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visit, you remember, for I am such a great admirer of your genius. And

our young friend here has been kind enough to bring me. We have only just

returned from Norway, and my very first visit is for you."

She turned as she spoke, and bowed in an easy and gracious way to Pierre

and Marie, Francois and Antoine, who were also there. Then she resumed:

"Oh! my dear master, you have no idea how beautifully virginal Norway is!

We all ought to go and drink at that new source of the Ideal, and we

should return purified, rejuvenated and capable of great renunciations!"

As a matter of fact she had been well-nigh bored to death there. To make

one's honeymoon journey to the land of the ice and snow, instead of to

Italy, the hot land of the sun, was doubtless a very refined idea, which

showed that no base materialism formed part of one's affections. It was

the soul alone that travelled, and naturally it was fit that only kisses

of the soul should be exchanged on the journey. Unfortunately, however,

Hyacinthe had carried his symbolism so far as to exasperate Rosemonde,

and on one occasion they had come to blows over it, and then to tears

when this lover's quarrel had ended as many such quarrels do. Briefly,

they had no longer deemed themselves pure enough for the companionship of

the swans and the lakes of dreamland, and had therefore taken the first

steamer that was sailing for France.

As it was altogether unnecessary to confess to everybody what a failure

their journey had proved, the Princess abruptly brought her rapturous

references to Norway to an end, and then explained: "By the way, do you

know what I found awaiting me on my return? Why, I found my house

pillaged, oh! completely pillaged! And in such a filthy condition, too!

We at once recognised the mark of the beast, and thought of Bergaz's

young friends."

Already on the previous day Guillaume had read in the newspapers that a

band of young Anarchists had entered the Princess's little house by

breaking a basement window. She had left it quite deserted, unprotected

even by a caretaker; and the robbers had not merely removed everything

from the premises--including even the larger articles of furniture, but

had lived there for a couple of days, bringing provisions in from

outside, drinking all the wine in the cellars, and leaving every room in

a most filthy and disgusting condition. On discovering all this,

Rosemonde had immediately remembered the evening she had spent at the

Chamber of Horrors in the company of Bergaz and his acolytes, Rossi and

Sanfaute, who had heard her speak of her intended trip to Norway. The two

young men had therefore been arrested, but Bergaz had so far escaped. The

Princess was not greatly astonished by it all, for she had already been

warned of the presence of dangerous characters among the mixed

cosmopolitan set with which she associated. Janzen had told her in

confidence of a number of villanous affairs which were attributed to

Bergaz and his band. And now the Anarchist leader openly declared that

Bergaz had sold himself to the police like Raphanel; and that the

burglary at the Princess's residence had been planned by the police

officials, who thereby hoped to cover the Anarchist cause with mire. If

proof was wanted of this, added Janzen, it could be found in the fact

that the police had allowed Bergaz to escape.

"I fancied that the newspapers might have exaggerated matters," said

Guillaume, when the Princess had finished her story. "They are inventing

such abominable things just now, in order to blacken the case of that

poor devil Salvat."

"Oh! they've exaggerated nothing!" Rosemonde gaily rejoined. "As a matter

of fact they have omitted a number of particulars which were too filthy

for publication.... For my part, I've merely had to go to an hotel.

I'm very comfortable there; I was beginning to feel bored in that house

of mine.... All the same, however, Anarchism is hardly a clean

business, and I no longer like to say that I have any connection with

it."

She again laughed, and then passed to another subject, asking Guillaume

to tell her of his most recent researches, in order, no doubt, that she

might show she knew enough chemistry to understand him. He had been

rendered thoughtful, however, by the story of Bergaz and the burglary,

and would only answer her in a general way.

