第 30 页

produces."

Then suddenly breaking off he exclaimed: "By the way, I've been doing

some more work to my figure of Fecundity, and I'm fairly well pleased

with it. Just come with me and I'll show it you."

Thereupon he insisted on taking them to his private studio, which was

near by, just below Guillaume's little house. It was entered by way of

the Rue du Calvaire, a street which is simply a succession of ladder-like

flights of steps. The door opened on to one of the little landings, and

one found oneself in a spacious, well-lighted apartment littered with

models and casts, fragments and figures, quite an overflow of sturdy,

powerful talent. On a stool was the unfinished model of Fecundity swathed

in wet cloths. These Jahan removed, and then she stood forth with her

rounded figure, her broad hips and her wifely, maternal bosom, full of

the milk which nourishes and redeems.

"Well, what do you think of her?" asked Jahan. "Built as she is, I fancy

that her children ought to be less puny than the pale, languid, aesthetic

fellows of nowadays!"

While Antoine and Francois were admiring the figure, Pierre, for his

part, took most interest in a young girl who had opened the door to them,

and who had now wearily reseated herself at a little table to continue a

book she was reading. This was Jahan's sister, Lise. A score of years

younger than himself, she was but sixteen, and had been living alone with

him since their father's death. Very slight and delicate looking, she had

a most gentle face, with fine light hair which suggested pale gold-dust.

She was almost a cripple, with legs so weak that she only walked with

difficulty, and her mind also was belated, still full of childish

_naivete_. At first this had much saddened her brother, but with time he

had grown accustomed to her innocence and languor. Busy as he always was,

ever in a transport, overflowing with new plans, he somewhat neglected

her by force of circumstances, letting her live beside him much as she

listed.

Pierre had noticed, however, the sisterly impulsiveness with which she

had greeted Antoine. And the latter, after congratulating Jahan on his

statue, came and sat down beside her, questioned her and wished to see

the book which she was reading. During the last six months the most pure

and affectionate intercourse had sprung up between them. He, from his

father's garden, up yonder on the Place du Tertre, could see her through

the huge window of that studio where she led so innocent a life. And

noticing that she was always alone, as if forsaken, he had begun to take

an interest in her. Then had come acquaintance; and, delighted to find

her so simple and so charming, he had conceived the design of rousing her

to intelligence and life, by loving her, by becoming at once the mind and

the heart whose power fructifies. Weak plant that she was, in need of

delicate care, sunshine and affection, he became for her all that her

brother had, through circumstances, failed to be. He had already taught

her to read, a task in which every mistress had previously failed. But

him she listened to and understood. And by slow degrees a glow of

happiness came to the beautiful clear eyes set in her irregular face. It

was love's miracle, the creation of woman beneath the breath of a young

lover who gave himself entirely. No doubt she still remained very

delicate, with such poor health that one ever feared that she might

expire in a faint sigh; and her legs, moreover, were still too weak to

admit of her walking any distance. But all the same, she was no longer

the little wilding, the little ailing flower of the previous spring.

Jahan, who marvelled at the incipient miracle, drew near to the young

people. "Ah!" said he, "your pupil does you honour. She reads quite

fluently, you know, and understands the fine books you send her. You read

to me of an evening now, don't you, Lise?"

She raised her candid eyes, and gazed at Antoine with a smile of infinite

gratitude. "Oh! whatever he'll teach me," she said, "I'll learn it, and

do it."

The others laughed gently. Then, as the visitors were going off, Francois

paused before a model which had cracked while drying. "Oh! that's a

spoilt thing," said the sculptor. "I wanted to model a figure of Charity.

It was ordered of me by a philanthropic institution. But try as I might,

I could only devise something so commonplace that I let the clay spoil.

Still, I must think it over and endeavour to take the matter in hand

again."

