第 18 页

frequent and inexplicable meetings with Salvat, his surprise at now

seeing his brother mingled with the affair, all helped to fill him with a

pressing desire to know, witness, and perhaps prevent. So he did not

hesitate, but began to follow the others in a prudent way.

Fresh perturbation came upon him when first Salvat and then Guillaume

suddenly turned into the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy. What destiny was thus

bringing him back to that street whither a little time previously he had

wished to return in feverish haste, and whence only the death of Laveuve

had kept him? And his consternation increased yet further when, after

losing sight of Salvat for a moment, he saw him standing in front of the

Duvillard mansion, on the same spot where he had fancied he recognised

him that morning. As it happened the carriage entrance of the mansion was

wide open. Some repairs had been made to the paving of the porch, and

although the workmen had now gone off, the doorway remained gaping, full

of the falling night. The narrow street, running from the glittering

Boulevard, was steeped in bluish gloom, starred at long intervals by a

few gas-lamps. Some women went by, compelling Salvat to step off the

foot-pavement. But he returned to it again, lighted the stump of a cigar,

some remnant which he had found under a table outside a cafe, and then

resumed his watch, patient and motionless, in front of the mansion.

Disturbed by his dim conjectures, Pierre gradually grew frightened, and

asked himself if he ought not to approach that man. The chief thing that

detained him was the presence of his brother, whom he had seen disappear

into a neighbouring doorway, whence he also was observing the engineer,

ready to intervene. And so Pierre contented himself with not losing sight

of Salvat, who was still waiting and watching, merely taking his eyes

from the mansion in order to glance towards the Boulevard as though he

expected someone or something which would come from that direction. And

at last, indeed, the Duvillards' landau appeared, with coachman and

footman in livery of green and gold--a closed landau to which a pair of

tall horses of superb build were harnessed in stylish fashion.

Contrary to custom, however, the carriage, which at that hour usually

brought the father and mother home, was only occupied that evening by the

son and daughter, Hyacinthe and Camille. Returning from the Princess de

Harn's _matinee_, they were chatting freely, with that calm immodesty by

which they sought to astonish one another. Hyacinthe, influenced by his

perverted ideas, was attacking women, whilst Camille openly counselled

him to respond to the Princess's advances. However, she was visibly

irritated and feverish that evening, and, suddenly changing the subject,

she began to speak of their mother and Gerard de Quinsac.

"But what can it matter to you?" quietly retorted Hyacinthe; and, seeing

that she almost bounded from the seat at this remark, he continued: "Are

you still in love with him, then? Do you still want to marry him?"

"Yes, I do, and I will!" she cried with all the jealous rage of an

uncomely girl, who suffered so acutely at seeing herself spurned whilst

her yet beautiful mother stole from her the man she wanted.

"You will, you will!" resumed Hyacinthe, well pleased to have an

opportunity of teasing his sister, whom he somewhat feared. "But you

won't unless _he_ is willing--And he doesn't care for you."

"He does!" retorted Camille in a fury. "He's kind and pleasant with me,

and that's enough."

Her brother felt afraid as he noticed the blackness of her glance, and

the clenching of her weak little hands, whose fingers bent like claws.

And after a pause he asked: "And papa, what does he say about it?"

"Oh, papa! All that he cares about is the other one."

Then Hyacinthe began to laugh.

But the landau, with its tall horses trotting on sonorously, had turned

into the street and was approaching the house, when a slim fair-haired

girl of sixteen or seventeen, a modiste's errand girl with a large

bandbox on her arm, hastily crossed the road in order to enter the arched

doorway before the carriage. She was bringing a bonnet for the Baroness,

and had come all along the Boulevard musing, with her soft blue eyes, her

pinky nose, and her mouth which ever laughed in the most adorable little

face that one could see. And it was at this same moment that Salvat,

after another glance at the landau, sprang forward and entered the

doorway. An instant afterwards he reappeared, flung his lighted cigar

stump into the gutter; and without undue haste went off, slinking into

the depths of the vague gloom of the street.

