第 78 页

good hands. All that we have decided together shall be done."

Once more they became silent. Then she again inquired: "At four o'clock,

you say, at the moment of that consecration?"

"Yes, at four o'clock."

She was still looking at him with her pale eyes, and there seemed to be

something superhuman in her simplicity and grandeur as she sat there in

her thin black gown. Her glance, in which the greatest bravery and the

deepest sadness mingled, filled Guillaume with acute emotion. His hands

began to tremble, and he asked: "Will you let me kiss you, mother?"

"Oh! right willingly, my son," she responded. "Your path of duty may not

be mine, but you see I respect your views and love you."

They kissed one another, and when Pierre, whom the scene had chilled to

his heart, presented himself as if he were just arriving, Mere-Grand had

quietly taken up her needlework once more, while Guillaume was going to

and fro, setting one of his laboratory shelves in order with all his

wonted activity.

At noon when lunch was ready, they found it necessary to wait for Thomas,

who had not yet come home. His brothers Francois and Antoine complained

in a jesting way, saying that they were dying of hunger, while for her

part Marie, who had made a _creme_, and was very proud of it, declared

that they would eat it all, and that those who came late would have to go

without tasting it. When Thomas eventually put in an appearance he was

greeted with jeers.

"But it wasn't my fault," said he; "I stupidly came up the hill by way of

the Rue de la Barre, and you can have no notion what a crowd I fell upon.

Quite ten thousand pilgrims must have camped there last night. I am told

that as many as possible were huddled together in the St. Joseph Refuge.

The others no doubt had to sleep in the open air. And now they are busy

eating, here, there and everywhere, all over the patches of waste ground

and even on the pavements. One can scarcely set one foot before the other

without risk of treading on somebody."

The meal proved a very gay one, though Pierre found the gaiety forced and

excessive. Yet the young people could surely know nothing of the

frightful, invisible thing which to Pierre ever seemed to be hovering

around in the bright sunlight of that splendid June day. Was it that the

dim presentiment which comes to loving hearts when mourning threatens

them, swept by during the short intervals of silence that followed the

joyous outbursts? Although Guillaume looked somewhat pale, and spoke with

unusual caressing softness, he retained his customary bright smile. But,

on the other hand, never had Mere-Grand been more silent or more grave.

Marie's _creme_ proved a great success, and the others congratulated her

on it so fulsomely that they made her blush. Then, all at once, heavy

silence fell once more, a deathly chill seemed to sweep by, making every

face turn pale--even while they were still cleaning their plates with

their little spoons.

"Ah! that bell," exclaimed Francois; "it is really intolerable. I can

feel my head splitting."

He referred to "La Savoyarde," the big bell of the basilica, which had

now begun to toll, sending forth deep sonorous volumes of sound, which

ever and ever winged their flight over the immensity of Paris. In the

workroom they were all listening to the clang.

"Will it keep on like that till four o'clock?" asked Marie.

"Oh! at four o'clock," replied Thomas, "at the moment of the consecration

you will hear something much louder than that. The great peals of joy,

the song of triumph will then ring out."

Guillaume was still smiling. "Yes, yes," said he, "those who don't want

to be deafened for life had better keep their windows closed. The worst

is, that Paris has to hear it whether it will or no, and even as far away

as the Pantheon, so I'm told."

Meantime Mere-Grand remained silent and impassive. Antoine for his part

expressed his disgust with the horrible religious pictures for which the

pilgrims fought--pictures which in some respects suggested those on the

lids of sweetmeat boxes, although they depicted the Christ with His

breast ripped open and displaying His bleeding heart. There could be no

more repulsive materialism, no grosser or baser art, said Antoine. Then

they rose from table, talking at the top of their voices so as to make

themselves heard above the incessant din which came from the big bell.

