第 70 页

that the neck was fixed as in a ship's port-hole--and all this was

accomplished amidst such confusion and with such savagery that one might

have thought that head some cumbrous thing which it was necessary to get

rid of with the greatest speed. But the knife fell with a dull, heavy,

forcible thud, and two long jets of blood spurted from the severed

arteries, while the dead man's feet moved convulsively. Nothing else

could be seen. The executioner rubbed his hands in a mechanical way, and

an assistant took the severed blood-streaming head from the little basket

into which it had fallen and placed it in the large basket into which the

body had already been turned.

Ah! that dull, that heavy thud of the knife! It seemed to Guillaume that

he had heard it echoing far away all over that district of want and toil,

even in the squalid rooms where thousands of workmen were at that moment

rising to perform their day's hard task! And there the echo of that thud

acquired formidable significance; it spoke of man's exasperation with

injustice, of zeal for martyrdom, and of the dolorous hope that the blood

then spilt might hasten the victory of the disinherited.

Pierre, for his part, at the sight of that loathsome butchery, the abject

cutthroat work of that killing machine, had suddenly felt his chilling

shudder become more violent; for before him arose a vision of another

corpse, that of the fair, pretty child ripped open by a bomb and

stretched yonder, at the entrance of the Duvillard mansion. Blood

streamed from her delicate flesh, just as it had streamed from that

decapitated neck. It was blood paying for blood; it was like payment for

mankind's debt of wretchedness, for which payment is everlastingly being

made, without man ever being able to free himself from suffering.

Above the square and the crowd all was still silent in the clear sky. How

long had the abomination lasted? An eternity, perhaps, compressed into

two or three minutes. And now came an awakening: the spectators emerged

from their nightmare with quivering hands, livid faces, and eyes

expressive of compassion, disgust and fear.

"That makes another one. I've now seen four executions," said Massot, who

felt ill at ease. "After all, I prefer to report weddings. Let us go off,

I have all I want for my article."

Guillaume and Pierre followed him mechanically across the square, and

again reached the corner of the Rue Merlin. And here they saw little

Victor Mathis, with flaming eyes and white face, still standing in

silence on the spot where they had left him. He could have seen nothing

distinctly; but the thud of the knife was still echoing in his brain. A

policeman at last gave him a push, and told him to move on. At this he

looked the policeman in the face, stirred by sudden rage and ready to

strangle him. Then, however, he quietly walked away, ascending the Rue de

la Roquette, atop of which the lofty foliage of Pere-Lachaise could be

seen, beneath the rising sun.

The brothers meantime fell upon a scene of explanations, which they heard

without wishing to do so. Now that the sight was over, the Princess de

Harn arrived, and she was the more furious as at the door of the wine

shop she could see her new friend Duthil accompanying a woman.

"I say!" she exclaimed, "you are nice, you are, to have left me in the

lurch like this! It was impossible for my carriage to get near, so I've

had to come on foot through all those horrid people who have been

jostling and insulting me."

Thereupon Duthil, with all promptitude, introduced Silviane to her,

adding, in an aside, that he had taken a friend's place as the actress's

escort. And then Rosemonde, who greatly wished to know Silviane, calmed

down as if by enchantment, and put on her most engaging ways. "It would

have delighted me, madame," said she, "to have seen this sight in the

company of an _artiste_ of your merit, one whom I admire so much, though

I have never before had an opportunity of telling her so."

"Well, dear me, madame," replied Silviane, "you haven't lost much by

arriving late. We were on that balcony there, and all that I could see

were a few men pushing another one about.... It really isn't worth the

trouble of coming."

"Well, now that we have become acquainted, madame," said the Princess, "I

really hope that you will allow me to be your friend."

"Certainly, madame, my friend; and I shall be flattered and delighted to

be yours."

