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hour for you. He's gone outside with Lise to see the sun set over Paris,

I think. But they will soon be back."

Then he relapsed into silence, with his eyes fixed on his work.

This was a bare, erect, lofty female figure, of such august majesty, so

simple were its lines, that it suggested something gigantic. The figure's

abundant, outspread hair suggested rays around its face, which beamed

with sovereign beauty like the sun. And its only gesture was one of offer

and of greeting; its arms were thrown slightly forward, and its hands

were open for the grasp of all mankind.

Still lingering in his dream Jahan began to speak slowly: "You remember

that I wanted a pendant for my figure of Fecundity. I had modelled a

Charity, but it pleased me so little and seemed so commonplace that I let

the clay dry and spoil.... And then the idea of a figure of Justice

came to me. But not a gowned figure with the sword and the scales! That

wasn't the Justice that inspired me. What haunted my mind was the other

Justice, the one that the lowly and the sufferers await, the one who

alone can some day set a little order and happiness among us. And I

pictured her like that, quite bare, quite simple, and very lofty. She is

the sun as it were, a sun all beauty, harmony and strength; for justice

is only to be found in the sun which shines in the heavens for one and

all, and bestows on poor and rich alike its magnificence and light and

warmth, which are the source of all life. And so my figure, you see, has

her hands outstretched as if she were offering herself to all mankind,

greeting it and granting it the gift of eternal life in eternal beauty.

Ah! to be beautiful and strong and just, one's whole dream lies in that."

Jahan relighted his pipe and burst into a merry laugh. "Well, I think the

good woman carries herself upright.... What do you fellows say?"

His visitors highly praised his work. Pierre for his part was much

affected at finding in this artistic conception the very idea that he had

so long been revolving in his mind--the idea of an era of Justice rising

from the ruins of the world, which Charity after centuries of trial had

failed to save.

Then the sculptor gaily explained that he had prepared his model there

instead of at home, in order to console himself a little for his big

dummy of an angel, the prescribed triteness of which disgusted him. Some

fresh objections had been raised with respect to the folds of the robe,

which gave some prominence to the thighs, and in the end he had been

compelled to modify all of the drapery.

"Oh! it's just as they like!" he cried; "it's no work of mine, you know;

it's simply an order which I'm executing just as a mason builds a wall.

There's no religious art left, it has been killed by stupidity and

disbelief. Ah! if social or human art could only revive, how glorious to

be one of the first to bear the tidings!"

Then he paused. Where could the youngsters, Antoine and Lise, have got

to, he wondered. He threw the door wide open, and, a little distance

away, among the materials littering the waste ground, one could see

Antoine's tall figure and Lise's short slender form standing out against

the immensity of Paris, which was all golden amidst the sun's farewell.

The young man's strong arm supported Lise, who with this help walked

beside him without feeling any fatigue. Slender and graceful, like a girl

blossoming into womanhood, she raised her eyes to his with a smile of

infinite gratitude, which proclaimed that she belonged to him for

evermore.

"Ah! they are coming back," said Jahan. "The miracle is now complete, you

know. I'm delighted at it. I did not know what to do with her; I had even

renounced all attempts to teach her to read; I left her for days together

in a corner, infirm and tongue-tied like a lack-wit.... But your

brother came and took her in hand somehow or other. She listened to him

and understood him, and began to read and write with him, and grow

intelligent and gay. Then, as her limbs still gained no suppleness, and

she remained infirm, ailing and puny, he began by carrying her here, and

then helped her to walk in such wise that she can now do so by herself.

In a few weeks' time she has positively grown and become quite charming.

Yes, I assure you, it is second birth, real creation. Just look at them!"

