第 60 页

views into practice with wonderful courage, knowing nothing of any

prejudices, but accomplishing her duty, such as she understood it, to the

very end. And in the same way as she had first devoted herself to her

husband, and next to her daughter Marguerite, so at present she devoted

herself to Guillaume and his sons. Pierre, whom she had first studied

with some anxiety, had now, too, become a member of her family, a dweller

in the little realm of happiness which she ruled. She had doubtless found

him worthy of admission into it, though she did not reveal the reason

why. After days and days of silence she had simply said, one evening, to

Guillaume, that he had done well in bringing his brother to live among

them.

Time flew by as she sat sewing and thinking. Towards noon Guillaume, who

was still at work, suddenly remarked to her: "As Marie and Pierre haven't

come back, we had better let the lunch wait a little while. Besides, I

should like to finish what I'm about."

Another quarter of an hour then elapsed. Finally, the three young men

rose from their work, and went to wash their hands at a tap in the

garden.

"Marie is very late," now remarked Mere-Grand. "We must hope that nothing

has happened to her."

"Oh! she rides so well," replied Guillaume. "I'm more anxious on account

of Pierre."

At this the old lady again fixed her eyes on him, and said: "But Marie

will have guided Pierre; they already ride very well together."

"No doubt; still I should be better pleased if they were back home."

Then all at once, fancying that he heard the ring of a bicycle bell, he

called out: "There they are!" And forgetting everything else in his

satisfaction, he quitted his furnace and hastened into the garden in

order to meet them.

Mere-Grand, left to herself, quietly continued sewing, without a thought

that the manufacture of Guillaume's powder was drawing to an end in an

apparatus near her. A couple of minutes later, however, when Guillaume

came back, saying that he had made a mistake, his eyes suddenly rested on

his furnace, and he turned quite livid. Brief as had been his absence the

exact moment when it was necessary to turn off a tap in order that no

danger might attend the preparation of his powder had already gone by;

and now, unless someone should dare to approach that terrible tap, and

boldly turn it, a fearful explosion might take place. Doubtless it was

too late already, and whoever might have the bravery to attempt the feat

would be blown to pieces.

Guillaume himself had often run a similar risk of death with perfect

composure. But on this occasion he remained as if rooted to the floor,

unable to take a step, paralysed by the dread of annihilation. He

shuddered and stammered in momentary expectation of a catastrophe which

would hurl the work-shop to the heavens.

"Mere-Grand, Mere-Grand," he stammered. "The apparatus, the tap... it

is all over, all over!"

The old woman had raised her head without as yet understanding him. "Eh,

what?" said she; "what is the matter with you?" Then, on seeing how

distorted were his features, how he recoiled as if mad with terror, she

glanced at the furnace and realised the danger. "Well, but it's simple

enough," said she; "it's only necessary to turn off the tap, eh?"

Thereupon, without any semblance of haste, in the most easy and natural

manner possible, she deposited her needlework on a little table, rose

from her chair, and turned off the tap with a light but firm hand.

"There! it's done," said she. "But why didn't you do it yourself, my

friend?"

He had watched her in bewilderment, chilled to the bones, as if touched

by the hand of death. And when some colour at last returned to his

cheeks, and he found himself still alive in front of the apparatus whence

no harm could now come, he heaved a deep sigh and again shuddered. "Why

did I not turn it off?" he repeated. "It was because I felt afraid."

At that very moment Marie and Pierre came into the work-shop all chatter

and laughter, delighted with their excursion, and bringing with them the

bright joyousness of the sunlight. The three brothers, Thomas, Francis

and Antoine, were jesting with them, and trying to make them confess that

Pierre had at least fought a battle with a cow on the high road, and

ridden into a cornfield. All at once, however, they became quite anxious,

for they noticed that their father looked terribly upset.

"My lads," said he, "I've just been a coward. Ah! it's a curious feeling,

I had never experienced it before."

Thereupon he recounted his fears of an accident, and how quietly

Mere-Grand had saved them all from certain death. She waved her hand,

however, as if to say that there was nothing particularly heroic in

turning off a tap. The young men's eyes nevertheless filled with tears,

and one after the other they went to kiss her with a fervour instinct

with all the gratitude and worship they felt for her. She had been

devoting herself to them ever since their infancy, she had now just given

them a new lease of life. Marie also threw herself into her arms, kissing

her with gratitude and emotion. Mere-Grand herself was the only one who

did not shed tears. She strove to calm them, begging them to exaggerate

nothing and to remain sensible.

"Well, you must at all events let me kiss you as the others have done,"

Guillaume said to her, as he recovered his self-possession. "I at least

owe you that. And Pierre, too, shall kiss you, for you are now as good

for him as you have always been for us."

At table, when it was at last possible for them to lunch, he reverted to

that attack of fear which had left him both surprised and ashamed. He who

for years had never once thought of death had for some time past found

ideas of caution in his mind. On two occasions recently he had shuddered

at the possibility of a catastrophe. How was it that a longing for life

had come to him in his decline? Why was it that he now wished to live? At

last with a touch of tender affection in his gaiety, he remarked: "Do you

know, Marie, I think it is my thoughts of you that make me a coward. If

I've lost my bravery it's because I risk something precious when any

danger arises. Happiness has been entrusted to my charge. Just now when I

fancied that we were all going to die, I thought I could see you, and my

fear of losing you froze and paralysed me."

Marie indulged in a pretty laugh. Allusions to her coming marriage were

seldom made; however, she invariably greeted them with an air of happy

affection.

"Another six weeks!" she simply said.

Thereupon Mere-Grand, who had been looking at them, turned her eyes

towards Pierre. He, however, like the others was listening with a smile.

"That's true," said the old lady, "you are to be married in six weeks'

time. So I did right to prevent the house from being blown up."

