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work to do here," said he, "and then, too, my gloomy ideas cane back to

me, and I didn't want to go and sadden you all."

At this Guillaume hastily waved his hand. "If you fancy that your absence

enlivens us you're mistaken," he replied. "Marie, who is usually so well

and happy, had such a bad headache on the day before yesterday that she

was obliged to keep her room. And she was ill at ease and nervous and

silent again yesterday. We spent a very unpleasant day."

As he spoke Guillaume looked Pierre well in the face, his frank loyal

eyes clearly revealing the suspicions which had come to him, but which he

would not express in words.

Pierre, quite dismayed by the news of Marie's indisposition, and

frightened by the idea of betraying his secret, thereupon managed to tell

a lie. "Yes, she wasn't very well on the day when we went cycling," he

quietly responded. "But I assure you that I have had a lot to do here.

When you came in just now I was about to get up and go to your house as

usual."

Guillaume kept his eyes on him for a moment longer. Then, either

believing him or deciding to postpone his search for the truth to some

future time, he began speaking affectionately on other subjects. With his

keen brotherly love, however, there was blended such a quiver of

impending distress, of unconfessed sorrow, which possibly he did not yet

realise, that Pierre in his turn began to question him. "And you," said

he, "are you ill? You seem to me to have lost your usual serenity."

"I? Oh! I'm not ill. Only I can't very well retain my composure; Salvat's

affair distresses me exceedingly, as you must know. They will all end by

driving me mad with the monstrous injustice they show towards that

unhappy fellow."

Thenceforward Guillaume went on talking of Salvat in a stubborn

passionate way, as if he wished to find an explanation of all his pain

and unrest in that affair. While he and Pierre were partaking of

_dejeuner_ at a little restaurant on the Boulevard du Palais he related

how deeply touched he was by the silence which Salvat had preserved with

regard both to the nature of the explosive employed in the bomb and the

few days' work which he had once done at his house. It was, thanks to

this silence, that he, Guillaume, had not been worried or even summoned

as a witness. Then, in his emotion, he reverted to his invention, that

formidable engine which would ensure omnipotence to France, as the great

initiatory and liberative power of the world. The results of the

researches which had occupied him for ten years past were now out of

danger and in all readiness, so that if occasion required they might at

once be delivered to the French government. And, apart from certain

scruples which came to him at the thought of the unworthiness of French

financial and political society; he was simply delaying any further steps

in the matter until his marriage with Marie, in order that he might

associate her with the gift of universal peace which he imagined he was

about to bestow upon the world.

It was through Bertheroy and with great difficulty that Guillaume had

managed to secure two seats in court for Salvat's trial. When he and

Pierre presented themselves for admission at eleven o'clock, they fancied

that they would never be able to enter. The large gates of the Palace of

Justice were kept closed, several passages were fenced off, and terror

seemed to reign in the deserted building, as if indeed the judges feared

some sudden invasion of bomb-laden Anarchists. Each door and barrier,

too, was guarded by soldiers, with whom the brothers had to parley. When

they at last entered the Assize Court they found it already crowded with

people, who were apparently quite willing to suffocate there for an hour

before the arrival of the judges, and to remain motionless for some seven

or eight hours afterwards, since it was reported that the authorities

wished to get the case over in a single sitting. In the small space

allotted to the standing public there was a serried mass of sightseers

who had come up from the streets, a few companions and friends of Salvat

having managed to slip in among them. In the other compartment, where

witnesses are generally huddled together on oak benches, were those

spectators who had been allowed admittance by favour, and these were so

numerous and so closely packed that here and there they almost sat upon

one another's knees. Then, in the well of the court and behind the bench,

were rows of chairs set out as for some theatrical performance, and

occupied by privileged members of society, politicians, leading

journalists, and ladies. And meantime a number of gowned advocates sought

refuge wherever chance offered, crowding into every vacant spot, every

available corner.

Pierre had never before visited the Assize Court, and its appearance

surprised him. He had expected much pomp and majesty, whereas this temple

of human justice seemed to him small and dismal and of doubtful

cleanliness. The bench was so low that he could scarcely see the

armchairs of the presiding judge and his two assessors. Then he was

struck by the profusion of old oak panels, balustrades and benches, which

helped to darken the apartment, whose wall hangings were of olive green,

while a further display of oak panelling appeared on the ceiling above.

From the seven narrow and high-set windows with scanty little white

curtains there fell a pale light which sharply divided the court. On one

hand one saw the dock and the defending counsel's seat steeped in frigid

light, while, on the other, was the little, isolated jury box in the

shade. This contrast seemed symbolical of justice, impersonal and

uncertain, face to face with the accused, whom the light stripped bare,

probed as it were to his very soul. Then, through a kind of grey mist

above the bench, in the depths of the stern and gloomy scene, one could

vaguely distinguish the heavy painting of "Christ Crucified." A white

bust of the Republic alone showed forth clearly against the dark wall

above the dock where Salvat would presently appear. The only remaining

seats that Guillaume and Pierre could find were on the last bench of the

witnesses' compartment, against the partition which separated the latter

from the space allotted to the standing public. Just as Guillaume was

seating himself, he saw among the latter little Victor Mathis, who stood

there with his elbows leaning on the partition, while his chin rested on

his crossed hands. The young man's eyes were glowing in his pale face

with thin, compressed lips. Although they recognised one another, Victor

did not move, and Guillaume on his side understood that it was not safe

to exchange greetings in such a place. From that moment, however, he

remained conscious that Victor was there, just above him, never stirring,

but waiting silently, fiercely and with flaming eyes, for what was going

to happen.

