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the sight of such frightful wretchedness had ignited, once more within

him. No, no! such suffering was too much; he wished to struggle still, to

save Laveuve and restore a little joy to all those poor folk. The new

experiment presented itself with that city of Paris which he had seen

shrouded as with ashes, so mysterious and so perturbing beneath the

threat of inevitable justice. And he dreamed of a huge sun bringing

health and fruitfulness, which would make of the huge city the fertile

field where would sprout the better world of to-morrow.

II. WEALTH AND WORLDLINESS

THAT same morning, as was the case nearly every day, some intimates were

expected to _dejeuner_ at the Duvillards', a few friends who more or less

invited themselves. And on that chilly day, all thaw and fog, the regal

mansion in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy near the Boulevard de la Madeleine

bloomed with the rarest flowers, for flowers were the greatest passion of

the Baroness, who transformed the lofty, sumptuous rooms, littered with

marvels, into warm and odoriferous conservatories, whither the gloomy,

livid light of Paris penetrated caressingly with infinite softness.

The great reception rooms were on the ground-floor looking on to the

spacious courtyard, and preceded by a little winter garden, which served

as a vestibule where two footmen in liveries of dark green and gold were

invariably on duty. A famous gallery of paintings, valued at millions of

francs, occupied the whole of the northern side of the house. And the

grand staircase, of a sumptuousness which also was famous, conducted to

the apartments usually occupied by the family, a large red drawing-room,

a small blue and silver drawing-room, a study whose walls were hung with

old stamped leather, and a dining-room in pale green with English

furniture, not to mention the various bedchambers and dressing-rooms.

Built in the time of Louis XIV. the mansion retained an aspect of noble

grandeur, subordinated to the epicurean tastes of the triumphant

_bourgeoisie_, which for a century now had reigned by virtue of the

omnipotence of money.

Noon had not yet struck, and Baron Duvillard, contrary to custom, found

himself the first in the little blue and silver _salon_. He was a man of

sixty, tall and sturdy, with a large nose, full cheeks, broad, fleshy

lips, and wolfish teeth, which had remained very fine. He had, however,

become bald at an early age, and dyed the little hair that was left him.

Moreover, since his beard had turned white, he had kept his face

clean-shaven. His grey eyes bespoke his audacity, and in his laugh there

was a ring of conquest, while the whole of his face expressed the fact

that this conquest was his own, that he wielded the sovereignty of an

unscrupulous master, who used and abused the power stolen and retained by

his caste.