Antoine and Lise were still slowly approaching. The evening breeze which

rose from the great city, where all was yet heat and sunshine, brought

them a bath of life. If the young man had chosen that spot, with its

splendid horizon, open to the full air which wafted all the germs of

life, it was doubtless because he felt that nowhere else could he instil

more vitality, more soul, more strength into her. And love had been

created by love. He had found her asleep, benumbed, without power of

motion or intellect, and he had awakened her, kindled life in her, loved

her, that he might be loved by her in return. She was his work, she was

part of himself.

"So you no longer feel tired, little one?" said Jahan.

She smiled divinely. "Oh! no, it's so pleasant, so beautiful, to walk

straight on like this.... All I desire is to go on for ever and ever

with Antoine."

The others laughed, and Jahan exclaimed in his good-natured way: "Let us

hope that he won't take you so far. You've reached your destination now,

and I shan't be the one to prevent you from being happy."

Antoine was already standing before the figure of Justice, to which the

falling twilight seemed to impart a quiver of life. "Oh! how divinely

simple, how divinely beautiful!" said he.

For his own part he had lately finished a new wood engraving, which

depicted Lise holding a book in her hand, an engraving instinct with

truth and emotion, showing her awakened to intelligence and love. And

this time he had achieved his desire, making no preliminary drawing, but

tackling the block with his graver, straight away, in presence of his

model. And infinite hopefulness had come upon him, he was dreaming of

great original works in which the whole period that he belonged to would

live anew and for ever.

Thomas now wished to return home. So they shook hands with Jahan, who, as

his day's work was over, put on his coat to take his sister back to the

Rue du Calvaire.

"Till to-morrow, Lise," said Antoine, inclining his head to kiss her.

She raised herself on tip-toes, and offered him her eyes, which he had

opened to life. "Till to-morrow, Antoine," said she.

Outside, the twilight was falling. Pierre was the first to cross the

threshold, and as he did so, he saw so extraordinary a sight that for an

instant he felt stupefied. But it was certain enough: he could plainly

distinguish his brother Guillaume emerging from the gaping doorway which

conducted to the foundations of the basilica. And he saw him hastily

climb over the palings, and then pretend to be there by pure chance, as

though he had come up from the Rue Lamarck. When he accosted his two

sons, as if he were delighted to meet them, and began to say that he had

just come from Paris, Pierre asked himself if he had been dreaming.

However, an anxious glance which his brother cast at him convinced him

that he had been right. And then he not only felt ill at ease in presence

of that man whom he had never previously known to lie, but it seemed to

him that he was at last on the track of all he had feared, the formidable

mystery that he had for some time past felt brewing around him in the

little peaceful house.

When Guillaume, his sons and his brother reached home and entered the

large workroom overlooking Paris, it was so dark that they fancied nobody

was there.

"What! nobody in?" said Guillaume.

But in a somewhat low, quiet voice Francois answered out of the gloom:

"Why, yes, I'm here."

He had remained at his table, where he had worked the whole afternoon,

and as he could no longer read, he now sat in a dreamy mood with his head

resting on his hands, his eyes wandering over Paris, where night was

gradually falling. As his examination was now near at hand, he was living

in a state of severe mental strain.

"What, you are still working there!" said his father. "Why didn't you ask

for a lamp?"

"No, I wasn't working, I was looking at Paris," Francois slowly answered.

"It's singular how the night falls over it by degrees. The last district

that remained visible was the Montague Ste. Genevieve, the plateau of the

Pantheon, where all our knowledge and science have grown up. A sun-ray

still gilds the schools and libraries and laboratories, when the

low-lying districts of trade are already steeped in darkness. I won't say

that the planet has a particular partiality for us at the Ecole Normale,

but it's certain that its beams still linger on our roofs, when they are

to be seen nowhere else."

He began to laugh at his jest. Still one could see how ardent was his

faith in mental effort, how entirely he gave himself to mental labour,

which, in his opinion, could alone bring truth, establish justice and

create happiness.

Then came a short spell of silence. Paris sank more and more deeply into

the night, growing black and mysterious, till all at once sparks of light

began to appear.

