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feeling, and stubbornly adhered to his own idea of basing the world's

regeneration on the simple proposition that men were naturally good and

ought to be free and brotherly.

That evening at dinner, feeling that he was with friends who cared for

him, Barthes proved extremely gay, and showed all his ingenuousness in

talking of his ideal, which would soon be realised, said he, in spite of

everything. He could tell a story well whenever he cared to chat, and on

that occasion he related some delightful anecdotes about the prisons

through which he had passed. He knew all the dungeons, Ste. Pelagie and

Mont St. Michel, Belle-Ile-en-Mer and Clairvaux, to say nothing of

temporary gaols and the evil-smelling hulks on board which political

prisoners are often confined. And he still laughed at certain

recollections, and related how in the direst circumstances he had always

been able to seek refuge in his conscience. The others listened to him

quite charmed by his conversation, but full of anguish at the thought

that this perpetual prisoner or exile must again rise and take his staff

to sally forth, driven from his native land once more.

Pierre did not speak out until they were partaking of dessert. Then he

related how the Minister had written to him, and how in a brief interview

he had stated that Barthes must cross the frontier within forty-eight

hours if he did not wish to be arrested. Thereupon the old man gravely

rose, with his white fleece, his eagle beak and his bright eyes still

sparkling with the fire of youth. And he wished to go off at once.

"What!" said he, "you have known all this since yesterday, and have still

kept me here at the risk of my compromising you even more than I had done

already! You must forgive me, I did not think of the worry I might cause

you, I thought that everything would be satisfactorily arranged. I must

thank you both--yourself and Guillaume--for the few days of quietude that

you have procured to an old vagabond and madman like myself."

Then, as they tried to prevail on him to remain until the following

morning, he would not listen to them. There would be a train for Brussels

about midnight, and he had ample time to take it. He refused to let Morin

accompany him. No, no, said he, Morin was not a rich man, and moreover he

had work to attend to. Why should he take him away from his duties, when

it was so easy, so simple, for him to go off alone? He was going back

into exile as into misery and grief which he had long known, like some

Wandering Jew of Liberty, ever driven onward through the world.

When he took leave of the others at ten o'clock, in the little sleepy

street just outside the house, tears suddenly dimmed his eyes. "Ah! I'm

no longer a young man," he said; "it's all over this time. I shall never

come back again. My bones will rest in some corner over yonder." And yet,

after he had affectionately embraced Pierre and Guillaume, he drew

himself up like one who remained unconquered, and he raised a supreme cry

of hope. "But after all, who knows? Triumph may perhaps come to-morrow.

The future belongs to those who prepare it and wait for it!"

Then he walked away, and long after he had disappeared his firm, sonorous

footsteps could be heard re-echoing in the quiet night.

BOOK IV.

I. PIERRE AND MARIE

ON the mild March morning when Pierre left his little house at Neuilly to

accompany Guillaume to Montmartre, he was oppressed by the thought that

on returning home he would once more find himself alone with nothing to

prevent him from relapsing into negation and despair. The idea of this

had kept him from sleeping, and he still found it difficult to hide his

distress and force a smile.

The sky was so clear and the atmosphere so mild that the brothers had

resolved to go to Montmartre on foot by way of the outer boulevards. Nine

o'clock was striking when they set out. Guillaume for his part was very

gay at the thought of the surprise he would give his family. It was as if

he were suddenly coming back from a long journey. He had not warned them

of his intentions; he had merely written to them now and again to tell

them that he was recovering, and they certainly had no idea that his

return was so near at hand.

When Guillaume and Pierre had climbed the sunlit slopes of Montmartre,

and crossed the quiet countrified Place du Tertre, the former, by means

of a latch-key, quietly opened the door of his house, which seemed to be

asleep, so profound was the stillness both around and within it. Pierre

found it the same as on the occasion of his previous and only visit.

