第 23 页

to him right atop of the hill, looking very serene and quiet under the

bright wintry sun, which had peered forth as if to bestow upon the modest

dwelling an affectionate caress.

There was a door in the old garden wall alongside the Rue St. Eleuthere,

almost in front of the broad thoroughfare conducting to the basilica of

the Sacred Heart; but to reach the house itself one had to skirt the wall

and climb to the Place du Tertre, where one found the facade and the

entrance. Some children were playing on the Place, which, planted as it

was with a few scrubby trees, and edged with humble shops,--a

fruiterer's, a grocer's and a baker's,--looked like some square in a

small provincial town. In a corner, on the left, Guillaume's dwelling,

which had been whitewashed during the previous spring, showed its bright

frontage and five lifeless windows, for all its life was on the other,

the garden, side, which overlooked Paris and the far horizon.

Pierre mustered his courage and, pulling a brass knob which glittered

like gold, rang the bell. There came a gay, distant jingle; but for a

moment nobody appeared, and he was about to ring again, when the door was

thrown wide open, revealing a passage which ran right through the house,

beyond which appeared the ocean of Paris, the endless sea of house roofs

bathed in sunlight. And against this spacious, airy background, stood a

young woman of twenty-six, clad in a simple gown of black woolen stuff,

half covered by a large blue apron. She had her sleeves rolled up above

her elbows, and her arms and hands were still moist with water which she

had but imperfectly wiped away.

A moment's surprise and embarrassment ensued. The young woman, who had

hastened to the door with laughing mien, became grave and covertly

hostile at sight of the visitor's cassock. The priest thereupon realised

that he must give his name: "I am Abbe Pierre Froment."

At this the young woman's smile of welcome came back to her. "Oh! I beg

your pardon, monsieur--I ought to have recognised you, for I saw you wish

Guillaume good day one morning as you passed."

She said Guillaume; she, therefore, must be Marie. And Pierre looked at

her in astonishment, finding her very different from what he had

imagined. She was only of average height, but she was vigorously,

admirably built, broad of hip and broad of shoulder, with the small firm

bosom of an amazon. By her erect and easy step, instinct with all the

adorable grace of woman in her prime, one could divine that she was

strong, muscular and healthy. A brunette, but very white of skin, she had

a heavy helm of superb black hair, which she fastened in a negligent way,

without any show of coquetry. And under her dark locks, her pure,

intelligent brow, her delicate nose and gay eyes appeared full of intense

life; whilst the somewhat heavier character of her lower features, her

fleshy lips and full chin, bespoke her quiet kindliness. She had surely

come on earth as a promise of every form of tenderness, every form of

devotion. In a word, she was a true mate for man.

However, with her heavy, straying hair and superb arms, so ingenuous in

their nudity, she only gave Pierre an impression of superfluous health

and extreme self-assurance. She displeased him and even made him feel

somewhat anxious, as if she were a creature different from all others.

"It is my brother Guillaume who has sent me," he said.

At this her face again changed; she became grave and hastened to admit

him to the passage. And when the door was closed she answered: "You have

brought us news of him, then! I must apologise for receiving you in this

fashion. The servants have just finished some washing, and I was making

sure if the work had been well done. Pray excuse me, and come in here for

a moment; it is perhaps best that I should be the first to know the

news."

So saying, she led him past the kitchen to a little room which served as

scullery and wash-house. A tub full of soapy water stood there, and some

dripping linen hung over some wooden bars. "And so, Guillaume?" she

asked.

Pierre then told the truth in simple fashion: that his brother's wrist

had been injured; that he himself had witnessed the accident, and that

his brother had then sought an asylum with him at Neuilly, where he

wished to remain and get cured of his injury in peace and quietness,

without even receiving a visit from his sons. While speaking in this

fashion, the priest watched the effect of his words on Marie's face:

first fright and pity, and then an effort to calm herself and judge

things reasonably.

