第 22 页

given over to social rebellion, where lack of principle led to every kind

of disorder.

However, he was leaving the room to start upon his journey, when

Guillaume called him back. "Tell Madame Leroi," said he, "that if I

should die you will let her know of it, so that she may immediately do

what is necessary."

"Yes, yes," answered Pierre. "But calm yourself, and don't move about.

I'll say everything. And in my absence Sophie will stop here with you in

case you should need her."

Having given full instructions to the servant, Pierre set out to take a

tramcar, intending to alight from it on the Boulevard de Rochechouart,

and then climb the height on foot. And on the road, lulled by the gliding

motion of the heavy vehicle, he began to think of his brother's past life

and connections, with which he was but vaguely, imperfectly, acquainted.

It was only at a later date that details of everything came to his

knowledge. In 1850 a young professor named Leroi, who had come from Paris

to the college of Montauban with the most ardent republican ideas, had

there married Agathe Dagnan, the youngest of the five girls of an old

Protestant family from the Cevennes. Young Madame Leroi was _enceinte_

when her husband, threatened with arrest for contributing some violent

articles to a local newspaper, immediately after the "Coup d'Etat," found

himself obliged to seek refuge at Geneva. It was there that the young

couple's daughter, Marguerite, a very delicate child, was born in 1852.

For seven years, that is until the Amnesty of 1859, the household

struggled with poverty, the husband giving but a few ill-paid lessons,

and the wife absorbed in the constant care which the child required.

Then, after their return to Paris, their ill-luck became even greater.

For a long time the ex-professor vainly sought regular employment; it was

denied him on account of his opinions, and he had to run about giving

lessons in private houses. When he was at last on the point of being

received back into the University a supreme blow, an attack of paralysis,

fell upon him. He lost the use of both legs. And then came utter misery,

every kind of sordid drudgery, the writing of articles for dictionaries,

the copying of manuscripts, and even the addressing of newspaper

wrappers, on the fruits of which the household barely contrived to live,

in a little lodging in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.

It was there that Marguerite grew up. Leroi, embittered by injustice and

suffering, predicted the advent of a Republic which would avenge the

follies of the Empire, and a reign of science which would sweep away the

deceptive and cruel divinity of religious dogmas. On the other hand,

Agathe's religious faith had collapsed at Geneva, at sight of the narrow

and imbecile practices of Calvinism, and all that she retained of it was

the old Protestant leaven of rebellion. She had become at once the head

and the arm of the house; she went for her husband's work, took it back

when completed, and even did much of it herself, whilst, at the same

time, performing her house duties, and rearing and educating her

daughter. The latter, who attended no school, was indebted for all she

learnt to her father and mother, on whose part there was never any

question of religious instruction. Through contact with her husband,

Madame Leroi had lost all belief, and her Protestant heredity inclining

her to free inquiry and examination, she had arranged for herself a kind

of peaceful atheism, based on paramount principles of human duty and

justice, which she applied courageously, irrespective of all social

conventionalities. The long iniquity of her husband's fate, the

undeserved misfortunes which struck her through him and her daughter,

ended by endowing her with wonderful fortitude and devotion, which made

her, whether as a judge, a manager, or a consoler, a woman of

incomparable energy and nobleness of character.

It was in the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince that Guillaume became acquainted

with the Leroi family, after the war of 1870. On the same floor as their

little lodging he occupied a large room, where he devoted himself

passionately to his studies. At the outset there was only an occasional

bow, for Guillaume's neighbours were very proud and very grave, leading

their life of poverty in fierce silence and retirement. Then intercourse

began with the rendering of little services, such as when the young man

procured the ex-professor a commission to write a few articles for a new

encyclopaedia. But all at once came the catastrophe: Leroi died in his

armchair one evening while his daughter was wheeling him from his table

to his bed. The two distracted women had not even the money to bury him.

The whole secret of their bitter want flowed forth with their tears, and

they were obliged to accept the help of Guillaume, who, from that moment,

became the necessary confidant and friend. And the thing which was bound

to happen did happen, in the most simple and loving manner, permitted by

the mother herself, who, full of contempt for a social system which

allowed those of good hearts to die of hunger, refused to admit the

necessity of any social tie. Thus there was no question of a regular

marriage. One day Guillaume, who was twenty-three years old, found

himself mated to Marguerite, who was twenty; both of them handsome,

healthy, and strong, adoring one another, loving work, and full of hope

in the future.

From that moment a new life began. Since his father's death, Guillaume,

who had broken off all intercourse with his mother, had been receiving an

allowance of two hundred francs a month. This just represented daily

bread; however, he was already doubling the amount by his work as a

chemist,--his analyses and researches, which tended to the employment of

certain chemical products in industry. So he and Marguerite installed

themselves on the very summit of Montmartre, in a little house, at a

rental of eight hundred francs a year, the great convenience of the place

being a strip of garden, where one might, later on, erect a wooden

workshop. In all tranquillity Madame Leroi took up her abode with the

young people, helping them, and sparing them the necessity of keeping a

second servant. And at successive intervals of two years, her three

grandchildren were born, three sturdy boys: first Thomas, then Francois,

and then Antoine. And in the same way as she had devoted herself to her

husband and daughter, and then to Guillaume, so did she now devote

herself to the three children. She became "Mere-Grand"--an emphatic and

affectionate way of expressing the term "grandmother"--for all who lived

in the house, the older as well as the younger ones. She there

personified sense, and wisdom, and courage; it was she who was ever on

the watch, who directed everything, who was consulted about everything,

and whose opinion was always followed. Indeed, she reigned there like an

all-powerful queen-mother.