"The lamps are being lighted," resumed Francois; "work is being resumed on

all sides."

Then Guillaume, who likewise had been dreaming, immersed in his fixed

idea, exclaimed: "Work, yes, no doubt! But for work to give a full

harvest it must be fertilised by will. There is something which is

superior to work."

Thomas and Antoine had drawn near. And Francois, as much for them as for

himself, inquired: "What is that, father?"

"Action."

For a moment the three young men remained silent, impressed by the

solemnity of the hour, quivering too beneath the great waves of darkness

which rose from the vague ocean of the city. Then a young voice remarked,

though whose it was one could not tell: "Action is but work."

And Pierre, who lacked the respectful quietude, the silent faith, of his

nephews, now felt his nervousness increasing. That huge and terrifying

mystery of which he was dimly conscious rose before him, while a great

quiver sped by in the darkness, over that black city where the lamps were

now being lighted for a whole passionate night of work.

IV. THE CRISIS

A GREAT ceremony was to take place that day at the basilica of the Sacred

Heart. Ten thousand pilgrims were to be present there, at a solemn

consecration of the Holy Sacrament; and pending the arrival of four

o'clock, the hour fixed for the service, Montmartre would be invaded by

people. Its slopes would be black with swarming devotees, the shops where

religious emblems and pictures were sold would be besieged, the cafes and

taverns would be crowded to overflowing. It would all be like some huge

fair, and meantime the big bell of the basilica, "La Savoyarde," would be

ringing peal on peal over the holiday-making multitude.

When Pierre entered the workroom in the morning he perceived Guillaume

and Mere-Grand alone there; and a remark which he heard the former make

caused him to stop short and listen from behind a tall-revolving

bookstand. Mere-Grand sat sewing in her usual place near the big window,

while Guillaume stood before her, speaking in a low voice.

"Mother," said he, "everything is ready, it is for to-day."

She let her work fall, and raised her eyes, looking very pale. "Ah!" she

said, "so you have made up your mind."

"Yes, irrevocably. At four o'clock I shall be yonder, and it will all be

over."

"'Tis well--you are the master."

Silence fell, terrible silence. Guillaume's voice seemed to come from far

away, from somewhere beyond the world. It was evident that his resolution

was unshakable, that his tragic dream, his fixed idea of martyrdom,

wholly absorbed him. Mere-Grand looked at him with her pale eyes, like an

heroic woman who had grown old in relieving the sufferings of others, and

had ever shown all the abnegation and devotion of an intrepid heart,

which nothing but the idea of duty could influence. She knew Guillaume's

terrible scheme, and had helped him to regulate the pettiest details of

it; but if on the one hand, after all the iniquity she had seen and

endured, she admitted that fierce and exemplary punishment might seem

necessary, and that even the idea of purifying the world by the fire of a

volcano might be entertained, on the other hand, she believed too

strongly in the necessity of living one's life bravely to the very end,

to be able, under any circumstances, to regard death as either good or

profitable.

"My son," she gently resumed, "I witnessed the growth of your scheme, and

it neither surprised nor angered me. I accepted it as one accepts

lightning, the very fire of the skies, something of sovereign purity and

power. And I have helped you through it all, and have taken upon myself

to act as the mouthpiece of your conscience.... But let me tell you

once more, one ought never to desert the cause of life."

"It is useless to speak, mother," Guillaume replied: "I have resolved to

give my life and cannot take it back.... Are you now unwilling to

carry out my desires, remain here, and act as we have decided, when all

is over?"

She did not answer this inquiry, but in her turn, speaking slowly and

gravely, put a question to him: "So it is useless for me to speak to you

of the children, myself and the house?" said she. "You have thought it

all over, you are quite determined?" And as he simply answered "Yes," she

added: "'Tis well, you are the master.... I will be the one who is to

remain behind and act. And you may be without fear, your bequest is in