And then what happened? Pierre, later on, remembered that a dray of the

Western Railway Company in coming up stopped and delayed the landau for a

moment, whilst the young errand girl entered the doorway. And with a

heart-pang beyond description he saw his brother Guillaume in his turn

spring forward and rush into the mansion as though impelled to do so by

some revelation, some sudden certainty. He, Pierre, though he understood

nothing clearly, could divine the approach of some frightful horror. But

when he would have run, when he would have shouted, he found himself as

if nailed to the pavement, and felt his throat clutched as by a hand of

lead. Then suddenly came a thunderous roar, a formidable explosion, as if

the earth was opening, and the lightning-struck mansion was being

annihilated. Every window-pane of the neighbouring houses was shivered,

the glass raining down with the loud clatter of hail. For a moment a

hellish flame fired the street, and the dust and the smoke were such that

the few passers-by were blinded and howled with affright, aghast at

toppling, as they thought, into that fiery furnace.

And that dazzling flare brought Pierre enlightenment. He once more saw

the bomb distending the tool-bag, which lack of work had emptied and

rendered useless. He once more saw it under the ragged jacket, a

protuberance caused, he had fancied, by some hunk of bread, picked up in

a corner and treasured that it might be carried home to wife and child.

After wandering and threatening all happy Paris, it was there that it had

flared, there that it had burst with a thunder-clap, there on the

threshold of the sovereign _bourgeoisie_ to whom all wealth belonged. He,

however, at that moment thought only of his brother Guillaume, and flung

himself into that porch where a volcanic crater seemed to have opened.

And at first he distinguished nothing, the acrid smoke streamed over all.

Then he perceived the walls split, the upper floor rent open, the paving

broken up, strewn with fragments. Outside, the landau which had been on

the point of entering, had escaped all injury; neither of the horses had

been touched, nor was there even a scratch on any panel of the vehicle.

But the young girl, the pretty, slim, fair-haired errand girl, lay there

on her back, her stomach ripped open, whilst her delicate face remained

intact, her eyes clear, her smile full of astonishment, so swiftly and

lightning-like had come the catastrophe. And near her, from the fallen

bandbox, whose lid had merely come unfastened, had rolled the bonnet, a

very fragile pink bonnet, which still looked charming in its flowery

freshness.

By a prodigy Guillaume was alive and already on his legs again. His left

hand alone streamed with blood, a projectile seemed to have broken his

wrist. His moustaches moreover had been burnt, and the explosion by

throwing him to the ground had so shaken and bruised him that he shivered

from head to feet as with intense cold. Nevertheless, he recognised his

brother without even feeling astonished to see him there, as indeed often

happens after great disasters, when the unexplained becomes providential.

That brother, of whom he had so long lost sight, was there, naturally

enough, because it was necessary that he should be there. And Guillaume,

amidst the wild quivers by which he was shaken, at once cried to him

"Take me away! take me away! To your house at Neuilly, oh! take me away!"

Then, for sole explanation, and referring to Salvat, he stammered: "I

suspected that he had stolen a cartridge from me; only one, most

fortunately, for otherwise the whole district would have been blown to

pieces. Ah! the wretched fellow! I wasn't in time to set my foot upon the

match."

With perfect lucidity of mind, such as danger sometimes imparts, Pierre,

neither speaking nor losing a moment, remembered that the mansion had a

back entrance fronting the Rue Vignon. He had just realised in what

serious peril his brother would be if he were found mixed up in that

affair. And with all speed, when he had led him into the gloom of the Rue

Vignon, he tied his handkerchief round his wrist, which he bade him press

to his chest, under his coat, as that would conceal it.

But Guillaume, still shivering and haunted by the horror he had

witnessed, repeated: "Take me away--to your place at Neuilly--not to my

home."

"Of course, of course, be easy. Come, wait here a second, I will stop a

cab."

