第 58 页

that has brought the world nothing but suffering for centuries past."

Then he reminded the old priest of their life in the Charonne district,

when they had gone about together succouring children in the streets and

parents in their hovels; the whole of those admirable efforts which, so

far as Abbe Rose was concerned, had simply ended in blame from his

superiors, and removal from proximity to his poor, under penalty of more

severe punishment should he persist in compromising religion by the

practice of blind benevolence without reason or object. And now, was he

not, so to say, submerged beneath the ever-rising tide of want, aware

that he would never, never be able to give enough even should he dispose

of millions, and that he could only prolong the agony of the poor, who,

even should they eat today, would starve again on the morrow? Thus he was

powerless. The wound which he tried to dress and heal, immediately

reopened and spread, in such wise that all society would at last be

stricken and carried off by it.

Quivering as he listened, and slowly shaking his white head, the old

priest ended by replying: "that does that matter, my child? what does

that matter? One must give, always give, give in spite of everything!

There is no other joy on earth.... If dogmas worry you, content

yourself with the Gospel, and even of that retain merely the promise of

salvation through charity."

But at this Pierre's feelings revolted. He forgot that he was speaking to

one of simple mind, who was all love and nothing else, and could

therefore not follow him. "The trial has been made," he answered, "human

salvation cannot be effected by charity, nothing but justice can

accomplish it. That is the gathering cry which is going up from every

nation. For nearly two thousand years now the Gospel has proved a

failure. There has been no redemption; the sufferings of mankind are

every whit as great and unjust as they were when Jesus came. And thus the

Gospel is now but an abolished code, from which society can only draw

things that are troublous and hurtful. Men must free themselves from it."

This was his final conviction. How strange the idea, thought he, of

choosing as the world's social legislator one who lived, as Jesus lived,

amidst a social system absolutely different from that of nowadays. The

age was different, the very world was different. And if it were merely a

question of retaining only such of the moral teaching of Jesus as seemed

human and eternal, was there not again a danger in applying immutable

principles to the society of every age? No society could live under the

strict law of the Gospel. Was not all order, all labour, all life

destroyed by the teaching of Jesus? Did He not deny woman, the earth,

eternal nature and the eternal fruitfulness of things and beings?

Moreover, Catholicism had reared upon His primitive teaching such a

frightful edifice of terror and oppression. The theory of original sin,

that terrible heredity reviving with each creature born into the world,

made no allowance as Science does for the corrective influences of

education, circumstances and environment. There could be no more

pessimist conception of man than this one which devotes him to the Devil

from the instant of his birth, and pictures him as struggling against

himself until the instant of his death. An impossible and absurd

struggle, for it is a question of changing man in his entirety, killing

the flesh, killing reason, destroying some guilty energy in each and

every passion, and of pursuing the Devil to the very depths of the

waters, mountains and forests, there to annihilate him with the very sap

of the world. If this theory is accepted the world is but sin, a mere

Hell of temptation and suffering, through which one must pass in order to

merit Heaven. Ah! what an admirable instrument for absolute despotism is

that religion of death, which the principle of charity alone has enabled

men to tolerate, but which the need of justice will perforce sweep away.

The poor man, who is the wretched dupe of it all, no longer believes in

Paradise, but requires that each and all should be rewarded according to

their deserts upon this earth; and thus eternal life becomes the good

goddess, and desire and labour the very laws of the world, while the

fruitfulness of woman is again honoured, and the idiotic nightmare of

Hell is replaced by glorious Nature whose travail knows no end. Leaning

upon modern Science, clear Latin reason sweeps away the ancient Semitic

conception of the Gospel.

"For eighteen hundred years," concluded Pierre, "Christianity has been

hampering the march of mankind towards truth and justice. And mankind

will only resume its evolution on the day when it abolishes Christianity,

and places the Gospel among the works of the wise, without taking it any

longer as its absolute and final law."

But Abbe Rose raised his trembling hands: "Be quiet, be quiet, my child!"

he cried; "you are blaspheming! I knew that doubt distracted you; but I

thought you so patient, so able to bear suffering, that I relied on your

spirit of renunciation and resignation. What can have happened to make

you leave the Church in this abrupt and violent fashion? I no longer

recognise you. Sudden passion has sprung up in you, an invincible force

seems to carry you away. What is it? Who has changed you, tell me?"

Pierre listened in astonishment. "No," said he, "I assure you, I am such

as you have known me, and in all this there is but an inevitable result

and finish. Who could have influenced me, since nobody has entered my

life? What new feeling could transform me, since I find none in me? I am

the same as before, the same assuredly."

Still there was a touch of hesitation in his voice. Was it really true

that there had been no change within him? He again questioned himself,

and there came no clear answer; decidedly, he would find nothing. It was

all but a delightful awakening, an overpowering desire for life, a

longing to open his arms widely enough to embrace everyone and

everything indeed, a breeze of joy seemed to raise him from the ground

and carry him along.

Although Abbe Rose was too innocent of heart to understand things

clearly, he again shook his head and thought of the snares which the

Devil is ever setting for men. He was quite overwhelmed by Pierre's

defection. Continuing his efforts to win him back, he made the mistake of

advising him to consult Monseigneur Martha, for he hoped that a prelate

of such high authority would find the words necessary to restore him to

his faith. Pierre, however, boldly replied that if he was leaving the

Church it was partly because it comprised such a man as Martha, such an

artisan of deception and despotism, one who turned religion into corrupt

diplomacy, and dreamt of winning men back to God by dint of ruses.

Thereupon Abbe Rose, rising to his feet, could find no other argument in

his despair than that of pointing to the basilica which stood beside

them, square, huge and massive, and still waiting for its dome.

