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one, bent on enjoying itself, and ready to applaud should it find itself

at all pleased.

The performance really proved extraordinary. When Silviane, chastely

robed, made her appearance in the first act, the house was quite

astonished by her virginal face, her innocent-looking mouth, and her eyes

beaming with immaculate candour. Then, although the manner in which she

had understood her part at first amazed people, it ended by charming

them. From the moment of confiding in "Stratonice," from the moment of

relating her dream, she turned "Pauline" into a soaring mystical

creature, some saint, as it were, such as one sees in stained-glass

windows, carried along by a Wagnerian Brunhilda riding the clouds. It was

a thoroughly ridiculous conception of the part, contrary to reason and

truth alike. Still, it only seemed to interest people the more, partly on

account of mysticism being the fashion, and partly on account of the

contrast between Silviane's assumed candour and real depravity. Her

success increased from act to act, and some slight hissing which was

attributed to Sagnier only helped to make the victory more complete.

Monferrand and Dauvergne, as the newspapers afterwards related, gave the

signal for applause; and the whole house joined in it, partly from

amusement and partly perhaps in a spirit of irony.

During the interval between the fourth and fifth acts there was quite a

procession of visitors to Duvillard's box, where the greatest excitement

prevailed. Duthil, however, after absenting himself for a moment, came

back to say: "You remember our influential critic, the one whom I brought

to dinner at the Cafe Anglais? Well, he's repeating to everybody that

'Pauline' is merely a little _bourgeoise_, and is not transformed by the

heavenly grace until the very finish of the piece. To turn her into a

holy virgin from the outset simply kills the part, says he."

"Pooh!" repeated Duvillard, "let him argue if he likes, it will be all

the more advertisement.... The important point is to get Massot's

article inserted in the 'Globe' to-morrow morning."

On this point, unfortunately, the news was by no means good. Chaigneux,

who had gone in search of Fonsegue, declared that the latter still

hesitated in the matter in spite of Silviane's success, which he declared

to be ridiculous. Thereupon, the Baron became quite angry. "Go and tell

Fonsegue," he exclaimed, "that I insist on it, and that I shall remember

what he does."

Meantime Princess Rosemonde was becoming quite delirious with enthusiasm.

"My dear Hyacinthe," she pleaded, "please take me to Silviane's

dressing-room; I can't wait, I really must go and kiss her."

"But we'll all go!" cried Duvillard, who heard her entreaty.

The passages were crowded, and there were people even on the stage.

Moreover, when the party reached the door of Silviane's dressing-room,

they found it shut. When the Baron knocked at it, a dresser replied that

madame begged the gentlemen to wait a moment.

"Oh! a woman may surely go in," replied Rosemonde, hastily slipping

through the doorway. "And you may come, Hyacinthe," she added; "there can

be no objection to you."

Silviane was very hot, and a dresser was wiping her perspiring shoulders

when Rosemonde darted forward and kissed her. Then they chatted together

amidst the heat and glare from the gas and the intoxicating perfumes of

all the flowers which were heaped up in the little room. Finally,

Hyacinthe heard them promise to see one another after the performance,

Silviane even inviting Rosemonde to drink a cup of tea with her at her

house. At this the young man smiled complacently, and said to the

actress: "Your carriage is waiting for you at the corner of the Rue

Montpensier, is it not? Well, I'll take the Princess to it. That will be

the simpler plan, you can both go off together!"

"Oh! how good of you," cried Rosemonde; "it's agreed."

Just then the door was opened, and the men, being admitted, began to pour

forth their congratulations. However, they had to regain their seats in

all haste so as to witness the fifth act. This proved quite a triumph,

the whole house bursting into applause when Silviane spoke the famous

line, "I see, I know, I believe, I am undeceived," with the rapturous

enthusiasm of a holy martyr ascending to heaven. Nothing could have been

more soul-like, it was said. And so when the performers were called

before the curtain, Paris bestowed an ovation on that virgin of the

stage, who, as Sagnier put it, knew so well how to act depravity at home.

