第 24 页

her countenance an expression of much nobility, a sovereign air as of a

queen-mother, which, tall and slight of stature as she was, and

invariably gowned in black woollen stuff, she always retained, no matter

how humble her occupation.

"So Guillaume sent you, monsieur," she said; "he is injured, is he not?"

Surprised by this proof of intuition, Pierre repeated his story. "Yes,

his wrist is injured--but oh! it's not a case of immediate gravity."

On the part of the three sons, he had divined a sudden quiver, an impulse

of their whole beings to rush to the help and defence of their father.

And for their sakes he sought words of comfort: "He is with me at

Neuilly. And with due care it is certain that no serious complications

will arise. He sent me to tell you to be in no wise uneasy about him."

Mere-Grand for her part evinced no fears, but preserved great calmness,

as if the priest's tidings contained nothing beyond what she had known

already. If anything, she seemed rather relieved, freed from anxiety

which she had confided to none. "If he is with you, monsieur," she

answered, "he is evidently as comfortable as he can be, and sheltered

from all risks. We were surprised, however, by his letter last night, as

it did not explain why he was detained, and we should have ended by

feeling frightened. But now everything is satisfactory."

Mere-Grand and the three sons, following Marie's example, asked no

explanations. On a table near at hand Pierre noticed several morning

newspapers lying open and displaying column after column of particulars

about the crime. The sons had certainly read these papers, and had feared

lest their father should be compromised in that frightful affair. How far

did their knowledge of the latter go? They must be ignorant of the part

played by Salvat. It was surely impossible for them to piece together all

the unforeseen circumstances which had brought about their father's

meeting with the workman, and then the crime. Mere-Grand, no doubt, was

in certain respects better informed than the others. But they, the sons

and Marie, neither knew nor sought to know anything. And thus what a

wealth of respect and affection there was in their unshakable confidence

in the father, in the tranquillity they displayed directly he sent them

word that they were not to be anxious about him!

"Madame," Pierre resumed, "Guillaume told me to give you this little key,

and to remind you to do what he charged you to do, if any misfortune

should befall him."

She started, but so slightly that it was scarcely perceptible; and taking

the key she answered as if some ordinary wish on the part of a sick

person were alone in question. "Very well. Tell him that his wishes shall

be carried out." Then she added, "But pray take a seat, monsieur."

Pierre, indeed, had remained standing. However, he now felt it necessary

to accept a chair, desirous as he was of hiding the embarrassment which

he still felt in this house, although he was _en famille_ there. Marie,

who could not live without occupation for her fingers, had just returned

to some embroidery, some of the fine needlework which she stubbornly

executed for a large establishment dealing in baby-linen and bridal

_trousseaux_; for she wished at any rate to earn her own pocket-money,

she often said with a laugh. Mere-Grand, too, from habit, which she

followed even when visitors were present, had once more started on her

perpetual stocking-mending; while Francois and Antoine had again seated

themselves at their table; and Thomas alone remained on his legs, leaning

against his bench. All the charm of industrious intimacy pervaded the

spacious, sun-lit room.

"But we'll all go to see father to-morrow," Thomas suddenly exclaimed.

Before Pierre could answer Marie raised her head. "No, no," said she, "he

does not wish any of us to go to him; for if we should be watched and

followed we should betray the secret of his retreat. Isn't that so,

Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"It would indeed be prudent of you to deprive yourselves of the pleasure

of embracing him until he himself can come back here. It will be a matter

of some two or three weeks," answered Pierre.

Mere-Grand at once expressed approval of this. "No doubt," said she.

"Nothing could be more sensible."

So the three sons did not insist, but bravely accepted the secret anxiety

in which they must for a time live, renouncing the visit which would have

caused them so much delight, because their father bade them do so and

because his safety depended perhaps on their obedience.

However, Thomas resumed: "Then, Monsieur l'Abbe, will you please tell him

that as work will be interrupted here, I shall return to the factory

during his absence. I shall be more at ease there for the researches on

which we are engaged."

"And please tell him from me," put in Francois, "that he mustn't worry

about my examination. Things are going very well. I feel almost certain

of success."

Pierre promised that he would forget nothing. However, Marie raised her

head, smiling and glancing at Antoine, who had remained silent with a

faraway look in his eyes. "And you, little one," said she, "don't you

send him any message?"

Emerging from a dream, the young fellow also began to smile. "Yes, yes, a

message that you love him dearly, and that he's to make haste back for

you to make him happy."

At this they all became merry, even Marie, who in lieu of embarrassment

showed a tranquil gaiety born of confidence in the future. Between her

and the young men there was naught but happy affection. And a grave smile

appeared even on the pale lips of Mere-Grand, who likewise approved of

the happiness which life seemed to be promising.

Pierre wished to stay a few minutes longer. They all began to chat, and

his astonishment increased. He had gone from surprise to surprise in this

house where he had expected to find that equivocal, disorderly life, that

rebellion against social laws, which destroy morality. But instead of

this he had found loving serenity, and such strong discipline that life

there partook of the gravity, almost the austerity, of convent life,

tempered by youth and gaiety. The vast room was redolent of industry and

quietude, warm with bright sunshine. However, what most particularly

struck him was the Spartan training, the bravery of mind and heart among

those sons who allowed nothing to be seen of their personal feelings, and

did not presume to judge their father, but remained content with his

message, ready to await events, stoical and silent, while carrying on

their daily tasks. Nothing could be more simple, more dignified, more

lofty. And there was also the smiling heroism of Mere-Grand and Marie,

those two women who slept over that laboratory where terrible

preparations were manipulated, and where an explosion was always

possible.

