u201cContessina,\u201d she continued, \u201cyou must light us. Here, take\nthe lamp and lower it a little so that we may see the steps. You, Abb\u00e9,\ntake the feet; I\u2019ll take hold of him under the armpits. And don\u2019t be\nalarmed, the poor dear fellow isn\u2019t heavy.\u201d\n\nAh! that ascent of the monumental staircase with its low steps and its\nlandings as spacious as guardrooms. They facilitated the cruel journey,\nbut how lugubrious looked the little _cort\u00e8ge_ under the flickering\nglimmer of the lamp which Benedetta held with arm outstretched, stiffened\nby determination! And still not a sound came from the old lifeless\ndwelling, nothing but the silent crumbling of the walls, the slow decay\nwhich was making the ceilings crack. Victorine continued to whisper words\nof advice whilst Pierre, afraid of slipping on the shiny slabs, put forth\nan excess of strength which made his breath come short. Huge, wild\nshadows danced over the big expanse of bare wall up to the very vaults\ndecorated with sunken panels. So endless seemed the ascent that at last a\nhalt became necessary; but the slow march was soon resumed. Fortunately\nDario\u2019s apartments--bed-chamber, dressing-room, and sitting-room--were on\nthe first floor adjoining those of the Cardinal in the wing facing the\nTiber; so, on reaching the landing, they only had to walk softly along\nthe corridor, and at last, to their great relief, laid the wounded man\nupon his bed.\n\nVictorine vented her satisfaction in a light laugh. \u201cThat\u2019s done,\u201d said\nshe; \u201cput the lamp on that table, Contessina. I\u2019m sure nobody heard us.\nIt\u2019s lucky that Donna Serafina should have gone out, and that his\nEminence should have shut himself up with Don Vigilio. I wrapped my skirt\nround Monsieur Dario\u2019s shoulders, you know, so I don\u2019t think any blood\nfell on the stairs. By and by, too, I\u2019ll go down with a sponge and wipe\nthe slabs in the porch--\u201d She stopped short, looked at Dario, and then\nquickly added: \u201cHe\u2019s breathing--now I\u2019ll leave you both to watch over him\nwhile I go for good Doctor Giordano, who saw you come into the world,\nContessina. He\u2019s a man to be trusted.\u201d\n\nAlone with the unconscious sufferer in that dim chamber, which seemed to\nquiver with the frightful horror that filled their hearts, Benedetta and\nPierre remained on either side of the bed, as yet unable to exchange a\nword. The young woman first opened her arms and wrung her hands whilst\ngiving vent to a hollow moan, as if to relieve and exhale her grief; and\nthen, leaning forward, she watched for some sign of life on that pale\nface whose eyes were closed. Dario was certainly breathing, but his\nrespiration was slow and very faint, and some time went by before a touch\nof colour returned to his cheeks. At last, however, he opened his eyes,\nand then she at once took hold of his hand and pressed it, instilling\ninto the pressure all the anguish of her heart. Great was her happiness\non feeling that he feebly returned the clasp.\n\n\u201cTell me,\u201d she said, \u201cyou can see me and hear me, can\u2019t you? What has\nhappened, good God?\u201d\n\nHe did not at first answer, being worried by the presence of Pierre. On\nrecognising the young priest, however, he seemed content that he should\nbe there, and then glanced apprehensively round the room to see if there\nwere anybody else. And at last he murmured: \u201cNo one saw me, no one\nknows?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no; be easy. We carried you up with Victorine without meeting a\nsoul. Aunt has just gone out, uncle is shut up in his rooms.\u201d\n\nAt this Dario seemed relieved, and he even smiled. \u201cI don\u2019t want anybody\nto know, it is so stupid,\u201d he murmured.\n\n\u201cBut in God\u2019s name what has happened?\u201d she again asked him.\n\n\u201cAh! I don\u2019t know, I don\u2019t know,\u201d was his response, as he lowered his\neyelids with a weary air as if to escape the question. But he must have\nrealised that it was best for him to confess some portion of the truth at\nonce, for he resumed: \u201cA man was hidden in the shadow of the porch--he\nmust have been waiting for me. And so, when I came in, he dug his knife\ninto my shoulder, there.\u201d\n\nForthwith she again leant over him, quivering, and gazing into the depths\nof his eyes: \u201cBut who was the man, who was he?\u201d she asked. Then, as he,\nin a yet more weary way, began to stammer that he didn\u2019t know, that the\nman had fled into the darkness before he could recognise him, she raised\na terrible cry: \u201cIt was Prada! it was Prada, confess it, I know it\nalready!\u201d And, quite delirious, she went on: \u201cI tell you that I know it!\nAh! I would not be his, and he is determined that we shall never belong\nto one another. Rather than have that he will kill you on the day when I\nam free to be your wife! Oh! I know him well; I shall never, never be\nhappy. Yes, I know it well, it was Prada, Prada!\u201d\n\nBut sudden energy upbuoyed the wounded man, and he loyally protested:\n\u201cNo, no, it was not Prada, nor was it any one working for him. That I\nswear to you. I did not recognise the man, but it wasn\u2019t Prada--no, no!\u201d\n\nThere was such a ring of truth in Dario\u2019s words that Benedetta must have\nbeen convinced by them. But terror once more overpowered her, for the\nhand she held was suddenly growing soft, moist, and powerless. Exhausted\nby his effort, Dario had fallen back, again fainting, his face quite\nwhite and his eyes closed. And it seemed to her that he was dying.\nDistracted by her anguish, she felt him with trembling, groping hands:\n\u201cLook, look, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cBut he is dying, he is\ndying; he is already quite cold. Ah! God of heaven, he is dying!\u201d\n\nPierre, terribly upset by her cries, sought to reassure her, saying: \u201cHe\nspoke too much; he has lost consciousness, as he did before. But I assure\nyou that I can feel his heart beating. Here, put your hand here,\nContessina. For mercy\u2019s sake don\u2019t distress yourself like that; the\ndoctor will soon be here, and everything will be all right.\u201d\n\nBut she did not listen to him, and all at once he was lost in amazement,\nfor she flung herself upon the body of the man she adored, caught it in a\nfrantic embrace, bathed it with tears and covered it with kisses whilst\nstammering words of fire: \u201cAh! if I were to lose you, if I were to lose\nyou! And to think that I repulsed you, that I would not accept happiness\nwhen it was yet possible! Yes, that idea of mine, that vow I made to the\nMadonna! Yet how could she be offended by our happiness? And then, and\nthen, if she has deceived me, if she takes you from me, ah! then I can\nhave but one regret--that I did not damn myself with you--yes, yes,\ndamnation rather than that we should never, never be each other\u2019s!\u201d\n\nWas this the woman who had shown herself so calm, so sensible, so patient\nthe better to ensure her happiness? Pierre was terrified, and no longer\nrecognised her. He had hitherto seen her so reserved, so modest, with a\nchildish charm that seemed to come from her very nature! But under the\nthreatening blow she feared, the terrible blood of the Boccaneras had\nawoke within her with a long heredity of violence, pride, frantic and\nexasperated longings. She wished for her share of life, her share of\nlove! And she moaned and she clamoured, as if death, in taking her lover\nfrom her, were tearing away some of her own flesh.\n\n\u201cCalm yourself, I entreat you, madame,\u201d repeated the priest. \u201cHe is\nalive, his heart beats. You are doing yourself great harm.\u201d\n\nBut she wished to die with her lover: \u201cO my darling! if you must go, take\nme, take me with you. I will lay myself on your heart, I will clasp you\nso tightly with my arms that they shall be joined to yours, and then we\nmust needs be buried together. Yes, yes, we shall be dead, and we shall\nbe wedded all the same--wedded in death! I promised that I would belong\nto none but you, and I will be yours in spite of everything, even in the\ngrave. O my darling, open your eyes, open your mouth, kiss me if you\ndon\u2019t want me to die as soon as you are dead!\u201d\n\nA blaze of wild passion, full of blood and fire, had passed through that\nmournful chamber with old, sleepy walls. But tears were now overcoming\nBenedetta, and big gasping sobs at last threw her, blinded and\nstrengthless, on the edge of the bed. And fortunately an end was put to\nthe terrible scene by the arrival of the doctor whom Victorine had\nfetched.\n\nDoctor Giordano was a little old man of over sixty, with white curly\nhair, and fresh-looking, clean-shaven countenance. By long practice among\nChurchmen he had acquired the paternal appearance and manner of an\namiable prelate. And he was said to be a very worthy man, tending the\npoor for nothing, and displaying ecclesiastical reserve and discretion in\nall delicate cases. For thirty years past the whole Boccanera family,\nchildren, women, and even the most eminent Cardinal himself, had in all\ncases of sickness been placed in the hands of this prudent practitioner.\nLighted by Victorine and helped by Pierre, he undressed Dario, who was\nroused from his swoon by pain; and after examining the wound he declared\nwith a smile that it was not at all dangerous. The young Prince would at\nthe utmost have to spend three weeks in bed, and no complications were to\nbe feared. Then, like all the doctors of Rome, enamoured of the fine\nthrusts and cuts which day by day they have to dress among chance\npatients of the lower classes, he complacently lingered over the wound,\ndoubtless regarding it as a clever piece of work, for he ended by saying\nto the Prince in an undertone: \u201cThat\u2019s what we call a warning. The man\ndidn\u2019t want to kill, the blow was dealt downwards so that the knife might\nslip through the flesh without touching the bone. Ah! a man really needs\nto be skilful to deal such a stab; it was very neatly done.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d murmured Dario, \u201che spared me; had he chosen he could have\npierced me through.\u201d\n\nBenedetta did not hear. Since the doctor had declared the case to be free\nfrom danger, and had explained that the fainting fits were due to nervous\nshock, she had fallen in a chair, quite prostrated. Gradually, however,\nsome gentle tears coursed from her eyes, bringing relief after her\nfrightful despair, and then, rising to her feet, she came and kissed\nDario with mute and passionate delight.\n\n\u201cI say, my dear doctor,\u201d resumed the Prince, \u201cit\u2019s useless for people to\nknow of this. It\u2019s so ridiculous. Nobody has seen anything, it seems,\nexcepting Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, whom I ask to keep the matter secret. And in\nparticular I don\u2019t want anybody to alarm the Cardinal or my aunt, or\nindeed any of our friends.\u201d\n\nDoctor Giordano indulged in one of his placid smiles. \u201c_Bene, bene_,\u201d\n said he, \u201cthat\u2019s natural; don\u2019t worry yourself. We will say that you have\nhad a fall on the stairs and have dislocated your shoulder. And now that\nthe wound is dressed you must try to sleep, and don\u2019t get feverish. I\nwill come back to-morrow morning.\u201d\n\nThat evening of excitement was followed by some very tranquil days, and a\nnew life began for Pierre, who at first remained indoors, reading and\nwriting, with no other recreation than that of spending his afternoons in\nDario\u2019s room, where he was certain to find Benedetta. After a somewhat\nintense fever lasting for eight and forty hours, cure took its usual\ncourse, and the story of the dislocated shoulder was so generally\nbelieved, that the Cardinal insisted on Donna Serafina departing from her\nhabits of strict economy, to have a second lantern lighted on the landing\nin order that no such accident might occur again. And then the monotonous\npeacefulness was only disturbed by a final incident, a threat of trouble,\nas it were, with which Pierre found himself mixed up one evening when he\nwas lingering beside the convalescent patient.\n\nBenedetta had absented herself for a few minutes, and as Victorine, who\nhad brought up some broth, was leaning towards the Prince to take the\nempty cup from him, she said in a low voice: \u201cThere\u2019s a girl, Monsieur,\nLa Pierina, who comes here every day, crying and asking for news of you.\nI can\u2019t get rid of her, she\u2019s always prowling about the place, so I\nthought it best to tell you of it.\u201d\n\nUnintentionally, Pierre heard her and understood everything. Dario, who\nwas looking at him, at once guessed his thoughts, and without answering\nVictorine exclaimed: \u201cYes, Abb\u00e9, it was that brute Tito! How idiotic,\neh?\u201d At the same time, although the young man protested that he had done\nnothing whatever for the girl\u2019s brother to give him such a \u201cwarning,\u201d he\nsmiled in an embarrassed way, as if vexed and even somewhat ashamed of\nbeing mixed up in an affair of the kind. And he was evidently relieved\nwhen the priest promised that he would see the girl, should she come\nback, and make her understand that she ought to remain at home.\n\n\u201cIt was such a stupid affair!\u201d the Prince repeated, with an exaggerated\nshow of anger. \u201cSuch things are not of our times.\u201d\n\nBut all at once he ceased speaking, for Benedetta entered the room. She\nsat down again beside her dear patient, and the sweet, peaceful evening\nthen took its course in the old sleepy chamber, the old, lifeless palace,\nwhence never a sound arose.\n\nWhen Pierre began to go out again he at first merely took a brief airing\nin the district. The Via Giulia interested him, for he knew how splendid\nit had been in the time of Julius II, who had dreamt of lining it with\nsumptuous palaces. Horse and foot races then took place there during the\ncarnival, the Palazzo Farnese being the starting-point, and the Piazza of\nSt. Peter\u2019s the goal. Pierre had also lately read that a French\nambassador, D\u2019Estr\u00e9e, Marquis de Coure, had resided at the Palazzo\nSacchetti, and in 1638 had given some magnificent entertainments in\nhonour of the birth of the Dauphin,* when on three successive days there\nhad been racing from the Ponte Sisto to San Giovanni dei Fiorentini\namidst an extraordinary display of sumptuosity: the street being strewn\nwith flowers, and rich hangings adorning every window. On the second\nevening there had been fireworks on the Tiber, with a machine\nrepresenting the ship Argo carrying Jason and his companions to the\nrecovery of the Golden Fleece; and, on another occasion, the Farnese\nfountain, the Mascherone, had flowed with wine. Nowadays, however, all\nwas changed. The street, bright with sunshine or steeped in shadow\naccording to the hour, was ever silent and deserted. The heavy, ancient\npalatial houses, their old doors studded with plates and nails, their\nwindows barred with huge iron gratings, always seemed to be asleep, whole\nstoreys showing nothing but closed shutters as if to keep out the\ndaylight for evermore. Now and again, when a door was open, you espied\ndeep vaults, damp, cold courts, green with mildew, and encompassed by\ncolonnades like cloisters. Then, in the outbuildings of the mansions, the\nlow structures which had collected more particularly on the side of the\nTiber, various small silent shops had installed themselves. There was a\nbaker\u2019s, a tailor\u2019s, and a bookbinder\u2019s, some fruiterers\u2019 shops with a\nfew tomatoes and salad plants set out on boards, and some wine-shops\nwhich claimed to sell the vintages of Frascati and Genzano, but whose\ncustomers seemed to be dead. Midway along the street was a modern prison,\nwhose horrid yellow wall in no wise enlivened the scene, whilst,\noverhead, a flight of telegraph wires stretched from the arcades of the\nFarnese palace to the distant vista of trees beyond the river. With its\ninfrequent traffic the street, even in the daytime, was like some\nsepulchral corridor where the past was crumbling into dust, and when\nnight fell its desolation quite appalled Pierre. You did not meet a soul,\nyou did not see a light in any window, and the glimmering gas lamps, few\nand far between, seemed powerless to pierce the gloom. On either hand the\ndoors were barred and bolted, and not a sound, not a breath came from\nwithin. Even when, after a long interval, you passed a lighted wine-shop,\nbehind whose panes of frosted glass a lamp gleamed dim and motionless,\nnot an exclamation, not a suspicion of a laugh ever reached your ear.\nThere was nothing alive save the two sentries placed outside the prison,\none before the entrance and the other at the corner of the right-hand\nlane, and they remained erect and still, coagulated, as it were, in that\ndead street.\n\n  * Afterwards Louis XIV.--Trans.\n\nPierre\u2019s interest, however, was not merely confined to the Via Giulia; it\nextended to the whole district, once so fine and fashionable, but now\nfallen into sad decay, far removed from modern life, and exhaling a faint\nmusty odour of monasticism. Towards San Giovanni dei Fiorentini, where\nthe new Corso Vittorio Emanuele has ripped up every olden district, the\nlofty five-storeyed houses with their dazzling sculptured fronts\ncontrasted violently with the black sunken dwellings of the neighbouring\nlanes. In the evening the globes of the electric lamps on the Corso shone\nout with such dazzling whiteness that the gas lamps of the Via Giulia and\nother streets looked like smoky lanterns. There were several old and\nfamous thoroughfares, the Via Banchi Vecchi, the Via del Pellegrino, the\nVia di Monserrato, and an infinity of cross-streets which intersected and\nconnected the others, all going towards the Tiber, and for the most part\nso narrow that vehicles scarcely had room to pass. And each street had\nits church, a multitude of churches all more or less alike, highly\ndecorated, gilded, and painted, and open only at service time when they\nwere full of sunlight and incense. In the Via Giulia, in addition to San\nGiovanni dei Fiorentini, San Biagio della Pagnotta, San Eligio degli\nOrefici, and three or four others, there was the so-called Church of the\nDead, Santa Maria dell\u2019 Orazione; and this church, which is at the lower\nend behind the Farnese palace, was often visited by Pierre, who liked to\ndream there of the wild life of Rome, and of the pious brothers of the\nConfraternita della Morte, who officiate there, and whose mission is to\nsearch for and bury such poor outcasts as die in the Campagna. One\nevening he was present at the funeral of two unknown men, whose bodies,\nafter remaining unburied for quite a fortnight, had been discovered in a\nfield near the Appian Way.\n\nHowever, Pierre\u2019s favourite promenade soon became the new quay of the\nTiber beyond the Palazzo Boccanera. He had merely to take the narrow lane\nskirting the mansion to reach a spot where he found much food for\nreflection. Although the quay was not yet finished, the work seemed to be\nquite abandoned. There were heaps of rubbish, blocks of stone, broken\nfences, and dilapidated tool-sheds all around. To such a height had it\nbeen necessary to carry the quay walls--designed to protect the city from\nfloods, for the river bed has been rising for centuries past--that the\nold terrace of the Boccanera gardens, with its double flight of steps to\nwhich pleasure boats had once been moored, now lay in a hollow,\nthreatened with annihilation whenever the works should be finished. But\nnothing had yet been levelled; the soil, brought thither for making up\nthe bank, lay as it had fallen from the carts, and on all sides were pits\nand mounds interspersed with the abandoned building materials. Wretched\nurchins came to play there, workmen without work slept in the sunshine,\nand women after washing ragged linen spread it out to dry upon the\nstones. Nevertheless the spot proved a happy, peaceful refuge for Pierre,\none fruitful in inexhaustible reveries when for hours at a time he\nlingered gazing at the river, the quays, and the city, stretching in\nfront of him and on either hand.\n\nAt eight in the morning the sun already gilded the vast opening. On\nturning to the left he perceived the roofs of the Trastevere, of a misty,\nbluish grey against the dazzling sky. Then, just beyond the apse of San\nGiovanni, on the right, the river curved, and on its other bank the\npoplars of the Ospedale di Santo Spirito formed a green curtain, while\nthe castle of Sant\u2019 Angelo showed brightly in the distance. But Pierre\u2019s\neyes dwelt more particularly on the bank just in front of him, for there\nhe found some lingering vestiges of old Rome. On that side indeed between\nthe Ponte Sisto and the Ponte Sant\u2019 Angelo, the quays, which were to\nimprison the river within high, white, fortress-like walls, had not yet\nbeen raised, and the bank with its remnants of the old papal city\nconjured up an extraordinary vision of the middle ages. The houses,\ndescending to the river brink, were cracked, scorched, rusted by\ninnumerable burning summers, like so many antique bronzes. Down below\nthere were black vaults into which the water flowed, piles upholding\nwalls, and fragments of Roman stone-work plunging into the river bed;\nthen, rising from the shore, came steep, broken stairways, green with\nmoisture, tiers of terraces, storeys with tiny windows pierced here and\ntheir in hap-hazard fashion, houses perched atop of other houses, and the\nwhole jumbled together with a fantastic commingling of balconies and\nwooden galleries, footbridges spanning courtyards, clumps of trees\ngrowing apparently on the very roofs, and attics rising from amidst pinky\ntiles. The contents of a drain fell noisily into the river from a worn\nand soiled gorge of stone; and wherever the houses stood back and the\nbank appeared, it was covered with wild vegetation, weeds, shrubs, and\nmantling ivy, which trailed like a kingly robe of state. And in the glory\nof the sun the wretchedness and dirt vanished, the crooked, jumbled\nhouses seemed to be of gold, draped with the purple of the red petticoats\nand the dazzling white of the shifts which hung drying from their\nwindows; while higher still, above the district, the Janiculum rose into\nall the luminary\u2019s dazzlement, uprearing the slender profile of Sant\u2019\nOnofrio amidst cypresses and pines.\n\nLeaning on the parapet of the quay wall, Pierre sadly gazed at the Tiber\nfor hours at a time. Nothing could convey an idea of the weariness of\nthose old waters, the mournful slowness of their flow along that\nBabylonian trench where they were confined within huge, bare, livid\nprison-like walls. In the sunlight their yellowness was gilded, and the\nfaint quiver of the current brought ripples of green and blue; but as\nsoon as the shade spread over it the stream became opaque like mud, so\nturbid in its venerable old age that it no longer even gave back a\nreflection of the houses lining it. And how desolate was its abandonment,\nwhat a stream of silence and solitude it was! After the winter rains it\nmight roll furiously and threateningly, but during the long months of\nbright weather it traversed Rome without a sound, and Pierre could remain\nthere all day long without seeing either a skiff or a sail. The two or\nthree little steam-boats which arrived from the coast, the few tartanes\nwhich brought wine from Sicily, never came higher than the Aventine,\nbeyond which there was only a watery desert in which here and there, at\nlong intervals, a motionless angler let his line dangle. All that Pierre\never saw in the way of shipping was a sort of ancient, covered pinnace, a\nrotting Noah\u2019s ark, moored on the right beside the old bank, and he\nfancied that it might be used as a washhouse, though on no occasion did\nhe see any one in it. And on a neck of mud there also lay a stranded boat\nwith one side broken in, a lamentable symbol of the impossibility and the\nrelinquishment of navigation. Ah! that decay of the river, that decay of\nfather Tiber, as dead as the famous ruins whose dust he is weary of\nlaving! And what an evocation! all the centuries of history, so many\nthings, so many men, that those yellow waters have reflected till, full\nof lassitude and disgust, they have grown heavy, silent and deserted,\nlonging only for annihilation.\n\nOne morning on the river bank Pierre found La Pierina standing behind an\nabandoned tool-shed. With her neck extended, she was looking fixedly at\nthe window of Dario\u2019s room, at the corner of the quay and the lane.\nDoubtless she had been frightened by Victorine\u2019s severe reception, and\nhad not dared to return to the mansion; but some servant, possibly, had\ntold her which was the young Prince\u2019s window, and so she now came to this\nspot, where without wearying she waited for a glimpse of the man she\nloved, for some sign of life and salvation, the mere hope of which made\nher heart leap. Deeply touched by the way in which she hid herself, all\nhumility and quivering with adoration, the priest approached her, and\ninstead of scolding her and driving her away as he had been asked to do,\nspoke to her in a gentle, cheerful manner, asking her for news of her\npeople as though nothing had happened, and at last contriving to mention\nDario\u2019s name in order that she might understand that he would be up and\nabout again within a fortnight. On perceiving Pierre, La Pierina had\nstarted with timidity and distrust as if anxious to flee; but when she\nunderstood him, tears of happiness gushed from her eyes, and with a\nbright smile she kissed her hand to him, calling: \u201c_Grazie, grazie_,\nthanks, thanks!\u201d And thereupon she darted away, and he never saw her\nagain.\n\nOn another morning at an early hour, as Pierre was going to say mass at\nSanta Brigida on the Piazza Farnese, he was surprised to meet Benedetta\ncoming out of the church and carrying a small phial of oil. She evinced\nno embarrassment, but frankly told him that every two or three days she\nwent thither to obtain from the beadle a few drops of the oil used for\nthe lamp that burnt before an antique wooden statue of the Madonna, in\nwhich she had perfect confidence. She even confessed that she had never\nhad confidence in any other Madonna, having never obtained anything from\nany other, though she had prayed to several of high repute, Madonnas of\nmarble and even of silver. And so her heart was full of ardent devotion\nfor the holy image which refused her nothing. And she declared in all\nsimplicity, as though the matter were quite natural and above discussion,\nthat the few drops of oil which she applied, morning and evening, to\nDario\u2019s wound, were alone working his cure, so speedy a cure as to be\nquite miraculous. Pierre, fairly aghast, distressed indeed to find such\nchildish, superstitious notions in one so full of sense and grace and\npassion, did not even venture to smile.\n\nIn the evenings, when he came back from his strolls and spent an hour or\nso in Dario\u2019s room, he would for a time divert the patient by relating\nwhat he had done and seen and thought of during the day. And when he\nagain ventured to stray beyond the district, and became enamoured of the\nlovely gardens of Rome, which he visited as soon as they opened in the\nmorning in order that he might be virtually alone, he delighted the young\nprince and Benedetta with his enthusiasm, his rapturous passion for the\nsplendid trees, the plashing water, and the spreading terraces whence the\nviews were so sublime. It was not the most extensive of these gardens\nwhich the more deeply impressed his heart. In the grounds of the Villa\nBorghese, the little Roman Bois de Boulogne, there were certainly some\nmajestic clumps of greenery, some regal avenues where carriages took a\nturn in the afternoon before the obligatory drive to the Pincio; but\nPierre was more touched by the reserved garden of the villa--that villa\ndazzling with marble and now containing one of the finest museums in the\nworld. There was a simple lawn of fine grass with a vast central basin\nsurmounted by a figure of Venus, nude and white; and antique fragments,\nvases, statues, columns, and _sarcophagi_ were ranged symmetrically all\naround the deserted, sunlit yet melancholy, sward. On returning on one\noccasion to the Pincio Pierre spent a delightful morning there,\npenetrated by the charm of this little nook with its scanty evergreens,\nand its admirable vista of all Rome and St. Peter\u2019s rising up afar off in\nthe soft limpid radiance. At the Villa Albani and the Villa Pamphili he\nagain came upon superb parasol pines, tall, stately, and graceful, and\npowerful elm-trees with twisted limbs and dusky foliage. In the Pamphili\ngrounds, the elm-trees steeped the paths in a delicious half-light, the\nlake with its weeping willows and tufts of reeds had a dreamy aspect,\nwhile down below the _parterre_ displayed a fantastic floral mosaic\nbright with the various hues of flowers and foliage. That which most\nparticularly struck Pierre, however, in this, the noblest, most spacious,\nand most carefully tended garden of Rome, was the novel and unexpected\nview that he suddenly obtained of St. Peter\u2019s, whilst skirting a low\nwall: a view whose symbolism for ever clung to him. Rome had completely\nvanished, and between the slopes of Monte Mario and another wooded height\nwhich hid the city, there only appeared the colossal dome which seemed to\nbe poised on an infinity of scattered blocks, now white, now red. These\nwere the houses of the Borgo, the jumbled piles of the Vatican and the\nBasilica which the huge dome surmounted and annihilated, showing greyly\nblue in the light blue of the heavens, whilst far away stretched a\ndelicate, boundless vista of the Campagna, likewise of a bluish tint.\n\nIt was, however, more particularly in the less sumptuous gardens, those\nof a more homely grace, that Pierre realised that even things have souls.\nAh! that Villa Mattei on one side of the C\u0153lius with its terraced\ngrounds, its sloping alleys edged with laurel, aloe, and spindle tree,\nits box-plants forming arbours, its oranges, its roses, and its\nfountains! Pierre spent some delicious hours there, and only found a\nsimilar charm on visiting the Aventine, where three churches are\nembowered in verdure. The little garden of Santa Sabina, the birthplace\nof the Dominican order, is closed on all sides and affords no view: it\nslumbers in quiescence, warm and perfumed by its orange-trees, amongst\nwhich that planted by St. Dominic stands huge and gnarled but still laden\nwith ripe fruit. At the adjoining Priorato, however, the garden, perched\nhigh above the Tiber, overlooks a vast expanse, with the river and the\nbuildings on either bank as far as the summit of the Janiculum. And in\nthese gardens of Rome Pierre ever found the same clipped box-shrubs, the\nsame eucalypti with white trunks and pale leaves long like hair, the same\nilex-trees squat and dusky, the same giant pines, the same black\ncypresses, the same marbles whitening amidst tufts of roses, and the same\nfountains gurgling under mantling ivy. Never did he enjoy more gentle,\nsorrow-tinged delight than at the Villa of Pope Julius, where all the\nlife of a gay and sensual period is suggested by the semi-circular\nporticus opening on the gardens, a porticus decorated with paintings,\ngolden trellis-work laden with flowers, amidst which flutter flights of\nsmiling Cupids. Then, on the evening when he returned from the Farnesina,\nhe declared that he had brought all the dead soul of ancient Rome away\nwith him, and it was not the paintings executed after Raffaelle\u2019s designs\nthat had touched him, it was rather the pretty hall on the river side\ndecorated in soft blue and pink and lilac, with an art devoid of genius\nyet so charming and so Roman; and in particular it was the abandoned\ngarden once stretching down to the Tiber, and now shut off from it by the\nnew quay, and presenting an aspect of woeful desolation, ravaged, bossy\nand weedy like a cemetery, albeit the golden fruit of orange and citron\ntree still ripened there.\n\nAnd for the last time a shock came to Pierre\u2019s heart on the lovely\nevening when he visited the Villa Medici. There he was on French soil.*\nAnd again what a marvellous garden he found with box-plants, and pines,\nand avenues full of magnificence and charm! What a refuge for antique\nreverie was that wood of ilex-trees, so old and so sombre, where the sun\nin declining cast fiery gleams of red gold amidst the sheeny bronze of\nthe foliage. You ascend by endless steps, and from the crowning belvedere\non high you embrace all Rome at a glance as though by opening your arms\nyou could seize it in its entirety. From the villa\u2019s dining-room,\ndecorated with portraits of all the artists who have successfully\nsojourned there, and from the spacious peaceful library one beholds the\nsame splendid, broad, all-conquering panorama, a panorama of unlimited\nambition, whose infinite ought to set in the hearts of the young men\ndwelling there a determination to subjugate the world. Pierre, who came\nthither opposed to the principle of the \u201cPrix de Rome,\u201d that traditional,\nuniform education so dangerous for originality, was for a moment charmed\nby the warm peacefulness, the limpid solitude of the garden, and the\nsublime horizon where the wings of genius seemed to flutter. Ah! how\ndelightful, to be only twenty and to live for three years amidst such\ninfinite sweetness, encompassed by the finest works of man; to say to\noneself that one is as yet too young to produce, and to reflect, and\nseek, and learn how to enjoy, suffer, and love! But Pierre afterwards\nreflected that this was not a fit task for youth, and that to appreciate\nthe divine enjoyment of such a retreat, all art and blue sky, ripe age\nwas needed, age with victories already gained and weariness following\nupon the accomplishment of work. He chatted with some of the young\npensioners, and remarked that if those who were inclined to dreaminess\nand contemplation, like those who could merely claim mediocrity,\naccommodated themselves to this life cloistered in the art of the past,\non the other hand artists of active bent and personal temperament pined\nwith impatience, their eyes ever turned towards Paris, their souls eager\nto plunge into the furnace of battle and production.\n\n  * Here is the French Academy, where winners of the \u201cPrix de\n    Rome\u201d in painting, sculpture, architecture, engraving, and\n    music are maintained by the French Government for three\n    years. The creation dates from Louis XIV.--Trans.\n\nAll those gardens of which Pierre spoke to Dario and Benedetta with so\nmuch rapture, awoke within them the memory of the garden of the Villa\nMontefiori, now a waste, but once so green, planted with the finest\norange-trees of Rome, a grove of centenarian orange-trees where they had\nlearnt to love one another. And the memory of their early love brought\nthoughts of their present situation and their future prospects. To these\nthe conversation always reverted, and evening after evening Pierre\nwitnessed their delight, and heard them talk of coming happiness like\nlovers transported to the seventh heaven. The suit for the dissolution of\nBenedetta\u2019s marriage was now assuming a more and more favourable aspect.\nGuided by a powerful hand, Donna Serafina was apparently acting very\nvigorously, for almost every day she had some further good news to\nreport. She was indeed anxious to finish the affair both for the\ncontinuity and for the honour of the name, for on the one hand Dario\nrefused to marry any one but his cousin, and on the other this marriage\nwould explain everything and put an end to an intolerable situation. The\nscandalous rumours which circulated both in the white and the black world\nquite incensed her, and a victory was the more necessary as Leo XIII,\nalready so aged, might be snatched away at any moment, and in the\nConclave which would follow she desired that her brother\u2019s name should\nshine forth with untarnished, sovereign radiance. Never had the secret\nambition of her life, the hope that her race might give a third pope to\nthe Church, filled her with so much passion. It was as if she therein\nsought a consolation for the harsh abandonment of Advocate Morano.\nInvariably clad in sombre garb, ever active and slim, so tightly laced\nthat from behind one might have taken her for a young girl, she was so to\nsay the black soul of that old palace; and Pierre, who met her\neverywhere, prowling and inspecting like a careful house-keeper, and\njealously watching over her brother the Cardinal, bowed to her in\nsilence, chilled to the heart by the stern look of her withered wrinkled\nface in which was set the large, opiniative nose of her family. However\nshe barely returned his bows, for she still disdained that paltry foreign\npriest, and only tolerated him in order to please Monsignor Nani and\nViscount Philibert de la Choue.\n\nA witness every evening of the anxious delight and impatience of\nBenedetta and Dario, Pierre by degrees became almost as impassioned as\nthemselves, as desirous for an early solution. Benedetta\u2019s suit was about\nto come before the Congregation of the Council once more. Monsignor\nPalma, the defender of the marriage, had demanded a supplementary inquiry\nafter the favourable decision arrived at in the first instance by a bare\nmajority of one vote--a majority which the Pope would certainly not have\nthought sufficient had he been asked for his ratification. So the\nquestion now was to gain votes among the ten cardinals who formed the\nCongregation, to persuade and convince them, and if possible ensure an\nalmost unanimous pronouncement. The task was arduous, for, instead of\nfacilitating matters, Benedetta\u2019s relationship to Cardinal Boccanera\nraised many difficulties, owing to the intriguing spirit rife at the\nVatican, the spite of rivals who, by perpetuating the scandal, hoped to\ndestroy Boccanera\u2019s chance of ever attaining to the papacy. Every\nafternoon, however, Donna Serafina devoted herself to the task of winning\nvotes under the direction of her confessor, Father Lorenza, whom she saw\ndaily at the Collegio Germanico, now the last refuge of the Jesuits in\nRome, for they have ceased to be masters of the Ges\u00f9. The chief hope of\nsuccess lay in Prada\u2019s formal declaration that he would not put in an\nappearance. The whole affair wearied and irritated him; the imputations\nlevelled against him as a man, seemed to him supremely odious and\nridiculous; and he no longer even took the trouble to reply to the\nassignations which were sent to him. He acted indeed as if he had never\nbeen married, though deep in his heart the wound dealt to his passion and\nhis pride still lingered, bleeding afresh whenever one or another of the\nscandalous rumours in circulation reached his ears. However, as their\nadversary desisted from all action, one can understand that the hopes of\nBenedetta and Dario increased, the more so as hardly an evening passed\nwithout Donna Serafina telling them that she believed she had gained the\nsupport of another cardinal.\n\nBut the man who terrified them all was Monsignor Palma, whom the\nCongregation had appointed to defend the sacred ties of matrimony. His\nrights and privileges were almost unlimited, he could appeal yet again,\nand in any case would make the affair drag on as long as it pleased him.\nHis first report, in reply to Morano\u2019s memoir, had been a terrible blow,\nand it was now said that a second one which he was preparing would prove\nyet more pitiless, establishing as a fundamental principle of the Church\nthat it could not annul a marriage whose nonconsummation was purely and\nsimply due to the action of the wife in refusing obedience to her\nhusband. In presence of such energy and logic, it was unlikely that the\ncardinals, even if sympathetic, would dare to advise the Holy Father to\ndissolve the marriage. And so discouragement was once more overcoming\nBenedetta when Donna Serafina, on returning from a visit to Monsignor\nNani, calmed her somewhat by telling her that a mutual friend had\nundertaken to deal with Monsignor Palma. However, said she, even if they\nsucceeded, it would doubtless cost them a large sum.\n\nMonsignor Palma, a theologist expert in all canonical affairs, and a\nperfectly honest man in pecuniary matters, had met with a great\nmisfortune in his life. He had a niece, a poor and lovely girl, for whom,\nunhappily, in his declining years he conceived an insensate passion, with\nthe result that to avoid a scandal he was compelled to marry her to a\nrascal who now preyed upon her and even beat her. And the prelate was now\npassing through a fearful crisis, weary of reducing himself to beggary,\nand indeed no longer having the money necessary to extricate his nephew\nby marriage from a very nasty predicament, the result of cheating at\ncards. So the idea was to save the young man by a considerable pecuniary\npayment, and then to procure him employment without asking aught of his\nuncle, who, as if offering complicity, came in tears one evening, when\nnight had fallen, to thank Donna Serafina for her exceeding goodness.\n\nPierre was with Dario that evening when Benedetta entered the room,\nlaughing and joyfully clapping her bands. \u201cIt\u2019s done, it\u2019s done!\u201d she\nsaid, \u201che has just left aunt, and vowed eternal gratitude to her. He will\nnow be obliged to show himself amiable.\u201d\n\nHowever Dario distrustfully inquired: \u201cBut was he made to sign anything,\ndid he enter into a formal engagement?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no; how could one do that? It\u2019s such a delicate matter,\u201d replied\nBenedetta. \u201cBut people say that he is a very honest man.\u201d Nevertheless,\nin spite of these words, she herself became uneasy. What if Monsignor\nPalma should remain incorruptible in spite of the great service which had\nbeen rendered him? Thenceforth this idea haunted them, and their suspense\nbegan once more.\n\nDario, eager to divert his mind, was imprudent enough to get up before he\nwas perfectly cured, and, his wound reopening, he was obliged to take to\nhis bed again for a few days. Every evening, as previously, Pierre strove\nto enliven him with an account of his strolls. The young priest was now\ngetting bolder, rambling in turn through all the districts of Rome, and\ndiscovering the many \u201cclassical\u201d curiosities catalogued in the\nguide-books. One evening he spoke with a kind of affection of the\nprincipal squares of the city which he had first thought commonplace, but\nwhich now seemed to him very varied, each with original features of its\nown. There was the noble Piazza del Popolo of such monumental symmetry\nand so full of sunlight; there was the Piazza di Spagna, the lively\nmeeting-place of foreigners, with its double flight of a hundred and\nthirty steps gilded by the sun; there was the vast Piazza Colonna, always\nswarming with people, and the most Italian of all the Roman squares from\nthe presence of the idle, careless crowd which ever lounged round the\ncolumn of Marcus Aurelius as if waiting for fortune to fall from heaven;\nthere was also the long and regular Piazza Navona, deserted since the\nmarket was no longer held there, and retaining a melancholy recollection\nof its former bustling life; and there was the Campo dei Fiori, which was\ninvaded each morning by the tumultuous fruit and vegetable markets, quite\na plantation of huge umbrellas sheltering heaps of tomatoes, pimentoes,\nand grapes amidst a noisy stream of dealers and housewives. Pierre\u2019s\ngreat surprise, however, was the Piazza del Campidoglio--the \u201cSquare of\nthe Capitol\u201d--which to him suggested a summit, an open spot overlooking\nthe city and the world, but which he found to be small and square, and on\nthree sides enclosed by palaces, whilst on the fourth side the view was\nof little extent.* There are no passers-by there; visitors usually come\nup by a flight of steps bordered by a few palm-trees, only foreigners\nmaking use of the winding carriage-ascent. The vehicles wait, and the\ntourists loiter for a while with their eyes raised to the admirable\nequestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, in antique bronze, which occupies\nthe centre of the piazza. Towards four o\u2019clock, when the sun gilds the\nleft-hand palace, and the slender statues of its entablature show vividly\nagainst the blue sky, you might think yourself in some warm cosy square\nof a little provincial town, what with the women of the neighbourhood who\nsit knitting under the arcade, and the bands of ragged urchins who\ndisport themselves on all sides like school-boys in a playground.\n\n  * The Piazza del Campidoglio is really a depression between the\n    Capitolium proper and the northern height called the Arx. It is\n    supposed to have been the exact site of Romulus\u2019s traditional\n    Asylum.--Trans.\n\nThen, on another evening Pierre told Benedetta and Dario of his\nadmiration for the Roman fountains, for in no other city of the world\ndoes water flow so abundantly and magnificently in fountains of bronze\nand marble, from the boat-shaped Fontana della Barcaccia on the Piazza di\nSpagna, the Triton on the Piazza Barberini, and the Tortoises which give\ntheir name to the Piazza delle Tartarughe, to the three fountains of the\nPiazza Navona where Bernini\u2019s vast central composition of rock and\nriver-gods rises so triumphantly, and to the colossal and pompous\nfountain of Trevi, where King Neptune stands on high attended by lofty\nfigures of Health and Fruitfulness. And on yet another evening Pierre\ncame home quite pleased, relating that he had at last discovered why it\nwas that the old streets around the Capitol and along the Tiber seemed to\nhim so strange: it was because they had no footways, and pedestrians,\ninstead of skirting the walls, invariably took the middle of the road,\nleisurely wending their way among the vehicles. Pierre was very fond of\nthose old districts with their winding lanes, their tiny squares so\nirregular in shape, and their huge square mansions swamped by a\nmultitudinous jumble of little houses. He found a charm, too, in the\ndistrict of the Esquiline, where, besides innumerable flights of\nascending steps, each of grey pebbles edged with white stone, there were\nsudden sinuous slopes, tiers of terraces, seminaries and convents,\nlifeless, with their windows ever closed, and lofty, blank walls above\nwhich a superb palm-tree would now and again soar into the spotless blue\nof the sky. And on yet another evening, having strolled into the Campagna\nbeside the Tiber and above the Ponte Molle, he came back full of\nenthusiasm for a form of classical art which hitherto he had scarcely\nappreciated. Along the river bank, however, he had found the very scenery\nthat Poussin so faithfully depicted: the sluggish, yellow stream fringed\nwith reeds; low riven cliffs, whose chalky whiteness showed against the\nruddy background of a far-stretching, undulating plain, bounded by blue\nhills; a few spare trees with a ruined porticus opening on to space atop\nof the bank, and a line of pale-hued sheep descending to drink, whilst\nthe shepherd, with an elbow resting on the trunk of an ilex-tree, stood\nlooking on. It was a special kind of beauty, broad and ruddy, made up of\nnothing, sometimes simplified into a series of low, horizontal lines, but\never ennobled by the great memories it evoked: the Roman legions marching\nalong the paved highways across the bare Campagna; the long slumber of\nthe middle ages; and then the awakening of antique nature in the midst of\nCatholicism, whereby, for the second time, Rome became ruler of the\nworld.\n\nOne day when Pierre came back from seeing the great modern cemetery, the\nCampo Verano, he found Celia, as well as Benedetta, by the side of\nDario\u2019s bed. \u201cWhat, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9!\u201d exclaimed the little Princess when\nshe learnt where he had been; \u201cit amuses you to visit the dead?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh those Frenchmen,\u201d remarked Dario, to whom the mere idea of a cemetery\nwas repulsive; \u201cthose Frenchmen seem to take a pleasure in making their\nlives wretched with their partiality for gloomy scenes.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut there is no escaping the reality of death,\u201d gently replied Pierre;\n\u201cthe best course is to look it in the face.\u201d\n\nThis made the Prince quite angry. \u201cReality, reality,\u201d said he, \u201cwhen\nreality isn\u2019t pleasant I don\u2019t look at it; I try never to think of it\neven.\u201d\n\nIn spite of this rejoinder, Pierre, with his smiling, placid air, went on\nenumerating the things which had struck him: first, the admirable manner\nin which the cemetery was kept, then the festive appearance which it\nderived from the bright autumn sun, and the wonderful profusion in which\nmarble was lavished in slabs, statues, and chapels. The ancient atavism\nhad surely been at work, the sumptuous mausoleums of the Appian Way had\nhere sprung up afresh, making death a pretext for the display of pomp and\npride. In the upper part of the cemetery the Roman nobility had a\ndistrict of its own, crowded with veritable temples, colossal statues,\ngroups of several figures; and if at times the taste shown in these\nmonuments was deplorable, it was none the less certain that millions had\nbeen expended on them. One charming feature of the place, said Pierre,\nwas that the marbles, standing among yews and cypresses were remarkably\nwell preserved, white and spotless; for, if the summer sun slowly gilded\nthem, there were none of those stains of moss and rain which impart an\naspect of melancholy decay to the statues of northern climes.\n\nTouched by the discomfort of Dario, Benedetta, hitherto silent, ended by\ninterrupting Pierre. \u201cAnd was the hunt interesting?\u201d she asked, turning\nto Celia.\n\nThe little Princess had been taken by her mother to see a fox-hunt, and\nhad been speaking of it when the priest entered the room.\n\n\u201cYes, it was very interesting, my dear,\u201d she replied; \u201cthe meet was at\nnoon near the tomb of C\u00e6cilia Metella, where a buffet had been arranged\nunder a tent. And there was such a number of people--the foreign colony,\nthe young men of the embassies, and some officers, not to mention\nourselves--all the men in scarlet and a great many ladies in habits. The\n\u2018throw-off\u2019 was at one o\u2019clock, and the gallop lasted more than two hours\nand a half, so that the fox had a very long run. I wasn\u2019t able to follow,\nbut all the same I saw some extraordinary things--a great wall which the\nwhole hunt had to leap, and then ditches and hedges--a mad race indeed in\nthe rear of the hounds. There were two accidents, but nothing serious;\none gentleman, who was unseated, sprained his wrist badly, and another\nbroke his leg.\u201d*\n\n  * The Roman Hunt, which counts about one hundred subscribers,\n    has flourished since 1840. There is a kennel of English\n    hounds, an English huntsman and whip, and a stable of\n    English hunters.--Trans.\n\nDario had listened to Celia with passionate interest, for fox-hunting is\none of the great pleasures of Rome, and the Campagna, flat and yet\nbristling with obstacles, is certainly well adapted to the sport. \u201cAh!\u201d\n said the young Prince in a despairing tone, \u201chow idiotic it is to be\nriveted to this room! I shall end by dying of _ennui_!\u201d\n\nBenedetta contented herself with smiling; neither reproach nor expression\nof sadness came from her at this candid display of egotism. Her own\nhappiness at having him all to herself in the room where she nursed him\nwas great indeed; still her love, at once full of youth and good sense,\nincluded a maternal element, and she well understood that he hardly\namused himself, deprived as he was of his customary pleasures and severed\nfrom his friends, few of whom he was willing to receive, for he feared\nthat they might think the story of the dislocated shoulder suspicious. Of\ncourse there were no more _f\u00eates_, no more evenings at the theatre, no\nmore flirtations. But above everything else Dario missed the Corso, and\nsuffered despairingly at no longer seeing or learning anything by\nwatching the procession of Roman society from four to five each\nafternoon. Accordingly, as soon as an intimate called, there were endless\nquestions: Had the visitor seen so and so? Had such a one reappeared? How\nhad a certain friend\u2019s love affair ended? Was any new adventure setting\nthe city agog? And so forth; all the petty frivolities, nine days\u2019\nwonders, and puerile intrigues in which the young Prince had hitherto\nexpended his manly energy.\n\nAfter a pause Celia, who was fond of coming to him with innocent gossip,\nfixed her candid eyes on him--the fathomless eyes of an enigmatical\nvirgin, and resumed: \u201cHow long it takes to set a shoulder right!\u201d\n\nHad she, child as she was, with love her only business, divined the\ntruth? Dario in his embarrassment glanced at Benedetta, who still smiled.\nHowever, the little Princess was already darting to another subject: \u201cAh!\nyou know, Dario, at the Corso yesterday I saw a lady--\u201d Then she stopped\nshort, surprised and embarrassed that these words should have escaped\nher. However, in all bravery she resumed like one who had been a friend\nsince childhood, sharing many a little love secret: \u201cYes, a very pretty\nperson whom you know. Well, she had a bouquet of white roses with her all\nthe same.\u201d\n\nAt this Benedetta indulged in a burst of frank merriment, and Dario,\nstill looking at her, also laughed. She had twitted him during the early\ndays because no young woman ever sent to make inquiries about him. For\nhis part, he was not displeased with the rupture, for the continuance of\nthe connection might have proved embarrassing; and so, although his\nvanity may have been slightly hurt, the news that he was already replaced\nin La Tonietta\u2019s affections was welcome rather than otherwise. \u201cAh!\u201d he\ncontented himself with saying, \u201cthe absent are always in the wrong.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe man one loves is never absent,\u201d declared Celia with her grave,\ncandid air.\n\nHowever, Benedetta had stepped up to the bed to raise the young man\u2019s\npillows: \u201cNever mind, Dario _mio_,\u201d said she, \u201call those things are over;\nI mean to keep you, and you will only have me to love.\u201d\n\nHe gave her a passionate glance and kissed her hair. She spoke the truth:\nhe had never loved any one but her, and she was not mistaken in her\nanticipation of keeping him always to herself alone, as soon as they\nshould be wedded. To her great delight, since she had been nursing him he\nhad become quite childish again, such as he had been when she had learnt\nto love him under the orange-trees of the Villa Montefiori. He retained a\nsort of puerility, doubtless the outcome of impoverished blood, that\nreturn to childhood which one remarks amongst very ancient races; and he\ntoyed on his bed with pictures, gazed for hours at photographs, which\nmade him laugh. Moreover, his inability to endure suffering had yet\nincreased; he wished Benedetta to be gay and sing, and amused her with\nhis petty egotism which led him to dream of a life of continual joy with\nher. Ah! how pleasant it would be to live together and for ever in the\nsunlight, to do nothing and care for nothing, and even if the world\nshould crumble somewhere to heed it not!\n\n\u201cOne thing which greatly pleases me,\u201d suddenly said the young Prince, \u201cis\nthat Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 has ended by falling in love with Rome.\u201d\n\nPierre admitted it with a good grace.\n\n\u201cWe told you so,\u201d remarked Benedetta. \u201cA great deal of time is needed for\none to understand and love Rome. If you had only stayed here for a\nfortnight you would have gone off with a deplorable idea of us, but now\nthat you have been here for two full months we are quite at ease, for you\nwill never think of us without affection.\u201d\n\nShe looked exceedingly charming as she spoke these words, and Pierre\nagain bowed. However, he had already given thought to the phenomenon, and\nfancied he could explain it. When a stranger comes to Rome he brings with\nhim a Rome of his own, a Rome such as he dreams of, so ennobled by\nimagination that the real Rome proves a terrible disenchantment. And so\nit is necessary to wait for habituation, for the mediocrity of the\nreality to soften, and for the imagination to have time to kindle again,\nand only behold things such as they are athwart the prodigious splendour\nof the past.\n\nHowever, Celia had risen and was taking leave. \u201cGood-bye, dear,\u201d she\nsaid; \u201cI hope the wedding will soon take place. You know, Dario, that I\nmean to be betrothed before the end of the month. Oh yes, I intend to\nmake my father give a grand entertainment. And how nice it would be if\nthe two weddings could take place at the same time!\u201d\n\nTwo days later, after a long ramble through the Trastevere district,\nfollowed by a visit to the Palazzo Farnese, Pierre felt that he could at\nlast understand the terrible, melancholy truth about Rome. He had several\ntimes already strolled through the Trastevere, attracted towards its\nwretched denizens by his compassion for all who suffered. Ah! that\nquagmire of wretchedness and ignorance! He knew of abominable nooks in\nthe faubourgs of Paris, frightful \u201crents\u201d and \u201ccourts\u201d where people\nrotted in heaps, but there was nothing in France to equal the listless,\nfilthy stagnation of the Trastevere. On the brightest days a dank gloom\nchilled the sinuous, cellar-like lanes, and the smell of rotting\nvegetables, rank oil, and human animality brought on fits of nausea.\nJumbled together in a confusion which artists of romantic turn would\nadmire, the antique, irregular houses had black, gaping entrances diving\nbelow ground, outdoor stairways conducting to upper floors, and wooden\nbalconies which only a miracle upheld. There were crumbling fronts,\nshored up with beams; sordid lodgings whose filth and bareness could be\nseen through shattered windows; and numerous petty shops, all the\nopen-air cook-stalls of a lazy race which never lighted a fire at home:\nyou saw frying-shops with heaps of polenta, and fish swimming in stinking\noil, and dealers in cooked vegetables displaying huge turnips, celery,\ncauliflowers, and spinach, all cold and sticky. The butcher\u2019s meat was\nblack and clumsily cut up; the necks of the animals bristled with bloody\nclots, as though the heads had simply been torn away. The baker\u2019s loaves,\npiled on planks, looked like little round paving stones; at the beggarly\ngreengrocers\u2019 merely a few pimentoes and fir-apples were shown under the\nstrings of dry tomatoes which festooned the doorways; and the only shops\nwhich were at all attractive were those of the pork butchers with their\nsalted provisions and their cheese, whose pungent smell slightly\nattenuated the pestilential reek of the gutters. Lottery offices,\ndisplaying lists of winning numbers, alternated with wine-shops, of which\nlatter there was a fresh one every thirty yards with large inscriptions\nsetting forth that the best wines of Genzano, Marino, and Frascati were\nto be found within. And the whole district teemed with ragged, grimy\ndenizens, children half naked and devoured by vermin, bare-headed,\ngesticulating and shouting women, whose skirts were stiff with grease,\nold men who remained motionless on benches amidst swarms of hungry flies;\nidleness and agitation appearing on all sides, whilst cobblers sat on the\nsidewalks quietly plying their trade, and little donkeys pulled carts\nhither and thither, and men drove turkeys along, whip in hand, and hands\nof beggars rushed upon the few anxious tourists who had timorously\nventured into the district. At the door of a little tailor\u2019s shop an old\nhouse-pail dangled full of earth, in which a succulent plant was\nflowering. And from every window and balcony, as from the many cords\nwhich stretched across the street from house to house, all the household\nwashing hung like bunting, nameless drooping rags, the symbolical banners\nof abominable misery.\n\nPierre\u2019s fraternal, soul filled with pity at the sight. Ah! yes, it was\nnecessary to demolish all those pestilential districts where the populace\nhad wallowed for centuries as in a poisonous gaol! He was for demolition\nand sanitary improvement, even if old Rome were killed and artists\nscandalised. Doubtless the Trastevere was already greatly changed,\npierced with several new thoroughfares which let the sun stream in. And\namidst the _abattis_ of rubbish and the spacious clearings, where nothing\nnew had yet been erected, the remaining portions of the old district\nseemed even blacker and more loathsome. Some day, no doubt, it would all\nbe rebuilt, but how interesting was this phase of the city\u2019s evolution:\nold Rome expiring and new Rome just dawning amidst countless\ndifficulties! To appreciate the change it was necessary to have known the\nfilthy Rome of the past, swamped by sewage in every form. The recently\nlevelled Ghetto had, over a course of centuries, so rotted the soil on\nwhich it stood that an awful pestilential odour yet arose from its bare\nsite. It was only fitting that it should long remain waste, so that it\nmight dry and become purified in the sun. In all the districts on either\nside of the Tiber where extensive improvements have been undertaken you\nfind the same scenes. You follow some narrow, damp, evil-smelling street\nwith black house-fronts and overhanging roofs, and suddenly come upon a\nclearing as in a forest of ancient leprous hovels. There are squares,\nbroad footways; lofty white carved buildings yet in the rough, littered\nwith rubbish and fenced off. On every side you find as it were a huge\nbuilding yard, which the financial crisis perpetuates; the city of\nto-morrow arrested in its growth, stranded there in its monstrous,\nprecocious, surprising infancy. Nevertheless, therein lies good and\nhealthful work, such as was and is absolutely necessary if Rome is to\nbecome a great modern city, instead of being left to rot, to dwindle into\na mere ancient curiosity, a museum show-piece.\n\nThat day, as Pierre went from the Trastevere to the Palazzo Farnese,\nwhere he was expected, he chose a roundabout route, following the Via di\nPettinari and the Via dei Giubbonari, the former so dark and narrow with\na great hospital wall on one side and a row of wretched houses on the\nother, and the latter animated by a constant stream of people and\nenlivened by the jewellers\u2019 windows, full of big gold chains, and the\ndisplays of the drapers\u2019 shops, where stuffs hung in bright red, blue,\ngreen, and yellow lengths. And the popular district through which he had\nroamed and the trading district which he was now crossing reminded him of\nthe castle fields with their mass of workpeople reduced to mendicity by\nlack of employment and forced to camp in the superb, unfinished,\nabandoned mansions. Ah! the poor, sad people, who were yet so childish,\nkept in the ignorance and credulity of a savage race by centuries of\ntheocracy, so habituated to mental night and bodily suffering that even\nto-day they remained apart from the social awakening, simply desirous of\nenjoying their pride, indolence, and sunlight in peace! They seemed both\nblind and deaf in their decadence, and whilst Rome was being overturned\nthey continued to lead the stagnant life of former times, realising\nnought but the worries of the improvements, the demolition of the old\nfavourite districts, the consequent change in habits, and the rise in the\ncost of food, as if indeed they would rather have gone without light,\ncleanliness, and health, since these could only be secured by a great\nfinancial and labour crisis. And yet, at bottom, it was solely for the\npeople, the populace, that Rome was being cleansed and rebuilt with the\nidea of making it a great modern capital, for democracy lies at the end\nof these present day transformations; it is the people who will inherit\nthe cities whence dirt and disease are being expelled, and where the law\nof labour will end by prevailing and killing want. And so, though one may\ncurse the dusting and repairing of the ruins and the stripping of all the\nwild flora from the Colosseum, though one may wax indignant at sight of\nthe hideous fortress like ramparts which imprison the Tiber, and bewail\nthe old romantic banks with their greenery and their antique dwellings\ndipping into the stream, one must at the same time acknowledge that life\nsprings from death, and that to-morrow must perforce blossom in the dust\nof the past.\n\nWhile thinking of all these things Pierre had reached the deserted,\nstern-looking Piazza Farnese, and for a moment he looked up at the bare\nmonumental fa\u00e7ade of the heavy square Palazzo, its lofty entrance where\nhung the tricolour, its rows of windows and its famous cornice sculptured\nwith such marvellous art. Then he went in. A friend of Narcisse Habert,\none of the _attach\u00e9s_ of the embassy to the King of Italy, was waiting\nfor him, having offered to show him over the huge pile, the finest palace\nin Rome, which France had leased as a lodging for her ambassador.* Ah!\nthat colossal, sumptuous, deadly dwelling, with its vast court whose\nporticus is so dark and damp, its giant staircase with low steps, its\nendless corridors, its immense galleries and halls. All was sovereign\npomp blended with death. An icy, penetrating chill fell from the walls.\nWith a discreet smile the _attach\u00e9_ owned that the embassy was frozen in\nwinter and baked in summer. The only part of the building which was at\nall lively and pleasant was the first storey, overlooking the Tiber,\nwhich the ambassador himself occupied. From the gallery there, containing\nthe famous frescoes of Annibale Caracci, one can see the Janiculum, the\nCorsini gardens, and the Acqua Paola above San Pietro in Montorio. Then,\nafter a vast drawing-room comes the study, peaceful and pleasant, and\nenlivened by sunshine. But the dining-room, the bed-chambers, and other\napartments occupied by the _personnel_ look out on to the mournful gloom\nof a side street. All these vast rooms, twenty and four-and-twenty feet\nhigh, have admirable carved or painted ceilings, bare walls, a few of\nthem decorated with frescoes, and incongruous furniture, superb pier\ntables mingling with modern _bric-\u00e0-brac_. And things become abominable\nwhen you enter the gala reception-rooms overlooking the piazza, for there\nyou no longer find an article of furniture, no longer a hanging, nothing\nbut disaster, a series of magnificent deserted halls given over to rats\nand spiders. The embassy occupies but one of them, where it heaps up its\ndusty archives. Near by is a huge hall occupying the height of two\nfloors, and thus sixty feet in elevation. Reserved by the owner of the\npalace, the ex-King of Naples, it has become a mere lumber-room where\n_maquettes_, unfinished statues, and a very fine sarcophagus are stowed\naway amidst all kinds of remnants. And this is but a part of the palace.\nThe ground floor is altogether uninhabited; the French \u201c\u00c9cole de Rome\u201d\n occupies a corner of the second floor; while the embassy huddles in\nchilly fashion in the most habitable corner of the first floor, compelled\nto abandon everything else and lock the doors to spare itself the useless\ntrouble of sweeping. No doubt it is grand to live in the Palazzo Farnese,\nbuilt by Pope Paul III and for more than a century inhabited by\ncardinals; but how cruel the discomfort and how frightful the melancholy\nof this huge ruin, three-fourths of whose rooms are dead, useless,\nimpossible, cut off from life. And the evenings, oh! the evenings, when\nporch, court, stairs, and corridors are invaded by dense gloom, against\nwhich a few smoky gas lamps struggle in vain, when a long, long journey\nlies before one through the lugubrious desert of stone, before one\nreaches the ambassador\u2019s warm and cheerful drawing-room!\n\n  * The French have two embassies at Rome: one at the Palazzo\n    Farnese, to the Italian Court, and the other at the Palazzo\n    Rospigliosi, to the Vatican.--Trans.\n\nPierre came away quite aghast. And, as he walked along, the many other\ngrand palaces which he had seen during his strolls rose before him, one\nand all of them stripped of their splendour, shorn of their princely\nestablishments, let out in uncomfortable flats! What could be done with\nthose grandiose galleries and halls now that no fortune could defray the\ncost of the pompous life for which they had been built, or even feed the\nretinue needed to keep them up? Few indeed were the nobles who, like\nPrince Aldobrandini, with his numerous progeny, still occupied their\nentire mansions. Almost all of them let the antique dwellings of their\nforefathers to companies or individual tenants, reserving only a storey,\nand at times a mere lodging in some dark corner, for themselves. The\nPalazzo Chigi was let: the ground floor to bankers and the first floor to\nthe Austrian ambassador, while the Prince and his family divided the\nsecond floor with a cardinal. The Palazzo Sciarra was let: the first\nfloor to the Minister of Foreign Affairs and the second to a senator,\nwhile the Prince and his mother merely occupied the ground floor. The\nPalazzo Barberini was let: its ground floor, first floor, and second\nfloor to various families, whilst the Prince found a refuge on the third\nfloor in the rooms which had been occupied by his ancestors\u2019 lackeys. The\nPalazzo Borghese was let: the ground floor to a dealer in antiquities,\nthe first floor to a Lodge of Freemasons, and the rest to various\nhouseholds, whilst the Prince only retained the use of a small suite of\napartments. And the Palazzo Odescalchi, the Palazzo Colonna, the Palazzo\nDoria were let: their Princes reduced to the position of needy landlords\neager to derive as much profit as possible from their property in order\nto make both ends meet. A blast of ruin was sweeping over the Roman\npatriziato, the greatest fortunes had crumbled in the financial crisis,\nvery few remained wealthy, and what a wealth it was, stagnant and dead,\nwhich neither commerce nor industry could renew. The numerous princes who\nhad tried speculation were stripped of their fortunes. The others,\nterrified, called upon to pay enormous taxes, amounting to nearly\none-third of their incomes, could henceforth only wait and behold their\nlast stagnant millions dwindle away till they were exhausted or\ndistributed according to the succession laws. Such wealth as remained to\nthese nobles must perish, for, like everything else, wealth perishes when\nit lacks a soil in which it may fructify. In all this there was solely a\nquestion of time: eventual ruin was a foregone and irremediable\nconclusion, of absolute, historical certainty. Those who resigned\nthemselves to the course of letting their deserted mansions still\nstruggled for life, seeking to accommodate themselves to present-day\nexigencies; whilst death already dwelt among the others, those stubborn,\nproud ones who immured themselves in the tombs of their race, like that\nappalling Palazzo Boccanera, which was falling into dust amidst such\nchilly gloom and silence, the latter only broken at long intervals when\nthe Cardinal\u2019s old coach rumbled over the grassy court.\n\nThe point which most struck Pierre, however, was that his visits to the\nTrastevere and the Palazzo Farnese shed light one on the other, and led\nhim to a conclusion which had never previously seemed so manifest. As yet\nno \u201cpeople,\u201d and soon no aristocracy. He had found the people so\nwretched, ignorant, and resigned in its long infancy induced by historic\nand climatic causes that many years of instruction and culture were\nnecessary for it to become a strong, healthy, and laborious democracy,\nconscious of both its rights and its duties. As for the aristocracy, it\nwas dwindling to death in its crumbling palaces, no longer aught than a\nfinished, degenerate race, with such an admixture also of American,\nAustrian, Polish, and Spanish blood that pure Roman blood became a rare\nexception; and, moreover, it had ceased to belong either to sword or\ngown, unwilling to serve constitutional Italy and forsaking the Sacred\nCollege, where only _parvenus_ now donned the purple. And between the\nlowly and the aristocracy there was as yet no firmly seated middle class,\nwith the vigour of fresh sap and sufficient knowledge, and good sense to\nact as the transitional educator of the nation. The middle class was made\nup in part of the old servants and clients of the princes, the farmers\nwho rented their lands, the stewards, notaries, and solicitors who\nmanaged their fortunes; in part, too, of all the employees, the\nfunctionaries of every rank and class, the deputies and senators, whom\nthe new Government had brought from the provinces; and, in particular, of\nthe voracious hawks who had swooped down upon Rome, the Pradas, the men\nof prey from all parts of the kingdom, who with beak and talon devoured\nboth people and aristocracy. For whom, then, had one laboured? For whom\nhad those gigantic works of new Rome been undertaken? A shudder of fear\nsped by, a crack as of doom was heard, arousing pitiful disquietude in\nevery fraternal heart. Yes, a threat of doom and annihilation: as yet no\npeople, soon no aristocracy, and only a ravenous middle class, quarrying,\nvulture-like, among the ruins.\n\nOn the evening of that day, when all was dark, Pierre went to spend an\nhour on the river quay beyond the Boccanera mansion. He was very fond of\nmeditating on that deserted spot in spite of the warnings of Victorine,\nwho asserted that it was not safe. And, indeed, on such inky nights as\nthat one, no cutthroat place ever presented a more tragic aspect. Not a\nsoul, not a passer-by; a dense gloom, a void in front and on either hand.\nAt a corner of the mansion, now steeped in darkness, there was a gas lamp\nwhich stood in a hollow since the river margin had been banked up, and\nthis lamp cast an uncertain glimmer upon the quay, level with the\nlatter\u2019s bossy soil. Thus long vague shadows stretched from the various\nmaterials, piles of bricks and piles of stone, which were strewn around.\nOn the right a few lights shone upon the bridge near San Giovanni and in\nthe windows of the hospital of the Santo Spirito. On the left, amidst the\ndim recession of the river, the distant districts were blotted out. Then\nyonder, across the stream, was the Trastevere, the houses on the bank\nlooking like vague, pale phantoms, with infrequent window-panes showing a\nblurred yellow glimmer, whilst on high only a dark band shadowed the\nJaniculum, near whose summit the lamps of some promenade scintillated\nlike a triangle of stars. But it was the Tiber which impassioned Pierre;\nsuch was its melancholy majesty during those nocturnal hours. Leaning\nover the parapet, he watched it gliding between the new walls, which\nlooked like those of some black and monstrous prison built for a giant.\nSo long as lights gleamed in the windows of the houses opposite he saw\nthe sluggish water flow by, showing slow, moire-like ripples there where\nthe quivering reflections endowed it with a mysterious life. And he often\nmused on the river\u2019s famous past and evoked the legends which assert that\nfabulous wealth lies buried in its muddy bed. At each fresh invasion of\nthe barbarians, and particularly when Rome was sacked, the treasures of\npalaces and temples are said to have been cast into the water to prevent\nthem from falling into the hands of the conquerors. Might not those\ngolden bars trembling yonder in the glaucous stream be the branches of\nthe famous candelabrum which Titus brought from Jerusalem? Might not\nthose pale patches whose shape remained uncertain amidst the frequent\neddies indicate the white marble of statues and columns? And those deep\nmoires glittering with little flamelets, were they not promiscuous heaps\nof precious metal, cups, vases, ornaments enriched with gems? What a\ndream was that of the swarming riches espied athwart the old river\u2019s\nbosom, of the hidden life of the treasures which were said to have\nslumbered there for centuries; and what a hope for the nation\u2019s pride and\nenrichment centred in the miraculous finds which might be made in the\nTiber if one could some day dry it up and search its bed, as had already\nbeen suggested! Therein, perchance, lay Rome\u2019s new fortune.\n\nHowever, on that black night, whilst Pierre leant over the parapet, it\nwas stern reality alone which occupied his mind. He was still pursuing\nthe train of thought suggested by his visits to the Trastevere and the\nFarnese palace, and in presence of that lifeless water was coming to the\nconclusion that the selection of Rome for transformation into a modern\ncapital was the great misfortune to which the sufferings of young Italy\nwere due. He knew right well that the selection had been inevitable: Rome\nbeing the queen of glory, the antique ruler of the world to whom eternity\nhad been promised, and without whom the national unity had always seemed\nan impossibility. And so the problem was a terrible one, since without\nRome Italy could not exist, and with Rome it seemed difficult for it to\nexist. Ah! that dead river, how it symbolised disaster! Not a boat upon\nits surface, not a quiver of the commercial and industrial activity of\nthose waters which bear life to the very hearts of great modern cities!\nThere had been fine schemes, no doubt--Rome a seaport, gigantic works,\ncanalisation to enable vessels of heavy tonnage to come up to the\nAventine; but these were mere delusions; the authorities would scarcely\nbe able to clear the river mouth, which deposits were continually\nchoking. And there was that other cause of mortal languishment, the\nCampagna--the desert of death which the dead river crossed and which\ngirdled Rome with sterility. There was talk of draining and planting it;\nmuch futile discussion on the question whether it had been fertile in the\ndays of the old Romans; and even a few experiments were made; but, all\nthe same, Rome remained in the midst of a vast cemetery like a city of\nother times, for ever separated from the modern world by that _lande_ or\nmoor where the dust of centuries had accumulated. The geographical\nconsiderations which once gave the city the empire of the world no longer\nexist. The centre of civilisation has been displaced. The basin of the\nMediterranean has been divided among powerful nations. In Italy all roads\nnow lead to Milan, the city of industry and commerce, and Rome is but a\ntown of passage. And so the most valiant efforts have failed to rouse it\nfrom its invincible slumber. The capital which the newcomers sought to\nimprovise with such extreme haste has remained unfinished, and has almost\nruined the nation. The Government, legislators, and functionaries only\ncamp there, fleeing directly the warm weather sets in so as to escape the\npernicious climate. The hotels and shops even put up their shutters, and\nthe streets and promenades become deserts, the city having failed to\nacquire any life of its own, and relapsing into death as soon as the\nartificial life instilled into it is withdrawn. So all remains in\nsuspense in this purely decorative capital, where only a fresh growth of\nmen and money can finish and people the huge useless piles of the new\ndistricts. If it be true that to-morrow always blooms in the dust of the\npast, one ought to force oneself to hope; but Pierre asked himself if the\nsoil were not exhausted, and since mere buildings could no longer grow on\nit, if it were not for ever drained of the sap which makes a race\nhealthy, a nation powerful.\n\nAs the night advanced the lights in the houses of the Trastevere went out\none by one: yet Pierre for a long time lingered on the quay, leaning over\nthe blackened river and yielding to hopelessness. There was now no\ndistance to the gloom; all had become dense; no longer did any\nreflections set a moire-like, golden quiver in the water, or reveal\nbeneath its mystery-concealing current a fantastic, dancing vision of\nfabulous wealth. Gone was the legend, gone the seven-branched golden\ncandelabrum, gone the golden vases, gone the golden jewellery, the whole\ndream of antique treasure that had vanished into night, even like the\nantique glory of Rome. Not a glimmer, nothing but slumber, disturbed\nsolely by the heavy fall of sewage from the drain on the right-hand,\nwhich could not be seen. The very water had disappeared, and Pierre no\nlonger espied its leaden flow through the darkness, no longer had any\nperception of the sluggish senility, the long-dating weariness, the\nintense sadness of that ancient and glorious Tiber, whose waters now\nrolled nought but death. Only the vast, opulent sky, the eternal, pompous\nsky displayed the dazzling life of its milliards of planets above that\nriver of darkness, bearing away the ruins of wellnigh three thousand\nyears.\n\nBefore returning to his own chamber that evening Pierre entered Dario\u2019s\nroom, and found Victorine there preparing things for the night. And as\nsoon as she heard where he had been she raised her voice in protest:\n\u201cWhat! you have again been to the quay at this time of night, Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9? You want to get a good knife thrust yourself, it seems. Well, for\nmy part, I certainly wouldn\u2019t take the air at such a late hour in this\ndangerous city.\u201d Then, with her wonted familiarity, she turned and spoke\nto the Prince, who was lying back in an arm-chair and smiling: \u201cThat\ngirl, La Pierina,\u201d she said, \u201chasn\u2019t been back here, but all the same\nI\u2019ve lately seen her prowling about among the building materials.\u201d\n\nDario raised his hand to silence her, and, addressing Pierre, exclaimed:\n\u201cBut you spoke to her, didn\u2019t you? It\u2019s becoming idiotic! Just fancy that\nbrute Tito coming back to dig his knife into my other shoulder--\u201d\n\nAll at once he paused, for he had just perceived Benedetta standing there\nand listening to him; she had slipped into the room a moment previously\nin order to wish him good-night. At sight of her his embarrassment was\ngreat indeed; he wished to speak, explain his words, and swear that he\nwas wholly innocent in the affair. But she, with a smiling face,\ncontented herself with saying, \u201cI knew all about it, Dario _mio_. I am\nnot so foolish as not to have thought it all over and understood the\ntruth. If I ceased questioning you it was because I knew, and loved you\nall the same.\u201d\n\nThe young woman looked very happy as she spoke, and for this she had good\ncause, for that very evening she had learnt that Monsignor Palma had\nshown himself grateful for the service rendered to his nephew by laying a\nfresh and favourable memoir on the marriage affair before the\nCongregation of the Council. He had been unwilling to recall his previous\nopinions so far as to range himself completely on the Contessina\u2019s side,\nbut the certificates of two doctors whom she had recently seen had\nenabled him to conclude that her own declarations were accurate. And\ngliding over the question of wifely obedience, on which he had previously\nlaid stress, he had skilfully set forth the reasons which made a\ndissolution of the marriage desirable. No hope of reconciliation could be\nentertained, so it was certain that both parties were constantly exposed\nto temptation and sin. He discreetly alluded to the fact that the husband\nhad already succumbed to this danger, and praised the wife\u2019s lofty\nmorality and piety, all the virtues which she displayed, and which\nguaranteed her veracity. Then, without formulating any conclusion of his\nown, he left the decision to the wisdom of the Congregation. And as he\nvirtually repeated Advocate Morano\u2019s arguments, and Prada stubbornly\nrefused to enter an appearance, it now seemed certain that the\nCongregation would by a great majority pronounce itself in favour of\ndissolution, a result which would enable the Holy Father to act\nbenevolently.\n\n\u201cAh! Dario _mio_!\u201d said Benedetta, \u201cwe are at the end of our worries. But\nwhat a lot of money, what a lot of money it all costs! Aunt says that\nthey will scarcely leave us water to drink.\u201d\n\nSo speaking she laughed with the happy heedlessness of an impassioned\n_amorosa_. It was not that the jurisdiction of the Congregations was in\nitself ruinous; indeed, in principle, it was gratuitous. Still there were\na multitude of petty expenses, payments to subaltern employees, payments\nfor medical consultations and certificates, copies of documents, and the\nmemoirs and addresses of counsel. And although the votes of the cardinals\nwere certainly not bought direct, some of them ended by costing\nconsiderable sums, for it often became necessary to win over dependants,\nto induce quite a little world to bring influence to bear upon their\nEminences; without mentioning that large pecuniary gifts, when made with\ntact, have a decisive effect in clearing away the greatest difficulties\nin that sphere of the Vatican. And, briefly, Monsignor Palma\u2019s nephew by\nmarriage had cost the Boccaneras a large sum.\n\n\u201cBut it doesn\u2019t matter, does it, Dario _mio_?\u201d continued Benedetta.\n\u201cSince you are now cured, they must make haste to give us permission to\nmarry. That\u2019s all we ask of them. And if they want more, well, I\u2019ll give\nthem my pearls, which will be all I shall have left me.\u201d\n\nHe also laughed, for money had never held any place in his life. He had\nnever had it at his pleasure, and simply hoped that he would always live\nwith his uncle the cardinal, who would certainly not leave him and his\nyoung wife in the streets. Ruined as the family was, one or two hundred\nthousand francs represented nothing to his mind, and he had heard that\ncertain dissolutions of marriage had cost as much as half a million. So,\nby way of response, he could only find a jest: \u201cGive them my ring as\nwell,\u201d said he; \u201cgive them everything, my dear, and we shall still be\nhappy in this old palace even if we have to sell the furniture!\u201d\n\nHis words filled her with enthusiasm; she took his head between both\nhands and kissed him madly on the eyes in an extraordinary transport of\npassion. Then, suddenly turning to Pierre, she said: \u201cOh! excuse me,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. I was forgetting that I have a commission for you. Yes,\nMonsignor Nani, who brought us that good news, bade me tell you that you\nare making people forget you too much, and that you ought to set to work\nto defend your book.\u201d\n\nThe priest listened in astonishment; then replied: \u201cBut it was he who\nadvised me to disappear.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt--only it seems that the time has now come for you to see people\nand plead your cause. And Monsignor Nani has been able to learn that the\nreporter appointed to examine your book is Monsignor Fornaro, who lives\non the Piazza Navona.\u201d\n\nPierre\u2019s stupefaction was increasing, for a reporter\u2019s name is never\ndivulged, but kept quite secret, in order to ensure a free exercise of\njudgment. Was a new phase of his sojourn in Rome about to begin then? His\nmind was all wonderment. However, he simply answered: \u201cVery good, I will\nset to work and see everybody.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n\nPART IV.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\n\nIN his anxiety to bring things to a finish, Pierre wished to begin his\ncampaign on the very next day. But on whom should he first call if he\nwere to steer clear of blunders in that intricate and conceited\necclesiastical world? The question greatly perplexed him; however, on\nopening his door that morning he luckily perceived Don Vigilio in the\npassage, and with a sudden inspiration asked him to step inside. He\nrealised that this thin little man with the saffron face, who always\ntrembled with fever and displayed such exaggerated, timorous discretion,\nwas in reality well informed, mixed up in everything. At one period it\nhad seemed to Pierre that the secretary purposely avoided him, doubtless\nfor fear of compromising himself; but recently Don Vigilio had proved\nless unsociable, as though he were not far from sharing the impatience\nwhich must be consuming the young Frenchman amidst his long enforced\ninactivity. And so, on this occasion, he did not seek to avoid the chat\non which Pierre was bent.\n\n\u201cI must apologise,\u201d said the latter, \u201cfor asking you in here when things\nare in such disorder. But I have just received some more linen and some\nwinter clothing from Paris. I came, you know, with just a little valise,\nmeaning to stay for a fortnight, and yet I\u2019ve now been here for nearly\nthree months, and am no more advanced than I was on the morning of my\narrival.\u201d\n\nDon Vigilio nodded. \u201cYes, yes, I know,\u201d said he.\n\nThereupon Pierre explained to him that Monsignor Nani had informed him,\nthrough the Contessina, that he now ought to act and see everybody for\nthe defence of his book. But he was much embarrassed, as he did not know\nin what order to make his visits so that they might benefit him. For\ninstance, ought he to call in the first place on Monsignor Fornaro, the\n_consultore_ selected to report on his book, and whose name had been\ngiven him?\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d exclaimed Don Vigilio, quivering; \u201chas Monsignor Nani gone as far\nas that--given you the reporter\u2019s name? That\u2019s even more than I\nexpected.\u201d Then, forgetting his prudence, yielding to his secret interest\nin the affair, he resumed: \u201cNo, no; don\u2019t begin with Monsignor Fornaro.\nYour first visit should be a very humble one to the Prefect of the\nCongregation of the Index--his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti; for he\nwould never forgive you for having offered your first homage to another\nshould he some day hear of it.\u201d And, after a pause, Don Vigilio added, in\na low voice, amidst a faint, feverish shiver: \u201cAnd he _would_ hear of it;\neverything becomes known.\u201d\n\nAgain he hesitated, and then, as if yielding to sudden, sympathetic\ncourage, he took hold of the young Frenchman\u2019s hands. \u201cI swear to you, my\ndear Monsieur Froment,\u201d he said, \u201cthat I should be very happy to help\nyou, for you are a man of simple soul, and I really begin to feel worried\nfor you. But you must not ask me for impossibilities. Ah! if you only\nknew--if I could only tell you of all the perils which surround us!\nHowever, I think I can repeat to you that you must in no wise rely on my\npatron, his Eminence Cardinal Boccanera. He has expressed absolute\ndisapproval of your book in my presence on several occasions. Only he is\na saint, a most worthy, honourable man; and, though he won\u2019t defend you,\nhe won\u2019t attack you--he will remain neutral out of regard for his niece,\nwhom he loves so dearly, and who protects you. So, when you see him,\ndon\u2019t plead your cause; it would be of no avail, and might even irritate\nhim.\u201d\n\nPierre was not particularly distressed by this news, for at his first\ninterview with the Cardinal, and on the few subsequent occasions when he\nhad respectfully visited him, he had fully understood that his Eminence\nwould never be other than an adversary. \u201cWell,\u201d said he, \u201cI will wait on\nhim to thank him for his neutrality.\u201d\n\nBut at this all Don Vigilio\u2019s terrors returned. \u201cNo, no, don\u2019t do that;\nhe would perhaps realise that I have spoken to you, and then what a\ndisaster--my position would be compromised. I\u2019ve said nothing, nothing!\nSee the cardinals to begin with, see all the cardinals. Let it be\nunderstood between us that I\u2019ve said nothing more.\u201d And, on that occasion\nat any rate, Don Vigilio would speak no further, but left the room\nshuddering and darting fiery, suspicious glances on either side of the\ncorridor.\n\nPierre at once went out to call on Cardinal Sanguinetti. It was ten\no\u2019clock, and there was a chance that he might find him at home. This\ncardinal resided on the first floor of a little palazzo in a dark, narrow\nstreet near San Luigi dei Francesi.* There was here none of the giant\nruin full of princely and melancholy grandeur amidst which Cardinal\nBoccanera so stubbornly remained. The old regulation gala suite of rooms\nhad been cut down just like the number of servants. There was no\nthrone-room, no red hat hanging under a _baldacchino_, no arm-chair\nturned to the wall pending a visit from the Pope. A couple of apartments\nserved as ante-rooms, and then came a _salon_ where the Cardinal\nreceived; and there was no luxury, indeed scarcely any comfort; the\nfurniture was of mahogany, dating from the empire period, and the\nhangings and carpets were dusty and faded by long use. Moreover, Pierre\nhad to wait a long time for admittance, and when a servant, leisurely\nputting on his jacket, at last set the door ajar, it was only to say that\nhis Eminence had been away at Frascati since the previous day.\n\n  * This is the French church of Rome, and is under the protection\n    of the French Government.--Trans.\n\nPierre then remembered that Cardinal Sanguinetti was one of the suburban\nbishops. At his see of Frascati he had a villa where he occasionally\nspent a few days whenever a desire for rest or some political motive\nimpelled him to do so.\n\n\u201cAnd will his Eminence soon return?\u201d Pierre inquired.\n\n\u201cAh! we don\u2019t know. His Eminence is poorly, and expressly desired us to\nsend nobody to worry him.\u201d\n\nWhen Pierre reached the street again he felt quite bewildered by this\ndisappointment. At first he wondered whether he had not better call on\nMonsignor Fornaro without more ado, but he recollected Don Vigilio\u2019s\nadvice to see the cardinals first of all, and, an inspiration coming to\nhim, he resolved that his next visit should be for Cardinal Sarno, whose\nacquaintance he had eventually made at Donna Serafina\u2019s Mondays. In spite\nof Cardinal Sarno\u2019s voluntary self-effacement, people looked upon him as\none of the most powerful and redoubtable members of the Sacred College,\nalbeit his nephew Narcisse Habert declared that he knew no man who showed\nmore obtuseness in matters which did not pertain to his habitual\noccupations. At all events, Pierre thought that the Cardinal, although\nnot a member of the Congregation of the Index, might well give him some\ngood advice, and possibly bring his great influence to bear on his\ncolleagues.\n\nThe young man straightway betook himself to the Palace of the Propaganda,\nwhere he knew he would find the Cardinal. This palace, which is seen from\nthe Piazza di Spagna, is a bare, massive corner pile between two streets.\nAnd Pierre, hampered by his faulty Italian, quite lost himself in it,\nclimbing to floors whence he had to descend again, and finding himself in\na perfect labyrinth of stairs, passages, and halls. At last he luckily\ncame across the Cardinal\u2019s secretary, an amiable young priest, whom he\nhad already seen at the Boccanera mansion. \u201cWhy, yes,\u201d said the\nsecretary, \u201cI think that his Eminence will receive you. You did well to\ncome at this hour, for he is always here of a morning. Kindly follow me,\nif you please.\u201d\n\nThen came a fresh journey. Cardinal Sarno, long a Secretary of the\nPropaganda, now presided over the commission which controlled the\norganisation of worship in those countries of Europe, Africa, America,\nand Oceanica where Catholicism had lately gained a footing; and he thus\nhad a private room of his own with special officers and assistants,\nreigning there with the ultra-methodical habits of a functionary who had\ngrown old in his arm-chair, closely surrounded by nests of drawers, and\nknowing nothing of the world save the usual sights of the street below\nhis window.\n\nThe secretary left Pierre on a bench at the end of a dark passage, which\nwas lighted by gas even in full daylight. And quite a quarter of an hour\nwent by before he returned with his eager, affable air. \u201cHis Eminence is\nconferring with some missionaries who are about to leave Rome,\u201d he said;\n\u201cbut it will soon be over, and he told me to take you to his room, where\nyou can wait for him.\u201d\n\nAs soon as Pierre was alone in the Cardinal\u2019s sanctum he examined it with\ncuriosity. Fairly spacious, but in no wise luxurious, it had green paper\non its walls, and its furniture was of black wood and green damask. From\ntwo windows overlooking a narrow side street a mournful light reached the\ndark wall-paper and faded carpets. There were a couple of pier tables and\na plain black writing-table, which stood near one window, its worn\nmole-skin covering littered with all sorts of papers. Pierre drew near to\nit for a moment, and glanced at the arm-chair with damaged, sunken seat,\nthe screen which sheltered it from draughts, and the old inkstand\nsplotched with ink. And then, in the lifeless and oppressive atmosphere,\nthe disquieting silence, which only the low rumbles from the street\ndisturbed, he began to grow impatient.\n\nHowever, whilst he was softly walking up and down he suddenly espied a\nmap affixed to one wall, and the sight of it filled him with such\nabsorbing thoughts that he soon forgot everything else. It was a coloured\nmap of the world, the different tints indicating whether the territories\nbelonged to victorious Catholicism or whether Catholicism was still\nwarring there against unbelief; these last countries being classified as\nvicariates or prefectures, according to the general principles of\norganisation. And the whole was a graphic presentment of the long efforts\nof Catholicism in striving for the universal dominion which it has sought\nso unremittingly since its earliest hour. God has given the world to His\nChurch, but it is needful that she should secure possession of it since\nerror so stubbornly abides. From this has sprung the eternal battle, the\nfight which is carried on, even in our days, to win nations over from\nother religions, as it was in the days when the Apostles quitted Judaea\nto spread abroad the tidings of the Gospel. During the middle ages the\ngreat task was to organise conquered Europe, and this was too absorbing\nan enterprise to allow of any attempt at reconciliation with the\ndissident churches of the East. Then the Reformation burst forth, schism\nwas added to schism, and the Protestant half of Europe had to be\nreconquered as well as all the orthodox East.\n\nWar-like ardour, however, awoke at the discovery of the New World. Rome\nwas ambitious of securing that other side of the earth, and missions were\norganised for the subjection of races of which nobody had known anything\nthe day before, but which God had, nevertheless, given to His Church,\nlike all the others. And by degrees the two great divisions of\nChristianity were formed, on one hand the Catholic nations, those where\nthe faith simply had to be kept up, and which the Secretariate of State\ninstalled at the Vatican guided with sovereign authority, and on the\nother the schismatical or pagan nations which were to be brought back to\nthe fold or converted, and over which the Congregation of the Propaganda\nsought to reign. Then this Congregation had been obliged to divide itself\ninto two branches in order to facilitate its work--the Oriental branch,\nwhich dealt with the dissident sects of the East, and the Latin branch,\nwhose authority extended over all the other lands of mission: the two\nforming a vast organisation--a huge, strong, closely meshed net cast over\nthe whole world in order that not a single soul might escape.\n\nIt was in presence of that map that Pierre for the first time became\nclearly conscious of the mechanism which for centuries had been working\nto bring about the absorption of humanity. The Propaganda, richly dowered\nby the popes, and disposing of a considerable revenue, appeared to him\nlike a separate force, a papacy within the papacy, and he well understood\nthat the Prefect of the Congregation should be called the \u201cRed Pope,\u201d for\nhow limitless were the powers of that man of conquest and domination,\nwhose hands stretched from one to the other end of the earth. Allowing\nthat the Cardinal Secretary held Europe, that diminutive portion of the\nglobe, did not he, the Prefect, hold all the rest--the infinity of space,\nthe distant countries as yet almost unknown? Besides, statistics showed\nthat Rome\u2019s uncontested dominion was limited to 200 millions of Apostolic\nand Roman Catholics; whereas the schismatics of the East and the\nReformation, if added together, already exceeded that number, and how\nsmall became the minority of the true believers when, besides the\nschismatics, one brought into line the 1000 millions of infidels who yet\nremained to be converted. The figures struck Pierre with a force which\nmade him shudder. What! there were 5 million Jews, nearly 200 million\nMahommedans, more than 700 million Brahmanists and Buddhists, without\ncounting another 100 million pagans of divers creeds, the whole making\n1000 millions, and against these the Christians could marshal barely more\nthan 400 millions, who were divided among themselves, ever in conflict,\none half with Rome and the other half against her?* Was it possible that\nin 1800 years Christianity had not proved victorious over even one-third\nof mankind, and that Rome, the eternal and all-powerful, only counted a\nsixth part of the nations among her subjects? Only one soul saved out of\nevery six--how fearful was the disproportion! However, the map spoke with\nbrutal eloquence: the red-tinted empire of Rome was but a speck when\ncompared with the yellow-hued empire of the other gods--the endless\ncountries which the Propaganda still had to conquer. And the question\narose: How many centuries must elapse before the promises of the Christ\nwere realised, before the whole world were gained to Christianity, before\nreligious society spread over secular society, and there remained but one\nkingdom and one belief? And in presence of this question, in presence of\nthe prodigious labour yet to be accomplished, how great was one\u2019s\nastonishment when one thought of Rome\u2019s tranquil serenity, her patient\nstubbornness, which has never known doubt or weariness, her bishops and\nministers toiling without cessation in the conviction that she alone will\nsome day be the mistress of the world!\n\n  * Some readers may question certain of the figures given by M.\n    Zola, but it must be remembered that all such calculations\n    (even those of the best \u201cauthorities\u201d) are largely guesswork.\n    I myself think that there are more than 5 million Jews, and\n    more than 200 millions of Mahommedans, but I regard the alleged\n    number of Brahmanists and Buddhists as exaggerated. On the\n    other hand, some statistical tables specify 80 millions of\n    Confucianists, of whom M. Zola makes no separate mention.\n    However, as regards the number of Christians in the world, the\n    figures given above are, within a few millions, probably\n    accurate.--Trans.\n\nNarcisse had told Pierre how carefully the embassies at Rome watched the\ndoings of the Propaganda, for the missions were often the instruments of\none or another nation, and exercised decisive influence in far-away\nlands. And so there was a continual struggle, in which the Congregation\ndid all it could to favour the missionaries of Italy and her allies. It\nhad always been jealous of its French rival, \u201cL\u2019\u0152uvre de la Propagation\nde la Foi,\u201d installed at Lyons, which is as wealthy in money as itself,\nand richer in men of energy and courage. However, not content with\nlevelling tribute on this French association, the Propaganda thwarted it,\nsacrificed it on every occasion when it had reason to think it might\nachieve a victory. Not once or twice, but over and over again had the\nFrench missionaries, the French orders, been driven from the scenes of\ntheir labours to make way for Italians or Germans. And Pierre, standing\nin that mournful, dusty room, which the sunlight never brightened,\npictured the secret hot-bed of political intrigue masked by the\ncivilising ardour of faith. Again he shuddered as one shudders when\nmonstrous, terrifying things are brought home to one. And might not the\nmost sensible be overcome? Might not the bravest be dismayed by the\nthought of that universal engine of conquest and domination, which worked\nwith the stubbornness of eternity, not merely content with the gain of\nsouls, but ever seeking to ensure its future sovereignty over the whole\nof corporeal humanity, and--pending the time when it might rule the\nnations itself--disposing of them, handing them over to the charge of\nthis or that temporary master, in accordance with its good pleasure. And\nthen, too, what a prodigious dream! Rome smiling and tranquilly awaiting\nthe day when she will have united Christians, Mahommedans, Brahmanists,\nand Buddhists into one sole nation, of whom she will be both the\nspiritual and the temporal queen!\n\nHowever, a sound of coughing made Pierre turn, and he started on\nperceiving Cardinal Sarno, whom he had not heard enter. Standing in front\nof that map, he felt like one caught in the act of prying into a secret,\nand a deep flush overspread his face. The Cardinal, however, after\nlooking at him fixedly with his dim eyes, went to his writing-table, and\nlet himself drop into the arm-chair without saying a word. With a gesture\nhe dispensed Pierre of the duty of kissing his ring.\n\n\u201cI desired to offer my homage to your Eminence,\u201d said the young man. \u201cIs\nyour Eminence unwell?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, it\u2019s nothing but a dreadful cold which I can\u2019t get rid of. And\nthen, too, I have so many things to attend to just now.\u201d\n\nPierre looked at the Cardinal as he appeared in the livid light from the\nwindow, puny, lopsided, with the left shoulder higher than the right, and\nnot a sign of life on his worn and ashen countenance. The young priest\nwas reminded of one of his uncles, who, after thirty years spent in the\noffices of a French public department, displayed the same lifeless\nglance, parchment-like skin, and weary hebetation. Was it possible that\nthis withered old man, so lost in his black cassock with red edging, was\nreally one of the masters of the world, with the map of Christendom so\ndeeply stamped on his mind, albeit he had never left Rome, that the\nPrefect of the Propaganda did not take a decision without asking his\nopinion?\n\n\u201cSit down, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said the Cardinal. \u201cSo you have come to see\nme--you have something to ask of me!\u201d And, whilst disposing himself to\nlisten, he stretched out his thin bony hands to finger the documents\nheaped up before him, glancing at each of them like some general, some\nstrategist, profoundly versed in the science of his profession, who,\nalthough his army is far away, nevertheless directs it to victory from\nhis private room, never for a moment allowing it to escape his mind.\n\nPierre was somewhat embarrassed by such a plain enunciation of the\ninterested object of his visit; still, he decided to go to the point.\n\u201cYes, indeed,\u201d he answered, \u201cit is a liberty I have taken to come and\nappeal to your Eminence\u2019s wisdom for advice. Your Eminence is aware that\nI am in Rome for the purpose of defending a book of mine, and I should be\ngrateful if your Eminence would help and guide me.\u201d Then he gave a brief\naccount of the present position of the affair, and began to plead his\ncause; but as he continued speaking he noticed that the Cardinal gave him\nvery little attention, as though indeed he were thinking of something\nelse, and failed to understand.\n\n\u201cAh! yes,\u201d the great man at last muttered, \u201cyou have written a book.\nThere was some question of it at Donna Serafina\u2019s one evening. But a\npriest ought not to write; it is a mistake for him to do so. What is the\ngood of it? And the Congregation of the Index must certainly be in the\nright if it is prosecuting your book. At all events, what can I do? I\ndon\u2019t belong to the Congregation, and I know nothing, nothing about the\nmatter.\u201d\n\nPierre, pained at finding him so listless and indifferent, went on trying\nto enlighten and move him. But he realised that this man\u2019s mind, so\nfar-reaching and penetrating in the field in which it had worked for\nforty years, closed up as soon as one sought to divert it from its\nspecialty. It was neither an inquisitive nor a supple mind. All trace of\nlife faded from the Cardinal\u2019s eyes, and his entire countenance assumed\nan expression of mournful imbecility. \u201cI know nothing, nothing,\u201d he\nrepeated, \u201cand I never recommend anybody.\u201d However, at last he made an\neffort: \u201cBut Nani is mixed up in this,\u201d said he. \u201cWhat does Nani advise\nyou to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cMonsignor Nani has been kind enough to reveal to me that the reporter is\nMonsignor Fornaro, and advises me to see him.\u201d\n\nAt this Cardinal Sarno seemed surprised and somewhat roused. A little\nlight returned to his eyes. \u201cAh! really,\u201d he rejoined, \u201cah!\nreally--Well, if Nani has done that he must have some idea. Go and see\nMonsignor Fornaro.\u201d Then, after rising and dismissing his visitor, who\nwas compelled to thank him, bowing deeply, he resumed his seat, and a\nmoment later the only sound in the lifeless room was that of his bony\nfingers turning over the documents before him.\n\nPierre, in all docility, followed the advice given him, and immediately\nbetook himself to the Piazza Navona, where, however, he learnt from one\nof Monsignor Fornaro\u2019s servants that the prelate had just gone out, and\nthat to find him at home it was necessary to call in the morning at ten\no\u2019clock. Accordingly it was only on the following day that Pierre was\nable to obtain an interview. He had previously made inquiries and knew\nwhat was necessary concerning Monsignor Fornaro. Born at Naples, he had\nthere begun his studies under the Barnabites, had finished them at the\nSeminario Romano, and had subsequently, for many years, been a professor\nat the University Gregoriana. Nowadays Consultor to several Congregations\nand a Canon of Santa Maria Maggiore, he placed his immediate ambition in\na Canonry at St. Peter\u2019s, and harboured the dream of some day becoming\nSecretary of the Consistorial Congregation, a post conducting to the\ncardinalate. A theologian of remarkable ability, Monsignor Fornaro\nincurred no other reproach than that of occasionally sacrificing to\nliterature by contributing articles, which he carefully abstained from\nsigning, to certain religious reviews. He was also said to be very\nworldly.\n\nPierre was received as soon as he had sent in his card, and perhaps he\nwould have fancied that his visit was expected had not an appearance of\nsincere surprise, blended with a little anxiety, marked his reception.\n\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment,\u201d repeated the prelate,\nlooking at the card which he still held. \u201cKindly step in--I was about to\nforbid my door, for I have some urgent work to attend to. But no matter,\nsit down.\u201d\n\nPierre, however, remained standing, quite charmed by the blooming\nappearance of this tall, strong, handsome man who, although five and\nforty years of age, was quite fresh and rosy, with moist lips, caressing\neyes, and scarcely a grey hair among his curly locks. Nobody more\nfascinating and decorative could be found among the whole Roman prelacy.\nCareful of his person undoubtedly, and aiming at a simple elegance, he\nlooked really superb in his black cassock with violet collar. And around\nhim the spacious room where he received his visitors, gaily lighted as it\nwas by two large windows facing the Piazza Navona, and furnished with a\ntaste nowadays seldom met with among the Roman clergy, diffused a\npleasant odour and formed a setting instinct with kindly cheerfulness.\n\n\u201cPray sit down, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment,\u201d he resumed, \u201cand tell me to\nwhat I am indebted for the honour of your visit.\u201d\n\nHe had already recovered his self-possession and assumed a _na\u00eff_, purely\nobliging air; and Pierre, though the question was only natural, and he\nought to have foreseen it, suddenly felt greatly embarrassed, more\nembarrassed indeed than in Cardinal Sarno\u2019s presence. Should he go to the\npoint at once, confess the delicate motive of his visit? A moment\u2019s\nreflection showed him that this would be the best and worthier course.\n\u201cDear me, Monseigneur,\u201d he replied, \u201cI know very well that the step I\nhave taken in calling on you is not usually taken, but it has been\nadvised me, and it has seemed to me that among honest folks there can\nnever be any harm in seeking in all good faith to elucidate the truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it, what is it, then?\u201d asked the prelate with an expression of\nperfect candour, and still continuing to smile.\n\n\u201cWell, simply this. I have learnt that the Congregation of the Index has\nhanded you my book \u2018New Rome,\u2019 and appointed you to examine it; and I\nhave ventured to present myself before you in case you should have any\nexplanations to ask of me.\u201d\n\nBut Monsignor Fornaro seemed unwilling to hear any more. He had carried\nboth hands to his head and drawn back, albeit still courteous. \u201cNo, no,\u201d\n said he, \u201cdon\u2019t tell me that, don\u2019t continue, you would grieve me\ndreadfully. Let us say, if you like, that you have been deceived, for\nnothing ought to be known, in fact nothing is known, either by others or\nmyself. I pray you, do not let us talk of such matters.\u201d\n\nPierre, however, had fortunately remarked what a decisive effect was\nproduced when he had occasion to mention the name of the Assessor of the\nHoly Office. So it occurred to him to reply: \u201cI most certainly do not\ndesire to give you the slightest cause for embarrassment, Monseigneur,\nand I repeat to you that I would never have ventured to importune you if\nMonsignor Nani himself had not acquainted me with your name and address.\u201d\n\nThis time the effect was immediate, though Monsignor Fornaro, with that\neasy grace which he introduced into all things, made some ceremony about\nsurrendering. He began by a demurrer, speaking archly with subtle shades\nof expression. \u201cWhat! is Monsignor Nani the tattler! But I shall scold\nhim, I shall get angry with him! And what does he know? He doesn\u2019t belong\nto the Congregation; he may have been led into error. You must tell him\nthat he has made a mistake, and that I have nothing at all to do with\nyour affair. That will teach him not to reveal needful secrets which\neverybody respects!\u201d Then, in a pleasant way, with winning glance and\nflowery lips, he went on: \u201cCome, since Monsignor Nani desires it, I am\nwilling to chat with you for a moment, my dear Monsieur Froment, but on\ncondition that you shall know nothing of my report or of what may have\nbeen said or done at the Congregation.\u201d\n\nPierre in his turn smiled, admiring how easy things became when forms\nwere respected and appearances saved. And once again he began to explain\nhis case, the profound astonishment into which the prosecution of his\nbook had thrown him, and his ignorance of the objections which were taken\nto it, and for which he had vainly sought a cause.\n\n\u201cReally, really,\u201d repeated the prelate, quite amazed at so much\ninnocence. \u201cThe Congregation is a tribunal, and can only act when a case\nis brought before it. Proceedings have been taken against your book\nsimply because it has been denounced.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I know, denounced.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course. Complaint was laid by three French bishops, whose names you\nwill allow me to keep secret, and it consequently became necessary for\nthe Congregation to examine the incriminated work.\u201d\n\nPierre looked at him quite scared. Denounced by three bishops? Why? With\nwhat object? Then he thought of his protector. \u201cBut Cardinal Bergerot,\u201d\n said he, \u201cwrote me a letter of approval, which I placed at the beginning\nof my work as a preface. Ought not a guarantee like that to have been\nsufficient for the French episcopacy?\u201d\n\nMonsignor Fornaro wagged his head in a knowing way before making up his\nmind to reply: \u201cAh! yes, no doubt, his Eminence\u2019s letter, a very\nbeautiful letter. I think, however, that it would have been much better\nif he had not written it, both for himself and for you especially.\u201d Then\nas the priest, whose surprise was increasing, opened his mouth to urge\nhim to explain himself, he went on: \u201cNo, no, I know nothing, I say\nnothing. His Eminence Cardinal Bergerot is a saintly man whom everybody\nvenerates, and if it were possible for him to sin it would only be\nthrough pure goodness of heart.\u201d\n\nSilence fell. Pierre could divine that an abyss was opening, and dared\nnot insist. However, he at last resumed with some violence: \u201cBut, after\nall, why should my book be prosecuted, and the books of others be left\nuntouched? I have no intention of acting as a denouncer myself, but how\nmany books there are to which Rome closes her eyes, and which are far\nmore dangerous than mine can be!\u201d\n\nThis time Monsignor Fornaro seemed glad to be able to support Pierre\u2019s\nviews. \u201cYou are right,\u201d said he, \u201cwe cannot deal with every bad book, and\nit greatly distresses us. But you must remember what an incalculable\nnumber of works we should be compelled to read. And so we have to content\nourselves with condemning the worst _en bloc_.\u201d\n\nThen he complacently entered into explanations. In principle, no printer\nought to send any work to press without having previously submitted the\nmanuscript to the approval of the bishop of the diocese. Nowadays,\nhowever, with the enormous output of the printing trade, one could\nunderstand how terribly embarrassed the bishops would be if the printers\nwere suddenly to conform to the Church\u2019s regulation. There was neither\nthe time nor the money, nor were there the men necessary for such\ncolossal labour. And so the Congregation of the Index condemned _en\nmasse_, without examination, all works of certain categories: first,\nbooks which were dangerous for morals, all erotic writings, and all\nnovels; next the various bibles in the vulgar tongue, for the perusal of\nHoly Writ without discretion was not allowable; then the books on magic\nand sorcery, and all works on science, history, or philosophy that were\nin any way contrary to dogma, as well as the writings of heresiarchs or\nmere ecclesiastics discussing religion, which should never be discussed.\nAll these were wise laws made by different popes, and were set forth in\nthe preface to the catalogue of forbidden books which the Congregation\npublished, and without them this catalogue, to have been complete, would\nin itself have formed a large library. On turning it over one found that\nthe works singled out for interdiction were chiefly those of priests, the\ntask being so vast and difficult that Rome\u2019s concern extended but little\nbeyond the observance of good order within the Church. And Pierre and his\nbook came within the limit.\n\n\u201cYou will understand,\u201d continued Monsignor Fornaro, \u201cthat we have no\ndesire to advertise a heap of unwholesome writings by honouring them with\nspecial condemnation. Their name is legion in every country, and we\nshould have neither enough paper nor enough ink to deal with them all. So\nwe content ourselves with condemning one from time to time, when it bears\na famous name and makes too much noise, or contains disquieting attacks\non the faith. This suffices to remind the world that we exist and defend\nourselves without abandoning aught of our rights or duties.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut my book, my book,\u201d exclaimed Pierre, \u201cwhy these proceedings against\nmy book?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am explaining that to you as far as it is allowable for me to do, my\ndear Monsieur Froment. You are a priest, your book is a success, you have\npublished a cheap edition of it which sells very readily; and I don\u2019t\nspeak of its literary merit, which is remarkable, for it contains a\nbreath of real poetry which transported me, and on which I must really\ncompliment you. However, under the circumstances which I have enumerated,\nhow could we close our eyes to such a work as yours, in which the\nconclusion arrived at is the annihilation of our holy religion and the\ndestruction of Rome?\u201d\n\nPierre remained open-mouthed, suffocating with surprise. \u201cThe destruction\nof Rome!\u201d he at last exclaimed; \u201cbut I desire to see Rome rejuvenated,\neternal, again the queen of the world.\u201d And, once more mastered by his\nglowing enthusiasm, he defended himself and confessed his faith:\nCatholicism reverting to the principles and practices of the primitive\nChurch, drawing the blood of regeneration from the fraternal Christianity\nof Jesus; the Pope, freed from all terrestrial royalty, governing the\nwhole of humanity with charity and love, and saving the world from the\nfrightful social cataclysm that threatens it by leading it to the real\nKingdom of God: the Christian communion of all nations united in one\nnation only. \u201cAnd can the Holy Father disavow me?\u201d he continued. \u201cAre not\nthese his secret ideas, which people are beginning to divine, and does\nnot my only offence lie in having expressed them perhaps too soon and too\nfreely? And if I were allowed to see him should I not at once obtain from\nhim an order to stop these proceedings?\u201d\n\nMonsignor Fornaro no longer spoke, but wagged his head without appearing\noffended by the priest\u2019s juvenile ardour. On the contrary, he smiled with\nincreasing amiability, as though highly amused by so much innocence and\nimagination. At last he gaily responded, \u201cOh! speak on, speak on; it\nisn\u2019t I who will stop you. I\u2019m forbidden to say anything. But the\ntemporal power, the temporal power.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, what of the temporal power?\u201d asked Pierre.\n\nThe prelate had again become silent, raising his amiable face to heaven\nand waving his white hands with a pretty gesture. And when he once more\nopened his mouth it was to say: \u201cThen there\u2019s your new religion--for the\nexpression occurs twice: the new religion, the new religion--ah, _Dio_!\u201d\n\nAgain he became restless, going off into an ecstasy of wonderment, at\nsight of which Pierre impatiently exclaimed: \u201cI do not know what your\nreport will be, Monseigneur, but I declare to you that I have had no\ndesire to attack dogma. And, candidly now, my whole book shows that I\nonly sought to write a work of pity and salvation. It is only justice\nthat some account should be taken of one\u2019s intentions.\u201d\n\nMonsignor Fornaro had become very calm and paternal again. \u201cOh!\nintentions! intentions!\u201d he said as he rose to dismiss his visitor. \u201cYou\nmay be sure, my dear Monsieur Froment, that I feel much honoured by your\nvisit. Naturally I cannot tell you what my report will be; as it is, we\nhave talked too much about it, and, in fact, I ought to have refused to\nlisten to your defence. At the same time, you will always find me ready\nto be of service to you in anything that does not go against my duty. But\nI greatly fear that your book will be condemned.\u201d And then, as Pierre\nagain started, he added: \u201cWell, yes. It is facts that are judged, you\nknow, not intentions. So all defence is useless; the book is there, and\nwe take it such as it is. However much you may try to explain it, you\ncannot alter it. And this is why the Congregation never calls the accused\nparties before it, and never accepts from them aught but retraction pure\nand simple. And, indeed, the wisest course would be for you to withdraw\nyour book and make your submission. No? You won\u2019t? Ah! how young you are,\nmy friend!\u201d\n\nHe laughed yet more loudly at the gesture of revolt, of indomitable pride\nwhich had just escaped his young friend, as he called him. Then, on\nreaching the door, he again threw off some of his reserve, and said in a\nlow voice, \u201cCome, my dear Abb\u00e9, there is something I will do for you. I\nwill give you some good advice. At bottom, I myself am nothing. I deliver\nmy report, and it is printed, and the members of the Congregation read\nit, but are quite free to pay no attention to it. However, the Secretary\nof the Congregation, Father Dangelis, can accomplish everything, even\nimpossibilities. Go to see him; you will find him at the Dominican\nconvent behind the Piazza di Spagna. Don\u2019t name me. And for the present\ngood-bye, my dear fellow, good-bye.\u201d\n\nPierre once more found himself on the Piazza Navona, quite dazed, no\nlonger knowing what to believe or hope. A cowardly idea was coming over\nhim; why should he continue this struggle, in which his adversaries\nremained unknown and indiscernible? Why carry obstinacy any further, why\nlinger any longer in that impassionating but deceptive Rome? He would\nflee that very evening, return to Paris, disappear there, and forget his\nbitter disillusion in the practice of humble charity. He was traversing\none of those hours of weakness when the long-dreamt-of task suddenly\nseems to be an impossibility. However, amidst his great confusion he was\nnevertheless walking on, going towards his destination. And when he found\nhimself in the Corso, then in the Via dei Condotti, and finally in the\nPiazza di Spagna, he resolved that he would at any rate see Father\nDangelis. The Dominican convent is there, just below the Trinity de\u2019\nMonti.\n\nAh! those Dominicans! Pierre had never thought of them without a feeling\nof respect with which mingled a little fear. What vigorous pillars of the\nprinciple of authority and theocracy they had for centuries proved\nthemselves to be! To them the Church had been indebted for its greatest\nmeasure of authority; they were the glorious soldiers of its triumph.\nWhilst St. Francis won the souls of the humble over to Rome, St. Dominic,\non Rome\u2019s behalf, subjected all the superior souls--those of the\nintelligent and powerful. And this he did with passion, amidst a blaze of\nfaith and determination, making use of all possible means, preachings,\nwritings, and police and judicial pressure. Though he did not found the\nInquisition, its principles were his, and it was with fire and sword that\nhis fraternal, loving heart waged war on schism. Living like his monks,\nin poverty, chastity, and obedience--the great virtues of those times of\npride and licentiousness--he went from city to city, exhorting the\nimpious, striving to bring them back to the Church and arraigning them\nbefore the ecclesiastical courts when his preachings did not suffice. He\nalso laid siege to science, sought to make it his own, dreamt of\ndefending God with the weapons of reason and human knowledge like a true\nforerunner of the angelic St. Thomas, that light of the middle ages, who\njoined the Dominican order and set everything in his \u201cSumma Theologiae,\u201d\n psychology, logic, policy, and morals. And thus it was that the\nDominicans filled the world, upholding the doctrines of Rome in the most\nfamous pulpits of every nation, and contending almost everywhere against\nthe free sprit of the Universities, like the vigilant guardians of dogma\nthat they were, the unwearying artisans of the fortunes of the popes, the\nmost powerful amongst all the artistic, scientific, and literary workers\nwho raised the huge edifice of Catholicism such as it exists to-day.\n\nHowever, Pierre, who could feel that this edifice was even now tottering,\nthough it had been built, people fancied, so substantially as to last\nthrough all eternity, asked himself what could be the present use of the\nDominicans, those toilers of another age, whose police system and whose\ntribunals had perished beneath universal execration, whose voices were no\nlonger listened to, whose books were but seldom read, and whose _r\u00f4le_ as\n_savants_ and civilisers had come to an end in presence of latter-day\nscience, the truths of which were rending dogma on all sides. Certainly\nthe Dominicans still form an influential and prosperous order; but how\nfar one is from the times when their general reigned in Rome, Master of\nthe Holy Palace, with convents and schools, and subjects throughout\nEurope! Of all their vast inheritance, so far as the Roman curia is\nconcerned, only a few posts now remain to them, and among others the\nSecretaryship of the Congregation of the Index, a former dependency of\nthe Holy Office where they once despotically ruled.\n\nPierre was immediately ushered into the presence of Father Dangelis. The\nconvent parlour was vast, bare, and white, flooded with bright sunshine.\nThe only furniture was a table and some stools; and a large brass\ncrucifix hung from the wall. Near the table stood the Father, a very thin\nman of about fifty, severely draped in his ample white habit and black\nmantle. From his long ascetic face, with thin lips, thin nose, and\npointed, obstinate chin, his grey eyes shone out with a fixity that\nembarrassed one. And, moreover, he showed himself very plain and simple\nof speech, and frigidly polite in manner.\n\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment--the author of \u2018New Rome,\u2019 I suppose?\u201d Then\nseating himself on one stool and pointing to another, he added: \u201cPray\nacquaint me with the object of your visit, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\nThereupon Pierre had to begin his explanation, his defence, all over\nagain; and the task soon became the more painful as his words fell from\nhis lips amidst death-like silence and frigidity. Father Dangelis did not\nstir; with his hands crossed upon his knees he kept his sharp,\npenetrating eyes fixed upon those of the priest. And when the latter had\nat last ceased speaking, he slowly said: \u201cI did not like to interrupt\nyou, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, but it was not for me to hear all this. Process\nagainst your book has begun, and no power in the world can stay or impede\nits course. I do not therefore realise what it is that you apparently\nexpect of me.\u201d\n\nIn a quivering voice Pierre was bold enough to answer: \u201cI look for some\nkindness and justice.\u201d\n\nA pale smile, instinct with proud humility, arose to the Dominican\u2019s\nlips. \u201cBe without fear,\u201d he replied, \u201cGod has ever deigned to enlighten\nme in the discharge of my modest duties. Personally, be it said, I have\nno justice to render; I am but an employee whose duty is to classify\nmatters and draw up documents concerning them. Their Eminences, the\nmembers of the Congregation, will alone pronounce judgment on your book.\nAnd assuredly they will do so with the help of the Holy Spirit. You will\nonly have to bow to their sentence when it shall have been ratified by\nhis Holiness.\u201d\n\nThen he broke off the interview by rising, and Pierre was obliged to do\nthe same. The Dominican\u2019s words were virtually identical with those that\nhad fallen from Monsignor Fornaro, but they were spoken with cutting\nfrankness, a sort of tranquil bravery. On all sides Pierre came into\ncollision with the same anonymous force, the same powerful engine whose\ncomponent parts sought to ignore one another. For a long time yet, no\ndoubt, he would be sent from one to the other, without ever finding the\nvolitional element which reasoned and acted. And the only thing that he\ncould do was to bow to it all.\n\nHowever, before going off, it occurred to him once more to mention the\nname of Monsignor Nani, the powerful effect of which he had begun to\nrealise. \u201cI ask your pardon,\u201d he said, \u201cfor having disturbed you to no\npurpose, but I simply deferred to the kind advice of Monsignor Nani, who\nhas condescended to show me some interest.\u201d\n\nThe effect of these words was unexpected. Again did Father Dangelis\u2019s\nthin face brighten into a smile, but with a twist of the lips, sharp with\nironical contempt. He had become yet paler, and his keen intelligent eyes\nwere flaming. \u201cAh! it was Monsignor Nani who sent you!\u201d he said. \u201cWell,\nif you think you need a protector, it is useless for you to apply to any\nother than himself. He is all-powerful. Go to see him; go to see him!\u201d\n\nAnd that was the only encouragement Pierre derived from his visit: the\nadvice to go back to the man who had sent him. At this he felt that he\nwas losing ground, and he resolved to return home in order to reflect on\nthings and try to understand them before taking any further steps. The\nidea of questioning Don Vigilio at once occurred to him, and that same\nevening after supper he luckily met the secretary in the corridor, just\nas, candle in hand, he was on his way to bed.\n\n\u201cI have so many things that I should like to say to you,\u201d Pierre said to\nhim. \u201cCan you kindly come to my rooms for a moment?\u201d\n\nBut the other promptly silenced him with a gesture, and then whispered:\n\u201cDidn\u2019t you see Abb\u00e9 Paparelli on the first floor? He was following us,\nI\u2019m sure.\u201d\n\nPierre often saw the train-bearer roaming about the house, and greatly\ndisliked his stealthy, prying ways. However, he had hitherto attached no\nimportance to him, and was therefore much surprised by Don Vigilio\u2019s\nquestion. The other, without awaiting his reply, had returned to the end\nof the corridor, where for a long while he remained listening. Then he\ncame back on tip-toe, blew out his candle, and darted into Pierre\u2019s\nsitting-room. \u201cThere--that\u2019s done,\u201d he murmured directly the door was\nshut. \u201cBut if it is all the same to you, we won\u2019t stop in this\nsitting-room. Let us go into your bed-room. Two walls are better than\none.\u201d\n\nWhen the lamp had been placed on the table and they found themselves\nseated face to face in that bare, faded bed-chamber, Pierre noticed that\nthe secretary was suffering from a more violent attack of fever than\nusual. His thin puny figure was shivering from head to foot, and his\nardent eyes had never before blazed so blackly in his ravaged, yellow\nface. \u201cAre you poorly?\u201d asked Pierre. \u201cI don\u2019t want to tire you.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoorly, yes, I am on fire--but I want to talk. I can\u2019t bear it any\nlonger. One always has to relieve oneself some day or other.\u201d\n\nWas it his complaint that he desired to relieve; or was he anxious to\nbreak his long silence in order that it might not stifle him? This at\nfirst remained uncertain. He immediately asked for an account of the\nsteps that Pierre had lately taken, and became yet more restless when he\nheard how the other had been received by Cardinal Sarno, Monsignor\nFornaro, and Father Dangelis. \u201cYes, that\u2019s quite it,\u201d he repeated,\n\u201cnothing astonishes me nowadays, and yet I feel indignant on your\naccount. Yes, it doesn\u2019t concern me, but all the same it makes me ill,\nfor it reminds me of all my own troubles. You must not rely on Cardinal\nSarno, remember, for he is always elsewhere, with his mind far away, and\nhas never helped anybody. But that Fornaro, that Fornaro!\u201d\n\n\u201cHe seemed to me very amiable, even kindly disposed,\u201d replied Pierre;\n\u201cand I really think that after our interview, he will considerably soften\nhis report.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe! Why, the gentler he was with you the more grievously he will saddle\nyou! He will devour you, fatten himself with such easy prey. Ah! you\ndon\u2019t know him, _dilizioso_ that he is, ever on the watch to rear his own\nfortune on the troubles of poor devils whose defeat is bound to please\nthe powerful. I prefer the other one, Father Dangelis, a terrible man, no\ndoubt, but frank and brave and of superior mind. I must admit, however,\nthat he would burn you like a handful of straw if he were the master. And\nah! if I could tell you everything, if I could show you the frightful\nunder-side of this world of ours, the monstrous, ravenous ambition, the\nabominable network of intrigues, venality, cowardice, treachery, and even\ncrime!\u201d\n\nOn seeing Don Vigilio so excited, in such a blaze of spite, Pierre\nthought of extracting from him some of the many items of information\nwhich he had hitherto sought in vain. \u201cWell, tell me merely what is the\nposition of my affair,\u201d he responded. \u201cWhen I questioned you on my\narrival here you said that nothing had yet reached Cardinal Boccanera.\nBut all information must now have been collected, and you must know of\nit. And, by the way, Monsignor Fornaro told me that three French bishops\nhad asked that my book should be prosecuted. Three bishops, is it\npossible?\u201d\n\nDon Vigilio shrugged his shoulders. \u201cAh!\u201d said he, \u201cyours is an innocent\nsoul! I\u2019m surprised that there were _only_ three! Yes, several documents\nrelating to your affair are in our hands; and, moreover, things have\nturned out much as I suspected. The three bishops are first the Bishop of\nTarbes, who evidently carries out the vengeance of the Fathers of\nLourdes; and then the Bishops of Poitiers and Evreux, who are both known\nas uncompromising Ultramontanists and passionate adversaries of Cardinal\nBergerot. The Cardinal, you know, is regarded with disfavour at the\nVatican, where his Gallican ideas and broad liberal mind provoke perfect\nanger. And don\u2019t seek for anything else. The whole affair lies in that:\nan execution which the powerful Fathers of Lourdes demand of his\nHoliness, and a desire to reach and strike Cardinal Bergerot through your\nbook, by means of the letter of approval which he imprudently wrote to\nyou and which you published by way of preface. For a long time past the\ncondemnations of the Index have largely been secret knock-down blows\nlevelled at Churchmen. Denunciation reigns supreme, and the law applied\nis that of good pleasure. I could tell you some almost incredible things,\nhow perfectly innocent books have been selected among a hundred for the\nsole object of killing an idea or a man; for the blow is almost always\nlevelled at some one behind the author, some one higher than he is. And\nthere is such a hot-bed of intrigue, such a source of abuses in this\ninstitution of the Index, that it is tottering, and even among those who\nsurround the Pope it is felt that it must soon be freshly regulated if it\nis not to fall into complete discredit. I well understand that the Church\nshould endeavour to retain universal power, and govern by every fit\nweapon, but the weapons must be such as one can use without their\ninjustice leading to revolt, or their antique childishness provoking\nmerriment!\u201d\n\nPierre listened with dolorous astonishment in his heart. Since he had\nbeen at Rome and had seen the Fathers of the Grotto saluted and feared\nthere, holding an authoritative position, thanks to the large alms which\nthey contributed to the Peter\u2019s Pence, he had felt that they were behind\nthe proceedings instituted against him, and realised that he would have\nto pay for a certain page of his book in which he had called attention to\nan iniquitous displacement of fortune at Lourdes, a frightful spectacle\nwhich made one doubt the very existence of the Divinity, a continual\ncause of battle and conflict which would disappear in the truly Christian\nsociety of to-morrow. And he could also now understand that his delight\nat the loss of the temporal power must have caused a scandal, and\nespecially that the unfortunate expression \u201ca new religion\u201d had alone\nbeen sufficient to arm _delatores_ against him. But that which amazed and\ngrieved him was to learn that Cardinal Bergerot\u2019s letter was looked upon\nas a crime, and that his (Pierre\u2019s) book was denounced and condemned in\norder that adversaries who dared not attack the venerable pastor face to\nface might, deal him a cowardly blow from behind. The thought of\nafflicting that saintly man, of serving as the implement to strike him in\nhis ardent charity, cruelly grieved Pierre. And how bitter and\ndisheartening it was to find the most hideous questions of pride and\nmoney, ambition and appetite, running riot with the most ferocious\negotism, beneath the quarrels of those leaders of the Church who ought\nonly to have contended together in love for the poor!\n\nAnd then Pierre\u2019s mind revolted against that supremely odious and idiotic\nIndex. He now understood how it worked, from the arrival of the\ndenunciations to the public posting of the titles of the condemned works.\nHe had just seen the Secretary of the Congregation, Father Dangelis, to\nwhom the denunciations came, and who then investigated the affair,\ncollecting all documents and information concerning it with the passion\nof a cultivated authoritarian monk, who dreamt of ruling minds and\nconsciences as in the heroic days of the Inquisition. Then, too, Pierre\nhad visited one of the consultive prelates, Monsignor Fornaro, who was so\nambitious and affable, and so subtle a theologian that he would have\ndiscovered attacks against the faith in a treatise on algebra, had his\ninterests required it. Next there were the infrequent meetings of the\ncardinals, who at long intervals voted for the interdiction of some\nhostile book, deeply regretting that they could not suppress them all;\nand finally came the Pope, approving and signing the decrees, which was a\nmere formality, for were not all books guilty? But what an extraordinary\nwretched Bastille of the past was that aged Index, that senile\ninstitution now sunk into second childhood. One realised that it must\nhave been a formidable power when books were rare and the Church had\ntribunals of blood and fire to enforce her edicts. But books had so\ngreatly multiplied, the written, printed thoughts of mankind had swollen\ninto such a deep broad river, that they had swept all opposition away,\nand now the Index was swamped and reduced to powerlessness, compelled\nmore and more to limit its field of action, to confine itself to the\nexamination of the writings of ecclesiastics, and even in this respect it\nwas becoming corrupt, fouled by the worst passions and changed into an\ninstrument of intrigue, hatred, and vengeance. Ah! that confession of\ndecay, of paralysis which grew more and more complete amidst the scornful\nindifference of the nations. To think that Catholicism, the once glorious\nagent of civilisation, had come to such a pass that it cast books into\nhell-fire by the heap; and what books they were, almost the entire\nliterature, history, philosophy, and science of the past and the present!\nFew works, indeed, are published nowadays that would not fall under the\nban of the Church. If she seems to close her eyes, it is in order to\navoid the impossible task of hunting out and destroying everything. Yet\nshe stubbornly insists on retaining a semblance of sovereign authority\nover human intelligence, just as some very aged queen, dispossessed of\nher states and henceforth without judges or executioners, might continue\nto deliver vain sentences to which only an infinitesimal minority would\npay heed. But imagine the Church momentarily victorious, miraculously\nmastering the modern world, and ask yourself what she, with her tribunals\nto condemn and her gendarmes to enforce, would do with human thought.\nImagine a strict application of the Index regulations: no printer able to\nput anything whatever to press without the approval of his bishop, and\neven then every book laid before the Congregation, the past expunged, the\npresent throttled, subjected to an intellectual Reign of Terror! Would\nnot the closing of every library perforce ensue, would not the long\nheritage of written thought be cast into prison, would not the future be\nbarred, would not all progress, all conquest of knowledge, be totally\narrested? Rome herself is nowadays a terrible example of such a\ndisastrous experiment--Rome with her congealed soil, her dead sap, killed\nby centuries of papal government, Rome which has become so barren that\nnot a man, not a work has sprung from her midst even after five and\ntwenty years of awakening and liberty! And who would accept such a state\nof things, not among people of revolutionary mind, but among those of\nreligious mind that might possess any culture and breadth of view?\nPlainly enough it was all mere childishness and absurdity.\n\nDeep silence reigned, and Pierre, quite upset by his reflections, made a\ngesture of despair whilst glancing at Don Vigilio, who sat speechless in\nfront of him. For a moment longer, amidst the death-like quiescence of\nthat old sleeping mansion, both continued silent, seated face to face in\nthe closed chamber which the lamp illumined with a peaceful glow. But at\nlast Don Vigilio leant forward, his eyes sparkling, and with a feverish\nshiver murmured: \u201cIt is they, you know, always they, at the bottom of\neverything.\u201d\n\nPierre, who did not understand, felt astonished, indeed somewhat anxious\nat such a strange remark coming without any apparent transition. \u201cWho are\n_they_?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cThe Jesuits!\u201d\n\nIn this reply the little, withered, yellow priest had set all the\nconcentrated rage of his exploding passion. Ah! so much the worse if he\nhad perpetrated a fresh act of folly. The cat was out of the bag at last!\nNevertheless, he cast a final suspicious glance around the walls. And\nthen he relieved his mind at length, with a flow of words which gushed\nforth the more irresistibly since he had so long held them in check. \u201cAh!\nthe Jesuits, the Jesuits! You fancy that you know them, but you haven\u2019t\neven an idea of their abominable actions and incalculable power. They it\nis whom one always comes upon, everywhere, in every circumstance.\nRemember _that_ whenever you fail to understand anything, if you wish to\nunderstand it. Whenever grief or trouble comes upon you, whenever you\nsuffer, whenever you weep, say to yourself at once: \u2018It is they; they are\nthere!\u2019 Why, for all I know, there may be one of them under that bed,\ninside that cupboard. Ah! the Jesuits, the Jesuits! They have devoured\nme, they are devouring me still, they will leave nothing of me at last,\nneither flesh nor bone.\u201d\n\nThen, in a halting voice, he related the story of his life, beginning\nwith his youth, which had opened so hopefully. He belonged to the petty\nprovincial nobility, and had been dowered with a fairly large income,\nbesides a keen, supple intelligence, which looked smilingly towards the\nfuture. Nowadays, he would assuredly have been a prelate, on the road to\nhigh dignities, but he had been foolish enough to speak ill of the\nJesuits and to thwart them in two or three circumstances. And from that\nmoment, if he were to be believed, they had caused every imaginable\nmisfortune to rain upon him: his father and mother had died, his banker\nhad robbed him and fled, good positions had escaped him at the very\nmoment when he was about to occupy them, the most awful misadventures had\npursued him amidst the duties of his ministry to such a point indeed,\nthat he had narrowly escaped interdiction. It was only since Cardinal\nBoccanera, compassionating his bad luck, had taken him into his house and\nattached him to his person, that he had enjoyed a little repose. \u201cHere I\nhave a refuge, an asylum,\u201d he continued. \u201cThey execrate his Eminence, who\nhas never been on their side, but they haven\u2019t yet dared to attack him or\nhis servants. Oh! I have no illusions, they will end by catching me\nagain, all the same. Perhaps they will even hear of our conversation this\nevening, and make me pay dearly for it; for I do wrong to speak, I speak\nin spite of myself. They have stolen all my happiness, and brought all\npossible misfortune on me, everything that was possible, everything--you\nhear me!\u201d\n\nIncreasing discomfort was taking possession of Pierre, who, seeking to\nrelieve himself by a jest, exclaimed: \u201cCome, come, at any rate it wasn\u2019t\nthe Jesuits who gave you the fever.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, it was!\u201d Don Vigilio violently declared. \u201cI caught it on the\nbank of the Tiber one evening, when I went to weep there in my grief at\nhaving been driven from the little church where I officiated.\u201d\n\nPierre, hitherto, had never believed in the terrible legend of the\nJesuits. He belonged to a generation which laughed at the idea of\nwehr-wolves, and considered the _bourgeois_ fear of the famous black men,\nwho hid themselves in walls and terrorised families, to be a trifle\nridiculous. To him all such things seemed to be nursery tales,\nexaggerated by religious and political passion. And so it was with\namazement that he examined Don Vigilio, suddenly fearing that he might\nhave to deal with a maniac.\n\nNevertheless he could not help recalling the extraordinary story of the\nJesuits. If St. Francis of Assisi and St. Dominic are the very soul and\nspirit of the middle ages, its masters and teachers, the former a living\nexpression of all the ardent, charitable faith of the humble, and the\nother defending dogma and fixing doctrines for the intelligent and the\npowerful, on the other hand Ignatius de Loyola appeared on the threshold\nof modern times to save the tottering heritage by accommodating religion\nto the new developments of society, thereby ensuring it the empire of the\nworld which was about to appear.\n\nAt the advent of the modern era it seemed as if the Deity were to be\nvanquished in the uncompromising struggle with sin, for it was certain\nthat the old determination to suppress Nature, to kill the man within\nman, with his appetites, passions, heart, and blood, could only result in\na disastrous defeat, in which, indeed, the Church found herself on the\nvery eve of sinking; and it was the Jesuits who came to extricate her\nfrom this peril and reinvigorate her by deciding that it was she who now\nought to go to the world, since the world seemed unwilling to go any\nlonger to her. All lay in that; you find the Jesuits declaring that one\ncan enter into arrangements with heaven; they bend and adjust themselves\nto the customs, prejudices, and even vices of the times; they smile, all\ncondescension, cast rigourism aside, and practice the diplomacy of\namiability, ever ready to turn the most awful abominations \u201cto the\ngreater glory of God.\u201d That is their motto, their battle-cry, and thence\nsprings the moral principle which many regard as their crime: that all\nmeans are good to attain one\u2019s end, especially when that end is the\nfurtherance of the Deity\u2019s interests as represented by those of the\nChurch. And what overwhelming success attends the efforts of the Jesuits!\nthey swarm and before long cover the earth, on all sides becoming\nuncontested masters. They shrive kings, they acquire immense wealth, they\ndisplay such victorious power of invasion that, however humbly they may\nset foot in any country, they soon wholly possess it: souls, bodies,\npower, and fortune alike falling to them. And they are particularly\nzealous in founding schools, they show themselves to be incomparable\nmoulders of the human brain, well understanding that power always belongs\nto the morrow, to the generations which are growing up and whose master\none must be if one desire to reign eternally. So great is their power,\nbased on the necessity of compromise with sin, that, on the morrow of the\nCouncil of Trent, they transform the very spirit of Catholicism,\npenetrate it, identify it with themselves and become the indispensable\nsoldiers of the papacy which lives by them and for them. And from that\nmoment Rome is theirs, Rome where their general so long commands, whence\nso long go forth the directions for the obscure tactics which are blindly\nfollowed by their innumerable army, whose skilful organisation covers the\nglobe as with an iron network hidden by the velvet of hands expert in\ndealing gently with poor suffering humanity. But, after all, the most\nprodigious feature is the stupefying vitality of the Jesuits who are\nincessantly tracked, condemned, executed, and yet still and ever erect.\nAs soon as their power asserts itself, their unpopularity begins and\ngradually becomes universal. Hoots of execration arise around them,\nabominable accusations, scandalous law cases in which they appear as\ncorruptors and felons. Pascal devotes them to public contempt,\nparliaments condemn their books to be burnt, universities denounce their\nsystem of morals and their teaching as poisonous. They foment such\ndisturbances, such struggles in every kingdom, that organised persecution\nsets in, and they are soon driven from everywhere. During more than a\ncentury they become wanderers, expelled, then recalled, passing and\nrepassing frontiers, leaving a country amidst cries of hatred to return\nto it as soon as quiet has been restored. Finally, for supreme disaster,\nthey are suppressed by one pope, but another re-establishes them, and\nsince then they have been virtually tolerated everywhere. And in the\ndiplomatic self-effacement, the shade in which they have the prudence to\nsequester themselves, they are none the less triumphant, quietly\nconfident of their victory like soldiers who have once and for ever\nsubdued the earth.\n\nPierre was aware that, judging by mere appearances, the Jesuits were\nnowadays dispossessed of all influence in Rome. They no longer officiated\nat the Ges\u00f9, they no longer directed the Collegio Romano, where they\nformerly fashioned so many souls; and with no abode of their own, reduced\nto accept foreign hospitality, they had modestly sought a refuge at the\nCollegio Germanico, where there is a little chapel. There they taught and\nthere they still confessed, but without the slightest bustle or display.\nWas one to believe, however, that this effacement was but masterly\ncunning, a feigned disappearance in order that they might really remain\nsecret, all-powerful masters, the hidden hand which directs and guides\neverything? People certainly said that the proclamation of papal\nInfallibility had been their work, a weapon with which they had armed\nthemselves whilst feigning to bestow it on the papacy, in readiness for\nthe coming decisive task which their genius foresaw in the approaching\nsocial upheavals. And thus there might perhaps be some truth in what Don\nVigilio, with a shiver of mystery, related about their occult\nsovereignty, a seizin, as it were, of the government of the Church, a\nroyalty ignored but nevertheless complete.\n\nAs this idea occurred to Pierre, a dim connection between certain of his\nexperiences arose in his mind and he all at once inquired: \u201cIs Monsignor\nNani a Jesuit, then?\u201d\n\nThese words seemed to revive all Don Vigilio\u2019s anxious passion. He waved\nhis trembling hand, and replied: \u201cHe? Oh, he\u2019s too clever, too skilful by\nfar to have taken the robe. But he comes from that Collegio Romano where\nhis generation grew up, and he there imbibed that Jesuit genius which\nadapted itself so well to his own. Whilst fully realising the danger of\nwearing an unpopular and embarrassing livery, and wishing to be free, he\nis none the less a Jesuit in his flesh, in his bones, in his very soul.\nHe is evidently convinced that the Church can only triumph by utilising\nthe passions of mankind, and withal he is very fond of the Church, very\npious at bottom, a very good priest, serving God without weakness in\ngratitude for the absolute power which God gives to His ministers. And\nbesides, he is so charming, incapable of any brutal action, full of the\ngood breeding of his noble Venetian ancestors, and deeply versed in\nknowledge of the world, thanks to his experiences at the nunciatures of\nParis, Vienna, and other places, without mentioning that he knows\neverything that goes on by reason of the delicate functions which he has\ndischarged for ten years past as Assessor of the Holy Office. Yes, he is\npowerful, all-powerful, and in him you do not have the furtive Jesuit\nwhose robe glides past amidst suspicion, but the head, the brain, the\nleader whom no uniform designates.\u201d\n\nThis reply made Pierre grave, for he was quite willing to admit that an\nopportunist code of morals, like that of the Jesuits, was inoculable and\nnow predominated throughout the Church. Indeed, the Jesuits might\ndisappear, but their doctrine would survive them, since it was the one\nweapon of combat, the one system of strategy which might again place the\nnations under the dominion of Rome. And in reality the struggle which\ncontinued lay precisely in the attempts to accommodate religion to the\ncentury, and the century to religion. Such being the case, Pierre\nrealised that such men as Monsignor Nani might acquire vast and even\ndecisive importance.\n\n\u201cAh! if you knew, if you knew,\u201d continued Don Vigilio, \u201che\u2019s everywhere,\nhe has his hand in everything. For instance, nothing has ever happened\nhere, among the Boccaneras, but I\u2019ve found him at the bottom of it,\ntangling or untangling the threads according to necessities with which he\nalone is acquainted.\u201d\n\nThen, in the unquenchable fever for confiding things which was now\nconsuming him, the secretary related how Monsignor Nani had most\ncertainly brought on Benedetta\u2019s divorce case. The Jesuits, in spite of\ntheir conciliatory spirit, have always taken up a hostile position with\nregard to Italy, either because they do not despair of reconquering Rome,\nor because they wait to treat in due season with the ultimate and real\nvictor, whether King or Pope. And so Nani, who had long been one of Donna\nSerafina\u2019s intimates, had helped to precipitate the rupture with Prada as\nsoon as Benedetta\u2019s mother was dead. Again, it was he who, to prevent any\ninterference on the part of the patriotic Abb\u00e9 Pisoni, the young woman\u2019s\nconfessor and the artisan of her marriage, had urged her to take the same\nspiritual director as her aunt, Father Lorenza, a handsome Jesuit with\nclear and kindly eyes, whose confessional in the chapel of the Collegio\nGermanico was incessantly besieged by penitents. And it seemed certain\nthat this man\u0153uvre had brought about everything; what one cleric working\nfor Italy had done, was to be undone by another working against Italy.\nWhy was it, however, that Nani, after bringing about the rupture, had\nmomentarily ceased to show all interest in the affair to the point even\nof jeopardising the suit for the dissolution of the marriage? And why was\nhe now again busying himself with it, setting Donna Serafina in action,\nprompting her to buy Monsignor Palma\u2019s support, and bringing his own\ninfluence to bear on the cardinals of the Congregation? There was mystery\nin all this, as there was in everything he did, for his schemes were\nalways complicated and distant in their effects. However, one might\nsuppose that he now wished to hasten the marriage of Benedetta and Dario,\nin order to stop all the abominable rumours which were circulating in the\nwhite world; unless, indeed, this divorce secured by pecuniary payments\nand the pressure of notorious influences were an intentional scandal at\nfirst spun out and now hastened, in order to harm Cardinal Boccanera,\nwhom the Jesuits might desire to brush aside in certain eventualities\nwhich were possibly near at hand.\n\n\u201cTo tell the truth, I rather incline to the latter view,\u201d said Don\nVigilio, \u201cthe more so indeed as I learnt this evening that the Pope is\nnot well. With an old man of eighty-four the end may come at any moment,\nand so the Pope can never catch cold but what the Sacred College and the\nprelacies are all agog, stirred by sudden ambitious rivalries. Now, the\nJesuits have always opposed Cardinal Boccanera\u2019s candidature. They ought\nto be on his side, on account of his rank, and his uncompromising\nattitude towards Italy, but the idea of giving themselves such a master\ndisquiets them, for they consider him unseasonably rough and stern, too\nviolent in his faith, which unbending as it is would prove dangerous in\nthese diplomatic times through which the Church is passing. And so I\nshould in no wise be astonished if there were an attempt to discredit him\nand render his candidature impossible, by employing the most underhand\nand shameful means.\u201d\n\nA little quiver of fear was coming over Pierre. The contagion of the\nunknown, of the black intrigues plotted in the dark, was spreading amidst\nthe silence of the night in the depths of that palace, near that Tiber,\nin that Rome so full of legendary tragedies. But all at once the young\nman\u2019s mind reverted to himself, to his own affair. \u201cBut what is my part\nin all this?\u201d he asked: \u201cwhy does Monsignor Nani seem to take an interest\nin me? Why is he mixed up in the proceedings against my book?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! one never knows, one never knows exactly!\u201d replied Don Vigilio,\nwaving his arms. \u201cOne thing I can say, that he only knew of the affair\nwhen the denunciations of the three bishops were already in the hands of\nFather Dangelis; and I have also learnt that he then tried to stop the\nproceedings, which he no doubt thought both useless and impolitic. But\nwhen a matter is once before the Congregation it is almost impossible for\nit to be withdrawn, and Monsignor Nani must also have come into collision\nwith Father Dangelis who, like a faithful Dominican, is the passionate\nadversary of the Jesuits. It was then that he caused the Contessina to\nwrite to Monsieur de la Choue, requesting him to tell you to hasten here\nin order to defend yourself, and to arrange for your acceptance of\nhospitality in this mansion, during your stay.\u201d\n\nThis revelation brought Pierre\u2019s emotion to a climax. \u201cYou are sure of\nthat?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cOh! quite sure. I heard Nani speak of you one Monday, and some time ago\nI told you that he seemed to know all about you, as if he had made most\nminute inquiries. My belief is that he had already read your book, and\nwas extremely preoccupied about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you think that he shares my ideas, then? Is he sincere, is he\ndefending himself while striving to defend me?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no, no, not at all. Your ideas, why he certainly hates them, and\nyour book and yourself as well. You have no idea what contempt for the\nweak, what hatred of the poor, and love of authority and domination he\nconceals under his caressing amiability. Lourdes he might abandon to you,\nthough it embodies a marvellous weapon of government; but he will never\nforgive you for being on the side of the little ones of the world, and\nfor pronouncing against the temporal power. If you only heard with what\ngentle ferocity he derides Monsieur de la Choue, whom he calls the\nweeping willow of Neo-Catholicism!\u201d\n\nPierre carried his hands to his temples and pressed his head\ndespairingly. \u201cThen why, why, tell me I beg of you, why has he brought me\nhere and kept me here in this house at his disposal? Why has he\npromenaded me up and down Rome for three long months, throwing me against\nobstacles and wearying me, when it was so easy for him to let the Index\ncondemn my book if it embarrassed him? It\u2019s true, of course, that things\nwould not have gone quietly, for I was disposed to refuse submission and\nopenly confess my new faith, even against the decisions of Rome.\u201d\n\nDon Vigilio\u2019s black eyes flared in his yellow face: \u201cPerhaps it was that\nwhich he wished to prevent. He knows you to be very intelligent and\nenthusiastic, and I have often heard him say that intelligence and\nenthusiasm should not be fought openly.\u201d\n\nPierre, however, had risen to his feet, and instead of listening, was\nstriding up and down the room as though carried away by the whirlwind of\nhis thoughts. \u201cCome, come,\u201d he said at last, \u201cit is necessary that I\nshould know and understand things if I am to continue the struggle. You\nmust be kind enough to give me some detailed particulars about each of\nthe persons mixed up in my affair. Jesuits, Jesuits everywhere? _Mon\nDieu_, it may be so, you are perhaps right! But all the same you must\npoint out the different shades to me. Now, for instance, what of that\nFornaro?\u201d\n\n\u201cMonsignor Fornaro, oh! he\u2019s whatever you like. Still he also was brought\nup at the Collegio Romano, so you may be certain that he is a Jesuit, a\nJesuit by education, position, and ambition. He is longing to become a\ncardinal, and if he some day becomes one, he\u2019ll long to be the next pope.\nBesides, you know, every one here is a candidate to the papacy as soon as\nhe enters the seminary.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd Cardinal Sanguinetti?\u201d\n\n\u201cA Jesuit, a Jesuit! To speak plainly, he was one, then ceased to be one,\nand is now undoubtedly one again. Sanguinetti has flirted with every\ninfluence. It was long thought that he was in favour of conciliation\nbetween the Holy See and Italy; but things drifted into a bad way, and he\nviolently took part against the usurpers. In the same style he has\nfrequently fallen out with Leo XIII and then made his peace. To-day at\nthe Vatican, he keeps on a footing of diplomatic reserve. Briefly he only\nhas one object, the tiara, and even shows it too plainly, which is a\nmistake, for it uses up a candidate. Still, just at present the struggle\nseems to be between him and Cardinal Boccanera. And that\u2019s why he has\ngone over to the Jesuits again, utilising their hatred of his rival, and\nanticipating that they will be forced to support _him_ in order to defeat\nthe other. But I doubt it, they are too shrewd, they will hesitate to\npatronise a candidate who is already so compromised. He, blunder-head,\npassionate and proud as he is, doubts nothing, and since you say that he\nis now at Frascati, I\u2019m certain that he made all haste to shut himself up\nthere with some grand strategical object in view, as soon as he heard of\nthe Pope\u2019s illness.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, and the Pope himself, Leo XIII?\u201d asked Pierre.\n\nThis time Don Vigilio slightly hesitated, his eyes blinking. Then he\nsaid: \u201cLeo XIII? He is a Jesuit, a Jesuit! Oh! I know it is said that he\nsides with the Dominicans, and this is in a measure true, for he fancies\nthat he is animated with their spirit and he has brought St. Thomas into\nfavour again, and has restored all the ecclesiastical teaching of\ndoctrine. But there is also the Jesuit, remember, who is one\ninvoluntarily and without knowing it, and of this category the present\nPope will prove the most famous example. Study his acts, investigate his\npolicy, and you will find that everything in it emanates from the Jesuit\nspirit. The fact is that he has unwittingly become impregnated with that\nspirit, and that all the influence, directly or indirectly brought to\nbear on him comes from a Jesuit centre. Ah! why don\u2019t you believe me? I\nrepeat that the Jesuits have conquered and absorbed everything, that all\nRome belongs to them from the most insignificant cleric to his Holiness\nin person.\u201d\n\nThen he continued, replying to each fresh name that Pierre gave with the\nsame obstinate, maniacal cry: \u201cJesuit, Jesuit!\u201d It seemed as if a\nChurchman could be nothing else, as if each answer were a confirmation of\nthe proposition that the clergy must compound with the modern world if it\ndesired to preserve its Deity. The heroic age of Catholicism was\naccomplished, henceforth it could only live by dint of diplomacy and\nruses, concessions and arrangements. \u201cAnd that Paparelli, he\u2019s a Jesuit\ntoo, a Jesuit!\u201d Don Vigilio went on, instinctively lowering his voice.\n\u201cYes, the humble but terrible Jesuit, the Jesuit in his most abominable\n_r\u00f4le_ as a spy and a perverter! I could swear that he has merely been\nplaced here in order to keep watch on his Eminence! And you should see\nwith what supple talent and craft he has performed his task, to such a\npoint indeed that it is now he alone who wills and orders things. He\nopens the door to whomsoever he pleases, uses his master like something\nbelonging to him, weighs on each of his resolutions, and holds him in his\npower by dint of his stealthy unremitting efforts. Yes! it\u2019s the lion\nconquered by the insect; the infinitesimally small disposing of the\ninfinitely great; the train-bearer--whose proper part is to sit at his\ncardinal\u2019s feet like a faithful hound--in reality reigning over him, and\nimpelling him in whatsoever direction he chooses. Ah! the Jesuit! the\nJesuit! Mistrust him when you see him gliding by in his shabby old\ncassock, with the flabby wrinkled face of a devout old maid. And make\nsure that he isn\u2019t behind the doors, or in the cupboards, or under the\nbeds. Ah! I tell you that they\u2019ll devour you as they\u2019ve devoured me; and\nthey\u2019ll give you the fever too, perhaps even the plague if you are not\ncareful!\u201d\n\nPierre suddenly halted in front of his companion. He was losing all\nassurance, both fear and rage were penetrating him. And, after all, why\nnot? These extraordinary stories must be true. \u201cBut in that case give me\nsome advice,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI asked you to come in here this evening\nprecisely because I no longer know what to do, and need to be set in the\nright path--\u201d Then he broke off and again paced to and fro, as if urged\ninto motion by his exploding passion. \u201cOr rather no, tell me nothing!\u201d he\nabruptly resumed. \u201cIt\u2019s all over; I prefer to go away. The thought\noccurred to me before, but it was in a moment of cowardice and with the\nidea of disappearing and of returning to live in peace in my little nook:\nwhereas now, if I go off, it will be as an avenger, a judge, to cry aloud\nto all the world from Paris, to proclaim what I have seen in Rome, what\nmen have done there with the Christianity of Jesus, the Vatican falling\ninto dust, the corpse-like odour which comes from it, the idiotic\nillusions of those who hope that they will one day see a renascence of\nthe modern soul arise from a sepulchre where the remnants of dead\ncenturies rot and slumber. Oh! I will not yield, I will not make my\nsubmission, I will defend my book by a fresh one. And that book, I\npromise you, will make some noise in the world, for it will sound the\nlast agony of a dying religion, which one must make all haste to bury\nlest its remains should poison the nations!\u201d\n\nAll this was beyond Don Vigilio\u2019s mind. The Italian priest, with narrow\nbelief and ignorant terror of the new ideas, awoke within him. He clasped\nhis hands, affrighted. \u201cBe quiet, be quiet! You are blaspheming! And,\nbesides, you cannot go off like that without again trying to see his\nHoliness. He alone is sovereign. And I know that I shall surprise you;\nbut Father Dangelis has given you in jest the only good advice that can\nbe given: Go back to see Monsignor Nani, for he alone will open the door\nof the Vatican for you.\u201d\n\nAgain did Pierre give a start of anger: \u201cWhat! It was with Monsignor Nani\nthat I began, from him that I set out; and I am to go back to him? What\ngame is that? Can I consent to be a shuttlecock sent flying hither and\nthither by every battledore? People are having a game with me!\u201d\n\nThen, harassed and distracted, the young man fell on his chair in front\nof Don Vigilio, who with his face drawn by his prolonged vigil, and his\nhands still and ever faintly trembling, remained for some time silent. At\nlast he explained that he had another idea. He was slightly acquainted\nwith the Pope\u2019s confessor, a Franciscan father, a man of great\nsimplicity, to whom he might recommend Pierre. This Franciscan, despite\nhis self-effacement, would perhaps prove of service to him. At all events\nhe might be tried. Then, once more, silence fell, and Pierre, whose\ndreamy eyes were turned towards the wall, ended by distinguishing the old\npicture which had touched him so deeply on the day of his arrival. In the\npale glow of the lamp it gradually showed forth and lived, like an\nincarnation of his own case, his own futile despair before the sternly\nclosed portal of truth and justice. Ah! that outcast woman, that stubborn\nvictim of love, weeping amidst her streaming hair, her visage hidden\nwhilst with pain and grief she sank upon the steps of that palace whose\ndoor was so pitilessly shut--how she resembled him! Draped with a mere\nstrip of linen, she was shivering, and amidst the overpowering distress\nof her abandonment she did not reveal her secret, misfortune, or\ntransgression, whichever it might be. But he, behind her close-pressed\nhands, endowed her with a face akin to his own: she became his sister, as\nwere all the poor creatures without roof or certainty who weep because\nthey are naked and alone, and wear out their strength in seeking to force\nthe wicked thresholds of men. He could never gaze at her without pitying\nher, and it stirred him so much that evening to find her ever so unknown,\nnameless and visageless, yet steeped in the most bitter tears, that he\nsuddenly began to question his companion.\n\n\u201cTell me,\u201d said he, \u201cdo you know who painted that old picture? It stirs\nme to the soul like a masterpiece.\u201d\n\nStupefied by this unexpected question, the secretary raised his head and\nlooked, feeling yet more astonished when he had examined the blackened,\nforsaken panel in its sorry frame.\n\n\u201cWhere did it come from?\u201d resumed Pierre; \u201cwhy has it been stowed away in\nthis room?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d replied Don Vigilio, with a gesture of indifference, \u201cit\u2019s nothing.\nThere are heaps of valueless old paintings everywhere. That one, no\ndoubt, has always been here. But I don\u2019t know; I never noticed it\nbefore.\u201d\n\nWhilst speaking he had at last risen to his feet, and this simple action\nhad brought on such a fit of shivering that he could scarcely take leave,\nso violently did his teeth chatter with fever. \u201cNo, no, don\u2019t show me\nout,\u201d he stammered, \u201ckeep the lamp here. And to conclude: the best course\nis for you to leave yourself in the hands of Monsignor Nani, for he, at\nall events, is a superior man. I told you on your arrival that, whether\nyou would or not, you would end by doing as he desired. And so what\u2019s the\nuse of struggling? And mind, not a word of our conversation to-night; it\nwould mean my death.\u201d\n\nThen he noiselessly opened the doors, glanced distrustfully into the\ndarkness of the passage, and at last ventured out and disappeared,\nregaining his own room with such soft steps that not the faintest\nfootfall was heard amidst the tomb-like slumber of the old mansion.\n\nOn the morrow, Pierre, again mastered by a desire to fight on to the very\nend, got Don Vigilio to recommend him to the Pope\u2019s confessor, the\nFranciscan friar with whom the secretary was slightly acquainted.\nHowever, this friar proved to be an extremely timid if worthy man,\nselected precisely on account of his great modesty, simplicity, and\nabsolute lack of influence in order that he might not abuse his position\nwith respect to the Holy Father. And doubtless there was an affectation\nof humility on the latter\u2019s part in taking for confessor a member of the\nhumblest of the regular orders, a friend of the poor, a holy beggar of\nthe roads. At the same time the friar certainly enjoyed a reputation for\noratory; and hidden by a veil the Pope at times listened to his sermons;\nfor although as infallible Sovereign Pontiff Leo XIII could not receive\nlessons from any priest, it was admitted that as a man he might reap\nprofit by listening to good discourse. Nevertheless apart from his\nnatural eloquence, the worthy friar was really a mere washer of souls, a\nconfessor who listens and absolves without even remembering the\nimpurities which he removes in the waters of penitence. And Pierre,\nfinding him really so poor and such a cipher, did not insist on an\nintervention which he realised would be futile.\n\nAll that day the young priest was haunted by the figure of that ingenuous\nlover of poverty, that delicious St. Francis, as Narcisse Habert was wont\nto say. Pierre had often wondered how such an apostle, so gentle towards\nboth animate and inanimate creation, and so full of ardent charity for\nthe wretched, could have arisen in a country of egotism and enjoyment\nlike Italy, where the love of beauty alone has remained queen. Doubtless\nthe times have changed; yet what a strong sap of love must have been\nneeded in the old days, during the great sufferings of the middle ages,\nfor such a consoler of the humble to spring from the popular soil and\npreach the gift of self to others, the renunciation of wealth, the horror\nof brutal force, the equality and obedience which would ensure the peace\nof the world. St. Francis trod the roads clad as one of the poorest, a\nrope girdling his grey gown and his bare feet shod with sandals, and he\ncarried with him neither purse nor staff. And he and his brethren spoke\naloud and freely, with sovereign florescence of poetry and boldness of\ntruth, attacking the rich and the powerful, and daring even to denounce\nthe priests of evil life, the debauched, simoniacal, and perjured\nbishops. A long cry of relief greeted the Franciscans, the people\nfollowed them in crowds--they were the friends, the liberators of all the\nhumble ones who suffered. And thus, like revolutionaries, they at first\nso alarmed Rome, that the popes hesitated to authorise their Order. When\nthey at last gave way it was assuredly with the hope of using this new\nforce for their own profit, by conquering the whole vague mass of the\nlowly whose covert threats have ever growled through the ages, even in\nthe most despotic times. And thenceforward in the sons of St. Francis the\nChurch possessed an ever victorious army--a wandering army which spread\nover the roads, in the villages and through the towns, penetrating to the\nfiresides of artisan and peasant, and gaining possession of all simple\nhearts. How great the democratic power of such an Order which had sprung\nfrom the very entrails of the people! And thence its rapid prosperity,\nits teeming growth in a few years, friaries arising upon all sides, and\nthe third Order* so invading the secular population as to impregnate and\nabsorb it. And that there was here a genuine growth of the soil, a\nvigorous vegetation of the plebeian stock was shown by an entire national\nart arising from it--the precursors of the Renascence in painting and\neven Dante himself, the soul of Italia\u2019s genius.\n\n  * The Franciscans, like the Dominicans and others, admit, in\n    addition to the two Orders of friars and nuns, a third Order\n    comprising devout persons of either sex who have neither the\n    vocation nor the opportunity for cloistered life, but live in\n    the world, privately observing the chief principles of the\n    fraternity with which they are connected. In central and\n    southern Europe members of these third Orders are still\n    numerous.--Trans.\n\nFor some days now, in the Rome of the present time, Pierre had been\ncoming into contact with those great Orders of the past. The Franciscans\nand the Dominicans were there face to face in their vast convents of\nprosperous aspect. But it seemed as if the humility of the Franciscans\nhad in the long run deprived them of influence. Perhaps, too, their\n_r\u00f4le_ as friends and liberators of the people was ended since the people\nnow undertook to liberate itself. And so the only real remaining battle\nwas between the Dominicans and the Jesuits, both of whom still claimed to\nmould the world according to their particular views. Warfare between them\nwas incessant, and Rome--the supreme power at the Vatican--was ever the\nprize for which they contended. But, although the Dominicans had St.\nThomas on their side, they must have felt that their old dogmatic science\nwas crumbling, compelled as they were each day to surrender a little\nground to the Jesuits whose principles accorded better with the spirit of\nthe century. And, in addition to these, there were the white-robed\nCarthusians, those very holy, pure, and silent meditators who fled from\nthe world into quiet cells and cloisters, those despairing and consoled\nones whose numbers may decrease but whose Order will live for ever, even\nas grief and desire for solitude will live. And then there were the\nBenedictines whose admirable rules have sanctified labour, passionate\ntoilers in literature and science, once powerful instruments of\ncivilisation, enlarging universal knowledge by their immense historical\nand critical works. These Pierre loved, and with them would have sought a\nrefuge two centuries earlier, yet he was astonished to find them building\non the Aventine a huge dwelling, for which Leo XIII has already given\nmillions, as if the science of to-day and to-morrow were yet a field\nwhere they might garner harvests. But _cui bono_, when the workmen have\nchanged, and dogmas are there to bar the road--dogmas which totter, no\ndoubt, but which believers may not fling aside in order to pass onward?\nAnd finally came the swarm of less important Orders, hundreds in number;\nthere were the Carmelites, the Trappists, the Minims, the Barnabites, the\nLazzarists, the Eudists, the Mission Fathers, the Servites, the Brothers\nof the Christian Doctrine; there were the Bernadines, the Augustinians,\nthe Theatines, the Observants, the Passionists, the C\u00e9lestines, and the\nCapuchins, without counting the corresponding Orders of women or the Poor\nClares, or the innumerable nuns like those of the Visitation and the\nCalvary. Each community had its modest or sumptuous dwelling, certain\ndistricts of Rome were entirely composed of convents, and behind the\nsilent lifeless fa\u00e7ades all those people buzzed, intrigued, and waged the\neverlasting warfare of rival interests and passions. The social evolution\nwhich produced them had long since ceased, still they obstinately sought\nto prolong their life, growing weaker and more useless day by day,\ndestined to a slow agony until the time shall come when the new\ndevelopment of society will leave them neither foothold nor breathing\nspace.\n\nAnd it was not only with the regulars that Pierre came in contact during\nhis peregrinations through Rome; indeed, he more particularly had to deal\nwith the secular clergy, and learnt to know them well. A hierarchical\nsystem which was still vigorously enforced maintained them in various\nranks and classes. Up above, around the Pope, reigned the pontifical\nfamily, the high and noble cardinals and prelates whose conceit was great\nin spite of their apparent familiarity. Below them the parish clergy\nformed a very worthy middle class of wise and moderate minds; and here\npatriot priests were not rare. Moreover, the Italian occupation of a\nquarter of a century, by installing in the city a world of functionaries\nwho saw everything that went on, had, curiously enough, greatly purified\nthe private life of the Roman priesthood, in which under the popes women,\nbeyond all question, played a supreme part. And finally one came to the\nplebeian clergy whom Pierre studied with curiosity, a collection of\nwretched, grimy, half-naked priests who like famished animals prowled\naround in search of masses, and drifted into disreputable taverns in the\ncompany of beggars and thieves. However, he was more interested by the\nfloating population of foreign priests from all parts of Christendom--the\nadventurers, the ambitious ones, the believers, the madmen whom Rome\nattracted just as a lamp at night time attracts the insects of the gloom.\nAmong these were men of every nationality, position, and age, all lashed\non by their appetites and scrambling from morn till eve around the\nVatican, in order to snap at the prey which they hoped to secure. He\nfound them everywhere, and told himself with some shame that he was one\nof them, that the unit of his own personality served to increase the\nincredible number of cassocks that one encountered in the streets. Ah!\nthat ebb and flow, that ceaseless tide of black gowns and frocks of every\nhue! With their processions of students ever walking abroad, the\nseminaries of the different nations would alone have sufficed to drape\nand decorate the streets, for there were the French and the English all\nin black, the South Americans in black with blue sashes, the North\nAmericans in black with red sashes, the Poles in black with green sashes,\nthe Greeks in blue, the Germans in red, the Scots in violet, the Romans\nin black or violet or purple, the Bohemians with chocolate sashes, the\nIrish with red lappets, the Spaniards with blue cords, to say nothing of\nall the others with broidery and bindings and buttons in a hundred\ndifferent styles. And in addition there were the confraternities, the\npenitents, white, black, blue, and grey, with sleeveless frocks and capes\nof different hue, grey, blue, black, or white. And thus even nowadays\nPapal Rome at times seemed to resuscitate, and one could realise how\ntenaciously and vivaciously she struggled on in order that she might not\ndisappear in the cosmopolitan Rome of the new era. However, Pierre,\nwhilst running about from one prelate to another, frequenting priests and\ncrossing churches, could not accustom himself to the worship, the Roman\npiety which astonished him when it did not wound him. One rainy Sunday\nmorning, on entering Santa Maria Maggiore, he fancied himself in some\nwaiting-room, a very splendid one, no doubt, but where God seemed to have\nno habitation. There was not a bench, not a chair in the nave, across\nwhich people passed, as they might pass through a railway station,\nwetting and soiling the precious mosaic pavement with their muddy shoes;\nand tired women and children sat round the bases of the columns, even as\nin railway stations one sees people sitting and waiting for their trains\nduring the great crushes of the holiday season. And for this tramping\nthrong of folks of small degree, who had looked in _en passant_, a priest\nwas saying a low mass in a side chapel, before which a narrow file of\nstanding people had gathered, extending across the nave, and recalling\nthe crowds which wait in front of theatres for the opening of the doors.\nAt the elevation of the host one and all inclined themselves devoutly,\nbut almost immediately afterwards the gathering dispersed. And indeed why\nlinger? The mass was said. Pierre everywhere found the same form of\nattendance, peculiar to the countries of the sun; the worshippers were in\na hurry and only favoured the Deity with short familiar visits, unless it\nwere a question of some gala scene at San Paolo or San Giovanni in\nLaterano or some other of the old basilicas. It was only at the Ges\u00f9, on\nanother Sunday morning, that the young priest came upon a high-mass\ncongregation, which reminded him of the devout throngs of the North. Here\nthere were benches and women seated, a worldly warmth and cosiness under\nthe luxurious, gilded, carved, and painted roof, whose tawny splendour is\nvery fine now that time has toned down the eccentricities of the\ndecoration. But how many of the churches were empty, among them some of\nthe most ancient and venerable, San Clemente, Sant\u2019 Agnese, Santa Croce\nin Gerusalemme, where during the offices one saw but a few believers of\nthe neighbourhood. Four hundred churches were a good many for even Rome\nto people; and, indeed, some were merely attended on fixed ceremonial\noccasions, and a good many merely opened their doors once every year--on\nthe feast day, that is, of their patron saint. Some also subsisted on the\nlucky possession of a fetish, an idol compassionate to human sufferings.\nSanta Maria in Ara Coeli possessed the miraculous little Jesus, the\n\u201cBambino,\u201d who healed sick children, and Sant\u2019 Agostino had the \u201cMadonna\ndel Parto,\u201d who grants a happy delivery to mothers. Then others were\nrenowned for the holy water of their fonts, the oil of their lamps, the\npower of some wooden saint or marble virgin. Others again seemed\nforsaken, given up to tourists and the perquisites of beadles, like mere\nmuseums peopled with dead gods: Finally others disturbed one\u2019s faith by\nthe suggestiveness of their aspects, as, for instance, that Santa Maria\nRotonda, which is located in the Pantheon, a circular hall recalling a\ncircus, where the Virgin remains the evident tenant of the Olympian\ndeities.\n\nPierre took no little interest in the churches of the poor districts, but\ndid not find there the keen faith and the throngs he had hoped for. One\nafternoon, at Santa Maria in Trastevere, he heard the choir in full song,\nbut the church was quite empty, and the chant had a most lugubrious sound\nin such a desert. Then, another day, on entering San Crisogono, he found\nit draped, probably in readiness for some festival on the morrow. The\ncolumns were cased with red damask, and between them were hangings and\ncurtains alternately yellow and blue, white and red; and the young man\nfled from such a fearful decoration as gaudy as that of a fair booth. Ah!\nhow far he was from the cathedrals where in childhood he had believed and\nprayed! On all sides he found the same type of church, the antique\nbasilica accommodated to the taste of eighteenth-century Rome. Though the\nstyle of San Luigi dei Francesi is better, more soberly elegant, the only\nthing that touched him even there was the thought of the heroic or\nsaintly Frenchmen, who sleep in foreign soil beneath the flags. And as he\nsought for something Gothic, he ended by going to see Santa Maria sopra\nMinerva,* which, he was told, was the only example of the Gothic style in\nRome. Here his stupefaction attained a climax at sight of the clustering\ncolumns cased in stucco imitating marble, the ogives which dared not\nsoar, the rounded vaults condemned to the heavy majesty of the dome\nstyle. No, no, thought he, the faith whose cooling cinders lingered there\nwas no longer that whose brazier had invaded and set all Christendom\naglow! However, Monsignor Fornaro whom he chanced to meet as he was\nleaving the church, inveighed against the Gothic style as rank heresy.\nThe first Christian church, said the prelate, had been the basilica,\nwhich had sprung from the temple, and it was blasphemy to assert that the\nGothic cathedral was the real Christian house of prayer, for Gothic\nembodied the hateful Anglo-Saxon spirit, the rebellious genius of Luther.\nAt this a passionate reply rose to Pierre\u2019s lips, but he said nothing for\nfear that he might say too much. However, he asked himself whether in all\nthis there was not a decisive proof that Catholicism was the very\nvegetation of Rome, Paganism modified by Christianity. Elsewhere\nChristianity has grown up in quite a different spirit, to such a point\nthat it has risen in rebellion and schismatically turned against the\nmother-city. And the breach has ever gone on widening, the dissemblance\nhas become more and more marked; and amidst the evolution of new\nsocieties, yet a fresh schism appears inevitable and proximate in spite\nof all the despairing efforts to maintain union.\n\n  * So called because it occupies the site of a temple to\n    Minerva.--Trans.\n\nWhile Pierre thus visited the Roman churches, he also continued his\nefforts to gain support in the matter of his book, his irritation tending\nto such stubbornness, that if in the first instance he failed to obtain\nan interview, he went back again and again to secure one, steadfastly\nkeeping his promise to call in turn upon each cardinal of the\nCongregation of the Index. And as a cardinal may belong to several\nCongregations, it resulted that he gradually found himself roaming\nthrough those former ministries of the old pontifical government which,\nif less numerous than formerly, are still very intricate institutions,\neach with its cardinal-prefect, its cardinal-members, its consultative\nprelates, and its numerous employees. Pierre repeatedly had to return to\nthe Cancelleria, where the Congregation of the Index meets, and lost\nhimself in its world of staircases, corridors, and halls. From the moment\nhe passed under the porticus he was overcome by the icy shiver which fell\nfrom the old walls, and was quite unable to appreciate the bare, frigid\nbeauty of the palace, Bramante\u2019s masterpiece though it be, so purely\ntypical of the Roman Renascence. He also knew the Propaganda where he had\nseen Cardinal Sarno; and, sent as he was hither and thither, in his\nefforts to gain over influential prelates, chance made him acquainted\nwith the other Congregations, that of the Bishops and Regulars, that of\nthe Rites and that of the Council. He even obtained a glimpse of the\nConsistorial, the Dataria,* and the sacred Penitentiary. All these formed\npart of the administrative mechanism of the Church under its several\naspects--the government of the Catholic world, the enlargement of the\nChurch\u2019s conquests, the administration of its affairs in conquered\ncountries, the decision of all questions touching faith, morals, and\nindividuals, the investigation and punishment of offences, the grant of\ndispensations and the sale of favours. One can scarcely imagine what a\nfearful number of affairs are each morning submitted to the Vatican,\nquestions of the greatest gravity, delicacy, and intricacy, the solution\nof which gives rise to endless study and research. It is necessary to\nreply to the innumerable visitors who flock to Rome from all parts, and\nto the letters, the petitions, and the batches of documents which are\nsubmitted and require to be distributed among the various offices. And\nPierre was struck by the deep and discreet silence in which all this\ncolossal labour was accomplished; not a sound reaching the streets from\nthe tribunals, parliaments, and factories for the manufacture of saints\nand nobles, whose mechanism was so well greased, that in spite of the\nrust of centuries and the deep and irremediable wear and tear, the whole\ncontinued working without clank or creak to denote its presence behind\nthe walls. And did not that silence embody the whole policy of the\nChurch, which is to remain mute and await developments? Nevertheless what\na prodigious mechanism it was, antiquated no doubt, but still so\npowerful! And amidst those Congregations how keenly Pierre felt himself\nto be in the grip of the most absolute power ever devised for the\ndomination of mankind. However much he might notice signs of decay and\ncoming ruin he was none the less seized, crushed, and carried off by that\nhuge engine made up of vanity and venality, corruption and ambition,\nmeanness and greatness. And how far, too, he now was from the Rome that\nhe had dreamt of, and what anger at times filled him amidst his\nweariness, as he persevered in his resolve to defend himself!\n\n  * It is from the Dataria that bulls, rescripts, letters of\n    appointment to benefices, and dispensations of marriage,\n    are issued, after the affixture of the date and formula\n    _Datum Romae_, \u201cGiven at Rome.\u201d--Trans.\n\nAll at once certain things which he had never understood were explained\nto him. One day, when he returned to the Propaganda, Cardinal Sarno spoke\nto him of Freemasonry with such icy rage that he was abruptly\nenlightened. Freemasonry had hitherto made him smile; he had believed in\nit no more than he had believed in the Jesuits. Indeed, he had looked\nupon the ridiculous stories which were current--the stories of\nmysterious, shadowy men who governed the world with secret incalculable\npower--as mere childish legends. In particular he had been amazed by the\nblind hatred which maddened certain people as soon as Freemasonry was\nmentioned. However, a very distinguished and intelligent prelate had\ndeclared to him, with an air of profound conviction, that at least on one\noccasion every year each masonic Lodge was presided over by the Devil in\nperson, incarnate in a visible shape! And now, by Cardinal Sarno\u2019s\nremarks, he understood the rivalry, the furious struggle of the Roman\nCatholic Church against that other Church, the Church of over the way.*\nAlthough the former counted on her own triumph, she none the less felt\nthat the other, the Church of Freemasonry, was a competitor, a very\nancient enemy, who indeed claimed to be more ancient than herself, and\nwhose victory always remained a possibility. And the friction between\nthem was largely due to the circumstance that they both aimed at\nuniversal sovereignty, and had a similar international organisation, a\nsimilar net thrown over the nations, and in a like way mysteries, dogmas,\nand rites. It was deity against deity, faith against faith, conquest\nagainst conquest: and so, like competing tradesmen in the same street,\nthey were a source of mutual embarrassment, and one of them was bound to\nkill the other. But if Roman Catholicism seemed to Pierre to be worn out\nand threatened with ruin, he remained quite as sceptical with regard to\nthe power of Freemasonry. He had made inquiries as to the reality of that\npower in Rome, where both Grand Master and Pope were enthroned, one in\nfront of the other. He was certainly told that the last Roman princes had\nthought themselves compelled to become Freemasons in order to render\ntheir own difficult position somewhat easier and facilitate the future of\ntheir sons. But was this true? had they not simply yielded to the force\nof the present social evolution? And would not Freemasonry eventually be\nsubmerged by its own triumph--that of the ideas of justice, reason, and\ntruth, which it had defended through the dark and violent ages of\nhistory? It is a thing which constantly happens; the victory of an idea\nkills the sect which has propagated it, and renders the apparatus with\nwhich the members of the sect surrounded themselves, in order to fire\nimaginations, both useless and somewhat ridiculous. Carbonarism did not\nsurvive the conquest of the political liberties which it demanded; and on\nthe day when the Catholic Church crumbles, having accomplished its work\nof civilisation, the other Church, the Freemasons\u2019 Church of across the\nroad, will in a like way disappear, its task of liberation ended.\nNowadays the famous power of the Lodges, hampered by traditions, weakened\nby a ceremonial which provokes laughter, and reduced to a simple bond of\nbrotherly agreement and mutual assistance, would be but a sorry weapon of\nconquest for humanity, were it not that the vigorous breath of science\nimpels the nations onwards and helps to destroy the old religions.\n\n  * Some readers may think the above passages an exaggeration, but\n    such is not the case. The hatred with which the Catholic\n    priesthood, especially in Italy, Spain, and France, regards\n    Freemasonry is remarkable. At the moment of writing these lines\n    I have before me several French clerical newspapers, which\n    contain the most abusive articles levelled against President\n    Faure solely because he is a Freemason. One of these prints, a\n    leading journal of Lyons, tells the French President that he\n    cannot serve both God and the Devil; and that if he cannot give\n    up Freemasonry he would do well to cease desecrating the abode\n    of the Deity by his attendance at divine service.--Trans.\n\nHowever, all Pierre\u2019s journeyings and applications brought him no\ncertainty; and, while stubbornly clinging to Rome, intent on fighting to\nthe very end, like a soldier who will not believe in the possibility of\ndefeat, he remained as anxious as ever. He had seen all the cardinals\nwhose influence could be of use to him. He had seen the Cardinal Vicar,\nentrusted with the diocese of Rome, who, like the man of letters he was,\nhad spoken to him of Horace, and, like a somewhat blundering politician,\nhad questioned him about France, the Republic, the Army, and the Navy\nEstimates, without dealing in the slightest degree with the incriminated\nbook. He had also seen the Grand Penitentiary, that tall old man, with\nfleshless, ascetic face, of whom he had previously caught a glimpse at\nthe Boccanera mansion, and from whom he now only drew a long and severe\nsermon on the wickedness of young priests, whom the century had perverted\nand who wrote most abominable books. Finally, at the Vatican, he had seen\nthe Cardinal Secretary, in some wise his Holiness\u2019s Minister of Foreign\nAffairs, the great power of the Holy See, whom he had hitherto been\nprevented from approaching by terrifying warnings as to the possible\nresult of an unfavourable reception. However, whilst apologising for\ncalling at such a late stage, he had found himself in presence of a most\namiable man, whose somewhat rough appearance was softened by diplomatic\naffability, and who, after making him sit down, questioned him with an\nair of interest, listened to him, and even spoke some words of comfort.\nNevertheless, on again reaching the Piazza of St. Peter\u2019s, Pierre well\nunderstood that his affair had not made the slightest progress, and that\nif he ever managed to force the Pope\u2019s door, it would not be by way of\nthe Secretariate of State. And that evening he returned home quite\nexhausted by so many visits, in such distraction at feeling that little\nby little he had been wholly caught in that huge mechanism with its\nhundred wheels, that he asked himself in terror what he should do on the\nmorrow now that there remained nothing for him to do--unless, indeed, it\nwere to go mad.\n\nHowever, meeting Don Vigilio in a passage of the house, he again wished\nto ask him for some good advice. But the secretary, who had a gleam of\nterror in his eyes, silenced him, he knew not why, with an anxious\ngesture. And then in a whisper, in Pierre\u2019s ear, he said: \u201cHave you seen\nMonsignor Nani? No! Well, go to see him, go to see him. I repeat that you\nhave nothing else to do!\u201d\n\nPierre yielded. And indeed why should he have resisted? Apart from the\nmotives of ardent charity which had brought him to Rome to defend his\nbook, was he not there for a self-educating, experimental purpose? It was\nnecessary that he should carry his attempts to the very end.\n\nOn the morrow, when he reached the colonnade of St. Peter\u2019s, the hour was\nso early that he had to wait there awhile. He had never better realised\nthe enormity of those four curving rows of columns, forming a forest of\ngigantic stone trunks among which nobody ever promenades. In fact, the\nspot is a grandiose and dreary desert, and one asks oneself the why and\nwherefore of such a majestic porticus. Doubtless, however, it was for its\nsole majesty, for the mere pomp of decoration, that this colonnade was\nreared; and therein, again, one finds the whole Roman spirit. However,\nPierre at last turned into the Via di Sant\u2019 Offizio, and passing the\nsacristy of St. Peter\u2019s, found himself before the Palace of the Holy\nOffice in a solitary silent district, which the footfall of pedestrians\nor the rumble of wheels but seldom disturbs. The sun alone lives there,\nin sheets of light which spread slowly over the small, white paving. You\ndivine the vicinity of the Basilica, for there is a smell as of incense,\na cloisteral quiescence as of the slumber of centuries. And at one corner\nthe Palace of the Holy Office rises up with heavy, disquieting bareness,\nonly a single row of windows piercing its lofty, yellow front. The wall\nwhich skirts a side street looks yet more suspicious with its row of even\nsmaller casements, mere peep-holes with glaucous panes. In the bright\nsunlight this huge cube of mud-coloured masonry ever seems asleep,\nmysterious, and closed like a prison, with scarcely an aperture for\ncommunication with the outer world.\n\nPierre shivered, but then smiled as at an act of childishness, for he\nreflected that the Holy Roman and Universal Inquisition, nowadays the\nSacred Congregation of the Holy Office, was no longer the institution it\nhad been, the purveyor of heretics for the stake, the occult tribunal\nbeyond appeal which had right of life and death over all mankind. True,\nit still laboured in secrecy, meeting every Wednesday, and judging and\ncondemning without a sound issuing from within its walls. But on the\nother hand if it still continued to strike at the crime of heresy, if it\nsmote men as well as their works, it no longer possessed either weapons\nor dungeons, steel or fire to do its bidding, but was reduced to a mere\n_r\u00f4le_ of protest, unable to inflict aught but disciplinary penalties\neven upon the ecclesiastics of its own Church.\n\nWhen Pierre on entering was ushered into the reception-room of Monsignor\nNani who, as assessor, lived in the palace, he experienced an agreeable\nsurprise. The apartment faced the south, and was spacious and flooded\nwith sunshine. And stiff as was the furniture, dark as were the hangings,\nan exquisite sweetness pervaded the room, as though a woman had lived in\nit and accomplished the prodigy of imparting some of her own grace to all\nthose stern-looking things. There were no flowers, yet there was a\npleasant smell. A charm expanded and conquered every heart from the very\nthreshold.\n\nMonsignor Nani at once came forward, with a smile on his rosy face, his\nblue eyes keenly glittering, and his fine light hair powdered by age.\nWith hands outstretched, he exclaimed: \u201cAh! how kind of you to have come\nto see me, my dear son! Come, sit down, let us have a friendly chat.\u201d\n Then with an extraordinary display of affection, he began to question\nPierre: \u201cHow are you getting on? Tell me all about it, exactly what you\nhave done.\u201d\n\nTouched in spite of Don Vigilio\u2019s revelations, won over by the sympathy\nwhich he fancied he could detect, Pierre thereupon confessed himself,\nrelating his visits to Cardinal Sarno, Monsignor Fornaro and Father\nDangelis, his applications to all the influential cardinals, those of the\nIndex, the Grand Penitentiary, the Cardinal Vicar, and the Cardinal\nSecretary; and dwelling on his endless journeys from door to door through\nall the Congregations and all the clergy, that huge, active, silent\nbee-hive amidst which he had wearied his feet, exhausted his limbs, and\nbewildered his poor brain. And at each successive Station of this Calvary\nof entreaty, Monsignor Nani, who seemed to listen with an air of rapture,\nexclaimed: \u201cBut that\u2019s very good, that\u2019s capital! Oh! your affair is\nprogressing. Yes, yes, it\u2019s progressing marvellously well.\u201d\n\nHe was exultant, though he allowed no unseemly irony to appear, while his\npleasant, penetrating eyes fathomed the young priest, to ascertain if he\nhad been brought to the requisite degree of obedience. Had he been\nsufficiently wearied, disillusioned and instructed in the reality of\nthings, for one to finish with him? Had three months\u2019 sojourn in Rome\nsufficed to turn the somewhat mad enthusiast of the first days into an\nunimpassioned or at least resigned being?\n\nHowever, all at once Monsignor Nani remarked: \u201cBut, my dear son, you tell\nme nothing of his Eminence Cardinal Sanguinetti.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe fact is, Monseigneur, that his Eminence is at Frascati, so I have\nbeen unable to see him.\u201d\n\nThereupon the prelate, as if once more postponing the _d\u00e9nouement_ with\nthe secret enjoyment of an artistic _diplomate_, began to protest,\nraising his little plump hands with the anxious air of a man who\nconsiders everything lost: \u201cOh! but you must see his Eminence; it is\nabsolutely necessary! Think of it! The Prefect of the Index! We can only\nact after your visit to him, for as you have not seen _him_ it is as if\nyou had seen nobody. Go, go to Frascati, my dear son.\u201d\n\nAnd thereupon Pierre could only bow and reply: \u201cI will go, Monseigneur.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\nALTHOUGH Pierre knew that he would be unable to see Cardinal Sanguinetti\nbefore eleven o\u2019clock, he nevertheless availed himself of an early train,\nso that it was barely nine when he alighted at the little station of\nFrascati. He had already visited the place during his enforced idleness,\nwhen he had made the classical excursion to the Roman castles which\nextend from Frascati to Rocco di Papa, and from Rocco di Papa to Monte\nCavo, and he was now delighted with the prospect of strolling for a\ncouple of hours along those first slopes of the Alban hills, where,\namidst rushes, olives, and vines, Frascati, like a promontory, overlooks\nthe immense ruddy sea of the Campagna even as far as Rome, which, six\nfull leagues away, wears the whitish aspect of a marble isle.\n\nAh! that charming Frascati, on its greeny knoll at the foot of the wooded\nTusculan heights, with its famous terrace whence one enjoys the finest\nview in the world, its old patrician villas with proud and elegant\nRenascence fa\u00e7ades and magnificent parks, which, planted with cypress,\npine, and ilex, are for ever green! There was a sweetness, a delight, a\nfascination about the spot, of which Pierre would have never wearied. And\nfor more than an hour he had wandered blissfully along roads edged with\nancient, knotty olive-trees, along dingle ways shaded by the spreading\nfoliage of neighbouring estates, and along perfumed paths, at each turn\nof which the Campagna was seen stretching far away, when all at once he\nwas accosted by a person whom he was both surprised and annoyed to meet.\nHe had strolled down to some low ground near the railway station, some\nold vineyards where a number of new houses had been built of recent\nyears, and suddenly saw a stylish pair-horse victoria, coming from the\ndirection of Rome, draw up close by, whilst its occupant called to him:\n\u201cWhat! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment, are you taking a walk here, at this early\nhour?\u201d\n\nThereupon Pierre recognised Count Luigi Prada, who alighted, shook hands\nwith him and began to walk beside him, whilst the empty carriage went on\nin advance. And forthwith the Count explained his tastes: \u201cI seldom take\nthe train,\u201d he said, \u201cI drive over. It gives my horses an outing. I have\ninterests over here as you may know, a big building enterprise which is\nunfortunately not progressing very well. And so, although the season is\nadvanced, I\u2019m obliged to come rather more frequently than I care to do.\u201d\n\nAs Prada suggested, Pierre was acquainted with the story. The Boccaneras\nhad been obliged to sell a sumptuous villa which a cardinal of their\nfamily had built at Frascati in accordance with the plans of Giacomo\ndella Porta, during the latter part of the sixteenth century: a regal\nsummer-residence it had been, finely wooded, with groves and basins and\ncascades, and in particular a famous terrace projecting like a cape above\nthe Roman Campagna whose expanse stretches from the Sabine mountains to\nthe Mediterranean sands. Through the division of the property, Benedetta\nhad inherited from her mother some very extensive vineyards below\nFrascati, and these she had brought as dowry to Prada at the very moment\nwhen the building mania was extending from Rome into the provinces. And\nthereupon Prada had conceived the idea of erecting on the spot a number\nof middle-class villas like those which litter the suburbs of Paris. Few\npurchasers, however, had come forward, the financial crash had\nsupervened, and he was now with difficulty liquidating this unlucky\nbusiness, having indemnified his wife at the time of their separation.\n\n\u201cAnd then,\u201d he continued, addressing Pierre, \u201cone can come and go as one\nlikes with a carriage, whereas, on taking the train, one is at the mercy\nof the time table. This morning, for instance, I have appointments with\ncontractors, experts, and lawyers, and I have no notion how long they\nwill keep me. It\u2019s a wonderful country, isn\u2019t it? And we are quite right\nto be proud of it in Rome. Although I may have some worries just now, I\ncan never set foot here without my heart beating with delight.\u201d\n\nA circumstance which he did not mention, was that his _amica_, Lisbeth\nKauffmann, had spent the summer in one of the newly erected villas, where\nshe had installed her studio and had been visited by all the foreign\ncolony, which tolerated her irregular position on account of her gay\nspirits and artistic talent. Indeed, people had even ended by accepting\nthe outcome of her connection with Prada, and a fortnight previously she\nhad returned to Rome, and there given birth to a son--an event which had\nagain revived all the scandalous tittle-tattle respecting Benedetta\u2019s\ndivorce suit. And Prada\u2019s attachment to Frascati doubtless sprang from\nthe recollection of the happy hours he had spent there, and the joyful\npride with which the birth of the boy inspired him.\n\nPierre, for his part, felt ill at ease in the young Count\u2019s presence, for\nhe had an instinctive hatred of money-mongers and men of prey.\nNevertheless, he desired to respond to his amiability, and so inquired\nafter his father, old Orlando, the hero of the Liberation.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d replied Prada, \u201cexcepting for his legs he\u2019s in wonderfully good\nhealth. He\u2019ll live a hundred years. Poor father! I should so much have\nliked to install him in one of these little houses, last summer. But I\ncould not get him to consent; he\u2019s determined not to leave Rome; he\u2019s\nafraid, perhaps, that it might be taken away from him during his\nabsence.\u201d Then the young Count burst into a laugh, quite merry at the\nthought of jeering at the heroic but no longer fashionable age of\nindependence. And afterwards he said, \u201cMy father was speaking of you\nagain only yesterday, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. He is astonished that he has not\nseen you lately.\u201d\n\nThis distressed Pierre, for he had begun to regard Orlando with\nrespectful affection. Since his first visit, he had twice called on the\nold hero, but the latter had refused to broach the subject of Rome so\nlong as his young friend should not have seen, felt, and understood\neverything. There would be time for a talk later on, said he, when they\nwere both in a position to formulate their conclusions.\n\n\u201cPray tell Count Orlando,\u201d responded Pierre, \u201cthat I have not forgotten\nhim, and that, if I have deferred a fresh visit, it is because I desire\nto satisfy him. However, I certainly will not leave Rome without going to\ntell him how deeply his kind greeting has touched me.\u201d\n\nWhilst talking, the two men slowly followed the ascending road past the\nnewly erected villas, several of which were not yet finished. And when\nPrada learned that the priest had come to call on Cardinal Sanguinetti,\nhe again laughed, with the laugh of a good-natured wolf, showing his\nwhite fangs. \u201cTrue,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cthe Cardinal has been here since the\nPope has been laid up. Ah! you\u2019ll find him in a pretty fever.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, because there\u2019s bad news about the Holy Father this morning. When I\nleft Rome it was rumoured that he had spent a fearful night.\u201d\n\nSo speaking, Prada halted at a bend of the road, not far from an antique\nchapel, a little church of solitary, mournful grace of aspect, on the\nverge of an olive grove. Beside it stood a ruinous building, the old\nparsonage, no doubt, whence there suddenly emerged a tall, knotty priest\nwith coarse and earthy face, who, after roughly locking the door, went\noff in the direction of the town.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d resumed the Count in a tone of raillery, \u201cthat fellow\u2019s heart also\nmust be beating violently; he\u2019s surely gone to your Cardinal in search of\nnews.\u201d\n\nPierre had looked at the priest. \u201cI know him,\u201d he replied; \u201cI saw him, I\nremember, on the day after my arrival at Cardinal Boccanera\u2019s. He brought\nthe Cardinal a basket of figs and asked him for a certificate in favour\nof his young brother, who had been sent to prison for some deed of\nviolence--a knife thrust if I recollect rightly. However, the Cardinal\nabsolutely refused him the certificate.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the same man,\u201d said Prada, \u201cyou may depend on it. He was often at\nthe Villa Boccanera formerly; for his young brother was gardener there.\nBut he\u2019s now the client, the creature of Cardinal Sanguinetti. Santobono\nhis name is, and he\u2019s a curious character, such as you wouldn\u2019t find in\nFrance, I fancy. He lives all alone in that falling hovel, and officiates\nat that old chapel of St. Mary in the Fields, where people don\u2019t go to\nhear mass three times in a year. Yes, it\u2019s a perfect sinecure, which with\nits stipend of a thousand francs enables him to live there like a peasant\nphilosopher, cultivating the somewhat extensive garden whose big walls\nyou see yonder.\u201d\n\nThe close to which he called attention stretched down the slope behind\nthe parsonage, without an aperture, like some savage place of refuge into\nwhich not even the eye could penetrate. And all that could be seen above\nthe left-hand wall was a superb, gigantic fig-tree, whose big leaves\nshowed blackly against the clear sky. Prada had moved on again, and\ncontinued to speak of Santobono, who evidently interested him. Fancy, a\npatriot priest, a Garibaldian! Born at Nemi, in that yet savage nook\namong the Alban hills, he belonged to the people and was still near to\nthe soil. However, he had studied, and knew sufficient history to realise\nthe past greatness of Rome, and dream of the re-establishment of Roman\ndominion as represented by young Italy. And he had come to believe, with\npassionate fervour, that only a great pope could realise his dream by\nseizing upon power, and then conquering all the other nations. And what\ncould be easier, since the Pope commanded millions of Catholics? Did not\nhalf Europe belong to him? France, Spain, and Austria would give way as\nsoon as they should see him powerful, dictating laws to the world.\nGermany and Great Britain, indeed all the Protestant countries, would\nalso inevitably be conquered, for the papacy was the only dike that could\nbe opposed to error, which must some day fatally succumb in its efforts\nagainst such a barrier. Politically, however, Santobono had declared\nhimself for Germany, for he considered that France needed to be crushed\nbefore she would throw herself into the arms of the Holy Father. And thus\ncontradictions and fancies clashed in his foggy brain, whose burning\nideas swiftly turned to violence under the influence of primitive, racial\nfierceness. Briefly, the priest was a barbarian upholder of the Gospel, a\nfriend of the humble and woeful, a sectarian of that school which is\ncapable alike of great virtues and great crimes.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d concluded Prada, \u201che is now devoted to Cardinal Sanguinetti\nbecause he believes that the latter will prove the great pope of\nto-morrow, who is to make Rome the one capital of the nations. At the\nsame time he doubtless harbours a lower personal ambition, that of\nattaining to a canonry or of gaining assistance in the little worries of\nlife, as when he wished to extricate his brother from trouble. Here, you\nknow, people stake their luck on a cardinal just as they nurse a \u2018trey\u2019\nin the lottery, and if their cardinal proves the winning number and\nbecomes pope they gain a fortune. And that\u2019s why you now see Santobono\nstriding along yonder, all anxiety to know if Leo XIII will die and\nSanguinetti don the tiara.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you think the Pope so very ill, then?\u201d asked Pierre, both anxious and\ninterested.\n\nThe Count smiled and raised both arms: \u201cAh!\u201d said he, \u201ccan one ever tell?\nThey all get ill when their interest lies that way. However, I believe\nthat the Pope is this time really indisposed; a complaint of the bowels,\nit is said; and at his age, you know, the slightest indisposition may\nprove fatal.\u201d\n\nThe two men took a few steps in silence, then the priest again asked a\nquestion: \u201cWould Cardinal Sanguinetti have a great chance if the Holy See\nwere vacant?\u201d\n\n\u201cA great chance! Ah! that\u2019s another of those things which one never\nknows. The truth is people class Sanguinetti among the acceptable\ncandidates, and if personal desire sufficed he would certainly be the\nnext pope, for ambition consumes him to the marrow, and he displays\nextraordinary passion and determination in his efforts to succeed. But\ntherein lies his very weakness; he is using himself up, and he knows it.\nAnd so he must be resolved to every step during the last days of battle.\nYou may be quite sure that if he has shut himself up here at this\ncritical time, it is in order that he may the better direct his\noperations from a distance, whilst at the same time feigning a retreat, a\ndisinterestedness which is bound to have a good effect.\u201d\n\nThen Prada began to expatiate on Sanguinetti with no little complacency,\nfor he liked the man\u2019s spirit of intrigue, his keen, conquering appetite,\nhis excessive, and even somewhat blundering activity. He had become\nacquainted with him on his return from the nunciature at Vienna, when he\nhad already resolved to win the tiara. That ambition explained\neverything, his quarrels and reconciliations with the reigning pope, his\naffection for Germany, followed by a sudden evolution in the direction of\nFrance, his varying attitude with regard to Italy, at first a desire for\nagreement, and then absolute rejection of all compromises, a refusal to\ngrant any concession, so long as Rome should not be evacuated. This,\nindeed, seemed to be Sanguinetti\u2019s definite position; he made a show of\ndisliking the wavering sway of Leo XIII, and of retaining a fervent\nadmiration for Pius IX, the great, heroic pope of the days of resistance,\nwhose goodness of heart had proved no impediment to unshakable firmness.\nAnd all this was equivalent to a promise that he, Sanguinetti, would\nagain make kindliness exempt from weakness, the rule of the Church, and\nwould steer clear of the dangerous compounding of politics. At bottom,\nhowever, politics were his only dream, and he had even formulated a\ncomplete programme of intentional vagueness, which his clients and\ncreatures spread abroad with an air of rapturous mystery. However, since\na previous indisposition of the Pope\u2019s, during the spring, he had been\nliving in mortal disquietude, for it had then been rumoured that the\nJesuits would resign themselves to support Cardinal Pio Boccanera,\nalthough the latter scarcely favoured them. He was rough and stern, no\ndoubt, and his extreme bigotry might be a source of danger in this\ntolerant age; but, on the other hand, was he not a patrician, and would\nnot his election imply that the papacy would never cease to claim the\ntemporal power? From that moment Boccanera had been the one man whom\nSanguinetti feared, for he beheld himself despoiled of his prize, and\nspent his time in devising plans to rid himself of such a powerful rival,\nrepeating abominable stories of Cardinal Pio\u2019s alleged complaisance with\nregard to Benedetta and Dario, and incessantly representing him as\nAntichrist, the man of sin, whose reign would consummate the ruin of the\npapacy. Finally, to regain the support of the Jesuits, Sanguinetti\u2019s last\nidea was to repeat through his familiars that for his part he would not\nmerely maintain the principle of the temporal power intact, but would\neven undertake to regain that power. And he had a full plan on the\nsubject, which folks confided to one another in whispers, a plan which,\nin spite of its apparent concessions, would lead to the overwhelming\nvictory of the Church. It was to raise the prohibition which prevented\nCatholics from voting or becoming candidates at the Italian elections; to\nsend a hundred, then two hundred, and then three hundred deputies to the\nChamber, and in that wise to overthrow the House of Savoy, and establish\na Federation of the Italian provinces, whereof the Holy Father, once more\nplaced in possession of Rome, would become the august and sovereign\nPresident.\n\nAs Prada finished he again laughed, showing his white teeth--teeth which\nwould never readily relinquish the prey they held. \u201cSo you see,\u201d he\nadded, \u201cwe need to defend ourselves, since it\u2019s a question of turning us\nout. Fortunately, there are some little obstacles in the way of that.\nNevertheless, such dreams naturally have great influence on excited\nminds, such as that of Santobono, for instance. He\u2019s a man whom one word\nfrom Sanguinetti would lead far indeed. Ah! he has good legs. Look at him\nup yonder, he has already reached the Cardinal\u2019s little palace--that\nwhite villa with the sculptured balconies.\u201d\n\nPierre raised his eyes and perceived the episcopal residence, which was\none of the first houses of Frascati. Of modern construction and\nRenascence style, it overlooked the immensity of the Roman Campagna.\n\nIt was now eleven o\u2019clock, and as the young priest, before going up to\npay his own visit, bade the Count good-bye, the latter for a moment kept\nhold of his hand. \u201cDo you know,\u201d said he, \u201cit would be very kind of you\nto lunch with me--will you? Come and join me at that restaurant yonder\nwith the pink front as soon as you are at liberty. I shall have settled\nmy own business in an hour\u2019s time, and I shall be delighted to have your\ncompany at table.\u201d\n\nPierre began by declining, but he could offer no possible excuse, and at\nlast surrendered, won over, despite himself, by Prada\u2019s real charm of\nmanner. When they had parted, the young priest only had to climb a street\nin order to reach the Cardinal\u2019s door. With his natural expansiveness and\ncraving for popularity, Sanguinetti was easy of access, and at Frascati\nin particular his doors were flung open even to the most humble cassocks.\nSo Pierre was at once ushered in, a circumstance which somewhat surprised\nhim, for he remembered the bad humour of the servant whom he had seen on\ncalling at the Cardinal\u2019s residence in Rome, when he had been advised to\nforego the journey, as his Eminence did not like to be disturbed when he\nwas ill. However, nothing spoke of illness in that pleasant villa,\nflooded with sunshine. True, the waiting-room, where he was momentarily\nleft alone, displayed neither luxury nor comfort; but it was brightened\nby the finest light in the world, and overlooked that extraordinary\nCampagna, so flat, so bare, and so unique in its beauty, for in front of\nit one ever dreams and sees the past arise. And so, whilst waiting,\nPierre stationed himself at an open window, conducting on to a balcony,\nand his eyes roamed over the endless sea of herbage to the far-away\nwhiteness of Rome, above which rose the dome of St. Peter\u2019s, at that\ndistance a mere sparkling speck, barely as large as the nail of one\u2019s\nlittle finger.\n\nHowever, the young man had scarcely taken up this position when he was\nsurprised to hear some people talking, their words reaching him with\ngreat distinctness. And on leaning forward he realised that his Eminence\nin person was standing on another balcony close by, and conversing with a\npriest, only a portion of whose cassock could be seen. Still, this\nsufficed for Pierre to recognise Santobono. His first impulse, dictated\nby natural discretion, was to withdraw from the window, but the words he\nnext heard riveted him to the spot.\n\n\u201cWe shall know in a moment,\u201d his Eminence was saying in his full voice.\n\u201cI sent Eufemio to Rome, for he is the only person in whom I\u2019ve any\nconfidence. And see, there is the train bringing him back.\u201d\n\nA train, still as small as a plaything, could in fact be seen approaching\nover the vast plain, and doubtless it was to watch for its arrival that\nSanguinetti had stationed himself on the balcony. And there he lingered,\nwith his eyes fixed on distant Rome. Then Santobono, in a passionate\nvoice, spoke some words which Pierre imperfectly understood, but the\nCardinal with clear articulation rejoined, \u201cYes, yes, my dear fellow, a\ncatastrophe would be a great misfortune. Ah! may his Holiness long be\npreserved to us.\u201d Then he paused, and as he was no hypocrite, gave full\nexpression to the thoughts which were in his mind: \u201cAt least, I hope that\nhe will be preserved just now, for the times are bad, and I am in\nfrightful anguish. The partisans of Antichrist have lately gained much\nground.\u201d\n\nA cry escaped Santobono: \u201cOh! your Eminence will act and triumph.\u201d\n\n\u201cI, my dear fellow? What would you have me do? I am simply at the\ndisposal of my friends, those who are willing to believe in me, with the\nsole object of ensuring the victory of the Holy See. It is they who ought\nto act, it is they--each according to the measure of his means--who ought\nto bar the road to the wicked in order that the righteous may succeed.\nAh! if Antichrist should reign--\u201d\n\nThe recurrence of this word Antichrist greatly disturbed Pierre; but he\nsuddenly remembered what the Count had told him: Antichrist was Cardinal\nBoccanera.\n\n\u201cThink of that, my dear fellow,\u201d continued Sanguinetti. \u201cPicture\nAntichrist at the Vatican, consummating the ruin of religion by his\nimplacable pride, his iron will, his gloomy passion for nihility; for\nthere can be no doubt of it, he is the Beast of Death announced by the\nprophecies, the Beast who will expose one and all to the danger of being\nswallowed up with him in his furious rush into abysmal darkness. I know\nhim; he only dreams of obstinacy and destruction, he will seize the\npillars of the temple and shake them in order that he may sink beneath\nthe ruins, he and the whole Catholic world! In less than six months he\nwill be driven from Rome, at strife with all the nations, execrated by\nItaly, and roaming the world like the phantom of the last pope!\u201d\n\nIt was with a low growl, suggestive of a stifled oath, that Santobono\nresponded to this frightful prediction. But the train had now reached the\nstation, and among the few passengers who had alighted, Pierre could\ndistinguish a little Abb\u00e9, who was walking so fast that his cassock\nflapped against his hips. It was Abb\u00e9 Eufemio, the Cardinal\u2019s secretary,\nand when he had perceived his Eminence on the balcony he lost all\nself-respect, and broke into a run, in order that he might the sooner\nascend the sloping street. \u201cAh! here\u2019s Eufemio,\u201d exclaimed the Cardinal,\nquivering with anxiety. \u201cWe shall know now, we shall know now.\u201d\n\nThe secretary had plunged into the doorway below, and he climbed the\nstairs with such rapidity that almost immediately afterwards Pierre saw\nhim rush breathlessly across the waiting-room, and vanish into the\nCardinal\u2019s sanctum. Sanguinetti had quitted the balcony to meet his\nmessenger, but soon afterwards he returned to it asking questions,\nventing exclamations, raising, in fact, quite a tumult over the news\nwhich he had received. \u201cAnd so it\u2019s really true, the night was a bad one.\nHis Holiness scarcely slept! Colic, you were told? But nothing could be\nworse at his age; it might carry him off in a couple of hours. And the\ndoctors, what do they say?\u201d\n\nThe answer did not reach Pierre, but he understood its purport as the\nCardinal in his naturally loud voice resumed: \u201cOh! the doctors never\nknow. Besides, when they refuse to speak death is never far off. _Dio_!\nwhat a misfortune if the catastrophe cannot be deferred for a few days!\u201d\n\nThen he became silent, and Pierre realised that his eyes were once more\ntravelling towards Rome, gazing with ambitious anguish at the dome of St.\nPeter\u2019s, that little, sparkling speck above the vast, ruddy plain. What a\ncommotion, what agitation if the Pope were dead! And he wished that it\nhad merely been necessary for him to stretch forth his arm in order to\ntake and hold the Eternal City, the Holy City, which, yonder on the\nhorizon, occupied no more space than a heap of gravel cast there by a\nchild\u2019s spade. And he was already dreaming of the coming Conclave, when\nthe canopy of each other cardinal would fall, and his own, motionless and\nsovereign, would crown him with purple.\n\n\u201cBut you are right, my friend!\u201d he suddenly exclaimed, addressing\nSantobono, \u201cone must act, the salvation of the Church is at stake. And,\nbesides, it is impossible that Heaven should not be with us, since our\nsole desire is its triumph. If necessary, at the supreme moment, Heaven\nwill know how to crush Antichrist.\u201d\n\nThen, for the first time, Pierre distinctly heard the voice of Santobono,\nwho, gruffly, with a sort of savage decision, responded: \u201cOh! if Heaven\nis tardy it shall be helped.\u201d\n\nThat was all; the young man heard nothing further save a confused murmur\nof voices. The speakers quitted the balcony, and his spell of waiting\nbegan afresh in the sunlit _salon_ so peaceful and delightful in its\nbrightness. But all at once the door of his Eminence\u2019s private room was\nthrown wide open and a servant ushered him in; and he was surprised to\nfind the Cardinal alone, for he had not witnessed the departure of the\ntwo priests, who had gone off by another door. The Cardinal, with his\nhighly coloured face, big nose, thick lips, square-set, vigorous figure,\nwhich still looked young despite his sixty years, was standing near a\nwindow in the bright golden light. He had put on the paternal smile with\nwhich he greeted even the humblest from motives of good policy, and as\nsoon as Pierre had knelt and kissed his ring, he motioned him to a chair.\n\u201cSit down, dear son, sit down. You have come of course about that\nunfortunate affair of your book. I am very pleased indeed to be able to\nspeak with you about it.\u201d\n\nHe himself then took a chair in front of that window overlooking Rome\nwhence he seemed unable to drag himself. And the young priest, whilst\napologising for coming to disturb his rest, perceived that he scarcely\nlistened, for his eyes again sought the prey which he so ardently\ncoveted. Yet the semblance of good-natured attention was perfect, and\nPierre marvelled at the force of will which this man must possess to\nappear so calm, so interested in the affairs of others, when such a\ntempest was raging in him.\n\n\u201cYour Eminence will, I hope, kindly forgive me,\u201d continued the young\npriest.\n\n\u201cBut you have done right to come, since I am kept here by my failing\nhealth,\u201d said the Cardinal. \u201cBesides, I am somewhat better, and it is\nonly natural that you should wish to give me some explanations and defend\nyour work and enlighten my judgment. In fact, I was astonished at not yet\nhaving seen you, for I know that your faith in your cause is great and\nthat you spare no steps to convert your judges. So speak, my dear son, I\nam listening and shall be pleased indeed if I can absolve you.\u201d\n\nPierre was caught by these kind words, and a hope returned to him, that\nof winning the support of the all-powerful Prefect of the Index. He\nalready regarded this ex-nuncio--who at Brussels and Vienna had acquired\nthe worldly art of sending people away satisfied with indefinite promises\nthough he meant to grant them nothing--as a man of rare intelligence and\nexquisite cordiality. And so once more he regained the fervour of his\napostolate to express his views respecting the future Rome, the Rome he\ndreamt of, which was destined yet again to become the mistress of the\nworld if she would return to the Christianity of Jesus, to an ardent love\nfor the weak and the humble.\n\nSanguinetti smiled, wagged his head, and raised exclamations of rapture:\n\u201cVery good, very good indeed, perfect! Oh! I agree with you, dear son.\nOne cannot put things better. It is quite evident; all good minds must\nagree with you.\u201d And then, said he, the poetic side deeply touched him.\nLike Leo XIII--and doubtless in a spirit of rivalry--he courted the\nreputation of being a very distinguished Latinist, and professed a\nspecial and boundless affection for Virgil. \u201cI know, I know,\u201d he\nexclaimed, \u201cI remember your page on the return of spring, which consoles\nthe poor whom winter has frozen. Oh! I read it three times over! And are\nyou aware that your writing is full of Latin turns of style. I noticed\nmore than fifty expressions which could be found in the \u2018Bucolics.\u2019 Your\nbook is a charm, a perfect charm!\u201d\n\nAs he was no fool, and realised that the little priest before him was a\nman of high intelligence, he ended by interesting himself, not in Pierre\npersonally, but in the profit which he might possibly derive from him.\nAmidst his feverish intrigues, he unceasingly sought to utilise all the\nqualities possessed by those whom God sent to him that might in any way\nbe conducive to his own triumph. So, for a moment, he turned away from\nRome and looked his companion in the face, listening to him and asking\nhimself in what way he might employ him--either at once in the crisis\nthrough which he was passing, or later on when he should be pope. But the\nyoung priest again made the mistake of attacking the temporal power, and\nof employing that unfortunate expression, \u201ca new religion.\u201d Thereupon the\nCardinal stopped him with a gesture, still smiling, still retaining all\nhis amiability, although the resolution which he had long since formed\nbecame from that moment definitive. \u201cYou are certainly in the right on\nmany points, my dear son,\u201d he said, \u201cand I often share your views--share\nthem completely. But come, you are doubtless not aware that I am the\nprotector of Lourdes here at Rome. And so, after the page which you have\nwritten about the Grotto, how can I possibly pronounce in your favour and\nagainst the Fathers?\u201d\n\nPierre was utterly overcome by this announcement, for he was indeed\nunaware of the Cardinal\u2019s position with respect to Lourdes, nobody having\ntaken the precaution to warn him. However, each of the Catholic\nenterprises distributed throughout the world has a protector at Rome, a\ncardinal who is designated by the Pope to represent it and, if need be,\nto defend it.\n\n\u201cThose good Fathers!\u201d Sanguinetti continued in a gentle voice, \u201cyou have\ncaused them great grief, and really our hands are tied, we cannot add to\ntheir sorrow. If you only knew what a number of masses they send us! I\nknow more than one of our poor priests who would die of hunger if it were\nnot for them.\u201d\n\nPierre could only bow beneath the blow. Once more he found himself in\npresence of the pecuniary question, the necessity in which the Holy See\nis placed to secure the revenue it requires one year with another. And\nthus the Pope was ever in servitude, for if the loss of Rome had freed\nhim of the cares of state, his enforced gratitude for the alms he\nreceived still riveted him to earth. So great, indeed, were the\nrequirements, that money was the ruler, the sovereign power, before which\nall bowed at the Court of Rome.\n\nAnd now Sanguinetti rose to dismiss his visitor. \u201cYou must not despair,\ndear son,\u201d he said effusively. \u201cI have only my own vote, you know, and I\npromise you that I will take into account the excellent explanations\nwhich you have just given me. And who can tell? If God be with you, He\nwill save you even in spite of all!\u201d This speech formed part of the\nCardinal\u2019s usual tactics; for one of his principles was never to drive\npeople to extremes by sending them away hopeless. What good, indeed,\nwould it do to tell this one that the condemnation of his book was a\nforegone conclusion, and that his only prudent course would be to disavow\nit? Only a savage like Boccanera breathed anger upon fiery souls and\nplunged them into rebellion. \u201cYou must hope, hope!\u201d repeated Sanguinetti\nwith a smile, as if implying a multitude of fortunate things which he\ncould not plainly express.\n\nThereupon Pierre, who was deeply touched, felt born anew. He even forgot\nthe conversation he had surprised, the Cardinal\u2019s keen ambition and\ncovert rage with his redoubtable rival. Besides, might not intelligence\ntake the place of heart among the powerful? If this man should some day\nbecome pope, and had understood him, might he not prove the pope who was\nawaited, the pope who would accept the task of reorganising the Church of\nthe United States of Europe, and making it the spiritual sovereign of the\nworld? So he thanked him with emotion, bowed, and left him to his dream,\nstanding before that widely open window whence Rome appeared to him,\nglittering like a jewel, even indeed as the tiara of gold and gems, in\nthe splendour of the autumn sun.\n\nIt was nearly one o\u2019clock when Pierre and Count Prada were at last able\nto sit down to _d\u00e9jeuner_ in the little restaurant where they had agreed\nto meet. They had both been delayed by their affairs. However, the Count,\nhaving settled some worrying matters to his own advantage, was very\nlively, whilst the priest on his side was again hopeful, and yielded to\nthe delightful charm of that last fine day. And so the meal proved a very\npleasant one in the large, bright room, which, as usual at that season of\nthe year, was quite deserted. Pink and blue predominated in the\ndecoration, but Cupids fluttered on the ceiling, and landscapes, vaguely\nrecalling the Roman castles, adorned the walls. The things they ate were\nfresh, and they drank the wine of Frascati, to which the soil imparts a\nkind of burnt flavour as if the old volcanoes of the region had left some\nlittle of their fire behind.\n\nFor a long while the conversation ranged over those wild and graceful\nAlban hills, which, fortunately for the pleasure of the eye, overlook the\nflat Roman Campagna. Pierre, who had made the customary carriage\nexcursion from Frascati to Nemi, still felt its charm and spoke of it in\nglowing language. First came the lovely road from Frascati to Albano,\nascending and descending hillsides planted with reeds, vines, and\nolive-trees, amongst which one obtained frequent glimpses of the\nCampagna\u2019s wavy immensity. On the right-hand the village of Rocca di Papa\narose in amphitheatrical fashion, showing whitely on a knoll below Monte\nCavo, which was crowned by lofty and ancient trees. And from this point\nof the road, on looking back towards Frascati, one saw high up, on the\nverge of a pine wood the ruins of Tusculum, large ruddy ruins, baked by\ncenturies of sunshine, and whence the boundless panorama must have been\nsuperb. Next one passed through Marino, with its sloping streets, its\nlarge cathedral, and its black decaying palace belonging to the Colonnas.\nThen, beyond a wood of ilex-trees, the lake of Albano was skirted with\nscenery which has no parallel in the world. In front, beyond the clear\nmirror of motionless water, were the ruins of Alba Longa; on the left\nrose Monte Cavo with Rocca di Papa and Palazzuolo; whilst on the right\nCastel Gandolfo overlooked the lake as from the summit of a cliff. Down\nbelow in the extinct crater, as in the depths of a gigantic cup of\nverdure, the lake slept heavy and lifeless: a sheet of molten metal,\nwhich the sun on one side streaked with gold, whilst the other was black\nwith shade. And the road then ascended all the way to Castel Gandolfo,\nwhich was perched on its rock, like a white bird betwixt the lake and the\nsea. Ever refreshed by breezes, even in the most burning hours of summer,\nthe little place was once famous for its papal villa, where Pius IX loved\nto spend hours of indolence, and whither Leo XIII has never come. And\nnext the road dipped down, and the ilex-trees appeared again, ilex-trees\nfamous for their size, a double row of monsters with twisted limbs, two\nand three hundred years old. Then one at last reached Albano, a small\ntown less modernised and less cleansed than Frascati, a patch of the old\nland which has retained some of its ancient wildness; and afterwards\nthere was Ariccia with the Palazzo Chigi, and hills covered with forests\nand viaducts spanning ravines which overflowed with foliage; and there\nwas yet Genzano, and yet Nemi, growing still wilder and more remote, lost\nin the midst of rocks and trees.\n\nAh! how ineffaceable was the recollection which Pierre had retained of\nNemi, Nemi on the shore of its lake, Nemi so delicious and fascinating\nfrom afar, conjuring up all the ancient legends of fairy towns springing\nfrom amidst the greenery of mysterious waters, but so repulsively filthy\nwhen one at last reaches it, crumbling on all sides but yet dominated by\nthe Orsini tower, as by the evil genius of the middle ages, which there\nseems to perpetuate the ferocious habits, the violent passions, the knife\nthrusts of the past! Thence came that Santobono whose brother had killed,\nand who himself, with his eyes of crime glittering like live embers,\nseemed to be consumed by a murderous flame. And the lake, that lake round\nlike an extinguished moon fallen into the depths of a former crater, a\ndeeper and less open cup than that of the lake of Albano, a cup rimmed\nwith trees of wondrous vigour and density! Pines, elms, and willows\ndescend to the very margin, with a green mass of tangled branches which\nweigh each other down. This formidable fecundity springs from the vapour\nwhich constantly arises from the water under the parching action of the\nsun, whose rays accumulate in this hollow till it becomes like a furnace.\nThere is a warm, heavy dampness, the paths of the adjacent gardens grow\ngreen with moss, and in the morning dense mists often fill the large cup\nwith white vapour, as with the steaming milk of some sorceress of\nmalevolent craft. And Pierre well remembered how uncomfortable he had\nfelt before that lake where ancient atrocities, a mysterious religion\nwith abominable rites, seemed to slumber amidst the superb scenery. He\nhad seen it at the approach of evening, looking, in the shade of its\nforest girdle, like a plate of dull metal, black and silver, motionless\nby reason of its weight. And that water, clear and yet so deep, that\nwater deserted, without a bark upon its surface, that water august,\nlifeless, and sepulchral, had left him a feeling of inexpressible\nsadness, of mortal melancholy, the hopelessness of great solitary\npassion, earth and water alike swollen by the mute spasms of germs,\ntroublous in their fecundity. Ah! those black and plunging banks, and\nthat black mournful lake prone at the bottom!