Accompanied by Duthil, Duvillard at once went behind the scenes in order

to fetch Silviane, while Hyacinthe escorted Rosemonde to the brougham

waiting at the corner of the Rue Montpensier. Having helped her into it,

the young man stood by, waiting. And he seemed to grow quite merry when

his father came up with Silviane, and was stopped by her, just as, in his

turn, he wished to get into the carriage.

"There's no room for you, my dear fellow," said she. "I've a friend with

me."

Rosemonde's little smiling face then peered forth from the depths of the

brougham. And the Baron remained there open-mouthed while the vehicle

swiftly carried the two women away!

"Well, what would you have, my dear fellow?" said Hyacinthe, by way of

explanation to Duthil, who also seemed somewhat amazed by what had

happened. "Rosemonde was worrying my life out, and so I got rid of her by

packing her off with Silviane."

Duvillard was still standing on the pavement and still looking dazed when

Chaigneux, who was going home quite tired out, recognised him, and came

up to say that Fonsegue had thought the matter over, and that Massot's

article would be duly inserted. In the passages, too, there had been a

deal of talk about the famous Trans-Saharan project.

Then Hyacinthe led his father away, trying to comfort him like a sensible

friend, who regarded woman as a base and impure creature. "Let's go home

to bed," said he. "As that article is to appear, you can take it to her

to-morrow. She will see you, sure enough."

Thereupon they lighted cigars, and now and again exchanging a few words,

took their way up the Avenue de l'Opera, which at that hour was deserted

and dismal. Meantime, above the slumbering houses of Paris the breeze

wafted a prolonged sigh, the plaint, as it were, of an expiring world.

III. THE GOAL OF LABOUR

EVER since the execution of Salvat, Guillaume had become extremely

taciturn. He seemed worried and absent-minded. He would work for hours at

the manufacture of that dangerous powder of which he alone knew the

formula, and the preparation of which was such a delicate matter that he

would allow none to assist him. Then, at other times he would go off, and

return tired out by some long solitary ramble. He remained very gentle at

home, and strove to smile there. But whenever anybody spoke to him he

started as if suddenly called back from dreamland.

Pierre imagined his brother had relied too much upon his powers of

renunciation, and found the loss of Marie unbearable. Was it not some

thought of her that haunted him now that the date fixed for the marriage

drew nearer and nearer? One evening, therefore, Pierre ventured to speak

out, again offering to leave the house and disappear.

But at the first words he uttered Guillaume stopped him, and

affectionately replied: "Marie? Oh! I love her, I love her too well to

regret what I have done. No, no! you only bring me happiness, I derive

all my strength and courage from you now that I know you are both happy.

... And I assure you that you are mistaken, there is nothing at all the

matter with me; my work absorbs me, perhaps, but that is all."

That same evening he managed to cast his gloom aside, and displayed

delightful gaiety. During dinner he inquired if the upholsterer would

soon call to arrange the two little rooms which Marie was to occupy with

her husband over the workroom. The young woman, who since her marriage

with Pierre had been decided had remained waiting with smiling patience,

thereupon told Guillaume what it was she desired--first some hangings of

red cotton stuff, then some polished pine furniture which would enable

her to imagine she was in the country, and finally a carpet on the floor,

because a carpet seemed to her the height of luxury. She laughed as she

spoke, and Guillaume laughed with her in a gay and fatherly way. His good

spirits brought much relief to Pierre, who concluded that he must have

been mistaken in his surmises.

On the very morrow, however, Guillaume relapsed into a dreamy state. And

so disquietude again came upon Pierre, particularly when he noticed that

Mere-Grand also seemed to be unusually grave and silent. Not daring to

address her, he tried to extract some information from his nephews, but

neither Thomas nor Francois nor Antoine knew anything. Each of them

quietly devoted his time to his work, respecting and worshipping his

father, but never questioning him about his plans or enterprises.