Pierre, meantime, had recognised that most amiable deputy Duthil, and

little Princess Rosemonde, seated just in front of him. Amidst the hubbub

of the throng which chatted and laughed to while away the time, their

voices were the gayest to be heard, and plainly showed how delighted they

were to find themselves at a spectacle to which so many desired

admittance. Duthil was explaining all the arrangements to Rosemonde,

telling her to whom or to what purpose each bench and wooden box was

allotted: there was the jury-box, the prisoner's dock, the seats assigned

to counsel for the defence, the public prosecutor, and the clerk of the

court, without forgetting the table on which material evidence was

deposited and the bar to which witnesses were summoned. There was nobody

as yet in any of these places; one merely saw an attendant giving a last

look round, and advocates passing rapidly. One might indeed have thought

oneself in a theatre, the stage of which remained deserted, while the

spectators crowded the auditorium waiting for the play to begin. To fill

up the interval the little Princess ended by looking about her for

persons of her acquaintance among the close-pressed crowd of sight-seers

whose eager faces were already reddening.

"Oh! isn't that Monsieur Fonsegue over there behind the bench, near that

stout lady in yellow?" she exclaimed. "Our friend General de Bozonnet is

on the other side, I see. But isn't Baron Duvillard here?"

"Oh! no," replied Duthil; "he could hardly come; it would look as if he

were here to ask for vengeance." Then, in his turn questioning Rosemonde,

the deputy went on: "Do you happen to have quarrelled with your handsome

friend Hyacinthe? Is that the reason why you've given me the pleasure of

acting as your escort to-day?"

With a slight shrug of her shoulders, the Princess replied that poets

were beginning to bore her. A fresh caprice, indeed, was drawing her into

politics. For a week past she had found amusement in the surroundings of

the ministerial crisis, into which the young deputy for Angouleme had

initiated her. "They are all a little bit crazy at the Duvillards', my

dear fellow," said she. "It's decided, you know, that Gerard is to marry

Camille. The Baroness has resigned herself to it, and I've heard from a

most reliable quarter that Madame de Quinsac, the young man's mother, has

given her consent."

At this Duthil became quite merry. He also seemed to be well informed on

the subject. "Yes, yes, I know," said he. "The wedding is to take place

shortly, at the Madeleine. It will be a magnificent affair, no doubt. And

after all, what would you have? There couldn't be a better finish to the

affair. The Baroness is really kindness personified, and I said all along

that she would sacrifice herself in order to ensure the happiness of her

daughter and Gerard. In point of fact that marriage will settle

everything, put everything in proper order again."

"And what does the Baron say?" asked Rosemonde.

"The Baron? Why, he's delighted," replied Duthil in a bantering way. "You

read no doubt this morning that Dauvergne is given the department of

Public Instruction in the new Ministry. This means that Silviane's

engagement at the Comedic is a certainty. Dauvergne was chosen simply on

that account."

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by little Massot, who,

after a dispute with one of the ushers some distance away, had perceived

a vacant place by the side of the Princess. He thereupon made her a

questioning sign, and she beckoned to him to approach.

"Ah!" said he, as he installed himself beside her, "I have not got here

without trouble. One's crushed to death on the press bench, and I've an

article to write. You are the kindest of women, Princess, to make a

little room for your faithful admirer, myself." Then, after shaking hands

with Duthil, he continued without any transition: "And so there's a new

ministry at last, Monsieur le Depute. You have all taken your time about

it, but it's really a very fine ministry, which everybody regards with

surprise and admiration."

The decrees appointing the new ministers had appeared in the "Journal

Officiel" that very morning. After a long deadlock, after Vignon had for

the second time seen his plans fail through ever-recurring obstacles,

Monferrand, as a last resource, had suddenly been summoned to the Elysee,

and in four-and-twenty hours he had found the colleagues he wanted and

secured the acceptance of his list, in such wise that he now triumphantly

re-ascended to power after falling from it with Barroux in such wretched

fashion. He had also chosen a new post for himself, relinquishing the

department of the Interior for that of Finances, with the Presidency of

the Council, which had long been his secret ambition. His stealthy

labour, the masterly fashion in which he had saved himself while others

sank, now appeared in its full beauty. First had come Salvat's arrest,

and the use he had made of it, then the wonderful subterranean campaign

which he had carried on against Vignon, the thousand obstacles which he

had twice set across his path, and finally the sudden _denouement_ with

that list he held in readiness, that formation of a ministry in a single

day as soon as his services were solicited.

"It is fine work, I must compliment you on it," added little Massot by

way of a jest.

"But I've had nothing to do with it," Duthil modestly replied.

"Nothing to do with it! Oh! yes you have, my dear sir, everybody says

so."

The deputy felt flattered and smiled, while the other rattled on with his

insinuations, which were put in such a humorous way that nothing he said

could be resented. He talked of Monferrand's followers who had so

powerfully helped him on to victory. How heartily had Fonsegue finished

off his old friend Barroux in the "Globe"! Every morning for a month past

the paper had published an article belabouring Barroux, annihilating

Vignon, and preparing the public for the return of a saviour of society

who was not named. Then, too, Duvillard's millions had waged a secret

warfare, all the Baron's numerous creatures had fought like an army for

the good cause. Duthil himself had played the pipe and beaten the drum,

while Chaigneux resigned himself to the baser duties which others would

not undertake. And so the triumphant Monferrand would certainly begin by

stifling that scandalous and embarrassing affair of the African Railways,

and appointing a Committee of Inquiry to bury it.

By this time Duthil had assumed an important air. "Well, my dear fellow,"

said he, "at serious moments when society is in peril, certain

strong-handed men, real men of government, become absolutely necessary.

Monferrand had no need of our friendship, his presence in office was

imperiously required by the situation. His hand is the only one that can