*\n\n  * Some literary interest attaches to M. Zola\u2019s account of Nemi,\n    whose praises have been sung by a hundred poets. It will be\n    observed that he makes no mention of Egeria. The religion\n    distinguished by abominable practices to which he alludes,\n    may perhaps be the worship of the Egyptian Diana, who had a\n    famous temple near Nemi, which was excavated by Lord Savile\n    some ten years ago, when all the smaller objects discovered\n    were presented to the town of Nottingham. At this temple,\n    according to some classical writers, the chief priest was\n    required to murder his predecessor, and there were other\n    abominable usages.--Trans.\n\nCount Prada began to laugh when Pierre told him of these impressions.\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d said he, \u201cit\u2019s true, Nemi isn\u2019t always gay. In dull weather I\nhave seen the lake looking like lead, and even the full sunshine scarcely\nanimates it. For my part, I know I should die of _ennui_ if I had to live\nface to face with that bare water. But it is admired by poets and\nromantic women, those who adore great tragedies of passion.\u201d\n\nThen, as he and Pierre rose from the table to go and take coffee on the\nterrace of the restaurant, the conversation changed: \u201cDo you mean to\nattend Prince Buongiovanni\u2019s reception this evening?\u201d the Count inquired.\n\u201cIt will be a curious sight, especially for a foreigner, and I advise you\nnot to miss it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I have an invitation,\u201d Pierre replied. \u201cA friend of mine, Monsieur\nNarcisse Habert, an _attach\u00e9_ at our embassy, procured it for me, and I\nam going with him.\u201d\n\nThat evening, indeed, there was to be a _f\u00eate_ at the Palazzo\nBuongiovanni on the Corso, one of the few galas that take place in Rome\neach winter. People said that this one would surpass all others in\nmagnificence, for it was to be given in honour of the betrothal of little\nPrincess Celia. The Prince, her father, after boxing her ears, it was\nrumoured, and narrowly escaping an attack of apoplexy as the result of a\nfrightful fit of anger, had, all at once, yielded to her quiet, gentle\nstubbornness, and consented to her marriage with Lieutenant Attilio, the\nson of Minister Sacco. And all the drawing-rooms of Rome, those of the\nwhite world quite as much as those of the black, were thoroughly upset by\nthe tidings.\n\nCount Prada made merry over the affair. \u201cAh! you\u2019ll see a fine sight!\u201d he\nexclaimed. \u201cPersonally, I\u2019m delighted with it all for the sake of my good\ncousin Attilio, who is really a very nice and worthy fellow. And nothing\nin the world would keep me from going to see my dear uncle Sacco make his\nentry into the ancient _salons_ of the Buongiovanni. It will be something\nextraordinary and superb. He has at last become Minister of Agriculture,\nyou know. My father, who always takes things so seriously, told me this\nmorning that the affair so worried him he hadn\u2019t closed his eyes all\nnight.\u201d\n\nThe Count paused, but almost immediately added: \u201cI say, it is half-past\ntwo and you won\u2019t have a train before five o\u2019clock. Do you know what you\nought to do? Why, drive back to Rome with me in my carriage.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d rejoined Pierre, \u201cI\u2019m deeply obliged to you but I\u2019m to dine\nwith my friend Narcisse this evening, and I mustn\u2019t be late.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you won\u2019t be late--on the contrary! We shall start at three and\nreach Rome before five o\u2019clock. There can\u2019t be a more pleasant promenade\nwhen the light falls; and, come, I promise you a splendid sunset.\u201d\n\nHe was so pressing that the young priest had to accept, quite subjugated\nby so much amiability and good humour. They spent another half-hour very\npleasantly in chatting about Rome, Italy, and France. Then, for a moment,\nthey went up into Frascati where the Count wished to say a few words to a\ncontractor, and just as three o\u2019clock was striking they started off,\nseated side by side on the soft cushions and gently rocked by the motion\nof the victoria as the two horses broke into a light trot. As Prada had\npredicted, that return to Rome across the bare Campagna under the vast\nlimpid heavens at the close of such a mild autumn day proved most\ndelightful. First of all, however, the victoria had to descend the slopes\nof Frascati between vineyards and olive-trees. The paved road snaked, and\nwas but little frequented; they merely saw a few peasants in old felt\nhats, a white mule, and a cart drawn by a donkey, for it is only upon\nSundays that the _osterie_ or wine-shops are filled and that artisans in\neasy circumstances come to eat a dish of kid at the surrounding\n_bastides_. However, at one turn of the road they passed a monumental\nfountain. Then a flock of sheep momentarily barred the way before\ndefiling past. And beyond the gentle undulations of the ruddy Campagna\nRome appeared amidst the violet vapours of evening, sinking by degrees as\nthe carriage itself descended to a lower and lower level. There came a\nmoment when the city was a mere thin grey streak, speckled whitely here\nand there by a few sunlit house-fronts. And then it seemed to plunge\nbelow the ground--to be submerged by the swell of the far-spreading\nfields.\n\nThe victoria was now rolling over the plain, leaving the Alban hills\nbehind, whilst before it and on either hand came the expanse of meadows\nand stubbles. And then it was that the Count, after leaning forward,\nexclaimed: \u201cJust look ahead, yonder, there\u2019s our man of this morning,\nSantobono in person--what a strapping fellow he is, and how fast he\nwalks! My horses can scarcely overtake him.\u201d\n\nPierre in his turn leant forward and likewise perceived the priest of St.\nMary in the Fields, looking tall and knotty, fashioned as it were with a\nbill-hook. Robed in a long black cassock, he showed like a vigorous\nsplotch of ink amidst the bright sunshine streaming around him; and he\nwas walking on at such a fast, stern, regular pace that he suggested\nDestiny on the march. Something, which could not be well distinguished,\nwas hanging from his right arm.\n\nWhen the carriage had at last overtaken him Prada told the coachman to\nslacken speed, and then entered into conversation.\n\n\u201cGood-day, Abb\u00e9; you are well, I hope?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cVery well, Signor Conte, I thank you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd where are you going so bravely?\u201d\n\n\u201cSignor Conte, I am going to Rome.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! to Rome, at this late hour?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I shall be there nearly as soon as yourself. The distance doesn\u2019t\nfrighten me, and money\u2019s quickly earned by walking.\u201d\n\nScarcely turning his head to reply, stepping out beside the wheels,\nSantobono did not miss a stride. And Prada, diverted by the meeting,\nwhispered to Pierre: \u201cWait a bit, he\u2019ll amuse us.\u201d Then he added aloud:\n\u201cSince you are going to Rome, Abb\u00e9, you had better get in here; there\u2019s\nroom for you.\u201d\n\nSantobono required no pressing, but at once accepted the offer.\n\u201cWillingly; a thousand thanks,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s still better to save one\u2019s\nshoe leather.\u201d\n\nThen he got in and installed himself on the bracket-seat, declining with\nabrupt humility the place which Pierre politely offered him beside the\nCount. The young priest and the latter now saw that the object he was\ncarrying was a little basket of fresh figs, nicely arranged and covered\nwith leaves.\n\nThe horses set off again at a faster trot, and the carriage rolled on and\non over the superb, flat plain. \u201cSo you are going to Rome?\u201d the Count\nresumed in order to make Santobono talk.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d the other replied, \u201cI am taking his Eminence Cardinal Boccanera\nthese few figs, the last of the season: a little present which I had\npromised him.\u201d He had placed the basket on his knees and was holding it\nbetween his big knotty hands as if it were something rare and fragile.\n\n\u201cAh! some of the famous figs of your garden,\u201d said Prada. \u201cIt\u2019s quite\ntrue, they are like honey. But why don\u2019t you rid yourself of them. You\nsurely don\u2019t mean to keep them on your knees all the way to Rome. Give\nthem to me, I\u2019ll put them in the hood.\u201d\n\nHowever, Santobono became quite agitated, and vigorously declined the\noffer. \u201cNo, no, a thousand thanks! They don\u2019t embarrass me in the least;\nthey are very well here; and in this way I shall be sure that no accident\nwill befall them.\u201d\n\nHis passion for the fruit he grew quite amused Prada, who nudged Pierre,\nand then inquired: \u201cIs the Cardinal fond of your figs?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! his Eminence condescends to adore them. In former years, when he\nspent the summer at the villa, he would never touch the figs from other\ntrees. And so, you see, knowing his tastes, it costs me very little to\ngratify him.\u201d\n\nWhilst making this reply Santobono had shot such a keen glance in the\ndirection of Pierre that the Count felt it necessary to introduce them to\none another. This he did saying: \u201cAs it happens, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment\nis stopping at the Palazzo Boccanera; he has been there for three months\nor so.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I\u2019m aware of it,\u201d Santobono quietly replied; \u201cI found Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9 with his Eminence one day when I took some figs to the Palazzo.\nThose were less ripe, but these are perfect.\u201d So speaking he gave the\nlittle basket a complacent glance, and seemed to press it yet more\nclosely between his huge and hairy fingers.\n\nThen came a spell of silence, whilst on either hand the Campagna spread\nout as far as the eye could reach. All houses had long since disappeared;\nthere was not a wall, not a tree, nothing but the undulating expanse\nwhose sparse, short herbage was, with the approach of winter, beginning\nto turn green once more. A tower, a half-fallen ruin which came into\nsight on the left, rising in solitude into the limpid sky above the flat,\nboundless line of the horizon, suddenly assumed extraordinary importance.\nThen, on the right, the distant silhouettes of cattle and horses were\nseen in a large enclosure with wooden rails. Urged on by the goad, oxen,\nstill yoked, were slowly coming back from ploughing; whilst a farmer,\ncantering beside the ploughed land on a little sorrel nag, gave a final\nlook round for the night. Now and again the road became peopled. A\n_biroccino_, an extremely light vehicle with two huge wheels and a small\nseat perched upon the springs, whisked by like a gust of wind. From time\nto time also the victoria passed a _carrotino_, one of the low carts in\nwhich peasants, sheltered by a kind of bright-hued tent, bring the wine,\nvegetables, and fruit of the castle-lands to Rome. The shrill tinkling of\nhorses\u2019 bells was heard afar off as the animals followed the well-known\nroad of their own accord, their peasant drivers usually being sound\nasleep. Women with bare, black hair, scarlet neckerchiefs, and skirts\ncaught up, were seen going home in groups of three and four. And then the\nroad again emptied, and the solitude became more and more complete,\nwithout a wayfarer or an animal appearing for miles and miles, whilst\nyonder, at the far end of the lifeless sea, so grandiose and mournful in\nits monotony, the sun continued to descend from the infinite vault of\nheaven.\n\n\u201cAnd the Pope, Abb\u00e9, is he dead?\u201d Prada suddenly inquired.\n\nSantobono did not even start. \u201cI trust,\u201d he replied in all simplicity,\n\u201cthat his Holiness still has many long years to live for the triumph of\nthe Church.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you had good news this morning when you called on your bishop,\nCardinal Sanguinetti?\u201d\n\nThis time the priest was unable to restrain a slight start. Had he been\nseen, then? In his haste he had failed to notice the two men following\nthe road behind him. However, he at once regained self-possession, and\nreplied: \u201cOh! one can never tell exactly whether news is good or bad. It\nseems that his Holiness passed a somewhat painful night, but I devoutly\nhope that the next will be a better one.\u201d Then he seemed to meditate for\na moment, and added: \u201cMoreover, if God should have deemed it time to call\nhis Holiness to Himself, He would not leave His flock without a shepherd.\nHe would have already chosen and designated the Sovereign Pontiff of\nto-morrow.\u201d\n\nThis superb answer increased Prada\u2019s gaiety. \u201cYou are really\nextraordinary, Abb\u00e9,\u201d he said. \u201cSo you think that popes are solely\ncreated by the grace of the Divinity! The pope of to-morrow is chosen up\nin heaven, eh, and simply waits? Well, I fancied that men had something\nto do with the matter. But perhaps you already know which cardinal it is\nthat the divine favour has thus elected in advance?\u201d\n\nThen, like the unbeliever he was, he went on with his facile jests, which\nleft the priest unruffled. In fact, the latter also ended by laughing\nwhen the Count, after alluding to the gambling passion which at each\nfresh Conclave sets wellnigh the whole population of Rome betting for or\nagainst this or that candidate, told him that he might easily make his\nfortune if he were in the divine secret. Next the talk turned on the\nthree white cassocks of different sizes which are always kept in\nreadiness in a cupboard at the Vatican. Which of them would be required\non this occasion?--the short one, the long one, or the one of medium\nsize? Each time that the reigning pope falls somewhat seriously ill there\nis in this wise an extraordinary outburst of emotion, a keen awakening of\nall ambitions and intrigues, to such a point that not merely in the black\nworld, but throughout the city, people have no other subject of\ncuriosity, conversation, and occupation than that of discussing the\nrelative claims of the cardinals and predicting which of them will be\nelected.\n\n\u201cCome, come,\u201d Prada resumed, \u201csince you know the truth, I\u2019m determined\nthat you shall tell me. Will it be Cardinal Moretta?\u201d\n\nSantobono, in spite of his evident desire to remain dignified and\ndisinterested, like a good, pious priest, was gradually growing\nimpassioned, yielding to the hidden fire which consumed him. And this\ninterrogatory finished him off; he could no longer restrain himself, but\nreplied: \u201cMoretta! What an idea! Why, he is sold to all Europe!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, will it be Cardinal Bartolini?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! you can\u2019t think that. Bartolini has used himself up in striving for\neverything and getting nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill it be Cardinal Dozio, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cDozio, Dozio! Why, if Dozio were to win one might altogether despair of\nour Holy Church, for no man can have a baser mind than he!\u201d\n\nPrada raised his hands, as if he had exhausted the serious candidates. In\norder to increase the priest\u2019s exasperation he maliciously refrained from\nnaming Cardinal Sanguinetti, who was certainly Santobono\u2019s nominee. All\nat once, however, he pretended to make a good guess, and gaily exclaimed:\n\u201cAh! I have it; I know your man--Cardinal Boccanera!\u201d\n\nThe blow struck Santobono full in the heart, wounding him both in his\nrancour and his patriotic faith. His terrible mouth was already opening,\nand he was about to shout \u201cNo! no!\u201d with all his strength, but he managed\nto restrain the cry, compelled as he was to silence by the present on his\nknees--that little basket of figs which he pressed so convulsively with\nboth hands; and the effort which he was obliged to make left him\nquivering to such a point that he had to wait some time before he could\nreply in a calm voice: \u201cHis most reverend Eminence Cardinal Boccanera is\na saintly man, well worthy of the throne, and my only fear is that, with\nhis hatred of new Italy, he might bring us warfare.\u201d\n\nPrada, however, desired to enlarge the wound. \u201cAt all events,\u201d said he,\n\u201cyou accept him and love him too much not to rejoice over his chances of\nsuccess. And I really think that we have arrived at the truth, for\neverybody is convinced that the Conclave\u2019s choice cannot fall elsewhere.\nCome, come; Boccanera is a very tall man, so it\u2019s the long white cassock\nwhich will be required.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe long cassock, the long cassock,\u201d growled Santobono, despite himself;\n\u201cthat\u2019s all very well, but--\u201d\n\nThen he stopped short, and, again overcoming his passion, left his\nsentence unfinished. Pierre, listening in silence, marvelled at the man\u2019s\nself-restraint, for he remembered the conversation which he had overheard\nat Cardinal Sanguinetti\u2019s. Those figs were evidently a mere pretext for\ngaining admission to the Boccanera mansion, where some friend--Abb\u00e9\nPaparelli, no doubt--could alone supply certain positive information\nwhich was needed. But how great was the command which the hot-blooded\npriest exercised over himself amidst the riotous impulses of his soul!\n\nOn either side of the road the Campagna still and ever spread its expanse\nof verdure, and Prada, who had become grave and dreamy, gazed before him\nwithout seeing anything. At last, however, he gave expression to his\nthoughts. \u201cYou know, Abb\u00e9, what will be said if the Pope should die this\ntime. That sudden illness, those colics, those refusals to make any\ninformation public, mean nothing good--Yes, yes, poison, just as for the\nothers!\u201d\n\nPierre gave a start of stupefaction. The Pope poisoned! \u201cWhat! Poison?\nAgain?\u201d he exclaimed as he gazed at his companions with dilated eyes.\nPoison at the end of the nineteenth century, as in the days of the\nBorgias, as on the stage in a romanticist melodrama! To him the idea\nappeared both monstrous and ridiculous.\n\nSantobono, whose features had become motionless and impenetrable, made no\nreply. But Prada nodded, and the conversation was henceforth confined to\nhim and the young priest. \u201cWhy, yes, poison,\u201d he replied. \u201cThe fear of it\nhas remained very great in Rome. Whenever a death seems inexplicable,\neither by reason of its suddenness or the tragic circumstances which\nattend it, the unanimous thought is poison. And remark this: in no city,\nI believe, are sudden deaths so frequent. The causes I don\u2019t exactly\nknow, but some doctors put everything down to the fevers. Among the\npeople, however, the one thought is poison, poison with all its legends,\npoison which kills like lightning and leaves no trace, the famous recipe\nbequeathed from age to age, through the emperors and the popes, down to\nthese present times of middle-class democracy.\u201d\n\nAs he spoke he ended by smiling, for he was inclined to be somewhat\nsceptical on the point, despite the covert terror with which he was\ninspired by racial and educational causes. However, he quoted instances.\nThe Roman matrons had rid themselves of their husbands and lovers by\nemploying the venom of red toads. Locusta, in a more practical spirit,\nsought poison in plants, one of which, probably aconite, she was wont to\nboil. Then, long afterwards, came the age of the Borgias, and\nsubsequently, at Naples, La Toffana sold a famous water, doubtless some\npreparation of arsenic, in phials decorated with a representation of St.\nNicholas of Bari. There were also extraordinary stories of pins, a prick\nfrom which killed one like lightning, of cups of wine poisoned by the\ninfusion of rose petals, of woodcocks cut in half with prepared knives,\nwhich poisoned but one-half of the bird, so that he who partook of that\nhalf was killed. \u201cI myself, in my younger days,\u201d continued Prada, \u201chad a\nfriend whose bride fell dead in church during the marriage service\nthrough simply inhaling a bouquet of flowers. And so isn\u2019t it possible\nthat the famous recipe may really have been handed down, and have\nremained known to a few adepts?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut chemistry has made too much progress,\u201d Pierre replied. \u201cIf\nmysterious poisons were believed in by the ancients and remained\nundetected in their time it was because there were no means of analysis.\nBut the drug of the Borgias would now lead the simpleton who might employ\nit straight to the Assizes. Such stories are mere nonsense, and at the\npresent day people scarcely tolerate them in newspaper serials and\nshockers.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps so,\u201d resumed the Count with his uneasy smile. \u201cYou are right, no\ndoubt--only go and tell that to your host, for instance, Cardinal\nBoccanera, who last summer held in his arms an old and deeply-loved\nfriend, Monsignor Gallo, who died after a seizure of a couple of hours.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut apoplexy may kill one in two hours, and aneurism only takes two\nminutes.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, but ask the Cardinal what he thought of his friend\u2019s prolonged\nshudders, the leaden hue which overcame his face, the sinking of his\neyes, and the expression of terror which made him quite unrecognisable.\nThe Cardinal is convinced that Monsignor Gallo was poisoned, because he\nwas his dearest confidant, the counsellor to whom he always listened, and\nwhose wise advice was a guarantee of success.\u201d\n\nPierre\u2019s bewilderment was increasing, and, irritated by the impassibility\nof Santobono, he addressed him direct. \u201cIt\u2019s idiotic, it\u2019s awful! Does\nyour reverence also believe in these frightful stories?\u201d\n\nBut the priest of Frascati gave no sign. His thick, passionate lips\nremained closed while his black glowing eyes never ceased to gaze at\nPrada. The latter, moreover, was quoting other instances. There was the\ncase of Monsignor Nazzarelli, who had been found in bed, shrunken and\ncalcined like carbon. And there was that of Monsignor Brando, struck down\nin his sacerdotal vestments at St. Peter\u2019s itself, in the very sacristy,\nduring vespers!\n\n\u201cAh! _Mon Dieu_!\u201d sighed Pierre, \u201cyou will tell me so much that I myself\nshall end by trembling, and sha\u2019n\u2019t dare to eat anything but boiled eggs\nas long as I stay in this terrible Rome of yours.\u201d\n\nFor a moment this whimsical reply enlivened both the Count and Pierre.\nBut it was quite true that their conversation showed Rome under a\nterrible aspect, for it conjured up the Eternal City of Crime, the city\nof poison and the knife, where for more than two thousand years, ever\nsince the raising of the first bit of wall, the lust of power, the\nfrantic hunger for possession and enjoyment, had armed men\u2019s hands,\nensanguined the pavements, and cast victims into the river and the\nground. Assassinations and poisonings under the emperors, poisonings and\nassassinations under the popes, ever did the same torrent of abominations\nstrew that tragic soil with death amidst the sovereign glory of the sun.\n\n\u201cAll the same,\u201d said the Count, \u201cthose who take precautions are perhaps\nnot ill advised. It is said that more than one cardinal shudders and\nmistrusts people. One whom I know will never eat anything that has not\nbeen bought and prepared by his own cook. And as for the Pope, if he is\nanxious--\u201d\n\nPierre again raised a cry of stupefaction. \u201cWhat, the Pope himself! The\nPope afraid of being poisoned!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, my dear Abb\u00e9, people commonly assert it. There are certainly days\nwhen he considers himself more menaced than anybody else. And are you not\naware of the old Roman view that a pope ought never to live till too\ngreat an age, and that when he is so obstinate as not to die at the right\ntime he ought to be assisted? As soon as a pope begins to fall into\nsecond childhood, and by reason of his senility becomes a source of\nembarrassment, and possibly even danger, to the Church, his right place\nis heaven. Moreover, matters are managed in a discreet manner; a slight\ncold becomes a decent pretext to prevent him from tarrying any longer on\nthe throne of St. Peter.\u201d\n\nPrada then gave some curious details. One prelate, it was said, wishing\nto dispel his Holiness\u2019s fears, had devised an elaborate precautionary\nsystem which, among other things, was to comprise a little padlocked\nvehicle, in which the food destined for the frugal pontifical table was\nto be securely placed before leaving the kitchen, so that it might not be\ntampered with on its way to the Pope\u2019s apartments. However, this project\nhad not yet been carried into effect.\n\n\u201cAfter all,\u201d the Count concluded with a laugh, \u201cevery pope has to die\nsome day, especially when his death is needful for the welfare of the\nChurch. Isn\u2019t that so, Abb\u00e9?\u201d\n\nSantobono, whom he addressed, had a moment previously lowered his eyes as\nif to contemplate the little basket of figs which he held on his lap with\nas much care as if it had been the Blessed Sacrament. On being questioned\nin such a direct, sharp fashion he could not do otherwise than look up.\nHowever, he did not depart from his prolonged silence, but limited his\nanswer to a slow nod.\n\n\u201cAnd it is God alone, and not poison, who causes one to die. Is that not\nso, Abb\u00e9?\u201d repeated Prada. \u201cIt is said that those were the last words of\npoor Monsignor Gallo before he expired in the arms of his friend Cardinal\nBoccanera.\u201d\n\nFor the second time Santobono nodded without speaking. And then silence\nfell, all three sinking into a dreamy mood.\n\nMeantime, without a pause, the carriage rolled on across the immensity of\nthe Campagna. The road, straight as an arrow, seemed to extend into the\ninfinite. As the sun descended towards the horizon the play of light and\nshade became more marked on the broad undulations of the ground which\nstretched away, alternately of a pinky green and a violet grey, till they\nreached the distant fringe of the sky. At the roadside on either hand\nthere were still and ever tall withered thistles and giant fennel with\nyellow umbels. Then, after a time, came a team of four oxen, that had\nbeen kept ploughing until late, and stood forth black and huge in the\npale atmosphere and mournful solitude. Farther on some flocks of sheep,\nwhence the breeze wafted a tallowy odour, set patches of brown amidst the\nherbage, which once more was becoming verdant; whilst at intervals a dog\nwas heard to bark, his voice the only distinct sound amidst the low\nquivering of that silent desert where the sovereign peacefulness of death\nseemed to reign. But all at once a light melody arose and some larks flew\nup, one of them soaring into the limpid golden heavens. And ahead, at the\nfar extremity of the pure sky, Rome, with her towers and domes, grew\nlarger and larger, like a city of white marble springing from a mirage\namidst the greenery of some enchanted garden.\n\n\u201cMatteo!\u201d Prada called to his coachman, \u201cpull up at the Osteria Romana.\u201d\n And to his companions he added: \u201cPray excuse me, but I want to see if I\ncan get some new-laid eggs for my father. He is so fond of them.\u201d\n\nA few minutes afterwards the carriage stopped. At the very edge of the\nroad stood a primitive sort of inn, bearing the proud and sonorous name\nof \u201cAntica Osteria Romana.\u201d It had now become a mere house of call for\ncarters and chance sportsmen, who ventured to drink a flagon of white\nwine whilst eating an omelet and a slice of ham. Occasionally, on\nSundays, some of the humble classes would walk over from Rome and make\nmerry there; but the week days often went by without a soul entering the\nplace, such was its isolation amidst the bare Campagna.\n\nThe Count was already springing from the carriage. \u201cI shall only be a\nminute,\u201d said he as he turned away.\n\nThe _osteria_ was a long, low pile with a ground floor and one upper\nstorey, the last being reached by an outdoor stairway built of large\nblocks of stone which had been scorched by the hot suns. The entire\nplace, indeed, was corroded, tinged with the hue of old gold. On the\nground floor one found a common room, a cart-house, and a stable with\nadjoining sheds. At one side, near a cluster of parasol pines--the only\ntrees that could grow in that ungrateful soil--there was an arbour of\nreeds where five or six rough wooden tables were set out. And, as a\nbackground to this sorry, mournful nook of life, there arose a fragment\nof an ancient aqueduct whose arches, half fallen and opening on to space,\nalone interrupted the flat line of the horizon.\n\nAll at once, however, the Count retraced his steps, and, addressing\nSantobono, exclaimed: \u201cI say, Abb\u00e9, you\u2019ll surely accept a glass of white\nwine. I know that you are a bit of a vine grower, and they have a little\nwhite wine here which you ought to make acquaintance with.\u201d\n\nSantobono again required no pressing, but quietly alighted. \u201cOh! I know\nit,\u201d said he; \u201cit\u2019s a wine from Marino; it\u2019s grown in a lighter soil than\nours at Frascati.\u201d\n\nThen, as he would not relax his hold on his basket of figs, but even now\ncarried it along with him, the Count lost patience. \u201cCome, you don\u2019t want\nthat basket,\u201d said he; \u201cleave it in the carriage.\u201d\n\nThe priest gave no reply, but walked ahead, whilst Pierre also made up\nhis mind to descend from the carriage in order to see what a suburban\n_osteria_ was like. Prada was known at this place, and an old woman,\ntall, withered, but looking quite queenly in her wretched garments, had\nat once presented herself. On the last occasion when the Count had called\nshe had managed to find half a dozen eggs. This time she said she would\ngo to see, but could promise nothing, for the hens laid here and there\nall over the place, and she could never tell what eggs there might be.\n\n\u201cAll right!\u201d Prada answered, \u201cgo and look; and meantime we will have a\n_caraffa_ of white wine.\u201d\n\nThe three men entered the common room, which was already quite dark.\nAlthough the hot weather was now over, one heard the buzzing of\ninnumerable flies immediately one reached the threshold, and a pungent\nodour of acidulous wine and rancid oil caught one at the throat. As soon\nas their eyes became accustomed to the dimness they were able to\ndistinguish the spacious, blackened, malodorous chamber, whose only\nfurniture consisted of some roughly made tables and benches. It seemed to\nbe quite empty, so complete was the silence, apart from the buzz of the\nflies. However, two men were seated there, two wayfarers who remained\nmute and motionless before their untouched, brimming glasses. Moreover,\non a low chair near the door, in the little light which penetrated from\nwithout, a thin, sallow girl, the daughter of the house, sat idle,\ntrembling with fever, her hands close pressed between her knees.\n\nRealising that Pierre felt uncomfortable there, the Count proposed that\nthey should drink their wine outside. \u201cWe shall be better out of doors,\u201d\n said he, \u201cit\u2019s so very in mild this evening.\u201d\n\nAccordingly, whilst the mother looked for the eggs, and the father mended\na wheel in an adjacent shed, the daughter was obliged to get up shivering\nto carry the flagon of wine and the three glasses to the arbour, where\nshe placed them on one of the tables. And, having pocketed the price of\nthe wine--threepence--in silence, she went back to her seat with a sullen\nlook, as if annoyed at having been compelled to make such a long journey.\nMeanwhile the three men had sat down, and Prada gaily filled each of the\nglasses, although Pierre declared that he was quite unable to drink wine\nbetween his meals. \u201cPooh, pooh,\u201d said the Count, \u201cyou can always clink\nglasses with us. And now, Abb\u00e9, isn\u2019t this little wine droll? Come,\nhere\u2019s to the Pope\u2019s better health, since he\u2019s unwell!\u201d\n\nSantobono at one gulp emptied his glass and clacked his tongue. With\ngentle, paternal care he had deposited his basket on the ground beside\nhim: and, taking off his hat, he drew a long breath. The evening was\nreally delightful. A superb sky of a soft golden hue stretched over that\nendless sea of the Campagna which was soon to fall asleep with sovereign\nquiescence. And the light breeze which went by amidst the deep silence\nbrought with it an exquisite odour of wild herbs and flowers.\n\n\u201cHow pleasant it is!\u201d muttered Pierre, affected by the surrounding charm.\n\u201cAnd what a desert for eternal rest, forgetfulness of all the world!\u201d\n\nPrada, who had emptied the flagon by filling Santobono\u2019s glass a second\ntime, made no reply; he was silently amusing himself with an occurrence\nwhich at first he was the only one to observe. However, with a merry\nexpression of complicity, he gave the young priest a wink, and then they\nboth watched the dramatic incidents of the affair. Some scraggy fowls\nwere wandering round them searching the yellow turf for grasshoppers; and\none of these birds, a little shiny black hen with an impudent manner, had\ncaught sight of the basket of figs and was boldly approaching it. When\nshe got near, however, she took fright, and retreated somewhat, with neck\nstiffened and head turned, so as to cast suspicious glances at the basket\nwith her round sparkling eye. But at last covetousness gained the\nvictory, for she could see one of the figs between the leaves, and so she\nslowly advanced, lifting her feet very high at each step; and, all at\nonce, stretching out her neck, she gave the fig a formidable peck, which\nripped it open and made the juice exude.\n\nPrada, who felt as happy as a child, was then able to give vent to the\nlaughter which he had scarcely been able to restrain: \u201cLook out, Abb\u00e9,\u201d\n he called, \u201cmind your figs!\u201d\n\nAt that very moment Santobono was finishing his second glass of wine with\nhis head thrown back and his eyes blissfully raised to heaven. He gave a\nstart, looked round, and on seeing the hen at once understood the\nposition. And then came a terrible outburst of anger, with sweeping\ngestures and terrible invectives. But the hen, who was again pecking,\nwould not be denied; she dug her beak into the fig and carried it off,\nflapping her wings, so quick and so comical that Prada, and Pierre as\nwell, laughed till tears came into their eyes, their merriment increasing\nat sight of the impotent fury of Santobono, who, for a moment, pursued\nthe thief, threatening her with his fist.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said the Count, \u201cthat\u2019s what comes of not leaving the basket in the\ncarriage. If I hadn\u2019t warned you the hen would have eaten all the figs.\u201d\n\nThe priest did not reply, but, growling out vague imprecations, placed\nthe basket on the table, where he raised the leaves and artistically\nrearranged the fruit so as to fill up the void. Then, the harm having\nbeen repaired as far as was possible, he at last calmed down.\n\nIt was now time for them to resume their journey, for the sun was sinking\ntowards the horizon, and night would soon fall. Thus the Count ended by\ngetting impatient. \u201cWell, and those eggs?\u201d he called.\n\nThen, as the woman did not return, he went to seek her. He entered the\nstable, and afterwards the cart-house, but she was neither here nor\nthere. Next he went towards the rear of the _osteria_ in order to look in\nthe sheds. But all at once an unexpected spectacle made him stop short.\nThe little black hen was lying on the ground, dead, killed as by\nlightning. She showed no sign of hurt; there was nothing but a little\nstreamlet of violet blood still trickling from her beak. Prada was at\nfirst merely astonished. He stooped and touched the hen. She was still\nwarm and soft like a rag. Doubtless some apoplectic stroke had killed\nher. But immediately afterwards he became fearfully pale; the truth\nappeared to him, and turned him as cold as ice. In a moment he conjured\nup everything: Leo XIII attacked by illness, Santobono hurrying to\nCardinal Sanguinetti for tidings, and then starting for Rome to present a\nbasket of figs to Cardinal Boccanera. And Prada also remembered the\nconversation in the carriage: the possibility of the Pope\u2019s demise, the\ncandidates for the tiara, the legendary stories of poison which still\nfostered terror in and around the Vatican; and he once more saw the\npriest, with his little basket on his knees, lavishing paternal attention\non it, and he saw the little black hen pecking at the fruit and fleeing\nwith a fig on her beak. And now that little black hen lay there, suddenly\nstruck down, dead!\n\nHis conviction was immediate and absolute. But he did not have time to\ndecide what course he should take, for a voice behind him exclaimed:\n\u201cWhy, it\u2019s the little hen; what\u2019s the matter with her?\u201d\n\nThe voice was that of Pierre, who, letting Santobono climb into the\ncarriage alone, had in his turn come round to the rear of the house in\norder to obtain a better view of the ruined aqueduct among the parasol\npines.\n\nPrada, who shuddered as if he himself were the culprit, answered him with\na lie, a lie which he did not premeditate, but to which he was impelled\nby a sort of instinct. \u201cBut she\u2019s dead,\u201d he said.... \u201cJust fancy,\nthere was a fight. At the moment when I got here that other hen, which\nyou see yonder, sprang upon this one to get the fig, which she was still\nholding, and with a thrust of the beak split her head open.... The\nblood\u2019s flowing, as you can see yourself.\u201d\n\nWhy did he say these things? He himself was astonished at them whilst he\nwent on inventing them. Was it then that he wished to remain master of\nthe situation, keep the abominable secret entirely to himself, in order\nthat he might afterwards act in accordance with his own desires?\nCertainly his feelings partook of shame and embarrassment in presence of\nthat foreigner, whilst his personal inclination for violence set some\nadmiration amidst the revolt of his conscience, and a covert desire arose\nwithin him to examine the matter from the standpoint of his interests\nbefore he came to a decision. But, on the other hand, he claimed to be a\nman of integrity, and would assuredly not allow people to be poisoned.\n\nPierre, who was compassionately inclined towards all creation, looked at\nthe hen with the emotion which he always felt at the sudden severance of\nlife. However, he at once accepted Prada\u2019s story. \u201cAh! those fowls!\u201d said\nhe. \u201cThey treat one another with an idiotic ferocity which even men can\nscarcely equal. I kept fowls at home at one time, and one of the hens no\nsooner hurt her leg than all the others, on seeing the blood oozing,\nwould flock round and peck at the limb till they stripped it to the\nbone.\u201d\n\nPrada, however, did not listen, but at once went off; and it so happened\nthat the woman was, on her side, looking for him in order to hand him\nfour eggs which, after a deal of searching, she had discovered in odd\ncorners about the house. The Count made haste to pay for them, and called\nto Pierre, who was lingering behind: \u201cWe must look sharp! We sha\u2019n\u2019t\nreach Rome now until it is quite dark.\u201d\n\nThey found Santobono quietly waiting in the carriage, where he had again\ninstalled himself on the bracket with his spine resting against the\nbox-seat and his long legs drawn back under him, and he again had the\nlittle basket of figs on his knees, and clasped it with his big knotty\nhands as though it were something fragile and rare which the slightest\njolting might damage. His cassock showed like a huge blot, and in his\ncoarse ashen face, that of a peasant yet near to the wild soil and but\nslightly polished by a few years of theological studies, his eyes alone\nseemed to live, glowing with the dark flame of a devouring passion. On\nseeing him seated there in such composure Prada could not restrain a\nslight shudder. Then, as soon as the victoria was again rolling along the\nroad, he exclaimed: \u201cWell, Abb\u00e9, that glass of wine will guarantee us\nagainst the malaria. The Pope would soon be cured if he could imitate our\nexample.\u201d\n\nSantobono\u2019s only reply was a growl. He was in no mood for conversation,\nbut wrapped himself in perfect silence, as in the night which was slowly\nfalling. And Prada in his turn ceased to speak, and, with his eyes still\nfixed upon the other, reflected on the course that he should follow.\n\nThe road turned, and then the carriage rolled on and on over another\ninterminable straight highway with white paving, whose brilliancy made\nthe road look like a ribbon of snow stretching across the Campagna, where\ndelicate shadows were slowly falling. Gloom gathered in the hollows of\nthe broad undulations whence a tide of violet hue seemed to spread over\nthe short herbage until all mingled and the expanse became an indistinct\nswell of neutral hue from one to the other horizon. And the solitude was\nnow yet more complete; a last indolent cart had gone by and a last\ntinkling of horses\u2019 bells had subsided in the distance. There was no\nlonger a passer-by, no longer a beast of the fields to be seen, colour\nand sound died away, all forms of life sank into slumber, into the serene\nstillness of nihility. Some fragments of an aqueduct were still to be\nseen at intervals on the right hand, where they looked like portions of\ngigantic millepeds severed by the scythe of time; next, on the left, came\nanother tower, whose dark and ruined pile barred the sky as with a huge\nblack stake; and then the remains of another aqueduct spanned the road,\nassuming yet greater dimensions against the sunset glow. Ah! that unique\nhour, the hour of twilight in the Campagna, when all is blotted out and\nsimplified, the hour of bare immensity, of the infinite in its simplest\nexpression! There is nothing, nothing all around you, but the flat line\nof the horizon with the one splotch of an isolated tower, and yet that\nnothing is instinct with sovereign majesty.\n\nHowever, on the left, towards the sea, the sun was setting, descending in\nthe limpid sky like a globe of fire of blinding redness. It slowly\nplunged beneath the horizon, and the only sign of cloud was some fiery\nvapour, as if indeed the distant sea had seethed at contact with that\nroyal and flaming visit. And directly the sun had disappeared the heavens\nabove it purpled and became a lake of blood, whilst the Campagna turned\nto grey. At the far end of the fading plain there remained only that\npurple lake whose brasier slowly died out behind the black arches of the\naqueduct, while in the opposite direction the scattered arches remained\nbright and rosy against a pewter-like sky. Then the fiery vapour was\ndissipated, and the sunset ended by fading away. One by one the stars\ncame out in the pacified vault, now of an ashen blue, while the lights of\nRome, still far away on the verge of the horizon, scintillated like the\nlamps of light-houses.\n\nAnd Prada, amidst the dreamy silence of his companions and the infinite\nmelancholy of the evening and the inexpressible distress which even he\nexperienced, continued to ask himself what course he should adopt. Again\nand again he mentally repeated that he could not allow people to be\npoisoned. The figs were certainly intended for Cardinal Boccanera, and on\nthe whole it mattered little to him whether there were a cardinal the\nmore or the fewer in the world. Moreover, it had always seemed to him\nbest to let Destiny follow its course; and, infidel that he was, he saw\nno harm in one priest devouring another. Again, it might be dangerous for\nhim to intervene in that abominable affair, to mix himself up in the\nbase, fathomless intrigues of the black world. But on the other hand the\nCardinal was not the only person who lived in the Boccanera mansion, and\nmight not the figs go to others, might they not be eaten by people to\nwhom no harm was intended? This idea of a treacherous chance haunted him,\nand in spite of every effort the figures of Benedetta and Dario rose up\nbefore him, returned and imposed themselves on him though he again and\nagain sought to banish them from his mind. What if Benedetta, what if\nDario should partake of that fruit? For Benedetta he felt no fear, for he\nknew that she and her aunt ate their meals by themselves, and that their\ncuisine and the Cardinal\u2019s had nothing in common. But Dario sat at his\nuncle\u2019s table every day, and for a moment Prada, pictured the young\nPrince suddenly seized with a spasm, then falling, like poor Monsignor\nGallo, into the Cardinal\u2019s arms with livid face and receding eyes, and\ndying within two hours.\n\nBut no, no! That would be frightful, he could not suffer such an\nabomination. And thereupon he made up his mind. He would wait till the\nnight had completely gathered round and would then simply take the basket\nfrom Santobono\u2019s lap and fling it into some dark hollow without saying a\nword. The priest would understand him. The other one, the young\nFrenchman, would perhaps not even notice the incident. Besides, that\nmattered little, for he would not even attempt to explain his action. And\nhe felt quite calm again when the idea occurred to him to throw the\nbasket away while the carriage passed through the Porta Furba, a couple\nof miles or so before reaching Rome. That would suit him exactly; in the\ndarkness of the gateway nothing whatever would be seen.\n\n\u201cWe stopped too long at that _osteria_,\u201d he suddenly exclaimed aloud,\nturning towards Pierre. \u201cWe sha\u2019n\u2019t reach Rome much before six o\u2019clock.\nStill you will have time to dress and join your friend.\u201d And then without\nawaiting the young man\u2019s reply he said to Santobono: \u201cYour figs will\narrive very late, Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d answered the priest, \u201chis Eminence receives until eight o\u2019clock.\nAnd, besides, the figs are not for this evening. People don\u2019t eat figs in\nthe evening. They will be for to-morrow morning.\u201d And thereupon he again\nrelapsed into silence.\n\n\u201cFor to-morrow morning--yes, yes, no doubt,\u201d repeated Prada. \u201cAnd the\nCardinal will be able to thoroughly regale himself if nobody helps him to\neat the fruit.\u201d\n\nThereupon Pierre, without pausing to reflect, exclaimed: \u201cHe will no\ndoubt eat it by himself, for his nephew, Prince Dario, must have started\nto-day for Naples on a little convalescence trip to rid himself of the\neffects of the accident which laid him up during the last month.\u201d Then,\nhaving got so far, the young priest remembered to whom he was speaking,\nand abruptly stopped short.\n\nThe Count noticed his embarrassment. \u201cOh! speak on, my dear Monsieur\nFroment,\u201d said he, \u201cyou don\u2019t offend me. It\u2019s an old affair now. So that\nyoung man has left, you say?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, unless he has postponed his departure. However, I don\u2019t expect to\nfind him at the palazzo when I get there.\u201d\n\nFor a moment the only sound was that of the continuous rumble of the\nwheels. Prada again felt worried, a prey to the discomfort of\nuncertainty. Why should he mix himself up in the affair if Dario were\nreally absent? All the ideas which came to him tired his brain, and he\nended by thinking aloud: \u201cIf he has gone away it must be for propriety\u2019s\nsake, so as to avoid attending the Buongiovanni reception, for the\nCongregation of the Council met this morning to give its decision in the\nsuit which the Countess has brought against me. Yes, I shall know by and\nby whether our marriage is to be dissolved.\u201d\n\nIt was in a somewhat hoarse voice that he spoke these words, and one\ncould realise that the old wound was again bleeding within him. Although\nLisbeth had borne him a son, the charge levelled against him in his\nwife\u2019s petition for divorce still filled him with blind fury each time\nthat he thought of it. And all at once he shuddered violently, as if an\nicy blast had darted through his frame. Then, turning the conversation,\nhe added: \u201cIt\u2019s not at all warm this evening. This is the dangerous hour\nof the Roman climate, the twilight hour when it\u2019s easy to catch a\nterrible fever if one isn\u2019t prudent. Here, pull the rug over your legs,\nwrap it round you as carefully as you can.\u201d\n\nThen, as they drew near the Porta Furba, silence again fell, more\nprofound, like the slumber which was invincibly spreading over the\nCampagna, now steeped in night. And at last, in the bright starlight,\nappeared the gate, an arch of the Acqua Felice, under which the road\npassed. From a distance, this fragment seemed to bar the way with its\nmass of ancient half-fallen walls. But afterwards the gigantic arch where\nall was black opened like a gaping porch. And the carriage passed under\nit in darkness whilst the wheels rumbled with increased sonority.\n\nWhen the victoria emerged on the other side, Santobono still had the\nlittle basket of figs upon his knees and Prada looked at it, quite\novercome, asking himself what sudden paralysis of the hands had prevented\nhim from seizing it and throwing it into the darkness. Such had still\nbeen his intention but a few seconds before they passed under the arch.\nHe had even given the basket a final glance in order that he might the\nbetter realise what movements he should make. What had taken place within\nhim then? At present he was yielding to increasing irresolution,\nhenceforth incapable of decisive action, feeling a need of delay in order\nthat he might, before everything else, fully satisfy himself as to what\nwas likely to happen. And as Dario had doubtless gone away and the figs\nwould certainly not be eaten until the following morning, what reason was\nthere for him to hurry? He would know that evening if the Congregation of\nthe Council had annulled his marriage, he would know how far the\nso-called \u201cJustice of God\u201d was venal and mendacious! Certainly he would\nsuffer nobody to be poisoned, not even Cardinal Boccanera, though the\nlatter\u2019s life was of little account to him personally. But had not that\nlittle basket, ever since leaving Frascati, been like Destiny on the\nmarch? And was it not enjoyment, the enjoyment of omnipotence, to be able\nto say to himself that he was the master who could stay that basket\u2019s\ncourse, or allow it to go onward and accomplish its deadly purpose?\nMoreover, he yielded to the dimmest of mental struggles, ceasing to\nreason, unable to raise his hand, and yet convinced that he would drop a\nwarning note into the letter-box at the palazzo before he went to bed,\nthough at the same time he felt happy in the thought that if his interest\ndirected otherwise he would not do so.\n\nAnd the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silent weariness,\namidst the shiver of evening which seemed to have chilled all three men.\nIn vain did the Count endeavour to escape from the battle of his\nthoughts, by reverting to the Buongiovanni reception, and giving\nparticulars of the splendours which would be witnessed at it: his words\nfell sparsely in an embarrassed and absent-minded way. Then he sought to\ninspirit Pierre by speaking to him of Cardinal Sanguinetti\u2019s amiable\nmanner and fair words, but although the young priest was returning home\nwell pleased with his journey, in the idea that with a little help he\nmight yet triumph, he scarcely answered the Count, so wrapt he was in his\nreverie. And Santobono, on his side, neither spoke nor moved. Black like\nthe night itself, he seemed to have vanished. However, the lights of Rome\nwere increasing in number, and houses again appeared on either hand, at\nfirst at long intervals, and then in close succession. They were suburban\nhouses, and there were yet more fields of reeds, quickset hedges,\nolive-trees overtopping long walls, and big gateways with vase-surmounted\npillars; but at last came the city with its rows of small grey houses,\nits petty shops and its dingy taverns, whence at times came shouts and\nrumours of battle.\n\nPrada insisted on setting his companions down in the Via Giulia, at fifty\npaces from the palazzo. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t inconvenience me at all,\u201d said he to\nPierre. \u201cBesides, with the little time you have before you, it would\nnever do for you to go on foot.\u201d\n\nThe Via Giulia was already steeped in slumber, and wore a melancholy\naspect of abandonment in the dreary light of the gas lamps standing on\neither hand. And as soon as Santobono had alighted from the carriage, he\ntook himself off without waiting for Pierre, who, moreover, always went\nin by the little door in the side lane.\n\n\u201cGood-bye, Abb\u00e9,\u201d exclaimed Prada.\n\n\u201cGood-bye, Count, a thousand thanks,\u201d was Santobono\u2019s response.\n\nThen the two others stood watching him as he went towards the Boccanera\nmansion, whose old, monumental entrance, full of gloom, was still wide\nopen. For a moment they saw his tall, rugged figure erect against that\ngloom. Then in he plunged, he and his little basket, bearing Destiny.\n\n\n\n\nXII.\n\nIT was ten o\u2019clock when Pierre and Narcisse, after dining at the Caffe di\nRoma, where they had long lingered chatting, at last walked down the\nCorso towards the Palazzo Buongiovanni. They had the greatest difficulty\nto reach its entrance, for carriages were coming up in serried files, and\nthe inquisitive crowd of on-lookers, who pressed even into the roadway,\nin spite of the injunctions of the police, was growing so compact that\neven the horses could no longer approach. The ten lofty windows on the\nfirst floor of the long monumental fa\u00e7ade shone with an intense white\nradiance, the radiance of electric lamps, which illumined the street like\nsunshine, spreading over the equipages aground in that human sea, whose\nbillows of eager, excited faces rolled to and fro amidst an extraordinary\ntumult.\n\nAnd in all this there was not merely the usual curiosity to see uniforms\ngo by and ladies in rich attire alight from their carriages, for Pierre\nsoon gathered from what he heard that the crowd had come to witness the\narrival of the King and Queen, who had promised to appear at the ball\ngiven by Prince Buongiovanni, in celebration of the betrothal of his\ndaughter Celia to Lieutenant Attilio Sacco, the son of one of his\nMajesty\u2019s ministers. Moreover, people were enraptured with this marriage,\nthe happy ending of a love story which had impassioned the whole city: to\nbegin with, love at first sight, with the suddenness of a\nlightning-flash, and then stubborn fidelity triumphing over all\nobstacles, amidst romantic circumstances whose story sped from lip to\nlip, moistening every eye and stirring every heart.\n\nIt was this story that Narcisse had related at dessert to Pierre, who\nalready knew some portion of it. People asserted that if the Prince had\nended by yielding after a final terrible scene, it was only from fear of\nseeing Celia elope from the palace with her lover. She did not threaten\nto do so, but, amidst her virginal calmness, there was so much contempt\nfor everything foreign to her love, that her father felt her to be\ncapable of acting with the greatest folly in all ingenuousness. Only\nindifference was manifested by the Prince\u2019s wife, a phlegmatic and still\nbeautiful Englishwoman, who considered that she had done quite enough for\nthe household by bringing her husband a dowry of five millions, and\nbearing him five children. The Prince, anxious and weak despite his\nviolence, in which one found a trace of the old Roman blood, already\nspoilt by mixture with that of a foreign race, was nowadays ever\ninfluenced in his actions by the fear that his house and fortune--which\nhitherto had remained intact amidst the accumulated ruins of the\n_patriziato_--might suddenly collapse. And in finally yielding to Celia,\nhe must have been guided by the idea of rallying to the new _r\u00e9gime_\nthrough his daughter, so as to have one foot firmly set at the Quirinal,\nwithout withdrawing the other from the Vatican. It was galling, no doubt;\nhis pride must have bled at the idea of allying his name with that of\nsuch low folks as the Saccos. But then Sacco was a minister, and had sped\nso quickly from success to success that it seemed likely he would rise\nyet higher, and, after the portfolio of Agriculture, secure that of\nFinances, which he had long coveted. And an alliance with Sacco meant the\ncertain favour of the King, an assured retreat in that direction should\nthe papacy some day collapse. Then, too, the Prince had made inquiries\nrespecting the son, and was somewhat disarmed by the good looks, bravery,\nand rectitude of young Attilio, who represented the future, and possibly\nthe glorious Italy of to-morrow. He was a soldier, and could be helped\nforward to the highest rank. And people spitefully added that the last\nreason which had influenced the Prince, who was very avaricious, and\ngreatly worried by the thought that his fortune must be divided among his\nfive children,* was that an opportunity presented itself for him to\nbestow a ridiculously small dowry on Celia. However, having consented to\nthe marriage, he resolved to give a splendid _f\u00eate_, such as was now\nseldom witnessed in Rome, throwing his doors open to all the rival\nsections of society, inviting the sovereigns, and setting the palazzo\nablaze as in the grand days of old. In doing this he would necessarily\nhave to expend some of the money to which he clung, but a boastful spirit\nincited him to show the world that he at any rate had not been vanquished\nby the financial crisis, and that the Buongiovannis had nothing to hide\nand nothing to blush for. To tell the truth, some people asserted that\nthis bravado had not originated with himself, but had been instilled into\nhim without his knowledge by the quiet and innocent Celia, who wished to\nexhibit her happiness to all applauding Rome.\n\n  * The Italian succession law is similar to the French. Children\n    cannot be disinherited. All property is divided among them,\n    and thus the piling up of large hereditary fortunes is\n    prevented.--Trans.\n\n\u201cDear me!\u201d said Narcisse, whom the throng prevented from advancing. \u201cWe\nshall never get in. Why, they seem to have invited the whole city.\u201d And\nthen, as Pierre seemed surprised to see a prelate drive up in his\ncarriage, the _attach\u00e9_ added: \u201cOh! you will elbow more than one of them\nupstairs. The cardinals won\u2019t like to come on account of the presence of\nthe King and Queen, but the prelates are sure to be here. This, you know,\nis a neutral drawing-room where the black and the white worlds can\nfraternise. And then too, there are so few _f\u00eates_ that people rush on\nthem.\u201d\n\nHe went on to explain that there were two grand balls at Court every\nwinter, but that it was only under exceptional circumstances that the\n_patriziato_ gave similar _galas_. Two or three of the black _salons_\nwere opened once in a way towards the close of the Carnival, but little\ndances among intimates replaced the pompous entertainments of former\ntimes. Some princesses moreover merely had their day. And as for the few\nwhite _salons_ that existed, these likewise retained the same character\nof intimacy, more or less mixed, for no lady had yet become the\nundisputed queen of the new society.\n\n\u201cWell, here we are at last,\u201d resumed Narcisse as they eventually climbed\nthe stairs.\n\n\u201cLet us keep together,\u201d Pierre somewhat anxiously replied. \u201cMy only\nacquaintance is with the _fianc\u00e9e_, and I want you to introduce me.\u201d\n\nHowever, a considerable effort was needed even to climb the monumental\nstaircase, so great was the crush of arriving guests. Never, in the old\ndays of wax candles and oil lamps, had this staircase offered such a\nblaze of light. Electric lamps, burning in clusters in superb bronze\ncandelabra on the landings, steeped everything in a white radiance. The\ncold stucco of the walls was hidden by a series of lofty tapestries\ndepicting the story of Cupid and Psyche, marvels which had remained in\nthe family since the days of the Renascence. And a thick carpet covered\nthe worn marble steps, whilst clumps of evergreens and tall spreading\npalms decorated every corner. An affluence of new blood warmed the\nantique mansion that evening; there was a resurrection of life, so to\nsay, as the women surged up the staircase, smiling and perfumed,\nbare-shouldered, and sparkling with diamonds.\n\nAt the entrance of the first reception-room Pierre at once perceived\nPrince and Princess Buongiovanni, standing side by side and receiving\ntheir guests. The Prince, a tall, slim man with fair complexion and hair\nturning grey, had the pale northern eyes of his American mother in an\nenergetic face such as became a former captain of the popes. The\nPrincess, with small, delicate, and rounded features, looked barely\nthirty, though she had really passed her fortieth year. And still pretty,\ndisplaying a smiling serenity which nothing could disconcert, she purely\nand simply basked in self-adoration. Her gown was of pink satin, and a\nmarvellous parure of large rubies set flamelets about her dainty neck and\nin her fine, fair hair. Of her five children, her son, the eldest, was\ntravelling, and three of the girls, mere children, were still at school,\nso that only Celia was present, Celia in a modest gown of white muslin,\nfair like her mother, quite bewitching with her large innocent eyes and\nher candid lips, and retaining to the very end of her love story the\nsemblance of a closed lily of impenetrable, virginal mysteriousness. The\nSaccos had but just arrived, and Attilio, in his simple lieutenant\u2019s\nuniform, had remained near his betrothed, so na\u00efvely and openly delighted\nwith his great happiness that his handsome face, with its caressing mouth\nand brave eyes, was quite resplendent with youth and strength. Standing\nthere, near one another, in the triumph of their passion they appeared\nlike life\u2019s very joy and health, like the personification of hope in the\nmorrow\u2019s promises; and the entering guests who saw them could not refrain\nfrom smiling and feeling moved, momentarily forgetting their loquacious\nand malicious curiosity to give their hearts to those chosen ones of love\nwho looked so handsome and so enraptured.\n\nNarcisse stepped forward in order to present Pierre, but Celia\nanticipated him. Going to meet the young priest she led him to her father\nand mother, saying: \u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment, a friend of my dear\nBenedetta.\u201d Ceremonious salutations followed. Then the young girl, whose\ngraciousness greatly touched Pierre, said to him: \u201cBenedetta is coming\nwith her aunt and Dario. She must be very happy this evening! And you\nwill also see how beautiful she will be.\u201d\n\nPierre and Narcisse next began to congratulate her, but they could not\nremain there, the throng was ever jostling them; and the Prince and\nPrincess, quite lost in the crush, had barely time to answer the many\nsalutations with amiable, continuous nods. And Celia, after conducting\nthe two friends to Attilio, was obliged to return to her parents so as to\ntake her place beside them as the little queen of the _f\u00eate_.\n\nNarcisse was already slightly acquainted with Attilio, and so fresh\ncongratulations ensued. Then the two friends man\u0153uvred to find a spot\nwhere they might momentarily tarry and contemplate the spectacle which\nthis first _salon_ presented. It was a vast hall, hung with green velvet\nbroidered with golden flowers, and contained a very remarkable collection\nof weapons and armour, breast-plates, battle-axes, and swords, almost all\nof which had belonged to the Buongiovannis of the fifteenth and sixteenth\ncenturies. And amidst those stern implements of war there was a lovely\nsedan-chair of the last century, gilded and decorated with delicate\npaintings. It was in this chair that the Prince\u2019s great-grandmother, the\ncelebrated Bettina, whose beauty was historical, had usually been carried\nto mass. On the walls, moreover, there were numerous historical\npaintings: battles, peace congresses, and royal receptions in which the\nBuongiovannis had taken part, without counting the many family portraits,\ntall and proud figures of sea-captains, commanders in the field, great\ndignitaries of the Church, prelates and cardinals, amongst whom, in the\nplace of honour, appeared the family pope, the white-robed Buongiovanni\nwhose accession to the pontifical throne had enriched a long line of\ndescendants. And it was among those armours, near that coquettish sedan,\nand below those antique portraits, that the Saccos, husband and wife, had\nin their turn just halted, at a few steps from the master and mistress of\nthe house, in order to secure their share of congratulations and bows.\n\n\u201cLook over there!\u201d Narcisse whispered to Pierre, \u201cthose are the Saccos in\nfront of us, that dark little fellow and the lady in mauve silk.\u201d\n\nPierre promptly recognised the bright face and pleasant smile of Stefana,\nwhom he had already met at old Orlando\u2019s. But he was more interested in\nher husband, a dark dry man, with big eyes, sallow complexion, prominent\nchin, and vulturine nose. Like some gay Neapolitan \u201cPulcinello,\u201d he was\ndancing, shouting, and displaying such infectious good humour that it\nspread to all around him. He possessed a wonderful gift of speech, with a\nvoice that was unrivalled as an instrument of fascination and conquest;\nand on seeing how easily he ingratiated himself with the people in that\ndrawing-room, one could understand his lightning-like successes in the\npolitical world. He had manoeuvered with rare skill in the matter of his\nson\u2019s marriage, affecting such exaggerated delicacy of feeling as to set\nhimself against the lovers, and declare that he would never consent to\ntheir union, as he had no desire to be accused of stealing a dowry and a\ntitle. As a matter of fact, he had only yielded after the Buongiovannis\nhad given their consent, and even then he had desired to take the opinion\nof old Orlando, whose lofty integrity was proverbial. However, he knew\nright well that he would secure the old hero\u2019s approval in this\nparticular affair, for Orlando made no secret of his opinion that the\nBuongiovannis ought to be glad to admit his grand-nephew into their\nfamily, as that handsome young fellow, with brave and healthy heart,\nwould help to regenerate their impoverished blood. And throughout the\nwhole affair, Sacco had shrewdly availed himself of Orlando\u2019s famous\nname, for ever talking of the relationship between them, and displaying\nfilial veneration for this glorious founder of the country, as if indeed\nhe had no suspicion that the latter despised and execrated him and\nmourned his accession to power in the conviction that he would lead Italy\nto shame and ruin.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d resumed Narcisse addressing Pierre, \u201che\u2019s one of those supple,\npractical men who care nothing for a smack in the face. It seems that\nunscrupulous individuals like himself become necessary when states get\ninto trouble and have to pass through political, financial, and moral\ncrises. It is said that Sacco with his imperturbable assurance and\ningenious and resourceful mind has quite won the King\u2019s favour. Just look\nat him! Why, with that crowd of courtiers round him, one might think him\nthe master of this palace!\u201d\n\nAnd indeed the guests, after passing the Prince and Princess with a bow,\nat once congregated around Sacco, for he represented power, emoluments,\npensions, and crosses; and if folks still smiled at seeing his dark,\nturbulent, and scraggy figure amidst that framework of family portraits\nwhich proclaimed the mighty ancestry of the Buongiovannis, they none the\nless worshipped him as the personification of the new power, the\ndemocratic force which was confusedly rising even from the old Roman soil\nwhere the _patriziato_ lay in ruins.\n\n\u201cWhat a crowd!\u201d muttered Pierre. \u201cWho are all these people?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d replied Narcisse, \u201cit is a regular mixture. These people belong\nneither to the black nor the white world; they form a grey world as it\nwere. The evolution was certain; a man like Cardinal Boccanera may retain\nan uncompromising attitude, but a whole city, a nation can\u2019t. The Pope\nalone will always say no and remain immutable. But everything around him\nprogresses and undergoes transformation, so that in spite of all\nresistance, Rome will become Italian in a few years\u2019 time. Even now,\nwhenever a prince has two sons only one of them remains on the side of\nthe Vatican, the other goes over to the Quirinal. People must live, you\nsee; and the great families threatened with annihilation have not\nsufficient heroism to carry obstinacy to the point of suicide. And I have\nalready told you that we are here on neutral ground, for Prince\nBuongiovanni was one of the first to realise the necessity of\nconciliation. He feels that his fortune is perishing, he does not care to\nrisk it either in industry or in speculation, and already sees it\nportioned out among his five children, by whose descendants it will be\nyet further divided; and this is why he prudently makes advances to the\nKing without, however, breaking with the Pope. In this _salon_,\ntherefore, you see a perfect picture of the _deb\u00e2cle_, the confusion\nwhich reigns in the Prince\u2019s ideas and opinions.\u201d Narcisse paused, and\nthen began to name some of the persons who were coming in. \u201cThere\u2019s a\ngeneral,\u201d said he, \u201cwho has become very popular since his last campaign\nin Africa. There will be a great many military men here this evening, for\nall Attilio\u2019s superiors have been invited, so as to give the young man an\n_entourage_ of glory. Ah! and there\u2019s the German ambassador. I fancy that\nnearly all the Corps Diplomatique will come on account of their\nMajesties\u2019 presence. But, by way of contrast, just look at that stout\nfellow yonder. He\u2019s a very influential deputy, a _parvenu_ of the new\nmiddle class. Thirty years ago he was merely one of Prince Albertini\u2019s\nfarmers, one of those _mercanti di campagna_ who go about the environs of\nRome in stout boots and a soft felt hat. And now look at that prelate\ncoming in--\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I know him,\u201d Pierre interrupted. \u201cHe\u2019s Monsignor Fornaro.\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly, Monsignor Fornaro, a personage of some importance. You told me,\nI remember, that he is the reporter of the Congregation in that affair of\nyour book. A most delightful man! Did you see how he bowed to the\nPrincess? And what a noble and graceful bearing he has in his little\nmantle of violet silk!\u201d\n\nThen Narcisse went on enumerating the princes and princesses, the dukes\nand duchesses, the politicians and functionaries, the diplomatists and\nministers, and the officers and well-to-do middle-class people, who of\nthemselves made up a most wonderful medley of guests, to say nothing of\nthe representatives of the various foreign colonies, English people,\nAmericans, Germans, Spaniards, and Russians, in a word, all ancient\nEurope, and both Americas. And afterwards the young man reverted to the\nSaccos, to the little Signora Sacco in particular, in order to tell\nPierre of the heroic efforts which she had made to open a _salon_ for the\npurpose of assisting her husband\u2019s ambition. Gentle and modest as she\nseemed, she was also very shrewd, endowed with genuine qualities,\nPiedmontese patience and strength of resistance, orderly habits and\nthriftiness. And thus it was she who re-established the equilibrium in\nhousehold affairs which her husband by his exuberance so often disturbed.\nHe was indeed greatly indebted to her, though nobody suspected it. At the\nsame time, however, she had so far failed in her attempts to establish a\nwhite _salon_ which should take the lead in influencing opinion. Only the\npeople of her own set visited her, not a single prince ever came, and her\nMonday dances were the same as in a score of other middle-class homes,\nhaving no brilliancy and no importance. In fact, the real white _salon_,\nwhich should guide men and things and sway all Rome was still in\ndreamland.\n\n\u201cJust notice her keen smile as she examines everything here,\u201d resumed\nNarcisse. \u201cShe\u2019s teaching herself and forming plans, I\u2019m sure of it. Now\nthat she is about to be connected with a princely family she probably\nhopes to receive some of the best society.\u201d\n\nLarge as was the room, the crowd in it had by this time grown so dense\nthat the two friends were pressed back to a wall, and felt almost\nstifled. The _attach\u00e9_ therefore decided to lead the priest elsewhere,\nand as they walked along he gave him some particulars concerning the\npalace, which was one of the most sumptuous in Rome, and renowned for the\nmagnificence of its reception-rooms. Dancing took place in the picture\ngallery, a superb apartment more than sixty feet long, with eight windows\noverlooking the Corso; while the buffet was installed in the Hall of the\nAntiques, a marble hall, which among other precious things contained a\nstatue of Venus, rivalling the one at the Capitol. Then there was a suite\nof marvellous _salons_, still resplendent with ancient luxury, hung with\nthe rarest stuffs, and retaining some unique specimens of old-time\nfurniture, on which covetous antiquaries kept their eyes fixed, whilst\nwaiting and hoping for the inevitable future ruin. And one of these\napartments, the little Saloon of the Mirrors, was particularly famous. Of\ncircular shape and Louis XV style, it was surrounded by mirrors in\n_rococo_ frames, extremely rich, and most exquisitely carved.\n\n\u201cYou will see all that by and by,\u201d continued Narcisse. \u201cAt present we had\nbetter go in here if we want to breathe a little. It is here that the\narm-chairs from the adjacent gallery have been brought for the\naccommodation of the ladies who desire to sit down and be seen and\nadmired.\u201d\n\nThe apartment they entered was a spacious one, draped with the most\nsuperb Genoese velvet, that antique _jardini\u00e8re_ velvet with pale satin\nground, and flowers once of dazzling brightness, whose greens and blues\nand reds had now become exquisitely soft, with the subdued, faded tones\nof old floral love-tokens. On the pier tables and in the cabinets all\naround were some of the most precious curios in the palace, ivory\ncaskets, gilt and painted wood carvings, pieces of antique\nplate--briefly, a collection of marvels. And several ladies, fleeing the\ncrush, had already taken refuge on the numerous seats, clustering in\nlittle groups, and laughing and chatting with the few gentlemen who had\ndiscovered this retreat of grace and _galanterie_. In the bright glow of\nthe lamps nothing could be more delightful than the sight of all those\nbare, sheeny shoulders, and those supple necks, above whose napes were\ncoiled tresses of fair or raven hair. Bare arms emerged like living\nflowers of flesh from amidst the mingling lace and silk of soft-hued\nbodices. The fans played slowly, as if to heighten the fires of the\nprecious stones, and at each beat wafted around an _odore di femina_\nblended with a predominating perfume of violets.\n\n\u201cHallo!\u201d exclaimed Narcisse, \u201cthere\u2019s our good friend Monsignor Nani\nbowing to the Austrian ambassadress.\u201d\n\nAs soon as Nani perceived the young priest and his companion he came\ntowards them, and the trio then withdrew into the embrasure of a window\nin order that they might chat for a moment at their ease. The prelate was\nsmiling like one enchanted with the beauty of the _f\u00eate_, but at the same\ntime he retained all the serenity of innocence, as if he had not even\nnoticed the exhibition of bare shoulders by which he was surrounded. \u201cAh,\nmy dear son!\u201d he said to Pierre, \u201cI am very pleased to see you! Well, and\nwhat do you think of our Rome when she makes up her mind to give\n_f\u00eates_?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, it is superb, Monseigneur.\u201d\n\nThen, in an emotional manner, Nani spoke of Celia\u2019s lofty piety; and, in\norder to give the Vatican the credit of this sumptuous _gala_, affected\nto regard the Prince and Princess as staunch adherents of the Church, as\nif he were altogether unaware that the King and Queen were presently\ncoming. And afterwards he abruptly exclaimed: \u201cI have been thinking of\nyou all day, my dear son. Yes, I heard that you had gone to see his\nEminence Cardinal Sanguinetti. Well, and how did he receive you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! in a most paternal manner,\u201d Pierre replied. \u201cAt first he made me\nunderstand the embarrassment in which he was placed by his position as\nprotector of Lourdes; but just as I was going off he showed himself\ncharming, and promised me his help with a delicacy which deeply touched\nme.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid he indeed, my dear son? But it doesn\u2019t surprise me, his Eminence is\nso good-hearted!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I must add, Monseigneur, that I came back with a light and hopeful\nheart. It now seems to me as if my suit were half gained.\u201d\n\n\u201cNaturally, I understand it,\u201d replied Nani, who was still smiling with\nthat keen, intelligent smile of his, sharpened by a touch of almost\nimperceptible irony. And after a short pause he added in a very simple\nway: \u201cThe misfortune is that on the day before yesterday your book was\ncondemned by the Congregation of the Index, which was convoked by its\nSecretary expressly for that purpose. And the judgment will be laid\nbefore his Holiness, for him to sign it, on the day after to-morrow.\u201d\n\nPierre looked at the prelate in bewilderment. Had the old mansion fallen\non his head he would not have felt more overcome. What! was it all over?\nHis journey to Rome, the experiment he had come to attempt there, had\nresulted in that defeat, of which he was thus suddenly apprised amidst\nthat betrothal _f\u00eate_. And he had not even been able to defend himself,\nhe had sacrificed his time without finding any one to whom he might\nspeak, before whom he might plead his cause! Anger was rising within him,\nand he could not prevent himself from muttering bitterly: \u201cAh! how I have\nbeen duped! And that Cardinal who said to me only this morning: \u2018If God\nbe with you he will save you in spite of everything.\u2019 Yes, yes, I now\nunderstand him; he was juggling with words, he only desired a disaster in\norder that submission might lead me to Heaven! Submit, indeed, ah! I\ncannot, I cannot yet! My heart is too full of indignation and grief.\u201d\n\nNani examined and studied him with curiosity. \u201cBut my dear son,\u201d he said,\n\u201cnothing is final so long as the Holy Father has not signed the judgment.\nYou have all to-morrow and even the morning of the day after before you.\nA miracle is always possible.\u201d Then, lowering his voice and drawing\nPierre on one side whilst Narcisse in an aesthetical spirit examined the\nladies, he added: \u201cListen, I have a communication to make to you in great\nsecrecy. Come and join me in the little Saloon of the Mirrors by and by,\nduring the Cotillon. We shall be able to talk there at our ease.\u201d\n\nPierre nodded, and thereupon the prelate discreetly withdrew and\ndisappeared in the crowd. However, the young man\u2019s ears were buzzing; he\ncould no longer hope; what indeed could he accomplish in one day since he\nhad lost three months without even being able to secure an audience with\nthe Pope? And his bewilderment increased as he suddenly heard Narcisse\nspeaking to him of art. \u201cIt\u2019s astonishing how the feminine figure has\ndeteriorated in these dreadful democratic days. It\u2019s all fat and horribly\ncommon. Not one of those women yonder shows the Florentine contour, with\nsmall bosom and slender, elegant neck. Ah! that one yonder isn\u2019t so bad\nperhaps, the fair one with her hair coiled up, whom Monsignor Fornaro has\njust approached.\u201d\n\nFor a few minutes indeed Monsignor Fornaro had been fluttering from\nbeauty to beauty, with an amiable air of conquest. He looked superb that\nevening with his lofty decorative figure, blooming cheeks, and victorious\naffability. No unpleasant scandal was associated with his name; he was\nsimply regarded as a prelate of gallant ways who took pleasure in the\nsociety of ladies. And he paused and chatted, and leant over their bare\nshoulders with laughing eyes and humid lips as if experiencing a sort of\ndevout rapture. However, on perceiving Narcisse whom he occasionally met,\nhe at once came forward and the _attach\u00e9_ had to bow to him. \u201cYou have\nbeen in good health I hope, Monseigneur, since I had the honour of seeing\nyou at the embassy.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes, I am very well, very well indeed. What a delightful _f\u00eate_, is\nit not?\u201d\n\nPierre also had bowed. This was the man whose report had brought about\nthe condemnation of his book; and it was with resentment that he recalled\nhis caressing air and charming greeting, instinct with such lying\npromise. However, the prelate, who was very shrewd, must have guessed\nthat the young priest was already acquainted with the decision of the\nCongregation, and have thought it more dignified to abstain from open\nrecognition; for on his side he merely nodded and smiled at him. \u201cWhat a\nnumber of people!\u201d he went on, \u201cand how many charming persons there are!\nIt will soon be impossible for one to move in this room.\u201d\n\nAll the seats in fact were now occupied by ladies, and what with the\nstrong perfume of violets and the exhalations of warm necks and shoulders\nthe atmosphere was becoming most oppressive. The fans flapped more\nbriskly, and clear laughter rang out amidst a growing hubbub of\nconversation in which the same words constantly recurred. Some news,\ndoubtless, had just arrived, some rumour was being whispered from group\nto group, throwing them all into feverish excitement. As it happened,\nMonsignor Fornaro, who was always well informed, desired to be the\nproclaimer of this news, which nobody as yet had ventured to announce\naloud.\n\n\u201cDo you know what is exciting them all?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cIs it the Holy Father\u2019s illness?\u201d asked Pierre in his anxiety. \u201cIs he\nworse this evening?\u201d\n\nThe prelate looked at him in astonishment, and then somewhat impatiently\nreplied: \u201cOh, no, no. His Holiness is much better, thank Heaven. A person\nbelonging to the Vatican was telling me just now that he was able to get\nup this afternoon and receive his intimates as usual.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll the same, people have been alarmed,\u201d interrupted Narcisse. \u201cI must\nconfess that we did not feel easy at the embassy, for a Conclave at the\npresent time would be a great worry for France. She would exercise no\ninfluence at it. It is a great mistake on the part of our Republican\nGovernment to treat the Holy See as of no importance! However, can one\never tell whether the Pope is ill or not? I know for a certainty that he\nwas nearly carried off last winter when nobody breathed a word about any\nillness, whereas on the last occasion when the newspapers killed him and\ntalked about a dreadful attack of bronchitis, I myself saw him quite\nstrong and in the best of spirits! His reported illnesses are mere\nmatters of policy, I fancy.\u201d*\n\n  * There is much truth in this; but the reader must not imagine\n    that the Pope is never ill. At his great age, indispositions\n    are only natural.--Trans.\n\nWith a hasty gesture, however, Monsignor Fornaro brushed this importunate\nsubject aside. \u201cNo, no,\u201d said he, \u201cpeople are tranquillised and no longer\ntalk of it. What excites all those ladies is that the Congregation of the\nCouncil to-day voted the dissolution of the Prada marriage by a great\nmajority.\u201d\n\nAgain did Pierre feel moved. However, not having had time to see any\nmembers of the Boccanera family on his return from Frascati he feared\nthat the news might be false and said so. Thereupon the prelate gave his\nword of honour that things were as he stated. \u201cThe news is certain,\u201d he\ndeclared. \u201cI had it from a member of the Congregation.\u201d And then, all at\nonce, he apologised and hurried off: \u201cExcuse me but I see a lady whom I\nhad not yet caught sight of, and desire to pay my respects to her.\u201d\n\nHe at once hastened to the lady in question, and, being unable to sit\ndown, inclined his lofty figure as if to envelop her with his gallant\ncourtesy; whilst she, young, fresh, and bare-shouldered, laughed with a\npearly laugh as his cape of violet silk lightly brushed her sheeny skin.\n\n\u201cYou know that person, don\u2019t you?\u201d Narcisse inquired of Pierre. \u201cNo!\nReally? Why, that is Count Prada\u2019s _inamorata_, the charming Lisbeth\nKauffmann, by whom he has just had a son. It\u2019s her first appearance in\nsociety since that event. She\u2019s a German, you know, and lost her husband\nhere. She paints a little; in fact, rather nicely. A great deal is\nforgiven to the ladies of the foreign colony, and this one is\nparticularly popular on account of the very affable manner in which she\nreceives people at her little palazzo in the Via Principe Amedeo. As you\nmay imagine, the news of the dissolution of that marriage must amuse\nher!\u201d\n\nShe looked really exquisite, that Lisbeth, very fair, rosy, and gay, with\nsatiny skin, soft blue eyes, and lips wreathed in an amiable smile, which\nwas renowned for its grace. And that evening, in her gown of white silk\nspangled with gold, she showed herself so delighted with life, so\nsecurely happy in the thought that she was free, that she loved and was\nloved in return, that the whispered tidings, the malicious remarks\nexchanged behind the fans of those around her, seemed to turn to her\npersonal triumph. For a moment all eyes had sought her, and people talked\nof the outcome of her connection with Prada, the man whose manhood the\nChurch solemnly denied by its decision of that very day! And there came\nstifled laughter and whispered jests, whilst she, radiant in her insolent\nserenity, accepted with a rapturous air the gallantry of Monsignor\nFornaro, who congratulated her on a painting of the Virgin with the lily,\nwhich she had lately sent to a fine-art show.\n\nAh! that matrimonial nullity suit, which for a year had supplied Rome\nwith scandal, what a final hubbub it occasioned as the tidings of its\ntermination burst forth amidst that ball! The black and white worlds had\nlong chosen it as a battlefield for the exchange of incredible slander,\nendless gossip, the most nonsensical tittle-tattle. And now it was over;\nthe Vatican with imperturbable impudence had pronounced the marriage null\nand void on the ground that the husband was no man, and all Rome would\nlaugh over the affair, with that free scepticism which it displayed as\nsoon as the pecuniary affairs of the Church came into question. The\nincidents of the struggle were already common property: Prada\u2019s feelings\nrevolting to such a point that he had withdrawn from the contest, the\nBoccaneras moving heaven and earth in their feverish anxiety, the money\nwhich they had distributed among the creatures of the various cardinals\nin order to gain their influence, and the large sum which they had\nindirectly paid for the second and favourable report of Monsignor Palma.\nPeople said that, altogether, more than a hundred thousand francs had\nbeen expended, but this was not thought over-much, as a well-known French\ncountess had been obliged to disburse nearly ten times that amount to\nsecure the dissolution of her marriage. But then the Holy Father\u2019s need\nwas so great! And, moreover, nobody was angered by this venality; it\nmerely gave rise to malicious witticisms; and the fans continued waving\nin the increasing heat, and the ladies quivered with contentment as the\nwhispered pleasantries took wing and fluttered over their bare shoulders.\n\n\u201cOh! how pleased the Contessina must be!\u201d Pierre resumed. \u201cI did not\nunderstand what her little friend, Princess Celia, meant by saying when\nwe came in that she would be so happy and beautiful this evening. It is\ndoubtless on that account that she is coming here, after cloistering\nherself all the time the affair lasted, as if she were in mourning.\u201d\n\nHowever, Lisbeth\u2019s eyes had chanced to meet those of Narcisse, and as she\nsmiled at him he was, in his turn, obliged to pay his respects to her,\nfor, like everybody else of the foreign colony, he knew her through\nhaving visited her studio. He was again returning to Pierre when a fresh\noutburst of emotion stirred the diamond aigrettes and the flowers\nadorning the ladies\u2019 hair. People turned to see what was the matter, and\nagain did the hubbub increase. \u201cAh! it\u2019s Count Prada in person!\u201d murmured\nNarcisse, with an admiring glance. \u201cHe has a fine bearing, whatever folks\nmay say. Dress him up in velvet and gold, and what a splendid,\nunscrupulous, fifteenth-century adventurer he would make!\u201d\n\nPrada entered the room, looking quite gay, in fact, almost triumphant.\nAnd above his large, white shirtfront, edged by the black of his coat, he\nreally had a commanding, predacious expression, with his frank, stern\neyes, and his energetic features barred by a large black moustache. Never\nhad a more rapturous smile of sensuality revealed the wolfish teeth of\nhis voracious mouth. With rapid glances he took stock of the women, dived\ninto their very souls. Then, on seeing Lisbeth, who looked so pink, and\nfair, and girlish, his expression softened, and he frankly went up to\nher, without troubling in the slightest degree about the ardent,\ninquisitive eyes which were turned upon him. As soon as Monsignor Fornaro\nhad made room, he stooped and conversed with the young woman in a low\ntone. And she no doubt confirmed the news which was circulating, for as\nhe again drew himself erect, he laughed a somewhat forced laugh, and made\nan involuntary gesture.\n\nHowever, he then caught sight of Pierre, and joined him in the embrasure\nof the window; and when he had also shaken hands with Narcisse, he said\nto the young priest with all his wonted _bravura_: \u201cYou recollect what I\ntold you as we were coming back from Frascati? Well, it\u2019s done, it seems,\nthey\u2019ve annulled my marriage. It\u2019s such an impudent, such an imbecile\ndecision, that I still doubted it a moment ago!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! the news is certain,\u201d Pierre made bold to reply. \u201cIt has just been\nconfirmed to us by Monsignor Fornaro, who had it from a member of the\nCongregation. And it is said that the majority was very large.\u201d\n\nPrada again shook with laughter. \u201cNo, no,\u201d said he, \u201csuch a farce is\nbeyond belief! It\u2019s the finest smack given to justice and common-sense\nthat I know of. Ah! if the marriage can also be annulled by the civil\ncourts, and if my friend whom you see yonder be only willing, we shall\namuse ourselves in Rome! Yes, indeed, I\u2019d marry her at Santa Maria\nMaggiore with all possible pomp. And there\u2019s a dear little being in the\nworld who would take part in the _f\u00eate_ in his nurse\u2019s arms!\u201d\n\nHe laughed too loud as he spoke, alluded in too brutal a fashion to his\nchild, that living proof of his manhood. Was it suffering that made his\nlips curve upwards and reveal his white teeth? It could be divined that\nhe was quivering, fighting against an awakening of covert, tumultuous\npassion, which he would not acknowledge even to himself.\n\n\u201cAnd you, my dear Abb\u00e9?\u201d he hastily resumed. \u201cDo you know the other\nreport? Do you know that the Countess is coming here?\u201d It was thus, by\nforce of habit, that he designated Benedetta, forgetting that she was no\nlonger his wife.\n\n\u201cYes, I have just been told so,\u201d Pierre replied; and then he hesitated\nfor a moment before adding, with a desire to prevent any disagreeable\nsurprise: \u201cAnd we shall no doubt see Prince Dario also, for he has not\nstarted for Naples as I told you. Something prevented his departure at\nthe last moment, I believe. At least so I gathered from a servant.\u201d\n\nPrada no longer laughed. His face suddenly became grave, and he contented\nhimself with murmuring: \u201cAh! so the cousin is to be of the party. Well,\nwe shall see them, we shall see them both!\u201d\n\nThen, whilst the two friends went on chatting, he became silent, as if\nserious considerations impelled him to reflect. And suddenly making a\ngesture of apology he withdrew yet farther into the embrasure in which he\nstood, pulled a note-book out of his pocket, and tore from it a leaf on\nwhich, without modifying his handwriting otherwise than by slightly\nenlarging it, he pencilled these four lines: \u201cA legend avers that the fig\ntree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and that its fruit is deadly for him\nwho may desire to become Pope. Eat not the poisoned figs, nor give them\neither to your servants or your fowls.\u201d Then he folded the paper,\nfastened it with a postage stamp, and wrote on it the address: \u201cTo his\nmost Reverend and most Illustrious Eminence, Cardinal Boccanera.\u201d And\nwhen he had placed everything in his pocket again, he drew a long breath\nand once more called back his laugh.\n\nA kind of invincible discomfort, a far-away terror had momentarily frozen\nhim. Without being guided by any clear train of reasoning, he had felt\nthe need of protecting himself against any cowardly temptation, any\npossible abomination. He could not have told what course of ideas had\ninduced him to write those four lines without a moment\u2019s delay, on the\nvery spot where he stood, under penalty of contributing to a great\ncatastrophe. But one thought was firmly fixed in his brain, that on\nleaving the ball he would go to the Via Giulia and throw that note into\nthe letter-box at the Palazzo Boccanera. And that decided, he was once\nmore easy in mind.\n\n\u201cWhy, what is the matter with you, my dear Abb\u00e9?\u201d he inquired on again\njoining in the conversation of the two friends. \u201cYou are quite gloomy.\u201d\n And on Pierre telling him of the bad news which he had received, the\ncondemnation of his book, and the single day which remained to him for\naction if he did not wish his journey to Rome to result in defeat, he\nbegan to protest as if he himself needed agitation and diversion in order\nto continue hopeful and bear the ills of life. \u201cNever mind, never mind,\ndon\u2019t worry yourself,\u201d said he, \u201cone loses all one\u2019s strength by\nworrying. A day is a great deal, one can do ever so many things in a day.\nAn hour, a minute suffices for Destiny to intervene and turn defeat into\nvictory!\u201d He grew feverish as he spoke, and all at once added, \u201cCome,\nlet\u2019s go to the ball-room. It seems that the scene there is something\nprodigious.\u201d\n\nThen he exchanged a last loving glance with Lisbeth whilst Pierre and\nNarcisse followed him, the three of them extricating themselves from\ntheir corner with the greatest difficulty, and then wending their way\ntowards the adjoining gallery through a sea of serried skirts, a billowy\nexpanse of necks and shoulders whence ascended the passion which makes\nlife, the odour alike of love and of death.\n\nWith its eight windows overlooking the Corso, their panes uncurtained and\nthrowing a blaze of light upon the houses across the road, the picture\ngallery, sixty-five feet in length and more than thirty in breadth,\nspread out with incomparable splendour. The illumination was dazzling.\nClusters of electric lamps had changed seven pairs of huge marble\ncandelabra into gigantic _torch\u00e8res_, akin to constellations; and all\nalong the cornice up above, other lamps set in bright-hued floral glasses\nformed a marvellous garland of flaming flowers: tulips, paeonies, and\nroses. The antique red velvet worked with gold, which draped the walls,\nglowed like a furnace fire. About the doors and windows there were\nhangings of old lace broidered with flowers in coloured silk whose hues\nhad the very intensity of life. But the sight of sights beneath the\nsumptuous panelled ceiling adorned with golden roses, the unique\nspectacle of a richness not to be equalled, was the collection of\nmasterpieces such as no museum could excel. There were works of Raffaelle\nand Titian, Rembrandt and Rubens, Velasquez and Ribera, famous works\nwhich in this unexpected illumination suddenly showed forth, triumphant\nwith youth regained, as if awakened to the immortal life of genius. And,\nas their Majesties would not arrive before midnight, the ball had just\nbeen opened, and flights of soft-hued gowns were whirling in a waltz past\nall the pompous throng, the glittering jewels and decorations, the\ngold-broidered uniforms and the pearl-broidered robes, whilst silk and\nsatin and velvet spread and overflowed upon every side.\n\n\u201cIt is prodigious, really!\u201d declared Prada with his excited air; \u201clet us\ngo this way and place ourselves in a window recess again. There is no\nbetter spot for getting a good view without being too much jostled.\u201d\n\nThey lost Narcisse somehow or other, and on reaching the desired recess\nfound themselves but two, Pierre and the Count. The orchestra, installed\non a little platform at the far end of the gallery, had just finished the\nwaltz, and the dancers, with an air of giddy rapture, were slowly walking\nthrough the crowd when a fresh arrival caused every head to turn. Donna\nSerafina, arrayed in a robe of purple silk as if she had worn the colours\nof her brother the Cardinal, was making a royal entry on the arm of\nConsistorial-Advocate Morano. And never before had she laced herself so\ntightly, never had her waist looked so slim and girlish; and never had\nher stern, wrinkled face, which her white hair scarcely softened,\nexpressed such stubborn and victorious domination. A discreet murmur of\napproval ran round, a murmur of public relief as it were, for all Roman\nsociety had condemned the unworthy conduct of Morano in severing a\nconnection of thirty years to which the drawing-rooms had grown as\naccustomed as if it had been a legal marriage. The rupture had lasted for\ntwo months, to the great scandal of Rome where the cult of long and\nfaithful affections still abides. And so the reconciliation touched every\nheart and was regarded as one of the happiest consequences of the victory\nwhich the Boccaneras had that day gained in the affair of Benedetta\u2019s\nmarriage. Morano repentant and Donna Serafina reappearing on his arm,\nnothing could have been more satisfactory; love had conquered, decorum\nwas preserved and good order re-established.\n\nBut there was a deeper sensation as soon as Benedetta and Dario were seen\nto enter, side by side, behind the others. This tranquil indifference for\nthe ordinary forms of propriety, on the very day when the marriage with\nPrada had been annulled, this victory of love, confessed and celebrated\nbefore one and all, seemed so charming in its audacity, so full of the\nbravery of youth and hope, that the pair were at once forgiven amidst a\nmurmur of universal admiration. And as in the case of Celia and Attilio,\nall hearts flew to them, to their radiant beauty, to the wondrous\nhappiness that made their faces so resplendent. Dario, still pale after\nhis long convalescence, somewhat slight and delicate of build, with the\nfine clear eyes of a big child, and the dark curly beard of a young god,\nbore himself with a light pride, in which all the old princely blood of\nthe Boccaneras could be traced. And Benedetta, she so white under her\ncasque of jetty hair, she so calm and so sensible, wore her lovely smile,\nthat smile so seldom seen on her face but which was irresistibly\nfascinating, transfiguring her, imparting the charm of a flower to her\nsomewhat full mouth, and filling the infinite of her dark and fathomless\neyes with a radiance as of heaven. And in this gay return of youth and\nhappiness, an exquisite instinct had prompted her to put on a white gown,\na plain girlish gown which symbolised her maidenhood, which told that she\nhad remained through all a pure untarnished lily for the husband of her\nchoice. And nothing of her form was to be seen, not a glimpse of bosom or\nshoulder. It was as if the impenetrable, redoubtable mystery of love, the\nsovereign beauty of woman slumbered there, all powerful, but veiled with\nwhite. Again, not a jewel appeared on her fingers or in her ears. There\nwas simply a necklace falling about her _corsage_, but a necklace fit for\nroyalty, the famous pearl necklace of the Boccaneras, which she had\ninherited from her mother, and which was known to all Rome--pearls of\nfabulous size cast negligently about her neck, and sufficing, simply as\nshe was gowned, to make her queen of all.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d murmured Pierre in ecstasy, \u201chow happy and how beautiful she is!\u201d\n\nBut he at once regretted that he had expressed his thoughts aloud, for\nbeside him he heard a low plaint, an involuntary growl which reminded him\nof the Count\u2019s presence. However, Prada promptly stifled this cry of\nreturning anguish, and found strength enough to affect a brutish gaiety:\n\u201cThe devil!\u201d said he, \u201cthey have plenty of impudence. I hope we shall see\nthem married and bedded at once!\u201d Then regretting this coarse jest which\nhad been prompted by the revolt of passion, he sought to appear\nindifferent: \u201cShe looks very nice this evening,\u201d he said; \u201cshe has the\nfinest shoulders in the world, you know, and its a real success for her\nto hide them and yet appear more beautiful than ever.\u201d\n\nHe went on speaking, contriving to assume an easy tone, and giving\nvarious little particulars about the Countess as he still obstinately\ncalled the young woman. However, he had drawn rather further into the\nrecess, for fear, no doubt, that people might remark his pallor, and the\npainful twitch which contracted his mouth. He was in no state to fight,\nto show himself gay and insolent in presence of the joy which the lovers\nso openly and na\u00efvely expressed. And he was glad of the respite which the\narrival of the King and Queen at this moment offered him. \u201cAh! here are\ntheir Majesties!\u201d he exclaimed, turning towards the window. \u201cLook at the\nscramble in the street!\u201d\n\nAlthough the windows were closed, a tumult could be heard rising from the\nfootways. And Pierre on looking down saw, by the light of the electric\nlamps, a sea of human heads pour over the road and encompass the\ncarriages. He had several times already seen the King during the latter\u2019s\ndaily drives to the grounds of the Villa Borghese, whither he came like\nany private gentleman--unguarded, unescorted, with merely an aide-de-camp\naccompanying him in his victoria. At other times he drove a light phaeton\nwith only a footman in black livery to attend him. And on one occasion\nPierre had seen him with the Queen, the pair of them seated side by side\nlike worthy middle-class folks driving abroad for pleasure. And, as the\nroyal couple went by, the busy people in the streets and the promenaders\nin the public gardens contented themselves with wafting them an\naffectionate wave of the hand, the most expansive simply approaching to\nsmile at them, and no one importuning them with acclamations. Pierre, who\nharboured the traditional idea of kings closely guarded and passing\nprocessionally with all the accompaniment of military pomp, was therefore\ngreatly surprised and touched by the amiable _bonhomie_ of this royal\npair, who went wherever they listed in full security amidst the smiling\naffection of their people. Everybody, moreover, had told him of the\nKing\u2019s kindliness and simplicity, his desire for peace, and his passion\nfor sport, solitude, and the open air, which, amidst the worries of\npower, must often have made him dream of a life of freedom far from the\nimperious duties of royalty for which he seemed unfitted.* But the Queen\nwas yet more tenderly loved. So naturally and serenely virtuous that she\nalone remained ignorant of the scandals of Rome, she was also a woman of\ngreat culture and great refinement, conversant with every field of\nliterature, and very happy in being so intelligent, so superior to those\naround her--a pre-eminence which she realised and which she was fond of\nshowing, but in the most natural and most graceful of ways.\n\n  * King Humbert inherited these tastes from his father Victor\n    Emanuel, who was likewise a great sportsman and had a perfect\n    horror of court life, pageantry, and the exigencies of\n    politics.--Trans.\n\nLike Pierre, Prada had remained with his face to the window, and suddenly\npointing to the crowd he said: \u201cNow that they have seen the Queen they\nwill go to bed well pleased. And there isn\u2019t a single police agent there,\nI\u2019m sure. Ah! to be loved, to be loved!\u201d Plainly enough his distress of\nspirit was coming back, and so, turning towards the gallery again, he\ntried to play the jester. \u201cAttention, my dear Abb\u00e9, we mustn\u2019t miss their\nMajesties\u2019 entry. That will be the finest part of the _f\u00eate_!\u201d\n\nA few minutes went by, and then, in the very midst of a polka, the\norchestra suddenly ceased playing. But a moment afterwards, with all the\nblare of its brass instruments, it struck up the Royal March. The dancers\nfled in confusion, the centre of the gallery was cleared, and the King\nand Queen entered, escorted by the Prince and Princess Buongiovanni, who\nhad received them at the foot of the staircase. The King was in ordinary\nevening dress, while the Queen wore a robe of straw-coloured satin,\ncovered with superb white lace; and under the diadem of brilliants which\nencircled her beautiful fair hair, she looked still young, with a fresh\nand rounded face, whose expression was all amiability, gentleness, and\nwit. The music was still sounding with the enthusiastic violence of\nwelcome. Behind her father and mother, Celia appeared amidst the press of\npeople who were following to see the sight; and then came Attilio, the\nSaccos, and various relatives and official personages. And, pending the\ntermination of the Royal March, only salutations, glances, and smiles\nwere exchanged amidst the sonorous music and dazzling light; whilst all\nthe guests crowded around on tip-toe, with outstretched necks and\nglittering eyes--a rising tide of heads and shoulders, flashing with the\nfires of precious stones.\n\nAt last the march ended and the presentations began. Their Majesties were\nalready acquainted with Celia, and congratulated her with quite\naffectionate kindliness. However, Sacco, both as minister and father, was\nparticularly desirous of presenting his son Attilio. He bent his supple\nspine, and summoned to his lips the fine words which were appropriate, in\nsuch wise that he contrived to make the young man bow to the King in the\ncapacity of a lieutenant in his Majesty\u2019s army, whilst his homage as a\nhandsome young man, so passionately loved by his betrothed was reserved\nfor Queen Margherita. Again did their Majesties show themselves very\ngracious, even towards the Signora Sacco who, ever modest and prudent,\nhad remained in the background. And then occurred an incident that was\ndestined to give rise to endless gossip. Catching sight of Benedetta,\nwhom Count Prada had presented to her after his marriage, the Queen, who\ngreatly admired her beauty and charm of manner, addressed her a smile in\nsuch wise that the young woman was compelled to approach. A conversation\nof some minutes\u2019 duration ensued, and the Contessina was favoured with\nsome extremely amiable expressions which were perfectly audible to all\naround. Most certainly the Queen was ignorant of the event of the day,\nthe dissolution of Benedetta\u2019s marriage with Prada, and her coming union\nwith Dario so publicly announced at this _gala_, which now seemed to have\nbeen given to celebrate a double betrothal. Nevertheless that\nconversation caused a deep impression; the guests talked of nothing but\nthe compliments which Benedetta had received from the most virtuous and\nintelligent of queens, and her triumph was increased by it all, she\nbecame yet more beautiful and more victorious amidst the happiness she\nfelt at being at last able to bestow herself on the spouse of her choice,\nthat happiness which made her look so radiant.\n\nBut, on the other hand, the torture which Prada experienced now became\nintense. Whilst the sovereigns continued conversing, the Queen with the\nladies who came to pay her their respects, the King with the officers,\ndiplomatists, and other important personages who approached him, Prada\nsaw none but Benedetta--Benedetta congratulated, caressed, exalted by\naffection and glory. Dario was near her, flushing with pleasure, radiant\nlike herself. It was for them that this ball had been given, for them\nthat the lamps shone out, for them that the music played, for them that\nthe most beautiful women of Rome had bared their bosoms and adorned them\nwith precious stones. It was for them that their Majesties had entered to\nthe strains of the Royal March, for them that the _f\u00eate_ was becoming\nlike an apotheosis, for them that a fondly loved queen was smiling,\nappearing at that betrothal _gala_ like the good fairy of the nursery\ntales, whose coming betokens life-long happiness. And for Prada, this\nwondrously brilliant hour when good fortune and joyfulness attained their\napogee, was one of defeat. It was fraught with the victory of that woman\nwho had refused to be his wife in aught but name, and of that man who now\nwas about to take her from him: such a public, ostentatious, insulting\nvictory that it struck him like a buffet in the face. And not merely did\nhis pride and passion bleed for that: he felt that the triumph of the\nSaccos dealt a blow to his fortune. Was it true, then, that the rough\nconquerors of the North were bound to deteriorate in the delightful\nclimate of Rome, was that the reason why he already experienced such a\nsensation of weariness and exhaustion? That very morning at Frascati in\nconnection with that disastrous building enterprise he had realised that\nhis millions were menaced, albeit he refused to admit that things were\ngoing badly with him, as some people rumoured. And now, that evening,\namidst that _f\u00eate_ he beheld the South victorious, Sacco winning the day\nlike one who feeds at his ease on the warm prey so gluttonously pounced\nupon under the flaming sun.\n\nAnd the thought of Sacco being a minister, an intimate of the King,\nallying himself by marriage to one of the noblest families of the Roman\naristocracy, and already laying hands on the people and the national\nfunds with the prospect of some day becoming the master of Rome and\nItaly--that thought again was a blow for the vanity of this man of prey,\nfor the ever voracious appetite of this enjoyer, who felt as if he were\nbeing pushed away from table before the feast was over! All crumbled and\nescaped him, Sacco stole his millions, and Benedetta tortured his flesh,\nstirring up that awful wound of unsatisfied passion which never would be\nhealed.\n\nAgain did Pierre hear that dull plaint, that involuntary despairing\ngrowl, which had upset him once before. And he looked at the Count, and\nasked him: \u201cAre you suffering?\u201d But on seeing how livid was the face of\nPrada, who only retained his calmness by a superhuman effort, he\nregretted his indiscreet question, which, moreover, remained unanswered.\nAnd then to put the other more at ease, the young priest went on\nspeaking, venting the thoughts which the sight before him inspired: \u201cYour\nfather was right,\u201d said he, \u201cwe Frenchmen whose education is so full of\nthe Catholic spirit, even in these days of universal doubt, we never\nthink of Rome otherwise than as the old Rome of the popes. We scarcely\nknow, we can scarcely understand the great changes which, year by year,\nhave brought about the Italian Rome of the present day. Why, when I\narrived here, the King and his government and the young nation working to\nmake a great capital for itself, seemed to me of no account whatever!\nYes, I dismissed all that, thought nothing of it, in my dream of\nresuscitating a Christian and evangelical Rome, which should assure the\nhappiness of the world.\u201d\n\nHe laughed as he spoke, pitying his own artlessness, and then pointed\ntowards the gallery where Prince Buongiovanni was bowing to the King\nwhilst the Princess listened to the gallant remarks of Sacco: a scene\nfull of symbolism, the old papal aristocracy struck down, the _parvenus_\naccepted, the black and white worlds so mixed together that one and all\nwere little else than subjects, on the eve of forming but one united\nnation. That conciliation between the Quirinal and the Vatican which in\nprinciple was regarded as impossible, was it not in practice fatal, in\nface of the evolution which went on day by day? People must go on living,\nloving, and creating life throughout the ages. And the marriage of\nAttilio and Celia would be the symbol of the needful union: youth and\nlove triumphing over ancient hatred, all quarrels forgotten as a handsome\nlad goes by, wins a lovely girl, and carries her off in his arms in order\nthat the world may last.\n\n\u201cLook at them!\u201d resumed Pierre, \u201chow handsome and young and gay both the\n_fianc\u00e9s_ are, all confidence in the future. Ah! I well understand that\nyour King should have come here to please his minister and win one of the\nold Roman families over to his throne; it is good, brave, and fatherly\npolicy. But I like to think that he has also realised the touching\nsignificance of that marriage--old Rome, in the person of that candid,\nloving child giving herself to young Italy, that upright, enthusiastic\nyoung man who wears his uniform so jauntily. And may their nuptials be\ndefinitive and fruitful; from them and from all the others may there\narise the great nation which, now that I begin to know you, I trust you\nwill soon become!\u201d\n\nAmidst the tottering of his former dream of an evangelical and universal\nRome, Pierre expressed these good wishes for the Eternal City\u2019s future\nfortune with such keen and deep emotion that Prada could not help\nreplying: \u201cI thank you; that wish of yours is in the heart of every good\nItalian.\u201d\n\nBut his voice quavered, for even whilst he was looking at Celia and\nAttilio, who stood smiling and talking together, he saw Benedetta and\nDario approach them, wearing the same joyful expression of perfect\nhappiness. And when the two couples were united, so radiant and so\ntriumphant, so full of superb and happy life, he no longer had strength\nto stay there, see them, and suffer.\n\n\u201cI am frightfully thirsty,\u201d he hoarsely exclaimed. \u201cLet\u2019s go to the\nbuffet to drink something.\u201d And, thereupon, in order to avoid notice, he\nso man\u0153uvred as to glide behind the throng, skirting the windows in the\ndirection of the entrance to the Hall of the Antiques, which was beyond\nthe gallery.\n\nWhilst Pierre was following him they were parted by an eddy of the crowd,\nand the young priest found himself carried towards the two loving couples\nwho still stood chatting together. And Celia, on recognising him,\nbeckoned to him in a friendly way. With her passionate cult for beauty,\nshe was enraptured with the appearance of Benedetta, before whom she\njoined her little lily hands as before the image of the Madonna. \u201cOh!\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said she, \u201cto please me now, do tell her how beautiful\nshe is, more beautiful than anything on earth, more beautiful than even\nthe sun, and the moon and stars. If you only knew, my dear, it makes me\nquiver to see you so beautiful as that, as beautiful as happiness, as\nbeautiful as love itself!\u201d\n\nBenedetta began to laugh, while the two young men made merry. \u201cBut you\nare as beautiful as I am, darling,\u201d said the Contessina. \u201cAnd if we are\nbeautiful it is because we are happy.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, happy,\u201d Celia gently responded. \u201cDo you remember the evening\nwhen you told me that one didn\u2019t succeed in marrying the Pope and the\nKing? But Attilio and I are marrying them, and yet we are very happy.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut we don\u2019t marry them, Dario and I! On the contrary!\u201d said Benedetta\ngaily. \u201cNo matter; as you answered me that same evening, it is sufficient\nthat we should love one another, love saves the world.\u201d\n\nWhen Pierre at last succeeded in reaching the door of the Hall of the\nAntiques, where the buffet was installed, he found Prada there,\nmotionless, gazing despite himself on the galling spectacle which he\ndesired to flee. A power stronger than his will had kept him there,\nforcing him to turn round and look, and look again. And thus, with a\nbleeding heart, he still lingered and witnessed the resumption of the\ndancing, the first figure of a quadrille which the orchestra began to\nplay with a lively flourish of its brass instruments. Benedetta and\nDario, Celia and Attilio were _vis-\u00e0-vis_. And so charming and\ndelightful was the sight which the two couples presented dancing in the\nwhite blaze, all youth and joy, that the King and Queen drew near to them\nand became interested. And soon bravos of admiration rang out, while from\nevery heart spread a feeling of infinite tenderness.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m dying of thirst, let\u2019s go!\u201d repeated Prada, at last managing to\nwrench himself away from the torturing sight.\n\nHe called for some iced lemonade and drank the glassful at one draught,\ngulping it down with the greedy eagerness of a man stricken with fever,\nwho will never more be able to quench the burning fire within him.\n\nThe Hall of the Antiques was a spacious room with mosaic pavement, and\ndecorations of stucco; and a famous collection of vases, bas-reliefs, and\nstatues, was disposed along its walls. The marbles predominated, but\nthere were a few bronzes, and among them a dying gladiator of extreme\nbeauty. The marvel however was the famous statue of Venus, a companion to\nthat of the Capitol, but with a more elegant and supple figure and with\nthe left arm falling loosely in a gesture of voluptuous surrender. That\nevening a powerful electric reflector threw a dazzling light upon the\nstatue, which, in its divine and pure nudity, seemed to be endowed with\nsuperhuman, immortal life. Against the end-wall was the buffet, a long\ntable covered with an embroidered cloth and laden with fruit, pastry, and\ncold meats. Sheaves of flowers rose up amidst bottles of champagne, hot\npunch, and iced _sorbetto_, and here and there were marshalled armies of\nglasses, tea-cups, and broth-bowls, a perfect wealth of sparkling\ncrystal, porcelain, and silver. And a happy innovation had been to fill\nhalf of the hall with rows of little tables, at which the guests, in lieu\nof being obliged to refresh themselves standing, were able to sit down\nand order what they desired as in a caf\u00e9.\n\nAt one of these little tables, Pierre perceived Narcisse seated near a\nyoung woman, whom Prada, on approaching, recognised to be Lisbeth. \u201cYou\nfind me, you see, in delightful company,\u201d gallantly exclaimed the\n_attach\u00e9_. \u201cAs we lost one another, I could think of nothing better than\nof offering madame my arm to bring her here.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was, in fact, a good idea,\u201d said Lisbeth with her pretty laugh, \u201cfor\nI was feeling very thirsty.\u201d\n\nThey had ordered some iced coffee, which they were slowly sipping out of\nlittle silver-gilt spoons.\n\n\u201cI have a terrible thirst, too,\u201d declared the Count, \u201cand I can\u2019t quench\nit. You will allow us to join you, will you not, my dear sir? Some of\nthat coffee will perhaps calm me.\u201d And then to Lisbeth he added, \u201cAh! my\ndear, allow me to introduce to you Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment, a young\nFrench priest of great distinction.\u201d\n\nThen for a long time they all four remained seated at that table,\nchatting and making merry over certain of the guests who went by. Prada,\nhowever, in spite of his usual gallantry towards Lisbeth, frequently\nbecame absent-minded; at times he quite forgot her, being again mastered\nby his anguish, and, in spite of all his efforts, his eyes ever turned\ntowards the neighbouring gallery whence the sound of music and dancing\nreached him.\n\n\u201cWhy, what are you thinking of, _caro mio_?\u201d Lisbeth asked in her pretty\nway, on seeing him at one moment so pale and lost. \u201cAre you indisposed?\u201d\n\nHe did not reply, however, but suddenly exclaimed, \u201cAh! look there,\nthat\u2019s the real pair, there\u2019s real love and happiness for you!\u201d\n\nWith a jerk of the hand he designated Dario\u2019s mother, the Marchioness\nMontefiori and her second husband, Jules Laporte--that ex-sergeant of the\npapal Swiss Guard, her junior by fifteen years, whom she had one day\nhooked at the Corso with her eyes of fire, which yet had remained superb,\nand whom she had afterwards triumphantly transformed into a Marquis\nMontefiori in order to have him entirely to herself. Such was her passion\nthat she never relaxed her hold on him whether at ball or reception, but,\ndespite all usages, kept him beside her, and even made him escort her to\nthe buffet, so much did she delight in being able to exhibit him and say\nthat this handsome man was her own exclusive property. And standing there\nside by side, the pair of them began to drink champagne and eat\nsandwiches, she yet a marvel of massive beauty although she was over\nfifty, and he with long wavy moustaches, and proud bearing, like a\nfortunate adventurer whose jovial impudence pleased the ladies.\n\n\u201cYou know that she had to extricate him from a nasty affair,\u201d resumed the\nCount in a lower tone. \u201cYes, he travelled in relics; he picked up a\nliving by supplying relics on commission to convents in France and\nSwitzerland; and he had launched quite a business in false relics with\nthe help of some Jews here who concocted little ancient reliquaries out\nof mutton bones, with everything sealed and signed by the most genuine\nauthorities. The affair was hushed up, as three prelates were also\ncompromised in it! Ah! the happy man! Do you see how she devours him with\nher eyes? And he, doesn\u2019t he look quite a _grand seigneur_ by the mere\nway in which he holds that plate for her whilst she eats the breast of a\nfowl out of it!\u201d\n\nThen, in a rough way and with biting irony, he went on to speak of the\n_amours_ of Rome. The Roman women, said he, were ignorant, obstinate, and\njealous. When a woman had managed to win a man, she kept him for ever, he\nbecame her property, and she disposed of him as she pleased. By way of\nproof, he cited many interminable _liaisons_, such as that of Donna\nSerafina and Morano which, in time became virtual marriages; and he\nsneered at such a lack of fancy, such an excess of fidelity whose only\nending, when it did end, was some very disagreeable unpleasantness.\n\nAt this, Lisbeth interrupted him. \u201cBut what is the matter with you this\nevening, my dear?\u201d she asked with a laugh. \u201cWhat you speak of is on the\ncontrary very nice and pretty! When a man and a woman love one another\nthey ought to do so for ever!\u201d\n\nShe looked delightful as she spoke, with her fine wavy blonde hair and\ndelicate fair complexion; and Narcisse with a languorous expression in\nhis half-closed eyes compared her to a Botticelli which he had seen at\nFlorence. However, the night was now far advanced, and Pierre had once\nmore sunk into gloomy thoughtfulness when he heard a passing lady remark\nthat they had already begun to dance the Cotillon in the gallery; and\nthereupon he suddenly remembered that Monsignor Nani had given him an\nappointment in the little Saloon of the Mirrors.\n\n\u201cAre you leaving?\u201d hastily inquired Prada on seeing him rise and bow to\nLisbeth.\n\n\u201cNo, no, not yet,\u201d Pierre answered.\n\n\u201cOh! all right. Don\u2019t go away without me. I want to walk a little, and\nI\u2019ll see you home. It\u2019s agreed, eh? You will find me here.\u201d\n\nThe young priest had to cross two rooms, one hung with yellow and the\nother with blue, before he at last reached the mirrored _salon_. This was\nreally an exquisite example of the _rococo_ style, a rotunda as it were\nof pale mirrors framed with superb gilded carvings. Even the ceiling was\ncovered with mirrors disposed slantwise so that on every side things\nmultiplied, mingled, and appeared under all possible aspects. Discreetly\nenough no electric lights had been placed in the room, the only\nillumination being that of some pink tapers burning in a pair of\ncandelabra. The hangings and upholstery were of soft blue silk, and the\nimpression on entering was very sweet and charming, as if one had found\noneself in the abode of some fairy queen of the rills, a palace of limpid\nwater, illumined to its farthest depths by clusters of stars.\n\nPierre at once perceived Monsignor Nani, who was sitting on a low couch,\nand, as the prelate had hoped, he was quite alone, for the Cotillon had\nattracted almost everybody to the picture gallery. And the silence in the\nlittle _salon_ was nearly perfect, for at that distance the blare of the\norchestra subsided into a faint, flute-like murmur. The young priest at\nonce apologised to the prelate for having kept him waiting.\n\n\u201cNo, no, my dear son,\u201d said Nani, with his inexhaustible amiability. \u201cI\nwas very comfortable in this retreat--when the press of the crowd became\nover-threatening I took refuge here.\u201d He did not speak of the King and\nQueen, but he allowed it to be understood that he had politely avoided\ntheir company. If he had come to the _f\u00eate_ it was on account of his\nsincere affection for Celia and also with a very delicate diplomatic\nobject, for the Church wished to avoid any appearance of having entirely\nbroken with the Buongiovanni family, that ancient house which was so\nfamous in the annals of the papacy. Doubtless the Vatican was unable to\nsubscribe to this marriage which seemed to unite old Rome with the young\nKingdom of Italy, but on the other hand it did not desire people to think\nthat it abandoned old and faithful supporters and took no interest in\nwhat befell them.\n\n\u201cBut come, my dear son,\u201d the prelate resumed, \u201cit is you who are now in\nquestion. I told you that although the Congregation of the Index had\npronounced itself for the condemnation of your book, the sentence would\nonly be submitted to the Holy Father and signed by him on the day after\nto-morrow. So you still have a whole day before you.\u201d\n\nAt this Pierre could not refrain from a dolorous and vivacious\ninterruption.\n\n\u201cAlas! Monseigneur, what can I do?\u201d said he; \u201cI have thought it all over,\nand I see no means, no opportunity of defending myself. How could I even\nsee his Holiness now that he is so ill?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! ill, ill!\u201d muttered Nani with his shrewd expression. \u201cHis Holiness\nis ever so much better, for this very day, like every other Wednesday, I\nhad the honour to be received by him. When his Holiness is a little tired\nand people say that he is very ill, he often lets them do so, for it\ngives him a rest and enables him to judge certain ambitions and\nmanifestations of impatience around him.\u201d\n\nPierre, however, was too upset to listen attentively. \u201cNo, it\u2019s all\nover,\u201d he continued, \u201cI\u2019m in despair. You spoke to me of the possibility\nof a miracle, but I am no great believer in miracles. Since I am defeated\nhere at Rome, I shall go away, I shall return to Paris, and continue the\nstruggle there. Oh! I cannot resign myself, my hope in salvation by the\npractice of love cannot die, and I shall answer my denouncers in a new\nbook, in which I shall tell in what new soil the new religion will grow\nup!\u201d\n\nSilence fell. Nani looked at him with his clear eyes in which\nintelligence shone distinct and sharp like steel. And amidst the deep\ncalm, the warm heavy atmosphere of the little _salon_, whose mirrors were\nstarred with countless reflections of candles, a more sonorous burst of\nmusic was suddenly wafted from the gallery, a rhythmical waltz melody,\nwhich slowly expanded, then died away.\n\n\u201cMy dear son,\u201d said Nani, \u201canger is always harmful. You remember that on\nyour arrival here I promised that if your own efforts to obtain an\ninterview with the Holy Father should prove unavailing, I would myself\nendeavour to secure an audience for you.\u201d Then, seeing how agitated the\nyoung priest was getting, he went on: \u201cListen to me and don\u2019t excite\nyourself. His Holiness, unfortunately, is not always prudently advised.\nAround him are persons whose devotion, however great, is at times\ndeficient in intelligence. I told you that, and warned you against\ninconsiderate applications. And this is why, already three weeks ago, I\nmyself handed your book to his Holiness in the hope that he would deign\nto glance at it. I rightly suspected that it had not been allowed to\nreach him. And this is what I am instructed to tell you: his Holiness,\nwho has had the great kindness to read your book, expressly desires to\nsee you.\u201d\n\nA cry of joy and gratitude died away in Pierre\u2019s throat: \u201cAh!\nMonseigneur. Ah! Monseigneur!\u201d\n\nBut Nani quickly silenced him and glanced around with an expression of\nkeen anxiety as if he feared that some one might hear them. \u201cHush! Hush!\u201d\n said he, \u201cit is a secret. His Holiness wishes to see you privately,\nwithout taking anybody else into his confidence. Listen attentively. It\nis now two o\u2019clock in the morning. Well, this very day, at nine in the\nevening precisely, you must present yourself at the Vatican and at every\ndoor ask for Signor Squadra. You will invariably be allowed to pass.\nSignor Squadra will be waiting for you upstairs, and will introduce you.\nAnd not a word, mind; not a soul must have the faintest suspicion of\nthese things.\u201d\n\nPierre\u2019s happiness and gratitude at last flowed forth. He had caught hold\nof the prelate\u2019s soft, plump hands, and stammered, \u201cAh! Monseigneur, how\ncan I express my gratitude to you? If you only knew how full my soul was\nof night and rebellion since I realised that I had been a mere plaything\nin the hands of those powerful cardinals. But you have saved me, and\nagain I feel sure that I shall win the victory, for I shall at last be\nable to fling myself at the feet of his Holiness the father of all truth\nand all justice. He can but absolve me, I who love him, I who admire him,\nI who have never battled for aught but his own policy and most cherished\nideas. No, no, it is impossible; he will not sign that judgment; he will\nnot condemn my book!\u201d\n\nReleasing his hands, Nani sought to calm him with a fatherly gesture,\nwhilst retaining a faint smile of contempt for such a useless expenditure\nof enthusiasm. At last he succeeded, and begged him to retire. The\norchestra was again playing more loudly in the distance. And when the\nyoung priest at last withdrew, thanking him once more, he said very\nsimply, \u201cRemember, my dear son, that only obedience is great.\u201d\n\nPierre, whose one desire now was to take himself off, found Prada almost\nimmediately afterwards in the first reception-room. Their Majesties had\njust left the ball in grand ceremony, escorted to the threshold by the\nBuongiovannis and the Saccos. And before departing the Queen had\nmaternally kissed Celia, whilst the King shook hands with\nAttilio--honours instinct with a charming good nature which made the\nmembers of both families quite radiant. However, a good many of the\nguests were following the example of the sovereigns and disappearing in\nsmall batches. And the Count, who seemed strangely nervous, and showed\nmore sternness and bitterness than ever, was, on his side, also eager to\nbe gone. \u201cAh! it\u2019s you at last. I was waiting for you,\u201d he said to\nPierre. \u201cWell, let\u2019s get off at once, eh? Your compatriot Monsieur\nNarcisse Habert asked me to tell you not to look for him. The fact is, he\nhas gone to see my friend Lisbeth to her carriage. I myself want a breath\nof fresh air, a stroll, and so I\u2019ll go with you as far as the Via\nGiulia.\u201d\n\nThen, as they took their things from the cloak-room, he could not help\nsneering and saying in his brutal way: \u201cI saw your good friends go off,\nall four together. It\u2019s lucky that you prefer to go home on foot, for\nthere was no room for you in the carriage. What superb impudence it was\non the part of that Donna Serafina to drag herself here, at her age, with\nthat Morano of hers, so as to triumph over the return of the fickle one!\nAnd the two others, the two young ones--ah! I confess that I can hardly\nspeak calmly of _them_, for in parading here together as they did this\nevening, they have shown an impudence and a cruelty such as is rarely\nseen!\u201d Prada\u2019s hands trembled, and he murmured: \u201cA good journey, a good\njourney to the young man, since he is going to Naples. Yes, I heard Celia\nsay that he was starting for Naples this evening at six o\u2019clock. Well, my\nwishes go with him; a good journey!\u201d\n\nThe two men found the change delightful when they at last emerged from\nthe stifling heat of the reception-rooms into the lovely, cool, and\nlimpid night. It was a night illumined by a superb full moon, one of\nthose matchless Roman nights when the city slumbers in Elysian radiance,\nsteeped in a dream of the Infinite, under the vast vault of heaven. And\nthey took the most agreeable route, going down the Corso proper and then\nturning into the Corso Vittorio Emanuele.\n\nPrada had grown somewhat calmer, but remained full of irony. To divert\nhis mind, no doubt, he talked on in the most voluble manner, reverting to\nthe women of Rome and to that _f\u00eate_ which he had at first found\nsplendid, but at which he now began to rail.\n\n\u201cOh! of course they have very fine gowns,\u201d said he, speaking of the\nwomen; \u201cbut gowns which don\u2019t fit them, gowns which are sent them from\nParis, and which, of course, they can\u2019t try on. It\u2019s just the same with\ntheir jewels; they still have diamonds and pearls, in particular, which\nare very fine, but they are so wretchedly, so heavily mounted that they\nlook frightful. And if you only knew how ignorant and frivolous these\nwomen are, despite all their conceit! Everything is on the surface with\nthem, even religion: there\u2019s nothing beneath. I looked at them eating at\nthe buffet. Oh! they at least have fine appetites. This evening some\ndecorum was observed, there wasn\u2019t too much gorging. But at one of the\nCourt balls you would see a general pillage, the buffets besieged, and\neverything swallowed up amidst a scramble of amazing voracity!\u201d\n\nTo all this talk Pierre only returned monosyllabic responses. He was\nwrapped in overflowing delight at the thought of that audience with the\nPope, which, unable as he was to confide in any one, he strove to arrange\nand picture in his own mind, even in its pettiest details. And meantime\nthe footsteps of the two men rang out on the dry pavement of the clear,\nbroad, deserted thoroughfare, whose black shadows were sharply outlined\nby the moonlight.\n\nAll at once Prada himself became silent. His loquacious _bravura_ was\nexhausted, the frightful struggle going on in his mind wholly possessed\nand paralysed him. Twice already he had dipped his hand into his coat\npocket and felt the pencilled note whose four lines he mentally repeated:\n\u201cA legend avers that the fig-tree of Judas now grows at Frascati, and\nthat its fruit is deadly for him who may desire to become pope. Eat not\nthe poisoned figs, nor give them either to your servants or your fowls.\u201d\n The note was there; he could feel it; and if he had desired to accompany\nPierre, it was in order that he might drop it into the letter-box at the\nPalazzo Boccanera. And he continued to step out briskly, so that within\nanother ten minutes that note would surely be in the box, for no power in\nthe world could prevent it, since such was his express determination.\nNever would he commit such a crime as to allow people to be poisoned.\n\nBut he was suffering such abominable torture. That Benedetta and that\nDario had raised such a tempest of jealous hatred within him! For them he\nforgot Lisbeth whom he loved, and even that flesh of his flesh, the child\nof whom he was so proud. All sex as he was, eager to conquer and subdue,\nhe had never cared for facile loves. His passion was to overcome. And now\nthere was a woman in the world who defied him, a woman forsooth whom he\nhad bought, whom he had married, who had been handed over to him, but who\nwould never, never be his. Ah! in the old days, to subdue her, he would\nif needful have fired Rome like a Nero; but now he asked himself what he\ncould possibly do to prevent her from belonging to another. That galling\nthought made the blood gush from his gaping wound. How that woman and her\nlover must deride him! And to think that they had sought to turn him to\nridicule by a baseless charge, an arrant lie which still and ever made\nhim smart, all proof of its falsity to the contrary. He, on his side, had\naccused them in the past without much belief in what he said, but now the\ncharges he had imputed to them must come true, for they were free, freed\nat all events of the religious bond, and that no doubt was their only\ncare. And then visions of their happiness passed before his eyes,\ninfuriating him. Ah! no, ah! no, it was impossible, he would rather\ndestroy the world!\n\nThen, as he and Pierre turned out of the Corso Vittorio Emanuele to\nthread the old narrow tortuous streets leading to the Via Giulia, he\npictured himself dropping the note into the letter-box at the palazzo.\nAnd next he conjured up what would follow. The note would lie in the\nletter-box till morning. At an early hour Don Vigilio, the secretary, who\nby the Cardinal\u2019s express orders kept the key of the box, would come\ndown, find the note, and hand it to his Eminence, who never allowed\nanother to open any communication addressed to him. And then the figs\nwould be thrown away, there would be no further possibility of crime, the\nblack world would in all prudence keep silent. But if the note should not\nbe in the letter-box, what would happen then? And admitting that\nsupposition he pictured the figs placed on the table at the one o\u2019clock\nmeal, in their pretty little leaf-covered basket. Dario would be there as\nusual, alone with his uncle, since he was not to leave for Naples till\nthe evening. And would both the uncle and the nephew eat the figs, or\nwould only one of them partake of the fruit, and which of them would that\nbe? At this point Prada\u2019s clearness of vision failed him; again he\nconjured up Destiny on the march, that Destiny which he had met on the\nroad from Frascati, going on towards its unknown goal, athwart all\nobstacles without possibility of stoppage. Aye, the little basket of figs\nwent ever on and on to accomplish its fateful purpose, which no hand in\nthe world had power enough to prevent.\n\nAnd at last, on either hand of Pierre and Prada, the Via Giulia stretched\naway in a long line white with moonlight, and the priest emerged as if\nfrom a dream at sight of the Palazzo Boccanera rising blackly under the\nsilver sky. Three o\u2019clock struck at a neighbouring church. And he felt\nhimself quivering slightly as once again he heard near him the dolorous\nmoan of a lion wounded unto death, that low involuntary growl which the\nCount, amidst the frightful struggle of his feelings, had for the third\ntime allowed to escape him. But immediately afterwards he burst into a\nsneering laugh, and pressing the priest\u2019s hands, exclaimed: \u201cNo, no, I am\nnot going farther. If I were seen here at this hour, people would think\nthat I had fallen in love with my wife again.\u201d\n\nAnd thereupon he lighted a cigar, and retraced his steps in the clear\nnight, without once looking round.\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\nWHEN Pierre awoke he was much surprised to hear eleven o\u2019clock striking.\nFatigued as he was by that ball where he had lingered so long, he had\nslept like a child in delightful peacefulness, and as soon as he opened\nhis eyes the radiant sunshine filled him with hope. His first thought was\nthat he would see the Pope that evening at nine o\u2019clock. Ten more hours\nto wait! What would he be able to do with himself during that lovely day,\nwhose radiant sky seemed to him of such happy augury? He rose and opened\nthe windows to admit the warm air which, as he had noticed on the day of\nhis arrival, had a savour of fruit and flowers, a blending, as it were,\nof the perfume of rose and orange. Could this possibly be December? What\na delightful land, that the spring should seem to flower on the very\nthreshold of winter! Then, having dressed, he was leaning out of the\nwindow to glance across the golden Tiber at the evergreen slopes of the\nJaniculum, when he espied Benedetta seated in the abandoned garden of the\nmansion. And thereupon, unable to keep still, full of a desire for life,\ngaiety, and beauty, he went down to join her.\n\nWith radiant visage and outstretched hands, she at once vented the cry he\nhad expected: \u201cAh! my dear Abb\u00e9, how happy I am!\u201d\n\nThey had often spent their mornings in that quiet, forsaken nook; but\nwhat sad mornings those had been, hopeless as they both were! To-day,\nhowever, the weed-grown paths, the box-plants growing in the old basin,\nthe orange-trees which alone marked the outline of the beds--all seemed\nfull of charm, instinct with a sweet and dreamy cosiness in which it was\nvery pleasant to lull one\u2019s joy. And it was so warm, too, beside the big\nlaurel-bush, in the corner where the streamlet of water ever fell with\nflute-like music from the gaping, tragic mask.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d repeated Benedetta, \u201chow happy I am! I was stifling upstairs, and\nmy heart felt such a need of space, and air, and sunlight, that I came\ndown here!\u201d\n\nShe was seated on the fallen column beside the old marble sarcophagus,\nand desired the priest to place himself beside her. Never had he seen her\nlooking so beautiful, with her black hair encompassing her pure face,\nwhich in the sunshine appeared pinky and delicate as a flower. Her large,\nfathomless eyes showed in the light like braziers rolling gold, and her\nchildish mouth, all candour and good sense, laughed the laugh of one who\nwas at last free to love as her heart listed, without offending either\nGod or man. And, dreaming aloud, she built up plans for the future. \u201cIt\u2019s\nall simple enough,\u201d said she; \u201cI have already obtained a separation, and\nshall easily get that changed into civil divorce now that the Church has\nannulled my marriage. And I shall marry Dario next spring, perhaps\nsooner, if the formalities can be hastened. He is going to Naples this\nevening about the sale of some property which we still possess there, but\nwhich must now be sold, for all this business has cost us a lot of money.\nStill, that doesn\u2019t matter since we now belong to one another. And when\nhe comes back in a few days, what a happy time we shall have! I could not\nsleep when I got back from that splendid ball last night, for my head was\nso full of plans--oh! splendid plans, as you shall see, for I mean to\nkeep you in Rome until our marriage.\u201d\n\nLike herself, Pierre began to laugh, so gained upon by this explosion of\nyouth and happiness that he had to make a great effort to refrain from\nspeaking of his own delight, his hopefulness at the thought of his coming\ninterview with the Pope. Of that, however, he had sworn to speak to\nnobody.\n\nEvery now and again, amidst the quivering silence of the sunlit garden,\nthe cry of a bird persistently rang out; and Benedetta, raising her head\nand looking at a cage hanging beside one of the first-floor windows,\njestingly exclaimed: \u201cYes, yes, Tata, make a good noise, show that you\nare pleased, my dear. Everybody in the house must be pleased now.\u201d Then,\nturning towards Pierre, she added gaily: \u201cYou know Tata, don\u2019t you? What!\nNo? Why, Tata is my uncle\u2019s parrot. I gave her to him last spring; he\u2019s\nvery fond of her, and lets her help herself out of his plate. And he\nhimself attends to her, puts her out and takes her in, and keeps her in\nhis dining-room, for fear lest she should take cold, as that is the only\nroom of his which is at all warm.\u201d\n\nPierre in his turn looked up and saw the bird, one of those pretty little\nparrots with soft, silky, dull-green plumage. It was hanging by the beak\nfrom a bar of its cage, swinging itself and flapping its wings, all mirth\nin the bright sunshine.\n\n\u201cDoes the bird talk?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cNo, she only screams,\u201d replied Benedetta, laughing. \u201cStill my uncle\npretends that he understands her.\u201d And then the young woman abruptly\ndarted to another subject, as if this mention of her uncle the Cardinal\nhad made her think of the uncle by marriage whom she had in Paris. \u201cI\nsuppose you have heard from Viscount de la Choue,\u201d said she. \u201cI had a\nletter from him yesterday, in which he said how grieved he was that you\nwere unable to see the Holy Father, as he had counted on you for the\ntriumph of his ideas.\u201d\n\nPierre indeed frequently heard from the Viscount, who was greatly\ndistressed by the importance which his adversary, Baron de Fouras, had\nacquired since his success with the International Pilgrimage of the\nPeter\u2019s Pence. The old, uncompromising Catholic party would awaken, said\nthe Viscount, and all the conquests of Neo-Catholicism would be\nthreatened, if one could not obtain the Holy Father\u2019s formal adhesion to\nthe proposed system of free guilds, in order to overcome the demand for\nclosed guilds which was brought forward by the Conservatives. And the\nViscount overwhelmed Pierre with injunctions, and sent him all sorts of\ncomplicated plans in his eagerness to see him received at the Vatican.\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d muttered the young priest in reply to Benedetta. \u201cI had a\nletter on Sunday, and found another waiting for me on my return from\nFrascati yesterday. Ah! it would make me very happy to be able to send\nthe Viscount some good news.\u201d Then again Pierre\u2019s joy overflowed at the\nthought that he would that evening see the Pope, and, on opening his\nloving heart to the Pontiff, receive the supreme encouragement which\nwould strengthen him in his mission to work social salvation in the name\nof the lowly and the poor. And he could not restrain himself any longer,\nbut let his secret escape him: \u201cIt\u2019s settled, you know,\u201d said he. \u201cMy\naudience is for this evening.\u201d\n\nBenedetta did not understand at first. \u201cWhat audience?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cOh! Monsignor Nani was good enough to tell me at the ball this morning,\nthat the Holy Father has read my book and desires to see me. I shall be\nreceived this evening at nine o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\nAt this the Contessina flushed with pleasure, participating in the\ndelight of the young priest to whom she had grown much attached. And this\nsuccess of his, coming in the midst of her own felicity, acquired\nextraordinary importance in her eyes as if it were an augury of complete\nsuccess for one and all. Superstitious as she was, she raised a cry of\nrapture and excitement: \u201cAh! _Dio_, that will bring us good luck. How\nhappy I am, my friend, to see happiness coming to you at the same time as\nto me! You cannot think how pleased I am! And all will go well now, it\u2019s\ncertain, for a house where there is any one whom the Pope welcomes is\nblessed, the thunder of Heaven falls on it no more!\u201d\n\nShe laughed yet more loudly as she spoke, and clapped her hands with such\nexuberant gaiety that Pierre became anxious. \u201cHush! hush!\u201d said he, \u201cit\u2019s\na secret. Pray don\u2019t mention it to any one, either your aunt or even his\nEminence. Monsignor Nani would be much annoyed.\u201d\n\nShe thereupon promised to say nothing, and in a kindly voice spoke of\nNani as a benefactor, for was she not indebted to him for the dissolution\nof her marriage? Then, with a fresh explosion of gaiety, she went on:\n\u201cBut come, my friend, is not happiness the only good thing? You don\u2019t ask\nme to weep over the suffering poor to-day! Ah! the happiness of life,\nthat\u2019s everything. People don\u2019t suffer or feel cold or hungry when they\nare happy.\u201d\n\nHe looked at her in stupefaction at the idea of that strange solution of\nthe terrible question of human misery. And suddenly he realised that,\nwith that daughter of the sun who had inherited so many centuries of\nsovereign aristocracy, all his endeavours at conversion were vain. He had\nwished to bring her to a Christian love for the lowly and the wretched,\nwin her over to the new, enlightened, and compassionate Italy that he had\ndreamt of; but if she had been moved by the sufferings of the multitude\nat the time when she herself had suffered, when grievous wounds had made\nher own heart bleed, she was no sooner healed than she proclaimed the\ndoctrine of universal felicity like a true daughter of a clime of burning\nsummers, and winters as mild as spring. \u201cBut everybody is not happy!\u201d\n said he.\n\n\u201cYes, yes, they are!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cYou don\u2019t know the poor! Give a\ngirl of the Trastevere the lad she loves, and she becomes as radiant as a\nqueen, and finds her dry bread quite sweet. The mothers who save a child\nfrom sickness, the men who conquer in a battle, or who win at the\nlottery, one and all in fact are like that, people only ask for good\nfortune and pleasure. And despite all your striving to be just and to\narrive at a more even distribution of fortune, the only satisfied ones\nwill be those whose hearts sing--often without their knowing the\ncause--on a fine sunny day like this.\u201d\n\nPierre made a gesture of surrender, not wishing to sadden her by again\npleading the cause of all the poor ones who at that very moment were\nsomewhere agonising with physical or mental pain. But, all at once,\nthrough the luminous mild atmosphere a shadow seemed to fall, tingeing\njoy with sadness, the sunshine with despair. And the sight of the old\nsarcophagus, with its bacchanal of satyrs and nymphs, brought back the\nmemory that death lurks even amidst the bliss of passion, the unsatiated\nkisses of love. For a moment the clear song of the water sounded in\nPierre\u2019s ears like a long-drawn sob, and all seemed to crumble in the\nterrible shadow which had fallen from the invisible.\n\nBenedetta, however, caught hold of his hands and roused him once more to\nthe delight of being there beside her. \u201cYour pupil is rebellious, is she\nnot, my friend?\u201d said she. \u201cBut what would you have? There are ideas\nwhich can\u2019t enter into our heads. No, you will never get those things\ninto the head of a Roman girl. So be content with loving us as we are,\nbeautiful with all our strength, as beautiful as we can be.\u201d\n\nShe herself, in her resplendent happiness, looked at that moment so\nbeautiful that he trembled as in presence of a divinity whose\nall-powerfulness swayed the world. \u201cYes, yes,\u201d he stammered, \u201cbeauty,\nbeauty, still and ever sovereign. Ah! why can it not suffice to satisfy\nthe eternal longings of poor suffering men?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind!\u201d she gaily responded. \u201cDo not distress yourself; it is\npleasant to live. And now let us go upstairs, my aunt must be waiting.\u201d\n\nThe midday meal was served at one o\u2019clock, and on the few occasions when\nPierre did not eat at one or another restaurant a cover was laid for him\nat the ladies\u2019 table in the little dining-room of the second floor,\noverlooking the courtyard. At the same hour, in the sunlit dining-room of\nthe first floor, whose windows faced the Tiber, the Cardinal likewise sat\ndown to table, happy in the society of his nephew Dario, for his\nsecretary, Don Vigilio, who also was usually present, never opened his\nmouth unless to reply to some question. And the two services were quite\ndistinct, each having its own kitchen and servants, the only thing at all\ncommon to them both being a large room downstairs which served as a\npantry and store-place.\n\nAlthough the second-floor dining-room was so gloomy, saddened by the\ngreeny half-light of the courtyard, the meal shared that day by the two\nladies and the young priest proved a very gay one. Even Donna Serafina,\nusually so rigid, seemed to relax under the influence of great internal\nfelicity. She was no doubt still enjoying her triumph of the previous\nevening, and it was she who first spoke of the ball and sung its praises,\nthough the presence of the King and Queen had much embarrassed her, said\nshe. According to her account, she had only avoided presentation by\nskilful strategy; however she hoped that her well-known affection for\nCelia, whose god-mother she was, would explain her presence in that\nneutral mansion where Vatican and Quirinal had met. At the same time she\nmust have retained certain scruples, for she declared that directly after\ndinner she was going to the Vatican to see the Cardinal Secretary, to\nwhom she desired to speak about an enterprise of which she was\nlady-patroness. This visit would compensate for her attendance at the\nBuongiovanni entertainment. And on the other hand never had Donna\nSerafina seemed so zealous and hopeful of her brother\u2019s speedy accession\nto the throne of St. Peter: therein lay a supreme triumph, an elevation\nof her race, which her pride deemed both needful and inevitable; and\nindeed during Leo XIII\u2019s last indisposition she had actually concerned\nherself about the trousseau which would be needed and which would require\nto be marked with the new Pontiff\u2019s arms.\n\nOn her side, Benedetta was all gaiety during the repast, laughing at\neverything, and speaking of Celia and Attilio with the passionate\naffection of a woman whose own happiness delights in that of her friends.\nThen, just as the dessert had been served, she turned to the servant with\nan air of surprise: \u201cWell, and the figs, Giacomo?\u201d she asked.\n\nGiacomo, slow and sleepy of notion, looked at her without understanding.\nHowever, Victorine was crossing the room, and Benedetta\u2019s next question\nwas for her: \u201cWhy are the figs not served, Victorine?\u201d she inquired.\n\n\u201cWhat figs, Contessina?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy the figs I saw in the pantry as I passed through it this morning on\nmy way to the garden. They were in a little basket and looked superb. I\nwas even astonished to see that there were still some fresh figs left at\nthis season. I\u2019m very fond of them, and felt quite pleased at the thought\nthat I should eat some at dinner.\u201d\n\nVictorine began to laugh: \u201cAh! yes, Contessina, I understand,\u201d she\nreplied. \u201cThey were some figs which that priest of Frascati, whom you\nknow very well, brought yesterday evening as a present for his Eminence.\nI was there, and I heard him repeat three or four times that they were a\npresent, and were to be put on his Eminence\u2019s table without a leaf being\ntouched. And so one did as he said.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, that\u2019s nice,\u201d retorted Benedetta with comical indignation. \u201cWhat\n_gourmands_ my uncle and Dario are to regale themselves without us! They\nmight have given us a share!\u201d\n\nDonna Serafina thereupon intervened, and asked Victorine: \u201cYou are\nspeaking, are you not, of that priest who used to come to the villa at\nFrascati?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, Abb\u00e9 Santobono his name is, he officiates at the little church\nof St. Mary in the Fields. He always asks for Abb\u00e9 Paparelli when he\ncalls; I think they were at the seminary together. And it was Abb\u00e9\nPaparelli who brought him to the pantry with his basket last night. To\ntell the truth, the basket was forgotten there in spite of all the\ninjunctions, so that nobody would have eaten the figs to-day if Abb\u00e9\nPaparelli hadn\u2019t run down just now and carried them upstairs as piously\nas if they were the Blessed Sacrament. It\u2019s true though that his Eminence\nis so fond of them.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy brother won\u2019t do them much honour to-day,\u201d remarked the Princess. \u201cHe\nis slightly indisposed. He passed a bad night.\u201d The repeated mention of\nAbb\u00e9 Paparelli had made the old lady somewhat thoughtful. She had\nregarded the train-bearer with displeasure ever since she had noticed the\nextraordinary influence he was gaining over the Cardinal, despite all his\napparent humility and self-effacement. He was but a servant and\napparently a very insignificant one, yet he governed, and she could feel\nthat he combated her own influence, often undoing things which she had\ndone to further her brother\u2019s interests. Twice already, moreover, she had\nsuspected him of having urged the Cardinal to courses which she looked\nupon as absolute blunders. But perhaps she was wrong; she did the\ntrain-bearer the justice to admit that he had great merits and displayed\nexemplary piety.\n\nHowever, Benedetta went on laughing and jesting, and as Victorine had now\nwithdrawn, she called the man-servant: \u201cListen, Giacomo, I have a\ncommission for you.\u201d Then she broke off to say to her aunt and Pierre:\n\u201cPray let us assert our rights. I can see them at table almost underneath\nus. Uncle is taking the leaves off the basket and serving himself with a\nsmile; then he passes the basket to Dario, who passes it on to Don\nVigilio. And all three of them eat and enjoy the figs. You can see them,\ncan\u2019t you?\u201d She herself could see them well. And it was her desire to be\nnear Dario, the constant flight of her thoughts to him that now made her\npicture him at table with the others. Her heart was down below, and there\nwas nothing there that she could not see, and hear, and smell, with such\nkeenness of the senses did her love endow her. \u201cGiacomo,\u201d she resumed,\n\u201cyou are to go down and tell his Eminence that we are longing to taste\nhis figs, and that it will be very kind of him if he will send us such as\nhe can spare.\u201d\n\nAgain, however, did Donna Serafina intervene, recalling her wonted\nseverity of voice: \u201cGiacomo, you will please stay here.\u201d And to her niece\nshe added: \u201cThat\u2019s enough childishness! I dislike such silly freaks.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! aunt,\u201d Benedetta murmured. \u201cBut I\u2019m so happy, it\u2019s so long since I\nlaughed so good-heartedly.\u201d\n\nPierre had hitherto remained listening, enlivened by the sight of her\ngaiety. But now, as a little chill fell, he raised his voice to say that\non the previous day he himself had been astonished to see the famous\nfig-tree of Frascati still bearing fruit so late in the year. This was\ndoubtless due, however, to the tree\u2019s position and the protection of a\nhigh wall.\n\n\u201cAh! so you saw the tree?\u201d said Benedetta.\n\n\u201cYes, and I even travelled with those figs which you would so much like\nto taste.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, how was that?\u201d\n\nThe young man already regretted the reply which had escaped him. However,\nhaving gone so far, he preferred to say everything. \u201cI met somebody at\nFrascati who had come there in a carriage and who insisted on driving me\nback to Rome,\u201d said he. \u201cOn the way we picked up Abb\u00e9 Santobono, who was\nbravely making the journey on foot with his basket in his hand. And\nafterwards we stopped at an _osteria_--\u201d Then he went on to describe the\ndrive and relate his impressions whilst crossing the Campagna amidst the\nfalling twilight. But Benedetta gazed at him fixedly, aware as she was of\nPrada\u2019s frequent visits to the land and houses which he owned at\nFrascati; and suddenly she murmured: \u201cSomebody, somebody, it was the\nCount, was it not?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, madame, the Count,\u201d Pierre answered. \u201cI saw him again last night;\nhe was overcome, and really deserves to be pitied.\u201d\n\nThe two women took no offence at this charitable remark which fell from\nthe young priest with such deep and natural emotion, full as he was of\noverflowing love and compassion for one and all. Donna Serafina remained\nmotionless as if she had not even heard him, and Benedetta made a gesture\nwhich seemed to imply that she had neither pity nor hatred to express for\na man who had become a perfect stranger to her. However, she no longer\nlaughed, but, thinking of the little basket which had travelled in\nPrada\u2019s carriage, she said: \u201cAh! I don\u2019t care for those figs at all now,\nI am even glad that I haven\u2019t eaten any of them.\u201d\n\nImmediately after the coffee Donna Serafina withdrew, saying that she was\nat once going to the Vatican; and the others, being left to themselves,\nlingered at table, again full of gaiety, and chatting like friends. The\npriest, with his feverish impatience, once more referred to the audience\nwhich he was to have that evening. It was now barely two o\u2019clock, and he\nhad seven more hours to wait. How should he employ that endless\nafternoon? Thereupon Benedetta good-naturedly made him a proposal. \u201cI\u2019ll\ntell you what,\u201d said she, \u201cas we are all in such good spirits we mustn\u2019t\nleave one another. Dario has his victoria, you know. He must have\nfinished lunch by now, and I\u2019ll ask him to take us for a long drive along\nthe Tiber.\u201d\n\nThis fine project so delighted her that she began to clap her hands; but\njust then Don Vigilio appeared with a scared look on his face. \u201cIsn\u2019t the\nPrincess here?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cNo, my aunt has gone out. What is the matter?\u201d\n\n\u201cHis Eminence sent me. The Prince has just felt unwell on rising from\ntable. Oh! it\u2019s nothing--nothing serious, no doubt.\u201d\n\nBenedetta raised a cry of surprise rather than anxiety: \u201cWhat, Dario!\nWell, we\u2019ll all go down. Come with me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. He mustn\u2019t get\nill if he is to take us for a drive!\u201d Then, meeting Victorine on the\nstairs, she bade her follow. \u201cDario isn\u2019t well,\u201d she said. \u201cYou may be\nwanted.\u201d\n\nThey all four entered the spacious, antiquated, and simply furnished\nbed-room where the young Prince had lately been laid up for a whole\nmonth. It was reached by way of a small _salon_, and from an adjoining\ndressing-room a passage conducted to the Cardinal\u2019s apartments, the\nrelatively small dining-room, bed-room, and study, which had been devised\nby subdividing one of the huge galleries of former days. In addition, the\npassage gave access to his Eminence\u2019s private chapel, a bare, uncarpeted,\nchairless room, where there was nothing beyond the painted, wooden altar,\nand the hard, cold tiles on which to kneel and pray.\n\nOn entering, Benedetta hastened to the bed where Dario was lying, still\nfully dressed. Near him, in fatherly fashion, stood Cardinal Boccanera,\nwho, amidst his dawning anxiety, retained his proud and lofty\nbearing--the calmness of a soul beyond reproach. \u201cWhy, what is the\nmatter, Dario _mio_?\u201d asked the young woman.\n\nHe smiled, eager to reassure her. One only noticed that he was very pale,\nwith a look as of intoxication on his face.\n\n\u201cOh! it\u2019s nothing, mere giddiness,\u201d he replied. \u201cIt\u2019s just as if I had\ndrunk too much. All at once things swam before my eyes, and I thought I\nwas going to fall. And then I only had time to come and fling myself on\nthe bed.\u201d\n\nThen he drew a long breath, as though talking exhausted him, and the\nCardinal in his turn gave some details. \u201cWe had just finished our meal,\u201d\n said he, \u201cI was giving Don Vigilio some orders for this afternoon, and\nwas about to rise when I saw Dario get up and reel. He wouldn\u2019t sit down\nagain, but came in here, staggering like a somnambulist, and fumbling at\nthe doors to open them. We followed him without understanding. And I\nconfess that I don\u2019t yet comprehend it.\u201d\n\nSo saying, the Cardinal punctuated his surprise by waving his arm towards\nthe rooms, through which a gust of misfortune seemed to have suddenly\nswept. All the doors had remained wide open: the dressing-room could be\nseen, and then the passage, at the end of which appeared the dining-room,\nin a disorderly state, like an apartment suddenly vacated; the table\nstill laid, the napkins flung here and there, and the chairs pushed back.\nAs yet, however, there was no alarm.\n\nBenedetta made the remark which is usually made in such cases: \u201cI hope\nyou haven\u2019t eaten anything which has disagreed with you.\u201d\n\nThe Cardinal, smiling, again waved his hand as if to attest the frugality\nof his table. \u201cOh!\u201d said he, \u201cthere were only some eggs, some lamb\ncutlets, and a dish of sorrel--they couldn\u2019t have overloaded his stomach.\nI myself only drink water; he takes just a sip of white wine. No, no, the\nfood has nothing to do with it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBesides, in that case his Eminence and I would also have felt\nindisposed,\u201d Don Vigilio made bold to remark.\n\nDario, after momentarily closing his eyes, opened them again, and once\nmore drew a long breath, whilst endeavouring to laugh. \u201cOh, it will be\nnothing;\u201d he said. \u201cI feel more at ease already. I must get up and stir\nmyself.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn that case,\u201d said Benedetta, \u201cthis is what I had thought of. You will\ntake Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment and me for a long drive in the Campagna.\u201d\n\n\u201cWillingly. It\u2019s a nice idea. Victorine, help me.\u201d\n\nWhilst speaking he had raised himself by means of one arm; but, before\nthe servant could approach, a slight convulsion seized him, and he fell\nback again as if overcome by a fainting fit. It was the Cardinal, still\nstanding by the bedside, who caught him in his arms, whilst the\nContessina this time lost her head: \u201c_Dio, Dio_! It has come on him\nagain. Quick, quick, a doctor!\u201d\n\n\u201cShall I run for one?\u201d asked Pierre, whom the scene was also beginning to\nupset.\n\n\u201cNo, no, not you; stay with me. Victorine will go at once. She knows the\naddress. Doctor Giordano, Victorine.\u201d\n\nThe servant hurried away, and a heavy silence fell on the room where the\nanxiety became more pronounced every moment. Benedetta, now quite pale,\nhad again approached the bed, whilst the Cardinal looked down at Dario,\nwhom he still held in his arms. And a terrible suspicion, vague,\nindeterminate as yet, had just awoke in the old man\u2019s mind: Dario\u2019s face\nseemed to him to be ashen, to wear that mask of terrified anguish which\nhe had already remarked on the countenance of his dearest friend,\nMonsignor Gallo, when he had held him in his arms, in like manner, two\nhours before his death. There was also the same swoon and the same\nsensation of clasping a cold form whose heart ceases to beat. And above\neverything else there was in Boccanera\u2019s mind the same growing thought of\npoison, poison coming one knew not whence or how, but mysteriously\nstriking down those around him with the suddenness of lightning. And for\na long time he remained with his head bent over the face of his nephew,\nthat last scion of his race, seeking, studying, and recognising the signs\nof the mysterious, implacable disorder which once already had rent his\nheart atwain.\n\nBut Benedetta addressed him in a low, entreating voice: \u201cYou will tire\nyourself, uncle. Let me take him a little, I beg you. Have no fear, I\u2019ll\nhold him very gently, he will feel that it is I, and perhaps that will\nrouse him.\u201d\n\nAt last the Cardinal raised his head and looked at her, and allowed her\nto take his place after kissing her with distracted passion, his eyes the\nwhile full of tears--a sudden burst of emotion in which his great love\nfor the young woman melted the stern frigidity which he usually affected.\n\u201cAh! my poor child, my poor child!\u201d he stammered, trembling from head to\nfoot like an oak-tree about to fall. Immediately afterwards, however, he\nmastered himself, and whilst Pierre and Don Vigilio, mute and motionless,\nregretted that they could be of no help, he walked slowly to and fro.\nSoon, moreover, that bed-chamber became too small for all the thoughts\nrevolving in his mind, and he strayed first into the dressing-room and\nthen down the passage as far as the dining-room. And again and again he\nwent to and fro, grave and impassible, his head low, ever lost in the\nsame gloomy reverie. What were the multitudinous thoughts stirring in the\nbrain of that believer, that haughty Prince who had given himself to God\nand could do naught to stay inevitable Destiny? From time to time he\nreturned to the bedside, observed the progress of the disorder, and then\nstarted off again at the same slow regular pace, disappearing and\nreappearing, carried along as it were by the monotonous alternations of\nforces which man cannot control. Possibly he was mistaken, possibly this\nwas some mere indisposition at which the doctor would smile. One must\nhope and wait. And again he went off and again he came back; and amidst\nthe heavy silence nothing more clearly bespoke the torture of anxious\nfear than the rhythmical footsteps of that tall old man who was thus\nawaiting Destiny.\n\nThe door opened, and Victorine came in breathless. \u201cI found the doctor,\nhere he is,\u201d she gasped.\n\nWith his little pink face and white curls, his discreet paternal bearing\nwhich gave him the air of an amiable prelate, Doctor Giordano came in\nsmiling; but on seeing that room and all the anxious people waiting in\nit, he turned very grave, at once assuming the expression of profound\nrespect for all ecclesiastical secrets which he had acquired by long\npractice among the clergy. And when he had glanced at the sufferer he let\nbut a low murmur escape him: \u201cWhat, again! Is it beginning again!\u201d\n\nHe was probably alluding to the knife thrust for which he had recently\ntended Dario. Who could be thus relentlessly pursuing that poor and\ninoffensive young prince? However no one heard the doctor unless it were\nBenedetta, and she was so full of feverish impatience, so eager to be\ntranquillised, that she did not listen but burst into fresh entreaties:\n\u201cOh! doctor, pray look at him, examine him, tell us that it is nothing.\nIt can\u2019t be anything serious, since he was so well and gay but a little\nwhile ago. It\u2019s nothing serious, is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right no doubt, Contessina, it can be nothing dangerous. We will\nsee.\u201d\n\nHowever, on turning round, Doctor Giordano perceived the Cardinal, who\nwith regular, thoughtful footsteps had come back from the dining-room to\nplace himself at the foot of the bed. And while bowing, the doctor\ndoubtless detected a gleam of mortal anxiety in the dark eyes fixed upon\nhis own, for he added nothing but began to examine Dario like a man who\nrealises that time is precious. And as his examination progressed the\naffable optimism which usually appeared upon his countenance gave place\nto ashen gravity, a covert terror which made his lips slightly tremble.\nIt was he who had attended Monsignor Gallo when the latter had been\ncarried off so mysteriously; it was he who for imperative reasons had\nthen delivered a certificate stating the cause of death to be infectious\nfever; and doubtless he now found the same terrible symptoms as in that\ncase, a leaden hue overspreading the sufferer\u2019s features, a stupor as of\nexcessive intoxication; and, old Roman practitioner that he was,\naccustomed to sudden deaths, he realised that the _malaria_ which kills\nwas passing, that _malaria_ which science does not yet fully understand,\nwhich may come from the putrescent exhalations of the Tiber unless it be\nbut a name for the ancient poison of the legends.\n\nAs the doctor raised his head his glance again encountered the black eyes\nof the Cardinal, which never left him. \u201cSignor Giordano,\u201d said his\nEminence, \u201cyou are not over-anxious, I hope? It is only some case of\nindigestion, is it not?\u201d\n\nThe doctor again bowed. By the slight quiver of the Cardinal\u2019s voice he\nunderstood how acute was the anxiety of that powerful man, who once more\nwas stricken in his dearest affections.\n\n\u201cYour Eminence must be right,\u201d he said, \u201cthere\u2019s a bad digestion\ncertainly. Such accidents sometimes become dangerous when fever\nsupervenes. I need not tell your Eminence how thoroughly you may rely on\nmy prudence and zeal.\u201d Then he broke off and added in a clear\nprofessional voice: \u201cWe must lose no time; the Prince must be undressed.\nI should prefer to remain alone with him for a moment.\u201d\n\nWhilst speaking in this way, however, Doctor Giordano detained Victorine,\nwho would be able to help him, said he; should he need any further\nassistance he would take Giacomo. His evident desire was to get rid of\nthe members of the family in order that he might have more freedom of\naction. And the Cardinal, who understood him, gently led Benedetta into\nthe dining-room, whither Pierre and Don Vigilio followed.\n\nWhen the doors had been closed, the most mournful and oppressive silence\nreigned in that dining-room, which the bright sun of winter filled with\nsuch delightful warmth and radiance. The table was still laid, its cloth\nstrewn here and there with bread-crumbs; and a coffee cup had remained\nhalf full. In the centre stood the basket of figs, whose covering of\nleaves had been removed. However, only two or three of the figs were\nmissing. And in front of the window was Tata, the female parrot, who had\nflown out of her cage and perched herself on her stand, where she\nremained, dazzled and enraptured, amidst the dancing dust of a broad\nyellow sunray. In her astonishment however, at seeing so many people\nenter, she had ceased to scream and smooth her feathers, and had turned\nher head the better to examine the newcomers with her round and\nscrutinising eye.\n\nThe minutes went by slowly amidst all the feverish anxiety as to what\nmight be occurring in the neighbouring room. Don Vigilio had taken a\ncorner seat in silence, whilst Benedetta and Pierre, who had remained\nstanding, preserved similar muteness, and immobility. But the Cardinal\nhad reverted to that instinctive, lulling tramp by which he apparently\nhoped to quiet his impatience and arrive the sooner at the explanation\nfor which he was groping through a tumultuous maze of ideas. And whilst\nhis rhythmical footsteps resounded with mechanical regularity, dark fury\nwas taking possession of his mind, exasperation at being unable to\nunderstand the why and wherefore of that sickness. As he passed the table\nhe had twice glanced at the things lying on it in confusion, as if\nseeking some explanation from them. Perhaps the harm had been done by\nthat unfinished coffee, or by that bread whose crumbs lay here and there,\nor by those cutlets, a bone of which remained? Then as for the third time\nhe passed by, again glancing, his eyes fell upon the basket of figs, and\nat once he stopped, as if beneath the shock of a revelation. An idea\nseized upon him and mastered him, without any plan, however, occurring to\nhim by which he might change his sudden suspicion into certainty. For a\nmoment he remained puzzled with his eyes fixed upon the basket. Then he\ntook a fig and examined it, but, noticing nothing strange, was about to\nput it back when Tata, the parrot, who was very fond of figs, raised a\nstrident cry. And this was like a ray of light; the means of changing\nsuspicion into certainty was found.\n\nSlowly, with grave air and gloomy visage, the Cardinal carried the fig to\nthe parrot and gave it to her without hesitation or regret. She was a\nvery pretty bird, the only being of the lower order of creation to which\nhe had ever really been attached. Stretching out her supple, delicate\nform, whose silken feathers of dull green here and there assumed a pinky\ntinge in the sunlight, she took hold of the fig with her claws, then\nripped it open with her beak. But when she had raked it she ate but\nlittle, and let all the rest fall upon the floor. Still grave and\nimpassible, the Cardinal looked at her and waited. Quite three minutes\nwent by, and then feeling reassured, he began to scratch the bird\u2019s poll,\nwhilst she, taking pleasure in the caress, turned her neck and fixed her\nbright ruby eye upon her master. But all at once she sank back without\neven a flap of the wings, and fell like a bullet. She was dead, killed as\nby a thunderbolt.\n\nBoccanera made but a gesture, raising both hands to heaven as if in\nhorror at what he now knew. Great God! such a terrible crime, and such a\nfearful mistake, such an abominable trick of Destiny! No cry of grief\ncame from him, but the gloom upon his face grew black and fierce. Yet\nthere was a cry, a piercing cry from Benedetta, who like Pierre and Don\nVigilio had watched the Cardinal with an astonishment which had changed\ninto terror: \u201cPoison! poison! Ah! Dario, my heart, my soul!\u201d\n\nBut the Cardinal violently caught his niece by the wrist, whilst darting\na suspicious glance at the two petty priests, the secretary and the\nforeigner, who were present: \u201cBe quiet, be quiet!\u201d said he.\n\nShe shook herself free, rebelling, frantic with rage and hatred: \u201cWhy\nshould I be quiet!\u201d she cried. \u201cIt is Prada\u2019s work, I shall denounce him,\nhe shall die as well! I tell you it is Prada, I know it, for yesterday\nAbb\u00e9 Froment came back with him from Frascati in his carriage with that\npriest Santobono and that basket of figs! Yes, yes, I have witnesses, it\nis Prada, Prada!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, you are mad, be quiet!\u201d said the Cardinal, who had again taken\nhold of the young woman\u2019s hands and sought to master her with all his\nsovereign authority. He, who knew the influence which Cardinal\nSanguinetti exercised over Santobono\u2019s excitable mind, had just\nunderstood the whole affair; no direct complicity but covert propulsion,\nthe animal excited and then let loose upon the troublesome rival at the\nmoment when the pontifical throne seemed likely to be vacant. The\nprobability, the certainty of all this flashed upon Boccanera who, though\nsome points remained obscure, did not seek to penetrate them. It was not\nnecessary indeed that he should know every particular: the thing was as\nhe said, since it was bound to be so. \u201cNo, no, it was not Prada,\u201d he\nexclaimed, addressing Benedetta. \u201cThat man can bear me no personal\ngrudge, and I alone was aimed at, it was to me that those figs were\ngiven. Come, think it out! Only an unforeseen indisposition prevented me\nfrom eating the greater part of the fruit, for it is known that I am very\nfond of figs, and while my poor Dario was tasting them, I jested and told\nhim to leave the finer ones for me to-morrow. Yes, the abominable blow\nwas meant for me, and it is on him that it has fallen by the most\natrocious of chances, the most monstrous of the follies of fate. Ah! Lord\nGod, Lord God, have you then forsaken us!\u201d\n\nTears came into the old man\u2019s eyes, whilst she still quivered and seemed\nunconvinced: \u201cBut you have no enemies, uncle,\u201d she said. \u201cWhy should that\nSantobono try to take your life?\u201d\n\nFor a moment he found no fitting reply. With supreme grandeur he had\nalready resolved to keep the truth secret. Then a recollection came to\nhim, and he resigned himself to the telling of a lie: \u201cSantobono\u2019s mind\nhas always been somewhat unhinged,\u201d said he, \u201cand I know that he has\nhated me ever since I refused to help him to get a brother of his, one of\nour former gardeners, out of prison. Deadly spite often has no more\nserious cause. He must have thought that he had reason to be revenged on\nme.\u201d\n\nThereupon Benedetta, exhausted, unable to argue any further, sank upon a\nchair with a despairing gesture: \u201cAh! God, God! I no longer know--and\nwhat matters it now that my Dario is in such danger? There\u2019s only one\nthing to be done, he must be saved. How long they are over what they are\ndoing in that room--why does not Victorine come for us!\u201d\n\nThe silence again fell, full of terror. Without speaking the Cardinal\ntook the basket of figs from the table and carried it to a cupboard in\nwhich he locked it. Then he put the key in his pocket. No doubt, when\nnight had fallen, he himself would throw the proofs of the crime into the\nTiber. However, on coming back from the cupboard he noticed the two\npriests, who naturally had watched him; and with mingled grandeur and\nsimplicity he said to them: \u201cGentlemen, I need not ask you to be\ndiscreet. There are scandals which we must spare the Church, which is\nnot, cannot be guilty. To deliver one of ourselves, even when he is a\ncriminal, to the civil tribunals, often means a blow for the whole\nChurch, for men of evil mind may lay hold of the affair and seek to\nimpute the responsibility of the crime even to the Church itself. We\ntherefore have but to commit the murderer to the hands of God, who will\nknow more surely how to punish him. Ah! for my part, whether I be struck\nin my own person or whether the blow be directed against my family, my\ndearest affections, I declare in the name of the Christ who died upon the\ncross, that I feel neither anger, nor desire for vengeance, that I efface\nthe murderer\u2019s name from my memory and bury his abominable act in the\neternal silence of the grave.\u201d\n\nTall as he was, he seemed of yet loftier stature whilst with hand\nupraised he took that oath to leave his enemies to the justice of God\nalone; for he did not refer merely to Santobono, but to Cardinal\nSanguinetti, whose evil influence he had divined. And amidst all the\nheroism of his pride, he was rent by tragic dolour at thought of the dark\nbattle which was waged around the tiara, all the evil hatred and\nvoracious appetite which stirred in the depths of the gloom. Then, as\nPierre and Don Vigilio bowed to him as a sign that they would preserve\nsilence, he almost choked with invincible emotion, a sob of loving grief\nwhich he strove to keep down rising to his throat, whilst he stammered:\n\u201cAh! my poor child, my poor child, the only scion of our race, the only\nlove and hope of my heart! Ah! to die, to die like this!\u201d\n\nBut Benedetta, again all violence, sprang up: \u201cDie! Who, Dario? I won\u2019t\nhave it! We\u2019ll nurse him, we\u2019ll go back to him. We will take him in our\narms and save him. Come, uncle, come at once! I won\u2019t, I won\u2019t, I won\u2019t\nhave him die!\u201d\n\nShe was going towards the door, and nothing would have prevented her from\nre-entering the bed-room, when, as it happened, Victorine appeared with a\nwild look on her face, for, despite her wonted serenity, all her courage\nwas now exhausted. \u201cThe doctor begs madame and his Eminence to come at\nonce, at once,\u201d said she.\n\nStupefied by all these things, Pierre did not follow the others, but\nlingered for a moment in the sunlit dining-room with Don Vigilio. What!\npoison? Poison as in the time of the Borgias, elegantly hidden away,\nserved up with luscious fruit by a crafty traitor, whom one dared not\neven denounce! And he recalled the conversation on his way back from\nFrascati, and his Parisian scepticism with respect to those legendary\ndrugs, which to his mind had no place save in the fifth acts of\nmelodramas. Yet those abominable stories were true, those tales of\npoisoned knives and flowers, of prelates and even dilatory popes being\nsuppressed by a drop or a grain of something administered to them in\ntheir morning chocolate. That passionate tragical Santobono was really a\npoisoner, Pierre could no longer doubt it, for a lurid light now\nillumined the whole of the previous day: there were the words of ambition\nand menace which had been spoken by Cardinal Sanguinetti, the eagerness\nto act in presence of the probable death of the reigning pope, the\nsuggestion of a crime for the sake of the Church\u2019s salvation, then that\npriest with his little basket of figs encountered on the road, then that\nbasket carried for hours so carefully, so devoutly, on the priest\u2019s\nknees, that basket which now haunted Pierre like a nightmare, and whose\ncolour, and odour, and shape he would ever recall with a shudder. Aye,\npoison, poison, there was truth in it; it existed and still circulated in\nthe depths of the black world, amidst all the ravenous, rival longings\nfor conquest and sovereignty.\n\nAnd all at once the figure of Prada likewise arose in Pierre\u2019s mind. A\nlittle while previously, when Benedetta had so violently accused the\nCount, he, Pierre, had stepped forward to defend him and cry aloud what\nhe knew, whence the poison had come, and what hand had offered it. But a\nsudden thought had made him shiver: though Prada had not devised the\ncrime, he had allowed it to be perpetrated. Another memory darted keen\nlike steel through the young priest\u2019s mind--that of the little black hen\nlying lifeless beside the shed, amidst the dismal surroundings of the\n_osteria_, with a tiny streamlet of violet blood trickling from her beak.\nAnd here again, Tata, the parrot, lay still soft and warm at the foot of\nher stand, with her beak stained by oozing blood. Why had Prada told that\nlie about a battle between two fowls? All the dim intricacy of passion\nand contention bewildered Pierre, he could not thread his way through it;\nnor was he better able to follow the frightful combat which must have\nbeen waged in that man\u2019s mind during the night of the ball. At the same\ntime he could not again picture him by his side during their nocturnal\nwalk towards the Boccanera mansion without shuddering, dimly divining\nwhat a frightful decision had been taken before that mansion\u2019s door.\nMoreover, whatever the obscurities, whether Prada had expected that the\nCardinal alone would be killed, or had hoped that some chance stroke of\nfate might avenge him on others, the terrible fact remained--he had\nknown, he had been able to stay Destiny on the march, but had allowed it\nto go onward and blindly accomplish its work of death.\n\nTurning his head Pierre perceived Don Vigilio still seated on the corner\nchair whence he had not stirred, and looking so pale and haggard that\nperhaps he also had swallowed some of the poison. \u201cDo you feel unwell?\u201d\n the young priest asked.\n\nAt first the secretary could not reply, for terror had gripped him at the\nthroat. Then in a low voice he said: \u201cNo, no, I didn\u2019t eat any. Ah,\nHeaven, when I think that I so much wanted to taste them, and that merely\ndeference kept me back on seeing that his Eminence did not take any!\u201d Don\nVigilio\u2019s whole body shivered at the thought that his humility alone had\nsaved him; and on his face and his hands there remained the icy chill of\ndeath which had fallen so near and grazed him as it passed.\n\nThen twice he heaved a sigh, and with a gesture of affright sought to\nbrush the horrid thing away while murmuring: \u201cAh! Paparelli, Paparelli!\u201d\n\nPierre, deeply stirred, and knowing what he thought of the train-bearer,\ntried to extract some information from him: \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d he asked.\n\u201cDo you accuse him too? Do you think they urged him on, and that it was\nthey at bottom?\u201d\n\nThe word Jesuits was not even spoken, but a big black shadow passed\nathwart the gay sunlight of the dining-room, and for a moment seemed to\nfill it with darkness. \u201cThey! ah yes!\u201d exclaimed Don Vigilio, \u201cthey are\neverywhere; it is always they! As soon as one weeps, as soon as one dies,\nthey are mixed up in it. And this is intended for me too; I am quite\nsurprised that I haven\u2019t been carried off.\u201d Then again he raised a dull\nmoan of fear, hatred, and anger: \u201cAh! Paparelli, Paparelli!\u201d And he\nrefused to reply any further, but darted scared glances at the walls as\nif from one or another of them he expected to see the train-bearer\nemerge, with his wrinkled flabby face like that of an old maid, his\nfurtive mouse-like trot, and his mysterious, invading hands which had\ngone expressly to bring the forgotten figs from the pantry and deposit\nthem on the table.\n\nAt last the two priests decided to return to the bedroom, where perhaps\nthey might be required; and Pierre on entering was overcome by the\nheart-rending scene which the chamber now presented. Doctor Giordano,\nsuspecting poison, had for half an hour been trying the usual remedies,\nan emetic and then magnesia. Just then, too, he had made Victorine whip\nsome whites of eggs in water. But the disorder was progressing with such\nlightning-like rapidity that all succour was becoming futile. Undressed\nand lying on his back, his bust propped up by pillows and his arms lying\noutstretched over the sheets, Dario looked quite frightful in the sort of\npainful intoxication which characterised that redoubtable and mysterious\ndisorder to which already Monsignor Gallo and others had succumbed. The\nyoung man seemed to be stricken with a sort of dizzy stupor, his eyes\nreceded farther and farther into the depth of their dark sockets, whilst\nhis whole face became withered, aged as it were, and covered with an\nearthy pallor. A moment previously he had closed his eyes, and the only\nsign that he still lived was the heaving of his chest induced by painful\nrespiration. And leaning over his poor dying face stood Benedetta,\nsharing his sufferings, and mastered by such impotent grief that she also\nwas unrecognisable, so white, so distracted by anguish, that it seemed as\nif death were gradually taking her at the same time as it was taking him.\n\nIn the recess by the window whither Cardinal Boccanera had led Doctor\nGiordano, a few words were exchanged in low tones. \u201cHe is lost, is he\nnot?\u201d\n\nThe doctor made the despairing gesture of one who is vanquished: \u201cAlas!\nyes. I must warn your Eminence that in an hour all will be over.\u201d\n\nA short interval of silence followed. \u201cAnd the same malady as Gallo, is\nit not?\u201d asked the Cardinal; and as the doctor trembling and averting his\neyes did not answer he added: \u201cAt all events of an infectious fever!\u201d\n\nGiordano well understood what the Cardinal thus asked of him: silence,\nthe crime for ever hidden away for the sake of the good renown of his\nmother, the Church. And there could be no loftier, no more tragical\ngrandeur than that of this old man of seventy, still so erect and\nsovereign, who would neither suffer a slur to be cast upon his spiritual\nfamily, nor consent to his human family being dragged into the inevitable\nmire of a sensational murder trial. No, no, there must be none of that,\nthere must be silence, the eternal silence in which all becomes\nforgotten.\n\nAt last the doctor bowed with his gentle air of discretion. \u201cEvidently,\nof an infectious fever as your Eminence so well says,\u201d he replied.\n\nTwo big tears then again appeared in Boccanera\u2019s eyes. Now that he had\nscreened the Deity from attack in the person of the Church, his heart as\na man again bled. He begged the doctor to make a supreme effort, to\nattempt the impossible; but, pointing to the dying man with trembling\nhands, Giordano shook his head. For his own father, his own mother he\ncould have done nothing. Death was there. So why weary, why torture a\ndying man, whose sufferings he would only have increased? And then, as\nthe Cardinal, finding the end so near at hand, thought of his sister\nSerafina, and lamented that she would not be able to kiss her nephew for\nthe last time if she lingered at the Vatican, the doctor offered to fetch\nher in his carriage which was waiting below. It would not take him more\nthan twenty minutes, said he, and he would be back in time for the end,\nshould he then be needed.\n\nLeft to himself in the window recess the Cardinal remained there\nmotionless for another moment. With eyes blurred by tears, he gazed\ntowards heaven. And his quivering arms were suddenly raised in a gesture\nof ardent entreaty. O God, since the science of man was so limited and\nvain, since that doctor had gone off happy to escape the embarrassment of\nhis impotence, O God, why not a miracle which should proclaim the\nsplendour of Thy Almighty Power! A miracle, a miracle! that was what the\nCardinal asked from the depths of his believing soul, with the\ninsistence, the imperious entreaty of a Prince of the Earth, who deemed\nthat he had rendered considerable services to Heaven by dedicating his\nwhole life to the Church. And he asked for that miracle in order that his\nrace might be perpetuated, in order that its last male scion might not\nthus miserably perish, but be able to marry that fondly loved cousin, who\nnow stood there all woe and tears. A miracle, a miracle for the sake of\nthose two dear children! A miracle which would endow the family with\nfresh life: a miracle which would eternise the glorious name of Boccanera\nby enabling an innumerable posterity of valiant ones and faithful ones to\nspring from that young couple!\n\nWhen the Cardinal returned to the centre of the room he seemed\ntransfigured. Faith had dried his eyes, his soul had become strong and\nsubmissive, exempt from all human weakness. He had placed himself in the\nhands of God, and had resolved that he himself would administer extreme\nunction to Dario. With a gesture he summoned Don Vigilio and led him into\nthe little room which served as a chapel, and the key of which he always\ncarried. A cupboard had been contrived behind the altar of painted wood,\nand the Cardinal went to it to take both stole and surplice. The coffer\ncontaining the Holy Oils was likewise there, a very ancient silver coffer\nbearing the Boccanera arms. And on Don Vigilio following the Cardinal\nback into the bed-room they in turn pronounced the Latin words:\n\n\u201c_Pax huic domui_.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Et omnibus habitantibus in ea_.\u201d*\n\n  * \u201cPeace unto this house and unto all who dwell in it.\u201d--Trans.\n\nDeath was coming so fast and threatening, that all the usual preparations\nwere perforce dispensed with. Neither the two lighted tapers, nor the\nlittle table covered with white cloth had been provided. And, in the same\nway, Don Vigilio the assistant, having failed to bring the Holy Water\nbasin and sprinkler, the Cardinal, as officiating priest, could merely\nmake the gesture of blessing the room and the dying man, whilst\npronouncing the words of the ritual: \u201c_Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et\nmundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor._\u201c*\n\n  * \u201cSprinkle me, Lord, with hyssop, and purify me; wash me, and\n    make me whiter than snow.\u201d--Trans.\n\nBenedetta on seeing the Cardinal appear carrying the Holy Oils, had with\na long quiver fallen on her knees at the foot of the bed, whilst,\nsomewhat farther away, Pierre and Victorine likewise knelt, overcome by\nthe dolorous grandeur of the scene. And the dilated eyes of the\nContessina, whose face was pale as snow, never quitted her Dario, whom\nshe no longer recognised, so earthy was his face, its skin tanned and\nwrinkled like that of an old man. And it was not for their marriage which\nhe so much desired that their uncle, the all-powerful Prince of the\nChurch, was bringing the Sacrament, but for the supreme rupture, the end\nof all pride, Death which finishes off the haughtiest races, and sweeps\nthem away, even as the wind sweeps the dust of the roads.\n\nIt was needful that there should be no delay, so the Cardinal promptly\nrepeated the Credo in an undertone, \u201c_Credo in unum Deum--_\u201d\n\n\u201c_Amen_,\u201d responded Don Vigilio, who, after the prayers of the ritual,\nstammered the Litanies in order that Heaven might take pity on the\nwretched man who was about to appear before God, if God by a prodigy did\nnot spare him.\n\nThen, without taking time to wash his fingers, the Cardinal opened the\ncase containing the Holy Oils, and limiting himself to one anointment, as\nis permissible in pressing cases, he deposited a single drop of the oil\non Dario\u2019s parched mouth which was already withered by death. And in\ndoing so he repeated the words of the formula, his heart all aglow with\nfaith as he asked that the divine mercy might efface each and every sin\nthat the young man had committed by either of his five senses, those five\nportals by which everlasting temptation assails the soul. And the\nCardinal\u2019s fervour was also instinct with the hope that if God had\nsmitten the poor sufferer for his offences, perhaps He would make His\nindulgence entire and even restore him to life as soon as He should have\nforgiven his sins. Life, O Lord, life in order that the ancient line of\nthe Boccaneras might yet multiply and continue to serve Thee in battle\nand at the altar until the end of time!\n\nFor a moment the Cardinal remained with quivering hands, gazing at the\nmute face, the closed eyes of the dying man, and waiting for the miracle.\nBut no sign appeared, not the faintest glimmer brightened that haggard\ncountenance, nor did a sigh of relief come from the withered lips as Don\nVigilio wiped them with a little cotton wool. And the last prayer was\nsaid, and whilst the frightful silence fell once more the Cardinal,\nfollowed by his assistant, returned to the chapel. There they both knelt,\nthe Cardinal plunging into ardent prayer upon the bare tiles. With his\neyes raised to the brass crucifix upon the altar he saw nothing, heard\nnothing, but gave himself wholly to his entreaties, supplicating God to\ntake him in place of his nephew, if a sacrifice were necessary, and yet\nclinging to the hope that so long as Dario retained a breath of life and\nhe himself thus remained on his knees addressing the Deity, he might\nsucceed in pacifying the wrath of Heaven. He was both so humble and so\ngreat. Would not accord surely be established between God and a\nBoccanera? The old palace might have fallen to the ground, he himself\nwould not even have felt the toppling of its beams.\n\nIn the bed-room, however, nothing had yet stirred beneath the weight of\ntragic majesty which the ceremony had left there. It was only now that\nDario raised his eyelids, and when on looking at his hands he saw them so\naged and wasted the depths of his eyes kindled with an expression of\nimmense regretfulness that life should be departing. Doubtless it was at\nthis moment of lucidity amidst the kind of intoxication with which the\npoison overwhelmed him, that he for the first time realised his perilous\ncondition. Ah! to die, amidst such pain, such physical degradation, what\na revolting horror for that frivolous and egotistical man, that lover of\nbeauty, joy, and light, who knew not how to suffer! In him ferocious fate\nchastised racial degeneracy with too heavy a hand. He became horrified\nwith himself, seized with childish despair and terror, which lent him\nstrength enough to sit up and gaze wildly about the room, in order to see\nif every one had not abandoned him. And when his eyes lighted on\nBenedetta still kneeling at the foot of the bed, a supreme impulse\ncarried him towards her, he stretched forth both arms as passionately as\nhis strength allowed and stammered her name: \u201cO Benedetta, Benedetta!\u201d\n\nShe, motionless in the stupor of her anxiety, had not taken her eyes from\nhis face. The horrible disorder which was carrying off her lover, seemed\nalso to possess and annihilate her more and more, even as he himself grew\nweaker and weaker. Her features were assuming an immaterial whiteness;\nand through the void of her clear eyeballs one began to espy her soul.\nHowever, when she perceived him thus resuscitating and calling her with\narms outstretched, she in her turn arose and standing beside the bed made\nanswer: \u201cI am coming, my Dario, here I am.\u201d\n\nAnd then Pierre and Victorine, still on their knees, beheld a sublime\ndeed of such extraordinary grandeur that they remained rooted to the\nfloor, spell-bound as in the presence of some supra-terrestrial spectacle\nin which human beings may not intervene. Benedetta herself spoke and\nacted like one freed from all social and conventional ties, already\nbeyond life, only seeing and addressing beings and things from a great\ndistance, from the depths of the unknown in which she was about to\ndisappear.\n\n\u201cAh! my Dario, so an attempt has been made to part us! It was in order\nthat I might never belong to you--that we might never be happy, that your\ndeath was resolved upon, and it was known that with your life my own must\ncease! And it is that man who is killing you! Yes, he is your murderer,\neven if the actual blow has been dealt by another. He is the first\ncause--he who stole me from you when I was about to become yours, he who\nravaged our lives, and who breathed around us the hateful poison which is\nkilling us. Ah! how I hate him, how I hate him; how I should like to\ncrush him with my hate before I die with you!\u201d\n\nShe did not raise her voice, but spoke those terrible words in a deep\nmurmur, simply and passionately. Prada was not even named, and she\nscarcely turned towards Pierre--who knelt, paralysed, behind her--to add\nwith a commanding air: \u201cYou will see his father, I charge you to tell him\nthat I cursed his son! That kind-hearted hero loved me well--I love him\neven now, and the words you will carry to him from me will rend his\nheart. But I desire that he should know--he must know, for the sake of\ntruth and justice.\u201d\n\nDistracted by terror, sobbing amidst a last convulsion, Dario again\nstretched forth his arms, feeling that she was no longer looking at him,\nthat her clear eyes were no longer fixed upon his own: \u201cBenedetta,\nBenedetta!\u201d\n\n\u201cI am coming, I am coming, my Dario--I am here!\u201d she responded, drawing\nyet nearer to the bedside and almost touching him. \u201cAh!\u201d she went on,\n\u201cthat vow which I made to the Madonna to belong to none, not even you,\nuntil God should allow it by the blessing of one of his priests! Ah! I\nset a noble, a divine pride in remaining immaculate for him who should be\nthe one master of my soul and body. And that chastity which I was so\nproud of, I defended it against the other as one defends oneself against\na wolf, and I defended it against you with tears for fear of sacrilege.\nAnd if you only knew what terrible struggles I was forced to wage with\nmyself, for I loved you and longed to be yours, like a woman who accepts\nthe whole of love, the love that makes wife and mother! Ah! my vow to the\nMadonna--with what difficulty did I keep it when the old blood of our\nrace arose in me like a tempest; and now what a disaster!\u201d She drew yet\nnearer, and her low voice became more ardent: \u201cYou remember that evening\nwhen you came back with a knife-thrust in your shoulder. I thought you\ndead, and cried aloud with rage at the idea of losing you like that. I\ninsulted the Madonna and regretted that I had not damned myself with you\nthat we might die together, so tightly clasped that we must needs be\nburied together also. And to think that such a terrible warning was of no\navail! I was blind and foolish; and now you are again stricken, again\nbeing taken from my love. Ah! my wretched pride, my idiotic dream!\u201d\n\nThat which now rang out in her stifled voice was the anger of the\npractical woman that she had ever been, all superstition notwithstanding.\nCould the Madonna, who was so maternal, desire the woe of lovers? No,\nassuredly not. Nor did the angels make the mere absence of a priest a\ncause for weeping over the transports of true and mutual love. Was not\nsuch love holy in itself, and did not the angels rather smile upon it and\nburst into gladsome song! And ah! how one cheated oneself by not loving\nto heart\u2019s content under the sun, when the blood of life coursed through\none\u2019s veins!\n\n\u201cBenedetta! Benedetta!\u201d repeated the dying man, full of child-like terror\nat thus going off all alone into the depths of the black and everlasting\nnight.\n\n\u201cHere I am, my Dario, I am coming!\u201d\n\nThen, as she fancied that the servant, albeit motionless, had stirred, as\nif to rise and interfere, she added: \u201cLeave me, leave me, Victorine,\nnothing in the world can henceforth prevent it. A moment ago, when I was\non my knees, something roused me and urged me on. I know whither I am\ngoing. And besides, did I not swear on the night of the knife thrust? Did\nI not promise to belong to him alone, even in the earth if it were\nnecessary? I must embrace him, and he will carry me away! We shall be\ndead, and we shall be wedded in spite of all, and for ever and for ever!\u201d\n\nShe stepped back to the dying man, and touched him: \u201cHere I am, my Dario,\nhere I am!\u201d\n\nThen came the apogee. Amidst growing exaltation, buoyed up by a blaze of\nlove, careless of glances, candid like a lily, she divested herself of\nher garments and stood forth so white, that neither marble statue, nor\ndove, nor snow itself was ever whiter. \u201cHere I am, my Dario, here I am!\u201d\n\nRecoiling almost to the ground as at sight of an apparition, the glorious\nflash of a holy vision, Pierre and Victorine gazed at her with dazzled\neyes. The servant had not stirred to prevent this extraordinary action,\nseized as she was with that shrinking reverential terror which comes upon\none in presence of the wild, mad deeds of faith and passion. And the\npriest, whose limbs were paralysed, felt that something so sublime was\npassing that he could only quiver in distraction. And no thought of\nimpurity came to him on beholding that lily, snowy whiteness. All candour\nand all nobility as she was, that virgin shocked him no more than some\nsculptured masterpiece of genius.\n\n\u201cHere I am, my Dario, here I am.\u201d\n\nShe had lain herself down beside the spouse whom she had chosen, she had\nclasped the dying man whose arms only had enough strength left to fold\nthemselves around her. Death was stealing him from her, but she would go\nwith him; and again she murmured: \u201cMy Dario, here I am.\u201d\n\nAnd at that moment, against the wall at the head of the bed, Pierre\nperceived the escutcheon of the Boccaneras, embroidered in gold and\ncoloured silks on a groundwork of violet velvet. There was the winged\ndragon belching flames, there was the fierce and glowing motto \u201c_Bocca\nnera, Alma rossa_\u201d (black mouth, red soul), the mouth darkened by a roar,\nthe soul flaming like a brazier of faith and love. And behold! all that\nold race of passion and violence with its tragic legends had reappeared,\nits blood bubbling up afresh to urge that last and adorable daughter of\nthe line to those terrifying and prodigious nuptials in death. And to\nPierre that escutcheon recalled another memory, that of the portrait of\nCassia Boccanera the _amorosa_ and avengeress who had flung herself into\nthe Tiber with her brother Ercole and the corpse of her lover Flavio. Was\nthere not here even with Benedetta the same despairing clasp seeking to\nvanquish death, the same savagery in hurling oneself into the abyss with\nthe corpse of the one\u2019s only love? Benedetta and Cassia were as sisters,\nCassia, who lived anew in the old painting in the _salon_ overhead,\nBenedetta who was here dying of her lover\u2019s death, as though she were but\nthe other\u2019s spirit. Both had the same delicate childish features, the\nsame mouth of passion, the same large dreamy eyes set in the same round,\npractical, and stubborn head.\n\n\u201cMy Dario, here I am!\u201d\n\nFor a second, which seemed an eternity, they clasped one another, she\nneither repelled nor terrified by the disorder which made him so\nunrecognisable, but displaying a delirious passion, a holy frenzy as if\nto pass beyond life, to penetrate with him into the black Unknown. And\nbeneath the shock of the felicity at last offered to him he expired, with\nhis arms yet convulsively wound around her as though indeed to carry her\noff. Then, whether from grief or from bliss amidst that embrace of death,\nthere came such a rush of blood to her heart that the organ burst: she\ndied on her lover\u2019s neck, both tightly and for ever clasped in one\nanother\u2019s arms.\n\nThere was a faint sigh. Victorine understood and drew near, while Pierre,\nalso erect, remained quivering with the tearful admiration of one who has\nbeheld the sublime.\n\n\u201cLook, look!\u201d whispered the servant, \u201cshe no longer moves, she no longer\nbreathes. Ah! my poor child, my poor child, she is dead!\u201d\n\nThen the priest murmured: \u201cOh! God, how beautiful they are.\u201d\n\nIt was true, never had loftier and more resplendent beauty appeared on\nthe faces of the dead. Dario\u2019s countenance, so lately aged and earthen,\nhad assumed the pallor and nobility of marble, its features lengthened\nand simplified as by a transport of ineffable joy. Benedetta remained\nvery grave, her lips curved by ardent determination, whilst her whole\nface was expressive of dolorous yet infinite beatitude in a setting of\ninfinite whiteness. Their hair mingled, and their eyes, which had\nremained open, continued gazing as into one another\u2019s souls with eternal,\ncaressing sweetness. They were for ever linked, soaring into immortality\namidst the enchantment of their union, vanquishers of death, radiant with\nthe rapturous beauty of love, the conqueror, the immortal.\n\nBut Victorine\u2019s sobs at last burst forth, mingled with such lamentations\nthat great confusion followed. Pierre, now quite beside himself, in some\nmeasure failed to understand how it was that the room suddenly became\ninvaded by terrified people. The Cardinal and Don Vigilio, however, must\nhave hastened in from the chapel; and at the same moment, no doubt,\nDoctor Giordano must have returned with Donna Serafina, for both were now\nthere, she stupefied by the blows which had thus fallen on the house in\nher absence, whilst he, the doctor, displayed the perturbation and\nastonishment which comes upon the oldest practitioners when facts seem to\ngive the lie to their experience. However, he sought an explanation of\nBenedetta\u2019s death, and hesitatingly ascribed it to aneurism, or possibly\nembolism.\n\nThereupon Victorine, like a servant whose grief makes her the equal of\nher employers, boldly interrupted him: \u201cAh! Sir,\u201d said she, \u201cthey loved\neach other too fondly; did not that suffice for them to die together?\u201d\n\nMeantime Donna Serafina, after kissing the poor children on the brow,\ndesired to close their eyes; but she could not succeed in doing so, for\nthe lids lifted directly she removed her finger and once more the eyes\nbegan to smile at one another, to exchange in all fixity their loving and\neternal glance. And then as she spoke of parting the bodies, Victorine\nagain protested: \u201cOh! madame, oh! madame,\u201d she said, \u201cyou would have to\nbreak their arms. Cannot you see that their fingers are almost dug into\none another\u2019s shoulders? No, they can never be parted!\u201d\n\nThereupon Cardinal Boccanera intervened. God had not granted the miracle;\nand he, His minister, was livid, tearless, and full of icy despair. But\nhe waved his arm with a sovereign gesture of absolution and\nsanctification, as if, Prince of the Church that he was, disposing of the\nwill of Heaven, he consented that the lovers should appear in that\nembrace before the supreme tribunal. In presence of such wondrous love,\nindeed, profoundly stirred by the sufferings of their lives and the\nbeauty of their death, he showed a broad and lofty contempt for mundane\nproprieties. \u201cLeave them, leave me, my sister,\u201d said he, \u201cdo not disturb\ntheir slumber. Let their eyes remain open since they desire to gaze on\none another till the end of time without ever wearying. And let them\nsleep in one another\u2019s arms since in their lives they did not sin, and\nonly locked themselves in that embrace in order that they might be laid\ntogether in the ground.\u201d\n\nAnd then, again becoming a Roman Prince whose proud blood was yet hot\nwith old-time deeds of battle and passion, he added: \u201cTwo Boccaneras may\nwell sleep like that; all Rome will admire them and weep for them. Leave\nthem, leave them together, my sister. God knows them and awaits them!\u201d\n\nAll knelt, and the Cardinal himself repeated the prayers for the dead.\nNight was coming, increasing gloom stole into the chamber, where two\nburning tapers soon shone out like stars.\n\nAnd then, without knowing how, Pierre again found himself in the little\ndeserted garden on the bank of the Tiber. Suffocating with fatigue and\ngrief, he must have come thither for fresh air. Darkness shrouded the\ncharming nook where the streamlet of water falling from the tragic mask\ninto the ancient sarcophagus ever sang its shrill and flute-like song;\nand the laurel-bush which shaded it, and the bitter box-plants and the\norange-trees skirting the paths now formed but vague masses under the\nblue-black sky. Ah! how gay and sweet had that melancholy garden been in\nthe morning, and what a desolate echo it retained of Benedetta\u2019s winsome\nlaughter, all that fine delight in coming happiness which now lay prone\nupstairs, steeped in the nothingness of things and beings! So dolorous\nwas the pang which came to Pierre\u2019s heart that he burst into sobs, seated\non the same broken column where she had sat, and encompassed by the same\natmosphere that she had breathed, in which still lingered the perfume of\nher presence.\n\nBut all at once a distant clock struck six, and the young priest started\non remembering that he was to be received by the Pope that very evening\nat nine. Yet three more hours! He had not thought of that interview\nduring the terrifying catastrophe, and it seemed to him now as if months\nand months had gone by, as if the appointment were some very old one\nwhich a man is only able to keep after years of absence, when he has\ngrown aged and had his heart and brain modified by innumerable\nexperiences. However, he made an effort and rose to his feet. In three\nhours\u2019 time he would go to the Vatican and at last he would see the Pope.\n\n\n\n\n\nPART V.\n\n\n\n\nXIV.\n\n\nTHAT evening, when Pierre emerged from the Borgo in front of the Vatican,\na sonorous stroke rang out from the clock amidst the deep silence of the\ndark and sleepy district. It was only half-past eight, and being in\nadvance the young priest resolved to wait some twenty minutes in order to\nreach the doors of the papal apartments precisely at nine, the hour fixed\nfor his audience.\n\nThis respite brought him some relief amidst the infinite emotion and\ngrief which gripped his heart. That tragic afternoon which he had spent\nin the chamber of death, where Dario and Benedetta now slept the eternal\nsleep in one another\u2019s arms, had left him very weary. He was haunted by a\nwild, dolorous vision of the two lovers, and involuntary sighs came from\nhis lips whilst tears continually moistened his eyes. He had been\naltogether unable to eat that evening. Ah! how he would have liked to\nhide himself and weep at his ease! His heart melted at each fresh\nthought. The pitiful death of the lovers intensified the grievous feeling\nwith which his book was instinct, and impelled him to yet greater\ncompassion, a perfect anguish of charity for all who suffered in the\nworld. And he was so distracted by the thought of the many physical and\nmoral sores of Paris and of Rome, where he had beheld so much unjust and\nabominable suffering, that at each step he took he feared lest he should\nburst into sobs with arms upstretched towards the blackness of heaven.\n\nIn the hope of somewhat calming himself he began to walk slowly across\nthe Piazza of St. Peter\u2019s, now all darkness and solitude. On arriving he\nhad fancied that he was losing himself in a murky sea, but by degrees his\neyes grew accustomed to the dimness. The vast expanse was only lighted by\nthe four candelabra at the corners of the obelisk and by infrequent lamps\nskirting the buildings which run on either hand towards the Basilica.\nUnder the colonnade, too, other lamps threw yellow gleams across the\nforest of pillars, showing up their stone trunks in fantastic fashion;\nwhile on the piazza only the pale, ghostly obelisk was at all distinctly\nvisible. Pierre could scarcely perceive the dim, silent fa\u00e7ade of St.\nPeter\u2019s; whilst of the dome he merely divined a gigantic, bluey roundness\nfaintly shadowed against the sky. In the obscurity he at first heard the\nplashing of the fountains without being at all able to see them, but on\napproaching he at last distinguished the slender phantoms of the ever\nrising jets which fell again in spray. And above the vast square\nstretched the vast and moonless sky of a deep velvety blue, where the\nstars were large and radiant like carbuncles; Charles\u2019s Wain, with golden\nwheels and golden shaft tilted back as it were, over the roof of the\nVatican, and Orion, bedizened with the three bright stars of his belt,\nshowing magnificently above Rome, in the direction of the Via Giulia.\n\nAt last Pierre raised his eyes to the Vatican, but facing the piazza\nthere was here merely a confused jumble of walls, amidst which only two\ngleams of light appeared on the floor of the papal apartments. The Court\nof San Damaso was, however, lighted, for the conservatory-like glass-work\nof two of its sides sparkled as with the reflection of gas lamps which\ncould not be seen. For a time there was not a sound or sign of movement,\nbut at last two persons crossed the expanse of the piazza, and then came\na third who in his turn disappeared, nothing remaining but a rhythmical\nfar-away echo of steps. The spot was indeed a perfect desert, there were\nneither promenaders nor passers-by, nor was there even the shadow of a\nprowler in the pillared forest of the colonnade, which was as empty as\nthe wild primeval forests of the world\u2019s infancy. And what a solemn\ndesert it was, full of the silence of haughty desolation. Never had so\nvast and black a presentment of slumber, so instinct with the sovereign\nnobility of death, appeared to Pierre.\n\nAt ten minutes to nine he at last made up his mind and went towards the\nbronze portal. Only one of the folding doors was now open at the end of\nthe right-hand porticus, where the increasing density of the gloom\nsteeped everything in night. Pierre remembered the instructions which\nMonsignor Nani had given him; at each door that he reached he was to ask\nfor Signor Squadra without adding a word, and thereupon each door would\nopen and he would have nothing to do but to let himself be guided on. No\none but the prelate now knew that he was there, since Benedetta, the only\nbeing to whom he had confided the secret, was dead. When he had crossed\nthe threshold of the bronze doors and found himself in presence of the\nmotionless, sleeping Swiss Guard, who was on duty there, he simply spoke\nthe words agreed upon: \u201cSignor Squadra.\u201d And as the Guard did not stir,\ndid not seek to bar his way, he passed on, turning into the vestibule of\nthe Scala Pia, the stone stairway which ascends to the Court of San\nDamaso. And not a soul was to be seen: there was but the faint sound of\nhis own light footsteps and the sleepy glow of the gas jets whose light\nwas softly whitened by globes of frosted glass. Up above, on reaching the\ncourtyard he found it a solitude, whose slumber seemed sepulchral amidst\nthe mournful gleams of the gas lamps which cast a pallid reflection on\nthe lofty glass-work of the fa\u00e7ades. And feeling somewhat nervous,\naffected by the quiver which pervaded all that void and silence, Pierre\nhastened on, turning to the right, towards the low flight of steps which\nleads to the staircase of the Pope\u2019s private apartments.\n\nHere stood a superb gendarme in full uniform. \u201cSignor Squadra,\u201d said\nPierre, and without a word the gendarme pointed to the stairs.\n\nThe young man went up. It was a broad stairway, with low steps,\nbalustrade of white marble, and walls covered with yellowish stucco. The\ngas, burning in globes of round glass, seemed to have been already turned\ndown in a spirit of prudent economy. And in the glimmering light nothing\ncould have been more mournfully solemn than that cold and pallid\nstaircase. On each landing there was a Swiss Guard, halbard in hand, and\nin the heavy slumber spreading through the palace one only heard the\nregular monotonous footsteps of these men, ever marching up and down, in\norder no doubt that they might not succumb to the benumbing influence of\ntheir surroundings.\n\nAmidst the invading dimness and the quivering silence the ascent of the\nstairs seemed interminable to Pierre, who by the time he reached the\nsecond-floor landing imagined that he had been climbing for ages. There,\noutside the glass door of the Sala Clementina, only the right-hand half\nof which was open, a last Swiss Guard stood watching.\n\n\u201cSignor Squadra,\u201d Pierre said again, and the Guard drew back to let him\npass.\n\nThe Sala Clementina, spacious enough by daylight, seemed immense at that\nnocturnal hour, in the twilight glimmer of its lamps. All the opulent\ndecorative-work, sculpture, painting, and gilding became blended, the\nwalls assuming a tawny vagueness amidst which appeared bright patches\nlike the sparkle of precious stones. There was not an article of\nfurniture, nothing but the endless pavement stretching away into the\nsemi-darkness. At last, however, near a door at the far end Pierre espied\nsome men dozing on a bench. They were three Swiss Guards. \u201cSignor\nSquadra,\u201d he said to them.\n\nOne of the Guards thereupon slowly rose and left the hall, and Pierre\nunderstood that he was to wait. He did not dare to move, disturbed as he\nwas by the sound of his own footsteps on the paved floor, so he contented\nhimself with gazing around and picturing the crowds which at times\npeopled that vast apartment, the first of the many papal ante-chambers.\nBut before long the Guard returned, and behind him, on the threshold of\nthe adjoining room, appeared a man of forty or thereabouts, who was clad\nin black from head to foot and suggested a cross between a butler and a\nbeadle. He had a good-looking, clean-shaven face, with somewhat\npronounced nose and large, clear, fixed eyes. \u201cSignor Squadra,\u201d said\nPierre for the last time.\n\nThe man bowed as if to say that he was Signor Squadra, and then, with a\nfresh reverence, he invited the priest to follow him. Thereupon at a\nleisurely step, one behind the other, they began to thread the\ninterminable suite of waiting-rooms. Pierre, who was acquainted with the\nceremonial, of which he had often spoken with Narcisse, recognised the\ndifferent apartments as he passed through them, recalling their names and\npurpose, and peopling them in imagination with the various officials of\nthe papal retinue who have the right to occupy them. These according to\ntheir rank cannot go beyond certain doors, so that the persons who are to\nhave audience of the Pope are passed on from the servants to the Noble\nGuards, from the Noble Guards to the honorary _Camerieri_, and from the\nlatter to the _Camerieri segreti_, until they at last reach the presence\nof the Holy Father. At eight o\u2019clock, however, the ante-rooms empty and\nbecome both deserted and dim, only a few lamps being left alight upon the\npier tables standing here and there against the walls.\n\nAnd first Pierre came to the ante-room of the _bussolanti_, mere ushers\nclad in red velvet broidered with the papal arms, who conduct visitors to\nthe door of the ante-room of honour. At that late hour only one of them\nwas left there, seated on a bench in such a dark corner that his purple\ntunic looked quite black. Then the Hall of the Gendarmes was crossed,\nwhere according to the regulations the secretaries of cardinals and other\nhigh personages await their masters\u2019 return; and this was now completely\nempty, void both of the handsome blue uniforms with white shoulder belts\nand the cassocks of fine black cloth which mingled in it during the\nbrilliant reception hours. Empty also was the following room, a smaller\none reserved to the Palatine Guards, who are recruited among the Roman\nmiddle class and wear black tunics with gold epaulets and shakoes\nsurmounted by red plumes. Then Pierre and his guide turned into another\nseries of apartments, and again was the first one empty. This was the\nHall of the Arras, a superb waiting-room with lofty painted ceiling and\nadmirable Gobelins tapestry designed by Audran and representing the\nmiracles of Jesus. And empty also was the ante-chamber of the Noble\nGuards which followed, with its wooden stools, its pier table on the\nright-hand surmounted by a large crucifix standing between two lamps, and\nits large door opening at the far end into another but smaller room, a\nsort of alcove indeed, where there is an altar at which the Holy Father\nsays mass by himself whilst those privileged to be present remain\nkneeling on the marble slabs of the outer apartment which is resplendent\nwith the dazzling uniforms of the Guards. And empty likewise was the\nensuing ante-room of honour, otherwise the grand throne-room, where the\nPope receives two or three hundred people at a time in public audience.\nThe throne, an arm-chair of elaborate pattern, gilded, and upholstered\nwith red velvet, stands under a velvet canopy of the same hue, in front\nof the windows. Beside it is the cushion on which the Pope rests his foot\nin order that it may be kissed. Then facing one another, right and left\nof the room, there are two pier tables, on one of which is a clock and on\nthe other a crucifix between lofty candelabra with feet of gilded wood.\nThe wall hangings, of red silk damask with a Louis XIV palm pattern, are\ntopped by a pompous frieze, framing a ceiling decorated with allegorical\nfigures and attributes, and it is only just in front of the throne that a\nSmyrna carpet covers the magnificent marble pavement. On the days of\nprivate audience, when the Pope remains in the little throne-room or at\ntimes in his bed-chamber, the grand throne-room becomes simply the\nante-room of honour, where high dignitaries of the Church, ambassadors,\nand great civilian personages, wait their turns. Two _Camerieri_, one in\nviolet coat, the other of the Cape and the Sword, here do duty, receiving\nfrom the _bussolanti_ the persons who are to be honoured with audiences\nand conducting them to the door of the next room, the secret or private\nante-chamber, where they hand them over to the _Camerieri segreti_.\n\nSignor Squadra who, walking on with slow and silent steps, had not yet\nonce turned round, paused for a moment on reaching the door of the\n_anticamera segreta_ so as to give Pierre time to breathe and recover\nhimself somewhat before crossing the threshold of the sanctuary. The\n_Camerieri segreti_ alone had the right to occupy that last ante-chamber,\nand none but the cardinals might wait there till the Pope should\ncondescend to receive them. And so when Signor Squadra made up his mind\nto admit Pierre, the latter could not restrain a slight nervous shiver as\nif he were passing into some redoubtable mysterious sphere beyond the\nlimits of the lower world. In the daytime a Noble Guard stood on sentry\nduty before the door, but the latter was now free of access, and the room\nwithin proved as empty as all the others. It was rather narrow, almost\nlike a passage, with two windows overlooking the new district of the\ncastle fields and a third one facing the Piazza of St. Peter\u2019s. Near the\nlast was a door conducting to the little throne-room, and between this\ndoor and the window stood a small table at which a secretary, now absent,\nusually sat. And here again, as in all the other rooms, one found a\ngilded pier table surmounted by a crucifix flanked by a pair of lamps. In\na corner too there was a large clock, loudly ticking in its ebony case\nincrusted with brass-work. Still there was nothing to awaken curiosity\nunder the panelled and gilded ceiling unless it were the wall-hangings of\nred damask, on which yellow scutcheons displaying the Keys and the Tiara\nalternated with armorial lions, each with a paw resting on a globe.\n\nSignor Squadra, however, now noticed that Pierre still carried his hat in\nhis hand, whereas according to etiquette he should have left it in the\nhall of the _bussolanti_, only cardinals being privileged to carry their\nhats with them into the Pope\u2019s presence. Accordingly he discreetly took\nthe young priest\u2019s from him, and deposited it on the pier table to\nindicate that it must at least remain there. Then, without a word, by a\nsimple bow he gave Pierre to understand that he was about to announce him\nto his Holiness, and that he must be good enough to wait for a few\nminutes in that room.\n\nOn being left to himself Pierre drew a long breath. He was stifling; his\nheart was beating as though it would burst. Nevertheless his mind\nremained clear, and in spite of the semi-obscurity he had been able to\nform some idea of the famous and magnificent apartments of the Pope, a\nsuite of splendid _salons_ with tapestried or silken walls, gilded or\npainted friezes, and frescoed ceilings. By way of furniture, however,\nthere were only pier table, stools,* and thrones. And the lamps and the\nclocks, and the crucifixes, even the thrones, were all presents brought\nfrom the four quarters of the world in the great fervent days of jubilee.\nThere was no sign of comfort, everything was pompous, stiff, cold, and\ninconvenient. All olden Italy was there, with its perpetual display and\nlack of intimate, cosy life. It had been necessary to lay a few carpets\nover the superb marble slabs which froze one\u2019s feet; and some\n_calorif\u00e8res_ had even lately been installed, but it was not thought\nprudent to light them lest the variations of temperature should give the\nPope a cold. However, that which more particularly struck Pierre now that\nhe stood there waiting was the extraordinary silence which prevailed all\naround, silence so deep that it seemed as if all the dark quiescence of\nthat huge, somniferous Vatican were concentrated in that one suite of\nlifeless, sumptuous rooms, which the motionless flamelets of the lamps as\ndimly illumined.\n\n  * M. Zola seems to have fallen into error here. Many of the seats,\n    which are of peculiar antique design, do, in the lower part,\n    resemble stools, but they have backs, whereas a stool proper has\n    none. Briefly, these seats, which are entirely of wood, are not\n    unlike certain old-fashioned hall chairs.--Trans.\n\nAll at once the ebony clock struck nine and the young man felt\nastonished. What! had only ten minutes elapsed since he had crossed the\nthreshold of the bronze doors below? He felt as if he had been walking on\nfor days and days. Then, desiring to overcome the nervous feeling which\noppressed him--for he ever feared lest his enforced calmness should\ncollapse amidst a flood of tears--he began to walk up and down, passing\nin front of the clock, glancing at the crucifix on the pier table, and\nthe globe of the lamp on which had remained the mark of a servant\u2019s\ngreasy fingers. And the light was so faint and yellow that he felt\ninclined to turn the lamp up, but did not dare. Then he found himself\nwith his brow resting against one of the panes of the window facing the\nPiazza of St. Peter\u2019s, and for a moment he was thunderstruck, for between\nthe imperfectly closed shutters he could see all Rome, as he had seen it\none day from the _loggie_ of Raffaelle, and as he had pictured Leo XIII\ncontemplating it from the window of his bed-room. However, it was now\nRome by night, Rome spreading out into the depths of the gloom, as\nlimitless as the starry sky. And in that sea of black waves one could\nonly with certainty identify the larger thoroughfares which the white\nbrightness of electric lights turned, as it were, into Milky Ways. All\nthe rest showed but a swarming of little yellow sparks, the crumbs, as it\nwere, of a half-extinguished heaven swept down upon the earth. Occasional\nconstellations of bright stars, tracing mysterious figures, vainly\nendeavoured to show forth distinctly, but they were submerged, blotted\nout by the general chaos which suggested the dust of some old planet that\nhad crumbled there, losing its splendour and reduced to mere\nphosphorescent sand. And how immense was the blackness thus sprinkled\nwith light, how huge the mass of obscurity and mystery into which the\nEternal City with its seven and twenty centuries, its ruins, its\nmonuments, its people, its history seemed to have been merged. You could\nno longer tell where it began or where it ended, whether it spread to the\nfarthest recesses of the gloom, or whether it were so reduced that the\nsun on rising would illumine but a little pile of ashes.\n\nHowever, in spite of all Pierre\u2019s efforts, his nervous anguish increased\neach moment, even in presence of that ocean of darkness which displayed\nsuch sovereign quiescence. He drew away from the window and quivered from\nhead to foot on hearing a faint footfall and thinking it was that of\nSignor Squadra approaching to fetch him. The sound came from an adjacent\napartment, the little throne-room, whose door, he now perceived, had\nremained ajar. And at last, as he heard nothing further, he yielded to\nhis feverish impatience and peeped into this room which he found to be\nfairly spacious, again hung with red damask, and containing a gilded\narm-chair, covered with red velvet under a canopy of the same material.\nAnd again there was the inevitable pier table, with a tall ivory\ncrucifix, a clock, a pair of lamps, a pair of candelabra, a pair of large\nvases on pedestals, and two smaller ones of Sevres manufacture decorated\nwith the Holy Father\u2019s portrait. At the same time, however, the room\ndisplayed rather more comfort, for a Smyrna carpet covered the whole of\nthe marble floor, while a few arm-chairs stood against the walls, and an\nimitation chimney-piece, draped with damask, served as counterpart to the\npier table. As a rule the Pope, whose bed-chamber communicated with this\nlittle throne-room, received in the latter such persons as he desired to\nhonour. And Pierre\u2019s shiver became more pronounced at the idea that in\nall likelihood he would merely have the throne-room to cross and that Leo\nXIII was yonder behind its farther door. Why was he kept waiting, he\nwondered? He had been told of mysterious audiences granted at a similar\nhour to personages who had been received in similar silent fashion, great\npersonages whose names were only mentioned in the lowest whispers. With\nregard to himself no doubt, it was because he was considered compromising\nthat there was a desire to receive him in this manner unknown to the\npersonages of the Court, and so as to speak with him at ease. Then, all\nat once, he understood the cause of the noise he had recently heard, for\nbeside the lamp on the pier table of the little throne-room he saw a kind\nof butler\u2019s tray containing some soiled plates, knives, forks, and\nspoons, with a bottle and a glass, which had evidently just been removed\nfrom a supper table. And he realised that Signor Squadra, having seen\nthese things in the Pope\u2019s room, had brought them there, and had then\ngone in again, perhaps to tidy up. He knew also of the Pope\u2019s frugality,\nhow he took his meals all alone at a little round table, everything being\nbrought to him in that tray, a plate of meat, a plate of vegetables, a\nlittle Bordeaux claret as prescribed by his doctor, and a large allowance\nof beef broth of which he was very fond. In the same way as others might\noffer a cup of tea, he was wont to offer cups of broth to the old\ncardinals his friends and favourites, quite an invigorating little treat\nwhich these old bachelors much enjoyed. And, O ye orgies of Alexander VI,\nye banquets and _galas_ of Julius II and Leo X, only eight _lire_ a\nday--six shillings and fourpence--were allowed to defray the cost of Leo\nXIII\u2019s table! However, just as that recollection occurred to Pierre, he\nagain heard a slight noise, this time in his Holiness\u2019s bed-chamber, and\nthereupon, terrified by his indiscretion, he hastened to withdraw from\nthe entrance of the throne-room which, lifeless and quiescent though it\nwas, seemed in his agitation to flare as with sudden fire.\n\nThen, quivering too violently to be able to remain still, he began to\nwalk up and down the ante-chamber. He remembered that Narcisse had spoken\nto him of that Signor Squadra, his Holiness\u2019s cherished valet, whose\nimportance and influence were so great. He alone, on reception days, was\nable to prevail on the Pope to don a clean cassock if the one he was\nwearing happened to be soiled by snuff. And though his Holiness\nstubbornly shut himself up alone in his bed-room every night from a\nspirit of independence, which some called the anxiety of a miser\ndetermined to sleep alone with his treasure, Signor Squadra at all events\noccupied an adjoining chamber, and was ever on the watch, ready to\nrespond to the faintest call. Again, it was he who respectfully\nintervened whenever his Holiness sat up too late or worked too long. But\non this point it was difficult to induce the Pope to listen to reason.\nDuring his hours of insomnia he would often rise and send Squadra to\nfetch a secretary in order that he might detail some memoranda or sketch\nout an encyclical letter. When the drafting of one of the latter\nimpassioned him he would have spent days and nights over it, just as\nformerly, when claiming proficiency in Latin verse, he had often let the\ndawn surprise him whilst he was polishing a line. But, indeed, he slept\nvery little, his brain ever being at work, ever scheming out the\nrealisation of some former ideas. His memory alone seemed to have\nslightly weakened during recent times.\n\nPierre, as he slowly paced to and fro, gradually became absorbed in his\nthoughts of that lofty and sovereign personality. From the petty details\nof the Pope\u2019s daily existence, he passed to his intellectual life, to the\n_r\u00f4le_ which he was certainly bent on playing as a great pontiff. And\nPierre asked himself which of his two hundred and fifty-seven\npredecessors, the long line of saints and criminals, men of mediocrity\nand men of genius, he most desired to resemble. Was it one of the first\nhumble popes, those who followed on during the first three centuries,\nmere heads of burial guilds, fraternal pastors of the Christian\ncommunity? Was it Pope Damasus, the first great builder, the man of\nletters who took delight in intellectual matters, the ardent believer who\nis said to have opened the Catacombs to the piety of the faithful? Was it\nLeo III, who by crowning Charlemagne boldly consummated the rupture with\nthe schismatic East and conveyed the Empire to the West by the\nall-powerful will of God and His Church, which thenceforth disposed of\nthe crowns of monarchs? Was it the terrible Gregory VII, the purifier of\nthe temple, the sovereign of kings; was it Innocent III or Boniface VIII,\nthose masters of souls, nations, and thrones, who, armed with the fierce\nweapon of excommunication, reigned with such despotism over the terrified\nmiddle ages that Catholicism was never nearer the attainment of its dream\nof universal dominion? Was it Urban II or Gregory IX or another of those\npopes in whom flared the red Crusading passion which urged the nations on\nto the conquest of the unknown and the divine? Was it Alexander III, who\ndefended the Holy See against the Empire, and at last conquered and set\nhis foot on the neck of Frederick Barbarossa? Was it, long after the\nsorrows of Avignon, Julius II, who wore the cuirass and once more\nstrengthened the political power of the papacy? Was it Leo X, the\npompous, glorious patron of the Renascence, of a whole great century of\nart, whose mind, however, was possessed of so little penetration and\nforesight that he looked on Luther as a mere rebellious monk? Was it Pius\nV, who personified dark and avenging reaction, the fire of the stakes\nthat punished the heretic world? Was it some other of the popes who\nreigned after the Council of Trent with faith absolute, belief\nre-established in its full integrity, the Church saved by pride and the\nstubborn upholding of every dogma? Or was it a pope of the decline, such\nas Benedict XIV, the man of vast intelligence, the learned theologian\nwho, as his hands were tied, and he could not dispose of the kingdoms of\nthe world, spent a worthy life in regulating the affairs of heaven?\n\nIn this wise, in Pierre\u2019s mind there spread out the whole history of the\npopes, the most prodigious of all histories, showing fortune in every\nguise, the lowest, the most wretched, as well as the loftiest and most\ndazzling; whilst an obstinate determination to live enabled the papacy to\nsurvive everything--conflagrations, massacres, and the downfall of many\nnations, for always did it remain militant and erect in the persons of\nits popes, that most extraordinary of all lines of absolute, conquering,\nand domineering sovereigns, every one of them--even the puny and\nhumble--masters of the world, every one of them glorious with the\nimperishable glory of heaven when they were thus evoked in that ancient\nVatican, where their spirits assuredly awoke at night and prowled about\nthe endless galleries and spreading halls in that tomb-like silence whose\nquiver came no doubt from the light touch of their gliding steps over the\nmarble slabs.\n\nHowever, Pierre was now thinking that he indeed knew which of the great\npopes Leo XIII most desired to resemble. It was first Gregory the Great,\nthe conqueror and organiser of the early days of Catholic power. He had\ncome of ancient Roman stock, and in his heart there was a little of the\nblood of the emperors. He administered Rome after it had been saved from\nthe Goths, cultivated the ecclesiastical domains, and divided earthly\nwealth into thirds, one for the poor, one for the clergy, and one for the\nChurch. Then too he was the first to establish the Propaganda, sending\nhis priests forth to civilise and pacify the nations, and carrying his\nconquests so far as to win Great Britain over to the divine law of\nChrist. And the second pope whom Leo XIII took as model was one who had\narisen after a long lapse of centuries, Sixtus V, the pope financier and\npolitician, the vine-dresser\u2019s son, who, when he had donned the tiara,\nrevealed one of the most extensive and supple minds of a period fertile\nin great diplomatists. He heaped up treasure and displayed stern avarice,\nin order that he might ever have in his coffers all the money needful for\nwar or for peace. He spent years and years in negotiations with kings,\nnever despairing of his own triumph; and never did he display open\nhostility for his times, but took them as they were and then sought to\nmodify them in accordance with the interests of the Holy See, showing\nhimself conciliatory in all things and with every one, already dreaming\nof an European balance of power which he hoped to control. And withal a\nvery saintly pope, a fervent mystic, yet a pope of the most absolute and\ndomineering mind blended with a politician ready for whatever courses\nmight most conduce to the rule of God\u2019s Church on earth.\n\nAnd, after all, Pierre amidst his rising enthusiasm, which despite his\nefforts at calmness was sweeping away all prudence and doubt, Pierre\nasked himself why he need question the past. Was not Leo XIII the pope\nwhom he had depicted in his book, the great pontiff, who was desired and\nexpected? No doubt the portrait which he had sketched was not accurate in\nevery detail, but surely its main lines must be correct if mankind were\nto retain a hope of salvation. Whole pages of that book of his arose\nbefore him, and he again beheld the Leo XIII that he had portrayed, the\nwise and conciliatory politician, labouring for the unity of the Church\nand so anxious to make it strong and invincible against the day of the\ninevitable great struggle. He again beheld him freed from the cares of\nthe temporal power, elevated, radiant with moral splendour, the only\nauthority left erect above the nations; he beheld him realising what\nmortal danger would be incurred if the solution of the social question\nwere left to the enemies of Christianity, and therefore resolving to\nintervene in contemporary quarrels for the defence of the poor and the\nlowly, even as Jesus had intervened once before. And he again beheld him\nputting himself on the side of the democracies, accepting the Republic in\nFrance, leaving the dethroned kings in exile, and verifying the\nprediction which promised the empire of the world to Rome once more when\nthe papacy should have unified belief and have placed itself at the head\nof the people. The times indeed were near accomplishment, Caesar was\nstruck down, the Pope alone remained, and would not the people, the great\nsilent multitude, for whom the two powers had so long contended, give\nitself to its Father now that it knew him to be both just and charitable,\nwith heart aglow and hand outstretched to welcome all the penniless\ntoilers and beggars of the roads! Given the catastrophe which threatened\nour rotten modern societies, the frightful misery which ravaged every\ncity, there was surely no other solution possible: Leo XIII, the\npredestined, necessary redeemer, the pastor sent to save the flock from\ncoming disaster by re-establishing the true Christian community, the\nforgotten golden age of primitive Christianity. The reign of justice\nwould at last begin, all men would be reconciled, there would be but one\nnation living in peace and obeying the equalising law of work, under the\nhigh patronage of the Pope, sole bond of charity and love on earth!