Whatever he might choose to do could only be right and good; and they,

his sons, were ready to do the same and help him at the very first call,

without pausing to inquire into his purpose. It was plain, however, that

he kept them apart from anything at all perilous, that he retained all

responsibility for himself, and that Mere-Grand alone was his

_confidante_, the one whom he consulted and to whom he perhaps listened.

Pierre therefore renounced his hope of learning anything from the sons,

and directed his attention to the old lady, whose rigid gravity worried

him the more as she and Guillaume frequently had private chats in the

room she occupied upstairs. They shut themselves up there all alone, and

remained together for hours without the faintest sound coming from the

seemingly lifeless chamber.

One day, however, Pierre caught sight of Guillaume as he came out of it,

carrying a little valise which appeared to be very heavy. And Pierre

thereupon remembered both his brother's powder, one pound weight of which

would have sufficed to destroy a cathedral, and the destructive engine

which he had purposed bestowing upon France in order that she might be

victorious over all other nations, and become the one great initiatory

and liberative power. Pierre remembered too that the only person besides

himself who knew his brother's secret was Mere-Grand, who, at the time

when Guillaume was fearing some perquisition on the part of the police,

had long slept upon the cartridges of the terrible explosive. But now why

was Guillaume removing all the powder which he had been preparing for

some time past? As this question occurred to Pierre, a sudden suspicion,

a vague dread, came upon him, and gave him strength to ask his brother:

"Have you reason to fear anything, since you won't keep things here? If

they embarrass you, they can all be deposited at my house, nobody will

make a search there."

Guillaume, whom these words astonished, gazed at Pierre fixedly, and then

replied: "Yes, I have learnt that the arrests and perquisitions have

begun afresh since that poor devil was guillotined; for they are in

terror at the thought that some despairing fellow may avenge him.

Moreover, it is hardly prudent to keep destructive agents of such great

power here. I prefer to deposit them in a safe place. But not at

Neuilly--oh! no indeed! they are not a present for you, brother."

Guillaume spoke with outward calmness; and if he had started with

surprise at the first moment, it had been scarcely perceptible.

"So everything is ready?" Pierre resumed. "You will soon be handing your

engine of destruction over to the Minister of War, I presume?"

A gleam of hesitation appeared in the depths of Guillaume's eyes, and he

was for a moment about to tell a falsehood. However, he ended by replying

"No, I have renounced that intention. I have another idea."

He spoke these last words with so much energy and decision that Pierre

did not dare to question him further, to ask him, for instance, what that

other idea might be. From that moment, however, he quivered with anxious

expectancy. From hour to hour Mere-Grand's lofty silence and Guillaume's

rapt, energetic face seemed to tell him that some huge and terrifying

scheme had come into being, and was growing and threatening the whole of

Paris.

One afternoon, just as Thomas was about to repair to the Grandidier

works, some one came to Guillaume's with the news that old Toussaint, the

workman, had been stricken with a fresh attack of paralysis. Thomas

thereupon decided that he would call upon the poor fellow on his way, for

he held him in esteem and wished to ascertain if he could render him any

help. Pierre expressed a desire to accompany his nephew, and they started

off together about four o'clock.

On entering the one room which the Toussaints occupied, the room where

they ate and slept, the visitors found the mechanician seated on a low

chair near the table. He looked half dead, as if struck by lightning. It

was a case of hemiplegia, which had paralysed the whole of his right

side, his right leg and right arm, and had also spread to his face in

such wise that he could no longer speak. The only sound he could raise

was an incomprehensible guttural grunt. His mouth was drawn to the right,

and his once round, good-natured-looking face, with tanned skin and

bright eyes, had been twisted into a frightful mask of anguish. At fifty

years of age, the unhappy man was utterly done for. His unkempt beard was

as white as that of an octogenarian, and his knotty limbs, preyed upon by

toil, were henceforth dead. Only his eyes remained alive, and they

travelled around the room, going from one to another. By his side, eager

to do what she could for him, was his wife, who remained stout even when