第 82 页

grave and kindly way begged the Sister to leave them alone for a moment,

she dared not refuse this supreme request, but immediately left the room.

"Ah! my dear child," said the old man, "how much I wanted to speak to

you! Sit down there, close to the bed, so that you may be able to hear

me, for this is the end; I shall no longer be here to-night. And I have

such a great service to ask of you."

Quite upset at finding his friend so wasted, with his face white like a

sheet, and scarce a sign of life save the sparkle of his innocent, loving

eyes, Pierre responded: "But I would have come sooner if I had known you

were in need of me! Why did you not send for me before? Are people being

kept away from you?"

A faint smile of shame and confession appeared on the old priest's

embarrassed face. "Well, my dear child," said he, "you must know that I

have again done some foolish things. Yes, I gave money to some people

who, it seems, were not deserving of it. In fact, there was quite a

scandal; they scolded me at the Archbishop's palace, and accused me of

compromising the interests of religion. And when they heard that I was

ill, they put that good Sister beside me, because they said that I should

die on the floor, and give the very sheets off my bed if I were not

prevented."

He paused to draw breath, and then continued: "So you understand, that

good Sister--oh! she is a very saintly woman--is here to nurse me and

prevent me from still doing foolish things. To overcome her vigilance I

had to use a little deceit, for which God, I trust, will forgive me. As

it happens, it's precisely my poor who are in question; it was to speak

to you about them that I so particularly wished to see you."

Tears had come to Pierre's eyes. "Tell me what you want me to do," he

answered; "I am yours, both heart and soul."

"Yes, yes, I know it, my dear child. It was for that reason that I

thought of you--you alone. In spite of all that has happened, you are the

only one in whom I have any confidence, who can understand me, and give

me a promise which will enable me to die in peace."

This was the only allusion he would venture to make to the cruel rupture

which had occurred after the young man had thrown off his cassock and

rebelled against the Church. He had since heard of Pierre's marriage, and

was aware that he had for ever severed all religious ties. But at that

supreme moment nothing of this seemed of any account to the old priest.

His knowledge of Pierre's loving heart sufficed him, for all that he now

desired was simply the help of that heart which he had seen glowing with

such passionate charity.

"Well," he resumed, again finding sufficient strength to smile, "it is a

very simple matter. I want to make you my heir. Oh! it isn't a fine

legacy I am leaving you; it is the legacy of my poor, for I have nothing

else to bestow on you; I shall leave nothing behind me but my poor."

Of these unhappy creatures, three in particular quite upset his heart. He

recoiled from the prospect of leaving them without chance of succour,

without even the crumbs which he had hitherto distributed among them, and

which had enabled them to live. One was the big Old'un, the aged

carpenter whom he and Pierre had vainly sought one night with the object

of sending him to the Asylum for the Invalids of Labour. He had been sent

there a little later, but he had fled three days afterwards, unwilling as

he was to submit to the regulations. Wild and violent, he had the most

detestable disposition. Nevertheless, he could not be left to starve. He

came to Abbe Rose's every Saturday, it seemed, and received a franc,

which sufficed him for the whole week. Then, too, there was a bedridden

old woman in a hovel in the Rue du Mont-Cenis. The baker, who every

morning took her the bread she needed, must be paid. And in particular

there was a poor young woman residing on the Place du Tertre, one who was

unmarried but a mother. She was dying of consumption, unable to work, and

tortured by the idea that when she should have gone, her daughter must

sink to the pavement like herself. And in this instance the legacy was

twofold: there was the mother to relieve until her death, which was near

at hand, and then the daughter to provide for until she could be placed

in some good household.

"You must forgive me, my dear child, for leaving you all these worries,"

added Abbe Rose. "I tried to get the good Sister, who is nursing me, to

take an interest in these poor people, but when I spoke to her of the big

Old'un, she was so alarmed that she made the sign of the cross. And it's

the same with my worthy friend Abbe Tavernier. I know nobody of more

upright mind. Still I shouldn't be at ease with him, he has ideas of his

own.... And so, my dear child, there is only you whom I can rely upon,

and you must accept my legacy if you wish me to depart in peace."

