第 53 页

you suffer. I will save you, if need be, in spite of yourself. I will

cure you of your torturing doubts, oh! without catechising you, without

imposing any particular faith on you, but simply by allowing life to do

its work, for life alone can give you back health and hope. So I beg you,

brother, in the name of our affection, come back here, come as often as

you can to spend a day with us. You will then see that when folks have

allotted themselves a task and work together in unison, they escape

excessive unhappiness. A task of any kind--yes, that is what is wanted,

together with some great passion and frank acceptance of life, so that it

may be lived as it should be and loved."

"But what would be the use of my living here?" Pierre muttered bitterly.

"I've no task left me, and I no longer know how to love."

"Well, I will give you a task, and as for love, that will soon be

awakened by the breath of life. Come, brother, consent, consent!"

Then, seeing that Pierre still remained gloomy and sorrowful, and

persisted in his determination to go away and bury himself, Guillaume

added, "Ah! I don't say that the things of this world are such as one

might wish them to be. I don't say that only joy and truth and justice

exist. For instance, the affair of that unhappy fellow Salvat fills me

with anger and revolt. Guilty he is, of course, and yet how many excuses

he had, and how I shall pity him if the crimes of all of us are laid at

his door, if the various political gangs bandy him from one to another,

and use him as a weapon in their sordid fight for power. The thought of

it all so exasperates me that at times I am as unreasonable as yourself.

But now, brother, just to please me, promise that you will come and spend

the day after to-morrow with us."

Then, as Pierre still kept silent, Guillaume went on: "I will have it so.

It would grieve me too much to think that you were suffering from

martyrdom in your solitary nook. I want to cure and save you."

Tears again rose to Pierre's eyes, and in a tone of infinite distress he

answered: "Don't compel me to promise.... All I can say is that I will

try to conquer myself."

The week he then spent in his little, dark, empty home proved a terrible

one. Shutting himself up he brooded over his despair at having lost the

companionship of that elder brother whom he once more loved with his

whole soul. He had never before been so keenly conscious of his solitude;

and he was a score of times on the point of hastening to Montmartre, for

he vaguely felt that affection, truth and life were there. But on each

occasion he was held back by a return of the discomfort which he had

already experienced, discomfort compounded of shame and fear. Priest that

he was, cut off from love and the avocations of other men, he would

surely find nothing but hurt and suffering among creatures who were all

nature, freedom and health. While he pondered thus, however, there rose

before him the shades of his father and mother, those sad spirits that

seemed to wander through the deserted rooms lamenting and entreating him

to reconcile them in himself, as soon as he should find peace. What was

he to do,--deny their prayer, and remain weeping with them, or go yonder

in search of the cure which might at last lull them to sleep and bring

them happiness in death by the force of his own happiness in life? At

last a morning came when it seemed to him that his father enjoined him

with a smile to betake himself yonder, while his mother consented with a

glance of her big soft eyes, in which her sorrow at having made so bad a

priest of him yielded to her desire to restore him to the life of our

common humanity.

Pierre did not argue with himself that day: he took a cab and gave

Guillaume's address to the driver for fear lest he should be overcome on

the way and wish to turn back. And when he again found himself, as in a

dream, in the large work-shop, where Guillaume and the young men welcomed

him in a delicately affectionate way, he witnessed an unexpected scene

which both impressed and relieved him.

Marie, who had scarcely nodded to him as he entered, sat there with a

pale and frowning face. And Mere-Grand, who was also grave, said, after

glancing at her: "You must excuse her, Monsieur l'Abbe; but she isn't

reasonable. She is in a temper with all five of us."

Guillaume began to laugh. "Ah! she's so stubborn!" he exclaimed. "You can

have no idea, Pierre, of what goes on in that little head of hers when

anybody says or does anything contrary to her ideas of justice. Such

absolute and lofty ideas they are, that they can descend to no

compromise. For instance, we were talking of that recent affair of a

father who was found guilty on his son's evidence; and she maintained

that the son had only done what was right in giving evidence against his

father, and that one ought invariably to tell the truth, no matter what

might happen. What a terrible public prosecutor she would make, eh?"

Thereupon Marie, exasperated by Pierre's smile, which seemingly indicated

that he also thought her in the wrong, flew into quite a passion: "You

are cruel, Guillaume!" she cried; "I won't be laughed at like this."

"But you are losing your senses, my dear," exclaimed Francois, while

Thomas and Antoine again grew merry. "We were only urging a question of

humanity, father and I, for we respect and love justice as much as you

do."

"There's no question of humanity, but simply one of justice. What is just

and right is just and right, and you cannot alter it."

Then, as Guillaume made a further attempt to state his views and win her

over to them, she rose trembling, in such a passion that she could

scarcely stammer: "No, no, you are all too cruel, you only want to grieve

me. I prefer to go up into my own room."

At this Mere-Grand vainly sought to restrain her. "My child, my child!"

said she, "reflect a moment; this is very wrong, you will deeply regret

it."

"No, no; you are not just, and I suffer too much."

Then she wildly rushed upstairs to her room overhead.

Consternation followed. Scenes of a similar character had occasionally

occurred before, but there had never been so serious a one. Guillaume

immediately admitted that he had done wrong in laughing at her, for she

could not bear irony. Then he told Pierre that in her childhood and youth

she had been subject to terrible attacks of passion whenever she

witnessed or heard of any act of injustice. As she herself explained,

these attacks would come upon her with irresistible force, transporting

her to such a point that she would sometimes fall upon the floor and

rave. Even nowadays she proved quarrelsome and obstinate whenever certain

subjects were touched upon. And she afterwards blushed for it all, fully

conscious that others must think her unbearable.