When they were outside, it occurred to Pierre to go as far as the

basilica of the Sacred Heart in the hope of finding Abbe Rose there. So

the three of them went round by way of the Rue Gabrielle and climbed the

steps of the Rue Chape. And just as they were reaching the summit where

the basilica reared its forest of scaffoldings beneath the clear sky,

they encountered Thomas, who, on leaving the factory, had gone to give an

order to a founder in the Rue Lamarck.

He, who as a rule was so silent and discreet, now happened to be in an

expansive mood, which made him look quite radiant. "Ah! I'm so pleased,"

he said, addressing Pierre; "I fancy that I've found what I want for our

little motor. Tell father that things are going on all right, and that he

must make haste to get well."

At these words his brothers, Francois and Antoine, drew close to him with

a common impulse. And they stood there all three, a valiant little group,

their hearts uniting and beating with one and the same delight at the

idea that their father would be gladdened, that the good news they were

sending him would help him towards recovery. As for Pierre, who, now that

he knew them, was beginning to love them and judge them at their worth,

he marvelled at the sight of these three young giants, each so strikingly

like the other, and drawn together so closely and so promptly, directly

their filial affection took fire.

"Tell him that we are waiting for him, and will come to him at the first

sign if we are wanted."

Then each in turn shook the priest's hand vigorously. And while he

remained watching them as they went off towards the little house, whose

garden he perceived over the wall of the Rue Saint Eleuthere, he fancied

he could there detect a delicate silhouette, a white, sunlit face under a

help of dark hair. It was doubtless the face of Marie, examining the buds

on her lilac bushes. At that evening hour, however, the diffuse light was

so golden that the vision seemed to fade in it as in a halo. And Pierre,

feeling dazzled, turned his head, and on the other side saw naught but

the overwhelming, chalky mass of the basilica, whose hugeness shut out

all view of the horizon.

For a moment he remained motionless on that spot, so agitated by

conflicting thoughts and feelings that he could read neither heart nor

mind clearly. Then, as he turned towards the city, all Paris spread

itself out at his feet, a limpid, lightsome Paris, beneath the pink glow

of that spring-like evening. The endless billows of house-roofs showed

forth with wonderful distinctness, and one could have counted the chimney

stacks and the little black streaks of the windows by the million. The

edifices rising into the calm atmosphere seemed like the anchored vessels

of some fleet arrested in its course, with lofty masting which glittered

at the sun's farewell. And never before had Pierre so distinctly observed

the divisions of that human ocean. Eastward and northward was the city of

manual toil, with the rumbling and the smoke of its factories. Southward,

beyond the river, was the city of study, of intellectual labour, so calm,

so perfectly serene. And on all sides the passion of trade ascended from

the central districts, where the crowds rolled and scrambled amidst an

everlasting uproar of wheels; while westward, the city of the happy and

powerful ones, those who fought for sovereignty and wealth, spread out

its piles of palaces amidst the slowly reddening flare of the declining

planet.

And then, from the depths of his negation, the chaos into which his loss

of faith had plunged him, Pierre felt a delicious freshness pass like the

vague advent of a new faith. So vague it was that he could not have

expressed even his hope of it in words. But already among the rough

factory workers, manual toil had appeared to him necessary and

redemptive, in spite of all the misery and abominable injustice to which

it led. And now the young men of intellect of whom he had despaired, that

generation of the morrow which he had thought spoilt, relapsing into

ancient error and rottenness, had appeared to him full of virile promise,

resolved to prosecute the work of those who had gone before, and effect,

by the aid of Science only, the conquest of absolute truth and absolute

justice.

V. PROBLEMS

A FULL month had already gone by since Guillaume had taken refuge at his

brother's little house at Neuilly. His wrist was now nearly healed. He

had long ceased to keep his bed, and often strolled through the garden.