First came the narrow passage which ran through the ground-floor,

affording a view of all Paris at the further end. Next there was the

garden, reduced to a couple of plum-trees and a clump of lilac-bushes,

the leaves of which had now sprouted. And this time the priest perceived

three bicycles leaning against the trees. Beyond them stood the large

work-shop, so gay, and yet so peaceful, with its huge window overlooking

a sea of roofs.

Guillaume had reached the work-shop without meeting anybody. With an

expression of much amusement he raised a finger to his lips. "Attention,

Pierre," he whispered; "you'll just see!"

Then having noiselessly opened the door, they remained for a moment on

the threshold.

The three sons alone were there. Near his forge stood Thomas working a

boring machine, with which he was making some holes in a small brass

plate. Then Francois and Antoine were seated on either side of their

large table, the former reading, and the latter finishing a block. The

bright sunshine streamed in, playing over all the seeming disorder of the

room, where so many callings and so many implements found place. A large

bunch of wallflowers bloomed on the women's work-table near the window;

and absorbed as the young men were in their respective tasks the only

sound was the slight hissing of the boring machine each time that the

eldest of them drilled another hole.

However, although Guillaume did not stir, there suddenly came a quiver,

an awakening. His sons seemed to guess his presence, for they raised

their heads, each at the same moment. From each, too, came the same cry,

and a common impulse brought them first to their feet and then to his

arms.

"Father!"

Guillaume embraced them, feeling very happy. And that was all; there was

no long spell of emotion, no useless talk. It was as if he had merely

gone out the day before and, delayed by business, had now come back.

Still, he looked at them with his kindly smile, and they likewise smiled

with their eyes fixed on his. Those glances proclaimed everything, the

closest affection and complete self-bestowal for ever.

"Come in, Pierre," called Guillaume; "shake hands with these young men."

The priest had remained near the door, overcome by a singular feeling of

discomfort. When his nephews had vigorously shaken hands with him, he sat

down near the window apart from them, as if he felt out of his element

there.

"Well, youngsters," said Guillaume, "where's Mere-Grand, and where's

Marie?"

Their grandmother was upstairs in her room, they said; and Marie had

taken it into her head to go marketing. This, by the way, was one of her

delights. She asserted that she was the only one who knew how to buy

new-laid eggs and butter of a nutty odour. Moreover, she sometimes

brought some dainty or some flowers home, in her delight at proving

herself to be so good a housewife.

"And so things are going on well?" resumed Guillaume. "You are all

satisfied, your work is progressing, eh?"

He addressed brief questions to each of them, like one who, on his return

home, at once reverts to his usual habits. Thomas, with his rough face

beaming, explained in a couple of sentences that he was now sure of

perfecting his little motor; Francois, who was still preparing for his

examination, jestingly declared that he yet had to lodge a heap of

learning in his brain; and then Antoine produced the block which he was

finishing, and which depicted his little friend Lise, Jahan's sister,

reading in her garden amidst the sunshine. It was like a florescence of

that dear belated creature whose mind had been awakened by his affection.

However, the three brothers speedily went back to their places, reverting

to their work with a natural impulse, for discipline had made them regard

work as life itself. Then Guillaume, who had glanced at what each was

doing, exclaimed: "Ah! youngsters, I schemed and prepared a lot of things

myself while I was laid up. I even made a good many notes. We walked here

from Neuilly, but my papers and the clothes which Mere-Grand sent me will

come in a cab by-and-by.... Ah! how pleased I am to find everything in

order here, and to be able to take up my task with you again! Ah! I shall

polish off some work now, and no mistake!"

He had already gone to his own corner, the space reserved for him between

the window and the forge. He there had a chemical furnace, several glass

cases and shelves crowded with appliances, and a long table, one end of

which he used for writing purposes. And he once more took possession of

that little world. After glancing around with delight at seeing

everything in its place, he began to handle one object and another, eager

to be at work like his sons.

