第 21 页

cafe, and everybody was anxious to see the late edition which one paper

had published giving a very incorrect account of the affair, full of the

most extraordinary details. Briefly, nothing positive was as yet known.

On seeing Guillaume turn pale Pierre compelled him to lie down again, and

even talked of taking the visitors into the next room. But the injured

man gently replied: "No, no, I promise you that I won't stir again, that

I won't open my mouth. But stay there and chat together. I assure you

that it will do me good to have you near me and hear you."

Then, under the sleepy gleams of the lamp, the others began to talk in

undertones. Old Barthes, who considered that bomb to be both idiotic and

abominable, spoke of it with the stupefaction of one who, after fighting

like a hero through all the legendary struggles for liberty, found

himself belated, out of his element, in a new era, which he could not

understand. Did not the conquest of freedom suffice for everything? he

added. Was there any other problem beyond that of founding the real

Republic? Then, referring to Mege and his speech in the Chamber that

afternoon, he bitterly arraigned Collectivism, which he declared to be

one of the democratic forms of tyranny. Theophile Morin, for his part,

also spoke against the Collectivist enrolling of the social forces, but

he professed yet greater hatred of the odious violence of the Anarchists;

for it was only by evolution that he expected progress, and he felt

somewhat indifferent as to what political means might bring about the

scientific society of to-morrow. And in like way Bache did not seem

particularly fond of the Anarchists, though he was touched by the idyllic

dream, the humanitarian hope, whose germs lay beneath their passion for

destruction. And, like Barthes, he also flew into a passion with Mege,

who since entering the Chamber had become, said he, a mere rhetorician

and theorist, dreaming of dictatorship. Meantime Janzen, still erect, his

face frigid and his lips curling ironically, listened to all three of

them, and vented a few trenchant words to express his own Anarchist

faith; the uselessness of drawing distinctions, and the necessity of

destroying everything in order that everything might be rebuilt on fresh

lines.

Pierre, who had remained near the bed, also listened with passionate

attention. Amidst the downfall of his own beliefs, the utter void which

he felt within him, here were these four men, who represented the

cardinal points of this century's ideas, debating the very same terrible

problem which brought him so much suffering, that of the new belief which

the democracy of the coming century awaits. And, ah! since the days of

the immediate ancestors, since the days of Voltaire and Diderot and

Rousseau how incessantly had billows of ideas followed and jostled one

another, the older ones giving birth to new ones, and all breaking and

bounding in a tempest in which it was becoming so difficult to

distinguish anything clearly! Whence came the wind, and whither was the

ship of salvation going, for what port ought one to embark? Pierre had

already thought that the balance-sheet of the century ought to be drawn

up, and that, after accepting the legacies of Rousseau and the other

precursors, he ought to study the ideas of St. Simon, Fourier and even

Cabet; of Auguste Comte, Proudhon and Karl Marx as well, in order, at any

rate, to form some idea of the distance that had been travelled, and of

the cross-ways which one had now reached. And was not this an

opportunity, since chance had gathered those men together in his house,

living exponents of the conflicting doctrines which he wished to examine?

On turning round, however, he perceived that Guillaume was now very pale

and had closed his eyes. Had even he, with his faith in science, felt the

doubt which is born of contradictory theories, and the despair which

comes when one sees the fight for truth resulting in growth of error?

"Are you in pain?" the priest anxiously inquired.

"Yes, a little. But I will try to sleep."

At this they all went off with silent handshakes. Nicholas Barthes alone

remained in the house and slept in a room on the first floor which Sophie

had got ready for him. Pierre, unwilling to quit his brother, dozed off

upon a sofa. And the little house relapsed into its deep quietude, the

silence of solitude and winter, through which passed the melancholy

quiver of the souvenirs of childhood.