In his eagerness to procure a conveyance, Pierre had brought his brother

down to the Boulevard again. But the terrible thunderclap of the

explosion had upset the whole neighbourhood, horses were still rearing,

and people were running demented, hither and thither. And numerous

policemen had hastened up, and a rushing crowd was already blocking the

lower part of the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy, which was now as black as a pit,

every light in it having been extinguished; whilst on the Boulevard a

hawker of the "Voix du Peuple" still stubbornly vociferated: "The new

scandal of the African Railway Lines! The thirty-two bribe-takers of the

Chamber and the Senate! The approaching fall of the ministry!"

Pierre was at last managing to stop a cab when he heard a person who ran

by say to another, "The ministry? Ah, well! that bomb will mend it right

enough!"

Then the brothers seated themselves in the cab, which carried them away.

And now, over the whole of rumbling Paris black night had gathered, an

unforgiving night, in which the stars foundered amidst the mist of crime

and anger that had risen from the house-roofs. The great cry of justice

swept by amidst the same terrifying flapping of wings which Sodom and

Gomorrah once heard bearing down upon them from all the black clouds of

the horizon.

BOOK II.

I. REVOLUTIONISTS

IN that out-of-the-way street at Neuilly, along which nobody passed after

dusk, Pierre's little house was now steeped in deep slumber under the

black sky; each of its shutters closed, and not a ray of light stealing

forth from within. And one could divine, too, the profound quietude of

the little garden in the rear, a garden empty and lifeless, benumbed by

the winter cold.

Pierre had several times feared that his brother would faint away in the

cab in which they were journeying. Leaning back, and often sinking down,

Guillaume spoke not a word. And terrible was the silence between them--a

silence fraught with all the questions and answers which they felt it

would be useless and painful to exchange at such a time. However, the

priest was anxious about the wound, and wondered to what surgeon he might

apply, desirous as he was of admitting only a sure, staunch man into the

secret, for he had noticed with how keen a desire to disappear his

brother had sought to hide himself.

Until they reached the Arc de Triomphe the silence remained unbroken. It

was only there that Guillaume seemed to emerge from the prostration of

his reverie. "Mind, Pierre," said he, "no doctor. We will attend to this

together."

Pierre was on the point of protesting, but he realised that it would be

useless to discuss the subject at such a moment, and so he merely waved

his hand to signify that he should act in spite of the prohibition were

it necessary. In point of fact, his anxiety had increased, and, when the

cab at last drew up before the house, it was with real relief that he saw

his brother alight without evincing any marked feebleness. He himself

quickly paid the driver, well-pleased, too, at finding that nobody, not

even a neighbour, was about. And having opened the door with his latch

key, he helped the injured man to ascend the steps.

A little night lamp glimmered faintly in the vestibule. On hearing the

door open, Pierre's servant, Sophie, had at once emerged from the

kitchen. A short, thin, dark woman of sixty, she had formed part of the

household for more than thirty years, having served the mother before

serving the son. She knew Guillaume, having seen him when he was a young

man, and doubtless she now recognised him, although well-nigh ten years

had gone by since he had last crossed that threshold. Instead of evincing

any surprise, she seemed to consider his extraordinary return quite

natural, and remained as silent and discreet as usual. She led, indeed,

the life of a recluse, never speaking unless her work absolutely required

it. And thus she now contented herself with saying: "Monsieur l'Abbe,

Monsieur Bertheroy is in the study, and has been waiting there for a

quarter of an hour."

At this Guillaume intervened, as if the news revived him: "Does Bertheroy

still come here, then? I'll see him willingly. His is one of the best,

the broadest, minds of these days. He has still remained my master."

A former friend of their father,--the illustrious chemist, Michel

Froment,--Bertheroy had now, in his turn, become one of the loftiest

glories of France, one to whom chemistry owed much of the extraordinary

progress that has made it the mother-science, by which the very face of

the earth is being changed. A member of the Institute, laden with offices

and honours, he had retained much affection for Pierre, and occasionally

visited him in this wise before dinner, by way of relaxation, he would

say.

"You showed him into the study? All right, then, we will go there," said