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sputtering voice he declared: "On my honour and my conscience, before God

and before man, the verdict of the jury is: on the question of Murder,

yes, by a majority of votes."*

* English readers may be reminded that in France the verdict of

a majority of the jury suffices for conviction or acquittal.

If the jury is evenly divided the prisoner is acquitted.--Trans.

The night had almost completely fallen when Salvat was once more brought

in. In front of the jurors, who faded away in the gloom, he stood forth,

erect, with a last ray from the windows lighting up his face. The judges

themselves almost disappeared from view, their red robes seemed to have

turned black. And how phantom-like looked the prisoner's emaciated face

as he stood there listening, with dreamy eyes, while the clerk of the

court read the verdict to him.

When silence fell and no mention was made of extenuating circumstances,

he understood everything. His face, which had retained a childish

expression, suddenly brightened. "That means death. Thank you,

gentlemen," he said.

Then he turned towards the public, and amidst the growing darkness

searched for the friendly faces which he knew were there; and this time

Guillaume became fully conscious that he had recognised him, and was

again expressing affectionate and grateful thanks for the crust he had

received from him on a day of want. He must have also bidden farewell to

Victor Mathis, for as Guillaume glanced at the young man, who had not

moved, he saw that his eyes were staring wildly, and that a terrible

expression rested on his lips.

As for the rest of the proceedings, the last questions addressed to the

jury and the counsel, the deliberations of the judges and the delivery of

sentence--these were all lost amidst the buzzing and surging of the

crowd. A little compassion was unconsciously manifested; and some stupor

was mingled with the satisfaction that greeted the sentence of death.

No sooner had Salvat been condemned, however, than he drew himself up to

his full height, and as the guards led him away he shouted in a

stentorian voice: "Long live Anarchy!"

Nobody seemed angered by the cry. The crowd went off quietly, as if

weariness had lulled all its passions. The proceedings had really lasted

too long and fatigued one too much. It was quite pleasant to inhale the

fresh air on emerging from such a nightmare.

In the large waiting hall, Pierre and Guillaume passed Duthil and the

Princess, whom General de Bozonnet had stopped while chatting with

Fonsegue. All four of them were talking in very loud voices, complaining

of the heat and their hunger, and agreeing that the affair had not been a

particularly interesting one. Yet, all was well that ended well. As

Fonsegue remarked, the condemnation of Salvat to death was a political

and social necessity.

When Pierre and Guillaume reached the Pont Neuf, the latter for a moment

rested his elbows on the parapet of the bridge. His brother, standing

beside him, also gazed at the grey waters of the Seine, which here and

there were fired by the reflections of the gas lamps. A fresh breeze

ascended from the river; it was the delightful hour when night steals

gently over resting Paris. Then, as the brothers stood there breathing

that atmosphere which usually brings relief and comfort, Pierre on his

side again became conscious of his heart-wound, and remembered his

promise to return to Montmartre, a promise that he must keep in spite of

the torture there awaiting him; whilst Guillaume on the other hand

experienced a revival of the suspicion and disquietude that had come to

him on seeing Marie so feverish, changed as it were by some new feeling,

of which she herself was ignorant. Were further sufferings, struggles,

and obstacles to happiness yet in store for those brothers who loved one

another so dearly? At all events their hearts bled once more with all the

sorrow into which they had been cast by the scene they had just

witnessed: that assize of justice at which a wretched man had been

condemned to pay with his head for the crimes of one and all.

Then, as they turned along the quay, Guillaume recognised young Victor

going off alone in the gloom, just in front of them. The chemist stopped

him and spoke to him of his mother. But the young man did not hear; his

thin lips parted, and in a voice as trenchant as a knife-thrust he

exclaimed: "Ah! so it's blood they want. Well, they may cut off his head,

but he will be avenged!"

V. SACRIFICE

THE days which followed Salvat's trial seemed gloomy ones up yonder in

Guillaume's workroom, which was usually so bright and gay. Sadness and

silence filled the place. The three young men were no longer there.

Thomas betook himself to the Grandidier works early every morning in

order to perfect his little motor; Francois was so busy preparing for his

examination that he scarcely left the Ecole Normale; while Antoine was

doing some work at Jahan's, where he delighted to linger and watch his

little friend Lise awakening to life. Thus Guillaume's sole companion was

Mere-Grand, who sat near the window busy with her needlework; for Marie

was ever going about the house, and only stayed in the workroom for any

length of time when Pierre happened to be there.

Guillaume's gloom was generally attributed to the feelings of anger and

revolt into which the condemnation of Salvat had thrown him. He had flown

into a passion on his return from the Palace of Justice, declaring that

the execution of the unhappy man would simply be social murder,

deliberate provocation of class warfare. And the others had bowed on

hearing that pain-fraught violent cry, without attempting to discuss the

point. Guillaume's sons respectfully left him to the thoughts which kept

him silent for hours, with his face pale and a dreamy expression in his

eyes. His chemical furnace remained unlighted, and his only occupation

from morn till night was to examine the plans and documents connected

with his invention, that new explosive and that terrible engine of war,

which he had so long dreamt of presenting to France in order that she

might impose the reign of truth and justice upon all the nations.

However, during the long hours which he spent before the papers scattered

over his table, often without seeing them, for his eyes wandered far

away, a multitude of vague thoughts came to him--doubts respecting the

wisdom of his project, and fears lest his desire to pacify the nations

should simply throw them into an endless war of extermination. Although

he really believed that great city of Paris to be the world's brain,

entrusted with the task of preparing the future, he could not disguise

from himself that with all its folly and shame and injustice it still

presented a shocking spectacle. Was it really ripe enough for the work of

human salvation which he thought of entrusting to it? Then, on trying to

re-peruse his notes and verify his formulas, he only recovered his former

energetic determination on thinking of his marriage, whereupon the idea

came to him that it was now too late for him to upset his life by

changing such long-settled plans.

