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retain or acquire power.

"When one thinks," said Bache, "that this ministerial crisis of theirs

has now been lasting for nearly three weeks! Every appetite is openly

displayed, it's a most disgusting sight! Did you see in the papers this

morning that the President has again been obliged to summon Vignon to the

Elysee?"

"Oh! the papers," muttered Morin in his weary way, "I no longer read

them! What's the use of doing so? They are so badly written, and they all

lie!"

As Bache had said, the ministerial crisis was still dragging on. The

President of the Republic, taking as his guide the debate in the Chamber

of Deputies, by which the Barroux administration had been overthrown, had

very properly sent for Vignon, the victor on that occasion, and entrusted

him with the formation of a new ministry. It had seemed that this would

be an easy task, susceptible of accomplishment in two or three days at

the utmost, for the names of the friends whom the young leader of the

Radical party would bring to power with him had been freely mentioned for

months past. But all sorts of difficulties had suddenly arisen. For ten

days or so Vignon had struggled on amidst inextricable obstacles. Then,

disheartened and disgusted, fearing, too, that he might use himself up

and shut off the future if he persisted in his endeavours, he had been

obliged to tell the President that he renounced the task. Forthwith the

President had summoned other deputies, and questioned them until he had

found one brave enough to make an attempt on his own account; whereupon

incidents similar to those which had marked Vignon's endeavours had once

more occurred. At the outset a list was drawn up with every prospect of

being ratified within a few hours, but all at once hesitation arose, some

pulled one way, some another; every effort was slowly paralysed till

absolute failure resulted. It seemed as though the mysterious manoeuvres

which had hampered Vignon had begun again; it was as if some band of

invisible plotters was, for some unknown purpose, doing its utmost to

wreck every combination. A thousand hindrances arose with increasing

force from every side--jealousy, dislike, and even betrayal were secretly

prompted by expert agents, who employed every form of pressure, whether

threats or promises, besides fanning and casting rival passions and

interests into collision. Thus the President, greatly embarrassed by this

posture of affairs, had again found it necessary to summon Vignon, who,

after reflection and negotiation, now had an almost complete list in his

pocket, and seemed likely to perfect a new administration within the next

forty-eight hours.

"Still it isn't settled," resumed Bache. "Well-informed people assert

that Vignon will fail again as he did the first time. For my part I can't

get rid of the idea that Duvillard's gang is pulling the strings, though

for whose benefit is a mystery. You may be quite sure, however, that its

chief purpose is to stifle the African Railways affair. If Monferrand

were not so badly compromised I should almost suspect some trick on his

part. Have you noticed that the 'Globe,' after throwing Barroux overboard

in all haste, now refers to Monferrand every day with the most respectful

sympathy? That's a grave sign; for it isn't Fonsegue's habit to show any

solicitude for the vanquished. But what can one expect from that wretched

Chamber! The only point certain is that something dirty is being plotted

there."

"And that big dunderhead Mege who works for every party except his own!"

exclaimed Morin; "what a dupe he is with that idea that he need merely

overthrow first one cabinet and then another, in order to become the

leader of one himself!"

The mention of Mege brought them all to agreement, for they unanimously

hated him. Bache, although his views coincided on many points with those

of the apostle of State Collectivism, judged each of his speeches, each

of his actions, with pitiless severity. Janzen, for his part, treated the

Collectivist leader as a mere reactionary _bourgeois_, who ought to be

swept away one of the first. This hatred of Mege was indeed the common

passion of Guillaume's friends. They could occasionally show some justice

for men who in no wise shared their ideas; but in their estimation it was

an unpardonable crime for anybody to hold much the same views as

themselves, without being absolutely in agreement with them on every

possible point.

Their discussion continued, their various theories mingling or clashing

till they passed from politics to the press, and grew excited over the

denunciations which poured each morning from Sagnier's newspaper, like

filth from the mouth of a sewer. Thereupon Guillaume, who had become

absorbed in reverie while pacing to and fro according to his habit,

suddenly exclaimed: "Ah! what dirty work it is that Sagnier does! Before

long there won't be a single person, a single thing left on which he

hasn't vomited! You think he's on your side, and suddenly he splashes you

with mire!... By the way, he related yesterday that skeleton keys and

stolen purses were found on Salvat when he was arrested in the Bois de

Boulogne! It's always Salvat! He's the inexhaustible subject for

articles. The mere mention of him suffices to send up a paper's sales!

The bribe-takers of the African Railways shout 'Salvat!' to create a

diversion. And the battles which wreck ministers are waged round his

name. One and all set upon him and make use of him and beat him down!"

With that cry of revolt and compassion, the friends separated for the

night. Pierre, who sat near the open window, overlooking the sparkling

immensity of Paris, had listened to the others without speaking a word.

He had once more been mastered by his doubts, the terrible struggle of

his heart and mind; and no solution, no appeasement had come to him from

all the contradictory views he had heard--the views of men who only

united in predicting the disappearance of the old world, and could make

no joint brotherly effort to rear the future world of truth and justice.

In that vast city of Paris stretching below him, spangled with stars,

glittering like the sky of a summer's night, Pierre also found a great

enigma. It was like chaos, like a dim expanse of ashes dotted with sparks

whence the coming aurora would arise. What future was being forged there,

he wondered, what decisive word of salvation and happiness would come

with the dawn, and wing its flight to every point of the horizon?

When Pierre, in his turn, was about to retire, Guillaume laid his hands

upon his shoulders, and with much emotion gave him a long look. "Ah! my

poor fellow," said he, "you've been suffering too for some days past, I

have noticed it. But you are the master of your sufferings, for the

struggle you have to overcome is simply in yourself, and you can subdue

it; whereas one cannot subdue the world, when it is the world, its

cruelty and injustice that make one suffer! Good night, be brave, act as

your reason tells you, even if it makes you weep, and you will find peace

surely enough."

