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a warm but grating voice, and had always been known to cough, living on

solely because he was bitterly intent on doing so in order to realise the

dream of social re-organisation which haunted him. The son of an

impoverished medical man of a northern town, he had come to Paris when

very young, living there during the Empire on petty newspaper and other

unknown work, and first making a reputation as an orator at the public

meetings of the time. Then, after the war, having become the chief of the

Collectivist party, thanks to his ardent faith and the extraordinary

activity of his fighting nature, he had at last managed to enter the

Chamber, where, brimful of information, he fought for his ideas with

fierce determination and obstinacy, like a _doctrinaire_ who has decided

in his own mind what the world ought to be, and who regulates in advance,

and bit by bit, the whole dogma of Collectivism. However, since he had

taken pay as a deputy, the outside Socialists had looked upon him as a

mere rhetorician, an aspiring dictator who only tried to cast society in

a new mould for the purpose of subordinating it to his personal views and

ruling it.

"You know what is going on?" he said to Pierre. "This is another nice

affair, is it not? But what would you have? We are in mud to our very

ears."

He had formerly conceived genuine sympathy for the priest, whom he had

found so gentle with all who suffered, and so desirous of social

regeneration. And the priest himself had ended by taking an interest in

this authoritarian dreamer, who was resolved to make men happy in spite

even of themselves. He knew that he was poor, and led a retired life with

his wife and four children, to whom he was devoted.

"You can well understand that I am no ally of Sagnier's," Mege resumed.

"But as he chose to speak out this morning and threaten to publish the

names of all those who have taken bribes, we can't allow ourselves to

pass as accomplices any further. It has long been said that there was

some nasty jobbery in that suspicious affair of the African railways. And

the worst is that two members of the present Cabinet are in question, for

three years ago, when the Chambers dealt with Duvillard's emission,

Barroux was at the Home Department, and Monferrand at that of Public

Works. Now that they have come back again, Monferrand at the Home

Department, and Barroux at that of Finance, with the Presidency of the

Council, it isn't possible, is it, for us to do otherwise than compel

them to enlighten us, in their own interest even, about their former

goings-on? No, no, they can no longer keep silence, and I've announced

that I intend to interpellate them this very day."

It was the announcement of Mege's interpellation, following the terrible

article of the "Voix du Peuple," which thus set the lobbies in an uproar.

And Pierre remained rather scared at this big political affair falling

into the midst of his scheme to save a wretched pauper from hunger and

death. Thus he listened without fully understanding the explanations

which the Socialist deputy was passionately giving him, while all around

them the uproar increased, and bursts of laughter rang out, testifying to

the astonishment which the others felt at seeing Mege in conversation

with a priest.

"How stupid they are!" said Mege disdainfully. "Do they think then that I

eat a cassock for _dejeuner_ every morning? But I beg your pardon, my

dear Monsieur Froment. Come, take a place on that seat and wait for

Fonsegue."

Then he himself plunged into all the turmoil, and Pierre realised that

his best course was to sit down and wait quietly. His surroundings began

to influence and interest him, and he gradually forgot Laveuve for the

passion of the Parliamentary crisis amidst which he found himself cast.

The frightful Panama adventure was scarcely over; he had followed the

progress of that tragedy with the anguish of a man who every night

expects to hear the tocsin sound the last hour of olden, agonising

society. And now a little Panama was beginning, a fresh cracking of the

social edifice, an affair such as had been frequent in all parliaments in

connection with big financial questions, but one which acquired mortal

gravity from the circumstances in which it came to the front. That story

of the African Railway Lines, that little patch of mud, stirred up and

exhaling a perturbing odour, and suddenly fomenting all that emotion,

fear, and anger in the Chamber, was after all but an opportunity for

political strife, a field on which the voracious appetites of the various

"groups" would take exercise and sharpen; and, at bottom, the sole

question was that of overthrowing the ministry and replacing it by

another. Only, behind all that lust of power, that continuous onslaught

of ambition, what a distressful prey was stirring--the whole people with

all its poverty and its sufferings!