Indeed, a quarter of an hour later, she came downstairs again of her own

accord, and bravely acknowledged her fault. "Wasn't it ridiculous of me?"

she said. "To think I accuse others of being unkind when I behave like

that! Monsieur l'Abbe must have a very bad opinion of me." Then, after

kissing Mere-Grand, she added: "You'll forgive me, won't you? Oh!

Francois may laugh now, and so may Thomas and Antoine. They are quite

right, our differences are merely laughing matters."

"My poor Marie," replied Guillaume, in a tone of deep affection. "You see

what it is to surrender oneself to the absolute. If you are so healthy

and reasonable it's because you regard almost everything from the

relative point of view, and only ask life for such gifts as it can

bestow. But when your absolute ideas of justice come upon you, you lose

both equilibrium and reason. At the same time, I must say that we are all

liable to err in much the same manner."

Marie, who was still very flushed, thereupon answered in a jesting way:

"Well, it at least proves that I'm not perfect."

"Oh, certainly! And so much the better," said Guillaume, "for it makes me

love you the more."

This was a sentiment which Pierre himself would willingly have re-echoed.

The scene had deeply stirred him. Had not his own frightful torments

originated with his desire for the absolute both in things and beings? He

had sought faith in its entirety, and despair had thrown him into

complete negation. Again, was there not some evil desire for the absolute

and some affectation of pride and voluntary blindness in the haughty

bearing which he had retained amidst the downfall of his belief, the

saintly reputation which he had accepted when he possessed no faith at

all? On hearing his brother praise Marie, because she only asked life for

such things as it could give, it had seemed to him that this was advice

for himself. It was as if a refreshing breath of nature had passed before

his face. At the same time his feelings in this respect were still vague,

and the only well-defined pleasure that he experienced came from the

young woman's fit of anger, that error of hers which brought her nearer

to him, by lowering her in some degree from her pedestal of serene

perfection. It was, perhaps, that seeming perfection which had made him

suffer; however, he was as yet unable to analyse his feelings. That day,

for the first time, he chatted with her for a little while, and when he

went off he thought her very good-hearted and very human.

Two days later he again came to spend the afternoon in the large sunlit

work-shop overlooking Paris. Ever since he had become conscious of the

idle life he was leading, he had felt very bored when he was alone, and

only found relief among that gay, hardworking family. His brother scolded

him for not having come to _dejeuner_, and he promised to do so on the

morrow. By the time a week had elapsed, none of the discomfort and covert

hostility which had prevailed between him and Marie remained: they met

and chatted on a footing of good fellowship. Although he was a priest,

she was in no wise embarrassed by his presence. With her quiet atheism,

indeed, she had never imagined that a priest could be different from

other men. Thus her sisterly cordiality both astonished and delighted

Pierre. It was as if he wore the same garments and held the same ideas as

his big nephews, as if there were nothing whatever to distinguish him

from other men. He was still more surprised, however, by Marie's silence

on all religious questions. She seemed to live on quietly and happily,

without a thought of what might be beyond life, that terrifying realm of

mystery, which to him had brought such agony of mind.

Now that he came every two or three days to Montmartre she noticed that

he was suffering. What could be the matter with him, she wondered. When

she questioned him in a friendly manner and only elicited evasive

replies, she guessed that he was ashamed of his sufferings, and that they

were aggravated, rendered well-nigh incurable, by the very secrecy in

which he buried them. Thereupon womanly compassion awoke within her, and

she felt increasing affection for that tall, pale fellow with feverish

eyes, who was consumed by grievous torments which he would confess to

none. No doubt she questioned Guillaume respecting her brother's sadness,

and he must have confided some of the truth to her in order that she

might help him to extricate Pierre from his sufferings, and give him back

some taste for life. The poor fellow always seemed so happy when she

treated him like a friend, a brother!

At last, one evening, on seeing his eyes full of tears as he gazed upon

the dismal twilight falling over Paris, she herself pressed him to

confide his trouble to her. And thereupon he suddenly spoke out,

confessing all his torture and the horrible void which the loss of faith

had left within him. Ah! to be unable to believe, to be unable to love,

to be nothing but ashes, to know of nothing certain by which he might

replace the faith that had fled from him! She listened in stupefaction.

Why, he must be mad! And she plainly told him so, such was her

astonishment and revolt at hearing such a desperate cry of wretchedness.

To despair, indeed, and believe in nothing and love nothing, simply

because a religious hypothesis had crumbled! And this, too, when the

whole, vast world was spread before one, life with the duty of living it,

creatures and things to be loved and succoured, without counting the

universal labour, the task which one and all came to accomplish!

Assuredly he must be mad, mad with the gloomiest madness; still she vowed

she would cure him.

From that time forward she felt the most compassionate affection for this

extraordinary young man, who had first embarrassed and afterwards

astonished her. She showed herself very gentle and gay with him; she

looked after him with the greatest skill and delicacy of heart and mind.

There had been certain similar features in their childhood; each had been

reared in the strictest religious views by a pious mother. But afterwards

how different had been their fates! Whilst he was struggling with his

doubts, bound by his priestly vows, she had grown up at the Lycee

Fenelon, where her father had placed her as soon as her mother died; and

there, far removed from all practice of religion, she had gradually

reached total forgetfulness of her early religious views. It was a

constant source of surprise for him to find that she had thus escaped all

distress of mind at the thought of what might come after death, whereas

that same thought had so deeply tortured him. When they chatted together

and he expressed his astonishment at it, she frankly laughed, saying that

she had never felt any fear of hell, for she was certain that no hell

existed. And she added that she lived in all quietude, without hope of

going to any heaven, her one thought being to comply in a reasonable way

with the requirements and necessities of earthly life. It was, perhaps,