All at once, however, Mere-Grand appeared, calm, grave and erect in her

black gown, at the top of the little staircase which conducted to the

bedrooms. "So it's you, Guillaume?" said she. "Will you come up for a

moment?"

He immediately did so, understanding that she wished to speak to him

alone and tranquillise him. It was a question of the great secret between

them, that one thing of which his sons knew nothing, and which, after

Salvat's crime, had brought him much anguish, through his fear that it

might be divulged. When he reached Mere-Grand's room she at once took him

to the hiding-place near her bed, and showed him the cartridges of the

new explosive, and the plans of the terrible engine of warfare which he

had invented. He found them all as he had left them. Before anyone could

have reached them, she would have blown up the whole place at the risk of

perishing herself in the explosion. With her wonted air of quiet heroism,

she handed Guillaume the key which he had sent her by Pierre.

"You were not anxious, I hope?" she said.

He pressed her hands with a commingling of affection and respect. "My

only anxiety," he replied, "was that the police might come here and treat

you roughly.... You are the guardian of our secret, and it would be

for you to finish my work should I disappear."

While Guillaume and Madame Leroi were thus engaged upstairs, Pierre,

still seated near the window below, felt his discomfort increasing. The

inmates of the house certainly regarded him with no other feeling than

one of affectionate sympathy; and so how came it that he considered them

hostile? The truth was that he asked himself what would become of him

among those workers, who were upheld by a faith of their own, whereas he

believed in nothing, and did not work. The sight of those young men, so

gaily and zealously toiling, ended by quite irritating him; and the

arrival of Marie brought his distress to a climax.

Joyous and full of life, she came in without seeing him, a basket on her

arm. And she seemed to bring all the sunlight of the spring morning with

her, so bright was the sparkle of her youth. The whole of her pink face,

her delicate nose, her broad intelligent brow, her thick, kindly lips,

beamed beneath the heavy coils of her black hair. And her brown eyes ever

laughed with the joyousness which comes from health and strength.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have brought such a lot of things, youngsters.

Just come and see them; I wouldn't unpack the basket in the kitchen."

It became absolutely necessary for the brothers to draw round the basket

which she had laid upon the table. "First there's the butter!" said she;

"just smell if it hasn't a nice scent of nuts! It's churned especially

for me, you know. Then here are the eggs. They were laid only yesterday,

I'll answer for it. And, in fact, that one there is this morning's. And

look at the cutlets! They're wonderful, aren't they? The butcher cuts

them carefully when he sees me. And then here's a cream cheese, real

cream, you know, it will be delicious! Ah! and here's the surprise,

something dainty, some radishes, some pretty little pink radishes. Just

fancy! radishes in March, what a luxury!"

She triumphed like the good little housewife she was, one who had

followed a whole course of cookery and home duties at the Lycee Fenelon.

The brothers, as merry as she herself, were obliged to compliment her.

All at once, however, she caught sight of Pierre. "What! you are there,

Monsieur l'Abbe?" she exclaimed; "I beg your pardon, but I didn't see

you. How is Guillaume? Have you brought us some news of him?"

"But father's come home," said Thomas; "he's upstairs with Mere-Grand."

Quite thunderstruck, she hastily placed her purchases in the basket.

"Guillaume's come back, Guillaume's come back!" said she, "and you don't

tell me of it, you let me unpack everything! Well, it's nice of me, I

must say, to go on praising my butter and eggs when Guillaume's come

back."

Guillaume, as it happened, was just coming down with Madame Leroi. Marie

gaily hastened to him and offered him her cheeks, on which he planted two

resounding kisses. Then she, resting her hands on his shoulders, gave him

a long look, while saying in a somewhat tremulous voice: "I am pleased,

very pleased to see you, Guillaume. I may confess it now, I thought I had

lost you, I was very anxious and very unhappy."

Although she was still smiling, tears had gathered in her eyes, and he,