Meantime, Hyacinthe was renewing his acquaintance with his

school-fellows, Francois and Antoine. He had accompanied the Princess to

Montmartre against his own inclinations; but since she had taken to

whipping him he had become afraid of her. The chemist's little home

filled him with disdain, particularly as the chemist was a man of

questionable reputation. Moreover, he thought it a duty to insist on his

own superiority in the presence of those old school-fellows of his, whom

he found toiling away in the common rut, like other people.

"Ah! yes," said he to Francois, who was taking notes from a book spread

open before him, "you are at the Ecole Normale, I believe, and are

preparing for your licentiate. Well, for my part, you know, the idea of

being tied to anything horrifies me. I become quite stupid when there's

any question of examination or competition. The only possible road for

one to follow is that of the Infinite. And between ourselves what dupery

there is in science, how it narrows our horizon! It's just as well to

remain a child with eyes gazing into the invisible. A child knows more

than all your learned men."

Francois, who occasionally indulged in irony, pretended to share his

opinion. "No doubt, no doubt," said he, "but one must have a natural

disposition to remain a child. For my part, unhappily, I'm consumed by a

desire to learn and know. It's deplorable, as I'm well aware, but I pass

my days racking my brain over books.... I shall never know very much,

that's certain; and perhaps that's the reason why I'm ever striving to

learn a little more. You must at all events grant that work, like

idleness, is a means of passing life, though of course it is a less

elegant and aesthetic one."

"Less aesthetic, precisely," rejoined Hyacinthe. "Beauty lies solely in

the unexpressed, and life is simply degraded when one introduces anything

material into it."

Simpleton though he was in spite of the enormity of his pretensions, he

doubtless detected that Francois had been speaking ironically. So he

turned to Antoine, who had remained seated in front of a block he was

engraving. It was the one which represented Lise reading in her garden,

for he was ever taking it in hand again and touching it up in his desire

to emphasise his indication of the girl's awakening to intelligence and

life.

"So you engrave, I see," said Hyacinthe. "Well, since I renounced

versification--a little poem I had begun on the End of Woman--because

words seemed to me so gross and cumbersome, mere paving-stones as it

were, fit for labourers, I myself have had some idea of trying drawing,

and perhaps engraving too. But what drawing can portray the mystery which

lies beyond life, the only sphere that has any real existence and

importance for us? With what pencil and on what kind of plate could one

depict it? We should need something impalpable, something unheard of,

which would merely suggest the essence of things and beings."

"But it's only by material means," Antoine somewhat roughly replied,

"that art can render the essence of things and beings, that is, their

full significance as we understand it. To transcribe life is my great

passion; and briefly life is the only mystery that there is in things and

beings. When it seems to me that an engraving of mine lives, I'm well

pleased, for I feel that I have created."

Hyacinthe pouted by way of expressing his contempt of all fruitfulness.

Any fool might beget offspring. It was the sexless idea, existing by

itself, that was rare and exquisite. He tried to explain this, but became

confused, and fell back on the conviction which he had brought back from

Norway, that literature and art were done for in France, killed by

baseness and excess of production.

"It's evident!" said Francois gaily by way of conclusion. "To do nothing

already shows that one has some talent!"

Meantime, Pierre and Marie listened and gazed around them, somewhat

embarrassed by this strange visit which had set the usually grave and

peaceful workroom topsy-turvy. The little Princess, though, evinced much

amiability, and on drawing near to Marie admired the wonderful delicacy

of some embroidery she was finishing. Before leaving, moreover, Rosemonde

insisted upon Guillaume inscribing his autograph in an album which

Hyacinthe had to fetch from her carriage. The young man obeyed her with

evident boredom. It could be seen that they were already weary of one

another. Pending a fresh caprice, however, it amused Rosemonde to

terrorize her sorry victim. When she at length led him away, after

declaring to Guillaume that she should always regard that visit as a

memorable incident in her life, she made the whole household smile by

saying: "Oh! so your sons knew Hyacinthe at college. He's a good-natured

little fellow, isn't he? and he would really be quite nice if he would

only behave like other people."

