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might not blush for having thrown up such a mass of dirt and

loathsomeness in the course of a single day.

It was, however, more particularly after following the Boulevard

Voltaire, and drawing near to the districts of La Roquette and Charonne,

that the brothers felt they were returning to a sphere of labour where

there was often lack of food, and where life was but so much pain. Pierre

found himself at home here. In former days, accompanied by good Abbe

Rose, visiting despairing ones, distributing alms, picking up children

who had sunk to the gutter, he had a hundred times perambulated every one

of those long, densely populated streets. And thus a frightful vision

arose before his mind's eye; he recalled all the tragedies he had

witnessed, all the shrieks he had heard, all the tears and bloodshed he

had seen, all the fathers, mothers and children huddled together and

dying of want, dirt and abandonment: that social hell in which he had

ended by losing his last hopes, fleeing from it with a sob in the

conviction that charity was a mere amusement for the rich, and absolutely

futile as a remedy. It was this conviction which now returned to him as

he again cast eyes upon that want and grief stricken district which

seemed fated to everlasting destitution. That poor old man whom Abbe Rose

had revived one night in yonder hovel, had he not since died of

starvation? That little girl whom he had one morning brought in his arms

to the refuge after her parents' death, was it not she whom he had just

met, grown but fallen to the streets, and shrieking beneath the fist of a

bully? Ah! how great was the number of the wretched! Their name was

legion! There were those whom one could not save, those who were hourly

born to a life of woe and want, even as one may be born infirm, and

those, too, who from every side sank in the sea of human injustice, that

ocean which has ever been the same for centuries past, and which though

one may strive to drain it, still and for ever spreads. How heavy was the

silence, how dense the darkness in those working-class streets where

sleep seems to be the comrade of death! Yet hunger prowls, and misfortune

sobs; vague spectral forms slink by, and then are lost to view in the

depths of the night.

As Pierre and Guillaume went along they became mixed with dark groups of

people, a whole flock of inquisitive folk, a promiscuous, passionate

tramp, tramp towards the guillotine. It came from all Paris, urged on by

brutish fever, a hankering for death and blood. In spite, however, of the

dull noise which came from this dim crowd, the mean streets that were

passed remained quite dark, not a light appeared at any of their windows;

nor could one hear the breathing of the weary toilers stretched on their

wretched pallets from which they would not rise before the morning

twilight.

On seeing the jostling crowd which was already assembled on the Place

Voltaire, Pierre understood that it would be impossible for him and his

brother to ascend the Rue de la Roquette. Barriers, moreover, must

certainly have been thrown across that street. In order therefore to

reach the corner of the Rue Merlin, it occurred to him to take the Rue de

la Folie Regnault, which winds round in the rear of the prison, farther

on.

Here indeed they found solitude and darkness again.

The huge, massive prison with its great bare walls on which a moonray

fell, looked like some pile of cold stones, dead for centuries past. At

the end of the street they once more fell in with the crowd, a dim

restless mass of beings, whose pale faces alone could be distinguished.

The brothers had great difficulty in reaching the house in which Mege

resided at the corner of the Rue Merlin. All the shutters of the

fourth-floor flat occupied by the Socialist deputy were closed, though

every other window was wide open and crowded with surging sightseers.

Moreover, the wine shop down below and the first-floor room connected

with it flared with gas, and were already crowded with noisy customers,

waiting for the performance to begin.

"I hardly like to go and knock at Mege's door," said Pierre.

"No, no, you must not do so!" replied Guillaume.

"Let us go into the wine shop. We may perhaps be able to see something

from the balcony."