Pierre noticed that Massot, "little Massot," as he was generally called,

had just seated himself on the bench beside him. With his lively eye and

ready ear listening to everything and noting it, gliding everywhere with

his ferret-like air, Massot was not there in the capacity of a gallery

man, but had simply scented a stormy debate, and come to see if he could

not pick up material for some occasional "copy." And this priest lost in

the midst of the throng doubtless interested him.

"Have a little patience, Monsieur l'Abbe," said he, with the amiable

gaiety of a young gentleman who makes fun of everything. "The governor

will certainly come, for he knows well enough that they are going to heat

the oven here. You are not one of his constituents from La Correze, are

you?"

"No, no! I belong to Paris; I've come on account of a poor fellow whom I

wish to get admitted into the Asylum of the Invalids of Labour."

"Oh! all right. Well, I'm a child of Paris, too."

Then Massot laughed. And indeed he was a child of Paris, son of a chemist

of the St. Denis district, and an ex-dunce of the Lycee Charlemagne,

where he had not even finished his studies. He had failed entirely, and

at eighteen years of age had found himself cast into journalism with

barely sufficient knowledge of orthography for that calling. And for

twelve years now, as he often said, he had been a rolling stone wandering

through all spheres of society, confessing some and guessing at others.

He had seen everything, and become disgusted with everything, no longer

believing in the existence of great men, or of truth, but living

peacefully enough on universal malice and folly. He naturally had no

literary ambition, in fact he professed a deliberate contempt for

literature. Withal, he was not a fool, but wrote in accordance with no

matter what views in no matter what newspaper, having neither conviction

nor belief, but quietly claiming the right to say whatever he pleased to

the public on condition that he either amused or impassioned it.

"And so," said he, "you know Mege, Monsieur l'Abbe? What a study in

character, eh? A big child, a dreamer of dreams in the skin of a terrible

sectarian! Oh! I have had a deal of intercourse with him, I know him

thoroughly. You are no doubt aware that he lives on with the everlasting

conviction that he will attain to power in six months' time, and that

between evening and morning he will have established that famous

Collectivist community which is to succeed capitalist society, just as

day follows night. And, by the way, as regards his interpellation to-day,

he is convinced that in overthrowing the Barroux ministry he'll be

hastening his own turn. His system is to use up his adversaries. How many

times haven't I heard him making his calculations: there's such a one to

be used up, then such a one, and then such a one, so that he himself may

at last reign. And it's always to come off in six months at the latest.

The misfortune is, however, that others are always springing up, and so

his turn never comes at all."

Little Massot openly made merry over it. Then, slightly lowering his

voice, he asked: "And Sagnier, do you know him? No? Do you see that

red-haired man with the bull's neck--the one who looks like a butcher?

That one yonder who is talking in a little group of frayed frock-coats."

Pierre at last perceived the man in question. He had broad red ears, a

hanging under-lip, a large nose, and big, projecting dull eyes.

"I know that one thoroughly, as well," continued Massot; "I was on the

'Voix du Peuple' under him before I went on the 'Globe.' The one thing

that nobody is exactly aware of is whence Sagnier first came. He long

dragged out his life in the lower depths of journalism, doing nothing at

all brilliant, but wild with ambition and appetite. Perhaps you remember

the first hubbub he made, that rather dirty affair of a new Louis XVII.

which he tried to launch, and which made him the extraordinary Royalist

that he still is. Then it occurred to him to espouse the cause of the

masses, and he made a display of vengeful Catholic socialism, attacking

the Republic and all the abominations of the times in the name of justice

and morality, under the pretext of curing them. He began with a series of

sketches of financiers, a mass of dirty, uncontrolled, unproved

tittle-tattle, which ought to have led him to the dock, but which met, as

you know, with such wonderful success when gathered together in a volume.