He took a few steps, and then halted in front of a basket of wonderful

orchids near the window. On the mantel-piece and table tufts of violets

sent forth their perfume, and in the warm, deep silence which seemed to

fall from the hangings, the Baron sat down and stretched himself in one

of the large armchairs, upholstered in blue satin striped with silver. He

had taken a newspaper from his pocket, and began to re-peruse an article

it contained, whilst all around him the entire mansion proclaimed his

immense fortune, his sovereign power, the whole history of the century

which had made him the master. His grandfather, Jerome Duvillard, son of

a petty advocate of Poitou, had come to Paris as a notary's clerk in

1788, when he was eighteen; and very keen, intelligent and hungry as he

was, he had gained the family's first three millions--at first in

trafficking with the _emigres'_ estates when they were confiscated and

sold as national property, and later, in contracting for supplies to the

imperial army. His father, Gregoire Duvillard, born in 1805, and the real

great man of the family--he who had first reigned in the Rue

Godot-de-Mauroy, after King Louis Philippe had granted him the title of

Baron--remained one of the recognized heroes of modern finance by reason

of the scandalous profits which he had made in every famous thieving

speculation of the July Monarchy and the Second Empire, such as mines,

railroads, and the Suez Canal. And he, the present Baron, Henri by name,

and born in 1836, had only seriously gone into business on Baron

Gregoire's death soon after the Franco-German War. However, he had done

so with such a rageful appetite, that in a quarter of a century he had

again doubled the family fortune. He rotted and devoured, corrupted,

swallowed everything that he touched; and he was also the tempter

personified--the man who bought all consciences that were for

sale--having fully understood the new times and its tendencies in

presence of the democracy, which in its turn had become hungry and

impatient. Inferior though he was both to his father and his grandfather,

being a man of enjoyment, caring less for the work of conquest than the

division of the spoil, he nevertheless remained a terrible fellow, a

sleek triumpher, whose operations were all certainties, who amassed

millions at each stroke, and treated with governments on a footing of

equality, able as he was to place, if not France, at least a ministry in

his pocket. In one century and three generations, royalty had become

embodied in him: a royalty already threatened, already shaken by the

tempest close ahead. And at times his figure grew and expanded till it

became, as it were, an incarnation of the whole _bourgeoisie_--that

_bourgeoisie_ which at the division of the spoils in 1789 appropriated

everything, and has since fattened on everything at the expense of the

masses, and refuses to restore anything whatever.

The article which the Baron was re-perusing in a halfpenny newspaper

interested him. "La Voix du Peuple" was a noisy sheet which, under the

pretence of defending outraged justice and morality, set a fresh scandal

circulating every morning in the hope of thereby increasing its sales.

And that morning, in big type on its front page, this sub-title was

displayed: "The Affair of the African Railways. Five Millions spent in

Bribes: Two Ministers Bought, Thirty Deputies and Senators Compromised."

Then in an article of odious violence the paper's editor, the famous

Sagnier, announced that he possessed and intended to publish the list of

the thirty-two members of Parliament, whose support Baron Duvillard had

purchased at the time when the Chambers had voted the bill for the

African Railway Lines. Quite a romantic story was mingled with all this,

the adventures of a certain Hunter, whom the Baron had employed as his

go-between and who had now fled. The Baron, however, re-perused each

sentence and weighed each word of the article very calmly; and although

he was alone he shrugged his shoulders and spoke aloud with the tranquil

assurance of a man whose responsibility is covered and who is, moreover,

too powerful to be molested.

"The idiot," he said, "he knows even less than he pretends."

Just then, however, a first guest arrived, a man of barely four and

thirty, elegantly dressed, dark and good looking, with a delicately

shaped nose, and curly hair and beard. As a rule, too, he had laughing

eyes, and something giddy, flighty, bird-like in his demeanour; but that

morning he seemed nervous, anxious even, and smiled in a scared way.

"Ah! it's you, Duthil," said the Baron, rising. "Have you read this?" And

he showed the new comer the "Voix du Peuple," which he was folding up to

replace it in his pocket.

"Why yes, I've read it. It's amazing. How can Sagnier have got hold of

the list of names? Has there been some traitor?"

The Baron looked at his companion quietly, amused by his secret anguish.

Duthil, the son of a notary of Angouleme, almost poor and very honest,

had been sent to Paris as deputy for that town whilst yet very young,

thanks to the high reputation of his father; and he there led a life of

pleasure and idleness, even as he had formerly done when a student.

However, his pleasant bachelor's quarters in the Rue de Suresnes, and his

success as a handsome man in the whirl of women among whom he lived, cost

him no little money; and gaily enough, devoid as he was of any moral

sense, he had already glided into all sorts of compromising and lowering

actions, like a light-headed, superior man, a charming, thoughtless

fellow, who attached no importance whatever to such trifles.

"Bah!" said the Baron at last. "Has Sagnier even got a list? I doubt it,

for there was none; Hunter wasn't so foolish as to draw one up. And then,

too, it was merely an ordinary affair; nothing more was done than is

always done in such matters of business."

Duthil, who for the first time in his life had felt anxious, listened

like one that needs to be reassured. "Quite so, eh?" he exclaimed.

"That's what I thought. There isn't a cat to be whipped in the whole

affair."

He tried to laugh as usual, and no longer exactly knew how it was that he

had received some ten thousand francs in connection with the matter,

whether it were in the shape of a vague loan, or else under some pretext

of publicity, puffery, or advertising, for Hunter had acted with extreme

adroitness so as to give no offence to the susceptibilities of even the

least virginal consciences.

