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Guillaume's irritation. In spite of his contempt for Sagnier he could not

keep from buying the "Voix du Peuple." Quivering with indignation,

growing more and more exasperated, he was somehow attracted by the mire

which he found in that scurrilous journal. Moreover, the other

newspapers, including even the "Globe," which was usually so dignified,

published all sorts of statements for which no proof could be supplied,

and drew from them remarks and conclusions which, though couched in

milder language than Sagnier's, were none the less abominably unjust. It

seemed indeed as if the whole press had set itself the task of covering

Salvat with mud, so as to be able to vilify Anarchism generally.

According to the journalists the prisoner's life had simply been one long

abomination. He had already earned his living by thievery in his

childhood at the time when he had roamed the streets, an unhappy,

forsaken vagrant; and later on he had proved a bad soldier and a bad

worker. He had been punished for insubordination whilst he was in the

army, and he had been dismissed from a dozen work-shops because he

incessantly disturbed them by his Anarchical propaganda. Later still, he

had fled his country and led a suspicious life of adventure in America,

where, it was alleged, he must have committed all sorts of unknown

crimes. Moreover there was his horrible immorality, his connection with

his sister-in-law, that Madame Theodore who had taken charge of his

forsaken child in his absence, and with whom he had cohabited since his

return to France. In this wise Salvat's failings and transgressions were

pitilessly denounced and magnified without any mention of the causes

which had induced them, or of the excuses which lay in the unhappy man's

degrading environment. And so Guillaume's feelings of humanity and

justice revolted, for he knew the real Salvat,--a man of tender heart and

dreamy mind, so liable to be impassioned by fancies,--a man cast into

life when a child without weapon of defence, ever trodden down or thrust

aside, then gradually exasperated by the perpetual onslaughts of want,

and at last dreaming of reviving the golden age by destroying the old,

corrupt world.

Unfortunately for Salvat, everything had gone against him since he had

been shut up in strict confinement, at the mercy of the ambitious and

worldly Amadieu. Guillaume had learnt from his son, Thomas, that the

prisoner could count on no support whatever among his former mates at the

Grandidier works. These works were becoming prosperous once more, thanks

to their steady output of bicycles; and it was said that Grandidier was

only waiting for Thomas to perfect his little motor, in order to start

the manufacture of motor-cars on a large scale. However, the success

which he was now for the first time achieving, and which scarcely repaid

him for all his years of toil and battle, had in certain respects

rendered him prudent and even severe. He did not wish any suspicion to be

cast upon his business through the unpleasant affair of his former

workman Salvat, and so he had dismissed such of his workmen as held

Anarchist views. If he had kept the two Toussaints, one of whom was the

prisoner's brother-in-law, while the other was suspected of sympathy with

him, this was because they had belonged to the works for a score of

years, and he did not like to cast them adrift. Moreover, Toussaint, the

father, had declared that if he were called as a witness for the defence,

he should simply give such particulars of Salvat's career as related to

the prisoner's marriage with his sister.

One evening when Thomas came home from the works, to which he returned

every now and then in order to try his little motor, he related that he

had that day seen Madame Grandidier, the poor young woman who had become

insane through an attack of puerperal fever following upon the death of a

child. Although most frightful attacks of madness occasionally came over

her, and although life beside her was extremely painful, even during the

intervals when she remained downcast and gentle as a child, her husband

had never been willing to send her to an asylum. He kept her with him in

a pavilion near the works, and as a rule the shutters of the windows

overlooking the yard remained closed. Thus Thomas had been greatly

surprised to see one of these windows open, and the young woman appear at

it amidst the bright sunshine of that early spring. True, she only

remained there for a moment, vision-like, fair and pretty, with smiling

face; for a servant who suddenly drew near closed the window, and the

pavilion then again sank into lifeless silence. At the same time it was

reported among the men employed at the works that the poor creature had

not experienced an attack for well-nigh a month past, and that this was

the reason why the "governor" looked so strong and pleased, and worked so

vigorously to help on the increasing prosperity of his business.

"He isn't a bad fellow," added Thomas, "but with the terrible competition

that he has to encounter, he is bent on keeping his men under control.

Nowadays, says he, when so many capitalists and wage earners seem bent on

exterminating one another, the latter--if they don't want to

starve--ought to be well pleased when capital falls into the hands of an

active, fair-minded man.... If he shows no pity for Salvat, it is

because he really believes in the necessity of an example."

That same day Thomas, after leaving the works and while threading his way

through the toilsome hive-like Marcadet district, had overtaken Madame

Theodore and little Celine, who were wandering on in great distress. It

appeared that they had just called upon Toussaint, who had been unable to

lend them even such a trifle as ten sous. Since Salvat's arrest, the

woman and the child had been forsaken and suspected by one and all.

Driven forth from their wretched lodging, they were without food and

wandered hither and thither dependent on chance alms. Never had greater

want and misery fallen on defenceless creatures.

"I told them to come up here, father," said Thomas, "for I thought that

one might pay their landlord a month's rent, so that they might go home

again.... Ah! there's somebody coming now--it's they, no doubt."

Guillaume had felt angry with himself whilst listening to his son, for he

had not thought of the poor creatures. It was the old story: the man

disappears, and the woman and the child find themselves in the streets,

starving. Whenever Justice strikes a man her blow travels beyond him,

fells innocent beings and kills them.

Madame Theodore came in, humble and timid, scared like a luckless

creature whom life never wearies of persecuting. She was becoming almost

blind, and little Celine had to lead her. The girl's fair, thin face wore

its wonted expression of shrewd intelligence, and even now, however

woeful her rags, it was occasionally brightened by a childish smile.