"His letter quite froze me last night," she ended by replying. "I felt

sure that some misfortune had happened. But one must be brave and hide

one's fear from others. His wrist injured, you say; it is not a serious

injury, is it?"

"No; but it is necessary that every precaution should be taken with it."

She looked him well in the face with her big frank eyes, which dived into

his own as if to reach the very depths of his being, though at the same

time she plainly sought to restrain the score of questions which rose to

her lips. "And that is all: he was injured in an accident," she resumed;

"he didn't ask you to tell us anything further about it?"

"No, he simply desires that you will not be anxious."

Thereupon she insisted no further, but showed herself obedient and

respectful of the decision which Guillaume had arrived at. It sufficed

that he should have sent a messenger to reassure the household--she did

not seek to learn any more. And even as she had returned to her work in

spite of the secret anxiety in which the letter of the previous evening

had left her, so now, with her air of quiet strength, she recovered an

appearance of serenity, a quiet smile and clear brave glance.

"Guillaume only gave me one other commission," resumed Pierre, "that of

handing a little key to Madame Leroi."

"Very good," Marie answered, "Mere-Grand is here; and, besides, the

children must see you. I will take you to them."

Once more quite tranquil, she examined Pierre without managing to conceal

her curiosity, which seemed of rather a kindly nature blended with an

element of vague pity. Her fresh white arms had remained bare. In all

candour she slowly drew down her sleeves; then took off the large blue

apron, and showed herself with her rounded figure, at once robust and

elegant, in her modest black gown. He meanwhile looked at her, and most

certainly he did not find her to his liking. On seeing her so natural,

healthy, and courageous, quite a feeling of revolt arose within him,

though he knew not why.

"Will you please follow me, Monsieur l'Abbe?" she said. "We must cross

the garden."

On the ground-floor of the house, across the passage, and facing the

kitchen and the scullery, there were two other rooms, a library

overlooking the Place du Tertre, and a dining-room whose windows opened

into the garden. The four rooms on the first floor served as bedchambers

for the father and the sons. As for the garden, originally but a small

one, it had now been reduced to a kind of gravelled yard by the erection

of the large workshop at one end of it. Of the former greenery, however,

there still remained two huge plum-trees with old knotted trunks, as well

as a big clump of lilac-bushes, which every spring were covered with

bloom. And in front of the latter Marie had arranged a broad flower-bed,

in which she amused herself with growing a few roses, some wallflowers

and some mignonette.

With a wave of her hand as she went past, she called Pierre's attention

to the black plum-trees and the lilacs and roses, which showed but a few

greenish spots, for winter still held the little nook in sleep. "Tell

Guillaume," she said, "that he must make haste to get well and be back

for the first shoots."

Then, as Pierre glanced at her, she all at once flushed purple. Much to

her distress, sudden and involuntary blushes would in this wise

occasionally come upon her, even at the most innocent remarks. She found

it ridiculous to feel such childish emotion when she had so brave a

heart. But her pure maidenly blood had retained exquisite delicacy, such

natural and instinctive modesty that she yielded to it perforce. And

doubtless she had merely blushed because she feared that the priest might

think she had referred to her marriage in speaking of the spring.

"Please go in, Monsieur l'Abbe. The children are there, all three." And

forthwith she ushered him into the workshop.