"No, there's not a cat to be whipped," repeated Duvillard, who decidedly

seemed amused by the face which Duthil was pulling. "And besides, my dear

fellow, it's well known that cats always fall on their feet. But have you

seen Silviane?"

"I just left her. I found her in a great rage with you. She learnt this

morning that her affair of the Comedie is off."

A rush of anger suddenly reddened the Baron's face. He, who could scoff

so calmly at the threat of the African Railways scandal, lost his balance

and felt his blood boiling directly there was any question of Silviane,

the last, imperious passion of his sixtieth year. "What! off?" said he.

"But at the Ministry of Fine Arts they gave me almost a positive promise

only the day before yesterday."

He referred to a stubborn caprice of Silviane d'Aulnay, who, although she

had hitherto only reaped a success of beauty on the stage, obstinately

sought to enter the Comedie Francaise and make her _debut_ there in the

part of "Pauline" in Corneille's "Polyeucte," which part she had been

studying desperately for several months past. Her idea seemed an insane

one, and all Paris laughed at it; but the young woman, with superb

assurance, kept herself well to the front, and imperiously demanded the

_role_, feeling sure that she would conquer.

"It was the minister who wouldn't have it," explained Duthil.

The Baron was choking. "The minister, the minister! Ah! well, I will soon

have that minister sent to the rightabout."

However, he had to cease speaking, for at that moment Baroness Duvillard

came into the little drawing-room. At forty-six years of age she was

still very beautiful. Very fair and tall, having hitherto put on but

little superfluous fat, and retaining perfect arms and shoulders, with

speckless silky skin, it was only her face that was spoiling, colouring

slightly with reddish blotches. And these blemishes were her torment, her

hourly thought and worry. Her Jewish origin was revealed by her somewhat

long and strangely charming face, with blue and softly voluptuous eyes.

As indolent as an Oriental slave, disliking to have to move, walk, or

even speak, she seemed intended for a harem life, especially as she was

for ever tending her person. That day she was all in white, gowned in a

white silk toilette of delicious and lustrous simplicity.

Duthil complimented her, and kissed her hand with an enraptured air. "Ah!

madame, you set a little springtide in my heart. Paris is so black and

muddy this morning."

However, a second guest entered the room, a tall and handsome man of five

or six and thirty; and the Baron, still disturbed by his passion,

profited by this opportunity to make his escape. He carried Duthil away

into his study, saying, "Come here an instant, my dear fellow. I have a

few more words to say to you about the affair in question. Monsieur de

Quinsac will keep my wife company for a moment."

The Baroness, as soon as she was alone with the new comer, who, like

Duthil, had most respectfully kissed her hand, gave him a long, silent

look, while her soft eyes filled with tears. Deep silence, tinged with

some slight embarrassment, had fallen, but she ended by saying in a very

low voice: "How happy I am, Gerard, to find myself alone with you for a

moment. For a month past I have not had that happiness."

The circumstances in which Henri Duvillard had married the younger

daughter of Justus Steinberger, the great Jew banker, formed quite a

story which was often recalled. The Steinbergers--after the fashion of

the Rothschilds--were originally four brothers--Justus, residing in

Paris, and the three others at Berlin, Vienna, and London, a circumstance

which gave their secret association most formidable power in the

financial markets of Europe. Justus, however, was the least wealthy of

the four, and in Baron Gregoire Duvillard he had a redoubtable adversary

against whom he was compelled to struggle each time that any large prey

was in question. And it was after a terrible encounter between the pair,

after the eager sharing of the spoils, that the crafty idea had come to

Justus of giving his younger daughter Eve in marriage, by way of

_douceur_, to the Baron's son, Henri. So far the latter had only been

known as an amiable fellow, fond of horses and club life; and no doubt

Justus's idea was that, at the death of the redoubtable Baron, who was

already condemned by his physicians, he would be able to lay his hands on

the rival banking-house, particularly if he only had in front of him a