Pierre and Marie, who were both there, felt extremely touched. Near them

was Madame Mathis, young Victor's mother, who had come to help Mere-Grand

with the mending of some house-linen. She went out by the day in this

fashion among a few families, and was thus enabled to give her son an

occasional franc or two. Guillaume alone questioned Madame Theodore.

"Ah! monsieur," she stammered, "who could ever have thought Salvat

capable of such a thing, he who's so good and so humane? Still it's true,

since he himself has admitted it to the magistrate.... For my part I

told everybody that he was in Belgium. I wasn't quite sure of it, still

I'm glad that he didn't come back to see us; for if he had been arrested

at our place I should have lost my senses.... Well, now that they have

him, they'll sentence him to death, that's certain."

At this Celine, who had been looking around her with an air of interest,

piteously exclaimed: "Oh! no, oh! no, mamma, they won't hurt him!"

Big tears appeared in the child's eyes as she raised this cry. Guillaume

kissed her, and then went on questioning Madame Theodore.

"Well, monsieur," she answered, "the child's not old or big enough to

work as yet, and my eyes are done for, people won't even take me as a

charwoman. And so it's simple enough, we starve.... Oh! of course I'm

not without relations; I have a sister who married very well. Her husband

is a clerk, Monsieur Chretiennot, perhaps you know him. Unfortunately

he's rather proud, and as I don't want any scenes between him and my

sister, I no longer go to see her. Besides, she's in despair just now,

for she's expecting another baby, which is a terrible blow for a small

household, when one already has two girls.... That's why the only

person I can apply to is my brother Toussaint. His wife isn't a bad sort

by any means, but she's no longer the same since she's been living in

fear of her husband having another attack. The first one carried off all

her savings, and what would become of her if Toussaint should remain on

her hands, paralysed? Besides, she's threatened with another burden, for,

as you may know, her son Charles got keeping company with a servant at a

wine shop, who of course ran away after she had a baby, which she left

him to see to. So one can understand that the Toussaints themselves are

hard put. I don't complain of them. They've already lent me a little

money, and of course they can't go on lending for ever."

She continued talking in this spiritless, resigned way, complaining only

on account of Celine; for, said she, it was enough to make one's heart

break to see such an intelligent child obliged to tramp the streets after

getting on so well at the Communal School. She could feel too that

everybody now kept aloof from them on account of Salvat. The Toussaints

didn't want to be compromised in any such business. There was only

Charles, who had said that he could well understand a man losing his head

and trying to blow up the _bourgeois_, because they really treated the

workers in a blackguard way.

"For my part, monsieur," added Madame Theodore, "I say nothing, for I'm

only a woman. All the same, though, if you'd like to know what I think,

well, I think that it would have been better if Salvat hadn't done what

he did, for we two, the girl and I, are the real ones to suffer from it.

Ah! I can't get the idea into my head, that the little one should be the

daughter of a man condemned to death."

Once more Celine interrupted her, flinging her arms around her neck: "Oh!

mamma, oh! mamma, don't say that, I beg you! It can't be true, it grieves

me too much!"

At this Pierre and Marie exchanged compassionate glances, while

Mere-Grand rose from her chair, in order to go upstairs and search her

wardrobes for some articles of clothing which might be of use to the two

poor creatures. Guillaume, who, for his part, had been moved to tears,

and felt full of revolt against the social system which rendered such

distress possible, slipped some alms into the child's little hand, and

promised Madame Theodore that he would see her landlord so as to get her

back her room.

"Ah! Monsieur Froment!" replied the unfortunate woman. "Salvat was quite

right when he said you were a real good man! And as you employed him here

for a few days you know too that he isn't a wicked one.... Now that

he's been put in prison everybody calls him a brigand, and it breaks my

heart to hear them." Then, turning towards Madame Mathis, who had

continued sewing in discreet silence, like a respectable woman whom none

of these things could concern, she went on: "I know you, madame, but I'm

better acquainted with your son, Monsieur Victor, who has often come to

chat at our place. Oh! you needn't be afraid, I shan't say it, I shall

never compromise anybody; but if Monsieur Victor were free to speak, he'd

be the man to explain Salvat's ideas properly."

Madame Mathis looked at her in stupefaction. Ignorant as she was of her

son's real life and views, she experienced a vague dread at the idea of

any connection between him and Salvat's family. Moreover, she refused to

believe it possible. "Oh! you must be mistaken," she said. "Victor told

me that he now seldom came to Montmartre, as he was always going about in

search of work."

By the anxious quiver of the widow's voice, Madame Theodore understood

that she ought not to have mixed her up in her troubles; and so in all

humility she at once beat a retreat: "I beg your pardon, madame, I didn't

think I should hurt your feelings. Perhaps, too, I'm mistaken, as you

say."

Madame Mathis had again turned to her sewing as to the solitude in which

she lived, that nook of decent misery where she dwelt without

companionship and almost unknown, with scarcely sufficient bread to eat.

Ah! that dear son of hers, whom she loved so well; however much he might

neglect her, she had placed her only remaining hope in him: he was her

last dream, and would some day lavish all kinds of happiness upon her!

At that moment Mere-Grand came downstairs again, laden with a bundle of

linen and woollen clothing, and Madame Theodore and little Celine

withdrew while pouring forth their thanks. For a long time after they had

gone Guillaume, unable to resume work, continued walking to and fro in

silence, with a frown upon his face.

When Pierre, still hesitating and still tortured by conflicting feelings,

returned to Montmartre on the following day he witnessed with much

surprise a visit of a very different kind. There was a sudden gust of

wind, a whirl of skirts and a ring of laughter as little Princess

Rosemonde swept in, followed by young Hyacinthe Duvillard, who, on his

side, retained a very frigid bearing.

"It's I, my dear master," exclaimed the Princess. "I promised you a