In the morning, as soon as it was seven o'clock, Pierre had to go for the

newspapers. Guillaume had passed a bad night and intense fever had set

in. Nevertheless, his brother was obliged to read him the articles on the

explosion. There was an amazing medley of truths and inventions, of

precise information lost amidst the most unexpected extravagance.

Sagnier's paper, the "Voix du Peuple," distinguished itself by its

sub-titles in huge print and a whole page of particulars jumbled together

chance-wise. It had at once decided to postpone the famous list of the

thirty-two deputies and senators compromised in the African Railways

affair; and there was no end to the details it gave of the aspect of the

entrance to the Duvillard mansion after the explosion the pavement broken

up, the upper floor rent open, the huge doors torn away from their

hinges. Then came the story of the Baron's son and daughter preserved as

by a miracle, the landau escaping the slightest injury, while the banker

and his wife, it was alleged, owed their preservation to the circumstance

that they had lingered at the Madeleine after Monseigneur Martha's

remarkable address there. An entire column was given to the one victim,

the poor, pretty, fair-haired errand girl, whose identity did not seem to

be clearly established, although a flock of reporters had rushed first to

the modiste employing her, in the Avenue de l'Opera, and next to the

upper part of the Faubourg St. Denis, where it was thought her

grandmother resided. Then, in a gravely worded article in "Le Globe,"

evidently inspired by Fonsegue, an appeal was made to the Chamber's

patriotism to avoid giving cause for any ministerial crisis in the

painful circumstances through which the country was passing. Thus the

ministry might last, and live in comparative quietude, for a few weeks

longer.

Guillaume, however, was struck by one point only: the culprit was not

known; Salvat, it appeared certain, was neither arrested nor even

suspected. It seemed, indeed, as if the police were starting on a false

scent--that of a well-dressed gentleman wearing gloves, whom a neighbour

swore he had seen entering the mansion at the moment of the explosion.

Thus Guillaume became a little calmer. But his brother read to him from

another paper some particulars concerning the engine of destruction that

had been employed. It was a preserved-meat can, and the fragments of it

showed that it had been comparatively small. And Guillaume relapsed into

anxiety on learning that people were much astonished at the violent

ravages of such a sorry appliance, and that the presence of some new

explosive of incalculable power was already suspected.

At eight o'clock Bertheroy put in an appearance. Although he was

sixty-eight, he showed as much briskness and sprightliness as any young

sawbones calling in a friendly way to perform a little operation. He had

brought an instrument case, some linen bands and some lint. However, he

became angry on finding the injured man nervous, flushed and hot with

fever.

"Ah! I see that you haven't been reasonable, my dear child," said he.

"You must have talked too much, and have bestirred and excited yourself."

Then, having carefully probed the wound, he added, while dressing it:

"The bone is injured, you know, and I won't answer for anything unless

you behave better. Any complications would make amputation necessary."

Pierre shuddered, but Guillaume shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that

he might just as well be amputated since all was crumbling around him.

Bertheroy, who had sat down, lingering there for another moment,

scrutinised both brothers with his keen eyes. He now knew of the

explosion, and must have thought it over. "My dear child," he resumed in

his brusque way, "I certainly don't think that you committed that

abominable act of folly in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy. But I fancy that you

were in the neighbourhood--no, no, don't answer me, don't defend

yourself. I know nothing and desire to know nothing, not even the formula

of that devilish powder of which your shirt cuff bore traces, and which

has wrought such terrible havoc."

And then as the brothers remained surprised, turning cold with anxiety,

in spite of his assurances, he added with a sweeping gesture: "Ah! my

friends, I regard such an action as even more useless than criminal! I

only feel contempt for the vain agitation of politics, whether they be

revolutionary or conservative. Does not science suffice? Why hasten the

times when one single step of science brings humanity nearer to the goal

of truth and justice than do a hundred years of politics and social

revolt? Why, it is science alone which sweeps away dogmas, casts down

gods, and creates light and happiness. And I, Member of the Institute as

I am, decorated and possessed of means, I am the only true

Revolutionist."

