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literature; and it was also Science accepted, but set in its proper

place, reconciled with Faith, since it no longer pretended to encroach on

the latter's sacred domain; and it was further the Democracy welcomed in

fatherly fashion, the Republic legitimated, recognised in her turn as

Eldest Daughter of the Church. A breath of poetry passed by. The Church

opened her heart to all her children, there would henceforth be but

concord and delight if the masses, obedient to the New Spirit, would give

themselves to the Master of love as they had given themselves to their

kings, recognising that the Divinity was the one unique power, absolute

sovereign of both body and soul.

Pierre was now listening attentively, wondering where it was that he had

previously heard almost identical words. And suddenly he remembered; and

could fancy that he was again at Rome, listening to the last words of

Monsignor Nani, the Assessor of the Holy Office. Here, again, he found

the dream of a democratic Pope, ceasing to support the compromised

monarchies, and seeking to subdue the masses. Since Caesar was down, or

nearly so, might not the Pope realise the ancient ambition of his

forerunners and become both emperor and pontiff, the sovereign, universal

divinity on earth? This, too, was the dream in which Pierre himself, with

apostolic naivete, had indulged when writing his book, "New Rome": a

dream from which the sight of the real Rome had so roughly roused him. At

bottom it was merely a policy of hypocritical falsehood, the priestly

policy which relies on time, and is ever tenacious, carrying on the work

of conquest with extraordinary suppleness, resolved to profit by

everything. And what an evolution it was, the Church of Rome making

advances to Science, to the Democracy, to the Republican _regimes_,

convinced that it would be able to devour them if only it were allowed

the time! Ah! yes, the New Spirit was simply the Old Spirit of

Domination, incessantly reviving and hungering to conquer and possess the

world.

Pierre thought that he recognised among the congregation certain deputies

whom he had seen at the Chamber. Wasn't that tall gentleman with the fair

beard, who listened so devoutly, one of Monferrand's creatures? It was

said that Monferrand, once a devourer of priests, was now smilingly

coquetting with the clergy. Quite an underhand evolution was beginning in

the sacristies, orders from Rome flitted hither and thither; it was a

question of accepting the new form of government, and absorbing it by

dint of invasion. France was still the Eldest Daughter of the Church, the

only great nation which had sufficient health and strength to place the

Pope in possession of his temporal power once more. So France must be

won; it was well worth one's while to espouse her, even if she were

Republican. In the eager struggle of ambition the bishop made use of the

minister, who thought it to his interest to lean upon the bishop. But

which of the two would end by devouring the other? And to what a _role_

had religion sunk: an electoral weapon, an element in a parliamentary

majority, a decisive, secret reason for obtaining or retaining a

ministerial portfolio! Of divine charity, the basis of religion, there

was no thought, and Pierre's heart filled with bitterness as he

remembered the recent death of Cardinal Bergerot, the last of the great

saints and pure minds of the French episcopacy, among which there now

seemed to be merely a set of intriguers and fools.

However, the address was drawing to a close. In a glowing peroration,

which evoked the basilica of the Sacred Heart dominating Paris with the

saving symbol of the Cross from the sacred Mount of the Martyrs,*

Monseigneur Martha showed that great city of Paris Christian once more

and master of the world, thanks to the moral omnipotence conferred upon

it by the divine breath of the New Spirit. Unable to applaud, the

congregation gave utterance to a murmur of approving rapture, delighted

as it was with this miraculous finish which reassured both pocket and

conscience. Then Monseigneur Martha quitted the pulpit with a noble step,

whilst a loud noise of chairs broke upon the dark peacefulness of the

church, where the few lighted candles glittered like the first stars in

the evening sky. A long stream of men, vague, whispering shadows, glided

away. The women alone remained, praying on their knees.

* Montmartre.

Pierre, still in the same spot, was rising on tip-toes, looking for Abbe

Rose, when a hand touched him. It was that of the old priest, who had

seen him from a distance. "I was yonder near the pulpit," said he, "and I

saw you plainly, my dear child. Only I preferred to wait so as to disturb

nobody. What a beautiful address dear Monseigneur delivered!"