At this the young men made merry; and the repast came to an end in very

joyous fashion.

During the afternoon, however, Pierre's heart gradually grew heavy.

Marie's words constantly returned to him: "Another six weeks!" Yes, it

was indeed true, she would then be married. But it seemed to him that he

had never previously known it, never for a moment thought of it. And

later on, in the evening, when he was alone in his room at Neuilly, his

heart-pain became intolerable. Those words tortured him. Why was it that

they had not caused him any suffering when they were spoken, why had he

greeted them with a smile? And why had such cruel anguish slowly

followed? All at once an idea sprang up in his mind, and became an

overwhelming certainty. He loved Marie, he loved her as a lover, with a

love so intense that he might die from it.

With this sudden consciousness of his passion everything became clear and

plain. He had been going perforce towards that love ever since he had

first met Marie. The emotion into which the young woman had originally

thrown him had seemed to him a feeling of repulsion, but afterwards he

had been slowly conquered, all his torments and struggles ending in this

love for her. It was indeed through her that he had at last found

quietude. And the delightful morning which he had spent with her that

day, appeared to him like a betrothal morning, in the depths of the happy

forest. Nature had resumed her sway over him, delivered him from his

sufferings, made him strong and healthy once more, and given him to the

woman he adored. The quiver he had experienced, the happiness he had

felt, his communion with the trees, the heavens, and every living

creature--all those things which he had been unable to explain, now

acquired a clear meaning which transported him. In Marie alone lay his

cure, his hope, his conviction that he would be born anew and at last

find happiness. In her company he had already forgotten all those

distressing problems which had formerly haunted him and bowed him down.

For a week past he had not once thought of death, which had so long been

the companion of his every hour. All the conflict of faith and doubt, the

distress roused by the idea of nihility, the anger he had felt at the

unjust sufferings of mankind, had been swept away by her fresh cool

hands. She was so healthy herself, so glad to live, that she had imparted

a taste for life even to him. Yes, it was simply that: she was making him

a man, a worker, a lover once more.

Then he suddenly remembered Abbe Rose and his painful conversation with

that saintly man. The old priest, whose heart was so ingenuous, and who

knew nothing of love and passion, was nevertheless the only one who had

understood the truth. He had told Pierre that he was changed, that there

was another man in him. And he, Pierre, had foolishly and stubbornly

declared that he was the same as he had always been; whereas Marie had

already transformed him, bringing all nature back to his breast--all

nature, with its sunlit countrysides, its fructifying breezes, and its

vast heavens, whose glow ripens its crops. That indeed was why he had

felt so exasperated with Catholicism, that religion of death; that was

why he had shouted that the Gospel was useless, and that the world

awaited another law--a law of terrestrial happiness, human justice and

living love and fruitfulness!

Ah, but Guillaume? Then a vision of his brother rose before Pierre, that

brother who loved him so fondly, and who had carried him to his home of

toil, quietude and affection, in order to cure him of his sufferings. If

he knew Marie it was simply because Guillaume had chosen that he should

know her. And again Marie's words recurred to him: "Another six weeks!"

Yes, in six weeks his brother would marry the young woman. This thought

was like a stab in Pierre's heart. Still, he did not for one moment

hesitate: if he must die of his love, he would die of it, but none should

ever know it, he would conquer himself, he would flee to the ends of the

earth should he ever feel the faintest cowardice. Rather than bring a

moment's pain to that brother who had striven to resuscitate him, who was

the artisan of the passion now consuming him, who had given him his whole

heart and all he had--he would condemn himself to perpetual torture. And

indeed, torture was coming back; for in losing Marie he could but sink

into the distress born of the consciousness of his nothingness. As he lay

in bed, unable to sleep, he already experienced a return of his

abominable torments--the negation of everything, the feeling that

everything was useless, that the world had no significance, and that life

was only worthy of being cursed and denied. And then the shudder born of

the thought of death returned to him. Ah! to die, to die without even

having lived!

The struggle was a frightful one. Until daybreak he sobbed in martyrdom.

Why had he taken off his cassock? He had done so at a word from Marie;

and now another word from her gave him the despairing idea of donning it

once more. One could not escape from so fast a prison. That black gown

still clung to his skin. He fancied that he had divested himself of it,

and yet it was still weighing on his shoulders, and his wisest course

would be to bury himself in it for ever. By donning it again he would at

least wear mourning for his manhood.

All at once, however, a fresh thought upset him. Why should he struggle

in that fashion? Marie did not love him. There had been nothing between

them to indicate that she cared for him otherwise than as a charming,

tender-hearted sister. It was Guillaume that she loved, no doubt. Then he

pressed his face to his pillow to stifle his sobs, and once more swore

that he would conquer himself and turn a smiling face upon their

happiness.

IV. TRIAL AND SENTENCE

HAVING returned to Montmartre on the morrow Pierre suffered so grievously

that he did not show himself there on the two following days. He

preferred to remain at home where there was nobody to notice his

feverishness. On the third morning, however, whilst he was still in bed,

strengthless and full of despair, he was both surprised and embarrassed

by a visit from Guillaume.

"I must needs come to you," said the latter, "since you forsake us. I've

come to fetch you to attend Salvat's trial, which takes place to-day. I

had no end of trouble to secure two places. Come, get up, we'll have

_dejeuner_ in town, so as to reach the court early."

Then, while Pierre was hastily dressing, Guillaume, who on his side

seemed thoughtful and worried that morning, began to question him: "Have

you anything to reproach us with?" he asked.

"No, nothing. What an idea!" was Pierre's reply.

"Then why have you been staying away? We had got into the habit of seeing

you every day, but all at once you disappear."

Pierre vainly sought a falsehood, and all his composure fled. "I had some