The first-floor room was provided with a very large balcony, which women

and gentlemen were already filling. The brothers nevertheless managed to

reach it, and for a few minutes remained there, peering into the darkness

before them. The sloping street grew broader between the two prisons, the

"great" and the "little" Roquette, in such wise as to form a sort of

square, which was shaded by four clumps of plane-trees, rising from the

footways. The low buildings and scrubby trees, all poor and ugly of

aspect, seemed almost to lie on a level with the ground, under a vast sky

in which stars were appearing, as the moon gradually declined. And the

square was quite empty save that on one spot yonder there seemed to be

some little stir. Two rows of guards prevented the crowd from advancing,

and even threw it back into the neighbouring streets. On the one hand,

the only lofty houses were far away, at the point where the Rue St. Maur

intersects the Rue de la Roquette; while, on the other, they stood at the

corners of the Rue Merlin and the Rue de la Folie Regnault, so that it

was almost impossible to distinguish anything of the execution even from

the best placed windows. As for the inquisitive folk on the pavement they

only saw the backs of the guards. Still this did not prevent a crush. The

human tide flowed on from all sides with increasing clamour.

Guided by the remarks of some women who, leaning forward on the balcony,

had been watching the square for a long time already, the brothers were

at last able to perceive something. It was now half-past three, and the

guillotine was nearly ready. The little stir which one vaguely espied

yonder under the trees, was that of the headsman's assistants fixing the

knife in position. A lantern slowly came and went, and five or six

shadows danced over the ground. But nothing else could be distinguished,

the square was like a large black pit, around which ever broke the waves

of the noisy crowd which one could not see. And beyond the square one

could only identify the flaring wine shops, which showed forth like

lighthouses in the night. All the surrounding district of poverty and

toil was still asleep, not a gleam as yet came from workrooms or yards,

not a puff of smoke from the lofty factory chimneys.

"We shall see nothing," Guillaume remarked.

But Pierre silenced him, for he has just discovered that an elegantly

attired gentleman leaning over the balcony near him was none other than

the amiable deputy Duthil. He had at first fancied that a woman muffled

in wraps who stood close beside the deputy was the little Princess de

Harn, whom he had very likely brought to see the execution since he had

taken her to see the trial. On closer inspection, however, he had found

that this woman was Silviane, the perverse creature with the virginal

face. Truth to tell, she made no concealment of her presence, but talked

on in an extremely loud voice, as if intoxicated; and the brothers soon

learnt how it was that she happened to be there. Duvillard, Duthil, and

other friends had been supping with her at one o'clock in the morning,

when on learning that Salvat was about to be guillotined, the fancy of

seeing the execution had suddenly come upon her. Duvillard, after vainly

entreating her to do nothing of the kind, had gone off in a fury, for he

felt that it would be most unseemly on his part to attend the execution

of a man who had endeavoured to blow up his house. And thereupon Silviane

had turned to Duthil, whom her caprice greatly worried, for he held all

such loathsome spectacles in horror, and had already refused to act as

escort to the Princess. However, he was so infatuated with Silviane's

beauty, and she made him so many promises, that he had at last consented

to take her.

"He can't understand people caring for amusement," she said, speaking of

the Baron. "And yet this is really a thing to see.... But no matter,

you'll find him at my feet again to-morrow."

Duthil smiled and responded: "I suppose that peace has been signed and

ratified now that you have secured your engagement at the Comedie."

"Peace? No!" she protested. "No, no. There will be no peace between us

until I have made my _debut_. After that, we'll see."

They both laughed; and then Duthil, by way of paying his court, told her

how good-naturedly Dauvergne, the new Minister of Public Instruction and

Fine Arts, had adjusted the difficulties which had hitherto kept the

doors of the Comedie closed upon her. A really charming man was

Dauvergne, the embodiment of graciousness, the very flower of the

Monferrand ministry. His was the velvet hand in that administration whose

leader had a hand of iron.

"He told me, my beauty," said Duthil, "that a pretty girl was in place

everywhere." And then as Silviane, as if flattered, pressed closely

beside him, the deputy added: "So that wonderful revival of 'Polyeucte,'

in which you are going to have such a triumph, is to take place on the

day after to-morrow. We shall all go to applaud you, remember."