He seemed, indeed, much moved. But there was deep sadness about his

kindly mouth and clear childlike eyes, whose smile as a rule illumined

his good, round white face. "I was afraid you might go off without seeing

me," he resumed, "for I have something to tell you. You know that poor

old man to whom I sent you this morning and in whom I asked you to

interest yourself? Well, on getting home I found a lady there, who

sometimes brings me a little money for my poor. Then I thought to myself

that the three francs I gave you were really too small a sum, and as the

thought worried me like a kind of remorse, I couldn't resist the impulse,

but went this afternoon to the Rue des Saules myself."

He lowered his voice from a feeling of respect, in order not to disturb

the deep, sepulchral silence of the church. Covert shame, moreover,

impeded his utterance, shame at having again relapsed into the sin of

blind, imprudent charity, as his superiors reproachfully said. And,

quivering, he concluded in a very low voice indeed: "And so, my child,

picture my grief. I had five francs more to give the poor old man, and I

found him dead."

Pierre suddenly shuddered. But he was unwilling to understand: "What,

dead!" he cried. "That old man dead! Laveuve dead?"

"Yes, I found him dead--ah! amidst what frightful wretchedness, like an

old animal that has laid itself down for the finish on a heap of rags in

the depths of a hole. No neighbours had assisted him in his last moments;

he had simply turned himself towards the wall. And ah! how bare and cold

and deserted it was! And what a pang for a poor creature to go off like

that without a word, a caress. Ah! my heart bounded within me and it is

still bleeding!"

Pierre in his utter amazement at first made but a gesture of revolt

against imbecile social cruelty. Had the bread left near the unfortunate

wretch, and devoured too eagerly, perhaps, after long days of abstinence,

been the cause of his death? Or was not this rather the fatal

_denouement_ of an ended life, worn away by labour and privation?

However, what did the cause signify? Death had come and delivered the

poor man. "It isn't he that I pity," Pierre muttered at last; "it is

we--we who witness all that, we who are guilty of these abominations."

But good Abbe Rose was already becoming resigned, and would only think of

forgiveness and hope. "No, no, my child, rebellion is evil. If we are all

guilty we can only implore Providence to forget our faults. I had given

you an appointment here hoping for good news; and it's I who come to tell

you of that frightful thing. Let us be penitent and pray."

Then he knelt upon the flagstones near the pillar, in the rear of the

praying women, who looked black and vague in the gloom. And he inclined

his white head, and for a long time remained in a posture of humility.

But Pierre was unable to pray, so powerfully did revolt stir him. He did

not even bend his knees, but remained erect and quivering. His heart

seemed to have been crushed; not a tear came to his ardent eyes. So

Laveuve had died yonder, stretched on his litter of rags, his hands

clenched in his obstinate desire to cling to his life of torture, whilst

he, Pierre, again glowing with the flame of charity, consumed by

apostolic zeal, was scouring Paris to find him for the evening a clean

bed on which he might be saved. Ah! the atrocious irony of it all! He

must have been at the Duvillards' in the warm _salon_, all blue and

silver, whilst the old man was expiring; and it was for a wretched corpse

that he had then hastened to the Chamber of Deputies, to the Countess de

Quinsac's, to that creature Silviane's, and to that creature Rosemonde's.

And it was for that corpse, freed from life, escaped from misery as from

prison, that he had worried people, broken in upon their egotism,

disturbed the peace of some, threatened the pleasures of others! What was

the use of hastening from the parliamentary den to the cold _salon_ where

the dust of the past was congealing; of going from the sphere of

middle-class debauchery to that of cosmopolitan extravagance, since one

always arrived too late, and saved people when they were already dead?

How ridiculous to have allowed himself to be fired once more by that

blaze of charity, that final conflagration, only the ashes of which he

now felt within him? This time he thought he was dead himself; he was

naught but an empty sepulchre.