In spite of his impatience to go back to Montmartre, join his loved ones

and resume his work there, he was each morning prompted to defer his

return by the news he found in the newspapers. The situation was ever the

same. Salvat, whom the police now suspected, had been perceived one

evening near the central markets, and then again lost sight of. Every

day, however, his arrest was said to be imminent. And in that case what

would happen? Would he speak out, and would fresh perquisitions be made?

For a whole week the press had been busy with the bradawl found under the

entrance of the Duvillard mansion. Nearly every reporter in Paris had

called at the Grandidier factory and interviewed both workmen and master.

Some had even started on personal investigations, in the hope of

capturing the culprit themselves. There was no end of jesting about the

incompetence of the police, and the hunt for Salvat was followed all the

more passionately by the general public, as the papers overflowed with

the most ridiculous concoctions, predicting further explosions, and

declaring even that all Paris would some morning be blown into the air.

The "Voix du Peuple" set a fresh shudder circulating every day by its

announcements of threatening letters, incendiary placards and mysterious,

far-reaching plots. And never before had so base and foolish a spirit of

contagion wafted insanity through a civilised city.

Guillaume, for his part, no sooner awoke of a morning than he was all

impatience to see the newspapers, quivering at the idea that he would at

last read of Salvat's arrest. In his state of nervous expectancy, the

wild campaign which the press had started, the idiotic and the ferocious

things which he found in one or another journal, almost drove him crazy.

A number of "suspects" had already been arrested in a kind of chance

razzia, which had swept up the usual Anarchist herd, together with sundry

honest workmen and bandits, _illumines_ and lazy devils, in fact, a most

singular, motley crew, which investigating magistrate Amadieu was

endeavouring to turn into a gigantic association of evil-doers. One

morning, moreover, Guillaume found his own name mentioned in connection

with a perquisition at the residence of a revolutionary journalist, who

was a friend of his. At this his heart bounded with revolt, but he was

forced to the conclusion that it would be prudent for him to remain

patient a little longer, in his peaceful retreat at Neuilly, since the

police might at any moment break into his home at Montmartre, to arrest

him should it find him there.

Amidst all this anxiety the brothers led a most solitary and gentle life.

Pierre himself now spent most of his time at home. The first days of

March had come, and precocious springtide imparted delightful charm and

warmth to the little garden. Guillaume, however, since quitting his bed,

had more particularly installed himself in his father's old laboratory,

now transformed into a spacious study. All the books and papers left by

the illustrious chemist were still there, and among the latter Guillaume

found a number of unfinished essays, the perusal of which greatly excited

his interest, and often absorbed him from morning till night. It was this

which largely enabled him to bear his voluntary seclusion patiently.

Seated on the other side of the big table, Pierre also mostly occupied

himself with reading; but at times his eyes would quit his book and

wander away into gloomy reverie, into all the chaos into which he still

and ever sank. For long hours the brothers would in this wise remain side

by side, without speaking a word. Yet they knew they were together; and

occasionally, when their eyes met, they would exchange a smile. The

strong affection of former days was again springing up within them; their

childhood, their home, their parents, all seemed to live once more in the

quiet atmosphere they breathed. However, the bay window overlooked the

garden in the direction of Paris, and often, when they emerged from their

reading or their reverie, it was with a sudden feeling of anxiety, and in

order to lend ear to the distant rumbling, the increased clamour of the

great city.

On other occasions they paused as if in astonishment at hearing a

continuous footfall overhead. It was that of Nicholas Barthes, who still

lingered in the room above. He seldom came downstairs, and scarcely ever

ventured into the garden, for fear, said he, that he might be perceived

and recognised from a distant house whose windows were concealed by a

clump of trees. One might laugh at the old conspirator's haunting thought

of the police. Nevertheless, the caged-lion restlessness, the ceaseless

promenade of that perpetual prisoner who had spent two thirds of his life

in the dungeons of France in his desire to secure the liberty of others,

imparted to the silence of the little house a touching melancholy, the

very rhythm as it were of all the great good things which one hoped for,