"Yes, on the evening of the day after to-morrow," said Silviane, "the

very same day when the wedding of the Baron's daughter will take place.

There'll be plenty of emotion that day!"

"Ah! yes, of course!" retorted Duthil, "there'll be the wedding of our

friend Gerard with Mademoiselle Camille to begin with. We shall have a

crush at the Madeleine in the morning and another at the Comedie in the

evening. You are quite right, too; there will be several hearts throbbing

in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy."

Thereupon they again became merry, and jested about the Duvillard

family--father, mother, lover and daughter--with the greatest possible

ferocity and crudity of language. Then, all at once Silviane exclaimed:

"Do you know, I'm feeling awfully bored here, my little Duthil. I can't

distinguish anything, and I should like to be quite near so as to see it

all plainly. You must take me over yonder, close to that machine of

theirs."

This request threw Duthil into consternation, particularly as at that

same moment Silviane perceived Massot outside the wine shop, and began

calling and beckoning to him imperiously. A brief conversation then

ensued between the young woman and the journalist: "I say, Massot!" she

called, "hasn't a deputy the right to pass the guards and take a lady

wherever he likes?"

"Not at all!" exclaimed Duthil. "Massot knows very well that a deputy

ought to be the very first to bow to the laws."

This exclamation warned Massot that Duthil did not wish to leave the

balcony. "You ought to have secured a card of invitation, madame," said

he, in reply to Silviane. "They would then have found you room at one of

the windows of La Petite Roquette. Women are not allowed elsewhere....

But you mustn't complain, you have a very good place up there."

"But I can see nothing at all, my dear Massot."

"Well, you will in any case see more than Princess de Harn will. Just now

I came upon her carriage in the Rue du Chemin Vert. The police would not

allow it to come any nearer."

This news made Silviane merry again, whilst Duthil shuddered at the idea

of the danger he incurred, for Rosemonde would assuredly treat him to a

terrible scene should she see him with another woman. Then, an idea

occurring to him, he ordered a bottle of champagne and some little cakes

for his "beautiful friend," as he called Silviane. She had been

complaining of thirst, and was delighted with the opportunity of

perfecting her intoxication. When a waiter had managed to place a little

table near her, on the balcony itself, she found things very pleasant,

and indeed considered it quite brave to tipple and sup afresh, while

waiting for that man to be guillotined close by.

It was impossible for Pierre and Guillaume to remain up there any longer.

All that they heard, all that they beheld filled them with disgust. The

boredom of waiting had turned all the inquisitive folks of the balcony

and the adjoining room into customers. The waiter could hardly manage to

serve the many glasses of beer, bottles of expensive wine, biscuits, and

plates of cold meat which were ordered of him. And yet the spectators

here were all _bourgeois_, rich gentlemen, people of society! On the

other hand, time has to be killed somehow when it hangs heavily on one's

hands; and thus there were bursts of laughter and paltry and horrible

jests, quite a feverish uproar arising amidst the clouds of smoke from

the men's cigars. When Pierre and Guillaume passed through the wine shop

on the ground-floor they there found a similar crush and similar tumult,

aggravated by the disorderly behaviour of the big fellows in blouses who

were drinking draught wine at the pewter bar which shone like silver.

There were people, too, at all the little tables, besides an incessant

coming and going of folks who entered the place for a "wet," by way of

calming their impatience. And what folks they were! All the scum, all the

vagabonds who had been dragging themselves about since daybreak on the

lookout for whatever chance might offer them, provided it were not work!

On the pavement outside, Pierre and Guillaume felt yet a greater

heart-pang. In the throng which the guards kept back, one simply found so

much mire stirred up from the very depths of Paris life: prostitutes and

criminals, the murderers of to-morrow, who came to see how a man ought to

die. Loathsome, bareheaded harlots mingled with bands of prowlers or ran

through the crowd, howling obscene refrains. Bandits stood in groups

chatting and quarrelling about the more or less glorious manner in which