\n\nAnd at this thought Pierre was upbuoyed by fiery enthusiasm. At last he\nwas about to see the Holy Father, empty his heart and open his soul to\nhim! He had so long and so passionately looked for the advent of that\nmoment! To secure it he had fought with all his courage through ever\nrecurring obstacles, and the length and difficulty of the struggle and\nthe success now at last achieved, increased his feverishness, his desire\nfor final victory. Yes, yes, he would conquer, he would confound his\nenemies. As he had said to Monsignor Fornaro, could the Pope disavow him?\nHad he not expressed the Holy Father\u2019s secret ideas? Perhaps he might\nhave done so somewhat prematurely, but was not that a fault to be\nforgiven? And then too, he remembered his declaration to Monsignor Nani,\nthat he himself would never withdraw and suppress his book, for he\nneither regretted nor disowned anything that was in it. At this very\nmoment he again questioned himself, and felt that all his valour and\ndetermination to defend his book, all his desire to work the triumph of\nhis belief, remained intact. Yet his mental perturbation was becoming\ngreat, he had to seek for ideas, wondering how he should enter the Pope\u2019s\npresence, what he should say, what precise terms he should employ.\nSomething heavy and mysterious which he could hardly account for seemed\nto weigh him down. At bottom he was weary, already exhausted, only held\nup by his dream, his compassion for human misery. However, he would enter\nin all haste, he would fall upon his knees and speak as he best could,\nletting his heart flow forth. And assuredly the Holy Father would smile\non him, and dismiss him with a promise that he would not sign the\ncondemnation of a work in which he had found the expression of his own\nmost cherished thoughts.\n\nThen, again, such an acute sensation as of fainting came over Pierre that\nhe went up to the window to press his burning brow against the cold\nglass. His ears were buzzing, his legs staggering, whilst his brain\nthrobbed violently. And he was striving to forget his thoughts by gazing\nupon the black immensity of Rome, longing to be steeped in night himself,\ntotal, healing night, the night in which one sleeps on for ever, knowing\nneither pain nor wretchedness, when all at once he became conscious that\nsomebody was standing behind him; and thereupon, with a start, he turned\nround.\n\nAnd there, indeed, stood Signor Squadra in his black livery. Again he\nmade one of his customary bows to invite the visitor to follow him, and\nagain he walked on in front, crossing the little throne-room, and slowly\nopening the farther door. Then he drew aside, allowed Pierre to enter,\nand noiselessly closed the door behind him.\n\nPierre was in his Holiness\u2019s bed-room. He had feared one of those\noverwhelming attacks of emotion which madden or paralyse one. He had been\ntold of women reaching the Pope\u2019s presence in a fainting condition,\nstaggering as if intoxicated, while others came with a rush, as though\nupheld and borne along by invisible pinions. And suddenly the anguish of\nhis own spell of waiting, his intense feverishness, ceased in a sort of\nastonishment, a reaction which rendered him very calm and so restored his\nclearness of vision, that he could see everything. As he entered he\ndistinctly realised the decisive importance of such an audience, he, a\nmere petty priest in presence of the Supreme Pontiff, the Head of the\nChurch. All his religious and moral life would depend on it; and possibly\nit was this sudden thought that thus chilled him on the threshold of the\nredoubtable sanctuary, which he had approached with such quivering steps,\nand which he would not have thought to enter otherwise than with\ndistracted heart and loss of senses, unable to do more than stammer the\nsimple prayers of childhood.\n\nLater on, when he sought to classify his recollections he remembered that\nhis eyes had first lighted on Leo XIII, not, however, to the exclusion of\nhis surroundings, but in conjunction with them, that spacious room hung\nwith yellow damask whose alcove, adorned with fluted marble columns, was\nso deep that the bed was quite hidden away in it, as well as other\narticles of furniture, a couch, a wardrobe, and some trunks, those famous\ntrunks in which the treasure of the Peter\u2019s Pence was said to be securely\nlocked. A sort of Louis XIV writing-desk with ornaments of engraved brass\nstood face to face with a large gilded and painted Louis XV pier table on\nwhich a lamp was burning beside a lofty crucifix. The room was virtually\nbare, only three arm-chairs and four or five other chairs, upholstered in\nlight silk, being disposed here and there over the well-worn carpet. And\non one of the arm-chairs sat Leo XIII, near a small table on which\nanother lamp with a shade had been placed. Three newspapers, moreover,\nlay there, two of them French and one Italian, and the last was half\nunfolded as if the Pope had momentarily turned from it to stir a glass of\nsyrup, standing beside him, with a long silver-gilt spoon.\n\nIn the same way as Pierre saw the Pope\u2019s room, he saw his costume, his\ncassock of white cloth with white buttons, his white skull-cap, his white\ncape and his white sash fringed with gold and broidered at either end\nwith golden keys. His stockings were white, his slippers were of red\nvelvet, and these again were broidered with golden keys. What surprised\nthe young priest, however, was his Holiness\u2019s face and figure, which now\nseemed so shrunken that he scarcely recognised them. This was his fourth\nmeeting with the Pope. He had seen him walking in the Vatican gardens,\nenthroned in the Hall of Beatifications, and pontifying at St. Peter\u2019s,\nand now he beheld him on that arm-chair, in privacy, and looking so\nslight and fragile that he could not restrain a feeling of affectionate\nanxiety. Leo\u2019s neck was particularly remarkable, slender beyond belief,\nsuggesting the neck of some little, aged, white bird. And his face, of\nthe pallor of alabaster, was characteristically transparent, to such a\ndegree, indeed, that one could see the lamplight through his large\ncommanding nose, as if the blood had entirely withdrawn from that organ.\nA mouth of great length, with white bloodless lips, streaked the lower\npart of the papal countenance, and the eyes alone had remained young and\nhandsome. Superb eyes they were, brilliant like black diamonds, endowed\nwith sufficient penetration and strength to lay souls open and force them\nto confess the truth aloud. Some scanty white curls emerged from under\nthe white skull-cap, thus whitely crowning the thin white face, whose\nugliness was softened by all this whiteness, this spiritual whiteness in\nwhich Leo XIII\u2019s flesh seemed as it were but pure lily-white florescence.\n\nAt the first glance, however, Pierre noticed that if Signor Squadra had\nkept him waiting, it had not been in order to compel the Holy Father to\ndon a clean cassock, for the one he was wearing was badly soiled by\nsnuff. A number of brown stains had trickled down the front of the\ngarment beside the buttons, and just like any good _bourgeois_, his\nHoliness had a handkerchief on his knees to wipe himself. Apart from all\nthis he seemed in good health, having recovered from his recent\nindisposition as easily as he usually recovered from such passing\nillnesses, sober, prudent old man that he was, quite free from organic\ndisease, and simply declining by reason of progressive natural\nexhaustion.\n\nImmediately on entering Pierre had felt that the Pope\u2019s sparkling eyes,\nthose two black diamonds, were fixed upon him. The silence was profound,\nand the lamps burned with motionless, pallid flames. He had to approach,\nand after making the three genuflections prescribed by etiquette, he\nstooped over one of the Pope\u2019s feet resting on a cushion in order to kiss\nthe red velvet slipper. And on the Pope\u2019s side there was not a word, not\na gesture, not a movement. When the young man drew himself up again he\nfound the two black diamonds, those two eyes which were all brightness\nand intelligence, still riveted on him.\n\nBut at last Leo XIII, who had been unwilling to spare the young priest\nthe humble duty of kissing his foot and who now left him standing, began\nto speak, whilst still examining him, probing, as it were, his very soul.\n\u201cMy son,\u201d he said, \u201cyou greatly desired to see me, and I consented to\nafford you that satisfaction.\u201d\n\nHe spoke in French, somewhat uncertain French, pronounced after the\nItalian fashion, and so slowly did he articulate each sentence that one\ncould have written it down like so much dictation. And his voice, as\nPierre had previously noticed, was strong and nasal, one of those full\nvoices which people are surprised to hear coming from debile and\napparently bloodless and breathless frames.\n\nIn response to the Holy Father\u2019s remark Pierre contented himself with\nbowing, knowing that respect required him to wait for a direct answer\nbefore speaking. However, this question promptly came. \u201cYou live in\nParis?\u201d asked Leo XIII.\n\n\u201cYes, Holy Father.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you attached to one of the great parishes of the city?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Holy Father. I simply officiate at the little church of Neuilly.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, yes, Neuilly, that is in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne, is\nit not? And how old are you, my son?\u201d\n\n\u201cThirty-four, Holy Father.\u201d\n\nA short interval followed. Leo XIII had at last lowered his eyes. With\nfrail, ivory hand he took up the glass beside him, again stirred the\nsyrup with the long spoon, and then drank a little of it. And all this he\ndid gently and slowly, with a prudent, judicious air, as was his wont no\ndoubt in everything. \u201cI have read your book, my son,\u201d he resumed. \u201cYes,\nthe greater part of it. As a rule only fragments are submitted to me. But\na person who is interested in you handed me the volume, begging me to\nglance through it. And that is how I was able to look into it.\u201d\n\nAs he spoke he made a slight gesture in which Pierre fancied he could\ndetect a protest against the isolation in which he was kept by those\nsurrounding him, who, as Monsignor Nani had said, maintained a strict\nwatch in order that nothing they objected to might reach him. And\nthereupon the young priest ventured to say: \u201cI thank your Holiness for\nhaving done me so much honour. No greater or more desired happiness could\nhave befallen me.\u201d He was indeed so happy! On seeing the Pope so calm, so\nfree from all signs of anger, and on hearing him speak in that way of his\nbook, like one well acquainted with it, he imagined that his cause was\nwon.\n\n\u201cYou are in relations with Monsieur le Vicomte Philibert de la Choue, are\nyou not, my son?\u201d continued Leo XIII. \u201cI was struck by the resemblance\nbetween some of your ideas and those of that devoted servant of the\nChurch, who has in other ways given us previous testimony of his good\nfeelings.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, indeed, Holy Father, Monsieur de la Choue is kind enough to show me\nsome affection. We have often talked together, so it is not surprising\nthat I should have given expression to some of his most cherished ideas.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt, no doubt. For instance, there is that question of the\nworking-class guilds with which he largely occupies himself--with which,\nin fact, he occupies himself rather too much. At the time of his last\njourney to Rome he spoke to me of it in the most pressing manner. And in\nthe same way, quite recently, another of your compatriots, one of the\nbest and worthiest of men, Monsieur le Baron de Fouras, who brought us\nthat superb pilgrimage of the St. Peter\u2019s Pence Fund, never ceased his\nefforts until I consented to receive him, when he spoke to me on the same\nsubject during nearly an hour. Only it must be said that they do not\nagree in the matter, for one begs me to do things which the other will\nnot have me do on any account.\u201d\n\nPierre realised that the conversation was straying away from his book,\nbut he remembered having promised the Viscount that if he should see the\nPope he would make an attempt to obtain from him a decisive expression of\nopinion on the famous question as to whether the working-class guilds or\ncorporations should be free or obligatory, open or closed. And the\nunhappy Viscount, kept in Paris by the gout, had written the young priest\nletter after letter on the subject, whilst his rival the Baron, availing\nhimself of the opportunity offered by the international pilgrimage,\nendeavoured to wring from the Pope an approval of his own views, with\nwhich he would have returned in triumph to France. Pierre conscientiously\ndesired to keep his promise, and so he answered: \u201cYour Holiness knows\nbetter than any of us in which direction true wisdom lies. Monsieur de\nFouras is of opinion that salvation, the solution of the labour question,\nlies simply in the re-establishment of the old free corporations, whilst\nMonsieur de la Choue desires the corporations to be obligatory, protected\nby the state and governed by new regulations. This last conception is\ncertainly more in agreement with the social ideas now prevalent in\nFrance. Should your Holiness condescend to express a favourable opinion\nin that sense, the young French Catholic party would certainly know how\nto turn it to good result, by producing quite a movement of the working\nclasses in favour of the Church.\u201d\n\nIn his quiet way Leo XIII responded: \u201cBut I cannot. Frenchmen always ask\nthings of me which I cannot, will not do. What I will allow you to say on\nmy behalf to Monsieur de la Choue is, that though I cannot content him I\nhave not contented Monsieur de Fouras. He obtained from me nothing beyond\nthe expression of my sincere good-will for the French working classes,\nwho are so dear to me and who can do so much for the restoration of the\nfaith. You must surely understand, however, that among you Frenchmen\nthere are questions of detail, of mere organisation, so to say, into\nwhich I cannot possibly enter without imparting to them an importance\nwhich they do not have, and at the same time greatly discontenting some\npeople should I please others.\u201d\n\nAs the Pope pronounced these last words he smiled a pale smile, in which\nthe shrewd, conciliatory politician, who was determined not to allow his\ninfallibility to be compromised in useless and risky ventures, was fully\nrevealed. And then he drank a little more syrup and wiped his mouth with\nhis handkerchief, like a sovereign whose Court day is over and who takes\nhis ease, having chosen this hour of solitude and silence to chat as long\nas he may be so inclined.\n\nPierre, however, sought to bring him back to the subject of his book.\n\u201cMonsieur de la Choue,\u201d said he, \u201chas shown me so much kindness and is so\nanxious to know the fate reserved to my book--as if, indeed, it were his\nown--that I should have been very happy to convey to him an expression of\nyour Holiness\u2019s approval.\u201d\n\nHowever, the Pope continued wiping his mouth and did not reply.\n\n\u201cI became acquainted with the Viscount,\u201d continued Pierre, \u201cat the\nresidence of his Eminence Cardinal Bergerot, another great heart whose\nardent charity ought to suffice to restore the faith in France.\u201d\n\nThis time the effect was immediate. \u201cAh! yes, Monsieur le Cardinal\nBergerot!\u201d said Leo XIII. \u201cI read that letter of his which is printed at\nthe beginning of your book. He was very badly inspired in writing it to\nyou; and you, my son, acted very culpably on the day you published it. I\ncannot yet believe that Monsieur le Cardinal Bergerot had read some of\nyour pages when he sent you an expression of his complete and full\napproval. I prefer to charge him with ignorance and thoughtlessness. How\ncould he approve of your attacks on dogma, your revolutionary theories\nwhich tend to the complete destruction of our holy religion? If it be a\nfact that he had read your book, the only excuse he can invoke is sudden\nand inexplicable aberration. It is true that a very bad spirit prevails\namong a small portion of the French clergy. What are called Gallican\nideas are ever sprouting up like noxious weeds; there is a malcontent\nLiberalism rebellious to our authority which continually hungers for free\nexamination and sentimental adventures.\u201d\n\nThe Pope grew animated as he spoke. Italian words mingled with his\nhesitating French, and every now and again his full nasal voice resounded\nwith the sonority of a brass instrument. \u201cMonsieur le Cardinal Bergerot,\u201d\n he continued, \u201cmust be given to understand that we shall crush him on the\nday when we see in him nothing but a rebellious son. He owes the example\nof obedience; we shall acquaint him with our displeasure, and we hope\nthat he will submit. Humility and charity are great virtues doubtless,\nand we have always taken pleasure in recognising them in him. But they\nmust not be the refuge of a rebellious heart, for they are as nothing\nunless accompanied by obedience--obedience, obedience, the finest\nadornment of the great saints!\u201d\n\nPierre listened thunderstruck, overcome. He forgot himself to think of\nthe apostle of kindliness and tolerance upon whose head he had drawn this\nall-powerful anger. So Don Vigilio had spoken the truth: over and above\nhis--Pierre\u2019s--head the denunciations of the Bishops of Evreux and\nPoitiers were about to fall on the man who opposed their Ultramontane\npolicy, that worthy and gentle Cardinal Bergerot, whose heart was open to\nall the woes of the lowly and the poor. This filled the young priest with\ndespair; he could accept the denunciation of the Bishop of Tarbes acting\non behalf of the Fathers of the Grotto, for that only fell on himself, as\na reprisal for what he had written about Lourdes; but the underhand\nwarfare of the others exasperated him, filled him with dolorous\nindignation. And from that puny old man before him with the slender,\nscraggy neck of an aged bird, he had suddenly seen such a wrathful,\nformidable Master arise that he trembled. How could he have allowed\nhimself to be deceived by appearances on entering? How could he have\nimagined that he was simply in presence of a poor old man, worn out by\nage, desirous of peace, and ready for every concession? A blast had swept\nthrough that sleepy chamber, and all his doubts and his anguish awoke\nonce more. Ah! that Pope, how thoroughly he answered to all the accounts\nthat he, Pierre, had heard but had refused to believe; so many people had\ntold him in Rome that he would find Leo XIII a man of intellect rather\nthan of sentiment, a man of the most unbounded pride, who from his very\nyouth had nourished the supreme ambition, to such a point indeed that he\nhad promised eventual triumph to his relatives in order that they might\nmake the necessary sacrifices for him, while since he had occupied the\npontifical throne his one will and determination had been to reign, to\nreign in spite of all, to be the sole absolute and omnipotent master of\nthe world! And now here was reality arising with irresistible force and\nconfirming everything. And yet Pierre struggled, stubbornly clutching at\nhis dream once more.\n\n\u201cOh! Holy Father,\u201d said he, \u201cI should be grieved indeed if his Eminence\nshould have a moment\u2019s worry on account of my unfortunate book. If I be\nguilty I can answer for my error, but his Eminence only obeyed the\ndictates of his heart and can only have transgressed by excess of love\nfor the disinherited of the world!\u201d\n\nLeo XIII made no reply. He had again raised his superb eyes, those eyes\nof ardent life, set, as it were, in the motionless countenance of an\nalabaster idol; and once more he was fixedly gazing at the young priest.\n\nAnd Pierre, amidst his returning feverishness, seemed to behold him\ngrowing in power and splendour, whilst behind him arose a vision of the\nages, a vision of that long line of popes whom the young priest had\npreviously evoked, the saintly and the proud ones, the warriors and the\nascetics, the theologians and the diplomatists, those who had worn\narmour, those who had conquered by the Cross, those who had disposed of\nempires as of mere provinces which God had committed to their charge. And\nin particular Pierre beheld the great Gregory, the conqueror and founder,\nand Sixtus V, the negotiator and politician, who had first foreseen the\neventual victory of the papacy over all the vanquished monarchies. Ah!\nwhat a throng of magnificent princes, of sovereign masters with powerful\nbrains and arms, there was behind that pale, motionless, old man! What an\naccumulation of inexhaustible determination, stubborn genius, and\nboundless domination! The whole history of human ambition, the whole\neffort of the ages to subject the nations to the pride of one man, the\ngreatest force that has ever conquered, exploited, and fashioned mankind\nin the name of its happiness! And even now, when territorial sovereignty\nhad come to an end, how great was the spiritual sovereignty of that pale\nand slender old man, in whose presence women fainted, as if overcome by\nthe divine splendour radiating from his person. Not only did all the\nresounding glories, the masterful triumphs of history spread out behind\nhim, but heaven opened, the very spheres beyond life shone out in their\ndazzling mystery. He--the Pope--stood at the portals of heaven, holding\nthe keys and opening those portals to human souls; all the ancient\nsymbolism was revived, freed at last from the stains of royalty here\nbelow.\n\n\u201cOh! I beg you, Holy Father,\u201d resumed Pierre, \u201cif an example be needed\nstrike none other than myself. I have come, and am here; decide my fate,\nbut do not aggravate my punishment by filling me with remorse at having\nbrought condemnation on the innocent.\u201d\n\nLeo XIII still refrained from replying, though he continued to look at\nthe young priest with burning eyes. And he, Pierre, no longer beheld Leo\nXIII, the last of a long line of popes, the Vicar of Jesus Christ, the\nSuccessor of the Prince of the Apostles, the Supreme Pontiff of the\nUniversal Church, Patriarch of the East, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and\nMetropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Temporal Domains of\nthe Holy Church; he saw the Leo XIII that he had dreamt of, the awaited\nsaviour who would dispel the frightful cataclysm in which rotten society\nwas sinking. He beheld him with his supple, lofty intelligence and\nfraternal, conciliatory tactics, avoiding friction and labouring to bring\nabout unity whilst with his heart overflowing with love he went straight\nto the hearts of the multitude, again giving the best of his blood in\nsign of the new alliance. He raised him aloft as the sole remaining moral\nauthority, the sole possible bond of charity and peace--as the Father, in\nfact, who alone could stamp out injustice among his children, destroy\nmisery, and re-establish the liberating Law of Work by bringing the\nnations back to the faith of the primitive Church, the gentleness and the\nwisdom of the true Christian community. And in the deep silence of that\nroom the great figure which he thus set up assumed invincible\nall-powerfulness, extraordinary majesty.\n\n\u201cOh, I beseech you, Holy Father, listen to me,\u201d he said. \u201cDo not even\nstrike me, strike no one, neither a being nor a thing, anything that can\nsuffer under the sun. Show kindness and indulgence to all, show all the\nkindness and indulgence which the sight of the world\u2019s sufferings must\nhave set in you!\u201d\n\nAnd then, seeing that Leo XIII still remained silent and still left him\nstanding there, he sank down upon his knees, as if felled by the growing\nemotion which rendered his heart so heavy. And within him there was a\nsort of _deb\u00e2cle_; all his doubts, all his anguish and sadness burst\nforth in an irresistible stream. There was the memory of the frightful\nday that he had just spent, the tragic death of Dario and Benedetta,\nwhich weighed on him like lead; there were all the sufferings that he had\nexperienced since his arrival in Rome, the destruction of his illusions,\nthe wounds dealt to his delicacy, the buffets with which men and things\nhad responded to his young enthusiasm; and, lying yet more deeply within\nhis heart, there was the sum total of human wretchedness, the thought of\nfamished ones howling for food, of mothers whose breasts were drained and\nwho sobbed whilst kissing their hungry babes, of fathers without work,\nwho clenched their fists and revolted--indeed, the whole of that hateful\nmisery which is as old as mankind itself, which has preyed upon mankind\nsince its earliest hour, and which he now had everywhere found increasing\nin horror and havoc, without a gleam of hope that it would ever be\nhealed. And withal, yet more immense and more incurable, he felt within\nhim a nameless sorrow to which he could assign no precise cause or\nname--an universal, an illimitable sorrow with which he melted\ndespairingly, and which was perhaps the very sorrow of life.\n\n\u201cO Holy Father!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI myself have no existence and my book\nhas no existence. I desired, passionately desired to see your Holiness\nthat I might explain and defend myself. But I no longer know, I can no\nlonger recall a single one of the things that I wished to say, I can only\nweep, weep the tears which are stifling me. Yes, I am but a poor man, and\nthe only need I feel is to speak to you of the poor. Oh! the poor ones,\noh! the lowly ones, whom for two years past I have seen in our faubourgs\nof Paris, so wretched and so full of pain; the poor little children that\nI have picked out of the snow, the poor little angels who had eaten\nnothing for two days; the women too, consumed by consumption, without\nbread or fire, shivering in filthy hovels; and the men thrown on the\nstreet by slackness of trade, weary of begging for work as one begs for\nalms, sinking back into night, drunken with rage and harbouring the sole\navenging thought of setting the whole city afire! And that night too,\nthat terrible night, when in a room of horror I beheld a mother who had\njust killed herself with her five little ones, she lying on a palliasse\nsuckling her last-born, and two little girls, two pretty little blondes,\nsleeping the last sleep beside her, while the two boys had succumbed\nfarther away, one of them crouching against a wall, and the other lying\nupon the floor, distorted as though by a last effort to avoid death!...\nO Holy Father! I am but an ambassador, the messenger of those who suffer\nand who sob, the humble delegate of the humble ones who die of want\nbeneath the hateful harshness, the frightful injustice of our present-day\nsocial system! And I bring your Holiness their tears, and I lay their\ntortures at your Holiness\u2019s feet, I raise their cry of woe, like a cry\nfrom the abyss, that cry which demands justice unless indeed the very\nheavens are to fall! Oh! show your loving kindness, Holy Father, show\ncompassion!\u201d\n\nThe young man had stretched out his arms and implored Leo XIII with a\ngesture as of supreme appeal to the divine compassion. Then he continued:\n\u201cAnd here, Holy Father, in this splendid and eternal Rome, is not the\nwant and misery as frightful! During the weeks that I have roamed hither\nand thither among the dust of famous ruins, I have never ceased to come\nin contact with evils which demand cure. Ah! to think of all that is\ncrumbling, all that is expiring, the agony of so much glory, the fearful\nsadness of a world which is dying of exhaustion and hunger! Yonder, under\nyour Holiness\u2019s windows, have I not seen a district of horrors, a\ndistrict of unfinished palaces stricken like rickety children who cannot\nattain to full growth, palaces which are already in ruins and have become\nplaces of refuge for all the woeful misery of Rome? And here, as in\nParis, what a suffering multitude, what a shameless exhibition too of the\nsocial sore, the devouring cancer openly tolerated and displayed in utter\nheedlessness! There are whole families leading idle and hungry lives in\nthe splendid sunlight; fathers waiting for work to fall to them from\nheaven; sons listlessly spending their days asleep on the dry grass;\nmothers and daughters, withered before their time, shuffling about in\nloquacious idleness. O Holy Father, already to-morrow at dawn may your\nHoliness open that window yonder and with your benediction awaken that\ngreat childish people, which still slumbers in ignorance and poverty! May\nyour Holiness give it the soul it lacks, a soul with the consciousness of\nhuman dignity, of the necessary law of work, of free and fraternal life\nregulated by justice only! Yes, may your Holiness make a people out of\nthat heap of wretches, whose excuse lies in all their bodily suffering\nand mental night, who live like the beasts that go by and die, never\nknowing nor understanding, yet ever lashed onward with the whip!\u201d\n\nPierre\u2019s sobs were gradually choking him, and it was only the impulse of\nhis passion which still enabled him to speak. \u201cAnd, Holy Father,\u201d he\ncontinued, \u201cis it not to you that I ought to address myself in the name\nof all these wretched ones? Are you not the Father, and is it not before\nthe Father that the messenger of the poor and the lowly should kneel as I\nam kneeling now? And is it not to the Father that he should bring the\nhuge burden of their sorrows and ask for pity and help and justice? Yes,\nparticularly for justice! And since you are the Father throw the doors\nwide open so that all may enter, even the humblest of your children, the\nfaithful, the chance passers, even the rebellious ones and those who have\ngone astray but who will perhaps enter and whom you will save from the\nerrors of abandonment! Be as the house of refuge on the dangerous road,\nthe loving greeter of the wayfarer, the lamp of hospitality which ever\nburns, and is seen afar off and saves one in the storm! And since, O\nFather, you are power be salvation also! You can do all; you have\ncenturies of domination behind you; you have nowadays risen to a moral\nauthority which has rendered you the arbiter of the world; you are there\nbefore me like the very majesty of the sun which illumines and\nfructifies! Oh! be the star of kindness and charity, be the redeemer;\ntake in hand once more the purpose of Jesus, which has been perverted by\nbeing left in the hands of the rich and the powerful who have ended by\ntransforming the work of the Gospel into the most hateful of all\nmonuments of pride and tyranny! And since the work has been spoilt, take\nit in hand, begin it afresh, place yourself on the side of the little\nones, the lowly ones, the poor ones, and bring them back to the peace,\nthe fraternity, and the justice of the original Christian communion. And\nsay, O Father, that I have understood you, that I have sincerely\nexpressed in this respect your most cherished ideas, the sole living\ndesire of your reign! The rest, oh! the rest, my book, myself, what\nmatter they! I do not defend myself, I only seek your glory and the\nhappiness of mankind. Say that from the depths of this Vatican you have\nheard the rending of our corrupt modern societies! Say that you have\nquivered with loving pity, say that you desire to prevent the awful\nimpending catastrophe by recalling the Gospel to the hearts of your\nchildren who are stricken with madness, and by bringing them back to the\nage of simplicity and purity when the first Christians lived together in\ninnocent brotherhood! Yes, it is for that reason, is it not, that you\nhave placed yourself, Father, on the side of the poor, and for that\nreason I am here and entreat you for pity and kindness and justice with\nmy whole soul!\u201d\n\nThen the young man gave way beneath his emotion, and fell all of a heap\nupon the floor amidst a rush of sobs--loud, endless sobs, which flowed\nforth in billows, coming as it were not only from himself but from all\nthe wretched, from the whole world in whose veins sorrow coursed mingled\nwith the very blood of life. He was there as the ambassador of suffering,\nas he had said. And indeed, at the foot of that mute and motionless pope,\nhe was like the personification of the whole of human woe.\n\nLeo XIII, who was extremely fond of talking and could only listen to\nothers with an effort, had twice raised one of his pallid hands to\ninterrupt the young priest. Then, gradually overcome by astonishment,\ntouched by emotion himself, he had allowed him to continue, to go on to\nthe end of his outburst. A little blood even had suffused the snowy\nwhiteness of the Pontiff\u2019s face whilst his eyes shone out yet more\nbrilliantly. And as soon as he saw the young man speechless at his feet,\nshaken by those sobs which seemed to be wrenching away his heart, he\nbecame anxious and leant forward: \u201cCalm yourself, my son, raise\nyourself,\u201d he said.\n\nBut the sobs still continued, still flowed forth, all reason and respect\nbeing swept away amidst that distracted plaint of a wounded soul, that\nmoan of suffering, dying flesh.\n\n\u201cRaise yourself, my son, it is not proper,\u201d repeated Leo XIII. \u201cThere,\ntake that chair.\u201d And with a gesture of authority he at last invited the\nyoung man to sit down.\n\nPierre rose with pain, and at once seated himself in order that he might\nnot fall. He brushed his hair back from his forehead, and wiped his\nscalding tears away with his hands, unable to understand what had just\nhappened, but striving to regain his self-possession.\n\n\u201cYou appeal to the Holy Father,\u201d said Leo XIII. \u201cAh! rest assured that\nhis heart is full of pity and affection for those who are unfortunate.\nBut that is not the point, it is our holy religion which is in question.\nI have read your book, a bad book, I tell you so at once, the most\ndangerous and culpable of books, precisely on account of its qualities,\nthe pages in which I myself felt interested. Yes, I was often fascinated,\nI should not have continued my perusal had I not felt carried away,\ntransported by the ardent breath of your faith and enthusiasm. The\nsubject \u2018New Rome\u2019 is such a beautiful one and impassions me so much! and\ncertainly there is a book to be written under that title, but in a very\ndifferent spirit to yours. You think that you have understood me, my son,\nthat you have so penetrated yourself with my writings and actions that\nyou simply express my most cherished ideas. But no, no, you have not\nunderstood me, and that is why I desired to see you, explain things to\nyou, and convince you.\u201d\n\nIt was now Pierre who sat listening, mute and motionless. Yet he had only\ncome thither to defend himself; for three months past he had been\nfeverishly desiring this interview, preparing his arguments and feeling\nconfident of victory; and now although he heard his book spoken of as\ndangerous and culpable he did not protest, did not reply with any one of\nthose good reasons which he had deemed so irresistible. But the fact was\nthat intense weariness had come upon him, the appeal that he had made,\nthe tears that he had shed had left him utterly exhausted. By and by,\nhowever, he would be brave and would say what he had resolved to say.\n\n\u201cPeople do not understand me, do not understand me!\u201d resumed Leo XIII\nwith an air of impatient irritation. \u201cIt is incredible what trouble I\nhave to make myself understood, in France especially! Take the temporal\npower for instance; how can you have fancied that the Holy See would ever\nenter into any compromise on that question? Such language is unworthy of\na priest, it is the chimerical dream of one who is ignorant of the\nconditions in which the papacy has hitherto lived and in which it must\nstill live if it does not desire to disappear. Cannot you see the\nsophistry of your argument that the Church becomes the loftier the more\nit frees itself from the cares of terrestrial sovereignty? A purely\nspiritual royalty, a sway of charity and love, indeed, \u2019tis a fine\nimaginative idea! But who will ensure us respect? Who will grant us the\nalms of a stone on which to rest our head if we are ever driven forth and\nforced to roam the highways? Who will guarantee our independence when we\nare at the mercy of every state?... No, no! this soil of Rome is ours,\nwe have inherited it from the long line of our ancestors, and it is the\nindestructible, eternal soil on which the Church is built, so that any\nrelinquishment would mean the downfall of the Holy Catholic Apostolic and\nRoman Church. And, moreover, we could not relinquish it; we are bound by\nour oath to God and man.\u201d\n\nHe paused for a moment to allow Pierre to answer him. But the latter to\nhis stupefaction could say nothing, for he perceived that this pope spoke\nas he was bound to speak. All the heavy mysterious things which had\nweighed the young priest down whilst he was waiting in the ante-room, now\nbecame more and more clearly defined. They were, indeed, the things which\nhe had seen and learnt since his arrival in Rome, the disillusions, the\nrebuffs which he had experienced, all the many points of difference\nbetween existing reality and imagination, whereby his dream of a return\nto primitive Christianity was already half shattered. And in particular\nhe remembered the hour which he had spent on the dome of St. Peter\u2019s,\nwhen, in presence of the old city of glory so stubbornly clinging to its\npurple, he had realised that he was an imbecile with his idea of a purely\nspiritual pope. He had that day fled from the furious shouts of the\npilgrims acclaiming the Pope-King. He had only accepted the necessity for\nmoney, that last form of servitude still binding the Pope to earth. But\nall had crumbled afterwards, when he had beheld the real Rome, the\nancient city of pride and domination where the papacy can never be\ncomplete without the temporal power. Too many bonds, dogma, tradition,\nenvironment, the very soil itself rendered the Church for ever immutable.\nIt was only in appearances that she could make concessions, and a time\nwould even arrive when her concessions would cease, in presence of the\nimpossibility of going any further without committing suicide. If his,\nPierre\u2019s, dream of a New Rome were ever to be realised, it would only be\nfaraway from ancient Rome. Only in some distant region could the new\nChristianity arise, for Catholicism was bound to die on the spot when the\nlast of the popes, riveted to that land of ruins, should disappear\nbeneath the falling dome of St. Peter\u2019s, which would fall as surely as\nthe temple of Jupiter had fallen! And, as for that pope of the present\nday, though he might have no kingdom, though age might have made him weak\nand fragile, though his bloodless pallor might be that of some ancient\nidol of wax, he none the less flared with the red passion for universal\nsovereignty, he was none the less the stubborn scion of his ancestry, the\nPontifex Maximus, the Caesar Imperator in whose veins flowed the blood of\nAugustus, master of the world.\n\n\u201cYou must be fully aware,\u201d resumed Leo XIII, \u201cof the ardent desire for\nunity which has always possessed us. We were very happy on the day when\nwe unified the rite, by imposing the Roman rite throughout the whole\nCatholic world. This is one of our most cherished victories, for it can\ndo much to uphold our authority. And I hope that our efforts in the\nEast will end by bringing our dear brethren of the dissident communions\nback to us, in the same way as I do not despair of convincing the\nAnglican sects, without speaking of the other so-called Protestant\nsects who will be compelled to return to the bosom of the only Church,\nthe Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church, when the times predicted by\nthe Christ shall be accomplished. But a thing which you did not say in\nyour book is that the Church can relinquish nothing whatever of dogma.\nOn the contrary, you seem to fancy that an agreement might be effected,\nconcessions made on either side, and that, my son, is a culpable\nthought, such language as a priest cannot use without being guilty of a\ncrime. No, the truth is absolute, not a stone of the edifice shall be\nchanged. Oh! in matters of form, we will do whatever may be asked. We\nare ready to adopt the most conciliatory courses if it be only a\nquestion of turning certain difficulties and weighing expressions in\norder to facilitate agreement.... Again, there is the part we have\ntaken in contemporary socialism, and here too it is necessary that we\nshould be understood. Those whom you have so well called the\ndisinherited of the world, are certainly the object of our solicitude.\nIf socialism be simply a desire for justice, and a constant\ndetermination to come to the help of the weak and the suffering, who\ncan claim to give more thought to the matter and work with more energy\nthan ourselves? Has not the Church always been the mother of the\nafflicted, the helper and benefactress of the poor? We are for all\nreasonable progress, we admit all new social forms which will promote\npeace and fraternity.... Only we can but condemn that socialism which\nbegins by driving away God as a means of ensuring the happiness of\nmankind. Therein lies simple savagery, an abominable relapse into the\nprimitive state in which there can only be catastrophe, conflagration,\nand massacre. And that again is a point on which you have not laid\nsufficient stress, for you have not shown in your book that there can\nbe no progress outside the pale of the Church, that she is really the\nonly initiatory and guiding power to whom one may surrender oneself\nwithout fear. Indeed, and in this again you have sinned, it seemed to\nme as if you set God on one side, as if for you religion lay solely in\na certain bent of the soul, a florescence of love and charity, which\nsufficed one to work one\u2019s salvation. But that is execrable heresy. God\nis ever present, master of souls and bodies; and religion remains the\nbond, the law, the very governing power of mankind, apart from which\nthere can only be barbarism in this world and damnation in the next.\nAnd, once again, forms are of no importance; it is sufficient that\ndogma should remain. Thus our adhesion to the French Republic proves\nthat we in no wise mean to link the fate of religion to that of any\nform of government, however august and ancient the latter may be.\nDynasties may have done their time, but God is eternal. Kings may\nperish, but God lives! And, moreover, there is nothing anti-Christian\nin the republican form of government; indeed, on the contrary, it would\nseem like an awakening of that Christian commonwealth to which you have\nreferred in some really charming pages. The worst is that liberty at\nonce becomes license, and that our desire for conciliation is often\nvery badly requited.... But ah! what a wicked book you have written, my\nson,--with the best intentions, I am willing to believe,--and how your\nsilence shows that you are beginning to recognise the disastrous\nconsequences of your error.\u201d\n\nPierre still remained silent, overcome, feeling as if his arguments would\nfall against some deaf, blind, and impenetrable rock, which it was\nuseless to assail since nothing could enter it. And only one thing now\npreoccupied him; he wondered how it was that a man of such intelligence\nand such ambition had not formed a more distinct and exact idea of the\nmodern world. He could divine that the Pope possessed much information\nand carried the map of Christendom with many of the needs, deeds, and\nhopes of the nations, in his mind amidst his complicated diplomatic\nenterprises; but at the same time what gaps there were in his knowledge!\nThe truth, no doubt, was that his personal acquaintance with the world\nwas confined to his brief nunciature at Brussels.*\n\n  * That too, was in 1843-44, and the world is now utterly unlike\n    what it was then!--Trans.\n\nDuring his occupation of the see of Perugia, which had followed, he had\nonly mingled with the dawning life of young Italy. And for eighteen years\nnow he had been shut up in the Vatican, isolated from the rest of mankind\nand communicating with the nations solely through his _entourage_, which\nwas often most unintelligent, most mendacious, and most treacherous.\nMoreover, he was an Italian priest, a superstitious and despotic High\nPontiff, bound by tradition, subjected to the influences of race\nenvironment, pecuniary considerations, and political necessities, not to\nspeak of his great pride, the conviction that he ought to be implicitly\nobeyed in all things as the one sole legitimate power upon earth. Therein\nlay fatal causes of mental deformity, of errors and gaps in his\nextraordinary brain, though the latter certainly possessed many admirable\nqualities, quickness of comprehension and patient stubbornness of will\nand strength to draw conclusions and act. Of all his powers, however,\nthat of intuition was certainly the most wonderful, for was it not this\nalone which, owing to his voluntary imprisonment, enabled him to divine\nthe vast evolution of humanity at the present day? He was thus keenly\nconscious of the dangers surrounding him, of the rising tide of democracy\nand the boundless ocean of science which threatened to submerge the\nlittle islet where the dome of St. Peter\u2019s yet triumphed. And the object\nof all his policy, of all his labour, was to conquer so that he might\nreign. If he desired the unity of the Church it was in order that the\nlatter might become strong and inexpugnable in the contest which he\nforesaw. If he preached conciliation, granting concessions in matters of\nform, tolerating audacious actions on the part of American bishops, it\nwas because he deeply and secretly feared the dislocation of the Church,\nsome sudden schism which might hasten disaster. And this fear explained\nhis returning affection for the people, the concern which he displayed\nrespecting socialism, and the Christian solution which he offered to the\nwoes of earthly life. As Caesar was stricken low, was not the long\ncontest for possession of the people over, and would not the people, the\ngreat silent multitude, speak out, and give itself to him, the Pope? He\nhad begun experiments with France, forsaking the lost cause of the\nmonarchy and recognising the Republic which he hoped might prove strong\nand victorious, for in spite of everything France remained the eldest\ndaughter of the Church, the only Catholic nation which yet possessed\nsufficient strength to restore the temporal power at some propitious\nmoment. And briefly Leo\u2019s desire was to reign. To reign by the support of\nFrance since it seemed impossible to do so by the support of Germany! To\nreign by the support of the people, since the people was now becoming the\nmaster, the bestower of thrones! To reign by means even of an Italian\nRepublic, if only that Republic could wrest Rome from the House of Savoy\nand restore her to him, a federal Republic which would make him President\nof the United States of Italy pending the time when he should be\nPresident of the United States of Europe! To reign in spite of everybody\nand everything, such was his ambition, to reign over the world, even as\nAugustus had reigned, Augustus whose devouring blood alone upheld this\nexpiring old man, yet so stubbornly clinging to power!\n\n\u201cAnd another crime of yours, my son,\u201d resumed Leo XIII, \u201cis that you have\ndared to ask for a new religion. That is impious, blasphemous,\nsacrilegious. There is but one religion in the world, our Holy Catholic\nApostolic and Roman Religion, apart from which there can be but darkness\nand damnation. I quite understand that what you mean to imply is a return\nto early Christianity. But the error of so-called Protestantism, so\nculpable and so deplorable in its consequences, never had any other\npretext. As soon as one departs from the strict observance of dogma and\nabsolute respect for tradition one sinks into the most frightful\nprecipices.... Ah! schism, schism, my son, is a crime beyond\nforgiveness, an assassination of the true God, a device of the loathsome\nBeast of Temptation which Hell sends into the world to work the ruin of\nthe faithful! If your book contained nothing beyond those words \u2018a new\nreligion,\u2019 it would be necessary to destroy and burn it like so much\npoison fatal in its effects upon the human soul.\u201d\n\nHe continued at length on this subject, while Pierre recalled what Don\nVigilio had told him of those all-powerful Jesuits who at the Vatican as\nelsewhere remained in the background, secretly but none the less\ndecisively governing the Church. Was it true then that this pope, whose\nopportunist tendencies were so freely displayed, was one of them, a mere\ndocile instrument in their hands, though he fancied himself penetrated\nwith the doctrines of St. Thomas Aquinas? In any case, like them he\ncompounded with the century, made approaches to the world, and was\nwilling to flatter it in order that he might possess it. Never before had\nPierre so cruelly realised that the Church was now so reduced that she\ncould only live by dint of concessions and diplomacy. And he could at\nlast distinctly picture that Roman clergy which at first is so difficult\nof comprehension to a French priest, that Government of the Church,\nrepresented by the pope, the cardinals, and the prelates, whom the Deity\nhas appointed to govern and administer His mundane possessions--mankind\nand the earth. They begin by setting that very Deity on one side, in the\ndepths of the tabernacle, and impose whatever dogmas they please as so\nmany essential truths. That the Deity exists is evident, since they\ngovern in His name which is sufficient for everything. And being by\nvirtue of their charge the masters, if they consent to sign covenants,\nConcordats, it is only as matters of form; they do not observe them, and\nnever yield to anything but force, always reserving the principle of\ntheir absolute sovereignty which must some day finally triumph. Pending\nthat day\u2019s arrival, they act as diplomatists, slowly carrying on their\nwork of conquest as the Deity\u2019s functionaries; and religion is but the\npublic homage which they pay to the Deity, and which they organise with\nall the pomp and magnificence that is likely to influence the multitude.\nTheir only object is to enrapture and conquer mankind in order that the\nlatter may submit to the rule of the Deity, that is the rule of\nthemselves, since they are the Deity\u2019s visible representatives, expressly\ndelegated to govern the world. In a word, they straightway descend from\nRoman law, they are still but the offspring of the old pagan soul of\nRome, and if they have lasted until now and if they rely on lasting for\never, until the awaited hour when the empire of the world shall be\nrestored to them, it is because they are the direct heirs of the\npurple-robed Caesars, the uninterrupted and living progeny of the blood\nof Augustus.\n\nAnd thereupon Pierre felt ashamed of his tears. Ah! those poor nerves of\nhis, that outburst of sentiment and enthusiasm to which he had given way!\nHis very modesty was appalled, for he felt as if he had exhibited his\nsoul in utter nakedness. And so uselessly too, in that room where nothing\nsimilar had ever been said before, and in presence of that Pontiff-King\nwho could not understand him. His plan of the popes reigning by means of\nthe poor and lowly now horrified him. His idea of the papacy going to the\npeople, at last rid of its former masters, seemed to him a suggestion\nworthy of a wolf, for if the papacy should go to the people it would only\nbe to prey upon it as the others had done. And really he, Pierre, must\nhave been mad when he had imagined that a Roman prelate, a cardinal, a\npope, was capable of admitting a return to the Christian commonwealth, a\nfresh florescence of primitive Christianity to pacify the aged nations\nwhom hatred consumed. Such a conception indeed was beyond the\ncomprehension of men who for centuries had regarded themselves as masters\nof the world, so heedless and disdainful of the lowly and the suffering,\nthat they had at last become altogether incapable of either love or\ncharity.*\n\n  * The reader should bear in mind that these remarks apply to the\n    Italian cardinals and prelates, whose vanity and egotism are\n    remarkable.--Trans.\n\nLeo XIII, however, was still holding forth in his full, unwearying voice.\nAnd the young priest heard him saying: \u201cWhy did you write that page on\nLourdes which shows such a thoroughly bad spirit? Lourdes, my son, has\nrendered great services to religion. To the persons who have come and\ntold me of the touching miracles which are witnessed at the Grotto almost\ndaily, I have often expressed my desire to see those miracles confirmed,\nproved by the most rigorous scientific tests. And, indeed, according to\nwhat I have read, I do not think that the most evilly disposed minds can\nentertain any further doubt on the matter, for the miracles _are_ proved\nscientifically in the most irrefutable manner. Science, my son, must be\nGod\u2019s servant. It can do nothing against Him, it is only by His grace\nthat it arrives at the truth. All the solutions which people nowadays\npretend to discover and which seemingly destroy dogma will some day be\nrecognised as false, for God\u2019s truth will remain victorious when the\ntimes shall be accomplished. That is a very simple certainty, known even\nto little children, and it would suffice for the peace and salvation of\nmankind, if mankind would content itself with it. And be convinced, my\nson, that faith and reason are not incompatible. Have we not got St.\nThomas who foresaw everything, explained everything, regulated\neverything? Your faith has been shaken by the onslaught of the spirit of\nexamination, you have known trouble and anguish which Heaven has been\npleased to spare our priests in this land of ancient belief, this city of\nRome which the blood of so many martyrs has sanctified. However, we have\nno fear of the spirit of examination, study St. Thomas, read him\nthoroughly and your faith will return, definitive and triumphant, firmer\nthan ever.\u201d\n\nThese remarks caused Pierre as much dismay as if fragments of the\ncelestial vault were raining on his head. O God of truth, miracles--the\nmiracles of Lourdes!--proved scientifically, faith in the dogmas\ncompatible with reason, and the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas sufficient\nto instil certainty into the minds of this present generation! How could\none answer that, and indeed why answer it at all?\n\n\u201cYes, yours is a most culpable and dangerous book,\u201d concluded Leo XIII;\n\u201cits very title \u2018New Rome\u2019 is mendacious and poisonous, and the work is\nthe more to be condemned as it offers every fascination of style, every\nperversion of generous fancy. Briefly it is such a book that a priest, if\nhe conceived it in an hour of error, can have no other duty than that of\nburning it in public with the very hand which traced the pages of error\nand scandal.\u201d\n\nAll at once Pierre rose up erect. He was about to exclaim: \u201c\u2018Tis true, I\nhad lost my faith, but I thought I had found it again in the compassion\nwhich the woes of the world set in my heart. You were my last hope, the\nawaited saviour. But, behold, that again is a dream, you cannot take the\nwork of Jesus in hand once more and pacify mankind so as to avert the\nfrightful fratricidal war which is preparing. You cannot leave your\nthrone and come along the roads with the poor and the humble to carry out\nthe supreme work of fraternity. Well, it is all over with you, your\nVatican and your St. Peter\u2019s. All is falling before the onslaught of the\nrising multitude and growing science. You no longer exist, there are only\nruins and remnants left here.\u201d\n\nHowever, he did not speak those words. He simply bowed and said: \u201cHoly\nFather, I make my submission and reprobate my book.\u201d And as he thus\nreplied his voice trembled with disgust, and his open hands made a\ngesture of surrender as though he were yielding up his soul. The words he\nhad chosen were precisely those of the required formula: _Auctor\nlaudabiliter se subjecit et opus reprobavit_. \u201cThe author has laudably\nmade his submission and reprobated his work.\u201d No error could have been\nconfessed, no hope could have accomplished self-destruction with loftier\ndespair, more sovereign grandeur. But what frightful irony: that book\nwhich he had sworn never to withdraw, and for whose triumph he had fought\nso passionately, and which he himself now denied and suppressed, not\nbecause he deemed it guilty, but because he had just realised that it was\nas futile, as chimerical as a lover\u2019s desire, a poet\u2019s dream. Ah! yes,\nsince he had been mistaken, since he had merely dreamed, since he had\nfound there neither the Deity nor the priest that he had desired for the\nhappiness of mankind, why should he obstinately cling to the illusion of\nan awakening which was impossible! \u2018Twere better to fling his book on the\nground like a dead leaf, better to deny it, better to cut it away like a\ndead limb that could serve no purpose whatever!\n\nSomewhat surprised by such a prompt victory Leo XIII raised a slight\nexclamation of content. \u201cThat is well said, my son, that is well said!\nYou have spoken the only words that can become a priest.\u201d\n\nAnd in his evident satisfaction, he who left nothing to chance, who\ncarefully prepared each of his audiences, deciding beforehand what words\nhe would say, what gestures even he would make, unbent somewhat and\ndisplayed real _bonhomie_. Unable to understand, mistaking the real\nmotives of this rebellious priest\u2019s submission, he tasted positive\ndelight in having so easily reduced him to silence, the more so as report\nhad stated the young man to be a terrible revolutionary. And thus his\nHoliness felt quite proud of such a conversion. \u201cMoreover, my son,\u201d he\nsaid, \u201cI did not expect less of one of your distinguished mind. There can\nbe no loftier enjoyment than that of owning one\u2019s error, doing penance,\nand submitting.\u201d\n\nHe had again taken the glass off the little table beside him and was\nstirring the last spoonful of syrup before drinking it. And Pierre was\namazed at again finding him as he had found him at the outset, shrunken,\nbereft of sovereign majesty, and simply suggestive of some aged\n_bourgeois_ drinking his glass of sugared water before getting into bed.\nIt was as if after growing and radiating, like a planet ascending to the\nzenith, he had again sunk to the level of the soil in all human\nmediocrity. Again did Pierre find him puny and fragile, with the slender\nneck of a little sick bird, and all those marks of senile ugliness which\nrendered him so exacting with regard to his portraits, whether they were\noil paintings or photographs, gold medals, or marble busts, for of one\nand the other he would say that the artist must not portray \u201cPapa Pecci\u201d\n but Leo XIII, the great Pope, of whom he desired to leave such a lofty\nimage to posterity. And Pierre, after momentarily ceasing to see them,\nwas again embarrassed by the handkerchief which lay on the Pope\u2019s lap,\nand the dirty cassock soiled by snuff. His only feelings now were\naffectionate pity for such white old age, deep admiration for the\nstubborn power of life which had found a refuge in those dark black eyes,\nand respectful deference, such as became a worker, for that large brain\nwhich harboured such vast projects and overflowed with such innumerable\nideas and actions.\n\nThe audience was over, and the young man bowed low: \u201cI thank your\nHoliness for having deigned to give me such a fatherly reception,\u201d he\nsaid.\n\nHowever, Leo XIII detained him for a moment longer, speaking to him of\nFrance and expressing his sincere desire to see her prosperous, calm, and\nstrong for the greater advantage of the Church. And Pierre, during that\nlast moment, had a singular vision, a strange haunting fancy. As he gazed\nat the Holy Father\u2019s ivory brow and thought of his great age and of his\nliability to be carried off by the slightest chill, he involuntarily\nrecalled the scene instinct with a fierce grandeur which is witnessed\neach time a pope dies. He recalled Pius IX, Giovanni Mastai, two hours\nafter death, his face covered by a white linen cloth, while the\npontifical family surrounded him in dismay; and then Cardinal Pecci, the\n_Camerlingo_, approaching the bed, drawing aside the veil and dealing\nthree taps with his silver hammer on the forehead of the deceased,\nrepeating at each tap the call, \u201cGiovanni! Giovanni! Giovanni!\u201d And as\nthe corpse made no response, turning, after an interval of a few seconds,\nand saying: \u201cThe Pope is dead!\u201d And at the same time, yonder in the Via\nGiulia Pierre pictured Cardinal Boccanera, the present _Camerlingo_,\nawaiting his turn with his silver hammer, and he imagined Leo XIII,\notherwise Gioachino Pecci, dead, like his predecessor, his face covered\nby a white linen cloth and his corpse surrounded by his prelates in that\nvery room. And he saw the _Camerlingo_ approach, draw the veil aside and\ntap the ivory forehead, each time repeating the call: \u201cGioachino!\nGioachino! Gioachino!\u201d Then, as the corpse did not answer, he waited for\na few seconds and turned and said \u201cThe Pope is dead!\u201d Did Leo XIII\nremember how he had thrice tapped the forehead of Pius IX, and did he\never feel on the brow an icy dread of the silver hammer with which he had\narmed his own _Camerlingo_, the man whom he knew to be his implacable\nadversary, Cardinal Boccanera?\n\n\u201cGo in peace, my son,\u201d at last said his Holiness by way of parting\nbenediction. \u201cYour transgression will be forgiven you since you have\nconfessed and testify your horror for it.\u201d\n\nWith distressful spirit, accepting humiliation as well-deserved\nchastisement for his chimerical fancies, Pierre retired, stepping\nbackwards according to the customary ceremonial. He made three deep bows\nand crossed the threshold without turning, followed by the black eyes of\nLeo XIII, which never left him. Still he saw the Pope stretch his arm\ntowards the table to take up the newspaper which he had been reading\nprior to the audience, for Leo retained a great fancy for newspapers, and\nwas very inquisitive as to news, though in the isolation in which he\nlived he frequently made mistakes respecting the relative importance of\narticles. And once more the chamber sank into deep quietude, whilst the\ntwo lamps continued to diffuse a soft and steady light.\n\nIn the centre of the _anticamera segreta_ Signor Squadra stood waiting\nblack and motionless. And on noticing that Pierre in his flurry forgot to\ntake his hat from the pier table, he himself discreetly fetched it and\nhanded it to the young priest with a silent bow. Then without any\nappearance of haste, he walked ahead to conduct the visitor back to the\nSala Clementina. The endless promenade through the interminable\nante-rooms began once more, and there was still not a soul, not a sound,\nnot a breath. In each empty room stood the one solitary lamp, burning low\namidst a yet deeper silence than before. The wilderness seemed also to\nhave grown larger as the night advanced, casting its gloom over the few\narticles of furniture scattered under the lofty gilded ceilings, the\nthrones, the stools, the pier tables, the crucifixes, and the candelabra\nwhich recurred in each succeeding room. And at last the Sala Clementina\nwhich the Swiss Guards had just quitted was reached again, and Signor\nSquadra, who hitherto had not turned his head, thereupon drew aside\nwithout word or gesture, and, saluting Pierre with a last bow, allowed\nhim to pass on. Then he himself disappeared.\n\nAnd Pierre descended the two flights of the monumental staircase where\nthe gas jets in their globes of ground glass glimmered like night lights\namidst a wondrously heavy silence now that the footsteps of the sentries\nno longer resounded on the landings. And he crossed the Court of St.\nDamasus, empty and lifeless in the pale light of the lamps above the\nsteps, and descended the Scala Pia, that other great stairway as dim,\ndeserted, and void of life as all the rest, and at last passed beyond the\nbronze door which a porter slowly shut behind him. And with what a\nrumble, what a fierce roar did the hard metal close upon all that was\nwithin; all the accumulated darkness and silence; the dead, motionless\ncenturies perpetuated by tradition; the indestructible idols, the dogmas,\nbound round for preservation like mummies; every chain which may weigh on\none or hamper one, the whole apparatus of bondage and sovereign\ndomination, with whose formidable clang all the dark, deserted halls\nre-echoed.\n\nOnce more the young man found himself alone on the gloomy expanse of the\nPiazza of St. Peter\u2019s. Not a single belated pedestrian was to be seen.\nThere was only the lofty, livid, ghost-like obelisk, emerging between its\nfour candelabra, from the mosaic pavement of red and serpentine porphyry.\nThe fa\u00e7ade of the Basilica also showed vaguely, pale as a vision, whilst\nfrom it on either side like a pair of giant arms stretched the quadruple\ncolonnade, a thicket of stone, steeped in obscurity. The dome was but a\nhuge roundness scarcely discernible against the moonless sky; and only\nthe jets of the fountains, which could at last be detected rising like\nslim phantoms ever on the move, lent a voice to the silence, the endless\nmurmur of a plaint of sorrow coming one knew not whence. Ah! how great\nwas the melancholy grandeur of that slumber, that famous square, the\nVatican and St. Peter\u2019s, thus seen by night when wrapped in silence and\ndarkness! But suddenly the clock struck ten with so slow and loud a chime\nthat never, so it seemed, had more solemn and decisive an hour rung out\namidst blacker and more unfathomable gloom. All Pierre\u2019s poor weary frame\nquivered at the sound as he stood motionless in the centre of the\nexpanse. What! had he spent barely three-quarters of an hour, chatting up\nyonder with that white old man who had just wrenched all his soul away\nfrom him! Yes, it was the final wrench; his last belief had been torn\nfrom his bleeding heart and brain. The supreme experiment had been made,\na world had collapsed within him. And all at once he thought of Monsignor\nNani, and reflected that he alone had been right. He, Pierre, had been\ntold that in any case he would end by doing what Monsignor Nani might\ndesire, and he was now stupefied to find that he had done so.\n\nBut sudden despair seized upon him, such atrocious distress of spirit\nthat, from the depths of the abyss of darkness where he stood, he raised\nhis quivering arms into space and spoke aloud: \u201cNo, no, Thou art not\nhere, O God of life and love, O God of Salvation! But come, appear since\nThy children are perishing because they know neither who Thou art, nor\nwhere to find Thee amidst the Infinite of the worlds!\u201d\n\nAbove the vast square spread the vast sky of dark-blue velvet, the silent\ndisturbing Infinite, where the constellations palpitated. Over the roofs\nof the Vatican, Charles\u2019s Wain seemed yet more tilted, its golden wheels\nstraying from the right path, its golden shaft upreared in the air;\nwhilst yonder, over Rome towards the Via Giulia, Orion was about to\ndisappear and already showed but one of the three golden stars which\nbedecked his belt.\n\n\n\n\nXV.\n\nIT was nearly daybreak when Pierre fell asleep, exhausted by emotion and\nhot with fever. And at nine o\u2019clock, when he had risen and breakfasted,\nhe at once wished to go down into Cardinal Boccanera\u2019s rooms where the\nbodies of Dario and Benedetta had been laid in state in order that the\nmembers of the family, its friends and clients, might bring them their\ntears and prayers.\n\nWhilst he breakfasted, Victorine who, showing an active bravery amidst\nher despair, had not been to bed at all, told him of what had taken place\nin the house during the night and early morning. Donna Serafina, prude\nthat she was, had again made an attempt to have the bodies separated; but\nthis had proved an impossibility, as _rigor mortis_ had set in, and to\npart the lovers it would have been necessary to break their limbs.\nMoreover, the Cardinal, who had interposed once before, almost quarrelled\nwith his sister on the subject, unwilling as he was that any one should\ndisturb the lovers\u2019 last slumber, their union of eternity. Beneath his\npriestly garb there coursed the blood of his race, a pride in the\npassions of former times; and he remarked that if the family counted two\npopes among its forerunners, it had also been rendered illustrious by\ngreat captains and ardent lovers. Never would he allow any one to touch\nthose two children, whose dolorous lives had been so pure and whom the\ngrave alone had united. He was the master in his house, and they should\nbe sewn together in the same shroud, and nailed together in the same\ncoffin. Then too the religious service should take place at the\nneighbouring church of San Carlo, of which he was Cardinal-priest and\nwhere again he was the master. And if needful he would address himself to\nthe Pope. And such being his sovereign will, so authoritatively\nexpressed, everybody in the house had to bow submissively.\n\nDonna Serafina at once occupied herself with the laying-out. According to\nthe Roman custom the servants were present, and Victorine as the oldest\nand most appreciated of them, assisted the relatives. All that could be\ndone in the first instance was to envelop both corpses in Benedetta\u2019s\nunbound hair, thick and odorous hair, which spread out into a royal\nmantle; and they were then laid together in one shroud of white silk,\nfastened about their necks in such wise that they formed but one being in\ndeath. And again the Cardinal imperatively ordered that they should be\nbrought into his apartments and placed on a state bed in the centre of\nthe throne-room, so that a supreme homage might be rendered to them as to\nthe last scions of the name, the two tragic lovers with whom the once\nresounding glory of the Boccaneras was about to return to earth. The\nstory which had been arranged was already circulating through Rome; folks\nrelated how Dario had been carried off in a few hours by infectious\nfever, and how Benedetta, maddened by grief, had expired whilst clasping\nhim in her arms to bid him a last farewell; and there was talk too of the\nroyal honours which the bodies were to receive, the superb funeral\nnuptials which were to be accorded them as they lay clasped on their bed\nof eternal rest. All Rome, quite overcome by this tragic story of love\nand death, would talk of nothing else for several weeks.\n\nPierre would have started for France that same night, eager as he was to\nquit the city of disaster where he had lost the last shreds of his faith,\nbut he desired to attend the obsequies, and therefore postponed his\ndeparture until the following evening. And thus he would spend one more\nday in that old crumbling palace, near the corpse of that unhappy young\nwoman to whom he had been so much attached and for whom he would try to\nfind some prayers in the depths of his empty and lacerated heart.\n\nWhen he reached the threshold of the Cardinal\u2019s reception-rooms, he\nsuddenly remembered his first visit to them. They still presented the\nsame aspect of ancient princely pomp falling into decay and dust. The\ndoors of the three large ante-rooms were wide open, and the rooms\nthemselves were at that early hour still empty. In the first one, the\nservants\u2019 anteroom, there was nobody but Giacomo who stood motionless in\nhis black livery in front of the old red hat hanging under the\n_baldacchino_ where spiders spun their webs between the crumbling\ntassels. In the second room, which the secretary formerly had occupied,\nAbb\u00e9 Paparelli, the train-bearer, was softly walking up and down whilst\nwaiting for visitors; and with his conquering humility, his all-powerful\nobsequiousness, he had never before so closely resembled an old maid,\nwhitened and wrinkled by excess of devout observances. Finally, in the\nthird ante-room, the _anticamera nobile_, where the red cap lay on a\ncredence facing the large imperious portrait of the Cardinal in\nceremonial costume, there was Don Vigilio who had left his little\nwork-table to station himself at the door of the throne-room and there\nbow to those who crossed the threshold. And on that gloomy winter morning\nthe rooms appeared more mournful and dilapidated than ever, the hangings\nfrayed and ragged, the few articles of furniture covered with dust, the\nold wood-work crumbling beneath the continuous onslaught of worms, and\nthe ceilings alone retaining their pompous show of gilding and painting.\n\nHowever, Pierre, to whom Abb\u00e9 Paparelli addressed a profound bow, in\nwhich one divined the irony of a sort of dismissal given to one who was\nvanquished, felt more impressed by the mournful grandeur which those\nthree dilapidated rooms presented that day, conducting as they did to the\nold throne-room, now a chamber of death, where the two last children of\nthe house slept their last sleep. What a superb and sorrowful _gala_ of\ndeath! Every door wide open and all the emptiness of those over-spacious\nrooms, void of the throngs of ancient days and leading to the supreme\naffliction--the end of a race! The Cardinal had shut himself up in his\nlittle work-room where he received the relatives and intimates who\ndesired to present their condolences to him, whilst Donna Serafina had\nchosen an adjoining apartment to await her lady friends who would come in\nprocession until evening. And Pierre, informed of the ceremonial by\nVictorine, had in the first place to enter the throne-room, greeted as he\npassed by a deep bow from Don Vigilio who, pale and silent, did not seem\nto recognise him.\n\nA surprise awaited the young priest. He had expected such a\nlying-in-state as is seen in France and elsewhere, all windows closed so\nas to steep the room in night, and hundreds of candles burning round a\n_catafalco_, whilst from ceiling to floor the walls were hung with black\ndrapery. He had been told that the bodies would lie in the throne-room\nbecause the antique chapel on the ground floor of the palazzo had been\nshut up for half a century and was in no condition to be used, whilst the\nCardinal\u2019s little private chapel was altogether too small for any such\nceremony. And thus it had been necessary to improvise an altar in the\nthrone-room, an altar at which masses had been said ever since dawn.\nMasses and other religious services were moreover to be celebrated all\nday long in the private chapel; and two additional altars had even been\nset up, one in a small room adjoining the _anticamera nobile_ and the\nother in a sort of alcove communicating with the second anteroom: and in\nthis wise priests, Franciscans, and members of other Orders bound by the\nvow of poverty, would simultaneously and without intermission celebrate\nthe divine sacrifice on those four altars. The Cardinal, indeed, had\ndesired that the Divine Blood should flow without pause under his roof\nfor the redemption of those two dear souls which had flown away together.\nAnd thus in that mourning mansion, through those funeral halls the bells\nscarcely stopped tinkling for the elevation of the host, whilst the\nquivering murmur of Latin words ever continued, and consecrated wafers\nwere continually broken and chalices drained, in such wise that the\nDivine Presence could not for a moment quit the heavy atmosphere all\nredolent of death.\n\nOn the other hand, however, Pierre, to his great astonishment, found the\nthrone-room much as it had been on the day of his first visit. The\ncurtains of the four large windows had not even been drawn, and the grey,\ncold, subdued light of the gloomy winter morning freely entered. Under\nthe ceiling of carved and gilded wood-work there were the customary red\nwall-hangings of _brocatelle_, worn away by long usage; and there was the\nold throne with the arm-chair turned to the wall, uselessly waiting for a\nvisit from the Pope which would never more come. The principal changes in\nthe aspect of the room were that its seats and tables had been removed,\nand that, in addition to the improvised altar arranged beside the throne,\nit now contained the state bed on which lay the bodies of Benedetta and\nDario, amidst a profusion of flowers. The bed stood in the centre of the\nroom on a low platform, and at its head were two lighted candles, one on\neither side. There was nothing else, nothing but that wealth of flowers,\nsuch a harvest of white roses that one wondered in what fairy garden they\nhad been culled, sheaves of them on the bed, sheaves of them toppling\nfrom the bed, sheaves of them covering the step of the platform, and\nfalling from that step on to the magnificent marble paving of the room.\n\nPierre drew near to the bed, his heart faint with emotion. Those tapers\nwhose little yellow flamelets scarcely showed in the pale daylight, that\ncontinuous low murmur of the mass being said at the altar, that\npenetrating perfume of roses which rendered the atmosphere so heavy,\nfilled the antiquated, dusty room with a spirit of infinite woe, a\nlamentation of boundless mourning. And there was not a gesture, not a\nword spoken, save by the priest officiating at the altar, nothing but an\noccasional faint sound of stifled sobbing among the few persons present.\nServants of the house constantly relieved one another, four always\nstanding erect and motionless at the head of the bed, like faithful,\nfamiliar guards. From time to time Consistorial-Advocate Morano who,\nsince early morning had been attending to everything, crossed the room\nwith a silent step and the air of a man in a hurry. And at the edge of\nthe platform all who entered, knelt, prayed, and wept. Pierre perceived\nthree ladies there, their faces hidden by their handkerchiefs; and there\nwas also an old priest who trembled with grief and hung his head in such\nwise that his face could not be distinguished. However, the young man was\nmost moved by the sight of a poorly clad girl, whom he took for a\nservant, and whom sorrow had utterly prostrated on the marble slabs.\n\nThen in his turn he knelt down, and with the professional murmur of the\nlips sought to repeat the Latin prayers which, as a priest, he had so\noften said at the bedside of the departed. But his growing emotion\nconfused his memory, and he became wrapt in contemplation of the lovers\nwhom his eyes were unable to quit. Under the wealth of flowers which\ncovered them the clasped bodies could scarcely be distinguished, but the\ntwo heads emerged from the silken shroud, and lying there on the same\ncushion, with their hair mingling, they were still beautiful, beautiful\nas with satisfied passion. Benedetta had kept her divinely gay, loving,\nand faithful face for eternity, transported with rapture at having\nrendered up her last breath in a kiss of love; whilst Dario retained a\nmore dolorous expression amidst his final joy. And their eyes were still\nwide open, gazing at one another with a persistent and caressing\nsweetness which nothing would ever more disturb.\n\nOh! God, was it true that yonder lay that Benedetta whom he, Pierre, had\nloved with such pure, brotherly affection? He was stirred to the very\ndepths of his soul by the recollection of the delightful hours which he\nhad spent with her. She had been so beautiful, so sensible, yet so full\nof passion! And he had indulged in so beautiful a dream, that of\nanimating with his own liberating fraternal feelings that admirable\ncreature with soul of fire and indolent air, in whom he had pictured all\nancient Rome, and whom he would have liked to awaken and win over to the\nItaly of to-morrow. He had dreamt of enlarging her brain and heart by\nfilling her with love for the lowly and the poor, with all present-day\ncompassion for things and beings. How he would now have smiled at such a\ndream had not his tears been flowing! Yet how charming she had shown\nherself in striving to content him despite the invincible obstacles of\nrace, education, and environment. She had been a docile pupil, but was\nincapable of any real progress. One day she had certainly seemed to draw\nnearer to him, as though her own sufferings had opened her soul to every\ncharity; but the illusion of happiness had come back, and then she had\nlost all understanding of the woes of others, and had gone off in the\negotism of her own hope and joy. Did that mean then that this Roman race\nmust finish in that fashion, beautiful as it still often is, and fondly\nadored but so closed to all love for others, to those laws of charity and\njustice which, by regulating labour, can henceforth alone save this world\nof ours?\n\nThen there came another great sorrow to Pierre which left him stammering,\nunable to speak any precise prayer. He thought of the overwhelming\nreassertion of Nature\u2019s powers which had attended the death of those two\npoor children. Was it not awful? To have taken that vow to the Virgin, to\nhave endured torment throughout life, and to end by plunging into death,\non the loved one\u2019s neck, distracted by vain regret and eager for\nself-bestowal! The brutal fact of impending separation had sufficed for\nBenedetta to realise how she had duped herself, and to revert to the\nuniversal instinct of love. And therein, again once more, was the Church\nvanquished; therein again appeared the great god Pan, mating the sexes\nand scattering life around! If in the days of the Renascence the Church\ndid not fall beneath the assault of the Venuses and Hercules then exhumed\nfrom the old soil of Rome, the struggle at all events continued as\nbitterly as ever; and at each and every hour new nations, overflowing\nwith sap, hungering for life, and warring against a religion which was\nnothing more than an appetite for death, threatened to sweep away that\nold Holy Apostolic Roman and Catholic edifice whose walls were already\ntottering on all sides.\n\nAnd at that moment Pierre felt that the death of that adorable Benedetta\nwas for him the supreme disaster. He was still looking at her and tears\nwere scorching his eyes. She was carrying off his chimera. This time\n\u2019twas really the end. Rome the Catholic and the Princely was dead, lying\nthere like marble on that funeral bed. She had been unable to go to the\nhumble, the suffering ones of the world, and had just expired amidst the\nimpotent cry of her egotistical passion when it was too late either to\nlove or to create. Never more would children be born of her, the old\nRoman house was henceforth empty, sterile, beyond possibility of\nawakening. Pierre whose soul mourned such a splendid dream, was so\ngrieved at seeing her thus motionless and frigid, that he felt himself\nfainting. He feared lest he might fall upon the step beside the bed, and\nso struggled to his feet and drew aside.\n\nThen, as he sought refuge in a window recess in order that he might try\nto recover self-possession, he was astonished to perceive Victorine\nseated there on a bench which the hangings half concealed. She had come\nthither by Donna Serafina\u2019s orders, and sat watching her two dear\nchildren as she called them, whilst keeping an eye upon all who came in\nand went out. And, on seeing the young priest so pale and nearly\nswooning, she at once made room for him to sit down beside her. \u201cAh!\u201d he\nmurmured after drawing a long breath, \u201cmay they at least have the joy of\nbeing together elsewhere, of living a new life in another world.\u201d\n\nVictorine, however, shrugged her shoulders, and in an equally low voice\nresponded, \u201cOh! live again, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, why? When one\u2019s dead the\nbest is to remain so and to sleep. Those poor children had enough\ntorments on earth, one mustn\u2019t wish that they should begin again\nelsewhere.\u201d\n\nThis naive yet deep remark on the part of an ignorant unbelieving woman\nsent a shudder through Pierre\u2019s very bones. To think that his own teeth\nhad chattered with fear at night time at the sudden thought of\nannihilation. He deemed her heroic at remaining so undisturbed by any\nideas of eternity and the infinite. And she, as she felt he was\nquivering, went on: \u201cWhat can you suppose there should be after death?\nWe\u2019ve deserved a right to sleep, and nothing to my thinking can be more\ndesirable and consoling.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut those two did not live,\u201d murmured Pierre, \u201cso why not allow oneself\nthe joy of believing that they now live elsewhere, recompensed for all\ntheir torments?\u201d\n\nVictorine, however, again shook her head; \u201cNo, no,\u201d she replied. \u201cAh! I\nwas quite right in saying that my poor Benedetta did wrong in torturing\nherself with all those superstitious ideas of hers when she was really so\nfond of her lover. Yes, happiness is rarely found, and how one regrets\nhaving missed it when it\u2019s too late to turn back! That\u2019s the whole story\nof those poor little ones. It\u2019s too late for them, they are dead.\u201d Then\nin her turn she broke down and began to sob. \u201cPoor little ones! poor\nlittle ones! Look how white they are, and think what they will be when\nonly the bones of their heads lie side by side on the cushion, and only\nthe bones of their arms still clasp one another. Ah! may they sleep, may\nthey sleep; at least they know nothing and feel nothing now.\u201d\n\nA long interval of silence followed. Pierre, amidst the quiver of his own\ndoubts, the anxious desire which in common with most men he felt for a\nnew life beyond the grave, gazed at this woman who did not find priests\nto her fancy, and who retained all her Beauceronne frankness of speech,\nwith the tranquil, contented air of one who has ever done her duty in her\nhumble station as a servant, lost though she had been for five and twenty\nyears in a land of wolves, whose language she had not even been able to\nlearn. Ah! yes, tortured as the young man was by his doubts, he would\nhave liked to be as she was, a well-balanced, healthy, ignorant creature\nwho was quite content with what the world offered, and who, when she had\naccomplished her daily task, went fully satisfied to bed, careless as to\nwhether she might never wake again!\n\nHowever, as Pierre\u2019s eyes once more sought the state bed, he suddenly\nrecognised the old priest, who was kneeling on the step of the platform,\nand whose features he had hitherto been unable to distinguish. \u201cIsn\u2019t\nthat Abb\u00e9 Pisoni, the priest of Santa Brigida, where I sometimes said\nmass?\u201d he inquired. \u201cThe poor old man, how he weeps!\u201d\n\nIn her quiet yet desolate voice Victorine replied, \u201cHe has good reason to\nweep. He did a fine thing when he took it into his head to marry my poor\nBenedetta to Count Prada. All those abominations would never have\nhappened if the poor child had been given her Dario at once. But in this\nidiotic city they are all mad with their politics; and that old priest,\nwho is none the less a very worthy man, thought he had accomplished a\nreal miracle and saved the world by marrying the Pope and the King as he\nsaid with a soft laugh, poor old _savant_ that he is, who for his part\nhas never been in love with anything but old stones--you know, all that\nantiquated rubbish of theirs of a hundred thousand years ago. And now,\nyou see, he can\u2019t keep from weeping. The other one too came not twenty\nminutes ago, Father Lorenza, the Jesuit who became the Contessina\u2019s\nconfessor after Abb\u00e9 Pisoni, and who undid what the other had done. Yes,\na handsome man he is, but a fine bungler all the same, a perfect killjoy\nwith all the crafty hindrances which he brought into that divorce affair.\nI wish you had been here to see what a big sign of the cross he made\nafter he had knelt down. He didn\u2019t cry, he didn\u2019t: he seemed to be saying\nthat as things had ended so badly it was evident that God had withdrawn\nfrom all share in the business. So much the worse for the dead!\u201d\n\nVictorine spoke gently and without a pause, as it relieved her, to empty\nher heart after the terrible hours of bustle and suffocation which she\nhad spent since the previous day. \u201cAnd that one yonder,\u201d she resumed in a\nlower voice, \u201cdon\u2019t you recognise her?\u201d\n\nShe glanced towards the poorly clad girl whom Pierre had taken for a\nservant, and whom intensity of grief had prostrated beside the bed. With\na gesture of awful suffering this girl had just thrown back her head, a\nhead of extraordinary beauty, enveloped by superb black hair.\n\n\u201cLa Pierina!\u201d said Pierre. \u201cAh! poor girl.\u201d\n\nVictorine made a gesture of compassion and tolerance.\n\n\u201cWhat would you have?\u201d said she, \u201cI let her come up. I don\u2019t know how she\nheard of the trouble, but it\u2019s true that she is always prowling round the\nhouse. She sent and asked me to come down to her, and you should have\nheard her sob and entreat me to let her see her Prince once more! Well,\nshe does no harm to anybody there on the floor, looking at them both with\nher beautiful loving eyes full of tears. She\u2019s been there for half an\nhour already, and I had made up my mind to turn her out if she didn\u2019t\nbehave properly. But since she\u2019s so quiet and doesn\u2019t even move, she may\nwell stop and fill her heart with the sight of them for her whole life\nlong.\u201d\n\nIt was really sublime to see that ignorant, passionate, beautiful Pierina\nthus overwhelmed below the nuptial couch on which the lovers slept for\nall eternity. She had sunk down on her heels, her arms hanging heavily\nbeside her, and her hands open. And with raised face, motionless as in an\necstasy of suffering, she did not take her eyes from that adorable and\ntragic pair. Never had human face displayed such beauty, such a dazzling\nsplendour of suffering and love; never had there been such a portrayal of\nancient Grief, not however cold like marble but quivering with life. What\nwas she thinking of, what were her sufferings, as she thus fixedly gazed\nat her Prince now and for ever locked in her rival\u2019s arms? Was it some\njealousy which could have no end that chilled the blood of her veins? Or\nwas it mere suffering at having lost him, at realising that she was\nlooking at him for the last time, without thought of hatred for that\nother woman who vainly sought to warm him with her arms as icy cold as\nhis own? There was still a soft gleam in the poor girl\u2019s blurred eyes,\nand her lips were still lips of love though curved in bitterness by\ngrief. She found the lovers so pure and beautiful as they lay there\namidst that profusion of flowers! And beautiful herself, beautiful like a\nqueen, ignorant of her own charms, she remained there breathless, a\nhumble servant, a loving slave as it were, whose heart had been wrenched\naway and carried off by her dying master.\n\nPeople were now constantly entering the room, slowly approaching with\nmournful faces, then kneeling and praying for a few minutes, and\nafterwards retiring with the same mute, desolate mien. A pang came to\nPierre\u2019s heart when he saw Dario\u2019s mother, the ever beautiful Flavia,\nenter, accompanied by her husband, the handsome Jules Laporte, that\nex-sergeant of the Swiss Guard whom she had turned into a Marquis\nMontefiori. Warned of the tragedy directly it had happened, she had\nalready come to the mansion on the previous evening; but now she returned\nin grand ceremony and full mourning, looking superb in her black garments\nwhich were well suited to her massive, Juno-like style of beauty. When\nshe had approached the bed with a queenly step, she remained for a moment\nstanding with two tears at the edges of her eyelids, tears which did not\nfall. Then, at the moment of kneeling, she made sure that Jules was\nbeside her, and glanced at him as if to order him to kneel as well. They\nboth sank down beside the platform and remained in prayer for the proper\ninterval, she very dignified in her grief and he even surpassing her,\nwith the perfect sorrow-stricken bearing of a man who knew how to conduct\nhimself in every circumstance of life, even the gravest. And afterwards\nthey rose together, and slowly betook themselves to the entrance of the\nprivate apartments where the Cardinal and Donna Serafina were receiving\ntheir relatives and friends.\n\nFive ladies then came in one after the other, while two Capuchins and the\nSpanish ambassador to the Holy See went off. And Victorine, who for a few\nminutes had remained silent, suddenly resumed. \u201cAh! there\u2019s the little\nPrincess, she\u2019s much afflicted too, and, no wonder, she was so fond of\nour Benedetta.\u201d\n\nPierre himself had just noticed Celia coming in. She also had attired\nherself in full mourning for this abominable visit of farewell. Behind\nher was a maid, who carried on either arm a huge sheaf of white roses.\n\n\u201cThe dear girl!\u201d murmured Victorine, \u201cshe wanted her wedding with her\nAttilio to take place on the same day as that of the poor lovers who lie\nthere. And they, alas! have forestalled her, their wedding\u2019s over; there\nthey sleep in their bridal bed.\u201d\n\nCelia had at once crossed herself and knelt down beside the bed, but it\nwas evident that she was not praying. She was indeed looking at the\nlovers with desolate stupefaction at finding them so white and cold with\na beauty as of marble. What! had a few hours sufficed, had life departed,\nwould those lips never more exchange a kiss! She could again see them at\nthe ball of that other night, so resplendent and triumphant with their\nliving love. And a feeling of furious protest rose from her young heart,\nso open to life, so eager for joy and sunlight, so angry with the hateful\nidiocy of death. And her anger and affright and grief, as she thus found\nherself face to face with the annihilation which chills every passion,\ncould be read on her ingenuous, candid, lily-like face. She herself stood\non the threshold of a life of passion of which she yet knew nothing, and\nbehold! on that very threshold she encountered the corpses of those\ndearly loved ones, the loss of whom racked her soul with grief.\n\nShe gently closed her eyes and tried to pray, whilst big tears fell from\nunder her lowered eyelids. Some time went by amidst the quivering\nsilence, which only the murmur of the mass near by disturbed. At last she\nrose and took the sheaves of flowers from her maid; and standing on the\nplatform she hesitated for a moment, then placed the roses to the right\nand left of the cushion on which the lovers\u2019 heads were resting, as if\nshe wished to crown them with those blossoms, perfume their young brows\nwith that sweet and powerful aroma. Then, though her hands remained empty\nshe did not retire, but remained there leaning over the dead ones,\ntrembling and seeking what she might yet say to them, what she might\nleave them of herself for ever more. An inspiration came to her, and she\nstooped forward, and with her whole, deep, loving soul set a long, long\nkiss on the brow of either spouse.\n\n\u201cAh! the dear girl!\u201d said Victorine, whose tears were again flowing. \u201cYou\nsaw that she kissed them, and nobody had yet thought of that, not even\nthe poor young Prince\u2019s mother. Ah! the dear little heart, she surely\nthought of her Attilio.\u201d\n\nHowever, as Celia turned to descend from the platform she perceived La\nPierina, whose figure was still thrown back in an attitude of mute and\ndolorous adoration. And she recognised the girl and melted with pity on\nseeing such a fit of sobbing come over her that her whole body, her\ngoddess-like hips and bosom, shook as with frightful anguish. That agony\nof love quite upset the little Princess, and she could be heard murmuring\nin a tone of infinite compassion, \u201cCalm yourself, my dear, calm yourself.\nBe reasonable, my dear, I beg you.\u201d\n\nThen as La Pierina, thunderstruck at thus being pitied and succoured,\nbegan to sob yet more loudly so as to create quite a stir in the room,\nCelia raised her and held her up with both arms, for fear lest she should\nfall again. And she led her away in a sisterly clasp, like a sister of\naffection and despair, lavishing the most gentle, consoling words upon\nher as they went.\n\n\u201cFollow them, go and see what becomes of them,\u201d Victorine said to Pierre.\n\u201cI do not want to stir from here, it quiets me to watch over my two poor\nchildren.\u201d\n\nA Capuchin was just beginning a fresh mass at the improvised altar, and\nthe low Latin psalmody went on again, while in the adjoining\nante-chamber, where another mass was being celebrated, a bell was heard\ntinkling for the elevation of the host. The perfume of the flowers was\nbecoming more violent and oppressive amidst the motionless and mournful\natmosphere of the spacious throne-room. The four servants standing at the\nhead of the bed, as for a _gala_ reception, did not stir, and the\nprocession of visitors ever continued, men and women entering in silence,\nsuffocating there for a moment, and then withdrawing, carrying away with\nthem the never-to-be-forgotten vision of the two tragic lovers sleeping\ntheir eternal sleep.\n\nPierre joined Celia and La Pierina in the _anticamera nobile_, where\nstood Don Vigilio. The few seats belonging to the throne-room had there\nbeen placed in a corner, and the little Princess had just compelled the\nwork-girl to sit down in an arm-chair, in order that she might recover\nself-possession. Celia was in ecstasy before her, enraptured at finding\nher so beautiful, more beautiful than any other, as she said. Then she\nspoke of the two dead ones, who also had seemed to her very beautiful,\nendowed with an extraordinary beauty, at once superb and sweet; and\ndespite all her tears, she still remained in a transport of admiration.\nOn speaking with La Pierina, Pierre learnt that her brother Tito was at\nthe hospital in great danger from the effects of a terrible knife thrust\ndealt him in the side; and since the beginning of the winter, said the\ngirl, the misery in the district of the castle fields had become\nfrightful. It was a source of great suffering to every one, and those\nwhom death carried off had reason to rejoice.\n\nCelia, however, with a gesture of invincible hopefulness, brushed all\nidea of suffering, even of death, aside. \u201cNo, no, we must live,\u201d she\nsaid. \u201cAnd beauty is sufficient for life. Come, my dear, do not remain\nhere, do not weep any more; live for the delight of being beautiful.\u201d\n\nThen she led La Pierina away, and Pierre remained seated in one of the\narm-chairs, overcome by such sorrow and weariness that he would have\nliked to remain there for ever. Don Vigilio was still bowing to each\nfresh visitor that arrived. A severe attack of fever had come on him\nduring the night, and he was shivering from it, with his face very\nyellow, and his eyes ablaze and haggard. He constantly glanced at Pierre,\nas if anxious to speak to him, but his dread lest he should be seen by\nAbb\u00e9 Paparelli, who stood in the next ante-room, the door of which was\nwide open, doubtless restrained him, for he did not cease to watch the\ntrain-bearer. At last the latter was compelled to absent himself for a\nmoment, and the secretary thereupon approached the young Frenchman.\n\n\u201cYou saw his Holiness last night,\u201d he said; and as Pierre gazed at him in\nstupefaction he added: \u201cOh! everything gets known, I told you so before.\nWell, and you purely and simply withdrew your book, did you not?\u201d The\nyoung priest\u2019s increasing stupor was sufficient answer, and without\nleaving him time to reply, Don Vigilio went on: \u201cI suspected it, but I\nwished to make certain. Ah! that\u2019s just the way they work! Do you believe\nme now, have you realised that they stifle those whom they don\u2019t poison?\u201d\n\nHe was no doubt referring to the Jesuits. However, after glancing into\nthe adjoining room to make sure that Abb\u00e9 Paparelli had not returned\nthither, he resumed: \u201cAnd what has Monsignor Nani just told you?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I have not yet seen Monsignor Nani,\u201d was Pierre\u2019s reply.\n\n\u201cOh! I thought you had. He passed through before you arrived. If you did\nnot see him in the throne-room he must have gone to pay his respects to\nDonna Serafina and his Eminence. However, he will certainly pass this way\nagain; you will see him by and by.\u201d Then with the bitterness of one who\nwas weak, ever terror-smitten and vanquished, Don Vigilio added: \u201cI told\nyou that you would end by doing what Monsignor Nani desired.\u201d\n\nWith these words, fancying that he heard the light footfall of Abb\u00e9\nPaparelli, he hastily returned to his place and bowed to two old ladies\nwho just then walked in. And Pierre, still seated, overcome, his eyes\nwearily closing, at last saw the figure of Nani arise before him in all\nits reality so typical of sovereign intelligence and address. He\nremembered what Don Vigilio, on the famous night of his revelations, had\ntold him of this man who was far too shrewd to have labelled himself, so\nto say, with an unpopular robe, and who, withal, was a charming prelate\nwith thorough knowledge of the world, acquired by long experience at\ndifferent nunciatures and at the Holy Office, mixed up in everything,\ninformed with regard to everything, one of the heads, one of the chief\nminds in fact of that modern black army, which by dint of Opportunism\nhopes to bring this century back to the Church. And all at once, full\nenlightenment fell on Pierre, he realised by what supple, clever strategy\nthat man had led him to the act which he desired of him, the pure and\nsimple withdrawal of his book, accomplished with every appearance of free\nwill. First there had been great annoyance on Nani\u2019s part on learning\nthat the book was being prosecuted, for he feared lest its excitable\nauthor might be prompted to some dangerous revolt; then plans had at once\nbeen formed, information had been collected concerning this young priest\nwho seemed so capable of schism, he had been urged to come to Rome,\ninvited to stay in an ancient mansion whose very walls would chill and\nenlighten him. And afterwards had come the ever recurring obstacles, the\nsystem of prolonging his sojourn in Rome by preventing him from seeing\nthe Pope, but promising him the much-desired interview when the proper\ntime should come, that is after he had been sent hither and thither and\nbrought into collision with one and all. And finally, when every one and\neverything had shaken, wearied, and disgusted him, and he was restored\nonce more to his old doubts, there had come the audience for which he had\nundergone all this preparation, that visit to the Pope which was destined\nto shatter whatever remained to him of his dream. Pierre could picture\nNani smiling at him and speaking to him, declaring that the repeated\ndelays were a favour of Providence, which would enable him to visit Rome,\nstudy and understand things, reflect, and avoid blunders. How delicate\nand how profound had been the prelate\u2019s diplomacy in thus crushing his\nfeelings beneath his reason, appealing to his intelligence to suppress\nhis work without any scandalous struggle as soon as his knowledge of the\nreal Rome should have shown him how supremely ridiculous it was to dream\nof a new one!\n\nAt that moment Pierre perceived Nani in person just coming from the\nthrone-room, and did not feel the irritation and rancour which he had\nanticipated. On the contrary he was glad when the prelate, in his turn\nseeing him, drew near and held out his hand. Nani, however, did not wear\nhis wonted smile, but looked very grave, quite grief-stricken. \u201cAh! my\ndear son,\u201d he said, \u201cwhat a frightful catastrophe! I have just left his\nEminence, he is in tears. It is horrible, horrible!\u201d\n\nHe seated himself on one of the chairs, inviting the young priest, who\nhad risen, to do the same; and for a moment he remained silent, weary\nwith emotion no doubt, and needing a brief rest to free himself of the\nweight of thoughts which visibly darkened his usually bright face. Then,\nwith a gesture, he strove to dismiss that gloom, and recover his amiable\ncordiality. \u201cWell, my dear son,\u201d he began, \u201cyou saw his Holiness?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Monseigneur, yesterday evening; and I thank you for your great\nkindness in satisfying my desire.\u201d\n\nNani looked at him fixedly, and his invincible smile again returned to\nhis lips. \u201cYou thank me.... I can well see that you behaved sensibly\nand laid your full submission at his Holiness\u2019s feet. I was certain of\nit, I did not expect less of your fine intelligence. But, all the same,\nyou render me very happy, for I am delighted to find that I was not\nmistaken concerning you.\u201d And then, setting aside his reserve, the\nprelate went on: \u201cI never discussed things with you. What would have been\nthe good of it, since facts were there to convince you? And now that you\nhave withdrawn your book a discussion would be still more futile.\nHowever, just reflect that if it were possible for you to bring the\nChurch back to her early period, to that Christian community which you\nhave sketched so delightfully, she could only again follow the same\nevolutions as those in which God the first time guided her; so that, at\nthe end of a similar number of centuries, she would find herself exactly\nin the position which she occupies to-day. No, what God has done has been\nwell done, the Church such as she is must govern the world, such as it\nis; it is for her alone to know how she will end by firmly establishing\nher reign here below. And this is why your attack upon the temporal power\nwas an unpardonable fault, a crime even, for by dispossessing the papacy\nof her domains you hand her over to the mercy of the nations. Your new\nreligion is but the final downfall of all religion, moral anarchy, the\nliberty of schism, in a word, the destruction of the divine edifice, that\nancient Catholicism which has shown such prodigious wisdom and solidity,\nwhich has sufficed for the salvation of mankind till now, and will alone\nbe able to save it to-morrow and always.\u201d\n\nPierre felt that Nani was sincere, pious even, and really unshakable in\nhis faith, loving the Church like a grateful son, and convinced that she\nwas the only social organisation which could render mankind happy. And if\nhe were bent on governing the world, it was doubtless for the pleasure of\ngoverning, but also in the conviction that no one could do so better than\nhimself.\n\n\u201cOh! certainly,\u201d said he, \u201cmethods are open to discussion. I desire them\nto be as affable and humane as possible, as conciliatory as can be with\nthis present century, which seems to be escaping us, precisely because\nthere is a misunderstanding between us. But we shall bring it back, I am\nsure of it. And that is why, my dear son, I am so pleased to see you\nreturn to the fold, thinking as we think, and ready to battle on our\nside, is that not so?\u201d\n\nIn Nani\u2019s words the young priest once more found the arguments of Leo\nXIII. Desiring to avoid a direct reply, for although he now felt no anger\nthe wrenching away of his dream had left him a smarting wound, he bowed,\nand replied slowly in order to conceal the bitter tremble of his voice:\n\u201cI repeat, Monseigneur, that I deeply thank you for having amputated my\nvain illusions with the skill of an accomplished surgeon. A little later,\nwhen I shall have ceased to suffer, I shall think of you with eternal\ngratitude.\u201d\n\nMonsignor Nani still looked at him with a smile. He fully understood that\nthis young priest would remain on one side, that as an element of\nstrength he was lost to the Church. What would he do now? Something\nfoolish no doubt. However, the prelate had to content himself with having\nhelped him to repair his first folly; he could not foresee the future.\nAnd he gracefully waved his hand as if to say that sufficient unto the\nday was the evil thereof.\n\n\u201cWill you allow me to conclude, my dear son?\u201d he at last exclaimed. \u201cBe\nsensible, your happiness as a priest and a man lies in humility. You will\nbe terribly unhappy if you use the great intelligence which God has given\nyou against Him.\u201d\n\nThen with another gesture he dismissed this affair, which was all over,\nand with which he need busy himself no more. And thereupon the other\naffair came back to make him gloomy, that other affair which also was\ndrawing to a close, but so tragically, with those two poor children\nslumbering in the adjoining room. \u201cAh!\u201d he resumed, \u201cthat poor Princess\nand that poor Cardinal quite upset my heart! Never did catastrophe fall\nso cruelly on a house. No, no, it is indeed too much, misfortune goes too\nfar--it revolts one\u2019s soul!\u201d\n\nJust as he finished a sound of voices came from the second ante-room, and\nPierre was thunderstruck to see Cardinal Sanguinetti go by, escorted with\nthe greatest obsequiousness by Abb\u00e9 Paparelli.\n\n\u201cIf your most Reverend Eminence will have the extreme kindness to follow\nme,\u201d the train-bearer was saying, \u201cI will conduct your most Reverend\nEminence myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied Sanguinetti, \u201cI arrived yesterday evening from Frascati,\nand when I heard the sad news, I at once desired to express my sorrow and\noffer consolation.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour Eminence will perhaps condescend to remain for a moment near the\nbodies. I will afterwards escort your Eminence to the private\napartments.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, by all means. I desire every one to know how greatly I participate\nin the sorrow which has fallen on this illustrious house.\u201d\n\nThen Sanguinetti entered the throne-room, leaving Pierre quite aghast at\nhis quiet audacity. The young priest certainly did not accuse him of\ndirect complicity with Santobono, he did not even dare to measure how far\nhis moral complicity might go. But on seeing him pass by like that, his\nbrow so lofty, his speech so clear, he had suddenly felt convinced that\nhe knew the truth. How or through whom, he could not have told; but\ndoubtless crimes become known in those shady spheres by those whose\ninterest it is to know of them. And Pierre remained quite chilled by the\nhaughty fashion in which that man presented himself, perhaps to stifle\nsuspicion and certainly to accomplish an act of good policy by giving his\nrival a public mark of esteem and affection.\n\n\u201cThe Cardinal! Here!\u201d Pierre murmured despite himself.\n\nNani, who followed the young man\u2019s thoughts in his childish eyes, in\nwhich all could be read, pretended to mistake the sense of his\nexclamation. \u201cYes,\u201d said he, \u201cI learnt that the Cardinal returned to Rome\nyesterday evening. He did not wish to remain away any longer; the Holy\nFather being so much better that he might perhaps have need of him.\u201d\n\nAlthough these words were spoken with an air of perfect innocence, Pierre\nwas not for a moment deceived by them. And having in his turn glanced at\nthe prelate, he was convinced that the latter also knew the truth. Then,\nall at once, the whole affair appeared to him in its intricacy, in the\nferocity which fate had imparted to it. Nani, an old intimate of the\nPalazzo Boccanera, was not heartless, he had surely loved Benedetta with\naffection, charmed by so much grace and beauty. One could thus explain\nthe victorious manner in which he had at last caused her marriage to be\nannulled. But if Don Vigilio were to be believed, that divorce, obtained\nby pecuniary outlay, and under pressure of the most notorious influences,\nwas simply a scandal which he, Nani, had in the first instance spun out,\nand then precipitated towards a resounding finish with the sole object of\ndiscrediting the Cardinal and destroying his chances of the tiara on the\neve of the Conclave which everybody thought imminent. It seemed certain,\ntoo, that the Cardinal, uncompromising as he was, could not be the\ncandidate of Nani, who was so desirous of universal agreement, and so the\nlatter\u2019s long labour in that house, whilst conducing to the happiness of\nthe Contessina, had been designed to frustrate Donna Serafina and\nCardinal Pio in their burning ambition, that third triumphant elevation\nto the papacy which they sought to secure for their ancient family.\nHowever, if Nani had always desired to baulk this ambition, and had even\nat one moment placed his hopes in Sanguinetti and fought for him, he had\nnever imagined that Boccanera\u2019s foes would go to the point of crime, to\nsuch an abomination as poison which missed its mark and killed the\ninnocent. No, no, as he himself said, that was too much, and made one\u2019s\nsoul rebel. He employed more gentle weapons; such brutality filled him\nwith indignation; and his face, so pinky and carefully tended, still wore\nthe grave expression of his revolt in presence of the tearful Cardinal\nand those poor lovers stricken in his stead.\n\nBelieving that Sanguinetti was still the prelate\u2019s secret candidate,\nPierre was worried to know how far their moral complicity in this baleful\naffair might go. So he resumed the conversation by saying: \u201cIt is\nasserted that his Holiness is on bad terms with his Eminence Cardinal\nSanguinetti. Of course the reigning pope cannot look on the future pope\nwith a very kindly eye.\u201d\n\nAt this, Nani for a moment became quite gay in all frankness. \u201cOh,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cthe Cardinal has quarrelled and made things up with the Vatican\nthree or four times already. And, in any event, the Holy Father has no\nmotive for posthumous jealousy; he knows very well that he can give his\nEminence a good greeting.\u201d Then, regretting that he had thus expressed a\ncertainty, he added: \u201cI am joking, his Eminence is altogether worthy of\nthe high fortune which perhaps awaits him.\u201d\n\nPierre knew what to think however; Sanguinetti was certainly Nani\u2019s\ncandidate no longer. It was doubtless considered that he had used himself\nup too much by his impatient ambition, and was too dangerous by reason of\nthe equivocal alliances which in his feverishness he had concluded with\nevery party, even that of patriotic young Italy. And thus the situation\nbecame clearer. Cardinals Sanguinetti and Boccanera devoured and\nsuppressed one another; the first, ever intriguing, accepting every\ncompromise, dreaming of winning Rome back by electoral methods; and the\nother, erect and motionless in his stern maintenance of the past,\nexcommunicating the century, and awaiting from God alone the miracle\nwhich would save the Church. And, indeed, why not leave the two theories,\nthus placed face to face, to destroy one another, including all the\nextreme, disquieting views which they respectively embodied? If Boccanera\nhad escaped the poison, he had none the less become an impossible\ncandidate, killed by all the stories which had set Rome buzzing; while if\nSanguinetti could say that he was rid of a rival, he had at the same time\ndealt a mortal blow to his own candidature, by displaying such passion\nfor power, and such unscrupulousness with regard to the methods he\nemployed, as to be a danger for every one. Monsignor Nani was visibly\ndelighted with this result; neither candidate was left, it was like the\nlegendary story of the two wolves who fought and devoured one another so\ncompletely that nothing of either of them was found left, not even their\ntails! And in the depths of the prelate\u2019s pale eyes, in the whole of his\ndiscreet person, there remained nothing but redoubtable mystery: the\nmystery of the yet unknown, but definitively selected candidate who would\nbe patronised by the all-powerful army of which he was one of the most\nskilful leaders. A man like him always had a solution ready. Who, then,\nwho would be the next pope?\n\nHowever, he now rose and cordially took leave of the young priest. \u201cI\ndoubt if I shall see you again, my dear son,\u201d he said; \u201cI wish you a good\njourney.\u201d\n\nStill he did not go off, but continued to look at Pierre with his\npenetrating eyes, and finally made him sit down again and did the same\nhimself. \u201cI feel sure,\u201d he said, \u201cthat you will go to pay your respects\nto Cardinal Bergerot as soon as you have returned to France. Kindly tell\nhim that I respectfully desired to be reminded to him. I knew him a\nlittle at the time when he came here for his hat. He is one of the great\nluminaries of the French clergy. Ah! a man of such intelligence would\nonly work for a good understanding in our holy Church. Unfortunately I\nfear that race and environment have instilled prejudices into him, for he\ndoes not always help us.\u201d\n\nPierre, who was surprised to hear Nani speak of the Cardinal for the\nfirst time at this moment of farewell, listened with curiosity. Then in\nall frankness he replied: \u201cYes, his Eminence has very decided ideas about\nour old Church of France. For instance, he professes perfect horror of\nthe Jesuits.\u201d\n\nWith a light exclamation Nani stopped the young man. And he wore the most\nsincerely, frankly astonished air that could be imagined. \u201cWhat! horror\nof the Jesuits! In what way can the Jesuits disquiet him? The Jesuits,\nthere are none, that\u2019s all over! Have you seen any in Rome? Have they\ntroubled you in any way, those poor Jesuits who haven\u2019t even a stone of\ntheir own left here on which to lay their heads? No, no, that bogey\nmustn\u2019t be brought up again, it\u2019s childish.\u201d\n\nPierre in his turn looked at him, marvelling at his perfect ease, his\nquiet courage in dealing with this burning subject. He did not avert his\neyes, but displayed an open face like a book of truth. \u201cAh!\u201d he\ncontinued, \u201cif by Jesuits you mean the sensible priests who, instead of\nentering into sterile and dangerous struggles with modern society, seek\nby human methods to bring it back to the Church, why, then of course we\nare all of us more or less Jesuits, for it would be madness not to take\ninto account the times in which one lives. And besides, I won\u2019t haggle\nover words; they are of no consequence! Jesuits, well, yes, if you like,\nJesuits!\u201d He was again smiling with that shrewd smile of his in which\nthere was so much raillery and so much intelligence. \u201cWell, when you see\nCardinal Bergerot tell him that it is unreasonable to track the Jesuits\nand treat them as enemies of the nation. The contrary is the truth. The\nJesuits are for France, because they are for wealth, strength, and\ncourage. France is the only great Catholic country which has yet remained\nerect and sovereign, the only one on which the papacy can some day lean.\nThus the Holy Father, after momentarily dreaming of obtaining support\nfrom victorious Germany, has allied himself with France, the vanquished,\nbecause he has understood that apart from France there can be no\nsalvation for the Church. And in this he has only followed the policy of\nthe Jesuits, those frightful Jesuits, whom your Parisians execrate. And\ntell Cardinal Bergerot also that it would be grand of him to work for\npacification by making people understand how wrong it is for your\nRepublic to help the Holy Father so little in his conciliatory efforts.\nIt pretends to regard him as an element in the world\u2019s affairs that may\nbe neglected; and that is dangerous, for although he may seem to have no\npolitical means of action he remains an immense moral force, and can at\nany moment raise consciences in rebellion and provoke a religious\nagitation of the most far-reaching consequences. It is still he who\ndisposes of the nations, since he disposes of their souls, and the\nRepublic acts most inconsiderately, from the standpoint of its own\ninterests, in showing that it no longer even suspects it. And tell the\nCardinal too, that it is really pitiful to see in what a wretched way\nyour Republic selects its bishops, as though it intentionally desired to\nweaken its episcopacy. Leaving out a few fortunate exceptions, your\nbishops are men of small brains, and as a result your cardinals, likewise\nmere mediocrities, have no influence, play no part here in Rome. Ah! what\na sorry figure you Frenchmen will cut at the next Conclave! And so why do\nyou show such blind and foolish hatred of those Jesuits, who,\npolitically, are your friends? Why don\u2019t you employ their intelligent\nzeal, which is ready to serve you, so that you may assure yourselves the\nhelp of the next, the coming pope? It is necessary for you that he should\nbe on your side, that he should continue the work of Leo XIII, which is\nso badly judged and so much opposed, but which cares little for the petty\nresults of to-day, since its purpose lies in the future, in the union of\nall the nations under their holy mother the Church. Tell Cardinal\nBergerot, tell him plainly that he ought to be with us, that he ought to\nwork for his country by working for us. The coming pope, why the whole\nquestion lies in that, and woe to France if in him she does not find a\ncontinuator of Leo XIII!\u201d\n\nNani had again risen, and this time he was going off. Never before had he\nunbosomed himself at such length. But most assuredly he had only said\nwhat he desired to say, for a purpose that he alone knew of, and in a\nfirm, gentle, and deliberate voice by which one could tell that each word\nhad been weighed and determined beforehand. \u201cFarewell, my dear son,\u201d he\nsaid, \u201cand once again think over all you have seen and heard in Rome. Be\nas sensible as you can, and do not spoil your life.\u201d\n\nPierre bowed, and pressed the small, plump, supple hand which the prelate\noffered him. \u201cMonseigneur,\u201d he replied, \u201cI again thank you for all your\nkindness; you may be sure that I shall forget nothing of my journey.\u201d\n\nThen he watched Nani as he went off, with a light and conquering step as\nif marching to all the victories of the future. No, no, he, Pierre, would\nforget nothing of his journey! He well knew that union of all the nations\nunder their holy mother the Church, that temporal bondage in which the\nlaw of Christ would become the dictatorship of Augustus, master of the\nworld! And as for those Jesuits, he had no doubt that they did love\nFrance, the eldest daughter of the Church, and the only daughter that\ncould yet help her mother to reconquer universal sovereignty, but they\nloved her even as the black swarms of locusts love the harvests which\nthey swoop upon and devour. Infinite sadness had returned to the young\nman\u2019s heart as he dimly realised that in that sorely-stricken mansion, in\nall that mourning and downfall, it was they, they again, who must have\nbeen the artisans of grief and disaster.\n\nAs this thought came to him he turned round and perceived Don Vigilio\nleaning against the credence in front of the large portrait of the\nCardinal. Holding his hands to his face as if he desired to annihilate\nhimself, the secretary was shivering in every limb as much with fear as\nwith fever. At a moment when no fresh visitors were arriving he had\nsuccumbed to an attack of terrified despair.\n\n\u201c_Mon Dieu_! What is the matter with you?\u201d asked Pierre stepping forward,\n\u201care you ill, can I help you?\u201d\n\nBut Don Vigilio, suffocating and still hiding his face, could only gasp\nbetween his close-pressed hands \u201cAh! Paparelli, Paparelli!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it? What has he done to you?\u201d asked the other astonished.\n\nThen the secretary disclosed his face, and again yielded to his quivering\ndesire to confide in some one. \u201cEh? what he has done to me? Can\u2019t you\nfeel anything, can\u2019t you see anything then? Didn\u2019t you notice the manner\nin which he took possession of Cardinal Sanguinetti so as to conduct him\nto his Eminence? To impose that suspected, hateful rival on his Eminence\nat such a moment as this, what insolent audacity! And a few minutes\npreviously did you notice with what wicked cunning he bowed out an old\nlady, a very old family friend, who only desired to kiss his Eminence\u2019s\nhand and show a little real affection which would have made his Eminence\nso happy! Ah! I tell you that he\u2019s the master here, he opens or closes\nthe door as he pleases, and holds us all between his fingers like a pinch\nof dust which one throws to the wind!\u201d\n\nPierre became anxious, seeing how yellow and feverish Don Vigilio was:\n\u201cCome, come, my dear fellow,\u201d he said, \u201cyou are exaggerating!\u201d\n\n\u201cExaggerating? Do you know what happened last night, what I myself\nunwillingly witnessed? No, you don\u2019t know it; well, I will tell you.\u201d\n\nThereupon he related that Donna Serafina, on returning home on the\nprevious day to face the terrible catastrophe awaiting her, had already\nbeen overcome by the bad news which she had learnt when calling on the\nCardinal Secretary and various prelates of her acquaintance. She had then\nacquired a certainty that her brother\u2019s position was becoming extremely\nbad, for he had made so many fresh enemies among his colleagues of the\nSacred College, that his election to the pontifical throne, which a year\npreviously had seemed probable, now appeared an impossibility. Thus, all\nat once, the dream of her life collapsed, the ambition which she had so\nlong nourished lay in dust at her feet. On despairingly seeking the why\nand wherefore of this change, she had been told of all sorts of blunders\ncommitted by the Cardinal, acts of rough sternness, unseasonable\nmanifestations of opinion, inconsiderate words or actions which had\nsufficed to wound people, in fact such provoking demeanour that one might\nhave thought it adopted with the express intention of spoiling\neverything. And the worst was that in each of the blunders she had\nrecognised errors of judgment which she herself had blamed, but which her\nbrother had obstinately insisted on perpetrating under the unacknowledged\ninfluence of Abb\u00e9 Paparelli, that humble and insignificant train-bearer,\nin whom she detected a baneful and powerful adviser who destroyed her own\nvigilant and devoted influence. And so, in spite of the mourning in which\nthe house was plunged, she did not wish to delay the punishment of the\ntraitor, particularly as his old friendship with that terrible Santobono,\nand the story of that basket of figs which had passed from the hands of\nthe one to those of the other, chilled her blood with a suspicion which\nshe even recoiled from elucidating. However, at the first words she\nspoke, directly she made a formal request that the traitor should be\nimmediately turned out of the house, she was confronted by invincible\nresistance on her brother\u2019s part. He would not listen to her, but flew\ninto one of those hurricane-like passions which swept everything away,\nreproaching her for laying blame on so modest, pious, and saintly a man,\nand accusing her of playing into the hands of his enemies, who, after\nkilling Monsignor Gallo, were seeking to poison his sole remaining\naffection for that poor, insignificant priest. He treated all the stories\nhe was told as abominable inventions, and swore that he would keep the\ntrain-bearer in his service if only to show his disdain for calumny. And\nshe was thereupon obliged to hold her peace.\n\nHowever, Don Vigilio\u2019s shuddering fit had again come back; he carried his\nhands to his face stammering: \u201cAh! Paparelli, Paparelli!\u201d And muttered\ninvectives followed: the train-bearer was an artful hypocrite who feigned\nmodesty and humility, a vile spy appointed to pry into everything, listen\nto everything, and pervert everything that went on in the palace; he was\na loathsome, destructive insect, feeding on the most noble prey,\ndevouring the lion\u2019s mane, a Jesuit--the Jesuit who is at once lackey and\ntyrant, in all his base horror as he accomplishes the work of vermin.\n\n\u201cCalm yourself, calm yourself,\u201d repeated Pierre, who whilst allowing for\nfoolish exaggeration on the secretary\u2019s part could not help shivering at\nthought of all the threatening things which he himself could divine astir\nin the gloom.\n\nHowever, since Don Vigilio had so narrowly escaped eating those horrible\nfigs, his fright was such that nothing could calm it. Even when he was\nalone at night, in bed, with his door locked and bolted, sudden terror\nfell on him and made him hide his head under the sheet and vent stifled\ncries as if he thought that men were coming through the wall to strangle\nhim. In a faint, breathless voice, as if just emerging from a struggle,\nhe now resumed: \u201cI told you what would happen on the evening when we had\na talk together in your room. Although all the doors were securely shut,\nI did wrong to speak of them to you, I did wrong to ease my heart by\ntelling you all that they were capable of. I was sure they would learn\nit, and you see they did learn it, since they tried to kill me.... Why\nit\u2019s even wrong of me to tell you this, for it will reach their ears and\nthey won\u2019t miss me the next time. Ah! it\u2019s all over, I\u2019m as good as dead;\nthis house which I thought so safe will be my tomb.\u201d\n\nPierre began to feel deep compassion for this ailing man, whose feverish\nbrain was haunted by nightmares, and whose life was being finally wrecked\nby the anguish of persecution mania. \u201cBut you must run away in that\ncase!\u201d he said. \u201cDon\u2019t stop here; come to France.\u201d\n\nDon Vigilio looked at him, momentarily calmed by surprise. \u201cRun away,\nwhy? Go to France? Why, they are there! No matter where I might go, they\nwould be there. They are everywhere, I should always be surrounded by\nthem! No, no, I prefer to stay here and would rather die at once if his\nEminence can no longer defend me.\u201d With an expression of ardent entreaty\nin which a last gleam of hope tried to assert itself, he raised his eyes\nto the large painting in which the Cardinal stood forth resplendent in\nhis cassock of red moire; but his attack came back again and overwhelmed\nhim with increased intensity of fever. \u201cLeave me, I beg you, leave me,\u201d\n he gasped. \u201cDon\u2019t make me talk any more. Ah! Paparelli, Paparelli! If he\nshould come back and see us and hear me speak.... Oh! I\u2019ll never say\nanything again. I\u2019ll tie up my tongue, I\u2019ll cut it off. Leave me, you are\nkilling me, I tell you, he\u2019ll be coming back and that will mean my death.\nGo away, oh! for mercy\u2019s sake, go away!\u201d\n\nThereupon Don Vigilio turned towards the wall as if to flatten his face\nagainst it, and immure his lips in tomb-like silence; and Pierre resolved\nto leave him to himself, fearing lest he should provoke a yet more\nserious attack if he went on endeavouring to succour him.\n\nOn returning to the throne-room the young priest again found himself\namidst all the frightful mourning. Mass was following mass; without\ncessation murmured prayers entreated the divine mercy to receive the two\ndear departed souls with loving kindness. And amidst the dying perfume of\nthe fading roses, in front of the pale stars of the lighted candles,\nPierre thought of that supreme downfall of the Boccaneras. Dario was the\nlast of the name, and one could well understand that the Cardinal, whose\nonly sin was family pride, should have loved that one remaining scion by\nwhom alone the old stock might yet blossom afresh. And indeed, if he and\nDonna Serafina had desired the divorce, and then the marriage of the\ncousins, it had been less with the view of putting an end to scandal than\nwith the hope of seeing a new line of Boccaneras spring up. But the\nlovers were dead, and the last remains of a long series of dazzling\nprinces of sword and of gown lay there on that bed, soon to rot in the\ngrave. It was all over; that old maid and that aged Cardinal could leave\nno posterity. They remained face to face like two withered oaks, sole\nremnants of a vanished forest, and their fall would soon leave the plain\nquite clear. And how terrible the grief of surviving in impotence, what\nanguish to have to tell oneself that one is the end of everything, that\nwith oneself all life, all hope for the morrow will depart! Amidst the\nmurmur of the prayers, the dying perfume of the roses, the pale gleams of\nthe two candies, Pierre realised what a downfall was that bereavement,\nhow heavy was the gravestone which fell for ever on an extinct house, a\nvanished world.\n\nHe well understood that as one of the familiars of the mansion he must\npay his respects to Donna Serafina and the Cardinal, and he at once\nsought admission to the neighbouring room where the Princess was\nreceiving her friends. He found her robed in black, very slim and very\nerect in her arm-chair, whence she rose with slow dignity to respond to\nthe bow of each person that entered. She listened to the condolences but\nanswered never a word, overcoming her physical pain by rigidity of\nbearing. Pierre, who had learnt to know her, could divine, however, by\nthe hollowness of her cheeks, the emptiness of her eyes, and the bitter\ntwinge of her mouth, how frightful was the collapse within her. Not only\nwas her race ended, but her brother would never be pope, never secure the\nelevation which she had so long fancied she was winning for him by dint\nof devotion, dint of feminine renunciation, giving brain and heart, care\nand money, foregoing even wifehood and motherhood, spoiling her whole\nlife, in order to realise that dream. And amidst all the ruin of hope, it\nwas perhaps the nonfulfilment of that ambition which most made her heart\nbleed. She rose for the young priest, her guest, as she rose for the\nother persons who presented themselves; but she contrived to introduce\nshades of meaning into the manner in which she quitted her chair, and\nPierre fully realised that he had remained in her eyes a mere petty\nFrench priest, an insignificant domestic of the Divinity who had not\nknown how to acquire even the title of prelate. When she had again seated\nherself after acknowledging his compliment with a slight inclination of\nthe head, he remained for a moment standing, out of politeness. Not a\nword, not a sound disturbed the mournful quiescence of the room, for\nalthough there were four or five lady visitors seated there they remained\nmotionless and silent as with grief. Pierre was most struck, however, by\nthe sight of Cardinal Sarno, who was lying back in an arm-chair with his\neyes closed. The poor puny lopsided old man had lingered there\nforgetfully after expressing his condolences, and, overcome by the heavy\nsilence and close atmosphere, had just fallen asleep. And everybody\nrespected his slumber. Was he dreaming as he dozed of that map of\nChristendom which he carried behind his low obtuse-looking brow? Was he\ncontinuing in dreamland his terrible work of conquest, that task of\nsubjecting and governing the earth which he directed from his dark room\nat the Propaganda? The ladies glanced at him affectionately and\ndeferentially; he was gently scolded at times for over-working himself,\nthe sleepiness which nowadays frequently overtook him in all sorts of\nplaces being attributed to excess of genius and zeal. And of this\nall-powerful Eminence Pierre was destined to carry off only this last\nimpression: an exhausted old man, resting amidst the emotion of a\nmourning-gathering, sleeping there like a candid child, without any one\nknowing whether this were due to the approach of senile imbecility, or to\nthe fatigues of a night spent in organising the reign of God over some\ndistant continent.\n\nTwo ladies went off and three more arrived. Donna Serafina rose, bowed,\nand then reseated herself, reverting to her rigid attitude, her bust\nerect, her face stern and full of despair. Cardinal Sarno was still\nasleep. Then Pierre felt as if he would stifle, a kind of vertigo came on\nhim, and his heart beat violently. So he bowed and withdrew: and on\npassing through the dining-room on his way to the little study where\nCardinal Boccanera received his visitors, he found himself in the\npresence of Paparelli who was jealously guarding the door. When the\ntrain-bearer had sniffed at the young man, he seemed to realise that he\ncould not refuse him admittance. Moreover, as this intruder was going\naway the very next day, defeated and covered with shame, there was\nnothing to be feared from him.\n\n\u201cYou wish to see his Eminence?\u201d said Paparelli. \u201cGood, good. By and by,\nwait.\u201d And opining that Pierre was too near the door, he pushed him back\nto the other end of the room, for fear no doubt lest he should overhear\nanything. \u201cHis Eminence is still engaged with his Eminence Cardinal\nSanguinetti. Wait, wait there!\u201d\n\nSanguinetti indeed had made a point of kneeling for a long time in front\nof the bodies in the throne-room, and had then spun out his visit to\nDonna Serafina in order to mark how largely he shared the family sorrow.\nAnd for more than ten minutes now he had been closeted with Cardinal\nBoccanera, nothing but an occasional murmur of their voices being heard\nthrough the closed door.\n\nPierre, however, on finding Paparelli there, was again haunted by all\nthat Don Vigilio had told him. He looked at the train-bearer, so fat and\nshort, puffed out with bad fat in his dirty cassock, his face flabby and\nwrinkled, and his whole person at forty years of age suggestive of that\nof a very old maid: and he felt astonished. How was it that Cardinal\nBoccanera, that superb prince who carried his head so high, and who was\nso supremely proud of his name, had allowed himself to be captured and\nswayed by such a frightful creature reeking of baseness and abomination?\nWas it not the man\u2019s very physical degradation and profound humility that\nhad struck him, disturbed him, and finally fascinated him, as wondrous\ngifts conducing to salvation, which he himself lacked? Paparelli\u2019s person\nand disposition were like blows dealt to his own handsome presence and\nhis own pride. He, who could not be so deformed, he who could not\nvanquish his passion for glory, must, by an effort of faith, have grown\njealous of that man who was so extremely ugly and so extremely\ninsignificant, he must have come to admire him as a superior force of\npenitence and human abasement which threw the portals of heaven wide\nopen. Who can ever tell what ascendency is exercised by the monster over\nthe hero; by the horrid-looking saint covered with vermin over the\npowerful of this world in their terror at having to endure everlasting\nflames in payment of their terrestrial joys? And \u2019twas indeed the lion\ndevoured by the insect, vast strength and splendour destroyed by the\ninvisible. Ah! to have that fine soul which was so certain of paradise,\nwhich for its welfare was enclosed in such a disgusting body, to possess\nthe happy humility of that wide intelligence, that remarkable theologian,\nwho scourged himself with rods each morning on rising, and was content to\nbe the lowest of servants.\n\nStanding there a heap of livid fat, Paparelli on his side watched Pierre\nwith his little grey eyes blinking amidst the myriad wrinkles of his\nface. And the young priest began to feel uneasy, wondering what their\nEminences could be saying to one another, shut up together like that for\nso long a time. And what an interview it must be if Boccanera suspected\nSanguinetti of counting Santobono among his clients. What serene audacity\nit was on Sanguinetti\u2019s part to have dared to present himself in that\nhouse, and what strength of soul there must be on Boccanera\u2019s part, what\nempire over himself, to prevent all scandal by remaining silent and\naccepting the visit as a simple mark of esteem and affection! What could\nthey be saying to one another, however? How interesting it would have\nbeen to have seen them face to face, and have heard them exchange the\ndiplomatic phrases suited to such an interview, whilst their souls were\nraging with furious hatred!\n\nAll at once the door opened and Cardinal Sanguinetti appeared with calm\nface, no ruddier than usual, indeed a trifle paler, and retaining the\nfitting measure of sorrow which he had thought it right to assume. His\nrestless eyes alone revealed his delight at being rid of a difficult\ntask. And he was going off, all hope, in the conviction that he was the\nonly eligible candidate to the papacy that remained.\n\nAbb\u00e9 Paparelli had darted forward: \u201cIf your Eminence will kindly follow\nme--I will escort your Eminence to the door.\u201d Then, turning towards\nPierre, he added: \u201cYou may go in now.\u201d\n\nPierre watched them walk away, the one so humble behind the other, who\nwas so triumphant. Then he entered the little work-room, furnished simply\nwith a table and three chairs, and in the centre of it he at once\nperceived Cardinal Boccanera still standing in the lofty, noble attitude\nwhich he had assumed to take leave of Sanguinetti, his hated rival to the\npontifical throne. And, visibly, Boccanera also believed himself the only\npossible pope, the one whom the coming Conclave would elect.\n\nHowever, when the door had been closed, and the Cardinal beheld that\nyoung priest, his guest, who had witnessed the death of those two dear\nchildren lying in the adjoining room, he was again mastered by emotion,\nan unexpected attack of weakness in which all his energy collapsed. His\nhuman feelings were taking their revenge now that his rival was no longer\nthere to see him. He staggered like an old tree smitten with the axe, and\nsank upon a chair, stifling with sobs.\n\nAnd as Pierre, according to usage, was about to stoop and kiss his ring,\nhe raised him and at once made him sit down, stammering in a halting\nvoice: \u201cNo, no, my dear son! Seat yourself there, wait--Excuse me, leave\nme to myself for a moment, my heart is bursting.\u201d\n\nHe sobbed with his hands to his face, unable to master himself, unable to\ndrive back his grief with those yet vigorous fingers which were pressed\nto his cheeks and temples.\n\nTears came into Pierre\u2019s eyes, for he also lived through all that woe\nafresh, and was much upset by the weeping of that tall old man, that\nsaint and prince, usually so haughty, so fully master of himself, but now\nonly a poor, suffering, agonising man, as weak and as lost as a child.\nHowever, although the young priest was likewise stifling with grief, he\ndesired to present his condolences, and sought for kindly words by which\nhe might soothe the other\u2019s despair. \u201cI beg your Eminence to believe in\nmy profound grief,\u201d he said. \u201cI have been overwhelmed with kindness here,\nand desired at once to tell your Eminence how much that irreparable\nloss--\u201d\n\nBut with a brave gesture the Cardinal silenced him. \u201cNo, no, say nothing,\nfor mercy\u2019s sake say nothing!\u201d\n\nAnd silence reigned while he continued weeping, shaken by the struggle he\nwas waging, his efforts to regain sufficient strength to overcome\nhimself. At last he mastered his quiver and slowly uncovered his face,\nwhich had again become calm, like that of a believer strong in his faith,\nand submissive to the will of God. In refusing a miracle, in dealing so\nhard a blow to that house, God had doubtless had His reasons, and he, the\nCardinal, one of God\u2019s ministers, one of the high dignitaries of His\nterrestrial court, was in duty bound to bow to it. The silence lasted for\nanother moment, and then, in a voice which he managed to render natural\nand cordial, Boccanera said: \u201cYou are leaving us, you are going back to\nFrance to-morrow, are you not, my dear son?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I shall have the honour to take leave of your Eminence to-morrow,\nagain thanking your Eminence for your inexhaustible kindness.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you have learnt that the Congregation of the Index has condemned\nyour book, as was inevitable?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I obtained the signal favour of being received by his Holiness, and\nin his presence made my submission and reprobated my book.\u201d\n\nThe Cardinal\u2019s moist eyes again began to sparkle. \u201cAh! you did that, ah!\nyou did well, my dear son,\u201d he said. \u201cIt was only your strict duty as a\npriest, but there are so many nowadays who do not even do their duty! As\na member of the Congregation I kept the promise I gave you to read your\nbook, particularly the incriminated pages. And if I afterwards remained\nneutral, to such a point even as to miss the sitting in which judgment\nwas pronounced, it was only to please my poor, dear niece, who was so\nfond of you, and who pleaded your cause to me.\u201d\n\nTears were coming into his eyes again, and he paused, feeling that he\nwould once more be overcome if he evoked the memory of that adored and\nlamented Benedetta. And so it was with a pugnacious bitterness that he\nresumed: \u201cBut what an execrable book it was, my dear son, allow me to\ntell you so. You told me that you had shown respect for dogma, and I\nstill wonder what aberration can have come over you that you should have\nbeen so blind to all consciousness of your offences. Respect for\ndogma--good Lord! when the entire work is the negation of our holy\nreligion! Did you not realise that by asking for a new religion you\nabsolutely condemned the old one, the only true one, the only good one,\nthe only one that can be eternal? And that sufficed to make your book the\nmost deadly of poisons, one of those infamous books which in former times\nwere burnt by the hangman, and which one is nowadays compelled to leave\nin circulation after interdicting them and thereby designating them to\nevil curiosity, which explains the contagious rottenness of the century.\nAh! I well recognised there some of the ideas of our distinguished and\npoetical relative, that dear Viscount Philibert de la Choue. A man of\nletters, yes! a man of letters! Literature, mere literature! I beg God to\nforgive him, for he most surely does not know what he is doing, or\nwhither he is going with his elegiac Christianity for talkative working\nmen and young persons of either sex, to whom scientific notions have\ngiven vagueness of soul. And I only feel angry with his Eminence Cardinal\nBergerot, for he at any rate knows what he does, and does as he pleases.\nNo, say nothing, do not defend him. He personifies Revolution in the\nChurch, and is against God.\u201d\n\nAlthough Pierre had resolved that he would not reply or argue, he had\nallowed a gesture of protest to escape him on hearing this furious attack\nupon the man whom he most respected in the whole world. However, he\nyielded to Cardinal Boccanera\u2019s injunction and again bowed.\n\n\u201cI cannot sufficiently express my horror,\u201d the Cardinal roughly\ncontinued; \u201cyes, my horror for all that hollow dream of a new religion!\nThat appeal to the most hideous passions which stir up the poor against\nthe rich, by promising them I know not what division of wealth, what\ncommunity of possession which is nowadays impossible! That base flattery\nshown to the lower orders to whom equality and justice are promised but\nnever given, for these can come from God alone, it is only He who can\nfinally make them reign on the day appointed by His almighty power! And\nthere is even that interested charity which people abuse of to rail\nagainst Heaven itself and accuse it of iniquity and indifference, that\nlackadaisical weakening charity and compassion, unworthy of strong firm\nhearts, for it is as if human suffering were not necessary for salvation,\nas if we did not become more pure, greater and nearer to the supreme\nhappiness, the more and more we suffer!\u201d\n\nHe was growing excited, full of anguish, and superb. It was his\nbereavement, his heart wound, which thus exasperated him, the great blow\nwhich had felled him for a moment, but against which he again rose erect,\ndefying grief, and stubborn in his stoic belief in an omnipotent God, who\nwas the master of mankind, and reserved felicity to those whom He\nselected. Again, however, he made an effort to calm himself, and resumed\nin a more gentle voice: \u201cAt all events the fold is always open, my dear\nson, and here you are back in it since you have repented. You cannot\nimagine how happy it makes me.\u201d\n\nIn his turn Pierre strove to show himself conciliatory in order that he\nmight not further ulcerate that violent, grief-stricken soul: \u201cYour\nEminence,\u201d said he, \u201cmay be sure that I shall endeavour to remember every\none of the kind words which your Eminence has spoken to me, in the same\nway as I shall remember the fatherly greeting of his Holiness Leo XIII.\u201d\n\nThis sentence seemed to throw Boccanera into agitation again. At first\nonly murmured, restrained words came from him, as if he were struggling\nagainst a desire to question the young priest. \u201cAh yes! you saw his\nHoliness, you spoke to him, and he told you I suppose, as he tells all\nthe foreigners who go to pay their respects to him, that he desires\nconciliation and peace. For my part I now only see him when it is\nabsolutely necessary; for more than a year I have not been received in\nprivate audience.\u201d\n\nThis proof of disfavour, of the covert struggle which as in the days of\nPius IX kept the Holy Father and the _Camerlingo_ at variance, filled the\nlatter with bitterness. He was unable to restrain himself and spoke out,\nreflecting no doubt that he had a familiar before him, one whose\ndiscretion was certain, and who moreover was leaving Rome on the morrow.\n\u201cOne may go a long way,\u201d said he, \u201cwith those fine words, peace and\nconciliation, which are so often void of real wisdom and courage. The\nterrible truth is that Leo XIII\u2019s eighteen years of concessions have\nshaken everything in the Church, and should he long continue to reign\nCatholicism would topple over and crumble into dust like a building whose\npillars have been undermined.\u201d\n\nInterested by this remark, Pierre in his desire for knowledge began to\nraise objections. \u201cBut hasn\u2019t his Holiness shown himself very prudent?\u201d\n he asked; \u201chas he not placed dogma on one side in an impregnable\nfortress? If he seems to have made concessions on many points, have they\nnot always been concessions in mere matters of form?\u201d\n\n\u201cMatters of form; ah, yes!\u201d the Cardinal resumed with increasing passion.\n\u201cHe told you, no doubt, as he tells others, that whilst in substance he\nwill make no surrender, he will readily yield in matters of form! It\u2019s a\ndeplorable axiom, an equivocal form of diplomacy even when it isn\u2019t so\nmuch low hypocrisy! My soul revolts at the thought of that Opportunism,\nthat Jesuitism which makes artifice its weapon, and only serves to cast\ndoubt among true believers, the confusion of a _sauve-qui-peut_, which by\nand by must lead to inevitable defeat. It is cowardice, the worst form of\ncowardice, abandonment of one\u2019s weapons in order that one may retreat the\nmore speedily, shame of oneself, assumption of a mask in the hope of\ndeceiving the enemy, penetrating into his camp, and overcoming him by\ntreachery! No, no, form is everything in a traditional and immutable\nreligion, which for eighteen hundred years has been, is now, and till the\nend of time will be the very law of God!\u201d\n\nThe Cardinal\u2019s feelings so stirred him that he was unable to remain\nseated, and began to walk about the little room. And it was the whole\nreign, the whole policy of Leo XIII which he discussed and condemned.\n\u201cUnity too,\u201d he continued, \u201cthat famous unity of the Christian Church\nwhich his Holiness talks of bringing about, and his desire for which\npeople turn to his great glory, why, it is only the blind ambition of a\nconqueror enlarging his empire without asking himself if the new nations\nthat he subjects may not disorganise, adulterate, and impregnate his old\nand hitherto faithful people with every error. What if all the\nschismatical nations on returning to the Catholic Church should so\ntransform it as to kill it and make it a new Church? There is only one\nwise course, which is to be what one is, and that firmly. Again, isn\u2019t\nthere both shame and danger in that pretended alliance with the democracy\nwhich in itself gives the lie to the ancient spirit of the papacy? The\nright of kings is divine, and to abandon the monarchical principle is to\nset oneself against God, to compound with revolution, and harbour a\nmonstrous scheme of utilising the madness of men the better to establish\none\u2019s power over them. All republics are forms of anarchy, and there can\nbe no more criminal act, one which must for ever shake the principle of\nauthority, order, and religion itself, than that of recognising a\nrepublic as legitimate for the sole purpose of indulging a dream of\nimpossible conciliation. And observe how this bears on the question of\nthe temporal power. He continues to claim it, he makes a point of no\nsurrender on that question of the restoration of Rome; but in reality,\nhas he not made the loss irreparable, has he not definitively renounced\nRome, by admitting that nations have the right to drive away their kings\nand live like wild beasts in the depths of the forest?\u201d\n\nAll at once the Cardinal stopped short and raised his arms to Heaven in a\nburst of holy anger. \u201cAh! that man, ah! that man who by his vanity and\ncraving for success will have proved the ruin of the Church, that man who\nhas never ceased corrupting everything, dissolving everything, crumbling\neverything in order to reign over the world which he fancies he will\nreconquer by those means, why, Almighty God, why hast Thou not already\ncalled him to Thee?\u201d\n\nSo sincere was the accent in which that appeal to Death was raised, to\nsuch a point was hatred magnified by a real desire to save the Deity\nimperilled here below, that a great shudder swept through Pierre also. He\nnow understood that Cardinal Boccanera who religiously and passionately\nhated Leo XIII; he saw him in the depths of his black palace, waiting and\nwatching for the Pope\u2019s death, that death which as _Camerlingo_ he must\nofficially certify. How feverishly he must wait, how impatiently he must\ndesire the advent of the hour, when with his little silver hammer he\nwould deal the three symbolic taps on the skull of Leo XIII, while the\nlatter lay cold and rigid on his bed surrounded by his pontifical Court.\nAh! to strike that wall of the brain, to make sure that nothing more\nwould answer from within, that nothing beyond night and silence was left\nthere. And the three calls would ring out: \u201cGioachino! Gioachino!\nGioachino!\u201d And, the corpse making no answer, the _Camerlingo_ after\nwaiting for a few seconds would turn and say: \u201cThe Pope is dead!\u201d\n\n\u201cConciliation, however, is the weapon of the times,\u201d remarked Pierre,\nwishing to bring the Cardinal back to the present, \u201cand it is in order to\nmake sure of conquering that the Holy Father yields in matters of form.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe will not conquer, he will be conquered,\u201d cried Boccanera. \u201cNever has\nthe Church been victorious save in stubbornly clinging to its\nintegrality, the immutable eternity of its divine essence. And it would\nfor a certainty fall on the day when it should allow a single stone of\nits edifice to be touched. Remember the terrible period through which it\npassed at the time of the Council of Trent. The Reformation had just\ndeeply shaken it, laxity of discipline and morals was everywhere\nincreasing, there was a rising tide of novelties, ideas suggested by the\nspirit of evil, unhealthy projects born of the pride of man, running riot\nin full license. And at the Council itself many members were disturbed,\npoisoned, ready to vote for the wildest changes, a fresh schism added to\nall the others. Well, if Catholicism was saved at that critical period,\nunder the threat of such great danger, it was because the majority,\nenlightened by God, maintained the old edifice intact, it was because\nwith divinely inspired obstinacy it kept itself within the narrow limits\nof dogma, it was because it made no concession, none, whether in\nsubstance or in form! Nowadays the situation is certainly not worse than\nit was at the time of the Council of Trent. Let us suppose it to be much\nthe same, and tell me if it is not nobler, braver, and safer for the\nChurch to show the courage which she showed before and declare aloud what\nshe is, what she has been, and what she will be. There is no salvation\nfor her otherwise than in her complete, indisputable sovereignty; and\nsince she has always conquered by non-surrender, all attempts to\nconciliate her with the century are tantamount to killing her!\u201d\n\nThe Cardinal had again begun to walk to and fro with thoughtful step.\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said he, \u201cno compounding, no surrender, no weakness! Rather the\nwall of steel which bars the road, the block of granite which marks the\nlimit of a world! As I told you, my dear son, on the day of your arrival,\nto try to accommodate Catholicism to the new times is to hasten its end,\nif really it be threatened, as atheists pretend. And in that way it would\ndie basely and shamefully instead of dying erect, proud, and dignified in\nits old glorious royalty! Ah! to die standing, denying nought of the\npast, braving the future and confessing one\u2019s whole faith!\u201d\n\nThat old man of seventy seemed to grow yet loftier as he spoke, free from\nall dread of final annihilation, and making the gesture of a hero who\ndefies futurity. Faith had given him serenity of peace; he believed, he\nknew, he had neither doubt nor fear of the morrow of death. Still his\nvoice was tinged with haughty sadness as he resumed, \u201cGod can do all,\neven destroy His own work should it seem evil in His eyes. But though all\nshould crumble to-morrow, though the Holy Church should disappear among\nthe ruins, though the most venerated sanctuaries should be crushed by the\nfalling stars, it would still be necessary for us to bow and adore God,\nwho after creating the world might thus annihilate it for His own glory.\nAnd I wait, submissive to His will, for nothing happens unless He wills\nit. If really the temples be shaken, if Catholicism be fated to fall\nto-morrow into dust, I shall be here to act as the minister of death,\neven as I have been the minister of life! It is certain, I confess it,\nthat there are hours when terrible signs appear to me. Perhaps, indeed,\nthe end of time is nigh, and we shall witness that fall of the old world\nwith which others threaten us. The worthiest, the loftiest are struck\ndown as if Heaven erred, and in them punished the crimes of the world.\nHave I not myself felt the blast from the abyss into which all must sink,\nsince my house, for transgressions that I am ignorant of, has been\nstricken with that frightful bereavement which precipitates it into the\ngulf which casts it back into night everlasting!\u201d\n\nHe again evoked those two dear dead ones who were always present in his\nmind. Sobs were once more rising in his throat, his hands trembled, his\nlofty figure quivered with the last revolt of grief. Yes, if God had\nstricken him so severely by suppressing his race, if the greatest and\nmost faithful were thus punished, it must be that the world was\ndefinitively condemned. Did not the end of his house mean the approaching\nend of all? And in his sovereign pride as priest and as prince, he found\na cry of supreme resignation, once more raising his hands on high:\n\u201cAlmighty God, Thy will be done! May all die, all fall, all return to the\nnight of chaos! I shall remain standing in this ruined palace, waiting to\nbe buried beneath its fragments. And if Thy will should summon me to bury\nThy holy religion, be without fear, I shall do nothing unworthy to\nprolong its life for a few days! I will maintain it erect, like myself,\nas proud, as uncompromising as in the days of all its power. I will yield\nnothing, whether in discipline, or in rite, or in dogma. And when the day\nshall come I will bury it with myself, carrying it whole into the grave\nrather than yielding aught of it, encompassing it with my cold arms to\nrestore it to Thee, even as Thou didst commit it to the keeping of Thy\nChurch. O mighty God and sovereign Master, dispose of me, make me if such\nbe Thy good pleasure the pontiff of destruction, the pontiff of the death\nof the world.\u201d\n\nPierre, who was thunderstruck, quivered with fear and admiration at the\nextraordinary vision this evoked: the last of the popes interring\nCatholicism. He understood that Boccanera must at times have made that\ndream; he could see him in the Vatican, in St. Peter\u2019s which the\nthunderbolts had riven asunder, he could see him erect and alone in the\nspacious halls whence his terrified, cowardly pontifical Court had fled.\nClad in his white cassock, thus wearing white mourning for the Church, he\nonce more descended to the sanctuary, there to wait for heaven to fall on\nthe evening of Time\u2019s accomplishment and annihilate the earth. Thrice he\nraised the large crucifix, overthrown by the supreme convulsions of the\nsoil. Then, when the final crack rent the steps apart, he caught it in\nhis arms and was annihilated with it beneath the falling vaults. And\nnothing could be more instinct with fierce and kingly grandeur.\n\nVoiceless, but without weakness, his lofty stature invincible and erect\nin spite of all, Cardinal Boccanera made a gesture dismissing Pierre, who\nyielding to his passion for truth and beauty found that he alone was\ngreat and right, and respectfully kissed his hand.\n\nIt was in the throne-room, with closed doors, at nightfall, after the\nvisits had ceased, that the two bodies were laid in their coffin. The\nreligious services had come to an end, and in the close silent atmosphere\nthere only lingered the dying perfume of the roses and the warm odour of\nthe candles. As the latter\u2019s pale stars scarcely lighted the spacious\nroom, some lamps had been brought, and servants held them in their hands\nlike torches. According to custom, all the servants of the house were\npresent to bid a last farewell to the departed.\n\nThere was a little delay. Morano, who had been giving himself no end of\ntrouble ever since morning, was forced to run off again as the triple\ncoffin did not arrive. At last it came, some servants brought it up, and\nthen they were able to begin. The Cardinal and Donna Serafina stood side\nby side near the bed. Pierre also was present, as well as Don Vigilio. It\nwas Victorine who sewed the lovers up in the white silk shroud, which\nseemed like a bridal robe, the gay pure robe of their union. Then two\nservants came forward and helped Pierre and Don Vigilio to lay the bodies\nin the first coffin, of pine wood lined with pink satin. It was scarcely\nbroader than an ordinary coffin, so young and slim were the lovers and so\ntightly were they clasped in their last embrace. When they were stretched\ninside they there continued their eternal slumber, their heads half\nhidden by their odorous, mingling hair. And when this first coffin had\nbeen placed in the second one, a leaden shell, and the second had been\nenclosed in the third, of stout oak, and when the three lids had been\nsoldered and screwed down, the lovers\u2019 faces could still be seen through\nthe circular opening, covered with thick glass, which in accordance with\nthe Roman custom had been left in each of the coffins. And then, for ever\nparted from the living, alone together, they still gazed at one another\nwith their eyes obstinately open, having all eternity before them wherein\nto exhaust their infinite love.\n\n\n\n\nXVI.\n\nON the following day, on his return from the funeral Pierre lunched alone\nin his room, having decided to take leave of the Cardinal and Donna\nSerafina during the afternoon. He was quitting Rome that evening by the\ntrain which started at seventeen minutes past ten. There was nothing to\ndetain him any longer; there was only one visit which he desired to make,\na visit to old Orlando, with whom he had promised to have a long chat\nprior to his departure. And so a little before two o\u2019clock he sent for a\ncab which took him to the Via Venti Settembre. A fine rain had fallen all\nnight, its moisture steeping the city in grey vapour; and though this\nrain had now ceased the sky remained very dark, and the huge new mansions\nof the Via Venti Settembre were quite livid, interminably mournful with\ntheir balconies ever of the same pattern and their regular and endless\nrows of windows. The Ministry of Finances, that colossal pile of masonry\nand sculpture, looked in particular like a dead town, a huge bloodless\nbody whence all life had withdrawn. On the other hand, although all was\nso gloomy the rain had made the atmosphere milder, in fact it was almost\nwarm, damply and feverishly warm.\n\nIn the hall of Prada\u2019s little palazzo Pierre was surprised to find four\nor five gentlemen taking off their overcoats; however he learnt from a\nservant that Count Luigi had a meeting that day with some contractors. As\nhe, Pierre, wished to see the Count\u2019s father he had only to ascend to the\nthird floor, added the servant. He must knock at the little door on the\nright-hand side of the landing there.\n\nOn the very first landing, however, the priest found himself face to face\nwith the young Count who was there receiving the contractors, and who on\nrecognising him became frightfully pale. They had not met since the\ntragedy at the Boccanera mansion, and Pierre well realised how greatly\nhis glance disturbed that man, what a troublesome recollection of moral\ncomplicity it evoked, and what mortal dread lest he should have guessed\nthe truth.\n\n\u201cHave you come to see me, have you something to tell me?\u201d the Count\ninquired.\n\n\u201cNo, I am leaving Rome, I have come to wish your father good-bye.\u201d\n\nPrada\u2019s pallor increased at this, and his whole face quivered: \u201cAh! it is\nto see my father. He is not very well, be gentle with him,\u201d he replied,\nand as he spoke, his look of anguish clearly proclaimed what he feared\nfrom Pierre, some imprudent word, perhaps even a final mission, the\nmalediction of that man and woman whom he had killed. And surely if his\nfather knew, he would die as well. \u201cAh! how annoying it is,\u201d he resumed,\n\u201cI can\u2019t go up with you! There are gentlemen waiting for me. Yes, how\nannoyed I am. As soon as possible, however, I will join you, yes, as soon\nas possible.\u201d\n\nHe knew not how to stop the young priest, whom he must evidently allow to\nremain with his father, whilst he himself stayed down below, kept there\nby his pecuniary worries. But how distressful were the eyes with which he\nwatched Pierre climb the stairs, how he seemed to supplicate him with his\nwhole quivering form. His father, good Lord, the only true love, the one\ngreat, pure, faithful passion of his life!\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t make him talk too much, brighten him, won\u2019t you?\u201d were his parting\nwords.\n\nUp above it was not Batista, the devoted ex-soldier, who opened the door,\nbut a very young fellow to whom Pierre did not at first pay any\nattention. The little room was bare and light as on previous occasions,\nand from the broad curtainless window there was the superb view of Rome,\nRome crushed that day beneath a leaden sky and steeped in shade of\ninfinite mournfulness. Old Orlando, however, had in no wise changed, but\nstill displayed the superb head of an old blanched lion, a powerful\nmuzzle and youthful eyes, which yet sparkled with the passions which had\ngrowled in a soul of fire. Pierre found the stricken hero in the same\narm-chair as previously, near the same table littered with newspapers,\nand with his legs buried in the same black wrapper, as if he were there\nimmobilised in a sheath of stone, to such a point that after months and\nyears one was sure to perceive him quite unchanged, with living bust, and\nface glowing with strength and intelligence.\n\nThat grey day, however, he seemed gloomy, low in spirits. \u201cAh! so here\nyou are, my dear Monsieur Froment,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI have been thinking\nof you these three days past, living the awful days which you must have\nlived in that tragic Palazzo Boccanera. Ah, God! What a frightful\nbereavement! My heart is quite overwhelmed, these newspapers have again\njust upset me with the fresh details they give!\u201d He pointed as he spoke\nto the papers scattered over the table. Then with a gesture he strove to\nbrush aside the gloomy story, and banish that vision of Benedetta dead,\nwhich had been haunting him. \u201cWell, and yourself?\u201d he inquired.\n\n\u201cI am leaving this evening,\u201d replied Pierre, \u201cbut I did not wish to quit\nRome without pressing your brave hands.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are leaving? But your book?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy book--I have been received by the Holy Father, I have made my\nsubmission and reprobated my book.\u201d\n\nOrlando looked fixedly at the priest. There was a short interval of\nsilence, during which their eyes told one another all that they had to\ntell respecting the affair. Neither felt the necessity of any longer\nexplanation. The old man merely spoke these concluding words: \u201cYou have\ndone well, your book was a chimera.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, a chimera, a piece of childishness, and I have condemned it myself\nin the name of truth and reason.\u201d\n\nA smile appeared on the dolorous lips of the impotent hero. \u201cThen you\nhave seen things, you understand and know them now?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I know them; and that is why I did not wish to go off without\nhaving that frank conversation with you which we agreed upon.\u201d\n\nOrlando was delighted, but all at once he seemed to remember the young\nfellow who had opened the door to Pierre, and who had afterwards modestly\nresumed his seat on a chair near the window. This young fellow was a\nyouth of twenty, still beardless, of a blonde handsomeness such as\noccasionally flowers at Naples, with long curly hair, a lily-like\ncomplexion, a rosy mouth, and soft eyes full of a dreamy languor. The old\nman presented him in fatherly fashion, Angiolo Mascara his name was, and\nhe was the grandson of an old comrade in arms, the epic Mascara of the\nThousand, who had died like a hero, his body pierced by a hundred wounds.\n\n\u201cI sent for him to scold him,\u201d continued Orlando with a smile. \u201cDo you\nknow that this fine fellow with his girlish airs goes in for the new\nideas? He is an Anarchist, one of the three or four dozen Anarchists that\nwe have in Italy. He\u2019s a good little lad at bottom, he has only his\nmother left him, and supports her, thanks to the little berth which he\nholds, but which he\u2019ll lose one of these fine days if he is not careful.\nCome, come, my child, you must promise me to be reasonable.\u201d\n\nThereupon Angiolo, whose clean but well-worn garments bespoke decent\npoverty, made answer in a grave and musical voice: \u201cI am reasonable, it\nis the others, all the others who are not. When all men are reasonable\nand desire truth and justice, the world will be happy.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! if you fancy that he\u2019ll give way!\u201d cried Orlando. \u201cBut, my poor\nchild, just ask Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 if one ever knows where truth and justice\nare. Well, well, one must leave you the time to live, and see, and\nunderstand things.\u201d\n\nThen, paying no more attention to the young man, he returned to Pierre,\nwhile Angiolo, remaining very quiet in his corner, kept his eyes ardently\nfixed on them, and with open, quivering ears lost not a word they said.\n\n\u201cI told you, my dear Monsieur Froment,\u201d resumed Orlando, \u201cthat your ideas\nwould change, and that acquaintance with Rome would bring you to accurate\nviews far more readily than any fine speeches I could make to you. So I\nnever doubted but what you would of your own free will withdraw your book\nas soon as men and things should have enlightened you respecting the\nVatican at the present day. But let us leave the Vatican on one side,\nthere is nothing to be done but to let it continue falling slowly and\ninevitably into ruin. What interests me is our Italian Rome, which you\ntreated as an element to be neglected, but which you have now seen and\nstudied, so that we can both speak of it with the necessary knowledge!\u201d\n\nHe thereupon at once granted a great many things, acknowledged that\nblunders had been committed, that the finances were in a deplorable\nstate, and that there were serious difficulties of all kinds. They, the\nItalians, had sinned by excess of legitimate pride, they had proceeded\ntoo hastily with their attempt to improvise a great nation, to change\nancient Rome into a great modern capital as by the mere touch of a wand.\nAnd thence had come that mania for erecting new districts, that mad\nspeculation in land and shares, which had brought the country within a\nhair\u2019s breadth of bankruptcy.\n\nAt this Pierre gently interrupted him to tell him of the view which he\nhimself had arrived at after his peregrinations and studies through Rome.\n\u201cThat fever of the first hour, that financial _deb\u00e2cle_,\u201d said he, \u201cis\nafter all nothing. All pecuniary sores can be healed. But the grave point\nis that your Italy still remains to be created. There is no aristocracy\nleft, and as yet there is no people, nothing but a devouring middle\nclass, dating from yesterday, which preys on the rich harvest of the\nfuture before it is ripe.\u201d\n\nSilence fell. Orlando sadly wagged his old leonine head. The cutting\nharshness of Pierre\u2019s formula struck him in the heart. \u201cYes, yes,\u201d he\nsaid at last, \u201cthat is so, you have seen things plainly; and why say no\nwhen facts are there, patent to everybody? I myself had already spoken to\nyou of that middle class which hungers so ravenously for place and\noffice, distinctions and plumes, and which at the same time is so\navaricious, so suspicious with regard to its money which it invests in\nbanks, never risking it in agriculture or manufactures or commerce,\nhaving indeed the one desire to enjoy life without doing anything, and so\nunintelligent that it cannot see it is killing its country by its\nloathing for labour, its contempt for the poor, its one ambition to live\nin a petty way with the barren glory of belonging to some official\nadministration. And, as you say, the aristocracy is dying, discrowned,\nruined, sunk into the degeneracy which overtakes races towards their\nclose, most of its members reduced to beggary, the others, the few who\nhave clung to their money, crushed by heavy imposts, possessing nought\nbut dead fortunes which constant sharing diminishes and which must soon\ndisappear with the princes themselves. And then there is the people,\nwhich has suffered so much and suffers still, but is so used to suffering\nthat it can seemingly conceive no idea of emerging from it, blind and\ndeaf as it is, almost regretting its ancient bondage, and so ignorant, so\nabominably ignorant, which is the one cause of its hopeless, morrowless\nmisery, for it has not even the consolation of understanding that if we\nhave conquered and are trying to resuscitate Rome and Italy in their\nancient glory, it is for itself, the people, alone. Yes, yes, no\naristocracy left, no people as yet, and a middle class which really\nalarms one. How can one therefore help yielding at times to the terrors\nof the pessimists, who pretend that our misfortunes are as yet nothing,\nthat we are going forward to yet more awful catastrophes, as though,\nindeed, what we now behold were but the first symptoms of our race\u2019s end,\nthe premonitory signs of final annihilation!\u201d\n\nAs he spoke he raised his long quivering arms towards the window, towards\nthe light, and Pierre, deeply moved, remembered how Cardinal Boccanera on\nthe previous day had made a similar gesture of supplicant distress when\nappealing to the divine power. And both men, Cardinal and patriot, so\nhostile in their beliefs, were instinct with the same fierce and\ndespairing grandeur.\n\n\u201cAs I told you, however, on the first day,\u201d continued Orlando, \u201cwe only\nsought to accomplish logical and inevitable things. As for Rome, with her\npast history of splendour and domination which weighs so heavily upon us,\nwe could not do otherwise than take her for capital, for she alone was\nthe bond, the living symbol of our unity at the same time as the promise\nof eternity, the renewal offered to our great dream of resurrection and\nglory.\u201d\n\nHe went on, recognising the disastrous conditions under which Rome\nlaboured as a capital. She was a purely decorative city with exhausted\nsoil, she had remained apart from modern life, she was unhealthy, she\noffered no possibility of commerce or industry, she was invincibly preyed\nupon by death, standing as she did amidst that sterile desert of the\nCampagna. Then he compared her with the other cities which are jealous of\nher; first Florence, which, however, has become so indifferent and so\nsceptical, impregnated with a happy heedlessness which seems inexplicable\nwhen one remembers the frantic passions, and the torrents of blood\nrolling through her history; next Naples, which yet remains content with\nher bright sun, and whose childish people enjoy their ignorance and\nwretchedness so indolently that one knows not whether one ought to pity\nthem; next Venice, which has resigned herself to remaining a marvel of\nancient art, which one ought to put under glass so as to preserve her\nintact, slumbering amid the sovereign pomp of her annals; next Genoa,\nwhich is absorbed in trade, still active and bustling, one of the last\nqueens of that Mediterranean, that insignificant lake which was once the\nopulent central sea, whose waters carried the wealth of the world; and\nthen particularly Turin and Milan, those industrial and commercial\ncentres, which are so full of life and so modernised that tourists\ndisdain them as not being \u201cItalian\u201d cities, both of them having saved\nthemselves from ruin by entering into that Western evolution which is\npreparing the next century. Ah! that old land of Italy, ought one to\nleave it all as a dusty museum for the pleasure of artistic souls, leave\nit to crumble away, even as its little towns of Magna Graecia, Umbria,\nand Tuscany are already crumbling, like exquisite _bibelots_ which one\ndares not repair for fear that one might spoil their character. At all\nevents, there must either be death, death soon and inevitable, or else\nthe pick of the demolisher, the tottering walls thrown to the ground, and\ncities of labour, science, and health created on all sides; in one word,\na new Italy really rising from the ashes of the old one, and adapted to\nthe new civilisation into which humanity is entering.\n\n\u201cHowever, why despair?\u201d Orlando continued energetically. \u201cRome may weigh\nheavily on our shoulders, but she is none the less the summit we coveted.\nWe are here, and we shall stay here awaiting events. Even if the\npopulation does not increase it at least remains stationary at a figure\nof some 400,000 souls, and the movement of increase may set in again when\nthe causes which stopped it shall have ceased. Our blunder was to think\nthat Rome would become a Paris or Berlin; but, so far, all sorts of\nsocial, historical, even ethnical considerations seem opposed to it; yet\nwho can tell what may be the surprises of to-morrow? Are we forbidden to\nhope, to put faith in the blood which courses in our veins, the blood of\nthe old conquerors of the world? I, who no longer stir from this room,\nimpotent as I am, even I at times feel my madness come back, believe in\nthe invincibility and immortality of Rome, and wait for the two millions\nof people who must come to populate those dolorous new districts which\nyou have seen so empty and already falling into ruins! And certainly they\nwill come! Why not? You will see, you will see, everything will be\npopulated, and even more houses will have to be built. Moreover, can you\ncall a nation poor, when it possesses Lombardy? Is there not also\ninexhaustible wealth in our southern provinces? Let peace settle down,\nlet the South and the North mingle together, and a new generation of\nworkers grow up. Since we have the soil, such a fertile soil, the great\nharvest which is awaited will surely some day sprout and ripen under the\nburning sun!\u201d\n\nEnthusiasm was upbuoying him, all the _furia_ of youth inflamed his eyes.\nPierre smiled, won over; and as soon as he was able to speak, he said:\n\u201cThe problem must be tackled down below, among the people. You must make\nmen!\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly!\u201d cried Orlando. \u201cI don\u2019t cease repeating it, one must make\nItaly. It is as if a wind from the East had blown the seed of humanity,\nthe seed which makes vigorous and powerful nations, elsewhere. Our people\nis not like yours in France, a reservoir of men and money from which one\ncan draw as plentifully as one pleases. It is such another inexhaustible\nreservoir that I wish to see created among us. And one must begin at the\nbottom. There must be schools everywhere, ignorance must be stamped out,\nbrutishness and idleness must be fought with books, intellectual and\nmoral instruction must give us the industrious people which we need if we\nare not to disappear from among the great nations. And once again for\nwhom, if not for the democracy of to-morrow, have we worked in taking\npossession of Rome? And how easily one can understand that all should\ncollapse here, and nothing grow up vigorously since such a democracy is\nabsolutely absent. Yes, yes, the solution of the problem does not lie\nelsewhere; we must make a people, make an Italian democracy.\u201d\n\nPierre had grown calm again, feeling somewhat anxious yet not daring to\nsay that it is by no means easy to modify a nation, that Italy is such as\nsoil, history, and race have made her, and that to seek to transform her\nso radically and all at once might be a dangerous enterprise. Do not\nnations like beings have an active youth, a resplendent prime, and a more\nor less prolonged old age ending in death? A modern democratic Rome, good\nheavens! The modern Romes are named Paris, London, Chicago. So he\ncontented himself with saying: \u201cBut pending this great renovation of the\npeople, don\u2019t you think that you ought to be prudent? Your finances are\nin such a bad condition, you are passing through such great social and\neconomic difficulties, that you run the risk of the worst catastrophes\nbefore you secure either men or money. Ah! how prudent would that\nminister be who should say in your Chamber: \u2018Our pride has made a\nmistake, it was wrong of us to try to make ourselves a great nation in\none day; more time, labour, and patience are needed; and we consent to\nremain for the present a young nation, which will quietly reflect and\nlabour at self-formation, without, for a long time yet, seeking to play a\ndominant part. So we intend to disarm, to strike out the war and naval\nestimates, all the estimates intended for display abroad, in order to\ndevote ourselves to our internal prosperity, and to build up by\neducation, physically and morally, the great nation which we swear we\nwill be fifty years hence!\u2019 Yes, yes, strike out all needless\nexpenditure, your salvation lies in that!\u201d\n\nBut Orlando, while listening, had become gloomy again, and with a vague,\nweary gesture he replied in an undertone: \u201cNo, no, the minister who\nshould use such language would be hooted. It would be too hard a\nconfession, such as one cannot ask a nation to make. Every heart would\nbound, leap forth at the idea. And, besides, would not the danger perhaps\nbe even greater if all that has been done were allowed to crumble? How\nmany wrecked hopes, how much discarded, useless material there would be!\nNo, we can now only save ourselves by patience and courage--and forward,\never forward! We are a very young nation, and in fifty years we desired\nto effect the unity which others have required two hundred years to\narrive at. Well, we must pay for our haste, we must wait for the harvest\nto ripen, and fill our barns.\u201d Then, with another and more sweeping wave\nof the arm, he stubbornly strengthened himself in his hopes. \u201cYou know,\u201d\n said he, \u201cthat I was always against the alliance with Germany. As I\npredicted, it has ruined us. We were not big enough to march side by side\nwith such a wealthy and powerful person, and it is in view of a war,\nalways near at hand and inevitable, that we now suffer so cruelly from\nhaving to support the budgets of a great nation. Ah! that war which has\nnever come, it is that which has exhausted the best part of our blood and\nsap and money without the slightest profit. To-day we have nothing before\nus but the necessity of breaking with our ally, who speculated on our\npride, who has never helped us in any way, who has never given us\nanything but bad advice, and treated us otherwise than with suspicion.\nBut it was all inevitable, and that\u2019s what people won\u2019t admit in France.\nI can speak freely of it all, for I am a declared friend of France, and\npeople even feel some spite against me on that account. However, explain\nto your compatriots, that on the morrow of our conquest of Rome, in our\nfrantic desire to resume our ancient rank, it was absolutely necessary\nthat we should play our part in Europe and show that we were a power with\nwhom the others must henceforth count. And hesitation was not allowable,\nall our interests impelled us toward Germany, the evidence was so binding\nas to impose itself. The stern law of the struggle for life weighs as\nheavily on nations as on individuals, and this it is which explains and\njustifies the rupture between the two sisters, France and Italy, the\nforgetting of so many ties, race, commercial intercourse, and, if you\nlike, services also. The two sisters, ah! they now pursue each other with\nso much hatred that all common sense even seems at an end. My poor old\nheart bleeds when I read the articles which your newspapers and ours\nexchange like poisoned darts. When will this fratricidal massacre cease,\nwhich of the two will first realise the necessity of peace, the necessity\nof the alliance of the Latin races, if they are to remain alive amidst\nthose torrents of other races which more and more invade the world?\u201d Then\ngaily, with the _bonhomie_ of a hero disarmed by old age, and seeking a\nrefuge in his dreams, Orlando added: \u201cCome, you must promise to help me\nas soon as you are in Paris. However small your field of action may be,\npromise me you will do all you can to promote peace between France and\nItaly; there can be no more holy task. Relate all you have seen here, all\nyou have heard, oh! as frankly as possible. If we have faults, you\ncertainly have faults as well. And, come, family quarrels can\u2019t last for\never!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt,\u201d Pierre answered in some embarrassment. \u201cUnfortunately they\nare the most tenacious. In families, when blood becomes exasperated with\nblood, hate goes as far as poison and the knife. And pardon becomes\nimpossible.\u201d\n\nHe dared not fully express his thoughts. Since he had been in Rome,\nlistening, and considering things, the quarrel between Italy and France\nhad resumed itself in his mind in a fine tragic story. Once upon a time\nthere were two princesses, daughters of a powerful queen, the mistress of\nthe world. The elder one, who had inherited her mother\u2019s kingdom, was\nsecretly grieved to see her sister, who had established herself in a\nneighbouring land, gradually increase in wealth, strength, and\nbrilliancy, whilst she herself declined as if weakened by age,\ndismembered, so exhausted, and so sore, that she already felt defeated on\nthe day when she attempted a supreme effort to regain universal power.\nAnd so how bitter were her feelings, how hurt she always felt on seeing\nher sister recover from the most frightful shocks, resume her dazzling\n_gala_, and continue to reign over the world by dint of strength and\ngrace and wit. Never would she forgive it, however well that envied and\ndetested sister might act towards her. Therein lay an incurable wound,\nthe life of one poisoned by that of the other, the hatred of old blood\nfor young blood, which could only be quieted by death. And even if peace,\nas was possible, should soon be restored between them in presence of the\nyounger sister\u2019s evident triumph, the other would always harbour deep\nwithin her heart an endless grief at being the elder yet the vassal.\n\n\u201cHowever, you may rely on me,\u201d Pierre affectionately resumed. \u201cThis\nquarrel between the two countries is certainly a great source of grief\nand a great peril. And assuredly I will only say what I think to be the\ntruth about you. At the same time I fear that you hardly like the truth,\nfor temperament and custom have hardly prepared you for it. The poets of\nevery nation who at various times have written on Rome have intoxicated\nyou with so much praise that you are scarcely fitted to hear the real\ntruth about your Rome of to-day. No matter how superb a share of praise\none may accord you, one must all the same look at the reality of things,\nand this reality is just what you won\u2019t admit, lovers of the beautiful as\nyou ever are, susceptible too like women, whom the slightest hint of a\nwrinkle sends into despair.\u201d\n\nOrlando began to laugh. \u201cWell, certainly, one must always beautify things\na little,\u201d said he. \u201cWhy speak of ugly faces at all? We in our theatres\nonly care for pretty music, pretty dancing, pretty pieces which please\none. As for the rest, whatever is disagreeable let us hide it, for\nmercy\u2019s sake!\u201d\n\n\u201cOn the other hand,\u201d the priest continued, \u201cI will cheerfully confess the\ngreat error of my book. The Italian Rome which I neglected and sacrificed\nto papal Rome not only exists but is already so powerful and triumphant\nthat it is surely the other one which is bound to disappear in course of\ntime. However much the Pope may strive to remain immutable within his\nVatican, a steady evolution goes on around him, and the black world, by\nmingling with the white, has already become a grey world. I never\nrealised that more acutely than at the _f\u00eate_ given by Prince\nBuongiovanni for the betrothal of his daughter to your grand-nephew. I\ncame away quite enchanted, won over to the cause of your resurrection.\u201d\n\nThe old man\u2019s eyes sparkled. \u201cAh! you were present?\u201d said he, \u201cand you\nwitnessed a never-to-be-forgotten scene, did you not, and you no longer\ndoubt our vitality, our growth into a great people when the difficulties\nof to-day are overcome? What does a quarter of a century, what does even\na century matter! Italy will again rise to her old glory, as soon as the\ngreat people of to-morrow shall have sprung from the soil. And if I\ndetest that man Sacco it is because to my mind he is the incarnation of\nall the enjoyers and intriguers whose appetite for the spoils of our\nconquest has retarded everything. But I live again in my dear\ngrand-nephew Attilio, who represents the future, the generation of brave\nand worthy men who will purify and educate the country. Ah! may some of\nthe great ones of to-morrow spring from him and that adorable little\nPrincess Celia, whom my niece Stefana, a sensible woman at bottom,\nbrought to see me the other day. If you had seen that child fling her\narms about me, call me endearing names, and tell me that I should be\ngodfather to her first son, so that he might bear my name and once again\nsave Italy! Yes, yes, may peace be concluded around that coming cradle;\nmay the union of those dear children be the indissoluble marriage of Rome\nand the whole nation, and may all be repaired, and all blossom anew in\ntheir love!\u201d\n\nTears came to his eyes, and Pierre, touched by his inextinguishable\npatriotism, sought to please him. \u201cI myself,\u201d said he, \u201cexpressed to your\nson much the same wish on the evening of the betrothal _f\u00eate_, when I\ntold him I trusted that their nuptials might be definitive and fruitful,\nand that from them and all the others there might arise the great nation\nwhich, now that I begin to know you, I hope you will soon become!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou said that!\u201d exclaimed Orlando. \u201cWell, I forgive your book, for you\nhave understood at last; and new Rome, there she is, the Rome which is\nours, which we wish to make worthy of her glorious past, and for the\nthird time the queen of the world.\u201d\n\nWith one of those broad gestures into which he put all his remaining\nlife, he pointed to the curtainless window where Rome spread out in\nsolemn majesty from one horizon to the other. But, suddenly he turned his\nhead and in a fit of paternal indignation began to apostrophise young\nAngiolo Mascara. \u201cYou young rascal!\u201d said he, \u201cit\u2019s our Rome which you\ndream of destroying with your bombs, which you talk of razing like a\nrotten, tottering house, so as to rid the world of it for ever!\u201d\n\nAngiolo had hitherto remained silent, passionately listening to the\nothers. His pretty, girlish, beardless face reflected the slightest\nemotion in sudden flashes; and his big blue eyes also had glowed on\nhearing what had been said of the people, the new people which it was\nnecessary to create. \u201cYes!\u201d he slowly replied in his pure and musical\nvoice, \u201cwe mean to raze it and not leave a stone of it, but raze it in\norder to build it up again.\u201d\n\nOrlando interrupted him with a soft, bantering laugh: \u201cOh! you would\nbuild it up again; that\u2019s fortunate!\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI would build it up again,\u201d the young man replied, in the trembling\nvoice of an inspired prophet. \u201cI would build it up again oh, so vast, so\nbeautiful, and so noble! Will not the universal democracy of to-morrow,\nhumanity when it is at last freed, need an unique city, which shall be\nthe ark of alliance, the very centre of the world? And is not Rome\ndesignated, Rome which the prophecies have marked as eternal and\nimmortal, where the destinies of the nations are to be accomplished? But\nin order that it may become the final definitive sanctuary, the capital\nof the destroyed kingdoms, where the wise men of all countries shall meet\nonce every year, one must first of all purify it by fire, leave nothing\nof its old stains remaining. Then, when the sun shall have absorbed all\nthe pestilence of the old soil, we will rebuild the city ten times more\nbeautiful and ten times larger than it has ever been. And what a city of\ntruth and justice it will at last be, the Rome that has been announced\nand awaited for three thousand years, all in gold and all in marble,\nfilling the Campagna from the sea to the Sabine and the Alban mountains,\nand so prosperous and so sensible that its twenty millions of inhabitants\nafter regulating the law of labour will live with the unique joy of\nbeing. Yes, yes, Rome the Mother, Rome the Queen, alone on the face of\nthe earth and for all eternity!\u201d\n\nPierre listened to him, aghast. What! did the blood of Augustus go to\nsuch a point as this? The popes had not become masters of Rome without\nfeeling impelled to rebuild it in their passion to rule over the world;\nyoung Italy, likewise yielding to the hereditary madness of universal\ndomination, had in its turn sought to make the city larger than any\nother, erecting whole districts for people who had never come, and now\neven the Anarchists were possessed by the same stubborn dream of the\nrace, a dream beyond all measure this time, a fourth and monstrous Rome,\nwhose suburbs would invade continents in order that liberated humanity,\nunited in one family, might find sufficient lodging! This was the climax.\nNever could more extravagant proof be given of the blood of pride and\nsovereignty which had scorched the veins of that race ever since Augustus\nhad bequeathed it the inheritance of his absolute empire, with the\nfurious instinct that the world legally belonged to it, and that its\nmission was to conquer it again. This idea had intoxicated all the\nchildren of that historic soil, impelling all of them to make their city\nThe City, the one which had reigned and which would reign again in\nsplendour when the days predicted by the oracles should arrive. And\nPierre remembered the four fatidical letters, the S.P.Q.R. of old and\nglorious Rome, which like an order of final triumph given to Destiny he\nhad everywhere found in present-day Rome, on all the walls, on all the\ninsignia, even on the municipal dust-carts! And he understood the\nprodigious vanity of these people, haunted by the glory of their\nancestors, spellbound by the past of their city, declaring that she\ncontains everything, that they themselves cannot know her thoroughly,\nthat she is the sphinx who will some day explain the riddle of the\nuniverse, that she is so great and noble that all within her acquires\nincrease of greatness and nobility, in such wise that they demand for her\nthe idolatrous respect of the entire world, so vivacious in their minds\nis the illusive legend which clings to her, so incapable are they of\nrealising that what was once great may be so no longer.\n\n\u201cBut I know your fourth Rome,\u201d resumed Orlando, again enlivened. \u201cIt\u2019s\nthe Rome of the people, the capital of the Universal Republic, which\nMazzini dreamt of. Only he left the pope in it. Do you know, my lad, that\nif we old Republicans rallied to the monarchy, it was because we feared\nthat in the event of revolution the country might fall into the hands of\ndangerous madmen such as those who have upset your brain? Yes, that was\nwhy we resigned ourselves to our monarchy, which is not much different\nfrom a parliamentary republic. And now, goodbye and be sensible, remember\nthat your poor mother would die of it if any misfortune should befall\nyou. Come, let me embrace you all the same.\u201d\n\nOn receiving the hero\u2019s affectionate kiss Angiolo coloured like a girl.\nThen he went off with his gentle, dreamy air, never adding a word but\npolitely inclining his head to the priest. Silence continued till\nOrlando\u2019s eyes encountered the newspapers scattered on the table, when he\nonce more spoke of the terrible bereavement of the Boccaneras. He had\nloved Benedetta like a dear daughter during the sad days when she had\ndwelt near him; and finding the newspaper accounts of her death somewhat\nsingular, worried in fact by the obscure points which he could divine in\nthe tragedy, he was asking Pierre for particulars, when his son Luigi\nsuddenly entered the room, breathless from having climbed the stairs so\nquickly and with his face full of anxious fear. He had just dismissed his\ncontractors with impatient roughness, giving no thought to his serious\nfinancial position, the jeopardy in which his fortune was now placed, so\nanxious was he to be up above beside his father. And when he was there\nhis first uneasy glance was for the old man, to make sure whether the\npriest by some imprudent word had not dealt him his death blow.\n\nHe shuddered on noticing how Orlando quivered, moved to tears by the\nterrible affair of which he was speaking; and for a moment he thought he\nhad arrived too late, that the harm was done. \u201cGood heavens, father!\u201d he\nexclaimed, \u201cwhat is the matter with you, why are you crying?\u201d And as he\nspoke he knelt at the old man\u2019s feet, taking hold of his hands and giving\nhim such a passionate, loving glance that he seemed to be offering all\nthe blood of his heart to spare him the slightest grief.\n\n\u201cIt is about the death of that poor woman,\u201d Orlando sadly answered. \u201cI\nwas telling Monsieur Froment how it grieved me, and I added that I could\nnot yet understand it all. The papers talk of a sudden death which is\nalways so extraordinary.\u201d\n\nThe young Count rose again looking very pale. The priest had not yet\nspoken. But what a frightful moment was this! What if he should reply,\nwhat if he should speak out?\n\n\u201cYou were present, were you not?\u201d continued the old man addressing\nPierre. \u201cYou saw everything. Tell me then how the thing happened.\u201d\n\nLuigi Prada looked at Pierre. Their eyes met fixedly, plunging into one\nanother\u2019s souls. All began afresh in their minds, Destiny on the march,\nSantobono encountered with his little basket, the drive across the\nmelancholy Campagna, the conversation about poison while the little\nbasket was gently rocked on the priest\u2019s knees; then, in particular, the\nsleepy _osteria_, and the little black hen, so suddenly killed, lying on\nthe ground with a tiny streamlet of violet blood trickling from her beak.\nAnd next there was that splendid ball at the Buongiovanni mansion, with\nall its _odore di femina_ and its triumph of love: and finally, before\nthe Palazzo Boccanera, so black under the silvery moon, there was the man\nwho lighted a cigar and went off without once turning his head, allowing\ndim Destiny to accomplish its work of death. Both of them, Pierre and\nPrada, knew that story and lived it over again, having no need to recall\nit aloud in order to make certain that they had fully penetrated one\nanother\u2019s soul.\n\nPierre did not immediately answer the old man. \u201cOh!\u201d he murmured at last,\n\u201cthere were frightful things, yes, frightful things.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt--that is what I suspected,\u201d resumed Orlando. \u201cYou can tell us\nall. In presence of death my son has freely forgiven.\u201d\n\nThe young Count\u2019s gaze again sought that of Pierre with such weight, such\nardent entreaty that the priest felt deeply stirred. He had just\nremembered that man\u2019s anguish during the ball, the atrocious torture of\njealousy which he had undergone before allowing Destiny to avenge him.\nAnd he pictured also what must have been his feelings after the terrible\noutcome of it all: at first stupefaction at Destiny\u2019s harshness, at this\nfull vengeance which he had never desired so ferocious; then icy calmness\nlike that of the cool gambler who awaits events, reading the newspapers,\nand feeling no other remorse than that of the general whose victory has\ncost him too many men. He must have immediately realised that the\nCardinal would stifle the affair for the sake of the Church\u2019s honour; and\nonly retained one weight on his heart, regret possibly for that woman\nwhom he had never won, with perhaps a last horrible jealousy which he did\nnot confess to himself but from which he would always suffer, jealousy at\nknowing that she lay in another\u2019s arms in the grave, for all eternity.\nBut behold, after that victorious effort to remain calm, after that cold\nand remorseless waiting, Punishment arose, the fear that Destiny,\ntravelling on with its poisoned figs, might have not yet ceased its\nmarch, and might by a rebound strike down his own father. Yet another\nthunderbolt, yet another victim, the most unexpected, the being he most\nadored! At that thought all his strength of resistance had in one moment\ncollapsed, and he was there, in terror of Destiny, more at a loss, more\ntrembling than a child.\n\n\u201cThe newspapers, however,\u201d slowly said Pierre as if he were seeking his\nwords, \u201cthe newspapers must have told you that the Prince succumbed\nfirst, and that the Contessina died of grief whilst embracing him for the\nlast time.... As for the cause of death, _mon Dieu_, you know that\ndoctors themselves in sudden cases scarcely dare to pronounce an exact\nopinion--\u201d\n\nHe stopped short, for within him he had suddenly heard the voice of\nBenedetta giving him just before she died that terrible order: \u201cYou, who\nwill see his father, I charge you to tell him that I cursed his son. I\nwish that he should know, it is necessary that he should know, for the\nsake of truth and justice.\u201d And was he, oh! Lord, about to obey that\norder, was it one of those divine commands which must be executed even if\nthe result be a torrent of blood and tears? For a few seconds Pierre\nsuffered from a heart-rending combat within him, hesitating between the\nact of truth and justice which the dead woman had called for and his own\npersonal desire for forgiveness, and the horror he would feel should he\nkill that poor old man by fulfilling his implacable mission which could\nbenefit nobody. And certainly the other one, the son, must have\nunderstood what a supreme struggle was going on in the priest\u2019s mind, a\nstruggle which would decide his own father\u2019s fate, for his glance became\nyet more suppliant than ever.\n\n\u201cOne first thought that it was merely indigestion,\u201d continued Pierre,\n\u201cbut the Prince became so much worse, that one was alarmed, and the\ndoctor was sent for--\u201d\n\nAh! Prada\u2019s eyes, they had become so despairing, so full of the most\ntouching and weightiest things, that the priest could read in them all\nthe decisive reasons which were about to stay his tongue. No, no, he\nwould not strike an innocent old man, he had promised nothing, and to\nobey the last expression of the dead woman\u2019s hatred would have seemed to\nhim like charging her memory with a crime. The young Count, too, during\nthose few minutes of anguish, had suffered a whole life of such\nabominable torture, that after all some little justice was done.\n\n\u201cAnd then,\u201d Pierre concluded, \u201cwhen the doctor arrived he at once\nrecognised that it was a case of infectious fever. There can be no doubt\nof it. This morning I attended the funeral, it was very splendid and very\ntouching.\u201d\n\nOrlando did not insist, but contented himself with saying that he also\nhad felt much emotion all the morning on thinking of that funeral. Then,\nas he turned to set the papers on the table in order with his trembling\nhands, his son, icy cold with perspiration, staggering and clinging to\nthe back of a chair in order that he might not fall, again gave Pierre a\nlong glance, but a very soft one, full of distracted gratitude.\n\n\u201cI am leaving this evening,\u201d resumed Pierre, who felt exhausted and\nwished to break off the conversation, \u201cand I must now bid you farewell.\nHave you any commission to give me for Paris?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, none,\u201d replied Orlando; and then, with sudden recollection, he\nadded, \u201cYes, I have, though! You remember that book written by my old\ncomrade in arms, Th\u00e9ophile Morin, one of Garibaldi\u2019s Thousand, that\nmanual for the bachelor\u2019s degree which he desired to see translated and\nadopted here. Well, I am pleased to say that I have a promise that it\nshall be used in our schools, but on condition that he makes some\nalterations in it. Luigi, give me the book, it is there on that shelf.\u201d\n\nThen, when his son had handed him the volume, he showed Pierre some notes\nwhich he had pencilled on the margins, and explained to him the\nmodifications which were desired in the general scheme of the work. \u201cWill\nyou be kind enough,\u201d he continued, \u201cto take this copy to Morin himself?\nHis address is written inside the cover. If you can do so you will spare\nme the trouble of writing him a very long letter; in ten minutes you can\nexplain matters to him more clearly and completely than I could do in ten\npages.... And you must embrace Morin for me, and tell him that I still\nlove him, oh! with all my heart of the bygone days, when I could still\nuse my legs and we two fought like devils side by side under a hail of\nbullets.\u201d\n\nA short silence followed, that pause, that embarrassment tinged with\nemotion which precedes the moment of farewell. \u201cCome, good-bye,\u201d said\nOrlando, \u201cembrace me for him and for yourself, embrace me affectionately\nlike that lad did just now. I am so old and so near my end, my dear\nMonsieur Froment, that you will allow me to call you my child and to kiss\nyou like a grandfather, wishing you all courage and peace, and that faith\nin life which alone helps one to live.\u201d\n\nPierre was so touched that tears rose to his eyes, and when with all his\nsoul he kissed the stricken hero on either cheek, he felt that he\nlikewise was weeping. With a hand yet as vigorous as a vice, Orlando\ndetained him for a moment beside his arm-chair, whilst with his other\nhand waving in a supreme gesture, he for the last time showed him Rome,\nso immense and mournful under the ashen sky. And his voice came low,\nquivering and suppliant. \u201cFor mercy\u2019s sake swear to me that you will love\nher all the same, in spite of all, for she is the cradle, the mother!\nLove her for all that she no longer is, love her for all that she desires\nto be! Do not say that her end has come, love her, love her so that she\nmay live again, that she may live for ever!\u201d\n\nPierre again embraced him, unable to find any other response, upset as he\nwas by all the passion displayed by that old warrior, who spoke of his\ncity as a man of thirty might speak of the woman he adores. And he found\nhim so handsome and so lofty with his old blanched, leonine mane and his\nstubborn belief in approaching resurrection, that once more the other old\nRoman, Cardinal Boccanera, arose before him, equally stubborn in his\nfaith and relinquishing nought of his dream, even though he might be\ncrushed on the spot by the fall of the heavens. These twain ever stood\nface to face, at either end of their city, alone rearing their lofty\nfigures above the horizon, whilst awaiting the future.\n\nThen, when Pierre had bowed to Count Luigi, and found himself outside\nagain in the Via Venti Settembre he was all eagerness to get back to the\nBoccanera mansion so as to pack up his things and depart. His farewell\nvisits were made, and he now only had to take leave of Donna Serafina and\nthe Cardinal, and to thank them for all their kind hospitality. For him\nalone did their doors open, for they had shut themselves up on returning\nfrom the funeral, resolved to see nobody. At twilight, therefore, Pierre\nhad no one but Victorine to keep him company in the vast, black mansion,\nfor when he expressed a desire to take supper with Don Vigilio she told\nhim that the latter had also shut himself in his room. Desirous as he was\nof at least shaking hands with the secretary for the last time, Pierre\nwent to knock at the door, which was so near his own, but could obtain no\nreply, and divined that the poor fellow, overcome by a fresh attack of\nfever and suspicion, desired not to see him again, in terror at the idea\nthat he might compromise himself yet more than he had done already.\nThereupon, it was settled that as the train only started at seventeen\nminutes past ten Victorine should serve Pierre his supper on the little\ntable in his sitting-room at eight o\u2019clock. She brought him a lamp and\nspoke of putting his linen in order, but he absolutely declined her help,\nand she had to leave him to pack up quietly by himself.\n\nHe had purchased a little box, since his valise could not possibly hold\nall the linen and winter clothing which had been sent to him from Paris\nas his stay in Rome became more and more protracted. However, the packing\nwas soon accomplished; the wardrobe was emptied, the drawers were\nvisited, the box and valise filled and securely locked by seven o\u2019clock.\nAn hour remained to him before supper and he sat there resting, when his\neyes whilst travelling round the walls to make sure that he had forgotten\nnothing, encountered that old painting by some unknown master, which had\nso often filled him with emotion. The lamplight now shone full upon it;\nand this time again as he gazed at it he felt a blow in the heart, a blow\nwhich was all the deeper, as now, at his parting hour, he found a symbol\nof his defeat at Rome in that dolent, tragic, half-naked woman, draped in\na shred of linen, and weeping between her clasped hands whilst seated on\nthe threshold of the palace whence she had been driven. Did not that\nrejected one, that stubborn victim of love, who sobbed so bitterly, and\nof whom one knew nothing, neither what her face was like, nor whence she\nhad come, nor what her fault had been--did she not personify all man\u2019s\nuseless efforts to force the doors of truth, and all the frightful\nabandonment into which he falls as soon as he collides with the wall\nwhich shuts the unknown off from him? For a long while did Pierre look at\nher, again worried at being obliged to depart without having seen her\nface behind her streaming golden hair, that face of dolorous beauty which\nhe pictured radiant with youth and delicious in its mystery. And as he\ngazed he was just fancying that he could see it, that it was becoming his\nat last, when there was a knock at the door and Narcisse Habert entered.\n\nPierre was surprised to see the young _attach\u00e9_, for three days\npreviously he had started for Florence, impelled thither by one of the\nsudden whims of his artistic fancy. However, he at once apologised for\nhis unceremonious intrusion. \u201cAh! there is your luggage!\u201d he said; \u201cI\nheard that you were going away this evening, and I was unwilling to let\nyou leave Rome without coming to shake hands with you. But what frightful\nthings have happened since we met! I only returned this afternoon, so\nthat I could not attend the funeral. However, you may well imagine how\nthunderstruck I was by the news of those frightful deaths.\u201d\n\nThen, suspecting some unacknowledged tragedy, like a man well acquainted\nwith the legendary dark side of Rome, he put some questions to Pierre but\ndid not insist on them, being at bottom far too prudent to burden himself\nuselessly with redoubtable secrets. And after Pierre had given him such\nparticulars as he thought fit, the conversation changed and they spoke at\nlength of Italy, Rome, Naples, and Florence. \u201cAh! Florence, Florence!\u201d\n Narcisse repeated languorously. He had lighted a cigarette and his words\nfell more slowly, as he glanced round the room. \u201cYou were very well\nlodged here,\u201d he said, \u201cit is very quiet. I had never come up to this\nfloor before.\u201d\n\nHis eyes continued wandering over the walls until they were at last\narrested by the old painting which the lamp illumined, and thereupon he\nremained for a moment blinking as if surprised. And all at once he rose\nand approached the picture. \u201cDear me, dear me,\u201d said he, \u201cbut that\u2019s very\ngood, that\u2019s very fine.\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t it?\u201d rejoined Pierre. \u201cI know nothing about painting but I was\nstirred by that picture on the very day of my arrival, and over and over\nagain it has kept me here with my heart beating and full of indescribable\nfeelings.\u201d\n\nNarcisse no longer spoke but examined the painting with the care of a\nconnoisseur, an expert, whose keen glance decides the question of\nauthenticity, and appraises commercial value. And the most extraordinary\ndelight appeared upon the young man\u2019s fair, rapturous face, whilst his\nfingers began to quiver. \u201cBut it\u2019s a Botticelli, it\u2019s a Botticelli! There\ncan be no doubt about it,\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cJust look at the hands, and\nlook at the folds of the drapery! And the colour of the hair, and the\ntechnique, the flow of the whole composition. A Botticelli, ah! _mon\nDieu_, a Botticelli.\u201d\n\nHe became quite faint, overflowing with increasing admiration as he\npenetrated more and more deeply into the subject, at once so simple and\nso poignant. Was it not acutely modern? The artist had foreseen our\npain-fraught century, our anxiety in presence of the invisible, our\ndistress at being unable to cross the portal of mystery which was for\never closed. And what an eternal symbol of the world\u2019s wretchedness was\nthat woman, whose face one could not see, and who sobbed so distractedly\nwithout it being possible for one to wipe away her tears. Yes, a\nBotticelli, unknown, uncatalogued, what a discovery! Then he paused to\ninquire of Pierre: \u201cDid you know it was a Botticelli?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh no! I spoke to Don Vigilio about it one day, but he seemed to think\nit of no account. And Victorine, when I spoke to her, replied that all\nthose old things only served to harbour dust.\u201d\n\nNarcisse protested, quite stupefied: \u201cWhat! they have a Botticelli here\nand don\u2019t know it! Ah! how well I recognise in that the Roman princes\nwho, unless their masterpieces have been labelled, are for the most part\nutterly at sea among them! No doubt this one has suffered a little, but a\nsimple cleaning would make a marvel, a famous picture of it, for which a\nmuseum would at least give--\u201d\n\nHe abruptly stopped, completing his sentence with a wave of the hand and\nnot mentioning the figure which was on his lips. And then, as Victorine\ncame in followed by Giacomo to lay the little table for Pierre\u2019s supper,\nhe turned his back upon the Botticelli and said no more about it. The\nyoung priest\u2019s attention was aroused, however, and he could well divine\nwhat was passing in the other\u2019s mind. Under that make-believe Florentine,\nall angelicalness, there was an experienced business man, who well knew\nhow to look after his pecuniary interests and was even reported to be\nsomewhat avaricious. Pierre, who was aware of it, could not help smiling\ntherefore when he saw him take his stand before another picture--a\nfrightful Virgin, badly copied from some eighteenth-century canvas--and\nexclaim: \u201cDear me! that\u2019s not at all bad! I\u2019ve a friend, I remember, who\nasked me to buy him some old paintings. I say, Victorine, now that Donna\nSerafina and the Cardinal are left alone do you think they would like to\nrid themselves of a few valueless pictures?\u201d\n\nThe servant raised her arms as if to say that if it depended on her,\neverything might be carried away. Then she replied: \u201cNot to a dealer,\nsir, on account of the nasty rumours which would at once spread about,\nbut I\u2019m sure they would be happy to please a friend. The house costs a\nlot to keep up, and money would be welcome.\u201d\n\nPierre then vainly endeavoured to persuade Narcisse to stay and sup with\nhim, but the young man gave his word of honour that he was expected\nelsewhere and was even late. And thereupon he ran off, after pressing the\npriest\u2019s hands and affectionately wishing him a good journey.\n\nEight o\u2019clock was striking, and Pierre seated himself at the little\ntable, Victorine remaining to serve him after dismissing Giacomo, who had\nbrought the supper things upstairs in a basket. \u201cThe people here make me\nwild,\u201d said the worthy woman after the other had gone, \u201cthey are so slow.\nAnd besides, it\u2019s a pleasure for me to serve you your last meal, Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9. I\u2019ve had a little French dinner cooked for you, a _sole au\ngratin_ and a roast fowl.\u201d\n\nPierre was touched by this attention, and pleased to have the company of\na compatriot whilst he partook of his final meal amidst the deep silence\nof the old, black, deserted mansion. The buxom figure of Victorine was\nstill instinct with mourning, with grief for the loss of her dear\nContessina, but her daily toil was already setting her erect again,\nrestoring her quick activity; and she spoke almost cheerfully whilst\npassing plates and dishes to Pierre. \u201cAnd to think Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said\nshe, \u201cthat you\u2019ll be in Paris on the morning of the day after to-morrow!\nAs for me, you know, it seems as if I only left Auneau yesterday. Ah!\nwhat fine soil there is there; rich soil yellow like gold, not like their\npoor stuff here which smells of sulphur! And the pretty fresh willows\nbeside our stream, too, and the little wood so full of moss! They\u2019ve no\nmoss here, their trees look like tin under that stupid sun of theirs\nwhich burns up the grass. _Mon Dieu_! in the early times I would have\ngiven I don\u2019t know what for a good fall of rain to soak me and wash away\nall the dust. Ah! I shall never get used to their awful Rome. What a\ncountry and what people!\u201d\n\nPierre was quite enlivened by her stubborn fidelity to her own nook,\nwhich after five and twenty years of absence still left her horrified\nwith that city of crude light and black vegetation, true daughter as she\nwas of a smiling and temperate clime which of a morning was steeped in\nrosy mist. \u201cBut now that your young mistress is dead,\u201d said he, \u201cwhat\nkeeps you here? Why don\u2019t you take the train with me?\u201d\n\nShe looked at him in surprise: \u201cGo off with you, go back to Auneau! Oh!\nit\u2019s impossible, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. It would be too ungrateful to begin\nwith, for Donna Serafina is accustomed to me, and it would be bad on my\npart to forsake her and his Eminence now that they are in trouble. And\nbesides, what could I do elsewhere? No, my little hole is here now.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you will never see Auneau again?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, never, that\u2019s certain.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you don\u2019t mind being buried here, in their ground which smells of\nsulphur?\u201d\n\nShe burst into a frank laugh. \u201cOh!\u201d she said, \u201cI don\u2019t mind where I am\nwhen I\u2019m dead. One sleeps well everywhere. And it\u2019s funny that you should\nbe so anxious as to what there may be when one\u2019s dead. There\u2019s nothing,\nI\u2019m sure. That\u2019s what tranquillises me, to feel that it will be all over\nand that I shall have a rest. The good God owes us that after we\u2019ve\nworked so hard. You know that I\u2019m not devout, oh! dear no. Still that\ndoesn\u2019t prevent me from behaving properly, and, true as I stand here,\nI\u2019ve never had a lover. It seems foolish to say such a thing at my age,\nstill I say it because it\u2019s the sober truth.\u201d\n\nShe continued laughing like the worthy woman she was, having no belief in\npriests and yet without a sin upon her conscience. And Pierre once more\nmarvelled at the simple courage and great practical common sense of this\nlaborious and devoted creature, who for him personified the whole\nunbelieving lowly class of France, those who no longer believe and will\nbelieve never more. Ah! to be as she was, to do one\u2019s work and lie down\nfor the eternal sleep without any revolt of pride, satisfied with the one\njoy of having accomplished one\u2019s share of toil!\n\nWhen Pierre had finished his supper Victorine summoned Giacomo to clear\nthe things away. And as it was only half-past eight she advised the\npriest to spend another quiet hour in his room. Why go and catch a chill\nby waiting at the station? She could send for a cab at half-past nine,\nand as soon as it arrived she would send word to him and have his luggage\ncarried down. He might be easy as to that, and need trouble himself about\nnothing.\n\nWhen she had gone off Pierre soon sank into a deep reverie. It seemed to\nhim, indeed, as if he had already quitted Rome, as if the city were far\naway and he could look back on it, and his experiences within it. His\nbook, \u201cNew Rome,\u201d arose in his mind; and he remembered his first morning\non the Janiculum, his view of Rome from the terrace of San Pietro in\nMontorio, a Rome such as he had dreamt of, so young and ethereal under\nthe pure sky. It was then that he had asked himself the decisive\nquestion: Could Catholicism be renewed? Could it revert to the spirit of\nprimitive Christianity, become the religion of the democracy, the faith\nwhich the distracted modern world, in danger of death, awaits in order\nthat it may be pacified and live? His heart had then beaten with hope and\nenthusiasm. After his disaster at Lourdes from which he had scarcely\nrecovered, he had come to attempt another and supreme experiment by\nasking Rome what her reply to his question would be. And now the\nexperiment had failed, he knew what answer Rome had returned him through\nher ruins, her monuments, her very soil, her people, her prelates, her\ncardinals, her pope! No, Catholicism could not be renewed: no, it could\nnot revert to the spirit of primitive Christianity; no, it could not\nbecome the religion of the democracy, the new faith which might save the\nold toppling societies in danger of death. Though it seemed to be of\ndemocratic origin, it was henceforth riveted to that Roman soil, it\nremained kingly in spite of everything, forced to cling to the principle\nof temporal power under penalty of suicide, bound by tradition, enchained\nby dogma, its evolutions mere simulations whilst in reality it was\nreduced to such immobility that, behind the bronze doors of the Vatican,\nthe papacy was the prisoner, the ghost of eighteen centuries of atavism,\nindulging the ceaseless dream of universal dominion. There, where with\npriestly faith exalted by love of the suffering and the poor, he had come\nto seek life and a resurrection of the Christian communion, he had found\ndeath, the dust of a destroyed world in which nothing more could\ngerminate, an exhausted soil whence now there could never grow aught but\nthat despotic papacy, the master of bodies as it was of souls. To his\ndistracted cry asking for a new religion, Rome had been content to reply\nby condemning his book as a work tainted with heresy, and he himself had\nwithdrawn it amidst the bitter grief of his disillusions. He had seen, he\nhad understood, and all had collapsed. And it was himself, his soul and\nhis brain, which lay among the ruins.\n\nPierre was stifling. He rose, threw the window overlooking the Tiber wide\nopen, and leant out. The rain had begun to fall again at the approach of\nevening, but now it had once more ceased. The atmosphere was very mild,\nmoist, even oppressive. The moon must have arisen in the ashen grey sky,\nfor her presence could be divined behind the clouds which she illumined\nwith a vague, yellow, mournful light. And under that slumberous glimmer\nthe vast horizon showed blackly and phantom-like: the Janiculum in front\nwith the close-packed houses of the Trastevere; the river flowing away\nyonder on the left towards the dim height of the Palatine; whilst on the\nright the dome of St. Peter\u2019s showed forth, round and domineering in the\npale atmosphere. Pierre could not see the Quirinal but divined it to be\nbehind him, and could picture its long fa\u00e7ade shutting off part of the\nsky. And what a collapsing Rome, half-devoured by the gloom, was this, so\ndifferent from the Rome all youth and dreamland which he had beheld and\npassionately loved on the day of his arrival! He remembered the three\nsymbolic summits which had then summed up for him the whole long history\nof Rome, the ancient, the papal, and the Italian city. But if the\nPalatine had remained the same discrowned mount on which there only rose\nthe phantom of the ancestor, Augustus, emperor and pontiff, master of the\nworld, he now pictured St. Peter\u2019s and the Quirinal as strangely altered.\nTo that royal palace which he had so neglected, and which had seemed to\nhim like a flat, low barrack, to that new Government which had brought\nhim the impression of some attempt at sacrilegious modernity, he now\naccorded the large, increasing space that they occupied in the panorama,\nthe whole of which they would apparently soon fill; whilst, on the\ncontrary, St. Peter\u2019s, that dome which he had found so triumphal, all\nazure, reigning over the city like a gigantic and unshakable monarch, at\npresent seemed to him full of cracks and already shrinking, as if it were\none of those huge old piles, which, through the secret, unsuspected decay\nof their timbers, at times fall to the ground in one mass.\n\nA murmur, a growling plaint rose from the swollen Tiber, and Pierre\nshivered at the icy abysmal breath which swept past his face. And his\nthoughts of the three summits and their symbolic triangle aroused within\nhim the memory of the sufferings of the great silent multitude of poor\nand lowly for whom pope and king had so long disputed. It all dated from\nlong ago, from the day when, in dividing the inheritance of Augustus, the\nemperor had been obliged to content himself with men\u2019s bodies, leaving\ntheir souls to the pope, whose one idea had henceforth been to gain the\ntemporal power of which God, in his person, was despoiled. All the middle\nages had been disturbed and ensanguined by the quarrel, till at last the\nsilent multitude weary of vexations and misery spoke out; threw off the\npapal yoke at the Reformation, and later on began to overthrow its kings.\nAnd then, as Pierre had written in his book, a new fortune had been\noffered to the pope, that of reverting to the ancient dream, by\ndissociating himself from the fallen thrones and placing himself on the\nside of the wretched in the hope that this time he would conquer the\npeople, win it entirely for himself. Was it not prodigious to see that\nman, Leo XIII, despoiled of his kingdom and allowing himself to be called\na socialist, assembling under his banner the great flock of the\ndisinherited, and marching against the kings at the head of that fourth\nestate to whom the coming century will belong? The eternal struggle for\npossession of the people continued as bitterly as ever even in Rome\nitself, where pope and king, who could see each other from their windows,\ncontended together like falcon and hawk for the little birds of the\nwoods. And in this for Pierre lay the reason why Catholicism was fatally\ncondemned; for it was of monarchical essence to such a point that the\nApostolic and Roman papacy could not renounce the temporal power under\npenalty of becoming something else and disappearing. In vain did it feign\na return to the people, in vain did it seek to appear all soul; there was\nno room in the midst of the world\u2019s democracies for any such total and\nuniversal sovereignty as that which it claimed to hold from God. Pierre\never beheld the Imperator sprouting up afresh in the Pontifex Maximus,\nand it was this in particular which had killed his dream, destroyed his\nbook, heaped up all those ruins before which he remained distracted\nwithout either strength or courage.\n\nThe sight of that ashen Rome, whose edifices faded away into the night,\nat last brought him such a heart-pang that he came back into the room and\nfell on a chair near his luggage. Never before had he experienced such\ndistress of spirit, it seemed like the death of his soul. After his\ndisaster at Lourdes he had not come to Rome in search of the candid and\ncomplete faith of a little child, but the superior faith of an\nintellectual being, rising above rites and symbols, and seeking to ensure\nthe greatest possible happiness of mankind based on its need of\ncertainty. And if this collapsed, if Catholicism could not be rejuvenated\nand become the religion and moral law of the new generations, if the Pope\nat Rome and with Rome could not be the Father, the arch of alliance, the\nspiritual leader whom all hearkened to and obeyed, why then, in Pierre\u2019s\neyes, the last hope was wrecked, the supreme rending which must plunge\npresent-day society into the abyss was near at hand. That scaffolding of\nCatholic socialism which had seemed to him so happily devised for the\nconsolidation of the old Church, now appeared to him lying on the ground;\nand he judged it severely as a mere passing expedient which might perhaps\nfor some years prop up the ruined edifice, but which was simply based on\nan intentional misunderstanding, on a skilful lie, on politics and\ndiplomacy. No, no, that the people should once again, as so many times\nbefore, be duped and gained over, caressed in order that it might be\nenthralled--this was repugnant to one\u2019s reason, and the whole system\nappeared degenerate, dangerous, temporary, calculated to end in the worst\ncatastrophes. So this then was the finish, nothing remained erect and\nstable, the old world was about to disappear amidst the frightful\nsanguinary crisis whose approach was announced by such indisputable\nsigns. And he, before that chaos near at hand, had no soul left him,\nhaving once more lost his faith in that decisive experiment which, he had\nfelt beforehand, would either strengthen him or strike him down for ever.\nThe thunderbolt had fallen, and now, O God, what should he do?\n\nTo shake off his anguish he began to walk across the room. Aye, what\nshould he do now that he was all doubt again, all dolorous negation, and\nthat his cassock weighed more heavily than it had ever weighed upon his\nshoulders? He remembered having told Monsignor Nani that he would never\nsubmit, would never be able to resign himself and kill his hope in\nsalvation by love, but would rather reply by a fresh book, in which he\nwould say in what new soil the new religion would spring up. Yes, a\nflaming book against Rome, in which he would set down all he had seen, a\nbook which would depict the real Rome, the Rome which knows neither\ncharity nor love, and is dying in the pride of its purple! He had spoken\nof returning to Paris, leaving the Church and going to the point of\nschism. Well, his luggage now lay there packed, he was going off and he\nwould write that book, he would be the great schismatic who was awaited!\nDid not everything foretell approaching schism amidst that great movement\nof men\u2019s minds, weary of old mummified dogmas and yet hungering for the\ndivine? Even Leo XIII must be conscious of it, for his whole policy, his\nwhole effort towards Christian unity, his assumed affection for the\ndemocracy had no other object than that of grouping the whole family\naround the papacy, and consolidating it so as to render the Pope\ninvincible in the approaching struggle. But the times had come,\nCatholicism would soon find that it could grant no more political\nconcessions without perishing, that at Rome it was reduced to the\nimmobility of an ancient hieratic idol, and that only in the lands of\npropaganda, where it was fighting against other religions, could further\nevolution take place. It was, indeed, for this reason that Rome was\ncondemned, the more so as the abolition of the temporal power, by\naccustoming men\u2019s minds to the idea of a purely spiritual papacy, seemed\nlikely to conduce to the rise of some anti-pope, far away, whilst the\nsuccessor of St. Peter was compelled to cling stubbornly to his Apostolic\nand Roman fiction. A bishop, a priest would arise--where, who could tell?\nPerhaps yonder in that free America, where there are priests whom the\nstruggle for life has turned into convinced socialists, into ardent\ndemocrats, who are ready to go forward with the coming century. And\nwhilst Rome remains unable to relinquish aught of her past, aught of her\nmysteries and dogmas, that priest will relinquish all of those things\nwhich fall from one in dust. Ah! to be that priest, to be that great\nreformer, that saviour of modern society, what a vast dream, what a part,\nakin to that of a Messiah summoned by the nations in distress. For a\nmoment Pierre was transported as by a breeze of hope and triumph. If that\ngreat change did not come in France, in Paris, it would come elsewhere,\nyonder across the ocean, or farther yet, wherever there might be a\nsufficiently fruitful soil for the new seed to spring from it in\noverflowing harvests. A new religion! a new religion! even as he had\ncried on returning from Lourdes, a religion which in particular should\nnot be an appetite for death, a religion which should at last realise\nhere below that Kingdom of God referred to in the Gospel, and which\nshould equitably divide terrestrial wealth, and with the law of labour\nensure the rule of truth and justice.\n\nIn the fever of this fresh dream Pierre already saw the pages of his new\nbook flaring before him when his eyes fell on an object lying upon a\nchair, which at first surprised him. This also was a book, that work of\nTh\u00e9ophile Morin\u2019s which Orlando had commissioned him to hand to its\nauthor, and he felt annoyed with himself at having left it there, for he\nmight have forgotten it altogether. Before putting it into his valise he\nretained it for a moment in his hand turning its pages over, his ideas\nchanging as by a sudden mental revolution. The work was, however, a very\nmodest one, one of those manuals for the bachelor\u2019s degree containing\nlittle beyond the first elements of the sciences; still all the sciences\nwere represented in it, and it gave a fair summary of the present state\nof human knowledge. And it was indeed Science which thus burst upon\nPierre\u2019s reverie with the energy of sovereign power. Not only was\nCatholicism swept away from his mind, but all his religious conceptions,\nevery hypothesis of the divine tottered and fell. Only that little school\nbook, nothing but the universal desire for knowledge, that education\nwhich ever extends and penetrates the whole people, and behold the\nmysteries became absurdities, the dogmas crumbled, and nothing of ancient\nfaith was left. A nation nourished upon Science, no longer believing in\nmysteries and dogmas, in a compensatory system of reward and punishment,\nis a nation whose faith is for ever dead: and without faith Catholicism\ncannot be. Therein is the blade of the knife, the knife which falls and\nsevers. If one century, if two centuries be needed, Science will take\nthem. She alone is eternal. It is pure _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ to say that reason is\nnot contrary to faith. The truth is, that now already in order to save\nmere fragments of the sacred writings, it has been necessary to\naccommodate them to the new certainties, by taking refuge in the\nassertion that they are simply symbolical! And what an extraordinary\nattitude is that of the Catholic Church, expressly forbidding all those\nwho may discover a truth contrary to the sacred writings to pronounce\nupon it in definitive fashion, and ordering them to await events in the\nconviction that this truth will some day be proved an error! Only the\nPope, says the Church, is infallible; Science is fallible, her constant\ngroping is exploited against her, and divines remain on the watch\nstriving to make it appear that her discoveries of to-day are in\ncontradiction with her discoveries of yesterday. What do her sacrilegious\nassertions, what do her certainties rending dogma asunder, matter to a\nCatholic since it is certain that at the end of time, she, Science, will\nagain join Faith, and become the latter\u2019s very humble slave! Voluntary\nblindness and impudent denial of things as evident as the sunlight, can\nno further go. But all the same the insignificant little book, the manual\nof truth travels on continuing its work, destroying error and building up\nthe new world, even as the infinitesimal agents of life built up our\npresent continents.\n\nIn the sudden great enlightenment which had come on him Pierre at last\nfelt himself upon firm ground. Has Science ever retreated? It is\nCatholicism which has always retreated before her, and will always be\nforced to retreat. Never does Science stop, step by step she wrests truth\nfrom error, and to say that she is bankrupt because she cannot explain\nthe world in one word and at one effort, is pure and simple nonsense. If\nshe leaves, and no doubt will always leave a smaller and smaller domain\nto mystery, and if supposition may always strive to explain that mystery,\nit is none the less certain that she ruins, and with each successive hour\nwill add to the ruin of the ancient hypotheses, those which crumble away\nbefore the acquired truths. And Catholicism is in the position of those\nancient hypotheses, and will be in it yet more thoroughly to-morrow. Like\nall religions it is, at the bottom, but an explanation of the world, a\nsuperior social and political code, intended to bring about the greatest\npossible sum of peace and happiness on earth. This code which embraces\nthe universality of things thenceforth becomes human, and mortal like\neverything that is human. One cannot put it on one side and say that it\nexists on one side by itself, whilst Science does the same on the other.\nScience is total and has already shown Catholicism that such is the case,\nand will show it again and again by compelling it to repair the breaches\nincessantly effected in its ramparts till the day of victory shall come\nwith the final assault of resplendent truth. Frankly, it makes one laugh\nto hear people assign a _r\u00f4le_ to Science, forbid her to enter such and\nsuch a domain, predict to her that she shall go no further, and declare\nthat at this end of the century she is already so weary that she\nabdicates! Oh! you little men of shallow or distorted brains, you\npoliticians planning expedients, you dogmatics at bay, you authoritarians\nso obstinately clinging to the ancient dreams, Science will pass on, and\nsweep you all away like withered leaves!\n\nPierre continued glancing through the humble little book, listening to\nall it told him of sovereign Science. She cannot become bankrupt, for she\ndoes not promise the absolute, she is simply the progressive conquest of\ntruth. Never has she pretended that she could give the whole truth at one\neffort, that sort of edifice being precisely the work of metaphysics, of\nrevelation, of faith. The _r\u00f4le_ of Science, on the contrary, is only to\ndestroy error as she gradually advances and increases enlightenment. And\nthus, far from becoming bankrupt, in her march which nothing stops, she\nremains the only possible truth for well-balanced and healthy minds. As\nfor those whom she does not satisfy, who crave for immediate and\nuniversal knowledge, they have the resource of seeking refuge in no\nmatter what religious hypothesis, provided, if they wish to appear in the\nright, that they build their fancy upon acquired certainties. Everything\nwhich is raised on proven error falls. However, although religious\nfeeling persists among mankind, although the need of religion may be\neternal, it by no means follows that Catholicism is eternal, for it is,\nafter all, but one form of religion, which other forms preceded and which\nothers will follow. Religions may disappear, but religious feeling will\ncreate new ones even with the help of Science. Pierre thought of that\nalleged repulse of Science by the present-day awakening of mysticism, the\ncauses of which he had indicated in his book: the discredit into which\nthe idea of liberty has fallen among the people, duped in the last social\nreorganisation, and the uneasiness of the _\u00e9lite_, in despair at the void\nin which their liberated minds and enlarged intelligences have left them.\nIt is the anguish of the Unknown springing up again; but it is also only\na natural and momentary reaction after so much labour, on finding that\nScience does not yet calm our thirst for justice, our desire for\nsecurity, or our ancient idea of an eternal after-life of enjoyment. In\norder, however, that Catholicism might be born anew, as some seem to\nthink it will be, the social soil would have to change, and it cannot\nchange; it no longer possesses the sap needful for the renewal of a\ndecaying formula which schools and laboratories destroy more and more\neach day. The ground is other than it once was, a different oak must\nspring from it. May Science therefore have her religion, for such a\nreligion will soon be the only one possible for the coming democracies,\nfor the nations, whose knowledge ever increases whilst their Catholic\nfaith is already nought but dust.\n\nAnd all at once, by way of conclusion, Pierre bethought himself of the\nidiocy of the Congregation of the Index. It had condemned his book, and\nwould surely condemn the other one that he had thought of, should he ever\nwrite it. A fine piece of work truly! To fall tooth and nail on the poor\nbooks of an enthusiastic dreamer, in which chimera contended with\nchimera! Yet the Congregation was so foolish as not to interdict that\nlittle book which he held in his hands, that humble book which alone was\nto be feared, which was the ever triumphant enemy that would surely\noverthrow the Church. Modest it was in its cheap \u201cget up\u201d as a school\nmanual, but that did not matter: danger began with the very alphabet,\nincreased as knowledge was acquired, and burst forth with those _resumes_\nof the physical, chemical, and natural sciences which bring the very\nCreation, as described by Holy Writ, into question. However, the Index\ndared not attempt to suppress those humble volumes, those terrible\nsoldiers of truth, those destroyers of faith. What was the use, then, of\nall the money which Leo XIII drew from his hidden treasure of the Peter\u2019s\nPence to subvention Catholic schools, with the thought of forming the\nbelieving generations which the papacy needed to enable it to conquer?\nWhat was the use of that precious money if it was only to serve for the\npurchase of similar insignificant yet formidable volumes, which could\nnever be sufficiently \u201ccooked\u201d and expurgated, but would always contain\ntoo much Science, that growing Science which one day would blow up both\nVatican and St. Peter\u2019s? Ah! that idiotic and impotent Index, what\nwretchedness and what derision!\n\nThen, when Pierre had placed Th\u00e9ophile Morin\u2019s book in his valise, he\nonce more returned to the window, and while leaning out, beheld an\nextraordinary vision. Under the cloudy, coppery sky, in the mild and\nmournful night, patches of wavy mist had risen, hiding many of the\nhouse-roofs with trailing shreds which looked like shrouds. Entire\nedifices had disappeared, and he imagined that the times were at last\naccomplished, and that truth had at last destroyed St. Peter\u2019s dome. In a\nhundred or a thousand years, it would be like that, fallen, obliterated\nfrom the black sky. One day, already, he had felt it tottering and\ncracking beneath him, and had foreseen that this temple of Catholicism\nwould fall even as Jove\u2019s temple had fallen on the Capitol. And it was\nover now, the dome had strewn the ground with fragments, and all that\nremained standing, in addition to a portion of the apse, where five\ncolumns of the central nave, still upholding a shred of entablature, and\nfour cyclopean buttress-piers on which the dome had rested--piers which\nstill arose, isolated and superb, looking indestructible among all the\nsurrounding downfall. But a denser mist flowed past, another thousand\nyears no doubt went by, and then nothing whatever remained. The apse, the\nlast pillars, the giant piers themselves were felled! The wind had swept\naway their dust, and it would have been necessary to search the soil\nbeneath the brambles and the nettles to find a few fragments of broken\nstatues, marbles with mutilated inscriptions, on the sense of which\nlearned men were unable to agree. And, as formerly, on the Capitol, among\nthe buried remnants of Jupiter\u2019s temple, goats strayed and climbed\nthrough the solitude, browsing upon the bushes, amidst the deep silence\nof the oppressive summer sunlight, which only the buzzing flies\ndisturbed.