For fifteen years this life went on, a life of hard work and peaceful

affection, while the strictest economy was observed in contenting every

need of the modest little household. Then Guillaume lost his mother, took

his share of the family inheritance, and was able to satisfy his old

desire, which was to buy the house he lived in, and build a spacious

workshop in the garden. He was even able to build it of bricks, and add

an upper story to it. But the work was scarcely finished, and life seemed

to be on the point of expanding and smiling on them all, when misfortune

returned, and typhoid fever, with brutal force, carried off Marguerite,

after a week's illness. She was then five and thirty, and her eldest boy,

Thomas, was fourteen. Thus Guillaume, distracted by his loss, found

himself a widower at thirty-eight. The thought of introducing any unknown

woman into that retired home, where all hearts beat in tender unison, was

so unbearable to him that he determined to take no other mate. His work

absorbed him, and he would know how to quiet both his heart and his

flesh. Mere-Grand, fortunately, was still there, erect and courageous;

the household retained its queen, and in her the children found a

manageress and teacher, schooled in adversity and heroism.

Two years passed; and then came an addition to the family. A young woman,

Marie Couturier, the daughter of one of Guillaume's friends, suddenly

entered it. Couturier had been an inventor, a madman with some measure of

genius, and had spent a fairly large fortune in attempting all sorts of

fantastic schemes. His wife, a very pious woman, had died of grief at it

all; and although on the rare occasions when he saw his daughter, he

showed great fondness for her and loaded her with presents, he had first

placed her in a boarding college, and afterwards left her in the charge

of a poor female relative. Remembering her only on his death-bed, he had

begged Guillaume to give her an asylum, and find her a husband. The poor

relation, who dealt in ladies' and babies' linen, had just become a

bankrupt. So, at nineteen, the girl, Marie, found herself a penniless

outcast, possessed of nothing save a good education, health and courage.

Guillaume would never allow her to run about giving lessons. He took her,

in quite a natural way, to help Mere-Grand, who was no longer so active

as formerly. And the latter approved the arrangement, well pleased at the

advent of youth and gaiety, which would somewhat brighten the household,

whose life had been one of much gravity ever since Marguerite's death.

Marie would simply be an elder sister; she was too old for the boys, who

were still at college, to be disturbed by her presence. And she would

work in that house where everybody worked. She would help the little

community pending the time when she might meet and love some worthy

fellow who would marry her.

Five more years elapsed without Marie consenting to quit that happy home.

The sterling education she had received was lodged in a vigorous brain,

which contented itself with the acquirement of knowledge. Yet she had

remained very pure and healthy, even very _naive_, maidenly by reason of

her natural rectitude. And she was also very much a woman, beautifying

and amusing herself with a mere nothing, and ever showing gaiety and

contentment. Moreover, she was in no wise of a dreamy nature, but very

practical, always intent on some work or other, and only asking of life

such things as life could give, without anxiety as to what might lie

beyond it. She lovingly remembered her pious mother, who had prepared her

for her first Communion in tears, imagining that she was opening heaven's

portals to her. But since she had been an orphan she had of her own

accord ceased all practice of religion, her good sense revolting and

scorning the need of any moral police regulations to make her do her

duty. Indeed, she considered such regulations dangerous and destructive

of true health. Thus, like Mere-Grand, she had come to a sort of quiet

and almost unconscious atheism, not after the fashion of one who reasons,

but simply like the brave, healthy girl she was, one who had long endured

poverty without suffering from it, and believed in nothing save the

necessity of effort. She had been kept erect, indeed, by her conviction

that happiness was to be found in the normal joys of life, lived

courageously. And her happy equilibrium of mind had ever guided and saved

her, in such wise that she willingly listened to her natural instinct,

saying, with her pleasant laugh, that this was, after all, her best

adviser. She rejected two offers of marriage, and on the second occasion,

as Guillaume pressed her to accept, she grew astonished, and inquired if

he had had enough of her in the house. She found herself very

comfortable, and she rendered service there. So why should she leave and

run the risk of being less happy elsewhere, particularly as she was not

in love with anybody?

Then, by degrees, the idea of a marriage between Marie and Guillaume

presented itself; and indeed what could have been more reasonable and

advantageous for all? If Guillaume had not mated again it was for his

sons' sake, because he feared that by introducing a stranger to the house

he might impair its quietude and gaiety. But now there was a woman among

them who already showed herself maternal towards the boys, and whose

bright youth had ended by disturbing his own heart. He was still in his

prime, and had always held that it was not good for man to live alone,

although, personally, thanks to his ardour for work, he had hitherto

escaped excessive suffering in his bereavement. However, there was the

great difference of ages to be considered; and he would have bravely

remained in the background and have sought a younger husband for Marie,

if his three big sons and Mere-Grand herself had not conspired to effect

his happiness by doing all they could to bring about a marriage which

would strengthen every home tie and impart, as it were, a fresh

springtide to the house. As for Marie, touched and grateful to Guillaume

for the manner in which he had treated her for five years past, she

immediately consented with an impulse of sincere affection, in which, she

fancied, she could detect love. And at all events, could she act in a

more sensible, reasonable way, base her life on more certain prospects of

happiness? So the marriage had been resolved upon; and about a month

previously it had been decided that it should take place during the

ensuing spring, towards the end of April.

When Pierre, after alighting from the tramcar, began to climb the

interminable flights of steps leading to the Rue St. Eleuthere, a feeling

of uneasiness again came over him at the thought that he was about to

enter that suspicious ogre's den where everything would certainly wound

and irritate him. Given the letter which Sophie had carried thither on

the previous night, announcing that the master would not return, how

anxious and upset must all its inmates be! However, as Pierre ascended

the final flight and nervously raised his head, the little house appeared