And all the frightful void and chaos which he had felt that morning at

the basilica of the Sacred Heart after his mass became yet deeper,

henceforth unfathomable. If charity were illusory and useless the Gospel

crumbled, the end of the Book was nigh. After centuries of stubborn

efforts, Redemption through Christianity failed, and another means of

salvation was needed by the world in presence of the exasperated thirst

for justice which came from the duped and wretched nations. They would

have no more of that deceptive paradise, the promise of which had so long

served to prop up social iniquity; they demanded that the question of

happiness should be decided upon this earth. But how? By means of what

new religion, what combination between the sentiment of the Divine and

the necessity for honouring life in its sovereignty and its fruitfulness?

Therein lay the grievous, torturing problem, into the midst of which

Pierre was sinking; he, a priest, severed by vows of chastity and

superstition from the rest of mankind.

He had ceased to believe in the efficacy of alms; it was not sufficient

that one should be charitable, henceforth one must be just. Given

justice, indeed, horrid misery would disappear, and no such thing as

charity would be needed. Most certainly there was no lack of

compassionate hearts in that grievous city of Paris; charitable

foundations sprouted forth there like green leaves at the first warmth of

springtide. There were some for every age, every peril, every misfortune.

Through the concern shown for mothers, children were succoured even

before they were born; then came the infant and orphan asylums lavishly

provided for all sorts of classes; and, afterwards, man was followed

through his life, help was tendered on all sides, particularly as he grew

old, by a multiplicity of asylums, almshouses, and refuges. And there

were all the hands stretched out to the forsaken ones, the disinherited

ones, even the criminals, all sorts of associations to protect the weak,

societies for the prevention of crime, homes that offered hospitality to

those who repented. Whether as regards the propagation of good deeds, the

support of the young, the saving of life, the bestowal of pecuniary help,

or the promotion of guilds, pages and pages would have been needed merely

to particularise the extraordinary vegetation of charity that sprouted

between the paving-stones of Paris with so fine a vigour, in which

goodness of soul was mingled with social vanity. Still that could not

matter, since charity redeemed and purified all. But how terrible the

proposition that this charity was a useless mockery! What! after so many

centuries of Christian charity not a sore had healed. Misery had only

grown and spread, irritated even to rage. Incessantly aggravated, the

evil was reaching the point when it would be impossible to tolerate it

for another day, since social injustice was neither arrested nor even

diminished thereby. And besides, if only one single old man died of cold

and hunger, did not the social edifice, raised on the theory of charity,

collapse? But one victim, and society was condemned, thought Pierre.

He now felt such bitterness of heart that he could remain no longer in

that church where the shadows ever slowly fell, blurring the sanctuaries

and the large pale images of Christ nailed upon the Cross. All was about

to sink into darkness, and he could hear nothing beyond an expiring

murmur of prayers, a plaint from the women who were praying on their

knees, in the depths of the shrouding gloom.

At the same time he hardly liked to go off without saying a word to Abbe

Rose, who in his entreaties born of simple faith left the happiness and

peace of mankind to the good pleasure of the Invisible. However, fearing

that he might disturb him, Pierre was making up his mind to retire, when

the old priest of his own accord raised his head. "Ah, my child," said

he, "how difficult it is to be good in a reasonable manner. Monseigneur

Martha has scolded me again, and but for the forgiveness of God I should

fear for my salvation."

For a moment Pierre paused under the porticus of the Madeleine, on the

summit of the great flight of steps which, rising above the railings,

dominates the Place. Before him was the Rue Royale dipping down to the

expanse of the Place de la Concorde, where rose the obelisk and the pair

of plashing fountains. And, farther yet, the paling colonnade of the

Chamber of Deputies bounded the horizon. It was a vista of sovereign

grandeur under that pale sky over which twilight was slowly stealing, and

which seemed to broaden the thoroughfares, throw back the edifices, and

lend them the quivering, soaring aspect of the palaces of dreamland. No

other capital in the world could boast a scene of such aerial pomp, such