\n\nThen, only then, did Pierre feel the supreme collapse within him. It was\nreally all over, Science was victorious, nothing of the old world\nremained. What use would it be then to become the great schismatic, the\nreformer who was awaited? Would it not simply mean the building up of a\nnew dream? Only the eternal struggle of Science against the Unknown, the\nsearching, pursuing inquiry which incessantly moderated man\u2019s thirst for\nthe divine, now seemed to him of import, leaving him waiting to know if\nshe would ever triumph so completely as to suffice mankind, by satisfying\nall its wants. And in the disaster which had overcome his apostolic\nenthusiasm, in presence of all those ruins, having lost his faith, and\neven his hope of utilising old Catholicism for social and moral\nsalvation, there only remained reason that held him up. She had at one\nmoment given way. If he had dreamt that book, and had just passed through\nthat terrible crisis, it was because sentiment had once again overcome\nreason within him. It was his mother, so to say, who had wept in his\nheart, who had filled him with an irresistible desire to relieve the\nwretched and prevent the massacres which seemed near at hand; and his\npassion for charity had thus swept aside the scruples of his\nintelligence. But it was his father\u2019s voice that he now heard, lofty and\nbitter reason which, though it had fled, at present came back in all\nsovereignty. As he had done already after Lourdes, he protested against\nthe glorification of the absurd and the downfall of common sense. Reason\nalone enabled him to walk erect and firm among the remnants of the old\nbeliefs, even amidst the obscurities and failures of Science. Ah! Reason,\nit was through her alone that he suffered, through her alone that he\ncould content himself, and he swore that he would now always seek to\nsatisfy her, even if in doing so he should lose his happiness.\n\nAt that moment it would have been vain for him to ask what he ought to\ndo. Everything remained in suspense, the world stretched before him still\nlittered with the ruins of the past, of which, to-morrow, it would\nperhaps be rid. Yonder, in that dolorous faubourg of Paris, he would find\ngood Abb\u00e9 Rose, who but a few days previously had written begging him to\nreturn and tend, love, and save his poor, since Rome, so dazzling from\nafar, was dead to charity. And around the good and peaceful old priest he\nwould find the ever growing flock of wretched ones; the little fledglings\nwho had fallen from their nests, and whom he found pale with hunger and\nshivering with cold; the households of abominable misery in which the\nfather drank and the mother became a prostitute, while the sons and the\ndaughters sank into vice and crime; the dwellings, too, through which\nfamine swept, where all was filth and shameful promiscuity, where there\nwas neither furniture nor linen, nothing but purely animal life. And then\nthere would also come the cold blasts of winter, the disasters of slack\ntimes, the hurricanes of consumption carrying off the weak, whilst the\nstrong clenched their fists and dreamt of vengeance. One evening, too,\nperhaps, he might again enter some room of horror and find that another\nmother had killed herself and her five little ones, her last-born in her\narms clinging to her drained breast, and the others scattered over the\nbare tiles, at last contented, feeling hunger no more, now that they were\ndead! But no, no, such awful things were no longer possible: such black\nmisery conducting to suicide in the heart of that great city of Paris,\nwhich is brimful of wealth, intoxicated with enjoyment, and flings\nmillions out of window for mere pleasure! The very foundations of the\nsocial edifice were rotten; all would soon collapse amidst mire and\nblood. Never before had Pierre so acutely realised the derisive futility\nof Charity. And all at once he became conscious that the long-awaited\nword, the word which was at last springing from the great silent\nmultitude, the crushed and gagged people was _Justice_! Aye, Justice not\nCharity! Charity had only served to perpetuate misery, Justice perhaps\nwould cure it. It was for Justice that the wretched hungered; an act of\nJustice alone could sweep away the olden world so that the new one might\nbe reared. After all, the great silent multitude would belong neither to\nVatican nor to Quirinal, neither to pope nor to king. If it had covertly\ngrowled through the ages in its long, sometimes mysterious, and sometimes\nopen contest; if it had struggled betwixt pontiff and emperor who each\nhad wished to retain it for himself alone, it had only done so in order\nthat it might free itself, proclaim its resolve to belong to none on the\nday when it should cry Justice! Would to-morrow then at last prove that\nday of Justice and Truth? For his part, Pierre amidst his anguish--having\non one hand that need of the divine which tortures man, and on the other\nsovereignty of reason which enables man to remain erect--was only sure of\none thing, that he would keep his vows, continue a priest, watching over\nthe belief of others though he could not himself believe, and would thus\nchastely and honestly follow his profession, amidst haughty sadness at\nhaving been unable to renounce his intelligence in the same way as he had\nrenounced his flesh and his dream of saving the nations. And again, as\nafter Lourdes, he would wait.\n\nSo deeply was he plunged in reflection at that window, face to face with\nthe mist which seemed to be destroying the dark edifices of Rome, that he\ndid not hear himself called. At last, however, he felt a tap on the\nshoulder: \u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9!\u201d And then as he turned he saw Victorine, who\nsaid to him: \u201cIt is half-past nine; the cab is there. Giacomo has already\ntaken your luggage down. You must come away, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\nThen seeing him blink, still dazed as it were, she smiled and added: \u201cYou\nwere bidding Rome goodbye. What a frightful sky there is.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, frightful,\u201d was his reply.\n\nThen they descended the stairs. He had handed her a hundred-franc note to\nbe shared between herself and the other servants. And she apologised for\ngoing down before him with the lamp, explaining that the old palace was\nso dark that evening one could scarcely see.\n\nAh! that departure, that last descent through the black and empty\nmansion, it quite upset Pierre\u2019s heart. He gave his room that glance of\nfarewell which always saddened him, even when he was leaving a spot where\nhe had suffered. Then, on passing Don Vigilio\u2019s chamber, whence there\nonly came a quivering silence, he pictured the secretary with his head\nburied in his pillows, holding his breath for fear lest he should speak\nand attract vengeance. But it was in particular on the second and first\nfloor landings, on passing the closed doors of Donna Serafina and the\nCardinal, that Pierre quivered with apprehension at hearing nothing but\nthe silence of the grave. And as he followed Victorine, who, lamp in\nhand, was still descending, he thought of the brother and sister who were\nleft alone in the ruined palace, last relics of a world which had half\npassed away. All hope of life had departed with Benedetta and Dario, no\nresurrection could come from that old maid and that priest who was bound\nto chastity. Ah! those interminable and lugubrious passages, that frigid\nand gigantic staircase which seemed to descend into nihility, those huge\nhalls with cracking walls where all was wretchedness and abandonment! And\nthat inner court, looking like a cemetery with its weeds and its damp\nporticus, where remnants of Apollos and Venuses were rotting! And the\nlittle deserted garden, fragrant with ripe oranges, whither nobody now\nwould ever stray, where none would ever meet that adorable Contessina\nunder the laurels near the sarcophagus! All was now annihilated in\nabominable mourning, in a death-like silence, amidst which the two last\nBoccaneras must wait, in savage grandeur, till their palace should fall\nabout their heads. Pierre could only just detect a faint sound, the\ngnawing of a mouse perhaps, unless it were caused by Abb\u00e9 Paparelli\nattacking the walls of some out-of-the-way rooms, preying on the old\nedifice down below, so as to hasten its fall.\n\nThe cab stood at the door, already laden with the luggage, the box beside\nthe driver, the valise on the seat; and the priest at once got in.\n\n\u201cOh! You have plenty of time,\u201d said Victorine, who had remained on the\nfoot-pavement. \u201cNothing has been forgotten. I\u2019m glad to see you go off\ncomfortably.\u201d\n\nAnd indeed at that last moment Pierre was comforted by the presence of\nthat worthy woman, his compatriot, who had greeted him on his arrival and\nnow attended his departure. \u201cI won\u2019t say \u2018till we meet again,\u2019 Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cfor I don\u2019t fancy that you\u2019ll soon be back in\nthis horrid city. Good-bye, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood-bye, Victorine, and thank you with all my heart.\u201d\n\nThe cab was already going off at a fast trot, turning into the narrow\nsinuous street which leads to the Corso Vittoria Emanuele. It was not\nraining and so the hood had not been raised, but although the damp\natmosphere was comparatively mild, Pierre at once felt a chill. However,\nhe was unwilling to stop the driver, a silent fellow whose only desire\nseemingly was to get rid of his fare as soon as possible. When the cab\ncame out into the Corso Vittoria Emanuele, the young man was astonished\nto find it already quite deserted, the houses shut, the footways bare,\nand the electric lamps burning all alone in melancholy solitude. In\ntruth, however, the temperature was far from warm and the fog seemed to\nbe increasing, hiding the house-fronts more and more. When Pierre passed\nthe Cancelleria, that stern colossal pile seemed to him to be receding,\nfading away; and farther on, upon the right, at the end of the Via di Ara\nCoeli, starred by a few smoky gas lamps, the Capitol had quite vanished\nin the gloom. Then the thoroughfare narrowed, and the cab went on between\nthe dark heavy masses of the Ges\u00f9 and the Altieri palace; and there in\nthat contracted passage, where even on fine sunny days one found all the\ndampness of old times, the quivering priest yielded to a fresh train of\nthought. It was an idea which had sometimes made him feel anxious, the\nidea that mankind, starting from over yonder in Asia, had always marched\nonward with the sun. An east wind had always carried the human seed for\nfuture harvest towards the west. And for a long while now the cradle of\nhumanity had been stricken with destruction and death, as if indeed the\nnations could only advance by stages, leaving exhausted soil, ruined\ncities, and degenerate populations behind, as they marched from orient to\noccident, towards their unknown goal. Nineveh and Babylon on the banks of\nthe Euphrates, Thebes and Memphis on the banks of the Nile, had been\nreduced to dust, sinking from old age and weariness into a deadly\nnumbness beyond possibility of awakening. Then decrepitude had spread to\nthe shores of the great Mediterranean lake, burying both Tyre and Sidon\nwith dust, and afterwards striking Carthage with senility whilst it yet\nseemed in full splendour. In this wise as mankind marched on, carried by\nthe hidden forces of civilisation from east to west, it marked each day\u2019s\njourney with ruins; and how frightful was the sterility nowadays\ndisplayed by the cradle of History, that Asia and that Egypt, which had\nonce more lapsed into childhood, immobilised in ignorance and degeneracy\namidst the ruins of ancient cities that once had been queens of the\nworld!\n\nIt was thus Pierre reflected as the cab rolled on. Still he was not\nunconscious of his surroundings. As he passed the Palazzo di Venezia it\nseemed to him to be crumbling beneath some assault of the invisible, for\nthe mist had already swept away its battlements, and the lofty, bare,\nfearsome walls looked as if they were staggering from the onslaught of\nthe growing darkness. And after passing the deep gap of the Corso, which\nwas also deserted amidst the pallid radiance of its electric lights, the\nPalazzo Torlonia appeared on the right-hand, with one wing ripped open by\nthe picks of demolishers, whilst on the left, farther up, the Palazzo\nColonna showed its long, mournful fa\u00e7ade and closed windows, as if, now\nthat it was deserted by its masters and void of its ancient pomp, it\nawaited the demolishers in its turn.\n\nThen, as the cab at a slower pace began to climb the ascent of the Via\nNazionale, Pierre\u2019s reverie continued. Was not Rome also stricken, had\nnot the hour come for her to disappear amidst that destruction which the\nnations on the march invariably left behind them? Greece, Athens, and\nSparta slumbered beneath their glorious memories, and were of no account\nin the world of to-day. Moreover, the growing paralysis had already\ninvaded the lower portion of the Italic peninsula; and after Naples\ncertainly came the turn of Rome. She was on the very margin of the death\nspot which ever extends over the old continent, that margin where agony\nbegins, where the impoverished soil will no longer nourish and support\ncities, where men themselves seem stricken with old age as soon as they\nare born. For two centuries Rome had been declining, withdrawing little\nby little from modern life, having neither manufactures nor trade, and\nbeing incapable even of science, literature, or art. And in Pierre\u2019s\nthoughts it was no longer St. Peter\u2019s only that fell, but all\nRome--basilicas, palaces, and entire districts--which collapsed amidst a\nsupreme rending, and covered the seven hills with a chaos of ruins. Like\nNineveh and Babylon, and like Thebes and Memphis, Rome became but a\nplain, bossy with remnants, amidst which one vainly sought to identify\nthe sites of ancient edifices, whilst its sole denizens were coiling\nserpents and bands of rats.\n\nThe cab turned, and on the right, in a huge gap of darkness Pierre\nrecognised Trajan\u2019s column, but it was no longer gilded by the sun as\nwhen he had first seen it; it now rose up blackly like the dead trunk of\na giant tree whose branches have fallen from old age. And farther on,\nwhen he raised his eyes while crossing the little triangular piazza, and\nperceived a real tree against the leaden sky, that parasol pine of the\nVilla Aldobrandini which rises there like a symbol of Rome\u2019s grace and\npride, it seemed to him but a smear, a little cloud of soot ascending\nfrom the downfall of the whole city.\n\nWith the anxious, fraternal turn of his feelings, fear was coming over\nhim as he reached the end of his tragic dream. When the numbness which\nspreads across the aged world should have passed Rome, when Lombardy\nshould have yielded to it, and Genoa, Turin, and Milan should have fallen\nasleep as Venice has fallen already, then would come the turn of France.\nThe Alps would be crossed, Marseilles, like Tyre and Sidon, would see its\nport choked up by sand, Lyons would sink into desolation and slumber, and\nat last Paris, invaded by the invincible torpor, and transformed into a\nsterile waste of stones bristling with nettles, would join Rome and\nNineveh and Babylon in death, whilst the nations continued their march\nfrom orient to occident following the sun. A great cry sped through the\ngloom, the death cry of the Latin races! History, which seemed to have\nbeen born in the basin of the Mediterranean, was being transported\nelsewhere, and the ocean had now become the centre of the world. How many\nhours of the human day had gone by? Had mankind, starting from its cradle\nover yonder at daybreak, strewing its road with ruins from stage to\nstage, now accomplished one-half of its day and reached the dazzling hour\nof noon? If so, then the other half of the day allotted to it was\nbeginning, the new world was following the old one, the new world of\nthose American cities where democracy was forming and the religion of\nto-morrow was sprouting, those sovereign queens of the coming century,\nwith yonder, across another ocean, on the other side of the globe, that\nmotionless Far East, mysterious China and Japan, and all the threatening\nswarm of the yellow races.\n\nHowever, while the cab climbed higher and higher up the Via Nazionale,\nPierre felt his nightmare dissipating. There was here a lighter\natmosphere, and he came back into a renewal of hope and courage. Yet the\nBanca d\u2019Italia, with its brand-new ugliness, its chalky hugeness, looked\nto him like a phantom in a shroud; whilst above a dim expanse of gardens\nthe Quirinal formed but a black streak barring the heavens. However, the\nstreet ever ascended and broadened, and on the summit of the Viminal, on\nthe Piazza delle Terme, when he passed the ruins of Diocletian\u2019s baths,\nhe could breathe as his lungs listed. No, no, the human day could not\nfinish, it was eternal, and the stages of civilisation would follow and\nfollow without end! What mattered that eastern wind which carried the\nnations towards the west, as if borne on by the power of the sun! If\nnecessary, they would return across the other side of the globe, they\nwould again and again make the circuit of the earth, until the day should\ncome when they could establish themselves in peace, truth, and justice.\nAfter the next civilisation on the shores of the Atlantic, which would\nbecome the world\u2019s centre, skirted by queenly cities, there would spring\nup yet another civilisation, having the Pacific for its centre, with\nseaport capitals that could not be yet foreseen, whose germs yet\nslumbered on unknown shores. And in like way there would be still other\ncivilisations and still others! And at that last moment, the inspiriting\nthought came to Pierre that the great movement of the nations was the\ninstinct, the need which impelled them to return to unity. Originating in\none sole family, afterwards parted and dispersed in tribes, thrown into\ncollision by fratricidal hatred, their tendency was none the less to\nbecome one sole family again. The provinces united in nations, the\nnations would unite in races, and the races would end by uniting in one\nimmortal mankind--mankind at last without frontiers, or possibility of\nwars, mankind living by just labour amidst an universal commonwealth. Was\nnot this indeed the evolution, the object of the labour progressing\neverywhere, the finish reserved to History? Might Italy then become a\nstrong and healthy nation, might concord be established between her and\nFrance, and might that fraternity of the Latin races become the beginning\nof universal fraternity! Ah! that one fatherland, the whole earth\npacified and happy, in how many centuries would that come--and what a\ndream!\n\nThen, on reaching the station the scramble prevented Pierre from thinking\nany further. He had to take his ticket and register his luggage, and\nafterwards he at once climbed into the train. At dawn on the next day but\none, he would be back in Paris.\n\n\nEND\n\n                         *****\n\n\n\n\n\nPARIS\n\nFROM THE THREE CITIES\n\n\nBy \u00c9mile Zola\n\n\nTranslated By Ernest A. Vizetelly\n\n\n\n\nBOOK I.\n\n\n\n\nTRANSLATOR\u2019S PREFACE\n\nWITH the present work M. Zola completes the \u201cTrilogy of the Three\nCities,\u201d which he began with \u201cLourdes\u201d and continued with \u201cRome\u201d; and\nthus the adventures and experiences of Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment, the doubting\nCatholic priest who failed to find faith at the miraculous grotto by the\nCave, and hope amidst the crumbling theocracy of the Vatican, are here\nbrought to what, from M. Zola\u2019s point of view, is their logical\nconclusion. From the first pages of \u201cLourdes,\u201d many readers will have\ndivined that Abb\u00e9 Froment was bound to finish as he does, for, frankly,\nno other finish was possible from a writer of M. Zola\u2019s opinions.\n\nTaking the Trilogy as a whole, one will find that it is essentially\nsymbolical. Abb\u00e9 Froment is Man, and his struggles are the struggles\nbetween Religion, as personified by the Roman Catholic Church, on the one\nhand, and Reason and Life on the other. In the Abb\u00e9\u2019s case the victory\nultimately rests with the latter; and we may take it as being M. Zola\u2019s\nopinion that the same will eventually be the case with the great bulk of\nmankind. English writers are often accused of treating subjects from an\ninsular point of view, and certainly there may be good ground for such a\ncharge. But they are not the only writers guilty of the practice. The\npurview of French authors is often quite as limited: they regard French\nopinion as the only good opinion, and judge the rest of the world by\ntheir own standard. In the present case, if we leave the world and\nmankind generally on one side, and apply M. Zola\u2019s facts and theories to\nFrance alone, it will be found, I think, that he has made out a\nremarkably good case for himself. For it is certain that Catholicism, I\nmay say Christianity, is fast crumbling in France. There may be revivals\nin certain limited circles, efforts of the greatest energy to prop up the\ntottering edifice by a \u201crallying\u201d of believers to the democratic cause,\nand by a kindling of the most bitter anti-Semitic warfare; but all these\nrevivals and efforts, although they are extremely well-advertised and\ncreate no little stir, produce very little impression on the bulk of the\npopulation. So far as France is concerned, the policy of Leo XIII. seems\nto have come too late. The French masses regard Catholicism or\nChristianity, whichever one pleases, as a religion of death,--a religion\nwhich, taking its stand on the text \u201cThere shall always be poor among\nyou,\u201d condemns them to toil and moil in poverty and distress their whole\nlife long, with no other consolation than the promise of happiness in\nheaven. And, on the other hand, they see the ministers of the Deity,\n\u201cwhose kingdom is not of this world,\u201d supporting the wealthy and\npowerful, and striving to secure wealth and power for themselves. Charity\nexists, of course, but the masses declare that it is no remedy; they do\nnot ask for doles, they ask for Justice. It is largely by reason of all\nthis that Socialism and Anarchism have made such great strides in France\nof recent years. Robespierre, as will be remembered, once tried to\nsuppress Christianity altogether, and for a time certainly there was a\nvirtually general cessation of religious observances in France. But no\nsuch Reign of Terror prevails there to-day. Men are perfectly free to\nbelieve if they are inclined to do so; and yet never were there fewer\nreligious marriages, fewer baptisms or smaller congregations in the\nFrench churches. I refer not merely to Paris and other large cities, but\nto the smaller towns, and even the little hamlets of many parts. Old\nvillage priests, men practising what they teach and possessed of the most\nloving, benevolent hearts, have told me with tears in their eyes of the\ngrowing infidelity of their parishioners.\n\nI have been studying this matter for some years, and write without\nprejudice, merely setting down what I believe to be the truth. Of course\nwe are all aware that the most stupendous efforts are being made by the\nCatholic clergy and zealous believers to bring about a revival of the\nfaith, and certainly in some circles there has been a measure of success.\nBut the reconversion of a nation is the most formidable of tasks; and, in\nmy own opinion, as in M. Zola\u2019s, France as a whole is lost to the\nChristian religion. On this proposition, combined with a second one,\nnamely, that even as France as a nation will be the first to discard\nChristianity, so she will be the first to promulgate a new faith based on\nreason, science and the teachings of life, is founded the whole argument\nof M. Zola\u2019s Trilogy.\n\nHaving thus dealt with the Trilogy\u2019s religious aspects, I would now speak\nof \u201cParis,\u201d its concluding volume. This is very different from \u201cLourdes\u201d\n and \u201cRome.\u201d Whilst recounting the struggles and fate of Abb\u00e9 Froment and\nhis brother Guillaume, and entering largely into the problem of Capital\nand Labour, which problem has done so much to turn the masses away from\nChristianity, it contains many an interesting and valuable picture of the\nParisian world at the close of the nineteenth century. It is no\nguide-book to Paris; but it paints the city\u2019s social life, its rich and\npoor, its scandals and crimes, its work and its pleasures. Among the\nhouseholds to which the reader is introduced are those of a banker, an\naged Countess of the old _noblesse_, a cosmopolitan Princess, of a kind\nthat Paris knows only too well, a scientist, a manufacturer, a working\nmechanician, a priest, an Anarchist, a petty clerk and an actress of a\nclass that so often dishonours the French stage. Science and art and\nlearning and religion, all have their representatives. Then, too, the\npolitical world is well to the front. There are honest and unscrupulous\nMinisters of State, upright and venal deputies, enthusiastic and cautious\ncandidates for power, together with social theoreticians of various\nschools. And the _blas\u00e9_, weak-minded man of fashion is here, as well as\nthe young \u201csymbolist\u201d of perverted, degraded mind. The women are of all\ntypes, from the most loathsome to the most lovable. Then, too, the\njournalists are portrayed in such life-like fashion that I might give\neach of them his real name. And journalism, Parisian journalism, is\nflagellated, shown as it really is,--if just a few well-conducted organs\nbe excepted,--that is, venal and impudent, mendacious and even petty.\n\nThe actual scenes depicted are quite as kaleidoscopic as are the\ncharacters in their variety. We enter the banker\u2019s gilded saloon and the\nhovel of the pauper, the busy factory, the priest\u2019s retired home and the\nlaboratory of the scientist. We wait in the lobbies of the Chamber of\nDeputies, and afterwards witness \u201ca great debate\u201d; we penetrate into the\nprivate sanctum of a Minister of the Interior; we attend a fashionable\nwedding at the Madeleine and a first performance at the Com\u00e9die\nFran\u00e7aise; we dine at the Cafe Anglais and listen to a notorious vocalist\nin a low music hall at Montmartre; we pursue an Anarchist through the\nBois de Boulogne; we slip into the Assize Court and see that Anarchist\ntried there; we afterwards gaze upon his execution by the guillotine; we\nare also on the boulevards when the lamps are lighted for a long night of\nrevelry, and we stroll along the quiet streets in the small hours of the\nmorning, when crime and homeless want are prowling round.\n\nAnd ever the scene changes; the whole world of Paris passes before one.\nYet the book, to my thinking, is far less descriptive than analytical.\nThe souls of the principal characters are probed to their lowest depths.\nMany of the scenes, too, are intensely dramatic, admirably adapted for\nthe stage; as, for instance, Baroness Duvillard\u2019s interview with her\ndaughter in the chapter which I have called \u201cThe Rivals.\u201d And side by\nside with baseness there is heroism, while beauty of the flesh finds its\ncounterpart in beauty of the mind. M. Zola has often been reproached for\nshowing us the vileness of human nature; and no doubt such vileness may\nbe found in \u201cParis,\u201d but there are contrasting pictures. If some of M.\nZola\u2019s characters horrify the reader, there are others that the latter\ncan but admire. Life is compounded of good and evil, and unfortunately it\nis usually the evil that makes the most noise and attracts the most\nattention. Moreover, in M. Zola\u2019s case, it has always been his purpose to\nexpose the evils from which society suffers in the hope of directing\nattention to them and thereby hastening a remedy, and thus, in the course\nof his works, he could not do otherwise than drag the whole frightful\nmass of human villany and degradation into the full light of day. But if\nthere are, again, black pages in \u201cParis,\u201d others, bright and comforting,\nwill be found near them. And the book ends in no pessimist strain.\nWhatever may be thought of the writer\u2019s views on religion, most readers\nwill, I imagine, agree with his opinion that, despite much social\ninjustice, much crime, vice, cupidity and baseness, we are ever marching\non to better things.\n\nIn the making of the coming, though still far-away, era of truth and\njustice, Paris, he thinks, will play the leading part, for whatever the\nstains upon her, they are but surface-deep; her heart remains good and\nsound; she has genius and courage and energy and wit and fancy. She can\nbe generous, too, when she chooses, and more than once her ideas have\nirradiated the world. Thus M. Zola hopes much from her, and who will\ngainsay him? Not I, who can apply to her the words which Byron addressed\nto the home of my own and M. Zola\u2019s forefathers:--\n\n     \u201cI loved her from my boyhood; she to me\n      Was as a fairy city of the heart.\u201d\n\nThus I can but hope that Paris, where I learnt the little I know, where I\nstruggled and found love and happiness, whose every woe and disaster and\ntriumph I have shared for over thirty years, may, however dark the clouds\nthat still pass over her, some day fully justify M. Zola\u2019s confidence,\nand bring to pass his splendid dream of perfect truth and perfect\njustice.\n\nE. A. V.\n\nMERTON, SURREY, ENGLAND,\n\nFeb. 5, 1898.\n\n\n\n\n\nI. THE PRIEST AND THE POOR\n\nTHAT morning, one towards the end of January, Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment, who\nhad a mass to say at the Sacred Heart at Montmartre, was on the height,\nin front of the basilica, already at eight o\u2019clock. And before going in\nhe gazed for a moment upon the immensity of Paris spread out below him.\n\nAfter two months of bitter cold, ice and snow, the city was steeped in a\nmournful, quivering thaw. From the far-spreading, leaden-hued heavens a\nthick mist fell like a mourning shroud. All the eastern portion of the\ncity, the abodes of misery and toil, seemed submerged beneath ruddy\nsteam, amid which the panting of workshops and factories could be\ndivined; while westwards, towards the districts of wealth and enjoyment,\nthe fog broke and lightened, becoming but a fine and motionless veil of\nvapour. The curved line of the horizon could scarcely be divined, the\nexpanse of houses, which nothing bounded, appeared like a chaos of stone,\nstudded with stagnant pools, which filled the hollows with pale steam;\nwhilst against them the summits of the edifices, the housetops of the\nloftier streets, showed black like soot. It was a Paris of mystery,\nshrouded by clouds, buried as it were beneath the ashes of some disaster,\nalready half-sunken in the suffering and the shame of that which its\nimmensity concealed.\n\nThin and sombre in his flimsy cassock, Pierre was looking on when Abb\u00e9\nRose, who seemed to have sheltered himself behind a pillar of the porch\non purpose to watch for him, came forward: \u201cAh! it\u2019s you at last, my dear\nchild,\u201d said he, \u201cI have something to ask you.\u201d\n\nHe seemed embarrassed and anxious, and glanced round distrustfully to\nmake sure that nobody was near. Then, as if the solitude thereabouts did\nnot suffice to reassure him, he led Pierre some distance away, through\nthe icy, biting wind, which he himself did not seem to feel. \u201cThis is the\nmatter,\u201d he resumed, \u201cI have been told that a poor fellow, a former\nhouse-painter, an old man of seventy, who naturally can work no more, is\ndying of hunger in a hovel in the Rue des Saules. So, my dear child, I\nthought of you. I thought you would consent to take him these three\nfrancs from me, so that he may at least have some bread to eat for a few\ndays.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut why don\u2019t you take him your alms yourself?\u201d\n\nAt this Abb\u00e9 Rose again grew anxious, and cast vague, frightened glances\nabout him. \u201cOh, no, oh, no!\u201d he said, \u201cI can no longer do that after all\nthe worries that have befallen me. You know that I am watched, and should\nget another scolding if I were caught giving alms like this, scarcely\nknowing to whom I give them. It is true that I had to sell something to\nget these three francs. But, my dear child, render me this service, I\npray you.\u201d\n\nPierre, with heart oppressed, stood contemplating the old priest, whose\nlocks were quite white, whose full lips spoke of infinite kindliness, and\nwhose eyes shone clear and childlike in his round and smiling face. And\nhe bitterly recalled the story of that lover of the poor, the\nsemi-disgrace into which he had fallen through the sublime candour of his\ncharitable goodness. His little ground-floor of the Rue de Charonne,\nwhich he had turned into a refuge where he offered shelter to all the\nwretchedness of the streets, had ended by giving cause for scandal. His\n_na\u00efvet\u00e9_ and innocence had been abused; and abominable things had gone\non under his roof without his knowledge. Vice had turned the asylum into\na meeting-place; and at last, one night, the police had descended upon it\nto arrest a young girl accused of infanticide. Greatly concerned by this\nscandal, the diocesan authorities had forced Abb\u00e9 Rose to close his\nshelter, and had removed him from the church of Ste. Marguerite to that\nof St. Pierre of Montmartre, where he now again acted as curate. Truth to\ntell, it was not a disgrace but a removal to another spot. However, he\nhad been scolded and was watched, as he said; and he was much ashamed of\nit, and very unhappy at being only able to give alms by stealth, much\nlike some harebrained prodigal who blushes for his faults.\n\nPierre took the three francs. \u201cI promise to execute your commission, my\nfriend, oh! with all my heart,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cYou will go after your mass, won\u2019t you? His name is Laveuve, he lives in\nthe Rue des Saules in a house with a courtyard, just before reaching the\nRue Marcadet. You are sure to find it. And if you want to be very kind\nyou will tell me of your visit this evening at five o\u2019clock, at the\nMadeleine, where I am going to hear Monseigneur Martha\u2019s address. He has\nbeen so good to me! Won\u2019t you also come to hear him?\u201d\n\nPierre made an evasive gesture. Monseigneur Martha, Bishop of Persepolis\nand all powerful at the archiepiscopal palace, since, like the genial\npropagandist he was, he had been devoting himself to increasing the\nsubscriptions for the basilica of the Sacred Heart, had indeed supported\nAbb\u00e9 Rose; in fact, it was by his influence that the abb\u00e9 had been kept\nin Paris, and placed once more at St. Pierre de Montmartre.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know if I shall be able to hear the address,\u201d said Pierre, \u201cbut\nin any case I will go there to meet you.\u201d\n\nThe north wind was blowing, and the gloomy cold penetrated both of them\non that deserted summit amidst the fog which changed the vast city into a\nmisty ocean. However, some footsteps were heard, and Abb\u00e9 Rose, again\nmistrustful, saw a man go by, a tall and sturdy man, who wore clogs and\nwas bareheaded, showing his thick and closely-cut white hair. \u201cIs not\nthat your brother?\u201d asked the old priest.\n\nPierre had not stirred. \u201cYes, it is my brother Guillaume,\u201d he quietly\nresponded. \u201cI have found him again since I have been coming occasionally\nto the Sacred Heart. He owns a house close by, where he has been living\nfor more than twenty years, I think. When we meet we shake hands, but I\nhave never even been to his house. Oh! all is quite dead between us, we\nhave nothing more in common, we are parted by worlds.\u201d\n\nAbb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s tender smile again appeared, and he waved his hand as if to\nsay that one must never despair of love. Guillaume Froment, a savant of\nlofty intelligence, a chemist who lived apart from others, like one who\nrebelled against the social system, was now a parishioner of the abb\u00e9\u2019s,\nand when the latter passed the house where Guillaume lived with his three\nsons--a house all alive with work--he must often have dreamt of leading\nhim back to God.\n\n\u201cBut, my dear child,\u201d he resumed, \u201cI am keeping you here in this dark\ncold, and you are not warm. Go and say your mass. Till this evening, at\nthe Madeleine.\u201d Then, in entreating fashion, after again making sure that\nnone could hear them, he added, still with the air of a child at fault:\n\u201cAnd not a word to anybody about my little commission--it would again be\nsaid that I don\u2019t know how to conduct myself.\u201d\n\nPierre watched the old priest as he went off towards the Rue Cartot,\nwhere he lived on a damp ground-floor, enlivened by a strip of garden.\nThe veil of disaster, which was submerging Paris, now seemed to grow\nthicker under the gusts of the icy north wind. And at last Pierre entered\nthe basilica, his heart upset, overflowing with the bitterness stirred up\nby the recollection of Abb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s story--that bankruptcy of charity, the\nfrightful irony of a holy man punished for bestowing alms, and hiding\nhimself that he might still continue to bestow them. Nothing could calm\nthe smart of the wound reopened in Pierre\u2019s heart--neither the warm\npeacefulness into which he entered, nor the silent solemnity of the\nbroad, deep fabric, whose new stonework was quite bare, without a single\npainting or any kind of decoration; the nave being still half-barred by\nthe scaffoldings which blocked up the unfinished dome. At that early hour\nthe masses of entreaty had already been said at several altars, under the\ngrey light falling from the high and narrow windows, and the tapers of\nentreaty were burning in the depths of the apse. So Pierre made haste to\ngo to the sacristy, there to assume his vestments in order that he might\nsay his mass in the chapel of St. Vincent de Paul.\n\nBut the floodgates of memory had been opened, and he had no thought but\nfor his distress whilst, in mechanical fashion, he performed the rites\nand made the customary gestures. Since his return from Rome three years\npreviously, he had been living in the very worst anguish that can fall on\nman. At the outset, in order to recover his lost faith, he had essayed a\nfirst experiment: he had gone to Lourdes, there to seek the innocent\nbelief of the child who kneels and prays, the primitive faith of young\nnations bending beneath the terror born of ignorance; but he had rebelled\nyet more than ever in presence of what he had witnessed at Lourdes: that\nglorification of the absurd, that collapse of common sense; and was\nconvinced that salvation, the peace of men and nations nowadays, could\nnot lie in that puerile relinquishment of reason. And afterwards, again\nyielding to the need of loving whilst yet allowing reason, so hard to\nsatisfy, her share in his intellect, he had staked his final peace on a\nsecond experiment, and had gone to Rome to see if Catholicism could there\nbe renewed, could revert to the spirit of primitive Christianity and\nbecome the religion of the democracy, the faith which the modern world,\nupheaving and in danger of death, was awaiting in order to calm down and\nlive. And he had found there naught but ruins, the rotted trunk of a tree\nthat could never put forth another springtide; and he had heard there\nnaught but the supreme rending of the old social edifice, near to its\nfall. Then it was, that, relapsing into boundless doubt, total negation,\nhe had been recalled to Paris by Abb\u00e9 Rose, in the name of their poor,\nand had returned thither that he might forget and immolate himself and\nbelieve in them--the poor--since they and their frightful sufferings\nalone remained certain. And then it was too, that for three years he came\ninto contact with that collapse, that very bankruptcy of goodness itself:\ncharity a derision, charity useless and flouted.\n\nThose three years had been lived by Pierre amidst ever-growing torments,\nin which his whole being had ended by sinking. His faith was forever\ndead; dead, too, even his hope of utilising the faith of the multitudes\nfor the general salvation. He denied everything, he anticipated nothing\nbut the final, inevitable catastrophe: revolt, massacre and\nconflagration, which would sweep away a guilty and condemned world.\nUnbelieving priest that he was, yet watching over the faith of others,\nhonestly, chastely discharging his duties, full of haughty sadness at the\nthought that he had been unable to renounce his mind as he had renounced\nhis flesh and his dream of being a saviour of the nations, he withal\nremained erect, full of fierce yet solitary grandeur. And this\ndespairing, denying priest, who had dived to the bottom of nothingness,\nretained such a lofty and grave demeanour, perfumed by such pure\nkindness, that in his parish of Neuilly he had acquired the reputation of\nbeing a young saint, one beloved by Providence, whose prayers wrought\nmiracles. He was but a personification of the rules of the Church; of the\npriest he retained only the gestures; he was like an empty sepulchre in\nwhich not even the ashes of hope remained; yet grief-stricken weeping\nwomen worshipped him and kissed his cassock; and it was a tortured mother\nwhose infant was in danger of death, who had implored him to come and ask\nthat infant\u2019s cure of Jesus, certain as she felt that Jesus would grant\nher the boon in that sanctuary of Montmartre where blazed the prodigy of\nHis heart, all burning with love.\n\nClad in his vestments, Pierre had reached the chapel of St. Vincent de\nPaul. He there ascended the altar-step and began the mass; and when he\nturned round with hands spread out to bless the worshippers he showed his\nhollow cheeks, his gentle mouth contracted by bitterness, his loving eyes\ndarkened by suffering. He was no longer the young priest whose\ncountenance had glowed with tender fever on the road to Lourdes, whose\nface had been illumined by apostolic fervour when he started for Rome.\nThe two hereditary influences which were ever at strife within him--that\nof his father to whom he owed his impregnable, towering brow, that of his\nmother who had given him his love-thirsting lips, were still waging war,\nthe whole human battle of sentiment and reason, in that now ravaged face\nof his, whither in moments of forgetfulness ascended all the chaos of\ninternal suffering. The lips still confessed that unquenched thirst for\nlove, self-bestowal and life, which he well thought he could nevermore\ncontent, whilst the solid brow, the citadel which made him suffer,\nobstinately refused to capitulate, whatever might be the assaults of\nerror. But he stiffened himself, hid the horror of the void in which he\nstruggled, and showed himself superb, making each gesture, repeating each\nword in sovereign fashion. And gazing at him through her tears, the\nmother who was there among the few kneeling women, the mother who awaited\na supreme intercession from him, who thought him in communion with Jesus\nfor the salvation of her child, beheld him radiant with angelic beauty\nlike some messenger of the divine grace.\n\nWhen, after the offertory, Pierre uncovered the chalice he felt contempt\nfor himself. The shock had been too great, and he thought of those things\nin spite of all. What puerility there had been in his two experiments at\nLourdes and Rome, the _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ of a poor distracted being, consumed by\ndesire to love and believe. To have imagined that present-day science\nwould in his person accommodate itself to the faith of the year One\nThousand, and in particular to have foolishly believed that he, petty\npriest that he was, would be able to indoctrinate the Pope and prevail on\nhim to become a saint and change the face of the world! It all filled him\nwith shame; how people must have laughed at him! Then, too, his idea of a\nschism made him blush. He again beheld himself at Rome, dreaming of\nwriting a book by which he would violently sever himself from Catholicism\nto preach the new religion of the democracies, the purified, human and\nliving Gospel. But what ridiculous folly! A schism? He had known in Paris\nan abb\u00e9 of great heart and mind who had attempted to bring about that\nfamous, predicted, awaited schism. Ah! the poor man, the sad, the\nludicrous labour in the midst of universal incredulity, the icy\nindifference of some, the mockery and the reviling of others! If Luther\nwere to come to France in our days he would end, forgotten and dying of\nhunger, on a Batignolles fifth-floor. A schism cannot succeed among a\npeople that no longer believes, that has ceased to take all interest in\nthe Church, and sets its hope elsewhere. And it was all Catholicism, in\nfact all Christianity, that would be swept away, for, apart from certain\nmoral maxims, the Gospel no longer supplied a possible code for society.\nAnd this conviction increased Pierre\u2019s torment on the days when his\ncassock weighed more heavily on his shoulders, when he ended by feeling\ncontempt for himself at thus celebrating the divine mystery of the mass,\nwhich for him had become but the formula of a dead religion.\n\nHaving half filled the chalice with wine from the vase, Pierre washed his\nhands and again perceived the mother with her face of ardent entreaty.\nThen he thought it was for her that, with the charitable leanings of a\nvow-bound man, he had remained a priest, a priest without belief, feeding\nthe belief of others with the bread of illusion. But this heroic conduct,\nthe haughty spirit of duty in which he imprisoned himself, was not\npractised by him without growing anguish. Did not elementary probity\nrequire that he should cast aside the cassock and return into the midst\nof men? At certain times the falsity of his position filled him with\ndisgust for his useless heroism; and he asked himself if it were not\ncowardly and dangerous to leave the masses in superstition. Certainly the\ntheory of a just and vigilant Providence, of a future paradise where all\nthese sufferings of the world would receive compensation, had long seemed\nnecessary to the wretchedness of mankind; but what a trap lay in it, what\na pretext for the tyrannical grinding down of nations; and how far more\nvirile it would be to undeceive the nations, however brutally, and give\nthem courage to live the real life, even if it were in tears. If they\nwere already turning aside from Christianity was not this because they\nneeded a more human ideal, a religion of health and joy which should not\nbe a religion of death? On the day when the idea of charity should\ncrumble, Christianity would crumble also, for it was built upon the idea\nof divine charity correcting the injustice of fate, and offering future\nrewards to those who might suffer in this life. And it was crumbling; for\nthe poor no longer believed in it, but grew angry at the thought of that\ndeceptive paradise, with the promise of which their patience had been\nbeguiled so long, and demanded that their share of happiness should not\nalways be put off until the morrow of death. A cry for justice arose from\nevery lip, for justice upon this earth, justice for those who hunger and\nthirst, whom alms are weary of relieving after eighteen hundred years of\nGospel teaching, and who still and ever lack bread to eat.\n\nWhen Pierre, with his elbows on the altar, had emptied the chalice after\nbreaking the sacred wafer, he felt himself sinking into yet greater\ndistress. And so a third experiment was beginning for him, the supreme\nbattle of justice against charity, in which his heart and his mind would\nstruggle together in that great Paris, so full of terrible, unknown\nthings. The need for the divine still battled within him against\ndomineering intelligence. How among the masses would one ever be able to\ncontent the thirst for the mysterious? Leaving the _\u00e9lite_ on one side,\nwould science suffice to pacify desire, lull suffering, and satisfy the\ndream? And what would become of himself in the bankruptcy of that same\ncharity, which for three years had alone kept him erect by occupying his\nevery hour, and giving him the illusion of self-devotion, of being useful\nto others? It seemed, all at once, as if the ground sank beneath him, and\nhe heard nothing save the cry of the masses, silent so long, but now\ndemanding justice, growling and threatening to take their share, which\nwas withheld from them by force and ruse. Nothing more, it seemed, could\ndelay the inevitable catastrophe, the fratricidal class warfare that\nwould sweep away the olden world, which was condemned to disappear\nbeneath the mountain of its crimes. Every hour with frightful sadness he\nexpected the collapse, Paris steeped in blood, Paris in flames. And his\nhorror of all violence froze him; he knew not where to seek the new\nbelief which might dissipate the peril. Fully conscious, though he was,\nthat the social and religious problems are but one, and are alone in\nquestion in the dreadful daily labour of Paris, he was too deeply\ntroubled himself, too far removed from ordinary things by his position as\na priest, and too sorely rent by doubt and powerlessness to tell as yet\nwhere might be truth, and health, and life. Ah! to be healthy and to\nlive, to content at last both heart and reason in the peace, the certain,\nsimply honest labour, which man has come to accomplish upon this earth!\n\nThe mass was finished, and Pierre descended from the altar, when the\nweeping mother, near whom he passed, caught hold of a corner of the\nchasuble with her trembling hands, and kissed it with wild fervour, as\none may kiss some relic of a saint from whom one expects salvation. She\nthanked him for the miracle which he must have accomplished, certain as\nshe felt that she would find her child cured. And he was deeply stirred\nby that love, that ardent faith of hers, in spite of the sudden and yet\nkeener distress which he felt at being in no wise the sovereign minister\nthat she thought him, the minister able to obtain a respite from Death.\nBut he dismissed her consoled and strengthened, and it was with an ardent\nprayer that he entreated the unknown but conscious Power to succour the\npoor creature. Then, when he had divested himself in the sacristy, and\nfound himself again out of doors before the basilica, lashed by the keen\nwintry wind, a mortal shiver came upon him, and froze him, while through\nthe mist he looked to see if a whirlwind of anger and justice had not\nswept Paris away: that catastrophe which must some day destroy it,\nleaving under the leaden heavens only the pestilential quagmire of its\nruins.\n\nPierre wished to fulfil Abb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s commission immediately. He followed\nthe Rue des Norvins, on the crest of Montmartre; and, reaching the Rue\ndes Saules, descended by its steep slope, between mossy walls, to the\nother side of Paris. The three francs which he was holding in his\ncassock\u2019s pocket, filled him at once with gentle emotion and covert anger\nagainst the futility of charity. But as he gradually descended by the\nsharp declivities and interminable storeys of steps, the mournful nooks\nof misery which he espied took possession of him, and infinite pity wrung\nhis heart. A whole new district was here being built alongside the broad\nthoroughfares opened since the great works of the Sacred Heart had begun.\nLofty middle-class houses were already rising among ripped-up gardens and\nplots of vacant land, still edged with palings. And these houses with\ntheir substantial frontages, all new and white, lent a yet more sombre\nand leprous aspect to such of the old shaky buildings as remained, the\nlow pot-houses with blood-coloured walls, the _cit\u00e9s_ of workmen\u2019s\ndwellings, those abodes of suffering with black, soiled buildings in\nwhich human cattle were piled. Under the low-hanging sky that day, the\npavement, dented by heavily-laden carts, was covered with mud; the thaw\nsoaked the walls with an icy dampness, whilst all the filth and\ndestitution brought terrible sadness to the heart.\n\nAfter going as far as the Rue Marcadet, Pierre retraced his steps; and in\nthe Rue des Saules, certain that he was not mistaken, he entered the\ncourtyard of a kind of barracks or hospital, encompassed by three\nirregular buildings. This court was a quagmire, where filth must have\naccumulated during the two months of terrible frost; and now all was\nmelting, and an abominable stench arose. The buildings were half falling,\nthe gaping vestibules looked like cellar holes, strips of paper streaked\nthe cracked and filthy window-panes, and vile rags hung about like flags\nof death. Inside a shanty which served as the door-keeper\u2019s abode Pierre\nonly saw an infirm man rolled up in a tattered strip of what had once\nbeen a horse-cloth.\n\n\u201cYou have an old workman named Laveuve here,\u201d said the priest. \u201cWhich\nstaircase is it, which floor?\u201d\n\nThe man did not answer, but opened his anxious eyes, like a scared idiot.\nThe door-keeper, no doubt, was in the neighbourhood. For a moment the\npriest waited; then seeing a little girl on the other side of the\ncourtyard, he risked himself, crossed the quagmire on tip-toe, and asked:\n\u201cDo you know an old workman named Laveuve in the house, my child?\u201d\n\nThe little girl, who only had a ragged gown of pink cotton stuff about\nher meagre figure, stood there shivering, her hands covered with\nchilblains. She raised her delicate face, which looked pretty though\nnipped by the cold: \u201cLaveuve,\u201d said she, \u201cno, don\u2019t know, don\u2019t know.\u201d\n And with the unconscious gesture of a beggar child she put out one of her\npoor, numbed and disfigured hands. Then, when the priest had given her a\nlittle bit of silver, she began to prance through the mud like a joyful\ngoat, singing the while in a shrill voice: \u201cDon\u2019t know, don\u2019t know.\u201d\n\nPierre decided to follow her. She vanished into one of the gaping\nvestibules, and, in her rear, he climbed a dark and fetid staircase,\nwhose steps were half-broken and so slippery, on account of the vegetable\nparings strewn over them, that he had to avail himself of the greasy rope\nby which the inmates hoisted themselves upwards. But every door was\nclosed; he vainly knocked at several of them, and only elicited, at the\nlast, a stifled growl, as though some despairing animal were confined\nwithin. Returning to the yard, he hesitated, then made his way to another\nstaircase, where he was deafened by piercing cries, as of a child who is\nbeing butchered. He climbed on hearing this noise and at last found\nhimself in front of an open room where an infant, who had been left\nalone, tied in his little chair, in order that he might not fall, was\nhowling and howling without drawing breath. Then Pierre went down again,\nupset, frozen by the sight of so much destitution and abandonment.\n\nBut a woman was coming in, carrying three potatoes in her apron, and on\nbeing questioned by him she gazed distrustfully at his cassock. \u201cLaveuve,\nLaveuve? I can\u2019t say,\u201d she replied. \u201cIf the door-keeper were there, she\nmight be able to tell you. There are five staircases, you see, and we\ndon\u2019t all know each other. Besides, there are so many changes. Still try\nover there; at the far end.\u201d\n\nThe staircase at the back of the yard was yet more abominable than the\nothers, its steps warped, its walls slimy, as if soaked with the sweat of\nanguish. At each successive floor the drain-sinks exhaled a pestilential\nstench, whilst from every lodging came moans, or a noise of quarrelling,\nor some frightful sign of misery. A door swung open, and a man appeared\ndragging a woman by the hair whilst three youngsters sobbed aloud. On the\nnext floor, Pierre caught a glimpse of a room where a young girl in her\nteens, racked by coughing, was hastily carrying an infant to and fro to\nquiet it, in despair that all the milk of her breast should be exhausted.\nThen, in an adjoining lodging, came the poignant spectacle of three\nbeings, half clad in shreds, apparently sexless and ageless, who, amidst\nthe dire bareness of their room, were gluttonously eating from the same\nearthen pan some pottage which even dogs would have refused. They barely\nraised their heads to growl, and did not answer Pierre\u2019s questions.\n\nHe was about to go down again, when right atop of the stairs, at the\nentry of a passage, it occurred to him to make a last try by knocking at\nthe door. It was opened by a woman whose uncombed hair was already\ngetting grey, though she could not be more than forty; while her pale\nlips, and dim eyes set in a yellow countenance, expressed utter\nlassitude, the shrinking, the constant dread of one whom wretchedness has\npitilessly assailed. The sight of Pierre\u2019s cassock disturbed her, and she\nstammered anxiously: \u201cCome in, come in, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\nHowever, a man whom Pierre had not at first seen--a workman also of some\nforty years, tall, thin and bald, with scanty moustache and beard of a\nwashed-out reddish hue--made an angry gesture--a threat as it were--to\nturn the priest out of doors. But he calmed himself, sat down near a\nrickety table and pretended to turn his back. And as there was also a\nchild present--a fair-haired girl, eleven or twelve years old, with a\nlong and gentle face and that intelligent and somewhat aged expression\nwhich great misery imparts to children--he called her to him, and held\nher between his knees, doubtless to keep her away from the man in the\ncassock.\n\nPierre--whose heart was oppressed by his reception, and who realised the\nutter destitution of this family by the sight of the bare, fireless room,\nand the distressed mournfulness of its three inmates--decided all the\nsame to repeat his question: \u201cMadame, do you know an old workman named\nLaveuve in the house?\u201d\n\nThe woman--who now trembled at having admitted him, since it seemed to\ndisplease her man--timidly tried to arrange matters. \u201cLaveuve, Laveuve?\nno, I don\u2019t. But Salvat, you hear? Do you know a Laveuve here?\u201d\n\nSalvat merely shrugged his shoulders; but the little girl could not keep\nher tongue still: \u201cI say, mamma Th\u00e9odore, it\u2019s p\u2019raps the Philosopher.\u201d\n\n\u201cA former house-painter,\u201d continued Pierre, \u201can old man who is ill and\npast work.\u201d\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore was at once enlightened. \u201cIn that case it\u2019s him, it\u2019s\nhim. We call him the Philosopher, a nickname folks have given him in the\nneighbourhood. But there\u2019s nothing to prevent his real name from being\nLaveuve.\u201d\n\nWith one of his fists raised towards the ceiling, Salvat seemed to be\nprotesting against the abomination of a world and a Providence that\nallowed old toilers to die of hunger just like broken-down beasts.\nHowever, he did not speak, but relapsed into the savage, heavy silence,\nthe bitter meditation in which he had been plunged when the priest\narrived. He was a journeyman engineer, and gazed obstinately at the table\nwhere lay his little leather tool-bag, bulging with something it\ncontained--something, perhaps, which he had to take back to a work-shop.\nHe might have been thinking of a long, enforced spell of idleness, of a\nvain search for any kind of work during the two previous months of that\nterrible winter. Or perhaps it was the coming bloody reprisals of the\nstarvelings that occupied the fiery reverie which set his large, strange,\nvague blue eyes aglow. All at once he noticed that his daughter had taken\nup the tool-bag and was trying to open it to see what it might contain.\nAt this he quivered and at last spoke, his voice kindly, yet bitter with\nsudden emotion, which made him turn pale. \u201cC\u00e9line, you must leave that\nalone. I forbade you to touch my tools,\u201d said he; then taking the bag, he\ndeposited it with great precaution against the wall behind him.\n\n\u201cAnd so, madame,\u201d asked Pierre, \u201cthis man Laveuve lives on this floor?\u201d\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore directed a timid, questioning glance at Salvat. She was\nnot in favour of hustling priests when they took the trouble to call, for\nat times there was a little money to be got from them. And when she\nrealised that Salvat, who had once more relapsed into his black reverie,\nleft her free to act as she pleased, she at once tendered her services.\n\u201cIf Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 is agreeable, I will conduct him. It\u2019s just at the\nend of the passage. But one must know the way, for there are still some\nsteps to climb.\u201d\n\nC\u00e9line, finding a pastime in this visit, escaped from her father\u2019s knees\nand likewise accompanied the priest. And Salvat remained alone in that\nden of poverty and suffering, injustice and anger, without a fire,\nwithout bread, haunted by his burning dream, his eyes again fixed upon\nhis bag, as if there, among his tools, he possessed the wherewithal to\nheal the ailing world.\n\nIt indeed proved necessary to climb a few more steps; and then, following\nMadame Th\u00e9odore and C\u00e9line, Pierre found himself in a kind of narrow\ngarret under the roof, a loft a few yards square, where one could not\nstand erect. There was no window, only a skylight, and as the snow still\ncovered it one had to leave the door wide open in order that one might\nsee. And the thaw was entering the place, the melting snow was falling\ndrop by drop, and coming over the tiled floor. After long weeks of\nintense cold, dark dampness rained quivering over all. And there, lacking\neven a chair, even a plank, Laveuve lay in a corner on a little pile of\nfilthy rags spread upon the bare tiles; he looked like some animal dying\non a dung-heap.\n\n\u201cThere!\u201d said C\u00e9line in her sing-song voice, \u201cthere he is, that\u2019s the\nPhilosopher!\u201d\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore had bent down to ascertain if he still lived. \u201cYes, he\nbreathes; he\u2019s sleeping I think. Oh! if he only had something to eat\nevery day, he would be well enough. But what would you have? He has\nnobody left him, and when one gets to seventy the best is to throw\noneself into the river. In the house-painting line it often happens that\na man has to give up working on ladders and scaffoldings at fifty. He at\nfirst found some work to do on the ground level. Then he was lucky enough\nto get a job as night watchman. But that\u2019s over, he\u2019s been turned away\nfrom everywhere, and, for two months now, he\u2019s been lying in this nook\nwaiting to die. The landlord hasn\u2019t dared to fling him into the street as\nyet, though not for want of any inclination that way. We others sometimes\nbring him a little wine and a crust, of course; but when one has nothing\noneself, how can one give to others?\u201d\n\nPierre, terrified, gazed at that frightful remnant of humanity, that\nremnant into which fifty years of toil, misery and social injustice had\nturned a man. And he ended by distinguishing Laveuve\u2019s white, worn,\nsunken, deformed head. Here, on a human face, appeared all the ruin\nfollowing upon hopeless labour. Laveuve\u2019s unkempt beard straggled over\nhis features, suggesting an old horse that is no longer cropped; his\ntoothless jaws were quite askew, his eyes were vitreous, and his nose\nseemed to plunge into his mouth. But above all else one noticed his\nresemblance to some beast of burden, deformed by hard toil, lamed, worn\nto death, and now only good for the knackers.\n\n\u201cAh! the poor fellow,\u201d muttered the shuddering priest. \u201cAnd he is left to\ndie of hunger, all alone, without any succour? And not a hospital, not an\nasylum has given him shelter?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d resumed Madame Th\u00e9odore in her sad yet resigned voice, \u201cthe\nhospitals are built for the sick, and he isn\u2019t sick, he\u2019s simply\nfinishing off, with his strength at an end. Besides he isn\u2019t always easy\nto deal with. People came again only lately to put him in an asylum, but\nhe won\u2019t be shut up. And he speaks coarsely to those who question him,\nnot to mention that he has the reputation of liking drink and talking\nbadly about the gentle-folks. But, thank Heaven, he will now soon be\ndelivered.\u201d\n\nPierre had leant forward on seeing Laveuve\u2019s eyes open, and he spoke to\nhim tenderly, telling him that he had come from a friend with a little\nmoney to enable him to buy what he might most pressingly require. At\nfirst, on seeing Pierre\u2019s cassock, the old man had growled some coarse\nwords; but, despite his extreme feebleness, he still retained the pert\nchaffing spirit of the Parisian artisan: \u201cWell, then, I\u2019ll willingly\ndrink a drop,\u201d he said distinctly, \u201cand have a bit of bread with it, if\nthere\u2019s the needful; for I\u2019ve lost taste of both for a couple of days\npast.\u201d\n\nC\u00e9line offered her services, and Madame Th\u00e9odore sent her to fetch a loaf\nand a quart of wine with Abb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s money. And in the interval she told\nPierre how Laveuve was at one moment to have entered the Asylum of the\nInvalids of Labour, a charitable enterprise whose lady patronesses were\npresided over by Baroness Duvillard. However, the usual regulation\ninquiries had doubtless led to such an unfavourable report that matters\nhad gone no further.\n\n\u201cBaroness Duvillard! but I know her, and will go to see her to-day!\u201d\n exclaimed Pierre, whose heart was bleeding. \u201cIt is impossible for a man\nto be left in such circumstances any longer.\u201d\n\nThen, as C\u00e9line came back with the loaf and the wine, the three of them\ntried to make Laveuve more comfortable, raised him on his heap of rags,\ngave him to eat and to drink, and then left the remainder of the wine and\nthe loaf--a large four-pound loaf--near him, recommending him to wait\nawhile before he finished the bread, as otherwise he might stifle.\n\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 ought to give me his address in case I should have any\nnews to send him,\u201d said Madame Th\u00e9odore when she again found herself at\nher door.\n\nPierre had no card with him, and so all three went into the room. But\nSalvat was no longer alone there. He stood talking in a low voice very\nquickly, and almost mouth to mouth, with a young fellow of twenty. The\nlatter, who was slim and dark, with a sprouting beard and hair cut in\nbrush fashion, had bright eyes, a straight nose and thin lips set in a\npale and slightly freckled face, betokening great intelligence. With\nstern and stubborn brow, he stood shivering in his well-worn jacket.\n\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 wants to leave me his address for the Philosopher\u2019s\naffair,\u201d gently explained Madame Th\u00e9odore, annoyed to find another there\nwith Salvat.\n\nThe two men had glanced at the priest and then looked at one another,\neach with terrible mien. And they suddenly ceased speaking in the bitter\ncold which fell from the ceiling. Then, again with infinite precaution,\nSalvat went to take his tool-bag from alongside the wall.\n\n\u201cSo you are going down, you are again going to look for work?\u201d asked\nMadame Th\u00e9odore.\n\nHe did not answer, but merely made an angry gesture, as if to say that he\nwould no longer have anything to do with work since work for so long a\ntime had not cared to have anything to do with him.\n\n\u201cAll the same,\u201d resumed the woman, \u201ctry to bring something back with you,\nfor you know there\u2019s nothing. At what time will you be back?\u201d\n\nWith another gesture he seemed to answer that he would come back when he\ncould, perhaps never. And tears rising, despite all his efforts, to his\nvague, blue, glowing eyes he caught hold of his daughter C\u00e9line, kissed\nher violently, distractedly, and then went off, with his bag under his\narm, followed by his young companion.\n\n\u201cC\u00e9line,\u201d resumed Madame Th\u00e9odore, \u201cgive Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 your pencil,\nand, see, monsieur, seat yourself here, it will be better for writing.\u201d\n\nThen, when Pierre had installed himself at the table, on the chair\npreviously occupied by Salvat, she went on talking, seeking to excuse her\nman for his scanty politeness: \u201cHe hasn\u2019t a bad heart, but he\u2019s had so\nmany worries in life that he has become a bit cracked. It\u2019s like that\nyoung man whom you just saw here, Monsieur Victor Mathis. There\u2019s another\nfor you, who isn\u2019t happy, a young man who was well brought up, who has a\nlot of learning, and whose mother, a widow, has only just got the\nwherewithal to buy bread. So one can understand it, can\u2019t one? It all\nupsets their heads, and they talk of blowing up everybody. For my part\nthose are not my notions, but I forgive them, oh! willingly enough.\u201d\n\nPerturbed, yet interested by all the mystery and vague horror which he\ncould divine around him, Pierre made no haste to write his address, but\nlingered listening, as if inviting confidence.\n\n\u201cIf you only knew, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, that poor Salvat was a forsaken\nchild, without father or mother, and had to scour the roads and try every\ntrade at first to get a living. Then afterwards he became a mechanician,\nand a very good workman, I assure you, very skilful and very painstaking.\nBut he already had those ideas of his, and quarrelled with people, and\ntried to bring his mates over to his views; and so he was unable to stay\nanywhere. At last, when he was thirty, he was stupid enough to go to\nAmerica with an inventor, who traded on him to such a point that after\nsix years of it he came back ill and penniless. I must tell you that he\nhad married my younger sister L\u00e9onie, and that she died before he went to\nAmerica, leaving him little C\u00e9line, who was then only a year old. I was\nthen living with my husband, Th\u00e9odore Labitte, a mason; and it\u2019s not to\nbrag that I say it, but however much I wore out my eyes with needlework\nhe used to beat me till he left me half-dead on the floor. But he ended\nby deserting me and going off with a young woman of twenty, which, after\nall, caused me more pleasure than grief. And naturally when Salvat came\nback he sought me out and found me alone with his little C\u00e9line, whom he\nhad left in my charge when he went away, and who called me mamma. And\nwe\u2019ve all three been living together since then--\u201d\n\nShe became somewhat embarrassed, and then, as if to show that she did not\naltogether lack some respectable family connections, she went on to say:\n\u201cFor my part I\u2019ve had no luck; but I\u2019ve another sister, Hortense, who\u2019s\nmarried to a clerk, Monsieur Chr\u00e9tiennot, and lives in a pretty lodging\non the Boulevard Rochechouart. There were three of us born of my father\u2019s\nsecond marriage,--Hortense, who\u2019s the youngest, L\u00e9onie, who\u2019s dead, and\nmyself, Pauline, the eldest. And of my father\u2019s first marriage I\u2019ve still\na brother Eug\u00e8ne Toussaint, who is ten years older than me and is an\nengineer like Salvat, and has been working ever since the war in the same\nestablishment, the Grandidier factory, only a hundred steps away in the\nRue Marcadet. The misfortune is that he had a stroke lately. As for me,\nmy eyes are done for; I ruined them by working ten hours a day at fine\nneedlework. And now I can no longer even try to mend anything without my\neyes filling with water till I can\u2019t see at all. I\u2019ve tried to find\ncharwoman\u2019s work, but I can\u2019t get any; bad luck always follows us. And so\nwe are in need of everything; we\u2019ve nothing but black misery, two or\nthree days sometimes going by without a bite, so that it\u2019s like the\nchance life of a dog that feeds on what it can find. And with these last\ntwo months of bitter cold to freeze us, it\u2019s sometimes made us think that\none morning we should never wake up again. But what would you have? I\u2019ve\nnever been happy, I was beaten to begin with, and now I\u2019m done for, left\nin a corner, living on, I really don\u2019t know why.\u201d\n\nHer voice had begun to tremble, her red eyes moistened, and Pierre could\nrealise that she thus wept through life, a good enough woman but one who\nhad no will, and was already blotted out, so to say, from existence.\n\n\u201cOh! I don\u2019t complain of Salvat,\u201d she went on. \u201cHe\u2019s a good fellow; he\nonly dreams of everybody\u2019s happiness, and he doesn\u2019t drink, and he works\nwhen he can. Only it\u2019s certain that he\u2019d work more if he didn\u2019t busy\nhimself with politics. One can\u2019t discuss things with comrades, and go to\npublic meetings and be at the workshop at the same time. In that he\u2019s at\nfault, that\u2019s evident. But all the same he has good reason to complain,\nfor one can\u2019t imagine such misfortunes as have pursued him. Everything\nhas fallen on him, everything has beaten him down. Why, a saint even\nwould have gone mad, so that one can understand that a poor beggar who\nhas never had any luck should get quite wild. For the last two months he\nhas only met one good heart, a learned gentleman who lives up yonder on\nthe height, Monsieur Guillaume Froment, who has given him a little work,\njust something to enable us to have some soup now and then.\u201d\n\nMuch surprised by this mention of his brother, Pierre wished to ask\ncertain questions; but a singular feeling of uneasiness, in which fear\nand discretion mingled, checked his tongue. He looked at C\u00e9line, who\nstood before him, listening in silence with her grave, delicate air; and\nMadame Th\u00e9odore, seeing him smile at the child, indulged in a final\nremark: \u201cIt\u2019s just the idea of that child,\u201d said she, \u201cthat throws Salvat\nout of his wits. He adores her, and he\u2019d kill everybody if he could, when\nhe sees her go supperless to bed. She\u2019s such a good girl, she was\nlearning so nicely at the Communal School! But now she hasn\u2019t even a\nshift to go there in.\u201d\n\nPierre, who had at last written his address, slipped a five-franc piece\ninto the little girl\u2019s hand, and, desirous as he was of curtailing any\nthanks, he hastily said: \u201cYou will know now where to find me if you need\nme for Laveuve. But I\u2019m going to busy myself about him this very\nafternoon, and I really hope that he will be fetched away this evening.\u201d\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore did not listen, but poured forth all possible blessings;\nwhilst C\u00e9line, thunderstruck at seeing five francs in her hand, murmured:\n\u201cOh! that poor papa, who has gone to hunt for money! Shall I run after\nhim to tell him that we\u2019ve got enough for to-day?\u201d\n\nThen the priest, who was already in the passage, heard the woman answer:\n\u201cOh! he\u2019s far away if he\u2019s still walking. He\u2019ll p\u2019raps come back right\nenough.\u201d\n\nHowever, as Pierre, with buzzing head and grief-stricken heart, hastily\nescaped out of that frightful house of suffering, he perceived to his\nastonishment Salvat and Victor Mathis standing erect in a corner of the\nfilthy courtyard, where the stench was so pestilential. They had come\ndownstairs, there to continue their interrupted colloquy. And again, they\nwere talking in very low tones, and very quickly, mouth to mouth,\nabsorbed in the violent thoughts which made their eyes flare. But they\nheard the priest\u2019s footsteps, recognised him, and suddenly becoming cold\nand calm, exchanged an energetic hand-shake without uttering another\nword. Victor went up towards Montmartre, whilst Salvat hesitated like a\nman who is consulting destiny. Then, as if trusting himself to stern\nchance, drawing up his thin figure, the figure of a weary, hungry toiler,\nhe turned into the Rue Marcadet, and walked towards Paris, his tool-bag\nstill under his arm.\n\nFor an instant Pierre felt a desire to run and call to him that his\nlittle girl wished him to go back again. But the same feeling of\nuneasiness as before came over the priest--a commingling of discretion\nand fear, a covert conviction that nothing could stay destiny. And he\nhimself was no longer calm, no longer experienced the icy, despairing\ndistress of the early morning. On finding himself again in the street,\namidst the quivering fog, he felt the fever, the glow of charity which\nthe sight of such frightful wretchedness had ignited, once more within\nhim. No, no! such suffering was too much; he wished to struggle still, to\nsave Laveuve and restore a little joy to all those poor folk. The new\nexperiment presented itself with that city of Paris which he had seen\nshrouded as with ashes, so mysterious and so perturbing beneath the\nthreat of inevitable justice. And he dreamed of a huge sun bringing\nhealth and fruitfulness, which would make of the huge city the fertile\nfield where would sprout the better world of to-morrow.\n\n\n\n\nII. WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS\n\nTHAT same morning, as was the case nearly every day, some intimates were\nexpected to _d\u00e9jeuner_ at the Duvillards\u2019, a few friends who more or less\ninvited themselves. And on that chilly day, all thaw and fog, the regal\nmansion in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy near the Boulevard de la Madeleine\nbloomed with the rarest flowers, for flowers were the greatest passion of\nthe Baroness, who transformed the lofty, sumptuous rooms, littered with\nmarvels, into warm and odoriferous conservatories, whither the gloomy,\nlivid light of Paris penetrated caressingly with infinite softness.\n\nThe great reception rooms were on the ground-floor looking on to the\nspacious courtyard, and preceded by a little winter garden, which served\nas a vestibule where two footmen in liveries of dark green and gold were\ninvariably on duty. A famous gallery of paintings, valued at millions of\nfrancs, occupied the whole of the northern side of the house. And the\ngrand staircase, of a sumptuousness which also was famous, conducted to\nthe apartments usually occupied by the family, a large red drawing-room,\na small blue and silver drawing-room, a study whose walls were hung with\nold stamped leather, and a dining-room in pale green with English\nfurniture, not to mention the various bedchambers and dressing-rooms.\nBuilt in the time of Louis XIV. the mansion retained an aspect of noble\ngrandeur, subordinated to the epicurean tastes of the triumphant\n_bourgeoisie_, which for a century now had reigned by virtue of the\nomnipotence of money.\n\nNoon had not yet struck, and Baron Duvillard, contrary to custom, found\nhimself the first in the little blue and silver _salon_. He was a man of\nsixty, tall and sturdy, with a large nose, full cheeks, broad, fleshy\nlips, and wolfish teeth, which had remained very fine. He had, however,\nbecome bald at an early age, and dyed the little hair that was left him.\nMoreover, since his beard had turned white, he had kept his face\nclean-shaven. His grey eyes bespoke his audacity, and in his laugh there\nwas a ring of conquest, while the whole of his face expressed the fact\nthat this conquest was his own, that he wielded the sovereignty of an\nunscrupulous master, who used and abused the power stolen and retained by\nhis caste.\n\nHe took a few steps, and then halted in front of a basket of wonderful\norchids near the window. On the mantel-piece and table tufts of violets\nsent forth their perfume, and in the warm, deep silence which seemed to\nfall from the hangings, the Baron sat down and stretched himself in one\nof the large armchairs, upholstered in blue satin striped with silver. He\nhad taken a newspaper from his pocket, and began to re-peruse an article\nit contained, whilst all around him the entire mansion proclaimed his\nimmense fortune, his sovereign power, the whole history of the century\nwhich had made him the master. His grandfather, Jerome Duvillard, son of\na petty advocate of Poitou, had come to Paris as a notary\u2019s clerk in\n1788, when he was eighteen; and very keen, intelligent and hungry as he\nwas, he had gained the family\u2019s first three millions--at first in\ntrafficking with the _emigr\u00e9s\u2019_ estates when they were confiscated and\nsold as national property, and later, in contracting for supplies to the\nimperial army. His father, Gregoire Duvillard, born in 1805, and the real\ngreat man of the family--he who had first reigned in the Rue\nGodot-de-Mauroy, after King Louis Philippe had granted him the title of\nBaron--remained one of the recognized heroes of modern finance by reason\nof the scandalous profits which he had made in every famous thieving\nspeculation of the July Monarchy and the Second Empire, such as mines,\nrailroads, and the Suez Canal. And he, the present Baron, Henri by name,\nand born in 1836, had only seriously gone into business on Baron\nGregoire\u2019s death soon after the Franco-German War. However, he had done\nso with such a rageful appetite, that in a quarter of a century he had\nagain doubled the family fortune. He rotted and devoured, corrupted,\nswallowed everything that he touched; and he was also the tempter\npersonified--the man who bought all consciences that were for\nsale--having fully understood the new times and its tendencies in\npresence of the democracy, which in its turn had become hungry and\nimpatient. Inferior though he was both to his father and his grandfather,\nbeing a man of enjoyment, caring less for the work of conquest than the\ndivision of the spoil, he nevertheless remained a terrible fellow, a\nsleek triumpher, whose operations were all certainties, who amassed\nmillions at each stroke, and treated with governments on a footing of\nequality, able as he was to place, if not France, at least a ministry in\nhis pocket. In one century and three generations, royalty had become\nembodied in him: a royalty already threatened, already shaken by the\ntempest close ahead. And at times his figure grew and expanded till it\nbecame, as it were, an incarnation of the whole _bourgeoisie_--that\n_bourgeoisie_ which at the division of the spoils in 1789 appropriated\neverything, and has since fattened on everything at the expense of the\nmasses, and refuses to restore anything whatever.\n\nThe article which the Baron was re-perusing in a halfpenny newspaper\ninterested him. \u201cLa Voix du Peuple\u201d was a noisy sheet which, under the\npretence of defending outraged justice and morality, set a fresh scandal\ncirculating every morning in the hope of thereby increasing its sales.\nAnd that morning, in big type on its front page, this sub-title was\ndisplayed: \u201cThe Affair of the African Railways. Five Millions spent in\nBribes: Two Ministers Bought, Thirty Deputies and Senators Compromised.\u201d\n Then in an article of odious violence the paper\u2019s editor, the famous\nSagnier, announced that he possessed and intended to publish the list of\nthe thirty-two members of Parliament, whose support Baron Duvillard had\npurchased at the time when the Chambers had voted the bill for the\nAfrican Railway Lines. Quite a romantic story was mingled with all this,\nthe adventures of a certain Hunter, whom the Baron had employed as his\ngo-between and who had now fled. The Baron, however, re-perused each\nsentence and weighed each word of the article very calmly; and although\nhe was alone he shrugged his shoulders and spoke aloud with the tranquil\nassurance of a man whose responsibility is covered and who is, moreover,\ntoo powerful to be molested.\n\n\u201cThe idiot,\u201d he said, \u201che knows even less than he pretends.\u201d\n\nJust then, however, a first guest arrived, a man of barely four and\nthirty, elegantly dressed, dark and good looking, with a delicately\nshaped nose, and curly hair and beard. As a rule, too, he had laughing\neyes, and something giddy, flighty, bird-like in his demeanour; but that\nmorning he seemed nervous, anxious even, and smiled in a scared way.\n\n\u201cAh! it\u2019s you, Duthil,\u201d said the Baron, rising. \u201cHave you read this?\u201d And\nhe showed the new comer the \u201cVoix du Peuple,\u201d which he was folding up to\nreplace it in his pocket.\n\n\u201cWhy yes, I\u2019ve read it. It\u2019s amazing. How can Sagnier have got hold of\nthe list of names? Has there been some traitor?\u201d\n\nThe Baron looked at his companion quietly, amused by his secret anguish.\nDuthil, the son of a notary of Angoul\u00eame, almost poor and very honest,\nhad been sent to Paris as deputy for that town whilst yet very young,\nthanks to the high reputation of his father; and he there led a life of\npleasure and idleness, even as he had formerly done when a student.\nHowever, his pleasant bachelor\u2019s quarters in the Rue de Suresnes, and his\nsuccess as a handsome man in the whirl of women among whom he lived, cost\nhim no little money; and gaily enough, devoid as he was of any moral\nsense, he had already glided into all sorts of compromising and lowering\nactions, like a light-headed, superior man, a charming, thoughtless\nfellow, who attached no importance whatever to such trifles.\n\n\u201cBah!\u201d said the Baron at last. \u201cHas Sagnier even got a list? I doubt it,\nfor there was none; Hunter wasn\u2019t so foolish as to draw one up. And then,\ntoo, it was merely an ordinary affair; nothing more was done than is\nalways done in such matters of business.\u201d\n\nDuthil, who for the first time in his life had felt anxious, listened\nlike one that needs to be reassured. \u201cQuite so, eh?\u201d he exclaimed.\n\u201cThat\u2019s what I thought. There isn\u2019t a cat to be whipped in the whole\naffair.\u201d\n\nHe tried to laugh as usual, and no longer exactly knew how it was that he\nhad received some ten thousand francs in connection with the matter,\nwhether it were in the shape of a vague loan, or else under some pretext\nof publicity, puffery, or advertising, for Hunter had acted with extreme\nadroitness so as to give no offence to the susceptibilities of even the\nleast virginal consciences.\n\n\u201cNo, there\u2019s not a cat to be whipped,\u201d repeated Duvillard, who decidedly\nseemed amused by the face which Duthil was pulling. \u201cAnd besides, my dear\nfellow, it\u2019s well known that cats always fall on their feet. But have you\nseen Silviane?\u201d\n\n\u201cI just left her. I found her in a great rage with you. She learnt this\nmorning that her affair of the Com\u00e9die is off.\u201d\n\nA rush of anger suddenly reddened the Baron\u2019s face. He, who could scoff\nso calmly at the threat of the African Railways scandal, lost his balance\nand felt his blood boiling directly there was any question of Silviane,\nthe last, imperious passion of his sixtieth year. \u201cWhat! off?\u201d said he.\n\u201cBut at the Ministry of Fine Arts they gave me almost a positive promise\nonly the day before yesterday.\u201d\n\nHe referred to a stubborn caprice of Silviane d\u2019Aulnay, who, although she\nhad hitherto only reaped a success of beauty on the stage, obstinately\nsought to enter the Com\u00e9die Fran\u00e7aise and make her _d\u00e9but_ there in the\npart of \u201cPauline\u201d in Corneille\u2019s \u201cPolyeucte,\u201d which part she had been\nstudying desperately for several months past. Her idea seemed an insane\none, and all Paris laughed at it; but the young woman, with superb\nassurance, kept herself well to the front, and imperiously demanded the\n_r\u00f4le_, feeling sure that she would conquer.\n\n\u201cIt was the minister who wouldn\u2019t have it,\u201d explained Duthil.\n\nThe Baron was choking. \u201cThe minister, the minister! Ah! well, I will soon\nhave that minister sent to the rightabout.\u201d\n\nHowever, he had to cease speaking, for at that moment Baroness Duvillard\ncame into the little drawing-room. At forty-six years of age she was\nstill very beautiful. Very fair and tall, having hitherto put on but\nlittle superfluous fat, and retaining perfect arms and shoulders, with\nspeckless silky skin, it was only her face that was spoiling, colouring\nslightly with reddish blotches. And these blemishes were her torment, her\nhourly thought and worry. Her Jewish origin was revealed by her somewhat\nlong and strangely charming face, with blue and softly voluptuous eyes.\nAs indolent as an Oriental slave, disliking to have to move, walk, or\neven speak, she seemed intended for a harem life, especially as she was\nfor ever tending her person. That day she was all in white, gowned in a\nwhite silk toilette of delicious and lustrous simplicity.\n\nDuthil complimented her, and kissed her hand with an enraptured air. \u201cAh!\nmadame, you set a little springtide in my heart. Paris is so black and\nmuddy this morning.\u201d\n\nHowever, a second guest entered the room, a tall and handsome man of five\nor six and thirty; and the Baron, still disturbed by his passion,\nprofited by this opportunity to make his escape. He carried Duthil away\ninto his study, saying, \u201cCome here an instant, my dear fellow. I have a\nfew more words to say to you about the affair in question. Monsieur de\nQuinsac will keep my wife company for a moment.\u201d\n\nThe Baroness, as soon as she was alone with the new comer, who, like\nDuthil, had most respectfully kissed her hand, gave him a long, silent\nlook, while her soft eyes filled with tears. Deep silence, tinged with\nsome slight embarrassment, had fallen, but she ended by saying in a very\nlow voice: \u201cHow happy I am, G\u00e9rard, to find myself alone with you for a\nmoment. For a month past I have not had that happiness.\u201d\n\nThe circumstances in which Henri Duvillard had married the younger\ndaughter of Justus Steinberger, the great Jew banker, formed quite a\nstory which was often recalled. The Steinbergers--after the fashion of\nthe Rothschilds--were originally four brothers--Justus, residing in\nParis, and the three others at Berlin, Vienna, and London, a circumstance\nwhich gave their secret association most formidable power in the\nfinancial markets of Europe. Justus, however, was the least wealthy of\nthe four, and in Baron Gregoire Duvillard he had a redoubtable adversary\nagainst whom he was compelled to struggle each time that any large prey\nwas in question. And it was after a terrible encounter between the pair,\nafter the eager sharing of the spoils, that the crafty idea had come to\nJustus of giving his younger daughter Eve in marriage, by way of\n_douceur_, to the Baron\u2019s son, Henri. So far the latter had only been\nknown as an amiable fellow, fond of horses and club life; and no doubt\nJustus\u2019s idea was that, at the death of the redoubtable Baron, who was\nalready condemned by his physicians, he would be able to lay his hands on\nthe rival banking-house, particularly if he only had in front of him a\nson-in-law whom it was easy to conquer. As it happened, Henri had been\nmastered by a violent passion for Eve\u2019s blond beauty, which was then\ndazzling. He wished to marry her, and his father, who knew him,\nconsented, in reality greatly amused to think that Justus was making an\nexecrably bad stroke of business. The enterprise became indeed disastrous\nfor Justus when Henri succeeded his father and the man of prey appeared\nfrom beneath the man of pleasure and carved himself his own huge share in\nexploiting the unbridled appetites of the middle-class democracy, which\nhad at last secured possession of power. Not only did Eve fail to devour\nHenri, who in his turn had become Baron Duvillard, the all-powerful\nbanker, more and more master of the market; but it was the Baron who\ndevoured Eve, and this in less than four years\u2019 time. After she had borne\nhim a daughter and a son in turn, he suddenly drew away from her,\nneglected her, as if she were a mere toy that he no longer cared for. She\nwas at first both surprised and distressed by the change, especially on\nlearning that he was resuming his bachelor\u2019s habits, and had set his\nfickle if ardent affections elsewhere. Then, however, without any kind of\nrecrimination, any display of anger, or even any particular effort to\nregain her ascendency over him, she, on her side, imitated his example.\nShe could not live without love, and assuredly she had only been born to\nbe beautiful, to fascinate and reap adoration. To the lover whom she\nchose when she was five and twenty she remained faithful for more than\nfifteen years, as faithful as she might have been to a husband; and when\nhe died her grief was intense, it was like real widowhood. Six months\nlater, however, having met Count G\u00e9rard de Quinsac she had again been\nunable to resist her imperative need of adoration, and an intrigue had\nfollowed.\n\n\u201cHave you been ill, my dear G\u00e9rard?\u201d she inquired, noticing the young\nman\u2019s embarrassment. \u201cAre you hiding some worry from me?\u201d\n\nShe was ten years older than he was; and she clung desperately to this\nlast passion of hers, revolting at the thought of growing old, and\nresolved upon every effort to keep the young man beside her.\n\n\u201cNo, I am hiding nothing, I assure you,\u201d replied the Count. \u201cBut my\nmother has had much need of me recently.\u201d\n\nShe continued looking at him, however, with anxious passion, finding him\nso tall and aristocratic of mien, with his regular features and dark hair\nand moustaches which were always most carefully tended. He belonged to\none of the oldest families of France, and resided on a ground-floor in\nthe Rue St. Dominique with his widowed mother, who had been ruined by her\nadventurously inclined husband, and had at most an income of some fifteen\nthousand francs* to live upon. G\u00e9rard for his part had never done\nanything; contenting himself with his one year of obligatory military\nservice, he had renounced the profession of arms in the same way as he\nhad renounced that of diplomacy, the only one that offered him an opening\nof any dignity. He spent his days in that busy idleness common to all\nyoung men who lead \u201cParis life.\u201d And his mother, haughtily severe though\nshe was, seemed to excuse this, as if in her opinion a man of his birth\nwas bound by way of protest to keep apart from official life under a\nRepublic. However, she no doubt had more intimate, more disturbing\nreasons for indulgence. She had nearly lost him when he was only seven,\nthrough an attack of brain fever. At eighteen he had complained of his\nheart, and the doctors had recommended that he should be treated gently\nin all respects. She knew, therefore, what a lie lurked behind his proud\ndemeanour, within his lofty figure, that haughty _fa\u00e7ade_ of his race. He\nwas but dust, ever threatened with illness and collapse. In the depths of\nhis seeming virility there was merely girlish _abandon_; and he was\nsimply a weak, good-natured fellow, liable to every stumble. It was on\nthe occasion of a visit which he had paid with his mother to the Asylum\nof the Invalids of Labour that he had first seen Eve, whom he continued\nto meet; his mother, closing her eyes to this culpable connection in a\nsphere of society which she treated with contempt, in the same way as she\nhad closed them to so many other acts of folly which she had forgiven\nbecause she regarded them as the mere lapses of an ailing child.\nMoreover, Eve had made a conquest of Madame de Quinsac, who was very\npious, by an action which had recently amazed society. It had been\nsuddenly learnt that she had allowed Monseigneur Martha to convert her to\nthe Roman Catholic faith. This thing, which she had refused to do when\nsolicited by her lawful husband, she had now done in the hope of ensuring\nherself a lover\u2019s eternal affection. And all Paris was still stirred by\nthe magnificence exhibited at the Madeleine, on the occasion of the\nbaptism of this Jewess of five and forty, whose beauty and whose tears\nhad upset every heart.\n\n  * About 3000 dollars.\n\nG\u00e9rard, on his side, was still flattered by the deep and touching\ntenderness shown to him; but weariness was coming, and he had already\nsought to break off the connection by avoiding any further assignations.\nHe well understood Eve\u2019s glances and her tears, and though he was moved\nat sight of them he tried to excuse himself. \u201cI assure you,\u201d said he, \u201cmy\nmother has kept me so busy that I could not get away.\u201d But she, without a\nword, still turned her tearful glance on him, and weak, like herself, in\ndespair that he should have been left alone with her in this fashion, he\nyielded, unable to continue refusing. \u201cWell, then,\u201d said he, \u201cthis\nafternoon at four o\u2019clock if you are free.\u201d\n\nHe had lowered his voice in speaking, but a slight rustle made him turn\nhis head and start like one in fault. It was the Baroness\u2019s daughter\nCamille entering the room. She had heard nothing; but by the smile which\nthe others had exchanged, by the very quiver of the air, she understood\neverything; an assignation for that very day and at the very spot which\nshe suspected. Some slight embarrassment followed, an exchange of anxious\nand evil glances.\n\nCamille, at three and twenty, was a very dark young woman, short of\nstature and somewhat deformed, with her left shoulder higher than the\nright. There seemed to be nothing of her father or mother in her. Her\ncase was one of those unforeseen accidents in family heredity which make\npeople wonder whence they can arise. Her only pride lay in her beautiful\nblack eyes and superb black hair, which, short as she was, would, said\nshe, have sufficed to clothe her. But her nose was long, her face\ndeviated to the left, and her chin was pointed. Her thin, witty, and\nmalicious lips bespoke all the rancour and perverse anger stored in the\nheart of this uncomely creature, whom the thought of her uncomeliness\nenraged. However, the one whom she most hated in the whole world was her\nown mother, that _amorosa_ who was so little fitted to be a mother, who\nhad never loved her, never paid attention to her, but had abandoned her\nto the care of servants from her very infancy. In this wise real hatred\nhad grown up between the two women, mute and frigid on the one side, and\nactive and passionate on the other. The daughter hated her mother because\nshe found her beautiful, because she had not been created in the same\nimage: beautiful with the beauty with which her mother crushed her. Day\nby day she suffered at being sought by none, at realising that the\nadoration of one and all still went to her mother. As she was amusing in\nher maliciousness, people listened to her and laughed; however, the\nglances of all the men--even and indeed especially the younger ones--soon\nreverted to her triumphant mother, who seemingly defied old age. In part\nfor this reason Camille, with ferocious determination, had decided that\nshe would dispossess her mother of her last lover G\u00e9rard, and marry him\nherself, conscious that such a loss would doubtless kill the Baroness.\nThanks to her promised dowry of five millions of francs, the young woman\ndid not lack suitors; but, little flattered by their advances, she was\naccustomed to say, with her malicious laugh: \u201cOh! of course; why for five\nmillions they would take a wife from a mad-house.\u201d However, she, herself,\nhad really begun to love G\u00e9rard, who, good-natured as he was, evinced\nmuch kindness towards this suffering young woman whom nature had treated\nso harshly. It worried him to see her forsaken by everyone, and little by\nlittle he yielded to the grateful tenderness which she displayed towards\nhim, happy, handsome man that he was, at being regarded as a demi-god and\nhaving such a slave. Indeed, in his attempt to quit the mother there was\ncertainly a thought of allowing the daughter to marry him, which would be\nan agreeable ending to it all, though he did not as yet acknowledge this,\nashamed as he felt and embarrassed by his illustrious name and all the\ncomplications and tears which he foresaw.\n\nThe silence continued. Camille with her piercing glance, as sharp as any\nknife, had told her mother that she knew the truth; and then with another\nand pain-fraught glance she had complained to G\u00e9rard. He, in order to\nre-establish equilibrium, could only think of a compliment: \u201cGood\nmorning, Camille. Ah! that havana-brown gown of yours looks nice! It\u2019s\nastonishing how well rather sombre colours suit you.\u201d\n\nCamille glanced at her mother\u2019s white robe, and then at her own dark\ngown, which scarcely allowed her neck and wrists to be seen. \u201cYes,\u201d she\nreplied laughing, \u201cI only look passable when I don\u2019t dress as a young\ngirl.\u201d\n\nEve, ill at ease, worried by the growth of a rivalry in which she did not\nas yet wish to believe, changed the conversation. \u201cIsn\u2019t your brother\nthere?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cWhy yes, we came down together.\u201d\n\nHyacinthe, who came in at that moment, shook hands with G\u00e9rard in a weary\nway. He was twenty, and had inherited his mother\u2019s pale blond hair, and\nher long face full of Oriental languor; while from his father he had\nderived his grey eyes and thick lips, expressive of unscrupulous\nappetites. A wretched scholar, regarding every profession with the same\ncontempt, he had decided to do nothing. Spoilt by his father, he took\nsome little interest in poetry and music, and lived in an extraordinary\ncircle of artists, low women, madmen and bandits; boasting himself of all\nsorts of crimes and vices, professing the very worst philosophical and\nsocial ideas, invariably going to extremes, becoming in turn a\nCollectivist, an Individualist, an Anarchist, a Pessimist, a Symbolist,\nand what not besides; without, however, ceasing to be a Catholic, as this\nconjunction of Catholicity with something else seemed to him the supreme\n_bon ton_. In reality he was simply empty and rather a fool. In four\ngenerations the vigorous hungry blood of the Duvillards, after producing\nthree magnificent beasts of prey, had, as if exhausted by the contentment\nof every passion, ended in this sorry emasculated creature, who was\nincapable alike of great knavery or great debauchery.\n\nCamille, who was too intelligent not to realise her brother\u2019s\nnothingness, was fond of teasing him; and looking at him as he stood\nthere, tightly buttoned in his long frock coat with pleated skirt--a\nresurrection of the romantic period, which he carried to exaggeration,\nshe resumed: \u201cMamma has been asking for you, Hyacinthe. Come and show her\nyour gown. You are the one who would look nice dressed as a young girl.\u201d\n\nHowever, he eluded her without replying. He was covertly afraid of her,\nthough they lived together in great intimacy, frankly exchanging\nconfidences respecting their perverse views of life. And he directed a\nglance of disdain at the wonderful basket of orchids which seemed to him\npast the fashion, far too common nowadays. For his part he had left the\nlilies of life behind him, and reached the ranunculus, the flower of\nblood.\n\nThe two last guests who were expected now arrived almost together. The\nfirst was the investigating magistrate Amadieu, a little man of five and\nforty, who was an intimate of the household and had been brought into\nnotoriety by a recent anarchist affair. Between a pair of fair, bushy\nwhiskers he displayed a flat, regular judicial face, to which he tried to\nimpart an expression of keenness by wearing a single eyeglass behind\nwhich his glance sparkled. Very worldly, moreover, he belonged to the new\njudicial school, being a distinguished psychologist and having written a\nbook in reply to the abuses of criminalist physiology. And he was also a\nman of great, tenacious ambition, fond of notoriety and ever on the\nlookout for those resounding legal affairs which bring glory. Behind him,\nat last appeared General de Bozonnet, G\u00e9rard\u2019s uncle on the maternal\nside, a tall, lean old man with a nose like an eagle\u2019s beak. Chronic\nrheumatism had recently compelled him to retire from the service. Raised\nto a colonelcy after the Franco-German War in reward for his gallant\nconduct at St. Privat, he had, in spite of his extremely monarchical\nconnections, kept his sworn faith to Napoleon III. And he was excused in\nhis own sphere of society for this species of military Bonapartism, on\naccount of the bitterness with which he accused the Republic of having\nruined the army. Worthy fellow that he was, extremely fond of his sister,\nMadame de Quinsac, it seemed as though he acted in accordance with some\nsecret desire of hers in accepting the invitations of Baroness Duvillard\nby way of rendering G\u00e9rard\u2019s constant presence in her house more natural\nand excusable.\n\nHowever, the Baron and Duthil now returned from the study, laughing\nloudly in an exaggerated way, doubtless to make the others believe that\nthey were quite easy in mind. And one and all passed into the large\ndining-room where a big wood fire was burning, its gay flames shining\nlike a ray of springtide amid the fine mahogany furniture of English make\nladen with silver and crystal. The room, of a soft mossy green, had an\nunassuming charm in the pale light, and the table which in the centre\ndisplayed the richness of its covers and the immaculate whiteness of its\nlinen adorned with Venetian point, seemed to have flowered miraculously\nwith a wealth of large tea roses, most admirable blooms for the season,\nand of delicious perfume.\n\nThe Baroness seated the General on her right, and Amadieu on her left.\nThe Baron on his right placed Duthil, and on his left G\u00e9rard. Then the\nyoung people installed themselves at either end, Camille between G\u00e9rard\nand the General, and Hyacinthe between Duthil and Amadieu. And forthwith,\nfrom the moment of starting on the scrambled eggs and truffles,\nconversation began, the usual conversation of Parisian _d\u00e9jeuners_, when\nevery event, great or little, of the morning or the day before is passed\nin review: the truths and the falsehoods current in every social sphere,\nthe financial scandal, and the political adventure of the hour, the novel\nthat has just appeared, the play that has just been produced, the stories\nwhich should only be retailed in whispers, but which are repeated aloud.\nAnd beneath all the light wit which circulates, beneath all the laughter,\nwhich often has a false ring, each retains his or her particular worry,\nor distress of mind, at times so acute that it becomes perfect agony.\n\nWith his quiet and wonted impudence, the Baron, bravely enough, was the\nfirst to speak of the article in the \u201cVoix du Peuple.\u201d \u201cI say, have you\nread Sagnier\u2019s article this morning? It\u2019s a good one; he has _verve_ you\nknow, but what a dangerous lunatic he is!\u201d\n\nThis set everybody at ease, for the article would certainly have weighed\nupon the _d\u00e9jeuner_ had no one mentioned it.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the \u2018Panama\u2019 dodge over again!\u201d cried Duthil. \u201cBut no, no, we\u2019ve\nhad quite enough of it!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d resumed the Baron, \u201cthe affair of the African Railway Lines is as\nclear as spring water! All those whom Sagnier threatens may sleep in\npeace. The truth is that it\u2019s a scheme to upset Barroux\u2019s ministry. Leave\nto interpellate will certainly be asked for this afternoon. You\u2019ll see\nwhat a fine uproar there\u2019ll be in the Chamber.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat libellous, scandal-seeking press,\u201d said Amadieu gravely, \u201cis a\ndissolving agent which will bring France to ruin. We ought to have laws\nagainst it.\u201d\n\nThe General made an angry gesture: \u201cLaws, what\u2019s the use of them, since\nnobody has the courage to enforce them.\u201d\n\nSilence fell. With a light, discreet step the house-steward presented\nsome grilled mullet. So noiseless was the service amid the cheerful\nperfumed warmth that not even the faintest clatter of crockery was heard.\nWithout anyone knowing how it had come about, however, the conversation\nhad suddenly changed; and somebody inquired: \u201cSo the revival of the piece\nis postponed?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said G\u00e9rard, \u201cI heard this morning that \u2018Polyeucte\u2019 wouldn\u2019t get\nits turn till April at the earliest.\u201d\n\nAt this Camille, who had hitherto remained silent, watching the young\nCount and seeking to win him back, turned her glittering eyes upon her\nfather and mother. It was a question of that revival in which Silviane\nwas so stubbornly determined to make her _d\u00e9but_. However, the Baron and\nthe Baroness evinced perfect serenity, having long been acquainted with\nall that concerned each other. Moreover Eve was too much occupied with\nher own passion to think of anything else; and the Baron too busy with\nthe fresh application which he intended to make in tempestuous fashion at\nthe Ministry of Fine Arts, so as to wrest Silviane\u2019s engagement from\nthose in office. He contented himself with saying: \u201cHow would you have\nthem revive pieces at the Com\u00e9die! They have no actresses left there.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, by the way,\u201d the Baroness on her side simply remarked, \u201cyesterday,\nin that play at the Vaudeville, Delphine Vignot wore such an exquisite\ngown. She\u2019s the only one too who knows how to arrange her hair.\u201d\n\nThereupon Duthil, in somewhat veiled language, began to relate a story\nabout Delphine and a well-known senator. And then came another scandal,\nthe sudden and almost suspicious death of a lady friend of the\nDuvillards\u2019; whereupon the General, without any transition, broke in to\nrelieve his bitter feelings by denouncing the idiotic manner in which the\narmy was nowadays organised. Meantime the old Bordeaux glittered like\nruby blood in the delicate crystal glasses. A truffled fillet of venison\nhad just cast its somewhat sharp scent amidst the dying perfume of the\nroses, when some asparagus made its appearance, a _primeur_ which once\nhad been so rare but which no longer caused any astonishment.\n\n\u201cNowadays we get it all through the winter,\u201d said the Baron with a\ngesture of disenchantment.\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d asked G\u00e9rard at the same moment, \u201cthe Princess de Harn\u2019s\n_matin\u00e9e_ is for this afternoon?\u201d\n\nCamille quickly intervened. \u201cYes, this afternoon. Shall you go?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I don\u2019t think so, I shan\u2019t be able,\u201d replied the young man in\nembarrassment.\n\n\u201cAh! that little Princess, she\u2019s really deranged you know,\u201d exclaimed\nDuthil. \u201cYou are aware that she calls herself a widow? But the truth, it\nseems, is that her husband, a real Prince, connected with a royal house\nand very handsome, is travelling about the world in the company of a\nsinger. She with her vicious urchin-like face preferred to come and reign\nin Paris, in that mansion of the Avenue Hoche, which is certainly the\nmost extraordinary Noah\u2019s ark imaginable, with its swarming of\ncosmopolitan society indulging in every extravagance!\u201d\n\n\u201cBe quiet, you malicious fellow,\u201d the Baroness gently interrupted. \u201cWe,\nhere, are very fond of Rosemonde, who is a charming woman.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! certainly,\u201d Camille again resumed. \u201cShe invited us; and we are going\nto her place by-and-by, are we not, mamma?\u201d\n\nTo avoid replying, the Baroness pretended that she did not hear, whilst\nDuthil, who seemed to be well-informed concerning the Princess, continued\nto make merry over her intended _matin\u00e9e_, at which she meant to produce\nsome Spanish dancing girls, whose performance was so very indecorous that\nall Paris, forewarned of the circumstance, would certainly swarm to her\nhouse. And he added: \u201cYou\u2019ve heard that she has given up painting. Yes,\nshe busies herself with chemistry. Her _salon_ is full of Anarchists\nnow--and, by the way, it seemed to me that she had cast her eyes on you,\nmy dear Hyacinthe.\u201d\n\nHyacinthe had hitherto held his tongue, as if he took no interest in\nanything. \u201cOh! she bores me to death,\u201d he now condescended to reply. \u201cIf\nI\u2019m going to her _matin\u00e9e_ it\u2019s simply in the hope of meeting my friend\nyoung Lord George Eldrett, who wrote to me from London to give me an\nappointment at the Princess\u2019s. And I admit that hers is the only _salon_\nwhere I find somebody to talk to.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d asked Amadieu in an ironical way, \u201cyou have now gone over to\nAnarchism?\u201d\n\nWith his air of lofty elegance Hyacinthe imperturbably confessed his\ncreed: \u201cBut it seems to me, monsieur, that in these times of universal\nbaseness and ignominy, no man of any distinction can be other than an\nAnarchist.\u201d\n\nA laugh ran round the table. Hyacinthe was very much spoilt, and\nconsidered very entertaining. His father in particular was immensely\namused by the notion that he of all men should have an Anarchist for a\nson. However, the General, in his rancorous moments, talked anarchically\nenough of blowing up a society which was so stupid as to let itself be\nled by half a dozen disreputable characters. And, indeed, the\ninvestigating magistrate, who was gradually making a specialty of\nAnarchist affairs, proved the only one who opposed the young man,\ndefending threatened civilisation and giving terrifying particulars\nconcerning what he called the army of devastation and massacre. The\nothers, while partaking of some delicious duck\u2019s-liver _pat\u00e9_, which the\nhouse-steward handed around, continued smiling. There was so much misery,\nsaid they; one must take everything into account: things would surely end\nby righting themselves. And the Baron himself declared, in a conciliatory\nmanner: \u201cIt\u2019s certain that one might do something, though nobody knows\nexactly what. As for all sensible and moderate claims, oh! I agree to\nthem in advance. For instance, the lot of the working classes may be\nameliorated, charitable enterprises may be undertaken, such, for\ninstance, as our Asylum for the Invalids of Labour, which we have reason\nto be proud of. But we must not be asked for impossibilities.\u201d\n\nWith the dessert came a sudden spell of silence; it was as if, amidst the\nrestless fluttering of the conversation, and the dizziness born of the\ncopious meal, each one\u2019s worry or distress was again wringing the heart\nand setting an expression of perturbation on the countenance. The nervous\nunconscientiousness of Duthil, threatened with denunciation, was seen to\nrevive; so, too, the anxious anger of the Baron, who was meditating how\nhe might possibly manage to content Silviane. That woman was this sturdy,\npowerful man\u2019s taint, the secret sore which would perhaps end by eating\nhim away and destroying him. But it was the frightful drama in which the\nBaroness, Camille and G\u00e9rard were concerned that flitted by most visibly\nacross the faces of all three of them: that hateful rivalry of mother and\ndaughter, contending for the man they loved. And, meantime, the\nsilver-gilt blades of the dessert-knives were delicately peeling choice\nfruit. And there were bunches of golden grapes looking beautifully fresh,\nand a procession of sweetmeats, little cakes, an infinity of dainties,\nover which the most satiated appetites lingered complacently.\n\nThen, just as the finger-glasses were being served, a footman came and\nbent over the Baroness, who answered in an undertone, \u201cWell, show him\ninto the _salon_, I will join him there.\u201d And aloud to the others she\nadded: \u201cIt\u2019s Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment, who has called and asks most\nparticularly to see me. He won\u2019t be in our way; I think that almost all\nof you know him. Oh! he\u2019s a genuine saint, and I have much sympathy for\nhim.\u201d\n\nFor a few minutes longer they loitered round the table, and then at last\nquitted the dining-room, which was full of the odours of viands, wines,\nfruits and roses; quite warm, too, with the heat thrown out by the big\nlogs of firewood, which were falling into embers amidst the somewhat\njumbled brightness of all the crystal and silver, and the pale, delicate\nlight which fell upon the disorderly table.\n\nPierre had remained standing in the centre of the little blue and silver\n_salon_. Seeing a tray on which the coffee and the liqueurs were in\nreadiness, he regretted that he had insisted upon being received. And his\nembarrassment increased when the company came in rather noisily, with\nbright eyes and rosy cheeks. However, his charitable fervour had revived\nso ardently within him that he overcame this embarrassment, and all that\nremained to him of it was a slight feeling of discomfort at bringing the\nwhole frightful morning which he had just spent amid such scenes of\nwretchedness, so much darkness and cold, so much filth and hunger, into\nthis bright, warm, perfumed affluence, where the useless and the\nsuperfluous overflowed around those folks who seemed so gay at having\nmade a delightful meal.\n\nHowever, the Baroness at once came forward with G\u00e9rard, for it was\nthrough the latter, whose mother he knew, that the priest had been\npresented to the Duvillards at the time of the famous conversion. And as\nhe apologised for having called at such an inconvenient hour, the\nBaroness responded: \u201cBut you are always welcome, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. You\nwill allow me just to attend to my guests, won\u2019t you? I will be with you\nin an instant.\u201d\n\nShe thereupon returned to the table on which the tray had been placed, in\norder to serve the coffee and the liqueurs, with her daughter\u2019s\nassistance. G\u00e9rard, however, remained with Pierre; and, it so chanced,\nbegan to speak to him of the Asylum for the Invalids of Labour, where\nthey had met one another at the recent laying of the foundation-stone of\na new pavilion which was being erected, thanks to a handsome donation of\n100,000 francs made by Baron Duvillard. So far, the enterprise only\ncomprised four pavilions out of the fourteen which it was proposed to\nerect on the vast site given by the City of Paris on the peninsula of\nGennevilliers*; and so the subscription fund remained open, and, indeed,\nno little noise was made over this charitable enterprise, which was\nregarded as a complete and peremptory reply to the accusations of those\nevilly disposed persons who charged the satiated _bourgeoisie_ with doing\nnothing for the workers. But the truth was that a magnificent chapel,\nerected in the centre of the site, had absorbed two-thirds of the funds\nhitherto collected. Numerous lady patronesses, chosen from all the\n\u201cworlds\u201d of Paris--the Baroness Duvillard, the Countess de Quinsac, the\nPrincess Rosemonde de Harn, and a score of others--were entrusted with\nthe task of keeping the enterprise alive by dint of collections and fancy\nbazaars. But success had been chiefly obtained, thanks to the happy idea\nof ridding the ladies of all the weighty cares of organisation, by\nchoosing as managing director a certain Fons\u00e8gue, who, besides being a\ndeputy and editor of the \u201cGlobe\u201d newspaper, was a prodigious promoter of\nall sorts of enterprises. And the \u201cGlobe\u201d never paused in its propaganda,\nbut answered the attacks of the revolutionaries by extolling the\ninexhaustible charity of the governing classes in such wise that, at the\nlast elections, the enterprise had served as a victorious electoral\nweapon.\n\n  * This so-called peninsula lies to the northwest of Paris, and\n    is formed by the windings of the Seine.--Trans.\n\nHowever, Camille was walking about with a steaming cup of coffee in her\nhand: \u201cWill you take some coffee, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d she inquired.\n\n\u201cNo, thank you, mademoiselle.\u201d\n\n\u201cA glass of Chartreuse then?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, thank you.\u201d\n\nThen everybody being served, the Baroness came back and said amiably:\n\u201cCome, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, what do you desire of me?\u201d\n\nPierre began to speak almost in an undertone, his throat contracting and\nhis heart beating with emotion. \u201cI have come, madame, to appeal to your\ngreat kindness of heart. This morning, in a frightful house, in the Rue\ndes Saules, behind Montmartre, I beheld a sight which utterly upset me.\nYou can have no idea what an abode of misery and suffering it was; its\ninmates without fire or bread, the men reduced to idleness because there\nis no work, the mothers having no more milk for their babes, the children\nbarely clad, coughing and shivering. And among all these horrors I saw\nthe worst, the most abominable of all, an old workman, laid on his back\nby age, dying of hunger, huddled on a heap of rags, in a nook which a dog\nwould not even accept as kennel.\u201d\n\nHe tried to recount things as discreetly as possible, frightened by the\nvery words he spoke, the horrors he had to relate in that sphere of\nsuperlative luxury and enjoyment, before those happy ones who possessed\nall the gifts of this world; for--to use a slang expression--he fully\nrealised that he sang out of tune, and in most uncourteous fashion. What\na strange idea of his to have called at the hour when one has just\nfinished _d\u00e9jeuner_, when the aroma of hot coffee flatters happy\ndigestion. Nevertheless he went on, and even ended by raising his voice,\nyielding to the feeling of revolt which gradually stirred him, going to\nthe end of his terrible narrative, naming Laveuve, insisting on the\nunjust abandonment in which the old man was left, and asking for succour\nin the name of human compassion. And the whole company approached to\nlisten to him; he could see the Baron and the General, and Duthil and\nAmadieu, in front of him, sipping their coffee, in silence, without a\ngesture.\n\n\u201cWell, madame,\u201d he concluded, \u201cit seemed to me that one could not leave\nthat old man an hour longer in such a frightful position, and that this\nvery evening you would have the extreme goodness to have him admitted\ninto the Asylum of the Invalids of Labour, which is, I think, the proper\nand only place for him.\u201d\n\nTears had moistened Eve\u2019s beautiful eyes. She was in consternation at so\nsad a story coming to her to spoil her afternoon when she was looking\nforward to her assignation with G\u00e9rard. Weak and indolent as she was,\nlacking all initiative, too much occupied moreover with her own person,\nshe had only accepted the presidency of the Committee on the condition\nthat all administrative worries were to fall on Fons\u00e8gue. \u201cAh! Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she murmured, \u201cyou rend my heart. But I can do nothing, nothing\nat all, I assure you. Moreover, I believe that we have already inquired\ninto the affair of that man Laveuve. With us, you know, there must be the\nmost serious guarantees with regard to every admission. A reporter is\nchosen who has to give us full information. Wasn\u2019t it you, Monsieur\nDuthil, who was charged with this man Laveuve\u2019s affair?\u201d\n\nThe deputy was finishing a glass of Chartreuse. \u201cYes, it was I. That fine\nfellow played you a comedy, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. He isn\u2019t at all ill, and if\nyou left him any money you may be sure he went down to drink it as soon\nas you were gone. For he is always drunk; and, besides that, he has the\nmost hateful disposition imaginable, crying out from morning till evening\nagainst the _bourgeois_, and saying that if he had any strength left in\nhis arms he would undertake to blow up the whole show. And, moreover, he\nwon\u2019t go into the asylum; he says that it\u2019s a real prison where one\u2019s\nguarded by Beguins who force one to hear mass, a dirty convent where the\ngates are shut at nine in the evening! And there are so many of them like\nthat, who rather than be succoured prefer their liberty, with cold and\nhunger and death. Well then, let the Laveuves die in the street, since\nthey refuse to be with us, and be warm and eat in our asylums!\u201d\n\nThe General and Amadieu nodded their heads approvingly. But Duvillard\nshowed himself more generous. \u201cNo, no, indeed! A man\u2019s a man after all,\nand should be succoured in spite of himself.\u201d\n\nEve, however, in despair at the idea that she would be robbed of her\nafternoon, struggled and sought for reasons. \u201cI assure you that my hands\nare altogether tied. Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 does not doubt my heart or my zeal.\nBut how call I possibly assemble the Committee without a few days\u2019 delay?\nAnd I have particular reasons for coming to no decision, especially in an\naffair which has already been inquired into and pronounced upon, without\nthe Committee\u2019s sanction.\u201d Then, all at once she found a solution: \u201cWhat\nI advise you to do, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, is to go at once to see Monsieur\nFons\u00e8gue, our managing director. He alone can act in an urgent case, for\nhe knows that the ladies have unlimited confidence in him and approve\neverything he does.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will find Fons\u00e8gue at the Chamber,\u201d added Duthil smiling, \u201conly the\nsitting will be a warm one, and I doubt whether you will be able to have\na comfortable chat with him.\u201d\n\nPierre, whose heart had contracted yet more painfully, insisted on the\nsubject no further; but at once made up his mind to see Fons\u00e8gue, and in\nany event obtain from him a promise that the wretched Laveuve should be\nadmitted to the Asylum that very evening. Then he lingered in the saloon\nfor a few minutes listening to G\u00e9rard, who obligingly pointed out to him\nhow he might best convince the deputy, which was by alleging how bad an\neffect such a story could have, should it be brought to light by the\nrevolutionary newspapers. However, the guests were beginning to take\ntheir leave. The General, as he went off, came to ask his nephew if he\nshould see him that afternoon at his mother\u2019s, Madame de Quinsac, whose\n\u201cday\u201d it was: a question which the young man answered with an evasive\ngesture when he noticed that both Eve and Camille were looking at him.\nThen came the turn of Amadieu, who hurried off saying that a serious\naffair required his presence at the Palace of Justice. And Duthil soon\nfollowed him in order to repair to the Chamber.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll see you between four and five at Silviane\u2019s, eh?\u201d said the Baron as\nhe conducted him to the door. \u201cCome and tell me what occurs at the\nChamber in consequence of that odious article of Sagnier\u2019s. I must at all\nevents know. For my part I shall go to the Ministry of Fine Arts, to\nsettle that affair of the Com\u00e9die; and besides I\u2019ve some calls to make,\nsome contractors to see, and a big launching and advertisement affair to\nsettle.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s understood then, between four and five, at Silviane\u2019s,\u201d said the\ndeputy, who went off again mastered by his vague uneasiness, his anxiety\nas to what turn that nasty affair of the African Railway Lines might\ntake.\n\nAnd all of them had forgotten Laveuve, the miserable wretch who lay at\ndeath\u2019s door; and all of them were hastening away to their business or\ntheir passions, caught in the toils, sinking under the grindstone and\nwhisked away by that rush of all Paris, whose fever bore them along,\nthrowing one against another in an ardent scramble, in which the sole\nquestion was who should pass over the others and crush them.\n\n\u201cAnd so, mamma,\u201d said Camille, who continued to scrutinise her mother and\nG\u00e9rard, \u201cyou are going to take us to the Princess\u2019s _matin\u00e9e_?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy-and-by, yes. Only I shan\u2019t be able to stay there with you. I received\na telegram from Salmon about my corsage this morning, and I must\nabsolutely go to try it on at four o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\nBy the slight trembling of her mother\u2019s voice, the girl felt certain that\nshe was telling a falsehood. \u201cOh!\u201d said she, \u201cI thought you were only\ngoing to try it on to-morrow? In that case I suppose we are to go and\ncall for you at Salmon\u2019s with the carriage on leaving the _matin\u00e9e_?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no my dear! One never knows when one will be free; and besides, if I\nhave a moment, I shall call at the _modiste\u2019s_.\u201d\n\nCamille\u2019s secret rage brought almost a murderous glare to her dark eyes.\nThe truth was evident. But however passionately she might desire to set\nsome obstacle across her mother\u2019s path, she could not, dared not, carry\nmatters any further. In vain had she attempted to implore G\u00e9rard with her\neyes. He was standing to take his leave, and turned away his eyes.\nPierre, who had become acquainted with many things since he had\nfrequented the house, noticed how all three of them quivered, and divined\nthereby the mute and terrible drama.\n\nAt this moment, however, Hyacinthe, stretched in an armchair, and\nmunching an ether capsule, the only liqueur in which he indulged, raised\nhis voice: \u201cFor my part, you know, I\u2019m going to the Exposition du Lis.\nAll Paris is swarming there. There\u2019s one painting in particular, \u2018The\nRape of a Soul,\u2019 which it\u2019s absolutely necessary for one to have seen.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, but I don\u2019t refuse to drive you there,\u201d resumed the Baroness.\n\u201cBefore going to the Princess\u2019s we can look in at that exhibition.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s it, that\u2019s it,\u201d hastily exclaimed Camille, who, though she\nharshly derided the symbolist painters as a rule, now doubtless desired\nto delay her mother. Then, forcing herself to smile, she asked: \u201cWon\u2019t\nyou risk a look-in at the Exposition du Lis with us, Monsieur G\u00e9rard?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, no,\u201d replied the Count, \u201cI want to walk. I shall go with Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment to the Chamber.\u201d\n\nThereupon he took leave of mother and daughter, kissing the hand of each\nin turn. It had just occurred to him that to while away his time he also\nmight call for a moment at Silviane\u2019s, where, like the others, he had his\n_entr\u00e9es_. On reaching the cold and solemn courtyard he said to the\npriest, \u201cAh! it does one good to breathe a little cool air. They keep\ntheir rooms too hot, and all those flowers, too, give one the headache.\u201d\n\nPierre for his part was going off with his brain in a whirl, his hands\nfeverish, his senses oppressed by all the luxury which he left behind\nhim, like the dream of some glowing, perfumed paradise where only the\nelect had their abode. At the same time his reviving thirst for charity\nhad become keener than ever, and without listening to the Count, who was\nspeaking very affectionately of his mother, he reflected as to how he\nmight obtain Laveuve\u2019s admission to the Asylum from Fons\u00e8gue. However,\nwhen the door of the mansion had closed behind them and they had taken a\nfew steps along the street, it occurred to Pierre that a moment\npreviously a sudden vision had met his gaze. Had he not seen a workman\ncarrying a tool-bag, standing and waiting on the foot pavement across the\nroad, gazing at that monumental door, closed upon so much fabulous\nwealth--a workman in whom he fancied he had recognised Salvat, that\nhungry fellow who had gone off that morning in search of work? At this\nthought Pierre hastily turned round. Such wretchedness in face of so much\naffluence and enjoyment made him feel anxious. But the workman, disturbed\nin his contemplation, and possibly fearing that he had been recognised,\nwas going off with dragging step. And now, getting only a back view of\nhim, Pierre hesitated, and ended by thinking that he must have been\nmistaken.\n\n\n\n\nIII. RANTERS AND RULERS\n\nWHEN Abb\u00e9 Froment was about to enter the Palais-Bourbon he remembered\nthat he had no card, and he was making up his mind that he would simply\nask for Fons\u00e8gue, though he was not known to him, when, on reaching the\nvestibule, he perceived M\u00e8ge, the Collectivist deputy, with whom he had\nbecome acquainted in his days of militant charity in the poverty-stricken\nCharonne district.\n\n\u201cWhat, you here? You surely have not come to evangelise us?\u201d said M\u00e8ge.\n\n\u201cNo, I\u2019ve come to see Monsieur Fons\u00e8gue on an urgent matter, about a poor\nfellow who cannot wait.\u201d\n\n\u201cFons\u00e8gue? I don\u2019t know if he has arrived. Wait a moment.\u201d And stopping a\nshort, dark young fellow with a ferreting, mouse-like air, M\u00e8ge said to\nhim: \u201cMassot, here\u2019s Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment, who wants to speak to your\ngovernor at once.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe governor? But he isn\u2019t here. I left him at the office of the paper,\nwhere he\u2019ll be detained for another quarter of an hour. However, if\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 likes to wait he will surely see him here.\u201d\n\nThereupon M\u00e8ge ushered Pierre into the large waiting-hall, the Salle des\nPas Perdus, which in other moments looked so vast and cold with its\nbronze Minerva and Laocoon, and its bare walls on which the pale mournful\nwinter light fell from the glass doors communicating with the garden.\nJust then, however, it was crowded, and warmed, as it were, by the\nfeverish agitation of the many groups of men that had gathered here and\nthere, and the constant coming and going of those who hastened through\nthe throng. Most of these were deputies, but there were also numerous\njournalists and inquisitive visitors. And a growing uproar prevailed:\ncolloquies now in undertones, now in loud voices, exclamations and bursts\nof laughter, amidst a deal of passionate gesticulation, M\u00e8ge\u2019s return\ninto the tumult seemed to fan it. He was tall, apostolically thin, and\nsomewhat neglectful of his person, looking already old and worn for his\nage, which was but five and forty, though his eyes still glowed with\nyouth behind the glasses which never left his beak-like nose. And he had\na warm but grating voice, and had always been known to cough, living on\nsolely because he was bitterly intent on doing so in order to realise the\ndream of social re-organisation which haunted him. The son of an\nimpoverished medical man of a northern town, he had come to Paris when\nvery young, living there during the Empire on petty newspaper and other\nunknown work, and first making a reputation as an orator at the public\nmeetings of the time. Then, after the war, having become the chief of the\nCollectivist party, thanks to his ardent faith and the extraordinary\nactivity of his fighting nature, he had at last managed to enter the\nChamber, where, brimful of information, he fought for his ideas with\nfierce determination and obstinacy, like a _doctrinaire_ who has decided\nin his own mind what the world ought to be, and who regulates in advance,\nand bit by bit, the whole dogma of Collectivism. However, since he had\ntaken pay as a deputy, the outside Socialists had looked upon him as a\nmere rhetorician, an aspiring dictator who only tried to cast society in\na new mould for the purpose of subordinating it to his personal views and\nruling it.\n\n\u201cYou know what is going on?\u201d he said to Pierre. \u201cThis is another nice\naffair, is it not? But what would you have? We are in mud to our very\nears.\u201d\n\nHe had formerly conceived genuine sympathy for the priest, whom he had\nfound so gentle with all who suffered, and so desirous of social\nregeneration. And the priest himself had ended by taking an interest in\nthis authoritarian dreamer, who was resolved to make men happy in spite\neven of themselves. He knew that he was poor, and led a retired life with\nhis wife and four children, to whom he was devoted.\n\n\u201cYou can well understand that I am no ally of Sagnier\u2019s,\u201d M\u00e8ge resumed.\n\u201cBut as he chose to speak out this morning and threaten to publish the\nnames of all those who have taken bribes, we can\u2019t allow ourselves to\npass as accomplices any further. It has long been said that there was\nsome nasty jobbery in that suspicious affair of the African railways. And\nthe worst is that two members of the present Cabinet are in question, for\nthree years ago, when the Chambers dealt with Duvillard\u2019s emission,\nBarroux was at the Home Department, and Monferrand at that of Public\nWorks. Now that they have come back again, Monferrand at the Home\nDepartment, and Barroux at that of Finance, with the Presidency of the\nCouncil, it isn\u2019t possible, is it, for us to do otherwise than compel\nthem to enlighten us, in their own interest even, about their former\ngoings-on? No, no, they can no longer keep silence, and I\u2019ve announced\nthat I intend to interpellate them this very day.\u201d\n\nIt was the announcement of M\u00e8ge\u2019s interpellation, following the terrible\narticle of the \u201cVoix du Peuple,\u201d which thus set the lobbies in an uproar.\nAnd Pierre remained rather scared at this big political affair falling\ninto the midst of his scheme to save a wretched pauper from hunger and\ndeath. Thus he listened without fully understanding the explanations\nwhich the Socialist deputy was passionately giving him, while all around\nthem the uproar increased, and bursts of laughter rang out, testifying to\nthe astonishment which the others felt at seeing M\u00e8ge in conversation\nwith a priest.\n\n\u201cHow stupid they are!\u201d said M\u00e8ge disdainfully. \u201cDo they think then that I\neat a cassock for _d\u00e9jeuner_ every morning? But I beg your pardon, my\ndear Monsieur Froment. Come, take a place on that seat and wait for\nFons\u00e8gue.\u201d\n\nThen he himself plunged into all the turmoil, and Pierre realised that\nhis best course was to sit down and wait quietly. His surroundings began\nto influence and interest him, and he gradually forgot Laveuve for the\npassion of the Parliamentary crisis amidst which he found himself cast.\nThe frightful Panama adventure was scarcely over; he had followed the\nprogress of that tragedy with the anguish of a man who every night\nexpects to hear the tocsin sound the last hour of olden, agonising\nsociety. And now a little Panama was beginning, a fresh cracking of the\nsocial edifice, an affair such as had been frequent in all parliaments in\nconnection with big financial questions, but one which acquired mortal\ngravity from the circumstances in which it came to the front. That story\nof the African Railway Lines, that little patch of mud, stirred up and\nexhaling a perturbing odour, and suddenly fomenting all that emotion,\nfear, and anger in the Chamber, was after all but an opportunity for\npolitical strife, a field on which the voracious appetites of the various\n\u201cgroups\u201d would take exercise and sharpen; and, at bottom, the sole\nquestion was that of overthrowing the ministry and replacing it by\nanother. Only, behind all that lust of power, that continuous onslaught\nof ambition, what a distressful prey was stirring--the whole people with\nall its poverty and its sufferings!\n\nPierre noticed that Massot, \u201clittle Massot,\u201d as he was generally called,\nhad just seated himself on the bench beside him. With his lively eye and\nready ear listening to everything and noting it, gliding everywhere with\nhis ferret-like air, Massot was not there in the capacity of a gallery\nman, but had simply scented a stormy debate, and come to see if he could\nnot pick up material for some occasional \u201ccopy.\u201d And this priest lost in\nthe midst of the throng doubtless interested him.\n\n\u201cHave a little patience, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said he, with the amiable\ngaiety of a young gentleman who makes fun of everything. \u201cThe governor\nwill certainly come, for he knows well enough that they are going to heat\nthe oven here. You are not one of his constituents from La Corr\u00e8ze, are\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no! I belong to Paris; I\u2019ve come on account of a poor fellow whom I\nwish to get admitted into the Asylum of the Invalids of Labour.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! all right. Well, I\u2019m a child of Paris, too.\u201d\n\nThen Massot laughed. And indeed he was a child of Paris, son of a chemist\nof the St. Denis district, and an ex-dunce of the Lyc\u00e9e Charlemagne,\nwhere he had not even finished his studies. He had failed entirely, and\nat eighteen years of age had found himself cast into journalism with\nbarely sufficient knowledge of orthography for that calling. And for\ntwelve years now, as he often said, he had been a rolling stone wandering\nthrough all spheres of society, confessing some and guessing at others.\nHe had seen everything, and become disgusted with everything, no longer\nbelieving in the existence of great men, or of truth, but living\npeacefully enough on universal malice and folly. He naturally had no\nliterary ambition, in fact he professed a deliberate contempt for\nliterature. Withal, he was not a fool, but wrote in accordance with no\nmatter what views in no matter what newspaper, having neither conviction\nnor belief, but quietly claiming the right to say whatever he pleased to\nthe public on condition that he either amused or impassioned it.\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d said he, \u201cyou know M\u00e8ge, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9? What a study in\ncharacter, eh? A big child, a dreamer of dreams in the skin of a terrible\nsectarian! Oh! I have had a deal of intercourse with him, I know him\nthoroughly. You are no doubt aware that he lives on with the everlasting\nconviction that he will attain to power in six months\u2019 time, and that\nbetween evening and morning he will have established that famous\nCollectivist community which is to succeed capitalist society, just as\nday follows night. And, by the way, as regards his interpellation to-day,\nhe is convinced that in overthrowing the Barroux ministry he\u2019ll be\nhastening his own turn. His system is to use up his adversaries. How many\ntimes haven\u2019t I heard him making his calculations: there\u2019s such a one to\nbe used up, then such a one, and then such a one, so that he himself may\nat last reign. And it\u2019s always to come off in six months at the latest.\nThe misfortune is, however, that others are always springing up, and so\nhis turn never comes at all.\u201d\n\nLittle Massot openly made merry over it. Then, slightly lowering his\nvoice, he asked: \u201cAnd Sagnier, do you know him? No? Do you see that\nred-haired man with the bull\u2019s neck--the one who looks like a butcher?\nThat one yonder who is talking in a little group of frayed frock-coats.\u201d\n\nPierre at last perceived the man in question. He had broad red ears, a\nhanging under-lip, a large nose, and big, projecting dull eyes.\n\n\u201cI know that one thoroughly, as well,\u201d continued Massot; \u201cI was on the\n\u2018Voix du Peuple\u2019 under him before I went on the \u2018Globe.\u2019 The one thing\nthat nobody is exactly aware of is whence Sagnier first came. He long\ndragged out his life in the lower depths of journalism, doing nothing at\nall brilliant, but wild with ambition and appetite. Perhaps you remember\nthe first hubbub he made, that rather dirty affair of a new Louis XVII.\nwhich he tried to launch, and which made him the extraordinary Royalist\nthat he still is. Then it occurred to him to espouse the cause of the\nmasses, and he made a display of vengeful Catholic socialism, attacking\nthe Republic and all the abominations of the times in the name of justice\nand morality, under the pretext of curing them. He began with a series of\nsketches of financiers, a mass of dirty, uncontrolled, unproved\ntittle-tattle, which ought to have led him to the dock, but which met, as\nyou know, with such wonderful success when gathered together in a volume.\nAnd he goes on in the same style in the \u2018Voix du Peuple,\u2019 which he\nhimself made a success at the time of the Panama affair by dint of\ndenunciation and scandal, and which to-day is like a sewer-pipe pouring\nforth all the filth of the times. And whenever the stream slackens, why,\nhe invents things just to satisfy his craving for that hubbub on which\nboth his pride and his pocket subsist.\u201d\n\nLittle Massot spoke without bitterness; indeed, he had even begun to\nlaugh again. Beneath his thoughtless ferocity he really felt some respect\nfor Sagnier. \u201cOh! he\u2019s a bandit,\u201d he continued, \u201cbut a clever fellow all\nthe same. You can\u2019t imagine how full of vanity he is. Lately it occurred\nto him to get himself acclaimed by the populace, for he pretends to be a\nkind of King of the Markets, you know. Perhaps he has ended by taking his\nfine judge-like airs in earnest, and really believes that he is saving\nthe people and helping the cause of virtue. What astonishes me is his\nfertility in the arts of denunciation and scandalmongering. Never a\nmorning comes but he discovers some fresh horror, and delivers fresh\nculprits over to the hatred of the masses. No! the stream of mud never\nceases; there is an incessant, unexpected spurt of infamy, an increase of\nmonstrous fancies each time that the disgusted public shows any sign of\nweariness. And, do you know, there\u2019s genius in that, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9; for\nhe is well aware that his circulation goes up as soon as he threatens to\nspeak out and publish a list of traitors and bribe-takers. His sales are\ncertain now for some days to come.\u201d\n\nListening to Massot\u2019s gay, bantering voice, Pierre began to understand\ncertain things, the exact meaning of which had hitherto escaped him. He\nended by questioning the young journalist, surprised as he was that so\nmany deputies should be in the lobbies when the sitting was in progress.\nOh! the sitting indeed. The gravest matters, some bill of national\ninterest, might be under discussion, yet every member fled from it at the\nsudden threat of an interpellation which might overturn the ministry. And\nthe passion stirring there was the restrained anger, the growing anxiety\nof the present ministry\u2019s clients, who feared that they might have to\ngive place to others; and it was also the sudden hope, the eager hunger\nof all who were waiting--the clients of the various possible ministries\nof the morrow.\n\nMassot pointed to Barroux, the head of the Cabinet, who, though he was\nout of his element in the Department of Finances, had taken it simply\nbecause his generally recognised integrity was calculated to reassure\npublic opinion after the Panama crisis. Barroux was chatting in a corner\nwith the Minister of Public Instruction, Senator Taboureau, an old\nuniversity man with a shrinking, mournful air, who was extremely honest,\nbut totally ignorant of Paris, coming as he did from some far-away\nprovincial faculty. Barroux for his part was of decorative aspect, tall,\nand with a handsome, clean-shaven face, which would have looked quite\nnoble had not his nose been rather too small. Although he was sixty, he\nstill had a profusion of curly snow-white hair completing the somewhat\ntheatrical majesty of his appearance, which he was wont to turn to\naccount when in the tribune. Coming of an old Parisian family,\nwell-to-do, an advocate by profession, then a Republican journalist under\nthe Empire, he had reached office with Gambetta, showing himself at once\nhonest and romantic, loud of speech, and somewhat stupid, but at the same\ntime very brave and very upright, and still clinging with ardent faith to\nthe principles of the great Revolution. However, his Jacobinism was\ngetting out of fashion, he was becoming an \u201cancestor,\u201d as it were, one of\nthe last props of the middle-class Republic, and the new comers, the\nyoung politicians with long teeth, were beginning to smile at him.\nMoreover, beneath the ostentation of his demeanour, and the pomp of his\neloquence, there was a man of hesitating, sentimental nature, a good\nfellow who shed tears when re-perusing the verses of Lamartine.\n\nHowever, Monferrand, the minister for the Home Department, passed by and\ndrew Barroux aside to whisper a few words in his ear. He, Monferrand, was\nfifty, short and fat, with a smiling, fatherly air; nevertheless a look\nof keen intelligence appeared at times on his round and somewhat common\nface fringed by a beard which was still dark. In him one divined a man of\ngovernment, with hands which were fitted for difficult tasks, and which\nnever released a prey. Formerly mayor of the town of Tulle, he came from\nLa Corr\u00e8ze, where he owned a large estate. He was certainly a force in\nmotion, one whose constant rise was anxiously watched by keen observers.\nHe spoke in a simple quiet way, but with extraordinary power of\nconviction. Having apparently no ambition, affecting indeed the greatest\ndisinterestedness, he nevertheless harboured the most ferocious\nappetites. Sagnier had written that he was a thief and a murderer, having\nstrangled two of his aunts in order to inherit their property. But even\nif he were a murderer, he was certainly not a vulgar one.\n\nThen, too, came another personage of the drama which was about to be\nperformed--deputy Vignon, whose arrival agitated the various groups. The\ntwo ministers looked at him, whilst he, at once surrounded by his\nfriends, smiled at them from a distance. He was not yet thirty-six. Slim,\nand of average height, very fair, with a fine blond beard of which he\ntook great care, a Parisian by birth, having rapidly made his way in the\ngovernment service, at one time Prefect at Bordeaux, he now represented\nyouth and the future in the Chamber. He had realised that new men were\nneeded in the direction of affairs in order to accomplish the more\nurgent, indispensable reforms; and very ambitious and intelligent as he\nwas, knowing many things, he already had a programme, the application of\nwhich he was quite capable of attempting, in part at any rate. However,\nhe evinced no haste, but was full of prudence and shrewdness, convinced\nthat his day would dawn, strong in the fact that he was as yet\ncompromised in nothing, but had all space before him. At bottom he was\nmerely a first-class administrator, clear and precise in speech, and his\nprogramme only differed from Barroux\u2019s by the rejuvenation of its\nformulas, although the advent of a Vignon ministry in place of a Barroux\nministry appeared an event of importance. And it was of Vignon that\nSagnier had written that he aimed at the Presidency of the Republic, even\nshould he have to march through blood to reach the Elys\u00e9e Palace.\n\n\u201c_Mon Dieu_!\u201d Massot was explaining, \u201cit\u2019s quite possible that Sagnier\nisn\u2019t lying this time, and that he has really found a list of names in\nsome pocket-book of Hunter\u2019s that has fallen into his hands. I myself\nhave long known that Hunter was Duvillard\u2019s vote-recruiter in the affair\nof the African Railways. But to understand matters one must first realise\nwhat his mode of proceeding was, the skill and the kind of amiable\ndelicacy which he showed, which were far from the brutal corruption and\ndirty trafficking that people imagine. One must be such a man as Sagnier\nto picture a parliament as an open market, where every conscience is for\nsale and is impudently knocked down to the highest bidder. Oh! things\nhappened in a very different way indeed; and they are explainable, and at\ntimes even excusable. Thus the article is levelled in particular against\nBarroux and Monferrand, who are designated in the clearest possible\nmanner although they are not named. You are no doubt aware that at the\ntime of the vote Barroux was at the Home Department and Monferrand at\nthat of Public Works, and so now they are accused of having betrayed\ntheir trusts, the blackest of all social crimes. I don\u2019t know into what\npolitical combinations Barroux may have entered, but I am ready to swear\nthat he put nothing in his pocket, for he is the most honest of men. As\nfor Monferrand, that\u2019s another matter; he\u2019s a man to carve himself his\nshare, only I should be much surprised if he had put himself in a bad\nposition. He\u2019s incapable of a blunder, particularly of a stupid blunder,\nlike that of taking money and leaving a receipt for it lying about.\u201d\n\nMassot paused, and with a jerk of his head called Pierre\u2019s attention to\nDuthil, who, feverish, but nevertheless smiling, stood in a group which\nhad just collected around the two ministers. \u201cThere! do you see that\nyoung man yonder, that dark handsome fellow whose beard looks so\ntriumphant?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know him,\u201d said Pierre.\n\n\u201cOh! you know Duthil. Well, he\u2019s one who most certainly took money. But\nhe\u2019s a mere bird. He came to us from Angoul\u00eame to lead the pleasantest of\nlives here, and he has no more conscience, no more scruples, than the\npretty finches of his native part, who are ever love-making. Ah! for\nDuthil, Hunter\u2019s money was like manna due to him, and he never even\npaused to think that he was dirtying his fingers. You may be quite sure\nhe feels astonished that people should attach the slightest importance to\nthe matter.\u201d\n\nThen Massot designated another deputy in the same group, a man of fifty\nor thereabouts, of slovenly aspect and lachrymose mien, lanky, too, like\na maypole, and somewhat bent by the weight of his head, which was long\nand suggestive of a horse\u2019s. His scanty, straight, yellowish hair, his\ndrooping moustaches, in fact the whole of his distracted countenance,\nexpressed everlasting distress.\n\n\u201cAnd Chaigneux, do you know him?\u201d continued Massot, referring to the\ndeputy in question. \u201cNo? Well, look at him and ask yourself if it isn\u2019t\nquite as natural that he, too, should have taken money. He came from\nArras. He was a solicitor there. When his division elected him he let\npolitics intoxicate him, and sold his practice to make his fortune in\nParis, where he installed himself with his wife and his three daughters.\nAnd you can picture his bewilderment amidst those four women, terrible\nwomen ever busy with finery, receiving and paying visits, and running\nafter marriageable men who flee away. It\u2019s ill-luck with a vengeance, the\ndaily defeat of a poor devil of mediocre attainments, who imagined that\nhis position as a deputy would facilitate money-making, and who is\ndrowning himself in it all. And so how can Chaigneux have done otherwise\nthan take money, he who is always hard up for a five-hundred-franc note!\nI admit that originally he wasn\u2019t a dishonest man. But he\u2019s become one,\nthat\u2019s all.\u201d\n\nMassot was now fairly launched, and went on with his portraits, the\nseries which he had, at one moment, dreamt of writing under the title of\n\u201cDeputies for Sale.\u201d There were the simpletons who fell into the furnace,\nthe men whom ambition goaded to exasperation, the low minds that yielded\nto the temptation of an open drawer, the company-promoters who grew\nintoxicated and lost ground by dint of dealing with big figures. At the\nsame time, however, Massot admitted that these men were relatively few in\nnumber, and that black sheep were to be found in every parliament of the\nworld. Then Sagnier\u2019s name cropped up again, and Massot remarked that\nonly Sagnier could regard the French Chambers as mere dens of thieves.\n\nPierre, meantime, felt most interested in the tempest which the threat of\na ministerial crisis was stirring up before him. Not only the men like\nDuthil and Chaigneux, pale at feeling the ground tremble beneath them,\nand wondering whether they would not sleep at the Mazas prison that\nnight, were gathered round Barroux and Monferrand; all the latters\u2019\nclients were there, all who enjoyed influence or office through them, and\nwho would collapse and disappear should they happen to fall. And it was\nsomething to see the anxious glances and the pale dread amidst all the\nwhispered chatter, the bits of information and tittle-tattle which were\ncarried hither and thither. Then, in a neighbouring group formed round\nVignon, who looked very calm and smiled, were the other clients, those\nwho awaited the moment to climb to the assault of power, in order that\nthey, in their turn, might at last possess influence or office. Eyes\nglittered with covetousness, hopeful delight could be read in them,\npleasant surprise at the sudden opportunity now offered. Vignon avoided\nreplying to the over-direct questions of his friends, and simply\nannounced that he did not intend to intervene. Evidently enough his plan\nwas to let M\u00e8ge interpellate and overthrow the ministry, for he did not\nfear him, and in his own estimation would afterwards simply have to stoop\nto pick up the fallen portfolios.\n\n\u201cAh! Monferrand now,\u201d little Massot was saying, \u201cthere\u2019s a rascal who\ntrims his sails! I knew him as an anti-clerical, a devourer of priests,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, if you will allow me so to express myself; however, I\ndon\u2019t say this to be agreeable to you, but I think I may tell you for\ncertain that he has become reconciled to religion. At least, I have been\ntold that Monseigneur Martha, who is a great converter, now seldom leaves\nhim. This is calculated to please one in these new times, when science\nhas become bankrupt, and religion blooms afresh with delicious mysticism\non all sides, whether in art, literature, or society itself.\u201d\n\nMassot was jesting, according to his wont; but he spoke so amiably that\nthe priest could not do otherwise than bow. However, a great stir had set\nin before them; it was announced that M\u00e8ge was about to ascend the\ntribune, and thereupon all the deputies hastened into the assembly hall,\nleaving only the inquisitive visitors and a few journalists in the Salle\ndes Pas Perdus.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s astonishing that Fons\u00e8gue hasn\u2019t yet arrived,\u201d resumed Massot;\n\u201che\u2019s interested in what\u2019s going on. However, he\u2019s so cunning, that when\nhe doesn\u2019t behave as others do, one may be sure that he has his reasons\nfor it. Do you know him?\u201d And as Pierre gave a negative answer, Massot\nwent on: \u201cOh! he\u2019s a man of brains and real power--I speak with all\nfreedom, you know, for I don\u2019t possess the bump of veneration; and, as\nfor my editors, well, they\u2019re the very puppets that I know the best and\npick to pieces with the most enjoyment. Fons\u00e8gue, also, is clearly\ndesignated in Sagnier\u2019s article. Moreover, he\u2019s one of Duvillard\u2019s usual\nclients. There can be no doubt that he took money, for he takes money in\neverything. Only he always protects himself, and takes it for reasons\nwhich may be acknowledged--as payment or commission on account of\nadvertising, and so forth. And if I left him just now, looking, as it\nseemed to me, rather disturbed, and if he delays his arrival here to\nestablish, as it were, a moral alibi, the truth must be that he has\ncommitted the first imprudent action in his life.\u201d\n\nThen Massot rattled on, telling all there was to tell about Fons\u00e8gue. He,\ntoo, came from the department of La Corr\u00e8ze, and had quarrelled for life\nwith Monferrand after some unknown underhand affairs. Formerly an\nadvocate at Tulle, his ambition had been to conquer Paris; and he had\nreally conquered it, thanks to his big morning newspaper, \u201cLe Globe,\u201d of\nwhich he was both founder and director. He now resided in a luxurious\nmansion in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, and no enterprise was launched\nbut he carved himself a princely share in it. He had a genius for\n\u201cbusiness,\u201d and employed his newspaper as a weapon to enable him to reign\nover the market. But how very carefully he had behaved, what long and\nskilful patience he had shown, before attaining to the reputation of a\nreally serious man, who guided authoritatively the most virtuous and\nrespected of the organs of the press! Though in reality he believed\nneither in God nor in Devil, he had made this newspaper the supporter of\norder, property, and family ties; and though he had become a Conservative\nRepublican, since it was to his interest to be such, he had remained\noutwardly religious, affecting a Spiritualism which reassured the\n_bourgeoisie_. And amidst all his accepted power, to which others bowed,\nhe nevertheless had one hand deep in every available money-bag.\n\n\u201cAh! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said Massot, \u201csee to what journalism may lead a\nman. There you have Sagnier and Fons\u00e8gue: just compare them a bit. In\nreality they are birds of the same feather: each has a quill and uses it.\nBut how different the systems and the results. Sagnier\u2019s print is really\na sewer which rolls him along and carries him to the cesspool; while the\nother\u2019s paper is certainly an example of the best journalism one can\nhave, most carefully written, with a real literary flavour, a treat for\nreaders of delicate minds, and an honour to the man who directs it. But\nat the bottom, good heavens! in both cases the farce is precisely the\nsame!\u201d\n\nMassot burst out laughing, well pleased with this final thrust. Then all\nat once: \u201cAh! here\u2019s Fons\u00e8gue at last!\u201d said he.\n\nQuite at his ease, and still laughing, he forthwith introduced the\npriest. \u201cThis is Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment, my dear _patron_, who has been\nwaiting more than twenty minutes for you--I\u2019m just going to see what is\nhappening inside. You know that M\u00e8ge is interpellating the government.\u201d\n\nThe new comer started slightly: \u201cAn interpellation!\u201d said he. \u201cAll right,\nall right, I\u2019ll go to it.\u201d\n\nPierre was looking at him. He was about fifty years of age, short of\nstature, thin and active, still looking young without a grey hair in his\nblack beard. He had sparkling eyes, too, but his mouth, said to be a\nterrible one, was hidden by his moustaches. And withal he looked a\npleasant companion, full of wit to the tip of his little pointed nose,\nthe nose of a sporting dog that is ever scenting game. \u201cWhat can I do for\nyou, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d he inquired.\n\nThen Pierre briefly presented his request, recounting his visit to\nLaveuve that morning, giving every heart-rending particular, and asking\nfor the poor wretch\u2019s immediate admittance to the Asylum.\n\n\u201cLaveuve!\u201d said the other, \u201cbut hasn\u2019t his affair been examined? Why,\nDuthil drew up a report on it, and things appeared to us of such a nature\nthat we could not vote for the man\u2019s admittance.\u201d\n\nBut the priest insisted: \u201cI assure you, monsieur, that your heart would\nhave burst with compassion had you been with me this morning. It is\nrevolting that an old man should be left in such frightful abandonment\neven for another hour. He must sleep at the Asylum to-night.\u201d\n\nFons\u00e8gue began to protest. \u201cTo-night! But it\u2019s impossible, altogether\nimpossible! There are all sorts of indispensable formalities to be\nobserved. And besides I alone cannot take such responsibility. I haven\u2019t\nthe power. I am only the manager; all that I do is to execute the orders\nof the committee of lady patronesses.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it was precisely Baroness Duvillard who sent me to you, monsieur,\ntelling me that you alone had the necessary authority to grant immediate\nadmittance in an exceptional case.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! it was the Baroness who sent you? Ah! that is just like her,\nincapable of coming to any decision herself, and far too desirous of her\nown quietude to accept any responsibility. Why is it that she wants me to\nhave the worries? No, no, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I certainly won\u2019t go against\nall our regulations; I won\u2019t give an order which would perhaps embroil me\nwith all those ladies. You don\u2019t know them, but they become positively\nterrible directly they attend our meetings.\u201d\n\nHe was growing lively, defending himself with a jocular air, whilst in\nsecret he was fully determined to do nothing. However, just then Duthil\nabruptly reappeared, darting along bareheaded, hastening from lobby to\nlobby to recruit absent members, particularly those who were interested\nin the grave debate at that moment beginning. \u201cWhat, Fons\u00e8gue!\u201d he cried,\n\u201care you still here? Go, go to your seat at once, it\u2019s serious!\u201d And\nthereupon he disappeared.\n\nHis colleague evinced no haste, however. It was as if the suspicious\naffair which was impassioning the Chamber had no concern for him. And he\nstill smiled, although a slight feverish quiver made him blink. \u201cExcuse\nme, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d he said at last. \u201cYou see that my friends have need\nof me. I repeat to you that I can do absolutely nothing for your\n_prot\u00e9g\u00e9_.\u201d\n\nBut Pierre would not accept this reply as a final one. \u201cNo, no,\nmonsieur,\u201d he rejoined, \u201cgo to your affairs, I will wait for you here.\nDon\u2019t come to a decision without full reflection. You are wanted, and I\nfeel that your mind is not sufficiently at liberty for you to listen to\nme properly. By-and-by, when you come back and give me your full\nattention, I am sure that you will grant me what I ask.\u201d\n\nAnd, although Fons\u00e8gue, as he went off, repeated that he could not alter\nhis decision, the priest stubbornly resolved to make him do so, and sat\ndown on the bench again, prepared, if needful, to stay there till the\nevening. The Salle des Pas Perdus was now almost quite empty, and looked\nyet more frigid and mournful with its Laocoon and its Minerva, its bare\ncommonplace walls like those of a railway-station waiting-room, between\nwhich all the scramble of the century passed, though apparently without\neven warming the lofty ceiling. Never had paler and more callous light\nentered by the large glazed doors, behind which one espied the little\nslumberous garden with its meagre, wintry lawns. And not an echo of the\ntempest of the sitting near at hand reached the spot; from the whole\nheavy pile there fell but death-like silence, and a covert quiver of\ndistress that had come from far away, perhaps from the entire country.\n\nIt was that which now haunted Pierre\u2019s reverie. The whole ancient,\nenvenomed sore spread out before his mind\u2019s eye, with its poison and\nvirulence. Parliamentary rottenness had slowly increased till it had\nbegun to attack society itself. Above all the low intrigues and the rush\nof personal ambition there certainly remained the loftier struggle of the\ncontending principles, with history on the march, clearing the past away\nand seeking to bring more truth, justice, and happiness in the future.\nBut in practice, if one only considered the horrid daily cuisine of the\nsphere, what an unbridling of egotistical appetite one beheld, what an\nabsorbing passion to strangle one\u2019s neighbour and triumph oneself alone!\nAmong the various groups one found but an incessant battle for power and\nthe satisfactions that it gives. \u201cLeft,\u201d \u201cRight,\u201d \u201cCatholics,\u201d\n \u201cRepublicans,\u201d \u201cSocialists,\u201d the names given to the parties of twenty\ndifferent shades, were simply labels classifying forms of the one burning\nthirst to rule and dominate. All questions could be reduced to a single\none, that of knowing whether this man, that man, or that other man should\nhold France in his grasp, to enjoy it, and distribute its favours among\nhis creatures. And the worst was that the outcome of the great\nparliamentary battles, the days and the weeks lost in setting this man in\nthe place of that man, and that other man in the place of this man, was\nsimply stagnation, for not one of the three men was better than his\nfellows, and there were but vague points of difference between them; in\nsuch wise that the new master bungled the very same work as the previous\none had bungled, forgetful, perforce, of programmes and promises as soon\nas ever he began to reign.\n\nHowever, Pierre\u2019s thoughts invincibly reverted to Laveuve, whom he had\nmomentarily forgotten, but who now seized hold of him again with a quiver\nas of anger and death. Ah! what could it matter to that poor old wretch,\ndying of hunger on his bed of rags, whether M\u00e8ge should overthrow\nBarroux\u2019s ministry, and whether a Vignon ministry should ascend to power\nor not! At that rate, a century, two centuries, would be needed before\nthere would be bread in the garrets where groan the lamed sons of labour,\nthe old, broken-down beasts of burden. And behind Laveuve there appeared\nthe whole army of misery, the whole multitude of the disinherited and the\npoor, who agonised and asked for justice whilst the Chamber, sitting in\nall pomp, grew furiously impassioned over the question as to whom the\nnation should belong to, as to who should devour it. Mire was flowing on\nin a broad stream, the hideous, bleeding, devouring sore displayed itself\nin all impudence, like some cancer which preys upon an organ and spreads\nto the heart. And what disgust, what nausea must such a spectacle\ninspire; and what a longing for the vengeful knife that would bring\nhealth and joy!\n\nPierre could not have told for how long he had been plunged in this\nreverie, when uproar again filled the hall. People were coming back,\ngesticulating and gathering in groups. And suddenly he heard little\nMassot exclaim near him: \u201cWell, if it isn\u2019t down it\u2019s not much better\noff. I wouldn\u2019t give four sous for its chance of surviving.\u201d\n\nHe referred to the ministry, and began to recount the sitting to a fellow\njournalist who had just arrived. M\u00e8ge had spoken very eloquently, with\nextraordinary fury of indignation against the rotten _bourgeoisie_, which\nrotted everything it touched; but, as usual, he had gone much too far,\nalarming the Chamber by his very violence. And so, when Barroux had\nascended the tribune to ask for a month\u2019s adjournment of the\ninterpellation, he had merely had occasion to wax indignant, in all\nsincerity be it said, full of lofty anger that such infamous campaigns\nshould be carried on by a certain portion of the press. Were the shameful\nPanama scandals about to be renewed? Were the national representatives\ngoing to let themselves be intimidated by fresh threats of denunciation?\nIt was the Republic itself which its adversaries were seeking to submerge\nbeneath a flood of abominations. No, no, the hour had come for one to\ncollect one\u2019s thoughts, and work in quietude without allowing those who\nhungered for scandal to disturb the public peace. And the Chamber,\nimpressed by these words, fearing, too, lest the electorate should at\nlast grow utterly weary of the continuous overflow of filth, had\nadjourned the interpellation to that day month. However, although Vignon\nhad not personally intervened in the debate, the whole of his group had\nvoted against the ministry, with the result that the latter had merely\nsecured a majority of two votes--a mockery.\n\n\u201cBut in that case they will resign,\u201d said somebody to Massot.\n\n\u201cYes, so it\u2019s rumoured. But Barroux is very tenacious. At all events if\nthey show any obstinacy they will be down before a week is over,\nparticularly as Sagnier, who is quite furious, declares that he will\npublish the list of names to-morrow.\u201d\n\nJust then, indeed, Barroux and Monferrand were seen to pass, hastening\nalong with thoughtful, busy mien, and followed by their anxious clients.\nIt was said that the whole Cabinet was about to assemble to consider the\nposition and come to a decision. And then Vignon, in his turn, reappeared\namidst a stream of friends. He, for his part, was radiant, with a joy\nwhich he sought to conceal, calming his friends in his desire not to cry\nvictory too soon. However, the eyes of the band glittered, like those of\na pack of hounds when the moment draws near for the offal of the quarry\nto be distributed. And even M\u00e8ge also looked triumphant. He had all but\noverthrown the ministry. That made another one that was worn out, and\nby-and-by he would wear out Vignon\u2019s, and at last govern in his turn.\n\n\u201cThe devil!\u201d muttered little Massot, \u201cChaigneux and Duthil look like\nwhipped dogs. And see, there\u2019s nobody who is worth the governor. Just\nlook at him, how superb he is, that Fons\u00e8gue! But good-by, I must now be\noff!\u201d\n\nThen he shook hands with his brother journalist unwilling as he was to\nremain any longer, although the sitting still continued, some bill of\npublic importance again being debated before the rows of empty seats.\n\nChaigneux, with his desolate mien, had gone to lean against the pedestal\nof the high figure of Minerva; and never before had he been more bowed\ndown by his needy distress, the everlasting anguish of his ill-luck. On\nthe other hand, Duthil, in spite of everything, was perorating in the\ncentre of a group with an affectation of scoffing unconcern; nevertheless\nnervous twitches made his nose pucker and distorted his mouth, while the\nwhole of his handsome face was becoming moist with fear. And even as\nMassot had said, there really was only Fons\u00e8gue who showed composure and\nbravery, ever the same with his restless little figure, and his eyes\nbeaming with wit, though at times they were just faintly clouded by a\nshadow of uneasiness.\n\nPierre had risen to renew his request; but Fons\u00e8gue forestalled him,\nvivaciously exclaiming: \u201cNo, no, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I repeat that I cannot\ntake on myself such an infraction of our rules. There was an inquiry, and\na decision was arrived at. How would you have me over-rule it?\u201d\n\n\u201cMonsieur,\u201d said the priest, in a tone of deep grief, \u201cit is a question\nof an old man who is hungry and cold, and in danger of death if he be not\nsuccoured.\u201d\n\nWith a despairing gesture, the director of \u201cLe Globe\u201d seemed to take the\nvery walls as witnesses of his powerlessness. No doubt he feared some\nnasty affair for his newspaper, in which he had abused the Invalids of\nLabour enterprise as an electoral weapon. Perhaps, too, the secret terror\ninto which the sitting of the Chamber had just thrown him was hardening\nhis heart. \u201cI can do nothing,\u201d he repeated. \u201cBut naturally I don\u2019t ask\nbetter than to have my hands forced by the ladies of the Committee. You\nalready have the support of the Baroness Duvillard, secure that of some\nothers.\u201d\n\nPierre, who was determined to fight on to the very end, saw in this\nsuggestion a supreme chance. \u201cI know the Countess de Quinsac,\u201d he said,\n\u201cI can go to see her at once.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so! an excellent idea, the Countess de Quinsac! Take a cab and go\nto see the Princess de Harn as well. She bestirs herself a great deal,\nand is becoming very influential. Secure the approval of these ladies, go\nback to the Baroness\u2019s at seven, get a letter from her to cover me, and\nthen call on me at the office of my paper. That done, your man shall\nsleep at the Asylum at nine o\u2019clock!\u201d\n\nHe evinced in speaking a kind of joyous good nature, as though he no\nlonger doubted of success now that he ran no risk of compromising\nhimself. And great hope again came back to the priest: \u201cAh! thank you,\nmonsieur,\u201d he said; \u201cit is a work of salvation that you will accomplish.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you surely know that I ask nothing better. Ah! if we could only cure\nmisery, prevent hunger and thirst by a mere word. However, make haste,\nyou have not a minute to lose.\u201d\n\nThey shook hands, and Pierre at once tried to get out of the throng.\nThis, however, was no easy task, for the various groups had grown larger\nas all the anger and anguish, roused by the recent debate, ebbed back\nthere amid a confused tumult. It was as when a stone, cast into a pool,\nstirs the ooze below, and causes hidden, rotting things to rise once more\nto the surface. And Pierre had to bring his elbows into play and force a\npassage athwart the throng, betwixt the shivering cowardice of some, the\ninsolent audacity of others, and the smirchings which sullied the greater\nnumber, given the contagion which inevitably prevailed. However, he\ncarried away a fresh hope, and it seemed to him that if he should save a\nlife, make but one man happy that day, it would be like a first\ninstalment of redemption, a sign that a little forgiveness would be\nextended to the many follies and errors of that egotistical and\nall-devouring political world.\n\nOn reaching the vestibule a final incident detained him for a moment\nlonger. Some commotion prevailed there following upon a quarrel between a\nman and an usher, the latter of whom had prevented the former from\nentering on finding that the admission ticket which he tendered was an\nold one, with its original date scratched out. The man, very rough at the\noutset, had then refrained from insisting, as if indeed sudden timidity\nhad come upon him. And in this ill-dressed fellow Pierre was astonished\nto recognise Salvat, the journeyman engineer, whom he had seen going off\nin search of work that same morning. This time it was certainly he, tall,\nthin and ravaged, with dreamy yet flaming eyes, which set his pale\nstarveling\u2019s face aglow. He no longer carried his tool-bag; his ragged\njacket was buttoned up and distended on the left side by something that\nhe carried in a pocket, doubtless some hunk of bread. And on being\nrepulsed by the ushers, he walked away, taking the Concorde bridge,\nslowly, as if chancewise, like a man who knows not whither he is going.\n\n\n\n\nIV. SOCIAL SIDELIGHTS\n\nIN her old faded drawing-room--a Louis Seize _salon_ with grey\nwoodwork--the Countess de Quinsac sat near the chimney-piece in her\naccustomed place. She was singularly like her son, with a long and noble\nface, her chin somewhat stern, but her eyes still beautiful beneath her\nfine snowy hair, which was arranged in the antiquated style of her youth.\nAnd whatever her haughty coldness, she knew how to be amiable, with\nperfect, kindly graciousness.\n\nSlightly waving her hand after a long silence, she resumed, addressing\nherself to the Marquis de Morigny, who sat on the other side of the\nchimney, where for long years he had always taken the same armchair. \u201cAh!\nyou are right, my friend, Providence has left us here forgotten, in a\nmost abominable epoch.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, we passed by the side of happiness and missed it,\u201d the Marquis\nslowly replied, \u201cand it was your fault, and doubtless mine as well.\u201d\n\nSmiling sadly, she stopped him with another wave of her hand. And the\nsilence fell once more; not a sound from the streets reached that gloomy\nground floor at the rear of the courtyard of an old mansion in the Rue\nSt. Dominique, almost at the corner of the Rue de Bourgogne.\n\nThe Marquis was an old man of seventy-five, nine years older than the\nCountess. Short and thin though he was, he none the less had a\ndistinguished air, with his clean-shaven face, furrowed by deep,\naristocratic wrinkles. He belonged to one of the most ancient families of\nFrance, and remained one of the last hopeless Legitimists, of very pure\nand lofty views, zealously keeping his faith to the dead monarchy amidst\nthe downfall of everything. His fortune, still estimated at several\nmillions of francs, remained, as it were, in a state of stagnation,\nthrough his refusal to invest it in any of the enterprises of the\ncentury. It was known that in all discretion he had loved the Countess,\neven when M. de Quinsac was alive, and had, moreover, offered marriage\nafter the latter\u2019s death, at the time when the widow had sought a refuge\non that damp ground floor with merely an income of some 15,000 francs,\nsaved with great difficulty from the wreck of the family fortune. But\nshe, who adored her son G\u00e9rard, then in his tenth year, and of delicate\nhealth, had sacrificed everything to the boy from a kind of maternal\nchasteness and a superstitious fear that she might lose him should she\nset another affection and another duty in her life. And the Marquis,\nwhile bowing to her decision, had continued to worship her with his whole\nsoul, ever paying his court as on the first evening when he had seen her,\nstill gallant and faithful after a quarter of a century had passed. There\nhad never been anything between them, not even the exchange of a kiss.\n\nSeeing how sad she looked, he feared that he might have displeased her,\nand so he asked: \u201cI should have liked to render you happy, but I didn\u2019t\nknow how, and the fault can certainly only rest with me. Is G\u00e9rard giving\nyou any cause for anxiety?\u201d\n\nShe shook her head, and then replied: \u201cAs long as things remain as they\nare we cannot complain of them, my friend, since we accepted them.\u201d\n\nShe referred to her son\u2019s culpable connection with Baroness Duvillard.\nShe had ever shown much weakness with regard to that son whom she had had\nso much trouble to rear, for she alone knew what exhaustion, what racial\ncollapse was hidden behind his proud bearing. She tolerated his idleness,\nthe apathetic disgust which, man of pleasure that he was, had turned him\nfrom the profession of diplomacy as from that of arms. How many times had\nshe not repaired his acts of folly and paid his petty debts, keeping\nsilent concerning them, and refusing all pecuniary help from the Marquis,\nwho no longer dared offer his millions, so stubbornly intent she was on\nliving upon the remnants of her own fortune. And thus she had ended by\nclosing her eyes to her son\u2019s scandalous love intrigue, divining in some\nmeasure how things had happened, through self-abandonment and lack of\nconscience--the man weak, unable to resume possession of himself, and the\nwoman holding and retaining him. The Marquis, however, strangely enough,\nhad only forgiven the intrigue on the day when Eve had allowed herself to\nbe converted.\n\n\u201cYou know, my friend, how good-natured G\u00e9rard is,\u201d the Countess resumed.\n\u201cIn that lie both his strength and weakness. How would you have me scold\nhim when he weeps over it all with me? He will tire of that woman.\u201d\n\nM. de Morigny wagged his head. \u201cShe is still very beautiful,\u201d said he.\n\u201cAnd then there\u2019s the daughter. It would be graver still if he were to\nmarry her--\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the daughter\u2019s infirm?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, and you know what would be said: A Quinsac marrying a monster for\nthe sake of her millions.\u201d\n\nThis was their mutual terror. They knew everything that went on at the\nDuvillards, the affectionate friendship of the uncomely Camille and the\nhandsome G\u00e9rard, the seeming idyll beneath which lurked the most awful of\ndramas. And they protested with all their indignation. \u201cOh! that, no, no,\nnever!\u201d the Countess declared. \u201cMy son in that family, no, I will never\nconsent to it.\u201d\n\nJust at that moment General de Bozonnet entered. He was much attached to\nhis sister and came to keep her company on the days when she received,\nfor the old circle had gradually dwindled down till now only a few\nfaithful ones ventured into that grey gloomy _salon_, where one might\nhave fancied oneself at thousands of leagues from present-day Paris. And\nforthwith, in order to enliven the room, he related that he had been to\n_d\u00e9jeuner_ at the Duvillards, and named the guests, G\u00e9rard among them. He\nknew that he pleased his sister by going to the banker\u2019s house whence he\nbrought her news, a house, too, which he cleansed in some degree by\nconferring on it the great honour of his presence. And he himself in no\nwise felt bored there, for he had long been gained over to the century\nand showed himself of a very accommodating disposition in everything that\ndid not pertain to military art.\n\n\u201cThat poor little Camille worships G\u00e9rard,\u201d said he; \u201cshe was devouring\nhim with her eyes at table.\u201d\n\nBut M. de Morigny gravely intervened: \u201cThere lies the danger, a marriage\nwould be absolutely monstrous from every point of view.\u201d\n\nThe General seemed astonished: \u201cWhy, pray? She isn\u2019t beautiful, but it\u2019s\nnot only the beauties who marry! And there are her millions. However, our\ndear child would only have to put them to a good use. True, there is also\nthe mother; but, _mon Dieu_! such things are so common nowadays in Paris\nsociety.\u201d\n\nThis revolted the Marquis, who made a gesture of utter disgust. What was\nthe use of discussion when all collapsed? How could one answer a\nBozonnet, the last surviving representative of such an illustrious\nfamily, when he reached such a point as to excuse the infamous morals\nthat prevailed under the Republic; after denying his king, too, and\nserving the Empire, faithfully and passionately attaching himself to the\nfortunes and memory of Caesar? However, the Countess also became\nindignant: \u201cOh! what are you saying, brother? I will never authorize such\na scandal, I swore so only just now.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t swear, sister,\u201d exclaimed the General; \u201cfor my part I should like\nto see our G\u00e9rard happy. That\u2019s all. And one must admit that he\u2019s not\ngood for much. I can understand that he didn\u2019t go into the Army, for that\nprofession is done for. But I do not so well understand why he did not\nenter the diplomatic profession, or accept some other occupation. It is\nvery fine, no doubt, to run down the present times and declare that a man\nof our sphere cannot possibly do any clean work in them. But, as a matter\nof fact, it is only idle fellows who still say that. And G\u00e9rard has but\none excuse, his lack of aptitude, will and strength.\u201d\n\nTears had risen to the mother\u2019s eyes. She even trembled, well knowing how\ndeceitful were appearances: a mere chill might carry her son off, however\ntall and strong he might look. And was he not indeed a symbol of that\nold-time aristocracy, still so lofty and proud in appearance, though at\nbottom it is but dust?\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d continued the General, \u201che\u2019s thirty-six now; he\u2019s constantly\nhanging on your hands, and he must make an end of it all.\u201d\n\nHowever, the Countess silenced him and turned to the Marquis: \u201cLet us put\nour confidence in God, my friend,\u201d said she. \u201cHe cannot but come to my\nhelp, for I have never willingly offended Him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever!\u201d replied the Marquis, who in that one word set an expression of\nall his grief, all his affection and worship for that woman whom he had\nadored for so many years.\n\nBut another faithful friend came in and the conversation changed. M. de\nLarombi\u00e8re, Vice-President of the Appeal Court, was an old man of\nseventy-five, thin, bald and clean shaven but for a pair of little white\nwhiskers. And his grey eyes, compressed mouth and square and obstinate\nchin lent an expression of great austerity to his long face. The grief of\nhis life was that, being afflicted with a somewhat childish lisp, he had\nnever been able to make his full merits known when a public prosecutor,\nfor he esteemed himself to be a great orator. And this secret worry\nrendered him morose. In him appeared an incarnation of that old royalist\nFrance which sulked and only served the Republic against its heart, that\nold stern magistracy which closed itself to all evolution, to all new\nviews of things and beings. Of petty \u201cgown\u201d nobility, originally a\nLegitimist but now supporting Orleanism, he believed himself to be the\none man of wisdom and logic in that _salon_, where he was very proud to\nmeet the Marquis.\n\nThey talked of the last events; but with them political conversation was\nsoon exhausted, amounting as it did to a mere bitter condemnation of men\nand occurrences, for all three were of one mind as to the abominations of\nthe Republican _r\u00e9gime_. They themselves, however, were only ruins, the\nremnants of the old parties now all but utterly powerless. The Marquis\nfor his part soared on high, yielding in nothing, ever faithful to the\ndead past; he was one of the last representatives of that lofty obstinate\n_noblesse_ which dies when it finds itself without an effort to escape\nits fate. The judge, who at least had a pretender living, relied on a\nmiracle, and demonstrated the necessity for one if France were not to\nsink into the depths of misfortune and completely disappear. And as for\nthe General, all that he regretted of the two Empires was their great\nwars; he left the faint hope of a Bonapartist restoration on one side to\ndeclare that by not contenting itself with the Imperial military system,\nand by substituting thereto obligatory service, the nation in arms, the\nRepublic had killed both warfare and the country.\n\nWhen the Countess\u2019s one man-servant came to ask her if she would consent\nto receive Abb\u00e9 Froment she seemed somewhat surprised. \u201cWhat can he want\nof me? Show him in,\u201d she said.\n\nShe was very pious, and having met Pierre in connection with various\ncharitable enterprises, she had been touched by his zeal as well as by\nthe saintly reputation which he owed to his Neuilly parishioners.\n\nHe, absorbed by his fever, felt intimidated directly he crossed the\nthreshold. He could at first distinguish nothing, but fancied he was\nentering some place of mourning, a shadowy spot where human forms seemed\nto melt away, and voices were never raised above a whisper. Then, on\nperceiving the persons present, he felt yet more out of his element, for\nthey seemed so sad, so far removed from the world whence he had just\ncome, and whither he was about to return. And when the Countess had made\nhim sit down beside her in front of the chimney-piece, it was in a low\nvoice that he told her the lamentable story of Laveuve, and asked her\nsupport to secure the man\u2019s admittance to the Asylum for the Invalids of\nLabour.\n\n\u201cAh! yes,\u201d said she, \u201cthat enterprise which my son wished me to belong\nto. But, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I have never once attended the Committee\nmeetings. So how could I intervene, having assuredly no influence\nwhatever?\u201d\n\nAgain had the figures of Eve and G\u00e9rard arisen before her, for it was at\nthis asylum that the pair had first met. And influenced by her sorrowful\nmaternal love she was already weakening, although it was regretfully that\nshe had lent her name to one of those noisy charitable enterprises, which\npeople abused to further their selfish interests in a manner she\ncondemned.\n\n\u201cBut, madame,\u201d Pierre insisted, \u201cit is a question of a poor starving old\nman. I implore you to be compassionate.\u201d\n\nAlthough the priest had spoken in a low voice the General drew near.\n\u201cIt\u2019s for your old revolutionary that you are running about, is it not,\u201d\n said he. \u201cDidn\u2019t you succeed with the manager, then? The fact is that\nit\u2019s difficult to feel any pity for fellows who, if they were the\nmasters, would, as they themselves say, sweep us all away.\u201d\n\nM. de Larombi\u00e8re jerked his chin approvingly. For some time past he had\nbeen haunted by the Anarchist peril. But Pierre, distressed and\nquivering, again began to plead his cause. He spoke of all the frightful\nmisery, the homes where there was no food, the women and children\nshivering with cold, and the fathers scouring muddy, wintry Paris in\nsearch of a bit of bread. All that he asked for was a line on a visiting\ncard, a kindly word from the Countess, which he would at once carry to\nBaroness Duvillard to prevail on her to set the regulations aside. And\nhis words fell one by one, tremulous with stifled tears, in that mournful\n_salon_, like sounds from afar, dying away in a dead world where there\nwas no echo left.\n\nMadame de Quinsac turned towards M. de Morigny, but he seemed to take no\ninterest in it all. He was gazing fixedly at the fire, with the haughty\nair of a stranger who was indifferent to the things and beings in whose\nmidst an error of time compelled him to live. But feeling that the glance\nof the woman he worshipped was fixed upon him he raised his head; and\nthen their eyes met for a moment with an expression of infinite\ngentleness, the mournful gentleness of their heroic love.\n\n\u201c_Mon Dieu_!\u201d said she, \u201cI know your merits, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, and I won\u2019t\nrefuse my help to one of your good works.\u201d\n\nThen she went off for a moment, and returned with a card on which she had\nwritten that she supported with all her heart Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment in\nthe steps he was taking. And he thanked her and went off delighted, as if\nhe carried yet a fresh hope of salvation from that drawing-room where, as\nhe retired, gloom and silence once more seemed to fall on that old lady\nand her last faithful friends gathered around the fire, last relics of a\nworld that was soon to disappear.\n\nOnce outside, Pierre joyfully climbed into his cab again, after giving\nthe Princess de Harn\u2019s address in the Avenue Kleber. If he could also\nobtain her approval he would no longer doubt of success. However, there\nwas such a crush on the Concorde bridge, that the driver had to walk his\nhorse. And, on the foot-pavement, Pierre again saw Duthil, who, with a\ncigar between his lips, was smiling at the crowd, with his amiable\nbird-like heedlessness, happy as he felt at finding the pavement dry and\nthe sky blue on leaving that worrying sitting of the Chamber. Seeing how\ngay and triumphant he looked, a sudden inspiration came to the priest,\nwho said to himself that he ought to win over this young man, whose\nreport had had such a disastrous effect. As it happened, the cab having\nbeen compelled to stop altogether, the deputy had just recognized him and\nwas smiling at him.\n\n\u201cWhere are you going, Monsieur Duthil?\u201d Pierre asked.\n\n\u201cClose by, in the Champs Elys\u00e9es.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m going that way, and, as I should much like to speak to you for a\nmoment, it would be very kind of you to take a seat beside me. I will set\nyou down wherever you like.\u201d\n\n\u201cWillingly, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. It won\u2019t inconvenience you if I finish my\ncigar?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! not at all.\u201d\n\nThe cab found its way out of the crush, crossed the Place de la Concorde\nand began to ascend the Champs Elys\u00e9es. And Pierre, reflecting that he\nhad very few minutes before him, at once attacked Duthil, quite ready for\nany effort to convince him. He remembered what a sortie the young deputy\nhad made against Laveuve at the Baron\u2019s; and thus he was astonished to\nhear him interrupt and say quite pleasantly, enlivened as he seemed by\nthe bright sun which was again beginning to shine: \u201cAh, yes! your old\ndrunkard! So you didn\u2019t settle his business with Fons\u00e8gue? And what is it\nyou want? To have him admitted to-day? Well, you know I don\u2019t oppose it?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut there\u2019s your report.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy report, oh, my report! But questions change according to the way one\nlooks at them. And if you are so anxious about your Laveuve I won\u2019t\nrefuse to help you.\u201d\n\nPierre looked at him in astonishment, at bottom extremely well pleased.\nAnd there was no further necessity even for him to speak.\n\n\u201cYou didn\u2019t take the matter in hand properly,\u201d continued Duthil, leaning\nforward with a confidential air. \u201cIt\u2019s the Baron who\u2019s the master at\nhome, for reasons which you may divine, which you may very likely know.\nThe Baroness does all that he asks without even discussing the point; and\nthis morning,--instead of starting on a lot of useless visits, you only\nhad to gain his support, particularly as he seemed to be very well\ndisposed. And she would then have given way immediately.\u201d Duthil began to\nlaugh. \u201cAnd so,\u201d he continued, \u201cdo you know what I\u2019ll do? Well, I\u2019ll gain\nthe Baron over to your cause. Yes, I am this moment going to a house\nwhere he is, where one is certain to find him every day at this time.\u201d\n Then he laughed more loudly. \u201cAnd perhaps you are not ignorant of it,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. When he is there you may be certain he never gives a\nrefusal. I promise you I\u2019ll make him swear that he will compel his wife\nto grant your man admission this very evening. Only it will, perhaps, be\nrather late.\u201d\n\nThen all at once, as if struck by a fresh idea, Duthil went on: \u201cBut why\nshouldn\u2019t you come with me? You secure a line from the Baron, and\nthereupon, without losing a minute, you go in search of the Baroness. Ah!\nyes, the house embarrasses you a little, I understand it. Would you like\nto see only the Baron there? You can wait for him in a little _salon_\ndownstairs; I will bring him to you.\u201d\n\nThis proposal made Duthil altogether merry, but Pierre, quite scared,\nhesitated at the idea of thus going to Silviane d\u2019Aulnay\u2019s. It was hardly\na place for him. However, to achieve his purpose, he would have descended\ninto the very dwelling of the fiend, and had already done so sometimes\nwith Abb\u00e9 Rose, when there was hope of assuaging wretchedness. So he\nturned to Duthil and consented to accompany him.\n\nSilviane d\u2019Aulnay\u2019s little mansion, a very luxurious one, displaying,\ntoo, so to say, the luxury of a temple, refined but suggestive of\ngallantry, stood in the Avenue d\u2019Antin, near the Champs Elys\u00e9es. The\ninmate of this sanctuary, where the orfrays of old dalmaticas glittered\nin the mauve reflections from the windows of stained-glass, had just\ncompleted her twenty-fifth year. Short and slim she was, of an adorable,\ndark beauty, and all Paris was acquainted with her delicious, virginal\ncountenance of a gentle oval, her delicate nose, her little mouth, her\ncandid cheeks and artless chin, above all which she wore her black hair\nin thick, heavy bands, which hid her low brow. Her notoriety was due\nprecisely to her pretty air of astonishment, the infinite purity of her\nblue eyes, the whole expression of chaste innocence which she assumed\nwhen it so pleased her, an expression which contrasted powerfully with\nher true nature, shameless creature that she really was, of the most\nmonstrous, confessed, and openly-displayed perversity; such as, in fact,\noften spring up from the rotting soil of great cities. Extraordinary\nthings were related about Silviane\u2019s tastes and fancies. Some said that\nshe was a door-keeper\u2019s, others a doctor\u2019s, daughter. In any case she had\nmanaged to acquire instruction and manners, for when occasion required\nshe lacked neither wit, nor style, nor deportment. She had been rolling\nthrough the theatres for ten years or so, applauded for her beauty\u2019s\nsake, and she had even ended by obtaining some pretty little successes in\nsuch parts as those of very pure young girls or loving and persecuted\nyoung women. Since there had been a question, though, of her entering the\nCom\u00e9die Fran\u00e7aise to play the _r\u00f4le_ of Pauline in \u201cPolyeucte,\u201d some\npeople had waxed indignant and others had roared with laughter, so\nridiculous did the idea appear, so outrageous for the majesty of classic\ntragedy. She, however, quiet and stubborn, wished this thing to be, was\nresolved that it should be, certain as she was that she would secure it,\ninsolent like a creature to whom men had never yet been able to refuse\nanything.\n\nThat day, at three o\u2019clock, G\u00e9rard de Quinsac, not knowing how to kill\nthe time pending the appointment he had given Eve in the Rue Matignon,\nhad thought of calling at Silviane\u2019s, which was in the neighbourhood. She\nwas an old caprice of his, and even nowadays he would sometimes linger at\nthe little mansion if its pretty mistress felt bored. But he had this\ntime found her in a fury; and, reclining in one of the deep armchairs of\nthe _salon_ where \u201cold gold\u201d formed the predominant colour, he was\nlistening to her complaints. She, standing in a white gown, white indeed\nfrom head to foot like Eve herself at the _d\u00e9jeuner_, was speaking\npassionately, and fast convincing the young man, who, won over by so much\nyouth and beauty, unconsciously compared her to his other flame, weary\nalready of his coming assignation, and so mastered by supineness, both\nmoral and physical, that he would have preferred to remain all day in the\ndepths of that armchair.\n\n\u201cYou hear me, G\u00e9rard!\u201d she at last exclaimed, \u201cI\u2019ll have nothing whatever\nto do with him, unless he brings me my nomination.\u201d\n\nJust then Baron Duvillard came in, and forthwith she changed to ice and\nreceived him like some sorely offended young queen who awaits an\nexplanation; whilst he, who foresaw the storm and brought moreover\ndisastrous tidings, forced a smile, though very ill at ease. She was the\nstain, the blemish attaching to that man who was yet so sturdy and so\npowerful amidst the general decline of his race. And she was also the\nbeginning of justice and punishment, taking all his piled-up gold from\nhim by the handful, and by her cruelty avenging those who shivered and\nwho starved. And it was pitiful to see that feared and flattered man,\nbeneath whom states and governments trembled, here turn pale with\nanxiety, bend low in all humility, and relapse into the senile, lisping\ninfancy of acute passion.\n\n\u201cAh! my dear friend,\u201d said he, \u201cif you only knew how I have been rushing\nabout. I had a lot of worrying business, some contractors to see, a big\nadvertisement affair to settle, and I feared that I should never be able\nto come and kiss your hand.\u201d\n\nHe kissed it, but she let her arm fall, coldly, indifferently, contenting\nherself with looking at him, waiting for what he might have to say to\nher, and embarrassing him to such a point that he began to perspire and\nstammer, unable to express himself. \u201cOf course,\u201d he began, \u201cI also\nthought of you, and went to the Fine Arts Office, where I had received a\npositive promise. Oh! they are still very much in your favour at the Fine\nArts Office! Only, just fancy, it\u2019s that idiot of a minister, that\nTaboureau,* an old professor from the provinces who knows nothing about\nour Paris, that has expressly opposed your nomination, saying that as\nlong as he is in office you shall not appear at the Com\u00e9die.\u201d\n\n  * Taboureau is previously described as Minister of Public\n    Instruction. It should be pointed out, however, that\n    although under the present Republic the Ministries of\n    Public Instruction and Fine Arts have occasionally been\n    distinct departments, at other times they have been\n    united, one minister, as in Taboureau\u2019s case, having\n    charge of both.--Trans.\n\nErect and rigid, she spoke but two words: \u201cAnd then?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd then--well, my dear, what would you have me do? One can\u2019t after all\noverthrow a ministry to enable you to play the part of Pauline.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d\n\nHe pretended to laugh, but his blood rushed to his face, and the whole of\nhis sturdy figure quivered with anguish. \u201cCome, my little Silviane,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cdon\u2019t be obstinate. You can be so nice when you choose. Give up the\nidea of that _d\u00e9but_. You, yourself, would risk a great deal in it, for\nwhat would be your worries if you were to fail? You would weep all the\ntears in your body. And besides, you can ask me for so many other things\nwhich I should be so happy to give you. Come now, at once, make a wish\nand I will gratify it immediately.\u201d\n\nIn a frolicsome way he sought to take her hand again. But she drew back\nwith an air of much dignity. \u201cNo, you hear me, my dear fellow, I will\nhave nothing whatever to do with you--nothing, so long as I don\u2019t play\nPauline.\u201d\n\nHe understood her fully, and he knew her well enough to realise how\nrigorously she would treat him. Only a kind of grunt came from his\ncontracted throat, though he still tried to treat the matter in a jesting\nway. \u201cIsn\u2019t she bad-tempered to-day!\u201d he resumed at last, turning towards\nG\u00e9rard. \u201cWhat have you done to her that I find her in such a state?\u201d\n\nBut the young man, who kept very quiet for fear lest he himself might be\nbespattered in the course of the dispute, continued to stretch himself\nout in a languid way and gave no answer.\n\nBut Silviane\u2019s anger burst forth. \u201cWhat has he done to me? He has pitied\nme for being at the mercy of such a man as you--so egotistical, so\ninsensible to the insults heaped upon me. Ought you not to be the first\nto bound with indignation? Ought you not to have exacted my admittance to\nthe Com\u00e9die as a reparation for the insult? For, after all, it is a\ndefeat for you; if I\u2019m considered unworthy, you are struck at the same\ntime as I am. And so I\u2019m a drab, eh? Say at once that I\u2019m a creature to\nbe driven away from all respectable houses.\u201d\n\nShe went on in this style, coming at last to vile words, the abominable\nwords which, in moments of anger, always ended by returning to her\ninnocent-looking lips. The Baron, who well knew that a syllable from him\nwould only increase the foulness of the overflow, vainly turned an\nimploring glance on the Count to solicit his intervention. G\u00e9rard, with\nhis keen desire for peace and quietness, often brought about a\nreconciliation, but this time he did not stir, feeling too lazy and\nsleepy to interfere. And Silviane all at once came to a finish, repeating\nher trenchant, severing words: \u201cWell, manage as you can, secure my\n_d\u00e9but_, or I\u2019ll have nothing more to do with you, nothing!\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right! all right!\u201d Duvillard at last murmured, sneering, but in\ndespair, \u201cwe\u2019ll arrange it all.\u201d\n\nHowever, at that moment a servant came in to say that M. Duthil was\ndownstairs and wished to speak to the Baron in the smoking-room.\nDuvillard was astonished at this, for Duthil usually came up as though\nthe house were his own. Then he reflected that the deputy had doubtless\nbrought him some serious news from the Chamber which he wished to impart\nto him confidentially at once. So he followed the servant, leaving G\u00e9rard\nand Silviane together.\n\nIn the smoking-room, an apartment communicating with the hall by a wide\nbay, the curtain of which was drawn up, Pierre stood with his companion,\nwaiting and glancing curiously around him. What particularly struck him\nwas the almost religious solemnness of the entrance, the heavy hangings,\nthe mystic gleams of the stained-glass, the old furniture steeped in\nchapel-like gloom amidst scattered perfumes of myrrh and incense. Duthil,\nwho was still very gay, tapped a low divan with his cane and said: \u201cShe\nhas a nicely-furnished house, eh? Oh! she knows how to look after her\ninterests.\u201d\n\nThen the Baron came in, still quite upset and anxious. And without even\nperceiving the priest, desirous as he was of tidings, he began: \u201cWell,\nwhat did they do? Is there some very bad news, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cM\u00e8ge interpellated and applied for a declaration of urgency so as to\noverthrow Barroux. You can imagine what his speech was.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, against the _bourgeois_, against me, against you. It\u2019s always\nthe same thing--And then?\u201d\n\n\u201cThen--well, urgency wasn\u2019t voted, but, in spite of a very fine defence,\nBarroux only secured a majority of two votes.\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo votes, the devil! Then he\u2019s down, and we shall have a Vignon\nministry next week.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what everybody said in the lobbies.\u201d\n\nThe Baron frowned, as if he were estimating what good or evil might\nresult to the world from such a change. Then, with a gesture of\ndispleasure, he said: \u201cA Vignon ministry! The devil! that would hardly be\nany better. Those young democrats pretend to be virtuous, and a Vignon\nministry wouldn\u2019t admit Silviane to the Com\u00e9die.\u201d\n\nThis, at first, was his only thought in presence of the crisis which made\nthe political world tremble. And so the deputy could not refrain from\nreferring to his own anxiety. \u201cWell, and we others, what is our position\nin it all?\u201d\n\nThis brought Duvillard back to the situation. With a fresh gesture, this\ntime a superbly proud one, he expressed his full and impudent confidence.\n\u201cWe others, why we remain as we are; we\u2019ve never been in peril, I\nimagine. Oh! I am quite at ease. Sagnier can publish his famous list if\nit amuses him to do so. If we haven\u2019t long since bought Sagnier and his\nlist, it\u2019s because Barroux is a thoroughly honest man, and for my part I\ndon\u2019t care to throw money out of the window--I repeat to you that we fear\nnothing.\u201d\n\nThen, as he at last recognised Abb\u00e9 Froment, who had remained in the\nshade, Duthil explained what service the priest desired of him. And\nDuvillard, in his state of emotion, his heart still rent by Silviane\u2019s\nsternness, must have felt a covert hope that a good action might bring\nhim luck; so he at once consented to intervene in favour of Laveuve\u2019s\nadmission. Taking a card and a pencil from his pocket-book he drew near\nto the window. \u201cOh! whatever you desire, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d he said, \u201cI\nshall be very happy to participate in this good work. Here, this is what\nI have written: \u2018My dear, please do what M. l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment solicits in\nfavour of this unfortunate man, since our friend Fons\u00e8gue only awaits a\nword from you to take proper steps.\u2019\u201d\n\nAt this moment through the open bay Pierre caught sight of G\u00e9rard, whom\nSilviane, calm once more, and inquisitive no doubt to know why Duthil had\ncalled, was escorting into the hall. And the sight of the young woman\nfilled him with astonishment, so simple and gentle did she seem to him,\nfull of the immaculate candour of a virgin. Never had he dreamt of a lily\nof more unobtrusive yet delicious bloom in the whole garden of innocence.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d continued Duvillard, \u201cif you wish to hand this card to my wife at\nonce, you must go to the Princess de Harn\u2019s, where there is a\n_matin\u00e9e_--\u201d\n\n\u201cI was going there, Monsieur le Baron.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery good. You will certainly find my wife there; she is to take the\nchildren there.\u201d Then he paused, for he too had just seen G\u00e9rard; and he\ncalled him: \u201cI say, G\u00e9rard, my wife said that she was going to that\n_matin\u00e9e_, didn\u2019t she? You feel sure--don\u2019t you?--that Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9\nwill find her there?\u201d\n\nAlthough the young man was then going to the Rue Matignon, there to wait\nfor Eve, it was in the most natural manner possible that he replied: \u201cIf\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 makes haste, I think he will find her there, for she was\ncertainly going there before trying on a corsage at Salmon\u2019s.\u201d\n\nThen he kissed Silviane\u2019s hand, and went off with the air of a handsome,\nindolent man, who knows no malice, and is even weary of pleasure.\n\nPierre, feeling rather embarrassed, was obliged to let Duvillard\nintroduce him to the mistress of the house. He bowed in silence, whilst\nshe, likewise silent, returned his bow with modest reserve, the tact\nappropriate to the occasion, such as no _ing\u00e9nue_, even at the Com\u00e9die,\nwas then capable of. And while the Baron accompanied the priest to the\ndoor, she returned to the _salon_ with Duthil, who was scarcely screened\nby the door-curtain before he passed his arm round her waist.\n\nWhen Pierre, who at last felt confident of success, found himself, still\nin his cab, in front of the Princess de Harn\u2019s mansion in the Avenue\nKleber, he suddenly relapsed into great embarrassment. The avenue was\ncrowded with carriages brought thither by the musical _matin\u00e9e_, and such\na throng of arriving guests pressed round the entrance, decorated with a\nkind of tent with scallopings of red velvet, that he deemed the house\nunapproachable. How could he manage to get in? And how in his cassock\ncould he reach the Princess, and ask for a minute\u2019s conversation with\nBaroness Duvillard? Amidst all his feverishness he had not thought of\nthese difficulties. However, he was approaching the door on foot, asking\nhimself how he might glide unperceived through the throng, when the sound\nof a merry voice made him turn: \u201cWhat, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9! Is it possible!\nSo now I find you here!\u201d\n\nIt was little Massot who spoke. He went everywhere, witnessed ten sights\na day,--a parliamentary sitting, a funeral, a wedding, any festive or\nmourning scene,--when he wanted a good subject for an article. \u201cWhat!\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d he resumed, \u201cand so you have come to our amiable\nPrincess\u2019s to see the Mauritanians dance!\u201d\n\nHe was jesting, for the so-called Mauritanians were simply six Spanish\ndancing-girls, who by the sensuality of their performance were then\nmaking all Paris rush to the Folies-Berg\u00e8re. For drawing-room\nentertainments these girls reserved yet more indecorous dances--dances of\nsuch a character indeed that they would certainly not have been allowed\nin a theatre. And the _beau monde_ rushed to see them at the houses of\nthe bolder lady-entertainers, the eccentric and foreign ones like the\nPrincess, who in order to draw society recoiled from no \u201cattraction.\u201d\n\nBut when Pierre had explained to little Massot that he was still running\nabout on the same business, the journalist obligingly offered to pilot\nhim. He knew the house, obtained admittance by a back door, and brought\nPierre along a passage into a corner of the hall, near the very entrance\nof the grand drawing-room. Lofty green plants decorated this hall, and in\nthe spot selected Pierre was virtually hidden. \u201cDon\u2019t stir, my dear\nAbb\u00e9,\u201d said Massot, \u201cI will try to ferret out the Princess for you. And\nyou shall know if Baroness Duvillard has already arrived.\u201d\n\nWhat surprised Pierre was that every window-shutter of the mansion was\nclosed, every chink stopped up so that daylight might not enter, and that\nevery room flared with electric lamps, an illumination of supernatural\nintensity. The heat was already very great, the atmosphere heavy with a\nviolent perfume of flowers and _odore di femina_. And to Pierre, who felt\nboth blinded and stifled, it seemed as if he were entering one of those\nluxurious, unearthly Dens of the Flesh such as the pleasure-world of\nParis conjures from dreamland. By rising on tiptoes, as the drawing-room\nentrance was wide open, he could distinguish the backs of the women who\nwere already seated, rows of necks crowned with fair or dark hair. The\nMauritanians were doubtless executing their first dance. He did not see\nthem, but he could divine the lascivious passion of the dance from the\nquiver of all those women\u2019s necks, which swayed as beneath a great gust\nof wind. Then laughter arose and a tempest of bravos, quite a tumult of\nenjoyment.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t put my hand on the Princess; you must wait a little,\u201d Massot\nreturned to say. \u201cI met Janzen and he promised to bring her to me. Don\u2019t\nyou know Janzen?\u201d\n\nThen, in part because his profession willed it, and in part for\npleasure\u2019s sake, he began to gossip. The Princess was a good friend of\nhis. He had described her first _soiree_ during the previous year, when\nshe had made her _d\u00e9but_ at that mansion on her arrival in Paris. He knew\nthe real truth about her so far as it could be known. Rich? yes, perhaps\nshe was, for she spent enormous sums. Married she must have been, and to\na real prince, too; no doubt she was still married to him, in spite of\nher story of widowhood. Indeed, it seemed certain that her husband, who\nwas as handsome as an archangel, was travelling about with a vocalist. As\nfor having a bee in her bonnet that was beyond discussion, as clear as\nnoonday. Whilst showing much intelligence, she constantly and suddenly\nshifted. Incapable of any prolonged effort, she went from one thing that\nhad awakened her curiosity to another, never attaching herself anywhere.\nAfter ardently busying herself with painting, she had lately become\nimpassioned for chemistry, and was now letting poetry master her.\n\n\u201cAnd so you don\u2019t know Janzen,\u201d continued Massot. \u201cIt was he who threw\nher into chemistry, into the study of explosives especially, for, as you\nmay imagine, the only interest in chemistry for her is its connection\nwith Anarchism. She, I think, is really an Austrian, though one must\nalways doubt anything she herself says. As for Janzen, he calls himself a\nRussian, but he\u2019s probably German. Oh! he\u2019s the most unobtrusive,\nenigmatical man in the world, without a home, perhaps without a name--a\nterrible fellow with an unknown past. I myself hold proofs which make me\nthink that he took part in that frightful crime at Barcelona. At all\nevents, for nearly a year now I\u2019ve been meeting him in Paris, where the\npolice no doubt are watching him. And nothing can rid me of the idea that\nhe merely consented to become our lunatic Princess\u2019s lover in order to\nthrow the detectives off the scent. He affects to live in the midst of\n_f\u00eates_, and he has introduced to the house some extraordinary people,\nAnarchists of all nationalities and all colours--for instance, one\nRaphanel, that fat, jovial little man yonder, a Frenchman he is, and his\ncompanions would do well to mistrust him. Then there\u2019s a Bergaz, a\nSpaniard, I think, an obscure jobber at the Bourse, whose sensual,\nblobber-lipped mouth is so disquieting. And there are others and others,\nadventurers and bandits from the four corners of the earth!... Ah! the\nforeign colonies of our Parisian pleasure-world! There are a few spotless\nfine names, a few real great fortunes among them, but as for the rest,\nah! what a herd!\u201d\n\nRosemonde\u2019s own drawing-room was summed up in those words: resounding\ntitles, real millionaires, then, down below, the most extravagant medley\nof international imposture and turpitude. And Pierre thought of that\ninternationalism, that cosmopolitanism, that flight of foreigners which,\never denser and denser, swooped down upon Paris. Most certainly it came\nthither to enjoy it, as to a city of adventure and delight, and it helped\nto rot it a little more. Was it then a necessary thing, that\ndecomposition of the great cities which have governed the world, that\naffluxion of every passion, every desire, every gratification, that\naccumulation of reeking soil from all parts of the world, there where, in\nbeauty and intelligence, blooms the flower of civilisation?\n\nHowever, Janzen appeared, a tall, thin fellow of about thirty, very fair\nwith grey, pale, harsh eyes, and a pointed beard and flowing curly hair\nwhich elongated his livid, cloudy face. He spoke indifferent French in a\nlow voice and without a gesture. And he declared that the Princess could\nnot be found; he had looked for her everywhere. Possibly, if somebody had\ndispleased her, she had shut herself up in her room and gone to bed,\nleaving her guests to amuse themselves in all freedom in whatever way\nthey might choose.\n\n\u201cWhy, but here she is!\u201d suddenly said Massot.\n\nRosemonde was indeed there, in the vestibule, watching the door as if she\nexpected somebody. Short, slight, and strange rather than pretty, with\nher delicate face, her sea-green eyes, her small quivering nose, her\nrather large and over-ruddy mouth, which was parted so that one could see\nher superb teeth, she that day wore a sky-blue gown spangled with silver;\nand she had silver bracelets on her arms and a silver circlet in her pale\nbrown hair, which rained down in curls and frizzy, straggling locks as\nthough waving in a perpetual breeze.\n\n\u201cOh! whatever you desire, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she said to Pierre as soon as\nshe knew his business. \u201cIf they don\u2019t take your old man in at our asylum,\nsend him to me, I\u2019ll take him, I will; I will sleep him somewhere here.\u201d\n\nStill, she remained disturbed, and continually glanced towards the door.\nAnd on the priest asking if Baroness Duvillard had yet arrived, \u201cWhy no!\u201d\n she cried, \u201cand I am much surprised at it. She is to bring her son and\ndaughter. Yesterday, Hyacinthe positively promised me that he would\ncome.\u201d\n\nThere lay her new caprice. If her passion for chemistry was giving way to\na budding taste for decadent, symbolical verse, it was because one\nevening, whilst discussing Occultism with Hyacinthe, she had discovered\nan extraordinary beauty in him: the astral beauty of Nero\u2019s wandering\nsoul! At least, said she, the signs of it were certain.\n\nAnd all at once she quitted Pierre: \u201cAh, at last!\u201d she cried, feeling\nrelieved and happy. Then she darted forward: Hyacinthe was coming in with\nhis sister Camille.\n\nOn the very threshold, however, he had just met the friend on whose\naccount he was there, young Lord George Eldrett, a pale and languid\nstripling with the hair of a girl; and he scarcely condescended to notice\nthe tender greeting of Rosemonde, for he professed to regard woman as an\nimpure and degrading creature. Distressed by such coldness, she followed\nthe two young men, returning in their rear into the reeking, blinding\nfurnace of the drawing-room.\n\nMassot, however, had been obliging enough to stop Camille and bring her\nto Pierre, who at the first words they exchanged relapsed into despair.\n\u201cWhat, mademoiselle, has not madame your mother accompanied you here?\u201d\n\nThe girl, clad according to her wont in a dark gown, this time of\npeacock-blue, was nervous, with wicked eyes and sibilant voice. And as\nshe ragefully drew up her little figure, her deformity, her left shoulder\nhigher than the right one, became more apparent than ever. \u201cNo,\u201d she\nrejoined, \u201cshe was unable. She had something to try on at her\ndressmaker\u2019s. We stopped too long at the Exposition du Lis, and she\nrequested us to set her down at Salmon\u2019s door on our way here.\u201d\n\nIt was Camille herself who had skilfully prolonged the visit to the art\nshow, still hoping to prevent her mother from meeting G\u00e9rard. And her\nrage arose from the ease with which her mother had got rid of her, thanks\nto that falsehood of having something to try on.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d ingenuously said Pierre, \u201cif I went at once to this person Salmon,\nI might perhaps be able to send up my card.\u201d\n\nCamille gave a shrill laugh, so funny did the idea appear to her. Then\nshe retorted: \u201cOh! who knows if you would still find her there? She had\nanother pressing appointment, and is no doubt already keeping it!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, I will wait for her here. She will surely come to fetch you,\nwill she not?\u201d\n\n\u201cFetch us? Oh no! since I tell you that she has other important affairs\nto attend to. The carriage will take us home alone, my brother and I.\u201d\n\nIncreasing bitterness was infecting the girl\u2019s pain-fraught irony. Did he\nnot understand her then, that priest who asked such naive questions which\nwere like dagger-thrusts in her heart? Yet he must know, since everybody\nknew the truth.\n\n\u201cAh! how worried I am,\u201d Pierre resumed, so grieved indeed that tears\nalmost came to his eyes. \u201cIt\u2019s still on account of that poor man about\nwhom I have been busying myself since this morning. I have a line from\nyour father, and Monsieur G\u00e9rard told me--\u201d But at this point he paused\nin confusion, and amidst all his thoughtlessness of the world, absorbed\nas he was in the one passion of charity, he suddenly divined the truth.\n\u201cYes,\u201d he added mechanically, \u201cI just now saw your father again with\nMonsieur de Quinsac.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know, I know,\u201d replied Camille, with the suffering yet scoffing air of\na girl who is ignorant of nothing. \u201cWell, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, if you have a\nline from papa for mamma, you must wait till mamma has finished her\nbusiness. You might come to the house about six o\u2019clock, but I doubt if\nyou\u2019ll find her there, as she may well be detained.\u201d\n\nWhile Camille thus spoke, her murderous eyes glistened, and each word she\nuttered, simple as it seemed, became instinct with ferocity, as if it\nwere a knife, which she would have liked to plunge into her mother\u2019s\nbreast. In all certainty she had never before hated her mother to such a\npoint as this in her envy of her beauty and her happiness in being loved.\nAnd the irony which poured from the girl\u2019s virgin lips, before that\nsimple priest, was like a flood of mire with which she sought to submerge\nher rival.\n\nJust then, however, Rosemonde came back again, feverish and flurried as\nusual. And she led Camille away: \u201cAh, my dear, make haste. They are\nextraordinary, delightful, intoxicating!\u201d\n\nJanzen and little Massot also followed the Princess. All the men hastened\nfrom the adjoining rooms, scrambled and plunged into the _salon_ at the\nnews that the Mauritanians had again begun to dance. That time it must\nhave been the frantic, lascivious gallop that Paris whispered about, for\nPierre saw the rows of necks and heads, now fair, now dark, wave and\nquiver as beneath a violent wind. With every window-shutter closed, the\nconflagration of the electric lamps turned the place into a perfect\nbrazier, reeking with human effluvia. And there came a spell of rapture,\nfresh laughter and bravos, all the delight of an overflowing orgy.\n\nWhen Pierre again found himself on the footwalk, he remained for a moment\nbewildered, blinking, astonished to be in broad daylight once more.\nHalf-past four would soon strike, but he had nearly two hours to wait\nbefore calling at the house in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy. What should he\ndo? He paid his driver; preferring to descend the Champs Elys\u00e9es on foot,\nsince he had some time to lose. A walk, moreover, might calm the fever\nwhich was burning his hands, in the passion of charity which ever since\nthe morning had been mastering him more and more, in proportion as he\nencountered fresh and fresh obstacles. He now had but one pressing\ndesire, to complete his good work, since success henceforth seemed\ncertain. And he tried to restrain his steps and walk leisurely down the\nmagnificent avenue, which had now been dried by the bright sun, and was\nenlivened by a concourse of people, while overhead the sky was again\nblue, lightly blue, as in springtime.\n\nNearly two hours to lose while, yonder, the wretched Laveuve lay with\nlife ebbing from him on his bed of rags, in his icy den. Sudden feelings\nof revolt, of well-nigh irresistible impatience ascended from Pierre\u2019s\nheart, making him quiver with desire to run off and at once find Baroness\nDuvillard so as to obtain from her the all-saving order. He felt sure\nthat she was somewhere near, in one of those quiet neighbouring streets,\nand great was his perturbation, his grief-fraught anger at having to wait\nin this wise to save a human life until she should have attended to those\naffairs of hers, of which her daughter spoke with such murderous glances!\nHe seemed to hear a formidable cracking, the family life of the\n_bourgeoisie_ was collapsing: the father was at a hussy\u2019s house, the\nmother with a lover, the son and daughter knew everything; the former\ngliding to idiotic perversity, the latter enraged and dreaming of\nstealing her mother\u2019s lover to make a husband of him. And meantime the\nsplendid equipages descended the triumphal avenue, and the crowd with its\nluxury flowed along the sidewalks, one and all joyous and superb,\nseemingly with no idea that somewhere at the far end there was a gaping\nabyss wherein everyone of them would fall and be annihilated!\n\nWhen Pierre got as far as the Summer Circus he was much surprised at\nagain seeing Salvat, the journeyman engineer, on one of the avenue seats.\nHe must have sunk down there, overcome by weariness and hunger, after\nmany a vain search. However, his jacket was still distended by something\nhe carried in or under it, some bit of bread, no doubt, which he meant to\ntake home with him. And leaning back, with his arms hanging listlessly,\nhe was watching with dreamy eyes the play of some very little children,\nwho, with the help of their wooden spades, were laboriously raising\nmounds of sand, and then destroying them by dint of kicks. As he looked\nat them his red eyelids moistened, and a very gentle smile appeared on\nhis poor discoloured lips. This time Pierre, penetrated by disquietude,\nwished to approach and question him. But Salvat distrustfully rose and\nwent off towards the Circus, where a concert was drawing to a close; and\nhe prowled around the entrance of that festive edifice in which two\nthousand happy people were heaped up together listening to music.\n\n\n\n\nV. FROM RELIGION TO ANARCHY\n\nAS Pierre was reaching the Place de la Concorde he suddenly remembered\nthe appointment which Abb\u00e9 Rose had given him for five o\u2019clock at the\nMadeleine, and which he was forgetting in the feverishness born of his\nrepeated steps to save Laveuve. And at thought of it he hastened on, well\npleased at having this appointment to occupy and keep him patient.\n\nWhen he entered the church he was surprised to find it so dark. There\nwere only a few candles burning, huge shadows were flooding the nave, and\namidst the semi-obscurity a very loud, clear voice spoke on with a\nceaseless streaming of words. All that one could at first distinguish of\nthe numerous congregation was a pale, vague mass of heads, motionless\nwith extreme attention. In the pulpit stood Monseigneur Martha, finishing\nhis third address on the New Spirit. The two former ones had re-echoed\nfar and wide, and so what is called \u201call Paris\u201d was there--women of\nsociety, politicians, and writers, who were captivated by the speaker\u2019s\nartistic oratory, his warm, skilful language, and his broad, easy\ngestures, worthy of a great actor.\n\nPierre did not wish to disturb the solemn attention, the quivering\nsilence above which the prelate\u2019s voice alone rang out. Accordingly he\nresolved to wait before seeking Abb\u00e9 Rose, and remained standing near a\npillar. A parting gleam of daylight fell obliquely on Monseigneur Martha,\nwho looked tall and sturdy in his white surplice, and scarcely showed a\ngrey hair, although he was more than fifty. He had handsome features:\nblack, keen eyes, a commanding nose, a mouth and chin of the greatest\nfirmness of contour. What more particularly struck one, however, what\ngained the heart of every listener, was the expression of extreme\namiability and anxious sympathy which ever softened the imperious\nhaughtiness of the prelate\u2019s face.\n\nPierre had formerly known him as Cur\u00e9, or parish priest, of Ste.\nClotilde. He was doubtless of Italian origin, but he had been born in\nParis, and had quitted the seminary of St. Sulpice with the best possible\nrecord. Very intelligent and very ambitious, he had evinced an activity\nwhich even made his superiors anxious. Then, on being appointed Bishop of\nPersepolis, he had disappeared, gone to Rome, where he had spent five\nyears engaged in work of which very little was known. However, since his\nreturn he had been astonishing Paris by his brilliant propaganda, busying\nhimself with the most varied affairs, and becoming much appreciated and\nvery powerful at the archiepiscopal residence. He devoted himself in\nparticular, and with wonderful results, to the task of increasing the\nsubscriptions for the completion of the basilica of the Sacred Heart. He\nrecoiled from nothing, neither from journeys, nor lectures, nor\ncollections, nor applications to Government, nor even endeavours among\nIsraelites and Freemasons. And at last, again enlarging his sphere of\naction, he had undertaken to reconcile Science with Catholicism, and to\nbring all Christian France to the Republic, on all sides expounding the\npolicy of Pope Leo XIII., in order that the Church might finally triumph.\n\nHowever, in spite of the advances of this influential and amiable man,\nPierre scarcely liked him. He only felt grateful to him for one thing,\nthe appointment of good Abb\u00e9 Rose as curate at St. Pierre de Montmartre,\nwhich appointment he had secured for him no doubt in order to prevent\nsuch a scandal as the punishment of an old priest for showing himself too\ncharitable. On thus finding and hearing the prelate speak in that\nrenowned pulpit of the Madeleine, still and ever pursuing his work of\nconquest, Pierre remembered how he had seen him at the Duvillards\u2019 during\nthe previous spring, when, with his usual _maestria_, he had achieved his\ngreatest triumph--the conversion of Eve to Catholicism. That church, too,\nhad witnessed her baptism, a wonderfully pompous ceremony, a perfect gala\noffered to the public which figures in all the great events of Parisian\nlife. G\u00e9rard had knelt down, moved to tears, whilst the Baron triumphed\nlike a good-natured husband who was happy to find religion establishing\nperfect harmony in his household. It was related among the spectators\nthat Eve\u2019s family, and particularly old Justus Steinberger, her father,\nwas not in reality much displeased by the affair. The old man sneeringly\nremarked, indeed, that he knew his daughter well enough to wish her to\nbelong to his worst enemy. In the banking business there is a class of\nsecurity which one is pleased to see discounted by one\u2019s rivals. With the\nstubborn hope of triumph peculiar to his race, Justus, consoling himself\nfor the failure of his first scheme, doubtless considered that Eve would\nprove a powerful dissolving agent in the Christian family which she had\nentered, and thus help to make all wealth and power fall into the hands\nof the Jews.\n\nHowever, Pierre\u2019s vision faded. Monseigneur Martha\u2019s voice was rising\nwith increase of volume, celebrating, amidst the quivering of the\ncongregation, the benefits that would accrue from the New Spirit, which\nwas at last about to pacify France and restore her to her due rank and\npower. Were there not certain signs of this resurrection on every hand?\nThe New Spirit was the revival of the Ideal, the protest of the soul\nagainst degrading materialism, the triumph of spirituality over filthy\nliterature; and it was also Science accepted, but set in its proper\nplace, reconciled with Faith, since it no longer pretended to encroach on\nthe latter\u2019s sacred domain; and it was further the Democracy welcomed in\nfatherly fashion, the Republic legitimated, recognised in her turn as\nEldest Daughter of the Church. A breath of poetry passed by. The Church\nopened her heart to all her children, there would henceforth be but\nconcord and delight if the masses, obedient to the New Spirit, would give\nthemselves to the Master of love as they had given themselves to their\nkings, recognising that the Divinity was the one unique power, absolute\nsovereign of both body and soul.\n\nPierre was now listening attentively, wondering where it was that he had\npreviously heard almost identical words. And suddenly he remembered; and\ncould fancy that he was again at Rome, listening to the last words of\nMonsignor Nani, the Assessor of the Holy Office. Here, again, he found\nthe dream of a democratic Pope, ceasing to support the compromised\nmonarchies, and seeking to subdue the masses. Since Caesar was down, or\nnearly so, might not the Pope realise the ancient ambition of his\nforerunners and become both emperor and pontiff, the sovereign, universal\ndivinity on earth? This, too, was the dream in which Pierre himself, with\napostolic na\u00efvet\u00e9, had indulged when writing his book, \u201cNew Rome\u201d: a\ndream from which the sight of the real Rome had so roughly roused him. At\nbottom it was merely a policy of hypocritical falsehood, the priestly\npolicy which relies on time, and is ever tenacious, carrying on the work\nof conquest with extraordinary suppleness, resolved to profit by\neverything. And what an evolution it was, the Church of Rome making\nadvances to Science, to the Democracy, to the Republican _r\u00e9gimes_,\nconvinced that it would be able to devour them if only it were allowed\nthe time! Ah! yes, the New Spirit was simply the Old Spirit of\nDomination, incessantly reviving and hungering to conquer and possess the\nworld.\n\nPierre thought that he recognised among the congregation certain deputies\nwhom he had seen at the Chamber. Wasn\u2019t that tall gentleman with the fair\nbeard, who listened so devoutly, one of Monferrand\u2019s creatures? It was\nsaid that Monferrand, once a devourer of priests, was now smilingly\ncoquetting with the clergy. Quite an underhand evolution was beginning in\nthe sacristies, orders from Rome flitted hither and thither; it was a\nquestion of accepting the new form of government, and absorbing it by\ndint of invasion. France was still the Eldest Daughter of the Church, the\nonly great nation which had sufficient health and strength to place the\nPope in possession of his temporal power once more. So France must be\nwon; it was well worth one\u2019s while to espouse her, even if she were\nRepublican. In the eager struggle of ambition the bishop made use of the\nminister, who thought it to his interest to lean upon the bishop. But\nwhich of the two would end by devouring the other? And to what a _r\u00f4le_\nhad religion sunk: an electoral weapon, an element in a parliamentary\nmajority, a decisive, secret reason for obtaining or retaining a\nministerial portfolio! Of divine charity, the basis of religion, there\nwas no thought, and Pierre\u2019s heart filled with bitterness as he\nremembered the recent death of Cardinal Bergerot, the last of the great\nsaints and pure minds of the French episcopacy, among which there now\nseemed to be merely a set of intriguers and fools.\n\nHowever, the address was drawing to a close. In a glowing peroration,\nwhich evoked the basilica of the Sacred Heart dominating Paris with the\nsaving symbol of the Cross from the sacred Mount of the Martyrs,*\nMonseigneur Martha showed that great city of Paris Christian once more\nand master of the world, thanks to the moral omnipotence conferred upon\nit by the divine breath of the New Spirit. Unable to applaud, the\ncongregation gave utterance to a murmur of approving rapture, delighted\nas it was with this miraculous finish which reassured both pocket and\nconscience. Then Monseigneur Martha quitted the pulpit with a noble step,\nwhilst a loud noise of chairs broke upon the dark peacefulness of the\nchurch, where the few lighted candles glittered like the first stars in\nthe evening sky. A long stream of men, vague, whispering shadows, glided\naway. The women alone remained, praying on their knees.\n\n  * Montmartre.\n\nPierre, still in the same spot, was rising on tip-toes, looking for Abb\u00e9\nRose, when a hand touched him. It was that of the old priest, who had\nseen him from a distance. \u201cI was yonder near the pulpit,\u201d said he, \u201cand I\nsaw you plainly, my dear child. Only I preferred to wait so as to disturb\nnobody. What a beautiful address dear Monseigneur delivered!\u201d\n\nHe seemed, indeed, much moved. But there was deep sadness about his\nkindly mouth and clear childlike eyes, whose smile as a rule illumined\nhis good, round white face. \u201cI was afraid you might go off without seeing\nme,\u201d he resumed, \u201cfor I have something to tell you. You know that poor\nold man to whom I sent you this morning and in whom I asked you to\ninterest yourself? Well, on getting home I found a lady there, who\nsometimes brings me a little money for my poor. Then I thought to myself\nthat the three francs I gave you were really too small a sum, and as the\nthought worried me like a kind of remorse, I couldn\u2019t resist the impulse,\nbut went this afternoon to the Rue des Saules myself.\u201d\n\nHe lowered his voice from a feeling of respect, in order not to disturb\nthe deep, sepulchral silence of the church. Covert shame, moreover,\nimpeded his utterance, shame at having again relapsed into the sin of\nblind, imprudent charity, as his superiors reproachfully said. And,\nquivering, he concluded in a very low voice indeed: \u201cAnd so, my child,\npicture my grief. I had five francs more to give the poor old man, and I\nfound him dead.\u201d\n\nPierre suddenly shuddered. But he was unwilling to understand: \u201cWhat,\ndead!\u201d he cried. \u201cThat old man dead! Laveuve dead?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I found him dead--ah! amidst what frightful wretchedness, like an\nold animal that has laid itself down for the finish on a heap of rags in\nthe depths of a hole. No neighbours had assisted him in his last moments;\nhe had simply turned himself towards the wall. And ah! how bare and cold\nand deserted it was! And what a pang for a poor creature to go off like\nthat without a word, a caress. Ah! my heart bounded within me and it is\nstill bleeding!\u201d\n\nPierre in his utter amazement at first made but a gesture of revolt\nagainst imbecile social cruelty. Had the bread left near the unfortunate\nwretch, and devoured too eagerly, perhaps, after long days of abstinence,\nbeen the cause of his death? Or was not this rather the fatal\n_d\u00e9nouement_ of an ended life, worn away by labour and privation?\nHowever, what did the cause signify? Death had come and delivered the\npoor man. \u201cIt isn\u2019t he that I pity,\u201d Pierre muttered at last; \u201cit is\nwe--we who witness all that, we who are guilty of these abominations.\u201d\n\nBut good Abb\u00e9 Rose was already becoming resigned, and would only think of\nforgiveness and hope. \u201cNo, no, my child, rebellion is evil. If we are all\nguilty we can only implore Providence to forget our faults. I had given\nyou an appointment here hoping for good news; and it\u2019s I who come to tell\nyou of that frightful thing. Let us be penitent and pray.\u201d\n\nThen he knelt upon the flagstones near the pillar, in the rear of the\npraying women, who looked black and vague in the gloom. And he inclined\nhis white head, and for a long time remained in a posture of humility.\n\nBut Pierre was unable to pray, so powerfully did revolt stir him. He did\nnot even bend his knees, but remained erect and quivering. His heart\nseemed to have been crushed; not a tear came to his ardent eyes. So\nLaveuve had died yonder, stretched on his litter of rags, his hands\nclenched in his obstinate desire to cling to his life of torture, whilst\nhe, Pierre, again glowing with the flame of charity, consumed by\napostolic zeal, was scouring Paris to find him for the evening a clean\nbed on which he might be saved. Ah! the atrocious irony of it all! He\nmust have been at the Duvillards\u2019 in the warm _salon_, all blue and\nsilver, whilst the old man was expiring; and it was for a wretched corpse\nthat he had then hastened to the Chamber of Deputies, to the Countess de\nQuinsac\u2019s, to that creature Silviane\u2019s, and to that creature Rosemonde\u2019s.\nAnd it was for that corpse, freed from life, escaped from misery as from\nprison, that he had worried people, broken in upon their egotism,\ndisturbed the peace of some, threatened the pleasures of others! What was\nthe use of hastening from the parliamentary den to the cold _salon_ where\nthe dust of the past was congealing; of going from the sphere of\nmiddle-class debauchery to that of cosmopolitan extravagance, since one\nalways arrived too late, and saved people when they were already dead?\nHow ridiculous to have allowed himself to be fired once more by that\nblaze of charity, that final conflagration, only the ashes of which he\nnow felt within him? This time he thought he was dead himself; he was\nnaught but an empty sepulchre.\n\nAnd all the frightful void and chaos which he had felt that morning at\nthe basilica of the Sacred Heart after his mass became yet deeper,\nhenceforth unfathomable. If charity were illusory and useless the Gospel\ncrumbled, the end of the Book was nigh. After centuries of stubborn\nefforts, Redemption through Christianity failed, and another means of\nsalvation was needed by the world in presence of the exasperated thirst\nfor justice which came from the duped and wretched nations. They would\nhave no more of that deceptive paradise, the promise of which had so long\nserved to prop up social iniquity; they demanded that the question of\nhappiness should be decided upon this earth. But how? By means of what\nnew religion, what combination between the sentiment of the Divine and\nthe necessity for honouring life in its sovereignty and its fruitfulness?