Pierre was weeping. "Ah! certainly, with my whole soul," he answered. "I

shall regard your desires as sacred."

"Good! I knew you would accept.... So it is agreed: a franc for the

big Old'un every Saturday, the bread for the bedridden woman, some help

for the poor young mother, and then a home for her little girl. Ah! if

you only knew what a weight it is off my heart! The end may come now, it

will be welcome to me."

His kind white face had brightened as if with supreme joy. Holding

Pierre's hand within his own he detained him beside the bed, exchanging a

farewell full of serene affection. And his voice weakening, he expressed

his whole mind in faint, impressive accents: "Yes, I shall be pleased to

go off. I could do no more, I could do no more! Though I gave and gave, I

felt that it was ever necessary to give more and more. And how sad to

find charity powerless, to give without hope of ever being able to stamp

out want and suffering! I rebelled against that idea of yours, as you

will remember. I told you that we should always love one another in our

poor, and that was true, since you are here, so good and affectionate to

me and those whom I am leaving behind. But, all the same, I can do no

more, I can do no more; and I would rather go off, since the woes of

others rise higher and higher around me, and I have ended by doing the

most foolish things, scandalising the faithful and making my superiors

indignant with me, without even saving one single poor person from the

ever-growing torrent of want. Farewell, my dear child. My poor old heart

goes off aching, my old hands are weary and conquered."

Pierre embraced him with his whole soul, and then departed. His eyes were

full of tears and indescribable emotion wrung his heart. Never had he

heard a more woeful cry than that confession of the impotence of charity,

on the part of that old candid child, whose heart was all simplicity and

sublime benevolence. Ah! what a disaster, that human kindness should be

futile, that the world should always display so much distress and

suffering in spite of all the compassionate tears that had been shed, in

spite of all the alms that had fallen from millions and millions of hands

for centuries and centuries! No wonder that it should bring desire for

death, no wonder that a Christian should feel pleased at escaping from

the abominations of this earth!

When Pierre again reached the workroom he found that the table had long

since been cleared, and that Bache and Morin were chatting with

Guillaume, whilst the latter's sons had returned to their customary

occupations. Marie, also, had resumed her usual place at the work-table

in front of Mere-Grand; but from time to time she rose and went to look

at Jean, so as to make sure that he was sleeping peacefully, with his

little clenched fists pressed to his heart. And when Pierre, who kept his

emotion to himself, had likewise leant over the cradle beside the young

woman, whose hair he discreetly kissed, he went to put on an apron in

order that he might assist Thomas, who was now, for the last time,

regulating his motor.

Then, as Pierre stood there awaiting an opportunity to help, the room

vanished from before his eyes; he ceased to see or hear the persons who

were there. The scent of Marie's hair alone lingered on his lips amidst

the acute emotion into which he had been thrown by his visit to Abbe

Rose. A recollection had come to him, that of the bitterly cold morning

when the old priest had stopped him outside the basilica of the Sacred

Heart, and had timidly asked him to take some alms to that old man

Laveuve, who soon afterwards had died of want, like a dog by the wayside.

How sad a morning it had been; what battle and torture had Pierre not

felt within him, and what a resurrection had come afterwards! He had that

day said one of his last masses, and he recalled with a shudder his

abominable anguish, his despairing doubts at the thought of nothingness.

Two experiments which he had previously made had failed most miserably.