His marriage! Was it not the thought of this which haunted Guillaume and

disturbed him far more powerfully than his scientific work or his

humanitarian passion? Beneath all the worries that he acknowledged, there

was another which he did not confess even to himself, and which filled

him with anguish. He repeated day by day that he would reveal his

invention to the Minister of War as soon as he should be married to

Marie, whom he wished to associate with his glory. Married to Marie! Each

time he thought of it, burning fever and secret disquietude came over

him. If he now remained so silent and had lost his quiet cheerfulness, it

was because he had felt new life, as it were, emanating from her. She was

certainly no longer the same woman as formerly; she was becoming more and

more changed and distant. He had watched her and Pierre when the latter

happened to be there, which was now but seldom. He, too, appeared

embarrassed, and different from what he had been. On the days when he

came, however, Marie seemed transformed; it was as if new life animated

the house. Certainly the intercourse between her and Pierre was quite

innocent, sisterly on the one hand, brotherly on the other. They simply

seemed to be a pair of good friends. And yet a radiance, a vibration,

emanated from them, something more subtle even than a sun-ray or a

perfume. After the lapse of a few days Guillaume found himself unable to

doubt the truth any longer. And his heart bled, he was utterly upset by

it. He had not found them in fault in any way, but he was convinced that

these two children, as he so paternally called them, really adored one

another.

One lovely morning when he happened to be alone with Mere-Grand, face to

face with sunlit Paris, he fell into a yet more dolorous reverie than

usual. He seemed to be gazing fixedly at the old lady, as, seated in her

usual place, she continued sewing with an air of queenly serenity.

Perhaps, however, he did not see her. For her part she occasionally

raised her eyes and glanced at him, as if expecting a confession which

did not come. At last, finding such silence unbearable, she made up her

mind to address him: "What has been the matter with you, Guillaume, for

some time past? Why don't you tell me what you have to tell me?"

He descended from the clouds, as it were, and answered in astonishment:

"What I have to tell you?"

"Yes, I know it as well as you do, and I thought you would speak to me of

it, since it pleases you to do nothing here without consulting me."

At this he turned very pale and shuddered. So he had not been mistaken in

the matter, even Mere-Grand knew all about it. To talk of it, however,

was to give shape to his suspicions, to transform what, hitherto, might

merely have been a fancy on his part into something real and definite.

"It was inevitable, my dear son," said Mere-Grand. "I foresaw it from the

outset. And if I did not warn you of it, it was because I believed in

some deep design on your part. Since I have seen you suffering, however,

I have realised that I was mistaken." Then, as he still looked at her

quivering and distracted, she continued: "Yes, I fancied that you might

have wished it, that in bringing your brother here you wished to know if

Marie loved you otherwise than as a father. There was good reason for

testing her--for instance, the great difference between your ages, for

your life is drawing to a close, whilst hers is only beginning. And I

need not mention the question of your work, the mission which I have

always dreamt of for you."

Thereupon, with his hands raised in prayerful fashion, Guillaume drew

near to the old lady and exclaimed: "Oh! speak out clearly, tell me what

you think. I don't understand, my poor heart is so lacerated; and yet I

should so much like to know everything, so as to be able to act and take

a decision. To think that you whom I love, you whom I venerate as much as

if you were my real mother, you whose profound good sense I know so well

that I have always followed your advice--to think that you should have

foreseen this frightful thing and have allowed it to happen at the risk

of its killing me!... Why have you done so, tell me, why?"

Mere-Grand was not fond of talking. Absolute mistress of the house as she

was, managing everything, accountable to nobody for her actions, she

never gave expression to all that she thought or all that she desired.

Indeed, there was no occasion for it, as Guillaume, like the children,

relied upon her completely, with full confidence in her wisdom. And her

somewhat enigmatical ways even helped to raise her in their estimation.

"What is the use of words, when things themselves speak?" she now gently

answered, while still plying her needle. "It is quite true that I

approved of the plan of a marriage between you and Marie, for I saw that

it was necessary that she should be married if she was to stay here. And

then, too, there were many other reasons which I needn't speak of.

However, Pierre's arrival here has changed everything, and placed things

in their natural order. Is not that preferable?"

He still lacked the courage to understand her. "Preferable! When I'm in

agony? When my life is wrecked?"

Thereupon she rose and came to him, tall and rigid in her thin black

gown, and with an expression of austerity and energy on her pale face.

"My son," she said, "you know that I love you, and that I wish you to be

very noble and lofty. Only the other morning, you had an attack of

fright, the house narrowly escaped being blown up. Then, for some days

now you have been sitting over those documents and plans in an

absent-minded, distracted state, like a man who feels weak, and doubts,

and no longer knows his way. Believe me, you are following a dangerous

path; it is better that Pierre should marry Marie, both for their sakes

and for your own."

"For my sake? No, no! What will become of me!"

"You will calm yourself and reflect, my son. You have such serious duties

before you. You are on the eve of making your invention known. It seems

to me that something has bedimmed your sight, and that you will perhaps

act wrongly in this respect, through failing to take due account of the

problem before you. Perhaps there is something better to be done....

At all events, suffer if it be necessary, but remain faithful to your

ideal."

Then, quitting him with a maternal smile, she sought to soften her

somewhat stern words by adding: "You have compelled me to speak

unnecessarily, for I am quite at ease; with your superior mind, whatever

be in question, you can but do the one right thing that none other would

do."

On finding himself alone Guillaume fell into feverish uncertainty. What

was the meaning of Mere-Grand's enigmatical words? He knew that she was