\nTherein lay the grievous, torturing problem, into the midst of which\nPierre was sinking; he, a priest, severed by vows of chastity and\nsuperstition from the rest of mankind.\n\nHe had ceased to believe in the efficacy of alms; it was not sufficient\nthat one should be charitable, henceforth one must be just. Given\njustice, indeed, horrid misery would disappear, and no such thing as\ncharity would be needed. Most certainly there was no lack of\ncompassionate hearts in that grievous city of Paris; charitable\nfoundations sprouted forth there like green leaves at the first warmth of\nspringtide. There were some for every age, every peril, every misfortune.\nThrough the concern shown for mothers, children were succoured even\nbefore they were born; then came the infant and orphan asylums lavishly\nprovided for all sorts of classes; and, afterwards, man was followed\nthrough his life, help was tendered on all sides, particularly as he grew\nold, by a multiplicity of asylums, almshouses, and refuges. And there\nwere all the hands stretched out to the forsaken ones, the disinherited\nones, even the criminals, all sorts of associations to protect the weak,\nsocieties for the prevention of crime, homes that offered hospitality to\nthose who repented. Whether as regards the propagation of good deeds, the\nsupport of the young, the saving of life, the bestowal of pecuniary help,\nor the promotion of guilds, pages and pages would have been needed merely\nto particularise the extraordinary vegetation of charity that sprouted\nbetween the paving-stones of Paris with so fine a vigour, in which\ngoodness of soul was mingled with social vanity. Still that could not\nmatter, since charity redeemed and purified all. But how terrible the\nproposition that this charity was a useless mockery! What! after so many\ncenturies of Christian charity not a sore had healed. Misery had only\ngrown and spread, irritated even to rage. Incessantly aggravated, the\nevil was reaching the point when it would be impossible to tolerate it\nfor another day, since social injustice was neither arrested nor even\ndiminished thereby. And besides, if only one single old man died of cold\nand hunger, did not the social edifice, raised on the theory of charity,\ncollapse? But one victim, and society was condemned, thought Pierre.\n\nHe now felt such bitterness of heart that he could remain no longer in\nthat church where the shadows ever slowly fell, blurring the sanctuaries\nand the large pale images of Christ nailed upon the Cross. All was about\nto sink into darkness, and he could hear nothing beyond an expiring\nmurmur of prayers, a plaint from the women who were praying on their\nknees, in the depths of the shrouding gloom.\n\nAt the same time he hardly liked to go off without saying a word to Abb\u00e9\nRose, who in his entreaties born of simple faith left the happiness and\npeace of mankind to the good pleasure of the Invisible. However, fearing\nthat he might disturb him, Pierre was making up his mind to retire, when\nthe old priest of his own accord raised his head. \u201cAh, my child,\u201d said\nhe, \u201chow difficult it is to be good in a reasonable manner. Monseigneur\nMartha has scolded me again, and but for the forgiveness of God I should\nfear for my salvation.\u201d\n\nFor a moment Pierre paused under the porticus of the Madeleine, on the\nsummit of the great flight of steps which, rising above the railings,\ndominates the Place. Before him was the Rue Royale dipping down to the\nexpanse of the Place de la Concorde, where rose the obelisk and the pair\nof plashing fountains. And, farther yet, the paling colonnade of the\nChamber of Deputies bounded the horizon. It was a vista of sovereign\ngrandeur under that pale sky over which twilight was slowly stealing, and\nwhich seemed to broaden the thoroughfares, throw back the edifices, and\nlend them the quivering, soaring aspect of the palaces of dreamland. No\nother capital in the world could boast a scene of such aerial pomp, such\ngrandiose magnificence, at that hour of vagueness, when falling night\nimparts to cities a dreamy semblance, the infinite of human immensity.\n\nMotionless and hesitating in presence of the opening expanse, Pierre\ndistressfully pondered as to whither he should go now that all which he\nhad so passionately sought to achieve since the morning had suddenly\ncrumbled away. Was he still bound for the Duvillard mansion in the Rue\nGodot-de-Mauroy? He no longer knew. Then the exasperating remembrance,\nwith its cruel irony, returned to him. Since Laveuve was dead, of what\nuse was it for him to kill time and perambulate the pavements pending the\narrival of six o\u2019clock? The idea that he had a home, and that the most\nsimple course would be to return to it, did not even occur to him. He\nfelt as if there were something of importance left for him to do, though\nhe could not possibly tell what it might be. It seemed to him to be\neverywhere and yet very far away, to be so vague and so difficult of\naccomplishment that he would certainly never be in time or have\nsufficient power to do it. However, with heavy feet and tumultuous brain\nhe descended the steps and, yielding to some obstinate impulse, began to\nwalk through the flower-market, a late winter market where the first\nazaleas were opening with a little shiver. Some women were purchasing\nNice roses and violets; and Pierre looked at them as if he were\ninterested in all that soft, delicate, perfumed luxury. But suddenly he\nfelt a horror of it and went off, starting along the Boulevards.\n\nHe walked straight before him without knowing why or whither. The falling\ndarkness surprised him as if it were an unexpected phenomenon. Raising\nhis eyes to the sky he felt astonished at seeing its azure gently pale\nbetween the slender black streaks of the chimney funnels. And the huge\ngolden letters by which names or trades were advertised on every balcony\nalso seemed to him singular in the last gleams of the daylight. Never\nbefore had he paid attention to the motley tints seen on the\nhouse-fronts, the painted mirrors, the blinds, the coats of arms, the\nposters of violent hues, the magnificent shops, like drawing-rooms and\nboudoirs open to the full light. And then, both in the roadway and along\nthe foot-pavements, between the blue, red or yellow columns and kiosks,\nwhat mighty traffic there was, what an extraordinary crowd! The vehicles\nrolled along in a thundering stream: on all sides billows of cabs were\nparted by the ponderous tacking of huge omnibuses, which suggested lofty,\nbright-hued battle-ships. And on either hand, and farther and farther,\nand even among the wheels, the flood of passengers rushed on incessantly,\nwith the conquering haste of ants in a state of revolution. Whence came\nall those people, and whither were all those vehicles going? How\nstupefying and torturing it all was.\n\nPierre was still walking straight ahead, mechanically, carried on by his\ngloomy reverie. Night was coming, the first gas-burners were being\nlighted; it was the dusk of Paris, the hour when real darkness has not\nyet come, when the electric lights flame in the dying day. Lamps shone\nforth on all sides, the shop-fronts were being illumined. Soon, moreover,\nright along the Boulevards the vehicles would carry their vivid starry\nlights, like a milky way on the march betwixt the foot-pavements all\nglowing with lanterns and cordons and girandoles, a dazzling profusion of\nradiance akin to sunlight. And the shouts of the drivers and the jostling\nof the foot passengers re-echoed the parting haste of the Paris which is\nall business or passion, which is absorbed in the merciless struggle for\nlove and for money. The hard day was over, and now the Paris of Pleasure\nwas lighting up for its night of _f\u00eate_. The caf\u00e9s, the wine shops, the\nrestaurants, flared and displayed their bright metal bars, and their\nlittle white tables behind their clear and lofty windows, whilst near\ntheir doors, by way of temptation, were oysters and choice fruits. And\nthe Paris which was thus awaking with the first flashes of the gas was\nalready full of the gaiety of enjoyment, already yielding to an unbridled\nappetite for whatsoever may be purchased.\n\nHowever, Pierre had a narrow escape from being knocked down. A flock of\nnewspaper hawkers came out of a side street, and darted through the crowd\nshouting the titles of the evening journals. A fresh edition of the \u201cVoix\ndu Peuple\u201d gave rise, in particular, to a deafening clamour, which rose\nabove all the rumbling of wheels. At regular intervals hoarse voices\nraised and repeated the cry: \u201cAsk for the \u2018Voix du Peuple\u2019--the new\nscandal of the African Railway Lines, the repulse of the ministry, the\nthirty-two bribe-takers of the Chamber and the Senate!\u201d And these\nannouncements, set in huge type, could be read on the copies of the\npaper, which the hawkers flourished like banners. Accustomed as it was to\nsuch filth, saturated with infamy, the crowd continued on its way without\npaying much attention. Still a few men paused and bought the paper, while\npainted women, who had come down to the Boulevards in search of a dinner,\ntrailed their skirts and waited for some chance lover, glancing\ninterrogatively at the outside customers of the caf\u00e9s. And meantime the\ndishonouring shout of the newspaper hawkers, that cry in which there was\nboth smirch and buffet, seemed like the last knell of the day, ringing\nthe nation\u2019s funeral at the outset of the night of pleasure which was\nbeginning.\n\nThen Pierre once more remembered his morning and that frightful house in\nthe Rue des Saules, where so much want and suffering were heaped up. He\nagain saw the yard filthy like a quagmire, the evil-smelling staircases,\nthe sordid, bare, icy rooms, the families fighting for messes which even\nstray dogs would not have eaten; the mothers, with exhausted breasts,\ncarrying screaming children to and fro; the old men who fell in corners\nlike brute beasts, and died of hunger amidst filth. And then came his\nother hours with the magnificence or the quietude or the gaiety of the\n_salons_ through which he had passed, the whole insolent display of\nfinancial Paris, and political Paris, and society Paris. And at last he\ncame to the dusk, and to that Paris-Sodom and Paris-Gomorrah before him,\nwhich was lighting itself up for the night, for the abominations of that\naccomplice night which, like fine dust, was little by little submerging\nthe expanse of roofs. And the hateful monstrosity of it all howled aloud\nunder the pale sky where the first pure, twinkling stars were gleaming.\n\nA great shudder came upon Pierre as he thought of all that mass of\niniquity and suffering, of all that went on below amid want and crime,\nand all that went on above amid wealth and vice. The _bourgeoisie_,\nwielding power, would relinquish naught of the sovereignty which it had\nconquered, wholly stolen, while the people, the eternal dupe, silent so\nlong, clenched its fists and growled, claiming its legitimate share. And\nit was that frightful injustice which filled the growing gloom with\nanger. From what dark-breasted cloud would the thunderbolt fall? For\nyears he had been waiting for that thunderbolt which low rumbles\nannounced on all points of the horizon. And if he had written a book full\nof candour and hope, if he had gone in all innocence to Rome, it was to\navert that thunderbolt and its frightful consequences. But all hope of\nthe kind was dead within him; he felt that the thunderbolt was\ninevitable, that nothing henceforth could stay the catastrophe. And never\nbefore had he felt it to be so near, amidst the happy impudence of some,\nand the exasperated distress of others. And it was gathering, and it\nwould surely fall over that Paris, all lust and bravado, which, when\nevening came, thus stirred up its furnace.\n\nTired out and distracted, Pierre raised his eyes as he reached the Place\nde l\u2019Opera. Where was he then? The heart of the great city seemed to beat\non this spot, in that vast expanse where met so many thoroughfares, as if\nfrom every point the blood of distant districts flowed thither along\ntriumphal avenues. Right away to the horizon stretched the great gaps of\nthe Avenue de l\u2019Opera, the Rue du Quatre-Septembre, and the Rue de la\nPaix, still showing clearly in a final glimpse of daylight, but already\nstarred with swarming sparks. The torrent of the Boulevard traffic poured\nacross the Place, where clashed, too, all that from the neighbouring\nstreets, with a constant turning and eddying which made the spot the most\ndangerous of whirlpools. In vain did the police seek to impose some\nlittle prudence, the stream of pedestrians still overflowed, wheels\nbecame entangled and horses reared amidst all the uproar of the human\ntide, which was as loud, as incessant, as the tempest voice of an ocean.\nThen there was the detached mass of the opera-house, slowly steeped in\ngloom, and rising huge and mysterious like a symbol, its lyre-bearing\nfigure of Apollo, right aloft, showing a last reflection of daylight\namidst the livid sky. And all the windows of the house-fronts began to\nshine, gaiety sprang from those thousands of lamps which coruscated one\nby one, a universal longing for ease and free gratification of each\ndesire spread with the increasing darkness; whilst, at long intervals,\nthe large globes of the electric lights shone as brightly as the moons of\nthe city\u2019s cloudless nights.\n\nBut why was he, Pierre, there, he asked himself, irritated and wondering.\nSince Laveuve was dead he had but to go home, bury himself in his nook,\nand close up door and windows, like one who was henceforth useless, who\nhad neither belief nor hope, and awaited naught save annihilation. It was\na long journey from the Place de l\u2019Opera to his little house at Neuilly.\nStill, however great his weariness, he would not take a cab, but retraced\nhis steps, turning towards the Madeleine again, and plunging into the\nscramble of the pavements, amidst the deafening uproar from the roadway,\nwith a bitter desire to aggravate his wound and saturate himself with\nrevolt and anger. Was it not yonder at the corner of that street, at the\nend of that Boulevard, that he would find the expected abyss into which\nthat rotten world, whose old society he could hear rending at each step,\nmust soon assuredly topple?\n\nHowever, when Pierre wished to cross the Rue Scribe a block in the\ntraffic made him halt. In front of a luxurious caf\u00e9 two tall,\nshabbily-clad and very dirty fellows were alternately offering the \u201cVoix\ndu Peuple\u201d with its account of the scandals and the bribe-takers of the\nChamber and the Senate, in voices so suggestive of cracked brass that\npassers-by clustered around them. And here, in a hesitating, wandering\nman, who after listening drew near to the large caf\u00e9 and peered through\nits windows, Pierre was once again amazed to recognise Salvat. This time\nthe meeting struck him forcibly, filled him with suspicion to such a\npoint that he also stopped and resolved to watch the journeyman engineer.\nHe did not expect that one of such wretched aspect, with what seemed to\nbe a hunk of bread distending his old ragged jacket, would enter and seat\nhimself at one of the caf\u00e9\u2019s little tables amidst the warm gaiety of the\nlamps. However, he waited for a moment, and then saw him wander away with\nslow and broken steps as if the caf\u00e9, which was nearly empty, did not\nsuit him. What could he have been seeking, whither had he been going,\nsince the morning, ever on a wild, solitary chase through the Paris of\nwealth and enjoyment while hunger dogged his steps? It was only with\ndifficulty that he now dragged himself along, his will and energy seemed\nto be exhausted. As if quite overcome, he drew near to a kiosk, and for a\nmoment leant against it. Then, however, he drew himself up again, and\nwalked on further, still as it were in search of something.\n\nAnd now came an incident which brought Pierre\u2019s emotion to a climax. A\ntall sturdy man on turning out of the Rue Caumartin caught sight of\nSalvat, and approached him. And just as the new comer without false pride\nwas shaking the workman\u2019s hand, Pierre recognised him as his brother\nGuillaume. Yes, it was indeed he, with his thick bushy hair already white\nlike snow, though he was but seven and forty. However, his heavy\nmoustaches had remained quite dark without one silver thread, thus\nlending an expression of vigorous life to his full face with its lofty\ntowering brow. It was from his father that he had inherited that brow of\nimpregnable logic and reason, similar to that which Pierre himself\npossessed. But the lower part of the elder brother\u2019s countenance was\nfuller than that of his junior; his nose was larger, his chin was square,\nand his mouth broad and firm of contour. A pale scar, the mark of an old\nwound, streaked his left temple. And his physiognomy, though it might at\nfirst seem very grave, rough, and unexpansive, beamed with masculine\nkindliness whenever a smile revealed his teeth, which had remained\nextremely white.\n\nWhile looking at his brother, Pierre remembered what Madame Th\u00e9odore had\ntold him that morning. Guillaume, touched by Salvat\u2019s dire want, had\narranged to give him a few days\u2019 employment. And this explained the air\nof interest with which he now seemed to be questioning him, while the\nengineer, whom the meeting disturbed, stamped about as if eager to resume\nhis mournful ramble. For a moment Guillaume appeared to notice the\nother\u2019s perturbation, by the embarrassed answers which he obtained from\nhim. Still, they at last parted as if each were going his way. Then,\nhowever, almost immediately, Guillaume turned round again and watched the\nother, as with harassed stubborn mien he went off through the crowd. And\nthe thoughts which had come to Guillaume must have been very serious and\nvery pressing, for he all at once began to retrace his steps and follow\nthe workman from a distance, as if to ascertain for certain what\ndirection he would take.\n\nPierre had watched the scene with growing disquietude. His nervous\napprehension of some great unknown calamity, the suspicions born of his\nfrequent and inexplicable meetings with Salvat, his surprise at now\nseeing his brother mingled with the affair, all helped to fill him with a\npressing desire to know, witness, and perhaps prevent. So he did not\nhesitate, but began to follow the others in a prudent way.\n\nFresh perturbation came upon him when first Salvat and then Guillaume\nsuddenly turned into the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy. What destiny was thus\nbringing him back to that street whither a little time previously he had\nwished to return in feverish haste, and whence only the death of Laveuve\nhad kept him? And his consternation increased yet further when, after\nlosing sight of Salvat for a moment, he saw him standing in front of the\nDuvillard mansion, on the same spot where he had fancied he recognised\nhim that morning. As it happened the carriage entrance of the mansion was\nwide open. Some repairs had been made to the paving of the porch, and\nalthough the workmen had now gone off, the doorway remained gaping, full\nof the falling night. The narrow street, running from the glittering\nBoulevard, was steeped in bluish gloom, starred at long intervals by a\nfew gas-lamps. Some women went by, compelling Salvat to step off the\nfoot-pavement. But he returned to it again, lighted the stump of a cigar,\nsome remnant which he had found under a table outside a caf\u00e9, and then\nresumed his watch, patient and motionless, in front of the mansion.\n\nDisturbed by his dim conjectures, Pierre gradually grew frightened, and\nasked himself if he ought not to approach that man. The chief thing that\ndetained him was the presence of his brother, whom he had seen disappear\ninto a neighbouring doorway, whence he also was observing the engineer,\nready to intervene. And so Pierre contented himself with not losing sight\nof Salvat, who was still waiting and watching, merely taking his eyes\nfrom the mansion in order to glance towards the Boulevard as though he\nexpected someone or something which would come from that direction. And\nat last, indeed, the Duvillards\u2019 landau appeared, with coachman and\nfootman in livery of green and gold--a closed landau to which a pair of\ntall horses of superb build were harnessed in stylish fashion.\n\nContrary to custom, however, the carriage, which at that hour usually\nbrought the father and mother home, was only occupied that evening by the\nson and daughter, Hyacinthe and Camille. Returning from the Princess de\nHarn\u2019s _matin\u00e9e_, they were chatting freely, with that calm immodesty by\nwhich they sought to astonish one another. Hyacinthe, influenced by his\nperverted ideas, was attacking women, whilst Camille openly counselled\nhim to respond to the Princess\u2019s advances. However, she was visibly\nirritated and feverish that evening, and, suddenly changing the subject,\nshe began to speak of their mother and G\u00e9rard de Quinsac.\n\n\u201cBut what can it matter to you?\u201d quietly retorted Hyacinthe; and, seeing\nthat she almost bounded from the seat at this remark, he continued: \u201cAre\nyou still in love with him, then? Do you still want to marry him?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I do, and I will!\u201d she cried with all the jealous rage of an\nuncomely girl, who suffered so acutely at seeing herself spurned whilst\nher yet beautiful mother stole from her the man she wanted.\n\n\u201cYou will, you will!\u201d resumed Hyacinthe, well pleased to have an\nopportunity of teasing his sister, whom he somewhat feared. \u201cBut you\nwon\u2019t unless _he_ is willing--And he doesn\u2019t care for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe does!\u201d retorted Camille in a fury. \u201cHe\u2019s kind and pleasant with me,\nand that\u2019s enough.\u201d\n\nHer brother felt afraid as he noticed the blackness of her glance, and\nthe clenching of her weak little hands, whose fingers bent like claws.\nAnd after a pause he asked: \u201cAnd papa, what does he say about it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, papa! All that he cares about is the other one.\u201d\n\nThen Hyacinthe began to laugh.\n\nBut the landau, with its tall horses trotting on sonorously, had turned\ninto the street and was approaching the house, when a slim fair-haired\ngirl of sixteen or seventeen, a modiste\u2019s errand girl with a large\nbandbox on her arm, hastily crossed the road in order to enter the arched\ndoorway before the carriage. She was bringing a bonnet for the Baroness,\nand had come all along the Boulevard musing, with her soft blue eyes, her\npinky nose, and her mouth which ever laughed in the most adorable little\nface that one could see. And it was at this same moment that Salvat,\nafter another glance at the landau, sprang forward and entered the\ndoorway. An instant afterwards he reappeared, flung his lighted cigar\nstump into the gutter; and without undue haste went off, slinking into\nthe depths of the vague gloom of the street.\n\nAnd then what happened? Pierre, later on, remembered that a dray of the\nWestern Railway Company in coming up stopped and delayed the landau for a\nmoment, whilst the young errand girl entered the doorway. And with a\nheart-pang beyond description he saw his brother Guillaume in his turn\nspring forward and rush into the mansion as though impelled to do so by\nsome revelation, some sudden certainty. He, Pierre, though he understood\nnothing clearly, could divine the approach of some frightful horror. But\nwhen he would have run, when he would have shouted, he found himself as\nif nailed to the pavement, and felt his throat clutched as by a hand of\nlead. Then suddenly came a thunderous roar, a formidable explosion, as if\nthe earth was opening, and the lightning-struck mansion was being\nannihilated. Every window-pane of the neighbouring houses was shivered,\nthe glass raining down with the loud clatter of hail. For a moment a\nhellish flame fired the street, and the dust and the smoke were such that\nthe few passers-by were blinded and howled with affright, aghast at\ntoppling, as they thought, into that fiery furnace.\n\nAnd that dazzling flare brought Pierre enlightenment. He once more saw\nthe bomb distending the tool-bag, which lack of work had emptied and\nrendered useless. He once more saw it under the ragged jacket, a\nprotuberance caused, he had fancied, by some hunk of bread, picked up in\na corner and treasured that it might be carried home to wife and child.\nAfter wandering and threatening all happy Paris, it was there that it had\nflared, there that it had burst with a thunder-clap, there on the\nthreshold of the sovereign _bourgeoisie_ to whom all wealth belonged. He,\nhowever, at that moment thought only of his brother Guillaume, and flung\nhimself into that porch where a volcanic crater seemed to have opened.\nAnd at first he distinguished nothing, the acrid smoke streamed over all.\nThen he perceived the walls split, the upper floor rent open, the paving\nbroken up, strewn with fragments. Outside, the landau which had been on\nthe point of entering, had escaped all injury; neither of the horses had\nbeen touched, nor was there even a scratch on any panel of the vehicle.\nBut the young girl, the pretty, slim, fair-haired errand girl, lay there\non her back, her stomach ripped open, whilst her delicate face remained\nintact, her eyes clear, her smile full of astonishment, so swiftly and\nlightning-like had come the catastrophe. And near her, from the fallen\nbandbox, whose lid had merely come unfastened, had rolled the bonnet, a\nvery fragile pink bonnet, which still looked charming in its flowery\nfreshness.\n\nBy a prodigy Guillaume was alive and already on his legs again. His left\nhand alone streamed with blood, a projectile seemed to have broken his\nwrist. His moustaches moreover had been burnt, and the explosion by\nthrowing him to the ground had so shaken and bruised him that he shivered\nfrom head to feet as with intense cold. Nevertheless, he recognised his\nbrother without even feeling astonished to see him there, as indeed often\nhappens after great disasters, when the unexplained becomes providential.\nThat brother, of whom he had so long lost sight, was there, naturally\nenough, because it was necessary that he should be there. And Guillaume,\namidst the wild quivers by which he was shaken, at once cried to him\n\u201cTake me away! take me away! To your house at Neuilly, oh! take me away!\u201d\n\nThen, for sole explanation, and referring to Salvat, he stammered: \u201cI\nsuspected that he had stolen a cartridge from me; only one, most\nfortunately, for otherwise the whole district would have been blown to\npieces. Ah! the wretched fellow! I wasn\u2019t in time to set my foot upon the\nmatch.\u201d\n\nWith perfect lucidity of mind, such as danger sometimes imparts, Pierre,\nneither speaking nor losing a moment, remembered that the mansion had a\nback entrance fronting the Rue Vignon. He had just realised in what\nserious peril his brother would be if he were found mixed up in that\naffair. And with all speed, when he had led him into the gloom of the Rue\nVignon, he tied his handkerchief round his wrist, which he bade him press\nto his chest, under his coat, as that would conceal it.\n\nBut Guillaume, still shivering and haunted by the horror he had\nwitnessed, repeated: \u201cTake me away--to your place at Neuilly--not to my\nhome.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course, of course, be easy. Come, wait here a second, I will stop a\ncab.\u201d\n\nIn his eagerness to procure a conveyance, Pierre had brought his brother\ndown to the Boulevard again. But the terrible thunderclap of the\nexplosion had upset the whole neighbourhood, horses were still rearing,\nand people were running demented, hither and thither. And numerous\npolicemen had hastened up, and a rushing crowd was already blocking the\nlower part of the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy, which was now as black as a pit,\nevery light in it having been extinguished; whilst on the Boulevard a\nhawker of the \u201cVoix du Peuple\u201d still stubbornly vociferated: \u201cThe new\nscandal of the African Railway Lines! The thirty-two bribe-takers of the\nChamber and the Senate! The approaching fall of the ministry!\u201d\n\nPierre was at last managing to stop a cab when he heard a person who ran\nby say to another, \u201cThe ministry? Ah, well! that bomb will mend it right\nenough!\u201d\n\nThen the brothers seated themselves in the cab, which carried them away.\nAnd now, over the whole of rumbling Paris black night had gathered, an\nunforgiving night, in which the stars foundered amidst the mist of crime\nand anger that had risen from the house-roofs. The great cry of justice\nswept by amidst the same terrifying flapping of wings which Sodom and\nGomorrah once heard bearing down upon them from all the black clouds of\nthe horizon.\n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK II.\n\n\n\n\nI. REVOLUTIONISTS\n\n\nIN that out-of-the-way street at Neuilly, along which nobody passed after\ndusk, Pierre\u2019s little house was now steeped in deep slumber under the\nblack sky; each of its shutters closed, and not a ray of light stealing\nforth from within. And one could divine, too, the profound quietude of\nthe little garden in the rear, a garden empty and lifeless, benumbed by\nthe winter cold.\n\nPierre had several times feared that his brother would faint away in the\ncab in which they were journeying. Leaning back, and often sinking down,\nGuillaume spoke not a word. And terrible was the silence between them--a\nsilence fraught with all the questions and answers which they felt it\nwould be useless and painful to exchange at such a time. However, the\npriest was anxious about the wound, and wondered to what surgeon he might\napply, desirous as he was of admitting only a sure, staunch man into the\nsecret, for he had noticed with how keen a desire to disappear his\nbrother had sought to hide himself.\n\nUntil they reached the Arc de Triomphe the silence remained unbroken. It\nwas only there that Guillaume seemed to emerge from the prostration of\nhis reverie. \u201cMind, Pierre,\u201d said he, \u201cno doctor. We will attend to this\ntogether.\u201d\n\nPierre was on the point of protesting, but he realised that it would be\nuseless to discuss the subject at such a moment, and so he merely waved\nhis hand to signify that he should act in spite of the prohibition were\nit necessary. In point of fact, his anxiety had increased, and, when the\ncab at last drew up before the house, it was with real relief that he saw\nhis brother alight without evincing any marked feebleness. He himself\nquickly paid the driver, well-pleased, too, at finding that nobody, not\neven a neighbour, was about. And having opened the door with his latch\nkey, he helped the injured man to ascend the steps.\n\nA little night lamp glimmered faintly in the vestibule. On hearing the\ndoor open, Pierre\u2019s servant, Sophie, had at once emerged from the\nkitchen. A short, thin, dark woman of sixty, she had formed part of the\nhousehold for more than thirty years, having served the mother before\nserving the son. She knew Guillaume, having seen him when he was a young\nman, and doubtless she now recognised him, although well-nigh ten years\nhad gone by since he had last crossed that threshold. Instead of evincing\nany surprise, she seemed to consider his extraordinary return quite\nnatural, and remained as silent and discreet as usual. She led, indeed,\nthe life of a recluse, never speaking unless her work absolutely required\nit. And thus she now contented herself with saying: \u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\nMonsieur Bertheroy is in the study, and has been waiting there for a\nquarter of an hour.\u201d\n\nAt this Guillaume intervened, as if the news revived him: \u201cDoes Bertheroy\nstill come here, then? I\u2019ll see him willingly. His is one of the best,\nthe broadest, minds of these days. He has still remained my master.\u201d\n\nA former friend of their father,--the illustrious chemist, Michel\nFroment,--Bertheroy had now, in his turn, become one of the loftiest\nglories of France, one to whom chemistry owed much of the extraordinary\nprogress that has made it the mother-science, by which the very face of\nthe earth is being changed. A member of the Institute, laden with offices\nand honours, he had retained much affection for Pierre, and occasionally\nvisited him in this wise before dinner, by way of relaxation, he would\nsay.\n\n\u201cYou showed him into the study? All right, then, we will go there,\u201d said\nthe Abb\u00e9 to the servant. \u201cLight a lamp and take it into my room, and get\nmy bed ready so that my brother may go to bed at once.\u201d\n\nWhile Sophie, without a word or sign of surprise, was obeying these\ninstructions, the brothers went into their father\u2019s former laboratory, of\nwhich the priest had now made a spacious study. And it was with a cry of\njoyous astonishment that the _savant_ greeted them on seeing them enter\nthe room side by side, the one supporting the other. \u201cWhat, together!\u201d he\nexclaimed. \u201cAh! my dear children, you could not have caused me greater\npleasure! I who have so often deplored your painful misunderstanding.\u201d\n\nBertheroy was a tall and lean septuagenarian, with angular features. His\nyellow skin clung like parchment to the projecting bones of his cheeks\nand jaw. Moreover, there was nothing imposing about him; he looked like\nsome old shop-keeping herbalist. At the same time he had a fine, broad,\nsmooth brow, and his eyes still glittered brightly beneath his tangled\nhair.\n\n\u201cWhat, have you injured yourself, Guillaume?\u201d he continued, as soon as he\nsaw the bandaged hand.\n\nPierre remained silent, so as to let his brother tell the story as he\nchose. Guillaume had realised that he must confess the truth, but in\nsimple fashion, without detailing the circumstances. \u201cYes, in an\nexplosion,\u201d he answered, \u201cand I really think that I have my wrist\nbroken.\u201d\n\nAt this, Bertheroy, whose glance was fixed upon him, noticed that his\nmoustaches were burnt, and that there was an expression of bewildered\nstupor, such as follows a catastrophe, in his eyes. Forthwith the\n_savant_ became grave and circumspect; and, without seeking to compel\nconfidence by any questions, he simply said: \u201cIndeed! an explosion! Will\nyou let me see the injury? You know that before letting chemistry ensnare\nme I studied medicine, and am still somewhat of a surgeon.\u201d\n\nOn hearing these words Pierre could not restrain a heart-cry: \u201cYes, yes,\nmaster! Look at the injury--I was very anxious, and to find you here is\nunhoped-for good fortune!\u201d\n\nThe _savant_ glanced at him, and divined that the hidden circumstances of\nthe accident must be serious. And then, as Guillaume, smiling, though\npaling with weakness, consented to the suggestion, Bertheroy retorted\nthat before anything else he must be put to bed. The servant just then\nreturned to say the bed was ready, and so they all went into the\nadjoining room, where the injured man was soon undressed and helped\nbetween the sheets.\n\n\u201cLight me, Pierre,\u201d said Bertheroy, \u201ctake the lamp; and let Sophie give\nme a basin full of water and some cloths.\u201d Then, having gently washed the\nwound, he resumed: \u201cThe devil! The wrist isn\u2019t broken, but it\u2019s a nasty\ninjury. I am afraid there must be a lesion of the bone. Some nails passed\nthrough the flesh, did they not?\u201d\n\nReceiving no reply, he relapsed into silence. But his surprise was\nincreasing, and he closely examined the hand, which the flame of the\nexplosion had scorched, and even sniffed the shirt cuff as if seeking to\nunderstand the affair better. He evidently recognised the effects of one\nof those new explosives which he himself had studied, almost created. In\nthe present case, however, he must have been puzzled, for there were\ncharacteristic signs and traces the significance of which escaped him.\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d he at last made up his mind to ask, carried away by\nprofessional curiosity, \u201cand so it was a laboratory explosion which put\nyou in this nice condition? What devilish powder were you concocting\nthen?\u201d\n\nGuillaume, ever since he had seen Bertheroy thus studying his injury,\nhad, in spite of his sufferings, given marked signs of annoyance and\nagitation. And as if the real secret which he wished to keep lay\nprecisely in the question now put to him, in that powder, the first\nexperiment with which had thus injured him, he replied with an air of\nrestrained ardour, and a straight frank glance: \u201cPray do not question me,\nmaster. I cannot answer you. You have, I know, sufficient nobility of\nnature to nurse me and care for me without exacting a confession.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! certainly, my friend,\u201d exclaimed Bertheroy; \u201ckeep your secret. Your\ndiscovery belongs to you if you have made one; and I know that you are\ncapable of putting it to the most generous use. Besides, you must be\naware that I have too great a passion for truth to judge the actions of\nothers, whatever their nature, without knowing every circumstance and\nmotive.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he waved his hand as if to indicate how broadly tolerant and\nfree from error and superstition was that lofty sovereign mind of his,\nwhich in spite of all the orders that bedizened him, in spite of all the\nacademical titles that he bore as an official _savant_, made him a man of\nthe boldest and most independent views, one whose only passion was truth,\nas he himself said.\n\nHe lacked the necessary appliances to do more than dress the wound, after\nmaking sure that no fragment of any projectile had remained in the flesh.\nThen he at last went off, promising to return at an early hour on the\nmorrow; and, as the priest escorted him to the street door, he spoke some\ncomforting words: if the bone had not been deeply injured all would be\nwell.\n\nOn returning to the bedside, Pierre found his brother still sitting up\nand seeking fresh energy in his desire to write home and tranquillise his\nloved ones. So the priest, after providing pen and paper, again had to\ntake up the lamp and light him. Guillaume fortunately retained full use\nof his right hand, and was thus able to pen a few lines to say that he\nwould not be home that night. He addressed the note to Madame Leroi, the\nmother of his deceased mistress, who, since the latter\u2019s death, had\nremained with him and had reared his three sons. Pierre was aware also\nthat the household at Montmartre included a young woman of five or six\nand twenty, the daughter of an old friend, to whom Guillaume had given\nshelter on her father\u2019s death, and whom he was soon to marry, in spite of\nthe great difference in their ages. For the priest, however, all these\nwere vague, disturbing things, condemnable features of disorderly life,\nand he had invariably pretended to be ignorant of them.\n\n\u201cSo you wish this note to be taken to Montmartre at once?\u201d he said to his\nbrother.\n\n\u201cYes, at once. It is scarcely more than seven o\u2019clock now, and it will be\nthere by eight. And you will choose a reliable man, won\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe best course will be for Sophie to take a cab. We need have no fear\nwith her. She won\u2019t chatter. Wait a moment, and I will settle\neverything.\u201d\n\nSophie, on being summoned, at once understood what was wanted of her, and\npromised to say, in reply to any questions, that M. Guillaume had come to\nspend the night at his brother\u2019s, for reasons which she did not know. And\nwithout indulging in any reflections herself, she left the house, saying\nsimply: \u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9\u2019s dinner is ready; he will only have to take the\nbroth and the stew off the stove.\u201d\n\nHowever, when Pierre this time returned to the bedside to sit down there,\nhe found that Guillaume had fallen back with his head resting on both\npillows. And he looked very weary and pale, and showed signs of fever.\nThe lamp, standing on a corner of a side table, cast a soft light around,\nand so deep was the quietude that the big clock in the adjoining\ndining-room could be heard ticking. For a moment the silence continued\naround the two brothers, who, after so many years of separation, were at\nlast re-united and alone together. Then the injured man brought his right\nhand to the edge of the sheet, and the priest grasped it, pressed it\ntenderly in his own. And the clasp was a long one, those two brotherly\nhands remaining locked, one in the other.\n\n\u201cMy poor little Pierre,\u201d Guillaume faintly murmured, \u201cyou must forgive me\nfor falling on you in this fashion. I\u2019ve invaded the house and taken your\nbed, and I\u2019m preventing you from dining.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t talk, don\u2019t tire yourself any more,\u201d interrupted Pierre. \u201cIs not\nthis the right place for you when you are in trouble?\u201d\n\nA warmer pressure came from Guillaume\u2019s feverish hand, and tears gathered\nin his eyes. \u201cThanks, my little Pierre. I\u2019ve found you again, and you are\nas gentle and loving as you always were. Ah! you cannot know how\ndelightful it seems to me.\u201d\n\nThen the priest\u2019s eyes also were dimmed by tears. Amidst the deep\nquietude, the great sense of comfort which had followed their violent\nemotion, the brothers found an infinite charm in being together once more\nin the home of their childhood.* It was there that both their father and\nmother had died--the father tragically, struck down by an explosion in\nhis laboratory; the mother piously, like a very saint. It was there, too,\nin that same bed, that Guillaume had nursed Pierre, when, after their\nmother\u2019s death, the latter had nearly died; and it was there now that\nPierre in his turn was nursing Guillaume. All helped to bow them down and\nfill them with emotion: the strange circumstances of their meeting, the\nfrightful catastrophe which had caused them such a shock, the\nmysteriousness of the things which remained unexplained between them. And\nnow that after so long a separation they were tragically brought together\nagain, they both felt their memory awaking. The old house spoke to them\nof their childhood, of their parents dead and gone, of the far-away days\nwhen they had loved and suffered there. Beneath the window lay the\ngarden, now icy cold, which once, under the sunbeams, had re-echoed with\ntheir play. On the left was the laboratory, the spacious room where their\nfather had taught them to read. On the right, in the dining-room, they\ncould picture their mother cutting bread and butter for them, and looking\nso gentle with her big, despairing eyes--those of a believer mated to an\ninfidel. And the feeling that they were now alone in that home, and the\npale, sleepy gleam of the lamp, and the deep silence of the garden and\nthe house, and the very past itself, all filled them with the softest of\nemotion blended with the keenest bitterness.\n\n  * See M. Zola\u2019s \u201cLourdes,\u201d Day I., Chapter II.\n\nThey would have liked to talk and unbosom themselves. But what could they\nsay to one another? Although their hands remained so tightly clasped, did\nnot the most impassable of chasms separate them? In any case, they\nthought so. Guillaume was convinced that Pierre was a saint, a priest of\nthe most robust faith, without a doubt, without aught in common with\nhimself, whether in the sphere of ideas or in that of practical life. A\nhatchet-stroke had parted them, and each lived in a different world. And\nin the same way Pierre pictured Guillaume as one who had lost caste,\nwhose conduct was most suspicious, who had never even married the mother\nof his three children, but was on the point of marrying that girl who was\nfar too young for him, and who had come nobody knew whence. In him,\nmoreover, were blended the passionate ideas of a _savant_ and a\nrevolutionist, ideas in which one found negation of everything,\nacceptance and possibly provocation of the worst forms of violence, with\na glimpse of the vague monster of Anarchism underlying all. And so, on\nwhat basis could there be any understanding between them, since each\nretained his prejudices against the other, and saw him on the opposite\nside of the chasm, without possibility of any plank being thrown across\nit to enable them to unite? Thus, all alone in that room, their poor\nhearts bled with distracted brotherly love.\n\nPierre knew that, on a previous occasion, Guillaume had narrowly escaped\nbeing compromised in an Anarchist affair. He asked him no questions, but\nhe could not help reflecting that he would not have hidden himself in\nthis fashion had he not feared arrest for complicity. Complicity with\nSalvat? Was he really an accomplice? Pierre shuddered, for the only\nmaterials on which he could found a contrary opinion were, on one hand,\nthe words that had escaped his brother after the crime, the cry he had\nraised accusing Salvat of having stolen a cartridge from him; and, on the\nother hand, his heroic rush into the doorway of the Duvillard mansion in\norder to extinguish the match. A great deal still remained obscure; but\nif a cartridge of that frightful explosive had been stolen from Guillaume\nthe fact must be that he manufactured such cartridges and had others at\nhome. Of course, even if he were not an accomplice, the injury to his\nwrist had made it needful for him to disappear. Given his bleeding hand,\nand the previous suspicions levelled against him, he would never have\nconvinced anybody of his innocence. And yet, even allowing for these\nsurmises, the affair remained wrapt in darkness: a crime on Guillaume\u2019s\npart seemed a possibility, and to Pierre it was all dreadful to think of.\n\nGuillaume, by the trembling of his brother\u2019s moist, yielding hand, must\nin some degree have realised the prostration of his poor mind, already\nshattered by doubt and finished off by this calamity. Indeed, the\nsepulchre was empty now, the very ashes had been swept out of it.\n\n\u201cMy poor little Pierre,\u201d the elder brother slowly said. \u201cForgive me if I\ndo not tell you anything. I cannot do so. And besides, what would be the\nuse of it? We should certainly not understand one another.... So let\nus keep from saying anything, and let us simply enjoy the delight of\nbeing together and loving one another in spite of all.\u201d\n\nPierre raised his eyes, and for a long time their glances lingered, one\nfixed on the other. \u201cAh!\u201d stammered the priest, \u201chow frightful it all\nis!\u201d\n\nGuillaume, however, had well understood the mute inquiry of Pierre\u2019s\neyes. His own did not waver but replied boldly, beaming with purity and\nloftiness: \u201cI can tell you nothing. Yet, all the same, let us love each\nother, my little Pierre.\u201d\n\nAnd then Pierre for a moment felt that his brother was above all base\nanxiety, above the guilty fear of the man who trembles for himself. In\nlieu thereof he seemed to be carried away by the passion of some great\ndesign, the noble thought of concealing some sovereign idea, some secret\nwhich it was imperative for him to save. But, alas! this was only the\nfleeting vision of a vague hope; for all vanished, and again came the\ndoubt, the suspicion, of a mind dealing with one that it knew nothing of.\n\nAnd all at once a souvenir, a frightful spectacle, arose before Pierre\u2019s\neyes and distracted him: \u201cDid you see, brother,\u201d he stammered, \u201cdid you\nsee that fair-haired girl lying under the archway, ripped open, with a\nsmile of astonishment on her face?\u201d\n\nGuillaume in his turn quivered, and in a low and dolorous voice replied:\n\u201cYes, I saw her! Ah, poor little thing! Ah! the atrocious necessities,\nthe atrocious errors, of justice!\u201d\n\nThen, amidst the frightful shudder that seemed to sweep by, Pierre, with\nhis horror of all violence, succumbed, and let his face sink upon the\ncounterpane at the edge of the bed. And he sobbed distractedly: a sudden\nattack of weakness, overflowing in tears, cast him there exhausted, with\nno more strength than a child. It was as if all his sufferings since the\nmorning, the deep grief with which universal injustice and woe inspired\nhim, were bursting forth in that flood of tears which nothing now could\nstay. And Guillaume, who, to calm his little brother, had set his hand\nupon his head, in the same way as he had often caressingly stroked his\nhair in childhood\u2019s days, likewise felt upset and remained silent, unable\nto find a word of consolation, resigned, as he was, to the eruption which\nin life is always possible, the cataclysm by which the slow evolution of\nnature is always liable to be precipitated. But how hard a fate for the\nwretched ones whom the lava sweeps away in millions! And then his tears\nalso began to flow amidst the profound silence.\n\n\u201cPierre,\u201d he gently exclaimed at last, \u201cyou must have some dinner. Go, go\nand have some. And screen the lamp; leave me by myself, and let me close\nmy eyes. It will do me good.\u201d\n\nPierre had to content him. Still, he left the dining-room door open; and,\nweak for want of food, though he had not hitherto noticed it, he ate\nstanding, with his ears on the alert, listening lest his brother should\ncomplain or call him. And the silence seemed to have become yet more\ncomplete, the little house sank, as it were, into annihilation, instinct\nwith all the melancholy charm of the past.\n\nAt about half-past eight, when Sophie returned from her errand to\nMontmartre, Guillaume heard her step, light though it was. And he at once\nbecame restless and wanted to know what news she brought. It was Pierre,\nhowever, who enlightened him. \u201cDon\u2019t be anxious. Sophie was received by\nan old lady who, after reading your note, merely answered, \u2018Very well.\u2019\nShe did not even ask Sophie a question, but remained quite composed\nwithout sign of curiosity.\u201d\n\nGuillaume, realising that this fine serenity perplexed his brother,\nthereupon replied with similar calmness: \u201cOh! it was only necessary that\ngrandmother should be warned. She knows well enough that if I don\u2019t\nreturn home it is because I can\u2019t.\u201d\n\nHowever, from that moment it was impossible for the injured man to rest.\nAlthough the lamp was hidden away in a corner, he constantly opened his\neyes, glanced round him, and seemed to listen, as if for sounds from the\ndirection of Paris. And it at last became necessary for the priest to\nsummon the servant and ask her if she had noticed anything strange on her\nway to or from Montmartre. She seemed surprised by the question, and\nanswered that she had noticed nothing. Besides, the cab had followed the\nouter boulevards, which were almost deserted. A slight fog had again\nbegun to fall, and the streets were steeped in icy dampness.\n\nBy the time it was nine o\u2019clock Pierre realised that his brother would\nnever be able to sleep if he were thus left without news. Amidst his\ngrowing feverishness the injured man experienced keen anxiety, a haunting\ndesire to know if Salvat were arrested and had spoken out. He did not\nconfess this; indeed he sought to convey the impression that he had no\npersonal disquietude, which was doubtless true. But his great secret was\nstifling him; he shuddered at the thought that his lofty scheme, all his\nlabour and all his hope, should be at the mercy of that unhappy man whom\nwant had filled with delusions and who had sought to set justice upon\nearth by the aid of a bomb. And in vain did the priest try to make\nGuillaume understand that nothing certain could yet be known. He\nperceived that his impatience increased every minute, and at last\nresolved to make some effort to satisfy him.\n\nBut where could he go, of whom could he inquire? Guillaume, while talking\nand trying to guess with whom Salvat might have sought refuge, had\nmentioned Janzen, the Princess de Harn\u2019s mysterious lover; and for a\nmoment he had even thought of sending to this man for information. But he\nreflected that if Janzen had heard of the explosion he was not at all the\nindividual to wait for the police at home.\n\nMeantime Pierre repeated: \u201cI will willingly go to buy the evening papers\nfor you--but there will certainly be nothing in them. Although I know\nalmost everyone in Neuilly I can think of nobody who is likely to have\nany information, unless perhaps it were Bache--\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know Bache, the municipal councillor?\u201d interrupted Guillaume.\n\n\u201cYes, we have both had to busy ourselves with charitable work in the\nneighbourhood.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Bache is an old friend of mine, and I know no safer man. Pray go\nto him and bring him back with you.\u201d\n\nA quarter of an hour later Pierre returned with Bache, who resided in a\nneighbouring street. And it was not only Bache whom he brought with him,\nfor, much to his surprise, he had found Janzen at Bache\u2019s house. As\nGuillaume had suspected, Janzen, while dining at the Princess de Harn\u2019s,\nhad heard of the crime, and had consequently refrained from returning to\nhis little lodging in the Rue des Martyrs, where the police might well\nhave set a trap for him. His connections were known, and he was aware\nthat he was watched and was liable at any moment to arrest or expulsion\nas a foreign Anarchist. And so he had thought it prudent to solicit a few\ndays\u2019 hospitality of Bache, a very upright and obliging man, to whom he\nentrusted himself without fear. He would never have remained with\nRosemonde, that adorable lunatic who for a month past had been exhibiting\nhim as her lover, and whose useless and dangerous extravagance of conduct\nhe fully realised.\n\nGuillaume was so delighted on seeing Bache and Janzen that he wished to\nsit up in bed again. But Pierre bade him remain quiet, rest his head on\nthe pillows, and speak as little as possible. Then, while Janzen stood\nnear, erect and silent, Bache took a chair and sat down by the bedside\nwith many expressions of friendly interest. He was a stout man of sixty,\nwith a broad, full face, a large white beard and long white hair. His\nlittle, gentle eyes had a dim, dreamy expression, while a pleasant,\nhopeful smile played round his thick lips. His father, a fervent St.\nSimonian, had brought him up in the doctrines of that belief. While\nretaining due respect for it, however, his personal inclinations towards\norderliness and religion had led him to espouse the ideas of Fourier, in\nsuch wise that one found in him a succession and an abridgment, so to\nsay, of two doctrines. Moreover, when he was about thirty, he had busied\nhimself with spiritualism. Possessed of a comfortable little fortune, his\nonly adventure in life had been his connection with the Paris Commune of\n1871. How or why he had become a member of it he could now scarcely tell.\nCondemned to death by default, although he had sat among the Moderates,\nhe had resided in Belgium until the amnesty; and since then Neuilly had\nelected him as its representative on the Paris Municipal Council, less by\nway of glorifying in him a victim of reaction than as a reward for his\nworthiness, for he was really esteemed by the whole district.\n\nGuillaume, with his desire for tidings, was obliged to confide in his two\nvisitors, tell them of the explosion and Salvat\u2019s flight, and how he\nhimself had been wounded while seeking to extinguish the match. Janzen,\nwith curly beard and hair, and a thin, fair face such as painters often\nattribute to the Christ, listened coldly, as was his wont, and at last\nsaid slowly in a gentle voice: \u201cAh! so it was Salvat! I thought it might\nbe little Mathis--I\u2019m surprised that it should be Salvat--for he hadn\u2019t\nmade up his mind.\u201d Then, as Guillaume anxiously inquired if he thought\nthat Salvat would speak out, he began to protest: \u201cOh! no; oh! no.\u201d\n\nHowever, he corrected himself with a gleam of disdain in his clear, harsh\neyes: \u201cAfter all, there\u2019s no telling. Salvat is a man of sentiment.\u201d\n\nThen Bache, who was quite upset by the news of the explosion, tried to\nthink how his friend Guillaume, to whom he was much attached, might be\nextricated from any charge of complicity should he be denounced. And\nGuillaume, at sight of Janzen\u2019s contemptuous coldness, must have suffered\nkeenly, for the other evidently believed him to be trembling, tortured by\nthe one desire to save his own skin. But what could he say, how could he\nreveal the deep concern which rendered him so feverish without betraying\nthe secret which he had hidden even from his brother?\n\nHowever, at this moment Sophie came to tell her master that M. Th\u00e9ophile\nMorin had called with another gentleman. Much astonished by this visit at\nso late an hour, Pierre hastened into the next room to receive the new\ncomers. He had become acquainted with Morin since his return from Rome,\nand had helped him to introduce a translation of an excellent scientific\nmanual, prepared according to the official programmes, into the Italian\nschools.* A Franc-Comtois by birth, a compatriot of Proudhon, with whose\npoor family he had been intimate at Besancon, Morin, himself the son of a\njourneyman clockmaker, had grown up with Proudhonian ideas, full of\naffection for the poor and an instinctive hatred of property and wealth.\nLater on, having come to Paris as a school teacher, impassioned by study,\nhe had given his whole mind to Auguste Comte. Beneath the fervent\nPositivist, however, one might yet find the old Proudhonian, the pauper\nwho rebelled and detested want. Moreover, it was scientific Positivism\nthat he clung to; in his hatred of all mysticism he would have naught to\ndo with the fantastic religious leanings of Comte in his last years. And\nin Morin\u2019s brave, consistent, somewhat mournful life, there had been but\none page of romance: the sudden feverish impulse which had carried him\noff to fight in Sicily by Garibaldi\u2019s side. Afterwards he had again\nbecome a petty professor in Paris, obscurely earning a dismal livelihood.\n\n  * See M. Zola\u2019s \u201cRome,\u201d Chapters IV. and XVI.\n\nWhen Pierre returned to the bedroom he said to his brother in a tone of\nemotion: \u201cMorin has brought me Barth\u00e8s, who fancies himself in danger and\nasks my hospitality.\u201d\n\nAt this Guillaume forgot himself and became excited: \u201cNicholas Barth\u00e8s, a\nhero with a soul worthy of antiquity. Oh! I know him; I admire and love\nhim. You must set your door open wide for him.\u201d\n\nBache and Janzen, however, had glanced at one another smiling. And the\nlatter, with his cold ironical air, slowly remarked: \u201cWhy does Monsieur\nBarth\u00e8s hide himself? A great many people think he is dead; he is simply\na ghost who no longer frightens anybody.\u201d\n\nFour and seventy years of age as he now was, Barth\u00e8s had spent nearly\nhalf a century in prison. He was the eternal prisoner, the hero of\nliberty whom each successive Government had carried from citadel to\nfortress. Since his youth he had been marching on amidst his dream of\nfraternity, fighting for an ideal Republic based on truth and justice,\nand each and every endeavour had led him to a dungeon; he had invariably\nfinished his humanitarian reverie under bolts and bars. Carbonaro,\nRepublican, evangelical sectarian, he had conspired at all times and in\nall places, incessantly struggling against the Power of the day, whatever\nit might be. And when the Republic at last had come, that Republic which\nhad cost him so many years of gaol, it had, in its own turn, imprisoned\nhim, adding fresh years of gloom to those which already had lacked\nsunlight. And thus he remained the martyr of freedom: freedom which he\nstill desired in spite of everything; freedom, which, strive as he might,\nnever came, never existed.\n\n\u201cBut you are mistaken,\u201d replied Guillaume, wounded by Janzen\u2019s raillery.\n\u201cThere is again a thought of getting rid of Barth\u00e8s, whose uncompromising\nrectitude disturbs our politicians; and he does well to take his\nprecautions!\u201d\n\nNicholas Barth\u00e8s came in, a tall, slim, withered old man, with a nose\nlike an eagle\u2019s beak, and eyes that still burned in their deep sockets,\nunder white and bushy brows. His mouth, toothless but still refined, was\nlost to sight between his moustaches and snowy beard; and his hair,\ncrowning him whitely like an aureola, fell in curls over his shoulders.\nBehind him with all modesty came Th\u00e9ophile Morin, with grey whiskers,\ngrey, brush-like hair, spectacles, and yellow, weary mien--that of an old\nprofessor exhausted by years of teaching. Neither of them seemed\nastonished or awaited an explanation on finding that man in bed with an\ninjured wrist. And there were no introductions: those who were acquainted\nmerely smiled at one another.\n\nBarth\u00e8s, for his part, stooped and kissed Guillaume on both cheeks. \u201cAh!\u201d\n said the latter, almost gaily, \u201cit gives me courage to see you.\u201d\n\nHowever, the new comers had brought a little information. The boulevards\nwere in an agitated state, the news of the crime had spread from caf\u00e9 to\ncaf\u00e9, and everybody was anxious to see the late edition which one paper\nhad published giving a very incorrect account of the affair, full of the\nmost extraordinary details. Briefly, nothing positive was as yet known.\n\nOn seeing Guillaume turn pale Pierre compelled him to lie down again, and\neven talked of taking the visitors into the next room. But the injured\nman gently replied: \u201cNo, no, I promise you that I won\u2019t stir again, that\nI won\u2019t open my mouth. But stay there and chat together. I assure you\nthat it will do me good to have you near me and hear you.\u201d\n\nThen, under the sleepy gleams of the lamp, the others began to talk in\nundertones. Old Barth\u00e8s, who considered that bomb to be both idiotic and\nabominable, spoke of it with the stupefaction of one who, after fighting\nlike a hero through all the legendary struggles for liberty, found\nhimself belated, out of his element, in a new era, which he could not\nunderstand. Did not the conquest of freedom suffice for everything? he\nadded. Was there any other problem beyond that of founding the real\nRepublic? Then, referring to M\u00e8ge and his speech in the Chamber that\nafternoon, he bitterly arraigned Collectivism, which he declared to be\none of the democratic forms of tyranny. Th\u00e9ophile Morin, for his part,\nalso spoke against the Collectivist enrolling of the social forces, but\nhe professed yet greater hatred of the odious violence of the Anarchists;\nfor it was only by evolution that he expected progress, and he felt\nsomewhat indifferent as to what political means might bring about the\nscientific society of to-morrow. And in like way Bache did not seem\nparticularly fond of the Anarchists, though he was touched by the idyllic\ndream, the humanitarian hope, whose germs lay beneath their passion for\ndestruction. And, like Barth\u00e8s, he also flew into a passion with M\u00e8ge,\nwho since entering the Chamber had become, said he, a mere rhetorician\nand theorist, dreaming of dictatorship. Meantime Janzen, still erect, his\nface frigid and his lips curling ironically, listened to all three of\nthem, and vented a few trenchant words to express his own Anarchist\nfaith; the uselessness of drawing distinctions, and the necessity of\ndestroying everything in order that everything might be rebuilt on fresh\nlines.\n\nPierre, who had remained near the bed, also listened with passionate\nattention. Amidst the downfall of his own beliefs, the utter void which\nhe felt within him, here were these four men, who represented the\ncardinal points of this century\u2019s ideas, debating the very same terrible\nproblem which brought him so much suffering, that of the new belief which\nthe democracy of the coming century awaits. And, ah! since the days of\nthe immediate ancestors, since the days of Voltaire and Diderot and\nRousseau how incessantly had billows of ideas followed and jostled one\nanother, the older ones giving birth to new ones, and all breaking and\nbounding in a tempest in which it was becoming so difficult to\ndistinguish anything clearly! Whence came the wind, and whither was the\nship of salvation going, for what port ought one to embark? Pierre had\nalready thought that the balance-sheet of the century ought to be drawn\nup, and that, after accepting the legacies of Rousseau and the other\nprecursors, he ought to study the ideas of St. Simon, Fourier and even\nCabet; of Auguste Comte, Proudhon and Karl Marx as well, in order, at any\nrate, to form some idea of the distance that had been travelled, and of\nthe cross-ways which one had now reached. And was not this an\nopportunity, since chance had gathered those men together in his house,\nliving exponents of the conflicting doctrines which he wished to examine?\n\nOn turning round, however, he perceived that Guillaume was now very pale\nand had closed his eyes. Had even he, with his faith in science, felt the\ndoubt which is born of contradictory theories, and the despair which\ncomes when one sees the fight for truth resulting in growth of error?\n\n\u201cAre you in pain?\u201d the priest anxiously inquired.\n\n\u201cYes, a little. But I will try to sleep.\u201d\n\nAt this they all went off with silent handshakes. Nicholas Barth\u00e8s alone\nremained in the house and slept in a room on the first floor which Sophie\nhad got ready for him. Pierre, unwilling to quit his brother, dozed off\nupon a sofa. And the little house relapsed into its deep quietude, the\nsilence of solitude and winter, through which passed the melancholy\nquiver of the souvenirs of childhood.\n\nIn the morning, as soon as it was seven o\u2019clock, Pierre had to go for the\nnewspapers. Guillaume had passed a bad night and intense fever had set\nin. Nevertheless, his brother was obliged to read him the articles on the\nexplosion. There was an amazing medley of truths and inventions, of\nprecise information lost amidst the most unexpected extravagance.\nSagnier\u2019s paper, the \u201cVoix du Peuple,\u201d distinguished itself by its\nsub-titles in huge print and a whole page of particulars jumbled together\nchance-wise. It had at once decided to postpone the famous list of the\nthirty-two deputies and senators compromised in the African Railways\naffair; and there was no end to the details it gave of the aspect of the\nentrance to the Duvillard mansion after the explosion the pavement broken\nup, the upper floor rent open, the huge doors torn away from their\nhinges. Then came the story of the Baron\u2019s son and daughter preserved as\nby a miracle, the landau escaping the slightest injury, while the banker\nand his wife, it was alleged, owed their preservation to the circumstance\nthat they had lingered at the Madeleine after Monseigneur Martha\u2019s\nremarkable address there. An entire column was given to the one victim,\nthe poor, pretty, fair-haired errand girl, whose identity did not seem to\nbe clearly established, although a flock of reporters had rushed first to\nthe modiste employing her, in the Avenue de l\u2019Opera, and next to the\nupper part of the Faubourg St. Denis, where it was thought her\ngrandmother resided. Then, in a gravely worded article in \u201cLe Globe,\u201d\n evidently inspired by Fons\u00e8gue, an appeal was made to the Chamber\u2019s\npatriotism to avoid giving cause for any ministerial crisis in the\npainful circumstances through which the country was passing. Thus the\nministry might last, and live in comparative quietude, for a few weeks\nlonger.\n\nGuillaume, however, was struck by one point only: the culprit was not\nknown; Salvat, it appeared certain, was neither arrested nor even\nsuspected. It seemed, indeed, as if the police were starting on a false\nscent--that of a well-dressed gentleman wearing gloves, whom a neighbour\nswore he had seen entering the mansion at the moment of the explosion.\nThus Guillaume became a little calmer. But his brother read to him from\nanother paper some particulars concerning the engine of destruction that\nhad been employed. It was a preserved-meat can, and the fragments of it\nshowed that it had been comparatively small. And Guillaume relapsed into\nanxiety on learning that people were much astonished at the violent\nravages of such a sorry appliance, and that the presence of some new\nexplosive of incalculable power was already suspected.\n\nAt eight o\u2019clock Bertheroy put in an appearance. Although he was\nsixty-eight, he showed as much briskness and sprightliness as any young\nsawbones calling in a friendly way to perform a little operation. He had\nbrought an instrument case, some linen bands and some lint. However, he\nbecame angry on finding the injured man nervous, flushed and hot with\nfever.\n\n\u201cAh! I see that you haven\u2019t been reasonable, my dear child,\u201d said he.\n\u201cYou must have talked too much, and have bestirred and excited yourself.\u201d\n Then, having carefully probed the wound, he added, while dressing it:\n\u201cThe bone is injured, you know, and I won\u2019t answer for anything unless\nyou behave better. Any complications would make amputation necessary.\u201d\n\nPierre shuddered, but Guillaume shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that\nhe might just as well be amputated since all was crumbling around him.\nBertheroy, who had sat down, lingering there for another moment,\nscrutinised both brothers with his keen eyes. He now knew of the\nexplosion, and must have thought it over. \u201cMy dear child,\u201d he resumed in\nhis brusque way, \u201cI certainly don\u2019t think that you committed that\nabominable act of folly in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy. But I fancy that you\nwere in the neighbourhood--no, no, don\u2019t answer me, don\u2019t defend\nyourself. I know nothing and desire to know nothing, not even the formula\nof that devilish powder of which your shirt cuff bore traces, and which\nhas wrought such terrible havoc.\u201d\n\nAnd then as the brothers remained surprised, turning cold with anxiety,\nin spite of his assurances, he added with a sweeping gesture: \u201cAh! my\nfriends, I regard such an action as even more useless than criminal! I\nonly feel contempt for the vain agitation of politics, whether they be\nrevolutionary or conservative. Does not science suffice? Why hasten the\ntimes when one single step of science brings humanity nearer to the goal\nof truth and justice than do a hundred years of politics and social\nrevolt? Why, it is science alone which sweeps away dogmas, casts down\ngods, and creates light and happiness. And I, Member of the Institute as\nI am, decorated and possessed of means, I am the only true\nRevolutionist.\u201d\n\nThen he began to laugh and Guillaume realised all the good-natured irony\nof his laugh. While admiring him as a great _savant_, he had hitherto\nsuffered at seeing him lead such a _bourgeois_ life, accepting whatever\nappointments and honours were offered him, a Republican under the\nRepublic, but quite ready to serve science under no matter what master.\nBut now, from beneath this opportunist, this hieratical _savant_, this\ntoiler who accepted wealth and glory from all hands, there appeared a\nquiet yet terrible evolutionist, who certainly expected that his own work\nwould help to ravage and renew the world!\n\nHowever, Bertheroy rose and took his leave: \u201cI\u2019ll come back; behave\nsensibly, and love one another as well as you can.\u201d\n\nWhen the brothers again found themselves alone, Pierre seated at\nGuillaume\u2019s bedside, their hands once more sought each other and met in a\nburning clasp instinct with all their anguish. How much threatening\nmystery and distress there was both around and within them! The grey\nwintry daylight came into the room, and they could see the black trees in\nthe garden, while the house remained full of quivering silence, save that\noverhead a faint sound of footsteps was audible. They were the steps of\nNicholas Barth\u00e8s, the heroic lover of freedom, who, rising at daybreak,\nhad, like a caged lion, resumed his wonted promenade, the incessant\ncoming and going of one who had ever been a prisoner. And as the brothers\nceased listening to him their eyes fell on a newspaper which had remained\nopen on the bed, a newspaper soiled by a sketch in outline which\npretended to portray the poor dead errand girl, lying, ripped open,\nbeside the bandbox and the bonnet it had contained. It was so frightful,\nso atrociously hideous a scene, that two big tears again fell upon\nPierre\u2019s cheeks, whilst Guillaume\u2019s blurred, despairing eyes gazed\nwistfully far away, seeking for the Future.\n\n\n\n\nII. A HOME OF INDUSTRY\n\nTHE little house in which Guillaume had dwelt for so many years, a home\nof quietude and hard work, stood in the pale light of winter up yonder at\nMontmartre, peacefully awaiting his return. He reflected, however, after\n_d\u00e9jeuner_ that it might not be prudent for him to go back thither for\nsome three weeks, and so he thought of sending Pierre to explain the\nposition of affairs. \u201cListen, brother,\u201d he said. \u201cYou must render me this\nservice. Go and tell them the truth--that I am here, slightly injured,\nand do not wish them to come to see me, for fear lest somebody should\nfollow them and discover my retreat. After the note I wrote them last\nevening they would end by getting anxious if I did not send them some\nnews.\u201d Then, yielding to the one worry which, since the previous night,\nhad disturbed his clear, frank glance, he added: \u201cJust feel in the\nright-hand pocket of my waistcoat; you will find a little key there.\nGood! that\u2019s it. Now you must give it to Madame Leroi, my mother-in-law,\nand tell her that if any misfortune should happen to me, she is to do\nwhat is understood between us. That will suffice, she will understand\nyou.\u201d\n\nAt the first moment Pierre had hesitated; but he saw how even the slight\neffort of speaking exhausted his brother, so he silenced him, saying:\n\u201cDon\u2019t talk, but put your mind at ease. I will go and reassure your\npeople, since you wish that this commission should be undertaken by me.\u201d\n\nTruth to tell, the errand was so distasteful to Pierre that he had at\nfirst thought of sending Sophie in his place. All his old prejudices were\nreviving; it was as if he were going to some ogre\u2019s den. How many times\nhad he not heard his mother say \u201cthat creature!\u201d in referring to the\nwoman with whom her elder son cohabited. Never had she been willing to\nkiss Guillaume\u2019s boys; the whole connection had shocked her, and she was\nparticularly indignant that Madame Leroi, the woman\u2019s mother, should have\njoined the household for the purpose of bringing up the little ones.\nPierre retained so strong a recollection of all this that even nowadays,\nwhen he went to the basilica of the Sacred Heart and passed the little\nhouse on his way, he glanced at it distrustfully, and kept as far from it\nas he could, as if it were some abode of vice and error. Undoubtedly, for\nten years now, the boys\u2019 mother had been dead, but did not another\nscandal-inspiring creature dwell there, that young orphan girl to whom\nhis brother had given shelter, and whom he was going to marry, although a\ndifference of twenty years lay between them? To Pierre all this was\ncontrary to propriety, abnormal and revolting, and he pictured a home\ngiven over to social rebellion, where lack of principle led to every kind\nof disorder.\n\nHowever, he was leaving the room to start upon his journey, when\nGuillaume called him back. \u201cTell Madame Leroi,\u201d said he, \u201cthat if I\nshould die you will let her know of it, so that she may immediately do\nwhat is necessary.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d answered Pierre. \u201cBut calm yourself, and don\u2019t move about.\nI\u2019ll say everything. And in my absence Sophie will stop here with you in\ncase you should need her.\u201d\n\nHaving given full instructions to the servant, Pierre set out to take a\ntramcar, intending to alight from it on the Boulevard de Rochechouart,\nand then climb the height on foot. And on the road, lulled by the gliding\nmotion of the heavy vehicle, he began to think of his brother\u2019s past life\nand connections, with which he was but vaguely, imperfectly, acquainted.\nIt was only at a later date that details of everything came to his\nknowledge. In 1850 a young professor named Leroi, who had come from Paris\nto the college of Montauban with the most ardent republican ideas, had\nthere married Agathe Dagnan, the youngest of the five girls of an old\nProtestant family from the C\u00e9vennes. Young Madame Leroi was _enceinte_\nwhen her husband, threatened with arrest for contributing some violent\narticles to a local newspaper, immediately after the \u201cCoup d\u2019\u00c9tat,\u201d found\nhimself obliged to seek refuge at Geneva. It was there that the young\ncouple\u2019s daughter, Marguerite, a very delicate child, was born in 1852.\nFor seven years, that is until the Amnesty of 1859, the household\nstruggled with poverty, the husband giving but a few ill-paid lessons,\nand the wife absorbed in the constant care which the child required.\nThen, after their return to Paris, their ill-luck became even greater.\nFor a long time the ex-professor vainly sought regular employment; it was\ndenied him on account of his opinions, and he had to run about giving\nlessons in private houses. When he was at last on the point of being\nreceived back into the University a supreme blow, an attack of paralysis,\nfell upon him. He lost the use of both legs. And then came utter misery,\nevery kind of sordid drudgery, the writing of articles for dictionaries,\nthe copying of manuscripts, and even the addressing of newspaper\nwrappers, on the fruits of which the household barely contrived to live,\nin a little lodging in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.\n\nIt was there that Marguerite grew up. Leroi, embittered by injustice and\nsuffering, predicted the advent of a Republic which would avenge the\nfollies of the Empire, and a reign of science which would sweep away the\ndeceptive and cruel divinity of religious dogmas. On the other hand,\nAgathe\u2019s religious faith had collapsed at Geneva, at sight of the narrow\nand imbecile practices of Calvinism, and all that she retained of it was\nthe old Protestant leaven of rebellion. She had become at once the head\nand the arm of the house; she went for her husband\u2019s work, took it back\nwhen completed, and even did much of it herself, whilst, at the same\ntime, performing her house duties, and rearing and educating her\ndaughter. The latter, who attended no school, was indebted for all she\nlearnt to her father and mother, on whose part there was never any\nquestion of religious instruction. Through contact with her husband,\nMadame Leroi had lost all belief, and her Protestant heredity inclining\nher to free inquiry and examination, she had arranged for herself a kind\nof peaceful atheism, based on paramount principles of human duty and\njustice, which she applied courageously, irrespective of all social\nconventionalities. The long iniquity of her husband\u2019s fate, the\nundeserved misfortunes which struck her through him and her daughter,\nended by endowing her with wonderful fortitude and devotion, which made\nher, whether as a judge, a manager, or a consoler, a woman of\nincomparable energy and nobleness of character.\n\nIt was in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince that Guillaume became acquainted\nwith the Leroi family, after the war of 1870. On the same floor as their\nlittle lodging he occupied a large room, where he devoted himself\npassionately to his studies. At the outset there was only an occasional\nbow, for Guillaume\u2019s neighbours were very proud and very grave, leading\ntheir life of poverty in fierce silence and retirement. Then intercourse\nbegan with the rendering of little services, such as when the young man\nprocured the ex-professor a commission to write a few articles for a new\nencyclopaedia. But all at once came the catastrophe: Leroi died in his\narmchair one evening while his daughter was wheeling him from his table\nto his bed. The two distracted women had not even the money to bury him.\nThe whole secret of their bitter want flowed forth with their tears, and\nthey were obliged to accept the help of Guillaume, who, from that moment,\nbecame the necessary confidant and friend. And the thing which was bound\nto happen did happen, in the most simple and loving manner, permitted by\nthe mother herself, who, full of contempt for a social system which\nallowed those of good hearts to die of hunger, refused to admit the\nnecessity of any social tie. Thus there was no question of a regular\nmarriage. One day Guillaume, who was twenty-three years old, found\nhimself mated to Marguerite, who was twenty; both of them handsome,\nhealthy, and strong, adoring one another, loving work, and full of hope\nin the future.\n\nFrom that moment a new life began. Since his father\u2019s death, Guillaume,\nwho had broken off all intercourse with his mother, had been receiving an\nallowance of two hundred francs a month. This just represented daily\nbread; however, he was already doubling the amount by his work as a\nchemist,--his analyses and researches, which tended to the employment of\ncertain chemical products in industry. So he and Marguerite installed\nthemselves on the very summit of Montmartre, in a little house, at a\nrental of eight hundred francs a year, the great convenience of the place\nbeing a strip of garden, where one might, later on, erect a wooden\nworkshop. In all tranquillity Madame Leroi took up her abode with the\nyoung people, helping them, and sparing them the necessity of keeping a\nsecond servant. And at successive intervals of two years, her three\ngrandchildren were born, three sturdy boys: first Thomas, then Fran\u00e7ois,\nand then Antoine. And in the same way as she had devoted herself to her\nhusband and daughter, and then to Guillaume, so did she now devote\nherself to the three children. She became \u201cM\u00e8re-Grand\u201d--an emphatic and\naffectionate way of expressing the term \u201cgrandmother\u201d--for all who lived\nin the house, the older as well as the younger ones. She there\npersonified sense, and wisdom, and courage; it was she who was ever on\nthe watch, who directed everything, who was consulted about everything,\nand whose opinion was always followed. Indeed, she reigned there like an\nall-powerful queen-mother.\n\nFor fifteen years this life went on, a life of hard work and peaceful\naffection, while the strictest economy was observed in contenting every\nneed of the modest little household. Then Guillaume lost his mother, took\nhis share of the family inheritance, and was able to satisfy his old\ndesire, which was to buy the house he lived in, and build a spacious\nworkshop in the garden. He was even able to build it of bricks, and add\nan upper story to it. But the work was scarcely finished, and life seemed\nto be on the point of expanding and smiling on them all, when misfortune\nreturned, and typhoid fever, with brutal force, carried off Marguerite,\nafter a week\u2019s illness. She was then five and thirty, and her eldest boy,\nThomas, was fourteen. Thus Guillaume, distracted by his loss, found\nhimself a widower at thirty-eight. The thought of introducing any unknown\nwoman into that retired home, where all hearts beat in tender unison, was\nso unbearable to him that he determined to take no other mate. His work\nabsorbed him, and he would know how to quiet both his heart and his\nflesh. M\u00e8re-Grand, fortunately, was still there, erect and courageous;\nthe household retained its queen, and in her the children found a\nmanageress and teacher, schooled in adversity and heroism.\n\nTwo years passed; and then came an addition to the family. A young woman,\nMarie Couturier, the daughter of one of Guillaume\u2019s friends, suddenly\nentered it. Couturier had been an inventor, a madman with some measure of\ngenius, and had spent a fairly large fortune in attempting all sorts of\nfantastic schemes. His wife, a very pious woman, had died of grief at it\nall; and although on the rare occasions when he saw his daughter, he\nshowed great fondness for her and loaded her with presents, he had first\nplaced her in a boarding college, and afterwards left her in the charge\nof a poor female relative. Remembering her only on his death-bed, he had\nbegged Guillaume to give her an asylum, and find her a husband. The poor\nrelation, who dealt in ladies\u2019 and babies\u2019 linen, had just become a\nbankrupt. So, at nineteen, the girl, Marie, found herself a penniless\noutcast, possessed of nothing save a good education, health and courage.\nGuillaume would never allow her to run about giving lessons. He took her,\nin quite a natural way, to help M\u00e8re-Grand, who was no longer so active\nas formerly. And the latter approved the arrangement, well pleased at the\nadvent of youth and gaiety, which would somewhat brighten the household,\nwhose life had been one of much gravity ever since Marguerite\u2019s death.\nMarie would simply be an elder sister; she was too old for the boys, who\nwere still at college, to be disturbed by her presence. And she would\nwork in that house where everybody worked. She would help the little\ncommunity pending the time when she might meet and love some worthy\nfellow who would marry her.\n\nFive more years elapsed without Marie consenting to quit that happy home.\nThe sterling education she had received was lodged in a vigorous brain,\nwhich contented itself with the acquirement of knowledge. Yet she had\nremained very pure and healthy, even very _naive_, maidenly by reason of\nher natural rectitude. And she was also very much a woman, beautifying\nand amusing herself with a mere nothing, and ever showing gaiety and\ncontentment. Moreover, she was in no wise of a dreamy nature, but very\npractical, always intent on some work or other, and only asking of life\nsuch things as life could give, without anxiety as to what might lie\nbeyond it. She lovingly remembered her pious mother, who had prepared her\nfor her first Communion in tears, imagining that she was opening heaven\u2019s\nportals to her. But since she had been an orphan she had of her own\naccord ceased all practice of religion, her good sense revolting and\nscorning the need of any moral police regulations to make her do her\nduty. Indeed, she considered such regulations dangerous and destructive\nof true health. Thus, like M\u00e8re-Grand, she had come to a sort of quiet\nand almost unconscious atheism, not after the fashion of one who reasons,\nbut simply like the brave, healthy girl she was, one who had long endured\npoverty without suffering from it, and believed in nothing save the\nnecessity of effort. She had been kept erect, indeed, by her conviction\nthat happiness was to be found in the normal joys of life, lived\ncourageously. And her happy equilibrium of mind had ever guided and saved\nher, in such wise that she willingly listened to her natural instinct,\nsaying, with her pleasant laugh, that this was, after all, her best\nadviser. She rejected two offers of marriage, and on the second occasion,\nas Guillaume pressed her to accept, she grew astonished, and inquired if\nhe had had enough of her in the house. She found herself very\ncomfortable, and she rendered service there. So why should she leave and\nrun the risk of being less happy elsewhere, particularly as she was not\nin love with anybody?\n\nThen, by degrees, the idea of a marriage between Marie and Guillaume\npresented itself; and indeed what could have been more reasonable and\nadvantageous for all? If Guillaume had not mated again it was for his\nsons\u2019 sake, because he feared that by introducing a stranger to the house\nhe might impair its quietude and gaiety. But now there was a woman among\nthem who already showed herself maternal towards the boys, and whose\nbright youth had ended by disturbing his own heart. He was still in his\nprime, and had always held that it was not good for man to live alone,\nalthough, personally, thanks to his ardour for work, he had hitherto\nescaped excessive suffering in his bereavement. However, there was the\ngreat difference of ages to be considered; and he would have bravely\nremained in the background and have sought a younger husband for Marie,\nif his three big sons and M\u00e8re-Grand herself had not conspired to effect\nhis happiness by doing all they could to bring about a marriage which\nwould strengthen every home tie and impart, as it were, a fresh\nspringtide to the house. As for Marie, touched and grateful to Guillaume\nfor the manner in which he had treated her for five years past, she\nimmediately consented with an impulse of sincere affection, in which, she\nfancied, she could detect love. And at all events, could she act in a\nmore sensible, reasonable way, base her life on more certain prospects of\nhappiness? So the marriage had been resolved upon; and about a month\npreviously it had been decided that it should take place during the\nensuing spring, towards the end of April.\n\nWhen Pierre, after alighting from the tramcar, began to climb the\ninterminable flights of steps leading to the Rue St. Eleuth\u00e8re, a feeling\nof uneasiness again came over him at the thought that he was about to\nenter that suspicious ogre\u2019s den where everything would certainly wound\nand irritate him. Given the letter which Sophie had carried thither on\nthe previous night, announcing that the master would not return, how\nanxious and upset must all its inmates be! However, as Pierre ascended\nthe final flight and nervously raised his head, the little house appeared\nto him right atop of the hill, looking very serene and quiet under the\nbright wintry sun, which had peered forth as if to bestow upon the modest\ndwelling an affectionate caress.\n\nThere was a door in the old garden wall alongside the Rue St. Eleuth\u00e8re,\nalmost in front of the broad thoroughfare conducting to the basilica of\nthe Sacred Heart; but to reach the house itself one had to skirt the wall\nand climb to the Place du Tertre, where one found the fa\u00e7ade and the\nentrance. Some children were playing on the Place, which, planted as it\nwas with a few scrubby trees, and edged with humble shops,--a\nfruiterer\u2019s, a grocer\u2019s and a baker\u2019s,--looked like some square in a\nsmall provincial town. In a corner, on the left, Guillaume\u2019s dwelling,\nwhich had been whitewashed during the previous spring, showed its bright\nfrontage and five lifeless windows, for all its life was on the other,\nthe garden, side, which overlooked Paris and the far horizon.\n\nPierre mustered his courage and, pulling a brass knob which glittered\nlike gold, rang the bell. There came a gay, distant jingle; but for a\nmoment nobody appeared, and he was about to ring again, when the door was\nthrown wide open, revealing a passage which ran right through the house,\nbeyond which appeared the ocean of Paris, the endless sea of house roofs\nbathed in sunlight. And against this spacious, airy background, stood a\nyoung woman of twenty-six, clad in a simple gown of black woolen stuff,\nhalf covered by a large blue apron. She had her sleeves rolled up above\nher elbows, and her arms and hands were still moist with water which she\nhad but imperfectly wiped away.\n\nA moment\u2019s surprise and embarrassment ensued. The young woman, who had\nhastened to the door with laughing mien, became grave and covertly\nhostile at sight of the visitor\u2019s cassock. The priest thereupon realised\nthat he must give his name: \u201cI am Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment.\u201d\n\nAt this the young woman\u2019s smile of welcome came back to her. \u201cOh! I beg\nyour pardon, monsieur--I ought to have recognised you, for I saw you wish\nGuillaume good day one morning as you passed.\u201d\n\nShe said Guillaume; she, therefore, must be Marie. And Pierre looked at\nher in astonishment, finding her very different from what he had\nimagined. She was only of average height, but she was vigorously,\nadmirably built, broad of hip and broad of shoulder, with the small firm\nbosom of an amazon. By her erect and easy step, instinct with all the\nadorable grace of woman in her prime, one could divine that she was\nstrong, muscular and healthy. A brunette, but very white of skin, she had\na heavy helm of superb black hair, which she fastened in a negligent way,\nwithout any show of coquetry. And under her dark locks, her pure,\nintelligent brow, her delicate nose and gay eyes appeared full of intense\nlife; whilst the somewhat heavier character of her lower features, her\nfleshy lips and full chin, bespoke her quiet kindliness. She had surely\ncome on earth as a promise of every form of tenderness, every form of\ndevotion. In a word, she was a true mate for man.\n\nHowever, with her heavy, straying hair and superb arms, so ingenuous in\ntheir nudity, she only gave Pierre an impression of superfluous health\nand extreme self-assurance. She displeased him and even made him feel\nsomewhat anxious, as if she were a creature different from all others.\n\n\u201cIt is my brother Guillaume who has sent me,\u201d he said.\n\nAt this her face again changed; she became grave and hastened to admit\nhim to the passage. And when the door was closed she answered: \u201cYou have\nbrought us news of him, then! I must apologise for receiving you in this\nfashion. The servants have just finished some washing, and I was making\nsure if the work had been well done. Pray excuse me, and come in here for\na moment; it is perhaps best that I should be the first to know the\nnews.\u201d\n\nSo saying, she led him past the kitchen to a little room which served as\nscullery and wash-house. A tub full of soapy water stood there, and some\ndripping linen hung over some wooden bars. \u201cAnd so, Guillaume?\u201d she\nasked.\n\nPierre then told the truth in simple fashion: that his brother\u2019s wrist\nhad been injured; that he himself had witnessed the accident, and that\nhis brother had then sought an asylum with him at Neuilly, where he\nwished to remain and get cured of his injury in peace and quietness,\nwithout even receiving a visit from his sons. While speaking in this\nfashion, the priest watched the effect of his words on Marie\u2019s face:\nfirst fright and pity, and then an effort to calm herself and judge\nthings reasonably.\n\n\u201cHis letter quite froze me last night,\u201d she ended by replying. \u201cI felt\nsure that some misfortune had happened. But one must be brave and hide\none\u2019s fear from others. His wrist injured, you say; it is not a serious\ninjury, is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; but it is necessary that every precaution should be taken with it.\u201d\n\nShe looked him well in the face with her big frank eyes, which dived into\nhis own as if to reach the very depths of his being, though at the same\ntime she plainly sought to restrain the score of questions which rose to\nher lips. \u201cAnd that is all: he was injured in an accident,\u201d she resumed;\n\u201che didn\u2019t ask you to tell us anything further about it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, he simply desires that you will not be anxious.\u201d\n\nThereupon she insisted no further, but showed herself obedient and\nrespectful of the decision which Guillaume had arrived at. It sufficed\nthat he should have sent a messenger to reassure the household--she did\nnot seek to learn any more. And even as she had returned to her work in\nspite of the secret anxiety in which the letter of the previous evening\nhad left her, so now, with her air of quiet strength, she recovered an\nappearance of serenity, a quiet smile and clear brave glance.\n\n\u201cGuillaume only gave me one other commission,\u201d resumed Pierre, \u201cthat of\nhanding a little key to Madame Leroi.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery good,\u201d Marie answered, \u201cM\u00e8re-Grand is here; and, besides, the\nchildren must see you. I will take you to them.\u201d\n\nOnce more quite tranquil, she examined Pierre without managing to conceal\nher curiosity, which seemed of rather a kindly nature blended with an\nelement of vague pity. Her fresh white arms had remained bare. In all\ncandour she slowly drew down her sleeves; then took off the large blue\napron, and showed herself with her rounded figure, at once robust and\nelegant, in her modest black gown. He meanwhile looked at her, and most\ncertainly he did not find her to his liking. On seeing her so natural,\nhealthy, and courageous, quite a feeling of revolt arose within him,\nthough he knew not why.\n\n\u201cWill you please follow me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d she said. \u201cWe must cross\nthe garden.\u201d\n\nOn the ground-floor of the house, across the passage, and facing the\nkitchen and the scullery, there were two other rooms, a library\noverlooking the Place du Tertre, and a dining-room whose windows opened\ninto the garden. The four rooms on the first floor served as bedchambers\nfor the father and the sons. As for the garden, originally but a small\none, it had now been reduced to a kind of gravelled yard by the erection\nof the large workshop at one end of it. Of the former greenery, however,\nthere still remained two huge plum-trees with old knotted trunks, as well\nas a big clump of lilac-bushes, which every spring were covered with\nbloom. And in front of the latter Marie had arranged a broad flower-bed,\nin which she amused herself with growing a few roses, some wallflowers\nand some mignonette.\n\nWith a wave of her hand as she went past, she called Pierre\u2019s attention\nto the black plum-trees and the lilacs and roses, which showed but a few\ngreenish spots, for winter still held the little nook in sleep. \u201cTell\nGuillaume,\u201d she said, \u201cthat he must make haste to get well and be back\nfor the first shoots.\u201d\n\nThen, as Pierre glanced at her, she all at once flushed purple. Much to\nher distress, sudden and involuntary blushes would in this wise\noccasionally come upon her, even at the most innocent remarks. She found\nit ridiculous to feel such childish emotion when she had so brave a\nheart. But her pure maidenly blood had retained exquisite delicacy, such\nnatural and instinctive modesty that she yielded to it perforce. And\ndoubtless she had merely blushed because she feared that the priest might\nthink she had referred to her marriage in speaking of the spring.\n\n\u201cPlease go in, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. The children are there, all three.\u201d And\nforthwith she ushered him into the workshop.\n\nIt was a very spacious place, over sixteen feet high, with a brick\nflooring and bare walls painted an iron grey. A sheet of light, a stream\nof sunshine, spread to every corner through a huge window facing the\nsouth, where lay the immensity of Paris. The Venetian shutters often had\nto be lowered in the summer to attenuate the great heat. From morn till\nnight the whole family lived here, closely and affectionately united in\nwork. Each was installed as fancy listed, having a particular chosen\nplace. One half of the building was occupied by the father\u2019s chemical\nlaboratory, with its stove, experiment tables, shelves for apparatus,\nglass cases and cupboards for phials and jars. Near all this Thomas, the\neldest son, had installed a little forge, an anvil, a vice bench, in fact\neverything necessary to a working mechanician, such as he had become\nsince taking his bachelor\u2019s degree, from his desire to remain with his\nfather and help him with certain researches and inventions. Then, at the\nother end, the younger brothers, Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine, got on very well\ntogether on either side of a broad table which stood amidst a medley of\nportfolios, nests of drawers and revolving book-stands. Fran\u00e7ois, laden\nwith academical laurels, first on the pass list for the \u00c9cole Normale,\nhad entered that college where young men are trained for university\nprofessorships, and was there preparing for his Licentiate degree, while\nAntoine, who on reaching the third class at the Lyc\u00e9e Condorcet had taken\na dislike to classical studies, now devoted himself to his calling as a\nwood-engraver. And, in the full light under the window, M\u00e8re-Grand and\nMarie likewise had their particular table, where needlework, embroidery,\nall sorts of _chiffons_ and delicate things lay about near the somewhat\nrough jumble of retorts, tools and big books.\n\nMarie, however, on the very threshold called out in her calm voice, to\nwhich she strove to impart a gay and cheering accent: \u201cChildren!\nchildren! here is Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 with news of father!\u201d\n\nChildren, indeed! Yet what motherliness she already set in the word as\nshe applied it to those big fellows whose elder sister she had long\nconsidered herself to be! At three and twenty Thomas was quite a\ncolossus, already bearded and extremely like his father. But although he\nhad a lofty brow and energetic features, he was somewhat slow both in\nmind and body. And he was also taciturn, almost unsociable, absorbed in\nfilial devotion, delighted with the manual toil which made him a mere\nworkman at his master\u2019s orders. Fran\u00e7ois, two years younger than Thomas,\nand nearly as tall, showed a more refined face, though he had the same\nlarge brow and firm mouth, a perfect blending of health and strength, in\nwhich the man of intellect, the scientific Normalian, could only be\ndetected by the brighter and more subtle sparkle of the eyes. The\nyoungest of the brothers, Antoine, who for his eighteen years was almost\nas strong as his elders, and promised to become as tall, differed from\nthem by his lighter hair and soft, blue, dreamy eyes, which he had\ninherited from his mother. It had been difficult, however, to distinguish\none from the other when all three were schoolboys at the Lyc\u00e9e Condorcet;\nand even nowadays people made mistakes unless they saw them side by side,\nso as to detect the points of difference which were becoming more marked\nas age progressed.\n\nOn Pierre\u2019s arrival the brothers were so absorbed in their work that they\ndid not even hear the door open. And again, as in the case of Marie, the\npriest was surprised by the discipline and firmness of mind, which amidst\nthe keenest anxiety gave the young fellows strength to take up their\ndaily task. Thomas, who stood at his vice-bench in a blouse, was\ncarefully filing a little piece of copper with rough but skilful hands.\nFran\u00e7ois, leaning forward, was writing in a bold, firm fashion, whilst on\nthe other side of the table, Antoine, with a slender graver between his\nfingers, finished a block for an illustrated newspaper.\n\nHowever, Marie\u2019s clear voice made them raise their heads: \u201cChildren,\nfather has sent you some news!\u201d\n\nThen all three with the same impulse hurriedly quitted their work and\ncame forward. One could divine that directly there was any question of\ntheir father they were drawn together, blended one with the other, so\nthat but one and the same heart beat in their three broad chests.\nHowever, a door at the far end of the workroom opened at that moment, and\nM\u00e8re-Grand, coming from the upper floor where she and Marie had their\nbedrooms, made her appearance. She had just absented herself to fetch a\nskein of wool; and she gazed fixedly at the priest, unable to understand\nthe reason of his presence.\n\nMarie had to explain matters. \u201cM\u00e8re-Grand,\u201d said she, \u201cthis is Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment, Guillaume\u2019s brother; he has come from him.\u201d\n\nPierre on his side was examining the old lady, astonished to find her so\nerect and full of life at seventy. Her former beauty had left a stately\ncharm on her rather long face; youthful fire still lingered in her brown\neyes; and very firm was the contour of her pale lips, which in parting\nshowed that she had retained all her teeth. A few white hairs alone\nsilvered her black tresses, which were arranged in old-time fashion. Her\ncheeks had but slightly withered, and her deep, symmetrical wrinkles gave\nher countenance an expression of much nobility, a sovereign air as of a\nqueen-mother, which, tall and slight of stature as she was, and\ninvariably gowned in black woollen stuff, she always retained, no matter\nhow humble her occupation.\n\n\u201cSo Guillaume sent you, monsieur,\u201d she said; \u201che is injured, is he not?\u201d\n\nSurprised by this proof of intuition, Pierre repeated his story. \u201cYes,\nhis wrist is injured--but oh! it\u2019s not a case of immediate gravity.\u201d\n\nOn the part of the three sons, he had divined a sudden quiver, an impulse\nof their whole beings to rush to the help and defence of their father.\nAnd for their sakes he sought words of comfort: \u201cHe is with me at\nNeuilly. And with due care it is certain that no serious complications\nwill arise. He sent me to tell you to be in no wise uneasy about him.\u201d\n\nM\u00e8re-Grand for her part evinced no fears, but preserved great calmness,\nas if the priest\u2019s tidings contained nothing beyond what she had known\nalready. If anything, she seemed rather relieved, freed from anxiety\nwhich she had confided to none. \u201cIf he is with you, monsieur,\u201d she\nanswered, \u201che is evidently as comfortable as he can be, and sheltered\nfrom all risks. We were surprised, however, by his letter last night, as\nit did not explain why he was detained, and we should have ended by\nfeeling frightened. But now everything is satisfactory.\u201d\n\nM\u00e8re-Grand and the three sons, following Marie\u2019s example, asked no\nexplanations. On a table near at hand Pierre noticed several morning\nnewspapers lying open and displaying column after column of particulars\nabout the crime. The sons had certainly read these papers, and had feared\nlest their father should be compromised in that frightful affair. How far\ndid their knowledge of the latter go? They must be ignorant of the part\nplayed by Salvat. It was surely impossible for them to piece together all\nthe unforeseen circumstances which had brought about their father\u2019s\nmeeting with the workman, and then the crime. M\u00e8re-Grand, no doubt, was\nin certain respects better informed than the others. But they, the sons\nand Marie, neither knew nor sought to know anything. And thus what a\nwealth of respect and affection there was in their unshakable confidence\nin the father, in the tranquillity they displayed directly he sent them\nword that they were not to be anxious about him!\n\n\u201cMadame,\u201d Pierre resumed, \u201cGuillaume told me to give you this little key,\nand to remind you to do what he charged you to do, if any misfortune\nshould befall him.\u201d\n\nShe started, but so slightly that it was scarcely perceptible; and taking\nthe key she answered as if some ordinary wish on the part of a sick\nperson were alone in question. \u201cVery well. Tell him that his wishes shall\nbe carried out.\u201d Then she added, \u201cBut pray take a seat, monsieur.\u201d\n\nPierre, indeed, had remained standing. However, he now felt it necessary\nto accept a chair, desirous as he was of hiding the embarrassment which\nhe still felt in this house, although he was _en famille_ there. Marie,\nwho could not live without occupation for her fingers, had just returned\nto some embroidery, some of the fine needlework which she stubbornly\nexecuted for a large establishment dealing in baby-linen and bridal\n_trousseaux_; for she wished at any rate to earn her own pocket-money,\nshe often said with a laugh. M\u00e8re-Grand, too, from habit, which she\nfollowed even when visitors were present, had once more started on her\nperpetual stocking-mending; while Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine had again seated\nthemselves at their table; and Thomas alone remained on his legs, leaning\nagainst his bench. All the charm of industrious intimacy pervaded the\nspacious, sun-lit room.\n\n\u201cBut we\u2019ll all go to see father to-morrow,\u201d Thomas suddenly exclaimed.\n\nBefore Pierre could answer Marie raised her head. \u201cNo, no,\u201d said she, \u201che\ndoes not wish any of us to go to him; for if we should be watched and\nfollowed we should betray the secret of his retreat. Isn\u2019t that so,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt would indeed be prudent of you to deprive yourselves of the pleasure\nof embracing him until he himself can come back here. It will be a matter\nof some two or three weeks,\u201d answered Pierre.\n\nM\u00e8re-Grand at once expressed approval of this. \u201cNo doubt,\u201d said she.\n\u201cNothing could be more sensible.\u201d\n\nSo the three sons did not insist, but bravely accepted the secret anxiety\nin which they must for a time live, renouncing the visit which would have\ncaused them so much delight, because their father bade them do so and\nbecause his safety depended perhaps on their obedience.\n\nHowever, Thomas resumed: \u201cThen, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, will you please tell him\nthat as work will be interrupted here, I shall return to the factory\nduring his absence. I shall be more at ease there for the researches on\nwhich we are engaged.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd please tell him from me,\u201d put in Fran\u00e7ois, \u201cthat he mustn\u2019t worry\nabout my examination. Things are going very well. I feel almost certain\nof success.\u201d\n\nPierre promised that he would forget nothing. However, Marie raised her\nhead, smiling and glancing at Antoine, who had remained silent with a\nfaraway look in his eyes. \u201cAnd you, little one,\u201d said she, \u201cdon\u2019t you\nsend him any message?\u201d\n\nEmerging from a dream, the young fellow also began to smile. \u201cYes, yes, a\nmessage that you love him dearly, and that he\u2019s to make haste back for\nyou to make him happy.\u201d\n\nAt this they all became merry, even Marie, who in lieu of embarrassment\nshowed a tranquil gaiety born of confidence in the future. Between her\nand the young men there was naught but happy affection. And a grave smile\nappeared even on the pale lips of M\u00e8re-Grand, who likewise approved of\nthe happiness which life seemed to be promising.\n\nPierre wished to stay a few minutes longer. They all began to chat, and\nhis astonishment increased. He had gone from surprise to surprise in this\nhouse where he had expected to find that equivocal, disorderly life, that\nrebellion against social laws, which destroy morality. But instead of\nthis he had found loving serenity, and such strong discipline that life\nthere partook of the gravity, almost the austerity, of convent life,\ntempered by youth and gaiety. The vast room was redolent of industry and\nquietude, warm with bright sunshine. However, what most particularly\nstruck him was the Spartan training, the bravery of mind and heart among\nthose sons who allowed nothing to be seen of their personal feelings, and\ndid not presume to judge their father, but remained content with his\nmessage, ready to await events, stoical and silent, while carrying on\ntheir daily tasks. Nothing could be more simple, more dignified, more\nlofty. And there was also the smiling heroism of M\u00e8re-Grand and Marie,\nthose two women who slept over that laboratory where terrible\npreparations were manipulated, and where an explosion was always\npossible.\n\nHowever, such courage, orderliness and dignity merely surprised Pierre,\nwithout touching him. He had no cause for complaint, he had received a\npolite greeting if not an affectionate one; but then he was as yet only a\nstranger there, a priest. In spite of everything, however, he remained\nhostile, feeling that he was in a sphere where none of his own torments\ncould be shared or even divined. How did these folks manage to be so calm\nand happy amidst their religious unbelief, their sole faith in science,\nand in presence of that terrifying Paris which spread before them the\nboundless sea, the growling abomination of its injustice and its want? As\nthis thought came to him he turned his head and gazed at the city through\nthe huge window, whence it stretched away, ever present, ever living its\ngiant life. And at that hour, under the oblique sun-rays of the winter\nafternoon, all Paris was speckled with luminous dust, as if some\ninvisible sower, hidden amidst the glory of the planet, were fast\nscattering seed which fell upon every side in a stream of gold. The whole\nfield was covered with it; for the endless chaos of house roofs and\nedifices seemed to be land in tilth, furrowed by some gigantic plough.\nAnd Pierre in his uneasiness, stirred, despite everything, by an\ninvincible need of hope, asked himself if this was not a good sowing, the\nfurrows of Paris strewn with light by the divine sun for the great future\nharvest, that harvest of truth and justice of whose advent he had\ndespaired.\n\nAt last he rose and took his leave, promising to return at once, if there\nshould be any bad news. It was Marie who showed him to the front door.\nAnd there another of those childish blushes which worried her so much\nsuddenly rose to her face, just as she, in her turn, also wished to send\nher loving message to the injured man. However, with her gay, candid eyes\nfixed on those of the priest, she bravely spoke the words: \u201c_Au revoir,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9_. Tell Guillaume that I love him and await him.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nIII. PENURY AND TOIL\n\nTHREE days went by, and every morning Guillaume, confined to his bed and\nconsumed by fever and impatience, experienced fresh anxiety directly the\nnewspapers arrived. Pierre had tried to keep them from him, but Guillaume\nthen worried himself the more, and so the priest had to read him column\nby column all the extraordinary articles that were published respecting\nthe crime.\n\nNever before had so many rumours inundated the press. Even the \u201cGlobe,\u201d\n usually so grave and circumspect, yielded to the general _furore_, and\nprinted whatever statements reached it. But the more unscrupulous papers\nwere the ones to read. The \u201cVoix du Peuple\u201d in particular made use of the\npublic feverishness to increase its sales. Each morning it employed some\nfresh device, and printed some frightful story of a nature to drive\npeople mad with terror. It related that not a day passed without Baron\nDuvillard receiving threatening letters of the coarsest description,\nannouncing that his wife, his son and his daughter would all be killed,\nthat he himself would be butchered in turn, and that do what he might his\nhouse would none the less be blown up. And as a measure of precaution the\nhouse was guarded day and night alike by a perfect army of plain-clothes\nofficers. Then another article contained an amazing piece of invention.\nSome anarchists, after carrying barrels of powder into a sewer near the\nMadeleine, were said to have undermined the whole district, planning a\nperfect volcano there, into which one half of Paris would sink. And at\nanother time it was alleged that the police were on the track of a\nterrible plot which embraced all Europe, from the depths of Russia to the\nshores of Spain. The signal for putting it into execution was to be given\nin France, and there would be a three days\u2019 massacre, with grape shot\nsweeping everyone off the Boulevards, and the Seine running red, swollen\nby a torrent of blood. Thanks to these able and intelligent devices of\nthe Press, terror now reigned in the city; frightened foreigners fled\nfrom the hotels _en masse_; and Paris had become a mere mad-house, where\nthe most idiotic delusions at once found credit.\n\nIt was not all this, however, that worried Guillaume. He was only anxious\nabout Salvat and the various new \u201cscents\u201d which the newspaper reporters\nattempted to follow up. The engineer was not yet arrested, and, so far\nindeed, there had been no statement in print to indicate that the police\nwere on his track. At last, however, Pierre one morning read a paragraph\nwhich made the injured man turn pale.\n\n\u201cDear me! It seems that a tool has been found among the rubbish at the\nentrance of the Duvillard mansion. It is a bradawl, and its handle bears\nthe name of Grandidier, which is that of a man who keeps some well-known\nmetal works. He is to appear before the investigating magistrate to-day.\u201d\n\nGuillaume made a gesture of despair. \u201cAh!\u201d said he, \u201cthey are on the\nright track at last. That tool must certainly have been dropped by\nSalvat. He worked at Grandidier\u2019s before he came to me for a few days.\nAnd from Grandidier they will learn all that they need to know in order\nto follow the scent.\u201d\n\nPierre then remembered that he had heard the Grandidier factory mentioned\nat Montmartre. Guillaume\u2019s eldest son, Thomas, had served his\napprenticeship there, and even worked there occasionally nowadays.\n\n\u201cYou told me,\u201d resumed Guillaume, \u201cthat during my absence Thomas intended\nto go back to the factory. It\u2019s in connection with a new motor which he\u2019s\nplanning, and has almost hit upon. If there should be a perquisition\nthere, he may be questioned, and may refuse to answer, in order to guard\nhis secret. So he ought to be warned of this, warned at once!\u201d\n\nWithout trying to extract any more precise statement from his brother,\nPierre obligingly offered his services. \u201cIf you like,\u201d said he, \u201cI will\ngo to see Thomas this afternoon. Perhaps I may come across Monsieur\nGrandidier himself and learn how far the affair has gone, and what was\nsaid at the investigating magistrate\u2019s.\u201d\n\nWith a moist glance and an affectionate grasp of the hand, Guillaume at\nonce thanked Pierre: \u201cYes, yes, brother, go there, it will be good and\nbrave of you.\u201d\n\n\u201cBesides,\u201d continued the priest, \u201cI really wanted to go to Montmartre\nto-day. I haven\u2019t told you so, but something has been worrying me. If\nSalvat has fled, he must have left the woman and the child all alone up\nyonder. On the morning of the day when the explosion took place I saw the\npoor creatures in such a state of destitution, such misery, that I can\u2019t\nthink of them without a heart-pang. Women and children so often die of\nhunger when the man is no longer there.\u201d\n\nAt this, Guillaume, who had kept Pierre\u2019s hand in his own, pressed it\nmore tightly, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: \u201cYes, yes, and that\nwill be good and brave too. Go there, brother, go there.\u201d\n\nThat house of the Rue des Saules, that horrible home of want and agony,\nhad lingered in Pierre\u2019s memory. To him it was like an embodiment of the\nwhole filthy _cloaca_, in which the poor of Paris suffer unto death. And\non returning thither that afternoon, he found the same slimy mud around\nit; its yard littered with the same filth, its dark, damp stairways\nredolent of the same stench of neglect and poverty, as before. In winter\ntime, while the fine central districts of Paris are dried and cleansed,\nthe far-away districts of the poor remain gloomy and miry, beneath the\neverlasting tramp of the wretched ones who dwell in them.\n\nRemembering the staircase which conducted to Salvat\u2019s lodging, Pierre\nbegan to climb it amidst a loud screaming of little children, who\nsuddenly became quiet, letting the house sink into death-like silence\nonce more. Then the thought of Laveuve, who had perished up there like a\nstray dog, came back to Pierre. And he shuddered when, on the top\nlanding, he knocked at Salvat\u2019s door, and profound silence alone answered\nhim. Not a breath was to be heard.\n\nHowever, he knocked again, and as nothing stirred he began to think that\nnobody could be there. Perhaps Salvat had returned to fetch the woman and\nthe child, and perhaps they had followed him to some humble nook abroad.\nStill this would have astonished him; for the poor seldom quit their\nhomes, but die where they have suffered. So he gave another gentle knock.\n\nAnd at last a faint sound, the light tread of little feet, was heard\namidst the silence. Then a weak, childish voice ventured to inquire: \u201cWho\nis there?\u201d\n\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\nThe silence fell again, nothing more stirred. There was evidently\nhesitation on the other side.\n\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 who came the other day,\u201d said Pierre again.\n\nThis evidently put an end to all uncertainty, for the door was set ajar\nand little C\u00e9line admitted the priest. \u201cI beg your pardon, Monsieur\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said she, \u201cbut Mamma Th\u00e9odore has gone out, and she told me not\nto open the door to anyone.\u201d\n\nPierre had, for a moment, imagined that Salvat himself was hiding there.\nBut with a glance he took in the whole of the small bare room, where man,\nwoman and child dwelt together. At the same time, Madame Th\u00e9odore\ndoubtless feared a visit from the police. Had she seen Salvat since the\ncrime? Did she know where he was hiding? Had he come back there to\nembrace and tranquillise them both?\n\n\u201cAnd your papa, my dear,\u201d said Pierre to C\u00e9line, \u201cisn\u2019t he here either?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no, monsieur, he has gone away.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, gone away?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, he hasn\u2019t been home to sleep, and we don\u2019t know where he is.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps he\u2019s working.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no! he\u2019d send us some money if he was.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen he\u2019s gone on a journey, perhaps?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe wrote to Mamma Th\u00e9odore, no doubt?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d\n\nPierre asked no further questions. In fact, he felt somewhat ashamed of\nhis attempt to extract information from this child of eleven, whom he\nthus found alone. It was quite possible that she knew nothing, that\nSalvat, in a spirit of prudence, had even refrained from sending any\ntidings of himself. Indeed, there was an expression of truthfulness on\nthe child\u2019s fair, gentle and intelligent face, which was grave with the\ngravity that extreme misery imparts to the young.\n\n\u201cI am sorry that Mamma Th\u00e9odore isn\u2019t here,\u201d said Pierre, \u201cI wanted to\nspeak to her.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut perhaps you would like to wait for her, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. She has\ngone to my Uncle Toussaint\u2019s in the Rue Marcadet; and she can\u2019t stop much\nlonger, for she\u2019s been away more than an hour.\u201d\n\nThereupon C\u00e9line cleared one of the chairs on which lay a handful of\nscraps of wood, picked up on some waste ground.\n\nThe bare and fireless room was assuredly also a breadless one. Pierre\ncould divine the absence of the bread-winner, the disappearance of the\nman who represents will and strength in the home, and on whom one still\nrelies even when weeks have gone by without work. He goes out and scours\nthe city, and often ends by bringing back the indispensable crust which\nkeeps death at bay. But with his disappearance comes complete\nabandonment, the wife and child in danger, destitute of all prop and\nhelp.\n\nPierre, who had sat down and was looking at that poor, little, blue-eyed\ngirl, to whose lips a smile returned in spite of everything, could not\nkeep from questioning her on another point. \u201cSo you don\u2019t go to school,\nmy child?\u201d said he.\n\nShe faintly blushed and answered: \u201cI\u2019ve no shoes to go in.\u201d\n\nHe glanced at her feet, and saw that she was wearing a pair of ragged old\nlist-slippers, from which her little toes protruded, red with cold.\n\n\u201cBesides,\u201d she continued, \u201cMamma Th\u00e9odore says that one doesn\u2019t go to\nschool when one\u2019s got nothing to eat. Mamma Th\u00e9odore wanted to work but\nshe couldn\u2019t, because her eyes got burning hot and full of water. And so\nwe don\u2019t know what to do, for we\u2019ve had nothing left since yesterday, and\nif Uncle Toussaint can\u2019t lend us twenty sous it\u2019ll be all over.\u201d\n\nShe was still smiling in her unconscious way, but two big tears had\ngathered in her eyes. And the sight of the child shut up in that bare\nroom, apart from all the happy ones of earth, so upset the priest that he\nagain felt his anger with want and misery awakening. Then, another ten\nminutes having elapsed, he became impatient, for he had to go to the\nGrandidier works before returning home.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know why Mamma Th\u00e9odore doesn\u2019t come back,\u201d repeated C\u00e9line.\n\u201cPerhaps she\u2019s chatting.\u201d Then, an idea occurring to her she continued:\n\u201cI\u2019ll take you to my Uncle Toussaint\u2019s, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, if you like.\nIt\u2019s close by, just round the corner.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you have no shoes, my child.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! that don\u2019t matter, I walk all the same.\u201d\n\nThereupon he rose from the chair and said simply: \u201cWell, yes, that will\nbe better, take me there. And I\u2019ll buy you some shoes.\u201d\n\nC\u00e9line turned quite pink, and then made haste to follow him after\ncarefully locking the door of the room like a good little housewife,\nthough, truth to tell, there was nothing worth stealing in the place.\n\nIn the meantime it had occurred to Madame Th\u00e9odore that before calling on\nher brother Toussaint to try to borrow a franc from him, she might first\nessay her luck with her younger sister, Hortense, who had married little\nChr\u00e9tiennot, the clerk, and occupied a flat of four rooms on the\nBoulevard de Rochechouart. This was quite an affair, however, and the\npoor woman only made the venture because C\u00e9line had been fasting since\nthe previous day.\n\nEug\u00e8ne Toussaint, the mechanician, a man of fifty, was her stepbrother,\nby the first marriage contracted by her father. A young dressmaker whom\nthe latter had subsequently wedded, had borne him three daughters,\nPauline, L\u00e9onie and Hortense. And on his death, his son Eug\u00e8ne, who\nalready had a wife and child of his own, had found himself for a short\ntime with his stepmother and sisters on his hands. The stepmother,\nfortunately, was an active and intelligent woman, and knew how to get out\nof difficulties. She returned to her former workroom where her daughter\nPauline was already apprenticed, and she next placed L\u00e9onie there; so\nthat Hortense, the youngest girl, who was a spoilt child, prettier and\nmore delicate than her sisters, was alone left at school. And, later\non,--after Pauline had married Labitte the stonemason, and L\u00e9onie, Salvat\nthe journeyman-engineer,--Hortense, while serving as assistant at a\nconfectioner\u2019s in the Rue des Martyrs, there became acquainted with\nChr\u00e9tiennot, a clerk, who married her. L\u00e9onie had died young, only a few\nweeks after her mother; Pauline, forsaken by her husband, lived with her\nbrother-in-law Salvat, and Hortense alone wore a light silk gown on\nSundays, resided in a new house, and ranked as a _bourgeoise_, at the\nprice, however, of interminable worries and great privation.\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore knew that her sister was generally short of money towards\nthe month\u2019s end, and therefore felt rather ill at ease in thus venturing\nto apply for a loan. Chr\u00e9tiennot, moreover, embittered by his own\nmediocrity, had of late years accused his wife of being the cause of\ntheir spoilt life, and had ceased all intercourse with her relatives.\nToussaint, no doubt, was a decent workman; but that Madame Th\u00e9odore who\nlived in misery with her brother-in-law, and that Salvat who wandered\nfrom workshop to workshop like an incorrigible ranter whom no employer\nwould keep; those two, with their want and dirt and rebellion, had ended\nby incensing the vain little clerk, who was not only a great stickler for\nthe proprieties, but was soured by all the difficulties he encountered in\nhis own life. And thus he had forbidden Hortense to receive her sister.\n\nAll the same, as Madame Th\u00e9odore climbed the carpeted staircase of the\nhouse on the Boulevard Rochechouart, she experienced a certain feeling of\npride at the thought that she had a relation living in such luxury. The\nChr\u00e9tiennot\u2019s rooms were on the third floor, and overlooked the\ncourtyard. Their _femme-de-m\u00e9nage_--a woman who goes out by the day or\nhour charring, cleaning and cooking--came back every afternoon about four\no\u2019clock to see to the dinner, and that day she was already there. She\nadmitted the visitor, though she could not conceal her anxious surprise\nat her boldness in calling in such slatternly garb. However, on the very\nthreshold of the little salon, Madame Th\u00e9odore stopped short in\nwonderment herself, for her sister Hortense was sobbing and crouching on\none of the armchairs, upholstered in blue repp, of which she was so\nproud.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter? What has happened to you?\u201d asked Madame Th\u00e9odore.\n\nHer sister, though scarcely two and thirty, was no longer \u201cthe beautiful\nHortense\u201d of former days. She retained a doll-like appearance, with a\ntall slim figure, pretty eyes and fine, fair hair. But she who had once\ntaken so much care of herself, had now come down to dressing-gowns of\ndoubtful cleanliness. Her eyelids, too, were reddening, and blotches were\nappearing on her skin. She had begun to fade after giving birth to two\ndaughters, one of whom was now nine and the other seven years of age.\nVery proud and egotistical, she herself had begun to regret her marriage,\nfor she had formerly considered herself a real beauty, worthy of the\npalaces and equipages of some Prince Charming. And at this moment she was\nplunged in such despair, that her sister\u2019s sudden appearance on the scene\ndid not even astonish her: \u201cAh! it\u2019s you,\u201d she gasped. \u201cAh! if you only\nknew what a blow\u2019s fallen on me in the middle of all our worries!\u201d\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore at once thought of the children, Lucienne and Marcelle.\n\u201cAre your daughters ill?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cNo, no, our neighbour has taken them for a walk on the Boulevard. But\nthe fact is, my dear, I\u2019m _enceinte_, and when I told Chr\u00e9tiennot of it\nafter _d\u00e9jeuner_, he flew into a most fearful passion, saying the most\ndreadful, the most cruel things!\u201d\n\nThen she again sobbed. Gentle and indolent by nature, desirous of peace\nand quietness before anything else, she was incapable of deceiving her\nhusband, as he well knew. But the trouble was that an addition to the\nfamily would upset the whole economy of the household.\n\n\u201c_Mon Dieu_!\u201d said Madame Th\u00e9odore at last, \u201cyou brought up the others,\nand you\u2019ll bring up this one too.\u201d\n\nAt this an explosion of anger dried the other\u2019s eyes; and she rose,\nexclaiming: \u201cYou are good, you are! One can see that our purse isn\u2019t\nyours. How are we to bring up another child when we can scarcely make\nboth ends meet as it is?\u201d\n\nAnd thereupon, forgetting the _bourgeois_ pride which usually prompted\nher to silence or falsehood, she freely explained their embarrassment,\nthe horrid pecuniary worries which made their life a perpetual misery.\nTheir rent amounted to 700 francs,* so that out of the 3000 francs**\nwhich the husband earned at his office, barely a couple of hundred were\nleft them every month. And how were they to manage with that little sum,\nprovide food and clothes, keep up their rank and so forth? There was the\nindispensable black coat for monsieur, the new dress which madame must\nhave at regular intervals, under penalty of losing caste, the new boots\nwhich the children required almost every month, in fact, all sorts of\nthings that could not possibly be dispensed with. One might strike a dish\nor two out of the daily menu, and even go without wine; but evenings came\nwhen it was absolutely necessary to take a cab. And, apart from all this,\none had to reckon with the wastefulness of the children, the disorder in\nwhich the discouraged wife left the house, and the despair of the\nhusband, who was convinced that he would never extricate himself from his\ndifficulties, even should his salary some day be raised to as high a\nfigure as 4000 francs. Briefly, one here found the unbearable penury of\nthe petty clerk, with consequences as disastrous as the black want of the\nartisan: the mock fa\u00e7ade and lying luxury; all the disorder and suffering\nwhich lie behind intellectual pride at not earning one\u2019s living at a\nbench or on a scaffolding.\n\n  * $140.\n\n  ** $600.\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d repeated Madame Th\u00e9odore, \u201cyou can\u2019t kill the child.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, of course not; but it\u2019s the end of everything,\u201d answered Hortense,\nsinking into the armchair again. \u201cWhat will become of us, _mon Dieu_!\nWhat will become of us!\u201d Then she collapsed in her unbuttoned dressing\ngown, tears once more gushing from her red and swollen eyes.\n\nMuch vexed that circumstances should be so unpropitious, Madame Th\u00e9odore\nnevertheless ventured to ask for the loan of twenty sous; and this\nbrought her sister\u2019s despair and confusion to a climax. \u201cI really haven\u2019t\na centime in the house,\u201d said she, \u201cjust now I borrowed ten sous for the\nchildren from the servant. I had to get ten francs from the Mont de Pi\u00e9t\u00e9\non a little ring the other day. And it\u2019s always the same at the end of\nthe month. However, Chr\u00e9tiennot will be paid to-day, and he\u2019s coming back\nearly with the money for dinner. So if I can I will send you something\nto-morrow.\u201d\n\nAt this same moment the servant hastened in with a distracted air, being\nwell aware that monsieur was in no wise partial to madame\u2019s relatives.\n\u201cOh madame, madame!\u201d said she; \u201chere\u2019s monsieur coming up the stairs.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuick then, quick, go away!\u201d cried Hortense, \u201cI should only have another\nscene if he met you here. To-morrow, if I can, I promise you.\u201d\n\nTo avoid Chr\u00e9tiennot who was coming in, Madame Th\u00e9odore had to hide\nherself in the kitchen. As he passed, she just caught sight of him, well\ndressed as usual in a tight-fitting frock-coat. Short and lean, with a\nthin face and long and carefully tended beard, he had the bearing of one\nwho is both vain and quarrelsome. Fourteen years of office life had\nwithered him, and now the long evening hours which he spent at a\nneighbouring caf\u00e9 were finishing him off.\n\nWhen Madame Th\u00e9odore had quitted the house she turned with dragging steps\ntowards the Rue Marcadet where the Toussaints resided. Here, again, she\nhad no great expectations, for she well knew what ill-luck and worry had\nfallen upon her brother\u2019s home. During the previous autumn Toussaint,\nthough he was but fifty, had experienced an attack of paralysis which had\nlaid him up for nearly five months. Prior to this mishap he had borne\nhimself bravely, working steadily, abstaining from drink, and bringing up\nhis three children in true fatherly fashion. One of them, a girl, was now\nmarried to a carpenter, with whom she had gone to Le Havre, while of the\nothers, both boys--one a soldier, had been killed in Tonquin, and the\nother Charles, after serving his time in the army, had become a working\nmechanician. Still, Toussaint\u2019s long illness had exhausted the little\nmoney which he had in the Savings Bank, and now that he had been set on\nhis legs again, he had to begin life once more without a copper before\nhim.\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore found her sister-in-law alone in the cleanly kept room\nwhich she and her husband occupied. Madame Toussaint was a portly woman,\nwhose corpulence increased in spite of everything, whether it were worry\nor fasting. She had a round puffy face with bright little eyes; and was a\nvery worthy woman, whose only faults were an inclination for gossiping\nand a fondness for good cheer. Before Madame Th\u00e9odore even opened her\nmouth she understood the object of her visit. \u201cYou\u2019ve come on us at a bad\nmoment, my dear,\u201d she said, \u201cwe\u2019re stumped. Toussaint wasn\u2019t able to go\nback to the works till the day before yesterday, and he\u2019ll have to ask\nfor an advance this evening.\u201d\n\nAs she spoke, she looked at the other with no great sympathy, hurt as she\nfelt by her slovenly appearance. \u201cAnd Salvat,\u201d she added, \u201cis he still\ndoing nothing?\u201d\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore doubtless foresaw the question, for she quietly lied: \u201cHe\nisn\u2019t in Paris, a friend has taken him off for some work over Belgium\nway, and I\u2019m waiting for him to send us something.\u201d\n\nMadame Toussaint still remained distrustful, however: \u201cAh!\u201d she said,\n\u201cit\u2019s just as well that he shouldn\u2019t be in Paris; for with all these bomb\naffairs we couldn\u2019t help thinking of him, and saying that he was quite\nmad enough to mix himself up in them.\u201d\n\nThe other did not even blink. If she knew anything she kept it to\nherself.\n\n\u201cBut you, my dear, can\u2019t you find any work?\u201d continued Madame Toussaint.\n\n\u201cWell, what would you have me do with my poor eyes? It\u2019s no longer\npossible for me to sew.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s true. A seamstress gets done for. When Toussaint was laid up here\nI myself wanted to go back to my old calling as a needlewoman. But there!\nI spoilt everything and did no good. Charring\u2019s about the only thing that\none can always do. Why don\u2019t you get some jobs of that kind?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m trying, but I can\u2019t find any.\u201d\n\nLittle by little Madame Toussaint was softening at sight of the other\u2019s\nmiserable appearance. She made her sit down, and told her that she would\ngive her something if Toussaint should come home with money. Then,\nyielding to her partiality for gossiping, since there was somebody to\nlisten to her, she started telling stories. The one affair, however, on\nwhich she invariably harped was the sorry business of her son Charles and\nthe servant girl at a wine shop over the way. Before going into the army\nCharles had been a most hard-working and affectionate son, invariably\nbringing his pay home to his mother. And certainly he still worked and\nshowed himself good-natured; but military service, while sharpening his\nwits, had taken away some of his liking for ordinary manual toil. It\nwasn\u2019t that he regretted army life, for he spoke of his barracks as a\nprison. Only his tools had seemed to him rather heavy when, on quitting\nthe service, he had been obliged to take them in hand once more.\n\n\u201cAnd so, my dear,\u201d continued Madame Toussaint, \u201cit\u2019s all very well for\nCharles to be kind-hearted, he can do no more for us. I knew that he\nwasn\u2019t in a hurry to get married, as it costs money to keep a wife. And\nhe was always very prudent, too, with girls. But what would you have?\nThere was that moment of folly with that Eug\u00e9nie over the road, a regular\nbaggage who\u2019s already gone off with another man, and left her baby\nbehind. Charles has put it out to nurse, and pays for it every month. And\na lot of expense it is too, perfect ruination. Yes, indeed, every\npossible misfortune has fallen on us.\u201d\n\nIn this wise Madame Toussaint rattled on for a full half hour. Then\nseeing that waiting and anxiety had made her sister-in-law turn quite\npale, she suddenly stopped short. \u201cYou\u2019re losing patience, eh?\u201d she\nexclaimed. \u201cThe fact is, that Toussaint won\u2019t be back for some time.\nShall we go to the works together? I\u2019ll easily find out if he\u2019s likely to\nbring any money home.\u201d\n\nThey then decided to go down, but at the bottom of the stairs they\nlingered for another quarter of an hour chatting with a neighbour who had\nlately lost a child. And just as they were at last leaving the house they\nheard a call: \u201cMamma! mamma!\u201d\n\nIt came from little C\u00e9line, whose face was beaming with delight. She was\nwearing a pair of new shoes and devouring a cake. \u201cMamma,\u201d she resumed,\n\u201cMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 who came the other day wants to see you. Just look! he\nbought me all this!\u201d\n\nOn seeing the shoes and the cake, Madame Th\u00e9odore understood matters. And\nwhen Pierre, who was behind the child, accosted her she began to tremble\nand stammer thanks. Madame Toussaint on her side had quickly drawn near,\nnot indeed to ask for anything herself, but because she was well pleased\nat such a God-send for her sister-in-law, whose circumstances were worse\nthan her own. And when she saw the priest slip ten francs into Madame\nTh\u00e9odore\u2019s hand she explained to him that she herself would willingly\nhave lent something had she been able. Then she promptly started on the\nstories of Toussaint\u2019s attack and her son Charles\u2019s ill-luck.\n\nBut C\u00e9line broke in: \u201cI say, mamma, the factory where papa used to work\nis here in this street, isn\u2019t it? Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 has some business\nthere.\u201d*\n\n  * Although the children of the French peasantry almost\n    invariably address their parents as \u201cfather\u201d and \u201cmother,\u201d\n     those of the working classes of Paris, and some other large\n    cities, usually employ the terms \u201cpapa\u201d and \u201cmamma.\u201d--Trans.\n\n\u201cThe Grandidier factory,\u201d resumed Madame Toussaint; \u201cwell, we were just\ngoing there, and we can show Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 the way.\u201d\n\nIt was only a hundred steps off. Escorted by the two women and the child,\nPierre slackened his steps and tried to extract some information about\nSalvat from Madame Th\u00e9odore. But she at once became very prudent. She had\nnot seen him again, she declared; he must have gone with a mate to\nBelgium, where there was a prospect of some work. From what she said, it\nappeared to the priest that Salvat had not dared to return to the Rue des\nSaules since his crime, in which all had collapsed, both his past life of\ntoil and hope, and his recent existence with its duties towards the woman\nand the child.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s the factory, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d suddenly said Madame Toussaint,\n\u201cmy sister-in-law won\u2019t have to wait now, since you\u2019ve been kind enough\nto help her. Thank you for her and for us.\u201d\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore and C\u00e9line likewise poured forth their thanks, standing\nbeside Madame Toussaint in the everlasting mud of that populous district,\namidst the jostling of the passers-by. And lingering there as if to see\nPierre enter, they again chatted together and repeated that, after all,\nsome priests were very kind.\n\nThe Grandidier works covered an extensive plot of ground. Facing the\nstreet there was only a brick building with narrow windows and a great\narchway, through which one espied a long courtyard. But, in the rear,\ncame a suite of habitations, workshops, and sheds, above whose never\nending roofs arose the two lofty chimneys of the generators. From the\nvery threshold one detected the rumbling and quivering of machinery, all\nthe noise and bustle of work. Black water flowed by at one\u2019s feet, and up\nabove white vapour spurted from a slender pipe with a regular strident\npuff, as if it were the very breath of that huge, toiling hive.\n\nBicycles were now the principal output of the works. When Grandidier had\ntaken them on leaving the Dijon Arts and Trades School, they were\ndeclining under bad management, slowly building some little motive\nengines by the aid of antiquated machinery. Foreseeing the future,\nhowever, he had induced his elder brother, one of the managers of the Bon\nMarche, to finance him, on the promise that he would supply that great\nemporium with excellent bicycles at 150 francs apiece. And now quite a\nbig venture was in progress, for the Bon March\u00e9 was already bringing out\nthe new popular machine \u201cLa Lisette,\u201d the \u201cBicycle for the Multitude,\u201d as\nthe advertisements asserted. Nevertheless, Grandidier was still in all\nthe throes of a great struggle, for his new machinery had cast a heavy\nburden of debt on him. At the same time each month brought its effort,\nthe perfecting or simplifying of some part of the manufacture, which\nmeant a saving in the future. He was ever on the watch; and even now was\nthinking of reverting to the construction of little motors, for he\nthought he could divine in the near future the triumph of the motor-car.\n\nOn asking if M. Thomas Froment were there, Pierre was led by an old\nworkman to a little shed, where he found the young fellow in the linen\njacket of a mechanician, his hands black with filings. He was adjusting\nsome piece of mechanism, and nobody would have suspected him to be a\nformer pupil of the Lyc\u00e9e Condorcet, one of the three clever Froments who\nhad there rendered the name famous. But his only desire had been to act\nas his father\u2019s faithful servant, the arm that forges, the embodiment of\nthe manual toil by which conceptions are realised. And, a giant of three\nand twenty, ever attentive and courageous, he was likewise a man of\npatient, silent and sober nature.\n\nOn catching sight of Pierre he quivered with anxiety and sprang forward.\n\u201cFather is no worse?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cNo, no. But he read in the papers that story of a bradawl found in the\nRue Godot-de-Mauroy, and it made him anxious, because the police may make\na perquisition here.\u201d\n\nThomas, his own anxiety allayed, began to smile. \u201cTell him he may sleep\nquietly,\u201d he responded. \u201cTo begin with, I\u2019ve unfortunately not yet hit on\nour little motor such as I want it to be. In fact, I haven\u2019t yet put it\ntogether. I\u2019m keeping the pieces at our house, and nobody here knows\nexactly what I come to do at the factory. So the police may search, it\nwill find nothing. Our secret runs no risk.\u201d\n\nPierre promised to repeat these words to Guillaume, so as to dissipate\nhis fears. However, when he tried to sound Thomas, and ascertain the\nposition of affairs, what the factory people thought of the discovery of\nthe bradawl, and whether there was as yet any suspicion of Salvat, he\nonce more found the young man taciturn, and elicited merely a \u201cyes\u201d or a\n\u201cno\u201d in answer to his inquiries. The police had not been there as yet?\nNo. But the men must surely have mentioned Salvat? Yes, of course, on\naccount of his Anarchist opinions. But what had Grandidier, the master,\nsaid, on returning from the investigating magistrate\u2019s? As for that\nThomas knew nothing. He had not seen Grandidier that day.\n\n\u201cBut here he comes!\u201d the young man added. \u201cAh! poor fellow, his wife, I\nfancy, had another attack this morning.\u201d\n\nHe alluded to a frightful story which Guillaume had already recounted to\nPierre. Grandidier, falling in love with a very beautiful girl, had\nmarried her; but for five years now she had been insane: the result of\npuerperal fever and the death of an infant son. Her husband, with his\nardent affection for her, had been unwilling to place her in an asylum,\nand had accordingly kept her with him in a little pavilion, whose\nwindows, overlooking the courtyard of the factory, always remained\nclosed. She was never seen; and never did he speak of her to anybody. It\nwas said that she was usually like a child, very gentle and very sad, and\nstill beautiful, with regal golden hair. At times, however, attacks of\nfrantic madness came upon her, and he then had to struggle with her, and\noften hold her for hours in his arms to prevent her from splitting her\nhead against the walls. Fearful shrieks would ring out for a time, and\nthen deathlike silence would fall once more.\n\nGrandidier came into the shed where Thomas was working. A handsome man of\nforty, with an energetic face, he had a dark and heavy moustache,\nbrush-like hair and clear eyes. He was very partial to Thomas, and during\nthe young fellow\u2019s apprenticeship there, had treated him like a son. And\nhe now let him return thither whenever it pleased him, and placed his\nappliances at his disposal. He knew that he was trying to devise a new\nmotor, a question in which he himself was extremely interested; still he\nevinced the greatest discretion, never questioning Thomas, but awaiting\nthe result of his endeavours.\n\n\u201cThis is my uncle, Abb\u00e9 Froment, who looked in to wish me good day,\u201d said\nthe young man, introducing Pierre.\n\nAn exchange of polite remarks ensued. Then Grandidier sought to cast off\nthe sadness which made people think him stern and harsh, and in a\nbantering tone exclaimed: \u201cI didn\u2019t tell you, Thomas, of my business with\nthe investigating magistrate. If I hadn\u2019t enjoyed a good reputation we\nshould have had all the spies of the Prefecture here. The magistrate\nwanted me to explain the presence of that bradawl in the Rue\nGodot-de-Mauroy, and I at once realised that, in his opinion, the culprit\nmust have worked here. For my part I immediately thought of Salvat. But I\ndon\u2019t denounce people. The magistrate has my hiring-book, and as for\nSalvat I simply answered that he worked here for nearly three months last\nautumn, and then disappeared. They can look for him themselves! Ah! that\nmagistrate! you can picture him a little fellow with fair hair and\ncat-like eyes, very careful of his appearance, a society man evidently,\nbut quite frisky at being mixed up in this affair.\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t he Monsieur Amadieu?\u201d asked Pierre.\n\n\u201cYes, that\u2019s his name. Ah! he\u2019s certainly delighted with the present\nwhich those Anarchists have made him, with that crime of theirs.\u201d\n\nThe priest listened in deep anxiety. As his brother had feared, the true\nscent, the first conducting wire, had now been found. And he looked at\nThomas to see if he also were disturbed. But the young man was either\nignorant of the ties which linked Salvat to his father, or else he\npossessed great power of self-control, for he merely smiled at\nGrandidier\u2019s sketch of the magistrate.\n\nThen, as Grandidier went to look at the piece of mechanism which Thomas\nwas finishing, and they began to speak about it, Pierre drew near to an\nopen doorway which communicated with a long workshop where engine lathes\nwere rumbling, and the beams of press-drills falling quickly and\nrhythmically. Leather gearing spun along with a continuous gliding, and\nthere was ceaseless bustle and activity amidst the odoriferous dampness\nof all the steam. Scores of perspiring workmen, grimy with dust and\nfilings, were still toiling. Still this was the final effort of the day.\nAnd as three men approached a water-tap near Pierre to wash their hands,\nhe listened to their talk, and became particularly interested in it when\nhe heard one of them, a tall, ginger-haired fellow, call another\nToussaint, and the third Charles.\n\nToussaint, a big, square-shouldered man with knotty arms, only showed his\nfifty years on his round, scorched face, which besides being roughened\nand wrinkled by labour, bristled with grey hairs, which nowadays he was\ncontent to shave off once a week. It was only his right arm that was\naffected by paralysis, and moved rather sluggishly. As for Charles, a\nliving portrait of his father, he was now in all the strength of his six\nand twentieth year, with splendid muscles distending his white skin, and\na full face barred by a heavy black moustache. The three men, like their\nemployer, were speaking of the explosion at the Duvillard mansion, of the\nbradawl found there, and of Salvat, whom they all now suspected.\n\n\u201cWhy, only a brigand would do such a thing!\u201d said Toussaint. \u201cThat\nAnarchism disgusts me. I\u2019ll have none of it. But all the same it\u2019s for\nthe _bourgeois_ to settle matters. If the others want to blow them up,\nit\u2019s their concern. It\u2019s they who brought it about.\u201d\n\nThis indifference was undoubtedly the outcome of a life of want and\nsocial injustice; it was the indifference of an old toiler, who, weary of\nstruggling and hoping for improvements, was now quite ready to tolerate\nthe crumbling of a social system, which threatened him with hunger in his\nimpotent old age.\n\n\u201cWell, you know,\u201d rejoined Charles, \u201cI\u2019ve heard the Anarchists talking,\nand they really say some very true and sensible things. And just take\nyourself, father; you\u2019ve been working for thirty years, and isn\u2019t it\nabominable that you should have had to pass through all that you did pass\nthrough recently, liable to go off like some old horse that\u2019s slaughtered\nat the first sign of illness? And, of course, it makes me think of\nmyself, and I can\u2019t help feeling that it won\u2019t be at all amusing to end\nlike that. And may the thunder of God kill me if I\u2019m wrong, but one feels\nhalf inclined to join in their great flare-up if it\u2019s really to make\neverybody happy!\u201d\n\nHe certainly lacked the flame of enthusiasm, and if he had come to these\nviews it was solely from impatience to lead a less toilsome life, for\nobligatory military service had given him ideas of equality among all\nmen--a desire to struggle, raise himself and obtain his legitimate share\nof life\u2019s enjoyments. It was, in fact, the inevitable step which carries\neach generation a little more forward. There was the father, who,\ndeceived in his hope of a fraternal republic, had grown sceptical and\ncontemptuous; and there was the son advancing towards a new faith, and\ngradually yielding to ideas of violence, since political liberty had\nfailed to keep its promises.\n\nNevertheless, as the big, ginger-haired fellow grew angry, and shouted\nthat if Salvat were guilty, he ought to be caught and guillotined at\nonce, without waiting for judges, Toussaint ended by endorsing his\nopinion. \u201cYes, yes, he may have married one of my sisters, but I renounce\nhim.... And yet, you know, it would astonish me to find him guilty,\nfor he isn\u2019t wicked at heart. I\u2019m sure he wouldn\u2019t kill a fly.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what would you have?\u201d put in Charles. \u201cWhen a man\u2019s driven to\nextremities he goes mad.\u201d\n\nThey had now washed themselves; but Toussaint, on perceiving his\nemployer, lingered there in order to ask him for an advance. As it\nhappened, Grandidier, after cordially shaking hands with Pierre,\napproached the old workman of his own accord, for he held him in esteem.\nAnd, after listening to him, he gave him a line for the cashier on a\ncard. As a rule, he was altogether against the practice of advancing\nmoney, and his men disliked him, and said he was over rigid, though in\npoint of fact he had a good heart. But he had his position as an employer\nto defend, and to him concessions meant ruin. With such keen competition\non all sides, with the capitalist system entailing a terrible and\nincessant struggle, how could one grant the demands of the workers, even\nwhen they were legitimate?\n\nSudden compassion came upon Pierre when, after quitting Thomas, he saw\nGrandidier, who had finished his round, crossing the courtyard in the\ndirection of the closed pavilion, where all the grief of his\nheart-tragedy awaited him. Here was that man waging the battle of life,\ndefending his fortune with the risk that his business might melt away\namidst the furious warfare between capital and labour; and at the same\ntime, in lieu of evening repose, finding naught but anguish it his\nhearth: a mad wife, an adored wife, who had sunk back into infancy, and\nwas for ever dead to love! How incurable was his secret despair! Even on\nthe days when he triumphed in his workshops, disaster awaited him at\nhome. And could any more unhappy man, any man more deserving of pity, be\nfound even among the poor who died of hunger, among those gloomy workers,\nthose vanquished sons of labour who hated and who envied him?\n\nWhen Pierre found himself in the street again he was astonished to see\nMadame Toussaint and Madame Th\u00e9odore still there with little C\u00e9line. With\ntheir feet in the mud, like bits of wreckage against which beat the\nceaseless flow of wayfarers, they had lingered there, still and ever\nchatting, loquacious and doleful, lulling their wretchedness to rest\nbeneath a deluge of tittle-tattle. And when Toussaint, followed by his\nson, came out, delighted with the advance he had secured, he also found\nthem on the same spot. Then he told Madame Th\u00e9odore the story of the\nbradawl, and the idea which had occurred to him and all his mates that\nSalvat might well be the culprit. She, however, though turning very pale,\nbegan to protest, concealing both what she knew and what she really\nthought.\n\n\u201cI tell you I haven\u2019t seen him for several days,\u201d said she. \u201cHe must\ncertainly be in Belgium. And as for a bomb, that\u2019s humbug. You say\nyourself that he\u2019s very gentle and wouldn\u2019t harm a fly!\u201d\n\nA little later as Pierre journeyed back to Neuilly in a tramcar he fell\ninto a deep reverie. All the stir and bustle of that working-class\ndistrict, the buzzing of the factory, the overflowing activity of that\nhive of labour, seemed to have lingered within him. And for the first\ntime, amidst his worries, he realised the necessity of work. Yes, it was\nfatal, but it also gave health and strength. In effort which sustains and\nsaves, he at last found a solid basis on which all might be reared. Was\nthis, then, the first gleam of a new faith? But ah! what mockery! Work an\nuncertainty, work hopeless, work always ending in injustice! And then\nwant ever on the watch for the toiler, strangling him as soon as slack\ntimes came round, and casting him into the streets like a dead dog\nimmediately old age set in.\n\nOn reaching Neuilly, Pierre found Bertheroy at Guillaume\u2019s bedside. The\nold _savant_ had just dressed the injured wrist, and was not yet certain\nthat no complications would arise. \u201cThe fact is,\u201d he said to Guillaume,\n\u201cyou don\u2019t keep quiet. I always find you in a state of feverish emotion\nwhich is the worst possible thing for you. You must calm yourself, my\ndear fellow, and not allow anything to worry you.\u201d\n\nA few minutes later, though, just as he was going away, he said with his\npleasant smile: \u201cDo you know that a newspaper writer came to interview me\nabout that explosion? Those reporters imagine that scientific men know\neverything! I told the one who called on me that it would be very kind of\n_him_ to enlighten _me_ as to what powder was employed. And, by the way,\nI am giving a lesson on explosives at my laboratory to-morrow. There will\nbe just a few persons present. You might come as well, Pierre, so as to\ngive an account of it to Guillaume; it would interest him.\u201d\n\nAt a glance from his brother, Pierre accepted the invitation. Then,\nBertheroy having gone, he recounted all he had learnt during the\nafternoon, how Salvat was suspected, and how the investigating magistrate\nhad been put on the right scent. And at this news, intense fever again\ncame over Guillaume, who, with his head buried in the pillow, and his\neyes closed, stammered as if in a kind of nightmare: \u201cAh! then, this is\nthe end! Salvat arrested, Salvat interrogated! Ah! that so much toil and\nso much hope should crumble!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nIV. CULTURE AND HOPE\n\nON the morrow, punctually at one o\u2019clock, Pierre reached the Rue d\u2019Ulm,\nwhere Bertheroy resided in a fairly large house, which the State had\nplaced at his disposal, in order that he might install in it a laboratory\nfor study and research. Thus the whole first floor had been transformed\ninto one spacious apartment, where, from time to time, the illustrious\nchemist was fond of receiving a limited number of pupils and admirers,\nbefore whom he made experiments, and explained his new discoveries and\ntheories.\n\nFor these occasions a few chairs were set out before the long and massive\ntable, which was covered with jars and appliances. In the rear one saw\nthe furnace, while all around were glass cases, full of vials and\nspecimens. The persons present were, for the most part, fellow _savants_,\nwith a few young men, and even a lady or two, and, of course, an\noccasional journalist. The whole made up a kind of family gathering, the\nvisitors chatting with the master in all freedom.\n\nDirectly Bertheroy perceived Pierre he came forward, pressed his hand and\nseated him on a chair beside Guillaume\u2019s son Fran\u00e7ois, who had been one\nof the first arrivals. The young man was completing his third year at the\n\u00c9cole Normale, close by, so he only had a few steps to take to call upon\nhis master Bertheroy, whom he regarded as one of the firmest minds of the\nage. Pierre was delighted to meet his nephew, for he had been greatly\nimpressed in his favour on the occasion of his visit to Montmartre.\nFran\u00e7ois, on his side, greeted his uncle with all the cordial\nexpansiveness of youth. He was, moreover, well pleased to obtain some\nnews of his father.\n\nHowever, Bertheroy began. He spoke in a familiar and sober fashion, but\nfrequently employed some very happy expressions. At first he gave an\naccount of his own extensive labours and investigations with regard to\nexplosive substances, and related with a laugh that he sometimes\nmanipulated powders which would have blown up the entire district. But,\nsaid he, in order to reassure his listeners, he was always extremely\nprudent. At last he turned to the subject of that explosion in the Rue\nGodot-de-Mauroy, which, for some days, had filled Paris with dismay. The\nremnants of the bomb had been carefully examined by experts, and one\nfragment had been brought to him, in order that he might give his opinion\non it. The bomb appeared to have been prepared in a very rudimentary\nfashion; it had been charged with small pieces of iron, and fired by\nmeans of a match, such as a child might have devised. The extraordinary\npart of the affair was the formidable power of the central cartridge,\nwhich, although it must have been a small one, had wrought as much havoc\nas any thunderbolt. And the question was this: What incalculable power of\ndestruction might one not arrive at if the charge were increased ten,\ntwenty or a hundredfold. Embarrassment began, and divergencies of opinion\nclouded the issue directly one tried to specify what explosive had been\nemployed. Of the three experts who had been consulted, one pronounced\nhimself in favour of dynamite pure and simple; but the two others,\nalthough they did not agree together, believed in some combination of\nexplosive matters. He, Bertheroy, had modestly declined to adjudicate,\nfor the fragment submitted to him bore traces of so slight a character,\nthat analysis became impossible. Thus he was unwilling to make any\npositive pronouncement. But his opinion was that one found oneself in\npresence of some unknown powder, some new explosive, whose power exceeded\nanything that had hitherto been dreamt of. He could picture some unknown\n_savant_, or some ignorant but lucky inventor, discovering the formula of\nthis explosive under mysterious conditions. And this brought him to the\npoint he wished to reach, the question of all the explosives which are so\nfar unknown, and of the coming discoveries which he could foresee. In the\ncourse of his investigations he himself had found cause to suspect the\nexistence of several such explosives, though he had lacked time and\nopportunity to prosecute his studies in that direction. However, he\nindicated the field which should be explored, and the best way of\nproceeding. In his opinion it was there that lay the future. And in a\nbroad and eloquent peroration, he declared that explosives had hitherto\nbeen degraded by being employed in idiotic schemes of vengeance and\ndestruction; whereas it was in them possibly that lay the liberating\nforce which science was seeking, the lever which would change the face of\nthe world, when they should have been so domesticated and subdued as to\nbe only the obedient servants of man.\n\nThroughout this familiar discourse Pierre could feel that Fran\u00e7ois was\ngrowing impassioned, quivering at thought of the vast horizon which the\nmaster opened up. He himself had become extremely interested, for he\ncould not do otherwise than notice certain allusions, and connect what he\nheard with what he had guessed of Guillaume\u2019s anxiety regarding that\nsecret which he feared to see at the mercy of an investigating\nmagistrate. And so as he, Pierre, before going off with Fran\u00e7ois,\napproached Bertheroy to wish him good day, he pointedly remarked:\n\u201cGuillaume will be very sorry that he was unable to hear you unfold those\nadmirable ideas.\u201d\n\nThe old _savant_ smiled. \u201cPooh!\u201d said he; \u201cjust give him a summary of\nwhat I said. He will understand. He knows more about the matter than I\ndo.\u201d\n\nIn presence of the illustrious chemist, Fran\u00e7ois preserved the silent\ngravity of a respectful pupil, but when he and Pierre had taken a few\nsteps down the street in silence, he remarked: \u201cWhat a pity it is that a\nman of such broad intelligence, free from all superstition, and anxious\nfor the sole triumph of truth, should have allowed himself to be\nclassified, ticketed, bound round with titles and academical functions!\nHow greatly our affection for him would increase if he took less State\npay, and freed himself from all the grand cordons which tie his hands.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat would you have!\u201d rejoined Pierre, in a conciliatory spirit. \u201cA man\nmust live! At the same time I believe that he does not regard himself as\ntied by anything.\u201d\n\nThen, as they had reached the entrance of the \u00c9cole Normale, the priest\nstopped, thinking that his companion was going back to the college. But\nFran\u00e7ois, raising his eyes and glancing at the old place, remarked: \u201cNo,\nno, to-day\u2019s Thursday, and I\u2019m at liberty! Oh! we have a deal of liberty,\nperhaps too much. But for my own part I\u2019m well pleased at it, for it\noften enables me to go to Montmartre and work at my old little table.\nIt\u2019s only there that I feel any real strength and clearness of mind.\u201d\n\nHis preliminary examinations had entitled him to admission at either the\n\u00c9cole Polytechnique or the \u00c9cole Normale,* and he had chosen the latter,\nentering its scientific section with No. 1 against his name. His father\nhad wished him to make sure of an avocation, that of professor, even if\ncircumstances should allow him to remain independent and follow his own\nbent on leaving the college. Fran\u00e7ois, who was very precocious, was now\npreparing for his last examination there, and the only rest he took was\nin walking to and from Montmartre, or in strolling through the Luxembourg\ngardens.\n\n  * The purposes of the \u00c9cole Normale have been referred to on\n    p. 197. At the \u00c9cole Polytechnique young men receive much\n    of the preliminary training which they require to become\n    either artillery officers, or military, naval or civil\n    engineers.--Trans.\n\nFrom force of habit he now turned towards the latter, accompanied by\nPierre and chatting with him. One found the mildness of springtime there\nthat February afternoon; for pale sunshine streamed between the trees,\nwhich were still leafless. It was indeed one of those first fine days\nwhich draw little green gems from the branches of the lilac bushes.\n\nThe \u00c9cole Normale was still the subject of conversation and Pierre\nremarked: \u201cI must own that I hardly like the spirit that prevails there.\nExcellent work is done, no doubt, and the only way to form professors is\nto teach men the trade by cramming them with the necessary knowledge. But\nthe worst is that although all the students are trained for the teaching\nprofession, many of them don\u2019t remain in it, but go out into the world,\ntake to journalism, or make it their business to control the arts,\nliterature and society. And those who do this are for the most part\nunbearable. After swearing by Voltaire they have gone back to\nspirituality and mysticism, the last drawing-room craze. Now that a firm\nfaith in science is regarded as brutish and inelegant, they fancy that\nthey rid themselves of their caste by feigning amiable doubt, and\nignorance, and innocence. What they most fear is that they may carry a\nscent of the schools about with them, so they put on extremely Parisian\nairs, venture on somersaults and slang, and assume all the grace of\ndancing bears in their eager desire to please. From that desire spring\nthe sarcastic shafts which they aim at science, they who pretend that\nthey know everything, but who go back to the belief of the humble, the\n_naive_ idealism of Biblical legends, just because they think the latter\nto be more distinguished.\u201d\n\nFran\u00e7ois began to laugh: \u201cThe portrait is perhaps a little overdrawn,\u201d\n said he, \u201cstill there\u2019s truth in it, a great deal of truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have known several of them,\u201d continued Pierre, who was growing\nanimated. \u201cAnd among them all I have noticed that a fear of being duped\nleads them to reaction against the entire effort, the whole work of the\ncentury. Disgust with liberty, distrust of science, denial of the future,\nthat is what they now profess. And they have such a horror of the\ncommonplace that they would rather believe in nothing or the incredible.\nIt may of course be commonplace to say that two and two make four, yet\nit\u2019s true enough; and it is far less foolish for a man to say and repeat\nit than to believe, for instance, in the miracles of Lourdes.\u201d\n\nFran\u00e7ois glanced at the priest in astonishment. The other noticed it and\nstrove to restrain himself. Nevertheless, grief and anger carried him\naway whenever he spoke of the educated young people of the time, such as,\nin his despair, he imagined them to be. In the same way as he had pitied\nthe toilers dying of hunger in the districts of misery and want, so here\nhe overflowed with contempt for the young minds that lacked bravery in\nthe presence of knowledge, and harked back to the consolation of\ndeceptive spirituality, the promise of an eternity of happiness in death,\nwhich last was longed for and exalted as the very sum of life. Was not\nthe cowardly thought of refusing to live for the sake of living so as to\ndischarge one\u2019s simple duty in being and making one\u2019s effort, equivalent\nto absolute assassination of life? However, the _Ego_ was always the\nmainspring; each one sought personal happiness. And Pierre was grieved to\nthink that those young people, instead of discarding the past and\nmarching on to the truths of the future, were relapsing into shadowy\nmetaphysics through sheer weariness and idleness, due in part perhaps to\nthe excessive exertion of the century, which had been overladen with\nhuman toil.\n\nHowever, Fran\u00e7ois had begun to smile again. \u201cBut you are mistaken,\u201d said\nhe; \u201cwe are not all like that at the \u00c9cole Normale. You only seem to know\nthe Normalians of the Section of Letters, and your opinions would surely\nchange if you knew those of the Section of Sciences. It is quite true\nthat the reaction against Positivism is making itself felt among our\nliterary fellow-students, and that they, like others, are haunted by the\nidea of that famous bankruptcy of science. This is perhaps due to their\nmasters, the neo-spiritualists and dogmatical rhetoricians into whose\nhands they have fallen. And it is still more due to fashion, the whim of\nthe times which, as you have very well put it, regards scientific truth\nas bad taste, something graceless and altogether too brutal for light and\ndistinguished minds. Consequently, a young fellow of any shrewdness who\ndesires to please is perforce won over to the new spirit.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe new spirit!\u201d interrupted Pierre, unable to restrain himself. \u201cOh!\nthat is no mere innocent, passing fashion, it is a tactical device and a\nterrible one, an offensive return of the powers of darkness against those\nof light, of servitude against free thought, truth and justice.\u201d\n\nThen, as the young man again looked at him with growing astonishment, he\nrelapsed into silence. The figure of Monseigneur Martha had risen before\nhis eyes, and he fancied he could again hear the prelate at the\nMadeleine, striving to win Paris over to the policy of Rome, to that\nspurious neo-Catholicism which, with the object of destroying democracy\nand science, accepted such portions of them as it could adapt to its own\nviews. This was indeed the supreme struggle. Thence came all the poison\npoured forth to the young. Pierre knew what efforts were being made in\nreligious circles to help on this revival of mysticism, in the mad hope\nof hastening the rout of science. Monseigneur Martha, who was\nall-powerful at the Catholic University, said to his intimates, however,\nthat three generations of devout and docile pupils would be needed before\nthe Church would again be absolute sovereign of France.\n\n\u201cWell, as for the \u00c9cole Normale,\u201d continued Fran\u00e7ois, \u201cI assure you that\nyou are mistaken. There are a few narrow bigots there, no doubt. But even\nin the Section of Letters the majority of the students are sceptics at\nbottom--sceptics of discreet and good-natured average views. Of course\nthey are professors before everything else, though they are a trifle\nashamed of it; and, as professors, they judge things with no little\npedantic irony, devoured by a spirit of criticism, and quite incapable of\ncreating anything themselves. I should certainly be astonished to see the\nman of genius whom we await come out of their ranks. To my thinking,\nindeed, it would be preferable that some barbarian genius, neither well\nread nor endowed with critical faculty, or power of weighing and shading\nthings, should come and open the next century with a hatchet stroke,\nsending up a fine flare of truth and reality.... But, as for my\ncomrades of the Scientific Section, I assure you that neo-Catholicism and\nMysticism and Occultism, and every other branch of the fashionable\nphantasmagoria trouble them very little indeed. They are not making a\nreligion of science, they remain open to doubt on many points; but they\nare mostly men of very clear and firm minds, whose passion is the\nacquirement of certainty, and who are ever absorbed in the investigations\nwhich continue throughout the whole vast field of human knowledge. They\nhaven\u2019t flinched, they have remained Positivists, or Evolutionists, or\nDeterminists, and have set their faith in observation and experiment to\nhelp on the final conquest of the world.\u201d\n\nFran\u00e7ois himself was growing excited, as he thus confessed his faith\nwhile strolling along the quiet sunlit garden paths. \u201cThe young indeed!\u201d\n he resumed. \u201cDo people know them? It makes us laugh when we see all sorts\nof apostles fighting for us, trying to attract us, and saying that we are\nwhite or black or grey, according to the hue which they require for the\ntriumph of their particular ideas! The young, the real ones, why, they\u2019re\nin the schools, the laboratories and the libraries. It\u2019s they who work\nand who\u2019ll bring to-morrow to the world. It\u2019s not the young fellows of\ndinner and supper clubs, manifestoes and all sorts of extravagances. The\nlatter make a great deal of noise, no doubt; in fact, they alone are\nheard. But if you knew of the ceaseless efforts and passionate striving\nof the others, those who remain silent, absorbed in their tasks. And I\nknow many of them: they are with their century, they have rejected none\nof its hopes, but are marching on to the coming century, resolved to\npursue the work of their forerunners, ever going towards more light and\nmore equity. And just speak to them of the bankruptcy of science. They\u2019ll\nshrug their shoulders at the mere idea, for they know well enough that\nscience has never before inflamed so many hearts or achieved greater\nconquests! It is only if the schools, laboratories and libraries were\nclosed, and the social soil radically changed, that one would have cause\nto fear a fresh growth of error such as weak hearts and narrow minds hold\nso dear!\u201d\n\nAt this point Fran\u00e7ois\u2019s fine flow of eloquence was interrupted. A tall\nyoung fellow stopped to shake hands with him; and Pierre was surprised to\nrecognise Baron Duvillard\u2019s son Hyacinthe, who bowed to him in very\ncorrect style. \u201cWhat! you here in our old quarter,\u201d exclaimed Fran\u00e7ois.\n\n\u201cMy dear fellow, I\u2019m going to Jonas\u2019s, over yonder, behind the\nObservatory. Don\u2019t you know Jonas? Ah! my dear fellow, he\u2019s a delightful\nsculptor, who has succeeded in doing away with matter almost entirely. He\nhas carved a figure of Woman, no bigger than the finger, and entirely\nsoul, free from all baseness of form, and yet complete. All Woman,\nindeed, in her essential symbolism! Ah! it\u2019s grand, it\u2019s overpowering. A\nperfect scheme of aesthetics, a real religion!\u201d\n\nFran\u00e7ois smiled as he looked at Hyacinthe, buttoned up in his long\npleated frock-coat, with his made-up face, and carefully cropped hair and\nbeard. \u201cAnd yourself?\u201d said he, \u201cI thought you were working, and were\ngoing to publish a little poem, shortly?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! the task of creating is so distasteful to me, my dear fellow! A\nsingle line often takes me weeks.... Still, yes, I have a little poem\non hand, \u2018The End of Woman.\u2019 And you see, I\u2019m not so exclusive as some\npeople pretend, since I admire Jonas, who still believes in Woman. His\nexcuse is sculpture, which, after all, is at best such a gross\nmaterialistic art. But in poetry, good heavens, how we\u2019ve been\noverwhelmed with Woman, always Woman! It\u2019s surely time to drive her out\nof the temple, and cleanse it a little. Ah! if we were all pure and lofty\nenough to do without Woman, and renounce all those horrid sexual\nquestions, so that the last of the species might die childless, eh? The\nworld would then at least finish in a clean and proper manner!\u201d\n\nThereupon, Hyacinthe walked off with his languid air, well pleased with\nthe effect which he had produced on the others.\n\n\u201cSo you know him?\u201d said Pierre to Fran\u00e7ois.\n\n\u201cHe was my school-fellow at Condorcet, we were in the same classes\ntogether. Such a funny fellow he was! A perfect dunce! And he was always\nmaking a parade of Father Duvillard\u2019s millions, while pretending to\ndisdain them, and act the revolutionist, for ever saying that he\u2019d use\nhis cigarette to fire the cartridge which was to blow up the world! He\nwas Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche, and Tolstoi, and Ibsen, rolled into one!\nAnd you can see what he has become with it all: a humbug with a diseased\nmind!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a terrible symptom,\u201d muttered Pierre, \u201cwhen through _ennui_ or\nlassitude, or the contagion of destructive fury, the sons of the happy\nand privileged ones start doing the work of the demolishers.\u201d\n\nFran\u00e7ois had resumed his walk, going down towards the ornamental water,\nwhere some children were sailing their boats. \u201cThat fellow is simply\ngrotesque,\u201d he replied; \u201cbut how would you have sane people give any heed\nto that mysticism, that awakening of spirituality which is alleged by the\nsame _doctrinaires_ who started the bankruptcy of science cry, when after\nso brief an evolution it produces such insanity, both in art and\nliterature? A few years of influence have sufficed; and now Satanism,\nOccultism and other absurdities are flourishing; not to mention that,\naccording to some accounts, the Cities of the Plains are reconciled with\nnew Rome. Isn\u2019t the tree judged by its fruits? And isn\u2019t it evident that,\ninstead of a renascence, a far-spreading social movement bringing back\nthe past, we are simply witnessing a transitory reaction, which many\nthings explain? The old world would rather not die, and is struggling in\na final convulsion, reviving for a last hour before it is swept away by\nthe overflowing river of human knowledge, whose waters ever increase. And\nyonder, in the future, is the new world, which the real young ones will\nbring into existence, those who work, those who are not known, who are\nnot heard. And yet, just listen! Perhaps you will hear them, for we are\namong them, in their \u2018quarter.\u2019 This deep silence is that of the labour\nof all the young fellows who are leaning over their work-tables, and day\nby day carrying forward the conquest of truth.\u201d\n\nSo saying Fran\u00e7ois waved his hand towards all the day-schools and\ncolleges and high schools beyond the Luxembourg garden, towards the\nFaculties of Law and Medicine, the Institute and its five Academies, the\ninnumerable libraries and museums which made up the broad domain of\nintellectual labour. And Pierre, moved by it all, shaken in his theories\nof negation, thought that he could indeed hear a low but far-spreading\nmurmur of the work of thousands of active minds, rising from\nlaboratories, studies and class, reading and lecture rooms. It was not\nlike the jerky, breathless trepidation, the loud clamour of factories\nwhere manual labour toils and chafes. But here, too, there were sighs of\nweariness, efforts as killing, exertion as fruitful in its results. Was\nit indeed true that the cultured young were still and ever in their\nsilent forge, renouncing no hope, relinquishing no conquest, but in full\nfreedom of mind forging the truth and justice of to-morrow with the\ninvincible hammers of observation and experiment?\n\nFran\u00e7ois, however, had raised his eyes to the palace clock to ascertain\nthe time. \u201cI\u2019m going to Montmartre,\u201d he said; \u201cwill you come part of the\nway with me?\u201d\n\nPierre assented, particularly as the young man added that on his way he\nmeant to call for his brother Antoine at the Museum of the Louvre. That\nbright afternoon the Louvre picture galleries were steeped in warm and\ndignified quietude, which one particularly noticed on coming from the\ntumult and scramble of the streets. The majority of the few people one\nfound there were copyists working in deep silence, which only the\nwandering footsteps of an occasional tourist disturbed. Pierre and\nFran\u00e7ois found Antoine at the end of the gallery assigned to the\nPrimitive masters. With scrupulous, almost devout care he was making a\ndrawing of a figure by Mantegna. The Primitives did not impassion him by\nreason of any particular mysticism and ideality, such as fashion pretends\nto find in them, but on the contrary, and justifiably enough, by reason\nof the sincerity of their ingenuous realism, their respect and modesty in\npresence of nature, and the minute fidelity with which they sought to\ntranscribe it. He spent days of hard work in copying and studying them,\nin order to learn strictness and probity of drawing from them--all that\nlofty distinction of style which they owe to their candour as honest\nartists.\n\nPierre was struck by the pure glow which a sitting of good hard work had\nset in Antoine\u2019s light blue eyes. It imparted warmth and even\nfeverishness to his fair face, which was usually all dreaminess and\ngentleness. His lofty forehead now truly looked like a citadel armed for\nthe conquest of truth and beauty. He was only eighteen, and his story was\nsimply this: as he had grown disgusted with classical studies and been\nmastered by a passion for drawing, his father had let him leave the Lyc\u00e9e\nCondorcet when he was in the third class there. Some little time had then\nelapsed while he felt his way and the deep originality within him was\nbeing evolved. He had tried etching on copper, but had soon come to wood\nengraving, and had attached himself to it in spite of the discredit into\nwhich it had fallen, lowered as it had been to the level of a mere trade.\nWas there not here an entire art to restore and enlarge? For his own part\nhe dreamt of engraving his own drawings, of being at once the brain which\nconceives and the hand which executes, in such wise as to obtain new\neffects of great intensity both as regards perception and touch. To\ncomply with the wishes of his father, who desired each of his sons to\nhave a trade, he earned his bread like other engravers by working for the\nillustrated newspapers. But, in addition to this current work, he had\nalready engraved several blocks instinct with wonderful power and life.\nThey were simply copies of real things, scenes of everyday existence, but\nthey were accentuated, elevated so to say, by the essential line, with a\nmaestria which on the part of so young a lad fairly astonished one.\n\n\u201cDo you want to engrave that?\u201d Fran\u00e7ois asked him, as he placed his copy\nof Mantegna\u2019s figure in his portfolio.\n\n\u201cOh! no, that\u2019s merely a dip into innocence, a good lesson to teach one\nto be modest and sincere. Life is very different nowadays.\u201d\n\nThen, while walking along the streets--for Pierre, who felt growing\nsympathy for the two young fellows, went with them in the direction of\nMontmartre, forgetful of all else,--Antoine, who was beside him, spoke\nexpansively of his artistic dreams.\n\n\u201cColour is certainly a power, a sovereign source of charm, and one may,\nindeed, say that without colour nothing can be completely represented.\nYet, singularly enough, it isn\u2019t indispensable to me. It seems to me that\nI can picture life as intensely and definitely with mere black and white,\nand I even fancy that I shall be able to do so in a more essential\nmanner, without any of the dupery which lies in colour. But what a task\nit is! I should like to depict the Paris of to-day in a few scenes, a few\ntypical figures, which would serve as testimony for all time. And I\nshould like to do it with great fidelity and candour, for an artist only\nlives by reason of his candour, his humility and steadfast belief in\nNature, which is ever beautiful. I\u2019ve already done a few figures, I will\nshow them to you. But ah! if I only dared to tackle my blocks with the\ngraver, at the outset, without drawing my subject beforehand. For that\ngenerally takes away one\u2019s fire. However, what I do with the pencil is a\nmere sketch; for with the graver I may come upon a find, some unexpected\nstrength or delicacy of effect. And so I\u2019m draughtsman and engraver all\nin one, in such a way that my blocks can only be turned out by myself. If\nthe drawings on them were engraved by another, they would be quite\nlifeless.... Yes, life can spring from the fingers just as well as\nfrom the brain, when one really possesses creative power.\u201d\n\nThey walked on, and when they found themselves just below Montmartre, and\nPierre spoke of taking a tramcar to return to Neuilly, Antoine, quite\nfeverish with artistic passion, asked him if he knew Jahan, the sculptor,\nwho was working for the Sacred Heart. And on receiving a negative reply,\nhe added: \u201cWell, come and see him for a moment. He has a great future\nbefore him. You\u2019ll see an angel of his which has been declined.\u201d\n\nThen, as Fran\u00e7ois began to praise the angel in question, Pierre agreed to\naccompany them. On the summit of the height, among all the sheds which\nthe building of the basilica necessitated, Jahan had been able to set up\na glazed workshop large enough for the huge angel ordered of him. His\nthree visitors found him there in a blouse, watching a couple of\nassistants, who were rough-hewing the block of stone whence the angel was\nto emerge. Jahan was a sturdy man of thirty-six, with dark hair and\nbeard, a large, ruddy mouth and fine bright eyes. Born in Paris, he had\nstudied at the Fine Art School, but his impetuous temperament had\nconstantly landed him in trouble there.\n\n\u201cAh! yes,\u201d said he, \u201cyou\u2019ve come to see my angel, the one which the\nArchbishop wouldn\u2019t take. Well, there it is.\u201d\n\nThe clay model of the figure, some three feet high, and already drying,\nlooked superb in its soaring posture, with its large, outspread wings\nexpanding as if with passionate desire for the infinite. The body, barely\ndraped, was that of a slim yet robust youth, whose face beamed with the\nrapture of his heavenly flight.\n\n\u201cThey found him too human,\u201d said Jahan. \u201cAnd after all they were right.\nThere\u2019s nothing so difficult to conceive as an angel. One even hesitates\nas to the sex; and when faith is lacking one has to take the first model\none finds and copy it and spoil it. For my part, while I was modelling\nthat one, I tried to imagine a beautiful youth suddenly endowed with\nwings, and carried by the intoxication of his flight into all the joy of\nthe sunshine. But it upset them, they wanted something more religious,\nthey said; and so then I concocted that wretched thing over there. After\nall, one has to earn one\u2019s living, you know.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he waved his hand towards another model, the one for which his\nassistants were preparing the stone. And this model represented an angel\nof the correct type, with symmetrical wings like those of a goose, a\nfigure of neither sex, and commonplace features, expressing the silly\necstasy that tradition requires.\n\n\u201cWhat would you have?\u201d continued Jahan. \u201cReligious art has sunk to the\nmost disgusting triteness. People no longer believe; churches are built\nlike barracks, and decorated with saints and virgins fit to make one\nweep. The fact is that genius is only the fruit of the social soil; and a\ngreat artist can only send up a blaze of the faith of the time he lives\nin. For my part, I\u2019m the grandson of a Beauceron peasant. My father came\nto Paris to set himself up in business as a marble worker for tombstones\nand so forth, just at the top of the Rue de la Roquette. It was there I\ngrew up. I began as a workman, and all my childhood was spent among the\nmasses, in the streets, without ever a thought coming to me of setting\nfoot in a church. So few Parisians think of doing so nowadays. And so\nwhat\u2019s to become of art since there\u2019s no belief in the Divinity or even\nin beauty? We\u2019re forced to go forward to the new faith, which is the\nfaith in life and work and fruitfulness, in all that labours and\nproduces.\u201d\n\nThen suddenly breaking off he exclaimed: \u201cBy the way, I\u2019ve been doing\nsome more work to my figure of Fecundity, and I\u2019m fairly well pleased\nwith it. Just come with me and I\u2019ll show it you.\u201d\n\nThereupon he insisted on taking them to his private studio, which was\nnear by, just below Guillaume\u2019s little house. It was entered by way of\nthe Rue du Calvaire, a street which is simply a succession of ladder-like\nflights of steps. The door opened on to one of the little landings, and\none found oneself in a spacious, well-lighted apartment littered with\nmodels and casts, fragments and figures, quite an overflow of sturdy,\npowerful talent. On a stool was the unfinished model of Fecundity swathed\nin wet cloths. These Jahan removed, and then she stood forth with her\nrounded figure, her broad hips and her wifely, maternal bosom, full of\nthe milk which nourishes and redeems.\n\n\u201cWell, what do you think of her?\u201d asked Jahan. \u201cBuilt as she is, I fancy\nthat her children ought to be less puny than the pale, languid, aesthetic\nfellows of nowadays!\u201d\n\nWhile Antoine and Fran\u00e7ois were admiring the figure, Pierre, for his\npart, took most interest in a young girl who had opened the door to them,\nand who had now wearily reseated herself at a little table to continue a\nbook she was reading. This was Jahan\u2019s sister, Lise. A score of years\nyounger than himself, she was but sixteen, and had been living alone with\nhim since their father\u2019s death. Very slight and delicate looking, she had\na most gentle face, with fine light hair which suggested pale gold-dust.\nShe was almost a cripple, with legs so weak that she only walked with\ndifficulty, and her mind also was belated, still full of childish\n_na\u00efvet\u00e9_. At first this had much saddened her brother, but with time he\nhad grown accustomed to her innocence and languor. Busy as he always was,\never in a transport, overflowing with new plans, he somewhat neglected\nher by force of circumstances, letting her live beside him much as she\nlisted.\n\nPierre had noticed, however, the sisterly impulsiveness with which she\nhad greeted Antoine. And the latter, after congratulating Jahan on his\nstatue, came and sat down beside her, questioned her and wished to see\nthe book which she was reading. During the last six months the most pure\nand affectionate intercourse had sprung up between them. He, from his\nfather\u2019s garden, up yonder on the Place du Tertre, could see her through\nthe huge window of that studio where she led so innocent a life. And\nnoticing that she was always alone, as if forsaken, he had begun to take\nan interest in her. Then had come acquaintance; and, delighted to find\nher so simple and so charming, he had conceived the design of rousing her\nto intelligence and life, by loving her, by becoming at once the mind and\nthe heart whose power fructifies. Weak plant that she was, in need of\ndelicate care, sunshine and affection, he became for her all that her\nbrother had, through circumstances, failed to be. He had already taught\nher to read, a task in which every mistress had previously failed. But\nhim she listened to and understood. And by slow degrees a glow of\nhappiness came to the beautiful clear eyes set in her irregular face. It\nwas love\u2019s miracle, the creation of woman beneath the breath of a young\nlover who gave himself entirely. No doubt she still remained very\ndelicate, with such poor health that one ever feared that she might\nexpire in a faint sigh; and her legs, moreover, were still too weak to\nadmit of her walking any distance. But all the same, she was no longer\nthe little wilding, the little ailing flower of the previous spring.\n\nJahan, who marvelled at the incipient miracle, drew near to the young\npeople. \u201cAh!\u201d said he, \u201cyour pupil does you honour. She reads quite\nfluently, you know, and understands the fine books you send her. You read\nto me of an evening now, don\u2019t you, Lise?\u201d\n\nShe raised her candid eyes, and gazed at Antoine with a smile of infinite\ngratitude. \u201cOh! whatever he\u2019ll teach me,\u201d she said, \u201cI\u2019ll learn it, and\ndo it.\u201d\n\nThe others laughed gently. Then, as the visitors were going off, Fran\u00e7ois\npaused before a model which had cracked while drying. \u201cOh! that\u2019s a\nspoilt thing,\u201d said the sculptor. \u201cI wanted to model a figure of Charity.\nIt was ordered of me by a philanthropic institution. But try as I might,\nI could only devise something so commonplace that I let the clay spoil.\nStill, I must think it over and endeavour to take the matter in hand\nagain.\u201d\n\nWhen they were outside, it occurred to Pierre to go as far as the\nbasilica of the Sacred Heart in the hope of finding Abb\u00e9 Rose there. So\nthe three of them went round by way of the Rue Gabrielle and climbed the\nsteps of the Rue Chape. And just as they were reaching the summit where\nthe basilica reared its forest of scaffoldings beneath the clear sky,\nthey encountered Thomas, who, on leaving the factory, had gone to give an\norder to a founder in the Rue Lamarck.\n\nHe, who as a rule was so silent and discreet, now happened to be in an\nexpansive mood, which made him look quite radiant. \u201cAh! I\u2019m so pleased,\u201d\n he said, addressing Pierre; \u201cI fancy that I\u2019ve found what I want for our\nlittle motor. Tell father that things are going on all right, and that he\nmust make haste to get well.\u201d\n\nAt these words his brothers, Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine, drew close to him with\na common impulse. And they stood there all three, a valiant little group,\ntheir hearts uniting and beating with one and the same delight at the\nidea that their father would be gladdened, that the good news they were\nsending him would help him towards recovery. As for Pierre, who, now that\nhe knew them, was beginning to love them and judge them at their worth,\nhe marvelled at the sight of these three young giants, each so strikingly\nlike the other, and drawn together so closely and so promptly, directly\ntheir filial affection took fire.\n\n\u201cTell him that we are waiting for him, and will come to him at the first\nsign if we are wanted.\u201d\n\nThen each in turn shook the priest\u2019s hand vigorously. And while he\nremained watching them as they went off towards the little house, whose\ngarden he perceived over the wall of the Rue Saint Eleuth\u00e8re, he fancied\nhe could there detect a delicate silhouette, a white, sunlit face under a\nhelp of dark hair. It was doubtless the face of Marie, examining the buds\non her lilac bushes. At that evening hour, however, the diffuse light was\nso golden that the vision seemed to fade in it as in a halo. And Pierre,\nfeeling dazzled, turned his head, and on the other side saw naught but\nthe overwhelming, chalky mass of the basilica, whose hugeness shut out\nall view of the horizon.\n\nFor a moment he remained motionless on that spot, so agitated by\nconflicting thoughts and feelings that he could read neither heart nor\nmind clearly. Then, as he turned towards the city, all Paris spread\nitself out at his feet, a limpid, lightsome Paris, beneath the pink glow\nof that spring-like evening. The endless billows of house-roofs showed\nforth with wonderful distinctness, and one could have counted the chimney\nstacks and the little black streaks of the windows by the million. The\nedifices rising into the calm atmosphere seemed like the anchored vessels\nof some fleet arrested in its course, with lofty masting which glittered\nat the sun\u2019s farewell. And never before had Pierre so distinctly observed\nthe divisions of that human ocean. Eastward and northward was the city of\nmanual toil, with the rumbling and the smoke of its factories. Southward,\nbeyond the river, was the city of study, of intellectual labour, so calm,\nso perfectly serene. And on all sides the passion of trade ascended from\nthe central districts, where the crowds rolled and scrambled amidst an\neverlasting uproar of wheels; while westward, the city of the happy and\npowerful ones, those who fought for sovereignty and wealth, spread out\nits piles of palaces amidst the slowly reddening flare of the declining\nplanet.\n\nAnd then, from the depths of his negation, the chaos into which his loss\nof faith had plunged him, Pierre felt a delicious freshness pass like the\nvague advent of a new faith. So vague it was that he could not have\nexpressed even his hope of it in words. But already among the rough\nfactory workers, manual toil had appeared to him necessary and\nredemptive, in spite of all the misery and abominable injustice to which\nit led. And now the young men of intellect of whom he had despaired, that\ngeneration of the morrow which he had thought spoilt, relapsing into\nancient error and rottenness, had appeared to him full of virile promise,\nresolved to prosecute the work of those who had gone before, and effect,\nby the aid of Science only, the conquest of absolute truth and absolute\njustice.\n\n\n\n\nV. PROBLEMS\n\nA FULL month had already gone by since Guillaume had taken refuge at his\nbrother\u2019s little house at Neuilly. His wrist was now nearly healed. He\nhad long ceased to keep his bed, and often strolled through the garden.\nIn spite of his impatience to go back to Montmartre, join his loved ones\nand resume his work there, he was each morning prompted to defer his\nreturn by the news he found in the newspapers. The situation was ever the\nsame. Salvat, whom the police now suspected, had been perceived one\nevening near the central markets, and then again lost sight of. Every\nday, however, his arrest was said to be imminent. And in that case what\nwould happen? Would he speak out, and would fresh perquisitions be made?\n\nFor a whole week the press had been busy with the bradawl found under the\nentrance of the Duvillard mansion. Nearly every reporter in Paris had\ncalled at the Grandidier factory and interviewed both workmen and master.\nSome had even started on personal investigations, in the hope of\ncapturing the culprit themselves. There was no end of jesting about the\nincompetence of the police, and the hunt for Salvat was followed all the\nmore passionately by the general public, as the papers overflowed with\nthe most ridiculous concoctions, predicting further explosions, and\ndeclaring even that all Paris would some morning be blown into the air.\nThe \u201cVoix du Peuple\u201d set a fresh shudder circulating every day by its\nannouncements of threatening letters, incendiary placards and mysterious,\nfar-reaching plots. And never before had so base and foolish a spirit of\ncontagion wafted insanity through a civilised city.\n\nGuillaume, for his part, no sooner awoke of a morning than he was all\nimpatience to see the newspapers, quivering at the idea that he would at\nlast read of Salvat\u2019s arrest. In his state of nervous expectancy, the\nwild campaign which the press had started, the idiotic and the ferocious\nthings which he found in one or another journal, almost drove him crazy.\nA number of \u201csuspects\u201d had already been arrested in a kind of chance\nrazzia, which had swept up the usual Anarchist herd, together with sundry\nhonest workmen and bandits, _illumines_ and lazy devils, in fact, a most\nsingular, motley crew, which investigating magistrate Amadieu was\nendeavouring to turn into a gigantic association of evil-doers. One\nmorning, moreover, Guillaume found his own name mentioned in connection\nwith a perquisition at the residence of a revolutionary journalist, who\nwas a friend of his. At this his heart bounded with revolt, but he was\nforced to the conclusion that it would be prudent for him to remain\npatient a little longer, in his peaceful retreat at Neuilly, since the\npolice might at any moment break into his home at Montmartre, to arrest\nhim should it find him there.\n\nAmidst all this anxiety the brothers led a most solitary and gentle life.\nPierre himself now spent most of his time at home. The first days of\nMarch had come, and precocious springtide imparted delightful charm and\nwarmth to the little garden. Guillaume, however, since quitting his bed,\nhad more particularly installed himself in his father\u2019s old laboratory,\nnow transformed into a spacious study. All the books and papers left by\nthe illustrious chemist were still there, and among the latter Guillaume\nfound a number of unfinished essays, the perusal of which greatly excited\nhis interest, and often absorbed him from morning till night. It was this\nwhich largely enabled him to bear his voluntary seclusion patiently.\nSeated on the other side of the big table, Pierre also mostly occupied\nhimself with reading; but at times his eyes would quit his book and\nwander away into gloomy reverie, into all the chaos into which he still\nand ever sank. For long hours the brothers would in this wise remain side\nby side, without speaking a word. Yet they knew they were together; and\noccasionally, when their eyes met, they would exchange a smile. The\nstrong affection of former days was again springing up within them; their\nchildhood, their home, their parents, all seemed to live once more in the\nquiet atmosphere they breathed. However, the bay window overlooked the\ngarden in the direction of Paris, and often, when they emerged from their\nreading or their reverie, it was with a sudden feeling of anxiety, and in\norder to lend ear to the distant rumbling, the increased clamour of the\ngreat city.\n\nOn other occasions they paused as if in astonishment at hearing a\ncontinuous footfall overhead. It was that of Nicholas Barth\u00e8s, who still\nlingered in the room above. He seldom came downstairs, and scarcely ever\nventured into the garden, for fear, said he, that he might be perceived\nand recognised from a distant house whose windows were concealed by a\nclump of trees. One might laugh at the old conspirator\u2019s haunting thought\nof the police. Nevertheless, the caged-lion restlessness, the ceaseless\npromenade of that perpetual prisoner who had spent two thirds of his life\nin the dungeons of France in his desire to secure the liberty of others,\nimparted to the silence of the little house a touching melancholy, the\nvery rhythm as it were of all the great good things which one hoped for,\nbut which would never perhaps come.\n\nVery few visits drew the brothers from their solitude. Bertheroy came\nless frequently now that Guillaume\u2019s wrist was healing. The most\nassiduous caller was certainly Th\u00e9ophile Morin, whose discreet ring was\nheard every other day at the same hour. Though he did not share the ideas\nof Barth\u00e8s he worshipped him as a martyr; and would always go upstairs to\nspend an hour with him. However, they must have exchanged few words, for\nnot a sound came from the room. Whenever Morin sat down for a moment in\nthe laboratory with the brothers, Pierre was struck by his seeming\nweariness, his ashen grey hair and beard and dismal countenance, all the\nlife of which appeared to have been effaced by long years spent in the\nteaching profession. Indeed, it was only when the priest mentioned Italy\nthat he saw his companion\u2019s resigned eyes blaze up like live coals. One\nday when he spoke of the great patriot Orlando Prada, Morin\u2019s companion\nof victory in Garibaldi\u2019s days, he was amazed by the sudden flare of\nenthusiasm which lighted up the other\u2019s lifeless features. However, these\nwere but transient flashes: the old professor soon reappeared, and all\nthat one found in Morin was the friend of Proudhon and the subsequent\ndisciple of Auguste Comte. Of his Proudhonian principles he had retained\nall a pauper\u2019s hatred of wealth, and a desire for a more equitable\npartition of fortune. But the new times dismayed him, and neither\nprinciple nor temperament allowed him to follow Revolutionism to its\nutmost limits. Comte had imparted unshakable convictions to him in the\nsphere of intellectual questions, and he contented himself with the clear\nand decisive logic of Positivism, rejecting all metaphysical hypotheses\nas useless, persuaded as he was that the whole human question, whether\nsocial or religious, would be solved by science alone. This faith, firm\nas it had remained, was, however, coupled with secret bitterness, for\nnothing seemed to advance in a sensible manner towards its goal. Comte\nhimself had ended in the most cloudy mysticism; great _savants_ recoiled\nfrom truth in terror; and now barbarians were threatening the world with\nfresh night; all of which made Morin almost a reactionist in politics,\nalready resigned to the advent of a dictator, who would set things\nsomewhat in order, so that humanity might be able to complete its\neducation.\n\nOther visitors who occasionally called to see Guillaume were Bache and\nJanzen, who invariably came together and at night-time. Every now and\nthen they would linger chatting with Guillaume in the spacious study\nuntil two o\u2019clock in the morning. Bache, who was fat and had a fatherly\nair, with his little eyes gently beaming amidst all the snowy whiteness\nof his hair and beard, would talk on slowly, unctuously and interminably,\nas soon as he had begun to explain his views. He would address merely a\npolite bow to Saint-Simon, the initiator, the first to lay down the law\nthat work was a necessity for one and all according to their capacities;\nbut on coming to Fourier his voice softened and he confessed his whole\nreligion. To his thinking, Fourier had been the real messiah of modern\ntimes, the saviour of genius, who had sown the good seed of the future\nworld, by regulating society such as it would certainly be organised\nto-morrow. The law of harmony had been promulgated; human passions,\nliberated and utilised in healthy fashion, would become the requisite\nmachinery; and work, rendered pleasant and attractive, would prove the\nvery function of life. Nothing could discourage Bache; if merely one\nparish began by transforming itself into a _phalansterium_, the whole\ndepartment would soon follow, then the adjacent departments, and finally\nall France. Moreover, Bache even favoured the schemes of Cabet, whose\nIcaria, said he, had in no wise been such a foolish idea. Further, he\nrecalled a motion he had made, when member of the Commune in 1871, to\napply Fourier\u2019s ideas to the French Republic; and he was apparently\nconvinced that the troops of Versailles had delayed the triumph of\nCommunism for half a century. Whenever people nowadays talked of\ntable-turning he pretended to laugh, but at bottom he had remained an\nimpenitent \u201cspiritist.\u201d Since he had been a municipal councillor he had\nbeen travelling from one socialist sect to another, according as their\nideas offered points of resemblance to his old faith. And he was fairly\nconsumed by his need of faith, his perplexity as to the Divine, which he\nwas now occasionally inclined to find in the legs of some piece of\nfurniture, after denying its presence in the churches.\n\nJanzen, for his part, was as taciturn as his friend Bache was garrulous.\nSuch remarks as he made were brief, but they were as galling as lashes,\nas cutting as sabre-strokes. At the same time his ideas and theories\nremained somewhat obscure, partly by reason of this brevity of his, and\npartly on account of the difficulty he experienced in expressing himself\nin French. He was from over yonder, from some far-away land--Russia,\nPoland, Austria or Germany, nobody exactly knew; and it mattered little,\nfor he certainly acknowledged no country, but wandered far and wide with\nhis dream of blood-shedding fraternity. Whenever, with his wonted\nfrigidity, he gave utterance to one of those terrible remarks of his\nwhich, like a scythe in a meadow, cut away all before him, little less\nthan the necessity of thus mowing down nations, in order to sow the earth\nafresh with a young and better community, became apparent. At each\nproposition unfolded by Bache, such as labour rendered agreeable by\npolice regulations, _phalansteria_ organised like barracks, religion\ntransformed into pantheist or spiritist deism, he gently shrugged his\nshoulders. What could be the use of such childishness, such hypocritical\nrepairing, when the house was falling and the only honest course was to\nthrow it to the ground, and build up the substantial edifice of to-morrow\nwith entirely new materials? On the subject of propaganda by deeds,\nbomb-throwing and so forth, he remained silent, though his gestures were\nexpressive of infinite hope. He evidently approved that course. The\nlegend which made him one of the perpetrators of the crime of Barcelona\nset a gleam of horrible glory in his mysterious past. One day when Bache,\nwhile speaking to him of his friend Bergaz, the shadowy Bourse jobber who\nhad already been compromised in some piece of thieving, plainly declared\nthat the aforesaid Bergaz was a bandit, Janzen contented himself with\nsmiling, and replying quietly that theft was merely forced restitution.\nBriefly, in this man of culture and refinement, in whose own mysterious\nlife one might perhaps have found various crimes but not a single act of\nbase improbity, one could divine an implacable, obstinate theoretician,\nwho was resolved to set the world ablaze for the triumph of his ideas.\n\nOn certain evenings when a visit from Th\u00e9ophile Morin coincided with one\nfrom Bache and Janzen, and they and Guillaume lingered chatting until far\ninto the night, Pierre would listen to them in despair from the shadowy\ncorner where he remained motionless, never once joining in the\ndiscussions. Distracted, by his own unbelief and thirst for truth, he had\nat the outset taken a passionate interest in these debates, desirous as\nhe was of drawing up a balance-sheet of the century\u2019s ideas, so as to\nform some notion of the distance that had been travelled, and the profits\nthat had accrued. But he recoiled from all this in fresh despair, on\nhearing the others argue, each from his own standpoint and without\npossibility of concession and agreement. After the repulses he had\nencountered at Lourdes and Rome, he well realised that in this fresh\nexperiment which he was making with Paris, the whole brain of the century\nwas in question, the new truths, the expected gospel which was to change\nthe face of the world. And, burning with inconsiderate zeal, he went from\none belief to another, which other he soon rejected in order to adopt a\nthird. If he had first felt himself to be a Positivist with Morin, an\nEvolutionist and Determinist with Guillaume, he had afterwards been\ntouched by the fraternal dream of a new golden age which he had found in\nBache\u2019s humanitarian Communism. And indeed even Janzen had momentarily\nshaken him by his fierce confidence in the theory of liberative\nIndividualism. But afterwards he had found himself out of his depth; and\neach and every theory had seemed to him but part of the chaotic\ncontradictions and incoherences of humanity on its march. It was all a\ncontinuous piling up of dross, amidst which he lost himself. Although\nFourier had sprung from Saint-Simon he denied him in part; and if\nSaint-Simon\u2019s doctrine ended in a kind of mystical sensuality, the\nother\u2019s conducted to an unacceptable regimenting of society. Proudhon,\nfor his part, demolished without rebuilding anything. Comte, who created\nmethod and declared science to be the one and only sovereign, had not\neven suspected the advent of the social crisis which now threatened to\nsweep all away, and had finished personally as a mere worshipper of love,\noverpowered by woman. Nevertheless, these two, Comte and Proudhon,\nentered the lists and fought against the others, Fourier and Saint-Simon;\nthe combat between them or their disciples becoming so bitter and so\nblind that the truths common to them all were obscured and disfigured\nbeyond recognition. Thence came the extraordinary muddle of the present\nhour; Bache with Saint-Simon and Fourier, and Morin with Proudhon and\nComte, utterly failing to understand M\u00e8ge, the Collectivist deputy, whom\nthey held up to execration, him and his State Collectivism, in the same\nway, moreover, as they thundered against all the other present-time\nSocialist sects, without realising that these also, whatever their\nnature, had more or less sprung from the same masters as themselves. And\nall this seemingly indicated that Janzen was right when he declared that\nthe house was past repair, fast crumbling amidst rottenness and insanity,\nand that it ought to be levelled to the ground.\n\nOne night, after the three visitors had gone, Pierre, who had remained\nwith Guillaume, saw him grow very gloomy as he slowly walked to and fro.\nHe, in his turn, had doubtless felt that all was crumbling. And though\nhis brother alone was there to hear him, he went on speaking. He\nexpressed all his horror of the Collectivist State as imagined by M\u00e8ge, a\nDictator-State re-establishing ancient servitude on yet closer lines. The\nerror of all the Socialist sects was their arbitrary organisation of\nLabour, which enslaved the individual for the profit of the community.\nAnd, forced to conciliate the two great currents, the rights of society\nand the rights of the individual, Guillaume had ended by placing his\nwhole faith in free Communism, an anarchical state in which he dreamt of\nseeing the individual freed, moving and developing without restraint, for\nthe benefit both of himself and of all others. Was not this, said he, the\none truly scientific theory, unities creating worlds, atoms producing\nlife by force of attraction, free and ardent love? All oppressive\nminorities would disappear; and the faculties and energies of one and all\nwould by free play arrive at harmony amidst the equilibrium--which\nchanged according to needs--of the active forces of advancing humanity.\nIn this wise he pictured a nation, saved from State tutelage, without a\nmaster, almost without laws, a happy nation, each citizen of which,\ncompletely developed by the exercise of liberty, would, of his free will,\ncome to an understanding with his neighbours with regard to the thousand\nnecessities of life. And thence would spring society, free association,\nhundreds of associations which would regulate social life; though at the\nsame time they would remain variable, in fact often opposed and hostile\nto one another. For progress is but the fruit of conflict and struggle;\nthe world has only been created by the battle of opposing forces. And\nthat was all; there would be no more oppressors, no more rich, no more\npoor; the domain of the earth with its natural treasures and its\nimplements of labour would be restored to the people, its legitimate\nowners, who would know how to enjoy it with justice and logic, when\nnothing abnormal would impede their expansion. And then only would the\nlaw of love make its action felt; then would human solidarity, which,\namong mankind, is the living form of universal attraction, acquire all\nits power, bringing men closer and closer together, and uniting them in\none sole family. A splendid dream it was--the noble and pure dream of\nabsolute freedom--free man in free society. And thither a _savant\u2019s_\nsuperior mind was fated to come after passing on the road the many\nSocialist sects which one and all bore the stigma of tyranny. And,\nassuredly, as thus indulged, the Anarchist idea is the loftiest, the\nproudest, of all ideas. And how delightful to yield to the hope of\nharmony in life--life which restored to the full exercise of its natural\npowers would of itself create happiness!\n\nWhen Guillaume ceased speaking, he seemed to be emerging from a dream;\nand he glanced at Pierre with some dismay, for he feared that he might\nhave said too much and have hurt his feelings. Pierre--moved though he\nwas, for a moment in fact almost won over--had just seen the terrible\npractical objection, which destroyed all hope, arise before his mind\u2019s\neye. Why had not harmony asserted itself in the first days of the world\u2019s\nexistence, at the time when societies were formed? How was it that\ntyranny had triumphed, delivering nations over to oppressors? And\nsupposing that the apparently insolvable problem of destroying\neverything, and beginning everything afresh, should ever be solved, who\ncould promise that mankind, obedient to the same laws, would not again\nfollow the same paths as formerly? After all, mankind, nowadays, is\nsimply what life has made it; and nothing proves that life would again\nmake it other than it is. To begin afresh, ah, yes! but to attain another\nresult! But could that other result really come from man? Was it not\nrather man himself who should be changed? To start afresh from where one\nwas, to continue the evolution that had begun, undoubtedly meant slow\ntravel and dismal waiting. But how great would be the danger and even the\ndelay, if one went back without knowing by what road across the whole\nchaos of ruins one might regain all the lost time!\n\n\u201cLet us go to bed,\u201d at last said Guillaume, smiling. \u201cIt\u2019s silly of me to\nweary you with all these things which don\u2019t concern you.\u201d\n\nPierre, in his excitement, was about to reveal his own heart and mind,\nand the whole torturing battle within him. But a feeling of shame again\nrestrained him. His brother only knew him as a believing priest, faithful\nto his faith. And so, without answering, he betook himself to his room.\n\nOn the following evening, about ten o\u2019clock, while Guillaume and Pierre\nsat reading in the study, the old servant entered to announce M. Janzen\nand a friend. The friend was Salvat.\n\n\u201cHe wished to see you,\u201d Janzen explained to Guillaume. \u201cI met him, and\nwhen he heard of your injury and anxiety he implored me to bring him\nhere. And I\u2019ve done so, though it was perhaps hardly prudent of me.\u201d\n\nGuillaume had risen, full of surprise and emotion at such a visit;\nPierre, however, though equally upset by Salvat\u2019s appearance; did not\nstir from his chair, but kept his eyes upon the workman.\n\n\u201cMonsieur Froment,\u201d Salvat ended by saying, standing there in a timid,\nembarrassed way, \u201cI was very sorry indeed when I heard of the worry I\u2019d\nput you in; for I shall never forget that you were very kind to me when\neverybody else turned me away.\u201d\n\nAs he spoke he balanced himself alternately on either leg, and\ntransferred his old felt hat from hand to hand.\n\n\u201cAnd so I wanted to come and tell you myself that if I took a cartridge\nof your powder one evening when you had your back turned, it\u2019s the only\nthing that I feel any remorse about in the whole business, since it may\ncompromise you. And I also want to take my oath before you that you\u2019ve\nnothing to fear from me, that I\u2019ll let my head be cut off twenty times if\nneed be, rather than utter your name. That\u2019s all that I had in my heart.\u201d\n\nHe relapsed into silence and embarrassment, but his soft, dreamy eyes,\nthe eyes of a faithful dog, remained fixed upon Guillaume with an\nexpression of respectful worship. And Pierre was still gazing at him\nathwart the hateful vision which his arrival had conjured up, that of the\npoor, dead, errand girl, the fair pretty child lying ripped open under\nthe entrance of the Duvillard mansion! Was it possible that he was there,\nhe, that madman, that murderer, and that his eyes were actually moist!\n\nGuillaume, touched by Salvat\u2019s words, had drawn near and pressed his\nhand. \u201cI am well aware, Salvat,\u201d said he, \u201cthat you are not wicked at\nheart. But what a foolish and abominable thing you did!\u201d\n\nSalvat showed no sign of anger, but gently smiled. \u201cOh! if it had to be\ndone again, Monsieur Froment, I\u2019d do it. It\u2019s my idea, you know. And,\napart from you, all is well; I am content.\u201d\n\nHe would not sit down, but for another moment continued talking with\nGuillaume, while Janzen, as if he washed his hands of the business,\ndeeming this visit both useless and dangerous, sat down and turned over\nthe leaves of a picture book. And Guillaume made Salvat tell him what he\nhad done on the day of the crime; how like a stray dog he had wandered in\ndistraction through Paris, carrying his bomb with him, originally in his\ntool-bag and then under his jacket; how he had gone a first time to the\nDuvillard mansion and found its carriage entrance closed; then how he had\nbetaken himself first to the Chamber of Deputies which the ushers had\nprevented him from entering, and afterwards to the Circus, where the\nthought of making a great sacrifice of _bourgeois_ had occurred to him\ntoo late. And finally, how he had at last come back to the Duvillard\nmansion, as if drawn thither by the very power of destiny. His tool-bag\nwas lying in the depths of the Seine, he said; he had thrown it into the\nwater with sudden hatred of work, since it had even failed to give him\nbread. And he next told the story of his flight; the explosion shaking\nthe whole district behind him, while, with delight and astonishment, he\nfound himself some distance off, in quiet streets where nothing was as\nyet known. And for a month past he had been living in chance fashion, how\nor where he could hardly tell, but he had often slept in the open, and\ngone for a day without food. One evening little Victor Mathis had given\nhim five francs. And other comrades had helped him, taken him in for a\nnight and sent him off at the first sign of peril. A far-spreading, tacit\ncomplicity had hitherto saved him from the police. As for going abroad,\nwell, he had, at one moment, thought of doing so; but a description of\nhis person must have been circulated, the gendarmes must be waiting for\nhim at the frontiers, and so would not flight, instead of retarding,\nrather hasten his arrest? Paris, however, was an ocean; it was there that\nhe incurred the least risk of capture. Moreover, he no longer had\nsufficient energy to flee. A fatalist as he was after his own fashion, he\ncould not find strength to quit the pavements of Paris, but there awaited\narrest, like a social waif carried chancewise through the multitude as in\na dream.\n\n\u201cAnd your daughter, little C\u00e9line?\u201d Guillaume inquired. \u201cHave you\nventured to go back to see her?\u201d\n\nSalvat waved his hand in a vague way. \u201cNo, but what would you have? She\u2019s\nwith Mamma Th\u00e9odore. Women always find some help. And then I\u2019m done for,\nI can do nothing for anybody. It\u2019s as if I were already dead.\u201d However,\nin spite of these words, tears were rising to his eyes. \u201cAh! the poor\nlittle thing!\u201d he added, \u201cI kissed her with all my heart before I went\naway. If she and the woman hadn\u2019t been starving so long the idea of that\nbusiness would perhaps never have come to me.\u201d\n\nThen, in all simplicity, he declared that he was ready to die. If he had\nended by depositing his bomb at the entrance of Duvillard\u2019s house, it was\nbecause he knew the banker well, and was aware that he was the wealthiest\nof those _bourgeois_ whose fathers at the time of the Revolution had\nduped the people, by taking all power and wealth for themselves,--the\npower and wealth which the sons were nowadays so obstinately bent in\nretaining that they would not even bestow the veriest crumbs on others.\nAs for the Revolution, he understood it in his own fashion, like an\nilliterate fellow who had learnt the little he knew from newspapers and\nspeeches at public meetings. And he struck his chest with his fist as he\nspoke of his honesty, and was particularly desirous that none should\ndoubt his courage because he had fled.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve never robbed anybody,\u201d said he, \u201cand if I don\u2019t go and hand myself\nup to the police, it\u2019s because they may surely take the trouble to find\nand arrest me. I\u2019m very well aware that my affair\u2019s clear enough as\nthey\u2019ve found that bradawl and know me. All the same, it would be silly\nof me to help them in their work. Still, they\u2019d better make haste, for\nI\u2019ve almost had enough of being tracked like a wild beast and no longer\nknowing how I live.\u201d\n\nJanzen, yielding to curiosity, had ceased turning over the leaves of the\npicture book and was looking at Salvat. There was a smile of disdain in\nthe Anarchist leader\u2019s cold eyes; and in his usual broken French he\nremarked: \u201cA man fights and defends himself, kills others and tries to\navoid being killed himself. That\u2019s warfare.\u201d\n\nThese words fell from his lips amidst deep silence. Salvat, however, did\nnot seem to have heard them, but stammered forth his faith in a long\nsentence laden with fulsome expressions, such as the sacrifice of his\nlife in order that want might cease, and the example of a great action,\nin the certainty that it would inspire other heroes to continue the\nstruggle. And with this certainly sincere faith and illuminism of his\nthere was blended a martyr\u2019s pride, delight at being one of the radiant,\nworshipped saints of the dawning Revolutionary Church.\n\nAs he had come so he went off. When Janzen had led him away, it seemed as\nif the night which had brought him had carried him back into its\nimpenetrable depths. And then only did Pierre rise from his chair. He was\nstifling, and threw the large window of the room wide open. It was a very\nmild but moonless night, whose silence was only disturbed by the\nsubsiding clamour of Paris, which stretched away, invisible, on the\nhorizon.\n\nGuillaume, according to his habit, had begun to walk up and down. And at\nlast he spoke, again forgetting that his brother was a priest. \u201cAh! the\npoor fellow! How well one can understand that deed of violence and hope!\nHis whole past life of fruitless labour and ever-growing want explains\nit. Then, too, there has been all the contagion of ideas; the\nfrequentation of public meetings where men intoxicate themselves with\nwords, and of secret meetings among comrades where faith acquires\nfirmness and the mind soars wildly. Ah! I think I know that man well\nindeed! He\u2019s a good workman, sober and courageous. Injustice has always\nexasperated him. And little by little the desire for universal happiness\nhas cast him out of the realities of life which he has ended by holding\nin horror. So how can he do otherwise than live in a dream--a dream of\nredemption, which, from circumstances, has turned to fire and murder as\nits fitting instruments. As I looked at him standing there, I fancied I\ncould picture one of the first Christian slaves of ancient Rome. All the\niniquity of olden pagan society, agonising beneath the rottenness born of\ndebauchery and covetousness, was weighing on his shoulders, bearing him\ndown. He had come from the dark Catacombs where he had whispered words of\ndeliverance and redemption with his wretched brethren. And a thirst for\nmartyrdom consumed him, he spat in the face of Caesar, he insulted the\ngods, he fired the pagan temples, in order that the reign of Jesus might\ncome and abolish servitude. And he was ready to die, to be torn to pieces\nby the wild beasts!\u201d\n\nPierre did not immediately reply. He had already been struck, however, by\nthe fact that there were undoubted points of resemblance between the\nsecret propaganda and militant faith of the Anarchists, and certain\npractices of the first Christians. Both sects abandon themselves to a new\nfaith in the hope that the humble may thereby at last reap justice.\nPaganism disappears through weariness of the flesh and the need of a more\nlofty and pure faith. That dream of a Christian paradise opening up a\nfuture life with a system of compensations for the ills endured on earth,\nwas the outcome of young hope dawning at its historic hour. But to-day,\nwhen eighteen centuries have exhausted that hope, when the long\nexperiment is over and the toiler finds himself duped and still and ever\na slave, he once more dreams of getting happiness upon this earth,\nparticularly as each day Science tends more and more to show him that the\nhappiness of the spheres beyond is a lie. And in all this there is but\nthe eternal struggle of the poor and the rich, the eternal question of\nbringing more justice and less suffering to the world.\n\n\u201cBut surely,\u201d Pierre at last replied, \u201cyou can\u2019t be on the side of those\nbandits, those murderers whose savage violence horrifies me. I let you\ntalk on yesterday, when you dreamt of a great and happy people, of ideal\nanarchy in which each would be free amidst the freedom of all. But what\nabomination, what disgust both for mind and heart, when one passes from\ntheory to propaganda and practice! If yours is the brain that thinks,\nwhose is the hateful hand that acts, that kills children, throws down\ndoors and empties drawers? Do you accept that responsibility? With your\neducation, your culture, the whole social heredity behind you, does not\nyour entire being revolt at the idea of stealing and murdering?\u201d\n\nGuillaume halted before his brother, quivering. \u201cSteal and murder! no!\nno! I will not. But one must say everything and fully understand the\nhistory of the evil hour through which we are passing. It is madness\nsweeping by; and, to tell the truth, everything necessary to provoke it\nhas been done. At the very dawn of the Anarchist theory, at the very\nfirst innocent actions of its partisans, there was such stern repression,\nthe police so grossly ill-treating the poor devils that fell into its\nhands, that little by little came anger and rage leading to the most\nhorrible reprisals. It is the Terror initiated by the _bourgeois_ that\nhas produced Anarchist savagery. And would you know whence Salvat and his\ncrime have come? Why, from all our centuries of impudence and iniquity,\nfrom all that the nations have suffered, from all the sores which are now\ndevouring us, the impatience for enjoyment, the contempt of the strong\nfor the weak, the whole monstrous spectacle which is presented by our\nrotting society!\u201d\n\nGuillaume was again slowly walking to and fro; and as if he were\nreflecting aloud he continued: \u201cAh! to reach the point I have attained,\nthrough how much thought, through how many battles, have I not passed! I\nwas merely a Positivist, a _savant_ devoted to observation and\nexperiment, accepting nothing apart from proven facts. Scientifically and\nsocially, I admitted that simple evolution had slowly brought humanity\ninto being. But both in the history of the globe and that of human\nsociety, I found it necessary to make allowance for the volcano, the\nsudden cataclysm, the sudden eruption, by which each geological phase,\neach historical period, has been marked. In this wise one ends by\nascertaining that no forward step has ever been taken, no progress ever\naccomplished in the world\u2019s history, without the help of horrible\ncatastrophes. Each advance has meant the sacrifice of millions and\nmillions of human lives. This of course revolts us, given our narrow\nideas of justice, and we regard nature as a most barbarous mother; but,\nif we cannot excuse the volcano, we ought to deal with it when it bursts\nforth, like _savants_ forewarned of its possibility.... And then, ah,\nthen! well, perhaps I\u2019m a dreamer like others, but I have my own\nnotions.\u201d\n\nWith a sweeping gesture he confessed what a social dreamer there was\nwithin him beside the methodical and scrupulous _savant_. His constant\nendeavour was to bring all back to science, and he was deeply grieved at\nfinding in nature no scientific sign of equality or even justice, such as\nhe craved for in the social sphere. His despair indeed came from this\ninability to reconcile scientific logic with apostolic love, the dream of\nuniversal happiness and brotherhood and the end of all iniquity.\n\nPierre, however, who had remained near the open window, gazing into the\nnight towards Paris, whence ascended the last sounds of the evening of\npassionate pleasure, felt the whole flood of his own doubt and despair\nstifling him. It was all too much: that brother of his who had fallen\nupon him with his scientific and apostolic beliefs, those men who came to\ndiscuss contemporary thought from every standpoint, and finally that\nSalvat who had brought thither the exasperation of his mad deed. And\nPierre, who had hitherto listened to them all without a word, without a\ngesture, who had hidden his secrets from his brother, seeking refuge in\nhis supposed priestly views, suddenly felt such bitterness stirring his\nheart that he could lie no longer.\n\n\u201cAh! brother, if you have your dream, I have my sore which has eaten into\nme and left me void! Your Anarchy, your dream of just happiness, for\nwhich Salvat works with bombs, why, it is the final burst of insanity\nwhich will sweep everything away! How is it that you can\u2019t realise it?\nThe century is ending in ruins. I\u2019ve been listening to you all for a\nmonth past. Fourier destroyed Saint-Simon, Proudhon and Comte demolished\nFourier, each in turn piling up incoherences and contradictions, leaving\nmere chaos behind them, which nobody dares to sort out. And since then,\nSocialist sects have been swarming and multiplying, the more sensible of\nthem leading simply to dictatorship, while the others indulge in most\ndangerous reveries. And after such a tempest of ideas there could indeed\ncome nothing but your Anarchy, which undertakes to bring the old world to\na finish by reducing it to dust.... Ah! I expected it, I was waiting\nfor it--that final catastrophe, that fratricidal madness, the inevitable\nclass warfare in which our civilisation was destined to collapse!\nEverything announced it: the want and misery below, the egotism up above,\nall the cracking of the old human habitation, borne down by too great a\nweight of crime and grief. When I went to Lourdes it was to see if the\ndivinity of simple minds would work the awaited miracle, and restore the\nbelief of the early ages to the people, which rebelled through excess of\nsuffering. And when I went to Rome it was in the _naive_ hope of there\nfinding the new religion required by our democracies, the only one that\ncould pacify the world by bringing back the fraternity of the golden age.\nBut how foolish of me all that was! Both here and there, I simply lighted\non nothingness. There where I so ardently dreamt of finding the salvation\nof others, I only sank myself, going down apeak like a ship not a timber\nof which is ever found again. One tie still linked me to my fellow-men,\nthat of charity, the dressing, relieving, and perhaps, in the long run,\nhealing, of wounds and sores; but that last cable has now been severed.\nCharity, to my mind, appears futile and derisive by the side of justice,\nto whom all supremacy belongs, and whose advent has become a necessity\nand can be stayed by none. And so it is all over, I am mere ashes, an\nempty grave as it were. I no longer believe in anything, anything,\nanything whatever!\u201d\n\nPierre had risen to his full height, with arms outstretched as if to let\nall the nothingness within his heart and mind fall from them. And\nGuillaume, distracted by the sight of such a fierce denier, such a\ndespairing Nihilist as was now revealed to him, drew near, quivering:\n\u201cWhat are you saying, brother! I thought you so firm, so calm in your\nbelief! A priest to be admired, a saint worshipped by the whole of this\nparish! I was unwilling even to discuss your faith, and now it is you who\ndeny all, and believe in nothing whatever!\u201d\n\nPierre again slowly stretched out his arms. \u201cThere is nothing, I tried to\nlearn all, and only found the atrocious grief born of the nothingness\nthat overwhelms me.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! how you must suffer, Pierre, my little brother! Can religion, then,\nbe even more withering than science, since it has ravaged you like that,\nwhile I have yet remained an old madman, still full of fancies?\u201d\n\nGuillaume caught hold of Pierre\u2019s hands and pressed them, full of\nterrified compassion in presence of all the grandeur and horror embodied\nin that unbelieving priest who watched over the belief of others, and\nchastely, honestly discharged his duty amidst the haughty sadness born of\nhis falsehood. And how heavily must that falsehood have weighed upon his\nconscience for him to confess himself in that fashion, amidst an utter\ncollapse of his whole being! A month previously, in the unexpansiveness\nof his proud solitude, he would never have taken such a course. To speak\nout it was necessary that he should have been stirred by many things, his\nreconciliation with his brother, the conversations he had heard of an\nevening, the terrible drama in which he was mingled, as well as his\nreflections on labour struggling against want, and the vague hope with\nwhich the sight of intellectual youth had inspired him. And, indeed, amid\nthe very excess of his negation was there not already the faint dawn of a\nnew faith?\n\nThis Guillaume must have understood, on seeing how he quivered with\nunsatisfied tenderness as he emerged from the fierce silence which he had\npreserved so long. He made him sit down near the window, and placed\nhimself beside him without releasing his hands. \u201cBut I won\u2019t have you\nsuffer, my little brother!\u201d he said; \u201cI won\u2019t leave you, I\u2019ll nurse you.\nFor I know you much better than you know yourself. You would never have\nsuffered were it not for the battle between your heart and your mind, and\nyou will cease to suffer on the day when they make peace, and you love\nwhat you understand.\u201d And in a lower voice, with infinite affection, he\nwent on: \u201cYou see, it\u2019s our poor mother and our poor father continuing\ntheir painful struggle in you. You were too young at the time, you\ncouldn\u2019t know what went on. But I knew them both very wretched: he,\nwretched through her, who treated him as if he were one of the damned;\nand she, suffering through him, tortured by his irreligion. When he died,\nstruck down by an explosion in this very room, she took it to be the\npunishment of God. Yet, what an honest man he was, with a good, great\nheart, what a worker, seeking for truth alone, and desirous of the love\nand happiness of all! Since we have spent our evenings here, I have felt\nhim coming back, reviving as it were both around and within us; and she,\ntoo, poor, saintly woman, is ever here, enveloping us with love, weeping,\nand yet stubbornly refusing to understand. It is they, perhaps, who have\nkept me here so long, and who at this very moment are present to place\nyour hands in mine.\u201d\n\nAnd, indeed, it seemed to Pierre as if he could feel the breath of\nvigilant affection which Guillaume evoked passing over them both. There\nwas again a revival of all the past, all their youth, and nothing could\nhave been more delightful.\n\n\u201cYou hear me, brother,\u201d Guillaume resumed. \u201cYou must reconcile them, for\nit is only in you that they can be reconciled. You have his firm, lofty\nbrow, and her mouth and eyes of unrealisable tenderness. So, try to bring\nthem to agreement, by some day contenting, as your reason shall allow,\nthe everlasting thirst for love, and self-bestowal, and life, which for\nlack of satisfaction is killing you. Your frightful wretchedness has no\nother cause. Come back to life, love, bestow yourself, be a man!\u201d\n\nPierre raised a dolorous cry: \u201cNo, no, the death born of doubt has swept\nthrough me, withering and shattering everything, and nothing more can\nlive in that cold dust!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, come,\u201d resumed Guillaume, \u201cyou cannot have reached such absolute\nnegation. No man reaches it. Even in the most disabused of minds there\nremains a nook of fancy and hope. To deny charity, devotion, the\nprodigies which love may work, ah! for my part I do not go so far as\nthat. And now that you have shown me your sore, why should I not tell you\nmy dream, the wild hope which keeps me alive! It is strange; but, are\n_savants_ to be the last childish dreamers, and is faith only to spring\nup nowadays in chemical laboratories?\u201d\n\nIntense emotion was stirring Guillaume; there was battle waging in both\nhis brain and his heart. And at last, yielding to the deep compassion\nwhich filled him, vanquished by his ardent affection for his unhappy\nbrother, he spoke out. But he had drawn yet closer to Pierre, even passed\none arm around him; and it was thus embracing him that he, in his turn,\nmade his confession, lowering his voice as if he feared that someone\nmight overhear his secret. \u201cWhy should you not know it?\u201d he said. \u201cMy own\nsons are ignorant of it. But you are a man and my brother, and since\nthere is nothing of the priest left in you, it is to the brother I will\nconfide it. This will make me love you the more, and perhaps it may do\nyou good.\u201d\n\nThen he told him of his invention, a new explosive, a powder of such\nextraordinary force that its effects were incalculable. And he had found\nemployment for this powder in an engine of warfare, a special cannon,\nhurling bombs which would assure the most overwhelming victory to the\narmy using them. The enemy\u2019s forces would be destroyed in a few hours,\nand besieged cities would fall into dust at the slightest bombardment. He\nhad long searched and doubted, calculated, recalculated and experimented;\nbut everything was now ready: the precise formula of the powder, the\ndrawings for the cannon and the bombs, a whole packet of precious papers\nstored in a safe spot. And after months of anxious reflection he had\nresolved to give his invention to France, so as to ensure her a certainty\nof victory in her coming, inevitable war with Germany!\n\nAt the same time, he was not a man of narrow patriotism; on the contrary\nhe had a very broad, international conception of the future liberative\ncivilisation. Only he believed in the initiatory mission of France, and\nparticularly in that of Paris, which, even as it is to-day, was destined\nto be the world\u2019s brain to-morrow, whence all science and justice would\nproceed. The great idea of liberty and equality had already soared from\nit at the prodigious blast of the Revolution; and from its genius and\nvalour the final emancipation of man would also take its flight. Thus it\nwas necessary that Paris should be victorious in the struggle in order\nthat the world might be saved.\n\nPierre understood his brother, thanks to the lecture on explosives which\nhe had heard at Bertheroy\u2019s. And the grandeur of this scheme, this dream,\nparticularly struck him when he thought of the extraordinary future which\nwould open for Paris amidst the effulgent blaze of the bombs. Moreover,\nhe was struck by all the nobility of soul which had lain behind his\nbrother\u2019s anxiety for a month past. If Guillaume had trembled it was\nsimply with fear that his invention might be divulged in consequence of\nSalvat\u2019s crime. The slightest indiscretion might compromise everything;\nand that little stolen cartridge, whose effects had so astonished\n_savants_, might reveal his secret. He felt it necessary to act in\nmystery, choosing his own time, awaiting the proper hour, until when the\nsecret would slumber in its hiding-place, confided to the sole care of\nM\u00e8re-Grand, who had her orders and knew what she was to do should he, in\nany sudden accident, disappear.