Later on, when Pierre again found himself alone in his little house at

Neuilly, where none now visited him save the shades of his father and

mother, he was long kept awake by a supreme internal combat. He had never

before felt so disgusted with the falsehood of his life, that cassock

which he had persisted in wearing, though he was a priest in name only.

Perhaps it was all that he had beheld and heard at his brother's, the

want and wretchedness of some, the wild, futile agitation of others, the

need of improvement among mankind which remained paramount amidst every

contradiction and form of weakness, that had made him more deeply

conscious of the necessity of living in loyal and normal fashion in the

broad daylight. He could no longer think of his former dream of leading

the solitary life of a saintly priest when he was nothing of the kind,

without a shiver of shame at having lied so long. And now it was quite

decided, he would lie no longer, not even from feelings of compassion in

order that others might retain their religious illusions. And yet how

painful it was to have to divest himself of that gown which seemed to

cling to his skin, and how heartrending the thought that if he did remove

it he would be skinless, lacerated, infirm, unable, do what he might, to

become like other men!

It was this recurring thought which again tortured him throughout that

terrible night. Would life yet allow him to enter its fold? Had he not

been branded with a mark which for ever condemned him to dwell apart? He

thought he could feel his priestly vows burning his very flesh like

red-hot iron. What use would it be for him to dress as men dress, if in

reality he was never to be a man? He had hitherto lived in such a

quivering state, in a sphere of renunciation and dreams! To know manhood

never, to be too late for it, that thought filled him with terror. And

when at last he made up his mind to fling aside his cassock, he did so

from a simple sense of rectitude, for all his anguish remained.

When he returned to Montmartre on the following day, he wore a jacket and

trousers of a dark colour. Neither an exclamation nor a glance that might

have embarrassed him came from Mere-Grand or the three young men. Was not

the change a natural one? They greeted him therefore in the quiet way

that was usual with them; perhaps, with some increase of affection, as if

to set him the more at his ease. Guillaume, however, ventured to smile

good-naturedly. In that change he detected his own work. Cure was coming,

as he had hoped it would come, by him and in his own home, amid the full

sunlight, the life which ever streamed in through yonder window.

Marie, who on her side raised her eyes and looked at Pierre, knew nothing

of the sufferings which he had endured through her simple and logical

inquiry: "Why not take your cassock off?" She merely felt that by

removing it he would be more at ease for his work.

"Oh, Pierre, just come and look!" she suddenly exclaimed. "I have been

amusing myself with watching all the smoke which the wind is laying

yonder over Paris. One might take it to be a huge fleet of ships shining

in the sunlight. Yes, yes, golden ships, thousands of golden ships,

setting forth from the ocean of Paris to enlighten and pacify the world!"

III. THE DAWN OF LOVE

A COUPLE of days afterwards, when Pierre was already growing accustomed

to his new attire, and no longer gave it a thought, it so happened that

on reaching Montmartre he encountered Abbe Rose outside the basilica of

the Sacred Heart. The old priest, who at first was quite thunderstruck

and scarcely able to recognise him, ended by taking hold of his hands and

giving him a long look. Then with his eyes full of tears he exclaimed:

"Oh! my son, so you have fallen into the awful state I feared! I never

mentioned it, but I felt that God had withdrawn from you. Ah! nothing

could wound my heart so cruelly as this."

Then, still trembling, he began to lead Pierre away as if to hide such a

scandal from the few people who passed by; and at last, his strength

failing him, he sank upon a heap of bricks lying on the grass of one of

the adjoining work-yards.

The sincere grief which his old and affectionate friend displayed upset

Pierre far more than any angry reproaches or curses would have done.

Tears had come to his own eyes, so acute was the suffering he experienced

at this meeting, which he ought, however, to have foreseen. There was yet

another wrenching, and one which made the best of their blood flow, in

that rupture between Pierre and the saintly man whose charitable dreams

and hopes of salvation he had so long shared. There had been so many

divine illusions, so many struggles for the relief of the masses, so much

renunciation and forgiveness practised in common between them in their

desire to hasten the harvest of the future! And now they were parting;

he, Pierre, still young in years, was returning to life, leaving his aged

companion to his vain waiting and his dreams.

In his turn, taking hold of Abbe Rose's hands, he gave expression to his

sorrow. "Ah, my friend, my father," said he, "it is you alone that I

regret losing, now that I am leaving my frightful torments behind. I

thought that I was cured of them, but it has been sufficient for me to

meet you, and my heart is rent again.... Don't weep for me, I pray

you, don't reproach me for what I have done. It was necessary that I

should do it. If I had consulted you, you would yourself have told me

that it was better to renounce the priesthood than to remain a priest

without faith or honour."

"Yes, yes," Abbe Rose gently responded, "you no longer had any faith

left. I suspected it. And your rigidity and saintliness of life, in which

I detected such great despair, made me anxious for you. How many hours

did I not spend at times in striving to calm you! And you must listen to

me again, you must still let me save you. I am not a sufficiently learned

theologian to lead you back by discussing texts and dogmas; but in the

name of Charity, my child, yes, in the name of Charity alone, reflect and

take up your task of consolation and hope once more."

Pierre had sat down beside Abbe Rose, in that deserted nook, at the very

foot of the basilica. "Charity! charity!" he replied in passionate

accents; "why, it is its nothingness and bankruptcy that have killed the

priest there was in me. How can you believe that benevolence is

sufficient, when you have spent your whole life in practising it without

any other result than that of seeing want perpetuated and even increased,

and without any possibility of naming the day when such abomination shall

cease?... You think of the reward after death, do you not? The justice

that is to reign in heaven? But that is not justice, it is dupery--dupery