That same day Janzen and Bache came to spend the evening with Guillaume.

Once a week they now met at Montmartre, as they had formerly done at

Neuilly. Pierre, on these occasions, went home very late, for as soon as

Mere-Grand, Marie, and Guillaume's sons had retired for the night, there

were endless chats in the workroom, whence Paris could be seen spangled

with thousands of gas lights. Another visitor at these times was

Theophile Morin, but he did not arrive before ten o'clock, as he was

detained by the work of correcting his pupils' exercises or some other

wearisome labour pertaining to his profession.

As soon as Guillaume had told the others of the Princess's visit that

afternoon, Janzen hastily exclaimed: "But she's mad, you know. When I

first met her I thought for a moment that I might perhaps utilise her for

the cause. She seemed so thoroughly convinced and bold! But I soon found

that she was the craziest of women, and simply hungered for new

emotions!"

Janzen was at last emerging from his wonted frigidity and mysteriousness.

His cheeks were quite flushed. In all probability he had suffered from

his rupture with the woman whom he had once called 'the Queen of the

Anarchists,' and whose fortune and extensive circle of acquaintance had

seemed to him such powerful weapons of propaganda.

"You know," said he, when he had calmed down, "it was the police who had

her house pillaged and turned into a pigstye. Yes, in view of Salvat's

trial, which is now near at hand, the idea was to damn Anarchism beyond

possibility of even the faintest sympathy on the part of the

_bourgeois_."

"Yes, she told me so," replied Guillaume, who had become attentive. "But

I scarcely credit the story. If Bergaz had merely acted under such

influence as you suggest, he would have been arrested with the others,

just as Raphanel was taken with those whom he betrayed. Besides, I know

something of Bergaz; he's a freebooter." Guillaume made a sorrowful

gesture, and then in a saddened voice continued: "Oh, I can understand

all claims and all legitimate reprisals. But theft, cynical theft for the

purpose of profit and enjoyment, is beyond me! It lowers my hope of a

better and more equitable form of society. Yes, that burglary at the

Princess's house has greatly distressed me."

An enigmatical smile, sharp like a knife, again played over Janzen's

lips. "Oh! it's a matter of heredity with you!" said he. "The centuries

of education and belief that lie behind you compel you to protest. All

the same, however, when people won't make restoration, things must be

taken from them. What worries me is that Bergaz should have sold himself

just now. The public prosecutor will use that farcical burglary as a

crushing argument when he asks the jury for Salvat's head."

Such was Janzen's hatred of the police that he stubbornly clung to his

version of the affair. Perhaps, too, he had quarrelled with Bergaz, with

whom he had at one time freely associated.

Guillaume, who understood that all discussion would be useless, contented

himself with replying: "Ah! yes, Salvat! Everything is against that

unhappy fellow, he is certain to be condemned. But you can't know, my

friends, what a passion that affair of his puts me into. All my ideas of

truth and justice revolt at the thought of it. He's a madman certainly;

but there are so many excuses to be urged for him. At bottom he is simply

a martyr who has followed the wrong track. And yet he has become the

scapegoat, laden with the crimes of the whole nation, condemned to pay

for one and all!"

Bache and Morin nodded without replying. They both professed horror of

Anarchism; while Morin, forgetting that the word if not the thing dated

from his first master Proudhon, clung to his Comtist doctrines, in the

conviction that science alone would ensure the happiness and pacification

of the nations. Bache, for his part, old mystical humanitarian that he

was, claimed that the only solution would come from Fourier, who by

decreeing an alliance of talent, labour and capital, had mapped out the

future in a decisive manner. Nevertheless, both Bache and Morin were so

discontented with the slow-paced _bourgeoise_ Republic of the present

day, and so hurt by the thought that everything was going from bad to

worse through the flouting of their own particular ideas, that they were

quite willing to wax indignant at the manner in which the conflicting

parties of the time were striving to make use of Salvat in order to