Standing there, hand in hand, they smiled at one another. Silviane was

very drunk, but her virginal expression had returned to her face; whilst

Rosemonde seemed feverish with vicious curiosity. Duthil, whom the scene

amused, now had but one thought, that of seeing Silviane home; so calling

to Massot, who was approaching, he asked him where he should find a

cab-rank. Rosemonde, however, at once offered her carriage, which was

waiting in an adjacent street.

She would set the actress down at her door, said she, and the deputy at

his; and such was her persistence in the matter that Duthil, greatly

vexed, was obliged to accept her offer.

"Well, then, till to-morrow at the Madeleine," said Massot, again quite

sprightly, as he shook hands with the Princess.

"Yes, till to-morrow, at the Madeleine and the Comedie."

"Ah! yes, of course!" he repeated, taking Silviane's hand, which he

kissed. "The Madeleine in the morning and the Comedie in the evening...

. We shall all be there to applaud you."

"Yes, I expect you to do so," said Silviane. "Till to-morrow, then!"

"Till to-morrow!"

The crowd was now wearily dispersing, to all appearance disappointed and

ill at ease. A few enthusiasts alone lingered in order to witness the

departure of the van in which Salvat's corpse would soon be removed;

while bands of prowlers and harlots, looking very wan in the daylight,

whistled or called to one another with some last filthy expression before

returning to their dens. The headsman's assistants were hastily taking

down the guillotine, and the square would soon be quite clear.

Pierre for his part wished to lead his brother away. Since the fall of

the knife, Guillaume had remained as if stunned, without once opening his

lips. In vain had Pierre tried to rouse him by pointing to the shutters

of Mege's flat, which still remained closed, whereas every other window

of the lofty house was wide open. Although the Socialist deputy hated the

Anarchists, those shutters were doubtless closed as a protest against

capital punishment. Whilst the multitude had been rushing to that

frightful spectacle, Mege, still in bed, with his face turned to the

wall, had probably been dreaming of how he would some day compel mankind

to be happy beneath the rigid laws of Collectivism. Affectionate father

as he was, the recent death of one of his children had quite upset his

private life. His cough, too, had become a very bad one; but he ardently

wished to live, for as soon as that new Monferrand ministry should have

fallen beneath the interpellation which he already contemplated, his own

turn would surely come: he would take the reins of power in hand, abolish

the guillotine and decree justice and perfect felicity.

"Do you see, Guillaume?" Pierre gently repeated. "Mege hasn't opened his

windows. He's a good fellow, after all; although our friends Bache and

Morin dislike him." Then, as his brother still refrained from answering,

Pierre added, "Come, let us go, we must get back home."

They both turned into the Rue de la Folie Regnault, and reached the outer

Boulevards by way of the Rue du Chemin Vert. All the toilers of the

district were now at work. In the long streets edged with low buildings,

work-shops and factories, one heard engines snorting and machinery

rumbling, while up above, the smoke from the lofty chimneys was assuming

a rosy hue in the sunrise. Afterwards, when the brothers reached the

Boulevard de Menilmontant and the Boulevard de Belleville, which they

followed in turn at a leisurely pace, they witnessed the great rush of

the working classes into central Paris. The stream poured forth from

every side; from all the wretched streets of the faubourgs there was an

endless exodus of toilers, who, having risen at dawn, were now hurrying,

in the sharp morning air, to their daily labour. Some wore short jackets

and others blouses; some were in velveteen trousers, others in linen

overalls. Their thick shoes made their tramp a heavy one; their hanging

hands were often deformed by work. And they seemed half asleep, not a

smile was to be seen on any of those wan, weary faces turned yonder

towards the everlasting task--the task which was begun afresh each day,

and which--'twas their only chance--they hoped to be able to take up for

ever and ever. There was no end to that drove of toilers, that army of

various callings, that human flesh fated to manual labour, upon which

Paris preys in order that she may live in luxury and enjoyment.