"That is God's abode, my child," said he, "the edifice of expiation and

triumph, of penitence and forgiveness. You have said mass in it, and now

you are leaving it sacrilegiously and forswearing yourself!"

But Pierre also had risen; and buoyed up by a sudden rush of health and

strength he answered: "No, no! I am leaving it willingly, as one leaves a

dark vault, to return into the open air and the broad sunlight. God does

not dwell there; the only purpose of that huge edifice is to defy reason,

truth and justice; it has been erected on the highest spot that could be

found, like a citadel of error that dominates, insults and threatens

Paris!"

Then seeing that the old priest's eyes were again filling with tears, and

feeling on his own side so pained by their rupture that he began to sob,

Pierre wished to go away. "Farewell! farewell!" he stammered.

But Abbe Rose caught him in his arms and kissed him, as if he were a

rebellious son who yet had remained the dearest. "No, not farewell, not

farewell, my child," he answered; "say rather till we meet again. Promise

me that we shall see each other again, at least among those who starve

and weep. It is all very well for you to think that charity has become

bankrupt, but shall we not always love one another in loving our poor?"

Then they parted.

On becoming the companion of his three big nephews, Pierre had in a few

lessons learnt from them how to ride a bicycle, in order that he might

occasionally accompany them on their morning excursions. He went twice

with them and Marie along the somewhat roughly paved roads in the

direction of the Lake of Enghien. Then one morning when the young woman

had promised to take him and Antoine as far as the forest of

Saint-Germain, it was found at the last moment that Antoine could not

come. Marie was already dressed in a chemisette of fawn-coloured silk,

and a little jacket and "rationals" of black serge, and it was such a

warm, bright April day that she was not inclined to renounce her trip.

"Well, so much the worse!" she gaily said to Pierre, "I shall take you

with me, there will only be the pair of us. I really want you to see how

delightful it is to bowl over a good road between the beautiful trees."

However, as Pierre was not yet a very expert rider, they decided that

they would take the train as far as Maisons-Laffitte, whence they would

proceed on their bicycles to the forest, cross it in the direction of

Saint-Germain, and afterwards return to Paris by train.

"You will be here for _dejeuner_, won't you?" asked Guillaume, whom this

freak amused, and who looked with a smile at his brother. The latter,

like Marie, was in black: jacket, breeches and stockings all of the same

hue.

"Oh, certainly!" replied Marie. "It's now barely eight o'clock, so we

have plenty of time. Still you need not wait for us, you know, we shall

always find our way back."

It was a delightful morning. When they started, Pierre could fancy

himself with a friend of his own sex, so that this trip together through

the warm sunlight seemed quite natural. Doubtless their costumes, which

were so much alike, conduced to the gay brotherly feeling he experienced.

But beyond all this there was the healthfulness of the open air, the

delight which exercise brings, the pleasure of roaming in all freedom

through the midst of nature.

On taking the train they found themselves alone in a compartment, and

Marie once more began to talk of her college days. "Ah! you've no idea,"

said she, "what fine games at baseball we used to have at Fenelon! We

used to tie up our skirts with string so as to run the better, for we

were not allowed to wear rationals like I'm wearing now. And there were

shrieks, and rushes, and pushes, till our hair waved about and we were

quite red with exercise and excitement. Still that didn't prevent us from

working in the class-rooms. On the contrary! Directly we were at study we

fought again, each striving to learn the most and reach the top of the

class!"

She laughed gaily as she thus recalled her school life, and Pierre

glanced at her with candid admiration, so pink and healthy did she look

under her little hat of black felt, which a long silver pin kept in

position. Her fine dark hair was caught up behind, showing her neck,

which looked as fresh and delicate as a child's. And never before had she

seemed to him so supple and so strong.

"Ah," she continued in a jesting way, "there is nothing like rationals,

you know! To think that some women are foolish and obstinate enough to

wear skirts when they go out cycling!"

Then, as he declared--just by way of speaking the truth, and without the

faintest idea of gallantry--that she looked very nice indeed in her

costume, she responded: "Oh! I don't count. I'm not a beauty. I simply

enjoy good health.... But can you understand it? To think that women

have an unique opportunity of putting themselves at their ease, and

releasing their limbs from prison, and yet they won't do so! If they

think that they look the prettier in short skirts like schoolgirls they

are vastly mistaken! And as for any question of modesty, well, it seems

to me that it is infinitely less objectionable for women to wear

rationals than to bare their bosoms at balls and theatres and dinners as

society ladies do." Then, with a gesture of girlish impulsiveness, she

added: "Besides, does one think of such things when one's rolling along?

... Yes, rationals are the only things, skirts are rank heresy!"

In her turn, she was now looking at him, and was struck by the

extraordinary change which had come over him since the day when he had

first appeared to her, so sombre in his long cassock, with his face

emaciated, livid, almost distorted by anguish. It was like a

resurrection, for now his countenance was bright, his lofty brow had all

the serenity of hope, while his eyes and lips once more showed some of

the confident tenderness which sprang from his everlasting thirst for

love, self-bestowal and life. All mark of the priesthood had already left

him, save that where he had been tonsured his hair still remained rather

short.

"Why are you looking at me?" he asked.

"I was noticing how much good has been done you by work and the open

air," she frankly answered; "I much prefer you as you are. You used to

look so poorly. I thought you really ill."

"So I was," said he.

The train, however, was now stopping at Maisons-Laffitte. They alighted

from it, and at once took the road to the forest. This road rises gently

till it reaches the Maisons gate, and on market days it is often crowded

with carts.

"I shall go first, eh?" said Marie gaily, "for vehicles still alarm you."

Thereupon she started ahead, but every now and again she turned with a