Immediately afterwards they all set to work again. Mere-Grand took her

everlasting needlework in hand once more, while Marie, sitting near her,

continued some embroidery. The young men also attended to their

respective tasks, and now and again raised their heads and exchanged a

few words. Guillaume, for his part, likewise seemed very busy; Pierre

alone coming and going in a state of anguish, beholding them all as in a

nightmare, and attributing some terrible meaning to the most innocent

remarks. During _dejeuner_, in order to explain the frightful discomfort

into which he was thrown by the gaiety of the meal, he had been obliged

to say that he felt poorly. And now he was looking and listening and

waiting with ever-growing anxiety.

Shortly before three o'clock, Guillaume glanced at his watch and then

quietly took up his hat. "Well," said he, "I'm going out."

His sons, Mere-Grand and Marie raised their heads.

"I'm going out," he repeated, "_au revoir_."

Still he did not go off. Pierre could divine that he was struggling,

stiffening himself against the frightful tempest which was raging within

him, striving to prevent either shudder or pallor from betraying his

awful secret. Ah! he must have suffered keenly; he dared not give his

sons a last kiss, for fear lest he might rouse some suspicion in their

minds, which would impel them to oppose him and prevent his death! At

last with supreme heroism he managed to overcome himself.

"_Au revoir_, boys."

"_Au revoir_, father. Will you be home early?"

"Yes, yes.... Don't worry about me, do plenty of work."

Mere-Grand, still majestically silent, kept her eyes fixed upon him. Her

he had ventured to kiss, and their glances met and mingled, instinct with

all that he had decided and that she had promised: their common dream of

truth and justice.

"I say, Guillaume," exclaimed Marie gaily, "will you undertake a

commission for me if you are going down by way of the Rue des Martyrs?"

"Why, certainly," he replied.

"Well, then, please look in at my dressmaker's, and tell her that I

shan't go to try my gown on till to-morrow morning."

It was a question of her wedding dress, a gown of light grey silk, the

stylishness of which she considered very amusing. Whenever she spoke of

it, both she and the others began to laugh.

"It's understood, my dear," said Guillaume, likewise making merry over

it. "We know it's Cinderella's court robe, eh? The fairy brocade and lace

that are to make you very beautiful and for ever happy."

However, the laughter ceased, and in the sudden silence which fell, it

again seemed as if death were passing by with a great flapping of wings

and an icy gust which chilled the hearts of everyone remaining there.

"It's understood; so now I'm really off," resumed Guillaume. "_Au

revoir_, children."

Then he sallied forth, without even turning round, and for a moment they

could hear the firm tread of his feet over the garden gravel.

Pierre having invented a pretext was able to follow him a couple of

minutes afterwards. As a matter of fact there was no need for him to dog

Guillaume's heels, for he knew where his brother was going. He was

thoroughly convinced that he would find him at that doorway, conducting

to the foundations of the basilica, whence he had seen him emerge two

days before. And so he wasted no time in looking for him among the crowd

of pilgrims going to the church. His only thought was to hurry on and

reach Jahan's workshop. And in accordance with his expectation, just as

he arrived there, he perceived Guillaume slipping between the broken

palings. The crush and the confusion prevailing among the concourse of

believers favored Pierre as it had his brother, in such wise that he was

able to follow the latter and enter the doorway without being noticed.

Once there he had to pause and draw breath for a moment, so greatly did

the beating of his heart oppress him.

A precipitous flight of steps, where all was steeped in darkness,

descended from the narrow entry. It was with infinite precaution that

Pierre ventured into the gloom, which ever grew denser and denser. He

lowered his feet gently so as to make no noise, and feeling the walls

with his hands, turned round and round as he went lower and lower into a

kind of well. However, the descent was not a very long one. As soon as he

found beaten ground beneath his feet he paused, no longer daring to stir

for fear of betraying his presence. The darkness was like ink, and there

was not a sound, a breath; the silence was complete.

How should he find his way? he wondered. Which direction ought he to

take? He was still hesitating when some twenty paces away he suddenly saw

a bright spark, the gleam of a lucifer. Guillaume was lighting a candle.