Then the procession continued across the Boulevard de la Villette, the

Boulevard de la Chapelle, and the Boulevard de Rochechouart, where one

reached the height of Montmartre. More and more workmen were ever coming

down from their bare cold rooms and plunging into the huge city, whence,

tired out, they would that evening merely bring back the bread of

rancour. And now, too, came a stream of work-girls, some of them in

bright skirts, some glancing at the passers-by; girls whose wages were so

paltry, so insufficient, that now and again pretty ones among them never

more turned their faces homewards, whilst the ugly ones wasted away,

condemned to mere bread and water. A little later, moreover, came the

_employes_, the clerks, the counter-jumpers, the whole world of

frock-coated penury--"gentlemen" who devoured a roll as they hastened

onward, worried the while by the dread of being unable to pay their rent,

or by the problem of providing food for wife and children until the end

of the month should come.* And now the sun was fast ascending on the

horizon, the whole army of ants was out and about, and the toilsome day

had begun with its ceaseless display of courage, energy and suffering.

* In Paris nearly all clerks and shop-assistants receive

monthly salaries, while most workmen are paid once a

fortnight.--Trans.

Never before had it been so plainly manifest to Pierre that work was a

necessity, that it healed and saved. On the occasion of his visit to the

Grandidier works, and later still, when he himself had felt the need of

occupation, there had cone to him the thought that work was really the

world's law. And after that hateful night, after that spilling of blood,

after the slaughter of that toiler maddened by his dreams, there was

consolation and hope in seeing the sun rise once more, and everlasting

labour take up its wonted task. However hard it might prove, however

unjustly it might be lotted out, was it not work which would some day

bring both justice and happiness to the world?

All at once, as the brothers were climbing the steep hillside towards

Guillaume's house, they perceived before and above them the basilica of

the Sacred Heart rising majestically and triumphantly to the sky. This

was no sublunar apparition, no dreamy vision of Domination standing face

to face with nocturnal Paris. The sun now clothed the edifice with

splendour, it looked golden and proud and victorious, flaring with

immortal glory.

Then Guillaume, still silent, still feeling Salvat's last glance upon

him, seemed to come to some sudden and final decision. He looked at the

basilica with glowing eyes, and pronounced sentence upon it.

II. IN VANITY FAIR

THE wedding was to take place at noon, and for half an hour already

guests had been pouring into the magnificently decorated church, which

was leafy with evergreens and balmy with the scent of flowers. The high

altar in the rear glowed with countless candles, and through the great

doorway, which was wide open, one could see the peristyle decked with

shrubs, the steps covered with a broad carpet, and the inquisitive crowd

assembled on the square and even along the Rue Royale, under the bright

sun.

After finding three more chairs for some ladies who had arrived rather

late, Duthil remarked to Massot, who was jotting down names in his

note-book: "Well, if any more come, they will have to remain standing."

"Who were those three?" the journalist inquired.

"The Duchess de Boisemont and her two daughters."

"Indeed! All the titled people of France, as well as all the financiers

and politicians, are here! It's something more even than a swell Parisian

wedding."

As a matter of fact all the spheres of "society" were gathered together

there, and some at first seemed rather embarrassed at finding themselves

beside others. Whilst Duvillard's name attracted all the princes of

finance and politicians in power, Madame de Quinsac and her son were

supported by the highest of the French aristocracy. The mere names of the

witnesses sufficed to indicate what an extraordinary medley there was. On

Gerard's side these witnesses were his uncle, General de Bozonnet, and

the Marquis de Morigny; whilst on Camille's they were the great banker

Louvard, and Monferrand, the President of the Council and Minister of

Finances. The quiet bravado which the latter displayed in thus supporting

the bride after being compromised in her father's financial intrigues

imparted a piquant touch of impudence to his triumph. And public

curiosity was further stimulated by the circumstance that the nuptial

blessing was to be given by Monseigneur Martha, Bishop of Persepolis, the

Pope's political agent in France, and the apostle of the endeavours to

win the Republic over to the Church by pretending to "rally" to it.

"But, I was mistaken," now resumed Massot with a sneer. "I said a really