\n\n\u201cAnd, now,\u201d said Guillaume in conclusion, \u201cyou know my hopes and my\nanguish, and you can help me and even take my place if I am unable to\nreach the end of my task. Ah! to reach the end! Since I have been shut up\nhere, reflecting, consumed by anxiety and impatience, there have been\nhours when I have ceased to see my way clearly! There is that Salvat,\nthat wretched fellow for whose crime we are all of us responsible, and\nwho is now being hunted down like a wild beast! There is also that\ninsensate and insatiable _bourgeoisie_, which will let itself be crushed\nby the fall of the shaky old house, rather than allow the least repair to\nit! And there is further that avaricious, that abominable Parisian press,\nso harsh towards the weak and little, so fond of insulting those who have\nnone to defend them, so eager to coin money out of public misfortune, and\nready to spread insanity on all sides, simply to increase its sales!\nWhere, therefore, shall one find truth and justice, the hand endowed with\nlogic and health that ought to be armed with the thunderbolt? Would Paris\nthe conqueror, Paris the master of the nations, prove the justiciar, the\nsaviour that men await! Ah! the anguish of believing oneself to be the\nmaster of the world\u2019s destinies, and to have to choose and decide.\u201d\n\nHe had risen again quivering, full of anger and fear that human\nwretchedness and baseness might prevent the realisation of his dream. And\namidst the heavy silence which fell in the room, the little house\nsuddenly resounded with a regular, continuous footfall.\n\n\u201cAh, yes! to save men and love them, and wish them all to be equal and\nfree,\u201d murmured Pierre, bitterly. \u201cBut just listen! Barth\u00e8s\u2019s footsteps\nare answering you, as if from the everlasting dungeon into which his love\nof liberty has thrown him!\u201d\n\nHowever, Guillaume had already regained possession of himself, and coming\nback in a transport of his faith, he once more took Pierre in his loving,\nsaving arms, like an elder brother who gives himself without restraint.\n\u201cNo, no, I\u2019m wrong, I\u2019m blaspheming,\u201d he exclaimed; \u201cI wish you to be\nwith me, full of hope and full of certainty. You must work, you must\nlove, you must revive to life. Life alone can give you back peace and\nhealth.\u201d\n\nTears returned to the eyes of Pierre, who was penetrated to the heart by\nthis ardent affection. \u201cAh! how I should like to believe you,\u201d he\nfaltered, \u201cand try to cure myself. True, I have already felt, as it were,\na vague revival within me. And yet to live again, no, I cannot; the\npriest that I am is dead--a lifeless, an empty tomb.\u201d\n\nHe was shaken by so frightful a sob, that Guillaume could not restrain\nhis own tears. And clasped in one another\u2019s arms the brothers wept on,\ntheir hearts full of the softest emotion in that home of their youth,\nwhither the dear shadows of their parents ever returned, hovering around\nuntil they should be reconciled and restored to the peace of the earth.\nAnd all the darkness and mildness of the garden streamed in through the\nopen window, while yonder, on the horizon, Paris had fallen asleep in the\nmysterious gloom, beneath a very peaceful sky which was studded with\nstars.\n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK III.\n\n\n\n\nI. THE RIVALS\n\n\nON the Wednesday preceding the mid-Lent Thursday, a great charity bazaar\nwas held at the Duvillard mansion, for the benefit of the Asylum of the\nInvalids of Labour. The ground-floor reception rooms, three spacious\nLouis Seize _salons_, whose windows overlooked the bare and solemn\ncourtyard, were given up to the swarm of purchasers, five thousand\nadmission cards having been distributed among all sections of Parisian\nsociety. And the opening of the bombarded mansion in this wise to\nthousands of visitors was regarded as quite an event, a real\nmanifestation, although some people whispered that the Rue\nGodot-de-Mauroy and the adjacent streets were guarded by quite an army of\npolice agents.\n\nThe idea of the bazaar had come from Duvillard himself, and at his\nbidding his wife had resigned herself to all this worry for the benefit\nof the enterprise over which she presided with such distinguished\nnonchalance. On the previous day the \u201cGlobe\u201d newspaper, inspired by its\ndirector Fons\u00e8gue, who was also the general manager of the asylum, had\npublished a very fine article, announcing the bazaar, and pointing out\nhow noble, and touching, and generous was the initiative of the Baroness,\nwho still gave her time, her money, and even her home to charity, in\nspite of the abominable crime which had almost reduced that home to\nashes. Was not this the magnanimous answer of the spheres above to the\nhateful passions of the spheres below? And was it not also a peremptory\nanswer to those who accused the capitalists of doing nothing for the\nwage-earners, the disabled and broken-down sons of toil?\n\nThe drawing-room doors were to be opened at two o\u2019clock, and would only\nclose at seven, so that there would be five full hours for the sales. And\nat noon, when nothing was as yet ready downstairs, when workmen and women\nwere still decorating the stalls, and sorting the goods amidst a final\nscramble, there was, as usual, a little friendly _d\u00e9jeuner_, to which a\nfew guests had been invited, in the private rooms on the first floor.\nHowever, a scarcely expected incident had given a finishing touch to the\ngeneral excitement of the house: that very morning Sagnier had resumed\nhis campaign of denunciation in the matter of the African Railway Lines.\nIn a virulent article in the \u201cVoix du Peuple,\u201d he had inquired if it were\nthe intention of the authorities to beguile the public much longer with\nthe story of that bomb and that Anarchist whom the police did not arrest.\nAnd this time, while undertaking to publish the names of the thirty-two\ncorrupt senators and deputies in a very early issue, he had boldly named\nMinister Barroux as one who had pocketed a sum of 200,000 francs. M\u00e8ge\nwould therefore certainly revive his interpellation, which might become\ndangerous, now that Paris had been thrown into such a distracted state by\nterror of the Anarchists. At the same time it was said that Vignon and\nhis party had resolved to turn circumstances to account, with the object\nof overthrowing the ministry. Thus a redoubtable crisis was inevitably at\nhand. Fortunately, the Chamber did not meet that Wednesday; in fact, it\nhad adjourned until the Friday, with the view of making mid-Lent a\nholiday. And so forty-eight hours were left one to prepare for the\nonslaught.\n\nEve, that morning, seemed more gentle and languid than ever, rather pale\ntoo, with an expression of sorrowful anxiety in the depths of her\nbeautiful eyes. She set it all down to the very great fatigue which the\npreparations for the bazaar had entailed on her. But the truth was that\nG\u00e9rard de Quinsac, after shunning any further assignation, had for five\ndays past avoided her in an embarrassed way. Still she was convinced that\nshe would see him that morning, and so she had again ventured to wear the\nwhite silk gown which made her look so much younger than she really was.\nAt the same time, beautiful as she had remained, with her delicate skin,\nsuperb figure and noble and charming countenance, her six and forty years\nwere asserting themselves in her blotchy complexion and the little\ncreases which were appearing about her lips, eyelids and temples.\n\nCamille, for her part, though her position as daughter of the house made\nit certain that she would attract much custom as a saleswoman, had\nobstinately persisted in wearing one of her usual dresses, a dark\n\u201ccarmelite\u201d gown, an old woman\u2019s frock, as she herself called it with a\ncutting laugh. However, her long and wicked-looking face beamed with some\nsecret delight; such an expression of wit and intelligence wreathing her\nthin lips and shining in her big eyes that one lost sight of her\ndeformity and thought her almost pretty.\n\nEve experienced a first deception in the little blue and silver\nsitting-room, where, accompanied by her daughter, she awaited the arrival\nof her guests. General de Bozonnet, whom G\u00e9rard was to have brought with\nhim, came in alone, explaining that Madame de Quinsac had felt rather\npoorly that morning, and that G\u00e9rard, like a good and dutiful son, had\nwished to remain with her. Still he would come to the bazaar directly\nafter _d\u00e9jeuner_. While the Baroness listened to the General, striving to\nhide her disappointment and her fear that she would now be unable to\nobtain any explanation from G\u00e9rard that day, Camille looked at her with\neager, devouring eyes. And a certain covert instinct of the misfortune\nthreatening her must at that moment have come to Eve, for in her turn she\nglanced at her daughter and turned pale as if with anxiety.\n\nThen Princess Rosemonde de Harn swept in like a whirlwind. She also was\nto be one of the saleswomen at the stall chosen by the Baroness, who\nliked her for her very turbulence, the sudden gaiety which she generally\nbrought with her. Gowned in fire-hued satin (red shot with yellow),\nlooking very eccentric with her curly hair and thin boyish figure, she\nlaughed and talked of an accident by which her carriage had almost been\ncut in halves. Then, as Baron Duvillard and Hyacinthe came in from their\nrooms, late as usual, she took possession of the young man and scolded\nhim, for on the previous evening she had vainly waited for him till ten\no\u2019clock in the expectation that he would keep his promise to escort her\nto a tavern at Montmartre, where some horrible things were said to occur.\nHyacinthe, looking very bored, quietly replied that he had been detained\nat a seance given by some adepts in the New Magic, in the course of which\nthe soul of St. Theresa had descended from heaven to recite a love\nsonnet.\n\nHowever, Fons\u00e8gue was now coming in with his wife, a tall, thin, silent\nand generally insignificant woman, whom he seldom took about with him. On\nthis occasion he had been obliged to bring her, as she was one of the\nlady-patronesses of the asylum, and he himself was coming to lunch with\nthe Duvillards in his capacity as general manager. To the superficial\nobserver he looked quite as gay as usual; but he blinked nervously, and\nhis first glance was a questioning one in the direction of Duvillard, as\nif he wished to know how the latter bore the fresh thrust directed at him\nby Sagnier. And when he saw the banker looking perfectly composed, as\nsuperb, as rubicund as usual, and chatting in a bantering way with\nRosemonde, he also put on an easy air, like a gamester who had never lost\nbut had always known how to compel good luck, even in hours of treachery.\nAnd by way of showing his unconstraint of mind he at once addressed the\nBaroness on managerial matters: \u201cHave you now succeeded in seeing M.\nl\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment for the affair of that old man Laveuve, whom he so warmly\nrecommended to us? All the formalities have been gone through, you know,\nand he can be brought to us at once, as we have had a bed vacant for\nthree days past.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I know,\u201d replied Eve; \u201cbut I can\u2019t imagine what has become of Abb\u00e9\nFroment, for he hasn\u2019t given us a sign of life for a month past. However,\nI made up my mind to write to him yesterday, and beg him to come to the\nbazaar to-day. In this manner I shall be able to acquaint him with the\ngood news myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was to leave you the pleasure of doing so,\u201d said Fons\u00e8gue, \u201cthat I\nrefrained from sending him any official communication. He\u2019s a charming\npriest, is he not?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! charming, we are very fond of him.\u201d\n\nHowever, Duvillard now intervened to say that they need not wait for\nDuthil, as he had received a telegram from him stating that he was\ndetained by sudden business. At this Fons\u00e8gue\u2019s anxiety returned, and he\nonce more questioned the Baron with his eyes. Duvillard smiled, however,\nand reassured him in an undertone: \u201cIt\u2019s nothing serious. Merely a\ncommission for me, about which he\u2019ll only be able to bring me an answer\nby-and-by.\u201d Then, taking Fons\u00e8gue on one side, he added: \u201cBy the way,\ndon\u2019t forget to insert the paragraph I told you of.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat paragraph? Oh! yes, the one about that _soiree_ at which Silviane\nrecited a piece of verse. Well, I wanted to speak to you about it. It\nworries me a little, on account of the excessive praise it contains.\u201d\n\nDuvillard, but a moment before so full of serenity, with his lofty,\nconquering, disdainful mien, now suddenly became pale and agitated. \u201cBut\nI absolutely want it to be inserted, my dear fellow! You would place me\nin the greatest embarrassment if it were not to appear, for I promised\nSilviane that it should.\u201d\n\nAs he spoke his lips trembled, and a scared look came into his eyes,\nplainly revealing his dismay.\n\n\u201cAll right, all right,\u201d said Fons\u00e8gue, secretly amused, and well pleased\nat this complicity. \u201cAs it\u2019s so serious the paragraph shall go in, I\npromise you.\u201d\n\nThe whole company was now present, since neither G\u00e9rard nor Duthil was to\nbe expected. So they went into the dining-room amidst a final noise of\nhammering in the sale-rooms below. The meal proved somewhat of a\nscramble, and was on three occasions disturbed by female attendants, who\ncame to explain difficulties and ask for orders. Doors were constantly\nslamming, and the very walls seemed to shake with the unusual bustle\nwhich filled the house. And feverish as they all were in the dining-room,\nthey talked in desultory, haphazard fashion on all sorts of subjects,\npassing from a ball given at the Ministry of the Interior on the previous\nnight, to the popular mid-Lent festival which would take place on the\nmorrow, and ever reverting to the bazaar, the prices that had been given\nfor the goods which would be on sale, the prices at which they might be\nsold, and the probable figure of the full receipts, all this being\ninterspersed with strange anecdotes, witticisms and bursts of laughter.\nOn the General mentioning magistrate Amadieu, Eve declared that she no\nlonger dared to invite him to _d\u00e9jeuner_, knowing how busy he was at the\nPalace of Justice. Still, she certainly hoped that he would come to the\nbazaar and contribute something. Then Fons\u00e8gue amused himself with\nteasing Princess Rosemonde about her fire-hued gown, in which, said he,\nshe must already feel roasted by the flames of hell; a suggestion which\nsecretly delighted her, as Satanism had now become her momentary passion.\nMeantime, Duvillard lavished the most gallant politeness on that silent\ncreature, Madame Fons\u00e8gue, while Hyacinthe, in order to astonish even the\nPrincess, explained in a few words how the New Magic could transform a\nchaste young man into a real angel. And Camille, who seemed very happy\nand very excited, from time to time darted a hot glance at her mother,\nwhose anxiety and sadness increased as she found the other more and more\naggressive, and apparently resolved upon open and merciless warfare.\n\nAt last, just as the dessert was coming to an end, the Baroness heard her\ndaughter exclaim in a piercing, defiant voice: \u201cOh! don\u2019t talk to me of\nthe old ladies who still seem to be playing with dolls, and paint\nthemselves, and dress as if they were about to be confirmed! All such\nogresses ought to retire from the scene! I hold them in horror!\u201d\n\nAt this, Eve nervously rose from her seat, and exclaimed apologetically:\n\u201cYou must forgive me for hurrying you like this. But I\u2019m afraid that we\nshan\u2019t have time to drink our coffee in peace.\u201d\n\nThe coffee was served in the little blue and silver sitting-room, where\nbloomed some lovely yellow roses, testifying to the Baroness\u2019s keen\npassion for flowers, which made the house an abode of perpetual spring.\nDuvillard and Fons\u00e8gue, however, carrying their cups of steaming coffee\nwith them, at once went into the former\u2019s private room to smoke a cigar\nthere and chat in freedom. As the door remained wide open, one could\nhear their gruff voices more or less distinctly. Meantime, General de\nBozonnet, delighted to find in Madame Fons\u00e8gue a serious, submissive\nperson, who listened without interrupting, began to tell her a very long\nstory of an officer\u2019s wife who had followed her husband through\nevery battle of the war of 1870. Then Hyacinthe, who took no\ncoffee--contemptuously declaring it to be a beverage only fit for\ndoor-keepers--managed to rid himself of Rosemonde, who was sipping some\nkummel, in order to come and whisper to his sister: \u201cI say, it was very\nstupid of you to taunt mamma in the way you did just now. I don\u2019t care a\nrap about it myself. But it ends by being noticed, and, I warn you\ncandidly, it shows ill breeding.\u201d\n\nCamille gazed at him fixedly with her black eyes. \u201cPray don\u2019t _you_\nmeddle with my affairs,\u201d said she.\n\nAt this he felt frightened, scented a storm, and decided to take\nRosemonde into the adjoining red drawing-room in order to show her a\npicture which his father had just purchased. And the General, on being\ncalled by him, likewise conducted Madame Fons\u00e8gue thither.\n\nThe mother and daughter then suddenly found themselves alone and face to\nface. Eve was leaning on a pier-table, as if overcome; and indeed, the\nleast sorrow bore her down, so weak at heart she was, ever ready to weep\nin her naive and perfect egotism. Why was it that her daughter thus hated\nher, and did her utmost to disturb that last happy spell of love in which\nher heart lingered? She looked at Camille, grieved rather than irritated;\nand the unfortunate idea came to her of making a remark about her dress\nat the very moment when the girl was on the point of following the others\ninto the larger drawing-room.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s quite wrong of you, my dear,\u201d said she, \u201cto persist in dressing\nlike an old woman. It doesn\u2019t improve you a bit.\u201d\n\nAs Eve spoke, her soft eyes, those of a courted and worshipped handsome\nwoman, clearly expressed the compassion she felt for that ugly, deformed\ngirl, whom she had never been able to regard as a daughter. Was it\npossible that she, with her sovereign beauty, that beauty which she\nherself had ever adored and nursed, making it her one care, her one\nreligion--was it possible that she had given birth to such a graceless\ncreature, with a dark, goatish profile, one shoulder higher than the\nother, and a pair of endless arms such as hunchbacks often have? All her\ngrief and all her shame at having had such a child became apparent in the\nquivering of her voice.\n\nCamille, however, had stopped short, as if struck in the face with a\nwhip. Then she came back to her mother and the horrible explanation began\nwith these simple words spoken in an undertone: \u201cYou consider that I\ndress badly? Well, you ought to have paid some attention to me, have seen\nthat my gowns suited your taste, and have taught me your secret of\nlooking beautiful!\u201d\n\nEve, with her dislike of all painful feeling, all quarrelling and bitter\nwords, was already regretting her attack. So she sought to make a\nretreat, particularly as time was flying and they would soon be expected\ndownstairs: \u201cCome, be quiet, and don\u2019t show your bad temper when all\nthose people can hear us. I have loved you--\u201d\n\nBut with a quiet yet terrible laugh Camille interrupted her. \u201cYou\u2019ve\nloved me! Oh! my poor mamma, what a comical thing to say! Have you ever\nloved _anybody_? You want others to love _you_, but that\u2019s another\nmatter. As for your child, any child, do you even know how it ought to be\nloved? You have always neglected me, thrust me on one side, deeming me so\nugly, so unworthy of you! And besides, you have not had days and nights\nenough to love yourself! Oh! don\u2019t deny it, my poor mamma; but even now\nyou\u2019re looking at me as if I were some loathsome monster that\u2019s in your\nway.\u201d\n\nFrom that moment the abominable scene was bound to continue to the end.\nWith their teeth set, their faces close together, the two women went on\nspeaking in feverish whispers.\n\n\u201cBe quiet, Camille, I tell you! I will not allow such language!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I won\u2019t be quiet when you do all you can to wound me. If it\u2019s wrong\nof me to dress like an old woman, perhaps another is rather ridiculous in\ndressing like a girl, like a bride.\u201d\n\n\u201cLike a bride? I don\u2019t understand you.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes, you do. However, I would have you know that everybody doesn\u2019t\nfind me so ugly as you try to make them believe.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you look amiss, it is because you don\u2019t dress properly; that is all I\nsaid.\u201d\n\n\u201cI dress as I please, and no doubt I do so well enough, since I\u2019m loved\nas I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, really! Does someone love you? Well, let him inform us of it and\nmarry you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes--certainly, certainly! It will be a good riddance, won\u2019t it? And\nyou\u2019ll have the pleasure of seeing me as a bride!\u201d\n\nTheir voices were rising in spite of their efforts to restrain them.\nHowever, Camille paused and drew breath before hissing out the words:\n\u201cG\u00e9rard is coming here to ask for my hand in a day or two.\u201d\n\nEve, livid, with wildly staring eyes, did not seem to understand.\n\u201cG\u00e9rard? why do you tell me that?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, because it\u2019s G\u00e9rard who loves me and who is going to marry me! You\ndrive me to extremities; you\u2019re for ever repeating that I\u2019m ugly; you\ntreat me like a monster whom nobody will ever care for. So I\u2019m forced to\ndefend myself and tell you the truth in order to prove to you that\neverybody is not of your opinion.\u201d\n\nSilence fell; the frightful thing which had risen between them seemed to\nhave arrested the quarrel. But there was neither mother nor daughter left\nthere. They were simply two suffering, defiant rivals. Eve in her turn\ndrew a long breath and glanced anxiously towards the adjoining room to\nascertain if anyone were coming in or listening to them. And then in a\ntone of resolution she made answer:\n\n\u201cYou cannot marry G\u00e9rard.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray, why not?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause I won\u2019t have it; because it\u2019s impossible.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat isn\u2019t a reason; give me a reason.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe reason is that the marriage is impossible that is all.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, I\u2019ll tell you the reason since you force me to it. The reason is\nthat G\u00e9rard is your lover! But what does that matter, since I know it and\nam willing to take him all the same?\u201d\n\nAnd to this retort Camille\u2019s flaming eyes added the words: \u201cAnd it is\nparticularly on that account that I want him.\u201d All the long torture born\nof her infirmities, all her rage at having always seen her mother\nbeautiful, courted and adored, was now stirring her and seeking vengeance\nin cruel triumph. At last then she was snatching from her rival the lover\nof whom she had so long been jealous!\n\n\u201cYou wretched girl!\u201d stammered Eve, wounded in the heart and almost\nsinking to the floor. \u201cYou don\u2019t know what you say or what you make me\nsuffer.\u201d\n\nHowever, she again had to pause, draw herself erect and smile; for\nRosemonde hastened in from the adjoining room with the news that she was\nwanted downstairs. The doors were about to be opened, and it was\nnecessary she should be at her stall. Yes, Eve answered, she would be\ndown in another moment. Still, even as she spoke she leant more heavily\non the pier-table behind her in order that she might not fall.\n\nHyacinthe had drawn near to his sister: \u201cYou know,\u201d said he, \u201cit\u2019s simply\nidiotic to quarrel like that. You would do much better to come\ndownstairs.\u201d\n\nBut Camille harshly dismissed him: \u201cJust _you_ go off, and take the\nothers with you. It\u2019s quite as well that they shouldn\u2019t be about our\nears.\u201d\n\nHyacinthe glanced at his mother, like one who knew the truth and\nconsidered the whole affair ridiculous. And then, vexed at seeing her so\ndeficient in energy in dealing with that little pest, his sister, he\nshrugged his shoulders, and leaving them to their folly, conducted the\nothers away. One could hear Rosemonde laughing as she went off below,\nwhile the General began to tell Madame Fons\u00e8gue another story as they\ndescended the stairs together. However, at the moment when the mother and\ndaughter at last fancied themselves alone once more, other voices reached\ntheir ears, those of Duvillard and Fons\u00e8gue, who were still near at hand.\nThe Baron from his room might well overhear the dispute.\n\nEve felt that she ought to have gone off. But she had lacked the strength\nto do so; it had been a sheer impossibility for her after those words\nwhich had smote her like a buffet amidst her distress at the thought of\nlosing her lover.\n\n\u201cG\u00e9rard cannot marry you,\u201d she said; \u201che does not love you.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe does.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou fancy it because he has good-naturedly shown some kindness to you,\non seeing others pay you such little attention. But he does not love\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe does. He loves me first because I\u2019m not such a fool as many others\nare, and particularly because I\u2019m young.\u201d\n\nThis was a fresh wound for the Baroness; one inflicted with mocking\ncruelty in which rang out all the daughter\u2019s triumphant delight at seeing\nher mother\u2019s beauty at last ripening and waning. \u201cAh! my poor mamma, you\nno longer know what it is to be young. If I\u2019m not beautiful, at all\nevents I\u2019m young; my eyes are clear and my lips are fresh. And my hair\u2019s\nso long too, and I\u2019ve so much of it that it would suffice to gown me if I\nchose. You see, one\u2019s never ugly when one\u2019s young. Whereas, my poor\nmamma, everything is ended when one gets old. It\u2019s all very well for a\nwoman to have been beautiful, and to strive to keep so, but in reality\nthere\u2019s only ruin left, and shame and disgust.\u201d\n\nShe spoke these words in such a sharp, ferocious voice that each of them\nentered her mother\u2019s heart like a knife. Tears rose to the eyes of the\nwretched woman, again stricken in her bleeding wound. Ah! it was true,\nshe remained without weapons against youth. And all her anguish came from\nthe consciousness that she was growing old, from the feeling that love\nwas departing from her now, that like a fruit she had ripened and fallen\nfrom the tree.\n\n\u201cBut G\u00e9rard\u2019s mother will never let him marry you,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cHe will prevail on her; that\u2019s his concern. I\u2019ve a dowry of two\nmillions, and two millions can settle many things.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you now want to libel him, and say that he\u2019s marrying you for your\nmoney?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed! G\u00e9rard\u2019s a very nice and honest fellow. He loves me and he\u2019s\nmarrying me for myself. But, after all, he isn\u2019t rich; he still has no\nassured position, although he\u2019s thirty-six; and there may well be some\nadvantage in a wife who brings you wealth as well as happiness. For, you\nhear, mamma, it\u2019s happiness I\u2019m bringing him, real happiness, love that\u2019s\nshared and is certain of the future.\u201d\n\nOnce again their faces drew close together. The hateful scene,\ninterrupted by sounds around them, postponed, and then resumed, was\ndragging on, becoming a perfect drama full of murderous violence,\nalthough they never shouted, but still spoke on in low and gasping\nvoices. Neither gave way to the other, though at every moment they were\nliable to some surprise; for not only were all the doors open, so that\nthe servants might come in, but the Baron\u2019s voice still rang out gaily,\nclose at hand.\n\n\u201cHe loves you, he loves you\u201d--continued Eve. \u201cThat\u2019s what you say. But\n_he_ never told you so.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe has told me so twenty times; he repeats it every time that we are\nalone together!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, just as one says it to a little girl by way of amusing her. But he\nhas never told you that he meant to marry you.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe told it me the last time he came. And it\u2019s settled. I\u2019m simply\nwaiting for him to get his mother\u2019s consent and make his formal offer.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou lie, you lie, you wretched girl! You simply want to make me suffer,\nand you lie, you lie!\u201d\n\nEve\u2019s grief at last burst forth in that cry of protest. She no longer\nknew that she was a mother, and was speaking to her daughter. The woman,\nthe _amorosa_, alone remained in her, outraged and exasperated by a\nrival. And with a sob she confessed the truth: \u201cIt is I he loves! Only\nthe last time I spoke to him, he swore to me--you hear me?--he swore upon\nhis honour that he did not love you, and that he would never marry you!\u201d\n\nA faint, sharp laugh came from Camille. Then, with an air of derisive\ncompassion, she replied: \u201cAh! my poor mamma, you really make me sorry for\nyou! What a child you are! Yes, really, you are the child, not I. What!\nyou who ought to have so much experience, you still allow yourself to be\nduped by a man\u2019s protests! That one really has no malice; and, indeed,\nthat\u2019s why he swears whatever you want him to swear, just to please and\nquiet you, for at heart he\u2019s a bit of a coward.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou lie, you lie!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut just think matters over. If he no longer comes here, if he didn\u2019t\ncome to _d\u00e9jeuner_ this morning, it is simply because he\u2019s had enough of\nyou. He has left you for good; just have the courage to realise it. Of\ncourse he\u2019s still polite and amiable, because he\u2019s a well-bred man, and\ndoesn\u2019t know how to break off. The fact is that he takes pity on you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou lie, you lie!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, question him then. Have a frank explanation with him. Ask him his\nintentions in a friendly way. And then show some good nature yourself,\nand realise that if you care for him you ought to give him me at once in\nhis own interest. Give him back his liberty, and you will soon see that\nI\u2019m the one he loves.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou lie, you lie! You wretched child, you only want to torture and kill\nme!\u201d\n\nThen, in her fury and distress, Eve remembered that she was the mother,\nand that it was for her to chastise that unworthy daughter. There was no\nstick near her, but from a basket of the yellow roses, whose powerful\nscent intoxicated both of them, she plucked a handful of blooms, with\nlong and spiny stalks, and smote Camille across the face. A drop of blood\nappeared on the girl\u2019s left temple, near her eyelid.\n\nBut she sprang forward, flushed and maddened by this correction, with her\nhand raised and ready to strike back. \u201cTake care, mother! I swear I\u2019d\nbeat you like a gipsy! And now just put this into your head: I mean to\nmarry G\u00e9rard, and I will; and I\u2019ll take him from you, even if I have to\nraise a scandal, should you refuse to give him to me with good grace.\u201d\n\nEve, after her one act of angry vigour, had sunk into an armchair,\novercome, distracted. And all the horror of quarrels, which sprang from\nher egotistical desire to be happy, caressed, flattered and adored, was\nreturning to her. But Camille, still threatening, still unsatiated,\nshowed her heart as it really was, her stern, black, unforgiving heart,\nintoxicated with cruelty. There came a moment of supreme silence, while\nDuvillard\u2019s gay voice again rang out in the adjoining room.\n\nThe mother was gently weeping, when Hyacinthe, coming upstairs at a run,\nswept into the little _salon_. He looked at the two women, and made a\ngesture of indulgent contempt. \u201cAh! you\u2019re no doubt satisfied now! But\nwhat did I tell you? It would have been much better for you to have come\ndownstairs at once! Everybody is asking for you. It\u2019s all idiotic. I\u2019ve\ncome to fetch you.\u201d\n\nEve and Camille would not yet have followed him, perhaps, if Duvillard\nand Fons\u00e8gue had not at that moment come out of the former\u2019s room. Having\nfinished their cigars they also spoke of going downstairs. And Eve had to\nrise and smile and show dry eyes, while Camille, standing before a\nlooking-glass, arranged her hair, and stanched the little drop of blood\nthat had gathered on her temple.\n\nThere was already quite a number of people below, in the three huge\nsaloons adorned with tapestry and plants. The stalls had been draped with\nred silk, which set a gay, bright glow around the goods. And no ordinary\nbazaar could have put forth such a show, for there was something of\neverything among the articles of a thousand different kinds, from\nsketches by recognised masters, and the autographs of famous writers,\ndown to socks and slippers and combs. The haphazard way in which things\nwere laid out was in itself an attraction; and, in addition, there was a\nbuffet, where the whitest of beautiful hands poured out champagne, and\ntwo lotteries, one for an organ and another for a pony-drawn village\ncart, the tickets for which were sold by a bevy of charming girls, who\nhad scattered through the throng. As Duvillard had expected, however, the\ngreat success of the bazaar lay in the delightful little shiver which the\nbeautiful ladies experienced as they passed through the entrance where\nthe bomb had exploded. The rougher repairing work was finished, the walls\nand ceilings had been doctored, in part re-constructed. However, the\npainters had not yet come, and here and there the whiter stone and\nplaster work showed like fresh scars left by all the terrible gashes. It\nwas with mingled anxiety and rapture that pretty heads emerged from the\ncarriages which, arriving in a continuous stream, made the flagstones of\nthe court re-echo. And in the three saloons, beside the stalls, there was\nno end to the lively chatter: \u201cAh! my dear, did you see all those marks?\nHow frightful, how frightful! The whole house was almost blown up. And to\nthink it might begin again while we are here! One really needs some\ncourage to come, but then, that asylum is such a deserving institution,\nand money is badly wanted to build a new wing. And besides, those\nmonsters will see that we are not frightened, whatever they do.\u201d\n\nWhen the Baroness at last came down to her stall with Camille she found\nthe saleswomen feverishly at work already under the direction of Princess\nRosemonde, who on occasions of this kind evinced the greatest cunning and\nrapacity, robbing the customers in the most impudent fashion. \u201cAh! here\nyou are,\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cBeware of a number of higglers who have come to\nsecure bargains. I know them! They watch for their opportunities, turn\neverything topsy-turvy and wait for us to lose our heads and forget\nprices, so as to pay even less than they would in a real shop. But I\u2019ll\nget good prices from them, you shall see!\u201d\n\nAt this, Eve, who for her own part was a most incapable saleswoman, had\nto laugh with the others. And in a gentle voice she made a pretence of\naddressing certain recommendations to Camille, who listened with a\nsmiling and most submissive air. In point of fact the wretched mother was\nsinking with emotion, particularly at the thought that she would have to\nremain there till seven o\u2019clock, and suffer in secret before all those\npeople, without possibility of relief. And thus it was almost like a\nrespite when she suddenly perceived Abb\u00e9 Froment sitting and waiting for\nher on a settee, covered with red velvet, near her stall. Her legs were\nfailing her, so she took a place beside him.\n\n\u201cYou received my letter then, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9. I am glad that you have\ncome, for I have some good news to give you, and wished to leave you the\npleasure of imparting it to your _prot\u00e9g\u00e9_, that man Laveuve, whom you so\nwarmly recommended to me. Every formality has now been fulfilled, and you\ncan bring him to the asylum to-morrow.\u201d\n\nPierre gazed at her in stupefaction. \u201cLaveuve? Why, he is dead!\u201d\n\nIn her turn she became astonished. \u201cWhat, dead! But you never informed me\nof it! If I told you of all the trouble that has been taken, of all that\nhad to be undone and done again, and the discussions and the papers and\nthe writing! Are you quite sure that he is dead?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes, he is dead. He has been dead a month.\u201d\n\n\u201cDead a month! Well, we could not know; you yourself gave us no sign of\nlife. Ah! _mon Dieu_! what a worry that he should be dead. We shall now\nbe obliged to undo everything again!\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is dead, madame. It is true that I ought to have informed you of it.\nBut that doesn\u2019t alter the fact--he is dead.\u201d\n\nDead! that word which kept on returning, the thought too, that for a\nmonth past she had been busying herself for a corpse, quite froze her,\nbrought her to the very depths of despair, like an omen of the cold death\ninto which she herself must soon descend, in the shroud of her last\npassion. And, meantime, Pierre, despite himself, smiled bitterly at the\natrocious irony of it all. Ah! that lame and halting Charity, which\nproffers help when men are dead!\n\nThe priest still lingered on the settee when the Baroness rose. She had\nseen magistrate Amadieu hurriedly enter like one who just wished to show\nhimself, purchase some trifle, and then return to the Palace of Justice.\nHowever, he was also perceived by little Massot, the \u201cGlobe\u201d reporter,\nwho was prowling round the stalls, and who at once bore down upon him,\neager for information. And he hemmed him in and forthwith interviewed him\nrespecting the affair of that mechanician Salvat, who was accused of\nhaving deposited the bomb at the entrance of the house. Was this simply\nan invention of the police, as some newspapers pretended? Or was it\nreally correct? And if so, would Salvat soon be arrested? In self-defence\nAmadieu answered correctly enough that the affair did not as yet concern\nhim, and would only come within his attributions, if Salvat should be\narrested and the investigation placed in his hands. At the same time,\nhowever, the magistrate\u2019s pompous and affectedly shrewd manner suggested\nthat he already knew everything to the smallest details, and that, had he\nchosen, he could have promised some great events for the morrow. A circle\nof ladies had gathered round him as he spoke, quite a number of pretty\nwomen feverish with curiosity, who jostled one another in their eagerness\nto hear that brigand tale which sent a little shiver coursing under their\nskins. However, Amadieu managed to slip off after paying Rosemonde twenty\nfrancs for a cigarette case, which was perhaps worth thirty sous.\n\nMassot, on recognising Pierre, came up to shake hands with him. \u201cDon\u2019t\nyou agree with me, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, that Salvat must be a long way off by\nnow if he\u2019s got good legs? Ah! the police will always make me laugh!\u201d\n\nHowever, Rosemonde brought Hyacinthe up to the journalist. \u201cMonsieur\nMassot,\u201d said she, \u201cyou who go everywhere, I want you to be judge. That\nChamber of Horrors at Montmartre, that tavern where Legras sings the\n\u2018Flowers of the Streets\u2019--\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! a delightful spot, madame,\u201d interrupted Massot, \u201cI wouldn\u2019t take\neven a gendarme there.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, don\u2019t jest, Monsieur Massot, I\u2019m talking seriously. Isn\u2019t it quite\nallowable for a respectable woman to go there when she\u2019s accompanied by a\ngentleman?\u201d And, without allowing the journalist time to answer her, she\nturned towards Hyacinthe: \u201cThere! you see that Monsieur Massot doesn\u2019t\nsay no! You\u2019ve got to take me there this evening, it\u2019s sworn, it\u2019s\nsworn.\u201d\n\nThen she darted away to sell a packet of pins to an old lady, while the\nyoung man contented himself with remarking, in the voice of one who has\nno illusions left: \u201cShe\u2019s quite idiotic with her Chamber of Horrors!\u201d\n\nMassot philosophically shrugged his shoulders. It was only natural that a\nwoman should want to amuse herself. And when Hyacinthe had gone off,\npassing with perverse contempt beside the lovely girls who were selling\nlottery tickets, the journalist ventured to murmur: \u201cAll the same, it\nwould do that youngster good if a woman were to take him in hand.\u201d\n\nThen, again addressing Pierre, he resumed: \u201cWhy, here comes Duthil! What\ndid Sagnier mean this morning by saying that Duthil would sleep at Mazas\nto-night?\u201d\n\nIn a great hurry apparently, and all smiles, Duthil was cutting his way\nthrough the crowd in order to join Duvillard and Fons\u00e8gue, who still\nstood talking near the Baroness\u2019s stall. And he waved his hand to them in\na victorious way, to imply that he had succeeded in the delicate mission\nentrusted to him. This was nothing less than a bold man\u0153uvre to hasten\nSilviane\u2019s admission to the Com\u00e9die Fran\u00e7aise. The idea had occurred to\nher of making the Baron give a dinner at the Cafe Anglais in order that\nshe might meet at it an influential critic, who, according to her\nstatements, would compel the authorities to throw the doors wide open for\nher as soon as he should know her. However, it did not seem easy to\nsecure the critic\u2019s presence, as he was noted for his sternness and\ngrumbling disposition. And, indeed, after a first repulse, Duthil had for\nthree days past been obliged to exert all his powers of diplomacy, and\nbring even the remotest influence into play. But he was radiant now, for\nhe had conquered.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s for this evening, my dear Baron, at half-past seven,\u201d he exclaimed.\n\u201cAh! dash it all, I\u2019ve had more trouble than I should have had to secure\na concession vote!\u201d Then he laughed with the pretty impudence of a man of\npleasure, whom political conscientiousness did not trouble. And, indeed,\nhis allusion to the fresh denunciations of the \u201cVoix du Peuple\u201d hugely\namused him.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t jest,\u201d muttered Fons\u00e8gue, who for his part wished to amuse himself\nby frightening the young deputy. \u201cThings are going very badly!\u201d\n\nDuthil turned pale, and a vision of the police and Mazas rose before his\neyes. In this wise sheer funk came over him from time to time. However,\nwith his lack of all moral sense, he soon felt reassured and began to\nlaugh. \u201cBah!\u201d he retorted gaily, winking towards Duvillard, \u201cthe\ngovernor\u2019s there to pilot the barque!\u201d\n\nThe Baron, who was extremely pleased, had pressed his hands, thanked him,\nand called him an obliging fellow. And now turning towards Fons\u00e8gue, he\nexclaimed: \u201cI say, you must make one of us this evening. Oh! it\u2019s\nnecessary. I want something imposing round Silviane. Duthil will\nrepresent the Chamber, you journalism, and I finance--\u201d But he suddenly\npaused on seeing G\u00e9rard, who, with a somewhat grave expression, was\nleisurely picking his way through the sea of skirts. \u201cG\u00e9rard, my friend,\u201d\n said the Baron, after beckoning to him, \u201cI want you to do me a service.\u201d\n And forthwith he told him what was in question; how the influential\ncritic had been prevailed upon to attend a dinner which would decide\nSilviane\u2019s future; and how it was the duty of all her friends to rally\nround her.\n\n\u201cBut I can\u2019t,\u201d the young man answered in embarrassment. \u201cI have to dine\nat home with my mother, who was rather poorly this morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! a sensible woman like your mother will readily understand that there\nare matters of exceptional importance. Go home and excuse yourself. Tell\nher some story, tell her that a friend\u2019s happiness is in question.\u201d And\nas G\u00e9rard began to weaken, Duvillard added: \u201cThe fact is, that I really\nwant you, my dear fellow; I must have a society man. Society, you know,\nis a great force in theatrical matters; and if Silviane has society with\nher, her triumph is certain.\u201d\n\nG\u00e9rard promised, and then chatted for a moment with his uncle, General de\nBozonnet, who was quite enlivened by that throng of women, among whom he\nhad been carried hither and thither like an old rudderless ship. After\nacknowledging the amiability with which Madame Fons\u00e8gue had listened to\nhis stories, by purchasing an autograph of Monseigneur Martha from her\nfor a hundred francs, he had quite lost himself amid the bevy of girls\nwho had passed him on, one to another. And now, on his return from them,\nhe had his hands full of lottery tickets: \u201cAh! my fine fellow,\u201d said he,\n\u201cI don\u2019t advise you to venture among all those young persons. You would\nhave to part with your last copper. But, just look! there\u2019s Mademoiselle\nCamille beckoning to you!\u201d\n\nCamille, indeed, from the moment she had perceived G\u00e9rard, had been\nsmiling at him and awaiting his approach. And when their glances met he\nwas obliged to go to her, although, at the same moment, he felt that\nEve\u2019s despairing and entreating eyes were fixed upon him. The girl, who\nfully realised that her mother was watching her, at once made a marked\ndisplay of amiability, profiting by the license which charitable fervour\nauthorised, to slip a variety of little articles into the young man\u2019s\npockets, and then place others in his hands, which she pressed within her\nown, showing the while all the sparkle of youth, indulging in fresh,\nmerry laughter, which fairly tortured her rival.\n\nSo extreme was Eve\u2019s suffering, that she wished to intervene and part\nthem. But it so chanced that Pierre barred her way, for he wished to\nsubmit an idea to her before leaving the bazaar. \u201cMadame,\u201d said he,\n\u201csince that man Laveuve is dead, and you have taken so much trouble with\nregard to the bed which you now have vacant, will you be so good as to\nkeep it vacant until I have seen our venerable friend, Abb\u00e9 Rose? I am to\nsee him this evening, and he knows so many cases of want, and would be so\nglad to relieve one of them, and bring you some poor _prot\u00e9g\u00e9_ of his.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, certainly,\u201d stammered the Baroness, \u201cI shall be very happy,--I will\nwait a little, as you desire,--of course, of course, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d\n\nShe was trembling all over; she no longer knew what she was saying; and,\nunable to conquer her passion, she turned aside from the priest, unaware\neven that he was still there, when G\u00e9rard, yielding to the dolorous\nentreaty of her eyes, at last managed to escape from Camille and join\nher.\n\n\u201cWhat a stranger you are becoming, my friend!\u201d she said aloud, with a\nforced smile. \u201cOne never sees you now.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, I have been poorly,\u201d he replied, in his amiable way. \u201cYes, I assure\nyou I have been ailing a little.\u201d\n\nHe, ailing! She looked at him with maternal anxiety, quite upset. And,\nindeed, however proud and lofty his figure, his handsome regular face did\nseem to her paler than usual. It was as if the nobility of the fa\u00e7ade\nhad, in some degree, ceased to hide the irreparable dilapidation within.\nAnd given his real good nature, it must be true that he\nsuffered--suffered by reason of his useless, wasted life, by reason of\nall the money he cost his impoverished mother, and of the needs that were\nat last driving him to marry that wealthy deformed girl, whom at first he\nhad simply pitied. And so weak did he seem to Eve, so like a piece of\nwreckage tossed hither and thither by a tempest, that, at the risk of\nbeing overheard by the throng, she let her heart flow forth in a low but\nardent, entreating murmur: \u201cIf you suffer, ah! what sufferings are\nmine!--G\u00e9rard, we must see one another, I will have it so.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I beg you, let us wait,\u201d he stammered in embarrassment.\n\n\u201cIt must be, G\u00e9rard; Camille has told me your plans. You cannot refuse to\nsee me. I insist on it.\u201d\n\nHe made yet another attempt to escape the cruel explanation. \u201cBut it\u2019s\nimpossible at the usual place,\u201d he answered, quivering. \u201cThe address is\nknown.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen to-morrow, at four o\u2019clock, at that little restaurant in the Bois\nwhere we have met before.\u201d\n\nHe had to promise, and they parted. Camille had just turned her head and\nwas looking at them. Moreover, quite a number of women had besieged the\nstall; and the Baroness began to attend to them with the air of a ripe\nand nonchalant goddess, while G\u00e9rard rejoined Duvillard, Fons\u00e8gue and\nDuthil, who were quite excited at the prospect of their dinner that\nevening.\n\nPierre had heard a part of the conversation between G\u00e9rard and the\nBaroness. He knew what skeletons the house concealed, what physiological\nand moral torture and wretchedness lay beneath all the dazzling wealth\nand power. There was here an envenomed, bleeding sore, ever spreading, a\ncancer eating into father, mother, daughter and son, who one and all had\nthrown social bonds aside. However, the priest made his way out of the\n_salons_, half stifling amidst the throng of lady-purchasers who were\nmaking quite a triumph of the bazaar. And yonder, in the depths of the\ngloom, he could picture Salvat still running and running on; while the\ncorpse of Laveuve seemed to him like a buffet of atrocious irony dealt to\nnoisy and delusive charity.\n\n\n\n\nII. SPIRIT AND FLESH\n\nHow delightful was the quietude of the little ground-floor overlooking a\nstrip of garden in the Rue Cortot, where good Abb\u00e9 Rose resided!\nHereabouts there was not even a rumble of wheels, or an echo of the\npanting breath of Paris, which one heard on the other side of the height\nof Montmartre. The deep silence and sleepy peacefulness were suggestive\nof some distant provincial town.\n\nSeven o\u2019clock had struck, the dusk had gathered slowly, and Pierre was in\nthe humble dining-room, waiting for the _femme-de-m\u00e9nage_ to place the\nsoup upon the table. Abb\u00e9 Rose, anxious at having seen so little of him\nfor a month past, had written, asking him to come to dinner, in order\nthat they might have a quiet chat concerning their affairs. From time to\ntime Pierre still gave his friend money for charitable purposes; in fact,\never since the days of the asylum in the Rue de Charonne, they had had\naccounts together, which they periodically liquidated. So that evening\nafter dinner they were to talk of it all, and see if they could not do\neven more than they had hitherto done. The good old priest was quite\nradiant at the thought of the peaceful evening which he was about to\nspend in attending to the affairs of his beloved poor; for therein lay\nhis only amusement, the sole pleasure to which he persistently and\npassionately returned, in spite of all the worries that his inconsiderate\ncharity had already so often brought him.\n\nGlad to be able to procure his friend this pleasure, Pierre, on his side,\ngrew calmer, and found relief and momentary repose in sharing the other\u2019s\nsimple repast and yielding to all the kindliness around him, far from his\nusual worries. He remembered the vacant bed at the Asylum, which Baroness\nDuvillard had promised to keep in reserve until he should have asked Abb\u00e9\nRose if he knew of any case of destitution particularly worthy of\ninterest; and so before sitting down to table he spoke of the matter.\n\n\u201cDestitution worthy of interest!\u201d replied Abb\u00e9 Rose, \u201cah! my dear child,\nevery case is worthy of interest. And when it\u2019s a question of old toilers\nwithout work the only trouble is that of selection, the anguish of\nchoosing one and leaving so many others in distress.\u201d Nevertheless,\npainful though his scruples were, he strove to think and come to some\ndecision. \u201cI know the case which will suit you,\u201d he said at last. \u201cIt\u2019s\ncertainly one of the greatest suffering and wretchedness; and, so humble\na one, too--an old carpenter of seventy-five, who has been living on\npublic charity during the eight or ten years that he has been unable to\nfind work. I don\u2019t know his name, everybody calls him \u2018the big Old\u2019un.\u2019\nThere are times when he does not come to my Saturday distributions for\nweeks together. We shall have to look for him at once. I think that he\nsleeps at the Night Refuge in the Rue d\u2019Orsel when lack of room there\ndoesn\u2019t force him to spend the night crouching behind some palings. Shall\nwe go down the Rue d\u2019Orsel this evening?\u201d\n\nAbb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s eyes beamed brightly as he spoke, for this proposal of his\nsignified a great debauch, the tasting of forbidden fruit. He had been\nreproached so often and so roughly with his visits to those who had\nfallen to the deepest want and misery, that in spite of his overflowing,\napostolic compassion, he now scarcely dared to go near them. However, he\ncontinued: \u201cIs it agreed, my child? Only this once? Besides, it is our\nonly means of finding the big Old\u2019un. You won\u2019t have to stop with me\nlater than eleven. And I should so like to show you all that! You will\nsee what terrible sufferings there are! And perhaps we may be fortunate\nenough to relieve some poor creature or other.\u201d\n\nPierre smiled at the juvenile ardour displayed by this old man with snowy\nhair. \u201cIt\u2019s agreed, my dear Abb\u00e9,\u201d he responded, \u201cI shall be very pleased\nto spend my whole evening with you, for I feel it will do me good to\nfollow you once more on one of those rambles which used to fill our\nhearts with grief and joy.\u201d\n\nAt this moment the servant brought in the soup; however, just as the two\npriests were taking their seats a discreet ring was heard, and when Abb\u00e9\nRose learnt that the visitor was a neighbour, Madame Mathis, who had come\nfor an answer, he gave orders that she should be shown in.\n\n\u201cThis poor woman,\u201d he explained to Pierre, \u201cneeded an advance of ten\nfrancs to get a mattress out of pawn; and I didn\u2019t have the money by me\nat the time. But I\u2019ve since procured it. She lives in the house, you\nknow, in silent poverty, on so small an income that it hardly keeps her\nin bread.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut hasn\u2019t she a big son of twenty?\u201d asked Pierre, suddenly remembering\nthe young man he had seen at Salvat\u2019s.\n\n\u201cYes, yes. Her parents, I believe, were rich people in the provinces.\nI\u2019ve been told that she married a music master, who gave her lessons, at\nNantes; and who ran away with her and brought her to Paris, where he\ndied. It was quite a doleful love-story. By selling the furniture and\nrealising every little thing she possessed, she scraped together an\nincome of about two thousand francs a year, with which she was able to\nsend her son to college and live decently herself. But a fresh blow fell\non her: she lost the greater part of her little fortune, which was\ninvested in doubtful securities. So now her income amounts at the utmost\nto eight hundred francs; two hundred of which she has to expend in rent.\nFor all her other wants she has to be content with fifty francs a month.\nAbout eighteen months ago her son left her so as not to be a burden on\nher, and he is trying to earn his living somewhere, but without success,\nI believe.\u201d\n\nMadame Mathis, a short, dark woman, with a sad, gentle, retiring face,\ncame in. Invariably clad in the same black gown, she showed all the\nanxious timidity of a poor creature whom the storms of life perpetually\nassailed. When Abb\u00e9 Rose had handed her the ten francs discreetly wrapped\nin paper, she blushed and thanked him, promising to pay him back as soon\nas she received her month\u2019s money, for she was not a beggar and did not\nwish to encroach on the share of those who starved.\n\n\u201cAnd your son, Victor, has he found any employment?\u201d asked the old\npriest.\n\nShe hesitated, ignorant as she was of what her son might be doing, for\nnow she did not see him for weeks together. And finally, she contented\nherself with answering: \u201cHe has a good heart, he is very fond of me. It\nis a great misfortune that we should have been ruined before he could\nenter the \u00c9cole Normale. It was impossible for him to prepare for the\nexamination. But at the Lyc\u00e9e he was such a diligent and intelligent\npupil!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou lost your husband when your son was ten years old, did you not?\u201d\n said Abb\u00e9 Rose.\n\nAt this she blushed again, thinking that her husband\u2019s story was known to\nthe two priests. \u201cYes, my poor husband never had any luck,\u201d she said.\n\u201cHis difficulties embittered and excited his mind, and he died in prison.\nHe was sent there through a disturbance at a public meeting, when he had\nthe misfortune to wound a police officer. He had also fought at the time\nof the Commune. And yet he was a very gentle man and extremely fond of\nme.\u201d\n\nTears had risen to her eyes; and Abb\u00e9 Rose, much touched, dismissed her:\n\u201cWell, let us hope that your son will give you satisfaction, and be able\nto repay you for all you have done for him.\u201d\n\nWith a gesture of infinite sorrow, Madame Mathis discreetly withdrew. She\nwas quite ignorant of her son\u2019s doings, but fate had pursued her so\nrelentlessly that she ever trembled.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t think that the poor woman has much to expect from her son,\u201d said\nPierre, when she had gone. \u201cI only saw him once, but the gleam in his\neyes was as harsh and trenchant as that of a knife.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you think so?\u201d the old priest exclaimed, with his kindly _na\u00efvet\u00e9_.\n\u201cWell, he seemed to me very polite, perhaps a trifle eager to enjoy life;\nbut then, all the young folks are impatient nowadays. Come, let us sit\ndown to table, for the soup will be cold.\u201d\n\nAlmost at the same hour, on the other side of Paris, night had in like\nfashion slowly fallen in the drawing-room of the Countess de Quinsac, on\nthe dismal, silent ground-floor of an old mansion in the Rue St.\nDominique. The Countess was there, alone with her faithful friend, the\nMarquis de Morigny, she on one side, and he on the other side of the\nchimney-piece, where the last embers of the wood fire were dying out. The\nservant had not yet brought the lamp, and the Countess refrained from\nringing, finding some relief from her anxiety in the falling darkness,\nwhich hid from view all the unconfessed thoughts that she was afraid of\nshowing on her weary face. And it was only now, before that dim hearth,\nand in that black room, where never a sound of wheels disturbed the\nsilence of the slumberous past, that she dared to speak.\n\n\u201cYes, my friend,\u201d she said, \u201cI am not satisfied with G\u00e9rard\u2019s health. You\nwill see him yourself, for he promised to come home early and dine with\nme. Oh! I\u2019m well aware that he looks big and strong; but to know him\nproperly one must have nursed and watched him as I have done! What\ntrouble I had to rear him! In reality he is at the mercy of any petty\nailment. His slightest complaint becomes serious illness. And the life he\nleads does not conduce to good health.\u201d\n\nShe paused and sighed, hesitating to carry her confession further.\n\n\u201cHe leads the life he can,\u201d slowly responded the Marquis de Morigny, of\nwhose delicate profile, and lofty yet loving bearing, little could be\nseen in the gloom. \u201cAs he was unable to endure military life, and as even\nthe fatigues of diplomacy frighten you, what would you have him do? He\ncan only live apart pending the final collapse, while this abominable\nRepublic is dragging France to the grave.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt, my friend. And yet it is just that idle life which frightens\nme. He is losing in it all that was good and healthy in him. I don\u2019t\nrefer merely to the _liaisons_ which we have had to tolerate. The last\none, which I found so much difficulty in countenancing at the outset, so\ncontrary did it seem to all my ideas and beliefs, has since seemed to me\nto exercise almost a good influence. Only he is now entering his\nthirty-sixth year, and can he continue living in this fashion without\nobject or duties? If he is ailing it is perhaps precisely because he does\nnothing, holds no position, and serves no purpose.\u201d Her voice again\nquavered. \u201cAnd then, my friend, since you force me to tell you\neverything, I must own that I am not in good health myself. I have had\nseveral fainting fits of late, and have consulted a doctor. The truth is,\nthat I may go off at any moment.\u201d\n\nWith a quiver, Morigny leant forward in the still deepening gloom, and\nwished to take hold of her hands. \u201cYou! what, am I to lose you, my last\naffection!\u201d he faltered, \u201cI who have seen the old world I belong to\ncrumble away, I who only live in the hope that you at all events will\nstill be here to close my eyes!\u201d\n\nBut she begged him not to increase her grief: \u201cNo, no, don\u2019t take my\nhands, don\u2019t kiss them! Remain there in the shade, where I can scarcely\nsee you.... We have loved one another so long without aught to cause\nshame or regret; and that will prove our strength--our divine\nstrength--till we reach the grave.... And if you were to touch me, if\nI were to feel you too near me I could not finish, for I have not done so\nyet.\u201d\n\nAs soon as he had relapsed into silence and immobility, she continued:\n\u201cIf I were to die to-morrow, G\u00e9rard would not even find here the little\nfortune which he still fancies is in my hands. The dear child has often\ncost me large sums of money without apparently being conscious of it. I\nought to have been more severe, more prudent. But what would you have?\nRuin is at hand. I have always been too weak a mother. And do you now\nunderstand in what anguish I live? I ever have the thought that if I die\nG\u00e9rard will not even possess enough to live on, for he is incapable of\neffecting the miracle which I renew each day, in order to keep the house\nup on a decent footing.... Ah! I know him, so supine, so sickly, in\nspite of his proud bearing, unable to do anything, even conduct himself.\nAnd so what will become of him; will he not fall into the most dire\ndistress?\u201d\n\nThen her tears flowed freely, her heart opened and bled, for she foresaw\nwhat must happen after her death: the collapse of her race and of a whole\nworld in the person of that big child. And the Marquis, still motionless\nbut distracted, feeling that he had no title to offer his own fortune,\nsuddenly understood her, foresaw in what disgrace this fresh disaster\nwould culminate.\n\n\u201cAh! my poor friend!\u201d he said at last in a voice trembling with revolt\nand grief. \u201cSo you have agreed to that marriage--yes, that abominable\nmarriage with that woman\u2019s daughter! Yet you swore it should never be!\nYou would rather witness the collapse of everything, you said. And now\nyou are consenting, I can feel it!\u201d\n\nShe still wept on in that black, silent drawing-room before the\nchimney-piece where the fire had died out. Did not G\u00e9rard\u2019s marriage to\nCamille mean a happy ending for herself, a certainty of leaving her son\nwealthy, loved, and seated at the banquet of life? However, a last\nfeeling of rebellion arose within her.\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cI don\u2019t consent, I swear to you that I don\u2019t\nconsent as yet. I am fighting with my whole strength, waging an incessant\nbattle, the torture of which you cannot imagine.\u201d\n\nThen, in all sincerity, she foresaw the likelihood of defeat. \u201cIf I\nshould some day give way, my friend, at all events believe that I feel,\nas fully as you do, how abominable such a marriage must be. It will be\nthe end of our race and our honour!\u201d\n\nThis cry profoundly stirred the Marquis, and he was unable to add a word.\nHaughty and uncompromising Catholic and Royalist that he was, he, on his\nside also, expected nothing but the supreme collapse. Yet how\nheartrending was the thought that this noble woman, so dearly and so\npurely loved, would prove one of the most mournful victims of the\ncatastrophe! And in the shrouding gloom he found courage to kneel before\nher, take her hand, and kiss it.\n\nJust as the servant was at last bringing a lighted lamp G\u00e9rard made his\nappearance. The past-century charm of the old Louis XVI. drawing-room,\nwith its pale woodwork, again became apparent in the soft light. In order\nthat his mother might not be over-saddened by his failure to dine with\nher that evening the young man had put on an air of brisk gaiety; and\nwhen he had explained that some friends were waiting for him, she at once\nreleased him from his promise, happy as she felt at seeing him so merry.\n\n\u201cGo, go, my dear boy,\u201d said she, \u201cbut mind you do not tire yourself too\nmuch.... I am going to keep Morigny; and the General and Larombi\u00e8re\nare coming at nine o\u2019clock. So be easy, I shall have someone with me to\nkeep me from fretting and feeling lonely.\u201d\n\nIn this wise G\u00e9rard after sitting down for a moment and chatting with the\nMarquis was able to slip away, dress, and betake himself to the Cafe\nAnglais.\n\nWhen he reached it women in fur cloaks were already climbing the stairs,\nfashionable and merry parties were filling the private rooms, the\nelectric lights shone brilliantly, and the walls were already vibrating\nwith the stir of pleasure and debauchery. In the room which Baron\nDuvillard had engaged the young man found an extraordinary display, the\nmost superb flowers, and a profusion of plate and crystal as for a royal\ngala. The pomp with which the six covers were laid called forth a smile;\nwhile the bill of fare and the wine list promised marvels, all the rarest\nand most expensive things that could be selected.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s stylish, isn\u2019t it?\u201d exclaimed Silviane, who was already there with\nDuvillard, Fons\u00e8gue and Duthil. \u201cI just wanted to make your influential\ncritic open his eyes a little! When one treats a journalist to such a\ndinner as this, he has got to be amiable, hasn\u2019t he?\u201d\n\nIn her desire to conquer, it had occurred to the young woman to array\nherself in the most amazing fashion. Her gown of yellow satin, covered\nwith old Alen\u00e7on lace, was cut low at the neck; and she had put on all\nher diamonds, a necklace, a diadem, shoulder-knots, bracelets and rings.\nWith her candid, girlish face, she looked like some Virgin in a missal, a\nQueen-Virgin, laden with the offerings of all Christendom.\n\n\u201cWell, well, you look so pretty,\u201d said G\u00e9rard, who sometimes jested with\nher, \u201cthat I think it will do all the same.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d she replied with equanimity. \u201cYou consider me a _bourgeoise_, I\nsee. Your opinion is that a simple little dinner and a modest gown would\nhave shown better taste. But ah! my dear fellow, you don\u2019t know the way\nto get round men!\u201d\n\nDuvillard signified his approval, for he was delighted to be able to show\nher in all her glory, adorned like an idol. Fons\u00e8gue, for his part,\ntalked of diamonds, saying that they were now doubtful investments, as\nthe day when they would become articles of current manufacture was fast\napproaching, thanks to the electrical furnace and other inventions.\nMeantime Duthil, with an air of ecstasy and the dainty gestures of a\nlady\u2019s maid, hovered around the young woman, either smoothing a\nrebellious bow or arranging some fold of her lace.\n\n\u201cBut I say,\u201d resumed Silviane, \u201cyour critic seems to be an ill-bred man,\nfor he\u2019s keeping us waiting.\u201d\n\nIndeed, the critic arrived a quarter of an hour late, and while\napologising, he expressed his regret that he should be obliged to leave\nat half-past nine, for he was absolutely compelled to put in an\nappearance at a little theatre in the Rue Pigalle. He was a big fellow of\nfifty with broad shoulders and a full, bearded face. His most\ndisagreeable characteristic was the narrow dogmatic pedantry which he had\nacquired at the \u00c9cole Normale, and had never since been able to shake\noff. All his herculean efforts to be sceptical and frivolous, and the\ntwenty years he had spent in Paris mingling with every section of\nsociety, had failed to rid him of it. _Magister_ he was, and _magister_\nhe remained, even in his most strenuous flights of imagination and\naudacity. From the moment of his arrival he tried to show himself\nenraptured with Silviane. Naturally enough, he already knew her by sight,\nand had even criticised her on one occasion in five or six contemptuous\nlines. However, the sight of her there, in full beauty, clad like a\nqueen, and presented by four influential protectors, filled him with\nemotion; and he was struck with the idea that nothing would be more\nParisian and less pedantic than to assert she had some talent and give\nher his support.\n\nThey had seated themselves at table, and the repast proved a magnificent\none, the service ever prompt and assiduous, an attendant being allotted\nto each diner. While the flowers scattered their perfumes through the\nroom, and the plate and crystal glittered on the snowy cloth, an\nabundance of delicious and unexpected dishes were handed round--a\nsturgeon from Russia, prohibited game, truffles as big as eggs, and\nhothouse vegetables and fruit as full of flavour as if they had been\nnaturally matured. It was money flung out of window, simply for the\npleasure of wasting more than other people, and eating what they could\nnot procure. The influential critic, though he displayed the ease of a\nman accustomed to every sort of festivity, really felt astonished at it\nall, and became servile, promising his support, and pledging himself far\nmore than he really wished to. Moreover, he showed himself very gay,\nfound some witty remarks to repeat, and even some rather ribald jests.\nBut when the champagne appeared after the roast and the grand burgundies,\nhis over-excitement brought him back perforce to his real nature. The\nconversation had now turned on Corneille\u2019s \u201cPolyeucte\u201d and the part of\n\u201cPauline,\u201d in which Silviane wished to make her _d\u00e9but_ at the Com\u00e9die\nFran\u00e7aise. This extraordinary caprice, which had quite revolted the\ninfluential critic a week previously, now seemed to him simply a bold\nenterprise in which the young woman might even prove victorious if she\nconsented to listen to his advice. And, once started, he delivered quite\na lecture on the past, asserting that no actress had ever yet understood\nit properly, for at the outset Pauline was simply a well-meaning little\ncreature of the middle classes, and the beauty of her conversion at the\nfinish arose from the working of a miracle, a stroke of heavenly grace\nwhich endowed her with something divine. This was not the opinion of\nSilviane, who from the first lines regarded Pauline as the ideal heroine\nof some symbolical legend. However, as the critic talked on and on, she\nhad to feign approval; and he was delighted at finding her so beautiful\nand docile beneath his ferule. At last, as ten o\u2019clock was striking, he\nrose and tore out of the hot and reeking room in order to do his work.\n\n\u201cAh! my dears,\u201d cried Silviane, \u201che\u2019s a nice bore is that critic of\nyours! What a fool he is with his idea of Pauline being a little\n_bourgeoise_! I would have given him a fine dressing if it weren\u2019t for\nthe fact that I have some need of him. Ah! no, it\u2019s too idiotic! Pour me\nout a glass of champagne. I want something to set me right after all\nthat!\u201d\n\nThe _f\u00eate_ then took quite an intimate turn between the four men who\nremained and that bare-armed, bare-breasted girl, covered with diamonds;\nwhile from the neighbouring passages and rooms came bursts of laughter\nand sounds of kissing, all the stir and mirth of the debauchery now\nfilling the house. And beneath the windows torrents of vehicles and\npedestrians streamed along the Boulevards where reigned the wild fever of\npleasure and harlotry.\n\n\u201cNo, don\u2019t open it, or I shall catch cold!\u201d resumed Silviane, addressing\nFons\u00e8gue as he stepped towards the window. \u201cAre you so very warm, then?\nI\u2019m just comfortable.... But, Duvillard, my good fellow, please order\nsome more champagne. It\u2019s wonderful what a thirst your critic has given\nme!\u201d\n\nAmidst the blinding glare of the lamps and the perfume of the flowers and\nwines, one almost stifled in the room. And Silviane was seized with an\nirresistible desire for a spree, a desire to tipple and amuse herself in\nsome vulgar fashion, as in her bygone days. A few glasses of champagne\nbrought her to full pitch, and she showed the boldest and giddiest\ngaiety. The others, who had never before seen her so lively, began on\ntheir own side to feel amused. As Fons\u00e8gue was obliged to go to his\noffice she embraced him \u201clike a daughter,\u201d as she expressed it. However,\non remaining alone with the others she indulged in great freedom of\nspeech, which became more and more marked as her intoxication increased.\nAnd to the class of men with whom she consorted her great attraction, as\nshe was well aware, lay in the circumstance that with her virginal\ncountenance and her air of ideal purity was coupled the most monstrous\nperversity ever displayed by any shameless woman. Despite her innocent\nblue eyes and lily-like candour, she would give rein, particularly when\nshe was drunk, to the most diabolical of fancies.\n\nDuvillard let her drink on, but she guessed his thoughts, like she\nguessed those of the others, and simply smiled while concocting\nimpossible stories and descanting fantastically in the language of the\ngutter. And seeing her there in her dazzling gown fit for a queenly\nvirgin, and hearing her pour forth the vilest words, they thought her\nmost wonderfully droll. However, when she had drunk as much champagne as\nshe cared for and was half crazy, a novel idea suddenly occurred to her.\n\n\u201cI say, my children,\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cwe are surely not going to stop\nhere. It\u2019s so precious slow! You shall take me to the Chamber of\nHorrors--eh? just to finish the evening. I want to hear Legras sing \u2018La\nChemise,\u2019 that song which all Paris is running to hear him sing.\u201d\n\nBut Duvillard indignantly rebelled: \u201cOh! no,\u201d said he; \u201cmost certainly\nnot. It\u2019s a vile song and I\u2019ll never take you to such an abominable\nplace.\u201d\n\nBut she did not appear to hear him. She had already staggered to her feet\nand was arranging her hair before a looking-glass. \u201cI used to live at\nMontmartre,\u201d she said, \u201cand it\u2019ll amuse me to go back there. And,\nbesides, I want to know if this Legras is a Legras that I knew, oh! ever\nso long ago! Come, up you get, and let us be off!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, my dear girl,\u201d pleaded Duvillard, \u201cwe can\u2019t take you into that den\ndressed as you are! Just fancy your entering that place in a low-necked\ngown and covered with diamonds! Why everyone would jeer at us! Come,\nG\u00e9rard, just tell her to be a little reasonable.\u201d\n\nG\u00e9rard, equally offended by the idea of such a freak, was quite willing\nto intervene. But she closed his mouth with her gloved hand and repeated\nwith the gay obstinacy of intoxication: \u201cPooh, it will be all the more\namusing if they do jeer at us! Come, let us be off, let us be off,\nquick!\u201d\n\nThereupon Duthil, who had been listening with a smile and the air of a\nman of pleasure whom nothing astonishes or displeases, gallantly took her\npart. \u201cBut, my dear Baron, everybody goes to the Chamber of Horrors,\u201d\n said he. \u201cWhy, I myself have taken the noblest ladies there, and\nprecisely to hear that song of Legras, which is no worse than anything\nelse.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! you hear what Duthil says!\u201d cried Silviane. \u201cHe\u2019s a deputy, he is,\nand he wouldn\u2019t go there if he thought it would compromise his\nhonorability!\u201d\n\nThen, as Duvillard still struggled on in despair at the idea of\nexhibiting himself with her in such a scandalous place, she became all\nthe merrier: \u201cWell, my dear fellow, please yourself. I don\u2019t need you.\nYou and G\u00e9rard can go home if you like. But I\u2019m going to Montmartre with\nDuthil. You\u2019ll take charge of me, won\u2019t you, Duthil, eh?\u201d\n\nStill, the Baron was in no wise disposed to let the evening finish in\nthat fashion. The mere idea of it gave him a shock, and he had to resign\nhimself to the girl\u2019s stubborn caprice. The only consolation he could\nthink of was to secure G\u00e9rard\u2019s presence, for the young man, with some\nlingering sense of decorum, still obstinately refused to make one of the\nparty. So the Baron took his hands and detained him, repeating in urgent\ntones that he begged him to come as an essential mark of friendship. And\nat last the wife\u2019s lover and daughter\u2019s suitor had to give way to the man\nwho was the former\u2019s husband and the latter\u2019s father.\n\nSilviane was immensely amused by it all, and, indiscreetly thee-ing and\nthou-ing G\u00e9rard, suggested that he at least owed the Baron some little\ncompliance with his wishes.\n\nDuvillard pretended not to hear her. He was listening to Duthil, who told\nhim that there was a sort of box in a corner of the Chamber of Horrors,\nin which one could in some measure conceal oneself. And then, as\nSilviane\u2019s carriage--a large closed landau, whose coachman, a sturdy,\nhandsome fellow, sat waiting impassively on his box--was down below, they\nstarted off.\n\nThe Chamber of Horrors was installed in premises on the Boulevard de\nRochechouart, formerly occupied by a caf\u00e9 whose proprietor had become\nbankrupt.* It was a suffocating place, narrow, irregular, with all sorts\nof twists, turns, and secluded nooks, and a low and smoky ceiling. And\nnothing could have been more rudimentary than its decorations. The walls\nhad simply been placarded with posters of violent hues, some of the\ncrudest character, showing the barest of female figures. Behind a piano\nat one end there was a little platform reached by a curtained doorway.\nFor the rest, one simply found a number of bare wooden forms set\nalongside the veriest pot-house tables, on which the glasses containing\nvarious beverages left round and sticky marks. There was no luxury, no\nartistic feature, no cleanliness even. Globeless gas burners flared\nfreely, heating a dense mist compounded of tobacco smoke and human\nbreath. Perspiring, apoplectical faces could be perceived through this\nveil, and an acrid odour increased the intoxication of the assembly,\nwhich excited itself with louder and louder shouts at each fresh song. It\nhad been sufficient for an enterprising fellow to set up these boards,\nbring out Legras, accompanied by two or three girls, make him sing his\nfrantic and abominable songs, and in two or three evenings overwhelming\nsuccess had come, all Paris being enticed and flocking to the place,\nwhich for ten years or so had failed to pay as a mere caf\u00e9, where by way\nof amusement petty cits had been simply allowed their daily games at\ndominoes.\n\n  * Those who know Paris will identify the site selected by M. Zola\n    as that where \u2018Colonel\u2019 Lisbonne of the Commune installed his\n    den the \u2018Bagne\u2019 some years ago. Nevertheless, such places as the\n    \u2018Chamber of Horrors\u2019 now abound in the neighbourhood of\n    Montmartre, and it must be admitted that whilst they are\n    frequented by certain classes of Frenchmen they owe much of\n    their success in a pecuniary sense to the patronage of\n    foreigners. Among the latter, Englishmen are particularly\n    conspicuous.--Trans.\n\nAnd the change had been caused by the passion for filth, the irresistible\nattraction exercised by all that brought opprobrium and disgust. The\nParis of enjoyment, the _bourgeoisie_ which held all wealth and power,\nwhich would relinquish naught of either, though it was surfeited and\ngradually wearying of both, simply hastened to the place in order that\nobscenity and insult might be flung in its face. Hypnotised, as it were,\nwhile staggering to its fall, it felt a need of being spat upon. And what\na frightful symptom there lay in it all: those condemned ones rushing\nupon dirt of their own accord, voluntarily hastening their own\ndecomposition by that unquenchable thirst for the vile, which attracted\nmen, reputed to be grave and upright, and lovely women of the most\nperfect grace and luxury, to all the beastliness of that low den!\n\nAt one of the tables nearest the stage sat little Princess Rosemonde de\nHarn, with wild eyes and quivering nostrils, delighted as she felt at now\nbeing able to satisfy her curiosity regarding the depths of Paris life.\nYoung Hyacinthe had resigned himself to the task of bringing her, and,\ncorrectly buttoned up in his long frock-coat, he was indulgent enough to\nrefrain from any marked expression of boredom. At a neighbouring table\nthey had found a shadowy Spaniard of their acquaintance, a so-called\nBourse jobber, Bergaz, who had been introduced to the Princess by Janzen,\nand usually attended her entertainments. They virtually knew nothing\nabout him, not even if he really earned at the Bourse all the money which\nhe sometimes spent so lavishly, and which enabled him to dress with\naffected elegance. His slim, lofty figure was not without a certain air\nof distinction, but his red lips spoke of strong passions and his bright\neyes were those of a beast of prey. That evening he had two young fellows\nwith him, one Rossi, a short, swarthy Italian, who had come to Paris as a\npainter\u2019s model, and had soon glided into the lazy life of certain\ndisreputable callings, and the other, Sanfaute, a born Parisian\nblackguard, a pale, beardless, vicious and impudent stripling of La\nChapelle, whose long curly hair fell down upon either side of his bony\ncheeks.\n\n\u201cOh! pray now!\u201d feverishly said Rosemonde to Bergaz; \u201cas you seem to know\nall these horrid people, just show me some of the celebrities. Aren\u2019t\nthere some thieves and murderers among them?\u201d\n\nHe laughed shrilly, and in a bantering way replied: \u201cBut you know these\npeople well enough, madame. That pretty, pink, delicate-looking woman\nover yonder is an American lady, the wife of a consul, whom, I believe,\nyou receive at your house. That other on the right, that tall brunette\nwho shows such queenly dignity, is a Countess, whose carriage passes\nyours every day in the Bois. And the thin one yonder, whose eyes glitter\nlike those of a she-wolf, is the particular friend of a high official,\nwho is well known for his reputation of austerity.\u201d\n\nBut she stopped him, in vexation: \u201cI know, I know. But the others, those\nof the lower classes, those whom one comes to see.\u201d\n\nThen she went on asking questions, and seeking for terrifying and\nmysterious countenances. At last, two men seated in a corner ended by\nattracting her attention; one of them a very young fellow with a pale,\npinched face, and the other an ageless individual who, besides being\nbuttoned up to his neck in an old coat, had pulled his cap so low over\nhis eyes, that one saw little of his face beyond the beard which fringed\nit. Before these two stood a couple of mugs of beer, which they drank\nslowly and in silence.\n\n\u201cYou are making a great mistake, my dear,\u201d said Hyacinthe with a frank\nlaugh, \u201cif you are looking for brigands in disguise. That poor fellow\nwith the pale face, who surely doesn\u2019t have food to eat every day, was my\nschoolfellow at Condorcet!\u201d\n\nBergaz expressed his amazement. \u201cWhat! you knew Mathis at Condorcet!\nAfter all, though, you\u2019re right, he received a college education. Ah! and\nso you knew him. A very remarkable young man he is, though want is\nthrottling him. But, I say, the other one, his companion, you don\u2019t know\nhim?\u201d\n\nHyacinthe, after looking at the man with the cap-hidden face, was already\nshaking his head, when Bergaz suddenly gave him a nudge as a signal to\nkeep quiet, and by way of explanation he muttered: \u201cHush! Here\u2019s\nRaphanel. I\u2019ve been distrusting him for some time past. Whenever he\nappears anywhere, the police is not far off.\u201d\n\nRaphanel was another of the vague, mysterious Anarchists whom Janzen had\npresented to the Princess by way of satisfying her momentary passion for\nrevolutionism. This one, though he was a fat, gay, little man, with a\ndoll-like face and childish nose, which almost disappeared between his\npuffy cheeks, had the reputation of being a thorough desperado; and at\npublic meetings he certainly shouted for fire and murder with all his\nlungs. Still, although he had already been compromised in various\naffairs, he had invariably managed to save his own bacon, whilst his\ncompanions were kept under lock and key; and this they were now beginning\nto think somewhat singular.\n\nHe at once shook hands with the Princess in a jovial way, took a seat\nnear her without being invited, and forthwith denounced the dirty\n_bourgeoisie_ which came to wallow in places of ill fame. Rosemonde was\ndelighted, and encouraged him, but others near by began to get angry, and\nBergaz examined him with his piercing eyes, like a man of energy who\nacts, and lets others talk. Now and then, too, he exchanged quick glances\nof intelligence with his silent lieutenants, Sanfaute and Rossi, who\nplainly belonged to him, both body and soul. They were the ones who found\ntheir profit in Anarchy, practising it to its logical conclusions,\nwhether in crime or in vice.\n\nMeantime, pending the arrival of Legras with his \u201cFlowers of the\nPavement,\u201d two female vocalists had followed one another on the stage,\nthe first fat and the second thin, one chirruping some silly love songs\nwith an under-current of dirt, and the other shouting the coarsest of\nrefrains, in a most violent, fighting voice. She had just finished amidst\na storm of bravos, when the assembly, stirred to merriment and eager for\na laugh, suddenly exploded once more. Silviane was entering the little\nbox at one end of the hall. When she appeared erect in the full light,\nwith bare arms and shoulders, looking like a planet in her gown of yellow\nsatin and her blazing diamonds, there arose a formidable uproar, shouts,\njeers, hisses, laughing and growling, mingled with ferocious applause.\nAnd the scandal increased, and the vilest expressions flew about as soon\nas Duvillard, G\u00e9rard and Duthil also showed themselves, looking very\nserious and dignified with their white ties and spreading shirt fronts.\n\n\u201cWe told you so!\u201d muttered Duvillard, who was much annoyed with the\naffair, while G\u00e9rard tried to conceal himself in a dim corner.\n\nShe, however, smiling and enchanted, faced the public, accepting the\nstorm with the candid bearing of a foolish virgin, much as one inhales\nthe vivifying air of the open when it bears down upon one in a squall.\nAnd, indeed, she herself had sprung from the sphere before her, its\natmosphere was her native air.\n\n\u201cWell, what of it?\u201d she said replying to the Baron who wanted her to sit\ndown. \u201cThey are merry. It\u2019s very nice. Oh! I\u2019m really amusing myself!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, yes, it\u2019s very nice,\u201d declared Duthil, who in like fashion set\nhimself at his ease. \u201cSilviane is right, people naturally like a laugh\nnow and then!\u201d\n\nAmidst the uproar, which did not cease, little Princess Rosemonde rose\nenthusiastically to get a better view. \u201cWhy, it\u2019s your father who\u2019s with\nthat woman Silviane,\u201d she said to Hyacinthe. \u201cJust look at them! Well, he\ncertainly has plenty of bounce to show himself here with her!\u201d\n\nHyacinthe, however, refused to look. It didn\u2019t interest him, his father\nwas an idiot, only a child would lose his head over a girl in that\nfashion. And with his contempt for woman the young man became positively\ninsulting.\n\n\u201cYou try my nerves, my dear fellow,\u201d said Rosemonde as she sat down. \u201cYou\nare the child with your silly ideas about us. And as for your father, he\ndoes quite right to love that girl. I find her very pretty indeed, quite\nadorable!\u201d\n\nThen all at once the uproar ceased, those who had risen resumed their\nseats, and the only sound was that of the feverish throb which coursed\nthrough the assembly. Legras had just appeared on the platform. He was a\npale sturdy fellow with a round and carefully shaven face, stern eyes,\nand the powerful jaws of a man who compels the adoration of women by\nterrorising them. He was not deficient in talent, he sang true, and his\nringing voice was one of extraordinary penetration and pathetic power.\nAnd his _r\u00e9pertoire_, his \u201cFlowers of the Pavement,\u201d completed the\nexplanation of his success; for all the foulness and suffering of the\nlower spheres, the whole abominable sore of the social hell created by\nthe rich, shrieked aloud in these songs in words of filth and fire and\nblood.\n\nA prelude was played on the piano, and Legras standing there in his\nvelvet jacket sang \u201cLa Chemise,\u201d the horrible song which brought all\nParis to hear him. All the lust and vice that crowd the streets of the\ngreat city appeared with their filth and their poison; and amid the\npicture of Woman stripped, degraded, ill-treated, dragged through the\nmire and cast into a cesspool, there rang out the crime of the\n_bourgeoisie_. But the scorching insult of it all was less in the words\nthemselves than in the manner in which Legras cast them in the faces of\nthe rich, the happy, the beautiful ladies who came to listen to him.\nUnder the low ceiling, amidst the smoke from the pipes, in the blinding\nglare of the gas, he sent his lines flying through the assembly like\nexpectorations, projected by a whirlwind of furious contempt. And when he\nhad finished there came delirium; the beautiful ladies did not even think\nof wiping away the many affronts they had received, but applauded\nfrantically. The whole assembly stamped and shouted, and wallowed,\ndistracted, in its ignominy.\n\n\u201cBravo! bravo!\u201d the little Princess repeated in her shrill voice. \u201cIt\u2019s\nastonishing, astonishing, prodigious!\u201d\n\nAnd Silviane, whose intoxication seemed to have increased since she had\nbeen there, in the depths of that fiery furnace, made herself\nparticularly conspicuous by the manner in which she clapped her hands and\nshouted: \u201cIt\u2019s he, it\u2019s my Legras! I really must kiss him, he\u2019s pleased\nme so much!\u201d\n\nDuvillard, now fairly exasperated, wished to take her off by force. But\nshe clung to the hand-rest of the box, and shouted yet more loudly,\nthough without any show of temper. It became necessary to parley with\nher. Yes, she was willing to go off and let them drive her home; but,\nfirst of all, she must embrace Legras, who was an old friend of hers. \u201cGo\nand wait for me in the carriage!\u201d she said, \u201cI will be with you in a\nmoment.\u201d\n\nJust as the assembly was at last becoming calmer, Rosemonde perceived\nthat the box was emptying; and her own curiosity being satisfied, she\nthought of prevailing on Hyacinthe to see her home. He, who had listened\nto Legras in a languid way without even applauding, was now talking of\nNorway with Bergaz, who pretended that he had travelled in the North. Oh!\nthe fiords! oh! the ice-bound lakes! oh! the pure lily-white, chaste\ncoldness of the eternal winter! It was only amid such surroundings, said\nHyacinthe, that he could understand woman and love, like a kiss of the\nvery snow itself.\n\n\u201cShall we go off there to-morrow?\u201d exclaimed the Princess with her\nvivacious effrontery. \u201cI\u2019ll shut up my house and slip the key under the\ndoor.\u201d\n\nThen she added that she was jesting, of course. But Bergaz knew her to be\nquite capable of such a freak; and at the idea that she might shut up her\nlittle mansion and perhaps leave it unprotected he exchanged a quick\nglance with Sanfaute and Rossi, who still smiled in silence. Ah! what an\nopportunity for a fine stroke! What an opportunity to get back some of\nthe wealth of the community appropriated by the blackguard _bourgeoisie_!\n\nMeantime Raphanel, after applauding Legras, was looking all round the\nplace with his little grey, sharp eyes. And at last young Mathis and his\ncompanion, the ill-clad individual, of whose face only a scrap of beard\ncould be seen, attracted his attention. They had neither laughed nor\napplauded; they seemed to be simply a couple of tired fellows who were\nresting, and in whose opinion one is best hidden in the midst of a crowd.\n\nAll at once, though, Raphanel turned towards Bergaz: \u201cThat\u2019s surely\nlittle Mathis over yonder. But who\u2019s that with him?\u201d\n\nBergaz made an evasive gesture; he did not know. Still, he no longer took\nhis eyes from Raphanel. And he saw the other feign indifference at what\nfollowed, and finish his beer and take his leave, with the jesting remark\nthat he had an appointment with a lady at a neighbouring omnibus office.\nNo sooner had he gone than Bergaz rose, sprang over some of the forms and\njostled people in order to reach little Mathis, into whose ear he\nwhispered a few words. And the young man at once left his table, taking\nhis companion and pushing him outside through an occasional exit. It was\nall so rapidly accomplished that none of the general public paid\nattention to the flight.\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d said the Princess to Bergaz, when he had quietly resumed\nhis seat between Rossi and Sanfaute.\n\n\u201cOh! nothing, I merely wished to shake hands with Mathis as he was going\noff.\u201d\n\nThereupon Rosemonde announced that she meant to do the same.\nNevertheless, she lingered a moment longer and again spoke of Norway on\nperceiving that nothing could impassion Hyacinthe except the idea of the\neternal snow, the intense, purifying cold of the polar regions. In his\npoem on the \u201cEnd of Woman,\u201d a composition of some thirty lines, which he\nhoped he should never finish, he thought of introducing a forest of\nfrozen pines by way of final scene. Now the Princess had risen and was\ngaily reverting to her jest, declaring that she meant to take him home to\ndrink a cup of tea and arrange their trip to the Pole, when an\ninvoluntary exclamation fell from Bergaz, who, while listening, had kept\nhis eyes on the doorway.\n\n\u201cMond\u00e9sir! I was sure of it!\u201d\n\nThere had appeared at the entrance a short, sinewy, broad-backed little\nman, about whose round face, bumpy forehead, and snub nose there was\nconsiderable military roughness. One might have thought him a\nnon-commissioned officer in civilian attire. He gazed over the whole\nroom, and seemed at once dismayed and disappointed.\n\nBergaz, however, wishing to account for his exclamation, resumed in an\neasy way: \u201cAh! I said there was a smell of the police about the place!\nYou see that fellow--he\u2019s a detective, a very clever one, named Mond\u00e9sir,\nwho had some trouble when he was in the army. Just look at him, sniffing\nlike a dog that has lost scent! Well, well, my brave fellow, if you\u2019ve\nbeen told of any game you may look and look for it, the bird\u2019s flown\nalready!\u201d\n\nOnce outside, when Rosemonde had prevailed on Hyacinthe to see her home,\nthey hastened to get into the brougham, which was waiting for them, for\nnear at hand they perceived Silviane\u2019s landau, with the majestic coachman\nmotionless on his box, while Duvillard, G\u00e9rard, and Duthil still stood\nwaiting on the curbstone. They had been there for nearly twenty minutes\nalready, in the semi-darkness of that outer boulevard, where all the\nvices of the poor districts of Paris were on the prowl. They had been\njostled by drunkards; and shadowy women brushed against them as they went\nby whispering beneath the oaths and blows of bullies. And there were\ncouples seeking the darkness under the trees, and lingering on the\nbenches there; while all around were low taverns and dirty lodging-houses\nand places of ill-fame. All the human degradation which till break of day\nswarms in the black mud of this part of Paris, enveloped the three men,\ngiving them the horrors, and yet neither the Baron nor G\u00e9rard nor Duthil\nwas willing to go off. Each hoped that he would tire out the others, and\ntake Silviane home when she should at last appear.\n\nBut after a time the Baron grew impatient, and said to the coachman:\n\u201cJules, go and see why madame doesn\u2019t come.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the horses, Monsieur le Baron?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! they will be all right, we are here.\u201d\n\nA fine drizzle had begun to fall; and the wait went on again as if it\nwould never finish. But an unexpected meeting gave them momentary\noccupation. A shadowy form, something which seemed to be a thin,\nblack-skirted woman, brushed against them. And all of a sudden they were\nsurprised to find it was a priest.\n\n\u201cWhat, is it you, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Froment?\u201d exclaimed G\u00e9rard. \u201cAt this\ntime of night? And in this part of Paris?\u201d\n\nThereupon Pierre, without venturing either to express his own\nastonishment at finding them there themselves, or to ask them what they\nwere doing, explained that he had been belated through accompanying Abb\u00e9\nRose on a visit to a night refuge. Ah! to think of all the frightful want\nwhich at last drifted to those pestilential dormitories where the stench\nhad almost made him faint! To think of all the weariness and despair\nwhich there sank into the slumber of utter prostration, like that of\nbeasts falling to the ground to sleep off the abominations of life! No\nname could be given to the promiscuity; poverty and suffering were there\nin heaps, children and men, young and old, beggars in sordid rags, beside\nthe shameful poor in threadbare frock-coats, all the waifs and strays of\nthe daily shipwrecks of Paris life, all the laziness and vice, and\nill-luck and injustice which the torrent rolls on, and throws off like\nscum. Some slept on, quite annihilated, with the faces of corpses.\nOthers, lying on their backs with mouths agape, snored loudly as if still\nventing the plaint of their sorry life. And others tossed restlessly,\nstill struggling in their slumber against fatigue and cold and hunger,\nwhich pursued them like nightmares of monstrous shape. And from all those\nhuman beings, stretched there like wounded after a battle, from all that\nambulance of life reeking with a stench of rottenness and death, there\nascended a nausea born of revolt, the vengeance-prompting thought of all\nthe happy chambers where, at that same hour, the wealthy loved or rested\nin fine linen and costly lace.*\n\n  * Even the oldest Paris night refuges, which are the outcome\n    of private philanthropy--L\u2019\u0152uvre de l\u2019Hospitalit\u00e9 de Nuit--\n    have only been in existence some fourteen or fifteen years.\n    Before that time, and from the period of the great Revolution\n    forward, there was absolutely no place, either refuge, asylum,\n    or workhouse, in the whole of that great city of wealth and\n    pleasure, where the houseless poor could crave a night\u2019s\n    shelter. The various royalist, imperialist and republican\n    governments and municipalities of modern France have often\n    been described as \u2018paternal,\u2019 but no governments and\n    municipalities in the whole civilised world have done less for\n    the very poor. The official Poor Relief Board--L\u2019Assistance\n    Publique--has for fifty years been a by-word, a mockery and a\n    sham, in spite of its large revenue. And this neglect of the\n    very poor has been an important factor in every French\n    revolution. Each of these--even that of 1870--had its purely\n    economic side, though many superficial historians are content\n    to ascribe economic causes to the one Revolution of 1789, and\n    to pass them by in all other instances.--Trans.\n\nIn vain had Pierre and Abb\u00e9 Rose passed all the poor wretches in review\nwhile seeking the big Old\u2019un, the former carpenter, so as to rescue him\nfrom the cesspool of misery, and send him to the Asylum on the very\nmorrow. He had presented himself at the refuge that evening, but there\nwas no room left, for, horrible to say, even the shelter of that hell\ncould only be granted to early comers. And so he must now be leaning\nagainst a wall, or lying behind some palings. This had greatly distressed\npoor Abb\u00e9 Rose and Pierre, but it was impossible for them to search every\ndark, suspicious corner; and so the former had returned to the Rue\nCortot, while the latter was seeking a cab to convey him back to Neuilly.\n\nThe fine drizzling rain was still falling and becoming almost icy, when\nSilviane\u2019s coachman, Jules, at last reappeared and interrupted the\npriest, who was telling the Baron and the others how his visit to the\nrefuge still made him shudder.\n\n\u201cWell, Jules--and madame?\u201d asked Duvillard, quite anxious at seeing the\ncoachman return alone.\n\nImpassive and respectful, with no other sign of irony than a slight\ninvoluntary twist of the lips, Jules answered: \u201cMadame sends word that\nshe is not going home; and she places her carriage at the gentlemen\u2019s\ndisposal if they will allow me to drive them home.\u201d\n\nThis was the last straw, and the Baron flew into a passion. To have\nallowed her to drag him to that vile den, to have waited there hopefully\nso long, and to be treated in this fashion for the sake of a Legras! No,\nno, he, the Baron, had had enough of it, and she should pay dearly for\nher abominable conduct! Then he stopped a passing cab and pushed G\u00e9rard\ninside it saying, \u201cYou can set me down at my door.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut she\u2019s left us the carriage!\u201d shouted Duthil, who was already\nconsoled, and inwardly laughed at the termination of it all. \u201cCome here,\nthere\u2019s plenty of room for three. No? you prefer the cab? Well, just as\nyou like, you know.\u201d\n\nFor his part he gaily climbed into the landau and drove off lounging on\nthe cushions, while the Baron, in the jolting old cab, vented his rage\nwithout a word of interruption from G\u00e9rard, whose face was hidden by the\ndarkness. To think of it! that she, whom he had overwhelmed with gifts,\nwho had already cost him two millions of francs, should in this fashion\ninsult him, the master who could dispose both of fortunes and of men!\nWell, she had chosen to do it, and he was delivered! Then Duvillard drew\na long breath like a man released from the galleys.\n\nFor a moment Pierre watched the two vehicles go off; and then took his\nown way under the trees, so as to shelter himself from the rain until a\nvacant cab should pass. Full of distress and battling thoughts he had\nbegun to feel icy cold. The whole monstrous night of Paris, all the\ndebauchery and woe that sobbed around him made him shiver. Phantom-like\nwomen who, when young, had led lives of infamy in wealth, and who now,\nold and faded, led lives of infamy in poverty, were still and ever\nwandering past him in search of bread, when suddenly a shadowy form\ngrazed him, and a voice murmured in his ear: \u201cWarn your brother, the\npolice are on Salvat\u2019s track, he may be arrested at any moment.\u201d\n\nThe shadowy figure was already going its way, and as a gas ray fell upon\nit, Pierre thought that he recognised the pale, pinched face of Victor\nMathis. And at the same time, yonder in Abb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s peaceful dining-room,\nhe fancied he could again see the gentle face of Madame Mathis, so sad\nand so resigned, living on solely by the force of the last trembling hope\nwhich she had unhappily set in her son.\n\n\n\n\nIII. PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT\n\nALREADY at eight o\u2019clock on that holiday-making mid-Lent Thursday, when\nall the offices of the Home Department were empty, Monferrand, the\nMinister, sat alone in his private room. A single usher guarded his door,\nand in the first ante-chamber there were only a couple of messengers.\n\nThe Minister had experienced, on awaking, the most unpleasant of\nemotions. The \u201cVoix du Peuple,\u201d which on the previous day had revived the\nAfrican Railway scandal, by accusing Barroux of having pocketed 20,000\nfrancs, had that morning published its long-promised list of the\nbribe-taking senators and deputies. And at the head of this list\nMonferrand had found his own name set down against a sum of 80,000\nfrancs, while Fons\u00e8gue was credited with 50,000. Then a fifth of the\nlatter amount was said to have been Duthil\u2019s share, and Chaigneux had\ncontented himself with the beggarly sum of 3,000 francs--the lowest price\npaid for any one vote, the cost of each of the others ranging from 5 to\n20,000.\n\nIt must be said that there was no anger in Monferrand\u2019s emotion. Only he\nhad never thought that Sagnier would carry his passion for uproar and\nscandal so far as to publish this list--a page which was said to have\nbeen torn from a memorandum book belonging to Duvillard\u2019s agent, Hunter,\nand which was covered with incomprehensible hieroglyphics that ought to\nhave been discussed and explained, if, indeed, the real truth was to be\narrived at. Personally, Monferrand felt quite at ease, for he had written\nnothing, signed nothing, and knew that one could always extricate oneself\nfrom a mess by showing some audacity, and never confessing. Nevertheless,\nwhat a commotion it would all cause in the parliamentary duck-pond. He at\nonce realised the inevitable consequences, the ministry overthrown and\nswept away by this fresh whirlwind of denunciation and tittle-tattle.\nM\u00e8ge would renew his interpellation on the morrow, and Vignon and his\nfriends would at once lay siege to the posts they coveted. And he,\nMonferrand, could picture himself driven out of that ministerial sanctum\nwhere, for eight months past, he had been taking his ease, not with any\nfoolish vainglory, but with the pleasure of feeling that he was in his\nproper place as a born ruler, who believed he could tame and lead the\nmultitude.\n\nHaving thrown the newspapers aside with a disdainful gesture, he rose and\nstretched himself, growling the while like a plagued lion. And then he\nbegan to walk up and down the spacious room, which showed all the faded\nofficial luxury of mahogany furniture and green damask hangings. Stepping\nto and fro, with his hands behind his back, he no longer wore his usual\nfatherly, good-natured air. He appeared as he really was, a born\nwrestler, short, but broad shouldered, with sensual mouth, fleshy nose\nand stern eyes, that all proclaimed him to be unscrupulous, of iron will\nand fit for the greatest tasks. Still, in this case, in what direction\nlay his best course? Must he let himself be dragged down with Barroux?\nPerhaps his personal position was not absolutely compromised? And yet how\ncould he part company from the others, swim ashore, and save himself\nwhile they were being drowned? It was a grave problem, and with his\nfrantic desire to retain power, he made desperate endeavours to devise\nsome suitable man\u0153uvre.\n\nBut he could think of nothing, and began to swear at the virtuous fits of\nthat silly Republic, which, in his opinion, rendered all government\nimpossible. To think of such foolish fiddle-faddle stopping a man of his\nacumen and strength! How on earth can one govern men if one is denied the\nuse of money, that sovereign means of sway? And he laughed bitterly; for\nthe idea of an idyllic country where all great enterprises would be\ncarried out in an absolutely honest manner seemed to him the height of\nabsurdity.\n\nAt last, however, unable as he was to come to a determination, it\noccurred to him to confer with Baron Duvillard, whom he had long known,\nand whom he regretted not having seen sooner so as to urge him to\npurchase Sagnier\u2019s silence. At first he thought of sending the Baron a\nbrief note by a messenger; but he disliked committing anything to paper,\nfor the veriest scrap of writing may prove dangerous; so he preferred to\nemploy the telephone which had been installed for his private use near\nhis writing-table.\n\n\u201cIt is Baron Duvillard who is speaking to me?... Quite so. It\u2019s I, the\nMinister, Monsieur Monferrand. I shall be much obliged if you will come\nto see me at once.... Quite so, quite so, I will wait for you.\u201d\n\nThen again he walked to and fro and meditated. That fellow Duvillard was\nas clever a man as himself, and might be able to give him an idea. And he\nwas still laboriously trying to devise some scheme, when the usher\nentered saying that Monsieur Gascogne, the Chief of the Detective Police,\nparticularly wished to speak to him. Monferrand\u2019s first thought was that\nthe Prefecture of Police desired to know his views respecting the steps\nwhich ought to be taken to ensure public order that day; for two mid-Lent\nprocessions--one of the Washerwomen and the other of the Students--were\nto march through Paris, whose streets would certainly be crowded.\n\n\u201cShow Monsieur Gascogne in,\u201d he said.\n\nA tall, slim, dark man, looking like an artisan in his Sunday best, then\nstepped into the ministerial sanctum. Fully acquainted with the\nunder-currents of Paris life, this Chief of the Detective Force had a\ncold dispassionate nature and a clear and methodical mind.\nProfessionalism slightly spoilt him, however: he would have possessed\nmore intelligence if he had not credited himself with so much.\n\nHe began by apologising for his superior the Prefect, who would certainly\nhave called in person had he not been suffering from indisposition.\nHowever, it was perhaps best that he, Gascogne, should acquaint Monsieur\nle Ministre with the grave affair which brought him, for he knew every\ndetail of it. Then he revealed what the grave affair was.\n\n\u201cI believe, Monsieur le Ministre, that we at last hold the perpetrator of\nthe crime in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy.\u201d\n\nAt this, Monferrand, who had been listening impatiently, became quite\nimpassioned. The fruitless searches of the police, the attacks and the\njeers of the newspapers, were a source of daily worry to him. \u201cAh!--Well,\nso much the better for you Monsieur Gascogne,\u201d he replied with brutal\nfrankness. \u201cYou would have ended by losing your post. The man is\narrested?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot yet, Monsieur le Ministre; but he cannot escape, and it is merely an\naffair of a few hours.\u201d\n\nThen the Chief of the Detective Force told the whole story: how Detective\nMond\u00e9sir, on being warned by a secret agent that the Anarchist Salvat was\nin a tavern at Montmartre, had reached it just as the bird had flown;\nthen how chance had again set him in presence of Salvat at a hundred\npaces or so from the tavern, the rascal having foolishly loitered there\nto watch the establishment; and afterwards how Salvat had been stealthily\nshadowed in the hope that they might catch him in his hiding-place with\nhis accomplices. And, in this wise, he had been tracked to the\nPorte-Maillot, where, realising, no doubt, that he was pursued, he had\nsuddenly bolted into the Bois de Boulogne. It was there that he had been\nhiding since two o\u2019clock in the morning in the drizzle which had not\nceased to fall. They had waited for daylight in order to organise a\n_battue_ and hunt him down like some animal, whose weariness must\nnecessarily ensure capture. And so, from one moment to another, he would\nbe caught.\n\n\u201cI know the great interest you take in the arrest, Monsieur le Ministre,\u201d\n added Gascogne, \u201cand it occurred to me to ask your orders. Detective\nMond\u00e9sir is over there, directing the hunt. He regrets that he did not\napprehend the man on the Boulevard de Rochechouart; but, all the same,\nthe idea of following him was a capital one, and one can only reproach\nMond\u00e9sir with having forgotten the Bois de Boulogne in his calculations.\u201d\n\nSalvat arrested! That fellow Salvat whose name had filled the newspapers\nfor three weeks past. This was a most fortunate stroke which would be\ntalked of far and wide! In the depths of Monferrand\u2019s fixed eyes one\ncould divine a world of thoughts and a sudden determination to turn this\nincident which chance had brought him to his own personal advantage. In\nhis own mind a link was already forming between this arrest and that\nAfrican Railways interpellation which was likely to overthrow the\nministry on the morrow. The first outlines of a scheme already rose\nbefore him. Was it not his good star that had sent him what he had been\nseeking--a means of fishing himself out of the troubled waters of the\napproaching crisis?\n\n\u201cBut tell me, Monsieur Gascogne,\u201d said he, \u201care you quite sure that this\nman Salvat committed the crime?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! perfectly sure, Monsieur le Ministre. He\u2019ll confess everything in\nthe cab before he reaches the Prefecture.\u201d\n\nMonferrand again walked to and fro with a pensive air, and ideas came to\nhim as he spoke on in a slow, meditative fashion. \u201cMy orders! well, my\norders, they are, first, that you must act with the very greatest\nprudence. Yes, don\u2019t gather a mob of promenaders together. Try to arrange\nthings so that the arrest may pass unperceived--and if you secure a\nconfession keep it to yourself, don\u2019t communicate it to the newspapers.\nYes, I particularly recommend that point to you, don\u2019t take the\nnewspapers into your confidence at all--and finally, come and tell me\neverything, and observe secrecy, absolute secrecy, with everybody else.\u201d\n\nGascogne bowed and would have withdrawn, but Monferrand detained him to\nsay that not a day passed without his friend Monsieur Lehmann, the Public\nProsecutor, receiving letters from Anarchists who threatened to blow him\nup with his family; in such wise that, although he was by no means a\ncoward, he wished his house to be guarded by plain-clothes officers. A\nsimilar watch was already kept upon the house where investigating\nmagistrate Amadieu resided. And if the latter\u2019s life was precious, that\nof Public Prosecutor Lehmann was equally so, for he was one of those\npolitical magistrates, one of those shrewd talented Israelites, who make\ntheir way in very honest fashion by invariably taking the part of the\nGovernment in office.\n\nThen Gascogne in his turn remarked: \u201cThere is also the Barth\u00e8s affair,\nMonsieur le Ministre--we are still waiting. Are we to arrest Barth\u00e8s at\nthat little house at Neuilly?\u201d\n\nOne of those chances which sometimes come to the help of detectives and\nmake people think the latter to be men of genius had revealed to him the\ncircumstance that Barth\u00e8s had found a refuge with Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment.\nEver since the Anarchist terror had thrown Paris into dismay a warrant\nhad been out against the old man, not for any precise offence, but simply\nbecause he was a suspicious character and might, therefore, have had some\nintercourse with the Revolutionists. However, it had been repugnant to\nGascogne to arrest him at the house of a priest whom the whole district\nvenerated as a saint; and the Minister, whom he had consulted on the\npoint, had warmly approved of his reserve, since a member of the clergy\nwas in question, and had undertaken to settle the affair himself.\n\n\u201cNo, Monsieur Gascogne,\u201d he now replied, \u201cdon\u2019t move in the matter. You\nknow what my feelings are, that we ought to have the priests with us and\nnot against us--I have had a letter written to Abb\u00e9 Froment in order that\nhe may call here this morning, as I shall have no other visitors. I will\nspeak to him myself, and you may take it that the affair no longer\nconcerns you.\u201d\n\nThen he was about to dismiss him when the usher came back saying that the\nPresident of the Council was in the ante-room.*\n\n  * The title of President of the Council is given to the French\n    prime minister.--Trans.\n\n\u201cBarroux!--Ah! dash it, then, Monsieur Gascogne, you had better go out\nthis way. It is as well that nobody should meet you, as I wish you to\nkeep silent respecting Salvat\u2019s arrest. It\u2019s fully understood, is it not?\nI alone am to know everything; and you will communicate with me here\ndirect, by the telephone, if any serious incident should arise.\u201d\n\nThe Chief of the Detective Police had scarcely gone off, by way of an\nadjoining _salon_, when the usher reopened the door communicating with\nthe ante-room: \u201cMonsieur le President du Conseil.\u201d\n\nWith a nicely adjusted show of deference and cordiality, Monferrand\nstepped forward, his hands outstretched: \u201cAh! my dear President, why did\nyou put yourself out to come here? I would have called on you if I had\nknown that you wished to see me.\u201d\n\nBut with an impatient gesture Barroux brushed aside all question of\netiquette. \u201cNo, no! I was taking my usual stroll in the Champs Elys\u00e9es,\nand the worries of the situation impressed me so keenly that I preferred\nto come here at once. You yourself must realise that we can\u2019t put up with\nwhat is taking place. And pending to-morrow morning\u2019s council, when we\nshall have to arrange a plan of defence, I felt that there was good\nreason for us to talk things over.\u201d\n\nHe took an armchair, and Monferrand on his side rolled another forward so\nas to seat himself with his back to the light. Whilst Barroux, the elder\nof the pair by ten years, blanched and solemn, with a handsome face,\nsnowy whiskers, clean-shaven chin and upper-lip, retained all the dignity\nof power, the bearing of a Conventionnel of romantic views, who sought to\nmagnify the simple loyalty of a rather foolish but good-hearted\n_bourgeois_ nature into something great; the other, beneath his heavy\ncommon countenance and feigned frankness and simplicity, concealed\nunknown depths, the unfathomable soul of a shrewd enjoyer and despot who\nwas alike pitiless and unscrupulous in attaining his ends.\n\nFor a moment Barroux drew breath, for in reality he was greatly moved,\nhis blood rising to his head, and his heart beating with indignation and\nanger at the thought of all the vulgar insults which the \u201cVoix du Peuple\u201d\n had poured upon him again that morning. \u201cCome, my dear colleague,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cone must stop that scandalous campaign. Moreover, you can realise\nwhat awaits us at the Chamber to-morrow. Now that the famous list has\nbeen published we shall have every malcontent up in arms. Vignon is\nbestirring himself already--\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! you have news of Vignon?\u201d exclaimed Monferrand, becoming very\nattentive.\n\n\u201cWell, as I passed his door just now, I saw a string of cabs waiting\nthere. All his creatures have been on the move since yesterday, and at\nleast twenty persons have told me that the band is already dividing the\nspoils. For, as you must know, the fierce and ingenuous M\u00e8ge is again\ngoing to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for others. Briefly, we are\ndead, and the others claim that they are going to bury us in mud before\nthey fight over our leavings.\u201d With his arm outstretched Barroux made a\ntheatrical gesture, and his voice resounded as if he were in the tribune.\nNevertheless, his emotion was real, tears even were coming to his eyes.\n\u201cTo think that I who have given my whole life to the Republic, I who\nfounded it, who saved it, should be covered with insults in this fashion,\nand obliged to defend myself against abominable charges! To say that I\nabused my trust! That I sold myself and took 200,000 francs from that man\nHunter, simply to slip them into my pocket! Well, certainly there _was_ a\nquestion of 200,000 francs between us. But how and under what\ncircumstances? They were doubtless the same as in your case, with regard\nto the 80,000 francs that he is said to have handed you--\u201d\n\nBut Monferrand interrupted his colleague in a clear trenchant voice: \u201cHe\nnever handed me a centime.\u201d\n\nThe other looked at him in astonishment, but could only see his big,\nrough head, whose features were steeped in shadow: \u201cAh! But I thought you\nhad business relations with him, and knew him particularly well.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I simply knew Hunter as everyone knew him. I was not even aware that\nhe was Baron Duvillard\u2019s agent in the African Railways matter; and there\nwas never any question of that affair between us.\u201d\n\nThis was so improbable, so contrary to everything Barroux knew of the\nbusiness, that for a moment he felt quite scared. Then he waved his hand\nas if to say that others might as well look after their own affairs, and\nreverted to himself. \u201cOh! as for me,\u201d he said, \u201cHunter called on me more\nthan ten times, and made me quite sick with his talk of the African\nRailways. It was at the time when the Chamber was asked to authorise the\nissue of lottery stock.* And, by the way, my dear fellow, I was then here\nat the Home Department, while you had just taken that of Public Works. I\ncan remember sitting at that very writing-table, while Hunter was in the\nsame armchair that I now occupy. That day he wanted to consult me about\nthe employment of the large sum which Duvillard\u2019s house proposed to spend\nin advertising; and on seeing what big amounts were set down against the\nRoyalist journals, I became quite angry, for I realised with perfect\naccuracy that this money would simply be used to wage war against the\nRepublic. And so, yielding to Hunter\u2019s entreaties, I also drew up a list\nallotting 200,000 francs among the friendly Republican newspapers, which\nwere paid through me, I admit it. And that\u2019s the whole story.\u201d**\n\n  * This kind of stock is common enough in France. A part of it is\n    extinguished annually at a public \u201cdrawing,\u201d when all such\n    shares or bonds that are drawn become entitled to redemption\n    at \u201cpar,\u201d a percentage of them also securing prizes of various\n    amounts. City of Paris Bonds issued on this system are very\n    popular among French people with small savings; but, on the\n    other hand, many ventures, whose lottery stock has been\n    authorised by the Legislature, have come to grief and ruined\n    investors.--Trans.\n\n  ** All who are acquainted with recent French history will be\n    aware that Barroux\u2019 narrative is simply a passage from the\n    life of the late M. Floquet, slightly modified to suit the\n    requirements of M. Zola\u2019s story.--Trans.\n\nThen he sprang to his feet and struck his chest, whilst his voice again\nrose: \u201cWell, I\u2019ve had more than enough of all that calumny and falsehood!\nAnd I shall simply tell the Chamber my story to-morrow. It will be my\nonly defence. An honest man does not fear the truth!\u201d\n\nBut Monferrand, in his turn, had sprung up with a cry which was a\ncomplete confession of his principles: \u201cIt\u2019s ridiculous, one never\nconfesses; you surely won\u2019t do such a thing!\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall,\u201d retorted Barroux with superb obstinacy. \u201cAnd we shall see if\nthe Chamber won\u2019t absolve me by acclamation.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, you will fall beneath an explosion of hisses, and drag all of us\ndown with you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat does it matter? We shall fall with dignity, like honest men!\u201d\n\nMonferrand made a gesture of furious anger, and then suddenly became\ncalm. Amidst all the anxious confusion in which he had been struggling\nsince daybreak, a gleam now dawned upon him. The vague ideas suggested by\nSalvat\u2019s approaching arrest took shape, and expanded into an audacious\nscheme. Why should he prevent the fall of that big ninny Barroux? The\nonly thing of importance was that he, Monferrand, should not fall with\nhim, or at any rate that he should rise again. So he protested no\nfurther, but merely mumbled a few words, in which his rebellious feeling\nseemingly died out. And at last, putting on his good-natured air once\nmore, he said: \u201cWell, after all you are perhaps right. One must be brave.\nBesides, you are our head, my dear President, and we will follow you.\u201d\n\nThey had now again sat down face to face, and their conversation\ncontinued till they came to a cordial agreement respecting the course\nwhich the Government should adopt in view of the inevitable\ninterpellation on the morrow.\n\nMeantime, Baron Duvillard was on his way to the ministry. He had scarcely\nslept that night. When on the return from Montmartre G\u00e9rard had set him\ndown at his door in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy, he had at once gone to bed,\nlike a man who is determined to compel sleep, so that he may forget his\nworries and recover self-control. But slumber would not come; for hours\nand hours he vainly sought it. The manner in which he had been insulted\nby that creature Silviane was so monstrous! To think that she, whom he\nhad enriched, whose every desire he had contented, should have cast such\nmud at him, the master, who flattered himself that he held Paris and the\nRepublic in his hands, since he bought up and controlled consciences just\nas others might make corners in wool or leather for the purposes of\nBourse speculation. And the dim consciousness that Silviane was the\navenging sore, the cancer preying on him who preyed on others, completed\nhis exasperation. In vain did he try to drive away his haunting thoughts,\nremember his business affairs, his appointments for the morrow, his\nmillions which were working in every quarter of the world, the financial\nomnipotence which placed the fate of nations in his grasp. Ever, and in\nspite of all, Silviane rose up before him, splashing him with mud. In\ndespair he tried to fix his mind on a great enterprise which he had been\nplanning for months past, a Trans-Saharan railway, a colossal venture\nwhich would set millions of money at work, and revolutionise the trade of\nthe world. And yet Silviane appeared once more, and smacked him on both\ncheeks with her dainty little hand, which she had dipped in the gutter.\nIt was only towards daybreak that he at last dozed off, while vowing in a\nfury that he would never see her again, that he would spurn her, and\norder her away, even should she come and drag herself at his feet.\n\nHowever, when he awoke at seven, still tired and aching, his first\nthought was for her, and he almost yielded to a fit of weakness. The idea\ncame to him to ascertain if she had returned home, and if so make his\npeace. But he jumped out of bed, and after his ablutions he recovered all\nhis bravery. She was a wretch, and he this time thought himself for ever\ncured of his passion. To tell the truth, he forgot it as soon as he\nopened the morning newspapers. The publication of the list of\nbribe-takers in the \u201cVoix du Peuple\u201d quite upset him, for he had hitherto\nthought it unlikely that Sagnier held any such list. However, he judged\nthe document at a glance, at once separating the few truths it contained\nfrom a mass of foolishness and falsehood. And this time also he did not\nconsider himself personally in danger. There was only one thing that he\nreally feared: the arrest of his intermediary, Hunter, whose trial might\nhave drawn him into the affair. As matters stood, and as he did not cease\nto repeat with a calm and smiling air, he had merely done what every\nbanking-house does when it issues stock, that is, pay the press for\nadvertisements and puffery, employ brokers, and reward services\ndiscreetly rendered to the enterprise. It was all a business matter, and\nfor him that expression summed up everything. Moreover, he played the\ngame of life bravely, and spoke with indignant contempt of a banker who,\ndistracted and driven to extremities by blackmailing, had imagined that\nhe would bring a recent scandal to an end by killing himself: a pitiful\ntragedy, from all the mire and blood of which the scandal had sprouted\nafresh with the most luxuriant and indestructible vegetation. No, no!\nsuicide was not the course to follow: a man ought to remain erect, and\nstruggle on to his very last copper, and the very end of his energy.\n\nAt about nine o\u2019clock a ringing brought Duvillard to the telephone\ninstalled in his private room. And then his folly took possession of him\nonce more: it must be Silviane who wished to speak to him. She often\namused herself by thus disturbing him amidst his greatest cares. No doubt\nshe had just returned home, realising that she had carried things too far\non the previous evening and desiring to be forgiven. However, when he\nfound that the call was from Monferrand, who wished him to go to the\nministry, he shivered slightly, like a man saved from the abyss beside\nwhich he is travelling. And forthwith he called for his hat and stick,\ndesirous as he was of walking and reflecting in the open air. And again\nhe became absorbed in the intricacies of the scandalous business which\nwas about to stir all Paris and the legislature. Kill himself! ah, no,\nthat would be foolish and cowardly. A gust of terror might be sweeping\npast; nevertheless, for his part he felt quite firm, superior to events,\nand resolved to defend himself without relinquishing aught of his power.\n\nAs soon as he entered the ante-rooms of the ministry he realised that the\ngust of terror was becoming a tempest. The publication of the terrible\nlist in the \u201cVoix du Peuple\u201d had chilled the guilty ones to the heart;\nand, pale and distracted, feeling the ground give way beneath them, they\nhad come to take counsel of Monferrand, who, they hoped, might save them.\nThe first whom Duvillard perceived was Duthil, looking extremely\nfeverish, biting his moustaches, and constantly making grimaces in his\nefforts to force a smile. The banker scolded him for coming, saying that\nit was a great mistake to have done so, particularly with such a scared\nface. The deputy, however, his spirits already cheered by these rough\nwords, began to defend himself, declaring that he had not even read\nSagnier\u2019s article, and had simply come to recommend a lady friend to the\nMinister. Thereupon the Baron undertook this business for him and sent\nhim away with the wish that he might spend a merry mid-Lent. However, the\none who most roused Duvillard\u2019s pity was Chaigneux, whose figure swayed\nabout as if bent by the weight of his long equine head, and who looked so\nshabby and untidy that one might have taken him for an old pauper. On\nrecognising the banker he darted forward, and bowed to him with\nobsequious eagerness.\n\n\u201cAh! Monsieur le Baron,\u201d said he, \u201chow wicked some men must be! They are\nkilling me, I shall die of it all; and what will become of my wife, what\nwill become of my three daughters, who have none but me to help them?\u201d\n\nThe whole of his woeful story lay in that lament. A victim of politics,\nhe had been foolish enough to quit Arras and his business there as a\nsolicitor, in order to seek triumph in Paris with his wife and daughters,\nwhose menial he had then become--a menial dismayed by the constant\nrebuffs and failures which his mediocrity brought upon him. An honest\ndeputy! ah, good heavens! yes, he would have liked to be one; but was he\nnot perpetually \u201chard-up,\u201d ever in search of a hundred-franc note, and\nthus, perforce, a deputy for sale? And withal he led such a pitiable\nlife, so badgered by the women folk about him, that to satisfy their\ndemands he would have picked up money no matter where or how.\n\n\u201cJust fancy, Monsieur le Baron, I have at last found a husband for my\neldest girl. It is the first bit of luck that I have ever had; there will\nonly be three women left on my hands if it comes off. But you can imagine\nwhat a disastrous impression such an article as that of this morning must\ncreate in the young man\u2019s family. So I have come to see the Minister to\nbeg him to give my future son-in-law a prefectoral secretaryship. I have\nalready promised him the post, and if I can secure it things may yet be\narranged.\u201d\n\nHe looked so terribly shabby and spoke in such a doleful voice that it\noccurred to Duvillard to do one of those good actions on which he\nventured at times when they were likely to prove remunerative\ninvestments. It is, indeed, an excellent plan to give a crust of bread to\nsome poor devil whom one can turn, if necessary, into a valet or an\naccomplice. So the banker dismissed Chaigneux, undertaking to do his\nbusiness for him in the same way as he had undertaken to do Duthil\u2019s. And\nhe added that he would be pleased to see him on the morrow, and have a\nchat with him, as he might be able to help him in the matter of his\ndaughter\u2019s marriage.\n\nAt this Chaigneux, scenting a loan, collapsed into the most lavish\nthanks. \u201cAh! Monsieur le Baron, my life will not be long enough to enable\nme to repay such a debt of gratitude.\u201d\n\nAs Duvillard turned round he was surprised to see Abb\u00e9 Froment waiting in\na corner of the ante-room. Surely that one could not belong to the batch\nof _suspects_, although by the manner in which he was pretending to read\na newspaper it seemed as if he were trying to hide some keen anxiety. At\nlast the Baron stepped forward, shook hands, and spoke to him cordially.\nAnd Pierre thereupon related that he had received a letter requesting him\nto call on the Minister that day. Why, he could not tell; in fact, he was\ngreatly surprised, he said, putting on a smile in order to conceal his\ndisquietude. He had been waiting a long time already, and hoped that he\nwould not be forgotten on that bench.\n\nJust then the usher appeared, and hastened up to the banker. \u201cThe\nMinister,\u201d said he, \u201cwas at that moment engaged with the President of the\nCouncil; but he had orders to admit the Baron as soon as the President\nwithdrew.\u201d Almost immediately afterwards Barroux came out, and as\nDuvillard was about to enter he recognised and detained him. And he spoke\nof the denunciations very bitterly, like one indignant with all the\nslander. Would not he, Duvillard, should occasion require it, testify\nthat he, Barroux, had never taken a centime for himself? Then, forgetting\nthat he was speaking to a banker, and that he was Minister of Finances,\nhe proceeded to express all his disgust of money. Ah! what poisonous,\nmurky, and defiling waters were those in which money-making went on!\nHowever, he repeated that he would chastise his insulters, and that a\nstatement of the truth would suffice for the purpose.\n\nDuvillard listened and looked at him. And all at once the thought of\nSilviane came back, and took possession of the Baron, without any attempt\non his part to drive it away. He reflected that if Barroux had chosen to\ngive him a helping hand when he had asked for it, Silviane would now have\nbeen at the Com\u00e9die Fran\u00e7aise, in which case the deplorable affair of the\nprevious night would not have occurred; for he was beginning to regard\nhimself as guilty in the matter; if he had only contented Silviane\u2019s whim\nshe would never have dismissed him in so vile a fashion.\n\n\u201cYou know, I owe you a grudge,\u201d he said, interrupting Barroux.\n\nThe other looked at him in astonishment. \u201cAnd why, pray?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cWhy, because you never helped me in the matter of that friend of mine\nwho wishes to make her _d\u00e9but_ in \u2018Polyeucte.\u2019\u201d\n\nBarroux smiled, and with amiable condescension replied: \u201cAh! yes,\nSilviane d\u2019Aulnay! But, my dear sir, it was Taboureau who put spokes in\nthe wheel. The Fine Arts are his department, and the question was\nentirely one for him. And I could do nothing; for that very worthy and\nhonest gentleman, who came to us from a provincial faculty, was full of\nscruples. For my own part I\u2019m an old Parisian, I can understand anything,\nand I should have been delighted to please you.\u201d\n\nAt this fresh resistance offered to his passion Duvillard once more\nbecame excited, eager to obtain that which was denied him. \u201cTaboureau,\nTaboureau!\u201d said he, \u201che\u2019s a nice deadweight for you to load yourself\nwith! Honest! isn\u2019t everybody honest? Come, my dear Minister, there\u2019s\nstill time, get Silviane admitted, it will bring you good luck for\nto-morrow.\u201d\n\nThis time Barroux burst into a frank laugh: \u201cNo, no, I can\u2019t cast\nTaboureau adrift at this moment--people would make too much sport of\nit--a ministry wrecked or saved by a Silviane question!\u201d\n\nThen he offered his hand before going off. The Baron pressed it, and for\na moment retained it in his own, whilst saying very gravely and with a\nsomewhat pale face: \u201cYou do wrong to laugh, my dear Minister. Governments\nhave fallen or set themselves erect again through smaller matters than\nthat. And should you fall to-morrow I trust that you will never have\noccasion to regret it.\u201d\n\nWounded to the heart by the other\u2019s jesting air, exasperated by the idea\nthat there was something he could not achieve, Duvillard watched Barroux\nas he withdrew. Most certainly the Baron did not desire a reconciliation\nwith Silviane, but he vowed that he would overturn everything if\nnecessary in order to send her a signed engagement for the Com\u00e9die, and\nthis simply by way of vengeance, as a slap, so to say,--yes, a slap which\nwould make her tingle! That moment spent with Barroux had been a decisive\none.\n\nHowever, whilst still following Barroux with his eyes, Duvillard was\nsurprised to see Fons\u00e8gue arrive and man\u0153uvre in such a way as to escape\nthe Prime Minister\u2019s notice. He succeeded in doing so, and then entered\nthe ante-room with an appearance of dismay about the whole of his little\nfigure, which was, as a rule, so sprightly. It was the gust of terror,\nstill blowing, that had brought him thither.\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t you see your friend Barroux?\u201d the Baron asked him, somewhat\npuzzled.\n\n\u201cBarroux? No!\u201d\n\nThis quiet lie was equivalent to a confession of everything. Fons\u00e8gue was\nso intimate with Barroux that he thee\u2019d and thou\u2019d him, and for ten years\nhad been supporting him in his newspaper, having precisely the same\nviews, the same political religion. But with a smash-up threatening, he\ndoubtless realised, thanks to his wonderfully keen scent, that he must\nchange his friendships if he did not wish to remain under the ruins\nhimself. If he had, for long years, shown so much prudence and diplomatic\nvirtue in order to firmly establish the most dignified and respected of\nParisian newspapers, it was not for the purpose of letting that newspaper\nbe compromised by some foolish blunder on the part of an honest man.\n\n\u201cI thought you were on bad terms with Monferrand,\u201d resumed Duvillard.\n\u201cWhat have you come here for?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! my dear Baron, the director of a leading newspaper is never on bad\nterms with anybody. He\u2019s at the country\u2019s service.\u201d\n\nIn spite of his emotion, Duvillard could not help smiling. \u201cYou are\nright,\u201d he responded. \u201cBesides, Monferrand is really an able man, whom\none can support without fear.\u201d\n\nAt this Fons\u00e8gue began to wonder whether his anguish of mind was visible.\nHe, who usually played the game of life so well, with his own hand under\nthorough control, had been terrified by the article in the \u201cVoix du\nPeuple.\u201d For the first time in his career he had perpetrated a blunder,\nand felt that he was at the mercy of some denunciation, for with\nunpardonable imprudence he had written a very brief but compromising\nnote. He was not anxious concerning the 50,000 francs which Barroux had\nhanded him out of the 200,000 destined for the Republican press. But he\ntrembled lest another affair should be discovered, that of a sum of money\nwhich he had received as a present. It was only on feeling the Baron\u2019s\nkeen glance upon him that he was able to recover some self-possession.\nHow silly it was to lose the knack of lying and to confess things simply\nby one\u2019s demeanour!\n\nBut the usher drew near and repeated that the Minister was now waiting\nfor the Baron; and Fons\u00e8gue went to sit down beside Abb\u00e9 Froment, whom he\nalso was astonished to find there. Pierre repeated that he had received a\nletter, but had no notion what the Minister might wish to say to him. And\nthe quiver of his hands again revealed how feverishly impatient he was to\nknow what it might be. However, he could only wait, since Monferrand was\nstill busy discussing such grave affairs.\n\nOn seeing Duvillard enter, the Minister had stepped forward, offering his\nhand. However much the blast of terror might shake others, he had\nretained his calmness and good-natured smile. \u201cWhat an affair, eh, my\ndear Baron!\u201d he exclaimed.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s idiotic!\u201d plainly declared the other, with a shrug of his\nshoulders. Then he sat down in the armchair vacated by Barroux, while the\nMinister installed himself in front of him. These two were made to\nunderstand one another, and they indulged in the same despairing gestures\nand furious complaints, declaring that government, like business, would\nno longer be possible if men were required to show such virtue as they\ndid not possess. At all times, and under every _r\u00e9gime_, when a decision\nof the Chambers had been required in connection with some great\nenterprise, had not the natural and legitimate tactics been for one to do\nwhat might be needful to secure that decision? It was absolutely\nnecessary that one should obtain influential and sympathetic support, in\na word, make sure of votes. Well, everything had to be paid for, men like\nother things, some with fine words, others with favours or money,\npresents made in a more or less disguised manner. And even admitting\nthat, in the present cases, one had gone rather far in the purchasing,\nthat some of the bartering had been conducted in an imprudent way, was it\nwise to make such an uproar over it? Would not a strong government have\nbegun by stifling the scandal, from motives of patriotism, a mere sense\nof cleanliness even?\n\n\u201cWhy, of course! You are right, a thousand times right!\u201d exclaimed\nMonferrand. \u201cAh! if I were the master you would see what a fine\nfirst-class funeral I would give it all!\u201d Then, as Duvillard looked at\nhim fixedly, struck by these last words, he added with his expressive\nsmile: \u201cUnfortunately I\u2019m not the master, and it was to talk to you of\nthe situation that I ventured to disturb you. Barroux, who was here just\nnow, seemed to me in a regrettable frame of mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I saw him, he has such singular ideas at times--\u201d Then, breaking\noff, the Baron added: \u201cDo you know that Fons\u00e8gue is in the ante-room? As\nhe wishes to make his peace with you, why not send for him? He won\u2019t be\nin the way, in fact, he\u2019s a man of good counsel, and the support of his\nnewspaper often suffices to give one the victory.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, is Fons\u00e8gue there!\u201d cried Monferrand. \u201cWhy, I don\u2019t ask better\nthan to shake hands with him. There were some old affairs between us that\ndon\u2019t concern anybody! But, good heavens! if you only knew what little\nspite I harbour!\u201d\n\nWhen the usher had admitted Fons\u00e8gue the reconciliation took place in the\nsimplest fashion. They had been great friends at college in their native\nCorr\u00e8ze, but had not spoken together for ten years past in consequence of\nsome abominable affair the particulars of which were not exactly known.\nHowever, it becomes necessary to clear away all corpses when one wishes\nto have the arena free for a fresh battle.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s very good of you to come back the first,\u201d said Monferrand. \u201cSo it\u2019s\nall over, you no longer bear me any grudge?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed!\u201d replied Fons\u00e8gue. \u201cWhy should people devour one another\nwhen it would be to their interest to come to an understanding?\u201d\n\nThen, without further explanations, they passed to the great affair, and\nthe conference began. And when Monferrand had announced Barroux\u2019\ndetermination to confess and explain his conduct, the others loudly\nprotested. That meant certain downfall, they would prevent him, he surely\nwould not be guilty of such folly. Forthwith they discussed every\nimaginable plan by which the Ministry might be saved, for that must\ncertainly be Monferrand\u2019s sole desire. He himself with all eagerness\npretended to seek some means of extricating his colleagues and himself\nfrom the mess in which they were. However, a faint smile, still played\naround his lips, and at last as if vanquished he sought no further.\n\u201cThere\u2019s no help for it,\u201d said he, \u201cthe ministry\u2019s down.\u201d\n\nThe others exchanged glances, full of anxiety at the thought of another\nCabinet dealing with the African Railways affair. A Vignon Cabinet would\ndoubtless plume itself on behaving honestly.\n\n\u201cWell, then, what shall we do?\u201d\n\nBut just then the telephone rang, and Monferrand rose to respond to the\nsummons: \u201cAllow me.\u201d\n\nHe listened for a moment and then spoke into the tube, nothing that he\nsaid giving the others any inkling of the information which had reached\nhim. This had come from the Chief of the Detective Police, and was to the\neffect that Salvat\u2019s whereabouts in the Bois de Boulogne had been\ndiscovered, and that he would be hunted down with all speed. \u201cVery good!\nAnd don\u2019t forget my orders,\u201d replied Monferrand.\n\nNow that Salvat\u2019s arrest was certain, the Minister determined to follow\nthe plan which had gradually taken shape in his mind; and returning to\nthe middle of the room he slowly walked to and fro, while saying with his\nwonted familiarity: \u201cBut what would you have, my friends? It would be\nnecessary for me to be the master. Ah! if I were the master! A Commission\nof Inquiry, yes! that\u2019s the proper form for a first-class funeral to take\nin a big affair like this, so full of nasty things. For my part, I should\nconfess nothing, and I should have a Commission appointed. And then you\nwould see the storm subside.\u201d\n\nDuvillard and Fons\u00e8gue began to laugh. The latter, however, thanks to his\nintimate knowledge of Monferrand, almost guessed the truth. \u201cJust\nlisten!\u201d said he; \u201ceven if the ministry falls it doesn\u2019t necessarily\nfollow that you must be on the ground with it. Besides, a ministry can be\nmended when there are good pieces of it left.\u201d\n\nSomewhat anxious at finding his thoughts guessed, Monferrand protested:\n\u201cNo, no, my dear fellow, I don\u2019t play that game. We are jointly\nresponsible, we\u2019ve got to keep together, dash it all!\u201d\n\n\u201cKeep together! Pooh! Not when simpletons purposely drown themselves!\nAnd, besides, if we others have need of you, we have a right to save you\nin spite of yourself! Isn\u2019t that so, my dear Baron?\u201d\n\nThen, as Monferrand sat down, no longer protesting but waiting,\nDuvillard, who was again thinking of his passion, full of anger at the\nrecollection of Barroux\u2019 refusal, rose in his turn, and exclaimed: \u201cWhy,\ncertainly! If the ministry\u2019s condemned let it fall! What good can you get\nout of a ministry which includes such a man as Taboureau! There you have\nan old, worn-out professor without any prestige, who comes to Paris from\nGrenoble, and has never set foot in a theatre in his life! Yet the\ncontrol of the theatres is handed over to him, and naturally he\u2019s ever\ndoing the most stupid things!\u201d\n\nMonferrand, who was well informed on the Silviane question, remained\ngrave, and for a moment amused himself by trying to excite the Baron.\n\u201cTaboureau,\u201d said he, \u201cis a somewhat dull and old-fashioned University\nman, but at the department of Public Instruction he\u2019s in his proper\nelement.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! don\u2019t talk like that, my dear fellow! You are more intelligent than\nthat, you are not going to defend Taboureau as Barroux did. It\u2019s quite\ntrue that I should very much like to see Silviane at the Com\u00e9die. She\u2019s a\nvery good girl at heart, and she has an amazing lot of talent. Would you\nstand in her way if you were in Taboureau\u2019s place?\u201d\n\n\u201cI? Good heavens, no! A pretty girl on the stage, why, it would please\neverybody, I\u2019m sure. Only it would be necessary to have a man of the same\nviews as were at the department of Instruction and Fine Arts.\u201d\n\nHis sly smile had returned to his face. The securing of that girl\u2019s\n_d\u00e9but_ was certainly not a high price to pay for all the influence of\nDuvillard\u2019s millions. Monferrand therefore turned towards Fons\u00e8gue as if\nto consult him. The other, who fully understood the importance of the\naffair, was meditating in all seriousness: \u201cA senator is the proper man\nfor Public Instruction,\u201d said he. \u201cBut I can think of none, none at all,\nsuch as would be wanted. A man of broad mind, a real Parisian, and yet\none whose presence at the head of the University wouldn\u2019t cause too much\nastonishment--there\u2019s perhaps Dauvergne--\u201d\n\n\u201cDauvergne! Who\u2019s he?\u201d exclaimed Monferrand in surprise. \u201cAh! yes,\nDauvergne the senator for Dijon--but he\u2019s altogether ignorant of\nUniversity matters, he hasn\u2019t the slightest qualification.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, as for that,\u201d resumed Fons\u00e8gue, \u201cI\u2019m trying to think. Dauvergne is\ncertainly a good-looking fellow, tall and fair and decorative. Besides,\nhe\u2019s immensely rich, has a most charming young wife--which does no harm,\non the contrary--and he gives real _f\u00eates_ at his place on the Boulevard\nSt. Germain.\u201d\n\nIt was only with hesitation that Fons\u00e8gue himself had ventured to suggest\nDauvergne. But by degrees his selection appeared to him a real \u201cfind.\u201d\n \u201cWait a bit! I recollect now that in his young days Dauvergne wrote a\ncomedy, a one act comedy in verse, and had it performed at Dijon. And\nDijon\u2019s a literary town, you know, so that piece of his sets a little\nperfume of \u2018Belles-Lettres\u2019 around him. And then, too, he left Dijon\ntwenty years ago, and is a most determined Parisian, frequenting every\nsphere of society. Dauvergne will do whatever one desires. He\u2019s the man\nfor us, I tell you.\u201d\n\nDuvillard thereupon declared that he knew him, and considered him a very\ndecent fellow. Besides, he or another, it mattered nothing!\n\n\u201cDauvergne, Dauvergne,\u201d repeated Monferrand. \u201c_Mon Dieu_, yes! After all,\nwhy not? He\u2019ll perhaps make a very good minister. Let us say Dauvergne.\u201d\n Then suddenly bursting into a hearty laugh: \u201cAnd so we are reconstructing\nthe Cabinet in order that that charming young woman may join the Com\u00e9die!\nThe Silviane cabinet--well, and what about the other departments?\u201d\n\nHe jested, well knowing that gaiety often hastens difficult solutions.\nAnd, indeed, they merrily continued settling what should be done if the\nministry were defeated on the morrow. Although they had not plainly said\nso the plan was to let Barroux sink, even help him to do so, and then\nfish Monferrand out of the troubled waters. The latter engaged himself\nwith the two others, because he had need of them, the Baron on account of\nhis financial sovereignty, and the director of \u201cLe Globe\u201d on account of\nthe press campaign which he could carry on in his favour. And in the same\nway the others, quite apart from the Silviane business, had need of\nMonferrand, the strong-handed man of government, who undertook to bury\nthe African Railways scandal by bringing about a Commission of Inquiry,\nall the strings of which would be pulled by himself. There was soon a\nperfect understanding between the three men, for nothing draws people\nmore closely together than common interest, fear and need. Accordingly,\nwhen Duvillard spoke of Duthil\u2019s business, the young lady whom he wished\nto recommend, the Minister declared that it was settled. A very nice\nfellow was Duthil, they needed a good many like him. And it was also\nagreed that Chaigneux\u2019 future son-in-law should have his secretaryship.\nPoor Chaigneux! He was so devoted, always ready to undertake any\ncommission, and his four women folk led him such a hard life!\n\n\u201cWell, then, it\u2019s understood.\u201d And Monferrand, Duvillard and Fons\u00e8gue\nvigorously shook hands.\n\nHowever, when the first accompanied the others to the door, he noticed a\nprelate, in a cassock of fine material, edged with violet, speaking to a\npriest in the ante-room. Thereupon he, the Minister, hastened forward,\nlooking much distressed. \u201cAh! you were waiting, Monseigneur Martha! Come\nin, come in quick!\u201d\n\nBut with perfect urbanity the Bishop refused. \u201cNo, no, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9\nFroment was here before me. Pray receive him first.\u201d\n\nMonferrand had to give way; he admitted the priest, and speedily dealt\nwith him. He who usually employed the most diplomatic reserve when he was\nin presence of a member of the clergy plumply unfolded the Barth\u00e8s\nbusiness. Pierre had experienced the keenest anguish during the two hours\nthat he had been waiting there, for he could only explain the letter he\nhad received by a surmise that the police had discovered his brother\u2019s\npresence in his house. And so when he heard the Minister simply speak of\nBarth\u00e8s, and declare that the government would rather see him go into\nexile than be obliged to imprison him once more, he remained for a moment\nquite disconcerted. As the police had been able to discover the old\nconspirator in the little house at Neuilly, how was it that they seemed\naltogether ignorant of Guillaume\u2019s presence there? It was, however, the\nusual gap in the genius of great detectives.\n\n\u201cPray what do you desire of me, Monsieur le Ministre?\u201d said Pierre at\nlast; \u201cI don\u2019t quite understand.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, I leave all this to your sense of prudence. If\nthat man were still at your house in forty-eight hours from now, we\nshould be obliged to arrest him there, which would be a source of grief\nto us, for we are aware that your residence is the abode of every virtue.\nSo advise him to leave France. If he does that we shall not trouble him.\u201d\n\nThen Monferrand hastily brought Pierre back to the ante-room; and,\nsmiling and bending low, he said: \u201cMonseigneur, I am entirely at your\ndisposal. Come in, come in, I beg you.\u201d\n\nThe prelate, who was gaily chatting with Duvillard and Fons\u00e8gue, shook\nhands with them, and then with Pierre. In his desire to win all hearts,\nhe that morning displayed the most perfect graciousness. His bright,\nblack eyes were all smiles, the whole of his handsome face wore a\ncaressing expression, and he entered the ministerial sanctum leisurely\nand gracefully, with an easy air of conquest.\n\nAnd now only Monferrand and Monseigneur Martha were left, talking on and\non in the deserted building. Some people had thought that the prelate\nwished to become a deputy. But he played a far more useful and lofty part\nin governing behind the scenes, in acting as the directing mind of the\nVatican\u2019s policy in France. Was not France still the Eldest Daughter of\nthe Church, the only great nation which might some day restore\nomnipotence to the Papacy? For that reason he had accepted the Republic,\npreached the duty of \u201crallying\u201d to it, and inspired the new Catholic\ngroup in the Chamber. And Monferrand, on his side, struck by the progress\nof the New Spirit, that reaction of mysticism which flattered itself that\nit would bury science, showed the prelate much amiability, like a\nstrong-handed man who, to ensure his own victory, utilised every force\nthat was offered him.\n\n\n\n\nIV. THE MAN HUNT\n\nON the afternoon of that same day such a keen desire for space and the\nopen air came upon Guillaume, that Pierre consented to accompany him on a\nlong walk in the Bois de Boulogne. The priest, upon returning from his\ninterview with Monferrand, had informed his brother that the government\nonce more wished to get rid of Nicholas Barth\u00e8s. However, they were so\nperplexed as to how they should impart these tidings to the old man, that\nthey resolved to postpone the matter until the evening. During their walk\nthey might devise some means of breaking the news in a gentle way. As for\nthe walk, this seemed to offer no danger; to all appearance Guillaume was\nin no wise threatened, so why should he continue hiding? Thus the\nbrothers sallied forth and entered the Bois by the Sablons gate, which\nwas the nearest to them.\n\nThe last days of March had now come, and the trees were beginning to show\nsome greenery, so soft and light, however, that one might have thought it\nwas pale moss or delicate lace hanging between the stems and boughs.\nAlthough the sky remained of an ashen grey, the rain, after falling\nthroughout the night and morning, had ceased; and exquisite freshness\npervaded that wood now awakening to life once more, with its foliage\ndripping in the mild and peaceful atmosphere. The mid-Lent rejoicings had\napparently attracted the populace to the centre of Paris, for in the\navenues one found only the fashionable folks of select days, the people\nof society who come thither when the multitude stops away. There were\ncarriages and gentlemen on horseback; beautiful aristocratic ladies who\nhad alighted from their broughams or landaus; and wet-nurses with\nstreaming ribbons, who carried infants wearing the most costly lace. Of\nthe middle-classes, however, one found only a few matrons living in the\nneighbourhood, who sat here and there on the benches busy with embroidery\nor watching their children play.\n\nPierre and Guillaume followed the All\u00e9e de Longchamp as far as the road\ngoing from Madrid to the lakes. Then they took their way under the trees,\nalongside the little Longchamp rivulet. They wished to reach the lakes,\npass round them, and return home by way of the Maillot gate. But so\ncharming and peaceful was the deserted plantation through which they\npassed, that they yielded to a desire to sit down and taste the delight\nof resting amidst all the budding springtide around them. A fallen tree\nserved them as a bench, and it was possible for them to fancy themselves\nfar away from Paris, in the depths of some real forest. It was, too, of a\nreal forest that Guillaume began to think on thus emerging from his long,\nvoluntary imprisonment. Ah! for the space; and for the health-bringing\nair which courses between that forest\u2019s branches, that forest of the\nworld which by right should be man\u2019s inalienable domain! However, the\nname of Barth\u00e8s, the perpetual prisoner, came back to Guillaume\u2019s lips,\nand he sighed mournfully. The thought that there should be even a single\nman whose liberty was thus ever assailed, sufficed to poison the pure\natmosphere he breathed.\n\n\u201cWhat will you say to Barth\u00e8s?\u201d he asked his brother. \u201cThe poor fellow\nmust necessarily be warned. Exile is at any rate preferable to\nimprisonment.\u201d\n\nPierre sadly waved his hand. \u201cYes, of course, I must warn him. But what a\npainful task it is!\u201d\n\nGuillaume made no rejoinder, for at that very moment, in that remote,\ndeserted nook, where they could fancy themselves at the world\u2019s end, a\nmost extraordinary spectacle was presented to their view. Something or\nrather someone leapt out of a thicket and bounded past them. It was\nassuredly a man, but one who was so unrecognisable, so miry, so woeful\nand so frightful, that he might have been taken for an animal, a boar\nthat hounds had tracked and forced from his retreat. On seeing the\nrivulet, he hesitated for a moment, and then followed its course. But,\nall at once, as a sound of footsteps and panting breath drew nearer, he\nsprang into the water, which reached his thighs, bounded on to the\nfurther bank, and vanished from sight behind a clump of pines. A moment\nafterwards some keepers and policemen rushed by, skirting the rivulet,\nand in their turn disappearing. It was a man hunt that had gone past, a\nfierce, secret hunt with no display of scarlet or blast of horns athwart\nthe soft, sprouting foliage.\n\n\u201cSome rascal or other,\u201d muttered Pierre. \u201cAh! the wretched fellow!\u201d\n\nGuillaume made a gesture of discouragement. \u201cGendarmes and prison!\u201d said\nhe. \u201cThey still constitute society\u2019s only schooling system!\u201d\n\nMeantime the man was still running on, farther and farther away.\n\nWhen, on the previous night, Salvat had suddenly escaped from the\ndetectives by bounding into the Bois de Boulogne, it had occurred to him\nto slip round to the Dauphine gate and there descend into the deep ditch*\nof the city ramparts. He remembered days of enforced idleness which he\nhad spent there, in nooks where, for his own part, he had never met a\nliving soul. Nowhere, indeed, could one find more secret places of\nretreat, hedged round by thicker bushes, or concealed from view by\nloftier herbage. Some corners of the ditch, at certain angles of the\nmassive bastions, are favourite dens or nests for thieves and lovers.\nSalvat, as he made his way through the thickest of the brambles, nettles\nand ivy, was lucky enough to find a cavity full of dry leaves, in which\nhe buried himself to the chin. The rain had already drenched him, and\nafter slipping down the muddy slope, he had frequently been obliged to\ngrope his way upon all fours. So those dry leaves proved a boon such as\nhe had not dared to hope for. They dried him somewhat, serving as a\nblanket in which he coiled himself after his wild race through the dank\ndarkness. The rain still fell, but he now only felt it on his head, and,\nweary as he was, he gradually sank into deep slumber beneath the\ncontinuous drizzle. When he opened his eyes again, the dawn was breaking,\nand it was probably about six o\u2019clock. During his sleep the rain had\nended by soaking the leaves, so that he was now immersed in a kind of\nchilly bath. Still he remained in it, feeling that he was there sheltered\nfrom the police, who must now surely be searching for him. None of those\nbloodhounds would guess his presence in that hole, for his body was quite\nburied, and briers almost completely hid his head. So he did not stir,\nbut watched the rise of the dawn.\n\n  * This ditch or dry moat is about 30 feet deep and 50 feet wide.\n    The counterscarp by which one may descend into it has an angle\n    of 45 degrees.--Trans.\n\nWhen at eight o\u2019clock some policemen and keepers came by, searching the\nditch, they did not perceive him. As he had anticipated, the hunt had\nbegun at the first glimmer of light. For a time his heart beat violently;\nhowever, nobody else passed, nothing whatever stirred the grass. The only\nsounds that reached him were faint ones from the Bois de Boulogne, the\nring of a bicyclist\u2019s bell, the thud of a horse\u2019s hoofs, the rumble of\ncarriage wheels. And time went by, nine o\u2019clock came, and then ten\no\u2019clock. Since the rain had ceased falling, Salvat had not suffered so\nmuch from the cold, for he was wearing a thick overcoat which little\nMathis had given him. But, on the other hand, hunger was coming back;\nthere was a burning sensation in his stomach, and leaden hoops seemed to\nbe pressing against his ribs. He had eaten nothing for two days; he had\nbeen starving already on the previous evening, when he had accepted a\nglass of beer at that tavern at Montmartre. Nevertheless, his plan was to\nremain in the ditch until nightfall, and then slip away in the direction\nof the village of Boulogne, where he knew of a means of egress from the\nwood. He was not caught yet, he repeated, he might still manage to\nescape. Then he tried to get to sleep again, but failed, so painful had\nhis sufferings become. By the time it was eleven, everything swam before\nhis eyes. He once nearly fainted, and thought that he was going to die.\nThen rage gradually mastered him, and, all at once, he sprang out of his\nleafy hiding-place, desperately hungering for food, unable to remain\nthere any longer, and determined to find something to eat, even should it\ncost him his liberty and life. It was then noon.\n\nOn leaving the ditch he found the spreading lawns of the ch\u00e2teau of La\nMuette before him. He crossed them at a run, like a madman, instinctively\ngoing towards Boulogne, with the one idea that his only means of escape\nlay in that direction. It seemed miraculous that nobody paid attention to\nhis helter-skelter flight. However, when he had reached the cover of some\ntrees he became conscious of his imprudence, and almost regretted the\nsudden madness which had borne him along, eager for escape. Trembling\nnervously, he bent low among some furze bushes, and waited for a few\nminutes to ascertain if the police were behind him. Then with watchful\neye and ready ear, wonderful instinct and scent of danger, he slowly went\nhis way again. He hoped to pass between the upper lake and the Auteuil\nrace-course; but there were few trees in that part, and they formed a\nbroad avenue. He therefore had to exert all his skill in order to avoid\nobservation, availing himself of the slenderest stems, the smallest\nbushes, as screens, and only venturing onward after a lengthy inspection\nof his surroundings. Before long the sight of a guard in the distance\nrevived his fears and detained him, stretched on the ground behind some\nbrambles, for a full quarter of an hour. Then the approach first of a\ncab, whose driver had lost his way, and afterwards of a strolling\npedestrian, in turn sufficed to stop him. He breathed once more, however,\nwhen, after passing the Mortemart hillock, he was able to enter the\nthickets lying between the two roads which lead to Boulogne and St.\nCloud. The coppices thereabouts were dense, and he merely had to follow\nthem, screened from view, in order to reach the outlet he knew of, which\nwas now near at hand. So he was surely saved.\n\nBut all at once, at a distance of some five and thirty yards, he saw a\nkeeper, erect and motionless, barring his way. He turned slightly to the\nleft and there perceived another keeper, who also seemed to be awaiting\nhim. And there were more and more of them; at every fifty paces or so\nstood a fresh one, the whole forming a _cordon_, the meshes as it were of\na huge net. The worst was that he must have been perceived, for a light\ncry, like the clear call of an owl, rang out, and was repeated farther\nand farther off. The hunters were at last on the right scent, prudence\nhad become superfluous, and it was only by flight that the quarry might\nnow hope to escape. Salvat understood this so well that he suddenly began\nto run, leaping over all obstacles and darting between the trees,\ncareless whether he were seen or heard. A few bounds carried him across\nthe Avenue de St. Cloud into the plantations stretching to the All\u00e9e de\nla Reine Marguerite. There the undergrowth was very dense; in the whole\nBois there are no more closely set thickets. In summer they become one\nvast entanglement of verdure, amidst which, had it been the leafy season,\nSalvat might well have managed to secrete himself. For a moment he did\nfind himself alone, and thereupon he halted to listen. He could neither\nsee nor hear the keepers now. Had they lost his track, then? Profound\nquietude reigned under the fresh young foliage. But the light, owlish cry\narose once more, branches cracked, and he resumed his wild flight,\nhurrying straight before him. Unluckily he found the All\u00e9e de la Reine\nMarguerite guarded by policemen, so that he could not cross over, but had\nto skirt it without quitting the thickets. And now his back was turned\ntowards Boulogne; he was retracing his steps towards Paris. However, a\nlast idea came to his bewildered mind: it was to run on in this wise as\nfar as the shady spots around Madrid, and then, by stealing from copse to\ncopse, attempt to reach the Seine. To proceed thither across the bare\nexpanse of the race-course and training ground was not for a moment to be\nthought of.\n\nSo Salvat still ran on and on. But on reaching the All\u00e9e de Longchamp he\nfound it guarded like the other roads, and therefore had to relinquish\nhis plan of escaping by way of Madrid and the river-bank. While he was\nperforce making a bend alongside the Pr\u00e9 Catelan, he became aware that\nthe keepers, led by detectives, were drawing yet nearer to him, confining\nhis movements to a smaller and smaller area. And his race soon acquired\nall the frenzy of despair. Haggard and breathless he leapt mounds, rushed\npast multitudinous obstacles. He forced a passage through brambles, broke\ndown palings, thrice caught his feet in wire work which he had not seen,\nand fell among nettles, yet picked himself up went on again, spurred by\nthe stinging of his hands and face. It was then Guillaume and Pierre saw\nhim pass, unrecognisable and frightful, taking to the muddy water of the\nrivulet like a stag which seeks to set a last obstacle between itself and\nthe hounds. There came to him a wild idea of getting to the lake, and\nswimming, unperceived, to the island in the centre of it. That, he madly\nthought, would be a safe retreat, where he might burrow and hide himself\nwithout possibility of discovery. And so he still ran on. But once again\nthe sight of some guards made him retrace his steps, and he was compelled\nto go back and back in the direction of Paris, chased, forced towards the\nvery fortifications whence he had started that morning. It was now nearly\nthree in the afternoon. For more than two hours and a half he had been\nrunning.\n\nAt last he saw a soft, sandy ride for horsemen before him. He crossed it,\nsplashing through the mire left by the rain, and reached a little\npathway, a delightful lovers\u2019 lane, as shady in summer as any arbour. For\nsome time he was able to follow it, concealed from observation, and with\nhis hopes reviving. But it led him to one of those broad, straight\navenues where carriages and bicycles, the whole afternoon pageant of\nsociety, swept past under the mild and cloudy sky. So he returned to the\nthickets, fell once more upon the keepers, lost all notion of the\ndirection he took, and even all power of thought, becoming a mere thing\ncarried along and thrown hither and thither by the chances of the pursuit\nwhich pressed more and more closely upon him. Star-like crossways\nfollowed one upon other, and at last he came to a broad lawn, where the\nfull light dazzled him. And there he suddenly felt the hot, panting\nbreath of his pursuers close in the rear. Eager, hungry breath it was,\nlike that of hounds seeking to devour him. Shouts rang out, one hand\nalmost caught hold of him, there was a rush of heavy feet, a scramble to\nseize him. But with a supreme effort he leapt upon a bank, crawled to its\nsummit, rose again, and once more found himself alone, still running on\namid the fresh and quiet greenery.\n\nNevertheless, this was the end. He almost fell flat upon the ground. His\naching feet could no longer carry him; blood was oozing from his ears,\nand froth had come to his mouth. His heart beat with such violence that\nit seemed likely to break his ribs. Water and perspiration streamed from\nhim, he was miry and haggard and tortured by hunger, conquered, in fact,\nmore by hunger than by fatigue. And through the mist which seemed to have\ngathered before his wild eyes, he suddenly saw an open doorway, the\ndoorway of a coach-house in the rear of a kind of chalet, sequestered\namong trees. Excepting a big white cat, which took to flight, there was\nnot a living creature in the place. Salvat plunged into it and rolled\nover on a heap of straw, among some empty casks. He was scarcely hidden\nthere when he heard the chase sweep by, the detectives and the keepers\nlosing scent, passing the chalet and rushing in the direction of the\nParis ramparts. The noise of their heavy boots died away, and deep\nsilence fell, while the hunted man, who had carried both hands to his\nheart to stay its beating, sank into the most complete prostration, with\nbig tears trickling from his closed eyes.\n\nWhilst all this was going on, Pierre and Guillaume, after a brief rest,\nhad resumed their walk, reaching the lake and proceeding towards the\ncrossway of the Cascades, in order to return to Neuilly by the road\nbeyond the water. However, a shower fell, compelling them to take shelter\nunder the big leafless branches of a chestnut-tree. Then, as the rain\ncame down more heavily and they could perceive a kind of chalet, a little\ncaf\u00e9-restaurant amid a clump of trees, they hastened thither for better\nprotection. In a side road, which they passed on their way, they saw a\ncab standing, its driver waiting there in philosophical fashion under the\nfalling shower. Pierre, moreover, noticed a young man stepping out\nbriskly in front of them, a young man resembling G\u00e9rard de Quinsac, who,\nwhilst walking in the Bois, had no doubt been overtaken by the rain, and\nlike themselves was seeking shelter in the chalet. However, on entering\nthe latter\u2019s public room, the priest saw no sign of the gentleman, and\nconcluded that he must have been mistaken. This public room, which had a\nkind of glazed verandah overlooking the Bois, contained a few chairs and\ntables, the latter with marble tops. On the first floor there were four\nor five private rooms reached by a narrow passage. Though the doors were\nopen the place had as yet scarcely emerged from its winter\u2019s rest. There\nwas nobody about, and on all sides one found the dampness common to\nestablishments which, from lack of custom, are compelled to close from\nNovember until March. In the rear were some stables, a coach-house, and\nvarious mossy, picturesque outbuildings, which painters and gardeners\nwould now soon embellish for the gay pleasure parties which the fine\nweather would bring.\n\n\u201cI really think that they haven\u2019t opened for the season yet,\u201d said\nGuillaume as he entered the silent house.\n\n\u201cAt all events they will let us stay here till the rain stops,\u201d answered\nPierre, seating himself at one of the little tables.\n\nHowever, a waiter suddenly made his appearance seemingly in a great\nhurry. He had come down from the first floor, and eagerly rummaged a\ncupboard for a few dry biscuits, which he laid upon a plate. At last he\ncondescended to serve the brothers two glasses of Chartreuse.\n\nIn one of the private rooms upstairs Baroness Duvillard, who had driven\nto the chalet in a cab, had been awaiting her lover G\u00e9rard for nearly\nhalf an hour. It was there that, during the charity bazaar, they had\ngiven each other an appointment. For them the chalet had precious\nmemories: two years previously, on discovering that secluded nest, which\nwas so deserted in the early, hesitating days of chilly spring, they had\nmet there under circumstances which they could not forget. And the\nBaroness, in choosing the house for the supreme assignation of their\ndying passion, had certainly not been influenced merely by a fear that\nshe might be spied upon elsewhere. She had, indeed, thought of the first\nkisses that had been showered on her there, and would fain have revived\nthem even if they should now prove the last that G\u00e9rard would bestow on\nher.\n\nBut she would also have liked to see some sunlight playing over the\nyouthful foliage. The ashen sky and threatening rain saddened her. And\nwhen she entered the private room she did not recognise it, so cold and\ndim it seemed with its faded furniture. Winter had tarried there, with\nall the dampness and mouldy smell peculiar to rooms which have long\nremained closed. Then, too, some of the wall paper which had come away\nfrom the plaster hung down in shreds, dead flies were scattered over the\nparquetry flooring; and in order to open the shutters the waiter had to\nengage in a perfect fight with their fastenings. However, when he had\nlighted a little gas-stove, which at once flamed up and diffused some\nwarmth, the room became more cosy.\n\nEve had seated herself on a chair, without raising the thick veil which\nhid her face. Gowned, gloved, and bonneted in black, as if she were\nalready in mourning for her last passion, she showed naught of her own\nperson save her superb fair hair, which glittered like a helm of tawny\ngold. She had ordered tea for two, and when the waiter brought it with a\nlittle plateful of dry biscuits, left, no doubt, from the previous\nseason, he found her in the same place, still veiled and motionless,\nabsorbed, it seemed, in a gloomy reverie. If she had reached the caf\u00e9\nhalf an hour before the appointed time it was because she desired some\nleisure and opportunity to overcome her despair and compose herself. She\nresolved that of all things she would not weep, that she would remain\ndignified and speak calmly, like one who, whatever rights she might\npossess, preferred to appeal to reason only. And she was well pleased\nwith the courage that she found within her. Whilst thinking of what she\nshould say to dissuade G\u00e9rard from a marriage which to her mind would\nprove both a calamity and a blunder, she fancied herself very calm,\nindeed almost resigned to whatsoever might happen.\n\nBut all at once she started and began to tremble. G\u00e9rard was entering the\nroom.\n\n\u201cWhat! are you here the first, my dear?\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cI thought that I\nmyself was ten minutes before the time! And you\u2019ve ordered some tea and\nare waiting for me!\u201d\n\nHe forced a smile as he spoke, striving to display the same delight at\nseeing her as he had shown in the early golden days of their passion. But\nat heart he was much embarrassed, and he shuddered at the thought of the\nawful scene which he could foresee.\n\nShe had at last risen and raised her veil. And looking at him she\nstammered: \u201cYes, I found myself at liberty earlier than I expected....\nI feared some impediment might arise... and so I came.\u201d\n\nThen, seeing how handsome and how affectionate he still looked, she could\nnot restrain her passion. All her skilful arguments, all her fine\nresolutions, were swept away. Her flesh irresistibly impelled her towards\nhim; she loved him, she would keep him, she would never surrender him to\nanother. And she wildly flung her arms around his neck.\n\n\u201cOh! G\u00e9rard, G\u00e9rard! I suffer too cruelly; I cannot, I cannot bear it!\nTell me at once that you will not marry her, that you will never marry\nher!\u201d\n\nHer voice died away in a sob, tears started from her eyes. Ah! those\ntears which she had sworn she would never shed! They gushed forth without\ncessation, they streamed from her lovely eyes like a flood of the\nbitterest grief.\n\n\u201cMy daughter, O God! What! you would marry my daughter! She, here, on\nyour neck where I am now! No, no, such torture is past endurance, it must\nnot be, I will not have it!\u201d\n\nHe shivered as he heard that cry of frantic jealousy raised by a mother\nwho now was but a woman, maddened by the thought of her rival\u2019s youth,\nthose five and twenty summers which she herself had left far behind. For\nhis part, on his way to the assignation, he had come to what he thought\nthe most sensible decision, resolving to break off the intercourse after\nthe fashion of a well-bred man, with all sorts of fine consolatory\nspeeches. But sternness was not in his nature. He was weak and\nsoft-hearted, and had never been able to withstand a woman\u2019s tears.\nNevertheless, he endeavoured to calm her, and in order to rid himself of\nher embrace, he made her sit down upon the sofa. And there, beside her,\nhe replied: \u201cCome, be reasonable, my dear. We came here to have a\nfriendly chat, did we not? I assure you that you are greatly exaggerating\nmatters.\u201d\n\nBut she was determined to obtain a more positive answer from him. \u201cNo,\nno!\u201d she retorted, \u201cI am suffering too dreadfully, I must know the truth\nat once. Swear to me that you will never, never marry her!\u201d\n\nHe again endeavoured to avoid replying as she wished him to do. \u201cCome,\ncome,\u201d he said, \u201cyou will do yourself harm by giving way to such grief as\nthis; you know that I love you dearly.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen swear to me that you will never, never marry her.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I tell you that I love you, that you are the only one I love.\u201d\n\nThen she again threw her arms around him, and kissed him passionately\nupon the eyes. \u201cIs it true?\u201d she asked in a transport. \u201cYou love me, you\nlove no one else? Oh! tell me so again, and kiss me, and promise me that\nyou will never belong to her.\u201d\n\nWeak as he was he could not resist her ardent caresses and pressing\nentreaties. There came a moment of supreme cowardice and passion; her\narms were around him and he forgot all but her, again and again repeating\nthat he loved none other, and would never, never marry her daughter. At\nlast he even sank so low as to pretend that he simply regarded that poor,\ninfirm creature with pity. His words of compassionate disdain for her\nrival were like nectar to Eve, for they filled her with the blissful idea\nthat it was she herself who would ever remain beautiful in his eyes and\nwhom he would ever love....\n\nAt last silence fell between them, like an inevitable reaction after such\na tempest of despair and passion. It disturbed G\u00e9rard. \u201cWon\u2019t you drink\nsome tea?\u201d he asked. \u201cIt is almost cold already.\u201d\n\nShe was not listening, however. To her the reaction had come in a\ndifferent form; and as though the inevitable explanation were only now\ncommencing, she began to speak in a sad and weary voice. \u201cMy dear G\u00e9rard,\nyou really cannot marry my daughter. In the first place it would be so\nwrong, and then there is the question of your name, your position.\nForgive my frankness, but the fact is that everybody would say that you\nhad sold yourself--such a marriage would be a scandal for both your\nfamily and mine.\u201d\n\nAs she spoke she took hold of his hands, like a mother seeking to prevent\nher big son from committing some terrible blunder. And he listened to\nher, with bowed head and averted eyes. She now evinced no anger, no\njealous rage; all such feelings seemed to have departed with the rapture\nof her passion.\n\n\u201cJust think of what people would say,\u201d she continued. \u201cI don\u2019t deceive\nmyself, I am fully aware that there is an abyss between your circle of\nsociety and ours. It is all very well for us to be rich, but money simply\nenlarges the gap. And it was all very fine for me to be converted, my\ndaughter is none the less \u2018the daughter of the Jewess,\u2019 as folks so often\nsay. Ah! my G\u00e9rard, I am so proud of you, that it would rend my heart to\nsee you lowered, degraded almost, by a marriage for money with a girl who\nis deformed, who is unworthy of you and whom you could never love.\u201d\n\nHe raised his eyes and looked at her entreatingly, anxious as he was to\nbe spared such painful talk. \u201cBut haven\u2019t I sworn to you, that you are\nthe only one I love?\u201d he said. \u201cHaven\u2019t I sworn that I would never marry\nher! It\u2019s all over. Don\u2019t let us torture ourselves any longer.\u201d\n\nTheir glances met and lingered on one another, instinct with all the\nmisery which they dared not express in words. Eve\u2019s face had suddenly\naged; her eyelids were red and swollen, and blotches marbled her\nquivering cheeks, down which her tears again began to trickle. \u201cMy poor,\npoor G\u00e9rard,\u201d said she, \u201chow heavily I weigh on you. Oh! do not deny it!\nI feel that I am an intolerable burden on your shoulders, an impediment\nin your life, and that I shall bring irreparable disaster on you by my\nobstinacy in wishing you to be mine alone.\u201d\n\nHe tried to speak, but she silenced him. \u201cNo, no, all is over between us.\nI am growing ugly, all is ended. And besides, I shut off the future from\nyou. I can be of no help to you, whereas you bestow all on me. And yet\nthe time has come for you to assure yourself a position. At your age you\ncan\u2019t continue living without any certainty of the morrow, without a home\nand hearth of your own; and it would be cowardly and cruel of me to set\nmyself up as an obstacle, and prevent you from ending your life happily,\nas I should do if I clung to you and dragged you down with me.\u201d\n\nGazing at him through her tears she continued speaking in this fashion.\nLike his mother she was well aware that he was weak and even sickly; and\nshe therefore dreamt of arranging a quiet life for him, a life of\ntranquil happiness free from all fear of want. She loved him so fondly;\nand possessed so much genuine kindness of heart that perhaps it might be\npossible for her to rise even to renunciation and sacrifice. Moreover,\nthe very egotism born of her beauty suggested that it might be well for\nher to think of retirement and not allow the autumn of her life to be\nspoilt by torturing dramas. All this she said to him, treating him like a\nchild whose happiness she wished to ensure even at the price of her own;\nand he, his eyes again lowered, listened without further protest, pleased\nindeed to let her arrange a happy life for him.\n\nExamining the situation from every aspect, she at last began to\nrecapitulate the points in favour of that abominable marriage, the\nthought of which had so intensely distressed her. \u201cIt is certain,\u201d she\nsaid, \u201cthat Camille would bring you all that I should like you to have.\nWith her, I need hardly say it, would come plenty, affluence. And as for\nthe rest, well, I do not wish to excuse myself or you, but I could name\ntwenty households in which there have been worse things. Besides, I was\nwrong when I said that money opened a gap between people. On the\ncontrary, it draws them nearer together, it secures forgiveness for every\nfault; so nobody would dare to blame you, there would only be jealous\nones around you, dazzled by your good fortune.\u201d\n\nG\u00e9rard rose, apparently rebelling once more. \u201cSurely,\u201d said he, \u201c_you_\ndon\u2019t insist on my marrying your daughter?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! no indeed! But I am sensible, and I tell you what I ought to tell\nyou. You must think it all over.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have done so already. It is you that I have loved, and that I love\nstill. What you say is impossible.\u201d\n\nShe smiled divinely, rose, and again embraced him. \u201cHow good and kind you\nare, my G\u00e9rard. Ah! if you only knew how I love you, how I shall always\nlove you, whatever happens.\u201d\n\nThen she again began to weep, and even he shed tears. Their good faith\nwas absolute; tender of heart as they were, they sought to delay the\npainful wrenching and tried to hope for further happiness. But they were\nconscious that the marriage was virtually an accomplished fact. Only\ntears and words were left them, while life and destiny were marching on.\nAnd if their emotion was so acute it was probably because they felt that\nthis was the last time they would meet as lovers. Still they strove to\nretain the illusion that they were not exchanging their last farewell,\nthat their lips would some day meet again in a kiss of rapture.\n\nEve removed her arms from the young man\u2019s neck, and they both gazed round\nthe room, at the sofa, the table, the four chairs, and the little hissing\ngas-stove. The moist, hot atmosphere was becoming quite oppressive.\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d said G\u00e9rard, \u201cyou won\u2019t drink a cup of tea?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, it\u2019s so horrid here,\u201d she answered, while arranging her hair in\nfront of the looking-glass.\n\nAt that parting moment the mournfulness of this place, where she had\nhoped to find such delightful memories, filled her with distress, which\nwas turning to positive anguish, when she suddenly heard an uproar of\ngruff voices and heavy feet. People were hastening along the passage and\nknocking at the doors. And, on darting to the window, she perceived a\nnumber of policemen surrounding the chalet. At this the wildest ideas\nassailed her. Had her daughter employed somebody to follow her? Did her\nhusband wish to divorce her so as to marry Silviane? The scandal would be\nawful, and all her plans must crumble! She waited in dismay, white like a\nghost; while G\u00e9rard, also paling and quivering, begged her to be calm. At\nlast, when loud blows were dealt upon the door and a Commissary of Police\nenjoined them to open it, they were obliged to do so. Ah! what a moment,\nand what dismay and shame!\n\nMeantime, for more than an hour, Pierre and Guillaume had been waiting\nfor the rain to cease. Seated in a corner of the glazed verandah they\ntalked in undertones of Barth\u00e8s\u2019 painful affair, and ultimately decided\nto ask Th\u00e9ophile Morin to dine with them on the following evening, and\ninform his old friend that he must again go into exile.\n\n\u201cThat is the best course,\u201d repeated Guillaume. \u201cMorin is very fond of him\nand will know how to break the news. I have no doubt too that he will go\nwith him as far as the frontier.\u201d\n\nPierre sadly looked at the falling rain. \u201cAh! what a choice,\u201d said he,\n\u201cto be ever driven to a foreign land under penalty of being thrust into\nprison. Poor fellow! how awful it is to have never known a moment of\nhappiness and gaiety in one\u2019s life, to have devoted one\u2019s whole existence\nto the idea of liberty, and to see it scoffed at and expire with\noneself!\u201d\n\nThen the priest paused, for he saw several policemen and keepers approach\nthe caf\u00e9 and prowl round it. Having lost scent of the man they were\nhunting, they had retraced their steps with the conviction no doubt that\nhe had sought refuge in the chalet. And in order that he might not again\nescape them, they now took every precaution, exerted all their skill in\nsurrounding the place before venturing on a minute search. Covert fear\ncame upon Pierre and Guillaume when they noticed these proceedings. It\nseemed to them that it must all be connected with the chase which they\nhad caught a glimpse of some time previously. Still, as they happened to\nbe in the chalet they might be called upon to give their names and\naddresses. At this thought they glanced at one another, and almost made\nup their minds to go off under the rain. But they realised that anything\nlike flight might only compromise them the more. So they waited; and all\nat once there came a diversion, for two fresh customers entered the\nestablishment.\n\nA victoria with its hood and apron raised had just drawn up outside the\ndoor. The first to alight from it was a young, well-dressed man with a\nbored expression of face. He was followed by a young woman who was\nlaughing merrily, as if much amused by the persistence of the downpour.\nBy way of jesting, indeed, she expressed her regret that she had not come\nto the Bois on her bicycle, whereupon her companion retorted that to\ndrive about in a deluge appeared to him the height of idiocy.\n\n\u201cBut we were bound to go somewhere, my dear fellow,\u201d she gaily answered.\n\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you take me to see the maskers?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe maskers, indeed! No, no, my dear. I prefer the Bois, and even the\nbottom of the lake, to them.\u201d\n\nThen, as the couple entered the chalet, Pierre saw that the young woman\nwho made merry over the rain was little Princess Rosemonde, while her\ncompanion, who regarded the mid-Lent festivities as horrible, and\nbicycling as an utterly unaesthetic amusement, was handsome Hyacinthe\nDuvillard. On the previous evening, while they were taking a cup of tea\ntogether on their return from the Chamber of Horrors, the young man had\nresponded to the Princess\u2019s blandishments by declaring that the only form\nof attachment he believed in was a mystic union of intellects and souls.\nAnd as such a union could only be fittingly arrived at amidst the cold,\nchaste snow, they had decided that they would start for Christiania on\nthe following Monday. Their chief regret was that by the time they\nreached the fiords the worst part of the northern winter would be over.\n\nThey sat down in the caf\u00e9 and ordered some kummel, but there was none,\nsaid the waiter, so they had to content themselves with common anisette.\nThen Hyacinthe, who had been a schoolfellow of Guillaume\u2019s sons,\nrecognised both him and Pierre; and leaning towards Rosemonde told her in\na whisper who the elder brother was.\n\nThereupon, with sudden enthusiasm, she sprang to her feet: \u201cGuillaume\nFroment, indeed! the great chemist!\u201d And stepping forward with arm\noutstretched, she continued: \u201cAh! monsieur, you must excuse me, but I\nreally must shake hands with you. I have so much admiration for you! You\nhave done such wonderful work in connection with explosives!\u201d Then,\nnoticing the chemist\u2019s astonishment, she again burst into a laugh: \u201cI am\nthe Princess de Harn, your brother Abb\u00e9 Froment knows me, and I ought to\nhave asked him to introduce me. However, we have mutual friends, you and\nI; for instance, Monsieur Janzen, a very distinguished man, as you are\naware. He was to have taken me to see you, for I am a modest disciple of\nyours. Yes, I have given some attention to chemistry, oh! from pure zeal\nfor truth and in the hope of helping good causes, not otherwise. So you\nwill let me call on you--won\u2019t you?--directly I come back from\nChristiania, where I am going with my young friend here, just to acquire\nsome experience of unknown emotions.\u201d\n\nIn this way she rattled on, never allowing the others an opportunity to\nsay a word. And she mingled one thing with another; her cosmopolitan\ntastes, which had thrown her into Anarchism and the society of shady\nadventurers; her new passion for mysticism and symbolism; her belief that\nthe ideal must triumph over base materialism; her taste for aesthetic\nverse; and her dream of some unimagined rapture when Hyacinthe should\nkiss her with his frigid lips in a realm of eternal snow.\n\nAll at once, however, she stopped short and again began to laugh. \u201cDear\nme!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cWhat are those policemen looking for here? Have they\ncome to arrest us? How amusing it would be!\u201d\n\nPolice Commissary Dupot and detective Mond\u00e9sir had just made up their\nminds to search the caf\u00e9, as their men had hitherto failed to find Salvat\nin any of the outbuildings. They were convinced that he was here. Dupot,\na thin, bald, short-sighted, spectacled little man, wore his usual\nexpression of boredom and weariness; but in reality he was very wide\nawake and extremely courageous. He himself carried no weapons; but, as he\nanticipated a most violent resistance, such as might be expected from a\ntrapped wolf, he advised Mond\u00e9sir to have his revolver ready. From\nconsiderations of hierarchical respect, however, the detective, who with\nhis snub nose and massive figure had much the appearance of a bull-dog,\nwas obliged to let his superior enter first.\n\nFrom behind his spectacles the Commissary of Police quickly scrutinized\nthe four customers whom he found in the caf\u00e9: the lady, the priest, and\nthe two other men. And passing them in a disdainful way, he at once made\nfor the stairs, intending to inspect the upper floor. Thereupon the\nwaiter, frightened by the sudden intrusion of the police, lost his head\nand stammered: \u201cBut there\u2019s a lady and gentleman upstairs in one of the\nprivate rooms.\u201d\n\nDupot quietly pushed him aside. \u201cA lady and gentleman, that\u2019s not what we\nare looking for.... Come, make haste, open all the doors, you mustn\u2019t\nleave a cupboard closed.\u201d\n\nThen climbing to the upper floor, he and Mond\u00e9sir explored in turn every\napartment and corner till they at last reached the room where Eve and\nG\u00e9rard were together. Here the waiter was unable to admit them, as the\ndoor was bolted inside. \u201cOpen the door!\u201d he called through the keyhole,\n\u201cit isn\u2019t you that they want!\u201d\n\nAt last the bolt was drawn back, and Dupot, without even venturing to\nsmile, allowed the trembling lady and gentleman to go downstairs, while\nMond\u00e9sir, entering the room, looked under every article of furniture, and\neven peeped into a little cupboard in order that no neglect might be\nimputed to him.\n\nMeantime, in the public room which they had to cross after descending the\nstairs, Eve and G\u00e9rard experienced fresh emotion; for people whom they\nknew were there, brought together by an extraordinary freak of chance.\nAlthough Eve\u2019s face was hidden by a thick veil, her eyes met her son\u2019s\nglance and she felt sure that he recognised her. What a fatality! He had\nso long a tongue and told his sister everything! Then, as the Count, in\ndespair at such a scandal, hurried off with the Baroness to conduct her\nthrough the pouring rain to her cab, they both distinctly heard little\nPrincess Rosemonde exclaim: \u201cWhy, that was Count de Quinsac! Who was the\nlady, do you know?\u201d And as Hyacinthe, greatly put out, returned no\nanswer, she insisted, saying: \u201cCome, you must surely know her. Who was\nshe, eh?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! nobody. Some woman or other,\u201d he ended by replying.\n\nPierre, who had understood the truth, turned his eyes away to hide his\nembarrassment. But all at once the scene changed. At the very moment when\nCommissary Dupot and detective Mond\u00e9sir came downstairs again, after\nvainly exploring the upper floor, a loud shout was raised outside,\nfollowed by a noise of running and scrambling. Then Gascogne, the Chief\nof the Detective Force, who had remained in the rear of the chalet,\ncontinuing the search through the outbuildings, made his appearance,\npushing before him a bundle of rags and mud, which two policemen held on\neither side. And this bundle was the man, the hunted man, who had just\nbeen discovered in the coach-house, inside a staved cask, covered with\nhay.\n\nAh! what a whoop of victory there was after that run of two hours\u2019\nduration, that frantic chase which had left them all breathless and\nfootsore! It had been the most exciting, the most savage of all sports--a\nman hunt! They had caught the man at last, and they pushed him, they\ndragged him, they belaboured him with blows. And he, the man, what a\nsorry prey he looked! A wreck, wan and dirty from having spent the night\nin a hole full of leaves, still soaked to his waist from having rushed\nthrough a stream, drenched too by the rain, bespattered with mire, his\ncoat and trousers in tatters, his cap a mere shred, his legs and hands\nbleeding from his terrible rush through thickets bristling with brambles\nand nettles. There no longer seemed anything human about his face; his\nhair stuck to his moist temples, his bloodshot eyes protruded from their\nsockets; fright, rage, and suffering were all blended on his wasted,\ncontracted face. Still it was he, the man, the quarry, and they gave him\nanother push, and he sank on one of the tables of the little caf\u00e9, still\nheld and shaken, however, by the rough hands of the policemen.\n\nThen Guillaume shuddered as if thunderstruck, and caught hold of Pierre\u2019s\nhand. At this the priest, who was looking on, suddenly understood the\ntruth and also quivered. Salvat! the man was Salvat! It was Salvat whom\nthey had seen rushing through the wood like a wild boar forced by the\nhounds. And it was Salvat who was there, now conquered and simply a\nfilthy bundle. Then once more there came to Pierre, amidst his anguish, a\nvision of the errand girl lying yonder at the entrance of the Duvillard\nmansion, the pretty fair-haired girl whom the bomb had ripped and killed!\n\nDupot and Mond\u00e9sir made haste to participate in Gascogne\u2019s triumph. To\ntell the truth, however, the man had offered no resistance; it was like a\nlamb that he had let the police lay hold of him. And since he had been in\nthe caf\u00e9, still roughly handled, he had simply cast a weary and mournful\nglance around him.\n\nAt last he spoke, and the first words uttered by his hoarse, gasping\nvoice were these: \u201cI am hungry.\u201d\n\nHe was sinking with hunger and weariness. This was the third day that he\nhad eaten nothing.\n\n\u201cGive him some bread,\u201d said Commissary Dupot to the waiter. \u201cHe can eat\nit while a cab is being fetched.\u201d\n\nA policeman went off to find a vehicle. The rain had suddenly ceased\nfalling, the clear ring of a bicyclist\u2019s bell was heard in the distance,\nsome carriages drove by, and under the pale sunrays life again came back\nto the Bois.\n\nMeantime, Salvat had fallen gluttonously upon the hunk of bread which had\nbeen given him, and whilst he was devouring it with rapturous animal\nsatisfaction, he perceived the four customers seated around. He seemed\nirritated by the sight of Hyacinthe and Rosemonde, whose faces expressed\nthe mingled anxiety and delight they felt at thus witnessing the arrest\nof some bandit or other. But all at once his mournful, bloodshot eyes\nwavered, for to his intense surprise he had recognised Pierre and\nGuillaume. When he again looked at the latter it was with the submissive\naffection of a grateful dog, and as if he were once more promising that\nhe would divulge nothing, whatever might happen.\n\nAt last he again spoke, as if addressing himself like a man of courage,\nboth to Guillaume, from whom he had averted his eyes, and to others also,\nhis comrades who were not there: \u201cIt was silly of me to run,\u201d said he. \u201cI\ndon\u2019t know why I did so. It\u2019s best that it should be all ended. I\u2019m\nready.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nV. THE GAME OF POLITICS\n\nON reading the newspapers on the following morning Pierre and Guillaume\nwere greatly surprised at not finding in them the sensational accounts of\nSalvat\u2019s arrest which they had expected. All they could discover was a\nbrief paragraph in a column of general news, setting forth that some\npolicemen on duty in the Bois de Boulogne had there arrested an\nAnarchist, who was believed to have played a part in certain recent\noccurrences. On the other hand, the papers gave a deal of space to the\nquestions raised by Sagnier\u2019s fresh denunciations. There were innumerable\narticles on the African Railways scandal, and the great debate which\nmight be expected at the Chamber of Deputies, should M\u00e8ge, the Socialist\nmember, really renew his interpellation, as he had announced his\nintention of doing.\n\nAs Guillaume\u2019s wrist was now fast healing, and nothing seemed to threaten\nhim, he had already, on the previous evening, decided that he would\nreturn to Montmartre. The police had passed him by without apparently\nsuspecting any responsibility on his part; and he was convinced that\nSalvat would keep silent. Pierre, however, begged him to wait a little\nlonger, at any rate until the prisoner should have been interrogated by\nthe investigating magistrate, by which time they would be able to judge\nthe situation more clearly. Pierre, moreover, during his long stay at the\nHome Department on the previous morning, had caught a glimpse of certain\nthings and overheard certain words which made him suspect some dim\nconnection between Salvat\u2019s crime and the parliamentary crisis; and he\ntherefore desired a settlement of the latter before Guillaume returned to\nhis wonted life.\n\n\u201cJust listen,\u201d he said to his brother. \u201cI am going to Morin\u2019s to ask him\nto come and dine here this evening, for it is absolutely necessary that\nBarth\u00e8s should be warned of the fresh blow which is falling on him. And\nthen I think I shall go to the Chamber, as I want to know what takes\nplace there. After that, since you desire it, I will let you go back to\nyour own home.\u201d\n\nIt was not more than half-past one when Pierre reached the\nPalais-Bourbon. It had occurred to him that Fons\u00e8gue would be able to\nsecure him admittance to the meeting-hall, but in the vestibule he met\nGeneral de Bozonnet, who happened to possess a couple of tickets. A\nfriend of his, who was to have accompanied him, had, at the last moment,\nbeen unable to come. So widespread was the curiosity concerning the\ndebate now near at hand, and so general were the predictions that it\nwould prove a most exciting one, that the demand for tickets had been\nextremely keen during the last twenty-four hours. In fact Pierre would\nnever have been able to obtain admittance if the General had not\ngood-naturedly offered to take him in. As a matter of fact the old\nwarrior was well pleased to have somebody to chat with. He explained that\nhe had simply come there to kill time, just as he might have killed it at\na concert or a charity bazaar. However, like the ex-Legitimist and\nBonapartist that he was, he had really come for the pleasure of feasting\nhis eyes on the shameful spectacle of parliamentary ignominy.\n\nWhen the General and Pierre had climbed the stairs, they were able to\nsecure two front seats in one of the public galleries. Little Massot, who\nwas already there, and who knew them both, placed one of them on his\nright and the other on his left. \u201cI couldn\u2019t find a decent seat left in\nthe press gallery,\u201d said he, \u201cbut I managed to get this place, from which\nI shall be able to see things properly. It will certainly be a big\nsitting. Just look at the number of people there are on every side!\u201d\n\nThe narrow and badly arranged galleries were packed to overflowing. There\nwere men of every age and a great many women too in the confused, serried\nmass of spectators, amidst which one only distinguished a multiplicity of\npale white faces. The real scene, however, was down below in the\nmeeting-hall, which was as yet empty, and with its rows of seats disposed\nin semi-circular fashion looked like the auditorium of a theatre. Under\nthe cold light which fell from the glazed roofing appeared the solemn,\nshiny tribune, whence members address the Chamber, whilst behind it, on a\nhigher level, and running right along the rear wall, was what is called\nthe Bureau, with its various tables and seats, including the presidential\narmchair. The Bureau, like the tribune, was still unoccupied. The only\npersons one saw there were a couple of attendants who were laying out new\npens and filling inkstands.\n\n\u201cThe women,\u201d said Massot with a laugh, after another glance at the\ngalleries, \u201ccome here just as they might come to a menagerie, that is, in\nthe secret hope of seeing wild beasts devour one another. But, by the\nway, did you read the article in the \u2018Voix du Peuple\u2019 this morning? What\na wonderful fellow that Sagnier is. When nobody else can find any filth\nleft, he manages to discover some. He apparently thinks it necessary to\nadd something new every day, in order to send his sales up. And of course\nit all disturbs the public, and it\u2019s thanks to him that so many people\nhave come here in the hope of witnessing some horrid scene.\u201d\n\nThen he laughed again, as he asked Pierre if he had read an unsigned\narticle in the \u201cGlobe,\u201d which in very dignified but perfidious language\nhad called upon Barroux to give the full and frank explanations which the\ncountry had a right to demand in that matter of the African Railways.\nThis paper had hitherto vigorously supported the President of the\nCouncil, but in the article in question the coldness which precedes a\nrupture was very apparent. Pierre replied that the article had much\nsurprised him, for he had imagined that Fons\u00e8gue and Barroux were linked\ntogether by identity of views and long-standing personal friendship.\n\nMassot was still laughing. \u201cQuite so,\u201d said he. \u201cAnd you may be sure that\nthe governor\u2019s heart bled when he wrote that article. It has been much\nnoticed, and it will do the government a deal of harm. But the governor,\nyou see, knows better than anybody else what line he ought to follow to\nsave both his own position and the paper\u2019s.\u201d\n\nThen he related what extraordinary confusion and emotion reigned among\nthe deputies in the lobbies through which he had strolled before coming\nupstairs to secure a seat. After an adjournment of a couple of days the\nChamber found itself confronted by this terrible scandal, which was like\none of those conflagrations which, at the moment when they are supposed\nto be dying out, suddenly flare up again and devour everything. The\nvarious figures given in Sagnier\u2019s list, the two hundred thousand francs\npaid to Barroux, the eighty thousand handed to Monferrand, the fifty\nthousand allotted to Fons\u00e8gue, the ten thousand pocketed by Duthil, and\nthe three thousand secured by Chaigneux, with all the other amounts\ndistributed among So-and-so and So-and-so, formed the general subject of\nconversation. And at the same time some most extraordinary stories were\ncurrent; there was no end of tittle-tattle in which fact and falsehood\nwere so inextricably mingled that everybody was at sea as to the real\ntruth. Whilst many deputies turned pale and trembled as beneath a blast\nof terror, others passed by purple with excitement, bursting with\ndelight, laughing with exultation at the thought of coming victory. For,\nin point of fact, beneath all the assumed indignation, all the calls for\nparliamentary cleanliness and morality, there simply lay a question of\npersons--the question of ascertaining whether the government would be\noverthrown, and in that event of whom the new administration would\nconsist. Barroux no doubt appeared to be in a bad way; but with things in\nsuch a muddle one was bound to allow a margin for the unexpected. From\nwhat was generally said it seemed certain that M\u00e8ge would be extremely\nviolent. Barroux would answer him, and the Minister\u2019s friends declared\nthat he was determined to speak out in the most decisive manner. As for\nMonferrand he would probably address the Chamber after his colleague, but\nVignon\u2019s intentions were somewhat doubtful, as, in spite of his delight,\nhe made a pretence of remaining in the background. He had been seen\ngoing from one to another of his partisans, advising them to keep calm,\nin order that they might retain the cold, keen _coup d\u2019\u0153il_ which in\nwarfare generally decides the victory. Briefly, such was the plotting and\nintriguing that never had any witch\u2019s cauldron brimful of drugs and\nnameless abominations been set to boil on a more hellish fire than that\nof this parliamentary cook-shop.\n\n\u201cHeaven only knows what they will end by serving us,\u201d said little Massot\nby way of conclusion.\n\nGeneral de Bozonnet for his part anticipated nothing but disaster. If\nFrance had only possessed an army, said he, one might have swept away\nthat handful of bribe-taking parliamentarians who preyed upon the country\nand rotted it. But there was no army left, there was merely an armed\nnation, a very different thing. And thereupon, like a man of a past age\nwhom the present times distracted, he started on what had been his\nfavourite subject of complaint ever since he had been retired from the\nservice.\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s an idea for an article if you want one,\u201d he said to Massot.\n\u201cAlthough France may have a million soldiers she hasn\u2019t got an army. I\u2019ll\ngive you some notes of mine, and you will be able to tell people the\ntruth.\u201d\n\nWarfare, he continued, ought to be purely and simply a caste occupation,\nwith commanders designated by divine right, leading mercenaries or\nvolunteers into action. By democratising warfare people had simply killed\nit; a circumstance which he deeply regretted, like a born soldier who\nregarded fighting as the only really noble occupation that life offered.\nFor, as soon as it became every man\u2019s duty to fight, none was willing to\ndo so; and thus compulsory military service--what was called \u201cthe nation\nin arms\u201d--would, at a more or less distant date, certainly bring about\nthe end of warfare. If France had not engaged in a European war since\n1870 this was precisely due to the fact that everybody in France was\nready to fight. But rulers hesitated to throw a whole nation against\nanother nation, for the loss both in life and treasure would be\ntremendous. And so the thought that all Europe was transformed into a\nvast camp filled the General with anger and disgust. He sighed for the\nold times when men fought for the pleasure of the thing, just as they\nhunted; whereas nowadays people were convinced that they would\nexterminate one another at the very first engagement.\n\n\u201cBut surely it wouldn\u2019t be an evil if war should disappear,\u201d Pierre\ngently remarked.\n\nThis somewhat angered the General. \u201cWell, you\u2019ll have pretty nations if\npeople no longer fight,\u201d he answered, and then trying to show a practical\nspirit, he added: \u201cNever has the art of war cost more money than since\nwar itself has become an impossibility. The present-day defensive peace\nis purely and simply ruining every country in Europe. One may be spared\ndefeat, but utter bankruptcy is certainly at the end of it all. And in\nany case the profession of arms is done for. All faith in it is dying\nout, and it will soon be forsaken, just as men have begun to forsake the\npriesthood.\u201d\n\nThereupon he made a gesture of mingled grief and anger, almost cursing\nthat parliament, that Republican legislature before him, as if he\nconsidered it responsible for the future extinction of warfare. But\nlittle Massot was wagging his head dubiously, for he regarded the subject\nas rather too serious a one for him to write upon. And, all at once, in\norder to turn the conversation into another channel, he exclaimed: \u201cAh!\nthere\u2019s Monseigneur Martha in the diplomatic gallery beside the Spanish\nAmbassador. It\u2019s denied, you know, that he intends to come forward as a\ncandidate in Morbihan. He\u2019s far too shrewd to wish to be a deputy. He\nalready pulls the strings which set most of the Catholic deputies who\nhave \u2018rallied\u2019 to the Republican Government in motion.\u201d\n\nPierre himself had just noticed Monseigneur Martha\u2019s smiling face. And,\nsomehow or other, however modest might be the prelate\u2019s demeanour, it\nseemed to him that he really played an important part in what was going\non. He could hardly take his eyes from him. It was as if he expected that\nhe would suddenly order men hither and thither, and direct the whole\nmarch of events.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said Massot again. \u201cHere comes M\u00e8ge. It won\u2019t be long now before\nthe sitting begins.\u201d\n\nThe hall, down below, was gradually filling. Deputies entered and\ndescended the narrow passages between the benches. Most of them remained\nstanding and chatting in a more or less excited way; but some seated\nthemselves and raised their grey, weary faces to the glazed roof. It was\na cloudy afternoon, and rain was doubtless threatening, for the light\nbecame quite livid. If the hall was pompous it was also dismal with its\nheavy columns, its cold allegorical statues, and its stretches of bare\nmarble and woodwork. The only brightness was that of the red velvet of\nthe benches and the gallery hand-rests.\n\nEvery deputy of any consequence who entered was named by Massot to his\ncompanions. M\u00e8ge, on being stopped by another member of the little\nSocialist group, began to fume and gesticulate. Then Vignon, detaching\nhimself from a group of friends and putting on an air of smiling\ncomposure, descended the steps towards his seat. The occupants of the\ngalleries, however, gave most attention to the accused members, those\nwhose names figured in Sagnier\u2019s list. And these were interesting\nstudies. Some showed themselves quite sprightly, as if they were entirely\nat their ease; but others had assumed a most grave and indignant\ndemeanour. Chaigneux staggered and hesitated as if beneath the weight of\nsome frightful act of injustice; whereas Duthil looked perfectly serene\nsave for an occasional twitch of his lips. The most admired, however, was\nFons\u00e8gue, who showed so candid a face, so open a glance, that his\ncolleagues as well as the spectators might well have declared him\ninnocent. Nobody indeed could have looked more like an honest man.\n\n\u201cAh! there\u2019s none like the governor,\u201d muttered Massot with enthusiasm.\n\u201cBut be attentive, for here come the ministers. One mustn\u2019t miss Barroux\u2019\nmeeting with Fons\u00e8gue, after this morning\u2019s article.\u201d\n\nChance willed it that as Barroux came along with his head erect, his face\npale, and his whole demeanour aggressive, he was obliged to pass Fons\u00e8gue\nin order to reach the ministerial bench. In doing so he did not speak to\nhim, but he gazed at him fixedly like one who is conscious of defection,\nof a cowardly stab in the back on the part of a traitor. Fons\u00e8gue seemed\nquite at ease, and went on shaking hands with one and another of his\ncolleagues as if he were altogether unconscious of Barroux\u2019 glance. Nor\ndid he even appear to see Monferrand, who walked by in the rear of the\nPrime Minister, wearing a placid good-natured air, as if he knew nothing\nof what was impending, but was simply coming to some ordinary humdrum\nsitting. However, when he reached his seat, he raised his eyes and smiled\nat Monseigneur Martha, who gently nodded to him. Then well pleased to\nthink that things were going as he wished them to go, he began to rub his\nhands, as he often did by way of expressing his satisfaction.\n\n\u201cWho is that grey-haired, mournful-looking gentleman on the ministerial\nbench?\u201d Pierre inquired of Massot.\n\n\u201cWhy, that\u2019s Taboureau, the Minister of Public Instruction, the excellent\ngentleman who is said to have no prestige. One\u2019s always hearing of him,\nand one never recognises him; he looks like an old, badly worn coin. Just\nlike Barroux he can\u2019t feel very well pleased with the governor this\nafternoon, for to-day\u2019s \u2018Globe\u2019 contained an article pointing out his\nthorough incapacity in everything concerning the fine arts. It was an\narticle in measured language, but all the more effective for that very\nreason. It would surprise me if Taboureau should recover from it.\u201d\n\nJust then a low roll of drums announced the arrival of the President and\nother officials of the Chamber. A door opened, and a little procession\npassed by amidst an uproar of exclamations and hasty footsteps. Then,\nstanding at his table, the President rang his bell and declared the\nsitting open. But few members remained silent, however, whilst one of the\nsecretaries, a dark, lanky young man with a harsh voice, read the minutes\nof the previous sitting. When they had been adopted, various letters of\napology for non-attendance were read, and a short, unimportant bill was\npassed without discussion. And then came the big affair, M\u00e8ge\u2019s\ninterpellation, and at once the whole Chamber was in a flutter, while the\nmost passionate curiosity reigned in the galleries above. On the\nGovernment consenting to the interpellation, the Chamber decided that the\ndebate should take place at once. And thereupon complete silence fell,\nsave that now and again a brief quiver sped by, in which one could detect\nthe various feelings, passions and appetites swaying the assembly.\n\nM\u00e8ge began to speak with assumed moderation, carefully setting forth the\nvarious points at issue. Tall and thin, gnarled and twisted like a\nvine-stock, he rested his hands on the tribune as if to support his bent\nfigure, and his speech was often interrupted by the little dry cough\nwhich came from the tuberculosis that was burning him. But his eyes\nsparkled with passion behind his glasses, and little by little his voice\nrose in piercing accents and he drew his lank figure erect and began to\ngesticulate vehemently. He reminded the Chamber that some two months\npreviously, at the time of the first denunciations published by the \u201cVoix\ndu Peuple,\u201d he had asked leave to interpellate the Government respecting\nthat deplorable affair of the African Railways; and he remarked, truly\nenough, that if the Chamber had not yielded to certain considerations\nwhich he did not wish to discuss, and had not adjourned his proposed\ninquiries, full light would long since have been thrown on the whole\naffair, in such wise that there would have been no revival, no increase\nof the scandal, and no possible pretext for that abominable campaign of\ndenunciation which tortured and disgusted the country. However, it had at\nlast been understood that silence could be maintained no longer. It was\nnecessary that the two ministers who were so loudly accused of having\nabused their trusts, should prove their innocence, throw full light upon\nall they had done; apart from which the Chamber itself could not possibly\nremain beneath the charge of wholesale venality.\n\nThen he recounted the whole history of the affair, beginning with the\ngrant of a concession for the African Lines to Baron Duvillard; and next\npassing to the proposals for the issue of lottery stock, which proposals,\nit was now said, had only been sanctioned by the Chamber after the most\nshameful bargaining and buying of votes. At this point M\u00e8ge became\nextremely violent. Speaking of that mysterious individual Hunter, Baron\nDuvillard\u2019s recruiter and go-between, he declared that the police had\nallowed him to flee from France, much preferring to spend its time in\nshadowing Socialist deputies. Then, hammering the tribune with his fist,\nhe summoned Barroux to give a categorical denial to the charges brought\nagainst him, and to make it absolutely clear that he had never received a\nsingle copper of the two hundred thousand francs specified in Hunter\u2019s\nlist. Forthwith certain members shouted to M\u00e8ge that he ought to read the\nwhole list; but when he wished to do so others vociferated that it was\nabominable, that such a mendacious and slanderous document ought not to\nbe accorded a place in the proceedings of the French legislature. M\u00e8ge\nwent on still in frantic fashion, figuratively casting Sagnier into the\ngutter, and protesting that there was nothing in common between himself\nand such a base insulter. But at the same time he demanded that justice\nand punishment should be meted out equally to one and all, and that if\nindeed there were any bribe-takers among his colleagues, they should be\nsent that very night to the prison of Mazas.\n\nMeantime the President, erect at his table, rang and rang his bell\nwithout managing to quell the uproar. He was like a pilot who finds the\ntempest too strong for him. Among all the men with purple faces and\nbarking mouths who were gathered in front of him, the ushers alone\nmaintained imperturbable gravity. At intervals between the bursts of\nshouting, M\u00e8ge\u2019s voice could still be heard. By some sudden transition he\nhad come to the question of a Collectivist organisation of society such\nas he dreamt of, and he contrasted it with the criminal capitalist\nsociety of the present day, which alone, said he, could produce such\nscandals. And yielding more and more to his apostolic fervour, declaring\nthat there could be no salvation apart from Collectivism, he shouted that\nthe day of triumph would soon dawn. He awaited it with a smile of\nconfidence. In his opinion, indeed, he merely had to overthrow that\nministry and perhaps another one, and then he himself would at last take\nthe reins of power in hand, like a reformer who would know how to pacify\nthe nation. As outside Socialists often declared, it was evident that the\nblood of a dictator flowed in that sectarian\u2019s veins. His feverish,\nstubborn rhetoric ended by exhausting his interrupters, who were\ncompelled to listen to him. When he at last decided to leave the tribune,\nloud applause arose from a few benches on the left.\n\n\u201cDo you know,\u201d said Massot to the General, \u201cI met M\u00e8ge taking a walk with\nhis three little children in the Jardin des Plantes the other day. He\nlooked after them as carefully as an old nurse. I believe he\u2019s a very\nworthy fellow at heart, and lives in a very modest way.\u201d\n\nBut a quiver had now sped through the assembly. Barroux had quitted his\nseat to ascend the tribune. He there drew himself erect, throwing his\nhead back after his usual fashion. There was a haughty, majestic,\nslightly sorrowful expression on his handsome face, which would have been\nperfect had his nose only been a little larger. He began to express his\nsorrow and indignation in fine flowery language, which he punctuated with\ntheatrical gestures. His eloquence was that of a tribune of the romantic\nschool, and as one listened to him one could divine that in spite of all\nhis pomposity he was really a worthy, tender-hearted and somewhat foolish\nman. That afternoon he was stirred by genuine emotion; his heart bled at\nthe thought of his disastrous destiny, he felt that a whole world was\ncrumbling with himself. Ah! what a cry of despair he stifled, the cry of\nthe man who is buffeted and thrown aside by the course of events on the\nvery day when he thinks that his civic devotion entitles him to triumph!\nTo have given himself and all he possessed to the cause of the Republic,\neven in the dark days of the Second Empire; to have fought and struggled\nand suffered persecution for that Republic\u2019s sake; to have established\nthat Republic amidst the battle of parties, after all the horrors of\nnational and civil war; and then, when the Republic at last triumphed and\nbecame a living fact, secure from all attacks and intrigues, to suddenly\nfeel like a survival of some other age, to hear new comers speak a new\nlanguage, preach a new ideal, and behold the collapse of all he had\nloved, all he had reverenced, all that had given him strength to fight\nand conquer! The mighty artisans of the early hours were no more; it had\nbeen meet that Gambetta should die. How bitter it all was for the last\nlingering old ones to find themselves among the men of the new,\nintelligent and shrewd generation, who gently smiled at them, deeming\ntheir romanticism quite out of fashion! All crumbled since the ideal of\nliberty collapsed, since liberty was no longer the one desideratum, the\nvery basis of the Republic whose existence had been so dearly purchased\nafter so long an effort!\n\nErect and dignified Barroux made his confession. The Republic to him was\nlike the sacred ark of life; the very worst deeds became saintly if they\nwere employed to save her from peril. And in all simplicity he, told his\nstory, how he had found the great bulk of Baron Duvillard\u2019s money going\nto the opposition newspapers as pretended payment for puffery and\nadvertising, whilst on the other hand the Republican organs received but\nbeggarly, trumpery amounts. He had been Minister of the Interior at the\ntime, and had therefore had charge of the press; so what would have been\nsaid of him if he had not endeavoured to reestablish some equilibrium in\nthis distribution of funds in order that the adversaries of the\ninstitutions of the country might not acquire a great increase of\nstrength by appropriating all the sinews of war? Hands had been stretched\nout towards him on all sides, a score of newspapers, the most faithful,\nthe most meritorious, had claimed their legitimate share. And he had\nensured them that share by distributing among them the two hundred\nthousand francs set down in the list against his name. Not a centime of\nthe money had gone into his own pocket, he would allow nobody to impugn\nhis personal honesty, on that point his word must suffice. At that moment\nBarroux was really grand. All his emphatic pomposity disappeared; he\nshowed himself, as he really was--an honest man, quivering, his heart\nbared, his conscience bleeding, in his bitter distress at having been\namong those who had laboured and at now being denied reward.\n\nFor, truth to tell, his words fell amidst icy silence. In his childish\nsimplicity he had anticipated an outburst of enthusiasm; a Republican\nChamber could but acclaim him for having saved the Republic; and now the\nfrigidity of one and all quite froze him. He suddenly felt that he was\nall alone, done for, touched by the hand of death. Nevertheless, he\ncontinued speaking amidst that terrible silence with the courage of one\nwho is committing suicide, and who, from his love of noble and eloquent\nattitudes, is determined to die standing. He ended with a final\nimpressive gesture. However, as he came down from the tribune, the\ngeneral coldness seemed to increase, not a single member applauded. With\nsupreme clumsiness he had alluded to the secret scheming of Rome and the\nclergy, whose one object, in his opinion, was to recover the predominant\nposition they had lost and restore monarchy in France at a more or less\ndistant date.\n\n\u201cHow silly of him! Ought a man ever to confess?\u201d muttered Massot. \u201cHe\u2019s\ndone for, and the ministry too!\u201d\n\nThen, amidst the general frigidity, Monferrand boldly ascended the\ntribune stairs. The prevailing uneasiness was compounded of all the\nsecret fear which sincerity always causes, of all the distress of the\nbribe-taking deputies who felt that they were rolling into an abyss, and\nalso of the embarrassment which the others felt at thought of the more or\nless justifiable compromises of politics. Something like relief,\ntherefore, came when Monferrand started with the most emphatic denials,\nprotesting in the name of his outraged honour, and dealing blow after\nblow on the tribune with one hand, while with the other he smote his\nchest. Short and thick-set, with his face thrust forward, hiding his\nshrewdness beneath an expression of indignant frankness, he was for a\nmoment really superb. He denied everything. He was not only ignorant of\nwhat was meant by that sum of eighty thousand francs set down against his\nname, but he defied the whole world to prove that he had even touched a\nsingle copper of that money. He boiled over with indignation to such a\npoint that he did not simply deny bribe-taking on his own part, he denied\nit on behalf of the whole assembly, of all present and past French\nlegislatures, as if, indeed, bribe-taking on the part of a representative\nof the people was altogether too monstrous an idea, a crime that\nsurpassed possibility to such an extent that the mere notion of it was\nabsurd. And thereupon applause rang out; the Chamber, delivered from its\nfears, thrilled by his words, acclaimed him.\n\nFrom the little Socialist group, however, some jeers arose, and voices\nsummoned Monferrand to explain himself on the subject of the African\nRailways, reminding him that he had been at the head of the Public Works\nDepartment at the time of the vote, and requiring of him that he should\nstate what he now meant to do, as Minister of the Interior, in order to\nreassure the country. He juggled with this question, declaring that if\nthere were any guilty parties they would be punished, for he did not\nrequire anybody to remind him of his duty. And then, all at once, with\nincomparable maestria, he had recourse to the diversion which he had been\npreparing since the previous day. His duty, said he, was a thing which he\nnever forgot; he discharged it like a faithful soldier of the nation hour\nby hour, and with as much vigilance as prudence. He had been accused of\nemploying the police on he knew not what base spying work in such wise as\nto allow the man Hunter to escape. Well, as for that much-slandered\npolice force, he would tell the Chamber on what work he had really\nemployed it the day before, and how zealously it had laboured for the\ncause of law and order. In the Bois de Boulogne, on the previous\nafternoon, it had arrested that terrible scoundrel, the perpetrator of\nthe crime in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy, that Anarchist mechanician Salvat,\nwho for six weeks past had so cunningly contrived to elude capture. The\nscoundrel had made a full confession during the evening, and the law\nwould now take its course with all despatch. Public morality was at last\navenged, Paris might now emerge in safety from its long spell of terror,\nAnarchism would be struck down, annihilated. And that was what he,\nMonferrand, had done as a Minister for the honour and safety of his\ncountry, whilst villains were vainly seeking to dishonour him by\ninscribing his name on a list of infamy, the outcome of the very basest\npolitical intrigues.\n\nThe Chamber listened agape and quivering. This story of Salvat\u2019s arrest,\nwhich none of the morning papers had reported; the present which\nMonferrand seemed to be making them of that terrible Anarchist whom many\nhad already begun to regard as a myth; the whole _mise-en-sc\u00e8ne_ of the\nMinister\u2019s speech transported the deputies as if they were suddenly\nwitnessing the finish of a long-interrupted drama. Stirred and flattered,\nthey prolonged their applause, while Monferrand went on celebrating his\nact of energy, how he had saved society, how crime should be punished,\nand how he himself would ever prove that he had a strong arm and could\nanswer for public order. He even won favour with the Conservatives and\nClericals on the Right by separating himself from Barroux, addressing a\nfew words of sympathy to those Catholics who had \u201crallied\u201d to the\nRepublic, and appealing for concord among men of different beliefs in\norder that they might fight the common enemy, that fierce, wild socialism\nwhich talked of overthrowing everything!\n\nBy the time Monferrand came down from the tribune, the trick was played,\nhe had virtually saved himself. Both the Right and Left of the Chamber*\napplauded, drowning the protests of the few Socialists whose\nvociferations only added to the triumphal tumult. Members eagerly\nstretched out their hands to the Minister, who for a moment remained\nstanding there and smiling. But there was some anxiety in that smile of\nhis; his success was beginning to frighten him. Had he spoken too well,\nand saved the entire Cabinet instead of merely saving himself? That would\nmean the ruin of his plan. The Chamber ought not to vote under the effect\nof that speech which had thrilled it so powerfully. Thus Monferrand,\nthough he still continued to smile, spent a few anxious moments in\nwaiting to see if anybody would rise to answer him.\n\n  * Ever since the days of the Bourbon Restoration it has been\n    the practice in the French Chambers for the more conservative\n    members to seat themselves on the President\u2019s right, and for\n    the Radical ones to place themselves on his left. The central\n    seats of the semicircle in which the members\u2019 seats are\n    arranged in tiers are usually occupied by men of moderate views.\n    Generally speaking, such terms as Right Centre and Left Centre\n    are applied to groups of Moderates inclining in the first place\n    to Conservatism and in the latter to Radicalism. All this is of\n    course known to readers acquainted with French institutions, but\n    I give the explanation because others, after perusing French\n    news in some daily paper, have often asked me what was meant by\n    \u201ca deputy of the Right,\u201d and so forth.--Trans.\n\nHis success had been as great among the occupants of the galleries as\namong the deputies themselves. Several ladies had been seen applauding,\nand Monseigneur Martha had given unmistakable signs of the liveliest\nsatisfaction. \u201cAh, General!\u201d said Massot to Bozonnet in a sneering way.\n\u201cThose are our fighting men of the present time. And he\u2019s a bold and\nstrong one, is Monferrand. Of course it is all what people style \u2018saving\none\u2019s bacon,\u2019 but none the less it\u2019s very clever work.\u201d\n\nJust then, however, Monferrand to his great satisfaction had seen Vignon\nrise from his seat in response to the urging of his friends. And\nthereupon all anxiety vanished from the Minister\u2019s smile, which became\none of malicious placidity.\n\nThe very atmosphere of the Chamber seemed to change with Vignon in the\ntribune. He was slim, with a fair and carefully tended beard, blue eyes\nand all the suppleness of youth. He spoke, moreover, like a practical\nman, in simple, straightforward language, which made the emptiness of the\nother\u2019s declamatory style painfully conspicuous. His term of official\nservice as a prefect in the provinces had endowed him with keen insight;\nand it was in an easy way that he propounded and unravelled the most\nintricate questions. Active and courageous, confident in his own star,\ntoo young and too shrewd to have compromised himself in anything so far,\nhe was steadily marching towards the future. He had already drawn up a\nrather more advanced political programme than that of Barroux and\nMonferrand, so that when opportunity offered there might be good reasons\nfor him to take their place. Moreover, he was quite capable of carrying\nout his programme by attempting some of the long-promised reforms for\nwhich the country was waiting. He had guessed that honesty, when it had\nprudence and shrewdness as its allies, must some day secure an innings.\nIn a clear voice, and in a very quiet, deliberate way, he now said what\nit was right to say on the subject under discussion, the things that\ncommon sense dictated and that the Chamber itself secretly desired should\nbe said. He was certainly the first to rejoice over an arrest which would\nreassure the country; but he failed to understand what connection there\ncould be between that arrest and the sad business that had been brought\nbefore the Chamber. The two affairs were quite distinct and different,\nand he begged his colleagues not to vote in the state of excitement in\nwhich he saw them. Full light must be thrown on the African Railways\nquestion, and this, one could not expect from the two incriminated\nministers. However, he was opposed to any suggestion of a committee of\ninquiry. In his opinion the guilty parties, if such there were, ought to\nbe brought immediately before a court of law. And, like Barroux, he wound\nup with a discreet allusion to the growing influence of the clergy,\ndeclaring that he was against all unworthy compromises, and was equally\nopposed to any state dictatorship and any revival of the ancient\ntheocratic spirit.\n\nAlthough there was but little applause when Vignon returned to his seat,\nit was evident that the Chamber was again master of its emotions. And the\nsituation seemed so clear, and the overthrow of the ministry so certain,\nthat M\u00e8ge, who had meant to reply to the others, wisely abstained from\ndoing so. Meantime people noticed the placid demeanour of Monferrand, who\nhad listened to Vignon with the utmost complacency, as if he were\nrendering homage to an adversary\u2019s talent; whereas Barroux, ever since\nthe cold silence which had greeted his speech, had remained motionless in\nhis seat, bowed down and pale as a corpse.\n\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s all over,\u201d resumed Massot, amidst the hubbub which arose as\nthe deputies prepared to vote; \u201cthe ministry\u2019s done for. Little Vignon\nwill go a long way, you know. People say that he dreams of the Elys\u00e9e. At\nall events everything points to him as our next prime minister.\u201d\n\nThen, as the journalist rose, intending to go off, the General detained\nhim: \u201cWait a moment, Monsieur Massot,\u201d said he. \u201cHow disgusting all that\nparliamentary cooking is! You ought to point it out in an article, and\nshow people how the country is gradually being weakened and rotted to the\nmarrow by all such useless and degrading discussions. Why, a great battle\nresulting in the loss of 50,000 men would exhaust us less than ten years\nof this abominable parliamentary system. You must call on me some\nmorning. I will show you a scheme of military reform, in which I point\nout the necessity of returning to the limited professional armies which\nwe used to have, for this present-day national army, as folks call it,\nwhich is a semi-civilian affair and at best a mere herd of men, is like a\ndead weight on us, and is bound to pull us down!\u201d\n\nPierre, for his part, had not spoken a word since the beginning of the\ndebate. He had listened to everything, at first influenced by the thought\nof his brother\u2019s interests, and afterwards mastered by the feverishness\nwhich gradually took possession of everybody present. He had become\nconvinced that there was nothing more for Guillaume to fear; but how\ncuriously did one event fit into another, and how loudly had Salvat\u2019s\narrest re-echoed in the Chamber! Looking down into the seething hall\nbelow him, he had detected all the clash of rival passions and interests.\nAfter watching the great struggle between Barroux, Monferrand and Vignon,\nhe had gazed upon the childish delight of that terrible Socialist M\u00e8ge,\nwho was so pleased at having been able to stir up the depths of those\ntroubled waters, in which he always unwittingly angled for the benefit of\nothers. Then, too, Pierre had become interested in Fons\u00e8gue, who, knowing\nwhat had been arranged between Monferrand, Duvillard and himself, evinced\nperfect calmness and strove to reassure Duthil and Chaigneux, who, on\ntheir side, were quite dismayed by the ministry\u2019s impending fall. Yet,\nPierre\u2019s eyes always came back to Monseigneur Martha. He had watched his\nserene smiling face throughout the sitting, striving to detect his\nimpressions of the various incidents that had occurred, as if in his\nopinion that dramatic parliamentary comedy had only been played as a step\ntowards the more or less distant triumph for which the prelate laboured.\nAnd now, while awaiting the result of the vote, as Pierre turned towards\nMassot and the General, he found that they were talking of nothing but\nrecruiting and tactics and the necessity of a bath of blood for the whole\nof Europe. Ah! poor mankind, ever fighting and ever devouring one another\nin parliaments as well as on battle-fields, when, thought Pierre, would\nit decide to disarm once and for all, and live at peace according to the\nlaws of justice and reason!\n\nThen he again looked down into the hall, where the greatest confusion was\nprevailing among the deputies with regard to the coming vote. There was\nquite a rainfall of suggested \u201cresolutions,\u201d from a very violent one\nproposed by M\u00e8ge, to another, which was merely severe, emanating from\nVignon. The ministry, however, would only accept the \u201cOrder of the day\npure and simple,\u201d a mere decision, that is, to pass to the next business,\nas if M\u00e8ge\u2019s interpellation had been unworthy of attention. And presently\nthe Government was defeated, Vignon\u2019s resolution being adopted by a\nmajority of twenty-five. Some portion of the Left had evidently joined\nhands with the Right and the Socialist group. A prolonged hubbub followed\nthis result.\n\n\u201cWell, so we are to have a Vignon Cabinet,\u201d said Massot, as he went off\nwith Pierre and the General. \u201cAll the same, though, Monferrand has saved\nhimself, and if I were in Vignon\u2019s place I should distrust him.\u201d\n\nThat evening there was a very touching farewell scene at the little house\nat Neuilly. When Pierre returned thither from the Chamber, saddened but\nreassured with regard to the future, Guillaume at once made up his mind\nto go home on the morrow. And as Nicholas Barth\u00e8s was compelled to leave,\nthe little dwelling seemed on the point of relapsing into dreary quietude\nonce more.\n\nTh\u00e9ophile Morin, whom Pierre had informed of the painful alternative in\nwhich Barth\u00e8s was placed, duly came to dinner; but he did not have time\nto speak to the old man before they all sat down to table at seven\no\u2019clock. As usual Barth\u00e8s had spent his day in marching, like a caged\nlion, up and down the room in which he had accepted shelter after the\nfashion of a big fearless child, who never worried with regard either to\nhis present circumstances or the troubles which the future might have in\nstore for him. His life had ever been one of unlimited hope, which\nreality had ever shattered. Although all that he had loved, all that he\nhad hoped to secure by fifty years of imprisonment or exile,--liberty,\nequality and a real brotherly republic,--had hitherto failed to come,\nsuch as he had dreamt of them, he nevertheless retained the candid faith\nof his youth, and was ever confident in the near future. He would smile\nindulgently when new comers, men of violent ideas, derided him and called\nhim a poor old fellow. For his part, he could make neither head nor tail\nof the many new sects. He simply felt indignant with their lack of human\nfeeling, and stubbornly adhered to his own idea of basing the world\u2019s\nregeneration on the simple proposition that men were naturally good and\nought to be free and brotherly.