However, such courage, orderliness and dignity merely surprised Pierre,

without touching him. He had no cause for complaint, he had received a

polite greeting if not an affectionate one; but then he was as yet only a

stranger there, a priest. In spite of everything, however, he remained

hostile, feeling that he was in a sphere where none of his own torments

could be shared or even divined. How did these folks manage to be so calm

and happy amidst their religious unbelief, their sole faith in science,

and in presence of that terrifying Paris which spread before them the

boundless sea, the growling abomination of its injustice and its want? As

this thought came to him he turned his head and gazed at the city through

the huge window, whence it stretched away, ever present, ever living its

giant life. And at that hour, under the oblique sun-rays of the winter

afternoon, all Paris was speckled with luminous dust, as if some

invisible sower, hidden amidst the glory of the planet, were fast

scattering seed which fell upon every side in a stream of gold. The whole

field was covered with it; for the endless chaos of house roofs and

edifices seemed to be land in tilth, furrowed by some gigantic plough.

And Pierre in his uneasiness, stirred, despite everything, by an

invincible need of hope, asked himself if this was not a good sowing, the

furrows of Paris strewn with light by the divine sun for the great future

harvest, that harvest of truth and justice of whose advent he had

despaired.

At last he rose and took his leave, promising to return at once, if there

should be any bad news. It was Marie who showed him to the front door.

And there another of those childish blushes which worried her so much

suddenly rose to her face, just as she, in her turn, also wished to send

her loving message to the injured man. However, with her gay, candid eyes

fixed on those of the priest, she bravely spoke the words: "_Au revoir,

Monsieur l'Abbe_. Tell Guillaume that I love him and await him."

III. PENURY AND TOIL

THREE days went by, and every morning Guillaume, confined to his bed and

consumed by fever and impatience, experienced fresh anxiety directly the

newspapers arrived. Pierre had tried to keep them from him, but Guillaume

then worried himself the more, and so the priest had to read him column

by column all the extraordinary articles that were published respecting

the crime.

Never before had so many rumours inundated the press. Even the "Globe,"

usually so grave and circumspect, yielded to the general _furore_, and

printed whatever statements reached it. But the more unscrupulous papers

were the ones to read. The "Voix du Peuple" in particular made use of the

public feverishness to increase its sales. Each morning it employed some

fresh device, and printed some frightful story of a nature to drive

people mad with terror. It related that not a day passed without Baron

Duvillard receiving threatening letters of the coarsest description,

announcing that his wife, his son and his daughter would all be killed,

that he himself would be butchered in turn, and that do what he might his

house would none the less be blown up. And as a measure of precaution the

house was guarded day and night alike by a perfect army of plain-clothes

officers. Then another article contained an amazing piece of invention.

Some anarchists, after carrying barrels of powder into a sewer near the

Madeleine, were said to have undermined the whole district, planning a

perfect volcano there, into which one half of Paris would sink. And at

another time it was alleged that the police were on the track of a

terrible plot which embraced all Europe, from the depths of Russia to the

shores of Spain. The signal for putting it into execution was to be given

in France, and there would be a three days' massacre, with grape shot

sweeping everyone off the Boulevards, and the Seine running red, swollen

by a torrent of blood. Thanks to these able and intelligent devices of

the Press, terror now reigned in the city; frightened foreigners fled

from the hotels _en masse_; and Paris had become a mere mad-house, where

the most idiotic delusions at once found credit.

It was not all this, however, that worried Guillaume. He was only anxious

about Salvat and the various new "scents" which the newspaper reporters

attempted to follow up. The engineer was not yet arrested, and, so far

indeed, there had been no statement in print to indicate that the police

were on his track. At last, however, Pierre one morning read a paragraph

which made the injured man turn pale.

"Dear me! It seems that a tool has been found among the rubbish at the

entrance of the Duvillard mansion. It is a bradawl, and its handle bears

the name of Grandidier, which is that of a man who keeps some well-known

metal works. He is to appear before the investigating magistrate to-day."

Guillaume made a gesture of despair. "Ah!" said he, "they are on the

right track at last. That tool must certainly have been dropped by

Salvat. He worked at Grandidier's before he came to me for a few days.

And from Grandidier they will learn all that they need to know in order

to follow the scent."

Pierre then remembered that he had heard the Grandidier factory mentioned

at Montmartre. Guillaume's eldest son, Thomas, had served his

apprenticeship there, and even worked there occasionally nowadays.

"You told me," resumed Guillaume, "that during my absence Thomas intended

to go back to the factory. It's in connection with a new motor which he's

planning, and has almost hit upon. If there should be a perquisition

there, he may be questioned, and may refuse to answer, in order to guard

his secret. So he ought to be warned of this, warned at once!"

Without trying to extract any more precise statement from his brother,

Pierre obligingly offered his services. "If you like," said he, "I will

go to see Thomas this afternoon. Perhaps I may come across Monsieur

Grandidier himself and learn how far the affair has gone, and what was

said at the investigating magistrate's."

With a moist glance and an affectionate grasp of the hand, Guillaume at

once thanked Pierre: "Yes, yes, brother, go there, it will be good and

brave of you."

"Besides," continued the priest, "I really wanted to go to Montmartre

to-day. I haven't told you so, but something has been worrying me. If

Salvat has fled, he must have left the woman and the child all alone up

yonder. On the morning of the day when the explosion took place I saw the

poor creatures in such a state of destitution, such misery, that I can't

think of them without a heart-pang. Women and children so often die of

hunger when the man is no longer there."

At this, Guillaume, who had kept Pierre's hand in his own, pressed it

more tightly, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: "Yes, yes, and that

will be good and brave too. Go there, brother, go there."