First had come one at Lourdes, where the glorification of the absurd had

simply filled him with pity for any such attempt to revert to the

primitive faith of young nations, who bend beneath the terror born of

ignorance; and, secondly, there had been an experiment at Rome, which he

had found incapable of any renewal, and which he had seen staggering to

its death amidst its ruins, a mere great shadow, which would soon be of

no account, fast sinking, as it was, to the dust of dead religions. And,

in his own mind, Charity itself had become bankrupt; he no longer

believed that alms could cure the sufferings of mankind, he awaited

naught but a frightful catastrophe, fire and massacre, which would sweep

away the guilty, condemned world. His cassock, too, stifled him, a lie

alone kept it on his shoulders, the idea, unbelieving priest though he

was, that he could honestly and chastely watch over the belief of others.

The problem of a new religion, a new hope, such as was needful to ensure

the peace of the coming democracies tortured him, but between the

certainties of science and the need of the Divine, which seemed to

consume humanity, he could find no solution. If Christianity crumbled

with the principle of Charity, there could remain nothing else but

Justice, that cry which came from every breast, that battle of Justice

against Charity in which his heart must contend in that great city of

Paris. It was there that began his third and decisive experiment, the

experiment which was to make truth as plain to him as the sun itself, and

give him back health and strength and delight in life.

At this point of his reverie Pierre was roused by Thomas, who asked him

to fetch a tool. As he did so he heard Bache remarking: "The ministry

resigned this morning. Vignon has had enough of it, he wants to reserve

his remaining strength."

"Well, he has lasted more than a twelvemonth," replied Morin. "That's

already an achievement."

After the crime of Victor Mathis, who had been tried and executed within

three weeks, Monferrand had suddenly fallen from power. What was the use

of having a strong-handed man at the head of the Government if bombs

still continued to terrify the country? Moreover, he had displeased the

Chamber by his voracious appetite, which had prevented him from allowing

others more than an infinitesimal share of all the good things. And this

time he had been succeeded by Vignon, although the latter's programme of

reforms had long made people tremble. He, Vignon, was honest certainly,

but of all these reforms he had only been able to carry out a few

insignificant ones, for he had found himself hampered by a thousand

obstacles. And thus he had resigned himself to ruling the country as

others had done; and people had discovered that after all there were but

faint shades of difference between him and Monferrand.

"You know that Monferrand is being spoken of again?" said Guillaume.

"Yes, and he has some chance of success. His creatures are bestirring

themselves tremendously," replied Bache, adding, in a bitter, jesting

way, that Mege, the Collectivist leader, played the part of a dupe in

overthrowing ministry after ministry. He simply gratified the ambition of

each coterie in turn, without any possible chance of attaining to power

himself.

Thereupon Guillaume pronounced judgment. "Oh! well, let them devour one

another," said he. "Eager as they all are to reign and dispose of power

and wealth, they only fight over questions of persons. And nothing they

do can prevent the evolution from continuing. Ideas expand, and events

occur, and, over and above everything else, mankind is marching on."

Pierre was greatly struck by these words, and he again recalled the past.

His dolorous Parisian experiment had begun, and he was once more roaming

through the city. Paris seemed to him to be a huge vat, in which a world

fermented, something of the best and something of the worst, a frightful

mixture such as sorceresses might have used; precious powders mingled

with filth, from all of which was to come the philter of love and eternal

youth. And in that vat Pierre first marked the scum of the political

world: Monferrand who strangled Barroux, who purchased the support of

hungry ones such as Fonsegue, Duthil and Chaigneux, who made use of those

who attained to mediocrity, such as Taboureau and Dauvergne; and who

employed even the sectarian passions of Mege and the intelligent ambition

of Vignon as his weapons. Next came money the poisoner, with that affair

of the African Railways, which had rotted the Parliament and turned

Duvillard, the triumphant _bourgeois_, into a public perverter, the very

cancer as it were of the financial world. Then as a just consequence of

all this there was Duvillard's own home infected by himself, that

frightful drama of Eve contending with her daughter Camille for the

possession of Gerard, then Camille stealing him from her mother, and

Hyacinthe, the son, passing his crazy mistress Rosemonde on to that