\n\nThat evening at dinner, feeling that he was with friends who cared for\nhim, Barth\u00e8s proved extremely gay, and showed all his ingenuousness in\ntalking of his ideal, which would soon be realised, said he, in spite of\neverything. He could tell a story well whenever he cared to chat, and on\nthat occasion he related some delightful anecdotes about the prisons\nthrough which he had passed. He knew all the dungeons, Ste. Pelagie and\nMont St. Michel, Belle-Ile-en-Mer and Clairvaux, to say nothing of\ntemporary gaols and the evil-smelling hulks on board which political\nprisoners are often confined. And he still laughed at certain\nrecollections, and related how in the direst circumstances he had always\nbeen able to seek refuge in his conscience. The others listened to him\nquite charmed by his conversation, but full of anguish at the thought\nthat this perpetual prisoner or exile must again rise and take his staff\nto sally forth, driven from his native land once more.\n\nPierre did not speak out until they were partaking of dessert. Then he\nrelated how the Minister had written to him, and how in a brief interview\nhe had stated that Barth\u00e8s must cross the frontier within forty-eight\nhours if he did not wish to be arrested. Thereupon the old man gravely\nrose, with his white fleece, his eagle beak and his bright eyes still\nsparkling with the fire of youth. And he wished to go off at once.\n\u201cWhat!\u201d said he, \u201cyou have known all this since yesterday, and have still\nkept me here at the risk of my compromising you even more than I had done\nalready! You must forgive me, I did not think of the worry I might cause\nyou, I thought that everything would be satisfactorily arranged. I must\nthank you both--yourself and Guillaume--for the few days of quietude that\nyou have procured to an old vagabond and madman like myself.\u201d\n\nThen, as they tried to prevail on him to remain until the following\nmorning, he would not listen to them. There would be a train for Brussels\nabout midnight, and he had ample time to take it. He refused to let Morin\naccompany him. No, no, said he, Morin was not a rich man, and moreover he\nhad work to attend to. Why should he take him away from his duties, when\nit was so easy, so simple, for him to go off alone? He was going back\ninto exile as into misery and grief which he had long known, like some\nWandering Jew of Liberty, ever driven onward through the world.\n\nWhen he took leave of the others at ten o\u2019clock, in the little sleepy\nstreet just outside the house, tears suddenly dimmed his eyes. \u201cAh! I\u2019m\nno longer a young man,\u201d he said; \u201cit\u2019s all over this time. I shall never\ncome back again. My bones will rest in some corner over yonder.\u201d And yet,\nafter he had affectionately embraced Pierre and Guillaume, he drew\nhimself up like one who remained unconquered, and he raised a supreme cry\nof hope. \u201cBut after all, who knows? Triumph may perhaps come to-morrow.\nThe future belongs to those who prepare it and wait for it!\u201d\n\nThen he walked away, and long after he had disappeared his firm, sonorous\nfootsteps could be heard re-echoing in the quiet night.\n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK IV.\n\n\n\n\nI. PIERRE AND MARIE\n\n\nON the mild March morning when Pierre left his little house at Neuilly to\naccompany Guillaume to Montmartre, he was oppressed by the thought that\non returning home he would once more find himself alone with nothing to\nprevent him from relapsing into negation and despair. The idea of this\nhad kept him from sleeping, and he still found it difficult to hide his\ndistress and force a smile.\n\nThe sky was so clear and the atmosphere so mild that the brothers had\nresolved to go to Montmartre on foot by way of the outer boulevards. Nine\no\u2019clock was striking when they set out. Guillaume for his part was very\ngay at the thought of the surprise he would give his family. It was as if\nhe were suddenly coming back from a long journey. He had not warned them\nof his intentions; he had merely written to them now and again to tell\nthem that he was recovering, and they certainly had no idea that his\nreturn was so near at hand.\n\nWhen Guillaume and Pierre had climbed the sunlit slopes of Montmartre,\nand crossed the quiet countrified Place du Tertre, the former, by means\nof a latch-key, quietly opened the door of his house, which seemed to be\nasleep, so profound was the stillness both around and within it. Pierre\nfound it the same as on the occasion of his previous and only visit.\nFirst came the narrow passage which ran through the ground-floor,\naffording a view of all Paris at the further end. Next there was the\ngarden, reduced to a couple of plum-trees and a clump of lilac-bushes,\nthe leaves of which had now sprouted. And this time the priest perceived\nthree bicycles leaning against the trees. Beyond them stood the large\nwork-shop, so gay, and yet so peaceful, with its huge window overlooking\na sea of roofs.\n\nGuillaume had reached the work-shop without meeting anybody. With an\nexpression of much amusement he raised a finger to his lips. \u201cAttention,\nPierre,\u201d he whispered; \u201cyou\u2019ll just see!\u201d\n\nThen having noiselessly opened the door, they remained for a moment on\nthe threshold.\n\nThe three sons alone were there. Near his forge stood Thomas working a\nboring machine, with which he was making some holes in a small brass\nplate. Then Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine were seated on either side of their\nlarge table, the former reading, and the latter finishing a block. The\nbright sunshine streamed in, playing over all the seeming disorder of the\nroom, where so many callings and so many implements found place. A large\nbunch of wallflowers bloomed on the women\u2019s work-table near the window;\nand absorbed as the young men were in their respective tasks the only\nsound was the slight hissing of the boring machine each time that the\neldest of them drilled another hole.\n\nHowever, although Guillaume did not stir, there suddenly came a quiver,\nan awakening. His sons seemed to guess his presence, for they raised\ntheir heads, each at the same moment. From each, too, came the same cry,\nand a common impulse brought them first to their feet and then to his\narms.\n\n\u201cFather!\u201d\n\nGuillaume embraced them, feeling very happy. And that was all; there was\nno long spell of emotion, no useless talk. It was as if he had merely\ngone out the day before and, delayed by business, had now come back.\nStill, he looked at them with his kindly smile, and they likewise smiled\nwith their eyes fixed on his. Those glances proclaimed everything, the\nclosest affection and complete self-bestowal for ever.\n\n\u201cCome in, Pierre,\u201d called Guillaume; \u201cshake hands with these young men.\u201d\n\nThe priest had remained near the door, overcome by a singular feeling of\ndiscomfort. When his nephews had vigorously shaken hands with him, he sat\ndown near the window apart from them, as if he felt out of his element\nthere.\n\n\u201cWell, youngsters,\u201d said Guillaume, \u201cwhere\u2019s M\u00e8re-Grand, and where\u2019s\nMarie?\u201d\n\nTheir grandmother was upstairs in her room, they said; and Marie had\ntaken it into her head to go marketing. This, by the way, was one of her\ndelights. She asserted that she was the only one who knew how to buy\nnew-laid eggs and butter of a nutty odour. Moreover, she sometimes\nbrought some dainty or some flowers home, in her delight at proving\nherself to be so good a housewife.\n\n\u201cAnd so things are going on well?\u201d resumed Guillaume. \u201cYou are all\nsatisfied, your work is progressing, eh?\u201d\n\nHe addressed brief questions to each of them, like one who, on his return\nhome, at once reverts to his usual habits. Thomas, with his rough face\nbeaming, explained in a couple of sentences that he was now sure of\nperfecting his little motor; Fran\u00e7ois, who was still preparing for his\nexamination, jestingly declared that he yet had to lodge a heap of\nlearning in his brain; and then Antoine produced the block which he was\nfinishing, and which depicted his little friend Lise, Jahan\u2019s sister,\nreading in her garden amidst the sunshine. It was like a florescence of\nthat dear belated creature whose mind had been awakened by his affection.\n\nHowever, the three brothers speedily went back to their places, reverting\nto their work with a natural impulse, for discipline had made them regard\nwork as life itself. Then Guillaume, who had glanced at what each was\ndoing, exclaimed: \u201cAh! youngsters, I schemed and prepared a lot of things\nmyself while I was laid up. I even made a good many notes. We walked here\nfrom Neuilly, but my papers and the clothes which M\u00e8re-Grand sent me will\ncome in a cab by-and-by.... Ah! how pleased I am to find everything in\norder here, and to be able to take up my task with you again! Ah! I shall\npolish off some work now, and no mistake!\u201d\n\nHe had already gone to his own corner, the space reserved for him between\nthe window and the forge. He there had a chemical furnace, several glass\ncases and shelves crowded with appliances, and a long table, one end of\nwhich he used for writing purposes. And he once more took possession of\nthat little world. After glancing around with delight at seeing\neverything in its place, he began to handle one object and another, eager\nto be at work like his sons.\n\nAll at once, however, M\u00e8re-Grand appeared, calm, grave and erect in her\nblack gown, at the top of the little staircase which conducted to the\nbedrooms. \u201cSo it\u2019s you, Guillaume?\u201d said she. \u201cWill you come up for a\nmoment?\u201d\n\nHe immediately did so, understanding that she wished to speak to him\nalone and tranquillise him. It was a question of the great secret between\nthem, that one thing of which his sons knew nothing, and which, after\nSalvat\u2019s crime, had brought him much anguish, through his fear that it\nmight be divulged. When he reached M\u00e8re-Grand\u2019s room she at once took him\nto the hiding-place near her bed, and showed him the cartridges of the\nnew explosive, and the plans of the terrible engine of warfare which he\nhad invented. He found them all as he had left them. Before anyone could\nhave reached them, she would have blown up the whole place at the risk of\nperishing herself in the explosion. With her wonted air of quiet heroism,\nshe handed Guillaume the key which he had sent her by Pierre.\n\n\u201cYou were not anxious, I hope?\u201d she said.\n\nHe pressed her hands with a commingling of affection and respect. \u201cMy\nonly anxiety,\u201d he replied, \u201cwas that the police might come here and treat\nyou roughly.... You are the guardian of our secret, and it would be\nfor you to finish my work should I disappear.\u201d\n\nWhile Guillaume and Madame Leroi were thus engaged upstairs, Pierre,\nstill seated near the window below, felt his discomfort increasing. The\ninmates of the house certainly regarded him with no other feeling than\none of affectionate sympathy; and so how came it that he considered them\nhostile? The truth was that he asked himself what would become of him\namong those workers, who were upheld by a faith of their own, whereas he\nbelieved in nothing, and did not work. The sight of those young men, so\ngaily and zealously toiling, ended by quite irritating him; and the\narrival of Marie brought his distress to a climax.\n\nJoyous and full of life, she came in without seeing him, a basket on her\narm. And she seemed to bring all the sunlight of the spring morning with\nher, so bright was the sparkle of her youth. The whole of her pink face,\nher delicate nose, her broad intelligent brow, her thick, kindly lips,\nbeamed beneath the heavy coils of her black hair. And her brown eyes ever\nlaughed with the joyousness which comes from health and strength.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cI have brought such a lot of things, youngsters.\nJust come and see them; I wouldn\u2019t unpack the basket in the kitchen.\u201d\n\nIt became absolutely necessary for the brothers to draw round the basket\nwhich she had laid upon the table. \u201cFirst there\u2019s the butter!\u201d said she;\n\u201cjust smell if it hasn\u2019t a nice scent of nuts! It\u2019s churned especially\nfor me, you know. Then here are the eggs. They were laid only yesterday,\nI\u2019ll answer for it. And, in fact, that one there is this morning\u2019s. And\nlook at the cutlets! They\u2019re wonderful, aren\u2019t they? The butcher cuts\nthem carefully when he sees me. And then here\u2019s a cream cheese, real\ncream, you know, it will be delicious! Ah! and here\u2019s the surprise,\nsomething dainty, some radishes, some pretty little pink radishes. Just\nfancy! radishes in March, what a luxury!\u201d\n\nShe triumphed like the good little housewife she was, one who had\nfollowed a whole course of cookery and home duties at the Lyc\u00e9e F\u00e9nelon.\nThe brothers, as merry as she herself, were obliged to compliment her.\n\nAll at once, however, she caught sight of Pierre. \u201cWhat! you are there,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9?\u201d she exclaimed; \u201cI beg your pardon, but I didn\u2019t see\nyou. How is Guillaume? Have you brought us some news of him?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut father\u2019s come home,\u201d said Thomas; \u201che\u2019s upstairs with M\u00e8re-Grand.\u201d\n\nQuite thunderstruck, she hastily placed her purchases in the basket.\n\u201cGuillaume\u2019s come back, Guillaume\u2019s come back!\u201d said she, \u201cand you don\u2019t\ntell me of it, you let me unpack everything! Well, it\u2019s nice of me, I\nmust say, to go on praising my butter and eggs when Guillaume\u2019s come\nback.\u201d\n\nGuillaume, as it happened, was just coming down with Madame Leroi. Marie\ngaily hastened to him and offered him her cheeks, on which he planted two\nresounding kisses. Then she, resting her hands on his shoulders, gave him\na long look, while saying in a somewhat tremulous voice: \u201cI am pleased,\nvery pleased to see you, Guillaume. I may confess it now, I thought I had\nlost you, I was very anxious and very unhappy.\u201d\n\nAlthough she was still smiling, tears had gathered in her eyes, and he,\nlikewise moved, again kissed her, murmuring: \u201cDear Marie! How happy it\nmakes me to find you as beautiful and as affectionate as ever.\u201d\n\nPierre, who was looking at them, deemed them cold. He had doubtless\nexpected more tears, and a more passionate embrace on the part of an\naffianced pair, whom so grievous an accident had separated almost on the\neve of their wedding. Moreover, his feelings were hurt by the\ndisproportion of their respective ages. No doubt his brother still seemed\nto him very sturdy and young, and his feeling of repulsion must have come\nfrom that young woman whom, most decidedly, he did not like. Ever since\nher arrival he had experienced increasing discomfort, a keener and keener\ndesire to go off and never return.\n\nSo acute became his suffering at feeling like a stranger in his brother\u2019s\nhome, that he at last rose and sought to take his leave, under the\npretext that he had some urgent matters to attend to in town.\n\n\u201cWhat! you won\u2019t stay to _d\u00e9jeuner_ with us!\u201d exclaimed Guillaume in\nperfect stupefaction. \u201cWhy, it was agreed! You surely won\u2019t distress me\nlike that! This house is your own, remember!\u201d\n\nThen, as with genuine affection they all protested and pressed him to\nstay, he was obliged to do so. However, he soon relapsed into silence and\nembarrassment, seated on the same chair as before, and listening moodily\nto those people who, although they were his relatives, seemed to be far\nremoved from him.\n\nAs it was barely eleven o\u2019clock they resumed work, but every now and\nagain there was some merry talk. On one of the servants coming for the\nprovisions, Marie told the girl to call her as soon as it should be time\nto boil the eggs, for she prided herself on boiling them to a nicety, in\nsuch wise as to leave the whites like creamy milk. This gave an\nopportunity for a few jests from Fran\u00e7ois, who occasionally teased her\nabout all the fine things she had learnt at the Lyc\u00e9e F\u00e9nelon, where her\nfather had placed her when she was twelve years old. However, she was not\nafraid of him, but gave him tit for tat by chaffing him about all the\nhours which he lost at the \u00c9cole Normale over a mass of pedagogic trash.\n\n\u201cAh! you big children!\u201d she exclaimed, while still working at her\nembroidery. \u201cYou are all very intelligent, and you all claim to have\nbroad minds, and yet--confess it now--it worries you a little that a girl\nlike me should have studied at college in the same way as yourselves.\nIt\u2019s a sexual quarrel, a question of rivalry and competition, isn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\nThey protested the contrary, declaring that they were in favour of girls\nreceiving as complete an education as possible. She was well aware of\nthis; however, she liked to tease them in return for the manner in which\nthey themselves plagued her.\n\n\u201cBut do you know,\u201d said she, \u201cyou are a great deal behind the times? I am\nwell aware of the reproaches which are levelled at girls\u2019 colleges by\nso-called right-minded people. To begin, there is no religious element\nwhatever in the education one receives there, and this alarms many\nfamilies which consider religious education to be absolutely necessary\nfor girls, if only as a moral weapon of defence. Then, too, the education\nat our Lyc\u00e9es is being democratised--girls of all positions come to them.\nThanks to the scholarships which are so liberally offered, the daughter\nof the lady who rents a first floor flat often finds the daughter of her\ndoor-keeper among her school-fellows, and some think this objectionable.\nIt is said also that the pupils free themselves too much from home\ninfluence, and that too much opportunity is left for personal initiative.\nAs a matter of fact the extensiveness of the many courses of study, all\nthe learning that is required of pupils at the examinations, certainly\ndoes tend to their emancipation, to the coming of the future woman and\nfuture society, which you young men are all longing for, are you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course we are!\u201d exclaimed Fran\u00e7ois; \u201cwe all agree on that point.\u201d\n\nShe waved her hand in a pretty way, and then quietly continued: \u201cI\u2019m\njesting. My views are simple enough, as you well know, and I don\u2019t ask\nfor nearly as much as you do. As for woman\u2019s claims and rights, well, the\nquestion is clear enough; woman is man\u2019s equal so far as nature allows\nit. And the only point is to agree and love one another. At the same time\nI\u2019m well pleased to know what I do--oh! not from any spirit of pedantry\nbut simply because I think it has all done me good, and given me some\nmoral as well as physical health.\u201d\n\nIt delighted her to recall the days she had spent at the Lyc\u00e9e F\u00e9nelon,\nwhich of the five State colleges for girls opened in Paris was the only\none counting a large number of pupils. Most of these were the daughters\nof officials or professors, who purposed entering the teaching\nprofession. In this case, they had to win their last diploma at the \u00c9cole\nNormale of Sevres, after leaving the Lyc\u00e9e. Marie, for her part, though\nher studies had been brilliant, had felt no taste whatever for the\ncalling of teacher. Moreover, when Guillaume had taken charge of her\nafter her father\u2019s death, he had refused to let her run about giving\nlessons. To provide herself with a little money, for she would accept\nnone as a gift, she worked at embroidery, an art in which she was most\naccomplished.\n\nWhile she was talking to the young men Guillaume had listened to her\nwithout interfering. If he had fallen in love with her it was largely on\naccount of her frankness and uprightness, the even balance of her nature,\nwhich gave her so forcible a charm. She knew all; but if she lacked the\npoetry of the shrinking, lamb-like girl who has been brought up in\nignorance, she had gained absolute rectitude of heart and mind, exempt\nfrom all hypocrisy, all secret perversity such as is stimulated by what\nmay seem mysterious in life. And whatever she might know, she had\nretained such child-like purity that in spite of her six-and-twenty\nsummers all the blood in her veins would occasionally rush to her cheeks\nin fiery blushes, which drove her to despair.\n\n\u201cMy dear Marie,\u201d Guillaume now exclaimed, \u201cyou know very well that the\nyoungsters were simply joking. You are in the right, of course.... And\nyour boiled eggs cannot be matched in the whole world.\u201d\n\nHe said this in so soft and affectionate a tone that the young woman\nflushed purple. Then, becoming conscious of it, she coloured yet more\ndeeply, and as the three young men glanced at her maliciously she grew\nangry with herself. \u201cIsn\u2019t it ridiculous, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d she said,\nturning towards Pierre, \u201cfor an old maid like myself to blush in that\nfashion? People might think that I had committed a crime. It\u2019s simply to\nmake me blush, you know, that those children tease me. I do all I can to\nprevent it, but it\u2019s stronger than my will.\u201d\n\nAt this M\u00e8re-Grand raised her eyes from the shirt she was mending, and\nremarked: \u201cOh! it\u2019s natural enough, my dear. It is your heart rising to\nyour cheeks in order that we may see it.\u201d\n\nThe _d\u00e9jeuner_ hour was now at hand; and they decided to lay the table in\nthe work-shop, as was occasionally done when they had a guest. The\nsimple, cordial meal proved very enjoyable in the bright sunlight.\nMarie\u2019s boiled eggs, which she herself brought from the kitchen covered\nwith a napkin, were found delicious. Due honour was also done to the\nbutter and the radishes. The only dessert that followed the cutlets was\nthe cream cheese, but it was a cheese such as nobody else had ever\npartaken of. And, meantime, while they ate and chatted all Paris lay\nbelow them, stretching away to the horizon with its mighty rumbling.\n\nPierre had made an effort to become cheerful, but he soon relapsed into\nsilence. Guillaume, however, was very talkative. Having noticed the three\nbicycles in the garden, he inquired of Marie how far she had gone that\nmorning. She answered that Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine had accompanied her in\nthe direction of Orgemont. The worry of their excursions was that each\ntime they returned to Montmartre they had to push their machines up the\nheight. From the general point of view, however, the young woman was\ndelighted with bicycling, which had many virtues, said she. Then, seeing\nPierre glance at her in amazement, she promised that she would some day\nexplain her opinions on the subject to him. After this bicycling became\nthe one topic of conversation until the end of the meal. Thomas gave an\naccount of the latest improvements introduced into Grandidier\u2019s machines;\nand the others talked of the excursions they had made or meant to make,\nwith all the exuberant delight of school children eager for the open air.\n\nIn the midst of the chatter, M\u00e8re-Grand, who presided at table with the\nserene dignity of a queen-mother, leant towards Guillaume, who sat next\nto her, and spoke to him in an undertone. Pierre understood that she was\nreferring to his marriage, which was to have taken place in April, but\nmust now necessarily be deferred. This sensible marriage, which seemed\nlikely to ensure the happiness of the entire household, was largely the\nwork of M\u00e8re-Grand and the three young men, for Guillaume would never\nhave yielded to his heart if she whom he proposed to make his wife had\nnot already been a well-loved member of the family. At the present time\nthe last week in June seemed, for all sorts of reasons, to be a\nfavourable date for the wedding.\n\nMarie, who heard the suggestion, turned gaily towards M\u00e8re-Grand.\n\n\u201cThe end of June will suit very well, will it not, my dear?\u201d said the\nlatter.\n\nPierre expected to see a deep flush rise to the young woman\u2019s cheeks, but\nshe remained very calm. She felt deep affection, blended with the most\ntender gratitude, for Guillaume, and was convinced that in marrying him\nshe would be acting wisely and well both for herself and the others.\n\n\u201cCertainly, the end of June,\u201d she repeated, \u201cthat will suit very well\nindeed.\u201d\n\nThen the sons, who likewise had heard the proposal, nodded their heads by\nway of assenting also.\n\nWhen they rose from table Pierre was absolutely determined to go off. The\ncordial and simple meal, the sight of that family, which had been\nrendered so happy by Guillaume\u2019s return, and of that young woman who\nsmiled so placidly at life, had brought him keen suffering, though why he\ncould not tell. However, it all irritated him beyond endurance; and he\ntherefore again pretended that he had a number of things to see to in\nParis. He shook hands in turn with the young men, M\u00e8re-Grand and Marie;\nboth of the women evincing great friendliness but also some surprise at\nhis haste to leave the house. Guillaume, who seemed saddened and anxious,\nsought to detain him, and failing in this endeavour followed him into the\nlittle garden, where he stopped him in order to have an explanation.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d said he, \u201cwhat is the matter with you, Pierre? Why are you\nrunning off like this?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! there\u2019s nothing the matter I assure you; but I have to attend to a\nfew urgent affairs.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Pierre, pray put all pretence aside. Nobody here has displeased you\nor hurt your feelings, I hope. They also will soon love you as I do.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no doubt of it, and I complain of nobody excepting perhaps\nmyself.\u201d\n\nGuillaume\u2019s sorrow was increasing. \u201cAh! brother, little brother,\u201d he\nresumed, \u201cyou distress me, for I can detect that you are hiding something\nfrom me. Remember that new ties have linked us together and that we love\none another as in the old days when you were in your cradle and I used to\ncome to play with you. I know you well, remember. I know all your\ntortures, since you have confessed them to me; and I won\u2019t have you\nsuffer, I want to cure you, I do!\u201d\n\nPierre\u2019s heart was full, and as he heard those words he could not\nrestrain his tears. \u201cOh! you must leave me to my sufferings,\u201d he\nresponded. \u201cThey are incurable. You can do nothing for me, I am beyond\nthe pale of nature, I am a monster.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you say! Can you not return within nature\u2019s pale even if you\n_have_ gone beyond it? One thing that I will not allow is that you should\ngo and shut yourself up in that solitary little house of yours, where you\nmadden yourself by brooding over the fall of your faith. Come and spend\nyour time with us, so that we may again give you some taste for life.\u201d\n\nAh! the empty little house which awaited him! Pierre shivered at the\nthought of it, at the idea that he would now find himself all alone\nthere, bereft of the brother with whom he had lately spent so many happy\ndays. Into what solitude and torment must he not now relapse after that\ncompanionship to which he had become accustomed? However, the very\nthought of the latter increased his grief, and confession suddenly gushed\nfrom his lips: \u201cTo spend my time here, live with you, oh! no, that is an\nimpossibility. Why do you compel me to speak out, and tell you things\nthat I am ashamed of and do not even understand. Ever since this morning\nyou must have seen that I have been suffering here. No doubt it is\nbecause you and your people work, whereas I do nothing, because you love\none another and believe in your efforts, whereas I no longer know how to\nlove or believe. I feel out of my element. I\u2019m embarrassed here, and I\nembarrass you. In fact you all irritate me, and I might end by hating\nyou. There remains nothing healthy in me, all natural feelings have been\nspoilt and destroyed, and only envy and hatred could sprout up from such\nruins. So let me go back to my accursed hole, where death will some day\ncome for me. Farewell, brother!\u201d\n\nBut Guillaume, full of affection and compassion, caught hold of his arms\nand detained him. \u201cYou shall not go, I will not allow you to go, without\na positive promise that you will come back. I don\u2019t wish to lose you\nagain, especially now that I know all you are worth and how dreadfully\nyou suffer. I will save you, if need be, in spite of yourself. I will\ncure you of your torturing doubts, oh! without catechising you, without\nimposing any particular faith on you, but simply by allowing life to do\nits work, for life alone can give you back health and hope. So I beg you,\nbrother, in the name of our affection, come back here, come as often as\nyou can to spend a day with us. You will then see that when folks have\nallotted themselves a task and work together in unison, they escape\nexcessive unhappiness. A task of any kind--yes, that is what is wanted,\ntogether with some great passion and frank acceptance of life, so that it\nmay be lived as it should be and loved.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what would be the use of my living here?\u201d Pierre muttered bitterly.\n\u201cI\u2019ve no task left me, and I no longer know how to love.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I will give you a task, and as for love, that will soon be\nawakened by the breath of life. Come, brother, consent, consent!\u201d\n\nThen, seeing that Pierre still remained gloomy and sorrowful, and\npersisted in his determination to go away and bury himself, Guillaume\nadded, \u201cAh! I don\u2019t say that the things of this world are such as one\nmight wish them to be. I don\u2019t say that only joy and truth and justice\nexist. For instance, the affair of that unhappy fellow Salvat fills me\nwith anger and revolt. Guilty he is, of course, and yet how many excuses\nhe had, and how I shall pity him if the crimes of all of us are laid at\nhis door, if the various political gangs bandy him from one to another,\nand use him as a weapon in their sordid fight for power. The thought of\nit all so exasperates me that at times I am as unreasonable as yourself.\nBut now, brother, just to please me, promise that you will come and spend\nthe day after to-morrow with us.\u201d\n\nThen, as Pierre still kept silent, Guillaume went on: \u201cI will have it so.\nIt would grieve me too much to think that you were suffering from\nmartyrdom in your solitary nook. I want to cure and save you.\u201d\n\nTears again rose to Pierre\u2019s eyes, and in a tone of infinite distress he\nanswered: \u201cDon\u2019t compel me to promise.... All I can say is that I will\ntry to conquer myself.\u201d\n\nThe week he then spent in his little, dark, empty home proved a terrible\none. Shutting himself up he brooded over his despair at having lost the\ncompanionship of that elder brother whom he once more loved with his\nwhole soul. He had never before been so keenly conscious of his solitude;\nand he was a score of times on the point of hastening to Montmartre, for\nhe vaguely felt that affection, truth and life were there. But on each\noccasion he was held back by a return of the discomfort which he had\nalready experienced, discomfort compounded of shame and fear. Priest that\nhe was, cut off from love and the avocations of other men, he would\nsurely find nothing but hurt and suffering among creatures who were all\nnature, freedom and health. While he pondered thus, however, there rose\nbefore him the shades of his father and mother, those sad spirits that\nseemed to wander through the deserted rooms lamenting and entreating him\nto reconcile them in himself, as soon as he should find peace. What was\nhe to do,--deny their prayer, and remain weeping with them, or go yonder\nin search of the cure which might at last lull them to sleep and bring\nthem happiness in death by the force of his own happiness in life? At\nlast a morning came when it seemed to him that his father enjoined him\nwith a smile to betake himself yonder, while his mother consented with a\nglance of her big soft eyes, in which her sorrow at having made so bad a\npriest of him yielded to her desire to restore him to the life of our\ncommon humanity.\n\nPierre did not argue with himself that day: he took a cab and gave\nGuillaume\u2019s address to the driver for fear lest he should be overcome on\nthe way and wish to turn back. And when he again found himself, as in a\ndream, in the large work-shop, where Guillaume and the young men welcomed\nhim in a delicately affectionate way, he witnessed an unexpected scene\nwhich both impressed and relieved him.\n\nMarie, who had scarcely nodded to him as he entered, sat there with a\npale and frowning face. And M\u00e8re-Grand, who was also grave, said, after\nglancing at her: \u201cYou must excuse her, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9; but she isn\u2019t\nreasonable. She is in a temper with all five of us.\u201d\n\nGuillaume began to laugh. \u201cAh! she\u2019s so stubborn!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cYou can\nhave no idea, Pierre, of what goes on in that little head of hers when\nanybody says or does anything contrary to her ideas of justice. Such\nabsolute and lofty ideas they are, that they can descend to no\ncompromise. For instance, we were talking of that recent affair of a\nfather who was found guilty on his son\u2019s evidence; and she maintained\nthat the son had only done what was right in giving evidence against his\nfather, and that one ought invariably to tell the truth, no matter what\nmight happen. What a terrible public prosecutor she would make, eh?\u201d\n\nThereupon Marie, exasperated by Pierre\u2019s smile, which seemingly indicated\nthat he also thought her in the wrong, flew into quite a passion: \u201cYou\nare cruel, Guillaume!\u201d she cried; \u201cI won\u2019t be laughed at like this.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you are losing your senses, my dear,\u201d exclaimed Fran\u00e7ois, while\nThomas and Antoine again grew merry. \u201cWe were only urging a question of\nhumanity, father and I, for we respect and love justice as much as you\ndo.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s no question of humanity, but simply one of justice. What is just\nand right is just and right, and you cannot alter it.\u201d\n\nThen, as Guillaume made a further attempt to state his views and win her\nover to them, she rose trembling, in such a passion that she could\nscarcely stammer: \u201cNo, no, you are all too cruel, you only want to grieve\nme. I prefer to go up into my own room.\u201d\n\nAt this M\u00e8re-Grand vainly sought to restrain her. \u201cMy child, my child!\u201d\n said she, \u201creflect a moment; this is very wrong, you will deeply regret\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no; you are not just, and I suffer too much.\u201d\n\nThen she wildly rushed upstairs to her room overhead.\n\nConsternation followed. Scenes of a similar character had occasionally\noccurred before, but there had never been so serious a one. Guillaume\nimmediately admitted that he had done wrong in laughing at her, for she\ncould not bear irony. Then he told Pierre that in her childhood and youth\nshe had been subject to terrible attacks of passion whenever she\nwitnessed or heard of any act of injustice. As she herself explained,\nthese attacks would come upon her with irresistible force, transporting\nher to such a point that she would sometimes fall upon the floor and\nrave. Even nowadays she proved quarrelsome and obstinate whenever certain\nsubjects were touched upon. And she afterwards blushed for it all, fully\nconscious that others must think her unbearable.\n\nIndeed, a quarter of an hour later, she came downstairs again of her own\naccord, and bravely acknowledged her fault. \u201cWasn\u2019t it ridiculous of me?\u201d\n she said. \u201cTo think I accuse others of being unkind when I behave like\nthat! Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 must have a very bad opinion of me.\u201d Then, after\nkissing M\u00e8re-Grand, she added: \u201cYou\u2019ll forgive me, won\u2019t you? Oh!\nFran\u00e7ois may laugh now, and so may Thomas and Antoine. They are quite\nright, our differences are merely laughing matters.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy poor Marie,\u201d replied Guillaume, in a tone of deep affection. \u201cYou see\nwhat it is to surrender oneself to the absolute. If you are so healthy\nand reasonable it\u2019s because you regard almost everything from the\nrelative point of view, and only ask life for such gifts as it can\nbestow. But when your absolute ideas of justice come upon you, you lose\nboth equilibrium and reason. At the same time, I must say that we are all\nliable to err in much the same manner.\u201d\n\nMarie, who was still very flushed, thereupon answered in a jesting way:\n\u201cWell, it at least proves that I\u2019m not perfect.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, certainly! And so much the better,\u201d said Guillaume, \u201cfor it makes me\nlove you the more.\u201d\n\nThis was a sentiment which Pierre himself would willingly have re-echoed.\nThe scene had deeply stirred him. Had not his own frightful torments\noriginated with his desire for the absolute both in things and beings? He\nhad sought faith in its entirety, and despair had thrown him into\ncomplete negation. Again, was there not some evil desire for the absolute\nand some affectation of pride and voluntary blindness in the haughty\nbearing which he had retained amidst the downfall of his belief, the\nsaintly reputation which he had accepted when he possessed no faith at\nall? On hearing his brother praise Marie, because she only asked life for\nsuch things as it could give, it had seemed to him that this was advice\nfor himself. It was as if a refreshing breath of nature had passed before\nhis face. At the same time his feelings in this respect were still vague,\nand the only well-defined pleasure that he experienced came from the\nyoung woman\u2019s fit of anger, that error of hers which brought her nearer\nto him, by lowering her in some degree from her pedestal of serene\nperfection. It was, perhaps, that seeming perfection which had made him\nsuffer; however, he was as yet unable to analyse his feelings. That day,\nfor the first time, he chatted with her for a little while, and when he\nwent off he thought her very good-hearted and very human.\n\nTwo days later he again came to spend the afternoon in the large sunlit\nwork-shop overlooking Paris. Ever since he had become conscious of the\nidle life he was leading, he had felt very bored when he was alone, and\nonly found relief among that gay, hardworking family. His brother scolded\nhim for not having come to _d\u00e9jeuner_, and he promised to do so on the\nmorrow. By the time a week had elapsed, none of the discomfort and covert\nhostility which had prevailed between him and Marie remained: they met\nand chatted on a footing of good fellowship. Although he was a priest,\nshe was in no wise embarrassed by his presence. With her quiet atheism,\nindeed, she had never imagined that a priest could be different from\nother men. Thus her sisterly cordiality both astonished and delighted\nPierre. It was as if he wore the same garments and held the same ideas as\nhis big nephews, as if there were nothing whatever to distinguish him\nfrom other men. He was still more surprised, however, by Marie\u2019s silence\non all religious questions. She seemed to live on quietly and happily,\nwithout a thought of what might be beyond life, that terrifying realm of\nmystery, which to him had brought such agony of mind.\n\nNow that he came every two or three days to Montmartre she noticed that\nhe was suffering. What could be the matter with him, she wondered. When\nshe questioned him in a friendly manner and only elicited evasive\nreplies, she guessed that he was ashamed of his sufferings, and that they\nwere aggravated, rendered well-nigh incurable, by the very secrecy in\nwhich he buried them. Thereupon womanly compassion awoke within her, and\nshe felt increasing affection for that tall, pale fellow with feverish\neyes, who was consumed by grievous torments which he would confess to\nnone. No doubt she questioned Guillaume respecting her brother\u2019s sadness,\nand he must have confided some of the truth to her in order that she\nmight help him to extricate Pierre from his sufferings, and give him back\nsome taste for life. The poor fellow always seemed so happy when she\ntreated him like a friend, a brother!\n\nAt last, one evening, on seeing his eyes full of tears as he gazed upon\nthe dismal twilight falling over Paris, she herself pressed him to\nconfide his trouble to her. And thereupon he suddenly spoke out,\nconfessing all his torture and the horrible void which the loss of faith\nhad left within him. Ah! to be unable to believe, to be unable to love,\nto be nothing but ashes, to know of nothing certain by which he might\nreplace the faith that had fled from him! She listened in stupefaction.\nWhy, he must be mad! And she plainly told him so, such was her\nastonishment and revolt at hearing such a desperate cry of wretchedness.\nTo despair, indeed, and believe in nothing and love nothing, simply\nbecause a religious hypothesis had crumbled! And this, too, when the\nwhole, vast world was spread before one, life with the duty of living it,\ncreatures and things to be loved and succoured, without counting the\nuniversal labour, the task which one and all came to accomplish!\nAssuredly he must be mad, mad with the gloomiest madness; still she vowed\nshe would cure him.\n\nFrom that time forward she felt the most compassionate affection for this\nextraordinary young man, who had first embarrassed and afterwards\nastonished her. She showed herself very gentle and gay with him; she\nlooked after him with the greatest skill and delicacy of heart and mind.\nThere had been certain similar features in their childhood; each had been\nreared in the strictest religious views by a pious mother. But afterwards\nhow different had been their fates! Whilst he was struggling with his\ndoubts, bound by his priestly vows, she had grown up at the Lyc\u00e9e\nF\u00e9nelon, where her father had placed her as soon as her mother died; and\nthere, far removed from all practice of religion, she had gradually\nreached total forgetfulness of her early religious views. It was a\nconstant source of surprise for him to find that she had thus escaped all\ndistress of mind at the thought of what might come after death, whereas\nthat same thought had so deeply tortured him. When they chatted together\nand he expressed his astonishment at it, she frankly laughed, saying that\nshe had never felt any fear of hell, for she was certain that no hell\nexisted. And she added that she lived in all quietude, without hope of\ngoing to any heaven, her one thought being to comply in a reasonable way\nwith the requirements and necessities of earthly life. It was, perhaps,\nin some measure a matter of temperament with her; but it was also a\nmatter of education. Yet, whatever that education had been, whatever\nknowledge she had acquired, she had remained very womanly and very\nloving. There was nothing stern or masculine about her.\n\n\u201cAh, my friend,\u201d she said one day to Pierre, \u201cif you only knew how easy\nit is for me to remain happy so long as I see those I love free from any\nexcessive suffering. For my own part I can always adapt myself to life. I\nwork and content myself no matter what may happen. Sorrow has only come\nto me from others, for I can\u2019t help wishing that everybody should be\nfairly happy, and there are some who won\u2019t.... I was for a long time\nvery poor, but I remained gay. I wish for nothing, except for things that\ncan\u2019t be purchased. Still, want is the great abomination which distresses\nme. I can understand that you should have felt everything crumbling when\ncharity appeared to you so insufficient a remedy as to be contemptible.\nYet it does bring relief; and, moreover, it is so sweet to be able to\ngive. Some day, too, by dint of reason and toil, by the good and\nefficient working of life itself, the reign of justice will surely come.\nBut now it\u2019s I that am preaching! Oh! I have little taste for it! It\nwould be ridiculous for me to try to heal you with big phrases. All the\nsame, I should like to cure you of your gloomy sufferings. To do so, all\nthat I ask of you is to spend as much time as you can with us. You know\nthat this is Guillaume\u2019s greatest desire. We will all love you so well,\nyou will see us all so affectionately united, and so gay over our common\nwork, that you will come back to truth by joining us in the school of our\ngood mother nature. You must live and work, and love and hope.\u201d\n\nPierre smiled as he listened. He now came to Montmartre nearly every day.\nShe was so nice and affectionate when she preached to him in that way\nwith a pretty assumption of wisdom. As she had said too, life was so\ndelightful in that big workroom; it was so pleasant to be all together,\nand to labour in common at the same work of health and truth. Ashamed as\nPierre was of doing nothing, anxious as he was to occupy his mind and\nfingers, he had first taken an interest in Antoine\u2019s engraving, asking\nwhy he should not try something of the kind himself. However, he felt\nthat he lacked the necessary gift for art. Then, too, he recoiled from\nFran\u00e7ois\u2019 purely intellectual labour, for he himself had scarcely emerged\nfrom the harrowing study of conflicting texts. Thus he was more inclined\nfor manual toil like that of Thomas. In mechanics he found precision and\nclearness such as might help to quench his thirst for certainty. So he\nplaced himself at the young man\u2019s orders, pulled his bellows and held\npieces of mechanism for him. He also sometimes served as assistant to\nGuillaume, tying a large blue apron over his cassock in order to help in\nthe experiments. From that time he formed part of the work-shop, which\nsimply counted a worker the more.\n\nOne afternoon early in April, when they were all busily engaged there,\nMarie, who sat embroidering at the table in front of M\u00e8re-Grand, raised\nher eyes to the window and suddenly burst into a cry of admiration: \u201cOh!\nlook at Paris under that rain of sunlight!\u201d\n\nPierre drew near; the play of light was much the same as that which he\nhad witnessed at his first visit. The sun, sinking behind some slight\npurple clouds, was throwing down a hail of rays and sparks which on all\nsides rebounded and leapt over the endless stretch of roofs. It might\nhave been thought that some great sower, hidden amidst the glory of the\nplanet, was scattering handfuls of golden grain from one horizon to the\nother.\n\nPierre, at sight of it, put his fancy into words: \u201cIt is the sun sowing\nParis with grain for a future harvest,\u201d said he. \u201cSee how the expanse\nlooks like ploughed land; the brownish houses are like soil turned up,\nand the streets are deep and straight like furrows.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, that\u2019s true,\u201d exclaimed Marie gaily. \u201cThe sun is sowing Paris\nwith grain. See how it casts the seed of light and health right away to\nthe distant suburbs! And yet, how singular! The rich districts on the\nwest seem steeped in a ruddy mist, whilst the good seed falls in golden\ndust over the left bank and the populous districts eastward. It is there,\nis it not, that the crop will spring up?\u201d\n\nThey had all drawn near, and were smiling at the symbol. As Marie had\nsaid, it seemed indeed that while the sun slowly sank behind the lacework\nof clouds, the sower of eternal life scattered his flaming seed with a\nrhythmical swing of the arm, ever selecting the districts of toil and\neffort. One dazzling handful of grain fell over yonder on the district of\nthe schools; and then yet another rained down to fertilise the district\nof the factories and work-shops.\n\n\u201cAh! well,\u201d said Guillaume gaily. \u201cMay the crop soon sprout from the good\nground of our great Paris, which has been turned up by so many\nrevolutions, and enriched by the blood of so many workers! It is the only\nground in the world where Ideas can germinate and bloom. Yes, yes, Pierre\nis quite right, it is the sun sowing Paris with the seed of the future\nworld, which can sprout only up here!\u201d\n\nThen Thomas, Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine, who stood behind their father in a\nrow, nodded as if to say that this was also their own conviction; whilst\nM\u00e8re-Grand gazed afar with dreamy eyes as though she could already behold\nthe splendid future.\n\n\u201cAh! but it is only a dream; centuries must elapse. We shall never see\nit!\u201d murmured Pierre with a quiver.\n\n\u201cBut others will!\u201d cried Marie. \u201cAnd does not that suffice?\u201d\n\nThose lofty words stirred Pierre to the depths of his being. And all at\nonce there came to him the memory of another Marie*--the adorable Marie\nof his youth, that Marie de Guersaint who had been cured at Lourdes, and\nthe loss of whom had left such a void in his heart. Was that new Marie\nwho stood there smiling at him, so tranquil and so charming in her\nstrength, destined to heal that old-time wound? He felt that he was\nbeginning to live again since she had become his friend.\n\n  * The heroine of M. Zola\u2019s \u201cLourdes.\u201d\n\nMeantime, there before them, the glorious sun, with the sweep of its\nrays, was scattering living golden dust over Paris, still and ever sowing\nthe great future harvest of justice and of truth.\n\n\n\n\nII. TOWARDS LIFE\n\nONE evening, at the close of a good day\u2019s work, Pierre, who was helping\nThomas, suddenly caught his foot in the skirt of his cassock and narrowly\nescaped falling. At this, Marie, after raising a faint cry of anxiety,\nexclaimed: \u201cWhy don\u2019t you take it off?\u201d\n\nThere was no malice in her inquiry. She simply looked upon the priestly\nrobe as something too heavy and cumbersome, particularly when one had\ncertain work to perform. Nevertheless, her words deeply impressed Pierre,\nand he could not forget them. When he was at home in the evening and\nrepeated them to himself they gradually threw him into feverish\nagitation. Why, indeed, had he not divested himself of that cassock,\nwhich weighed so heavily and painfully on his shoulders? Then a frightful\nstruggle began within him, and he spent a terrible, sleepless night,\nagain a prey to all his former torments.\n\nAt first sight it seemed a very simple matter that he should cast his\npriestly gown aside, for had he not ceased to discharge any priestly\noffice? He had not said mass for some time past, and this surely meant\nrenunciation of the priesthood. Nevertheless, so long as he retained his\ngown it was possible that he might some day say mass again, whereas if he\ncast it aside he would, as it were, strip himself, quit the priesthood\nentirely, without possibility of return. It was a terrible step to take,\none that would prove irrevocable; and thus he paced his room for hours,\nin great anguish of mind.\n\nHe had formerly indulged in a superb dream. Whilst believing nothing\nhimself he had resolved to watch, in all loyalty, over the belief of\nothers. He would not so lower himself as to forswear his vows, he would\nbe no base renegade, but however great the torments of the void he felt\nwithin him he would remain the minister of man\u2019s illusions respecting the\nDivinity. And it was by reason of his conduct in this respect that he had\nended by being venerated as a saint--he who denied everything, who had\nbecome a mere empty sepulchre. For a long time his falsehood had never\ndisturbed him, but it now brought him acute suffering. It seemed to him\nthat he would be acting in the vilest manner if he delayed placing his\nlife in accord with his opinions. The thought of it all quite rent his\nheart.\n\nThe question was a very clear one. By what right did he remain the\nminister of a religion in which he no longer believed? Did not elementary\nhonesty require that he should quit a Church in which he denied the\npresence of the Divinity? He regarded the dogmas of that Church as\npuerile errors, and yet he persisted in teaching them as if they were\neternal truths. Base work it was, that alarmed his conscience. He vainly\nsought the feverish glow of charity and martyrdom which had led him to\noffer himself as a sacrifice, willing to suffer all the torture of doubt\nand to find his own life lost and ravaged, provided that he might yet\nafford the relief of hope to the lowly. Truth and nature, no doubt, had\nalready regained too much ascendancy over him for those feelings to\nreturn. The thought of such a lying apostolate now wounded him; he no\nlonger had the hypocritical courage to call the Divinity down upon the\nbelievers kneeling before him, when he was convinced that the Divinity\nwould not descend. Thus all the past was swept away; there remained\nnothing of the sublime pastoral part he would once have liked to play,\nthat supreme gift of himself which lay in stubborn adherence to the rules\nof the Church, and such devotion to faith as to endure in silence the\ntorture of having lost it.\n\nWhat must Marie think of his prolonged falsehood, he wondered, and\nthereupon he seemed to hear her words again: \u201cWhy not take your cassock\noff?\u201d His conscience bled as if those words were a stab. What contempt\nmust she not feel for him, she who was so upright, so high-minded? Every\nscattered blame, every covert criticism directed against his conduct,\nseemed to find embodiment in her. It now sufficed that she should condemn\nhim, and he at once felt guilty. At the same time she had never voiced\nher disapproval to him, in all probability because she did not think she\nhad any right to intervene in a struggle of conscience. The superb\ncalmness and healthiness which she displayed still astonished him. He\nhimself was ever haunted and tortured by thoughts of the unknown, of what\nthe morrow of death might have in store for one; but although he had\nstudied and watched her for days together, he had never seen her give a\nsign of doubt or distress. This exemption from such sufferings as his own\nwas due, said she, to the fact that she gave all her gaiety, all her\nenergy, all her sense of duty, to the task of living, in such wise that\nlife itself proved a sufficiency, and no time was left for mere fancies\nto terrify and stultify her. Well, then, since she with her air of quiet\nstrength had asked him why he did not take off his cassock, he would take\nit off--yes, he would divest himself of that robe which seemed to burn\nand weigh him down.\n\nHe fancied himself calmed by this decision, and towards morning threw\nhimself upon his bed; but all at once a stifling sensation, a renewal of\nhis abominable anguish, brought him to his feet again. No, no, he could\nnot divest himself of that gown which clung so tightly to his flesh. His\nskin would come away with his cloth, his whole being would be lacerated!\nIs not the mark of priesthood an indelible one, does it not brand the\npriest for ever, and differentiate him from the flock? Even should he\ntear off his gown with his skin, he would remain a priest, an object of\nscandal and shame, awkward and impotent, shut off from the life of other\nmen. And so why tear it off, since he would still and ever remain in\nprison, and a fruitful life of work in the broad sunlight was no longer\nwithin his reach? He, indeed, fancied himself irremediably stricken with\nimpotence. Thus he was unable to come to any decision, and when he\nreturned to Montmartre two days later he had again relapsed into a state\nof torment.\n\nFeverishness, moreover, had come upon the happy home. Guillaume was\nbecoming more and more annoyed about Salvat\u2019s affair, not a day elapsing\nwithout the newspapers fanning his irritation. He had at first been\ndeeply touched by the dignified and reticent bearing of Salvat, who had\ndeclared that he had no accomplices whatever. Of course the inquiry into\nthe crime was what is called a secret one; but magistrate Amadieu, to\nwhom it had been entrusted, conducted it in a very noisy way. The\nnewspapers, which he in some degree took into his confidence, were full\nof articles and paragraphs about him and his interviews with the\nprisoner. Thanks to Salvat\u2019s quiet admissions, Amadieu had been able to\nretrace the history of the crime hour by hour, his only remaining doubts\nhaving reference to the nature of the powder which had been employed, and\nthe making of the bomb itself. It might after all be true that Salvat had\nloaded the bomb at a friend\u2019s, as he indeed asserted was the case; but he\nmust be lying when he added that the only explosive used was dynamite,\nderived from some stolen cartridges, for all the experts now declared\nthat dynamite would never have produced such effects as those which had\nbeen witnessed. This, then, was the mysterious point which protracted the\ninvestigations. And day by day the newspapers profited by it to circulate\nthe wildest stories under sensational headings, which were specially\ndevised for the purpose of sending up their sales.\n\nIt was all the nonsense contained in these stories that fanned\nGuillaume\u2019s irritation. In spite of his contempt for Sagnier he could not\nkeep from buying the \u201cVoix du Peuple.\u201d Quivering with indignation,\ngrowing more and more exasperated, he was somehow attracted by the mire\nwhich he found in that scurrilous journal. Moreover, the other\nnewspapers, including even the \u201cGlobe,\u201d which was usually so dignified,\npublished all sorts of statements for which no proof could be supplied,\nand drew from them remarks and conclusions which, though couched in\nmilder language than Sagnier\u2019s, were none the less abominably unjust. It\nseemed indeed as if the whole press had set itself the task of covering\nSalvat with mud, so as to be able to vilify Anarchism generally.\nAccording to the journalists the prisoner\u2019s life had simply been one long\nabomination. He had already earned his living by thievery in his\nchildhood at the time when he had roamed the streets, an unhappy,\nforsaken vagrant; and later on he had proved a bad soldier and a bad\nworker. He had been punished for insubordination whilst he was in the\narmy, and he had been dismissed from a dozen work-shops because he\nincessantly disturbed them by his Anarchical propaganda. Later still, he\nhad fled his country and led a suspicious life of adventure in America,\nwhere, it was alleged, he must have committed all sorts of unknown\ncrimes. Moreover there was his horrible immorality, his connection with\nhis sister-in-law, that Madame Th\u00e9odore who had taken charge of his\nforsaken child in his absence, and with whom he had cohabited since his\nreturn to France. In this wise Salvat\u2019s failings and transgressions were\npitilessly denounced and magnified without any mention of the causes\nwhich had induced them, or of the excuses which lay in the unhappy man\u2019s\ndegrading environment. And so Guillaume\u2019s feelings of humanity and\njustice revolted, for he knew the real Salvat,--a man of tender heart and\ndreamy mind, so liable to be impassioned by fancies,--a man cast into\nlife when a child without weapon of defence, ever trodden down or thrust\naside, then gradually exasperated by the perpetual onslaughts of want,\nand at last dreaming of reviving the golden age by destroying the old,\ncorrupt world.\n\nUnfortunately for Salvat, everything had gone against him since he had\nbeen shut up in strict confinement, at the mercy of the ambitious and\nworldly Amadieu. Guillaume had learnt from his son, Thomas, that the\nprisoner could count on no support whatever among his former mates at the\nGrandidier works. These works were becoming prosperous once more, thanks\nto their steady output of bicycles; and it was said that Grandidier was\nonly waiting for Thomas to perfect his little motor, in order to start\nthe manufacture of motor-cars on a large scale. However, the success\nwhich he was now for the first time achieving, and which scarcely repaid\nhim for all his years of toil and battle, had in certain respects\nrendered him prudent and even severe. He did not wish any suspicion to be\ncast upon his business through the unpleasant affair of his former\nworkman Salvat, and so he had dismissed such of his workmen as held\nAnarchist views. If he had kept the two Toussaints, one of whom was the\nprisoner\u2019s brother-in-law, while the other was suspected of sympathy with\nhim, this was because they had belonged to the works for a score of\nyears, and he did not like to cast them adrift. Moreover, Toussaint, the\nfather, had declared that if he were called as a witness for the defence,\nhe should simply give such particulars of Salvat\u2019s career as related to\nthe prisoner\u2019s marriage with his sister.\n\nOne evening when Thomas came home from the works, to which he returned\nevery now and then in order to try his little motor, he related that he\nhad that day seen Madame Grandidier, the poor young woman who had become\ninsane through an attack of puerperal fever following upon the death of a\nchild. Although most frightful attacks of madness occasionally came over\nher, and although life beside her was extremely painful, even during the\nintervals when she remained downcast and gentle as a child, her husband\nhad never been willing to send her to an asylum. He kept her with him in\na pavilion near the works, and as a rule the shutters of the windows\noverlooking the yard remained closed. Thus Thomas had been greatly\nsurprised to see one of these windows open, and the young woman appear at\nit amidst the bright sunshine of that early spring. True, she only\nremained there for a moment, vision-like, fair and pretty, with smiling\nface; for a servant who suddenly drew near closed the window, and the\npavilion then again sank into lifeless silence. At the same time it was\nreported among the men employed at the works that the poor creature had\nnot experienced an attack for well-nigh a month past, and that this was\nthe reason why the \u201cgovernor\u201d looked so strong and pleased, and worked so\nvigorously to help on the increasing prosperity of his business.\n\n\u201cHe isn\u2019t a bad fellow,\u201d added Thomas, \u201cbut with the terrible competition\nthat he has to encounter, he is bent on keeping his men under control.\nNowadays, says he, when so many capitalists and wage earners seem bent on\nexterminating one another, the latter--if they don\u2019t want to\nstarve--ought to be well pleased when capital falls into the hands of an\nactive, fair-minded man.... If he shows no pity for Salvat, it is\nbecause he really believes in the necessity of an example.\u201d\n\nThat same day Thomas, after leaving the works and while threading his way\nthrough the toilsome hive-like Marcadet district, had overtaken Madame\nTh\u00e9odore and little C\u00e9line, who were wandering on in great distress. It\nappeared that they had just called upon Toussaint, who had been unable to\nlend them even such a trifle as ten sous. Since Salvat\u2019s arrest, the\nwoman and the child had been forsaken and suspected by one and all.\nDriven forth from their wretched lodging, they were without food and\nwandered hither and thither dependent on chance alms. Never had greater\nwant and misery fallen on defenceless creatures.\n\n\u201cI told them to come up here, father,\u201d said Thomas, \u201cfor I thought that\none might pay their landlord a month\u2019s rent, so that they might go home\nagain.... Ah! there\u2019s somebody coming now--it\u2019s they, no doubt.\u201d\n\nGuillaume had felt angry with himself whilst listening to his son, for he\nhad not thought of the poor creatures. It was the old story: the man\ndisappears, and the woman and the child find themselves in the streets,\nstarving. Whenever Justice strikes a man her blow travels beyond him,\nfells innocent beings and kills them.\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore came in, humble and timid, scared like a luckless\ncreature whom life never wearies of persecuting. She was becoming almost\nblind, and little C\u00e9line had to lead her. The girl\u2019s fair, thin face wore\nits wonted expression of shrewd intelligence, and even now, however\nwoeful her rags, it was occasionally brightened by a childish smile.\n\nPierre and Marie, who were both there, felt extremely touched. Near them\nwas Madame Mathis, young Victor\u2019s mother, who had come to help M\u00e8re-Grand\nwith the mending of some house-linen. She went out by the day in this\nfashion among a few families, and was thus enabled to give her son an\noccasional franc or two. Guillaume alone questioned Madame Th\u00e9odore.\n\n\u201cAh! monsieur,\u201d she stammered, \u201cwho could ever have thought Salvat\ncapable of such a thing, he who\u2019s so good and so humane? Still it\u2019s true,\nsince he himself has admitted it to the magistrate.... For my part I\ntold everybody that he was in Belgium. I wasn\u2019t quite sure of it, still\nI\u2019m glad that he didn\u2019t come back to see us; for if he had been arrested\nat our place I should have lost my senses.... Well, now that they have\nhim, they\u2019ll sentence him to death, that\u2019s certain.\u201d\n\nAt this C\u00e9line, who had been looking around her with an air of interest,\npiteously exclaimed: \u201cOh! no, oh! no, mamma, they won\u2019t hurt him!\u201d\n\nBig tears appeared in the child\u2019s eyes as she raised this cry. Guillaume\nkissed her, and then went on questioning Madame Th\u00e9odore.\n\n\u201cWell, monsieur,\u201d she answered, \u201cthe child\u2019s not old or big enough to\nwork as yet, and my eyes are done for, people won\u2019t even take me as a\ncharwoman. And so it\u2019s simple enough, we starve.... Oh! of course I\u2019m\nnot without relations; I have a sister who married very well. Her husband\nis a clerk, Monsieur Chr\u00e9tiennot, perhaps you know him. Unfortunately\nhe\u2019s rather proud, and as I don\u2019t want any scenes between him and my\nsister, I no longer go to see her. Besides, she\u2019s in despair just now,\nfor she\u2019s expecting another baby, which is a terrible blow for a small\nhousehold, when one already has two girls.... That\u2019s why the only\nperson I can apply to is my brother Toussaint. His wife isn\u2019t a bad sort\nby any means, but she\u2019s no longer the same since she\u2019s been living in\nfear of her husband having another attack. The first one carried off all\nher savings, and what would become of her if Toussaint should remain on\nher hands, paralysed? Besides, she\u2019s threatened with another burden, for,\nas you may know, her son Charles got keeping company with a servant at a\nwine shop, who of course ran away after she had a baby, which she left\nhim to see to. So one can understand that the Toussaints themselves are\nhard put. I don\u2019t complain of them. They\u2019ve already lent me a little\nmoney, and of course they can\u2019t go on lending for ever.\u201d\n\nShe continued talking in this spiritless, resigned way, complaining only\non account of C\u00e9line; for, said she, it was enough to make one\u2019s heart\nbreak to see such an intelligent child obliged to tramp the streets after\ngetting on so well at the Communal School. She could feel too that\neverybody now kept aloof from them on account of Salvat. The Toussaints\ndidn\u2019t want to be compromised in any such business. There was only\nCharles, who had said that he could well understand a man losing his head\nand trying to blow up the _bourgeois_, because they really treated the\nworkers in a blackguard way.\n\n\u201cFor my part, monsieur,\u201d added Madame Th\u00e9odore, \u201cI say nothing, for I\u2019m\nonly a woman. All the same, though, if you\u2019d like to know what I think,\nwell, I think that it would have been better if Salvat hadn\u2019t done what\nhe did, for we two, the girl and I, are the real ones to suffer from it.\nAh! I can\u2019t get the idea into my head, that the little one should be the\ndaughter of a man condemned to death.\u201d\n\nOnce more C\u00e9line interrupted her, flinging her arms around her neck: \u201cOh!\nmamma, oh! mamma, don\u2019t say that, I beg you! It can\u2019t be true, it grieves\nme too much!\u201d\n\nAt this Pierre and Marie exchanged compassionate glances, while\nM\u00e8re-Grand rose from her chair, in order to go upstairs and search her\nwardrobes for some articles of clothing which might be of use to the two\npoor creatures. Guillaume, who, for his part, had been moved to tears,\nand felt full of revolt against the social system which rendered such\ndistress possible, slipped some alms into the child\u2019s little hand, and\npromised Madame Th\u00e9odore that he would see her landlord so as to get her\nback her room.\n\n\u201cAh! Monsieur Froment!\u201d replied the unfortunate woman. \u201cSalvat was quite\nright when he said you were a real good man! And as you employed him here\nfor a few days you know too that he isn\u2019t a wicked one.... Now that\nhe\u2019s been put in prison everybody calls him a brigand, and it breaks my\nheart to hear them.\u201d Then, turning towards Madame Mathis, who had\ncontinued sewing in discreet silence, like a respectable woman whom none\nof these things could concern, she went on: \u201cI know you, madame, but I\u2019m\nbetter acquainted with your son, Monsieur Victor, who has often come to\nchat at our place. Oh! you needn\u2019t be afraid, I shan\u2019t say it, I shall\nnever compromise anybody; but if Monsieur Victor were free to speak, he\u2019d\nbe the man to explain Salvat\u2019s ideas properly.\u201d\n\nMadame Mathis looked at her in stupefaction. Ignorant as she was of her\nson\u2019s real life and views, she experienced a vague dread at the idea of\nany connection between him and Salvat\u2019s family. Moreover, she refused to\nbelieve it possible. \u201cOh! you must be mistaken,\u201d she said. \u201cVictor told\nme that he now seldom came to Montmartre, as he was always going about in\nsearch of work.\u201d\n\nBy the anxious quiver of the widow\u2019s voice, Madame Th\u00e9odore understood\nthat she ought not to have mixed her up in her troubles; and so in all\nhumility she at once beat a retreat: \u201cI beg your pardon, madame, I didn\u2019t\nthink I should hurt your feelings. Perhaps, too, I\u2019m mistaken, as you\nsay.\u201d\n\nMadame Mathis had again turned to her sewing as to the solitude in which\nshe lived, that nook of decent misery where she dwelt without\ncompanionship and almost unknown, with scarcely sufficient bread to eat.\nAh! that dear son of hers, whom she loved so well; however much he might\nneglect her, she had placed her only remaining hope in him: he was her\nlast dream, and would some day lavish all kinds of happiness upon her!\n\nAt that moment M\u00e8re-Grand came downstairs again, laden with a bundle of\nlinen and woollen clothing, and Madame Th\u00e9odore and little C\u00e9line\nwithdrew while pouring forth their thanks. For a long time after they had\ngone Guillaume, unable to resume work, continued walking to and fro in\nsilence, with a frown upon his face.\n\nWhen Pierre, still hesitating and still tortured by conflicting feelings,\nreturned to Montmartre on the following day he witnessed with much\nsurprise a visit of a very different kind. There was a sudden gust of\nwind, a whirl of skirts and a ring of laughter as little Princess\nRosemonde swept in, followed by young Hyacinthe Duvillard, who, on his\nside, retained a very frigid bearing.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s I, my dear master,\u201d exclaimed the Princess. \u201cI promised you a\nvisit, you remember, for I am such a great admirer of your genius. And\nour young friend here has been kind enough to bring me. We have only just\nreturned from Norway, and my very first visit is for you.\u201d\n\nShe turned as she spoke, and bowed in an easy and gracious way to Pierre\nand Marie, Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine, who were also there. Then she resumed:\n\u201cOh! my dear master, you have no idea how beautifully virginal Norway is!\nWe all ought to go and drink at that new source of the Ideal, and we\nshould return purified, rejuvenated and capable of great renunciations!\u201d\n\nAs a matter of fact she had been well-nigh bored to death there. To make\none\u2019s honeymoon journey to the land of the ice and snow, instead of to\nItaly, the hot land of the sun, was doubtless a very refined idea, which\nshowed that no base materialism formed part of one\u2019s affections. It was\nthe soul alone that travelled, and naturally it was fit that only kisses\nof the soul should be exchanged on the journey. Unfortunately, however,\nHyacinthe had carried his symbolism so far as to exasperate Rosemonde,\nand on one occasion they had come to blows over it, and then to tears\nwhen this lover\u2019s quarrel had ended as many such quarrels do. Briefly,\nthey had no longer deemed themselves pure enough for the companionship of\nthe swans and the lakes of dreamland, and had therefore taken the first\nsteamer that was sailing for France.\n\nAs it was altogether unnecessary to confess to everybody what a failure\ntheir journey had proved, the Princess abruptly brought her rapturous\nreferences to Norway to an end, and then explained: \u201cBy the way, do you\nknow what I found awaiting me on my return? Why, I found my house\npillaged, oh! completely pillaged! And in such a filthy condition, too!\nWe at once recognised the mark of the beast, and thought of Bergaz\u2019s\nyoung friends.\u201d\n\nAlready on the previous day Guillaume had read in the newspapers that a\nband of young Anarchists had entered the Princess\u2019s little house by\nbreaking a basement window. She had left it quite deserted, unprotected\neven by a caretaker; and the robbers had not merely removed everything\nfrom the premises--including even the larger articles of furniture, but\nhad lived there for a couple of days, bringing provisions in from\noutside, drinking all the wine in the cellars, and leaving every room in\na most filthy and disgusting condition. On discovering all this,\nRosemonde had immediately remembered the evening she had spent at the\nChamber of Horrors in the company of Bergaz and his acolytes, Rossi and\nSanfaute, who had heard her speak of her intended trip to Norway. The two\nyoung men had therefore been arrested, but Bergaz had so far escaped. The\nPrincess was not greatly astonished by it all, for she had already been\nwarned of the presence of dangerous characters among the mixed\ncosmopolitan set with which she associated. Janzen had told her in\nconfidence of a number of villanous affairs which were attributed to\nBergaz and his band. And now the Anarchist leader openly declared that\nBergaz had sold himself to the police like Raphanel; and that the\nburglary at the Princess\u2019s residence had been planned by the police\nofficials, who thereby hoped to cover the Anarchist cause with mire. If\nproof was wanted of this, added Janzen, it could be found in the fact\nthat the police had allowed Bergaz to escape.\n\n\u201cI fancied that the newspapers might have exaggerated matters,\u201d said\nGuillaume, when the Princess had finished her story. \u201cThey are inventing\nsuch abominable things just now, in order to blacken the case of that\npoor devil Salvat.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! they\u2019ve exaggerated nothing!\u201d Rosemonde gaily rejoined. \u201cAs a matter\nof fact they have omitted a number of particulars which were too filthy\nfor publication.... For my part, I\u2019ve merely had to go to an hotel.\nI\u2019m very comfortable there; I was beginning to feel bored in that house\nof mine.... All the same, however, Anarchism is hardly a clean\nbusiness, and I no longer like to say that I have any connection with\nit.\u201d\n\nShe again laughed, and then passed to another subject, asking Guillaume\nto tell her of his most recent researches, in order, no doubt, that she\nmight show she knew enough chemistry to understand him. He had been\nrendered thoughtful, however, by the story of Bergaz and the burglary,\nand would only answer her in a general way.\n\nMeantime, Hyacinthe was renewing his acquaintance with his\nschool-fellows, Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine. He had accompanied the Princess to\nMontmartre against his own inclinations; but since she had taken to\nwhipping him he had become afraid of her. The chemist\u2019s little home\nfilled him with disdain, particularly as the chemist was a man of\nquestionable reputation. Moreover, he thought it a duty to insist on his\nown superiority in the presence of those old school-fellows of his, whom\nhe found toiling away in the common rut, like other people.\n\n\u201cAh! yes,\u201d said he to Fran\u00e7ois, who was taking notes from a book spread\nopen before him, \u201cyou are at the \u00c9cole Normale, I believe, and are\npreparing for your licentiate. Well, for my part, you know, the idea of\nbeing tied to anything horrifies me. I become quite stupid when there\u2019s\nany question of examination or competition. The only possible road for\none to follow is that of the Infinite. And between ourselves what dupery\nthere is in science, how it narrows our horizon! It\u2019s just as well to\nremain a child with eyes gazing into the invisible. A child knows more\nthan all your learned men.\u201d\n\nFran\u00e7ois, who occasionally indulged in irony, pretended to share his\nopinion. \u201cNo doubt, no doubt,\u201d said he, \u201cbut one must have a natural\ndisposition to remain a child. For my part, unhappily, I\u2019m consumed by a\ndesire to learn and know. It\u2019s deplorable, as I\u2019m well aware, but I pass\nmy days racking my brain over books.... I shall never know very much,\nthat\u2019s certain; and perhaps that\u2019s the reason why I\u2019m ever striving to\nlearn a little more. You must at all events grant that work, like\nidleness, is a means of passing life, though of course it is a less\nelegant and aesthetic one.\u201d\n\n\u201cLess aesthetic, precisely,\u201d rejoined Hyacinthe. \u201cBeauty lies solely in\nthe unexpressed, and life is simply degraded when one introduces anything\nmaterial into it.\u201d\n\nSimpleton though he was in spite of the enormity of his pretensions, he\ndoubtless detected that Fran\u00e7ois had been speaking ironically. So he\nturned to Antoine, who had remained seated in front of a block he was\nengraving. It was the one which represented Lise reading in her garden,\nfor he was ever taking it in hand again and touching it up in his desire\nto emphasise his indication of the girl\u2019s awakening to intelligence and\nlife.\n\n\u201cSo you engrave, I see,\u201d said Hyacinthe. \u201cWell, since I renounced\nversification--a little poem I had begun on the End of Woman--because\nwords seemed to me so gross and cumbersome, mere paving-stones as it\nwere, fit for labourers, I myself have had some idea of trying drawing,\nand perhaps engraving too. But what drawing can portray the mystery which\nlies beyond life, the only sphere that has any real existence and\nimportance for us? With what pencil and on what kind of plate could one\ndepict it? We should need something impalpable, something unheard of,\nwhich would merely suggest the essence of things and beings.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it\u2019s only by material means,\u201d Antoine somewhat roughly replied,\n\u201cthat art can render the essence of things and beings, that is, their\nfull significance as we understand it. To transcribe life is my great\npassion; and briefly life is the only mystery that there is in things and\nbeings. When it seems to me that an engraving of mine lives, I\u2019m well\npleased, for I feel that I have created.\u201d\n\nHyacinthe pouted by way of expressing his contempt of all fruitfulness.\nAny fool might beget offspring. It was the sexless idea, existing by\nitself, that was rare and exquisite. He tried to explain this, but became\nconfused, and fell back on the conviction which he had brought back from\nNorway, that literature and art were done for in France, killed by\nbaseness and excess of production.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s evident!\u201d said Fran\u00e7ois gaily by way of conclusion. \u201cTo do nothing\nalready shows that one has some talent!\u201d\n\nMeantime, Pierre and Marie listened and gazed around them, somewhat\nembarrassed by this strange visit which had set the usually grave and\npeaceful workroom topsy-turvy. The little Princess, though, evinced much\namiability, and on drawing near to Marie admired the wonderful delicacy\nof some embroidery she was finishing. Before leaving, moreover, Rosemonde\ninsisted upon Guillaume inscribing his autograph in an album which\nHyacinthe had to fetch from her carriage. The young man obeyed her with\nevident boredom. It could be seen that they were already weary of one\nanother. Pending a fresh caprice, however, it amused Rosemonde to\nterrorize her sorry victim. When she at length led him away, after\ndeclaring to Guillaume that she should always regard that visit as a\nmemorable incident in her life, she made the whole household smile by\nsaying: \u201cOh! so your sons knew Hyacinthe at college. He\u2019s a good-natured\nlittle fellow, isn\u2019t he? and he would really be quite nice if he would\nonly behave like other people.\u201d\n\nThat same day Janzen and Bache came to spend the evening with Guillaume.\nOnce a week they now met at Montmartre, as they had formerly done at\nNeuilly. Pierre, on these occasions, went home very late, for as soon as\nM\u00e8re-Grand, Marie, and Guillaume\u2019s sons had retired for the night, there\nwere endless chats in the workroom, whence Paris could be seen spangled\nwith thousands of gas lights. Another visitor at these times was\nTh\u00e9ophile Morin, but he did not arrive before ten o\u2019clock, as he was\ndetained by the work of correcting his pupils\u2019 exercises or some other\nwearisome labour pertaining to his profession.\n\nAs soon as Guillaume had told the others of the Princess\u2019s visit that\nafternoon, Janzen hastily exclaimed: \u201cBut she\u2019s mad, you know. When I\nfirst met her I thought for a moment that I might perhaps utilise her for\nthe cause. She seemed so thoroughly convinced and bold! But I soon found\nthat she was the craziest of women, and simply hungered for new\nemotions!\u201d\n\nJanzen was at last emerging from his wonted frigidity and mysteriousness.\nHis cheeks were quite flushed. In all probability he had suffered from\nhis rupture with the woman whom he had once called \u2018the Queen of the\nAnarchists,\u2019 and whose fortune and extensive circle of acquaintance had\nseemed to him such powerful weapons of propaganda.\n\n\u201cYou know,\u201d said he, when he had calmed down, \u201cit was the police who had\nher house pillaged and turned into a pigstye. Yes, in view of Salvat\u2019s\ntrial, which is now near at hand, the idea was to damn Anarchism beyond\npossibility of even the faintest sympathy on the part of the\n_bourgeois_.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, she told me so,\u201d replied Guillaume, who had become attentive. \u201cBut\nI scarcely credit the story. If Bergaz had merely acted under such\ninfluence as you suggest, he would have been arrested with the others,\njust as Raphanel was taken with those whom he betrayed. Besides, I know\nsomething of Bergaz; he\u2019s a freebooter.\u201d Guillaume made a sorrowful\ngesture, and then in a saddened voice continued: \u201cOh, I can understand\nall claims and all legitimate reprisals. But theft, cynical theft for the\npurpose of profit and enjoyment, is beyond me! It lowers my hope of a\nbetter and more equitable form of society. Yes, that burglary at the\nPrincess\u2019s house has greatly distressed me.\u201d\n\nAn enigmatical smile, sharp like a knife, again played over Janzen\u2019s\nlips. \u201cOh! it\u2019s a matter of heredity with you!\u201d said he. \u201cThe centuries\nof education and belief that lie behind you compel you to protest. All\nthe same, however, when people won\u2019t make restoration, things must be\ntaken from them. What worries me is that Bergaz should have sold himself\njust now. The public prosecutor will use that farcical burglary as a\ncrushing argument when he asks the jury for Salvat\u2019s head.\u201d\n\nSuch was Janzen\u2019s hatred of the police that he stubbornly clung to his\nversion of the affair. Perhaps, too, he had quarrelled with Bergaz, with\nwhom he had at one time freely associated.\n\nGuillaume, who understood that all discussion would be useless, contented\nhimself with replying: \u201cAh! yes, Salvat! Everything is against that\nunhappy fellow, he is certain to be condemned. But you can\u2019t know, my\nfriends, what a passion that affair of his puts me into. All my ideas of\ntruth and justice revolt at the thought of it. He\u2019s a madman certainly;\nbut there are so many excuses to be urged for him. At bottom he is simply\na martyr who has followed the wrong track. And yet he has become the\nscapegoat, laden with the crimes of the whole nation, condemned to pay\nfor one and all!\u201d\n\nBache and Morin nodded without replying. They both professed horror of\nAnarchism; while Morin, forgetting that the word if not the thing dated\nfrom his first master Proudhon, clung to his Comtist doctrines, in the\nconviction that science alone would ensure the happiness and pacification\nof the nations. Bache, for his part, old mystical humanitarian that he\nwas, claimed that the only solution would come from Fourier, who by\ndecreeing an alliance of talent, labour and capital, had mapped out the\nfuture in a decisive manner. Nevertheless, both Bache and Morin were so\ndiscontented with the slow-paced _bourgeoise_ Republic of the present\nday, and so hurt by the thought that everything was going from bad to\nworse through the flouting of their own particular ideas, that they were\nquite willing to wax indignant at the manner in which the conflicting\nparties of the time were striving to make use of Salvat in order to\nretain or acquire power.\n\n\u201cWhen one thinks,\u201d said Bache, \u201cthat this ministerial crisis of theirs\nhas now been lasting for nearly three weeks! Every appetite is openly\ndisplayed, it\u2019s a most disgusting sight! Did you see in the papers this\nmorning that the President has again been obliged to summon Vignon to the\nElys\u00e9e?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! the papers,\u201d muttered Morin in his weary way, \u201cI no longer read\nthem! What\u2019s the use of doing so? They are so badly written, and they all\nlie!\u201d\n\nAs Bache had said, the ministerial crisis was still dragging on. The\nPresident of the Republic, taking as his guide the debate in the Chamber\nof Deputies, by which the Barroux administration had been overthrown, had\nvery properly sent for Vignon, the victor on that occasion, and entrusted\nhim with the formation of a new ministry. It had seemed that this would\nbe an easy task, susceptible of accomplishment in two or three days at\nthe utmost, for the names of the friends whom the young leader of the\nRadical party would bring to power with him had been freely mentioned for\nmonths past. But all sorts of difficulties had suddenly arisen. For ten\ndays or so Vignon had struggled on amidst inextricable obstacles. Then,\ndisheartened and disgusted, fearing, too, that he might use himself up\nand shut off the future if he persisted in his endeavours, he had been\nobliged to tell the President that he renounced the task. Forthwith the\nPresident had summoned other deputies, and questioned them until he had\nfound one brave enough to make an attempt on his own account; whereupon\nincidents similar to those which had marked Vignon\u2019s endeavours had once\nmore occurred. At the outset a list was drawn up with every prospect of\nbeing ratified within a few hours, but all at once hesitation arose, some\npulled one way, some another; every effort was slowly paralysed till\nabsolute failure resulted. It seemed as though the mysterious man\u0153uvres\nwhich had hampered Vignon had begun again; it was as if some band of\ninvisible plotters was, for some unknown purpose, doing its utmost to\nwreck every combination. A thousand hindrances arose with increasing\nforce from every side--jealousy, dislike, and even betrayal were secretly\nprompted by expert agents, who employed every form of pressure, whether\nthreats or promises, besides fanning and casting rival passions and\ninterests into collision. Thus the President, greatly embarrassed by this\nposture of affairs, had again found it necessary to summon Vignon, who,\nafter reflection and negotiation, now had an almost complete list in his\npocket, and seemed likely to perfect a new administration within the next\nforty-eight hours.\n\n\u201cStill it isn\u2019t settled,\u201d resumed Bache. \u201cWell-informed people assert\nthat Vignon will fail again as he did the first time. For my part I can\u2019t\nget rid of the idea that Duvillard\u2019s gang is pulling the strings, though\nfor whose benefit is a mystery. You may be quite sure, however, that its\nchief purpose is to stifle the African Railways affair. If Monferrand\nwere not so badly compromised I should almost suspect some trick on his\npart. Have you noticed that the \u2018Globe,\u2019 after throwing Barroux overboard\nin all haste, now refers to Monferrand every day with the most respectful\nsympathy? That\u2019s a grave sign; for it isn\u2019t Fons\u00e8gue\u2019s habit to show any\nsolicitude for the vanquished. But what can one expect from that wretched\nChamber! The only point certain is that something dirty is being plotted\nthere.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd that big dunderhead M\u00e8ge who works for every party except his own!\u201d\n exclaimed Morin; \u201cwhat a dupe he is with that idea that he need merely\noverthrow first one cabinet and then another, in order to become the\nleader of one himself!\u201d\n\nThe mention of M\u00e8ge brought them all to agreement, for they unanimously\nhated him. Bache, although his views coincided on many points with those\nof the apostle of State Collectivism, judged each of his speeches, each\nof his actions, with pitiless severity. Janzen, for his part, treated the\nCollectivist leader as a mere reactionary _bourgeois_, who ought to be\nswept away one of the first. This hatred of M\u00e8ge was indeed the common\npassion of Guillaume\u2019s friends. They could occasionally show some justice\nfor men who in no wise shared their ideas; but in their estimation it was\nan unpardonable crime for anybody to hold much the same views as\nthemselves, without being absolutely in agreement with them on every\npossible point.\n\nTheir discussion continued, their various theories mingling or clashing\ntill they passed from politics to the press, and grew excited over the\ndenunciations which poured each morning from Sagnier\u2019s newspaper, like\nfilth from the mouth of a sewer. Thereupon Guillaume, who had become\nabsorbed in reverie while pacing to and fro according to his habit,\nsuddenly exclaimed: \u201cAh! what dirty work it is that Sagnier does! Before\nlong there won\u2019t be a single person, a single thing left on which he\nhasn\u2019t vomited! You think he\u2019s on your side, and suddenly he splashes you\nwith mire!... By the way, he related yesterday that skeleton keys and\nstolen purses were found on Salvat when he was arrested in the Bois de\nBoulogne! It\u2019s always Salvat! He\u2019s the inexhaustible subject for\narticles. The mere mention of him suffices to send up a paper\u2019s sales!\nThe bribe-takers of the African Railways shout \u2018Salvat!\u2019 to create a\ndiversion. And the battles which wreck ministers are waged round his\nname. One and all set upon him and make use of him and beat him down!\u201d\n\nWith that cry of revolt and compassion, the friends separated for the\nnight. Pierre, who sat near the open window, overlooking the sparkling\nimmensity of Paris, had listened to the others without speaking a word.\nHe had once more been mastered by his doubts, the terrible struggle of\nhis heart and mind; and no solution, no appeasement had come to him from\nall the contradictory views he had heard--the views of men who only\nunited in predicting the disappearance of the old world, and could make\nno joint brotherly effort to rear the future world of truth and justice.\nIn that vast city of Paris stretching below him, spangled with stars,\nglittering like the sky of a summer\u2019s night, Pierre also found a great\nenigma. It was like chaos, like a dim expanse of ashes dotted with sparks\nwhence the coming aurora would arise. What future was being forged there,\nhe wondered, what decisive word of salvation and happiness would come\nwith the dawn, and wing its flight to every point of the horizon?\n\nWhen Pierre, in his turn, was about to retire, Guillaume laid his hands\nupon his shoulders, and with much emotion gave him a long look. \u201cAh! my\npoor fellow,\u201d said he, \u201cyou\u2019ve been suffering too for some days past, I\nhave noticed it. But you are the master of your sufferings, for the\nstruggle you have to overcome is simply in yourself, and you can subdue\nit; whereas one cannot subdue the world, when it is the world, its\ncruelty and injustice that make one suffer! Good night, be brave, act as\nyour reason tells you, even if it makes you weep, and you will find peace\nsurely enough.\u201d\n\nLater on, when Pierre again found himself alone in his little house at\nNeuilly, where none now visited him save the shades of his father and\nmother, he was long kept awake by a supreme internal combat. He had never\nbefore felt so disgusted with the falsehood of his life, that cassock\nwhich he had persisted in wearing, though he was a priest in name only.\nPerhaps it was all that he had beheld and heard at his brother\u2019s, the\nwant and wretchedness of some, the wild, futile agitation of others, the\nneed of improvement among mankind which remained paramount amidst every\ncontradiction and form of weakness, that had made him more deeply\nconscious of the necessity of living in loyal and normal fashion in the\nbroad daylight. He could no longer think of his former dream of leading\nthe solitary life of a saintly priest when he was nothing of the kind,\nwithout a shiver of shame at having lied so long. And now it was quite\ndecided, he would lie no longer, not even from feelings of compassion in\norder that others might retain their religious illusions. And yet how\npainful it was to have to divest himself of that gown which seemed to\ncling to his skin, and how heartrending the thought that if he did remove\nit he would be skinless, lacerated, infirm, unable, do what he might, to\nbecome like other men!\n\nIt was this recurring thought which again tortured him throughout that\nterrible night. Would life yet allow him to enter its fold? Had he not\nbeen branded with a mark which for ever condemned him to dwell apart? He\nthought he could feel his priestly vows burning his very flesh like\nred-hot iron. What use would it be for him to dress as men dress, if in\nreality he was never to be a man? He had hitherto lived in such a\nquivering state, in a sphere of renunciation and dreams! To know manhood\nnever, to be too late for it, that thought filled him with terror. And\nwhen at last he made up his mind to fling aside his cassock, he did so\nfrom a simple sense of rectitude, for all his anguish remained.\n\nWhen he returned to Montmartre on the following day, he wore a jacket and\ntrousers of a dark colour. Neither an exclamation nor a glance that might\nhave embarrassed him came from M\u00e8re-Grand or the three young men. Was not\nthe change a natural one? They greeted him therefore in the quiet way\nthat was usual with them; perhaps, with some increase of affection, as if\nto set him the more at his ease. Guillaume, however, ventured to smile\ngood-naturedly. In that change he detected his own work. Cur\u00e9 was coming,\nas he had hoped it would come, by him and in his own home, amid the full\nsunlight, the life which ever streamed in through yonder window.\n\nMarie, who on her side raised her eyes and looked at Pierre, knew nothing\nof the sufferings which he had endured through her simple and logical\ninquiry: \u201cWhy not take your cassock off?\u201d She merely felt that by\nremoving it he would be more at ease for his work.\n\n\u201cOh, Pierre, just come and look!\u201d she suddenly exclaimed. \u201cI have been\namusing myself with watching all the smoke which the wind is laying\nyonder over Paris. One might take it to be a huge fleet of ships shining\nin the sunlight. Yes, yes, golden ships, thousands of golden ships,\nsetting forth from the ocean of Paris to enlighten and pacify the world!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nIII. THE DAWN OF LOVE\n\nA COUPLE of days afterwards, when Pierre was already growing accustomed\nto his new attire, and no longer gave it a thought, it so happened that\non reaching Montmartre he encountered Abb\u00e9 Rose outside the basilica of\nthe Sacred Heart. The old priest, who at first was quite thunderstruck\nand scarcely able to recognise him, ended by taking hold of his hands and\ngiving him a long look. Then with his eyes full of tears he exclaimed:\n\u201cOh! my son, so you have fallen into the awful state I feared! I never\nmentioned it, but I felt that God had withdrawn from you. Ah! nothing\ncould wound my heart so cruelly as this.\u201d\n\nThen, still trembling, he began to lead Pierre away as if to hide such a\nscandal from the few people who passed by; and at last, his strength\nfailing him, he sank upon a heap of bricks lying on the grass of one of\nthe adjoining work-yards.\n\nThe sincere grief which his old and affectionate friend displayed upset\nPierre far more than any angry reproaches or curses would have done.\nTears had come to his own eyes, so acute was the suffering he experienced\nat this meeting, which he ought, however, to have foreseen. There was yet\nanother wrenching, and one which made the best of their blood flow, in\nthat rupture between Pierre and the saintly man whose charitable dreams\nand hopes of salvation he had so long shared. There had been so many\ndivine illusions, so many struggles for the relief of the masses, so much\nrenunciation and forgiveness practised in common between them in their\ndesire to hasten the harvest of the future! And now they were parting;\nhe, Pierre, still young in years, was returning to life, leaving his aged\ncompanion to his vain waiting and his dreams.\n\nIn his turn, taking hold of Abb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s hands, he gave expression to his\nsorrow. \u201cAh, my friend, my father,\u201d said he, \u201cit is you alone that I\nregret losing, now that I am leaving my frightful torments behind. I\nthought that I was cured of them, but it has been sufficient for me to\nmeet you, and my heart is rent again.... Don\u2019t weep for me, I pray\nyou, don\u2019t reproach me for what I have done. It was necessary that I\nshould do it. If I had consulted you, you would yourself have told me\nthat it was better to renounce the priesthood than to remain a priest\nwithout faith or honour.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d Abb\u00e9 Rose gently responded, \u201cyou no longer had any faith\nleft. I suspected it. And your rigidity and saintliness of life, in which\nI detected such great despair, made me anxious for you. How many hours\ndid I not spend at times in striving to calm you! And you must listen to\nme again, you must still let me save you. I am not a sufficiently learned\ntheologian to lead you back by discussing texts and dogmas; but in the\nname of Charity, my child, yes, in the name of Charity alone, reflect and\ntake up your task of consolation and hope once more.\u201d\n\nPierre had sat down beside Abb\u00e9 Rose, in that deserted nook, at the very\nfoot of the basilica. \u201cCharity! charity!\u201d he replied in passionate\naccents; \u201cwhy, it is its nothingness and bankruptcy that have killed the\npriest there was in me. How can you believe that benevolence is\nsufficient, when you have spent your whole life in practising it without\nany other result than that of seeing want perpetuated and even increased,\nand without any possibility of naming the day when such abomination shall\ncease?... You think of the reward after death, do you not? The justice\nthat is to reign in heaven? But that is not justice, it is dupery--dupery\nthat has brought the world nothing but suffering for centuries past.\u201d\n\nThen he reminded the old priest of their life in the Charonne district,\nwhen they had gone about together succouring children in the streets and\nparents in their hovels; the whole of those admirable efforts which, so\nfar as Abb\u00e9 Rose was concerned, had simply ended in blame from his\nsuperiors, and removal from proximity to his poor, under penalty of more\nsevere punishment should he persist in compromising religion by the\npractice of blind benevolence without reason or object. And now, was he\nnot, so to say, submerged beneath the ever-rising tide of want, aware\nthat he would never, never be able to give enough even should he dispose\nof millions, and that he could only prolong the agony of the poor, who,\neven should they eat today, would starve again on the morrow? Thus he was\npowerless. The wound which he tried to dress and heal, immediately\nreopened and spread, in such wise that all society would at last be\nstricken and carried off by it.\n\nQuivering as he listened, and slowly shaking his white head, the old\npriest ended by replying: \u201cwhat does that matter, my child? what does\nthat matter? One must give, always give, give in spite of everything!\nThere is no other joy on earth.... If dogmas worry you, content\nyourself with the Gospel, and even of that retain merely the promise of\nsalvation through charity.\u201d\n\nBut at this Pierre\u2019s feelings revolted. He forgot that he was speaking to\none of simple mind, who was all love and nothing else, and could\ntherefore not follow him. \u201cThe trial has been made,\u201d he answered, \u201chuman\nsalvation cannot be effected by charity, nothing but justice can\naccomplish it. That is the gathering cry which is going up from every\nnation. For nearly two thousand years now the Gospel has proved a\nfailure. There has been no redemption; the sufferings of mankind are\nevery whit as great and unjust as they were when Jesus came. And thus the\nGospel is now but an abolished code, from which society can only draw\nthings that are troublous and hurtful. Men must free themselves from it.\u201d\n\nThis was his final conviction. How strange the idea, thought he, of\nchoosing as the world\u2019s social legislator one who lived, as Jesus lived,\namidst a social system absolutely different from that of nowadays. The\nage was different, the very world was different. And if it were merely a\nquestion of retaining only such of the moral teaching of Jesus as seemed\nhuman and eternal, was there not again a danger in applying immutable\nprinciples to the society of every age? No society could live under the\nstrict law of the Gospel. Was not all order, all labour, all life\ndestroyed by the teaching of Jesus? Did He not deny woman, the earth,\neternal nature and the eternal fruitfulness of things and beings?\nMoreover, Catholicism had reared upon His primitive teaching such a\nfrightful edifice of terror and oppression. The theory of original sin,\nthat terrible heredity reviving with each creature born into the world,\nmade no allowance as Science does for the corrective influences of\neducation, circumstances and environment. There could be no more\npessimist conception of man than this one which devotes him to the Devil\nfrom the instant of his birth, and pictures him as struggling against\nhimself until the instant of his death. An impossible and absurd\nstruggle, for it is a question of changing man in his entirety, killing\nthe flesh, killing reason, destroying some guilty energy in each and\nevery passion, and of pursuing the Devil to the very depths of the\nwaters, mountains and forests, there to annihilate him with the very sap\nof the world. If this theory is accepted the world is but sin, a mere\nHell of temptation and suffering, through which one must pass in order to\nmerit Heaven. Ah! what an admirable instrument for absolute despotism is\nthat religion of death, which the principle of charity alone has enabled\nmen to tolerate, but which the need of justice will perforce sweep away.\nThe poor man, who is the wretched dupe of it all, no longer believes in\nParadise, but requires that each and all should be rewarded according to\ntheir deserts upon this earth; and thus eternal life becomes the good\ngoddess, and desire and labour the very laws of the world, while the\nfruitfulness of woman is again honoured, and the idiotic nightmare of\nHell is replaced by glorious Nature whose travail knows no end. Leaning\nupon modern Science, clear Latin reason sweeps away the ancient Semitic\nconception of the Gospel.\n\n\u201cFor eighteen hundred years,\u201d concluded Pierre, \u201cChristianity has been\nhampering the march of mankind towards truth and justice. And mankind\nwill only resume its evolution on the day when it abolishes Christianity,\nand places the Gospel among the works of the wise, without taking it any\nlonger as its absolute and final law.\u201d\n\nBut Abb\u00e9 Rose raised his trembling hands: \u201cBe quiet, be quiet, my child!\u201d\n he cried; \u201cyou are blaspheming! I knew that doubt distracted you; but I\nthought you so patient, so able to bear suffering, that I relied on your\nspirit of renunciation and resignation. What can have happened to make\nyou leave the Church in this abrupt and violent fashion? I no longer\nrecognise you. Sudden passion has sprung up in you, an invincible force\nseems to carry you away. What is it? Who has changed you, tell me?\u201d\n\nPierre listened in astonishment. \u201cNo,\u201d said he, \u201cI assure you, I am such\nas you have known me, and in all this there is but an inevitable result\nand finish. Who could have influenced me, since nobody has entered my\nlife? What new feeling could transform me, since I find none in me? I am\nthe same as before, the same assuredly.\u201d\n\nStill there was a touch of hesitation in his voice. Was it really true\nthat there had been no change within him? He again questioned himself,\nand there came no clear answer; decidedly, he would find nothing. It was\nall but a delightful awakening, an overpowering desire for life, a\nlonging to open his arms widely enough to embrace everyone and\neverything indeed, a breeze of joy seemed to raise him from the ground\nand carry him along.\n\nAlthough Abb\u00e9 Rose was too innocent of heart to understand things\nclearly, he again shook his head and thought of the snares which the\nDevil is ever setting for men. He was quite overwhelmed by Pierre\u2019s\ndefection. Continuing his efforts to win him back, he made the mistake of\nadvising him to consult Monseigneur Martha, for he hoped that a prelate\nof such high authority would find the words necessary to restore him to\nhis faith. Pierre, however, boldly replied that if he was leaving the\nChurch it was partly because it comprised such a man as Martha, such an\nartisan of deception and despotism, one who turned religion into corrupt\ndiplomacy, and dreamt of winning men back to God by dint of ruses.\nThereupon Abb\u00e9 Rose, rising to his feet, could find no other argument in\nhis despair than that of pointing to the basilica which stood beside\nthem, square, huge and massive, and still waiting for its dome.\n\n\u201cThat is God\u2019s abode, my child,\u201d said he, \u201cthe edifice of expiation and\ntriumph, of penitence and forgiveness. You have said mass in it, and now\nyou are leaving it sacrilegiously and forswearing yourself!\u201d\n\nBut Pierre also had risen; and buoyed up by a sudden rush of health and\nstrength he answered: \u201cNo, no! I am leaving it willingly, as one leaves a\ndark vault, to return into the open air and the broad sunlight. God does\nnot dwell there; the only purpose of that huge edifice is to defy reason,\ntruth and justice; it has been erected on the highest spot that could be\nfound, like a citadel of error that dominates, insults and threatens\nParis!\u201d\n\nThen seeing that the old priest\u2019s eyes were again filling with tears, and\nfeeling on his own side so pained by their rupture that he began to sob,\nPierre wished to go away. \u201cFarewell! farewell!\u201d he stammered.\n\nBut Abb\u00e9 Rose caught him in his arms and kissed him, as if he were a\nrebellious son who yet had remained the dearest. \u201cNo, not farewell, not\nfarewell, my child,\u201d he answered; \u201csay rather till we meet again. Promise\nme that we shall see each other again, at least among those who starve\nand weep. It is all very well for you to think that charity has become\nbankrupt, but shall we not always love one another in loving our poor?\u201d\n\nThen they parted.\n\nOn becoming the companion of his three big nephews, Pierre had in a few\nlessons learnt from them how to ride a bicycle, in order that he might\noccasionally accompany them on their morning excursions. He went twice\nwith them and Marie along the somewhat roughly paved roads in the\ndirection of the Lake of Enghien. Then one morning when the young woman\nhad promised to take him and Antoine as far as the forest of\nSaint-Germain, it was found at the last moment that Antoine could not\ncome. Marie was already dressed in a chemisette of fawn-coloured silk,\nand a little jacket and \u201crationals\u201d of black serge, and it was such a\nwarm, bright April day that she was not inclined to renounce her trip.\n\n\u201cWell, so much the worse!\u201d she gaily said to Pierre, \u201cI shall take you\nwith me, there will only be the pair of us. I really want you to see how\ndelightful it is to bowl over a good road between the beautiful trees.\u201d\n\nHowever, as Pierre was not yet a very expert rider, they decided that\nthey would take the train as far as Maisons-Laffitte, whence they would\nproceed on their bicycles to the forest, cross it in the direction of\nSaint-Germain, and afterwards return to Paris by train.\n\n\u201cYou will be here for _d\u00e9jeuner_, won\u2019t you?\u201d asked Guillaume, whom this\nfreak amused, and who looked with a smile at his brother. The latter,\nlike Marie, was in black: jacket, breeches and stockings all of the same\nhue.\n\n\u201cOh, certainly!\u201d replied Marie. \u201cIt\u2019s now barely eight o\u2019clock, so we\nhave plenty of time. Still you need not wait for us, you know, we shall\nalways find our way back.\u201d\n\nIt was a delightful morning. When they started, Pierre could fancy\nhimself with a friend of his own sex, so that this trip together through\nthe warm sunlight seemed quite natural. Doubtless their costumes, which\nwere so much alike, conduced to the gay brotherly feeling he experienced.\nBut beyond all this there was the healthfulness of the open air, the\ndelight which exercise brings, the pleasure of roaming in all freedom\nthrough the midst of nature.\n\nOn taking the train they found themselves alone in a compartment, and\nMarie once more began to talk of her college days. \u201cAh! you\u2019ve no idea,\u201d\n said she, \u201cwhat fine games at baseball we used to have at F\u00e9nelon! We\nused to tie up our skirts with string so as to run the better, for we\nwere not allowed to wear rationals like I\u2019m wearing now. And there were\nshrieks, and rushes, and pushes, till our hair waved about and we were\nquite red with exercise and excitement. Still that didn\u2019t prevent us from\nworking in the class-rooms. On the contrary! Directly we were at study we\nfought again, each striving to learn the most and reach the top of the\nclass!\u201d\n\nShe laughed gaily as she thus recalled her school life, and Pierre\nglanced at her with candid admiration, so pink and healthy did she look\nunder her little hat of black felt, which a long silver pin kept in\nposition. Her fine dark hair was caught up behind, showing her neck,\nwhich looked as fresh and delicate as a child\u2019s. And never before had she\nseemed to him so supple and so strong.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d she continued in a jesting way, \u201cthere is nothing like rationals,\nyou know! To think that some women are foolish and obstinate enough to\nwear skirts when they go out cycling!\u201d\n\nThen, as he declared--just by way of speaking the truth, and without the\nfaintest idea of gallantry--that she looked very nice indeed in her\ncostume, she responded: \u201cOh! I don\u2019t count. I\u2019m not a beauty. I simply\nenjoy good health.... But can you understand it? To think that women\nhave an unique opportunity of putting themselves at their ease, and\nreleasing their limbs from prison, and yet they won\u2019t do so! If they\nthink that they look the prettier in short skirts like schoolgirls they\nare vastly mistaken! And as for any question of modesty, well, it seems\nto me that it is infinitely less objectionable for women to wear\nrationals than to bare their bosoms at balls and theatres and dinners as\nsociety ladies do.\u201d Then, with a gesture of girlish impulsiveness, she\nadded: \u201cBesides, does one think of such things when one\u2019s rolling along?\n... Yes, rationals are the only things, skirts are rank heresy!\u201d\n\nIn her turn, she was now looking at him, and was struck by the\nextraordinary change which had come over him since the day when he had\nfirst appeared to her, so sombre in his long cassock, with his face\nemaciated, livid, almost distorted by anguish. It was like a\nresurrection, for now his countenance was bright, his lofty brow had all\nthe serenity of hope, while his eyes and lips once more showed some of\nthe confident tenderness which sprang from his everlasting thirst for\nlove, self-bestowal and life. All mark of the priesthood had already left\nhim, save that where he had been tonsured his hair still remained rather\nshort.\n\n\u201cWhy are you looking at me?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cI was noticing how much good has been done you by work and the open\nair,\u201d she frankly answered; \u201cI much prefer you as you are. You used to\nlook so poorly. I thought you really ill.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo I was,\u201d said he.\n\nThe train, however, was now stopping at Maisons-Laffitte. They alighted\nfrom it, and at once took the road to the forest. This road rises gently\ntill it reaches the Maisons gate, and on market days it is often crowded\nwith carts.\n\n\u201cI shall go first, eh?\u201d said Marie gaily, \u201cfor vehicles still alarm you.\u201d\n\nThereupon she started ahead, but every now and again she turned with a\nsmile to see if he were following her. And every time they overtook and\npassed a cart she spoke to him of the merits of their machines, which\nboth came from the Grandidier works. They were \u201cLisettes,\u201d examples of\nthose popular bicycles which Thomas had helped to perfect, and which the\nBon March\u00e9 now sold in large numbers for 250 francs apiece. Perhaps they\nwere rather heavy in appearance, but on the other hand their strength was\nbeyond question. They were just the machines for a long journey, so Marie\ndeclared.\n\n\u201cAh! here\u2019s the forest,\u201d she at last exclaimed. \u201cWe have now reached the\nend of the rise; and you will see what splendid avenues there are. One\ncan bowl along them as on a velvet carpet.\u201d\n\nPierre had already joined her, and they rode on side by side along the\nbroad straight avenue fringed with magnificent trees.\n\n\u201cI am all right now,\u201d said Pierre; \u201cyour pupil will end by doing you\nhonour, I hope.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I\u2019ve no doubt of it. You already have a very good seat, and before\nlong you\u2019ll leave me behind, for a woman is never a man\u2019s equal in a\nmatter like this. At the same time, however, what a capital education\ncycling is for women!\u201d\n\nIn what way?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I\u2019ve certain ideas of my own on the subject; and if ever I have a\ndaughter I shall put her on a bicycle as soon as she\u2019s ten years old,\njust to teach her how to conduct herself in life.\u201d\n\n\u201cEducation by experience, eh?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, why not? Look at the big girls who are brought up hanging to their\nmothers\u2019 apron strings. Their parents frighten them with everything, they\nare allowed no initiative, no exercise of judgment or decision, so that\nat times they hardly know how to cross a street, to such a degree does\nthe traffic alarm them. Well, I say that a girl ought to be set on a\nbicycle in her childhood, and allowed to follow the roads. She will then\nlearn to open her eyes, to look out for stones and avoid them, and to\nturn in the right direction at every bend or crossway. If a vehicle comes\nup at a gallop or any other danger presents itself, she\u2019ll have to make\nup her mind on the instant, and steer her course firmly and properly if\nshe does not wish to lose a limb. Briefly, doesn\u2019t all this supply proper\napprenticeship for one\u2019s will, and teach one how to conduct and defend\noneself?\u201d\n\nPierre had begun to laugh. \u201cYou will all be too healthy,\u201d he remarked.\n\n\u201cOh, one must be healthy if one wants to be happy. But what I wish to\nconvey is that those who learn to avoid stones and to turn properly along\nthe highways will know how to overcome difficulties, and take the best\ndecisions in after life. The whole of education lies in knowledge and\nenergy.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo women are to be emancipated by cycling?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, why not? It may seem a droll idea; but see what progress has been\nmade already. By wearing rationals women free their limbs from prison;\nthen the facilities which cycling affords people for going out together\ntend to greater intercourse and equality between the sexes; the wife and\nthe children can follow the husband everywhere, and friends like\nourselves are at liberty to roam hither and thither without astonishing\nanybody. In this lies the greatest advantage of all: one takes a bath of\nair and sunshine, one goes back to nature, to the earth, our common\nmother, from whom one derives fresh strength and gaiety of heart! Just\nlook how delightful this forest is. And how healthful the breeze that\ninflates our lungs! Yes, it all purifies, calms and encourages one.\u201d\n\nThe forest, which was quite deserted on week days, stretched out in\nquietude on either hand, with sunlight filtering between its deep bands\nof trees. At that hour the rays only illumined one side of the avenue,\nthere gilding the lofty drapery of verdure; on the other, the shady side,\nthe greenery seemed almost black. It was truly delightful to skim,\nswallow-like, over that royal avenue in the fresh atmosphere, amidst the\nwaving of grass and foliage, whose powerful scent swept against one\u2019s\nface. Pierre and Marie scarcely touched the soil: it was as if wings had\ncome to them, and were carrying them on with a regular flight, through\nalternate patches of shade and sunshine, and all the scattered vitality\nof the far-reaching, quivering forest, with its mosses, its sources, its\nanimal and its insect life.\n\nMarie would not stop when they reached the crossway of the Croix de\nNoailles, a spot where people congregate on Sundays, for she was\nacquainted with secluded nooks which were far more charming\nresting-places. When they reached the slope going down towards Poissy,\nshe roused Pierre, and they let their machines rush on. Then came all the\njoyous intoxication of speed, the rapturous feeling of darting along\nbreathlessly while the grey road flees beneath one, and the trees on\neither hand turn like the opening folds of a fan. The breeze blows\ntempestuously, and one fancies that one is journeying yonder towards the\nhorizon, the infinite, which ever and ever recedes. It is like boundless\nhope, delivery from every shackle, absolute freedom of motion through\nspace. And nothing can inspirit one more gloriously--one\u2019s heart leaps as\nif one were in the very heavens.\n\n\u201cWe are not going to Poissy, you know!\u201d Marie suddenly cried; \u201cwe have to\nturn to the left.\u201d\n\nThey took the road from Acheres to the Loges, which ascends and\ncontracts, thus bringing one closer together in the shade. Gradually\nslowing down, they began to exert themselves in order to make their way\nup the incline. This road was not so good as the others, it had been\ngullied by the recent heavy rains, and sand and gravel lay about. But\nthen is there not even a pleasure in effort?\n\n\u201cYou will get used to it,\u201d said Marie to Pierre; \u201cit\u2019s amusing to\novercome obstacles. For my part I don\u2019t like roads which are invariably\nsmooth. A little ascent which does not try one\u2019s limbs too much rouses\nand inspirits one. And it is so agreeable to find oneself strong, and\nable to go on and on in spite of rain, or wind, or hills.\u201d\n\nHer bright humour and courage quite charmed Pierre. \u201cAnd so,\u201d said he,\n\u201cwe are off for a journey round France?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, we\u2019ve arrived. You won\u2019t dislike a little rest, eh? And now,\ntell me, wasn\u2019t it worth our while to come on here and rest in such a\nnice fresh, quiet spot.\u201d\n\nShe nimbly sprang off her machine and, bidding him follow her, turned\ninto a path, along which she went some fifty paces. They placed their\nbicycles against some trees, and then found themselves in a little\nclearing, the most exquisite, leafy nest that one could dream of. The\nforest here assumed an aspect of secluded sovereign beauty. The\nspringtide had endowed it with youth, the foliage was light and virginal,\nlike delicate green lace flecked with gold by the sun-rays. And from the\nherbage and the surrounding thickets arose a breath of life, laden with\nall the powerful aroma of the earth.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s not too warm as yet, fortunately,\u201d exclaimed Marie, as she seated\nherself at the foot of a young oak-tree, against which she leant. \u201cIn\nJuly ladies get rather red by the time they reach this spot, and all the\npowder comes off their faces. However, one can\u2019t always be beautiful.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019m not cold by any means,\u201d replied Pierre, as he sat at her feet\nwiping his forehead.\n\nShe laughed, and answered that she had never before seen him with such a\ncolour. Then they began to talk like children, like two young friends,\nfinding a source of gaiety in the most puerile things. She was somewhat\nanxious about his health, however, and would not allow him to remain in\nthe cool shade, as he felt so very warm. In order to tranquillise her, he\nhad to change his place and seat himself with his back to the sun. Then a\nlittle later he saved her from a large black spider, which had caught\nitself in the wavy hair on the nape of her neck. At this all her womanly\nnature reappeared, and she shrieked with terror. \u201cHow stupid it was to be\nafraid of a spider!\u201d she exclaimed a moment afterwards; yet, in spite of\nher efforts to master herself, she remained pale and trembling.\n\nSilence at last fell between them, and they looked at one another with a\nsmile. In the midst of that delicate greenery they felt drawn together by\nfrank affection--the affection of brother and sister, so it seemed to\nthem. It made Marie very happy to think that she had taken an interest in\nPierre, and that his return to health was largely her own work. However,\ntheir eyes never fell, their hands never met, even as they sat there\ntoying with the grass, for they were as pure, as unconscious of all evil,\nas were the lofty oaks around them.\n\nAt last Marie noticed that time was flying. \u201cYou know that they expect us\nback to lunch,\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cWe ought to be off.\u201d\n\nThereupon they rose, wheeled their bicycles back to the highway, and\nstarting off again at a good pace passed the Loges and reached\nSaint-Germain by the fine avenue which conducts to the ch\u00e2teau. It\ncharmed them to take their course again side by side, like birds of equal\nflight. Their little bells jingled, their chains rustled lightly, and a\nfresh breeze swept past them as they resumed their talk, quite at ease,\nand so linked together by friendship that they seemed far removed from\nall the rest of the world.\n\nThey took the train from Saint-Germain to Paris, and on the journey\nPierre suddenly noticed that Marie\u2019s cheeks were purpling. There were two\nladies with them in the compartment.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said he, \u201cso you feel warm in your turn now?\u201d\n\nBut she protested the contrary, her face glowing more and more brightly\nas she spoke, as if some sudden feeling of shame quite upset her. \u201cNo,\nI\u2019m not warm,\u201d said she; \u201cjust feel my hands.... But how ridiculous it\nis to blush like this without any reason for it!\u201d\n\nHe understood her. This was one of those involuntary blushing fits which\nso distressed her, and which, as M\u00e8re-Grand had remarked, brought her\nheart to her very cheeks. There was no cause for it, as she herself said.\nAfter slumbering in all innocence in the solitude of the forest her heart\nhad begun to beat, despite herself.\n\nMeantime, over yonder at Montmartre, Guillaume had spent his morning in\npreparing some of that mysterious powder, the cartridges of which he\nconcealed upstairs in M\u00e8re-Grand\u2019s bedroom. Great danger attended this\nmanufacture. The slightest forgetfulness while he was manipulating the\ningredients, any delay, too, in turning off a tap, might lead to a\nterrible explosion, which would annihilate the building and all who might\nbe in it. For this reason he preferred to work when he was alone, so that\non the one hand there might be no danger for others, and on the other\nless likelihood of his own attention being diverted from his task. That\nmorning, as it happened, his three sons were working in the room, and\nM\u00e8re-Grand sat sewing near the furnace. Truth to tell, she did not count,\nfor she scarcely ever left her place, feeling quite at ease there,\nhowever great might be the peril. Indeed, she had become so well\nacquainted with the various phases of Guillaume\u2019s delicate operations,\nand their terrible possibilities, that she would occasionally give him a\nhelping hand.\n\nThat morning, as she sat there mending some house linen,--her eyesight\nstill being so keen that in spite of her seventy years she wore no\nspectacles,--she now and again glanced at Guillaume as if to make sure\nthat he forgot nothing. Then feeling satisfied, she would once more bend\nover her work. She remained very strong and active. Her hair was only\njust turning white, and she had kept all her teeth, while her face still\nlooked refined, though it was slowly withering with age and had acquired\nan expression of some severity. As a rule she was a woman of few words;\nher life was one of activity and good management. When she opened her\nlips it was usually to give advice, to counsel reason, energy and\ncourage. For some time past she had been growing more taciturn than ever,\nas if all her attention were claimed by the household matters which were\nin her sole charge; still, her fine eyes would rest thoughtfully on those\nabout her, on the three young men, and on Guillaume, Marie and Pierre,\nwho all obeyed her as if she were their acknowledged queen. If she looked\nat them in that pensive way, was it that she foresaw certain changes, and\nnoticed certain incidents of which the others remained unconscious?\nPerhaps so. At all events she became even graver, and more attentive than\nin the past. It was as if she were waiting for some hour to strike when\nall her wisdom and authority would be required.\n\n\u201cBe careful, Guillaume,\u201d she at last remarked, as she once more looked up\nfrom her sewing. \u201cYou seem absent-minded this morning. Is anything\nworrying you?\u201d\n\nHe glanced at her with a smile. \u201cNo, nothing, I assure you,\u201d he replied.\n\u201cBut I was thinking of our dear Marie, who was so glad to go off to the\nforest in this bright sunshine.\u201d\n\nAntoine, who heard the remark, raised his head, while his brothers\nremained absorbed in their work. \u201cWhat a pity it is that I had this block\nto finish,\u201d said he; \u201cI would willingly have gone with her.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no matter,\u201d his father quietly rejoined. \u201cPierre is with her, and he\nis very cautious.\u201d\n\nFor another moment M\u00e8re-Grand continued scrutinising Guillaume; then she\nonce more reverted to her sewing.\n\nIf she exercised such sway over the home and all its inmates, it was by\nreason of her long devotion, her intelligence, and the kindliness with\nwhich she ruled. Uninfluenced by any religious faith, and disregarding\nall social conventionalities, her guiding principle in everything was the\ntheory of human justice which she had arrived at after suffering so\ngrievously from the injustice that had killed her husband. She put her\nviews into practice with wonderful courage, knowing nothing of any\nprejudices, but accomplishing her duty, such as she understood it, to the\nvery end. And in the same way as she had first devoted herself to her\nhusband, and next to her daughter Marguerite, so at present she devoted\nherself to Guillaume and his sons. Pierre, whom she had first studied\nwith some anxiety, had now, too, become a member of her family, a dweller\nin the little realm of happiness which she ruled. She had doubtless found\nhim worthy of admission into it, though she did not reveal the reason\nwhy. After days and days of silence she had simply said, one evening, to\nGuillaume, that he had done well in bringing his brother to live among\nthem.\n\nTime flew by as she sat sewing and thinking. Towards noon Guillaume, who\nwas still at work, suddenly remarked to her: \u201cAs Marie and Pierre haven\u2019t\ncome back, we had better let the lunch wait a little while. Besides, I\nshould like to finish what I\u2019m about.\u201d\n\nAnother quarter of an hour then elapsed. Finally, the three young men\nrose from their work, and went to wash their hands at a tap in the\ngarden.\n\n\u201cMarie is very late,\u201d now remarked M\u00e8re-Grand. \u201cWe must hope that nothing\nhas happened to her.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! she rides so well,\u201d replied Guillaume. \u201cI\u2019m more anxious on account\nof Pierre.\u201d\n\nAt this the old lady again fixed her eyes on him, and said: \u201cBut Marie\nwill have guided Pierre; they already ride very well together.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt; still I should be better pleased if they were back home.\u201d\n\nThen all at once, fancying that he heard the ring of a bicycle bell, he\ncalled out: \u201cThere they are!\u201d And forgetting everything else in his\nsatisfaction, he quitted his furnace and hastened into the garden in\norder to meet them.\n\nM\u00e8re-Grand, left to herself, quietly continued sewing, without a thought\nthat the manufacture of Guillaume\u2019s powder was drawing to an end in an\napparatus near her. A couple of minutes later, however, when Guillaume\ncame back, saying that he had made a mistake, his eyes suddenly rested on\nhis furnace, and he turned quite livid. Brief as had been his absence the\nexact moment when it was necessary to turn off a tap in order that no\ndanger might attend the preparation of his powder had already gone by;\nand now, unless someone should dare to approach that terrible tap, and\nboldly turn it, a fearful explosion might take place. Doubtless it was\ntoo late already, and whoever might have the bravery to attempt the feat\nwould be blown to pieces.\n\nGuillaume himself had often run a similar risk of death with perfect\ncomposure. But on this occasion he remained as if rooted to the floor,\nunable to take a step, paralysed by the dread of annihilation. He\nshuddered and stammered in momentary expectation of a catastrophe which\nwould hurl the work-shop to the heavens.\n\n\u201cM\u00e8re-Grand, M\u00e8re-Grand,\u201d he stammered. \u201cThe apparatus, the tap... it\nis all over, all over!\u201d\n\nThe old woman had raised her head without as yet understanding him. \u201cEh,\nwhat?\u201d said she; \u201cwhat is the matter with you?\u201d Then, on seeing how\ndistorted were his features, how he recoiled as if mad with terror, she\nglanced at the furnace and realised the danger. \u201cWell, but it\u2019s simple\nenough,\u201d said she; \u201cit\u2019s only necessary to turn off the tap, eh?\u201d\n\nThereupon, without any semblance of haste, in the most easy and natural\nmanner possible, she deposited her needlework on a little table, rose\nfrom her chair, and turned off the tap with a light but firm hand.\n\u201cThere! it\u2019s done,\u201d said she. \u201cBut why didn\u2019t you do it yourself, my\nfriend?\u201d\n\nHe had watched her in bewilderment, chilled to the bones, as if touched\nby the hand of death. And when some colour at last returned to his\ncheeks, and he found himself still alive in front of the apparatus whence\nno harm could now come, he heaved a deep sigh and again shuddered. \u201cWhy\ndid I not turn it off?\u201d he repeated. \u201cIt was because I felt afraid.\u201d\n\nAt that very moment Marie and Pierre came into the work-shop all chatter\nand laughter, delighted with their excursion, and bringing with them the\nbright joyousness of the sunlight. The three brothers, Thomas, Francis\nand Antoine, were jesting with them, and trying to make them confess that\nPierre had at least fought a battle with a cow on the high road, and\nridden into a cornfield. All at once, however, they became quite anxious,\nfor they noticed that their father looked terribly upset.\n\n\u201cMy lads,\u201d said he, \u201cI\u2019ve just been a coward. Ah! it\u2019s a curious feeling,\nI had never experienced it before.\u201d\n\nThereupon he recounted his fears of an accident, and how quietly\nM\u00e8re-Grand had saved them all from certain death. She waved her hand,\nhowever, as if to say that there was nothing particularly heroic in\nturning off a tap. The young men\u2019s eyes nevertheless filled with tears,\nand one after the other they went to kiss her with a fervour instinct\nwith all the gratitude and worship they felt for her. She had been\ndevoting herself to them ever since their infancy, she had now just given\nthem a new lease of life. Marie also threw herself into her arms, kissing\nher with gratitude and emotion. M\u00e8re-Grand herself was the only one who\ndid not shed tears. She strove to calm them, begging them to exaggerate\nnothing and to remain sensible.\n\n\u201cWell, you must at all events let me kiss you as the others have done,\u201d\n Guillaume said to her, as he recovered his self-possession. \u201cI at least\nowe you that. And Pierre, too, shall kiss you, for you are now as good\nfor him as you have always been for us.\u201d\n\nAt table, when it was at last possible for them to lunch, he reverted to\nthat attack of fear which had left him both surprised and ashamed. He who\nfor years had never once thought of death had for some time past found\nideas of caution in his mind. On two occasions recently he had shuddered\nat the possibility of a catastrophe. How was it that a longing for life\nhad come to him in his decline? Why was it that he now wished to live? At\nlast with a touch of tender affection in his gaiety, he remarked: \u201cDo you\nknow, Marie, I think it is my thoughts of you that make me a coward. If\nI\u2019ve lost my bravery it\u2019s because I risk something precious when any\ndanger arises. Happiness has been entrusted to my charge. Just now when I\nfancied that we were all going to die, I thought I could see you, and my\nfear of losing you froze and paralysed me.\u201d\n\nMarie indulged in a pretty laugh. Allusions to her coming marriage were\nseldom made; however, she invariably greeted them with an air of happy\naffection.\n\n\u201cAnother six weeks!\u201d she simply said.\n\nThereupon M\u00e8re-Grand, who had been looking at them, turned her eyes\ntowards Pierre. He, however, like the others was listening with a smile.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s true,\u201d said the old lady, \u201cyou are to be married in six weeks\u2019\ntime. So I did right to prevent the house from being blown up.\u201d\n\nAt this the young men made merry; and the repast came to an end in very\njoyous fashion.\n\nDuring the afternoon, however, Pierre\u2019s heart gradually grew heavy.\nMarie\u2019s words constantly returned to him: \u201cAnother six weeks!\u201d Yes, it\nwas indeed true, she would then be married. But it seemed to him that he\nhad never previously known it, never for a moment thought of it. And\nlater on, in the evening, when he was alone in his room at Neuilly, his\nheart-pain became intolerable. Those words tortured him. Why was it that\nthey had not caused him any suffering when they were spoken, why had he\ngreeted them with a smile? And why had such cruel anguish slowly\nfollowed? All at once an idea sprang up in his mind, and became an\noverwhelming certainty. He loved Marie, he loved her as a lover, with a\nlove so intense that he might die from it.\n\nWith this sudden consciousness of his passion everything became clear and\nplain. He had been going perforce towards that love ever since he had\nfirst met Marie. The emotion into which the young woman had originally\nthrown him had seemed to him a feeling of repulsion, but afterwards he\nhad been slowly conquered, all his torments and struggles ending in this\nlove for her. It was indeed through her that he had at last found\nquietude. And the delightful morning which he had spent with her that\nday, appeared to him like a betrothal morning, in the depths of the happy\nforest. Nature had resumed her sway over him, delivered him from his\nsufferings, made him strong and healthy once more, and given him to the\nwoman he adored. The quiver he had experienced, the happiness he had\nfelt, his communion with the trees, the heavens, and every living\ncreature--all those things which he had been unable to explain, now\nacquired a clear meaning which transported him. In Marie alone lay his\ncure, his hope, his conviction that he would be born anew and at last\nfind happiness. In her company he had already forgotten all those\ndistressing problems which had formerly haunted him and bowed him down.\nFor a week past he had not once thought of death, which had so long been\nthe companion of his every hour. All the conflict of faith and doubt, the\ndistress roused by the idea of nihility, the anger he had felt at the\nunjust sufferings of mankind, had been swept away by her fresh cool\nhands. She was so healthy herself, so glad to live, that she had imparted\na taste for life even to him. Yes, it was simply that: she was making him\na man, a worker, a lover once more.\n\nThen he suddenly remembered Abb\u00e9 Rose and his painful conversation with\nthat saintly man. The old priest, whose heart was so ingenuous, and who\nknew nothing of love and passion, was nevertheless the only one who had\nunderstood the truth. He had told Pierre that he was changed, that there\nwas another man in him. And he, Pierre, had foolishly and stubbornly\ndeclared that he was the same as he had always been; whereas Marie had\nalready transformed him, bringing all nature back to his breast--all\nnature, with its sunlit countrysides, its fructifying breezes, and its\nvast heavens, whose glow ripens its crops. That indeed was why he had\nfelt so exasperated with Catholicism, that religion of death; that was\nwhy he had shouted that the Gospel was useless, and that the world\nawaited another law--a law of terrestrial happiness, human justice and\nliving love and fruitfulness!\n\nAh, but Guillaume? Then a vision of his brother rose before Pierre, that\nbrother who loved him so fondly, and who had carried him to his home of\ntoil, quietude and affection, in order to cure him of his sufferings. If\nhe knew Marie it was simply because Guillaume had chosen that he should\nknow her. And again Marie\u2019s words recurred to him: \u201cAnother six weeks!\u201d\n Yes, in six weeks his brother would marry the young woman. This thought\nwas like a stab in Pierre\u2019s heart. Still, he did not for one moment\nhesitate: if he must die of his love, he would die of it, but none should\never know it, he would conquer himself, he would flee to the ends of the\nearth should he ever feel the faintest cowardice. Rather than bring a\nmoment\u2019s pain to that brother who had striven to resuscitate him, who was\nthe artisan of the passion now consuming him, who had given him his whole\nheart and all he had--he would condemn himself to perpetual torture. And\nindeed, torture was coming back; for in losing Marie he could but sink\ninto the distress born of the consciousness of his nothingness. As he lay\nin bed, unable to sleep, he already experienced a return of his\nabominable torments--the negation of everything, the feeling that\neverything was useless, that the world had no significance, and that life\nwas only worthy of being cursed and denied. And then the shudder born of\nthe thought of death returned to him. Ah! to die, to die without even\nhaving lived!\n\nThe struggle was a frightful one. Until daybreak he sobbed in martyrdom.\nWhy had he taken off his cassock? He had done so at a word from Marie;\nand now another word from her gave him the despairing idea of donning it\nonce more. One could not escape from so fast a prison. That black gown\nstill clung to his skin. He fancied that he had divested himself of it,\nand yet it was still weighing on his shoulders, and his wisest course\nwould be to bury himself in it for ever. By donning it again he would at\nleast wear mourning for his manhood.\n\nAll at once, however, a fresh thought upset him. Why should he struggle\nin that fashion? Marie did not love him. There had been nothing between\nthem to indicate that she cared for him otherwise than as a charming,\ntender-hearted sister. It was Guillaume that she loved, no doubt. Then he\npressed his face to his pillow to stifle his sobs, and once more swore\nthat he would conquer himself and turn a smiling face upon their\nhappiness.\n\n\n\n\nIV. TRIAL AND SENTENCE\n\nHAVING returned to Montmartre on the morrow Pierre suffered so grievously\nthat he did not show himself there on the two following days. He\npreferred to remain at home where there was nobody to notice his\nfeverishness. On the third morning, however, whilst he was still in bed,\nstrengthless and full of despair, he was both surprised and embarrassed\nby a visit from Guillaume.\n\n\u201cI must needs come to you,\u201d said the latter, \u201csince you forsake us. I\u2019ve\ncome to fetch you to attend Salvat\u2019s trial, which takes place to-day. I\nhad no end of trouble to secure two places. Come, get up, we\u2019ll have\n_d\u00e9jeuner_ in town, so as to reach the court early.\u201d\n\nThen, while Pierre was hastily dressing, Guillaume, who on his side\nseemed thoughtful and worried that morning, began to question him: \u201cHave\nyou anything to reproach us with?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cNo, nothing. What an idea!\u201d was Pierre\u2019s reply.\n\n\u201cThen why have you been staying away? We had got into the habit of seeing\nyou every day, but all at once you disappear.\u201d\n\nPierre vainly sought a falsehood, and all his composure fled. \u201cI had some\nwork to do here,\u201d said he, \u201cand then, too, my gloomy ideas cane back to\nme, and I didn\u2019t want to go and sadden you all.\u201d\n\nAt this Guillaume hastily waved his hand. \u201cIf you fancy that your absence\nenlivens us you\u2019re mistaken,\u201d he replied. \u201cMarie, who is usually so well\nand happy, had such a bad headache on the day before yesterday that she\nwas obliged to keep her room. And she was ill at ease and nervous and\nsilent again yesterday. We spent a very unpleasant day.\u201d\n\nAs he spoke Guillaume looked Pierre well in the face, his frank loyal\neyes clearly revealing the suspicions which had come to him, but which he\nwould not express in words.\n\nPierre, quite dismayed by the news of Marie\u2019s indisposition, and\nfrightened by the idea of betraying his secret, thereupon managed to tell\na lie. \u201cYes, she wasn\u2019t very well on the day when we went cycling,\u201d he\nquietly responded. \u201cBut I assure you that I have had a lot to do here.\nWhen you came in just now I was about to get up and go to your house as\nusual.\u201d\n\nGuillaume kept his eyes on him for a moment longer. Then, either\nbelieving him or deciding to postpone his search for the truth to some\nfuture time, he began speaking affectionately on other subjects. With his\nkeen brotherly love, however, there was blended such a quiver of\nimpending distress, of unconfessed sorrow, which possibly he did not yet\nrealise, that Pierre in his turn began to question him. \u201cAnd you,\u201d said\nhe, \u201care you ill? You seem to me to have lost your usual serenity.\u201d\n\n\u201cI? Oh! I\u2019m not ill. Only I can\u2019t very well retain my composure; Salvat\u2019s\naffair distresses me exceedingly, as you must know. They will all end by\ndriving me mad with the monstrous injustice they show towards that\nunhappy fellow.\u201d\n\nThenceforward Guillaume went on talking of Salvat in a stubborn\npassionate way, as if he wished to find an explanation of all his pain\nand unrest in that affair. While he and Pierre were partaking of\n_d\u00e9jeuner_ at a little restaurant on the Boulevard du Palais he related\nhow deeply touched he was by the silence which Salvat had preserved with\nregard both to the nature of the explosive employed in the bomb and the\nfew days\u2019 work which he had once done at his house. It was, thanks to\nthis silence, that he, Guillaume, had not been worried or even summoned\nas a witness. Then, in his emotion, he reverted to his invention, that\nformidable engine which would ensure omnipotence to France, as the great\ninitiatory and liberative power of the world. The results of the\nresearches which had occupied him for ten years past were now out of\ndanger and in all readiness, so that if occasion required they might at\nonce be delivered to the French government. And, apart from certain\nscruples which came to him at the thought of the unworthiness of French\nfinancial and political society; he was simply delaying any further steps\nin the matter until his marriage with Marie, in order that he might\nassociate her with the gift of universal peace which he imagined he was\nabout to bestow upon the world.\n\nIt was through Bertheroy and with great difficulty that Guillaume had\nmanaged to secure two seats in court for Salvat\u2019s trial. When he and\nPierre presented themselves for admission at eleven o\u2019clock, they fancied\nthat they would never be able to enter. The large gates of the Palace of\nJustice were kept closed, several passages were fenced off, and terror\nseemed to reign in the deserted building, as if indeed the judges feared\nsome sudden invasion of bomb-laden Anarchists. Each door and barrier,\ntoo, was guarded by soldiers, with whom the brothers had to parley. When\nthey at last entered the Assize Court they found it already crowded with\npeople, who were apparently quite willing to suffocate there for an hour\nbefore the arrival of the judges, and to remain motionless for some seven\nor eight hours afterwards, since it was reported that the authorities\nwished to get the case over in a single sitting. In the small space\nallotted to the standing public there was a serried mass of sightseers\nwho had come up from the streets, a few companions and friends of Salvat\nhaving managed to slip in among them. In the other compartment, where\nwitnesses are generally huddled together on oak benches, were those\nspectators who had been allowed admittance by favour, and these were so\nnumerous and so closely packed that here and there they almost sat upon\none another\u2019s knees. Then, in the well of the court and behind the bench,\nwere rows of chairs set out as for some theatrical performance, and\noccupied by privileged members of society, politicians, leading\njournalists, and ladies. And meantime a number of gowned advocates sought\nrefuge wherever chance offered, crowding into every vacant spot, every\navailable corner.\n\nPierre had never before visited the Assize Court, and its appearance\nsurprised him. He had expected much pomp and majesty, whereas this temple\nof human justice seemed to him small and dismal and of doubtful\ncleanliness. The bench was so low that he could scarcely see the\narmchairs of the presiding judge and his two assessors. Then he was\nstruck by the profusion of old oak panels, balustrades and benches, which\nhelped to darken the apartment, whose wall hangings were of olive green,\nwhile a further display of oak panelling appeared on the ceiling above.\nFrom the seven narrow and high-set windows with scanty little white\ncurtains there fell a pale light which sharply divided the court. On one\nhand one saw the dock and the defending counsel\u2019s seat steeped in frigid\nlight, while, on the other, was the little, isolated jury box in the\nshade. This contrast seemed symbolical of justice, impersonal and\nuncertain, face to face with the accused, whom the light stripped bare,\nprobed as it were to his very soul. Then, through a kind of grey mist\nabove the bench, in the depths of the stern and gloomy scene, one could\nvaguely distinguish the heavy painting of \u201cChrist Crucified.\u201d A white\nbust of the Republic alone showed forth clearly against the dark wall\nabove the dock where Salvat would presently appear. The only remaining\nseats that Guillaume and Pierre could find were on the last bench of the\nwitnesses\u2019 compartment, against the partition which separated the latter\nfrom the space allotted to the standing public. Just as Guillaume was\nseating himself, he saw among the latter little Victor Mathis, who stood\nthere with his elbows leaning on the partition, while his chin rested on\nhis crossed hands. The young man\u2019s eyes were glowing in his pale face\nwith thin, compressed lips. Although they recognised one another, Victor\ndid not move, and Guillaume on his side understood that it was not safe\nto exchange greetings in such a place. From that moment, however, he\nremained conscious that Victor was there, just above him, never stirring,\nbut waiting silently, fiercely and with flaming eyes, for what was going\nto happen.\n\nPierre, meantime, had recognised that most amiable deputy Duthil, and\nlittle Princess Rosemonde, seated just in front of him. Amidst the hubbub\nof the throng which chatted and laughed to while away the time, their\nvoices were the gayest to be heard, and plainly showed how delighted they\nwere to find themselves at a spectacle to which so many desired\nadmittance. Duthil was explaining all the arrangements to Rosemonde,\ntelling her to whom or to what purpose each bench and wooden box was\nallotted: there was the jury-box, the prisoner\u2019s dock, the seats assigned\nto counsel for the defence, the public prosecutor, and the clerk of the\ncourt, without forgetting the table on which material evidence was\ndeposited and the bar to which witnesses were summoned. There was nobody\nas yet in any of these places; one merely saw an attendant giving a last\nlook round, and advocates passing rapidly. One might indeed have thought\noneself in a theatre, the stage of which remained deserted, while the\nspectators crowded the auditorium waiting for the play to begin. To fill\nup the interval the little Princess ended by looking about her for\npersons of her acquaintance among the close-pressed crowd of sight-seers\nwhose eager faces were already reddening.\n\n\u201cOh! isn\u2019t that Monsieur Fons\u00e8gue over there behind the bench, near that\nstout lady in yellow?\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cOur friend General de Bozonnet is\non the other side, I see. But isn\u2019t Baron Duvillard here?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no,\u201d replied Duthil; \u201che could hardly come; it would look as if he\nwere here to ask for vengeance.\u201d Then, in his turn questioning Rosemonde,\nthe deputy went on: \u201cDo you happen to have quarrelled with your handsome\nfriend Hyacinthe? Is that the reason why you\u2019ve given me the pleasure of\nacting as your escort to-day?\u201d\n\nWith a slight shrug of her shoulders, the Princess replied that poets\nwere beginning to bore her. A fresh caprice, indeed, was drawing her into\npolitics. For a week past she had found amusement in the surroundings of\nthe ministerial crisis, into which the young deputy for Angoul\u00eame had\ninitiated her. \u201cThey are all a little bit crazy at the Duvillards\u2019, my\ndear fellow,\u201d said she. \u201cIt\u2019s decided, you know, that G\u00e9rard is to marry\nCamille. The Baroness has resigned herself to it, and I\u2019ve heard from a\nmost reliable quarter that Madame de Quinsac, the young man\u2019s mother, has\ngiven her consent.\u201d\n\nAt this Duthil became quite merry. He also seemed to be well informed on\nthe subject. \u201cYes, yes, I know,\u201d said he. \u201cThe wedding is to take place\nshortly, at the Madeleine. It will be a magnificent affair, no doubt. And\nafter all, what would you have? There couldn\u2019t be a better finish to the\naffair. The Baroness is really kindness personified, and I said all along\nthat she would sacrifice herself in order to ensure the happiness of her\ndaughter and G\u00e9rard. In point of fact that marriage will settle\neverything, put everything in proper order again.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what does the Baron say?\u201d asked Rosemonde.\n\n\u201cThe Baron? Why, he\u2019s delighted,\u201d replied Duthil in a bantering way. \u201cYou\nread no doubt this morning that Dauvergne is given the department of\nPublic Instruction in the new Ministry. This means that Silviane\u2019s\nengagement at the Com\u00e9die is a certainty. Dauvergne was chosen simply on\nthat account.\u201d\n\nAt this moment the conversation was interrupted by little Massot, who,\nafter a dispute with one of the ushers some distance away, had perceived\na vacant place by the side of the Princess. He thereupon made her a\nquestioning sign, and she beckoned to him to approach.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said he, as he installed himself beside her, \u201cI have not got here\nwithout trouble. One\u2019s crushed to death on the press bench, and I\u2019ve an\narticle to write. You are the kindest of women, Princess, to make a\nlittle room for your faithful admirer, myself.\u201d Then, after shaking hands\nwith Duthil, he continued without any transition: \u201cAnd so there\u2019s a new\nministry at last, Monsieur le D\u00e9put\u00e9. You have all taken your time about\nit, but it\u2019s really a very fine ministry, which everybody regards with\nsurprise and admiration.\u201d\n\nThe decrees appointing the new ministers had appeared in the \u201cJournal\nOfficiel\u201d that very morning. After a long deadlock, after Vignon had for\nthe second time seen his plans fail through ever-recurring obstacles,\nMonferrand, as a last resource, had suddenly been summoned to the Elys\u00e9e,\nand in four-and-twenty hours he had found the colleagues he wanted and\nsecured the acceptance of his list, in such wise that he now triumphantly\nre-ascended to power after falling from it with Barroux in such wretched\nfashion. He had also chosen a new post for himself, relinquishing the\ndepartment of the Interior for that of Finances, with the Presidency of\nthe Council, which had long been his secret ambition. His stealthy\nlabour, the masterly fashion in which he had saved himself while others\nsank, now appeared in its full beauty. First had come Salvat\u2019s arrest,\nand the use he had made of it, then the wonderful subterranean campaign\nwhich he had carried on against Vignon, the thousand obstacles which he\nhad twice set across his path, and finally the sudden _d\u00e9nouement_ with\nthat list he held in readiness, that formation of a ministry in a single\nday as soon as his services were solicited.\n\n\u201cIt is fine work, I must compliment you on it,\u201d added little Massot by\nway of a jest.\n\n\u201cBut I\u2019ve had nothing to do with it,\u201d Duthil modestly replied.\n\n\u201cNothing to do with it! Oh! yes you have, my dear sir, everybody says\nso.\u201d\n\nThe deputy felt flattered and smiled, while the other rattled on with his\ninsinuations, which were put in such a humorous way that nothing he said\ncould be resented. He talked of Monferrand\u2019s followers who had so\npowerfully helped him on to victory. How heartily had Fons\u00e8gue finished\noff his old friend Barroux in the \u201cGlobe\u201d! Every morning for a month past\nthe paper had published an article belabouring Barroux, annihilating\nVignon, and preparing the public for the return of a saviour of society\nwho was not named. Then, too, Duvillard\u2019s millions had waged a secret\nwarfare, all the Baron\u2019s numerous creatures had fought like an army for\nthe good cause. Duthil himself had played the pipe and beaten the drum,\nwhile Chaigneux resigned himself to the baser duties which others would\nnot undertake. And so the triumphant Monferrand would certainly begin by\nstifling that scandalous and embarrassing affair of the African Railways,\nand appointing a Committee of Inquiry to bury it.\n\nBy this time Duthil had assumed an important air. \u201cWell, my dear fellow,\u201d\n said he, \u201cat serious moments when society is in peril, certain\nstrong-handed men, real men of government, become absolutely necessary.\nMonferrand had no need of our friendship, his presence in office was\nimperiously required by the situation. His hand is the only one that can\nsave us!\u201d\n\n\u201cI know,\u201d replied Massot scoffingly. \u201cI\u2019ve even been told that if\neverything was settled straight off so that the decrees might be\npublished this morning, it was in order to instil confidence into the\njudges and jurymen here, in such wise that knowing Monferrand\u2019s fist to\nbe behind them they would have the courage to pronounce sentence of death\nthis evening.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, public safety requires a sentence of death, and those who have to\nensure that safety must not be left ignorant of the fact that the\ngovernment is with them, and will know how to protect them, if need be.\u201d\n\nAt this moment a merry laugh from the Princess broke in upon the\nconversation. \u201cOh! just look over there!\u201d said she; \u201cisn\u2019t that Silviane\nwho has just sat down beside Monsieur Fons\u00e8gue?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Silviane ministry!\u201d muttered Massot in a jesting way. \u201cWell, there\nwill be no boredom at Dauvergne\u2019s if he ingratiates himself with\nactresses.\u201d\n\nGuillaume and Pierre heard this chatter, however little they cared to\nlisten to it. Such a deluge of society tittle-tattle and political\nindiscretion brought the former a keen heart-pang. So Salvat was\nsentenced to death even before he had appeared in court. He was to pay\nfor the transgressions of one and all, his crime was simply a favourable\nopportunity for the triumph of a band of ambitious people bent on power\nand enjoyment! Ah! what terrible social rottenness there was in it all;\nmoney corrupting one and another, families sinking to filth, politics\nturned into a mere treacherous struggle between individuals, and power\nbecoming the prey of the crafty and the impudent! Must not everything\nsurely crumble? Was not this solemn assize of human justice a derisive\nparody, since all that one found there was an assembly of happy and\nprivileged people defending the shaky edifice which sheltered them, and\nmaking use of all the forces they yet retained, to crush a fly--that\nunhappy devil of uncertain sanity who had been led to that court by his\nviolent and cloudy dream of another, superior and avenging justice?\n\nSuch were Guillaume\u2019s thoughts, when all at once everybody around him\nstarted. Noon was now striking, and the jurymen trooped into court in\nstraggling fashion and took their seats in their box. Among them one saw\nfat fellows clad in their Sunday best and with the faces of simpletons,\nand thin fellows who had bright eyes and sly expressions. Some of them\nwere bearded and some were bald. However, they all remained rather\nindistinct, as their side of the court was steeped in shade. After them\ncame the judges, headed by M. de Larombi\u00e8re, one of the Vice-Presidents\nof the Appeal Court, who in assuming the perilous honour of conducting\nthe trial had sought to increase the majesty of his long, slender, white\nface, which looked the more austere as both his assessors, one dark and\nthe other fair, had highly coloured countenances. The public prosecutor\u2019s\nseat was already occupied by one of the most skilful of the\nadvocates-general, M. Lehmann, a broad-shouldered Alsatian Israelite,\nwith cunning eyes, whose presence showed that the case was deemed\nexceptionally important. At last, amidst the heavy tread of gendarmes,\nSalvat was brought in, at once rousing such ardent curiosity that all the\nspectators rose to look at him. He still wore the cap and loose overcoat\nprocured for him by Victor Mathis, and everybody was surprised to see his\nemaciated, sorrowful, gentle face, crowned by scanty reddish hair, which\nwas turning grey. His soft, glowing, dreamy blue eyes glanced around, and\nhe smiled at someone whom he recognised, probably Victor, but perhaps\nGuillaume. After that he remained quite motionless.\n\nThe presiding judge waited for silence to fall, and then came the\nformalities which attend the opening of a court of law, followed by the\nperusal of the lengthy indictment, which a subordinate official read in a\nshrill voice. The scene had now changed, and the spectators listened\nwearily and somewhat impatiently, as, for weeks past, the newspapers had\nrelated all that the indictment set forth. At present not a corner of the\ncourt remained unoccupied, there was scarcely space enough for the\nwitnesses to stand in front of the bench. The closely packed throng was\none of divers hues, the light gowns of ladies alternating with the black\ngowns of advocates, while the red robes of the judges disappeared from\nview, the bench being so low that the presiding judge\u2019s long face\nscarcely rose above the sea of heads. Many of those present became\ninterested in the jurors, and strove to scrutinise their shadowy\ncountenances. Others, who did not take their eyes off the prisoner,\nmarvelled at his apparent weariness and indifference, which were so great\nthat he scarcely answered the whispered questions of his counsel, a young\nadvocate with a wide-awake look, who was nervously awaiting the\nopportunity to achieve fame. Most curiosity, however, centred in the\ntable set apart for the material evidence. Here were to be seen all sorts\nof fragments, some of the woodwork torn away from the carriage-door of\nthe Duvillard mansion, some plaster that had fallen from the ceiling, a\npaving-stone which the violence of the explosion had split in halves, and\nother blackened remnants. The more moving sights, however, were the\nmilliner\u2019s bonnet-box, which had remained uninjured, and a glass jar in\nwhich something white and vague was preserved in spirits of wine. This\nwas one of the poor errand girl\u2019s little hands, which had been severed at\nthe wrist. The authorities had been unable to place her poor ripped body\non the table, and so they had brought that hand!\n\nAt last Salvat rose, and the presiding judge began to interrogate him.\nThe contrast in the aspect of the court then acquired tragic force: in\nthe shrouding shade upon one hand were the jurors, their minds already\nmade up beneath the pressure of public terror, while in the full, vivid\nlight on the other side was the prisoner, alone and woeful, charged with\nall the crimes of his race. Four gendarmes watched over him. He was\naddressed by M. de Larombi\u00e8re in a tone of contempt and disgust. The\njudge was not deficient in rectitude; he was indeed one of the last\nrepresentatives of the old, scrupulous, upright French magistracy; but he\nunderstood nothing of the new times, and he treated prisoners with the\nseverity of a Biblical Jehovah. Moreover, the infirmity which was the\nworry of his life, the childish lisp which, in his opinion, had alone\nprevented him from shining as a public prosecutor, made him ferociously\nill-tempered, incapable of any intelligent indulgence. There were smiles,\nwhich he divined, as soon as he raised his sharp, shrill little voice, to\nask his first questions. That droll voice of his took away whatever\nmajesty might have remained attached to these proceedings, in which a\nman\u2019s life was being fought for in a hall full of inquisitive, stifling\nand perspiring folks, who fanned themselves and jested. Salvat answered\nthe judge\u2019s earlier questions with his wonted weariness and politeness.\nWhile the judge did everything to vilify him, harshly reproaching him\nwith his wretched childhood and youth, magnifying every stain and every\ntransgression in his career, referring to the promiscuity of his life\nbetween Madame Th\u00e9odore and little C\u00e9line as something bestial, he, the\nprisoner, quietly said yes or no, like a man who has nothing to hide and\naccepts the full responsibility of his actions. He had already made a\ncomplete confession of his crime, and he calmly repeated it without\nchanging a word. He explained that if he had deposited his bomb at the\nentrance of the Duvillard mansion it was to give his deed its true\nsignificance, that of summoning the wealthy, the money-mongers who had so\nscandalously enriched themselves by dint of theft and falsehood, to\nrestore that part of the common wealth which they had appropriated, to\nthe poor, the working classes, their children and their wives, who\nperished of starvation. It was only at this moment that he grew excited;\nall the misery that he had endured or witnessed rose to his clouded,\nsemi-educated brain, in which claims and theories and exasperated ideas\nof absolute justice and universal happiness had gathered confusedly. And\nfrom that moment he appeared such as he really was, a sentimentalist, a\ndreamer transported by suffering, proud and stubborn, and bent on\nchanging the world in accordance with his sectarian logic.\n\n\u201cBut you fled!\u201d cried the judge in a voice such as would have befitted a\ngrasshopper. \u201cYou must not say that you gave your life to your cause and\nwere ready for martyrdom!\u201d\n\nSalvat\u2019s most poignant regret was that he had yielded in the Bois de\nBoulogne to the dismay and rage which come upon a tracked and hunted man\nand impel him to do all he can to escape capture. And on being thus\ntaunted by the judge he became quite angry. \u201cI don\u2019t fear death, you\u2019ll\nsee that,\u201d he replied. \u201cIf all had the same courage as I have, your\nrotten society would be swept away to-morrow, and happiness would at last\ndawn.\u201d\n\nThen the interrogatory dealt at great length with the composition and\nmanufacture of the bomb. The judge, rightly enough, pointed out that this\nwas the only obscure point of the affair. \u201cAnd so,\u201d he remarked, \u201cyou\npersist in saying that dynamite was the explosive you employed? Well, you\nwill presently hear the experts, who, it is true, differ on certain\npoints, but are all of opinion that you employed some other explosive,\nthough they cannot say precisely what it was. Why not speak out on the\npoint, as you glory in saying everything?\u201d\n\nSalvat, however, had suddenly calmed down, giving only cautious\nmonosyllabic replies. \u201cWell, seek for whatever you like if you don\u2019t\nbelieve me,\u201d he now answered. \u201cI made my bomb by myself, and under\ncircumstances which I\u2019ve already related a score of times. You surely\ndon\u2019t expect me to reveal names and compromise comrades?\u201d\n\nFrom this declaration he would not depart. It was only towards the end of\nthe interrogatory that irresistible emotion overcame him on the judge\nagain referring to the unhappy victim of his crime, the little errand\ngirl, so pretty and fair and gentle, whom ferocious destiny had brought\nto the spot to meet such an awful death. \u201cIt was one of your own class\nwhom you struck,\u201d said M. de Larombi\u00e8re; \u201cyour victim was a work girl, a\npoor child who, with the few pence she earned, helped to support her aged\ngrandmother.\u201d\n\nSalvat\u2019s voice became very husky as he answered: \u201cThat\u2019s really the only\nthing I regret.... My bomb certainly wasn\u2019t meant for her; and may all\nthe workers, all the starvelings, remember that she gave her blood as I\u2019m\ngoing to give mine!\u201d\n\nIn this wise the interrogatory ended amidst profound agitation. Pierre\nhad felt Guillaume shuddering beside him, whilst the prisoner quietly and\nobstinately refused to say a word respecting the explosive that had been\nemployed, preferring as he did to assume full responsibility for the deed\nwhich was about to cost him his life. Moreover, Guillaume, on turning\nround, in compliance with an irresistible impulse, had perceived Victor\nMathis still motionless behind him: his elbows ever leaning on the rail\nof the partition, and his chin still resting on his hands, whilst he\nlistened with silent, concentrated passion. His face had become yet paler\nthan before, and his eyes glowed as with an avenging fire, whose flames\nwould never more be extinguished.\n\nThe interrogatory of the prisoner was followed by a brief commotion in\ncourt.\n\n\u201cThat Salvat looks quite nice, he has such soft eyes,\u201d declared the\nPrincess, whom the proceedings greatly amused. \u201cOh! don\u2019t speak ill of\nhim, my dear deputy. You know that I have Anarchist ideas myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cI speak no ill of him,\u201d gaily replied Duthil. \u201cNor has our friend\nAmadieu any right to speak ill of him. For you know that this affair has\nset Amadieu on a pinnacle. He was never before talked about to such an\nextent as he is now; and he delights in being talked about, you know! He\nhas become quite a social celebrity, the most illustrious of our\ninvestigating magistrates, and will soon be able to do or become whatever\nhe pleases.\u201d\n\nThen Massot, with his sarcastic impudence, summed up the situation. \u201cWhen\nAnarchism flourishes, everything flourishes, eh? That bomb has helped on\nthe affairs of a good many fine fellows that I know. Do you think that my\ngovernor Fons\u00e8gue, who\u2019s so attentive to Silviane yonder, complains of\nit? And doesn\u2019t Sagnier, who\u2019s spreading himself out behind the presiding\njudge, and whose proper place would be between the four\ngendarmes--doesn\u2019t he owe a debt to Salvat for all the abominable\nadvertisements he has been able to give his paper by using the wretched\nfellow\u2019s back as a big drum? And I need not mention the politicians or\nthe financiers or all those who fish in troubled waters.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I say,\u201d interrupted Duthil, \u201cit seems to me that you yourself made\ngood use of the affair. Your interview with the little girl C\u00e9line\nbrought you in a pot of money.\u201d\n\nMassot, as it happened, had been struck with the idea of ferreting out\nMadame Th\u00e9odore and the child, and of relating his visit to them in the\n\u201cGlobe,\u201d with an abundance of curious and touching particulars. The\narticle had met with prodigious success, C\u00e9line\u2019s pretty answers\nrespecting her imprisoned father having such an effect on ladies with\nsensitive hearts that they had driven to Montmartre in their carriages in\norder to see the two poor creatures. Thus alms had come to them from all\nsides; and strangely enough the very people who demanded the father\u2019s\nhead were the most eager to sympathise with the child.\n\n\u201cWell, I don\u2019t complain of my little profits,\u201d said the journalist in\nanswer to Duthil. \u201cWe all earn what we can, you know.\u201d\n\nAt this moment Rosemonde, while glancing round her, recognised Guillaume\nand Pierre, but she was so amazed to see the latter in ordinary civilian\ngarb that she did not dare to speak to him. Leaning forward she\nacquainted Duthil and Massot with her surprise, and they both turned\nround to look. From motives of discretion, however, they pretended that\nthey did not recognise the Froments.\n\nThe heat in court was now becoming quite unbearable, and one lady had\nalready fainted. At last the presiding judge again raised his lisping\nvoice, and managed to restore silence. Salvat, who had remained standing,\nnow held a few sheets of paper, and with some difficulty he made the\njudge understand that he desired to complete his interrogatory by reading\na declaration, which he had drawn up in prison, and in which he explained\nhis reasons for his crime. For a moment M. de Larombi\u00e8re hesitated, all\nsurprise and indignation at such a request; but he was aware that he\ncould not legally impose silence on the prisoner, and so he signified his\nconsent with a gesture of mingled irritation and disdain. Thereupon\nSalvat began his perusal much after the fashion of a schoolboy, hemming\nand hawing here and there, occasionally becoming confused, and then\nbringing out certain words with wonderful emphasis, which evidently\npleased him. This declaration of his was the usual cry of suffering and\nrevolt already raised by so many disinherited ones. It referred to all\nthe frightful want of the lower spheres; the toiler unable to find a\nlivelihood in his toil; a whole class, the most numerous and worthy of\nthe classes, dying of starvation; whilst, on the other hand, were the\nprivileged ones, gorged with wealth, and wallowing in satiety, yet\nrefusing to part with even the crumbs from their tables, determined as\nthey were to restore nothing whatever of the wealth which they had\nstolen. And so it became necessary to take everything away from them, to\nrouse them from their egotism by terrible warnings, and to proclaim to\nthem even with the crash of bombs that the day of justice had come. The\nunhappy man spoke that word \u201cjustice\u201d in a ringing voice which seemed to\nfill the whole court. But the emotion of those who heard him reached its\nhighest pitch when, after declaring that he laid down his life for the\ncause, and expected nothing but a verdict of death from the jury, he\nadded, as if prophetically, that his blood would assuredly give birth to\nother martyrs. They might send him to the scaffold, said he, but he knew\nthat his example would bear fruit. After him would come another avenger,\nand yet another, and others still, until the old and rotten social system\nshould have crumbled away so as to make room for the society of justice\nand happiness of which he was one of the apostles.\n\nThe presiding judge, in his impatience and agitation, twice endeavoured\nto interrupt Salvat. But the other read on and on with the imperturbable\nconscientiousness of one who fears that he may not give proper utterance\nto his most important words. He must have been thinking of that perusal\never since he had been in prison. It was the decisive act of his suicide,\nthe act by which he proclaimed that he gave his life for the glory of\ndying in the cause of mankind. And when he had finished he sat down\nbetween the gendarmes with glowing eyes and flushed cheeks, as if he\ninwardly experienced some deep joy.\n\nTo destroy the effect which the declaration had produced--a commingling\nof fear and compassion--the judge at once wished to proceed with the\nhearing of the witnesses. Of these there was an interminable procession;\nthough little interest attached to their evidence, for none of them had\nany revelations to make. Most attention perhaps was paid to the measured\nstatements of Grandidier, who had been obliged to dismiss Salvat from his\nemploy on account of the Anarchist propaganda he had carried on. Then the\nprisoner\u2019s brother-in-law, Toussaint, the mechanician, also seemed a very\nworthy fellow if one might judge him by the manner in which he strove to\nput things favourably for Salvat, without in any way departing from the\ntruth. After Toussaint\u2019s evidence considerable time was taken up by the\ndiscussions between the experts, who disagreed in public as much as they\nhad disagreed in their reports. Although they were all of opinion that\ndynamite could not have been the explosive employed in the bomb, they\nindulged in the most extraordinary and contradictory suppositions as to\nthis explosive\u2019s real nature. Eventually a written opinion given by the\nillustrious _savant_ Bertheroy was read; and this, after clearly setting\nforth the known facts, concluded that one found oneself in presence of a\nnew explosive of prodigious power, the formula of which he himself was\nunable to specify.\n\nThen detective Mond\u00e9sir and commissary Dupot came in turn to relate the\nvarious phases of the man hunt in the Bois de Boulogne. In Mond\u00e9sir\ncentred all the gaiety of the proceedings, thanks to the guardroom\nsallies with which he enlivened his narrative. And in like way the\ngreatest grief, a perfect shudder of revolt and compassion, was roused by\nthe errand girl\u2019s grandmother, a poor, bent, withered old woman, whom the\nprosecution had cruelly constrained to attend the court, and who wept and\nlooked quite dismayed, unable as she was to understand what was wanted of\nher. When she had withdrawn, the only remaining witnesses were those for\nthe defence, a procession of foremen and comrades, who all declared that\nthey had known Salvat as a very worthy fellow, an intelligent and zealous\nworkman, who did not drink, but was extremely fond of his daughter, and\nincapable of an act of dishonesty or cruelty.\n\nIt was already four o\u2019clock when the evidence of the witnesses came to an\nend. The atmosphere in court was now quite stifling, feverish fatigue\nflushed every face, and a kind of ruddy dust obscured the waning light\nwhich fell from the windows. Women were fanning themselves and men were\nmopping their foreheads. However, the passion roused by the scene still\nbrought a glow of cruel delight to every eye. And no one stirred.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d sighed Rosemonde all at once, \u201cto think that I hoped to drink a cup\nof tea at a friend\u2019s at five o\u2019clock. I shall die of thirst and\nstarvation here.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe shall certainly be kept till seven,\u201d replied Massot. \u201cI can\u2019t offer\nto go and fetch you a roll, for I shouldn\u2019t be readmitted.\u201d\n\nThen Duthil, who had not ceased shrugging his shoulders while Salvat read\nhis declaration, exclaimed: \u201cWhat childish things he said, didn\u2019t he? And\nto think that the fool is going to die for all that! Rich and poor,\nindeed! Why, there will always be rich and poor. And it\u2019s equally certain\nthat when a man is poor his one great desire is to become rich. If that\nfellow is in the dock to-day it\u2019s simply because he failed to make\nmoney.\u201d\n\nWhile the others were thus conversing, Pierre for his part was feeling\nextremely anxious about his brother, who sat beside him in silence, pale\nand utterly upset. Pierre sought his hand and covertly pressed it. Then\nin a low voice he inquired: \u201cDo you feel ill? Shall we go away?\u201d\n\nGuillaume answered him by discreetly and affectionately returning his\nhandshake. He was all right, he would remain till the end, however much\nhe might be stirred by exasperation.\n\nIt was now Monsieur Lehmann, the public prosecutor, who rose to address\nthe court. He had a large, stern mouth, and was squarely built, with a\nstubborn Jewish face. Nevertheless he was known to be a man of dexterous,\nsupple nature, one who had a foot in every political camp, and invariably\ncontrived to be on good terms with the powers that were. This explained\nhis rapid rise in life, and the constant favour he enjoyed. In the very\nfirst words he spoke he alluded to the new ministry gazetted that\nmorning, referring pointedly to the strong-handed man who had undertaken\nthe task of reassuring peaceable citizens and making evil-doers tremble.\nThen he fell upon the wretched Salvat with extraordinary vehemence,\nrecounting the whole of his life, and exhibiting him as a bandit\nexpressly born for the perpetration of crime, a monster who was bound to\nend by committing some abominable and cowardly outrage. Next he\nflagellated Anarchism and its partisans. The Anarchists were a mere herd\nof vagabonds and thieves, said he. That had been shown by the recent\nrobbery at the Princess de Harn\u2019s house. The ignoble gang that had been\narrested for that affair had given the apostles of the Anarchist doctrine\nas their references! And that was what the application of Anarchist\ntheories resulted in--burglary and filth, pending a favourable hour for\nwholesale pillage and murder! For nearly a couple of hours the public\nprosecutor continued in this fashion, throwing truth and logic to the\nwinds, and exclusively striving to alarm his hearers. He made all\npossible use of the terror which had reigned in Paris, and figuratively\nbrandished the corpse of the poor little victim, the pretty errand girl,\nas if it were a blood-red flag, before pointing to the pale hand,\npreserved in spirits of wine, with a gesture of compassionate horror\nwhich sent a shudder through his audience. And he ended, as he had begun,\nby inspiriting the jurors, and telling them that they might fearlessly do\ntheir duty now that those at the head of the State were firmly resolved\nto give no heed to threats.\n\nThen the young advocate entrusted with the defence in his turn spoke. And\nhe really said what there was to say with great clearness and precision.\nHe was of a different school from that of the public prosecutor: his\neloquence was very simple and smooth, his only passion seemed to be zeal\nfor truth. Moreover, it was sufficient for him to show Salvat\u2019s career in\nits proper light, to depict him pursued by social fatalities since his\nchildhood, and to explain the final action of his career by all that he\nhad suffered and all that had sprung up in his dreamy brain. Was not his\ncrime the crime of one and all? Who was there that did not feel, if only\nin a small degree, responsible for that bomb which a penniless, starving\nworkman had deposited on the threshold of a wealthy man\u2019s abode--a\nwealthy man whose name bespoke the injustice of the social system: so\nmuch enjoyment on the one hand and so much privation on the other! If one\nof us happened to lose his head, and felt impelled to hasten the advent\nof happiness by violence in such troublous times, when so many burning\nproblems claimed solution, ought he to be deprived of his life in the\nname of justice, when none could swear that they had not in some measure\ncontributed to his madness? Following up this question, Salvat\u2019s counsel\ndwelt at length on the period that witnessed the crime, a period of so\nmany scandals and collapses, when the old world was giving birth to a new\none amidst the most terrible struggles and pangs. And he concluded by\nbegging the jury to show themselves humane, to resist all passion and\nterror, and to pacify the rival classes by a wise verdict, instead of\nprolonging social warfare by giving the starvelings yet another martyr to\navenge.\n\nIt was past six o\u2019clock when M. de Larombi\u00e8re began to sum up in a\npartial and flowery fashion, in which one detected how grieved and angry\nhe was at having such a shrill little voice. Then the judges and the\njurors withdrew, and the prisoner was led away, leaving the spectators\nwaiting amidst an uproar of feverish impatience. Some more ladies had\nfainted, and it had even been necessary to carry out a gentleman who had\nbeen overcome by the cruel heat. However, the others stubbornly remained\nthere, not one of them quitting his place.\n\n\u201cAh! it won\u2019t take long now,\u201d said Massot. \u201cThe jurors brought their\nverdict all ready in their pockets. I was looking at them while that\nlittle advocate was telling them such sensible things. They all looked as\nif they were comfortably asleep in the gloom.\u201d\n\nThen Duthil turned to the Princess and asked her, \u201cAre you still hungry?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I\u2019m starving,\u201d she replied. \u201cI shall never be able to wait till I\nget home. You will have to take me to eat a biscuit somewhere.... All\nthe same, however, it\u2019s very exciting to see a man\u2019s life staked on a yes\nor a no.\u201d\n\nMeantime Pierre, finding Guillaume still more feverish and grieved, had\nonce again taken hold of his hand. Neither of them spoke, so great was\nthe distress that they experienced for many reasons which they themselves\ncould not have precisely defined. It seemed to them, however, that all\nhuman misery--inclusive of their own, the affections, the hopes, the\ngriefs which brought them suffering--was sobbing and quivering in that\nbuzzing hall. Twilight had gradually fallen there, but as the end was now\nso near it had doubtless been thought unnecessary to light the\nchandeliers. And thus large vague shadows, dimming and shrouding the\nserried throng, now hovered about in the last gleams of the day. The\nladies in light gowns yonder, behind the bench, looked like pale phantoms\nwith all-devouring eyes, whilst the numerous groups of black-robed\nadvocates formed large sombre patches which gradually spread everywhere.\nThe greyish painting of the Christ had already vanished, and on the walls\none only saw the glaring white bust of the Republic, which resembled some\nfrigid death\u2019s head starting forth from the darkness.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d Massot once more exclaimed, \u201cI knew that it wouldn\u2019t take long!\u201d\n\nIndeed, the jurors were returning after less than a quarter of an hour\u2019s\nabsence. Then the judges likewise came back and took their seats.\nIncreased emotion stirred the throng, a great gust seemed to sweep\nthrough the court, a gust of anxiety, which made every head sway. Some\npeople had risen to their feet, and others gave vent to involuntary\nexclamations. The foreman of the jury, a gentleman with a broad red face,\nhad to wait a moment before speaking. At last in a sharp but somewhat\nsputtering voice he declared: \u201cOn my honour and my conscience, before God\nand before man, the verdict of the jury is: on the question of Murder,\nyes, by a majority of votes.\u201d*\n\n  * English readers may be reminded that in France the verdict of\n    a majority of the jury suffices for conviction or acquittal.\n    If the jury is evenly divided the prisoner is acquitted.--Trans.\n\nThe night had almost completely fallen when Salvat was once more brought\nin. In front of the jurors, who faded away in the gloom, he stood forth,\nerect, with a last ray from the windows lighting up his face. The judges\nthemselves almost disappeared from view, their red robes seemed to have\nturned black. And how phantom-like looked the prisoner\u2019s emaciated face\nas he stood there listening, with dreamy eyes, while the clerk of the\ncourt read the verdict to him.\n\nWhen silence fell and no mention was made of extenuating circumstances,\nhe understood everything. His face, which had retained a childish\nexpression, suddenly brightened. \u201cThat means death. Thank you,\ngentlemen,\u201d he said.\n\nThen he turned towards the public, and amidst the growing darkness\nsearched for the friendly faces which he knew were there; and this time\nGuillaume became fully conscious that he had recognised him, and was\nagain expressing affectionate and grateful thanks for the crust he had\nreceived from him on a day of want. He must have also bidden farewell to\nVictor Mathis, for as Guillaume glanced at the young man, who had not\nmoved, he saw that his eyes were staring wildly, and that a terrible\nexpression rested on his lips.\n\nAs for the rest of the proceedings, the last questions addressed to the\njury and the counsel, the deliberations of the judges and the delivery of\nsentence--these were all lost amidst the buzzing and surging of the\ncrowd. A little compassion was unconsciously manifested; and some stupor\nwas mingled with the satisfaction that greeted the sentence of death.\n\nNo sooner had Salvat been condemned, however, than he drew himself up to\nhis full height, and as the guards led him away he shouted in a\nstentorian voice: \u201cLong live Anarchy!\u201d\n\nNobody seemed angered by the cry. The crowd went off quietly, as if\nweariness had lulled all its passions. The proceedings had really lasted\ntoo long and fatigued one too much. It was quite pleasant to inhale the\nfresh air on emerging from such a nightmare.\n\nIn the large waiting hall, Pierre and Guillaume passed Duthil and the\nPrincess, whom General de Bozonnet had stopped while chatting with\nFons\u00e8gue. All four of them were talking in very loud voices, complaining\nof the heat and their hunger, and agreeing that the affair had not been a\nparticularly interesting one. Yet, all was well that ended well. As\nFons\u00e8gue remarked, the condemnation of Salvat to death was a political\nand social necessity.\n\nWhen Pierre and Guillaume reached the Pont Neuf, the latter for a moment\nrested his elbows on the parapet of the bridge. His brother, standing\nbeside him, also gazed at the grey waters of the Seine, which here and\nthere were fired by the reflections of the gas lamps. A fresh breeze\nascended from the river; it was the delightful hour when night steals\ngently over resting Paris. Then, as the brothers stood there breathing\nthat atmosphere which usually brings relief and comfort, Pierre on his\nside again became conscious of his heart-wound, and remembered his\npromise to return to Montmartre, a promise that he must keep in spite of\nthe torture there awaiting him; whilst Guillaume on the other hand\nexperienced a revival of the suspicion and disquietude that had come to\nhim on seeing Marie so feverish, changed as it were by some new feeling,\nof which she herself was ignorant. Were further sufferings, struggles,\nand obstacles to happiness yet in store for those brothers who loved one\nanother so dearly? At all events their hearts bled once more with all the\nsorrow into which they had been cast by the scene they had just\nwitnessed: that assize of justice at which a wretched man had been\ncondemned to pay with his head for the crimes of one and all.\n\nThen, as they turned along the quay, Guillaume recognised young Victor\ngoing off alone in the gloom, just in front of them. The chemist stopped\nhim and spoke to him of his mother. But the young man did not hear; his\nthin lips parted, and in a voice as trenchant as a knife-thrust he\nexclaimed: \u201cAh! so it\u2019s blood they want. Well, they may cut off his head,\nbut he will be avenged!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nV. SACRIFICE\n\nTHE days which followed Salvat\u2019s trial seemed gloomy ones up yonder in\nGuillaume\u2019s workroom, which was usually so bright and gay. Sadness and\nsilence filled the place. The three young men were no longer there.\nThomas betook himself to the Grandidier works early every morning in\norder to perfect his little motor; Fran\u00e7ois was so busy preparing for his\nexamination that he scarcely left the \u00c9cole Normale; while Antoine was\ndoing some work at Jahan\u2019s, where he delighted to linger and watch his\nlittle friend Lise awakening to life. Thus Guillaume\u2019s sole companion was\nM\u00e8re-Grand, who sat near the window busy with her needlework; for Marie\nwas ever going about the house, and only stayed in the workroom for any\nlength of time when Pierre happened to be there.\n\nGuillaume\u2019s gloom was generally attributed to the feelings of anger and\nrevolt into which the condemnation of Salvat had thrown him. He had flown\ninto a passion on his return from the Palace of Justice, declaring that\nthe execution of the unhappy man would simply be social murder,\ndeliberate provocation of class warfare. And the others had bowed on\nhearing that pain-fraught violent cry, without attempting to discuss the\npoint. Guillaume\u2019s sons respectfully left him to the thoughts which kept\nhim silent for hours, with his face pale and a dreamy expression in his\neyes. His chemical furnace remained unlighted, and his only occupation\nfrom morn till night was to examine the plans and documents connected\nwith his invention, that new explosive and that terrible engine of war,\nwhich he had so long dreamt of presenting to France in order that she\nmight impose the reign of truth and justice upon all the nations.\nHowever, during the long hours which he spent before the papers scattered\nover his table, often without seeing them, for his eyes wandered far\naway, a multitude of vague thoughts came to him--doubts respecting the\nwisdom of his project, and fears lest his desire to pacify the nations\nshould simply throw them into an endless war of extermination. Although\nhe really believed that great city of Paris to be the world\u2019s brain,\nentrusted with the task of preparing the future, he could not disguise\nfrom himself that with all its folly and shame and injustice it still\npresented a shocking spectacle. Was it really ripe enough for the work of\nhuman salvation which he thought of entrusting to it? Then, on trying to\nre-peruse his notes and verify his formulas, he only recovered his former\nenergetic determination on thinking of his marriage, whereupon the idea\ncame to him that it was now too late for him to upset his life by\nchanging such long-settled plans.\n\nHis marriage! Was it not the thought of this which haunted Guillaume and\ndisturbed him far more powerfully than his scientific work or his\nhumanitarian passion? Beneath all the worries that he acknowledged, there\nwas another which he did not confess even to himself, and which filled\nhim with anguish. He repeated day by day that he would reveal his\ninvention to the Minister of War as soon as he should be married to\nMarie, whom he wished to associate with his glory. Married to Marie! Each\ntime he thought of it, burning fever and secret disquietude came over\nhim. If he now remained so silent and had lost his quiet cheerfulness, it\nwas because he had felt new life, as it were, emanating from her. She was\ncertainly no longer the same woman as formerly; she was becoming more and\nmore changed and distant. He had watched her and Pierre when the latter\nhappened to be there, which was now but seldom. He, too, appeared\nembarrassed, and different from what he had been. On the days when he\ncame, however, Marie seemed transformed; it was as if new life animated\nthe house. Certainly the intercourse between her and Pierre was quite\ninnocent, sisterly on the one hand, brotherly on the other. They simply\nseemed to be a pair of good friends. And yet a radiance, a vibration,\nemanated from them, something more subtle even than a sun-ray or a\nperfume. After the lapse of a few days Guillaume found himself unable to\ndoubt the truth any longer. And his heart bled, he was utterly upset by\nit. He had not found them in fault in any way, but he was convinced that\nthese two children, as he so paternally called them, really adored one\nanother.\n\nOne lovely morning when he happened to be alone with M\u00e8re-Grand, face to\nface with sunlit Paris, he fell into a yet more dolorous reverie than\nusual. He seemed to be gazing fixedly at the old lady, as, seated in her\nusual place, she continued sewing with an air of queenly serenity.\nPerhaps, however, he did not see her. For her part she occasionally\nraised her eyes and glanced at him, as if expecting a confession which\ndid not come. At last, finding such silence unbearable, she made up her\nmind to address him: \u201cWhat has been the matter with you, Guillaume, for\nsome time past? Why don\u2019t you tell me what you have to tell me?\u201d\n\nHe descended from the clouds, as it were, and answered in astonishment:\n\u201cWhat I have to tell you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I know it as well as you do, and I thought you would speak to me of\nit, since it pleases you to do nothing here without consulting me.\u201d\n\nAt this he turned very pale and shuddered. So he had not been mistaken in\nthe matter, even M\u00e8re-Grand knew all about it. To talk of it, however,\nwas to give shape to his suspicions, to transform what, hitherto, might\nmerely have been a fancy on his part into something real and definite.\n\n\u201cIt was inevitable, my dear son,\u201d said M\u00e8re-Grand. \u201cI foresaw it from the\noutset. And if I did not warn you of it, it was because I believed in\nsome deep design on your part. Since I have seen you suffering, however,\nI have realised that I was mistaken.\u201d Then, as he still looked at her\nquivering and distracted, she continued: \u201cYes, I fancied that you might\nhave wished it, that in bringing your brother here you wished to know if\nMarie loved you otherwise than as a father. There was good reason for\ntesting her--for instance, the great difference between your ages, for\nyour life is drawing to a close, whilst hers is only beginning. And I\nneed not mention the question of your work, the mission which I have\nalways dreamt of for you.\u201d\n\nThereupon, with his hands raised in prayerful fashion, Guillaume drew\nnear to the old lady and exclaimed: \u201cOh! speak out clearly, tell me what\nyou think. I don\u2019t understand, my poor heart is so lacerated; and yet I\nshould so much like to know everything, so as to be able to act and take\na decision. To think that you whom I love, you whom I venerate as much as\nif you were my real mother, you whose profound good sense I know so well\nthat I have always followed your advice--to think that you should have\nforeseen this frightful thing and have allowed it to happen at the risk\nof its killing me!... Why have you done so, tell me, why?\u201d\n\nM\u00e8re-Grand was not fond of talking. Absolute mistress of the house as she\nwas, managing everything, accountable to nobody for her actions, she\nnever gave expression to all that she thought or all that she desired.\nIndeed, there was no occasion for it, as Guillaume, like the children,\nrelied upon her completely, with full confidence in her wisdom. And her\nsomewhat enigmatical ways even helped to raise her in their estimation.\n\n\u201cWhat is the use of words, when things themselves speak?\u201d she now gently\nanswered, while still plying her needle. \u201cIt is quite true that I\napproved of the plan of a marriage between you and Marie, for I saw that\nit was necessary that she should be married if she was to stay here. And\nthen, too, there were many other reasons which I needn\u2019t speak of.\nHowever, Pierre\u2019s arrival here has changed everything, and placed things\nin their natural order. Is not that preferable?\u201d\n\nHe still lacked the courage to understand her. \u201cPreferable! When I\u2019m in\nagony? When my life is wrecked?\u201d\n\nThereupon she rose and came to him, tall and rigid in her thin black\ngown, and with an expression of austerity and energy on her pale face.\n\u201cMy son,\u201d she said, \u201cyou know that I love you, and that I wish you to be\nvery noble and lofty. Only the other morning, you had an attack of\nfright, the house narrowly escaped being blown up. Then, for some days\nnow you have been sitting over those documents and plans in an\nabsent-minded, distracted state, like a man who feels weak, and doubts,\nand no longer knows his way. Believe me, you are following a dangerous\npath; it is better that Pierre should marry Marie, both for their sakes\nand for your own.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor my sake? No, no! What will become of me!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will calm yourself and reflect, my son. You have such serious duties\nbefore you. You are on the eve of making your invention known. It seems\nto me that something has bedimmed your sight, and that you will perhaps\nact wrongly in this respect, through failing to take due account of the\nproblem before you. Perhaps there is something better to be done....\nAt all events, suffer if it be necessary, but remain faithful to your\nideal.\u201d\n\nThen, quitting him with a maternal smile, she sought to soften her\nsomewhat stern words by adding: \u201cYou have compelled me to speak\nunnecessarily, for I am quite at ease; with your superior mind, whatever\nbe in question, you can but do the one right thing that none other would\ndo.\u201d\n\nOn finding himself alone Guillaume fell into feverish uncertainty. What\nwas the meaning of M\u00e8re-Grand\u2019s enigmatical words? He knew that she was\non the side of whatever might be good, natural, and necessary. But she\nseemed to be urging him to some lofty heroism; and indeed what she had\nsaid threw a ray of light upon the unrest which had come to him in\nconnection with his old plan of going to confide his secret to some\nMinister of War or other, whatever one might happen to be in office at\nthe time. Growing hesitation and repugnance stirred him as he fancied he\ncould again hear her saying that perhaps there might be some better\ncourse, that would require search and reflection. But all at once a\nvision of Marie rose before him, and his heart was rent by the thought\nthat he was asked to renounce her. To lose her, to give her to another!\nNo, no, that was beyond his strength. He would never have the frightful\ncourage that was needed to pass by the last promised raptures of love\nwith disdain!\n\nFor a couple of days Guillaume struggled on. He seemed to be again living\nthe six years which the young woman had already spent beside him in that\nhappy little house. She had been at first like an adopted daughter there;\nand later on, when the idea of their marriage had sprung up, he had\nviewed it with quiet delight in the hope that it would ensure the\nhappiness of all around him. If he had previously abstained from marrying\nagain it was from the fear of placing a strange mother over his children;\nand if he yielded to the charm of loving yet once more, and no longer\nleading a solitary life, it was because he had found at his very hearth\none of such sensible views, who, in the flower of youth, was willing to\nbecome his wife despite the difference in their ages. Then months had\ngone by, and serious occurrences had compelled them to postpone the\nwedding, though without undue suffering on his part. Indeed, the\ncertainty that she was waiting for him had sufficed him, for his life of\nhard work had rendered him patient. Now, however, all at once, at the\nthreat of losing her, his hitherto tranquil heart ached and bled. He\nwould never have thought the tie so close a one. But he was now almost\nfifty, and it was as if love and woman were being wrenched away from him,\nthe last woman that he could love and desire, one too who was the more\ndesirable, as she was the incarnation of youth from which he must ever be\nsevered, should he indeed lose her. Passionate desire, mingled with rage,\nflared up within him at the thought that someone should have come to take\nher from him.\n\nOne night, alone in his room, he suffered perfect martyrdom. In order\nthat he might not rouse the house he buried his face in his pillow so as\nto stifle his sobs. After all, it was a simple matter; Marie had given\nhim her promise, and he would compel her to keep it. She would be his,\nand his alone, and none would be able to steal her from him. Then,\nhowever, there rose before him a vision of his brother, the\nlong-forgotten one, whom, from feelings of affection, he had compelled to\njoin his family. But his sufferings were now so acute that he would have\ndriven that brother away had he been before him. He was enraged,\nmaddened, by the thought of him. His brother--his little brother! So all\ntheir love was over; hatred and violence were about to poison their\nlives. For hours Guillaume continued complaining deliriously, and seeking\nhow he might so rid himself of Pierre that what had happened should be\nblotted out. Now and again, when he recovered self-control, he marvelled\nat the tempest within him; for was he not a _savant_ guided by lofty\nreason, a toiler to whom long experience had brought serenity? But the\ntruth was that this tempest had not sprung up in his mind, it was raging\nin the child-like soul that he had retained, the nook of affection and\ndreaminess which remained within him side by side with his principles of\npitiless logic and his belief in proven phenomena only. His very genius\ncame from the duality of his nature: behind the chemist was a social\ndreamer, hungering for justice and capable of the greatest love. And now\npassion was transporting him, and he was weeping for the loss of Marie as\nhe would have wept over the downfall of that dream of his, the\ndestruction of war _by_ war, that scheme for the salvation of mankind at\nwhich he had been working for ten years past.\n\nAt last, amidst his weariness, a sudden resolution calmed him. He began\nto feel ashamed of despairing in this wise when he had no certain grounds\nto go upon. He must know everything, he would question the young woman;\nshe was loyal enough to answer him frankly. Was not this a solution\nworthy of them both? An explanation in all sincerity, after which they\nwould be able to take a decision. Then he fell asleep; and, tired though\nhe felt when he rose in the morning, he was calmer. It was as if some\nsecret work had gone on in his heart during his few hours of repose after\nthat terrible storm.\n\nAs it happened Marie was very gay that morning. On the previous day she\nhad gone with Pierre and Antoine on a cycling excursion over frightful\nroads in the direction of Montmorency, whence they had returned in a\nstate of mingled anger and delight. When Guillaume stopped her in the\nlittle garden, he found her humming a song while returning bare-armed\nfrom the scullery, where some washing was going on.\n\n\u201cDo you want to speak to me?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cYes, my dear child, it\u2019s necessary for us to talk of some serious\nmatters.\u201d\n\nShe at once understood that their marriage was in question, and became\ngrave. She had formerly consented to that marriage because she regarded\nit as the only sensible course she could take, and this with full\nknowledge of the duties which she would assume. No doubt her husband\nwould be some twenty years older than herself, but this circumstance was\none of somewhat frequent occurrence, and as a rule such marriages turned\nout well, rather than otherwise. Moreover, she was in love with nobody,\nand was free to consent. And she had consented with an impulse of\ngratitude and affection which seemed so sweet that she thought it the\nsweetness of love itself. Everybody around her, too, appeared so pleased\nat the prospect of this marriage, which would draw the family yet more\nclosely together. And, on her side, she had been as it were intoxicated\nby the idea of making others happy.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter?\u201d she now asked Guillaume in a somewhat anxious\nvoice. \u201cNo bad news, I hope?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d he answered. \u201cI\u2019ve simply something to say to you.\u201d\n\nThen he led her under the plum-trees to the only green nook left in the\ngarden. An old worm-eaten bench still stood there against the\nlilac-bushes. And in front of them Paris spread out its sea of roofs,\nlooking light and fresh in the morning sunlight.\n\nThey both sat down. But at the moment of speaking and questioning Marie,\nGuillaume experienced sudden embarrassment, while his heart beat\nviolently at seeing her beside him, so young and adorable with her bare\narms.\n\n\u201cOur wedding-day is drawing near,\u201d he ended by saying. And then as she\nturned somewhat pale, perhaps unconsciously, he himself suddenly felt\ncold. Had not her lips twitched as if with pain? Had not a shadow passed\nover her fresh, clear eyes?\n\n\u201cOh! we still have some time before us,\u201d she replied.\n\nThen, slowly and very affectionately, he resumed: \u201cNo doubt; still it is\nnecessary to attend to the formalities. And it is as well, perhaps, that\nI should speak of those worries to-day, so that I may not have to bother\nyou about them again.\u201d\n\nThen he gently went on telling her all that would have to be done,\nkeeping his eyes on her whilst he spoke, watching for such signs of\nemotion as the thought of her promise\u2019s early fulfilment might bring to\nher face. She sat there in silence, with her hands on her lap, and her\nfeatures quite still, thus giving no certain sign of any regret or\ntrouble. Still she seemed rather dejected, compliant, as it were, but in\nno wise joyous.\n\n\u201cYou say nothing, my dear Marie,\u201d Guillaume at last exclaimed. \u201cDoes\nanything of all this displease you?\u201d\n\n\u201cDisplease me? Oh, no!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must speak out frankly, if it does, you know. We will wait a little\nlonger if you have any personal reasons for wishing to postpone the date\nagain.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I\u2019ve no reasons, my friend. What reasons could I have? I leave you\nquite free to settle everything as you yourself may desire.\u201d\n\nSilence fell. While answering, she had looked him frankly in the face;\nbut a little quiver stirred her lips, and gloom, for which she could not\naccount, seemed to rise and darken her face, usually as bright and gay as\nspring water. In former times would she not have laughed and sung at the\nmere announcement of that coming wedding?\n\nThen Guillaume, with an effort which made his voice tremble, dared to\nspeak out: \u201cYou must forgive me for asking you a question, my dear Marie.\nThere is still time for you to cancel your promise. Are you quite certain\nthat you love me?\u201d\n\nAt this she looked at him in genuine stupefaction, utterly failing to\nunderstand what he could be aiming at. And--as she seemed to be deferring\nher reply, he added: \u201cConsult your heart. Is it really your old friend or\nis it another that you love?\u201d\n\n\u201cI? I, Guillaume? Why do you say that to me? What can I have done to give\nyou occasion to say such a thing!\u201d\n\nAll her frank nature revolted as she spoke, and her beautiful eyes,\nglowing with sincerity, gazed fixedly on his.\n\n\u201cI love Pierre! I do, I?... Well, yes, I love him, as I love you all;\nI love him because he has become one of us, because he shares our life\nand our joys! I\u2019m happy when he\u2019s here, certainly; and I should like him\nto be always here. I\u2019m always pleased to see him and hear him and go out\nwith him. I was very much grieved recently when he seemed to be relapsing\ninto his gloomy ideas. But all that is natural, is it not? And I think\nthat I have only done what you desired I should do, and I cannot\nunderstand how my affection for Pierre can in any way exercise an\ninfluence respecting our marriage.\u201d\n\nThese words, in her estimation, ought to have convinced Guillaume that\nshe was not in love with his brother; but in lieu thereof they brought\nhim painful enlightenment by the very ardour with which she denied the\nlove imputed to her.\n\n\u201cBut you unfortunate girl!\u201d he cried. \u201cYou are betraying yourself without\nknowing it.... It is quite certain you do not love me, you love my\nbrother!\u201d\n\nHe had caught hold of her wrists and was pressing them with despairing\naffection as if to compel her to read her heart. And she continued\nstruggling. A most loving and tragic contest went on between them, he\nseeking to convince her by the evidence of facts, and she resisting him,\nstubbornly refusing to open her eyes. In vain did he recount what had\nhappened since the first day, explaining the feelings which had followed\none upon another in her heart and mind: first covert hostility, next\ncuriosity regarding that extraordinary young priest, and then sympathy\nand affection when she had found him so wretched and had gradually cured\nhim of his sufferings. They were both young and mother Nature had done\nthe rest. However, at each fresh proof and certainty which he put before\nher, Marie only experienced growing emotion, trembling at last from head\nto foot, but still unwilling to question herself.\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said she, \u201cI do not love him. If I loved him I should know it\nand would acknowledge it to you; for you are well aware that I cannot\ntell an untruth.\u201d\n\nGuillaume, however, had the cruelty to insist on the point, like some\nheroic surgeon cutting into his own flesh even more than into that of\nothers, in order that the truth might appear and everyone be saved.\n\u201cMarie,\u201d said he, \u201cit is not I whom you love. All that you feel for me is\nrespect and gratitude and daughterly affection. Remember what your\nfeelings were at the time when our marriage was decided upon. You were\nthen in love with nobody, and you accepted the offer like a sensible\ngirl, feeling certain that I should render you happy, and that the union\nwas a right and satisfactory one.... But since then my brother has\ncome here; love has sprung up in your heart in quite a natural way; and\nit is Pierre, Pierre alone, whom you love as a lover and a husband should\nbe loved.\u201d\n\nExhausted though she was, utterly distracted, too, by the light which,\ndespite herself, was dawning within her, Marie still stubbornly and\ndesperately protested.\n\n\u201cBut why do you struggle like this against the truth, my child?\u201d said\nGuillaume; \u201cI do not reproach you. It was I who chose that this should\nhappen, like the old madman I am. What was bound to come has come, and\ndoubtless it is for the best. I only wanted to learn the truth from you\nin order that I might take a decision and act uprightly.\u201d\n\nThese words vanquished her, and her tears gushed forth. It seemed as\nthough something had been rent asunder within her; and she felt quite\novercome, as if by the weight of a new truth of which she had hitherto\nbeen ignorant. \u201cAh! it was cruel of you,\u201d she said, \u201cto do me such\nviolence so as to make me read my heart. I swear to you again that I did\nnot know I loved Pierre in the way you say. But you have opened my heart,\nand roused what was quietly slumbering in it.... And it is true, I do\nlove Pierre, I love him now as you have said. And so here we are, all\nthree of us supremely wretched through your doing!\u201d\n\nShe sobbed, and with a sudden feeling of modesty freed her wrists from\nhis grasp. He noticed, however, that no blush rose to her face. Truth to\ntell, her virginal loyalty was not in question; she had no cause to\nreproach herself with any betrayal; it was he alone, perforce, who had\nawakened her to love. For a moment they looked at one another through\ntheir tears: she so strong and healthy, her bosom heaving at each\nheart-beat, and her white arms--arms that could both charm and\nsustain--bare almost to her shoulders; and he still vigorous, with his\nthick fleece of white hair and his black moustaches, which gave his\ncountenance such an expression of energetic youth. But it was all over,\nthe irreparable had swept by, and utterly changed their lives.\n\n\u201cMarie,\u201d he nobly said, \u201cyou do not love me, I give you back your\npromise.\u201d\n\nBut with equal nobility she refused to take it back. \u201cNever will I do\nso,\u201d she replied. \u201cI gave it to you frankly, freely and joyfully, and my\naffection and admiration for you have never changed.\u201d\n\nNevertheless, with more firmness in his hitherto broken voice, Guillaume\nretorted: \u201cYou love Pierre, and it is Pierre whom you ought to marry.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she again insisted, \u201cI belong to you. A tie which years have\ntightened cannot be undone in an hour. Once again, if I love Pierre I\nswear to you that I was ignorant of it this morning. And let us leave the\nmatter as it is; do not torture me any more, it would be too cruel of\nyou.\u201d\n\nThen, quivering like a woman who suddenly perceives that she is bare, in\na stranger\u2019s presence, she hastily pulled down her sleeves, and even drew\nthem over her hands as if to leave naught of her person visible. And\nafterwards she rose and walked away without adding a single word.\n\nGuillaume remained alone on the bench in that leafy corner, in front of\nParis, to which the light morning sunshine lent the aspect of some\nquivering, soaring city of dreamland. A great weight oppressed him, and\nit seemed to him as if he would never be able to rise from the seat. That\nwhich brought him most suffering was Marie\u2019s assurance that she had till\nthat morning been ignorant of the fact that she was in love with Pierre.\nShe had been ignorant of it, and it was he, Guillaume, who had brought it\nto her knowledge, compelled her to confess it! He had now firmly planted\nit in her heart, and perhaps increased it by revealing it to her. Ah! how\ncruel the thought--to be the artisan of one\u2019s own torment! Of one thing\nhe was now quite certain: there would be no more love in his life. At the\nidea of this, his poor, loving heart sank and bled. And yet amidst the\ndisaster, amidst his grief at realising that he was an old man, and that\nrenunciation was imperative, he experienced a bitter joy at having\nbrought the truth to light. This was very harsh consolation, fit only for\none of heroic soul, yet he found lofty satisfaction in it, and from that\nmoment the thought of sacrifice imposed itself upon him with\nextraordinary force. He must marry his children; there lay the path of\nduty, the only wise and just course, the only certain means of ensuring\nthe happiness of the household. And when his revolting heart yet leapt\nand shrieked with anguish, he carried his vigorous hands to his chest in\norder to still it.\n\nOn the morrow came the supreme explanation between Guillaume and Pierre,\nnot in the little garden, however, but in the spacious workroom. And here\nagain one beheld the vast panorama of Paris, a nation as it were at work,\na huge vat in which the wine of the future was fermenting. Guillaume had\narranged things so that he might be alone with his brother; and no sooner\nhad the latter entered than he attacked him, going straight to the point\nwithout any of the precautions which he had previously taken with Marie.\n\n\u201cHaven\u2019t you something to say to me, Pierre?\u201d he inquired. \u201cWhy won\u2019t you\nconfide in me?\u201d\n\nThe other immediately understood him, and began to tremble, unable to\nfind a word, but confessing everything by the distracted, entreating\nexpression of his face.\n\n\u201cYou love Marie,\u201d continued Guillaume, \u201cwhy did you not loyally come and\ntell me of your love?\u201d\n\nAt this Pierre recovered self-possession and defended himself vehemently:\n\u201cI love Marie, it\u2019s true, and I felt that I could not conceal it, that\nyou yourself would notice it at last. But there was no occasion for me to\ntell you of it, for I was sure of myself, and would have fled rather than\nhave allowed a single word to cross my lips. I suffered in silence and\nalone, and you cannot know how great my torture was! It is even cruel on\nyour part to speak to me of it; for now I am absolutely compelled to\nleave you.... I have already, on several occasions, thought of doing\nso. If I have come back here, it was doubtless through weakness, but also\non account of my affection for you all. And what mattered my presence\nhere? Marie ran no risk. She does not love me.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe does love you!\u201d Guillaume answered. \u201cI questioned her yesterday, and\nshe had to confess that she loved you.\u201d\n\nAt this Pierre, utterly distracted, caught Guillaume by the shoulders and\ngazed into his eyes. \u201cOh! brother, brother! what is this you say? Why say\na thing which would mean terrible misfortune for us all? Even if it were\ntrue, my grief would far exceed my joy, for I will not have you suffer.\nMarie belongs to you. To me she is as sacred as a sister. And if there be\nonly my madness to part you, it will pass by, I shall know how to conquer\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cMarie loves you,\u201d repeated Guillaume in his gentle, obstinate way. \u201cI\ndon\u2019t reproach you with anything. I well know that you have struggled,\nand have never betrayed yourself to her either by word or glance.\nYesterday she herself was still ignorant that she loved you, and I had to\nopen her eyes.... What would you have? I simply state a fact: she\nloves you.\u201d\n\nThis time Pierre, still quivering, made a gesture of mingled rapture and\nterror, as if some divine and long-desired blessing were falling upon him\nfrom heaven and crushing him beneath its weight.\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d he said, after a brief pause, \u201cit is all over.... Let us\nkiss one another for the last time, and then I\u2019ll go.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo? Why? You must stay with us. Nothing could be more simple: you love\nMarie and she loves you. I give her to you.\u201d\n\nA loud cry came from Pierre, who wildly raised his hands again with a\ngesture of fright and rapture. \u201cYou give me Marie?\u201d he replied. \u201cYou, who\nadore her, who have been waiting for her for months? No, no, it would\novercome me, it would terrify me, as if you gave me your very heart after\ntearing it from your breast. No, no! I will not accept your sacrifice!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut as it is only gratitude and affection that Marie feels for me,\u201d said\nGuillaume, \u201cas it is you whom she really loves, am I to take a mean\nadvantage of the engagements which she entered into unconsciously, and\nforce her to a marriage when I know that she would never be wholly mine?\nBesides, I have made a mistake, it isn\u2019t I who give her to you, she has\nalready given herself, and I do not consider that I have any right to\nprevent her from doing so.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no! I will never accept, I will never bring such grief upon you...\nKiss me, brother, and let me go.\u201d\n\nThereupon Guillaume caught hold of Pierre and compelled him to sit down\nby his side on an old sofa near the window. And he began to scold him\nalmost angrily while still retaining a smile, in which suffering and\nkindliness were blended. \u201cCome,\u201d said he, \u201cwe are surely not going to\nfight over it. You won\u2019t force me to tie you up so as to keep you here? I\nknow what I\u2019m about. I thought it all over before I spoke to you. No\ndoubt, I can\u2019t tell you that it gladdens me. I thought at first that I\nwas going to die; I should have liked to hide myself in the very depths\nof the earth. And then, well, it was necessary to be reasonable, and I\nunderstood that things had arranged themselves for the best, in their\nnatural order.\u201d\n\nPierre, unable to resist any further, had begun to weep with both hands\nraised to his face.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t grieve, brother, either for yourself or for me,\u201d said Guillaume.\n\u201cDo you remember the happy days we lately spent together at Neuilly after\nwe had found one another again? All our old affection revived within us,\nand we remained for hours, hand in hand, recalling the past and loving\none another. And what a terrible confession you made to me one night, the\nconfession of your loss of faith, your torture, the void in which you\nwere rolling! When I heard of it my one great wish was to cure you. I\nadvised you to work, love, and believe in life, convinced as I was that\nlife alone could restore you to peace and health.... And for that\nreason I afterwards brought you here. You fought against it, and it was I\nwho forced you to come. I was so happy when I found that you again took\nan interest in life, and had once more become a man and a worker! I would\nhave given some of my blood if necessary to complete your cure....\nWell, it\u2019s done now, I have given you all I had, since Marie herself has\nbecome necessary to you, and she alone can save you.\u201d\n\nThen as Pierre again attempted to protest, he resumed: \u201cDon\u2019t deny it. It\nis so true indeed, that if she does not complete the work I have begun,\nall my efforts will have been vain, you will fall back into your misery\nand negation, into all the torments of a spoilt life. She is necessary to\nyou, I say. And do you think that I no longer know how to love you? Would\nyou have me refuse you the very breath of life that will truly make you a\nman, after all my fervent wishes for your return to life? I have enough\naffection for you both to consent to your loving one another....\nBesides, I repeat it, nature knows what she does. Instinct is a sure\nguide, it always tends to what is useful and trite. I should have been a\nsorry husband, and it is best that I should keep to my work as an old\n_savant_; whereas you are young and represent the future, all fruitful\nand happy life.\u201d\n\nPierre shuddered as he heard this, for his old fears returned to him. Had\nnot the priesthood for ever cut him off from life, had not his long years\nof chaste celibacy robbed him of his manhood? \u201cFruitful and happy life!\u201d\n he muttered, \u201cah! if you only knew how distressed I feel at the idea that\nI do not perhaps deserve the gift you so lovingly offer me! You are worth\nmore than I am; you would have given her a larger heart, a firmer brain,\nand perhaps, too, you are really a younger man than myself.... There\nis still time, brother, keep her, if with you she is likely to be happier\nand more truly and completely loved. For my part I am full of doubts. Her\nhappiness is the only thing of consequence. Let her belong to the one who\nwill love her best!\u201d\n\nIndescribable emotion had now come over both men. As Guillaume heard his\nbrother\u2019s broken words, the cry of a love that trembled at the thought of\npossible weakness, he did for a moment waver. With a dreadful heart-pang\nhe stammered despairingly: \u201cAh! Marie, whom I love so much! Marie, whom I\nwould have rendered so happy!\u201d\n\nAt this Pierre could not restrain himself; he rose and cried: \u201cAh! you\nsee that you love her still and cannot renounce her.... So let me go!\nlet me go!\u201d\n\nBut Guillaume had already caught him around the body, clasping him with\nan intensity of brotherly love which was increased by the renunciation he\nwas resolved upon: \u201cStay!\u201d said he. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t I that spoke, it was the\nother man that was in me, he who is about to die, who is already dead! By\nthe memory of our mother and our father I swear to you that the sacrifice\nis consummated, and that if you two refuse to accept happiness from me\nyou will but make me suffer.\u201d\n\nFor a moment the weeping men remained in one another\u2019s arms. They had\noften embraced before, but never had their hearts met and mingled as they\ndid now. It was a delightful moment, which seemed an eternity. All the\ngrief and misery of the world had disappeared from before them; there\nremained naught save their glowing love, whence sprang an eternity of\nlove even as light comes from the sun. And that moment was compensation\nfor all their past and future tears, whilst yonder, on the horizon before\nthem, Paris still spread and rumbled, ever preparing the unknown future.\n\nJust then Marie herself came in. And the rest proved very simple.\nGuillaume freed himself from his brother\u2019s clasp, led him forward and\ncompelled him and Marie to take each other by the hand. At first she made\nyet another gesture of refusal in her stubborn resolve that she would not\ntake her promise back. But what could she say face to face with those two\ntearful men, whom she had found in one another\u2019s arms, mingling together\nin such close brotherliness? Did not those tears and that embrace sweep\naway all ordinary reasons, all such arguments as she held in reserve?\nEven the embarrassment of the situation disappeared, it seemed as if she\nhad already had a long explanation with Pierre, and that he and she were\nof one mind to accept that gift of love which Guillaume offered them with\nso much heroism. A gust of the sublime passed through the room, and\nnothing could have appeared more natural to them than this extraordinary\nscene. Nevertheless, Marie remained silent, she dared not give her\nanswer, but looked at them both with her big soft eyes, which, like their\nown, were full of tears.\n\nAnd it was Guillaume who, with sudden inspiration, ran to the little\nstaircase conducting to the rooms overhead, and called: \u201cM\u00e8re-Grand!\nM\u00e8re-Grand! Come down at once, you are wanted.\u201d\n\nThen, as soon as she was there, looking slim and pale in her black gown,\nand showing the wise air of a queen-mother whom all obeyed, he said:\n\u201cTell these two children that they can do nothing better than marry one\nanother. Tell them that we have talked it over, you and I, and that it is\nyour desire, your will that they should do so.\u201d\n\nShe quietly nodded her assent, and then said: \u201cThat is true, it will be\nby far the most sensible course.\u201d\n\nThereupon Marie flung herself into her arms, consenting, yielding to the\nsuperior forces, the powers of life, that had thus changed the course of\nher existence. Guillaume immediately desired that the date of the wedding\nshould be fixed, and accommodation provided for the young couple in the\nrooms overhead. And as Pierre glanced at him with some remaining anxiety\nand spoke of travelling, for he feared that his wound was not yet healed,\nand that their presence might bring him suffering, Guillaume responded:\n\u201cNo, no, I mean to keep you. If I\u2019m marrying you, it is to have you both\nhere. Don\u2019t worry about me. I have so much work to do, I shall work.\u201d\n\nIn the evening when Thomas and Fran\u00e7ois came home and learnt the news,\nthey did not seem particularly surprised by it. They had doubtless felt\nthat things would end like this. And they bowed to the _d\u00e9nouement_, not\nventuring to say a word, since it was their father himself who announced\nthe decision which had been taken, with his usual air of composure. As\nfor Antoine, who on his own side quivered with love for Lise, he gazed\nwith doubting, anxious eyes at his father, who had thus had the courage\nto pluck out his heart. Could he really survive such a sacrifice, must it\nnot kill him? Then Antoine kissed his father passionately, and the elder\nbrothers in their turn embraced him with all their hearts. Guillaume\nsmiled and his eyes became moist. After his victory over his horrible\ntorments nothing could have been sweeter to him than the embraces of his\nthree big sons.\n\nThere was, however, further emotion in store for him that evening. Just\nas the daylight was departing, and he was sitting at his large table near\nthe window, again checking and classifying the documents and plans\nconnected with his invention, he was surprised to see his old master and\nfriend Bertheroy enter the workroom. The illustrious chemist called on\nhim in this fashion at long intervals, and Guillaume felt the honour thus\nconferred on him by this old man to whom eminence and fame had brought so\nmany titles, offices and decorations. Moreover, Bertheroy, with his\nposition as an official _savant_ and member of the Institute, showed some\ncourage in thus venturing to call on one whom so-called respectable folks\nregarded with contumely. And on this occasion, Guillaume at once\nunderstood that it was some feeling of curiosity that had brought him.\nAnd so he was greatly embarrassed, for he hardly dared to remove the\npapers and plans which were lying on the table.\n\n\u201cOh, don\u2019t be frightened,\u201d gaily exclaimed Bertheroy, who, despite his\ncareless and abrupt ways, was really very shrewd. \u201cI haven\u2019t come to pry\ninto your secrets.... Leave your papers there, I promise you that I\nwon\u2019t read anything.\u201d\n\nThen, in all frankness, he turned the conversation on the subject of\nexplosives, which he was still studying, he said, with passionate\ninterest. He had made some new discoveries which he did not conceal.\nIncidentally, too, he spoke of the opinion he had given in Salvat\u2019s\naffair. His dream was to discover some explosive of great power, which\none might attempt to domesticate and reduce to complete obedience. And\nwith a smile he pointedly concluded: \u201cI don\u2019t know where that madman\nfound the formula of his powder. But if you should ever discover it,\nremember that the future perhaps lies in the employment of explosives as\nmotive power.\u201d\n\nThen, all at once, he added: \u201cBy the way, that fellow Salvat will be\nexecuted on the day after to-morrow. A friend of mine at the Ministry of\nJustice has just told me so.\u201d\n\nGuillaume had hitherto listened to him with an air of mingled distrust\nand amusement. But this announcement of Salvat\u2019s execution stirred him to\nanger and revolt, though for some days past he had known it to be\ninevitable, in spite of the sympathy which the condemned man was now\nrousing in many quarters.\n\n\u201cIt will be a murder!\u201d he cried vehemently.\n\nBertheroy waved his hand: \u201cWhat would you have?\u201d he answered: \u201cthere\u2019s a\nsocial system and it defends itself when it is attacked. Besides, those\nAnarchists are really too foolish in imagining that they will transform\nthe world with their squibs and crackers! In my opinion, you know,\nscience is the only revolutionist. Science will not only bring us truth\nbut justice also, if indeed justice ever be possible on this earth. And\nthat is why I lead so calm a life and am so tolerant.\u201d\n\nOnce again Bertheroy appeared to Guillaume as a revolutionist, one who\nwas convinced that he helped on the ruin of the ancient abominable\nsociety of today, with its dogmas and laws, even whilst he was working in\nthe depths of his laboratory. He was, however, too desirous of repose,\nand had too great a contempt for futilities to mingle with the events of\nthe day, and he preferred to live in quietude, liberally paid and\nrewarded, and at peace with the government whatever it might be, whilst\nat the same time foreseeing and preparing for the formidable parturition\nof the future.\n\nHe waved his hand towards Paris, over which a sun of victory was setting,\nand then again spoke: \u201cDo you hear the rumble? It is we who are the\nstokers, we who are ever flinging fresh fuel under the boiler. Science\ndoes not pause in her work for a single hour, and she is the artisan of\nParis, which--let us hope it--will be the artisan of the future. All the\nrest is of no account.\u201d\n\nBut Guillaume was no longer listening to him. He was thinking of Salvat\nand the terrible engine of war he had invented, that engine which before\nlong would shatter cities. And a new idea was dawning and growing in his\nmind. He had just freed himself of his last tie, he had created all the\nhappiness he could create around him. Ah! to recover his courage, to be\nmaster of himself once more, and, at any rate, derive from the sacrifice\nof his heart the lofty delight of being free, of being able to lay down\neven his life, should he some day deem it necessary!\n\n\n\n\n\nBOOK V.\n\n\n\n\nI. THE GUILLOTINE\n\n\nFOR some reason of his own Guillaume was bent upon witnessing the\nexecution of Salvat. Pierre tried to dissuade him from doing so; and\nfinding his efforts vain, became somewhat anxious. He accordingly\nresolved to spend the night at Montmartre, accompany his brother and\nwatch over him. In former times, when engaged with Abb\u00e9 Rose in\ncharitable work in the Charonne district, he had learnt that the\nguillotine could be seen from the house where M\u00e8ge, the Socialist deputy,\nresided at the corner of the Rue Merlin. He therefore offered himself as\na guide. As the execution was to take place as soon as it should legally\nbe daybreak, that is, about half-past four o\u2019clock, the brothers did not\ngo to bed but sat up in the workroom, feeling somewhat drowsy, and\nexchanging few words. Then as soon as two o\u2019clock struck, they started\noff.\n\nThe night was beautifully serene and clear. The full moon, shining like a\nsilver lamp in the cloudless, far-stretching heavens, threw a calm,\ndreamy light over the vague immensity of Paris, which was like some\nspell-bound city of sleep, so overcome by fatigue that not a murmur arose\nfrom it. It was as if beneath the soft radiance which spread over its\nroofs, its panting labour and its cries of suffering were lulled to\nrepose until the dawn. Yet, in a far, out of the way district, dark work\nwas even now progressing, a knife was being raised on high in order that\na man might be killed.\n\nPierre and Guillaume paused in the Rue St. Eleuth\u00e8re, and gazed at the\nvaporous, tremulous city spread out below then. And as they turned they\nperceived the basilica of the Sacred Heart, still domeless but already\nlooking huge indeed in the moonbeams, whose clear white light accentuated\nits outlines and brought them into sharp relief against a mass of\nshadows. Under the pale nocturnal sky, the edifice showed like a colossal\nmonster, symbolical of provocation and sovereign dominion. Never before\nhad Guillaume found it so huge, never had it appeared to him to dominate\nParis, even in the latter\u2019s hours of slumber, with such stubborn and\noverwhelming might.\n\nThis wounded him so keenly in the state of mind in which he found\nhimself, that he could not help exclaiming: \u201cAh! they chose a good site\nfor it, and how stupid it was to let them do so! I know of nothing more\nnonsensical; Paris crowned and dominated by that temple of idolatry! How\nimpudent it is, what a buffet for the cause of reason after so many\ncenturies of science, labour, and battle! And to think of it being reared\nover Paris, the one city in the world which ought never to have been\nsoiled in this fashion! One can understand it at Lourdes and Rome; but\nnot in Paris, in the very field of intelligence which has been so deeply\nploughed, and whence the future is sprouting. It is a declaration of war,\nan insolent proclamation that they hope to conquer Paris also!\u201d\n\nGuillaume usually evinced all the tolerance of a _savant_, for whom\nreligions are simply social phenomena. He even willingly admitted the\ngrandeur or grace of certain Catholic legends. But Marie Alacoque\u2019s\nfamous vision, which has given rise to the cult of the Sacred Heart,\nfilled him with irritation and something like physical disgust. He\nsuffered at the mere idea of Christ\u2019s open, bleeding breast, and the\ngigantic heart which the saint asserted she had seen beating in the\ndepths of the wound--the huge heart in which Jesus placed the woman\u2019s\nlittle heart to restore it to her inflated and glowing with love. What\nbase and loathsome materialism there was in all this! What a display of\nviscera, muscles and blood suggestive of a butcher\u2019s shop! And Guillaume\nwas particularly disgusted with the engraving which depicted this horror,\nand which he found everywhere, crudely coloured with red and yellow and\nblue, like some badly executed anatomical plate.\n\nPierre on his side was also looking at the basilica as, white with\nmoonlight, it rose out of the darkness like a gigantic fortress raised to\ncrush and conquer the city slumbering beneath it. It had already brought\nhim suffering during the last days when he had said mass in it and was\nstruggling with his torments. \u201cThey call it the national votive\noffering,\u201d he now exclaimed. \u201cBut the nation\u2019s longing is for health and\nstrength and restoration to its old position by work. That is a thing the\nChurch does not understand. It argues that if France was stricken with\ndefeat, it was because she deserved punishment. She was guilty, and so\nto-day she ought to repent. Repent of what? Of the Revolution, of a\ncentury of free examination and science, of the emancipation of her mind,\nof her initiatory and liberative labour in all parts of the world? That\nindeed is her real transgression; and it is as a punishment for all our\nlabour, search for truth, increase of knowledge and march towards justice\nthat they have reared that huge pile which Paris will see from all her\nstreets, and will never be able to see without feeling derided and\ninsulted in her labour and glory.\u201d\n\nWith a wave of his hand he pointed to the city, slumbering in the\nmoonlight as beneath a sheet of silver, and then set off again with his\nbrother, down the slopes, towards the black and deserted streets.\n\nThey did not meet a living soul until they reached the outer boulevard.\nHere, however, no matter what the hour may be, life continues with\nscarcely a pause. No sooner are the wine shops, music and dancing halls\nclosed, than vice and want, cast into the street, there resume their\nnocturnal existence. Thus the brothers came upon all the homeless ones:\nlow prostitutes seeking a pallet, vagabonds stretched on the benches\nunder the trees, rogues who prowled hither and thither on the lookout for\na good stroke. Encouraged by their accomplice--night, all the mire and\nwoe of Paris had returned to the surface. The empty roadway now belonged\nto the breadless, homeless starvelings, those for whom there was no place\nin the sunlight, the vague, swarming, despairing herd which is only\nespied at night-time. Ah! what spectres of destitution, what apparitions\nof grief and fright there were! What a sob of agony passed by in Paris\nthat morning, when as soon as the dawn should rise, a man--a pauper, a\nsufferer like the others--was to be guillotined!\n\nAs Guillaume and Pierre were about to descend the Rue des Martyrs, the\nformer perceived an old man lying on a bench with his bare feet\nprotruding from his gaping, filthy shoes. Guillaume pointed to him in\nsilence. Then, a few steps farther on, Pierre in his turn pointed to a\nragged girl, crouching, asleep with open mouth, in the corner of a\ndoorway. There was no need for the brothers to express in words all the\ncompassion and anger which stirred their hearts. At long intervals\npolicemen, walking slowly two by two, shook the poor wretches and\ncompelled them to rise and walk on and on. Occasionally, if they found\nthem suspicious or refractory, they marched them off to the\npolice-station. And then rancour and the contagion of imprisonment often\ntransformed a mere vagabond into a thief or a murderer.\n\nIn the Rue des Martyrs and the Rue du Faubourg-Montmartre, the brothers\nfound night-birds of another kind, women who slunk past them, close to\nthe house-fronts, and men and hussies who belaboured one another with\nblows. Then, upon the grand boulevards, on the thresholds of lofty black\nhouses, only one row of whose windows flared in the night, pale-faced\nindividuals, who had just come down from their clubs, stood lighting\ncigars before going home. A lady with a ball wrap over her evening gown\nwent by accompanied by a servant. A few cabs, moreover, still jogged up\nand down the roadway, while others, which had been waiting for hours,\nstood on their ranks in rows, with drivers and horses alike asleep. And\nas one boulevard after another was reached, the Boulevard Poissonniere,\nthe Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle, the Boulevard St. Denis, and so forth, as\nfar as the Place de la Republique, there came fresh want and misery, more\nforsaken and hungry ones, more and more of the human \u201cwaste\u201d that is cast\ninto the streets and the darkness. And on the other hand, an army of\nstreet-sweepers was now appearing to remove all the filth of the past\nfour and twenty hours, in order that Paris, spruce already at sunrise,\nmight not blush for having thrown up such a mass of dirt and\nloathsomeness in the course of a single day.\n\nIt was, however, more particularly after following the Boulevard\nVoltaire, and drawing near to the districts of La Roquette and Charonne,\nthat the brothers felt they were returning to a sphere of labour where\nthere was often lack of food, and where life was but so much pain. Pierre\nfound himself at home here. In former days, accompanied by good Abb\u00e9\nRose, visiting despairing ones, distributing alms, picking up children\nwho had sunk to the gutter, he had a hundred times perambulated every one\nof those long, densely populated streets. And thus a frightful vision\narose before his mind\u2019s eye; he recalled all the tragedies he had\nwitnessed, all the shrieks he had heard, all the tears and bloodshed he\nhad seen, all the fathers, mothers and children huddled together and\ndying of want, dirt and abandonment: that social hell in which he had\nended by losing his last hopes, fleeing from it with a sob in the\nconviction that charity was a mere amusement for the rich, and absolutely\nfutile as a remedy. It was this conviction which now returned to him as\nhe again cast eyes upon that want and grief stricken district which\nseemed fated to everlasting destitution. That poor old man whom Abb\u00e9 Rose\nhad revived one night in yonder hovel, had he not since died of\nstarvation? That little girl whom he had one morning brought in his arms\nto the refuge after her parents\u2019 death, was it not she whom he had just\nmet, grown but fallen to the streets, and shrieking beneath the fist of a\nbully? Ah! how great was the number of the wretched! Their name was\nlegion! There were those whom one could not save, those who were hourly\nborn to a life of woe and want, even as one may be born infirm, and\nthose, too, who from every side sank in the sea of human injustice, that\nocean which has ever been the same for centuries past, and which though\none may strive to drain it, still and for ever spreads. How heavy was the\nsilence, how dense the darkness in those working-class streets where\nsleep seems to be the comrade of death! Yet hunger prowls, and misfortune\nsobs; vague spectral forms slink by, and then are lost to view in the\ndepths of the night.