And he goes on in the same style in the 'Voix du Peuple,' which he

himself made a success at the time of the Panama affair by dint of

denunciation and scandal, and which to-day is like a sewer-pipe pouring

forth all the filth of the times. And whenever the stream slackens, why,

he invents things just to satisfy his craving for that hubbub on which

both his pride and his pocket subsist."

Little Massot spoke without bitterness; indeed, he had even begun to

laugh again. Beneath his thoughtless ferocity he really felt some respect

for Sagnier. "Oh! he's a bandit," he continued, "but a clever fellow all

the same. You can't imagine how full of vanity he is. Lately it occurred

to him to get himself acclaimed by the populace, for he pretends to be a

kind of King of the Markets, you know. Perhaps he has ended by taking his

fine judge-like airs in earnest, and really believes that he is saving

the people and helping the cause of virtue. What astonishes me is his

fertility in the arts of denunciation and scandalmongering. Never a

morning comes but he discovers some fresh horror, and delivers fresh

culprits over to the hatred of the masses. No! the stream of mud never

ceases; there is an incessant, unexpected spurt of infamy, an increase of

monstrous fancies each time that the disgusted public shows any sign of

weariness. And, do you know, there's genius in that, Monsieur l'Abbe; for

he is well aware that his circulation goes up as soon as he threatens to

speak out and publish a list of traitors and bribe-takers. His sales are

certain now for some days to come."

Listening to Massot's gay, bantering voice, Pierre began to understand

certain things, the exact meaning of which had hitherto escaped him. He

ended by questioning the young journalist, surprised as he was that so

many deputies should be in the lobbies when the sitting was in progress.

Oh! the sitting indeed. The gravest matters, some bill of national

interest, might be under discussion, yet every member fled from it at the

sudden threat of an interpellation which might overturn the ministry. And

the passion stirring there was the restrained anger, the growing anxiety

of the present ministry's clients, who feared that they might have to

give place to others; and it was also the sudden hope, the eager hunger

of all who were waiting--the clients of the various possible ministries

of the morrow.

Massot pointed to Barroux, the head of the Cabinet, who, though he was

out of his element in the Department of Finances, had taken it simply

because his generally recognised integrity was calculated to reassure

public opinion after the Panama crisis. Barroux was chatting in a corner

with the Minister of Public Instruction, Senator Taboureau, an old

university man with a shrinking, mournful air, who was extremely honest,

but totally ignorant of Paris, coming as he did from some far-away

provincial faculty. Barroux for his part was of decorative aspect, tall,

and with a handsome, clean-shaven face, which would have looked quite

noble had not his nose been rather too small. Although he was sixty, he

still had a profusion of curly snow-white hair completing the somewhat

theatrical majesty of his appearance, which he was wont to turn to

account when in the tribune. Coming of an old Parisian family,

well-to-do, an advocate by profession, then a Republican journalist under

the Empire, he had reached office with Gambetta, showing himself at once

honest and romantic, loud of speech, and somewhat stupid, but at the same

time very brave and very upright, and still clinging with ardent faith to

the principles of the great Revolution. However, his Jacobinism was

getting out of fashion, he was becoming an "ancestor," as it were, one of

the last props of the middle-class Republic, and the new comers, the

young politicians with long teeth, were beginning to smile at him.

Moreover, beneath the ostentation of his demeanour, and the pomp of his

eloquence, there was a man of hesitating, sentimental nature, a good

fellow who shed tears when re-perusing the verses of Lamartine.

However, Monferrand, the minister for the Home Department, passed by and

drew Barroux aside to whisper a few words in his ear. He, Monferrand, was

fifty, short and fat, with a smiling, fatherly air; nevertheless a look

of keen intelligence appeared at times on his round and somewhat common

face fringed by a beard which was still dark. In him one divined a man of

government, with hands which were fitted for difficult tasks, and which