Then he began to laugh and Guillaume realised all the good-natured irony

of his laugh. While admiring him as a great _savant_, he had hitherto

suffered at seeing him lead such a _bourgeois_ life, accepting whatever

appointments and honours were offered him, a Republican under the

Republic, but quite ready to serve science under no matter what master.

But now, from beneath this opportunist, this hieratical _savant_, this

toiler who accepted wealth and glory from all hands, there appeared a

quiet yet terrible evolutionist, who certainly expected that his own work

would help to ravage and renew the world!

However, Bertheroy rose and took his leave: "I'll come back; behave

sensibly, and love one another as well as you can."

When the brothers again found themselves alone, Pierre seated at

Guillaume's bedside, their hands once more sought each other and met in a

burning clasp instinct with all their anguish. How much threatening

mystery and distress there was both around and within them! The grey

wintry daylight came into the room, and they could see the black trees in

the garden, while the house remained full of quivering silence, save that

overhead a faint sound of footsteps was audible. They were the steps of

Nicholas Barthes, the heroic lover of freedom, who, rising at daybreak,

had, like a caged lion, resumed his wonted promenade, the incessant

coming and going of one who had ever been a prisoner. And as the brothers

ceased listening to him their eyes fell on a newspaper which had remained

open on the bed, a newspaper soiled by a sketch in outline which

pretended to portray the poor dead errand girl, lying, ripped open,

beside the bandbox and the bonnet it had contained. It was so frightful,

so atrociously hideous a scene, that two big tears again fell upon

Pierre's cheeks, whilst Guillaume's blurred, despairing eyes gazed

wistfully far away, seeking for the Future.

II. A HOME OF INDUSTRY

THE little house in which Guillaume had dwelt for so many years, a home

of quietude and hard work, stood in the pale light of winter up yonder at

Montmartre, peacefully awaiting his return. He reflected, however, after

_dejeuner_ that it might not be prudent for him to go back thither for

some three weeks, and so he thought of sending Pierre to explain the

position of affairs. "Listen, brother," he said. "You must render me this

service. Go and tell them the truth--that I am here, slightly injured,

and do not wish them to come to see me, for fear lest somebody should

follow them and discover my retreat. After the note I wrote them last

evening they would end by getting anxious if I did not send them some

news." Then, yielding to the one worry which, since the previous night,

had disturbed his clear, frank glance, he added: "Just feel in the

right-hand pocket of my waistcoat; you will find a little key there.

Good! that's it. Now you must give it to Madame Leroi, my mother-in-law,

and tell her that if any misfortune should happen to me, she is to do

what is understood between us. That will suffice, she will understand

you."

At the first moment Pierre had hesitated; but he saw how even the slight

effort of speaking exhausted his brother, so he silenced him, saying:

"Don't talk, but put your mind at ease. I will go and reassure your

people, since you wish that this commission should be undertaken by me."

Truth to tell, the errand was so distasteful to Pierre that he had at

first thought of sending Sophie in his place. All his old prejudices were

reviving; it was as if he were going to some ogre's den. How many times

had he not heard his mother say "that creature!" in referring to the

woman with whom her elder son cohabited. Never had she been willing to

kiss Guillaume's boys; the whole connection had shocked her, and she was

particularly indignant that Madame Leroi, the woman's mother, should have

joined the household for the purpose of bringing up the little ones.

Pierre retained so strong a recollection of all this that even nowadays,

when he went to the basilica of the Sacred Heart and passed the little

house on his way, he glanced at it distrustfully, and kept as far from it

as he could, as if it were some abode of vice and error. Undoubtedly, for

ten years now, the boys' mother had been dead, but did not another

scandal-inspiring creature dwell there, that young orphan girl to whom

his brother had given shelter, and whom he was going to marry, although a

difference of twenty years lay between them? To Pierre all this was

contrary to propriety, abnormal and revolting, and he pictured a home