\n\nAs Pierre and Guillaume went along they became mixed with dark groups of\npeople, a whole flock of inquisitive folk, a promiscuous, passionate\ntramp, tramp towards the guillotine. It came from all Paris, urged on by\nbrutish fever, a hankering for death and blood. In spite, however, of the\ndull noise which came from this dim crowd, the mean streets that were\npassed remained quite dark, not a light appeared at any of their windows;\nnor could one hear the breathing of the weary toilers stretched on their\nwretched pallets from which they would not rise before the morning\ntwilight.\n\nOn seeing the jostling crowd which was already assembled on the Place\nVoltaire, Pierre understood that it would be impossible for him and his\nbrother to ascend the Rue de la Roquette. Barriers, moreover, must\ncertainly have been thrown across that street. In order therefore to\nreach the corner of the Rue Merlin, it occurred to him to take the Rue de\nla Folie Regnault, which winds round in the rear of the prison, farther\non.\n\nHere indeed they found solitude and darkness again.\n\nThe huge, massive prison with its great bare walls on which a moonray\nfell, looked like some pile of cold stones, dead for centuries past. At\nthe end of the street they once more fell in with the crowd, a dim\nrestless mass of beings, whose pale faces alone could be distinguished.\nThe brothers had great difficulty in reaching the house in which M\u00e8ge\nresided at the corner of the Rue Merlin. All the shutters of the\nfourth-floor flat occupied by the Socialist deputy were closed, though\nevery other window was wide open and crowded with surging sightseers.\nMoreover, the wine shop down below and the first-floor room connected\nwith it flared with gas, and were already crowded with noisy customers,\nwaiting for the performance to begin.\n\n\u201cI hardly like to go and knock at M\u00e8ge\u2019s door,\u201d said Pierre.\n\n\u201cNo, no, you must not do so!\u201d replied Guillaume.\n\n\u201cLet us go into the wine shop. We may perhaps be able to see something\nfrom the balcony.\u201d\n\nThe first-floor room was provided with a very large balcony, which women\nand gentlemen were already filling. The brothers nevertheless managed to\nreach it, and for a few minutes remained there, peering into the darkness\nbefore them. The sloping street grew broader between the two prisons, the\n\u201cgreat\u201d and the \u201clittle\u201d Roquette, in such wise as to form a sort of\nsquare, which was shaded by four clumps of plane-trees, rising from the\nfootways. The low buildings and scrubby trees, all poor and ugly of\naspect, seemed almost to lie on a level with the ground, under a vast sky\nin which stars were appearing, as the moon gradually declined. And the\nsquare was quite empty save that on one spot yonder there seemed to be\nsome little stir. Two rows of guards prevented the crowd from advancing,\nand even threw it back into the neighbouring streets. On the one hand,\nthe only lofty houses were far away, at the point where the Rue St. Maur\nintersects the Rue de la Roquette; while, on the other, they stood at the\ncorners of the Rue Merlin and the Rue de la Folie Regnault, so that it\nwas almost impossible to distinguish anything of the execution even from\nthe best placed windows. As for the inquisitive folk on the pavement they\nonly saw the backs of the guards. Still this did not prevent a crush. The\nhuman tide flowed on from all sides with increasing clamour.\n\nGuided by the remarks of some women who, leaning forward on the balcony,\nhad been watching the square for a long time already, the brothers were\nat last able to perceive something. It was now half-past three, and the\nguillotine was nearly ready. The little stir which one vaguely espied\nyonder under the trees, was that of the headsman\u2019s assistants fixing the\nknife in position. A lantern slowly came and went, and five or six\nshadows danced over the ground. But nothing else could be distinguished,\nthe square was like a large black pit, around which ever broke the waves\nof the noisy crowd which one could not see. And beyond the square one\ncould only identify the flaring wine shops, which showed forth like\nlighthouses in the night. All the surrounding district of poverty and\ntoil was still asleep, not a gleam as yet came from workrooms or yards,\nnot a puff of smoke from the lofty factory chimneys.\n\n\u201cWe shall see nothing,\u201d Guillaume remarked.\n\nBut Pierre silenced him, for he has just discovered that an elegantly\nattired gentleman leaning over the balcony near him was none other than\nthe amiable deputy Duthil. He had at first fancied that a woman muffled\nin wraps who stood close beside the deputy was the little Princess de\nHarn, whom he had very likely brought to see the execution since he had\ntaken her to see the trial. On closer inspection, however, he had found\nthat this woman was Silviane, the perverse creature with the virginal\nface. Truth to tell, she made no concealment of her presence, but talked\non in an extremely loud voice, as if intoxicated; and the brothers soon\nlearnt how it was that she happened to be there. Duvillard, Duthil, and\nother friends had been supping with her at one o\u2019clock in the morning,\nwhen on learning that Salvat was about to be guillotined, the fancy of\nseeing the execution had suddenly come upon her. Duvillard, after vainly\nentreating her to do nothing of the kind, had gone off in a fury, for he\nfelt that it would be most unseemly on his part to attend the execution\nof a man who had endeavoured to blow up his house. And thereupon Silviane\nhad turned to Duthil, whom her caprice greatly worried, for he held all\nsuch loathsome spectacles in horror, and had already refused to act as\nescort to the Princess. However, he was so infatuated with Silviane\u2019s\nbeauty, and she made him so many promises, that he had at last consented\nto take her.\n\n\u201cHe can\u2019t understand people caring for amusement,\u201d she said, speaking of\nthe Baron. \u201cAnd yet this is really a thing to see.... But no matter,\nyou\u2019ll find him at my feet again to-morrow.\u201d\n\nDuthil smiled and responded: \u201cI suppose that peace has been signed and\nratified now that you have secured your engagement at the Com\u00e9die.\u201d\n\n\u201cPeace? No!\u201d she protested. \u201cNo, no. There will be no peace between us\nuntil I have made my _d\u00e9but_. After that, we\u2019ll see.\u201d\n\nThey both laughed; and then Duthil, by way of paying his court, told her\nhow good-naturedly Dauvergne, the new Minister of Public Instruction and\nFine Arts, had adjusted the difficulties which had hitherto kept the\ndoors of the Com\u00e9die closed upon her. A really charming man was\nDauvergne, the embodiment of graciousness, the very flower of the\nMonferrand ministry. His was the velvet hand in that administration whose\nleader had a hand of iron.\n\n\u201cHe told me, my beauty,\u201d said Duthil, \u201cthat a pretty girl was in place\neverywhere.\u201d And then as Silviane, as if flattered, pressed closely\nbeside him, the deputy added: \u201cSo that wonderful revival of \u2018Polyeucte,\u2019\nin which you are going to have such a triumph, is to take place on the\nday after to-morrow. We shall all go to applaud you, remember.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, on the evening of the day after to-morrow,\u201d said Silviane, \u201cthe\nvery same day when the wedding of the Baron\u2019s daughter will take place.\nThere\u2019ll be plenty of emotion that day!\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! yes, of course!\u201d retorted Duthil, \u201cthere\u2019ll be the wedding of our\nfriend G\u00e9rard with Mademoiselle Camille to begin with. We shall have a\ncrush at the Madeleine in the morning and another at the Com\u00e9die in the\nevening. You are quite right, too; there will be several hearts throbbing\nin the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy.\u201d\n\nThereupon they again became merry, and jested about the Duvillard\nfamily--father, mother, lover and daughter--with the greatest possible\nferocity and crudity of language. Then, all at once Silviane exclaimed:\n\u201cDo you know, I\u2019m feeling awfully bored here, my little Duthil. I can\u2019t\ndistinguish anything, and I should like to be quite near so as to see it\nall plainly. You must take me over yonder, close to that machine of\ntheirs.\u201d\n\nThis request threw Duthil into consternation, particularly as at that\nsame moment Silviane perceived Massot outside the wine shop, and began\ncalling and beckoning to him imperiously. A brief conversation then\nensued between the young woman and the journalist: \u201cI say, Massot!\u201d she\ncalled, \u201chasn\u2019t a deputy the right to pass the guards and take a lady\nwherever he likes?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all!\u201d exclaimed Duthil. \u201cMassot knows very well that a deputy\nought to be the very first to bow to the laws.\u201d\n\nThis exclamation warned Massot that Duthil did not wish to leave the\nbalcony. \u201cYou ought to have secured a card of invitation, madame,\u201d said\nhe, in reply to Silviane. \u201cThey would then have found you room at one of\nthe windows of La Petite Roquette. Women are not allowed elsewhere....\nBut you mustn\u2019t complain, you have a very good place up there.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I can see nothing at all, my dear Massot.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you will in any case see more than Princess de Harn will. Just now\nI came upon her carriage in the Rue du Chemin Vert. The police would not\nallow it to come any nearer.\u201d\n\nThis news made Silviane merry again, whilst Duthil shuddered at the idea\nof the danger he incurred, for Rosemonde would assuredly treat him to a\nterrible scene should she see him with another woman. Then, an idea\noccurring to him, he ordered a bottle of champagne and some little cakes\nfor his \u201cbeautiful friend,\u201d as he called Silviane. She had been\ncomplaining of thirst, and was delighted with the opportunity of\nperfecting her intoxication. When a waiter had managed to place a little\ntable near her, on the balcony itself, she found things very pleasant,\nand indeed considered it quite brave to tipple and sup afresh, while\nwaiting for that man to be guillotined close by.\n\nIt was impossible for Pierre and Guillaume to remain up there any longer.\nAll that they heard, all that they beheld filled them with disgust. The\nboredom of waiting had turned all the inquisitive folks of the balcony\nand the adjoining room into customers. The waiter could hardly manage to\nserve the many glasses of beer, bottles of expensive wine, biscuits, and\nplates of cold meat which were ordered of him. And yet the spectators\nhere were all _bourgeois_, rich gentlemen, people of society! On the\nother hand, time has to be killed somehow when it hangs heavily on one\u2019s\nhands; and thus there were bursts of laughter and paltry and horrible\njests, quite a feverish uproar arising amidst the clouds of smoke from\nthe men\u2019s cigars. When Pierre and Guillaume passed through the wine shop\non the ground-floor they there found a similar crush and similar tumult,\naggravated by the disorderly behaviour of the big fellows in blouses who\nwere drinking draught wine at the pewter bar which shone like silver.\nThere were people, too, at all the little tables, besides an incessant\ncoming and going of folks who entered the place for a \u201cwet,\u201d by way of\ncalming their impatience. And what folks they were! All the scum, all the\nvagabonds who had been dragging themselves about since daybreak on the\nlookout for whatever chance might offer them, provided it were not work!\n\nOn the pavement outside, Pierre and Guillaume felt yet a greater\nheart-pang. In the throng which the guards kept back, one simply found so\nmuch mire stirred up from the very depths of Paris life: prostitutes and\ncriminals, the murderers of to-morrow, who came to see how a man ought to\ndie. Loathsome, bareheaded harlots mingled with bands of prowlers or ran\nthrough the crowd, howling obscene refrains. Bandits stood in groups\nchatting and quarrelling about the more or less glorious manner in which\ncertain famous _guillotines_ had died. Among these was one with respect\nto whom they all agreed, and of whom they spoke as of a great captain, a\nhero whose marvellous courage was deserving of immortality. Then, as one\npassed along, one caught snatches of horrible phrases, particulars about\nthe instrument of death, ignoble boasts, and filthy jests reeking with\nblood. And over and above all else there was bestial fever, a lust for\ndeath which made this multitude delirious, an eagerness to see life flow\nforth fresh and ruddy beneath the knife, so that as it coursed over the\nsoil they might dip their feet in it. As this execution was not an\nordinary one, however, there were yet spectators of another kind; silent\nmen with glowing eyes who came and went all alone, and who were plainly\nthrilled by their faith, intoxicated with the contagious madness which\nincites one to vengeance or martyrdom.\n\nGuillaume was just thinking of Victor Mathis, when he fancied that he saw\nhim standing in the front row of sightseers whom the guards held in\ncheck. It was indeed he, with his thin, beardless, pale, drawn face.\nShort as he was, he had to raise himself on tiptoes in order to see\nanything. Near him was a big, red-haired girl who gesticulated; but for\nhis part he never stirred or spoke. He was waiting motionless, gazing\nyonder with the round, ardent, fixed eyes of a night-bird, seeking to\npenetrate the darkness. At last a guard pushed him back in a somewhat\nbrutal way; but he soon returned to his previous position, ever patient\nthough full of hatred against the executioners, wishing indeed to see all\nhe could in order to increase his hate.\n\nThen Massot approached the brothers. This time, on seeing Pierre without\nhis cassock, he did not even make a sign of astonishment, but gaily\nremarked: \u201cSo you felt curious to see this affair, Monsieur Froment?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I came with my brother,\u201d Pierre replied. \u201cBut I very much fear that\nwe shan\u2019t see much.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou certainly won\u2019t if you stay here,\u201d rejoined Massot. And thereupon in\nhis usual good-natured way--glad, moreover, to show what power a\nwell-known journalist could wield--he inquired: \u201cWould you like me to\npass you through? The inspector here happens to be a friend of mine.\u201d\n\nThen, without waiting for an answer, he stopped the inspector and hastily\nwhispered to him that he had brought a couple of colleagues, who wanted\nto report the proceedings. At first the inspector hesitated, and seemed\ninclined to refuse Massot\u2019s request; but after a moment, influenced by\nthe covert fear which the police always has of the press, he made a weary\ngesture of consent.\n\n\u201cCome, quick, then,\u201d said Massot, turning to the brothers, and taking\nthem along with him.\n\nA moment later, to the intense surprise of Pierre and Guillaume, the\nguards opened their ranks to let them pass. They then found themselves in\nthe large open space which was kept clear. And on thus emerging from the\ntumultuous throng they were quite impressed by the death-like silence and\nsolitude which reigned under the little plane-trees. The night was now\npaling. A faint gleam of dawn was already falling from the sky.\n\nAfter leading his companions slantwise across the square, Massot stopped\nthem near the prison and resumed: \u201cI\u2019m going inside; I want to see the\nprisoner roused and got ready. In the meantime, walk about here; nobody\nwill say anything to you. Besides, I\u2019ll come back to you in a moment.\u201d\n\nA hundred people or so, journalists and other privileged spectators, were\nscattered about the dark square. Movable wooden barriers--such as are set\nup at the doors of theatres when there is a press of people waiting for\nadmission--had been placed on either side of the pavement running from\nthe prison gate to the guillotine; and some sightseers were already\nleaning over these barriers, in order to secure a close view of the\ncondemned man as he passed by. Others were walking slowly to and fro, and\nconversing in undertones. The brothers, for their part, approached the\nguillotine.\n\nIt stood there under the branches of the trees, amidst the delicate\ngreenery of the fresh leaves of spring. A neighbouring gas-lamp, whose\nlight was turning yellow in the rising dawn, cast vague gleams upon it.\nThe work of fixing it in position--work performed as quietly as could be,\nso that the only sound was the occasional thud of a mallet--had just been\nfinished; and the headsman\u2019s \u201cvalets\u201d or assistants, in frock-coats and\ntall silk hats, were waiting and strolling about in a patient way. But\nthe instrument itself, how base and shameful it looked, squatting on the\nground like some filthy beast, disgusted with the work it had to\naccomplish! What! those few beams lying on the ground, and those others\nbarely nine feet high which rose from it, keeping the knife in position,\nconstituted the machine which avenged Society, the instrument which gave\na warning to evil-doers! Where was the big scaffold painted a bright red\nand reached by a stairway of ten steps, the scaffold which raised high\nbloody arms over the eager multitude, so that everybody might behold the\npunishment of the law in all its horror! The beast had now been felled to\nthe ground, where it simply looked ignoble, crafty and cowardly. If on\nthe one hand there was no majesty in the manner in which human justice\ncondemned a man to death at its assizes: on the other, there was merely\nhorrid butchery with the help of the most barbarous and repulsive of\nmechanical contrivances, on the terrible day when that man was executed.\n\nAs Pierre and Guillaume gazed at the guillotine, a feeling of nausea came\nover them. Daylight was now slowly breaking, and the surroundings were\nappearing to view: first the square itself with its two low, grey\nprisons, facing one another; then the distant houses, the taverns, the\nmarble workers\u2019 establishments, and the shops selling flowers and\nwreaths, which are numerous hereabouts, as the cemetery of P\u00e8re-Lachaise\nis so near. Before long one could plainly distinguish the black lines of\nthe spectators standing around in a circle, the heads leaning forward\nfrom windows and balconies, and the people who had climbed to the very\nhouse roofs. The prison of La Petite Roquette over the way had been\nturned into a kind of tribune for guests; and mounted Gardes de Paris\nwent slowly to and fro across the intervening expanse. Then, as the sky\nbrightened, labour awoke throughout the district beyond the crowd, a\ndistrict of broad, endless streets lined with factories, work-shops and\nwork-yards. Engines began to snort, machinery and appliances were got\nready to start once more on their usual tasks, and smoke already curled\naway from the forest of lofty brick chimneys which, on all sides, sprang\nout of the gloom.\n\nIt then seemed to Guillaume that the guillotine was really in its right\nplace in that district of want and toil. It stood in its own realm, like\na _terminus_ and a threat. Did not ignorance, poverty and woe lead to it?\nAnd each time that it was set up amidst those toilsome streets, was it\nnot charged to overawe the disinherited ones, the starvelings, who,\nexasperated by everlasting injustice, were always ready for revolt? It\nwas not seen in the districts where wealth and enjoyment reigned. It\nwould there have seemed purposeless, degrading and truly monstrous. And\nit was a tragical and terrible coincidence that the bomb-thrower, driven\nmad by want, should be guillotined there, in the very centre of want\u2019s\ndominion.\n\nBut daylight had come at last, for it was nearly half-past four. The\ndistant noisy crowd could feel that the expected moment was drawing nigh.\nA shudder suddenly sped through the atmosphere.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s coming,\u201d exclaimed little Massot, as he came back to Pierre and\nGuillaume. \u201cAh! that Salvat is a brave fellow after all.\u201d\n\nThen he related how the prisoner had been awakened; how the governor of\nthe prison, magistrate Amadieu, the chaplain, and a few other persons had\nentered the cell where Salvat lay fast asleep; and then how the condemned\nman had understood the truth immediately upon opening his eyes. He had\nrisen, looking pale but quite composed. And he had dressed himself\nwithout assistance, and had declined the nip of brandy and the cigarette\nproffered by the good-hearted chaplain, in the same way as with a gentle\nbut stubborn gesture he had brushed the crucifix aside. Then had come the\n\u201ctoilette\u201d for death. With all rapidity and without a word being\nexchanged, Salvat\u2019s hands had been tied behind his back, his legs had\nbeen loosely secured with a cord, and the neckband of his shirt had been\ncut away. He had smiled when the others exhorted him to be brave. He only\nfeared some nervous weakness, and had but one desire, to die like a hero,\nto remain the martyr of the ardent faith in truth and justice for which\nhe was about to perish.\n\n\u201cThey are now drawing up the death certificate in the register,\u201d\n continued Massot in his chattering way. \u201cCome along, come along to the\nbarriers if you wish a good view.... I turned paler, you know, and\ntrembled far more than he did. I don\u2019t care a rap for anything as a rule;\nbut, all the same, an execution isn\u2019t a pleasant business.... You\ncan\u2019t imagine how many attempts were made to save Salvat\u2019s life. Even\nsome of the papers asked that he might be reprieved. But nothing\nsucceeded, the execution was regarded as inevitable, it seems, even by\nthose who consider it a blunder. Still, they had such a touching\nopportunity to reprieve him, when his daughter, little C\u00e9line, wrote that\nfine letter to the President of the Republic, which I was the first to\npublish in the \u2018Globe.\u2019 Ah! that letter, it cost me a lot of running\nabout!\u201d\n\nPierre, who was already quite upset by this long wait for the horrible\nscene, felt moved to tears by Massot\u2019s reference to C\u00e9line. He could\nagain see the child standing beside Madame Th\u00e9odore in that bare, cold\nroom whither her father would never more return. It was thence that he\nhad set out on a day of desperation with his stomach empty and his brain\non fire, and it was here that he would end, between yonder beams, beneath\nyonder knife.\n\nMassot, however, was still giving particulars. The doctors, said he, were\nfurious because they feared that the body would not be delivered to them\nimmediately after the execution. To this Guillaume did not listen. He\nstood there with his elbows resting on the wooden barrier and his eyes\nfixed on the prison gate, which still remained shut. His hands were\nquivering, and there was an expression of anguish on his face as if it\nwere he himself who was about to be executed. The headsman had again just\nleft the prison. He was a little, insignificant-looking man, and seemed\nannoyed, anxious to have done with it all. Then, among a group of\nfrock-coated gentlemen, some of the spectators pointed out Gascogne, the\nChief of the Detective Police, who wore a cold, official air, and\nAmadieu, the investigating magistrate, who smiled and looked very spruce,\nearly though the hour was. He had come partly because it was his duty,\nand partly because he wished to show himself now that the curtain was\nabout to fall on a wonderful tragedy of which he considered himself the\nauthor. Guillaume glanced at him, and then as a growing uproar rose from\nthe distant crowd, he looked up for an instant, and again beheld the two\ngrey prisons, the plane-trees with their fresh young leaves, and the\nhouses swarming with people beneath the pale blue sky, in which the\ntriumphant sun was about to appear.\n\n\u201cLook out, here he comes!\u201d\n\nWho had spoken? A slight noise, that of the opening gate, made every\nheart throb. Necks were outstretched, eyes gazed fixedly, there was\nlaboured breathing on all sides. Salvat stood on the threshold of the\nprison. The chaplain, stepping backwards, had come out in advance of him,\nin order to conceal the guillotine from his sight, but he had stopped\nshort, for he wished to see that instrument of death, make acquaintance\nwith it, as it were, before he walked towards it. And as he stood there,\nhis long, aged sunken face, on which life\u2019s hardships had left their\nmark, seemed transformed by the wondrous brilliancy of his flaring,\ndreamy eyes. Enthusiasm bore him up--he was going to his death in all the\nsplendour of his dream. When the executioner\u2019s assistants drew near to\nsupport him he once more refused their help, and again set himself in\nmotion, advancing with short steps, but as quickly and as straightly as\nthe rope hampering his legs permitted.\n\nAll at once Guillaume felt that Salvat\u2019s eyes were fixed upon him.\nDrawing nearer and nearer the condemned man had perceived and recognised\nhis friend; and as he passed by, at a distance of no more than six or\nseven feet, he smiled faintly and darted such a deep penetrating glance\nat Guillaume, that ever afterwards the latter felt its smart. But what\nlast thought, what supreme legacy had Salvat left him to meditate upon,\nperhaps to put into execution? It was all so poignant that Pierre feared\nsome involuntary call on his brother\u2019s part; and so he laid his hand upon\nhis arm to quiet him.\n\n\u201cLong live Anarchy!\u201d\n\nIt was Salvat who had raised this cry. But in the deep silence his husky,\naltered voice seemed to break. The few who were near at hand had turned\nvery pale; the distant crowd seemed bereft of life. The horse of one of\nthe Gardes de Paris was alone heard snorting in the centre of the space\nwhich had been kept clear.\n\nThen came a loathsome scramble, a scene of nameless brutality and\nignominy. The headsman\u2019s helps rushed upon Salvat as he came up slowly\nwith brow erect. Two of them seized him by the head, but finding little\nhair there, could only lower it by tugging at his neck. Next two others\ngrasped him by the legs and flung him violently upon a plank which tilted\nover and rolled forward. Then, by dint of pushing and tugging, the head\nwas got into the \u201clunette,\u201d the upper part of which fell in such wise\nthat the neck was fixed as in a ship\u2019s port-hole--and all this was\naccomplished amidst such confusion and with such savagery that one might\nhave thought that head some cumbrous thing which it was necessary to get\nrid of with the greatest speed. But the knife fell with a dull, heavy,\nforcible thud, and two long jets of blood spurted from the severed\narteries, while the dead man\u2019s feet moved convulsively. Nothing else\ncould be seen. The executioner rubbed his hands in a mechanical way, and\nan assistant took the severed blood-streaming head from the little basket\ninto which it had fallen and placed it in the large basket into which the\nbody had already been turned.\n\nAh! that dull, that heavy thud of the knife! It seemed to Guillaume that\nhe had heard it echoing far away all over that district of want and toil,\neven in the squalid rooms where thousands of workmen were at that moment\nrising to perform their day\u2019s hard task! And there the echo of that thud\nacquired formidable significance; it spoke of man\u2019s exasperation with\ninjustice, of zeal for martyrdom, and of the dolorous hope that the blood\nthen spilt might hasten the victory of the disinherited.\n\nPierre, for his part, at the sight of that loathsome butchery, the abject\ncutthroat work of that killing machine, had suddenly felt his chilling\nshudder become more violent; for before him arose a vision of another\ncorpse, that of the fair, pretty child ripped open by a bomb and\nstretched yonder, at the entrance of the Duvillard mansion. Blood\nstreamed from her delicate flesh, just as it had streamed from that\ndecapitated neck. It was blood paying for blood; it was like payment for\nmankind\u2019s debt of wretchedness, for which payment is everlastingly being\nmade, without man ever being able to free himself from suffering.\n\nAbove the square and the crowd all was still silent in the clear sky. How\nlong had the abomination lasted? An eternity, perhaps, compressed into\ntwo or three minutes. And now came an awakening: the spectators emerged\nfrom their nightmare with quivering hands, livid faces, and eyes\nexpressive of compassion, disgust and fear.\n\n\u201cThat makes another one. I\u2019ve now seen four executions,\u201d said Massot, who\nfelt ill at ease. \u201cAfter all, I prefer to report weddings. Let us go off,\nI have all I want for my article.\u201d\n\nGuillaume and Pierre followed him mechanically across the square, and\nagain reached the corner of the Rue Merlin. And here they saw little\nVictor Mathis, with flaming eyes and white face, still standing in\nsilence on the spot where they had left him. He could have seen nothing\ndistinctly; but the thud of the knife was still echoing in his brain. A\npoliceman at last gave him a push, and told him to move on. At this he\nlooked the policeman in the face, stirred by sudden rage and ready to\nstrangle him. Then, however, he quietly walked away, ascending the Rue de\nla Roquette, atop of which the lofty foliage of P\u00e8re-Lachaise could be\nseen, beneath the rising sun.\n\nThe brothers meantime fell upon a scene of explanations, which they heard\nwithout wishing to do so. Now that the sight was over, the Princess de\nHarn arrived, and she was the more furious as at the door of the wine\nshop she could see her new friend Duthil accompanying a woman.\n\n\u201cI say!\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cyou are nice, you are, to have left me in the\nlurch like this! It was impossible for my carriage to get near, so I\u2019ve\nhad to come on foot through all those horrid people who have been\njostling and insulting me.\u201d\n\nThereupon Duthil, with all promptitude, introduced Silviane to her,\nadding, in an aside, that he had taken a friend\u2019s place as the actress\u2019s\nescort. And then Rosemonde, who greatly wished to know Silviane, calmed\ndown as if by enchantment, and put on her most engaging ways. \u201cIt would\nhave delighted me, madame,\u201d said she, \u201cto have seen this sight in the\ncompany of an _artiste_ of your merit, one whom I admire so much, though\nI have never before had an opportunity of telling her so.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, dear me, madame,\u201d replied Silviane, \u201cyou haven\u2019t lost much by\narriving late. We were on that balcony there, and all that I could see\nwere a few men pushing another one about.... It really isn\u2019t worth the\ntrouble of coming.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, now that we have become acquainted, madame,\u201d said the Princess, \u201cI\nreally hope that you will allow me to be your friend.\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly, madame, my friend; and I shall be flattered and delighted to\nbe yours.\u201d\n\nStanding there, hand in hand, they smiled at one another. Silviane was\nvery drunk, but her virginal expression had returned to her face; whilst\nRosemonde seemed feverish with vicious curiosity. Duthil, whom the scene\namused, now had but one thought, that of seeing Silviane home; so calling\nto Massot, who was approaching, he asked him where he should find a\ncab-rank. Rosemonde, however, at once offered her carriage, which was\nwaiting in an adjacent street.\n\nShe would set the actress down at her door, said she, and the deputy at\nhis; and such was her persistence in the matter that Duthil, greatly\nvexed, was obliged to accept her offer.\n\n\u201cWell, then, till to-morrow at the Madeleine,\u201d said Massot, again quite\nsprightly, as he shook hands with the Princess.\n\n\u201cYes, till to-morrow, at the Madeleine and the Com\u00e9die.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! yes, of course!\u201d he repeated, taking Silviane\u2019s hand, which he\nkissed. \u201cThe Madeleine in the morning and the Com\u00e9die in the evening...\n. We shall all be there to applaud you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I expect you to do so,\u201d said Silviane. \u201cTill to-morrow, then!\u201d\n\n\u201cTill to-morrow!\u201d\n\nThe crowd was now wearily dispersing, to all appearance disappointed and\nill at ease. A few enthusiasts alone lingered in order to witness the\ndeparture of the van in which Salvat\u2019s corpse would soon be removed;\nwhile bands of prowlers and harlots, looking very wan in the daylight,\nwhistled or called to one another with some last filthy expression before\nreturning to their dens. The headsman\u2019s assistants were hastily taking\ndown the guillotine, and the square would soon be quite clear.\n\nPierre for his part wished to lead his brother away. Since the fall of\nthe knife, Guillaume had remained as if stunned, without once opening his\nlips. In vain had Pierre tried to rouse him by pointing to the shutters\nof M\u00e8ge\u2019s flat, which still remained closed, whereas every other window\nof the lofty house was wide open. Although the Socialist deputy hated the\nAnarchists, those shutters were doubtless closed as a protest against\ncapital punishment. Whilst the multitude had been rushing to that\nfrightful spectacle, M\u00e8ge, still in bed, with his face turned to the\nwall, had probably been dreaming of how he would some day compel mankind\nto be happy beneath the rigid laws of Collectivism. Affectionate father\nas he was, the recent death of one of his children had quite upset his\nprivate life. His cough, too, had become a very bad one; but he ardently\nwished to live, for as soon as that new Monferrand ministry should have\nfallen beneath the interpellation which he already contemplated, his own\nturn would surely come: he would take the reins of power in hand, abolish\nthe guillotine and decree justice and perfect felicity.\n\n\u201cDo you see, Guillaume?\u201d Pierre gently repeated. \u201cM\u00e8ge hasn\u2019t opened his\nwindows. He\u2019s a good fellow, after all; although our friends Bache and\nMorin dislike him.\u201d Then, as his brother still refrained from answering,\nPierre added, \u201cCome, let us go, we must get back home.\u201d\n\nThey both turned into the Rue de la Folie Regnault, and reached the outer\nBoulevards by way of the Rue du Chemin Vert. All the toilers of the\ndistrict were now at work. In the long streets edged with low buildings,\nwork-shops and factories, one heard engines snorting and machinery\nrumbling, while up above, the smoke from the lofty chimneys was assuming\na rosy hue in the sunrise. Afterwards, when the brothers reached the\nBoulevard de Menilmontant and the Boulevard de Belleville, which they\nfollowed in turn at a leisurely pace, they witnessed the great rush of\nthe working classes into central Paris. The stream poured forth from\nevery side; from all the wretched streets of the faubourgs there was an\nendless exodus of toilers, who, having risen at dawn, were now hurrying,\nin the sharp morning air, to their daily labour. Some wore short jackets\nand others blouses; some were in velveteen trousers, others in linen\noveralls. Their thick shoes made their tramp a heavy one; their hanging\nhands were often deformed by work. And they seemed half asleep, not a\nsmile was to be seen on any of those wan, weary faces turned yonder\ntowards the everlasting task--the task which was begun afresh each day,\nand which--\u2019twas their only chance--they hoped to be able to take up for\never and ever. There was no end to that drove of toilers, that army of\nvarious callings, that human flesh fated to manual labour, upon which\nParis preys in order that she may live in luxury and enjoyment.\n\nThen the procession continued across the Boulevard de la Villette, the\nBoulevard de la Chapelle, and the Boulevard de Rochechouart, where one\nreached the height of Montmartre. More and more workmen were ever coming\ndown from their bare cold rooms and plunging into the huge city, whence,\ntired out, they would that evening merely bring back the bread of\nrancour. And now, too, came a stream of work-girls, some of them in\nbright skirts, some glancing at the passers-by; girls whose wages were so\npaltry, so insufficient, that now and again pretty ones among them never\nmore turned their faces homewards, whilst the ugly ones wasted away,\ncondemned to mere bread and water. A little later, moreover, came the\n_employ\u00e9s_, the clerks, the counter-jumpers, the whole world of\nfrock-coated penury--\u201cgentlemen\u201d who devoured a roll as they hastened\nonward, worried the while by the dread of being unable to pay their rent,\nor by the problem of providing food for wife and children until the end\nof the month should come.* And now the sun was fast ascending on the\nhorizon, the whole army of ants was out and about, and the toilsome day\nhad begun with its ceaseless display of courage, energy and suffering.\n\n  * In Paris nearly all clerks and shop-assistants receive\n    monthly salaries, while most workmen are paid once a\n    fortnight.--Trans.\n\nNever before had it been so plainly manifest to Pierre that work was a\nnecessity, that it healed and saved. On the occasion of his visit to the\nGrandidier works, and later still, when he himself had felt the need of\noccupation, there had come to him the thought that work was really the\nworld\u2019s law. And after that hateful night, after that spilling of blood,\nafter the slaughter of that toiler maddened by his dreams, there was\nconsolation and hope in seeing the sun rise once more, and everlasting\nlabour take up its wonted task. However hard it might prove, however\nunjustly it might be lotted out, was it not work which would some day\nbring both justice and happiness to the world?\n\nAll at once, as the brothers were climbing the steep hillside towards\nGuillaume\u2019s house, they perceived before and above them the basilica of\nthe Sacred Heart rising majestically and triumphantly to the sky. This\nwas no sublunar apparition, no dreamy vision of Domination standing face\nto face with nocturnal Paris. The sun now clothed the edifice with\nsplendour, it looked golden and proud and victorious, flaring with\nimmortal glory.\n\nThen Guillaume, still silent, still feeling Salvat\u2019s last glance upon\nhim, seemed to come to some sudden and final decision. He looked at the\nbasilica with glowing eyes, and pronounced sentence upon it.\n\n\n\n\nII. IN VANITY FAIR\n\nTHE wedding was to take place at noon, and for half an hour already\nguests had been pouring into the magnificently decorated church, which\nwas leafy with evergreens and balmy with the scent of flowers. The high\naltar in the rear glowed with countless candles, and through the great\ndoorway, which was wide open, one could see the peristyle decked with\nshrubs, the steps covered with a broad carpet, and the inquisitive crowd\nassembled on the square and even along the Rue Royale, under the bright\nsun.\n\nAfter finding three more chairs for some ladies who had arrived rather\nlate, Duthil remarked to Massot, who was jotting down names in his\nnote-book: \u201cWell, if any more come, they will have to remain standing.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho were those three?\u201d the journalist inquired.\n\n\u201cThe Duchess de Boisemont and her two daughters.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed! All the titled people of France, as well as all the financiers\nand politicians, are here! It\u2019s something more even than a swell Parisian\nwedding.\u201d\n\nAs a matter of fact all the spheres of \u201csociety\u201d were gathered together\nthere, and some at first seemed rather embarrassed at finding themselves\nbeside others. Whilst Duvillard\u2019s name attracted all the princes of\nfinance and politicians in power, Madame de Quinsac and her son were\nsupported by the highest of the French aristocracy. The mere names of the\nwitnesses sufficed to indicate what an extraordinary medley there was. On\nG\u00e9rard\u2019s side these witnesses were his uncle, General de Bozonnet, and\nthe Marquis de Morigny; whilst on Camille\u2019s they were the great banker\nLouvard, and Monferrand, the President of the Council and Minister of\nFinances. The quiet bravado which the latter displayed in thus supporting\nthe bride after being compromised in her father\u2019s financial intrigues\nimparted a piquant touch of impudence to his triumph. And public\ncuriosity was further stimulated by the circumstance that the nuptial\nblessing was to be given by Monseigneur Martha, Bishop of Persepolis, the\nPope\u2019s political agent in France, and the apostle of the endeavours to\nwin the Republic over to the Church by pretending to \u201crally\u201d to it.\n\n\u201cBut, I was mistaken,\u201d now resumed Massot with a sneer. \u201cI said a really\nParisian wedding, did I not? But in point of fact this wedding is a\nsymbol. It\u2019s the apotheosis of the _bourgeoisie_, my dear fellow--the old\nnobility sacrificing one of its sons on the altar of the golden calf in\norder that the Divinity and the gendarmes, being the masters of France\nonce more, may rid us of those scoundrelly Socialists!\u201d\n\nThen, again correcting himself, he added: \u201cBut I was forgetting. There\nare no more Socialists. Their head was cut off the other morning.\u201d\n\nDuthil found this very funny. Then in a confidential way he remarked:\n\u201cYou know that the marriage wasn\u2019t settled without a good deal of\ndifficulty.... Have you read Sagnier\u2019s ignoble article this morning?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes; but I knew it all before, everybody knew it.\u201d\n\nThen in an undertone, understanding one another\u2019s slightest allusion,\nthey went on chatting. It was only amidst a flood of tears and after a\ndespairing struggle that Baroness Duvillard had consented to let her\nlover marry her daughter. And in doing so she had yielded to the sole\ndesire of seeing G\u00e9rard rich and happy. She still regarded Camille with\nall the hatred of a defeated rival. Then, an equally painful contest had\ntaken place at Madame de Quinsac\u2019s. The Countess had only overcome her\nrevolt and consented to the marriage in order to save her son from the\ndangers which had threatened him since childhood; and the Marquis de\nMorigny had been so affected by her maternal abnegation, that in spite of\nall his anger he had resignedly agreed to be a witness, thus making a\nsupreme sacrifice, that of his conscience, to the woman whom he had ever\nloved. And it was this frightful story that Sagnier--using transparent\nnicknames--had related in the \u201cVoix du Peuple\u201d that morning. He had even\ncontrived to make it more horrid than it really was; for, as usual, he\nwas badly informed, and he was naturally inclined to falsehood and\ninvention, as by sending an ever thicker and more poisonous torrent from\nhis sewer, he might, day by day, increase his paper\u2019s sales. Since\nMonferrand\u2019s victory had compelled him to leave the African Railways\nscandal on one side, he had fallen back on scandals in private life,\nstripping whole families bare and pelting them with mud.\n\nAll at once Duthil and Massot were approached by Chaigneux, who, with his\nshabby frock coat badly buttoned, wore both a melancholy and busy air.\n\u201cWell, Monsieur Massot,\u201d said he, \u201cwhat about your article on Silviane?\nIs it settled? Will it go in?\u201d\n\nAs Chaigneux was always for sale, always ready to serve as a valet, it\nhad occurred to Duvillard to make use of him to ensure Silviane\u2019s success\nat the Com\u00e9die. He had handed this sorry deputy over to the young woman,\nwho entrusted him with all manner of dirty work, and sent him scouring\nParis in search of applauders and advertisements. His eldest daughter was\nnot yet married, and never had his four women folk weighed more heavily\non his hands. His life had become a perfect hell; they had ended by\nbeating him, if he did not bring a thousand-franc note home on the first\nday of every month.\n\n\u201cMy article!\u201d Massot replied; \u201cno, it surely won\u2019t go in, my dear deputy.\nFons\u00e8gue says that it\u2019s written in too laudatory a style for the \u2018Globe.\u2019\nHe asked me if I were having a joke with the paper.\u201d\n\nChaigneux became livid. The article in question was one written in\nadvance, from the society point of view, on the success which Silviane\nwould achieve in \u201cPolyeucte,\u201d that evening, at the Com\u00e9die. The\njournalist, in the hope of pleasing her, had even shown her his \u201ccopy\u201d;\nand she, quite delighted, now relied upon finding the article in print in\nthe most sober and solemn organ of the Parisian press.\n\n\u201cGood heavens! what will become of us?\u201d murmured the wretched Chaigneux.\n\u201cIt\u2019s absolutely necessary that the article should go in.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019m quite agreeable. But speak to the governor yourself. He\u2019s\nstanding yonder between Vignon and Dauvergne, the Minister of Public\nInstruction.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I certainly will speak to him--but not here. By-and-by in the\nsacristy, during the procession. And I must also try to speak to\nDauvergne, for our Silviane particularly wants him to be in the\nministerial box this evening. Monferrand will be there; he promised\nDuvillard so.\u201d\n\nMassot began to laugh, repeating the expression which had circulated\nthrough Paris directly after the actress\u2019s engagement: \u201cThe Silviane\nministry.... Well, Dauvergne certainly owes that much to his\ngodmother!\u201d said he.\n\nJust then the little Princess de Harn, coming up like a gust of wind,\nbroke in upon the three men. \u201cI\u2019ve no seat, you know!\u201d she cried.\n\nDuthil fancied that it was a question of finding her a well-placed chair\nin the church. \u201cYou mustn\u2019t count on me,\u201d he answered. \u201cI\u2019ve just had no\nend of trouble in stowing the Duchess de Boisemont away with her two\ndaughters.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, but I\u2019m talking of this evening\u2019s performance. Come, my dear Duthil,\nyou really must find me a little corner in somebody\u2019s box. I shall die, I\nknow I shall, if I can\u2019t applaud our delicious, our incomparable friend!\u201d\n\nEver since setting Silviane down at her door on the previous day,\nRosemonde had been overflowing with admiration for her.\n\n\u201cOh! you won\u2019t find a single remaining seat, madame,\u201d declared Chaigneux,\nputting on an air of importance. \u201cWe have distributed everything. I have\njust been offered three hundred francs for a stall.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s true, there has been a fight even for the bracket seats, however\nbadly they might be placed,\u201d Duthil resumed. \u201cI am very sorry, but you\nmust not count on me.... Duvillard is the only person who might take\nyou in his box. He told me that he would reserve me a seat there. And so\nfar, I think, there are only three of us, including his son.... Ask\nHyacinthe by-and-by to procure you an invitation.\u201d\n\nRosemonde, whom Hyacinthe had so greatly bored that she had given him his\ndismissal, felt the irony of Duthil\u2019s suggestion. Nevertheless, she\nexclaimed with an air of delight: \u201cAh, yes! Hyacinthe can\u2019t refuse me\nthat. Thanks for your information, my dear Duthil. You are very nice, you\nare; for you settle things gaily even when they are rather sad.... And\ndon\u2019t forget, mind, that you have promised to teach me politics. Ah!\npolitics, my dear fellow, I feel that nothing will ever impassion me as\npolitics do!\u201d\n\nThen she left them, hustled several people, and in spite of the crush\nended by installing herself in the front row.\n\n\u201cAh! what a crank she is!\u201d muttered Massot with an air of amusement.\n\nThen, as Chaigneux darted towards magistrate Amadieu to ask him in the\nmost obsequious way if he had received his ticket, the journalist said to\nDuthil in a whisper: \u201cBy the way, my dear friend, is it true that\nDuvillard is going to launch his famous scheme for a Trans-Saharan\nrailway? It would be a gigantic enterprise, a question of hundreds and\nhundreds of millions this time.... At the \u2018Globe\u2019 office yesterday\nevening, Fons\u00e8gue shrugged his shoulders and said it was madness, and\nwould never come off!\u201d\n\nDuthil winked, and in a jesting way replied: \u201cIt\u2019s as good as done, my\ndear boy. Fons\u00e8gue will be kissing the governor\u2019s feet before another\nforty-eight hours are over.\u201d\n\nThen he gaily gave the other to understand that golden manna would\npresently be raining down on the press and all faithful friends and\nwilling helpers. Birds shake their feathers when the storm is over, and\nhe, Duthil, was as spruce and lively, as joyous at the prospect of the\npresents he now expected, as if there had never been any African Railways\nscandal to upset him and make him turn pale with fright.\n\n\u201cThe deuce!\u201d muttered Massot, who had become serious. \u201cSo this affair\nhere is more than a triumph: it\u2019s the promise of yet another harvest.\nWell, I\u2019m no longer surprised at the crush of people.\u201d\n\nAt this moment the organs suddenly burst into a glorious hymn of\ngreeting. The marriage procession was entering the church. A loud clamour\nhad gone up from the crowd, which spread over the roadway of the Rue\nRoyale and impeded the traffic there, while the _cort\u00e8ge_ pompously\nascended the steps in the bright sunshine. And it was now entering the\nedifice and advancing beneath the lofty, re-echoing vaults towards the\nhigh altar which flared with candles, whilst on either hand crowded the\ncongregation, the men on the right and the women on the left. They had\nall risen and stood there smiling, with necks outstretched and eyes\nglowing with curiosity.\n\nFirst, in the rear of the magnificent beadle, came Camille, leaning on\nthe arm of her father, Baron Duvillard, who wore a proud expression\nbefitting a day of victory. Veiled with superb _point d\u2019Alen\u00e7on_ falling\nfrom her diadem of orange blossom, gowned in pleated silk muslin over an\nunderskirt of white satin, the bride looked so extremely happy, so\nradiant at having conquered, that she seemed almost pretty. Moreover, she\nheld herself so upright that one could scarcely detect that her left\nshoulder was higher than her right.\n\nNext came G\u00e9rard, giving his arm to his mother, the Countess de\nQuinsac,--he looking very handsome and courtly, as was proper, and she\ndisplaying impassive dignity in her gown of peacock-blue silk embroidered\nwith gold and steel beads. But it was particularly Eve whom people wished\nto see, and every neck was craned forward when she appeared on the arm of\nGeneral Bozonnet, the bridegroom\u2019s first witness and nearest male\nrelative. She was gowned in \u201cold rose\u201d taffetas trimmed with Valenciennes\nof priceless value, and never had she looked younger, more deliciously\nfair. Yet her eyes betrayed her emotion, though she strove to smile; and\nher languid grace bespoke her widowhood, her compassionate surrender of\nthe man she loved. Monferrand, the Marquis de Morigny, and banker\nLouvard, the three other witnesses, followed the Baroness and General\nBozonnet, each giving his arm to some lady of the family. A considerable\nsensation was caused by the appearance of Monferrand, who seemed on\nfirst-rate terms with himself, and jested familiarly with the lady he\naccompanied, a little brunette with a giddy air. Another who was noticed\nin the solemn, interminable procession was the bride\u2019s eccentric brother\nHyacinthe, whose dress coat was of a cut never previously seen, with its\ntails broadly and symmetrically pleated.\n\nWhen the affianced pair had taken their places before the prayer-stools\nawaiting them, and the members of both families and the witnesses had\ninstalled themselves in the rear in large armchairs, all gilding and red\nvelvet, the ceremony was performed with extraordinary pomp. The cur\u00e9 of\nthe Madeleine officiated in person; and vocalists from the Grand Opera\nreinforced the choir, which chanted the high mass to the accompaniment of\nthe organs, whence came a continuous hymn of glory. All possible luxury\nand magnificence were displayed, as if to turn this wedding into some\npublic festivity, a great victory, an event marking the apogee of a\nclass. Even the impudent bravado attaching to the loathsome private drama\nwhich lay behind it all, and which was known to everybody, added a touch\nof abominable grandeur to the ceremony. But the truculent spirit of\nsuperiority and domination which characterised the proceedings became\nmost manifest when Monseigneur Martha appeared in surplice and stole to\npronounce the blessing. Tall of stature, fresh of face, and faintly\nsmiling, he had his wonted air of amiable sovereignty, and it was with\naugust unction that he pronounced the sacramental words, like some\npontiff well pleased at reconciling the two great empires whose heirs he\nunited. His address to the newly married couple was awaited with\ncuriosity. It proved really marvellous, he himself triumphed in it. Was\nit not in that same church that he had baptised the bride\u2019s mother, that\nblond Eve, who was still so beautiful, that Jewess whom he himself had\nconverted to the Catholic faith amidst the tears of emotion shed by all\nParis society? Was it not there also that he had delivered his three\nfamous addresses on the New Spirit, whence dated, to his thinking, the\nrout of science, the awakening of Christian spirituality, and that policy\nof rallying to the Republic which was to lead to its conquest?\n\nSo it was assuredly allowable for him to indulge in some delicate\nallusions, by way of congratulating himself on his work, now that he was\nmarrying a poor scion of the old aristocracy to the five millions of that\n_bourgeoise_ heiress, in whose person triumphed the class which had won\nthe victory in 1789, and was now master of the land. The fourth estate,\nthe duped, robbed people, alone had no place in those festivities. But by\nuniting the affianced pair before him in the bonds of wedlock,\nMonseigneur Martha sealed the new alliance, gave effect to the Pope\u2019s own\npolicy, that stealthy effort of Jesuitical Opportunism which would take\ndemocracy, power and wealth to wife, in order to subdue and control them.\nWhen the prelate reached his peroration he turned towards Monferrand, who\nsat there smiling; and it was he, the Minister, whom he seemed to be\naddressing while he expressed the hope that the newly married pair would\never lead a truly Christian life of humility and obedience in all fear of\nGod, of whose iron hand he spoke as if it were that of some gendarme\ncharged with maintaining the peace of the world. Everybody was aware that\nthere was some diplomatic understanding between the Bishop and the\nMinister, some secret pact or other whereby both satisfied their passion\nfor authority, their craving to insinuate themselves into everything and\nreign supreme; and thus when the spectators saw Monferrand smiling in his\nsomewhat sly, jovial way, they also exchanged smiles.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d muttered Massot, who had remained near Duthil, \u201chow amused old\nJustus Steinberger would be, if he were here to see his granddaughter\nmarrying the last of the Quinsacs!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut these marriages are quite the thing, quite the fashion, my dear\nfellow,\u201d the deputy replied. \u201cThe Jews and the Christians, the\n_bourgeois_ and the nobles, do quite right to come to an understanding,\nso as to found a new aristocracy. An aristocracy is needed, you know, for\notherwise we should be swept away by the masses.\u201d\n\nNone the less Massot continued sneering at the idea of what a grimace\nJustus Steinberger would have made if he had heard Monseigneur Martha. It\nwas rumoured in Paris that although the old Jew banker had ceased all\nintercourse with his daughter Eve since her conversion, he took a keen\ninterest in everything she was reported to do or say, as if he were more\nthan ever convinced that she would prove an avenging and dissolving agent\namong those Christians, whose destruction was asserted to be the dream of\nhis race. If he had failed in his hope of overcoming Duvillard by giving\nher to him as a wife, he doubtless now consoled himself with thinking of\nthe extraordinary fortune to which his blood had attained, by mingling\nwith that of the harsh, old-time masters of his race, to whose corruption\nit gave a finishing touch. Therein perhaps lay that final Jewish conquest\nof the world of which people sometimes talked.\n\nA last triumphal strain from the organ brought the ceremony to an end;\nwhereupon the two families and the witnesses passed into the sacristy,\nwhere the acts were signed. And forthwith the great congratulatory\nprocession commenced.\n\nThe bride and bridegroom at last stood side by side in the lofty but\nrather dim room, panelled with oak. How radiant with delight was Camille\nat the thought that it was all over, that she had triumphed and married\nthat handsome man of high lineage, after wresting him with so much\ndifficulty from one and all, her mother especially! She seemed to have\ngrown taller. Deformed, swarthy, and ugly though she was, she drew\nherself up exultingly, whilst scores and scores of women, friends or\nacquaintances, scrambled and rushed upon her, pressing her hands or\nkissing her, and addressing her in words of ecstasy. G\u00e9rard, who rose\nboth head and shoulders above his bride, and looked all the nobler and\nstronger beside one of such puny figure, shook hands and smiled like some\nPrince Charming, who good-naturedly allowed himself to be loved.\nMeanwhile, the relatives of the newly wedded pair, though they were drawn\nup in one line, formed two distinct groups past which the crowd pushed\nand surged with arms outstretched. Duvillard received the congratulations\noffered him as if he were some king well pleased with his people; whilst\nEve, with a supreme effort, put on an enchanting mien, and answered one\nand all with scarcely a sign of the sobs which she was forcing back.\nThen, on the other side of the bridal pair, Madame de Quinsac stood\nbetween General de Bozonnet and the Marquis de Morigny. Very dignified,\nin fact almost haughty, she acknowledged most of the salutations\naddressed to her with a mere nod, giving her little withered hand only to\nthose people with whom she was well acquainted. A sea of strange\ncountenances encompassed her, and now and again when some particularly\nmurky wave rolled by, a wave of men whose faces bespoke all the crimes of\nmoney-mongering, she and the Marquis exchanged glances of deep sadness.\nThis tide continued sweeping by for nearly half an hour; and such was the\nnumber of those who wanted to shake hands with the bridal pair and their\nrelatives, that the latter soon felt their arms ache.\n\nMeantime, some folks lingered in the sacristy; little groups collected,\nand gay chatter rang out. Monferrand was immediately surrounded. Massot\npointed out to Duthil how eagerly Public Prosecutor Lehmann rushed upon\nthe Minister to pay him court. They were immediately joined by\ninvestigating magistrate Amadieu. And even M. de Larombi\u00e8re, the judge,\napproached Monferrand, although he hated the Republic, and was an\nintimate friend of the Quinsacs. But then obedience and obsequiousness\nwere necessary on the part of the magistracy, for it was dependent on\nthose in power, who alone could give advancement, and appoint even as\nthey dismissed. As for Lehmann, it was alleged that he had rendered\nassistance to Monferrand by spiriting away certain documents connected\nwith the African Railways affair, whilst with regard to the smiling and\nextremely Parisian Amadieu, was it not to him that the government was\nindebted for Salvat\u2019s head?\n\n\u201cYou know,\u201d muttered Massot, \u201cthey\u2019ve all come to be thanked for\nguillotining that man yesterday. Monferrand owes that wretched fellow a\nfine taper; for in the first place his bomb prolonged the life of the\nBarroux ministry, and later on it made Monferrand prime minister, as a\nstrong-handed man was particularly needed to strangle Anarchism. What a\ncontest, eh? Monferrand on one side and Salvat on the other. It was all\nbound to end in a head being cut off; one was wanted.... Ah! just\nlisten, they are talking of it.\u201d\n\nThis was true. As the three functionaries of the law drew near to pay\ntheir respects to the all-powerful Minister, they were questioned by lady\nfriends whose curiosity had been roused by what they had read in the\nnewspapers. Thereupon Amadieu, whom duty had taken to the execution, and\nwho was proud of his own importance, and determined to destroy what he\ncalled \u201cthe legend of Salvat\u2019s heroic death,\u201d declared that the scoundrel\nhad shown no true courage at all. His pride alone had kept him on his\nfeet. Fright had so shaken and choked him that he had virtually been dead\nbefore the fall of the knife.\n\n\u201cAh! that\u2019s true!\u201d cried Duthil. \u201cI was there myself.\u201d\n\nMassot, however, pulled him by the arm, quite indignant at such an\nassertion, although as a rule he cared a rap for nothing. \u201cYou couldn\u2019t\nsee anything, my dear fellow,\u201d said he; \u201cSalvat died very bravely. It\u2019s\nreally stupid to continue throwing mud at that poor devil even when he\u2019s\ndead.\u201d\n\nHowever, the idea that Salvat had died like a coward was too pleasing a\none to be rejected. It was, so to say, a last sacrifice deposited at\nMonferrand\u2019s feet with the object of propitiating him. He still smiled in\nhis peaceful way, like a good-natured man who is stern only when\nnecessity requires it. And he showed great amiability towards the three\njudicial functionaries, and thanked them for the bravery with which they\nhad accomplished their painful duty to the very end. On the previous day,\nafter the execution, he had obtained a formidable majority in the Chamber\non a somewhat delicate matter of policy. Order reigned, said he, and all\nwas for the very best in France. Then, on seeing Vignon--who like a cool\ngamester had made a point of attending the wedding in order to show\npeople that he was superior to fortune--the Minister detained him, and\nmade much of him, partly as a matter of tactics, for in spite of\neverything he could not help fearing that the future might belong to that\nyoung fellow, who showed himself so intelligent and cautious. When a\nmutual friend informed them that Barroux\u2019 health was now so bad that the\ndoctors had given him up as lost, they both began to express their\ncompassion. Poor Barroux! He had never recovered from that vote of the\nChamber which had overthrown him. He had been sinking from day to day,\nstricken to the heart by his country\u2019s ingratitude, dying of that\nabominable charge of money-mongering and thieving; he who was so upright\nand so loyal, who had devoted his whole life to the Republic! But then,\nas Monferrand repeated, one should never confess. The public can\u2019t\nunderstand such a thing.\n\nAt this moment Duvillard, in some degree relinquishing his paternal\nduties, came to join the others, and the Minister then had to share the\nhonours of triumph with him. For was not this banker the master? Was he\nnot money personified--money, which is the only stable, everlasting\nforce, far above all ephemeral tenure of power, such as attaches to those\nministerial portfolios which pass so rapidly from hand to hand?\nMonferrand reigned, but he would pass away, and a like fate would some\nday fall on Vignon, who had already had a warning that one could not\ngovern unless the millions of the financial world were on one\u2019s side. So\nwas not the only real triumpher himself, the Baron--he who laid out five\nmillions of francs on buying a scion of the aristocracy for his daughter,\nhe who was the personification of the sovereign _bourgeoisie_, who\ncontrolled public fortune, and was determined to part with nothing, even\nwere he attacked with bombs? All these festivities really centred in\nhimself, he alone sat down to the banquet, leaving merely the crumbs from\nhis table to the lowly, those wretched toilers who had been so cleverly\nduped at the time of the Revolution.\n\nThat African Railways affair was already but so much ancient history,\nburied, spirited away by a parliamentary commission. All who had been\ncompromised in it, the Duthils, the Chaigneux, the Fons\u00e8gues and others,\ncould now laugh merrily. They had been delivered from their nightmare by\nMonferrand\u2019s strong fist, and raised by Duvillard\u2019s triumph. Even\nSagnier\u2019s ignoble article and miry revelations in the \u201cVoix du Peuple\u201d\n were of no real account, and could be treated with a shrug of the\nshoulders, for the public had been so saturated with denunciation and\nslander that it was now utterly weary of all noisy scandal. The only\nthing which aroused interest was the rumour that Duvillard\u2019s big affair\nof the Trans-Saharan Railway was soon to be launched, that millions of\nmoney would be handled, and that some of them would rain down upon\nfaithful friends.\n\nWhilst Duvillard was conversing in a friendly way with Monferrand and\nDauvergne, the Minister of Public Instruction, who had joined them,\nMassot encountered Fons\u00e8gue, his editor, and said to him in an undertone:\n\u201cDuthil has just assured me that the Trans-Saharan business is ready, and\nthat they mean to chance it with the Chamber. They declare that they are\ncertain of success.\u201d\n\nFons\u00e8gue, however, was sceptical on the point. \u201cIt\u2019s impossible,\u201d said\nhe; \u201cthey won\u2019t dare to begin again so soon.\u201d\n\nAlthough he spoke in this fashion, the news had made him grave. He had\nlately had such a terrible fright through his imprudence in the African\nRailways affair, that he had vowed he would take every precaution in\nfuture. Still, this did not mean that he would refuse to participate in\nmatters of business. The best course was to wait and study them, and then\nsecure a share in all that seemed profitable. In the present instance he\nfelt somewhat worried. However, whilst he stood there watching the group\naround Duvillard and the two ministers, he suddenly perceived Chaigneux,\nwho, flitting hither and thither, was still beating up applauders for\nthat evening\u2019s performance. He sang Silviane\u2019s praises in every key,\npredicted a most tremendous success, and did his very best to stimulate\ncuriosity. At last he approached Dauvergne, and with his long figure bent\ndouble exclaimed: \u201cMy dear Minister, I have a particular request to make\nto you on the part of a very charming person, whose victory will not be\ncomplete this evening if you do not condescend to favour her with your\nvote.\u201d\n\nDauvergne, a tall, fair, good-looking man, whose blue eyes smiled behind\nhis glasses, listened to Chaigneux with an affable air. He was proving a\ngreat success at the Ministry of Public Instruction, although he knew\nnothing of University matters. However, like a real Parisian of Dijon, as\npeople called him, he was possessed of some tact and skill, gave\nentertainments at which his young and charming wife outshone all others,\nand passed as being quite an enlightened friend of writers and artists.\nSilviane\u2019s engagement at the Com\u00e9die, which so far was his most notable\nachievement, and which would have shaken the position of any other\nminister, had by a curious chance rendered him popular. It was regarded\nas something original and amusing.\n\nOn understanding that Chaigneux simply wished to make sure of his\npresence at the Com\u00e9die that evening, he became yet more affable. \u201cWhy,\ncertainly, I shall be there, my dear deputy,\u201d he replied. \u201cWhen one has\nsuch a charming god-daughter one mustn\u2019t forsake her in a moment of\ndanger.\u201d\n\nAt this Monferrand, who had been lending ear, turned round. \u201cAnd tell\nher,\u201d said he, \u201cthat I shall be there, too. She may therefore rely on\nhaving two more friends in the house.\u201d\n\nThereupon Duvillard, quite enraptured, his eyes glistening with emotion\nand gratitude, bowed to the two ministers as if they had granted him some\nnever-to-be-forgotten favour.\n\nWhen Chaigneux, on his side also, had returned thanks with a low bow, he\nhappened to perceive Fons\u00e8gue, and forthwith he darted towards him and\nled him aside. \u201cAh! my dear colleague,\u201d he declared, \u201cit is absolutely\nnecessary that this matter should be settled. I regard it as of supreme\nimportance.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat are you speaking of?\u201d inquired Fons\u00e8gue, much surprised.\n\n\u201cWhy, of Massot\u2019s article, which you won\u2019t insert.\u201d\n\nThereupon, the director of the \u201cGlobe\u201d plumply declared that he could not\ninsert the article. He talked of his paper\u2019s dignity and gravity; and\ndeclared that the lavishing of such fulsome praise upon a hussy--yes, a\nmere hussy, in a journal whose exemplary morality and austerity had cost\nhim so much labour, would seem monstrous and degrading. Personally, he\ndid not care a fig about it if Silviane chose to make an exhibition of\nherself, well, he would be there to see; but the \u201cGlobe\u201d was sacred.\n\nDisconcerted and almost tearful, Chaigneux nevertheless renewed his\nattempt. \u201cCome, my dear colleague,\u201d said he, \u201cpray make a little effort\nfor my sake. If the article isn\u2019t inserted, Duvillard will think that it\nis my fault. And you know that I really need his help. My eldest\ndaughter\u2019s marriage has again been postponed, and I hardly know where to\nturn.\u201d Then perceiving that his own misfortunes in no wise touched\nFons\u00e8gue, he added: \u201cAnd do it for your own sake, my dear colleague, your\nown sake. For when all is said Duvillard knows what is in the article,\nand it is precisely because it is so favourable a one that he wishes to\nsee it in the \u2018Globe.\u2019 Think it over; if the article isn\u2019t published, he\nwill certainly turn his back on you.\u201d\n\nFor a moment Fons\u00e8gue remained silent. Was he thinking of the colossal\nTrans-Saharan enterprise? Was he reflecting that it would be hard to\nquarrel at such a moment and miss his own share in the coming\ndistribution of millions among faithful friends? Perhaps so; however, the\nidea that it would be more prudent to await developments gained the day\nwith him. \u201cNo, no,\u201d he said, \u201cI can\u2019t, it\u2019s a matter of conscience.\u201d\n\nIn the mean time congratulations were still being tendered to the newly\nwedded couple. It seemed as if all Paris were passing through the\nsacristy; there were ever the same smiles and the same hand shakes.\nG\u00e9rard, Camille and their relatives, however weary they might feel, were\nforced to retain an air of delight while they stood there against the\nwall, pent up by the crowd. The heat was now becoming unbearable, and a\ncloud of dust arose as when some big flock goes by.\n\nAll at once little Princess de Harn, who had hitherto lingered nobody\nknew where, sprang out of the throng, flung her arms around Camille,\nkissed even Eve, and then kept G\u00e9rard\u2019s hand in her own while paying him\nextraordinary compliments. Then, on perceiving Hyacinthe, she took\npossession of him and carried him off into a corner. \u201cI say,\u201d she\nexclaimed, \u201cI have a favour to ask you.\u201d\n\nThe young man was wonderfully silent that day. His sister\u2019s wedding\nseemed to him a contemptible ceremony, the most vulgar that one could\nimagine. So here, thought he, was another pair accepting the horrid\nsexual law by which the absurdity of the world was perpetuated! For his\npart, he had decided that he would witness the proceedings in rigid\nsilence, with a haughty air of disapproval. When Rosemonde spoke to him,\nhe looked at her rather nervously, for he was glad that she had forsaken\nhim for Duthil, and feared some fresh caprice on her part. At last,\nopening his mouth for the first time that day, he replied: \u201cOh, as a\nfriend, you know, I will grant you whatever favour you like.\u201d\n\nForthwith the Princess explained that she would surely die if she did not\nwitness the _d\u00e9but_ of her dear friend Silviane, of whom she had become\nsuch a passionate admirer. So she begged the young man to prevail on his\nfather to give her a seat in his box, as she knew that one was left\nthere.\n\nHyacinthe smiled. \u201cOh, willingly, my dear,\u201d said he; \u201cI\u2019ll warn papa,\nthere will be a seat for you.\u201d\n\nThen, as the procession of guests at last drew to an end and the vestry\nbegan to empty, the bridal pair and their relatives were able to go off\nthrough the chattering throng, which still lingered about to bow to them\nand scrutinise them once more.\n\nG\u00e9rard and Camille were to leave for an estate which Duvillard possessed\nin Normandy, directly after lunch. This repast, served at the princely\nmansion of the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy, provided an opportunity for fresh\ndisplay. The dining-room on the first floor had been transformed into a\nbuffet, where reigned the greatest abundance and the most wonderful\nsumptuousness. Quite a reception too was held in the drawing-rooms, the\nlarge red _salon_, the little blue and silver _salon_ and all the others,\nwhose doors stood wide open. Although it had been arranged that only\nfamily friends should be invited, there were quite three hundred people\npresent. The ministers had excused themselves, alleging that the weighty\ncares of public business required their presence elsewhere. But the\nmagistrates, the deputies and the leading journalists who had attended\nthe wedding were again assembled together. And in that throng of hungry\nfolks, longing for some of the spoils of Duvillard\u2019s new venture, the\npeople who felt most out of their element were Madame de Quinsac\u2019s few\nguests, whom General de Bozonnet and the Marquis de Morigny had seated on\na sofa in the large red _salon_, which they did not quit.\n\nEve, who for her part felt quite overcome, both her moral and physical\nstrength being exhausted, had seated herself in the little blue and\nsilver drawing-room, which, with her passion for flowers, she had\ntransformed into an arbour of roses. She would have fallen had she\nremained standing, the very floor had seemed to sink beneath her feet.\nNevertheless, whenever a guest approached her she managed to force a\nsmile, and appear beautiful and charming. Unlooked-for help at last came\nto her in the person of Monseigneur Martha, who had graciously honoured\nthe lunch with his presence. He took an armchair near her, and began to\ntalk to her in his amiable, caressing way. He was doubtless well aware of\nthe frightful anguish which wrung the poor woman\u2019s heart, for he showed\nhimself quite fatherly, eager to comfort her. She, however, talked on\nlike some inconsolable widow bent on renouncing the world for God, who\nalone could bring her peace. Then, as the conversation turned on the\nAsylum for the Invalids of Labour, she declared that she was resolved to\ntake her presidency very seriously, and, in fact, would exclusively\ndevote herself to it, in the future.\n\n\u201cAnd as we are speaking of this, Monseigneur,\u201d said she, \u201cI would even\nask you to give me some advice.... I shall need somebody to help me,\nand I thought of securing the services of a priest whom I much admire,\nMonsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Pierre Froment.\u201d\n\nAt this the Bishop became grave and embarrassed; but Princess Rosemonde,\nwho was passing by with Duthil, had overheard the Baroness, and drawing\nnear with her wonted impetuosity, she exclaimed: \u201cAbb\u00e9 Pierre Froment!\nOh! I forgot to tell you, my dear, that I met him going about in jacket\nand trousers! And I\u2019ve been told too that he cycles in the Bois with some\ncreature or other. Isn\u2019t it true, Duthil, that we met him?\u201d\n\nThe deputy bowed and smiled, whilst Eve clasped her hands in amazement.\n\u201cIs it possible! A priest who was all charitable fervour, who had the\nfaith and passion of an apostle!\u201d\n\nThereupon Monseigneur intervened: \u201cYes, yes, great sorrows occasionally\nfall upon the Church. I heard of the madness of the unhappy man you speak\nof. I even thought it my duty to write to him, but he left my letter\nunanswered. I should so much have liked to stifle such a scandal! But\nthere are abominable forces which we cannot always overcome; and so a day\nor two ago the archbishop was obliged to put him under interdict....\nYou must choose somebody else, madame.\u201d\n\nIt was quite a disaster. Eve gazed at Rosemonde and Duthil, without\ndaring to ask them for particulars, but wondering what creature could\nhave been so audacious as to turn a priest from the path of duty. She\nmust assuredly be some shameless demented woman! And it seemed to Eve as\nif this crime gave a finishing touch to her own misfortune. With a wave\nof the arm, which took in all the luxury around her, the roses steeping\nher in perfume, and the crush of guests around the buffet, she murmured:\n\u201cAh! decidedly there\u2019s nothing but corruption left; one can no longer\nrely on anybody!\u201d\n\nWhilst this was going on, Camille happened to be alone in her own room\ngetting ready to leave the house with G\u00e9rard. And all at once her brother\nHyacinthe joined her there. \u201cAh! it\u2019s you, youngster!\u201d she exclaimed.\n\u201cWell, make haste if you want to kiss me, for I\u2019m off now, thank\ngoodness!\u201d\n\nHe kissed her as she suggested, and then in a doctoral way replied: \u201cI\nthought you had more self-command. The delight you have been showing all\nthis morning quite disgusts me.\u201d\n\nA quiet glance of contempt was her only answer. However, he continued:\n\u201cYou know very well that she\u2019ll take your G\u00e9rard from you again, directly\nyou come back to Paris.\u201d\n\nAt this Camille\u2019s cheeks turned white and her eyes flared. She stepped\ntowards her brother with clenched fists: \u201cShe! you say that she will take\nhim from me!\u201d\n\nThe \u201cshe\u201d they referred to was their own mother.\n\n\u201cListen, my boy! I\u2019ll kill her first!\u201d continued Camille. \u201cAh, no! she\nneedn\u2019t hope for that. I shall know how to keep the man that belongs to\nme.... And as for you, keep your spite to yourself, for I know you,\nremember; you are a mere child and a fool!\u201d\n\nHe recoiled as if a viper were rearing its sharp, slender black head\nbefore him; and having always feared her, he thought it best to beat a\nretreat.\n\nWhile the last guests were rushing upon the buffet and finishing the\npillage there, the bridal pair took their leave, before driving off to\nthe railway station. General de Bozonnet had joined a group in order to\nvent his usual complaints about compulsory military service, and the\nMarquis de Morigny was obliged to fetch him at the moment when the\nCountess de Quinsac was kissing her son and daughter-in-law. The old lady\ntrembled with so much emotion that the Marquis respectfully ventured to\nsustain her. Meantime, Hyacinthe had started in search of his father, and\nat last found him near a window with the tottering Chaigneux, whom he was\nviolently upbraiding, for Fons\u00e8gue\u2019s conscientious scruples had put him\nin a fury. Indeed, if Massot\u2019s article should not be inserted in the\n\u201cGlobe,\u201d Silviane might lay all the blame upon him, the Baron, and wreak\nfurther punishment upon him. However, upon being summoned by his son he\nhad to don his triumphal air once more, kiss his daughter on the\nforehead, shake hands with his son-in-law, jest and wish them both a\npleasant journey. Then Eve, near whom Monseigneur Martha had remained,\nsmiling, in her turn had to say farewell. In this she evinced touching\nbravery; her determination to remain beautiful and charming until the\nvery end lent her sufficient strength to show herself both gay and\nmotherly.\n\nShe took hold of the slightly quivering hand which G\u00e9rard proffered with\nsome embarrassment, and ventured to retain it for a moment in her own, in\na good-hearted, affectionate way, instinct with all the heroism of\nrenunciation. \u201cGood by, G\u00e9rard,\u201d she said, \u201ckeep in good health, be\nhappy.\u201d Then turning to Camille she kissed her on both cheeks, while\nMonseigneur Martha sat looking at them with an air of indulgent sympathy.\nThey wished each other \u201cAu revoir,\u201d but their voices trembled, and their\neyes in meeting gleamed like swords; in the same way as beneath the\nkisses they had exchanged they had felt each other\u2019s teeth. Ah! how it\nenraged Camille to see her mother still so beautiful and fascinating in\nspite of age and grief! And for Eve how great the torture of beholding\nher daughter\u2019s youth, that youth which had overcome her, and was for ever\nwresting love from within her reach! No forgiveness was possible between\nthem; they would still hate one another even in the family tomb, where\nsome day they would sleep side by side.\n\nAll the same, that evening Baroness Duvillard excused herself from\nattending the performance of \u201cPolyeucte\u201d at the Com\u00e9die Fran\u00e7aise. She\nfelt very tired and wished to go to bed early, said she. As a matter of\nfact she wept on her pillow all night long. Thus the Baron\u2019s stage-box on\nthe first balcony tier contained only himself, Hyacinthe, Duthil, and\nlittle Princess de Harn.\n\nAt nine o\u2019clock there was a full house, one of the brilliant chattering\nhouses peculiar to great dramatic solemnities. All the society people who\nhad marched through the sacristy of the Madeleine that morning were now\nassembled at the theatre, again feverish with curiosity, and on the\nlookout for the unexpected. One recognised the same faces and the same\nsmiles; the women acknowledged one another\u2019s presence with little signs\nof intelligence, the men understood each other at a word, a gesture. One\nand all had kept the appointment, the ladies with bared shoulders, the\ngentlemen with flowers in their button-holes. Fons\u00e8gue occupied the\n\u201cGlobe\u2019s\u201d box, with two friendly families. Little Massot had his\ncustomary seat in the stalls. Amadieu, who was a faithful patron of the\nCom\u00e9die, was also to be seen there, as well as General de Bozonnet and\nPublic Prosecutor Lehmann. The man who was most looked at, however, on\naccount of his scandalous article that morning, was Sagnier, the terrible\nSagnier, looking bloated and apoplectical. Then there was Chaigneux, who\nhad kept merely a modest bracket-seat for himself, and who scoured the\npassages, and climbed to every tier, for the last time preaching\nenthusiasm. Finally, the two ministers Monferrand and Dauvergne appeared\nin the box facing Duvillard\u2019s; whereupon many knowing smiles were\nexchanged, for everybody was aware that these personages had come to help\non the success of the _d\u00e9butante_.\n\nOn the latter point there had still been unfavourable rumours only the\nprevious day. Sagnier had declared that the _d\u00e9but_ of such a notorious\nharlot as Silviane at the Com\u00e9die Fran\u00e7aise, in such a part too as that\nof \u201cPauline,\u201d which was one of so much moral loftiness, could only be\nregarded as an impudent insult to public decency. The whole press,\nmoreover, had long been up in arms against the young woman\u2019s\nextraordinary caprice. But then the affair had been talked of for six\nmonths past, so that Paris had grown used to the idea of seeing Silviane\nat the Com\u00e9die. And now it flocked thither with the one idea of being\nentertained. Before the curtain rose one could tell by the very\natmosphere of the house that the audience was a jovial, good-humoured\none, bent on enjoying itself, and ready to applaud should it find itself\nat all pleased.\n\nThe performance really proved extraordinary. When Silviane, chastely\nrobed, made her appearance in the first act, the house was quite\nastonished by her virginal face, her innocent-looking mouth, and her eyes\nbeaming with immaculate candour. Then, although the manner in which she\nhad understood her part at first amazed people, it ended by charming\nthem. From the moment of confiding in \u201cStratonice,\u201d from the moment of\nrelating her dream, she turned \u201cPauline\u201d into a soaring mystical\ncreature, some saint, as it were, such as one sees in stained-glass\nwindows, carried along by a Wagnerian Brunhilda riding the clouds. It was\na thoroughly ridiculous conception of the part, contrary to reason and\ntruth alike. Still, it only seemed to interest people the more, partly on\naccount of mysticism being the fashion, and partly on account of the\ncontrast between Silviane\u2019s assumed candour and real depravity. Her\nsuccess increased from act to act, and some slight hissing which was\nattributed to Sagnier only helped to make the victory more complete.\nMonferrand and Dauvergne, as the newspapers afterwards related, gave the\nsignal for applause; and the whole house joined in it, partly from\namusement and partly perhaps in a spirit of irony.\n\nDuring the interval between the fourth and fifth acts there was quite a\nprocession of visitors to Duvillard\u2019s box, where the greatest excitement\nprevailed. Duthil, however, after absenting himself for a moment, came\nback to say: \u201cYou remember our influential critic, the one whom I brought\nto dinner at the Cafe Anglais? Well, he\u2019s repeating to everybody that\n\u2018Pauline\u2019 is merely a little _bourgeoise_, and is not transformed by the\nheavenly grace until the very finish of the piece. To turn her into a\nholy virgin from the outset simply kills the part, says he.\u201d\n\n\u201cPooh!\u201d repeated Duvillard, \u201clet him argue if he likes, it will be all\nthe more advertisement.... The important point is to get Massot\u2019s\narticle inserted in the \u2018Globe\u2019 to-morrow morning.\u201d\n\nOn this point, unfortunately, the news was by no means good. Chaigneux,\nwho had gone in search of Fons\u00e8gue, declared that the latter still\nhesitated in the matter in spite of Silviane\u2019s success, which he declared\nto be ridiculous. Thereupon, the Baron became quite angry. \u201cGo and tell\nFons\u00e8gue,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cthat I insist on it, and that I shall remember\nwhat he does.\u201d\n\nMeantime Princess Rosemonde was becoming quite delirious with enthusiasm.\n\u201cMy dear Hyacinthe,\u201d she pleaded, \u201cplease take me to Silviane\u2019s\ndressing-room; I can\u2019t wait, I really must go and kiss her.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut we\u2019ll all go!\u201d cried Duvillard, who heard her entreaty.\n\nThe passages were crowded, and there were people even on the stage.\nMoreover, when the party reached the door of Silviane\u2019s dressing-room,\nthey found it shut. When the Baron knocked at it, a dresser replied that\nmadame begged the gentlemen to wait a moment.\n\n\u201cOh! a woman may surely go in,\u201d replied Rosemonde, hastily slipping\nthrough the doorway. \u201cAnd you may come, Hyacinthe,\u201d she added; \u201cthere can\nbe no objection to you.\u201d\n\nSilviane was very hot, and a dresser was wiping her perspiring shoulders\nwhen Rosemonde darted forward and kissed her. Then they chatted together\namidst the heat and glare from the gas and the intoxicating perfumes of\nall the flowers which were heaped up in the little room. Finally,\nHyacinthe heard them promise to see one another after the performance,\nSilviane even inviting Rosemonde to drink a cup of tea with her at her\nhouse. At this the young man smiled complacently, and said to the\nactress: \u201cYour carriage is waiting for you at the corner of the Rue\nMontpensier, is it not? Well, I\u2019ll take the Princess to it. That will be\nthe simpler plan, you can both go off together!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! how good of you,\u201d cried Rosemonde; \u201cit\u2019s agreed.\u201d\n\nJust then the door was opened, and the men, being admitted, began to pour\nforth their congratulations. However, they had to regain their seats in\nall haste so as to witness the fifth act. This proved quite a triumph,\nthe whole house bursting into applause when Silviane spoke the famous\nline, \u201cI see, I know, I believe, I am undeceived,\u201d with the rapturous\nenthusiasm of a holy martyr ascending to heaven. Nothing could have been\nmore soul-like, it was said. And so when the performers were called\nbefore the curtain, Paris bestowed an ovation on that virgin of the\nstage, who, as Sagnier put it, knew so well how to act depravity at home.\n\nAccompanied by Duthil, Duvillard at once went behind the scenes in order\nto fetch Silviane, while Hyacinthe escorted Rosemonde to the brougham\nwaiting at the corner of the Rue Montpensier. Having helped her into it,\nthe young man stood by, waiting. And he seemed to grow quite merry when\nhis father came up with Silviane, and was stopped by her, just as, in his\nturn, he wished to get into the carriage.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s no room for you, my dear fellow,\u201d said she. \u201cI\u2019ve a friend with\nme.\u201d\n\nRosemonde\u2019s little smiling face then peered forth from the depths of the\nbrougham. And the Baron remained there open-mouthed while the vehicle\nswiftly carried the two women away!\n\n\u201cWell, what would you have, my dear fellow?\u201d said Hyacinthe, by way of\nexplanation to Duthil, who also seemed somewhat amazed by what had\nhappened. \u201cRosemonde was worrying my life out, and so I got rid of her by\npacking her off with Silviane.\u201d\n\nDuvillard was still standing on the pavement and still looking dazed when\nChaigneux, who was going home quite tired out, recognised him, and came\nup to say that Fons\u00e8gue had thought the matter over, and that Massot\u2019s\narticle would be duly inserted. In the passages, too, there had been a\ndeal of talk about the famous Trans-Saharan project.\n\nThen Hyacinthe led his father away, trying to comfort him like a sensible\nfriend, who regarded woman as a base and impure creature. \u201cLet\u2019s go home\nto bed,\u201d said he. \u201cAs that article is to appear, you can take it to her\nto-morrow. She will see you, sure enough.\u201d\n\nThereupon they lighted cigars, and now and again exchanging a few words,\ntook their way up the Avenue de l\u2019Opera, which at that hour was deserted\nand dismal. Meantime, above the slumbering houses of Paris the breeze\nwafted a prolonged sigh, the plaint, as it were, of an expiring world.\n\n\n\n\nIII. THE GOAL OF LABOUR\n\nEVER since the execution of Salvat, Guillaume had become extremely\ntaciturn. He seemed worried and absent-minded. He would work for hours at\nthe manufacture of that dangerous powder of which he alone knew the\nformula, and the preparation of which was such a delicate matter that he\nwould allow none to assist him. Then, at other times he would go off, and\nreturn tired out by some long solitary ramble. He remained very gentle at\nhome, and strove to smile there. But whenever anybody spoke to him he\nstarted as if suddenly called back from dreamland.\n\nPierre imagined his brother had relied too much upon his powers of\nrenunciation, and found the loss of Marie unbearable. Was it not some\nthought of her that haunted him now that the date fixed for the marriage\ndrew nearer and nearer? One evening, therefore, Pierre ventured to speak\nout, again offering to leave the house and disappear.\n\nBut at the first words he uttered Guillaume stopped him, and\naffectionately replied: \u201cMarie? Oh! I love her, I love her too well to\nregret what I have done. No, no! you only bring me happiness, I derive\nall my strength and courage from you now that I know you are both happy.\n... And I assure you that you are mistaken, there is nothing at all the\nmatter with me; my work absorbs me, perhaps, but that is all.\u201d\n\nThat same evening he managed to cast his gloom aside, and displayed\ndelightful gaiety. During dinner he inquired if the upholsterer would\nsoon call to arrange the two little rooms which Marie was to occupy with\nher husband over the workroom. The young woman, who since her marriage\nwith Pierre had been decided had remained waiting with smiling patience,\nthereupon told Guillaume what it was she desired--first some hangings of\nred cotton stuff, then some polished pine furniture which would enable\nher to imagine she was in the country, and finally a carpet on the floor,\nbecause a carpet seemed to her the height of luxury. She laughed as she\nspoke, and Guillaume laughed with her in a gay and fatherly way. His good\nspirits brought much relief to Pierre, who concluded that he must have\nbeen mistaken in his surmises.\n\nOn the very morrow, however, Guillaume relapsed into a dreamy state. And\nso disquietude again came upon Pierre, particularly when he noticed that\nM\u00e8re-Grand also seemed to be unusually grave and silent. Not daring to\naddress her, he tried to extract some information from his nephews, but\nneither Thomas nor Fran\u00e7ois nor Antoine knew anything. Each of them\nquietly devoted his time to his work, respecting and worshipping his\nfather, but never questioning him about his plans or enterprises.\nWhatever he might choose to do could only be right and good; and they,\nhis sons, were ready to do the same and help him at the very first call,\nwithout pausing to inquire into his purpose. It was plain, however, that\nhe kept them apart from anything at all perilous, that he retained all\nresponsibility for himself, and that M\u00e8re-Grand alone was his\n_confidante_, the one whom he consulted and to whom he perhaps listened.\nPierre therefore renounced his hope of learning anything from the sons,\nand directed his attention to the old lady, whose rigid gravity worried\nhim the more as she and Guillaume frequently had private chats in the\nroom she occupied upstairs. They shut themselves up there all alone, and\nremained together for hours without the faintest sound coming from the\nseemingly lifeless chamber.\n\nOne day, however, Pierre caught sight of Guillaume as he came out of it,\ncarrying a little valise which appeared to be very heavy. And Pierre\nthereupon remembered both his brother\u2019s powder, one pound weight of which\nwould have sufficed to destroy a cathedral, and the destructive engine\nwhich he had purposed bestowing upon France in order that she might be\nvictorious over all other nations, and become the one great initiatory\nand liberative power. Pierre remembered too that the only person besides\nhimself who knew his brother\u2019s secret was M\u00e8re-Grand, who, at the time\nwhen Guillaume was fearing some perquisition on the part of the police,\nhad long slept upon the cartridges of the terrible explosive. But now why\nwas Guillaume removing all the powder which he had been preparing for\nsome time past? As this question occurred to Pierre, a sudden suspicion,\na vague dread, came upon him, and gave him strength to ask his brother:\n\u201cHave you reason to fear anything, since you won\u2019t keep things here? If\nthey embarrass you, they can all be deposited at my house, nobody will\nmake a search there.\u201d\n\nGuillaume, whom these words astonished, gazed at Pierre fixedly, and then\nreplied: \u201cYes, I have learnt that the arrests and perquisitions have\nbegun afresh since that poor devil was guillotined; for they are in\nterror at the thought that some despairing fellow may avenge him.\nMoreover, it is hardly prudent to keep destructive agents of such great\npower here. I prefer to deposit them in a safe place. But not at\nNeuilly--oh! no indeed! they are not a present for you, brother.\u201d\n Guillaume spoke with outward calmness; and if he had started with\nsurprise at the first moment, it had been scarcely perceptible.\n\n\u201cSo everything is ready?\u201d Pierre resumed. \u201cYou will soon be handing your\nengine of destruction over to the Minister of War, I presume?\u201d\n\nA gleam of hesitation appeared in the depths of Guillaume\u2019s eyes, and he\nwas for a moment about to tell a falsehood. However, he ended by replying\n\u201cNo, I have renounced that intention. I have another idea.\u201d\n\nHe spoke these last words with so much energy and decision that Pierre\ndid not dare to question him further, to ask him, for instance, what that\nother idea might be. From that moment, however, he quivered with anxious\nexpectancy. From hour to hour M\u00e8re-Grand\u2019s lofty silence and Guillaume\u2019s\nrapt, energetic face seemed to tell him that some huge and terrifying\nscheme had come into being, and was growing and threatening the whole of\nParis.\n\nOne afternoon, just as Thomas was about to repair to the Grandidier\nworks, some one came to Guillaume\u2019s with the news that old Toussaint, the\nworkman, had been stricken with a fresh attack of paralysis. Thomas\nthereupon decided that he would call upon the poor fellow on his way, for\nhe held him in esteem and wished to ascertain if he could render him any\nhelp. Pierre expressed a desire to accompany his nephew, and they started\noff together about four o\u2019clock.\n\nOn entering the one room which the Toussaints occupied, the room where\nthey ate and slept, the visitors found the mechanician seated on a low\nchair near the table. He looked half dead, as if struck by lightning. It\nwas a case of hemiplegia, which had paralysed the whole of his right\nside, his right leg and right arm, and had also spread to his face in\nsuch wise that he could no longer speak. The only sound he could raise\nwas an incomprehensible guttural grunt. His mouth was drawn to the right,\nand his once round, good-natured-looking face, with tanned skin and\nbright eyes, had been twisted into a frightful mask of anguish. At fifty\nyears of age, the unhappy man was utterly done for. His unkempt beard was\nas white as that of an octogenarian, and his knotty limbs, preyed upon by\ntoil, were henceforth dead. Only his eyes remained alive, and they\ntravelled around the room, going from one to another. By his side, eager\nto do what she could for him, was his wife, who remained stout even when\nshe had little to eat, and still showed herself active and clear-headed,\nhowever great her misfortunes.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a friendly visit, Toussaint,\u201d said she. \u201cIt\u2019s Monsieur Thomas who\nhas come to see you with Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9.\u201d Then quietly correcting\nherself she added: \u201cWith Monsieur Pierre, his uncle. You see that you are\nnot yet forsaken.\u201d\n\nToussaint wished to speak, but his fruitless efforts only brought two big\ntears to his eyes. Then he gazed at his visitors with an expression of\nindescribable woe, his jaws trembling convulsively.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t put yourself out,\u201d repeated his wife. \u201cThe doctor told you that it\nwould do you no good.\u201d\n\nAt the moment of entering the room, Pierre had already noticed two\npersons who had risen from their chairs and drawn somewhat on one side.\nAnd now to his great surprise he recognised that they were Madame\nTh\u00e9odore and C\u00e9line, who were both decently clad, and looked as if they\nled a life of comfort. On hearing of Toussaint\u2019s misfortune they had come\nto see him, like good-hearted creatures, who, on their own side, had\nexperienced the most cruel suffering. Pierre, on noticing that they now\nseemed to be beyond dire want, remembered what he had heard of the\nwonderful sympathy lavished on the child after her father\u2019s execution,\nthe many presents and donations offered her, and the generous proposals\nthat had been made to adopt her. These last had ended in her being\nadopted by a former friend of Salvat, who had sent her to school again,\npending the time when she might be apprenticed to some trade, while, on\nthe other hand, Madame Th\u00e9odore had been placed as a nurse in a\nconvalescent home. In such wise both had been saved.\n\nWhen Pierre drew near to little C\u00e9line in order to kiss her, Madame\nTh\u00e9odore told her to thank Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9--for so she still respectfully\ncalled him--for all that he had previously done for her. \u201cIt was you who\nbrought us happiness, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9,\u201d said she. \u201cAnd that\u2019s a thing one\ncan never forget. I\u2019m always telling C\u00e9line to remember you in her\nprayers.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so, my child, you are now going to school again,\u201d said Pierre.\n\n\u201cOh yes, Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9, and I\u2019m well pleased at it. Besides, we no\nlonger lack anything.\u201d Then, however, sudden emotion came over the girl,\nand she stammered with a sob: \u201cAh! if poor papa could only see us!\u201d\n\nMadame Th\u00e9odore, meanwhile, had begun to take leave of Madame Toussaint.\n\u201cWell, good by, we must go,\u201d said she. \u201cWhat has happened to you is very\nsad, and we wanted to tell you how much it grieved us. The worry is that\nwhen misfortune falls on one, courage isn\u2019t enough to set things right..\n.. C\u00e9line, come and kiss your uncle.... My poor brother, I hope\nyou\u2019ll get back the use of your legs as soon as possible.\u201d\n\nThey kissed the paralysed man on the cheeks, and then went off. Toussaint\nhad looked at them with his keen and still intelligent eyes, as if he\nlonged to participate in the life and activity into which they were\nreturning. And a jealous thought came to his wife, who usually was so\nplacid and good-natured. \u201cAh! my poor old man!\u201d said she, after propping\nhim up with a pillow, \u201cthose two are luckier than we are. Everything\nsucceeds with them since that madman, Salvat, had his head cut off.\nThey\u2019re provided for. They\u2019ve plenty of bread on the shelf.\u201d\n\nThen, turning towards Pierre and Thomas, she continued: \u201cWe others are\ndone for, you know, we\u2019re down in the mud, with no hope of getting out of\nit. But what would you have? My poor husband hasn\u2019t been guillotined,\nhe\u2019s done nothing but work his whole life long; and now, you see, that\u2019s\nthe end of him, he\u2019s like some old animal, no longer good for anything.\u201d\n\nHaving made her visitors sit down she next answered their compassionate\nquestions. The doctor had called twice already, and had promised to\nrestore the unhappy man\u2019s power of speech, and perhaps enable him to\ncrawl round the room with the help of a stick. But as for ever being able\nto resume real work that must not be expected. And so what was the use of\nliving on? Toussaint\u2019s eyes plainly declared that he would much rather\ndie at once. When a workman can no longer work and no longer provide for\nhis wife he is ripe for the grave.\n\n\u201cSavings indeed!\u201d Madame Toussaint resumed. \u201cThere are folks who ask if\nwe have any savings.... Well, we had nearly a thousand francs in the\nSavings Bank when Toussaint had his first attack. And some people don\u2019t\nknow what a lot of prudence one needs to put by such a sum; for, after\nall, we\u2019re not savages, we have to allow ourselves a little enjoyment now\nand then, a good dish and a good bottle of wine.... Well, what with\nfive months of enforced idleness, and the medicines, and the underdone\nmeat that was ordered, we got to the end of our thousand francs; and now\nthat it\u2019s all begun again we\u2019re not likely to taste any more bottled wine\nor roast mutton.\u201d\n\nFond of good cheer as she had always been, this cry, far more than the\ntears she was forcing back, revealed how much the future terrified her.\nShe was there erect and brave in spite of everything; but what a downfall\nif she were no longer able to keep her room tidy, stew a piece of veal on\nSundays, and gossip with the neighbours while awaiting her husband\u2019s\nreturn from work! Why, they might just as well be thrown into the gutter\nand carried off in the scavenger\u2019s cart.\n\nHowever, Thomas intervened: \u201cIsn\u2019t there an Asylum for the Invalids of\nLabour, and couldn\u2019t your husband get admitted to it?\u201d he asked. \u201cIt\nseems to me that is just the place for him.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh dear, no,\u201d the woman answered. \u201cPeople spoke to me of that place\nbefore, and I got particulars of it. They don\u2019t take sick people there.\nWhen you call they tell you that there are hospitals for those who are\nill.\u201d\n\nWith a wave of his hand Pierre confirmed her statement: it was useless to\napply in that direction. He could again see himself scouring Paris,\nhurrying from the Lady President, Baroness Duvillard, to Fons\u00e8gue, the\nGeneral Manager, and only securing a bed for Laveuve when the unhappy man\nwas dead.\n\nHowever, at that moment an infant was heard wailing, and to the amazement\nof both visitors Madame Toussaint entered the little closet where her son\nCharles had so long slept, and came out of it carrying a child, who\nlooked scarcely twenty months old. \u201cWell, yes,\u201d she explained, \u201cthis is\nCharles\u2019s boy. He was sleeping there in his father\u2019s old bed, and now you\nhear him, he\u2019s woke up.... You see, only last Wednesday, the day\nbefore Toussaint had his stroke, I went to fetch the little one at the\nnurse\u2019s at St. Denis, because she had threatened to cast him adrift since\nCharles had got into bad habits, and no longer paid her. I said to myself\nat the time that work was looking up, and that my husband and I would\nalways be able to provide for a little mouth like that.... But just\nafterwards everything collapsed! At the same time, as the child\u2019s here\nnow I can\u2019t go and leave him in the street.\u201d\n\nWhile speaking in this fashion she walked to and fro, rocking the baby in\nher arms. And naturally enough she reverted to Charles\u2019s folly with the\ngirl, who had run away, leaving that infant behind her. Things might not\nhave been so very bad if Charles had still worked as steadily as he had\ndone before he went soldiering. In those days he had never lost an hour,\nand had always brought all his pay home! But he had come back from the\narmy with much less taste for work. He argued, and had ideas of his own.\nHe certainly hadn\u2019t yet come to bomb-throwing like that madman Salvat,\nbut he spent half his time with Socialists and Anarchists, who put his\nbrain in a muddle. It was a real pity to see such a strong, good-hearted\nyoung fellow turning out badly like that. But it was said in the\nneighbourhood that many another was inclined the same way; that the best\nand most intelligent of the younger men felt tired of want and\nunremunerative labour, and would end by knocking everything to pieces\nrather than go on toiling with no certainty of food in their old age.\n\n\u201cAh! yes,\u201d continued Madame Toussaint, \u201cthe sons are not like the fathers\nwere. These fine fellows won\u2019t be as patient as my poor husband has been,\nletting hard work wear him away till he\u2019s become the sorry thing you see\nthere.... Do you know what Charles said the other evening when he\nfound his father on that chair, crippled like that, and unable to speak?\nWhy, he shouted to him that he\u2019d been a stupid jackass all his life,\nworking himself to death for those _bourgeois_, who now wouldn\u2019t bring\nhim so much as a glass of water. Then, as he none the less has a good\nheart, he began to cry his eyes out.\u201d\n\nThe baby was no longer wailing, still the good woman continued walking to\nand fro, rocking it in her arms and pressing it to her affectionate\nheart. Her son Charles could do no more for them, she said; perhaps he\nmight be able to give them a five-franc piece now and again, but even\nthat wasn\u2019t certain. It was of no use for her to go back to her old\ncalling as a seamstress, she had lost all practice of it. And it would\neven be difficult for her to earn anything as charwoman, for she had that\ninfant on her hands as well as her infirm husband--a big child, whom she\nwould have to wash and feed. And so what would become of the three of\nthem? She couldn\u2019t tell; but it made her shudder, however brave and\nmotherly she tried to be.\n\nFor their part, Pierre and Thomas quivered with compassion, particularly\nwhen they saw big tears coursing down the cheeks of the wretched,\nstricken Toussaint, as he sat quite motionless in that little and still\ncleanly home of toil and want. The poor man had listened to his wife, and\nhe looked at her and at the infant now sleeping in her arms. Voiceless,\nunable to cry his woe aloud, he experienced the most awful anguish. What\ndupery his long life of labour had been! how frightfully unjust it was\nthat all his efforts should end in such sufferings! how exasperating it\nwas to feel himself powerless, and to see those whom he loved and who\nwere as innocent as himself suffer and die by reason of his own suffering\nand death! Ah! poor old man, cripple that he was, ending like some beast\nof burden that has foundered by the roadside--that goal of labour! And it\nwas all so revolting and so monstrous that he tried to put it into words,\nand his desperate grief ended in a frightful, raucous grunt.\n\n\u201cBe quiet, don\u2019t do yourself harm!\u201d concluded Madame Toussaint. \u201cThings\nare like that, and there\u2019s no mending them.\u201d\n\nThen she went to put the child to bed again, and on her return, just as\nThomas and Pierre were about to speak to her of Toussaint\u2019s employer, M.\nGrandidier, a fresh visitor arrived. Thereupon the others decided to\nwait.\n\nThe new comer was Madame Chr\u00e9tiennot, Toussaint\u2019s other sister, eighteen\nyears younger than himself. Her husband, the little clerk, had compelled\nher to break off almost all intercourse with her relatives, as he felt\nashamed of them; nevertheless, having heard of her brother\u2019s misfortune,\nshe had very properly come to condole with him. She wore a gown of cheap\nflimsy silk, and a hat trimmed with red poppies, which she had freshened\nup three times already; but in spite of this display her appearance\nbespoke penury, and she did her best to hide her feet on account of the\nshabbiness of her boots. Moreover, she was no longer the beautiful\nHortense. Since a recent miscarriage, all trace of her good looks had\ndisappeared.\n\nThe lamentable appearance of her brother and the bareness of that home of\nsuffering chilled her directly she crossed the threshold. And as soon as\nshe had kissed Toussaint, and said how sorry she was to find him in such\na condition, she began to lament her own fate, and recount her troubles,\nfor fear lest she should be asked for any help.\n\n\u201cAh! my dear,\u201d she said to her sister-in-law, \u201cyou are certainly much to\nbe pitied! But if you only knew! We all have our troubles. Thus in my\ncase, obliged as I am to dress fairly well on account of my husband\u2019s\nposition, I have more trouble than you can imagine in making both ends\nmeet. One can\u2019t go far on a salary of three thousand francs a year, when\none has to pay seven hundred francs\u2019 rent out of it. You will perhaps say\nthat we might lodge ourselves in a more modest way; but we can\u2019t, my\ndear, I must have a _salon_ on account of the visits I receive. So just\ncount!... Then there are my two girls. I\u2019ve had to send them to\nschool; Lucienne has begun to learn the piano and Marcelle has some taste\nfor drawing.... By the way, I would have brought them with me, but I\nfeared it would upset them too much. You will excuse me, won\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nThen she spoke of all the worries which she had had with her husband on\naccount of Salvat\u2019s ignominious death. Chr\u00e9tiennot, vain, quarrelsome\nlittle fellow that he was, felt exasperated at now having a _guillotine_\nin his wife\u2019s family. And he had lately begun to treat the unfortunate\nwoman most harshly, charging her with having brought about all their\ntroubles, and even rendering her responsible for his own mediocrity,\nembittered as he was more and more each day by a confined life of office\nwork. On some evenings they had downright quarrels; she stood up for\nherself, and related that when she was at the confectionery shop in the\nRue des Martyrs she could have married a doctor had she only chosen, for\nthe doctor found her quite pretty enough. Now, however, she was becoming\nplainer and plainer, and her husband felt that he was condemned to\neverlasting penury; so that their life was becoming more and more dismal\nand quarrelsome, and as unbearable--despite the pride of being\n\u201cgentleman\u201d and \u201clady\u201d--as was the destitution of the working classes.\n\n\u201cAll the same, my dear,\u201d at last said Madame Toussaint, weary of her\nsister-in-law\u2019s endless narrative of worries, \u201cyou have had one piece of\nluck. You won\u2019t have the trouble of bringing up a third child, now.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s true,\u201d replied Hortense, with a sigh of relief. \u201cHow we should\nhave managed, I don\u2019t know.... Still, I was very ill, and I\u2019m far from\nbeing in good health now. The doctor says that I don\u2019t eat enough, and\nthat I ought to have good food.\u201d\n\nThen she rose for the purpose of giving her brother another kiss and\ntaking her departure; for she feared a scene on her husband\u2019s part should\nhe happen to come home and find her absent. Once on her feet, however,\nshe lingered there a moment longer, saying that she also had just seen\nher sister, Madame Th\u00e9odore, and little C\u00e9line, both of them comfortably\nclad and looking happy. And with a touch of jealousy she added: \u201cWell, my\nhusband contents himself with slaving away at his office every day. He\u2019ll\nnever do anything to get his head cut off; and it\u2019s quite certain that\nnobody will think of leaving an income to Marcelle and Lucienne....\nWell, good by, my dear, you must be brave, one must always hope that\nthings will turn out for the best.\u201d\n\nWhen she had gone off, Pierre and Thomas inquired if M. Grandidier had\nheard of Toussaint\u2019s misfortune and agreed to do anything for him. Madame\nToussaint answered that he had so far made only a vague promise; and on\nlearning this they resolved to speak to him as warmly as they could on\nbehalf of the old mechanician, who had spent as many as five and twenty\nyears at the works. The misfortune was that a scheme for establishing a\nfriendly society, and even a pension fund, which had been launched before\nthe crisis from which the works were now recovering, had collapsed\nthrough a number of obstacles and complications. Had things turned out\notherwise, Thomas might have had a pittance assured him, even though he\nwas unable to work. But under the circumstances the only hope for the\npoor stricken fellow lay in his employer\u2019s compassion, if not his sense\nof justice.\n\nAs the baby again began to cry, Madame Toussaint went to fetch it, and\nshe was once more carrying it to and fro, when Thomas pressed her\nhusband\u2019s sound hand between both his own. \u201cWe will come back,\u201d said the\nyoung man; \u201cwe won\u2019t forsake you, Toussaint. You know very well that\npeople like you, for you\u2019ve always been a good and steady workman. So\nrely on us, we will do all we can.\u201d\n\nThen they left him tearful and overpowered, in that dismal room, while,\nup and down beside him, his wife rocked the squealing infant--that other\nluckless creature, who was now so heavy on the old folks\u2019 hands, and like\nthem was fated to die of want and unjust toil.\n\nToil, manual toil, panting at every effort, this was what Pierre and\nThomas once more found at the works. From the slender pipes above the\nroofs spurted rhythmical puffs of steam, which seemed like the very\nbreath of all that labour. And in the work-shops one found a continuous\nrumbling, a whole army of men in motion, forging, filing, and piercing,\namidst the spinning of leather gearing and the trembling of machinery.\nThe day was ending with a final feverish effort to complete some task or\nother before the bell should ring for departure.\n\nOn inquiring for the master Thomas learnt that he had not been seen since\n_d\u00e9jeuner_, which was such an unusual occurrence that the young man at\nonce feared some terrible scene in the silent pavilion, whose shutters\nwere ever closed upon Grandidier\u2019s unhappy wife--that mad but beautiful\ncreature, whom he loved so passionately that he had never been willing to\npart from her. The pavilion could be seen from the little glazed\nwork-shop which Thomas usually occupied, and as he and Pierre stood\nwaiting there, it looked very peaceful and pleasant amidst the big\nlilac-bushes planted round about it. Surely, they thought, it ought to\nhave been brightened by the gay gown of a young woman and the laughter of\nplayful children. But all at once a loud, piercing shriek reached their\nears, followed by howls and moans, like those of an animal that is being\nbeaten or possibly slaughtered. Ah! those howls ringing out amidst all\nthe stir of the toiling works, punctuated it seemed by the rhythmical\npuffing of the steam, accompanied too by the dull rumbling of the\nmachinery! The receipts of the business had been doubling and doubling\nsince the last stock-taking; there was increase of prosperity every\nmonth, the bad times were over, far behind. Grandidier was realising a\nlarge fortune with his famous bicycle for the million, the \u201cLisette\u201d; and\nthe approaching vogue of motor-cars also promised huge gains, should he\nagain start making little motor-engines, as he meant to do, as soon as\nThomas\u2019s long-projected motor should be perfected. But what was wealth\nwhen in that dismal pavilion, whose shutters were ever closed, those\nfrightful shrieks continued, proclaiming some terrible drama, which all\nthe stir and bustle of the prosperous works were unable to stifle?\n\nPierre and Thomas looked at one another, pale and quivering. And all at\nonce, as the cries ceased and the pavilion sank into death-like silence\nonce more, the latter said in an undertone: \u201cShe is usually very gentle,\nshe will sometimes spend whole days sitting on a carpet like a little\nchild. He is fond of her when she is like that; he lays her down and\npicks her up, caresses her and makes her laugh as if she were a baby. Ah!\nhow dreadfully sad it is! When an attack comes upon her she gets frantic,\ntries to bite herself, and kill herself by throwing herself against the\nwalls. And then he has to struggle with her, for no one else is allowed\nto touch her. He tries to restrain her, and holds her in his arms to calm\nher.... But how terrible it was just now! Did you hear? I do not think\nshe has ever had such a frightful attack before.\u201d\n\nFor a quarter of an hour longer profound silence prevailed. Then\nGrandidier came out of the pavilion, bareheaded and still ghastly pale.\nPassing the little glazed work-shop on his way, he perceived Thomas and\nPierre there, and at once came in. But he was obliged to lean against a\nbench like a man who is dazed, haunted by a nightmare. His good-natured,\nenergetic face retained an expression of acute anguish; and his left ear\nwas scratched and bleeding. However, he at once wished to talk, overcome\nhis feelings, and return to his life of activity. \u201cI am very pleased to\nsee you, my dear Thomas,\u201d said he, \u201cI have been thinking over what you\ntold me about our little motor. We must go into the matter again.\u201d\n\nSeeing how distracted he was, it occurred to the young man that some\nsudden diversion, such as the story of another\u2019s misfortunes, might\nperhaps draw him from his haunting thoughts. \u201cOf course I am at your\ndisposal,\u201d he replied; \u201cbut before talking of that matter I should like\nto tell you that we have just seen Toussaint, that poor old fellow who\nhas been stricken with paralysis. His awful fate has quite distressed us.\nHe is in the greatest destitution, forsaken as it were by the roadside,\nafter all his years of labour.\u201d\n\nThomas dwelt upon the quarter of a century which the old workman had\nspent at the factory, and suggested that it would be only just to take\nsome account of his long efforts, the years of his life which he had\ndevoted to the establishment. And he asked that he might be assisted in\nthe name both of equity and compassion.\n\n\u201cAh! monsieur,\u201d Pierre in his turn ventured to say. \u201cI should like to\ntake you for an instant into that bare room, and show you that poor,\naged, worn-out, stricken man, who no longer has even the power of speech\nleft him to tell people his sufferings. There can be no greater\nwretchedness than to die in this fashion, despairing of all kindliness\nand justice.\u201d\n\nGrandidier had listened to them in silence. But big tears had\nirresistibly filled his eyes, and when he spoke it was in a very low and\ntremulous voice: \u201cThe greatest wretchedness, who can tell what it is? Who\ncan speak of it if he has not known the wretchedness of others? Yes, yes,\nit\u2019s sad undoubtedly that poor Toussaint should be reduced to that state\nat his age, not knowing even if he will have food to eat on the morrow.\nBut I know sorrows that are just as crushing, abominations which poison\none\u2019s life in a still greater degree.... Ah! yes, food indeed! To\nthink that happiness will reign in the world when everybody has food to\neat! What an idiotic hope!\u201d\n\nThe whole grievous tragedy of his life was in the shudder which had come\nover him. To be the employer, the master, the man who is making money,\nwho disposes of capital and is envied by his workmen, to own an\nestablishment to which prosperity has returned, whose machinery coins\ngold, apparently leaving one no other trouble than that of pocketing\none\u2019s profits; and yet at the same time to be the most wretched of men,\nto know no day exempt from anguish, to find each evening at one\u2019s hearth\nno other reward or prop than the most atrocious torture of the heart!\nEverything, even success, has to be paid for. And thus that triumpher,\nthat money-maker, whose pile was growing larger at each successive\ninventory, was sobbing with bitter grief.\n\nHowever, he showed himself kindly disposed towards Toussaint, and\npromised to assist him. As for a pension that was an idea which he could\nnot entertain, as it was the negation of the wage-system such as it\nexisted. He energetically defended his rights as an employer, repeating\nthat the strain of competition would compel him to avail himself of them\nso long as the present system should endure. His part in it was to do\ngood business in an honest way. However, he regretted that his men had\nnever carried out the scheme of establishing a relief fund, and he said\nthat he would do his best to induce them to take it in hand again.\n\nSome colour had now come back to his checks; for on returning to the\ninterests of his life of battle he felt his energy restored. He again\nreverted to the question of the little motor, and spoke of it for some\ntime with Thomas, while Pierre waited, feeling quite upset. Ah! he\nthought, how universal was the thirst for happiness! Then, in spite of\nthe many technical terms that were used he caught a little of what the\nothers were saying. Small steam motors had been made at the works in\nformer times; but they had not proved successes. In point of fact a new\npropelling force was needed. Electricity, though everyone foresaw its\nfuture triumph, was so far out of the question on account of the weight\nof the apparatus which its employment necessitated. So only petroleum\nremained, and the inconvenience attaching to its use was so great that\nvictory and fortune would certainly rest with the manufacturer who should\nbe able to replace it by some other hitherto unknown agent. In the\ndiscovery and adaptation of the latter lay the whole problem.\n\n\u201cYes, I am eager about it now,\u201d at last exclaimed Grandidier in an\nanimated way. \u201cI allowed you to prosecute your experiments without\ntroubling you with any inquisitive questions. But a solution is becoming\nimperative.\u201d\n\nThomas smiled: \u201cWell, you must remain patient just a little longer,\u201d said\nhe; \u201cI believe that I am on the right road.\u201d\n\nThen Grandidier shook hands with him and Pierre, and went off to make his\nusual round through his busy, bustling works, whilst near at hand,\nawaiting his return, stood the closed pavilion, where every evening he\nwas fated to relapse into endless, incurable anguish.\n\nThe daylight was already waning when Pierre and Thomas, after\nre-ascending the height of Montmartre, walked towards the large work-shop\nwhich Jahan, the sculptor, had set up among the many sheds whose erection\nhad been necessitated by the building of the Sacred Heart. There was here\na stretch of ground littered with materials, an extraordinary chaos of\nbuilding stone, beams and machinery; and pending the time when an army of\nnavvies would come to set the whole place in order, one could see gaping\ntrenches, rough flights of descending steps and fences, imperfectly\nclosing doorways which conducted to the substructures of the basilica.\n\nHalting in front of Jahan\u2019s work-shop, Thomas pointed to one of these\ndoorways by which one could reach the foundation works. \u201cHave you never\nhad an idea of visiting the foundations?\u201d he inquired of Pierre. \u201cThere\u2019s\nquite a city down there on which millions of money have been spent. They\ncould only find firm soil at the very base of the height, and they had to\nexcavate more than eighty shafts, fill them with concrete, and then rear\ntheir church on all those subterranean columns.... Yes, that is so. Of\ncourse the columns cannot be seen, but it is they who hold that insulting\nedifice aloft, right over Paris!\u201d\n\nHaving drawn near to the fence, Pierre was looking at an open doorway\nbeyond it, a sort of dark landing whence steps descended as if into the\nbowels of the earth. And he thought of those invisible columns of\nconcrete, and of all the stubborn energy and desire for domination which\nhad set and kept the edifice erect.\n\nThomas was at last obliged to call him. \u201cLet us make haste,\u201d said he,\n\u201cthe twilight will soon be here. We shan\u2019t be able to see much.\u201d\n\nThey had arranged to meet Antoine at Jahan\u2019s, as the sculptor wished to\nshow them a new model he had prepared. When they entered the work-shop\nthey found the two assistants still working at the colossal angel which\nhad been ordered for the basilica. Standing on a scaffolding they were\nrough-hewing its symmetrical wings, whilst Jahan, seated on a low chair,\nwith his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hands soiled with clay,\nwas contemplating a figure some three feet high on which he had just been\nworking.\n\n\u201cAh! it\u2019s you,\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cAntoine has been waiting more than half an\nhour for you. He\u2019s gone outside with Lise to see the sun set over Paris,\nI think. But they will soon be back.\u201d\n\nThen he relapsed into silence, with his eyes fixed on his work.\n\nThis was a bare, erect, lofty female figure, of such august majesty, so\nsimple were its lines, that it suggested something gigantic. The figure\u2019s\nabundant, outspread hair suggested rays around its face, which beamed\nwith sovereign beauty like the sun. And its only gesture was one of offer\nand of greeting; its arms were thrown slightly forward, and its hands\nwere open for the grasp of all mankind.\n\nStill lingering in his dream Jahan began to speak slowly: \u201cYou remember\nthat I wanted a pendant for my figure of Fecundity. I had modelled a\nCharity, but it pleased me so little and seemed so commonplace that I let\nthe clay dry and spoil.... And then the idea of a figure of Justice\ncame to me. But not a gowned figure with the sword and the scales! That\nwasn\u2019t the Justice that inspired me. What haunted my mind was the other\nJustice, the one that the lowly and the sufferers await, the one who\nalone can some day set a little order and happiness among us. And I\npictured her like that, quite bare, quite simple, and very lofty. She is\nthe sun as it were, a sun all beauty, harmony and strength; for justice\nis only to be found in the sun which shines in the heavens for one and\nall, and bestows on poor and rich alike its magnificence and light and\nwarmth, which are the source of all life. And so my figure, you see, has\nher hands outstretched as if she were offering herself to all mankind,\ngreeting it and granting it the gift of eternal life in eternal beauty.\nAh! to be beautiful and strong and just, one\u2019s whole dream lies in that.\u201d\n\nJahan relighted his pipe and burst into a merry laugh. \u201cWell, I think the\ngood woman carries herself upright.... What do you fellows say?\u201d\n\nHis visitors highly praised his work. Pierre for his part was much\naffected at finding in this artistic conception the very idea that he had\nso long been revolving in his mind--the idea of an era of Justice rising\nfrom the ruins of the world, which Charity after centuries of trial had\nfailed to save.\n\nThen the sculptor gaily explained that he had prepared his model there\ninstead of at home, in order to console himself a little for his big\ndummy of an angel, the prescribed triteness of which disgusted him. Some\nfresh objections had been raised with respect to the folds of the robe,\nwhich gave some prominence to the thighs, and in the end he had been\ncompelled to modify all of the drapery.\n\n\u201cOh! it\u2019s just as they like!\u201d he cried; \u201cit\u2019s no work of mine, you know;\nit\u2019s simply an order which I\u2019m executing just as a mason builds a wall.\nThere\u2019s no religious art left, it has been killed by stupidity and\ndisbelief. Ah! if social or human art could only revive, how glorious to\nbe one of the first to bear the tidings!\u201d\n\nThen he paused. Where could the youngsters, Antoine and Lise, have got\nto, he wondered. He threw the door wide open, and, a little distance\naway, among the materials littering the waste ground, one could see\nAntoine\u2019s tall figure and Lise\u2019s short slender form standing out against\nthe immensity of Paris, which was all golden amidst the sun\u2019s farewell.\nThe young man\u2019s strong arm supported Lise, who with this help walked\nbeside him without feeling any fatigue. Slender and graceful, like a girl\nblossoming into womanhood, she raised her eyes to his with a smile of\ninfinite gratitude, which proclaimed that she belonged to him for\nevermore.\n\n\u201cAh! they are coming back,\u201d said Jahan. \u201cThe miracle is now complete, you\nknow. I\u2019m delighted at it. I did not know what to do with her; I had even\nrenounced all attempts to teach her to read; I left her for days together\nin a corner, infirm and tongue-tied like a lack-wit.... But your\nbrother came and took her in hand somehow or other. She listened to him\nand understood him, and began to read and write with him, and grow\nintelligent and gay. Then, as her limbs still gained no suppleness, and\nshe remained infirm, ailing and puny, he began by carrying her here, and\nthen helped her to walk in such wise that she can now do so by herself.\nIn a few weeks\u2019 time she has positively grown and become quite charming.\nYes, I assure you, it is second birth, real creation. Just look at them!\u201d\n\nAntoine and Lise were still slowly approaching. The evening breeze which\nrose from the great city, where all was yet heat and sunshine, brought\nthem a bath of life. If the young man had chosen that spot, with its\nsplendid horizon, open to the full air which wafted all the germs of\nlife, it was doubtless because he felt that nowhere else could he instil\nmore vitality, more soul, more strength into her. And love had been\ncreated by love. He had found her asleep, benumbed, without power of\nmotion or intellect, and he had awakened her, kindled life in her, loved\nher, that he might be loved by her in return. She was his work, she was\npart of himself.\n\n\u201cSo you no longer feel tired, little one?\u201d said Jahan.\n\nShe smiled divinely. \u201cOh! no, it\u2019s so pleasant, so beautiful, to walk\nstraight on like this.... All I desire is to go on for ever and ever\nwith Antoine.\u201d\n\nThe others laughed, and Jahan exclaimed in his good-natured way: \u201cLet us\nhope that he won\u2019t take you so far. You\u2019ve reached your destination now,\nand I shan\u2019t be the one to prevent you from being happy.\u201d\n\nAntoine was already standing before the figure of Justice, to which the\nfalling twilight seemed to impart a quiver of life. \u201cOh! how divinely\nsimple, how divinely beautiful!\u201d said he.\n\nFor his own part he had lately finished a new wood engraving, which\ndepicted Lise holding a book in her hand, an engraving instinct with\ntruth and emotion, showing her awakened to intelligence and love. And\nthis time he had achieved his desire, making no preliminary drawing, but\ntackling the block with his graver, straight away, in presence of his\nmodel. And infinite hopefulness had come upon him, he was dreaming of\ngreat original works in which the whole period that he belonged to would\nlive anew and for ever.\n\nThomas now wished to return home. So they shook hands with Jahan, who, as\nhis day\u2019s work was over, put on his coat to take his sister back to the\nRue du Calvaire.\n\n\u201cTill to-morrow, Lise,\u201d said Antoine, inclining his head to kiss her.\n\nShe raised herself on tip-toes, and offered him her eyes, which he had\nopened to life. \u201cTill to-morrow, Antoine,\u201d said she.\n\nOutside, the twilight was falling. Pierre was the first to cross the\nthreshold, and as he did so, he saw so extraordinary a sight that for an\ninstant he felt stupefied. But it was certain enough: he could plainly\ndistinguish his brother Guillaume emerging from the gaping doorway which\nconducted to the foundations of the basilica. And he saw him hastily\nclimb over the palings, and then pretend to be there by pure chance, as\nthough he had come up from the Rue Lamarck. When he accosted his two\nsons, as if he were delighted to meet them, and began to say that he had\njust come from Paris, Pierre asked himself if he had been dreaming.\nHowever, an anxious glance which his brother cast at him convinced him\nthat he had been right. And then he not only felt ill at ease in presence\nof that man whom he had never previously known to lie, but it seemed to\nhim that he was at last on the track of all he had feared, the formidable\nmystery that he had for some time past felt brewing around him in the\nlittle peaceful house.\n\nWhen Guillaume, his sons and his brother reached home and entered the\nlarge workroom overlooking Paris, it was so dark that they fancied nobody\nwas there.\n\n\u201cWhat! nobody in?\u201d said Guillaume.\n\nBut in a somewhat low, quiet voice Fran\u00e7ois answered out of the gloom:\n\u201cWhy, yes, I\u2019m here.\u201d\n\nHe had remained at his table, where he had worked the whole afternoon,\nand as he could no longer read, he now sat in a dreamy mood with his head\nresting on his hands, his eyes wandering over Paris, where night was\ngradually falling. As his examination was now near at hand, he was living\nin a state of severe mental strain.\n\n\u201cWhat, you are still working there!\u201d said his father. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you ask\nfor a lamp?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I wasn\u2019t working, I was looking at Paris,\u201d Fran\u00e7ois slowly answered.\n\u201cIt\u2019s singular how the night falls over it by degrees. The last district\nthat remained visible was the Montague Ste. Genevieve, the plateau of the\nPantheon, where all our knowledge and science have grown up. A sun-ray\nstill gilds the schools and libraries and laboratories, when the\nlow-lying districts of trade are already steeped in darkness. I won\u2019t say\nthat the planet has a particular partiality for us at the \u00c9cole Normale,\nbut it\u2019s certain that its beams still linger on our roofs, when they are\nto be seen nowhere else.\u201d\n\nHe began to laugh at his jest. Still one could see how ardent was his\nfaith in mental effort, how entirely he gave himself to mental labour,\nwhich, in his opinion, could alone bring truth, establish justice and\ncreate happiness.\n\nThen came a short spell of silence. Paris sank more and more deeply into\nthe night, growing black and mysterious, till all at once sparks of light\nbegan to appear.\n\n\u201cThe lamps are being lighted,\u201d resumed Fran\u00e7ois; \u201cwork is being resumed on\nall sides.\u201d\n\nThen Guillaume, who likewise had been dreaming, immersed in his fixed\nidea, exclaimed: \u201cWork, yes, no doubt! But for work to give a full\nharvest it must be fertilised by will. There is something which is\nsuperior to work.\u201d\n\nThomas and Antoine had drawn near. And Fran\u00e7ois, as much for them as for\nhimself, inquired: \u201cWhat is that, father?\u201d\n\n\u201cAction.\u201d\n\nFor a moment the three young men remained silent, impressed by the\nsolemnity of the hour, quivering too beneath the great waves of darkness\nwhich rose from the vague ocean of the city. Then a young voice remarked,\nthough whose it was one could not tell: \u201cAction is but work.\u201d\n\nAnd Pierre, who lacked the respectful quietude, the silent faith, of his\nnephews, now felt his nervousness increasing. That huge and terrifying\nmystery of which he was dimly conscious rose before him, while a great\nquiver sped by in the darkness, over that black city where the lamps were\nnow being lighted for a whole passionate night of work.\n\n\n\n\nIV. THE CRISIS\n\nA GREAT ceremony was to take place that day at the basilica of the Sacred\nHeart. Ten thousand pilgrims were to be present there, at a solemn\nconsecration of the Holy Sacrament; and pending the arrival of four\no\u2019clock, the hour fixed for the service, Montmartre would be invaded by\npeople. Its slopes would be black with swarming devotees, the shops where\nreligious emblems and pictures were sold would be besieged, the caf\u00e9s and\ntaverns would be crowded to overflowing. It would all be like some huge\nfair, and meantime the big bell of the basilica, \u201cLa Savoyarde,\u201d would be\nringing peal on peal over the holiday-making multitude.\n\nWhen Pierre entered the workroom in the morning he perceived Guillaume\nand M\u00e8re-Grand alone there; and a remark which he heard the former make\ncaused him to stop short and listen from behind a tall-revolving\nbookstand. M\u00e8re-Grand sat sewing in her usual place near the big window,\nwhile Guillaume stood before her, speaking in a low voice.\n\n\u201cMother,\u201d said he, \u201ceverything is ready, it is for to-day.\u201d\n\nShe let her work fall, and raised her eyes, looking very pale. \u201cAh!\u201d she\nsaid, \u201cso you have made up your mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, irrevocably. At four o\u2019clock I shall be yonder, and it will all be\nover.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2018Tis well--you are the master.\u201d\n\nSilence fell, terrible silence. Guillaume\u2019s voice seemed to come from far\naway, from somewhere beyond the world. It was evident that his resolution\nwas unshakable, that his tragic dream, his fixed idea of martyrdom,\nwholly absorbed him. M\u00e8re-Grand looked at him with her pale eyes, like an\nheroic woman who had grown old in relieving the sufferings of others, and\nhad ever shown all the abnegation and devotion of an intrepid heart,\nwhich nothing but the idea of duty could influence. She knew Guillaume\u2019s\nterrible scheme, and had helped him to regulate the pettiest details of\nit; but if on the one hand, after all the iniquity she had seen and\nendured, she admitted that fierce and exemplary punishment might seem\nnecessary, and that even the idea of purifying the world by the fire of a\nvolcano might be entertained, on the other hand, she believed too\nstrongly in the necessity of living one\u2019s life bravely to the very end,\nto be able, under any circumstances, to regard death as either good or\nprofitable.\n\n\u201cMy son,\u201d she gently resumed, \u201cI witnessed the growth of your scheme, and\nit neither surprised nor angered me. I accepted it as one accepts\nlightning, the very fire of the skies, something of sovereign purity and\npower. And I have helped you through it all, and have taken upon myself\nto act as the mouthpiece of your conscience.... But let me tell you\nonce more, one ought never to desert the cause of life.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is useless to speak, mother,\u201d Guillaume replied: \u201cI have resolved to\ngive my life and cannot take it back.... Are you now unwilling to\ncarry out my desires, remain here, and act as we have decided, when all\nis over?\u201d\n\nShe did not answer this inquiry, but in her turn, speaking slowly and\ngravely, put a question to him: \u201cSo it is useless for me to speak to you\nof the children, myself and the house?\u201d said she. \u201cYou have thought it\nall over, you are quite determined?\u201d And as he simply answered \u201cYes,\u201d she\nadded: \u201c\u2018Tis well, you are the master.... I will be the one who is to\nremain behind and act. And you may be without fear, your bequest is in\ngood hands. All that we have decided together shall be done.\u201d\n\nOnce more they became silent. Then she again inquired: \u201cAt four o\u2019clock,\nyou say, at the moment of that consecration?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, at four o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\nShe was still looking at him with her pale eyes, and there seemed to be\nsomething superhuman in her simplicity and grandeur as she sat there in\nher thin black gown. Her glance, in which the greatest bravery and the\ndeepest sadness mingled, filled Guillaume with acute emotion. His hands\nbegan to tremble, and he asked: \u201cWill you let me kiss you, mother?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! right willingly, my son,\u201d she responded. \u201cYour path of duty may not\nbe mine, but you see I respect your views and love you.\u201d\n\nThey kissed one another, and when Pierre, whom the scene had chilled to\nhis heart, presented himself as if he were just arriving, M\u00e8re-Grand had\nquietly taken up her needlework once more, while Guillaume was going to\nand fro, setting one of his laboratory shelves in order with all his\nwonted activity.\n\nAt noon when lunch was ready, they found it necessary to wait for Thomas,\nwho had not yet come home. His brothers Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine complained\nin a jesting way, saying that they were dying of hunger, while for her\npart Marie, who had made a _cr\u00eame_, and was very proud of it, declared\nthat they would eat it all, and that those who came late would have to go\nwithout tasting it. When Thomas eventually put in an appearance he was\ngreeted with jeers.\n\n\u201cBut it wasn\u2019t my fault,\u201d said he; \u201cI stupidly came up the hill by way of\nthe Rue de la Barre, and you can have no notion what a crowd I fell upon.\nQuite ten thousand pilgrims must have camped there last night. I am told\nthat as many as possible were huddled together in the St. Joseph Refuge.\nThe others no doubt had to sleep in the open air. And now they are busy\neating, here, there and everywhere, all over the patches of waste ground\nand even on the pavements. One can scarcely set one foot before the other\nwithout risk of treading on somebody.\u201d\n\nThe meal proved a very gay one, though Pierre found the gaiety forced and\nexcessive. Yet the young people could surely know nothing of the\nfrightful, invisible thing which to Pierre ever seemed to be hovering\naround in the bright sunlight of that splendid June day. Was it that the\ndim presentiment which comes to loving hearts when mourning threatens\nthem, swept by during the short intervals of silence that followed the\njoyous outbursts? Although Guillaume looked somewhat pale, and spoke with\nunusual caressing softness, he retained his customary bright smile. But,\non the other hand, never had M\u00e8re-Grand been more silent or more grave.\n\nMarie\u2019s _cr\u00eame_ proved a great success, and the others congratulated her\non it so fulsomely that they made her blush. Then, all at once, heavy\nsilence fell once more, a deathly chill seemed to sweep by, making every\nface turn pale--even while they were still cleaning their plates with\ntheir little spoons.\n\n\u201cAh! that bell,\u201d exclaimed Fran\u00e7ois; \u201cit is really intolerable. I can\nfeel my head splitting.\u201d\n\nHe referred to \u201cLa Savoyarde,\u201d the big bell of the basilica, which had\nnow begun to toll, sending forth deep sonorous volumes of sound, which\never and ever winged their flight over the immensity of Paris. In the\nworkroom they were all listening to the clang.\n\n\u201cWill it keep on like that till four o\u2019clock?\u201d asked Marie.\n\n\u201cOh! at four o\u2019clock,\u201d replied Thomas, \u201cat the moment of the consecration\nyou will hear something much louder than that. The great peals of joy,\nthe song of triumph will then ring out.\u201d\n\nGuillaume was still smiling. \u201cYes, yes,\u201d said he, \u201cthose who don\u2019t want\nto be deafened for life had better keep their windows closed. The worst\nis, that Paris has to hear it whether it will or no, and even as far away\nas the Pantheon, so I\u2019m told.\u201d\n\nMeantime M\u00e8re-Grand remained silent and impassive. Antoine for his part\nexpressed his disgust with the horrible religious pictures for which the\npilgrims fought--pictures which in some respects suggested those on the\nlids of sweetmeat boxes, although they depicted the Christ with His\nbreast ripped open and displaying His bleeding heart. There could be no\nmore repulsive materialism, no grosser or baser art, said Antoine. Then\nthey rose from table, talking at the top of their voices so as to make\nthemselves heard above the incessant din which came from the big bell.\n\nImmediately afterwards they all set to work again. M\u00e8re-Grand took her\neverlasting needlework in hand once more, while Marie, sitting near her,\ncontinued some embroidery. The young men also attended to their\nrespective tasks, and now and again raised their heads and exchanged a\nfew words. Guillaume, for his part, likewise seemed very busy; Pierre\nalone coming and going in a state of anguish, beholding them all as in a\nnightmare, and attributing some terrible meaning to the most innocent\nremarks. During _d\u00e9jeuner_, in order to explain the frightful discomfort\ninto which he was thrown by the gaiety of the meal, he had been obliged\nto say that he felt poorly. And now he was looking and listening and\nwaiting with ever-growing anxiety.\n\nShortly before three o\u2019clock, Guillaume glanced at his watch and then\nquietly took up his hat. \u201cWell,\u201d said he, \u201cI\u2019m going out.\u201d\n\nHis sons, M\u00e8re-Grand and Marie raised their heads.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m going out,\u201d he repeated, \u201c_au revoir_.\u201d\n\nStill he did not go off. Pierre could divine that he was struggling,\nstiffening himself against the frightful tempest which was raging within\nhim, striving to prevent either shudder or pallor from betraying his\nawful secret. Ah! he must have suffered keenly; he dared not give his\nsons a last kiss, for fear lest he might rouse some suspicion in their\nminds, which would impel them to oppose him and prevent his death! At\nlast with supreme heroism he managed to overcome himself.\n\n\u201c_Au revoir_, boys.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Au revoir_, father. Will you be home early?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes.... Don\u2019t worry about me, do plenty of work.\u201d\n\nM\u00e8re-Grand, still majestically silent, kept her eyes fixed upon him. Her\nhe had ventured to kiss, and their glances met and mingled, instinct with\nall that he had decided and that she had promised: their common dream of\ntruth and justice.\n\n\u201cI say, Guillaume,\u201d exclaimed Marie gaily, \u201cwill you undertake a\ncommission for me if you are going down by way of the Rue des Martyrs?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, certainly,\u201d he replied.\n\n\u201cWell, then, please look in at my dressmaker\u2019s, and tell her that I\nshan\u2019t go to try my gown on till to-morrow morning.\u201d\n\nIt was a question of her wedding dress, a gown of light grey silk, the\nstylishness of which she considered very amusing. Whenever she spoke of\nit, both she and the others began to laugh.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s understood, my dear,\u201d said Guillaume, likewise making merry over\nit. \u201cWe know it\u2019s Cinderella\u2019s court robe, eh? The fairy brocade and lace\nthat are to make you very beautiful and for ever happy.\u201d\n\nHowever, the laughter ceased, and in the sudden silence which fell, it\nagain seemed as if death were passing by with a great flapping of wings\nand an icy gust which chilled the hearts of everyone remaining there.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s understood; so now I\u2019m really off,\u201d resumed Guillaume. \u201c_Au\nrevoir_, children.\u201d\n\nThen he sallied forth, without even turning round, and for a moment they\ncould hear the firm tread of his feet over the garden gravel.\n\nPierre having invented a pretext was able to follow him a couple of\nminutes afterwards. As a matter of fact there was no need for him to dog\nGuillaume\u2019s heels, for he knew where his brother was going. He was\nthoroughly convinced that he would find him at that doorway, conducting\nto the foundations of the basilica, whence he had seen him emerge two\ndays before. And so he wasted no time in looking for him among the crowd\nof pilgrims going to the church. His only thought was to hurry on and\nreach Jahan\u2019s workshop. And in accordance with his expectation, just as\nhe arrived there, he perceived Guillaume slipping between the broken\npalings. The crush and the confusion prevailing among the concourse of\nbelievers favored Pierre as it had his brother, in such wise that he was\nable to follow the latter and enter the doorway without being noticed.\nOnce there he had to pause and draw breath for a moment, so greatly did\nthe beating of his heart oppress him.\n\nA precipitous flight of steps, where all was steeped in darkness,\ndescended from the narrow entry. It was with infinite precaution that\nPierre ventured into the gloom, which ever grew denser and denser. He\nlowered his feet gently so as to make no noise, and feeling the walls\nwith his hands, turned round and round as he went lower and lower into a\nkind of well. However, the descent was not a very long one. As soon as he\nfound beaten ground beneath his feet he paused, no longer daring to stir\nfor fear of betraying his presence. The darkness was like ink, and there\nwas not a sound, a breath; the silence was complete.\n\nHow should he find his way? he wondered. Which direction ought he to\ntake? He was still hesitating when some twenty paces away he suddenly saw\na bright spark, the gleam of a lucifer. Guillaume was lighting a candle.\nPierre recognised his broad shoulders, and from that moment he simply had\nto follow the flickering light along a walled and vaulted subterranean\ngallery. It seemed to be interminable and to run in a northerly\ndirection, towards the nave of the basilica.\n\nAll at once the little light at last stopped, while Pierre, anxious to\nsee what would happen, continued to advance, treading as softly as he\ncould and remaining in the gloom. He found that Guillaume had stood his\ncandle upon the ground in the middle of a kind of low rotunda under the\ncrypt, and that he had knelt down and moved aside a long flagstone which\nseemed to cover a cavity. They were here among the foundations of the\nbasilica; and one of the columns or piles of concrete poured into shafts\nin order to support the building could be seen. The gap, which the stone\nslab removed by Guillaume had covered, was by the very side of the\npillar; it was either some natural surface flaw, or a deep fissure caused\nby some subsidence or settling of the soil. The heads of other pillars\ncould be descried around, and these the cleft seemed to be reaching, for\nlittle slits branched out in all directions. Then, on seeing his brother\nleaning forward, like one who is for the last time examining a mine he\nhas laid before applying a match to the fuse, Pierre suddenly understood\nthe whole terrifying business. Considerable quantities of the new\nexplosive had been brought to that spot. Guillaume had made the journey a\nscore of times at carefully selected hours, and all his powder had been\npoured into the gap beside the pillar, spreading to the slightest rifts\nbelow, saturating the soil at a great depth, and in this wise forming a\nnatural mine of incalculable force. And now the powder was flush with the\nflagstone which Guillaume has just moved aside. It was only necessary to\nthrow a match there, and everything would be blown into the air!\n\nFor a moment an acute chill of horror rooted Pierre to the spot. He could\nneither have taken a step nor raised a cry. He pictured the swarming\nthrong above him, the ten thousand pilgrims crowding the lofty naves of\nthe basilica to witness the solemn consecration of the Host. Peal upon\npeal flew from \u201cLa Savoyarde,\u201d incense smoked, and ten thousand voices\nraised a hymn of magnificence and praise. And all at once came thunder\nand earthquake, and a volcano opening and belching forth fire and smoke,\nand swallowing up the whole church and its multitude of worshippers.\nBreaking the concrete piles and rending the unsound soil, the explosion,\nwhich was certain to be one of extraordinary violence, would doubtless\nsplit the edifice atwain, and hurl one-half down the slopes descending\ntowards Paris, whilst the other on the side of the apse would crumble and\ncollapse upon the spot where it stood. And how fearful would be the\navalanche; a broken forest of scaffoldings, a hail of stonework, rushing\nand bounding through the dust and smoke on to the roofs below; whilst the\nviolence of the shock would threaten the whole of Montmartre, which, it\nseemed likely, must stagger and sink in one huge mass of ruins!\n\nHowever, Guillaume had again risen. The candle standing on the ground,\nits flame shooting up, erect and slender, threw his huge shadow all over\nthe subterranean vault. Amidst the dense blackness the light looked like\nsome dismal stationary star. Guillaume drew near to it in order to see\nwhat time it was by his watch. It proved to be five minutes past three.\nSo he had nearly another hour to wait. He was in no hurry, he wished to\ncarry out his design punctually, at the precise moment he had selected;\nand he therefore sat down on a block of stone, and remained there without\nmoving, quiet and patient. The candle now cast its light upon his pale\nface, upon his towering brow crowned with white hair, upon the whole of\nhis energetic countenance, which still looked handsome and young, thanks\nto his bright eyes and dark moustaches. And not a muscle of his face\nstirred; he simply gazed into the void. What thoughts could be passing\nthrough his mind at that supreme moment? Who could tell? There was not a\nquiver; heavy night, the deep eternal silence of the earth reigned all\naround.\n\nThen Pierre, having quieted his palpitating heart, drew near. At the\nsound of his footsteps Guillaume rose menacingly, but he immediately\nrecognised his brother, and did not seem astonished to see him.\n\n\u201cAh! it\u2019s you,\u201d he said, \u201cyou followed me.... I felt that you\npossessed my secret. And it grieves me that you should have abused your\nknowledge to join me here. You might have spared me this last sorrow.\u201d\n\nPierre clasped his trembling hands, and at once tried to entreat him.\n\u201cBrother, brother,\u201d he began.\n\n\u201cNo, don\u2019t speak yet,\u201d said Guillaume, \u201cif you absolutely wish it I will\nlisten to you by-and-by. We have nearly an hour before us, so we can\nchat. But I want you to understand the futility of all you may think\nneedful to tell me. My resolution is unshakable; I was a long time coming\nto it, and in carrying it out I shall simply be acting in accordance with\nmy reason and my conscience.\u201d\n\nThen he quietly related that having decided upon a great deed he had long\nhesitated as to which edifice he should destroy. The opera-house had\nmomentarily tempted him, but he had reflected that there would be no\ngreat significance in the whirlwind of anger and justice destroying a\nlittle set of enjoyers. In fact, such a deed might savour of jealousy and\ncovetousness. Next he had thought of the Bourse, where he might strike a\nblow at money, the great agent of corruption, and the capitalist society\nin whose clutches the wage-earners groaned. Only, here again the blow\nwould fall upon a restricted circle. Then an idea of destroying the\nPalace of Justice, particularly the assize court, had occurred to him. It\nwas a very tempting thought--to wreak justice upon human justice, to\nsweep away the witnesses, the culprit, the public prosecutor who charges\nthe latter, the counsel who defends him, the judges who sentence him, and\nthe lounging public which comes to the spot as to the unfolding of some\nsensational serial. And then too what fierce irony there would be in the\nsummary superior justice of the volcano swallowing up everything\nindiscriminately without pausing to enter into details. However, the plan\nover which he had most lingered was that of blowing up the Arc de\nTriomphe. This he regarded as an odious monument which perpetuated\nwarfare, hatred among nations, and the false, dearly purchased,\nsanguineous glory of conquerors. That colossus raised to the memory of so\nmuch frightful slaughter which had uselessly put an end to so many human\nlives, ought, he considered, to be slaughtered in its turn. Could he so\nhave arranged things that the earth should swallow it up, he might have\nachieved the glory of causing no other death than his own, of dying\nalone, struck down, crushed to pieces beneath that giant of stone. What a\ntomb, and what a memory might he thus have left to the world!\n\n\u201cBut there was no means of approaching it,\u201d he continued, \u201cno basement,\nno cellar, so I had to give up the idea.... And then, although I\u2019m\nperfectly willing to die alone, I thought what a loftier and more\nterrible lesson there would be in the unjust death of an innocent\nmultitude, of thousands of unknown people, of all those that might happen\nto be passing. In the same way as human society by dint of injustice,\nwant and harsh regulations causes so many innocent victims, so must\npunishment fall as the lightning falls, indiscriminately killing and\ndestroying whatever it may encounter in its course. When a man sets his\nfoot on an ant-hill, he gives no heed to all the lives which he stamps\nout.\u201d\n\nPierre, whom this theory rendered quite indignant, raised a cry of\nprotest: \u201cOh! brother, brother, is it you who are saying such things?\u201d\n\nYet, Guillaume did not pause: \u201cIf I have ended by choosing this basilica\nof the Sacred Heart,\u201d he continued, \u201cit is because I found it near at\nhand and easy to destroy. But it is also because it haunts and\nexasperates me, because I have long since condemned it.... As I have\noften said to you, one cannot imagine anything more preposterous than\nParis, our great Paris, crowned and dominated by this temple raised to\nthe glorification of the absurd. Is it not outrageous that common sense\nshould receive such a smack after so many centuries of science, that Rome\nshould claim the right of triumphing in this insolent fashion, on our\nloftiest height in the full sunlight? The priests want Paris to repent\nand do penitence for its liberative work of truth and justice. But its\nonly right course is to sweep away all that hampers and insults it in its\nmarch towards deliverance. And so may the temple fall with its deity of\nfalsehood and servitude! And may its ruins crush its worshippers, so that\nlike one of the old geological revolutions of the world, the catastrophe\nmay resound through the very entrails of mankind, and renew and change\nit!\u201d\n\n\u201cBrother, brother!\u201d again cried Pierre, quite beside himself, \u201cis it you\nwho are talking? What! you, a great scientist, a man of great heart, you\nhave come to this! What madness is stirring you that you should think and\nsay such abominable things? On the evening when we confessed our secrets\none to the other, you told me of your proud and lofty dream of ideal\nAnarchy. There would be free harmony in life, which left to its natural\nforces would of itself create happiness. But you still rebelled against\nthe idea of theft and murder. You would not accept them as right or\nnecessary; you merely explained and excused them. What has happened then\nthat you, all brain and thought, should now have become the hateful hand\nthat acts?\u201d\n\n\u201cSalvat has been guillotined,\u201d said Guillaume simply, \u201cand I read his\nwill and testament in his last glance. I am merely an executor.... And\nwhat has happened, you ask? Why, all that has made me suffer for four\nmonths past, the whole social evil which surrounds us, and which must be\nbrought to an end.\u201d\n\nSilence fell. The brothers looked at one another in the darkness. And\nPierre now understood things. He saw that Guillaume was changed, that the\nterrible gust of revolutionary contagion sweeping over Paris had\ntransformed him. It had all come from the duality of his nature, the\npresence of contradictory elements within him. On one side one found a\nscientist whose whole creed lay in observation and experiment, who, in\ndealing with nature, evinced the most cautious logic; while on the other\nside was a social dreamer, haunted by ideas of fraternity, equality and\njustice, and eager for universal happiness. Thence had first come the\ntheoretical anarchist that he had been, one in whom science and chimeras\nwere mingled, who dreamt of human society returning to the harmonious law\nof the spheres, each man free, in a free association, regulated by love\nalone. Neither Th\u00e9ophile Morin with the doctrines of Proudhon and Comte,\nnor Bache with those of St. Simon and Fourier, had been able to satisfy\nhis desire for the absolute. All those systems had seemed to him\nimperfect and chaotic, destructive of one another, and tending to the\nsame wretchedness of life. Janzen alone had occasionally satisfied him\nwith some of his curt phrases which shot over the horizon, like arrows\nconquering the whole earth for the human family. And then in Guillaume\u2019s\nbig heart, which the idea of want, the unjust sufferings of the lowly and\nthe poor exasperated, Salvat\u2019s tragic adventure had suddenly found place,\nfomenting supreme rebellion. For long weeks he had lived on with\ntrembling hands, with growing anguish clutching at his throat. First had\ncome that bomb and the explosion which still made him quiver, then the\nvile cupidity of the newspapers howling for the poor wretch\u2019s head, then\nthe search for him and the hunt through the Bois de Boulogne, till he\nfell into the hands of the police, covered with mud and dying of\nstarvation. And afterwards there had been the assize court, the judges,\nthe gendarmes, the witnesses, the whole of France arrayed against one man\nand bent on making him pay for the universal crime. And finally, there\nhad come the guillotine, the monstrous, the filthy beast consummating\nirreparable injustice in human justice\u2019s name. One sole idea now remained\nto Guillaume, that idea of justice which maddened him, leaving naught in\nhis mind save the thought of the just, avenging flare by which he would\nrepair the evil and ensure that which was right for all time forward.\nSalvat had looked at him, and contagion had done its work; he glowed with\na desire for death, a desire to give his own blood and set the blood of\nothers flowing, in order that mankind, amidst its fright and horror,\nshould decree the return of the golden age.\n\nPierre understood the stubborn blindness of such insanity; and he felt\nutterly upset by the fear that he should be unable to overcome it. \u201cYou\nare mad, brother!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cthey have driven you mad! It is a gust\nof violence passing; they were treated in a wrong way and too\nrelentlessly at the outset, and now that they are avenging one another,\nit may be that blood will never cease to flow.... But, listen,\nbrother, throw off that nightmare. You can\u2019t be a Salvat who murders or a\nBergaz who steals! Remember the pillage of the Princess\u2019s house and\nremember the fair-haired, pretty child whom we saw lying yonder, ripped\nopen.... You do not, you cannot belong to that set, brother--\u201d\n\nWith a wave of his hand, Guillaume brushed these vain reasons aside. Of\nwhat consequence were a few lives, his own included? No change had ever\ntaken place in the world without millions and millions of existences\nbeing stamped out.\n\n\u201cBut you had a great scheme in hand,\u201d cried Pierre, hoping to save him by\nreviving his sense of duty. \u201cIt isn\u2019t allowable for you to go off like\nthis.\u201d\n\nThen he fervently strove to awaken his brother\u2019s scientific pride. He\nspoke to him of his secret, of that great engine of warfare, which could\ndestroy armies and reduce cities to dust, and which he had intended to\noffer to France, so that on emerging victorious from the approaching war,\nshe might afterwards become the deliverer of the world. And it was this\ngrand scheme that he had abandoned, preferring to employ his explosive in\nkilling innocent people and overthrowing a church, which would be built\nafresh, whatever the cost, and become a sanctuary of martyrs!\n\nGuillaume smiled. \u201cI have not relinquished my scheme,\u201d said he, \u201cI have\nsimply modified it. Did I not tell you of my doubts, my anxious\nperplexity? Ah! to believe that one holds the destiny of the world in\none\u2019s grasp, and to tremble and hesitate and wonder if the intelligence\nand wisdom, that are needful for things to take the one wise course, will\nbe forthcoming! At sight of all the stains upon our great Paris, all the\nerrors and transgressions which we lately witnessed, I shuddered. I asked\nmyself if Paris were sufficiently calm and pure for one to entrust her\nwith omnipotence. How terrible would be the disaster if such an invention\nas mine should fall into the hands of a demented nation, possibly a\ndictator, some man of conquest, who would simply employ it to terrorize\nother nations and reduce them to slavery.... Ah! no, I do not wish to\nperpetuate warfare, I wish to kill it.\u201d\n\nThen in a clear firm voice he explained his new plan, in which Pierre was\nsurprised to find some of the ideas which General de Bozonnet had one day\nlaid before him in a very different spirit. Warfare was on the road to\nextinction, threatened by its very excesses. In the old days of\nmercenaries, and afterwards with conscripts, the percentage of soldiers\ndesignated by chance, war had been a profession and a passion. But\nnowadays, when everybody is called upon to fight, none care to do so. By\nthe logical force of things, the system of the whole nation in arms means\nthe coming end of armies. How much longer will the nations remain on a\nfooting of deadly peace, bowed down by ever increasing \u201cestimates,\u201d\n spending millions and millions on holding one another in respect? Ah! how\ngreat the deliverance, what a cry of relief would go up on the day when\nsome formidable engine, capable of destroying armies and sweeping cities\naway, should render war an impossibility and constrain every people to\ndisarm! Warfare would be dead, killed in her own turn, she who has killed\nso many. This was Guillaume\u2019s dream, and he grew quite enthusiastic, so\nstrong was his conviction that he would presently bring it to pass.\n\n\u201cEverything is settled,\u201d said he; \u201cif I am about to die and disappear, it\nis in order that my idea may triumph.... You have lately seen me spend\nwhole afternoons alone with M\u00e8re-Grand. Well, we were completing the\nclassification of the documents and making our final arrangements. She\nhas my orders, and will execute them even at the risk of her life, for\nnone has a braver, loftier soul.... As soon as I am dead, buried\nbeneath these stones, as soon as she has heard the explosion shake Paris\nand proclaim the advent of the new era, she will forward a set of all the\ndocuments I have confided to her--the formula of my explosive, the\ndrawings of the bomb and gun--to each of the great powers of the world.\nIn this wise I shall bestow on all the nations the terrible gift of\ndestruction and omnipotence which, at first, I wished to bestow on France\nalone; and I do this in order that the nations, being one and all armed\nwith the thunderbolt, may at once disarm, for fear of being annihilated,\nwhen seeking to annihilate others.\u201d\n\nPierre listened to him, gaping, amazed at this extraordinary idea, in\nwhich childishness was blended with genius. \u201cWell,\u201d said he, \u201cif you give\nyour secret to all the nations, why should you blow up this church, and\ndie yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy! In order that I may be believed!\u201d cried Guillaume with\nextraordinary force of utterance. Then he added, \u201cThe edifice must lie on\nthe ground, and I must be under it. If the experiment is not made, if\nuniversal horror does not attest and proclaim the amazing destructive\npower of my explosive, people will consider me a mere schemer, a\nvisionary!... A lot of dead, a lot of blood, that is what is needed in\norder that blood may for ever cease to flow!\u201d Then, with a broad sweep of\nhis arm, he again declared that his action was necessary. \u201cBesides,\u201d he\nsaid, \u201cSalvat left me the legacy of carrying out this deed of justice. If\nI have given it greater scope and significance, utilising it as a means\nof hastening the end of war, this is because I happen to be a man of\nintellect. It would have been better possibly if my mind had been a\nsimple one, and if I had merely acted like some volcano which changes the\nsoil, leaving life the task of renewing humanity.\u201d\n\nMuch of the candle had now burnt away, and Guillaume at last rose from\nthe block of stone. He had again consulted his watch, and found that he\nhad ten minutes left him. The little current of air created by his\ngestures made the light flicker, while all around him the darkness seemed\nto grow denser. And near at hand ever lay the threatening open mine which\na spark might at any moment fire.\n\n\u201cIt is nearly time,\u201d said Guillaume. \u201cCome, brother, kiss me and go away.\nYou know how much I love you, what ardent affection for you has been\nawakened in my old heart. So love me in like fashion, and find love\nenough to let me die as I want to die, in carrying out my duty. Kiss me,\nkiss me, and go away without turning your head.\u201d\n\nHis deep affection for Pierre made his voice tremble, but he struggled\non, forced back his tears, and ended by conquering himself. It was as if\nhe were no longer of the world, no longer one of mankind.\n\n\u201cNo, brother, you have not convinced me,\u201d said Pierre, who on his side\ndid not seek to hide his tears, \u201cand it is precisely because I love you\nas you love me, with my whole being, my whole soul, that I cannot go\naway. It is impossible! You cannot be the madman, the murderer you would\ntry to be.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not? Am I not free. I have rid my life of all responsibilities, all\nties.... I have brought up my sons, they have no further need of me.\nBut one heart-link remained--Marie, and I have given her to you.\u201d\n\nAt this a disturbing argument occurred to Pierre, and he passionately\navailed himself of it. \u201cSo you want to die because you have given me\nMarie,\u201d said he. \u201cYou still love her, confess it!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo!\u201d cried Guillaume, \u201cI no longer love her, I swear it. I gave her to\nyou. I love her no more.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you fancied; but you can see now that you still love her, for here\nyou are, quite upset; whereas none of the terrifying things of which we\nspoke just now could even move you.... Yes, if you wish to die it is\nbecause you have lost Marie!\u201d\n\nGuillaume quivered, shaken by what his brother said, and in low, broken\nwords he tried to question himself. \u201cNo, no, that any love pain should\nhave urged me to this terrible deed would be unworthy--unworthy of my\ngreat design. No, no, I decided on it in the free exercise of my reason,\nand I am accomplishing it from no personal motive, but in the name of\njustice and for the benefit of humanity, in order that war and want may\ncease.\u201d\n\nThen, in sudden anguish, he went on: \u201cAh! it is cruel of you, brother,\ncruel of you to poison my delight at dying. I have created all the\nhappiness I could, I was going off well pleased at leaving you all happy,\nand now you poison my death. No, no! question it how I may, my heart does\nnot ache; if I love Marie, it is simply in the same way as I love you.\u201d\n\nNevertheless, he remained perturbed, as if fearing lest he might be lying\nto himself; and by degrees gloomy anger came over him: \u201cListen, that is\nenough, Pierre,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201ctime is flying.... For the last time,\ngo away! I order you to do so; I will have it!\u201d\n\n\u201cI will not obey you, Guillaume.... I will stay, and as all my\nreasoning cannot save you from your insanity, fire your mine, and I will\ndie with you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou? Die? But you have no right to do so, you are not free!\u201d\n\n\u201cFree, or not, I swear that I will die with you. And if it merely be a\nquestion of flinging this candle into that hole, tell me so, and I will\ntake it and fling it there myself.\u201d\n\nHe made a gesture at which his brother thought that he was about to carry\nout his threat. So he caught him by the arm, crying: \u201cWhy should you die?\nIt would be absurd. That others should die may be necessary, but you, no!\nOf what use could be this additional monstrosity? You are endeavouring to\nsoften me, you are torturing my heart!\u201d Then all at once, imagining that\nPierre\u2019s offer had concealed another design, Guillaume thundered in a\nfury: \u201cYou don\u2019t want to take the candle in order to throw it there. What\nyou want to do is to blow it out! And you think I shan\u2019t be able\nthen--ah! you bad brother!\u201d\n\nIn his turn Pierre exclaimed: \u201cOh! certainly, I\u2019ll use every means to\nprevent you from accomplishing such a frightful and foolish deed!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll prevent me!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I\u2019ll cling to you, I\u2019ll fasten my arms to your shoulders, I\u2019ll hold\nyour hands if necessary.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! you\u2019ll prevent me, you bad brother! You think you\u2019ll prevent me!\u201d\n\nChoking and trembling with rage, Guillaume had already caught hold of\nPierre, pressing his ribs with his powerful muscular arms. They were\nclosely linked together, their eyes fixed upon one another, and their\nbreath mingling in that kind of subterranean dungeon, where their big\ndancing shadows looked like ghosts. They seemed to be vanishing into the\nnight, the candle now showed merely like a little yellow tear in the\nmidst of the darkness; and at that moment, in those far depths, a quiver\nsped through the silence of the earth which weighed so heavily upon them.\nDistant but sonorous peals rang out, as if death itself were somewhere\nringing its invisible bell.\n\n\u201cYou hear,\u201d stammered Guillaume, \u201cit\u2019s their bell up there. The time has\ncome. I have vowed to act, and you want to prevent me!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I\u2019ll prevent you as long as I\u2019m here alive.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs long as you are alive, you\u2019ll prevent me!\u201d\n\nGuillaume could hear \u201cLa Savoyarde\u201d pealing joyfully up yonder; he could\nsee the triumphant basilica, overflowing with its ten thousand pilgrims,\nand blazing with the splendour of the Host amidst the smoke of incense;\nand blind frenzy came over him at finding himself unable to act, at\nfinding an obstacle suddenly barring the road to his fixed idea.\n\n\u201cAs long as you are alive, as long as you are alive!\u201d he repeated, beside\nhimself. \u201cWell, then, die, you wretched brother!\u201d\n\nA fratricidal gleam had darted from his blurred eyes. He hastily stooped,\npicked up a large brick forgotten there, and raised it with both hands as\nif it were a club.\n\n\u201cAh! I\u2019m willing,\u201d cried Pierre. \u201cKill me, then; kill your own brother\nbefore you kill the others!\u201d\n\nThe brick was already descending, but Guillaume\u2019s arms must have\ndeviated, for the weapon only grazed one of Pierre\u2019s shoulders.\nNevertheless, he sank upon his knees in the gloom. When Guillaume saw him\nthere he fancied he had dealt him a mortal blow. What was it that had\nhappened between them, what had he done? For a moment he remained\nstanding, haggard, his mouth open, his eyes dilating with terror. He\nlooked at his hands, fancying that blood was streaming from them. Then he\npressed them to his brow, which seemed to be bursting with pain, as if\nhis fixed idea had been torn from him, leaving his skull open. And he\nhimself suddenly sank upon the ground with a great sob.\n\n\u201cOh! brother, little brother, what have I done?\u201d he called. \u201cI am a\nmonster!\u201d\n\nBut Pierre had passionately caught him in his arms again. \u201cIt is nothing,\nnothing, brother, I assure you,\u201d he replied. \u201cAh! you are weeping now.\nHow pleased I am! You are saved, I can feel it, since you are weeping.\nAnd what a good thing it is that you flew into such a passion, for your\nanger with me has dispelled your evil dream of violence.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am horrified with myself,\u201d gasped Guillaume, \u201cto think that I wanted\nto kill you! Yes, I\u2019m a brute beast that would kill his brother! And the\nothers, too, all the others up yonder.... Oh! I\u2019m cold, I feel so\ncold.\u201d\n\nHis teeth were chattering, and he shivered. It was as if he had awakened,\nhalf stupefied, from some evil dream. And in the new light which his\nfratricidal deed cast upon things, the scheme which had haunted him and\ngoaded him to madness appeared like some act of criminal folly, projected\nby another.\n\n\u201cTo kill you!\u201d he repeated almost in a whisper. \u201cI shall never forgive\nmyself. My life is ended, I shall never find courage enough to live.\u201d\n\nBut Pierre clasped him yet more tightly. \u201cWhat do you say?\u201d he answered.\n\u201cWill there not rather be a fresh and stronger tie of affection between\nus? Ah! yes, brother, let me save you as you saved me, and we shall be\nyet more closely united! Don\u2019t you remember that evening at Neuilly, when\nyou consoled me and held me to your heart as I am holding you to mine? I\nhad confessed my torments to you, and you told me that I must live and\nlove!... And you did far more afterwards: you plucked your own love\nfrom your breast and gave it to me. You wished to ensure my happiness at\nthe price of your own! And how delightful it is that, in my turn, I now\nhave an opportunity to console you, save you, and bring you back to\nlife!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, the bloodstain is there and it is ineffaceable. I can hope no\nmore!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, you can. Hope in life as you bade me do! Hope in love and hope\nin labour!\u201d\n\nStill weeping and clasping one another, the brothers continued speaking\nin low voices. The expiring candle suddenly went out unknown to them, and\nin the inky night and deep silence their tears of redeeming affection\nflowed freely. On the one hand, there was joy at being able to repay a\ndebt of brotherliness, and on the other, acute emotion at having been led\nby a fanatical love of justice and mankind to the very verge of crime.\nAnd there were yet other things in the depths of those tears which\ncleansed and purified them; there were protests against suffering in\nevery form, and ardent wishes that the world might some day be relieved\nof all its dreadful woe.\n\nAt last, after pushing the flagstone over the cavity near the pillar,\nPierre groped his way out of the vault, leading Guillaume like a child.\n\nMeantime M\u00e8re-Grand, still seated near the window of the workroom, had\nimpassively continued sewing. Now and again, pending the arrival of four\no\u2019clock, she had looked up at the timepiece hanging on the wall on her\nleft hand, or else had glanced out of the window towards the unfinished\npile of the basilica, which a gigantic framework of scaffoldings\nencompassed. Slowly and steadily plying her needle, the old lady remained\nvery pale and silent, but full of heroic serenity. On the other hand,\nMarie, who sat near her, embroidering, shifted her position a score of\ntimes, broke her thread, and grew impatient, feeling strangely nervous, a\nprey to unaccountable anxiety, which oppressed her heart. For their part,\nthe three young men could not keep in place at all; it was as if some\ncontagious fever disturbed them. Each had gone to his work: Thomas was\nfiling something at his bench; Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine were on either side\nof their table, the first trying to solve a mathematical problem, and the\nother copying a bunch of poppies in a vase before him. It was in vain,\nhowever, that they strove to be attentive. They quivered at the slightest\nsound, raised their heads, and darted questioning glances at one another.\nWhat could be the matter? What could possess them? What did they fear?\nNow and again one or the other would rise, stretch himself, and then,\nresume his place. However, they did not speak; it was as if they dared\nnot say anything, and thus the heavy silence grew more and more terrible.\n\nWhen it was a few minutes to four o\u2019clock M\u00e8re-Grand felt weary, or else\ndesired to collect her thoughts. After another glance at the timepiece,\nshe let her needlework fall on her lap and turned towards the basilica.\nIt seemed to her that she had only enough strength left to wait; and she\nremained with her eyes fixed on the huge walls and the forest of\nscaffolding which rose over yonder with such triumphant pride under the\nblue sky. Then all at once, however brave and firm she might be, she\ncould not restrain a start, for \u201cLa Savoyarde\u201d had raised a joyful clang.\nThe consecration of the Host was now at hand, the ten thousand pilgrims\nfilled the church, four o\u2019clock was about to strike. And thereupon an\nirresistible impulse forced the old lady to her feet; she drew herself\nup, quivering, her hands clasped, her eyes ever turned yonder, waiting in\nmute dread.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter?\u201d cried Thomas, who noticed her. \u201cWhy are you\ntrembling, M\u00e8re-Grand?\u201d\n\nFran\u00e7ois and Antoine raised their heads, and in turn sprang forward.\n\n\u201cAre you ill? Why are you turning so pale, you who are so courageous?\u201d\n\nBut she did not answer. Ah! might the force of the explosion rend the\nearth asunder, reach the house and sweep it into the flaming crater of\nthe volcano! Might she and the three young men, might they all die with\nthe father, this was her one ardent wish in order that grief might be\nspared them. And she remained waiting and waiting, quivering despite\nherself, but with her brave, clear eyes ever gazing yonder.\n\n\u201cM\u00e8re-Grand, M\u00e8re-Grand!\u201d cried Marie in dismay; \u201cyou frighten us by\nrefusing to answer us, by looking over there as if some misfortune were\ncoming up at a gallop!\u201d\n\nThen, prompted by the same anguish, the same cry suddenly came from\nThomas, Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine: \u201cFather is in peril--father is going to\ndie!\u201d\n\nWhat did they know? Nothing precise, certainly. Thomas no doubt had been\nastonished to see what a large quantity of the explosive his father had\nrecently prepared, and both Fran\u00e7ois and Antoine were aware of the ideas\nof revolt which he harboured in his mind. But, full of filial deference,\nthey never sought to know anything beyond what he might choose to confide\nto them. They never questioned him; they bowed to whatever he might do.\nAnd yet now a foreboding came to them, a conviction that their father was\ngoing to die, that some most frightful catastrophe was impending. It must\nhave been that which had already sent such a quiver through the\natmosphere ever since the morning, making them shiver with fever, feel\nill at ease, and unable to work.\n\n\u201cFather is going to die, father is going to die!\u201d\n\nThe three big fellows had drawn close together, distracted by one and the\nsame anguish, and furiously longing to know what the danger was, in order\nthat they might rush upon it and die with their father if they could not\nsave him. And amidst M\u00e8re-Grand\u2019s stubborn silence death once more\nflitted through the room: there came a cold gust such as they had already\nfelt brushing past them during _d\u00e9jeuner_.\n\nAt last four o\u2019clock began to strike, and M\u00e8re-Grand raised her white\nhands with a gesture of supreme entreaty. It was then that she at last\nspoke: \u201cFather is going to die. Nothing but the duty of living can save\nhim.\u201d\n\nAt this the three young men again wished to rush yonder, whither they\nknew not; but they felt that they must throw down all obstacles and\nconquer. Their powerlessness rent their hearts, they were both so frantic\nand so woeful that their grandmother strove to calm them. \u201cFather\u2019s own\nwish was to die,\u201d said she, \u201cand he is resolved to die alone.\u201d\n\nThey shuddered as they heard her, and then, on their side, strove to be\nheroic. But the minutes crept by, and it seemed as if the cold gust had\nslowly passed away. Sometimes, at the twilight hour, a night-bird will\ncome in by the window like some messenger of misfortune, flit round the\ndarkened room, and then fly off again, carrying its sadness with it. And\nit was much like that; the gust passed, the basilica remained standing,\nthe earth did not open to swallow it. Little by little the atrocious\nanguish which wrung their hearts gave place to hope. And when at last\nGuillaume appeared, followed by Pierre, a great cry of resurrection came\nfrom one and all: \u201cFather!\u201d\n\nTheir kisses, their tears, deprived him of his little remaining strength.\nHe was obliged to sit down. He had glanced round him as if he were\nreturning to life perforce. M\u00e8re-Grand, who understood what bitter\nfeelings must have followed the subjugation of his will, approached him\nsmiling, and took hold of both his hands as if to tell him that she was\nwell pleased at seeing him again, and at finding that he accepted his\ntask and was unwilling to desert the cause of life. For his part he\nsuffered dreadfully, the shock had been so great. The others spared him\nany narrative of their feelings; and he, himself, related nothing. With a\ngesture, a loving word, he simply indicated that it was Pierre who had\nsaved him.\n\nThereupon, in a corner of the room, Marie flung her arms round the young\nman\u2019s neck. \u201cAh! my good Pierre, I have never yet kissed you,\u201d said she;\n\u201cI want it to be for something serious the first time.... I love you,\nmy good Pierre, I love you with all my heart.\u201d\n\nLater that same evening, after night had fallen, Guillaume and Pierre\nremained for a moment alone in the big workroom. The young men had gone\nout, and M\u00e8re-Grand and Marie were upstairs sorting some house linen,\nwhile Madame Mathis, who had brought some work back, sat patiently in a\ndim corner waiting for another bundle of things which might require\nmending. The brothers, steeped in the soft melancholy of the twilight\nhour, and chatting in low tones, had quite forgotten her.\n\nBut all at once the arrival of a visitor upset them. It was Janzen with\nthe fair, Christ-like face. He called very seldom nowadays; and one never\nknew from what gloomy spot he had come or into what darkness he would\nreturn when he took his departure. He disappeared, indeed, for months\ntogether, and was then suddenly to be seen like some momentary passer-by\nwhose past and present life were alike unknown.\n\n\u201cI am leaving to-night,\u201d he said in a voice sharp like a knife.\n\n\u201cAre you going back to your home in Russia?\u201d asked Guillaume.\n\nA faint, disdainful smile appeared on the Anarchist\u2019s lips. \u201cHome!\u201d said\nhe, \u201cI am at home everywhere. To begin with, I am not a Russian, and then\nI recognise no other country than the world.\u201d\n\nWith a sweeping gesture he gave them to understand what manner of man he\nwas, one who had no fatherland of his own, but carried his gory dream of\nfraternity hither and thither regardless of frontiers. From some words he\nspoke the brothers fancied he was returning to Spain, where some\nfellow-Anarchists awaited him. There was a deal of work to be done there,\nit appeared. He had quietly seated himself, chatting on in his cold way,\nwhen all at once he serenely added: \u201cBy the by, a bomb had just been\nthrown into the Cafe de l\u2019Univers on the Boulevard. Three _bourgeois_\nwere killed.\u201d\n\nPierre and Guillaume shuddered, and asked for particulars. Thereupon\nJanzen related that he had happened to be there, had heard the explosion,\nand seen the windows of the caf\u00e9 shivered to atoms. Three customers were\nlying on the floor blown to pieces. Two of them were gentlemen, who had\nentered the place by chance and whose names were not known, while the\nthird was a regular customer, a petty cit of the neighbourhood, who came\nevery day to play a game at dominoes. And the whole place was wrecked;\nthe marble tables were broken, the chandeliers twisted out of shape, the\nmirrors studded with projectiles. And how great the terror and the\nindignation, and how frantic the rush of the crowd! The perpetrator of\nthe deed had been arrested immediately--in fact, just as he was turning\nthe corner of the Rue Caumartin.\n\n\u201cI thought I would come and tell you of it,\u201d concluded Janzen; \u201cit is\nwell you should know it.\u201d\n\nThen as Pierre, shuddering and already suspecting the truth, asked him if\nhe knew who the man was that had been arrested, he slowly replied: \u201cThe\nworry is that you happen to know him--it was little Victor Mathis.\u201d\n\nPierre tried to silence Janzen too late. He had suddenly remembered that\nVictor\u2019s mother had been sitting in a dark corner behind them a short\ntime previously. Was she still there? Then he again pictured Victor,\nslight and almost beardless, with a straight, stubborn brow, grey eyes\nglittering with intelligence, a pointed nose and thin lips expressive of\nstern will and unforgiving hatred. He was no simple and lowly one from\nthe ranks of the disinherited. He was an educated scion of the\n_bourgeoisie_, and but for circumstances would have entered the \u00c9cole\nNormale. There was no excuse for his abominable deed, there was no\npolitical passion, no humanitarian insanity, in it. He was the destroyer\npure and simple, the theoretician of destruction, the cold energetic man\nof intellect who gave his cultivated mind to arguing the cause of murder,\nin his desire to make murder an instrument of the social evolution. True,\nhe was also a poet, a visionary, but the most frightful of all\nvisionaries: a monster whose nature could only be explained by mad pride,\nand who craved for the most awful immortality, dreaming that the coming\ndawn would rise from the arms of the guillotine. Only one thing could\nsurpass him: the scythe of death which blindly mows the world.\n\nFor a few seconds, amidst the growing darkness, cold horror reigned in\nthe workroom. \u201cAh!\u201d muttered Guillaume, \u201che had the daring to do it, he\nhad.\u201d\n\nPierre, however, lovingly pressed his arm. And he felt that he was as\ndistracted, as upset, as himself. Perhaps this last abomination had been\nneeded to ravage and cure him.\n\nJanzen no doubt had been an accomplice in the deed. He was relating that\nVictor\u2019s purpose had been to avenge Salvat, when all at once a great sigh\nof pain was heard in the darkness, followed by a heavy thud upon the\nfloor. It was Madame Mathis falling like a bundle, overwhelmed by the\nnews which chance had brought her. At that moment it so happened that\nM\u00e8re-Grand came down with a lamp, which lighted up the room, and\nthereupon they hurried to the help of the wretched woman, who lay there\nas pale as a corpse in her flimsy black gown.\n\nAnd this again brought Pierre an indescribable heart-pang. Ah! the poor,\nsad, suffering creature! He remembered her at Abb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s, so discreet,\nso shamefaced, in her poverty, scarce able to live upon the slender\nresources which persistent misfortunes had left her. Hers had indeed been\na cruel lot: first, a home with wealthy parents in the provinces, a love\nstory and elopement with the man of her choice; next, ill-luck steadily\npursuing her, all sorts of home troubles, and at last her husband\u2019s\ndeath. Then, in the retirement of her widowhood, after losing the best\npart of the little income which had enabled her to bring up her son,\nnaught but this son had been left to her. He had been her Victor, her\nsole affection, the only one in whom she had faith. She had ever striven\nto believe that he was very busy, absorbed in work, and on the eve of\nattaining to some superb position worthy of his merits. And now, all at\nonce, she had learnt that this fondly loved son was simply the most\nodious of assassins, that he had flung a bomb into a caf\u00e9, and had there\nkilled three men.\n\nWhen Madame Mathis had recovered her senses, thanks to the careful\ntending of M\u00e8re-Grand, she sobbed on without cessation, raising such a\ncontinuous doleful wail, that Pierre\u2019s hand again sought Guillaume\u2019s, and\ngrasped it, whilst their hearts, distracted but healed, mingled lovingly\none with the other.\n\n\n\n\nV. LIFE\u2019S WORK AND PROMISE\n\nFIFTEEN months later, one fine golden day in September, Bache and\nTh\u00e9ophile Morin were taking _d\u00e9jeuner_ at Guillaume\u2019s, in the big\nworkroom overlooking the immensity of Paris.\n\nNear the table was a cradle with its little curtains drawn. Behind them\nslept Jean, a fine boy four months old, the son of Pierre and Marie. The\nlatter, simply in order to protect the child\u2019s social rights, had been\nmarried civilly at the town-hall of Montmartre. Then, by way of pleasing\nGuillaume, who wished to keep them with him, and thus enlarge the family\ncircle, they had continued living in the little lodging over the\nwork-shop, leaving the sleepy house at Neuilly in the charge of Sophie,\nPierre\u2019s old servant. And life had been flowing on happily for the\nfourteen months or so that they had now belonged to one another.\n\nThere was simply peace, affection and work around the young couple.\nFran\u00e7ois, who had left the \u00c9cole Normale provided with every degree,\nevery diploma, was now about to start for a college in the west of\nFrance, so as to serve his term of probation as a professor, intending to\nresign his post afterwards and devote himself, if he pleased, to science\npure and simple. Then Antoine had lately achieved great success with a\nseries of engravings he had executed--some views and scenes of Paris\nlife; and it was settled that he was to marry Lise Jahan in the ensuing\nspring, when she would have completed her seventeenth year. Of the three\nsons, however, Thomas was the most triumphant, for he had at last devised\nand constructed his little motor, thanks to a happy idea of his father\u2019s.\nOne morning, after the downfall of all his huge chimerical schemes,\nGuillaume, remembering the terrible explosive which he had discovered and\nhitherto failed to utilise, had suddenly thought of employing it as a\nmotive force, in the place of petroleum, in the motor which his eldest\nson had so long been trying to construct for the Grandidier works. So he\nhad set to work with Thomas, devising a new mechanism, encountering\nendless difficulties, and labouring for a whole year before reaching\nsuccess. But now the father and son had accomplished their task; the\nmarvel was created, and stood there riveted to an oak stand, and ready to\nwork as soon as its final toilet should have been performed.\n\nAmidst all the changes which had occurred, M\u00e8re-Grand, in spite of her\ngreat age, continued exercising her active, silent sway over the\nhousehold, which was now again so gay and peaceful. Though she seldom\nseemed to leave her chair in front of her work-table, she was really\nhere, there and everywhere. Since the birth of Jean, she had talked of\nrearing the child in the same way as she had formerly reared Thomas,\nFran\u00e7ois and Antoine. She was indeed full of the bravery of devotion, and\nseemed to think that she was not at all likely to die so long as she\nmight have others to guide, love and save. Marie marvelled at it all. She\nherself, though she was always gay and in good health, felt tired at\ntimes now that she was suckling her infant. Little Jean indeed had two\nvigilant mothers near his cradle; whilst his father, Pierre, who had\nbecome Thomas\u2019s assistant, pulled the bellows, roughened out pieces of\nmetal, and generally completed his apprenticeship as a working\nmechanician.\n\nOn the particular day when Bache and Th\u00e9ophile Morin came to Montmartre,\nthe _d\u00e9jeuner_ proved even gayer than usual, thanks perhaps to their\npresence. The meal was over, the table had been cleared, and the coffee\nwas being served, when a little boy, the son of a doorkeeper in the Rue\nCortot, came to ask for Monsieur Pierre Froment. When they inquired his\nbusiness, he answered in a hesitating way that Monsieur l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Rose was\nvery ill, indeed dying, and that he had sent him to fetch Monsieur Pierre\nFroment at once.\n\nPierre followed the lad, feeling much affected; and on reaching the Rue\nCortot he there found Abb\u00e9 Rose in a little damp ground-floor room\noverlooking a strip of garden. The old priest was in bed, dying as the\nboy had said, but he still retained the use of his faculties, and could\nspeak in his wonted slow and gentle voice. A Sister of Charity was\nwatching beside him, and she seemed so surprised and anxious at the\narrival of a visitor whom she did not know, that Pierre understood she\nwas there to guard the dying man and prevent him from having intercourse\nwith others. The old priest must have employed some stratagem in order to\nsend the doorkeeper\u2019s boy to fetch him. However, when Abb\u00e9 Rose in his\ngrave and kindly way begged the Sister to leave them alone for a moment,\nshe dared not refuse this supreme request, but immediately left the room.\n\n\u201cAh! my dear child,\u201d said the old man, \u201chow much I wanted to speak to\nyou! Sit down there, close to the bed, so that you may be able to hear\nme, for this is the end; I shall no longer be here to-night. And I have\nsuch a great service to ask of you.\u201d\n\nQuite upset at finding his friend so wasted, with his face white like a\nsheet, and scarce a sign of life save the sparkle of his innocent, loving\neyes, Pierre responded: \u201cBut I would have come sooner if I had known you\nwere in need of me! Why did you not send for me before? Are people being\nkept away from you?\u201d\n\nA faint smile of shame and confession appeared on the old priest\u2019s\nembarrassed face. \u201cWell, my dear child,\u201d said he, \u201cyou must know that I\nhave again done some foolish things. Yes, I gave money to some people\nwho, it seems, were not deserving of it. In fact, there was quite a\nscandal; they scolded me at the Archbishop\u2019s palace, and accused me of\ncompromising the interests of religion. And when they heard that I was\nill, they put that good Sister beside me, because they said that I should\ndie on the floor, and give the very sheets off my bed if I were not\nprevented.\u201d\n\nHe paused to draw breath, and then continued: \u201cSo you understand, that\ngood Sister--oh! she is a very saintly woman--is here to nurse me and\nprevent me from still doing foolish things. To overcome her vigilance I\nhad to use a little deceit, for which God, I trust, will forgive me. As\nit happens, it\u2019s precisely my poor who are in question; it was to speak\nto you about them that I so particularly wished to see you.\u201d\n\nTears had come to Pierre\u2019s eyes. \u201cTell me what you want me to do,\u201d he\nanswered; \u201cI am yours, both heart and soul.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, I know it, my dear child. It was for that reason that I\nthought of you--you alone. In spite of all that has happened, you are the\nonly one in whom I have any confidence, who can understand me, and give\nme a promise which will enable me to die in peace.\u201d\n\nThis was the only allusion he would venture to make to the cruel rupture\nwhich had occurred after the young man had thrown off his cassock and\nrebelled against the Church. He had since heard of Pierre\u2019s marriage, and\nwas aware that he had for ever severed all religious ties. But at that\nsupreme moment nothing of this seemed of any account to the old priest.\nHis knowledge of Pierre\u2019s loving heart sufficed him, for all that he now\ndesired was simply the help of that heart which he had seen glowing with\nsuch passionate charity.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d he resumed, again finding sufficient strength to smile, \u201cit is a\nvery simple matter. I want to make you my heir. Oh! it isn\u2019t a fine\nlegacy I am leaving you; it is the legacy of my poor, for I have nothing\nelse to bestow on you; I shall leave nothing behind me but my poor.\u201d\n\nOf these unhappy creatures, three in particular quite upset his heart. He\nrecoiled from the prospect of leaving them without chance of succour,\nwithout even the crumbs which he had hitherto distributed among them, and\nwhich had enabled them to live. One was the big Old\u2019un, the aged\ncarpenter whom he and Pierre had vainly sought one night with the object\nof sending him to the Asylum for the Invalids of Labour. He had been sent\nthere a little later, but he had fled three days afterwards, unwilling as\nhe was to submit to the regulations. Wild and violent, he had the most\ndetestable disposition. Nevertheless, he could not be left to starve. He\ncame to Abb\u00e9 Rose\u2019s every Saturday, it seemed, and received a franc,\nwhich sufficed him for the whole week. Then, too, there was a bedridden\nold woman in a hovel in the Rue du Mont-Cenis. The baker, who every\nmorning took her the bread she needed, must be paid. And in particular\nthere was a poor young woman residing on the Place du Tertre, one who was\nunmarried but a mother. She was dying of consumption, unable to work, and\ntortured by the idea that when she should have gone, her daughter must\nsink to the pavement like herself. And in this instance the legacy was\ntwofold: there was the mother to relieve until her death, which was near\nat hand, and then the daughter to provide for until she could be placed\nin some good household.\n\n\u201cYou must forgive me, my dear child, for leaving you all these worries,\u201d\n added Abb\u00e9 Rose. \u201cI tried to get the good Sister, who is nursing me, to\ntake an interest in these poor people, but when I spoke to her of the big\nOld\u2019un, she was so alarmed that she made the sign of the cross. And it\u2019s\nthe same with my worthy friend Abb\u00e9 Tavernier. I know nobody of more\nupright mind. Still I shouldn\u2019t be at ease with him, he has ideas of his\nown.... And so, my dear child, there is only you whom I can rely upon,\nand you must accept my legacy if you wish me to depart in peace.\u201d\n\nPierre was weeping. \u201cAh! certainly, with my whole soul,\u201d he answered. \u201cI\nshall regard your desires as sacred.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood! I knew you would accept.... So it is agreed: a franc for the\nbig Old\u2019un every Saturday, the bread for the bedridden woman, some help\nfor the poor young mother, and then a home for her little girl. Ah! if\nyou only knew what a weight it is off my heart! The end may come now, it\nwill be welcome to me.\u201d\n\nHis kind white face had brightened as if with supreme joy. Holding\nPierre\u2019s hand within his own he detained him beside the bed, exchanging a\nfarewell full of serene affection. And his voice weakening, he expressed\nhis whole mind in faint, impressive accents: \u201cYes, I shall be pleased to\ngo off. I could do no more, I could do no more! Though I gave and gave, I\nfelt that it was ever necessary to give more and more. And how sad to\nfind charity powerless, to give without hope of ever being able to stamp\nout want and suffering! I rebelled against that idea of yours, as you\nwill remember. I told you that we should always love one another in our\npoor, and that was true, since you are here, so good and affectionate to\nme and those whom I am leaving behind. But, all the same, I can do no\nmore, I can do no more; and I would rather go off, since the woes of\nothers rise higher and higher around me, and I have ended by doing the\nmost foolish things, scandalising the faithful and making my superiors\nindignant with me, without even saving one single poor person from the\never-growing torrent of want. Farewell, my dear child. My poor old heart\ngoes off aching, my old hands are weary and conquered.\u201d\n\nPierre embraced him with his whole soul, and then departed. His eyes were\nfull of tears and indescribable emotion wrung his heart. Never had he\nheard a more woeful cry than that confession of the impotence of charity,\non the part of that old candid child, whose heart was all simplicity and\nsublime benevolence. Ah! what a disaster, that human kindness should be\nfutile, that the world should always display so much distress and\nsuffering in spite of all the compassionate tears that had been shed, in\nspite of all the alms that had fallen from millions and millions of hands\nfor centuries and centuries! No wonder that it should bring desire for\ndeath, no wonder that a Christian should feel pleased at escaping from\nthe abominations of this earth!\n\nWhen Pierre again reached the workroom he found that the table had long\nsince been cleared, and that Bache and Morin were chatting with\nGuillaume, whilst the latter\u2019s sons had returned to their customary\noccupations. Marie, also, had resumed her usual place at the work-table\nin front of M\u00e8re-Grand; but from time to time she rose and went to look\nat Jean, so as to make sure that he was sleeping peacefully, with his\nlittle clenched fists pressed to his heart. And when Pierre, who kept his\nemotion to himself, had likewise leant over the cradle beside the young\nwoman, whose hair he discreetly kissed, he went to put on an apron in\norder that he might assist Thomas, who was now, for the last time,\nregulating his motor.\n\nThen, as Pierre stood there awaiting an opportunity to help, the room\nvanished from before his eyes; he ceased to see or hear the persons who\nwere there. The scent of Marie\u2019s hair alone lingered on his lips amidst\nthe acute emotion into which he had been thrown by his visit to Abb\u00e9\nRose. A recollection had come to him, that of the bitterly cold morning\nwhen the old priest had stopped him outside the basilica of the Sacred\nHeart, and had timidly asked him to take some alms to that old man\nLaveuve, who soon afterwards had died of want, like a dog by the wayside.\nHow sad a morning it had been; what battle and torture had Pierre not\nfelt within him, and what a resurrection had come afterwards! He had that\nday said one of his last masses, and he recalled with a shudder his\nabominable anguish, his despairing doubts at the thought of nothingness.\nTwo experiments which he had previously made had failed most miserably.\nFirst had come one at Lourdes, where the glorification of the absurd had\nsimply filled him with pity for any such attempt to revert to the\nprimitive faith of young nations, who bend beneath the terror born of\nignorance; and, secondly, there had been an experiment at Rome, which he\nhad found incapable of any renewal, and which he had seen staggering to\nits death amidst its ruins, a mere great shadow, which would soon be of\nno account, fast sinking, as it was, to the dust of dead religions. And,\nin his own mind, Charity itself had become bankrupt; he no longer\nbelieved that alms could cure the sufferings of mankind, he awaited\nnaught but a frightful catastrophe, fire and massacre, which would sweep\naway the guilty, condemned world. His cassock, too, stifled him, a lie\nalone kept it on his shoulders, the idea, unbelieving priest though he\nwas, that he could honestly and chastely watch over the belief of others.\nThe problem of a new religion, a new hope, such as was needful to ensure\nthe peace of the coming democracies tortured him, but between the\ncertainties of science and the need of the Divine, which seemed to\nconsume humanity, he could find no solution. If Christianity crumbled\nwith the principle of Charity, there could remain nothing else but\nJustice, that cry which came from every breast, that battle of Justice\nagainst Charity in which his heart must contend in that great city of\nParis. It was there that began his third and decisive experiment, the\nexperiment which was to make truth as plain to him as the sun itself, and\ngive him back health and strength and delight in life.\n\nAt this point of his reverie Pierre was roused by Thomas, who asked him\nto fetch a tool. As he did so he heard Bache remarking: \u201cThe ministry\nresigned this morning. Vignon has had enough of it, he wants to reserve\nhis remaining strength.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, he has lasted more than a twelvemonth,\u201d replied Morin. \u201cThat\u2019s\nalready an achievement.\u201d\n\nAfter the crime of Victor Mathis, who had been tried and executed within\nthree weeks, Monferrand had suddenly fallen from power. What was the use\nof having a strong-handed man at the head of the Government if bombs\nstill continued to terrify the country? Moreover, he had displeased the\nChamber by his voracious appetite, which had prevented him from allowing\nothers more than an infinitesimal share of all the good things. And this\ntime he had been succeeded by Vignon, although the latter\u2019s programme of\nreforms had long made people tremble. He, Vignon, was honest certainly,\nbut of all these reforms he had only been able to carry out a few\ninsignificant ones, for he had found himself hampered by a thousand\nobstacles. And thus he had resigned himself to ruling the country as\nothers had done; and people had discovered that after all there were but\nfaint shades of difference between him and Monferrand.\n\n\u201cYou know that Monferrand is being spoken of again?\u201d said Guillaume.\n\n\u201cYes, and he has some chance of success. His creatures are bestirring\nthemselves tremendously,\u201d replied Bache, adding, in a bitter, jesting\nway, that M\u00e8ge, the Collectivist leader, played the part of a dupe in\noverthrowing ministry after ministry. He simply gratified the ambition of\neach coterie in turn, without any possible chance of attaining to power\nhimself.\n\nThereupon Guillaume pronounced judgment. \u201cOh! well, let them devour one\nanother,\u201d said he. \u201cEager as they all are to reign and dispose of power\nand wealth, they only fight over questions of persons. And nothing they\ndo can prevent the evolution from continuing. Ideas expand, and events\noccur, and, over and above everything else, mankind is marching on.\u201d\n\nPierre was greatly struck by these words, and he again recalled the past.\nHis dolorous Parisian experiment had begun, and he was once more roaming\nthrough the city. Paris seemed to him to be a huge vat, in which a world\nfermented, something of the best and something of the worst, a frightful\nmixture such as sorceresses might have used; precious powders mingled\nwith filth, from all of which was to come the philter of love and eternal\nyouth. And in that vat Pierre first marked the scum of the political\nworld: Monferrand who strangled Barroux, who purchased the support of\nhungry ones such as Fons\u00e8gue, Duthil and Chaigneux, who made use of those\nwho attained to mediocrity, such as Taboureau and Dauvergne; and who\nemployed even the sectarian passions of M\u00e8ge and the intelligent ambition\nof Vignon as his weapons. Next came money the poisoner, with that affair\nof the African Railways, which had rotted the Parliament and turned\nDuvillard, the triumphant _bourgeois_, into a public perverter, the very\ncancer as it were of the financial world. Then as a just consequence of\nall this there was Duvillard\u2019s own home infected by himself, that\nfrightful drama of Eve contending with her daughter Camille for the\npossession of G\u00e9rard, then Camille stealing him from her mother, and\nHyacinthe, the son, passing his crazy mistress Rosemonde on to that\nnotorious harlot Silviane, with whom his father publicly exhibited\nhimself. Then there was the old expiring aristocracy, with the pale, sad\nfaces of Madame de Quinsac and the Marquis de Morigny; the old military\nspirit whose funeral was conducted by General de Bozonnet; the magistracy\nwhich slavishly served the powers of the day, Amadieu thrusting himself\ninto notoriety by means of sensational cases, Lehmann, the public\nprosecutor, preparing his speeches in the private room of the Minister\nwhose policy he defended; and, finally, the mendacious and cupid Press\nwhich lived upon scandal, the everlasting flood of denunciation and filth\nwhich poured from Sagnier, and the gay impudence shown by the\nunscrupulous and conscienceless Massot, who attacked all and defended\nall, by profession and to order! And in the same way as insects, on\ndiscovering one of their own kind dying, will often finish it off and\nfatten upon it, so the whole swarm of appetites, interests and passions\nhad fallen upon a wretched madman, that unhappy Salvat, whose idiotic\ncrime had brought them all scrambling together, gluttonously eager to\nderive some benefit from that starveling\u2019s emaciated carcass. And all\nboiled in the huge vat of Paris; the desires, the deeds of violence, the\nstrivings of one and another man\u2019s will, the whole nameless medley of the\nbitterest ferments, whence, in all purity, the wine of the future would\nat last flow.\n\nThen Pierre became conscious of the prodigious work which went on in the\ndepths of the vat, beneath all the impurity and waste. As his brother had\njust said, what mattered the stains, the egotism and greed of\npoliticians, if humanity were still on the march, ever slowly and\nstubbornly stepping forward! What mattered, too, that corrupt and\nemasculate _bourgeoisie_, nowadays as moribund as the aristocracy, whose\nplace it took, if behind it there ever came the inexhaustible reserve of\nmen who surged up from the masses of the country-sides and the towns!\nWhat mattered the debauchery, the perversion arising from excess of\nwealth and power, the luxuriousness and dissoluteness of life, since it\nseemed a proven fact that the capitals that had been queens of the world\nhad never reigned without extreme civilisation, a cult of beauty and of\npleasure! And what mattered even the venality, the transgressions and the\nfolly of the press, if at the same time it remained an admirable\ninstrument for the diffusion of knowledge, the open conscience, so to\nsay, of the nation, a river which, though there might be horrors on its\nsurface, none the less flowed on, carrying all nations to the brotherly\nocean of the future centuries! The human lees ended by sinking to the\nbottom of the vat, and it was not possible to expect that what was right\nwould triumph visibly every day; for it was often necessary that years\nshould elapse before the realisation of some hope could emerge from the\nfermentation. Eternal matter is ever being cast afresh into the crucible\nand ever coming from it improved. And if in the depths of pestilential\nworkshops and factories the slavery of ancient times subsists in the\nwage-earning system, if such men as Toussaint still die of want on their\npallets like broken-down beasts of burden, it is nevertheless a fact that\nonce already, on a memorable day of tempest, Liberty sprang forth from\nthe vat to wing her flight throughout the world. And why in her turn\nshould not Justice spring from it, proceeding from those troubled\nelements, freeing herself from all dross, flowing forth with dazzling\nlimpidity and regenerating the nations?\n\nHowever, the voices of Bache and Morin, rising in the course of their\nchat with Guillaume, once more drew Pierre from his reverie. They were\nnow speaking of Janzen, who after being compromised in a fresh outrage at\nBarcelona had fled from Spain. Bache fancied that he had recognised him\nin the street only the previous day. To think that a man with so clear a\nmind and such keen energy should waste his natural gifts in such a\nhateful cause!\n\n\u201cWhen I remember,\u201d said Morin slowly, \u201cthat Barth\u00e8s lives in exile in a\nshabby little room at Brussels, ever quivering with the hope that the\nreign of liberty is at hand--he who has never had a drop of blood on his\nhands and who has spent two-thirds of his life in prison in order that\nthe nations may be freed!\u201d\n\nBache gently shrugged his shoulders: \u201cLiberty, liberty, of course,\u201d said\nhe; \u201conly it is worth nothing if it is not organised.\u201d\n\nThereupon their everlasting discussion began afresh, with Saint-Simon and\nFourier on one side and Proudhon and Auguste Comte on the other. Bache\ngave a long account of the last commemoration which had taken place in\nhonour of Fourier\u2019s memory, how faithful disciples had brought wreaths\nand made speeches, forming quite a meeting of apostles, who all\nstubbornly clung to their faith, as confident in the future as if they\nwere the messengers of some new gospel. Afterwards Morin emptied his\npockets, which were always full of Positivist tracts and pamphlets,\nmanifestos, answers and so forth, in which Comte\u2019s doctrines were\nextolled as furnishing the only possible basis for the new, awaited\nreligion. Pierre, who listened, thereupon remembered the disputes in his\nlittle house at Neuilly when he himself, searching for certainty, had\nendeavoured to draw up the century\u2019s balance-sheet. He had lost his\ndepth, in the end, amidst the contradictions and incoherency of the\nvarious precursors. Although Fourier had sprung from Saint-Simon, he\ndenied him in part, and if Saint-Simon\u2019s doctrine ended in a kind of\nmystical sensuality, the other\u2019s conducted to an inacceptable regimenting\nof society. Proudhon, for his part, demolished without rebuilding\nanything. Comte, who created method and declared science to be the one\nand only sovereign, had not even suspected the advent of the social\ncrisis which now threatened to sweep all away, and had finished\npersonally as a mere worshipper of love, overpowered by woman.\nNevertheless, these two, Comte and Proudhon, entered the lists and fought\nagainst the others, Fourier and Saint-Simon; the combat between them or\ntheir disciples becoming so bitter and so blind that the truths common to\nthem all at first seemed obscured and disfigured beyond recognition. Now,\nhowever, that evolution had slowly transformed Pierre, those common\ntruths seemed to him as irrefutable, as clear as the sunlight itself.\nAmidst the chaos of conflicting assertions which was to be found in the\ngospels of those social messiahs, there were certain similar phrases and\nprinciples which recurred again and again, the defence of the poor, the\nidea of a new and just division of the riches of the world in accordance\nwith individual labour and merit, and particularly the search for a new\nlaw of labour which would enable this fresh distribution to be made\nequitably. Since all the precursory men of genius agreed so closely upon\nthose points, must they not be the very foundations of to-morrow\u2019s new\nreligion, the necessary faith which this century must bequeath to the\ncoming century, in order that the latter may make of it a human religion\nof peace, solidarity and love?\n\nThen, all at once, there came a leap in Pierre\u2019s thoughts. He fancied\nhimself at the Madeleine once more, listening to the address on the New\nSpirit delivered by Monseigneur Martha, who had predicted that Paris, now\nreconverted to Christianity, would, thanks to the Sacred Heart, become\nthe ruler of the world. But no, but no! If Paris reigned, it was because\nit was able to exercise its intelligence freely. To set the cross and the\nmystic and repulsive symbolism of a bleeding heart above it was simply so\nmuch falsehood. Although they might rear edifices of pride and domination\nas if to crush Paris with their very weight, although they might try to\nstop science in the name of a dead ideal and in the hope of setting their\nclutches upon the coming century, these attempts would be of no avail.\nScience will end by sweeping away all remnants of their ancient\nsovereignty, their basilica will crumble beneath the breeze of Truth\nwithout any necessity of raising a finger against it. The trial has been\nmade, the Gospel as a social code has fallen to pieces, and human wisdom\ncan only retain account of its moral maxims. Ancient Catholicism is on\nall sides crumbling into dust, Catholic Rome is a mere field of ruins\nfrom which the nations turn aside, anxious as they are for a religion\nthat shall not be a religion of death. In olden times the overburdened\nslave, glowing with a new hope and seeking to escape from his gaol,\ndreamt of a heaven where in return for his earthly misery he would be\nrewarded with eternal enjoyment. But now that science has destroyed that\nfalse idea of a heaven, and shown what dupery lies in reliance on the\nmorrow of death, the slave, the workman, weary of dying for happiness\u2019\nsake, demands that justice and happiness shall find place upon this\nearth. Therein lies the new hope--Justice, after eighteen hundred years\nof impotent Charity. Ah! in a thousand years from now, when Catholicism\nwill be naught but a very ancient superstition of the past, how amazed\nmen will be to think that their ancestors were able to endure that\nreligion of torture and nihility! How astonished they will feel on\nfinding that God was regarded as an executioner, that manhood was\nthreatened, maimed and chastised, that nature was accounted an enemy,\nthat life was looked upon as something accursed, and that death alone was\npronounced sweet and liberating! For well-nigh two thousand years the\nonward march of mankind has been hampered by the odious idea of tearing\nall that is human away from man: his desires, his passions, his free\nintelligence, his will and right of action, his whole strength. And how\nglorious will be the awakening when such virginity as is now honoured by\nthe Church is held in derision, when fruitfulness is again recognised as\na virtue, amidst the hosanna of all the freed forces of nature--man\u2019s\ndesires which will be honoured, his passions which will be utilised, his\nlabour which will be exalted, whilst life is loved and ever and ever\ncreates love afresh!\n\nA new religion! a new religion! Pierre remembered the cry which had\nescaped him at Lourdes, and which he had repeated at Rome in presence of\nthe collapse of old Catholicism. But he no longer displayed the same\nfeverish eagerness as then--a puerile, sickly desire that a new Divinity\nshould at once reveal himself, an ideal come into being, complete in all\nrespects, with dogmas and form of worship. The Divine certainly seemed to\nbe as necessary to man as were bread and water; he had ever fallen back\nupon it, hungering for the mysterious, seemingly having no other means of\nconsolation than that of annihilating himself in the unknown. But who can\nsay that science will not some day quench the thirst for what lies beyond\nus? If the domain of science embraces the acquired truths, it also\nembraces, and will ever do so, the truths that remain to be acquired. And\nin front of it will there not ever remain a margin for the thirst of\nknowledge, for the hypotheses which are but so much ideality? Besides, is\nnot the yearning for the divine simply a desire to behold the Divinity?\nAnd if science should more and more content the yearning to know all and\nbe able to do all, will not that yearning be quieted and end by mingling\nwith the love of acquired truth? A religion grafted on science is the\nindicated, certain, inevitable finish of man\u2019s long march towards\nknowledge. He will come to it at last as to a natural haven, as to peace\nin the midst of certainty, after passing every form of ignorance and\nterror on his road. And is there not already some indication of such a\nreligion? Has not the idea of the duality of God and the Universe been\nbrushed aside, and is not the principle of unity, _monisme_, becoming\nmore and more evident--unity leading to solidarity, and the sole law of\nlife proceeding by evolution from the first point of the ether that\ncondensed to create the world? But if precursors, scientists and\nphilosophers--Darwin, Fourier and all the others--have sown the seed of\nto-morrow\u2019s religion by casting the good word to the passing breeze, how\nmany centuries will doubtless be required to raise the crop! People\nalways forget that before Catholicism grew up and reigned in the\nsunlight, it spent four centuries in germinating and sprouting from the\nsoil. Well, then, grant some centuries to this religion of science of\nwhose sprouting there are signs upon all sides, and by-and-by the\nadmirable ideas of some Fourier will be seen expanding and forming a new\ngospel, with desire serving as the lever to raise the world, work\naccepted by one and all, honoured and regulated as the very mechanism of\nnatural and social life, and the passions of man excited, contented and\nutilised for human happiness! The universal cry of Justice, which rises\nlouder and louder, in a growing clamour from the once silent multitude,\nthe people that have so long been duped and preyed upon, is but a cry for\nthis happiness towards which human beings are tending, the happiness that\nembodies the complete satisfaction of man\u2019s needs, and the principle of\nlife loved for its own sake, in the midst of peace and the expansion of\nevery force and every joy. The time will come when this Kingdom of God\nwill be set upon the earth; so why not close that other deceptive\nparadise, even if the weak-minded must momentarily suffer from the\ndestruction of their illusions; for it is necessary to operate even with\ncruelty on the blind if they are to be extricated from their misery, from\ntheir long and frightful night of ignorance!\n\nAll at once a feeling of deep joy came over Pierre. A child\u2019s faint cry,\nthe wakening cry of his son Jean had drawn him from his reverie. And he\nhad suddenly remembered that he himself was now saved, freed from\nfalsehood and fright, restored to good and healthy nature. How he\nquivered as he recalled that he had once fancied himself lost, blotted\nout of life, and that a prodigy of love had extricated him from his\nnothingness, still strong and sound, since that dear child of his was\nthere, sturdy and smiling. Life had brought forth life; and truth had\nburst forth, as dazzling as the sun. He had made his third experiment\nwith Paris, and this had been conclusive; it had been no wretched\nmiscarriage with increase of darkness and grief, like his other\nexperiments at Lourdes and Rome. In the first place, the law of labour\nhad been revealed to him, and he had imposed upon himself a task, as\nhumble a one as it was, that manual calling which he was learning so late\nin life, but which was, nevertheless, a form of labour, and one in which\nhe would never fail, one too that would lend him the serenity which comes\nfrom the accomplishment of duty, for life itself was but labour: it was\nonly by effort that the world existed. And then, moreover, he had loved;\nand salvation had come to him from woman and from his child. Ah! what a\nlong and circuitous journey he had made to reach this finish at once so\nnatural and so simple! How he had suffered, how much error and anger he\nhad known before doing what all men ought to do! That eager, glowing love\nwhich had contended against his reason, which had bled at sight of the\narrant absurdities of the miraculous grotto of Lourdes, which had bled\nagain too in presence of the haughty decline of the Vatican, had at last\nfound contentment now that he was husband and father, now that he had\nconfidence in work and believed in the just laws of life. And thence had\ncome the indisputable truth, the one solution--happiness in certainty.\n\nWhilst Pierre was thus plunged in thought, Bache and Morin had already\ngone off with their customary handshakes and promises to come and chat\nagain some evening. And as Jean was now crying more loudly, Marie took\nhim in her arms and unhooked her dress-body to give him her breast.\n\n\u201cOh! the darling, it\u2019s his time, you know, and he doesn\u2019t forget it!\u201d she\nsaid. \u201cJust look, Pierre, I believe he has got bigger since yesterday.\u201d\n\nShe laughed; and Pierre, likewise laughing, drew near to kiss the child.\nAnd afterwards he kissed his wife, mastered as he was by emotion at the\nsight of that pink, gluttonous little creature imbibing life from that\nlovely breast so full of milk.\n\n\u201cWhy! he\u2019ll eat you,\u201d he gaily said to Marie. \u201cHow he\u2019s pulling!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! he does bite me a little,\u201d she replied; \u201cbut I like that the better,\nit shows that he profits by it.\u201d\n\nThen M\u00e8re-Grand, she who as a rule was so serious and silent, began to\ntalk with a smile lighting up her face: \u201cI weighed him this morning,\u201d\n said she, \u201che weighs nearly a quarter of a pound more than he did the\nlast time. And if you had only seen how good he was, the darling! He will\nbe a very intelligent and well-behaved little gentleman, such as I like.\nWhen he\u2019s five years old, I shall teach him his alphabet, and when he\u2019s\nfifteen, if he likes, I\u2019ll tell him how to be a man.... Don\u2019t you\nagree with me, Thomas? And you, Antoine, and you, too, Fran\u00e7ois?\u201d\n\nRaising their heads, the three sons gaily nodded their approval, grateful\nas they felt for the lessons in heroism which she had given them, and\napparently finding no reason why she might not live another twenty years\nin order to give similar lessons to Jean.\n\nPierre still remained in front of Marie, basking in all the rapture of\nlove, when he felt Guillaume lay his hands upon his shoulders from\nbehind. And on turning round he saw that his brother was also radiant,\nlike one who felt well pleased at seeing them so happy. \u201cAh! brother,\u201d\n said Guillaume softly, \u201cdo you remember my telling you that you suffered\nsolely from the battle between your mind and your heart, and that you\nwould find quietude again when you loved what you could understand? It\nwas necessary that our father and mother, whose painful quarrel had\ncontinued beyond the grave, should be reconciled in you. And now it\u2019s\ndone, they sleep in peace within you, since you yourself are pacified.\u201d\n\nThese words filled Pierre with emotion. Joy beamed upon his face, which\nwas now so open and energetic. He still had the towering brow, that\nimpregnable fortress of reason, which he had derived from his father, and\nhe still had the gentle chin and affectionate eyes and mouth which his\nmother had given him, but all was now blended together, instinct with\nhappy harmony and serene strength. Those two experiments of his which had\nmiscarried, were like crises of his maternal heredity, the tearful\ntenderness which had come to him from his mother, and which for lack of\nsatisfaction had made him desperate; and his third experiment had only\nended in happiness because he had contented his ardent thirst for love in\naccordance with sovereign reason, that paternal heredity which pleaded so\nloudly within him. Reason remained the queen. And if his sufferings had\nthus always come from the warfare which his reason had waged against his\nheart, it was because he was man personified, ever struggling between his\nintelligence and his passions. And how peaceful all seemed, now that he\nhad reconciled and satisfied them both, now that he felt healthy, perfect\nand strong, like some lofty oak, which grows in all freedom, and whose\nbranches spread far away over the forest.\n\n\u201cYou have done good work in that respect,\u201d Guillaume affectionately\ncontinued, \u201cfor yourself and for all of us, and even for our dear parents\nwhose shades, pacified and reconciled, now abide so peacefully in the\nlittle home of our childhood. I often think of our dear house at Neuilly,\nwhich old Sophie is taking care of for us; and although, out of egotism,\na desire to set happiness around me, I wished to keep you here, your Jean\nmust some day go and live there, so as to bring it fresh youth.\u201d\n\nPierre had taken hold of his brother\u2019s hands, and looking into his eyes\nhe asked: \u201cAnd you--are you happy?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, very happy, happier than I have ever been; happy at loving you as I\ndo, and happy at being loved by you as no one else will ever love me.\u201d\n\nTheir hearts mingled in ardent brotherly affection, the most perfect and\nheroic affection that can blend men together. And they embraced one\nanother whilst, with her babe on her breast, Marie, so gay, healthful and\nloyal, looked at them and smiled, with big tears gathering in her eyes.\n\nThomas, however, having finished his motor\u2019s last toilet, had just set it\nin motion. It was a prodigy of lightness and strength, of no weight\nwhatever in comparison with the power it displayed. And it worked with\nperfect smoothness, without noise or smell. The whole family was gathered\nround it in delight, when there came a timely visit, one from the learned\nand friendly Bertheroy, whom indeed Guillaume had asked to call, in order\nthat he might see the motor working.\n\nThe great chemist at once expressed his admiration; and when he had\nexamined the mechanism and understood how the explosive was employed as\nmotive power--an idea which he had long recommended,--he tendered\nenthusiastic congratulations to Guillaume and Thomas. \u201cYou have created a\nlittle marvel,\u201d said he, \u201cone which may have far-reaching effects both\nsocially and humanly. Yes, yes, pending the invention of the electrical\nmotor which we have not yet arrived at, here is an ideal one, a system of\nmechanical traction for all sorts of vehicles. Even aerial navigation may\nnow become a possibility, and the problem of force at home is finally\nsolved. And what a grand step! What sudden progress! Distance again\ndiminished, all roads thrown open, and men able to fraternise! This is a\ngreat boon, a splendid gift, my good friends, that you are bestowing on\nthe world.\u201d\n\nThen he began to jest about the new explosive, whose prodigious power he\nhad divined, and which he now found put to such a beneficent purpose.\n\u201cAnd to think, Guillaume,\u201d he said, \u201cthat I fancied you acted with so\nmuch mysteriousness and hid the formula of your powder from me because\nyou had an idea of blowing up Paris!\u201d\n\nAt this Guillaume became grave and somewhat pale. And he confessed the\ntruth. \u201cWell, I did for a moment think of it.\u201d\n\nHowever, Bertheroy went on laughing, as if he regarded this answer as\nmere repartee, though truth to tell he had felt a slight chill sweep\nthrough his hair. \u201cWell, my friend,\u201d he said, \u201cyou have done far better\nin offering the world this marvel, which by the way must have been both a\ndifficult and dangerous matter. So here is a powder which was intended to\nexterminate people, and which in lieu thereof will now increase their\ncomfort and welfare. In the long run things always end well, as I\u2019m quite\ntired of saying.\u201d\n\nOn beholding such lofty and tolerant good nature, Guillaume felt moved.\nBertheroy\u2019s words were true. What had been intended for purposes of\ndestruction served the cause of progress; the subjugated, domesticated\nvolcano became labour, peace and civilisation. Guillaume had even\nrelinquished all idea of his engine of battle and victory; he had found\nsufficient satisfaction in this last invention of his, which would\nrelieve men of some measure of weariness, and help to reduce their labour\nto just so much effort as there must always be. In this he detected some\nlittle advance towards Justice; at all events it was all that he himself\ncould contribute to the cause. And when on turning towards the window he\ncaught sight of the basilica of the Sacred Heart, he could not explain\nwhat insanity had at one moment come over him, and set him dreaming of\nidiotic and useless destruction. Some miasmal gust must have swept by,\nsomething born of want that scattered germs of anger and vengeance. But\nhow blind it was to think that destruction and murder could ever bear\ngood fruit, ever sow the soil with plenty and happiness! Violence cannot\nlast, and all it does is to rouse man\u2019s feeling of solidarity even among\nthose on whose behalf one kills. The people, the great multitude, rebel\nagainst the isolated individual who seeks to wreak justice. No one man\ncan take upon himself the part of the volcano; this is the whole\nterrestrial crust, the whole multitude which internal fire impels to rise\nand throw up either an Alpine chain or a better and freer society. And\nwhatever heroism there may be in their madness, however great and\ncontagious may be their thirst for martyrdom, murderers are never\nanything but murderers, whose deeds simply sow the seeds of horror. And\nif on the one hand Victor Mathis had avenged Salvat, he had also slain\nhim, so universal had been the cry of reprobation roused by the second\ncrime, which was yet more monstrous and more useless than the first.\n\nGuillaume, laughing in his turn, replied to Bertheroy in words which\nshowed how completely he was cured: \u201cYou are right,\u201d he said, \u201call ends\nwell since all contributes to truth and justice. Unfortunately, thousands\nof years are sometimes needed for any progress to be accomplished....\nHowever, for my part, I am simply going to put my new explosive on the\nmarket, so that those who secure the necessary authorisation may\nmanufacture it and grow rich. Henceforth it belongs to one and all....\nAnd I\u2019ve renounced all idea of revolutionising the world.\u201d\n\nBut Bertheroy protested. This great official scientist, this member of\nthe Institute laden with offices and honours, pointed to the little\nmotor, and replied with all the vigour of his seventy years: \u201cBut that is\nrevolution, the true, the only revolution. It is with things like that\nand not with stupid bombs that one revolutionises the world! It is not by\ndestroying, but by creating, that you have just done the work of a\nrevolutionist. And how many times already have I not told you that\nscience alone is the world\u2019s revolutionary force, the only force which,\nfar above all paltry political incidents, the vain agitation of despots,\npriests, sectarians and ambitious people of all kinds, works for the\nbenefit of those who will come after us, and prepares the triumph of\ntruth, justice and peace.... Ah, my dear child, if you wish to\noverturn the world by striving to set a little more happiness in it, you\nhave only to remain in your laboratory here, for human happiness can\nspring only from the furnace of the scientist.\u201d\n\nHe spoke perhaps in a somewhat jesting way, but one could feel that he\nwas convinced of it all, that he held everything excepting science in\nutter contempt. He had not even shown any surprise when Pierre had cast\nhis cassock aside; and on finding him there with his wife and child he\nhad not scrupled to show him as much affection as in the past.\n\nMeantime, however, the motor was travelling hither and thither, making no\nmore noise than a bluebottle buzzing in the sunshine. The whole happy\nfamily was gathered about it, still laughing with delight at such a\nvictorious achievement. And all at once little Jean, Monsieur Jean,\nhaving finished sucking, turned round, displaying his milk-smeared lips,\nand perceived the machine, the pretty plaything which walked about by\nitself. At sight of it, his eyes sparkled, dimples appeared on his plump\ncheeks, and, stretching out his quivering chubby hands, he raised a crow\nof delight.\n\nMarie, who was quietly fastening her dress, smiled at his glee and\nbrought him nearer, in order that he might have a better view of the toy.\n\u201cAh! my darling, it\u2019s pretty, isn\u2019t it? It moves and it turns, and it\u2019s\nstrong; it\u2019s quite alive, you see.\u201d\n\nThe others, standing around, were much amused by the amazed, enraptured\nexpression of the child, who would have liked to touch the machine,\nperhaps in the hope of understanding it.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d resumed Bertheroy, \u201cit\u2019s alive and it\u2019s powerful like the sun,\nlike that great sun shining yonder over Paris, and ripening men and\nthings. And Paris too is a motor, a boiler in which the future is\nboiling, while we scientists keep the eternal flame burning underneath.\nGuillaume, my good fellow, you are one of the stokers, one of the\nartisans of the future, with that little marvel of yours, which will\nstill further extend the influence of our great Paris over the whole\nworld.\u201d\n\nThese words impressed Pierre, and he again thought of a gigantic vat\nstretching yonder from one horizon to the other, a vat in which the\ncoming century would emerge from an extraordinary mixture of the\nexcellent and the vile. But now, over and above all passions, ambitions,\nstains and waste, he was conscious of the colossal expenditure of labour\nwhich marked the life of Paris, of the heroic manual efforts in\nwork-shops and factories, and the splendid striving of the young men of\nintellect whom he knew to be hard at work, studying in silence,\nrelinquishing none of the conquests of their elders, but glowing with\ndesire to enlarge their domain. And in all this Paris was exalted,\ntogether with the future that was being prepared within it, and which\nwould wing its flight over the world bright like the dawn of day. If\nRome, now so near its death, had ruled the ancient world, it was Paris\nthat reigned with sovereign sway over the modern era, and had for the\ntime become the great centre of the nations as they were carried on from\ncivilisation to civilisation, in a sunward course from east to west.\nParis was the world\u2019s brain. Its past so full of grandeur had prepared it\nfor the part of initiator, civiliser and liberator. Only yesterday it had\ncast the cry of Liberty among the nations, and to-morrow it would bring\nthem the religion of Science, the new faith awaited by the democracies.\nAnd Paris was also gaiety, kindness and gentleness, passion for knowledge\nand generosity without limit. Among the workmen of its faubourgs and the\npeasants of its country-sides there were endless reserves of men on whom\nthe future might freely draw. And the century ended with Paris, and the\nnew century would begin and spread with it. All the clamour of its\nprodigious labour, all the light that came from it as from a beacon\noverlooking the earth, all the thunder and tempest and triumphant\nbrightness that sprang from its entrails, were pregnant with that final\nsplendour, of which human happiness would be compounded.\n\nMarie raised a light cry of admiration as she pointed towards the city.\n\u201cLook! just look!\u201d she exclaimed; \u201cParis is all golden, covered with a\nharvest of gold!\u201d\n\nThey all re-echoed her admiration, for the effect was really one of\nextraordinary magnificence. The declining sun was once more veiling the\nimmensity of Paris with golden dust. But this was no longer the city of\nthe sower, a chaos of roofs and edifices suggesting brown land turned up\nby some huge plough, whilst the sun-rays streamed over it like golden\nseed, falling upon every side. Nor was it the city whose divisions had\none day seemed so plain to Pierre: eastward, the districts of toil, misty\nwith the grey smoke of factories; southward, the districts of study,\nserene and quiet; westward, the districts of wealth, bright and open; and\nin the centre the districts of trade, with dark and busy streets. It now\nseemed as if one and the same crop had sprung up on every side, imparting\nharmony to everything, and making the entire expanse one sole, boundless\nfield, rich with the same fruitfulness. There was corn, corn everywhere,\nan infinity of corn, whose golden wave rolled from one end of the horizon\nto the other. Yes, the declining sun steeped all Paris in equal\nsplendour, and it was truly the crop, the harvest, after the sowing!\n\n\u201cLook! just look,\u201d repeated Marie, \u201cthere is not a nook without its\nsheaf; the humblest roofs are fruitful, and every blade is full-eared\nwherever one may look. It is as if there were now but one and the same\nsoil, reconciled and fraternal. Ah! Jean, my little Jean, look! see how\nbeautiful it is!\u201d\n\nPierre, who was quivering, had drawn close beside her. And M\u00e8re-Grand and\nBertheroy smiled upon that promise of a future which they would not see,\nwhilst beside Guillaume, whom the sight filled with emotion, were his\nthree big sons, the three young giants, looking quite grave, they who\never laboured and were ever hopeful. Then Marie, with a fine gesture of\nenthusiasm, stretched out her arms and raised her child aloft, as if\noffering it in gift to the huge city.\n\n\u201cSee, Jean! see, little one,\u201d she cried, \u201cit\u2019s you who\u2019ll reap it all,\nwho\u2019ll store the whole crop in the barn!\u201d\n\nAnd Paris flared--Paris, which the divine sun had sown with light, and\nwhere in glory waved the great future harvest of Truth and of Justice.\n\nTHE END","title":"The Three Cities Trilogy, Complete: Lourdes, Rome and Paris","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":660475}