Pierre recognised his broad shoulders, and from that moment he simply had

to follow the flickering light along a walled and vaulted subterranean

gallery. It seemed to be interminable and to run in a northerly

direction, towards the nave of the basilica.

All at once the little light at last stopped, while Pierre, anxious to

see what would happen, continued to advance, treading as softly as he

could and remaining in the gloom. He found that Guillaume had stood his

candle upon the ground in the middle of a kind of low rotunda under the

crypt, and that he had knelt down and moved aside a long flagstone which

seemed to cover a cavity. They were here among the foundations of the

basilica; and one of the columns or piles of concrete poured into shafts

in order to support the building could be seen. The gap, which the stone

slab removed by Guillaume had covered, was by the very side of the

pillar; it was either some natural surface flaw, or a deep fissure caused

by some subsidence or settling of the soil. The heads of other pillars

could be descried around, and these the cleft seemed to be reaching, for

little slits branched out in all directions. Then, on seeing his brother

leaning forward, like one who is for the last time examining a mine he

has laid before applying a match to the fuse, Pierre suddenly understood

the whole terrifying business. Considerable quantities of the new

explosive had been brought to that spot. Guillaume had made the journey a

score of times at carefully selected hours, and all his powder had been

poured into the gap beside the pillar, spreading to the slightest rifts

below, saturating the soil at a great depth, and in this wise forming a

natural mine of incalculable force. And now the powder was flush with the

flagstone which Guillaume has just moved aside. It was only necessary to

throw a match there, and everything would be blown into the air!

For a moment an acute chill of horror rooted Pierre to the spot. He could

neither have taken a step nor raised a cry. He pictured the swarming

throng above him, the ten thousand pilgrims crowding the lofty naves of

the basilica to witness the solemn consecration of the Host. Peal upon

peal flew from "La Savoyarde," incense smoked, and ten thousand voices

raised a hymn of magnificence and praise. And all at once came thunder

and earthquake, and a volcano opening and belching forth fire and smoke,

and swallowing up the whole church and its multitude of worshippers.

Breaking the concrete piles and rending the unsound soil, the explosion,

which was certain to be one of extraordinary violence, would doubtless

split the edifice atwain, and hurl one-half down the slopes descending

towards Paris, whilst the other on the side of the apse would crumble and

collapse upon the spot where it stood. And how fearful would be the

avalanche; a broken forest of scaffoldings, a hail of stonework, rushing

and bounding through the dust and smoke on to the roofs below; whilst the

violence of the shock would threaten the whole of Montmartre, which, it

seemed likely, must stagger and sink in one huge mass of ruins!

However, Guillaume had again risen. The candle standing on the ground,

its flame shooting up, erect and slender, threw his huge shadow all over

the subterranean vault. Amidst the dense blackness the light looked like

some dismal stationary star. Guillaume drew near to it in order to see

what time it was by his watch. It proved to be five minutes past three.

So he had nearly another hour to wait. He was in no hurry, he wished to

carry out his design punctually, at the precise moment he had selected;

and he therefore sat down on a block of stone, and remained there without

moving, quiet and patient. The candle now cast its light upon his pale

face, upon his towering brow crowned with white hair, upon the whole of

his energetic countenance, which still looked handsome and young, thanks

to his bright eyes and dark moustaches. And not a muscle of his face

stirred; he simply gazed into the void. What thoughts could be passing

through his mind at that supreme moment? Who could tell? There was not a

quiver; heavy night, the deep eternal silence of the earth reigned all

around.

Then Pierre, having quieted his palpitating heart, drew near. At the

sound of his footsteps Guillaume rose menacingly, but he immediately

recognised his brother, and did not seem astonished to see him.

"Ah! it's you," he said, "you followed me.... I felt that you

possessed my secret. And it grieves me that you should have abused your

knowledge to join me here. You might have spared me this last sorrow."