It was a very spacious place, over sixteen feet high, with a brick

flooring and bare walls painted an iron grey. A sheet of light, a stream

of sunshine, spread to every corner through a huge window facing the

south, where lay the immensity of Paris. The Venetian shutters often had

to be lowered in the summer to attenuate the great heat. From morn till

night the whole family lived here, closely and affectionately united in

work. Each was installed as fancy listed, having a particular chosen

place. One half of the building was occupied by the father's chemical

laboratory, with its stove, experiment tables, shelves for apparatus,

glass cases and cupboards for phials and jars. Near all this Thomas, the

eldest son, had installed a little forge, an anvil, a vice bench, in fact

everything necessary to a working mechanician, such as he had become

since taking his bachelor's degree, from his desire to remain with his

father and help him with certain researches and inventions. Then, at the

other end, the younger brothers, Francois and Antoine, got on very well

together on either side of a broad table which stood amidst a medley of

portfolios, nests of drawers and revolving book-stands. Francois, laden

with academical laurels, first on the pass list for the Ecole Normale,

had entered that college where young men are trained for university

professorships, and was there preparing for his Licentiate degree, while

Antoine, who on reaching the third class at the Lycee Condorcet had taken

a dislike to classical studies, now devoted himself to his calling as a

wood-engraver. And, in the full light under the window, Mere-Grand and

Marie likewise had their particular table, where needlework, embroidery,

all sorts of _chiffons_ and delicate things lay about near the somewhat

rough jumble of retorts, tools and big books.

Marie, however, on the very threshold called out in her calm voice, to

which she strove to impart a gay and cheering accent: "Children!

children! here is Monsieur l'Abbe with news of father!"

Children, indeed! Yet what motherliness she already set in the word as

she applied it to those big fellows whose elder sister she had long

considered herself to be! At three and twenty Thomas was quite a

colossus, already bearded and extremely like his father. But although he

had a lofty brow and energetic features, he was somewhat slow both in

mind and body. And he was also taciturn, almost unsociable, absorbed in

filial devotion, delighted with the manual toil which made him a mere

workman at his master's orders. Francois, two years younger than Thomas,

and nearly as tall, showed a more refined face, though he had the same

large brow and firm mouth, a perfect blending of health and strength, in

which the man of intellect, the scientific Normalian, could only be

detected by the brighter and more subtle sparkle of the eyes. The

youngest of the brothers, Antoine, who for his eighteen years was almost

as strong as his elders, and promised to become as tall, differed from

them by his lighter hair and soft, blue, dreamy eyes, which he had

inherited from his mother. It had been difficult, however, to distinguish

one from the other when all three were schoolboys at the Lycee Condorcet;

and even nowadays people made mistakes unless they saw them side by side,

so as to detect the points of difference which were becoming more marked

as age progressed.

On Pierre's arrival the brothers were so absorbed in their work that they

did not even hear the door open. And again, as in the case of Marie, the

priest was surprised by the discipline and firmness of mind, which amidst

the keenest anxiety gave the young fellows strength to take up their

daily task. Thomas, who stood at his vice-bench in a blouse, was

carefully filing a little piece of copper with rough but skilful hands.

Francois, leaning forward, was writing in a bold, firm fashion, whilst on

the other side of the table, Antoine, with a slender graver between his

fingers, finished a block for an illustrated newspaper.

However, Marie's clear voice made them raise their heads: "Children,

father has sent you some news!"

Then all three with the same impulse hurriedly quitted their work and

came forward. One could divine that directly there was any question of

their father they were drawn together, blended one with the other, so

that but one and the same heart beat in their three broad chests.

However, a door at the far end of the workroom opened at that moment, and

Mere-Grand, coming from the upper floor where she and Marie had their

bedrooms, made her appearance. She had just absented herself to fetch a

skein of wool; and she gazed fixedly at the priest, unable to understand

the reason of his presence.

Marie had to explain matters. "Mere-Grand," said she, "this is Monsieur

l'Abbe Froment, Guillaume's brother; he has come from him."

Pierre on his side was examining the old lady, astonished to find her so

erect and full of life at seventy. Her former beauty had left a stately

charm on her rather long face; youthful fire still lingered in her brown

eyes; and very firm was the contour of her pale lips, which in parting

showed that she had retained all her teeth. A few white hairs alone

silvered her black tresses, which were arranged in old-time fashion. Her

cheeks had but slightly withered, and her deep, symmetrical wrinkles gave